(This is a work of impure fantasy. The author does not share or advocate acts of violence or the degree of sexism and racism attributed to some characters).
A quiet suburb of bungalows, Volvos and shrubberies. Six o’clock, a late autumn evening. Dark: the stars hide behind cloud. A strange sound. What Mr Parkinson at “Mon Repos” calls “that bloody racket”. A violin.
For out of the comfortable repose, the predictable ordinariness, of “Braemar”, comes music.
A girl is practising her craft. She is just 19. She left school behind little over three months ago. College is new to her. Yet her talent with the violin is making waves far beyond this smug and prosperous town. She is talked of as the new outstanding talent, a name that will soon be famous and will last.
She is appearing shortly at a concert and this marvellous fantasy of sound is her preparation.
The sound stops. She must get ready and go.
“Mummy, I’m ready.”
“One minute, darling.” An accent unusual to the suburb, but accepted.
Mr Lucas is an engineer, widely-travelled. Mrs Lucas is Turkish and was in her first job when she met the quiet, craggy Englishman. At 41 she is still beautiful, tall, leggy, fit, proud of her long black hair, but prouder far of her talented, extraordinary daughter.
Henry Lucas is still at work. Young Thomas is at his boarding-school. Young Aysel is ready for her mummy to give her a lift. Mummy presses the remote that opens the garage door and walks with supple flow to the Renault. A figure forms out of the bushes. A clever punch, a fallen slut, a package in the back.
Aysel springs out to kiss her mummy. A clever punch, a fallen teen, a package in the back.
Car tyres crunch lightly on gravel; then purr on tarmac.
Mr Parkinson will not be bothered by that noise again.
“This is Project Pilot again, I’m sure of it.” The voice is female, young, assured.
“Other explanations?” the male voice is level, northern, quiet.
“Three,” Detective Inspector Prisha Yadav doesn’t waste words. “Ransom. The family are well-off, but not filthy rich. Hardly worth it. Jealousy. The daughter is a prodigy and other proud parents, or established violinists, might resent it enough. Far-fetched, but remember those female ice-skaters in America. And politics: the mother has been active in some pro-democracy, anti-government stuff in Turkey. Hardly enough to get targeted by government agents, though, surely.”
“So - Project Pilot is the most likely.” It’s a statement, no longer a question. And when Detective Sergeant Alan Banks does not question, he is convinced after careful thought. A plodder, maybe, but a very good one. Prisha doesn’t say this to him, but the Lancastrian is the ideal foil to her imagination and fire.
“Got them both. Candy from kids.” The voice is upper-drawer English, clipped, male, neither old nor young.
“Good condition?” An accent, maybe East European.
“Yep.”
“With the violin?”
“With the violin.”
“Very good. Transfer and payment details as you already know, Major.”
“Quite. Good to deal with you, Vrana.”
“Also with you. Enjoy.”
“This has to be Pilot.” The young woman of Indian origin is firm and crisp in her speech.
“You don’t think you’ve got just a tad obsessed with disappearances being Project Pilot?” The older man sound sceptical, but he’s testing her.
“I can assess what’s likely to be Pilot and what isn’t likely from the information. I’m a scientist by background, remember, sir.”
“And do scientists never get obsessed by one favourite explanation for phenomena?”
“Fair enough. Bad scientists do. And good scientists letting themselves down.” In reality, he’s pretty sure she’s right. The Lucas case has to be Pilot.
“We’re doing all the usual things, of course, ports, the network, empty farmhouses and the like,” Detective Superintendent Marr assures Prisha. “Sooner or later, Pilot will fall foul of something very ordinary, a faulty brake light on a van, a stop by highway patrol, that sort of thing. No idea when, though. We can increase the chances, but it’s just like 5% up to 8%. Remember how we finally nicked the Yorkshire ripper.”
“And in the meantime, a husband and brother are devastated. A 19-year-old girl from a quite sheltered background and her loving mother are going through God knows what and someone is chuckling and counting the money.”
“Afraid so. Look, Prisha, I find this painful too, but shit happens. We’re doing all we can. Unless you’ve got any ideas? You’re the ideas person.” She crosses her legs; then uncrosses them. Draws attention to her cunt, the Detective Super thinks, and if she was wearing a skirt, well, his professionalism would be placed under stress. Not more than he can handle.
“I have been developing an idea, sir.” He pays attention.
“We’ve been totally reactive. They’re the artists, we’re the critics. What does a fisherman do when he wants to catch a fish?”
“Trawl a bloody great net and catch hundreds.” A forced smile – more of a grimace. He caught her there. Good feeling.
“That’s pretty much what we’re doing with Pilot and it catches fish, but not the one we want. Think rod and line, not trawler at sea.”
“He casts.”
“With bait. Bait he thinks will appeal to that one big pike and not to the carp and the roach.” She smiles more naturally. “My dad is a dead keen fisherman, by the way. First Asian office-holder of the Mid-Trent Anglers’ Association. Actually, there’s two ways we can be proactive. One is to try to predict whom Pilot will target next. If it’s not the next, but the next-but-one, not too bad. The other is a decoy – chosen and promoted to tickle their fancy big-time.”
