Chapter 13
"Damned establishment can't do a goddamned thing right," grunted Peter. His blue Volkswagen screeched to a halt outside of the blazing inferno whose age-old tinder crackled like popcorn over a hot stove. Stupid agents should have nabbed all of the SALM members by now. But no. . . they have to fart around.
Disregarding the fire hydrant with its attached placenta-like hose pumping water, he parked his car in front of it and shoved his gun in his back holster.
His guilt was beginning to lift now that he was finally on the trail to rescuing Carrie Tarrington. Peter had been feeling guilty about having any part in her kidnap. She was so fresh, so innocent. . . and he didn't like to have it on his conscience that he'd let such an attractive and harmless female fall into the hands of sadistic radicals like Jackson and Una.
The FBI still suspected that Carrie was burning up in the fire that was flushing his cheeks now, but he knew better because he knew the machinations of a radical mind. Hell. . . that's what I'm getting paid for, he thought, elbowing his way through the gawking onlookers watching the roof collapse in a gust of flames.
Two cruising undercover agents had seen two white men stalking the streets in the neighborhood and, surmising it to be Carl and James sniffing out Jackson's trail, Peter hastened to follow the lead.
His desert boots shuffled silently down an alleyway not far from where he'd parked his car when he stopped short and listened outside of a condemned house. Was that an alley cat in heat screaming in the night, or was that a tortured cry of a human in pain?
"Aaahhhh! Nnnoooo!"
They're raping her, by the sound of it. His conscience singed with guilt and despair, he tip toed into the filthy, bad smelling house which was completely dark, save for the sparkles of fire light. Gun drawn, ears and eyes keened for attack, he squinted into a flashlight lit room to see four grappling figures.
"Hold her down, you idiot!" he heard James grunt. "C'mon, hold her head! How am I gonna get my prick inside her cunt unless you keep her from wriggling around?"
There was a skirmish, after which Carl ended up sitting on his knees before Carrie's wailing face, between she and the headboard with his finger digging into her naked breasts. The scene resembled something from a cult initiation.
Carrie lay on the mattress with her wrists tied to the iron bedposts and her buttocks waving in the air while Jackson pounded fitfully into her anus and James wriggled under her torso to sink his penis into her vagina from beneath, causing the sinews of her arms to stand out like telephone cords under the strain of her position.
Peter knew he ought to be disgusted by this vile display of animal passion, but he could not deny the wisps of envious excitement that wafted through his virile loins at the sight of the beautiful naked female. He pulled the trigger on his gun, aiming it at Jackson, but some strange voyeuristic excitation prevented him from breaking up the salacious carnal scene.
"No . . . nooo! NOOOOO!" Carrie chanted in a weak, muffled voice.
Haven't I suffered enough ? she asked herself dully. Now these animals, too, as well as that foul-smelling Jackson.
Yet even as she cried out in naked despair, tendrils of unwanted desire were teasing at the nerve-endings all along her sensuous figure. The smell and taste of Carl's genitals excited her, and the prodding sensation of dope-clumsied James fumbling between her legs for her cuntal opening brought on even stronger sensations of sinful lust. Before she could stop herself, she'd let out a moan of crazed carnal hunger and screamed at Jackson to keep fucking.
Peter's eyes bulged from his head as he watched the obscene foursome. Was THIS the innocent virginal bride he'd gone out of his way to save?
"Aaaah!" Mrs. Tarrington whimpered as James' bulbous cock head slipped into her avidly clasping cuntal channel. "Yeah, you bastards! Let me suck you! And fuck me hard, harder!"
In less than one day the gang leader had assaulted the hostage three times, until by now she'd become a mindless mass of raw female flesh, and the moment she felt the electrical surgings of oncoming arousal, she turned into a bitch in heat. The morphine had dulled her senses and the pain . . . or some of it. This, together with his constant sexual attacks had reduced her to a slave who bore little resemblance to the sparkly-eyed coed Peter had once known.
"Unnngg," grunted James as he rammed his long-frustrated penis into the girl's wetly clasping vagina. "Christ, she's tight. Ain't that so, Jackson?"
Jackson's only reply was a bestial groan of ecstasy and James grunted in agreement, forcing his short stubby cock between the unresisting hostage's soft, warm lips and thrusting into her mouth as hard as he could. Since he was generally too stoned to go through the ceremony of seducing a girl, he hadn't been with a woman in quite some time. Already his balls were boiling with pent-up semen as they slapped against the helpless prisoner's chin.
She's not worth bothering to save, Peter thought dully. He dropped the gun into its holster and started out the door, not bothering to close it. The FBI would be closing in on them after the telephone call he was about to make . . . and that would end the case.