Best Enjoyed Cold

BEST ENJOYED COLD

 

by Velvetglove

 

 

 

STANDARD DISCLAIMER AND COPYRIGHT

 

‘Best Enjoyed Cold’ is an original work of fiction and fantasy. Neither events nor characters portrayed are based in reality, and any resemblance with actual persons is entirely coincidental. It contains vivid scenes of non-consensual sex and violence so please do not read any further if such things offend or provoke you. As ever with this author’s writings, this story does not contain descriptions of snuff, gore or harm to characters under 21. Copyright is claimed by the author and no reposting to other sites or commercial use is authorised.

 

SYNOPSIS

 

A ‘Rape and Revenge’ thriller in eight Parts. The entire draft is already finished and the complete story will be posted over the next 3-4 weeks. Content Codes will be updated as it progresses.

 

CODES

 

MF/mf, S/M, Humiliation, NC, Heavy

 

 

PART ONE:

‘Songs of Love and Hate’

 

 

The Chameleon watched dispassionately.

The gang rape was being carried out to 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 alongside the woman’s pitiful wailing and the relentless male grunts.

 

It had all been worked out in advance. The woman should - at this exact moment - have been basking in happiness as ‘The Mother of the Bride’, proudly watching her elder daughter walking up the aisle. Instead, she was now being held down, mounted and 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 a Song of 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. Decades, in fact. Plenty of time to chill a splendid buffet that is best served cold.

 

But in another sense it really all went off just three days ago. The stretch limousine carrying the bridal party to the wedding rehearsal left the gates of the massive Cumber estate at 14.40 hrs precisely on its way to the church. As usual, the chauffeur was armed, and the Merc escort behind carried a pair of uniformed heavies. All was going to schedule.

 

But the chauffeur and escort proved no match for the crack team of mercenaries that carried out the raid. The bride, her mother, the groom, and the bride’s younger brother and sister were ‘extracted’ and kidnapped 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 question of making enough changes to cover their tracks. The five unconscious victims were transported over 7,000 miles in total. They were shuttled back and forth in various directions, for different durations, in a miscellany of SUVs and trucks, then helicopters, two private jets, via motor launch and powerboats, eventually overland in ancient lorries, and lastly through mountain passes 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 the long, zigzag 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 cigarette, amused by the woman’s begging. The geographical trip had taken almost three days, but her journey from arrogant ‘45 year old billionaire bitch’ to pleading, sobbing cunt had been short indeed. It was the way she obviously thought she had something to bargain with that caused the smile. As if, having failed to order them about like her 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 to demonstrate to her that everything she had to offer them could be ripped from her for nothing. Leatherback’s muscled buttocks hammered up and down in fierce, deep, impatient strokes.

 

The familiar organ music being played over the sound system on continuous loop started up again. The ‘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 a gorgeous woman. One of those Prom Queens who had been born beautiful, married young and the years had been kind to her since. She had popped out three kids in quick succession, got her figure back, exercised, ate well, barely drank and lived right. She hadn’t even had to resort to surgery yet. No nips, tucks or 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, a 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 the society magazines. She was a 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, whether posing formally for press shots or attending charity balls. Her figure was just a little fuller than those of her two daughters but absolutely in proportion to her larger breasts and extra inches in height.

 

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

 

*** *** ***

 

At least one continent, seven time zones, and several thousand miles away, John Cumber paced a room that was packed full with the best. From the President down, everybody had promised anything and dropped everything to help. It was a Saturday and they were all there; CIA, FBI, Military brass, others from agencies he 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.

 

The problem was there had been no progress in three days. Sure, there were teams of agents combing the kidnap site, officers 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. At this very moment he should have been walking Lorna up the aisle, in front of five hundred guests, then standing proudly alongside Susan throughout the service, with Rachel and Ryan either side of them. He 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.

 

*** *** ***

 

The Chameleon sat at a bank of screens and surveyed their ‘guests’.

