As we left our favourite restaurant, the Haunch of Venison in Market Street, Lynchfield, I noticed that Richard had parked his car on a double-yellow line. Moreover there was a policeman standing beside it. When however he recognised Richard, he smiled cheesily, saluted obsequiously and sloped off. Richard gave him a cheerful grin and a wave.
"Hi, Jazz!" he shouted.
There was no parking ticket stuck on the windscreen, nor had any wheel been clamped.
"What was all that about?" I asked.
"Oh I just asked him to keep an eye on my car while we were at lunch. It's a soft-topped sports car, easily broken into, and I wanted him to chase off any traffic wardens who might want to book me for parking here. Now hop in, James"
I hopped in. It was a fine day, so Richard took down the soft top.
"Richard, that young man is a Sergeant. Even if there were any justification for having a police guard on your car while we were feeding our faces, which there is not, a mere Police Constable could have done the job equally well!"
"It's one of the perks of being a Member of Parliament!" Richard smirked.
"Bollocks! It isn't. Even I know that. You're up to something."
"Oh well! Yes, I am. Must I explain?"
"Yes, you must!"
The car was now bearing us away from the Lynchfield lunchtime traffic. We were soon in the open country. Richard's car stereo was merrily blaring Wagner; on this occasion The Flying Dutchman. I switched it off.
"Now, Richard, tell me about Jazz."
"Oh all right! But not now and not here; near here there's a nice view that nobody knows about. You don't mind trespassing? Not that the farmer will mind if you're with me. I am a great supporter of his local hunt."
He parked the car, set the alarm, and a few minutes later we were striding along a narrow path and up a steep wooded hill, Pickle Beacon. It was hard work keeping up with Richard; he was so bloody fit. There was hardly a breath of wind. We both got very hot. There was a panoramic view from the top, where the trees were fewer. No-one else was there. Richard pulled off his shirt and prepared to sunbathe, exposing his six-pack. Then he glanced at me, mischievously.
"I dare you to strip off completely."
Richard unlaced his shoes and rapidly shed the rest of his garments. His shaven, muscular body was a Greek or Roman masterpiece; impressive and desirable. Married man and Lieutenant Colonel though I might be, I had chinks in my armour. The biggest one was called Richard Finch, damn him!
Richard chuckled, "There's always a chance that we might be seen by the farmer or an ornithologist!"
"Okay, dare accepted."
I stripped as well. We lay down in a patch of warm sunlight.
"Now," said Richard, "I shall unfold the tale of me and Jazz. Lie back and listen carefully."
Grasshoppers were chirruping. A lark was singing overhead. I made a pillow of my jacket, shirt and trousers; partly to ensure that I kept control of them. Richard was a well-known practical joker. I lay back and listened.
A few months previously Richard, to the surprise of all his friends who knew what he was really like, had managed to get himself elected as Conservative MP for Lynchfield and Flogham in an unexpected by-election. This was surprising for a number of reasons; one of which was that Richard had often said in the past that he would never be seen dead in the House of Commons. Now however he was seen there quite often; alive and making controversial speeches; barracking the opposition and driving Mr Speaker up the wall. He was evidently becoming quite addicted to the Palace of Westminster. He was a member of the 1922 Committee and of the Commons Defence Select Committee; both of them providing him with limitless scope for mischief and for the pursuit of his private agendas. While the Speaker and his own Party Whips might view Richard as a loose cannon, they could not do much about him: he was reportedly on good terms with the Prime Minister, who admired him as a former SAS officer who had served in the Falklands and who was no more proof than anyone else against Richard's striking good looks, charm and mischievous insolence. That is, when Richard wanted to be charming. He could also be the exact opposite if the occasion seemed to demand it. His reactionary constituents, most of whom would happily have reintroduced the death penalty for a wide range of offences; not just homicide, and probably flogging for minor offences too, were very much on his wavelength. The fact that he hunted, fished, and shot, was a definite advantage, as far as they were concerned. So was the fact that he was a sworn enemy of all hunt saboteurs, the League against Cruel Sports, the RSPCA and the National Trust. Richard was no wet liberal townie: No Sir!
One day, a few weeks earlier, Richard had been driving along the Lynchfield by-pass on his way back to Gravestock, when he was pursued and overtaken by a police motor-cyclist and forced to pull into a lay-by. He had been speeding while listening to The Ride of the Valkyries on his car stereo and the traffic policeman had nabbed him. Damn and blast.
