The Ice Queen

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Accused of his lover's murder, he's forced to tell all.
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Detective Inspector Sheila Maher and Detective Sergeant John Connolly swoop into the holding cell, stern-faced and determined to get my signed confession. They think I murdered Jack Behan and his wife Jinny, at their luxury apartment in one of Glasgow's most exclusive residential areas. The crime took place two days ago and I was picked up in the early hours of this morning.

Maher looks in her mid-thirties. She's of medium height, slender and elegant, pretty rather than beautiful. She's wearing a mauve linen jacket over tight cashmere sweater, cut low enough to reveal just the right amount of cleavage. She reminds me in a way of Jinny.

Connolly is in his late forties. He's tall and built like a bull; with hair closely cropped his face stubbled. His dark, casual jacket sits awkwardly on his frame, adding to his rough, disheveled look. He leans towards me, his breath reeking of stale coffee.

"So Michael, have you had time to think about this?"

"Nothing to think about," I say flatly, "I've told you all I want to."

Connolly glances at Maher and shakes his head. "You know this looks very bad for you," he says to me. "You had motive, opportunity and you have no alibi."

"Says who?"

Maher lifts a slim folder off the table and waves it at me. "Witness statements, Michael. They all point to you."

The two of them sit there, staring me out. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, my eyes focusing on a point on the wall behind them.

"Just tell us, Michael," says Connolly.

"We might even get it down to manslaughter. Crime of passion and all that."

"Crime of passion?" Maher gets tetchy. "Come on, Michael! Stop this charade! You're wasting our time."

"I'll tell you my story, but that is all."

The bull snorts in derision and rubs his tired eyes. He starts the tape-recorder, gives the interview details and tells me to start. Maher sits back in her chair, crosses her long legs in a knee length skirt, and folds her arms under her chest. Again, just like Jinny, I think. I shake myself out of this reverie and focus.

It was Jinny who I met first. It was a year ago today, in fact, when I went to Behan's Lounge Bar to ask for work. She was cool and business-like, telling me she wanted someone with experience and a good way with customers.

Behan's was one of Glasgow West End's oldest, most popular pubs. There was no loud music, TVs, gaming machines or pool tables. People came to drink and chat. I convinced Jinny that I had the experience she needed and she agreed to start me the following Monday. I found her a stunningly beautiful woman but I was well out of my depth with her.

There was a big red sign there with a white stripe through it. No entry. So from the day I started, I knew my place and treated her like I would treat any boss. I did what I was told and gave no argument, even when I thought she was being petty or fussy. As one of the pub regulars told me, you don't mess with Jinny Behan. It's only now I realize he didn't mean that in the way I understood it at the time.

I think it was about a month later that I finally met Jack. He was a larger-than-life character in size and personality. When he walked into the pub in a long, camelhair coat and an old fashioned hat, I thought, Lee Marvin. The customers all greeted him, chatting him up and slapping his back like he was an old friend, but I could see the fear in their eyes. He wasn't their friend. He was their patron and they were seeking assurance from him, as if afraid they might have somehow crossed him the last time they saw him. If any of them had, he didn't show it. He showered them with insincere affections, shaking hands and wisecracking his way to the bar.

As soon as his eyes fixed on Jinny, she tensed up and almost forced a smile. She poured him a Jack Daniels with ice and introduced me to him. He considered me at length with a suspicious stare and asked me a few questions about where I had worked before.

The people around us watched the exchange with rapt interest. So far, I had built up a good rapport with them but I sensed that if Jack withheld his approval, they would desert me. He nodded at me and shook my hand.

"Welcome on board, Michael."

The customers at the bar cheered and joined his toast to my good fortune. "Get on with it!" shouts Connolly. "Get to the point. You know? Two days ago? Jesus! I don't want your fucking life story!"

