Motorways at night can be lonely places, with only the sodium glare of orange service station light to provide a welcome break from the monotony of the journey. The brightness brings a pain to the front of your head, a stabbing of needles into your eyes until the station dissolves into the darkness behind and the only light is the cone of white from your headlamps piercing the inky blackness in front.
Some of us never experience the isolation of empty roads at such hours, but for others it is all they know. They are the men who take their wagons out only after most citizens are tucked up in bed, taking advantage of the quiet roads to push on through the night. Seated high above four hundred horse power they carry their cargo behind them in locked trailers, hidden from sight inside containers or strapped under tarpaulin.
To anyone foolish enough to be on the roads at their time, the wagons are carrying innocent goods from some destination to some other. Who knows, or cares what they carry? To us they are the faceless man who delivered the washing machine, the nameless person who brought the dining table. They are separate from our lives, entering into our world for a brief moment before firing up their engines to return from whence they came. Back on the road where they remain without a face but are known by the name, The Drivers.
Chapter 1
Seventeen stone of cartilage and sinew cracked at the release when Jack dropped down from his seat in the cab. Four hours in the same position put terrible pressures on such a large frame, pressures that required release, and escape, and required it often. His way into the bright surgical atmosphere of the motorway eatery was lit as a multicoloured show of light that reflected from the diesel floating in puddles of sludge along the pock marked Tarmac. Each puddle sent out circles of blues and reds as his dirty boot dropped into it before lifting to carry the man in for his food.
Several other drivers were already there, eating their way through plates of bacon and drinking great quantities of tea that kept them awake during the early hours. Some congregated in groups sharing a joke or cigarette, others, the loners, remained on the periphery, hunched over their food pretending to read a paper. They never stayed long, just time enough to grab a bit of food and use the toilet before hitting the road once more.
There was no point trying to sit by a loner, there was more conversation in a dead man. Jack filled his plate then made his way across to the two men who sat near the fruit machine.
When he was full he pushed the remainder of his meal aside. One sausage too many.
That was when the girl came to him. Strange how one sausage can have so much effect.
"Can I finish that, Mister?"
She was quite small, but well rounded in all the right places, and her voice was huskily seductive, although she probably didn't intend it to be.
"Why not buy your own?"
"If I had any money I wouldn't be asking you!"
"A meal here don't cost much."
"I haven't even a penny for the..."
Her voice trailed away. A shy one this.
Jack was getting interested. He laughed at her cheek then pulled over a chair with his boot. A thin line of grease smeared the seat which she clearly noticed. Looking him straight in the eye she sat down and pinched his toast as well.
"Where you headed? North or South?"
"Might be East or West," she replied. She had that innocent school girl look that always turned him on, but she was no schoolgirl. Much too well developed for that, in spite of her wide blue eyes and sticking out front teeth.
"Not on the M1 it won't." He gulped the last of his tea then kicked back his chair. He figured she was a runaway, an attractive one at that, and she was after a ride.
Special. A real feast for the eyes. Saucy with it. Just his type."
"I'm off for a piss." He gave her a grin. "Then North. The F12 near the trees." He paused. "I'll be eating a proper meal later."
He got up and went out without another glance at the girl, but his fingers were crossed in his pocket. He needed them there to control the bulge.
As he came out he could just make out the figure of the girl near his wagon. She was down on her haunches taking a piss herself. He strolled slowly across the trailer park, refusing to take his eyes off her while she just watched him getting nearer, his silhouette growing the closer he came. He was only a few yards away when he noticed the stream running away below her arse, steam rising from it in the cool night air.
She finished just as he opened the passenger door, and hurried over.
"Couldn't have a pee in there," she informed him. "You might have gone without me."
Jack shook his head then bent forward to run his hand firmly between her legs from behind.
"Wouldn't have done that!" She was wriggling away, but he lifted her high in the air and into the cab.
Jack swung the massive wagon onto the north bound M1, treading heavily on the throttle. Within a few minutes the cab was cosy and warm and his new travelling companion felt relaxed enough to rest her feet on the dashboard.
"Where are you headed?" he asked. "And don't say North."
The girl pulled off her denim jacket to make a pillow which she stuffed between the seat and the door to rest against. Facing him she said.
"Further the better!"
"You're in luck then," said Jack. "After I make a drop and pick up in Leeds I'm off up to Helensburgh."
"Where's that?"
"Scotland."
"Ain't I the lucky one."
But there were tears in her eyes. He figured she definitely was a runaway.
"Mind you," warned Jack, "that won't be until tomorrow morning. We'll be a while in Leeds and I need some kip."
The girl shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps life didn't mean very much to her. She fiddled with the radio, trying to find some music. "Fine by me," she said, pulling slowly away from his eager hand on her thigh. "I've got no-one to go home to, but no funny business, right?"
Funny business? What a little innocent! Jack kept his chuckles to himself. Boy was this unreal!
Mapleys, his drop off in Leeds, was a nine to five electronics factory not too far from the centre of Leeds. When Jack pulled up, there was still a couple of hours before anyone would arrive to unload him but the security guard allowed him through and sent him around the back to the lorry park.
The sudden appearance of the Volvo sent several crows cawing, up into the morning sky. They looked down contemptuously from perches in the surrounding trees, keeping up the barrage of complaint until Jack killed the engine and stillness descended on the parking lot. Inside the cab the girl silenced the inane ramblings of a local radio presenter with the flick of the switch.
"Do we or do we not get to eat?" she asked. "I'm starving!"
"Soon"
"How soon?"
"Very. Don't you really have any money?"
"Not a penny. My boy friend took it all before he dumped me."
A promising situation, thought Jack. His juices were beginning to flow.
"Well you'll have to wait. There's nothing open yet."
He pulled across the cab curtains on his side and motioned for her to do the same, blocking out the faint morning light that was breaking above the roof of the cash and carry next door. The darkness was broken by a dull red cabin light that bathed the pair in a warm glow. Jack leant across and reached for her breasts. He knew they would be firm and young...
Slap!
He hadn't expected that!
"You little Madame!" he exclaimed, wiping his cheek. "You fucking little tease!"
She shrank from the anger in his voice, reaching desperately for the door handle, but his grip fell upon hers, and he chuckled.
"Naughty!" he said.
"I said no funny business!"
"What happens to naughty girls, eh?"
He held one hand against the door as he leaned over and the other gripped her pony tail, holding her head up for a kiss which she struggled in vain to avoid.
"They get to be punished," he said after he drew away, which was after his tongue had forced its way in and completed a thorough exploration of her unwilling mouth.
"Help!" she shouted. "Help! Help! Help!"
"There ain't nobody around," he chuckled. He was thoroughly aroused now. "But maybe I better see to that pretty little mouth of yours first anyway. Now what we got for a gag?" He pretended to think. "I know! Got any knickers, eh?"
She was rigid with fear now, although she began to squirm as he turned her over his knee and tore her knickers off. The sound of the fabric tearing was music in his ears and her frantic movements pressing down on his already expectant prick demanded real action soon.
He held up her knickers and allowed her to twist round and see them, gripping her arm between his knees. "Hope you got some more," he said. "Don't rate these much now!"
He had to slap her to make her open her mouth, a small rosebud of a mouth he noted with satisfaction. After he had pushed the knickers between her lips and gagged her pretty thoroughly there was just enough material to make a knot at the back, under her hair. Little gurgles and plenty of bubbles came from that delicious mouth now, but no recognisable sounds.
He would have to make her use that later, he thought, as she wriggled helplessly on his lap, trying to release the hand he still held to the door handle. The other was still held between his legs.
Time to do something about those arms!
"Will you let me have your bra?" he asked, "or must I tear that too?"
Nothing but gurgles, but it was quite easy to get it off anyway. The contents felt pretty good, he made a point of making sure of that as he completed the operation of removing them. Some sort of hook was torn off, but he paid no heed to that. He preferred her without a bra anyway. Although her breasts made a good handful they were very firm and not over large.
And he fancied the tips had hardened under his touch. Surprising but true.
He had to tear the bra into two in the end, anyway. How else could he secure her two wrists to the bottom of his seat, so as to leave her bottom up over his lap? That was the obvious position for her punishment, after all.
She wore no stockings and he didn't make her take her jersey or her skirt off. There was no need with nothing under them. It was easy to turn the little skirt up and put a hand up under her jersey to steady her by taking hold of a breast. As for those flimsy little shoes, they had kicked off in her struggles long since.
He enjoyed those struggles. Useless, of course, but a right turn on. And there was no hurry, he had her at his mercy alright now. He rolled a joint and gloated over the bottom that twitched and jerked and trembled and quivered under his roving fingers.
And positively jumped whenever he unexpectedly nipped a sensitive place! All his nips were unexpected, for he had too much experience to get into a routine. And most of the places were sensitive. He could get his hand underneath quite easily and it felt specially good there.
She was getting damp. That surprised him too.
He took his belt off slowly. It was broad and brown and leather, studded on one side, suitable, that was the word, an old ally, a warrior of many victories, a curer of many reluctances.
It had certainly beaten the shit out of many a tougher bottom than this one, which looked very vulnerable, sensitive...
He didn't have much room to swing, but he would manage with so perfect a target.
Oh yes, he would manage.
It would be a real pleasure, thank you very much.
Spankable! That was the word for this one! Spankable!
He let a horny hand come down on her as an experiment, and she jumped real well.
But it was nothing compared with the first sweep of the belt. He turned up her short skirt, revealing a plump little bottom that cringed away from his exploring hands as they probed between her reluctant cheeks.
Then he began to beat her.
He did it methodically and with enthusiasm, watching her bum turn redder and redder, relishing the way she jerked about and whinnied through the gag.
When he had finished tears were streaming down her face, but when he released her she just dried her eyes, rubbed her bottom ruefully, and asked for a joint.
This time, when he reached out for her, she offered herself up to him.
"Oh well," she giggled, "one good ride, deserves another."
Jack smiled and motioned for her to move to the bunk behind the seats, watching the tight stretch of the skirt across her arse as she bent forward to gain access to the back of the cab.
It seemed that the beating had produced an unexpected result, for the heavy scent of her arousal filled the rig.
Jack dipped several fingers into the soft wet slot now opening up for him, allowing his thumb to press firmly against her anus until a little more pressure eased it inside, forcing a tiny whimper and an urgent appeal to be filled by his prick.
An appeal which he was not slow in fulfilling!
Chapter 2
Three Months Previously.
Pete Warburton was almost grateful for the shrill ring of the telephone that forced him up off the sofa and away from the television set.
"Susan!" he answered, concerned. "What's the problem?"
At the other end his young wife frowned before allowing a brief giggle to escape her lips. Pete was a worrier. Wherever she went, whatever she did, he couldn't stop himself fussing like a mother hen. It was understandable considering the age difference. Not one of their friends had said the relationship would last. Hers told her he would spend his nights in front of the television, while his said she would want to spread her wings and eventually she'd need someone her own age. What they didn't know was how much they felt for each other.
"Are you still with your sister? Has something happened?"
She interrupted before his mind ran away with him.
"There's nothing the matter. The car's broken down, that's all."
"That's all! Christ, I knew I should have driven you. Why didn't you take my car. Christ, I knew I..."
"Pete, it's no sweat. I've got the phone, I've told you, just come and get me. We'll pick the car up in the morning."
"Right, be there in two minutes!" It was only Susan's shout that prevented him putting the phone down and dashing out before she had told him where she was.
As the temperature dropped in the car Susan pulled up the collar of her coat. When that wasn't enough she leant over the seats to reach for the blanket on the rear parcel shelf. Wrapping herself up warm she noticed the pin size glow of headlights away in the distance and felt relieved that quite soon she would no longer be alone. Her relief was short-lived as the lights grew brighter to reveal a large lorry that thundered past in the opposite direction.
Peter would obviously be a while yet. Being the careful sort, he was probably taking it slowly, making sure he didn't miss her. Her comforting thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the ten wheel truck that ground to a halt behind her vehicle. Help at last. With a bit of luck she might not have to leave the car here after all. She didn't like the idea of that anyway, you never know who could come along.
About fifteen minutes later Peters' car appeared out of the gloom within sight of the broken down Fiat.
It was empty!
He called out her name and when there was no reply he dashed for his phone and rang the police.
The official response was best described as calculated concern. Two police cars appeared within moments of each other and the officers began a detailed investigation of the crime scene, although in their view a crime had not necessarily been committed. Peter had no such doubts and as he sat in the back of a patrol car, he desperately tried to persuade them likewise.
"You don't know Susan," he sobbed. "She wouldn't just up and go with someone. She knew I was on my way, just half hour, three quarters at the most."
The young policeman thought hard for comforting words, his face illuminated by the headlights of the large ten wheeled rig across the road, which had slowed down to see what was going on. One of the other officers turned to the driver and motioned for him to be on his way.
"Morbid bastards," he growled before stabbing his thumb southwards. "On your way."
The driver flashed a sarcastic smile then moved his rig through the gears and pushed on towards Carlisle and the M6. In the darkness behind, Susan Warburton moved the only part of her body she was able to, her eyes. They bulged wide and white, glistening with fear. The rest of her body remained perfectly still, restrained by several haulage straps around her shoulders, arms and legs. A chromium spanner fixed by shortened bunjee ropes held down her tongue like the bit in the mouth of a thoroughbred.
As Peter spoke, the constable in the car read Susan's description straight into the radio, 'short bobbed hair, blonde. Height about five feet six, slim, style of clothes unknown. Age...' His voice stumbled as he repeated Peter's words. 'Twenty three.' At the confusion obvious on his face Peter repeated himself.
"Twenty three, you heard right. And before you ask, I'm fifty two. Not that that should concern you."
The policeman finished his message and resumed his questioning, only this time the atmosphere felt different. The constable shifted in his seat and refused to make eye contact.
"I realise this might sound offensive, Sir, but I have to ask."
Peter could see it coming, able almost to pre-empt the question word for word.
"Did you and your wife ever argue?"
Despite his preparation Peter fumbled for an answer, aware of the implications. "Of course we argued, like any other couple, but nothing serious. You know tiffs, that sort of thing."
"Tiffs." The policeman wrote something down, then appeared to ponder over his next question. "Then she wasn't what you call perfectly happy?"
Peter leant forward, enraged at the direction the questions were taking.
"It's probably best if you go on home now, Sir. Your wife may try to contact you there."
Peter took a step back and held up his mobile telephone, shaking it at the officer. "If she wants to phone me she bloody well can, but she can't because something's wrong! Can't you understand that? Can't you see it?"
With his arm around Peter's shoulder the policeman led him back to his car.
"I shouldn't really tell you this until we got you home," he said. "We don't want you driving recklessly around the roads in search of your wife and putting others at risk, but," he paused a moment before Peter demanded to hear the rest, "someone answering your wife's description was seen about a little while ago. In the company of a young man. They were holding hands and drinking tea together."
The roads around Lazonby Fell can be lonely enough during the summer months. In February, with a bitter wind scraping its way across the heath, it is desolate. There is no shelter, no hiding place except for the odd wind screen erected by considerate farmers trying to protect the hardy Cumbrian sheep. Young lovers appreciate the isolation at the roadside lay-bys, taking a moment or two between each intimate embrace to appreciate the stark splendour of the moonlit moor.
There was nothing different about tonight, though the couple in the smart estate were disturbed by the lights of a large lorry pulling in behind them. But then drivers often called in to grab some sleep and the man in the estate never missed his stroke, even when the wagon came to a stop alongside the car, flooding the vehicle with moonlight reflected off the gleaming black paint work. At that time, the most important thing to him was to get his load inside his secretary before his wife got home from bingo. He wedged his foot against the glove compartment for extra leverage and continued his work. Mrs Lennox might be a crap typist but she had a cunt like hot liver and legs so smooth her knickers had trouble staying up.
Whether it was over the desk or up on the moors, Mrs Lennox always gave a good ride. When the Driver of the black rig drew his curtains he looked down on luscious tits jiggling to the beat of the office managers thrusts. She saw him watching and flashed a smile, happy to be the centre of attention. If the Driver had watched a few seconds longer he would have seen jolts of cum jerk up from between their thighs and criss cross her face like the icing on a cake.
But the Driver had icing of his own to prepare and pulled across the material blanking out the arse of the man rising and falling between the long and well spread legs of his typist.
The blackness departed under the glow of the red cabin light to reveal Susan still bound on the bunk behind the seats. Her captor leant casually against the driver's door, studying his catch as she tried to make sense of her situation.
Her fears mounted as a sudden movement by him brought a length of wood out from under his seat. Severely restricted, her only action was to shrink ever deeper into the back of the cab until it was impossible to go further, and as if that was his signal, the Driver leant over the seats and slipped the buckle on the strap around her knees. Any thought of release was quickly squashed when he wedged the wood firmly between her knees forcing her to sit frog-like on the bunk, the vee of her knickers visible to the Driver.
Satisfied by her position, he returned to his place against the door and took out his cock. It was only semi erect but he made no attempt to touch himself and Susan knew that sooner or later that job would be hers. If only he would remove the spanner from her mouth she could reason with him, but she had read too many Sunday papers to believe there was any hope of that. Her only chance would be to go along with anything he wanted, whatever he wanted. Then she might just get dropped on some lonely road minus her knickers and full of a stranger's spunk.
Her escape planning continued until she saw him rise and stretch his hand out under her legs. They fumbled along her thighs, reached her crotch, forced their way around the material and onto her pronounced labia.
The thickness of her lips surprised him and he ducked his head beneath the wooden pole to see how she was made, pulling away the material hiding her slot. She was wearing plain blue cotton panties, sensible ones, the type Peter liked her to wear. Peter didn't like anything tarty, or frilly, they were quiet people, Peter was a gentle man. She felt the driver take hold of her lips with each hand and pull her open to inspect the inner folds of her vagina, studying her redness intently.
When he had seen enough he sat back and Susan saw that this time his cock was red and angry, but he made no attempt to strip her. Instead, he removed his trousers and sat calmly stroking his cock along its full length, enjoying the sight of her.
They were slow tight strokes that brought back the memories of her capture, of how she was so pleased he had stopped and how she had climbed into his cab for warmth while he looked at her car. How she had changed when he rubbed his hand against her tits...
'No!' she had cried out. 'No, I'm not like that'
He had grabbed hold of her hair and told her she didn't know what she was like until she had tried it. He had strapped her wrist to his with cable ties and taken her into the canteen for tea, a razor blade held tight against a vein in her neck. To anyone looking they were friends, lovers even, only she knew the terrifying truth.
He loved the display of power and his steel nerve, and he knew she trembled before it. She was his until he passed her over, his to enjoy, his to beat.
His to fuck.
But that was too easy, he would make her wait for his cock, there was no rush, first he would get to know her, all of her, and she would need training to what he do what he liked in a woman.
He began to untie the spanner he used as a tongue depressor.
Chapter 3
Present day.
After a few hours sleep and a wash and brush up in one of Mapleys wash rooms, Jack and the hiker were given a lift into the city centre in one of the company vans. His wagon wouldn't be ready until later that day and Jack felt in need of a few drinks, his new travelling mate having all but done him in during their morning sex session. He hadn't had such an aggressive fuck in the cab since he had picked up that student in Oxford. Perhaps there was something about students and lorries, not that he cared, as long as they dropped their knickers to pay for the lift.
The pair stopped off at some greasy spoon cafe for a bite to eat before making their way to a pub Jack used whenever he was in the area. It was one step up from a dive but on a scale of respectability it measured as high as a snake's arse. There were four or five girls inside and they looked as if they didn't have a full set of underwear between them. The girl at the pool table definitely had a pair of knickers though, because every time she bent forward the men behind her had an eyeful.
Jack made it to the bar, where he was greeted warmly by the barman and joined almost immediately by three others who slapped his back in the way of a welcome. The hiker came across, having to push her way through the men to join them. Jack handed her a bottle of Grolsch then turned back to his friends.
"We're starting a game in a minute," said the one in the leather waist coat. "You in?"
Jack stretched across. He grabbed the girl by the cheeks of her arse and pulled her closer to him.
"What we playing?"
There was a communal smile and much rubbing of hands. "The usual," came the reply. "Three card, but no going blind. It's too easy to lose a fucking bomb."
Without having to be asked the barman brought across a deck of cards and informed them the back room was open. Within moments of the party entering the dingy room, a crate of Grolsch and other beers was brought in. Everyone selected a drink, then the men sat at the table while the hiker flopped onto a green leather settee that released a cloud of damp smelling dust in protest at her weight.
Although she wasn't watching the game, it was obvious from the start that Jack was not having the best of luck. She heard him swear several times and on one of her many trips to fetch him a beer she saw his money depleting at a rapid rate.
Over the next couple of hours or so the room began to warm up but the atmosphere between the men had grown icy. The witty quips and mock laughs were replaced with grunts and throaty mutterings of 'lucky bastard'. The sun tried its best to lift the gloom but a veneer of mould smeared the only window, projecting a green glow into the room that was broken only by the single sixty watt bulb that hung a few feet above the stained baize table top.
The hiker finished her bottle and let it drop with a clatter onto the small pile of others gathering on the floor. It was then she noticed the men were no longer playing and a silence had descended over the table. The three strangers were all looking at Jack, who was rubbing his forehead in deep concentration.
"In or out?" asked one of the three in a firm voice. It was Smackers, the guy in the waistcoat who she had considered to be Jack's friend, but the tone of his words suggested he was a man in for the kill. She picked up another bottle and went across to stand by Jack as another man, the one wearing a heavy metal buckle shaped like an American eagle spoke.
"He's skint man, wiped out."
Only Jack and Smackers were left in the game. His opponent saw Jack's dilemma but now wasn't the time for sympathy. With a sneer he reached out to grab the money.
"Wait!" shouted Jack. "There's no time limit. I've got the money."
"Where?" said his opponent. "I'm not waiting for you to go half way across Leeds. You're out of cash. Tough shit, that's the way it goes."
Jack had to walk a fine line. If he made out how good a hand he had Smackers would insist on finishing now. If he played on the man's greed he would allow him some time in the hope of winning even more. First though, he had to get some money, and he knew how. Grabbing the girl around her waist he pulled her towards him then rubbed his hand across her stomach. It was flat except for the ridge of her fur covered quim. Jack turned to the men either side of Smackers.
"She'll fuck you dry for thirty a piece."
"Get away!"
"Believe me! Gave her a walloping earlier. She'll do it, no sweat." He twisted her ear. "Right?"
"Ow!" she said. "Right!"
Both men swallowed hard in unison, their necks looking like a python having its dinner. The hiker clearly didn't want to be the main course and began pulling away from Jack. But Jack had a hundred of his own money lying on the table, not to mention that of the others.
"Come here," he growled, making it quite clear to the girl he was in no mood to be refused. He reached for her skirt and yanked it down to her knees.
"No knickers?" exclaimed Smackers.
"Got torn, right?"
"Right!" agreed the girl, before he could hit her.
"Clock that for a snatch," Jack said. "Get your meat up there and you won't regret it."
The hiker remained by his side, obviously frightened at the turn of events.
"Thirty notes is a lot of readies," complained Jim in the Yankee belt. "You could strump Carol up against the dartboard for a tenner."
Jack stood up and moved behind the girl where he pulled up her jumper and lifted her tits.
"Bra get torn too?" asked Smakers.
The girl glanced at Jack. "Right!" she said, as he lifted his meaty hand.
"Carol's an old fucking rottweiler," Jack said. "She's had more pricks than the fucking dartboard. Are her mams as nice as these?" He gave the girl's tits a firm squeeze then ran his hand down to her mons. She did nothing to prevent him, even when his fingers probed past her lips and up inside. Both men had seen enough to make up their minds. They left Smackers at the table to join Jack behind the girl. He pushed her forward until her elbows rested on the table then Jim opened her arse cheeks for a clearer look before nodding okay to Jack. The money changed hands and the hiker was stripped and taken back over to the settee.
"I'll fuck her first," said Jim, undoing his belt.
His mate already had his dick in his hand. "That's fine by me," he laughed. "She can chew on this while you cream her twat."
Jim bent her over until her face was inches from his friend's cock then slipped his own dick up inside her. Both pricks disappeared into her at the same time.
She was whimpering, but she did not try to get away.
At the table the game continued while the two men took it in turns with Jack's hiker, until her whimpering got so distracting that Jack had to take his belt to her.
They both decided she should swallow their cum as well as have it up her before the final bet was made and the hands laid out on the baize.
Smackers smile soon disappeared when Jack dropped his prile of sevens down on top of his flush. By the time he'd picked up all the winnings the girl was getting dressed. Jack noticed spunk in her hair and decided he would add his own to it the moment he got her back to the rig, although the look she gave him suggested the last thing she wanted was another man between her thighs.
"What you so pissed off for?" Jack asked her back in the bar.
The girl looked at him in disgust.
"What do you think?" she hissed. "You sold me like a fucking whore in there, you dirty bastard."
Jack knocked the top off another Grolsch and handed it to her, a determined glare on his face.
"You're getting free grub and booze. You got nothing to moan about." He took a gulp from his own bottle then turned back. "So a few guys got their cock up you. Who gives a shit?"
The hiker was about to reply who did, when Smackers came over. He had calmed down a lot since the card game but the tension was still obvious. He moved close up to Jack, a nervous smile protecting his true thoughts.
"Good game Jack," he said. "You always were a jammy bastard." He pointed towards the hiker without looking at her. "I've got about thirty notes left, if she's still on the market?"
Jack said nothing while Smackers forced the girl tight against the wall and began caressing her tits. She didn't like it but there was no escape. His hand dropped lower and forced its way between her legs while several of the working girls stopped playing pool in order to watch.
"Jack," the girl pleaded. "Tell him. Those girls are watching us. Jack!"
Finally Jack spoke. "Sorry Smacks," he said. "We've got to go". He nodded across to the other girls in the bar. They were looking over, concerned that Jack had brought in a younger tart who was taking their business. He took hold of the hiker and began leading her to the door shouting back to Smackers as he went. "Carol'll give you a gobble for a fiver."
The working girl to whom he alluded shot out two fingers followed by advice to 'go fuck himself'. Jack gave her a playful wave and opened the door.
"See you at the passover!" he shouted to Smackers, then stepped out into the street.
Back at Mapleys the girl asked Jack what he meant when he said 'see you at the passover'.
"It's a sort of ceremony."
"What, religious ceremony?"
"Sort of." Jack pushed her up to the cab. "Now get in there and get your kit off. I've got a wad in my pocket and it's not just Smacker's money."
The Mapleys security guards watched him lift the girl in to the lorry, then smiled at each other as the curtains were drawn inside the cab. A few moments later the bare sole of the girls foot could be seen pressed against a side window prompting a laugh inside the police gate.
"He's a randy bugger, that Jack. Always shafting a different girl." The sergeant clocked out a delivery van then went back to his work.
Inside the big Volvo Jack decided to beat her again as soon as he had finished fucking her.
She wasn't nearly obedient enough yet and asked too many questions, but he'd have her in fine shape for the passover.
Chapter 4
Nine weeks earlier.
The clip of the letter box brought Pete Warburton out from the kitchen where he had been trying to eat a bowl of cereal. It rested uneasily in his stomach like every bit of food he had tried to eat since Susan had gone. No matter what the evidence pointed to, or what the police said, he would never believe she had run off with another man. Not Susan, not his Susan. If she was bold enough to be seen with him in the service station, she would be seen again. The police reckoned she did that as a signal to him, to prove she had left, but Peter knew someone, somewhere must have seen her since.
He carried the letters back through to the kitchen then began flicking them nonchalantly at the bin. A thinly disguised offer for a timeshare was followed by a chance in the Readers Digest draw before Peter stopped what he was doing. Next in his hand was the telephone bill for Susan's mobile. It took him some moments to open it and lay it flat on the breakfast table. With a trembling finger he followed the list of calls coming to his own mobile number on the night she had last called home.
It wasn't the last number!
Two days later she had made another call. Peter studied the figures, running the sequence around in his head until they looked almost familiar. He went out to the phone in the hall and brought back the private directory then began scanning its pages. By the time he came to the letter H he had already worked it out.
Susan's sister's married name was Harris.
He turned the page to see the same numbers that were on the bill. Two days after she had gone missing Susan had telephoned her sister!
There was a definite look of resignation about Claire when she opened the door. Peter followed her into the lounge and sat on the edge of the sofa, the telephone bill dangling from his hand.
"I wondered why you never seemed so bothered about Susan's disappearance." He pointed the letter accusingly at her. "I thought you were trying to be brave, or refusing to believe she had gone, but now I know. How could you not tell me?"
Claire did not answer - she went out to the kitchen to make some tea, just as she had been doing that night when Susan rang. It had been almost midnight, and she'd decided to make a cup to take up to bed. With all the worry over her sister she wasn't going to sleep anyway. The phone had rung just as she was pouring the tea, making her jump so much half of it had gone over the worktop.
"Hello," she had said, then almost dropped the phone at the sound of her sister.
"Claire," Susan had said, "Claire, it's me. Susan." Her voice had sounded strange, almost muffled. "I'm alright. I'm fine." Her voice fractured at the end, as if she'd been running. "How are you?"
It seemed ridiculous now, but she had simply answered as if Susan was making her usual weekly call.
"What are you doing?" she had finally asked. "We've been a bit worried."
On the moors above Dumfries a black Volvo ten wheeled rig sat brooding in a desolate lay-by. While the wind whistled across the cab its driver was warm and naked inside, preparing for the night ahead. A long night in which he would mount Susan Warburton for the first time since picking her up two days ago. He had spent the time getting to know her, letting her get to know him. Teaching her how he liked her mouth, wet and hot around the very tip of his cock, how not a drop was to leave between those pretty red lips, but slip like an oyster along her throat.
His self denial would make the occasion that extra bit special. She was as shy as her boring blue knickers had suggested, quiet and lady like in her cotton pantied cladding. He had changed all that, had her take them off to fly them from his CB aerial. It had taken a few smart slaps across her milky white arse but she dropped them eventually. Even tied them up there herself while her skirt blew in the wind, flashing her gash at the Drivers in the service park.
If they'd been a bit closer they would have seen her bottom wasn't so white after all. It was red and warm and desperate not to feel his stinging hand again. If he'd told her to take off her skirt and wave it around her head she would have done that too. Back in the cab he had put her in the passenger footwell so she could suck him off in comfort.
She was down there when his friend Cliff had come across to scrounge some WD40. Susan heard his voice and considered calling out, but a stern look from him as he opened the glove compartment was warning enough.
Despite the pleasure she had given him, he had his doubts about how long he could keep her. He didn't realise she was married until he saw the ring, and by then it was too late. He would have to pass her over quickly but the last meeting had just gone and it would be a month before the next. She was not just another faceless missing person but a wife, and with a body like hers the husband would want her back.
It seemed a tricky problem until she mentioned money, saying how her husband was well off and could pay, saying how at his age he had put a lot aside for a rainy day. Nice and safe he sounded, like blue knickers on a Jehovahs's witness. Christ! she ought to be grateful he had saved her from a life of mundane security. Still, the husband being that age gave him an idea, one that would hopefully stop anyone from looking for her.
Susan knew tonight was going to be the night. The atmosphere was charged with expectancy, like the air before a great thunderstorm. Strange really, she thought. How easy it is to get used to one's situation, accustomed and resigned to your fate no matter how unreal it would have seemed just a few days earlier.
It had become almost routine to be rudely inspected by his fingers, or to have his manhood slotted firmly between her lips before she was secured in the recess below his bunk. Tonight she sensed the pattern had changed. Taking her from the cab for a pee he watched her squat near the wheel, but instead of pushing his prick in her mouth as was usual he glanced around nervously. She'd hardly finished before he pulled her to her feet and shoved her back into the cab.
"You can get out of that kit," he ordered her. "Then kneel up on the bunk." Susan did as he said without the slightest hesitation. The last time she had shown any defiance he had tied her wrists to the wing mirrors of the cab and secured her legs to the edge of the bumper. Then he fetched a wide canvas hauliers belt from the wagon, flicked her skirt above her head and strapped her bottom. By the time he had finished, red welts had risen on her skin to match the colour of his angry cock.
She had to do something to please him, to stop him bringing the belt down on her burning flesh once more. Finally she begged him to fuck her, pleaded with him to mount her and run his meat up inside her body. He released his belt then untied hers. Immediately she dropped to her knees and took his prick gratefully into her mouth.
"Not yet," he told her. "Not just yet."
With tender hands he guided her up and down his shaft, out to the tip then back until his hair brushed her nose. Fearful of the strap, Susan licked and slavered along his length and prayed that her mouth would not dry up, prayed too that an end would soon come to this nightmare, then prayed again for a return into the arms of Peter.
Her husband was a kind, considerate man. He had never forced her to fellate him, never made her bend in the lewd ways she had been bent these last few days. How could she face him now, after what she had done, after what had been done to her? Perhaps it was better Peter never found her...
A smart tug of her hair reminded her of present duties and the slap of white lubricant in her throat told of duties to come. When he was satisfied she had taken the lot he led her back to the wagon and to her place below the bunk.
He felt tired after strapping her so firmly and needed some sleep before a long night on the road. He had waited long enough to pierce her slit and tomorrow would be the day. It had been hard enough to stop himself so far, but like Annie said, 'the sun will come out tomorrow, so we better hang on'. With the little girl's words fading in his head he drifted pleasantly off to sleep.
Below him in the inky blackness of her confinement Susan drifted off too. At first the thought of being shut off completely had terrified her but she had grown used to the darkness and the comfort solitude could bring.
Up on the bunk Susan sat with her buttocks resting on the back of her ankles. Her knees were bent and slightly parted in order for him to see her prominent labia, which protruded like a Negro's kiss beneath her. Her sex was all the more visible because of the sparse growth of blonde pubic hair which totally failed to hide her feminine crease.
Behind her head she clasped her hands as he'd instructed, pushing out her breasts like a teenager desperate to prove she needs her first bra. The Driver pushed his foot below her bottom, positioning his toe between her lips where he wiggled it back and fore.
"I bet your old man has fun with these," he said. "Does he like to chew on them? Like to pull them open and get his tongue right up there?"
Susan shook her head. "No. He doesn't do those sort of things to me." She thought for a moment then plucked up enough courage to add, "and he doesn't make me do those dirty sort of things to him either."
The Driver jumped up and forced her head down onto the bunk until her rear was pushed high in the air and her anus was left wide by her parted cheeks. He licked his finger and spoke through a grin "So he doesn't do this then?" He pushed his finger firmly up her arsehole. Susan grimaced into the mattress, disgusted by the probing of the fat finger but too scared to move until he had finished his puerile joke. He reamed her for quite some time before adding to her fears by saying he was going to use his cock in the same way, his words producing a notable tightening of her sphincter that amused him.
