by Joe Lane
“Then the quicker the politics are sorted within Ireland, the better!”
“I couldn’t agree more. Yet there is one slight problem within a terrorist policy.”
“Being?”
“The gangsters that run the organizations don’t want an end to the proceedings. They don’t want peace because their source of income would dramatically shrivel. Less income means their comfortable lifestyle of luxury would diminish and the unfortunate bastards would have to work for a living instead.”
“We’re not gangsters.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“You’re not exactly high on God’s list of achievers.”
“At the back of the queue, I should imagine. But at least I would be in the queue if I wanted to be; you wouldn’t.”
She stuffed another piece of chicken in my mouth. She sneered. “You talk too much for someone in the precarious position you happened to be.”
I gave up at that point. I devoured the last piece of chicken and accepted a few mouthfuls of lukewarm coffee she offered me and without another word said she loaded the tray with the leftovers and left the room. She never even gave me the chance to thank her for the meagre offerings. I think she took offence to my insensitive attitude towards her. At least I could belch in peace without any complaint.
Half an hour later she was back carrying a bowl of steaming water and a towel over her arm. I had to look twice at her. She was different and no longer had the warrior queen appearance I’d associated her with earlier. She’d obviously showered. Her hair was damp and brushed back and she was wearing a black silk bathrobe that clung to her damp skin, but the combat boots she’d kept on hardly graced the occasion.
I noticed she wasn’t as hostile as before, though I wondered if that was a bad thing or not. She was unpredictable as I’d already experienced, and there’s nothing worst than an unpredictable woman who might be out for revenge.
She placed the bowl down on the floor.
Unsure of her intentions, I said, “Am I beginning to smell that bad?”
“Yeah, it might attract the rats.”
“I thought it had already.” I said sullenly. “Am I to be sold into slavery?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous. Unless you think you’re worth anything?”
“I like to think I am.”
She squatted and squeezed the excess water from a flannel, rose and stepped closer to me. She had a sweet smell about her. Even without a lick of makeup on her face she was pretty. She began gently washing and drying my face. For a girl who displayed such a brutish attitude towards me earlier, she had a soft touch when it came to playing nursemaid. I’d no complaints. This was far more rewarding than having, Spotty-face, pin my skin to the stanchion.
She rinsed the flannel only this time I became a little worried when her hand dropped to my crutch and undid my trouser zipper.
“I don’t need to piss.”
“No, but you need to wash.”
I don’t use underwear, so it was easy for her hand to slip in between the slot of my pants zipper. At first I thought she might be making a fool of me, deliberately teasing, but there was something about the way the flannel worked over my flaccid penis that alerted me that this girl wasn’t teasing. No. This was blatant foreplay and I wasn’t in any position to do anything about it. She might be the sybaritic kind and usually I’m all for it, but uncertainty steered me away from temptation.
She came close to me and nibbled my ear lobe. She whispered. “Isn’t this nicer?”
I almost agreed until I remembered that the bitch was part of a consortium hell bent on damaging my body. With that in mind I’d no intention of playing along.
I said, with a sudden hoarseness in my throat. “What’s to become of me?”
“Wait and see,” she said softly, the flannel sliding over my scrotum.
“I want to know now!”
“Be quiet! I hate these interruptions when I’m busy.”
And before I knew what was happening she had flopped my penis out of my pants and was washing the length of shaft in a gentle pulling motion.
Well I wasn’t having any of this bad captor-good captor shit! I said, “I think its clean enough now.”
She kissed me on the lips.
I didn’t respond. Kept my lips rigid to the movement of hers and stubborn as I was, in reality I wanted to kiss those pouting, luscious warm lips. I nearly did respond but my biggest problem was keeping my manhood limp.
I managed to get a word in when I turned my head sideways. I said, “Am I being cleaned up for my release?”
Her face pulled away from mine. “Hey, wake up dumb-ass! This is the captor’s prerogative. To do what they want with their prisoner. There are no rules to abide. I want to fuck. It’s as simple as that.”
“Why don’t you go and pick on one of your studs downstairs.”
“I’m picking on you! I fuck who I want to fuck. Besides, they’ve have all gone and we’re alone.”
Stupidly, I said, “I might not want to participate.”
“You’re not exactly in a position to argue.”
“It’s sexual harassment.”
“So fill in a report, Buster!”
“I’m going to play hard to get.”
“Please do, I like a challenge.”
The contest ended when she began caressing my dormant penis. Despite my resistance I wanted her but I wanted her on my own terms, not strapped to this stanchion like a side of beef. I had to defy her advances by thinking negatively. I thought of horrible things about her to distract from succumbing to her delicate advances. Clap, came to mind. She might have syphilis or large ulcerating scabs around her vagina? I sighed heavily. It was useless. She was too good for a feeble mind like mine. She knew how to handle a man and my resistance was dramatically failing.
She looked me in the eyes. “Fighting me are you?”
