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The Fifth
Blonde
(by Eve Adorer)
Chapter 1 -
Muffled
Spindon,
the
The presto
staccato clatter of high heels echoed the lonely all-but empty street: the
tympani of an erotic symphony played solo by a duet of dainty feet.
Spindon
was as warm as Spindon ever is. Rain had reigned not
long since, with Thor’s bass drum rolls aperitif to jagged strokes slashing the
sky blinding blue-white.
Prolific
litter, latterly scattering the sidewalk, now cluttered the gutter, washed
there by nature’s hopeless attempt to power-hose the Spindon
Soho district clean.
The
northern hemisphere sun claimed ascendancy over the town’s slatternly summer
season. To be this dark therefore needed the early hours, with dawn, borne on
and born of the earth’s rotation, starting its post gestation parturition.
There were
lights, street, jaundice-yellow, apologising for
their inadequacy. There were lights, shop, palsy-white,
left on for security and to display the tawdry wares of this locale of
despairs.
Boarded
windows said shops that did not pay protection money, or else had died of
market force’s divorce from custom, and custom’s practice of now going
elsewhere.
In such
shoes she could not run even though she wanted to. So she made onwards, head
down.
By her not
looking up, her hallow haloed blonde head played ostrich without the sand for
such an inward outlook.
In a
doorway ahead: silent shadows shouted their threat and shivered her spine. The
hairs on her slim neck rose in reflex ripple. Thank god it was only two drunken
girls drinking each other’s kisses.
But fear
had demanded she assess if threat threatened, so she had dared to look
up. The girls she saw in the doorway, would be called ‘fat’ by
unflattering standards that did not see the cream of their complexions, and did
not sympathise that to be so tired of life so young
spoke of society’s deepest evil.
In so
looking up, she saw that, shadows despite, it was
safe; but stayed too long in stare, so the call echoed before her as she
hurried toward the kissed-in doorway:
“Whadda you fuckin’ starin’ at?”
And the
call echoed behind her as she hurried by:
“Seen
enough den ‘ave yer?!”
……………..
Spindon
Police had taken this one here as a summer casual: her and her equally pretty
friend. They were still at university. Just nineteen.
She was innocent of so much of life and, more so, of so much of love.
Why me; I
don’t know.
She was
tall, when I like them petite. She was blonde when I like them brunette. She
had pale blue eyes, when I love them brown. She had a full bosom for a girl
with such a slim frame, when I prefer them to contrast, not more than match my
own. But she had the cutest bum, and she knew I could not help but watch her
swing that thing when she was busy-bee about the office floor.
Plain
clothes were allowed civilians like her. Me too now I was a detective sergeant
in the Criminal Investigation Department – the CID.
She was a
sunny honey, with love in eyes that gleamed dreams.
Why me; I
don’t know, but I knew from the fact that she and her redheaded fellow-student
silenced their chatter when I came near, only for its sweet music to charm the
air when I had gone by, that electricity was current.
It was DC,
one-way, till the day she wore the dress.
Angelina,
for this was she: Angelina in her tight cotton, blue cotton, cool cotton,
dress. The station house echoed bedlam as we busied with our business, but
still the hush of Angelina’s dress’ hem on her sin-black nylons, as she slinked
past my desk, charged me with ecstatic static.
On she wasn’t it trying, when she delivered my mail. Perhaps
that was because she was shy without her friend to goad her to exceed her confidence’s
certain competence.
Her voice
was bright silk-honey with a tease of giggle.
“Only two
letters today, Miss Winsome: you must be losing your popularity”.
In that
instant she blushed scarlet. She was so embarrassed that the intended joke she had
rehearsed, had sounded so rude now it was delivered, that she duly flushed pink
dew rose from her forehead to her nape, and dropped her sweet eyes to say
‘sorry’.
Acutely shy
in pink-faced consequence, she lingered only momentarily by my desk, but the
brisk soft swish of her black nylons brushed by her dress’ tight skirt, was
scent-in-sound in the sensuality with which the noise of its silence rose above
the office fray’s bray.
“Truly”, I
said. “Please call me ‘Truly’; not ‘Miss Winsome’”
I was disappointed
at being so prosaic. DC was translating to AC currently. I was eleven-years
older than this honey-pie, but she still made me shy,
and my words thus stupidly inadequate.
As she
turned away: “Thank you for the letters Angelina”, I said, following-up one
inadequacy with another even worse, for which I mentally kicked myself again.
She turned
and her bottom-of-her-bottom blonde flow, momentarily curtained one shy eye as
she whispered: “You’re welcome Miss….. Truly”, and blushed again. And a name I
had always hated, mine, had just sounded heavenly.
……………..
Angelina
was, next day subsequently, both wrong and right in her assessment.
Subliminally
sublimely she had sounded out, she thought, what had aroused my senses. That it
had been the shush of static from her tight dress on her stocking tops topped
thighs that had sent ‘scent’ to my ears, she had not realised.
She now
stood, talking to her redheaded co-conspiratorial co-concupiscent, the titian
tease Emma Eyeful.
As I walked
by, Angelina stood chatting self-consciously with her friend and fellow
student. Angelina stood in a miniskirt with her long slim legs displayed from
her ankles all-but to her nave. She stood in what I guessed must be the first
ever pair of heelless tiptoe-walk en-pointe-shoes she
had ever worn. She stood thus on tiptop tiptoe with her legs, her calf muscles
not least, in a tension of taut curves impossible to give inattention.
Angelina
was thus both wrong and right in her assessment. Sublimely subliminally she had
sounded out, she thought, what would arouse me. That it would be and had been
the hush of the hem of her tight skirt on her nyloned
thighs that had sent sweet music to my ears, she had not realised;
but she was not wrong in concluding that I was a legs girl.
A
significant silence descended over the vacation students’ chatter as I got
closer.
