Chain of Command

by Nicole Dere

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ The whisper was faint, and Jill leaned back, closing her eyes to prevent the tears from spilling over. As she answered she felt a consuming thrill, as though Jackie had caressed her intimately again. She felt drained of strength by the magnetic power of the figure opposite her.

  ‘That’s my good girl,’ Jackie said. ‘Don’t you ever forget that, and we’ll be just fine. But just put all that on hold for a while till I get you home. I’m going to use you for that business in Gresham Street, and it could be quite a big deal. I spoke to a few people this afternoon. I want to get you in under cover. It’s a great way for you to start, and we could pull off something really big here.’ She nodded towards Jill’s crossed thighs and the hands folded demurely on her lap. ‘And a damned sight bigger than those naughty little knicks of yours, you sexy thing...’

  Two days later Jackie and Jill were both closeted in DCS Sharp’s office. The Do not Disturb sign flashed red, and Sandra’s newly-styled blonde head was at its station at the desk outside, with strict instructions to divert all calls unless they came from Assistant Chief Constable O’Keefe, or above.

  Chopper Harris was merely voicing the grievance felt by all his male colleagues as he lounged, crossed ankles on desk, in the CID room. ‘Bloody disgusting, I reckon. Trust us to be lumbered with the only lezzy mafia in the sodding country! It was bad enough in the old days, with the dodgy handshakes and left tit hanging out, but at least you had a chance to get in on the act. Now we’ve no chance. Butch Barlow there leaps on that kid soon as she steps off the train, drags her off to her steaming pit and keeps her there for non-stop dildo drill all week. Next thing you know, Juicy Jill is put up for covert operations and in there with Razor Sharp and the bigwigs - probably her and Jackie take turns boffing her.’

  ‘Yeah, they probably do harry-swappers with young Jill and the blonde bombshell, Swinging San!’

  Chopper graciously acknowledged the interruption before proceeding with his diatribe, which was again interrupted by the arrival of WPC Andrea Wise, the chunky little Yorkshire lass who had in turn unsuspectingly interrupted the impromptu kiss of Jill and Sandra a few days previously. She had just delivered a hefty confidential file to the lovely Sandra. She had intended to hand it as instructed to DCS Sharp personally, but the red light and Sandra’s determination had caused her to change her mind. Mission more or less accomplished, she had taken advantage of it to slip into CID, always a welcome diversion as far as she was concerned, though today she noted their disgruntled mood.

  ‘Here’s another one,’ Chopper grumbled. ‘Morning, Ma’am. Better get used to it; you’ll probably be running the plods over there in a year or two.’

  ‘What’s up with you lot?’ Andrea goaded. ‘Boss been giving you naughty boys a hard time, has she?’ She told them she had just been delivering an important file for the Super’s attention. ‘They’re all at it now in there. Sandra wouldn’t let me go in.’

  ‘You’re lucky they didn’t jump you for a gangbang! You’ll have to get some practice in at the old pussy dipping if you want to get on in this nick, Andy. At least you’ve got the right equipment for it. We don’t stand a chance.’

  Her dark eyebrows rose in eloquent contempt. ‘You don’t anyway, losers.’ She grinned at the shower of abuse directed at her. ‘You’re just jealous because a slip of a lass is showing you lot how to do it!’

  ‘It’s who’s showing her that pisses us off!’ Chopper declared sulkily. ‘The kid’s never had her pretty arse on a chair in here for five minutes yet. We’ve never seen her.’

  ‘No,’ one of his colleagues offered, ‘that’s because her arse has been otherwise engaged, bouncing about on Barlow’s bed.’

  ‘You’re just jealous because it hasn’t been bouncing on yours,’ Andrea laughed.

  ‘No chance.’ Chopper nodded towards the superintendent’s office. ‘There’s more dikes round here than there is in Holland. I tell you, you’re a damn sight safer out here with us than in with that lot!’

  ‘Oh well then, that’s no good to me. I’ll piss off back to my own side.’ She gave a toss of her black curly head and flounced out.

