Best Enjoyed Cold (2012 version)

BEST ENJOYED COLD

(2012)

by Velvetglove

CONTENT WARNING

Please be warned that this full length novel is not an easy read. There are cruel, complex characters with a back-story plot that takes time to unfold. I wrote it as an airport-paperback-type thriller with bdsm scenes included, rather than as just a bit of uncomplicated porn. It contains rape and revenge, emotional and psychological cruelty, and forced sex of many types inflicted on adult family members. Please don’t embark on this story if such things offend you or you think they’re a good idea in real life. Story Codes include M/f, F/m, MF/mf, S/M, BDSM, blackmail, heavy, humiliation, incest, interracial, modification, non consensual, serious, slavery, torture, violent, watersport and enema.

AUTHOR’S NOTE & DISCLAIMER

I apologise for any strange punctuation or layout, particularly speech quotation marks appearing as squares. They are inflicted by this site and are outside my control. This story has been submitted in Calibri font, size 14.

This story was originally written five years ago. It was set in 2007 with an epilogue that looked ahead to 2012. Five years on, I have decided to repost an entirely reworked and updated version of the story with many additional scenes. This single post contains the whole story told over nine chapters. It contains 50,000 words and will take 3+ hours to read in full.

‘Best Enjoyed Cold’ is a work of fiction and fantasy. Neither events nor characters portrayed are based in reality and any resemblance with actual persons is entirely coincidental. Copyright is claimed by the author Velvetglove (velvetfeedback@gmail.com). In this story, I have occasionally used lines from well known songs under the copyright fair use rule.

CHAPTER ONE

SONGS OF LOVE AND HATE

“La vengeance se mange tres-bien froide”

From Matilde (1841) by Joseph Marie Eugene Sue, French novelist.

“Your enemy is sleeping and his woman is free”

From Famous Blue Raincoat (1970) on the album Songs of Love and Hate by Leonard Cohen, Canadian singer-songwriter.

The Chameleon watched dispassionately.

The gang rape was being carried out to a soundtrack of piped organ music with the same meticulous precision as the military manoeuvres of the previous 72 hours. A tang of incense pervaded the white-walled room adding an aromatic twist to the woman’s pitiful wailing and the relentless male grunts.

It had all been worked out in advance. This woman should - at this exact moment - have been basking in happiness as ‘The Mother of the Bride’, proudly watching her elder daughter walk up the aisle.

Instead, she was now being held down, mounted and ruthlessly fucked by a succession of masked and uniformed men, each enjoying his allocated five minutes.

Cold hearted ? Sure, ladies and gentlemen. After all, this is an ode to Love and Hate. And especially Hate.

So where do I begin ? When do I begin ? In one sense it all began so many years ago. Three decades, in fact.

Plenty of time to chill a splendid buffet that is best eaten cold.

But in another sense it really all went off just three days ago. The stretch limousine carrying the happy bridal party to the wedding rehearsal left the gates of the imposing Cumber estate at 14.40 hrs precisely on its way to the church. As usual, the limo chauffeur was armed, and the Mercedes saloon following carried a pair of uniformed heavies. All was going like clockwork.

But the chauffeur and bodyguards proved no match for the crack team of mercenaries that carried out the raid. Five people - the groom, the bride and her mother, brother and sister - were extracted and kidnapped at exactly 14.47, in less than sixty seconds, with a minimum of fuss and bloodshed. Only the father of the bride was missing from the party.

And, of course, that was the Chameleon’s intention.

After that it was a simple question of making enough changes to cover their tracks. The five unconscious victims were transported north and east, then south and west, over 7,000 miles in total.

They zigzagged back and forth, shuttled in a miscellany of SUVs and trucks, then helicopters, a cargo jet, via motor launch and powerboats, eventually overland in ancient lorries. The final part of their journey through mountain passes was completed strapped over the backs of a train of camels.

Each time, the method of transport was ‘cleansed’ afterwards, and - in the case of the motor vehicles and powerboats - completely destroyed by fire. So, by the time their long, crisscross journey was finished, they were on a different continent, in a strange and exotic country, in an untraceable location.

Even with satellite surveillance, finding a needle in a haystack would have been a thousand times easier than tracing either the victims or their kidnappers.

The Chameleon smiled thinly and lit a Marlboro, amused by the woman’s begging. The geographical trip had taken 45 hours, but her journey from arrogant 45 year old billionaire bitch to pleading, sobbing cunt had been a short one indeed.

It was the way she obviously thought she still had something to bargain with that caused his smile. As if, having failed to order them about like her domestic servants, she could negotiate her way out instead. Maybe she thought they took credit cards ? Or she could send round her chauffeur with a wad of cash later ?

But now, Leatherback was already the seventh man demonstrating to her that everything she had to offer them could be ripped from her for free. The mercenary’s muscled buttocks hammered up and down in fierce, deep, impatient strokes as he prepared to fill her with his venom.

The familiar organ music being piped over the sound system on continuous loop started up again. The joyous ‘Bridal Chorus’ from Wagner’s Opera Lohengrin is the standard march played at the entrance of the bride at most weddings in America and the Western World.

Now it was being used as a melodic accompaniment to Susan Cumber’s terrible ordeal. Here comes the bride’s mother, perhaps ?

On second thoughts, probably not.

Susan Cumber was undoubtedly still a gorgeous woman. One of those Prom Queens who had been born beautiful, married young and the years since had been kind to her. She had popped out three kids in quick succession, got her figure back, exercised, ate well, rarely drank alcohol, and lived right. She hadn’t even had to resort to surgery yet. No nips, tucks nor even botox. Her 45 year old skin was smooth, her butt was firm, and her boobs were natural Ds that still looked sensational even without a bra.

Of course, money helped; cooks, diet counsellors, full time personal trainer, a tennis coach, two masseuses, daily hairdresser, and the best doctors, gynaecologists, dentists, orthodontists, ‘what-have-yous’, all at her beck and call.

It was hard to envisage the groaning, sobbing, writhing woman as the same immaculately poised corporate wife and mother-of-three, whose photograph so often adorned the business press and society magazines.

She was a statuesque, green-eyed, platinum blonde, with perfect cheekbones and teeth that dazzled; a rare blend of Hollywood glamour and Manhattan sophistication. At 5’ 9” tall, she was the ideal height to complement her handsome 6’ 3” husband, her head at his shoulder, whether posing formally for press shots or snapped attending charity balls together. Her beautifully cut and cared for hair was thick and lush. Her figure was just a little curvier than those of her two daughters but it was absolutely in proportion to her fuller breasts and extra height.

The Chameleon stubbed out his cigarette. Leatherback had shot his bolt and was being replaced by Night Snake. There was no rush. As that old Satchmo love song goes, they had all the time in the world.

*** *** ***

Day Four

At the very same moment the Chameleon was extinguishing his Marlboro, at least one continent, six time zones, and several thousand miles away, John Cumber was pacing a room that was packed full of the best. From the President down, everybody had promised him anything, and dropped everything, to help.

It was March 3rd 2007, a Saturday, but they were all there; CIA, FBI, Military brass, others from agencies John hadn’t even known existed, plus his closest hired hands and colleagues. The Cumber Corporation was a multi-billion dollar machine and all of its resources had been utilised or placed on standby to assist.

Today was the fourth day since his wife and children had been taken. The problem was there had been no progress so far. Sure, there were teams of agents combing the kidnap site. Officers were interviewing anybody and everybody, researching, collecting data, trawling every damned domestic and international contact for clues. Any clue. But the result so far was a big fat zero.

He glanced down at his gold Patek Philippe. Right now he should have been walking his darling Lorna up the aisle, in front of five hundred guests, standing proudly alongside his wife Susan throughout the service. His daughter Rachel and his son Ryan should be there smiling either side of them.

John crushed the empty plastic water cup that was in his hand, swearing for the thousandth time that he would find his family and save them.

And get the people responsible.

*** *** ***

20.07 hrs

The Chameleon sat at a bank of screens and surveyed his guests. He was dressed in just a white towel round his waist, his hair wet, his mind cleared by the ice cold needles of the shower he’d just taken.

Each of the five guests had a cell to themselves. The cells were not, of course, the five star accommodation such WASPs were used to. They were underground, humid and dank. There was a lingering odour of sewage. Rats and insects scurried under the steel bars.

Above ground, the house and its surrounding land had long since been converted into a comfortable but inconspicuous home. The thick compound walls that ensured total privacy had been built of mud, baked rock hard by many years of desert sunshine. Decades before, this site had housed a fortified prison used by the famous French Foreign Legion to incarcerate its prisoners, miscreants and deserters.

On an ancient caravan route, it lay on the edge of an oasis, with a stone mountain to the north and an endless sand dune field to the south. But the relatively high water table made primitive agriculture possible; citrus, apricots, almonds and figs were grown in the vicinity.

From the sky, a satellite or drone would merely see palm trees, a walled garden and courtyard, a swimming pool and a modest bungalow. There were even white dishdasha robes drying on a washing line and kids toys lying on the ground. There was no clue as to the evil concealed underground.

Although the bank of screens would suggest the five basement cells they had selected were located next to each other, in fact his men had a choice of over fifty, and had chosen cells spaced well apart. It was important that their captives be unable to communicate with or hear each other, at least during the early stages of their ordeal.

The cell walls and hard floors were constructed of dried mud and stone except for the front bars that were made of columns of steel. Just like those in the cowboy movies he’d watched as a child, the Chameleon thought.

Each cell measured only six feet by six feet square and they were totally devoid of furniture; no bed, chair, even sanitary facilities. The only ‘decorations’ were five iron manacles set in the outline of a starfish into the rear walls. Their positioning alone would have made it obvious they were intended for a captive’s neck, wrists and ankles to be fixed in a stretched, spread-eagle position.

However, what made that fact even more evident was that each of the guests had already checked in and been fastened into the manacles. Microphones and night-vision CCTV lenses in each cell gave the Chameleon perfect sound and vision, even in the murky greenish light.

The middle screen showed Susan Cumber suspended on her tiptoes. She was naked with a glistening sheen of wetness still oozing between her thighs. The gang rape had been thorough. A dozen copious loads had been injected into her. And what goes up, must come down.

Her magnificent jewellery, including the famous Cumber diamond ring, and several other expensive pieces, had been removed from her neck, ears and fingers. Her breasts, hips and abdomen were marked with red blotches and a couple of darker bruises. Her head sagged down dejectedly, face obscured, her shoulder length platinum tresses mussed and dangling.

The Chameleon shrugged. It was to be expected. After a lifetime of fidelity to one handsome man, you couldn’t expect any woman to be thrilled about racing from male partners numbers 2 thru 13 within one hour. She deserved her little rest.

Displayed on the screens either side of Susan, were her two daughters. In one, Lorna Cumber - who should by rights now be Lorna Collins of course - was fastened in a similar uncomfortable starfish pose, arms and legs outstretched. She was wearing the same white outfit she had been kidnapped in, although it glowed dirty and torn in the green night-vision CCTV light.

It was a wedding dress. Not the real dress, of course. Oh no, it would have been bad luck to be seen in that before the happy day itself ! But the billionaire Cumbers had typically splashed out on three different bespoke, couture dresses for their darling, spoiled 23 year old daughter to choose from. She had decided to wear her second choice to her wedding rehearsal.

Lorna was beautiful, no two ways about it. Looks-wise, she took after her father rather than her mother. She was a pure aristocrat; a doe-eyed brunette, with perfectly plucked eyebrows, long dark eyelashes, high cheekbones and million dollar teeth. She had a slightly olive, suntanned complexion.

Like her mother, she had been relieved of all her jewellery; the pearl necklace from her elegant neck, the diamond earrings, and above all the obscene $500,000 sapphire and diamond engagement ring.

At 5’7”, her body was in perfect Pilates-honed shape for her wedding. Imagine a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, but with bigger boobs. Her torn wedding dress accentuated her trim waist. She had lost her wedding pumps on her journey and was now staring at the floor of her cell, shrieking and blubbering whenever a rat or spider came close to her bare, arched feet.

Meanwhile, in the other monitor, Rachel Cumber was wearing an expensive Sister of the Bride outfit, a beautifully cut, cream pantsuit made especially for her by one of America’s trendiest designers. Unlike Lorna, Rachel was not so much classically beautiful, as just ... well ... downright fuckable.

Even though the minx was two and a half years younger than Lorna, there was a provocative sensuality about Rachel that belied her 21 yrs. At only 5’ 2” she was much shorter than her mother and sister, but she was just as perfectly formed. She was a college gymnast and cheerleader.

Facially, she had inherited her mother’s features, with shoulder-length blonde hair and the same porcelain cheekbones and expensive flawless smile. Her pretty, turned-up button nose was of the my shit doesn’t smell variety. But whereas her mom’s eyes were green, Rachel’s were a startling cobalt blue.

The Chameleon chuckled and decided that, in the unlikely event Hollywood came calling to make a blockbuster of his thriller, the casting brief for Rachel Cumber would be somebody who looked like a young Paris Hilton.

Sure, it was unfortunate that Rachel’s cleavage - a perky B cup at best - was smaller than her mom and sis’s but her model-thin legs and wasp waist made her top half appear reasonably endowed. Give her credit. She had spunk too. Unlike her sister, the bitch was staring out straight at the lens, mouthing 4-letter words in apparent defiance.

The other cells were occupied by the two males. Ryan John Cumber, middle child and only son of John and Susan, and finally Gene Collins III, the unfortunate groom-to-have-been of Lorna Cumber.

The Chameleon perused the boys briefly, spending much less time studying them than the females. Ryan was a younger clone of his father; similar six-foot-plus jock physique, the same handsome features, jutting jaw, close cropped brown hair and intense brown eyes.

Gene was the obvious odd one out of the group. And not just because of his ginger-top. The Cumbers were all hewn from beautiful stock and it was evidently something other than Gene’s looks that had appealed to Lorna. He had a bookish air, with carrot hair, freckled skin and insipid, watery-blue eyes. At 5’7” he was only the same height as his fiancé.

Mind you, the Chameleon knew that when this particular groom was standing on top of his wallet, Gene Collins measured a lot taller than a mere five seven. Strange how these rich folks gravitated towards each other. Mergers, not marriages.

He pushed his chair back from the monitors and lit another cigarette. It was now over three days since any of their captives had eaten or drunk anything but water. Soon the fun could begin.

*** *** ***

Saturday

The Eyes watched the Cumber Building from an outside table at the coffee shop across the Street. The police had cordoned off a large area one side of the main tower to contain the throng of media vehicles and riff-raff that always gathered to rubberneck an event like this.

It’s not every day that the wife of a billionaire gets kidnapped, let alone with her three brats and a fiancé. What made it funnier to the owner of the Eyes was that all these people - the police and agents meeting in the building, units around the country, the media hacks and paparazzi nearby, the watching and listening audiences around the world - none of them knew jackshit !

His Eyes squinted up to a large window at the very top of the tower. He framed it within a circle formed by his thumb and index finger. He knew it was the office window of John Cumber. Billionaire. Asshole.

He watched a while through his imaginary scope, aiming carefully at the glass. Then, slowly, he closed the palm of his hand, eradicating the entire Cumber Building from his sight.

Only one fucking person in the whole US of A knew anything !

The Chameleon.

Him.

*** *** ***

06.55 hrs

The Chameleon entered her cell at dawn. The temperature outside was already climbing fast after the chill of another cloudless, starlit night. However, underground, neither the dank air nor the dingy light varied much throughout the 24 hour cycle.

Susan Cumber was barely conscious. The Chameleon wrenched her head up by her hair and the lingering odour in the cell seemed to act like smelling salts, waking her. She opened her glazed, bloodshot eyes and her nostrils flared.

The Chameleon surveyed Susan through the mask’s eyeholes until her face crumpled in shock and fear.

“Time to wake up”.  The Chameleon chirped cheerily, like a mom waking her drowsy teenager.

An amazed expression came across Susan’s features, her forehead creasing into a frown.

“Y ... you’re ... a woman ?”

“Yes.” She said curtly. “Good observation.”

“But ... how c ... could you do this ... to another woman ?”

The Chameleon chuckled aloud through the mouth flap of her red and green mask.

What a funny question. She ignored it.

“Are you hungry ?”

“Answer me !” Susan Cumber implored in anger. “How could you ?”

The Chameleon took her time. She stepped back and slapped her rubber-gloved hand across the woman’s face twice, first one way, then a backhander. Not too hard but the blows snapped Susan’s head sideways, making her gasp and shriek, before she tilted her face backwards in the neck iron, cowering from another blow.

“If you speak to me like that again,” she spat, “I assure you that, not only will you regret it, but your two hot little daughters will as well.”

“Rachel  !” Susan’s face furrowed as she looked up. “Lorna. And Ryan. What have you done with them all ?”

“Oooh, they’re not far away.”

“Please, tell meeee !” the woman begged, madness in her eyes.

“Later. Now, I asked if you are hungry.”

Susan paused, her brow puckered in confusion. Her head slumped again.

“N ... yes.” She whimpered quietly.

“And thirsty ?”

“Yes.” A whisper.

“Okay.” The Chameleon clicked her fingers for the guards.

After unfastening her, a tattooed male helped Susan off the wall. She crumpled to the floor and lay curled up in the foetal position. Another guard brought food. He placed a steel dog bowl on the floor and lifted her up onto her hands and knees.

“Eat.” The Chameleon ordered.

Susan hesitated, peering up at her from underneath her tangled hair.

“Eat ! If you care about your brats !”

She watched from outside the cell as naked Susan Cumber knelt on all fours and cautiously peered at the swill. It was congealed and grey. The main ingredients were oats and canned milk. Susan didn’t know it yet but in the future the unappetising mush would seem a veritable banquet to her.

But Susan had already realised that the grey surface had been garnished with fresh male ejaculate. It was unavoidable. A creamy puddle and thick white streaks decorated the congealed surface.

“I’m sure that Lorna will eat it if you won’t.”

Susan’s mad green eyes looked up at her like a rabid dog’s.

“Now get your head in that bowl and start eating.”

The Chameleon watched Susan’s pink tongue slither out of her mouth to test the swill. She winked at the two guards who were watching too. After all, they had provided the fresh garnish.

“You’ve got two minutes to finish the bowl. Or ...”

The threat produced the desired result. Susan lowered her head and opened her mouth, breaking the surface. She vacuumed up a mouthful of oats and relish and began chewing. She retched, steeled herself, and swallowed mechanically. Then she took another mouthful.

It was a wondrous sight. A woman who ate only the finest fish and superb salads, prepared by her own chefs or at the most expensive restaurants, now down on her hands and knees gulping slop.

A man can break a woman’s body with brute force.

But a female is much more suited to breaking a woman’ spirit.

She relished the frantic gulping and gagging as Susan wolfed the bowl in 1 minute 47 seconds. It was the Chinese leader Mao Zedong who observed that ‘every long journey starts with a first step’.

On the Chameleon’s shelves were many books on behaviour modification; Pavlov and Wolfe, Thorndike and Watson.

And Susan Cumber had just taken the first step on her long journey.

The two masked mercenaries returned to manacle Susan back into the same outstretched, 5-star position in her cell. But as a small mercy they allowed her to rest the soles of her dirty feet properly on the floor.

“Better ?”

The Chameleon smiled behind her mask and casually removed her rubber gloves. She placed her bare hand on Susan’s hip.

Susan winced, helpless to shy away.

The Chameleon slowly traced her fingers up Susan’s flank and over to her superb but bruised breasts, hefting them up and down as if she were judging damaged fruit at a stall. Livid hickeys and scratches adorned the nipples.

“It looks like my boys loved these.”

Next, she walked two fingers down Susan’s ribs and gym-toned abdomen, through her honey coloured pubes and then between her damp thighs. She found her clitoris and stroked it, enjoying Susan’s indignant hiss. She pushed her thumb deep inside and prodded around, before removing it leisurely.

“I’m going to give you an hour or so of thinking time.” She said, sniffing her thumb through the nostrils of her mask, while staring straight into Susan’s eyes.

“And when I come back, I want you to give me an answer to one  question. Okay ?”

Susan stared back at her with a sullen look of unrestrained hostility.

“What’s the question ?”

“It’s simple really. You see, my poor boys are all alone here with us. Sadly, we weren’t able to invite their wives and girlfriends along.”

She shrugged, wiping her thumbnail clean on Susan’s hip.

“And to stop their trigger fingers getting itchy, they will need their sexual needs ... er ... catered to. Regularly. But you can be damned sure that I, for one, am not going to put out for them.”

She paused, relishing the horrified expression on Susan Cumber’s face.

“I mean, why the fuck should I ? You’ve already met most of my boys when they raped you. But you see, we can’t keep having all that futile fighting and pitiful wailing again every time one of them needs to drain his poor balls.”

She smiled behind her mask at Susan’s look of dawning realisation.

“So, from this point, two things can happen. Either you can volunteer to be enthusiastic and nice to any of my horny boys whenever he needs some relief. And that will mean putting in some pretty intensive stints on your own, I can assure you. Or ...”

She fished into her pocket.

“.... your two daughters can assist you.”

She held up a pair of headphones, poised over Susan’s ears.

“So, it’s up to you. Mull the decision over for an hour or so.”

She snapped the headphones into place and walked briskly out of the cell before Susan had a chance to reply.

The music Susan would be forced to listen to was apt; Leonard Cohen.

His ‘Songs of Love and Hate’ album.

After breakfast, the Chameleon would next pay a room visit to lovely Lorna Cumber, elder daughter and almost-bride.

Today should have been the first morning of the young socialite’s honeymoon, whisked by private plane from the swanky reception to an exclusive suite in the Caribbean, to start sucking and fucking and making love to her darling carrot-top husband for three memorable weeks.

But instead, today would be her first wakeup call in a rather less salubrious honeymoon suite. I’m afraid Lorna wouldn’t get to enjoy a lot of ‘making love’ in this place.

But she could still get to do plenty of sucking and fucking.

The Chameleon exhaled a little sigh of amusement.

And hey, after all, two out of three ain’t bad !

CHAPTER TWO

TWO OUT OF THREE AIN’T BAD

“When one woman strikes at the heart of another, she seldom misses, and the wound is invariably fatal.”

From Les Liaisons Dangereuses (1782) by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, French Novelist

Day Five

It was well before dawn in America, when the envelope was delivered to the night guards at John Cumber’s gatehouse. They even signed for it. To be fair to them, there had been so many comings and goings those past four days, they couldn’t be blamed too much for not getting a better identity fix on just another delivery guy.

“White, medium height, stocky, moustache, maybe thirties ?”

Well, their description should maybe narrow down the suspect list to five million or so adult males!

The date was Sunday, March 4th 2007. A sleepless John Cumber was drinking coffee brought to him by Catalina, a housemaid, flicking through newspapers and unopened mail aimlessly, when he came across the hand delivered envelope.

It appeared innocuous enough, a thin brown packet of the type used by companies worldwide. ‘JOHN CUMBER, PRIVATE’ was all that was handwritten on it, in big, black upper case letters.

It was when he opened it that his heart stopped. There was a single 10 x 8 inches glossy photograph. It was a photo of Susan’s face. She had been crying and looked terrified. He cautiously turned it over to the other side.

Dear Mr. Cumber,

Welcome to hell.

If you want to see your bitch and brats again, then follow my instructions very closely. If you disobey me, even once, you will never see them again. Never. Full stop. No negotiation.

Clear ? You will be able to accuse me of many things in the coming weeks, but being unclear is not one of them.

Now, I own a lot of Cumber Corporation stock. The first rule is that I do not want the share price to fall, whatever happens. On Friday they closed at 15 dollars and 5 cents. If the price closes below 15 dollars at any time during our future ‘discussions’, you will lose one family member for each day that happens. So, the fourth time it happens, game over.

I suggest you use that personal fortune of yours, if the share price ever needs propping up. Buy, buy buy ! as the saying goes. That’s all for now. By the way, Susan sends her love. We’ll be in touch again soon.

Enjoy !

X

John read through the letter so many times he lost count. At least, forty. He weighed each consonant, every word, each nuance, every phrase; ‘the coming weeks’, ‘the first rule’, ‘Susan sends her love’, and the signature ‘X’.

The bitter coffee reacted with the ulcerous bile in his gut as he clenched and unclenched his fists. If he could have traded every damned cent of his fortune to have the fucking Mr X who had sent him this letter in the room right now, he would have shaken on the deal in a second.

He kept the letter private for an hour. It somehow made him feel closer to his family, now that he at least knew something. But, at a quarter to seven, his sweaty palm picked up the phone and dialled Walt Furness.

*** *** ***

08.00 hrs

She glanced at her watch, coordinating the time.

Then she lifted the headphones from Susan Cumber’s ears.

“Depressing stuff isn’t it ?”

The patrician eyes looked back at her sullenly. They were watery, like peridot stones, no longer so defiant. Not beaten yet, but certainly down taking a count on the canvas.

She placed her gloved finger under Susan’s elegant chin.

“Chin up, Sue. Things can get a lot worse, you know. Now, have you thought about my little question ? Got an answer for me yet ?”

Susan’s eyes dissolved into tears.

“I’ll do it. Whatever you want.” A pause. “Just don’t touch my children.”

The Chameleon smiled inside her mask.

“Sure. That’s a deal.” She replied in her most soothing, reassuring tone. “But if I’m to abide by it, then I want to be certain that you’re one hundred per cent clear about your side of the agreement. You will be able to accuse me of many things, Sue darling, but being unclear is not one of them. Okay ?”

Susan nodded, snivelling.

“You see, it won’t just be a bit of fucking, Sue. It’s the whole nine yards. You’ve got to do everything my boys want. No saying no. Whenever and whatever they want. Any of them.”

The gorgeous, pampered creamy skin scrunched in a scowl. Funny how quick the worry lines are to appear once you inject a bit of stress into a cosseted life.

“Wh ... what do you m ... mean ?”

“I mean if you say no to anybody, to anything, even just once, our deal is off and Lorna and Rachel will both reap the whirlwind.”

“Okay, just don’t involve them. Please. That’s the deal.”

The Chameleon nodded reassuringly.

“Sure. You’re a good mommy Sue. But another thing, some of my boys ain’t gonna be happy about sharing just one middle aged hole between all of them. Not when there’s young booty about.”

She put her hand between Susan’s thighs and eased three fingers inside her. They slid into the wetness and the message was clear.

“You like giving head ? Did you blow John sometimes ?”

Susan screwed her eyes shut. She gave a tiny nod.

“Excellent. Good girl, Sue. A lot, or a little ?”

Susan breathed in deeply and shook her head.

“Not often, huh ? You swallow ?”

There was a pause before a pitiful sob broke the silence.

“I want to know, Sue. Did you swallow John’s pecker snot ?”

Susan whispered eventually. “Once.”

The Chameleon grinned inside her mask. It was just as she hoped.

“Once in twenty five years ? Right at the start, I guess. Early days, huh ? And I figure that means you didn’t like that taster too much, right ?”

Susan sobbed quietly, shaking her head.

“Don’t cry, Sue. Heck, I don’t much like the stuff either !”

She looked down at her three fingers, soiled with rape juice.

“I wonder if Lorna likes the taste. I reckon she must have already tried blowing Gene, don’t you ?”

Susan’s eyes opened and she blinked back tears.

“Pl ... please ...”

“Let’s change the subject. How about the asshole, Sue ? I’ve got a few butthole addicts on my team. You occasionally let John in your backdoor ?”

Susan simply stared at her. She shook her head from side to side.

“No ? Not once ? Oh fuck. My boys are gonna love that.”

Susan squinted, her eyes clearly searching for mercy, but finding none.

“There are twenty of my boys in all, Sue. You’ve only met twelve of them so far. One of them is gay but the other nineteen are good, horny heterosexual brutes. Two-three-times-a-day guys. What’s that ? Fifty, sixty loads a day ?”

She held up sticky fingers as if she was using them to count.

“And one final thing, you’ve got to be real enthusiastic. Maybe some guys like it when a woman just lies there, but mine will want to see some real gusto. Tongue-kissing, trash talk, raw enthusiasm. And you’ll say yes to any kinky suggestions they have too. You got all that ?”

Susan Cumber shut her green eyes again and her jaw line froze.

“Yes ... I understand.”

“Well, that’s settled then. I guess your baby girls are going to be real chuffed to be spared having to take their share of the loads.” She chuckled at her own pun.

Susan’s eyes blinked open fiercely.

“Now I get my say.”

Stupid bitch. As if she had anything to negotiate with.

“What ?”

“I want to see my children. I need to know they’re safe.”.

“Sure you can. But not just yet.”

“Why not ?”

“Because I fucking say so.”

Susan paused, evidently gauging how far to push it.

“When ?”

“A few days, if you keep up your side of the deal.”

Susan’s tearstained eyes studied her. The mask helped. Not only for scaring the shit out of them and for hiding her identity a while.

No, it helped when the Chameleon needed to lie as well.

“Okay.” Susan capitulated. “Just don’t touch any of them in the meantime”.

*** *** ***

08.00 hrs

At exactly eight, Lorna Jackson Cumber, woke and screamed at the dreadful apparition.

Somebody had walked into her cell. The person was wearing a facemask. It was a dreadful blue-green rubber hood in the shape of a lizard’s head, with eyeholes, nostrils and a mouth slit, like something out of an old horror movie.

She swallowed her screams and begged. “Please, nooooo !”

Everything ached. Her calves above all, but her feet, ankles, thighs, back, neck and arms throbbed with agonising pain from spending all night standing up.

“Please,” she repeated, “whoever you are.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

It was a man’s voice. Harsh, flat with no immediately distinguishable accent. It might have been American, Canadian, Australian, British, even a fluent English speaker from another country. The sound was somehow expressionless, hollow and ruthlessly professional.

His hands reached out and seized the cleavage of her wedding dress. With barely a pause, he tore the silk and lace creation off her shoulders and down the middle from her chest to her waist, and rent it asunder.

She screamed again. Despite her shock and fear - sick to her stomach - Lorna was awake enough, and clear headed enough, to know she was about to be raped. Guys didn’t shred dresses if they took no for an answer. She wasn’t a virgin. Not quite. She would rather have sex with somebody than die. But she couldn’t just accept it.

His hands pulled and ripped every last piece from her body until she stood in just her matching white panties and bra. She couldn’t fight him. She couldn’t move. So she tried words.

“Look, Mister, it doesn’t have to be this way. I ...”

She winced as her bra was brutally pulled away from her breasts until it tore the clasp at the back, the spaghetti hoops over her shoulders ripped and the whole thing fell away, leaving her topless.

Before she could compute that indignity, he did the same thing to her lace trimmed pants, ripping so that the delicate material exploded in his grip.

She stood naked. Shock, shame and dread coursed through her.

Finally, he paused, dropping the remaining shreds of her underwear, stepping back to admire her body.

She could see his ebony pupils moving in the eyeholes, appraising her. He looked up and down her body, lingering between her legs and on her breasts and face.

And then he started to unbuckle his belt.

“Please,” she attempted one last time, “look, at least let me off this wall.”

He didn’t even undress properly. He just dropped his pants to his ankles. His body looked hard, older but without an ounce of fat, and there was a jagged purple scar that looked like an old bullet wound in his right hip. His penis was hard and purple too, jutting upwards towards her.

“No !” she howled, starting to cry, flexing her helpless fingers.

He hunkered down in front of her, so that his erection was the correct height between her spread thighs. She was bone dry but that didn’t seem to concern him in the slightest.

He spat through the mouth flap onto his fingers and roughly manipulated her arid labia apart. She felt him wetting her inside and out, raising his hand to his mouth again to add a second dollop of saliva, smearing it into her.

Then he simply forced his penis up into her in a single thrust.

“Noooo ...” She gasped, incapable of finding the energy to scream.

