Martin opened the door just before his wife arrived at it. She whispered that she needed a quick word. Martin, slightly puzzled, said they should settle their guests down and then have the word. This happened in the living-room, in armchairs, though the lurch of the fat man into the deepest armchair looked dangerous. Veronica accepted the proffered hands of the two Japanese, but gave particular attention to the fat man. He was after all Martin’s boss and the CEO.
“We’ve just got to have a quick word,” said Martin as his wife hustled him outside. The three men left looked at one another knowingly though they had no idea what was going on. Outside, Veronica said quickly:
“Martin – listen, but don’t shout. There’s a policewoman in the spare bedroom, some kind of immigrant. She’s handcuffed and she’s been very vigorously rogered by a fantastically nice little man, a tramp. I’ve been getting on with him like a house on fire. I did get him to clean himself up, darling, so don’t worry. Now I know lots about Mr Dunham and his business because you’ve told me most of it and I’ve found out things. Are these Japanese gentlemen in the same kind of business?”
“Roughly speaking, yes. But how...”
“Don’t ask!”
“And have you...” Martin queried.
“Yes, darling.”
“Right. Well, look – does anyone else know about this policewoman – or just you and the tramp?”
“Just us two – and you now, of course,” Veronica replied.
“This copper – is she a looker?”
“Legs right up to her sweet round arse, darling, and a delicious pair of titties.” Martin smiled, slowly, wolfishly.
“Then let’s see her, sweetie. Then I’m sure the boss and the Japs will love to meet her,” he said.
Half a minute later, he was looking down at her. Yes, she was sexy as hell. Fantastic athlete’s legs, a glorious plump, round arse which had been systematically thrashed, tits made for squeezing (with a couple of little messages on them) and even a pretty face with full lips made for cock and big brown eyes that looked at him, appealing to him but suspecting he was just another rapist. No, he was not just another rapist. He was an expert. He spat in her eye. What a shot!
He’d fuck her all holes, of course, and enjoy it. But in a way the sexiest thing for him was to see how proud and fit and glossy and beautiful she must have been and how she’d been turned into this pathetic, welted, cum-drenched, sobbing, snivelling scrap of detritus, still with a cunt and arsehole free for all.
And this man, beaten about a bit by life and with signs of heavy drinking, but not so bad-looking now, must be the tramp. They looked eye to eye. Martin advanced and shook the man’s hand. He was a hero for what he’d done. He’d probably screwed his wife too, but they had an open marriage. If Veronica wanted a tramp she could have one, especially if it brought in a good fuckable policewoman.
The others must see her. He grabbed the copette by her long, black, glossy hair and dragged her down the stairs with Veronica helping from time to time with her legs. Hearing the noise, the two Japanese came to the foot of the stairs. Their eyes widened as far as they could.
“This...is...a...policewoman?” the older one asked. “It is allowed?”
“Well, technically, no,” Veronica admitted. “Nanny state and all that. But she’s here with all parts working. Do what you like to her.”
“Just thought we’d lay on a little extra entertainment for you,” Martin added. Kapila said nothing but stared at the two Japanese in such sad despair that their trousers bulged. The younger one whispered to the older.
“Ah, yes,” said the older man, “we must bring this piece to Mr Dunham. Mr and Mrs Hartington are our hosts in this house, but Mr Dunham is our host in Great Britain.”
“Quite right!” said Martin. He dragged the policewoman by her long hair into the living-room where the fat Mr Dunham had sunk into the armchair as far as was possible. He was delighted to see the way his boss’s eyes widened and lit up – and amused the see the movement in his boss’s trousers. While Veronica introduced Derek Brodie to her guests, they feasted their eyes on the curvy but bedraggled mess that had once been PC Kapila Nayar, now lying face up and staring dully at them. They saw the cum smeared across her face, the eye stuck shut, the torn remains of her uniform, her unprotected and blood-smeared cunt.
“Turn her over – let’s see the other side,” said Mr Dunham. Martin, with Derek’s help, turned her over. The two Japanese whispered to one another.