As I drew
close: “Good morning Truly”, an angel whispered, with
a voice that spoke too of longed-for greater confidence.
“Good
morning Angelina”, I answered, as I caught her eyes, eyes that said ‘please
don’t hurt me’.
The two
student-girls’ silence continued as I carried on by to my desk. Then a sigh,
Angelina’s, and a sympathetic giggle, Emma Eyeful’s, told of love’s leaning to
keening longing.
…………………..
What
courage it took for Angelina to come to my desk later that morning, I only
thought about in retrospect.
She
lingered by my desk, till I looked up at her shy eyes avoiding contact with
mine.
“Please
could you spare a moment Truly?” Angelina concerned.
From the
nervous tone of her voice, I thought she had made a huge error in her work, and
my heart went out to her.
“Of course Angelina. How can I help you sweetheart?” I asked.
I think I
might have misplaced them somewhere in the historic records storeroom, Truly. Honestly, I’ve searched high and low! …..” Angelina
honeyed. “I thought maybe with fresh eyes on the job we might find them… It’s
so stupid of me: they were there earlier this morning…. I’d swear they were!
……..”
I pushed
aside the files I had been prioritising on my desk,
and followed her willow wand wonder, as she wove and weft her mystery before
me, her breathtaking slim legs a little unsteady, because she was constantly
tiptoe topped like a ballerina in the heelless pirouette shoes she was not yet
used to wearing.
Her
sensuousness was sensational to my nose and my ears. The scent from her
burnished blonde rippling fresh washed hair, blessed the air. The ‘scent’ of
her miniskirt caressing crisply on her nyloned thighs
sent a swish wish to my aural nerves and my clit.
Angelina
let me go ahead of her into the storeroom where she had been working alone,
filing.
When
within, turning to the sound of a well-ordered well-oiled ‘click’, I enquired:
“What exactly is it that we are looking for Angelina?”
Of course
she had locked the door. It should never have been left unlocked in the first
place. She should have locked it for security after she had broken off from her
work in there to come to my desk.
Angelina
started shyly, seeming startled a little, taken by surprise.
“I’m only
too happy to help; but we are very busy at the moment as you know. What exactly
are we looking for sweetheart?” I asked again of Angelina, who still stood with
her back to the locked door, and with her head momentarily lowered.
When
Angelina looked up, the huge black pupils middling her China-blue eyes, were
compellingly demanding of tutelage, as she whispered, sidling slowly leggilly shyly toward me, while she blessed the air with
her sensuous sweet soprano supplication, offering me her mouth: “I think I’ve
lost my panties. I’m not sure if I’m still wearing my panties. Will you search
me Truly? …… Please …”
……………..
It was time
for me to return to full duty. My twisted ankle, the ankle that had held me
deskbound, was now mended. I would like to claim injury in the line of fire,
but my tomcat would call me liar.
I love to
wear heels. ‘Tom’ loves his fish. He got his wish that day, a month ago, after
I had winced with the sharp pain. He had run and purred and weaved between my
ankles as I was walking in my kitchen with his opened food can. And, in my fear
of stepping on him, I had stumbled in my 12-inch-heeled sandals. Such is the
risk for a girl paying the dues due to her beauty.
It was time
for me to return to full duty. I woke just before the aid of the alarm
sounding. It being no longer needed, I pressed it to ‘off’.
Bar
panties, I was already naked for the shower to baptise
me. Being but for butt naked, I was cool without the bedclothes too. Perhaps
that was what had awoken me before the alarm went off.
As I moved
to leave the bed, Angelina, deep asleep though she was, mumbled protest at the
disturbance, and snuggled the duvet she had already monopolised,
further over her exquisite body. Yet half her bottom was still cheekily bare,
so I leant over and gave it another kiss, and she sleep-talked a slurred, “MmmNo!”, that even yet confirmed,
‘Yes’.
I left my
love tumbled in the crumpled bed. It was not that she needed any beauty sleep.
But she did have her first day back in her new term at college to face that
day.
……………..
Later that
same morning, at the police station ….
“Welcome
back to full duty Detective Sergeant Winsome”, the Chief Inspector called from
the front of the briefing room.
“Thank you
ma’am”, I answered, controlling my hatred of that jumped up tart.
Fucking university graduates. What did they know about real policing? Book bashers!
Frigging useless the lot of them! Had they ever tried to control the girls in
the crowd when Spindon Vixens were playing Muncester Dikes in the soccer premiership? Had they seen
the unemployed minegirls hanging around the street
corners, living off handouts since the last colliery closed two years back? Had
they walked the beat in Spindon Soho,
and seen the skinny drug-dazed prostitutes, desperate for the money for another
fix, being eyed-up for being ripped-off by the rich bitches out for a fling
with ‘a bit of filth’? No. Of course they hadn’t. The cushy pen-pushers never
went out unless it was in a chauffeuse driven car!
She could
have been a catwalk model too. Perhaps that added to why I hated Chief
Inspector Sonia Berkley-Hunt. She had graduated MSc
at only sixteen of course. Her doctorate had followed six-months later. Her
mind was sharper than a laser razor and her beauty could have centred the fold of ‘Pussy Cat’ or ‘Slit’ or any other of
the nudey girls’ magazines that were top-shelf back
then.
But I
begrudged her flight to height without the shite I
had had to plod through. The shite had started for me
as a mere constable eight-years since. My mother could not afford to send me to
college. I had worked behind the counter at Woolmart’s
from leaving school till I was twenty-one, and old enough to sign on with the
police force.
“Now listen
up please!” Sonia called, and an attentive silence, punctuated only by
Constable Divine Legges-Walker’s nervous cough,
descended on the collegiate collectivity.
