Weird problems posting this as “paste” wasn’t working. Finally copied the word file to create another file, changed the typeface, tried again and success!
COLD
The January morning still early; ice on branches; the snow on the ground virgin and smooth. In the background, snowbound moorland hills. Two young women, properly muffled up – padded jackets, pullovers, woolly hats, furry boots. Only the blue jeans were perhaps not the best choice for the cold, but they were shapely. Houses only ten minutes’ walk away – or maybe fifteen in these conditions – but here the snow stretched from hedge to hedge, from clump of bushes to clump of bushes, and up to the edge of the bare wood.
“Mum and Dad will have had a lot more days like this when they were young,” said the taller girl, a strand of dark red hair escaping from the blue and pink woolly hat. “It’s climate change.”
“Then let’s enjoy it while we can,” replied the smaller one, who had black hair, but the same almond-shaped brown eyes and almost the same lucky curves. She scooped up snow. “Get ready!” They threw snowballs at one another until the taller one was hit right in the face.
“Oh, sorry!” cried her younger sister. “Sorry, Charlie.” Charlie spluttered, brushed herself and replied,
“No problem, Vicky. Good shot. You win.” They hugged. Then they walked towards the wood by a track that was just about discernible. They talked a little about their futures – Vicky’s university English course, Charlie’s forthcoming transformation from uniformed police constable to detective constable – and then fell silent in wonder at the beauty of the ice-gripped wood. Here too there was snow, but more inconsistent, forming drifts here and quite thin there, marked by no human feet before them, but by numerous animal tracks.
Behind them on the track was one other human figure, muffled up, but female by her clothes, with a black Labrador on a long lead. A leading figure in the Women’s Institute, the board of the private girls’ school, the church, the local Conservatives, Mrs Verity Clissold-Harvey, wife of a wealthy banker retired from the Far East. She watched the two well-matched, well-rounded blue denim rears – remarkably similar in shape and tautness, but one somewhat larger than the other – bouncing, gyrating and squelching out of sight. She smiled. She pulled off her gloves and sent a text.
Charlie produced her phone and started taking photos of white and almost black tracery. Vicky, after a moment, said,
“I want to check out that fox’s earth I found on Tuesday. Straight on and then the left-hand fork.”
“I’ll catch you up, then.” The iced tracery of the small branches was beautiful, unearthly, cold. It attracted and warned. Charlie was entranced.
A scream. Ahead. Vicky. Not repeated. Charlie ran. She slipped, fell headlong and rose, snow shaking from her jacket as she raced towards the now silent scream.
No sign – but another, shorter scream. Charlie had enough time to think,
“Off duty. No radio. No alarm. No CS spray or taser,” but it did not slow her. Round a protruding bush. There.
Vicky on the ground, face up, face bloody, jacket torn and pulled up, jeans pulled down off her middle. A man attacking her. Young, quite small, pale, short fair hair. A police officer’s training kicking in: get good ID. The man looked up: startled, then calculating.
“Bonus points! Two cunts in one go.” She rushed him. He was surprised – but as she tried to grab him, he kicked her hard in the ankle. She recoiled and he hit her in the stomach. Nonetheless, she was determined and fit. She grabbed his collar and wrenched him sideways.
“Got him, sis!” Vicky had hold of one of his legs. This was not a time for the rule-book. Charlie hit him in the balls.
“Police. You’re nicked.” He still struggled a little, but only a little. She was able to use her phone. At first, her colleagues were amused to hear from her.
“I’ve got you a rapist,” she said. The sergeant didn’t say “Thanks, I’ve always wanted one of those,” though he later wished he had.
“May I be of any assistance?” It was a slim, tall, middle-aged woman, tastefully dressed - Mrs Verity Clissold-Harvey, the sisters knew to be a stalwart of the Women’s Institute and a near neighbour of their parents. Her dog was curious, but well-behaved. Charlie brushed snow off her jacket and declined. Her colleagues came. The man had been quiet, but when the cuffs were put on him, he writhed, jerked and swore. It was Charlie who was his target:
“Fucking cunt! Fucking do-gooding slag! You’ll be sorry for this!”
