Batgirl - A Night at the Club (page 24)
by RenderPretender - http://deviantart.com/renderpretender and patreon.com/renderpretender
BOUND IN MATRIMONY (Parts 3 & 4)
Story by Rescuer673 - https://www.deviantart.com/rescuer673
by RenderPretender - http://deviantart.com/renderpretender and patreon.com/renderpretender
BOUND IN MATRIMONY (Parts 3 & 4)
Story by Rescuer673 - https://www.deviantart.com/rescuer673
The next
morning, Wolf Carmichael awakened looking forward to the day.
Today
was the day he’d pay off on the promise he’d made to himself nearly a decade
ago. Today was the day that the girl who’d haunted his dreams for so long would
finally be his.
Everything was in place.
The van, normally used as a “crash truck” by the gang on runs, was parked
unobtrusively by a stone bridge adjacent to a branch of the Kitekhahki River
southeast of Bazaine. He’d take her at the school, drive her in her own car to
the van, then abandon the car and transfer her to the van for the hour-long
trip to his farm in Adams County.
Carmichael chuckled at the notion of the president of a biker gang being a
farmer. In point of fact, he wasn’t. His uncle, who, after his parents died,
had been his only living relative, had built up the farming business. He’d made
a small killing in the stock market, and used it to buy up plots of land,
refinancing and buying more, until eventually he had over 100,000 contiguous
acres in the most agriculturally prosperous county in the state. That was more
than one man could farm, obviously, so he’d carved out a two hundred acre
“island” for himself in the middle of the property, built a spacious and
comfortable farmhouse on that island, and rented out the rest of the property
for other people to farm. He had become quite wealthy just on the rents, but
when oil was discovered on part of his property, he’d made a deal that turned
him from merely “quite wealthy” to “filthy rich.”
When
the uncle died, it had all come to Carmichael who, even after the payment of
fairly substantial estate taxes, found himself suddenly a multi-millionaire.
And, with the rents still coming in, the oil still pumping, and the investments
still paying off big-time, his wealth just kept growing. Keeping what he
thought of as his “farming” life separate from his biker life, he had moved
into the luxurious farmhouse, and lived well. The big money even paid off in
cementing his status with the other gang members. The club naturally continued
its activities in drugs, gun-running, prostitution, protection, etc. But
Carmichael personally no longer needed the income those activities produced.
The thing about biker gangs is that, notwithstanding their dangerous activities
and the threat they pose to law-abiding citizens, they tend, because of their
overtly counter-culture lifestyle, to be the armpit of American organized
crime. Traditional organized crime groups may be violent, but they try to at
least appear to be part of the community. Bikers purposefully stand out,
deliberately making themselves abhorrent to the rest of society, derisively
referred to as “citizens.”
Moreover,
for traditional mobsters, making money is the whole point of a gang’s
existence. For bikers, criminal enterprises are entered into primarily to
maintain their “outlaw” lifestyle and image, and that lifestyle and image is
expensive to maintain. Consequently, bikers tend to squander their ill-gotten
gains indulging in drug use themselves, in sexual gratification (often forced),
in maintaining their choppers, etc.
Since
Carmichael was independently wealthy, he could maintain the lifestyle on his
own nickel. As president, he was entitled to the biggest cut of any profit a
given criminal enterprise generated, but he always donated his share to the
rest of the gang. For him, being a biker had essentially become a hobby, a
hobby that he could now afford to maintain thanks to his uncle’s hard work.
So
Anne Leonard was about to marry rich.
Whether
she wanted to or not.
Life
was getting better and, once he had Anne in his power, it would be perfect.
So
he thought.
*
Anne arrived at the school a little early, so she could check in at the
administrative office, find out where he classroom was, get a roll list, etc.
Bureaucratic hoops successfully jumped through, and a key to her classroom
issued, Anne opened the door, and waited outside so she could greet the kids as
they came in. Some of the kids were walked into the building by one or another
of their parents, and she was uncomfortably aware of how some of the fathers
were ogling her. Really, she liked being a pretty woman, but she wasn’t
all that remarkable.
*
Paperwork completed, Bishop tried to contrive some excuse to drive up to Tracy
County and check in early with Anne.
Off-hand he couldn’t think of one. He had no open cases there at the moment.
Then again, he did like to keep in personal contact with local police in his
four-county beat, and he hadn’t touched base with Sheriff Cordell “Whip” Bryant
for awhile. Maybe he could sort of mosey on up there and shoot the breeze with
ol’ Whip for a bit, then head for the school to see if he could talk Anne into
leaving early today.
*
Carmichael had seen Anne’s early arrival, but held off.
When kids started filtering into school he moved a bit closer to the campus, a
paper shopping bag in his hand, and waited ‘til the crowd of students got
larger. Then he took a position beside a kid who was by himself and strode in
confidently as if he was the kid’s parent. The kid wasn’t in Anne’s class, but
Carmichael saw her standing outside the classroom entrance, greeting all her
new students as they came in.
He had a fairly clear idea of what the floor plan of the building was. It was
shaped like an “L,” and the bottom part of the “L” was two stories. The
classrooms on that wing were all on the second story. The first story was an
auditorium, which doubled as a lunchroom on normal days, and was also used for
special assemblies, school plays, etc. On the wall underneath the stage level,
was a door, indicating that, below the stage floor, it was hollow, and probably
used for storage. Making sure that no one else saw him, he entered the
auditorium, opened the doorway beneath the stage, crawled inside, and closed it
behind him.
There was little chance that anyone would need any of the items stored in this
space directly beneath the stage today, and, in the unlikely event that
anything was needed and retrieved, little chance that he’d be spotted in the
far corner where he was hunkered down. He was safe here.
