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BEST ENJOYED COLD
PART SIX
‘Six-Chambered Heart’
“One for the love, Two for the hate
Three for the blood that I can’t circulate
Four for the fear, Five for the brave
Six, chamber six contains an open space”
Melanie had fought.
It was strange. From pre-puberty, her darkest, secret, unspoken sexual fantasies had been about control and rape and ‘bdsm’, not that she knew the term back then if it even existed. She had been too ashamed to reveal such thoughts to Charlie but she’d figured she finally do so once they were married. In them she had sometimes been the aggressor and other times the victim.
Reality was totally different.
Her karma.
He wasn’t like a rapist of her imagination. He was calm, almost disinterested, pretty much jacking off inside her. He simply held her wrists on the ground and writhed about on top, his erection hard and painful within her unwilling flesh.
When he flooded her he had given her an almost quizzical look as if he couldn’t understand why on earth she might object to him using her. Him. John fucking Cumber, the college stud and every girl’s dream.
Afterwards he had been embarrassed but not repentant. He made her rinse herself in the lake, destroying the evidence. Smiling, he threatened to tell her boyfriend that she had been willing participant, that she had loved it.
Perhaps he really even thought she had ?
“And if Charlie comes after me,” he said, nonchalantly tucking his shirt back in, “I will kill him. Trust me.”
*** *** ***
John Cumber sat staring at the screens. Alongside him Walt Furness, two other Agents, plus several investment bankers and John’s senior executives were all watching the Corporations’ share price tick up and down around the $15 dollars level.
Silence chilled the room as John’s phone rang.
The cell’s digital display was blank again.
“Yes.” He answered, all eyes on him. One of the Agents triggered the tracking technology that had been set up.
“John.” Said the smooth, taunting male voice. Already experts had identified it from the earlier tape as definitely an American national, accent most likely Southern Californian, the inflexion and vocabulary estimated at mid-thirties or under.
“Yes.”
“I will say this once. You have ten minutes and I want to see one billion dollars in the following bank account.”
The voice gave the name of a bank on the Caribbean island of St. Vincent. The number of the 8-digit account was the same as that day’s date in American format: May 28th, 2007.
0-5-2-8-2-0-0-7.
“If it doesn’t arrive, John, we will never speak again. Gotta go.”
“Wait !”
There was a calm pause. “Yes ?”
“What about my family ? My children ? And my wife ? How do I know you’ll free them once I’ve paid you the money.”
There was a chuckle. “You don’t.”
“But you have to give me some …” John Cumber clenched his fists, losing it in exasperation and rage. Walt Furness reached out for the phone but John flapped his hand away.
“Come on, John.” The voice said, a sudden coldness entering his tone. “You’ll love it. Trust me.”
*** *** ***
Charlie sat hunched over the screen reading the story. It was good. Well written, at least in his opinion. Sure it was violent and explicit but then, that was what this porno site seemed to be all about.
He clicked again and returned to the Author’s page.
‘Famous Blue Raincoat’.
There were ten stories listed in all. The one he had just finished was his favourite so far. He liked the title.
“Two out of three ain’t bad.”
Set in 1849, a brave Californian Gold Rush heroine had been raped and lost her husband, friends and wagon train to Red Indian raiders but she managed to save herself and her son.
The website offered a facility that allowed you to email the author.
With a deep breath, ‘Red Mist’ started tapping at his keyboard.
*** *** ***
Susan knelt and licked the woman’s labia. They hung open, unwashed, sweaty, giving off an odour like a dish of stinking fish and ripe cheese.
Whatever it was that motivated these people it wasn’t just money. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t even just sex. It was something else. Something that made them want every moment, every act, to be as awful as it could be.
The woman could easily have washed, showered, even just wiped herself. But she has chosen not to, and Susan thought that had to be calculated.
Bile rose up from her stomach to tear at her throat and she gulped the acid back down. There were just the two of them now, outdoors on a private terrace in the sunshine.
She felt sharp nails digging into her scalp, guiding her head.
“Lick, bitch. Make it good for me or I’ll cut off your little boy’s bollocks and feed them to you.”
