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BEST ENJOYED COLD
PART THREE
‘Three little birds’
It was always hard for him to remember anything much before the Rage.
Before the ‘red mist’ descended.
The first nineteen years of his life seemed to have gone pretty well, as far as he could recall.
Then came the summer of Seventy Six.
Sounds like a fucking song doesn’t it ? Teenage kicks, we learned some tricks, oh we took out our dicks and fucked those chicks, during the long hot Summer of ’76.
He’d even strummed guitar back then, before he smashed it into pieces.
Sunday, 4th July 1976, was a truly significant day in Charlie’s life for three reasons.
First, it was the day that the Israeli Sayeret Matkal Special Forces launched their daring raid on Entebbe Airport in Uganda, sparking in him a love of military warfare that had never left him.
Second, it was America’s Bicentenial Celebration; 1776 – 1976. The 200th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. One of the things that he could still remember was the excited atmosphere: the festivities and parades, the enormous firework displays that lit up the night sky, the fluttering flags, the cook outs and evening parties, the sound of music, the taste of beer and the scent of spliffs.
And thirdly, 4th July 1976 happened to be the day that John Cumber fucked his fiancé and set this whole darned thing in motion.
*** *** ***
The youngest Chameleon loved playing delivery guys.
This time he was still ‘white’; but he had become ‘tallish’, ‘grey haired’, ‘probably late forties’ and ‘clean shaven’. He was also wearing a genuine Fedex uniform. He dropped the package at the Cumber Building reception on a frantic Monday morning, got it signed for and even stuck his tongue out at the CCTV cameras on his way out.
It didn’t matter. It was the last time he would be doing things this way.
John Cumber felt his blood run cold when his Executive Assistant brought in the mound of mail with a ‘JOHN CUMBER, TOP SECRET, EYES ONLY’ package on the top. He immediately recognised the big, black, handwritten upper case letters.
For a moment he wondered if he should call Security without delay to trigger a search and chase. But he figured it would have taken a minimum of fifteen minutes for the package to reach him. By now, the person who delivered it would be long gone. It had a Fedex sticker. Maybe that could be used to trace somebody if it was genuine ?
More importantly, he wanted to open the package in private.
He tore it open, revealing an inner envelope, one of those square plastic coated cards used to protect computer discs. It contained a CD of some sort.
“Thanks, Shelly.” He said, his tone making it clear to his EA that he needed time alone. She discreetly shut the office door behind her.
He pulled a pair of plastic gloves that Walt had given him out of his desk drawer. Best to keep his prints off it. The disc was silver and blank on one side. He turned it over. ‘BEST ENJOYED RED HOT’ was the title stencilled in gaudy red, pink and turquoise, swirling round the centre of the disc like some nasty XXX porno DVD title. John Cumber hated pornography, regarding it along with cigarettes and drugs as the three vices that were undermining the moral backbone of Western Civilisation. He hadn’t partaken in any of the three since his student days.
With moist, trembling fingers, he opened his PC drive and loaded the disc, clicking the mouse to fire it up.
First, there was music. That Louis Armstrong number; ‘We have all the time in the world’. Suddenly the monitor flickered. Words scrolled down the screen.
“Dear Mr. Cumber,
Welcome to ‘Best
Enjoyed Red Hot’. I hope your secretary doesn’t catch you jerking off while you
watch it ! It’s only a snippet of the whole movie
actually, just five minutes of edited highlights. What they call a ‘Cum Shot
Recap’ in the trade I think. Watch it very carefully. As I said before, I never
give unclear instructions. Do not fast forward. When it’s finished we’ll
continue our little chat. Bye for now.”
The music faded. Almost instantaneously, without warning, Susan’s face filled the screen.
He stared at his wife. Something was wrong.
And then liquid spattered her face, the lens, everywhere. Hell, no. He realised what it was. Great gobs of semen were landing on her from both sides of her face. He caught sight of the ends of two penises just at the edge of the screen, jerking and spurting. There was male laughter in the background accompanied by the usual murmurs and sounds of orgasm, on top of some kind of ‘elevator music’ soundtrack.
And then, worse. He saw she was actually smiling. Mouth open, apparently taking what they were doing in good humour. Eyes shut against the cascading fluid but his wife’s lovely dazzling teeth were visible, her expression even suggesting she wanted it.
Without warning, the action cut to another scene, this time of Susan outdoors, on some kind of sun bed. She was being … having sex with … one guy while another … a black guy … was … she was performing fellatio on him !
