Dump Jackson - Uncle_s awful urge

"I… I lost it," she announced with a sudden note of defiance. "I've already reported it to my embassy. Besides, you have no authority, no papers or search warrant to do this. In fact, I'm going to call for a gendarme, right this very minute," and she jumped up from the couch she had sitting upon and moved towards the phone to dial the police.

But she had made a big mistake by grossly underestimating Drew Livingston and his powers of persuasion. "I wouldn't advise that, Christine," he said in a cool and collected tone of voice, snatching the telephone receiver from her hand and replacing it on its cradle before she had a chance to get the operator. "This is serious business and the Surete has nothing whatsoever to do with this case, understand?"

"I understand nothing!" she yelled. "Who are you, anyway, mister? I don't believe you're anything but a liar, coming in here, flashing those cards at me like you own this place. Get out, get out before I… I…"

At that moment her voice trailed off as Drew suddenly grabbed both of her arms and pulled them tightly behind her back. "Either you shut your face, little girl, or else I'm gonna do it for you," he snarled, almost delighted to have the opportunity to put his fantasies to work.

He'd thought of countless ways of seducing the girl and winning her over, just as had been the case with Rachel. But Christine was a tough article, an international jet-setter kind of hippie chick with the body of a seventeen-year-old and the mentality of a hooker, so he thought to himself.

She had to be treated accordingly, even if that meant roughing her up a little. Drew was not a man who condoned violence, but when it was necessary, especially now when his niece's whereabouts were his total and primary concern, he knew he would stop short of nothing to find out what the voluptuous Swedish teenager knew about Amy's relationship with the mysterious Rene Martinon.

Accordingly, he pulled her arms up high until she winced with pain. And when she attempted to scream out and summon assistance in the person of the janitor or concierge, Drew didn't hesitate to clamp one hand over her mouth, stifling her cries of outrage.

"You'd best calm down, kiddo," he warned her, looking wildly about until he spied the narrow short hallway which led from the living room to the back of the apartment. He'd had it with doing numbers on living room floors and now he began to drag the unwilling teenager through the living room in the direction of the bedroom.

She was harder to handle than he would have first thought. Christine kicked up a storm, but he had her wrists in one hand, her arms pinned securely behind her back and her mouth sealed off with his other hand.

He nearly had to carry her bodily to the bedroom. Then, kicking a likely looking door open with his foot, he cursed when he saw the bathroom with its stall shower, toilet, sink and characteristically French bidet.

He kept dragging her down the hallway and the next door was partly ajar. He spied an unmade double bed, the sheets thrown back as if she had been sleeping when he'd knocked on the front door. It was to this room that he now hustled her, slamming the door shut behind him. If Rene was going to arrive, which he sincerely doubted since the girl had begun to tell him where Martinon was now to be found, it would be a perfect Livingston-style introduction.

But before that was destined to happen he'd get his way on all counts, both physically as well as in terms of information about Amy's whereabouts. So without any trouble at all he managed to throw Christine onto the large unmade bed, not in any mood to waste more time.

She rolled to the side, but he lunged down on top of her and despite her efforts to the contrary, it took little on his part to pin her down onto the bed. He was kneeling between her spread-eagled thighs, his hands securing her wrists and her arms bent and above her head, pinned down to the mattress.

"Don't you think it's time you cooperated, dear?" he whispered with a sarcastic twinkle in his eyes. "I'd hate to make things more difficult for you than they already are. Now, where's Amy Mitchell?"

"Eat shit, merde you pig," she snarled like a trapped tiger.

But her fire and spirit delighted him considerably. There was nothing as much fun as taming an unwilling chick, especially one as young and seductive as Christine Pedersen. So when she refused to answer him, he pulled her hands up higher until he's managed to hold unto both wrists at the same time.

Then, as she continued to struggle, he slid his knees over until he was pressing them down most painfully along the tops of her bronzed and shapely thighs. Her body was immobilized and with his one free hand, Drew Livingston took hold of the front of her flannel wrapper and wrenched it open, the snaps forced apart so that he suddenly was once again confronted and dumbfounded with the sight of her lush naked young body, tossing and turning, writhing on the bed as she continued to try to escape his steely and viselike grip.

"I told you that you're not going anywhere," he snickered, ogling her lush creamy-white boobs, her tan line cut so low that the bikini she must have worn couldn't have been much wider than two strips of handkerchief-sized cloth. "Now are you going to answer my questions or aren't you, Miss Pedersen?"

"I don't know shit. Ask Rene, if you can find him, sucker," she snapped, suddenly drawing her lips back and spitting out a gob of phlegm which hit him right in the face.

Her laughter was filled with scorn. But that didn't stop Drew in the least. He wiped his face dry and with the one hand he had free, managed to slip out of his tweed jacket. He threw it onto the floor and then reached for the buckle of his belt. Her eyes followed him and she suddenly stopped moving, as if she knew moments before he actually began what it was he in, tended to do to her.

"Get the picture?" he said, dead serious and not about to stop what he intended to see to its eventual completion. He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned the top snap of his slacks, pulled his zipper down and began to push his trousers down off of his waist and hips.

"You can't be serious," she said with defiance. "What are you gonna do, big shot? Rape it out of me? Fat chance, you little faggot shithead!"

"So you know American English," he laughed, ignoring her words of anger and rage as he continued to push his trousers down, all the while holding her immobilized on the bed. And when he had gotten them down to his knees, it didn't take too much in the way of imagination for Christine to know what it was that tented up the front of his underpants, still hidden by his shirt tails as well.

With quick agile motions, as if he was borne to the task he had set out to perform, accomplished at undressing with the use of only one hand and five fingers, he unbuttoned his shirt up to the collar, glad that he wasn't wearing a tie. He pulled his arms, one and then the other, free of the sleeves, wanting to really enjoy himself and not be hassled by his clothing getting in the way of the contact of flesh against flesh, skin against skin and body against body.

And hers was, as he continued to notice, a body that could not be taken lightly or easily ignored. If anything, it was so lush and seductive that he would have wanted her under any kind of circumstances. But now he had the perfect reason to use sex as a means of getting the necessary information out of her stubborn and defiant little head.

Her sun-blonde hair was spread out, haloed around the pillow. Her aureoles, prominent and distinguishing her jugs by their tawny hue, were surrounding by prickly goose bumps, highlighting each large flaccid button-like nipple. But if Drew had anything to do about it, they wouldn't remain flaccid too much longer.

Once his shirt was off, she was able to see what his brute strength was made of, his pectoral muscles standing out boldly, taut and contracted so that his virile and hairy chest suggested the physique of a middle-aged athlete, that rare breed of man to whom age has little if any bearing.