Rating
CHAPTER TWO
TWO OUT OF THREE AIN’T BAD
“When one woman strikes at the heart of another, she seldom misses, and the wound is invariably fatal.”
From Les Liaisons Dangereuses (1782) by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, French Novelist
Day Five
It was well before dawn in America, when the envelope was delivered to the night guards at John Cumber’s gatehouse. They even signed for it. To be fair to them, there had been so many comings and goings those past four days, they couldn’t be blamed too much for not getting a better identity fix on just another delivery guy.
“White, medium height, stocky, moustache, maybe thirties ?”
Well, their description should maybe narrow down the suspect list to five million or so adult males!
The date was Sunday, March 4th 2007. A sleepless John Cumber was drinking coffee brought to him by Catalina, a housemaid, flicking through newspapers and unopened mail aimlessly, when he came across the hand delivered envelope.
It appeared innocuous enough, a thin brown packet of the type used by companies worldwide. ‘JOHN CUMBER, PRIVATE’ was all that was handwritten on it, in big, black upper case letters.
It was when he opened it that his heart stopped. There was a single 10 x 8 inches glossy photograph. It was a photo of Susan’s face. She had been crying and looked terrified. He cautiously turned it over to the other side.
Dear Mr. Cumber,
Welcome to hell.
If you want to see your bitch and brats again, then follow my instructions very closely. If you disobey me, even once, you will never see them again. Never. Full stop. No negotiation.
Clear ? You will be able to accuse me of many things in the coming weeks, but being unclear is not one of them.
Now, I own a lot of Cumber Corporation stock. The first rule is that I do not want the share price to fall, whatever happens. On Friday they closed at 15 dollars and 5 cents. If the price closes below 15 dollars at any time during our future ‘discussions’, you will lose one family member for each day that happens. So, the fourth time it happens, game over.
I suggest you use that personal fortune of yours, if the share price ever needs propping up. Buy, buy buy ! as the saying goes. That’s all for now. By the way, Susan sends her love. We’ll be in touch again soon.
Enjoy !
X
John read through the letter so many times he lost count. At least, forty. He weighed each consonant, every word, each nuance, every phrase; ‘the coming weeks’, ‘the first rule’, ‘Susan sends her love’, and the signature ‘X’.
The bitter coffee reacted with the ulcerous bile in his gut as he clenched and unclenched his fists. If he could have traded every damned cent of his fortune to have the fucking Mr X who had sent him this letter in the room right now, he would have shaken on the deal in a second.
He kept the letter private for an hour. It somehow made him feel closer to his family, now that he at least knew something. But, at a quarter to seven, his sweaty palm picked up the phone and dialled Walt Furness.
*** *** ***
08.00 hrs
She glanced at her watch, coordinating the time.
Then she lifted the headphones from Susan Cumber’s ears.
“Depressing stuff isn’t it ?”
The patrician eyes looked back at her sullenly. They were watery, like peridot stones, no longer so defiant. Not beaten yet, but certainly down taking a count on the canvas.
She placed her gloved finger under Susan’s elegant chin.
“Chin up, Sue. Things can get a lot worse, you know. Now, have you thought about my little question ? Got an answer for me yet ?”
Susan’s eyes dissolved into tears.
“I’ll do it. Whatever you want.” A pause. “Just don’t touch my children.”
The Chameleon smiled inside her mask.
“Sure. That’s a deal.” She replied in her most soothing, reassuring tone. “But if I’m to abide by it, then I want to be certain that you’re one hundred per cent clear about your side of the agreement. You will be able to accuse me of many things, Sue darling, but being unclear is not one of them. Okay ?”
Susan nodded, snivelling.
“You see, it won’t just be a bit of fucking, Sue. It’s the whole nine yards. You’ve got to do everything my boys want. No saying no. Whenever and whatever they want. Any of them.”
The gorgeous, pampered creamy skin scrunched in a scowl. Funny how quick the worry lines are to appear once you inject a bit of stress into a cosseted life.
“Wh ... what do you m ... mean ?”
