Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (16 page)

“To me it does.”

“Why?”

“I like to know which terror group intends to kill me so I can haunt them from hell.”

She smiled. “Are you afraid of dying?’

I was thoughtful, but the answer came pretty quick. “I guess not.”

“Extremely brave you are, Shackleton Speed.”

“Not really. If you can’t remember being born, then you’re unlikely to remember dying.”

“Then it matters very little you knowing anything.”

I made no attempt to decipher what she meant. I said, “Do your kind of terrorists eventually release their prisoners?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I dislike the term
terrorist
. We are Urban Guerrillas fighting for freedom from tyrannical rule.”

“Whose eyes are you covering up?”

“Obstinate cretins like you who don’t understand what we are trying to achieve.”

I pulled a disapproving expression. “I’ve heard all this frigging bullshit baloney before: fighting for a unified Ireland: throw out the repressors. All that and the frigging rest of the compulsive crap scraped together into a dirty pile.”

“Spare me the boring lecture.”

“I’m a shit lecturer. I’m more confused by the necessity for so much destruction. Ireland is a beautiful place, including Northern Ireland. People like you fuck it up with your trumpet for freedom. And you all miss one important fact.”

“What’s that?” She sounded bored.

“Have you or any other of those self appointed gladiators ever considered asking the people of Ireland if it was what they wanted? I doubt very much. Why, because you are all nothing but a bunch of Irish gangsters using the excuse of a campaign against tyranny to gain power and supremacy by intimidation and brutality. What you have running about is a regime of self proclaimed degenerates pretending to fight the good fight and hiding behind democracy to prolong their greed to accumulate wealth. You’re on equal terms with the Mafia. No. I’m afraid terrorism doesn’t come into the equation, just greedy gangsters accumulating a mass of money.”

I think I twitched her conscience because she didn’t strike me with anything. But she was still verbally aggressive.

“You sound just like a politician!”

Before I’d the chance to counteract, she shut me up promptly by ramming another chicken leg into my mouth forcing me to frantically chew or choke to death. I tried to eat quickly and half swallowed.

“We don’t operate on that pretence,” she said with pride in her tone.

I managed to gulp down what I was still chewing and carried on the debate. “You blow up innocent people.”

“Casualties of war are inevitable.”

“How frigging reassuring is
that
to the families of those victims.”

“Listen, Buster! Instead of blaming us, try blaming the cowards who run the British government.”

“By restructuring the blame it makes you sleep easy at night?”

“Like a log.”

“Well how comforting for you,” I said sarcastically. “But if it’s attention you seek, why don’t you try a different approach and chain yourselves to a steel gate. That way you might just convince the good people of Ireland that there is another alternative than murder.”

Her mouth twisted with hate. “Meddlers like you know nothing.”

“I know that true gladiators fight in the battlefield and not behind a remote controlled detonator far away from the destruction of a shopping mall full of women and children, without a soldier in sight.”

“Then the quicker the politics are sorted within Ireland, the better!”

“I couldn’t agree more. Yet there is one slight problem within a terrorist policy.”

“Being?”

“The gangsters that run the organizations don’t want an end to the proceedings. They don’t want peace because their source of income would dramatically shrivel. Less income means their comfortable lifestyle of luxury would diminish and the unfortunate bastards would have to work for a living instead.”

“We’re not gangsters.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“You’re not exactly high on God’s list of achievers.”

“At the back of the queue, I should imagine. But at least I would be in the queue if I wanted to be; you wouldn’t.”

She stuffed another piece of chicken in my mouth. She sneered. “You talk too much for someone in the precarious position you happened to be.”

I gave up at that point. I devoured the last piece of chicken and accepted a few mouthfuls of lukewarm coffee she offered me and without another word said she loaded the tray with the leftovers and left the room. She never even gave me the chance to thank her for the meagre offerings. I think she took offence to my insensitive attitude towards her. At least I could belch in peace without any complaint.

Half an hour later she was back carrying a bowl of steaming water and a towel over her arm. I had to look twice at her. She was different and no longer had the warrior queen appearance I’d associated her with earlier. She’d obviously showered. Her hair was damp and brushed back and she was wearing a black silk bathrobe that clung to her damp skin, but the combat boots she’d kept on hardly graced the occasion.

