Chapter 8
Daphne stood poised on the barge's rusted upper deck, naked, laughing as Boone, also unclothed, walked along the corroded topmost iron rail, balancing. He tottered, uttered a wild yell, and fell overboard.
Daphne dived in. She swam round the barge. In places the water was so shallow she could touch the muddy bottom. Wary of broken glass and jagged cans, she kicked out, ploughed ahead of Boone who, surfacing close by, immediately gave chase.
The girl glanced over her shoulder. Boone was gaining. She submerged, swam under the water, deliberately slowed her strokes. Boone, coming up behind her with eyes wide open, air bubbles streaming from his mouth corners, could see her vagina opening and closing, her buttocks separating then pinching together again, the swinging movements of her heavy breasts as they responded to the action of the water.
He overhauled her, nosed between her legs and pushed his face into her crotch, grabbed her round the hips when she wriggled away. They sank, wrestling, embraced, started toward the surface. Daphne, bobbing up first, shook hair from her eyes. She headed for the bank. Boone caught up with her in the shallows. They kissed, tongues entwined. With her hand on Boone's penis, guiding it between her parted thighs, Daphne fell backward, splashing water in his face as he lunged. Boone sprawled on top of her and Daphne drew her legs up, bending her knees and protruding her vagina. Impatiently, she entered Boone's torridly beating stalk into her eager quim. Lying in water several inches deep, they fornicated furiously, ignoring shouts and derisive comments voiced by Mason and some of the others.
"Come on, you randy pair of cocksuckin' ass-bandits!" Mason called. "You can screw any time but that village store shuts at five-thirty. Let's go."
Boone spunked, was promptly pushed off and floundered off-balance. Daphne waded, giggling, until Boone clutched her ankle and brought her down. He dragged her through the shallows and dumped her on a sandy knoll.
When she got to her feet he was urinating, squirting the glittering stream high over the bushes.
It was getting dark when Paul West completed his routine patrol and started back toward his cottage. He had arranged to meet Lady Gloria at seven-thirty. When he reached the log bridge spanning the river he discovered part of it had collapsed during the night. Annoyed and impatient, he turned off along the old canal path. It was further, and he had not passed that way in months.
When he neared the derelict barge and saw a light gleaming through one of the portholes aft of the wheelhouse, he frowned. Poachers again, he thought, or some amorous whore encouraging one of the village layabouts. The old hulk moored above the sluice-gates was a favorite haunt for lovers, but West had never seen a light there before. Whoever it was, they were trespassing.
The gamekeeper hesitated. He shifted the shotgun he was carrying from his right hand to his left. He did not wish to be late for his date with Lady Gloria—she was a demanding bitch but careless with money, but he had his job to do and he was conscientious. He decided, broke open the gun and reloaded the shells he had removed earlier, then approached the shadowy barge.
With a foot on the sagging boarding-plank, he listened. Not a sound disturbed the placid twilight. West tried to peer in through the lighted porthole but something blocked his view, and the gap between hull and shore was too great to allow him a close look. Shrugging, he went on board, shouted, and thought he detected a muffled cry from below deck. He called again. A vague thumping sounded. Scowling, West descended the few narrow steps, paused below the hatchway when he saw nobody in the cabin. Then he heard a faint, husky whisper: "In here! For God's sake hurry! They might come back any moment."
Ducking through the connecting bulkhead aperture, West peered into the gloomy hold, and swore when he distinguished a blurred figure huddled in a corner. He pulled an electric torch from his coat pocket, switched it on. The probing rays picked out a naked woman crouching on a heap of filthy, stinking sacks. Her wrists, West noticed, were tightly bound, and a rag was crammed tightly in her mouth. Her eyes, staring fixedly, held a desperate look of mute appeal. She made strangled animal noises.
West crossed quickly to where she squatted. He knelt, placed the torch on the deck, removed the foul gag.
"What the hell's been going on?" he demanded.
"Thank God you've come," Miss Garfield croaked. "I've been going insane down here. Help me! Please help me!"
"Of course," the gamekeeper said. He delved into the other coat pocket, produced a clasp-knife, opened it, cut the cords binding the captive teacher's wrists. Her immediate reaction was to try and cover herself. West swore.