The man was Andrew Brown, aged 20. He was charged with attempted rape, with a Plan B charge of indecent assault added. When his case came up, outside the court, in uniform now, Charlie walked by a bald, muscular, heavily-built man who looked to be in his forties. He seemed to recognise her.
“Fucking bitch! Fucking stuck-up cunt! If my Andy gets sent down, you’ll fucking regret the day you were born!” Mr Brown senior, presumably. The threats and abuse were pretty much routine for a police officer. She could nick him for them, but it was hardly worth it. It was understandable for him to be upset about his son’s arrest.
The case did not go smoothly. Andrew Brown had a story and stuck to it. The girl had thrown a snowball at him when his back was turned and hit him at the base of his head. He was angry. He told her she deserved a good spanking. She made a face at him. He grabbed her. He’d pulled down her trousers to spank her. He knew that was wrong and he was sorry. Vicky denied all this, but somehow she looked like a girl who might throw a snowball at a man and make a face at him.
The prosecution lawyer produced Vicky’s ripped jacket.
“That was all done in trying to give Miss Parks a spanking, was it, Mr Brown?”
“She struggled a lot. I suppose she might have wondered if I meant to give her more than a spanking. I’m sorry if she did.”
When Charlie’s turn came, the defence lawyer asked her,
“Did you identify yourself as a police officer?”
“No, I…”
“Thankyou.” The judge intervened.
“Did you at any point tell the defendant you were a police officer, constable?”
“When I arrested him. When my sister and I had subdued him.” Charlie could see the way it was going and was not surprised when the prosecution withdrew the more serious charge. Brown then changed his plea on the charge of indecent assault to guilty. Six months in prison and a further twelve suspended for two years; but Andrew Brown would now be on the Sex Offenders Register.
A year and a month had gone by. Detective Constable Charlotte Parks was on leave and visiting her parents. Her sister Vicky, in the last year of her degree course, had come down for the weekend. Both daughters being around was special to Mr and Mrs Parks and they mentioned it to various friends and acquaintances, including Mrs Clissold-Harvey. Mr and Mrs Parks had gone shopping this day in Durham.
The winter had suddenly sharpened and again there was snow on the ground.
The sisters were out together. Neither had gone to the wood again since the attack by Andy Brown – Charlie because she was rarely home and Vicky because of bad memories and an illogical fear of what might lurk there. But she had decided to face and defeat those memories and doing it with her sister was ideal. Their route ran past Mrs Clissold-Harvey’s house. That lady saw them go and smiled. She had a phone call to make.
A pickup truck hurried down a lane and with more care, on to a track partly cleared of snow that led to a small car park on the edge of the wood.
The sisters entered the wood. Vicky slipped, Charlie grabbed her, but nearly went over herself. Their laughter was loud. They would take the same turning and maybe the fox’s earth would still be active. Deep in lively conversation, they paid little attention to small noises or what evil might lurk in the woods.
“Well, well, look who’s here.” Andy Brown in front of them.
“Hello, cunts!” Andy Brown’s father behind them.
Phone. 999. Charlie fumbled for her phone. If she had thrown off her gloves, she might have had a chance. The phone, unused, dropped from her gloved hand as Dave Brown’s hand chopped down on her shoulder. A brutal kick up the backside sent her sprawling in soft snow.
Vicky, seeing cruelty in Andy’s cold eyes, tried to wrench free a small branch of a fallen tree as a weapon. The tree had too recently been alive: the branch would not give way. Andy did not rush her. He walked towards her. She gave up her struggle and turned to run back where her sister was. The sight there froze her. The elder Brown had forced Charlie against a tree and his fist was smashing into her face: one, two, three. Blood, crushed human.
Andy seized her.
