From Rhettxxoo@aol.com Sun Mar 02 16:25:00 1997
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Subject: "Southern Hospitality" by Rhett Dreams, 3/10 [mf, crime drama]
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Date: 2 Mar 1997 21:25:00 GMT
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SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY
by Rhett Dreams (c. 1996)
Chapter Two (cont.)
Sheriff Trent did not have to utilize his right hand when
he needed release, and right now he could feel the familiar
feeling in his gut that told him he needed a good fuck. He was
sitting at his kitchen table, sipping a beer after finishing the
meal Celeste had prepared. They had eaten in silence, as was
usually the case, and Trent had noticed that the young black
girl wore no bra under the simple cotton dress she wore. Her
dark nipples showed clearly through the worn fabric.
When she rose to clear the table, first setting her dishes
in the sink before returning for his, he stopped her. He reached
under her knee-length dress and confirmed his suspicion that
she was also without panties. His hands caressed the firm
meaty cheeks of her ass and he looked up into her ebony face
and dark eyes.
"You happy here, girl?"
"It's fine, masser," she said, using the term of address
that she knew he preferred.
He could only imagine the situation at home that forced
this girl to run away. Trent was no joy to live with, he knew, but
she ate regular and he knew she enjoyed the sex they shared.
"You want to get fucked tonight, nigger girl?" he said, his
hand between her legs, playing with her moistening sex.
"Yes, masser," she said.
"Take off your dress, nigger, then finish the dishes."
Trent sat and watched her as she worked at the sink,
naked, her back to him. After watching her meaty ass for
several minutes, his cock got uncomfortably stiff in his pants.
He got up, took another beer from the fridge, and went into the
small living room. He undressed and sat on the sofa, drinking
his third beer of the night.
He also thought about the night that he'd nabbed the
young couple, but not with the same frustration as Tom. Sure,
he would have loved to fuck the redheaded bitch, and watching
Burns butt-fuck the whimpering girl had given him a tremendous
hard-on. But when he thought back over the events of that
evening and the early hours of the next morning, it was not with
frustration but with great satisfaction. Everything had gone
perfectly.
He'd strangled the girl after Tom left with Burns, slowly
tightening a silk scarf around her neck. He took no pleasure
watching the fear build in her eyes and the color disappear from
the lips that had taunted and insulted him earlier that evening.
The last thing Beth Albert saw was the face of Sheriff Paul
Trent, inches from hers, as he squeezed the scarf around her
neck, closing her windpipe, his lips set in a thin line as her life
ebbed slowly away.
Celeste came into the room and found Trent sitting on
the sofa, his cock erect and his eyes staring off into the
distance. She was wary when she saw the purposeful set of
his lips, but went to him anyway. Kneeling between his spread
thighs, she took his cock in her hand and brought her mouth to
the job of licking and sucking his long tool.
Trent's mind registered her entrance and the pleasant
feeling of her warm, wet mouth on his cock. His mind replayed
the remaining events of that evening. He gloved his right hand
before pulling the .38 automatic out of the plastic evidence bag
and shooting three times into the corpse. He and Ward Price
wrapped the body in a plastic tarp and put the bundle into the
trunk of Tom's old Caddy, reasoning that the cruiser would be
too conspicuous if noticed so far from his county. They drove
North, transferred the weapon to Tom, then drove for several
hours before finding an isolated field in the same vicinity where
the previous body had been found. They got her body out of
the trunk and laid it behind some bushes, positioning the white
corpse spread eagle on the ground.
Trent ended his musings and looked down, watching the
black head bob up and down on his cock. He reached for her
and pulled the small girl up and into his lap. When he lifted her
again she reached down and positioned his cock at her sex,
then moaned as he lowered her until she was completely
impaled on his meat. She rocked up and down while he played
with her small firm tits.
"You my nigger slut?"
"Yes, masser," said the girl.
"Say it, nigger!"
"I'm your nigger slut, masser," she said.
Sweat broke out on the girl's forehead as she rode Trent.
Her breathing became more pronounced as the sensations from
her stretched cunt intensified. Trent began pulling and twisting
her long, thick black nipples as she bounced up and down with
greater urgency, digging for her orgasm. She came a few
moments later, crying out in release.