She was helpless, unable to move more than an inch or two in any direction. Like a stuck butterfly. She had no choice but to stand there and take it, up against the wall.

About ten years before, at high school, Lorna’s class had attended a lecture about date rape. The memory flooded back to her now, the sunshine streaming through the classroom windows, her teenage friends’ morbidly fascinated faces, the homely woman who had come to give them the lecture, and the sexy male assistant who had provided them hints on self defence.

But this was something quite different.

She turned her face to the side, away from his rubber mask and tobacco breath, her wracking sobs and his manic thrusts making it difficult for her to breathe.

She had been known as Cocktease Cumber since high school. Boys had accused her of leading them on. It was only Gene – dear, gentle Gene – who hadn’t simply expected her to open her legs just because he wanted sex.

At last, she felt a small amount of lubrication as her vagina produced some moisture in self defence. She didn’t know whether to feel relief because it made the rape hurt less, or shame because her body had responded in some way. He was bigger than Gene, the only penis she had known up to then. He was discernibly thicker and longer and devoid of any care or finesse.

And then suddenly it was over. He groaned and humped without much apparent enjoyment and she felt him twitching in orgasm and then the hot savage wetness of his invasion of her insides.

He pulled out and took a step back. She she saw a big teardrop of semen still dangling from the tip of his penis.

“You bastard.” She muttered, her defeat turning to anger.

He chuckled coldly behind his horrendous lizard mask. He picked up a shard of her wedding dress and used it crudely to wipe his groin, then tugged his pants back up. He stepped forward and cupped her cheek in his palm, gently but with menace.

“Get used to it, cum dump. Trust me, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

And his words were worse than the rape itself.

The sudden realisation of the inevitable. She had no idea where she was, where Gene, Mom, Ryan or Rachel were, or even what really had happened to them all; whether this man was just acting alone, or how many of them there were.

But what she did know was that she was now ‘in play’; game on.

“Pl ... please,” she turned her head to face him, “who are you ? At least tell me that.”

“Sure.” He paused, checking his watch.

She waited helplessly while he ran his rough hand down her neck, between her breasts, over her belly, and finally between her legs, as if admiring the load he’d just dumped inside her. His pupils stared back through the eye slits.

“I’m the Chameleon.”

*** *** ***

Day Five

It was later on Sunday morning when the first journalist called him.

“John ?”

The guy was one of John Cumber’s close contacts, a top financial reporter to whom he had given his private cell, somebody he could trust.

“Hi, Dan.” He replied.

“John. I hate to do this to you. I know what you must be going through. But there’s a rumour sweeping the chat rooms and streets that you’re going to announce your resignation first thing tomorrow morning because of what’s happened.”

“Let me stop you there, Dan. That’s baloney. I wouldn’t let any fuckwits beat me. Sure I’m taking some time out, but resign ? Hey, no way.”

“Well that’s just what I thought, John. But this rumour’s got some traction. I’m also hearing that some funds are going to lighten their holdings tomorrow. There are a few big sell orders of Cumber stock being placed in Asia for opening tomorrow.”

John exhaled, controlling his breathing, gripping the phone tight. The previous Tuesday, February 27, the Dow had fallen 3.3% and the markets were still jittery. That 415 point drop had been triggered by a global sell-off of Chinese stocks.

“Dan, you gotta do something for me. The whole thing’s baloney. I can’t explain now but I think this must be some kind of scam linked to the kidnapping of my family. So, you can call back your own contacts and your fund manager friends and tell them all that, not only do I deny it, but I will never again deal with anybody who unloads Cumber stock at this time.”

“Whoa, my friend. Cool it. I’m sure it won’t be that bad. I’m just warning you something’s out there. I’ll make some calls but I can’t promise anything.”

“Okay, thanks, Dan. Keep in touch.”

He punched the red phone icon with his thumb and stared out of the window.

Now things were starting to make some sense.

*** *** ***

16.30 hrs

In the large deck area round the swimming pool, it was like a scene from a movie.

Most of the mercenaries had spent the day lounging on sun beds, listening to their music, drinking coffee or mint tea, reading magazines, tanning themselves. Yet even in the safety of this place, two guards were constantly on duty, scanning the sophisticated detection equipment, the skies and the horizon, for signs of human activity or unmanned drones.

Had it been a movie, the likes of Schwarzenegger, Seagal, Snipes, Stallone, Van Damme and Yun-Fat would have suited the roles.

The mercenaries were a tough bunch, reputedly the best. Officially known in the Underworld as ‘Squad 105’. An international team of men who had fought and killed side-by-side in many of the world’s harshest places; in Eastern Europe, across Asia, throughout Africa, down Central and South America.

Of course, they had real names. And a plethora of valid passports from different countries. But each member of Squad 105 also had a codename. Amongst themselves, they knew each other as ‘The Reptiles’.

Until then, ‘embarrassment’ to Susan Cumber would have been arriving at a charity dinner and finding another woman wearing the same designer dress. ‘Shame’ was one of your children not top scoring at school. She had led a charmed life.

But now, she was working the line of sun beds, like a beach bum at a seaside resort, fetching and carrying drinks, emptying ashtrays, doing whatever she was told. She was topless, naked but for a bikini bottom and little apron, scurrying hither and thither without a moment’s respite.

Her skin was pink from the boiling hot sun. They’d given her some sun lotion for her face and body, except for her breasts and buttocks. They made her leave her most tender curves unprotected.

“Keep moving fast bitch , and they won’t get burnt !”

But she could tell her breasts had already caught the sun. They were hot and sore to the touch.  Beads of perspiration sprouted like teardrops from her pores, running into her eyes, down her temples and into her cleavage. The cheap bikini was nylon, turquoise and too small. The fabric dug into her orifices.

When she nearly fainted, they gave her a salt tablet to swallow and a large glass of water. It was lukewarm but tasted like nectar.

As the hours passed, their demands had become more humiliating. She cringed with shame. The men wanted her to rub lotion on their backs, their chests, their feet, their faces. They were not wearing any masks and the thought troubled her.

If they didn’t care about being identified, what did that mean ?

The men were mostly chisel-featured with stubbly, unshaven jaws and cruel, vacant eyes. They had huge biceps, hard stomachs and honed bodies. Many had scars, or large tattoos. Some had deep suntans.

Three of them were Black, one was Indian, one Arab, one Oriental, the rest varying shades of Caucasian. She estimated their age range to be like hers, mostly in their forties, but several looked younger and one appeared to be in his sixties.

When she had started waitressing them, they were wearing swimming shorts, and a couple had khaki T-shirts too, with dark patches of sweat. Only one of them looked out of shape, a huge fat black man with a bald head and an enormous stomach that hung over his leather belt.

She winced at the realisation that he had probably been one of the men who had raped her yesterday. Susan liked to think of herself as a tolerant, modern woman. Not a racist. But she had been brought up in the South and to her the idea of African Americans and their black things was, quite literally, beyond the pale. She tried to push the awful thought from her mind.

“Come here.”

She looked round and saw that one of the mercenaries had undressed. His tanned naked body glistened with oil but he had a white stripe of skin under his waistline where he had taken off his shorts.

He lay back down. He had a thick mass of pubic hair that joined up with a mat on his chest. She tried not to stare at his genitals.

“Put this on me.” He said, handing her a plastic bottle.

She wiped sweat from her eyes and leant over him. She carefully tipped a drizzle of brown oil onto his hairy abdomen, then tentatively rubbed it into his pale hips.

“Now my dick.” He said. His eyes were shut.

But she noticed the men either side were watching with interest.

Slowly she traced her finger up his penis. It started to thicken.

Now he was shielding his eyes from the sun, looking at her.

“More oil. Make me hard.”

She applied a dollop directly onto his shaft. It bucked to meet her fingers.

“Me next.” The man on the neighbouring lounger chuckled.

She slithered her fingers up and down his erection. It had been a long time since she had masturbated John, her husband. She screwed her eyes shut.

“Open them.”

She looked at him. His face was obscured by the shadow from his hand.

“Jerk me off.” He said. “Or your daughter can do it.”

After that, she got no respite. The whole line of men wanted her attention. They still had her scuttling to and from the outdoor kitchen, pouring tea, lighting cigarettes, peeling fruit. But they demanded other things too.

The first man had shot his semen over his oily chest and stomach. There was an enormous quantity. It mingled with his body hair.

“Clean me up.”

She looked for a box of tissues she’d seen earlier. Several men around her laughed.

“He means lick it up bitch.”

“Or one of your daughters will.” They chorused.

There was more amusement. She grimaced and lowered her head.

The second man chose to bypass the licking. Instead, he pushed her mouth directly onto his penis the moment he was about to orgasm, and she had no choice but to gulp and swallow the bitterness all down. It made her retch but she managed it.

Her right arm and wrist were exhausted. The third man ended by kneeling up on his lounger and making her squat down below, so he could masturbate himself onto her bare breasts.

“Here’s some sun lotion !”

Several men rubbed the creamy necklace into her tender breasts.

The fourth made her lie with her head pillowed on his stomach, sucking his erection while she masturbated him. Her aching arm was agony but he insisted she carry on for what seemed like fifteen minutes.

“Okay. Kneel down there and look up at me.”

She knelt by the side of the lounger and watched his fist jerking.

“Open your mouth.”

She parted her lips wide and felt a hot spurt landing on her forehead. A second splattered her cheek. He adjusted his angle so that the next two coated her tongue. He was groaning. The audience was cackling. He seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.

“Phew.” He said, at last. “Don’t wipe any of that. Let it dry on your face.”

“And go fetch me a black coffee.” Somebody else ordered.

When she returned, she asked them politely. Her bladder ached.

“Please. I ... I need to use the bathroom.”

They hooted.

“The lady needs a bathroom la-di-da.”

“Piss or shit, Ma’am ?” another asked, mockingly stretching out the word Ma’am as if he were a fancy hotel concierge.

She gulped. “Er ... pee.”

Somebody handed her an empty water jug.

“Use this.”

She looked at them and glanced around. Their eyes were hard, jaws set, lips curled. She saw no mercy in them.

“Do it now.” One said. “Or shall we fetch your son to watch you ?”

With a silent sob, she placed the jug on the tiles at her feet. Then she slowly tugged the tight bikini down her legs until she could step out of it.

“Take off the apron too.”

She undid the knot behind her and let the apron fall. She was now totally naked and exposed. Fourteen strange men were all staring at her.

The one who seemed to be their leader they referred to as Gator.

He picked up a bamboo stick as she slowly squatted over the empty jug.

“Open wide, lady. Knees apart.”

He pushed each of her legs with the stick, running it teasingly up her thighs. He was one of the ugliest men she’d ever seen, with an entire ear missing and a livid purple scar distorting one side of his face. He was missing several teeth and those that remained were tobacco-stained.

“Don’t be shy. Heck, most of us have said hi to your cunt already.”

She guessed this moment had been planned all along to destroy the last vestiges of her dignity. She would rather have died.

But she would survive for Rachel, Ryan and Lorna.

And John.

They were worth more to her than any amount of cruelty or humiliation these bastards could inflict on her.

Two of the men were filming her with their phones. Other obnoxious faces were fanned out in front of her, studying between her legs, gazing between her naked thighs, waiting, occasionally exchanging smirks with each other. Each of them had already invaded her body.

Now they were invading her soul.

The edge of the bamboo poked up between her humid labia, splaying her open. She was still unwashed from their rape of her the day before. The foul scent of stale sex and body odour assaulted her nostrils in the afternoon sun.

“Please.” she mouthed silently, a hiccup of air escaping her lips.

The man called Gator grinned at her with the half of his mouth that still worked.

“Okay. But make sure you get most of it in the jug, or else.”

She paused. She’d been desperate but, when it came to the actual moment, something within her wouldn’t allow her to do it. Her bladder ached and yet ...

How on earth was she going to do something so undignified ?

She couldn’t bear to look at the grinning, spellbound faces of the sweating men as they enjoyed her total dishonour. She hunkered lower over the jug, shut her eyes and let out an uncontrolled sob.

And then she heard the hiss of her own urine.

What had she done to deserve this ?

*** *** ***

Day Five

“John.”

The agent in overall charge of the case was Walt Furness, a grizzled veteran of thirty years, although he’d never known a situation remotely like this. Almost five days gone and not a single meaningful clue.

“We dusted the envelope and contents. Nothing. No prints except yours, John, no traces, zip. We’ve sent the writing off to Quantico for analysis. But what it does do in the meantime is help us with a pointer as to who and what we’re dealing with.”

John nodded, rubbing his chin. That much he’d worked out for himself.

“John, I’ve got to ask. Do you have any enemies ?”

He would have laughed in other circumstances. Even now he allowed himself a wry smile.

“A few, Walt. You don’t exactly reach my position without inflicting some casualties along the way. I’m not exactly the most popular kid on the block.”

“So, you know what I’m saying. Any ideas ?”

He shrugged. “Somebody who would do this ? You’re kidding right ? I can be a shit, Walt, but ...” he threw up his hands, “... enough to cause this ?”

“Nevertheless, would you make a list of all the names you can think of who might dislike you ? Anybody, with or without reason. We’ll handle them with care.”

John stared across at him, then nodded.

“Sure. But isn’t this just about ransom money ? Or some financial scam ? We’re just the innocent targets.”

Walt eyed him back, stroking his bristled jaw.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

*** *** ***

17.12 hrs

“Caught in the crossfire.”

Gene Collins III hung helpless in the manacles, his mouth dribbling, doing his best to stay conscious and to comprehend what the female behind the mask was saying to him. Caught in the crossfire ? What the fuck ? She said he’d been caught up in something beyond his control.

“What ?” he mumbled again.

Her gloved hands eased down his underpants and she used scissors to snip them off him, leaving him stark naked. Please, no.

“Yes, you’ve been caught in the crossfire, I’m afraid.” She repeated, her tone of voice sounding to him as if she was much less concerned than her words might have suggested.

“So, let’s have a look-see, shall we ?”

Her voice sounded older, like a woman his mom’s age. Her fingers cupped his balls and then smoothed out his shrivelled, petrified length. He felt like some meagre cut of meat she was considering at the deli for her family dinner.

“Not bad for a little one.” He could detect the amusement in her voice.

“Please d ... don’t.”

She moved her finger to his lips. It smelt of latex. Like a condom.

“Ssshhh.” she cooed. “I won’t castrate you. Not yet. Not if you’re good. I’ve got a nice job for this thingy anyway.”

He gulped. Job ?

“Yes. You should have been fucking your lovely bride right now, shouldn’t you ? Using this cocktail sausage to give your lovely Lorna a damned good seeing to, right ? Right ?”

He nodded slowly. His mouth was dry as desert sand.

“Well, I’m afraid that you can’t fuck the Cumber kid you wanted to. You see, your fiancé is now ... er ... engaged with someone else.”

He groaned inwardly, fearing the implication of her play on words.

“Yes.” She cupped his balls gently, as if she was trying to excite him. She teased a fingertip up the underside of his shaft. “Do you like that ?”

He shook his head. But her hands kept playing with him anyway.

“It excites you, doesn’t it, Gene ? Being tied up like this. Your browsing history makes interesting reading.”

He frowned. How ?

He heard an amused snort behind the mask.

“Oh, I know you deleted those sites. But remember when daddy brought home that shiny new laptop and the butler chucked your old PC out ?”

He groaned, still confused. His groin was slowly responding.

“It was all there, Gene. Tucked away. Every site, every image, every document. A computer history is like a window into somebody’s mind.”

“Please ...” He was hard enough for her to stroke him now.

“Lorna doesn’t know, does she ? Your nasty fantasies.”

He screwed up his face, blushing, unable to find words.

“Don’t worry. It can be our little secret.”

“Wha ... what have you done to her ?”

“Oh, don’t worry your little head about Lorna. She’s fine.”

She was pumping his shaft up and down skilfully. He was rock hard in spite of everything. Her fingers knew exactly where to squeeze.

“But you can fuck the other Cumber kid.” She continued. “I’d like that. And I’m sure you’ll enjoy it too.”

He gasped and frowned, then tried to shake his head to clear it. Instead he banged his ear against the hard cell wall.

Fuck Rachel ? I mean, but why ?

Inside the eyeholes of the lizard mask, he detected two pupils shining. She took her hand away and abandoned his erection like an empty flagpole.

“No.” the woman’s voice said, with a hoot of laughter. “Oh no. You’ve got the wrong idea. Not Rachel, you silly boy ! We wouldn’t want that. No, it’s Ryan we’d like you to give a good seeing to.”

*** *** ***

17.30 hrs

Susan puckered her lips and squinted into the mirror.

They had only given her fifteen minutes to shower, eat and refresh herself. It felt so good to have washed at last, even though a man supervised her throughout. The warm water stung her pink breasts and buttocks but she soaped every crevice and inch of her scummy body and scrubbed her hair.

She dried herself and was then given another bowl of the congealed gruel to eat, but with a wooden spoon this time, rather than on the floor like a dog. She forced it down knowing she was weak with hunger. The man checked her bowl to ensure she had scraped the sides clean.

He gave her a comb, makeup and lipstick. The eye shadow was a dreadful blue like a prostitute would wear and the mascara was thick and cheap. The lipstick was bright scarlet. Finally he gave her a set of purple satin underwear. The bra had only quarter-cups so her breasts were displayed and the panties were frilly. She shivered as she pulled them up. It was quite obvious from the stains inside that the tacky underwear had been used before without being washed.

“Okay, let’s go make you a star.” The man said, propelling her out into the sunshine.

By the pool, she saw that several cameras on tripods, boom microphones and silver foil lights had been set up. There were computers and even some director’s chairs.

The men wolf whistled as they saw her outfit and makeup.

“Ready, guys.” She heard somebody shout. “Let’s roll.”

*** *** ***

18.14 hrs

A pair of Chameleons sat together in the shade and watched the screen. It would have been nice to have the final member of their trio there too, all enjoying the moment together, but he was rather busy over in the States just now.

Still, as Meatloaf sang so powerfully, and so appropriately, three decades earlier, Two out of Three ain’t Bad.

‘I poured it on and I poured it out.’

Two chilled glasses of lager rested on the table, wonderfully refreshing in the heat of the North African evening.

They chinked glasses together and supped their ice cold beer.

‘But you’ve been cold to me so long

I’m crying icicles instead of tears.’

Best Enjoyed Cold.

There is something wonderfully erotic about an attractive white woman’s scarlet mouth sliding up and down the full length of an impressive black erection. Her bright lipstick was still shiny and without smudges yet. Every ridge and vein of his thick shaft was visible as she slid back her stretched lips.

On the main widescreen - a huge plasma monitor - Susan Cumber was being slowly spit roasted in the golden glow of late afternoon sun. Gecko, a heavily tattooed warrior of uncertain parentage and nationality, but now carrying a Russian passport, was crouched behind her as she knelt on the lounger. His muscled torso glistened with oil as he sensuously eased himself in and out of her slurping matriarchal cunt.

Meanwhile, Cobra was lying on the sunbed, his massive black belly shimmering with sweat, his fat fingers possessively entwined in Susan’s damp tresses, guiding her pursed lips up to his swollen helmet, then all the way back down his shaft as far as she could manage without gagging. Her pendulous tits hung down as she worked, nipples brushing Cobra’s inner thighs. Her discarded purple lingerie lay crumpled on the floor.

Give the dame her due, an onlooker really might have thought she was enjoying it. Her eyes were closed in apparent ecstasy, revealing her sluttish blue eye shadow. The expensive sound system picked up every meaty slap of flesh on flesh, each moan, every whimper, the continuous sloshy glugs from her cunt and mouth as she tackled her first ever threesome.

Gecko and Cobra played their parts convincingly too, with the usual male porn star noises and ‘oh yes babe’, ‘mmm ... you love it don’t you’, ‘oooh, you’re so tight round my dick’ and other choice XXX movie clichés. They had been cast after careful deliberation. Cobra, in particular, was perfect for his role.

The microphones taped. The cameras rolled, focussed close up, so as to catch her face in glorious detail but only recording her two faceless lovers from their necks to their knees. In the smaller screens to the side, other lenses captured a close up from below and also a long shot of the entire scene.

For Susan Cumber, it was sure going to be a hard day’s night. She had a ticket to ride.

The Chameleons exchanged amused glances as Gecko uttered a prolonged, orgasmic groan and unleashed his first orgasm of the evening. They watched him pull out and stagger away, high-fiving Komodo, a tall slim Hindi.

Within moments, Night Snake had shucked his shorts and taken Gecko’s place. He was the youngest of the Reptiles but he had no qualms about sinking his erection into the sodden cunt of a woman 15 years his senior.

The Chameleons knew each one of the mercenaries’ true names and backgrounds. Most were longstanding members of Squad 105. For example, Night Snake was really Nikolaos, a swarthy Greek, although he answered to Nicklas, Nicholas and Nico in various countries.

But Komodo was a new member of the team. His real Hindi name was Kovida and he had been recruited for a specific purpose.

Night Snake smacked his hand harshly across Susan’s rump and uttered words of encouragement in his native Greek.

Yep, everything was going exactly to plan.

She was starting to learn the Rule of Three.

CHAPTER THREE

THE RULE OF THREE

“Human behaviour flows from three main sources:

emotion, knowledge and lust.”

Plato, Greek Philosopher (423-347 BC)

“Who dares wins”

Sir David Stirling, Founder of the British SAS (1915-1990)

CV

It was always hard for him to remember anything much before the rage.

Before the ‘Red Mist’ descended.

The first nineteen years of his life seemed to have gone pretty well, as far as he could recall anyway. He was an only child, a bit of a loner. His American dad had been a GI who met his mom in England during World War II.

Charlie was born in 1957, ironically after his parents had given up all hope of having a kid. The three of them lived in Ontario, NY. He went to high school there, got ok grades, liked baseball, rock and beer, made it to college.

Heck, a pretty typical 19 year old kid’s Curriculum Vitae.

Then came that Summer of Seventy Six.

Sounds like a fucking punk song doesn’t it ?

‘Teenage kicks,

We learned some tricks,

Oh we took out our dicks

And fucked those chicks,

During the long hot Summer of 76.’

He’d even strummed guitar back then, before he smashed it into pieces.

Sunday, Fourth of July 1976, was a truly significant day in Charlie’s life for three reasons.

It was America’s Bicentenial Celebration; 1776 - 1976. The 200th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence.

One of the few things that he could remember clearly about that day was the excited atmosphere: the festivities and parades, the enormous fireworks that lit up the night sky, the fluttering star spangled banners, the cook outs and evening parties, the sound of loud music, the taste of cold beer and the scent of strong spliffs.

Secondly, it was the day that the Israeli Special Forces launched their daring raid on Entebbe Airport in Uganda, capturing his imagination, sparking in him a love of special forces missions that had never left him.

But finally, July 4th 1976 happened to be the day that John Cumber had fucked his fiancé and set this whole darned thing in motion.

*** *** ***

Monday

The third Chameleon loved playing delivery guys.

He was still ‘white’ but, this time, he would be described as ‘tallish’, ‘grey haired’, ‘clean shaven’, ‘probably late forties’. It’s amazing the effect just wedge-heels, hair dye, a razor and a few cosmetics can achieve.

He was also dressed in a genuine Fedex uniform, proudly wearing the purple and red logo on his chest. He dropped the package at the Cumber Building reception on a frantic Monday morning, got it signed for and deliberately stuck his tongue out at the CCTV cameras as he left.

It didn’t matter. It was the last time he would be doing things this way.

*** *** ***

Day Six

John Cumber felt his blood run cold when Renee, his Executive Assistant, carried in a mound of correspondence with one unopened package on the top. He immediately recognised the big, handwritten, upper case letters: ‘JOHN CUMBER, TOP SECRET, EYES ONLY’.

For a moment he wondered if he should call Security without delay to trigger a search and chase. But he figured it would already have taken a minimum of fifteen minutes for the package to reach him. By now, the person who delivered it would be long gone. It had an identification sticker. Maybe that could be used to trace somebody if it was a genuine Fedex ?

More importantly, he wanted to open the package in private.

He sliced it open, revealing an inner envelope, one of those square plastic coated cards used to protect computer discs. It contained a DVD of some sort.

“Thanks, Renee.” He said, his tone making it clear to his EA that he needed time alone. She discreetly shut the office door behind her.

He pulled a pair of latex medical gloves that Walt had given him out of his desk drawer. Best to keep his prints off it. The disc was silver and blank on one side. He turned it over.

‘BEST ENJOYED RED HOT’ was the title stencilled in gaudy red, pink and turquoise, swirling round the centre of the disc like some nasty XXX porno DVD title. John Cumber hated pornography, regarding it along with cigarettes and drugs as the three vices that were undermining the moral backbone of Western Civilisation. He hadn’t partaken in any of the three since his student days.

With moist, trembling fingers, he opened his PC drive and loaded the disc, clicking the mouse to fire it up.

First, there was music. That Louis Armstrong number; ‘We have all the time in the world’. Suddenly the monitor flickered. Words scrolled down the screen. It started with that day’s date: March 5th 2007.

Dear Mr. Cumber,

Welcome to ‘Best Enjoyed Red Hot’. I hope Renee doesn’t catch you jerking off while you watch it ! It’s only a snippet of the whole movie actually, just five minutes of edited highlights. What they call a ‘Cum Shot Recap’ in the trade I think.

Watch it very carefully. As I’ve said before, I never give unclear instructions. Do not fast forward. When it’s finished we’ll continue our little chat. Bye for now.

C

The music faded. Almost instantaneously, without warning, Susan’s face filled the screen.

He stared at his wife. Her green eyes were wide open, her pupils dilated. Something was wrong. She was wearing blue eye shadow and mascara and bright lipstick.

And then liquid spattered her face, the lens, everywhere. Hell, no. He realised what it was. Great gobs of semen were landing on her from both sides of her head.

He caught sight of the ends of two penises just at the edge of the screen, jerking and spurting. There was male laughter in the background accompanied by the usual murmurs and sounds of orgasm, backed by some kind of elevator-music soundtrack.

And then, worse. He saw Susan was actually smiling. Mouth open, apparently taking what they were doing in good humour. Her eyes had closed against the cascading fluid but her perfect dazzling teeth were visible, her expression even suggesting she wanted it.

Without warning, the action cut to another scene, this time of Susan outdoors, on some kind of sun bed. She was being having sex with one guy while another ... a black guy ... was ... she was performing fellatio on him !

He wanted to shut his eyes but he couldn’t. He stared, heart beating dangerously fast, as a heavily tattooed and muscled man mounted his wife from behind. It wasn’t rape. He was doing it sensuously and slow and she was even thrusting back to meet him. John couldn’t see the man’s face.

And then the camera panned and zoomed closer on her red lips sliding greedily up and down an oversized black penis, virtually gagging each time she got more than half of the repulsive thing in her stretched mouth.

And the noises. He could hear it all as if they were doing it right here and now on his mahogany desk. The wet slurping sounds and the men muttering how great she was over the dreadful muzak in the background.

And Susan gasping and groaning in return.

He watched all six scenes before the disc finally faded out. By the time it had finished, his wife’s face resembled some awful modern graffiti painting, covered with semen and smeared makeup. By the time it had finished, her vagina resembled bloodied slices of beef carpaccio and mayonnaise.

And by the time it had finished, John Cumber was blubbering like a child.

More words started scrolling down the screen like credits at the end of a movie. They were blurred and he wiped his eye on his sleeve so he could read them.

John,

Now, now. Don’t cry. After all, if you miss Susan and you’re feeling horny, you can watch it all again and pretend it’s your dick she’s sucking. Better still, give up jerking off for Lent. Forty days and forty nights.

Here’s the deal. You can buy your kids back for two hundred and fifty million bucks each. Plus another two fifty for the fiancé guy. I know math is your thing but, just in case you’re not thinking straight, that’s a round billion for the four youngsters.

If we do that transaction, and if it all goes real well, then we can talk about your wife.

After I’ve finished with her of course. And to show no hard feelings I’ll make you a good price. Do everything I say and I’ll only price her at one buck !

Well, gotta go. My balls are heavy. A gentle reminder about the Cumber stock price. Don’t let it close below 15. I hear there are some big sell orders out there. I’ll be in touch again soon. Bye.

M

Dazed, John Cumber despairingly picked up the phone to call Walt Furness but, before he got it to his mouth, he dashed to his private bathroom and was violently sick.

*** *** ***

1976

Charlie never finished College. His traumatic break up from Melissa finished his academic career for good. Instead, he sold his trusty Ford Pinto and bought a one-way TWA ticket to England.

He wanted to join the military. But not the US Army. Not now.

Being a Brit on his mother’s side, and desiring both a fresh start and the anonymity that a new country offered, he flew to London and applied.

But not just to any regiment. To the legendary Paratroop Regiment.

‘The Maroon Machine’.

The Second Battalion: as hard a bunch of fuckin’ geezers as ever pulled on a beret and uniform anywhere.

The induction and training were so hard that even Charlie nearly dropped out a couple of times. But his talent and rage kept him going. In the end he passed with flying colours. First in his Class.

Then, with the top brass’s customary sense of humour, his commanding officer selected him to train as a specialist signals operator, solely due to the fact that his full name was Charlie Victor, both letters of the army’s radiotelephony phonetic alphabet; Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, etc.

He did two tours of Northern Ireland. Aged just 22, he was on the first truck at Warrenpoint on 27th August 1979 when two IRA fertiliser bombs killed twelve of his colleagues. It was the highest death toll suffered by the British Army in a single incident in Ireland. Instantly there was political and media speculation that the famous regiment’s 18 month tour of duty would be cut short so they could lick their wounds and recover.

But Charlie and his colleagues had other ideas. They were out on patrol the next day. The men of 2 Para completed their tour. Utrinque Paratus.

After three years, he transferred to the only regiment that he would ever consider leaving his beloved Paras for.

The Special Air Service.

The original, the first, the catalyst for the world’s modern Special Forces. The Australians, the Kiwis, the French, even Delta Force and the Israeli Sayeret Matkal, all can trace their origins back to the British SAS.

He joined the 22nd Battalion and was there in a black balaclava, bearing his Mp5 machine gun, on 5th May 1980 when the SAS abseiled into the Iranian Embassy in London, rescued the hostages and killed the terrorists, all in front of the world’s press and broadcast live on TV. ‘Who dares wins’.

He was there in the Falklands in May 1982, already a veteran at the age of 25, when 22SAS helicoptered onto Pebble Island and obliterated the Argentine air force on the ground, with no British dead and just one Argentine casualty.

Those were only the official highlights. For several more years, he served in other places, on secret missions and attachments. He was promoted out of the ranks, quietly decorated twice and mentioned in dispatches.

But when there were no tours, no missions, his loneliness and anger still got to him. He drank. He fought. He was disciplined.

One afternoon, he was watching breakfast TV in some whore’s bedroom when a familiar face appeared grinning on the screen. John Cumber had just sold his first company for two hundred million dollars.

That evening, the ‘Red Mist’ got him into trouble one time too many and he was ... well ... let’s just recount the official version.

The distinguished years of service of Charlie Victor to his adopted Queen & Country were over.

They sent him to a special psychiatric facility for two months to help him acclimatise to the civilian world and to address his ‘anger management’ needs.

They taught him the first Rule of Three: always take three deep breaths.

Fuckers had never had a bayonet stabbing at their belly.

But for a while the rule seemed to help. But the well meaning doctor who taught him not to lash out, only really succeeded in planting another seed in Charlie’s tortured mind.

Don’t react in the heat of the moment.

Stay calm. If you must seek retribution, it is something best enjoyed in the cold light of the dawn.

Then, after three disastrous months of wearing a fucking suit behind a fucking desk in a fucking civvy-street office job, Charlie walked out into the foggy street one lunchtime and never returned. He sat drowning his sorrows in a backstreet London pub.