Now all he needed was patience.
*
The day had gone well. She liked the kids and the kids seemed to like her.
A good part of the day was spent just getting to know each other. Some of the
better students in the class were able to give her some idea of what the
regular daily routine was like.
Now that school was out, she’d spend the next few hours reviewing the lesson
plan, the prior work of the students, and scheduling the remaining days.
As she sat the desk working, there was knock on the door.
“Come in.”
And there was Jack, looking like a successful young executive in the nicely
fitting dark gray business suit.
“Jack!” she said. “What a nice surprise. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a
suit before. Sports coat and tie, but never an actual suit.”
“This is my Sunday go-to-meeting,” he replied. “Although, come to think of it,
Sunday Mass is actually one of the few times I don’twear a coat and
tie. It’s my Christmas and Easter go-to-meeting.”
“And you wore it for me?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.” He looked at her intently and said, “You certainly look
nice.”
“If you’d’ve waited until it was time to pick me up at the motel, I’d’ve looked
even nicer.”
With that, she stood up, turned her back to him, pulled off the angora sweater,
and turned back around to face him. Jack’s mouth dropped open in a very
gratifying way, and all he could think of to say was, “Wow!”
“You like it?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess we both decided to dress up a little for each other,
didn’t we?”
She nodded.
“Does that mean what I hope it means?” he asked.
“What do you hope it means?” she said.
“That maybe we’re coming to feel something more for each other than just
friendship.”
“Well, Jack, it’s been a year. You can’t exactly say we’ve been rushing it.”
“If you go back to when I was ogling you in high school, it’s been almost ten
years. But when we finally met, you were a widow in mourning. And I was the cop
investigating your husband’s murder. It didn’t seem appropriate. Fact is that
unsolved murder is still between us.”
“It needn’t be. If he’d died of an incurable disease, and you were a doctor,
would you feel that you had to find a cure before you came courting?”
“Not the same thing.”
“Sure it is, in essentials. We’d have our lives to live whether or not you were
ever able to come up with a cure. And we have our lives to live whether or not
the murder’s solved. Should we deny ourselves a chance at being happy because
my husband happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Perhaps not. That’s actually what I intended to talk to you about at dinner
tonight. I have a new theory. I could be completely off-base, but at least it
gives me a new direction to work.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it now? That way, we can enjoy each other’s
company at dinner without other issues impinging.”
So Jack told her his theory. That she was at the heart of the motive behind
Phil’s murder. That Phil was killed to make her available again. She felt a
twinge of guilt, but only a twinge. In the first place, this was only a theory,
and might never prove out. In the second, she was not responsible for the
choices other persons made.
“That’s really all there is to it. A guy from Kent County High breaking the
Ninth Commandment. I got the notion from watching David and Bathsheba one
night, and the three Back to the Future movies the next.”
“Does that really seem credible, Jack?”
“Murders have been committed for a lot less. And there’s a reason God put that
particular prohibition about coveting other men’s wives on His Top Ten list. If
men weren’t doing it, there’d’ve been no need to forbid it. I don’t think
you’ve ever truly realized just how much of an affect you had on the male half
of Kent County High’s student body. And not all of them were content just to
look and think. Teen-aged boys talk to each other about girls. And not all the
talk stopped at what a hottie you were.”
And are, he thought.
“What do you mean?”
“Some guys made really crude, obscene remarks. That’s really not that unusual
among adolescent boys, but it’s generally about fantasy women, a movie star or
that month’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, or someone
they saw on the ‘Net. Rarely about a real girl. But these were about
a real girl. You. Some of those guys might not’ve outgrown those attitudes.
And, if I am right, I think his next step, whatever it is, is
coming pretty soon.”
“Why?”
“It’s been over a year since Phil’s murder. It’s been months since the case has
been actively worked. If I’m right, and someone killed Phil to get to you, he
probably figures enough time has passed to make it safe. That means you’ve got
to be extra careful.”
“Careful how?”
“Just be alert. Make sure your motel doors are locked when you’re working out
of town. That the doors are locked when you’re at home. Keep an eye out for
signs that you’re being stalked. Look inside your car before you get in to make
sure no one’s waiting for you. Things like that”
Anne let out a breath, and said, “I’m glad we had this conversation now. It
would have spoiled dinner.”
“Yes, now we can talk about pleasant things. Are you ready to go?”
“I told you, I have to stay late today. Pick me up at the motel at six like we
planned. I’m already dressed. All I’ll have to do is take off my sweater and
replace it with a really nice shawl I brought. Which reminds me.”
She pulled her sweater back on.
“No way I can tempt you to leave now?” he asked.
“If I don’t get on top of this stuff tonight, I’ll be behind the whole week. That’s
not fair to the kids.”
“Okay,” he said. “You win. I’ll see you at six.”
*
About ten minutes before five, Carmichael emerged from his hiding place,
reasonably sure no one else was in the building besides him and Anne.
He
reached into the brown paper bag he’d brought with him and withdrew some
coveralls which he pulled on over his street clothes, counting on her not yet
being familiar with the custodial staff. They also had the effect of
transforming his scraggly, bearded, deliberately threatening “outlaw biker”
look into a safer, blue-collar “regular working guy” look.
He
went to the teacher’s lounge, and bought a couple of Cokes from the vending
machine, one Classic and one Diet. He uncapped the Diet Coke, then reached into
a pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag containing a powder that he poured
into the soft drink. Then he recapped the bottle, twisting it down as hard as
he could so it wouldn’t seem like it had been opened.
He then walked nonchalantly to her classroom, knocked on the door, opened it,
and said, “Hi. You must be the new sub.”
