Rating
CHAPTER SIX
SIX HOURS
“Give me six hours to cut down a tree and I’ll spend the first four sharpening the axe”
Abraham Lincoln, US President (1809-1865)
“They sow the wind and reap the whirlwind”
The Book of Hosea (ch.8: v.7)
1976
Melissa fought.
It was strange. From puberty, her darkest, secret, unspoken sexual fantasies had been about control and rape and ‘bdsm’, not that she knew that acronym back then, if it even existed.
She had been too ashamed to reveal such thoughts to Charlie. She figured she would finally tell him once they were married. In her daydreams, she had switched, sometimes she was the aggressor and other times the victim.
Reality was totally different.
Her karma.
Maybe this was punishment for her nasty fantasies ? He wasn’t like a rapist of her imaginings. He was calm, almost disinterested, pretty much jerking himself off inside her. He simply held her wrists on the ground and writhed about on top, his erection hard and painful within her dry, unwilling flesh.
When he flooded her he had given her an almost quizzical look as if he couldn’t understand why on earth she might object to him using her. Him. John fucking Cumber, the college stud and every girl’s dream. He was just sowing his oats, after all.
Afterwards he had been embarrassed but not repentant. He made her rinse herself in the grimy lake, destroying the evidence. Smirking, he threatened to tell her boyfriend that she had been a willing participant, that she had loved it.
“You’ll love it.” He’d told her.
Perhaps he even really thought she would ?
“And if Charlie comes after me,” he said to her, nonchalantly tucking his dick back in his hipsters, “Trust me. I’ll fuck him up. Big time.”
*** *** ***
Day Eight
John Cumber was fucked. Big time.
He sat staring at the trading screens. Alongside him Walt Furness, two other Agents, plus several investment bankers and John’s senior executives were all watching the Corporation’s share price tick up and down at around the $15 dollars level.
It was Wednesday, a whole week since the kidnap. It had been the longest week of his life. Silence chilled the room as John’s cell phone rang.
The digital display was blank again.
“Yes.” He answered, all eyes on him. One of the Agents stuck his thumb up. The tracking technology had kicked in.
“John.” Said the smooth, taunting male voice. Already experts had identified it from the earlier tape as an American national, accent most likely Caucasian Southern Californian, the inflexion and vocabulary estimated at mid-thirties or under. More detailed psychological analysis was ongoing.
“Yes.”
“I will say this only once. You have ten minutes and I need to see one billion dollars in the following bank account.”
The voice gave the name of a bank on the Caribbean island of St. Vincent. The number of the 8-digit account was the same as that day’s date in American format: 03 – 07 – 20 – 07.
“If it doesn’t arrive on time, John, we will never speak again. Gotta go.”
“Wait !”
There was a calm pause. “Yes ?”
“What about my family ? My children ? And my wife ? How do I know you’ll free them all once I’ve paid you the money.”
There was a chuckle. “You don’t.”
“But you have to give me some ...” John Cumber clenched his fists, losing it in exasperation and rage. Walt Furness reached out for the phone but John flapped his hand away.
“Come on, John.” The voice said, a sudden detached coldness entering his tone. “You’ll love it. Trust me.”
*** *** ***
07.47 hrs
Susan knelt and licked between the woman’s legs.
They were outdoors again, in the same breakfast area. It was another cloudless, blue-skied morning. She wasn’t sure what day it was any longer. She was delirious with lack of sleep, worry and hatred.
The woman hadn’t showered. Her labia were puffy and gaping with rancid semen oozing from them down to her anal cleft below. She smelt vaguely of yesterday’s perfume, fishing boats and sweat.
Whatever it was that motivated these people it wasn’t just money. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t even just sex or power. It was something else. Something that made them want every moment, every act, to be as awful as it could be.
The woman could easily have washed, showered, even just wiped herself. But she has chosen not to, and Susan thought that had to be calculated.
Nevertheless, she swirled her tongue and then drilled it, pointed, as deep as she could. She considered lesbianism disgusting, immoral even. But she knew she had no choice.
She guessed the woman was a similar age to her, between forty five and fifty. Still in quite good shape, dressed in a navy cotton top that barely covered her midriff and turquoise Arab slippers.
