Destroying Angel (9 page)

She knew the youths couldn’t last long, but even as she strove to achieve her own orgasm before they were all spent, Fire Ghost jerked and erupted in her mouth. Susan swallowed his seed as he slumped back on his haunches, wheezing unhealthily.

Beadle pushed him aside like a spoilt child claiming a treat, and stuffed his own bursting erection between her glistening lips. He squealed and ejaculated immediately, giving Susan little choice but to drink his offering too, and then fingers clamped into her hips and she felt Taz erupt deep inside her.

The two smug youths withdrew. Susan sank to the ground, barely noticing how uncomfortable she was on the brick rubble, and started to masturbate, desperate for her own release. Her audience gawped at the luscious sight before them as her approaching orgasm made her writhe and gasp in earnest. She started to come. She whimpered in ecstasy, hitting one beautiful peak and then another. As her pleasure gradually ebbed she relaxed, feeling soiled, dirty… and utterly happy.

The youths said nothing, but their movements were a little awkward as they rearranged their clothing and looked at one another, a little sheepishly.

‘Could I have a beer?’ Susan eventually asked. Feeling sore and a little ashamed of herself she accepted a can from Taz, propped herself onto one elbow, and opened it. A deep draught did something to take the edge from her sudden thirst and the salty male taste from her mouth.

‘You are one dirty bitch!’ Taz enthused.

Susan took another swig of beer and sat up. Her panties and jeans were still tangled around her ankles, clean and fairly dry, although her knees and one thigh were covered with brick dust. There was also the matter of the mess in her pussy and between her inner thighs. She sighed; it seemed pointless asking if any of them had a tissue, so she resigned herself to going home with soggy knickers.

‘We’ve got to tag her,’ Fire Ghost said as Susan reached for her panties.

‘Yeah, right,’ Beadle agreed.

‘Come on boys,’ she remonstrated. ‘That was nice, but I’ve had enough.’

‘Sorry, girls we have get tagged,’ Taz said, and suddenly grabbed Susan’s ankles.

‘Hey, No!’ she squealed as Beadle gripped her arms and pulled her backwards. ‘Get off me!’

Susan struggled as Taz and Beadle forced her down. For all her determination not to get covered in spray paint, she couldn’t help laughing, a reaction that encouraged them. Soon she was helpless and spread-eagled on the ground.

‘Oh, come on…’ she begged as Fire Ghost approached with his spray cans. ‘No, please, not paint! Get off me, you little bastards!’

Despite herself, Susan was still laughing. There was no real cruelty in their actions, just high spirits and a total disregard for her dignity. Tagging her was simply a playful ritual – humiliating, true, but no more humiliating than what she had just done for them.

‘Stay still or you’ll spoil the design,’ Fire Ghost said as he shook the can of scarlet paint.

‘Okay, I give in, you little sods,’ Susan conceded, her struggles subsiding.

Fire Ghost started at her breasts, judging the size of the tag carefully to end at her pussy. Taz and Beadle continued to hold her down, evidently not trusting her promise of submission. Taz also kept her legs as far apart as her jeans would allow, adding the further humiliation of having her pussy held vulnerable while she was done.

Susan stared up at the sky while Fire Ghost worked the paint over her body, pondering what induced her to get into such situations. It was because she had an insatiable sexual appetite, she knew.

Fire Ghost started with the orange, tickling Susan where the spray caught her tummy. She giggled, looking up into Beadle’s plump grinning face. She sighed, raising a final muted protest as the spray caught her pubic hair, and then yielded completely. They could do as they liked, suggest any humiliation their dirty little minds could come up with, and she’d just go along with it.

Fire Ghost added brilliant yellow and crimson low-lights before declaring himself finished.

‘Stand up and I’ll do mine on your bum,’ Taz said.

‘Okay,’ Susan acquiesced, ‘but pull off my jeans and panties; I don’t want them ruined.’

