Loading...Paterson trained the gun firmly on her as she did as she was told. She tied her husband’s wrists behind his back, then bound his ankles together, then knotted the two ropes together, leaving him virtually immobile on the bed in his striped pyjamas. Paterson had a minor twinge of conscience – after all, he must be nearer seventy than sixty, and lame, to boot – but, he had been a soldier all his life and, even in the British Army, you don’t make brigadier just by going to the right school or joining the right clubs.
Paterson also noted that his wife, Anthea, had been so anxious to avoid enraging Paterson that she had tied the twine too tight and, already, the bound man’s hands and feet were turning white from loss of blood flow.
Paterson motioned to the wife to sit down on a cane chair on the other side of the bed. Then keeping an eye on her, he laid the Mauser down within easy reach, and loosened the bonds slightly. Her hand flew to her mouth when she realised what she had done, and tears sparked her eyelids.
Paterson carried out a final check on the knots, and on the gag, then turned to the woman and said – “Right! Get dressed and come downstairs and make me some breakfast!”
She stood up, then hesitated, looking at Paterson, clearly waiting for him to leave the room. “Oh, come on!” he sneered, casting a totally jaundiced eye at her grey hair and shapeless nightdress. “I’m not leaving you to cut the old guy free – even at the price of your modesty!”
She looked him straight in the eye, then, gathering a few clothes from the wardrobe and a bedside table, marched defiantly into the ensuite bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Paterson shrugged and sat heavily on the bed. Suddenly, the adrenalin of the last forty-eight hours just drained away, and all he wanted to do was sleep. But he had to stay alert until the car arrived at four o’clock. Perhaps he could tie the wife up later, as well, once she had fielded any phone calls and visitors to the remote cottage, and get a couple of hours sleep.
Meanwhile, he kept an eye on the frosted glass door of the bathroom, through which he could make out the vague shape of the woman as she washed hastily and struggled into a jersey and slacks. Nevertheless, his eyes were heavy when she emerged in less than five minutes, and he heaved himself off the bed and followed her downstairs…
The clock was striking half-past one as Paterson pushed away his empty coffee-cup. Anthea jumped to her feet and, putting it in the dishwasher along with the rest of the breakfast and lunch dishes, switched the machine on.
Paterson had to admit that, although she clearly wasn’t doing it out of love, she couldn’t have looked after him better if he’d been an honoured guest. From the bacon and eggs for breakfast to the delicious steak for lunch, Paterson had eaten better, almost, than he could ever remember. She had dealt with three telephone calls about the previous night’s dinner party, as well as the postman, and a passing hiker, who was lost.
Paterson hadn’t let her visit her husband, upstairs in the bedroom, but had gone up twice, himself – on the clear understanding that any foolishness from the woman would visit its consequences on the helpless bound figure on the bed.
He chuckled to himself at the obvious effectiveness of this threat. She was really anxious to please. Hell, if she was a bit younger, and he wasn’t so shagged out, who knows….?
He stood up and looked across at her. She met his gaze, coolly but not defiantly. He jerked his head ceilingwards and raised a warning eyebrow. She nodded, saying nothing, and he left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. The old man was sleeping, and Paterson, in a rare moment of generosity, drew a loose cover over his bound form.
A photograph on the bedside table caught his eye. It was clearly their wedding picture – he in dress uniform; she in startling white. He leaned over to read the date inscribed on the bottom – almost thirty years ago.
He looked at the picture again. Maynard was obviously well into his thirties, but his wife looked barely out of her teens. Paterson felt a twinge of illogical envy, which he dismissed with irritation. Well, he wasn’t enjoying a teenage bedmate now, Paterson thought, almost savagely, aware that his annoyance was caused by his own chronic failure to maintain two marriages and at least half a dozen promising relationships.
Maybe, at getting on for seventy, Maynard still saw his fifty-year old wife as a piece of young meat, thought Paterson as he descended the stairs. He pretended to try to remember the last time he had had a woman, but he was only too well aware that it was all of three months – a Filipino nightclub hostess; a lithe light-brown girl who had given him precisely one hour for his thirty dollars – and a week of worry and incessant self-checks after he had sobered up…
He re-entered the kitchen. The woman hadn’t moved. She looked up at him enquiringly, and he nodded, curtly. “He’s O.K.,” he said. “Asleep. I want a decent chair – an armchair.”
Wordlessly, she rose and led the way through the hall to a comfortable room at the front. A coal fire burned between two deep armchairs and Paterson sank into one, motioning her to sit opposite.