“What an arse!” said Mr Dunham throatily. “And even though it’s brown, you can still see someone’s just about flayed it. What’s your name? Derek? Was that you?” Derek told him the belt-work was his and the cane was mainly the Missus of the house. “Well done, Derek!” Dunham said. “I like your kind of man. Now, gentlemen – there are three of us here who haven’t yet enjoyed this juicy bit’s holes – oh, Martin, you haven’t either? Four then. We need some organisation in this. I think I would rather like a throat job. Now...” but the older Japanese coughed meaningfully.
“Mr Dunham, one point. Our police in Japan can be traced by their radios and phones, so that if one goes missing, the rest can find the location. It is probably the same with this one here.” There was an uncomfortable silence – but then the younger Japanese spoke:
“Show them to me. Thank you, Mrs Hartington. A very ordinary smart-phone and a police radio. Good. I am not just the maestro of computer games! I can fix these so they send no signals. Ten minutes max.” He took them away, saying, “Please do not wait for me. I can fuck the policewoman on my return.” But his helpful friends decided to wait for him so he shouldn’t miss any fun. He returned in just eight minutes to find the others nursing glasses of white wine and one set aside for him.
There had just been a low moaning from Kapila for some time. She was bruised, her cunt and arse burning, exhausted, limp, trying to persuade herself she was in some terrible dream and would wake up between crisp white sheets with her teddy. But she had recovered a little. She was strong. It was a while since she had been raped and even since she’d been dragged roughly down the stairs.
She could not understand who these people were. The tramp had raped her. The posh woman, incredibly, had stood and watched, had taken her inside this house and had tortured her. But then four respectably-dressed men had appeared, two white and two Far Eastern. Did they understand who she was and what had happened to her? Perhaps they thought she was a prostitute paid well to engage in very rough sex. She was no longer gagged, so she could speak.
“Please...I’m a policewoman. I’ve been beaten up and raped,” she said. The two Japanese giggled.
“Please – I’m a policewoman. I’ve been beaten up and raped!” the older one mimicked in a high voice.
“Right up my cunt and my arsehole, which should be strictly only for official use!” the younger one added in a similar voice.
“Except of course I am allowed to shit from my arsehole, but not from my cunt!” the older one added.
“But from my mouth I can make shit!” the younger one squeaked. They laughed uproariously.
“You’ve been raped, have you, darling?” Mr Dunham growled. “Up your arse, your cunt or your mouth?” She stared at him disbelievingly, helplessly. She did not reply. Dunham leant forward and slapped her face hard. “Answer, you stupid slut!” he shouted. The big brown eyes stated at him.
“Up my...up my...my bottom and my vulva,” she replied. This time it was Martin who slapped her.
“Up your arse and your cunt, you slag! Go on, say it, or I’ll pull your fucking ears off!”
“Oh God!” she wailed. “Oh God...up my arse and my cunt.”
“That leaves your mouth, then,” Dunham grunted. “Open it!” Part of Martin’s job was to advise and protect his boss. He saw a danger.
“Boss, she might bite,” he warned.
“I’ll deal with that!” Veronica declared. She straddled Kapila and brought her long nails round till they were pushing slightly at the bottom of her victim’s eyeballs. “If you misbehave, you wretched little foreign slut, I’ll claw your eyes out!” she hissed.
“So OPEN!” Dunham barked. He was delighted to see the full red lips open at his command. His greasy, swelling cock plugged the hole and as soon as he felt her lips on it, he shot off. She choked and gurgled. Veronica increased the pressure slightly and she got the message, keeping her mouth open. “LICK IT, SLUT!” Dunham commanded. She tried, but clumsily. “LICK, DON’T TWITCH AND POKE!” he yelled, grabbing both her ears and forcing her head forward. Desperately, she licked. He shot off again.
Kapila had never done anything like this before. She knew some girls did it, but it had always seemed dirty and disgusting to her. A girl who liked sucking men’s cocks was a whore. So now she was a whore. The fat man’s cock smelt acrid and tasted foul. His gluey cum slipped down her throat till she thought she would choke – and that idea was welcome, a promise of an end, a release.