The policeman had been aggressive and rude, although he was not unattractive. He was very fair, brutally handsome and was revealed as having a blond crew-cut when he took off his helmet. Richard, while he seldom wore his own hair quite that short, found crew-cuts - "a typical other ranks' cut", as he called it - sexy on other men.
"You've been breaking the speed limit ... Sir!" He made it sound like an insult.
Richard decided to try turning on the charm. He gave his most winning searchlight smile, which almost always worked on women, and frequently on men as well. It had probably helped him to get elected.
"I'm sorry, Officer. I had no idea that I was exceeding the limit. I don't think that I could have been doing so by very much!"
"You were driving along here at eighty miles an hour. The speed limit is seventy. I'm booking you... Sir! "
Crikey. This could be awkward.
"It's my first offence, Officer! Until now I have had a spotless record!"
"No you haven't." The Sergeant pulled out an electronic gizmo and typed in Richard's car registration number. It produced a small printout, which reproduced three parking tickets. "I have records of three unpaid parking fines on this vehicle". He handed the printout to Richard.
Richard started to get incensed. "I've appealed those. The fines were quite unjustified. And the appeal has not yet been heard!"
"No record of any appeal pending, Sir!"
"Well, it is!"
The policeman looked more closely at Richard. "Here, I know you from somewhere!"
That could be good or bad news: On the one hand, the cop might be a former soldier. If the man knew Richard from the Army, Richard might try to play the Army card and ask him to let off a former brother in arms. On the other hand, he might know him for some other, less favourable, reason. Richard waited.
"You're that bloke in the films! You must be that porn-star, Jack Mallett!"
Well, thought Richard, if I must be, I must be, I suppose! He occasionally looked at porn and was vaguely aware of Jack Mallett. Now that he thought of it, there was a resemblance.
The policeman became marginally friendlier. "I've seen all your films! I got them on video!"
This sounded promising.
"Really? Which ones did you enjoy best?"
"Well, there was that one when you tied up and shagged that slutty blonde, Kelly Wossname, in all her holes, in bondage... and - I'm not queer or anything - but..."
"I found myself enjoying that one in which you was tied up, suspended, flogged and then fucked by an enormous black man! "
"Glad you enjoyed them. Jack Mallett is just a stage name. Here's my driving license."
Richard gave the Sergeant another searchlight smile. The policeman looked at the license briefly and then returned it. Evidently the name of Richard Finch meant nothing to him. That, on balance, was no bad thing.
"You'll always be Jack Mallett to me."
There was a long pause.
"I ought to book you", said the policeman.
Richard said nothing. The cop continued:
"Look, how about we do a deal. Like I said, I'm really not queer or anything but I found myself fancying you when I was watching your films. I've always been...curious, like, and I've always wanted to fuck a porn-star, so..."
"You mean a fuck instead of a fine? A bit unethical, but it sounds good to me!" said Richard. "Where shall we go?"
The cop licked his lips; perhaps nervously, perhaps not.
"Near here there's a house for sale. The little old lady who lived there has died and her family want to sell. My girlfriend, Lucy Jones, is an estate agent and she's taken me to see it. I think that she thinks that we might buy it together, but I'm not ready to commit... I can get in because I've got skeleton keys. It's a nice house, but it's too isolated. There isn't much interest. We could go there. No-one will disturb us."
"Okay. Look, we'll go in my car. You leave your motor-bike here. No-one's going to touch a police motor-cycle. You can navigate."
The cop got in.
"May I know your name?"
"Sergeant Piggott. James Piggott. But everyone calls me Jazz."
I'd call you Pig, thought Richard, silently.
They drove off, down a minor road, down an unclassified road and then up a farm track. A pretty, slightly run-down, farmhouse came into view. White doves crooned on the roof. In the unkempt garden apple trees were already heavy with a bumper crop that no-one would harvest. Richard pulled up in front of the house.
"Now, Jazz, let's get friendly." Richard put his hands on Jazz and started to kiss him.
"Nah then, nah then! Wait till we get inside! Anyone could come along!" Jazz seemed nervous. After all, he had his reputation to consider.
Cowardy custard! Richard thought. The landscape looked very deserted; just fields of barley and hedgerows, with apparently no human inhabitants, but he said "Okay!"