“I saw your wedding picture upstairs,” he said, after a few minutes’ silence. “Your husband’s older than you.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Almost sixteen years.”
“Oh?” said Paterson. “And how old is he now?”
A ghost of a smile flitted over her face, and disappeared. “Sixty-eight”, she answered, curtly. Silence fell again.
Paterson stared into the fire. That made her fifty-two, he thought, absently. He thought she probably didn’t look it but, since he’d never had a woman older than thirty, he wouldn’t know. Anyway, the jersey and slacks she was wearing gave no clue to what her figure was like, except that she clearly wasn’t fat.
The realisation that he was becoming curious about what she looked like out of her clothes grew very slowly on Paterson and, when it did impinge, at last, at the front of his mind, he immediately picked up a day-old copy of the Times and started leafing through it.
Anthea relaxed, just a little. For a moment, she had been just a little worried. The intruder had seemed to be glancing at her a little speculatively, and she had become very sensitive to such signals after thirty years as an Army wife – and a faithful one. She let her head fall back against a cushion and closed her eyes.
For the third time, Paterson tried to digest the political leader in the newspaper, but his eyes continually flickered over the top of the broadsheet towards the woman.
Jesus H Christ, he thought to himself, you’ve committed four killings in three days, one act of arson, plus whatever what you’re doing in this cottage is called in English law. You’re waiting for an aeroplane to arrive to help you make a bolt for it, and here you are, wondering if you can get laid by some fifty-year old dame!
Then his mouth dried as he realised there was really no ‘if’ about it. He was in complete control here – she would do as he said. All he had to do was threaten her husband. His testicles tightened and the paper shook a little in his tightened fingers. The novelty of the idea astonished him – surely he had been in this situation before?
Well, of course, there had been a few times in ‘Nam, when the platoon had ‘liberated’ a village in the jungle and claimed their just rewards, selecting the pick of the young women and taking them off into the bushes, but, somehow, that was different…
He looked over the top of the newspaper again. Her eyes opened, sensing his scrutiny, and met his. They were clear, grey and set wide apart on high cheekbones. They seemed slightly slanted, giving her a feline look. Paterson studied her face. Her mouth was not large, but her lips were full, under a short, straight nose and over a small, but determined chin.
Unconsciously, his tongue passed over dry lips as he visualised her mouth surrendering to his, the soft pressure of her breasts against him as her body arched under his. Hell, he thought to himself, a woman’s a woman. They don’t lose their essentials as they get older, and this one’s not old, anyway! Look at some of these film stars, still looking good up to their sixties.
Anyway, the whole point is – if you want to know what she’s like, there’s nothing to stop you having a look. If you don’t like what you see, you don’t have to pretend, to make her feel better. He chuckled to himself at the irony – him not liking what he saw would undoubtedly be the right result for her!
His penis stiffening in his trousers, he abruptly made up his mind.
“Stand up!” he grunted, laying down the newspaper.
Her eyes widened, but she did as she was told, standing in front of the chair, hands by her sides. Paterson appraised her for a few seconds, then took a deep breath.
“Take off your sweater!” he said, in as deadpan a voice as he could muster. The woman closed her eyes and exhaled, despairingly.
“No! Please!” she whispered, opening her eyes again and staring into Paterson’s. Paterson felt a surge of power, and an excitement he hadn’t had for ten years. A surge of energy raced through his loins and his penis was suddenly, massively, fully erect.
“Take it off!” he growled. His voice almost shook with excitement.
She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head, helplessly.
Then – “No!” she blurted out. “I’ll feed you, look after you, get you away safely, but you can’t – not this! It isn’t fair!”
“Do it,” insisted Paterson, “or I’ll pay a visit upstairs… ”
Two large tears dropped on her cheeks and her shoulders drooped. She started to turn her back on him, but he rapped – “Stay there!” while, at the same time, a sensation of triumph assailed him. She was going to do it! Oh, she was going to argue about how, and why, but, at bottom, she would do it, to keep her man safe.
He hoped. For, deep down, Paterson knew that it wasn’t in him to physically force her.
Some Calvinistic streak in his background recoiled from physical violence against women – but coercion, making them bend to your will because of some non-physical threat, that was different.
He forced himself to continue sitting in the armchair, his eyes never leaving the woman as a myriad emotions chased themselves across her face. The two initial tears had become a flood and her arms were crossed protectively over her chest, her shoulders hunched, legs pressed tightly together in the shapeless slacks.
