Chain of Command

by Nicole Dere

  She’d had three virtually solitary days in which to contemplate the sea change that had overtaken her. She had endured torturous hours of self-examination and reassessment, lying in her bed, mercifully un-plagued by the few other occupants of this land of bedsits. The beating itself was suffused with shaded mystical undertones. Apart from the ordeal of having such pain inflicted to a degree she had never known, there was the undeniable emotional scar of Barlow’s total domination of her, Andy’s own acceptance of her role as victim. She could not get out of her head that memory of prostrating herself over the chair, of her own hands reaching back, sliding up the uniform skirt to reveal her flanks, offering them for punishment. Nor could she drive away her vivid recall of what happened afterwards; Jackie’s firm but tender handling of her, and the slow but unstoppable rise of passion the woman had aroused, to that fearsome, brilliant climax...

  And all at once, unbidden, had come a startling recall of a long ago fantasy, begun in childhood, which had returned occasionally to plague her since adolescence. ‘Uncle’ Peter - a vague relative, she had thought, granted the honorary title of uncle to Andrea and her brother - had always seemed a charismatic figure to Andy. She was secretly jealous of her mother’s close relationship with him - she had once seen them kissing passionately, arms around each other, though her mother had laughed it off in that affected careless way she had.

  Then one night, during the turbulent onslaught of puberty, she had dreamed up a wicked scenario in which Andy herself had grown, to be as tall and as slim and graceful as her mother, and sneaked in to ‘borrow’, without asking, one of her mum’s sets of elegant silk underwear for a dance she was attending. Coming home very late, after a dizzying, rapturous evening dancing with a succession of handsome, love-struck boys, with whom she had exchanged even more dizzying and rapturous kisses, she found the house deserted, except for an ominously tight-lipped and simmering Uncle Peter.

  ‘You took your mother’s things.’ His voice was quiet with repressed emotion. ‘You’re a wicked girl, and you deserve to be punished.’ In the same cold, implacable tone he ordered her to take off her long evening dress. Silently she reached back and managed to draw down the zip. She shrugged it off her shoulders and off her hips, then stepped out of its folds and stood in the slip, in front of him, in her heeled dance slippers and dark nylon stockings.

  She remained silent as she watched him turn and reach for a thin bamboo cane, then face her again. ‘I want this to be a painful lesson to you. One you’ll never forget. Take off whatever you’re wearing underneath the slip, and the stockings. Then come over here.’ He turned and walked to the dining table and chairs by the window. He kept his back to her.

  With a little gasp of... what? Shame, yes, and fear, but also with a sudden hammering excitement she reached for the lace-trimmed hem, lifted the flowing satin up to expose the tops of the dark stockings, and rolled them down, slipping off the dainty shoes before she eased the nylons off her feet. Her eyes were riveted on the figure of Uncle Peter, whose back remained towards her as she reached up, her fingers sliding into the elastic of the panties. They were edged with a creamy band of lace, which scratched softly at her skin as she pushed them down, felt them caress her feet as she stepped out of them.

  She bent quickly and retrieved them, and the stockings, feeling the flow of the silk as the slip shimmered into place once more. She put the scraps of clothing on top of the dress, which she had laid over the back of the armchair. Uncle Peter still had his back to her. ‘I’m ready, Uncle Peter,’ she whispered.

  ‘Then come over here, to me.’

  She obeyed, walking slowly and sinuously, vividly aware of her nakedness beneath the fragile silk, feeling its ripple and flow about her unrestricted body, the cool flow of air on her bare legs. She stared down at her feet as she moved. They were not the solid, rather stubby feet of the real Andy. These were long, narrow, elegant; graceful dancer’s feet, with high arch and instep. The toes, nails darkly painted and immaculately shaped and groomed, gripped into the thick pile of the carpet, pushing her forward, carrying her in a flowing, dancer’s movement, over to where he waited impassively. Her heart was beating rapidly; she was almost holding her breath.

  He tapped the polished surface of the table with the tip of the cane. ‘Bend over.’

  She obeyed, shivering at the feel of the hard cold wood on her bare arms and shoulders and the side of her face as she settled herself. The thin silk straps of the slip moved a fraction, giving a little at her bent posture.

