Best Enjoyed Cold

BEST ENJOYED COLD

 

COMPLETE, REVISED AND INCLUDING THE EPILOGUE

 

by Velvetglove

 

 

 

 

STANDARD DISCLAIMER AND COPYRIGHT

 

‘Best Enjoyed Cold’ is a work of fiction and fantasy, originally posted in 8 Parts on bdsmlibrary during May/June 2007. This is the 9^th Part, a complete 32,000 words version, corrected for typos, and including the new Epilogue. 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 and violence so please do not read any further if such things offend or provoke you. Copyright is claimed by the author and no reposting to other sites or commercial use is authorised.

 

 

CONTENTS

 

PART ONE:                  Songs of Love and Hate

PART TWO:        Two out of Three ain’t Bad

PART THREE:    Three little birds

PART FOUR:      Four letters, two words

PART FIVE:        Five foot two eyes of blue

PART SIX:           Six-Chambered Heart

PART SEVEN:    Reptile

PART EIGHT:     Karma Chameleon

EPILOGUE:         Nine Lives

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

PART TWO:

‘Two out of three ain’t bad’

 

 

It was still the middle of the night 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 few days, they shouldn’t have been heavily blamed for not getting a better identity fix on yet another delivery guy; ‘medium height’, ‘moustache’, ‘well built’, ‘white’, ‘maybe thirties’. Well, that description could maybe narrow the list down to five million or so !

 

It was Sunday, 05.30 hrs, and a sleepless John Cumber was drinking coffee brought to him by a maid and flicking through newspapers and mail aimlessly, when he came across the 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 Sarah’s face. She had been crying and looked terrified. He flipped 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 5 cents. If the price closes at below 15 dollars at any time during our future ‘discussions’, you will lose one family member for each day it happens. The fourth time it happens, game over.  So I suggest you use that personal fortune of yours if ever the share price needs propping up. Buy, buy buy ! as the saying goes. That is all for now. Sarah sends her love. We’ll be in touch again soon.”

 

John read through the letter so many times he lost count. At least, fifty. He weighed each consonant, every word, each nuance, every phrase; ‘the coming weeks’, ‘the first rule’, ‘Sarah sends her love’. The bitter coffee reacted with the ulcerous bile in his gut as he clenched and unclenched his fists. If he could have traded every cent of his fortune there and then to have the person who had sent this letter in the room with him, 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 06.45 hrs, his sweaty palm picked up the phone and dialled Walt Furness.

 

*** *** ***

 

Lorna awoke and screamed at the dreadful apparition.

Somebody had walked into her cell. The person was wearing a facemask. It was a dreadful green rubber hood in the shape of a lizard’s head, with eyeholes, nostrils and a mouth slit with a flap.

She swallowed her screams and begged. “Please … nooooo …”

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

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

“Shut up, bitch.”

It was a man’s voice. No distinguishable accent or tone. It might have been American, Canadian, British, Australian, 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. In shock, fear, sick to her stomach. Lorna was awake enough and clear headed enough to know she was going 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 than die. But she couldn’t just accept it.

His hands pulled and ripped every last piece from her until she stood in just her matching white panties and bra. She couldn’t fight him. 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 eventually 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, he did the same thing to her lace trimmed pants, ripping so that the delicate material exploded in his grip.

She stood naked.

Finally, he paused, stepping back to admire her body. She could see his eye pupils moving in the eyeholes appraising her.

And then he started to unbuckle his belt.

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

He hunkered down in front of her, so that his erection was the correct height. She was 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, then simply forced his penis up into her. She was helpless, unable to move more than an inch or two in any direction. 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 that covered rape. It flooded back to her now, the sunshine streaming through the classroom windows, her friends’ morbidly fascinated teenage faces, the plain woman who had come to give them the lecture, and her sexy male assistant who gave hints on self defence and acted out the male role.

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.

At last, she felt a small amount of lubrication as her body 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 it was over. He groaned and humped without much apparent enjoyment and she felt him twitching in orgasm and then the warm wetness of his invasion of her insides.

He pulled out and stepped back and out of the corner of her eye she saw a big teardrop of semen still dangling from the tip of his penis.

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

He laughed coldly behind the horrendous lizard mask.

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

And those words were worse than the rape itself.

The sudden realisation of the inevitable. She had no idea where she was, where her mum, Gene, Rachel or Ryan were, or even what really had happened; whether there was just one man, or many of them.

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

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

“Sure.” He paused while he nonchalantly tucked his penis back into his pants and zipped himself up.

“I’m the Chameleon.”

 

*** *** ***

 

It was Sunday lunchtime when the first journalist called him.

“John ?”

The guy was one of his close contacts, a top financial reporter to whom he had given his cell number, 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 bull. I wouldn’t let any fuckwits beat me. Sure I’m taking time out, but resign ? Hey, no way.”

“Well that’s what I thought, John. But this rumour’s got some momentum. 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.

“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. You call back your contacts and your fund manager friends and tell them 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 hit the red button with his thumb and stared out of the window.

Now things were starting to make some sense.

 

*** *** ***

 

She lifted the headphones from Susan Cumber’s ears.

“Depressing stuff isn’t it ?”

The patrician eyes looked back at her. They were smoky, dull, no longer so defiant. Not beaten yet, but certainly on the canvas.

She placed her gloved finger under Susan’s chin.

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

Susan’s green eyes watered into tears.

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

She smiled behind the mask.

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

Susan nodded, snivelling.

“It ain’t just a bit of fucking, Sue. It’s the works. You’ve got to do everything my boys want. No saying no. Whenever and whatever they want.”

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

“Wh … what do you m … mean ?”

“I mean if you say no to anybody, even once, our deal is off and Lorna and Rachel pay the penalty.”

“… okay … just don’t … involve them.”

“And another thing, Sue, you’ve got to be real enthusiastic. Some guys like it when you just lie there, but most of my boys like to see some gusto. You got that too ?”

Susan Cumber shut her eyes and her face froze over, blank.

“Yes … I understand.”

“That’s settled then.”

Susan’s eyes blinked open.

“Now I get my say.”

Stupid bitch. Always trying to negotiate.

“What ?”

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

“You can. But not 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.”

The green eyes studied her. The mask helped. Not just for scaring the shit out of them all and hiding her identity a while. But it helped if she needed to lie as well.

“Okay. And there’s one more thing.” Susan said. “I … need to use the bathroom.”

 

*** *** ***

 

“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.

“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 I’m not sure how much help that’ll be. But what it does do, is help us with a pointer as to who and what we’re dealing with.”

John nodded. 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 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. “Who would do this ? You’re kidding right ? I can be a shit, Walt, but …”, he threw up his hands, “… to cause this ?”

“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 money ? We’re just the innocent targets.”

Walt eyed him back, stroking his bristled jaw.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

 

*** *** ***

 

In the large courtyard, round the swimming pool, most of the mercenaries had spent the early morning lounging on sunbeds, listening to ipods, drinking coffee, reading magazines, tanning themselves. Even in the safety of this place, two other mercenaries were on duty, scanning the sophisticated detection equipment, the horizon and the skies for any signs of unmanned drones or human intruders.

They were a tough bunch, reputedly the best. An international squad of men who had fought and killed side-by-side in many of the world’s harshest places; in eastern Europe, Asia, around Africa, central America.

Of course, they had real names. And a plethora of passports from different countries. But for this job they were simply ‘The Reptiles’.

 

Susan Cumber had led a charmed life. To her, ‘embarrassment’ up to that point was arriving at a charity dinner and finding another woman in the same designer dress. ‘Shame’ was your child not top scoring at school.

But now, she was squatting naked, in the sun-drenched courtyard, waiting for permission to defecate onto spread out magazines in front of a group of evil men. The same thugs, no doubt, who had raped her the day before.

They were no longer wearing masks. The thought troubled her.

If they no longer cared about being identified, what did that mean ?

The men were all hard featured with cruel eyes. Three were blacks, one was asian of some sort, the rest varying shades of caucasian. She estimated their age range to be mainly in their forties, like her, but a few looked younger and one appeared to be in his fifties or even sixties. Most were heavily muscled, scarred and wearing just swimming shorts for sun bathing. A couple had T shirts on as well, with dark sweat patches. Only one of them looked out of shape, a huge fat black man with a bald head and an enormous stomach hanging over his belt.

She winced at the realisation that he had been one of her rapists. Susan liked to think she was a tolerant, modern woman. Not a racist. But she had been brought up in the South and the idea of … African Americans … and their black … things … was … quite literally beyond the pale.

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

Gator was holding a bamboo stick, running it teasingly up the inside of 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.

“You hold it in there for us just a little bit longer, bitch.”

She grimaced. In truth, she knew she was on the point of losing control. Beads of perspiration sprouted like teardrops from her pores in the boiling hot sun. She was squatting, legs akimbo, knees wide apart, her fingers tented on the ground behind her, her arms propping herself up. She couldn’t imagine a more humiliating pose.

She would have rather died than this. But not Rachel, Ryan and Lorna. They were worth more than any amount of cruelty these bullies could inflict on her.

The obnoxious men were fanned out just a few feet in front of her, studying between her legs, gazing and smirking at her naked thighs, breasts and face.

The edge of the bamboo poked up between her labia, splaying her open. She was still filthy from their rape of her the evening before. The foul stink of stale sex and body odour assaulted her nostrils in the hot sun.

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

The man called Gator grinned with the half of his mouth that worked. His teeth were yellow and uneven.

“Okay. You can dump it all out now. Give us a show.”

She paused. She was desperate but, when it came to the actual moment, something in her wouldn’t allow her to accept the embarrassment and shame. Her insides were turning circles like cement in a mixer. How on earth was she going to do something so undignified ?

And then it happened.

With an uncontrolled rush of noise and air and stench, her sphincter gave way and a mass of soft faeces splattered the laid out magazines under her body.

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

What had she done to deserve this ?

 

*** *** ***

 

“Caught in the crossfire.”

Gene Collins hung in the manacles, mouth dribbling, doing his best to stay conscious and understand what the woman behind the mask was saying to him. Caught in the crossfire ? He had been caught up in something beyond his control.

“Wha …?” he mumbled.

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

“Yes, you’ve been caught in the crossfire, I’m afraid.” She repeated, her tone of voice less concerned than the words suggested.

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

Her voice sounded older, like his mom’s. Her fingers cupped his balls and then smoothed out his shrivelled, petrified length. He felt like some meagre cut of meat she was thinking of buying for her family dinner.

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

“Please don’t …”

She moved her finger to his lips. It smelt of leather. New gloves.

“Ssshhh …” she said. “I won’t hurt you. Not if you’re good. I’ve got a nice job for this thing anyway.”

He swallowed. Job ?

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

He nodded slowly.

“Well, I’m afraid that you can’t fuck the Cumber kid you wanted to. You see, your fiancé Lorna is … er … now otherwise engaged. But you can fuck the other Cumber kid. I’d like that. And I’m sure you’ll enjoy it too.”

He tried to shake his head to clear it but merely banged it on the cell wall.

Fuck Rachel ? Lorna’s sis ? I mean … but why ?

Inside the eyeholes of the lizard mask, he detected two pupils shining.

“No.” the woman’s voice said, with the hint of a giggle. “Oh no. Not Rachel, silly boy ! We wouldn’t want that. No … it’s Ryan we’d like you to give a good seeing to.”

 

*** *** ***

 

The Chameleons sat together in the shade and watched their screens. It would have been nice for them to have the final member of their trio there with them too but he was rather busy over in the States at that moment.

Still, as Meatloaf crooned, back when they were both young, ‘two out of three ain’t bad’.

Two chilled glasses of lager sat on the table, wonderfully refreshing in the heat of the north African morning.

They chinked glasses and supped.

Best enjoyed cold.

There is something wonderfully erotic about a white woman’s red-lipsticked mouth sliding up and down the full length of a long black erection.

On the main widescreen - a huge plasma monitor - Susan Cumber was being slowly spit roasted in the sunshine. 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 sun bed. His muscled torso glistened with suntan oil as he sensuously eased himself in and out of her slurping cunt.

Cobra was lying on the sunbed, his massive black belly shimmering with sweat, his fat fingers possessively entwined in her platinum blonde tresses, guiding her pursed lips up to his swollen helmet, then 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.

Give the bitch her due, you really might think she was enjoying it. 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 too, with the usual porn star noises and ‘yes babe’, ‘mmm … you love it don’t you’, ‘oooh you’re so tight round my dick’ and other choice blue movie screenplay comments.

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

For Susan Cumber, it was going to be one long, super-hot day.