They went indoors. The house was still fully furnished. Evidently her family either did not want the old lady's possessions or they had not got around to removing them. Once inside the house, Jazz started getting assertive. He leaned against the chimneypiece, smirking at Richard, with his arms folded. He had great, muscular forearms, which were on display as he had rolled up his shirt sleeves. There were tattoos on one of them. Richard liked muscular forearms; his own were not bad, either. All things considered, Jazz was not a bad-looker; always provided that you liked your men thuggish, in a Tom of Finland kind of way. He obviously played rugby; he had that kind of build. He probably did weight training too. Richard, who also played rugby, could easily imagine him bellowing out sinful rugby songs. Jazz was starting to run slightly to fat; a little bit chubbier than he should have been. Of course, it was now the cricket season. Rugby would not start again for a couple of months, but even so, he should keep himself fit... Too much beer and fast-food, thought Richard, who was a wine-drinker and believed in eating healthily, except on special occasions. Jazz was still very sexy in spite of this; possibly even because of it, and he knew it. Because Jazz was a motorcycle cop, he wore close-fitting riding breeches and top-boots, not trousers and shoes. His breeches were tailored snugly round the groin and ass. They were stretched tightly over his massive, muscular thighs and buttocks. You could, if you looked closely, see the outline of his very brief briefs. At the "v" of the open neck of his shirt, above the line of his T-shirt, there were thick, dark-blond curls. He was a genuine hairy-chested man of action. Jazz evidently went in for macho fashion statements. He wore a great, clunking deep-sea-diver's watch. Round his neck was a steel chain, which later proved to be attached to fashion-statement military-style steel identity discs. He possessed a pair of cool Polaroid Aviator shades, which he now removed. He gave Richard a look of pure lust. It was not a nice look. It spelt "rape." ("I'm not queer or anything but..." Hah!)
"Jack, I want you to strip for me now", commanded Jazz. "But before you strip, take a look at this!"
Jazz licked his lips again. Very slowly, making sure that Richard was watching, Jazz drew down the zip of his breeches. He had a seriously massive lunch-box. Inside the breeches he was wearing tight, scarlet low-rise briefs. Jazz now pushed them down and let his cock pop out. It was big, thick and curved. Jazz had been circumcised. Jazz grinned at Richard.
"Impressive, isn't it? Come closer. Hold it! Feel it! Guess where that's going!"
The purple-headed bed-snake, I presume, thought Richard. Silly remark: it's going up my ass, of course.
"Aren't you going to strip off too?" he asked out loud.
"Maybe! That's for later. Now you strip for me, Jack! I'm watching!"
Jazz continued to watch Richard. His pale blue psycho eyes were already stripping Richard and plundering his body. Jazz's hand slid down and started to play with his cock. It got even bigger.
He's done this before, thought Richard. I just know it. He's got a practised air about him. He's been abusing his position. He's done this before, whether to men or women I don't know; probably to both. The bastard! I've agreed to go through with this and I'm going to go through with it, but he's going to get his come-uppance thereafter; so help me God! Meanwhile, it's gonna bloody-well hurt!
Richard obeyed with a meekness that those who knew him well would have said was a very dangerous sign. He hung his jacket over the back of a chair and folded his clothes neatly on the seat. Fully naked, he stood with his feet apart, hands on his hips, looking expectantly at Jazz.
Jazz stared at him silently for several minutes and then smiled.
"You've got a great body; I'll say that for you. I guess that porn-stars have to!"
I guess they do, you tosser! thought Richard, after a moment's consideration. He nodded, unsmilingly.
Jazz approached and handled Richard in a very familiar and intimate way. He tweaked Richard's nipples. He bit his shoulder gently, then not-so-gently. He handled Richard's cock and balls. He slid a finger deep into his ass-hole and shoved it firmly up it as far as it would go. And then again and again. Richard gasped and winced. Jazz laughed.
Jazz whispered "I'm not queer or anything, but I reckon that I'm going to enjoy this". He continued to whisper. "And if you ever, ever tell anyone about this, Mr Gay-for-Pay Porn-star, I'll come and kill you with these hands!" He kissed Richard. His mouth smelt, and tasted, of fast food: scampi with garlic sauce. He was also wearing a powerful and presumably erotic after-shave, which did nothing at all for Richard. Yuck!
Richard winced again, held his breath, nodded and said nothing. He continued reluctantly to accept Jazz's kisses and caresses. It dawned on him that Jazz, who was evidently unaware of his own bad breath, believed that Richard was really straight; in his words, "gay for pay" only; and that it was for this reason that Richard was not enjoying being kissed and manhandled. Jazz was plainly excited by the thought of the other man's pain and embarrassment.