  She waited, trembling but otherwise quite still, except for the tensing of muscles throughout her body and the deep hollowing of her buttocks as they, too, clenched in expectation of biting pain. In an ecstasy of fear and of throbbing, dampening delight, she anticipated the feel of him drawing up the silk, imagining his involuntary admiration at the baring of those twin globes of flesh.

  It did not come. Instead he let his eyes feast on the curves, the dimples showing under the thin satin, the cleft which the material clung to and delineated so divinely, before he rose lightly on his toes and delivered the first swishing, icily blazing stroke across the centre of her behind, from which the light bamboo rebounded resiliently as her first scream pierced the stillness of the room.

  Even now, after the years of this favourite fantasy of hers, lying on the settee in her homely room Andy felt the pulsing reaction, the spasming of her sex muscles and the dampness which heralded her arousal. And fantasy mingled with the fiercely real memory, and the accompanying ache of her sore flesh as she relived the all too authentic thrashing administered by her superior. Tears brimmed and blurred her sight as, helpless in the grip of her hunger, she dug her bare heels into the worn cushions and lifted her hips clear, and eased the cotton shorts and white briefs beneath them down her thighs in one movement, wriggled and kicked them clear of her feet. Her hands fell between her thighs, stroked the smooth skin of their inner surface, and her fingers trailed lightly over the puckered folds of her sex, which flowered open, secreting their oily musk at the stimulation she bestowed.

  Liz Grant came into the bedroom. Jill was sitting at the dressing table. The strip light above the mirror lit her upper body with theatrical brilliance. She was wearing a bra of embroidered stretch tulle, the tops of the plunging cups edged with a thin piping of lace. Liz could see the small circles of the areolae just peeping through the thin mesh of the material and the swirling scrolls of the embroidery. The matching mini-briefs were a miniscule triangle at her mound as she sat on the stool. The ceiling light was off, and the restricted glow of the bedside lamp at Jill’s side of the bed made the room an intimate, cosy softness of light and shadows.

  The fragrance of the bath came wafting in with the tall redhead, whose loosely tied black negligee swung open to reveal the nakedness beneath as she came across to Jill and laid her hands on her shoulders. ‘Please, tell me you didn’t let your Martin shag you in here?’ she said.

  Jill was glad of the excuse she had to keep her eyes trained on her reflection as she rubbed the night cream delicately into the area beneath her eyes. ‘No, of course not,’ she replied. ‘I wouldn’t.’ She paused fractionally, her heart beating fast before she continued. ‘Anyway, are you sure you weren’t watching?’ She felt the fingers tighten into her shoulders.

  ‘What the hell do you mean? You know damned well I’ve been out all day.’

  Jill managed a light laugh and moved just a little, enough to make Liz have to release her. She bent close to the glass, scrutinising her own reflection. ‘Oh, it was that camera,’ she said. ‘Martin got quite uptight about it. He thought you must have the place bugged.’

  Liz’s mouth twitched in a hidden smile as she recalled the scene played out earlier in the day on the bed next door. Martin wasn’t as dopey as he had looked when he prematurely shot his bolt all over Jill’s tummy. Nor, judging by the later performance in the bath was her darling quite as l
aid back as she made out when it came to hetero-shags. The way the babe had squirmed and squealed and generally made one hell of a song and dance about it, anyone would think it was her first time. But one thing was for sure; she was certainly a lot nearer the beginning of her career as a whore than she made out.

  Liz cast aside the black lace gown and sat down on the bed, waiting for her partner to finish her night time ritual. ‘I suppose you’re far too exhausted for any hot stuff tonight, yeah? Not that I’m complaining, mind. I’m pretty well tuckered myself, as it happens. Us poor working girls, eh?’ She giggled and sprawled back across the bed.

  Jill finished wiping her face and hands and dropped the used cotton wool into the waste basket. She swivelled round. The glow of the light fell onto the reclining figure, who held her arms wide open in invitation; an invitation Jill accepted by slipping onto the soft bed and snuggling into the comfortable embrace.