  In Moira Sharp’s office the long discussion was drawing to a close. Jill had contributed virtually nothing, just sat and listened, her stomach churning unpleasantly with both anxiety and a certain excitement at what lay ahead. A new identity had been created for her. She was Jill Crystal, a college drop-out with brains, beauty, and the desire to make some fast and not necessarily lawful loot. ‘Always keep your first name if you can,’ her superior advised. ‘Makes it that bit less likely that you’ll slip up.’

  Jill’s immediate target was to be a young woman, approximately her own age but, Jill guessed, of infinitely wider experience, known as Liz Grant. Liz was well educated; ex-university, it was claimed, and of striking good looks. She was five foot nine and had a mane of rich auburn hair. She was a girl of imposing personality too, it seemed. She had rented a house at the end of Gresham Street a few months ago, and seemed to be working independently. The popular rumour was that she needed to earn enough to resume her college career, though another rumour suggested she had already more than achieved such a target. She had avoided attracting attention at first, and was not seen around the street when she was not working. She was on her own, no partner or pimp, but the word had spread that she was ‘well in’ with Jack Palmer himself, and that she might well be one of his girls - and he had a large and exotic stable from which to choose, for both sexual favours and those of a different commercial kind.

  ‘We just want you to get in with her,’ DCS Sharp explained. ‘Get her to trust you. Spin her your yarn about needing some quick cash. And how far you’re ready to go - and not go - to make it. We’ve got to compile a portfolio. Sex pics. Porno stuff. Nothing too gross, but it’s got to catch her interest - and Mr Palmer’s, we hope. Tell her you don’t do turns for strangers. But you do have a few specials - blokes you do favours for. You’ve got to persuade her to let you use her gaffe for a few spring bouncers. And offer her a tidy cut.’

  ‘Before you get your knicks knotted,’ Jackie put in quickly, ‘we’ll supply your customers for the specials. They’ll be our blokes, not from our poxy nick though, someone from outside who won’t make a cock-up - or get one up!’ She grinned lewdly. ‘You’ll have to make a bit of a show, though. Bit of necking on the stairs, a few groans and yells - coming round the mountain etcetera. Springs bouncing, banging on the walls, stuff like that.’

  The portfolio was the first major problem. Insurmountable, Jill would have thought, and so it would have been for the old Jill, before she had assumed her role of Trilby to Jackie’s Svengali. But a few evenings later she found herself sitting at her superior’s side in the Micra as they drove through the sultry weather twenty miles out from the city to a tastefully converted farmhouse on the edge of a pretty village. Its dwellers were largely commuters along the route Jackie and Jill had just travelled. Behind the ex-farmhouse were some low outbuildings, former barns and sheds, also tastefully converted, one of which served as an up to date studio. The owner or operator of this thriving business was a thin, clean-cut youth who, in his expensive jeans and fashionable top looked as though he was not yet out of his teens. His partner was equally youthful, but her sharp and dramatically made-up features, and spiked and luridly streaked hairstyle, gave her a worldliness that belied her tender years.

  ‘This is Leo,’ Jackie informed Jill, as the young man came forward to greet them. ‘Old mate of mine, eh, Leo?’ Jackie laughed, held out her hand. Jill recognised the flash of wariness and the hint of fear which showed for an instant beneath his beaming smile of welcome.

  ‘Sure thing,’ he said uncertainly, before turning his attention to the younger policewoman. ‘You must be Jill, yeah? And very nice, too... very nice. And this is my buddy, Donna.’ Despite the heavy, almost camp sensuality, the accent was cultured. Unlike
the girl who moved beside him. She gave off an aura like her spiky hairdo, and her speech was rough, the challenge evident in her aggressive Essex tones.

  ‘Everything’s ready,’ Leo said. ‘Would you care for a drink or two first? You know, to loosen the old libido a little.’ His laugh was a little too gushing, and Jill found herself wondering again what the nature of the hold was that Jackie had over him.

  ‘I reckon we’re loose enough, eh?’ Jackie laughed in return, and slipped her arm blatantly around the blushing Jill’s waist, to give a tight, possessive squeeze. ‘Let’s get straight down to it. You know the sort of thing we’re after, don’t you.’