Jazz did not strip completely. He kept on a dark-blue short-sleeved T-shirt and his dark socks. Richard knew what that meant. Jazz was identifying himself as the boss, the Dom. The sex that they were about to have would be all about him, not Richard. It was deliberate that Richard should feel extra-naked compared with Jazz. By denying Richard the sight of his muscular torso, he was saying "this is for my pleasure, not yours". He was treating Richard like his whore. His great, powerful legs, muscular ass and heavy sex were however on display. A dense cloud of red-gold hair bloomed at Jazz's crotch and wiry gold curls sprouted between his smooth, hard buttocks. Jazz turned Richard round and pushed him roughly towards the table. It was a lovingly-polished oak antique.
I bet it never witnessed anything like this, thought Richard, thinking of the "little old lady" who had lived there until recently and who had probably inherited the table from her parents.
"Now bend over that. One foot up here on the table! Can you manage that?"
Richard could manage that. Jazz's tongue was now eagerly rimming his asshole. He was evidently re-living a porn movie. That was fine. Then Jazz sucked Richard's balls into his mouth and tugged hungrily. That was painful but erotic. Jazz spoke again, harshly:
"Now, on the floor. On the fucking floor! Face down, ass in the air, declined doggy! I'm going to corn-hole you!"
Having spat out this Americanism, Jazz spat on Richard's asshole. The next moment, he was forcing his way in. That was bloody awful. Jazz was rough, clumsy and sadistic. For Richard it was painful and horrible. He was determined not to cry out or beg for mercy. He bent down to touch the floor with his forehead and braced himself against the floor to take it like a man. He did take it, but with difficulty. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes tightly. Richard's hands clawed the shaggy white rug. His skin was now polished with sweat like a bodybuilder's coating of oil. His straining muscles stood out in sharp relief, especially the arms and legs. Jazz straddled and covered Richard on all fours while he rutted on him, like an animal. From time to time he would withdraw and then plunge in again. He muttered "Take it, bitch-boy, take it!" between grunts and groans.
Finally Jazz pulled out. He told Richard to turn over. While Richard lay there, gasping and looking at the ceiling, Jazz knelt astride him and shot a load of sperm over Richard's face. Richard felt as though a giant bird - Sinbad's Roc, for instance - had shat messily on his face. The warm, glutinous spunk splashed across Richard's handsome features and started to dry stickily, especially on his eyebrows and eye-lashes. One eye was briefly gummed shut. Yuck and again yuck! Richard was totally expressionless, which was another dangerous sign, although Jazz could not have known that.
Then Jazz thrust his cock in Richard's face. "Now open up, Boy! Open your fucking mouth! That's right, clean my cock for me, Boy! Suck it all the way. Down your throat it goes! Yes, I know where it's just been! In-out, in-out, in- out...!"
He thrust it in as deeply as possible; right down Richard's throat. Richard almost threw up, but by a super-human effort did not. Then Jazz made Richard delicately lick the purple, sticky glans. Richard did so, skilfully.
Jazz nearly came again. Then he sighed and stood up. He flexed his biceps and smiled complacently at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. The assault was over.
Richard slowly stood up too. He was very pale and still panting as if he had just run a marathon. He stared, wide-eyed, at his reflection in the mirror. With the back of his hand he wiped Jazz's sperm away from his eyes. He felt violated and very naked. His plundered ass hurt like hell. He was also shaking, but shaking with fury, not fear. (I'd never have let this happen to me if I'd known what it would be like with him; it wasn't remotely like doing it with a friend. That fucker almost had me sobbing for mercy. Now it's my turn - payback time.) He looked at Jazz, still expressionlessly. Then he spoke in a hoarse, quiet voice:
"Did you enjoy that? Because I didn't."
Jazz continued to grin. "Course I enjoyed that. Bet you did too, really. Tell you what, though! You've got a tight ass for a gay-for-pay bum-boy porn-star. I thought my cock'd go in really easily."
"That's because I'm not a gay-for-pay bum-boy porn-star," said Richard coldly.
"Here! You said..."
"I didn't say anything. You just assumed that's what I was and I let you!"
"So who and what the fuck are you?"
"I'm a soldier. I was in the Para Regiment and then the SAS. Now I run my own private military company, based in London. And you're a sick fuck. Now, how about some reciprocity?"
"What's that mean?"
"It means: you've fucked me; now I get to fuck you!"
Jazz looked both aggressive and alarmed. He backed away hurriedly against the wall, protecting his ass. He put up his hands defensively.
