|
East Coast Slavers Organization – I: A Caribbean Adventure
Chapter 19 – A Drug Dealer's Downfall (or Five More in the Bag)
Things were looking up with his warehouse stock. Further, he had several prospects already lined up for acquisition in the Miami area. Aaron Clarke was a slaver. His fledgling franchise, quietly known as East Coast Slavers, had already grossed millions of dollars; interestingly, without selling any of his valuable merchandise. Instead, he had discovered that the process of harvesting merchandise often resulted in huge profits from unearthing illegal activities or stealing life savings.
A lawyer that was too involved in privileged information about Doctor Patricia Kay's links to the West Coast Slaver operation led to a windfall discovery. The lawyer was in partnership with a major drug organization and arranged to launder their illegal funds. Between the lawyer's access to his firm's illegal cash holdings, his own cash stash, and money stashed in offshore accounts, Aaron Clarke and his partner, Steve Austin, cleared over $9 million each in the subsequent bonanza. Two other women acquired, a stewardess and a dress shop owner, each had significant personal savings to pilfer. This money Aaron was able to keep, as Steve was satisfied that his $9 million more than covered any setup costs for the east coast franchise.
Aaron's stock of slaves and workers at that time included:
Aaron reviewed the status of his stock on the computer. Two very special slaves, Wanda and Katria, were in the midst of an expensive and long-term training program led by his chief trainer Puppy. He and Steve expected to make several million dollars from their sale as highly intelligent and fully educated companion slaves. This limited, high-end market was closely following an exciting password-controlled internet website that Steve Austin was hosting. Puppy was continually feeding training schedules, written evaluations, still photographs, and video clips of the on going, six-month training regime to Steve for mounting on the website. During the next few months, the interested buyers would keep up a steady bidding war as training progressed.
Ingrid and Sandy were undergoing much less involved training. Originally intended for sale as a pair, Aaron had changed their classification entirely. His first idea was to let the submissive Ingrid victimize the switch-hitting Sandy as a bondage slut sub. Sandy liked playing the dominate role most often and would occasionally sub to Aaron. She enjoyed sex with both men and women, but hated the idea of a woman dominating her. Aaron thought it would be fun to switch the two back to a more natural role after a month of forcing Sandy to learn the ropes as the sub. The counterpoint of Sandy's blonde and voluptuous body compared to Ingrid's older but still slim body and black hair was a consideration for selling the two as a pair.
Aaron changed his mind about the two during their initial break-in session. Sandy was treated as any other new acquisition and harshly introduced to the realities of slavery. In order to persuade her to give up the account passwords and codes of her inheritance and life savings, Ingrid was treated more carefully. Aaron didn't want to resort to torturing an innocent. As a result, she so impressed him during the process that he bartered with her, allowing certain privileges. There were several thorns in the nice package he offered. She promised to be the dedicated and willing trainer of her prior tormentor, Sandy Hamilton, in return for subjecting herself as his willing slave one day of each of the following twelve weeks. Ingrid would in essence train herself to be his slave. She most wanted to retain the luxury privilege of clothes for the other six days of the week.
Belinda was an unplanned acquisition who interfered with Aaron's plan to surprise Puppy with a special reward for her service to the fledgling organization. The haughty owner of a fashionable boutique had insulted both Aaron Clarke and Puppy. Poor manners and unnecessary rudeness were failings that Aaron despised. Belinda was captured, publicly abused and raped in a bondage club, and enslaved as the organization's fulltime laundry and warehouse cleaning cunt. At forty-six, it was unlikely that a buyer would step forward and purchase her unless it was for a particularly luckless use. Even with her just-fading beauty, she would be sought after as a blonde gringa bitch and lead performer in a sex show or low-end bordello in a remote mining town. Belinda's body was worth significantly less than the nearly new Jaguar that Aaron stole from her. She would never gross more than $25 thousand, even for a snuff film. Belinda was lucky to be kept long-term as laundry and cleaning cunt.
Belinda's assistant, Barbara Michaels, was a juicy acquisition. At nineteen, she was the youngest slave Aaron had acquired to date. She was only harvested because she was with her boss, Belinda, when she was kidnapped. Barbara also had the same stuck up attitude and haughty manners. Too busy yet to break her in, she presented some possibilities. If Sandy wasn't irretrievably broken to her new role as bondage slut, it was possible that the switch he originally planned for Sandy could still take place. He thought about giving Barbara to Sandy as her sub and then allowing Sandy to switch between the role of mistress to a slave and slave herself. Aaron liked the plan because it improved the marketability when packaged as a set with specialty skills.
Sophia Lenz and Rochelle Grosso were two local college girls who had drifted into summer prostitution in the British Virgin Islands to make tuition and school year expense money. Currently, they were on summer break and hard at work whoring in Road Town, Tortola.
Aaron daydreamed back to the first training session that Puppy led the newly minted dominatrix Ingrid through. Aaron left early that morning on his whirlwind trip through the Caribbean with Doctor Rachael Quaid so he found out about the woman's training debut from Puppy's detailed training notes and videotape. The tape showed a happy Ingrid strutting about in the outfit mandated by Puppy. As head mistress, Puppy decided the specifics of what Ingrid was to do in training or she faced vicious reprisal. Aaron had explained that the greater the privilege enjoyed, the harsher the penalty for even a slight infraction.
Undergarments were forbidden to Ingrid unless she was undergoing a vigorous physical training activity such as running or aerobic dance. As a result, she was naked under her extremely short black leather miniskirt and skimpy black leather bustier. Her ample breasts threatened to spring out the top of the outfit. Nonetheless, Ingrid was delighted with the outfit when faced with the alternative that Sandy faced, naked, subservient slavery. Puppy directed her to sit and look relaxed while she brought Sandy to her for training. On a stand beside her chair were a stack of training placards printed out by Puppy to direct both Ingrid and Sandy through the morning's events. Sandy already knew the day's routine from her copy of the schedule in her cage. The day's training schedule was:
The start was delicious. It was all captured on videotape to the slight discomfort of Ingrid and full mortification of Sandy. Sandy came into the training area from her cage naked except for her ever-present voice activated dog-training collar, two wrist cuffs, and two ankle cuffs. Puppy followed, hand already poised above the punishment panel least Sandy fail to respond properly. Puppy could punish either woman from her control panel, as Ingrid and Sandy would always wear their collars for the duration of her captivity. As the two trainers watched, Sandy walked across the blue mattress of Pad H and buckled her wrist cuffs to a spreader bar hanging loosely from the frame above. Puppy sat in a chair adjacent to Ingrid's and nodded her approval to proceed. Ingrid closely followed her detailed cheat sheet and silently walked to the corner of the open cage and pulled down on a half-inch line connected to a fixed pulley high above and a floating block just above the spreader bar. The two pulley blocks made it easy to lift Sandy up to her tiptoes as the simple mechanical system provided a three to one advantage to Ingrid. Ingrid then walked up to Sandy and ran her hand down the woman's sensitive side. "Little slut, Puppy will turn your collar off. However, no talking, screaming, or crying; else, she will punish you through her control panel. Only correct voice responses are allowed." She then leaned down and attached the ankle cuffs to a spreader bar already anchored to the floor. Ingrid returned to the lifting line and tightened it up, stretching Sandy up into the air, tautly spread-eagled.