He wanted to shut his eyes but he couldn’t. He stared, heart beating dangerously fast, as a heavily tattooed and muscled man … mounted his wife from behind. It wasn’t rape. He was doing it sensuously and slow and she was even thrusting back to meet him.
And then the camera panned and zoomed closer on her lips sliding greedily up and down an oversized black penis, virtually gagging each time she got more than half of the thing in her stretched mouth.
And the noises. He could hear them all as if they were doing it here and now on his mahogany desk. The wet slurping sounds and the men muttering how great she was over the dreadful ‘muzak’ in the background.
And Susan gasping and groaning in return.
He watched all six scenes they had included before the disc faded out. By the time it had finished, John Cumber was blubbering like a child.
More words started scrolling down the screen like movie credits. They were blurred and he wiped his eye on his sleeve so he could read them.
“John,
Now, now. Don’t
cry. After all, if you miss Susan and you’re feeling
horny, you can watch it again and pretend it’s your dick she’s sucking. Here’s
the deal. You can buy your kids back for two hundred and fifty million bucks
each. Plus another two fifty for the fiancé. I know
math is your thing but, just in case you’re not thinking straight, that’s a
round billion for the four youngsters.
If we do that
transaction, and if it all goes real well, then we can talk about your wife. After I’ve finished with her of course. And to show no hard
feelings I’ll make you a good price. Do what I say and I’ll only price her at
one buck !
Well, gotta go. My balls are full. A gentle reminder about the Cumber stock price. Don’t let it close below 15. I hear there are some big sell orders out there. I’ll be in touch again soon.”
Dazed, he despairingly picked up the phone to call Walt Furness but, before he got it to his mouth, he dashed to his bathroom and was violently sick.
*** *** ***
He never finished College. His break up from Melanie finished his academic career for good. Instead, he joined the military.
But not the US Army. Being a Brit on his mother’s side and desiring both a fresh start and anonymity, Charlie fled to the UK on the day before his 20th Birthday and applied to join up there.
Not just any regiment. The Paratroop Regiment.
The legendary Paras. The maroon machine.
As hard a bunch of geezers as ever pulled on a beret and uniform anywhere.
The induction and training were so hard he nearly dropped out a couple of times but his rage and talent kept him going. In the end he passed with flying colours.
Then, with the top brass’s customary sense of humour, his commanding officer selected him to train as a specialist signals operator, mainly due to the fact that his full name was Charlie Victor, both letters of the army’s radiotelephony phonetic alphabet.
He served in Northern Ireland. The Middle East. The Falklands. He was decorated twice.
After five years, he transferred to the Special Air Service. The equally legendary SAS. Who dares wins and all that jazz.
Until the ‘red mist’ got him into trouble one too many times and he was … well … his time in service to adopted Queen & Country was over.
They sent him to a special psychiatric facility for two months to help him acclimatise to the civilian world and address his ‘anger management’ needs. And for a while it seemed to help. But the well meaning doctor who taught him not to lash out in the heat of the moment, only really succeeded in planting another seed in Charlie’s tortured mind.
Don’t react
in the heat of the moment. Stay calm. If you must seek retribution, it is
something best enjoyed in the cold light of the dawn.
After seven disastrous weeks of wearing a suit behind a desk in an office job, Charlie Victor walked into the street one lunchtime and never returned. He drowned his sorrows in a London pub.
Sitting next to him that fateful afternoon was a man with a livid purple scar down one side of his face and a missing right ear. Both men recognised each other as ex-military, kindred spirits. They sat at the bar for many hours swapping anecdotes and opinions and, by the time the landlord called ‘last orders’, a firm friendship had begun.
Over the next few days, after a few introductions to the right people, the man they had soon codenamed ‘CV’ became a mercenary.
Cry Havoc ! Let slip the Dog of War.
He became one of the very best. Perhaps, even the best.
Even so, this final mission had taken Charlie over ten years to plan and prepare.
But finally he was ready.
In 2007.
Yep, best enjoyed cold.
Fucking freezing, in fact.
*** *** ***
He had assembled a detailed file on Susan Cumber that went back more than a decade. Press cuttings, magazine photos, and his own reconnaissance zoom lens shots taken during periods between combat missions around the world. He had watched her grow and mature and raise her teenage kids and bloom into her late-thirties and forties, still beautiful, still immaculate and still faultless.
It was not her fault that she and her children were now in cells downstairs about to suffer an ordeal that nobody should be put through.
The blame lay squarely at the door of her husband.
“Please … Daaaaddd ! Please do whatever they say. Give them the cash Dad. Or they’ll cut my b … balls off !”
