(2/9) (Crime Drama, nc, not pc)
SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY
by Rhett Dreams (c. 1996)
Author's note: This story borrows characters from two novels by Thomas Harris:
"Red Dragon" and "Silence of the Lambs." It is highly recommended that you
read this particular story in order; otherwise, you miss important elements of
the plot.
Warning: This fictitious story is decidedly NOT politically correct and is
intended for mature readers.
Chapter Two
Special Agent Clarice Starling got the call while she was drinking her
afternoon tea, from a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Albert. It took
Starling a second before she made the connection and placed the name.
"Of course, Mrs. Albert. I remember you. How's Beth?"
Clarice Starling had gone to school with Beth Albert at the University of
Virginia. They had been pretty close friends at the time, and once Clarice
traveled with Beth and her mother down to Florida during one spring break.
Clarice did not consider herself the great beauty that Beth most certainly was,
but she had enjoyed the fact that her blond friend attracted men like a magnet
and she got her pick of the leftovers. They'd drifted apart after college, as
Clarice's excellent grades and double major in psychology and criminology got
her accepted at the FBI academy while Beth worked as a reporter for a paper in
Baltimore and then in Tallahassee. They exchanged Christmas cards but that was
all.
"She's gone," said the strained voice of Mrs. Albert. "She's been missing
for a month now. The police can't find a trace of her, nor can the FBI."
Starling asked a series of questions, probing gently until she had the
story. Beth Albert had checked out of her hotel in New Orleans on a Sunday
thirty days ago. She was expected at her fiancee's condo in Tampa the next
morning which meant she had planned to drive all night. She never showed and
her fiancee, Howard Stennis, filed a missing person's report the next day.
Because the police had no idea whether she was still in Louisiana, or someplace
in Florida, or in between, not much was done and the case was transferred to
the FBI. The mother was understandably concerned, and voiced her belief that
they'd stopped looking for her daughter, believing that she'd run away with
some man.
"Why don't you give me the name of the agent who's handling Beth's case,
Mrs. Albert, and I'll call and find out what's happening."
Starling jotted down the name and promised to get back as soon as she
knew something. She called the number in New Orleans and left a message on the
agent's answering machine, identifying herself and asking him to call her about
the Albert case.
Starling was in the Behavioral Science section at FBI headquarters, the
Bureau specialists in serial killers, and she only had an academic
understanding of how the FBI might track a missing person across multiple
states. The current case she was working on involved a series of rape and
murders in Southern Arkansas and Northern Mississippi. Four bodies had been
found so far and the women had been raped, seminal fluid found in each of them,
and shot three times, one through each breast and once after the gun barrel was
inserted in their vaginas. Her boss and section chief, Jack Crawford, was now
in Dallas, attending the autopsy of the latest victim.
She also worked on the case of the psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the
brilliant but psychotic killer who escaped after helping her solve her first
case. Dr. Lecter had disappeared two years earlier, after killing the two
officers who held him. He sent her a post card every couple of months. It
would be fingerprinted, analyzed and traced, always to no avail. She knew he
was taunting her, amusing himself and emphasizing his great intellect at the
same time for having avoided capture. But it was eerie to get these
communiques, and she shivered when she recalled their meetings at the asylum
where he'd been kept locked up. Lecter's piercing eyes haunted her dreams,
those all knowing orbs and the twisted brilliance behind them.
A secretary brought her the preliminary autopsy report that had just been
FAXed from Dallas, and she read the gruesome details with that part of her
brain that could stay detached from any feelings for the slain girl. The
report speculated that the vaginal wound was post-mortem, as the first .38
caliber bullet had entered her heart and was fatal. Her phone rang while she
scanned the report.
"Gene Myers returnin' your call," said a voice with a distinct Southern
drawl.
"Thanks for calling back, Agent Myers. I got a call from Mrs. Albert
this afternoon, who told me that you're handling the case of her daughter,
Bethany Albert."
"Yep," he said. "Call be Gene, please."
"Okay, Gene. I'm Clarice. Beth and I were college friends at UVA. I'm
just calling to find out what you've learned. Is there any hope of finding
her?"
"There's always hope, Clarice, but this one's getting cold. She had
dinner Saturday night with a Ms. Kelly Smith, who tells me that Ms. Albert was
in good spirits and was looking forward to her wedding in a couple of months.
