by Nicole Dere
Contents
Front Matter
Title Page
Publisher Information
Introduction
Chain of Command
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Also Available
Front Matter
Title Page
CHAIN OF COMMAND
By Nicole Dere
Publisher Information
Chain of Command published in 2009 by
Chimera Books Ltd
www.chimerabooks.co.uk
Digital Edition converted and published
by Andrews UK Limited 2010
www.andrewsuk.com
This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Nicole Dere
The right of Nicole Dere to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy
Introduction
He grabbed her wrist painfully and dragged it down to the bulge of his cock, straining against the thin material of his summer slacks.
In spite of her panic she found herself obeying him as he eased his hips away from her slightly, and she struggled with the zip of his fly and the unfamiliar process of releasing a throbbing penis from its restrictive concealment. She shuddered and gave a small whimper at the novel sensation of the uncoiling thickness, the fierce animal thrust of hot flesh, slick already with a little glistening emission as it pulsed in her tentative fingers.
Chain of Command
Chapter One
Detective Inspector Jackie Barlow gave a perfunctory rap on the office door before she opened it and entered. ‘You want to see me, Boss?’
‘Yeah, I do. Time we had a little chat. Private like. Shut the door and pull up a pew.’ Detective Chief Superintendent Sharp beamed a smile of welcome broad enough to indicate that the summons was a friendly one. It was a smile of a warmth reserved for very few, especially among her subordinates.
Jackie relaxed. There was no one else in the office. It was safe to move on to first name terms. ‘How’s it going, Moira?’
‘Fine, fine. Just thought us ladies should get together. Have a bit of a chinwag. We’re still too few and far between, eh?’
‘You bet!’
Moira Sharp had done well for herself, Jackie readily admitted. Not yet forty she was probably destined for higher things still, following in the footsteps of old Bridge, aka Bridget O’Keefe, who had only recently achieved the dizzy upper slopes of Assistant Chief Constable. The sooner the better, Jackie acknowledged. Leave more room for those plodding steadfastly behind. Give the bloody men something to think about one of these days.
‘As a matter of fact I’ve got something very tasty for you, Jackie, my man.’ Moira grinned again, and nodded towards the door. ‘As gorgeous as my own delightful little bit of recreational facility sitting pretty in my outer office there.’
Sandra Roberts was DCS Sharp’s civilian assistant, what in Olde English would have been known as a secretary, but now carried a four-word title, of which only the last was ‘Assistant’.
‘She certainly is,’ Jackie observed. ‘Gorgeous as ever.’ She allowed a suitably lecherous look to slide over her strong features. ‘How’s married life suiting her? Feeling lonely these days, are you?’
Moira gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Whatever I’m feeling, it’s certainly not lonely. She’s randier than ever for what her Mr Roberts’ll never be able to give her.’
Jackie echoed the chuckle and shook her head in amused envy, as she thought of the demure and dainty, golden-haired girl sitting so prettily indeed, in the outer office. ‘And to look at her you’d think butter wouldn’t melt.’
‘She can melt more than butter with that gifted gob of hers. But listen. Speaking of prime time, wait till you see what I’ve got for you. And I’ll expect you to go down on your knees - to thank me, if nothing else.’ She stood and took a file from a drawer. She opened it and slid it across the desk towards Jackie. ‘Feast your eyes - and cream your kecks to boot!’
Jackie gazed at the glossy black and white photographs of a dark-haired girl: some were head and shoulders only, others full length in the dress uniform of a police cadet, buttons sparkling, one slightly more informal in crisp white shirt, with sleeves rolled symmetrically above the elbows and neat little checked cravat, and finally one in the white T-shirt and brief black cotton shorts of the regulation sports wear, females-for-the-use-of. ‘Christ! She’s very tasty, all right. What’s all this in aid of, Moira?’
‘That, my dear, is what I’m giving you, on a plate, gift wrapped for Christmas! That is DC Jill Christie, fresh from her training course and joining our motley crew as of Monday. And I’m assigning her to you. To play nursemaid, mum, and any other roles you can persuade her to join in with. Lick her into shape, Jackie.’ She chuckled. ‘Don’t take that too literally. Not at first, anyway. She’s a bright kid, as well as drop dead fucking gorgeous. Fast tracker, straight from uni, hardly done the basic training and thinks she knows it all. Hardly had time to button up her uniform before she’s out of it and into plain clothes. That’s why she’s ours. Well yours, really. You’re the only one I can give her to. Imagine what all the pricks in our department would do with that,’ she nodded at the blank screen, ‘if I threw her to them. You’ve got to be it, DI Barlow. Make the kid your own and knock all those delicate edges off her.’ She nodded towards the door and the world beyond. ‘And keep those sex mad bollocks out of her drawers.’ She winked, gave the final coarse laugh.
‘It’ll be a pleasure.’ Jackie jumped up decisively, matched the laugh with her own lascivious grin. ‘Just leave her in my hands, Ma’am.’
