Henry Morgan - The drivers

Peter rushed forward, adrenaline pumping, to see if he could release their bonds, but each leather strap culminated in a chain that held a lock. They were trapped, helpless, two beautiful young women kept naked and bound until whoever held the key deemed otherwise. His mind raced at what to do, deciding he must run for the police despite the dangers for Susan once the Drivers were alerted. About to leave he took several more tugs at the chains, not realising the darkness that had suddenly fallen.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" said a quiet Irish voice in the doorway.

Peter froze for a second before turning to face the man. His chances didn't look good. The Irish man stood a good six inches taller, was fifteen years younger and carried a horse whip in his left hand. In a flash of inspiration Peter ran his hand over the breasts of one of the girls, weighing each young perfect orb with a careful hand as she shrank from him.

"Just checking the stock," Peter answered, giving her bottom a slap that had her spinning.

"Who said these are for sale?"

Peter felt the tits of the other dangling figure and gave her fanny a few hard nips to give him time to think. "They wouldn't be here if they didn't have a price."

The big man took a step nearer and turned to look at the door.

"How did you get in?"

There was a deadly menace in his voice.

Peter was about to say by opening the locks when he heard someone shouting.

"Hey Michael! You going to let us take a look at these fillies or what? Everyone's talking about them."

The man leant backwards as the other man entered the rear compartment, the room now filled almost to overflowing. At first the new man didn't seem to notice Peter but once he did he let out a broad smile and asked him what he was doing there.

"I was just saying to Michael, I'm checking out the stock." Peter studied his face hard, hoping to recognise him. He was stuck without a clue until the man spoke again. "I haven't seen you at the cafe for a while," he said. "Where you been? I've had to eat with Geordie. He's a pain in the arse the moaning sod."

Of course, the transport cafe where Susan was last seen. The man's name eluded him but again fortune was on his side.

"You know this feller, Dan?" asked the Irish man.

Before Dan could answer Peter put in. "Of course we know each other. Usually eat at the same cafe, don't we?"

"What's up?" said Dan, sensing the atmosphere. "I know him, yeah. He's a Driver".

The big man calmed down, although he did add a warning that he didn't like anyone looking at his stock without permission. Blithe as always, Dan burst out laughing.

"You thinking of buying these beauties, mate?" he grinned. "You better have plenty of cash on you then. The Arab dealers are after these."

Peter ran his hand over the buttocks of the younger of the two, the one with incredibly long hair. He squeezed the firm taut flesh, feeling it flinch from him, expecting a pinch perhaps, and continued down her thighs to her calves, like a vet checking the hock and cannon on a horse.

"No harm in dreaming," he murmured.

The burly man stepped forward, seizing the young girl's tits roughly in his hands, kneading them with little care or finesse.

"Dream all you want, mate. Where these are going they'll be getting plenty of stick from a sheik if they don't behave themselves. I've heard some pretty hard things about that, probably have them done."

"Done?" asked Pat.

"You know, cut." He transferred his interest to the fiery red triangle between the other girl's thighs, and opened her up with his fingers. "You know, here. But that would be a personal taste and maybe he's buying for one of his sons, or for breeding stock, then who knows their fate." He finished his fumblings and motioned towards the door. "Well, you better leave."

Peter was not reluctant to do so! He made casually for the door, where the Irish man spoke again.

"If you want them, you'll have to take your chance at the auction, the same as the next man."

"I might do that," said Peter nonchalantly. Then he turned and left.

"See you there," Dan shouted after him.

Peter raised a hand in acknowledgement. "How about a drink before it starts?"

Dan came out to the main area of the trailer. "OK, where'll you be?"

"The beer tent?"

A quizzical look crossed Dan's face. "It'll be all shut up then. Auction don't start 'til eleven."

"Of course," stammered Peter. "I was forgetting. Where then?"

"The Forge about ten?"

"Fine by me."

"See you there then," said Dan smiling, then he returned to the Irish man and his examination of the two fettered girls. Peter did not think they would enjoy it.

"Hello Melanie. Long time no see."

Through groggy eyes Melanie was unable to recognise the voice, or what was visible of the caller's shadowy face. She was desolated that it wasn't Peter returning with a change of heart. She took a step out of the dim light of the passageway, noticing that the chicken fried rice had completely dried, and appeared like a black hole in the night time pavement.

"What do you want?" she asked, angry at being disturbed in the early hours.

The man said nothing until his head was properly lit.

Suddenly galvanised into frantic action, she turned and fled back into the flat. But her attempts to slam the door were futile. Unable to resist his superior weight she released the door and leapt up the stairs, managing three steps before the strong grip of fingers wrapped about her ankle and brought her to the floor.

"Where do you think you're fucking going, bitch! I want a word with you."

With a heavy boot he kicked the door shut and Melanie was trapped. Her desire to resist and fight back dissolved as he looped rope around her wrists. He continued winding, finishing only when he had secured both hands tightly together.

"Remember this?" he growled. "You should have known you'd never be free. But we'd have left you alone if only you'd kept your big mouth shut. It's your own fault." He got up from the stairs and went towards the flat, Melanie stumbling behind. Inside he took one look at the room and spat out his thoughts.

"What a fucking mess! You're still a dirty pig!" He pulled the rope hard, sending her crashing onto the settee, her legs flailing upwards revealing her pantieless gash which he spotted straight away.

"No fucking knickers, the place like a tip, nothing changes, does it? You're still a fucking scrubber." He glared hard at her, trembling with anger, waiting for her to agree. "Ain't you?" he roared again. "Still a fucking scrubber, still sucking cocks for half a lager! Well?"

She simply stared up at him towering above her, half numb with shock, half terrified with fear. "Well?" he repeated. "What are you?"

"A scrubber," she whispered.

"I didn't hear you."

"A scrubber!"

"And what do you do?" he asked again, in a quieter voice.

"I suck cocks."

Knowing he had her beaten he slumped down in a chair opposite.

"Don't you worry about sucking cocks tonight," he told her. "There's going to be plenty of time for that after you've told me who this bloke is."

Melanie climbed off the settee and onto the floor then crawled across to her tormentor and clasped his knees.

"Please Colin," she pleaded. "I don't know anything. Honestly. I haven't seen you or Lincoln for years, I haven't said anything to anyone." She moved her tied hands along his thigh hoping to appease him but he rose and walked away. Still on her hands and knees she followed him around the floor trying to think how she could please him and diffuse his anger.

"Why don't you take me to bed?" she suggested. "You used to like to fuck me. You and your brother."

Colin moved to stand near her head then raised his diesel drenched boot and brought it firmly down on the back of her neck, pressing her face into a cold, greasy dish of black bean sauce, forcing her to gag as the mixture covered her mouth. Leaning over her, he gathered a knot of the flimsy kimono in his hand and tore it from her back leaving her naked backside jutting upwards, then he whipped around the loose end of the rope and lashed her arse crevice soundly, bisecting the buttocks and leaving a red weal that was broken only by the spot of her clenched arsehole.