She went down on me and that first gentle flick of her tongue as she mouthed the tip of my penis all but sealed my fate. I’d lost the battle of wills because she discovered my ultimate weakness; let’s be fair, it was probably every man’s weakness and without doubt the oral sex finally mellowed my resistance. No man in this entire world could resist the warmth of a woman’s mouth as she sucks and moves her warm lips up and down the shaft. My dick swelled hard in her mouth. She knew that the way to a man’s heart isn’t through his stomach like most women suggest. She knew differently. She knew it was how a woman performed and she was exceptionally good, as if she did it for a living. I was bursting at the seams with no way back.
She rose to her feet, and said, “Now that didn’t take long.”
She untied her robe and let it fall open. I was spellbound as I gawped at her muscular body and firm breasts. She reached for the stanchion over my shoulders and raised herself onto my erect manhood, slowly lowering, that wonderful feeling as my dick pierced the moist lips of her vagina. I listened to her soft groans as she clung on. By her arm strength alone she moved herself up and down rhythmically, squirming side to side, finding her love spots that threw her into spasms of ecstasy. Her groans became frantic jerky screams as she thrust her hips up and down, her rhythm increasing with ever flick of her hip movement until she suddenly squeezed tight into my body and bit my neck vampire style to stem her scream. I grimaced. I felt the hotness of her vaginal juices explode as her muscles squeezed against the girth of my erection. Harder and furious she bounced her hips to reach her ultimate orgasm. I was rather glad that her nails dug into the stanchion rather than my flesh as she held on, exhaling huge gasps of air with every spasmodic jerk of her body, before she gently slowed, panting, catching her breath and I think deeply satisfied. It hadn’t taken her long.
I was horrified when she dismounted me.
Hell! What about me? I wanted to shout out.
I hadn’t finished. She had frigging left me there, unfulfilled, on the verge of eruption and was calmly tying her robe together. I was frantic with the frustration of not
being finished off. I couldn’t even thrust myself off because I was pinned tight to the stanchion.
“Are you frigging kidding?” I yelled.
She pretended to be surprised. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? Are you blind woman? I’ve this huge hard on and with no end product. No satisfaction. That’s the problem!”
“On the contrary, Buster, you’ve just been had. Used is a better term. It’s called womanpower, full control of the situation. How does it feel to be used and left dissatisfied? Fucking awful, I hope?”
“What a bitch! I should have filled your mouth with semen when I had the chance.” I retorted defiantly.
“Naughty. And if you had done, I’d have spat it back in your face and watched the fluid dribble down your chin.”
By this time my erection had all but gone, hanging limply, defeated. She glanced down at my useless piece of dejection.
“Lost interest?” She said, as if it really mattered.
“Fuck off!” I snapped.
“Suppose I should put it back into your pants, wouldn’t want it to get cold.”
After zipping me back up, to add insult to injury, she patted my dejected lump and said, “Better luck next time, Buster.”
“There’s going to be a next time?” I said.
“Depends?”
“Oh!”
“Depends on whether or not we decide to kill you.”
She picked up the towel and bowl and left the room with a swing in her step, leaving me in a state of shock. Frigging hell! I was furious with myself for being weak-minded. Now I’ve been raped by a girl whose name I don’t even know and now she wants to kill me!
But how might they dispose of me? A firing squad came to mind, since I was already trussed up and ready. They could have at least untied me and allow me to die with honour, maybe allow me to fight and die like a Viking, with a sword in my hand, even if it was only a wooden one.
The crunching of tyres along the gravel driveway an hour later suggested the men had returned. I guessed I was about to discover my fate.
Chapter Nine
I wasn’t exactly grovelling when the big terrorist with pugilist features came at me brandishing a claw hammer and a huge commando knife because my heart was somewhere in my mouth trying to escape. As the condemned man, I considered, I deserved at least a dignified death. A bullet through the head would end it quick. When he raised the hammer the natural progression was for me to shut my eyes and wait for the first fatal blow and the blade ripping into my stomach.
Of all my expectations none of those happened apart from a ripping sound. I dared to open one eye just in time to see the big guy pulling the nails from the stanchion and what nails he failed to pull he simply hacked at my clothing with the knife until my aching body drooped with every disconnection. My weakened legs failed to hold me. The big guy caught me easily, yanked me upright and literally carried me out of the room, manoeuvred me down three flights of stairs and out into the pitch dark of the night where he effortlessly threw me into the back of a large dark coloured van, climbed in after me and sat down on the side seating with his foot resting near my face. I caught a glimpse of the girl sitting there too looking rather subdued. She obviously felt she ought to have been sat in the front seats
Spotty-face climbed in last and made to slam the van doors shut. I managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of the moon lit country house that had held me prisoner; it was a rundown place. I heard the passenger door slam and then the engine was started. We set off at a roaring pace and wherever our mystery destination was, it seems it was important to get there in a frigging hurry.
Within the confines of the blacked-out van the American bitch and the two other idiots were sitting there in comfort while I rolled about the floor like a steel ball in a pinball machine. We were approximately ten minutes into the trip when an array of armoury came magically from nowhere and a sequence of metallic clicking began. The way they handled their weapons in the dark strongly suggested that this wasn’t their first venture. Military precision requires time and a meticulous training schedule. This sudden response of loaded weaponry clearly indicated they weren’t intended for me, a simple silenced handgun would have concluded that matter. We were heading for a battle.
