Borysko Boyko and two of his soldiers jumped from the jetty onto the deck of the motorised waste disposal barge, berthed in the Tilbury Dock.
‘Woss your ol’ fuckin’ game, Knobstick?’ the bargee shouted, rushing out of the wheel room at the aft end of the vessel.
‘You don’t gonna mind we gonna hire boat for two days, maybe is for some little bit more,’ Boyko said, spreading his arms in a gesture of uncertainty. He surveyed the empty hold of the barge, with no display of any concern as to the possibility his arbitrary request would be queried, ridiculed or denied.
‘What you an’ your buddies are gonna do is do one, a bit sharpish, in short an’ jerkies, mate, thass what you’re gonna do, an’ I mean sharpish if you know woss good for ya!’ He lunged at Boyko, producing from behind him a hefty length of sapele dowelling.
The Ukrainian sidestepped and plunged the blade of his Russian bear hunter’s knife into the bargee’s ribs. The thirty centimetres of razor-sharp steel sliced through flesh and bone, disappeared into the man’s body up to its hilt. Then with nonchalance and disdain he gave a sharp twist of his wrist, slammed his hand under the dying man’s chin and pushed him off the knife blade and into the empty hold. ‘Why don’t some people know is good to be helpful to visitor?’ he said. ‘Is Saturday, an’ all tourist like to have weekend trip on river, eh?’ His laugh was without humour. He looked again as if for assurance the man he’d just hurled below was dead. He grabbed a handful of cotton waste from a sack beside the wheelhouse and wiped the blood and remnants of entrails from the knife blade.
Three more of the mafiya soldiers jumped aboard the barge. The other two men had already started the engine and were in the process of releasing the mooring ropes. The vessel was on its way to rendezvous with the Revalyutsiya at its Thames estuary anchorage to collect its potentially lethal cargo.
*
Petruso Knishovo withdrew and grunted as he rolled off of his wife Sveta’s belly and swung his feet round onto the cabin floor. It was 7.30 a.m. but it was atrociously hot and sultry for an English summer morning. He grabbed a towel from the chair and draped it over his hairy, sweat-soaked shoulders and back. Petruso watched as his wife mumbled something, closed fleshy thighs that could barely conceal the mass of greying pubic hair perpetually threatening to smother her lower abdomen.
He stared blankly for a moment at the folds in the belly he had grown to love, and paradoxically, he knew she had grown to despair of. With another good natured grunt he flicked the silk sheet up to half-cover her naked body. It was a while yet for his momentous plan to be put into action and it had been difficult for him to sleep, other than in fitful snatches. A full bottle of vodka had seemed the solution to passing the time before retiring. But the little sleep he had managed to snatch did nothing to distract from his war with the Fields. For the last two and a half hours he’d hammered an insatiable erection into Sveta, bursting his balls trying to let her know he wanted her as a woman and convince her she should really believe he could care for her. Her disgust at her own body was no help to him forgetting the tantalising memory of the young Field bitch’s delectable one, the reason for his hungry hard-on.
His head ached as it often did after soaking his brain-cells in alcohol and topping the exercise with an attempt to repeat the once-upon-a-time pussy banging sessions of his youth. But he still had a hell of an ache for just one more chance to bang his voracious cum-dummy into that other, much more beautiful pussy. Three times he’d emptied his balls into Sveta. But the tingling he still felt wriggling in them told him he could readily pump a giga-batch of egg hunters into the young bitch’s deliciously shaped womb. What a torment it was to realise he had to ignore such a prize, offered in an outright state of glorious surrender. The desperate, sexy young witch had almost pushed it in his face. She hungered so much to live, her pussy was ready to take in his cock there and suck on his balls there and then. If a pussy ever salivated, that Field girl’s was salivating for its very life, with a moist, warm welcome for hot, hard flesh.
He looked at his wife. She was asleep again with exhaustion. He felt dismayed, robbed at how difficult it was to see her nipples because her breasts almost disappeared down the side of her body. He cursed at the foul tricks the so called Almighty played on His flock; adding physical mockery to the burdens and scars of those supposedly made in his image, as if God thought labouring to uncertain destinies in this life was not enough of a problem. Throughout the years he had fought, pillaged and fucked in far flung corners of the Soviets, and en route had acquired a sexplay repertoire that had proved infallible, irresistible. He could rob the coyest of bitches of all resistance to his demands and completely drain them of all juices of lust and desire. Now, increasingly, he reluctantly found himself no longer wishing to drink from the one loving cup that he would boast was his alone. For a brief moment he nearly allowed himself to despise his selfish sexual appetite, but he stopped short of getting too carried away. After all, he had learned many tricks from others, and plied those talents to carry Sveta into crazy orgasms when her appetites had been more demanding. The good Lord above was witness to enough of her screams in the night to know she had been one hell of a fireball in her fitter years. Her inability to produce him a son and heir, any child, had made her possessed to try so much harder and she had been an eager, unquenchable addict for all those sexual wiles and wares.
