Billy (Hunger Book 2)

by Scott Richards

  What could he do?

  What choice did he have now?

  ‘Damn her...Damn that woman,’ he thought, and then he damned himself for being so bloody foolish, for being tempted by her and for being ruled by his genitals.

  He threw himself back onto the bed in frustration and replayed the conversation. Those last few words she had husked as she touched him down there...

  “Yes...You might find that you enjoy it again...very much.”

  The awful truth dawned on him that he knew he would.

  Very much indeed, and there was a small part of him that liked the way he had been manipulated by her...blackmailed by her.

  The prospect aroused him.

  He was unsure what caused him such a fitful and restless night, whether it was slices of fresh biltong mixed with beer and cheese, or his uneasiness over the past few hours’ events, but sleep eluded him for a long time, and, when it finally claimed him, it was filled with nightmares that he had not had the like of since his trek from the Transvaal down to Durban...

  The kaia was much bigger inside than any Fires had ever seen, with two thick upright timbers supporting the thin corrugated tin roof.

  He was lashed naked to one of these uprights with coarse leather thongs, and he could feel the cold bare earth under his feet.

  Strapped to the other support was the writhing and burning figure of Pietrus, his body bucking wildly against the rope restraints, and sightless eyes that roamed the room in search of help.

  His cheeks were billowing against the cloth tied over his mouth as the hungry flames lapped over him.

  He was trying to scream but could not.

  Fires could smell the charring flesh, and see the thick acrid smoke rising from his body.

  On a cot, off to one side, was the bloodstained figure of Amos, his head split wide open, his brains oozing out onto the mattress as his shredded torso twitched and thrashed in uncontrollable spasms.

  At the opposite end of the kaia, elevated on a small dais, Sulima was seated demurely on a carved ivory throne, clad scantily in the flimsiest of robes, gleaming starkly white against her brown skin, a blank look on her face and a cruel smile on her lips as she watched the show before her unfold.

  In the centre of the kaia, there was a crudely manufactured stone altar with the old man, Henry Ibbotson, tied to it, naked and with a filthy rag stuffed into his mouth.

  None of this shocked Fires.

  It was the sight of Mohinder that sickened him.

  Mohinder stood over the prone, vulnerable figure of Henry, but he was no longer the delightfully youthful and smooth olive-skinned man that Fires had spent his childhood with.

  This was the disgustingly disfigured shape; a hideously charred and blackened body that had been dragged from the wreckage of the house on Umgeni Road, with open wounds that were now oozing puss, and flesh that was splitting open where it had been burned to reveal the sinew and muscle beneath.

  Maggots writhed and wriggled from every slippery crevice.

  The hilt of the huge dagger that had killed him protruded from his shoulder blades, pushing the skin taut across his chest, as it waited to erupt, counter-balanced by a mammoth erection swaying at his hips.

  Mohinder’s thin lips parted widely in a rictus smile, and he stroked and fondled his manhood lasciviously.

  ‘This-s-s,’ he hissed, ‘is-s-s what we do, Fires...’

  He was masturbating over the tethered body of Henry Ibbotson as the old man struggled against his bonds.

  ‘We get all hard...and s-s-s-stiff...and then...we fuck...’

  He began to thrust his hips, and plunge his cock into Henry’s anus, laughing as the old man squealed and squirmed.

  ‘Fuck the old man...Yes-s-s?’

  Sulima spoke, agreeing with Mohinder.

  ‘Yes-s-s, Mohinder, fuck him. Fuck him good and hard. Fuck him like you wanted Fires to fuck you, Mohinder...Do it. Do it now...’

  Fires tried desperately to voice his protest, but could only watch as the horrific tableau continued before him.

  Henry was red-faced and sweating profusely, spraying gobbets of spittle around the rag in his mouth, trying to plead for mercy.

  He was writhing in abject agony as a smiling Mohinder mercilessly pushed his hardness in and out of the cleft of the man’s buttocks.