Two strong, angry, lustful, determined men. Two women, not their match. Blood on the snow. Flurries of snow as punches found their target, as bodies writhed, as clothes were ripped. For the triumphant men, their just revenge in sight, the joy of shrieks and whimpers. The joy of bra and panties appearing – matching pale yellow on Vicky, pure white on Charlie. The joy of seeing them fight, even while knowing they would lose. The joy of their fear, their pain, their humiliation, their recognition of male power and ancient justice.
Dave had wedged Charlie against a fallen treetrunk, where she snivelled and bled on to her pretty bra and her tight breasts. Andy was giving Vicky, on her plump, taut panty-decorated rump, the stern spanking that had been waiting for her. Grunting, fire in his small eyes, Dave kicked Charlie in the cunt. One, two, three, four. Cop gone. Feminist gone. Rescuer gone. Cunt ready.
And now, since the prey had been beaten into submission, the removal of the panties could be done with due ceremony.
A pair of tight little pale yellow panties were slipped from a tight, rounded, 20-year-old bottom and yes, a tight, carefully-shaven cunt.
A pair of white panties, no longer pristine but smudged and slightly marked with blood, descended as slowly as the strong man chose from a big, bouncy, quivering, inviting policewoman arse. And yes, 24-year-old luxuriantly-unshaven cunt, matured for so long just for him. Dave grinned at the hairiness and tugged it humorously.
Time for the prey to be fucked. No? The old can learn from the young. Dave was giving Charlie, on that fat inviting rear, the spanking she deserved. He spanked till she sobbed and whimpered while Andy’s hand was up Vicky’s tight little cunt.
And now at last, the unsheathing of the weapons, the moment of truth. Triumph; defeat. Ancient rhythm. Ancient pain. Ancient joy.
Two foolish girls fucked by two strong men: each man in each girl, front and back, two holes. Breasts squeezed. Deep mysteries broken into. Girls broken. Revenge taken.
At last. Two naked things quiver in the snow – snow pressed almost in to ice, snow spotted with a little blood, red on white, a pretty effect. Two men stand, looking down. They take photos on their phones, to be downloaded where the police will not find them and deleted from the phones. Two men leave. One makes a phone call.
Two naked things crawl towards one another. Too weak and hurt to stand, they hug and huddle against the cold, against the horror. Their temperatures drop. It cannot be long.
Footsteps crunch in snow. A tall, middle-aged woman looks down on the blueing huddle. She takes a photo. She separates the two things and dumps them each in its own snowdrift. She takes two more photos and departs.
Verity Clissold-Harvey’s phone sounds, a cheery ringtone. She takes the call.
“…………”
“You’ve left it really late. It might even be too late. The bitches are dying. They were embracing like lovers, so I pulled them apart.”
“…………”
“Oh, fair enough.”
“…………”
“That’s really good news! So exciting! So piratical! Look, Hugh, you mustn’t do any heavy lifting, so get the Browns to come back and do it. Just bring our car to the car park, the one on the far side.” She turned around, humming a tune. Back at the scene of the rape, she rubbed Charlie’s body and smacked her bottom before bringing her together with her sister again.
Two vehicles in the car park – a pickup and a Volvo. Two half-dead naked females dragged out of the wood, covered in a blanket and stuffed into the Volvo’s boot with no space to spare.
Charlie had come close to sinking past a point of no return. Now, slowly, some warmth returns and she can feel her sister’s body responding. She remembers the Browns, and cold, but does not know what has happened since. Have she and Vicky been rescued? She is thankful that Vicky is alive. She becomes aware that they are being driven in something, to somewhere.
With returning life and warmth comes returning pain.
She cannot tell for how long they drive. Then the engine sound and the slight vibration stop. Her brain is working now. Is this a car boot? Not good. The car boot opens. Things are still a blur. Voices sound and hands drag her out, her and Vicky. Her feet are dragged along gravel and concrete. Laughter. Inside a house. Into a room. Dropped on to a rug. Her and Vicky. Warmth. Pain.
