The virgin captives

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Penny Tucker finished hanging the last of the wet laundry on the line and picked up the empty wicker basket on her way back to the house. She paused on the screened back porch, wiping beads of perspiration from her fair face with the back of one slender arm. Almost hopelessly, she glanced at the thermometer which hung from a rusty nail beside the back door. It was 85 in the shade, and climbing.

Tired and more than a little fed up with her workday routine, Penny let the wicker basket slide from her fingers to the floor as she padded slowly through the kitchen. She noticed that dishes remained in the sink, still unwashed from last night's supper, but she turned away from the sight, unable to feign interest in a new job at that point.

With a low sigh of virtual exhaustion, Penny let herself slump into one of the living room's two threadbare armchairs, carefully choosing the one with the least exposed stuffing. She half-sat, half-lay in the padded chair, with one shapely leg thrown up and over the mounded arm, her foot swinging casually in mid-air.

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