Susan swirled her tongue and then drilled it, pointed, as deep as she could. She considered lesbianism disgusting, immoral. A sheen of fresh perspiration covered the woman’s inner thighs, making them slick and wet against Susan’s cheeks. She guessed the woman was between forty five and fifty. In quite good shape, probably fitness trained by the men. Nevertheless, strangely she seemed to be in charge, along with the horrible man they referred to as the Chameleon.
Her knees throbbed and her ankles ached from kneeling in the same position for so long. Her mind was delirious with fatigue and hunger and shame and worry, her tongue was numb. She had been doing this for half an hour since breakfast, but the woman seemed in no rush to reach a climax.
She winced as the woman ran her long fingernails through Susan’s hair.
How much
more of this could she take ?
*** *** ***
Charlie licked his dry lips.
You have
one new message.
He clicked it open.
“Dear Red Mist,
Thanks for your email. It’s always nice for authors to receive feedback like yours. I’m glad you enjoyed ‘Two out of Three Ain’t Bad’ in particular. I don’t know your age but that was the title of a song by Meatloaf when I was younger. In fact the whole story is kind of based around what I feel about that era. The Seventies. Anyway, feel free to email me direct if you have any more comments or ideas.
Famous Blue Raincoat.”
Charlie cracked a beer and began his response to her.
They exchanged emails, to and fro, for several weeks. Gradually it ceased being an impersonal dialogue and became correspondence between friends, even though they were two faceless persons either side of a screen.
At least, that’s how it seemed.
One morning, he awoke and fired up his PC. It was dawn in Europe. She had sent her reply from California long after he turned in for the night.
“Dear Red Mist,
Thanks for your last email. You’re correct, I do write from the heart. I have recently been working on a new story. It’s called ‘Sow the Wind, Reap the Whirlwind.’ That’s based on a line from the Old Testament in the Bible. It’s kind of inspired by something that happened to me many years ago. Not that ‘inspired’ is really the right word. I’m over it now, pretty much. But it still hurts coz it screwed up my life. So I write to get help get it out of my system. Anyway, gotta go. Write again soon.
Yours, FBR.”
Sow the
wind, reap the whirlwind !
Charlie
felt goose pimples up his spine as he started typing.
That evening, he received her reply.
“Dear RM,
Wow ! This is all pretty intense. I’ve never told anybody any of this stuff before. Somehow it feels easier the fact I don’t know you. You’re my anonymous, unpaid psychiatrist ! How’s that feel ? Cheap, heh ? LOL. Anyway, you asked for it. The truth behind much of my writing is that I was raped. Many years ago now …”
The hairs
on the back of Charlie’s hands stood bolt upright.
“The rape itself was bad enough, but the consequences were worse. I lost the love of my life. I couldn’t tell him I’d been raped. Well, could I have done ? I don’t know now. What’s done is done. You can’t wind the clock back. My boyfriend had this dangerous streak below the surface. Besides, the guy who raped me threatened he’d kill my boyfriend if I told anyone. But my boyfriend could tell something was up. So I stupidly admitted I’d had this one night stand. I thought he’d understand. I was young and naďve. So we broke up. And he’s never spoken to me again. I could forget the rape now, almost, but I can’t because I’m still living with its consequences every day. My heart contains this open space for him that has never been filled. I bet you’re sorry you asked now. Sob stories ain’t so much fun as bdsm stories, right ? Must cut it short. My son’s home from school early. I hope to hear from you again soon.
FBR.”
For the first time, Charlie didn’t start typing immediately. He sat, staring at the screen for maybe an hour, he wasn’t sure. Time stopped. Eventually, he undressed, wearily removing each item of clothing in a daze, and stood under a cold shower for ten minutes. The razor needles of freezing water cut into his scarred, muscled skin like shards of ice, dulling his brain yet sharpening his senses to fever pitch.
He had always loved soaking in hot baths after a battle, steaming away his aches and pains, washing away the blood.
But showers he best enjoyed cold. Hurting, setting his own blood racing.
Preparing him for war.
*** *** ***
He ran his fingers through his hair.
He was poorer by one billion dollars. Repeat that: US$ 1,000,000,000. That’s one fuckin’ thousand fuckin’ million green ones.
Walt Furness put his hand down on John’s shoulder. There were now just the two of them in the room.
“John.” Walt said. “We have confirmation. The money’s arrived. As I suspected, formally the bank is refusing us access but they have confirmed - off the record - the account is already empty again.”