“I won’t tell you again,” Paterson said, quietly, his eyes flickering pointedly upwards.
Up till now, her eyes had been staring in a mixture of pleading and baleful hatred into his, but now, with hopeless resignation, the woman forced her eyes ceilingwards and gathering her jersey at the bottom, in two hands, lifted it up, over her belly, over her brassiere, and clear of her shoulders. With a final tug, she dragged it over her hair and let it fall on the chair behind her.
Paterson studied her, his tongue running round his dry lips.
Her upper body was slim, in good condition, her stomach slightly concave, but not slack, her white lace brassiere well-filled, the flesh of her cleavage apparently firm and resilient. Paterson wanted to stand up, to look her over properly, but restrained himself.
“Now the slacks,” he murmured, and exulted in her automatic, almost immediate compliance. She undid a button at the waist, then a zip, and eased the trousers down over her hips. As she did so, she leant forward, and Paterson gazed greedily at the deep cleavage between her breasts. He could feel his penis erecting even more, and shifted his position in the chair.
Her slacks lay beside her feet and she stood before him, wearing only bra and panties. Her panties were unexpectedly skimpy. White, but plain, they covered the woman’s mons veneris, completely – but not the cheeks of her bottom, which jutted out, full and round, behind her.
Paterson could just discern the slightest hint of a dark shadow beneath the opaque material of the panties and he swallowed, again, to drag some moisture into his arid mouth.
She still didn’t meet his eyes and she looked calm as she stared over his head, but he could see the whites of her knuckles as her fingers dug into her palms. Paterson was almost reluctant to issue his next command, savouring the excitement and power of watching the helpless woman standing in front of him with all but the last vestiges of her nakedness uncovered.
He thought, with another thrill of excitement, that she had probably never stripped for another man, in a sexual context, before, and deep down, came the realisation – dim, and very deep within him – that, in the future, she might well look back on this afternoon, this experience, and derive, if not pleasure, then sexual excitement – perhaps intense sexual excitement – from it.
“O.K.” Paterson said, quietly, almost holding his breath. “Now take off your brassiere.”
Automatically, the woman lifted her hands behind her back, then she stopped. She looked, pleadingly, into his eyes, and the tears, which had stopped, brimmed again. “Please!” she whispered. “Please don’t make me do this.”
Paterson simply stared up at her and, after a few seconds, she went on.
“Please – no-one but my husband has… ” Her voice trailed away, and her eyes lifted to the ceiling again, in misery.
Paterson was exultant. The one thing that could make it better had occurred – the reassurance that this was no experienced adulteress, that this was almost as painful for her as if she had been an eighteen-year-old virgin. He wanted her to be shy, to be unsure about showing her body – otherwise there would be no achievement.
If she had stripped off her clothes with condident élan, Paterson knew that his interest would have been perfunctory and, once physical curiosity, and lust, had been slaked, he would have felt a certain amount of self-loathing and contempt.
But now, it was perfect!
The woman’s eyes, at last, dropped to his, with a final plea. On meeting his intractable stare, however, her eyes dropped away and her fingers fumbled with the rear fastening on her brassiere. As it finally gave, she held it in place for a futile moment or two, pathetically, then, shoulders drooping, dropped the garment down her arms to the floor.
Her exposed breasts were just large enough to carry a hint of sag, but they were round and fairly firm, with dark brown knobbly nipples set in circles of dark aurolae.
“Hey!” exclaimed Paterson, softly. “Hey! Very nice!”
As he spoke, unable to contain himself any longer, he was levering himself out of his armchair. She trembled violently as he approached her and he murmured soothing noises at her, but, nevertheless, her hands reached up to automatically cover her exposed breasts
Then Paterson reached out and held her thin wrists, easily pulling her hands away. Releasing them, he then touched her naked breasts, and she started, her teeth audibly chattering in fear.
His thumbs rasped over her nipples, and she shuddered, closing her eyes, involuntarily. He laughed softly and closed his hands round her breasts, squeezing them gently, then releasing them, then squeezing them again.
“Hey!” he breathed again. “Hey! Great tits, Anthea!” He used the semi-obscenity deliberately, experimentally, to gauge the effect on her. He was only guessing but he didn’t think British brigadiers would use such words to describe the attributes of their womenfolk and, from her reaction, he guessed he was right.
There was an automatic hiss of disgust from the woman, but then her face coloured and he could feel a distinct hardening of her nipple against his palm.