A bang on the cabin door ended Petruso’s rare bout of self analysis. It was Vanko.
‘It is on the international news wires, just like you want, Petruso. Now on the wireless, and they squeal like pigs for a way to save London from Galicia Sanction and an apocalypse.’
‘And Borysko – he has got a barge to go for Revalyutsiya cargo?’ The crime tsar bit into a thick slice of brown bread spread generously with beluga caviar. He slurped the lot down with a mouthful of steaming hot percolated coffee, brewed thick and black as night.
‘Borysko says he had to leave one man behind in Birmingham last night, but the deal is sorted okay now with Jake and the yardies; he can be very persuasive. No more communication problems with them coconut farmers; and our gang masters, girls and dealers. Rasta man swears he is going to stay away from them. For the plan here, we have arranged six decoys on the Underground for tomorrow, and the barge will be ready. I will take four soldiers and hunt down the rest of the Field bastards. I know they will be at the house in Romford. I will blow shit out of them and the whole damn place with some RPGs and mortars, eh, my old friend?’
Petruso was stymied for a second. He knew the ambulance carrying the Field animal Vlad and his beautiful bitch of a sister had been hijacked, that news was picked up during his firm’s constant monitoring of the police radio bands. The porn stud was certain to be dead, on account of the hole through his head. But what if, by the remotest possibility, the young bitch of a sex witch had managed to survive? Nobody had checked if she were fatally wounded. There definitely was no way now he wanted her blown to bits till he’d had his chance to pump some good old-fashioned Ukrainian cum into the exquisite pussy she’d flashed at him. There could be no better way to send the rest of the Field bunch off to burn in the fires of hell and damnation than with the picture of their mortal enemy fucking the arse off their tasty little doe right before their eyes. He drooled at the sudden inspiration. The very thought of rutting the horny young bitch, of burying his hard flesh into her luscious honeypot and force-feeding her ovaries with the noblest of Galician seed at exactly the same moment the bomb was due to go off on the river bed – it was all just too much of a crazy dream to seem feasible. But what if he just might be able to make sure it became a reality and not an impossible dream?
Petruso could not make known his lust for Carla to anyone, not even to his oldest friend and ally, Vanko. By virtue of his nature, he was no stranger to deceit and subterfuge. ‘We have got to see them die, one by one, Vanko. They have got to die at the same time as the bomb explodes in the river. I just have to see Philip the Vlad bastard burn – we are going to burn his body in front of them, tied to the girl. And I want to stuff his cock and bollocks down his mother’s throat with my own hands. That’s it – we can make that bastard Freddy Field watch you treat your cock to a piece of her arse and make her scream and wish she could die quicker – then I will choke her with the Vlad’s cock. You must find out where the Field bodies are, Vanko. With the bodies we can make sure of our plan to capture all the family in the Manor before Monday. It will be one helluva fucking big day for me, for you, Vanko; and one sonnoffabitch black Monday for the Field firm and all London, you wait to see, my old friend.’
Vanko was excited. Petruso’s suggestion that he should sodomise the mother of the animal who killed his daughter thrilled him. He had the barbarian’s instinct to inflict pain and suffering on foes, more especially and preferably through the sexual abuse of their women. And by forcing a husband to witness a wife’s anal rape was one of the classic means of inflicting the most heinous of tortures. And more interestingly, he had seen Tina. He knew she was in the glow of fit and healthy middle age. He imagined his powerful fingers gripping her arse’s soft, pinkish cheeks, rending the resisting mounds of flesh apart. He could feel himself burning into her body; squeezed between smooth, generous buttocks of flesh begging to be bitten and torn asunder with each sensuous step she took. He vowed then to make sure he would prolong her ordeal. He would enjoy it a hell of a lot more than she or Freddy Field or any of their sons would, for sure. It was so vital they should all survive to that moment, so they could all welcome death; will her to die rather than endure his enjoyment in the ultimate debasement of her femininity and desecration of her dignity.
The sudden thought of the Field brothers ended his flight of fantasy and anticipation and stirred a memory. ‘I remember that old poof – he has got a big house on Romford Road, not far from the Field house. He was an animal doctor, but has not got his licence any more. The slow one, Mumbo Field, he said it was okay for us to take Krystiyan there to fix a bad knife wound, way back last year, after the little bit of communication problem a while back with the Asians in Forest Gate. He sure was skinny, too ugly for poof, I thought, but there is no better surgeon I have seen for knife wounds. It is very possible they took the bodies there, Petruso.’