"Never mind that," he said brusquely. "It isn't the first time I've seen a naked woman. What happened? Who did this?"
Miss Garfield swallowed. It was a while before she could speak coherently, then only in a strained whisper. Bit by bit she husked out the astonishing facts. West gaped. Conscious of her agitation he looked round for something to cover her nudity with. Seeing nothing suitable, he removed his coat and held it out to her.
"Put this on," he said. "It's better than nothing. I'm sorry I can't offer you a drink or even a cigarette. I don' use them. Those bloody kids will be in real trouble this. Where are they now?"
Miss Garfield slipped the coat on, managed a weak smile of gratitude.
"Gone to the village, I think," she told him. "I still can' believe all this has really happened. It's like some hideous nightmare. When I think of it—when I remember the dreadful, sickening things those filthy monsters did . Oh! I feel so desperately ashamed. Nauseated and shocked to my very soul. How can I—"
"It's over now," West comforted. "Let's get away from here. I'll take you to my place and get you cleaned up, then we'll drive into— What was that?"
Terror replaced the hope in Miss Garfield's expression. There was nothing wrong with her hearing.
"A car door!" she wheezed. "They're back! Dear God! They must not find you here! Go quickly! Bring the police."
West nodded. He moved toward the cabin, swore when feet clumped on the deck above. A lithe figure swung down through the hatchway. The gamekeeper emerged swiftly from the hold and darted across the cabin, made a desperate attempt to reach his shotgun, but the weapon was no longer where he had left it. Boone, smirking contemptuously, held the gun with the barrels pointed carelessly at West's stomach.
"Don't do anything foolish," he warned. Other figures swarmed into the cabin, completely blocking the gamekeeper's escape, hemming him in. West's eyebrows lifted. He had not realized the captive had been referring to teenage girls among her abductors. Boone opened the shotgun breech, deftly removed the shells.
"Don't want any accidents, do we?" he drawled. "Who are you, tall man? Watch him, gang. He looks real tough."
He laughed. Mason grinned, flexed his biceps. Dent moved closer. Roach sidled round and got behind the gamekeeper.
"I asked you a question," Boone snapped.
"Now 111 ask you one," West answered promptly. "Then 111 give you just ten seconds to move away from that hatchway."
"And if I don't, dad?"
West sprang, thinking to take the youth unawares, but Boone sidestepped and swung the gun stock in a swift, clubbing arc to the gamekeeper's bristly jaw. West went down, hurt and dazed, barely conscious. By the time he recovered his faculties his wrists were roped together behind his back and he was lying on a grey wool rug with Miss Garfield beside him. The teenage hoodlums had trussed her up again. She stared blankly, a vacant, hopeless expression on her haggard face, offering no resistance.
Boone lit a cigarette, flipped the pack to Mason.
"What'11 we do with him?" Roach asked. Boone shrugged.
"Keep him here until we're ready to leave, I suppose," he answered. "Unless you have any bright ideas. We'll be gone soon. Just keep the bastard quiet."
"Let's have some fun with him," Daphne suggested. "Like we did with old Dexter. He looks—interesting. The strong, silent type. If he performs anything like old Dexter, darling Prunella should really appreciate him. Let's find out."
"Yes," Janet seconded. "Let's have a look at what he's got."
Boone nodded enthusiastically.
"Why not?" he agreed. "It's time we livened things up a bit for Miss fucking Garfield anyway—she hasn't had any cock all afternoon."
Laughing, he turned up the wick of the reeking kerosene lamp—the battered, hanging lamp that had attracted West's attention in the first place, then perched himself on the sofa arm.
"Who left the bloody lamp burning?" he demanded accusingly. "I told you to turn it out before we went to the village, Con."
Connie did not reply. Boone shrugged, dragged thoughtfully at the cigarette, watched amusedly as the girls jostled round the gamekeeper, tittering and exclaiming as they plucked at his clothing. When the dazed intruder mouthed profane threats a filthy rag was stuffed in his mouth. Diane, sitting on his stomach, quickly opened his fly, and shrieked with triumph as she pulled his tremendous penis out.
