Burnt Ginger

CHAPTER 1

"Excuse me dear. Haven't I seen you on the telly? Didn't you murder that nice girl off of Eastenders?"

"What?"

The old lady broke me from my reverie. I had been scowling at my husband, who was openly ogling a leggy white girl.

"Yes, I suppose I am. I didn't really kill her, you know."

I was tempted to add, "She's not a very nice girl, in real life."

"Can I have your autograph?"

"Why, of course."

I was not often recognised, as I have done very little TV work, and am certainly not a celebrity. Well, not yet. You might however recognise my voice, as my main employment is doing voice overs, for commercials. I do; however have several "voices". If you have a preschool child, they would almost certainly recognise my voice, as a character in a popular cartoon that goes out daily.

My husband, Ben, is hardly ever recognised, despite being, in his own words, "probably THE greatest living Lear. Many radio listeners will know him as the voice of God. Ben also does voice overs; "Vulgar; but it keeps one in cocaine", as he is so keen to joke. Although a pompous git, he is a well respected stage actor. He has certainly appeared in a number of Sunday supplements. I am Ben's third wife, and thirty years his junior.

Ben has an unhealthy interest in young white women. His current object of inspection was standing ten feet away from us, at Gate 23, at Gatwick Airport. She was having an animated conversation, on her mobile phone, and had not, apparently, noticed Ben mentally undressing her. The woman was tall, probably just shy of six feet. She had a shock of incredibly curly, shoulder length, ginger hair. She was wearing a rather pretty short dress; navy blue with white polka dots. The cap sleeves softened the impact of her muscular shoulders. The dress came to about mid thigh, and what thighs they were. Her legs were long and strong, and as she gently moved her weight, from hip, to hip, her muscles appeared and disappeared, beneath the smooth skin. She had very little subcutaneous fat, and clearly worked out. A lot. The woman's well defined calves disappeared into a pair of fawn pixie boots.

The bitch. Her skin was white. Not just Northern European white, but white as snow. I have always been proud of my skin, which is an even cafe au lait colour. Really pale white skin often looks unhealthy, which is why most of my white friends are permatanned. This girl's skin was even and unblemished. I too was staring, hoping to see a bit of stubble, or razor rash. Boy no.

I knew what Ben wanted to do to her. Bitch. I wanted to do the same to her. The woman appeared pretty flat chested, and had no real hips to speak of. Unlike me. Unfortunately her overall appearance was boyish, rather than butch.

Just how Ben liked them. The bastard. And how I had grown to like them too. I wondered how easily she cried.

Soon we were called to board, leaving the leggy beauty behind. Ben would not slum it in cattle class. We were going to have a long weekend of fun and frolics. Ben handed me a small envelope, containing the outlines of my script. He had the full script, in a little book. He would have learned his part, word perfect. Ben never fluffed his lines. I was to improvise, as always. Ben was Marshall, and I was Lisa. We were both excellent vocal mimics, and Ben's accent became effortlessly American Deep South, and my own, Jamaican, modelled on my Nan.

We had both been surprised to receive the email from the Puppeteer. His games were always wild and dangerous, but relied on total trust. During a game, I became my character, and would do anything. Strange how I could trust Ben totally, when we were playing, but not at all, in real life. The Puppeteer had, officially, retired a year ago.

Ben and I had been married for two years. To be honest, it was a good career move. I knew Ben's habits before we married, and had not expected him to stop; but maybe tone down. I soon discovered how sexually conservative, I had been. Strictly missionary, me. Ben had introduced me to a lot of new experiences. I discovered the joy of sex with other women, and the immense thrill of inflicting pain. On other women. Particularly white women. My best friend is white. I think it is the taboo that excites me so much. I am not a lesbian, mind you. There is one woman, though, with whom I would run off ; but she is strictly unavailable. I love Ben, I suppose, but I do not expect the marriage to last.

CHAPTER 2

The flight arrived at Arecife at 11:30 pm. The baggage took ages, and we finally entered the arrival lounge to be greeted by a tall Spanish man, called Jose. Ben described Jose, enigmatically, as a policeman, and "fixer". We followed Jose to the short term car park, where he had parked a black Range Rover, with darkened windows. The air was hot and dry. 1 am; Lanzarote, in early summer. The most easterly of the Canary Islands; nestling, like a,sun blasted, black jewel, in the Atlantic Ocean, a few miles off the African coast. We often visited, for some winter sun. I had always considered it too hot, in the summer. The car thermometer said 25 degrees Celsius. It had been 15, when we left London.