The folks at the hotel remember the girl, who I believe was quite, ah,
memorable, going out the next morning on foot. One of the guys at the
registration desk recalls that she asked for a late checkout time. I know she
went shopping that Sunday, because we traced a half-dozen credit card charges
to various stores and restaurants in the Latin quarter. Mostly tourist traps,
where you can buy tee shirts and doo dads. She checked out at about seven that
evening. A woman of her description was seen at a roadside diner 'bout an hour
east of N'Orleans. Then nothing."
"East... then she was traveling toward home," noted Starling.
"Looks that way," he conceded.
"No other stops along the way, say for gas?"
"No credit card charges. I had the Louisiana and Mississippi Staties
check the gas stations along the Interstate but nobody remembers the girl
stopping for gas. With the car she was driving, a $90,000 Mercedes roadster,
and with her looks, I'd be real surprised if she could have stopped for gas and
gone un-remembered."
"No sign of the car?"
"None, and the bunko boys tell me there's an active market for those
babies. They're checking new registrations of that make and model, state by
state, but it'll take awhile. And we don't really know if the car's been
stolen, or if it's at the bottom of some swamp, or if she'd decided to take
off."
"I know the girl, Gene. I can't imagine her doing that, and the report
from Kelly Smith seems to support the supposition that she was happy with her
fiancee and on her way home."
"That's my guess, too, but I got to keep all the possibilities in mind.
Do you know her fiancee, Howard Stennis?"
"No. I've never met the man."
"I went to see him. He's rich, tanned and twice her age. He made her
sign a pre-nuptial agreement. That doesn't mean a lot these days, not for guys
in his tax bracket."
"What's your read on him?" asked Starling.
"Seems very straight. Background check showed nothing. Always pays his
alimony on time and put three kids through college, two through grad school.
Active in the community. I believe he's genuinely concerned about the girl.
Called me yesterday as a matter of fact."
"What's next?"
"Well, normally we'd just sit and wait, hope she shows up someplace or we
find the car and can trace it back."
"But..." prompted Starling.
"I got me a funny feelin' on this. So I ran a computer check over the
last two years and found a number of similar disappearances, all unexplained.
We sorted through the records, selecting MP's along the gulf coast who were
driving expensive cars when they disappeared, and found thirteen."
"That sounds like a lot," said Clarice.
"It is. Ran a similar check for New England and found only two. West
coast states had three. Two across the entire midwest."
"Shit," muttered Starling..
"Yeah," drawled Myers. "And nine of those shared another similarity with
the Albert case. The MP was female, between eighteen and thirty. I'm
requesting all the files now, hoping to find some link. Maybe trace one of
those cars."
After a few more minutes Starling thanked the agent and hung up. She
knew that Agent Myers was doing all he could, with considerable insight, but
she wanted to help somehow.
"What happened to Beth?" she asked herself. "What happened all those
women?" She felt a cold knot in her belly as she considered the implications.
Acting on her worse fears she called an agent she knew from her training days
at Quantico, and asked if he had time to talk to her.
- o -
"There's an active underground market for young women and girls,
especially white ones" said Agent Quinn after Starling had relayed what she
knew about the Albert case and the others. Despite her background and training
dealing with the most crazed of all killers and the carnage they left behind,
she felt her skin crawl as he explained.
"Mexico is trying to cooperate but it's not doing much good. Just last
month they raided a brothel in Ciudad Juarez, just south of El Paso, that was
doing a good business with clients from both sides of the border. They found
four white girls, and two boys, all runaways from up north who'd been abducted
and sold to the brothel."
"Slavery?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "We were extremely lucky on this one, and were able
to trace the kids back to an outfit in Houston that bought and sold human
beings. Wiretaps and surveillance helped us time our raid perfectly, and we
caught them with two girls who'd been kidnapped, raped and were waiting to be
shipped south."
"This is sick," said Starling and Quinn smiled ruefully at her, knowing
full-well the horrors of her specialty.
"But we're not stopping the flow, not by a long shot," he said. "A white
girl can bring $100,000 or more in Asia, the Middle East, and elsewhere. The
brothels that exploit these girls are well hidden and well financed, and the
local police are bribed to stay silent, with money and access to the girls or
boys, depending on their sick tastes. The dealers are more secretive and
careful than anybody you can name, including big-time drug dealers. When we
think we're getting close they disappear, probably to the Caribbean or
someplace else off-shore, and live off their un-touchable bank accounts."
Starling thanked him and walked despondently back to her office. She
called Beth's mother and gave what solace she could, explaining that the
investigation remained open and active. She didn't say a word of what she'd
learned from Quinn.
Then she pushed it out of her mind and picked up the autopsy report and
resumed reading.