"My God!" Janet exclaimed. "What a chopper!"
Connie, who was wearing tight yellow jeans bought in the village, whistled. Mason frowned, then sniggered derisively.
"Christ!" he blurted. "I thought you were well hung, Fletch. But this character . .. Man! He's all prick!"
He glanced at Miss Garfield. She was staring at the exposed organ which already showed signs of stiffening. Daphne had West's shirt tugged free of his pants and was pulling viciously at his bloating cock, chuckling obscenely, her face flushed with mounting excitement. Mason grinned.
"Prunella is interested," he jeered. "She'll fuck like a rabbit with that thing up her minge. Get that jacket off her—she won't be needing it. Don't rupture the poor bastard, Daph."
The tall girl poked her tongue out, kept tugging and mauling. Janet unfastened the gamekeeper's belt. Connie jerked at the cuffs of his cord pants—she had already removed his boots, and dragged them down the instant Janet released the belt buckle. West uttered furious choking noises. Muscles bulged across his chest and back, swelled his bound arms. But he could not break the rope cutting into his wrists. He aimed a savage kick as the girl hauled his pants right off, and almost connected with Dent's testicles. The fat youth swore, bore down heavily on the thrashing limb, pinned it under his belly. Roach secured the other leg. Mason picked up a boathook and held the rusty steel point against West's hairy throat "Keep still or I'll skewer you," he threatened. "Oh, man! Prunella will take off when she gets that bloody great stalk inside her."
Boone quit the sofa arm and stooped over Miss Garfield. He grabbed her left ankle, shoved Dent aside, dragged Prunella further away from the bulkhead and pushed her shoulders down until they were pressed against the deck. He held her.
The struggling gamekeeper's incredibly enormous penis jutted proudly, pulsing turgidly within the firm grasp of Daphne's masturbating hand. Sometimes she used both hands to enclose its gigantic circumference. Janet handled, the wrinkled scrotum, stretching the bag and causing the huge testicles to bulge, stressing their size. Leaning forward, she impulsively kissed the throbbing, purple glans, and tried to take it into her mouth, but could not get her lips round it. Moaning with fierce excitement, she curled her tongue round the hard knob, put her hand above. Daphne's clutching fingers and jerkily helped frig the superlative prick, impeding Daphne's movements.
"That's enough," Boone said. "Get him turned over and lift him on top of her."
"Aren't you going to sit her on it?" Daphne asked. She sounded disappointed.
"Not this time. I want her to see his face while he's shagging her."
The youths heaved West up and dragged him toward Miss Garfield, lowered him onto her spreadeagled figure. H~ did not resist. Nothing about the fantastic situation mad any sense to him—except what he could see between Prunella Garfield's sumptuous thighs. If that bunch of crazy kids wanted him to screw her it was all right with him. She was gorgeous, a real sex-pot despite the smeared filth and her smelly, disheveled condition. It was what the teenage thugs proposed to do afterward that bothered the gamekeeper. Kids could be vicious, and that crowd was as depraved as any he had ever encountered, perhaps not violently disposed, but certainly callous and devoid of sentiment, motivated solely by instinct and moods.
Roach and Dent held Miss Garfield's legs wide apart. West could see every scrotum-tightening detail of her fabulous buttocks and enlarged vagina. His twitching penis reared, standing up monstrously rigid, a stallion's prick.
In his eagerness to mount the trembling victim he dragged his captors down with him, evoking sarcastic humor, conscience and sympathy melting in the flaming heat of mounting lust. The youths laid him on the prone woman, positioned him between her tense limbs, and he co-operated as best he could with his hands tied. Unable to support his weight, he slumped on Miss Garfield's bosom, squashing her robust breasts, stubbled cheek pressed against her pulsing neck, and felt a surge of searing excitement when girlish hands again seized his immense branch and roughly conveyed it to the vulnerable vagina pouting close to his dangling testicles. A moment's fumbling preceding entry brought intense frustration, then the huge, blunt knob was distending the slit and hands were pushing vigorously against the gamekeeper's buttocks, assisting the savage intrusion of his penis and forcing it past the widening splay of the vulva deep into the writhing cavity.