A mile along the road we came across a woman, walking, alone, along the hard shoulder, pulling a small suitcase. It was the redhead in the polka dot dress. Jose slowed down and quipped "Why don't these English girls just wear a big sign, saying. Rape me."

"Come on Jose", said Ben, "Where's your manners? Slow down and offer her a lift."

"Are you ready?" asked Jose.

"You bet!"

As the car slowed, Ben lowered the window. The woman turned, shielding her eyes, with one hand. Then the car suddenly accelerated. Ben threw open his door. There was a thump, and a scream. I was thrown forward as Jose braked, then reversed.

"Quick, Lisa, out." Shouted Ben.

The woman was lying in the road, and trying to get up. She managed to get to her knees, and stared, confused, at the Range Rover, illuminated by its reversing lights. Her right hand was pressed against her temple, and blood was seeping from between her fingers. Blood was also running from her nose and mouth. I could barely speak. Jose rushed past me and kicked the woman, in the stomach. She fell onto her side, winded. I felt winded too. Jose grabbed the woman's arms and pulled them behind her back. Ben handed him a white cable tie. Where the fuck had that come from? Jose ripped off the woman's boots and secured her ankles with another plastic tie. Then he stuck a large piece of duct tape over the shocked woman's mouth.

My legs had turned to lead, and I wouldn't have been surprised if my bottom jaw had hit the tarmac.

Ben brought me back to earth.

"Grab an arm, Lisa."

Numbly, I did as I was told, and we threw the poor woman into the back of the Range Rover. The men brutally pushed her, off of the seat and, onto the floor.

Ben commanded again. "Get in, quick. Put your feet on her neck."

Now I knew why he had made me wear such ridiculous stilettos. As I pushed the points, of the heels, into the girl's long neck, she stopped struggling, but continued hyperventilating, and screaming into her gag.

Jose pulled off. It had taken ten seconds. Jose and Ben were really high. Ben was going through the woman's handbag.

"Well lookey here, Jose. She's one of yours. WPC Isabel McMahon, Metropolitan Police. Twenty four years old. Return ticket in seven days."

Jose was talking on his hands free mobile phone. He half turned to me. "I have rung her hotel. Miss McMahon has been involved in an accident. She has severe head injuries, and has been flown to the trauma centre, in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. The hotel wished her well, and confirmed that she is travelling alone."

I finally spoke up, still Lisa from Jamaica.

"You pair of fucking mentallists. You've kidnapped a fucking policewoman. This isn't like one of your little whores, who can be paid off."

Our last sex-weekend had involved using a teenage prostitute, who resisted beautifully, but broke, like they all do. She turned out to be quite costly to keep quiet.

My Spanish was limited, and I was likely going to have to learn some new phrase, like: "No Officer, I didn't say anything.", "No, I would not like that broom handle to be rammed up my arse," and, "Yes; I would love to lick your pussy."

"Chill," drawled Ben, "By the time she's missed, we will have concluded our games, and the fair WPC will be working really hard, in an African brothel. Eh Jose?"

"Si amigo. Young, pale skinned European? Rare as hen's teeth, but very valuable. I'll make the call."

"How long will she last?"

"Strong, fit girl, like her? Six months."

"Then what?" I asked.

"The desert is a very big place."

I was, by turns appalled and excited. My knickers were getting very wet. How had I become such a depraved slut? I pushed the heel of my shoe harder into the girl's neck, and she whimpered. We headed towards the centre of the island, and then pulled off, onto an unmade road. The car stopped, and Ben jumped out to open a heavy iron gate. About a mile later, we pulled up in front of a low building. Only one light was on. Jose pressed a button, and a large garage door opened. We drove in, and the door shut behind us. The garage was largely empty, and would hold three cars easily. The girl stirred and started thrashing about. We all got out; and Jose opened the nearside passenger door; grabbed the girl's hair, in both hands, and pulled hard. She hit the polished, red concrete floor, with a smack. She appeared temporarily winded again, which made it easy for the men to cut her bonds, and, with short lengths of rope, tie her ankles and wrists to two spreader bars.

CHAPTER 3

The uppermost bar had a steel eye, which they attached to an electric winch, which in turn was attached to a steel ceiling joist. Within seconds the terrified redhead was suspended upright, her feet a few inches off the floor. The lower bar was similarly secured to a recessed steel eye, on the floor.