  Five minutes later Jill was sequestered in a small, partitioned-off portion of the studio with the spiky Donna, while Jackie and Leo were busy in the main working area. ‘OK, get your kit off, darlin’.’ The heavily mascara-ed eyes widened at Jill’s hesitation. ‘Come on, doll, we don’t stand on ceremony here. You ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen before. Unless you want your mamma out there to do it for you, yeah?’

  It didn’t take Jill more than a few seconds to strip down to her champagne satin bikini briefs. ‘Them an’ all,’ Donna ordered, and stared at Jill with even greater impatience. ‘You do know what you’re here for?’ she asked sarcastically, and Jill hastily pushed down the briefs and stepped out of them.

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ Donna inspected Jill’s body frankly, and caught hold of her arm to turn her for a back view.

  By the time the next two hours had passed Jill had been prodded and posed, and had displayed more parts of her bared and most intimate anatomy than she would have believed possible to the first masculine figure before whom she had appeared naked since early childhood. Ironically, for almost the whole of the prolonged session, which went on until after eleven, she was not technically nude. For the vast majority of both the still shots and videotape, she was wearing some scrap of lace or silk or leather somewhere about her person. ‘Nudity’s old hat, Jill,’ the imperturbable Leo told her, as he lifted her haunches and carefully parted her inner thighs a critical inch or two further, while she crouched on a mock regency chaise longue with her bottom raised in the air. It was at the beginning of the session. She had stood like an awkward clotheshorse as the spiky girl and Leo fastened her into a bustier, made chiefly of tulle and stretch elastic, with black lace frills across the top and hem. Her breasts were minimally covered, but were visible through the dark net; Donna had carefully painted the nipples and small areolae with a fine lip brush, to bring them up in a vivid magenta. The cups of the strapless little garment were under-wired to help make the most of Jill’s breasts, causing their pale smoothness to spill pertly from the black lace. It reached down to just above the indented navel and curved away behind to rest high on the back. The black satin suspender ribbons were longer than the bustier itself, and ran fetchingly down the length of Jill’s upper thighs to hold the dark, finely meshed stockings.

  For the first series of shots she also wore a black thong, edged with delicate crimson embroidery. Though just snugly fitting the triangle of her mons Jill found it comforting in the extreme, a comfort she was forced to dispense with all too soon as Donna’s painted fingernails peeled it efficiently clear of Jill’s curl-topped mound. Strangely, it was not so much being so flagrantly exposed in front of Leo, to say nothing of his partner - in spite of the appalling intimacy of their touches as they posed her - that caused her excruciating embarrassment, but the fact that it was all done under the eagle-eyed stare of Jackie.

  It was also, even more shamefully, deeply arousing, as she discovered when finally, dressed once more and still uncomfortable under the layers of make-up and the hours spent under the brilliant heat of the lamps, she slumped wearily beside Jackie on the long drive through the summer dark back to the sanctuary of the flat.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Be silent, slave, you disturb me!’ Sandra wriggled until she could feel the little cartilaginous projection of the nose wedged more firmly against the uppermost peaks of her vulva. She was close to coming, and she gnawed at her lip to suppress the sounds she could feel bubbling up, ready to erupt from her throat in the hoarse cries that would herald the crisis. She stared down at the shining, oyster-grey folds of satin spread generously about her. They concealed everything in their rippling flow: the length of her sprawling thighs and jutting, folded knees; even the feet tucked in close behind, beside the squirming, trapped body pinned under her, and the frantic face under her belly. She felt, as part of the beating excitement, its movement as the mouth slobbered and gasped against the smothering flesh bearing cruelly down on it.

  ‘Puh-please! Princess! I can’t - ’

  She thrust harder still, the muscles of her belly expanding, and gasped with pain herself at the pressure of her pubic bone against the captive hardness she straddled. She was on the edge, the lip of the waterfall. That was how she vividly saw the orgasm produced by this fierce stimulation: a flash from The Mission, the endless, steady roar of the white cataract, the crucified figure bound to the cross, terrible in its beauty as it poised on the very edge, then took the endless dive down, down, to the accompaniment of Morione’s heart-wrenching score...