But actually choking was another matter. She gagged. Her mouth opened wider...
“THINK, slut!” hissed Veronica. The long nails paused, ready. Kapila closed her lips but not her teeth around the stinking, pulsing cock.
Finally Dunham pulled out, wiping the glistening end of his cock across her face.
“You’ve got a lot to learn, Miss Piggy,” he told her.
She threw up over the rug. The two Japanese giggled nervously.
“YOU FILTHY SLUT!” Veronica hissed. She pushed Kapila’s face into the stinking yellowish mess and ground it there. When she jerked the policewoman’s head up again, there was vomit up her nostrils, on her cheeks, around her eyes and mouth and in her hair. “CLEAN UP THE MESS YOU’VE MADE!” she ordered. But Martin placed a calming hand on her shoulder.
“Darling, our Japanese guests have been waiting very patiently to use the policewoman,” he pointed out, “but they are men after all and I don’t think they can wait much longer.”
“Oh, and you haven’t had the wretched girl either, darling. I should have realised. Do go ahead and I’ll make her clean up later,” his wife replied. That matter cleared up, he took on the role of organiser.
“Who wants a go first?” he asked. He’d expected eager shouts. What he got was a whispered conference between the two Japanese while his boss waited, looking irritated.
“We have noticed that she has been caned,” the older one said after a while. “Those are cane marks, yes? On her posterior and also her legs? But she has not been caned on her tits. We would not want to sound as if we were criticising, but we think that is an omission.”
“Fortunately, Mr Endo is an expert with the cane,” the younger man explained. Endo smiled modestly and gave a hint of a bow. “If we may borrow the cane, he can demonstrate the tit caning.”
“Of course, gentlemen!” said Dunham. “I take it everyone is happy with that?” Everyone was happy. Martin was very obviously happy.
“Mr Takashita, I am very grateful,” said the older Japanese. “You are too kind. I am not an expert – merely an enthusiast with some little experience. Ah, this is the cane? A little on the heavy side compared to those I favour, but no doubt that is cultural difference. Now – I need an assistant. I am sorry, sir, that I have forgotten your name.”
“Brodie,” said Derek.
“Mr Brodie, I would be grateful for your assistance.”
“No problem,” Derek responded.
“You will hold her upright from the back, please. But the way her arms are handcuffed, that will get in the way, so please release them. You have the key?”
Kapila lay gradually recovering from near-death, her strong young body and not completely broken spirit restoring. She listened to these polite and detailed exchanges with incomprehension. What was going on? It was like some weird ritual. She had missed a few words and didn’t understand what they planned. Now the tramp was unlocking her cuffs. Her arms had been stiff and aching for ages, but she’d had so much fear and degradation and so much other pain to deal with that she’d almost forgotten them. Now they were released they were numb at first. The youngish white man and the tramp were pulling her to her feet. She was too weak to resist. The feeling began to return to her arms and they hurt horribly, worst even than her private parts. She moaned. They wanted her to stand and it seemed best to comply. The tramp was behind her trapping both her arms and pulling her on to him. The pain in the arms reached a climax and steadily declined. The tramp had a hard on again and it was pressing into her bottom crack but at least now he was wearing trousers with proper flies.
The tubby Japanese was approaching her smiling. He was holding that cane. He was shorter than her, so his eyes were level with her titties. Was it...no...yes, it was at her titties he was staring! Weakly, she tried to struggle but the tramp held her fast, grunting with pleasure. The horrible Mrs Hartington was whispering to her husband. He nodded. She marched forward, reached behind her and there was a zip sound. A fat, hardening cock rose into her bottom crack. The dreadful woman had unzipped the tramp’s flies! But now the middle-aged Japanese had advanced. He was smiling broadly, cruelly. He raised his arm with the cane, but well out to his side. SSSWIPP! The cane cut into the side of her right breast, but did not cut far because the firm breast unwisely resisted. The whole of it seemed to be on fire and the pain was unbearable. She screamed. The tramp was grunting and pumping into her bottom crack but she hardly cared any more.