John shrugged. Trust me, the voice had said.
“I’ve put some good guys on it.” Walt continued. “The best. But I’m afraid the chance of us tracing it through the maze is pretty much zero. I don’t know who this guy is but I know two things. One, he’s not alone. And two, whoever they are, they know what they’re doing.”
He looked up at Walt and gave him a silent nod of agreement.
“John ?” Walt said, his tone changing. “John, I gotta ask. Do you recall what the guy said at the end of the call ?”
He sighed. The words hung in the air between them.
Sure he remembered.
Walt looked him firmly in the eyes.
“He said; come on John. You’ll love it. Trust me.”
John tried to meet his gaze.
“You have any idea what he meant, John ? ‘You’ll love it’. That’s kind of a strange thing for somebody to say. You have any idea at all what that means ?”
*** *** ***
“Trust me.” Said Gator, brandishing his machine pistol. “We know how to use these things. And these too.” He gestured to his belt where a machete hung menacingly in a leather scabbard.
Around the swimming pool, they had painted five sets of feet in pink paint. Like the Pink Panther’s footprints ! The rule was that each of the five ‘guests’ had to stand on a designated pair of footprints and not leave them.
“Step off the prints,” Gator threatened, pointing at a bamboo crop, “and the person next to you gets fifty lashes with that.”
They were arranged with Susan Cumber at the head of the pool. Her breasts hung heavy with blotches and her pubic mound was bald.
Next to her, on one side of the pool stood her olive complexioned, brunette, elder daughter Lorna.
About twenty feet along was Lorna’s pallid, redheaded fiancé Gene.
At the shallow end of the rectangular pool was a viewing gallery of seats, occupied by most of the mercenaries, dressed in their usual mix of combat shirts and khaki shorts, ripped Ts and leathers.
Next, opposite Gene, stood naked Ryan Cumber, tall, handsome son and heir.
Finally, opposite Lorna and next to their mother was blonde, top-heavy, younger daughter Rachel. Her new, mammoth mammaries had triggered shocked gasps from her family and raucous jeers from the male audience.
All five prisoners were nude, bodies glistening in the hot sun, feet wide apart on the pink prints, arms up, with their fingers laced behind their heads.
The time
for cuffs, ropes, cells and privacy was over.
“Silence.” Gator bellowed. “For your host please … the Chameleon !”
It was numbingly hot under the mask, but Charlie wore it for effect, for a sense of drama. Not all five guests had seen his face yet.
He stood at the shallow end of the pool, directly opposite Susan.
“Well, folks, I have some good news, and some bad news.”
He did his best to convey a smile by cocking his masked head to one side.
“Let’s get the bad news out of the way first, shall we ? I’m afraid that your beloved husband and father, John Cumber, has failed to come up with our money …”
“No !” Lorna gasped, moving both hands to cover her face.
Charlie paused threateningly for effect until the girl had snapped her hands back behind her head.
“You will be punished for that interruption shortly. As will anybody else who moves, speaks or utters any noise out of turn. Nod if you all understand ?”
Five heads bobbed up and down.
“As I was saying, John Cumber has failed to pay your ransom. He’s asked for more time which I have been gracious enough to grant him.”
He halted briefly again, giving them time to appreciate his generosity.
“So, now the good news. He has offered Susan to me as … er … interest on the money in the meantime.”
It was evident that young Ryan in particular was desperate to object but the boy managed to control himself, staring across enraged, mouth agape.
“Listen.” Charlie said.
There was a slight crackle from two outdoor speakers fixed on the wall.
“No ! Wait !” John Cumber’s recorded voice floated clearly over the pool water as if he was actually there with all of them.
“Gotta go. Catch you later.” A male voice replied over the speakers.
“Please … f … please … fuck … my wife.” John Cumber pleaded.
The tape excerpt finished almost as soon as it had begun.
The Chameleon opened his palms to imply ‘I told you so’.
“But I understand that Susan has something to add that will help keep all my friends patient too.” He turned and gestured to the grinning, watching Reptiles. “Isn’t that correct, Susie doll ?”
Susan Cumber grimaced and nodded her head, lip quivering.
“What is it, Susie ? Out with it.”
“Please … f … please … fuck my daughters too.” She pleaded, then burst into tears.