Taz cheerfully stripped off her remaining clothes, including her shoes, leaving Susan completely naked. She got carefully to her feet, trying not to spoil Fire Ghost’s artwork, then stood obediently with her hands on her head as Taz applied a rich green paint to her bare bottom. Looking down her front, Susan could see the start of the ‘Fire Ghost’ tag, the letters somewhat distorted by the swell of her breasts. Taz followed with silver, a much simpler tag than Fire Ghost’s and clearly suited to the roundness of her bottom. Beadle went last, using her back as a canvas for a crimson and silver tag.

‘Are you all done, now?’ Susan asked patiently.

‘Yeah, that’s the lot,’ Taz confirmed. ‘Just let the paint dry for a bit.’

Susan stayed still, wondering how she must look, naked and painted. In a way, she supposed, it made her their property; a deliciously submissive thought. The three sat drinking lager and admiring their handiwork, looking extremely pleased with their efforts.

‘So when’s the next fire?’ Susan asked casually.

Fire Ghost started to speak, only to be interrupted by Taz.

‘He hasn’t been feeding you that shit, has he? He’s not the real Fire Ghost; he wouldn’t have the guts.’

‘Turn round, let’s have another shot of the one on your bum,’ Paulette laughed, winding her camera on.

Susan turned and posed to show off the ‘TAZ’ tag on her bottom, placing her hands on her hips to give a proud, cheeky pose. The camera clicked.

‘Now bend over a bit and stick it out,’ Paulette instructed.

Susan obeyed, giggling as she adopted the rude pose requested by her girlfriend. The camera clicked again.

‘One more, and that’s the end of the film,’ Paulette announced. ‘Let’s have a good one of the front.’

Susan turned and pushed her boobs out, making the best of the ‘Fire Ghost’ tag. Paulette made her move a little and then took the final picture, the thirty-sixth, of Susan’s painted body. She was stark naked in most of them; towards the end adding coloured pop-socks and then high-heels to make the pictures subtly ruder.

‘He’s a good artist,’ Paulette commented, ‘even if he’s not the real fire-raiser.’

‘I’m sure he’s not,’ Susan replied. ‘Even at first, I was pretty sure. If any of them was capable of it, I’d say it was Taz.’

‘You’re dead lucky, Susan. I’d never have had the guts to go for it when they started.’

‘I nearly didn’t,’ Susan admitted, ‘but I’m glad I did. I do feel a bit ashamed, as it goes – but not much.’

‘Nothing a good spanking won’t put right.’

‘Maybe, when I’m clean and pink again instead of multi-coloured,’ Susan said. ‘Besides, I’ve got to go and see Paul Berner and try and get him to involve himself this afternoon. If we start playing spanking games we’ll be here all day.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ Paulette called after Susan as she went into the bathroom. ‘I offer you a nice spanking and you’d rather go and give some lout of a policeman a blow-job – thanks!’

‘It’s work, and you can spank me later—’ the sudden hiss of the shower cut off her words.

Susan sighed as she mounted the steps to Heath Police Station. It had already been a long day. It had taken ages to get all the paint off, and she even had to shave her pussy to be completely rid of the artwork.

Afterwards, all she’d wanted to do was curl up in bed until it was time for Paulette to serve her dinner. As it was, she was facing the prospect of trying to persuade Paul Berner to join a team any career-minded policeman would have been doing his best to get out of. He did have a genuinely enquiring mind but, at the end of the day, she knew it would be her willingness to grant sexual favours that would swing the balance. Even on the telephone, he had hinted at what he would expect for any further assistance, and she hadn’t even told him the extent of the favour she wanted.

As she went through the process of announcing herself to the desk sergeant, explaining why she wanted to see Berner and then waiting for him to come down, Susan pondered the events of the day. The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that if there was a scam at de Vergy Fine Wines, then Ruddock was the man behind it. If Annabella was involved, then she was a stunningly good actress.

Remembering how Annabella had maintained her role as the cool aloof mistress almost to the point of orgasm, Susan began to have doubts. Maybe Annabella wasn’t so innocent. One thing she was certain of: a link existed. The probability of the three events being coincidence was negligibly small.