  ‘So,’ Liz whispered against Jill’s dark hair. ‘You haven’t gone off me now that big prick Martin’s come riding back into town?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Jill thrust her belly against that of the taller girl. ‘There’s no contest, you should know that.’

  ‘What do you know about this feller of yours, then? There isn’t much to go on, is there?’

  At once the alarm bells were sounding in Jill’s head, despite her utter weariness after the day’s momentous events. ‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was sharp, alert with suspicion - and fear.

  Liz’s tone was as sleepy and non-belligerent as ever. ‘Hey, no big deal, honey. I’m just looking out for you, that’s all. I don’t want you being whipped off to some whorehouse in Shanghai. I know a few wheeler-dealers myself, and I just happened to mention his name. Nobody’s ever heard of him.’

  ‘Why should they?’ Jill’s voice was still sharp. ‘He’s not some gangster type, you know. He doesn’t want to keep a high profile. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s in business, dabbles in all sorts. Mostly abroad; the Far East, the Gulf, and when he’s in the UK he’s based up north. When he’s in England that’s where he hangs out. Yorkshire, somewhere.’ She made an effort to relax, let the tension slip from her tone. ‘Anyway, why so interested? Who’ve you been talking to? Anyone I should know?’

  ‘Maybe, baby. Benbrough’s not such a small pond as you might think. There are one or two high flyers here I could introduce you to. Martin’s not the only big fish.’

  ‘I didn’t say he was a big fish. But he’s pretty loaded, I do know that. Still, introduce me to your high flyers by all means. Bring ‘em on.’

  Liz gave a lazy, throaty chuckle. Her arm came up round Jill’s slim neck and dragged her face close to her searching, waiting mouth. They kissed long and hungrily. ‘Mmm... now let’s get some sleep.’

  ‘Wow, baby, you’re a great kisser, do you know that? You’ve got gorgeous lips on you. You sure you haven’t had them botoxed or anything?’

  Jackie eased her face forward and let her mouth clamp once more against Andy’s, which opened yieldingly, even as her throat gave a smothered little whimper of fright and protest. The handle of one of the drawers of the filing cabinet against which the Inspector had her trapped dug painfully between Andy’s shoulder blades. She could feel the tightness of the uniform skirt across her thighs preventing Jackie’s efforts to thrust a knee between her legs. When, finally, tongues and lips disengaged, Andy was panting and frantic with alarm. ‘Please Ma’am,’ she gasped, inhaling deeply, ‘someone might come in and catch us! Please!’

  Jackie’s hand slid around Andy’s hip for one last pat of the serge-covered behind before she released the uniformed figure, and savoured the sight of those thrusting breasts heaving beneath the white shirt against which they strained. She was a well-built, pneumatic girl all right. Everything about her was chunky, from that full, promising mouth to the splendid handful of her tits and the superbly rounded cheeks of her cute arse. She knew she ought to be perhaps a little more romantically poetic about Andy Wise’s attributes, but as she had readily confessed to the weeping figure who lay for that first night in her tumbled bed, Tennyson or Byron she was not. Nevertheless, she could appreciate the contrast between Andy’s solid, healthy Yorkshire fulsomeness, and Jill’s lean and willowy, more fragile proportions. And she was well aware of how lucky she was to be able to enjoy both, she acknowledged, allowing her latest victim to ease away from the entrapment of the filing cabinet and the encroaching desk.

  After the unexpected pleasure of their first supreme night together, Jackie had left the stunned little Yorkshire lass to stew in her own juice for a while. After all, it had been a baptism of fire for the girl, in more ways than one, and Jackie deduced she would have much to ponder, apart from her stinging bum. She could hardly contain the smug smile which threatened to spread across her features whenever she thought of that endearing northern voice and its imperative bleat. ‘I’m not gay, Ma’am... I never could be.’ Well, she’d stuffed that little lie well and truly up the little madam’s cute pipe for her, and no mistake!