“Operation
Moist Quim: you all know what it is about, and you
all know its gone total rats”, Monica began, using the condescending ‘common
touch’ phraseology that I found another reason for my unreasonable hatred of
her.
“Operation Moist Quim. Three girls have disappeared now.
We know the pattern. They are all under thirty-five, all around five-nine, all
of them blonde, all with blue eyes, and all very beautiful…”.
“And all
well endowed ma’am”, a sweet voice called from the back.
“Just so
Constable Legges-Walker: an important common factor.
Indeed, none of the girls gone missing was less than a thirty-eight double-D or
E-cup”, Sonia agreed, with a look of embarrassment that this point – these
points? – had been raised, when she would have
preferred it – them? - inferred rather than actually said.
“Of course,
they were all in their majority”, Sonia went on. “I mean they were all old
enough to vote, and thus to vote with their feet and leave Spindon
behind them.”
“But we
know this is more than a mere ‘missing persons’ matter. We know, because all
these girls were either happily married, or had a close partner. And we know,
because the wives or girlfriends they left behind, are
bereft shocked and distraught from the inexplicable disappearances.”
“A French
girl, one Papillon Etalage, is the latest lovely to disappear. And this time we have
fallen slightly lucky. We have got two witnesses who saw a girl answering her
description, walking through the Spindon Soho area at three yesterday morning.”
“But first,
her wife has loaned us footage, so we can see what Ms Etalage looks like”.
“Constable!
….” The constable thus nodded to by Sonia Berkley-Hunt, began to play a
wall-screen projected DVD of a stunning girl playing basketball.
Sonia added
commentary to break the eerie silence: “As you’ll see, Ms Etalage perfectly fits the common
description of the uncommonly beautiful girls that have disappeared in their
turn before her…..”
“…..She is
keen on indoor sports …”
‘If that
means lovemaking, my god I bet she is!’, I thought, as I watched the brief
flickeringly visitation of the vision of loveliness that flashed onto the
screen, leaped high sky, and netted the ball, before being surrounded by the
other girls in her team, who seemed just to long to kiss her, as she shyly
giggled, putting her sweet fingers on her lovely mouth.
“Unfortunately,
the footage of Ms Etalage is very brief”, Sonia confirmed, stating the obvious, “So
the constable will replay it in slow emotion …. I mean slow-motion … for you.”
Of course Papillon’s face was adorably lovely, but we
all watched open mouthed, as her long strong legs loped slowly on to the
screen. And too as the bounce of the ball that announced her approaching the
net, was trounced by the double dive, and double-rebound-rise, of her heavy
heaving breasts, in the effortless flow of these, her prodigiously provocative
prominent eminences.
And the
power of her legs when she leapt to basket the ball, shaped her calves to
curves beyond categorisation, bar that they were the
curves of a girl.
Papillon’s breasts flowed up to heaven with her leap, and dived and
bounced within her top when the angel disappointed heaven as she reappointed
heaven on earth by landing kitten cat with her svelte lightness.
The look of
joy on the faces of her teammates as they ran to kiss her,
showed how deeply she inspired love, despite that her beauty shaded every other
girl in the arena.
“Thank you
constable”, Sonia’s curt tones intoned as the film clip ended again, and as:
‘Thank you Papillon!’ went through my mind.
“Common
factors with the previous two to Ms Etalage”, Sonia announced, indicating with a pointer, a list
she had, pinned on a wallboard.
“Each
received a gold garter through the post, addressed to them by name and with a
letter with the epithet: ‘To the most beautiful girl in the world’,
accompanying it.”
“The letter
included a phone number, a different number each time, inviting the recipient
of the garter to call for an appointment at a model selection interview.”
“The
condition for admission was that the garter be worn on the left thigh, and that it be displayed for the purpose of absolute
certainty of recognition by the interview team”.
“The phone
numbers were untraceable beyond Buenos Aries, which they reached through god
knows how many circumlocutions, and were anyway, dodo dead by the time we got that
far round the world.”
“The
interviews were at a restaurant. The restaurant was always the ‘La Belle
Filles’, in the French
quarter, and, lets face it, nobody in this room could afford to dine there
unless she could spare a year’s wages!”
‘You could,
you fucking overpaid overrated tart!’ I thought.
“The letter
also included free admission to a cinema. The cinema was always ‘Les Demoiselles’, also in the French quarter, and,
as we all know, on the edge of the Spindon Soho area.”
“The
victims wore their garters, dined with their interviewers at the restaurant,
and went with their interviewers to the cinema afterwards, presumably to relax
and get to know each other with the film as a mere backdrop.”
“The reason
for the invitation was stated in the letter to be: ‘The celebration of your
exceptional loveliness. And, above all, the honour of your overwhelming beauty gracing the pages of our
magazine’.”
“They were
from non-existent addresses. A different fake address,
and a different unheard-of magazine title each time.”
“We’ve
checked out the restaurant. A different name footed the bill every time. The
bill was always paid with cash, long since banked, and well beyond forensics
being able to get anything from it by now, even if we could trace any of it.”
“As for the
cinema, they have a twenty-seater room they hire out
regularly to cine-enthusiasts, at one-hundred dollars a night, for a private
showing of a chosen film. Whoever hired the IntimMateLips
Studio on these two occasions, now three, did so over the internet, and left no
traceable traces.”
“The films
shown there are on DVD. There is no projectionist. The customers play the film
as and when they choose. They can watch it ten times over if they wish to, as
long as the room is on hire to them for the time it would take. Meanwhile there
is a bar as a place to chat and network.”
“The
pattern has been the same. The girl with the garter went into the cinema with a
gaggle of other girls. These were, presumably, her so-called “interviewers” for
the modelling assignment for the new start-up
magazine. The garter girl never came out.”