"Here, wait a moment, Mate! That was never on the cards! That wasn't part of our agreement. That's not on. Not on at all. I don't bottom. Never have."
"Jazz Baby, there's a first time for everything." Richard smiled his dazzling smile and took a step closer.
"Don't you come any nearer! I'm warning you!"
Richard laughed quietly: "Come on! You know you really want it, Jazz!" He added, even more quietly, "And you're going to get it, whether you want it or not!"
Richard gave another of his smiles. He looked damnably, mesmerizingly, handsome. Jazz had never seen anyone that good-looking, except maybe in porn-films. Life is'n't fair, sometimes. But he soon had something else to think about.
Richard was not ex-SAS for nothing. His unarmed combat skills were still excellent. Still smiling, he suddenly gave a blood-curdling yell and delivered a high kick to Jazz's jaw. Because Jazz was now so close to the wall, his head cracked against it. Then another kick to the stomach, delivered with all the force and skill that Richard possessed. Jazz, mouth gaping idiotically; his pale blue eyes wide and almost popping; speechless and gasping, started to double-up from the pain. Before he could do so, Richard had kicked him again; this time in the testicles. Then something - both of Richard's fists, smashing down from a great height - hit Jazz hard on the back of his head as he collapsed forwards. Everything went black.
When he woke up, Jazz was in an uncomfortable position, in more senses than one. He was now completely naked. He was lying on his back on the polished oak table, unable to move. From somewhere Richard had produced some sash-cord. This type of rope is very strong indeed. Victorian alpinists had used it as climbing rope. Lengths of sash-cord now tied Jazz's stretched arms to two of the table's legs. Other cords were tied to his ankles. His legs had been pulled apart, upwards and outwards. To make sure that they stayed apart, Richard had lashed a broom-handle to Jazz's ankles as a makeshift leg-spreader. Jazz's ass was level with the edge of the table and it was now spread wide open. There was an uncomfortable feeling in Jazz's cock, whch was stiff. It reminded him of his one and only treatment for gonorrhoea. In the mirror he could see the cause of the irritation. Richard had neatly inserted a stem of bright yellow freesia, presumably picked in the garden, into his piss-slit.
It was Richard who was now leaning against the chimneypiece, delicately sipping a glass of water and surveying his handiwork with satisfaction. He was still naked but he now looked very clean, especially his face. There was no trace of Jazz's sperm. He had showered; first warm, then cold, to rinse Jazz away. Fortunately the old lady's Wright's Coal Tar soap and bath essence had still been in the bathroom. Richard had even removed the shower-head and sent a jet of cold water up his asshole to hose out any trace of Jazz's fluids, so he was now ultra-clean, inside and outside. His skin was ruddy, his hair was damp and he looked as fresh as a daisy. His classically-beautiful, rose-coloured cock was fully erect and slightly curved. He touched it fondly. Richard grinned his easy grin.
"You're back with us at last, are you? Welcome to the land of the living!"
"You just assaulted a police officer! How long have I been like this?"
"At least twenty minutes. Enough time for me to fetch some things from my car and have a quick shower."
Jazz looked at him. The blighter must have walked outside stark naked, calmly unloaded whatever he wanted from the car and then strolled back indoors. Jazz did not approve. Anyone might have come past! Had Richard no shame? Apparently not.
"I was a Boy Scout once," said Richard brightly. "Their motto is 'Be Prepared.' I always am. For instance I always carry plenty of rope in my car-boot. And I always have a camera with me, in case of accidents and things like that."
Richard produced a very advanced camera and started snapping Jazz from every conceivable angle; especially his exposed backside and the freesia. Jazz started to shout and swear at him. Richard chuckled.
"How your friends in the police rugby team are going to love this!" he chortled. "You look just like a rent-boy! Just wait till some of these arse shots go up on the police notice board!"
"You bastard, you can't treat a policeman like this! Have you any idea what the Law will do to you?"
"Nothing, of course! By the time I have finished with you, and recorded it all on camera, preferring charges against me will be the last thing on your mind. And who's to say you'll be alive to do anything!"
"Are you threatening to kill me?"
"Not a threat; just a promise, if you really piss me off. And yes, I have killed quite a lot of people in the course of an exciting career in Her Majesty's armed forces: several in Ireland, a few in the Falklands... one or two elsewhere and some with my bare hands. In most cases I was simply doing my job."
The unspoken part was "but not all." Jazz looked rather ill.
