Peter Jensen - The Captive Bride

"Oh… God… God! Nothing has ever felt… so wonderful," she moaned, flailing her head to and fro like a madwoman.

Becky knew she was approaching her climax. She could tell by the all-pervasive rippling sensations intensifying within her desire-tautened little belly.

She heard Hans groan behind her, could feel his thighs clapping vigorously against her gyrating ass-cheeks. "My God… Fuck me Hans! Fuuuuuucccck meeeeeee!"

The gardener stepped up his pile-driving rhythm, plunging up into her anus as though he were mining the earth, fucking as hard as he could up into her milking anal channel. He burrowed faster and faster through the warm velvety walls of her rectum, feeling the pent-up sperm in his balls exploding forward in an inexorable surge that threatened to tear both of them into tiny pieces.

"Aaaaggh!" Becky lifted the gardener's weight on her back and raised her head to groan. "Oh God, I'm cumming… I'm cummmming!"

Hans' arms reached under her tapering waist and held her buttocks completely off the mattress as he fucked up into her tight spasming rectal passage with every ounce of energy he could summon, rocking his loins back and forth with a savage motion as he buried his wildly ejaculating penis all the way to the hilt in her convulsing rectum.

The two sweat-soaked bodies began squirming all over the bed, their arms flailing from side to side as wild grunts and groans sputtered like electric static from their parched lips. "Ooooohhh," she sighed, pumping her smoothly rounded buttocks in one last effort to get every ounce of sperm from his crazily spewing penis.

One more deeply plunging lunge… then another… and finally his seething eruption splattered-deep up inside her belly, flooding her clenching anus with its powerfully jetting spurts of sperm. Through a mindless daze of pleasure, Becky could feel the endless gush of cum that filled her insides to bursting, mingling with Olaf's semen already pumped there a few minutes before… and she felt herself falling… falling… into a warm oblivion of contentment.

Sometime later that evening Olaf and Hans were sitting on the porch of the caretaker's shack behind the large Mallorcan villa. Both the gardener and the hotel clerk were fairly drunk on the rum they'd consumed after leaving Becky. Olaf had tethered the young blonde to the bed in the wine cellar, as Schneider had instructed, but he was still anxious about his boss discovering what they'd done to the captive young bride.

"It was your idea," Hans said as he sipped his drink.

"But you were an accomplice… there's no getting away from that," said the Swede.

Hans looked at his pocket watch and said, "It's a quarter to eleven. Things should start rolling in a half-hour."

"I'm fed up with Schneider," Olaf said.

"I've been working for him twenty years," Hans replied.

"You get the short end of the stick every time."

"He's been good to me," Hans admitted. "After the war, he took me in, gave me a job. If it wasn't for Schneider I'd have been dead and buried twenty-five years ago."

"You ain't got much to be thankful for," the Swede said.

The gardener looked up past the house at the yellow moon rising above the Mallorcan Mountains. "I've got my life."

"Some goddamn life," Olaf said. "You're not living; you're just bungling it on. If I were you, I'd kiss Fritz Schneider good-bye."

"What about yourself?" Hans took another draw on the glass of straight rum.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Sooner or later, Interpol is gonna get wind of his operation. And you know where that'll leave us."

"I feel bad about the girl," Hans said.

"You and me both."

"She threw a good fuck," Hans said. "But all the time I was giving it to her I was thinking what a rotten guy I was."

Olaf laughed. "You weren't thinking of anything except how nice that ass of hers felt. Don't tell me you were feeling guilty."

"I sure feel bad about it now," the gardener said.

"She's not through yet. She's gonna get it again…"

"She'll tell him… the girl will tell Fritz what we've done," Hans said. "There's no telling what he'll do to us."

"That's why I was thinking about getting the hell out of here," Olaf said.

"I also feel bad about the girl's husband," Hans finished the rum in his glass and poured himself another. "It's enough to make you sick."

The Swede stood up from his chair. "What's done is done. You have to look out for yourself."

"Maybe you're right," Hans said. "But still I feel we should do something. It's not right letting Fritz do this sort of thing all the time."

"Where does he keep the money?" The Swede walked to one end of the porch, then circled back to the gardener's chair. "I know he doesn't put it in a bank. A guy like that can't afford to put his money in a bank."

"I can't tell. It wouldn't be right."

"Good old Hans," Olaf said mockingly, "Loyal to the end."

"You're asking for trouble," the gardener said, "You're just asking for a bullet in your gut."

'Think of what you could do with all that dough, Hans. You could go to South America… Canada… Australia… you could get away from this goddamn island," Olaf said.

Beyond the villa, lights from a car entering the driveway shone across the wide lawn, sending long slanting shadows down to the caretaker's house.

"That must be them. They're late," Hans said.

A moment later, another pair of headlights circled the fringe of shrubbery. A door slammed, and then there were voices.

"It's gonna be one helluva party," Olaf finished his drink and set it down on the floor beside the chair Hans was sitting in.

The gardener rose and half-staggered to the steps leading from the porch. Olaf glanced at the lean older man, satisfied that he was drunk.

"Now you show me where that money is, Hans. We haven't got much time left… if we do it right, nobody will know the difference till we're in Palma. If we wait around here, you and I won't live to see the morning. What's it going to be, Hans? Life or death?"

"Palma," Hans shook his head.

"Then after that, who knows where," Olaf helped the inebriated gardener down the porch steps.

"It's been about three years since I was in Palma," the gardener said.

"Well, look Hans. I've got a plan. I've been thinking about this for a long time and tonight's the night for me. I'm tired of being the bottom man in this organization. I'm tired of doing the dirty work while Schneider gets the profits. Stealing the money isn't enough. Fritz will hunt us down like dogs." He reached inside his coat and pulled out a revolver. "Let's finish the job. It's the only way."

"You can't be serious, Olaf! You mean shoot Fritz? How? He never lets his guard down!"

"You wait and see. I'll handle everything. I have a feeling that our boss will be in a perfect position tonight. Are you with me?"

"Well… I…"

"You won't be alive tomorrow if you don't follow me now, Hans! Use your head, man!"

"Okay, Olaf. You win. I hope you're right, because I'm just not ready to die tonight."

Becky Thompson trembled in the center of the huge bed, her arms straining at the thick ropes that held her hands tightly to the headboard. The voluptuousness of her body was stretched below her; her firm full thighs were drawn apart by heavy cuffs that bound her ankles to the sides of the fur-covered mattress.

There was no way to cover her nakedness… Olaf and Hans had bound her this way before leaving her, and the young blonde's shame and humiliation now seemed complete. Nothing could change what had already been done to her… she'd been fucked in every imaginable way, yet she still felt an insatiable urge deep up inside her belly for more.