‘You are a brilliant man, Vanko – that’s it. Get a couple of Borysko’s men to stake out at the poof’s house for little while. Make no trouble yet, nothing till I say the word to go. Just keep watch for any of Fields, or their soldiers.’
Petruso was suddenly elated. It was so obvious now to him. Freddy Field had little or no choice but to hijack the ambulance. It was common knowledge his daughter had been given the slimmest of chances for survival. But the cunning old crime lord wouldn’t have wanted the authorities to nurse her back from the brink of death. The dread of any condemning revelations she might make in the inevitable disorientation under sedation while on the path back to recovering consciousness would have been enormous. And the declaration of all out war between the two families would have compelled Freddy Field to keep his daughter as close to hand as possible to ensure everyone’s safety.
Petruso summarised his orders to Vanko for the day. ‘So you let me know what goes on at the poof’s house. I will give you the word to go in later when you are sure we have the upper hand. We don’t want the police involved or anywhere near. And get Borysko to bring the barge to berth back at Tilbury docks, Vanko. Everything starts to look very good, now, my old friend. The nitrates must be primed and the detonators rigged – and all the batches in the barge made watertight. We have got two days, and we bring London to knees and fuck all Field family for good. Like Clint Eastbourne says – every whichway, eh? We make them sorry they ever lay down to spawn the bastard Vlad, and you will get a very sweet vengeance for your Tatyana.’
*
‘Galicia Sanction – Where is Tatyana? For Christ’s sake, don’t tell me we have now got some crazy Spanish cell of al Qaeda terrorists running riot in this manor. In case nobody noticed – we are – that is the nation – is working day and night to redevelop this area for the 2012 Olympics. And all of a sudden, our slowly recovering local Underground transport system is attracting the attention of the terrorist world’s Looney Tunes brigade. Will somebody please tell me exactly what is going on and more important, what is being done about sorting it out on the ground around here?’
The Metropolitan Police Commissioner thumped the podium in the Plaistow Station briefing room. He glared around the faces of Divisional and Area senior officers, who all sat, shamefaced, in front of the local officers.
Tommy Cowper decided to speak his piece. ‘You know full well all our intelligence departments have drawn a blank on evidence of any al Qaeda insurgency, whether home grown or otherwise, in this area, Sir, despite the high percentage of Asians we have in residence. The absence of this situation, and its consequent affect on career boosting opportunity, appears to have caused the relevant agencies to take their eyes off the ball.’
The last remark caused many of the senior officers in the room to react with much startled and awkward throat clearing and coughing. The Chief Constable’s prominent eyebrows positively bristled.
Tommy was determined to make the best of what had started out as a bad day and quickly worsened, what with the disappearance of Stella and Frankie being incommunicado so far. He felt he was on a roll, and determined to enjoy it. He continued, unperturbed. ‘This threat is simply the result of a gang war between the two major crime families in the east of London. I don’t think it’s a bluff – I don’t think it is political…’
‘Perhaps, when you finish telling us what it is not, you’d like to tell us all exactly what you think it is, then, Officer…?’ the Chief Constable interjected.
‘Detective Superintendent Tommy Cowper, Sir, Plaistow Division. I don’t expect any accolades for reminding all of you that the missing girl, Tatyana, has an East European name – she is most likely one of a large number of Ukrainians infiltrating this part of London, many of them illegally. The mafiya family Knishovo, many of whose soldiers and sex slaves perished in last night’s explosion. They have been working certain areas around here, under licence so to speak, to Freddy Field, the East End’s home grown godfather.’
‘All operating under Plaistow Division’s licence, it sounds like, Superintendent!’
Tommy was red-faced, ‘The CPS have knocked back too many well-constructed cases we’ve put on their desk concerning the Fields, those on the old man in particular, and thrown them back at us with nothing in the way of a logical explanation. We’ve been trying to just get him into court for years, never mind banged-up. Perhaps it’s nothing to do with Plaistow Division as to whose licence he operates under! Or maybe the Field Firm is another one of too many SOCA need-to-know issues which tie our hands behind our back nowadays, Sir?’
A mutter of approval rumbled around the back of the room.
The Chief Constable recognised the depth of grass roots support Tommy’s comments had mustered and changed his attitude and mood of approach immediately. ‘We are all here to do our utmost to nip this anarchy in the bud, Superintendent. Please continue.’
Tommy opened his mouth to speak, but was distracted by the call tone of his mobile. He held his hand up, and reddening this time with embarrassment, he fumbled the phone from his pocket. It was a text message from Tracker, the GPS monitoring company, whose device he had had installed in Stella’s Clio. They had pinpointed her whereabouts, or at least where her car was located.