“Well done, you two,” says Verity Clissold-Harvey to the Browns. “Much appreciated. Payment will be to your account today.” The implication is clear: off with you now. With a last look at the naked cop bitch and her sister, they leave.
Apart from the two naked beasts, there remain two people in the room, in comfortable armchairs: Verity Clissold-Harvey; Hugh Montroy Clissold-Harvey. He is a big man with a once-impressive physique for a banker, but in decline, nursing his damaged heart. The sisters begin to see more clearly. The Clissold-Harveys! How? Why?
Verity, warming up from the cold outside, was transported back to when, as a sixth-former, she had tortured that wretched little big-breasted milksop blonde who had objected to her humiliating a new girl. But then, she had only had her close female friends to share the tale with. Now, she had Hugh.
She pinched Charlie’s cheek; then she gave her big, thawing bottom one good slap.
“Will you feel revived enough to fuck these two oiks, darling?” she asked. “I would so much like to watch. I’ve been dreaming about this since the elder slut was still in school uniform.”
“Like billy-o I will,” he replied. “Like you, I’ve been watching their witless smiles and wobbling rears since the elder one was in school uniform. Pity we haven’t got her now in her kissogram police-girl outfit.”
“Oh, but that can be sorted, darling! That sweet little sex-shop in Barnard Castle has policewoman outfits with black stockings, suspenders and the shortest imaginable skirts! Think of dressing this conceited lower-class slut in one of those! The humiliation!” Not only her husband’s smile, but also a movement in his trousers, told that he liked her idea. “Make her bend over and her great fat posterior would stick out of the skirt!” she continued. “Oh, we must!”
He composed himself.
“It would be a good idea, darling, to talk a little business before we both get too carried away. Can we trust the Browns now? If not, I can have them dealt with.” Verity stretched out her long legs and, on reflection, rested her feet on Vicky’s bottom.
“I believe we can now, darling. I know that wretched youth seemed to be building up to blackmailing me for our previous activities, but I dealt with that by leading him into trouble in the wood that first time. I had a word with his father, too and I don’t anticipate more trouble, though I’ll keep my eagle eye on them both.”
“Very good. At least they won’t try blackmail now, as they’re as deep in this business as we are and much more obvious suspects. Now I know you want to keep these two for some time, to train them to do tricks and for play…”
“And for you to fuck, darling.”
“Absolutely, and of course, you, darling, have a strap-on.”
“Naughty!”
“Which I know you prefer to shove up a girl’s rear passage. But we should not keep them forever. Their value would depreciate. A year or so to train them properly and enjoy them and then my clients in Hong Kong and Singapore will want them. Then we’ll be able to afford that pied a terre in the Bahamas.”
“That would be lovely, darling. Now please fuck these bitches – or would it be wise to tie them up first?”
“I do love your practicality, darling. I think one ankle handcuffed to one wrist for each of them will do nicely.” Verity stamped on Charlie’s hand, which was showing signs of purposeful behaviour.
“Why not mix them up? The fat-bottomed cop’s ankle cuffed to the student slut’s wrist and vice versa?” A deep, throaty laugh.
“Brilliant. Let’s do it.”
And so it was done. Hugh had his most rewarding fucks since his heart attack. Verity’s strap-on conquered Charlie’s arsehole and Vicky’s too. The captives were broken and trained.
Meanwhile, a huge police hunt went on for their disappeared colleague, her sister and their abductors or killers. A site of disturbance in the woods was found, but no clues of consequence. Tyre-tracks on the track to the car park were consistent with the Browns’ pickup, but also with many thousands of other vehicles in the North-east. The Browns were obvious suspects because of Andy’s earlier offence, but they had an alibi and nothing against them could be found. No-one thought to check the house of those pillars of the community, the Clissold-Harveys. The boot of their car and the blanket were well-cleaned, but in the event, there was no need. Neighbours and acquaintances noticed Verity went out less than she used to, but assumed Hugh was needing more care. She was such a loving wife, so exemplary!