“I mean if you say no to anybody, to anything, even just once, our deal is off and Lorna and Rachel will both reap the whirlwind.”
“Okay, just don’t involve them. Please. That’s the deal.”
The Chameleon nodded reassuringly.
“Sure. You’re a good mommy Sue. But another thing, some of my boys ain’t gonna be happy about sharing just one middle aged hole between all of them. Not when there’s young booty about.”
She put her hand between Susan’s thighs and eased three fingers inside her. They slid into the wetness and the message was clear.
“You like giving head ? Did you blow John sometimes ?”
Susan screwed her eyes shut. She gave a tiny nod.
“Excellent. Good girl, Sue. A lot, or a little ?”
Susan breathed in deeply and shook her head.
“Not often, huh ? You swallow ?”
There was a pause before a pitiful sob broke the silence.
“I want to know, Sue. Did you swallow John’s pecker snot ?”
Susan whispered eventually. “Once.”
The Chameleon grinned inside her mask. It was just as she hoped.
“Once in twenty five years ? Right at the start, I guess. Early days, huh ? And I figure that means you didn’t like that taster too much, right ?”
Susan sobbed quietly, shaking her head.
“Don’t cry, Sue. Heck, I don’t much like the stuff either !”
She looked down at her three fingers, soiled with rape juice.
“I wonder if Lorna likes the taste. I reckon she must have already tried blowing Gene, don’t you ?”
Susan’s eyes opened and she blinked back tears.
“Pl ... please ...”
“Let’s change the subject. How about the asshole, Sue ? I’ve got a few butthole addicts on my team. You occasionally let John in your backdoor ?”
Susan simply stared at her. She shook her head from side to side.
“No ? Not once ? Oh fuck. My boys are gonna love that.”
Susan squinted, her eyes clearly searching for mercy, but finding none.
“There are twenty of my boys in all, Sue. You’ve only met twelve of them so far. One of them is gay but the other nineteen are good, horny heterosexual brutes. Two-three-times-a-day guys. What’s that ? Fifty, sixty loads a day ?”
She held up sticky fingers as if she was using them to count.
“And one final thing, you’ve got to be real enthusiastic. Maybe some guys like it when a woman just lies there, but mine will want to see some real gusto. Tongue-kissing, trash talk, raw enthusiasm. And you’ll say yes to any kinky suggestions they have too. You got all that ?”
Susan Cumber shut her green eyes again and her jaw line froze.
“Yes ... I understand.”
“Well, that’s settled then. I guess your baby girls are going to be real chuffed to be spared having to take their share of the loads.” She chuckled at her own pun.
Susan’s eyes blinked open fiercely.
“Now I get my say.”
Stupid bitch. As if she had anything to negotiate with.
“What ?”
“I want to see my children. I need to know they’re safe.”.
“Sure you can. But not just yet.”
“Why not ?”
“Because I fucking say so.”
Susan paused, evidently gauging how far to push it.
“When ?”
“A few days, if you keep up your side of the deal.”
Susan’s tearstained eyes studied her. The mask helped. Not only for scaring the shit out of them and for hiding her identity a while.
No, it helped when the Chameleon needed to lie as well.
“Okay.” Susan capitulated. “Just don’t touch any of them in the meantime”.
*** *** ***
08.00 hrs
At exactly eight, Lorna Jackson Cumber, woke and screamed at the dreadful apparition.
Somebody had walked into her cell. The person was wearing a facemask. It was a dreadful blue-green rubber hood in the shape of a lizard’s head, with eyeholes, nostrils and a mouth slit, like something out of an old horror movie.
She swallowed her screams and begged. “Please, nooooo !”
Everything ached. Her calves above all, but her feet, ankles, thighs, back, neck and arms throbbed with agonising pain from spending all night standing up.
“Please,” she repeated, “whoever you are.”
“Shut up, bitch.”
It was a man’s voice. Harsh, flat with no immediately distinguishable accent. It might have been American, Canadian, Australian, British, even a fluent English speaker from another country. The sound was somehow expressionless, hollow and ruthlessly professional.