"Masser... masser... masser," she chanted though her
climax, then collapsed against Trent's chest. He held the girl to
him, his embrace almost tender, and let her breathing and pulse
reduce to normal. He took her head between his hands and
brought her lips to his, kissing her wetly, his tongue wrestling
playfully with hers.
After they broke he rapped her ass, motioning with his
head. She smiled and pulled herself off his cock and crawled
to the opposite end of the sofa. She lowered her head to rest
on the cushion and kept her ass high in the air, pointing toward
Trent. Kneeling behind her, Trent wet a finger in her cunt
before working it into her ass. Holding her meaty buns part, he
then positioned his cock at her anus and pushed. The girl
pushed back against him and his cock popped past her
sphincter and into her tight hole.
"Oh, God!" she cried, then groaned as he drove fully
inside her. His cock was slick with the juices from her cunt, but
not as well-lubricated as he was after his usual practice of
coating his cock with jelly before taking her this way. He felt
bigger than usual to the girl but she knew the discomfort would
pass soon enough. She'd been taken this way since she was
twelve, forced by her brothers once they got tired of using each
other, and then her father. They preferred this passageway
because it was very tight and it wouldn't make her pregnant.
But they beat her to get her to do it, or just for the hell of
it after she stopped objecting, while they raped her ass. Trent
had never laid a hand on her. She didn't love him and would
not have been surprised to learn that his feelings for her were
not much different from those he might have for a loyal dog. As
Trent worked his long cock back and forth in her butt, and the
feelings changed to pleasure, she was suddenly very happy.
She realized, just then, that while she had escaped the
beatings of her family and was glad, she wanted and needed to
be treated in this manner. The excitement she got from being
used was intense.
"You like fuckin' my nigger ass, masser?" she said,
surprising Trent who was used to her rarely saying a word to
him, and never when he butt-fucked her.
"Yeah, nigger," he said. "I like fuckin' your ass."
"And my pussy, masser?" she said, rotating her ass in
small circles as he fucked her.
"I like that too, nigger-slut."
"My mouth too, masser... do you like it when I suck your
white cock?"
"Uh huh," he said, increasing the pace of his strokes,
slapping his hips against her black ass with every forward
thrust.
"But you like this best... fuckin' your white cock up my
nasty nigger ass... oh, yeah... harder, masser... fuck my nigger
ass... ugh, that's it... ohhhhh"
They came together, the girl feeling his cock erupting in
her bowels and reaching down to finger her clit through her
own powerful orgasm.
"Nigger-slut... Nigger-slut..." Trent chanted as drove his
erupting cock into the black girl s throbbing and gyrating ass,
cuming hard and long, his passions enflamed by the submissive
girl's words.
Chapter Three
Clarice Starling's expectation that she'd wrap the case
up inside a week proved a bit optimistic when she went to
Birmingham to interview the Burns and Walters families.
Congressman Walters and his wife were stunned to hear her
account of what had happened to their daughter. Starling was
as delicate as she could be when she explained the semen
found in both her orifices, and their theory of her death.
"That's not... our girl!" said the mother, crying into her
hands.
Congressman Walters face went from pale to red with
anger. "It doesn't make any sense," he said between clenched
teeth. "We know Debbie's not like that, and we've known
Henry Burns and his family since he was little."
"All the evidence points to Burns," said Starling,
reasonably, then suggested that she be allowed to talk to him
privately. He led her outside and they walked in the garden
while she told him of the prints found on the gun, the presence
of fluids in the girl that matched Burns's blood type, shared by
less than two percent of the population, and the evidence than
Burns had engaged in anal sex shortly before taking his life.
Walters was still shaking his head when she finished. "I
like to think of myself as a logical man, Agent Starling. If A plus
B equals C, then C minus B must equal A. If what you're saying
is true, then I have to conclude that her mother and I were living
in this house with a complete stranger, and that we'd
hopelessly misread Henry's character. I don't believe either is
true."
Starling could not keep her face neutral and Walters
picked up on her expression that said, "I've heard this before
from other parents."
He didn't get angry, just determined. "I know my
daughter, Ms. Starling. She inherited my temper, and could be
quite a... bitch, at times... as can I, I know. And I'm not one of
those fathers who deludes himself that his daughter is and will
remain a virgin until she's married. She lost her virginity when
she was sixteen, after first discussing it with Harriet---my wife.