In due course, a rich man in Singapore and a canny investor in Hong Kong received the goods they had ordered.
COLD
The January morning still early; ice on branches; the snow on the ground virgin and smooth. In the background, snowbound moorland hills. Two young women, properly muffled up – padded jackets, pullovers, woolly hats, furry boots. Only the blue jeans were perhaps not the best choice for the cold, but they were shapely. Houses only ten minutes’ walk away – or maybe fifteen in these conditions – but here the snow stretched from hedge to hedge, from clump of bushes to clump of bushes, and up to the edge of the bare wood.
“Mum and Dad will have had a lot more days like this when they were young,” said the taller girl, a strand of dark red hair escaping from the blue and pink woolly hat. “It’s climate change.”
“Then let’s enjoy it while we can,” replied the smaller one, who had black hair, but the same almond-shaped brown eyes and almost the same lucky curves. She scooped up snow. “Get ready!” They threw snowballs at one another until the taller one was hit right in the face.
“Oh, sorry!” cried her younger sister. “Sorry, Charlie.” Charlie spluttered, brushed herself and replied,
“No problem, Vicky. Good shot. You win.” They hugged. Then they walked towards the wood by a track that was just about discernible. They talked a little about their futures – Vicky’s university English course, Charlie’s forthcoming transformation from uniformed police constable to detective constable – and then fell silent in wonder at the beauty of the ice-gripped wood. Here too there was snow, but more inconsistent, forming drifts here and quite thin there, marked by no human feet before them, but by numerous animal tracks.
Behind them on the track was one other human figure, muffled up, but female by her clothes, with a black Labrador on a long lead. A leading figure in the Women’s Institute, the board of the private girls’ school, the church, the local Conservatives, Mrs Verity Clissold-Harvey, wife of a wealthy banker retired from the Far East. She watched the two well-matched, well-rounded blue denim rears – remarkably similar in shape and tautness, but one somewhat larger than the other – bouncing, gyrating and squelching out of sight. She smiled. She pulled off her gloves and sent a text.
Charlie produced her phone and started taking photos of white and almost black tracery. Vicky, after a moment, said,
“I want to check out that fox’s earth I found on Tuesday. Straight on and then the left-hand fork.”
“I’ll catch you up, then.” The iced tracery of the small branches was beautiful, unearthly, cold. It attracted and warned. Charlie was entranced.
A scream. Ahead. Vicky. Not repeated. Charlie ran. She slipped, fell headlong and rose, snow shaking from her jacket as she raced towards the now silent scream.
No sign – but another, shorter scream. Charlie had enough time to think,
“Off duty. No radio. No alarm. No CS spray or taser,” but it did not slow her. Round a protruding bush. There.
Vicky on the ground, face up, face bloody, jacket torn and pulled up, jeans pulled down off her middle. A man attacking her. Young, quite small, pale, short fair hair. A police officer’s training kicking in: get good ID. The man looked up: startled, then calculating.
“Bonus points! Two cunts in one go.” She rushed him. He was surprised – but as she tried to grab him, he kicked her hard in the ankle. She recoiled and he hit her in the stomach. Nonetheless, she was determined and fit. She grabbed his collar and wrenched him sideways.
“Got him, sis!” Vicky had hold of one of his legs. This was not a time for the rule-book. Charlie hit him in the balls.
“Police. You’re nicked.” He still struggled a little, but only a little. She was able to use her phone. At first, her colleagues were amused to hear from her.
“I’ve got you a rapist,” she said. The sergeant didn’t say “Thanks, I’ve always wanted one of those,” though he later wished he had.
“May I be of any assistance?” It was a slim, tall, middle-aged woman, tastefully dressed - Mrs Verity Clissold-Harvey, the sisters knew to be a stalwart of the Women’s Institute and a near neighbour of their parents. Her dog was curious, but well-behaved. Charlie brushed snow off her jacket and declined. Her colleagues came. The man had been quiet, but when the cuffs were put on him, he writhed, jerked and swore. It was Charlie who was his target:
“Fucking cunt! Fucking do-gooding slag! You’ll be sorry for this!”