*** *** ***
“Dear Red Mist,
You asked about my son. He’s really the crux of the story. He was born nine months after the rape. I couldn’t take the pill and my boyfriend and I had always used rubbers or him just pulling out. Remember this was the Seventies. The rapist made me wash the evidence in a scummy lake afterwards and I assumed I’d got rid of everything. But a couple of months later, I’m definitely pregnant. So I’m back home, not yet 19 years old, knocked up, with a rapist’s kid in my belly when everybody thought I’d had a one-night-stand. Fucked, or what ? My parents wouldn’t consider an abortion, so I had my son.
And here the story gets even more twisted. After he’s born, I love him of course, but I still think his father raped me. But when he’s six months old, I see a smile, a distinctive look. I only had a few mementos of my boyfriend. One was a lock of his hair, entwined with a strand of mine, that I kept in a little silver box. Back then DNA testing was less advanced and available but I lied about a possible genetic illness and the hospital had my son analysed.
Guess what ?”
The words blurred on the screen as Charlie Victor wiped his eye.
“My son is after all my boyfriend’s child. From probably the very last time we ever made love. And yet his father doesn’t know it. Never will. And so my son doesn’t have his father, and the love of my life doesn’t know he has a son. All because a bastard raped me, when he could have fucked pretty much any other chick and she wouldn’t have minded. Sick, huh ?
But you know the final twist ? The sickest part of all ? That boy who raped me ? He’s turned into some hugely successful guy, rich and famous, and every few weeks I glance by mistake at the newspaper headlines in a drug store, or catch the news on TV, and there I see his damned face grinning out at me, like it did the night he ruined my life.
And you know what, it makes me want to ruin his. Forgive me, but it really does. So, because of course I sadly can’t do that in real life, I’m writing about it instead.
And that, Red Mist, is my story.”
*** *** ***
Before long, the poolside orgy was in full swing.
The mercenaries smoked, swigged bottles of chilled beer and basked in the hot sunshine, watching the three tableaux. Music blared out from the speakers; appropriately Jeff Booze’s ‘Carving my Name in the Sun’ album.
One tableau featured the homosexual coupling of Gene and Ryan.
Eel, one of the Reptiles, was directing proceedings for the camera. Ryan had reluctantly sucked his ‘brother-in-law-to-be’ to erection and he was now on all fours on a sun bed, grimacing as Gene sawed his penis into and out of his sweating, oiled and virgin anus.
Eel gave them the script under the prompting of his cattle prod.
“Oh yeah !” Ryan gasped. “Man that’s good Gene. Fuck my ass.”
“Gonna give it to you good, butt loving bro.” Gene grunted cornily.
The second scene starred Susan Cumber in a solo performance.
Alone with a huge, green, glistening cucumber.
She was lying back on a sun bed, her legs as splayed as she could get them, ramming the vegetable dildo to and fro inside her bald cunt.
Two cameras were on her; one close up on her face, the other between her thighs, its microphone picking up every slosh and slush as it disappeared inside her then emerged, distorting her wet labia.
“My name is Susan Cumber and I love a cucumber.” She chanted.
The final coupling was an incestuous lesbian 69 by Lorna and Rachel.
The two naked chicks were lying on a double sun bed, with the elder girl below and her younger sister’s pussy riding her face. Rachel was grinding her hips up and down while she knelt forward and buried her lips in the ‘v’ of Lorna’s thighs. Rachel’s pendulous FF-cup tits hung down like bruised tropical fruit, now totally out of proportion with her slim frame. But Lorna was reaching up fondling them, while both girls moaned ecstatically.
“Mmm … make me come, Sis’, pleass …”
Another pair of cameras recorded their action in great detail. A third lens was set up further away on a tripod to get a long shot of the two girls enjoying cunnilingus in the foreground, while their mum frigged herself with a foot long cucumber just behind them.
*** *** ***
Completely unaware of what was happening several thousand miles east at that precise moment, John Cumber’s shoulders sagged.
Trust me, the voice had said.
“Walt. That list of people I gave you. My possible enemies.”
The grizzled Agent looked at him expectantly.
“I have one more idea.” John continued. “A long shot. But there was a woman. Well a girl. Her name was … is … as far as I know … Melanie … Jones, I think.”
