Henry Morgan - The drivers

The first stroke landed squarely across both cheeks of Claire's bottom, halving the pain, or doubling it. Only she knew the answer. The second brought a thick weal just above her stocking tops after the first had made her jump almost clear of her stiletto boots. Unable to stand the pain any longer Claire slumped to her knees, bringing her bottom to rest upon the back of her black leather covered calves.

It didn't prevent Peter from administering strokes three and four. He simply placed one on each of her thighs leaving the girl's rear end nowhere to hide from the vicious lick of the cotton canvas. Taking hold of her handcuffed hands behind her back he next pulled the sobbing creature to her feet and brought the final stroke in a great circular arc between her thighs so that it smacked belly and naked quim in one almighty slap that launched her squealing into the air.

"That's five," he panted, jumping back onto the worktop. "There's always another five, or fifty or five hundred." With his hand he shook his cock near to her face then spoke again. "It all depends on how many you think you can take?"

She lifted her head, bringing her moist mouth slowly and ever so reluctantly to the tip of his glans.

"I see," said Peter as her lips parted and his swollen cock slipped inside the wet recess above her tongue. "That's a good girl. Just like your sister, up and down." His head swayed as the pleasure lapped at his body. In the mirror on the other wall he watched Claire's head bobbing on his prick, her bottom still rocking back and forth as if the breeze it generated could possibly cool the heat rendered by the flailing strap. The same strap that had turned his Susan from a quiet housewife into an oil soaked Driver fucked whore. He leapt from the Formica and got behind Susan's sister, levelling his cock with her denuded hole.

"Get over!" he shouted, forcing her to bend double, her head almost against her knees. With a great thrust of his hips he stabbed his prick into her hole, withdrawing only to stab her again and again, pumping, pushing, shoving, fucking, on and on and on, slamming, thumping, ever harder, ever faster, until his cock spat and spewed its boiling, stinging venom inside Susan's sister, inside Claire, inside every woman the Drivers had ever taken. With that gush of gluten he had finally left behind the last of his old life and entered into the new.

Inside the garage, Claire could hear the low grumble of the wagon as Peter reversed it into the drive. A moment later the doors opened to reveal him dressed in steel studded leather jeans. He wore no shirt, just a black leather waistcoat that failed to cover the steel pins he had pushed through his nipples. Thin straps constrained his forearms, biceps and neck, pumping out his veins.

He came across to the terrified woman and took a spring loaded D clip from his pocket. He pulled back the straight edge and forced it up Claire's nose before releasing the spring. It snapped shut, gripping the soft flesh and making it easy for him to lead her towards the wagon.

He opened the door and motioned for her to climb in behind the driver's seat, where he tied her nose lead to the back of the cab. Climbing in to the drivers seat he revved the engine almost to a roar.

"Let's party!" he shouted, then slammed the wagon into gear and pulled out into the failing light of a chilly May evening.

For several hours they thundered through the night, along dark country lanes where the wind from the speeding truck threw back the boughs of overhanging trees, only for them to snap back angrily, crashing their spiny finger-like branches on the roof of the trailer.

Finally the lanes gave way to the moor and heath and Peter found his headlights digging into the night. Their light crossed miles of moorland, startling the grouse and hare, signalling to anything else in the coarse shrub that another Driver was on his way to the passover.

The roads narrowed. After a few more miles they narrowed further and dropped down into a depression. When the wagon pulled out of the dip, Peter saw the fires away in the distance, above the cold granite rock that broke every so often through the shrub and heather. Like a moth around a candle he found himself heading towards the light, ever closer to the flames that would either cleanse or consume.

He stepped hard on the throttle, bringing that moment closer.

Less than a mile away he pulled up and climbed into the back of the cab where he put a leather gag around Claire's mouth. Before resuming his seat he felt unable to resist the urge to feel her private parts. Not that they were very private any more, especially after today when he had spent the hours up until leaving fucking the woman all over the house.

He gave her tits a final squeeze and carried on his way, getting close enough to see the fires that burned inside large oil drums. There were dozens of them, lighting up the area with orange flames that crackled and sent sparks into the night sky.

The place was reminiscent of a war zone. Wagons, some in silhouette, some brightly lit by the fires, were dotted around what looked like an old aeroplane hangar.

The soft ground was pitted and rutted from the weight of the heavy vehicles, leaving puddles of oily water that reflected the fiery light upwards. Occasionally the figure of a man could be seen running between buildings or vehicles, and sometimes he appeared to be dragging something behind him.

Something tethered, hobbled and struggling.

Peter pulled up at the entrance to the grounds just as spots of drizzle began to speckle the windscreen. Before entering he paused to take in the number of wagons parked up. There were a lot more than he'd expected and the first sense of butterflies fluttered in his stomach.

He drove cautiously to a clear spot and dropped from the cab. The drizzle had turned to sleet and the cold flecks of ice chilled his body. It chilled Claire more. He pulled her from the cab where her nipples jumped to attention at the cold and her mons shivered with goose pimples.

"Well," whispered Peter. "Here we go. Don't let me down now." He made his way towards the large building, Claire on her lead behind. Instead of going straight in, he went to where a window was fixed at the side. It had four very dirty, very greasy panes that hadn't seen soap and water in many a year. Peter rubbed away the grime and pressed his nose to the glass.

Inside, fires were burning in drums and a huge fire roared in the centre of the hangar, the smoke rising to vents that failed to clear the air, leaving a lot of the haze to fall back upon the congregation below. Through the smoky gloom shone bright lights in blues and reds and purples, lights spinning upwards, downwards and around, in a blinding kaleidoscopic display.

It was difficult to make out the people in the smoke and dancing lights, but some could be seen. Men taking women and girls away to different vehicles dotted around the sides of the building, to coaches, vans and trucks, all customised to include beds and couches where a woman could be taken, and fucked, and licked, and beaten and used.

Peter swallowed hard and took a deep breath, then gave Claire a tug with the lead to signal they were going in. Claire hadn't been able to see inside because the other windows were so dirty. She had no idea what events were taking place, but looking at all the vehicles and the fires she considered the possibility that Peter may just have been telling the truth all along.

When he opened the door and dragged her inside, the sight of a man driving a pick up truck from which hung a bound woman made her realise the awful truth.

The woman was nude and dangling from the hook that usually towed away cars. She was wearing nothing but a gag and cuffs around her wrists and ankles. The man drove towards the pair out of the smoke, 'Joes' Pick Up' emblazoned on the yellow paintwork of the truck. As the strains of Meatloafs 'Bat Out of Hell' boomed out from a hundred speakers, the driver screeched to a halt alongside Peter, took a quick glance at Claire's body, screamed 'What a fucking night!' and roared back into the smoke, the woman swinging wildly behind him as he went.