The man was Andrew Brown, aged 20. He was charged with attempted rape, with a Plan B charge of indecent assault added. When his case came up, outside the court, in uniform now, Charlie walked by a bald, muscular, heavily-built man who looked to be in his forties. He seemed to recognise her.
“Fucking bitch! Fucking stuck-up cunt! If my Andy gets sent down, you’ll fucking regret the day you were born!” Mr Brown senior, presumably. The threats and abuse were pretty much routine for a police officer. She could nick him for them, but it was hardly worth it. It was understandable for him to be upset about his son’s arrest.
The case did not go smoothly. Andrew Brown had a story and stuck to it. The girl had thrown a snowball at him when his back was turned and hit him at the base of his head. He was angry. He told her she deserved a good spanking. She made a face at him. He grabbed her. He’d pulled down her trousers to spank her. He knew that was wrong and he was sorry. Vicky denied all this, but somehow she looked like a girl who might throw a snowball at a man and make a face at him.
The prosecution lawyer produced Vicky’s ripped jacket.
“That was all done in trying to give Miss Parks a spanking, was it, Mr Brown?”
“She struggled a lot. I suppose she might have wondered if I meant to give her more than a spanking. I’m sorry if she did.”
When Charlie’s turn came, the defence lawyer asked her,
“Did you identify yourself as a police officer?”
“No, I…”
“Thankyou.” The judge intervened.
“Did you at any point tell the defendant you were a police officer, constable?”
“When I arrested him. When my sister and I had subdued him.” Charlie could see the way it was going and was not surprised when the prosecution withdrew the more serious charge. Brown then changed his plea on the charge of indecent assault to guilty. Six months in prison and a further twelve suspended for two years; but Andrew Brown would now be on the Sex Offenders Register.
A year and a month had gone by. Detective Constable Charlotte Parks was on leave and visiting her parents. Her sister Vicky, in the last year of her degree course, had come down for the weekend. Both daughters being around was special to Mr and Mrs Parks and they mentioned it to various friends and acquaintances, including Mrs Clissold-Harvey. Mr and Mrs Parks had gone shopping this day in Durham.
The winter had suddenly sharpened and again there was snow on the ground.
The sisters were out together. Neither had gone to the wood again since the attack by Andy Brown – Charlie because she was rarely home and Vicky because of bad memories and an illogical fear of what might lurk there. But she had decided to face and defeat those memories and doing it with her sister was ideal. Their route ran past Mrs Clissold-Harvey’s house. That lady saw them go and smiled. She had a phone call to make.
A pickup truck hurried down a lane and with more care, on to a track partly cleared of snow that led to a small car park on the edge of the wood.
The sisters entered the wood. Vicky slipped, Charlie grabbed her, but nearly went over herself. Their laughter was loud. They would take the same turning and maybe the fox’s earth would still be active. Deep in lively conversation, they paid little attention to small noises or what evil might lurk in the woods.
“Well, well, look who’s here.” Andy Brown in front of them.
“Hello, cunts!” Andy Brown’s father behind them.
Phone. 999. Charlie fumbled for her phone. If she had thrown off her gloves, she might have had a chance. The phone, unused, dropped from her gloved hand as Dave Brown’s hand chopped down on her shoulder. A brutal kick up the backside sent her sprawling in soft snow.
Vicky, seeing cruelty in Andy’s cold eyes, tried to wrench free a small branch of a fallen tree as a weapon. The tree had too recently been alive: the branch would not give way. Andy did not rush her. He walked towards her. She gave up her struggle and turned to run back where her sister was. The sight there froze her. The elder Brown had forced Charlie against a tree and his fist was smashing into her face: one, two, three. Blood, crushed human.
Andy seized her.