“Yeah – really nice tits,” he repeated and she stood silently, eyes downcast, as his hands explored their soft, yielding weight…
“And now the panties,” he breathed, stepping back to watch her.
Her thumbs hooked round the elastic at her waist and she began to inch the flimsy garment down her thighs. Her dark pubic thatch began to appear almost as soon as they began their descent and Paterson watched, transfixed, as she bent forward to pull her panties down. Her breasts now dangled downwards and, seeing them in this position, Paterson hungered again to feel her dark erect nipples against his palms.
The white panties transcended the woman’s strong thighs, past her knees, then, finally, she lifted one foot after another and they joined her brassiere on the carpet. She straightened, an expression of defeated resignation on her face – but, still, her hand automatically crossed her belly to cover her pubic triangle. This time, however, Paterson made no move to uncover her, but walked, slowly, behind her as she stood in the middle of the room, shoulders bowed, both hands pushed between her thighs.
Her bottom was every bit as sumptuous as he had surmised. Almost absent-mindedly, he wondered if it had anything to do with horse-riding. Twin moons jutted out from the small of her back, firmly, proudly, atop strong, undimpled thighs. Paterson thought about gripping them while she rode him from above and his breathing juddered, again.
He returned to face her and, stopping in front of her, lifted her chin. Her eyes did not meet his, but, undramatically, she removed her hands and let her arms hang by her sides, leaving her body open and unprotected.
Looking at her face, Paterson let his hand drift forward until it touched the skin of her upper thigh. As it made first contact, the woman started, but, otherwise, remained still. Paterson let his fingers roam lightly up her warm flesh until they made their first contact with the soft hair at the base of her belly, then he slid his index finger along the hair-line, in between her thighs.
She remained motionless as his index finger slid along the lips of her vagina, but her flesh began to assume a lustrous glow and he continued teasing, caressing until he felt the tip of his finger becoming slippery. His other hand rose to stroke her breast. He felt her nipple grow against his palm and, at the same time, he felt her vagina lubricate sufficiently to allow his finger to enter.
Sliding it in up to the second knuckle, he felt the burgeoning heat within her and he pulled his hand away from her breast and unzipped his trousers. There was a roaring in his ears and he could hold himself no longer. He slid his erect penis out of his trousers and closed his hand round it.
“Turn round,” he muttered, hoarsely, to the woman and, as she complied, he pushed her forward and downward until her hands rested on the arms of the chair she had been sitting on, and she was bent forward at the waist.
Easing her feet apart, he placed his hands on the peached cheeks of her bottom and came up close behind her. He took his penis in his hand again and aimed it between her parted thighs until its tip met the wet warmth of her spread vulva.
Then he bent over her back and, reaching down, filled his hands with her soft, pliant breasts, and then, and only then, thrust his penis into her. As its hard length invaded her, the woman emitted a gasp, which was almost a scream. Paterson withdrew almost completely, then rammed it back inside her again, his hands closing on her breasts almost convulsively.
Then he established a rhythm, and each deep thrust was accompanied by a gasp of increasing intensity from the woman, as her breasts were squeezed and her vagina invaded with ever-increasing remorselessness.
Anthea strove with ever-increasing futility to maintain a sense of outraged loathing as her body was callously violated.
Despite herself, she found herself resenting each partial withdrawal of Paterson’s erect penis and, involuntarily, found herself pushing her hips back towards him, to ensure it did not slip out completely. Then, as he drove the return thrust inside her, her accompanying gasp owed as much to sensual excitement as protest. Her breasts glowed as his questing fingers pressed and squeezed them and her erect nipples were almost unbearably sensitive. Her mouth was wide open, gasping for air and her eyes were closed. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white with tension.
Paterson pulled out again and, taking a deep breath, held himself steady for an extra second, a mere half-inch of his erection inside her womb. Then, his breath gusting out of his body, he executed the final thrust, burying himself up to the root, his hands dropping from her breasts to her hip-bones, pulling her on to him with all his strength.
This last invasion finally broke Anthea’s self-control. The dam burst and, as she felt him swell inside her for the final time, her climax flooded through her. Flinging her hands behind her, she pulled him by the buttocks to lodge his penis inside her as wave after wave of sensation flooded through her. She could feel his body jerking violently as his seed ejaculated into her and his hot rasping breath seared her shoulder.
Then it was over.
Her arms fell forward, again, to support her on the armchair, and she could feel his penis detumesce inside her, until it flopped out between her legs, and he stepped back from her, releasing her buttocks, so that she dropped forward on her knees on the fireside rug.