She concluded Debbie was ready, well protected, and gave her
blessing. I know she has sex regularly with Henry, and I've
been happy for both of them. They were learning to be adults."
"Did you know they were into, um, kinky stuff?" asked
Starling.
"You see, Agent Starling, I don't believe they were.
Debbie was too squeamish, always had been. A needle would
cause her to feint. She had no tolerance for pain or discomfort.
I just can't imagine her agreeing to anal sex, or letting herself
get... choked. I know this stuff happens but it doesn't fit either
Debbie or Henry. And Henry was... well, it's a crude and
tasteless expression but it fits---the guy was pussy whipped.
He took more shit from that girl than I ever would from anybody.
He was absolutely devoted to her."
He gave her names of close friends of Debbie's and
Henry's. As he walked her out to her rental car he said, "Let's
be logical again, Agent Starling. If I'm right about the kids, then
one of two things happened to my girl. The evidence was
either manufactured by the FBI in some bizarre conspiracy to
get back at me, which seems rather far-fetched, or somebody
forced Debbie and Henry to have sex before they were killed. I
admit that doesn't seem very plausible but please, keep an
open mind to what I've said."
"I will, Congressman."
"I suspect you will, Agent Starling. Senator Martin called
me last night, and told me that you were almost single-handedly
responsible for rescuing her daughter from that "Buffalo Bill"
psychopath. She said you were headstrong and impertinent but
totally devoted to finding her girl. It's too late for Debbie but I
hope you remain as devoted to finding the truth."
She shook his hand and drove off.
- o -
After two days in Birmingham, she'd talked to the Burns'
family and to several friends of both Debbie and Henry. The
refrain that was repeated often was, "That's not Henry... or
Debbie ...or Them." Nobody believed that Henry would perform
anal sex with Debbie or any other girl, and nobody believed that
she'd let him. One girl, a friend of both Henry and Debbie,
confessed that she'd slept with Henry before he and Debbie
were a couple.
"He was a very sweet guy, Ms. Starling. Gentle and
caring... and incredibly good looking. But he was really quite
boring in bed, if you know what I mean. I once suggested that
we play a game and pretend that he was, y'know, raping me.
He refused to do it. I just can't imagine him doing... that!"
The girl giggled and added, "I never would have let him
go."
- o -
On the flight back she reviewed the case folder from
front to back, not as she had earlier, convinced of the
circumstances that led to both deaths. This time she looked for
anything that might be out of place. Any detail that might
suggest some other answer. She found none.
It came to her in the middle of the night. She sat up in
bed and let the thought form in her mind. The car. The
Porsche didn't have enough gas to make it from it's last fill up, a
credit card charge two days earlier, on their way to New
Orleans, to make it there and back, up to the northwest corner
of Mississippi where the body was dumped, and then over to
where the car was found twenty miles west of Birmingham.
She got out of bed and retrieved the file from her
briefcase and an atlas. Assuming they drove around a bit in
New Orleans, which seemed likely given the dispersion of their
credit card charges while they were there, it would be seven or
eight hundred miles to complete the loop. She search through
the file and found the report on the Porsche.
"Shit!" she said to herself. The report stated that the
Porsche had a full tank of gas when it was found.
"Why would Burns stop and fill up the car with gas,
paying cash presumably because he was running and wouldn't
want any record of a charge, only to go a few more miles, drive
off the road and kill himself?"
- o -
Starling never went back to sleep that night, and arrived
at her office shortly before seven. She reviewed to case folder
again until eight and called the State Police in both Alabama
and Mississippi. Using her West Virginia accent, she sweet-
talked them into checking all the service stations on any
possible route taken by Burns. They had already done this with
motels, hoping to find where the couple had stopped for the
sex, but had come up empty.
She called the Alabama State police again and got
herself transferred to the sergeant who had overseen the
towing of the Porsche to their evidence lot, where it remained.
She explained her concern and he agreed to recheck the gas
level. He called back an hour later.
"It's about as full as the tank'll allow," he said. "Couldn't
have traveled more than ten or fifteen miles since the last fill-
up."
She thanked him and hung up, excited now.