‘My profuse apologies, but you will have to excuse me, Sir – gentlemen. Something extremely urgent and pertinent to this matter has come to my notice.’ He looked at one of the younger male officers, ‘Detective Sergeant Dennis – if you’ll come with me, you can drive my car – we must go immediately.’
‘There is a briefing in progress here and we are all in need of your presence, Superintendent,’ blustered the Chief Constable.
‘There are crimes in progress on the streets in much more need of my presence, Sir,’ Tommy retorted. ‘Let them who are paid to talk the talk, do just that, but it’s still my job to walk the walk. I’ll catch up with a rundown of your final conclusions from the Station Duty Officer later.’
*
Frankie slid carefully off the bed and crept over to the walk-in shower cubicle.
Carla was recumbent, lost in a deep sleep induced by the combined effect of painkillers and mental exhaustion from the lengthy and demanding exchange of cunnilingus the improbable bed-mates had indulged in.
The needles of near ice cold water stung her flesh and washed away the guilt and confused emotions that her dangerous attraction to Carla caused in her mind and body. It was confusion not so dangerous for the depth of emotion while experiencing the ecstasies of their lesbian sex games, but more so because she had to admit to herself she was becoming addicted to the feelings her target had woke in her. She could not deny an indisputable fact. Her want for what Carla offered was the satisfaction of a lust for forbidden fruit, taken from all arguable viewpoint, be it the lust of an inquisitive heterosexual or a seditious law officer. But playtime was over, and there was a job of work to be done, and quickly.
The DI wriggled into her denims and slipped on her tee shirt, automatically patting her hip to make sure her mobile phone was still in the pocket of her denims. She released the door catch and turned the handle, eased it carefully open. There was no sign of the nurse. The apparently most senior of Freddy’s three men stationed at the house was sat opposite the door, browsing the pages of a motorcycle magazine.
Frankie pulled the front of her denims down to rest just above the curve of her crotch and stretched her tee shirt; her damp skin and nipples more than sufficed to create the image she knew would cause him maximum distraction. She opened the door fully. ‘It’s warm in here. You know I think I need some fresh air, big fella, I hope you don’t mind too much if I go down for a bit? I won’t be long, but I hope you will be.’ She lowered her eyes to his groin. ‘Then maybe there’s another empty room along here where you could show me just how big you really are when you flex those muscles before Carla wakes up again?’ She looked back down at his groin, her eyes lingering meaningfully and then along the hallway.
Frankie’s tone of voice, the suggestive innuendo, reinforced by the roll of her eyes, worked on him immediately.
“Big fella” had just spent three-quarters of an hour with his ear glued to the door, listening to the lovers’ squeals and moans. His groin ached from the pointless temptation to break in and grab his share of the torrid action between too much female flesh thrashing about without a hot, hard cock up either of them. It was true he might have no great claim to prominence in the manhood department, but he was already wound up to breaking point and raring to go, or to be truthful, come. And with such an offer from this right little raver put on his plate, no way was he going to miss out. He stood up, preened himself inwardly; tried to maintain an air of nonchalance as he strained his lower abdomen to maximise and further emphasize what outline of his hard-on was evident against the fine material of his lightweight suit.
‘That’s okay, babe, I know you will come for me when you’re ready.’ He gave her an exaggerated, juvenile wink, smiled lecherously and squeezed her rump.
Another stupid, pussy mad pillock, thought Frankie. She turned her head and teased back at him with a smile and sashayed down the hallway, headed for the stairway. Frankie knew the annex had to be Doc Elliot’s base of operations, and it was where she should go. If the dead porn stud’s body was there, it would certainly be the part of the house in which Stella Cowper would be hidden. She hoped the woman had the common sense to keep her own identity a secret, and not been driven to blurt it out in hysteria or anger, assuming she had been allowed to regain consciousness. It would serve no purpose for the good guys’ cause if Freddy Field were to discover he had a police superintendent’s wife as a hostage.
Frankie’s sense of direction was excellent and she found the entrance to the annex without incident or difficulty. The door was the solid, fire-resistant type and combination locked, and if being locked were not enough of an obstacle, there was no visible indication as to whether it was alarmed or not.
Shit, she thought. If forcing the monstrosity open were a possibility, it was not practicable. And if she could get outside without being noticed to reconnoitre, she would encounter one or the other of Freddy’s men on watch out there. She looked around her, and then edged back along the corridor. In the vestibule, on the wall by the front door was the control box for the entire house alarm system.
*
Doc Elliot looked at Philip Field’s body with approval. He had forsaken his experimentation with it. It was now dressed and prepared in all possible aspects of make-up and ready for its pre-burial laying out in the small chapel built to satisfy Tina Field’s religious beliefs at the Manor. The mask had to stay on, as damage to most of the facial features was so gruesome it needed extensive plastic surgery to be tolerable to any loved-ones’ eye.