  ‘Silence the bastard, Mohinder...once and for all,’ Sulima ordered.

  Mohinder obeyed her command, eagerly ripping the damp rag that covered Henry’s mouth aside to push his engorged, filth covered manhood deep into the old man’s mouth.

  Henry gagged and started to choke, eyes bulged from their sockets, but Mohinder continued to thrust, completely ignoring him and increasing the pace of his stroke to suffocate and silence him.

  Sulima moved forward, easing herself off the edge of her throne and descended into the arena to take a closer look.

  She lovingly stroked Mohinder’s blackened shoulder, caressed the hilt of the knife, cupped what remained of his cremated buttocks and then turned to smile at Fires.

  Mohinder thrust harder at Sulima’s whispered urgings and his cock pushed out of the back of Henry’s head, causing his body to spasm in his final death throes, and at the same time, Sulima opened her mouth to reveal a bottom jaw that was filled by the huge fangs of a serpent, her head splitting and transforming totally into that of a snake. The strange but mesmerising transformation continued as the rest of her body became sinuous, writhing over the dusty red floor to where Fires was tethered to the post, ripping his gaze from Mohinder and the dead man.

  Her coils wrapped effortlessly around his bare thighs and up onto his torso, scales rasping on his skin as their grip tightened until the horrible head of the cobra that she had become gazed with baleful yellow eyes into his.

  Her tongue was lapping at the air, scenting and tasting his fear.

  ‘Yes-s-s,’ she hissed, ‘this-s-s is-s-s what we do...’

  The cobra’s head plunged down, and Fires felt the fangs sink deep into his groin. He felt the warmth of her mouth envelop his flaccid penis and the pop of his testicles as the fangs punctured them.

  In the distance he could see Mohinder looking at him...watching.

  Fires could now see that Mohinder’s tumescent erection had finally subsided, and hung limply like a rounder’s bat between his thighs, but those blank brown eyes fixed him with a stare that chilled Fires to the marrow.

  In spite of the pain at his groin, the predatory smile on Mohinder’s ruined lips terrified Fires...especially when he spoke.

  ‘Going to fuck you too...Soon, Fires...Very soon,’ Sulima echoed from below his waist, ‘and I know that you’ll enjoy it very much, Fires...very much indeed...Yes-s-s-s...?’

  Fires’ own screams awakened him to the cloying dampness of his sweat soaked sheets, and the sticky ejaculate that covered his body.

  He threw off the bedding in disgust, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor, and then he hastily padded off into the bathroom and showered, but he found that he still had an erection that would not subside.

  ‘Sulima...’ he murmured, and he was shocked by the sound of his own voice echoing off the tiled surfaces.

  He knew that he was in love with her and he hated being so.

  Sulima belonged to Malik.

  She was his wife, despite what they had done together on the Saturday night, and it was futile for him to let his emotions run riot over her like this.

  He wanted to push them down into that mental lock box.

  He needed to stuff them in there with the grief he felt at the deaths of his parents, let them keep his loss company. He could file them next to the grief for Hennie, Mohanlal and Mohinder.

  At least he thought that he could manage that much, but the vague aroma of her in his room persuaded him otherwise.

  He was besotted with the woman.

  ‘Damn her...’

  Tuesday brought the penultimate day of cricket at Lords, and Fires tried his best to remain indifferent t
o the play unfolding and to Sulima’s obvious hints at further sexual pleasures for him.

  His concentration was on other more pressing matters, such as the plan for disposing of the final member of the vicious gang that had mercilessly changed his life during that fateful night on Umgeni Road, but he was always being distracted, either by the cheers of the crowds, or the sly intimate touch of Sulima’s hands.

  The gentle swell of her breasts against the fabric of her dress, the warmth of her thigh pressing closer to his, and the alluring but knowing smile that flitted across her lips as she sensed his arousal.

  Time was rapidly evaporating from his grasp and he felt the urgent desire to fulfil his revenge, both on Billy Mafokeng, and old Henry Ibbotson for the rape and murder of his mother.

