CHAPTER 162: The Virgin and the Masters, Part 55

CHAPTER 162: The Virgin and the Masters, Part 55
MICHAEL

He’s not gentle, ramming home as she squeals and wails under him. And he is close to climax himself. He watches as he penetrates her, studies his cock moving in and out, glistening with her honey, her thighs flushed and wet, and her red curls soaked. His own breathing is rapid, face and chest sweating and his dark eyes, all but black with hugely dilated pupils.

Groaning, he presses home, grinding as he pumps into her. Head dropped to his chest, eyes squeezed shut, he grunts and then, with a gasp, withdraws, waving at me to take over as he seats himself back in his armchair.

“Charlotte, on the bed, on your back.”

Flushed and sweating, she obeys me, walking through to the bedroom, then lies down on the bed to gaze up at me, hips swung upwards, knees a little akimbo. I am cock-twitchingly, ball-tighteningly, ready to come, and I’ll not hold on more than a minute or so.

Standing beside her, looking down. “So,” I say, “Do you want me to shoot in your cunt or your mouth?”

Again, in silence, she smiles with her eyes, opening her mouth, parting her lips in that inviting cherry-coloured ‘O’, that just begs me to shove myself deep inside.

I’d love to... Would she like it? Could she take it?

“How are you feeling? Want to try something? I’d love to deep-throat you, but I’ll not do it if you don’t want.”

Still, she doesn’t speak, but she tilts her head a little more, parts her lips a little further. James, who has followed us, disappears from the room, returning a minute later with a jug of water and a glass. Sitting on the bed beside her, he strokes her face, holding her hand.

I say, “Charlotte, move so that you overhang the bed. Let your head drop back.”

Standing by her, cockhead poised by her over-hanging face. “If this is too much, you bang the bed with your hand, or squeeze James’ hand, and I’ll pull out right away. Yes?”

She stretches her neck, reaching for my cock, which oozes over her mouth as I push inwards. James positions himself to watch her face, as best he can from where I press close to her.

Easing forwards, I rock, sliding in and out, gradually, slowly, a little deeper every time. She seems okay. I glance at James, who has a better view of her than I do. He is watchful but seems unconcerned.

You okay, Babe?

I think so, yes.

It feels great...

At first, she works my cock head with her tongue and lips, but then, as gradually I work deeper, she simply takes me. Pushing at the back of her throat, I am acutely conscious, that perhaps now, she might be uncomfortable, might gag.

But she doesn’t.

“Just relax...”

Oh God, but she feels good. Penetrating further, as I squeeze into her throat, it tightens on my cock-head.  And now, her tongue massages my shaft.

Ooohhhh... wow...

It is utterly, indescribable...

I’d like to extend the moment, but I’m already poised to come, my balls tight with pressure. Seeing myself, pushed inside her, my groin pushed against her face, cock sheathed in her mouth, it’s too much.

Pulsing, I spill into her throat, shooting my full load deep inside. It’s so tight, so good. And, groaning, I shoot once, twice, and then a third time into her before it is too much and, with a gasp, I pull away.

As my head clears, she’s not moved. “Good?” she asks.

“Oh...” I stroke her face. “You have no idea...”



CHARLOTTE

And yet again, I scan photographs, looking for faces. Not yet knowing who the police ‘spy in the camp’ is, Will Stanton, the Police Commissioner has provided the information to me directly, no intermediaries, and I am searching images of people known to be associated with Lawrence Klempner and his activities. Beth, keeping me company, is also looking. After all, captured by them herself for a while, perhaps she might notice something I miss.

Many of the photos are very old, drawn from files which have been collecting dust since the time of the original investigation into Blessingmoors. Some are taken from other investigations into similar criminal activity. Since Klempner and his gang have tendrils extending much further than simply the old Blessingmoors children’s home, I am being asked, yet again, to scan some hundreds of faces, now from many parts of the world. The investigation has become international. I begin to wonder just how big this is, and how much money is involved.

And yet, with so much at stake, given that I am to be witness in a trial against some of the criminals, why was I not simply murdered? Why was Klempner so keen to capture me? Because he knew my mother? Or claims to have done so?

It seems bizarre.

“I’m hungry,” says Beth. “How about you? We could go to the restaurant. It’s not as though we’d be leaving the building. Would that be alright, Michael?” She glances around. “Where is he?”

“Having a shower, but I’d rather carry on with this, anyway.”

“I could order something from room service then?”

“Sure, whatever you like.”

Beth raps on the door of the bathroom. “Michael? You want to eat?” After a moment. “I don’t think he can hear me over the shower.” She orders a light meal for three, just sandwiches and a drink. “They said it shouldn’t be more than ten minutes. I ordered for Michael as well.”

“Fine.” I don’t look away, wearily watching face after face cross the screen.

Then, I see the familiar, and my stomach freezes. Jabbing at the pause button, I halt the slide-show, staring at the image in front of me.

And now I know who Will Stanton’s spy is.

“Beth...”

And at that moment, the door buzzes. “That’ll be the food,” she says. As she unclicks the lock, the door slams open, men burst in, and before she can make a sound, Beth is seized, a hand pushing something over her mouth. She tries to scream, to fight, but after a few moments, goes limp.

And one of the intruders, I know; Corby, the ‘police’ officer’ who bungled my first interview, and whose face now stares out of the screen of my laptop.

“Hello again, Jennifer,” he snarls.

I stand, trying to back away, but trapped between the table and my chair, my legs tangle and they are on me. Screaming, I try to call out for help; “Micha...” but before I can get the words out, a soft pad is pressed over my mouth and nose, with a sweetish chemical smell.

Struggling, I try to not to breathe, but my vision blackens at the edges and eventually, my body, gasping for air, betrays me, forcing me to draw breath. Everything wavers and...