He scraped away the stubble and stepped in to a hot shower that did much to revive his flagging body. In his kitchen he made eggs on toast and sat at the breakfast counter to eat and watch the lunchtime news on TV. It was the same round of death, royalty and Mrs Miggins' cat up a tree for some light relief at the end. When it finally finished he switched channels to some children's programme that involved tiny creatures that lived on the moon, communicated by whistles, and got their food from a soup dragon who lived in a cave. Peter hit the off button and went back to his eggs.
On Thursday he went to beg help from Claire, Susan's sister
Nothing doing.
Total disbelief.
A big flea in the ear from Jeff, her new lover.
His last plan lay in shreds.
Back home, waiting outside his house, he found the wagon he had asked to borrow from his friend Kevin. The keys, as they had agreed, were hidden in the exhaust. He took them inside and cleaned himself up.
He would take the wagon back in the morning. He wouldn't be needing it now.
It was Friday night.
Claire finished off her drink when the landlord called time, said goodbye to her friend, and left for the walk home.
It was a cold bright night and her way was well lit by a full moon. Passing Saint Bartholomew's cemetery she stepped up her pace. The old Victorian railings and the angelic statues beyond always gave her the shivers, but it was the shortest route home. Tonight, in the bright moonlight, the marble angels looked even more eerie as they cast their long shadows across broken headstones.
Once past the gates Claire was able to relax and slow down. Her breathing, though clearly visible in the chill night air as brief puffs of mist, returned to normal.
She turned into her road, relieved as always to be near home. A few yards from her garden she began the customary search for the door key and began rummaging through her handbag, finding it as she reached the gate. She started down the path, allowing the gate to swing shut behind her. The clang of the rusting iron hitting the gate-post masked the noise of leaves rustling in the bushes.
Almost at the door her eyes rested on the house number as she raised the key to the lock. For some reason the silver numbers became fuzzy and appeared to be floating away. They started spinning around each other and were suddenly joined by dozens of other numbers. Claire blinked hard, trying to impose some order on the wayward figures…
They responded by fading into blackness and Claire followed suit.
Peter Warburton's breath broke in short violent gasps as he struggled with the large parcel over his shoulder and the stubborn garage doors.
Finally, when the lock gave way, he managed to stagger inside, dumping the tarpaulin wrapped bundle on the ground before returning to lock the doors and switch on the light.
There were no windows to the garage, which remained empty apart for a few bits and pieces, a chest freezer and an old armchair Peter had intended to throw out years ago. He carried the bundle across to the chair and laid it across the arms, then he carefully pulled back the canvas to reveal his captive.
She was still unconscious from the chloroform soaked cloth he had held over her mouth. He was surprised at how little she had struggled, and how simple it had been to creep up behind her and take her off the street without a sound.
With trembling fingers he began undoing her blouse, each button exposing more succulent cleavage until finally she was clad only in her black lacy bra, the one she wore on her regular Friday nights out.
Next for removal were her white denims. Peter undid the button before slipping down the zip.
When he tried to pull the denims from her he found the heavy cotton jeans reluctant to oblige without firmly yanking them from side to side. Eventually he managed to get them down and threw them on the pile with her other clothes. That left Claire lying across the chair in only her bra and knickers. Both were quite intricate and daring, suitable for her night out.
Now he had her almost naked, Peter was struck by the resemblance she bore to Susan. They were a similar size and weight and he found himself wondering what lay beneath her flimsy lace underwear. He wiped away the sweat that seemed to be running freely down his forehead as his mind swirled at the consequence of what he had done.
It was wrong to have brought Claire here like this, but he could not go to the passover without a swop. The only thing that mattered to him was Susan's rescue, and surely Claire would forgive him if he achieved that.
He took up the bag of things he had bought during the day and emptied the contents on the floor. Among them was a heavily studded dog collar which he quickly buckled around Claire's neck. It made him feel very ruthless and he found the sleek appearance it gave her quite pleasing.
To add the other items he had bought Claire would obviously have to lose her underwear.
Among these were a set of leather cuffs, which Peter attached to Claire's wrists in case she should recover before he had finished her preparation. Despite having to lift her from the chair to reach her arm she remained dead to the world. Safe from the possibility of flailing finger nails, Peter leant over the sleeping woman and undid her bra, freeing the heavy tits which dropped sidewards.
It was the first time he had seen Claire topless, and he liked what he saw. He allowed himself a moment to caress the wonderful pink mounds, squeezing the flesh and rolling her nipples between finger and thumb.
Even as she slept the sensation of having her nipples stroked aroused her, the brown nubs quickly swelling at his touch. For a second or so Peter continued his actions, smiling and revelling in the feelings it was bringing him, until suddenly he realised what he was doing. It had not been his intention to touch Claire in a sexual way, only to use her to help Susan. What he was doing made him no better than The Drivers.
But now he had come this far, he simply had to see it through. He just had to control himself.
With a new resolve Peter hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Claire's panties and eased them down. When he came to her mons his eyes widened with surprise as her shaven pleat came into view.
How he loved a smooth cunt!
Susan had shaved for him once and was too embarrassed to do it again. Claire obviously did it as a matter of course, or perhaps that new boy friend insisted upon it. Maybe he even did it for her. Unable to help himself, Peter ran the palm of his hand between her legs, allowing his forefinger to push its way inside her sex lips. Although Claire's lips were large they were nowhere near the size of Susan's pronounced labia, which hung down some considerable length and with which Peter enjoyed playing so much.
He toyed with Claire for some time, noting the slight rasp on her mons that suggested whoever did the shaving hadn't done it for a day or two. Peter decided to get her into the rest of her gear and then he would take care of that particular matter.
He dressed her in a very tight black rubber waspie that pinched her waist and left her tits and thighs exposed. Then he drew up some black stockings, attaching them to the heavy suspenders of the corset, and finished her off with a pair of black leather boots that reached her knees, giving her some extra height due to the four inch heels.
Happy with her dress, he fetched a razor and soap and sat down to lather her quim.
The invigorating swirl of the shaving brush had the effect of rousing Claire from her sleep. She was aware of a dull ache behind her eyes and the faint taste of anaesthetic, but when she tried to lift her hands to her forehead they wouldn't move. Her last memory was of being in her garden and she had no idea how she had made it inside.