"So," continued Richard, "If you do as I say, you'll be all right... probably!" He added "But if not, there are ways of concealing the evidence; never fear. For example a... contact of mine owns a meat- processing factory. I'd treat you like any other carcass. You could become Jazz-burgers! I love irony. Somehow it seems very apt that you should become fast-food for unwitting cannibals!"
Jazz was now less assertive. "And just what do you want?" he whispered faintly.
"Well, to fuck your great muscle-butt, for starters, "said Richard. "But I'm going to be more considerate to you than you were to me." He delicately probed Jazz's asshole with a finger. "Before I do any fucking, I'm going to stretch you first, with this butt-plug! Then I'll be able to take you, nice and easy, like the bum-boy porn-star that you kindly imagined me to be!"
Richard produced what seemed to Jazz the biggest and longest dildo in the world. It was massive and made of black rubber. There were two or three bulbous swellings on its shaft. This was presumably one of the things that Richard had fetched from his car.
"NO!!!" bellowed Jazz.
"Yes! Oh yes!" laughed Richard.
He spat copiously on the dildo and started to work it into Jazz's ass. It got stuck; Jazz had a tight, virgin ass. There was nothing for it but to use force. Richard gave the huge dildo a few blows with his fist. In it went, to the accompaniment of Jazz's threats, curses, screams and bellows of pain, in roughly that order. Jazz's erection was now once more rock-hard. Richard teased it, removed the freesia, and even sucked it. But he did not allow Jazz to cum again. Not now. A few inches of the dildo were still protruding from Jazz's backside.
"Right, that's done," said Richard. "I'll leave it in for a bit to stretch your hole; then pull it out - that'll hurt too, by the way - and then I'll fuck you. That'll hurt quite a lot at first; it always does, but it's part of the fun when you're being broken in. You'll soon get used to it!"
Jazz was now sweating, straining at his bonds and still uttering curses.
"Listen," said Richard, "if you call me a bum-boy once more, I'll stop your mouth, literally".
Jazz used an even more horrible expletive.
"Right! That's done it. I'm going to gag you, you foul-mouthed oaf! Open your mouth!"
Jazz clamped it shut. He thrashed about but the sash-cord restraints stayed firm.
Richard found Jazz's briefs and folded them tightly into a ball. He gave a sudden blow to the base of the dildo, driving it further up Jazz's rectum. Jazz started screaming.
While he was still screaming, Richard thrust the briefs into Jazz's mouth, and then used a short length of sash-cord to gag Jazz and ensure that he could not spit them out. Jazz's screams and curses were now muffled by his own underwear. Richard grinned at him.
"I'm just stepping outside for a smoke. I'll be back to fuck you in a few minutes. So, brace yourself!"
Richard picked up the rest of Jazz's clothes. Still naked, he wandered outside. It was a lovely, warm day. He strolled round the garden. He enjoyed being naked outdoors. Nobody was visible for miles, unless you counted an RAF trainer plane that was circling overhead. Even if they could see him, the RAF boys would be unlikely to be shocked. Richard investigated the apples. On one tree they looked ripe already. He picked one and bit into it.
Pink Lady, said Richard to himself, appreciatively. He picked two more for future reference. Richard loved apples and ate a lot of them.
Soon, in the neglected kitchen-garden, Richard found what he was looking for: a thicket of brambles and nettles. That is where he carefully hid Jazz's uniform, boots and helmet. Then he smoked a cigarette. After he had finished smoking, he carefully stowed away the butt in the ashtray of his car. The cigarettes were Sobranies. They were an exclusive brand, which Richard ordered from a shop in St James's and were easily traceable. He also put the apples in the car. He then found a bamboo cane in the herbaceous border and went back inside.
He looked at Jazz. "Normally I'd thrash you before I fucked you. That's called 'tenderising the meat!' But I do not want to leave too much evidence. So I'll just give you a little taste. First, on the soles of your bare feet!"
Thwack! Jazz had never felt anything so painful, until... Thwack! Richard cut him across his bare buttocks. And did it again and again.
Then Richard pulled out the butt-plug. He had to use force, as it was firmly embedded. Jazz screamed through his gag.
"Jazz, one further correction: I'm not, and never have been, just gay for pay. You are about to experience the genuine article and it won't cost you a penny!"
A muffled "Aaaaaargh!" came from Jazz.