His hands reached out and seized the cleavage of her wedding dress. With barely a pause, he tore the silk and lace creation off her shoulders and down the middle from her chest to her waist, and rent it asunder.
She screamed again. Despite her shock and fear - sick to her stomach - Lorna was awake enough, and clear headed enough, to know she was about to be raped. Guys didn’t shred dresses if they took no for an answer. She wasn’t a virgin. Not quite. She would rather have sex with somebody than die. But she couldn’t just accept it.
His hands pulled and ripped every last piece from her body until she stood in just her matching white panties and bra. She couldn’t fight him. She couldn’t move. So she tried words.
“Look, Mister, it doesn’t have to be this way. I ...”
She winced as her bra was brutally pulled away from her breasts until it tore the clasp at the back, the spaghetti hoops over her shoulders ripped and the whole thing fell away, leaving her topless.
Before she could compute that indignity, he did the same thing to her lace trimmed pants, ripping so that the delicate material exploded in his grip.
She stood naked. Shock, shame and dread coursed through her.
Finally, he paused, dropping the remaining shreds of her underwear, stepping back to admire her body.
She could see his ebony pupils moving in the eyeholes, appraising her. He looked up and down her body, lingering between her legs and on her breasts and face.
And then he started to unbuckle his belt.
“Please,” she attempted one last time, “look, at least let me off this wall.”
He didn’t even undress properly. He just dropped his pants to his ankles. His body looked hard, older but without an ounce of fat, and there was a jagged purple scar that looked like an old bullet wound in his right hip. His penis was hard and purple too, jutting upwards towards her.
“No !” she howled, starting to cry, flexing her helpless fingers.
He hunkered down in front of her, so that his erection was the correct height between her spread thighs. She was bone dry but that didn’t seem to concern him in the slightest.
He spat through the mouth flap onto his fingers and roughly manipulated her arid labia apart. She felt him wetting her inside and out, raising his hand to his mouth again to add a second dollop of saliva, smearing it into her.
Then he simply forced his penis up into her in a single thrust.
“Noooo ...” She gasped, incapable of finding the energy to scream.
She was helpless, unable to move more than an inch or two in any direction. Like a stuck butterfly. She had no choice but to stand there and take it, up against the wall.
About ten years before, at high school, Lorna’s class had attended a lecture about date rape. The memory flooded back to her now, the sunshine streaming through the classroom windows, her teenage friends’ morbidly fascinated faces, the homely woman who had come to give them the lecture, and the sexy male assistant who had provided them hints on self defence.
But this was something quite different.
She turned her face to the side, away from his rubber mask and tobacco breath, her wracking sobs and his manic thrusts making it difficult for her to breathe.
She had been known as Cocktease Cumber since high school. Boys had accused her of leading them on. It was only Gene – dear, gentle Gene – who hadn’t simply expected her to open her legs just because he wanted sex.
At last, she felt a small amount of lubrication as her vagina produced some moisture in self defence. She didn’t know whether to feel relief because it made the rape hurt less, or shame because her body had responded in some way. He was bigger than Gene, the only penis she had known up to then. He was discernibly thicker and longer and devoid of any care or finesse.
And then suddenly it was over. He groaned and humped without much apparent enjoyment and she felt him twitching in orgasm and then the hot savage wetness of his invasion of her insides.
He pulled out and took a step back. She she saw a big teardrop of semen still dangling from the tip of his penis.
“You bastard.” She muttered, her defeat turning to anger.
He chuckled coldly behind his horrendous lizard mask. He picked up a shard of her wedding dress and used it crudely to wipe his groin, then tugged his pants back up. He stepped forward and cupped her cheek in his palm, gently but with menace.
“Get used to it, cum dump. Trust me, there’s plenty more where that came from.”
And his words were worse than the rape itself.
The sudden realisation of the inevitable. She had no idea where she was, where Gene, Mom, Ryan or Rachel were, or even what really had happened to them all; whether this man was just acting alone, or how many of them there were.