Ben had demonstrated the incredible utility of the double spreader bar, many times. Frequently I had found myself spread eagled, and open for abuse. Even without securing the bars, all but the very strongest could put up little resistance. Adjustable bars were useful, particularly for girls with really short, or long, legs.

Our current guest clearly came into the latter category. Her dress had ridden right up her thighs, revealing, delightfully matching, blue and white, polka dot knickers. The girl's quadriceps and adductors were bulging as she desperately tried to pull her knees together. She had managed to twist her legs, so her knees almost pointed at each other. That would make a missionary stuffing tricky, but give her no protection against rear entry. Jose had produced a video camera, presumably to show prospective buyers. The girl's porcelain skin shone with a sheen of sweat. I had to see more.

I walked behind and slowly unzipped her dress. She squirmed and tried to look over her shoulder. On cue, Ben grabbed the front of the dress, with both hands, and pulled with all his might. The remains of the dress fluttered to the floor. He winked at me, and we each took one side of her small knickers in a fist and pulled.

Rip. And she was exposed in all her glory. I adore toned women, and her back was just magnificent, especially as she was squirming so much. I put a hand on her slick skin, surprisingly cool for a hot night. The girl tried to pull away, and her muscles rippled. I slid my hand down the centre of her back. She had a few downy blonde hairs, just above her buttocks, but otherwise her skin was smooth; naturally so, I figured. I squeezed a buttock in each hand.

Isabel had an arse of steel.

I tried slipping my hand down her natal cleft, but she was clenched too tight. She could not, however protect her slit; slick with sweat. I stroked up and down and she moaned. I pushed a finger in and hit hard flesh. The bitch clearly worked out her pelvic floor too. Never mind. Muscles tire.

I wandered round to join Ben, admiring the front view. Isabel had small breasts, with little roseate nipples. Roseate nipples; pure romantic fiction. As I had hoped; her tiny tits fitted her athletic body. I wondered if she ever wore a bra. The underlying muscles were pulled taut by her suspension. Her nipples were erect; through fear, not desire.

Isabel had a flat tummy, with a six pack that came and went, as she writhed. Her pubes were blonde, just like her eyebrows and eyelashes, and were shaped into a fetching diamond. I touched the surrounding skin. Waxed, not shaved. I licked the smooth skin and moved down to her sweaty pussy, sucking on her tiny unfriendly clit.

Jose announced that it was time to go.

"I have to return to my alibi, before she wakes up. Mi casa, es su casa, etc. Let me know what you want done with the slut."

We were staying at Jose's family winery, although alcohol was now the least valuable drug that passed through.

Isabel could have been a model, were it not for her nose, which had clearly been broken, and reset badly. She seemed like a woman who was not particularly vain. She wore no makeup. I expected Isabel to have blue eyes, but they were dark brown, a few shades lighter than mine, flecked with little shards of yellow and green. If windows are the mirror to the soul, I sensed that all was not peace and light, in hers. When Jose was gone, Ben ripped the duct tape from our guest's face and my suspicion was confirmed.

"You sick fucking bastards. Let me down, now. Now you hear me. Do you know how long you will spend inside? Even the Spanish take a dim view on kidnapping police officers. Do you think they won't look for me? North African brothel? What fucking planet are you on? Lots of people say the Spanish are too lenient. Sure their sentences seem short; but the prisons are such jungles, that it doesn't matter. You, old man, will come out in a box."

Isabel's accent was familiar; lower middle class, South London. Show me a map and I could tell you where she grew up, within five miles. Very close to where I had grown up myself.

"Foul mouthed little bitch, aren't you?" said Ben. "You need to be taught some manners. From now on, you are our sex-slave. You will answer to Toy."

I was so hot, and wet, that I just had to strip off. Ben is six foot, six inches tall, and in pretty good shape for a 54 year old. I undid his shirt, and removed his belt. I hit the girl as hard as I could, with it, across her right thigh.

"Bitch." She screamed at me. "Just wait 'til I get down."

I smiled at her, and returned to undressing Ben. I turned him to face the girl, as I slowly peeled off his boxers. She could not help but stare; and her pupils dilated, as his massive erection sprang free. As they say; size isn't everything; but it helps. Whilst the girl was distracted, I slipped two fingers into my sopping pussy, took them out, and forced them into her arid snatch. She did not contract her muscles quickly enough, this time.

"Ow. That hurts, you evil cunt."