“Where’s this leading, Prisha?”
“Let me finish. Sorry, sir.” Legs cross and uncross again. “I have offended you, powerful man, so please accept this my cunt.” “Both those options point to one thing – forming a really good profile of Pilot’s choice victims.”
“Makes sense. We’ve done a bit on that already…”
“And with every abduction, the clarity of the picture improves and random variations are eliminated.”
“Understood.”
“The typical victim is 18-30 (I don’t mean that crap holiday club).” Disarming smile. “Boss, I am wonderful and brilliant, but I am human.” Oh God, how he’d like to make her cry. “Very attractive, physically fit, intelligent, well-educated. No particular physical profile, not size of breasts and that sort of thing.” She blushes. Nice. He’d like to see her other end blush, too. “Typically, a young professional woman making good progress in her career or a promising star student. No call-girls, escort girls (except one brilliant student making extra money), no pole dancers or waitresses. It may be because of the career thing, but so far, none with small children. Mostly single, but a few married. One separated. In terms of ethnicity, pretty much anything goes, but there does seem a tendency, which this last one confirms, towards minorities in the UK sense.”
“Useful, but it doesn’t narrow it down nearly enough to predict one particular victim.”
“Quite so, sir, I agree. So that leaves the decoy option.” Decoys. Dangerous. Can’t afford that kind of operation to go wrong. There was that one on some heath to catch a black rapist and the decoy policewoman who took his fancy nearly got herself raped. He had to admit, part of him was amused and wished she had got it. “He was very near,” she’d said in her report quoted in the papers, which must mean either he’d got down to her panties or he’d actually got them off her. Imagine that rapist living the rest of his life, knowing he’d stared at a policewoman’s cunt, his cock was ready, and he’d been thwarted, never to fuck what he’d seen! Too much for a man to bear. He becomes aware she’s waiting for his response.
“What are you suggesting, D.I.?” A hint of formality after calling her Prisha. Make her just a bit nervous.
“I’m suggesting I’m the decoy.” Easy, old lad, calm down. Whatever happens, keep lower half under desk.
“How does that work?”
“Easy-peasy.” She grins. “Publicity about the steely determination of the officer leading the hunt for Pilot. Photos in the media. Interviews. High-rising police star not yet thirty and an inspector. Background stuff like my degree, where my parents came from, my proficiency at tennis, even that I share something with poor Aysel Lucas.”
“Oh, yes? Which is?” He is curious.
“Well, sir, I play the violin – but quite badly, I mean, not nearly as well as she did. Does.” He never knew that. Now Detective Inspector Prisha Yadav playing the violin naked, that was a thought. She arranges her hair. Oh God, that long, glossy black hair! If he could grab her by it! Back to reality.
“It’s dodgy. You could be taken at any time, in any place.”
“Agreed. But I have ideas about that. I’ll work up a plan and submit it to you.”
“This is dangerous, Prisha.” She smiles.
“Yes, sir. But we can’t let these bastards go on ruining lives. After all, when I joined the police, I knew it carried with it an element of risk and one that never goes away for an instant because any off-duty officer can see something, act and get hurt.”
“OK. Send me that plan.” Has his cock subsided enough for him to stand as she goes out? Yes. He stands. She leaves; but in the doorway, she turns round and gives him eye contact and a big smile. “Thankyou, sir.”
“My pleasure.” Out she goes. Fucking hell, the arse on her! Not huge, just big, and so, so, rounded and firm! He shouldn’t do this, but he will do it. Fantasise about Pilot getting her. He calls DC Summers.
“Penny – no-one to see me for half an hour.” He unzips his trousers.
Aysel and her mother are roped together, taped up and gagged for the journey. They have been groped and patted, but not raped. That’s business.
A tall, blonde woman takes a phone call. That same East European accent speaks to her.
“Aha, Prinzessin? You can speak?”
“Vrana? Good to hear from you. What news?”
“They’re on the way to you. Three hours at most.”
“Fantastic. I’ll make the rest of the payment within an hour of receiving them.”
“A pleasure to do business with you.”
“My pleasure entirely.”
While Detective Superintendent Marr is busy in his office, Deborah Kendal-Leonhart is busy in her bedroom.
Marr can move on. He makes a phone call.
“This is a big responsibility you’re giving me, sir.” Alan Banks sounds doubtful.
“Who else could I trust as well as you, Alan?” Prisha smiles at him. “You’re absolutely reliable, meticulous, conscientious to a fault. You can make sure the whole team lives up to the same standards. I know you.” She smiles at him enough and unprofessionally, gives him a lightning peck on the cheek. He seems just a little disconcerted. He starts to make the plans.
A delivery is made. A van is unloaded. The load is two naked women. Deborah Kendall-Leonhart smiles. The sluts have pissed themselves on the journey, so they’ll need to be washed. Her man Eric works with the van driver to separate them. Vrana the fat Slovak stands watching. Deborah approaches him.
“The young bitch is purely for myself and Eric, but I would be delighted if you and your man here could fuck her mother in front of her. In the house, of course.”
“It is our pleasure, Prizessin.”
