"Get out of that kit," he ordered Susan. "And see if you can remember how I like my cock sucked."
She was tamed now – she responded without hesitation, her hands reaching behind her back to the column of buckles that held her in tight confinement, releasing each one in turn, slowly and deliberately, all the time watching H having the other girl on his tyre. Her face betrayed no emotion except that of resignation. She'd had her share on the rubber, and no doubt she realised she would have plenty more.
H was a bastard to her, like all the men were since she had been taken from Peter. But as cruel as he sometimes was, he had never chained her to a table like those bikers had done, to be fucked a dozen times a day or more. And he hadn't strapped her arse for the sheer fun of it like Bingo used to do all the time, just to watch her squirm and to hear her squeals.
H was a hard man, but a fair one too. If she sucked him well and kept herself open she had nothing to worry about and as long as she belonged to him, no-one dared mess with her without his permission. In that way he was protective, just like Peter.
The last buckle popped and she struggled out of the clinging second skin.
Peter! her mind screamed. Oh God Peter, where are you? When was the last time she had thought of him? Ages ago. He seemed just a faded memory now, sometimes not even that. She had grown so used to this life it was almost as if she had never had any other.
The touch of probing fingers pressed home the message that Peter was best forgotten. The Drivers owned her now and she was theirs, like that poor girl out on the tyre would soon be. Best to do what pleased them if you wanted to keep your bottom free from the hauliers canvas strap. That was all that mattered now.
She watched as the girl on the tyre lifted her head in the sheer effort it took to accommodate H's sizeable black prick. He ran it in all the way, taking cruel pleasure in her difficulty. As she lowered her head to take in Jack's cock Susan spoke silently to the girl.
'You'll get used to it love. We all do.'
Sitting in his drivers seat, Jack enjoyed the sight of his friend fucking the hiker as much as the smooth wet kisses of the compliant ex-housewife. He stretched across an arm to her labia, occupying himself with her pronounced flaps.
She no longer sported the few golden hairs she once had. H was a dedicated lover of smooth mounds. He allowed the black girls to keep their pubes because dark skin didn't reveal their slits so well. White women, on the other hand, had a lovely wide crease he liked to have on permanent display, and Susan, with her heavy lips, was a perfect example of his taste.
Jack rested a controlling hand on Susan's head, slowing her down before he fired prematurely. Her lips and H's pistoning bum had brought him to melt down too soon and he didn't want to get to the point of no return before he'd slipped his dick between her curtains.
It was too late for H though. Clenched cheeks and straining neck sinews signalled a flood of sperm pumping its way inside the wriggling stretched-out hiker. H pushed the tyre forwards and his slippery slime-covered prick slopped from her hole.
At the same time Jack pulled his cock from Susan's mouth and signalled for her to straddle him, facing outwards to watch her owner.
He had moved in front of the girl to sit open legged on the bumper, and was now pulling her close with the chain and then pushing her away with his foot so that she rocked back and forth, mouth open, cleaning away the juices of their fuck as she did so.
Jack reached round and cupped Susan's tits, squeezing and kneading the flesh as her cunt snatched at his meat, teasing the cum out of his balls and sending it deep up inside her in splashes of boiling glutinous gel.
The hours had passed, putting both men behind in their schedules. They handed back each other's woman and bid farewell, at least until the following evening, for the next few days saw the horse and country fair in Wettle, North Yorkshire. Most of the Drivers would be there, to meet the Irish from Donegal. They ran many of the numerous fairground attractions and they were big buyers and sellers of stock, not all of it equine.
It was the early hours of the next morning when, with a blast of horns, the wagons finally pulled out from the National Park Centre and sped off in different directions, Jack for the North and Hell Raiser for the mill and then Wettle.
The night had drawn cold, bringing a dense mist that closed around everything, cloying and claustrophobic. On the lonely road a solitary car punched its way through the fog, turning first into the Park drive way before bouncing along the pot holed track to the Centre cabin.
If it had arrived fifteen minutes earlier it would have been greeted by two naked women with the tell tale stains of men between their legs. As it was, Peter Warburton had missed them, not by much this time.
He was definitely getting closer.
In his constant hunt for clues he got out of his vehicle and searched the area. There was nothing but two sets of tracks to confirm his theory that several drivers were enticing women into their trucks and abducting them. He also found a muddy shoe which meant another young female had fallen into their hands.
Disheartened but far from daunted he returned to his car, started the engine and once more made his way into the night.
Since police would not listen to his theories he had but one choice, to track down the Drivers himself, to bring them to justice and free Susan and all the other women they had corrupted. There was no road he was not prepared to travel in search of his Susan. He had discovered that she was alive, if you could call existing purely for the sexual gratification of men as living. It stung him deeply to think what she must be going through, what they were doing to her.
He fumbled with the dials on the CB to continue his search of the airwaves, listening for their telltale calclass="underline" 'One four for a copy, any Drivers out there?' It was supposed to be an exclusive club, a secret order, but Peter had discovered them. Careless talk, as it often does, was going to be their downfall.
Chapter 6.
Soft drizzle and a bitter wind seemed to follow Peter wherever he went, complementing his mood and confirming just how bad life could be. It had been over three weeks since his wife had vanished – not, according to Claire, into thin air, but into the arms of a young lothario.
Not only that, but his young, demure wife, had telephoned her sister in the middle of lovemaking to say what she had done? Oh no! It didn't ring true!
Peter had searched through her belongings and found nothing missing, no shoes, no skirts, no underwear, everything was as it should be. Admittedly she only had one suspender belt, the one Claire had bought for her with matching briefs and bra, but that was in her undies drawer along with her usual cotton panties.
If a woman was about to run off for a passionate affair she would certainly take along clean knickers if not the only daring set of underwear she owned. Unless, of course, she was going to spend most of her time minus them. He couldn't bare the thought of that, she wasn't that sort of girl. Then he'd tortured himself by thinking that maybe she was? Perhaps the age difference mattered after all?
Since starting his search he had taken to hanging out at the service station where Susan was last seen. He'd spoken to the woman who'd seen her that night but she could only repeat what she'd told the police. 'He was a big man, a trucker, and they were holding hands.' Since that time Peter had gone back most evenings, hoping they would pass through again.
Few people cared to talk, especially when he started asking questions about the truckers. He found the best way to gain the confidence of the lorry men was to leave his tidy clothes at home. The sight of a tie had copper stamped all over it, and a jacket and trousers was like garlic to a vampire. He took to wearing dirty jeans and an oily tee shirt and found the men much more convivial.