Ingrid's directions were simple. She was to start with a paddle, and progress through a crop, a carriage whip, and finally a heavy leather three-inch barber strop. She was to learn how to use each punishment device to hit specific body parts and maintain a carefully controlled stroke. To gain maximum points in this exercise, the trainer had to hit twenty blows with each device (except the barber strop which required only half the strokes), and elicit only one shriek on the twentieth blow, all within five minutes per punishment device. Too many shrieks and Sandy would be punished if she was judged unable to properly control herself. Ingrid would be punished for strokes too hard or too soft. No slaves would know about the arrangement with punishing a mistress in training. Only to Aaron, Puppy, and Ingrid herself would know the details of any punishment or reward received. Puppy and the video camera would grade each participant in this twenty-minute session.
In today's exercise, the paddle was for Sandy's slightly too full ass cheeks. Ingrid maintained body control by placing her left hand on Sandy's lower tummy and rubbing the paddle across the bound woman's ass. "Slut, this is the paddle. What do you say?" Ingrid stated a little self-consciously.
Sandy knew the proper response, "Please Mistress, punish this slut with the paddle. Strike me until you are satisfied."
"Very well then kiss the paddle and we will begin. You will count each stroke."
Sandy kissed the offered paddle with some show of eagerness. After all, she knew the consequences of not meeting her rigid standards. Aaron Clarke had pointedly demonstrated that the day before. She remembered her promise to herself, "Be a good slave and never draw his ire."
Ingrid touched the paddle to the outside of the nearest cheek and struck a somewhat tentative blow.
"One, Mistress. This slave thanks you," was Sandy's response.
Ingrid continued and slowly established an even tempo to her strikes. First, she circled the outside of the girl's ass cheeks and the slight crease under her butt itself. Her left hand felt the slight echo of each blow through the slave's belly. It was an exhilarating experience. Her hand dipped slowly lower toward the cunt mound with each blow. Ingrid carefully measured the pain in each response. Her goal was to heighten this level of pain, but keep it within Sandy's control until the very end of each phase.
Sandy managed a, "Ten, Mistress. This slave thanks you." So far, Ingrid was doing well.
The paddling continued. Now she focused on the plump cheeks themselves. Each new blow brought more rosy glows to the cheeks and delicious jiggling as well as a little hip thrusting. The hits were causing pain. Sandy couldn't escape the training. As this phase ended, Ingrid had the measure of the tool and struck a final and heavy blow directly on the twin mounds. Sandy shrieked. Ingrid and Puppy exchanged silent nods of agreement that things were going well.
Sandy's upper legs were the target for the riding crop. This tool was not too difficult to master and Ingrid did well with it. She started with a series of ten blows solely for the back of Sandy's legs from the knees to just under the rosy ass cheeks. Sandy was still full of energy and her voice indicated she was able to control the pain. Ingrid swung around to her front and struck a backhand swipe against the slave's inner thigh.
"Eiii," hissed Sandy. Then after a pause, "Eleven, Mistress. This slave thanks you."
Ingrid had lost control of the awkward swing and hit Sandy far too hard. She had no choice but to continue. The inner thighs were difficult to hit with the correct measure of strength. By the nineteenth blow, Sandy had lost control twice more. The twentieth blow hit with a resounding splat, reflecting some of Ingrid's frustration in not fully mastering the tool.
Sandy's final comment on the riding crop was a resounding "Eiiiii! Owww, Mistress. Twenty, Mistress. This slave thanks you."
Puppy showed Ingrid her score placard: Phase I – 100%; Phase II – 70%.
Ingrid wasn't sure what the score meant, but resolved to do better with the next instrument.
The carriage whip was far more difficult to use. Ingrid was to strike Sandy only across her belly, sides, and lower back. Earlier, Puppy demonstrated how to make a sidearm swing to keep the tip from wandering up toward the face or down toward the pussy. At least this technique insured any misses remained in a controlled horizontal plane.
Ingrid's first stroke hit Sandy's bellybutton full on. She grimaced in pain but managed her proper, "One Mistress. This slave thanks you." Ingrid continued. It was difficult to control the lightweight tip with the correct velocity. Several strokes were too soft. Several were too hard. By the twentieth blow, clearly half the strokes were the wrong strength.
Puppy showed Ingrid her updated score placard: Phase I – 100%; Phase II – 70%; Phase III – 50%.
Ingrid groaned knowing this was not a good sign.
The last drill was using the evil strop. Ingrid hefted its heavy weight in dismay. It could cause tremendous damage. Puppy told Ingrid to punish Sandy's upper back and breasts with the heavy three-inch strop. Ingrid held the crop out for Sandy to kiss.
Sandy kissed the crop. The very first blow caused her to grunt in pain but she managed her, "One Mistress. This slave thanks you."
Ingrid was a little relieved at this and swung a second blow to the blonde's middle back. It struck with a meaty splat.
Sandy immediately screamed, "Eiii. Ohhh fuck, that hurts Mistress, … Two, Mistress. This slave thanks you."
Ingrid walked over to Puppy and whispered, "This is too much. This thing will kill her."
Puppy hesitated, nodded and held up the placard for the second training program, and gave Ingrid the chain lead for the punished slave. Ingrid set down the paddle and connected the lead chain to Sandy's slave collar. After unlocking her from her bonds, Sandy quietly followed to Training Pad F. Sandy was to demonstrate her oral skill level to a waiting video camera and to Ingrid as the receptor of her oral ministrations.
Sandy was not prepared mentally for this next session. She was not bi-sexual or lesbian. In fact, she preferred to be the dominant partner. Puppy's training notes indicated that this was a session where she was encouraged to use hands, lips, and tongue to get Ingrid to climax a maximum number of times in an hour. If she failed to meet Puppy's minimum standards, she would be whipped.
Puppy sat in her director's chair and confirmed that the video camera was properly aligned to catch all the action. She waved to her key players to begin. Ingrid leaned back against a pile of pillows, still as fully clothed as she was allowed. A small version of the shock collar controller was tightly grasped in her left hand. It was a dead-man switch that, if released, would trigger a continuous punishment shock to Sandy Hamilton.
At the wave, Sandy lay down on the blue workout mattress and crawled, tits and belly dragging, across the mat toward Ingrid's cunt. Her goal, to get Ingrid off at least ten times in an hour. For this session, Puppy allowed her to use fingers, hands, lips, tongue, anything that would turn on her mistress. Sandy started by kissing Ingrid's right calf and running her hands above her own blonde hair to massage Ingrid's smooth belly above her cunt. Sandy was a little surprised when she realized that her Mistress had no panties on. She realized with a groan of dismay that maybe that meant she would be eating a lot of pussy from now on. Regardless of her reluctance to suck cunt, within a minute Sandy had Ingrid's skirt above her waist, the older woman's tits flopping free, and her face already covered with Ingrid's cunt butter.