DS Banks gets on with the job. Detective Superintendent Marr is also busy.
So is the man they call Vrana. He is busy raping the proud MILF Derya Lucas, having thoroughly spanked her first (Derriere Lucas would be a good name for her with that big arse). Her daughter, hands and feet tied, is forced to watch. It is made worse because she now knows who had them kidnapped. Deborah Kendall-Leonhart always made her shiver. From her they will get no mercy.
Deborah and her bit of rough Eric are watching the fat, faintly smelly Slovak forcing himself up Derya Lucas. When he’s finished with her cunt, her derriere gets it. The driver, young Sean, is next on her. Mrs Lucas, aware that her daughter is watching, tries not to sob or wail. When Sean gets off her, she has succeeded. But now Deborah Kendall-Leonhart approaches. She slaps her face. She draws from her Aspinal handbag a large orange dildo with ribs and with little spikes on the end. She shows it to the Turkish woman. Smiling, she shoves it up her cunt. Suddenly, the damn breaks. Mrs Lucas howls. The men laugh. Deborah smiles. Aysel starts sobbing like a little girl. Deborah smiles more broadly.
“The bag, Eric,” says Deborah. An ordinary supermarket plastic bag, the sort that is being phased out. Electric flex. The bag goes over the woman’s head. The flex holds it tight in place. She cannot breathe.
“Fuck her now, Eric,” says Deborah. Then, fiercely, “Vrana! Make that teen bitch watch! Don’t let her turn her head away!”
“Let her go! Let her go!” yells Aysel. “Let her…oh.” Vrana has hit her hard in the face three times. It is enough to silence her.
Eric is fucking. Derya is fighting for breath and losing. But she is a fighter: she does not die easily. Eric has time to bugger her as well. And then…and then…he rips the bag open. Is it too late? It is not too late. But perhaps it would have been better for Derya Lucas, if she had died. Vrana is on the phone. Her purchaser is completing the transaction.
“Oh, Mummy, Mummy!” burbles Aysel.
“Like a little girl,” comments Deborah, pulling out the dildo. “This is for you now, little slut. Oh, and you can take away this old slag.”
Derya Lucas is purchased by a Turkish Security General close to the regime. She’ll greatly enhance his collection of student leftists.
Now is the time when Deborah can fully enjoy her triumph over the teenage prodigy who threatened her pre-eminence. Vrana and Sean have left. The girl is purely for Deborah and Sean. Only they will see what happens. There is a table and on the table, a cushion. On the cushion now is a brown-skinned girl, a cord round her neck and the other end tied to a nail. Her pretty young legs hang down. Her pretty plump arse sticks up and quivers as she sobs. Deborah has a cane. Aysel sees the cane and wails. She will wail more and louder. Deborah begins her joyful work. She strikes with precision: the red lines are evenly-spaced. Aysel howls. Nothing like this has ever been done to her before. Soon her beautiful rump is thoroughly-decorated and she is a sobbing, wailing, twitching wreck. Deborah is making better music than ever she did with the violin, though her audience is just Eric. Then, in due time, she stops and pushes her fingers into the teenage cunt. Not a virgin. Surprise, on the whole; but many a girl goes with her maidenhead to college and soon loses it. In goes the dildo. Aysel squeals and wails: it hurts.
Then in goes Eric – and Deborah watches.
An appreciation of the achievement and perhaps tragically-curtained talent of the teenage violinist Aysel Lucas appears in the Telegraph written by the outstanding UK violinist of the decade, Deborah Kendall-Leonhart.
The publicity campaign works a treat. Prisha is a star: a beautiful young woman, glossy, curvy, with a science degree and in a job like that, hunting down kidnappers and rapists! It’s almost Hollywood. Bollywood, certainly. She even consents to a couple of shots that are, well, a little more come-on than she’s comfortable with, one of her playing tennis with her younger sister the law student (but with the tennis skirt staying down, thank heaven) and one of her walking away in rather tight trousers, looking back at someone with a smile. If she saw a girl doing that, she’d arrest her. It feels almost like prostituting herself, but it’s for the best of causes and she has to admit, there’s just a teeny-weeny part of her enjoys it, but only because it’s in a good cause. She is a detective, of course, and while Inspector Morse on TV was quite right to say “Detectives think”, it is also true that to be a detective, you have to deceive. Deceptive-Inspector. That makes her laugh.
A trap is laid. The bait beckons. DS Banks has everything organised. The backup team is with Prisha all the time, out of sight. Even an officer in her bedroom when she sleeps – a female officer, of course. When DS Banks had suggested a gay man, she’d laughed and shaken her head.
Prisha has taken off on social media – she’s had 17 proposals of straight marriage and four or Lesbian relationships - but the traditional media companies are beginning to lose interest. She’s yesterday’s sensation. If she’s so brilliant, why hasn’t she caught these people? There are several ways in which the operation might not work, but the one that would really annoy Prisha is if the pike didn’t take the bait. Unlike with her father’s fishing, they couldn’t just try a different bait or a different day. At his regular briefings, she has difficulty meeting the Detective Super’s eyes. Well, partly she’d always had a slight problem because she’d realised he had a bit of a thing about her, which was natural enough, nothing to criticise, he was a man and he’d done nothing inappropriate, in fact she actually found him quite attractive, hopefully not just because he had power. If he was a stranger and she met him in a bar and after a bit of chat, he’d offered to buy her a drink, she’d most likely have accepted – provided he didn’t mind her buying him the next. Then what might have happened? Problem is, in his office, she doesn’t quite entirely understand her own reactions. That annoys her. She likes to be in control, of herself at least.