The Doc thought no more of the fantasy driving him for so many years since first setting eyes on the porn stud’s fine penis in a chance viewing of a “bluey”. The strange female prisoner had unexpectedly presented him with a startling challenge to the roots of his sexual orientation which left him in a new dilemma.
In a side room, Stella Cowper was on her back on an operating room trolley. The Doc, in a perverse fit of pique for the female species at large, had stripped her naked as the day she was born. Her head was propped up, her legs and arms spread and hanging down either side with her ankles and wrists tied to the bottom rails. She was wide-eyed and conscious, but unable to move a muscle. Her paralysis was due to an injection of phencyclidine and refined curare compound.
Doc Elliot had intended she should be privileged to watch him mount and shaft the porn star’s dead body. Being effete by nature and appearance, it had always been his lot to be the submissive in his sexual activities, and literally bend to the aggression and brutality of heartless lovers whose favours and frequent abuse he often as not had to purchase. But when stripping the female captive’s body bare he had been overcome with compassion for her lack of typical feminine attributes, apart from her delightfully plump vulva. She resembled him in so many ways physically. As he watched her eyes follow his movements, the sadness buried behind them was plain to see. He could not help feeling how similar her life must have been to his. As never before, he felt he must find out what it felt like to inundate a woman’s body with his own hardened flesh and fill her with his semen. He would penetrate and come for the first time in his life with his virgin penis deep inside the body of the female who was every inch his counterpart.
He unfastened and dropped his trousers. He was naked from the waist down beneath his white coat, which he opened and threw off. With one hand he pulled and squeezed the frail, mandrel-like flesh that hung limp between his puny legs, desperately he tried to coax life and sexual energy into it. With the other he fondled Stella’s genitals, as he knew he had to do, as he unaccountably felt he wanted to.
The involuntary reflexes in her body quickly responded to his attentions and a profusion of natural lubricant eased the path of his fingers as they fumbled inside her.
The Doc was undecided if what he felt was excitement or disgust; but his penis was beginning to make his mind up for him. It was rising and stiffening to a state never before experienced when aroused by invasion of his body. If a feeling could ever be likened to a ray of light, there was a dazzling beam surging through the stiffened piece of flesh in his hand.
Stella was mortified as the Doc’s fingers pushed and probed. She longed for the tender touch of Tommy’s lips and fingers, followed by the rumbling, grumbling of the vibrator as it tormented her insides.
But perverse idiosyncrasies of psychology and nature were committing her genitals to an enjoyment of her assailant’s crude, uneducated foreplay and she was involuntarily surrendering her body with perceptible, instinctive response.
Stella could not move a muscle, but she could feel Pink Dahlia’s stamen had burst from its pod and was already almost two centimetres long. The flower of her belly, Tommy used to call those private parts he loved to kiss into readiness for her beloved vibrator, was blooming at the clumsy touch of another gardener. And it was desirous and preparing for this stranger’s assault entirely against her will.
The only man’s penis she had seen aroused was Tommy’s. Now she could not tear her eyes from the Doc’s. She realised it was quite some bit thinner than her husband’s, but it was very long, probably longer than her vibrator, and had quite an evoking, intriguing kink in it.
She had no inkling the Doc was a lifelong homosexual; that he had never been the dominant one in any previous sexual encounter. She did know she was in a den of iniquity, and a sex maniac with a thin, twisted cock was going to have his way with her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She fastened her gaze on his penis.
The Doc was flushed, excited. He looked at his stiffened penis, let it go and made it jerk a few times with intuitive abdominal muscle control. He had never been so proud of the mark of his sexuality, however confused that might be. Then his gaze was drawn to the paralysed woman’s pouting labia. But something was missing, the whole scene was all wrong. He would penetrate her, hopefully he would come, but she would never feel a thing, being numbed as she was. The Doc had a sudden rush of blood to his head. He ran over to the bench for a syringe filled with the adrenalin based antidote to the curare. He administered it and carefully untied her bindings. While life was returning to her limbs he ran his fingers up and down the length of his penis, taking great pride in it and hoping for Stella to be impressed by the power and energy pumping into it.
Stella’s body tingled, was on fire with life resurging in every nerve-end. But her eyes were riveted on the stiffened cock the Doc played with so unashamedly and enthusiastically. She could feel the vengeful fire of rage again for Tommy in the bottom of her own belly, the huge hole which needed filling, the furious emotions in need of consolation. Her husband had filled his boots elsewhere, she thought, with old and young tarty bits of fresh, and maybe with more than those particular bits of fresh. Well here was a bit of fresh certainly about to fill her boots, and, by the looks of it, up to a point never before pleasured. If it all went in, it was definitely going to go where no man’s inquisitive flesh had been before, by every promise of its length.