Each had a cell to themselves. The cells were not, of course, the five star accommodation they were used to. They were below ground, humid and damp, with trickles of liquid running down the walls. They stank of raw sewage. Rats and insects scurried in and out of the cells and corridors.

 

Above ground, the house and garden had long since been converted into a comfortable but inconspicuous home. The thick compound walls that ensured their privacy had been built of mud, baked hard by many years of hot desert sun. Decades before, this site had housed a fort and prison used by the infamous French Foreign Legion to incarcerate its prisoners, miscreants and deserters.

 

Although the bank of screens suggested the five underground cells they had selected were neighbouring, they had in fact a choice of over fifty, and had chosen ones 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 floors were made of stone and dried mud except for the front and ceiling that were made of columns of steel bars, just like those in cowboy movies, the Chameleon thought. Each one measured only six feet by six feet square and they were totally devoid of any furniture at all; no bed, chair, even sanitary facilities. The only ‘decoration’ were five iron manacles set in the shape of a star into the rock hard rear walls. Their positioning alone would have made it obvious they were intended for a captive’s neck, wrists and ankles to be held in a stretched spread eagle position.

 

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

 

In the middle cell, Susan Cumber hung on her tiptoes. She was naked with a glistening stream of wetness oozing down her inner flanks. Her breasts, hips and abdomen were marked with red blotches and a couple of darker bruises. Her head hung down dejectedly, face obscured, her shoulder length blonde tresses mussed and dangling.  The Chameleon shrugged. It was to be expected. After a lifetime of fidelity to one man, you couldn’t expect a woman to be thrilled about going from men numbers two to twelve all within an hour. She deserved a little rest.

 

Shown on the screens either side, were her two daughters. In one, Lorna Cumber - who should now by rights be Lorna Collins of course - was fastened in a similar uncomfortable starfish pose. She was dressed in the same outfit she had been kidnapped in, although it glowed dirty and slightly torn in the green night-vision CCTV light. It was a wedding dress. Not the real dress. 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 a choice of three bespoke, couture dresses for their darling, spoiled 23 year old older daughter and she had decided to wear her second choice for her wedding rehearsal. Lorna was beautiful, but she took after her father rather than her mother. She was a doe-eyed brunette, with long eyelashes, coltish legs and a slightly olive complexion. 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.

 

In the other monitor, Rachel Cumber was wearing an expensive ‘sister of the bride’ outfit, a beautifully cut suit made especially for her by one of America’s trendiest designers. Unlike Lorna, Rachel was not so much classically ‘beautiful’, as just downright fuckable. Even though she was two years younger than her sister, there was a provocative sensuality about her that belied her 22 yrs. At only 5’ 2” she was several inches shorter than her mother and sibling but she was perfectly formed. Facially, she took after her mother, with long blonde hair and the same perfect 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 blue. The Chameleon chuckled and decided that, in the probably unlikely event Hollywood came calling to make a blockbuster of this thriller, the role of Rachel Cumber would be best performed by Paris Hilton. Sure, it was unfortunate that Rachel’s cleavage was smaller than her mom and sis - a perky B cup at best - but her model-thin legs and waspish waist made the whole package appear just as generously endowed. The bitch was staring out straight at a camera, mouthing obscenities in apparent defiance.

 

The other two cells were occupied by Ryan Cumber, ‘middle child and only son’ of John and Susan, and finally Gene Collins, ‘groom-to-have-been’ of Lorna Cumber. The Chameleon perused them briefly, spending much less time studying the men than the women. Ryan was a younger version of his father; similar six-foot-plus physique, the same handsome features, jutting jaw, close cropped brown hair and intense brown eyes. Gene was the obvious odd one out in the group. And not just because of his gingertop. The Cumbers were all hewn from beautiful stock and it was evidently something other than Gene’s looks that appealed to Lorna. He had a bookish air, with red hair, pale 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 he stood on top of his wallet, Gene Collins was a lot taller than five seven. Strange how these rich folks gravitated towards each other. Mergers, not marriages.