"Back on your heels," he ordered, removing his finger and giving her bottom a resounding smack. "I like my women shit side down, at least to begin with."
Susan resumed her earlier position while the Driver continued to play and taunt her. It had become obvious to him that she was a girl of limited experience whose naivete had won the heart of an older man. It was an innocence she was rapidly losing and it was excellent fun to be the one responsible.
"Good in bed is he?" he asked.
"Who?"
The Driver stabbed a cautionary toe into her vagina as a reminder of her place.
"Your old man." He emphasised the term old. "Good fuck is he? Or does he need a splint to keep it hard?"
Despite her position Susan accepted the challenge and chose to defend her husband's honour.
"Peter's fine," she informed him.
"Fine!" He exploded into laughter, lurched forward and grabbed a tit in each hand. "Listen," he snarled, "if you've no complaints you should have said, hey! he's fucking great. Fine! Fine my arse. You've been gagging for this, haven't you? Desperate for a proper man to put you on your back."
He released her breasts and fell back against the cab wall to regain his composure, then, relaxed once more, he resumed his probing, both with toe and question.
"Do you drink his spunk?"
She turned away.
"Or does he like to trim that quim?"
He saw a tiny knowing spasm quiver the length of her body.
It was just the once and they had both been drunk. She'd let him do it when he asked, but oh, the embarrassment when they'd gone to the local swimming pool and the other women looked and pointed. The Driver saw her shiver and lovingly caressed her womanly folds.
"So you like a shave," he grinned, rubbing his fingers through her sparse pubic cover. "Hardly seems worth it for a few golden strands. Or does the old man like them young?" He relished the slight tremble generated by his words and his touch. "That's it," he added. "Loves a bit of jail bait don't he? Loves the girlies in the back of his car, ironed skirts and cotton panties?"
Susan squirmed at the memories of Peter and the huge Granada he used to pick her up in. How every Tuesday and Friday he would take her out to a pub in the country and they would have their drinks in the car in case she was spotted in her school uniform. On the way back they always stopped in the same place before climbing in the back, where he used to slip his cock up the leg of her knickers to fuck her, still fully dressed. He liked undoing her blouse so that her little titties would wiggle in her white teenage bra, then he'd pull out his cock and spurt his cum over her panties.
The number of times her mother had asked her what those stains were on her knickers, and she'd had to say she had tipped over the mixing bowl in home economics or something. Her mother would look with a wry smile and tell her to be more careful.
"You don't want any accidents," she would say. "Not at your age. You should always have some protection." It was a clever game in which both knew the rules. She was in a new game now though, and the Driver made all the rules. Reaching below him he pulled out her mobile telephone then told her to get on her back. Once there he knelt between her thighs to part her legs, putting one foot over the seat and the other on the ledge behind the bunk. She was now well and truly spread before him, although apart from a few fumblings down below he made no attempt to mount her.
"Here," he said, holding out the phone. "You're going to make a little call. You're going to telephone your sister and tell her you've met someone else. Tell her you've gone off with a lover because he gives you what you need in bed. Tell her what a great fuck I am." He pulled a few strokes on his angry cock while Susan slowly tapped out the numbers.
In a way she was almost glad it had come to this. At last he would fuck her and she would just have to get used to it. If he ever let her go no-one was going to believe her story and everyone would know she had spent her time being screwed up and down every motorway in the country.
She would simply be another runaway wife. God knows there were plenty of them.
Three rings and then the click.
"Hello?"
"Claire?"
The Driver pushed home his cock, penetrating, in and up, filling her completely.
"Claire, it's me. Susan."
His cock pulled back to the glans to be encased by fat lips that clenched against its every movement until, with a powerful thrust, he drove it back up her.
"I'm alright," she gasped. "I'm fine."
The sudden jab of his prick forced the breath from her body as he took up a slow rhythmic thrust and continued to fuck her, all the time watching and ensuring she gave the right message.
"What are you doing?" Claire asked. "We've been a bit worried."
Susan's grip tightened on the phone as she felt the uncomfortable rise of desire within her.
What was happening? How could this be? But there was no doubt, his cock was moving swiftly now, in and out, along her slick passage, its path aided by the slippery gel she was producing. Arousal was as undeniable as her erect nipples standing in attention as best they could on top of breasts that shook each time his thighs crushed hers.
"Listen... Claire."
The intensity grew with each lunge of his dick.
"I've... I've met someone else."
Her sister let out a knowing grunt.
"Thought as much. What's his name?"
"Can't say. But he's... OH!... he's young... OH!"
"What's the matter?" Claire asked. "Why are you panting?"
Before her sister had time to answer the penny dropped.
"You dirty bitch," she added. "Your in bed with him, aren't you?
"Uh huh."
"Are you doing it?"
Susan looked up to the Driver, his face contorted with the effort and the pleasure.
"Uh huh. Right this... OH!..."
The phone went dead as the Driver's spunk splattered inside her, adding itself to the flood already soaking her sheath. Her own spasms of delight came and finally ebbed with each jerk of his cock until he lay exhausted on top of her, squashing her breasts beneath him. He remained that way until his flaccid dick slipped rudely out of its hideaway between the hot wet flaps of her entrance, then he secured her firmly and returned her to her place beneath his bunk.
Claire couldn't help but smile at the memory. How she had replaced the receiver and let out a yelp of happiness at hearing her sister's voice. She remembered, too, the rude thoughts that had rushed through her mind at her once shy and quiet sister phoning in the middle of having sex with a lover. What a change had come over her in the two days since she had vanished!
"Good for her," she said, repeating her thoughts from the first time. "Bloody good for her."
"Good for who?"
Peter entered the kitchen glassy eyed and still anxious for some answers.
"Are you going to tell me?" he pleaded. "Or do I have to get down and beg?"
Claire handed him a mug of tea before picking up her own.
"I don't know where she is. Honestly." Then she added the lie, "if I did know, I'd tell you." Since she had first seen Peter dropping Susan back at school she'd disliked him. An old man like him getting his kicks with a schoolgirl. It was disgusting.
And Susan was so gullible, always had been. Thank God she had finally come to her senses and ran off with someone younger, someone who would give her what she needed.
Peter stepped a little nearer and Claire could see he was beginning to shake.
"Just tell me then. Tell me what she said."
"Go home Peter," was the best she could manage. "If Susan wanted you to know she'd have rung."
Suddenly his attitude changed. Stepping up to her face he shouted.
"You've done this, you bitch! You've driven her away with your constant talk about age and how she'll still be young after I'm old. You're so satisfied with yourself!"
Claire stepped back out of harms way before firing back her reply.
"Go on, blame everybody else. It's never your fucking fault. Well, I've got news for you. You must have been doing something wrong because she's buggered off with a younger bloke".
The words stung him, reducing his eyes to a running mess of tears.
"Oh yes," he cried. "Oh yes, you'd love to believe that. Love to tell them all that."
"I've told them. Told the police. Why do you think they've not been looking for her even when you keep harassing them, hey, why?"
He stopped his ranting and tried to compose himself.
"I don't believe it! Not Susan!"
"She phoned me from his house. Told me they were lovers."
Peter shook his head wildly, shouting, "No! no! you're making it up!"
"If you really want to know, they were in bed when she phoned. For Christ sake Peter they were doing it on the phone. At it, you know? Fucking, OK? If that don't make them lovers what does?"
Chapter 5
Present Day.
Jack's hiker slipped in and out of sleep as the lorry continued on its journey to the Scottish borders and beyond. The heat of the cab and the warm pulsating throb after so much abuse had brought her to that state of exhaustion, aware of everything around her, but unconcerned at the same time. A thousand passing headlamps threw shadows across her eyelids providing a magic lantern show to while away her slumber. Over the hypnotic hum of the engine she was conscious of Jack's voice, calm and relaxed, talking into the CB radio.
"One four for a copy. One four for a copy. Any Drivers out there?"
Silence.
"One four for a copy," he repeated. "It's the Candy Man asking out for any Drivers. Let's talk."
There was an electric cackle then the radio spat back a reply.
"Hey mister Candy Man, how you doing? H R hears you loud and clear. Moving on up to the Drivers channel."
Both men changed from channel fourteen up to the one used by the Drivers.
"Why the silence H?" asked Jack.
"I was holding back in case we had an intruder on the airwaves. There's a rumour someone been listening in on us."
"Any ideas who?"
"Well it ain't the cops, cos' no-one seen them around for months and they stick out like a foreskin on a Rabbi."
A broad Jamaican laugh skipped from rig to rig before he added, "You carrying fur, or you just tugging your pole every night?"
Jack laughed into the mouthpiece. "I got me some fur. It's dozing alongside me right now." He reached across to feel her tits, squeezing them enough to make her moan although she didn't react fully. "What about you? You got a parking slot, or you travelling with Pam? Pam of your hand." It was Jack's turn to laugh and it was loud enough to stir the girl, who slowly began coming round, although she remained too groggy to move or say anything.
"I got someone," said H R. "Someone you might like to say hello to. Where you heading?"
"The M6," Jack answered. "Just left Leeds, north bound."
"You near Austdale?"
"Just passed it. Why?"
There was a teasing silence before H R answered.
"Because, I got groovy Suzy. She's sitting next to me now."
The unusual conversation intrigued Jack's hiker who couldn't help but wonder who groovy Suzy was. For the time being also, neither could Jack.
"Who the fuck's groovy Suzy?" he asked. "I don't know anyone called that."
H R didn't answer the question but moved the conversation elsewhere.
"Your bed warmer," he said. "She going to the passover?"
Jack looked at the girl who was now wide awake and confused at the language travelling between the two drivers.
"She's going," said Jack. "When I've finished with her."
The hiker sat up in the seat, ill at ease with the atmosphere in the cab. Since Jack had spoken to the other man his tone had changed. She didn't like being called a bed warmer, she was no scrubber despite what had happened at the card game.
"Meet you at the National Park Centre near Newley," said H R.
"OK, but who's groovy Suzy?"
"Just remember goody blue knickers."
The radio went dead but Jack got the message. Susan Warburton had been passed on to the Hell Raiser. Jack was far from a squeamish man but his limits fell far short of the Hell Raiser, who had been known to tie a naked girl across the bonnet of his Scammel S24 and drive her for miles, until frostbite had taught her the lesson his strap had not.
"I want out," said the hiker. "It's time you let me go!"
"What, with no money?"
"You could give me some."
"Balls to that! And you ain't goin' nowhere without I say so. You belong to me now, see? OK?"
The girl considered her position carefully before deciding her best option lay in silence, at least until she had worked out how to get away from the situation which was getting way out of hand. She didn't mind a little roughing up, she was used to it, but this...
A few miles down the road the lorry passed a signpost for the National Park Centre and they slowed down before swinging round into the dark unlit driveway. An avenue of upright larch lined the road like sentinels to the dark forest beyond. The Volvo grumbled along the dirt track for a mile or so, seeming to travel ever deeper into the trees, slowly onwards towards an eerie green light shining ominously away in the distance.
As they neared the phosphorous glow the road widened to reveal the centre as little more than a quaint log cabin. Somewhere where the average two point four family could discover the wonders lurking beneath a rotting log and part with pocketfuls of cash in the shop unimaginatively called 'The Trading Post'.
In the blinking of an eye the hiker took it all in. All except for the shapes moving in the green light that emanated from inside another wagon. This wagon was big and silver, like the long nosed trucks of American movies. Behind the huge windscreen sat two figures. The hiker leant forward, her eyes straining through the gloom until slowly the outline of the driver grew ever more substantial, revealing Hell Raiser.
His ebony face was contorted into a wide maniacal grin that exposed gleaming white teeth. At first she thought he wasn't wearing a shirt but then she realised he had on a black rubber vest that clung so tight to his skin it was difficult to see where skin and rubber met.
The figure next to him in the unearthly green glow, sitting so unnaturally upright, must be groovy Suzy. Her blonde hair was combed back into vicious spikes of inverted cones. A rubber dog collar studded with silver nails encircled her neck, while the same metal defence guarded her breasts, fitted as they were around glorious tits protruding from the holes in her own skin tight rubber body suit.
Jack's hiker screamed in terror.
"What's going on!? Let me out of here!"
"It's just H,' said Jack. "He's alright is H. I think you're going to like him." With that he switched his lights to full beam, illuminating the Hell Raisers rig and the two inside. "I think you better like him, anyway!"
Now the hiker saw why Suzy sat so upright in the cab. A thick linked chain hung down from the roof and was clipped to the back of her collar, pulling her head upwards and effectively preventing her from any movement.
Scared almost to breaking point the hiker pleaded again with Jack to let her leave, money or no money.
"I wont tell about all this," she whimpered. "Just let me go, it'll be like I never saw you."
Jack's attention, though, was held by the Raiser, who had left his cab and was releasing Suzy from her bonds. Black stilettos encased not only her foot but the heavy black stay up stockings that travelled all the way up, almost to the area rarely seen by anything other than Marks and Spencers sensible women's briefs.
The Raiser marched her around into the glare of the head lamps then turned her around and bent her over. In the back of the tight black rubber suit that clung to her so tightly was a rear entry hole which he playfully pointed to before chaining the girl to the bumper of his truck. Then, to the hiker's horror, he walked across to meet Jack.
"Please," the hiker begged, clasping Jack round the knees and burying her face into his crotch. "Let me go, let me go!." When Jack didn't answer she drew back the door lock and jumped from the wagon. In her frantic dash for the trees she left a shoe embedded in the soft soil. There was no going back for it. Onwards she raced, over the trunk of a fallen spruce and into the safety of the shadows.
Behind her the excited whoops of the two men grew louder as the chase began. Further and further into the woods she ran, bashing several times into the trunks of trees made invisible by the night. Finally she could run no more, her foot was bleeding and her legs were burning with the effort. Pressed tight against a tree she hid, fighting frantically to control her breathing as she strained to hear any sounds from the men.
There was nothing, but she dare not move.
Like a waxwork figure she remained motionless, peering into the dark wood, straining her senses. Only when she had calmed down did she even recognise the gentle prod of a branch. She raised her hand and flicked it away, still scanning the gloom. A moment later she felt it again, only this time it prodded her bottom before moving down and slipping under her crotch. Her body stiffened at the realisation, and a low pitiful cry tried vainly to escape her mouth.
"Hey babe," whispered a deep voice. "How about a bit of black? I just know you're gonna like it."
There was no resistance as the young hiker was led back to the wagons. In the blackness of the night she could hardly see his hand on her arm. It was almost as if an invisible force was propelling her to face the same horrors that had befallen the unfortunate creature they called groovy Suzy.
Soon Jack appeared on the scene and the three broke out of the woods into bright light. The hiker's fears increased ten fold at the sight of the other girl, now on her knees, still chained with head bowed towards the cab, the nails from her collar and breast guards sparkling under the lamps. The sight gave her the energy to try and wriggle free but the Hell Raiser's grip tightened and Jack fixed a hauliers strap around her neck in order to tether her next to Suzy.
With the women firmly secured Jack and Hell Raiser took a rest on the bumper of Jack's rig. The lamps on either side of the men shone brightly on the rounded back sides of the girls, on the shiny rubberised rear of Suzy and the skimpily covered bottom of the young hiker.
"So," said Jack. "How come you ended up with Susan? The last I heard she'd been passed on to that wanker Bingo, the scouse twat."
"She had. But Bingo dropped a load off on the East coast minus a few little items he kept for himself. When he got to Whitby he heard the law were after him so he flogged her off to some bikers. I found her in Scarborough. The bikers had her chained over a table in the back room of 'Smelly Joes', charging truckers a tenner a bash."
"So how'd you get her out?"
H flashed his wide mad smile.
"Simple, man," he replied. "I shoved the old bolt cutters down me overalls and had her free in no time. We was out the back window and away before they had time to scratch their balls. Now she's mine and I'm very happy with her."
Jack went across to the woman he'd caught all those months ago, pushed his finger into the butt hole of her suit and dragged her up.
"May I?"
Hell raiser came across and milked the hikers tits with powerful black hands. "Snap!"
Jack slipped the chain from the bumper and led Susan quietly back to his cab. He reached for her tits, then cried out as his finger caught the tip of a protective nail. "Christ H," he shouted, "these fucking nails are sharp."
The black man shook with laughter. "Of course, the Hell Raiser don't use no false shit."
Jack opened the cab door and motioned for Susan to climb in, where they sat and watched the floodlit action outside. H had wasted no time in stripping down the hitch hiker before rehitching her to the bumper and disappearing behind the trailer.
He'd been carrying a load of logs for a saw mill, so it wasn't his usual trailer, but he still had his shagging spare with him. It was an old tyre from a snow plough truck, the Oshkosh J2065, so wide it would take quite some force to push it over when left upright. He unbolted it and wheeled it around to the front of the cab.
"Right then, babe," he purred, "get your lilly white ass over the rubber."
He slackened her neck chain enough for him to get the wheel between her and the cab, then pushed her struggling form lengthways down on the tyre. The girl lay along the top, her feet off the floor, neck still loosely chained to the wagon's bumper.
He gave her backside two whole-hearted slaps, then released his trousers and moved in between the girl's parted legs, his coal black skin in stark contrast to her whiteness. Once between her thighs he took hold of each side of the tyre and moved it slowly back and fore, rubbing his solid black stick along the valley of her arse.
"Quim on a rim," he sighed to himself. "Hmm hmm, there ain't nothing like it." Pushing her forward a bit more this time, his purple bell end dropped behind the girl's slats. He eased her backwards until she felt his glans push its way between her lips, solid and uncompromising. Just an inch or so further, expanding and stretching her wet flesh before her folds sucked in the full tip of his prick.
He left it that way, soaking in the pleasures of sight and touch, feeling the cool night air on his shaft and the heat of a woman on his bloated, inflamed helmet.
The sight of Hell Raiser in such dominant mood was stimulus enough for Jack.
"Get out of that kit," he ordered Susan. "And see if you can remember how I like my cock sucked."
She was tamed now - she responded without hesitation, her hands reaching behind her back to the column of buckles that held her in tight confinement, releasing each one in turn, slowly and deliberately, all the time watching H having the other girl on his tyre. Her face betrayed no emotion except that of resignation. She'd had her share on the rubber, and no doubt she realised she would have plenty more.
H was a bastard to her, like all the men were since she had been taken from Peter. But as cruel as he sometimes was, he had never chained her to a table like those bikers had done, to be fucked a dozen times a day or more. And he hadn't strapped her arse for the sheer fun of it like Bingo used to do all the time, just to watch her squirm and to hear her squeals.
H was a hard man, but a fair one too. If she sucked him well and kept herself open she had nothing to worry about and as long as she belonged to him, no-one dared mess with her without his permission. In that way he was protective, just like Peter.
The last buckle popped and she struggled out of the clinging second skin.
Peter! her mind screamed. Oh God Peter, where are you? When was the last time she had thought of him? Ages ago. He seemed just a faded memory now, sometimes not even that. She had grown so used to this life it was almost as if she had never had any other.
The touch of probing fingers pressed home the message that Peter was best forgotten. The Drivers owned her now and she was theirs, like that poor girl out on the tyre would soon be. Best to do what pleased them if you wanted to keep your bottom free from the hauliers canvas strap. That was all that mattered now.
She watched as the girl on the tyre lifted her head in the sheer effort it took to accommodate H's sizeable black prick. He ran it in all the way, taking cruel pleasure in her difficulty. As she lowered her head to take in Jack's cock Susan spoke silently to the girl.
'You'll get used to it love. We all do.'
Sitting in his drivers seat, Jack enjoyed the sight of his friend fucking the hiker as much as the smooth wet kisses of the compliant ex-housewife. He stretched across an arm to her labia, occupying himself with her pronounced flaps.
She no longer sported the few golden hairs she once had. H was a dedicated lover of smooth mounds. He allowed the black girls to keep their pubes because dark skin didn't reveal their slits so well. White women, on the other hand, had a lovely wide crease he liked to have on permanent display, and Susan, with her heavy lips, was a perfect example of his taste.
Jack rested a controlling hand on Susan's head, slowing her down before he fired prematurely. Her lips and H's pistoning bum had brought him to melt down too soon and he didn't want to get to the point of no return before he'd slipped his dick between her curtains.
It was too late for H though. Clenched cheeks and straining neck sinews signalled a flood of sperm pumping its way inside the wriggling stretched-out hiker. H pushed the tyre forwards and his slippery slime-covered prick slopped from her hole.
At the same time Jack pulled his cock from Susan's mouth and signalled for her to straddle him, facing outwards to watch her owner.
He had moved in front of the girl to sit open legged on the bumper, and was now pulling her close with the chain and then pushing her away with his foot so that she rocked back and forth, mouth open, cleaning away the juices of their fuck as she did so.
Jack reached round and cupped Susan's tits, squeezing and kneading the flesh as her cunt snatched at his meat, teasing the cum out of his balls and sending it deep up inside her in splashes of boiling glutinous gel.
The hours had passed, putting both men behind in their schedules. They handed back each other's woman and bid farewell, at least until the following evening, for the next few days saw the horse and country fair in Wettle, North Yorkshire. Most of the Drivers would be there, to meet the Irish from Donegal. They ran many of the numerous fairground attractions and they were big buyers and sellers of stock, not all of it equine.
It was the early hours of the next morning when, with a blast of horns, the wagons finally pulled out from the National Park Centre and sped off in different directions, Jack for the North and Hell Raiser for the mill and then Wettle.
The night had drawn cold, bringing a dense mist that closed around everything, cloying and claustrophobic. On the lonely road a solitary car punched its way through the fog, turning first into the Park drive way before bouncing along the pot holed track to the Centre cabin.
If it had arrived fifteen minutes earlier it would have been greeted by two naked women with the tell tale stains of men between their legs. As it was, Peter Warburton had missed them, not by much this time.
He was definitely getting closer.
In his constant hunt for clues he got out of his vehicle and searched the area. There was nothing but two sets of tracks to confirm his theory that several drivers were enticing women into their trucks and abducting them. He also found a muddy shoe which meant another young female had fallen into their hands.
Disheartened but far from daunted he returned to his car, started the engine and once more made his way into the night.
Since police would not listen to his theories he had but one choice, to track down the Drivers himself, to bring them to justice and free Susan and all the other women they had corrupted. There was no road he was not prepared to travel in search of his Susan. He had discovered that she was alive, if you could call existing purely for the sexual gratification of men as living. It stung him deeply to think what she must be going through, what they were doing to her.
He fumbled with the dials on the CB to continue his search of the airwaves, listening for their telltale call: 'One four for a copy, any Drivers out there?' It was supposed to be an exclusive club, a secret order, but Peter had discovered them. Careless talk, as it often does, was going to be their downfall.
Chapter 6.
Soft drizzle and a bitter wind seemed to follow Peter wherever he went, complementing his mood and confirming just how bad life could be. It had been over three weeks since his wife had vanished - not, according to Claire, into thin air, but into the arms of a young lothario.
Not only that, but his young, demure wife, had telephoned her sister in the middle of lovemaking to say what she had done? Oh no! It didn't ring true!
Peter had searched through her belongings and found nothing missing, no shoes, no skirts, no underwear, everything was as it should be. Admittedly she only had one suspender belt, the one Claire had bought for her with matching briefs and bra, but that was in her undies drawer along with her usual cotton panties.
If a woman was about to run off for a passionate affair she would certainly take along clean knickers if not the only daring set of underwear she owned. Unless, of course, she was going to spend most of her time minus them. He couldn't bare the thought of that, she wasn't that sort of girl. Then he'd tortured himself by thinking that maybe she was? Perhaps the age difference mattered after all?
Since starting his search he had taken to hanging out at the service station where Susan was last seen. He'd spoken to the woman who'd seen her that night but she could only repeat what she'd told the police. 'He was a big man, a trucker, and they were holding hands.' Since that time Peter had gone back most evenings, hoping they would pass through again.
Few people cared to talk, especially when he started asking questions about the truckers. He found the best way to gain the confidence of the lorry men was to leave his tidy clothes at home. The sight of a tie had copper stamped all over it, and a jacket and trousers was like garlic to a vampire. He took to wearing dirty jeans and an oily tee shirt and found the men much more convivial.
Tonight he'd gone one further and borrowed a friend's Ford Cargo truck which still had some engineering parts loaded on the back. Inside he was involved in conversation within minutes.
Including Peter there were four of them sitting around the table shovelling beans and egg down their throats and cracking filthy jokes.
"What about that blonde hiker Jack passed over? Fucking cracking or what? I would have kept her, me."
The other two men turned quickly towards Peter, uncertainty and concern clearly evident on their face.
"She's a bleeding housewife though, don't know what the daft bastard was thinking of."
"Shut up, man!" shouted the Geordie. Nodding his head towards Peter. "What do you think you're playing at?"
Dan seemed unperturbed by his friends reproval.
"He's alright," he quipped. "Ain't you mate? Got a truck in the park, like the rest of us."
Peter gave a nonchalant shake of his head which belied the churning inside his stomach. He dare not show any sign of interest or their suspicions would be aroused. His best chance of gleaning more information was to remain indifferent to the conversation. Given the turmoil of emotions he was experiencing, it wasn't easy.
"Anyway," continued Dan. "She's with Lincoln, he's working the east coast."
Peter was living on his wits.
"Lincoln? Does the Grimsby and Hull runs?"
Dan laughed. "You know Lincoln? Always wears green, like Robin fucking Hood. Owns his own firm. The Fe -"
"Dan!" There was no mistaking the tone of the Geordie. "It's time we were off."
The words panicked Peter, desperate for more information.
"Is Lincoln doing a run now?" he asked.
The Geordie grabbed hold of his mate's arm, then turned to Peter.
"We've got to be on our way, see." He looked at the other man still sitting at the table. "Don't you think you'd better make a move as well?"
The man next to Peter swilled the last of his tea, nodded his agreement and left with the others.
It was important not to get too carried away. After all, no names had been mentioned, just that some one called Jack had picked up a married hiker and now 'Lincoln' had her. Blonde! But there were hundreds of hitch hikers out there, perhaps thousands. What were the chances of that one being Susan? It was no good.
No matter how calm he tried to be, something told him he was at last on her trail.
Almost a month passed before Peter got the break he so desperately needed.
She was a woman in her mid thirties, clearly down on her luck, although she was quite good looking. Even her body was in remarkable shape considering the amount of cider she was obviously used to getting through.
"You the law?" she asked. "You gonna nail Lincoln or something?"
"I'm just looking for him, that's all."
"Well you can't be a mate," she said, "or you wouldn't be calling him Lincoln. He hates that name. The other drivers call him that to wind him up." She pulled a long drag on her cigarette, sucking in her cheeks until the glowing tobacco gave way to spent ash that broke and fell away from the rest.
"You still ain't said why you're looking for him?"
"You a friend of Lincoln's then?" Peter asked in reply.
She gave a laconic grunt, belched a cloud of apple scented fumes and landed the cider bottle down heavily on the bar.
"I know Lincoln alright." Her voice trailed off as her gaze fixed itself on her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. In the space of a few moments her blank expression changed to anger and then to solid fear. She picked up the bottle and moved a safe distance away from Peter.
"Here," she muttered. "You're not a Driver, are you?"
He drew a five pound note from his pocket and motioned to the barmaid for the same again.
"Printer," said Peter. "Office stationery, that sort of thing."
She took the bottle from him with a tentative hand while her eyes scanned him. His jeans and lumber shirt were just a bit too new and tidy to be real working clothes.
"I believe you," she said. "Your stomach is smaller than your shoulders."
Peter gave her a grin in recognition of her humour before asking if Lincoln used the pub. The woman made a mock gesture of choking on her drink.
"You got to be joking," she laughed. "Do you think I'd be in here if he did? I never want to see that bastard or his brother again. I wouldn't piss on them if they were on fire."
"So you know where he lives then?"
She gave a drunken shake of her head.
"Used to, but not any more. He moved. He's an entrepe-fucking-neur now, got four artics and his own depot you know? Gone up in the world since his Transit van. Thinks he's bastard Rockefeller."
"Where is it, his depot?"
The days drink was beginning to tell on her.
"I knew him when he had bugger all. He was always a bighead mind, always thought he was bleeding chocolate. He was the same in school. My own fault I suppose, I knew what the get was like".
"What about the depot?" he asked again. "Where is it?"
For a split second she seemed to regain all her faculties as she stopped talking and studied his face.
"Why?" she asked. "Why are you so bleeding interested?"
Peter decided to take a gamble.
"I don't like him either," he said, "and I think you should get back at him."
"For what?" she asked. "You don't know nothing about me."
"Let's sit down and have a talk."
She lit another cigarette then leant towards him to whisper in his ear.
"You get us a couple more bottles and we can go back to my place. Safer there."
On the way to her flat above a betting shop Peter discovered her name was Melanie, the rest of the time he'd spent keeping her upright and out of the gutter. At the door they were met by a half eaten chicken fried rice and a pool of vomit left, by the look of it, from the night before.
"Dirty bastards some people," Peter said.
"Yeah," she answered, unperturbed. "I tried to get inside before I chucked, but I couldn't get the key in the door. I'll clean it up in the morning."
He stepped over the mess and helped her up the flight of stairs to her flat, where she slumped down on the settee.
"Give us one of those bottles."
"You've had enough for now!"
That seemed to sober her up a little because she opened her eyes to look at him before getting up and taking the bottle out of his hand.
"Don't you worry 'bout me," she warned him. "You want to worry about yourself if you're going to mess with Lincoln and his mates."
She tapped the old ash from a joint into an empty lager can then held out the smouldering cone and motioned for him to take it. Peter ignored her actions, went across, moved away some magazines and sat on an old dry stain of a long forgotten drink. Once again she offered the cannabis cone and this time he took it. The smell of the burning weed was not unfamiliar. He'd taken more than the odd tote during his college days though he had long since given up tobacco. The dry vapour almost fetched a cough much to Melanie's delight. Peter's next pull was more pleasant and he experienced the same relaxed feelings which had so often accompanied the evenings spent with old college friends.
Satisfied, he returned the joint to her.
"You know, you don't look like the type of man who would mix with the likes of Lincoln." Her voice was soft, almost concerned. "What do you really want with him?"
Peter reached for a bottle off the stub burned coffee table.
"He's got something of mine. I want it back."
She took a tote, rubbed smoke from her eye and handed him the joint. On the record player, the distant sound of crashing waves and the splatter of rain signalled the start of Riders On The Storm.
"It's your woman, isn't it?"
Peter took a mouthful of cider and nodded.
"Yes, I believe she's with him"
Melanie took the bottle from him.
"How long?" she asked.
"Two months. She phoned her sister to say she'd run off with some bloke but I heard he'd left her with this man, Lincoln"
Jim Morrison's lyrics floated across. 'Into this house we're born. Into this world we're thrown.'
"I just want her back with me," said Peter tearfully. "With me! Back with me!"
'There's a killer on the road,' continued Jim. 'His brain is squirming like a toad.'
"They won't let her back," Melanie whispered.
Peter looked down at the girl who was now resting her head in his lap.
"What do you mean?"
She held up her arms. Around both her wrists were two thick red scars, like crimson bracelets.
"That's what I mean."
'If you give this man a ride,' sung Jim. 'Sweet memory will die. Killer on the road'
A look of horror swept across Peter's face.
"Lincoln? He did that to you?"
She picked up the smouldering joint from the top of the empty can, then went and sat on the threadbare carpet in front of the fire to stare at the flames.
"Him and his brother." Her voice was detached and calm, as if she was trying to put distance between her and the memory of the events. "I haven't always lived like this. I was a good girl, happy. Had a tidy place near town. Away from the docks."
Her voice fell silent as she recalled memories of a more respectable existence, the job she once held in Woolworths and the dreams of blissful domesticity. Peter said nothing to disturb her, waiting until she had regained herself.
"He took it all from me, everything. Him and his sodding brother."
Feeling uncomfortable, and desperate to do something, Peter carried across another bottle and joined her on the floor. He gave her the drink then reached over to the coffee table and the other reefer, lighting it himself before handing it to her as a replacement for the one just finished.
"How did you get those marks?"
"He'd just bought his first big truck, I don't know what sort but it had lots of room in it. Room for a bunk and space for tools and other stuff. I'd met Neil, that's Lincoln, in a club, we knew each other from school and started seeing each other occasionally. Nothing serious like, just on and off. Then he told me he'd bought this wagon and asked if I wanted to go on the first run with him. I thought it would be fun."
She took a fortifying gulp of cider.
"He didn't have any offices then so he had to come and pick me up. I remember feeling so excited when this huge lorry pulled up in the street. Everyone came out on the doorstep to see what was going on. Then I climbed in the cab and his brother Colin was there which put me on a bit of a downer, but I went anyway. We'd made the first drop and I was feeling really good up there in the air looking down on all the other cars and things. Then I felt Colin's hand."
She paused and swallowed hard.
"Can you pass me a tissue?"
Peter found the box empty except for a few crumpled dried up sheets.
"Use this," he said.
She took his handkerchief to wrap around her knuckles, then supported her head with her hand, the cloth ready in case she needed it later.
"At first I thought he'd just brushed my leg by accident. But he got more persistent and daring. I didn't know what to do. We were miles from home and I was jammed between the two of them. If I said anything I'd make a scene and if I didn't I'd be egging him on. It was getting late by now and I asked when we would be setting back for home.
"Didn't I say? Lincoln laughed. We'll be on the road for a few days.
"When I looked at their faces they were looking at me and grinning their heads off, and I knew then they had planned it all. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to work out what they had in mind, but I told them I was having none of it. Not with the two of them. I mean, I'm not that green that I didn't think me and Lincoln would probably end up doing it, that's why I was disappointed to see his brother. But I told them, I said, I'm not like that.
"They took no notice. I like it here, Colin said, and Lincoln agreed. What about me? I said. I don't fancy sleeping in a lorry."
She rubbed her eyes for the first time as her voice began to crack and Peter reached out a reassuring hand, placing it gently on her shoulder.
"There's no need to say any more."
Melanie's gaze remained firmly on the fire.
"I want to," she said. "I need to show you the type of people you're dealing with." There was a pause as she searched for the right words and phrases, those sentences which would convey the terror of her ordeal yet allow her some dignity and respect.
"Lincoln just pointed to the bunk and told me to get in there. Don't worry about Colin, he can kip down on the front seats. Tons of room on them, ain't there Col? Then he bundled me on to the bunk and got on next to me, pulling a sleeping bag over us. I thought perhaps it would be alright, covered up and everything, but he started touching me, my breasts and down below. At first I didn't mind because it was quite dark, then he told me to take my jeans down. When I said no, he told me to get them off or he would do it for me, and he meant it."