She felt the woman’s fingernails digging into her scalp, guiding her head.
“Good. Now do my ass a little.”
Bile rose up from Susan’s stomach, making her eyes burn. She eased the woman’s knees apart and helped pull her butt forwards, giving access to her anal rosette. She lowered her face and pushed her tongue out.
“Pay the fine. Then serve the time.” The woman sighed.
She sounded American. She seemed to be in charge, along with the dreadful man the others referred to as the Chameleon.
Susan’s knees throbbed and her ankles ached from kneeling in the same position for so long. Her naked back felt sunburnt and her tongue was numb. She had already been doing this for half an hour but the woman seemed in no rush to reach a climax.
She winced as the woman trailed her long fingernails through Susan’s greasy, unwashed hair.
How much more of this could she take ?
*** *** ***
1994
Charlie licked his dry lips.
You have one new message.
He clicked it open.
Dear Red Mist,
Thanks for your email. It’s always nice for authors to receive feedback like yours. I’m glad you enjoyed Two out of Three Ain’t Bad in particular. I don’t know how old you are but that phrase was the title of a song in my youth. In fact the whole story is kind of based around what I feel about that era. The mid-late Seventies. Anyway, thanks for writing. Feel free to email me direct if you have any more comments or ideas.
Famous Blue Raincoat
Charlie cracked a beer and began his response.
They exchanged occasional emails, to and fro, for a couple of months. Gradually it ceased being an impersonal dialogue and instead became correspondence between friends, even though they were only a couple of faceless persons at either end of optic fibres and two screens.
At least, that’s how it seemed.
On the morning of Christmas Eve 1994, he awoke at dawn, went onto the balcony and fired up his heavy, so-called portable computer.
The sunrise was the colour of burnt orange. He was staying at the Hotel Des Mille Collines in war-torn Rwanda. The analogue signal was intermittent and the page loaded slowly. She had sent her reply from California after he’d turned in for the night.
Dear Red Mist,
Thanks for your last email. You’re correct, I do write from the heart. I have recently been working on a new story. It’s called Sow the Wind, Reap the Whirlwind. That’s based on a line from the Old Testament. It’s kind of inspired by the desire for revenge for something that happened to me many years ago. Not that inspired is really the right word. I’m over it now, pretty much. But it still hurts coz it screwed up my life. So I write to get help get it out of my system. Anyway, gotta go. Write again soon.
Yours, FBR
Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind !
Charlie felt goose pimples up his spine as he started typing.
He travelled up country with Gator for two days. They were on a secret mission to take out some bad guys. It was 48 hours before he was able to open her reply.
Dear RM,
Wow ! This is all pretty intense. I’ve never told anybody any of this stuff before. Somehow it feels easier the fact I don’t know you at all. You’re my anonymous, unpaid psychiatrist ! How’s that feel ? Cheap, huh ? LOL.
Anyway, you asked for it. The truth behind much of my writing is that I was raped. Many years ago now.
The tiny hairs on the back of Charlie’s neck stood bolt upright.
The rape itself was bad enough, but the consequences were worse. I lost the love of my life. The only man I ever loved. You see, I couldn’t tell him I’d been raped. Well, could I have done ? I don’t know now. It’s all so long ago. What’s done is done. You can’t turn the clock back and it’s too late now. He’ll never know.
My boyfriend Charlie had this dangerous streak below the surface. Besides, the rapist threatened he’d fuck up my boyfriend if I told anyone. But he could tell something was up. So I stupidly admitted to Charlie I’d had this one night stand. I thought he’d understand. I was young and naive. I didn’t know much about men back then. Not that I do now.
So we broke up. And Charlie has never spoken to me since. He vanished overseas, never to return. Somebody even told me he’s dead. I could forget the rape now, almost, but I can’t because I’m still living with its consequences every day. My heart contains this void for my boyfriend that has never been filled. I bet you’re sorry you asked now, huh ! Sob stories ain’t so much fun as bdsm stories, right ? Must cut it short. I’ve got to go roast a turkey. I hope you’re well, wherever you are. Keep in touch. Happy Christmas.