- o -
The white Porsche pulled off the road and stopped neatly in front of the
single row of pumps. The young man behind the wheel peered into the well-lit
office. The other occupant of the car, an attractive redhead, reached over and
honked the horn.
"Be patient, Deb," said the man.
"Price Brothers' Towing and Service," said the girl, reading out loud the
large sign over the office area. "They'd better fuckin' hurry if they want to
service us."
Sam Price ambled out and approached the car, his eyes admiring the
expensive new sports car, then the occupants.
"Fill it?" he said.
"Yeah, thanks," said the driver.
"And hurry," said the girl.
Price noted that the driver was a strikingly handsome guy in his early
twenties and that his snotty girlfriend was quite pretty, from what he could
see. When he took the credit card back inside the office, he made a quick call
to the police, and was quickly routed to Trent's cruiser.
"Two dirtbags, sheriff, will be traveling east in a black van," he said,
using the code that told Trent it was a white or light-colored sports car.
"Thanks, Sam," came the response.
Sam took an imprint of the card and returned to the impatient couple.
The young man scrawled his signature on the charge slip, grabbed his card and
pulled away without waiting for his copy if the receipt. Sam watched him pull
out and heard the car race through it's gears as roared off into the night.
"Your welcome," said the tall, seedy-looking Price, sliding the receipt
into his pocket. If Trent caught up with the Porsche and decided to grab em',
he'd destroy the record of their purchase.
- o -
Trent pulled the speeding Porsche over four miles down the road. He had
never before been willing to try to nab two people. He knew he could manage
it, but he also knew that something could go wrong and judged that it wasn't
worth the added risk. As he approached the car, his flashlight checking out
the occupants, he decided to give them a ticket and leave it at that.
"License and registration, please," he said through the open window.
Trent watched as the young man dug for his wallet. He was surprised when the
passenger door opened and the girl got out.
"We're late already," said the redhead, her green eyes blazing with
irritation. "Can't you just let us go?"
"Please return to the vehicle, ma'am," said Trent, reasonably.
"Listen up, asshole," she said, hands on her hips, glaring at Trent over
the top of the car. "My dad is a U.S. Congressman, and he'll have your crummy
badge if you continue to harass us."
Trent's blood boiled hearing these insults from the spoiled rich girl.
The driver held his paperwork out to Trent and tried to calm the
situation. "Listen, Officer, she's a little upset---"
"Zip it, mister!" said Trent through his clenched teeth, grabbing the
license and registration from the man's hand. "Get out of the car, now!"
The man got out quickly and Trent grabbed his arm and led him to the
curb.
"This is harassment, you dickhead" shouted the irate girl. "You're gonna
get---"
Trent had un-holstered his gun as he walked the pliant man around to the
curb and now brought it up into the girl's face. Her epitaph died on her lips
as she stared down the barrel of his revolver.
"Let me tell you exactly what you're gonna do, bitch," he said in a tone
that made it clear he'd take no more. "You and your unfortunate friend are
gonna walk over and sit your butts in the back of that police car. You're
gonna do it now, and without another word."
The man reacted immediately, grabbing the girl's arm and leading her to
the cruiser. Once he had the two locked in the back, behind the protective
screen, Trent quickly got into the car and took off, his tires squealing in
protest as he turned the wheel hard and reversed directions, heading back
toward town. Price passed him with the tow truck and couldn't have missed the
flashing headlights that signaled him to pick up the Porsche.
"You dumb son of a bitch," muttered Trent to himself, slamming his palm
against the steering wheel in frustration. This was a dangerous thing he'd
started and he shouldn't have let the bitch rile him. If she was telling the
truth, and her daddy was a Congressman, the search would be extensive. He'd
let her get under his skin but now there was no turning back. He'd just have
to get rid of them and batten down. No more abductions for a long time. He
turned off the highway and raced down the dirt road to the Heinz farm.
- o -
The idea began to form in his mind later, after he and Tom and shackled
the pair to the wall in the basement. He went out to the cruiser and called
Sam, suggesting carefully that he bring his load to the farm. He quickly
overrode Sam's objections, repeating his instructions very carefully. He told
Tom to watch their guests and drove back to police headquarters.
Every police department and county sheriff in the area had been getting
regular reports from the FBI about the serial killer up North. He quickly
scanned all the reports and read the newspaper account of the latest find, a
woman found in Clarksdale, two hundred miles north of him.
The redhead, Debbie, was probably telling the truth about her father.
The Porsche was registered in the name of Robert Walters of Birmingham,
Alabama, and there was a first- term republican Congressman from Alabama with
the same name. The driver's license of the guy, Henry Burns, had an address in
Birmingham as well.