  Malik would be on the voyage back to Durban soon as well.

  His mind swirled to formulate and crystallise a coherent sequence of events, but Sulima kept interfering.

  Should he kill her?

  Should he kill Malik?

  Why not kill them both?

  Would killing them serve any purpose for him?

  He was taken aback by these sudden murderous thoughts, but was fortunately dragged back to the harsh reality of the cricket ground, as England tried valiantly to attain the 348 run target required for victory, but by the close of play, they were only on a paltry fifteen, for the loss of no wickets.

  It would all be decided the following day.

  He escorted Sulima home, and was about to make his excuses to return through town to his rented accommodation and complete some University work that evening, when her petal hand stroked his cheek and she looked up into his eyes.

  ‘Why not stay awhile and have dinner with me?’ she purred.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said firmly.

  A frown creased her brow.

  ‘I have a lot of work to catch up on...honestly.’

  He took her hand from his face, cupped it in his, kissed it softly on the back and let it fall.

  Her disappointment and disapproval were obvious and she seemed crestfallen, but realised that perhaps on this occasion, he may well be telling her the truth. This was his final year at University, after all, and she knew that his future depended upon it, as well as his inheritance.

  ‘Tomorrow then?’ she coaxed hopefully.

  ‘Yes...Tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled. You can collect me as usual in the morning, and we can watch the final day’s play unfold together, then we can have dinner and talk about other things.’

  ‘Such as...?’

  ‘Perhaps it may be better to wait until tomorrow, before we set an agenda, don’t you agree?’

  She was still toying with him, and he knew it, but he refused to rise to the bait and simply agreed with a nod of his head.

  ‘Tomorrow at eight thirty?’ he said, turning to leave for home.

  ‘Yes...I’ll be waiting for you.’

  He walked back to his apartment through the busy streets trying to clear his head, and replaying their last conversation, then resumed planning. Marshalling thoughts, reviewing the options, until, upon reaching his door, he slid home the key, opened the door and flung himself onto the unmade bed. There, he gazed blank-eyed at the ceiling, studying cracks in the plaster, following each tiny thread as they branched and petered out until he was satisfied that there was only one course of action for him to take.

  Having made his decision, he showered, dressed smartly but not too formally for dinner, smiling smugly to himself as he made his way to his favourite restaurant...

  Wednesday 26th of January was another fine day as Fires collected Sulima from her home in the horse-drawn carriage, and, as they passed through the gathering crowds, a buzz of excited expectancy seemed to be infectious within them.

  England would have to pull out all the stops now to beat the South African side and needed to score over 343 runs, but the English contingent of fans were undaunted by the challenge, and actually believed that, with Hobbs at the crease, it was possible.

  By close of play, however, their hopes and spirits had been dashed and the jubilant home crowd celebrated a South African victory.

  Even Fires was elated that the English had been beaten by 95 runs, and Sulima seemed equally as happy, throwing caution to the wind and hugging him tightly in public.

  No-one noticed and no-one cared.

  They were far too wrapped up in the moment and the celebrations to give a hoot about an Indian girl and a white man embracing in their midst. The warmth of her body set Fires alight once more, and he struggled to break the contact for fear of his erection being noticeable through the flimsy material of his slacks.

  Sulima, however, could not help but notice, and she deliberately pushed her hips harder against his groin, smiling up into his face as she did so, with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

  ‘My place...’ she whispered throatily ‘...for dinner...?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fires smiled back at her, knowing full well what was really on tonight’s menu for him.

  They managed to find a vacant handsome cab despite the madness outside the ground and slowly worked their way through it all back to the opulence of the Rasool home, Sulima constantly looking at Fires and running her hand surreptitiously over his thigh.

  Fires tried his best not to show the arousal this caused him, but the bulge in his cotton slacks was obvious to her from her vantage point beside him, and she brazenly ran her fingertips over it.

  He gasped in pleasure but admonished her.

  ‘Someone might see...’