“I say
‘never’, but of course we have the security-cam footage of Ms Etalage coming out of the cinema. We also have footage of
other areas around the cinema and restaurant, but none that positively identifies, the previous girls, the mock-interviewers, or Ms
Etalage. The locations seem to have been chosen for
the minimality of camera surveillance.”
“Ms Etalage must have somehow evaded the girlnappers.
Maybe she excused herself to the ladies’ washroom, and evaded their security by
simply not returning to her seat. She is the only one not somehow disappeared
inside the cinema itself. But they clearly got her later, in the street.”
“Only after
the second disappearance did we get told. With the first one, the partner of
the missing girl concluded that her love had wanted to disappear for some
unknown reason.”
“The first
two happened a week apart. This latest, only two days after
the second.”
“Till we
came on the scene, nobody saw that there was a pattern.”
“Unfortunately,
the report of these events happening, and our investigation and conclusion
there was a connection, came too late for a warning to have gone out that might
have saved Mademoiselle Etalage.”
“Now: our
new witnesses”, Sonia went on. “Our new witnesses are two public spirited
citizens of Spindon Soho.
I’ve promised them anonymity, as they are married; but not to each other.”
“Unfortunately,
our new witnesses can tell us little. They saw a girl matching the description
of Ms Etalage walking very nervously through Spindon Soho, coming from the direction of the French Quarter of Spindon. That’s all.”
“The route
Ms Etalage was on, was her
way home. She never made it home. The girlnappers
must have caught up with her.”
“We appear
to be talking girlnapping to order: hence the
similarities in the hair-colour complexion height and
vital statistics of these gorgeous young women.”
“The constable
on the beat there was asked to retrace Ms Etalage’s
route from the cinema. She did so, and had the good sense to look for evidence,
in the unlikely places as well.”
“In a
trash-can on one of the lampposts not a quarter-mile from the ‘Les Demoiselles’ movie house, she found some
panties. They were thoroughly impregnated with the dried evidence of heavy
petting.”
“Even as I
speak, these are being flown to
“We have no
idea who cast them into the trash-can”, Sonia concluded.
“Any ideas
about the case?” she queried.
“Ideas?! ….
Anyone?” ….
There was a
pregnant silence, till ….
“How about
the
“I thought
their name would come up”, Sonia dismissed.
“As we all
know, Eve and Dawn Midnight flew in from New Edingow
in the
“As we all
know also, Eve and Dawn have a reputation for big-time crime. But the FBI assure us that they are cleaner than a hound’s tooth.
Reputation is just that and nothing more. Besides, and, okay we did check it as
a precaution, all the evidence is that they were out of town on every occasion
of one of these occurrences. So, reputation or no reputation, Eve and Dawn
Midnight are out of this.”
“And, as
for you, Detective Sergeant Winsome: you keep off the
“Any worthwhile ideas? ….. Someone? Anyone?”
If shop
dummies could have turned their heads to give each other dumber looks than my
colleagues had on their faces at that final invitation, I would have been
surprised to see it.
The
briefing fell into a shambles, and we all shuffled out, dispirited.
Meanwhile,
Sonia Berkley-Hunt called me to her office, and had me
read a warning letter from Mesdames Grimm, Gavel, and Grave, Eve and Dawn
Midnight’s solicitors, complaining of harassment by an off-duty plain-clothes
police officer: to wit, me.
“Whatever
you think you can achieve by poking around near the
……………..
Home after
the day, feeling ultramarine, tired, and weary, I turned the key in the door of
Angelina’s apartment, only to have my heart mind and deepest soul lifted by
Angelina rushing to kiss me.
“Guess
what?” she giggled and teased, without being able to wait for me to answer her,
as she danced around and spun like a top in her hyper-high excitement, and
instantly answered her own question:
“Tonight!
This very night!! What do you think of ‘La Fille Aux Cheveux De Lin’ the original movie, as
directed by Eutille Joanbergen
her very self; not the American remake but the rediscovered Eutille
Joanbergen silent original!!?”
“Preceded ….. wait for it …..”, she pleaded, as she put her
pretty forefinger on the tip of my nose to tease me, taunting me with her sweet
touch to give punctuation to the point she wished to make in her lovely playful
way, and telling me thus that I risked spoiling her joy if I even so much as tried
to answer.
“Wait for
it!” she teased again, this time putting her lovely finger to shush my mouth,
even as I felt tears come to my eyes for my love of this wonderful girl
prancing excitedly around me.
“Preceded by dinner at …… ‘tara’, ‘tara’, ‘tara’, she trumpeted, in silly imitation of a triumphant
fanfare, “Preceded by dinner at ‘La Belle Filles’!!”
“I’m going
to be a model! “I’m going to be a model! “I’m going to be a model!” she sang as
she jigged about the room flashing a letter, she teased me by not letting me
fully see.
Her angelic
face frowned a little as she saw my serious look.
But then
she brightened and frightened the sun’s supremacy, as she whispered: “Isn’t it
just so gorgeous?!!”, as she innocently whisked up her pleated miniskirt to
reveal a pure gold garter gently pressing the supreme wonder of her bare,
unbearably lovely, slim left thigh. Then she teased me by dancing a silly
knees-high foot wiggle cancan, before purposely falling helplessly into my
arms.
……………..
“What we
got here then?”
It had been
totally stupid of me to go it alone.
I had left
Angelina to get ready. I had kissed her, and lied to her, that I was going into
work later, adding that I was sure she would bowl them over at the interview.
“Hope you’ll
still want to know poor little me, when you’re rich and famous!” I teased.
She hugged
me, kissed me, and sighed with surrender.
Back in my
own apartment, three floors up from Angelina’s, it had been decision time.
Did I tell
Angelina not to go to the interview, or did I let it go ahead so we could get
the bitches carrying out this girlnapping?