The Chameleons exchanged excited glances as Gecko uttered a prolonged, orgasmic groan and unleashed his first orgasm of the morning.

Everything was going to plan.

And for the Cumber family, things were about to get a hell of a lot worse.

 

 

PART THREE:

‘Three little birds’

 

 

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.

Then came the summer of Seventy Six.

Sounds like a fucking 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, 4^th July 1976, was a truly significant day in Charlie’s life for three reasons.

First, it was the day that the Israeli Sayeret Matkal Special Forces launched their daring raid on Entebbe Airport in Uganda, sparking in him a love of military warfare that had never left him.

Second, it was America’s Bicentenial Celebration; 1776 – 1976. The 200^th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. One of the things that he could still remember was the excited atmosphere: the festivities and parades, the enormous firework displays that lit up the night sky, the fluttering flags, the cook outs and evening parties, the sound of music, the taste of beer and the scent of spliffs.

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

 

*** *** ***

 

The youngest Chameleon loved playing delivery guys.

This time he was still ‘white’; but he had become ‘tallish’, ‘grey haired’, ‘probably late forties’ and ‘clean shaven’. He was also wearing a genuine Fedex uniform. He dropped the package at the Cumber Building reception on a frantic Monday morning, got it signed for and even stuck his tongue out at the CCTV cameras on his way out.

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

 

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

For a moment he wondered if he should call Security without delay to trigger a search and chase. But he figured it would 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 a Fedex sticker. Maybe that could be used to trace somebody if it was genuine ?

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

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

“Thanks, Shelly.” 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 plastic 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.

 

“Dear Mr. Cumber,

Welcome to ‘Best Enjoyed Red Hot’. I hope your secretary 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 said before, I never give unclear instructions. Do not fast forward. When it’s finished we’ll continue our little chat. Bye for now.”

 

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

He stared at his wife. Something was wrong.

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 face. 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, on top of some kind of ‘elevator music’ soundtrack.

And then, worse. He saw she was actually smiling. Mouth open, apparently taking what they were doing in good humour. Eyes shut against the cascading fluid but his wife’s lovely 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.

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

And the noises. He could hear them all as if they were doing it 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 they had included before the disc faded out. By the time it had finished, John Cumber was blubbering like a child.

More words started scrolling down the screen like movie credits. 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 again and pretend it’s your dick she’s sucking. 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. 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 what I say and I’ll only price her at one buck !

Well, gotta go. My balls are full. 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.”

 

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

 

*** *** ***

 

He never finished College. His break up from Melanie finished his academic career for good. Instead, he joined the military.

But not the US Army. Being a Brit on his mother’s side and desiring both a fresh start and anonymity, Charlie fled to the UK on the day before his 20^th Birthday and applied to join up there.

Not just any regiment. The Paratroop Regiment.

The legendary Paras. The maroon machine.

As hard a bunch of geezers as ever pulled on a beret and uniform anywhere.

The induction and training were so hard he nearly dropped out a couple of times but his rage and talent kept him going. In the end he passed with flying colours.

Then, with the top brass’s customary sense of humour, his commanding officer selected him to train as a specialist signals operator, mainly 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 served in Northern Ireland. The Middle East. The Falklands. He was decorated twice.

After five years, he transferred to the Special Air Service. The equally legendary SAS. Who dares wins and all that jazz.

Until the ‘red mist’ got him into trouble one too many times and he was … well … his time in service to adopted Queen & Country was over.

They sent him to a special psychiatric facility for two months to help him acclimatise to the civilian world and address his ‘anger management’ needs. And for a while it seemed to help. But the well meaning doctor who taught him not to lash out in the heat of the moment, 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.

After seven disastrous weeks of wearing a suit behind a desk in an office job, Charlie Victor walked into the street one lunchtime and never returned. He drowned his sorrows in a London pub.

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

Over the next few days, after a few introductions to the right people, the man they had soon codenamed ‘CV’ became a mercenary.

Cry Havoc ! Let slip the Dog of War.

He became one of the very best. Perhaps, even the best.

Even so, this final mission had taken Charlie over ten years to plan and prepare.

But finally he was ready.

In 2007.

Yep, best enjoyed cold.

Fucking freezing, in fact.

 

*** *** ***

 

He had assembled a detailed file on Susan Cumber that went back more than a 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 faultless.

It was not her fault that she and her children were now in cells downstairs about to suffer an ordeal that nobody should be put through.

The blame lay squarely at the door of her husband.

 

“Please … Daaaaddd ! Please do whatever they say. Give them the cash Dad. Or they’ll cut my b … balls off !”

The close up of Ryan Cumber’s genitals looked very painful on film. A noose of piano wire was wrapped tightly round his scrotum and another garrotte around the crown of his penis had turned it purple.

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

“Cut !” said the masked male Chameleon.

“Nooooooo !” the boy screamed in terror.

Everybody laughed.

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

 

Meanwhile, in another cell, the female Chameleon was directing Rachel Cumber’s 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 her for approval, eyes brimming with tears.

“Perfect.” The Chameleon replied, switching the recording button off. Then she looked back straight into the 21 year old’s wet baby-blues. “Thirsty ?”

 

*** *** ***

 

He wanted to see her face when he did it.

And for her to see his.

Charlie wasn’t a big fan of anal sex. He had always been a cunt and mouth man. I mean, why sneak in the back when a nice purpose-built front entrance was available ? The butt was unhygienic and unnatural and to his mind over-rated. He understood the attraction to gays but not to heterosexual couples except maybe occasionally for a bit of novelty.

But he’d seen enough over the past thirty years to know that anal adds a new dimension to a female’s shame. Susan Cumber was a backdoor virgin and he was going to be the first guy to enjoy her that way.

They were in the old fort’s underground interrogation room. Built in the 1950s, it was a large space, recently re-equipped with all the most modern and effective instruments of torture.

Susan Cumber was fastened onto a padded table. It was like a medieval rack but covered in black PVC, with 21^st Century dials, knobs and gizmos. The tabletop comprised four quarters and each rectangle could be controlled separately, upwards, downwards, outwards, rotating. As a result, each of her four limbs was able to be moved to whatever position Charlie desired.

He had her arms outstretched above her head and her legs splayed apart and up in the air, as if she was trying to get her ankles back behind her ears. As a result, her butt cheeks hung nicely over the edge of the table.

She had been allowed to take a cold shower and wash herself after this morning’s activities round the pool, then she was fed some more gruel and water, before being allowed a half hour’s rest curled up on the floor of her cell.

He wanted her just slightly refreshed.

Now, he had her alone to himself.

Embarrassed, she admitted to him that she’d had a couple of enemas in hospital but he knew this one would be different; a dreadful, chilled cramping solution laced with an additive that would irritate her bowel and rectum and tender sphincter.

After he had fixed the nozzle into her guts, he stood back and watched her sweat and grimace as all four pints filled her, distending her nicely muscled abdomen.

“Please … aaaooorrgghh …” she groaned, trying to focus on him.

He smiled. It was strange. He truly felt he already knew her, after all this time, and yet she had never seen him and they had not spoken. He thought of all the articles he’d read, the interviews, including his favourite.

“Hold it in.” he barked. “Or your daughters will pay.”

Beads of perspiration were bursting out of every pore on her face and body. Every sinew in her stretched limbs strained.

He started to whistle. She had once given an interview to her daughter’s 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 naïve interviews full of questions like ‘what is your favourite perfume’ and ‘where was your best vacation ?”

He loved it. She had revealed her favourite singer was Bob Marley. So he whistled a little tune for her:

 

“Don’t worry about a thing,

Cause every little thing gonna be alright.”

 

He made her hold the enema for several minutes, then allowed her to expel the mass of dirty water into a bucket he held between her thighs.

She sighed with relief in spite of the burning sensation in her guts.

Now it was almost time.

He put the bucket aside and sealed it with a lid. Then he walked casually around the table, touching her, enjoying her emerald eyes as they nervously followed his tour of her. Linda Evans, that dame from Dallas or Dynasty or whichever ‘80s TV crap, that’s who she reminded him of. He reached out and squeezed her breasts that were splurged to her sides. Even the fittest 45 year old couldn’t defy gravity forever. He decided one time soon he would tit fuck her.

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

 

“Rise up this morning,

Smiled with the risin’ sun,

Three little birds

Pitch by my doorstep

Singin’ sweet songs

Of melodies pure and true

Sayin’ this is my message

to you-ou-ou.”

 

And on the ‘you-ou-ou’ he took the lubed-up, heavily ridged vibrator and shoved it brutally into the middle of her puckered, virgin backdoor.

Susan Cumber howled with pain but couldn’t do anything about it.

 

*** *** ***

 

At that very moment, John Cumber, Walt Furness and just two other 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 heads left or right, ashamed to catch each other’s eye.

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

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

Walt had accorded it ‘top-secret’ and ‘inner-circle-only’ basis.

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 all sat in uncomfortable silence.

Walt coughed.

“John … I don’t know what to say.”

Fortunately, his embarrassment was interrupted by the phone ringing.

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

“John ?” said an animated voice. There were chaotic noises 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 but the price is in freefall.”

A pause. “It’s already dropped under thirteen bucks.”

 

*** *** ***

 

He smiled down into her face as he eased his erection into her bottom. She was loose and ready for him after the withdrawal of the huge dildo.

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.”

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 anger, he suspected.

“Tell me,” he asked, “did your husband ever ask you to try it like this ?”

She gawped at him, mouth like a goldfish. Her tits were jiggling in time with his thrusts, wobbling like a pair of blancmanges on a dish.

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

She nodded her head as much as the table allowed. “Yes. B … but just good naturedly. J … joking. It isn’t something he really … wants.”

He nodded back, building a nice rhythm.

“That’s how guys who actually want something usually ask their wives, you know.”

She swallowed. Her expression portraying shock that she was having a conversation like this, at a moment like this. And the truth of his comment seemed to have hit a nerve.

“Before too long you’re going to take each guy here up this arse.”

He said it as matter-of-factly as he could. No good natured joking.

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

She flinched. Just the slightest pause. Interesting.

“N … ngh … no.” she replied. “I’ll do it m … myself.”

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.

“Mmmmmm … yesssssss …” he hissed in triumphant early release.

 

*** *** ***

 

On the big TV in the guards common room, a soccer match was playing. Apart from two mercenaries, all the men were sat round drinking beer, smoking and eating nuts, shouting at the screen.

At the front of the room, placed next to the TV, Lorna Cumber was bent over in a pillory facing the half circle of men. The 23 year old’s neck and wrists were held at a ‘convenient’ height through three holes in a T bar, forcing her to stoop over with her butt nicely presented behind her.

Her head was a perfect height for her duties at a man’s waist level.

She was naked but for a brutal spider-gag that held her jaws apart and mouth wide open, lined with a rubber dental breach to prevent biting.

One at a time, the mercenaries rose from their seats to take a break from the game. Some simply pumped their dicks into her mouth for a while, deciding to prolong their orgasms. Others did the same but then jerked themselves off, so that they unloaded over her face and down her throat. But increasingly, as the beer flowed and the match got more exciting, they simply used her as a urinal. They would stand, cigs dangling from their lower lips, half looking at the screen and half down at her, as they laid their penises onto her tongue and let rip their frothy second hand lager. Meanwhile, they bantered with their friends over their shoulders as if she were a mere inanimate object.

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

Her tears and gasps as she struggled to breathe were ignored.

Of course, Lorna Cumber’s proper punishment could wait until the final whistle had blown.

And after that they would enjoy moving onto her sister, the third and final little bird.

 

 

PART FOUR:

‘Four Letters, Two words’

 

 

She knew it was wrong. Even through the euphoria of joints and tequila and the extraordinary fireworks, she 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 choices.

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

It was 1976 after all. Not 1946. Or 1876 !

You just didn’t 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 for ‘some fresh air’, 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 it quietly soothing Charlie as he lay 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, 4^th July, 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 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 slept with all the girls just once. Why not her ?

They reached the lake, the little porch overlooking the 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 him. She gasped in shock as he mashed his lips fiercely against hers.

“Mmmou … ch …” she mumbled, pulling 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.”

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

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

Certainly not prick teasers who accepted an invitation down to the lake. He pushed her onto the ground, tripping the back of her legs over his shins 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.

 

*** *** ***

 

She 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 to play.

Skink, one of the black mercenaries, was stood at the human urinal shaking the drops from his penis. He smiled. None of the men were embarrassed in front of her any more. Melanie was treated as an ‘honorary male’.