Jill Christie was nervous, and it showed, as she passed through the unimposing entrance of Benbrough Police Divisional HQ. Her anxiety was acute, far surpassing anything she had known in her past, from A-levels and final graduating exams to her interview for acceptance into the Force. This was it: that hard real world everyone kept on warning her about, from the moment she had first declared her startling intention to apply for the police. All her family and friends had been shocked, you might say almost stunned, by her decision. They had envisioned her slotting into some academic career; teaching, maybe in the genteel surrounds of university, or if in a more commercial setting, the refined world of publishing, or something vaguely creative: elegant, glass-backed plush offices with contemporary art on the walls; long lunches and sparkling chitchat.
There were times when she shared their misgivings, but her brief spell of service so far had proved far less daunting than she had anticipated. The uniform was rath
er fetching. It suited her slim figure, and even as a recruit, she had been treated with caution and a certain deference. Her short experience of ‘the streets’ had been carefully monitored, and then police college had been more like a watered down version of university and less like the rough and tumble of service barrack life than she had anticipated. The magic term ‘fast track’ meant special, it seemed. But was it all about to change at Benbrough?
Jill knew she was good-looking, was well aware of the power of her charm, the delicate appearance and manner which, although it had developed naturally enough, she had cultivated and used to good purpose since her schooldays. She liked being girlie. One of the things that worried her most about police training had been the physical side. She would be the first to admit, cheerfully, that she was not the sporty type. But she was fit enough; she coped with the physical training, the sessions on the playing fields and in the swimming pool. She got by, and the greatest sacrifice she had had to make was to keep smiling when a moustachioed PT Instructor patted her bum in her snug-fitting shorts. Not only her buttocks but every atom of her clenched in disgust, but it didn’t show and she got an adequate final report. But this was different.
She was used to appreciative male glances, as well as covert and overt lechery, after three years of the Student Union, but the level of steamy testosterone stares when she walked into the CID room almost made her eyes water. At once she regretted her decision to choose the neat ‘chicksy’ little business suit in dark pinstripe, with its nipped waist and bosom-hugging tightness, and its short skirt which clung to hips and bottom before ending at mid-thigh. She had hesitated back in her digs, debating over the wisdom of the long woollen ‘cardy’ over the ample T-shirt, and the dark-blue slacks. But the sexy suit had won. That’s me, she argued with herself. That’s how I am, feminine and pretty-oh-so-pretty, so why should I change? Pretend? They’ll have to take me as I am.
For the first few heavy breathing seconds when she entered the office, she thought they might well just do that. But then a tall, striking woman, with hair cut almost severely short but wearing a bright grin of welcome, which Jill seized on with the gratitude of a drowning man spotting a tossed lifebelt, stepped forward with a firm hand held out.
‘Down, boys! You must be Christie. Our new DC. Jill, isn’t it? These are your colleagues, I’m afraid. Despite appearances they won’t eat you - they’ve already had breakfast. I’m DI Barlow. You’re my baby, for the time being.’ She rattled off a swift litany of introductions and Jill’s soft hand was crushed in a succession of macho grips, while the names swarmed through her brain and vanished again. Then at last she was led through to Barlow’s office and the two were alone together. ‘Sit down. Let’s get a good look at you.’
She nodded to the hard chair in front of a desk piled with papers and the usual PC paraphernalia. Jill sat, striving for self-possession, suddenly disconcerted by the lingering glance her superior cast at her legs and the generous view of their dark, sleek, fifteen-denier shapeliness as Jill crossed them and the skirt rode high up her thigh.
‘Very nice too,’ Jackie Barlow murmured, and her eyes lifted to gaze frankly into Jill’s. They were brown, like hers, though a little lighter, with flecks that hinted of gold. Not that Jill had time to study them. She felt the hot blush rising from her collar and glanced down, uncrossed her legs to another accompanying sigh of approval, and tugged at the skirt’s hem.
‘I-I was wondering whether I should wear trousers. I didn’t... is this all right, Ma’am?’ She cursed herself for the stammer, and for the schoolgirl redness engulfing her features.
‘Fine by me, sweetheart. God knows what it’ll do to those pricks out there, but at least they’re showing signs of life. I’ve never seen them so wide-awake this time of a morning. Well done, Christie.’
There was something about the older woman which Jill found both oddly compelling and disturbing. She was attractive. Her features were strong. The old-fashioned term of ‘handsome’ applied to a woman came to mind. Yet those eyes, that steady look, made Jill feel strangely uncomfortable and unsure of herself. She made a great effort to get hold of her reeling thoughts, to assert herself.
‘That wasn’t my intention, I assure you, Ma’am. It’s just... I’ve never... I’m not one of these ladette types, all boots and combat trousers kind of thing.’
Jackie gave a quiet chuckle. ‘No, I can see that. You wear what you want, sweety, as long as it’s within reason, of course. You won’t catch me complaining. And I’m sure none of that motley crew out there will complain, either. You just might find on some occasions being geared up like a dolly bird might have some disadvantages.’