Despite the roaring coal fire, her body was now covered with a sheen of icy perspiration and her mind suffused with utter shame. Anthea’s hands groped, blindly, for her discarded sweater and slacks, tears welling in her throat.
Instead, she felt a handful of paper tissues being thrust into her hand and whirled her head round to see Paterson standing behind her. He grinned down at her, one eyebrow raised.
“I… uh,… I could do with a bit of cleaning up,” he said, quietly, his eyes dropping down his body, where, Anthea realised with shock and disgust, his soft penis was dangling from his trouser-fly, shiny and slimy.
“God, no!” she exclaimed involuntarily, shuddering. “You can’t expect me to….. ”
“Why not?” he asked, coolly. Then he grinned again, evilly, and added – “If you don’t get a move on, you’ll be licking it clean!”
“At least, wait until I’m dressed,” she demanded, with a flare of resistance and stared, uncomprehendingly, as he shook his head.
“I like you better that way,” he murmured. “It ain’t cold. You can stay like that for a bit. Now, clean off my dick, then I think you can make me a cup of coffee!”
Tears of humiliation pricking her eyelids, Anthea swallowed hard and wrapped the tissues round Paterson’s drooping member, even more acutely conscious, now, of her nakedness. Trying to depersonalise the whole operation, she forced herself to think of it as just an unpleasant task to be got over with.
When she removed the tissues, however, she was horrified to see that it had become half-hard again, but Paterson said nothing as he flopped back into his chair.
She stood up, covering herself with her hands, and Paterson laughed as he tucked himself back inside his trousers, with some difficulty.
“I needed that,” he remarked, almost casually, then – “and so did you, from the sound of things!”
Anthea’s cheeks burned. This was the worst shame of all – to have allowed herself to come to a climax as this hateful animal rutted inside her. And now he thought that she had enjoyed it, that she was no better than the prostitutes and easy women he was accustomed to having his way with. And, in fact, was she?
He was the only man, other than Hugo, to have made love to her – all the way. The act had undeniably been under duress, without her consent, but could she not have resisted more? She had made only a token protest before removing her clothing, hadn’t she? And there was no denying that her body had reacted with pleasure and excitement to his hands playing on her breasts, even while her mind was screaming in outraged protest.
Since the onset of Hugo’s impotence, some five years ago, she thought she had adjusted to a life without penetrative sex – no longer needed it. True, as his impotent state worsened, Hugo turned to her less and less frequently when he turned the bedlight out – in fact, she was very well aware that their last mutual sexual contact had been more than six months ago.
She was also guiltily aware that her solitary mid-afternoon masturbation sessions were as frequent as ever. Not that they were increasing in frequency – she certainly did not indulge more than once a week – but she was uncomfortably aware that her principal mental stimulus sprang from Hugo’s oft-expressed jocular threat, in the early years of their marriage, to call in the guard at whichever camp they were stationed to “give her a good seeing-to”.
The idea had sprung from the Roman emperor, Caligula, and Hugo had seemed to find it stimulating, sometimes going into fairly graphic details of which individual soldiers would be summoned, and what a particular sergeant or corporal would be ordered to do to her – more often than not in front of a queue of other ranks, waiting to take their turn.
As a young wife, she had tolerated this harmless fantasising, for Hugo’s sake, since it seemed to increase his enjoyment, but, in later years, her solitary sessions of self-stimulation now encompassed mental pictures of herself in a variety of situations in which she was the helpless captive of groups of men with only one thing on their minds….
And now, the imagined having happened, here she was, naked and helpless, at the beck and call of a man who, three short hours before, she had not known to exist.
Paterson’s voice broke her train of thought. “I’ll have that cup of coffee now,” he said, a hint of impatience in his tone.
Her hands still covering her breasts and belly, Anthea whispered – “Please let me dress. Please! You’ve done… what you wanted. Why must I…?”
“Because I like you naked,” he said, flatly. “You’ve got a great body and I enjoy looking at it. You’ve got nice firm tits, a good ass and a great bush.”
Anthea’s face flamed again. Even Hugo didn’t use words like that in front of her. To Hugo, “breasts” and “bottom” were the height of daring – what he would think if he could hear this man referring to her in such terms did not bear thinking about.
Turning on her heel, she rushed into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her and, collapsing on a chair, she let her head fall on to her outstretched arms on the kitchen table, and wept in hopeless anguish.
Suddenly, her breasts were gripped from behind, and squeezed. Anthea screamed and sat up as Paterson pulled her back towards him, his hands remaining on her breasts, toying with them. Bending forward, he nibbled her earlobe and whispered – “You’ll have your husband wondering what’s going on.”