She smiled and nodded. She looked great. Modestly dressed, but still hot. A
white angora pullover sweater over a floral print skirt that extended well below
her knees.
He continued, “I’m the kinda new assistant janitor. Just got myself a pop.” He
indicated the plastic bottles he was holding in each hand. “When I noticed the
light on, I got you one, too. Diet Coke okay?”
She smiled, thanked him, and said, “I’ll be out of your way soon. Shouldn’t be
here more than another half-hour or so.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll probably be here ‘til past eight, anyway.”
He took a long pull on his Coke. She took several ladylike sips. It wouldn’t
take more than that.
Her eyes didn’t exactly close, but it wasn’t exactly an anesthetic. More like a
muscle relaxer. Or more accurately, a muscle paralyzer. She’d be awake enough
to understand what was going on, but unable to do anything about it.
Before the drug took hold completely, she managed to put what was left of the
drink (which was most of it), back on the desk, before collapsing into her
chair.
Now that she was unable to move, he walked over to her and took a closer look.
His heart started beating faster. He licked his lips and started breathing
heavily as the realization that she was now powerless to stop him from doing
anything he wanted to her sank in.
He
focused on her angora sweater first. While quite attractive on her, it was a
bit baggy, hiding her figure. He removed it, and was pleasantly surprised to
find that, underneath, she wasn’t wearing a conservative skirt, but a strapless
cocktail dress.
“Kinda fancy, darlin’,” he said. “Have a date tonight? Well, it’s been over a
year since your husband died. Guess that’s a reasonable mourning period. But
now that you and I are engaged, you really shouldn’t be seeing other guys.”
Discarding the sweater, he gagged her, a tight cleave gag that not only
silenced her, but gathered her lovely hair attractively around her shoulders.
Then he tied her wrists, elbows, ankles, and knees with white rope he’d placed
in the huge pockets of his coveralls.
Once
her legs were tied, he ran his hands up and down them. She wasn’t wearing hose.
Her skin was so creamy and smooth, she didn’t need to. Her shoes were strappy,
high-heeled sandals, another indication she’d festive plans for the evening.
Lastly,
he secured her arms to her body, encircling ropes tightly around her upper
torso, above and below her bosom. Then he hoisted her over his shoulder, exited
the classroom, walked down the hallway to a storage room near the back
entrance, and locked her in.
He
went back to the classroom and sat down at her desk.
Taking
a piece of paper from the top of a pile, he wrote something at the bottom. Then
he fed it into the computer, which was still on, typed something, and printed
it out. Folding the paper, he put it in a pocket, then retrieved her purse, and
went out to the parking lot, where her car was the only one left. He got
inside, and drove it around to the back entrance. Before reentering the
building, he opened the trunk lid.
*
She was starting to shake off the effects of the drug, which were apparently
short-term. The ropes were now doing what the drug had done, holding her
immobile and helpless.
Engaged?
He thinks we’re engaged? As far as she knew, they’d never met.
Was he a Kent County alum? Was Jack right about why Phil was killed?
Was her kidnapper also Phil’s murderer?
More importantly, was Jack smart enough to know she wouldn’t’ve stood him up?
Was escape possible? If not on her own, then with Jack’s help?
*
He returned. The sight of her trying to loosen her bonds set his heart racing
even more than it already was.
He
stared at her. Beautiful eyes stared back with a delicious blend of anger,
fear, and sleepiness as she struggled to shake the drug. She looked so fine in
that strapless floral print dress! She was the sort of girl on whom any clothes
looked great. Whatever she wore seemed stylish. Even the ropes and the gag, as
much as she was trying to free herself from them, looked like fashion
accessories.
After nearly ten years, she was his!
Again
he hoisted her over his shoulder and took her to where he’d parked her car. He
placed her inside the trunk. Before closing the lid, he pulled down the top of
her dress, exposing her bosom. She screamed but the gag effectively muffled
her.
For
just a moment he stared at the two firm, beautifully shaped breasts. For ten
years he’d only been able to imagine what they’d look like. The reality was
better than what he’d been able to imagine.
What
would they feel like?
He
suddenly grabbed one in each hand and began kneading them roughly.
“So
long!” he said. “I’ve waited so very long to do this!”
At
first she was too overcome to make a sound, but, as his bestial attentions to
her dainty majesties continued, she began to moan and whimper in pain and fear.
Trying to make herself understood through the gag, she begged him to stop.
The
whines of fear and pleading only fueled his desire. Nevertheless, he abruptly
stopped.
“Can’t get distracted,” he said. “Plenty of time when we get home. It’s not
that long a drive. But we have one stop to make.”
*
The car came to stop, but that was all Anne knew.
The trunk lid opened. The bearded kidnapper took a firm grip on her dress below
where the ropes encircled her bosom, and carefully pulled it through the bottom
rope. Once it was free, he pulled it off completely, as well as her shoes.
Lastly, he yanked off the small crucifix she wore around her neck, leaving her
naked except for her white cotton panties. He closed the trunk lid again.
They
were by the bridge near where he had parked the van earlier. He went onto the
bridge, and carefully packed the dress, shoes, and purse into a tight corner
formed by the bridge wall and one of the support beams coming up from the
river.
This particular branch of the river that spanned by the bridge sometimes dried
up completely, but right now, due to some heavy rainstorms the previous week,
it was flowing rapidly enough to make it hazardous for swimmers and any boat
not especially crafted to traverse rapids. A person who jumped into it could
not expect to survive. And it was just barely possible that no body would ever
be recovered.
He took the paper on which he had typed the note in Anne’s classroom, unfolded
it, and read it:
The
death of my husband has been more than I can bear. Since he’s been gone I feel
as though I’m slowly going crazy.