But what she did know was that she was now ‘in play’; game on.
“Pl ... please,” she turned her head to face him, “who are you ? At least tell me that.”
“Sure.” He paused, checking his watch.
She waited helplessly while he ran his rough hand down her neck, between her breasts, over her belly, and finally between her legs, as if admiring the load he’d just dumped inside her. His pupils stared back through the eye slits.
“I’m the Chameleon.”
*** *** ***
Day Five
It was later on Sunday morning when the first journalist called him.
“John ?”
The guy was one of John Cumber’s close contacts, a top financial reporter to whom he had given his private cell, somebody he could trust.
“Hi, Dan.” He replied.
“John. I hate to do this to you. I know what you must be going through. But there’s a rumour sweeping the chat rooms and streets that you’re going to announce your resignation first thing tomorrow morning because of what’s happened.”
“Let me stop you there, Dan. That’s baloney. I wouldn’t let any fuckwits beat me. Sure I’m taking some time out, but resign ? Hey, no way.”
“Well that’s just what I thought, John. But this rumour’s got some traction. I’m also hearing that some funds are going to lighten their holdings tomorrow. There are a few big sell orders of Cumber stock being placed in Asia for opening tomorrow.”
John exhaled, controlling his breathing, gripping the phone tight. The previous Tuesday, February 27, the Dow had fallen 3.3% and the markets were still jittery. That 415 point drop had been triggered by a global sell-off of Chinese stocks.
“Dan, you gotta do something for me. The whole thing’s baloney. I can’t explain now but I think this must be some kind of scam linked to the kidnapping of my family. So, you can call back your own contacts and your fund manager friends and tell them all that, not only do I deny it, but I will never again deal with anybody who unloads Cumber stock at this time.”
“Whoa, my friend. Cool it. I’m sure it won’t be that bad. I’m just warning you something’s out there. I’ll make some calls but I can’t promise anything.”
“Okay, thanks, Dan. Keep in touch.”
He punched the red phone icon with his thumb and stared out of the window.
Now things were starting to make some sense.
*** *** ***
16.30 hrs
In the large deck area round the swimming pool, it was like a scene from a movie.
Most of the mercenaries had spent the day lounging on sun beds, listening to their music, drinking coffee or mint tea, reading magazines, tanning themselves. Yet even in the safety of this place, two guards were constantly on duty, scanning the sophisticated detection equipment, the skies and the horizon, for signs of human activity or unmanned drones.
Had it been a movie, the likes of Schwarzenegger, Seagal, Snipes, Stallone, Van Damme and Yun-Fat would have suited the roles.
The mercenaries were a tough bunch, reputedly the best. Officially known in the Underworld as ‘Squad 105’. An international team of men who had fought and killed side-by-side in many of the world’s harshest places; in Eastern Europe, across Asia, throughout Africa, down Central and South America.
Of course, they had real names. And a plethora of valid passports from different countries. But each member of Squad 105 also had a codename. Amongst themselves, they knew each other as ‘The Reptiles’.
Until then, ‘embarrassment’ to Susan Cumber would have been arriving at a charity dinner and finding another woman wearing the same designer dress. ‘Shame’ was one of your children not top scoring at school. She had led a charmed life.
But now, she was working the line of sun beds, like a beach bum at a seaside resort, fetching and carrying drinks, emptying ashtrays, doing whatever she was told. She was topless, naked but for a bikini bottom and little apron, scurrying hither and thither without a moment’s respite.
Her skin was pink from the boiling hot sun. They’d given her some sun lotion for her face and body, except for her breasts and buttocks. They made her leave her most tender curves unprotected.
“Keep moving fast bitch , and they won’t get burnt !”
But she could tell her breasts had already caught the sun. They were hot and sore to the touch. Beads of perspiration sprouted like teardrops from her pores, running into her eyes, down her temples and into her cleavage. The cheap bikini was nylon, turquoise and too small. The fabric dug into her orifices.
