She twisted her bottom away from his hand and glared at him with such anger and hate.
"No-one owns me!" she cried. "No-one. So you can go fuck yourself. You're probably good at that. I bet that's all you're good at."
Peter wasn't angry or even bothered in the least at her outburst. He was in control. At last, after months of feeling helpless and at the mercy of fate, he was now the one in charge.
"Come with me," he said calmly, leading her back into the kitchen where he attached the lead to the handle of the oven door. It was the type of cooker that sat beneath the worktop so Claire was forced to bend forward a little. When she was secure Peter pulled himself up to sit on the Formica, his feet dangling against a cupboard.
"Did you suck Bob's cock?" he asked. Bob had been her husband.
Claire didn't answer.
"Did he like having his hard prick on your tongue. Having you lick and kiss it?"
Still silence. Peter reached across for a tea towel which he whipped across her bottom, making her clench her cheeks tight.
"I love it when your sister sucks me off. Flicking her wet tongue in my Japs eye, licking off that tiny ball of spunk that always leaks out. Did you do that for Bob?"
Claire gave the slightest nod of her head.
"Sorry?" said Peter. "Was that a yes?"
Claire tried to twist her head to look at him but the collar was too tight, forcing her to face the floor.
"Yes," she whispered.
Again Peter flicked the tea towel across her bottom. "And what about the new gorilla? What's his name, Jeff? Do you suck him off as well?"
"Mind your own fucking business," she growled.
Peter whipped her again with the tea towel. A gift from Scotland it said, showing a map of the country and places of interest. He flicked the corner of the towel sharply into places of Claire's interest, forcing her to jump as the tip of the material nipped between her sex lips.
"I'm making it my business," he said. "I'm making everything about you my business, and I want to know. Do you suck the monkey boy's prick?"
She nodded, clearly this time.
"And does he come in your mouth?"
Again she nodded her head.
"And do you drink it?"
"Yes."
Peter jumped down from the work surface and removed his trousers. "That's good," he told her. "Because I wouldn't want any of my spunk going to waste." He rubbed his semi hard cock softly in the valley of her bottom, the tender sensations soon swelling his member to its full, fat, erect condition. He jumped up on the work top and presented his prick to her mouth, but she refused him entry.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "You know what it is. It's been up you once already."
Claire remained tight lipped, even when Peter took hold of his cock and slapped it firmly against her mouth.
"If you don't open wide I'm going to have to bring in the strap," he warned her. "Now be a good girl and pop it inside."
She shook her head, making clear her intentions. At the sight of her refusal Peter lifted his leg over her head, climbed down and left the kitchen. On his return he was carrying a hauliers strap, left by Kevin, after Peter had asked to borrow one with the wagon. He laid the canvas strap in front of her.
"I knew a girl who said that one whack from this and you'd fuck the Household cavalry." He pulled it away and stepped behind the tethered woman. "It's time to see if she was telling the truth, and just in case she wasn't, I'll give you five."
The first stroke landed squarely across both cheeks of Claire's bottom, halving the pain, or doubling it. Only she knew the answer. The second brought a thick weal just above her stocking tops after the first had made her jump almost clear of her stiletto boots. Unable to stand the pain any longer Claire slumped to her knees, bringing her bottom to rest upon the back of her black leather covered calves.
It didn't prevent Peter from administering strokes three and four. He simply placed one on each of her thighs leaving the girl's rear end nowhere to hide from the vicious lick of the cotton canvas. Taking hold of her handcuffed hands behind her back he next pulled the sobbing creature to her feet and brought the final stroke in a great circular arc between her thighs so that it smacked belly and naked quim in one almighty slap that launched her squealing into the air.
"That's five," he panted, jumping back onto the worktop. "There's always another five, or fifty or five hundred." With his hand he shook his cock near to her face then spoke again. "It all depends on how many you think you can take?"
She lifted her head, bringing her moist mouth slowly and ever so reluctantly to the tip of his glans.
"I see," said Peter as her lips parted and his swollen cock slipped inside the wet recess above her tongue. "That's a good girl. Just like your sister, up and down." His head swayed as the pleasure lapped at his body. In the mirror on the other wall he watched Claire's head bobbing on his prick, her bottom still rocking back and forth as if the breeze it generated could possibly cool the heat rendered by the flailing strap. The same strap that had turned his Susan from a quiet housewife into an oil soaked Driver fucked whore. He leapt from the Formica and got behind Susan's sister, levelling his cock with her denuded hole.
"Get over!" he shouted, forcing her to bend double, her head almost against her knees. With a great thrust of his hips he stabbed his prick into her hole, withdrawing only to stab her again and again, pumping, pushing, shoving, fucking, on and on and on, slamming, thumping, ever harder, ever faster, until his cock spat and spewed its boiling, stinging venom inside Susan's sister, inside Claire, inside every woman the Drivers had ever taken. With that gush of gluten he had finally left behind the last of his old life and entered into the new.
Inside the garage, Claire could hear the low grumble of the wagon as Peter reversed it into the drive. A moment later the doors opened to reveal him dressed in steel studded leather jeans. He wore no shirt, just a black leather waistcoat that failed to cover the steel pins he had pushed through his nipples. Thin straps constrained his forearms, biceps and neck, pumping out his veins.
He came across to the terrified woman and took a spring loaded D clip from his pocket. He pulled back the straight edge and forced it up Claire's nose before releasing the spring. It snapped shut, gripping the soft flesh and making it easy for him to lead her towards the wagon.
He opened the door and motioned for her to climb in behind the driver's seat, where he tied her nose lead to the back of the cab. Climbing in to the drivers seat he revved the engine almost to a roar.
"Let's party!" he shouted, then slammed the wagon into gear and pulled out into the failing light of a chilly May evening.
For several hours they thundered through the night, along dark country lanes where the wind from the speeding truck threw back the boughs of overhanging trees, only for them to snap back angrily, crashing their spiny finger-like branches on the roof of the trailer.
Finally the lanes gave way to the moor and heath and Peter found his headlights digging into the night. Their light crossed miles of moorland, startling the grouse and hare, signalling to anything else in the coarse shrub that another Driver was on his way to the passover.
The roads narrowed. After a few more miles they narrowed further and dropped down into a depression. When the wagon pulled out of the dip, Peter saw the fires away in the distance, above the cold granite rock that broke every so often through the shrub and heather. Like a moth around a candle he found himself heading towards the light, ever closer to the flames that would either cleanse or consume.
He stepped hard on the throttle, bringing that moment closer.
Less than a mile away he pulled up and climbed into the back of the cab where he put a leather gag around Claire's mouth. Before resuming his seat he felt unable to resist the urge to feel her private parts. Not that they were very private any more, especially after today when he had spent the hours up until leaving fucking the woman all over the house.