Hunched on a stool next to him that fateful afternoon was a man with a livid purple scar down one side of his face and a missing right ear. Both men recognised each other as ex-military, kindred spirits.

The man was called Gaston. Or Gus. Or whatever. He was from The Gambia. Or Grenada. Or Guadaloupe. Who gives a shit what was the truth ? The only thing for sure was that he had served twelve years in the French Foreign Legion.

He and Charlie sat at the bar for many hours swapping anecdotes and opinions and, by the time the cockney landlord called out ‘last orders’, a firm friendship had begun.

Over the next few days, and after a few introductions to the right people, the Brit-Yank who they had soon codenamed ‘CV’ became a mercenary.

Cry Havoc ! Let slip the Dog of War.

He was to become one of the very best. Heck, reputedly even, the best.

Nevertheless, his final mission had taken CV over ten years to plan and prepare.

But finally he was ready. The axe was sharp.

February 2007.

Yep, Best Enjoyed Cold.

Fucking freezing, in fact.

*** *** ***

16.19 hrs

He had assembled a dossier on Susan Cumber that covered her whole life. She was born Susan Jackson in Atlanta, on April 8th, 1962. She did well at school and attended Vassar College. She had only just begun working as a junior attorney when she met John Cumber.

The thickest part of his file covered the last decade. Press cuttings, magazine photos, and his own reconnaissance zoom lens shots taken during periods between combat missions around the world. He had watched her grow and mature and raise her teenage kids and bloom into her late-thirties and forties, still beautiful, still immaculate and still largely blameless.

Sure, she was too strict on her poor domestic staff, she was pernickety about food, and she spent waaay too much on her hair. But it wasn’t Susan’s fault that she and her kids were now in cells downstairs about to suffer an ordeal that nobody should be put through.

No, the blame lay squarely at the door of her husband.

“Please, Mister Cumber, Sir. Please do whatever they say. Give them the money, Sir. Or they’ll cut my b ... balls off !”

The close up of Gene Collins III’s youthful genitals looked very painful on film. A noose of piano wire was wrapped tightly round his scrotum. Another garrotte around the crown of his penis had turned the head purple.

Gloved hands, clearly visible in the picture, threatened the boy with emasculation. Two quick tugs and his sausage and eggs would be breakfast.

“Cut !” said Red Mist, the masked male Chameleon.

“Nooooooo !” the boy screamed in terror.

Everybody laughed.

“He means cut the film.” Komodo said, punching the boy’s ribs good-humouredly. “Well, at least ... he does for now.”

Meanwhile, in another cell, the female Chameleon was directing Rachel Cumber’s whining contribution to their fundraising epic.

“Daddy, we’re all okay so far. I’m fine. Like, they haven’t touched me. But you gotta to do what they say, daddy, and everything will be alright. Please get them their money quick. Please. I love you.”

Rachel looked up at the woman’s masked face for approval, eyes brimming with tears.

“Perfect.” The one known as Famous Blue Raincoat replied, switching the recording button off. Then she stared back enquiringly into the 21 year old’s wet baby-blues.

“What now ?”

*** *** ***

17.00 hrs

He wanted to enjoy her face when he did it.

And for her to see him, unmasked.

Charlie wasn’t a big fan of anal sex. He had always been a cunt-and-mouth man. To him, the butt seemed unhygienic and unnatural and over-rated.

But he’d also witnessed enough over the past thirty years to know that anal adds a whole new dimension to an unwilling female’s shame. Susan Cumber was a backdoor virgin and so he was going to be the first guy to use her that way. You always remember your first.

They were in the old fort’s interrogation room. Built in the 1950s, it was a large underground space that had been re-equipped with thousands of bucks worth of the most modern and effective instruments of torture just for this mission.

Susan Cumber was fastened face-up onto a padded table. It was like a medieval rack but covered in shiny black PVC, with 21st Century dials, knobs and gizmos. The tabletop comprised four identical rectangles that came together to form a comfortable surface supporting her torso, arms and legs.

But each quarter could be controlled separately, moved apart, upwards, downwards, angled, rotated. As a result, each of her four limbs was able to be angled, shifted and pulled into whatever position Charlie desired.

He had her arms outstretched above her head and her legs pointed at the ceiling, splayed apart, kind of like she was a little kid whose diaper he was changing. Her sunburnt butt cheeks hung nicely over the edge of the table.

“Tell me.” He slapped her ass hard enough to make her wail.

Sobbing, Susan answered his interrogation. She admitted she had never once thought about anal sex and her husband had never even tried to finger her back there when they made love.

Charlie smiled inwardly. It seemed like the college stud had actually turned out to be a pretty vanilla guy !

She told him that she’d had a recent colonoscopy check for bowel cancer. But otherwise her bottom was uncharted territory.

He nodded. His enema solution contained some chloral hydrate rectal sedative to loosen her defences. He dipped his finger into a tub and smeared a generous dollop of jelly into the cleft between her buttocks.

Her eyes widened and her face blushed scarlet.

“Relax.” He chuckled. “It will hurt less.”

He pushed his finger into her tightly clamped sphincter and wormed it around, then pulled over a trolley of enema equipment.

The nozzle was the double balloon type. He used his thumb and index finger to draw her wrinkled bud open and twisted the nozzle tip in. It was lathered in lubricating jelly and it slid in more easily than he expected.

She hissed a sharp intake of breath and screwed her eyes shut.

He smiled encouragingly and pushed the tube further inside her until the first balloon was fully lodged in her rectum. Then he reached for the air bulb and pressed rhythmically a few times to inflate the balloon. She whimpered helplessly as it expanded inside her.

“Open your eyes.”

He inflated the second balloon outside her bottom so that the tube was locked firmly in place, with a ball either side of her sphincter muscle. Her buttocks scrunched with indignation.

He adjusted the trolley so she could watch him connect everything up. Then he stood back, flicked the dial and watched the liquid start to flow down the tube. Gravity made it all happen nice and slow.

“Aaah !” she cried as she felt the temperature of the cool water.

He lit a cigarette and exhaled. He knew how vulnerable she would be feeling now. Legs up, ankles open, thighs wide. Her tearful green eyes pleaded with him. He reached down and ran his finger along the lips of her cunt, splaying her pink gash open, exposing her clit.

“Please ... aaaooorrgghh !”

She began to sweat and grimace as the first cramps hit her. Her white teeth started to chatter. The enema wasn’t chilled but it was only 86 degrees F (30 C), well below body temperature.

“Don’t let me cramp your style.” He joked, patting her gently.

Her flat stomach bloated just above her crotch first, due to her sigmoid colon expanding. Then her left side started to bulge as the fluid invaded her descending colon.

He smiled down at her. It was strange. He truly felt he had known Susan Cumber for years. Her life, her body, her mind, after so much time monitoring and researching her.

And yet she had never once seen his face. They had never spoken. She had no idea who he was. He thought of all the articles he’d read about her, interviews she’d given, including his favourite.

“I can’t ...” she stammered “ ... no ... t ... take it out.”

“You can.” he replied calmly. “Or your daughters will instead.”

Beads of moisture were bursting out of every pore on her face and body. Every sinew of her stretched limbs strained. The enema contained a ferocious mix of Castile soap, coffee, lemon juice, sugar salt and hot pepper.

“Please.” She grunted. “Why me ? Wh ... who are you ?”

She was doing her best to focus on his face. He winked.

“I’m an old friend of John’s.”

She started to try to grunt out another question.

“Shhh.” He said, putting his finger to his lips.

He started to whistle. She had once given an interview to her daughters’ school magazine. Although it had been seven years ago, he had only recently found a copy. Oh, thank the stars for search engines. It was one of those naive interviews full of kid’s questions like ‘what is your favourite perfume’ and ‘where was your best vacation ?’

He loved it. In it, Susan had revealed her favourite singer was Bob Marley. So he began whistling one of Bob’s little tunes for her now:

“Don’t worry about a ting,

Cause every little ting gonna be alright.”

The session continued for 15 minutes. Her belly bloated like a whale. When she was full he stood between her legs and caressed her body gently. Every few seconds she’d groan as another excruciating spasm hit her. Eventually he deflated the balloons and removed the tube and nozzle.

“Hold it in.”

Finally, he fetched a special deep bed pan and allowed her to expel the noisy gas and frothy, dirty water. He chuckled at her staccato gasps of shame and exhausted relief. He sealed the bed pan lid carefully.

Now it was almost time.

He walked casually around the table, touching her, enjoying her emerald eyes as they nervously followed his tour.

Linda Evans, that dame from Dallas or Dynasty, or whichever ‘80s TV crap it was, was who she reminded him of. He reached out and squeezed her big breasts that had spread out to her sides. Even the fittest 45 year old couldn’t defy gravity forever. He decided one time soon he was going to tit fuck her.

Finally, Charlie stood humming at the end of the table, inches from her sparkling clean, defenceless rose bud, specked with a few remaining drops of water.

“Three little birds ...”

He sang, humming along to the reggae tune.

“Saying this is my message

to you-ou-ou.”

And on the ‘you-ou-ou’ he placed the silicone, well lubricated plug against the entrance to Susan’s cleaned out, virgin backdoor and pushed.

The rounded plug popped the puckered ring of defensive muscle and he twisted the first inch of it inside. She groaned at the indignity and flexed her buttocks trying to eject it.

He smiled. Komodo had given him a few pointers. The slim, lank haired Indian was the only homosexual on this mission. He had been recruited for his expertise. He was a helicopter pilot and computer hacker but above all he was an expert in gay SM.

The plug was especially designed for reluctant beginners. The greased crown was smooth and not too thick. But there was a flared ridge two inches down its length like a real circumcised penis.

He rotated and shoved in turn, bit by bit, until the ridge butted up against her defiant sphincter.

“Don’t worry about a ting’, he hummed again.

The unequal battle was not brief but its outcome was inevitable. Her anus crumpled inwards like an empty crisp packet. The main shaft of the vibrator entered her sanctum. She hissed and hollered. The shaft glistened with realistic veins and flared much thicker than the smooth crown. He conquered her like urban warfare; street by street, inch by inch.

Eventually all eight inches of silicone were crammed inside her, all the way to the flanged base. He smacked her bottom and listened to her howl with infuriated pain.

But she couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

*** *** ***

Day Six

At that exact moment, John Cumber, Walt Furness and only two other very senior agents were sat in an embarrassed hush as the DVD played out on the private viewing screen. The men looked straight ahead, not turning their heads left or right, ashamed to catch each other’s eye.

But it was the noises that hit them hardest. The wet slurping, and guys groaning, and Susan gasping like some porn starlet. They were men of the world, sure, but all were married and they found it impossible to imagine the emotions that John must be feeling as they all watched.

Even just the fact he had to share this with them.

Walt had accorded it ‘code red’ and ‘top-secret’ status.

But nevertheless.

Then came the message at the end.

Asking for a billion dollars.

And valuing Susan Cumber at just one dollar.

Finally it finished and they sat in uncomfortable silence.

Walt coughed.

“I don’t know what to say, John.”

He waved away the embarrassment. “Do you have any theories ?”

Walt turned to the experienced agent sat on his left.

“The letters.” The steel haired man explained. “The messages in the DVD were signed with two different letters. With a C at the start and then an M at the end.”

“Do those letters mean anything to you ?” Walt asked.

John shrugged. “No.”

“The first letter was signed with an ‘X’.” The agent continued methodically. “That’s a much more common anonymous signature. But the three letters X, C and M, share something in common.” He paused. “They’re all Latin numerals.”

Walt interrupted. “It could be just coincidence. But the letter X is Latin for 10, the letter C is 100, and the letter M is 1,000.”

John frowned. “A rising sequence.”

“And the number is growing tenfold each time.”

The discussion was interrupted by the phone ringing.

John hit the speaker button placing the incoming call on conference.

“John ?” shouted an animated voice. It was Hank Roberts, his friend, golfing partner and stockbroker. There were chaotic noises and voices in the background.

“Yes ?” John replied, all faces looking across at him.

“John, it’s overwhelming. There are some huge sell orders. We’re buying as you said but the price is in freefall.”

A pause.

“It’s already dropped under thirteen bucks.”

*** *** ***

17.22 hrs

Charlie smiled down into Susan’s face as he wedged his erection carefully  into her bottom. She was loose enough and ready for him after the withdrawal of the thick buttplug.

There was a Bloomberg screen on the wall. It was scrolling the equity markets. The Cumber Corporation share price was hovering around 12.80. He enjoyed imagining John Cumber focusing on that dilemma, while Susan Cumber had a whole new problem of her own.

He placed his hands proprietarily on her tits and kneaded them like dough balls. Slowly he started rocking his hips backwards and forwards.

“Mmm ...” he exhaled, “ ... good.”

Another Rule of Three: cunt, mouth and finally anus.

She had shut her eyes but was biting her lower lip, wincing.

“Open your eyes little bird.”

She snatched them open. They glistened; half with tears and half with rage, he suspected.

“Tell me,” he asked, “in 25 years, haven’t you ever once been tempted to be unfaithful to John ?”

She gawped at him, mouth like a goldfish. Her nipples were jiggling in time with his thrusts, wobbling like cherries on a tray of blancmange desserts.

“I asked a question. I expect an answer.”

She shook her head as much as the padded table allowed. “Never.”

He smirked, building a nice rhythm. She frowned in discomfort.

“Not even Hank Roberts ?”

Her green eyes widened. “How ... ?”

He laughed. “We’ve been watching you for a long time Susan.”

“I ... I met him for lunch a few times, that’s all.”

“I know. But your husband doesn’t know that does he ? I don’t think John would like to see a photo of you and his golf buddy snuggled in the corner of a romantic restaurant, would he ?”

She swallowed. Her expression portraying shock that she was having a conversation like this, at a moment like this.

“Please.” She mouthed.

He knew she was innocent. But it would really fuck with her husband’s mind to throw him a curveball at a time like this. He thrust hard. Hank Roberts was the least of John Cumber’s concerns right now.

He plunged deeper into Susan’s anus, making her grunt. If felt good. Maybe he could get used to the Hershey Highway after all ?

“Before too long you’re going to take every man here up this asshole.”

He said it as matter-of-factly as he could. No good natured joking. No threat either. Just a simple statement of what was going to happen.

“Unless, of course ...” he continued, “you want young Lorna to help you out ?”

She flinched. Just the slightest pause. Interesting.

“N ... ngh ... no.” she murmured bravely. “I’ll do it ...”

Charlie nodded approvingly and increased his pace, hammering into her, his hips slapping against her upturned taut buttocks. There was no need to hold back, no need to impress. After all, he wasn’t trying to please her. On the contrary.

“Mmmmmm ... yesssssss.” he hissed in exultant early release.

*** *** ***

17.33 hrs

Meanwhile, on the big widescreen in the guards common room, a soccer match was being broadcast. Apart from two men on guard, all the remaining mercenaries were sat around smoking, drinking beer, hollering at the screen.

And at the front of the room, adjacent to the TV, Susan Cumber’s elder daughter was bent over in a pillory, facing the semicircle of rowdy men.

Lorna’s beautiful 23 yr old face was fixed at a convenient height, level with a standing man’s waist.

It was a real medieval pillory, constructed in 15th century Germany, of oak and iron. The upright central post had been sawn off and lowered, forcing Lorna to stoop over with her cute bridal butt nicely presented behind her. Her elegant neck and delicate wrists were locked into three hinged holes cut into the wooden cross beams six centuries ago.

The society princess was totally naked except for a steel spider-gag that stretched her jaws wide apart and held her mouth open. The industrial gag was lined with a rubber dental breach to prevent her teeth, perfected by America’s most expensive orthodontist, from biting anybody.

At first, she was ignored, left to contemplate her fate. Her long eyelashes were wet with tears. Drool trickled down her chin and dropped to a shiny puddle on the platform of the pillory. Her lovely young tits dangled invitingly underneath her and her spine was curved in a gentle u.

Then, gradually, one at a time, the mercenaries rose from their seats during the game. Lorna slobbered helplessly around her gag as a tattooed mercenary stood behind her and gripped her hips. He casually thumbed her open. She was still unwashed after her rape that morning by the Chameleon.

Get used to it, cum dump, the Chameleon had said.

The man’s erection knifed into her like a sharp bayonet into a soft belly.

She felt his hot satisfied breath on her neck.

Immediately, a second mercenary stood in front of her face and unzipped himself. He grinned down at her as he directed his penis into the o-gag, holding her earlobes tight so she couldn’t twist away.

She gagged and her eyes watered with tears. She felt both men using her like an old rag. Her buttocks resonated with the sound of the man behind her building an impatient rhythm. His fingers mauled her tender breasts.

“How’s her cunt ?”

“Wet but good.”

They discussed her as if she wasn’t a real person. Thick wiry pubic hairs mashed her face. She could hardly breathe through her squashed nose and full mouth.

“Tighter than her mummy’s ?”

“Ja. For sure.” The man’s accent was harsh, foreign sounding.

Lorna’s hazy brain realised they must have raped her mom too. She heard the men watching the game burst into noisy cheers at what was happening on the screen. Her own rape was only part of their entertainment.

“Hurry up !” another man called out impatiently towards them.

Mercifully, the man in her mouth pulled himself away from her tongue. Her jaw ached painfully around the gag. She glanced up at him for mercy. His eyes looked through her. There was a long L-shaped scar on his neck and his bristly double chin was unshaven.

His right hand moved in a blur. She watched his purple crown and the slit of his penis only inches from her nose. She knew what was going to happen. For some reason she thought of Gene for a second. She felt the man’s left hand entwined in her matted hair.

Thick ropes of semen uncoiled like snakes. They splattered her face.

She heard him grunt, laughing.

There was nothing she could do. It invaded her mouth, the warm bitterness on her tongue, in the back of her throat. One jet filled her nostril, several more coated her cheeks, lips and chin. Eventually he staggered back and zipped himself up.

Immediately, a black man got up off the sofa.

“About fucking time too.” He said, smirking. “Oh man, that’s a mess.”

She stared up at his dark face helplessly. He winked at her and ran his big fat knuckle up her chin and cheeks. He showed her the thick creamy globs collected on his finger. Then he slowly fed it through the gag onto her tongue.

“Eat it all up, little lady.”

He tilted her chin back so it oozed slowly to the back of her throat.

She choked on the salty slime, just as the man behind her groaned. He began plunging manically into her and then she realised he was going to orgasm too. She felt his muscles flexing and the warm, wet assault on her insides.

But there was no respite. The black man in front unzipped himself, extracting a huge stiff penis from his dusty shorts. He pointed it between her lips.

She was aware of the man behind vacating her but, within literally seconds, another had taken his place. Hands seized her legs and adjusted her position, then her hips. Fingers briefly probed inside her vagina.

“Mmmm.” The new rapist murmured into her ear as he slammed his hard penis all the way in. She was wet but it still hurt. He was larger than the previous one and she winced as he penetrated deep inside her.

The two men settled into the same easy, careless tempo of the previous pair, evaluating her indifferently.

“Okay ?”

“Yeah. Won’t take long. I want to get back to the game.”

“Tits nice ?”

Fingers pinched her nipples making her whimper round the gag.

“Not bad.”

“You remember that puta we did together in Rio ?”

The man behind chuckled into her ear. “Shit, yeah ...”

Then he broke off the chat and hissed excitedly, picking up pace. She heard his hips smacking against her buttocks and felt his penis twitching, adding its hot, permanent stain to the cocktail inside her.

He laughed and his hand slapped her bottom.

There was absolutely no respite. Within moments, another man had replaced him. She had no idea whether he was young or old, fat or slim, black or white. She was now, totally accurately, just their cum dump.

The penis on her tongue spat without any warning. She retched helplessly as what tasted like thick unsweetened porridge filled her mouth, throat and palate. She couldn’t even swallow with the gag in place. She had to wait until the enormous helping slid down her gullet by gravity.

Eventually, his dark face and white teeth grinned down at her.

“Well done, little lady. Glug that all down the hatch.”

She watched his fingers carefully milking the final few drops of his orgasm out of his penis-slit before he put it back onto her tongue.

“That’s a much neater job than the previous guy, huh ?”

He waited for an answer, his expression turning nasty.

“Uungh.” She nodded, cleaning him as best she could.

At that moment, she heard a muted whistle from the television.

He sniggered. “That’s halftime. You’re gonna be busy now.”

Lorna burst into a renewed flow of tears.

Undeterred, a line of men assembled during the break in the game.

Three men at once casually pumped their penises inches from her face. Hands mangled her breasts and taunted her body.

“Bukkake !” somebody laughed as three men hosed her face virtually simultaneously.

Her aristocratic features dripped with the pearl-white scum of these plebeian low-lifes.

She realised with a sense of dread that their second round was starting because the first mercenary who had used her mouth was once more standing in front of her. He had a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He exhaled wreathes of tobacco smoke and unzipped himself. His fingers directed his soft penis at her ring-gag again.

“Have some beer.”

Another man’s hands grabbed her hair and tugged it until her roots were agony. Several blurred faces were checking that she was unable to move.

The penis was an inch from her mouth. It squirted a short jet.

“Ahhmmm.” The man’s voice gasped in release.

It was surprisingly hot. And disgustingly sour.

There was rowdy laughter. After the first taster, the man took careful aim and let rip a frothy, yellow sluice of second-hand beer. It overflowed Lorna’s gagged mouth, cascading onto the floor, but plenty gushed down her throat.

She tried to shake her head but hands gripped her tightly. Her sinuses exploded and her eyes filled with bitter tears.

Behind her, the anonymous rapist pulled out and she realised that he had discharged inside her without her even noticing. Fingers toyed with her vagina and she felt some kind of coarse cloth being used to wipe her clean. Moments later, yet another penis replaced it.

By the time the second half of the soccer match had kicked off, she had become just a urinal one end and a cum dump the other. The men stood, cigarettes stuck on their lower lips, half looking at the screen and half down at her, as they laid their penises on her tongue and let rip their frothy waste. They bantered with their friends over their shoulders as if she were a mere inanimate object.

Then they would flick their cigarette ash onto her bedraggled hair, shake themselves dry over her face and jiggle themselves back into their pants, before sitting back down without even a second thought. They were quickly replaced by another colleague with a swollen bladder.

It was brutal. It was degrading. It would have broken the will of somebody much tougher than Lorna Cumber.

And that was the idea.

Behaviour modification.

Short, sharp shock: cruel to be kind.

The next stage of the young society beauty’s Stockholm conditioning would follow as soon as the final whistle had blown.

“Fuck.” One member of Squad 105 said as he urinated over her. “And Piss.”

Another chuckled as he pinched her nipple. “Pain and Fear.”

“Love.” Said a third, gently stroking her wet cheek. “And Hate.”

Pairs of four-letter words.

And Lorna Cumber was learning the meaning of them all.

CHAPTER FOUR

FOUR LETTERS

“Revenge should have no bounds”

Hamlet (1603) by William Shakespeare

“The only way to a woman's heart is along the path of torment.”

The Marquis de Sade (1740-1814)

1976

She knew it was wrong. Even through the euphoria of joints and tequila and the extraordinary fireworks, Melissa should never have snuck off like that. For years afterwards she consoled herself with the illusion that it was simply her karma. But she always secretly knew better. Fate is about choices.

Right and wrong decisions.

But she had never once been with another boy. Suddenly it hit her that she would be going up the aisle without experiencing, well, different.

I mean, it was 1976 after all. Not 1876. Nor even 1946 !

You didn’t just marry the first boy you slept with anymore.

And so it was, when Charlie passed out stoned on the bed, and John invited her outside to grab some fresh air as he put it, she stupidly hesitated.

“Come on.” He said, holding out his strong hand. “Trust me.”

As they walked out, Leonard Cohen was playing on the stereo. It was one of her and Charlie’s favourite albums, ‘Songs of Love and Hate’. She imagined the sound quietly soothing Charlie as he slumbered in his unconscious stupor.

The particular track playing that moment was ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’, a song thus condemned to haunt her for the rest of her life.

It was a warm Sunday evening, July Fourth, and they had all spent the day celebrating America’s Bicentennial.

John Cumber ! The rest of their crowd had already staggered home. She was alone with the one guy that every girl at college dreamed of. Six foot three of American Adonis, with the face of a Greek legend and the body ... she felt herself moist in the humid, mosquito-laden night air.

Just once ! John Cumber had slept with a zillion girls just once. So why not her too ?

They reached the lake, the little hexagonal porch overlooking the dark water.

“Feeling a bit better ?” he asked, his dazzling smile enticing her.

She gulped. “Yeah. Thanks.”

And then his strong right hand was behind her neck, pulling her face to his. She gasped in shock as he mashed his lips fiercely against hers.

“Mmmou ... ouch.” she mumbled, trying to pull away.

His left hand snaked up the back of her top seeking her bra clasp.

She tried to calm him, a battle raging within her.

Just once.

He unclipped her bra and pushed his hand round the front, mauling her boobs. Her mouth hurt where he was attacking it with his face.

“Come on, Mel.” He insisted, with an impatient snarl. “You’ll love it. Trust me.” His breath was hot and impatient.

“Come on. You’ll love it, trust me.” He repeated.

And suddenly she knew this was all wrong. She was engaged. To Charlie. He was the only guy she wanted, the only guy she would ever need.

But John Cumber wasn’t used to girls turning him down.

Certainly not cock-teasers who accepted an invitation down to the lake. He pushed her onto the ground, tripping the back of her legs over his shins with a judo throw, so she fell onto her back. And then he jumped on top of her.

The air exploded out of her lungs with a whoosh.

Wrong place. Wrong time.

Her karma.

*** *** ***

17.35 hrs

Charlie smiled down into Susan’s face as he carefully uncorked his softening erection from her popped bottom.

“Open your eyes, darling.”

She opened them again, full of pain and shame and who-knew-what-else.

“Thank me.”

“Th ... thank you.”

He let her see him examining his semen-streaked cock.

“That’s the thing about enemas. Nice and clean. You want to lick this or you want Lorna to do it ?”

“I ... I’ll do it.”

He walked up to the other end of the table and pressed a button. There was a whirring sound as her back descended until her face was level with his knees. Then the edges of the table slid inwards, leaving her neck and head dangling unsupported.

He lifted his leg and straddled her upturned face. Her green eyes blinked.

“You think about biting me and your kids will all pay.”

He gave her his glistening dick to suck clean. He was still hard, but he managed to angle it down between her lips.

Man that felt good. As that old soldier’s rhyme went; any soft mouth felt good, always did, always would.

But he hadn’t finished with old Lady C quite yet.

He fished his clean dick out of her soft lips.

“You know what rimming is ?”

She shook her head side to side. As he suspected. Another first.

“I’m going to turn round and sit down on your face. You are going to stick out your tongue and shove it as far as you can up my asshole.”

He beamed at her look of utter disgust and stroked her cheek.

“Look at it this way, at least you’re sparing your lovely daughters all this stuff.” He paused uncertainly. “Er ...that is ...  unless you’ve changed your mind ?”

It was too easy. All her attempts at negotiation had ceased. It was going to be such fun in the days ahead pushing and pushing, until at last he found her resistance point. Then things might get really interesting.

She stuck out her tongue to signify she would do what he ordered.

“Say please.” He said.

A pause. Nausea and shame filled her eyes. “Please.”

He turned round, stood astride her head, and lowered his backside ever so slowly over her face, until he felt her nose tickling his crack hairs.

He reached with his fingers and pulled the cheeks of his butt as far as apart as he could.

When he was at junior high there’d been a toilet cubicle with a piece of graffiti on the wall that had always made him chuckle; ‘One billion flies can’t be wrong ! So eat poop !’

He encircled her tongue and nose and let go with his fingers, closing as tight a seal as he could round her breathing apparatus.

He gently settled his weight down and idly wondered what was going on in the rest of the house.

*** *** ***

19.06 hrs

The Chameleon, dressed in her favourite blue silk waistcoat, peered into the guards’ common room. Gator beckoned to her, holding up three fingers. She guessed that meant there were just three minutes left of the soccer match.

Skink, one of the black mercenaries, was stood at the human urinal shaking the last golden droplets from his penis. He winked at Melissa. None of the men were shy in front of her any more. She was treated as an ‘honorary reptile.’

After the match ended 3-1, the TV was switched off and the pillory was wheeled into the centre of the room. It was fixed onto on a wooden platform with castors that made it easy to manoeuvre.

The men rearranged their chairs from an arc in front of the TV into a full circle around the pillory. They charged their beer glasses and lit up new cigarettes while a camcorder on a tripod was set up into position.

Lorna Cumber couldn’t speak. The spider-gag meant that drooling and inarticulate gurgles were the most she could manage. But her facial expression spoke eloquent volumes.

Her face glistened with tears and ejaculate and urine and her brunette hair hung down in sodden strands. Her eyes gazed half-mad.

Melissa lurked outside Lorna’s field of vision. She wasn’t wearing her lizard mask and she would prefer to postpone her first face-to-face interview with the young lady for later. She sat down with a nice view of Lorna’s rear.

My, the young lady was a mess. Pearly-white and translucent fluid oozed from the ravaged cleft between her thighs. The insides of her legs glistened and a large puddle of wetness lay on the plinth beneath her body. But despite that, her naked and defenceless buttocks were still totally unharmed.

The rear vistas of young women can be so dreadfully attractive; the camber of their delicate spines, their smooth cello curves with no wrinkles or cellulite yet, the perfect flesh and cute dimples, and their untapped anal rosebuds. Such perfection was wasted on young boys like Gene, her fiancé, who would only come to appreciate such loveliness when the chance was gone.

Melissa smiled at Gator. In his fifties, he had reached the age when a man properly enjoys tight pussy. The mismatch is understood in Asian, African and Arab societies where younger wives are enjoyed by older men.

But in the overdeveloped West, a pretty girl thinks a 50 yr old guy is a lecher just because he ogles her ripe tits. She thinks her body is too good for him just because he’s got wrinkles and a belly and hair in the wrong place.

At 6’5” of solid muscle, Gator was as unattractive and frightening as Lorna was fit and lovely. His missing ear, scarred face and lopsided grin would have made even a ten-dime hooker think twice about accepting his cash.

“Hi !” he said to Lorna pleasantly, pausing for a moment, as if she could reply.

“Feel free to chip in at any time.” He added, reaching down to push a few sodden strands of the girl’s hair away from her face so the two of them could admire each other.

“I’m afraid your mom had the opportunity to save you from all this but she chose not to.”

He shrugged sadly.

“So she’s in her cell relaxing, after a nice hot shower and meal. You see, it’s the Rule of Three. We said your mommy could choose two of you ladies to save. Two out of three ain’t bad. But the third had to be sacrificed.”

He sighed.

“And she chose ... to save herself and Rachel. What were her exact words, guys ?”

He turned to the circle of men, as if asking for their help.

“Er ... oh yeah. She said that she was much too old to take this kind of treatment. And she loves your young beautiful, virginal sis too much to sentence her to it either.”

He stroked the edge of Lorna’s sad doe-eyes, flicking away tears.

“So, she said it was a no-brainer.”

He looked round at the guys again.

“Shucks, we can all understand Rachel being mommy’s favourite daughter. I mean, we would all have preferred Rachel too. She’s much better looking than you are ! And you sure ain’t no virgin. But hey, a deal’s a deal. We said your mom could choose.”

He held open the palms of his hands as if to say, what can you do ?

“Now, I’m afraid this isn’t going to be pleasant. You’ve spent twenty three years living as a spoilt brat, so I doubt you’re going to find it easy to learn the level of obedience and humility necessary to satisfy us.”

Melissa squirmed on her seat. Gator was so good at this routine, choosing just the right words.

“But then,” he continued, “we’ve got all the time in the world. Weeks, months, maybe even years. So, boy are we gonna have some fun together, sweet cheeks.”