“Let me go, then,” she whispered back at him, savagely, squirming to free herself. “If you want your coffee!” she added, viciously.
Paterson released her and looked her over, thoughtfully, as her hands automatically returned to cover herself as best she could. She went over to the kettle and filled it, awkwardly, still trying to cover herself. Paterson’s tongue ran round his lips, then he said, a malicious grin playing round his mouth – “What’s your husband’s name?”
“Hugo,” she hissed.
“He must be getting uncomfortable – I think it’s time he came down and had a cup of coffee, too,” said Paterson.
Involuntarily, the woman covered herself as she whirled round to face him, and he laughed.
“Yeah, OK,” he said. “You can get dressed first.”
She ran from the room and he heard her go into the downstairs bathroom as he ascended the stairs. The man was awake, staring balefully at Paterson as he entered the bedroom. He was clearly in some pain, but just as clearly determined not to show it.
Paterson crossed to the bed and untied the bonds round the man’s ankles.
“Now listen, old man,” he said. “You’re coming downstairs to have a cup of coffee. I’m leaving in just over an hour and, if you behave, I’ll leave you both unharmed and capable of releasing yourselves – eventually. But one wrong move, and I’ll do serious damage to both of you.”
As he spoke, he was rubbing the man’s ankles, restoring the circulation, then he swung his feet to the floor.
“OK,” he said. “Stand up.”
With difficulty, the man struggled to his feet. Paterson was surprised by how tall he was, dwarfing Paterson’s own five foot ten – even in his bare feet. He still had a full head of iron-grey hair, with piercing blue eyes and a long patrician nose, down which he looked at Paterson as if he was something the Brigadier had found on the sole of his shoe.
Without waiting to be asked, he staggered a little, then strode towards the bedroom door and down the steep flight of stairs. Following behind, Paterson caught the trailing rope attached to his wrists and, as the brigadier made for the kitchen, Paterson jerked it and pulled him towards the dining-room.
A polished oak table and six chairs stood in the centre of the room and Paterson pulled one of the end chairs from the table and pushed the man into it. He was in the process of tying his wrists to the arms of the chair, having already secured his ankles, when Anthea entered, carrying a tray.
Paterson marvelled at those fucking Brits. The woman had had five minutes at most and here she was, fully dressed, freshly made up, hair combed, bringing in the coffee-tray as if the pastor had come to call. She put the tray down, then addressed her husband.
“How are you, Hugo?”
The man nodded, once, and she smiled thinly, then turned to pour the coffee.
Paterson realised that this must be more than British reserve – there was a tension between those two. Still, it wasn’t his problem.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m going to take his gag off – just to let him drink his coffee. No talking – right? You can talk all you like once I’m gone, but one word now and the gag goes back on. Understood?”
He looked at the old man, who stared over his head as if he didn’t exist.
“Yes,” whispered Anthea. “Yes.”
Paterson undid the gag, ready to whip it on again at the first word from the old man, but he stayed silent as his wife approached with the cup and held it to his lips. He drank in silence, but could not stifle the satisfied sigh as the hot liquid revived him.
Paterson also drank, feeling unusually relaxed and peaceful. For a second, he wondered about his feeling of well-being, given that, an hour from now, he’d be back on the run, with the most dangerous part to come, then chuckled as he recalled the probable reason.
He studied the woman as she bent over her husband, tipping the cup carefully so that he could drink. You’d never guess she looked so good, stripped, he thought, recalling her firm breasts and the surprisingly dark V between her strong thighs. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. Maybe he’d get the old man upstairs again and…
It was just then that the brigadier finished his coffee and, as his wife took the empty cup back to the tray, said, in a voice dripping with ice, “I’ll see that you are caught and put away for a very long time, you slimy little man. I don’t know what you’ve done, but…”
But what he was going to say next remained his secret, as Paterson rammed the gag between his teeth and tied it tightly behind his head.
Anthea gave a little scream and ran forward, but Paterson caught her wrist and held her away from her husband. Seeing that Paterson did not intend to visit further retribution on him, the woman relaxed and pulled her wrist away.
But Paterson did not let go. She had put some scent on herself during her lightning visit to the bathroom and, as Paterson inhaled it, his groin tightened again.
He pulled her wrist so that the woman was in front of him, facing her bound and gagged husband. Then his penis rapidly erecting, Paterson reached up with his free hand and deliberately squeezed one of the twin mounds at the front of her sweater.