I guessed we had been travelling for about thirty minutes before we came to a stop. The driver opened his door and got out. I heard the rattle of chain against steel followed by the clunk of something heavy hitting the ground. The sound I heard next indicated that a huge hinged gate was opening. The driver, who I presumed was the second big guy, got back into the van and the vehicle moved slowly along an uneven trail. Within three minutes we had stopped again and the engine was switched off.
The American bitch (yes I was still angry with her) got out of the van pointing her large automatic hand gun at an imaginary figure in front of her; a little over cautious I thought. The big guy dragged me out with him, the cold steel of his machine-pistol rubbing against my face. If I wanted to make a run for it I didn’t stand a chance. He’d have cut me to ribbons. Besides, my legs were still weak. I could hardly stand up straight let alone scarper. I was in lousy shape and did I know it. I ached from head to foot. The dart wounds were aggravatingly sore, and all I wanted to do was to stand there until the strength came back into my legs. No such luck; the sight of the handgun being waved in my face prompted me to ignore my hurt and I reluctantly headed towards a familiar building.
We were back at Mcklusky’s warehouse, approaching the building from the rear. The big Irishman frogmarched me all the way, the coward using me as a shield from any surprise attacks. Neither did I appreciate him using my shoulder as a rest for his machine pistol. He pushed me up the same flight of steel stairs where I’d been clobbered earlier. At the top I was encouraged to move a little faster along a short gantry with a shove in the back until we had reached a closed door. There was no ceremonious knock on the door to let those inside know we’d arrived. Pugilist features lifted his size twelve boot and effortlessly kicked the door open, smashing the mortise lock in the process. Before I knew what was happening, our entourage had burst through the doorway and we took the group that was inside by surprise.
We were all standing in a large office threatening three startled men sitting round a large oak desk smoking cigars and drinking Irish whiskey. Or at least the others were doing the threatening because I was then pushed to one side leaving Spotty-face to dig his machine pistol into my ribs.
The man sitting behind the desk, with thick, bushy grey hair and a fat beer gut rose sharply to his feet, knocking his chair back with the momentum. I considered him to be an extremely brave idiot to attempt such dramatic movements with three sets of guns cocked and ready to fire at him. He obviously knew them because they didn’t riddle him with bullets.
“Damn fools! Put those guns away!” Beer gut ranted.
“Sit down, you fat fuck,” Big nose ordered, raising his machine pistol to Beer gut’s head.
Beer gut picked up his chair and sat down, but he was still defiant when he continued his protest. “Are you all mad?” he said, searching the faces of each gunman.
We can’t be seen here together. It’s too dangerous. You’ll get us all killed.”
Big-nose extended his gun arm. “You’ll be dead in two seconds if you don’t shut your fat mouth, McClusky. Where’s my merchandise?”
“It’s-it’s- in a safe place.” McClusky murmured his assurance.
I assumed this unscheduled get together had a lot to do with gunrunning.
Big-nose was at him again. “You were paid in advance. You failed to complete the transaction. You fucked us!”
McClusky had the shamed look of a guilty man. He was sweating under the pressure, and he was a practiced pleader. “Listen! I had to change plans at the last minute.”
“You didn’t tell me, you fat fuck!”
“Listen-I tried. Honestly I tried.”
“It made my men vulnerable to capture. My men were sitti
ng ducks; two hours they spent waiting for the delivery at the arranged rendezvous; two fucking hours, McClusky. And in all that time you couldn’t be bothered to even inform us of a change of plan. You put my men in peril. Your inconsiderate actions could have got my men killed! It’s almost as if you were trying to set us up, you fat fuck!”
“No, no! It was nothing like that. I was ready to make the delivery. But all my plans went wrong. Something of more importance was sprung on me at the last minute.”
“So you don’t consider your customers important?”
“No-I mean yes, of course you’re important, but the timing was wrong.”
“You’re damn fucking right the timing was wrong. You didn’t deliver!”
“You’ll have your merchandise. I promise.”
“When will I have my merchandise?”
It was a simple enough question and one McClusky struggled to answer. “When-ah-well-”
“I want the stuff, now!” Big nose interrupted.
It wasn’t difficult to see that McClusky didn’t have Big nose’s merchandise. The look on his face said it all. “What, right now?”
“Is there a problem?”
“Listen,” McClusky was playing the sniffling weasel again. “It would be awkward moving the merchandise at the present time.”
Big nose hated negativity. I should know. He was maddening every time McClusky concocted an excuse. “It’ll be fucking more awkward for you if I stick a bomb up you fat arse. Where’s my equipment?”
McClusky lowered his stare as if he were embarrassed with the entire situation. “It’s not here. But it’s in a secured place.”
“Well it should be fucking here! Not unless, you conniving sewer rat, you’ve spent the money on personal preferences.”
“I have all your requirements that you highlighted on your list, but not here at the warehouse. I’m scared of moving it at the moment. There’s been a major disruption in outside operations that I have no control over and that has forced me to cancel my personal business transactions.”
“You’re full of shit, McClusky. I should never have trusted a greasy Irishman like you to do a deal.”