Aysel Lucas sobs. She is in her 20th day as slave of Deborah Kendall-Leonhart. Eric is only allowed to fuck her when Deborah can watch, but that is often. She has a collar and a lead. She is fed awful food, cold cheeseburgers, non-diet coca-cola and rotten bananas. She is exercised to keep fit and for Deborah’s amusement; and she plays her violin for Deborah’s most select guests. If the police raided the house, they’d find her easily enough, but why should they raid the house of Deborah Kendall-Leonhart?
The man who has chosen the name of Vrana sits with his most trusted operative, Major Nigel Pennington, as they watch a YouTube video about Detective Inspector Prisha Yadav. Vrana glances at Nigel. Nigel returns the glance. Complicit. Agreement. No need for words.
“Shit, she’s asking for it,” says the Major, who is seven years out of the SAS. “But is it too obvious? Could this be a trap, old chap?”
“Of course it could be. But is that not a challenge? In your army days, if an enemy set up a position and you suspected a trap, would you avoid it – or outwit him and attack it anyway?”
“Depends on the circumstances. Decisions like that aren’t made on the basis of personal pride or pique.”
“Quite so. She would sell very well; but are the circumstances propitious? And the circumstances are favourable, my friend! For I have a wonderful card this proud bitch does not suspect. I have inside information. Oh, Gods and devils!” The video has just shown Prisha playing tennis; and so very briefly, her back to the camera, her skirt flipped up. He takes the action back half a minute. He does so five times.
Derya Lucas screams in a big house in Turkey. Her daughter plays the violin and sobs in a big house in England.
Prisha has finished a hard day. A good day’s work. She has a small, healthy snack. She high fives with Constable Charlie Whitwell, her guardian of the bedchamber, a firearms squad uniformed constable on secondment, young, black, keen, witty, pretty and with a strong Bristol accent.
“Turn your back, sweetie,” says Prisha, “or not. I’m showering, undressing and going to bed.”
“Want me to come in the shower with you?” asks Charlie, with shy cunning.
“Why not?”
They grope and stroke a little in the shower; they kiss outside; but that’s all. Charlie cannot share Prisha’s bed, for she would be useless as a guard. She must sit on a chair by the bed and stay awake. Four times in the night, for that is the routine, she will get up and peer through the sliver of curtain deliberately left open.
The burglar alarm is of the highest quality and the alarm sounds in the nearest police station, also triggering a message to Alan Banks’ radio. The arrangements have been presented to Detective Superintendent Marr in detail, at his request, and he has approved them.
Prisha sleeps naked. Charlie sits on her chair in jeans, Glastonbury t-shirt and trainers. Major Nigel Pennington, in the back garden, checks his watch and taps the shoulder of. former French Foreign Legion Sergeant Leon Storch. Time to move. Understanding. Comradeship like the old days for both. Unity. Determination. Professionalism.
What has gone wrong with the alarm system on that one night of all nights? The back door makes little resistance. No alarm is meant to sound in the house. But no alarm sounds in the police station. What cruel chance! Their eyes grown used to the dark, the two men ascend the stairs silently. They ignore two doors. They crouch outside the third. There is no light inside. That’s to be expected, for Prisha must sleep and Charlie must be able to look out of that window without being seen and with good vision of the street. The door very quietly opens outwards. No reaction: Charlie was dozing off. Nigel steps inside. The cord stretched across at ankle height trips him and he falls. Prisha sleeps on. Charlie jumps up, grasping for her gun; and as Leon’s taser strikes home, jerks and falls. That wakes Prisha, who throws back the bedclothes and is the taser’s second victim. Nigel, rising, turns on the light. Two caught cops, one beautifully naked.
“It is OK to turn on the light? That will not alert the cops outside?” asks Leon.
“Not if it’s brief. The Inspector bitch wants to go for a piss, anything like that. She looks good, doesn’t she?”
“The other one looks like a girl I raped in Chad. I had to kill her. This one, not.”
The two men make a brief search and collection. The two inert female bodies are taped up and gagged. They are carried down the stairs and into the back garden. Leon goes back inside and pours paraffin – then drops a lit cigarette.
The fire is fast. The officers in parked cars and a house opposite are startled, horrified. They try to reach Prisha or Charlie on their radios. No reply. They call the Fire Brigade. They rush to the house. Nigel and Leon load the bodies into their car in a side street and drive off unchallenged as fire engines and squad cars scream in.
“Got both of them. All according to plan. The second one’s not bad.”
“Excellent. Major,” says Vrana. “Unusually, this one I will personally enjoy before I sell her. I think also, you and your man deserve a reward.”
Detective Superintendent Marr gets a phone call.