I hope everyone will forgive me for ending it like this, but I wish to die
rather than live without him.
Below that was the signature “Anne R. Leonard,” which he had carefully traced
from an impression left from her having signed a note placed on top of the pile
of paper from which he had retrieved this sheet. He folded the crucifix inside
the note, then slid it under the flap of her purse, with a bit showing so it
would be seen by whoever discovered it, then placed the purse and shoes over
the dress and sweater to anchor them against the corner.
He went back to her car, lifted her out, threw her over his shoulder again, and
carried her over to where he had the van hidden. He opened the side door, and
laid her
down on a
mattress that had been placed on the floor of the storage area.
Once again temptation overcame him and he began running his hands over her
body, squeezing her breasts and caressing her thighs. He bent down and sloppily
kissed her. The cleave gag left her lips uncovered, though it kept him from
invading her mouth with his tongue. She tried to squirm away, but to no avail.
Indeed, the squirming seemed to excite him more.
Again, he stopped abruptly, stood up, and said, “That’ll have to hold me ‘til
we get home. But that’s less than an hour from here.”
*
“Home” was a spacious, attractive wood farmhouse, on what appeared to be a huge
piece of acreage, though she had time for little more than an impression before
being hoisted over his shoulder again.
Once he had the front door open, he switched from an over-the shoulder carry to
a cradle carry and stepped inside.
“Proper way to carry a bride across the threshold,” he said.
*
He took her downstairs to a room prepared in the basement, tossed her on a huge
bed, and climbed in with her.
For the next five hours, she lay on her side with him behind her. One of his
hands snaked under her neck, reaching across her chest to find one of her
breasts and begin mercilessly squeezing. The other reached over from above to
slide under her panties and begin exploring her most intimate parts.
Meanwhile, he grinded against her bottom, barely pausing, climaxing over and
over, drenching her panties in his cum. She moaned in fear and misery. It made
him even more excited.
Stopping briefly, he finally pulled her panties down. Not all the way off, just
as far as the ropes that secured her thighs. Then he again started grinding
against her now naked bottom, not penetrating, just sliding back and forth
inside the crack, timing his thrusts like a master choreographer, so that each
one coincided with a painful squeeze on one of her breasts by one hand, and an
invasive stroke against her femininity with the other.
Not quite rape. But just as humiliating. Just as violating.
A few minutes before twelve, he stopped, pulled her panties back up, threw a
blanket over her, and left, locking the door behind him.
“Can’t see the bride on our wedding day until the service starts,” he said.
“And our wedding day starts at midnight.”
Heartsick and anguished at the dreadful, frightening situation in which she
found herself, she cried herself to sleep.
*
She was awakened by a coarse-looking woman in tight jeans and a leather vest
with a patch sewn on back that said “Property of the Heathens of Satan.” Her
arms were both heavily tattooed.
“Morning,” she said, removing her gag and giving her a few swallows of water.
“I’m your bridesmaid, though I stopped bein’ a maid long ago. Name’s Sherry
Marvin. Congratulations. You’re slidin’ right by ‘sheep,’ ‘mama,’ and even ‘old
lady,’ and going right to ‘citizen wife.’ Married to a biker, but not part of
biker life. Course, you really won’t be part of any life. Just his personal,
legally married fucktoy.”
“What do you mean ‘legally?’”
“This is a common law state. You don’t need to get a license for a marriage to
be legal here. You don’t even need a ceremony. All you need is for both of you
to consent to be married to each other, consummate the marriage, and publicly
put yourselves forward as a married couple.”
“Who says I’m consenting? He kidnapped me! There’s no consent in that.”
“You’ll consent. Let me show you why.”
She pulled out a cell phone and showed her a picture on the screen.
“You know what that is?” she asked.
“It’s my parents’ house,” she said, a bit more subdued.
“That’s right. What if I told you there’s a bomb planted in the basement of
their house, radio-activated, ready to be set off the moment Wolf orders the
man standing by to push the button.”
Anne thought for a moment, then said, “I’d say you were bluffing.”
The biker woman smiled. “Maybe I am,” she said. “But do you want to bet the
lives of your folks and your little girl on that? And even if I am, it doesn’t
change the fact that we know where your family lives, and the Heathens are a
violent bunch. Their safety depends on your cooperation.”
“The Heathens?”
“The Heathens of Satan Motorcycle Club. What citizens like you call a ‘biker
gang.’ Not as famous as the Hell’s Angels, but we’ve got a pretty respectable
reputation in the Midwest. Wolf Carmichael, he’s your fiancé just in case he
never got around to introducing himself, he’s the president. I’m not supposed
to admit this to citizens like you, but you know all those true crime articles
and TV documentaries that all go on about how bikers are the most violent
organized crime entity?” She paused for effect, then went on. “Well, they’re
all true. So your family’s safety really does depend on your going ahead with
this marriage. And that starts with willingly exchanging vows at the ceremony.”
“What ceremony? I thought you said common law marriages didn’t need a
ceremony.”
“They don’t need one. Wolf wants one. So he’s got himself a preacher upstairs,
a sort of preacher, anyway, who’s going to read the words and then pronounce
you man and wife.”
“What kind of clergyman would participate in a . . . farce like this.”
“Club meetings are generally referred to as ‘church.’ One of the Heathens,
Spike Foster, got himself ordained on the ‘Net. That means the club can get tax
exempt status as a religious organization, and Spike can visit members in jail
or prison as their spiritual advisor. He’ll be the officiant. So when he asks
you if you take Wolf as your husband, just agree. If you love your family, just
agree.”
“But even if I do agree, people will be looking for me.”