How certain
was I that the
If I was
sure I was sure, there was no use in my telling Chief Inspector Sonia
Berkley-Hunt. My boss had already warned me to keep away from them. I would get
no support from her. Yet, if I was convinced of Eve and Dawn Midnight’s
involvement, this was my chance to prove it for once and all.
I had, of
course, not been prepared to risk my love. I had made an anonymous call to a
police helpline, and followed it up with a call to a trusted colleague.
Constable
Divine Legges-Walker assured me that they had had a
tip-off and would be following it up.
The word
they had received – the word I had passed on anonymously – was that another
beautiful blonde would be abducted that very night:
“You might
recall her”, Divine prompted, “In fact you must have come across her since she
left us to go back to college. She lives in the same apartment block as you do,
sarge. Remember those two student tarts that filled
their vacation working in our offices. The redhead and the
blonde. Well, it’s the blonde of course. The tall one?
The one that seemed to have the hots
for you. Angelina Dream?”
“How are
you going about it?” I enquired, trying to disguise my anxiety, and change the
subject, as consciousness of the risk for Angelina struck me with fresh doubts
about what I was doing.
“We got
everything on it we’ve got available. That includes you sarge.
The Chief Inspector wants you here pronto or sooner. We’ve been trying to raise
you this last hour or more. Where the hell have you been?”
“You’re not
going to believe this, Divine, but that bloody ankle of mine has gone on me
again, damn it!” I lied.
“I’m sat
here with a pack of friggin frozen peas over the
swelling. I can hardly get to the bathroom, let alone out of this apartment”, I
elaborated.
“Bloody
hell sarge! We need you here right now!” Divine
moaned, as much because she preferred others to do her thinking for her as to
think for herself; unless she was being called upon to think with the mind she
had between her superb thighs that is of course.
“No can
do”; I answered, “It’s bloody agony. No more high heels
for me. That’s twice I’ve twisted the same damned ankle”, I further lied.
“Okay sarge. I’ll tell Sonia, but she ain’t
going to like it. For god’s sake, can you at least be ready by the phone?”
Divine pleaded.
“Yes. Yes
of course. I’ll help in any way I can. You’ll have to get me on this landline
though. My mobile’s gone too.
It was true
that I had not got a police radio with me. My mobile I had merely turned off so
it wouldn’t give me away.
I had a
plan. Now I was as sure as I could be that Angelina was safe, I had a plan.
I had the
highest regard for my colleagues. I would trust Angelina to them. I had been on
such operations before. The maybe-victim was bate and no more. There would be
cops in the restaurant and hidden in the cinema. Angelina wouldn’t be touched.
The pincer would close in before anyone so much as laid an eye on one of her
lovely legs, or so I assured, and then reassured myself.
But the
pinch was bound to be in the locality of the French quarter. My colleagues
would therefore probably only get the monkeys. The organ grinders could only be
tracked if one of their dogsbodies cracked in
interrogation. That could take hours or, more likely, days.
The chances
of the
……………..
“What we
got here then?”
The
The
familiar peaceful sound of that clock knelled the end of my freedom as I was
frog-marched into Spindon’s old Manor House, the
house refurbished as a home by the
“What we
got here then?”
I had been
grabbed from behind. I had been snooping in the garden of the Manor House, and
had been grabbed by two gorgeous strong and fit negresses keeping guard on the
I was now
kneeling. My arms were out straight behind me. Each of the guard girls had a
wrist and had twisted that wrist with one strong hand,
while she held me above the elbow to keep my arm locked straight with her other
hand. I had then been smart-marched into the Manor House, and my arms levered
up behind me, to make me kneel.
As I knelt
leaning forward, my long blonde hair had cascaded around my face, my heavy
breasts were plunged within my white blouse to point profoundly to ground, my
micro-skirt was ridden up my strong thighs, thighs given enormity by my squat,
thighs revealing my sin-black stocking tops, and my blind-bat-black suspenders.
“What we
got here then?”
With my
dark-blue micro-skirt having sighed high, I felt pleasured-eyes admiring the
feminine flow of the lines of my folded legs. Somehow I then felt them stop at
the tops of my wicked-widow-black-stockings, and the exposure of my suspender
clasps on the fronts of my thighs. The eyes, I sensed stopped to ponder if I
wore panties, before adoring my breasts as they heaved heavy huge within my
shirt with my fear.
“Let’s have
a good look at her”, silked
the same voice as before.
One of my
captors pulled my corn crop into a stook on top of my
head, and forced my face up, despite my pulled-up arms forcing my shoulders
down.
“Gorgeous! Absolutely gorgeous!”
I looked up
at the feline source of the purring voice, and saw to adore, the long slim
exquisitely shapely legs of Eve Midnight.
Eve wore a
black leather micro-skirt and a black leather jacket. The jacket zip was open
and her size thirty-eights D-Deed the insides of a tight black tee-shirt,
testing its tensile-strength to the precipice of asunder-rip. Her nipples were
prominent nibs, readied for scribbling love-notes in white ink, if only her
breasts had been charged with milk. The hem of her tee-shirt was fashionably
tatty, torn-off at a 45-degree diagonal, so that her smooth firm belly was half
bare.
Her cute
concave navel guided my eyes up between her deep cleavage
to her imperious face. Her dark-brown eyes shone with vitality and viciousness
in competing measure. Her raven hair tumbled in helix ringlets, in the ordered
disorder that could only have originated from the most exclusive of
hairdressers. Her Everest-high cheekbones poured scorn on lesser majesty. And,
oh god, her mouth, with its negress’
lips, posies pout-poised in permanent pose proposing: ‘kiss me’!
A door
opened behind this astounding vision, and another girl walked in, talking on
her mobile phone: “They’re all three sedated, bubble-wrapped, and crated. All
we need now is Angelina Dream, and we can get then on the truck for the
airport. That lucky Russian bitch will soon have her matching team of four blonde
ponygirl-prancers….”