Stella put her hands on her belly and raised her legs. She put her knees in the air and spread them wide, with her feet firmly planted against the end frame of the trolley.
‘Pink Dahlia doesn’t enjoy waiting. Can’t you see her tongue is hanging out?’ she whispered, knowing her brand of dirty talk always seemed to drive Tommy crazy.
This was a role the doc had never played before. Her act of submission, the strange, whispered words, they sent a stab of ecstasy from his prostate to the tip of his hard-on. He knew it was time to step up to the plate. Moving forward, he manoeuvred the head of his penis between the lips of what he knew must be Stella’s Pink Dahlia, made contact with her fully flowered genitals. He pushed slightly. His flesh throbbed as his glands rejoiced in the stimulating chemistry of the amalgamation of their body fluids.
‘Don’t tease, you beautiful, ugly, slowpoke bastard. Pink Dahlia wants to eat up every fucking inch!’ Stella croaked huskily.
She arched her body and hutched vigorously to engulf more of him.
Her dirty talk continued to craze him. He looked mesmerised as his penis disappeared and their pubic hair intermingled. Here was no Pink Dahlia, he thought, much more a hungry, Venus Flytrap. He pierced into her, withdrawing and reburying every centimetre he had mustered into her body, thumping his testes into the warm, moist embrace of her excited lips.
They both shrieked and grunted, they both bumped and ground.
His mind was aware of nothing but a compulsion to respond to his hard-on’s greedy demands to savour the fulfilment of a lifetime of unrequited need for copulation. He was a slave to emotions he had never recognised before in his lonely, misogynous quest for sexual satisfaction.
The Doc did not know what was happening in his head. But his hands wanted to feel everything his penis was feeling, be everywhere, caress every inch of the warm flesh inside her that squeezed him, intoxicating him in its warm, velvety grip. He was no longer of this world as he withdrew to make another, and another, long, frantic inward thrust that made her soak his belly and their thighs each time their groins met and moulded as one. His hands reached instinctively for breasts that were not there. But his tongue raked her body from her misshaped belly button to the hollow of her throat. His lips found, and then dwelled in a juvenile eagerness to nibble and suck feverishly on nipples swollen to the size of young acorns in the height of her passion.
‘I am not so good at this, my dear,’ the Doc panted, hardly wanting to take his lips from her flesh. ‘I want to do it right for the Pink Dahlia.’ He straightened up slightly to watch and listen to the full length of his penis slipping in and out of Stella’s body. His bewilderment was mixed with a new found superiority and fascination.
The chair of the local Women’s Institute had abandoned any sense of concern for maintaining chastity, modesty, or its encumbering vocabulary, from the moment she saw the length of her new lover’s cock. With this stranger’s demanding, kinked member waking delicate nerve-ends in unsullied territory inside her, the shackles of menopause were completely forgotten. ‘If you’re telling me you think I can look forward to you giving Pink Dahlia a better fucking than you’re doing right now, my skinny little wondercock, bring it on, but I think I’ll drown us both,’ she said, breathing heavily and pulling him down to her nipples again.
Enjoying the demands of a man’s lips and tongue on her breasts was a new delight for Stella. Tommy had always avoided any attention to their need for satisfaction with a thinly disguised sense of embarrassment. Her children had suckled in vain at her almost non-existent mammary glands, and since then her breasts were neglected till this day.
The much longed-for sensation sent ripples of ecstasy down Stella, from the pounding in her ears to a strange, sweet ache pinching at the inside of her anus. She had never experienced such a thread of fire and passion through the whole of her body in any orgasm. She arched her body, her momentum lifting him bodily with her. God how she wished he had another cock to run inside her and chase away the sweet, new ache tormenting her back passage. She screamed as the Doc shuddered.
He whimpered and jerked uncontrollably and was rigid, as though frozen solid. He did not take a breath and appeared afraid to move a muscle.
Then Stella felt the rhythm and pulsing of their genital spasms synchronise as great bursts of his seed surged through the incredible length of the, unsightly mandrel that pumped and throbbed so deliciously inside her. She hummed “Sea of Love”, her favourite tune from her favourite Al Pacino film, but the only word she could see in her mind at the onset of another flood of paralysing orgasm was “tsunami”. She shrieked the word out, continually, uncontrollably.
The sound of Stella’s shriek and the scent of excited woman exuding from her genitals raised the Doc’s sexual fervour to the highest plane his inexperienced senses had reached. He ground his groin into her pelvis as he struggled to penetrate her body further and beyond the realms of physical possibility, while he continued to unleash his seed deep into regions of her body hitherto unclaimed by any man’s passion.