  Andy had turned up after two days off sick, moving like an old lady, talking about a particularly nasty tummy bug and wincing every time her backside came into contact with a chair. Everyone agreed she must be feeling rough, for they had never known her sunny and ebullient personality to be so totally eclipsed. Also, she had been conspicuously absent from the CID room, where formerly she spent every possible minute. When she did finally come face to face with DI Barlow she crimsoned up so fiercely that Jackie was convinced she must have blushed from those cute and chubby feet up to the crown of her black hair.

  Jackie already knew through the unfailing grapevine at Benbrough nick that Andy had packed in with her boyfriend from the cars. It was time for her reward - and for the reeling in to the Sapphic sisterhood which was growing by leaps and bounds. ‘Andy,’ she said, breathing as much seduction and intimacy as a detective inspector might manage to a lowly woman police constable, ‘I’d like to use you on this assignment, if you’re willing. I’ll have a word with Inspector Lomas. Be a good opportunity for you to see if you really do want to come over to plain clothes. I want you temporarily seconded to CID for the Gresham operation - or Operation Knocking Shop, as your colleagues over here call it. What do you say?’

  Jackie recognised the struggle going on in that pert and straining breast she was still admiring. The dull red tide came sweeping up into the youthful face, the dark eyes flickered helplessly.

  It was a genuine struggle, for Andy could not help but know what other hidden agenda lurked within the question. Was she ready to acknowledge what had taken place in DI Barlow’s flat; to acknowledge this wholesale shift in her sexual orientation and give herself up to the predatory older figure of authority, to prostitute herself for the sake of her career? For that, she was sure, would be her reward. She would indeed be able to transfer to CID branch, and if she consented to remain a lover of her superior no doubt have the chance to rise within the ranks, perhaps to success as great as Barlow or even higher. After all, there were rumours, too, about DCS Sharp and her blonde admin assistant.

  The world seemed to stop for an instant; a long, timeless second or more while Andy stood there, poised on the edge of this deep abyss, and even at that critical juncture uncertain what she should, and would do. ‘Yes,’ she breathed, a whispered hiss of acknowledgement and acquiescence, and shivered as she saw the slow, comprehensive look of those eyes passing over every inch of her, and exulting in her new possession.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Apart from knowing that our two coverts are keeping themselves nice and clean shagging in the soapsuds, what exactly are we getting from all these porno frolics?’ DCS Moira Sharp eyed Jackie keenly, and with some surprise at her subordinate’s apparent composure. ‘Aren’t you just a wee bit narked?’ she asked cattily. They had just watched on screen the intimate scenes which had taken place at 41 Gresham Street on t
he first occasion that DS Tony Pope and Jill Christie had come together. ‘And how did you manage to get hold of it?’ She nodded at the disc Jackie was extracting from the machine. ‘They didn’t go out on that whore’s website, did they?’

  Still unperturbed, Jackie was replacing it with another. She turned from her crouch in front of the set and tapped the side of her nose. ‘That’s the marvels of modern technology, Ma’am.’ She grinned. ‘Apparently with the latest gizmo you can tap into anybody’s PC as long as you’re near enough to pick up the signal when it’s on, and download whatever you want. Even our own Laurel and Hardy, aka Chopper and Willy, can manage it from their van.’

  ‘They’ve seen all this lot, have they? They’ve seen this Pope guy getting his end away, and the redhead and your bird carrying on with each other?’

  The needling tone had crept into Moira’s voice again, and Jackie had to make a greater effort to keep her irritation in check. ‘And more besides,’ she said. ‘That was just the warm-up act. Wait till you see the big picture.’ She nodded at the disc she had just inserted into the slot.

  ‘Are you happy about Harris and Wills gobbing your girlie in all this?’

  Jackie drew a deep breath, kept her voice level. ‘Well, if you recall I wasn’t happy about having them as surveillance at all. But as you pointed out, Ma’am, they come a damn sight cheaper than outsiders, so needs must, I suppose.’

  The ‘ma’am’ was a studied insolence, as Moira well knew, but she didn’t rise to it. They went back too long, were too close and were too much alike. ‘And now you’ve got young Wise in your clutches, eh? Not literally, surely?’ The carefully pencilled eyebrows were raised. ‘I hear she’s chucked that young tosser on the cars. They were quite an item, I thought. Don’t tell me you’ve persuaded her to try alternative therapy?’