This
speaker purred kitten too. This was Dawn. This was Dawn Midnight, the perfectly
identical twin, of the equally perfect Eve.
These
astounding girls were twins of twenty-two, but had different birthdays. They
had been born either side of
Never had
the surname ‘
Dawn and
Eve Midnight, both now stood before where I was still in enforced kneel, as if
in worship of them. And I saw the full majesty of the truth that was beauty,
and the beauty that was truth, as the white Eve in her black, stood alongside
the negress Dawn in her
identical clothing of contrasting white. For that too was true of these vixens
of the demimonde, that they were completely identical twins, save the grace
that had granted that Eve was white and Dawn a negress.
“What we
got here then?” whispered Dawn’s divine lips, echoing her sister’s rhetorical
interrogative, as she clicked off her mobile.
“What a
beauty. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought they’d delivered blonde
number four.
“You don’t
have a chance the place is surrounded by cops!” I painfully
clichéd.
“I don’t
like to see you getting hurt like this”, Eve whispered as she cupped my chin in
her gentle hand, and ran her thumb sexually inquisitively over the soft lips of
my petulantly pert, firmly closed, love longing, mouth.
“I’m going
to tell my heavies to let go your arms Truly, but I
don’t want no trouble from you: Okay?”
I felt the
pain in my shoulders increase, as my arms were forced further up, and me
further down, to remind me of the power held over me and: “Okay, okay, okay!” I
gasped, my tone intoning: ‘Oh god let me go!’.
I was then
released. As I rose to stand on my twelve-inch heeled booties, two exceptionally
lovely hands, one black and one white, took one each of mine.
After the
twins had helped me rise, I stood, rubbing my arms, in alternate turn, at their
respective triceps, to ease the ache from my being girlhandled
so forcefully.
“I am
Detective Sergeant Truly Winsome of Spindon CID. I am
spearhead of a raid on this house. You would be wise
to surrender yourselves to me!” I winced unconvincingly.
Then the
rest of my intended words were lost in an intense mumbled struggle followed by
a silence enforced by a gentle black hand that caressed my face, and then held
my neck at back to force me to kiss Dawn Midnight, and by my melting utter
butter, as she moulded her mouth around my
unwillingly willing lips, till the thrilling tingle in my racing pulses made my
eyes close in complete surrender, and my mouth answer with all my heart’s
passion.
“You’re a
girl first and a copper way second”, Dawn taunted, confident in her alarming
sexual charms, as she let me go and Eve took over the kiss. And the wanton wetness
in my tunnel of love told the tale of my feminine betrayal, even as my clit
tolled too like a wedding bell’s knell.
I was
losing it fast. I had to get a grip on my physical and spiritual body. I had to
have command over my heart from my head and not from between my legs.
Anaesthetised by their kisses I was in serene stun, as Dawn ran her inquisitively
enquiring hands over my blouse and then patted my buttocks.
“She’s
clean. She’s only got her girl’s weapons”, Dawn teased, as she looked at my eyes:
eyes misty with mystification that I could so surrender at the behest of two of
the best kisses I had ever tasted, and more so at my longing for more such, and
a tonguing.
“You are
under arrest….” I reflexed from somewhere in my
subconscious, only to have Dawn lean forward and gently kiss my forehead to
keep me poleaxed.
“Of course
we are sweetheart”, she teased.
“What about
the snatch?” Eve pointedly reminded, “She might have a shooter hidden up her.”
“Yea” Dawn
agreed.
“Okay
Truly, I want you to lower your panties, and no quick moves, cos if you do got a gun holstered up there, we’ll use it on
you for sure”, Eve drawled.
As I slowly
lifted the hem of my skirt up my thighs, to reveal my potent-purse-pouched
translucent white thong, I watched the twins exchange affirmative glances
confirmatory of their admiration of the longing of my legs, the sighs of my
thighs, and their joy at seeing, through my panties, that there was nothing to
see, but that I was shaven as smooth as a pre-pubescent innocent.
I was now
proud that my body was arousing these heavenly satans to the parallel of the passion that their
compassionate kisses had encompassed me hopelessly lost within for them.
As I
stepped out of my thong after lowering it to my ankles, I prayed they would not
feel me to find if or not I had a pistol hidden in my she, as I knew they would
find the moisture, portrayal of my muff’s betrayal, as it prayed I might fall
prey to these delectable devils.
“Are you
packing a rod in your cunt, Truly?”
Eve insisted.
“No” I
answered.
“Shall she
show us her pink, so we can be sure?” Dawn asked her elder twin.
“No. I
think she knows where we’re at. You wouldn’t be so
stupid as to lie, would you Truly?” Eve insisted.
“No. I’m
not armed”, I hoarsed with my passion for another
kiss unbidden unhidden.
“Why don’t
we give her the old ‘spit-roast’? She’s begging for it” Dawn drawled, licking
her lips to moist beacons beckoning for the reckoning of
reckless reconnoitre of my betraying body.
“Yea”
smoothed Eve, as she eyed me top to toe and toe to top, while I shook my blonde
mop to let her see the grace of my face, and lowered my light-blue lamps in
shame at the fevered feelings I was fermenting.
“You’ve got
it coming you horny bitch. We’ll teach you not to nipple-in where you’re not
wanted,” Dawn sneered, but with a slur inferring her own desires were as
aroused as my own, even though, with me, it had taken the actuality of my
captivity to make me realise my sexuality’s fullest
capacity had this category of catalyst.
“Get
yourself stripped bitch, but leave the heels on, so we can see your fucking
beautiful legs at their very best”, Dawn ordered.
I was slow
to obey. It was not out of rebellion or lack of wanting to be their slave. It
was out of need to savour the flavour
of the moment: the moment of my realising that I was
submissive, and longing for a lesson to be taught me.