FBR
For the first time, Charlie didn’t start typing his reply immediately. He sat, staring at the words on the screen for maybe an hour, he wasn’t sure. Time stopped. Eventually, he undressed, slowly removing his sweat-soaked tee, underpants and switchblade in a daze. He stood under the shower for ten minutes.
The shower of the best hotel in Rwanda was neither as powerful nor as cold as he would have liked. He preferred needles of freezing water that cut into his scarred, muscled skin like shards of ice, numbing his brain yet sharpening his senses to fever pitch.
He had always loved soaking in hot baths after a battle, steaming away his aches and pains, washing away the blood.
But showers he best enjoyed cold.
Hurting. Setting his blood racing.
Preparing him for war.
*** *** ***
Day Eight
John ran his fingers through his hair.
He was poorer by one billion dollars. Type that out: US$ 1,000,000,000. That’s one fuckin’ thousand fuckin’ million bucks.
Walt Furness put his hand down on John’s shoulder. There were now just the two of them in the room.
“John.” Walt said. “We have confirmation. The money’s arrived. As I suspected, formally the bank is refusing us direct access but they have confirmed - off the record - the account is already empty again.”
He shrugged. Trust me, the voice had said.
“I’ve put some good guys on it.” Walt continued. “The best. But I’m afraid the chance of us tracing it through the maze any time soon is pretty much zero. I don’t know who this guy is but I know two things. One, he’s not alone. And two, whoever they are, they know what they’re doing.”
He looked up at Walt and gave him a silent nod of agreement.
Walt paused.
“John ?” Walt finally said, his tone changing. “John, I gotta ask. Do you recall what the guy said at the end of the call ?”
He sighed. The words hung in the air between the two men.
Sure he remembered.
Walt looked him firmly in the eyes.
“He said; come on John. You’ll love it. Trust me.”
John tried to meet his gaze.
“You have any idea what he meant, John ? You’ll love it. That’s kind of a weird thing for somebody to say. You have any idea at all what that means ?”
*** *** ***
08.50 hrs
“Trust me.” said Gator, brandishing his machine pistol.
“We know how to use these things. And these too.” He gestured to his belt where a fearsome machete and a leather riding crop both hung from his waist.
Around the swimming pool, they had stuck five sets of graphics of pink feet. Like the Pink Panther’s footprints ! The rule was that each of the five guests had to stand on a designated pair of footprints and not move outside them.
“Step off the prints,” Gator threatened, raising his riding crop, and the person standing next to you gets a dozen lashes with this.”
The naked family was arranged with the matriarch Susan Cumber at the head of the pool. She was standing with her feet apart inside the pink footprints. Her hands were on her head with her fingers laced together. Her heavy breasts were decorated with red and purple blotches. Her pubic mound was plucked bald. Her mouth was dry with the taste of cunnilingus and analingus. She was dreading what she soon would have to say.
But she was courageously trying to hold it all together in front of her children.
Next to her, down one side of the pool stood her brunette elder daughter Lorna. Like her mommy, she carefully kept her feet in the footprints and her hands on her head. Her mouth tasted of the blowjobs she’d already given that morning.
But despite everything she still looked beautiful, like a nude model posing outdoors for a calendar shoot.
About twenty feet along from her was her redheaded fiancé, Gene. Patches of his freckled skin were sunburnt lobster red, like his face, shoulders and his shaved groin. The rest of his body was milk white. His buttocks sported yellow and red welts from a caning the previous evening.
At the shallow end of the rectangular pool was a viewing gallery, occupied by most of the mercenaries, seated and dressed in their usual mix of combat shirts and khaki shorts, ripped Ts and leathers.
Next, opposite Gene, Ryan Cumber stood naked, once the tall and handsome son and heir. His skin was pale and grubby, his eyes sunken. Unlike the others, he was still handcuffed.
His was the only one of their five exhausted bodies that looked like it still had some fight in it.
Completing the star, opposite her sister, and next to their mother, was Rachel. The arrival of the blonde, top-heavy younger daughter had triggered shocked gasps from her family and raucous cheers from the audience.