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

The men rearranged their chairs from the half circle 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 in position.

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

Her face already glistened with ejaculate and urine and her brunette hair hung down in sodden strands.

Melanie stayed out of Lorna’s field of vision. She wasn’t wearing her lizard mask. Not that she needed to worry but she decided she would save up a face to face meeting for another day. She sat down with a nice view of Lorna’s naked and defenceless bottom.

Gator smiled at the poor, helpless girl. The rear vistas of fit, young ladies are so dreadfully attractive; the camber of their spines, the violin shaped curves with no lumps or wrinkles yet, the dimples and their peeking, unspoiled rosebuds.

At 6’ 5” of solid muscle, Gator was a contrastingly terrifying sight, with his missing ear and dreadfully scarred face.

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

“Feel free to chip in at any time.” He added, reaching down to push a few strands of her hair away from her face so they could both see each other.

“I’m afraid your mom had the opportunity to save you from all this but she chose not to. She’s in her cell sleeping, after a nice hot meal. You see we gave her the choice of being here now. Or your baby sis. Or you.”

He laughed.

“And she chose … you. What were her exact words, guys ?”

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

“Er … yeah … she said that she was too old to take this treatment, and she loved Rachel too much to sentence her to it, so it had to be you !”

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

“Personally I can understand Rachel being her favourite daughter. I mean, we would all have preferred her too, as she’s a much better looker than you ! But 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 you’re not going to find it easy to learn the level of humility and obedience necessary to satisfy us.”

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

“But then,” he continued, “we’ve got plenty of time. Weeks, months, maybe even years. Boy are we gonna have some fun, sweet cheeks.”

He showed her the bamboo cane he had been holding behind his back.

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

He winked at Melanie and passed her the cane when she stood up.

Melanie looked at the watching men and then at the lovely pale buttocks stretched, and on a plate, facing her at just the right height.

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.

 

*** *** ***

 

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

“Open your eyes, bitch.”

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 cock.

“You want to lick this clean or you want Lorna to do it ?”

“I’ll do it.”

He walked up to the other end of the table, then pressed a button. There was a whirring sound as her back and head descended to knee height.

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

He gave her his glistening, streaked and dripping dick to suck. Man that was good. As that rhyme went; ‘Any soft mouth felt good, always did, always would’. But this was something else entirely; a beautiful face, an unwilling woman and a shit-stinking dish eaten real cold.

But he hadn’t finished with Lady Goody-Two Shoes yet.

He pulled his dick out of her lips.

“You know what rimming is ?”

She shook her head side to side. As he suspected. Lovely.

“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 arsehole.”

He beamed at her look of utter disgust.

“Look at it this way, at least you’re sparing your lovely daughters all this stuff. That is … unless you’d rather not kiss my butt until it gleams ?”

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

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

“Say please.” He said.

A pause. “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 round with his fingers and pulled the cheeks of his butt as far as apart as he could. That had to be one heck of a view.

When he was at junior high there’d been a toilet cubicle with a piece of graffiti that always made him chuckle; ‘One million flies can’t be wrong ! Eat Dung !’

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

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

 

*** *** ***

 

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 share price in particular.

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

So far, John Cumber had already spent some $300,000,000 of his personal fortune buying back shares in the conglomerate he had founded and then floated fifteen years earlier.

“Please, Ellen, give me the figures.” He said.

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

Not without reason was his nickname on Wall Street ‘Cucumber’, as in cool as a cucumber. He was a veteran of several bloody hostile takeovers and corporate battles and; when the going gets tough, the tough get going.

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

The speaker was Ellen O’Leary, the head of his private office. She was both a qualified lawyer and certified accountant. A formidable divorcee in her mid-fifties, she was devoted to her boss and friend.

Like any billionaire, nobody knew John Cumber’s net worth for sure on a day to day basis.

“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 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 ?” he asked.

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

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

“One point five billion.”

“Which leaves me just one point two billion 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 children’s ransom.”

A geeky lawyer type coughed and spoke up.

“Er … Sir. Mister Collins has already made it clear 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 made a note on his pad.

“So I have two hundred million 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 trusts we set up for Lorna, Ryan and Rachel. It will take a while to get the trustees legally to agree to using the funds in that way.”

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

There was a silence in the room.

People looked down at their pads.

Suddenly one of the large screens in the room flickered and popped. Unlike the price monitors, it had been broadcasting Financial Media footage of talking heads and features with the volume set low.

Moments later the volume erupted into life.

“Daddy, we’re all okay so far.”

Rachel Cumber’s distinctive nasal voice was clear but petrified.

Her out-of-focus features slowly emerged from a blur on the screen.

“I’m fine.” She said. “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 !” A voice shouted, as a man pushed his chair back from the table and dashed out of the room.

“How the fuck … ?” said another.

Again, the calmest person 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 beseeched him. “Please. I love you.”

He actually smiled. 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 feeling.

It was hate. Hatred for the person or persons who had done this.

Love and Hate. Two words, each of four letters.

How entwined those two emotions sometimes are.

 

*** *** ***

 

The masked Chameleon stood in front of Rachel.

“Thirsty ?”

The girl’s lips were cracked and split. It had been four days since she had a proper drink. Her mind had to have become delirious with dehydration.

Several more hours had passed since she had last teased her.

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

The Chameleon placed the bucket of brown water on the floor at their feet. They were not far from the Sahara Desert. Fresh drinking water was valuable !

Rachel was still dressed in her sweat soaked and soiled ‘sister of the bride’ designer suit. Soon it would be time to strip her but, for the moment, the female Chameleon enjoyed postponing the fun.

“I’m fine. Like, they haven’t touched me.” Hah !

For now, a drink of her mother’s enema water would suffice as an opening move in this game of revenge.

Melanie thought back to that night, when he had made her wash herself off in the lake afterwards, and rinse the evidence from her body and mouth. She could still taste the memory of the briny, muddy water.

She raised the pitcher to Rachel’s lips.

“Come on. Drink up.”

The girl was so out of it she didn’t even seem to notice the flavour.

Melanie smiled to herself.

Oh well, even enemas are best drunk cold.

 

*** *** ***

 

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

He sat at the screen and spent ten minutes doing business, humming away to the tune on his ipod; “Four Letters, Two words” by The Urge. The St. Louis rock band had been one of his favourites before they split.

Man, he was a fuckin’ IT genius. Physically his PC was in the States but cyber-wise it relocated to a different country every minute. After he had done what he needed to do, he shrugged. Talking of ‘urges’, what’s a young man meant to do in a strange town all on his own !

Lenny opened his Favourites folder and clicked on his number one site.

The screen displayed the reassuring orange and red letters on a grey background.

He clicked ‘Stories’. Red and grey on white appeared.

‘Aha’. He smiled. One of his favourite authors had posted.

Lenny stood up off the seat and undid his jeans and shucked his briefs down to his ankles. He opened the ‘Whole Story’.

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

It didn’t take him long. He grimaced and accidentally hosed the keyboard with an extra long spurt. He laughed and, in his mind’s eye, imagined Rachel Cumber’s snotty little face covered with his jizz. Fictional stories were all very well but …

That’s what he would like to do to her real soon.

 

 

PART FIVE:

‘Five foot two eyes of blue’

 

“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 ?”

 

Charlie met the Private Detective in a seedy bar off Melrose. The year was 1987 and Los Angeles was roasting in a July heat wave. The man pushed a folder across the table and settled back, lighting up a Marlboro.

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

Melanie still looked pretty much the same as she had eleven years earlier. Maybe a little lined round the eyes now but her figure and face were just 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. “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.

“She’s okay for cash ?”

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

“Last month’s bank statement.”

Charlie checked the balance and activity. Then he carefully picked up one of the photos of the boy.

“And her kid ?”

“Nice enough. Cycles to school. OK grades. Doesn’t mix with a bad crowd. Maybe a bit of a loner. But 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 of 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 slowly pushed the brown envelope towards him.

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

Just like his fucking dad.

 

*** *** ***

 

The Chameleon smiled at the screen. Wall Street had closed five minutes earlier with the Cumber Corporation 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.

He looked at his watch. Time for a midnight feast.

 

Rachel Cumber had replaced her mother on the operating table in the interrogation room. Her designer skirt and jacket and stained silk blouse had all been removed and she lay in just her bra and thong. She had been given a little broth to fortify her for the impending ordeal. Her chest rose and fell visibly with the beating of her heart. Her blue eyes roved around the room absorbing the scary furniture and devices hanging all around.

 

Charlie and Melanie had dispensed with their lizard masks. The game had reached a new stage. They preferred seeing, and being seen. But they had dressed up in their kinkiest bondage gear. He had donned tight black leathers while she was dressed in a bright red PVC catsuit.

 

Rachel whimpered and sobbed when she saw them.

“Please … give him more time … he’ll get you the money.”

“Of course he will.” Melanie smiled.

“But …” the girl’s voice trailed off.

Melanie pouted. But … who gives a fuck ? You think it’s about the money bitch ? Why is it that rich people always think everything is about money ?

She reached out and ran her fingers casually over Rachel’s stretched limbs. Her boobs were a bit disappointing lying flat in the lace bra but that problem could soon be sorted.

What you couldn’t deny was the allure of the face; the cheekbones, nose, mouth and jaw, all perfectly aligned. Her blond hair was greasy and lank but it would soon perk up after a nice shampoo and blow dry.

“What are you … going to do to me ?” the girl finally whispered.

“Oh … the list is too long.”

Melanie glanced over at Charlie. He was unbuckling his belt.

“Please … I … I’m a virgin …”

“Really ?”

Charlie smiled, eyes twinkling. She winked back at him. The surprising media rumours sounded as if they were true after all.

“Well then, I think you’ve really gotta lot of catching up to do.” Melanie said.

 

*** *** ***

 

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

As ever, physically she appeared to have barely changed. It was 1993 and she was now 35 years old.

“Nobody ?”

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

The guy studied a series of smoke rings and stared into the distance. Enjoying his moment. Neither Charlie nor the Dick liked each other. It was a business transaction, nothing else.

“Nope.”

“Sure ?”

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

Charlie nodded. His time as a signals specialist in the army had pretty much predated the web. He was no expert but he knew enough.

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

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

“What do you mean ?”

“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 sites. Personals ?”

“No. Not that I can tell.”

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

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

“I mean … well … porn sites. But mostly fictional story sites.”

Charlie exhaled; one-two-three-breathe.

“Yes ?”

“There is this site that specialises in … you’ve heard of bdsm, right ?”

He waited, not even deigning to reply.

“Well, there’s an author named ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’. Writes all kinda kinky stuff.”

He already knew where this was going. Only one person would use that nom de plume.

“Enough.” He interrupted. “You have evidence ?”

The Dick smiled and tented his fingers.

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

Mistake. Big mistake.

Charlie grinned back like a reptile. One-two-three-breathe.

“Sure … let’s meet again late tonight and exchange what you have for another envelope.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Melanie rode the thick dildo vigorously. Thick but just right.

It stood upright from an inflatable gag in Rachel’s mouth. She could hear the girl struggling for air. Well, she thought, lucky for the bitch I keep myself in good shape. A different woman my age, with flabbier buttocks, and you’d be suffocating my little hobby horse.

She leaned forward and kissed Charlie, their tongues entwined.

You wonderful man. Yes, I still hate you for walking out on me all those years ago. But I love you for coming back. And for giving me this. Revenge. Not just any old tit-for-tat retribution but vengeance of a type and on a scale unimaginable in normal life.

She shuddered as erotic thrills surged up her spine. She wasn’t even remotely lesbian. But her sexual tastes had been spiced up over the years. Truth was, in the right mood she could enjoy pretty much anything now.

Somebody fucks up your life ?

She hammered down on the dildo, driving herself towards a climax.

You fuck them back one hundredfold.

 

She orgasmed a second time but still Charlie was making it last. He was standing at the end of the table, pumping in and out between Rachel’s thighs, controlling himself every time he was about to shoot. Mind you, he’d already blown several wads that day already so it was easier. Melanie smiled at how she teased him about not getting any younger. She felt no jealousy watching him fucking such gorgeous, firm flesh. He belonged to her forever now and they both knew it.

Sadly there was no blood. ‘Virgin’ today is a technical term. Rachel’s hymen had long since been taken by a rampant rabbit or horse riding or whatever activity 21 year old billionaire kids get off on nowadays.

But Charlie was nevertheless her first cock. And they still had her asshole and mouth to go.

And that was just for starters.

 

*** *** ***

 

It was 02.00 hrs local time, when she and Charlie woke Susan Cumber in her cell. The woman was lying curled up naked on her cell floor.