Instinctively, the woman struggled, but Paterson held her tightly and, leaning forward, whispered in her ear, “Now, you go along with it, baby, or he pays!”
He pressed Anthea’s hand against his burgeoning erection, behind her back. It was closed in a fist. “Open it up,” he said, and slowly he felt her fingers uncurl and close lightly along the length of his tumescent penis.
Paterson released his grip and gently eased her away from him so that he could look straight at his bound captive. At last, the man was meeting his eye and, for the first time, there was something in his expression other than pure disdain and defiance. Paterson grinned at him.
“Well, I don’t know about you, Hugo, but I’m in for a little treat before I go!”
He pulled up a chair beside the man and sat down.
“OK, Anthea,” he said, quietly. “I think we’ll have the slacks first – this time.”
Her eyes filled with mental agony, she looked at her husband, pleading forgiveness, then reached for the waistband of her slacks and undid the button at the top.
“She’s got a great ass, don’t you think, Hugo?” Paterson said conversationally, as though they were two old chums, watching the show at a strip joint.
Anthea’s slacks slid down her thighs and she stepped out of the little pile they made on the carpet. Paterson motioned her to turn round and she acquiesced, woodenly.
With her back to them, Paterson said – “Now we’ll take in the beaver, I think – don’t you agree, Hugo – old boy!”
But his eyes were fixed on the woman. She hesitated, uncertainly, and Paterson laughed.
“Oh, sorry – an Americanism! We’d like to inspect your pubic hair, my dear – panties off, please.”
A chill settled over Anthea’s heart but, knowing resistance was impossible, she grasped the elastic of her panties and slowly eased them over her hips and down to her knees. Paterson stopped her.
“Come over here,” he ordered, and, awkwardly, her panties just above her knees, she came over and stood in front of the two men.
Paterson leant forward and lifted the bottom of her sweater to reveal her belly. The woman’s pubic hair was dense and brown, reaching, in a thick V, almost to her navel.
“Part your legs a little, please,” murmured Paterson and, head bowed, Anthea moved her ankles apart about eighteen inches. Paterson raised his hand and slowly caressed the inside of her right thigh, gradually inching his fingers upward until he could feel the ends of the long hairs trailing downwards from her pubes.
Then his index finger touched her vaginal lip and, despite herself, she gasped and her head shot back so that she was now staring upward at the ceiling. Paterson ran his finger along the moist entry to her slit and, as he teased her clitoris to partial erection, he was rewarded by a series of involuntary shivers and intakes of breath.
He slid his finger inside, up to the first knuckle. Her vagina was now more than moist and a trickle of discharge slithered down his finger.
“She likes this, doesn’t she, Hugo?” murmured Paterson. His cock was now straining painfully at the front of his trousers, but he forced himself not to hurry things. He had to show this old bastard who was boss here.
“Show us your tits now, Anthea,” he said loudly, ensuring his earthy language was heard, and working his finger slowly around the neck of her lubricated vagina. He watched as her hands gripped the bottom of her sweater and pulled it up and over her head. Then her back arched as she reached behind herself for the fastening of her brassiere.
She gathered it and slid it forward, off her shoulders, and dropped it to the carpet.
Paterson looked up.
“Look at her nipples, Hugo,” he said. “They’re like stiff little fingers. Don’t you want to touch them? I do!”
He eased his finger out of Anthea’s vagina and reached up with both hands. Sure enough, both nipples were rigid. He ran his finger-ends lightly over them, then, suddenly, closed his hands round her naked breasts and squeezed them.
“Great tits, Anthea. Truly great tits!” Then he pulled downwards, gently, and the woman bent forward and slowly sank to her knees as Paterson held on to her breasts.
But her face was turned to one side, towards her husband, with an expression of sheer amazement. Paterson looked at her, then at the silent man by his side.
He laughed. The brigadier’s cock was sticking up like a flagpole out of the front of his striped pyjama trousers.
“Well, it’s good to see you still turn him on, too, Anthea. I’ll tell you what – if I get tired before I leave, I might let you give him a hand job, just to pass the time! But right now, it’s time you did something for me.”
Her head whirling, Anthea reached for Paterson’s zip and pulled it down. She hadn’t seen Hugo like that for many years. She knew it wasn’t the sight of her, naked, that had done that to him – it was seeing her being stripped and fondled by another man. It was the realisation of his fantasy – his own wife being subjected to the intimate caresses of a stranger’s hands on her breasts and strange fingers invading her vagina.