Melanie pulled desperately on the root of the joint until the smoke that swirled between her lips dimmed the memories. Without its calming effect she would be unable to recount the details.
"Did you do it?" asked Peter.
She nodded her head.
"I took them off. What else could I do? I was alone and frightened."
"Come on," eased Peter. "Don't say any more, don't torture yourself." But Melanie felt the relief of a heavy load unburdened, the urgency of a sinner in need of atonement.
"I took them off, under the quilt. And your knickers, he ordered, you can get them down as well. After I pulled them off he made a big play of unbuckling his trousers while I tried to keep the covers over me. I saw Colin looking. He wasn't saying anything, just looking and smirking, then Lincoln fell across me and I felt him nudging his way inside, pushing and fumbling until he was all the way up. While he was banging away on me he shoved my top up to get at my tits. It was so sordid, I just lay there looking at the roof of the cab with his brother grinning. A few strokes later he shot his load and climbed off to let Colin have a go. I said no but Lincoln was adamant. There was nothing I could do, I couldn't have stopped one of them let alone the two. Lincoln made me suck him off while his brother had me, then he did it again, only this time he told me what they were going to do to me. He said they were going to use me as the company pump, a slapper to pump full of spunk whenever they wanted.
"When they were finished, he said, they would pass me on to some other drivers who knew how to treat a bitch like me. Then they fucked me a few more times and made me have them in my mouth until they were finished."
She stopped there and held out both her arms to study the scars, rubbing her hands around the worn red groove. When she had finished with them she rubbed her ankles and Peter saw that they too, bore the same marks.
"After that," she said quietly, "they took some rope and tied my hands and feet together then hung me like a hammock in the back of the lorry, driving me up and down the motorways, naked, swinging away while the ropes burnt into my skin, taking me down only when they wanted to empty their balls."
She finally needed the handkerchief, burying her head in its protective folds to shut out the shame.
"They kept me like that for over a week, using me for all sorts of dirty practices, pushing the handles of tools up me, or making me masturbate on the gearstick while they watched. If I refused to do anything they would strap me with a hauliers belt, that's a favourite of all the Drivers. A few strokes from one of them and you'd fuck the Household cavalry if they told you to. But they got careless. Lincoln had gone to see some bloke about passing me on in return for a young hiker he'd picked up near Coventry. While he was gone Colin had taken me down and had me suck his dick, ready to fuck me. When it was hard he told me to get on my knees and spread them. He was actually up me when Lincoln came back and told him to get his prick out of there and come and take a look at the tight young split in the other rig.
"There was a group of Drivers all taking it in turns with the young girl on the other side of the car park. He was so anxious to get in on it he forgot to check the knots."
"The police?"
She shook her head.
"No?"
Melanie laughed, a slow scornful laugh.
"Oh, I told them alright, but all I got was I must be incredibly naive to go off with two drivers on such a long trip, or else I felt so guilty about having it off with the two of them I was out to make trouble."
She saw the hurt he was suffering and felt guilty for telling him everything, maybe she should have left some of the more sordid details out... Melanie did the only thing she knew.
"Come here," she murmured, and with an outstretched hand pulled his head down to hers. It had been a long time since Peter felt the comforting touch of a woman's lips. Even with the taste of alcohol and tobacco on her mouth, he sensed in her a kindness denied by her lifestyle, a life ruined by the excesses of two men. But it was wrong, Susan was out there somewhere, perhaps hanging in a cab, stripped and used. Guilt flooded his mind and he withdrew.
"No," he told her. "I can't".
She smiled at him. Even when she had made her intentions obvious, he had thought of his wife.
"You know," she said to him. "You certainly make a change from most of the men that come here. I'm usually arse up over the settee in two minutes, but you, you're something else." She reached out and brought his hand to rest on her breasts. They were larger than Susan's, fuller and heavier, and the sight of them brought strong feelings to his groin. He was a man after all, with natural needs and desires.
The bedroom felt damp and smelled of too many nights of sex and not enough open windows.
"Follow me," she whispered, taking up his hand.
On the mattress the red nylon sheets lay in a crumpled mess while the pillows had disappeared between the wall and the headboardless bed. Melanie made a cursory attempt to tidy the sheets then dropped the kimono from her body to stand for his inspection.
Without her tarty clothes she had a fine body. Only the poorly bleached hair and the tattoo of a skull in a biker's helmet between her navel and the top of her pubic triangle hinted at what she had endured.
Peter woke to the sight of Melanie's bottom wobbling in time to the stroke of her arm as she cleaned her teeth. The bathroom door was open and the naked woman was up and about her business without any apparent affects from the previous night's activities. She took a glass of water to rinse her mouth then spat the excess paste into the sink and squatted on the loo.
"Good morning," she said, seeing he was awake. "I didn't mean to disturb you. You looked so peaceful." She tore a piece of tissue from the roll, lifted one leg and dabbed herself dry. "Do you want some breakfast?"
Peter climbed from the well worn rut in the centre of the bed and searched the floor as Melanie made her way through to the kitchen, the faded kimono once more wrapped about her. "Thanks," he said. "You haven't seen my trousers have you?"
Through the spit of the frying bacon he heard her shout "behind the chair, where you threw them last night."
He remembered now, how quickly he was out of his clothes once the guilt had been overcome. How he'd hopped about the room trying to release his stubborn foot from a trouser leg before joining her on the bed to feast in the pleasures of her body. He'd revelled in the tasting of the familiar oily slick that would allow his cock free and easy passage between silky slats and the wet velvety tube beyond.
Her response had not been the usual cold tolerance she gave to the faceless men who humped away at her nightly, leaving her to tug up her knickers after half a dozen strokes of an alcohol soaked semi erect penis. She had been hungry and eager, wanting pleasure and to please, to comfort and to be comforted, and throughout they had done just that, more like long time lovers than the relative strangers they were.
"There you go," she said cheerfully. "Bacon and eggs. It's been a long time since I made a bloke breakfast! I've made plenty of suppers, but not many breakfasts."
After breakfast and the walk back to the pub to pick up the car, Melanie kept her promise to show Peter the way to Lincoln's depot. It was a couple of miles away and Melanie made it quite clear on the drive over that she would not go anywhere near the entrance. Peter agreed and brought the car to a halt several units away from the Felix Ferry yard, collecting his camera from the boot before setting off towards an area that overlooked the depot.
Melanie followed tentatively behind, unaware that Peter had no idea what to do next.
The pair of would-be investigators crouched and waited behind a rubbish skip, peering as best they could the hundred yards or so into the Felix lorry depot. Occasionally Peter lifted the heavy camera to his eye, focusing the telephoto lens onto the large foreboding DAF waiting in gleaming, polished splendour, outside the tin sheeted warehouse.
"Well?" he asked. "What do you reckon?"
"That's Lincoln's truck alright. He always drives the latest model they've got." She pointed to a car parked a short distance away. "And that's his car."
Then he came, the devil in a fork lift.
A girl was walking, half naked and bound with hauliers straps so tight and encompassing she was forced to hobble to prevent herself falling over. Confirmation enough! Peter raised his camera and fired off several quick shots while Melanie cowered beside him.
"What's he doing?" he asked her.
"Once they get their claws into someone they don't let go. She's going to be his bunk warmer until he's finished with her."
The powerful camera lens rested on Lincoln, bringing him into sharp focus. He was non descript, plain and unassuming, as such people often are. But he was very powerful. Peter would have no chance against him.
The camera lens along the strap to the young girl bound at its end. She was an Oriental, perhaps Chinese, small and neat and very young, perfect little breasts beneath the thin white jersey she wore. On her tiny feet white plimsolls completed the only clothes she had left, or she was naked from the waist down, revealing perfectly formed and exotically tinted legs that were perfectly formed.
When the fork lift reached the wagon Lincoln released the girl and laughed as he chased her around the waggon. She soon stumbled and fell to the ground in a pathetic heap, struggling franticly to get to her feet, squirming away from him like a snake, but Lincoln swept her up into his arms and kissed her piggishly on the lips, a hand active at her crotch, totally ignoring her struggles. She was crying, thin wailing noises that went straight to the heart, but there was nobody else around to hear and Lincoln knew it. At the wagon, he pushed her up none too gently and as intrusively as he could. It was like a sacrifice entering the mouth of a distant monster. Unlike fair Andromeda however, there was to be no Perseus with gleaming sword, and no Pegasus upon which her escape could be made.
Peter was distraught. He wanted to save the girl, but he knew he was no match for Lincoln in a one-to-one encounter. He set off for his vehicle as the hiss of released air brakes was followed by the low growl of a large lorry pulling away.
Peter swung open the driver's door of his car and fired up the engine. Around the corner the gleaming DAF was making its way through the gates of the Felix freight yard, the driver's only concern the strict timetable he had agreed for the trip.
And that his stamina would allow him to make full use of the tight young Chink he'd caught specially for this job!
The moment he saw her in that sports gear, taut thighs glowing with the sheen of perspiration as she jogged along, he had known he just had to have her. Orientals turned him on, brought out the beast in him, and this one was perfectly formed, a right little gem.
It was her misfortune.
On a new refinement behind him, she was suspended from a pole attached to either side of the cab wall, like the prized bag of a big game hunter on its way to the trophy room, swaying gently back and forth in time with the movements of the truck.
Melanie heard the growing rumble of the DAF's engine then saw the black cab and long articulated load travel out from behind a warehouse and pull up at the junction. Between her and the lorry was Peter in his own vehicle, a man dispossessed of his wife, angry and bemused and determined to mete out justice.
She held her breath as Lincoln's wagon turned on to the road and Peter's car crossed the central line to meet it.
The two vehicles were on a collision course. Only one man, Peter Warburton, knew why. He was going to stop that wagon no matter what the cost. He was going to prevent another woman falling into the hands of the Drivers. There would be no more Susans, no more Melanies.
In the wagon Lincoln's senses were slow to respond. He had seen the estate lurch into his path and was angry when the driver hadn't corrected his mistake, but the DAF was so much bigger the idiot would surely get out of his way.
But the estate kept coming, just a hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards away.
Less than three hundred feet separated the two vehicles.
Two hundred feet. The wagon sounded its horn.
One hundred feet.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Lincoln pulled violently on the steering wheel in a desperate attempt to miss the speeding car while the watching Melanie could only scream. Her voice was drowned by the sound of steel scraping steel, flying sparks reflected orange and yellow and were hot in her eyes, forcing her to turn her head away, while the crash of exploding, splintering glass resounded in her ears.
At the sound of the wagon's horn she turned as the careering lorry bore down on her, its load seemingly detached from the engine, juggling this way and that behind, as if trying to get past and speed off from the scene.
There seemed no escape from the lurching mass of steel and canvas bearing through the smoke of a dozen screeching tyres, but miraculously the machine slowed and came to an even keel.
However, it did not stop. It could not stop, for the driver could not explain away his human cargo. He could only slow down to survey the devastation left in his wake and as he passed by Melanie's stomach lurched groundwards as the cold, knowing glare of Lincoln fell upon her for an instant.
With a roar of horse power the engine sped away, leaving her numbed and dazed at the roadside, unable to turn and look for fear of what she might see.
The trailer disappeared from sight, seemingly undamaged. All the glass and flying metal must have come from Peter's car. She was sick and weak at the knees, feeling only the need to sit at the kerb side and vomit. But there was to be no time for that because Peter's car came to a squealing halt at the end of four black lines of molten rubber.
"Get in!" he shouted. "In!"
Melanie ran round to the passenger seat, passing the caved in driver's side. Even before her door shut, Peter pulled off in pursuit, sending tiny squares of broken glass spilling from the dashboard to land on his shattered camera in the footwell. Some glass fell onto his lap and made their way beneath his legs but Peter chose to ignore the pain. At least until he made the corner and saw the DAF was nowhere to be seen.
At that point the road hit a roundabout and the lorry could have chosen any of the several routes. He tried the first turn off, but it was soon clear that he'd made a bad choice. All he could do now was make his way back to Melanie's flat and hope that the police might take an interest. Everything seemed lost until suddenly the CB barked, "One four for a copy. Felix the Cat calling Shaggy. You out there Shag?"
Melanie reached out for the volume control. "That's Lincoln calling his brother!"
"Felix calling Shaggy. Come back little brother." A moment later the radio crackled with the voice of Lincoln's brother.
"What's up? You only just started and you're already calling me up. Don't you know what to do with a Chinky slit?"
Melanie couldn't help but shudder at the sound of their voices, especially Colin's, who was always sarcastic and smug.
When they had had her in their clutches, he was the one who liked to tie her up in the back of the container and hang her from the roof. Colin got his kicks from sheer cruelty. He would whip her bottom with the canvas straps or use his thick leather belt to raise burning welts upon her skin. Very often he would leave her up there and they would carry on their journey with her dangling in the back of the lorry, passing cars and vans whose drivers had no inkling of the tortured cargo.
Now his mocking voice crackled out again.
"Remember to have a sixty nine for me. And I don't mean a crispy duck with noodles. Perhaps a Chinky fuck, hey!"
His brother was not amused. "Shut up man, for fuck's sake. Something weird just happened. Some twat in a car tried to hit me off the road outside the yard, and there's something else - "Do you want me to come out?" Colin cut in impatiently.
Lincoln gave a thoughtful sigh. "I'm alright," he replied. "But I'd better get rid of Suzy Wong. Just in case."
"What you going to do?" Colin asked. "You can't just dump her."
"I've got a few drops to make then I'm off up to Wettle. The Paddies are over for the horse fair so I'll flog her off then. Keep your eyes open. I think someone's onto us."
"Give her one for me before she goes," said Colin, then as an after thought added. "You know, I knew it was bad luck when you had that married bint off the Candy Man. Bad news, she was. Even Bingo had to dump her, up in Whitby. He only had her a couple of weeks and the law were after him for nicking some gear."
"Well she's long gone now," Lincoln put in. "See you at the horse fair."
With a pleasant 'plink', another shard of glass was added to the small pile of blood spattered slivers in the ash tray.
"You know?" said Melanie, pulling another piece from Peter's backside. "You were lucky none of this went in your face, you could have been blinded." She took the remnants of the car window to the dustbin and returned with a bottle of antiseptic while Peter remained half bent across the chair, his backside looking like an explosion in a butchers shop.
"I'm supposed to say this won't hurt," she said. "But I'd be lying."
His arse cheeks clenched tight in a brave effort to avoid the stinging solution, but she applied it liberally wherever there was a cut, which was everywhere.
"You know what?" Peter said through gritted teeth. "I just can't believe the law are not interested. How on earth can they say they don't like to get involved in traffic accidents? What is their job if they don't get involved with anything?" He followed her out to the kitchen where she was putting the kettle on. "And that poor girl," he added, then with a sarcastic tone he mimicked the voice of the officer he had told. "If we arrested every lorry driver with a young girl in his cab, sir, we wouldn't have any lorries left on the road. Now would we?"
He took the tea Melanie offered and drank it standing up, while she enjoyed the ubiquitous cigarette with hers.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked.
"I'll have to try and track down this Bingo. He's obviously the next link."
She stubbed out the cigarette only to light another straight away and take her first luxurious drag. "But she's not with him any more. That's what Lincoln's brother said."
"I know," answered Peter. "But I've got to do something. If I can track him down I'll be able to find out who he hangs out with. At least now I know she's somewhere near Whitby. I'll just have to take it from there."
"When will you leave?"
"Now, tonight."
There was no mistaking the disappointment Melanie felt at his announced departure. Putting a brave face on it she declared she was going to cook him a meal before he left.
"You don't want to be doing that now," said Peter. "Why don't I grab us something from the Chinese?"
"Get some wine as well. Get the white, something fizzy, nothing too strong though, if you've got to drive later".
"And no wacky backy either," Peter called back, closing the door quickly.
He was gone less than an hour, but in that short space of time Melanie had all but transformed the flat into something resembling respectability. Two table lamps, one on top of the TV and the other on the floor in the corner of the room bestowed a warm ambience, while an incense burner on the coffee table did much to disperse the musty smell of neglect.
She pushed the settee and coffee table against the wall to lay a table cloth on the floor around which she had scattered cushions. Her best cutlery, stamped with the logo of 'The Little Chef,' lay alongside crockery of various shapes and designs.
"Great!" said Peter.
"It's not quite the Dragon Palace."
A while later she said: "I'll be sorry to see you leave."
Peter was licking the juice from his fingers. "And I'll be sorry to go." He handed her his card. "If you ever fancy moving up north, there's a job for you with me."
She took a moment to read the details before flicking the card across the room.
"My life's down here," she sighed. "But you never know. Maybe one day." She reached forward and planted a light kiss on his forehead. When he made to reciprocate, his plate tipped from his hand sending sauce all over her fresh, clean top. Grabbing a tissue he tried desperately to dab away the juice, apologising madly as he did so.
"It's no problem," Melanie assured him. "It'll come out in the wash." She pulled the top over her head and threw it towards the kitchen door. As the garment landed a strange atmosphere descended, quite electrifying.
"There's some sauce on you," Peter stammered. "Shall I..."
Melanie pushed out her tits, allowing Peter to rub the tissue against the white satiny material until most of it was off. He licked the tissue again saying how nice it tasted, but instead of wiping her with it this time, he ran his finger down her breast, feeling the nipple rise when his nail scraped across it.
"It tastes even better off you."
Melanie smiled and reached for the dish containing the prawns and oyster sauce, raising it to her neck she slowly tipped the contents over her breasts, the juice running down her cleavage while the prawns and vegetables splattered over her skin.
Peter waited until the dish was empty before he began the slow task of licking the food off her body. When his mouth fell over her nipple, sucking it hard through the wet material of her bra, Melanie lowered herself down onto the table cloth, crushing the food beneath her. As his tongue licked and flickered its way between nipple and navel and back again, his hands dropped down to pull her skirt up to her waist.
No problem. The signals were at go!
Slowly Peter removed his own clothes, then, standing over her, he poured the wine onto her body, watching the sparkling liquid drench her hair and soak into her knickers. When the bottle was empty he dropped between her legs and sucked at her cunt through the sopping wet cotton, while Melanie writhed and bucked, grinding the meal into the cloth, her body stained with various juices and her hair entangled with bean sprouts, rice and bamboo shoots.
Sensing she was near the edge Peter pulled aside her knickers and eased a thick, hot, greasy spare rib up inside her, the barbecue sauce smearing her lips and matting her hair. The heat between her lips forced a yelp for release from the bucking girl, an urgent desire to reach the top of human feelings so that she could throw herself down in one long orgasmic free falling leap. His mouth joined the bone at the entrance to her slippery tube, licking and sucking at her swollen button until the tell tale signs of clenched thighs and a back arched almost to a croquet hoop signalled the rush of an unstoppable overwhelming orgasm, announced further by great cries of release and moans of delight.
Peter removed the spare rib from Melanie's greasy juice-drenched hole, sitting back to eat it while she writhed slowly on the cloth, enjoying the ebb and flow of her subsiding heat, her body and clothes covered with food.
Eventually, when she had regained some composure she sat up, her arse marinading in a silver tray of black bean sauce. For a while she didn't say anything and Peter noticed tiny spasms in her legs, as if her orgasm had returned in a soft fading echo. When the last ripple of pleasure left she opened her eyes to see Peter's straining erection flat against his belly. She crawled across and kissed its tip, then with an impish grin she picked up a couple of onion rings and forced them down, along the length of his cock.
"Anyone for hoop-La?" she laughed, before reaching down and nibbling at the onions. While her head bobbed along his prick Peter reached over her back and rubbed the spare rib between her legs, forcing the wet cotton into the vee of her arse.
"Turn around!"
She did as he said, presenting him with her sticky pantied bottom covered with wine and the juice from the many different dishes. Peter pulled her knickers down far enough to expose her barbecue basted crevice, then poured the contents of a carton of sweet and sour sauce over her bum, watching as the sticky liquid scored a direct hit on the tightly pursed muscle of her arsehole. The gooey molten liquor trickled along the pleat of her vagina before dripping down onto his bloated cock.
When he had collected enough of the glutinous gel, he lifted his prick level to her entrance and pushed it home, mashing the onion rings between his thighs and her bottom. Once inside her he remained perfectly still, enjoying the sensation of the blended juices encasing his tool.
The different jellies provided the perfect marriage between solid male cock and soft female inner flesh, making it difficult to distinguish where his body stopped and hers began.
Peter started to move, slowly at first, allowing the sweet and sour sauce to lubricate her fully, adding its liquid to that already released by her aroused sheath. When the sensations grew in intensity so did his thrusts. Out, to the very sweet stained tip of his glans, then back, until the onion ring cushioned his stabbing loins against her. Beneath their coupled thighs grew a pool of Chinese dressings that dripped from Peter's heavy balls, the juice flavoured and scented not only with herbs of the mystic East, but now with Melanie's salacious oil.
Peter plunged deeper inside the slippery tube, jabbing harder and faster, seeking the ultimate sensation, craving its ecstatic release, thirsting for the snap of pleasure that only his striving straining spunk spitting cock could give. Wrapping his arms around her waist he embedded his swollen arrow firmly in her quiver, plugging her hole completely, ensuring no escape for the squirting gush of seed he pumped inside her.
Unable to withstand the onslaught, Melanie collapsed forward onto the cloth, spilling any food careless enough to have remained in its container. They stayed that way until Peter's greasy cock flopped from her vagina, sated and content.
He propped himself up on an elbow covered with bamboo shoots and water chestnuts and looked at his deflated prick. It still wore the onion rings for a necklace, although they were obviously the worse for the wear. Melanie rolled over and saw what he was looking at. With a naughty smile she dipped down her head and a grateful tongue flicked out to lick away his batter. When that was gone she ate the quite differently flavoured batter covering the onions.
Lying alone in the darkness after he had gone, Melanie smoked one cigarette after another, gradually filling up the old tin ash tray she'd stolen from the pub. The original Fosters design was no longer visible, having long since faded and decayed from a thousand stubbed out Marlboro's.
Occasionally, between cigarettes, she drifted into a light sleep, where her waking thoughts became dreams, confusing the twilight world of somnolence with reality. This veil of dormancy made it easy to ignore the heavy persistent thumping in her ears. But the knocks became more insistent, nagging and continuous, demanding attention and eventually getting it.
"What the fuck?" she exclaimed, climbing from the bed and reaching for the clock. It said 3:30 AM. By the time she reached the top of the stairs her senses had almost come round, but she still felt it necessary to grip the hand rail as she made her way down to the front passage.
"Didn't get very far did you?" she shouted through the door. "Just couldn't stay away, eh?"
She was ecstatic as she pulled back the catch, but the man at the door was not Peter.
Chapter 7
"Tea with that?" asked the fat man behind the counter. Hell Raiser nodded and picked up a half pint china mug with a rim that had more chips than a Monte Carlo casino. The fat man took his money and motioned to a formica topped table that for some reason had the word 'bollocks' scratched on it.
"I'll bring the sandwich over," he said.
H sat down and looked around the cafe. There were two other truckers sitting near the window, a down and out buying some shelter from the cold with an age old cup of tea, and a small group of bikers over by the pinball machine. He made eye contact with one leather clad grease nipple and they exchanged grins, H winning comfortably in the gleaming teeth department. The sandwich eventually arrived on a willow pattern plate smeared with yesterday's grease and egg yolk.
"Is the special still on?" H asked the fat man.
As the fat man said yes a door opened behind the counter and out came some guy pulling up his zip to match the smile on his face. There was a small cheer from the two truckers as they stood to join him before leaving. H caught the man's words as the door opened.
"What a great fuck," he beamed happily, slapping the other two on the back. "Best tenner I ever spent." As the men were leaving one of the bikers got up and went through to the back room.
"You want the special next?" asked the fat man as he brought over H's order.
H nodded.
"It's a tenner." The fat man gathered up his apron and wiped his hands on the multi stained cotton. "Up front."
The biker reappeared to see H handing over the money for the back room special.
"If he's looking to bury his pork you better get out here and scrub her down," he called over. "There's been quite a few in there today."
"Enjoy your meal," said the fat man. "She'll be ready soon."
When he had rejoined his friends he nudged the man next to him before calling across to the trucker.
"Hey smiler, like a bit of white do you?"
H grinned and nodded as the biker added, in a forced Jamaican accent: "Well your money's as good as a white man's. You go in and give her a bit. It's not the hole with shit on it mind."
His mates burst out laughing and H continued to smile, his face hiding the anger and disgust he felt for the dirty, oil soaked group. It was they who owned the girl in the back room. The one truckers were travelling from miles around to get their prick up. The one thick Bingo had dumped at the first sign of trouble. If The Drivers left her here, word might get out about their activities.
That could not be allowed.
"In a fucking mess again?" snarled the fat man, reaching into a cupboard for a galvanised metal bucket. He dropped the pail into the large vitreous china sink with a loud clatter and began filling it up. When it was half full he added some detergent and a sponge, then he carried it over to Susan Warburton, who was naked and chained in the centre of the room.
"Over the block," he ordered her, removing the blindfold and pulling out the ear plugs before slashing the heavy belt that lay handily beside her hard down on buttocks that had clenched in anticipation of the routine. "And open up."
Susan rose slowly to her feet from her bent over position on the floor, the one she had to maintain until told otherwise. Manacles connected her to a large butchers block. She paused for a while, contemplating some token resistance, then thought better of it. The wide red mark from the fat man's belt, overlaying many others that had faded, prompted obedience, in the same way beatings had done since he had bought her from Bingo.
"Well?" said the fat man impatiently. "Or shall we do it the hard way?"
Without resistance Susan bent over the top of the hardwood block, resting on her elbows, her legs slightly parted as her bottom jutted out. The fat man pulled the soaking sponge from the bucket and began washing the spunk that stained the inside of her thighs. Several times he plunged his hands into the water before shoving the soapy sponge along the vee of her bum.
Susan grimaced throughout the ordeal but suffered it in silence, even when he pulled apart her thick sex lips to clean up inside her. Satisfied with his work, the fat man leant across and used his apron to wipe away the water, paying special attention to her already sore twat.
When she was blindfolded again and the ear plugs back in place, he gave her the usual final belting - the two or three he allowed himself for his personal pleasure - and left.
"She's ready," he shouted to H, throwing a handful of sausages into a frying pan. "And try and get your spunk inside her, not up her back. I get pissed off washing the muck from her."
H paid no attention, leaving the fat man up to his arse in lard and brown sauce.
Inside, Susan felt the presence of another man with apprehension. Did this one want to beat her or fuck her? Or both! She'd lost count of the men who had visited her already that morning. Getting to her feet she assumed the usual required position over the block, bottom in the air. She felt him move behind her, between her legs, the place nearly all the men took her from.
He began undoing his overalls and she steadied herself, ready for his first fumblings and the initial prod of hard muscle or slap of the belt.
She felt his hand at her head, and off came the blindfold.
She screamed as she saw the huge black man there, with a pair of heavy bolt cutters in his hands!
She span around, terrified. As she began to shout his hand clasped tight across her mouth, forcing her back over and down onto the block.
"Shh!" he whispered. "I'm not going to harm you."
In the cafe, the bikers had heard the scream. Not unusual, but this was particularly loud.
"Looks like smiler boy's giving her a good grinding," sneered the leader. The whole group laughed as the sound of Susan's chains rattled from the back room.
"This way!" urged H, holding open a window. He saw the plugs in her ears and pulled them out. "Come on, run, the truck's over there."
Susan was paralysed with fear. For so long she'd thought of nothing but escape, but now the time had come she was too scared and bemused to run. What if they caught her, brought her back? What would they do to her then?
"Hurry!" called H. He wouldn't be able to handle all four bikers and the fat man, and time was running out.
What else could they possibly do that they hadn't done to her already? Susan ran to the window.
The black man's hands gripped her waist and helped her up to the window ledge, where she jumped down bare footed onto gravel and Tarmac. By the time H had squeezed his massive bulk through the window her wobbling naked backside was fleeing across the car park, her feet streaked with blood from the broken glass and tin cans that littered the area.
As H raced after her, he never noticed the man pulling into the cafe astride a Triumph Bonneville. He was one of the bikers with a part share in Susan, and he clocked the situation straight away. Leaving his bike on the stand he removed a heavy chain he kept wrapped around the handle bars and rushed across the car park.
H had just pushed Susan into the cab when she spotted the charging biker and screamed again. H turned around to face the man less than ten yards away.
"Don't even think about it, shithead!"
In that split second the biker calculated his chances of winning, the humiliation of not fighting, and the subsequent loss of shagging revenue. With a venomous whip of his arm he swung the chain at the black man's head. H knew it was the only thing he could do with a chain and had his arm already raised in defence. Despite his awareness the metal still cut his face as it spun tightly around his forearm.
In an instant H grabbed the flailing iron and pulled it free from the biker, then brought his head down in a vicious thud against the man's top lip.
H gripped the sides of his head, twisted it and bit off the man's left ear, before releasing him to squirm in agony. As the wagon pulled away Susan felt the smallest of bumps as the wheels ran across writhing legs.
Five miles down the road and away from danger H told Susan she could find some clothes on the bunk at the back of the cab.
It was the first pair of knickers Susan had put on in weeks, not to mention a skirt and top. Both items were quite small, as if they belonged to a young woman, or a teenager perhaps. She didn't query why a lorry driver would have such clothes in his cab, she was just incredibly grateful to be alive and away from 'Smelly Joes,' and the constant thump of a man's cock between her legs or the crack of heavy belt on her arse. Dressed now in a small denim mini skirt and tight jumper that left most of her midriff on view she climbed back to sit in the passenger seat.
"I haven't said thank you," she said, reaching across to look at herself in the mirror. "Christ, don't I look a mess?" She fumbled with her hair, vainly trying to give it some shape. "Can you take me to a phone booth? I have to telephone my husband, tell him I'm alright. Then I'm going to ring the police. You wouldn't believe what I've been through."
Her voice was amazingly calm and collected. Enduring one trial after another had made her impervious to almost anything.
"Don't you fancy a bath and tidying yourself up first?" asked H. "My place is only twenty miles or so. Better you phone from there."
Susan rested her feet on the dashboard and stretched. "Why not?" she smiled. "I could do with a rest and a stiff drink before all the questions start."
They reached Kirkholm by late afternoon. H owned a large Yorkshire stone house and garage with views over some wonderful North Riding countryside. Built into the hillside, the door from the drive entered into the first floor, while around the other side, facing out across the valley, ran a dark pine verandah. Susan dropped down onto the fine pebbled driveway, registering the pain in her feet for the first time.
"Jump up," said H. He carried her inside, putting her down in front of a huge picture window that stretched almost the full length of one wall. It looked out across miles of countryside without another building in sight.
"It's a lovely house," said Susan, appreciating the exposed beams and bare stone walls. "Driving must pay well."
"I put in the hours," said H. "And there's only me." He handed her a cut glass tumbler half full of scotch which she drank in two mouthfuls.
"Where's your phone?"
H refilled her glass and pointed to the hall.
"But it isn't all that urgent, is it? Maybe you better settle down a bit first. After all, you've been away - how long?"
"I don't know. Weeks. Seems like years."
"There you are then. Another few minutes won't matter. You'll cope better after a bath."
The luxurious bathroom complemented the rest of the house. Another large picture window allowed her to gaze serenely out from her bath in the centre of the room. With the house being so isolated there was no need for the usual frosted glass. It was like bathing in the open air, in some miraculously hot woodland spring, with the swirling steam cleansing and refreshing.
She felt totally relaxed, enveloped in warmth and peace and the sweet smelling bath salts. She even smiled when the door opened and the truck driver entered with another drink. He came across and stood by the side of the tub, making no attempt to hide his admiring gaze, but she didn't mind a bit, her troubles were over.
He took a sip of his own drink and sat on the edge of the bath, which was built up with steps and cushioned.
"How's the water?"
"Wonderful!" She arched her back to emphasise the relief it was giving. Her breasts wobbled through the water, lifting tiny bubbles that exploded on her nipples. The black man reached across to a cobalt blue high necked bottle which contained ylang ylang. He poured some into the bath then dipped in his hand to stir the fluid into the water. As he did so his hand brushed her light pubic hair. Susan said nothing, until his hand crept lower and his fingers touched her sex lips.
"Please," she said, her body stiffening. "I can't begin to thank you. But not like that... Peter wouldn't like it..."
He smiled to himself and left her to soak.
Almost an hour passed before Susan appeared from the bathroom. She looked remarkably fresh and quite young in her denim mini and half cropped top, no shoes or socks.
"Here you are," said H, handing her another drink. "And there's some sandwiches on the table. Just cold meat, a bit of salad."
She made short work of the food and after finishing another whisky felt quite drunk.
"I must phone..."
But everything was going all woosy...
When Susan came too, the house was in darkness.
"Hello?" she whispered.
Silence.
"Is anyone there?"
Nothing.
She made to get up but was met by a very bright light that hurt her eyes, forcing her back down on the seat, her hand raised in front of her face.
"Who's there?"
"It's me!"
She recognised the black man's voice and screwed up her eyes to peer into the light. Beneath the glare she made out a pair of very shiny, very pointy, black leather boots.
"Stand up," said H, his voice quiet but demanding.
The order struck terror into Susan's mind. The words, the way he spoke them. Instinctively she found herself doing as he said.
"Lift up the skirt. Just a few inches, until I can see your knickers."
She raised the hem, revealing a glimpse of the clean panties he had given her earlier. The white cotton glowed bright under the glare of the lamp. Behind it, hidden in the darkness, sitting, watching, his presence betrayed by his staccato breath, was the man who had rescued her, the man she had thought she could trust.
"Why?" she asked. "Why risk what you did, for this? If you wanted to fuck me, why not at the cafe?"
"We couldn't let you stay there. Not with those animals. Besides, you may have escaped, and we couldn't allow that."
She knew instantly who 'we' were. The realisation hit her like the slap of a thousand hauliers straps.
"You're one of THOSE Drivers!"
The black man allowed himself a low, sneering laugh. "Precisely. And now you belong to me, so take down your panties and fold them on the floor."
Susan was devastated! No rescue after all! Out of the frying pan into the fire!
She shuffled the knickers down her legs and stepped out of them, then folded them neatly and placed them at her feet.
"Now the skirt, up with it."
She lifted up the heavy denim to reveal just an inch of blonde, down covered mons.
"Far enough. Now, close your legs. Keep them shut until I tell you otherwise."
She remained like that for ten minutes, bathed in the glare of the bright spot light, never moving, eyes front, her skirt lifted for the black man's gaze.
"Turn around," he said, breaking the silence. She did as he said without questioning. This time his eyes rested on the plump curve of her bottom and the gentle swell of her calves. He was in no hurry. There would be no rush to strip her, no uncontrollable urge to split her legs and mount her. He was in control, in command of everything.