When she nearly fainted, they gave her a salt tablet to swallow and a large glass of water. It was lukewarm but tasted like nectar.
As the hours passed, their demands had become more humiliating. She cringed with shame. The men wanted her to rub lotion on their backs, their chests, their feet, their faces. They were not wearing any masks and the thought troubled her.
If they didn’t care about being identified, what did that mean ?
The men were mostly chisel-featured with stubbly, unshaven jaws and cruel, vacant eyes. They had huge biceps, hard stomachs and honed bodies. Many had scars, or large tattoos. Some had deep suntans.
Three of them were Black, one was Indian, one Arab, one Oriental, the rest varying shades of Caucasian. She estimated their age range to be like hers, mostly in their forties, but several looked younger and one appeared to be in his sixties.
When she had started waitressing them, they were wearing swimming shorts, and a couple had khaki T-shirts too, with dark patches of sweat. Only one of them looked out of shape, a huge fat black man with a bald head and an enormous stomach that hung over his leather belt.
She winced at the realisation that he had probably been one of the men who had raped her yesterday. Susan liked to think of herself as a tolerant, modern woman. Not a racist. But she had been brought up in the South and to her the idea of African Americans and their black things was, quite literally, beyond the pale. She tried to push the awful thought from her mind.
“Come here.”
She looked round and saw that one of the mercenaries had undressed. His tanned naked body glistened with oil but he had a white stripe of skin under his waistline where he had taken off his shorts.
He lay back down. He had a thick mass of pubic hair that joined up with a mat on his chest. She tried not to stare at his genitals.
“Put this on me.” He said, handing her a plastic bottle.
She wiped sweat from her eyes and leant over him. She carefully tipped a drizzle of brown oil onto his hairy abdomen, then tentatively rubbed it into his pale hips.
“Now my dick.” He said. His eyes were shut.
But she noticed the men either side were watching with interest.
Slowly she traced her finger up his penis. It started to thicken.
Now he was shielding his eyes from the sun, looking at her.
“More oil. Make me hard.”
She applied a dollop directly onto his shaft. It bucked to meet her fingers.
“Me next.” The man on the neighbouring lounger chuckled.
She slithered her fingers up and down his erection. It had been a long time since she had masturbated John, her husband. She screwed her eyes shut.
“Open them.”
She looked at him. His face was obscured by the shadow from his hand.
“Jerk me off.” He said. “Or your daughter can do it.”
After that, she got no respite. The whole line of men wanted her attention. They still had her scuttling to and from the outdoor kitchen, pouring tea, lighting cigarettes, peeling fruit. But they demanded other things too.
The first man had shot his semen over his oily chest and stomach. There was an enormous quantity. It mingled with his body hair.
“Clean me up.”
She looked for a box of tissues she’d seen earlier. Several men around her laughed.
“He means lick it up bitch.”
“Or one of your daughters will.” They chorused.
There was more amusement. She grimaced and lowered her head.
The second man chose to bypass the licking. Instead, he pushed her mouth directly onto his penis the moment he was about to orgasm, and she had no choice but to gulp and swallow the bitterness all down. It made her retch but she managed it.
Her right arm and wrist were exhausted. The third man ended by kneeling up on his lounger and making her squat down below, so he could masturbate himself onto her bare breasts.
“Here’s some sun lotion !”
Several men rubbed the creamy necklace into her tender breasts.
The fourth made her lie with her head pillowed on his stomach, sucking his erection while she masturbated him. Her aching arm was agony but he insisted she carry on for what seemed like fifteen minutes.
“Okay. Kneel down there and look up at me.”
She knelt by the side of the lounger and watched his fist jerking.
“Open your mouth.”
She parted her lips wide and felt a hot spurt landing on her forehead. A second splattered her cheek. He adjusted his angle so that the next two coated her tongue. He was groaning. The audience was cackling. He seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.
“Phew.” He said, at last. “Don’t wipe any of that. Let it dry on your face.”
“And go fetch me a black coffee.” Somebody else ordered.