The idea that was forming in his head was complicated and simple at the
same time. It would ensure that his area of the state would not be combed,
looking for the congressman's daughter and her friend. They'd find her body up
North, shot in the same manner as the other victims. He examined it from every
angle he could, using his FBI and police knowledge of forensics and crime scene
techniques to help him. It was perfect, he decided. He knew full well that
here was no way he could duplicate the MO of the rapist/killer who was active
up North. They'd test the bullets and know they were fired from a different
gun than those found in the earlier victims. He didn't know whether or not the
semen of the rapist was non-secreting, making the blood type a mystery. In
addition, there were probably many other details of each case that the FBI was
intentionally keeping back form the papers and police.
The beauty of his plan was, he wanted the investigators to know Debbie
Walters had been murdered by a copycat killer. The similarities would not fool
them but it was the type of thing an amateur might try to cover his tracks.
The amateur Trent had in mind was none other than Debbie Walter's traveling
companion, Henry Burns.
Moving quickly Trent went to the basement evidence room and found a
thirty-eight who's previous owner was now in prison. Then he left for the
farm.
- o -
"We've got to do this or our operation comes to a halt for at least a
year, and this place will be crawling with Staties and Feds, looking for her,"
said Trent to his three partners. The two Price brothers were there, along
with Tom, and they had listened closely to his plan.
"Who knows what they'd find, snooping around herebouts," conceded Sam
Price.
"You sure it'll fool'em?" asked Tom.
Trent shook his head. "It's not supposed to. They'll see right through
it and conclude that somebody else knocked her off, not the killer they're
trackin'. When they find her Porsche back in Birmingham, with his prints all
over it and the gun too, they'll like our boy downstairs for the crime."
"And they'll find him, but in no condition to talk" said Tom, grinning.
"Yep," said Trent.
"I'm in," said Ward Price and his brother nodded.
"Me too," said Tom.
- o -
The body of Debbie Walters was found two days later, twenty miles from
the site of the previous one. The cops arrived first, and were convinced by
the twin holes in her breasts and the mess made of her sex that this was the
fifth victim of the serial killer. The local FBI was notified and within
minutes Clarice Starling was on the phone, madly jotting down the details. When
she hung up she placed two calls, one to secure a seat on the next flight to
Jackson. The second was to American Airlines, and she waited impatiently
before she was connected to the cockpit of the plane carrying her boss, Jack
Crawford.
"Sounds like our man," said Crawford when she relayed the details.
"I've booked myself on the next flight down," she said, and then held her
breath, fearing that he'd call her off and go himself.
"Good," he said. "I wont land in Baltimore for another two hours. Get
down there, Starling, and call me once you have the details."
- o -
It wasn't until thirty-six hours later that the results of the autopsy
and forensic analysis revealed the anomalies of this case. The body was taken
from the field where it was discovered directly to the modern coroner's
building in Jackson. The surprises and shocks came slowly but built into an
avalanche. Ten minutes into the autopsy the medical examiner revealed to
Starling, who was assisting, that the girl had been raped anally, as well as
vaginally. This was not the case with the previous victims.
"Maybe he brought a friend," suggested the M.E., ruefully.
The second shock was that all three wounds were post- mortem. The girl
had died by asphyxiation, which the M.E. described as very slow strangulation.
He also found faint signs of bruising around the wrists and ankles, suggesting
that she'd been restrained at some point before her death.
The bullets retrieved from this Jane Doe were of the same caliber as in
the previous cases, but showed under the scope to have been fired from a
different weapon. This surprised Starling but didn't rule out their killer.
He could have changed weapons for some reason. The tests on the semen found in
both orifices clinched it---the man who raped this woman was definitely not the
same as the perp for the other four women. The semen was consistent with the
theory of one rapist rather than two, in that both samples came from a secretor
of an uncommon blood type, but the previous killer was not a secretor. His
semen did not allow them to determine blood type.
"We've got a copycat, boss," she said when she next spoke to Crawford.
"Definitely not the same guy."
"Oh, shit," he said. "Are you ready for another shock?"
"What?" she asked.
"We're pretty sure we know who the victim is. Deborah Walters, the
daughter of Congressman Robert Walters of Alabama, has been missing since
Sunday. According to the MP report, she was allegedly driving back to
Birmingham from New Orleans, traveling with a friend, a Mr. Henry Burns, also
from Birmingham. Same red hair and green eyes as the deceased, same age, same
small mole on the left cheek."