She too was naked except for a tight latex sports bra that supported her new E-cup airbags. It barely covered them and the tight white fabric revealed her nipples and veins. The word Lesbian across the bra had been crossed out and Cock Lover had been stencilled in purple above it.
She was perched awkwardly inside the pink feet as if her balance was altered.
All five prisoners sweated in the morning sun, feet wide apart on the pink prints, faces turned towards Gator, hands on their heads, except for Ryan.
The time for cells, separation and mind games was apparently over.
“Silence.” Gator bellowed like the master of ceremonies at a big boxing fight. “For your host please ... the Chameleon !”
Charlie was dressed in full mercenary kit for the occasion: peaked cap, black uniform, boots, weaponry.
He stood at the shallow end of the pool, directly opposite Susan.
“Well, folks, I have some good news, and some bad news.”
He smiled apologetically.
“Let’s get the bad news out of the way first, shall we ? I’m afraid that your beloved husband and father, John Cumber, has failed to come up with our money.”
“No !” Rachel gasped, moving both hands to cover her face.
Charlie paused for effect until the girl had snapped her hands back behind her head.
“You will be punished for that interruption later. As will anybody else who moves, speaks or utters any noise out of turn. Nod if you all understand ?”
Five horrified, obedient heads bobbed up and down.
“As I was saying, John Cumber has failed to pay your ransom. He’s asked for more time which I have been gracious enough to grant him.”
He halted briefly again, giving them time to appreciate his incredible generosity.
“So, now for the good news. He has offered his lovely wife Susan’s body to me as ... er ... interest on the money in the meantime.”
It was evident that her brave son Ryan in particular was desperate to object but the boy managed to control himself, staring across enraged at Charlie, his mouth agape.
“Listen.”
There was a slight crackle from two outdoor speakers fixed on the wall.
“No ! Wait !” John Cumber’s recorded voice floated urgently over the pool water as if he was actually stood there with all of them.
“Gotta go. Catch you later.” A male voice replied over the speakers.
“Please ... f ... please ... fuck ... my wife.” John Cumber pleaded.
The tape excerpt finished almost as soon as it had begun.
Charlie opened his palms to imply ‘I told you so’.
“But I’m afraid the flabby old lady there is a pretty low return on our investment on her own. Fortunately, I understand that Susan has something of interest to add that will help keep all my friends patient too.”
He turned and gestured at the grinning, watching Reptiles. “Isn’t that correct, Susie, my dear ?”
She grimaced and nodded her head, her bottom lip quivering.
“What is it, Susie ? Out with it now.”
“Please ... f ... please ... fuck my daughters too.” Susan Cumber pleaded, then burst into tears.
*** *** ***
1995
Dear Red Mist,
You asked about my son. He’s really the crux of this story. He was born nine months after the rape. For medical reasons, I couldn’t take the contraceptive pill and my boyfriend and I had always used rubbers, or him just pulling out. Hey, remember this was the Seventies.
The rapist made me wash the evidence in a scummy lake afterwards and I assumed I’d gotten rid of everything. But three months later, I’m definitely pregnant. So I’m back at home, not even 19 years old yet, knocked up, with a rapist’s kid in my belly.
And everybody thought I’d had a one-night-stand coz that’s what I had to tell them. Fucked, or what? My parents wouldn’t consider me having an abortion, so I gave birth to my son.
And here the story gets even more twisted. After he’s born - I love my baby boy of course - but I still think his father raped me. But when Lenny’s six months old, I see a smile, something, a distinctive look in his eyes. It was uncanny.
I only had a few mementos of Charlie. One was a strand of his hair, entwined with a lock of mine that I kept in a little silver box. Back then DNA testing was less advanced and not normally available but I lied about a possible genetic illness and fortunately the hospital had my son analysed.
Guess what ?
The words blurred on the screen as retired Sergeant Charles Victor, MM, DCM, wiped a tear from his eye. He hadn’t cried since July 1976.
My son is after all Charlie’s child. No doubt. From probably the very last time we ever made love. And yet he doesn’t even know it. He never will. And so my son doesn’t have a father, and the love of my life never knew he had a son.