The spots of colour on Jill’s cheeks darkened again. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Ma’am.’
‘You do that, sweety.’
Jill felt another twitch of annoyance at the term of address. ‘Is it correct to address you as “Ma’am”, Ma’am?’ she asked, with more than a touch of asperity in her clear tone.
‘Only in the presence of VIPs, senior ranks and the media. Otherwise, “boss” will do fine.’
‘Very good, Ma’am.’
Jackie gave her a long look, nodded thoughtfully. ‘OK, sweety. Well, speaking of senior ranks, let’s go and meet our Grand Supremo. DCS Sharp. Upholding the advance of feminism in this benighted force. Apart from our one and only Bridge, of course.’
‘Yes, I’ve met the Assistant Chief Constable. She was very encouraging. I saw her when I finished my basic training.’
Jackie’s smile never wavered. She stood, moved to the door, held it open and ushered Jill through, letting her hand make the briefest of contacts with that slender waist as she did so. This little girlie needed taking down a peg or three, she decided.
The opportunity was too good to miss, first day or no first day. They’d had stacks of complaints from the high-rise flats over in Westlands, and the plods were there most days. They always went in force, and never left their vehicle unattended. The trouble was caused by the various gangs of youths, all sizes, sexes and colours, who liked to think they were a law unto themselves, which they were most of the time. There were loose demarcation lines respected by both sides. But when Jackie got a report from one of her minions that a group was kicking up a rumpus somewhere on the upper floors of one of the blocks, she decided to go along for the ride and take the newcomer with her.
The troublemakers were up around the tenth floor balconies, though things had largely quietened down by the time Jackie arrived. A WPC and two of her male colleagues were waiting in their patrol car. ‘One of the bitch cliques,’ the senior constable reported. ‘Bit of a scrap, not too serious. One broken nose, gone off to casualty. Bit of weed puffing, that’s all.’
‘Thanks. We’ll take a look while we’re here. You lot push off. Come on, Christie. Give you a chance to see what you’ve let yourself in for.’
The uniforms had been watching her with deep interest, especially the males, and there were a few scarcely hidden smirks. ‘I’d watch ‘em, Ma’am,’ the woman constable offered, but Jackie nodded easily.
‘Yeah. They all know me. We’ll be OK. Won’t risk using the lift with those young sluts around. Probably get us trapped in there for an hour or two.’
Arriving on the tenth floor they were both puffing, and Jill’s feet, in her three-inch slim heels, were pinched and sore. The group had largely dispersed or moved elsewhere after the police visit, but there was a knot of about half a dozen figures, all in baggy combat trousers or suitably scuffed and holed jeans, with the drab jackets or loose hoodies to match, still congregated in one corner, lounging against the railings, against the panoramic backdrop over the city.
‘Go over and tell them to clear off,’ Jackie said to Jill. ‘Got to show them who’s boss, especially when you’re new. Just so they know you won’t take any shit.’
Jill opened her mouth to protest. Her hea
rt was thumping. ‘Oh, but - ’
‘Just tell them to move along. They’re only school kids. You can manage that, can’t you?’
Jill nodded, drew herself up straight, walked quickly towards the waiting and watching cluster. ‘Right-oh. Come along, girls. Don’t hang about here any longer. Off you go.’ Her voice was shrill, and she hoped they would not detect the nervousness which had dried her mouth.
She felt at first an enormous relief as they began to move immediately, with several mutters and inane grins, but then suddenly there was a girl behind her who, to her horror, seized her round the waist and lifted her easily off her feet. ‘Naw! You de one who’s movin’ bitch! We show you a shortcut back down, yeah?’
Then they were all around her, hands grabbing, and she shrieked as they lifted her high in the air, and she kicked out. Her shoulder bag was gone, first one shoe then the other flew off, and she was being held high, the world spun in a crazy, blinding light, and she was swung over the railing. She screamed with sheer terror, saw the miniature cars and dots and treetops and ribboned roads, like a view from an aeroplane, and then she was over it, it was directly below and she thought her life was to end in that plummeting drop. Everything seemed to drain from her, she gave one agonised sob and then she couldn’t speak or scream. The world lurched dizzily and she felt bands like iron clasping at her legs and ankles.
They held her suspended over the railing and consciousness returned, and she blubbered, tears streaming over her cheeks, begging, ‘Oh please! Please! Don’t let me go!’
She could feel their hands, fingers digging into her ankles, burning, and her calves and knees, slippery in the fifteen-denier tights. Her toes, way over her head, squirmed and curled, her feet arched, the darkly painted toenails showing mistily through the reinforced mesh of the tights. The little skirt slid high up her thighs, but its slim fitting kept it from sliding past her hips. But she had no thought of her exposure or the indignity she suffered. She was sobbing piteously, still terrified that they would let her drop. When they swung her in again and dumped her on the dirty concrete floor she lay there, facedown, trembling violently and weeping, unable to move.