Vrana lives above a workshop where his son Ivan and young Sean actually do some work repairing machines of mostly a household sort. Today, no repairing is happening in the workshop. Vehicles up to the size of a large van can drive into a garage from which there is direct indoors access to the workshop. Today, a black BMW drives in. Vrana, who has had a phone call, is ready in the garage. An alert, tanned, slim man in his forties gets out; and another a little younger, paler and far more thickset. From the back, they drag two women, one naked, one clothed. They are both conscious, but helpless. Their eyes convey everything. Vrana takes little interest in the younger, black one, but a great deal in the brown one. She looks back at him and as he smiles, she knows. This is the enemy; and the enemy has won.
The workshop is where their treatment will take place.
Alan Banks is acting faster than many thought he could. All the alerts, all the searches, are made. But in his heart – and in his head – he knows. She’s gone, lost. Prisha of the sudden smiles, the courage, the wit, the fiery determination, the long legs and the beautiful breasts; Prisha the consummate professional, Prisha the superbly feminine, Prisha the human being. And young Charlie as well. Two promising careers. Two human beings.
Charlie has been stripped, down to her creamy-white bra and her Chelsea Girl panties, down beyond them to breast and cunt. She and Prisha hang by rope around their wrists looped around hooks in the ceiling, their feet just off the ground. One bushily-tangled black cunt; one sweetly-shaven brown one. Vrana, Ivan, Sean, Leon and the Major inspect them, nursing beers. Nothing causes Prisha more fear and more desperation than the removal of her gag. They can scream all they like. How has this happened? The attackers MUST have had inside information. Horror. The Super. His lecherous glances; his not infrequent putting her down. Could it be? Surely not. Maybe some technician, some constable in Alan’s team. But if the Super was involved, nothing remained a mystery.
Hung up, defeated, her most secret femininity displayed, she is as beautiful as when she went fiercely, bravely, stupidly into battle. Her face is as regular, her lips are as full, her eyes are as big, her breasts are as fine, her buttocks are as plump and round, her cunt is as juicy. Just much, much more available.
Vrana feels between her legs.
“Very nice. Well, well, delighted to meet you, Detective Inspector. You’ve failed rather badly, is it so?” She is silent. “You thought you could catch me. How stupid! Now you and your girlfriend must wait before we have fun with you, for we are waiting for an honoured guest, a policeman.” Oh God – the Super.
They hang there for half an hour. The men pat them and grope them. Vrana plays with Prisha’s breasts, making them pop up and down, trying how far to one side he can pull one and chuckling when it springs back in position. The “honoured guest” has not come. A mad hope occurs to Prisha. What if this is a plot within a plot? What if, unknown to her, a detective such as Marr has pretended to be corrupted until he can be invited here, when he will come with other officers? Too far-fetched, but she can’t make herself dismiss it. She can’t quite believe in Marr as totally bent.
Vrana gets a phone call. The guest has been delayed, but will arrive in a few minutes. Five minutes later, the door opens. Detective Sergeant Alan Banks. His eyes focus on Prisha. He smiles.
“Alan, no!” He grins.
“Oh, yes.” He pinches her cheek. “You didn’t think I liked having an overeducated Paki Lezzie feminist cunt ten years younger than me as my know-all boss? Don’t look surprised at the Lezzie bit. I know about you and this little black piece here. Didn’t know about the security camera in the shower, did you? That film is going on the net behind a pay-as-you-go firewall.”
She bursts out sobbing. It makes her breasts wobble up and down. It makes her buttocks twitch. Alan squeezes one breast.
“Wanted to do this for ages.”
“No, no!”
“Yes, yes!”
“You screwed-up bastards!” yells Charlie. The slap from Leon twists her head round and silences her. Raw male power. So easy. So good.
Vrana strokes the Asian girl’s long black hair, gently, almost as a mother might. His. Not for long, but for now, his.
“Don’t want to interfere with anyone’s fun, chaps, but I was offered the chance to rape these two girls,” Major Nigel points out.
“Ah, the British!” Vrana chuckles. “So to the point, so impatient! No foreplay, no subtlety. Rape them you shall, Major; but first they must be softened up, be punished.”
“Dad always has ideas about that,” Ivan remarks. “And the equipment.” His dad nods.
“The flail, Ivan.” The flail has seven arms of narrow cord, each enhanced by three hard knots; and a handle quite long, with a firm grip. The Major inspects it, fascinated. What a magnificent traditional instrument!
Prisha sees it with horror. No, no! With fear and humiliation, with foretaste of intense pain, with frustration at her helplessness and their hunger, she howls and sobs salt tears on to her twitching breasts. Was this a police officer? Was this the meddling feminist bitch who thought to crush Pilot and bring Vrana himself sobbing to her justice? Thus thinks Vrana. Thus thinks Ivan. Thus thinks Nigel. Thus thinks Alan. Thus think all.
Justice. Their justice. Ancient justice. Who has the flail? Ivan. He stands behind a tight, round, plump, quivering olive-brown arse, pink cunt-lips peeping out below it like a flower in a lapel. He smiles. He strikes.