All because this fucking bastard raped me, when he could have jerked himself off inside pretty much any other girl at college back then, and she would have loved it. Sick, huh ?
But you know the final twist ? The sickest part of all ? That boy who raped me ? He turned out to be some hugely successful guy, famous and rich, and even now, every few weeks I glance by mistake at the newspaper headlines in a drug store, or catch the evening news on TV, and there I see his damned smug face grinning out at me, like it did the night he ruined my life.
And you know what ? That makes me want to ruin his. Forgive me, but it really does. Sadly, of course, I can’t do that in real life, but I can fantasise about it. Sow the wind, reap the whirlwind. So I guess that’s why I write. To get it all out of my system.
And that, Red Mist, is my whole story.
Happy New Year.
*** *** ***
09.52 hrs
Before long, the poolside orgy was in full swing.
The mercenaries smoked, drank coffee or swigged bottles of chilled beer and basked in the hot sunshine, watching the three tableaux. Music blared out from the speakers; appropriately Jeff Booze’s ‘Carving my Name in the Sun’ album.
One tableau featured the homosexual coupling of Gene and Ryan.
Komodo, the gay Reptile, was directing proceedings for the camera. Ryan was the only participant who still required plastic zip ties to control him. He was bent over a sun lounger, face down, but the ties were invisible and on camera it appeared as if he was the willing recipient of Gene’s buttfucking.
Ryan wasn’t struggling because his own genitals had been tied with fishing line to the wooden lounger. If he moved the cord ripped agonisingly on his dick and balls. Komodo had zapped him his ass with an electric prod to stop him shouting.
Ryan gritted his teeth and let Gene apply a generous coating of lube. Then Ryan surrendered his virgin backdoor to his intended-brother-in-law’s dick.
“Oh yeah !” Ryan sobbed out Komodo’s prepared script. “M ... man that’s good Gene. Fuck my ass.”
Komodo and his threatening prod stayed out of shot. As far as the camera lens was concerned, this was an enthusiastic, consensual, gay seeding.
“Gonna give it you good, butt lover.” Gene grunted back, in corny fashion.
It would be anonymously uploaded to a gay videos site.
The second scene starred Susan Cumber in a solo performance.
Alone with a huge, green, glistening vegetable.
The hot 45 yr old was lying on her back on a sun bed, her legs as widely splayed as she could get them, ramming the vegetable dildo to-and-fro inside her bald cunt.
Two cameras were on her; one close up on her face, the other between her perspiring thighs, its microphone picking up every slosh and slush as it disappeared inside her then emerged again, distorting her wet, pink labia.
The scene would be anonymously uploaded under a mature tag.
“My name is Susan Cumber and my husband’s a cucumber.” She sobbed.
The final coupling was an incestuous 69 by Lorna and Rachel.
The two almost naked chicks were lying sandwiched together on a double sun bed, the elder brunette below, while her younger sister’s pussy rode her face. Rachel was grinding her hips up and down while she knelt forward and buried her lips in the ‘v’ of Lorna’s thighs.
Rachel’s pendulous new E-cup tits looked massive despite her bra. Lorna was reaching up caressing them, while both girls sobbed ecstatically.
“Mmm, make me cum, Sis, pleass ...”
Another pair of cameras recorded their muff munching, rug chewing action in great detail. Their faces were easily recognisable.
They would be uploaded not just with lesbian tags but to celebrity sites as well. Their privileged social circle would be keen to know what they were up to.
Meanwhile, a third lens was set up further away on a gantry to get a long shot of the two girls enjoying cunnilingus in the foreground, while their mum frigged herself with a foot long cucumber behind them and, just visible, the two young men engaged in rhythmic anal sex.
*** *** ***
Overnight
Although thankfully unaware of what was happening several thousand miles to the east of him at that precise moment, John Cumber’s shoulders nevertheless sagged. He was sipping black coffee to fight off his exhaustion.
Trust me, the voice had said.
“Walt. That list of people I gave you. My possible enemies.”
The grizzled Agent looked at him expectantly.