I noticed she wasn’t as hostile as before, though I wondered if that was a bad thing or not. She was unpredictable as I’d already experienced, and there’s nothing worst than an unpredictable woman who might be out for revenge.

She placed the bowl down on the floor.

Unsure of her intentions, I said, “Am I beginning to smell that bad?”

“Yeah, it might attract the rats.”

“I thought it had already.” I said sullenly. “Am I to be sold into slavery?”

“Don’t be so ridiculous. Unless you think you’re worth anything?”

“I like to think I am.”

She squatted and squeezed the excess water from a flannel, rose and stepped closer to me. She had a sweet smell about her. Even without a lick of makeup on her face she was pretty. She began gently washing and drying my face. For a girl who displayed such a brutish attitude towards me earlier, she had a soft touch when it came to playing nursemaid. I’d no complaints. This was far more rewarding than having, Spotty-face, pin my skin to the stanchion.

She rinsed the flannel only this time I became a little worried when her hand dropped to my crutch and undid my trouser zipper.

“I don’t need to piss.”

“No, but you need to wash.”

I don’t use underwear, so it was easy for her hand to slip in between the slot of my pants zipper. At first I thought she might be making a fool of me, deliberately teasing, but there was something about the way the flannel worked over my flaccid penis that alerted me that this girl wasn’t teasing. No. This was blatant foreplay and I wasn’t in any position to do anything about it. She might be the sybaritic kind and usually I’m all for it, but uncertainty steered me away from temptation.

She came close to me and nibbled my ear lobe. She whispered. “Isn’t this nicer?”

I almost agreed until I remembered that the bitch was part of a consortium hell bent on damaging my body. With that in mind I’d no intention of playing along.

I said, with a sudden hoarseness in my throat. “What’s to become of me?”

“Wait and see,” she said softly, the flannel sliding over my scrotum.

“I want to know now!”

“Be quiet! I hate these interruptions when I’m busy.”

And before I knew what was happening she had flopped my penis out of my pants and was washing the length of shaft in a gentle pulling motion.

Well I wasn’t having any of this bad captor-good captor shit! I said, “I think its clean enough now.”

She kissed me on the lips.

I didn’t respond. Kept my lips rigid to the movement of hers and stubborn as I was, in reality I wanted to kiss those pouting, luscious warm lips. I nearly did respond but my biggest problem was keeping my manhood limp.

I managed to get a word in when I turned my head sideways. I said, “Am I being cleaned up for my release?”

Her face pulled away from mine. “Hey, wake up dumb-ass! This is the captor’s prerogative. To do what they want with their prisoner. There are no rules to abide. I want to fuck. It’s as simple as that.”

“Why don’t you go and pick on one of your studs downstairs.”

“I’m picking on you! I fuck who I want to fuck. Besides, they’ve have all gone and we’re alone.”

Stupidly, I said, “I might not want to participate.”

“You’re not exactly in a position to argue.”

“It’s sexual harassment.”

“So fill in a report, Buster!”

“I’m going to play hard to get.”

“Please do, I like a challenge.”

The contest ended when she began caressing my dormant penis. Despite my resistance I wanted her but I wanted her on my own terms, not strapped to this stanchion like a side of beef. I had to defy her advances by thinking negatively. I thought of horrible things about her to distract from succumbing to her delicate advances. Clap, came to mind. She might have syphilis or large ulcerating scabs around her vagina? I sighed heavily. It was useless. She was too good for a feeble mind like mine. She knew how to handle a man and my resistance was dramatically failing.

She looked me in the eyes. “Fighting me are you?”

She went down on me and that first gentle flick of her tongue as she mouthed the tip of my penis all but sealed my fate. I’d lost the battle of wills because she discovered my ultimate weakness; let’s be fair, it was probably every man’s weakness and without doubt the oral sex finally mellowed my resistance. No man in this entire world could resist the warmth of a woman’s mouth as she sucks and moves her warm lips up and down the shaft. My dick swelled hard in her mouth. She knew that the way to a man’s heart isn’t through his stomach like most women suggest. She knew differently. She knew it was how a woman performed and she was exceptionally good, as if she did it for a living. I was bursting at the seams with no way back.