 

The Chameleon pushed the 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.

 

*** *** ***

 

The Eyes watched the Cumber Building from the coffee shop across the Street. The police had cordoned off a large area to one side of the main tower to contain the mass of media vehicles and rif-raff that gathered to rubberneck an event like this. It’s not every day that the wife of a BBD gets kidnapped, let alone with her three kids and a fiancé. BBD – acronym for a ‘billionaire business dude’ ! But what made it funnier to the owner of the eyes was that all these people - the police and agents in the building and around the country, the media hacks and paparazzi snoops outside, the watching and listening audiences around the world - none of them knew jack-shit !

His eyes squinted up to a window at the very top of the tower. He framed it within a circle made by his thumb and index finger. He watched a while through the imaginary scope, aiming carefully at the glass. Slowly he closed the palm of his hand, eradicating the ugly Cumber Building from his sight.

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

The Chameleon.

Him.

 

*** *** ***

 

The Chameleon entered the 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 dingy light changed much throughout the 24 hour cycle.

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

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

“Time to wake up.” The Chameleon chirped cheerily, like a mom waking a 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 laughed aloud through the mouth flap of her mask.

What a funny question.

“Are you hungry ?”

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

The Chameleon slapped her leather-gloved hand across the woman’s face twice, first one way, then a backhander. The blow snapped Susan’s head sideways, making her gasp and sob, before ducking her face forward in the neck iron to try to avoid another blow.

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

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

“Oooh, they’re not far away.”

“Please … tell meeee …” the woman begged.

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

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

“Yes.” She whimpered quietly.

“And thirsty ?”

“Yes.” A whisper.

“Okay.”

 

The Chameleon watched from outside the cell as Susan Cumber knelt on all fours and ate the swill from a steel bowl on the floor. The main ingredients of the mush were breakfast oats and tinned milk. However, the mix had been laced with a strong laxative. The meal wouldn’t stay in her for long. She would soon be hungrier than ever.

After the woman had finished eating, two masked mercenaries returned to manacle her back into the stretched, standing position in her cell, only this time she was allowed to rest her heels fully on the floor.

“Better ?”

Susan moved her head up and down ungratefully.

She smiled behind her mask and placed her gloved hand on Susan’s bare hip.

Susan winced, helpless to shy away more than a couple of inches.

She slowly traced her hand up Susan’s side and over to her superb, bruised breasts, hefting them as if they were damaged fruit on sale. She slid her hand back down over Susan’s taut abdomen to between her damp thighs.

“I’m going to give you an hour or so of thinking time.” She said. “When I come back, I want you to give me an answer to this question. Okay ?”

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

“What is the question ?”

“It’s simple really. My poor men are all alone here with us. Without their girlfriends and partners. To stop their trigger fingers getting itchy, they will need their sexual needs … er … catered to. Regularly. And I assure you that I am not going to put out for them. So, two things can happen. Either you volunteer to put in some pretty intensive stints on your own meeting their needs. Or your daughters can assist you.”

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

“It’s up to you. Mull it over for a while.”

She snapped the headphones into place and walked briskly out of the cell before Susan had a chance to reply. The choice of music was apt; Leonard Cohen. His ‘Songs of Love and Hate’ album.

 

Next on their ‘visiting round’ would be the young wannabe bride, Lorna Cumber. Today should have been the first morning of the young lady’s honeymoon, whisked by private plane from the swanky reception to an exclusive suite in the Caribbean, to start fucking and sucking her darling carrot head husband for a whole three weeks.

But instead, today was her first morning in a rather less comfortable suite. Mind you, she would still get to do loads of fucking and sucking.

The Chameleon let out a little giggle of excitement.

 

 

 

END OF PART ONE

 

CONTINUED IN PART TWO:

‘Two out of three ain’t bad’

 

AND PART THREE WILL FOLLOW SHORTLY:

‘Three Little birds’