Two strong, angry, lustful, determined men. Two women, not their match. Blood on the snow. Flurries of snow as punches found their target, as bodies writhed, as clothes were ripped. For the triumphant men, their just revenge in sight, the joy of shrieks and whimpers. The joy of bra and panties appearing – matching pale yellow on Vicky, pure white on Charlie. The joy of seeing them fight, even while knowing they would lose. The joy of their fear, their pain, their humiliation, their recognition of male power and ancient justice.
Dave had wedged Charlie against a fallen treetrunk, where she snivelled and bled on to her pretty bra and her tight breasts. Andy was giving Vicky, on her plump, taut panty-decorated rump, the stern spanking that had been waiting for her. Grunting, fire in his small eyes, Dave kicked Charlie in the cunt. One, two, three, four. Cop gone. Feminist gone. Rescuer gone. Cunt ready.
And now, since the prey had been beaten into submission, the removal of the panties could be done with due ceremony.
A pair of tight little pale yellow panties were slipped from a tight, rounded, 20-year-old bottom and yes, a tight, carefully-shaven cunt.
A pair of white panties, no longer pristine but smudged and slightly marked with blood, descended as slowly as the strong man chose from a big, bouncy, quivering, inviting policewoman arse. And yes, 24-year-old luxuriantly-unshaven cunt, matured for so long just for him. Dave grinned at the hairiness and tugged it humorously.
Time for the prey to be fucked. No? The old can learn from the young. Dave was giving Charlie, on that fat inviting rear, the spanking she deserved. He spanked till she sobbed and whimpered while Andy’s hand was up Vicky’s tight little cunt.
And now at last, the unsheathing of the weapons, the moment of truth. Triumph; defeat. Ancient rhythm. Ancient pain. Ancient joy.
Two foolish girls fucked by two strong men: each man in each girl, front and back, two holes. Breasts squeezed. Deep mysteries broken into. Girls broken. Revenge taken.
At last. Two naked things quiver in the snow – snow pressed almost in to ice, snow spotted with a little blood, red on white, a pretty effect. Two men stand, looking down. They take photos on their phones, to be downloaded where the police will not find them and deleted from the phones. Two men leave. One makes a phone call.
Two naked things crawl towards one another. Too weak and hurt to stand, they hug and huddle against the cold, against the horror. Their temperatures drop. It cannot be long.
Footsteps crunch in snow. A tall, middle-aged woman looks down on the blueing huddle. She takes a photo. She separates the two things and dumps them each in its own snowdrift. She takes two more photos and departs.
Verity Clissold-Harvey’s phone sounds, a cheery ringtone. She takes the call.
“…………”
“You’ve left it really late. It might even be too late. The bitches are dying. They were embracing like lovers, so I pulled them apart.”
“…………”
“Oh, fair enough.”
“…………”
“That’s really good news! So exciting! So piratical! Look, Hugh, you mustn’t do any heavy lifting, so get the Browns to come back and do it. Just bring our car to the car park, the one on the far side.” She turned around, humming a tune. Back at the scene of the rape, she rubbed Charlie’s body and smacked her bottom before bringing her together with her sister again.
Two vehicles in the car park – a pickup and a Volvo. Two half-dead naked females dragged out of the wood, covered in a blanket and stuffed into the Volvo’s boot with no space to spare.
Charlie had come close to sinking past a point of no return. Now, slowly, some warmth returns and she can feel her sister’s body responding. She remembers the Browns, and cold, but does not know what has happened since. Have she and Vicky been rescued? She is thankful that Vicky is alive. She becomes aware that they are being driven in something, to somewhere.
With returning life and warmth comes returning pain.
She cannot tell for how long they drive. Then the engine sound and the slight vibration stop. Her brain is working now. Is this a car boot? Not good. The car boot opens. Things are still a blur. Voices sound and hands drag her out, her and Vicky. Her feet are dragged along gravel and concrete. Laughter. Inside a house. Into a room. Dropped on to a rug. Her and Vicky. Warmth. Pain.
“Well done, you two,” says Verity Clissold-Harvey to the Browns. “Much appreciated. Payment will be to your account today.” The implication is clear: off with you now. With a last look at the naked cop bitch and her sister, they leave.