“Suseee !” Melanie cooed through the bars. “Wakee wakee.”

Susan turned and rose onto her knees, wiping her eyes.

“My friend here needs his dick cleaned. You want to do it, or would you prefer Lorna did ?”

Susan looked at them in disgust.

“I’ll do it.” She sighed quietly.

Charlie turned away.

“If it’s too much trouble …”

“Nooo.” Susan wailed. “I’ll do it … please.”

Charlie looked undecided, still ready to leave.

“Aw, come on.” Melanie mock-negotiated with him. “She wants it. Leave her kids alone.”

Still Charlie remained unmoved.

“He’s pissed off.” She confided to Susan. “How about you offer him something new ? I know, offer to tongue his butt, he likes that.”

Susan paused. “… I … I’ve done that.”

Melanie laughed. “My, you two are friends already ! Oh dear. Well fuck it, I can’t think of anything else. Maybe we’d best go visit with Lorna after all ? She must be getting lonely by now anyway.”

“No ! Please … look, I’ll do anything.”

There was a hush. One of those special, awkward 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 Melanie’s eyes.

“Yes … anything.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Dylan was surfing the net in his room, 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 dick.

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 heads onto different bodies but those sure were her big tits swinging around on some black dude’s legs as she sucked him off. Susan Cumber being spit roasted on a friggin’ sunbed, man !

After he’d mopped himself up with a tissue, Dylan couldn’t resist it. Just one person wouldn’t hurt. He pasted the URL onto his screen and emailed the link to Greg.

Greg was his best mate and another fan of Ryan Cumber’s mommy.

He smiled as he imagined him opening up the page.

Should he tell the police ? Nah, best not to get involved.

They’d surely find the photos soon enough.

 

*** *** ***

 

Gator’s six feet five frame was naked on the poolside workbench in the early morning sunshine. He was on his back, bench-pressing some heavy weights, his muscles glistening with sweat and oil. In the pool, several of the Reptiles were swimming laps, while others were chatting on the deck, drinking juice and coffee. Physical fitness was a key requirement for a top rung soldier of fortune.

The clinging stink of pungent male body odour was strong. Gator hadn’t showered in two days and he was driving up the bar with animal grunts and groans of effort.

Viper was playing his ‘buddy’, stood next to the bench, ready to support the heavy bar if Gator lost control.

And then, between Gator’s widespread thighs, kneeling at the end of the bench, was Lorna Cumber. His female ‘buddy’.

Her role was to genuflect in complete silence on the state of Gator’s damp, hirsute and unwashed anus. The 23 year old beauty was kneeling with her face pushed in between his thighs, her pink tongue lapping and her arms meekly held behind her back.

She worked in complete silence. It was her only chance of saving her fiancé’s balls. One word, one slip up from her, and young Gene’s baby-making kit would be a couple of scraps for the wild African dogs to fight over.

So Gene was naturally watching the scene with a fair degree of interest. He was strung up naked a few feet from the workbench so that he could have a ringside view of Lorna’s efforts on his behalf. A grubby towel dangled from his own erection. He watched in complete silence like her, since one word from him, even just one noisy breath, or if his erection softened and the towel fell to the ground, and he had been threatened with castration.

Gene and Lorna were the first prisoners to enjoy each other’s company since the kidnapping. Well, after all, this was the couples’ honeymoon.

Gator thrust the bar up and held it locked for the twentieth time, wobbling.

“You can do it.” Viper encouraged.

Gator grunted and heaved so hard he noisily passed gas.

“Well …” he grimaced at Viper, “… you said I could !”

Both men laughed and peered down at Lorna. She recoiled and her hazel eyes had burst open wide in horror.

Viper shrugged and casually drew a 9-inch knife from his belt, starting to move meaningfully towards Gene.

In a second, Lorna had plunged her face back and recommenced tonguing and kissing Gator’s hairy butt as if it was delicious frozen yoghurt.

Viper stood threatening Gene, while sneering over at Lorna.

“What a slut.” He shook his head. “Kid, we did you a favour, saving you from spending the rest of your poor life with that toilet face.”

Gator hoisted the weights bar into the steel supports.

“You gonna fuck our young bride now ?” Viper asked him.

“Nah.” Gator replied. He rose gingerly from the bench and removed his towel from Gene’s erection, using it to wipe the perspiration from his face and forearms. “I’m saving myself for later. When the real fun begins.”

“In that case …” Viper said, hauling Lorna up by her dark hair and slamming her face down onto the workbench, so she whimpered.

He shucked down his shorts to reveal a semi-hard penis stiffening by the second. Then he crouched behind her and pulled her hips up so that he could fuck her from behind while she faced her ex-boyfriend.

Gator nonchalantly hung his towel back onto Gene’s peg, looking right into his red-rimmed eyes.

“You watch how a real man does it kid. Just in case you get the chance again sometime.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Susan Cumber squealed every few seconds. She was standing legs akimbo in front of Charlie and Melanie plucking out her own triangle of soft pubic fuzz with tweezers, hair by hair. Her collar and cuffs didn’t match perfectly. Her tresses were platinum blonde while her pubes were a kind of medium honey colour. She winced as she depilated herself.

Her tormentors were sat at a table on their private roof terrace overlooking the palm garden and desert beyond. They were eating croissants, date pastries and fruit, sipping black coffee, chatting quietly, ignoring her. Occasionally Melanie would glance at her and ‘tut’ when her squeaks and ‘ouchs’ got too loud, or she slowed down.

Eventually, Susan’s pouting mound was scarlet hued and virtually bald.

 

“Stand over there” Charlie said, lighting a cigarette and rising from the table. He was naked but for an open cotton shirt that was unbuttoned. His penis hung temporarily sated after he and Melanie had made passionate love together earlier, a nice contrast to the rape and violence all around them.

He reached up and pulled down a set of chains that hung from the cross beam that supported the terrace sunblind. With practised hands he quickly fastened her wrists so 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.” Melanie added helpfully.

Susan shook her head. “N … no.”

“Oh, it was quite good as far as I recall.” Melanie 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.”

“No …” Susan whispered. “You wouldn’t. No …”

Melanie 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 anything, right ?”

“Yes.”

“Well, soon you will get your chance.”

There was a silence while both women stared grimly at each other.

“In a little while, we’re all going to gather round the swimming pool. And you’re going to invite everybody to fuck your daughters.”

“You …!” Susan quickly stopped herself, controlling her outrage.

Melanie chuckled. “I see you’re learning. But too late. You’ll pay later for that little outburst. If you fail to say exactly what we want, then … well … um, you really don’t want to think about that.”

She took another bite of banana, pausing for effect.

“And after your little sluts have all been fucked many times, you will get the chance to save one of them. It will be interesting to hear your choice !”

 

*** *** ***

 

John Cumber woke in a terrible sweat. He looked over in the dark at the digital clock; 03.37. 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 black lingerie of the type she never wore anymore, 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 digital 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 when we need to.”

John sat up bolt upright in bed. The voice was male, American, quite youthful but composed, taunting.

“Now listen here you motherfucker …”

“Sssshhh … John. Actually that’s very good. Motherfucker ? 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 my 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 worry your handsome head about that yet.”

John looked at the luminous second hand of his watch. Over forty 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 is really a surprisingly good fuck, John.”

“You bastard !”

“Well it’s funny you should call me that too. Anyway, I want you to ask me nicely to fuck your wife again.”

John roared with rage. “You …!”

“Sssssshhh …” The voice interrupted. “In that case I shall fuck your daughters. In their arses.”

“Noooh !”

The man on the end of the line made a ‘tch !’ sound. “Can’t have it both ways, John, 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 bellowed.

“Goood.” The voice teased. “That wasn’t so difficult was it ? Okay, I’ll give her one from you. And 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 more words.

“Bye for now.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Lorna knelt motionless and silent on the tiled floor. She held her eyes and mouth wide open. A small acidic burp repeated on her, making her throat gag and triggering yet another wave of nausea. There were no shackles or ropes holding her anymore, no spider gags or dental breaches. She was simply being ‘conditioned’ to do exactly as she had been ordered.

A human latrine.

The door opened and one of the mercenaries entered the small, humid room. He was the shaven headed black one they called Cobra, with his huge frame and belly.

He whistled and stood with his feet apart in front of her, unzipping his jeans.

She looked up into his cruel brown eyes obediently, keeping her lips as wide as possible and her tongue flat on her lower gums to receive him. She knew what was coming. She dreaded it. No amount of times made it better or easier. Just the stench of urine made her feel light headed and her throat gagged; the sharp, sour taste and the acid after-burn that exploded up through her nose making her eyes water.

He grinned down at her and carefully uncoiled his soft but huge penis onto her tongue.

She knew his flow would be hot as it funnelled down her throat and windpipe and descended all the way to her stomach, prompting bitter little burps that would recur afterwards, bile bubbling back up like a geyser.

Worse was how she had already started to differentiate between the different men and their taste and how they varied according to the time of day. Mornings were worst.

She felt the first fiery squirt against her tonsils.

“Mmmm …” she heard him exhale, treating her as nothing but his urinal.

The rational, proud side of her brain screamed; no !

But the emotional, humiliated side somehow accepts she has no choice, petrified by what might happen to her if she pulls her mouth away. Frightened for Gene, and Mom, and Rach’ and Ryan. But mostly for herself and the pain of what they might do.

So Lorna knelt and felt it racing into her gullet, making her eyes stream, trying not to choke as she swallowed rapidly and it kept filling her mouth, the horrible acrid tang somehow even worse than she remembered from the previous visitor just ten minutes before this.

A little frothed over her lips and down her chin but, somehow, she managed to keep guzzling until he had finished. She was convinced they all waited until their bladders were over-full before visiting her. He farted loudly as he shook the last drips from the end of his length onto her tongue before tucking himself back into his jeans.

Then he turned, completely ignoring her, and walked back out into the sunshine.

 

*** *** ***

 

Doctor Wolfgang Ernst removed the 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 was happy to travel. He had spent 25 years specialising in … er … delicate procedures such as treating wounded mercenaries who were not able to visit official hospitals, and plastic surgery for criminals who wished to alter their appearance. This little operation had been 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, she was younger than Wolfgang’s own daughter.

Sure, breast augmentation techniques usually recommend an increase of one or, at most, two bra cup sizes. However, he felt that the substantial silicone implants he had utilized to endow the slim 21 year old with FF cup monsters would soon settle down and cause no 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. Before the operation, the measurement round her full breasts had been a measly couple of inches more than the band measurement round her torso underneath her bust.

Now the difference was a splendid 8 inches ! He smiled; ‘udders’. The Americans had such a fixation with big udders.

The girl would feel uncomfortable for a few days and 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 effects might be another matter.

 

*** *** ***

 

Lenny grinned.

This was all too easy. Soon he’d be on a plane outta here and then he could relax and enjoy 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 master account.

It was an innocent, virgin, 8-digit numbered St. Vincent bank account that 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 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 accounts in Macau, Marianas, Vanuatu, Nauru, Labuan and Liberia.

Then the whole lot would go berserk, batching, slicing, 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 innocently 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 sauce of dummy accounts, closed accounts, transfers, reverse transfers, conversion into Euros, Yen, Sterling and Swiss Francs, and 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.

 

PART SIX:

‘Six-Chambered Heart’

 

 

“One for the love, Two for the hate

Three for the blood that I can’t circulate

Four for the fear, Five for the brave

Six, chamber six contains an open space”

 

 

Melanie had fought.

It was strange. From pre-puberty, her darkest, secret, unspoken sexual fantasies had been about control and rape and ‘bdsm’, not that she knew the term back then if it even existed. She had been too ashamed to reveal such thoughts to Charlie but she’d figured she would finally do so once they were married. In them she had sometimes been the aggressor and other times the victim.

Reality was totally different.

Her karma.

He wasn’t like a rapist of her imagination. He was calm, almost disinterested, pretty much jacking off inside her. He simply held her wrists on the ground and writhed about on top, his erection hard and painful within her 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.

Afterwards he had been embarrassed but not repentant. He made her rinse herself in the lake, destroying the evidence. Smiling, he threatened to tell her boyfriend that she had been willing participant, that she had loved it.

Perhaps he really even thought she had ?

“And if Charlie comes after me,” he said, nonchalantly tucking his shirt back in, “I will kill him. Trust me.”

 

*** *** ***

 

John Cumber sat staring at the screens. Alongside him Walt Furness, two other Agents, plus several investment bankers and John’s senior executives were all watching the Corporations’ share price tick up and down around the $15 dollars level.