Her breast was throbbing. The cruel bastard smiled wolfishly, his eyes gleaming. Here he came again. Oh God, the pain!
Mr Endo had struck about an inch further towards the nipple. Now he was ready for the third stroke. The others watched. He would surprise them. This required skill. He brought down the cane precisely on the weal from his first shot. The noise the wretched policewoman made was exceptional. It would greatly please his audience and that pleased him. Now for her other tit. This time he would let her think he was going to repeat the same clever trick, but he would not. She would get three neatly-spaced cuts. He did not think a Japanese girl would make so much noise, and was proud that his people had more self-control – but of course, they also had much smaller tits, and this was one reason why punishing the Indian piece was so interesting, as good as that German student tourist all those years back or the American civil rights worker his business contacts had picked up in Burma. Bending down a bit, he managed to deliver one stroke each to the undersides of her tits. If they had been floppy, that would have been impossible, but they were foolishly proud and firm. Excellent. To hit the tops he had to stand on tiptoe, but he had been a gymnast in his youth and the skill had not deserted him. He couldn’t get his full strength into the cuts, but they were still enough to make the whore scream.
He had been saving up the best. This again needed careful aim and good nerve. Kapila saw his cruel smile widen and his eyes gleam. She guessed what was coming. The cane struck with full force right on the nipple. Derek found her writhing and jerking so hard she could have damaged his cock, so he gripped her closer, enough to hurt her arms. She got the message. The other nipple got the same treatment. Just to show he could do it, Mr Endo repeated each shot. She was wailing like a dying animal. He bowed in response to the applause. He returned the cane to Mrs Hartington.
“That was superb, old chap, absolutely magic. Now – you’re still going to fuck her, aren’t you?” Mr Dunham probed.
“Please – we would like to do her all at once in different holes,” said Endo. “But not in her mouth. We think she is weak and unfit and maybe she dies while we are fucking her. Then perhaps her mouth clamps shut – I have heard a story.” Martin agreed their request and they had another short conference about how to arrange it. Finally Endo coughed meaningfully.
“I am arsehole lover,” he announced. “So I go on top and fuck her up the arse. My colleague has volunteered to go under her and make proper use of her cunt. We try to keep rhythm: UP DOWN UP DOWN UP DOWN UP DOWN! It is a big challenge. Now if Mr Dunham or Mr Hartington would like to fuck her tits, or Mr Hartington to fuck her mouth, we have a threesome.”
“Thanks, gentlemen – I’ll wait for the other holes,” Martin replied. They lifted Kapila up enough for the lithe little Japanese to clamber under her, having first removed his trousers and folded them neatly across a chair. His older colleague also removed his trousers. Then stared at the magnificent brown but red-striped buttocks like a tiger about to bite into succulent prey. He pulled them roughly apart and stared inside. He bent and sniffed, long and luxuriously. He extended a long, knobbly finger and poked. The buttocks quivered fearfully. He shoved his finger far in. She went rigid. He moved his finger about as if stirring something, smiling broadly. He pulled his finger out, sniffed it, grinned, pulled out his stiff cock and forced it in between her plump buttocks.
He was a second behind his colleague, who had just forced his hungry cock into her cunt. They hammered from either side. She shook and jerked between them like a rat worried by a dog. A broken moan escaped from her mouth: oaoaOAoaoaOA. Martin and his boss began to clap in unison. They clapped louder and louder. The moan became weaker and quieter until it was hardly more than a whisper. Responding to this, the two Japanese began to count in English. They kept going till 37.
“That was a no-good cunt, very weak and loose from too much fucking,” Takashita complained.
“Her arsehole was beautifully tight! You should try it instead!” his colleague replied. “But no, our host Mr Hartington has been patiently waiting.”
“I can wait. I’m enjoying learning from you guys,” Martin assured him. There was a brief debate about how the policewoman and her masters should be arranged now. The older man was reluctant to go underneath her and the younger deferred to him.