Aaron's later review of the video clearly showed Ingrid beginning her first, long climax as she yanked Sandy's ears to bury her deeper into her spasming cunt. Both Sandy and Ingrid were rewarded at the end of the long training day. First, though, each had to receive their corrective punishments for the day's minor infractions. Actually, Sandy performed flawlessly, but still received a stiff hand-spanking while across her new Mistress' lap. Ingrid was not quite so lucky. Yes, she got a two-hour midday reward while Sandy squirmed helplessly in bondage firmly applied by the novice dominatrix. Before bedtime, Puppy used the crop and carriage whip on her pupil as Ingrid failed to fully master them earlier that day.
The punishment was a triple humiliation for Ingrid. First, she lost her Mistress status during punishment and had to act the willing slut slave. Second, Ingrid had to remove her own clothing and present herself to her Mistress, begging for corrective punishment. Third, the punishment was extra severe given her privileged role. She scored a 100% with the paddle and escaped corrective spankings with that tool. However, she got a 30 % and 50% failure score with the crop and carriage whip. Using a multiplication factor of three, due to her status, she would receive the number of blows calculated by multiplying three to the number of assigned blows and then using the failure percentage against that number. Thus, at 3 X 20 X .30, she would get eighteen blows from the crop and thirty from the carriage whip (3 X 20 X .50). The strop was deemed too dangerous a tool and Ingrid got a bye on that correction. She was lucky, the strop calculation was disastrous, at 3 X 10 X .9, she would have received twenty-seven blows. This represented a punishment far greater than her original task of striking Sandy with ten.
Ingrid unzipped her prized black leather skirt and let it slide down her long, beautiful legs. She stepped out of her heels and then started to untie her bustier. With some trepidation, but no reluctance as she fully realized the consequences of failing to provide unconditional surrender, she sank to her belly, spread her legs lewdly, and crawled to her Mistress' feet. "Mistress, this worthless cunt begs your forgiveness. I failed to fully master the crop, whip, and strop today. Please use this valueless carcass to demonstrate their proper use."
Puppy smiled down and her disciple and nodded.
Ingrid pretended joy with the decision and carefully braided a long blonde hair extension onto her black hair. Then with mounting fear, she forced her head into a bondage hood and laced it tightly. Blind now with the eye slits covered, she felt around for the ballgag. Unseen tears soaked her face as she retched a little from the effort of gagging herself. Last, she clicked a leash onto her training collar and knelt, arm outstretched holding the leash for her owner to take.
Puppy led her charge out of their private room and into the more public slave training area. Any slave would think Ingrid simply another unfortunate blonde captive, rather than their Assistant Training Mistress. Ingrid felt the cool leather of a vaulting horse bump against her waist. Without cue, she leaned across it and widely outstretched her hands to grab handles on the ends. Her job was to hold on during the corrective punishment.
Puppy leaned her clothed form across her slave's back and licked behind her neck seductively. Puppy was going to get her own reward out of this session. She had a surprise in store for Ingrid.
Her blind captive whimpered in fear. She couldn't help it. Her cunt spasmed and drooled at the humiliation, for she did crave that. However, the fear was palatable, and real. The punishment would hurt, especially the strop. She thought that phase of punishment would cripple her and she trembled in fearful anticipation. Meantime, her traitorous cunt swelled with blood and itched in readiness. Unconsciously, her hips wriggled a little against Puppy's leather-clad hips.
Puppy grinned and stepped back to begin. Puppy went through the eighteen blows of the crop quickly. She focused entirely on Ingrid's ass, the backs of her upper thighs, and as close to the woman's pussy as she could get. Ingrid's ass danced appetizingly with each blow. As planned, Ingrid attempted to howl and scream into her gag with each striking blow. The thirty strokes of the carriage whip followed as well. These were spaced across the exposed back, shoulders, and legs of the sobbing woman. It was over in less than five minutes.
Puppy gently moved Ingrid's hands from their death-grip on the handles and let her sweat-streaked form slump down to the mattress. She undid the gag with some difficulty and pulled out the obscene ball, trailing spittle. The Velcro eye patches were next and the still sobbing woman tried to focus on a small printed placard held in front of her face. It read:
Ingrid practically sobbed with relief. She would do anything to keep from getting the strop. "Pussy, … Mistress, … I, … this worthless cunt wants to eat your pussy. Please Mistress, let this whore worship your pussy," Ingrid begged, whimpered, and cried as her tongue stuck out of the featureless black mask and nuzzled up Puppy's thigh toward her hairless cunt. Taking silence for approval, Ingrid dove up under the dress as fast as she could. Puppy grinned at how happy Aaron would be at the turn of events. Ingrid worked so hard as a trainer of slaves yet had to act the slave herself, only willingly. It was delicious. Ingrid's tongue had now wormed its way all around her tattooed labia and plunged inside her pink pussy. Puppy's head flipped back onto the mattress and Ingrid quickly spun around aligning her own naked pussy above Puppy's head. Ingrid feverishly yanked the Head Mistress' dress down her legs and grabbed them to raise Puppy's pussy up and bring her knees to her black bustier. Ingrid now lapped from the wide-open ass crack around the glistening pussy and nipped at the clit peeking out from the protective folds of her clitoral hood. Ingrid took a chance and lowered her own needy pussy onto her Mistress' face, completely trapping the woman. Puppy reciprocated and each Mistress whimpered into the other's pussy as they each exploded in ecstasy.
Aaron grinned in remembrance of the irony of Ingrid's plight. Ingrid was contributing so much more than the other slaves that he hoped to find a means for further entrapping the woman into being both his willing trainer of slaves and a willing cock and cunt hound herself. "What was the hook to use?" he muttered. "Oh, well. Everything in its own time."
Aaron returned to the overwhelming stack of data arrayed across his desk. His raid of the law firm hired by the out of control Doctor Kay generated lots of information. Nathanial Archibold's office files, appointment book, and rolodex were on Aaron's desk. The interview tape made with the deceased lawyer was in a cassette player and his computer held files stored in Nathanial's workstation. He wearily rubbed his temples and turned to a chart he had built on a dry-erase board. Yellow sticky notes added details to the diagram depicted a wide-spread organization.
Nathanial worked directly for one of at least four major drug organizations operating in the southeastern United States. Beyond a few tenuous references, Aaron had discovered nothing concrete about them. The dirty lawyer did blab extensively about the Lynden Organization that he laundered drug proceeds for and, based on the cocaine found in his safe, took some drugs in trade for use with his friends.
According to the deceased lawyer, Oscar Lynden and his lieutenant James Lee brought drugs into Florida from clients in Mexico, Colombia, and the Caribbean. Nathanial used three major offshore banks in the Grand Caymans, Bermuda, and the Bahamas to begin the process of washing the illegal funds. Aaron Clarke had already moved $5 million out of each bank where the funds sat awaiting withdrawal by the Colombia connection or Lynden himself. Somebody would be hopping mad about the disappearance of the lawyer and the money.