"Talking of cunts," I purred, getting really close to her ear,"I thought it was a myth that white girls were tiny down below. When we're finished, a white man's cock won't even touch the sides. Ben came around behind her, and put a hand on each pale hip. The girl's attempts to pull her knees together had lowered her pelvis perfectly. Ben thrust hard, my fingers acting like a shoehorn, for his tumescent shaft.

The girl let out a feral scream.

"You fucking wanker. Take it out. Take it out. No. No. Stop. I don't want this. You evil fucking shit. Well, if it's shit you want."

"Dirty fucking bitch." Yelled Ben, stepping back, and tripping over the spreader bar. He just about regained his balance, as a huge turd hit the garage floor.

"The slut shat on me!"

I tried not to giggle, as I watched his penis deflate. I took the belt to Isabel's tiny beasts, raising six lovely wheals. She screamed, and her head slumped forward. I brought the belt down hard across her flat belly. Her head shot up, and she spat, in my face; a real footballer's gob.

Ben was lowering the upper spreader bar, and Isabel's feet were now on the floor. I gasped when I saw the gun in his hand. He walked around and pressed it under Isabel's chin.

Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum, Highway Patrolman. A present from Jose. It's chambered with hollow points, so even you, Lisa, could maim, or kill, her. Come on take it, while I undo her. I need to shower, and she needs to clean up, before I resume my fun.

Isabel surprised me, by not moving, as the ropes were undone. She rubbed her wrists, which were already marking, and her right shoulder, and flank. She made no attempt to cover her nakedness.

"I think you've broken my collar bone, and some ribs. I hope you're satisfied"

"Follow me," Ben barked. "Hands behind your back. Lisa. Any sudden movements; shoot one of her knees."

CHAPTER 4

Ben led us to a downstairs wet room which was clearly designed for a wheel chair user.

"I'll pop upstairs, and get the foul whore's crap of my dick. I'm sure you can manage it. Lisa's killed before, cunt. Don't be fooled by the pretty face. She's from a family of Yardies"

I stiffened my jaw into the countenance of a killer.

"Wash, Toy"

The girl switched on the shower and stood under it. I had let her put on a shower cap. She was soon lathered up, but did not move her left arm. She looked coyly over her right shoulder.

"Why don't you join me? You look pretty sweaty. The gun will still work if it's wet. We're about the same size, and I can't use my left arm. I've seen the way you look at me. I'm your slave now, and I had better get some practice in. Lisa isn't it? I'm Isabel; please remember my name. I think the old man has you under his will. He's already forced himself on me. I can tell the police that you were an unwilling accomplice."

Her voice was soft and seductive, and I was soon under the hot water, and her hands were gently washing me. She took an aching nipple into her mouth and ran her finger up and down my tender slit. My juices were running like a tap, and I surrendered willingly, as he slipped her tongue into my mouth, and wrapped it around my own. Soon the little organs were playing hide and seek; in and out of each other's mouths. Isabel was about two inches taller than me, and our bodies fitted together beautifully. I do not remember slipping two fingers inside her, but her pussy was now slick and welcoming; and she moaned, as I finger fucked her. Isabel slowly squatted, running both hands down my back, making me shiver. Soon her nose was in my bush, and she had sucked the hood of my clit, into her mouth, and was teasing my, rock hard, love button, with her tongue. I came. But she was not done. A finger was slowly massaging my dusky starfish. Then it was inside me. I gasped. It felt fucking enormous. Then she pushed another one in. It hurt, but I heard someone say, in my Island voice....

"Oh yeah baby, stretch me. Fuck my ass."

Before meeting Ben, I had not stuck so much as my own finger, up my bottom. He had tried, several times to "take me properly, from behind." Even when restrained, and tortured, my sphincter had held firm. Maybe, one day. Anyway, Isabel had laid her hand just above my pelvic bone and was pushing down, whilst the two fingers in my arse, pushed up. She trapped my womb, and rolled it backwards and forwards, and side to side. I thought I was going to faint, when she re-attached her lips to my clit, and thrust her long, talented tongue into my vagina.

"Oh shit, where did you learn to do that? Jesus. I'm coming again."

My legs went weak and I slipped to the floor. Isabel kissed me on the nose, washed me clean of cum, and dried me with fluffy white towels. Then she hugged me, and punched me in the solar plexus. I could not breathe. I grasped my tummy and pitched forward into her raised knee, which hit me just below my right eye .My teeth rattled. Then I was being dragged out of the wet room, in a head lock, the revolver pressed painfully into my ear.