“No problem – I stay underneath, you stay on top and we turn the brown whore round the other way!” he proposed. With the help of Martin and Derek, it was done. The policewoman stared at the ceiling with glazed eyes, but when Martin moved his hand to and fro over her face, the big brown eyes followed it.
“I think I’ll lend a hand,” said Mr Dunham. But it was not a hand he lent. He levered himself clumsily from the chair, lowered his trousers and underpants and sat his giant, fat and loose arse on Kapila’s face. A strangled, weak, protesting sound like “Ung!” just escaped her lips before they were smothered in smelly flab. Her legs made a few pointless jerky kicks. The two Japanese began to fuck her again. Her body spasmed to and fro at their command, so it was hard to see if she was making any movements of her own, if there were any signs of life. Martin glimpsed the tramp watching with an expression of fierce excitement. He knew his expression would be similar – but maybe more so. For Martin watching someone die being raped was the ultimate dream.
Mr Dunham let out a long, juicy, liquid, self-satisfied fart on Kapila’s face.
“Enough?” the older Japanese asked the younger. The younger did not look ready to finish, but he politely deferred to his senior.
The policewoman lay limp and still, her once-smooth body coated with cum. Mr Dunham farted again. She did not move. Mr Dunham, though, did move, but slowly, raising himself off her.
“Think I’ve done for the stupid bit,” he said. Martin darted in and checked her pulse. It was slow and uneven, but it was there. Her tits were just about rising and falling with faint, shallow breathing.
“She’s still alive,” he announced.
“That is good,” Endo commented. “They are so much better fuck alive than dead.” He slapped her face hard. Her eyelids, stuck with cum, tried to open. “But, Mr Hartington, you have not fucked her yet. Please!” he prodded.
“Darling, do you want her washed first?” Veronica asked her husband. “I most carefully washed her with Derek’s help, but the dreadful little slut’s all dirty again all ready.”
“She’s fine like she is,” Martin replied. “Cunt first, I think.” The Japanese had been right: her cunt might have been tight when the tramp first got in it, but not now. She was hardly reacting at all. But for Martin that wasn’t all bad: he savoured her weakness, he knew she was hanging on to life by a thread, and that amused him – amused him so much he was....aaah, that had been heavenly. Devilish. Don’t spoil it – have her up the arse now.
“Butter, darling?” Veronica offered. Good idea, he thought. He dipped his finger in the soft butter and shoved it up the policewoman’s arsehole. It felt delicious – almost like raping her, almost like eating her. Butter, he thought – maybe a little basil, balsamic vinegar, parsley: slow roast policewoman’s arse with white wine. Well, better arsefuck her first. The butter worked wonders: her arsehole was tight and slick. Of course, he’d forgotten the stuffing. Well, that was done now. He cried out in triumph and all the others clapped, smiling.
Kapila lay faintly panting on the edges of consciousness, hanging stubbornly on to life, eyes glazed, pride wrecked, happiness raped. What she had been through would have killed most women, but she had been young, healthy, superbly fit and full of the enjoyment of life. She still was determined to live. This torture would have an end.
The men stood around her staring down.
“Well, Mr Brodie, we owe you a considerable debt,” Mr Dunham said.
“A pleasure,” said Derek, and meant it. Now the two Japanese were whisperering between themselves. Martin was curious about what they were going to come up with. The older one approached Veronica.
“Mrs Hartington – is it permitted to piss on her?” he asked. Veronica considered.
“Only in the bath,” she ruled. “Derek – would you be a dear and drag her to the bath again? Martin will help you.” So they dragged the limp, beaten body up the stairs and dumped it in the bath. The two Japanese followed at a respectful distance. Kapila lay face up in the now dry bath, eyes staring. Martin thought to put the bathplug in. The older Japanese pulled out his cock and directed a stinking stream neatly into her face, eyes, nose, open mouth. She spluttered and choked. He finished on her tits and handed over to his younger colleague. Smiling, the young man pissed in her face again, on her flat blown belly, on her cunt.