Aaron knew only a few facts about the drug dealer's operations in the Caribbean. Beyond some 'war names' used, the best information was a physical description of three of them and a known rendezvous point. Final arrangements prior to transferring cash and cocaine occurred on board a pirate ship, the 'Willy T.' A floating restaurant used by yachters in the Sir Francis Drake Channel, the Willy T was permanently moored in The Bight, a bay on Norman Island, one of the British Virgin Islands. A representative from the Colombian cartel, La Fecha, and two trusted boat captains, El Ingeniero and El Nato, frequently met on the boat.
Aaron punched up a Map-Quest screen and located the exact location of the homes for drug kingpin and his senior lieutenant. The real estate section of the Miami Herald and some online real estate companies yielded a lot of information on the wealthy neighborhood. Next, Aaron started to plot addresses from the website of the Miami Tax Assessor and realized many of the plots were still unoccupied. Finished lots were assessed at between twelve and eighteen million dollars. Obviously, there was a lot of construction and real estate activity in the neighborhood. He decided to conduct a mid-day reconnaissance in his new Jaguar.
--L--A--T--E--R--
Earlier that very afternoon, Aaron Clarke pulled out of his warehouse in the convertible XKR 450 Grand Prix. The sky was clear and the temperature warm; so having the top down made sense. The anthracite and ivory classic trim gave the late model vehicle beauty that matched its flawless performance. The car had belonged to a dress shop owner, Belinda Maticevski, who now toiled chained and naked as the laundry and cleaning cunt at the warehouse. Aaron was punishing the woman for her bad manners, a crime that he considered so insidious in nature that it couldn't be tolerated.
Aaron confidently drove north up the interstate from Coral Gables. The car was legally his, at least in the form of perfect paperwork and altered VIN numbers. The work cost money, but Aaron's partner, Steve Austin, provided the contacts.
He signaled a turn to exit to the Rickenbacker Causeway and the bridges that led to Key Biscayne. The road took him to a tiny development on Biscayne Bay facing the mainland, six and a half miles away. The place reeked of luxurious isolation and money. A large golf course was just two and a half miles north of the series of sites under development. There were only two streets and about ten potential home sites. The drug dealers' homes were among the few occupied. Lynden lived on the water on Opa-Locka Drive and Sill's home was also a waterfront lot on Marathon Drive. The homes were less than a mile apart and separated by state park and sanctuary land. Each had unfinished homes beside them. An unfinished pier structure was barely visible on the lot adjacent to Sill's home. Construction trucks, vans, and cars kept a steady stream of traffic going through the area in the afternoon. Ultimately, the area would be gated, but with access limited to a single road from the mainland, nighttime security was limited.
Aaron never left his vehicle and was completed within minutes. He saw no unusual signs of activity near either home.
--L--A--T--E--R--
Aaron had returned to his warehouse, made arrangements for the evening, and packed equipment into his van. This time, Aaron drove south along Biscayne Bay toward Biscayne National Park, looking for a small marina. Aaron arranged for the three-day rental of a powerful motorboat. The Mastercraft Mari-Star 280 STS was plenty fast enough in a ski-boat role; but at 28-feet long, was able to easily double as a cruiser for distance and speed. The twin V-8 engines and the well-designed hull sliced north though the calm waters toward Key Biscayne. The 280 STS ate up the eighteen mile voyage effortlessly and then quietly throbbed toward shore without running lights. Aaron's goal was the tiny bay by James Sill's home. The night was cloudy and black without moonlight; perfect for a surreptitious approach to a target.
Except for lights from a small number of homes, the island was dark and deserted looking. The inboards that roared with such power moments before gently purred as Aaron glided up to the skeleton pier adjacent to the Sill's lot.
He carefully secured the boat and jumped ashore from the bow. The landing was heavy with his large duffle bag of tools and gear. The weapons distributed on his black clothing increased his bulk. He crouched down and crept up toward a sandy path that cut through the dune. He paused to survey the unfinished home to his front and James' home to the left.
As expected, James' huge estate was well lit and music floated gently on the beach winds. Aaron thanked the gods that the on-shore breeze kept the mosquitoes at bay as he forgot to pack any bug spray. The partially constructed home he stood close by was a surprise. The side facing the Sill's home was dark and empty, but hidden away on the opposite lower level a thin shaft of light escaped from under a garage door and through a nearby window. Two vans from a local construction firm were backed up to the concrete side of the garage.
Aaron set his bag down and crept up to the window. The garage was some sort of operations center. Three men and three women wearing SWAT attire were standing in front of a bank of monitors showing the outside of James Sill's home. Handsets and audio recorders sat ready for use.
"Fuck me! Looks like a task force is looking into our dirty friend's activities," Aaron told himself. "And six of them. Holy Shit!" The three women were observably cute, even in their bulky black battledress uniforms and protective vests. The presence of the men, and all the weapons displayed, quickly cooled his interest.
Aaron studied the video displays and took some pleasure in noticing that all the camera angles were from this house. As no interior video views were shown, he guessed that the audio feeds were probably all from phone taps and parabolic antenna aimed from above.
He decided to continue with his mission despite the police presence. It was doubtful that they were allowed to leave the observation post except at shift change. Aaron crept back to retrieve his bag and backtracked to the beach. The sand dune would shelter him from discovery from either home.
James Lee had no pier, but an elaborate gazebo perched high on the dune above with beach stairs descending toward the surf. Aaron crouched down and slid into the darkness under the wooden structure. He paused and held his breath when a couple, previously silent, began to argue.
"James, you bastard! You know I'm good for the money. My husband will give me half what you need on Monday. Till then, you have to wait," a woman shrilly commanded from just above his position in the dry sand.
A loud slap instantly exploded into the night followed by the thump of a form bouncing off the railing. A cold voice replied, "Look bitch, there's no credit with cocaine. My boss is already pissed I gave you $20 thousand worth as is. Your snooty husband was too pussy to confront me and sent his cunt down instead."
The woman sobbingly replied, "No, … No, James. It's just, … he's gone on business for a day or so and I don't have access to the money. The coke is gone and I need more for a party tomorrow. Please," she started to beg, "You know I'm good for it. We've bought plenty from you before."
Another slap resounded through the night and the woman started sobbing again. Aaron heard clothing ripping and a long white dress fluttered down to land beside him. The sound of crying intensified and a bra and panties quickly followed. Aaron heard gagging sounds and guessed correctly that someone was getting throat fucked.
The sound of flesh striking flesh, punctuated with gagging and retching sounds, intensified. The man quickly pumped his cum into the woman's mouth and threw her to the gazebo floor. Sand slipped down through cracks between the boards, wafting down to dust Aaron.
"Get yourself together and come join the party inside." The man then laughed and added, "Maybe if you fuck my guards well enough, they'll recommend I increase your credit by a thousand or so. Plan on spending the night if you want your clothes and car keys back." Aaron heard the distinctive sound of James' zipper and then the thump of his shoes as he strode up the boardwalk back to the estate.