  Sandra stared at the ripples of the satin pool all around her, hiding all the ugliness and leaving only the unbearable joy. Even her breasts were half hidden, the delicate bands of lace crossing the upper slopes, the nipples erect points of desire through the soft silk. No, don’t come! The voice cried in her head, then the cry echoed, rang in her ears as she screamed. Too late! She plunged, dived, fell into the consuming bliss, into the satin pool, onto the pillow, tears streaming down her cheeks and hardly conscious of the gurgled moans and the sweat-soaked features of her trapped husband under her relaxing thighs.

  She gave no sign of awareness as Derek Roberts rolled gratefully from under the wet silk and scurried at a crouch around the bed and made for the bathroom across the landing. At the basin he sluiced off the combined sweat and saliva and sex juices, which had sealed his face beneath the crushing flesh. As he straightened he stared down at his elongated penis, limp again but agleam with the clear fluid which had oozed bountifully during the long minutes of sexual activity.

  It was one of the most powerful fantasies, as rousing for him as it was for Sandra: she as Princess Cleo, he her devoted slave. And it wasn’t over yet, he hoped, though there would be a lengthy interval now, for his wife to recover. She might even doze awhile before the final stage of their invention. He didn’t mind. He was prepared to wait any length of time; in fact, the longer the wait the more torturously thrilling his excitement. He would lie naked, quivering with anticipation, at his sleeping mistress’s side. Quickly he washed his slippery penis, gasping at the chill of the cold water, then dried and powdered his genitals before padding back to the bedroom.

  She had moved enough to restore her decency. The lace edged hem of the exquisite full-length nightdress had been slipped down to cover her limbs, so that only her ankles and feet showed beneath the pale grey sheath. She was sleeping on her front, her head turned to the side so he could observe the pink rounds of the heels, the narrow soles and toe pads sweetly aligned. The fine cloth was moulded to the shape of her limbs, delineating the division of her legs, the slight curve and cleft of her buttocks, and he felt the beat of response to her beauty pass through his unclothed body.

  Carefully he eased himself into the space at her side, striving not to disturb her. Her face was turned away from him and he breathed in the perfume of her golden hair, his nose almost touching the fine strands. Every nerve-end was tingling with desire. He had to fight against his urge to roll onto his side and press his loins into her silk caressed body, feel the satin touch against his throbbing prick. One of his deepest pleasures was to wake in the early dawn, when Sandra was still sleeping, with her back towards him, her nightgown caught up about her waist or hips. She never slept naked, even if they indulged in sexual
play before sleeping, she would pull on her nightie before settling down for the night. He would fit himself around her curving back and very gently rub his prick against her, nestling it into the groove of her bottom as his column grew longer, swelling with arousal. He never got a full hard-on, he just loved the feel of its length held snug and warm in the fleshy valley. He had no thought of anal penetration. Not that she would ever countenance such a perverse idea. Indeed, he had only once ejaculated against her, pumping hot semen onto her lower back, and she had screamed in horror, railed at him for days, her lovely features twisted in utmost repugnance.

  Jaws clenched, he forced himself to lie on his back, and even tried not to touch his beating prick, which was in the usual semi-tumescent state which signalled his high arousal. His adoring gaze remained fixed on that golden head, so close to his as, aching with love and with yearning, he waited for her to stir.

  Sandra woke after half an hour. As the tenderness of her body and the faint aroma of muskiness reminded her of the climax she had recently enjoyed, she became aware of the naked figure supine beside her. She pushed away the sudden instinctive twinge of nice displeasure at the thought of what must come next - or rather, who must come next. There were times when she did indeed give way to a selfish urge not to go through with the latter part of this familiar scenario, and leave him cruelly to his own frustration, or devices. But not this time, she admonished herself.

  Derek was as loving and patient a partner as she would find. They had been together for more than three years. They started going out together three months before her twenty-first birthday. They then lived together for two years before they married. And after a whole year as Mrs Roberts, she had very few regrets. She could get away with most things - well, practically all, she admitted to herself complacently. And most especially of all her other main passion: her affair with Moira Sharp.