Apart from the two naked beasts, there remain two people in the room, in comfortable armchairs: Verity Clissold-Harvey; Hugh Montroy Clissold-Harvey. He is a big man with a once-impressive physique for a banker, but in decline, nursing his damaged heart. The sisters begin to see more clearly. The Clissold-Harveys! How? Why?
Verity, warming up from the cold outside, was transported back to when, as a sixth-former, she had tortured that wretched little big-breasted milksop blonde who had objected to her humiliating a new girl. But then, she had only had her close female friends to share the tale with. Now, she had Hugh.
She pinched Charlie’s cheek; then she gave her big, thawing bottom one good slap.
“Will you feel revived enough to fuck these two oiks, darling?” she asked. “I would so much like to watch. I’ve been dreaming about this since the elder slut was still in school uniform.”
“Like billy-o I will,” he replied. “Like you, I’ve been watching their witless smiles and wobbling rears since the elder one was in school uniform. Pity we haven’t got her now in her kissogram police-girl outfit.”
“Oh, but that can be sorted, darling! That sweet little sex-shop in Barnard Castle has policewoman outfits with black stockings, suspenders and the shortest imaginable skirts! Think of dressing this conceited lower-class slut in one of those! The humiliation!” Not only her husband’s smile, but also a movement in his trousers, told that he liked her idea. “Make her bend over and her great fat posterior would stick out of the skirt!” she continued. “Oh, we must!”
He composed himself.
“It would be a good idea, darling, to talk a little business before we both get too carried away. Can we trust the Browns now? If not, I can have them dealt with.” Verity stretched out her long legs and, on reflection, rested her feet on Vicky’s bottom.
“I believe we can now, darling. I know that wretched youth seemed to be building up to blackmailing me for our previous activities, but I dealt with that by leading him into trouble in the wood that first time. I had a word with his father, too and I don’t anticipate more trouble, though I’ll keep my eagle eye on them both.”
“Very good. At least they won’t try blackmail now, as they’re as deep in this business as we are and much more obvious suspects. Now I know you want to keep these two for some time, to train them to do tricks and for play…”
“And for you to fuck, darling.”
“Absolutely, and of course, you, darling, have a strap-on.”
“Naughty!”
“Which I know you prefer to shove up a girl’s rear passage. But we should not keep them forever. Their value would depreciate. A year or so to train them properly and enjoy them and then my clients in Hong Kong and Singapore will want them. Then we’ll be able to afford that pied a terre in the Bahamas.”
“That would be lovely, darling. Now please fuck these bitches – or would it be wise to tie them up first?”
“I do love your practicality, darling. I think one ankle handcuffed to one wrist for each of them will do nicely.” Verity stamped on Charlie’s hand, which was showing signs of purposeful behaviour.
“Why not mix them up? The fat-bottomed cop’s ankle cuffed to the student slut’s wrist and vice versa?” A deep, throaty laugh.
“Brilliant. Let’s do it.”
And so it was done. Hugh had his most rewarding fucks since his heart attack. Verity’s strap-on conquered Charlie’s arsehole and Vicky’s too. The captives were broken and trained.
Meanwhile, a huge police hunt went on for their disappeared colleague, her sister and their abductors or killers. A site of disturbance in the woods was found, but no clues of consequence. Tyre-tracks on the track to the car park were consistent with the Browns’ pickup, but also with many thousands of other vehicles in the North-east. The Browns were obvious suspects because of Andy’s earlier offence, but they had an alibi and nothing against them could be found. No-one thought to check the house of those pillars of the community, the Clissold-Harveys. The boot of their car and the blanket were well-cleaned, but in the event, there was no need. Neighbours and acquaintances noticed Verity went out less than she used to, but assumed Hugh was needing more care. She was such a loving wife, so exemplary!
In due course, a rich man in Singapore and a canny investor in Hong Kong received the goods they had ordered.