She waited. She was full of dread, overflowing with it. In the plate glass picture window she saw a reflection of her silhouette. It was surrounded by the dazzling light that here and there broke into her shadow. She was a moth fluttering around a candle, being drawn ever closer until finally her wings would touch the flames and she would be consumed in a moment of awe inspiring glory.
"Lean forward!
She did as he said.
"Lift the skirt off your bottom. Higher."
He enjoyed this for a few minutes. Maybe he even went away and had a drink. Then he was back, for he spoke again.
"Bend over and grip your ankles."
In this position Susan was bent double, her nose resting in the space between her two knees, her skirt high over her back, showing everything. The black man kept her like that, enjoying the sight of her thick sex lips that protruded rudely out between tightly closed thighs. The image disturbed H. It filled him with lust and chipped away at his control, his will power draining into his thickening cock.
Fighting to regain himself he ordered Susan to stand up straight, at attention. She did so immediately, recognising the urgency in his voice. To upset him now would be dangerous. Very dangerous. She had already learned to read the signs, learned never to upset her master, and she had learned it the hard way. On the end of a strap, the palm of a hand, the tip of a gearstick.
Suddenly the light went out and Susan was plunged into darkness, into silence.
She was disorientated. Was she alone?
She thought for a moment, remaining perfectly still. It was impossible to know what would happen next. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing, nervous, irregular. Desperate for the relief of sensation she held her breath, hoping to hear him, with straining eyes she tried to glimpse him.
There was nothing.
The minutes ticked by, but she did not move.
Flash!
Once more she was struck by the incredibly bright light, this time from the front. The black man must be between her and the window and she was illuminated for all to see. Except there was nobody, there would be no knight in shining armour to charge to her rescue.
Time passed.
Nothing. Blazing white light. Standing at attention, frozen in time. Silence.
Susan dared move only her eyes. She squinted past the light but saw nothing until she noticed a figure at the corner of the window. He was outside, on the verandah, watching through the window.
"Off with your skirt."
His voice was loud and clear. He must have rigged up a microphone outside. Susan released the button and the denim fell to her ankles.
"Fold it neatly."
She folded it carefully, following his instructions to the letter, returning to stand at attention in nothing but the half cropped jumper.
There was a long pause while she waited, tense as a coiled spring.
"Jumper off!"
She obeyed and took up her position again.
Time passed.
A voice from out of the glare.
"Bend! Stretch! This way! That way!"
He was judging how supple she was. Her body and condition were excellent. He was becoming more and more pleased with his captive.
When he told her to clasp her fingers together behind her head and push her tits towards the window he could tell that she was eager to please. Oh yes, very eager. She must have been truly well taught. She could take a lot of punishment, he judged. A real lot. Obviously her early owners had been stern masters. Fair? Perhaps. Kind? Doubtful. But stern? Definitely!
That was good, but it would not save her. No way!
"Inspect yourself."
Susan raised one leg on the arm of a chair and looked intently at her vagina, studying it like a concerned medic, probing with a finger, inside, deep inside, as deep as she could go.
"Crucifix!"
Susan knew the term.
She returned to the centre of the light to stand, feet together, chin up, arms outstretched at shoulder height. Darkness descended in an instant, enveloping, all encompassing, silent. She dared not move, no matter how her limbs ached. If her hands dropped just an inch he would make her pay, like Bingo had made her pay.
The pain came, as she knew it would, a gentle warming of the limbs turning into a burning heat that begged her to move her arms. She strained her senses trying to detect his whereabouts. When she felt it was safe enough she slowly lowered her hands...
Almost before they moved, her head was encased in a black satin hood. There was no sound and hardly any touch. Her wrists were taken and cuffed and she was made to hold her hands in the air. Although she couldn't see it, a hook was placed below the chain connecting the cuffs.
Suddenly she was standing on nothing!
Nothing!
Like a free falling parachutist she dropped through the air. Plummeting, straight down through a trap door cut into the stripped maple floor. In total blacked out isolation she plunged into the darkness below. This must be the end. She prepared herself for a crash against concrete or earth but her entire body was jolted upwards by the hook in the cuffs. It was attached to a heavy rope, tied to one of the exposed beams.
For a split second she was stretched so far her wrist, elbow and shoulder joints almost popped out of place. But she knew she was alright, the sudden pain of the drop gave way to throbbing, aching muscles and she dangled, suspended and helpless, awaiting his attention, not knowing what dreadful thing he would do to her.
Whatever it was, it was slow in coming.
The waiting and the uncertainty were almost as unbearable as the heat in her tortured limbs. With each passing second her anxieties grew, sapping her energy until finally exhaustion rewarded her with sleep.
She was waking, climbing back into horror.
The click of metal heeled shoes greeted her.
She was still enveloped in the hood. There was no way to know how long she had been unconscious, although the pain in her arms had turned to numbness, suggesting a fair time had passed. The click of shoes circled her as the black man walked slowly round her.
Occasionally his hands would run the length of her flanks, or up the inside of her legs. Sometimes he would cup her breasts and every so often she felt the tip of his nose against her mound as he breathed in her musk.
Then he was gone.
Later he was back.
When she despaired of ever seeing the morning light and relinquished all hope of release, she felt his hand take hold of the black satin hood. Slowly he lifted it from her head, revealing to her the same shiny black boots he had worn before. Sharp and gleaming they were, as was the gold metal protector that enclosed the pointed toe.
The hood came off and Susan gasped at the man in front of her.
Apart from the boots he wore only a pair of extremely tight and very heavy rubber shorts. A hole in them exposed his bulging genitalia. His stretched penis was pulled down and strapped to his leg by a criss crossed leather lace drawn so taut his bell-end bulged almost to bursting.
It looked like an over ripe plum.
"Hello Susan," he said, toying with the gold sleepers that pierced his nipples. "Sleep well?"
She lifted her tired head off her chest to see herself dangling in a wood cladded corridor on the ground floor. In front of her were large patio windows the full width of the passageway.
"Quite a drop, wasn't it?" He gave the underneath of each breast a firm tap with his fingers. "But you are strong. I know that. I never drop them unless I'm sure they're strong enough to take it."
As he spoke he began fiddling with the hook in her wrist cuffs. Behind Susan was a rail attached to the ceiling. Connected to that was a pulley and hook whose steel bearings slipped along a groove in the rail. Susan heard a metal click, but she was too weak to turn around. Suddenly she was moving, being pushed further down the corridor suspended on the runners.
With what energy she had left she managed to lift her head and study the large glass covered photographs that dotted the walls every few feet or so. The black and white prints depicted girls in various states of undress. Some naked, some actually taking their clothes off, while others were clad in tight rubber and leather, faces covered with masks, waists pulled tight.
One extra large frame contained a montage of pictures depicting a young pig-tailed girl being stripped by the black man. In the first, she was fully clothed with denim mini skirt and cropped top which Susan recognised as the clothes she had worn in the cab. She also wore long cotton socks and buckled sandals, which were removed in the next frame. The last picture showed the girl on her knees, her lips pursed around the black man's heavy, engorged prick.
Noticing her eyes darting from picture to picture, H flashed his latest capture a wide, now familiar, toothy grin. He winked. "Trophies," he whispered. "All my lovely trophies."
Susan realised that she too would soon be a trophy and mounted, though not necessarily on the wall. When the corridor opened out into a brightly lit room, she considered that time to be quite close.
"Here we are," said H. "My very own beauty parlour. Won't be a minute."
Before he went away he pushed Susan a few more inches until she heard another metallic click, this time quite loud. She tried to twist her body to see behind her and into the room, but it was no good. After so many hours suspended in the cuffs, she was just too weak.
"Curiosity killed the cat," joked H, returning with a plastic box that hung from the ceiling by a thick rubber cable. It was the electronic controller for a hydraulic hoist. "Now... let's get you smooth."
He punched a button on the controller and Susan felt the judder as the hoist began taking her across the room, the black man walking alongside.
"What are you doing?" Susan asked. "There's no need for any pain. I'll do whatever you want. You know that. You know that don't you? I've been with Jack and Lincoln and Bingo. None of them had any complaints. I was a good girl for all of them. You must know, they must have told you."
"A little discomfort," he grinned. "You must expect just a little discomfort. It will improve you, you see."
A loud clank signalled the end of the hoist's journey and Susan found herself suspended above a vat of hot wax.
Oh God, she couldn't stand that!
Not that!
She struggled and pleaded with renewed desperation.
"Whatever you say, I'll do whatever you say, I'll do anything, but don't put me in there!"
He just grinned.
Then he pressed another button and Susan began her descent.
"No!" she screamed again. She could feel the heat rising from the seething liquid. "You'll kill me!"
He stopped the hoist just an inch or two above the deadly brew.
"Fifty four degrees," he said calmly, through his ever present smile. "Hot, but not lethal." The motor started with the crack of an electric arc and Susan was lowered screaming and helpless into the molten wax.
Inch by burning sticky inch she was submerged. Past her toes, her feet, her knees. The wax swirled around her thighs, rushing into her female crevice and up to her navel before her descent was stopped. At the touch of another button, her body was lifted clear of the liquid, her bottom half coated in a rapidly hardening wax.
"Quite the human candle," H teased. "Shall I remove it?"
Susan nodded frantically.
"It might hurt."
She nodded again.
"And you won't have a hair on your body." He pressed another button and took her over to a shelf that held the wax removal strips. "Not one pube."
Susan was incapable of speech.
He pressed one of the small towels against her legs, then tore the strip off her and laughed as she yelled out in agony.
"Just a little discomfort. It's all in a good cause. Only another hundred or so to go!"
His favourite bit was always going to be around Susan's cunt, with her fat, pronounced labia. H paid special attention to her there, ensuring every hair was removed and her denuded cunt was as smooth as a snooker ball.
When he finished removing the wax he finally released her from the hoist. For a moment she was unsteady on her feet and her arms seemed fixed above her head.
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you very much." That was something else she had learned. Always be grateful for the slightest kindness. It was all too easy to find yourself back in the cuffs or over a bench awaiting the strap.
"Into the shower." H led the way. "The hot water will get some life back into those arms."
As she followed him, Susan realised she was in what amounted to an upmarket beauty salon. It was a very bright room, tiled, with leather chairs that faced wash basins and mirrors along the walls. This huge black man with rubber pants and cock strapped to his thigh obviously fancied himself as a hairdresser!
"In you go."
The shower was fixed in the corner of the room and quite open, not that privacy was a consideration any more. As the water streamed down her body, H went to fetch one of the chairs from in front of the mirrors, pulling it across to sit and watch.
"A good soaping all over," he told her. "And I mean all over."
Susan took that as her cue to wash her private parts publicly. Turning to face him she made a big play of lathering her tits and saw the positive delight on his face when her hand dropped down to soap her newly smooth cunt. She could see from his anguished look that his strapped prick was giving him some problems. He had tied it down, while nature decreed it should stand up. It couldn't be a mistake on his part, he must find that the added pressure, the abstaining and the suffering, added to his pleasure.
Susan turned her back towards him and pushed out her bottom. His eyes immediately fell to her rounded cheeks, pounded by the hot water, steam rising from the rosy flesh. Her fingers appeared between her legs, covered in soap, seeking out her rose budded hole to clean away any wax not yet gone. He enjoyed that too, watching her exaggerated movements, the posed body and the willingness to please.
"Don't forget your hair."
When she was fully washed and her skin positively glowing from her waxing and hot shower, H handed her some warm towels. White and fluffy, they felt wonderful against her tingling skin, especially when she rubbed herself down below.
"In the chair."
She did as he said and he pushed her across in front of a mirror, where she was surprised at her own reflection. Her body looked really good, healthy and bright. She looked like fitness itself. While she admired herself, the black man began running his fingers through her blonde shoulder length hair. In the mirror she could see his large cock twitching just near her shoulder.
"I thought spikes," he said. "What about that? Do you fancy spikes?"
"Whatever you say," answered Susan. "I'm in your hands."
H massaged a great quantity of setting gel into her hair.
"Quite so. In my hands." He chuckled, a slightly shrill edge to it. "Oh yes, quite definitely so."
He began shaping and teasing her hair into sharp spikes, drying it stiff and spraying it hard with lots of heavy hair spray.
"How's that?" he said with a flourish.
"Lovely," Susan replied, not entirely lying. She had never seen her hair so outrageous, her normal style was so demure.
"I call it the 'porcupine bob'. Now, make up." He leant forward and pulled out a drawer. "Black I think. I always like black on blonde." He paused for a while considering his words, then added. "As you'll find out."
She had no reason to doubt him. In fact she was bemused that it hadn't already happened.
"Don't move," he warned, looming close with the eye shadow brush. "I'm not too good at this." She closed each eye as he applied the powder, then gripped the arms of the chair as he reached for the eye liner.
"Wide eyes," he grinned.
Her fears were unfounded, even when the mascara was added. To finish the effect he used black lip liner and lipstick, then told Susan to go through to her living quarters.
"When you're not in the wagon with me," he told her, "you will live down here. If I want you, I will come and get you."
Still naked, he marched her along an adjoining corridor to a room she expected to be nothing more than a cell. She was to be pleasantly surprised. Like the beauty salon, it was bright with large ceiling to floor mirrors and wide patio windows that, like the others, looked out over rolling countryside. On the one side of the room stood a shower and toilet. It was not in a separate room, but open and totally non-private.
The main surprise was the quality of the furnishings, black leather chairs and a huge television which, he told her, were for her use, when he was away. If it wasn't for the metal hoop in the centre of the room and the long chain attached to a belt, it would have been a veritable home from home.
"Let's try it on," he said, pointing to the belt. It had a link at the back to connect it to the chain, while at the front the ends were terminated in metal clasps that slipped one inside the other and could only be undone with the key. H slipped the contraption around her waist and fastened the clasps.
Not too tight, if she wanted to move it around or up her waist a bit she could. The only thing she couldn't do was remove it. Once it was fitted he left her alone to walk around her apartment while he fetched some underwear. She went straight towards the windows, although the chain stopped her about three feet away from them.
It all looked so beautiful. Just three feet in front of her were fields and grass, yet she remained naked and chained inside the house. She didn't know which was worse, a windowless cell, or the constant reminder of freedom.
"Put these on," said H, bringing in a tiny leather thong and black strapless bra. "You can take them off when I'm not here, but I want them back on when I arrive."
Susan acknowledged his demand and stepped into the panties.
"There's some depilatory creams in the shower cabinet,so don't let me catch you with any stubble on your cunt."
He threw her the remote control for the television and made to leave, stopping near the doorway that led into the corridor and then to the salon.
"I've got a job from a defence base," he told her. "So I can't take you. They check inside all the lorries. Food is in the fridge and I'll be back later, so be ready."
She had a good idea what he meant by that, but there was no point worrying about it. As she watched him leave she went across to the settee and flopped down in the cool leather, picking up the remote control handset. She hit the on button and the screen flickered, but no picture appeared. The other channels were all the same, none of them were tuned in, and when she tried to tune them herself, she discovered the facility had been taken off the set.
Chapter 8
On the shelf beneath the television was a video player and a wide selection of tapes. There were no labels on any of them, so she picked one at random and loaded the machine. The screen cleared of snow and she sat back to watch whatever had been recorded.
The first frames jumped and appeared jumbled before settling down to show a windswept garage forecourt sporting two Land Rovers, half a plough and a decrepit bus missing a back wheel. The camera panned back to rest on old, green painted doors, that juddered open as the camera zoomed in. As the lens struggled with the poor light, the amateur cameraman walked unsteadily inside the garage workshop to concentrate on a heavy metal plate that covered the engineering pit.
In the sudden glare of bright arc lamps an invisible force pulled the plate slowly away, and in the background could be heard the ominous thump of doors closing.
This was no prerecorded film, nor was it the run of the mill home made video. Her rapidly unsettled stomach told her to switch it off, her curiosity said otherwise. Through an emotional cocktail of fear and excitement, she felt compelled to watch.
The pit gave up its secret in the form of two young women who blinked gratefully up into the beams of bright camera lights. There was a look of hope on the girls faces, a sort of grateful thanks as if they'd finally been discovered in the jungle, rescued from the pot as the hungry natives polished the cutlery. When their eyes had grown accustomed to the glare the look fell away suddenly, to be replaced by alarm.
"Please," whined the girl with the long coal black hair. "I have to go home. Let me go home."
She pushed herself into the corner of the pit, forcing the other girl in front of her.
"Get the cry baby up," ordered a voice from behind the camera. "We'll do her first."
A black hand reached down and grabbed the girl's arm, pulling her sobbing out of the pit. As the other girl looked out in panic the metal plate again slid across the hole. Her face followed the closing light as if she was gasping her last breath of air.
They tied the chosen girl's hands with bungee rope then took her across to the far wall where several nails and hooks protruded from the brick work.
"Nail her up H," said a voice Susan thought was familiar.
The black man turned the girl to face the camera then lifted her arms up to tie her wrists on a hook in the wall.
"Let's have a look at the cry baby's cunt," said the cameraman, who Susan now recognised to be Jack, the man who had kidnapped her. The girl began shaking her head from side to side and pleading to be released, but the black man laughed and lifted up her clothes. She wore a flimsy floral patterned dress, very short and shiny, made out of satin or something similar, and a pair of knee length black suede boots. Her friend in the pit was dressed much the same, except her short shoestring strapped dress was electric orange.
"Get her flaps out," laughed Jack, enjoying the situation immensely. "I think this one needs a lesson in growing up."
Black hands tugged her pretty flower-painted panties down to her knees, exposing a thick pubic bush, quite out of character with her small frame.
"Hairy little bitch aren't you?" said H. "How can I find your twat in all that fur." Her eyes closed and body stiffened as his hands began searching between her legs.
"Here she is!" the black man laughed. "Get a shot of this."
While the young girl begged them to leave her alone Jack must have rushed forward with the camera to film her now widely split cunt. H fingered her for a moment then suggested getting the other girl out of the pit to watch. Jack agreed, but thought it would be better to let the baby watch first.
"That way," he said. "She can see what's going to happen to her."
The other girl was brought up. Her first sight was of her friend tied against the wall, her knickers visible beneath the hem of her dress.
"What have they done, Tan?" she cried out. "The bastards! What have they done?"
"That's her name, is it, Tania?"
The girl nodded.
"Tania what?"
"Willows," she sobbed. "Tania Willows. I have to be in college tomorrow, please, I won't say anything, I'll..."
"Well Tania," said H calmly, his hand reaching behind the girl to feel her bottom. "When we've finished with your friend, we'll Tania backside."
The girl's head dropped at the sick joke, while her friend was dragged into a circle made from the back seats of old cars. Jack and H sat opposite each other while the girl was made to stand in the middle. Each man held an extended car aerial which they occasionally used to swipe the air, reminding the girl of the consequence of any disobedience.
"I sense a bit more spirit in this one," said Jack. "She should be a bit of fun."
H lifted the girl's dress with the tip of the car aerial to reveal a tiny luminous orange G-string. He let out an appreciative whistle. "This one likes a bit of fun alright. She was after a good fucking. Weren't you?"
The girl said nothing and knocked the aerial away with her hand.
"Oooh!" The two men laughed. "Naughty!"
Against the wall, floral pantied Tania whimpered. When H heard the pitiful sobs he called across to her. "Cry baby!" he teased. "You want to watch this, pick up a few pointers. When we've finished here we're coming to get you. Going to teach you it's dangerous hitching lifts after a night out."
The girl screwed her eyes tightly shut and shook her head, hoping it was all a bad dream. In the circle, Cora was about to feel the bite of the aerial.
"Lift the dress," ordered Jack.
"Fuck off!" she replied bravely.
Sssswheee. The aerial sliced through the air and whipped across the taut backside, making the girl leap skywards. The light dress and G-string afforded no protection.
"You can take it right off now," Jack told her.
"Piss off."
The second and third stroke landed almost simultaneously, one from each man. Pain screamed across the young girl's bottom and no amount of frantic rubbing would make it go away.
"Strip."
Cora gripped the hem of her dress and began lifting it slowly.
"I bet you love this don't you?" she said, tears welling. "Stripping young girls."
Both men smiled up at her.
"You bet your fucking life we do," they answered in unison.
The electric orange dress rose, revealing three thin red stripes on the cheeks of Cora's bottom. She lifted the garment over her short black hair and dropped it on the floor.
"No bra either," said H, admiring her well toned flesh. "Little G-string, bouncy titties. You were right up for it, you dirty bitch." He leant forward and slipped the tip of the aerial inside the front of the G-string, easing the material away from her body. Her clean shaven split made him gasp with delight.
"You really are full of surprises," he told her, rising from his seat. Her defiance, her well shaped tits and smooth slat had aroused him to the point of no return. Standing in knee length boots and minuscule knickers, her skin like alabaster, she epitomised youthful health and vitality. He, and now Jack who had also risen from his seat, could hold back no longer.
"Get over on the seat," said H, unbuckling his belt. "I'm going to give you what you've been asking for."
The girl turned quietly towards the place they'd indicated then suddenly broke into a run, cleared the seat with one leap and sprinted for the doors.
"Run Cora!" screamed Tania, seeing her friend's break for freedom. "Run!"
The men made no attempt at a chase. Instead they removed their trousers, watching the girl frantically tugging at the old green doors. It was a game they often played, letting the girls try to escape before bringing them back to face their future.
When they were ready, Jack went to her right and H to the left. She saw them coming and began tugging violently at the doors, kicking and cursing them. The men were in no hurry, they had fastened the doors carefully and knew there was no way out. Cora had realised that too. She stood with her back against the door, hand outstretched.
"Please," she begged. "Not me! Not me!"
H grabbed her just as she made to get away. Picking her up from behind he carried her back to the circle and pushed her down on her hands and knees.
"I don't want to," she cried as the black man pushed her forwards, her face and shoulders pressing into the old car seat. Despairingly, Tania pleaded too, but it wasn't going to help her friend. The flimsy G-string was pulled from her body, making way for the fat black cock that was probing along those gorgeous thighs.
"No!" she begged. "Not me... ahh!" She felt the tip nudging at her entrance, seeking her out. "Ahh! No!" Already it felt massive, squeezing its way inside. Fat and bullying. Soon she was impaled, run through with solid cock. Thumping cock, out and in, thumping, thumping, thumping.
Against the wall Tania pleaded once more for them to let her friend go. To stop what they were doing. "Just stop such dirty things and leave us be."
As she called out support to the rudely fucked Cora, Jack came across. She looked at her friend, a thick black cock driving in and out of her, then looked at Jack, Cora's bottom juddering against the heavy pounding meted by the black man's hips, then looked at Jack. She noted the lust in his eyes, sensed the unquenchable desire in his body, then saw the angry red prick against his belly, solid and upright and desperate for release.
He marched across, stopped square in front of her and wrenched up her dress.
"I won't struggle," whimpered the terrified Tania. "Just don't hurt me. I'll do anything you say."
Jack pulled the dress higher and pushed the material into her mouth.
"Bite it!"
She did as he said, keeping the garment out of his way while he ripped the pretty panties away. When he had finished with them he pushed her bra over her tiny tits then took hold of the back of her knees. Getting between her thighs he lifted her legs and thrust his prick inside the still tethered body.
Her hands tied to the hook in the wall, her dress in her mouth, legs off the floor, Jack began his urgent thrusts, building rapidly into a frantic almost frenzied fuck, his hands kneading the tiny mounds that were her breasts.
For the next hour Susan watched the video as Jack and Hell Raiser took it in turns with the two women. Occasionally they would have two on one girl and sometimes, in the way of a change, they would make the girls have sex with each other. One on her back, the other, arse in the air, licking the spunk from her friends well soiled hole, or if one of the men felt inclined, holes. When it was all clean, they were changed around. The licked becoming the licker. Afterwards, the girls were led back to the pit wearing only their knee length boots, both with sore twats, and Tania sporting a very red bottom after H had carried out his promise and tanned it good and hard with his belt while the unfortunate girl was tied face first against the wall.
Susan remained oddly detached from the young girls' predicament. She had been placed on too many different cocks to get sentimental over two girls simply being put through their paces by two Drivers. No, she had been fucked by Jack, and no doubt later she would be by H, she had been fucked by Lincoln, had the skin almost leathered off her arse by Bingo and been fucked by half the bikers in Yorkshire. When Tania and Cora had been ridden as hard and as often as that, then, maybe, only then, she might feel sorry for them. They had a lot to learn.
The tape came to an end and began rewinding automatically. As she waited for it to finish Susan wandered over to the fridge in search of some food. Expecting to find it empty she was amazed at what was in there. Not only had he left various yoghurts and sandwiches, but bottles of ice cold Budweiser filled one complete shelf. She took one back to the settee and chose another video. As she expected it was another tape of H and his mates fucking various women. She watched a few minutes before stopping the tape and trying another. By and large they were all the same, so it wouldn't be long before she found herself in a remake of Deep Throat or Indecent Proposal. Though in her version, she suspected Robert Redford would get his end away for a lot less than a million dollars.
With only Hell Raisers' constantly pounding hips for company Susan found the beer a great comfort. By mid-afternoon she'd got through several bottles and was sitting on the toilet watching another video of him fucking a middle aged woman in his cab, when he entered the room.
"Don't get up," he joked, going to the fridge and taking a Bud for himself.
Despite the beer she felt quite nervous. After watching him screwing dozens of different girls all afternoon she knew there was nothing he wouldn't do to her. All she could do was rely on her wits and be prepared to do his bidding. As she had told herself earlier when watching Tania and friend, you may as well do it the first time, as be made to do it after a leathering.
Her pee finished she rose and pulled up the thong he had told her to wear, thankful she had left the underwear on, even though it was very tight.
"Come here," he said, in a quiet firm tone. "Enjoy yourself?"
"Yes," said Susan. "Very much. And thanks for the food and the beer."
He motioned for her to turn around so he could undo the belt that connected her to the loop in the floor.
"I always look after my girls. As long as they are good, they've got nothing to worry about. Let me look at you."
She did as he said, remaining in front of him so he could examine her body.
"Your make-up needs fixing," he told her. "Go and do it."
She went straight to the shower area and checked in the mirror. Her spiky hair was still stiff but her eye shadow was smudged. Urgently she searched the drawers for more cosmetics and began repairing her looks.
"So, now you know what I like?"
She licked the tip of a tissue and wiped away some stray lip stick.
"You like to be sucked, especially on the tip. And you like to give it to a girl doggy fashion." She looked back at him over one shoulder. "And you're not too careful which tunnel you drill."
H let out a broad laugh and pointed to a chair opposite. She sat in it, back upright, legs together.
"And what if I want my end sucked now?"
She smiled seductively. "Then you would get it."
"And back door access?"
"Whatever," she cooed. "Whenever."
"How about now?"
Susan rose from the chair, turned her back to him and pulled the thong to one side. Then she knelt up on the seat and pushed back her bottom, her thick sex lips squashed between her curved thighs.
In a moment he had removed all his clothes but made no attempt to go over to her. Instead he dropped down onto the settee and beckoned to her. When she stood by the side of him he lifted one leg, leaving her in no doubt that his semi-turgid prick required her attention. She leant forward and slipped the black member between her lips, running her tongue around it before beginning the familiar bobbing of the head that signified a cock firm enough to fuck a willing mouth.
"Underneath!"
Susan withdrew his prick from her mouth before slipping her tongue along its length to seek out his balls. She felt his fine pouch hairs brush her face as her tongue travelled over the tight straining sac in search of his anus, finding its salty bud with the tip. The sweat from a day's work mingled with a myriad other odours while the powerful flavours of his arse assailed her delicate tongue.
"Keep going," he instructed, wallowing in the sensations of the skilful tongue reaming him. The more obvious reaction to such feelings were to hold the woman's head in place, but that denied control, and control was what the black man was exercising. Susan would have to keep at her task until he removed her from it. He knew that, and from her actions so did she. He dropped his head over the arm of the settee, allowing her wet probing muscle to pleasure him further.
She was good!
Almost too late he realised his spunk was half way up his rod. A few more flicks of her tongue and he was going to fire the lot.
"That's enough," he said. "Sit in the chair."
She stopped on command and returned to the seat, adopting the same posture as before. He pulled himself up on one elbow and with his free hand began slowly pumping his meat. Sweat bubbled on his brow and his breath became irregular.
"Legs up."
She complied.
"Knees apart."
Her swollen lips were split by the thong's thin leather lace as she slipped down in the chair.
"Nice," he said in a low whisper. "You know what you're going to get, don't you?"
Susan nodded.
"Take off the underwear."
She folded the tiny garments as best she could and placed them on a small black coffee table.
"Kneel."
He rose and towered above her, his bloated cock inches from her face, the black painted lips complementing the dark skin of the shaft. She considered kissing it, but if he hadn't said it was better to wait.
The black man stepped back and admired her perfectly smooth mons, the puffy sex bags clearly visible below it. Susan didn't have large tits, but they were firm and well shaped and he stepped forward to take a handful of the creamy flesh. His large hands pulled at her breasts while powerful fingers gripped each nipple, pinching and squeezing them, leaving her in no doubt that it wasn't a matter of giving but of taking.
"On the settee," he ordered. "Arse up, face down."
She'd seen enough of him in action to realise this was going to be it. Climbing on the settee she assumed the position for fucking. He didn't join her straight away. He pulled a hidden lever and the settee folded down to form a bed, then he climbed behind her and positioned himself between her legs, opening wide the cheeks of her bottom.
He licked his finger and dipped it into her cunt, undecided what to do first. She was welcoming and wet and he felt her push back against his probing digit. Just when she thought he had chosen, he pushed another finger in her arse. Unprepared for it, the intrusion made her jump. That was a mistake. Noting the impressive length and girth of his cock she had endeavoured to keep him out of her backside and up the right tube. That involuntary nervous tremor would have told him that, and, she knew from experience, making the girl pay was what made these men tick.
The tap of blunt cock against her bum hole confirmed her fears. There was no protection against his invasion. The tight sphincter began to give as the black pole squeezed its way slowly inside, his bullying glans forcing a yelp as her arse muscle gave way to its entry.
Susan pushed her face into the leather and bit it and grimaced. Her body shook in time to the pounding from his hips and she steadied herself for the flood. It wasn't long in coming. Withdrawing quickly he took great delight in holding up her legs and watching the cum leak from her bottom. After that he had her clean him up with her tongue, ready for the rest of the night.
Within half an hour he had plugged every orifice in her luscious body before taking time out to rest. She had surpassed his expectations, been willing and eager. That kind of obedience required reward, and as soon as he recovered he would give it to her, again and again. He pointed to his slippery prick, gleaming with juice from both bodies.
She smiled and dipped her head.
Her obedience was total.
Susan awoke in the early hours to the gentle touch of his hand running softly the length of her back and onto her bottom. He continued his caresses while she lay in a semi-trance-like sleep. He had kept her on her back or knees for several hours, impaled on his impressive prick until, unable to stand it any longer, she had succumbed to exhaustion.
Apart from the initial arse fucking at the beginning, it had not really been unpleasant. She rolled over onto her back like a puppy hoping to have its tummy rubbed. He obliged with tender hands that lightly caressed her breasts then moved gently down to her soft nude split.
"Thirsty?"
Susan nodded and he jumped from the bed to go to the fridge. Taking two bottles of Budweiser over to the patio windows he sat on the floor and motioned for her to join him. The room was lit by a dimmed spotlight that reflected in the glass. Outside it was pitch dark, although a few lights sparkled like diamonds on a velvet cloth across the other side of the valley.
Looking at the distant lights, Susan couldn't help thinking of happy families. Children full of cocoa and wrapped in flannelette pyjamas tucked up in bed, husbands and wives watching the late night movie curled up on the settee, the dying coals fading in the hearth. For a fleeting moment in her life it had all seemed so possible. But that was before her dreams had faded in a cloud of diesel on that lonely road.
She let out a deep sigh.
"I just thought there was no-one else out there."
Looking out into the night the black man drank from his bottle.
"There isn't," he said calmly. "Not for you." He got up and opened the patio door, the chill night air rushing in to raise her nipples with an icy tingle.
"Are you going to keep me?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On how well you please me. Or until something better comes along." From her treatment so far Susan felt he was the best Driver she had been with. It was better the devil you knew than the one you didn't. She was obviously going to have to do her utmost to keep him happy.
"It's getting cold." He closed the door and went back to the television where he searched for a video.
"Did I please you tonight?" she asked, walking across and sitting on the bed. "I'll try harder if I didn't."
"You did well," he told her, pressing the play button on the video machine. Picking up the chain and belt he tethered her to the loop then went to the corridor as if to leave. Stopping at the entrance he turned and pointed to the TV.
"In case you should stop doing well," he said. "You should watch some more of these."
So she chose another, at random, steadied her hand and slipped it into the machine. A glimpse of bare buttocks momentarily appeared before the picture broke up to be replaced by the start of a different movie. It had a title that left little to the imagination, 'Wonderfully Whipping Wendy'. For amusement someone had added the Doris Day song 'The Deadwood Stage', repeating the lines 'whip crack away, whip crack away, whip crack away,' over and over again.
The swirling mist parted to allow the passage of a large articulated lorry along the narrow moorland road. Strapped to the gleaming steel front grill of the wagon was a naked young woman. Her wrists were tied to the mirrors, her ankles to the bumper, a hood covered her head. The wagon thundered into a roadside lay-by that looked out across the desolate moor joining several other trucks already there. Doubtless they had been called to the spot by the Drivers call on the CB radio - Susan's imagination filled in and amplified the story as it unfolded on the screen, making a narrative of it for herself, creating thoughts and wishes for the people who flickered to life there - "Drivers to the 'Devil's Pulpit'. GP at ten."
The Devils Pulpit was the code name they used for the quiet spot on the moors and, as the unfortunate young woman was about to find out for the first time, GP was their term for general punishment.
If she had known what was in store for her perhaps she wouldn't have been so slow in dropping her panties. But then again, when she climbed up into that wagon that morning all she wanted was a free lift home. The wagon had hardly travelled ten miles when the Driver asked her if she was prepared to pay for the ride.
"I've no money," she said.
"Then we shall find another way for you to pay."
The girl had taken plenty of lifts and they always wanted something, well one thing really, sex. She had got so fed up with fending off unwanted advances that she tried to choose her lifts carefully. She had thought this lift would be the safest of all. She could not have been further from the truth.
As the wagon ground to a halt the group of Drivers in the 'Pulpit' gathered around the shrinking body secured to the grill. A few of them commented on the goose pimples that her exposure had produced. One or two ran a hand round her and played with her straining nipples. Others worked their hands in a more secret place. Suddenly the group parted as the Driver and now, since this morning, the poor creature's owner jumped from the cab.