Their limbs were convulsing in the delirium of orgasm when all hell broke loose.
The front door to Doc Elliot’s house splintered and flew from its hinges under the impact of the Humvee’s buffalo-bar. The vehicle careered back down the steps, the doors were flung open and armed men spilled from it.
DI Frankie Burns ran back into the annex corridor, abandoning her inspection of the house alarm control-box and hopes of any interference she might be able to make. There was no police shout of warning, so she knew it was not a raid by the boys in blue. But there were men’s voices, shouting in Russian, and very excitedly. She looked out of the corridor window.
A body lay on the other side of the driveway, sprawled on the grass verge by the bushes. It was headless. The luckless corpse had obviously been one of the Field soldiers.
Seconds were passing and Frankie knew she must do something drastic about her safety, and quickly. There was nobody else in immediate view outside; it would be impossible to get to Carla before the intruders, so she threw open the window and dived out.
Vanko Cravicz satisfied himself there was no danger of immediate resistance and jumped out of the Jeep. He directed the three other armed soldiers following him up the steps into the house to search the building thoroughly. They all wore flak jackets and military, protective headgear.
Vanko sidled into the corridor, on the alert for the slightest sound or movement. He sprayed the annex door with bullets from his A-90 rifle. His adrenalin at a high, he rammed another clip of ammunition into the gun and put a foot through the shattered woodwork. A moment’s hesitation, and then he hurled himself forward and shoulder rolled into the annex. He sprang to his feet and spun three hundred and sixty degrees to survey his surroundings. There was no one in the room except the corpse of Philip Field. Vanko charged into the side room. It was empty.
There was reverberation from the pounding of running feet on the first floor of the main house, accompanied by a cacophony of excited verbal exchanges in Russian.
Vanko went back into the corridor. He noticed the window, flung wide open and off its catch. He cussed under his breath, shook his head and walked back into the vestibule. One of his men came down the stairs, dragging the struggling, blubbering nurse down, step by step, by her hair. The blouse had been torn from her back, the tatters of the garment hung over panties emphasising more than they covered of her body’s middle-aged volume. She had no skirt on. Her bra was in disarray and one copious breast was uncovered and bruised with two or three fresh bite marks. Her eyes were shut tight while she crazily screamed pathetic pleas for the Ukrainian not to rape her without using protection.
The whine of a high-revving small car engine and tearing of car tyres across the driveway gravel filled the air. Vanko sprang across the vestibule but could not get to the main doorway and cock his rifle in time to stop the Renault Clio speeding out onto the main road and vanishing. He did get a glimpse of Carla’s shock of red hair in the back of the car, and a man beside her. ‘Fuck – fuck!’ He turned to look at the terrified, dishevelled woman lying at the soldier’s feet. His laugh at her pleads had no humour. He tutted in a fatherly manner. ‘Such beautiful big titties, Dymtrus, and it looks to me like she has got one lovely soft belly for fuck into. It is a pity but we have just got no time for a fuck right now, she looks like she could take us all.’ He turned to the other two men, ‘Get the dead Field body from the surgery room,’ he pointed to the annex. ‘And put those son-a-bitches heads in with the body.’ Then he told Dymtrus, ‘The big tit bitch has seen us all now. It is a pity for such a waste of a lovely big fuck, but you better put the bitch out of her misery, little nephew.’ He pointed at the machete type knife in the scabbard hanging from his nephew’s belt and drew his forefinger across his throat.
The nurse heard the last, ominous words. She opened her eyes in panic just in time to see Vanko make the gesture. ‘Please don’t kill me – you can all have sex with me, I won’t tell anyone. You have to believe me.’ She ripped her bra over her head, revealing the other breast. ‘Please, Dymtrus, you can bite my tits if you want to, bite me anywhere, as much as you like – I know you like to bite, and I like it, that’s why I screamed, because I like it. I want you to bite me, anywhere, everywhere, Dymtrus.’
The nurse was beside herself with fear for her life. She cupped her breasts in her hands, illustrating her willingness to hand herself to him. She looked at him, tears magnifying the pleading in her eyes and rubbed her thumbs over the pinkish brown roses tipping the quivering orbs, trying to bring her frightened nipples out of hiding. She stopped, squealed and dropped one hand to her crotch and cupped the ample mound of her vulva nestled between the creamy flesh of her smooth, heavy thighs. In a similar gesture, she pulled the cotton panty material aside to expose a blaze of pubic hair, her eyes never left those of her would-be executioner. ‘Bite me – you do anything with me – but please, I have children, please don’t kill me!’