The close up of Ryan Cumber’s genitals looked very painful on film. A noose of piano wire was wrapped tightly round his scrotum and another garrotte around the crown of his penis had turned it purple.
Gloved hands, clearly visible in the picture, threatened the boy with emasculation. Two quick tugs and his sausage and eggs would be history.
“Cut !” said the masked male Chameleon.
“Nooooooo !” the boy screamed in terror.
Everybody laughed.
“He means cut the film.” Gator said, punching the boy’s ribs good-humouredly. “Well, at least … for now.”
Meanwhile, in another cell, the female Chameleon was directing Rachel Cumber’s contribution to their fundraising epic.
“Daddy, we’re all okay so far. I’m fine. Like, they haven’t touched me. But you gotta to do what they say, daddy, and everything will be alright. Please get them their money quick. Please. I love you.”
Rachel looked up at her for approval, eyes brimming with tears.
“Perfect.” The Chameleon replied, switching the recording button off. Then she looked back straight into the 21 year old’s wet baby-blues. “Thirsty ?”
*** *** ***
He wanted to see her face when he did it.
And for her to see his.
Charlie wasn’t a big fan of anal sex. He had always been a cunt and mouth man. I mean, why sneak in the back when a nice purpose-built front entrance was available ? The butt was unhygienic and unnatural and to his mind over-rated. He understood the attraction to gays but not to heterosexual couples except maybe occasionally for a bit of novelty.
But he’d seen enough over the past thirty years to know that anal adds a new dimension to a female’s shame. Susan Cumber was a backdoor virgin and he was going to be the first guy to enjoy her that way.
They were in the old fort’s underground interrogation room. Built in the 1950s, it was a large space, recently re-equipped with all the most modern and effective instruments of torture.
Susan Cumber was fastened onto a padded table. It was like a medieval rack but covered in black PVC, with 21st Century dials, knobs and gizmos. The tabletop comprised four quarters and each rectangle could be controlled separately, upwards, downwards, outwards, rotating. As a result, each of her four limbs was able to be moved to whatever position Charlie desired.
He had her arms outstretched above her head and her legs splayed apart and up in the air, as if she was trying to get her ankles back behind her ears. As a result, her butt cheeks hung nicely over the edge of the table.
She had been allowed to take a cold shower and wash herself after this morning’s activities round the pool, then she was fed some more gruel and water, before being allowed a half hour’s rest curled up on the floor of her cell.
He wanted her just slightly refreshed.
Now, he had her alone to himself.
Embarrassed, she admitted to him that she’d had a couple of enemas in hospital but he knew this one would be different; a dreadful, chilled cramping solution laced with an additive that would irritate her bowel and rectum and tender sphincter.
After he had fixed the nozzle into her guts, he stood back and watched her sweat and grimace as all four pints filled her, distending her nicely muscled abdomen.
“Please … aaaooorrgghh …” she groaned, trying to focus on him.
He smiled. It was strange. He truly felt he already knew her, after all this time, and yet she had never seen him and they had not spoken. He thought of all the articles he’d read, the interviews, including his favourite.
“Hold it in.” he barked. “Or your daughters will pay.”
Beads of perspiration were bursting out of every pore on her face and body. Every sinew in her stretched limbs strained.
He started to whistle. She had once given an interview to her daughter’s school magazine. Although it had been seven years ago, he had only recently found a copy. Oh, thank the stars for search engines. It was one of those naďve interviews full of questions like ‘what is your favourite perfume’ and ‘where was your best vacation ?”
He loved it. She had revealed her favourite singer was Bob Marley. So he whistled a little tune for her:
“Don’t worry about a thing,
Cause every little thing gonna be alright.”
He made her hold the enema for several minutes, then allowed her to expel the mass of dirty water into a bucket he held between her thighs.
She sighed with relief in spite of the burning sensation in her guts.
Now it was
almost time.
He put the bucket aside and sealed it with a lid. Then he walked casually around the table, touching her, enjoying her emerald eyes as they nervously followed his tour of her. Linda Evans, that dame from Dallas or Dynasty or whichever ‘80s TV crap, that’s who she reminded him of. He reached out and squeezed her breasts that were splurged to her sides. Even the fittest 45 year old couldn’t defy gravity forever. He decided one time soon he would tit fuck her.
Finally, Charlie stood humming at the end of the table, inches from her defenceless rose bud, specked with a few remaining drops of water.
“Rise up this morning,
Smiled with the risin’ sun,
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin’ sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true
Sayin’ this is my message
to you-ou-ou.”
And on the ‘you-ou-ou’ he took the lubed-up, heavily ridged vibrator and shoved it brutally into the middle of her puckered, virgin backdoor.