"The girl is freezing," commented one unusually concerned Driver.
"Don't worry, I'll soon warm her up."
For the first time the camera moved to the Driver. It rested on the the heavy canvas strap and followed it up to reveal the Driver to be a woman!
Susan was shocked. She had been put through so much she thought nothing else could bother her. But this, her own sex turning on another, capturing and enslaving another female in the name of pleasure?
The woman Driver motioned the others to stand back then flicked the strap along the ground. The heavy haulage canvas looked small in her hand. She was a big woman. As big as a man, and bigger than some. Her massive tits rested on a belly accustomed to a transport cafe diet and her appetite at least equalled that of her male counterparts. In some areas it exceeded it, including the need for sex.
"This young thing," she proclaimed. "Refused to drop her panties in payment for her lift."
She traced her finger up the crease of the tethered girl's bottom. "And they were such tiny ones too. Hardly covered a thing. I would show them to you but I was forced to put them in her mouth to keep her quiet. I can't stand a whimpering bitch."
Beneath the hood the girl could hear everything that was going on. She couldn't however see or speak. All she could do was listen to the terrifying words of the woman she had trusted. The woman who had the strength of a man and had used it to strip her naked.
"Take down your panties I told her. No, she said, I won't."
There was a murmur of disapproval among the men.
"Take them down, or I'll take them down for you. But she still refused. You know what I had to do?"
The others remained silent as an expectant air descended. One or two were undoing their belts and some were fidgeting in their pockets trying to make rapidly stiffening cocks more comfortable.
"I had to pull over on the Blackmoor road. I had to pull up her skirt and take them down for myself. I had to strip her, take off her top, her bra, her shoes. Strip her down totally. If there is one thing I can't stand it's an ungrateful hiker. Well now it is time to pay."
The hiker, unable to see the strap in her owner's hand was unprepared for its gritty kiss. The canvas left a wide red stripe across her bottom, its sting intensified by the cold. The second stroke landed on taught cheeks as did the third, fourth and fifth. The girl no longer felt the cold, only the heat of a throbbing backside. Her humiliation was increased when her hood was removed and her face uncovered for all to see. Several men walked around to see the girl's features, contorted with the pain from the lashing she had just received.
As the pain ebbed her features revealed a pretty young woman, with black shoulder length hair now matted with sweat. Her sherry brown eyes appealed for pity. They received none. The men moved forward and a dozen hands roamed freely over the bound body. Some rubbed their swollen cocks against any part of her skin they could reach.
"Get back!" shouted the woman Driver. "I haven't finished yet. "You'll get your turn."
As the men moved away from the hiker she noticed a line of spunk across the girls bottom.
"Christ almighty!" she shouted. "Can't you lot wait?"
A great cry of "No!" greeted her words.
"Well you'll just have to. When I've finished her punishment there will be an obedience display. Then you can have your fun."
There was a loud cheer and the woman leant across her captive and spoke into her ear. As she did so her hand rubbed the anonymously fired spunk into the glowing cheeks of the hikers bum. She ordered one of the watching Drivers to untie the hiker's ankles and she proceeded to untie her wrists.
"Hold her," she cried, and handed the exhausted girl to a nearby Driver. To another man she asked for a hand preparing the bumper. As the hiker, whose name they discovered was Cherry, was kept on her feet, Karen, the Driver, unclipped one end of the lorry's bumper and pulled it away from the cab.
The bumper now stretched out from the lorry like a huge silver lance. To support the end furthest away from the truck, a metal bar was wedged underneath it. Once that was complete Cherry was made to sit upon the cold metal, her legs pulled out to the side and pegged to the ground and her hands tied, one in front of her, the other behind. She was unable to support herself in this position and her entire weight was brought to bear on her naked crotch.
"Will you give me a hand Jack?" asked Karen. "I want both sides done."
Susan hadn't noticed Jack in the crowd until now. The man stepped forward and smiled broadly before picking up a second strap that Karen had thrown on the ground.
"Anything to oblige," he grinned.
"Then you had better come round to this side. It's her tits I'm after."
The others formed a circle around the helpless girl, who was already writhing against the discomfort of her cunt crushed upon the steel bar. The whipping began. Jack lashed her first. One stroke that landed soundly across Cherry's back to be followed almost immediately by a vicious slap of canvas on her right breast.
Pain forced her to buck and reel as stroke after stroke fell upon her body. There was nowhere to hide from its evil touch, her skin was aflame with each burning lash and her twat ached with the pain as she ground it onto the bar frantically trying to escape.
"Enough!" shouted Karen and Jack landed one more for good measure.
The knickers used to gag Cherry's mouth were drenched in saliva where the girl had screamed in vain for release. Karen barked out yet another order.
"Strap her down, along the bar."
The hand secured behind Cherry's back was released and brought in front of her, then both hands were tied further along the bumper, bending her over until her body lay flat along the cold steel.
"Seeing that Jack helped me, I'll let him ride her once before I take her back to the cab. The rest of you can wait."
There was surprisingly little grumbling about the deal. The other Drivers were enjoying the show anyway, and each knew he would take his turn on the unfortunate girl.
Jack threw one leg across the bar and brought his rigid cock down parallel to it. Whether it was the sweat from having to ride the bumper or the beating she'd just endured, Cherry's sheath was well oiled. Slipping his cock deeper inside the girl he considered the possibility that she had enjoyed it. Many of them did.
Oblivious to his cheering audience Jack pounded away at the girl, a tit in each hand for balance. As he neared the final strokes he leant forward and pulled the knickers from her mouth. Immediately she screamed.
"Please!" she begged. "Please, no more! I will do whatever you want. I just can't bear any more." As she finished her words her body juddered with the force of Jack's sperm delivering thrusts.
Cherry was untied and helped up into the cabin of Karen's rig. The hands beneath her bottom pulled open her cheeks and a cheer lifted at the sight of Jacks emission seeping from her abused hole. Once inside, the door slammed shut and the men outside clambered onto the bonnet and sides of the rig to watch whatever Karen held in store.
To Cherry's horror Karen lay naked on the bunk in the cab. One arm supported her massive tits. The other lifted her belly in order that Cherry could see her cunt.
"Lick it!" ordered Karen. "Get your tongue deep inside until I say stop."
With the cheeks of her bottom pressed against the side window so that Jack's cum smeared the glass, Cherry dipped her head between Karen's massive thighs and poked out her tongue. The Drivers' hot sweaty crack smelled and tasted like she'd been sitting on it for a week.
The excitement of beating her new possession had already brought the big woman off in her knickers and the creamy sex fluid had greased her fat swollen flaps. The chilly glass on Cherry's rear end had done little to cool her burning skin and stood as a suitable prompt to keep at her task, no matter how tangy the big woman's liquid tasted. As she lapped away Karen was quick to remind her not to forget her clit.
She dug her heel into Cherry's already sore bottom. "And get that tongue in good and deep."
The girl's tongue brought Karen to a second orgasm and the big woman released her from her task. She had another already planned! When Cherry lifted her head she was confronted with a huge dildo and told to give Karen a good fucking with it. She did as Karen instructed, easing the huge phallus up her mistresses cunt and fucking her with it in slow powerful strokes. As she did it Karen held up her tits for Cherry to suck on.
"Get used to it babe," she said, stroking Cherry's hair. "I like my girls to be nice to me. When you've finished, I'm gonna be nice to you."
The big Driver was true to her word. Once Cherry had satisfied her she turned the girl around and repaid the compliment. With the same huge dildo. As she worked it up her new young possession she couldn't help but add: "This will make you a bit more accommodating for the lads. Some of them are very well hung."
From what she saw on the rest of the video, Susan considered it a kind act. Some of the men were as big as Karen had made out. One in particular, had a cock thicker than H's and his was certainly massive, as she had just found out.
The tape finished and Susan removed it from the machine to replace in the pile. There were dozens more, including the one H had told her to watch. Unable to face that one yet she picked up another.
She recognised the location straight away as Jimmy's, the main Headquarters for the Drivers and the place Jack had passed her over to Lincoln. The opening scene showed Bingo at Jimmy's garage, standing in the central island next to the fuel pumps. He was fooling around and playing up to the camera like the moron he was. Susan hated Bingo because of the way he had treated her. Daily beatings, sometimes several times a day was all she had known when she was with him. Most of the men used the whippings to keep the girls in line. To remind them of their place should they do or say something above their station. Bingo though, dished out spankings for nothing but his own pleasure, sometimes taking an entire shift off work in order to mete out his belt for the whole day. She was glad to be shot of him.
Bingo continued his clowning when the doors of the old hangar swung open behind him. It was H and his friend Jack. Each was pulling a car seat attached to a low trolley and each trolley ran on two small barrow wheels. The camera followed them across to a fence where Tania and Cora stood tethered to a post by a leather bridle.
They were the two girls Susan had watched in the first film, so obviously they had failed to secure any release and, like her, their future looked forever intertwined with the Drivers. Around each girls waist was a heavy belt to which cuffs were attached at the sides. The girls wrists were held firmly in these cuffs keeping their hands near their bottoms. Apart from these accoutrements the girls remained unhampered by clothing.
The men positioned the girls in order to attach the trolleys to buckles in the waist belts. That done, they backed the girls away from the fence and took up their place in the seat on the trolleys, or as they preferred to call them, the chariots. From a thin pipe welded on to each chariot the men took a long thin aerial and whipped it across the girls' backsides, sending them into an immediate sprint.
Like the ancient Greek races in the Hippodrome the two charioteers raced around the oval island that held the fuel pumps, spurring on their chargers with the liberal use of the aerial.
Tania had obviously overcome the shyness she displayed in the first film as she led the race by a good ten feet or so. It was probably the extra attention the men had given her on account of her timidness that had toughened her up. Whatever the reason Cora had better make up the deficit because the loser was bound to be in line for some sort of punishment.
From the effort evident on the girls' faces each one knew it, and friendship had given way to preservation. The race lasted five laps before the girls were pulled up alongside Bingo.
Susan assumed Tania had won but that wasn't the case.
"Refuel!" shouted H.
It was here that Bingo came into his own. He removed a handle from one of the fuel pumps, stretched across the back of Cora and forced the tip of the pump inside her bottom. Susan grew alarmed at the consequences of Bingo's actions but the girl hardly flinched. Sure Cora registered the intrusion by stamping her feet and lifting her head but she remained remarkably unperturbed at the thought of petrol pouring up her arsehole. After what seemed like ages Bingo finally removed the pump and a great arc of liquid squirted from Cora's rear end.
Thankfully the men had converted a pump to dispense water and the girls had already been through the fear of cremation. The races it would seem were a frequent event.
"Right then! My favourite filly. That should lighten you up for the next race. You had better put in a lot more effort."
The two girls were brought together, Cora on the inside, Tania on the outside.
"Ready, set, go," shouted Bingo.
The flash of flailing aerials sent the girls on their way. The lighter Cora flew into the lead, where she remained for the rest of the race. This resulted in Tania receiving the same treatment which Cora had endured after the earlier contest. She failed to accommodate the pump quite as bravely as her friend had done and Jack had to chastise her several times with the whip before she would stand firm and accept entry of the nozzle.
"No handicap," said H.
Jack laughed and nodded. "Both fillies the same weight. One race each. Do you fancy fifty on the decider?"
H agreed and the money was handed to Bingo to hold. Both girls were brought level once more, Cora once more on the inside as H had won the toss for the shorter lane. It did of course mean he had the tighter corners but firm use of the whip would see him through to a victorious finish.
The race was off and both girls were neck and neck going into the last lap. At the final bend Cora opened up a head lead but then disaster. Her bare foot struck a pebble and she stumbled and fell allowing Tania to race past to victory.
Jack was ecstatic and laughed loudly as he took the winnings out of Bingo's hand. H took the defeat with grace and to Cora's surprise as well as Susan's he restrained from using the whip on his fallen filly.
"Here," laughed Jack. "Have a beer." He threw a tin to Bingo, H and whoever was behind the camera. Then, still harnessed to the chariots, the girls were lead across to a stone trough to drink. They dipped their heads in the cool, crisp water that ran straight into the trough from off the moors. Their thirst satisfied the girls threw back their sodden hair to send an arc of crystal water to cool their perspiring bodies.
"Keep them warm," H shouted across to Bingo. "We don't want them getting stiff."
Jack added. "That's for us to be."
The girls remained near the water while Bingo rubbed them down with a soft chamois leather, massaging their skin to a healthy shine. With a bridle lead in each hand he lead the two back to the race track.
"It's not over yet." He told them with great amusement. "It's the time trials next. One filly, one jockey."
"Let Cora ride first," said H.
The bridle and harness were removed from Cora and she took her place in the seat. Gripping Tania's reigns firmly she eased her friend up to the starting line.
"Two laps," said Jack. "The quickest time wins." He set his stopwatch and signalled ready.
"Go!"
Tania stumbled right at the start but regained her footing and clawed back the lost time. After much cheering from the men and encouragement from Cora, Tania came home in a time of one minute forty. She remained in her harness while Bingo made a note of her time, then H announced a second chance for her to improve her score. Panting heavily Tania was again led to the start line where go was announced with a hard slap on her flanks. Despite her efforts she took almost two minutes to complete the circuits.
H was not pleased.
"The worst time ever." He pulled Cora from the chariot and got her into the bridle and harness ready to take her turn. Out of her harnessing Tania took her turn in the chariot. As she was easing Cora up to the start line H shouted to her that the loser was in for a hard time. Tania registered his warning and took a firm hold of the reigns.
"Go!"
Cora was slow away and even slower around the track. No matter how much Tania shook the reigns her friend hardly broke out of a trot. Tania was in no doubt as to the reason. If she failed to beat Cora's time it would be she who felt the sting of the aerial. She couldn't allow that. She brought Cora up to a halt at the finish line.
"Two minutes ten!" shouted H. "Even worse than the last one."
Tania was fully aware of what would happen to her if Cora's time did not improve. She rose from the chariot."Pass me the nozzle," she said to Bingo. "I think Cora's low on fuel."
The men looked at each other surprised and pleased. Bingo handed her the pump handle and took hold of the reigns while Tania applied the nozzle to her friends rear end, ensuring the metal pipe was good and deep.
"Fill her up!"
Bingo did as the girl said and when the pipe was removed the water spurted out as if it had come from a hose. Tania took the aerial whip from its holder and gave Cora's right flank a taste of what to expect should her efforts not improve.
"Ready?" asked H, excited at the turn of events.
"Ready," answered Tania through gritted teeth.
"Go."
Another stroke from the whip hit Cora's bottom as the words entered her ears, sending the girl out at a fair pace. It wasn't fast enough for Tania. Crack! the whip fell again, and when Cora failed to respond it fell again and then twice more before she broke into a run. It was becoming a battle of the wills. Cora needed to go slow enough to make her own time the fastest while Tania obviously required the opposite.
The only way Tania could achieve her goal was to show her one time friend that the beating she was getting now would be less than that given by the men. Emphasising her point she landed the whip twice more before the first lap was finished. Then she really got into her swing. As she entered the second lap her single strokes became doubles and then trebles and then one continuous lashing.
The only way Cora could possibly stop the beating was to get to the finishing line as quick as possible.
"One minute twenty five!"
Cora slumped to the floor her chest heaving and her legs so wobbly they failed to keep her up. On the chariot Tania let out a whoop of victory as she realised she had escaped the whip.
"Get her up!" ordered H.
Tania jumped from her chariot and went to Cora who was still panting on the ground. Taking hold of the bridle she yanked the girl up on to her feet.
"Take her to the fence post."
Still gripping the reigns like a stable girl guiding the horse to the winners enclosure she led Cora across to the post.
"You bitch," Cora whispered. "Why?"
"Simple. It was you or me."
"I'll get you for this. Just wait for the next races."
Tania tied the bridle to the post and unhitched the chariot.
"Here," said H, throwing across a fully extended aerial. "You can do the honours. Twenty strokes."
The men all took another beer and sat on the chariots to watch.
"And don't hold back," Jack warned. "Or you'll find yourself at the post instead of her."
Susan grimaced almost as much as poor Cora as each venomous stroke landed on the poor girl's flesh. Unable to ease up on the power of each stroke Tania did her best to land the whip on a different spot each time. Unfortunately with so many strokes ordered it became more difficult as the beating continued. By the time it was over Cora's bottom looked like she'd sat on a grill and for good measure Bingo added the imprint of his hand as well.
Chapter 9
The old market square in Wettle teemed with people intent on enjoying the early May sunshine.
The weather had been kind again this year, villagers and like minded tourists coming out in numbers, perusing the stalls and taking in the various amusements. For those with a more athletic disposition a stroll outward along Market Street took you to Broughtons Fields and the horse fair where all kinds of equestrian events were followed by a general sale of horses.
It was this walk that Peter took, unable as he was to appreciate the leaping Morris dancers celebrating the seasonal cycle or to sample the many fruit preserves, compliments of the WI. His mind today as always was filled with thoughts of Susan.
Despairing of help from the police, his journey had taken him the length of Britain and to the very depths of the seedier side of human nature. While the memories of Melanie's rope-burnt wrists played in his mind he left the main part of the village and entered the country lane that would take him to Broughtons, past lines of cars with yapping Yorkies panting on the back seat, and groups of families arguing over the cheese and onion sandwiches.
The hand painted sign for Broughtons Fields and the Wettle Horse Fair came into view. Peter paid his entrance fee and made his way across to the attractions.
Little family groups gathered around each other to watch as one member or the other tried to get a three inch hoop over the neck of a four inch jar, or tried to win a fake Capo di Monte figurine, by endeavouring to embed blunt darts into cards mounted on hard wood boards. It was marginally better than relieving them of their cash at gun point and it saved the cost of the cartridges.
Besides the guns were needed on the rifle range, minus their sights of course. In fact the only person safe from being accidentally shot was the man who worked the stall and stood in front of the guns.
"Try your luck sir? Give it a go. Everyone's a winner!"
Peter exchanged his fifty pence for the three balls and rolled each with an air of apathy towards the variously numbered holes at the end of the board.
"Oh! Unlucky sir, eighteen. Twenty one next time, everyone's a winner, give it a try."
It was worth the money just to have your faith in people's greed restored. The stall keeper continued his automatic cry. "Everyone's a winner ladies and gentlemen, everyone's a winner. Give it a try. There you go madam."
The morning went without revealing any signs of things untoward and Peter decided to cool himself in the shade of the beer tent, taking lunch in the form of a ham and salad roll with a pickled egg. The two accompanying pints of Caffreys helped to replace the morning's loss of fluid.
Of the mass of people milling around it seemed the predominant accent hailed from Ireland, putting paid to his idea that he needed only to turn up and follow the first Irish voice to find Susan. It was going to be a lot more difficult than that.
After his lunch Peter set off to explore the fairground and those parts of the fields he'd missed in the morning, tripping his way across the numerous rubberised cables unwisely run perilously close to the beer tent and its none too steady clients.
As is the custom of travelling fairs, the waltzer still required assembly and the helter skelter looked as if it was on loan from Pisa borough council, and about as safe as a fire-eater on an airship. Despite the obvious danger of travelling at great speed on a ton of rusting steel, excited children and nervous adults queued patiently for their turn to regurgitate their lunch.
Peter continued with his search, including in it now the discovery of the toilets where he could rid himself of the excess of beer. As usual they had been camouflaged by an expert from the SAS and were nowhere to be seen, prompting Peter to employ the wheels of a horse box as a target.
Relief was instant, and the strong flow of piss hitting the side of the trailer startled the horses inside. Peter zipped himself up and walked around the front of the trailer to look at the animals.
The trailer was empty!
Nothing but a scattering of golden straw on the floor.
Confused, he walked around the outside of the box, noting nothing out of the ordinary. When he got back to the stain he had made, he gave the wheel a hefty kick. The box moved again. Intrigued he went and stared into the trailer once more. It looked unremarkable, the same as the dozens of other horse boxes scattered nearby.
Once more he circumvented the vehicle, returning to look inside and ponder before walking up the ramp and into the interior. Still he found nothing, but on the way out he realised how few steps he'd taken. He walked along the outside of the trailer and counted, then he did the same on the inside.
It was shorter!
Peter studied the back wall until he found the thin line that betrayed a door, but it was locked. All seemed lost until, on the other side of the back wall away from the door itself, he found two iron pins jutting out, one protruding further than the other. They appeared to have no function. Unless they were part of a locking system for the door?
He pressed the longest pin firmly with his thumb and heard the instant sound of metal working against metal. He tried the door again and this time it opened ever so slightly. At first he thought there must be another lock but it was just some straw jammed under the door. With a little more effort the secret panel swung fully open and light flooded the compartment.
Two naked young women were harnessed and bound to the roof of the trailer by a strap connected to the leather bit that was held firmly in their mouths.
The two young girls could only move their eyes to see who had entered because the restraints kept their heads turned upwards. They were free to move their feet but their legs were held together at the knees and their hands were cuffed behind their backs so tightly it forced back their shoulders and thrust out their breasts.
The intense light of the day flooded the small chamber, reflected back in strawberry and gold from the mass of red hair each girl sported. Great curls cascaded past their young shoulders onto their backs and in one case reached down almost to her bottom.
Peter rushed forward, adrenaline pumping, to see if he could release their bonds, but each leather strap culminated in a chain that held a lock. They were trapped, helpless, two beautiful young women kept naked and bound until whoever held the key deemed otherwise. His mind raced at what to do, deciding he must run for the police despite the dangers for Susan once the Drivers were alerted. About to leave he took several more tugs at the chains, not realising the darkness that had suddenly fallen.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" said a quiet Irish voice in the doorway.
Peter froze for a second before turning to face the man. His chances didn't look good. The Irish man stood a good six inches taller, was fifteen years younger and carried a horse whip in his left hand. In a flash of inspiration Peter ran his hand over the breasts of one of the girls, weighing each young perfect orb with a careful hand as she shrank from him.
"Just checking the stock," Peter answered, giving her bottom a slap that had her spinning.
"Who said these are for sale?"
Peter felt the tits of the other dangling figure and gave her fanny a few hard nips to give him time to think. "They wouldn't be here if they didn't have a price."
The big man took a step nearer and turned to look at the door.
"How did you get in?"
There was a deadly menace in his voice.
Peter was about to say by opening the locks when he heard someone shouting.
"Hey Michael! You going to let us take a look at these fillies or what? Everyone's talking about them."
The man leant backwards as the other man entered the rear compartment, the room now filled almost to overflowing. At first the new man didn't seem to notice Peter but once he did he let out a broad smile and asked him what he was doing there.
"I was just saying to Michael, I'm checking out the stock." Peter studied his face hard, hoping to recognise him. He was stuck without a clue until the man spoke again. "I haven't seen you at the cafe for a while," he said. "Where you been? I've had to eat with Geordie. He's a pain in the arse the moaning sod."
Of course, the transport cafe where Susan was last seen. The man's name eluded him but again fortune was on his side.
"You know this feller, Dan?" asked the Irish man.
Before Dan could answer Peter put in. "Of course we know each other. Usually eat at the same cafe, don't we?"
"What's up?" said Dan, sensing the atmosphere. "I know him, yeah. He's a Driver".
The big man calmed down, although he did add a warning that he didn't like anyone looking at his stock without permission. Blithe as always, Dan burst out laughing.
"You thinking of buying these beauties, mate?" he grinned. "You better have plenty of cash on you then. The Arab dealers are after these."
Peter ran his hand over the buttocks of the younger of the two, the one with incredibly long hair. He squeezed the firm taut flesh, feeling it flinch from him, expecting a pinch perhaps, and continued down her thighs to her calves, like a vet checking the hock and cannon on a horse.
"No harm in dreaming," he murmured.
The burly man stepped forward, seizing the young girl's tits roughly in his hands, kneading them with little care or finesse.
"Dream all you want, mate. Where these are going they'll be getting plenty of stick from a sheik if they don't behave themselves. I've heard some pretty hard things about that, probably have them done."
"Done?" asked Pat.
"You know, cut." He transferred his interest to the fiery red triangle between the other girl's thighs, and opened her up with his fingers. "You know, here. But that would be a personal taste and maybe he's buying for one of his sons, or for breeding stock, then who knows their fate." He finished his fumblings and motioned towards the door. "Well, you better leave."
Peter was not reluctant to do so! He made casually for the door, where the Irish man spoke again.
"If you want them, you'll have to take your chance at the auction, the same as the next man."
"I might do that," said Peter nonchalantly. Then he turned and left.
"See you there," Dan shouted after him.
Peter raised a hand in acknowledgement. "How about a drink before it starts?"
Dan came out to the main area of the trailer. "OK, where'll you be?"
"The beer tent?"
A quizzical look crossed Dan's face. "It'll be all shut up then. Auction don't start 'til eleven."
"Of course," stammered Peter. "I was forgetting. Where then?"
"The Forge about ten?"
"Fine by me."
"See you there then," said Dan smiling, then he returned to the Irish man and his examination of the two fettered girls. Peter did not think they would enjoy it.
Chapter 10
"Hello Melanie. Long time no see."
Through groggy eyes Melanie was unable to recognise the voice, or what was visible of the caller's shadowy face. She was desolated that it wasn't Peter returning with a change of heart. She took a step out of the dim light of the passageway, noticing that the chicken fried rice had completely dried, and appeared like a black hole in the night time pavement.
"What do you want?" she asked, angry at being disturbed in the early hours.
The man said nothing until his head was properly lit.
Suddenly galvanised into frantic action, she turned and fled back into the flat. But her attempts to slam the door were futile. Unable to resist his superior weight she released the door and leapt up the stairs, managing three steps before the strong grip of fingers wrapped about her ankle and brought her to the floor.
"Where do you think you're fucking going, bitch! I want a word with you."
With a heavy boot he kicked the door shut and Melanie was trapped. Her desire to resist and fight back dissolved as he looped rope around her wrists. He continued winding, finishing only when he had secured both hands tightly together.
"Remember this?" he growled. "You should have known you'd never be free. But we'd have left you alone if only you'd kept your big mouth shut. It's your own fault." He got up from the stairs and went towards the flat, Melanie stumbling behind. Inside he took one look at the room and spat out his thoughts.
"What a fucking mess! You're still a dirty pig!" He pulled the rope hard, sending her crashing onto the settee, her legs flailing upwards revealing her pantieless gash which he spotted straight away.
"No fucking knickers, the place like a tip, nothing changes, does it? You're still a fucking scrubber." He glared hard at her, trembling with anger, waiting for her to agree. "Ain't you?" he roared again. "Still a fucking scrubber, still sucking cocks for half a lager! Well?"
She simply stared up at him towering above her, half numb with shock, half terrified with fear. "Well?" he repeated. "What are you?"
"A scrubber," she whispered.
"I didn't hear you."
"A scrubber!"
"And what do you do?" he asked again, in a quieter voice.
"I suck cocks."
Knowing he had her beaten he slumped down in a chair opposite.
"Don't you worry about sucking cocks tonight," he told her. "There's going to be plenty of time for that after you've told me who this bloke is."
Melanie climbed off the settee and onto the floor then crawled across to her tormentor and clasped his knees.
"Please Colin," she pleaded. "I don't know anything. Honestly. I haven't seen you or Lincoln for years, I haven't said anything to anyone." She moved her tied hands along his thigh hoping to appease him but he rose and walked away. Still on her hands and knees she followed him around the floor trying to think how she could please him and diffuse his anger.
"Why don't you take me to bed?" she suggested. "You used to like to fuck me. You and your brother."
Colin moved to stand near her head then raised his diesel drenched boot and brought it firmly down on the back of her neck, pressing her face into a cold, greasy dish of black bean sauce, forcing her to gag as the mixture covered her mouth. Leaning over her, he gathered a knot of the flimsy kimono in his hand and tore it from her back leaving her naked backside jutting upwards, then he whipped around the loose end of the rope and lashed her arse crevice soundly, bisecting the buttocks and leaving a red weal that was broken only by the spot of her clenched arsehole.
"Give me his name, and no shit."
He pressed her face further into the juice, staining and stinging her eyes.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I've been working the pub for a couple 'a weeks. I haven't seen no-one."
He gave her another lash with the rope, landing the hairy hemp in the same spot as before.
"Let's try again, shall we? Who's the fucking guy you were seen with?"
"When?"
The rope bit again leaving a thick red weal along the smile of her bottom, as if she'd applied lipstick to it. Colin gave her another stroke to brighten it further.
"Don't get smart, bitch," he warned. "You weren't smart when we fucked you stupid in the wagon and you're not fucking smart now. Stupid yes. Smart, bollocks."
He dragged her along the floor towards the bedroom, burning her skin on the nylon fibres of the carpet.
"Still got shit for brains," he scorned, and began loosening the belt on his jeans. "Looks like I'm going to have to teach you all over again."
Melanie looked on in terror as the thick leather belt slipped through each loop of his trousers.
"Please," she begged. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm past listening, bitch," he replied. "Past worrying about you. I've worried for you long enough. No more second chances, no more time. I'm going to have the skin off your arse for a waistcoat." He pulled Melanie up on the bed and gagged her with a pair of her own knickers, forcing them deep inside her mouth. Then he picked up a lacy suspender belt and wrapped it tightly around her face, preventing her from pushing the panties out.
"Now," he said, with cool detachment. "Let's get that arse up in the air." He pulled the ironing board Melanie had left open into the centre of the room and forced her to lie along it, the curved end pushing into her thighs. After tying the rope to the one end he tipped open her dressing table drawers until he found her underwear, then he took some stockings and secured her ankles to the legs of the board.
Then he picked up his belt.
He gripped the buckle firmly in his palm then wrapped the leather strap tightly around his hand several times. Without any more conversation he brought the leather around in a great arc to connect with Melanie's already stinging buttocks.
The slap of leather on skin sent quivers the length of her body, sending her head snapping backwards in response to the pain. He left it at the one for the moment, walking around to see the tears welling in her eyes.
"Do you remember now?"
She shook her head, not in defiance, for she wanted to tell him Peter's name more than anything. She wanted to stop the pain, wanted to go back to being a nobody, like she was last week. Just another tart in another pub. But Peter deserved more than betrayal. He was a decent bloke and she longed to do something decent for once in her life.
Colin went behind her and brought the belt brutally down twice more. Once for each cheek. Again he gave it time for the sting to reverberate through her body, for the initial fire to die down before returning in burning echoes that gradually levelled to a constant searing heat across her flesh. While her bottom throbbed he went casually about the room pulling out drawers and spilling the contents, kicking her intimate things around the floor and destroying the few possessions she owned.
"What do we have here?" he sneered, picking up a large black vibrator. He turned it on and rubbed the buzzing dildo around her face before pushing it beneath her and between her breasts. As the purring phallus tickled her tits, Colin started tearing apart her knickers, taunting and teasing her as he did.
"Business been good?" he mocked, sniffing the crotch of one flimsy red pair. "I bet you give a good fuck in all this gear. Two up for the sailors is it? Maybe a gang bang if they're in a hurry. What do you charge? A tenner? A fiver? I bet you'd do it for a drink, or a bag of chips?"
He threw the ripped remains of the last pair of knickers on her back then resumed her lashing, this time giving her six, seven, eight strokes of the belt.
The pain no longer came in waves, it coursed through Melanie's body in one continuous eternal throb, burning, stinging and all consuming.
But she wouldn't break! She wouldn't!
"I'm impressed," he said, with a grim smile. "That's quite some dedication. I just hope he's worth it."
The sight of Colin replacing his belt brought great relief and Melanie's bottom relaxed a little. The flesh lost its tightness if not its crimson hue. He didn't untie her though, but went about the flat kicking over tables and smashing plates. Melanie couldn't give a shit about that, as long as he left her alone. He could break up the entire place for all she cared, it was all crap anyway.
Suddenly the sounds of destruction ceased. Colin was standing in the bedroom, the door of the airing cupboard open and broken against the wall. The cupboard, like the flat, was big, it took up the entire recess on the side of the chimney breast. On one side was shelves for towels and blankets, on the other a huge copper boiler for hot water.
"You know what?" said Colin. "I've run out of fucking cigarettes."
He went across and untied Melanie, then took her over to the cupboard and began tying her around the gleaming boiler, her breasts pressed against the shining metal.
"I'm going to nip down to the garage and get some," he informed her. He checked that she was secure. "And when I get back, I think I'll take a bath."
He flicked the switch that turned on the immersion heater.
Melanie's eyelids peeled back, exposing the trembling whites. Through the saliva drenched knickers she began to scream her submission but Colin wasn't listening now. When he neared the bedroom door he turned and spoke to her.
"I'll try not to be long," he said calmly. "I just hope the car doesn't break down or something happen to me while I'm out."
She heard the outside door shut and almost immediately felt the gurgling water rise inside the tank as it began to heat up. In an effort to remain calm she tried to recall how long it took for the water to get hot when she used the heater. Twenty five, thirty minutes. That gave him half an hour to get to the garage and back. That was if he was coming back. Maybe he'd had enough. Maybe he'd thought she wouldn't tell him Peter's name no matter what, and had just decided to do her in as painfully as possible.
She began to panic at the thought of hot copper searing her flesh, scorched skin peeling away like the film on cold milky coffee. The more she panicked the more her temperature rose with the fear. Or was that the boiler heating up already?
She struggled uselessly against her bonds, raising the heat still further. Perspiration began to run in rivulets down her temples and forehead, dropping in tiny beads from the tip of her nose, and as the sweat increased she felt her naked belly and breasts become slippery against the warm copper.
Time ticked away. Inside the boiler tiny bubbles formed along the length of the hot tungsten element before leaving it to float away as the temperature increased. Melanie tried lifting parts of her body away from the metal. In order to do that she had to press another part onto it, but soon the whole boiler would be too hot to touch. Her sweating increased, her thoughts became confused.
What to do?
She couldn't scream, couldn't break her bonds. Perhaps if she squeezed the boiler tighter death would come quicker, but the human pysche isn't built to embrace death quite so easily. Her nerve ends, already sensing the danger, were telling her to run, to get away, driving her to the very edge of madness. Frantically she began jerking, pulling, straining at the chords that held her firmly against the burning metal.
"Struggling so soon?" Colin checked his watch. "It's only been fifteen minutes and already you're losing your nerve." He came across and placed his palm on the water tank, feeling its temperature, then in mock surprise he shook his hand as if trying to cool it down.
Melanie could only plead with her eyes, imploring him to release her before she was seriously burned.
"You know?" said Colin, composed and confident. "If you'd only have learnt your lesson the first time, none of this would have happened. Are you sorry?"
Melanie nodded her head furiously.
"Have you learnt your lesson now, at long last?"
Again she nodded in affirmation.