Dymtrus looked at Vanko, who nodded a quizzical assent to the wicked nuance in his nephew’s questioning glance, and then he said to the nurse. ‘You show me how you like to have bite of this, bitch.’ He unzipped his trouser flies and pulled out his stiffened penis, grabbed her by the hair and thrust her lips onto it.
Her terror was evident. The instinct to survive compelled her to adopt total subservience. She grasped the shaft of his penis and opened her lips, licked them nervously and slipped them over the end of the Ukrainian’s inflamed flesh. For maybe half a minute the fingers of one hand slid firmly but gently, back and forth on the skin, relentlessly building speed and the pleasure in his flesh. With her other hand she massaged and fondled his testes, one finger prodding hard at the firm mound of flesh behind the scrotum, knowing the right amount of manipulation there would quickly coax the main surge of semen and bring him to climax.
Vanko eyes widened with fascination; he clapped his hands in anticipation and egged the younger man on. He clapped again when Dymtrus ripped her fingers from the exposed length of his penis and clear of his testes and pulled the woman’s head violently to him. His hands held her face at either side in an iron grip, his thumbs pressed into the joint of her jawbone at the base of each ear.
The full length of Dymtrus’ rigid penis was rammed down her throat, blocked her gullet. Her nose was flattened against his groin and filled with his pubic hair.
The nurse tried to cough, vomit, and do all the things a choking person would do. She struggled and squirmed, but could not draw breathe. She was trapped in a grip chosen to paralyse with the degree of pain it inflicted. She was unable to close her jaw any tighter with any more force than was an erotic titillation to further inflame her assailant’s murderous passion. Her resistance quickly lessened and was soon nil.
The Ukrainian stopped his fruitless heaving and thrusting and crushed her face tight into his lower abdomen. He gasped, and with two vicious jerks of his hips, he had come his murderous lot.
The nurse knew little of his moment of final ejaculation. She survived the ordeal for less than two minutes and expired due to a combination of suffocation and coronary failure. She was dead before he had filled her oesophagus with his semen.
Dymtrus pulled her head away from his shrinking flesh, threw her down and tucked the heinous murder weapon away.
Vanko’s eyes filled with admiration for his nephew. ‘You sure did one good head job on the English bitch, Dymtrus,’ he said. He turned to the two who had loaded Philip’s body in the Humvee. ‘You just watched a first class snuff-fuck – now we must go and do some serious business.’
*
Frankie forced herself to look past Carla’s smouldering stare and survey the road behind them through the rear view mirror. She heaved a sigh of relief as she realised the Ukrainians were not in immediate pursuit.
‘Bleedin’ good job you remembered poor ol’ Ronnie still had that silly old bitch’s car keys in his pocket, Blondie.’ Freddy’s soldier squeezed the bare flesh of the DI’s shoulder, his hand lingering too many seconds longer than was necessary for such a gesture. ‘I reckon old Deano must’ve copped for it, too. Fuck me; they’re a mean, double-crossin’ lot of bastards, them Russkis.’
Frankie did not relish the over familiar contact, but resisted temptation to shake the sweaty hand off. She shuddered as she relived taking the keys from the headless body. There had been no sign of the missing body part, but perhaps it was just as well. But despite being in top gear, total survival mode, she remembered the persona she had adopted from the outset with Carla and with the girl’s father since. ‘You are the real hero – goodness knows what they would have done to my Carla if you hadn’t thought so quickly. Are all Mr Field’s – I mean Freddy, he said I could call him by his name; are all Freddy’s men heroes like you?’
Carla glared at Frankie through the rear view mirror. ‘This silly useless bastard would still be looking for the fire escape if it weren’t for me,’ she snapped. ‘He and the rest of the Old Man’s goons are going to have to do a bit better protecting the Manor, or we are all dead meat.’
‘Don’t you worry none, Miss Carla; they ain’t gonna get away with somethin’ like that again, not over my dead body.’
‘Hmm,’ Carla mused, not making any attempt to disguise her scepticism. ‘That’s just what is beginning to worry me; seems like some of you would be out of your depth in a puddle of water.’
‘Your daddy will make sure nothing happens to us, darling, I’m sure he will. He looks so strong and fit, certainly more than able to look after his family and their especially close and loved ones.’ Frankie simpered, deliberately overdoing her praise for Freddy Field.
The result was precisely the one aimed for. Carla bristled and gave Frankie a withering, “Are you making a play for my father?” look.
Frankie avoided any immediate attempt to regain eye contact with Carla, while manoeuvring through the busy lanes of traffic as they neared their destination. Only when she had steered into the driveway and stopped at the gates of the Manor did she lock eyes again with Carla. She rolled her tongue very slowly around her lips, curled it slightly and pushed it out and back in, wriggling it quickly as she did so, sending her lesbian sexmate an unambiguous taunt.