“I have one more idea.” John continued. “A long shot. But there was a woman. Well, a girl really. Her name was ... is ... Melissa.” He paused, blushing. “Melissa Jones, I think.”
“Yeah ?” Walt replied cautiously, after a silence.
“It’s something that happened a long time ago. I’m kind of ashamed now. I was young. But I said those exact words to her; you’ll love it, trust me.”
“You sure ?”
“Sure as I am sat here now. I can remember saying them.”
“And ? The caller was a guy.”
“She had a boyfriend. Charlie something. Chuck. I forget what. We were all at college together. Like I said, a long shot. But I thought I should mention it.”
Walt nodded. “Names begin with M and C, huh ? Like those Latin numerals on the DVD.” He tugged his earlobe pensively. “And this Melissa Jones. You any idea where she lives now ?”
John shook his head. “None at all. But I think her family lived out in California. Some suburb of L.A.”
Walt looked disappointedly at him. The regret and guilt in John’s eyes was unavoidable.
You’ll love it, trust me.
Uneasily, the two men shifted apart from each other. It was 4 a.m.
“Well, I’ll get onto it right now.”
*** *** ***
12.54 hrs
Melissa pushed the tray under the bars of Ryan’s cell.
The naked, butt-fucked, starving boy looked at her.
She grinned. “Lunchtime.”
The tray was made of flexible red plastic. On it was a white paper plate. And on the plate was a thick slice of unappetising Prison Loaf.
She watched him get down on his knees and stare at his meal. It resembled a desiccated lump of orange, green and brown granola bar. It looked disgusting and tasted worse.
“Eat.” She repeated. “That’s all you’re going to get.”
He picked it up and sniffed. He was famished. He took a cautious bite.
She chuckled as he gagged and his eyes watered.
She’d baked it herself. The loaf’s ingredients were imitation cheese, dehydrated potato flakes, powdered milk, drained beans, grated carrots and spinach, raisins, tomato paste and breadcrumbs. No seasoning.
Ryan chewed, his brown eyes watered, forcing the mouthful down.
Melissa had chosen what they refer to as Special Management Meals in US penitentiaries. Imagine eating something that is considered a punishment even compared with regular prison slop.
“Another.”
He turned pale and took a second mouthful.
She watched, delighted. According to reports, just one week on prison loaf can turn even the hardest con into a meek lamb. Its use is being challenged as cruel and unusual punishment in several states under the Eighth Amendment. It smelt a bit like the fodder they give to animals at a zoo.
Nevertheless, it contained the basic protein, fibre and nutrients that a human needs to survive. Hungry enough, a human is just another animal. He or she will eat anything. Ryan’s wet eyes met hers as he chomped through the bland taste and cardboard texture.
Melissa intended to inflict this diet on Ryan Cumber for as long as he was her guest !
*** *** ***
14.50 hrs
Six hours had passed since his speech to the Cumbers that morning.
Inside his chilled, air-conditioned bedroom suite overlooking the swimming pool, Charlie turned from the window. He sat down at his PC and clicked it out of sleep mode.
On various websites, untraceable clips of the Cumbers were already attracting views and hits. Even the Feds wouldn’t be able to put everything back into the box. The viral images would live forever now, out in the ether, stored on hard drives, printed in colour, recommended to friends, jerked over for years to come.
He watched the recording of Rachel doing a 69 with Lorna. The younger sister was only 21. But he had waited until she came of age.
Whereas Melissa had been only 18 when John raped her.
He got up from his seat and took down a battered notebook from the shelf. It was slim, leather-bound, dog-eared, even had a bloodstain. He had bought it at a market stall in Rwanda. He opened it up. For 13 years he had been carrying it with him, collecting quotations, sayings, lyrics. He handwrote them down whenever he came across them.
They were mostly to do with vengeance, revenge, justice. He had collected over six hundred but he had a couple of dozen favourites. He opened the notebook at random.
He smiled. On the page he’d written out the lyrics to a song by Bob Dylan. It was about Old Reilly’s daughter, who gives her nubile body to an evil judge to save her father from the gallows, only to find next morning her father’s broken body hanging from the noose anyway.
The name of the song was Seven Curses.