“Yeah ?” Walt replied, after a silence.
“It’s something that happened a long time ago. I’m kind of ashamed now. I was young. But I said those exact words to her; You’ll love it, trust me.”
“You sure ?”
“Sure as I am sat here now. I can remember saying them.”
“And ? The caller was a guy.”
“She had a boyfriend. Charlie something. I forget what. We were all at college together. Like I said, a long shot. But I thought I should mention it.”
Walt nodded. “This Melanie … Jones, you think. You any idea where she lives now ?”
John shook his head. “None at all. But I think her family lived in California. Some suburb of L.A.”
Walt looked coldly at him. The regret and guilt in John’s eyes was unavoidable.
‘You’ll love it, trust me.’
Uneasily, the two men shifted apart from each other.
“I’ll get onto it right away.”
*** *** ***
The five victims were kneeling in a line on the pool deck eating ‘lunch’.
They were down on all fours in front of a piece of plastic guttering that had been set up on brick piers to make a trough.
Even though all five were starving, none of them would have chosen to eat the swill that had been set before them, but several of the mercenaries sidled up and down the line, armed with electric cattle prods and leather riding crops to force them to guzzle it all down ‘hands-free’, using just their mouths, faces like swine in the trough.
The sickening stench of the swill in the midday heat, swarming with flies, was overpowering. The Bedouin tribesmen who roam the huge, barren landscape are infamous for wasting nothing in the harsh environment. The basic ingredient of the mix was goat’s intestine. It had been boiled to cleanse it then lightly fried in a batter of blood and giblets and guts.
The final garnish was supplied direct from a couple of the mercenaries. They jacked themselves off and spewed copious lines of jizz over the contents of the trough while the victims knelt and patiently watched their meal being served.
“Eat up Susie.” Gator now cooed, crouching behind her.
He watched her bow her head, slurping up an unwanted mouthful.
“Goooood.” He enthused. His calloused hands reached under her, fondling her big hanging tits while he lined his dick up.
“Mmmm.” He exhaled, pushing himself into her moist cunt from behind.
Susan kept chewing as her gagging face was pushed into the mix.
Either side of Susan, her two daughters glanced uneasily out of the corners of their eyes as Gator began plunging in and out of their mom.
“Eat up, little Susie, eat up little Susie.” He hummed to the rhythm of an old song, gripping her hair and shoving her head down hard.
Following his example, Gecko and Skink, two other mercenaries got down behind Lorna and Rachel and mounted them.
“Aaa …” Rachel squealed as her sore, inexperienced cunt was rammed.
“Man that’s tight pussy.” Skink, a muscular black man exclaimed in appreciation, sinking himself into the young blonde ex-socialite, cupping her huge breasts in his palms and bouncing them like basketballs.
Viper stood the other side of the gutter and unzipped himself. He was holding a can of beer in one hand and a burning cigarette in the other.
“Excuse me lads.” He said, laying down the can and fishing his penis out. “A bit more gravy ?” A stream of lager-fuelled urine jetted into the gutter, refuelling the slops of offal and brown sauce.
As he finished, Rachel Cumber let rip a choking gutteral sound and spewed up a geyser of green-brown vomit that steamed into the mixture.
“Aw, fuck !” Gator, Gecko and Skink exclaimed in unison.
The prisoners all stopped eating and stared from one to the other then up at Viper. Drool hung from Rachel’s lips and she almost heaved again.
Chuckling, Viper flicked his cigarette ash onto it and then began stirring the whole lot up with his machete in front of the five horrified faces.
“Hurry up and finish eating.” He sneered coldly down at them. “Or I can feel a dump coming on !”
*** *** ***
Inside the chilled, air-conditioned bedroom suite overlooking the swimming pool, Charlie turned from the window, sat down at his PC and chuckled.
What a bunch, he thought.
He had invited some online buddies to a web cam broadcast of Rachel’s next ordeal. The young lady had some catching up to do with her mom and sister. What better way to enjoy the fun than by getting some ideas for the next part of her training ? He tapped hurriedly onto the keyboard.
Ladies and
Gentlemen, may I have your suggestions please ?
END OF PART SIX
BY VELVETGLOVE
CONTINUED IN PART SEVEN
‘Reptile’
TO BE POSTED SOON
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