Susan Cumber howled with pain but couldn’t do anything about it.
*** *** ***
At that very moment, John Cumber, Walt Furness and just two other senior agents were sat in an embarrassed hush as the DVD played out on the private viewing screen. The men looked straight ahead, not turning heads left or right, ashamed to catch each other’s eye.
But it was the noises that hit them hardest. The wet slurping and men muttering and Susan gasping and groaning like some porn starlet. They were men of the world but all were married and they found it impossible to imagine the emotions that John must be feeling as they watched.
Even just the fact he had to share this with them.
Walt had accorded it ‘top-secret’ and ‘inner-circle-only’ basis.
But nevertheless.
Then came the message at the end.
Asking for a billion dollars.
And valuing Susan Cumber at just one dollar.
Finally it finished and they all sat in uncomfortable silence.
Walt coughed.
“John … I don’t know what to say.”
Fortunately, his embarrassment was interrupted by the phone ringing.
John hit the speaker button placing the incoming call on conference.
“John ?” said an animated voice. There were chaotic noises in the background.
“Yes ?” John replied, all faces looking across at him.
“John, it’s overwhelming. There are some huge sell orders. We’re buying but the price is in freefall.”
A pause. “It’s already dropped under thirteen bucks.”
*** *** ***
He smiled down into her face as he eased his erection into her bottom. She was loose and ready for him after the withdrawal of the huge dildo.
He placed his hands proprietarily on her tits and kneaded them like dough balls. Slowly he started rocking his hips backwards and forwards.
“Mmm …” he exhaled, “… good.”
She had shut her eyes but was biting her lower lip, wincing.
“Open your eyes little bird.”
She snatched them open. They glistened; half with tears and half with anger, he suspected.
“Tell me,” he asked, “did your husband ever ask you to try it like this ?”
She gawped at him, mouth like a goldfish. Her tits were jiggling in time with his thrusts, wobbling like a pair of blancmanges on a dish.
“I asked a question. I expect an answer.”
She nodded her head as much as the table allowed. “Yes. B … but just good naturedly. J … joking. It isn’t something he really … wants.”
He nodded back, building a nice rhythm.
“That’s how guys who actually want something usually ask their wives, you know.”
She swallowed. Her expression portraying shock that she was having a conversation like this, at a moment like this. And the truth of his comment seemed to have hit a nerve.
“Before too long you’re going to take each guy here up this arse.”
He said it as matter-of-factly as he could. No good natured joking.
“Unless, of course …” he continued, “you want Lorna to help you out ?”
She flinched. Just the slightest pause. Interesting.
“N … ngh … no.” she replied. “I’ll do it m … myself.”
Charlie nodded approvingly and increased his pace, hammering into her, his hips slapping against her upturned taut buttocks. There was no need to hold back, no need to impress. After all, he wasn’t trying to please her.
“Mmmmmm … yesssssss …” he hissed in triumphant early release.
*** *** ***
On the big TV in the guards common room, a soccer match was playing. Apart from two mercenaries, all the men were sat round drinking beer, smoking and eating nuts, shouting at the screen.
At the front of the room, placed next to the TV, Lorna Cumber was bent over in a pillory facing the half circle of men. The 23 year old’s neck and wrists were held at a ‘convenient’ height through three holes in a T bar, forcing her to stoop over with her butt nicely presented behind her.
Her head was a perfect height for her duties at a man’s waist level.
She was naked but for a brutal spider-gag that held her jaws apart and mouth wide open, lined with a rubber dental breach to prevent biting.
One at a time, the mercenaries rose from their seats to take a break from the game. Some simply pumped their dicks into her mouth for a while, deciding to prolong their orgasms. Others did the same but then jerked themselves off, so that they unloaded over her face and down her throat. But increasingly, as the beer flowed and the match got more exciting, they simply used her as a urinal. They would stand, cigs dangling from their lower lips, half looking at the screen and half down at her, as they laid their penises onto her tongue and let rip their frothy second hand lager. Meanwhile, they bantered with their friends over their shoulders as if she was a mere inanimate object.
Then they would flick their ash on her hair, shake themselves dry over her face and jiggle themselves back into their pants before sitting back down without even a second thought. Usually they were soon replaced by another colleague with a swollen bladder.
Her tears and gasps as she struggled to breathe were ignored.
Of course, Lorna Cumber’s proper punishment could wait until the final whistle had blown.
And after that they would enjoy moving onto her sister, the third and final little bird.
END OF PART THREE
BY VELVETGLOVE
CONTINUED IN PART FOUR
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