He showed Lorna the bamboo cane he’d been holding behind his back.

“Let’s start with ten gentle introductory strokes, shall we ?”

He winked at Melissa and handed her the cane when she stood up. It was the light, whippy kind, with a crook handle. It delivered a ferocious sting and left searing pain, but without breaking the skin.

Melissa looked at her watching male audience and then at the lovely pale buttocks laid out, like chicken breasts on a cold buffet, ready to carve.

But suddenly all she could see was a lake, with a little porch overlooking the water and a boy and girl standing on the bank in the fading light.

Slowly, she raised the cane and thrashed it down across Lorna’s butt.

*** *** ***

Day Six

The trading screens and digital ticker displays around the room shrieked out the latest development in the market in general, and the Cumber Corporation’s stock price in particular.

It had clambered back to $14 but kept meeting resistance as soon as it tried to break above. The information feeds sucked data in from numerous sources.

In one day, John Cumber had already spent $300,000,000 of his personal fortune buying back shares in the conglomerate he had built and then floated in 1992.

“Please, Ellen, can I have an update”.” He said politely.

Of all the people in the room, John Cumber was strangely the most composed.

Not without reason was his nickname on Wall Street, Cucumber. He was a veteran of several bloody hostile takeovers and corporate battles and his motto was; when the going gets hot, the tough stay cool.

“John, you’ll appreciate these figures are only approximate.”

The speaker was Ellen O’Leary, the head of his private office, a formidable divorcee in her mid-fifties.

Ellen had four key attributes: she was both a qualified attorney and a certified accountant. She was Irish American with a wicked sense of humour. Above all, she was totally devoted to her boss and friend.

Like any billionaire, nobody knew John Cumber’s net worth for sure.

“You have around two point seven billion dollars at today’s valuations.” She continued. “That doesn’t include say a hundred million of less liquid assets; your homes, cars, the jet, jewellery, art and furniture. Obviously we could raise cash on the back of those but heaven forbid it will come to that.”

Her grey eyes peered at him intently over her half-moon glasses.

Around the table, seven more people looked up, some scribbling on pads.

“Does that include the three hundred million already spent today ?” somebody asked.

“You would have to knock that off the two point seven.” She replied. “Except that more Cumber stock has been purchased with the three hundred so you could still include it. So long as the price stays roughly where it is.”

“So, how much of my two point seven is held in our stock now ?”

“One point five billion.”

“Which leaves me just one point two in usable assets.”

He had cut to the chase. She nodded, tapping her pencil on her pad.

“Of which I need one billion for the ransom.”

A geeky lawyer type coughed and spoke up.

“Er, Sir. Mister Collins has already made it clear that he’ll put up the two fifty for his own son.”

John Cumber bridled at the interruption. The problem was his. The solution would be his. He would pay Gene’s ransom.

“That’s most kind of him. But I will pay the full amount if it comes to it. I’ll call him as soon as we’ve finished.” John scribbled a note on his pad.

“So I have two hundred mill of other liquidity still available ?”

“Yes.” Ellen replied, with a grimace. “But around half of that is no longer in your name. You remember the three trusts we set up for Lorna, Ryan and Rachel. It will take a while to get the trustees legally to agree to us using the funds in that way.”

“So you mean for now I have a measly hundred million bucks of liquidity plus a bunch of useless Cumber Corporation stock that I can’t sell or the price will collapse.”

There was an awkward silence in the room.

People looked down at their pads.

Suddenly one of the large TV screens in the room flickered and went black. Unlike the Bloomberg and Reuters monitors, it had been broadcasting Financial Media footage of talking heads with the volume set to mute.

Moments later the TV volume erupted loudly into life.

“Daddy, we’re all okay so far.”

Rachel Cumber’s distinctive nasal voice came through loud and clear. She sounded petrified.

The black screen turned into a blur and then her out-of-focus features slowly became visible.

“I’m fine.” She whimpered. “Like, they haven’t touched me. But you just have to do what they say, daddy, and everything will be alright.”

Everybody in the room stared in horror from the screen to John and back again.

“Oh ... my !” Ellen bit her knuckles and shut her eyes tight.

“Get the Feds !” Hank Roberts shouted, as a young analyst pushed back from the table and dashed out of the room. His chair clattered to the ground.

“How the fuck ? said another. “How’d they ...”

Again, the calmest person in the room seemed to be John Cumber. He stared at his younger daughter’s darling blue eyes, brimming with tears.

“Please get them their money quick.” Rachel’s voice beseeched him. “Please. I love you.”

He actually smiled at her. A steely grin, but a smile none the less.

“And I love you too, darling.” John Cumber mouthed to his daughter.

But it wasn’t love he was actually feeling.

It was hate. Hatred for the person and people who had done this.

Love and Hate. Two words.

How entwined those two emotions sometimes are.

*** *** ***

20.28 hrs

Ryan was weak with hunger and pain from over 48 hours spent hanging in steel manacles against the wall. His head hung forward and he was naked, grimy with dust and sweat. He had been given fluid to drink out of a baby’s feeding bottle. The man who served it to him was wearing a balaclava mask.

Eventually, Ryan had had no choice but to urinate onto the floor of his cell. A puddle was soaking into the ground between his legs. Hours had passed in silence and virtual darkness. He lost total track of time. It could have been day or night.

Finally the same man arrived. Or he might have been a different man. He was wearing a similar mask and anorak, gloves, jeans and boots. He looked down and purposely stepped in the damp patch on the cell floor.

“Thirsty ?”

Ryan raised his head and nodded. The man was holding the baby’s feeding bottle with a rubber teat.

“Very thirsty, aren’t you little fellow ?” His voice was high-pitched, with a sing-song accent.

“Mm.” Ryan replied through cracked lips. “Yeth.”

The man nodded and held the teat to Ryan’s lips.

Ryan sucked. It was lukewarm, brackish, salty. He swallowed and stopped.

The man pulled the bottle away. “Had enough ?”

He was confused. His mouth was wet. It had simply made him thirstier.

“More.” He whispered.

The man shook his head and left.

*** *** ***

20.29 hrs

The masked Chameleon stood over Rachel.

“Thirsty ?”

Rachel was strapped on a medieval style rack. Her arms and legs were stretched so her body was in an H position. Her full lips were cracked and split. It had been four days since she’d had a proper drink. Her mind had become delirious with dehydration.

Rachel’s head nodded pathetically. “Mmm ... yeth.”

The Chameleon placed both the pitchers on the floor at her feet. They were in a desert oasis. So fresh water was valuable !

Rachel’s face was caked in dust, sweat and tears. They had left her for now still dressed in her soiled designer suit. The jacket sleeves were taut above her head and her blouse was missing two torn buttons.

Soon it would be time to rip it all off but, for the moment, the Chameleon enjoyed stretching out the anticipation for as long as possible.

I’m fine. Like, they haven’t touched me. Hah ! Not yet, sweetypie.

She reached into the first pitcher and pulled a sponge out of the sudsy, frothy water. She wrung out the excess and lifted the sponge to Rachel’s dirty face. She swiped it across her forehead and swabbed down her cheeks.

Melissa thought back to that night. After John had raped her. He had made her wash herself off in the lake afterwards, to rinse away the evidence from her body. She could still taste the memory of the briny, muddy water.

She sluiced the sponge into the pitcher again. The water was soapy and the suds disguised the worst of the contents of Susan Cumber’s enema waste.

This time she wiped Rachel’s blue eyes, button nose, cracked lips and elegant jaw, removing the dried crud from her face. She washed her gently for a minute or so until her face and hands had been smeared clean.

Next, she discarded the cloth and took a plastic dipper out of the second pitcher. The contents were crushed ice.

She put the ladle to Rachel’s lips.

“Come on. Have a drink.”

The girl was so far gone she didn’t even seem to notice the flavour of the frozen fluid.

The Chameleon smiled to herself.

Hey, even a swig of mommy’s pee is best drunk cold.

*** *** ***

Darkness

Ryan sobbed dry tears of relief when the man returned. Hours had passed. Or days. He didn’t know.

But the man didn’t give him a drink. He had removed his balaclava and was dressed in an orange gown. He was brown skinned, with a slim face and very white teeth.

“How are you feeling my young Yankee friend ?”

Ryan felt the man’s gaze travelling down his body, to his privates. He was helpless to prevent the man’s bony fingers exploring his testicles, handling his dick.

“You are very handsome.”

Ryan wanted to spit in this faggot’s face but he had no saliva in his mouth.

The man’s amused brown eyes contemplated him. “I see that it’s true Ryan. It’s in your eyes. We have been watching you. We saw how you and your friends beat up that poor kid last year.”

Ryan was shocked. Heck, only Bubba and Dylan knew about that and they’d both been there. No one else. Not his friends. Nor mom or dad. Not the police. Nobody.

“Yes. He was in hospital for three days. You beat him up bad. I’ve even watched the clip that your friend Bubba took on his phone.”

Ryan shook his head in confusion. Who were these people ?

“You are a homophobic bully.” The man said. “But don’t worry. You and me. We will have plenty of time to turn you into a nicer person.”

*** *** ***

Monday

In the cheap motel room, Lenny dumped his convenience store bag on the bed and pulled out one of the cans. He fired up his laptop and cracked open a beer while he waited. He smiled at his screensaver.

The face staring out at him was beautiful: perfect cheekbones, big eyes, long eyelashes, lovely smile, olive skin.

He sat in front of the screen and on an impulse checked out her name. Apparently Lorna is of Scottish origin and its usage in America came over with immigrants in the late 1800s.

Cumber is of Anglo Saxon origin too. There’s a place called Cumberford in England and some Brit named John Cumberford settled in New England in 1743. Hey, maybe all the American Cumbers spewed out of that one guy’s jizz ?

He spent ten minutes doing other business, humming away to the tune in his headphones: ‘Four Letters, Two words’ by The Urge. The St. Louis rock band used to be one of his favourites before they split.

“It was a blessing in his eyes

She was undressing his disguise.”

Physically his PC was located in the States but cyber-wise the IP relocated to a different country every 59 seconds. After he had done what he needed, he shrugged.

Talking of ‘urges’, what’s a young man meant to do in a lonely bedroom all on his own !

Lenny opened his Favourites folder and clicked on the first site.

He selected Newest Stories.

Aha. He smiled. One of the stories he was following had been updated.

Lenny stood up off the seat and undid his jeans and shucked his briefs down to his ankles.

Soon he was hard, reading and scrolling, the keypad under his left hand and his dick throbbing in his right.

It didn’t take him long. He grimaced and accidentally hosed the keyboard and screen with an extra long spurt. He laughed, mopping the screen with a tissue. He had the hots for Lorna. But at that moment, in his mind’s eye, he visualised bathing Rachel’s cobalt blue eyes with his jizz.

Fictional stories were all very well but ...

That’s what he was actually going to do to the younger Cumber sister real soon.

CHAPTER FIVE

FIVE FOOT

“Five foot two, Eyes of Blue

But oh ! What those five foot could do

Has anybody seen my girl

Turned up nose, turned down hose

Flapper, yes sir, one of those

Has anybody seen my girl ?”

attributed Henderson, Lewis & Young (1920s)

“I can’t choose. Please. I can’t choose.”

From the film Sophie’s Choice (1982)

1987

Charlie met the Private Detective in a seedy bar off Melrose. Los Angeles was roasting in a July heat wave. The man pushed a buff folder across the table and settled back, lighting up a Marlboro.

Inside the folder were glossy black and white photographs and pages of notes bashed out on a typewriter. Charlie slowly studied every one of the photos and scanned the typed entries the detective had made on each of the days he had been paid to keep her under surveillance.

Melissa still looked pretty much the same as she had eleven years before. Maybe the very first hints of age were showing round her eyes now but her figure and face were exactly as he remembered. He stared across at the private Dick.

“Nobody ?”

The guy exhaled a series of smoke rings and shook his head. Two women at the neighbouring table glanced over at the source of tobacco smoke and coughed pointedly.

“Sure ?”

The man shrugged, ignoring the women. “Well, if she has a guy, one, he’s invisible and two, he sure ain’t getting much action !”

Charlie didn’t smile at the crass joke.

“What about work ?”

“She’s still doing makeup at the film studio. She keeps mailing scripts to agents but without any luck yet.”

“She’s okay for cash ?”

The Dick pulled a new piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. It had been crumpled up and then straightened. He pushed it across the table. There was a round coffee mug stain on it.

“Her latest bank statement.”

It was Bank of America. Charlie checked the May 1987 balance and activity. Then he carefully picked up one of the photos of the boy.

“And her kid ?”

“Seems nice enough. Cycles to school. OK grades. Good throwing arm. Attends an acting course at weekends.  Doesn’t mix with a bad crowd. Seems to get on fine with his mom.”

Charlie nodded, staring down at the photo again.

There was a long pause. He finally reached into his vest and pulled out a brown envelope with the agreed amount in pristine $50 bills.

The Dick mopped the sheen of sweat from his brow with a hanky.

“The kid yours ?” he asked, supping his beer, eyeing the envelope.

He recoiled almost at once, his eyes betraying a flash of true fear.

“Sorry.” He opened his palms in apology. “None of my business.”

Silently, Charlie pushed the brown envelope of money towards him.

The boy was turning out nice looking. A typical 10 year old Californian kid; taller than most, and lean. Kind of apple pie wholesome.

Just like his fucking dad.

*** *** ***

22.33 hrs

The Chameleon smiled up at the screen. Wall Street had closed March 5th with Cumber Corporation stock having recovered after frantic late trading to end the day at $15.05, exactly where it started. The rumour was that a particular hedge fund had been buying to cover its earlier short position.

Meanwhile, Rachel Cumber had replaced her mother on the operating table in the main interrogation room. Her designer skirt, jacket and stained silk blouse had all been sliced off and she lay in just her lace bra and thong.

She had been given a little broth to eat and water to drink. The sustenance seemed to have rekindled her fighting spirit. Her blue eyes roved around the room absorbing the scary furniture and devices hanging all around.

Charlie and Melissa had dispensed with their lizard masks. The process had reached a new stage. They preferred seeing, and being seen. He was bare-chested dressed in red Adidas tracksuit bottoms. She was wearing tight denim jeans and a blue T-shirt with ‘Suck my Cunt’ across her chest.

Rachel whinged when she saw them.

“Please ... give my dad more time ... he’ll get you the money, I swear.”

“Of course he will.” Melissa smiled, stroking the girl’s cheek.

Charlie took out his knife and sliced the front of Rachel’s bra open, releasing the lacy B cups that covered her modest tits.

“Hey ! Fuck you.” The girl objected. “Stop that meathead.”

Melissa laughed.

She reached down and pinched Rachel’s nipple. Her boobs were lying flat and her teats were soft. The nipple stretched up like elastic.

“Ouch. Get the fuck off. I said my dad will get you your fucking money.”

The tits were disappointing but they could be sorted. What you couldn’t deny was the allure of the angry face; flashing blue eyes, gnashing white teeth, cute turned up nose, all flushed crimson with indignation. Her blond hair was greasy and lank but it would soon perk up after a nice shampoo and blow dry.

“Let’s see her cunt, Meathead.” Melissa joked.

Charlie stretched up her waistband and his blade flashed so fast that neither woman saw it shred the thong into lace ribbons, revealing Rachel’s pale triangle of wispy pubic hair.

“You fuckers ! Bastards ! No !”

“Wash her mouth out, Mel.”

Melissa grinned and fetched a bar of soap from the metal basin. It was round and beige, the size you find wrapped in a motel room for guests to use. She chopped Rachel in the solar plexus, just hard enough to wind her. As Rachel gasped for air, Melissa wedged the soap in her mouth.

Charlie was ready with a piece of silver industrial tape to seal Rachel’s lips closed. He smiled down at her look of shock and indignation and disgust as her voice was cut off and she tasted the soap in her mouth.

It had been homemade with castor oil, lye, lard, soapbark and angostura so that it could be left in the mouth for hours and digested. It was brutally foamy and bitter but did no long term harm, except for the laxative effects of the castor oil.

“Mmmounmm ...”

“Your parents should have done that to you years ago.”

Mel continued her exploration of Rachel’s body. Her rib cage, her tiny waist, her legs. Charlie pressed a dial and there was a whirring sound. Slowly, Rachel’s knees parted and her hips were pushed upwards.

Mel brushed aside the pubes and fingered open Rachel’s labia.

“Mmmm.”

Rachel’s body could barely move but her mewling objections and trembling flesh conveyed her fear and rage.

Mel slid a finger inside the dry, tight entrance.

“Mmmmm !” Rachel moaned into her taped lips.

“Shh.” She soothed, staring into Rachel’s wide blue eyes. “Anybody would think you were a virgin.”

“Mmmmmm.” Rachel moaned shrilly, nodding her head. An air bubble of mucus was coming out of her nostril.

“What ? You are ?”

Melissa glanced across at Charlie.

“Mmm.” Rachel nodded again, less certainly, eyes suddenly wary.

“How delightful.”

She patted Rachel’s mound in congratulations.

Charlie grinned back. Melissa winked. There had been media speculation that Rachel may swing both ways. It had been noted in celebrity gossip columns she’d never had a serious boyfriend. But a virgin ? That really was a bonus.

“In that case, we must make a movie.”

Rachel’s eyes darted madly from one to the other. Her cheeks had swollen and her nostrils flared. Charlie pulled over a couple of tripods and cameras while Melissa switched on a viewing screen.

“Everybody can enjoy this moment forever. I’m sure your mommy will want to see how her daughter lost her cherry. Daddy will no doubt pay good money for a copy. But above all, this is a memory you can treasure. The first of many, many cocks ploughing your furrow.”

Charlie undid the cord of his tracksuit bottoms. His dick had tented the front as he starting tugging them down.

“Are you really bi or actually a full blown lezzie ?” Melissa laughed, stroking Rachel’s throat as Charlie lined up between her thighs.

“Well, I guess now is the perfect opportunity to find out.”

*** *** ***

1994

Each year, between missions, Charlie visited Los Angeles and met up with the same Private Detective. The man pushed over the usual folder and lit a Marlboro but this time Charlie’s keen intuition detected a difference in his demeanour.

As ever, physically she appeared to have barely changed. She was now 35 years old.

“Nobody ?”

He always asked the same question first and had always received the same reply until then.

The Dick studied the chain of smoke rings he exhaled and stared into the distance. Enjoying his moment. Neither man liked each other. It was a business transaction between them, nothing else.

“Nope.”

“Sure ?”

The man shrugged. “You heard of the internet ?”

Charlie nodded. The worldwide web had been in its infancy during his time as a signals specialist in the army. He was no expert but he knew enough.

“Well your lady friend is a keen ... how’d you say, er ... user of the net.”

He frowned. Over the years he had learned to let nothing faze him. He was immune to pain, to fear, to jealousy, to love, all of the weaknesses that betrayed a man. He would live fast and die alone.

“Explain.”

“Look, I don’t know for sure. The tracking technology is new and unreliable. But she is a frequent visitor to ... well ... certain sites.”

“You mean like dating. Personal ads ?”

“No. Not that I can tell.”

“Well ?” Charlie almost slammed his fist down on the table but he controlled himself. His old anger management techniques still worked.

Don’t react in the heat of the moment. Stay calm.

“I mean ... well ... porn sites. But not images. Just fictional story sites.”

Charlie listened and exhaled slowly to the rule of three; one-two-three-breathe.

“Yes ?”

“There are these sites that post sex stories. She mostly visits ...”

The detective paused to stub out his cigarette then continued.

“You’ve heard of Bdsm, right ?

Charlie waited, not even deigning to reply.

“Well, there’s an author whose pen name is name ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’. Writes some pretty kinky stuff.”

Charlie kept a poker face. But he already knew where this was going. Only one person would use that nom de plume.

“Bondage, rape, masochism, sadism, heck all kinds of shit.”

“Enough.” He interrupted. “What about her boy ?”

The Dick frowned, surprised by the change of subject. He pulled a couple of photos out of his file. The first showed a wholesome 17 year old boy, modestly handsome, with intense, deep-set eyes.

“He’s fine. Doing good at LACHSA. He played some big part in their recent production of Julius Caesar.”

Her son had enrolled at the LA County High School for the Arts. The second photo showed the same boy playing the character of Marc Antony, looking totally different dressed in a Roman toga and makeup.

“He’s still pitching decent stats too. Otherwise, he’s your normal school kid. He likes visiting porn sites too. Must be in the genes, huh ?”

Charlie sighed at the pathetic joke then shrugged.

“You have evidence about this Famous Blue Raincoat stuff ?”

The Dick smiled greedily and slowly tented his fingers.

“Yeah, but I think that an extra payment would be in order.”

Mistake. Fatal mistake.

Charlie slowly grinned back at him. Man-to-man. One-two-three-breathe. Of course, he agreed, an extra payment would be reasonable. His smile was reptilian.

“Sure.” He said, opening his palms graciously. “But I’ll need to visit the bank first. Let’s meet again later tonight and exchange everything you have for another envelope. The usual place and usual amount. Sound okay ?”

*** *** ***

22.38 hrs

Charlie was gentle.

There was no point being rougher than necessary. He had dissipated his anger on Susan and Lorna. He could enjoy it more with Rachel.

Her cunt was deliciously soft and tight, like a velvet glove gripping his dick. At his age, you could forget how good young pussy can be. He looked down at his erection sliding in and out, distorting her labia this way and that, building towards his orgasm.

The Tiny Cam underneath her ass was filming the action super close up, broadcasting the view on the screen. Another lens was focused on Rachel’s face, recording her expression, her tearful eyes, taped-up mouth.

Mel was waiting patiently, eyes flitting from him to Rachel to the screen. She showed no sign of jealousy watching him. She was already sporting a monstrous strap-on dildo, buckled round her waist, waiting her turn.

He knew Mel was more sadistic than he was. This was her thing. She chose what happened. It was his job to make it happen.

He reached down and caressed Rachel’s hips, waist and boobs, pulling his dick out to the entrance of her cunt and then sliding his length into her as far as it would go, until his balls smacked her upturned bottom.

There was no blood. Virgin today is a technical term. Rachel’s hymen had long since been plundered by horse riding, or a rampant rabbit, or whatever activity billionaire lesbian teenagers get off on.

He felt his groin harden and the jizz erupting from his balls. Mel knew the telltale signs and encouraged him.

“Fill her up.”

Rachel’s blue eyes widened and she stared up at him through tears.

He smiled down at her as pulse after pulse of hot fluid coursed out of him.

*** *** ***

22.39 hrs

Lorna did her best to swallow as jet after hot jet spattered her palate, tongue and gums. Moments earlier, she had been curled up on a roll-up mattress in her cell and been woken by the clank of a key in the lock.

A guard entered and motioned to his open fly. He stood leaning against the wall of her cell and lit a cigarette. Exhausted, she dragged the mattress and knelt on it between the man’s feet. He was brutally muscular, white, shaven-headed, wearing combat fatigues. She put her lips to his veined erection.

He never even spoke once. He just stood there, smoking and exhaling, occasionally letting out appreciative grunts.

She sucked him a while, then eventually she used her right hand to masturbate him. She’d heard girls talking about it, even though she’d never really done that to Gene. There’d been so much she’d never done for Gene.

She pumped his shaft up and down while licking the circumcised crown of his penis. He came without any warning, filling her mouth with his endless orgasm. She swallowed jet after jet, until the final drops leaked out of the side of her mouth onto her leg. It seemed to smell of black coffee and nicotine, making her heave before gulping it down with a mouthful of bile.

He patted her on the head and left, locking the cell door behind him.

*** *** ***

22.45 hrs

Mel had taken Charlie’s place between Rachel’s thighs. She was wearing a double ended strap-on. A nice sized, latex vibrator was inside her own vagina, with a rabbit style tickler buzzing against her clit. It felt fantastic.

The solid latex dildo that she was hammering into Rachel’s cunt was considerably larger, in length and thickness. But the male lube considerately left by Charlie at least made the size bearable for the girl.

Revenge. A cunt for a cunt. Lost years for lost years.

She shuddered as erotic ecstasy surged up her spine. She wasn’t even remotely lesbian herself. But her sexual tastes had been spiced up over the years. Reading and writing and strumming her clit in the long years she’d been alone. Truth was, in the right mood, she could enjoy pretty much anything nowadays.

Somebody fucks up your life ?

Melissa gasped as she hammered on the dildo one more time, driving herself towards a toe-curling climax.

You fuck them back one billionfold.

“Made your mind up yet ?” she said, unbuckling the straps for her dildo. “Boys or girls ?”

Rachel couldn’t speak. She stared sullenly at the wall.

“Don’t worry.” Melissa continued. “We know the answer. We know about Hayley and about Lisa. You’ve played with them both haven’t you ?”

Rachel’s head swivelled and her blue eyes widened at the mention of her secret girlfriends’ names.

Melissa stared at the latex, smeared with slime.

“Well, look. We don’t mind you playing with girls. Heck, I’m going to enjoy that. Maybe your mommy and sister will too ?”

Charlie switched off the cameras, folding up the tripods.

“But you can’t hurt the guys’ feelings. You’ve got to play with them too. Your mommy and sis will need helping out.”

She smiled and peered down between Rachel’s ravaged thighs and then reached her hand out admiringly towards Charlie’s streaked cock.

It was time to make a deal with mommy.

*** *** ***

23.00 hrs

Melissa and Charlie woke Susan Cumber in her cell. The shattered woman was lying curled up naked on her cell floor.

“Suseee !” Melissa cooed through the bars. “Wakey wakey.”

Susan turned and rose up onto her knees, wiping her eyes.

“My friend here needs his dick sucked. You want to do it, or would you prefer Rachel does it ?”

Susan looked at them.

“I’ll do it.” She sighed quietly.

Charlie turned away, tucking his dick back into his track pants.

“If it’s too much trouble.”

“Nooo.” Susan wailed. “I’ll do it, please.”

Charlie hesitated, undecided, still ready to leave.

“Aw, come on.” Melissa mock-negotiated with him. “She does want to. Leave her girls alone.”

Still Charlie remained unmoved.

“He’s pissed off.” She put her hand to her mouth and stage-whispered to Susan. “How about you offer him something new ? I know, offer to tongue his butt, he adores that.”

Susan paused. “But I ... I’ve done that.”

Melissa laughed. “Really ? My, you two really are friends already ! Oh dear. Well fuck it, call me boring, but I can’t think of anything else new. Maybe we’d best go visit with Rachel after all ? Your daughter must be getting lonely by now anyway.”

“No ! Please, look, I’ll do anything.”

There was a hush. One of those special, ill-at-ease silences with a distinctive quality all of its own.

“Anything ?” she asked. “You said ... anything ?”

Susan seemed to regret her words now. But she composed herself. She swallowed and looked tearfully into Melissa’s excited eyes.

“Yes. Anything.”

*** *** ***

5th March 2007

Dylan was surfing the net in his room late at night, idly checking out the free porno pages when he came across the photo. At first he couldn’t believe the likeness. He clicked through and found several more.

Oh man ! He should tell somebody. But first he hit the printer menu. While the colour photos chuntered out, he couldn’t help reaching down to his boner.

Ryan Cumber was his classmate at College and Ryan’s mom Susan was the hottest MILF groin candy of all. And here she was fuckin and suckin like some two dime Eastern European or Latina pro.

It was definitely her face and her body. Sometimes these sites fucked around and cut and pasted different heads onto bodies but those sure were her gazongas swinging around on some black dude’s legs as she sucked him off. Susan Cumber was being spit roasted on a friggin sunbed, man !

After he’d mopped himself clean with a tissue, Dylan couldn’t resist it. Just one person wouldn’t hurt. He pasted the URL and emailed the link to Bubba.

Bubba was his best mate and another fan of Ryan Cumber’s yummy mommy.

He smiled as he imagined his buddy opening up the page.

Should he tell the police ? Nah, best not to get involved.

They’d surely stumble across the photos themselves soon enough.

*** *** ***

07.38 hrs

Gene’s pale, puny 5’ 7” frame was glistening nude. He was lying on one of the poolside workbenches in the early morning sunshine. He was on his back underneath a horizontal weights bar.

Gator and a couple of the Reptiles were supervising his bench-pressing, while other mercenaries were doing laps of the pool or chatting, drinking coffee.

“Okay, kiddo. Let’s see you lift that bar.”

Gator’s massive six feet five bulk couldn’t have been more of a contrast to Gene. He was as black as the kid was pasty, as muscled as the kid was scrawny, as hung as the kid was pencil-cocked.

Lorna was kneeling on the poolside tiles watching her fiancé trying to save her. She was wearing a nylon turquoise bikini set they’d given her, that covered her tits and waist. Night Snake was sat on a sun bed above her, absent-mindedly stroking her brunette hair.

Gene and Lorna were the first two of the kidnap victims to have been reunited with each other in the seven days since the snatch. It had been a tearful reunion. Well, after all, this was the young couple’s honeymoon. They needed to spend quality time together !

Gene grunted, red-faced, and managed to nudge the bar out of its steel supports. His shiny, sinewy body strained with exertion.

“Good lad.” Gator cheered. “Come on.”

Night Snake patted Lorna on the shoulder.

“Come on, Gene.” She encouraged. “You can do it.”

“Yeah. Come on.” Night Snake echoed in his Mediterranean accent.

Gene’s watery-blue eyes bulged with effort. His carrot hair was slick with sweat. He pushed the bar up above his shoulders and held it there.

“Hey. Good enough.” Gator chuckled, playing buddy and helping guide the bar down until it crashed into the steel supports with a metallic clang.

“Go give your man a kiss as a reward.” Night Snake said.

Lorna crawled over to Gene and looked into his eyes. She bent and kissed him. They were both crying, clinging together for comfort.

“Now suck your darling’s dick.” Gator said, nonchalantly rolling another round weight onto each end of the bar. He handled them like they were Dunkin Donuts. But they looked heavier than those already on the bar.

Sobbing silently, Lorna moved her lips down Gene’s damp torso to his groin. She took his limp weiner in between her lips.

Gator winked lewdly at Gene.

“Nice, huh ? Okay, now here’s the deal. Lift this bar up five times and I’ll see to it that none of these guys touches your lady again. Got that ?”

Gene blinked up at the huge shadow blocking the sun. He nodded.

“But here’s the deal. It’s up to you. You don’t have to try to lift the bar if you don’t want to. You can just say you don’t want to try and politely ask me and Snake here to fuck her instead. That’s fine. You can just watch us.”

He grinned hungrily at Lorna, like an alligator showing its teeth.

“But if you do try to lift it and fail, then we’re going to fuck her right here, right now, and you’ll have to pay for your failure. So that means you’re going to have to clean her messy cunt out with your tongue afterwards.”

Gene frowned. Lorna’s head froze momentarily on his cock.

“B ... but ...” Gene squinted at the bar and weights.

Gator shrugged. “Look. The choice is yours kiddo. Who knows ? I mean, Snake and I would obviously rather you simply ask us nicely to fuck your fiancé without trying to stop us. Hey, you might even do it. As I said, it’s up to you. But you’ve got to decide right now.”

Night Snake gently batted Lorna’s head away from Gene’s groin. The boy was semi-erect, his cock wet with her saliva. Snake started to unzip his own shorts in anticipation.

“Wait ... I’ll try.”

Gator nodded sombrely and called over a few other guys to watch.

Gene put his hands on the bar and gripped it, trying to gauge its weight. The audience made mock-uplifting comments; “You can do it”, “Come on kid”, “Save your missus’s honour”.

Gene warmed up like a pro; deep breathing, flexing his fingers. Then he groaned, his face turning puce, and strained every sinew.

The bar barely budged.

“Come on, Gene. Please.” Lorna whispered. “Please darling.”

Gene let go of the bar and twisted his arms to loosen them. He swallowed, gulping in the morning air.

