Henry Morgan - The drivers

The working girl to whom he alluded shot out two fingers followed by advice to 'go fuck himself'. Jack gave her a playful wave and opened the door.

"See you at the passover!" he shouted to Smackers, then stepped out into the street.

Back at Mapleys the girl asked Jack what he meant when he said 'see you at the passover'.

"It's a sort of ceremony."

"What, religious ceremony?"

"Sort of." Jack pushed her up to the cab. "Now get in there and get your kit off. I've got a wad in my pocket and it's not just Smacker's money."

The Mapleys security guards watched him lift the girl in to the lorry, then smiled at each other as the curtains were drawn inside the cab. A few moments later the bare sole of the girls foot could be seen pressed against a side window prompting a laugh inside the police gate.

"He's a randy bugger, that Jack. Always shafting a different girl." The sergeant clocked out a delivery van then went back to his work.

Inside the big Volvo Jack decided to beat her again as soon as he had finished fucking her.

She wasn't nearly obedient enough yet and asked too many questions, but he'd have her in fine shape for the passover.

The clip of the letter box brought Pete Warburton out from the kitchen where he had been trying to eat a bowl of cereal. It rested uneasily in his stomach like every bit of food he had tried to eat since Susan had gone. No matter what the evidence pointed to, or what the police said, he would never believe she had run off with another man. Not Susan, not his Susan. If she was bold enough to be seen with him in the service station, she would be seen again. The police reckoned she did that as a signal to him, to prove she had left, but Peter knew someone, somewhere must have seen her since.

He carried the letters back through to the kitchen then began flicking them nonchalantly at the bin. A thinly disguised offer for a timeshare was followed by a chance in the Readers Digest draw before Peter stopped what he was doing. Next in his hand was the telephone bill for Susan's mobile. It took him some moments to open it and lay it flat on the breakfast table. With a trembling finger he followed the list of calls coming to his own mobile number on the night she had last called home.

It wasn't the last number!

Two days later she had made another call. Peter studied the figures, running the sequence around in his head until they looked almost familiar. He went out to the phone in the hall and brought back the private directory then began scanning its pages. By the time he came to the letter H he had already worked it out.

Susan's sister's married name was Harris.

He turned the page to see the same numbers that were on the bill. Two days after she had gone missing Susan had telephoned her sister!

There was a definite look of resignation about Claire when she opened the door. Peter followed her into the lounge and sat on the edge of the sofa, the telephone bill dangling from his hand.

"I wondered why you never seemed so bothered about Susan's disappearance." He pointed the letter accusingly at her. "I thought you were trying to be brave, or refusing to believe she had gone, but now I know. How could you not tell me?"

Claire did not answer – she went out to the kitchen to make some tea, just as she had been doing that night when Susan rang. It had been almost midnight, and she'd decided to make a cup to take up to bed. With all the worry over her sister she wasn't going to sleep anyway. The phone had rung just as she was pouring the tea, making her jump so much half of it had gone over the worktop.

"Hello," she had said, then almost dropped the phone at the sound of her sister.

"Claire," Susan had said, "Claire, it's me. Susan." Her voice had sounded strange, almost muffled. "I'm alright. I'm fine." Her voice fractured at the end, as if she'd been running. "How are you?"

It seemed ridiculous now, but she had simply answered as if Susan was making her usual weekly call.

"What are you doing?" she had finally asked. "We've been a bit worried."

On the moors above Dumfries a black Volvo ten wheeled rig sat brooding in a desolate lay-by. While the wind whistled across the cab its driver was warm and naked inside, preparing for the night ahead. A long night in which he would mount Susan Warburton for the first time since picking her up two days ago. He had spent the time getting to know her, letting her get to know him. Teaching her how he liked her mouth, wet and hot around the very tip of his cock, how not a drop was to leave between those pretty red lips, but slip like an oyster along her throat.

His self denial would make the occasion that extra bit special. She was as shy as her boring blue knickers had suggested, quiet and lady like in her cotton pantied cladding. He had changed all that, had her take them off to fly them from his CB aerial. It had taken a few smart slaps across her milky white arse but she dropped them eventually. Even tied them up there herself while her skirt blew in the wind, flashing her gash at the Drivers in the service park.

If they'd been a bit closer they would have seen her bottom wasn't so white after all. It was red and warm and desperate not to feel his stinging hand again. If he'd told her to take off her skirt and wave it around her head she would have done that too. Back in the cab he had put her in the passenger footwell so she could suck him off in comfort.

She was down there when his friend Cliff had come across to scrounge some WD40. Susan heard his voice and considered calling out, but a stern look from him as he opened the glove compartment was warning enough.

Despite the pleasure she had given him, he had his doubts about how long he could keep her. He didn't realise she was married until he saw the ring, and by then it was too late. He would have to pass her over quickly but the last meeting had just gone and it would be a month before the next. She was not just another faceless missing person but a wife, and with a body like hers the husband would want her back.

It seemed a tricky problem until she mentioned money, saying how her husband was well off and could pay, saying how at his age he had put a lot aside for a rainy day. Nice and safe he sounded, like blue knickers on a Jehovahs's witness. Christ! she ought to be grateful he had saved her from a life of mundane security. Still, the husband being that age gave him an idea, one that would hopefully stop anyone from looking for her.

Susan knew tonight was going to be the night. The atmosphere was charged with expectancy, like the air before a great thunderstorm. Strange really, she thought. How easy it is to get used to one's situation, accustomed and resigned to your fate no matter how unreal it would have seemed just a few days earlier.

It had become almost routine to be rudely inspected by his fingers, or to have his manhood slotted firmly between her lips before she was secured in the recess below his bunk. Tonight she sensed the pattern had changed. Taking her from the cab for a pee he watched her squat near the wheel, but instead of pushing his prick in her mouth as was usual he glanced around nervously. She'd hardly finished before he pulled her to her feet and shoved her back into the cab.

"You can get out of that kit," he ordered her. "Then kneel up on the bunk."

Susan did as he said without the slightest hesitation. The last time she had shown any defiance he had tied her wrists to the wing mirrors of the cab and secured her legs to the edge of the bumper. Then he fetched a wide canvas hauliers belt from the wagon, flicked her skirt above her head and strapped her bottom. By the time he had finished, red welts had risen on her skin to match the colour of his angry cock.