Towards the end of the day she got a call from the
Alabama Staties, who said they'd checked every station on
every route to the Mississippi border and no one seen the
Porsche or could identify the picture of Burns and Walters.
"I wonder if he could've driven further toward
Birmingham, filled it, then gone back for some reason?" she
asked.
"That's a negative," drawled the voice on the other end
of the line. "We figured that was a possibility and checked all
the way to the city limits. That boy didn't stop for gas."
Impatient now, she called the Mississippi Staties and got
the same guy she had talked to earlier.
"We've checked all the stations up North," he said, "from
Jackson up past where the body was found, and all the routes
east to 'bama. Nobody saw the Porsche."
"What about south of Jackson?" asked Starling.
"We're still checkin'," he said. "I got all the County
Sheriffs down there on a conference call this morning, and each
agreed to check along the gulf coast roads, all the way North to
Hattiesburg. But its hard to imagine why they'd take that route,
given where the body ended up."
Starling thanked him and asked that he call her office, or
her home number, if he uncovered anything new. She sat back
in her chair and closed her eyes, rubbing them, trying to
come up with some explanation for the facts. Her eyes open
suddenly when the strange disappearance of Beth Albert
popped back into her head. The agent in New Orleans had
mentioned that he'd checked gas stations and found nobody
who remembered the girl or her finances fancy Mercedes.
She found his number and, as luck would have it, Gene
Myers was at his desk.
"Sure, Clarice," he said. "I remember our conversation.
Congratulations, by the way, for solving the Walters case."
"I'm not sure I have," she said.
He listen attentively while she told him about the
unaccountably full tank of gas in the Porsche, then went over
what she'd learned about the personalities of the two victims.
"Two victims?" he said, interrupting her.
She realized that she had uttered that phrase because
she was beginning to doubt the easy conclusion she'd drawn
from the evidence, and was now wondering if maybe Henry
Burns was a victim rather than the perpetrator.
"I'm thinking, maybe--"
"Maybe this couple met the same fate as Beth Albert,"
finished Myers. "And this may be linked to the other
disappearances."
"Uh huh," said Starling.
There was a long pause before Myers said, "I don't
know... Let's assume for a moment that there is in fact a car
theft ring operating someplace down here."
"Let's assume more," added Starling. "Let's assume that
these women, all young and attractive, have been abducted
and sold off, as sex slaves."
"What?"
Starling went over her conversation with Quinn,
reviewing the gruesome facts of the abductions and slavery of
girls, boys and women. Myers listened patiently.
"Okay, Clarice. But that makes my point even better.
Why would they kill the girl, set up this ass-backwards charade
to implicate the Burns kid, and thereby lose the opportunity to
collect on both the Porsche and the girl? I've seen the picture
of the girl that y'all FAXed down. She was real pretty, right?
And her boyfriend, the Burns kid, looks like a young Clark
Gable without the mustache. Why wouldn't they sell em' off,
and the car?"
Starling's enthusiasm dampened. He was right, it didn't
make sense. She thanked him and hung up.
- o -
Sheriff Trent had been on edge ever since he got the call
that morning from the Staties, asking for his help checking gulf-
coast gas stations for the white Porsche. The FAX that
followed, pictures of the car, Burns and Walters, had his palms
sweating. He put two deputies on the detail, then called Price
and warned him to expect a visit. It took five minutes for him to
calm his nervous partner, telling him over and over again that
this was routine.
"All you have to do, Sam, is look at the pictures, say
something nice 'bout the car or the girl, and say you would have
remembered them stopping for gas. Offer to call up Ward and
see if he saw them. Get this right, Sam, or we're all fucked!"
He shouted the last sentence and slammed down the
phone. He got up, pacing his office, while he reviewed the
facts in his head and calmed down. He realized the error they'd
made, not thinking to siphon gas from the Porsche before
dumping it and Burns. His plan was still solid, he concluded at
last. Even if they never found how and where he filled the
Porsche they assume that someone had lied or forgotten him
stopping at a gas station. Or they'd assume that someone
other than the folks they talked to had manned the pumps when
Burns stopped to get gas. There was too much concrete
evidence to keep this from being closed soon.
"Who the fuck is investigating this?" he muttered to
himself.