"Jesus!" said Starling. Congressman Walters had been elected on a strong
law-and-order platform, and had been a particularly harsh critic of the FBI.
"He's flying into Nashville to identify his daughter's body. I want you
to meet him at the airport, Starling, and drive him to the coroners."
- o -
While Starling was dealing as best she could with the Congressman's grief
and anger after the positive identification of his daughter, the Alabama State
police found the Porsche and the body of Henry Burns, slumped over the wheel,
shot once through the head. The car had been driven up a secluded road and
then off into dense shrubbery, and it was pure luck that a young black kid
stumbled across it while he was taking a short cut to fish at a nearby pond.
Over the next few days the facts of the case became clear. Fingerprint
analysis found only Burns's prints on the gun, and only his and Debbie Walter's
in the car. The autopsy of Burns and the forensics afterwards revealed three
important things. His blood type was consistent with that of the semen found
in Walters's vagina and anus. Minute particles of human feces were found on
Burn's penis. Third, the bullet retrieved from his brain was fired from the
same gun as the one used on Walters. The gun they found clasped in Burns'
lifeless fingers.
- o -
"Okay, Starling, let me hear how it went," said Crawford, now back in his
comfortable office in Maryland.
"Burns and Walters are driving back from New Orleans and decide to have a
little fun. They find a motel someplace or maybe just some secluded spot for
their sex games. He ties her up, probably willingly, and they have sex. They
do it again later, but this time he takes her anally and wraps something around
her neck. I've read that this is not uncommon with the kinky set. It's
supposed to heighten the pleasure to be partially deprived of oxygen.
Something goes wrong and she suffocates. He panics, takes her out to the field
and shoots her, trying to imitate the killer that he's read about. Then he
drives home. He's either despondent over her death or he figures that we'll
nail him, so he offs himself."
"Where does he get the unregistered gun?" asked Crawford, ticking off one
finger, then the next as he spoke. "Where did the sex take place? Do either of
them have a history of kinky sex? Why were they so far off the route between
New Orleans and Birmingham?"
"Wrap this one up, Starling," he concluded.
- o -
Tom, the black caretaker, was pacing back and forth in the basement room
of the old plantation house. Nude, and quite drunk, he is as horny as he could
remember. It was over seven weeks since they did the blond, his last fuck, and
three weeks since he and Trent had done the job on the redhead and her
boyfriend.
He stroked his cock and recalled the scene of that night. They came
downstairs after agreeing on the plan and had stripped and bound the struggling
girl. The guy had been surprised when Trent released him and told him to fuck
the redhead or they'd kill the two of them. While they waited for him to
undress and to get hard, Tom worked his fingers in the girl's sex until she was
good and wet. The guy entered her and came after five minutes or so.
Tom recalled the scene with lust and frustration. Standing behind the
pair, watching the guy's gorgeous ass flex and relax as he drove his cock into
the girl, Tom's cock had stiffened in his pants. Later, after allowing him
time to recover, they greased the girl and forced him to fuck her up the ass.
She was a virgin there, and cried as he worked his cock inside her. The guy
cried too as he unwillingly raped his girlfriend's ass. Tom would have given
anything to have had the opportunity, then or later, to fuck the white boy's
perfect, firm ass.
Instead, after the guy had climaxed in her ass and dressed, Tom took
Trent's gun and forced the young man outside and into the tow truck. They
drove North for a half hour before pulling off and parking behind a deserted
gas station. They waited there for a half-hour until Trent arrived and slipped
Tom a zip-locked bag containing the .38 and a glove. The drove for another
three hours before pulling off the road and unloading the Porsche. Tom sat in
the passenger seat and directed Burns to drive down a dirt road and then into
the bushes. The Porsche got stuck after thirty yards or so, and that's when
Tom shot him, in the temple.
Tom reloaded another shell in the magazine before closing Burns's hand
around the grip and firing again, this time out the open window. Trent had
discussed this with Tom carefully, how the powder burns needed to be on Burn's
hands for the cops to buy the suicide. He also explained that there needed to
be four and only four bullets missing from the cartridge.
Drunk, swaying as he stood and stroked his hard black cock, Tom closed
his eyes and played back in his mind the image of Burns's ass while he
sodomized his groaning girl friend. This time, however, in Tom's mind, he was
in turn fucking Burns, driving his cock between those firm cheeks and into his
ass. Tom came after a few minutes, his long thick cock squirting jet after jet
of cum onto the cement floor.
- o -
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 raped 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 girls throbbing and gyrating ass, cuming hard and long, his
passions enflamed by the submissive girl's words.