Aaron walked the few feet back to the foot of the access stairs and quickly climbed the steps to the dark gazebo. Before the still crying blonde knew what happened, the stun gun was punched into her already curled fetal form and discharged. Aaron risked a quick peek at her features with his penlight. The woman was a real beauty. Aaron thought maybe she was a trophy wife; but certainly the benefactor of a talented surgeon's scalpel. Her D-cup tits were too firm and unsagging to be natural. Even lying on her side, the tits stuck out like twin blimps, full and sag-free. A hogtie harness, handcuffs, and a ballgag quickly immobilized the woman. Aaron slid his black duffle bag under a bench seat and ran back down the beach with the woman awkwardly bouncing on his shoulder.
"Next time," he thought, "I hogtie them after I carry them away." Her slight form was hard to carry when it couldn't be simply draped over his shoulder. He threw her on the boat's forward deck and sprinted back to the base of the gazebo.
It was at least two hundred feet from the gazebo to the house. Aaron retrieved the woman's shredded clothing and continued toward the house, walking under cover of the walkway above and the smaller dunes beside him. He soon arrived at the side of the home. Villa more properly described the dwelling. He moved along the wall toward the front of the building. It was hard for Aaron to judge, but there was no party going on above him. He thought maybe a small gathering. It was hard to tell.
At the home's front, Aaron saw only three cars. He thought that the cream colored 2005 Mercedes SLK 350 Roadster in the driveway probably belonged to the woman. Aaron started to hope only a few others were upstairs.
One man lounged nonchalantly, and none too alertly, on the front porch. Well silhouetted by the porch light, he was clearly bored. Aaron checked to confirm that the man was just out of view of the spying crew next door. He popped up about fifteen feet away and fired, a taser dart struck the guard's exposed throat and another, his cheek. It was a good shot.
Aaron tightly tied the guard and jammed a cloth gag into his mouth. A syringe load of a strong relaxant would make him unconscious before the effect of the taser wore off. He was left stashed around the edge of the house, in the darkest corner of the porch.
Aaron snapped in a new taser cartridge and shifted the gun to his left hand. His 9-mm automatic went into his strongest arm. Aaron left his duffle bag beside the fallen guard and slipped into the house. The entry was huge, sparsely furnished, and vacant. The stereo was on this level, but the only sounds of people came faintly down the nearby staircase from upstairs.
At the top of the stairs was a landing that looked out to the far area of the lower level on one end and opened above into an entertainment room. Exposed at the top of the stairs, Aaron was thankful that the large open room was empty. A hallway continued away from the room and the stairs, presumably to bedrooms. The kitchen below was hidden, but the other rooms were empty. Aaron turned his attention to the upstairs hallway.
The first bedroom door was partially open; inside were two naked girls asleep in the king-size bed. They looked incredibly young and from the tube tops and miniskirts thrown carelessly around, were probably hookers. In the open bathroom beyond, Aaron saw a naked and hairy ass sticking out from the bent over form of a large man. He was snorting lines of cocaine off the glistening granite vanity top. A quick transfer of weapons, a squeeze of the taser trigger, and the second bodyguard was down on the bathroom floor. He was trussed up the same way as the other guard, sedated, and thrown into the empty Jacuzzi.
Aaron checked the girls and decided that extra sedation might kill them; they were stoned to the gills. He wondered what mixture of drugs they ingested with their cocaine. The girls were thin and skanky. Tattoos and too much time on the streets cheapened their looks and left nothing for Aaron to profit from.
Two other suites on the hall were empty. The last doorway was to the master suite. It was occupied by a couple arguing. The woman was resisting the man's efforts to get her into his bed. The arrogant male voice was the same as outside on the gazebo.
"Come on, Karen. If ya don't wanna fuck, at least give me a blow job," Aaron heard. The man wasn't begging and he was clearly working toward getting his dick into the woman.
"James, you know that I enjoy your company; but, I'm not one of your drug whores. If you want to fuck, then go get that blonde big-titted bitch Emily. She may not want it, but you'll like it better that way anyhow."
"Karen, baby. You sure seem to know me. I like that you don't mind me fucking around. It's time though that you showed your appreciation to me," James continued with his line of shit.
"James, you know I don't do drugs and don't want to fuck till you commit to me with a ring. Once we're engaged, then its OK. I'll cut your dick off if I catch you nailing some skanky whore without a condom on though."
James muttered under his breath, turned to leave, and walked right into Aaron's stun gun. Karen went down soundlessly with a taser dart drilled deep in each of her impressive tits. James was tied and gagged. He never even saw Aaron. The drug dealer was thrown into his bathroom and left, limply unconscious in the Jacuzzi.
Karen was tied up and left outstretched on the floor with a ballgag tightly buckled around her head.
Aaron feverously reloaded his taser and again ran through every room upstairs. The master bedroom closet and a small office connecting to the bedroom suite were both bonanzas. Seven bales of money and kilo bricks of cocaine were stacked in the closet. Aaron threw several of the packages of cocaine into his duffle bag and filled it the rest of the way with money.
He then walked decisively into the master bathroom holding a brick of cocaine in his hand. The now conscious drug dealer was struggling in the Jacuzzi. A slice of his razor sharp knife freed a half-cup sized chunk of cocaine into his fist. Aaron held the deadly drug hidden in his left hand and struck James in the solar plexus. As the man gasped and wheezed, the gag was whisked away, and a handful of the cocaine was mashed into his mouth. The drug flooded James' lungs and was sucked down into his stomach. Aaron filled the gapping, powder-filled mouth with tequila from the nightstand and forced James to swallow, again and again. James Lee ingested over a half pound of cocaine before cardiac arrest took his life. Aaron broke up the rest of the cocaine brick and scattered it across the still body.
Aaron settled Karen across one shoulder and grabbed a bulging duffle bag. It was time for another sprinting run out the house, around under the walkway to the gazebo, and down the damp beach toward the boat. Karen was also thrown onto the forward deck of the boat and hogtied. By now, both Emily and Karen were aware and complaining about their situation. Aaron decided to test the ballgags. To keep Karen from having an unfair advantage, he yanked her top and bra down around her waist before tightly grasping a nipple in each hand. A vicious twist and pinch yielded a faint "hmmp" and some violent twitching. Karen's gag was tight enough. He repeated the move on Emily's already naked tits. She also bucked and tried to get free. Her muffled cries were quieter. Aaron figured she was tired from her longer bondage and her mistreatment at the gazebo.
Aaron grabbed two spare duffle bags and returned to the house for the rest of the money. Minutes later, sweat dripping from his face, Aaron stashed the last of the seven bales of cash and at least twenty-five kilograms of cocaine, along with the two bound beauties, in the cabin of the motorboat.
Minutes later, Aaron was quietly motoring away from the shore. His focus was intently on the horizon, looking for other boats. The intercoastal waterway was empty so he clicked on his running lights and smoothly motored up to thirty miles per hour. The measured pace would get him to his van in about thirty-five minutes. His car was parked in a crushed coral parking lot by a small public pier, miles south of where he rented the boat. His plan was to dump his acquisitions into the van, cover everything with a comforter, and motor back up to the marina where he rented the boat.