- o -
Trent paid a visit to Tom at the Heinz farm, wanting to
check on him before he went to the Price Garage to mollify his
other two partners. Tom's condition surprised Trent. The black
man was never very clean or well dressed, even in the best of
times, but Trent found him looking especially worn and
haggard. He smelled like he hadn't bathed in weeks, and his
graying whiskers and furtive eyes worried the lawman.
Trent covered his disgust and said, with as much cheer
as he could, "It'll be awhile, Tom, before we can start up again.
What you need is a good woman."
He reached into his pocket and brought out a think roll of
bills.
"Get yourself shaved and cleaned up, Tom, and I'll treat
you to a visit to Rosie's." Trent peeled off four hundreds and
gave them to Tom. "That should be enough for a special.
Rosie's girls will scratch whatever itch you have."
The black's eyes widened and he took the money.
"It has been awhile, boss," he said.
"Sure has," said Trent. "And I feel bad having cheated
you outta the redhead. Jesus Christ, I don't think I've ever
heard such a commotion as when the boy fucked her sorry
ass."
"No sir," said Tom, grinning.
"And that boy sure had a tight ass on him," continued
Trent, knowing Tom's interest in fuckin' anything that moved,
and guessing correctly of his interest.
"He was somethin'," agreed Tom.
Tom ran his hand over his two week-old beard, then
excused himself to go shave and shower. Trent watched him
go with a frown on his face. If there was a weak link in this
operation is was certainly Tom. He decided that he may have
to do something about him.
Back in his office after stopping by the Price Garage to
check on Ward and Sam, Trent called Rosie and warned her to
expect Tom.
"Shit, Sheriff, that nigger's gonna wear out by girls,"
complained the proprietress of the county's only brothel. Trent
let her stay in operation because she kept her girls clean and
safe and she didn't cheat anyone. Of course, she also allowed
him an occasional freebie.
"He'll pay top dollar," said Trent. "And I'll consider it a
favor."
She made a noise that Trent took as acceptance, the
said, "Speaking of favors, Sheriff, we haven't seen you around
for months. You got yourself a honey?"
"Jes' gettin' old, Miss Rosie. Besides, I'm saving myself
fo' you."
She laughed heartily before they said their good-byes
and hung up.
- o -
Starling used tweezers to hold the edge of the postcard
and examine it. This latest note from Hannibal Lecter was
postmarked from Oklahoma City, but she knew it meant nothing
and would lead nowhere. The elegantly penned words read:
I wonder if you're on this case, my dear
The Little Rock Rapist I mean
This last little gift was not his, I fear
The timing's not right nor can be the scene
As with the previous communiques, it was signed HL.
This one unnerved her, because it must have been written and
mailed just after the discovery of Walters' body and before the
discovery of Burns' apparent suicide. If Lecter was following
this case in the press, and she was sure he was, he could only
have seen the first newspaper or TV accounts which assumed
she was the fifth victim of the serial killer. Once again the
brilliant psychopath was showing off for her, teasing her with
his prose.
She placed the card in an envelope and marked it for lab
analysis, knowing that they'd find no prints and tell her that the
card could be purchased at any of ten thousand stores across
the country.
Her phone rang and she took the call.
"Hi Clarice, Gene Myers here."
"Hi Gene. Anything new on Beth?" she asked.
"Maybe, maybe not. But that's why I'm calling. I've been
kicking myself for dumping all over your theory that maybe all
these open MP cases are tied to the Walters case."
Starling smiled into the phone. She liked this guy, and
his southern accent reminded her of the few pleasant times
from her childhood in West Virginia.
"I needed some cold water thrown on me, Gene" she
said. "My imagination was out-racing my reason."
"I'm not so sure now that I've noodled on it awhile. I've
also been poring over all the other MP cases that have come in,
that involve both expensive cars and young women."
"Yeah?" Starling's heart beat faster.
"The reports were filed all over the South, as you know,
and I've just now got them all sorted out. They're from the local
PD's in Texas, Florida and up north to Virginia, but all of the
MPs can be reasonably placed along the Gulf Coast when they
disappeared."
"Any luck tracing the cars?"
"'Fraid not. But I was wondering if you and Agent Quinn
could come down here for a couple of days and help me sort
through this case."
"I'd love to," she said. She told him that she'd check with
Quinn and clear it with Crawford, and get back to him.
--
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