A wild, animal scream. A contorting, fleshy brown bottom. A smiling young man. Smiling men. A police constable, firearms-trained, staying silent for fear she will get the same. A second strike. A second scream. A second contortion of bulging buttocks. A third. A fourth. A fifth. A sixth. A pause. A weeping, broken slave. Pain burning, blurring, rising again. Throbbing buttocks.
“Major, you seemed interested?” Major Nigel is surprised, honoured, pleased.
“You have experience of this instrument?”
“Not at all – just the cane.”
“Then learn!” The Major is a quick learner. Whereas the cane can be applied with precision, the flail cannot, so he can neither avoid the red marks left by Ivan, nor target them. The screams of the former inspector grow more intense. He stops. Vrana speaks.
“Detective Sergeant – for you, like me, this is personal?”
“It is,” replies Alan grimly. Vrana nods to the Major, who hands the flail to Alan. He does not go to her tortured back parts. He eyes up her breasts.
“Non, Alan, no, please, please!” Undignified pleas! They predictably have no effect on him, except perhaps to fire him up yet more. He lines her up. The flail snakes in. Oh, the wails, sobs, shaking of breasts! One, two on the left; one, two on the right. Unbearable pain. Broken girl. Smiling men. Alongside her, a fearful, silent former friend, her only thought to escape pain as well as she can.
“Pull her legs apart.” Sean and Leon take an ankle each. “Pull them up.” She is straddled and opened. She knows what is coming. It comes. Just once is enough. He stops. “Any more, and she’ll hardly be fun to fuck.”
“Now what of her little Lezzie friend?” asks Vrana, smiling. “She tried to pull a gun on us! Imagine! Ah, I know. Something very mild.” He walks over to Charlie. “You are afraid, little black elf! That is good: you are more easily cowed than your foolish girlfriend. So this is all I need to do, for you to be ready to pack off to a buyer. Now do not resist. Do not kick and writhe, for it will make the whole thing much more painful.” The message is underlined by the convulsive sobbing from the thing on the other rope.
Vrana does something not easy for him, because he is fat: he sinks down to a half-kneeling position, from which his nose is almost touching her bush. He rises.
“Not good. A chair, Ivan?” His son brings a simple plastic chair. He sits down. He contemplates Charlie’s cunt. With the air of a man picking a small snack from a buffet, he plucks one hair. She shrieks. He plucks another. She bucks quite wildly. He frowns. “I had hoped to conduct this operation calmly in the best interests of the slave. But she is not co-operating and is foolishly hurting herself. So she might as well be spanked. Who wishes… Ah, Mr Storch, is it not?” Leon has been quick.
“I like black arses,” he explains. So Charlie’s bush is plucked and every time she flinches, bucks or kicks, she gets spanked. There are many hairs in her bush. Were. A bare, stubbly cunt. A hot black little bottom.
“Very well, gentlemen. Normally I show great restraint and neither myself nor my men fuck a captive, because some customers want to be the first in since their capture and hardly any prefer not to be the first. It is a money matter and I am a businessman. But in this case, this wretched girl tried by deceit to capture me and my loyal workers! So she will be fucked and it would scarcely be fair to leave the little black bitch unfucked. I will have her first while my friend Detective Sergeant Alan Banks rapes this brown slut.”
There is a broad smile on Alan’s face. He looks Prisha closely in the eyes and she flinches. She cannot accept what is there in his eyes. She will have to.
Because the ropes are looped, the things on the end of them can be raised or lowered. Alan wants Prisha raised a few inches. Ideal. He’s imagined this for a long time.
When the fat white cock touches her cunt-lips, she screams. She had almost stopped sobbing, but now she wails. She doesn’t want it, of course. But this rape is far worse than anything she could have imagined. It’s not by some stranger or by an unexpectedly strong criminal. Even rape by the Super would be nothing like so bad, because she could see he had that kind of feeling about her. But Alan! Alan who she has liked, has trusted, has helped, has supported! And he doesn’t just lust for her, he hates her – for being an assertive woman and for not being white!
In it goes. Triumph. Defeat. Rhythm. Was this woman over this man? Did he have to do what she said? Now he is over her and her body works to his commands.
Six men. Two women. Twelve possible combinations. All of them realised.
Two broken women, ready slaves. Natural justice.
Detective Superintendent Marr faces many, many questions. That Prisha pushed him into the scheme is not accepted. The police do not sack or demote officers who have blundered, only if they’ve proved to be corrupt or used grossly excessive violence. But his career is finished. He will go no further.
No blame attaches to Detective Sergeant Banks.
There is a big spike in views of the videos and stills of Prisha.
The captives are kept in cages, filmed for prospective buyers. They have bedding and chamber-pots in the cages, are well-fed and are instructed to exercise: they would be punished if they refused, but both girls are willing. Vrana has four good bids for Prisha and two for Charlie. But Alan Banks has something to say.
“There’s someone else who might bid for the Yadav slut, only raising it with him would have to be done sensitively, like.”
“Go on.”
“I know Detective Superintendent Marr had the hots for her big-time, almost an obsession, and the tart encouraged him a bit but never gave him anything worthwhile. His ambitions in the police have gone down the sink, but he’s still well-paid and so is his wife. She’s an accountant. One kid from a previous marriage, now in Australia.”