"And what about the name, are you willing to tell me his name now?"
Without hesitation she motioned her submission with further movements of her head. Colin stood behind her and ran a finger down the line of her bottom.
"How do I know you'll tell the truth?" He got down on his knees and opened the cheeks of Melanie's arse noting the wet line of sweat running down it. "You might say anything just to get me to release you?"
This time Melanie shook her head to assure him of her compliance.
Colin got to his feet and removed his trousers slowly. "I don't believe you Melanie. You always were a liar." He positioned himself behind her feeling the heat from her body as well as the rapidly warming tank. Taking hold of his erect prick he lowered it down to her anus and forced himself inside, crushing her against the hot copper tank where the heat forced her to push back. The effect sent him deeper up her darkest hole, delivering him into raptures of sexual delight.
"Hot isn't it?" he sneered, pumping at her snatching ring piece. "I like them sweating and squirming."
The heat now was almost unbearable and Colin savoured the feel of a woman struggling back onto him, impaling herself ever deeper on his engorged cock. Almost on the verge of coming, yet never losing control of his senses, he finally undid the suspender belt gag and pulled the knickers out of Melanie's mouth.
"Talk!" he snarled, his hips still pounding at her backside.
"His name is Peter Warburton," screamed Melanie. "He's the husband of Susan Warburton, one of the girls Lincoln has been using in his cab."
Colin increased the speed and power of his strokes at the memory of the fucks he and his brother had taken on the man's wife, the things they'd done to her back at the depot. "Tough shit on him," he snarled and spewed his spunk up Melanie's arsehole.
Melanie surveyed the damage to her apartment.
Everything was in tatters, her clothes were in shreds and scattered about the room. The furniture had been smashed and doors hung precariously from bent hinges. Her only sensation was numbness, her mind existing in a void of consciousness.
She was awake yet unaware, blind to the colours around her, deaf to any sounds. She had escaped this nightmare once, but the nightmare was back, more terrifying than before. The demons had been watching her all this time. They had been learning new tortures, new torments, saving them up for the day they returned.
In the corner lay the severed head of Barnie, her childhood teddy. His disembowelled body hung absurdly from the corner of the cracked dressing table mirror, a shard of glass running through his middle. Barnie had been her lifelong confessor, the only male thing that had never treated her badly, and the only remaining link to childhood innocence. Now he was gone too. She felt truly alone and abandoned by everyone.
With a deep sigh of resignation she turned towards Colin.
"What now?"
He pulled her up by the rope still wrapped around her wrists and stood her to attention.
"For a start," he said, removing her earrings, rings and ankle chain. "We can get rid of this shit. Women need to be naked and that's how I keep them." He stood directly in front of her and weighed her heavy tits in his hands. "I'll tell you what though," he added, "you ain't half kept a good body for a cock sucking bum fucked whore. I expected you to have tits round your waist and an arse sagging past your knees." He looked at the dark saddle of hair where she hadn't bleached it for a while. "You still look like a fucking tart, but at least you're in good shape."
He set off for the door, pulling Melanie behind him.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
"You'll find out soon enough," he answered. "Then I'm going to do what we should have done ten years ago."
He dragged her down the stairs and out of the flat to his car, which was parked near the door. Opening the boot he told the naked woman to get in. She did as she was told and he slammed the boot shut, blocking out the faint morning light that was just appearing with the dawn.
If she'd fought for a few seconds she might have been rescued by the milkman out on his rounds. He came around the corner just as Colin was locking her in.
"Morning," he said, cheerily. "It's a cold one, eh?"
"Isn't it just," replied Colin with a smile. "Only us daft buggers stupid enough to be out in it."
The milkman left the usual pint on Melanie's doorstep and went on his way, whistling the theme tune from The Dambusters, as he went.
The sudden realisation that the engine had stopped woke Melanie from her sleep. She had tried to stay awake but had finally succumbed through sheer exhaustion. Now she had no chance of gauging how long they'd been travelling. She felt the car shake as the driver alighted and heard the key slide in the lock.
As the lid began to open she squinted her eyes, preparing herself for the shock of the sunlight. There was none. The car was in some sort of warehouse type building, with a very high roof supporting light bulbs at the end of long cables. Only a couple of them were lit, creating shadows that failed to illuminate the corner recesses.
She studied as much as she could before Colin pulled her into a lean-to office alongside one wall. Inside she only had to see an invoice for Felix Ferry to realise she was in the lorry depot. Colin saw that she'd spotted the letter heading and laughed.
"It won't do you any good, bitch. There's no way you're going to escape again."
He dragged her over to what looked like a huge meat refrigerator and pulled back the lever before flicking on a switch. The door opened slowly with a long ominous groan and a dull orange glow emanated from inside. When the doorway was finally free he marched Melanie quickly to one corner of the room and threaded the rope through the eye of a hook attached to a bar in the ceiling.
Facing into the corner, she allowed her hands to be pulled upwards then felt a strip of leather cross her face forcing its way between her teeth.
As he tightened the gag Colin's efforts pulled back her head and Melanie became aware that she wasn't alone. In two of the other corners she saw a naked woman suspended up by her wrists and gagged as she was. Neither of them moved. Their heads fell limp between their arms, missing the wall only by an inch or two. If they weren't asleep, they could only be dead.
When he finished tying the gag Colin left the room, closing the door. Melanie twisted her head despite the pain and tried to make contact with the others. At least they could see each other if they made the effort. Outside the box, Colin checked the door was locked securely then flicked the switch, turning off the orange light and plunging the women inside into total, complete, soundproof darkness.
Chapter 11
When Peter entered The Forge, Dan was on his way to the bar with an empty glass.
"Just in time," he said, seeing Peter come in and look around. "What do you want?"
"Lager, please. Whatever they've got."
Peter went over to help carry the drinks but Dan motioned for him to sit down and he'd bring them across.
"By the window. Do you want anything to eat? Nuts or something?"
"Nothing thanks, I've already eaten."
It was a testing time for Peter. Obviously Dan believed that he was a Driver and if he was going to get any closer to Susan he was going to have to go along with that and behave like one of them.
"There you go." Dan placed the drinks on the table and dropped down in the seat opposite Peter.
"Where've you been lately? I don't see you at the cafe any more."
Peter took a sip of his lager before answering, using the moment to appear composed and relaxed.
"I spent some time in Suffolk, had a big contract down there, lugging containers out of the port. What about you?"
"Here and there," Dan said, illustrating his point by shaking his hand from side to side. "A bit of this, a bit of that."
"And what about Geordie? He up to much?"
"Up north most of the time. Aberdeen and Edinburgh. He might get down for tonight though. If he makes it, he'll be at the auction."
Peter sincerely hoped not. Convincing the Geordie he really was a Driver would be a lot more difficult.
"Here," Dan continued. "You weren't really thinking of buying those two beauties off Michael were you?"
Peter let out a knowing smile. "What do you think?"
"I think not," Dan laughed. "Can't see any of us with enough clout to out bid the Arabs."
"I can't understand how they smuggle the girls out of the country. Why aren't they checked by customs?"
"Why do you think? A mega rich Arab sheik moving his horses between meetings. Who's going to ask questions? With all his money he hardly needs to smuggle. They take the girls out the same way Michael and the others bring them in. In the secret compartments at the back of the horse boxes." Dan looked at his watch. "Time to get going."
On the way to the show grounds Dan asked Peter if he was going to the passover the following week. Peter had heard the phrase several times lately, though he was unsure of its meaning. All he could do was go along with everything Dan said.
"I'll be there," he told him. "You?"
Dan stopped momentarily to light a cigarette before carrying on his way down the dark country lane. "Never miss them," he said. "Especially the ones held up at Jimmy's."
"Jimmy's?" queried Peter. "I'm not sure I know his place".
A moment of concern crossed Dan's face and he stopped and turned towards the other man.
"How long have you been one of us?" he asked.
Peter's body tensed with nerves, although in the cold night air his sudden movements could be mistaken for the shivers.
He looked nonchalantly away towards the lights of the fair shining brightly across the other side of the field. "About two months," he said. "Just before I met you." He walked casually to the side of the road to relieve himself in the hedge.
Dan pulled a deep drag on his cigarette, the glow from its tip illuminating the concern on his face.
"Who asked you in?" he asked nonchalantly. "Was it Lincoln?"
"No, I don't know Lincoln very well," Peter said, aware of the trap. "I thought I told you that before."
"So you did... you were saying you..." Before he had time to finish Peter interrupted him.
"Actually I did meet him down south not so long ago. Jack told me Felix Ferries had a bit of work. I pulled a few containers for him."
"So Jack invited you in?"
"Did I say that?"
"No," Dan admitted. "Then who?"
"H," Peter told him. "Big bad H".
That seemed to clinch it. He had passed the test. All he hoped now, was that none of the Drivers he had mentioned were at the auction. Getting rid of Dan, who seemed to have taken a liking to him, could prove tricky enough without any other complications. Dan was useful, but he had to be alone to rescue Susan.
As they neared the large tent where the auction was due to take place, Dan asked Peter who he was taking to the passover. Before Peter had a chance to reply he'd already started to rave about the woman he was taking.
"She's a cracker I tell you. A lovely tight little bum and firm titties. I picked her up at some services near Exeter. Now she's been servicing me ever since. Perhaps we'll do a swap, what do you reckon? You pass your's over to me and I'll pass you mine."
Suddenly Peter understood. At this passover the Drivers were able to exchange the women they had captured on the roads of Britain. After the passover each Driver would have a new girl to satisfy his lusts, and that was why Susan had been taken by so many different men.
"And what if you don't have a woman to pass over?" he asked.
"You know the rules," said Dan. "No woman, no entry. If you've got one to exchange you're in. If not you'd better buy one from the Paddies tonight."
"I got one," Peter declared.
"What she like? Nice cunt, good cock sucker?"
"Blonde," Peter said. "Big tits and a nice figure." Without realising it, he was describing Melanie.
"Sounds good to me," Dan said, licking his lips. "I'll sure look forward to it."
"Trouble is, no one has told me where Jimmy's is," ventured Peter.
"Jack will tell you."
"I won't see him for a while. I'm back down south tomorrow."
"It's between Yellow Beck and Cotherstone. The only garage up on the moors road. You can't miss it."
The entrance to the tent was guarded by two men, both nervously tapping the side of their legs with a baseball bat. Dan passed by them with a nod of the head, but Peter was stopped until Dan explained he was with him.
"Can't be too careful," he said, handing Peter a sales catalogue. "You don't know what nosey bastards are around, but if anyone gate-crashes they're in serious fucking trouble."
Once past the security they walked through another door to find themselves amongst eager men filing past the holding pens.
In each pen lay at least one girl, in some there were several. Each was marked with a number that matched their place in the catalogue. Some of the girls appeared to be in quite poor condition and simply sprawled on top of bales of straw, legs open as they had been left for buyers to look them over.
Potential buyers were making notes in books, and occasionally someone would call for the keeper, who would come over and drag the girl across for a closer inspection, pulling back her lips to show her teeth, or milking her breasts to check their firmness or otherwise.
The nearer they got to the main arena, the higher the quality of the girls became. In one pen a man in a white coat knelt between the legs of a young dark haired woman, his fingers probing inside her thighs.
"That's the vet," Dan informed him. "If you're trying to get a few more bucks for your stock you can declare her a virgin. Trouble is she has to be checked by the vet and that costs you up front."
Suddenly Dan took hold of Peter's arm and pushed his way past several men to another pen down the line.
"There you go," he said. "That's one of mine!"
Curled up in a mound of straw lay a young girl. She wasn't asleep, just curled into a ball trying to avoid the prying eyes of potential buyers examining her fresh young features. Small firm titties and flawless legs and thighs.
"What do you reckon?" asked Dan. "I should get a few bob for her, eh?"
Peter agreed. "Have you declared her a virgin?"
"Nah, she may look like a virgin but she ain't. No way. I never put them in for a sale unless I've mounted them first. She's no virgin I can assure you! Don't let those looks fool you. No, I've had many a good ride off of her." He was about to continue his boasting when a face in the crowd caught his attention.
"Gotta go, Peter," he said. "That guy over there wants to offer me money to keep this one out of the auction. See you in the sale room."
So Peter was alone at last, another face in the crowd and quite safe now that he was inside, as long as Dan didn't come back with any friends. Nervously he edged his way towards the sale room, passing pen after pen of captured women. Most, the ones who had been through it all before, lay on the floor, unabashed at their nudity. Others, the first timers, cowered like frightened animals, nowhere to hide, desperately trying to find some dignity in the unfeeling straw.
The men appeared quite oblivious to any embarrassment felt by the girls, treating them purely as livestock, concerned only with making the right purchase at the right price. For some of them it was just a job, buying stock for the more affluent or better known who were unable or unwilling to attend in person.
Peter recognised the beautiful red haired girls he had seen earlier in the day, penned together. Amazingly a rosette was pinned to their enclosure as a prize for the best turned out stock, alongside details of their age and information on their origin in Kerry county, Eire.
Peter was enthralled by their beauty and spent some time observing their actions. Both girls lay across bales of straw, totally aware they were on display and using their considerable charms to ensure only the richest could afford them. It was the intelligent thing to do, after all. A rich master could well be as cruel as a poor one, but at least your suffering would be endured in luxurious surroundings.
Probably they didn't know about the Arabs.
The naked girls were a feast for Peter's eyes and he ate hungrily. All around him lay naked females, there to buy and take away. For a while he lost himself to his thoughts and felt the tell tale rise in his trousers. He made a fist and dug it into his leg trying to hurt himself, ashamed that he should find such pleasure in the hopeless predicament of the captured women.
Only the sight of the young Chinese girl he had seen with Lincoln was able to snap him out of his trance.
She was attracting a lot of attention, many hands were upon her.
She was tied to a post with a stick behind her arms that thrust out her neat little breasts, and one leg was tied up in the air like a dancer high kicking, almost at right angles to the loose one that a man was running his hands up and down, all the way. She must be incredibly supple, he thought, maybe from some circus or other, although sweat gleamed on her smooth skin and the way all her muscles twitched and her dark eyes were screwed up with tears overflowing showed that she was either in agony or dreadfully repelled by her lewd handling.
It was the tears that attracted the crowd to her as much as her perfectly formed little body. And her pathetic whimpering was a good reason for not gagging her. Peter wondered how long Lincoln had left her like that. And how much longer she would be left there. A long time, he thought. It was probably putting up her price very nicely.
Whatever her history, she seemed to attract cruelty like a magnet...
Peter's heart jumped a beat when he heard a broad Irish voice approaching, and he stepped hurriedly back, hoping to lose himself amongst the punters crowding in.
"Oi, Lincoln. How much you after for the Chink?"
Moving backwards in the throng, Peter felt a sudden solid bump against his back, stopping him in his tracks and forcing the people around him to stumble sideways. Trying to remain innocuous he turned to say sorry, only to look straight into the eyes of the one man he was desperate to avoid. Before he had time to react Lincoln placed a large hand on his shoulder with no hint of recognition, pushed himself away and apologised for bumping into him.
His attention was not there.
"Got to do a bit of business," he said. "In a hurry, sorry mate".
Peter managed a nod and a smile and melted into the crowd, peering between the heads of two onlookers as Lincoln jumped the railings of the pen and pulled the girl over to the man who had enquired of her purchase.
"Have you put a reserve on her?" the man asked.
"Now I'm not going to tell you, am I?" grinned Lincoln. "If you want to keep her out of the sale, make me an offer."
The man ran his hands up and down the young Chinese girl's legs as Lincoln held her out. Satisfied, he next checked her feet and then her teeth.
"She looks in great shape," he said. "I could do with an Oriental piece for my house, it gives the customers a bit of variety." He bent the girl over and checked her genitals were clear, then he ran his hand over her tits, squeezing her nipples as if trying to make them stiffen.
"They're awfully small tits," he told Lincoln. "Most of my clients like a girl big up top."
"She's a Chink," said Lincoln. "What do you expect? Tell you what though, she's great to beat, so sensitive, you should see how she reacts, plenty of your customers would enjoy beating her, I'll bet. Or you could put on a show."
"Once a week?" said the man scornfully.
"Twice nightly," said Lincoln. "She's tougher than she looks, believe me."
He took the girl into his arms, smacking her pert little arse none too gently and ignoring the new tears in her shining black eyes.
"Well?"
"You sure she can do a show twice nightly?
"No sweat!"
"She better be good!"
"You can take it out on her if she ain't."
"You better believe it!"
"Stand back, then, and I'll show you."
Chapter 12 - An Artistic Beating
Contributed by Rex Saviour, author of our book ERICA, PROPERTY OF REX and the story ROBIN, PROPERTY OF OGOUN (in the 3-in-1 special BOUND FOR GOOD) and BALIKPAN 1 (�10 - mail order only)
The first thing Lincoln did was to clear a space around himself and the girl. It wasn't easy, for they all the assembled Drivers wanted a good grope of her: they were all thoroughly aroused by now and knew she would feel good: the way she shrank from their touch was an added turn-on. She seemed to have a dread of being pinched. It was not one of Lincoln's more endearing traits so far as women in his power were concerned.
"Stand back for an artistic beating."
There were plenty of cheers, but someone shouted: "Artistic beating? What the fuck's that? Artistic? Sounds like crap to me!"
"What do you mean, crap?" Lincoln was getting angry.
"Sissy, like. Namby-pamby. No big deal."
"Namby-pamby it ain't," replied Lincoln with a coarse chuckle. "I'm not bullshitting. It's where some chick what ain't done nothing wrong gets a damn good thrashing - a damn good thrashing. Just because it's artistic don't mean it can't be hard! Difference is, she don't have to have earned it, it's just for the hell of it, for fun, to make a show and give everyone who watches a good wank off."
"What, we don't get to fuck her?"
"Afterwards, maybe. If you haven't shot your load already! There'll probably be a queue, mind."
"OK," said the doubter. "Sounds good. This one done no harm but you gonna beat her, right?"
"Right."
"Then there'll be a chance to fuck her?"
"You catch on fast," said Lincoln mockingly. "Matter of fact she's right obedient these days. As good as gold she is." He shook the girl, who was struggling like a wildcat in his arms. "Just like a pussy-cat she is usually, if you like that sort of thing, she'll rub up against you and purr, but all the time you can tell that she hates it. Yes, good as gold, except she still tries to get away if she's in trouble!"
He set her on her feet, but she sank to the ground and buried her tear stained face in his crotch, her fingers frantically at work on his flies.
"She often tries to get round me that way," he laughed, slapping her hands away. "Take no notice. She knows enough English to know she's going to be beaten, that's all, and she's had plenty before, it scares the shit out of her. Like I said, she seems to be more sensitive than most and the more often you beat her the more she howls next time."
He turned to the brothel keeper. "That'll suit you," he said. "What you're going to see is what she's like after a few weeks with me. A twice nightly beating show for a month or two and she'll likely be a real stunner as a turn-on, absolute best ever, I guarantee it, and you know me, Mister Honesty."
There were plenty of sniggers at that, and the brothel keeper looked sceptical.
"Not what I heard! I reckon mostly you oversell."
Lincoln glared at him. "Shit!" he said, "I'll fucking well show you what this one's worth." He looked round. "Give us more space. She used to be in a circus, I wanna show what tricks she can do first."
Soon a little arena in the middle of the throng of eager onlookers crowding round and reaching out for her was marked out, and bright lighting set up, dangling from a couple of cranes.
"Anyone got a few bags of sawdust?"
"Sure," said one of the Drivers. "In my load."
"Spread it around," said Lincoln. "Make it more genuine. Authentic. More like the real thing."
There were jeers at his long words, but soon the sawdust was spread, making it more like a circus ring, with spectators crowding round closely. It was not very big, but very very intimate. Everyone had a great view.
Now Lincoln shoved the girl away, so that she fell in a heap of sprawling limbs in the middle of the ring. He came away from the centre of the circle, leaving the girl there. She scrambled to her knees and stayed there, alone, bowed and kneeling, naked, with her head between her knees and her long black hair down on the sawdust. Her whole body was trembling, and she was making little whimpering noises.
Lincoln clapped his hands, and slowly she raised her head, shaking out her long black hair so that it shone in the lights, then she knelt up straight and clasped her hands behind her back, straining her shoulders back to thrust out her perfectly formed breasts, which Lincoln pointed to.
"Some say these are too small," he said. "Me, I reckon they ain't half bad. They sure feel good." He twisted the nipples in his large hand, making her jump. "Anyone not tried yet?"
Several shouts of 'yes' and 'me' came from the audience.
Lincoln clapped his hands again and the girl rose gracefully to her feet, standing on tip-toe with her legs wide apart and her hands on top of her head, elbows and shoulders still strained right back, making a pathetic little keening sound.
Lincoln went up to her and hit her on the cheek, jerking her head to one side.
"Shut up, bitch!"
Immediately she became silent. She closed her eyes, but tears could be seen welling from under the lids and overflowing.
Lincoln struck her on the other cheek.
"Open your eyes."
They were very dark brown, almost black, shining always, this time with tears, in a slanted setting with long black lashes. Her features were fine, classical, very Oriental, her nose and mouth small. Her lips had been painted red, as had her nipples.
She raised her head to stare out over his head, her body stiff and fearful, the lights shining on it, displaying her beautiful smooth satiny skin glowing with a slight sheen of sweat, her shaven sex was painted gold and thrust out.
Again he slapped a cheek.
"Look at me!"
Ever so reluctantly her head came down and she flinched away as her eyes met his. His were full of sadistic pleasure, hers overflowing with fear and horror and loathing.
"There are some men who want to feel your breasts, girl. Do not move away. Look at them whilst they examine you, OK?"
Another slap to reinforce his instructions and Lincoln turned back to the audience.
"Let's have a queue," he said.
Six of the Drivers lined up, grinning and joking. The others must have felt her up before, when she was tied to the pillar.
"What you grinning about?" asked Lincoln. "This is a serious matter. There's, money involved, it affects her price. Now that's real crucial! We need your opinions about whether her tits are suitable for work in a brothel and for shows like I am making up now. So let's have a little respect, gentlemen... OK, first one, please..."
The first man stepped forward eagerly, but Lincoln interrupted just as he laid a hand on the shrinking girl's right breast. Everyone could see what an effort she had to make to stand there and not run for it.
"Just one moment, pal. Back in line, please."
He went back to the girl and slapped her cheek again.
"Mouth open! You should know that. Tongue out. These gentleman may wish to see your teeth. Oh, and any other part of you they wish to handle, keep still, right?" He slapped her cheek again as she looked him in the eye. "And when they are done they get a kiss, and make it good. If anyone complains you'll be in dead trouble after."
There was an immediate scramble to join the queue, but Lincoln waved the newcomers back. "No more, gentlemen, or we'll be here all night... first gentleman again, please."
The girl stood still, on tiptoe, quivering but silent, those perfect legs very wide apart, her eyes upon the first Driver as he approached, none too steady on his legs after the whisky he had mixed with his beer.
Everyone saw her shrink away from his touch, but she managed to remain on tiptoe and did not move her feet, just swayed back a little.
She kept her eyes on him as he fumbled with her breasts with one hand, the other between her legs, crudely groping around there, but such was Lincoln's control over her that when at last he had finished she put up her face for a kiss, which he took with a clumsy bear hug that was more like a wrestling hold.
She continued to hold still for the next four, all of whom abused her in different ways. Most of the watchers had their dicks in their hands by now, but the best was yet to come.
The last man was the brothel keeper, her potential purchaser.
He went up to her and just stared at her until her eyes dropped. It was obvious that he was a true sadist.
"Look, Lincoln," he jeered. "Where's your control over this little bitch? What you gonna do 'bout that?"
"I'll see to it later," said Lincoln grimly. "Just see if I don't."
"But you're gonner sell her to me!"
"OK then, either you'll get to do it or we'll have to make the beating she's about to receive something real special."
"Both!" He was delighted. "The beating she's about to receive," he repeated, licking his lips with relish. "I like that! Right on! You need a helper for that?"
"Sure do!"
"You got one then! It'll help me if I do buy her and have the show to do."
"Oh, you will!" chuckled Lincoln confidently. He knew he had his man well and truly hooked now. "Finished for now?"
"You must be joking! I ain't even started!"
He still did not touch the Chinese girl, just walked round her. From behind he put his hand between her legs and she yelped at his fierce pinch.
"More shit, Lincoln. You told her to shut up."
"So I did."
"This beating she gonna receive going to be something to remember, eh?"
"Sure is!" repeated Lincoln angrily. He was not used to being humiliated like this, and his jaw was set in an angry line which did not bode well for the girl. The beating looked like being somewhat more than artistic, they all knew that it would be a real hard punishment now, and the excitement was growing by leaps and bounds.
For the next ten minutes or so the brothel keeper subjected the girl to the most degrading examination he could devise, and all the time she stood her ground. It was obvious to them all that he was trying to make her run, but he could not.
Until it came to the kiss...
Suddenly she bit him!
Hard enough that he howled out, a string of foul curses flowing from his lips.
And the girl broke away and ran, but everywhere she went the men in the circle turned her back until at last she ended up in Lincoln's strong arms. She screamed and screamed as he held her, battering his hairy chest with her small fists until at last she subsided into sobs.
He shoved her away and she collapsed at his feet. He hauled her up by her hair. He held her easily, despite her struggles.
"Do I get my kiss now?" asked the brothel keeper, her future owner. Oh yes, he intended to buy her. He had to have her now. Revenge would be sweet and prolonged. He knew now that he just had to have her. He grinned sadistically and approached the girl again, but again she broke down and ran, once again ending up in Lincoln's grip.
"Here, help yourself," said Lincoln. He held her out, a hand gripping her hair to hold her head in place. "Tongue out," he said. "Do it right."
The brothel keeper grinned. This time there was no problem, for Lincoln's hand at her sex was warning enough. She knew what his pinches were like.
"We better get to the beating," said the brothel keeper, wiping his lip where she had bitten him. "And boy had it better be good, this one's a right little spitfire!"
"It will be," said Lincoln grimly. "It surely will be. But first there's the circus stuff." He turned to the girl. "Right! Perform."
She moved to the very centre of the ring and bowed four times, turning as she did so, to a scatter of applause.
The dance routine she did next was acrobatic, not particularly intended to be erotic, but performed as it was by a captive girl, naked and knowing she was about to be beaten, erotic it most definitely was.
When she finished and repeated her four bows she was shining with sweat and her chest heaving, and this time the applause was quite loud.
"Good," said the brothel keeper, "I'll keep something like that in the shows. Now we beat her?"
"No," said Lincoln. "There's more circus stuff, man. In my truck I gotta case of gear I had made special." He turned to the brothel owner. "It was going to be extra after I'd sold her, but I guess I gotta throw it in now you'll see it." He chuckled. "It'll put her price up though, I reckon."
He turned back to the audience.
"Someone hold the bitch while I go get it."
"Be a pleasure," said the brothel keeper. As Lincoln dropped her in a heap at his feet, the other man picked her up by the hair and a hand at her crotch. "Maybe I'll even get a kiss!"
The crowd gathered round him as Lincoln pushed his way through, and soon they were cheering.
When Lincoln returned a few minutes later the ring was restored and soon the girl was posed in the middle of it, under the lights, on tiptoe with her hands clasped on top of her head, elbows right back as before, eyes open this time and fixed on Lincoln.
She was still crying and her lips were bruised.
"Before the beating," said Lincoln, "there will be some more circus stuff."
There was some applause.
"I must prepare her for the cat act."
Whistles at that.
He opened his case, and took out a cloth and some oil.
"Someone rub her down."
Once again it was the brothel keeper, who obviously considered himself part owner already. And he took great delight in doing it thoroughly. Although she was trembling quite noticeably and shrinking from his touch, she held her erotic pose as he oiled her all over, paying special attention to her most sensitive areas, till her skin was gleaming beautifully in the bright glare of the hot lights Lincoln clapped his hands twice and the girl immediately bent gracefully forwards and clasped both her ankles with her small hands, keeping her knees stiff and still on tiptoe with her legs wide apart.
There were gasps of admiration all round, and a burst of applause.
The brothel keeper was quick to respond. He held out his hand and Lincoln passed a large plug over.
"Up the arse?"
Lincoln nodded.
"What, this? The end looks mighty thick to me. She ain't all that big."
"Oh, it'll go in alright," said Lincoln. "Be sure to get it all the way, mind, or it may work loose."
The man chuckled. "Leave it to me, squire! Well up it shall be!"
"One moment," said Lincoln. He produced a bottle and sprinkled some powder over it. "Ginger," he said. "Usually wakes her up good!"
The brothel keeper walked over to the bent over girl and circled round her a couple of times. Her apprehension was evident from the way she stiffened up at his approach. Then he parted her bum cheeks and held the end of the plug against her arsehole, causing her to go rigid.
He laughed and withdrew it, slapping her bum instead.
"Wait for it, my pretty!"
Next time he actually pushed it in a little way, and the girl let out a gasp. It was obvious to them all that it was hurting as he pushed it in a little way and drew it out again several times, before suddenly and violently shoving it right in and screwing it around until he was satisfied it was well and truly settled.
Then he gave her another slap to the bum and returned to Lincoln.
"How's that?"
"Not bad."
It was an understatement. She was squirming beautifully, and some of the Drivers began to clap.
Lincoln dipped into his box again.
"Girth!"
He passed over some more leather work and a large dildo.
"What's the dildo for?"
"I like to plug her both ways. I think maybe it improves her posture a bit. With a bit of this" - he held up the bottle of ginger and sprinkled the dildo with it liberally - "it certainly makes her move more!"
"My God!" said the brothel keeper, studying the dildo.
"Maybe I just got into the habit. Don't matter really, not if it bothers you."
"Well, it's got these little knobs all over it."
"Yes. I use it for punishment other times."
The brothel keeper could hardly restrain himself.
"But isn't it too big for her?"
"Not if you can get it in!"
"If you can, I can."
Although the girl maintained her position reasonably well, getting it in did prove quite a problem, but the brothel keeper persevered. Anything Lincoln could do, he could do! He got it most of the way in, anyway. It didn't half make her squirm. that was for sure.
The main part of the girth was a broad belt which went round her waist. But the interesting bit was a thin strip of leather that dangled down in front. For part of its length it was split into two. He soon saw what it was for - it joined together in a buckle at the end.
He pulled it down between her legs and up the back, where they buckled to the back of the belt.
As he strained to tighten it the others joined in a chant.
"Tighter! Tighter! Tighter!"
It was forcing the dildo in even further, but the split was exactly over the rear plug, it parted into two strands there, like a river round a small rock to allow the arse plug to stand proud.
Again he put a knee in her back and really strained.
He felt the dildo plunge in right to the hilt and the strap would tighten no further. He was glad to see that it was so thin that it would not get in the way of the beating she was to receive.
It pushed out the bottom cheeks in invitation for the strap.
Or a belt.
Or a whip, or whatever...
She looked really good now, standing there on tiptoe again but wriggling all the time because of the plug up her arse and the dildo in her cunt. Walking with that dildo in would be agony, she wouldn't get far with that in. Maybe he'd use it as a restraint.
Maybe Lincoln wasn't as dumb as he looked! He was still rummaging in his box.
"Tail!" he shouted.
What he held up was a tiger tail.
"It screws into the arse plug," he said to the brothel keeper, as he handed it over.
The brothel keeper walked over to the girl, and without waiting to be told she bent over again, feet wide apart, and clasped her ankles.
The brothel keeper turned to Lincoln. "Feels more like a whip than a tail," he said, pretending to be puzzled.
"It's both," said Lincoln. "Don't matter which order you take things in. Me, I'd rather use it as a tail first."
"OK," said the brothel keeper. He was stroking the girl's bottom with the tail, or whip, admiring the way she shrank from it. She must know what it was like as a whip, he thought. There was stiff wire through it. It probably hurt quite badly, but would leave no mark because of the fur covering. He only tried it out a couple of times, and it certainly did make her jump.
He screwed it in as a tail.
"I'll enjoy taking this off!" he hissed in her ear. She may not have understood his words, but judging by the shudder that went right through her, she got the idea alright "Mask," said Lincoln.
It was a half-mask, with splendid whiskers. The brothel keeper fitted it over her face. It made quite a reasonable big cat out of her.
"Now what?" asked the brothel keeper.
Lincoln clapped his hands and the catgirl went down on her knees, hands held before her like paws. "Before she jumps through hoops and all that jazz," said Lincoln, "how about you say, 'anyone wanna be sucked off by a cat?'"
"What's the order?"
"No order necessary. Just point to someone. Like this." Lincoln pointed to the brothel keepers crotch and the girl scuffled over to him on her knees and began undoing his fly. Then, in front of them all, she sucked him off.
"Great!" he said when he got his breath back. "She's the greatest!" Then he realised he shouldn't have said that. The price was going up and he was one great fool - but, he had to admit, a very happy one.
"So," he said, calming down a little, "she jumps through hoops?"
"Sure!"
Lincoln gestured her to her feet, and she went back to her tiptoe position, legs wide apart and hands stretched up over her head, only now the bottom half of her was squirming and writhing all over the place.
He took some hoops out of the box and distributed them among the Drivers.
"Make a circuit, lads."
On his command, she went through them using her arms like front legs, really graceful. They could all see how her circus training allowed her to roll over and get back on her feet if she fell awkwardly.
"Anyone got a can of petrol?"
Soon Lincoln had her ready for another round, but the last hoop was blazing.
She went round the others as before, but balked at the flaming one and stood before it, chest heaving, loins squirming, sweating and in distress.
"She's dead scared of fire," said Lincoln. "I think maybe someone burned her sometime."
"So what do we do about that?"
"Nothing. No way she'll go through. I'm just showing you. You tell everyone you gotta flog her for it later."
"And I would!" said the brothel keeper. "Bet I can make her go through it."
"Do what you like after you buy her," said Lincoln. "And now let's have the races."
"Races?"
"Sure. We race her. Sure to be popular, specially with betting."
He was fiddling with his box again.
"Harness." He held out some leather straps with rings in them.
"How do they go?" The brothel keeper was puzzled but excited. His piggy eyes gleamed with cruel anticipation.
"Arms up behind her back."
Lincoln clapped his hands again and the girl straightened up gracefully and stood on tiptoes, legs apart as before, but this time with her arms behind her back, each elbow clasped firmly in the opposite hand. It straightened her up even better than before, thrusting out those shapely breasts that were in dispute, and now she held her head high, almost arrogantly. Although it was obvious that she was actually deeply ashamed at what was happening to her, perhaps she had decided that to go along with it was the only option.
"These will improve her stance even more, even if they don't make her stand still," said Lincoln proudly. "They hold the arms as they are, these go round just above the elbows to hold them in more and push her out more in front. Then you just tighten the first lot and she's held good."