“Dirty fucking slag, isn’t she?” Derek commented. “Think I’ll piss on her too.” By now she was awash in piss, soaking her hair. A bit more and she’d drown in it. But the older Japanese rolled her over and pulled the plug out.
Derek stared at her. Not long ago she’d been that prissy, self-righteous interfering Paki cunt playing lady bountiful and talking down to him. Now look at her. A filthy, stinking slag, a limp, dirty, sodden rag ready to chuck in a waste bin. And it was down to him.
Dunham was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. Veronica, assuming he was wondering about lunch, assured him it could wait and be ready whenever the guests wanted. He thanked her.
“Gentlemen, we need to talk business,” he said. “We can make it brief, because our lady host will want to serve the meal.”
Less than an hour later, a grey van marked “Thompson’s Gourmet Meats” drew up quietly on the driveway. The guests and their hosts all said goodbye to Kapila – Veronica by slapping her face and all the men by patting or pinching her roasted hindquarters.
The uniformed driver helped Martin Hartington and the younger Japanese load a large package into the back.
The older Japanese smiled and shook Dunham’s hand.
“Excellent!” he said. “A mutually profitable transaction, a win-win, unless of course you consider our brown comfort girl. For her it is a lose!”
“She won’t be able to take it easy in your state employment any more,” the younger Japanese added. “Two or three years very hard work with arse and cunt in that Thai brothel – maybe four max, but in Thailand they’ll very much like having an English policewoman, so she’ll be in much demand and will wear out quickly - and then...(he paused, smiling)...into Thai green curry with her!” He rubbed his stomach. His older colleague put a hand on Derek’s shoulder and took him slightly aside.
“Mr Brodie, we are very much indebted to you,” he said. “You are a strong, clever and ruthless man. We have need of people like you, good English speakers, in our company. You will get to take other girls, maybe other policewomen! Only we must get you proper clothes, especially trousers, and – you are heavy drinker, yes? You must drink less. We can find help. For that, good pay.” Derek stared at him, failing to take in what was being said. “You are interested?” the man asked.
“Yeah, interested,” Derek replied.
Martin Hartington came over.
“Derek – I’ve had a chat with Mr Dunham about our policewoman’s effects. Her panties and bra are yours, of course, as trophies. Mr Dunham wants us to have her I.D. because it might come in useful and it would hardly work for you. Now that leaves her watch, her phone, her engagement ring with a genuine diamond and £43:66 she had on her in notes and coins. That shouldn’t be far short of a thou. We can arrange to convert the good into money. I hope you can accept all that in appreciation for what you’ve done.”
“Yeah,” said Derek.
Some three years later a very different Derek Brodie was eating well in a restaurant. His face and the skin of his hands showed the effects of a rough and dissolute life and there was still a heavy, brutal and mean look about him, but these are often the marks of a successful businessman. Derek was dressed as a successful businessman. He had even lost a little weight and was properly shaved.
Two beautiful Far Eastern girls attended him. It was after all a Thai restaurant, not too surprising as it was in Thailand, in Bangkok. With a toothpick he dislodged the last tiny sliver of meat and swallowed it. He poured another glass of white wine. He looked up. He belched. One of the waitresses seemed to want a word.
“Yes>” he asked.
“Sir, I hope I am not too forward, but it is being said that you are a very distinguished gentleman and especially the chef is happy with you for your contribution,” she said. Her English was quite good.
He’d changed his mind about curries, at least Thai ones. His meal had been delicious and it was on expenses. He wasn’t big on vegetables or salad, but the meat had been a bit different and especially succulent. Like the waitress.
“Yes, that’s right, darling,” he said, and reached out to squeeze her arse. Intriguingly, she made a little squeak but showed no signs of wanting to get away.
“The chef would like...oooh, you are much kind...to see you and thank you. But after, I would like to see you. There is a room. You are my hero. Please be as rough as you like. Oh, I am stupid Indian policewoman in England! You are under arrest! No, help, stop! What are you doing? You like that?”
"Yeah, I like that,” said Derek.
Well, he thought later on, it was time for a good shit and then that would be the end of the story.