Silence chilled the room as John’s phone rang.

The cell’s digital display was blank again.

“Yes.” He answered, all eyes on him. One of the Agents triggered the tracking technology that had been set up.

“John.” Said the smooth, taunting male voice. Already experts had identified it from the earlier tape as definitely an American national, accent most likely Southern Californian, the inflexion and vocabulary estimated at mid-thirties or under.

“Yes.”

“I will say this once. You have ten minutes and I want 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: May 28^th, 2007.

0-5-2-8-2-0-0-7.

“If it doesn’t arrive, 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 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 coldness entering his tone. “You’ll love it. Trust me.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Charlie sat hunched over the screen reading the story. It was good. Well written, at least in his opinion. Sure it was violent and explicit but then, that was what this porno site seemed to be all about.

He clicked again and returned to the Author’s page.

‘Famous Blue Raincoat’.

There were ten stories listed in all. 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, a brave Californian Gold Rush heroine had been raped and lost her husband, friends and wagon train to Red Indian raiders but she managed to save herself and her son.

The website offered a facility that allowed you to email the author.

With a deep breath, ‘Red Mist’ started tapping at his keyboard.

 

*** *** ***

 

Susan knelt and licked the woman’s labia. They hung open, unwashed, sweaty, giving off an odour like a dish of stinking fish and ripe cheese.

Whatever it was that motivated these people it wasn’t just money. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t even just sex. 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.

Bile rose up from her stomach to tear at her throat and she gulped the acid back down. There were just the two of them now, outdoors on a private terrace in the sunshine.

She felt sharp nails digging into her scalp, guiding her head.

“Lick, bitch. Make it good for me or I’ll cut off your little boy’s bollocks and feed them to you.”

Susan swirled her tongue and then drilled it, pointed, as deep as she could. She considered lesbianism disgusting, immoral. A sheen of fresh perspiration covered the woman’s inner thighs, making them slick and wet against Susan’s cheeks. She guessed the woman was between forty five and fifty. In quite good shape, probably fitness trained by the men. Nevertheless, strangely she seemed to be in charge, along with the horrible man they referred to as the Chameleon.

Her knees throbbed and her ankles ached from kneeling in the same position for so long. Her mind was delirious with fatigue and hunger and shame and worry, her tongue was numb. She had been doing this for half an hour since breakfast, but the woman seemed in no rush to reach a climax.

She winced as the woman ran her long fingernails through Susan’s hair.

How much more of this could she take ?

 

*** *** ***

 

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 your age but that was the title of a song by Meatloaf when I was younger. In fact the whole story is kind of based around what I feel about that era. The Seventies. Anyway, 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 to her.

They exchanged emails, to and fro, for several weeks. Gradually it ceased being an impersonal dialogue and became correspondence between friends, even though they were two faceless persons either side of a screen.

At least, that’s how it seemed.

 

One morning, he awoke and fired up his PC. It was dawn in Europe. She had sent her reply from California long after he 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 in the Bible. It’s kind of inspired by 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.

That evening, he received 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. You’re my anonymous, unpaid psychiatrist ! How’s that feel ? Cheap, heh ? LOL. Anyway, you asked for it. The truth behind much of my writing is that I was raped. Many years ago now …”

 

The hairs on the back of Charlie’s hands stood bolt upright.

 

“The rape itself was bad enough, but the consequences were worse. I lost the love of my life. I couldn’t tell him I’d been raped. Well, could I have done ? I don’t know now. What’s done is done. You can’t wind the clock back. My boyfriend had this dangerous streak below the surface. Besides, the guy who raped me threatened he’d kill my boyfriend if I told anyone. But my boyfriend could tell something was up. So I stupidly admitted I’d had this one night stand. I thought he’d understand. I was young and naïve. So we broke up. And he’s never spoken to me again. 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 open space for him that has never been filled. I bet you’re sorry you asked now. Sob stories ain’t so much fun as bdsm stories, right ? Must cut it short. My son’s home from school early. I hope to hear from you again soon.

FBR.”

 

For the first time, Charlie didn’t start typing immediately. He sat, staring at the screen for maybe an hour, he wasn’t sure. Time stopped. Eventually, he undressed, wearily removing each item of clothing in a daze, and stood under a cold shower for ten minutes. The razor needles of freezing water cut into his scarred, muscled skin like shards of ice, dulling 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 own blood racing.

Preparing him for war.

 

*** *** ***

 

He ran his fingers through his hair.

He was poorer by one billion dollars. Repeat that: US$ 1,000,000,000. That’s one fuckin’ thousand fuckin’ million green ones.

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 access but they have confirmed - off the record - the account is already empty again.”

John 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 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.

“John ?” Walt 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 them.

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 strange thing for somebody to say. You have any idea at all what that means ?”

 

*** *** ***

 

“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 machete hung menacingly in a leather scabbard.

Around the swimming pool, they had painted five sets of feet in pink paint. 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 leave them.

“Step off the prints,” Gator threatened, pointing at a bamboo crop, “and the person next to you gets fifty lashes with that.”

They were arranged with Susan Cumber at the head of the pool. Her breasts hung heavy with blotches and her pubic mound was bald.

Next to her, on one side of the pool stood her olive complexioned, brunette, elder daughter Lorna.

About twenty feet along was Lorna’s pallid, redheaded fiancé Gene.

At the shallow end of the rectangular pool was a viewing gallery of seats, occupied by most of the mercenaries, dressed in their usual mix of combat shirts and khaki shorts, ripped Ts and leathers.

Next, opposite Gene, stood naked Ryan Cumber, tall, handsome son and heir.

Finally, opposite Lorna and next to their mother was blonde, top-heavy, younger daughter Rachel. Her new, mammoth mammaries had triggered shocked gasps from her family and raucous jeers from the male audience.

All five prisoners were nude, bodies glistening in the hot sun, feet wide apart on the pink prints, arms up, with their fingers laced behind their heads.

The time for cuffs, ropes, cells and privacy was over.

“Silence.” Gator bellowed. “For your host please … the Chameleon !”

It was numbingly hot under the mask, but Charlie wore it for effect, for a sense of drama. Not all five guests had seen his face yet.

He stood at the shallow end of the pool, directly opposite Susan.

“Well, folks, I have some good news, and some bad news.”

He did his best to convey a smile by cocking his masked head to one side.

“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 !” Lorna gasped, moving both hands to cover her face.

Charlie paused threateningly for effect until the girl had snapped her hands back behind her head.

“You will be punished for that interruption shortly. As will anybody else who moves, speaks or utters any noise out of turn. Nod if you all understand ?”

Five 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 generosity.

“So, now the good news. He has offered Susan to me as … er … interest on the money in the meantime.”

It was evident that young Ryan in particular was desperate to object but the boy managed to control himself, staring across enraged, mouth agape.

“Listen.” Charlie said.

There was a slight crackle from two outdoor speakers fixed on the wall.

“No ! Wait !” John Cumber’s recorded voice floated clearly over the pool water as if he was actually 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.

The Chameleon opened his palms to imply ‘I told you so’.

“But I understand that Susan has something to add that will help keep all my friends patient too.” He turned and gestured to the grinning, watching Reptiles. “Isn’t that correct, Susie doll ?”

Susan Cumber grimaced and nodded her head, lip quivering.

“What is it, Susie ? Out with it.”

“Please … f … please … fuck my daughters too.” She pleaded, then burst into tears.

 

*** *** ***

 

“Dear Red Mist,

You asked about my son. He’s really the crux of the story. He was born nine months after the rape. I couldn’t take the pill and my boyfriend and I had always used rubbers or him just pulling out. Remember this was the Seventies. The rapist made me wash the evidence in a scummy lake afterwards and I assumed I’d got rid of everything. But a couple of months later, I’m definitely pregnant. So I’m back home, not yet 19 years old, knocked up, with a rapist’s kid in my belly when everybody thought I’d had a one-night-stand. Fucked, or what ? My parents wouldn’t consider an abortion, so I had my son.

And here the story gets even more twisted. After he’s born, I love him of course, but I still think his father raped me. But when he’s six months old, I see a smile, a distinctive look. I only had a few mementos of my boyfriend. One was a lock of his hair, entwined with a strand of mine, that I kept in a little silver box. Back then DNA testing was less advanced and available but I lied about a possible genetic illness and the hospital had my son analysed.

Guess what ?”

 

The words blurred on the screen as Charlie Victor wiped his eye.

 

“My son is after all my boyfriend’s child. From probably the very last time we ever made love. And yet his father doesn’t know it. Never will. And so my son doesn’t have his father, and the love of my life doesn’t know he has a son. All because a bastard raped me, when he could have fucked pretty much any other chick and she wouldn’t have minded. Sick, huh ?

But you know the final twist ? The sickest part of all ? That boy who raped me ? He’s turned into some hugely successful guy, rich and famous, and every few weeks I glance by mistake at the newspaper headlines in a drug store, or catch the news on TV, and there I see his damned face grinning out at me, like it did the night he ruined my life.

And you know what, it makes me want to ruin his. Forgive me, but it really does. So, because of course I sadly can’t do that in real life, I’m writing about it instead.

And that, Red Mist, is my story.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Before long, the poolside orgy was in full swing.

The mercenaries smoked, 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.

Eel, one of the Reptiles, was directing proceedings for the camera. Ryan had reluctantly sucked his ‘brother-in-law-to-be’ to erection and he was now on all fours on a sun bed, grimacing as Gene sawed his penis into and out of his sweating, oiled and virgin anus.

Eel gave them the script under the prompting of his cattle prod.

“Oh yeah !” Ryan gasped. “Man that’s good Gene. Fuck my ass.”

“Gonna give it to you good, butt loving bro.” Gene grunted cornily.

 

The second scene starred Susan Cumber in a solo performance.

Alone with a huge, green, glistening cucumber.

She was lying back on a sun bed, her legs as 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 thighs, its microphone picking up every slosh and slush as it disappeared inside her then emerged, distorting her wet labia.

“My name is Susan Cumber and I love a cucumber.” She chanted.

 

The final coupling was an incestuous lesbian 69 by Lorna and Rachel.

The two naked chicks were lying on a double sun bed, with the elder girl below and her younger sister’s pussy riding 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 FF-cup tits hung down like bruised tropical fruit, now totally out of proportion with her slim frame. But Lorna was reaching up fondling them, while both girls moaned ecstatically.

“Mmm … make me come, Sis’, pleass …”

Another pair of cameras recorded their action in great detail. A third lens was set up further away on a tripod to get a long shot of the two girls enjoying cunnilingus in the foreground, while their mum frigged herself with a foot long cucumber just behind them.

 

*** *** ***

 

Completely unaware of what was happening several thousand miles east at that precise moment, John Cumber’s shoulders sagged.

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. Her name was … is … as far as I know … Melanie … Jones, I think.”

“Yeah ?” Walt replied, 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. I forget what. We were all at college together. Like I said, a long shot. But I thought I should mention it.”

Walt nodded. “This Melanie … Jones, you think. You any idea where she lives now ?”

John shook his head. “None at all. But I think her family lived in California. Some suburb of L.A.”

Walt looked coldly 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.

“I’ll get onto it right away.”

 

*** *** ***

 

The five victims were kneeling in a line on the pool deck eating ‘lunch’.

They were down on all fours in front of a piece of plastic guttering that had been set up on brick piers to make a trough.

Even though all five were starving, none of them would have chosen to eat the swill that had been set before them, but several of the mercenaries sidled up and down the line, armed with electric cattle prods and leather riding crops to force them to guzzle it all down ‘hands-free’, using just their mouths, faces like swine in the trough.

The sickening stench of the swill in the midday heat, swarming with flies, was overpowering. The Bedouin tribesmen who roam the huge, barren landscape are infamous for wasting nothing in the harsh environment. The basic ingredient of the mix was goat’s intestine. It had been boiled to cleanse it then lightly fried in a batter of blood and giblets and guts.

The final garnish was supplied direct from a couple of the mercenaries. They jacked themselves off and spewed copious lines of jizz over the contents of the trough while the victims knelt and patiently watched their meal being served.

“Eat up Susie.” Gator now cooed, crouching behind her.

He watched her bow her head, slurping up an unwanted mouthful.

“Goooood.” He enthused. His calloused hands reached under her, fondling her big hanging tits while he lined his dick up.

“Mmmm.” He exhaled, pushing himself into her moist cunt from behind.

Susan kept chewing as her gagging face was pushed into the mix.