“Interesting, but very risky. We could end up with him catching us and freeing her. Then even he might get in her panties.”
“We’ve had a few man-to-mans. I could just float a what-if kind of thing. He’s had an interview with the Assistant Chief Constable and he’s boiling. You could even say right now he’s anti-police.”
“But the wife – she would be an obstacle?”
“Possibly, but I’m not sure she would. I saw how she looked at DI Cunt at the station party last year. Jealously, maybe, but something more, more like lust.”
Vrana weighs it up. It’s certainly risky. But if it works, a very senior detective is in his pocket. Even if he retires soon, his knowledge of the police would be invaluable. Worth it? Vrana is by nature a gambler – never by pure chance, but by calculating the risks and benefits. He feels good when he gets it right. That’s usually. He also has a sense of humour. Selling a quite senior policewoman to her boss appeals to him, especially when the boss was not already corrupt and in effect, he’s using the annoyingly honest policewoman to corrupt him.
“OK, try it out.” He pauses. “You’re taking a big risk yourself, Alan.” Alan! He hardly ever calls an Englishman by his first name; but something about this honest, straightforward, manly traitor and villain appeals to him. Like brothers. He will make more use of him – perhaps even partners? And Alan is divorced. To whom could he better marry his clever daughter?
Alan nods.
“Aye. But it’s still personal. I like the Super. I respect him. I was sorry to do him down as I did over that pushy slut. When I think about how that cock-teasing Paki tart had him dancing on hot coals with his cock out of control, I’d love to give something back to him. What better than her?”
Detective Superintendent Richard Marr has a big decision to make. He and Liz had been planning to buy a house in remote, beautiful Western Bulgaria, while retaining their home on the Hampshire coast. But now he has been offered first refusal on Prisha. The offer came as a surprise. Its source certainly shocked him. But it came at the right time, when his attitude to those above him in Hampshire Police could be summed up in two words, one of four and the other of three. It meant that if he accepted, he could save Prisha from no doubt spine-chilling treatment. If instead he set up another trap for the kidnappers, this time it would not be under his control and it would very likely fail, with Prisha not rescued and possibly dead. If he accepted, also, she would be his. All his fantasies could come true! That is, if Liz agreed – and she did. Strangely, he’d suspected she would: he’d seen that look of mingled jealousy and lust and then there had been her reaction when Prisha got kidnapped - “Stupid bitch. Why’d she have to involve you?”. But Liz is unhappy about the financial side. To buy Prisha at anything like the going price, they’ll have to forgo one of those two houses. Difficult. What’s more, Pilot isn’t going to wait on his decision forever. He doesn’t need to be told plenty of men will offer very big money for cunt like hers, especially with all that publicity. Amusing. It’s almost like she was making a good job of selling herself. He can look on the whole thing so differently now he knows she’s safe and he has it in her power to have her.
Liz, in her usual abrupt way, comes up with a suggestion.
“Do they have her phone?” He thinks.
“It wasn’t recovered by us, but there was the fire. I’ll ask Alan. Why?” She ignores his question and asks another of her own.
“Do we know what’s in her bank account?”
“Money, I suppose. No, we don’t.”
“Find out.”
He can see what she has in mind. Best not to ask questions about Prisha’s account himself. DS Summers does it for him. He’d thought it likely she’d saved well, but he’s still surprised.
Alan Banks comes back: Prisha’s phone was taken and can be delivered. Richard Marr collects the pretty pink phone with a shiver of joyful desire. So very hers! With her computer and accounting skills, Liz is soon able to clean out the account. They can afford now to buy in Bulgaria, to keep their house near Lymington AND to buy Prisha Yadav. With her own money!
The deal is done. Prisha will be delivered to Bulgaria when the house is ready. Ideal!
Detective Superintendent Marr feels good. He’s taken the one course of action that would ensure the safety of Ms Yadav. And at last he can fuck her!
A fine house in the Bulgarian hills, once the seat of a rich landowner, then of a Communist boss. Detective Superintendent Marr (retired) feels young and eager. Prisha! She will be delivered this morning. He has had direct contact now with Vrana and knows the man as an honest criminal, one whose word is not broken. Prisha will soon be his. He watched the rough road from upstairs. A black van. Coming here. He runs to the door.
Small Bulgarian, dark. Gypsy?
“Gospodin Marr?”
“Da.”
“Dostavka za vas.” Delivery for you. Like a new microwave or a second-hand book from Amazon. A second-hand book! That was Prisha. Well-thumbed, but lots to enjoy.
From the back of the van, a big man gets out, pulling a naked girl by the hair. Prisha! Naked, bound, but not blindfolded, for she sees him.
“You! No!” He’s about to tell her he had nothing to do with her abduction, but realises that would start the master-slave relationship off on the wrong foot.
“Yes, me. Get her inside. Ah, darling – our delivery.” Liz stares coldly at their new possession. She takes hold of Prisha’s long hair in place of the delivery man. She squeezes Prisha’s plump buttock. The small delivery man brings in a big canvas bag – the slave’s possessions. Handshakes, and the delivery men go off on their next job.