But new fervour entered my fever as my dilatoriness caused Dawn to
rip my blouse asunder so that, with buttons ballistic, my gentle breasts were
flung softly wide aside and side-to-side, exposing the super-erect stature of
my nipples, confirming my growing arousal.
“One each?”
whispered Dawn, and their mouths were on me and suckling on my virgin-firm
breasts, even as I gently put my trembling hands on the backs of the exquisite
raven curls of the twins’ pharaoheon heads, while I
sexually mothered their desire for my body, by letting them suck my nipples to
new lengths of height, and new heights of length, new peaks of stiffness, and
new stiffness of peaks.
They could
take the time they wanted in sucking my nipples. It would never be too long or
too short a time for me. If they went on long or short it showed they had mistressy over me, and that was
what I wanted in deed, and needed indeed.
I wanted
these girls to rape me. I needed these girls to rape me. I wanted them to use
me, abuse me, and discard me. I needed them to use me, abuse me, and discard
me. If they wanted to slap me around, all the better.
I wanted the rape to last forever and yet, at one and the same time, for it to
be nasty brutal and short.
If they
wanted to give me pleasure I would cum. If they wanted to deny me pleasure I
would enjoy it just as more.
I wanted to
be broken by them. I wanted to be soiled and sullied and slapped like a
slattern slapper.
As Dawn
undid the buckle of my belt to drop my skirt to my ankles and rip off the
remnants of my blouse, I longed that she might whip me with the buckle across
my bare back till it bled, but I was silent other than to utter the moans that
utterly uttered the true meaning of me, as my nipples were sucked to eternity’s
rapture by their second suckling from the eager Eve’s capture.
“Let’s have
her mouth then” came Dawn’s honey purr from behind me,
as Eve bade me step out of my ankle encumbering dropped skirt, and turn.
Somehow,
despite my impassioned irrational arousal, even as I turned in eager eyes-closed
dream, I heard the
Dawn had
fifteen-inches of erect cock she was masturbating to attention, whilst gorging
on the glory of my body! She wanted me bent forward so her cock could taste my
hot virgin mouth.
Oh god I
had not known this! I had not known the
Eve took my
hair and grabbed it to hold my head till Dawn’s cock was on my lips, and I was,
microseconds later, choking as Dawn rammed it over my tongue and deep down my
throat.
I struggled
for air but my fight only excited Dawn the more as she worked my mouth with her
cock, whilst her sister spat in my anus, to ready it for her cock’s intern in
turn.
As Dawn
grabbed my hair and twisted it to a knot in her fist, to hold my head steady so
she could use my mouth as a tool for her sole pleasure, never had I felt such
pain as Eve’s fifteen-inch penis forced open the tight ring of my sphincter.
But my scream was muffled and only served to service Dawn’s end’s ends, as her
end was still deep down my throat.
I was being
‘spit-roasted’. I was on the ‘spit’. I had one cock down my throat and another
in my anus, and it was, and I was in, ecstasy.
Eve and
Dawn took my hands and gently hammerlocked my arms at
my shoulder blades as they played seesaw in slow session in their possession of
my passion holes, with first Dawn down my throat and back to my tongue, and
then Eve up my bum and then back to the rim of my sphincter.
And then
they united to fill me in unison, so that I had their cocks down me and up me
in union, and up me and down me as two and one, using me as a classic
‘spit-roast’ host.
I tried so
to tell them I had lied, but my cries were muffled by my garbled gargled
gurgles, as I choked and garble gabble gargled in reflex with Dawn’s huge cock
with its rolled back foreskin filling my glottis with its throbbing head, so
that its withdrawal drew the wind from my lungs, and my pretty nostrils flared
in despair of air.
Yet, even
as Dawn’s withdrawal drew up vile bile and I wretched with the shear size and
length of her invasion, I wanted my mouth to please.
When my
bile was sucked up, I wanted her cock out of my mouth so that I could spit this
sickening salty saliva out. But I knew she was still going to ride inside me
despite my protests, and even more so because I fought. So I must suffer as my
hot tongue caressed the endless length of Dawn’s penis when it pumped back into
me and drove my hot bile out of my nose.
My tears
teetered brink my eyes as Dawn rode me without mercy let alone a chance to say
what needed to be said about my lie.
With Dawn’s
cock past my tonsils, I rose above the fear I would choke, even though she held
my head hard up with her cock right down my neck so that I began to fight for
my right to breath, as my tits shook and shuddered
with my leaving of consciousness.
But, even
as I thought I was dying, my tongue knew new pleasing measure for Dawn’s pleasure,
as my head swam and my mind floated to knew heights of consciousness of the
treasonous pleasures treasured by my sexual-self from my asphyxiation.
I knew I
was being deliberately choked to a half-death to make me compliant with
pleasuring the client that was using my mouth as if it were a she, so that my
tongue would dance like an ululating snake on Dawn’s erect state as it plunged
and plundered down and up, and down and deeper down my helplessly willing
throat.
“Oh fucking
shit, she gives great head!!” Dawn said as she wiped my wet and willing mouth
lips with her dark red warhead, before plumbing new depths of my throat to
choke me once more.
My mind
blown by my slow asphyxiation, I felt the heaven of Eve’s cock sliding measuredly within my colon as balm and bliss as against the
blitzkrieg kiss of the cock in my mouth.
Eve’s love
was elemental and gentle as her cock savoured the
chocolate flavour of the hole she favoured
in me.
My bum had
not known love before, and my sphincter was tight, even after it had given up
the fight to stop the persuasion of Eve’s pleasure-ground bound fifteen-inch
invasion.
My lovely
bum had always excited the girls. And how jealous they would be to see that Eve
had the tool with which to take toll on the hole that all of my girlfriends had
lingered long in, longing with finger, as they wished they had Eve’s pole with
which to rule and tell my bum not to be so sexy, if it didn’t nextly want to have a shit coated cock forced into my mouth
to punish me for my wanton wriggle wiggles when I walked.