Either side of Susan, her two daughters glanced uneasily out of the corners of their eyes as Gator began plunging in and out of their mom.

“Eat up, little Susie, eat up little Susie.” He hummed to the rhythm of an old song, gripping her hair and shoving her head down hard.

Following his example, Gecko and Skink, two other mercenaries got down behind Lorna and Rachel and mounted them.

“Aaa …” Rachel squealed as her sore, inexperienced cunt was rammed.

“Man that’s tight pussy.” Skink, a muscular black man exclaimed in appreciation, sinking himself into the young blonde ex-socialite, cupping her huge breasts in his palms and bouncing them like basketballs.

Viper stood the other side of the gutter and unzipped himself. He was holding a can of beer in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other.

“Excuse me lads.” He said, laying down the can and fishing his penis out. “A bit more gravy ?” A stream of lager-fuelled urine jetted into the gutter, replenishing the slops of offal and brown sauce.

As he finished, Rachel Cumber let rip a choking gutteral sound and spewed up a geyser of green-brown vomit that steamed into the mixture.

“Aw, fuck !” Gator, Gecko and Skink exclaimed in unison.

The prisoners all stopped eating and stared from one to the other then up at Viper. Drool hung from Rachel’s lips and she almost heaved again.

Chuckling, Viper flicked his cigarette ash onto it and then began stirring the whole lot up with his machete in front of the five horrified faces.

“Hurry up and finish eating.” He sneered coldly down at them. “Or I can feel a dump coming on !”

 

*** *** ***

 

Inside the chilled, air-conditioned bedroom suite overlooking the swimming pool, Charlie turned from the window, sat down at his PC and chuckled.

What a bunch, he thought.

He had invited some online buddies to a web cam broadcast of Rachel’s next ordeal. The young lady had some catching up to do with her mom and sister. What better way to enjoy the fun than by getting some ideas for the next part of her training ? He tapped hurriedly onto the keyboard.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your suggestions please ?”

 

 

PART SEVEN:

‘Reptile’

 

 

“She spread herself wide open to let the insects in

She leaves a trail of honey to show me where she’s been

She has the blood of reptile just underneath her skin

Seeds from a thousand others drip down from within.”

 

 

The Lonely Man licked his lips with anticipation.

He was sat alone in his dark one room apartment in a small, Midwestern town. His table was 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 were down and the air in the room hung heavy with the reek of musty carpets, stale tobacco smoke and body odour.

But, to hand, he had a nice new chilled six-pack of beer, two packets of cigarettes still in their cellophane, and a warm burger in a bag.

In the centre of it all stood his pride and joy; a 22-inch wide screen monitor hooked up to the PC below the table.

He logged onto a new site he had been introduced to. He tapped out his moniker and lit up a cig while he waited for approval.

A minute later the message ‘Welcome Lonely Man’ appeared.

It was followed by an empty Password box.

He entered his security pass and waited thirty seconds or so.

Finally, he was in.

He could see there were already twelve of them online. All his favourite people in the world; Mengele, Yakuza, Nine Inch Nail, Hoffman, Bondage 666 and others.

The words “Hi lonely.” appeared.

“Hi guys.” He typed, exhaling a ring of cigarette smoke, watching his response emerge along the bottom of the screen.

He pulled out a tissue and wiped his sweating forehead. Then, slowly, almost reverently, he lifted up his other pride and joy. It was a plastic mouth that he lowered carefully onto his dick. It was a top of the range, battery-powered blowjob device. As soon as he flicked the power control, his darling ‘girl who never said no’ would start licking and sucking him to heaven.

The screen flickered and a new name was online: the most important one of all.

“Hi Red Mist.” He rushed to type on everybody’s behalf.

“Hi guys.”

Then he could see that the screen had switched to web cam mode. The site was broadcasting. A real voice repeated the typed words.

“Hi guys.”

The speaker used a voice distortion box but the words were easy to understand; deep, asthmatic, electronic, like Darth Vader from Star Wars.

“Welcome friends. Are you ready for some action tonight ?”

Whimpering with excitement, the Lonely Man slid the power control of his plastic girl on at its lowest setting. It hummed softly round his dick. How did it compare with the real thing ? The Lonely Man didn’t know and didn’t care. This was without doubt the best sex he could imagine.

On the screen, a camera panned over the naked female body. She was strung out along a medieval style rack, her arms and legs outstretched, connected to wooden axles that could be turned further and tightened.

Her pale flesh glowed with perspiration, her muscles taught with apprehension, her head almost totally covered in a black leather hood. She was naked but for the hood and a shiny black bikini and thong.

From the top of the hood a blonde ponytail emerged, plaited into a guiding leash. And from the mouth slit, a cruel steel ‘spider gag’ forced her red glossed lips wide open, revealing her pearly white teeth and pink tongue.

What a twisted bitch, volunteering for this. He wondered vaguely what she looked like. It was hard to imagine she could actually be as hot as the visible parts suggested. He’d wager her actual face underneath was chanky.

He whimpered again, staring at the girl’s taut ribcage and humongous cleavage in the leather bikini. Slowly a black-gloved hand appeared from out of shot and cranked the top axle a few degrees, making the rack creak and her stretched mouth gasp.

“So, are we all ready ?” The distorted voice asked. “I would like to remind you that our friend here stated there should be no limits and she asked that you all be as imaginative as possible.”

The Lonely Man slid his power control down a notch and moaned; not yet, please, not yet.

“May I have the first suggestion please.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Rachel tried to scream again but the gag reduced her howl to a saliva-choked gurgle.

“That’s a fun idea.” The electronic baritone echoed above her hood.

Her muscles burned as she tried to spread her thighs and thrust her hips upwards to ease the angle for the clenched fist as it wormed its way inside her.

And then she felt a searing agony the like of which she’d never even dreamed of. It was like fire, tearing, ripping, cooking her vagina.

She heard disembodied laughter from the audience over the speakers. She couldn’t see through her claustrophobic hood but she knew people were watching over some kind of computer link-up.

“Now her ass !” an excited voice urgently beseeched.

She quivered helplessly on the rack as she felt a thick digit invading her bottom and in seconds a terrible flamethrower of agony gutted her rectum. Again she tried to scream but to no avail.

Cue more uproarious laughter.

“A five minute break, gentlemen.” Said the man in the room with her. “And then the insects will be served !”

 

*** *** ***

 

Charlie surveyed the house from his hired Chevy through military issue binoculars. It was a sultry, red-skied evening; Friday, 31^st March 1995. He could see her through the window. She was almost 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 after.

And now ?

Now that he knew the truth ?

He realised his hands were bending the 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 unduly. And yet the only person who should be punished was …

Well, that could wait a while. One-two-three-breathe.

Truth was 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 she 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 18^th Birthday the very next day.

Slowly, Charlie climbed out of the Chevy, 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. He had always laughed in the face of danger.

After all, he never had anything to lose.

And he wondered what his Lover and Son would say when he appeared at their door after all this time.

Would Famous Blue Raincoat take Red Mist back ?

Or would he lose his Family forever ?

Suddenly, without any warning, Charles Victor felt real fear.

 

*** *** ***

 

It was a modest 1960s 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. Melanie Jones and locals confirmed that she had lived there alone with her son for twenty plus years.

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.” Said the West Coast Head 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 damned 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. It was found glued to the underside of the kitchen table. Typed. No prints on the sheet of paper. Just eight words in large font.”

“What did it say ?”

“The trail stops here. Trust us. The Chameleon.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Susan Cumber knelt while the collar was sealed round her neck.

The woman she had come to know as her Nemesis smiled.

“There we are. Now we don’t have to worry about chains and ropes and all that stuff. Look !”

Susan choked, unable to breathe, as an electric current coursed from the top of her spine down her nervous system to her feet. She fell forwards face first onto the floor, trying but failing to scream.

“If you take one step outside this compound, that’s what will happen. Get up !”

Slowly, Susan struggled back onto her knees, gagging.

“Pl … zzz …” she groaned. “No m … more. My husband w … will get you your money, I promise.”

The woman laughed, tucking the controller for the electric tag collar into her belt.

“Oh yes. I forgot. Thanks. The money arrived safe and sound some time ago. We’re all multimillionaires.”

Susan shook her head, struggling to hear and comprehend.

“Wha … ?”

“Yes, good old John. He’s done his part. Now you just have to complete your part of the deal.”

My part ? Surely …

“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 do your bit.”
”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.” The woman reached and lifted Susan’s chin with her fingers so that both of them were looking into the other’s eyes. “You see, even money is best enjoyed cold.”

“H … how long ?” Susan gasped.

The woman shrugged. “I’m not sure. A year or so. Maybe a bit longer.”

Unable to stop herself, Susan wailed. “Noooooo … nooooooo !”

A short, milder shock soon brought her under control.

“I must warn you that outbursts like that will only extend your sentence. You have just added one whole month to your thirteen months stay. ”

Completely defeated, Susan simply hung her head like a punch drunk boxer. Be strong ! Be strong for Rachel, Lorna, Ryan. And John.

“Good.” Her Nemesis said. “Now, a few new rules. While here, you will make yourself useful. You will work 18/7. That’s eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. Your duties will include anything and everything, from domestic chores, to performing massages to … naturally … any sexual demands that are required. Is that understood ?”

Susan merely stared at her, mouth frozen slightly open.

“Is that understood ?”

Her hand shot up to her cheek to caress where she had been slapped.

“Y … yes.”

“And when I say any sexual demands, I mean ‘any’.”

The woman waited, clearly expecting a response.

Susan bobbed her head slowly up and down.

“Yes … any.” She mumbled.

“Well, that’s all clear then. Let’s go put you straight to work.”

 

*** *** ***

 

There was excitement in the room at last !

After 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 pointed at an image of a man wearing a Fedex uniform, looking straight into the lens of what was clearly an office lobby CCTV and sticking his long, lizard-like tongue out. The man was grey haired, clean shaven and he appeared to be middle aged, maybe mid to late forties.

Walt Furness pressed a button and produced a new slide. It showed a different, younger, clean cut, quite handsome youth of around thirty.

“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 reason to believe he is currently still residing within the United States.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Six of the reptiles were playing poker in the shade; Gator, the man with the missing ear, Cobra, the huge black man with the shaved head, Gecko, the heavily tattooed Russian, and three others.

The atmosphere was intense. Large piles of chips were stacked in front of several players and increasingly smaller ones belonged to the rest. It was evident that the millions each man now possessed in his foreign bank accounts were being wagered on No Limits Texas Hold’Em.

Skink, a Nigerian mercenary, surveyed the table with a motionless, poker face.

“Raise.” He said, pushing several $10,000 chips forward.

Gator laughed. “Gotcha !”

Skink froze, then grinned and looked down between his thighs. Lorna Cumber’s head was glued to his waist. Now that his side bet was lost, Skink relaxed and forgot about trying to hide his orgasm from the table. He groaned and seized the chica’s long hair, pumping her head up and down on his dick.

“Blow her fuckin’ head off, Skink.” Gecko encouraged.

“Man it’s coming out her ears.”

Skink pulled and twisted her hair so that her face appeared above the rim of the table, lips closed tight, gulping his seed.

Everybody laughed. Skink pushed 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.

“Get going bitch … Now, I think I just raised you all.”

 

*** *** ***

 

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. Len C. Jones on American Airlines, Flight 1385, from New York to Bridgetown, Barbados. Departing JFK the next morning at 09.55 hrs.

“The ticket was purchased with cash from a midtown Manhattan travel agent two days ago.”

John Cumber punched his right fist into his left palm and muttered ‘yessss’.

“It’s a single ticket, Sir. One way.”

“Barbados ?” Walt mused, stroking his chin.

“The nearest international airport to St. Vincent, Sir.”

“Where my fucking billion dollars was wired.”

The young agent grinned at them both with a triumphant flourish.

“There’s more, gentlemen. A small 4-seater jet has been chartered from SVG Airlines to fly from Grantley Adams Airport, Bridgetown, Barbados to E.T. Joshua Airport in Kingstown, St. Vincent, tomorrow afternoon.”

He paused for effect. “To fly a single passenger. Chartered by a certain Lennie Jones.”

Walt looked at the agent and then at John Cumber.

“Let’s go hunt our reptile guys !”

 

*** *** ***

 

Susan stared in horror.

“This is your bathroom.” Melanie said, thrilled by the expression on Susan’s face. “Now that y’all gonna be around for a while, you and your boys will need somewhere to do your stuff.”

