"I realise this might sound offensive, Sir, but I have to ask."
Peter could see it coming, able almost to pre-empt the question word for word.
"Did you and your wife ever argue?"
Despite his preparation Peter fumbled for an answer, aware of the implications. "Of course we argued, like any other couple, but nothing serious. You know tiffs, that sort of thing."
"Tiffs." The policeman wrote something down, then appeared to ponder over his next question. "Then she wasn't what you call perfectly happy?"
Peter leant forward, enraged at the direction the questions were taking.
"It's probably best if you go on home now, Sir. Your wife may try to contact you there."
Peter took a step back and held up his mobile telephone, shaking it at the officer. "If she wants to phone me she bloody well can, but she can't because something's wrong! Can't you understand that? Can't you see it?"
With his arm around Peter's shoulder the policeman led him back to his car.
"I shouldn't really tell you this until we got you home," he said. "We don't want you driving recklessly around the roads in search of your wife and putting others at risk, but," he paused a moment before Peter demanded to hear the rest, "someone answering your wife's description was seen about a little while ago. In the company of a young man. They were holding hands and drinking tea together."
The roads around Lazonby Fell can be lonely enough during the summer months. In February, with a bitter wind scraping its way across the heath, it is desolate. There is no shelter, no hiding place except for the odd wind screen erected by considerate farmers trying to protect the hardy Cumbrian sheep. Young lovers appreciate the isolation at the roadside lay-bys, taking a moment or two between each intimate embrace to appreciate the stark splendour of the moonlit moor.
There was nothing different about tonight, though the couple in the smart estate were disturbed by the lights of a large lorry pulling in behind them. But then drivers often called in to grab some sleep and the man in the estate never missed his stroke, even when the wagon came to a stop alongside the car, flooding the vehicle with moonlight reflected off the gleaming black paint work. At that time, the most important thing to him was to get his load inside his secretary before his wife got home from bingo. He wedged his foot against the glove compartment for extra leverage and continued his work. Mrs Lennox might be a crap typist but she had a cunt like hot liver and legs so smooth her knickers had trouble staying up.
Whether it was over the desk or up on the moors, Mrs Lennox always gave a good ride. When the Driver of the black rig drew his curtains he looked down on luscious tits jiggling to the beat of the office managers thrusts. She saw him watching and flashed a smile, happy to be the centre of attention. If the Driver had watched a few seconds longer he would have seen jolts of cum jerk up from between their thighs and criss cross her face like the icing on a cake.
But the Driver had icing of his own to prepare and pulled across the material blanking out the arse of the man rising and falling between the long and well spread legs of his typist.
The blackness departed under the glow of the red cabin light to reveal Susan still bound on the bunk behind the seats. Her captor leant casually against the driver's door, studying his catch as she tried to make sense of her situation.
Her fears mounted as a sudden movement by him brought a length of wood out from under his seat. Severely restricted, her only action was to shrink ever deeper into the back of the cab until it was impossible to go further, and as if that was his signal, the Driver leant over the seats and slipped the buckle on the strap around her knees. Any thought of release was quickly squashed when he wedged the wood firmly between her knees forcing her to sit frog-like on the bunk, the vee of her knickers visible to the Driver.
Satisfied by her position, he returned to his place against the door and took out his cock. It was only semi erect but he made no attempt to touch himself and Susan knew that sooner or later that job would be hers. If only he would remove the spanner from her mouth she could reason with him, but she had read too many Sunday papers to believe there was any hope of that. Her only chance would be to go along with anything he wanted, whatever he wanted. Then she might just get dropped on some lonely road minus her knickers and full of a stranger's spunk.
Her escape planning continued until she saw him rise and stretch his hand out under her legs. They fumbled along her thighs, reached her crotch, forced their way around the material and onto her pronounced labia.
The thickness of her lips surprised him and he ducked his head beneath the wooden pole to see how she was made, pulling away the material hiding her slot. She was wearing plain blue cotton panties, sensible ones, the type Peter liked her to wear. Peter didn't like anything tarty, or frilly, they were quiet people, Peter was a gentle man. She felt the driver take hold of her lips with each hand and pull her open to inspect the inner folds of her vagina, studying her redness intently.
When he had seen enough he sat back and Susan saw that this time his cock was red and angry, but he made no attempt to strip her. Instead, he removed his trousers and sat calmly stroking his cock along its full length, enjoying the sight of her.
They were slow tight strokes that brought back the memories of her capture, of how she was so pleased he had stopped and how she had climbed into his cab for warmth while he looked at her car. How she had changed when he rubbed his hand against her tits…
'No!' she had cried out. 'No, I'm not like that'
He had grabbed hold of her hair and told her she didn't know what she was like until she had tried it. He had strapped her wrist to his with cable ties and taken her into the canteen for tea, a razor blade held tight against a vein in her neck. To anyone looking they were friends, lovers even, only she knew the terrifying truth.
He loved the display of power and his steel nerve, and he knew she trembled before it. She was his until he passed her over, his to enjoy, his to beat.
His to fuck.
But that was too easy, he would make her wait for his cock, there was no rush, first he would get to know her, all of her, and she would need training to what he do what he liked in a woman.
He began to untie the spanner he used as a tongue depressor.
Chapter 3
After a few hours sleep and a wash and brush up in one of Mapleys wash rooms, Jack and the hiker were given a lift into the city centre in one of the company vans. His wagon wouldn't be ready until later that day and Jack felt in need of a few drinks, his new travelling mate having all but done him in during their morning sex session. He hadn't had such an aggressive fuck in the cab since he had picked up that student in Oxford. Perhaps there was something about students and lorries, not that he cared, as long as they dropped their knickers to pay for the lift.
The pair stopped off at some greasy spoon cafe for a bite to eat before making their way to a pub Jack used whenever he was in the area. It was one step up from a dive but on a scale of respectability it measured as high as a snake's arse. There were four or five girls inside and they looked as if they didn't have a full set of underwear between them. The girl at the pool table definitely had a pair of knickers though, because every time she bent forward the men behind her had an eyeful.
Jack made it to the bar, where he was greeted warmly by the barman and joined almost immediately by three others who slapped his back in the way of a welcome. The hiker came across, having to push her way through the men to join them. Jack handed her a bottle of Grolsch then turned back to his friends.