“No they won’t. Not for awhile at least. Wolf fixed it so it looked like you
committed suicide by jumping off a bridge into a river. And they’ll never find
you here. And here’s where you’ll stay ‘til death do you part. Biker stuff
aside, Wolf’s one of the richest men in the state, and he’s willing to pay for
his privacy. Farm rentals. Oil rights. Mutual funds. He’s rolling in it. And he
can afford to keep you here for the rest of your life, without anyone, outside
of a small, tight group in the Club, even knowing. He did say he was going to
take you into town for the wedding night, but that’ll probably be your last
outing. After that, it’s life imprisonment for you, without the possibility of
parole.”
Nobody, Anne thought, who really knew her could possibly think she’d ever
commit suicide. At least she hoped not. Certainly her parents would never
believe it. Nor would Phil’s folks. Nor Father Connolly. And she hoped Jack
would never believe it. Right now, the only hope she could hold onto was the
belief that people were out there, that Jack was out there, looking for her.
For the next hour, the biker woman prepared her. She was bathed, shampooed, and
dressed. As she was being cleansed and moisturized, it seemed to Anne that the
biker woman lingered just a little bit when she ran her hands over her body as
she helped her bathe and apply moisturizer.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “Your life’s going to be unpleasant enough
without me making you even more uncomfortable. Most of the guys don’t know I
swing both ways. Fact is, it wasn’t just the boys at Kent County who used
salivate over you when you walked home. Some of us girls, those inclined a
particular way, crushed on you, too.”
Anne’s eyes widened in shock and embarrassment. She could think of nothing to
say to that, and decided that nothing was the best thing to say.
“Let’s get you dressed,” her “bridesmaid” said.
Her
“gown” was nothing but a strapless pearl-white corset, with a frilly fringe
along the bottom suggesting a skirt, though it didn’t extend beyond her waist,
and the pearl satin thong panties were plainly visible. For practical purposes,
Anne’s bottom was completely bare, the tiny strand of satin acting as “butt
floss” essentially invisible in the crack of her heart-shaped bottom. Though
her legs were bare, a blue garter was slid up her right calf.
The woman attached a pearl choker around her throat.
“That belongs to me,” she said. “I’ll want it back after the ceremony. That’s
your ‘something borrowed.’ The garter’s your ‘something blue.’ The corset and
panties are brand new. Wolf did a little research to get your size. That’s why
it fits so well.”
She then fastened a chain from which a cameo was suspended around her neck,
just below the pearl choker.
“Cameo belonged to Wolf’s mom. It’s a family heirloom. Goes all the way back to
the Civil War.”
Something old, Anne thought to herself.
A pair of white, strappy high-heeled sandals, similar to the ones Carmichael
had taken from her yesterday, were the next item she donned. One of them felt
like it had a bump under the sole, making it a bit uncomfortable.
“Last line of the poem,” said Sherry Marvin. “‘Silver sixpence in her shoe.’
Wolf actually bought a British sixpence coin from a collector and had it sewn
into the shoe.”
The
biker woman then tied Anne’s wrists, in front rather than behind, though her
elbows were pinioned to her side by another rope tied across her back. Another
cleave gag, a long white satin scarf, was tied over her mouth. Her legs were
tied together, above the knees, then another rope connected her wrists to her
knees so that she’d be unable to raise her wrists to her face and remove her
gag. The ankles were left unbound so Anne could walk, or at least hobble. A
small nosegay was placed in her hands. A veil was placed atop her head.
The
bride was ready.
·
***
The biker woman, Sherry Marvin, led her up the stairs to the spacious living
room, where the three remaining members of the wedding party were waiting. Anne
and her “bridesmaid” were the only women. Her kidnapper, the man Sherry Marvin
called Wolf Carmichal, was already in the groom’s position. A second man,
facing Carmichael and holding what looked like a prayerbook, was presumably the
“clergyman,” Spike Foster. A third man was standing next to Carmichael. She
guessed he was the best man.
All
three were wearing frayed blue jeans and leather vests, and like the biker
woman, all three were heavily tattooed. Sewn on the back of all three vests
were three different patches. A small arch-shaped one on top said “Heathens of
Satan MC.” Another arc-shaped one on the bottom, curving up instead of down,
said “Midwestern U.S.” The one in the middle depicted a particularly scary
looking Satan, with enormous goat horns growing out of his forehead, riding a
motorcycle.
The
fronts of the vests were decorated with dozens of smaller patches. All three
had a patch that said “1%.” All three had a patch with the number “13” on it.
All three had a patch that said “HFFH.” All three had at least one skull &
crossbones patch, and Carmichael had four. All had a number of pairs of white
wings sewn on. Foster and the so far unnamed best man each had three.
Carmichael had five, plus a pair of black wings, one of brown wings, one of
yellow wings, one of blue wings, one of green wings, and one of golden
(distinct from yellow) wings. The unnamed best man had an eight-ball and
sergeant’s stripes sewn on. Foster had a patch that said “Vice-President.”
Carmichael had one that said “President.” Prominently displayed on Carmichael’s
vest was a patch that said “Texas Highway Patrol,” sewn upside down.
Anne
had no idea what most of those patches meant, but if she did, the fear that was
already edging closer and closer to panic would have immediately hit critical
mass. The skull & crossbones patches represented a murder the wearer had
committed. The wings represented acts of sexual violence perpetrated on
outsider women, “citizen women” in biker parlance, by the wearer, the various
colors denoting things like ethnic background, or something else distinctive
about the victim. The eight-ball worn by the best man meant he had done hard
time, a year or more, for the club. And the state police patch worn upside down
by Carmichael meant he had taken it by force from a member of that department.
