The motorcycle was driving faster and faster, and now the roadside was lined with handsome blond men, all of whom were staring lustfully at Sandi's long, white legs and half-revealed ass-cheeks. A loud wolf whistle pierced through her dream, and then another, and another…

Suddenly wide awake, the young wife sat bolt upright in bed, her scantily-clad loins still trembling but all traces of physical arousal obliterated by a cold cloud of panic. For a moment she stared in perplexity at the luminous dial of the clock-radio, struggling to comprehend why she had awakened at 11:45 with her throat so constricted with fear that she could scarcely breathe. Then the front doorbell chimed again, a long drawn out shrilling as if someone were pressing his finger long and hard on the buzzer, and Sandi's entire body turned to ice. Verne! Something had happened to Verne, just as she had always dreaded it would. Why else would the doorbell be ringing in the middle of the night?

Leaping to her feet, the terror-stricken young wife rushed pell-mell down the dark hallway, crashing clumsily against a wrought iron telephone stand in her haste to reach the front door. Although the sharp metal table edge pierced through the naked white flesh of her thigh, Sandi was not aware of any pain.

Her trembling, white-knuckled hands gripped at the doorframe as she eased it open a crack and stared out into the darkness. There, his healthy tanned face glowing an eerie shade of green in the neon light from the streetlamp, stood Larry Johnson, her husband's partner and best friend, and Sandi saw at a glance that her worst fears were justified.

"Verne! It's Verne, isn't it? He's not… he's not…?" And then her voice trailed off, and her voluptuous young body, protected only by the wisp of apricot-colored lace, tumbled forward into Johnson's arms in a dead faint.