After ten minutes cruising south down the intercoastal waterway, Aaron decided to check up on his two captives. He was worried about the stakeout site next to the raided drug lieutenant's home.
Off on the starboard side, he saw a lot of activity by Mattheson Hammock Park and cut back on the throttle to swing toward a cluster of boats anchored off the park's beach. He easily captured a permanent mooring buoy with the boat's gaff and secured the bobbing craft. The engines were cut, the running lights left on, and the twenty-eight foot boat swung about to gently bob in the low swells. Aaron moved over toward his captives.
Both women were awake and angrily grunted, groaned, and cried into their gags. Each was secured identically; wrist and ankle cuffs locked on each extremity and chained together behind their backs in a loose hogtie. Neither looked threatening to Aaron.
Somewhat reassured, Aaron dumped the contents of the two women's purses on a tabletop. The first purse belonged to the naked woman, Emily. He kept the woman's wallet and identification. Her cell phone and all the other purse contents splashed into the dark waters, one by one. He stashed the two empty purses in a bag for later disposal. The women's pasts were soon reduced to a small pile of wallets, checkbooks, and key rings.
He sat and considered what to do next. Idly he sipped from the plastic nipple of a sports drink and thought of the cold Pacifico Beers in his van's cooler. He knelt down beside the naked housewife and reviewed her statistics. Her name was Emily Davis, she was a blonde (Aaron yanked Emily onto her side and shined a flashlight at her trimmed bush – yep she was a true blonde). The identification gave her age as twenty-six and her weight as 115 pounds (Aaron set down the flashlight to maul each of her huge tits and judged Emily a trophy housewife with D+ breasts). "You are a fine catch girl," he said as he slapped her ass and settled her back on her belly.
The other woman was twenty-four and named Karen Rigdon, the hugely endowed blonde that wanted James to commit to an engagement. Karen had lost her heels during her kidnapping and lay on her side facing him. Aaron went straight for the gigantic mounds. Her short dress was ripped off, revealing a lacy bra. The meat packed into the cups were all girl. Even in the dark night, enough light from the running lights showed the entire breast, areoles, and nipples through the transparent material. "No padding here to fool the eye," noted Aaron as he cut the wispy strap and the cups flew outward, exposing everything. Aaron though about pairing her with Emily Davis. The two could be twins, … blonde, bit-titted twins.
Aaron cut the dress into tatters and looked down with appreciation at Karen's body. "You are a great piece of work, lady," Aaron told the captive woman. "A great piece of meat, that is," he added with a smirk. "Too good for that lousy fuck drug dealer. Too good to be his whore."
The woman had on a black thong panty that had only a small triangle of fully transparent silk over a neatly trimmed matching triangle of blonde pubic hair. The thin strap was wedged between her shaved pussy lips. She was dry, but fear and exertion had built up a sweaty sheen over her lips. Aaron rolled the woman onto her belly and froze as an icy spear struck fear deep into his guts. A lesser man would have pissed himself at the sudden turn of events.
Just above the twenty-four year old's perfect ass gloves and partially hidden by the thongs two-inch waistband, was a lump covered by a flesh-colored square of tape. "Holy fuck! Karen is an undercover snitch." Not yet sure if she was a cop or an unwilling snitch, there was no denying that under the tape was the most compact microphone and transmitter Aaron had ever seen. It was miniaturized and by feel, the panty waistband masked its outline perfectly. "Bet you could have fucked James and he'd never notice this, not with those huge knockers and blonde cunt to distract him," Aaron taunted her as he dangled the device in front of her face. Her facial expression confirmed that she had successfully worn it during sex. "You slut," Aaron responded, close to losing it.
The damning transmitter fell into the water with a faint splash and Aaron desperately hoped that the tape reel at the surveillance station had not captured anything. The boat might have been beyond range before he spoke in its presence. Dangerous or not, Aaron felt he had to get the tape before someone got it and connected her departure to a boat.
--L--A--T--E--R--
Aaron once again climbed the sand dune from the beach and returned to the stakeout site. Emily and Karen were secured side-by-side, and still naked, awaiting his return.
This time, Aaron noted that one van was gone. Only three cops were left in the garage, one man and two women. "Musta been a shift change, as I suspected," Aaron muttered to himself. He hesitated to confirm that everything looked calm and orderly. There was no sign of activity at James Sill's home. He turned his attention back inside. The thought of the two beautiful law enforcement agents as slaves made his cock twitch. They were worth three times as much as his other two captives if advertised as ex-police merchandise.
"Girls, be right back," the large male inside announced.
The two girls laughed as he turned to leave and one commented on his small bladder, "Hank, you piss more than my pregnant sister. Your bladder must be the size of a walnut." They laughed again and he cursed something about "stakeouts and bitches. Hank was momentarily backlit by the room's light as he stepped outside and walked toward the van.
Aaron ran across the sand to crouch behind the van. "Jerk didn't even turn off the lights to go outside. Sloppy work, dude," Aaron critiqued the agent's poor technique.
The man jerked his zipper down, fumbled at his belt, and sighed as he started to pee on a rear tire. From under the far side of the vehicle, Aaron aimed the taser and shot the man in the leg. Down he went. Aaron stuck a syringe into his ass through the black nylon battledress, tied him, and gagged him. He palmed the agent's handgun and cursed his poor planning on the night's mission. He left the agent lying in the piss-soaked sand.
At the door, Aaron reloaded the taser. "Shit, I oughta buy stock in this company. I sure use enough of them." He prepared himself mentally and physically to storm the room, taser in one hand and stun gun in the other.
It was incredibly simple to subdue the women. Only one looked up as he opened the door. She took a pair of taser darts in the inside of an upper thigh, a spot certain to not have body armor or a pocket loaded with gear to block the two needle-sharp darts. The second agent turned to look at why her coworker slumped down to the ground when Aaron discharged the stun gun into her side. Almost 625 thousand volts of high frequency energy pulsed deeply through her muscles. The vicious charge depleted her blood sugar, converting it nearly instantly to lactic acid. The neurological impulses also traveled throughout her body, interrupting muscle movement, and causing disorientation and loss of balance.
The attack had been quick and silent. He had two more victims.
After securing his new captives, Aaron stole all the video and audio tapes from the recorders and swept everything into a bag. Every file, notepad, and piece of paper in the room joined the tapes in the bag. He glanced up at the video monitors that were now simply displaying the camera feed without recording it. A woman was walking out onto the gazebo. It appeared she was searching for someone. Aaron yanked the bundle of power cords out, closing down all the equipment and he raced back to the beach. He stopped long enough to throw the bag across the short section of water to the boat deck, and then he was off to the gazebo next door.