“Right, slut,” Liz says to Prisha, “I’ll show you your quarters and then my husband will fuck you.”
“Fruit juice before fucking – she’s probably dehydrated after the journey,” Richard adds. Prisha sobs. Prisha obeys.
Prisha gets fucked. For Richard, this is his greatest triumph. He’d spent three years wanting to get between her long legs, with no appreciable chance of doing it, and yet now – in! Letting her do that crazy thing of offering herself to Pilot had turned out after all to be his most sagacious decision. And oh, she was tight and juicy. Yes, she wanted him. Her brain might not, but her cunt did. In, out, in, out, in, out, in, out! Aaaaaah.
For Prisha, servitude. Her brain not wanted, her courage not wanted. Her cunt wanted and (oh!) her arsehole.
For Liz, triumph. That proud slut is not on a pedestal, to be worshipped by her husband, but tied to a post in a shed, to be fucked.
Charlie Whitwell has been sold to an American billionaire with a ranch in Texas and a particular dislike for feminists and pushy Blacks and Latinos. His star livestock acquisition is Congresswoman Alicia Estrada-Ortiz, so Charlie counts as an inferior slave.
The investigation into her disappearance and that of Detective Inspector Prisha Yadav is in the hands of Detective Chief Inspector “Hal” Short, ambitious and impatient of debate. He has a theory. Priya’s bank account could only have been cleaned out by herself. DS Banks has confided his suspicions of a Lesbian relationship between Prisha and Charlie. The disappearance was staged and in due course the “victims” will reappear with some cock-and-bull story and big earnings from the media, maybe even for a film of their adventures.
Richard is back in England, sorting out some bits and pieces from the move. He gets an unexpected phone call.
“Mr Marr? Charvi Yadav. My older sister was the one who disappeared.”
“Ah.” Does he sound guilty? But this is a law student, not an experienced cop. “How can I help you?”
I don’t believe how stupid the officer in charge of investigating my sister’s abduction is. You were involved. You knew her well. I’m determined to uncover the truth and find my sister or find what happened to her.”
“Happy to meet you.”
He remembers her from the tennis pictures, but the focus was always on Prisha. Charvi does remind him of Prisha, but she’s shorter, with bigger breasts. Hot and intense. He tells her everything he can up to but not including the offer to buy Prisha, leaving out only his lust.
“So it is this Pilot thing.”
“I’m sure so, yes.”
“Do you think they had inside information? Hard to see how their operation went so smoothly, otherwise.” He frowns.
“I can’t rule it out.” Sudden smile.
“Thanks. I’m going to beat these bastards.”
Phone call to Vrana:
“We have a problem.”
“Tell.” He tells. Vrana whistles a tune.
“There is no problem. We take this new bitch.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“I make you an offer you can’t refuse. Set up another meeting with her, we take her, and in consideration of all you are doing now for us, you can have her. Free.” That’s better than he could have imagined. Not only does he get to rape this new hot piece and make her cry – he can make her play tennis with her sister again! He got Prisha’s tennis kit and violin, but she was indeed shit at the violin and as for tennis, she’d beat him or Liz too easily. The rich Bulgarian’s tennis court will again be used.
First, take your bird. But it is easy. Trusting young Charvi falls right into the trap. Leon, promoted, delivers the punch after two delicious seconds in which, staring into his eyes, she saw her fate. One delicious, idealistic big-titted Hindu student taken and delivered. Routine, really, but for Richard, not. He fucks lovely Charvi with more enthusiasm than he’d summoned up since his first time inside Prisha. Another delivery to the house in Bulgaria. Charvi wanted to find her sister, or find what happened to her. Her wishes are met!
Richard watches as two young Asian women play tennis, their flimsy skirts flipping up often enough. Today is a no-panties day; tomorrow, panties on. The wall round the court is high. Conceivably these fit young women could make a break for it, though he reckons they’ve been pretty well broken (Charvi needed a thoroughly good beating and a few days without food to accomplish that). In any case, not a few of the locals know he keeps slaves and that returning an escaped one would be lucrative; and the local police are friendly.
Liz phones Vrana.
“Problem. My husband is getting positively soppy about the older whore. I get a kick out of using my strap-on, that’s on her and her little sister, but in three years or so, she’ll be a bit old and worn. I thought Dick would be tired of her then and happy to dispose of her, but he’s talking about her ‘easing into retirement’. That’s risky and sentimental and I won’t have it. Can you help?” Vrana considers.
“Not easy. He is much too valuable to me now, to offend him. But I think I can arrange something. These Bulgarian hills have a tradition of banditry. When you both are absent in Sofia or Venice, a raid. You do not mind a dead servant? Good. The older slut can be resold to a Russian who uses them for two years and then, into the river. The younger? I have been so dedicated to the business, I have not given myself the luxury of a slave for myself; but now I am ready.”
It is Deborah Kendal-Leonhart’s 50th birthday. A few select friends are invited. Aysel Lucas plays her violin for them. Then all of them, men and women, queue up to fuck her.
Charlie, branded, is ridden to cowboy whoops.