Even
without knowing the exact meaning of the various decorations, she knew, beyond
any doubt, that all of these men were dangerous, violent, and evil.
*
Anne started to move forward, but Sherry Marvin held her back.
“Wait a moment,” she whispered.
The best man took a remote device out of a pocket and hit a button. Over hidden
speakers, Wagner’s “Bridal March” began to play.
Once the music started, the biker woman guided Anne forward until she was
standing next to Carmichael and in front of Foster.
When the final notes of the familiar “Here Comes the Bride” melody had sounded,
Miller began the service, which was brief and to the point.
“Do
you take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” her kidnapper said.
“Do you take this man as your lawfully wedded husband?”
Thinking of her family, she reluctantly nodded.
“Then by the authority vested in me by the Church of Light Universal, the
Church of the Heathens of Satan, and by Common Law as adopted by this state, I
pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the
bride.”
With
that, Carmichael roughly jerked Anne to him, pulled down her gag, and kissed
her brutally on the mouth. After holding her in that position for almost a full
minute, his tongue invading her mouth as deeply as it could reach, she started
to choke, and Carmichael finally released her and replaced her gag.
“Let’s
complete the paperwork,” said Foster. He picked up a clipboard from a table
that had a form with the words “Certificate of Marriage” across the top. The
names had already been typed in. Foster signed on the officiant’s line, and
handed it to Carmichael. He signed, then passed the pen to Anne, and held the
clipboard in front of her so she could sign despite having her hands fettered.
Carmichael then passed both the pen and the clipboard to the best man. He
signed it on one of the witness’s lines, and handed it to Sherry Marvin.
She
looked at it and said, “Snake, I had no idea your real first name was ‘Felix.’”
“Well,
now you know why I don’t use it much,” said the best man.
“And
Spike, your name is ‘Gaylord?’”
“That’s
why I got tagged to be the club’s chaplain. Wolf here figured I’d be a natural
on account of the second syllable.”
The
biker woman signed her name on the remaining witness line, and handed the
clipboard to Carmichael, who removed the certificate from the clipboard, folded
it, and put it in his pocket.
“This’ll
be placed in my safe deposit box in Rutherford,” he said.
“And
now, President Carmichael,” said Foster, “you may welcome your bride to our
community in the traditional manner.”
Carmichael
dragged Anne to the nearest chair, turned her over his lap, and proceeded to
paddle her bottom. He continued non-stop for three minutes. He did it
barehanded, and he didn’t really slap her that hard, though neither were they
love taps. The worst part wasn’t the pain inflicted. It was the humiliation of
being treated with such contempt in front of the others.
When
he was finished, he stood her up, handed her over to Sherry Marvin, and said,
“Here you go. Get her ready for the trip to town.”
*
Sherry Marvin quickly untied Ann, removed the corset, then, now that Anne was
topless retied her hands behind her, tied her elbows together, then secured her
arms to her body, as Carmichael had the day before, by encircling ropes above
and below and around her bosom in the same sort of degrading “breast harness,”
less as a form of restrains than, apparently, as a form of decoration.
She tied a rope off at the elbows, brought it over Anne’s shoulder,
threaded it through the ropes encircling her torso between her breasts, bought
it back over the other shoulder to form a sort of “V,” and tied that end off at
Anne’s elbows. In addition to restraining her, the ropes now gave the
impression that they formed an open brassiere over her breasts. Anne felt
mortified and blushed in a way that, unfortunately for her, only increased her
already substantial attractiveness.
“Don’t worry, honey,” said Sherry Marvin, chuckling at Anne’s embarrassment.
“No man’ll see you like this except your lawfully wedded husband.”
With that, she reached out and gave one of Anne’s breasts a playful squeeze.
Chuckling some more, she said, “I know I said I wouldn’t mess with you,
anymore, but you’re so pretty you’re almost impossible to
resist. And on top of that you’re so sweet. My God, you can actually blush! No
wonder Wolf’s got it so bad for you. He really is in love with you, you know.
Well, at least as much as someone like Wolf can love. In a completely selfish
way, of course, which I suppose is a contradiction in terms. But, whatever you
call what he’s feeling, he’s never felt it for anyone else.”
She continued in her preparations, helping Anne into a long blue denim skirt
that would hide the ropes around her thighs, and removing the white satin gag,
replacing it with a much thinner piece of fabric, flesh-toned and so sheer it
was virtually transparent. Tied under Anne’s hair, rather than around it, it
might be missed completely unless someone was looking for it. Finally, a long
sweater poncho with a hood was pulled over Anne’s head, restoring her modesty
and hiding the ropes that imprisoned her arms, wrists, and bosom. With the hood
pulled over her head, the sheer gag was even more obscured. The final touch was
a pair of dark glasses.
“Very nice,” said Sherry Marvin. “Now you’re ready for your honeymoon.”
*
Anne was, once again, helped upstairs by the biker woman.
Once in the living room, Carmichael once again took charge of her. He’d changed
from his biker colors to a slightly more conservative workshirt and denim
jacket, though, with his huge size, his tats, and his scruffy “bad boy biker”
look, he was still quite intimidating.
Putting his arm around Anne’s waist, he walked her out the front door, across
the front porch, and down the stairway, calling up as he descended the stairs,
“Y’all can stay awhile, have a few beers, but clear out before nightfall, and
make sure you lock up behind you.”
He guided Anne to a mint condition, 1959 Cadillac Fleetwood convertible. He
assisted Anne into the front seat. Seat belts had been installed, but they were
the old-fashioned kind, that had to be tightened. He tightened one around
Anne’s waist, and another across her chest, effectively immobilizing her.