When she returned, she asked them politely. Her bladder ached.
“Please. I ... I need to use the bathroom.”
They hooted.
“The lady needs a bathroom la-di-da.”
“Piss or shit, Ma’am ?” another asked, mockingly stretching out the word Ma’am as if he were a fancy hotel concierge.
She gulped. “Er ... pee.”
Somebody handed her an empty water jug.
“Use this.”
She looked at them and glanced around. Their eyes were hard, jaws set, lips curled. She saw no mercy in them.
“Do it now.” One said. “Or shall we fetch your son to watch you ?”
With a silent sob, she placed the jug on the tiles at her feet. Then she slowly tugged the tight bikini down her legs until she could step out of it.
“Take off the apron too.”
She undid the knot behind her and let the apron fall. She was now totally naked and exposed. Fourteen strange men were all staring at her.
The one who seemed to be their leader they referred to as Gator.
He picked up a bamboo stick as she slowly squatted over the empty jug.
“Open wide, lady. Knees apart.”
He pushed each of her legs with the stick, running it teasingly up her thighs. He was one of the ugliest men she’d ever seen, with an entire ear missing and a livid purple scar distorting one side of his face. He was missing several teeth and those that remained were tobacco-stained.
“Don’t be shy. Heck, most of us have said hi to your cunt already.”
She guessed this moment had been planned all along to destroy the last vestiges of her dignity. She would rather have died.
But she would survive for Rachel, Ryan and Lorna.
And John.
They were worth more to her than any amount of cruelty or humiliation these bastards could inflict on her.
Two of the men were filming her with their phones. Other obnoxious faces were fanned out in front of her, studying between her legs, gazing between her naked thighs, waiting, occasionally exchanging smirks with each other. Each of them had already invaded her body.
Now they were invading her soul.
The edge of the bamboo poked up between her humid labia, splaying her open. She was still unwashed from their rape of her the day before. The foul scent of stale sex and body odour assaulted her nostrils in the afternoon sun.
“Please.” she mouthed silently, a hiccup of air escaping her lips.
The man called Gator grinned at her with the half of his mouth that still worked.
“Okay. But make sure you get most of it in the jug, or else.”
She paused. She’d been desperate but, when it came to the actual moment, something within her wouldn’t allow her to do it. Her bladder ached and yet ...
How on earth was she going to do something so undignified ?
She couldn’t bear to look at the grinning, spellbound faces of the sweating men as they enjoyed her total dishonour. She hunkered lower over the jug, shut her eyes and let out an uncontrolled sob.
And then she heard the hiss of her own urine.
What had she done to deserve this ?
*** *** ***
Day Five
“John.”
The agent in overall charge of the case was Walt Furness, a grizzled veteran of thirty years, although he’d never known a situation remotely like this. Almost five days gone and not a single meaningful clue.
“We dusted the envelope and contents. Nothing. No prints except yours, John, no traces, zip. We’ve sent the writing off to Quantico for analysis. But what it does do in the meantime is help us with a pointer as to who and what we’re dealing with.”
John nodded, rubbing his chin. That much he’d worked out for himself.
“John, I’ve got to ask. Do you have any enemies ?”
He would have laughed in other circumstances. Even now he allowed himself a wry smile.
“A few, Walt. You don’t exactly reach my position without inflicting some casualties along the way. I’m not exactly the most popular kid on the block.”
“So, you know what I’m saying. Any ideas ?”
He shrugged. “Somebody who would do this ? You’re kidding right ? I can be a shit, Walt, but ...” he threw up his hands, “... enough to cause this ?”
“Nevertheless, would you make a list of all the names you can think of who might dislike you ? Anybody, with or without reason. We’ll handle them with care.”
John stared across at him, then nodded.
“Sure. But isn’t this just about ransom money ? Or some financial scam ? We’re just the innocent targets.”
Walt eyed him back, stroking his bristled jaw.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
*** *** ***
17.12 hrs
“Caught in the crossfire.”