Richard now used some lube, which he always kept in his car, to anoint Jazz's aching man-hole and his own cock. He also carried a cargo of condoms, but, since Jazz had fucked him bareback, he decided to return the compliment. He slapped Jazz's ass with his cock a few times then went right in: all of Richard's eight inches. He began to thrust. Jazz screamed again through the gag, surprisingly loudly.
Jazz went on screaming. He looked up to see Richard's face looming over him. He looked triumphant and dangerous. He wore a fixed, maniacal smile, teeth clenched, and his eyes bored into Jazz's. After a few minutes Richard closed his eyes and threw back his head. His face was still contorted but looked if possible even handsomer, like a saint in ecstasy. He was now breathing heavily through his open mouth. All his feelings and emotions were now concentrated in his cock and balls. Richard had become a fuck-machine. He had Jazz's ankles in his hands and was thrusting rhythmically into Jazz, faster and faster and deeper and deeper. His only concern was not to cum too soon. Richard knew how to avoid that, as he had had tuition from oriental hookers, male and female. He was exceptionally fit and athletic and seemed tireless. He never slackened his pace and showed Jazz no mercy. His erection stayed hard.
Jazz had started screaming again as Richard hit his prostate. The horrible part for Jazz was that amid all the pain and anger, even terror, for he was now very afraid of Richard, he was actually enjoying it. He had never known anything like this sensation. Richard opened his eyes and smiled fiercely down at Jazz. He knew exactly what Jazz was feeling and Jazz knew he knew it too.
Richard whispered: "Take it, bitch-boy, take it!"
Richard increased the frequency and force of his thrusts and finally breached Jazz's second sphincter, possessing Jazz completely. Jazz was beyond screaming now. He was crying. A thin trickle of pre-cum was drizzling from his cock.
Richard kissed him and licked the tears off Jazz's face. "The tears of the penitent are the wine of angels," he murmured, rather blasphemously.
Then Richard agilely hopped onto the table. He knelt astride Jazz and shot his own load of sperm over Jazz's face.
Richard removed the gag. Then he thrust his cock in Jazz's face and said, in Jazz's own words: "Now suck it; all the way. Clean my cock for me. Yes, I know where it's just been!"
He thrust it in as deep as possible; right down Jazz's throat. Jazz did throw up; a mess of fast food. Richard chuckled. Then Richard made Jazz delicately lick his glans.
Richard took more photos of Jazz, who was now a complete wreck.
Jazz was still crying. "What the fuck have you done to me? What are you? You're a monster!" he sobbed.
"Nope. Not a monster. Just someone you don't want to mess with. Actually, I'm a war-hero. One does not normally boast of such things, but I hold the DSO and the MBE Military. And I'm your new local MP. That is why my face seemed familiar; not because I am your favourite porn actor. So if you go to your superiors or the Press with this story, which is unbelievable anyway, which of us will they be more apt to believe? I'll say that it was role-playing kinky sex, which you initiated, which you did, having lured me to this lonely farmhouse, in which we are both trespassers, for that purpose. I thought that it was a delicate constituency matter. You're a big, strong rugby-player. For my own safety I was playing along with your very weird fantasies. Which I was! I escaped as soon as I could, having first immobilised and disarmed you. My photos of you will tell their own story. Happily, unlike you, I am not encumbered with a wife or a girlfriend to make trouble. The bottom line, if you'll forgive the pun, is that you can never truly call yourself straight again after this. You are now, in your own romantic expression, 'a bum-boy.' Of course at the moment that's our little secret, isn't it? The police and the rugby team don't as yet know anything about it! "
"Bastard!!" shouted Jazz.
Richard laughed. "I can't take offence at that. Bastard is exactly what I am: illegitimate! But I do take offence at the parking tickets. To make my feelings quite clear, here's where you can put them! I do not want to hear about them again!"
Richard rolled the printout of parking tickets, which he had kept in his pocket, into a small cylinder and inserted it into Jazz's asshole. Jazz was incapable of more than a whimper of protest. Compared with what had been inside him recently, this was no big deal.
Richard next withdrew to take a second quick cold shower upstairs. Then he dressed carefully, knotting his tie in the mirror above the chimneypiece. Jazz watched him with fascination and alarm. He was still tied up in the undignified position in which Richard had left him.
"What about me?" shouted Jazz.
"I haven't decided about that, yet," said Richard, as he straightened the white handkerchief in his breast pocket. "Ah, I know!" He stepped out into the hall. The telephone had not yet been disconnected.