Once she was secured in the front seat, Carmichael got into the river’s side,
started the car up, and drove off.
*
Their destination, though Anne had no way of knowing this, was the Rutherford
Emissary Hotel and Conference Center, less than a mile outside of the City of
Rutherford, the seat of Adams County. Rather than parking by the front door,
and then moving the car, Carmichael parked in a designated spot in the hotel
lot. He pulled a rollway bag out of the back seat, and assisted Anne out of the
front. He guided her, or perhaps more correctly pulled her, toward the front door,
and the check-in desk.
Once through the front door, he bent down and whispered in her ear, “Remember
your little girl, and your mom and dad.”
*
The elderly desk clerk, the only one working that afternoon, since it was a
Tuesday, and the off season, looked up. A young couple entered the lobby. He
was big, overweight but rather powerful looking, with a deliberately scruffy
look. The tats and the perpetually angry expression made him look dangerous.
She
had more of an air of elegance about her, despite the home-made denim skirt
that would, in his eyes, normally mark a woman as low-class and vulgar, and the
baggy knit poncho that obscured most of her figure. She managed to give the
undistinguished ensemble an element of class and distinction. Her dark glasses
hid most of her face, but what he could see looked darned pretty.
“Yes, folks. What can I do for you?”
“Reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Peter Carmichael,” said the man.
The clerk checked something on the computer, and said, “Yessir, Mr. Carmichael.
Reservation for a deluxe suite. If I could see your driver’s license, and, if
you have one, your Triple-A card, I’ll get you checked in. Are you paying by
credit card?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need to see that, too. While I’m getting the financial aspects settled,
could you fill out this registration card.”
*
Anne, leaning against the counter, considered running. She knew she wouldn’t
get far with her legs hobbled, but she might raise enough of a stink to bring
the police. Once she was out of Carmichael’s power, Sheriff Masters and his men
could be sent to her family’s home to protect them.
But what if Sherry Marvin hadn’t been bluffing about the bomb? One word that their
boss was in trouble, and the bomb could be set off before the police could get
there.
She
decided not to take the chance.
*
The biker chief filled in the names “Peter & Anne Carmichael” on the
“NAMES” line, and circled the “Mr. and Mrs.” selection. Then he filled in the
address of the farmhouse he used as his regular home, the same address that was
on his drivers license, and the description of the car he was driving.
He handed the completed form to the clerk, who handed him two keycards, and
directed him to the elevator. When they got to their room, Carmichael opened
the door, picked her up in his arms, and carried her across the threshold.
Seconds later, Anne was alone with her captor, locked in a hotel room on what was
supposedly their wedding day.
*
Carmichael pulled off her poncho and shades , and stood there for a moment
spellbound by her breasts. Not particularly big, but certainly not small, and
so perfectly shaped. Most importantly, all his!
“God damn!” he said. “It’s really something the way having your elbows tied
together makes those jugs stand out like that. Let’s get that skirt off.
He removed the belt that held the overly large skirt, fashioned from a pair of
blue jeans, around her waist, then unbuttoned the waistband and unzipped the
fly. The skirt fell to the floor cascading around her ankles. She stood there,
bound, gagged, and naked except for the thong panties.
“Goddamn, you’re gorgeous!” he said. “You were worth waiting for. I’m just
sorry it was that loser Phil Leonard who popped your cherry. I always wanted to
do that myself.”
He walked her over to a chair and forced her to sit down.
“Wait here,” he said. “I gotta get some things set up. Then we’ll get started.”
Then, to make sure she waited there, he took off his belt, looped it around the
back of the chair, and strapped her in.
*
Strapping her in was almost a waste of effort. Since yesterday evening, she’d
been drugged, tied up, locked in the trunk of a compact car, stripped, sexually
abused if not quite raped, forced to go through a sham of a marriage ceremony,
and deliberately humiliated in front of her kidnapper’s friends.
She’d had nothing to eat, little to drink except those few sips of water when
she’d been awakened. Her sleep, what there was of it, had been fitful and
unpleasant, not at all restful. And she’d been tied up and gagged in a manner
that was particularly restrictive and uncomfortable. She was terrified, stiff
and sore, hungry, thirsty, tired, and utterly demoralized.
An escape attempt that, quite clearly, had no hope of success, was not an
undertaking she was about to attempt in her current emotional and physical state.
But keeping her as helpless as possible seemed, in some depraved way, to give
him pleasure.
He quickly and efficiently tied her ankles to the spindles at either corner of
the foot of the bedframe. Then he slid two pillows under her shapely
bottom so that her body arched up. Her hands remained tied behind her.
With a knife, Carmichael cut the tiny satin thong panties away. Now unable to
close her legs, she was completely exposed and available to her captor.
And he made the most of that availability. Quickly stripping off his garments,
he almost leapt onto the bed, and plunged himself into her.
It was awful. Far worse than the night before. Then he was behind her, and it
was dark. She didn’t have to look at him. Now she could do nothing but stare at
the ugly, leering face above her, a face in which the combined emotions of
lust, satisfaction, and malice merged into a frightening grimace.
This was what she had been most dreading, and, clearly, what he had most been
anticipating. He had held off until the travesty of a marriage ceremony had
been concluded, until they had officially registered at a hotel as “Mr. and
Mrs.” Now the thing was complete. They had exchanged vows, they had publicly
put themselves out as a married couple, and the final consummation of the
nuptial union was in process.
And even if the marriage were somehow declared invalid (and, inasmuch as her
“consent” had been given under duress, that was not unlikely, presuming she was
ever rescued; though, in her depressed state, that seemed increasingly
unlikely), there was no going back from this. One can, theoretically, become
unmarried.