Night Snake reached down and unclipped the clasp of Lorna’s bikini top. He tugged away the fabric releasing her heavy young breasts.

“Just getting ready.” He explained. “My balls are fit to burst.”

“Give the kid a chance.” Gator said. “We made a deal.”

Gene seized the bar and let out a shrill roar, doing his utmost to lift it. The steel rod shifted in its cradles and he managed to raise it agonisingly slowly above his head.

“Good. That’s one.”

It crashed down into the supports. He still had four reps to go.

Gene was panting, sucking warm air into his lungs. He loosened his arms again then let out a high-pitched cry as he hoisted the steel bar above his head a second time. It rocked and rolled but he locked his elbows.

“Hey, nice one. That’s two.”

“Yesss ! Come on Gene, you can do it.” Lorna hissed, suddenly believing.

But Gene was struggling now. Two down, three to go. He licked his lips and glanced at Lorna, then Gator.

His bellow as he tried to lift the bar a third time was weaker. He let out a little whimper of frustration. Then made another desperate attempt. The bar barely budged. He tried again. Nothing. He was beaten.

His exhausted, pained eyes filled with tears.

Lorna let out a wail of distress.

Night Snake smirked and weighed Lorna’s tits in his palms.

Gator’s facial expression switched into a schoolmasterly frown, like he was disappointed in his pet pupil. He lifted the heavy bar out of its supports one-handed and laid it down on the ground.

“Sorry, kid. Nice try but not good enough. We’ll work on your strength and you can have another go in two weeks time. In the meantime ...”

Night Snake guided Lorna into position. She accepted her fate with resignation. He held out his hand for her bikini bottom as she removed it. Then she crouched down on the work bench above her fiancé, facing his feet. Her naked thighs were directly above his face and her elbows rested alongside his hips.

Night Snake was impatient, horny and erect. He dropped his shorts, thumbed Lorna’s cunt open and sunk himself inside her with barely a moment’s delay. She let out a guttural sob and the watching mercenaries laughed.

Gator peered underneath her into Gene’s face.

“How’s that view ?”

Gator leisurely unfastened his own shorts in readiness. He was 280 lbs of brute force and his penis was an awesome sight. Lorna’s head and shoulders were rocking to and fro in tandem with Night Snake’s thrusts and she was weeping openly now, tears running down her cheeks.

Gator smiled kindly and pushed the back of her head down so she nibbled the crown of his monstrous black club in between her trembling lips. Then he sat down astride Gene’s bare legs and made himself comfortable.

In all, six men used her. It took them less than fifteen minutes. Night Snake, Gator and four others warmed up in her mouth and then efficiently drilled her pussy. By now, Lorna Cumber had already lost count of the number of men who had used her in just the 48 hours since the Chameleon had first raped her.

She lowered her soaked thighs just above her fiancé’s face. Gene pushed his tongue out and it brushed her trimmed pubic hair before it slid inside her, making her shiver.

The watching men laughed. “She likes that.”

She looked down between her thighs as gravity quickly fed Gene’s mouth. She listened to his slurping sounds and smelt the sickly scent of sweat and semen.

“Hey, he likes it too.” Somebody called out.

She stared in shock.

Gene’s penis was fully erect.

*** *** ***

08.39 hrs

Charlie and Melissa were sat a few feet from Susan Cumber, under the dappled shade of a bougainvillea-clad porch. They were eating at a table on their private roof terrace overlooking the palm garden and desert beyond.

On the table were croissants, date pastries and fresh fruit, black coffee and warm milk. They were chatting quietly, ignoring her. Occasionally Melissa would glance over and ‘tut’ when Susan’s squeaks and ‘ouchs’ got too loud, or the steady rhythm of her plucking slowed.

With no expensive salon available, Susan was doing her own hairdressing. She hissed every few seconds.

She was perched in the sunshine on a white plastic stool, leaning back, with her knees akimbo and her fingers busy between her thighs. While Charlie and Melissa ate their breakfast, Susan was plucking all her pubic hairs out with steel tweezers, one by one.

She was perspiring in the hot morning sun. Her body glistened and a trickle of sweat ran from her face, between her cleavage, to her inner thighs. Her collar and cuffs didn’t quite match. The tresses on her head were platinum blonde while those pubes that remained were a honey colour. Her pink labia pouted like petals in bloom and she winced as she grimly depilated herself.

“Must try harder. B-minus.”

Melissa was reading from a sheaf of papers. The mercenaries had provided written evaluations of Susan’s efforts so far. She picked up another.

“I’m afraid her cunt is past it. We should have a crack at her girls without wasting any more time. C-minus.”

Melissa tut-tutted, popping a slice of apricot into her mouth.

“Ah, this one’s better. B-plus. I have used her three times so far and each time she’s got a little better. I want to try her asshole next.”

After a full hour’s tugging, Susan’s sore mound was scarlet hued and virtually bald. There were little pinpricks of blood. Her pubes had blown away in the morning breeze.

“Stand over there.” Charlie instructed, lighting a cigarette and rising from the table. He was naked except for his unbuttoned red linen shirt. His penis hung, temporarily sated, after he and Melissa had made morning love together, a nice contrast to the rape and violence all around them.

He reached up and pulled down a set of chains that dangled from one of the cross struts of the wooden porch. With practised hands he quickly fastened her wrists so that Susan was suspended, now stretched up onto her tip toes.

“Have you ever seen a movie called Sophie’s Choice ?” he asked.

“Meryl Streep played Sophie.” Melissa added helpfully.

Susan shook her head. “N ... no.”

“Oh, it was quite good as far as I recall.” Melissa said, peeling a banana. “In it, Sophie has to choose which one of her children to save. The other she loses forever. It’s very moving. Very sad.”

“No.” Susan croaked. “You wouldn’t. No !”

Melissa took a sensuous, suggestive bite of banana, taking her time before replying. She too was in just a cotton top, open to the midriff, her thighs uncovered. She had allowed a translucent trickle of Charlie’s semen to ooze onto the tiles under her chair without any embarrassment.

“Last night you said you’d do absolutely anything, right ?”

“Yes.”

“Well, soon you will get your chance.”

There was a silence while both women eyed each other.

“You see, soon we’re all going to gather round the swimming pool. And you’re going to invite everybody to fuck your daughters.”

“You !” Susan screamed, and then quickly stopped herself, controlling her outrage. Her expression made it clear that she realised refusal would only make things worse.

Melissa chuckled. “I see you’re finally learning, although I may punish you later for that little outburst. But unless you invite all my guys nicely to fuck both your daughters then you’ll have to choose one of them to save and one of them to ...”

She took another bite of banana, pausing for effect.

“Well, let’s just say, the other one won’t be saved. Frankly, I don’t mind which.”

*** *** ***

Day Seven

John Cumber woke in a terrible sweat. He looked over in the dark at the digital clock; 03.33. He had managed to catnap for three tablet-induced hours. His normally sharp brain was already suffering from lack of sleep.

The nightmare was a terrible one. Susan was on a brightly lit stage having rough sex with three men while he and all their children, and their extended family, friends and colleagues were sat in the theatre audience watching.

And he had opened his zip, was masturbating himself in the dark while he watched his wife, dressed in torn lingerie of the type she never wore, performing with these men. And suddenly a bright spotlight shines down on him without warning, and the entire audience sees what he is doing, and they all start to titter. Even his children are chuckling at him as Ryan leans over and says ‘put it away, dad’.

He woke up, painfully erect, and had to go to the bathroom to urinate.

Afterwards he lay in the dark, trying but failing to sleep some more.

At exactly 04.00 the phone by his bedside trilled. He fumbled in the dark for the handset and peered at the caller display. It was blank.

“Yes?” He said, assuming there had been developments in the case.

“Mr. Cumber. Rise and shine, or were you awake already ?”

His heart stopped and the phone felt cold and clammy in his palm.

“Who is this ?”

“Oh, come on, John. You know me. You can call me the Chameleon. You know about Chameleons, John ? We’re lizards that can change our skin whenever we need to.”

John sat up bolt upright in bed. The taunting voice sounded quite youthful, male, American.

“Now listen here you motherfucker !”

“Sssshhh, John. Actually that’s very good. Motherfucker ? Yes, I suppose I am ! Anyway, don’t waste our time together. I’m calling from a location you can’t trace and using a rather special phone but, nevertheless, I’m only going to stay talking for one minute just in case. The reason for my call is to say well done so far. You kept our shares above 15 dollars, didn’t you ? Now, do you have my billion dollars ready for me ?”

John felt the plastic handset cracking in his grip.

“Yes.”

“Good. In that case I will send you instructions later today about how to wire me the money. I’ll be very specific. As you know, I never give unclear instructions.”

“How will you contact me ?”

“Oooh, don’t you worry your handsome head about that yet.”

John looked at the luminous second hand of his watch. Over thirty seconds had passed.

“How is my wife, you bastard. And my family ?”

There was a silence, just deep breathing.

“Please ! Tell me !”

“Actually your wife really is a surprisingly good fuck, John.”

“You bastard !”

“Well it’s a coincidence you should call me that too. Anyway, I want you to ask me nicely to fuck your wife.”

John roared down the phone with impotent rage. “You !”

“Sssssshhh.” The cold voice interrupted. “In that case I shall fuck both your daughters. In their assholes.”

“Noooh !”

The man on the end of the line made a teasing ‘tch !’ sound.

“Can’t have it both ways, Johnny-boy, it’s either your wife or girlies, which is it to be ?”

“You fuckhead, I will kill you.”

“Maybe John, but I doubt it. Well, time’s up. I guess I’m gonna have to fuck all three of them.”

“No ! Wait !”

“Gotta go. Catch you later.”

“Please ! F ... please ... fuck ... my wife.” He implored.

“Goood.” The guy’s voice teased. “Now, that wasn’t so difficult was it ? Okay, I’ll give Susan one from you. Her pussy’s bald now by the way. Baby smooth but still surprisingly tight. We’ll continue our little chat soon.”

John stared at his watch trying to think how to keep the conversation going but all he heard were three final words.

“Bye for now.”

*** *** ***

1994

Charlie sat staring at his screen. He had just finished reading another story. It was good. Well written, at least in his opinion. Sure it was explicit and a bit violent but then, that’s what this section of the site seemed to be all about.

After all, it was only fiction. They were just words. The pen may be mightier than the sword but nobody actually got killed by mere words on a screen.

Real violence was what had happened to the private Dick who had paid for his greed with his life. He was lucky Charlie had been in a hurry. Two bullets – one head shot, one to the heart. At least his pitiful end had been brief and painless.

And dead men don’t talk about things that might prove embarrassing.

Charlie clicked again and returned to the author’s page.

Famous Blue Raincoat.

There were several more stories listed. The one he had just finished was his favourite so far. He liked the title.

“Two out of three ain’t bad.”

Set in 1849 during the Gold Rush, it was a tale about a brave Californian heroine who had lost her husband and been raped by Apache raiders, but she had still managed to save herself and her son.

He had registered his own account in a suitable name. The website offered a facility that allowed you to send a message to the author.

With a deep breath, ‘Red Mist’ started tapping at his keyboard.

*** *** ***

Noon

Doctor Wolfgang Ernst removed his rubber operating gloves and washed his hands. He usually preferred to operate in his own very private clinic on the shores of Lake Geneva but, for his good client and longstanding friend Mister Charles Victor, Wolfgang had been happy to travel south.

He had spent 25 years specialising in ... er ... delicate procedures such as plastic surgery for criminals who wished to alter their appearance, or treating wounded mercenaries who were not able to visit official hospitals. So this little operation had proved relatively straightforward.

Rachel Cumber’s overly modest 32B breasts had been substantially enhanced. He smiled down at the sleeping blonde who would soon be coming round from the light anaesthetic he had used. Her pretty face was still coated in the semen he had ejaculated over her nose and lips once she was out cold. Amusingly to Wolfgang, the American girl was younger than his own grown up daughter.

Sure, breast augmentation techniques usually recommend an increase of one or, at most, two bra cup sizes. However, he felt that the substantial, top quality silicone implants he had utilized would soon settle down and cause no long term problems.

He admired the neat 2-inch long incisions his scalpel had made in the underside crease of each breast, now sutured with dissolvable stitches. The slim 21 yr old girl had a narrow back and a taut ribcage. Her new rack would require the support of a properly under-wired E cup bra. But in a few weeks, it should even be possible to operate again and move into F and G territory.

He smiled; ‘udders’. The Americans had such a fixation with big udders.

For sure, the girl would feel uncomfortable for a few days. Her breasts would initially be tender, swollen and unnaturally firm, but he was certain it would not take long for her to recover fully from the physical effects of the operation.

Of course, the mental consequences might be another matter.

*** *** ***

Tuesday

Lenny grinned.

This was all too easy. Soon he’d be on a plane outta here and then he could relax and sample the charms of the two Cumber girls.

And he’d be a multi-millionaire. Aged just thirty.

He’d give John Cumber specific instructions how to wire the money via the internet into the mother account.

It was a virgin, 8-digit numbered St. Vincent bank account that had waited innocently for over five years for this one transaction. It would automatically close as soon as it had received and instantaneously passed on the billion dollars.

It would split the money into ten tranches and transfer them to ten numbered bank accounts in various places including the Cayman Islands, Costa Rica, Anguilla, Turks and Caicos, Panama and Belize.

In turn, those ten accounts would split the money into different, smaller amounts and send it across the water to the likes of Jersey, Liechtenstein, the Isle of Man, Gibraltar, Cyprus and Andorra.

They would repackage it up into altered amounts again and transfer it to remote accounts in Macau, Marianas, Vanuatu, Nauru, Labuan and Liberia.

Then the whole lot would go berserk, batching, slicing, dicing, exchanging, splitting and regrouping the money, into and out of several hundred anonymous accounts around the world. Some of the accounts had been opened a long time and operated legally for years, so they wouldn’t attract anybody’s attention.

Years of planning.

By the time the whole steaming bowl of financial spaghetti had been served and covered with a piquant sauce of dummy accounts, closures, transfers, reverses, conversions into Euros, Yen, Sterling and Swiss Francs, plus a few laundering tricks that only the very best people knew, the billion dollars ransom would be as shiny as a new pin.

Much of it residing, like some fat cat tax exile, in oh-so-respectable Switzerland.

It was only fair.

His inheritance.

CHAPTER SIX

SIX HOURS

“Give me six hours to cut down a tree and I’ll spend the first four sharpening the axe”

Abraham Lincoln, US President (1809-1865)

“They sow the wind and reap the whirlwind”

The Book of Hosea (ch.8: v.7)

1976

Melissa fought.

It was strange. From puberty, her darkest, secret, unspoken sexual fantasies had been about control and rape and ‘bdsm’, not that she knew that acronym back then, if it even existed.

She had been too ashamed to reveal such thoughts to Charlie. She figured she would finally tell him once they were married. In her daydreams, she had switched, sometimes she was the aggressor and other times the victim.

Reality was totally different.

Her karma.

Maybe this was punishment for her nasty fantasies ? He wasn’t like a rapist of her imaginings. He was calm, almost disinterested, pretty much jerking himself off inside her. He simply held her wrists on the ground and writhed about on top, his erection hard and painful within her dry, unwilling flesh.

When he flooded her he had given her an almost quizzical look as if he couldn’t understand why on earth she might object to him using her. Him. John fucking Cumber, the college stud and every girl’s dream. He was just sowing his oats, after all.

Afterwards he had been embarrassed but not repentant. He made her rinse herself in the grimy lake, destroying the evidence. Smirking, he threatened to tell her boyfriend that she had been a willing participant, that she had loved it.

“You’ll love it.” He’d told her.

Perhaps he even really thought she would ?

“And if Charlie comes after me,” he said to her, nonchalantly tucking his dick back in his hipsters, “Trust me. I’ll fuck him up. Big time.”

*** *** ***

Day Eight

John Cumber was fucked. Big time.

He sat staring at the trading screens. Alongside him Walt Furness, two other Agents, plus several investment bankers and John’s senior executives were all watching the Corporation’s share price tick up and down at around the $15 dollars level.

It was Wednesday, a whole week since the kidnap. It had been the longest week of his life. Silence chilled the room as John’s cell phone rang.

The digital display was blank again.

“Yes.” He answered, all eyes on him. One of the Agents stuck his thumb up. The tracking technology had kicked in.

“John.” Said the smooth, taunting male voice. Already experts had identified it from the earlier tape as an American national, accent most likely Caucasian Southern Californian, the inflexion and vocabulary estimated at mid-thirties or under. More detailed psychological analysis was ongoing.

“Yes.”

“I will say this only once. You have ten minutes and I need to see one billion dollars in the following bank account.”

The voice gave the name of a bank on the Caribbean island of St. Vincent. The number of the 8-digit account was the same as that day’s date in American format: 03 – 07 – 20 – 07.

“If it doesn’t arrive on time, John, we will never speak again. Gotta go.”

“Wait !”

There was a calm pause. “Yes ?”

“What about my family ? My children ? And my wife ? How do I know you’ll free them all once I’ve paid you the money.”

There was a chuckle. “You don’t.”

“But you have to give me some ...” John Cumber clenched his fists, losing it in exasperation and rage. Walt Furness reached out for the phone but John flapped his hand away.

“Come on, John.” The voice said, a sudden detached coldness entering his tone. “You’ll love it. Trust me.”

*** *** ***

07.47 hrs

Susan knelt and licked between the woman’s legs.

They were outdoors again, in the same breakfast area. It was another cloudless, blue-skied morning. She wasn’t sure what day it was any longer. She was delirious with lack of sleep, worry and hatred.

The woman hadn’t showered. Her labia were puffy and gaping with rancid semen oozing from them down to her anal cleft below. She smelt vaguely of yesterday’s perfume, fishing boats and sweat.

Whatever it was that motivated these people it wasn’t just money. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t even just sex or power. It was something else. Something that made them want every moment, every act, to be as awful as it could be.

The woman could easily have washed, showered, even just wiped herself. But she has chosen not to, and Susan thought that had to be calculated.

Nevertheless, she swirled her tongue and then drilled it, pointed, as deep as she could. She considered lesbianism disgusting, immoral even. But she knew she had no choice.

She guessed the woman was a similar age to her, between forty five and fifty. Still in quite good shape, dressed in a navy cotton top that barely covered her midriff and turquoise Arab slippers.

She felt the woman’s fingernails digging into her scalp, guiding her head.

“Good. Now do my ass a little.”

Bile rose up from Susan’s stomach, making her eyes burn. She eased the woman’s knees apart and helped pull her butt forwards, giving access to her anal rosette. She lowered her face and pushed her tongue out.

“Pay the fine. Then serve the time.” The woman sighed.

She sounded American. She seemed to be in charge, along with the dreadful man the others referred to as the Chameleon.

Susan’s knees throbbed and her ankles ached from kneeling in the same position for so long. Her naked back felt sunburnt and her tongue was numb. She had already been doing this for half an hour but the woman seemed in no rush to reach a climax.

She winced as the woman trailed her long fingernails through Susan’s greasy, unwashed hair.

How much more of this could she take ?

*** *** ***

1994

Charlie licked his dry lips.

You have one new message.

He clicked it open.

Dear Red Mist,

Thanks for your email. It’s always nice for authors to receive feedback like yours. I’m glad you enjoyed Two out of Three Ain’t Bad in particular. I don’t know how old you are but that phrase was the title of a song in my youth. In fact the whole story is kind of based around what I feel about that era. The mid-late Seventies. Anyway, thanks for writing. Feel free to email me direct if you have any more comments or ideas.

Famous Blue Raincoat

Charlie cracked a beer and began his response.

They exchanged occasional emails, to and fro, for a couple of months. Gradually it ceased being an impersonal dialogue and instead became correspondence between friends, even though they were only a couple of faceless persons at either end of optic fibres and two screens.

At least, that’s how it seemed.

On the morning of Christmas Eve 1994, he awoke at dawn, went onto the balcony and fired up his heavy, so-called portable computer.

The sunrise was the colour of burnt orange. He was staying at the Hotel Des Mille Collines in war-torn Rwanda. The analogue signal was intermittent and the page loaded slowly. She had sent her reply from California after he’d turned in for the night.

Dear Red Mist,

Thanks for your last email. You’re correct, I do write from the heart. I have recently been working on a new story. It’s called Sow the Wind, Reap the Whirlwind. That’s based on a line from the Old Testament. It’s kind of inspired by the desire for revenge for something that happened to me many years ago. Not that inspired is really the right word. I’m over it now, pretty much. But it still hurts coz it screwed up my life. So I write to get help get it out of my system. Anyway, gotta go. Write again soon.

Yours, FBR

Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind !

Charlie felt goose pimples up his spine as he started typing.

He travelled up country with Gator for two days. They were on a secret mission to take out some bad guys. It was 48 hours before he was able to open her reply.

Dear RM,

Wow ! This is all pretty intense. I’ve never told anybody any of this stuff before. Somehow it feels easier the fact I don’t know you at all. You’re my anonymous, unpaid psychiatrist ! How’s that feel ? Cheap, huh ? LOL.

Anyway, you asked for it. The truth behind much of my writing is that I was raped. Many years ago now.

The tiny hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck stood bolt upright.

The rape itself was bad enough, but the consequences were worse. I lost the love of my life. The only man I ever loved. You see, I couldn’t tell him I’d been raped. Well, could I have done ? I don’t know now. It’s all so long ago. What’s done is done. You can’t turn the clock back and it’s too late now. He’ll never know.

My boyfriend Charlie had this dangerous streak below the surface. Besides, the rapist threatened he’d fuck up my boyfriend if I told anyone. But he could tell something was up. So I stupidly admitted to Charlie I’d had this one night stand. I thought he’d understand. I was young and naive. I didn’t know much about men back then. Not that I do now.

So we broke up. And Charlie has never spoken to me since. He vanished overseas, never to return. Somebody even told me he’s dead. I could forget the rape now, almost, but I can’t because I’m still living with its consequences every day. My heart contains this void for my boyfriend that has never been filled. I bet you’re sorry you asked now, huh ! Sob stories ain’t so much fun as bdsm stories, right ? Must cut it short. I’ve got to go roast a turkey. I hope you’re well, wherever you are. Keep in touch. Happy Christmas.

FBR

For the first time, Charlie didn’t start typing his reply immediately. He sat, staring at the words on the screen for maybe an hour, he wasn’t sure. Time stopped. Eventually, he undressed, slowly removing his sweat-soaked tee, underpants and switchblade in a daze. He stood under the shower for ten minutes.

The shower of the best hotel in Rwanda was neither as powerful nor as cold as he would have liked. He preferred needles of freezing water that cut into his scarred, muscled skin like shards of ice, numbing his brain yet sharpening his senses to fever pitch.

He had always loved soaking in hot baths after a battle, steaming away his aches and pains, washing away the blood.

But showers he best enjoyed cold.

Hurting. Setting his blood racing.

Preparing him for war.

*** *** ***

Day Eight

John ran his fingers through his hair.

He was poorer by one billion dollars. Type that out: US$ 1,000,000,000. That’s one fuckin’ thousand fuckin’ million bucks.

Walt Furness put his hand down on John’s shoulder. There were now just the two of them in the room.

“John.” Walt said. “We have confirmation. The money’s arrived. As I suspected, formally the bank is refusing us direct access but they have confirmed - off the record - the account is already empty again.”

He shrugged. Trust me, the voice had said.

“I’ve put some good guys on it.” Walt continued. “The best. But I’m afraid the chance of us tracing it through the maze any time soon is pretty much zero. I don’t know who this guy is but I know two things. One, he’s not alone. And two, whoever they are, they know what they’re doing.”

He looked up at Walt and gave him a silent nod of agreement.

Walt paused.

“John ?” Walt finally said, his tone changing. “John, I gotta ask. Do you recall what the guy said at the end of the call ?”

He sighed. The words hung in the air between the two men.

Sure he remembered.

Walt looked him firmly in the eyes.

“He said; come on John. You’ll love it. Trust me.”

John tried to meet his gaze.

“You have any idea what he meant, John ? You’ll love it. That’s kind of a weird thing for somebody to say. You have any idea at all what that means ?”

*** *** ***

08.50 hrs

“Trust me.” said Gator, brandishing his machine pistol.

“We know how to use these things. And these too.” He gestured to his belt where a fearsome machete and a leather riding crop both hung from his waist.

Around the swimming pool, they had stuck five sets of graphics of pink feet. Like the Pink Panther’s footprints ! The rule was that each of the five guests had to stand on a designated pair of footprints and not move outside them.

“Step off the prints,” Gator threatened, raising his riding crop, and the person standing next to you gets a dozen lashes with this.”

The naked family was arranged with the matriarch Susan Cumber at the head of the pool. She was standing with her feet apart inside the pink footprints. Her hands were on her head with her fingers laced together. Her heavy breasts were decorated with red and purple blotches. Her pubic mound was plucked bald. Her mouth was dry with the taste of cunnilingus and analingus. She was dreading what she soon would have to say.

But she was courageously trying to hold it all together in front of her children.

Next to her, down one side of the pool stood her brunette elder daughter Lorna. Like her mommy, she carefully kept her feet in the footprints and her hands on her head. Her mouth tasted of the blowjobs she’d already given that morning.

But despite everything she still looked beautiful, like a nude model posing outdoors for a calendar shoot.

About twenty feet along from her was her redheaded fiancé, Gene. Patches of his freckled skin were sunburnt lobster red, like his face, shoulders and his shaved groin. The rest of his body was milk white. His buttocks sported yellow and red welts from a caning the previous evening.

At the shallow end of the rectangular pool was a viewing gallery, occupied by most of the mercenaries, seated and dressed in their usual mix of combat shirts and khaki shorts, ripped Ts and leathers.

Next, opposite Gene, Ryan Cumber stood naked, once the tall and handsome son and heir. His skin was pale and grubby, his eyes sunken. Unlike the others, he was still handcuffed.

His was the only one of their five exhausted bodies that looked like it still had some fight in it.

Completing the star, opposite her sister, and next to their mother, was Rachel. The arrival of the blonde, top-heavy younger daughter had triggered shocked gasps from her family and raucous cheers from the audience.

She too was naked except for a tight latex sports bra that supported her new E-cup airbags. It barely covered them and the tight white fabric revealed her nipples and veins. The word Lesbian across the bra had been crossed out and Cock Lover had been stencilled in purple above it.

She was perched awkwardly inside the pink feet as if her balance was altered.

All five prisoners sweated in the morning sun, feet wide apart on the pink prints, faces turned towards Gator, hands on their heads, except for Ryan.

The time for cells, separation and mind games was apparently over.

“Silence.” Gator bellowed like the master of ceremonies at a big boxing fight. “For your host please ... the Chameleon !”

Charlie was dressed in full mercenary kit for the occasion: peaked cap, black uniform, boots, weaponry.

He stood at the shallow end of the pool, directly opposite Susan.

“Well, folks, I have some good news, and some bad news.”

He smiled apologetically.

“Let’s get the bad news out of the way first, shall we ? I’m afraid that your beloved husband and father, John Cumber, has failed to come up with our money.”

“No !”  Rachel gasped, moving both hands to cover her face.

Charlie paused for effect until the girl had snapped her hands back behind her head.

“You will be punished for that interruption later. As will anybody else who moves, speaks or utters any noise out of turn. Nod if you all understand ?”

Five horrified, obedient heads bobbed up and down.

“As I was saying, John Cumber has failed to pay your ransom. He’s asked for more time which I have been gracious enough to grant him.”

He halted briefly again, giving them time to appreciate his incredible generosity.

“So, now for the good news. He has offered his lovely wife Susan’s body to me as ... er ... interest on the money in the meantime.”

It was evident that her brave son Ryan in particular was desperate to object but the boy managed to control himself, staring across enraged at Charlie, his mouth agape.

“Listen.”

There was a slight crackle from two outdoor speakers fixed on the wall.

“No ! Wait !” John Cumber’s recorded voice floated urgently over the pool water as if he was actually stood there with all of them.

“Gotta go. Catch you later.” A male voice replied over the speakers.

“Please ... f ... please ... fuck ... my wife.” John Cumber pleaded.

The tape excerpt finished almost as soon as it had begun.

Charlie opened his palms to imply ‘I told you so’.

“But I’m afraid the flabby old lady there is a pretty low return on our investment on her own. Fortunately, I understand that Susan has something of interest to add that will help keep all my friends patient too.”

He turned and gestured at the grinning, watching Reptiles. “Isn’t that correct, Susie, my dear ?”

She grimaced and nodded her head, her bottom lip quivering.

“What is it, Susie ? Out with it now.”

“Please  ... f ... please ... fuck my daughters too.” Susan Cumber pleaded, then burst into tears.

*** *** ***

1995

Dear Red Mist,

You asked about my son. He’s really the crux of this story. He was born nine months after the rape. For medical reasons, I couldn’t take the contraceptive pill and my boyfriend and I had always used rubbers, or him just pulling out. Hey, remember this was the Seventies.

The rapist made me wash the evidence in a scummy lake afterwards and I assumed I’d gotten rid of everything. But three months later, I’m definitely pregnant. So I’m back at home, not even 19 years old yet, knocked up, with a rapist’s kid in my belly.

And everybody thought I’d had a one-night-stand coz that’s what I had to tell them. Fucked, or what? My parents wouldn’t consider me having an abortion, so I gave birth to my son.

And here the story gets even more twisted. After he’s born - I love my baby boy of course - but I still think his father raped me. But when Lenny’s six months old, I see a smile, something, a distinctive look in his eyes. It was uncanny.

I only had a few mementos of Charlie. One was a strand of his hair, entwined with a lock of mine that I kept in a little silver box. Back then DNA testing was less advanced and not normally available but I lied about a possible genetic illness and fortunately the hospital had my son analysed.

Guess what ?

The words blurred on the screen as retired Sergeant Charles Victor, MM, DCM, wiped a tear from his eye. He hadn’t cried since July 1976.

My son is after all Charlie’s child. No doubt. From probably the very last time we ever made love. And yet he doesn’t even know it. He never will. And so my son doesn’t have a father, and the love of my life never knew he had a son.

All because this fucking bastard raped me, when he could have jerked himself off inside pretty much any other girl at college back then, and she would have loved it. Sick, huh ?

But you know the final twist ? The sickest part of all ? That boy who raped me ? He turned out to be some hugely successful guy, famous and rich, and even now, every few weeks I glance by mistake at the newspaper headlines in a drug store, or catch the evening news on TV, and there I see his damned smug face grinning out at me, like it did the night he ruined my life.

And you know what ? That makes me want to ruin his. Forgive me, but it really does. Sadly, of course, I can’t do that in real life, but I can fantasise about it. Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind. So I guess that’s why I write. To get it all out of my system.

And that, Red Mist, is my whole story.

Happy New Year.

*** *** ***

09.52 hrs

Before long, the poolside orgy was in full swing.

The mercenaries smoked, drank coffee or swigged bottles of chilled beer and basked in the hot sunshine, watching the three tableaux. Music blared out from the speakers; appropriately Jeff Booze’s ‘Carving my Name in the Sun’ album.

One tableau featured the homosexual coupling of Gene and Ryan.

Komodo, the gay Reptile, was directing proceedings for the camera. Ryan was the only participant who still required plastic zip ties to control him. He was bent over a sun lounger, face down, but the ties were invisible and on camera it appeared as if he was the willing recipient of Gene’s buttfucking.

Ryan wasn’t struggling because his own genitals had been tied with fishing line to the wooden lounger. If he moved the cord ripped agonisingly on his dick and balls. Komodo had zapped him his ass with an electric prod to stop him shouting.

Ryan gritted his teeth and let Gene apply a generous coating of lube. Then Ryan surrendered his virgin backdoor to his intended-brother-in-law’s dick.