Gene Collins III hung helpless in the manacles, his mouth dribbling, doing his best to stay conscious and to comprehend what the female behind the mask was saying to him. Caught in the crossfire ? What the fuck ? She said he’d been caught up in something beyond his control.
“What ?” he mumbled again.
Her gloved hands eased down his underpants and she used scissors to snip them off him, leaving him stark naked. Please, no.
“Yes, you’ve been caught in the crossfire, I’m afraid.” She repeated, her tone of voice sounding to him as if she was much less concerned than her words might have suggested.
“So, let’s have a look-see, shall we ?”
Her voice sounded older, like a woman his mom’s age. Her fingers cupped his balls and then smoothed out his shrivelled, petrified length. He felt like some meagre cut of meat she was considering at the deli for her family dinner.
“Not bad for a little one.” He could detect the amusement in her voice.
“Please d ... don’t.”
She moved her finger to his lips. It smelt of latex. Like a condom.
“Ssshhh.” she cooed. “I won’t castrate you. Not yet. Not if you’re good. I’ve got a nice job for this thingy anyway.”
He gulped. Job ?
“Yes. You should have been fucking your lovely bride right now, shouldn’t you ? Using this cocktail sausage to give your lovely Lorna a damned good seeing to, right ? Right ?”
He nodded slowly. His mouth was dry as desert sand.
“Well, I’m afraid that you can’t fuck the Cumber kid you wanted to. You see, your fiancé is now ... er ... engaged with someone else.”
He groaned inwardly, fearing the implication of her play on words.
“Yes.” She cupped his balls gently, as if she was trying to excite him. She teased a fingertip up the underside of his shaft. “Do you like that ?”
He shook his head. But her hands kept playing with him anyway.
“It excites you, doesn’t it, Gene ? Being tied up like this. Your browsing history makes interesting reading.”
He frowned. How ?
He heard an amused snort behind the mask.
“Oh, I know you deleted those sites. But remember when daddy brought home that shiny new laptop and the butler chucked your old PC out ?”
He groaned, still confused. His groin was slowly responding.
“It was all there, Gene. Tucked away. Every site, every image, every document. A computer history is like a window into somebody’s mind.”
“Please ...” He was hard enough for her to stroke him now.
“Lorna doesn’t know, does she ? Your nasty fantasies.”
He screwed up his face, blushing, unable to find words.
“Don’t worry. It can be our little secret.”
“Wha ... what have you done to her ?”
“Oh, don’t worry your little head about Lorna. She’s fine.”
She was pumping his shaft up and down skilfully. He was rock hard in spite of everything. Her fingers knew exactly where to squeeze.
“But you can fuck the other Cumber kid.” She continued. “I’d like that. And I’m sure you’ll enjoy it too.”
He gasped and frowned, then tried to shake his head to clear it. Instead he banged his ear against the hard cell wall.
Fuck Rachel ? I mean, but why ?
Inside the eyeholes of the lizard mask, he detected two pupils shining. She took her hand away and abandoned his erection like an empty flagpole.
“No.” the woman’s voice said, with a hoot of laughter. “Oh no. You’ve got the wrong idea. Not Rachel, you silly boy ! We wouldn’t want that. No, it’s Ryan we’d like you to give a good seeing to.”
*** *** ***
17.30 hrs
Susan puckered her lips and squinted into the mirror.
They had only given her fifteen minutes to shower, eat and refresh herself. It felt so good to have washed at last, even though a man supervised her throughout. The warm water stung her pink breasts and buttocks but she soaped every crevice and inch of her scummy body and scrubbed her hair.
She dried herself and was then given another bowl of the congealed gruel to eat, but with a wooden spoon this time, rather than on the floor like a dog. She forced it down knowing she was weak with hunger. The man checked her bowl to ensure she had scraped the sides clean.
He gave her a comb, makeup and lipstick. The eye shadow was a dreadful blue like a prostitute would wear and the mascara was thick and cheap. The lipstick was bright scarlet. Finally he gave her a set of purple satin underwear. The bra had only quarter-cups so her breasts were displayed and the panties were frilly. She shivered as she pulled them up. It was quite obvious from the stains inside that the tacky underwear had been used before without being washed.