But even as
Dawn fucked my mouth as if it were the she of a streetwalking trollop she would
use without concern as a depository for her sperm, I longed for Eve’s more
gentle penetration in my oral orifice and Dawn to slap my bum with her balls as
she raided my anus like an irate pirate.
My bum and
my mouth were not made for this kind of love. And yet, because they were not
made for what they were being used for, they were just the right holes two too
for the Midnight’s to take, to teach me my mistake of thinking I could take
them alone: a thought I had soon forgotten as they continued to savage my mouth
and my bottom, raking me with rape for my mistake’s sake.
The second
round of bile pulled up by Dawn’s plunder of my mouth, was viler than the
first. And yet the state of my surrender by now was such that I welcomed the
foulness, as her cock syringed my throat again, and the bile pissed
nauseatingly out of my nostrils.
And I began
to wretch and my tongue to flicker like a dervish at death’s door.
“Oh god
she’s a fucking horny whore!!!” Dawn hollered.
“Ride her
cowgirl!! You got your cock in her saddle! What’s her beautiful fucking bum
like for fucking? Fucking beautiful?” Dawn gasped between-whiles as she enjoyed
my half-death choking on her poking pole far down my throat hole.
Eve’s cock
still made cockhorse whore of my anus as she rode the range spurred on by her
longing to jerk and spurt inside my sexy pert bum with her potent seed cum.
“She’s as
smooth as satin and silk. She needs to be rode fucking bucking bronco pronto!!”
Eve opined to insult my mind.
“You take
her saddle while I feed her chocolate sauce as her next course!” Eve sneered,
intentionally for me to have heard every word, so as to turn me on to the slut
I was being taken for and used as: to abase me, and rouse me as they knew now
my want to pleasure, was from my massive submissive need to please.
My need to
tell that I had lied was forgotten as my plunderers withdrew, and I gasped for
air: air that had never had more wonderful fragrance, as my swimming head was
still filled with the circling sparkling stars that danced before my eyes from
Dawn’s penis throttling me with its relentlessly deep and ever deeper choking
poking.
I was unphased by the switch around. I was only too eager to
taste my brownie.
As,
lubricated by my spittle and bile on her hugely distended cock, Dawn slid slap
deep into my bum to ride me hard, bareback bronco break, holding my hips, as
Eve let me know what she intended, and what it impended, by up-ending her cock
so I could smell my fresh shit on her shaft.
Eve swung
her hips side to side and her cock slapped my face cheek as she hissed: “Lick
it you whore. Lick your shit off my shaft!”
And where
once I would have recoiled with nausea, I now moaned with joy.
Eve did not
need to order me to be eager, for my tongue was on the tense tautness of her
issue tissue, and my lips kissing the brownie off its tip, finishing with an
extra succulent kiss to suck the shit out from the recess of her septum.
“There’s a
good girl”, Eve menaced, to knowingly arouse me more, as she slid her now
pristine clean shaft down my throat, and the twins once more seesawed and
jointly worked me ‘spit-roast’ once again.
As Eve and
Dawn Midnight rode me, time stood still; for what bestrode me was more
compelling than love alone. I had grown to thirty-years and yet only now
discovered that I needed this. This physical hell was physic of heaven. All I
wanted now was that they cock my she.
All I
wanted now was that they cock my cunt. I was pouring
my musk in excess of largesse, but I knew I had no right to ask that they enter
my sin.
In the hour
for which the Midnight twins had been ‘spit-roasting’ me, an hour I knew only
as an eternity I wanted to have endlessly without end, I had learned that mine
was to be used and abused, and that the divine rights belonged only to these
hermaphrodite queen-kings.
I could not
define what I wanted. I had to pray they would divine what I wanted, and that
what I wanted coincided with what they decided I needed divided, in their free
choice of my three tight orifices.
……………..
At the
bursting open of the doors, and the shout of: “Armed police: Freeze!” an
angelic beauty with a gold garter around her tear-rendingly-beautiful
slim left thigh, saw me eagerly bent over, in just my devil-black-suspenders,
blackguard-black-stockings, and twelve-inch heels, with Eve’s fifteen-inch cock
right down my eager throat, and Dawn’s just withdrawing from my red-hot
bum-pot.
“Truly!
Oh god Truly! How could you?! How could you?!”
Angelina screamed, as she saw, and then ran straight back out of the door and
into the distant shiver of the velvet night.
“Armed police: Freeze!” Chief Inspector Sonia Berkley-Hunt shouted once more.
At which
call, as Dawn reflexed upright, her hugely erect
enormity, held on the verge of at long last entering my she, slid into my sluts
slaverings and met with the cold resistance of the
butt of my secreted one-shot derringer: the illegal pistol I carried for self-defence: the seat and site of my lie. And the muffled sound
of the explosion within my muff, told of the lead-semen that had
instantaneously ejaculated from the barrel of that pistol, its cock-sure
hair-trigger all too eager to complete my intense intercourse, by deflowering
me with a bullet, so that I fell to the floor screaming, writhing my beautiful
legs eye-compelling orgasmically erotically, in
agony, even as I rode the rough road of my unrivalled unbridled unbearable cums: a cum for every stroke of the Spindon
Town Hall clock, as it chimed out the coming of, and my cumming
too, to murderous midnight…
……………..
Outside in
the background-silent cold distant, the presto staccato clatter of high heels
echoed the lonely street: the tympani of an erotic symphony played solo by a
duet of dainty feet, as Angelina, her face an ocean of tears for her
emotionally imagined miserable years, wonder-wiggled, wandering lonely into the
bite of Spindon’s empty night…
[To Be
Continued]
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