“Oh yeah !” Ryan sobbed out Komodo’s prepared script. “M ... man that’s good Gene. Fuck my ass.”

Komodo and his threatening prod stayed out of shot. As far as the camera lens was concerned, this was an enthusiastic, consensual, gay seeding.

“Gonna give it you good, butt lover.” Gene grunted back, in corny fashion.

It would be anonymously uploaded to a gay videos site.

The second scene starred Susan Cumber in a solo performance.

Alone with a huge, green, glistening vegetable.

The hot 45 yr old was lying on her back on a sun bed, her legs as widely splayed as she could get them, ramming the vegetable dildo to-and-fro inside her bald cunt.

Two cameras were on her; one close up on her face, the other between her perspiring thighs, its microphone picking up every slosh and slush as it disappeared inside her then emerged again, distorting her wet, pink labia.

The scene would be anonymously uploaded under a mature tag.

“My name is Susan Cumber and my husband’s a cucumber.” She sobbed.

The final coupling was an incestuous 69 by Lorna and Rachel.

The two almost naked chicks were lying sandwiched together on a double sun bed, the elder brunette below, while her younger sister’s pussy rode her face. Rachel was grinding her hips up and down while she knelt forward and buried her lips in the ‘v’ of Lorna’s thighs.

Rachel’s pendulous new E-cup tits looked massive despite her bra. Lorna was reaching up caressing them, while both girls sobbed ecstatically.

“Mmm, make me cum, Sis, pleass ...”

Another pair of cameras recorded their muff munching, rug chewing action in great detail. Their faces were easily recognisable.

They would be uploaded not just with lesbian tags but to celebrity sites as well. Their privileged social circle would be keen to know what they were up to.

Meanwhile, a third lens was set up further away on a gantry to get a long shot of the two girls enjoying cunnilingus in the foreground, while their mum frigged herself with a foot long cucumber behind them and, just visible, the two young men engaged in rhythmic anal sex.

*** *** ***

Overnight

Although thankfully unaware of what was happening several thousand miles to the east of him at that precise moment, John Cumber’s shoulders nevertheless sagged. He was sipping black coffee to fight off his exhaustion.

Trust me, the voice had said.

“Walt. That list of people I gave you. My possible enemies.”

The grizzled Agent looked at him expectantly.

“I have one more idea.” John continued. “A long shot. But there was a woman. Well, a girl really. Her name was ...  is ... Melissa.” He paused, blushing. “Melissa Jones, I think.”

“Yeah ?” Walt replied cautiously, after a silence.

“It’s something that happened a long time ago. I’m kind of ashamed now. I was young. But I said those exact words to her; you’ll love it, trust me.”

“You sure ?”

“Sure as I am sat here now. I can remember saying them.”

“And ? The caller was a guy.”

“She had a boyfriend. Charlie something. Chuck. I forget what. We were all at college together. Like I said, a long shot. But I thought I should mention it.”

Walt nodded. “Names begin with M and C, huh ? Like those Latin numerals on the DVD.” He tugged his earlobe pensively. “And this Melissa Jones. You any idea where she lives now ?”

John shook his head. “None at all. But I think her family lived out in California. Some suburb of L.A.”

Walt looked disappointedly at him. The regret and guilt in John’s eyes was unavoidable.

You’ll love it, trust me.

Uneasily, the two men shifted apart from each other. It was 4 a.m.

“Well, I’ll get onto it right now.”

*** *** ***

12.54 hrs

Melissa pushed the tray under the bars of Ryan’s cell.

The naked, butt-fucked, starving boy looked at her.

She grinned. “Lunchtime.”

The tray was made of flexible red plastic. On it was a white paper plate. And on the plate was a thick slice of unappetising Prison Loaf.

She watched him get down on his knees and stare at his meal. It resembled a desiccated lump of orange, green and brown granola bar. It looked disgusting and tasted worse.

“Eat.” She repeated. “That’s all you’re going to get.”

He picked it up and sniffed. He was famished. He took a cautious bite.

She chuckled as he gagged and his eyes watered.

She’d baked it herself. The loaf’s ingredients were imitation cheese, dehydrated potato flakes, powdered milk, drained beans, grated carrots and spinach, raisins, tomato paste and breadcrumbs. No seasoning.

Ryan chewed, his brown eyes watered, forcing the mouthful down.

Melissa had chosen what they refer to as Special Management Meals in US penitentiaries. Imagine eating something that is considered a punishment even compared with regular prison slop.

“Another.”

He turned pale and took a second mouthful.

She watched, delighted. According to reports, just one week on prison loaf can turn even the hardest con into a meek lamb. Its use is being challenged as cruel and unusual punishment in several states under the Eighth Amendment. It smelt a bit like the fodder they give to animals at a zoo.

Nevertheless, it contained the basic protein, fibre and nutrients that a human needs to survive. Hungry enough, a human is just another animal. He or she will eat anything. Ryan’s wet eyes met hers as he chomped through the bland taste and cardboard texture.

Melissa intended to inflict this diet on Ryan Cumber for as long as he was her guest !

*** *** ***

14.50 hrs

Six hours had passed since his speech to the Cumbers that morning.

Inside his chilled, air-conditioned bedroom suite overlooking the swimming pool, Charlie turned from the window. He sat down at his PC and clicked it out of sleep mode.

On various websites, untraceable clips of the Cumbers were already attracting views and hits. Even the Feds wouldn’t be able to put everything back into the box. The viral images would live forever now, out in the ether, stored on hard drives, printed in colour, recommended to friends, jerked over for years to come.

He watched the recording of Rachel doing a 69 with Lorna. The younger sister was only 21. But he had waited until she came of age.

Whereas Melissa had been only 18 when John raped her.

He got up from his seat and took down a battered notebook from the shelf. It was slim, leather-bound, dog-eared, even had a bloodstain. He had bought it at a market stall in Rwanda. He opened it up. For 13 years he had been carrying it with him, collecting quotations, sayings, lyrics. He handwrote them down whenever he came across them.

They were mostly to do with vengeance, revenge, justice. He had collected over six hundred but he had a couple of dozen favourites. He opened the notebook at random.

He smiled. On the page he’d written out the lyrics to a song by Bob Dylan. It was about Old Reilly’s daughter, who gives her nubile body to an evil judge to save her father from the gallows, only to find next morning her father’s broken body hanging from the noose anyway.

The name of the song was Seven Curses.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SEVEN CURSES

“Gold will never free your father

The price my dear is you instead”.

Seven Curses, Bob Dylan (1963)

“Vengeance and retribution require a long time.”

A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens (1859)

1995

Charlie surveyed the house from his rented Cherokee through a pair of military issue binoculars. It was a sultry, red-skied evening; Friday, 31st March. He could see her through the window. Mel was 37 now and yet she still looked so much like the 18 year old girl he’d first set eyes on half their lifetimes ago. Boy, how much he’d loved her then. And how much he’d hated her afterwards.

And now ?

Now that he knew the truth ?

He realised his hands were bending the jeep’s steering wheel. Truth was, he loved her, always had, and always would. Proportion, like many things, had never been his strong point. He had punished her unduly. And punished himself. And yet the only person who should be punished was ...

Well, that could wait a while; one-two-three-breathe.

He had never married and had never loved anybody else. Nor had she.

And above all, he had punished his son. The son he didn’t know. The son who didn’t know his father. The son Mel had named after their favourite singer-songwriter. The poet whose music they first made love to.

Leonard Cohen.

And the son who would celebrate his 18th Birthday the very next day.

Slowly, Charlie climbed out of the SUV, locked it and started towards the house.

He had spent almost twenty years engaged in some of the most terrifying warfare and ruthless hand-to-hand combat in global history. Not once had anything frightened him. Ever. He had always laughed in the face of danger.

After all, he never had anything to lose.

Now he wondered what his woman and son would say when he appeared out of the blue at their door after all this time.

Would Famous Blue Raincoat take Red Mist back ?

Or had he lost his family before he even had one ?

Suddenly, without any warning, for the first time in his life, Charles Victor felt real fear.

*** *** ***

Yesterday

Lonely Man licks his lips with anticipation.

As always, he is sat alone in his dark one-room apartment in a small, Midwestern town. His only table is littered with the detritus of his solitary life; spent cartons of old takeaway meals and delivery pizzas, unwashed plates and overflowing ashtrays, empty cans and scrunched up tissues. The blinds are drawn and the air in the room hangs heavy with the reek of musty carpets, stale tobacco smoke, and body odour.

But, to hand, he has a nice chilled six-pack of Miller, two packets of Camel still in their cellophane, and a warm Big Mac in a bag.

In the centre of the table stands his pride and joy; a 28-inch widescreen monitor hooked up to the PC under the table.

It is time for his daily round as self-appointed policeman.

He logs onto the Literotica site and selects New Stories. The familiar light blue letters on white background fill his screen.

He surveys the titles, looking for anything that smacks of the things he dislikes. He spots the name of an author and immediately clicks through to the end of the new chapter. He rates it a 1 out of 5 without reading a word.

Lonely smiles with satisfaction. He moves on to another story he spots and skims through it checking for words. He finds piss and shakes his head in disgust. Anything scatological, however subtle, offends him. He gives it a 1.

He moves to the site’s tags portal and searches on cuckold. He knows this section like the back of his hand. Aha! Some loser author has written a new story tagged cuckold. He opens it up and finds that the author has disabled the voting function. Lonely has won ! He has persecuted the guy with so many low ratings and vicious anonymous comments the wimp has run up the white flag.

Lonely lights a Camel and exhales a ring of satisfaction.

He pulls out a tissue and wipes his sweating forehead. Then, slowly, almost reverently, he lifts up his other pride and joy. It is a latex mouth that he lowers carefully onto his thin dick. It is a battery-powered, Fleshlight blowjob device. As soon as he flicks the power control, his darling Girl-who-never-says-no starts sucking him to heaven.

Lonely types an abusive private message to the loser telling him to give up. The idea of letting your wife fuck another guy appals Lonely. Heck, he’d never even be able to get a real girlfriend himself, so why would he fantasise about sharing one ?

He has never actually written anything in his life. Lonely himself isn’t even that good at reading! He prefers jerking off to free video sites. Hot babes the like of which he can only dream about. He is just about to move onto Slutload to ogle some cumshot compilation clips when he spots something.

A new title.

By somebody called Famous Blue Raincoat.

Reap the Whirlwind, Ch 1.

Hmm. Interesting.

*** *** ***

2007

It was a modest Sixties timber house on the lower slopes of the Hollywood Hills, ten minutes from Sunset.

The combined FBI and LAPD team surrounded the house and yard and then the lead agents bust in the front and back doors simultaneously.

The place was registered to Ms. Melissa Jones and locals confirmed that she had lived there alone with her son for maybe two decades.

Five minutes after the forced entry, it was apparent that neither Ms. Jones nor her son was in. Furthermore, neither had been home in quite a while.

Over the following 24 hours, it was to become apparent that the place had been ‘cleansed’ by total professionals. There was nothing left to indicate anything personal about the people who had lived there; no clothes, no books, no PC, no music, no papers, no tins of food, no cans of drink.

“Walt.”

The West Coast Head spoke into his cell to his boss back east.

“It’s like a show home. Just basic furniture. Table, chairs, sofa, bed without sheets. Not new. Used, but totally clean. Like nobody ever lived here yet.”

“Well dust the darned place again.” Walt Furness replied, exasperated.

“That’s it, Sir. We have. Twice. And we haven’t found a single print or hair.”

There was a silence.

“But there’s a note, Sir. It was found glued to the underside of the kitchen table. No prints on the sheet of paper. Just eight typed words in Calibri font.”

“What did it say ?”

“The trail stops here. Trust us. The Chameleon.”

*** *** ***

19.59 hrs

Rachel was in one of the underground interrogation rooms.

She was on her back with her legs in gynaecological stirrups, thighs wide apart. Two men were casually raping her. One was stood between her knees rhythmically pounding balls deep into her sore vagina. The other had already used her and he was wiping his smeared penis clean over her cheeks whilst preparing a set of piercing equipment.

She was fastened to the rack by leather straps round her forehead, neck, wrists, knees and ankles. She could wriggle her fingers, toes and hips but otherwise she was helpless.

The men were both thugs in their forties, old enough to be her father, but one was black and the other was oriental. She winced and whimpered with pain as the big black penis raped her. Her new breasts were rocking and rolling on her chest and both men sniggered at them.

She groaned with shame as she felt the second man’s orgasm squirted deep inside her. His coal black eyes studied her throughout as he emptied his testicles. He was smiling, eyes twinkling, enjoying her shame.

At least they had fed her beforehand to give her strength. It was the first proper food she’d had since the kidnap. A thick soup of beef and beans in some kind of spicy African sauce, along with a large drink of water.

The oriental man had a tattoo of a reticulated python covering his torso, neck and down his arms. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and wiped her breasts with a sterilizing cloth. Then he held a cold clamp in front of her eyes.

“Please.” She whispered, shaking her head.

He shook his head mock-sadly and placed the clamp over her left nipple and squeezed. Without warning, pop, a needle pierced her nipple.

“Aaah.” She flinched.

He repeated the procedure on her right nipple. Another pop.

She looked down and saw two shiny bars sticking out of her nipples. They were steel and looked alarmingly heavy atop her breasts.

He grinned approvingly.

“That’s all for today.”

The black man had been watching. Now he opened up a cellophane package and unwrapped something white. Rachel frowned as she realised it was some kind of diaper. He unbuckled the leather straps securing her knees and ankles and spread the diaper out.

The two men lifted her hips and placed it under her bottom like she was a baby. The black man spread open her wet vulva as if admiring the state they had left her in. Then he fingered up a scoop of their juices and put his thumb into her anus.

“Aaah.” She cringed.

He ignored her and opened a cellophane wrapper with his teeth. Inside was a capsule about the size of Rachel’s little finger. He showed it to her.

“This is a suppository. Ever had one ?”

She shook her head.

She felt him place it in the lubricated entrance of her anus. He pushed it slowly inside, smirking at her.

Within ten seconds, she felt a twitching sensation in her bottom.

He began taping up the adult diaper into position round her waist covering her orifices. Then he strapped her knees and ankles in place again and patted her stomach gently when he’d finished.

She noticed a burning feeling inside her bottom.

He was studying her eyes. Both men were.

“It’s a ginger suppository. It will burn. Enjoy.”

They walked to the door and turned off the light, just as the first fiery cramp hit her.

*** *** ***

21.00 hrs

Mel woke Susan Cumber with a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“Wake up, Sue. There’s work to do.”

Susan blinked at her, wiping her eyes. Her hair was tousled and she looked a mess. She had spent the afternoon with a handful of mercenaries. Her skin reeked of stale tobacco and sex. Slowly, she pushed the moth-eaten, coarse blanket aside and began to sit up.

“Phew.” Mel smiled. “You need a shower.”

Susan rolled her green eyes in agreement, shifting her stiff body.

“Hold still. Knees open. Press your ankles to your butt and show me your cunt.”

Susan looked at Mel and presented her hairless mound. The reddened lips of her cunt gaped open, still dirty and moist with the afternoon’s hard pounding. A sour waft of sexual odour mushroomed up from between her thighs.

Mel studied it without flinching. “Let’s go.” She said, finally.

Since the kidnap, Ryan had been the only one of the five captives to have had no sex. Or rather, no orgasm.

He was in the largest of the interrogation rooms, strapped onto an x-shaped steel frame.  His naked arms and legs were stretched out, leaving his genitals nude and exposed. The x-frame was tilted at 45 degrees so he was resting at a comfortable angle. With his private entertainment system, he could almost have been travelling Business Class !

He was wearing a Bose headset and a there was a Sony TV screen fixed into the ceiling above his head. His upturned face flickered with vivid colours and light as a movie was broadcast just a couple of feet above his eyes.

During the first hour, Komodo had attached monitors to various parts of him, to gauge his reaction to the porn on the screen and blaring into his headphones.

Initially, it was bland softcore, just naked babes and vanilla male-female lovemaking. Then the clips ran through the gamut of things like interracial, watersports, gay male, cougar action, face-sitting, fem-dom, cuckold scenes, and hardcore Bdsm. All those did pretty much nothing for Ryan and the monitors proved it. Komodo crossed each fetish off on some kind of chart.

Occasionally excerpts of scenes featuring Ryan’s family had been inserted in the compilation.  Blowjobs and anal and all kinds of sex, sometimes it was made to look like his mom and sisters were willing, other times they had obviously been forced. The disgusting action seemed to feature every horrible mercenary, except for the resolutely homosexual Komodo.

After an hour working out what got Ryan most excited, he had been drip-fed a constant diet of the hottest porn he’d ever seen. He loved threesome sex above all; consensual MFF action, with one fit guy and two babes, ideally two blondes, like Savannah, or maybe a blonde and redhead. He loved money shots too, seeing great geysers of jizz spurted over their cutes faces and between their gobbling red lips cloying their white teeth.

In the ten days since he’d been kidnapped, Ryan hadn’t had an orgasm. At first he had been too traumatised to care, but his pent up libido kicked in. He had a hot girlfriend called Savannah at college and the two of them usually made out at least twice a day. Now his balls had turned blue and his mind was going crazy.

But there was no respite. His dick had been constantly erect, oozing pre-cum. Komodo occasionally popped in to check up on him and give him sips of water. He made him swallow a tiny pill and then skilfully teased Ryan’s throbbing stiffness with his slim brown hands.

Despite his disgust at a man’s touch, Ryan’s dick felt as rigid as an iron bar. Then, without warning, the screen suddenly went black and his headphones fell silent. He was plunged into a few seconds of quiet calm.

The door opened and his mom walked in followed by the Chameleon woman. Even after everything that had happened, Ryan gasped like a teenager caught jacking off, feeling his cheeks blush.

But there was nothing he could do. He was spread-eagled, naked, with a throbbing erection jutting up towards his face.

His mom blushed in return. She looked shocking too; grimy naked, her tangled hair, smudged makeup, breasts marked with hickeys.

Ryan looked into the calculating eyes of the woman standing next to his mom.

She patted his mom on the shoulder while staring down at him. He felt both women’s eyes on his face, his body, dried pre-cum, his erection.

“Not bad.” She said. “What do you think, mommy ?”

His mom’s lower lip trembled. “Pl ...”

“Answer me !”

“It’s ... yes ... it’s nice.”

The woman reached over and lifted the wireless headphones from Ryan’s ears. She hung them over a hook and smiled at him.

“Mommy thinks you have a nice cock.”

He gulped. She walked her fingers down his chest and abdomen to his shaft and put her fingers around it, giving it a couple of teasing strokes. He shut his eyes unable to prevent his hips lifting slightly in reaction to her touch.

“Open your eyes.” He saw her take a step back. “You take over.”

His mom’s eyes filled with tears. “Please ... no ...”

The woman sighed. She put her hand in her pocket a removed something. It flashed in the overhead light. It was a steel scalpel.

“Tell her, Ryan. This will be the only way you get to cum.”

He gasped as she trailed the razor-sharp over the vein in his penis.

“Or maybe you’d rather that you never cum again ?”

“Please mom,” he sobbed, “... do it. Please.”

He recognised the shock and shame in his mother’s eyes. He felt it too. Slowly she placed her fingers on his erection and gripped it. She started to stroke him, up, down, jerking him off.

*** *** ***

03.10 hrs

Rachel lay in the dark in a soggy diaper full of her own waste.

She had survived the burning and the gut-wrenching cramps, but in the end the overwhelming need to relieve her bowels and bladder had beaten her.

Now, her inner thighs had turned from moist and warm to damp and cold. Her nipples ached and her bottom itched. She felt terribly alone.

Sometime, in the middle of the night, the bright halogen overhead lights suddenly blazed on.

She blinked at the black man who’d put on her diaper. He was wearing a towelling dressing gown, gazing down at her. By his dishevelled appearance it looked as if he’d been sleeping. He was holding a green plastic bag.

He reached down and peeled back one side of the diaper so he could peer inside. He sniffed and nodded, pushing the tape closed again.

“You sure have filled that, young lady, haven’t you ?”

She swallowed, feeling her cheeks flush. “Uhuh.”

He chuckled. “Well, that was a very rash thing to do.”

She watched him put on a pair of gloves and open the plastic bag. He carefully pulled out some plants. She realised they were a bunch of cut stinging nettles.

“No.” She gasped. “No, please. I can’t take any more.”

He held up a long clump of feathery green fronds.

“You’d be surprised how much more you can take.”

“Please.” She sobbed. “Not those.”

He ignored her and pushed a dial, adjusting the rack. She heard a whirring sound and felt her back and shoulders being lowered, so she ended up at a 45-degree angle with her head lower than her waist.

He walked round and stood facing her feet, with one leg astride each side of her head. His towelling robe hung open and she could see his dangling penis and scrotum, and his brown buttocks covered in frizzy hair.

OMG!

“Aaaaahssss.” She hissed.

The nettles slithered over her sensitive breasts and pierced nipples. She felt a hundred stings as the silica hairs stabbed her flesh, injecting their venom.

She tried to scream but he lowered himself onto her face and muffled her nose and mouth. She could only mewl into his bottom.

Her muscles twitched helplessly as she tried desperately to move, her wrists and ankles cutting into the leather straps, the nettles tickling and pricking her ribs.

And then, to cap it all, the man farted loudly in her gorgeous face.

*** *** ***

Day 10

There was excitement in the room at last !

After ten days of no progress, the investigation finally had something to go on.

Eighty agents and officers were being addressed by Walt Furness.

“Leonard Jones.” He said.

He pointed at a black & white image of a man wearing a Fedex uniform, looking straight into the lens of what was obviously an office lobby CCTV and sticking his long, lizard-like tongue out. It was date and time-coded 09.07 hrs 03/05/07. The man was clean shaven and he appeared to be middle aged, maybe mid, late forties.

Walt Furness pressed a button and produced a new, full-color slide. It showed a different, clean cut, quite handsome youth of around thirty. He looked a bit like a younger Kiefer Sutherland in his role as 24’s Jack Bauer.

“Leonard Jones.” Walt repeated with irony. “Same guy, different appearance. Ladies and gents, we are dealing with a master of disguise. Or to use his chosen handle, a chameleon.”

There was the sound of shuffling, murmurs, sideways glances.

“And Homeland Security has good reason to believe he is currently still at large somewhere within the United States.”

*** *** ***

09.07 hrs

Susan Cumber knelt while the black collar was sealed round her neck.

Mel grinned at her.

“There we are. Now we don’t have to worry about chains and ropes and all that stuff. See!”

Susan choked, apoplectic, as a short, sharp electric current coursed from the base of her spine up her nervous system to her brain, before ricocheting down to her feet.

She tumbled forwards face first onto the floor, trying but failing to scream, clutching at her throat.

“If you take one step outside this compound, that’s what will happen. Get up ! Get up !!”

Susan struggled slowly back onto her knees, gagging.

“Pl ... sss ...” she gasped. “No m ... more. Look, my husband w ... will get you your money, I promise.”

Mel laughed at her, tucking the controller for the electric tag collar into her leather belt.

“Oh yes. I forgot. Thanks. The money arrived safe and sound some time ago. We’re all already multimillionaires.”

Susan shook her head, struggling to hear and comprehend.

“Wha ... ?”

“Yeah, good old John. He’s done his bit. Now you just have to complete your part of the deal.”

My part ? Surely ? Susan shook her head to clear it.

“I don’t un ... understand.”

The woman smiled like a mother explaining homework to her kid.

“Look. Your husband had to pay to buy you all the opportunity to earn your freedom. But now he’s done that, you still have to complete your part of the bargain.”

“I ... wh ... what do we have to do ?”

“Well, we’re going to be here for a while. You see the money is a bit hot so we have to wait for it to chill.”

Mel reached and lifted Susan’s chin with her fingers so that both of them were looking into each other’s eyes.

“You see, even your money is best enjoyed cold.”

“H ... how long ?” Susan gasped.

The woman shrugged casually.

“I’m not sure. A year or so. Maybe longer.”

Unable to prevent herself, Susan sobbed. “Noooooo ! Nooooooo !”

A short, mild, electric shock soon brought her under control.

“I must warn you that outbursts like that will only extend your sentence. That noise just added one whole month to your stay. And any more silly comments will add a whole year to it.”

Completely defeated, Susan simply hung her head like a punch drunk boxer. Be strong ! Be strong for Rachel, Lorna, Ryan.

And John.

“Good.” Mel said. “Now, a few new rules. While here, you will make yourself useful. You will work 18/7. Do you know what that means ?”

Susan’s mind was still numb. Before she had the chance to reply, Mel carried on speaking.

“That mean eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. You have a personal maid don’t you ? What’s her name, Catalina ?”

“Yes.” Susan whispered.

“You will be my Catalina. Your duties will obviously include anything like hers, domestic chores, polishing floors and scrubbing toilets, that kind of stuff. And manicures, pedicures, massage, etcetera. Yes ?”

Susan nodded.

“But tell me, did Catalina lick your cunt ? Did she put out for your husband’s friends ?”

Susan merely stared at her, mouth frozen slightly open.

“Well ?”

There was a crack.

Susan’s hand shot up to cool her cheek where it had been slapped.

“No. She didn’t.”

“But you will of course ?”

“Y ... yes.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Yes, M ... Madam.”

“And you will obey any sexual instruction, understood ?”

Mel waited for her, clearly expecting a response.

Susan bobbed her head slowly up and down.

“Yes ... any.” She mumbled.

Mel smiled, mock-kindly, gently cupping Susan’s cheek.

“Well, that’s all clear then. So let’s put you straight to work.”

*** *** ***

Day 11

The young FBI agent was quivering with excitement.

“Sir.” He said, holding a printed piece of paper out to Walt Furness and John Cumber. “We have him.”

There it was. In black and white.

A reservation had been made for a Mr. Lionel C. Jones on American Airlines, Flight 1385, from New York to Bridgetown, Barbados. Departing JFK the following morning, a Sunday, at 09.55 hrs.

The ticket had been purchased with cash from a midtown Manhattan travel agent two days ago.

“Yesss.”

John Cumber punched his right fist into his left palm and muttered under his breath.

“It’s a single ticket, Sir. One way.”

“Barbados ?” Walt mused, stroking his chin cautiously.

“The nearest international airport to St. Vincent, Sir.”

“Where my fucking billion dollars was wired.”

The young agent’s grin widened with a triumphant flourish.

“And there’s more, Sir. A small 4-seater jet has been booked with SVG Airlines. It is chartered to fly from Grantley Adams, Barbados to Joshua Airport in St. Vincent, tomorrow afternoon.”

He paused for full, dramatic effect. “It is to fly just a single passenger. Chartered by somebody travelling under the name of Lenny Johnson.”

Walt looked at the agent and then at John Cumber.

“Let’s go hunt our reptile guys !”

*** *** ***

15.15 hrs

Seven of the reptiles were playing poker in the afternoon shade; Skink, Gator, Gecko, Night Snake, Cobra, and a couple of others.

The atmosphere was intense. Large piles of chips were heaped in front of several players and smaller stacks belonged to the rest. It was evident that the millions each man now possessed in foreign bank accounts were being wagered on No Limits Texas Hold’ Em.

Skink, a Nigerian, surveyed the table with his motionless, poker face.

“Raise.” He said, pushing several $10,000 chips forward.

Gator’s eyes studied him. His lopsided face with its missing ear slowly broke into an ugly grin.

“Gotcha !”

Skink froze, then grinned in defeat. He looked down between his thighs. Lorna Cumber’s pretty head was glued to his waist.

As well as poker, there was a game of side-bets. The men were all naked from the waist down. Lorna was kneeling under the table. She randomly sucked a dick for about a minute and each man had to keep a straight face whenever it was his turn.

Now that his bet was lost, Skink relaxed and forgot about trying to hide his orgasm from the table. He groaned and seized her long brunette hair, pumping Lorna’s head up and down on his dick.

“Blow zat fuckin head off, man.” Gecko, the heavily tattooed Russian encouraged.

“Man it’s coming out her ears.” Night Snake, laughed.

Skink twisted her hair and pulled her head up so that everybody could see her pretty face above the rim of the table. Her lips were pursed tight, throat working, gulping his seed.

Everybody laughed. Skink flicked a $10,000 chip over to Gator.

“Your turn, Gate. Now let’s see you keep a straight face !”

He pushed Lorna back under the table towards Gator’s seat.

“Start again, darling.” He smiled. “Now, I think I just raised you all.”

*** *** ***

20.35 hrs

Ryan Cumber was the last of the five to break.

Komodo was highly skilled at keeping him there. He could have broken him at any time but he enjoyed making the fun last.

Ryan was strapped over the wooden raping stool, his asshole in the air, his wrists and ankles cuffed to the base. He was hollering loudly but futilely into the stone walls as Komodo sodomised him again and again.

In between ass-fucks, Komodo relaxed, charged his batteries and amused himself. He had an insatiable libido fortified by tabs of Viagra. He thrashed Ryan’s cute muscular butt with vicious cane strokes. He stretched his scrotum with heavy lead weights and threatened to slice his balls off with a serrated knife.

“No !” Ryan screamed, as the blade pricked his prostate.

Eventually, it was the fist that did it. Komodo managed to force his entire hand up to the strap of his Rolex into the young man’s sphincter and Ryan’s body sagged. He sobbed for mercy. He proved it by sucking Komodo’s shitty cock until the Indian had squirted his umpteenth orgasm down Ryan’s throat.

“Good boy.” Komodo chuckled, slapping Ryan’s bruised bottom. “I told you. Slowly we’re turning you into a much nicer person.”

*** *** ***

Saturday

Lenny sunk back into a First Class seat for the first time in his life.

He admired the flaxen-haired stewardess who served him a glass of champagne, as she leaned over to ensure he got a nice view of her deep cleavage.

He felt a twinge in his groin as he imagined reaching out and grabbing her tits. Like he would soon be able to do to those two Cumber girls.

Out through the oval window he could see frantic activity as the baggage handlers and airline staff filled the plane with suitcases and fuel.

He felt no emotion, no Star Spangled banner. It was goodbye and good luck as far as he was concerned. God bless America but he doubted he would ever set foot on her rich soil again.

Now he had riches of his own.

A male steward suddenly brandishing a clipboard gave him a shock.

He smiled down at Lenny momentarily. Like he fancied him.

“Monsieur Kohn.” The cabin steward said. “Bienvenue.”

Lenny peered back up at him through his dark glasses and flashed his best white teeth smile. “Er, merci.”

“Vous etes Americain ?”

“Nao. Eu sou Brasileiro.” Lenny replied in his well-rehearsed Portuguese. Lenny’s s temporary skin colour was mulatto and he had a sharp goatee to compliment his wiry black hair. Every inch a Brazilian.

“But ... er ... I can speak a leedel English.” He attempted.

The steward gaily flipped into his own mix of cabin crew Portuguese and flawless English himself.

“Bemvindo abordo, Senor Kohn. Enjoy the flight.”

“Obrigado.”

“I will leave you the menu and entertainment guide. If I can be of any assistance, please do not hesitate to call me.”

Sixteen minutes later, with typically Swiss precision, at 19.55 precisely, the Airbus A330-200 that was Swissair Flight 65 took off on time from Miami on its overnight haul to Zurich.

Around fourteen hours later, at JFK New York, Sunday morning’s American Airlines flight to Barbados was delayed for several hours as Federal Agents checked out every single inconvenienced passenger, searching for a Mr. Lionel Jones, without any success.

Popping an antacid tablet into his mouth, Walt Furness couldn’t help chewing bitterly on eight words:

The trail stops here. Trust us.

The Chameleon.

*** *** ***

Day 12

Walt stood jacketless, sleeves rolled up, in the same crammed meeting room, in front of most of the same eighty agents, but this time there was no air of excitement.

The tang of sweaty armpits, certainly.