The squalid room had not been touched in maybe thirty years. It was an ancient, open plan washroom with two toilet pans, two stand up urinals, two shower heads and two basins with unframed pieces of mirror above. Everything was filthy, stained, rusted, cracked and decrepit. The overflowing toilet pans had no seats or covers. The urinals and basins were yellowed by years of dripping. The shower heads oozed slime.

The entire concrete floor swam with liquid; water, or worse. Decades old cigarette butts, scraps of newspaper, toilet roll and stinking mush had clogged the toilets and urinals. Graffiti scrawled in excrement adorned the grungy walls.

“I’m going to lock you in here …”

Susan turned her face to look. “B … but …”

“ … with one bucket, a rag and a bottle of disinfectant. And I’m giving you two hours. When I come back, the whole place had better be beautifully clean. Or else.”

 

“Take the strain.” Leatherback announced.

Several mercenaries were watching and gambling on the ‘tug of war’.

“Heave”.

Ryan Cumber and Gene Collins were connected by a length of cord tied tightly round the shafts of their penises. The cords were a blend of nylon and wire, incredibly strong, and they were coiled tight underneath the rim of each purple helmet to prevent them slipping off. Each boy had been given Viagra to help him maintain an erection through the pain.

“Aagh.” They screeched and gasped in unison.

Croc and Boa lashed crops against each lad’s defenceless body.

“Pull, you fucker. My money’s riding on you.”

It was no contest really. Ryan was six plus and muscled while Gene was five seven and puny. But a couple of mercenaries were relying on Gene, if flogged sufficiently, causing an upset at generous odds.

Oh well, it seemed a harmless way of passing a sultry afternoon.

 

*** *** ***

 

Lennie sat back in a First Class seat for the first time in his life.

He admired the blonde 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 Cumber bitches.

Out through the oval window by his side 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 Lennie momentarily. Like he fancied him.

“Monsieur Kohn.” The steward said. “Bienvenue.”

Lennie 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.” Lennie replied in his well-rehearsed Portuguese. Lennie’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.”

The steward gaily flipped into a mix of token 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 exactly 19.55, 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, an American Airlines flight to Barbados was delayed for several hours as Federal Agents checked out every single passenger, searching for a Mr. Leonard Jones, without any success.

Walt Furness couldn’t help chewing bitterly on eight words:

The trail stops here. Trust us. The Chameleon.

 

*** *** ***

 

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 resignation.

He projected three mug-shot images onto the screen behind him.

To the left, there was the same clean-cut, modestly handsome youth he had displayed before.

“Leonard Charles Jones. Born Los Angeles, 1^st April, 1977.”

To the right, there was a nice looking woman. At first glance, she looked like a standard, well preserved Californian soccer mom. The resemblance with her son was striking, given their age and gender difference.

“Melanie Jones. Born Orange County, 8^th April 1958. Unmarried single mother of Leonard.”

And in the middle, projected directly above where Walt stood, was one of the most extraordinary faces most of the agents had ever seen. The masculine features themselves were reasonably ordinary. Tough looking, strong cheekbones and jaw, short military style haircut. He looked mid to late forties but was in superb physical condition. Yet behind the features and within the narrowed eyes, there was something else entirely.

Something indescribable that made the little hairs of each member of the audience stand on end.

“You are looking at Charles Victor. Born Ontario County, New York State, 14^th February 1957 to an American father and an English mother. Served nine years in the British Armed Forces and has since worked around the world as a mercenary. Current whereabouts unknown. 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 mouths of the two men that was similar, though far from obvious.

“Charles, Melanie, Leonard.” He enunciated each name slowly.

Walt Furness 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.

He calmly placed the pen down and stared everybody hard in the eyes.

“Gentlemen, ladies; The Chameleon !”

 

 

PART EIGHT:

‘Karma Chameleon’

 

“Every day is like survival,

you’re my lover not my rival.”

 

 

John Cumber sat slumped in a chair. He was barely surviving, a mere husk of the handsome, 6’ 3” corporate titan he had been just a couple of 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 he had lost 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 homes in the Hamptons and Aspen had been mortgaged to the hilt. The jet, cars, art and antiques, even Susan’s jewellery had already been put up as security.

“So how much do I have left ?”

“Just the Cumber stock and the bank won’t accept that now.”

“What’s its market value ?”

“A little under a billion dollars. At last night’s close.”

“So I’m still a fucking billionaire.” He bellowed, hurling a pencil at the wall. “A useless paper billionaire who can’t save his family !”

There was a silence.

“Maybe they will contact you 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 St. Vincent.

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.

 

*** *** ***

 

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 taunting voice seemed genuinely surprised. “I thought you would have lasted longer than that.”

“I know who you are.” He said. He could tell the caller’s voice was older, more transatlantic. 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 five seconds pause.

“Hello ?” John said.

“I’ve had enough of your rudeness John. This will be our last conversation. It was … er … nice meeting up again. 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. Have m … mercy.”

“Aah. That’s better Johnny boy. Tell you what, I’ll call you back once more. In a week or so.”

“Are my family alright ? You must tell me that at least.”

“No. I don’t have to tell you anything at all.”

The line went dead.

He hoped it was the only thing that had died.

 

*** *** ***

 

Lennie awoke with sunshine filtering through the blinds. Dust particles danced in the bright shafts of light and the smell of citrus and coffee tickled his nostrils. He reached down under the sheet and scratched his sweaty scrotum.

Rachel Cumber lay with her back to him. He lay for a moment admiring the sensuous curvature of her spine, her narrow waist and perfect buttocks. He smiled at the memory of her anus tight round his dick last thing before he fell asleep the night before.

“Wake !” he said, slapping her bottom so a red mark appeared.

She snapped alert, terrified, and dived her head under the sheet. In seconds, he felt her soft, guzzling lips around his morning glory. Her huge boobs pressed down against his legs like balloons.

He plonked his head back on the pillow and shut his eyes. Then he pushed his arm out and fumbled for the button by his bedside. He pushed.

No more than three minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door.

Lennie peeked open his eyes and grinned up at Lorna. She was carrying a tray with a pot of black coffee, frothy hot milk, fruit juice and a pastry.

While she laid it down on the table, he pushed back the sheet, revealing Rachel’s shoulders and face worshipping his dick.

“Lick my butthole now.” He mumbled softly.

No need to shout when they readily obeyed.

He winked at Lorna. “You, take a turn on my dick.”

The two sisters worked in tandem. They were coming along well. Now that six of the mercenaries had taken off to Europe to visit a few banks, and the mom was doing her best to cater to the guys who remained, Lennie had the two girls to himself quite a lot of the time. As was his plan.

His own mom and dad were still taking their turns occasionally but they were mainly spending more time alone together, which was great.

He reached down and pushed Lorna’s hair aside so he could watch her pretty mouth as she slurped it up and down just as he liked it. Meanwhile, the tip of Rachel’s little pink tongue was deep in his dark locker.

A cup of coffee and his bowels would loosen up nicely.

He felt his thighs tightening and his balls reaching the point of no return. First one of the day was always thick, hot and plentiful. Like oatmeal.

“Don’t swallow.” He murmured down to Lorna.

Her lips encircled his shaft tightly as he pumped three, five, seven jets onto her tongue. Her cheeks puffed and her doe-like hazel eyes stared up at him intently.

He pulled Rachel from his asshole and put their faces together.

“Okay, swap my jizz, ladies. Each to the other and back as usual.”

He watched them trade the pearly drool; drip and catch, catch and drip, brunette to blonde and back again. They were starlets of the internet doing this although they didn’t know it yet. There was nothing even the combined forces of John Cumber and the Feds could do once those clips were circulating on the world wide web. And inevitably even these chicks’ supposed friends wouldn’t be able to resist taking a surreptitious naughty peek at them in action !

 

*** *** ***

 

 

It was 03.08 by the digital clock when the phone rang.

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.”

 

At breakfast, two days later, 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 said, as politely as he could muster.

“That’s better. Call me Sir, will you. I prefer that.”

“ … Okay … Sir.”

“Better all the time. 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 four days in succession.

“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. That was only a joke about the share price. Gotcha, hah ?”

“I’ve paid you the money.” John replied. “I’ve apologised. I’ve begged for mercy. Please free them … Sir.”

“John, you fucked our lives for twenty years, mate. You really think a couple of weeks is all it takes 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.”

He couldn’t speak, his throat and chest bawling.

“Okay John. You just cry and listen. I read in the Wall Street Journal that you’ve still got a fistful of Cumber stock. What I want you to do is give it 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.”

 

*** *** ***

 

Charlie smiled as Melanie 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. Melanie twisted her head so she could enjoy the news too.

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 Leonora Carter for CNN.”

 

Charlie hit the mute button and smirked over at Susan Cumber. She was kneeling on all fours by his side of the bed, staring silently at the screen.

“He did it, eh ? Gave it all away. Must really love you.”

Melanie chuckled. “I wonder what he’d say if he knew you’re having an affair with a donkey.”

Susan didn’t move or respond. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek.

Charlie pulled Melanie’s face up to his and kissed her.

Mmm … he loved this woman, kinky bitch as she undoubtedly was. He always thought of himself as the hard one, but Mel had proved harder. It would still be a long time before Susan was shown any mercy.

“Put on the DVD.” She purred, turning her attention back to his genitals, running a teasing finger up his veined, swelling shaft.

He pressed the remote, switching from CNN to the DVD and pushed ‘Play’. Still Susan Cumber didn’t react, despite what appeared on the screen. Her obedience training was coming on apace.

The previous evening had been the cruellest so far, culminating with the first bestial session. He had once seen a whore in Mexico paid to have sex with a donkey. But this Ethiopian ass they had purchased was a ‘donkey cock’ of donkey cocks; and the stubbornest, smelliest, ugliest and best endowed brute that ever brayed.

Mel’s head lay on Charlie’s stomach, tonguing his erection as she watched the screen. On it, Susan was kneeling underneath the donkey, sobbing. The beast of burden was clearly keen to shed its load ! Several jeering mercenaries were in the background, holding it still.

Charlie pressed the ‘volume’ button louder.

The donkey’s shaft was comparable to Charlie’s forearm. Hairier, sure, and maybe not quite as thick around, but pretty similar. He watched the recording of Susan’s pink tongue slurping over the glistening crown through her tears and grimaces.

“You’re going to have to work on that technique.” He called down to her.

Mel’s teeth nipped him gently.

“Not you !” he laughed. “Her.”

He shut his eyes, enjoying the feeling, listening to the loud playback of the excited ass braying and the crescendo of excitement.

A few minutes later, when Mel had sat astride Charlie, riding his dick, he peered around her perspiring bouncing body at the screen.

Susan Cumber was now strung into a hammock and she had been mounted by the donkey. Somehow her increasingly slack pussy had managed to absorb its full length. In fact, afterwards she had required a couple of stitches down below from Wolfgang before the good doctor set off home to Switzerland.

The split screen mode showed two views simultaneously; a side-on picture of the fucking itself, and then a close up of her tormented face. He wondered how much was pain and how much shame ?

An interesting question. Maybe he would get Susan to write a coupla thousand words essay on what it feels like to be fucked by an ass. They could all then debate it with her and her kids, perhaps post their responses on the net ?

He tore his eyes away and smiled up at Mel, reaching to thumb her hard, excited nips, knowing his woman was only seconds from her climax.

While Susan Cumber still knelt motionless, listening to two people make passionate love and staring at herself on the screen.

 

*** *** ***

 

 

It was exactly 04.00 in the morning 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.

You’d been to the station to meet every train

And you came home without Lili Marlene.”

 

He recognised the 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 knew the song now. From the early seventies; 71 or 72 maybe. It was called ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’ and it had been playing the evening he raped Melanie Jones.

John Cumber wiped his moist eyes with the back of his hand in the dark.

 

“Yes, and thanks, for the trouble you took from her eyes

I thought it was there for good so I never tried …”

 

“John ?” a male voice suddenly interrupted, as the music cut.

“You there ?”

He snapped out of the reverie. “Yes … I’m here.”

“You listening to the words, John ? You remember ?”

“I remember.”

“You treated my woman to a flake of your life, John.”

“Ch … Chuck … I’m terribly sorry. I was young … we were young …”

“And when Melanie came back she was nobody’s wife.”

“I know. Please … please tell Mel I’m desperately sorry too.”

“Tell her yourself.”

There was a pause. The rustle of a phone being passed.

“Hallo, rapist.”

He didn’t even recognise her voice but he knew it was her.

“Mel … 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. “It wasn’t their 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 survive.” He pleaded. “I’ve done everything you asked. Every last penny. I’m a broken man. 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, uncertainly.