“Okay, let’s go make you a star.” The man said, propelling her out into the sunshine.
By the pool, she saw that several cameras on tripods, boom microphones and silver foil lights had been set up. There were computers and even some director’s chairs.
The men wolf whistled as they saw her outfit and makeup.
“Ready, guys.” She heard somebody shout. “Let’s roll.”
*** *** ***
18.14 hrs
A pair of Chameleons sat together in the shade and watched the screen. It would have been nice to have the final member of their trio there too, all enjoying the moment together, but he was rather busy over in the States just now.
Still, as Meatloaf sang so powerfully, and so appropriately, three decades earlier, Two out of Three ain’t Bad.
‘I poured it on and I poured it out.’
Two chilled glasses of lager rested on the table, wonderfully refreshing in the heat of the North African evening.
They chinked glasses together and supped their ice cold beer.
‘But you’ve been cold to me so long
I’m crying icicles instead of tears.’
Best Enjoyed Cold.
There is something wonderfully erotic about an attractive white woman’s scarlet mouth sliding up and down the full length of an impressive black erection. Her bright lipstick was still shiny and without smudges yet. Every ridge and vein of his thick shaft was visible as she slid back her stretched lips.
On the main widescreen - a huge plasma monitor - Susan Cumber was being slowly spit roasted in the golden glow of late afternoon sun. Gecko, a heavily tattooed warrior of uncertain parentage and nationality, but now carrying a Russian passport, was crouched behind her as she knelt on the lounger. His muscled torso glistened with oil as he sensuously eased himself in and out of her slurping matriarchal cunt.
Meanwhile, Cobra was lying on the sunbed, his massive black belly shimmering with sweat, his fat fingers possessively entwined in Susan’s damp tresses, guiding her pursed lips up to his swollen helmet, then all the way back down his shaft as far as she could manage without gagging. Her pendulous tits hung down as she worked, nipples brushing Cobra’s inner thighs. Her discarded purple lingerie lay crumpled on the floor.
Give the dame her due, an onlooker really might have thought she was enjoying it. Her eyes were closed in apparent ecstasy, revealing her sluttish blue eye shadow. The expensive sound system picked up every meaty slap of flesh on flesh, each moan, every whimper, the continuous sloshy glugs from her cunt and mouth as she tackled her first ever threesome.
Gecko and Cobra played their parts convincingly too, with the usual male porn star noises and ‘oh yes babe’, ‘mmm ... you love it don’t you’, ‘oooh, you’re so tight round my dick’ and other choice XXX movie clichés. They had been cast after careful deliberation. Cobra, in particular, was perfect for his role.
The microphones taped. The cameras rolled, focussed close up, so as to catch her face in glorious detail but only recording her two faceless lovers from their necks to their knees. In the smaller screens to the side, other lenses captured a close up from below and also a long shot of the entire scene.
For Susan Cumber, it was sure going to be a hard day’s night. She had a ticket to ride.
The Chameleons exchanged amused glances as Gecko uttered a prolonged, orgasmic groan and unleashed his first orgasm of the evening. They watched him pull out and stagger away, high-fiving Komodo, a tall slim Hindi.
Within moments, Night Snake had shucked his shorts and taken Gecko’s place. He was the youngest of the Reptiles but he had no qualms about sinking his erection into the sodden cunt of a woman 15 years his senior.
The Chameleons knew each one of the mercenaries’ true names and backgrounds. Most were longstanding members of Squad 105. For example, Night Snake was really Nikolaos, a swarthy Greek, although he answered to Nicklas, Nicholas and Nico in various countries.
But Komodo was a new member of the team. His real Hindi name was Kovida and he had been recruited for a specific purpose.
Night Snake smacked his hand harshly across Susan’s rump and uttered words of encouragement in his native Greek.
Yep, everything was going exactly to plan.
She was starting to learn the Rule of Three.