"Wow!" said the brothel keeper. "I like it! I like it!"
He went over to her eagerly, and put the straps on the ground beside her to sort them out, whilst the spectators looked on in avid fascination.
The first two straps merely held her arms in the position she had already taken up, but she winced as he tightened them.
It was the other that made the difference!
He looped it round the outside of her arms just above each elbow and pulled, pulled it tighter and tighter with his knee in the small of her back. Now she was really hurting as her shoulders came back and her front pushed out.
When he stood back to admire her she was bent backwards like a taut bow, her arse and tits sticking out gloriously. She had already had a very upright stance, her back normally straight to hold the head proudly up, and now she looked really gorgeous.
There was a spontaneous burst of clapping and a few cheers as the brothel keeper stepped forward again and took a kiss before leaving her alone in the ring.
She was still on tiptoe! Lincoln knew she would hold that until he told her otherwise. She better had, he thought grimly. The fucking bitch had been disobedient enough already. Lincoln valued his reputation as a hard man with obedient goods to sell.
He took the next item out of his bag and held it up for all to see.
"Bit!"
They all saw that the girl flinched at the word. But she held her pose and opened her mouth wide.
The brothel keeper took it over to her. It seemed to be designed to be as uncomfortable as possible, and that pleased him. It had rings on each end, and strapped round her head. When it was in place her mouth was held open just widely enough to become increasingly agonising after a while without spoiling her looks.
Her tongue was available. It made taking another kiss very easy.
She was coming along well, he thought. He was only uneasy at the unwelcome thought that the price for her would still be going up! Higher and higher. Maybe he should never have got into this, but there was no denying that he was finding it a real turn-on to have such a beautiful creature so totally at his mercy - not that he intended to show any. He never did. It was not his style, cruelty was. He could hardly wait to have her at his place, to do a few things to her that Lincoln would never have thought of. He considered Lincoln a bit of a dullard. Yes, a real thickhead, was Lincoln. But he had done alright with this specimen, he had to admit that. Fortunately he would be able to get her for far less than she would be worth to him. Oh yes, whatever the price he would score with the shows.
Next Lincoln took a multi-coloured plume out of the bag. "Have to change tails," he said, clapping his hands again.
The girl bent forward till her head was below her knees, wincing as the straps tightened even further. Lincoln screwed out the tiger tail and brushed the tip of it over her tense bottom, so beautifully displayed.
"She expects six or more with this whenever I take it out," he said. "But as this is a special do, I suggest you line up and give her one each."
"Make it two," someone shouted, amidst laughter and jostling.
"OK, two it is. Hard as you like, lads. This one is trained to take a lot, believe me."
They did believe him. They knew his reputation.
"What if we exceed our quota?"
"What?"
"What if we hit her more than twice?"
Lincoln smiled. "Damn all I can do 'bout that!"
It was quite a while before the little ceremony was completed. The girl stood there on tiptoes, her chest heaving, her bottom glowing, her eyes wet.
"Now," said Lincoln, "I've taught her to make like a horse."
"What?"
"Listen."
Lincoln clapped his hands, and the girl raised her head and whinnied and pawed the ground. She really did sound like a horse. Probably it was the only sound she could make while she had the bit in. The brothel keeper was thrilled. And he was wondering how badly her jaws were aching already. Quite a lot, he fancied, it would soon be real agony. Two shows a night? He would leave the bit in place between them. Only a couple of hours, but it would give him a hard on just knowing about it.
My God, he'd have some real fun with this one!
Maybe he'd tell her to neigh when she couldn't take any more but would rather have one of his very special beatings instead. Then he'd come and look at her and laugh and shake his head...
What further delights might there be in store?
"Straps!" said Lincoln.
It didn't take the brothel keeper long to figure that one out. Only one set of straps were necessary. They ran from the outer ends of the bit to the girth belt at centre back, and held the head up nicely.
My God she looked a treat now!
"Shoes!" said Lincoln.
They were high heeled shoes with fur round to make them look like horse's feet. The catch was, they were high heeled without any heels. And, the brothel keeper discovered as he put his hand inside, spiked inside. Great! There was no way she could put her feet down properly wearing these.
He went over and fitted them, holding up one foot at a time as she struggled to hold her balance.
Then she was ready!
"What now?" he asked. "Do we beat her now?"
"Oh no," said Lincoln. "We parade her!"
"And then we beat her."
"And then we race her!"
"Of course! And then we beat her?"
Lincoln just smiled. His smile was enigmatic, giving nothing away.
He just clapped his hands.
The pony started to walk round the ring. The ring was so small that everyone could touch her as she passed them. Her posture was immaculate, upright, head up, feet raised like a real horse.
The brothel keeper was amazed that she could be made to walk done up like that. Just by a clap of the hands! The dildo alone would be hurting like hell. He nearly ejaculated in his pants at the thought of it.
Lincoln clapped his hands again.
The pony broke into a trot, knees right up to her midriff. Her face shone with sweat and tears poured from her eyes as she trotted round and round.
The applause was deafening but Lincoln wasn't finished yet.
He clapped his hands again.
Now the pony was running, running hard, running her heart out.
They watched in awed silence as she ran round and round the little circle.
Lincoln had his watch out.
"Five minutes," he said.
But after four and a half she staggered and fell, collapsing in a heap on the sawdust.
He went over and slashed down with his riding crop. "She's let me down again," he complained. "She'll have to suffer for that, or you'll have no authority over her."
"Right! I understand."
"And now," said Lincoln to the men gathered round, "we need a ten minute break for refreshments. Leave the pony alone, if you don't mind -" a couple of men stepped back from her - "or she'll be no good for racing."
"And we haven't had the beating yet," came a voice.
"Exactly," said Lincoln. "So fucking well leave her alone, then."
He strode off towards the little bar that had been erected near the main doors. The brothel keeper went with him. A few men stayed with the pony. It was a bit much to expect otherwise.
"How can we set up a steeplechase?" wondered Lincoln, lifting a foaming glass to his fleshy lips.
"A steeplechase?"
"Yeah. A steeplechase. Do you have to be a parrot? A place she can run and jump things."
"Boxes, maybe?"
"Sure, boxes'll do fine."
"I'll see to it."
"Right. Make a fairly difficult course. The betting will be how many jumps she makes before she falls."
By the time Lincoln had finished a couple of drinks the brothel keeper had arranged a course of ten jumps round the walls of the shed. Some bunting had been found and music was to hand, and one of the Drivers was taking the bets.
"What if she completes the course?" asked Lincoln.
"Jackpot!" said the man. "If that's what you bet on. Everyone puts in a tenner and says how many, one to ten, and the pool goes to everyone who has guessed right. Nobody's said over eight so far."
"I'll go for broke," said Lincoln, putting down his tenner. He'd score well if he won, and he thought he knew how to fix that.
He went back to where the girl lay writhing beneath the weight of several Drivers, and pulled them off with a curse. As he stood her at the start he whispered, "You go all the way, or else! I've bet on you finishing the course."
He stood a few yards from her with a long whip in his hands.
"First race - all bets done, lads?"
Nothing but nods and a few calls of 'get on with it'.
"This whip sets her going, OK?"
There was no dissent.
The whip cracked with a flourish and she jumped in the air and was off. Her run was awkward with her hands secured up behind her back, but she was a natural athlete, circus trained, and looked reasonably graceful as well as incredibly erotic.
It was not until the fifth jump that she failed to clear it and fell crashing to the ground, rolling over and over and ending up in an untidy sprawling heap, arse up.
Lincoln was above her cringing figure in a flash, wielding a riding crop without mercy as she writhed about on the floor.
"Goddam it, bitch! Bloody Hell! I told you finish the fucking course!"
His temper was really gone. He continued to lay into her helpless figure until the brothel keeper hauled him off.
"Steady man. There's another race. And don't spoil her for the beating."
At last he calmed down. "Sorry, place your bets for the next race. It starts in ten minutes."
The betting was more on lower numbers this time. Nobody thought she'd do as well a second time. But Lincoln went for a perfect round again, as he told the girl as he prepared her for the start.
"Don't you dare let me down again," he snarled. "Don't you fucking dare or there'll soon be no skin on that pretty little arsehole of yours!"
He picked up the long whip again. It was knotted at the end.
"All done?"
Again there was nothing but a chorus of assent.
"Ready -"
The girl stood trembling, her eyes on the whip.
"Go!"
She was off like a flash but there was no way of avoiding the whip. He let her go a few yards before he cracked it on her, and she stumbled for a few paces but just managed to recover.
Nearly blew my bet there, he thought.
As it happened it didn't matter. She crashed at the eighth, but it was because someone had tripped her.
"No bets on that," shouted the bookie. "Null race."
"OK," said Lincoln. "Rerun."
He went to the girl and picked her up by the hair. "See you get right round this time, or else!"
Lincoln's 'or else' was famous.
This time he started her with the whip and ran after her with it, cracking her several times as hard as he could to liven her up.
And this time she made it, to grudging applause.
"OK!" said Lincoln. "Now for the obstacle race. Any ideas?"
"Me!" came a voice, followed by laughter.
"OK," said Lincoln. "She has to get through a group of four of you. What else?"
"I've got a big net over my load," one Driver volunteered. "We could fix that down with weights for her to wriggle under."
"And I've got some barrels," said another. "We could knock the bottoms out and hang them up."
"That should be enough," said Lincoln. "Plus we'll tie her legs together, eh? We'll set the course the length of the building, and bets will be on how long she takes, to the nearest minute, OK?
The course only took half an hour to set, and soon they were ready for the off, all bets taken. The girl's legs were bound together above the knees and at the ankles and she was set against the wall at one end, facing the one at the other.
"We can all encourage her along the way," said Lincoln, "so have your belts out. Isn't that barrel a bit small?"
The man who had contributed the barrels shrugged "There's only four without that one. She's not that big. She might make it. And I've hung it last."
"Fair enough," said Lincoln. "All bets made? Ready for the off? Ready, get set, GO!"
She didn't move.
"Say it in Chinese," someone jeered.
Lincoln gave her a push towards the four who waited, the first obstacle. They proved quite an effective one, and she took a great deal of bucking and wriggling to get through.
Then, instead of going under the net, she started running over it and had to be brought back and pushed under. She was soon wriggling along, assisted by many none too gentle blows with the belts. Her progress was definitely encouraged by them, but also severely impeded by her harness, which kept getting snagged.
"Five minutes," called out the timekeeper.
That caused those who had bet on a quick time to encourage her all the more, whilst a few who had estimated longer put their boots on the netting to slow her down.
At last she emerged at the other end.
"Ten minutes!"
One of the Drivers who had bet on twelve picked her up and shoved her head first into the first barrel, then started thrashing her exposed bottom with his belt. Her legs waved wildly in the air as she wriggled her way frantically into the barrel, but getting through was far from easy.
At last she fell out at the front, only to be pushed into barrel two.
"Twelve."
Another Driver took over. There were few bets on so long a race and he had high hopes at sixteen minutes, and he had her through the next two and into the last one to the count of fourteen and the cheers of the other Drivers.
By hard lashing with his belt he got her well and truly into that last barrel, but there she stuck, head out at the front, arse and waving legs at the back.
She was frantic as he lashed her harder and harder, but there was no way she could progress any further, even when others joined in the assault on her bottom.
"Hold it," shouted Lincoln after another few minutes. "Hold it, lads, or she'll be no good for the beating. Time for another break. Just leave her alone, will you! I declare the race unfinished, all bets off."
"So what now?" asked the brothel keeper.
"So now we beat her," said Lincoln.
The brothel keeper licked his lips. She was still swinging in the barrel as one or two of the Drivers took the chance to explore her wriggling behind. "Artistically, eh? I'm looking forward to that."
"Well, you can stop then," said Lincoln. "I don't give a shit for artistic. A beating is a beating is a beating, right? Specially when I do it! A flogging is a flogging. If you advertise it as an artistic beating twice nightly, or whatever, with matinees for all I care, you have to make up your own artistic."
"Well OK," said the brothel keeper. "Maybe I got an idea or two at that."
"But for now," said Lincoln, "we just beat the shit out of her, right lads?"
"Right!" came back the shouts.
"And it ain't for nothing after all, she let me down bad and I don't stand for that... get the frame off my rig, some of you. And get her out of that fucking barrel."
They had to pull her out backwards, there was no way she could ever have got through or out at all by herself.
He clapped his hands and she took up her position in the centre of the ring again, on tiptoes because of the heelless high-heeled shoes that were spiked inside, feet wide apart as she had been taught, arms still strapped tightly together at the elbows behind her back, jaws parted a little by the bit and head held up by the reins from the bit to the elbow straps, breasts and bottom pushed out tight as a bow, still squirming from the ginger on the dildo and plug held in place by the tight leather strap between her legs.
She stood there watching, trembling visibly as they slowly assembled the frame in front of her terrified eyes, making rude gestures towards her as they did so, telling her what it was for, as if she didn't know.
Little whimpers came from between her parted teeth. She had beautiful teeth, small, white and even. Like two rows of pearls, Lincoln thought, with a pink tongue tip just showing like an invitation between them, though he would never say such a thing out loud in a thousand years. Not in this company!
"Come on," said Lincoln. "I may may not know how to beat a woman artistically, but I bet I can string her up real pretty!"
The frame itself was plain enough, just a rectangle of plain wood standing on a rough wooden base, but it had hooks screwed into it in various places.
"Do we take her harness off first?" someone asked. "That bit must be really aching by now, and see how she wriggles."
"Well, what's wrong with that?" asked Lincoln.
"Stops a guy concentrating! Distracting see?"
There were jeers at that.
"She's great as she is," said the brothel keeper. "That's how I'll do it!"
"If you come to a decent price," said Lincoln. But there was little doubt about that now, and both men knew it.
The girl must know it too. The horror in her almond eyes whenever they fell on the brothel keeper did not suggest that she looked forward to his twice-nightly shows. But at that moment she was more concerned with her immediate plight as the argument went on.
The general opinion seemed to be that it would be better to leave her as she was, squirming and bitted and arms secured behind her back, and that was how it was decided in the end.
The brothel keeper held her up in the frame, both hands at her crotch, whilst Lincoln passed a rope from a hook in the cross beam under one armpit, behind her back, and out behind the other armpit, before tying it off to another cross beam hook.
Now she dangled in the air, angled slightly forward, head held up by the reins from the bit to the harness, but bottom pushed out behind so that her continued squirming was even more pronounced.
Lincoln tied a long thin rope to the cross-beam. It dangled down in front of her face and reached the floor. Only Lincoln and the girl knew what it was for. You could tell that by the way she shrank from it and Lincoln smiled his most evil smile.
"Do we fasten her legs?" wondered Lincoln.
"Let's give her a few like that," suggested the brothel keeper. "Then fasten them to the bottom corners for the upper cut."
Lincoln nodded.
"Good thinking! That's when we take the dildoes out. And this is where you have a break to let people spend money at the bar... OK, take ten minutes. And don't handle the goods."
But the chance to handle the hanging girl was too much. The thought that she was about to be beaten made touching her flesh irresistible.
"You can charge for that!" laughed Lincoln, as he reached for another can of beer. "Fiver a feel, eh? Can't be bad!"
"Be better without the dildoes, maybe?"
"Maybe so. They could dip their fingers in ginger."
"Or push pieces up... let's try it."
It was a successful innovation. By the end of the ten minutes, which ended up more like twenty, she was squirming and wriggling better than ever, and also totally exposed. Strange little noises were coming from behind the bit, and bubbles as well.
"Line up, gents," said Lincoln. "Belts or straps or whatever at the ready, please. She'll be well presented in a minute."
He stood behind her, reached between her legs, and grasped the strong thin rope that dangled down between her breasts. Then he moved back six feet and began to raise it up...
Chapter 13
A loud bell rang, signalling the start of the sale, and Peter joined the ranks of men filing into the arena, leaving Lincoln and the brothel owner haggling over a price.
Rows of benches circled a straw strewn ring and an auctioneer stood behind a desk at the top of the circle.
"Right then, gentlemen!" he cried. "You've had your chance to look over this year's stock, it's time for the sale. No cheques, credit cards or promises. Cash only at the desk outside, payable through the teller." He looked about the congregation and waited a few moments for those still perusing potential buys. Satisfied all who wanted in were there, he started the sale.
"Here we go then. Lot number one."
As he said that, a boy wearing a white coat entered the ring, holding a lead in one hand and a riding crop in the other. At the other end of the lead was a girl in her mid twenties. She was naked and her long jet black hair was tied in a tight pony tail that came half way down her back, and between her legs was a recently groomed black pubic thatch.
The lad tapped her bottom lightly with the whip as he led the girl about the ring ensuring that she raised her legs high and all the buyers had a chance to take a good look at her. The bidding began and increased quite rapidly as the punters decided lot number one was a fine specimen, despite the fact that her history revealed she was not a first time ride.
She was a private sale from a rich landowner in Norfolk who kept the girl for his two sons. Both had broken their virginity on her and she was used for their tuition and the father's amusement. Once his boys had left the family pile he had decided to bring in new stock, preferring now to have something blonde in the stable.
By the time the bidding stopped her value had soared to well over two grand and she was on her way North to a hunting lodge in Sutherland where rich merchant bankers needed some diversion when not out blasting grouse on the heather. It must have been the pulled back hair that appealed, Peter considered, because she certainly looked the outdoor, horse riding type. Not that she was going to do much riding, being rode definitely, but only in front of a roaring Scottish log fire.
Three more girls went under the hammer and then Lincoln's young Chinese girl was brought into the ring. Evidently the sale had not gone through outside the ring.
"Right then!" called the master of ceremonies. "A nice Oriental thoroughbred here. One careful owner and as you can see, quite spirited." He turned to the lad. "Run her around," he told him. "A touch of the whip, I think. Let the gentlemen see what a sporty little thing she is."
The boy began to trot around the circle but suddenly the girl lost control of herself and began pulling at her tether.
"Keep control there!" called the auctioneer. "Let's have no dissent."
The boy brought his crop firmly across the girl's bottom making her jump instantly from the whip, the pain taking her mind away from thoughts of escape.
"That's the way lad," said the auctioneer. Then he turned to the arena and praised his young handler.
"A good boy there gents, knows how to handle the stock. See, I told you she was spirited. Make her trot, lad, legs up, head back, good, good..."
The man who'd been arguing with Lincoln stepped straight up with a large offer, but presumably not as much as Lincoln hoped to get. Once more money was banded about like it was going out of fashion, and in the end he secured her. Twice-nightly, thought Peter. An artistic flogging show twice nightly? What a life, if the man really meant it.
As substantial as her price was, though, in comparison to the sum paid for the pair of flame haired Irish girls it was paltry. Peter was almost unable to see the bidders until he noticed two men making slight gestures with their hands while speaking into mobile phones. When one of them finally dropped out, the pair were bought for thirty five thousand and sent straight out for ringing and shipping down to London.
Ringing was done in a small enclosure a short distance away from the sale area. Not all the girls were done, only those where the buyers had requested it of the vet. The Chinese girl was ringed through both nipples and inner and outer labia, and her shrieks made Peter think that he enjoyed hurting her. Perhaps he had been turned on by Lincoln's little show, because the Irish girls were subdued and silent as they suffered the same fate, performed with a sterile cattle punch. Silver hoops were then fed through the lips of each girl, and again it was the Chinese girl who howled out.
By the end of the night the sheik had bought eight girls and each was pierced in the same fashion. The girls were then lined up one behind the other and a silver chain ran between their legs connecting up one to the one either side. Peter was fascinated by the manner the men went about it, watching the young lad take across women to be done as if he were taking cows to be branded. When a queue built up after several requests one after the other, he simply hitched them up to a post where another lad took each in turn to see the vet.
Mesmerised, Peter remained until the final female was sold, a plump middle aged woman who was bought by a German property developer to take back to Cologne where she would be rented out to the building workers on one of his sites.
As the men began to drift away, Peter was glad Dan had not made an appearance during the evening.
Neither had Susan!
He made his way out into the field, expecting to see nothing but darkness, only to find part of the fair in full swing, apparently for Drivers only. Although many of the ones at the sale had either left or were about to leave, some remained behind and were making their way to the various rides.
Bitterly disappointed at not finding Susan after all the risks he had taken, Peter slumped into the first empty seat that came around. It was on the ghost train and he found himself travelling alone along clanking rails towards double doors that opened only when the front of the car crashed into them. His eyes closed in reflex action at the sudden impact and noise, then opened into a world of strange light, of fluorescent greens and reds, throwing shadows of grotesque figures upon uneven walls.
The car travelled deeper and in the unearthly glow Peter caught the definite movement of one of the figures. He studied hard and to his horror realised the shape was that of a woman bound to a Catherine wheel which was spinning slowly over the simulated glow of amber coals. Then he realised the whole horror show writhed and seethed with naked females strapped and bound in some nightmarish tableau of ancient tales of terror.
To his left a pitiful young girl pleaded for release from her gibbeted suspension inside an iron maiden, her arms reaching out for his help. To the right, Poe's pendulum swung in ever lowering arcs towards the exposed abdomen and thighs of another semi-clad girl. Before he could see how low the blade would travel the car turned a corner to confront him with a sight inspired by the infamous witchfinder general himself, Matthew Hopkins.
One woman lay bound, taut and stretched on the wrack, her naked body red from the heat of her straining limbs. Another sat strapped to a ducking stool which bobbed her up and down to recorded sounds of cheers and raucous laughter, while a third was spread-eagled and hanged from the ceiling by strong ropes. Three wax figures appeared to be intimately searching her body, seeking out the tell tale blemish, the devil's mark that would seal her fate.
The entire display portrayed the witch trials of Cromwell's England, and while dummies were used for the men, the women were flesh and blood, brought in to replace the wax figures used during the day for the unsuspecting tourists and townsfolk of Wettle.
Many a witch had been burned alive in those days, but there was even greater cruelty abroad tonight he thought. The Chinese girl would have no death to look forward to after each day's torment.
Another crash signalled the exit doors and a queue of men waiting to enjoy the ghost train and its dubious pleasures. Peter knew attempting any kind of rescue would be pointless, he was one man against dozens and any action would simply lead to his sudden and painful demise.
Peter stumbled away from the ride and took a moment to rest against the side of a caravan. He was there for just a moment when he saw several men on the merry go round. At first glance they appeared to be enjoying themselves in the traditional manner until Peter realised that the horses were not going up and down at all. What was moving on each pole were women, tied there with wide leather straps, their legs either side of the horse so that they were forced to slide along the erect prick of the horse rider. One individual had actually turned his woman around so that she faced downwards with the obvious conclusion that his cock was now fucking her mouth.
The whole scene became too much for Peter to bear and he decided to leave Wettle and head for home. Hopefully he would have another chance for Susan at the passover the following week. The only problem with leaving, was that those who were going had gone and the others looked like they were here for the night.
If he headed for the gate now, he would look conspicuous. The only other option would be to make it to the edge of the field and work his way around, sticking to the side of the drainage ditch. He did that, finding the going difficult in the pitch darkness, stumbling often over the uneven ground. Before he had got even half way his clothes were both muddy and wet where the soft drainage banks had given way underfoot, sending him into the mire.
Going back in that state would look even more suspicious, so Peter opted to stay at the back of the various caravans and trailers. That would keep him far enough away from the revealing lights of the fair, yet within the dim glow of the few lights inside some of the vans.
He travelled from vehicle to vehicle embroiled in his thoughts, occasionally stopping to rest and contemplate the Wettle horse fair. Near one large van he noticed a door ajar and several people shuffling inside. Wondering what new shock this innocuous little village could offer, he crept closer, keeping to the shadows.
Inside a number of men were discussing the day's business, Peter recognising the broad Irish lilt of Michael, the man who sold the red haired sisters. Then came another Irish voice, this time a harsh, gravelly one.
"The best one in years," he croaked gruffly. "I've taken my cut."
Peter took a chance and peered in through the crack of the door, seeing the man behind the desk hand Michael a fat wad of notes.
"It's all there," said the man with the gruff voice.
Michael took it with a smile then dropped the bundle on the desk.
"Still," he said, counting the money. "Better safe than sorry."
The other man wasn't offended. He would have been surprised if the money hadn't been checked. Before he had confirmed all was there, another man stepped up for his money. It was Lincoln.
"A good sale tonight," said the one who was obviously the organiser of the sale. "You got a good price for her?"
Lincoln took the money and grunted. "I wanted to keep her a lot longer," he moaned, "but it wouldn't be safe."
Outside Peter strained to see who the others in the room were. He recognised Dan, grinning as usual, but couldn't make out the ones who stayed near the back of the room.
"Why's that, then?"
Lincoln stuffed his money into the pocket of his jeans and stabbed his thumb towards the corner of the room.
"Because her old bloody man was on to me!" he growled. "If I had my way, she'd be six foot under by now." He moved menacingly in the direction which he had aimed his anger, Peter following the action through the strip of light between door and jamb. Moving out of the shadows to block his path stepped a tall black man, his face split by a wide smile. Peter's heart skipped a beat.
It had to be Hell Raiser! Susan might be with him!
The atmosphere in the office had turned suddenly cold as the two men squared up for a confrontation.
"You ain't doing nothing to Groovy, unless I give the say so."
The black man loomed over Lincoln, intimidating him enough to force a back down, making him seethe with the humiliation. Pressing home his point, Hell Raiser reached back into the shadows and pulled out - Susan!
The last time Peter had seen her, she was a demure young lady in pleated skirt and blouse. Now she was wearing a black rubber cat suit with her breasts exposed and a silver nail studded collar. Her blonde bob hair style had been transformed into a shock of back combing, and her eyes were circled with black eye liner that matched the lip stick.
Hell Raiser pulled Susan in front of him.
"She's my bitch now," he sneered. "At least until next week's passover. If you want her back, bring me something better. Or I just might keep her again." He ran his huge black hands over Susans breasts, kneading them firmly. "The exchange better be good, 'cos no-one sucks cock better than Groovy. Ain't that so?"
Peter was almost sick as he watched his wife smile at her tormentor.
"I'm the best cock sucker on the circuit," she told him. "And I'm yours."
Peter leant heavily against the van, his chest pumping hard, his breathing fast.
What had they done to her? What could they have done to make his Susan say such a thing!
How could Peter possibly know about the sting of a hauliers strap, or the almost unbearable ache of joints bound together by the inner tubes from truck wheels. He had no way of knowing that on The Drivers circuit self preservation was the number one priority. All he felt was a sickening doubt. That he had been right all along, that his wife had tired of her older husband and had gone in search of adventure, finding it in the back of a Foden, or a DAF, or a Volvo, wherever a Driver existed to satisfy her needs.
Reluctantly he peered again into the room. An uneasy truce prevailed and the distribution of the money continued in a heavy silence. The person to break it was Dan. In an effort to relieve the strain he started up a conversation with Hell Raiser.
"Met a friend of yours tonight," he told him. "The new Driver you introduced. I had a drink with him in the Forge and brought him over."
The black man's look half said shut the fuck up, while the other half didn't have a clue what the hell Dan was on about.
"I haven't asked anyone into the group," he snarled, angry at the showdown and now this lie. Dan coughed out a nervous little laugh then turned to Jack who had kept a low profile at the back of the room.
"He knows you too, Jack. He said you told him about the job with Lincoln. He's been down there at Felix Ferries."
Jack shook his head. "What the fuck are you on about? I haven't told anyone anything."
Dan was frightened now, only too aware that it was dangerous to betray the organisation. He found himself stepping backwards towards the door as the group began closing in around him.
"You know him Lincoln!" Dan's voice was crackling and broken with nerves. "He pulled some trailers for you last week, an oldish bloke, well spoken."
Lincoln stepped forward, fully involved now.
"I know him! The bastard tried to run me off the road. That's why I had to dump the Chink tonight, I thought he was something to do with her. Colin reckons it's her old man."
He stabbed his thumb once more at Susan, and this time Jack entered the conversation.
"How old do you reckon he was?"
Dan gave it some thought. "Late forties, maybe fifties."
Jack ground his teeth and turned to Susan then back to the group.
"It's him!" he snarled.
A moment of silence fell and then, as if by some hidden signal, the whole group moved towards Dan, Lincoln in front.
"And you brought him here to the horse fair?" he said, almost with disbelief. "Some bloke tells you he's one of us and you believe him, just like that. You don't think he might be after something, trying to pry?"
Dan was backing towards the door. "But he knew your names!" he cried. "Yours, Jack's, the Hell Raiser."
"What about the passover?" Lincoln put in. "Did you tell him anything about that? Anything about Jimmy's, the date, the place?"
Dan held up his arms, seeing an opportunity to redeem himself.
"Of course I didn't," he lied.
But it was too late. Nothing could save him. The impact of a chromium spanner on the back of his head cleaved his skull in two, the gap in the bone sending blood in a scarlet crescent upon the wooden floor.
No one inside the room panicked, although outside Peter was unable to prevent a ball of vomit leaving his mouth. The Hell Raiser leant over Dan, searching his pockets as the dead man's legs kicked their last before his nerves finally died too. He pulled out the money Dan had made from the sale of his girl and threw it over to the man at the desk.
"Can you sort this out?" he asked, not expecting a negative reply.
The man folded the notes calmly into his wallet. "It looks," he said, "as if someone's going to take a swim from the ferry on the way home."
Chapter 14
There was little traffic on the road as Peter drove south towards the coast and his last chance of rescuing Susan.
This was Tuesday and Saturday would be The Drivers passover. Hell Raiser would give Susan to any Driver who brought him some other female in exchange. If that happened it could mean losing track of her for another month.
The other scenario was too unbearable to contemplate. If Lincoln managed to take another woman off the road and exchanged her for Susan, he might well carry out his threat to put her six foot under.
After fleeing the scene of Dan's murder at the fair Peter felt inadequate and humiliated, frightened too, frightened to the bone. He cringed at the memory, the way he had run and stumbled his way across the dark fields to the safety of his car and home. He had thought of telling the police but if they didn't really believe him and sent someone over to ask a few questions, it could only cause more trouble.
No, it was up to him.
But was he up to it?
He floored the accelerator in self disgust. When Saturday came he mustn't be found wanting again.
It looked very ominous from the outset.
The Chinese meal which had stained the pavement for so long had finally turned to dust and been blown away by the wind. In its place were several bottles of milk, a few minus their tops where thirsty tits had managed to break through the foil to get at the cream.
Peter rang the bell but heard no sound. When he lifted the iron knocker, he felt the shabby paint-peeled door move under his actions. He pushed it and called for Melanie. There was no reply. He called half way up the stairs, and again at the top, receiving the same answer. The remains of the door chimes lay in broken pieces on the worn nylon mat.
He made his way nervously across the small landing that led to the flat, aware of a faint buzzing sound coming from inside. The sound turned out to be flies that were feasting on the meal he and Melanie had eaten the night he'd left. The white cloth they had made love on now moved to the pulsating bodies of newborn maggots crawling everywhere. Peter waved away numerous bluebottles that landed on his skin.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it cowboy fashion around his face. The place was deserted. He passed into the bedroom and saw the sad remains of Barnie scattered about. He picked up the furry head and carried it across to the body impaled on the mirror. As he vainly tried to re-attach the two parts he caught a glimpse of someone standing in the doorway behind.
"What the Hell's going on here, mister?" The figure stepped further into the room. "The dirty cow never keeps the place clean, but this -" He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Melanie's torn underwear in shreds on the floor. Suddenly he realised something sinister had taken place and his anger was suddenly replaced with uncertainty.
When he spoke there was fear in his voice.
"Where's Melanie?"
Peter's voice was also strained. It was obvious to him how everything must look.
"I've no idea."
"I've come for the rent," the man said. "But who are you?"
It was no time to explain. Peter lunged for the door and his only way of escape, knocking over the other man who tried to block his path. Before he had a chance to recover Peter had fled from the building and was in his car and away.
He had been in town less than half an hour before finding himself back on the road and heading for home. Near Peterborough he found a quiet roadside cafe and stopped for a cup of tea and a bite to eat while collecting his thoughts and planning his next move. By the time he reached home the day would be gone and Saturday a day nearer.
He finished his tea, and resigned himself to the idea that Colin had tortured Melanie to get her to talk and then murdered her. He left his cup on the table next to the standard culinary issue of a transport stop, one red sauce, one brown and an empty salt-cellar.
It was Wednesday already.
The bedside alarm failed to waken the exhausted Peter, who slept in almost to midday. Unsteadily he found his way across the landing into the bathroom and took a long hard look at himself in the vanity mirror. He was not a pretty sight. Several days growth of beard cast a dirty shadow across his face and his eyes had that morning after look that usually accompanies a night of too much alcohol.
He scraped away the stubble and stepped in to a hot shower that did much to revive his flagging body. In his kitchen he made eggs on toast and sat at the breakfast counter to eat and watch the lunchtime news on TV. It was the same round of death, royalty and Mrs Miggins' cat up a tree for some light relief at the end. When it finally finished he switched channels to some children's programme that involved tiny creatures that lived on the moon, communicated by whistles, and got their food from a soup dragon who lived in a cave. Peter hit the off button and went back to his eggs.
On Thursday he went to beg help from Claire, Susan's sister Nothing doing.
Total disbelief.
A big flea in the ear from Jeff, her new lover.
His last plan lay in shreds.
Back home, waiting outside his house, he found the wagon he had asked to borrow from his friend Kevin. The keys, as they had agreed, were hidden in the exhaust. He took them inside and cleaned himself up.
He would take the wagon back in the morning. He wouldn't be needing it now.
It was Friday night.
Claire finished off her drink when the landlord called time, said goodbye to her friend, and left for the walk home.
It was a cold bright night and her way was well lit by a full moon. Passing Saint Bartholomew's cemetery she stepped up her pace. The old Victorian railings and the angelic statues beyond always gave her the shivers, but it was the shortest route home. Tonight, in the bright moonlight, the marble angels looked even more eerie as they cast their long shadows across broken headstones.
Once past the gates Claire was able to relax and slow down. Her breathing, though clearly visible in the chill night air as brief puffs of mist, returned to normal.
She turned into her road, relieved as always to be near home. A few yards from her garden she began the customary search for the door key and began rummaging through her handbag, finding it as she reached the gate. She started down the path, allowing the gate to swing shut behind her. The clang of the rusting iron hitting the gate-post masked the noise of leaves rustling in the bushes.
Almost at the door her eyes rested on the house number as she raised the key to the lock. For some reason the silver numbers became fuzzy and appeared to be floating away. They started spinning around each other and were suddenly joined by dozens of other numbers. Claire blinked hard, trying to impose some order on the wayward figures...