Heart thudding in his chest, Aaron knelt down under the gazebo again as the woman approached down the walkway from the estate. "Emily! Emily, where are you," she yelled with evident distress in her voice. "Emily, there's dead people here. I need you Emily!" She shuffled around above him and hesitantly started down the stairs to the beach. "You lousy bitch, where are you hiding? I know you aren't in the house. I got our drugs, come out now and we can leave. Emily!"
It was obvious to Aaron that Emily hid a friend in her tiny car to watch out for her in case something went wrong. The woman thumped down the stairs and sat on the bottom step, high heels buried in the soft sand. Aaron saw her set her purse down beside her and start to paw through it. When she pulled out a cell phone, he fired the taser gun into her back. The two darts sped through the gap in the steps and buried themselves in her back. The phone flew forward to land in the sand.
Aaron had no ropes or anything to bind a last captive with so he improvised. He tore off the woman's silk blouse and spun it quickly into an improvised rope that bound her wrists behind her back. The bra would do as temporary bonds for her feet. Then, limp woman across his back, Aaron grabbed her phone and purse and sprinted back to the boat. Her temporary bonds were quickly exchanged for handcuffs and wrist and ankle bracelets.
Aaron sat down to catch his breath and decided that the evening had gone completely to shit. The shoddy stakeout, the women trying to get drugs, and the undercover agent added up to a truly out of control night. He decided that it couldn't get any worse.
He was still cursing softly as the engines throbbed into life and he pulled away, again.
Minutes later, Aaron was quietly motoring away from the shore. His focus was again on the horizon looking for other surface craft. Aaron was still disgusted with himself for the near fuck up that made him return to the sight of his theft, kidnapping, and murder. With a curse, he throttled up to thirty miles per hour again and headed for the darkness under the nearest highway bridge over the bay. It was about three miles from the beachside villas.
This time, Aaron had five angry women tied on his deck as the boat gently moved with the small swells. Three were naked, and the two policewomen, still fully clothed. Aaron again dumped purses onto the tabletop to see what he caught. Everything went overboard except for the wallets, identification badges, checkbooks, and key rings.
He knelt down beside the first agent and ran his hands down her sides. The woman's wallet and police badge identified her as Helen Powell, a representative from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement (FDLE). The FDLE agent was twenty-seven, black haired, was 5'6" tall, and weighed 130 pounds. Aaron noted that this was no slender waif below him. Her muscles rippled under her flesh as she grunted and wriggled below him. He jerked up her black T-shirt, revealing a black ballistic vest underneath. Realizing how dangerous she was, he set the stun gun electrodes deep into her ass. The hogtie loosened as she arched up impossibly high and then slumped down unconscious. Aaron had little time. Arm cuffs were released from the hogtie and Aaron struggled with the T-shirt, holster, vest, and bra. Everything was black. Just as she started to stir, Aaron snapped the chain back onto the arm cuffs, again behind her back. Aaron flopped the weakly squirming woman on her back and flicked open a skinning knife, all with one free hand. The prick of cold steel on her bare shoulder instantly stilled the woman.
Aaron leaned down to whisper in Helen Powell's ear, "Helen, this knife is sharp enough to peel your cunt off your body before you feel the pain from the blade. It's only here to strip your clothes off. You better calm down and hold your resistance for later." He unbuckled the girl's belt and unzipped the utility pants. The knife smoothly hissed through the nylon cloth. Two long cuts and the pants opened up like magic, revealing trim muscular legs and sensible black panties. The knife wormed its way under a leg band and Helen stiffened in fear. She knew the knife was only finishing the job of stripping her when she felt the cool ocean breeze wash across her damp pubic hair. Aaron rolled her onto her belly and threw the clothes into a pile. Helen was now naked except for her socks and black boots.
She jerked up in surprise as a loud splat echoed through the cabin. Aaron stared at his handprint on her lily-white ass and said, "Stay, don't move."
Aaron moved to the handrail and while still watching Helen, emptied her pocket and vest contents into the water. Pager, office cell phone, and PDA disappeared into the salty waters. The two women's service revolvers were kept in case they would come in handy later.
Helen's comrade was Regina Tyre, a twenty-six year old brunette that worked in the Miami-Date Bureau of Statewide Prosecution. She was a lawyer and prosecutorial investigator. Like Helen, she was athletic. At 5'5" tall, the brunette weighed slightly less at 125 pounds.
The last purse contents to go overboard belonged to Emily Davis' friend, Pamela Bondi. She was twenty-five, tall and slim at 5'7" and 125 pounds. A brunette, she had B+ tits.
Within minutes a naughty blonde housewife and her brunette friend, a brunette lawyer, a black-haired cop, and a blonde that might be an undercover cop or a druggie snitch were laid out naked, hogtied, and gagged on the boats scratchy indoor / outdoor carpet. Aaron still thought that the two big-titted blondes made a stunning matched set.
Now that Aaron had a chance to think about it, he decided that he would like to have another memento from the evening's work. The 2005 Mercedes SLK 350 Roadster that belonged to the housewife would look great in the warehouse next to Belinda's 2002 Jaguar XKR 450 Grand Prix Convertible. Without another thought about how stupid the act was, he stripped down to running shorts and shoes, and jumped into the shallow water under the bridge. The boat was in a sheltered, well-hidden spot. He bet everything that it would be fine for the next thirty minutes.
He made it to the beach house in eighteen minutes. Within six more minutes, he was pulling the car off a small road leading away from the bridge overpass and down to the water. People used to stop here to fish until the golf course and high-end construction started to take over. The path was still used, but much less often. Aaron was sure that the car would be fine for a few hours until he could figure a way to come get it.
--L--A--T--E--R--
Aaron made several trips from the boat to his van; five with naked sweaty fuckmeat on his shoulder and three times with money, drugs, and equipment. "Aaron, you stupid fuck. This better be worth the effort and risk," he muttered. "Five new acquisitions. Shit! Where will I put them?"
Aaron stripped down to a T-shirt, running shorts, and jogging shoes. He grabbed a small hydration pack and eyed the artwork exposed through the open rear doors of the van. Four tight pussies and assholes winked at him from the bodies tightly strapped down across the folded down rear seats. Emily's friend, Pamela Bondi wouldn't fit across the width of the van, so she was wedged between a set of seats further forward in the van. The pussy art was too much temptation. Aaron walked around to the van's open side door, grabbed something from this kit bag, and returned to the van's rear.
Aaron set everything else on the ground and uncapped the tube of sex lubricant. One by one, he simply jammed the tube's short nozzle into a cunt or ass and squeezed a cold glob of lube inside. Eight holes later, the tube was nearly empty and he threw it into the van's interior. Keeping the diminishing time factor in mind, the first thing to penetrate each delectable ass was a syringe of strong sedative. It would start to take effect as he left in the boat.
Aaron aligned his big knob on a tight-looking blonde pussy and lunged forward as hard as he could. Even with the gag, he heard a grunt echo from the throat of either Emily or Karen; he didn't care which. After five or six hard strokes as deep into the exposed cunt as he could go, he pulled out and lined up on the next cunt in line. It was also blonde, with shaved lips. "Well Emily or Karen, you are truly twins now if my dick can't tell the difference from this end."