Grim determination for sure.

But mostly just exhausted resignation.

He projected three mug-shot images onto the screen behind him.

To the left, there was the same modestly handsome youth he had displayed before.

“Leonard Charles Jones. Born Los Angeles, 1st April, 1977.”

To the right, there was a nice looking woman. It was her driving license photo. At first glance, she looked like a standard, well preserved Californian soccer mom. The resemblance with her son was apparent, despite their age and gender difference.

“Melissa Jones.” He said. “Born Anaheim, Orange County, 11th November 1957. Unmarried single mother of Leonard.”

And finally, the middle of the three images, projected directly above where Walt stood, showed one of the most extraordinary faces most of the agents had ever seen.

The picture was black and white. A military ID. By the fading quality, the photo looked maybe a couple of decades old.

The masculine features themselves were reasonably ordinary. Tough looking sure, strong cheekbones and firm jaw, military back and sides. He looked maybe late twenties at the time. At first glance, his photo could have been pretty much any photo from the front page of USA Today, showing the face of another casualty in Afghanistan or Iraq.

Yet, behind the features and within the slightly narrowed eyes, there was something else entirely.

Something indescribable that made the little hairs of every member of the audience stand on end.

“You are looking at Charles Victor. Born Ontario County, New York State, 14th February 1957 to an American father and a Brit mother, both deceased. Served nine years in the British Armed Forces and has since worked around the world as a mercenary. Current whereabouts unknown. But we believe he may be the biological father of Leonard Jones.”

The silence in the room was palpable, as if hearts had stopped beating. At second glance, there was something about the eyes of the two men that was similar.

“Charles, Melanie, Leonard.” Walt enunciated each name slowly.

Then he picked up a marker pen and wrote on the white board.

C ... H ... A

He turned briefly to glance at his audience then carried on writing.

M ... E ... L

There were murmurs.

L ... E ... O ... N.

Walt Furness calmly placed the pen down and stared everybody hard in the eyes.

“Gentlemen, ladies: The Chameleon !”

CHAPTER EIGHT

KARMA CHAMELEON

“Every day is like survival”

From Karma Chameleon (1983), Culture Club

“History is written by the victors”

Winston Churchill (1874-1965)

Day 16

John Cumber sat slumped in a chair. He was barely surviving, a mere husk of the handsome, 6’ 3” corporate titan he had been only two weeks earlier. The sheer horror of what had happened, the kidnap of his family, the images of his wife posted on the internet, the loss of most of his fortune, his anger, exhaustion, humiliation and impotence had sucked the life out of him, like all the juice from a blood orange.

“So, Ellen.” He sighed. “It’s over ?”

It was as much statement as question.

The trading screens and tickers lining the room confirmed that on March 15th 2007 John was going to lose his battle to keep the Cumber share price above $15. On top of the constant untraceable sell orders and rumours out of Asia, had crashed a tsunami of hedge fund shorts and investment bank re-ratings, overwhelming even his own and his allies’ substantial resources.

When the end came, it was decisive. The price had plunged to under $11 and it was still in freefall.

Ellen O’Leary wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and adjusted her half-moon glasses.

“It’s over, John. The banks won’t lend you any more. A couple of them feel terrible but they just can’t override their shareholders interests.”

The main Cumber Estate plus the homes in the Hamptons and Aspen had been mortgaged to the hilt. The jet, cars, art and antiques, even Susan’s remaining jewellery had already been put up as security.

“So how much do I have left ?”

“Just your Cumber stock and the bank won’t accept that as security.”

“What’s its market value ?”

“A little under a billion dollars as of an hour ago.”

“So I’m still a fucking billionaire.” He bellowed, hurling a black Montblanc fountain pen at the wall. “A useless paper billionaire who can’t save his family !”

There was a silence.

“Maybe they will contact you again soon. You held the price up as long as you could.” Ellen said.

It had been a week since he had paid the ransom and four days since the failed attempted to catch the villain on the flight to Barbados.

Not a word in all that time. But they had said they would kill a member of his family for each day the share price ended below 15 dollars.

In a little over ten minutes, the share price would close at under 11.

*** *** ***

2002

Charlie hadn’t been to a baseball park in more than a quarter of a century. The game on its own meant nothing to him. But he could see the excitement in his son’s intense eyes and that made the whole thing worth a billion dollars.

And he did understand something about game changing moments and comebacks. The moment when the momentum swings from the early leader to the eventual victor coming from behind.

Tonight that moment belonged to Troy Glaus.

It was Saturday, October 26, bottom of the seventh, Game 6 of the 2002 World Series. Charlie was already meant to be on his way to Moscow. But he had stayed in LA one extra night and paid a billionaire’s ransom to a scalper for two tickets so he could take Lenny to see his beloved Angels play this crucial game.

Around them, some 50,000 men and women, fathers and sons, had rammed themselves into the Big A. There was something uniquely American that night about the exciting atmosphere; the festivities and fluttering banners, the cookouts and parties, the taste of cold beer, the scent of hot dogs, and the hoopla of the Jumbotron.

The Giants had been leading 5-0 and were just eight outs away from taking the World Series when the Anaheim first baseman hit a three-run homer and shortly after that their center-fielder hit a leadoff line drive home-run in the eighth.

The atmosphere took him back to July Four, 1976. Charlie glanced at his son. Lenny was 25 now. At the same age, Charlie was already a veteran killer, a man more comfortable with an Mp5 in his hand than a hotdog. Was the mission he and Mel were planning the right place for their nice boy ?

Lenny smiled back animatedly as their Rally Monkey mascot sent the Anaheim fans into a renewed frenzy and Troy Glaus walked slowly to the plate, swinging his arms. Second and third bases had been taken by Figgins and Anderson.

The Giants brought on their specialist closer Robert Nen to pitch to Troy. At 8.3 million bucks a year, Nen was the highest paid closer in Major League history. Would he earn his corn tonight ?

Charlie took a slug of beer and briefly wondered where John and Susan were. What about Ryan and the girls ? Were they all watching this game together in their massive den? Had they too sensed the change of momentum ?

Rachel was coming up to her 17th birthday. Her age was saving her family. He and Mel had decided that no way would the kidnap take place before Rachel was at least the age that Mel had been when John raped her. They would wait for the right moment. As long as it took. A family celebration of some sort.

Meanwhile, Lenny was nervous, biting his knuckle.

“It’ll be fine.” Charlie told his son. “Trust me.”

Around the stadium, there seemed to be a deathly hush. A full five seconds pause. 50,000 faces frozen. The Giants in their white pants and tops with blue sleeves. The Angels with red sleeves and caps.

Robb Nen was lining up Glaus, tapping his toe to the ground, coiling his right arm, selecting from his arsenal: would it be the splitter, a fastball or his signature slider, “the Terminator”?

And then the blur of the ball, the smack and the roar. Glaus slugged a double to the left-center field to drive in the tying and winning runs. In the ninth, the Angels struck out the Giants and so won the game by 6-5.

The halo was lit. The following night the Angels won Game 7 by 4-1 to win the World Series for the first time in their history. But by then Charlie was aboard Aeroflot 322, bound for Moscow, where Chechen rebels had taken control of the Dubrovka theatre and were holding the audience hostage. Through a discreet middleman in Zurich, the Russian Spetsnaz had requested Charlie’s unofficial help.

Apparently, there was nobody who knew more about hostage situations than the man known in underground circles simply as CV.

*** *** ***

17.05hrs

Melissa smiled down at Rachel as she undid the tapes.

The girl was quickly learning control. This time she had managed to only pee into the burlap diaper. The scratchy jute fabric was surrounded by a waterproof outer-layer but the inside had low absorbency.  A puddle of stale yellow urine lay pooled underneath Rachel’s scarlet buttocks.

There were dark skid marks on the light brown cloth where her unwiped bottom had rubbed against the fabric but Rachel had so far succeeded in retaining the most recent pint of baby food inside her colon.

Melissa stood between the stirrups holding Rachel’s knees apart and removed the drenched diaper, folding it and dropping it into the trash.

She stared at the inflamed rash. Rachel’s skin glowed bright red from inside her labia all the way up to her bald mound and down to her anus. There was a strip of mottled pimples down between her two orifices where the irritation was most severe. Several small dark scabs decorated the edges of her vulva.

Melissa pulled over a portable water stand with a gallon tank and uncoiled the drinking tube. She put the teat into Rachel’s mouth and turned the spigot, until a steady stream of black-purple fluid began to flow.

Next, Melissa picked up the tub of itching powder.

Rachel whimpered, tears filling her eyes. But she was learning total obedience. She simply looked at the powder and carried on swallowing the cocktail of black coffee and prune juice.

Melissa raised Rachel’s hips and applied a generous coating of the itching powder as if it were soothing talc. She pulled open Rachel’s dirty anal cleft and ensured plenty landed inside, then repeated the process to Rachel’s sore labia, lining her inflamed pink petals with fine particles.

As she was applying it, her fingernail lifted one of the scabs, causing a trickle of blood to ooze out.

“Mmmmmm.” Rachel glugged, eyes screwing up in pain.

“Sorry, dear.” Melissa said, picking up a bottle spray. She held the bottle over the weeping cut and pressed the top, spraying a fine mist of lemon and alcohol antiseptic onto the wound.

Rachel’s body bounced around on the rack in distress.

Once she had calmed down, Melissa picked up a fresh burlap diaper and fitted it in place under Rachel’s bottom, then folded it between her thighs, and finally closed it tight with tapes under her tummy.

She checked the gauge until Rachel had drunk two pints of the caffeine laxative and removed the teat.

Then she switched out the light and left the girl alone to absorb yet more of her lesson.

*** *** ***

Saturday

Lenny awoke to sunlight filtering through the blinds. Dust particles danced in the shafts of yellow light. The scent of citrus and coffee wafting through an open window tickled his nostrils. He reached down under the sheet and scratched his balls. He loved this place already.

He lay for a moment admiring the curve of Lorna’s spine next to him. She was without doubt the most beautiful, classy chick he’d ever been with. Her skin was soft and honey-coloured. The silhouette of her tiny waist rising up to her flared hip was perfect.

There were some faded bruises on her pert buttocks. Horizontal lines of muted yellow and mauve where she’d been caned before his arrival. The men had done a thorough job training her.

He stroked her back and she stirred, turning her head drowsily. He smiled into her widening eyes as she remembered where she was.

“Good morning, Sir.” She said, blinking at him in the half-light.

He reached out to her right tit and rubbed the nipple. Her lips parted and she arched her back slightly in response.

Around the bedroom was the debris from last night’s activity; strewn clothes and underwear, an empty vodka bottle, glasses, velvet cords, lubricant, vibrators. He had tied her up and made her cum several times with sex toys. Then they had made love twice. He had cum in her mouth and pussy.

“Hungry ?” he said. “Coffee ?”

“Mmm.”

“Pull that cord there.” He said, settling his head back in the pillow.

She reached out and tugged a bell-pull by her side of the bed.

He eased back the cotton sheet and reached under her neck with his other hand. Without a moment’s hesitation, she shifted position so she could lower her face to his abdomen. He felt hot breath and then her soft wet lips.

He shut his eyes and enjoyed the moment. He was soon hard.

“Did you enjoy last night ?”

Her head didn’t stop. She mumbled what was obviously a yes.

He wondered if there was any truth in her reply at all. Her orgasms had been genuine, that was for sure. He gripped her hair. “Mount me.”

She quickly swung her body round and faced him, throwing a leg astride his hips. Her cunt was warm and sticky from the night before. He thrust up into her and made her gasp. One side of her face was lit by a shard of sunlight. She looked down into his eyes and began riding him like a cowgirl.

“Kiss me.”

She lowered her lips to his and put her tongue in his mouth.

There was a gentle tap on the door.

He broke off from the kiss briefly. “Come in.”

The door was slowly pushed open.

Gene Collins stood in the doorway. He was carrying a tray of black coffee, frothy hot milk, and fresh juice. He entered like a room service waiter except he was dressed in only a pair of pink lycra shorts that clashed with his bright red hair.

Lenny began kissing Lorna again. She rode him rhythmically, breathing in time. Both of them ignored the waiter as he walked towards the desk.

There was a clanking sound in the background as Gene unloaded the tray, laying out the cups, jugs and glasses. Lenny reached under and fingered Lorna’s ass naughtily, making her utter a little catlike mewl.

“Shall I come back later to tidy up, Sir.” Gene asked respectfully.

Lorna’s lips froze for a second hearing her fiancé but she carried on kissing and tonguing Lenny.

“No, do it now.”

They fucked energetically while Gene picked his way round the room, collecting up clothes, glasses, sex toys.

“Cum.” Lenny murmured. He could tell Lorna was still unable to focus fully on her orgasm with her fiancé present. He reached his hand down and stuck his thumb against her clit. She hissed and it did the trick.

They climaxed together. She humped up and down vigorously several times and let out a staccato series of gasps, while he groaned and shot his overnight load into her clutching cunt.

Gene was hanging clothes in the wardrobe as unobtrusively as possible. Lenny eased Lorna off and she collapsed like a ragdoll alongside him on the bed. They were both uncovered. The sheet had fallen onto the floor.

“Phew. Bring us that juice.”

Gene stopped tidying and went to the desk. He poured out two glasses of iced grapefruit juice, carried one over and held it out to Lorna.

Her head was propped against the pillow and she had one knee raised, thighs pressed together. Lenny smiled as she accepted the glass from Gene, whose gaze lingered a moment on her face before he caught Lenny’s eye.

“I’m s ... sorry, Sir.” Gene apologised, walking back round the bed to serve Lenny his juice.

“Don’t worry.” He replied, taking the glass. “This can’t be easy for you.”

He blushed and dry-swallowed. “No, Sir.”

There was silence as Gene went back to the desk and poured out the coffees. Lenny swigged his juice and laid the glass down on his bedside table. Then he rolled over to Lorna and kissed her on the lips.

She wriggled and put down her own glass. She tasted of grapefruit. They kissed while Gene laid cups of coffee beside them. Lenny pushed Lorna’s knee, spreading her thighs apart, and fingering her soaking pussy.

“Take those ridiculous shorts off.” He said.

Gene’s mouth fell open. He stood motionless by the bed.

Lenny sighed. “Hurry up. Or I’ll change my mind.”

Lorna looked stunned. Gene put his hand to the waistband of his pink shorts.

“Look,” Lenny grinned, “do you two want to fuck or not ?”

Lorna looked unsure, embarrassed, grateful, all at once. Gene tugged down his lycra shorts. His groin was shaved but his cock was semi-hard.

“Lick her first.”

Lenny had never seen anybody eat a cream pie before. He’d read stories and seen clips online but that was all. It was fascinating to watch her fiancé hunker down on the bed between Lorna’s raised knees. The sweet and sour tang of fresh and stale sex hung in the air. Lorna sunk her head back into her pillow.

Lenny studied close up as Gene put his chin between her thighs and stuck his tongue into the pouting folds of her cunt. A generous white froth of semen clung to Lorna’s labia like flecks of vanilla milkshake round a kid’s mouth.

He watched Gene lick and lap up a dollop of his jizz.

“How does that feel ?” he asked Lorna.

She opened her eyes and looked at him.

“Please ...,” she whispered, “... don’t ...”

He smiled, gently running his hand up her flank. He peered down between Gene’s legs. The kid was hard, his cock jutting towards Lorna.

Lenny turned and picked up his coffee cup. There was no rush. He tugged at Lorna’s knee so she spread herself even wider, allowing Gene total access to her depths. Her eyes were shut again and her mouth was slightly open. Her chest rose and fell as her breathing quickened.

He slurped coffee and listened to the matching glug of Gene suctioning up another mouthful of excess fluid. Gene’s circumcised cock was dribbling a strand of clear pre-cum as thin as dental floss.

He studied them for several  more minutes; Lorna’s flushed face, pressing her shoulders back into the mattress, the lack of sloshing sounds indicating that her well had at last run dry, Gene’s tired tongue flicking across her clit.

Lenny put down his cup and leaned close to her face.

She opened her eyes, trying to focus on him.

“Whatever happens in future,” Lenny said, “remember this.”

She gasped, on the verge of climax, lips parted.

“That his browsing history was full of this.”

She frowned, unable to speak, brain overloaded.

“Female domination sites, above all. He spent hours on them.”

Her eyes rolled to the top of her head and she cried out.

“Aaammmmmm ...”

He watched her hips bucking, and toes twitching, as she climaxed. He glanced down at Gene whose closed eyes were visible between Lorna’s thighs.

“Quickly.” He said to him. “Get in there.”

Gene’s eyes opened and he shifted position in an instant. He scooted up the bed and slid between the open v of Lorna’s welcoming thighs.

“Sss ...” he hissed in ecstasy as he penetrated her soaking pouch.

Lenny chuckled. He felt his own groin hardening again.

“Hurry up.”

It took less than ten humps and Gene’s buttocks twitched. Lorna clasped his back. He let out a deep sigh and his body shuddered in premature release.

Lorna opened her doe-eyes and looked up at him.

Penny for your thoughts, Lenny wondered briefly.

He tapped Gene on the shoulder.

“My turn.”

Reluctantly, Gene pushed himself up and off Lorna. His wet cock bobbed in front of him. He glanced shamefacedly at Lenny. Penny for your thoughts too kiddo, Lenny wondered.

It had been two weeks since their planned wedding day. Lenny made a mental note to lock Gene in a chastity device soon. Now that he had joined them on their honeymoon, he was going to make sure that the groom got a chance to live out every one of his submissive fantasies.

Gene climbed off the bed and stood to one side while Lorna exhaled and spread herself available for another bout. The maw of her dripping cunt hung open and red.

Lenny smirked at her and across at Gene.

“You don’t think I’m going in there again ?” he joked.

“No, darling. Flip over.”

*** *** ***

10.30 hrs

Rachel hung suspended in the fucking sling.

It was the middle of the morning and there was a post-breakfast crowd out by the swimming pool; the mercenaries, Susan, Lorna, Lenny, Melissa, Ryan and Gene. Everybody was there apart from Charlie and some guards.

As usual, Gator was acting as master of ceremonies.

The audience sat on folding chairs in the dappled sunlight under a gazebo. In the middle of the onlookers, Rachel swung from an overhead beam, supported under her arms and knees by taut rope.

Her ankles were tied back against her buttocks and her thighs were wide open, giving everybody an obscenely intimate view of her naked body. Only a flexible gymnast like her could have held her position for long.

It’s unlikely that many women have been fucked while suffering from acute diaper rash. The wooden beam creaked as she rocked to and fro. Her skin was pale except for a bright crimson strip. It ran from above her bald cunt down to her anus, spreading onto her buttocks like wildfire. It looked painful with blotches and scabs adorning her flaunted nakedness.

Her new E-cup breasts were tugged upright by fishing line. One end was tied to the overhead beam and the other knotted to her new nipple rings.

Gator swirled his hand into a goldfish bowl-shaped pot and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it.

“Well, what do you know? It says Gator goes first. That’s me !”

He pointed at Susan.

“Take my shorts off.”

Sobbing, Susan shuffled forward and unzipped his shorts, pulling them down. Gator’s enormous black truncheon sprang into view.

“Kiss her cunt. It will make it hurt less.”

Susan looked sick. But she didn’t say anything. She knelt forwards and put her face between her younger daughter’s suspended thighs.

The crowd sucked in its breath, fascinated.

“In the hole.” One mercenary called out, like he was a golf fan watching a long putt.

Susan’s tongue flicked out, making Rachel inhale a sob. Slowly the two women settled into a rhythm, mother preparing daughter.

A trickle of menstrual blood was transferred from Rachel’s cunt to Susan’s tongue. Her period had begun overnight.

“Mama’s earning her red wings.” Another man heckled.

Gator eased Susan’s head aside so there was room for his erection.

“Now put it in her.” He said. “Nice and slow.”

Everybody was watching wide-eyed, even Ryan, Gene and Lorna.

Rachel gasped as Susan’s elegant fingers guided Gator’s veined carving knife into her raw, red roast beef.

“Oh man, that’s gooooood.” Gator exhaled.

He eased himself balls-deep into the 21 yr old pussy, then pulled out again, in and out, opening her sore entrance for business. As he fucked, the sling rocked, yanking the fishing line securing her nipples.

Gator smiled down at Susan whose eyes were only inches from the action. Around them, faces moved one way then the other, like a tennis crowd hypnotised by the rocking bodies.

Rachel emitted a screech of effort as if she was one of those grunting female tennis stars every time she smacked Gator’s ball back to him.

Soon enough, Gator accelerated to a loud, violent orgasm, his black buttocks tensing as he smashed his winning volley deep within Rachel’s baseline. Cheers and applause erupted from most of the audience.

When he pulled out, everybody had a gynaecologist’s view of the devastation. Gator’s gnarled nine inches had run Rachel’s defences ragged. Her battered red wings were displayed like pinned butterflies. Trickles of bright blood wept from lifted diaper scabs. A slug of bloody semen leeched from her cunt.

Gator pointed at the pot and smiled at Susan.

“Okay, mom, pull out the next name.”

Susan mouthed something. A desperate plea.

He shook his head in warning. His glistening, red-streaked cock bobbed in front of her.

“You just added one extra dick to your girl’s sentence. Any more talkback and I’ll keep adding more.”

Susan put her hand in the bowl and pulled out a piece of paper.

“Read it.”

“Leatherback.” She whispered.

After Leatherback, Viper and the massive black-bellied Cobra had taken their turns, Susan took a fifth name out of the pot.

“Gene ?” she gasped.

A ripple of amused excitement went round the audience.

Gene stared in shock at Susan, then Gator, then at his fiancé Lorna.

“Come on, lad. Step up. Take your turn on the exercise bike.”

He knew better than to disobey or even hesitate. But his cock dangled flaccidly between his thighs.

“Get your face in there until you’re hard.”

Gene blushed hard as he knelt between Rachel’s soaking thighs.

“Stroke your dick while you do it.”

Gene’s eyes glanced sideways at Lorna as he stuck his tongue into the Clamato cocktail and dropped his right hand to fondle his cock.

Soon enough he was hard, his thin penis protruding from his shaved groin.

“Put his dick in.” Gator said to Susan.

Face puckering with revulsion, Susan guided her intended son-in-law’s erection into the wrong daughter.

Gene’s head tilted back as he slid into Rachel.

“Good, huh ?”

Gene murmured and he began to thrust. Gator smacked his naked bottom hard.

“Faster.”

Gene picked up the pace, making Rachel’s body swing. The audience watched, Susan only inches away, Lorna biting her lower lip, Ryan frowning in barely concealed rage.

“You.” Gator snapped at Ryan. “Kneel under there.”

Ryan dry-swallowed then hunkered down so he was under the sling.

“Now lick sis’s cunt while he fucks her.”

Ryan closed his eyes. He turned his face upwards and stuck his tongue out, doing his best to make oral contact with the moving target.

“Please ...” Gene gasped.

Gator dragged him away from Rachel, ruining his orgasm. It was an unimpressive dribble. A single drop of fluid landed on Ryan’s neck as Gene grunted in frustration. He stood with his penis bobbing in front of him trickling onto the pool deck.

“Who next ?” Gator asked, ignoring the bowl of names. Several hands shot up.

“Stop.”

All eyes turned towards Charlie. He was dressed in combat fatigues.

He glanced at Gator and then at Mel. They both nodded imperceptibly.

“I think young Rachel has suffered enough for today.” He said.

The well trained men responded instantly to his decision.

And that was that.

*** *** **

Day 18

He snatched up the phone, somehow knowing who it would be.

“Hi, John.”

“Yes ?” he snapped.

“Oh dear. I’m disappointed in you. What happened to our agreement ?”

“I have no more money. You have cleaned me out.”

“Really ?” The voice seemed genuinely surprised. “I thought you would have lasted longer than that.”

“I know who you are.” John said. He could tell the caller’s taunting tone was older, a more transatlantic accent. He was talking to the father, not the son.

“Do you now? Clever boy John, though I’m sure it was those Feds not you personally who worked it out.”

“You bastard.” He slammed the table. “How could you ?”

“You started it, trust me.”

“Stop that fucking trust me stuff. I don’t trust you at all.”

There was a deathly hush. A full five seconds pause.

“Hello ?” John said finally.

“I’ve had enough of your rudeness John. This will be our last conversation. It was ... er ... nice catching up. Briefly.”

“Wait !” He exploded. “I’m sorry. I lost it. Pl ... please ...”

“But I can’t talk more than a minute. Blame those snoopy agents of yours. You keep shouting at me and so I never get the chance to say anything. Bye.”

“Look, please. I’m sorry. Truly, truly sorry. It’s my daughter’s birthday today. Have m ... mercy.”

“Aah. That’s better Johnny boy. Tell you what, I’ll call you back once more. In a week or two.”

“Are my family alright ? You must tell me that at least.”

“No. I don’t have to do anything at all.”

The line went dead.

John hoped it was the only thing that had died.

*** *** ***

14.30 hrs

Lorna was doing her utmost to please him.

She was sucking but flicking her tongue like a butterfly at the same time, just like he’d ordered her. She licked the rim of his helmet and controlled her gag reflex as he pushed towards her throat.

She only knew his name was Lenny, he was American, and he was 29 yrs old. He seemed to be one of the people in charge. Since he’d arrived, none of the other men had touched her without his permission.

Lenny was sat astride Gene’s face making Gene tongue his bottom at the same time. She was straddling Gene’s naked hips, the three of them forming a triangle of inequality. She was leaning forward sucking Lenny’s erection while she could feel her boyfriend’s frustration underneath her.

She heard a muffled groan from Gene’s throat. He was suffering. Lenny had now forced him to wear something he called a Kali’s Steel Teeth bracelet locked onto his penis all the time.

It was a steel shackle with inward pointing steel spikes that dug into Gene’s poor cock if ever he started to get hard.

She could tell Lenny was about to orgasm. She sucked him deeper again and gave him butterfly tongue treatment until his penis jerked. She tasted hot jet after hot jet as it splattered her palate. She heard him growl in pleasure. She didn’t swallow but did her best to collect as much as possible in her mouth. Its ammoniac sting and bitterness still made her eyes water.

She had tasted many men’s. Lenny kept her body for himself but still shared her mouth freely. Often she gave 8, 10, 12 blowjobs a day. Some men had better tasting semen, almost smooth like pineapple juice, but others were chewy, tart and pungent. She swallowed them all, regardless.

Eventually, he withdrew from her mouth and sat back. She kissed the oozing slit at the tip of his penis reverently and looked up into his eyes.

She showed him the huge mouthful she had collected. He smiled proudly. She tilted her head back and started gargling, trilling his overpowering load around her palate and taste buds for a full minute before gulping it down.

He leaned down and kissed her lips, then climbed off Gene’s face to take a shower.

After he’d gone, Lorna looked down at Gene momentarily. His face was glistening, his eyes full of embarrassment. Both of them knew.

Today was her 24th birthday.

*** *** ***

Day 28

It was 03.08 by the digital clock when the phone rang ten days later.

John Cumber picked it up in the dark. There was a tiny echo.

“Oh dear, John, I can hear those tracking people from here. Goodbye.”

*** *** ***

08.45hrs

At one end of the courtyard, there was a communal bathroom. There were clothes lockers for visitors using the swimming pool or the steam room, as well as showers and toilets.

From now on, it would now be Susan’s duty to keep the facilities spotless.

The bathroom was tiled, rectangular and open plan. On entering, to the left there was a wall of white basins and clothes lockers. To the right there were shower heads, towel hooks and a door leading to the hammam steam room.

Against the far wall was a bank of four toilet stalls. They had typical grey partitions with doors providing their users some privacy. Inside the cubicles, the pans themselves were standard white, western style flush toilets. On the same wall, there were also two separate stand-up urinals.

But between the cubicles and urinals, in the centre of the far wall, there was an oriental style, hole-in-the-ground toilet. It was on a raised dais and in full view of everybody, affording its squatting user no privacy at all.

“From now on, you will share this bathroom with the men.” Melissa said, smiling at Susan’s expression. “And you’re the janitor.”

She pointed at the raised dais.

“And now that your family is going to be sticking around for a while, you and your kids will all need somewhere to do your ablutions. I guess it’s not quite your bathroom at home, is it ?”

“N ... no.”

The room’s perfume was a cloying mixture of incense with high notes of bleach. Melissa pushed one of the cubicle doors. The door swung open to reveal a discarded pornographic magazine on the floor and an empty cardboard toilet roll.

She pushed open a second door and revealed an un-flushed pan. There were disgusting brown skid marks on the back of the porcelain with soggy paper and cigarette butts floating in the bowl.

“I’m afraid some of my boys aren’t completely housetrained.”

She pointed to an open clothes locker. There was a red plastic bucket, a bottle of disinfectant, a rag and an old toothbrush inside.

“I will inspect this place twice a day. It had better kept be spick and span or there will be hell to pay. Understood ?”

Susan swallowed. “Yes.”

Melissa studied her, looking into her green eyes. Susan was dressed in a maid’s outfit of tight top, short skirt, apron, fishnets and heels.

“You will never use your toilet without permission.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you need to go now ?”

Susan blushed, seemingly unsure.

“Well, it’s either now, or not for 24 hours.”

“N ... now.”

“Take those off then.”

Susan lifted her feet to remove her heels and then peeled off her stockings, apron and skirt. She wasn’t wearing underwear. After a day and night without washing, her crevices exuded stale body odour.

She stepped up onto the dais wearing just the tight black blouse that barely reached her waist. The surface of the dais was a shiny mirror, made of large tiles of mirrored glass. As she stood on it, she saw her bare legs, naked bottom, chin were all reflected. Melissa could see everything too. It was clearly designed to destroy any remaining slivers of her dignity.

Susan carefully placed her bare feet either side of the rectangular gulley. It was only about six inches wide and required accuracy. She straddled it awkwardly, extending her arms behind her, fingers on the tiles.

“You may use your hands to balance for now. But in future you will learn to lace your fingers behind your head while you go. Melissa said.

Susan nodded, adjusting her position and balance. She raised her heels so she was crouching precariously on the front soles of her feet, fingers tented behind her. The strain of such a stress position for a mid-forties western woman made her grimace.

At that moment, there were footsteps and a mercenary walked into the bathroom holding a newspaper under his arm. He stopped abruptly when he saw the two women.

“It’s okay.” Melissa smiled. “Carry on.”

The heavily tattooed man in shorts smirked and made for the furthest cubicle. Melissa kept her eyes on Susan as he closed the door and locked the catch. They heard a rustle as he lowered his shorts and opened the newspaper.

“Start.”

Susan’s cheeks turned a bright ruby colour. Even now it seemed as if she hoped Melissa would change her mind and be merciful. Instead Melissa folded her arms impatiently.

“Open your knees wider.”

Susan mouthed a silent plea but obeyed. Her pink vagina and plucked mound were completely on display. She frowned and grunted.

Melissa stared between Susan’s legs via the reflective tiles. She heard more footsteps behind her and another mercenary entered the bathroom.

“Shit.”

“Exactly.” Melissa said, recognising Gator’s distinctive voice and heavy footsteps.

He chuckled and stood beside her, adding to Susan’s audience.

Unable to control herself, Susan broke wind noisily, making everybody laugh, even the man inside the cubicle, who farted in unison.

“You’d better make sure everything goes in that hole.”

Susan waddled forwards slightly and hunkered as low as she could. She groaned and something shiny and brown started dangling between her thighs. Her nose twitched at the embarrassing smell of her own waste.

Gator pulled out his phone and began filming.

Susan’s face was wet with her sweat and tears. She screwed her eyes shut as the hanging log finally broke off and plopped into the opening.

“Bullseye.” Melissa jeered. “Eyes open. Look at us.”