  ‘I doubt it, Fires. They’re far too busy jumping up and down with joy, or heading for the nearest bar to drown their sorrows. Besides, it’s much more fun to do this in the open, don’t you think?’

  He restrained her wrist gently, and moved her hand away from his crotch.

  ‘Sulima...please,’ he added, half admonishment and half apology.

  She leaned closer to him and whispered softly,

  ‘I’m hoping to hear that again later too...’.

  Once they paid the driver and alighted from the cab, Fires was still all too conscious of his visible erection. They hurried up the path and through the door of the house, where Sulima pounced on him like a tigress, pushing him back into the door, causing it to slam tightly shut behind him as her hot and eager mouth found his.

  His hand cupped her breast as her tongue rolled over his, and she fondled the lump in his trousers.

  Then she pulled away, breathing heavily.

  ‘Shower,’ she said flatly, ‘Go on. Off you go...’

  He ran up the flight of stairs to the bathroom, taking them two or three at a time and tearing off his shirt, kicking off his shoes on the landing and pulling down his slacks in the doorway.

  His socks and underwear were discarded almost as quickly, to be left halfway between the door and the shower cubicle, his hot hard cock was bobbing around uncontrollably, as he rushed to start the water.

  He had hardly been in the cubicle for ten seconds, when her soft, warm hands were gently massaging at his back as she joined him there, the noise of the water jets masking her approach. Her arms slithered smoothly around his body through the water, rubbing his chest and pressing her soft naked body to his back. He could feel nipples rasping against his shoulder-blades as her exploring hands ventured down to his abdomen, running gently over the scar tissue there.

  Her hot breath whispered over his neck, as she lowered her hands further, cupping his scrotum and penis before beginning to slowly stroke their soapy slickness. She was gentle, careful and methodical about it, but it was so very exciting for him. He turned around to face her, his hardness rubbing on her lower abdomen as he soaped her breasts, stroked them, marvelling at their beauty as small streams of soapy water ran between the cleft.

  He massaged the soap over her shoulders, stroking her neck gently and then trailing down again over those delicious orbs and around her waist to her buttocks. He pulled her closer, and kissed her full
on the mouth. His hands clasped and squeezed those firm rounded cheeks he had admired for so long.

  Their tongues twisted together wildly, and they ignored the stray soap strands that trickled into their mouths. She tasted of peaches, of cinnamon, of everything he loved to eat, and yet of nothing he had ever tasted before.

  Her left leg snaked around him, pulling him even closer to her and pressing his erection hard against her body. He could feel the heat of her against his cock and he wanted to be inside her.

  His hands cupped her face, held it gently as he kissed her lightly on the lips and then his hands traced a delicate pattern over her neck and shoulders to her breasts, teasing the slippery buds of her erect nipples with his palms. One hand went around her waist and the other dipped between her legs to stroke her labia, causing her to moan with pleasure, and making him realise how excited and aroused she already was.

  He stroked her softly and gently, avoiding her clitoris for now and relishing the wonderfully slick way her hand slid up and down the shaft of his penis in response. There was more passionate kissing as he hoisted her around so that her back was against the tiles. She gasped slightly at the cold, but ignored it, wrapping both her legs around him and urging him to enter her.

  He felt the head of his arousal rubbing against her wet labia, felt them part with the slightest pressure, and let weight and gravity slowly spread them wider until he slid effortlessly into her.

  Her soft yielding warmth spread over him like a velvet glove and her back arched up from the tiles in pleasure. He began to fuck her with a gently rhythmic rocking motion to prevent them slipping in the wet cubicle, but still managing to retain their balance in a deliciously slow and erotic fashion under the steaming hot jets.

  Their mouths locked once again as his hands explored her breasts, his manhood buried deep inside her as she moved her hips over his. The soft firm mound of her vagina rolling around over him, making the base of his shaft tease at her clitoris, and driving her closer to the heights of pleasure, coaxing him deeper. He pulled back from their embrace and hoisted her up into his arms.