One
cannot become unraped.
*
When something has been anticipated for almost a decade, the final acquisition
of the prize is almost always disappointing.
But Carmichael found the violation of his victim better than he had ever
imagined.
Her breathtaking beauty.
His!
The wondrously perfect breasts that filled his hands as if they were designed
with him in mind.
His!
The look of fear in those lovely eyes.
His!
The ability to do this to her over and over whenever he felt like it.
His!
The certainty that she would never be able to escape, that no one would ever be
able to find her, and that her apparent suicide would make it unlikely anyone
would even look.
His!
It had been a long time coming, but this first fuck made it all worth the wait.
If he never got the chance to do anything else with her, this fuck would always
be the fuck of fucks.
Of course, he would get the chance to do something else with her. Much more
with her. And, he believed, if it was this good the first time, it could only
get better.
*
This first intimate encounter may, as Carmichael thought, have been a long time
coming.
But he wasn’t.
For the amount of time and preparation he took, this first time was a
surprisingly short-lived experience.
A small thing to be thankful for, but, at this point, Anne would take what she
could get.
He rolled off her, unstrapped her feet and ankles, lifted her off the bed,
walked her to the bathroom, and untied her.
“There’s no windows in there,” he said, “so there’s no way out. You can piss
and shit if you need to. Brush you teeth, gargle, and take a shower. Don’t take
longer’n a half-hour.”
She took advantage of every moment, every blessed moment, that she had to
herself. Every second of all thirty of the minutes he’d allowed, and then some.
She voided her bladder and bowels. She enjoyed a hot shower, though she’d had
one earlier in the day, before the “wedding.” She brushed, flossed, and
gargled. Finally she emerged, a fluffy bath towel wrapped around her like a
makeshift sarong.
He was still naked. And still hard. It looked like piece of heavy artillery
growing out from between his legs.
“C’mere,” he said.
She walked slowly over to him.
“Turn around.”
She turned around. With speed and efficiency, he tied her hands together.
“Turn around,” he said again.
She turned to face him and he roughly pulled off the towel/sarong. Again she
was standing naked before him. He pulled her toward him with his left hand and
began kneading her left breast with his right hand.
“They still look great,” he said. “Not quite as good as when your elbows are
forced together, but great.”
With that he began to brutally kiss her. She tried to pull away, but he held
her all the tighter. Finally he broke it off.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“I love you.”
“How can you love me when you’ve taken everybody I love away from me?
You’ve killed my husband. You’re keeping me from my parents and my little girl.
What kind of love is that?”
“I love you like I love my hog. Before I had one, I loved it because I wanted
it so much. Now I love it because it’s one of my two most prized possessions. I
loved you from the time we were in high school, because I wanted you so much.
Took me a lot longer to get you, but now you’re the other one of my two most
prized possessions. The hog’ll always be mine. And so will you.”
Tears started rolling down her cheeks. “Please let me go. I promise I won’t
tell anyone what happened. But please, please let me go. My little girl’s
already lost her father. She shouldn’t have to lose her mother, too. She needs
me.”
She started to sob, not quite hysterically, but uncontrollably.
He tenderly brushed away one of her tears, smiled at her with what almost
seemed like a kind expression and said, with surprising tenderness, “You’re
never going to see her again. You’ll spend the rest of your life with me.
Pleasuring me. Just like my hog. You’ll be more content when you resign yourself
to being my prized property.”
Then he pushed her to her knees and said, “You’re talking too much. I think we
need to fill that pretty mouth of yours with something that’ll keep you quiet.”
“Please don’t gag me again.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
He pulled her head toward his crotch, and forced her to take his erection into
her mouth.
“Now listen, closely,” he said. “I love you, but I own you. I used to own a dog
that I loved almost as much. He bit my hand once when I was feeding him. I put
him down right then. If you do anything but suck me off. I’ll call the guys I
got watching your folks’ house, and tell ‘em to cut your daughter’s throat. And
I’ll tell ‘em to send us live pictures of her getting her throat cut, as it’s
happening, over their cells. And I’ll make you watch. And then, only after
seeing your daughter killed, I’ll cut your throat, too.”
She’d never given head in her life. She and Phil had enjoyed a sexual
relationship that was sincerely passionate, but also fairly vanilla.
Notwithstanding her lack of experience, she serviced Carmichael as well as she
could.
When she was done, he told her that it was the best blowjob he’d ever had.
Apparently, he thought she should take that as a compliment.
*
Within minutes of completing the blowjob, Carmichael had her on the bed, only
this stomach down and back up.
When she was secured in that position, he took her anally.
Another experience she’d never shared with Phil. And one she’d’ve given much
to’ve avoided sharing with Carmichael.
*
For the rest of the day, and well into the night, that was the pattern. Vaginal
rape, anal rape, and oral rape. He slowed down, but never quite ran out of
steam.
Close to midnight, he undid her feet from the two spindles at the foot of the
bed, tied her legs and ankles together, gagged her, and turned her on her side.
With his front to her back, he told her to give him a hand job. This was, she
thought to herself, about the only way he had not had her that day.
While she was servicing him, before he actually came, he dropped off. Her first
break, not counting the shower. From almost the first moment they’d entered the
hotel room, he’d used her just as Sherry Marvin had predicted. As a living,
breathing fucktoy.
She knew that his going to sleep meant she was only getting was a temporary
respite. Being an evil man’s fucktoy was now the only future she could look
forward to. For the rest of her days, her life’s purpose would be satisfying
the voracious sexual appetite of a sadistic criminal predator.
She’d never see her parents or her daughter again. She’d never know the love of
a good man again.
She was doomed. And probably damned.
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