Berner finally appeared but, to Susan’s relief, was unable to secure the use of anywhere sufficiently private to allow him to make use of her sexually. Instead, they used the reception interview room, far too close to the desk sergeant to risk more than a feel of Susan’s boobs and bottom. After satisfying himself with a grope, which Susan accepted without protest, he fetched coffees and asked her to state her case.

Susan accepted the coffee and began to explain her ideas. He listened attentively, making the occasional comment and then sitting back. She watched as he sipped his coffee, clearly deep in thought.

‘Well?’ she finally asked, exasperated by his lack of response.

‘This is the deal,’ he said, suddenly leaning forward. ‘I’ll ask for a transfer to the Fire Ghost team, and then I’ll do what I can. In return, I want you as my plaything until it’s over. That means what I like, when I like. Okay?’

Susan sighed. It was more or less what she’d expected, the only difference being that she’d thought that by this stage she’d already have been on her knees with his prick in her mouth.

‘Detective Sergeant Paul Berner,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘You’re a filthy bastard, but it’s a deal.’

Berner accepted her hand and shook it, grinning from ear to ear.

Susan nodded and smiled as the security man raised the gate for her. He returned a lewd grin, a reaction that Susan had come to accept as normal. She drove to the far end of the estate and parked next to the cordon of police tape that still shut off de Vergy Fine Wines from the public. What was left of de Vergy Fine Wines, she corrected herself, looking at the gutted roofless ruin and the mess of blackened debris around it. The sun had dried most of the yard, leaving ashes and an unpleasant black paste. There was still a scent of boiled wine in the air, mingled with smells of smoke and wet cardboard. A single man guarded the wreckage, a young PC who gave Susan an officious look as she climbed out of her car. He stood immobile as she kicked off her sandals and pulled on wellington boots.

‘Is DS Berner here yet?’ she asked.

‘Yes ma’am,’ the constable answered, ‘but he’s gone for coffee. Are you Miss MacQuillan?’

‘That’s right,’ Susan replied. ‘Can I go in?’

‘Er… I suppose so,’ he answered uncertainly.

‘Thanks.’

One glance inside the warehouse told her that there would be very little to find. For a start, forensic would have taken anything obviously useful in tracing the cause of the fire. Secondly, there was very little to take in any case. A burnt-out forklift stood near the entrance. The portable office was barely recognisable; an iron base with a few pieces of wet charred wood and paper scattered across its surface. A large roll of police tape lay on one corner, the blue and white stripes incongruously bright among the drab surroundings.

The main warehouse floor was a carpet of the revolting black paste she had seen outside, presumably compounded of soot, cardboard, broken glass, wine and water. Here and there pieces of roof, bits of pallet, and miraculously unbroken bottles had survived, protruding from the black muck like pieces of flotsam in an oil slick. Susan grimaced at the smell, hitched her skirt up a little, and began to pick her way across, using bits of roof and charred pallet as stepping-stones.

At the far end, a burnt-out piece of machinery stood on its own in an area separated from the rest of the warehouse by a breeze-block wall, now half-collapsed. The machine was large, a massive and complex construction of steel that had withstood the heat. It appeared to be for doing something with bottles, but Susan found it impossible to guess what.

The sole surviving structural part of the interior was the lavatory. Stepping over the remains of the door, Susan poked her head inside. Everything was covered in soot and the floor was awash, but everything looked in working order. She found herself amused by the thought that, of the entire structure, only the lavatory should survive.

She backed away and turned to the main body of the warehouse. The end she was at was the least damaged, a fair number of bottles remaining intact. Susan pulled one from its matrix of soggy cardboard, guessing that its position at the very bottom of the pallet furthest from the door had saved it. The label was wet but legible, declaring it to be from a wine co-operative at a place called Choray in the Loire valley. She peeled off the damp label and put it carefully into a plastic bag.

A theory began to form in her mind.

‘Hi, Susan.’

She looked up to see Paul Berner standing in the warehouse entrance. He was holding two plastic beakers.