And now, as Paterson’s engorged penis emerged from his trousers, she realised he was about to watch her take a strange man’s cock – yes, she thought, that was the word –”cock” – into her mouth, to fasten her lips around it and run her tongue over its glans. And, even as she thought it, Paterson’s hand took hold over her hair and pushed her head down.
She opened her lips and, for the first time ever, felt the sensation of a throbbing penis against her tongue. The trickles of moisture emerging from it had a salty taste – not wholly unpleasant, she realised. Then, suddenly, she felt her head being jerked backwards as Paterson pushed her away and stood up, unbuckling his trousers so they fell to his feet, followed by his undershorts.
Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pushed Anthea back to the table.
“Get up there and spread your legs,” he said, roughly, pushing her backwards and lifting her at the same time. She felt her bottom touch the warm polished wood of the table, then Paterson was forcing her knees apart, splitting her wide open under his gaze.
His head darted down and, with a shock, she felt his tongue lap urgently at her exposed slit, then his hands were gripping her breasts and he was over her, looking down.
Then she felt the slamming invasion of his rock-hard penis, driving into her with a force and urgency that took her breath away. He withdrew, then drove into her again. She felt her nerve-ends tingle and a hot flush suffuse her entire body. In an effort to prevent him pulling out again, she crossed her ankles behind his driving buttocks and she began to moan repetitively, with increasing abandon, as all her sensations centred in the area between her legs and an unbearable tingle built up as he rode her remorselessly.
Her arms were clamped round his shoulders, her heels digging into the back of his thighs, and suddenly a starburst exploded behind her eyes and a long animalistic scream burst forth from her lips as her entire body shuddered convulsively in a titanic orgasm.
“Oh, you bastard!” she shouted. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck me! Harder! In my cunt! In my cunt! Yes – right up my cunt – right up – harder, harder, harder! Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me – you baaaaaaaaaaaaaaastard!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Paterson’s own climax happened somewhere in the middle, but went almost unnoticed as the woman writhed in ecstasy beneath him.
Then, saturated in sweat, they collapsed together on top of the long table.
For long minutes they lay, Paterson still on top of her, motionless, the only sound their harsh, laboured breathing.
Then, suddenly, there was the urgent sound of a car horn.
Paterson shook his head, then leapt to his feet. He looked frantically at the woman, then the man, then, pulling up his trousers, he grabbed his jacket and the small valise he had brought and dashed out of the front door.
The door slammed behind him and, seconds later, the throaty growl of a high-powered engine faded into the distance.
Only then did Anthea raise herself, slowly, on the dining-room table. Her skin was sticking to the wood surface, and she eased herself away gently and lowered herself to the floor.
She turned and looked at her husband, making no attempt to cover her nakedness. There was sheen of sweat on his forehead. His erection had disappeared and his penis lay limp across his thigh.
She walked, slowly, towards him, her hips and breasts swaying, and came to a stop in front of him. After a few seconds, she lifted her right hand to her left breast, and gently teased her nipple.
“Well,” she murmured, softly. “That’s what it’s like, Hugo. A man – a stranger – arrives. He makes me strip naked. He feels my tits – my naked tits. He plays with my nipples. He puts his fingers inside my cunt and plays with my clit. He makes me put his cock in my mouth and kiss it and suck it. And then he makes me open my legs and he puts his big hard cock inside my cunt and fucks me.”
As she spoke, she looked down at her husband’s lap and she watched as his cock twitched and lengthened and became fully erect. As she recounted what Paterson had done, her own hand trailed down between her legs and stroked her clitoris.
“Do you remember how you used to tell me what Sergeant MacDonald would do to me?” she continued, as she slowly straddled Hugo’s lap. “Oh, how I wish you had made him do it. You know, I saw his cock once, under his kilt. It was a monster!”
As she spoke, she was easing herself down on Hugo’s erect member, feeling it filling her up again.
“I’d love to have had that up my cunt, Hugo. You must start telling me these stories again – and it’s not too late for some of them to come true, is it?”
She was rocking back and forth on his cock, now, her hands loosening his gag, and the bonds at his wrists. His mouth shot forward and his teeth imprisoned a nipple as his hands grasped the cheeks of her bottom. His cock drove up into her.
“There’s a greenkeeper at the golf club,” he muttered hoarsely. “Big chap – West Indian. Love to see his big black hands on your lily-white tits and his…” But the rest was lost as the dam burst and he flooded his eager wife’s receptive cunt…