“Here it is. You can either have all four kids back now and never see Susan again. That’s Option One. Or you can have five back in one year’s time. That’s Option Two.”

He felt his heart beating like a hammer and struggled for breath.

“That’s the deal. No fucking about this time. No ‘Trust Us’ lies. We’ll keep our word. So, it’s up to you, John. You’ve got ten seconds to make up your mind. Four now … or five in a year’s time ? Option One or Option Two ?” Her voice asked.

John Cumber clutched his pumping heart in pain. He couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t choose. Ten seconds, nine, eight …

“This line goes dead forever in five seconds.” Her tone was cold.

He knew she meant it.

How could he decide ? Three, two …

 

 

EPILOGUE:

‘NINE LIVES’

 

‘Nine Lives – Puss & Booty

Nine Lives – Live again

Nine Lives – It ain’t over

Nine Lives – Live for ten’

 

 

As the weeks and months went by, the ‘Cumber Kidnap’ story steadily slipped down the front page, to the inside columns, and finally from news media coverage altogether. With nothing new to say, editors, journalists, broadcasters, readers and viewers moved on to other ‘shock, horror’ stories.

Gradually the Agencies and Police pulled resources from the Cumber Investigation until only a hardcore small unit was left on the case. Meanwhile, the Cumber Corporation itself slowly recovered under a new CEO and board with a fresh strategy. Even the share price rebounded.

 

Then, one early morning, fourteen months after the last had been heard from the kidnappers, John Cumber awoke in the homeless shelter 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 sat down gingerly on the edge of the narrow bunk.

“John … they’re home.”

But even in his sleep-drugged state, he could tell from Walt’s tone.

Something’s wrong.

 

The 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 2½ hours flight, they travelled mostly in silence. Walt sat stroking his chin, perusing files, making a few calls.

As they neared the landing, Walt explained to him 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 into the rear entrance, leaving a dozen armed men to seal the doors.

He was ushered into an elevator and taken to the 8^th 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 Doctor in charge.

The first one he saw was Gene, unshaven, staring red eyed. But alive.

Then Ryan. His son. Rushing towards him. Alive.

Then Lorna, lying covered up on a hospital gurney. Crying. Also alive.

No sign of Rachel.

Or Susan.

And then Ryan’s thin 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, stronger, nearer.

“She’s too weak, John. They’re doing an emergency C-Section.” Walt put a hand on his shoulder.

C-Section ? Pregnant ? Rachel ?

“H … how … ?”

Walt shifted his gaze. Ryan blinked.

“Lorna is too, dad. She’s over eight months gone. Just behind Rachel.”

John nodded slowly. He half turned his head to look at his older daughter but stopped himself. His unspoken question went unanswered.

Ryan was wearing a white cotton hospital shift on top. On his legs he was dressed in soiled black pants, part of the tux suit he’d been wearing when he’d been kidnapped. Slowly, he fished a hand down into the side pocket.

“They said to give you this, dad.”

John felt his whole body shiver as he recognised the big, black, upper case letters; ‘JOHN CUMBER, BY HAND’.

He didn’t ask Walt for permission. He slid his trembling finger along the sealed tab and opened the envelope, heart pumping. Cautiously, he unfolded the page.

 

Dear John,

Hi. At last ! Long time no speak. You’ve been a good boy, John. We like your new lifestyle so much more than the old one. And so here is your reward. If you remember we made a deal; you could have four kids back straightaway, or 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 two little grand kids. I call that a pretty good return all things considered. So, goodbye my friend. Live again. I think that makes us even. Game’s over. The Chameleon.

 

Unable to speak, John passed the sheet of paper to Walt. He shook his head at Ryan, screwing his eyes shut in pain.

“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.

 

*** *** ***

 

 

Outside, the fresh snow lay thick and fluffy as a white sheepskin rug. The winter of 2012 had been mild by Arctic standards, but the cold snap in March had brought huge falls of deep powder that covered every square yard of the 50,000 acres ranch, and for hundreds of miles around.

Melanie sat in the warmth at her PC and surfed the news pages.

“Ma’am.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“May I take your tea cup Ma’am ?”

She nodded.

After Susan had picked up the empty cup and saucer, Melanie spoke.

“Would you like to hear the latest titbit ?”

Susan’s green eyes widened. News from the outside world was rare.

“Actually, I think it must be a few weeks ago now 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 or so after they were released. They lived simply, with their daughter Delorna, and at last they had been able to conceive a child all of their own.

“Thank you, Ma’am. That is … wonderful news.”

“I thought you’d be pleased. And I have a new photo of Rachel’s son too for you somewhere. He’s going to make a heck of a basketball player, I think.”

“Thank you Ma’am. You are too kind.”

Melanie paused, smiling at her. It had taken a while, but Susan Cumber really had turned out a nice, polite, meek, grateful, obedient woman.

“Do you know what day it is tomorrow, Susan ?”

The aged, lined but still attractive face frowned at her. “No Ma’am.”

“It’s your fiftieth birthday.”

Susan rattled the cup again, expression shifting to nervous surprise.

“Yes. The time has come for that game of Sophie’s Choice I promised you so long ago. Susan’s choice ! We’ll celebrate and play it tonight.”

 

Charlie opened a magnum of Krug champagne and poured three glasses. He handed one to Mel and the other to Susan, then set the bottle down on the lid of the coffin placed in the centre of the candlelit room.

“Cheers.”

All three drank; he and Mel smiling, Susan apprehensive. Several times her gaze shifted down to the wooden, pine-scented coffin.

“Strip.”

Without any reaction or pause, Susan began removing the maid’s outfit that was her everyday uniform. He watched in the soft, flickering 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.

Once upon a time, it had been planned she would display nipple and labia rings and five huge letters indelibly tattooed; W and H on her breasts, O on her stomach, R and E on each thigh.

But Mel had taken notice of what people were saying. Too harsh !

“Bend.”

Naked, Susan turned and silently presented her rear view to him.

And once upon a time, she was to have borne his initial C branded on her left buttock and the letter M on her right.

Again, Mel eventually decided that branding was a punishment too far.

Charlie put his glass down and unzipped himself.

Mel winked at him encouragingly.

A farewell fuck.

She was ready. Susan maintained herself constantly lubed up and ready for him and the occasional guests who came to visit for fishing or hiking trips. Not that Susan had any idea where this ranch was. She lived in the purpose built basement and had never taken so much as a breath of the fresh Arctic air.

She bent, hands braced on her knees, hips angled to give him easy access. He ran his fingers up and down her familiar spine, thrusting rhythmically.

Such a waste.

Mel watched them a while with half an eye and, with the other, she carefully opened a medicine chest. He smiled as she extracted two identical syringes.

He had camped two days out on the ice on a fishing expedition. His balls were full and ready. It took so little time when he was in this mood.

“Mmm …” Susan moaned appreciatively from below.

He cupped his palms under her breasts, making her shiver, as his knees juddered.

“Come.” He grunted; part-commentary on himself, part-command to her.

He grimaced as he emptied his heavy load inside her.

And then smiled as, a moment later, Susan Cumber pushed back at him and hissed air in a crescendo of uncontrolled sobs.

‘Here comes the bride’s mother, after all’.

 

Susan lay naked in the fur-lined coffin, looking up at them both in tears.

“Your choice.” Mel whispered, holding up the two syringes. “It’s over, whatever happens. Either of these will make you sleep.” She continued. “But only one will allow you to wake up afterwards.”

Susan increased her snivelling in terrified gulps.

“Quickly ! Come on, this bit is the hard part. Once you’ve decided, you go to sleep and you won’t know the difference. It’s justice time. Which is it ? The left one or the right ?”

Susan shook her head in uncontrolled panic.

He guessed that 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 it will have to be both.”

“R … right !”

There followed an ear splitting howl of terror as one woman knelt and unloaded the syringe into the other’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 closed the coffin lid.

 

*** *** ***

 

The Eyes watched the modest house owned by Gene and Lorna Collins. It was an ordinary suburban home with a single tree and a beat up Korean car out front. Gene’s family money could have afforded them anything but these two had learned their lesson.

Yellow ribbons and a Stars and Stripes bedecked the yard and house. He smiled. Although it was his first visit on US soil in years, the welcome party was not for him. The police had closed the street to anybody but family, neighbours and cops. In a few minutes, the taxi carrying John and Susan Cumber would arrive to reunite them all once more. A nice, private moment.

His eyes squinted through his dark glasses to the window by the side of the front door. A cute little 3 ½ year old girl was visible, waiting at the pane with her mom. They smiled and waved excitedly at one of the policemen drafted in from another precinct.

Lennie fingered his badge and waved straight back at them both.

He felt a twinge of emotion. Delorna. A sweet name for a sweet kid. Literally “Of Lorna”. Appropriate. It had been his ‘suggestion’ and of course Lorna had obeyed him. She always would.

He might never reveal himself to his daughter.

On the other hand, maybe he would do like his own dad had and simply turn up on her 18^th Birthday !

You see, ‘Delorna’ was also an anagram of ‘Leonard’.

But only one dude in the whole US of A got the fucking joke !

The Chameleon.

Him.

 

*** *** ***

 

Charlie finished singing and switched off the scalding hot shower.

His days of standing under a cold spray were over.

As he dried himself, he smiled at the Aerosmith classic reverberating off the wet room tiles. It was ‘Nine Lives’, his own motto. But there were a couple of lines he liked even more than the manic chorus.

 

“And how can one man’s little bit of Heaven

Turn into another man’s Hell.”

 

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 just a white towel round his muscled midriff, he padded into the open-plan living room. He 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

 

“Penny for your thoughts.” he said. “Regrets ?”

She turned her head to look up at him with a sad pout.

“Not really.”

Both syringes had contained the same anaesthetic. After all, Melanie was never going to risk killing her own granddaughter’s grandmother !

“The whirlwind has been reaped. It’s over.” He said.

Famous Blue Raincoat gave him a gentle nod. “No more red mist either.”

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 kinda lucky you didn’t describe everything that we actually did !”

“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. “Well, we weren’t meant to be nice !”

“Yes but it says heavy bdsm … too harsh … nasty perversions ! I mean, have you ever looked at some of the other stuff on this site ?”

Charlie smiled at her indignation.

Nope, he hadn’t looked. He was not a reader. He was a ‘doer’.

“I don’t think it’s what we did.” He replied. “It’s the fact that you suggested their point of view. I would guess it’s easier being a reader if it’s a catalogue of acts. You know; he fucked her, then he pissed on her, then he snuffed her. That kind of thing.”

He ruffled Mel’s hair then continued.

“But every male reader is a potential John or Ryan Cumber. Every female a budding Susan or Lorna. You made people empathise. That’s good.”

There was a pause. The log fire crackled.

“You think ?”

He began sensuously stroking her back.

“And that’s really why you let Susan go.” He said. “… in the end.”

 

 

*** THE END ***

 

 

 

 

By the same author:

 

“After the Pestilence” – a long (80,000 words) novel set in the near future, involving numerous characters and containing, as one reviewer said, ‘something for everyone’ (most of it is non-consensual and the humiliation is extreme, although the actual violence is mainly moderate).

 

“The Ballad of Lara and Gemma” – a spin-off tale from ‘After the Pestilence’. It is set in the near future and describes the infatuation of a lesbian/bi Domme and an unwilling female slave (all non-consensual scenes and extreme humiliation, including scat).

 

“A Special Relationship” – A story set in present day London of an Anglo-American relationship, involving a submissive British woman whose boundaries are pushed to their very limit by her younger dominant boyfriend during one turbulent weekend (a consensual and romantic story involving unconventional cuckqueening, chastity and humiliation).

 

“Son-of-a-Gun” – A story set in the mid-nineteenth century and also the present day recounting the fate of two young ladies at the mercy of a desperate ship’s crew stranded on a remote island (part non-consensual and part consensual involving moderate bdsm and humiliation).

 

“Supper’s Ready” – Five short poems with a bdsm flavour (these were written to amuse and stimulate minds, not genitals)

 

“Amuse-Bouches” –written in English, not French ! Amuse-Bouches are appetisers that fancy restaurants serve to ‘amuse the mouth’ before the main meal. A selection of three dominant-POV short stories, rising in severity from consensual to mind control to non-consensual (the first two contain moderate bdsm, whilst the third is quite heavy and may not be to everybody’s taste).

 

“Hors d’Oeuvres” – also in English. A selection of three consensual, male-submissive short stories, or rather ‘opening chapters’ of novels I have never finished – so far (mild).