"Hello... Is that Smith & Escritt's Estate Agency? I am ringing about Foxglove Farmhouse. Yes, that one. Would a viewing be possible today? Oh, I see; fully booked. Well, tomorrow perhaps? Might I speak to your Miss Jones? Ah, so she's conducting the viewings; yes, I understand. Not to worry. Look, I'll call back tomorrow. Thank you for your help. Goodbye!"
Richard came back and smiled at Jazz. "It's all sorted. The US cavalry are on the way to rescue you. You'll be all right soon."
Jazz stared at him. "What d'you mean?"
"I mean that in three quarters of an hour your girlfriend, Lucy Jones, will be here with a couple who want to view this house. I'm sure that she will untie you, make you some tea and take you home to recover."
"NO!!! Jesus, she mustn't see me like this! And not with some respectable couple in tow! She'd drop me! It'd be all over Lynchfield!"
"What's it worth to you?"
"Anything! Oh please!"
Jazz had started blubbering again. Richard loathed cowards.
"Well" said Richard, "if you want my photos of you all over the front page of The Sun and The Star, you have only to cause me further trouble. All I ask is that you should be helpful to me when I need it, and not be a pain in the backside; a subject about which you now know a lot more than you did before!"
"I agree! I agree to everything!"
"Okay," smiled Richard. "Well, I'll untie you in a moment. I've confiscated your handgun. I'll hand it in to your police station tomorrow morning. Make sure you're on the reception desk to receive it; otherwise you'll have some explaining to do! I've hidden your uniform and helmet somewhere in the garden. You have half an hour to clean up the puke and spunk here and find your uniform before Lucy arrives. That shouldn't be too challenging for a great detective like you! I expect that Lucy will give you a lift back to wherever we left your motor bike".
As Richard drove away, he was chuckling. In his rear-view mirror he could see a naked Jazz frantically charging round the overgrown garden looking for his kit. He eventually found it, with minutes to spare, concealed among the thicket of nettles and brambles, which closed receptively around Jazz. As Richard had intended, Jazz got badly scratched and stung.
"Well," I said, "you will have made a serious enemy of that cop Sergeant!"
"Not that serious," said Richard. "He's now definitely afraid of me. And from time to time I deliver a little reminder of what I am capable of."
"Jazz," said Richard "is a professional macho-man, i.e. not a real one. He would have liked to join the Paras or the SAS but presumably got rejected. A lot of men like that join the police. So, although he is not a soldier, he likes to do military things and bangs on about terrorism and security. In reality there are very few terrorists at large in rural Worcestershire. And from time to time he stages an 'anti-terrorist exercise,' which he hopes will impress his superiors. The other young policemen go along with it because it is a good skive, like a paintball weekend. Of course they have to have someone to act the role of the terrorists and usually it is volunteers from the local TA unit. A good time is had by all. This year, however, the Yeomanry were not available, as they had another commitment. But they promised to find another reserve unit to help out. And they asked me to assist!"
"Ah... I'm beginning to see!"
"I'm still an SAS Reservist, even if I am also an MP. So I got some of the chaps to come and help. We gave Jazz and his friends real value for money. We captured him and took him prisoner. When the Chief Constable and the Lord Lieutenant, whom Jazz had invited to watch the exercise, came round with the umpires, they found Jazz stripped to his snazzy underpants - red with white polka-dots on that occasion, as I recall - being realistically interrogated. When the CC and Lord Lieutenant came in, I took off my black terrorist balaclava helmet and Jazz suddenly realised that it was me. His yell of terror was completely authentic. Gosh, I had a laff!"
I am afraid to say that I laughed too. Richard gave me an affectionate dig in the ribs. "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" he chuckled.
"And what happened after that?" I inquired.
"Oh, I did a bit of research," said Richard. "As I suspected, Jazz has not been a model copper and has done various naughty things that he would not want either his superiors, or his girlfriend Lucy Jones, to find out about. His sex-life has been really quite exciting. He is... curious and versatile, to put it mildly. I have let him know that I have had to wrestle with my conscience: whether to reveal all his misdemeanours to the competent authorities, which arguably I should, as local MP, or whether I should allow my natural good nature to prevail: to hush it up and give him another chance. Jazz is remarkably helpful these days, and now and again I get to fuck him! Jazz's amorous education has advanced considerably in recent weeks. But he's developed this strange aversion to freesia; even the smell of freesia which, as you know, is very delightful!"
I laughed again. Richard paused thoughtfully.
"Now, James, that mention of sex reminds me... "
Quick as a flash, Richard grabbed my cock.