They responded by fading into blackness and Claire followed suit.
Peter Warburton's breath broke in short violent gasps as he struggled with the large parcel over his shoulder and the stubborn garage doors.
Finally, when the lock gave way, he managed to stagger inside, dumping the tarpaulin wrapped bundle on the ground before returning to lock the doors and switch on the light.
There were no windows to the garage, which remained empty apart for a few bits and pieces, a chest freezer and an old armchair Peter had intended to throw out years ago. He carried the bundle across to the chair and laid it across the arms, then he carefully pulled back the canvas to reveal his captive.
She was still unconscious from the chloroform soaked cloth he had held over her mouth. He was surprised at how little she had struggled, and how simple it had been to creep up behind her and take her off the street without a sound.
With trembling fingers he began undoing her blouse, each button exposing more succulent cleavage until finally she was clad only in her black lacy bra, the one she wore on her regular Friday nights out.
Next for removal were her white denims. Peter undid the button before slipping down the zip.
When he tried to pull the denims from her he found the heavy cotton jeans reluctant to oblige without firmly yanking them from side to side. Eventually he managed to get them down and threw them on the pile with her other clothes. That left Claire lying across the chair in only her bra and knickers. Both were quite intricate and daring, suitable for her night out.
Now he had her almost naked, Peter was struck by the resemblance she bore to Susan. They were a similar size and weight and he found himself wondering what lay beneath her flimsy lace underwear. He wiped away the sweat that seemed to be running freely down his forehead as his mind swirled at the consequence of what he had done.
It was wrong to have brought Claire here like this, but he could not go to the passover without a swop. The only thing that mattered to him was Susan's rescue, and surely Claire would forgive him if he achieved that.
He took up the bag of things he had bought during the day and emptied the contents on the floor. Among them was a heavily studded dog collar which he quickly buckled around Claire's neck. It made him feel very ruthless and he found the sleek appearance it gave her quite pleasing.
To add the other items he had bought Claire would obviously have to lose her underwear.
Among these were a set of leather cuffs, which Peter attached to Claire's wrists in case she should recover before he had finished her preparation. Despite having to lift her from the chair to reach her arm she remained dead to the world. Safe from the possibility of flailing finger nails, Peter leant over the sleeping woman and undid her bra, freeing the heavy tits which dropped sidewards.
It was the first time he had seen Claire topless, and he liked what he saw. He allowed himself a moment to caress the wonderful pink mounds, squeezing the flesh and rolling her nipples between finger and thumb.
Even as she slept the sensation of having her nipples stroked aroused her, the brown nubs quickly swelling at his touch. For a second or so Peter continued his actions, smiling and revelling in the feelings it was bringing him, until suddenly he realised what he was doing. It had not been his intention to touch Claire in a sexual way, only to use her to help Susan. What he was doing made him no better than The Drivers.
But now he had come this far, he simply had to see it through. He just had to control himself.
With a new resolve Peter hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Claire's panties and eased them down. When he came to her mons his eyes widened with surprise as her shaven pleat came into view.
How he loved a smooth cunt!
Susan had shaved for him once and was too embarrassed to do it again. Claire obviously did it as a matter of course, or perhaps that new boy friend insisted upon it. Maybe he even did it for her. Unable to help himself, Peter ran the palm of his hand between her legs, allowing his forefinger to push its way inside her sex lips. Although Claire's lips were large they were nowhere near the size of Susan's pronounced labia, which hung down some considerable length and with which Peter enjoyed playing so much.
He toyed with Claire for some time, noting the slight rasp on her mons that suggested whoever did the shaving hadn't done it for a day or two. Peter decided to get her into the rest of her gear and then he would take care of that particular matter.
He dressed her in a very tight black rubber waspie that pinched her waist and left her tits and thighs exposed. Then he drew up some black stockings, attaching them to the heavy suspenders of the corset, and finished her off with a pair of black leather boots that reached her knees, giving her some extra height due to the four inch heels.
Happy with her dress, he fetched a razor and soap and sat down to lather her quim.
The invigorating swirl of the shaving brush had the effect of rousing Claire from her sleep. She was aware of a dull ache behind her eyes and the faint taste of anaesthetic, but when she tried to lift her hands to her forehead they wouldn't move. Her last memory was of being in her garden and she had no idea how she had made it inside.
She lifted her head to speak, becoming confused at the sight of her body in a tight rubber waspie.
"Jeff," she whispered, thinking it was her lover. "What's going on?"
The blade glided across her mons, revealing her thick lipped smile in all its glory. She enjoyed the feeling, dropping her head back over the arm of the chair as it swept across her again. When she opened her eyes the next time the fluorescent strip light shouted out like a long white exclamation mark against the ceiling. There was no strip light in her house. She wasn't at home! Peter saw the realisation on her face and acted quickly by attaching a lead to the back of her collar and running it under the chair. When he put his foot on it at his side Claire was unable to move her head.
"Is it you, Peter?"
Peter answered with further sweeps of the blade.
"Don't struggle," he warned her. "I don't want to slip with this razor."
She remained perfectly still as he renewed the lather and continued his task. Each time he pulled her between thumb and finger or brushed her clitoris she shuddered. The very thought that this middle aged man had made love to her sister and now had her legs spread before him filled her with anger and disgust. As he finished, Peter wiped away some soap that had run between the cheeks of her bottom, making her humiliation grow as he took time around her anus.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her head still forced to face the ceiling. "I know we've never really liked each other, but this!"
Peter tied the end of the lead to the bottom of the chair then stood up so she could see his face. It was flushed red, with determination, with desire and with confusion.
"I was telling the truth yesterday, Claire," he pleaded. "All of it. All I want is Susan back and you're the last chance. You have to help."
"Listen to yourself," she grated. "What you sound like." She wanted to close her legs but if she did it meant hanging them over the chair and that lifted her head and pulled the collar tight around her neck. The only way she could keep it relatively loose was to lift her legs up onto the seat and that meant they flopped open. "You know you're getting yourself into deep trouble, Peter. Let me go now and we'll say no more about it."
Peter studied her almost naked body closely. He had brought her here, stripped her and shaved her cunt. His mind was reeling, his thoughts tumbling over in his head. He had been so sure she would see reason, help him rescue Susan. Seeing her tied to the chair, her tits and pussy on display, he wondered where it had all gone wrong. Why had this happened to him?
All he wanted was his boring, mundane life back.
"You've gone and lost it, Pete," she said. "Lost it all. Susan, and now after this, they're going to put you away."
"No," he replied. "Not when Susan tells them I'm right."
"Right!" Claire laughed. "You couldn't be right to save your life. You couldn't satisfy your wife, and you can't accept it when she finds someone who can. Because that's what's happened." Her voice had that spiteful venomous edge. She was trying to hurt him, damage his ego, and she knew how to do it. "She's probably with him now, in bed. Screwing each other stupid. He's got his thick cock up her, banging her good and hard, like you never could."
She paused for breath before continuing her tirade. "And what have you got? Denial and revenge. You're still on your own, still sleeping alone. She's got a proper man. What have you got? Nothing."
Peter walked to the side of the chair where the lead was tied. He undid the knot, pulled it tighter so that Claire's head was snapped back firmly, then re-attached it again. He leant over her, an angry red mist clouding his vision.
Between her thighs Claire felt the tell tale nudge of a penis seeking out her entrance, tapping its way along the inside of her legs before stopping at her slot.
"Don't do it Peter," she pleaded. "You can still put things right..."
The feel of his cock pushing apart her lips took away her breath.
"No," she cried. "No more."
Peter had stopped listening, stopped thinking, stopped caring. His engorged prick pushed its stubborn way along his sister-in-law's sheath, stopping only when his balls reached her bottom.
"You bastard," said Claire coldly. "You've done it now!"
Peter Warburton had finally gone over the edge.
Chapter 15
"Can't you just give me something to wrap around myself? I feel a bit exposed."
"Sorry, but no," said Peter. "I have to get used to the way The Drivers behave. You too." He connected a lead to the collar on Claire's neck then unlocked the buckles that held her against the garage wall. She had been there all night, until Peter came for her.
He led her through the door that connected the garage to the kitchen of the house.
"Breakfast," said Peter, taking her to the table where cereals and grapefruit were prepared ready.
"I'm not hungry."
Peter sat opposite. "Suit yourself, but I think you ought to eat something. It's going to be a long day." He poured them both coffee and started on his own food.
Claire took a drink from her cup and toyed with the cereal, lacking any real appetite.
"What now?" she asked.
"We've got a few hours to kill before we leave. I thought we could spend some time getting to know each other." He waited for her to finish breakfast and use the bathroom then took her through to the lounge where he fastened the cuffs about her wrists again and sat her in a large leather club chair near the fireplace.
"If only you could have seen what I have these last three months," he said. "I told the police. Twice. Told you. Told everyone I could. Nobody wanted to listen."
Claire sat in silence, occasionally trying to pull down the waspie to cover her depilated mons, hoping not to arouse him again. Peter smiled at her actions.
"Why bother?" he asked. "I've seen it all now. Seen you the way Susan's been seen. Stripped you just like she was stripped." He came across to stand in front of her, making it clear where his eyes were fixed.
"You know?" he said. "These last few months have been an eye opener for me, in more ways than one. I always respected the law." He shrugged his shoulders with a resigned air. "But I suppose I've never had anything to do with it until now. They let me down. They let them take Susan away from me, like she didn't matter. The Drivers can do that. They can do what they want, it's easy. Anyone can, I can. I took you. Look at you." He leant forward to fondle her breasts. "I've got you here. I can touch these whenever I want. Touch this, touch that."
She stiffened as his hands explored her thighs, searching fingers slipping into her most secret folds.
"Don't Peter," she whispered. "You've been under a lot of strain. Lets put all this behind us. Go to the police."
He continued his probing, rudely and arrogantly, then released a loud scornful laugh as he stood up to survey his capture.
"I told you. I already have. They let me down. You all did!"
He pulled Claire out of the chair and into the centre of the room and began circling about her, looking at her body, studying her intimately.
"You know?" he said quietly. "I've spent some time wondering what it must be like. To be a Driver I mean. To have all that power." He smoothed the back of his hand down the small of her back and on to her bottom. "To be able to take a woman when you want. When you are ready." He came around to face her, staring so intently into her eyes she felt compelled to look away.
Peter cupped her breasts and smiled.
"They're nice," he said. "Firm and heavy. And they are mine, and so is this." His hand dropped between her legs where he explored for a moment before turning his attention to her backside. "And this," he told her. "Oh yes, this too. Everything. Whenever, however I want it."
She twisted her bottom away from his hand and glared at him with such anger and hate.
"No-one owns me!" she cried. "No-one. So you can go fuck yourself. You're probably good at that. I bet that's all you're good at."
Peter wasn't angry or even bothered in the least at her outburst. He was in control. At last, after months of feeling helpless and at the mercy of fate, he was now the one in charge.
"Come with me," he said calmly, leading her back into the kitchen where he attached the lead to the handle of the oven door. It was the type of cooker that sat beneath the worktop so Claire was forced to bend forward a little. When she was secure Peter pulled himself up to sit on the Formica, his feet dangling against a cupboard.
"Did you suck Bob's cock?" he asked. Bob had been her husband.
Claire didn't answer.
"Did he like having his hard prick on your tongue. Having you lick and kiss it?"
Still silence. Peter reached across for a tea towel which he whipped across her bottom, making her clench her cheeks tight.
"I love it when your sister sucks me off. Flicking her wet tongue in my Japs eye, licking off that tiny ball of spunk that always leaks out. Did you do that for Bob?"
Claire gave the slightest nod of her head.
"Sorry?" said Peter. "Was that a yes?"
Claire tried to twist her head to look at him but the collar was too tight, forcing her to face the floor.
"Yes," she whispered.
Again Peter flicked the tea towel across her bottom. "And what about the new gorilla? What's his name, Jeff? Do you suck him off as well?"
"Mind your own fucking business," she growled.
Peter whipped her again with the tea towel. A gift from Scotland it said, showing a map of the country and places of interest. He flicked the corner of the towel sharply into places of Claire's interest, forcing her to jump as the tip of the material nipped between her sex lips.
"I'm making it my business," he said. "I'm making everything about you my business, and I want to know. Do you suck the monkey boy's prick?"
She nodded, clearly this time.
"And does he come in your mouth?"
Again she nodded her head.
"And do you drink it?"
"Yes." Peter jumped down from the work surface and removed his trousers. "That's good," he told her. "Because I wouldn't want any of my spunk going to waste." He rubbed his semi hard cock softly in the valley of her bottom, the tender sensations soon swelling his member to its full, fat, erect condition. He jumped up on the work top and presented his prick to her mouth, but she refused him entry.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "You know what it is. It's been up you once already."
Claire remained tight lipped, even when Peter took hold of his cock and slapped it firmly against her mouth.
"If you don't open wide I'm going to have to bring in the strap," he warned her. "Now be a good girl and pop it inside."
She shook her head, making clear her intentions. At the sight of her refusal Peter lifted his leg over her head, climbed down and left the kitchen. On his return he was carrying a hauliers strap, left by Kevin, after Peter had asked to borrow one with the wagon. He laid the canvas strap in front of her.
"I knew a girl who said that one whack from this and you'd fuck the Household cavalry." He pulled it away and stepped behind the tethered woman. "It's time to see if she was telling the truth, and just in case she wasn't, I'll give you five."
The first stroke landed squarely across both cheeks of Claire's bottom, halving the pain, or doubling it. Only she knew the answer. The second brought a thick weal just above her stocking tops after the first had made her jump almost clear of her stiletto boots. Unable to stand the pain any longer Claire slumped to her knees, bringing her bottom to rest upon the back of her black leather covered calves.
It didn't prevent Peter from administering strokes three and four. He simply placed one on each of her thighs leaving the girl's rear end nowhere to hide from the vicious lick of the cotton canvas. Taking hold of her handcuffed hands behind her back he next pulled the sobbing creature to her feet and brought the final stroke in a great circular arc between her thighs so that it smacked belly and naked quim in one almighty slap that launched her squealing into the air.
"That's five," he panted, jumping back onto the worktop. "There's always another five, or fifty or five hundred." With his hand he shook his cock near to her face then spoke again. "It all depends on how many you think you can take?"
She lifted her head, bringing her moist mouth slowly and ever so reluctantly to the tip of his glans.
"I see," said Peter as her lips parted and his swollen cock slipped inside the wet recess above her tongue. "That's a good girl. Just like your sister, up and down." His head swayed as the pleasure lapped at his body. In the mirror on the other wall he watched Claire's head bobbing on his prick, her bottom still rocking back and forth as if the breeze it generated could possibly cool the heat rendered by the flailing strap. The same strap that had turned his Susan from a quiet housewife into an oil soaked Driver fucked whore. He leapt from the Formica and got behind Susan's sister, levelling his cock with her denuded hole.
"Get over!" he shouted, forcing her to bend double, her head almost against her knees. With a great thrust of his hips he stabbed his prick into her hole, withdrawing only to stab her again and again, pumping, pushing, shoving, fucking, on and on and on, slamming, thumping, ever harder, ever faster, until his cock spat and spewed its boiling, stinging venom inside Susan's sister, inside Claire, inside every woman the Drivers had ever taken. With that gush of gluten he had finally left behind the last of his old life and entered into the new.
Inside the garage, Claire could hear the low grumble of the wagon as Peter reversed it into the drive. A moment later the doors opened to reveal him dressed in steel studded leather jeans. He wore no shirt, just a black leather waistcoat that failed to cover the steel pins he had pushed through his nipples. Thin straps constrained his forearms, biceps and neck, pumping out his veins.
He came across to the terrified woman and took a spring loaded D clip from his pocket. He pulled back the straight edge and forced it up Claire's nose before releasing the spring. It snapped shut, gripping the soft flesh and making it easy for him to lead her towards the wagon.
He opened the door and motioned for her to climb in behind the driver's seat, where he tied her nose lead to the back of the cab. Climbing in to the drivers seat he revved the engine almost to a roar.
"Let's party!" he shouted, then slammed the wagon into gear and pulled out into the failing light of a chilly May evening.
For several hours they thundered through the night, along dark country lanes where the wind from the speeding truck threw back the boughs of overhanging trees, only for them to snap back angrily, crashing their spiny finger-like branches on the roof of the trailer.
Finally the lanes gave way to the moor and heath and Peter found his headlights digging into the night. Their light crossed miles of moorland, startling the grouse and hare, signalling to anything else in the coarse shrub that another Driver was on his way to the passover.
The roads narrowed. After a few more miles they narrowed further and dropped down into a depression. When the wagon pulled out of the dip, Peter saw the fires away in the distance, above the cold granite rock that broke every so often through the shrub and heather. Like a moth around a candle he found himself heading towards the light, ever closer to the flames that would either cleanse or consume.
He stepped hard on the throttle, bringing that moment closer.
Less than a mile away he pulled up and climbed into the back of the cab where he put a leather gag around Claire's mouth. Before resuming his seat he felt unable to resist the urge to feel her private parts. Not that they were very private any more, especially after today when he had spent the hours up until leaving fucking the woman all over the house.
He gave her tits a final squeeze and carried on his way, getting close enough to see the fires that burned inside large oil drums. There were dozens of them, lighting up the area with orange flames that crackled and sent sparks into the night sky.
The place was reminiscent of a war zone. Wagons, some in silhouette, some brightly lit by the fires, were dotted around what looked like an old aeroplane hangar.
The soft ground was pitted and rutted from the weight of the heavy vehicles, leaving puddles of oily water that reflected the fiery light upwards. Occasionally the figure of a man could be seen running between buildings or vehicles, and sometimes he appeared to be dragging something behind him.
Something tethered, hobbled and struggling.
Peter pulled up at the entrance to the grounds just as spots of drizzle began to speckle the windscreen. Before entering he paused to take in the number of wagons parked up. There were a lot more than he'd expected and the first sense of butterflies fluttered in his stomach.
He drove cautiously to a clear spot and dropped from the cab. The drizzle had turned to sleet and the cold flecks of ice chilled his body. It chilled Claire more. He pulled her from the cab where her nipples jumped to attention at the cold and her mons shivered with goose pimples.
"Well," whispered Peter. "Here we go. Don't let me down now." He made his way towards the large building, Claire on her lead behind. Instead of going straight in, he went to where a window was fixed at the side. It had four very dirty, very greasy panes that hadn't seen soap and water in many a year. Peter rubbed away the grime and pressed his nose to the glass.
Inside, fires were burning in drums and a huge fire roared in the centre of the hangar, the smoke rising to vents that failed to clear the air, leaving a lot of the haze to fall back upon the congregation below. Through the smoky gloom shone bright lights in blues and reds and purples, lights spinning upwards, downwards and around, in a blinding kaleidoscopic display.
It was difficult to make out the people in the smoke and dancing lights, but some could be seen. Men taking women and girls away to different vehicles dotted around the sides of the building, to coaches, vans and trucks, all customised to include beds and couches where a woman could be taken, and fucked, and licked, and beaten and used.
Peter swallowed hard and took a deep breath, then gave Claire a tug with the lead to signal they were going in. Claire hadn't been able to see inside because the other windows were so dirty. She had no idea what events were taking place, but looking at all the vehicles and the fires she considered the possibility that Peter may just have been telling the truth all along.
When he opened the door and dragged her inside, the sight of a man driving a pick up truck from which hung a bound woman made her realise the awful truth.
The woman was nude and dangling from the hook that usually towed away cars. She was wearing nothing but a gag and cuffs around her wrists and ankles. The man drove towards the pair out of the smoke, 'Joes' Pick Up' emblazoned on the yellow paintwork of the truck. As the strains of Meatloafs 'Bat Out of Hell' boomed out from a hundred speakers, the driver screeched to a halt alongside Peter, took a quick glance at Claire's body, screamed 'What a fucking night!' and roared back into the smoke, the woman swinging wildly behind him as he went.
Behind the thick leather strap that covered her mouth Claire was begging to go home. A tug from Peter towards the smoke told her no.
As they passed through the unearthly smog, like the fog of old London, Claire caught glimpses of young girls being taken on leads. Where they were going she had no way of telling because the smoke was so dense it clouded things out after just a couple of yards. Occasionally, though, the lights would sweep through the mist revealing tantalising peeks of girls on the bonnets of trucks, men's buttocks pounding up and down between their thighs.
On one occasion a petite young thing with long black hair in a tight ponytail bumped right into her. The girl's look was vacant, even when a leather tawse cracked across her bottom as a punishment for clumsiness. Her man yanked the lead and she disappeared too.
Now, in an almost dreamlike state, Claire followed dutifully behind Peter, her head darting this way and that, trying to understand the awful sights that surrounded her. The smoke started to thin out and more and more came into view, including the hanging cranes.
From the roof hung several women in chains, some were hanging by their ankles, others by their wrists, like bats in a cave. Each girl was near naked except for the occasional basque or high heeled boots, some were blindfolded and all were gagged. Claire dragged her eyes away to the fire that raged in the centre of the floor only to see more of the same.
In a great circle around the flames stood cranes for lifting the engines out of cars, like the skeleton of a wigwam. Hanging from the top of each was a young girl in the same fashion as those on the ceiling. Some were upside down, others dangled by their wrists. Peter pulled Claire to one side and forced her across the bonnet of an old Morris Minor that waited on the dirt, its wheels missing.
With the sight of so much naked flesh on display his cock was already hard and he had little trouble in locating Claire's gash, which had already suffered so much from his prick earlier that day. Plugged into his woman like that, Peter looked every inch the Driver, gripping her waist to add momentum to his thrusts. He looked over the roof of the car to see another woman being serviced across the trunk and wondered just how many females fell into the grip of The Drivers. By the look of it, the figures ran into dozens.
At the cranes Peter noticed that the women were not there just for ornament. When a man wanted one he simply disengaged the hydraulics that held her suspended and released the chain. If he had one to replace her, all he had to do was attach her in the other girl's place and haul her up off the floor with the hydraulic handle.
Returning to the task beneath him Peter, fucked his sister-in-law slowly, looking about him for ways of escape as his dick slipped in and out of her well lubricated tube.
The ends of the building looked as if they opened up fully, while there were also smaller doors built into the large end doors. When he found Susan he would take her under the pretence of needing a fuck, and make his escape along with Claire.
As he studied the main door it began to open and a large lorry reversed into the hangar. The noise and smoke from its exhaust added to the general mayhem of the building. As it made its way through the smoke a bright white light was shone on its back doors. The lorry stopped and Peter read the sign that ran along the refrigerated trailer, 'Felix Ferries'!
The words stopped his pumping hips in mid thrust and his cock slipped out from between Claire's legs. Hoping he was finished she stood up and read the sign herself, recognising it from what Peter had told her. They watched as two men jumped from the cab and began unlocking the trailer door.
Two men! Lincoln and his brother!
They pulled open the large metal doors to reveal six women, stripped and hanging from meat hooks in the refrigerator. At the press of a button the poles on which the hooks and women hung extended out of the trailer. When they were all the way out, a fork lift truck came up and the women were each transferred to a crane.
Oh God! One of them was Melanie!
Pulling Claire behind him, Peter followed to see where Melanie was taken. They stopped with her beneath a crane. Peter set Claire on a small tower of tyres and fondled her tits as he watched Melanie being forced to lie on the floor while her feet were attached to a hook and chain. When she was secure she was hauled up to hang from the ceiling, about thirty feet off the floor.
Now his plans were really complicated!
He still played with Claire's tits as he spoke to her.
"You believe me now?"
She closed her eyes and nodded her head.
"If I take off the gag, do you promise not to scream or shout, or do anything stupid like that?"
Another frightened nod.
He leant behind her to reach the buckles and added another warning. "It's not just for my sake. Let on we're not one of them and they'll kill us. Both of us! Make no mistake about that." He freed the buckle and pulled away the gag, leaving a red line on each cheek where the straps had dug into the flesh. Claire stretched wide her mouth to bring some life back to her jaw.
"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you," she mumbled. Then with a sterner voice she added. "But no matter what you knew, it didn't give you the right to do what you did. No-one should do what you've done to me."
"That's nothing," Peter put in. "Nothing, compared to what they'll do to you if they find us." He waved his finger around the building to highlight who 'they' were, then quickly grabbed Claire and pushed her to her knees, forcing the bulbous dome of his cock into her mouth. He had seen a figure looming towards them through the smoke and knew it was dangerous to be seen simply talking to one of the girls.
He was sitting on the tyres when the man came into view. A big man, well over six feet, with a broad bright smile. A black man.
He took one look at Peter with his prick down Claire's throat. "Nice one man. I like it." Peter waited until he had dissolved back into the fog before lifting Claire up by the ears.
"That was him," he told her excitedly, his heart thumping frantically. "That was the Hell Raiser. He might lead us to Susan." He made to go after him then stopped. "Better still," he said, spinning Claire around to undo her cuffs, "you let Melanie down, and I'll get Susan."
"Melanie?" asked Claire. "You mean that girl? Why let her down? I thought we just came for Susan?"
"Because," said Peter, pointing a finger up at Melanie. "Without her help, we wouldn't be here today."
"And I'm supposed to be grateful?"
"Susan will be!" said Peter as he headed off. "Just let Melanie down and wait here until I get back."
Hell Raiser had not got far when Peter caught up with him. He was easy to follow in the confusion that reigned, the smoke and blaring rock music providing ample cover. From the direction he was taking, he looked to be heading for an incredibly bright light shining straight down onto a mass of gleaming metal. As they neared Peter realised the mass was a huge, highly polished, chromium plated wheel lying flat on a stage.
Chained on it, face upwards, was a young blonde girl.
She had wild spiky hair and the craziest neck collar of black leather with massive shiny steel nails protruding from it. As the Hell Raiser went up on the stage, Peter found himself climbing a combine harvester to get a better look.
The black man strolled across to the wheel and with his huge hands spun it around so that the girl was facing him. From his position all Peter could see was the back of the man and the legs of the girl, although he could also see the girl was devoid of pubic hair and had very pronounced sex lips.
The Hell Raiser appeared to be saying something to the chained girl as he pointed to the enormous penis which hung down clearly and menacingly between his massive legs. Eventually he turned the wheel once more so that the girl's head, which rested on the rim of the wheel, came to a stop between those very legs.
The black man shuffled closer until his cock was directly above the girl's mouth, then he crouched down to lower the still limp member between her bright painted lips. Even when soft the cock was a problem to accommodate but she tried her best, sucking him into her mouth, pleasing him enough so that he fell forward to lick at her slick smooth cunt that dribbled for his cock.
The powerful thighs tensed with pleasure, lifting and falling, gently fucking the white girl's mouth. She seemed to be enjoying it, seeking to make the man happy. Only when she opened her eyes to delight in the sight of his black skin did Peter realise the girl was...
Susan!
His Susan!
There was nothing he could do. The initial adrenaline rush had told him to dash up to the stage and drag Hell Raiser away, but he managed to control himself in time. Against such a powerful man he was useless, age and size were his enemy, never mind all the other Drivers. All he could do was bide his time and wait.
On the stage, his wife soon sucked Hell Raiser to a full erection. It stood thick, black and heavy against his belly and in comparison to what Peter had to offer it looked massive. How could Susan possibly take such an obscenely monstrous thing?
Peter sat and watched, sick to the stomach, aware that she was already used to accommodating the man, and she must be acting well, for it looked as if taking it in her mouth was a pleasure, as if she was more than happy it wasn't Peter's mere standard issue.
Hell Raiser pulled the wheel around again.
This time he stopped it when Susan's legs faced him. Up on the combine Peter could clearly see thick pearls of juice on her lips, lubricating her swollen vagina, readying it for the onslaught.
The black man lowered his thighs again, his engorged bell-end knocking at her entrance. Her lips offered little resistance, parting at the first touch of his inflamed bulb. It squeezed its way in, fat and uncompromising, all the way up until she could manage no more. The heavy black thighs thumped home time and again, the solid turgid cock rammed into her hole, filling it completely, its thickness pushing against the walls of her cunt, demanding more space.
There was nothing Peter could do until the man emptied his balls inside his own young wife, the blonde innocent he had known since her sixth form. The quiet shy girl who chose cotton over silk, a vest in place of a camisole. The girl fucked so solidly on that glistening wheel was not his wife, not any more.
When the Hell Raiser finally lifted his great frame from her, a flood of spunk oozed from her wide crimson coloured cunt. He bent forward and gave her a kiss one might have even considered loving, then swaggered from the stage, his prick gleaming with the slick juices of sex. As he vanished into the smoky atmosphere Peter jumped from his position and rushed across to his wife.
"Susan!" he cried. "It's Peter."
She opened her eyes as the last of her many orgasms faded into nothing.
"Peter!" she whispered. "What the... Get away from here! You don't understand!"
"I do, I know everything."
He fumbled with the chains, searching for the lock. Thankfully they were only held by a bolt and didn't need a key. Peter sprung the chains and lifted Susan from the wheel.
"Well, well," said a voice in the smoke. "We meet at last."
Peter straightened up, prepared for a fight, waiting for the man to show himself. It wasn't just the one however. Out of the smoke stepped Jack, Lincoln, Colin and the Hell Raiser, each sporting a convincing scowl.
"We knew you'd come," said Jack. "Couldn't leave a beauty like that now, could you? Too good a fuck she is." He turned his attentions to Susan. "Too good at snatching cock aren't you Sue? The bigger the better."
Lincoln joined in the taunting. "We've all had her Peter. You don't mind us being personal do you? After all, we've all fucked your wife. You can't get more personal than that now, can you?"
"And boy is she a good fuck," added the Hell Raiser. "Well, you've just seen for yourself. Gives a good ride does Groovy. You know what I like? Those fat pussy lips of hers. You can really feel them grabbing at your prick, you know?" He turned to his friends and laughed. "No perhaps you don't, it's been so long since you saw them."
The group walked a step nearer, pushing Peter to the rear of the stage, when the Hell Raiser spoke again.
"The thing is, Groovy," he said through his familiar grin, "there's nothing we can do about Grandad here, but you've got a bit of a future. It'd be a great shame to lose you too. So we're going to ask you a few questions and if we like the answers, you're going to be a Driver's mate for some time yet."
It was a matter of self preservation and Susan knew it. If nothing else, being with The Drivers had taught her how to survive. When they asked her if she preferred being fucked by the Drivers to living with Peter she gave them the answer they wanted to hear. She preferred all their cocks to his, loved sucking them off and wanted to be owned by them. And when they asked if she wanted to go with him she said no.
"Then you don't care what happens to him?" Lincoln asked.
"No."
"Couldn't care if he was dead?" put in Colin.
There was a momentary pause as she looked at Peter. He smiled, resigned to his fate. "You can't save me anyway," he said.
She turned to the others and answered them in a small quiet voice: "No."
The four men moved forward in unison and Peter took the only chance he had. Snatching hold of Susan's wrist he flung himself, and her with him, off the stage and into the smoke. A cry of surprise came from the men and they jumped down in search.
Jack saw them first. Peter was leading Susan around the stage and heading back in the direction of Claire and Melanie. Jack called out to the others and they all gave pursuit, shouting and whooping in the excitement of the chase.
Above the incessant din of the music Claire and Melanie heard the shouts and knew something was wrong. Within moments they caught sight of Peter and Susan rushing towards them, screaming for them to run.
The four made it safely behind some pallets where they took a moment to catch their breath. It was a crazy time to have such thoughts, but Peter looked around him at the women and realised he had screwed all three of them. It added further adrenaline to his system and he felt more alive than he had done in years.
In a state of extreme tension and excitement he told the three girls to wait for his return and dashed out into the smoke filled room. Like a naked warrior going in to battle, he felt no fear. A beserker with senses bristling, he did little to hide himself as he made his way around the building in search of a vehicle. He found 'Joes Pick Up,' with Joe still in it, although the girl was missing, probably impaled on the end of someone's prick.
Peter walked across and opened the door.
"Hi!" shouted Joe, by way of a greeting. "Great fucking party -"
His words were cut short by Peter's knuckles crushing the bridge of his nose. The man fell to the floor screaming as Peter drove away to pick up the girls. The truck screeched to a halt at the pallets and all three girls jumped onto the back as the vehicle sped away towards the door.
Several Drivers who had discovered what had happened tried to stop them. Peter made no attempt to avoid any who got in his way, the light from the stroboscope making everyone look like robots as they juddered across the floor to kick and wave at the truck. Those who weren't quick enough he bounced to oblivion with the bumper.
As he approached the door he quickly realised there would be no time to stop and open it. His best bet lay in smashing it off the hinges. Screaming to the girls to hold tight he accelerated, hitting the wood at a fantastic speed and shattering it in a cloud of splinters.
The impact lifted the front of the truck, removing any control over its direction. When it landed and bounced along the rutted road, Hell Raiser, in an old fifties style coach, caught him a glancing blow, sending the pick-up over on its side, spilling the girls upon the ground.
Like mice before the farmhouse cat they scurried to safety and Peter followed suit. Luckily, Hell Raiser had also been shaken and was taking his time getting out of the coach, which had ended up embedded in the garage office. When he did emerge he saw the three girls running towards the fields, their naked bottoms jiggling as they went.
Near one of the petrol pumps Peter spotted a Norton Commando motorcycle. It was a chance of escape, but he was loathe to use it. There was room for two on it and no more. But with the sound of the other Drivers pouring out of the hangar in search of him he had no choice but to take the bike.
There was little fear of theft at such a place and the rider had left the keys in the ignition. Peter leapt onto the saddle, opened the fuel line and kicked over the engine. It fired with an angry roar, attracting immediate attention. The pursuers began bearing down on him, but he had a few seconds to consider his options.
Which girl should he rescue?
It was dawn when Peter was finally able to kill the engine on the Norton. He left the bike on the side stand and the two of them walked the short distance to his gate.
They entered the garden in silence, Peter unable to shift the image of Hell Raiser marching the other two back to their fate.
It had been a long cold drive home, but luckily he had managed to provide some clothing by stealing a light satin petticoat from a clothes line. He had tried to get the dress as well but the woman came out of the house and shouted before he'd had a chance to get the pegs off.
They were half way down the path when the detective inspector stepped out from the bushes, flanked by two uniformed officers.
"Hello Peter," he said, in his usual smug voice. "I take it this is Mrs Warburton."
Peter let out an exhausted sigh.
"You know it isn't," he answered impatiently. "What do you want?"
"I am arresting you, Peter Warburton, in connection with the disappearance of your wife, Susan Warburton, and your sister-in-law, Claire Harris." He motioned for the officers to handcuff the pair then left to search Peter's house.
As he reached the door he turned and looked the half naked pair up and down.
"Nice gear," he said to Peter. "Like the nipple pins."