Again his plum-sized cockhead was set between a set of pussy lips, this time he slowly sank balls deep in one steady downward fuck. No grunt came from this girl, only a faint wail of dismay at her rape and predicament. His now lube-coated balls thunked solidly against her sparsely forested pubic mount for about ten strokes.
Even in the dark, Aaron recognized Helen's black thicket of pubic hair. "Time for a little variety. I've never had cop ass or cunt before. Eenee, meenee, miney, mo, ..." His dick aligned cunt, ass, cunt, and ass as he chanted the old rhyme. "Guess that's it, then," he said and sunk three inches deep into a hot, tight rectum. Helen's head flopped up and her long black tresses exploded across her naked shoulders. By the time her head sunk down in defeat, he was all the way up her ass. Without pause to let her get used to the log up her intestines, Aaron set up a fast fucking pattern.
Helen felt the man's bloated balls striking her lower pussy lips. She liked anal sex with her boyfriend, but only after lots of clitoral and vaginal stimulation. She preferred a lover's fingers in her cunt fucking vigorously while his cock gently moved, partially buried in her ass. She could normally touch her clit and come like a firecracker. This was different. The fuck was sudden and brutal. Helen missed the extended foreplay before her boyfriend moved toward anal sex; he usually spurted after a few strokes and only two-three inches deep in her sensitive ass.
The nine-inch log up her ass took her breath away. Two hands mauled her naked tits and he fucked her slick ass like a machine. "If only his balls hit lower," she thought and then realized with horror that she was twitching her ass back for some vaginal stimulation. "You cock-hungry whore," she cried to herself in shame as all thoughts of lust vanished. Then his dick was gone and she felt the cool ocean air drift into her hot, distended rectum. Even with the resulting intestinal cramping spasms, her ass remained open to the night for long seconds before the anal ring slowly regained its elasticity and it winked shut.
The muscular ass of the brunette beckoned him next. By this time, Regina knew he was raping each of the girls and she was last in line. She involuntarily tensed as his cockhead nestled around for her pussy. Her breath uumphed out of her lungs as 205 pounds fell onto her back and the largest dick she ever felt buried itself up to her cervix. Cunning and resourceful, Regina decided to act the total slut in the slight hope of taking advantage later on. Her hips wriggled and she moaned in imitation of lust as Aaron plunged into her pussy. The responsiveness of the captive engaged his attention for too long, his lunging thrusts became desperate and he finally fell back, squeezed his eager to spurt dick, and tried to regain his breath.
When Regina heard him say, "Regina, you are a hot fuck;" she knew that she was succeeding. The grunts from her two disgusted law enforcement friends, Karen and Helen, made her ashamed, but she knew that explanations could come later. Regina was sure her cunt had milked him soft. Her few sexual partners all marveled at her strong internal musculature that squeezed and emptied cock jism in record time. Then his cock nestled against her virgin anal ring. "Hmmph, hmphh, unghh," she tried to protest and move her sloppy pussy up to meet his cock.
His cock's bloated head was way out of reach of the clasping pussy ring and it tried in vain to protect the glistening grommet of her ass. The wriggling against his cock head encouraged more blood to flow into his dick and with her frantic movement sunk it into her resisting ass. It swelled up from the stimulation and stuck in place.
Helen and Karen heard the squeals and grunts of their former colleague as she eagerly fucked back at their captor. Each thought, "What a slut," to themselves as the squeals suddenly intensified. They mistook her desperate attempt to slide his cock back to her pussy as increased lust, and possible climax.
Instead, Aaron corkscrewed his throbbing cock another inch into the wildly gyrating ass below. He knew full well the woman wanted him to use her cunt instead of her ass. Still mistaking her earlier ardor as genuine, he reveled in the thought of forcing the horny slut to take it up the ass. He leaned onto his stiff stick and sunk another two inches in. Suddenly, her muscles relaxed for just a moment, and he was balls deep, nine solid inches in her buttery depths.
Regina cried in failure and the shame of knowing her friends felt her a wanton whore for giving in and not fighting. Regina relaxed in defeat and resolved herself to using what weapons she had. If her tongue wasn't squashed into place by the awful gag, the sudden entry of all his thick cock pushed by his 205-pound weight might have made her swallow her tongue in shock. She was skewered like a pig on a spit and was stunned nervelessly for nearly a minute before she steeled herself to fuck back. "I'll get this bastard to spurt off. I'll be the best fucktoy this pervert ever saw," she promised. "Then, I'll cut off your dick and display it for a trophy," she amended her promise just as her intestines cramped in protest against the increasing pace of the long cock in her rectum.
Aaron watched in disbelief as the soft and no longer resisting butt that he buried himself in started to twitch and slowly wriggle before it actually began to fuck back with increasing intensity. He set a slow and gentile fucking pace in counterpoint to her desperate moves and this allowed him to reach down to caress, pull, pinch, and manipulate her cunt, labia, and clit.
Regina felt his fingers on her cunt and sudden warmth flooded her loins as her brain sent extra blood to the region and dumped her own sexual lubricant into her cunt, all because of his touch. Pain, humiliation, and sheer determination was now fueled by increasing lust. She felt no added shame in her ability to climax herself while enslaving her captor. Her moans and grunts became rhythmic as she approached her first climax of the night.
Aaron heard the shift in the cunt's muffled voice to a cadence that matched his own fucking pace and he grinned at the victory. He survived the first round of rippling spasms that wracked her belly. Aaron never slowed, and in fact began to pick up the pace as the spasms went on and on. Their sweaty and greasy bodies set up a blurring tempo accented by the slap of a belly on a back, groin on ass, and balls on pussy. His fingers sped across the cunt, making sloppy, juicy sounds that added to the symphony of their sex.
The remaining trembling girls were of mixed thoughts. Each gave thanks to Regina that their captor was preoccupied with another woman's cunt or ass, but they were universally disgusted that the fourth woman acted like a bitch in heat. She was obviously enjoying the sex.
Aaron locked the van door and reviewed the contents mentally to be sure nothing inside was linked to him or the warehouse. He wore gloves, so there were no prints. The full condom was in his backpack so the only DNA evidence might be buried in the van's clean carpet. He had carefully wiped the glistening rumps with baby wipes which were also in a baggie in his backpack alongside the condom.
He headed back to his boat and then his short journey north to the marina. The boat keys would go into a lockbox on the pier and he would start his three-mile job back to the van.
--L--A--T--E--R--
He toggled the pack's flashing reflector to the on position and shrugged on the small backpack. As he started his long jog back to his van from the marina, reflecting strips on his ankles and elbows identified him as a serious runner. The slowly flashing red light on his backpack gently bobbled up and down as he set a smooth pace through the dark night and back toward his van. He was ready to get back to the warehouse and some cold beers. Thoughts of a Pacifico flowing ice-cold down his throat spurred his pace. "Yes," Aaron thought, "a Pacifico would top off the day; cause then it would be well worth fucking living."
Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com