She rose to her feet, and said, “Now that didn’t take long.”

She untied her robe and let it fall open. I was spellbound as I gawped at her muscular body and firm breasts. She reached for the stanchion over my shoulders and raised herself onto my erect manhood, slowly lowering, that wonderful feeling as my dick pierced the moist lips of her vagina. I listened to her soft groans as she clung on. By her arm strength alone she moved herself up and down rhythmically, squirming side to side, finding her love spots that threw her into spasms of ecstasy. Her groans became frantic jerky screams as she thrust her hips up and down, her rhythm increasing with ever flick of her hip movement until she suddenly squeezed tight into my body and bit my neck vampire style to stem her scream. I grimaced. I felt the hotness of her vaginal juices explode as her muscles squeezed against the girth of my erection. Harder and furious she bounced her hips to reach her ultimate orgasm. I was rather glad that her nails dug into the stanchion rather than my flesh as she held on, exhaling huge gasps of air with every spasmodic jerk of her body, before she gently slowed, panting, catching her breath and I think deeply satisfied. It hadn’t taken her long.

I was horrified when she dismounted me.

Hell! What about me? I wanted to shout out.

I hadn’t finished. She had frigging left me there, unfulfilled, on the verge of eruption and was calmly tying her robe together. I was frantic with the frustration of not being finished off. I couldn’t even thrust myself off because I was pinned tight to the stanchion.

“Are you frigging kidding?” I yelled.

She pretended to be surprised. “What’s wrong?”

“
What’s wrong?
Are you blind woman? I’ve this huge hard on and with no end product. No satisfaction. That’s the problem!”

“On the contrary, Buster, you’ve just been had. Used is a better term. It’s called womanpower, full control of the situation. How does it feel to be used and left dissatisfied? Fucking awful, I hope?”

“What a bitch! I should have filled your mouth with semen when I had the chance.” I retorted defiantly.

“Naughty. And if you had done, I’d have spat it back in your face and watched the fluid dribble down your chin.”

By this time my erection had all but gone, hanging limply, defeated. She glanced down at my useless piece of dejection.

“Lost interest?” She said, as if it really mattered.

“Fuck off!” I snapped.

“Suppose I should put it back into your pants, wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

After zipping me back up, to add insult to injury, she patted my dejected lump and said, “Better luck next time, Buster.”

“There’s going to be a next time?” I said.

“Depends?”

“Oh!”

“Depends on whether or not we decide to kill you.”

She picked up the towel and bowl and left the room with a swing in her step, leaving me in a state of shock. Frigging hell! I was furious with myself for being weak-minded. Now I’ve been raped by a girl whose name I don’t even know and now she wants to kill me!

But how might they dispose of me? A firing squad came to mind, since I was already trussed up and ready. They could have at least untied me and allow me to die with honour, maybe allow me to fight and die like a Viking, with a sword in my hand, even if it was only a wooden one.

The crunching of tyres along the gravel driveway an hour later suggested the men had returned. I guessed I was about to discover my fate.

I wasn’t exactly grovelling when the big terrorist with pugilist features came at me brandishing a claw hammer and a huge commando knife because my heart was somewhere in my mouth trying to escape. As the condemned man, I considered, I deserved at least a dignified death. A bullet through the head would end it quick. When he raised the hammer the natural progression was for me to shut my eyes and wait for the first fatal blow and the blade ripping into my stomach.

Of all my expectations none of those happened apart from a ripping sound. I dared to open one eye just in time to see the big guy pulling the nails from the stanchion and what nails he failed to pull he simply hacked at my clothing with the knife until my aching body drooped with every disconnection. My weakened legs failed to hold me. The big guy caught me easily, yanked me upright and literally carried me out of the room, manoeuvred me down three flights of stairs and out into the pitch dark of the night where he effortlessly threw me into the back of a large dark coloured van, climbed in after me and sat down on the side seating with his foot resting near my face. I caught a glimpse of the girl sitting there too looking rather subdued. She obviously felt she ought to have been sat in the front seats