Susan’s brimming eyes opened, blinking at Melissa and Gator. She kept her ashamed eyes on them throughout. It took her another two minutes of straining to finish. The man from the cubicle completed his own business early, flushed and emerged to wash his hands. They all watched her produce two more, smaller turds that plopped neatly into the hole.

There was no soft tissue paper for users of the public toilet.

Melissa gestured at a metal spike with torn squares of newspaper stabbed onto it.

Susan reached for one piece of old newspaper, bent forward and wiped her bottom.

“Show us.”

Reddening again, Susan held out the piece of smeared newspaper for inspection.

Melissa and the two men stared at it in silence. It was from the Wall Street Journal. Susan glanced down at the dirty blotch. She gasped.

She had just wiped her bottom on a square from the front page of the Journal from the very day in 1992 when the Cumber Corporation had been floated on Wall Street. A younger John Cumber’s face smiled back at her in black and white. It was now decorated with brown streaks.

“Kiss him.” Melissa said.

She froze, slowly shaking her head.

Melissa shrugged. “If you don’t want to kiss your husband, then I take it you don’t want to be returned to him. Put it down the toilet.” Melissa said.

Susan hesitantly chucked the makeshift toilet paper into the hole.

“You may use one more piece.”

They watched her take another square from the metal spike. It was another piece of the paper jigsaw from the flotation of Cumber Corp. Susan dragged it hard between her buttocks to clean herself as best she could.

“Bend over.” Melissa said.

Susan climbed off the dais and hesitantly turned round so she was facing the wall. She parted her feet and bent down.

“Pull your ass cheeks open.”

They left her there a while, fingers clutching her bottom.

Gator ran his big black hands over Susan’s back, then pushed her head even lower, so she was staring back up at them through her own legs.

“Her shit stinks just like anybody else’s don’t it ?” he said.

“Uh-huh.” Melissa agreed, grinning down at Susan’s red face. “A few weeks ago, she thought she was better than all of us.”

Gator padded to the urinal and emptied his bladder noisily. Melissa walked to the showers and turned on one of the heads, waiting to check that it was running cold.

“Okay.” She slapped Susan’s bum. “Take that top off, get in the shower and wash all that crap off you.”

*** *** ***

Day 31

At breakfast, three days after the last call, the phone rang again. Walt Furness had reluctantly agreed to pull most of the surveillance and monitoring in the meantime.

“Morning John.”

“Good morning.” He replied, as politely as he could muster.

“That’s better. Call me Sir, will you. I prefer that.”

“ ... Okay ... Sir.”

“Better all the time. Maybe we’re going get along fine after all.”

“Please, tell me about my family ... Sir.”

The Cumber share price was limping along at the 9 dollars level and had now closed below 15 dollars every day for three weeks.

“They’re fine, John. Susan’s here now actually, sucking me off.”

He ignored the taunt, although he couldn’t prevent the obscene image of his wife and Charlie Victor raping his mind.

“They’re all alive ?”

“Of course they are, Johnny-boy. That was only a little joke about the share price. Gotcha, hah ?”

“I’ve paid you the money.” John replied, evenly. “I’ve apologised. I’ve begged for mercy. Please free them ... Sir.”

“John, what were your words now ? Oh yes, you threatened to fuck me up. You raped my woman. You screwed up our lives for twenty years, mate. Do you really think a few weeks is all it takes for us to get even ?”

John Cumber started to sob, his voice came out in a high squeak.

“Please !”

“Excellent John. Real tears ! Now we’re getting somewhere at last.”

He couldn’t speak, his throat and chest bawling.

“Okay John. You just cry and listen. I saw in the Wall Street Journal that you’ve still got a fistful of Cumber stock. What I want you to do is give it all away to charity. The lot. Do something good with your life, John. Then maybe I’ll do something good to you in return. Nice talking.”

*** *** ***

17.42 hrs

Charlie smiled as Mel put her chin on his chest and looked up into his eyes. Her fingers softly cradled his balls.

“Anything left in here for me ?” she asked coquettishly.

“But of course, my love.” He replied. “In just a sec.”

He turned up the volume of the TV. It was tuned to CNN.

A female reporter was standing on the main steps of the Cumber Corporation Headquarters. Mel twisted her head so she could enjoy the news too. It was 1st April 2007. The thirty third Day since the kidnap.

The report was brief and to the point. Obviously in the days to come, numerous commentators and analysts would rush to praise, criticise, explain, interpret and generally spout unnecessary verbiage.

“So it has been confirmed that John Cumber,” the identikit blonde reporter said, wrapping her piece, “has amazed the world by giving what remains of his entire fortune to five Foundations and Charities.

He has retired as of today, from corporate and public life and announced that he plans to spend the rest of his years in poverty, working unpaid in a not-for-profit organisation. This is Janine Patterson for CNN.”

Later that same evening, Mel, Charlie and Lenny sat outdoors at a candlelit round table under the stars. Four places had been laid.

The symmetry of John Cumber giving away his fortune on the very day that Lenny turned thirty had not been planned. But it was a perfect coincidence.

They drank chilled Krug Clos du Mesnil 1988, ridiculously expensive and ridiculously good.

“Best enjoyed cold, son.” Charlie said, holding his champagne out towards Lenny.

“How is our Stockholm plan going ?” Melissa asked, after they had all chinked glasses.

Lenny shrugged slightly. “Good, I think.”

Otherwise known as capture or traumatic bonding, data suggests that as many as one third of all kidnap victims can end up developing irrational positive feelings for their abductors. The first recorded use of the term Stockholm Syndrome was in 1973 after Swedish hostages became emotionally attached to their kidnappers.

Right on cue, Lorna arrived, looking beautiful. She was dressed in a flowing white cotton dress, bare legs, heels. Her beautiful face was accentuated with eyeliner, some rouge and glossy lipstick.

Both gentlemen eased back their chairs and stood as she came to the table. Lorna sat down and Lenny pushed her chair in for her while Charlie poured her a bubbling glass.

In the background, a waiter and waitress hovered, waiting to serve the water, olives and bread rolls. This evening everything had to be done just right.

“Good evening, my dear.” Mel said to Lorna. “Have you had a nice day ?”

Lorna swallowed and glanced nervously at Lenny.

“Yes ... er ... thankyou.”

He reached out and took her hand, sliding his foot against her leg.

Charlie clicked his thumb and middle finger loudly.

Gene appeared from the shadows. He was dressed in classic waiter’s black; a pair of tight pants, white shirt, bow tie and black jacket. He was carrying bottles of sparkling and still water.

Susan followed behind, in a housemaid’s black dress with white apron and stiletto heels, holding a generous dish of green and black olives and a basket of hot rolls.

There was an awkward silence while everybody was served. Gene’s hand shook as he poured the water.

“Have you given my son a birthday present ?” Mel asked Lorna.

“Er, yes.”

“Several, haven’t you ?” Lenny smiled, turning his forearm.

The Patek Philippe Calatrava watch that Gene had been wearing when he was kidnapped now adorned Lenny’s wrist. “And she managed to deep-throat me for the first time.”

“Still or sparkling, Miss ?” Gene asked quietly.

Lorna looked up at him angrily.

“Lenny. The waiter looked down my cleavage !”

“Did he ? What a fucking pervert !”

Gene shook his head in disbelief, staring at Lorna. “I ...”

Lenny slammed his knife down on the table.

“After dinner, I’ll thrash you across this table.”

Mel nodded approvingly. “Yes, give him thirty strokes to mark your 30th birthday.”

“Actually,” Lorna asked, as prearranged, “could I do it ?”

After the delicious main course of lamb and couscous had been served, it was time for the celebratory entertainment. Gator, Night Snake, Cobra and Komodo pulled up chairs and joined the party.

Susan and her younger daughter performed a traditional belly dance to local music, slowly stripping off until they were dancing naked. Rachel’s diaper rash had been cured by cream and antibiotics and her creamy skin now looked perfect in the candlelight, except her breasts were tender and she was slightly bloated.

They pleasured each other with a large godemiche, a traditional Arab dildo, drawing cries of pleasure from each other.

Meanwhile, Gene kept the glasses topped up.

Ryan walked on stage and joined his mother and sister. He was naked and a full erection jutted out of his hairless groin. He lay down on the stone tiles and beckoned to the two women.

Rachel perched astride his waist and sunk down onto her brother’s penis while their mother straddled his face. Both women began riding him.

Even Lorna was watching the erotic scene closely, holding Lenny’s hand.

Everybody knew Rachel was ovulating. Her urine had been tested and she would now be at the most fertile part of her cycle for several days. So she’d mostly be giving blowjobs and taking it up the ass unless the guys could be bothered with condoms.

“His training is coming along.” Komodo whispered, watching Ryan. “But it will still be hard for him not to cum.”

“However, both women have to cum before they stop.” Mel confirmed.

Rachel looked sideways at her audience. She slid up and down Ryan’s unprotected dick, her mouth half-open, occasionally leaning forwards to kiss her mother.

Susan’s thighs were wide open, so that everybody could see Ryan’s tongue flicking her clitoris. Her breasts created shadows in the flickering light.

“Did you know there are four good reasons for not being an egg ?” Lenny asked, in that way that told everybody he was going to crack a joke.

“No.” Somebody said, everybody glanced at him, but their eyes stayed following the action.

“You only get laid once.

You only get hard once.

You only get to come in a box with five others.”

Everybody was smiling. Lenny nodded meaningfully at Ryan.

“And only your mother gets to sit on your face.”

Their chuckles were cut short by the sound of Susan Cumber hissing. Ryan’s tongue was swabbing her clitoris in a steady rhythm and he’d evidently just sunk the eight ball. His mom’s eyelids fluttered and her lips emitted little staccato gasps.

She looked sideways at her audience, as if still hoping not to climax, but her orgasm overpowered her humiliation. Rachel leaned in and kissed her, whispering.

“It’s okay mom.”

Susan Cumber cried out, collapsing against her daughter, as she came.

As if released from her own remorse, Rachel began bouncing even more energetically up and down her brother’s pole. His distressed gurgling sounds suggested he wasn’t too far away either. Like her mother, Rachel glanced sideways, catching Lorna’s eye, and her tits bounced manically on her chest. Her cobalt eyes shimmered in the candlelight.

Susan kissed her daughter to encourage her.

Rachel had to peak before Ryan filled her with his sperm.

The result was going to be mighty close, baby.

*** *** ***

Tonight

Lonely closes his book and takes off his reading glasses.

He is a slow reader. He likes thrillers: Patterson, Sandford, Gerritsen, those kinds of authors, especially serial killer stories with random victims and a bit of graphic violence.

There is a 2012 swimsuit calendar propped up against three dog-eared paperbacks on his bedside shelf. There’s also a wrapper of tissues, a plastic clock and a lamp. He switches off his light and pulls the blankets up to his chin.

It never occurs to him that there is often nastier violence in a typical murder thriller than in many non-consensual bdsm fantasies.

Instead, as he shuts his eyes, he idly wonders why writers are so fixated with things happening in threes.

It is 3 a.m.

*** *** ***

Day 40

It was exactly 04.00 on the morning of April 8th when John Cumber’s bedside phone trilled. He picked up the handset and fumbled it to his ear.

Music was playing down the line. A song. Vaguely familiar.

‘Ah, the last time we saw you, you looked so much older

Your famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder.’

John recognised the male singer; Leonard Cohen.

“Yes ?” he muttered into the phone. “Hello ?”

There was no response other than the continued playing of the song.

‘And you treated my woman to a flake of your life

And when she came back she was nobody’s wife.”

He recognised the song now. One of Cohen’s dirges from the early seventies; 71 or 72 maybe. It was called something like The Blue Raincoat and it had been playing the evening he raped Melissa Jones.

John Cumber wiped his moist eyes with the back of his hand in the dark.

“John ?” the brusque voice suddenly interrupted, as the music cut.

“You there ?”

He snapped out of the reverie. “Yes ... I’m here ... Sir.”

“You listening to the words, John ? You remember ?”

“I remember.”

“You treated my woman to a flake of your life, John.”

“Ch ... Chuck ... look, I’m terribly sorry. I was young ... we were all young.”

“And when Mel came back she was nobody’s wife.”

“I know. Please ... please say I’m desperately sorry to her too.”

“Tell her yourself.”

There was a pause. The rustle of a phone being passed.

“Hello, rapist.”

He didn’t even recognise her voice but he knew it was her.

“Melissa, I’m sorry. Please. But spare Susan and my children. They had nothing to do with it.”

There was another, longer pause.

“You’re right, John.” He heard her reply coldly. “But it was you who first introduced offspring into it. Sure, it wasn’t your kids fault. But it is their karma. And now their every day is like survival.”

John screwed his eyes shut and held his breath. He had to keep control.

“Please let them live.” He pleaded. “I’ve done everything you asked. Every last penny. I’m a broken man, Mel. You’ve won.”

“To the Victors the spoils, huh ?”

He stayed silent. Not wanting to agree or disagree with her.

“You want a choice, John ?”

“ ... Alright.” He responded, cautiously.

“Well here it is.” She said. “You can either have all four kids back now but never see Susan again. That’s Option One.”

He waited in agony. Today was his wife’s birthday. They had timed their call cruelly.

“Or you can have five of them back, but in a whole year’s time. That’s Option Two.”

He felt his heart beating like a hammer and struggled for breath.

Was this how it ended ? With him dying of a heart attack.

“That’s the deal. No fucking about this time. No Trust Us lies. We’ll keep our word.” Her voice snapped matter-of-factly.

He grasped his chest, listening to her, trying to concentrate.

“So, it’s up to you, John. You’ve got ten seconds to make up your mind. Four of them now ... or five in a year’s time ?”

John Cumber clutched his pumping heart in pain. He couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t choose. Ten seconds, nine, eight ...

How could he choose ?

“This line goes dead forever in five seconds.” Her tone was cold. Ice cold.

He knew she meant it.

How could he decide ? Five, four, three ...

Author’s Note

I originally wrote this story to end here, leaving the reader to finish it however he / she liked. I was finding it as hard to write as some readers found it to read. I didn’t want to know whether John died of a heart attack or what happened to his poor family. However, back in 2007, within a few days of posting chapter 8, I decided to write an epilogue, looking 5 years into the future, describing the Cumber’s fates. And now that future has arrived.

CHAPTER NINE

THE EPILOGUE

NINE LIVES

“Domestic fury and fierce civil strife

Shall Cumber all the parts of Italy;

Blood and destruction shall be so in use

And dreadful objects so familiar

That mothers shall but smile when they behold

Their infants quartered with the hands of war;

All pity choked with custom of foul deeds:

And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,

With Ate by his side come hot from hell,

Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice

Cry ‘Havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war.”

From Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare (1599)

Day 466

As the weeks and months passed, the ‘Cumber Kidnap’ story steadily slipped down the front pages, to the inside columns, and finally from media coverage altogether. With nothing new to say about it, editors, journalists, broadcasters, readers, viewers and bloggers, all moved on to other shock, horror news.

Gradually, the Agencies and Police pulled resources from the Cumber Investigation until only a small hardcore unit was left on the case. Meanwhile, the Cumber Corporation itself slowly recovered under a new CEO and management with a fresh strategy. Even the share price rebounded.

Then, one early morning, fourteen months after his last contact from the kidnappers, John Cumber awoke in the homeless shelter where he slept every night with a couple of hundred other down-on-their-lucks.

Somebody was shining a torch into his face.

“John.”

He squinted and rubbed at the sleep dust in his eyes.

Nostrils twitching, Walt Furness knelt down gingerly on the edge of the rollaway mattress.

“John ... they’re home.”

But even in his sleep-drugged state, he could tell from Walt’s tone.

Something was terribly wrong.

Three wailing police cars carried them through the rain-slick streets at dawn to the airfield. They flew westwards in a jet laid on by the Bureau to southern Texas. During the 4-hour flight, they travelled virtually in silence. Walt sat rubbing his eyes, perusing files, making a few calls.

As they neared the landing, Walt explained to John that his family had been found locked in the back of a truck at a Gas Station on Interstate 10, between San Antonio and Houston, suspected smuggled in from Mexico.

Police and Emergency Vehicles had rushed to the scene.

Three more police cars now carried John, Walt and others to the Ben Taub General Hospital in the heart of the Texas Medical Center.

A phalanx of paramedics, officers and agents greeted them, bustling John in through the rear entrance, leaving a dozen armed men to seal the doors.

He was ushered into an elevator and taken to the 8th Floor.

There were twin doors at the end of a long corridor.

Slowly, with leaden steps, he made it without falling over.

The doors were opened and he walked through, followed by Walt and the grey-haired man who’d been introduced as the senior doctor on duty.

The first one he saw was Gene, unshaven, staring red eyed.

But alive.

Then Ryan. His son, staggering towards him.

Alive.

Then his darling Lorna, lying covered up on a hospital gurney.

Also alive.

No sign of Rachel.

Or Susan.

And then Ryan’s emaciated arms were around his neck.

“Dad.” A faraway voice whispered into his ear.

He tried to speak but nothing came out. He felt his legs buckling.

“Help him !” Walt ordered urgently and strong hands scooped him under the armpits.

“This way.”

“Careful.”

He lost consciousness for a few moments and then he was being supported at another set of swing doors, looking through internal glass panes.

A figure was lying on an operating table, surrounded by green suited medics, nurses and banks of flashing equipment.

“It’s Rachel, dad.”

Ryan’s voice was clearer now, nearer, stronger. Recognisably his son.

“She’s too weak, John.” Walt put a hand on his shoulder. “So they’re doing an emergency C-Section.”

C-Section ? Rachel ? Pregnant ?

“H ... how ... ?”

Walt looked away. Ryan blinked.

“Lorna is pregnant too, dad. She’s over eight months gone. Just behind Rachel.”

John nodded slowly. He half turned his head to look across at his elder daughter but stopped himself. His unspoken question went unanswered.

Ryan was wearing a white cotton hospital shift. On his legs he was dressed in soiled black pants, part of the same wedding suit he’d been wearing the afternoon he’d been kidnapped. Slowly, he fished a hand down into the side pocket.

“They said to give you this straightaway, dad.”

John felt his whole body shiver as he recognised the big, black, upper case letters; JOHN CUMBER, BY HIS KID’S HAND

He didn’t ask Walt for permission. He simply slid his trembling finger along the sealed tab and opened the envelope, heart pumping. Cautiously, he unfolded the page.

Dear John,

Hi. At last ! It’s been a while hasn’t it.

You’ve been a good boy, John. We admire your new lifestyle so much more than the old one. And so here is your reward. If you remember we made a deal; we said you could have four kids back straightaway, or all five in a year’s time.

And you chose Option Two, right ? Well, you always were a shit hot investor John. Guess what ? You invested four and, instead of five, you’ve got six kids back !

Ryan, Gene, Lorna, Rachel and your two little grand kids. Six out of seven ain’t bad. I call that a pretty good return all things considered. Heck, better than we ever did investing in Cumber stock. So, goodbye my friend. Live again. I think that makes us even. Game’s over.

You will never hear from us again.

The Chameleon.

Unable to speak, John handed the sheet of paper to Walt. He shook his head at Ryan, screwing his eyes shut in pain. Susan was never coming home.

“Dad !”

He reopened them at the alarm in his son’s voice.

Through the glass panes, he could make out frantic activity around the operating table. Rachel’s head and body were hidden by a sheet but her pale legs were visible. A surgeon was holding something.

John stared.

His grandchild.

A tiny baby.

Beautiful.

And black.

*** *** ***

April 2012

Outside, the fresh snow lay thick and fluffy as a white sheepskin rug. The winter had been mild by Arctic standards, but the cold snap had brought huge falls of deep powder that covered every square yard of the 10,000 acres ranch, and for hundreds of miles around.

Melissa sat warm indoors at her PC and surfed the news pages.

“Madam.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“May I take your tea cup Madam ?”

She nodded.

After Susan had curtseyed and picked up the empty cup and saucer, Melissa spoke.

“Would you like to hear the latest titbit ?”

Susan’s green eyes widened. She craved news of her family. Melissa monitored the press, social media, even phone calls and knew everything about John and the kids. But she doled out information as if it was caviar. Tiny blobs of black nectar.

“Actually, I think it must be a while since I heard it. Lorna is pregnant again.”

She watched Susan gasp, making the cup and saucer rattle.

Gene and Lorna had gotten married after all, quietly, a year after they were released. They lived simply now, with their daughter Delorna, and at last they had apparently been able to conceive a child all of their own.

“Thank you, Madam. That is wonderful news.”

“Yes, I thought you’d be pleased. That’s why I was saving it up for a special occasion. She’s actually seven months gone.”

Susan clattered the cup and saucer again.

Melissa opened a drawer and fished out a tattered printout of a smiling Lorna with a bump under her shirt. She handed it to Susan.

“It’s probably Gene’s.” She smiled.

“By the way, I also have the latest photo of Rachel’s son for you somewhere. He’s going to make a heck of a basketball player, I think.”

“Thank you Madam. You are too kind.”

Melissa paused, smiling at her. It had taken a while, but Susan Cumber really had turned out a nice, polite, meek, grateful, and very obedient domestic servant.

“Do you know what day it is tomorrow, Susan ?”

Susan’s aged, lined but still attractive face furrowed. She probably barely knew the month, let alone the precise date.

“No Madam.”

“It’s Easter Sunday. Your fiftieth birthday.”

Susan rattled the cup a third time, her expression shifting to a blend of nervous surprise and sadness all at once.

“Yes. So, the time has finally come for that game of Sophie’s Choice I promised you so long ago. Susan’s choice ! We’ll celebrate and play it tonight.”

That evening, Charlie opened a magnum of Bollinger and poured three glasses. He handed one to Mel and the other to Susan, then set the large champagne bottle down on the closed lid of the coffin. It was placed dead in the centre of the candlelit room.

“Cheers.”

All three drank; Charlie and Mel smiling, Susan’s face apprehensive in the flickering light. Several times her gaze shifted down to the new, wooden, pine-scented coffin.

“Strip.” He said matter-of-factly.

Without any reaction or hesitation, Susan began removing her maid’s outfit. It was her everyday uniform. He watched in the gentle light, as the body that he had come to know every inch of, was revealed one last time. She unhooked her bra and slipped off her black thong without embarrassment.

Her nipples were both pierced with small gold hoops. Heavier steel bells hung down from the rings once her bra was removed.

“Bend.”

Naked, Susan turned and silently presented her rear view to him. The bells tinkled.

A small initial C had been branded on her right buttock. On her left was a matching M. In the middle, at the base of her spine, was a V.

V for the Victors.

An arrow directing traffic to her bottom.

She would take those three branded letters to her grave.

Charlie put his glass down and unzipped himself.

Mel winked at him encouragingly.

The final fuck.

She was ready. Susan still maintained herself constantly lubed up and ready. Charlie kept her cunt for himself. His guests used her mouth or ass when they came to visit for fishing or hiking trips.

She bent over, hands braced on her knees, hips angled to give him easy access. He ran his fingers up and down her familiar spine, thrusting into her cunt, listening to her quiet sigh.

Fifty. He smiled. It sounds old until you’re 49. Despite it all, Susan Cumber was still an attractive woman. Trim, curved, not really so different from the statuesque mother of the bride he’d kidnapped five years earlier.

Wherever she was going next, he would be sending her there just as it all began 36 years ago. A woman with a cunt full of semen.

Mel watched them both with half an eye. With the other, she carefully opened and studied the contents of her medicine chest. She extracted two identical syringes.

Charlie had just spent two days camping out on the ice on a fishing expedition. His balls were full and ready.

“Mmm.” Susan moaned below him, recognising his signs.

He cupped his palms under her breasts, rolling the bells, making her shiver, as his knees juddered.

“Come with me.” He grunted into her ear.

He grimaced as he injected his heavy load inside her.

And then he smiled as, a few moments later, highly trained Susan Cumber pushed back at him and hissed air in her own crescendo of uncontrolled cries.

“Well, I guess here cums the bride’s mother, after all”.

Five minutes later, Susan lay naked in the fur-lined coffin, looking up at them both in tears.

“Your choice.”  Mel whispered, holding the two syringes up.

“It’s over, whatever happens. Either of these jabs will make you sleep.” She continued. “But only one will allow you to wake up afterwards.”

Susan snivelled terrified gulps.

“Quickly ! Come on, this bit’s the hard part. Once you’ve decided, you go to sleep and you won’t know any difference. It’s justice time. Which is it ? Parole or execution ? The left or the right ?”

Susan shook her head in uncontrolled panic.

After years of not making the simplest decision for herself, she was suddenly incapable when asked to make the most important one of all.

“Left or right !? Now ! Or I will stab you with both.”

“R ... right !”

There followed an ear splitting howl of terror as one female knelt and unloaded the contents of a syringe into the other female’s thigh.

Two women, each united by two men, both unwillingly.

A minute or so later, very gently, Melanie Jones covered Susan Cumber in a thick, soft, cashmere blanket, and was about to close the coffin lid.

“Wait.” Charlie said.

He fetched a piece of typed A4 paper and put it inside the coffin.

It was an invoice for one dollar.

*** *** ***

Wednesday, April 12th 2012

The Eyes watched the modest house in Brighton Beach owned by Gene and Lorna Collins. It was an ordinary suburban home with a single tree in the yard and a beat up Korean car out front. Gene’s family money could have afforded them anything they wanted but these two had learned their lesson.

Yellow ribbons and a Stars and Stripes bedecked the tree and house. He smiled. Although it was his first visit on US soil for five years, the welcome party was not for him.

The police had closed access to the street to anybody but family, neighbours and cops. In a few minutes, the taxi carrying John and Susan would arrive to reunite the whole Cumber family at last.

A happy, private moment.

His eyes squinted through his Ray-Bans to the window nearest the front door. A cute little 3 year old girl was visible, watching through the pane with her pregnant mom. They smiled and both waved excitedly at one of the policemen who had been drafted in from another precinct.

He waved back at them. His uniform and badge were real. Only his dyed hair, moustache and ID were fake.

He looked at Lorna and remembered her scent. The warmth of her body. Did she still think of him ? And her daughter, waving at him.

Delorna.

A sweet name for a sweet kid. Literally, of Lorna.

He had suggested the name before she was born and of course Lorna had obeyed him. She always did.

He knew he should probably never reveal himself to his daughter.

On the other hand, maybe he would do like his own dad had done, and simply turn up on her 18th Birthday !

You see his daughter’s name was also an anagram of ‘Leonard’.

But only one dude in the whole US of A got the fucking joke !

The Chameleon.

Him.

*** *** ***

21.09 hrs

Charlie stood in the scalding hot shower and sang along to the Aerosmith classic reverberating off his wet room tiles. It was Nine Lives, his own motto.

Nine Lives ... It ain’t over

Nine Lives ... Live for ten

Eventually, he finished singing and switched off the scalding hot shower.

His days of standing under a cold spray were over.

There were a couple of lines of the song he liked even more than the manic chorus.

And how can one man’s little bit of Heaven

Turn into another man’s Hell.

Now this fishing lodge in the middle of nowhere was his own little bit of heaven. All paid for by another man’s hell.

Dressed in only a white towel round his muscled midriff, he padded into the open-plan living room. He bent and ran his lips over Mel’s naked shoulder.

She had finished typing and was sat still in her chair, staring at the screen.

The End

It was over. She had finished.

“A penny for your thoughts.” he said. “Regrets ?”

She twisted her head slowly to look up at him with a smiling pout.

“Not really.”

Both syringes had contained the same anaesthetic.

After all, Melissa was hardly going to risk killing her granddaughter Delorna’s own grandmother !

Susan and John had been reunited at last. Ryan was working for Greenpeace. Rachel had trained as a teacher. Lorna would make a good mom to two kids.

“The whirlwind has been reaped. It’s over.” Red Mist said.

Famous Blue Raincoat squeezed her husband’s hand.

He leaned down and kissed her full on the lips.

“Was I too harsh ?” she asked.

He reached for her breast but she twisted away.

“Listen.” She said, clicking the mouse, bringing up a page of reviews. ‘Really good but at times too harsh for my liking’.

He chuckled. “Well then it’s kind of lucky you spared the readers your missing chapter then.”

“What about this ?”

‘There is something about the plot I don’t care for. In this case the Chameleon character is a real turn off for me’.

He gave another wry smile. “Heck, we weren’t meant to be nice !”

“Yes but look at this one.” She said.

It was from Anonymous. It had been impatiently posted at the end of only the first chapter on Literotica.

‘Revenge for what ? This story is crap. I hope the reaper gets you, and that you die lonely.’

“I hate anonymous comments.”

Charlie smiled at her indignation. He ruffled Mel’s hair.

“Don’t worry, there is no such thing as anonymous I can assure you.”

She leaned her head against his hip.

“Look,” he continued, calming her, “so many readers are mothers and fathers themselves. Every guy can empathise with John Cumber, every woman with Susan. But there were no serial killers, no slit throats, no gory murders. Everybody just wanted a happy ending.”

There was a pause. The log fire crackled and threw a spark.

“You think ?”

He began sensuously stroking her back.

“Sure.” He said. “And that’s the reason we had to let Susan go.”

“In the end.”

*** THE END ***

POSTSCRIPT

“Omne trium perfectum”

Tomorrow

“Hello ?”

Lonely thinks he hears a noise.

He is hunched at his table with his pants round his ankles. He doesn’t notice the stench of the ashtray full of smoked Camels, or the mouldy half-eaten pizza by the keyboard. He has just finished posting three anonymous abusive comments and is now too busy jerking off to notice anything much at all.

The writer’s rule of three is the accepted principle that things that come in threes are more satisfying to the audience or reader. The comedian who sets up his joke about the brunette, the redhead and the blonde, with the punchline always applying to the third character.

The speechwriter who first advises his listeners what he is about to tell them, who then tells them, and who ends by telling them what he has just told them. The orator who espouses duty, honor, country, or who addresses friends, Romans and countrymen.

The author who splits his story into a beginning, a middle and an end.

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow.

“Hello ?” Lonely calls out again, reluctantly letting go of his erection.

Shit !

His apartment has a tiny entrance lobby leading to the shower and john. He sees through the crack in the door that he’s left his main front door open. Fuck, he could have sworn he locked it.

He giggles nervously. Somebody might have caught him jerking off!

He pulls up his pants to his knees and starts to shuffle towards the lobby to close his front door. He spots movement, or thinks he does.

“Hello ?” he repeats a third time.

As his breath catches in his throat, Lonely learns the rule of three.

velvetfeedback@gmail.com

with sufficient encouragement I may post the missing chapter

Other stories by Velvetglove:

Slavery World Stories (MF/mf)

After the Pestilence (long n/c novel)

Beyond the Pestilence (unfinished sequel)

The Ballad of Lara and Gemma (F/f Pestilence spin-off)

Hard Labor (unfinished n/c story)

A Demonstration of Power (unfinished n/c story)

Male Dominant Consensual (M/f, M/mf):

Stranger the Fiction (M/mf, first person)

Priceless (M/mf novella)

Credit Crunch (M/mf short story, blackmail)

A Special Relationship (M/f, cuckquean)

A Special Weekend (M/f sequel)

Son of a Gun (M/f, historical, some nc)

Female Dominant Consensual:

Five Words (F/m, romance, novel)

Loaning Lucy (F/f, lesbian fem-dom)

Couple-couple M/s Consensual (MF/mf):

Slut-2-Fuck (FM/mf, financial exploitation)

Short n Sweet (MF/mf, unfinished, scat)

Short Story Trilogy (M/f, violent)

Used Goods (M/f, nc)

Soiled Goods (M/f, nc)

Damaged Goods (M/fm, nc)

Bits n Pieces:

Hors d’Oeuvres (extracts)

Amuse-Bouches (extracts)

Supper’s Ready (poetry)

The Root of all Happiness (interview, Altairboy 8/07)