Henry Morgan - The drivers

Peter plunged deeper inside the slippery tube, jabbing harder and faster, seeking the ultimate sensation, craving its ecstatic release, thirsting for the snap of pleasure that only his striving straining spunk spitting cock could give. Wrapping his arms around her waist he embedded his swollen arrow firmly in her quiver, plugging her hole completely, ensuring no escape for the squirting gush of seed he pumped inside her.

Unable to withstand the onslaught, Melanie collapsed forward onto the cloth, spilling any food careless enough to have remained in its container. They stayed that way until Peter's greasy cock flopped from her vagina, sated and content.

He propped himself up on an elbow covered with bamboo shoots and water chestnuts and looked at his deflated prick. It still wore the onion rings for a necklace, although they were obviously the worse for the wear. Melanie rolled over and saw what he was looking at. With a naughty smile she dipped down her head and a grateful tongue flicked out to lick away his batter. When that was gone she ate the quite differently flavoured batter covering the onions.

Lying alone in the darkness after he had gone, Melanie smoked one cigarette after another, gradually filling up the old tin ash tray she'd stolen from the pub. The original Fosters design was no longer visible, having long since faded and decayed from a thousand stubbed out Marlboro's.

Occasionally, between cigarettes, she drifted into a light sleep, where her waking thoughts became dreams, confusing the twilight world of somnolence with reality. This veil of dormancy made it easy to ignore the heavy persistent thumping in her ears. But the knocks became more insistent, nagging and continuous, demanding attention and eventually getting it.

"What the fuck?" she exclaimed, climbing from the bed and reaching for the clock. It said 3:30 AM. By the time she reached the top of the stairs her senses had almost come round, but she still felt it necessary to grip the hand rail as she made her way down to the front passage.

"Didn't get very far did you?" she shouted through the door. "Just couldn't stay away, eh?"

She was ecstatic as she pulled back the catch, but the man at the door was not Peter.

"Tea with that?" asked the fat man behind the counter. Hell Raiser nodded and picked up a half pint china mug with a rim that had more chips than a Monte Carlo casino. The fat man took his money and motioned to a formica topped table that for some reason had the word 'bollocks' scratched on it.

"I'll bring the sandwich over," he said.

H sat down and looked around the cafe. There were two other truckers sitting near the window, a down and out buying some shelter from the cold with an age old cup of tea, and a small group of bikers over by the pinball machine. He made eye contact with one leather clad grease nipple and they exchanged grins, H winning comfortably in the gleaming teeth department. The sandwich eventually arrived on a willow pattern plate smeared with yesterday's grease and egg yolk.

"Is the special still on?" H asked the fat man.

As the fat man said yes a door opened behind the counter and out came some guy pulling up his zip to match the smile on his face. There was a small cheer from the two truckers as they stood to join him before leaving. H caught the man's words as the door opened.

"What a great fuck," he beamed happily, slapping the other two on the back. "Best tenner I ever spent." As the men were leaving one of the bikers got up and went through to the back room.

"You want the special next?" asked the fat man as he brought over H's order.

H nodded.

"It's a tenner." The fat man gathered up his apron and wiped his hands on the multi stained cotton. "Up front."

The biker reappeared to see H handing over the money for the back room special.

"If he's looking to bury his pork you better get out here and scrub her down," he called over. "There's been quite a few in there today."

"Enjoy your meal," said the fat man. "She'll be ready soon."

When he had rejoined his friends he nudged the man next to him before calling across to the trucker.

"Hey smiler, like a bit of white do you?"

H grinned and nodded as the biker added, in a forced Jamaican accent:

"Well your money's as good as a white man's. You go in and give her a bit. It's not the hole with shit on it mind."

His mates burst out laughing and H continued to smile, his face hiding the anger and disgust he felt for the dirty, oil soaked group. It was they who owned the girl in the back room. The one truckers were travelling from miles around to get their prick up. The one thick Bingo had dumped at the first sign of trouble. If The Drivers left her here, word might get out about their activities.

That could not be allowed.

"In a fucking mess again?" snarled the fat man, reaching into a cupboard for a galvanised metal bucket. He dropped the pail into the large vitreous china sink with a loud clatter and began filling it up. When it was half full he added some detergent and a sponge, then he carried it over to Susan Warburton, who was naked and chained in the centre of the room.

"Over the block," he ordered her, removing the blindfold and pulling out the ear plugs before slashing the heavy belt that lay handily beside her hard down on buttocks that had clenched in anticipation of the routine. "And open up."

Susan rose slowly to her feet from her bent over position on the floor, the one she had to maintain until told otherwise. Manacles connected her to a large butchers block. She paused for a while, contemplating some token resistance, then thought better of it. The wide red mark from the fat man's belt, overlaying many others that had faded, prompted obedience, in the same way beatings had done since he had bought her from Bingo.

"Well?" said the fat man impatiently. "Or shall we do it the hard way?"

Without resistance Susan bent over the top of the hardwood block, resting on her elbows, her legs slightly parted as her bottom jutted out. The fat man pulled the soaking sponge from the bucket and began washing the spunk that stained the inside of her thighs. Several times he plunged his hands into the water before shoving the soapy sponge along the vee of her bum.

Susan grimaced throughout the ordeal but suffered it in silence, even when he pulled apart her thick sex lips to clean up inside her. Satisfied with his work, the fat man leant across and used his apron to wipe away the water, paying special attention to her already sore twat.

When she was blindfolded again and the ear plugs back in place, he gave her the usual final belting – the two or three he allowed himself for his personal pleasure – and left.

"She's ready," he shouted to H, throwing a handful of sausages into a frying pan. "And try and get your spunk inside her, not up her back. I get pissed off washing the muck from her."

H paid no attention, leaving the fat man up to his arse in lard and brown sauce.

Inside, Susan felt the presence of another man with apprehension. Did this one want to beat her or fuck her? Or both! She'd lost count of the men who had visited her already that morning. Getting to her feet she assumed the usual required position over the block, bottom in the air. She felt him move behind her, between her legs, the place nearly all the men took her from.

He began undoing his overalls and she steadied herself, ready for his first fumblings and the initial prod of hard muscle or slap of the belt.

She felt his hand at her head, and off came the blindfold.

She screamed as she saw the huge black man there, with a pair of heavy bolt cutters in his hands!

She span around, terrified. As she began to shout his hand clasped tight across her mouth, forcing her back over and down onto the block.