"Okay, Okay. I'm getting to it." I roll my eyes at Maher as if conspiring with her against The Bull but she offers not a glimmer back. I take a breath to recollect. Anyway, where was I? Yeah, things were going well in the job and by Christmas I was like part of the furniture. The regulars all called me by my first name and I knew theirs. Even Jinny had softened on me, making small chat with me before and after closing time, smiling at me as I bantered with the customers, flattering and flirting, making them feel good about themselves.

But one day I was chatting to a young woman called Breda, Breda Molloy, and she leaned forward at one point and whispered in my ear, "I've never seen Jinny smile at anyone the way she smiles at you."

I felt myself burn up and tried to laugh it off but Breda wouldn't let up. And just as she started to tell me she could read all the signs, in walked Jack and through the crowd he somehow managed to fix me with the coldest stare. Jinny noticed too but she didn't come to my rescue. I glanced at her, panic stricken, but she turned her back on me to serve a customer.

Breda wasn't much help either. Having applied the Judas Kiss, she scuttled away to a dark corner of the lounge bar. Jack came round behind the bar counter and placed a big, shovel like hand on my shoulder. "I want a word with you Michael; out back."

I looked round at all the customers as if for the last time and followed him out to the storeroom. He stood there like a hangman, staring at me as if measuring me up for the gallows. Big alarm bells were ringing in my head at this point. The way he looked at me when he came into the pub. The way Jinny turned in fear when I appealed for help. The way Breda fled the scene. The way he led me to this dark, cold store room.

He knew. If harmless Breda Molloy could see it then so could he. But if he did know, he didn't let on. Instead he patted my arm and asked me if he could trust me. My mouth was dry and I could hardly speak. I gave him a weak nod. He told me he needed a job done, a sensitive job, and needed a good man to do it, someone he could trust implicitly.

He was supposed to go with Jinny to Spain, on business, but something had come up and he had to cancel. But he still wanted her to go and take care of it for him, just not alone. He needed someone to escort her and thought I was just the right man.

"So can I trust you Michael?"

With the bells still tolling in my head and a shiver down my back, I smiled at him like a village idiot and said: "Absolutely, Mr. Behan! No problem!"

So he gave me an envelope packed with cash and told me to buy myself a good suit and use the rest for spending money. We were to leave in two days time, 30th December. The tickets were at the airport for us to pick up. I didn't dare ask him why he couldn't just send one of his heavies.

At this point in my story, Detective Maher slips a photograph from her files and places it on the desk before me. It's a picture of me and Jinny, at Glasgow airport. We're walking into the departures lounge. Her hand is rested on my forearm. We are looking at each other and laughing like a happy couple off on their honeymoon. I run a finger over Jinny's slender, dead frame and push the photo back.

"This proves nothing!"

"Looks pretty incriminating to us," says Maher.

"What? Two people sharing a laugh?"

The Bull Connolly just sits there, breathing heavy through his nose, cross-eyed and dangerous. Maher taps the closed folder with her long delicate fingers and smiles sarcastically.

"Michael, we have a whole roll developed in here and there are some dirty, dirty pictures."

I know she's bluffing. No photograph would reveal what passed between Jinny and me on that trip. She had warmed to me so quickly; it was like a rapid spring thaw after a deep winter. Breda Molloy had it right after all. She just saw it before I did.

The warm winter sun of southern Spain merely enhanced the feeling of something new, something growing between us. The soft, wanting glances, the merest touch of hand on hand, and when she called me to her hotel room that evening before dinner and had me sit on her bed to watch her undress and shower through the open suite door.

We barely exchanged a word or touch throughout. We just luxuriated in the adrenaline fuelled danger of discovery, and the unspoken understanding that I wanted to watch and she wanted to be watched.

The next day we met a Russian man, Valery Kirov, in one of those immense tourist hotels near Malaga airport. My job was to simply be there with Jinny, not to get involved in the business between them. Not that I could if I wanted to because they conducted their business in Russian. Maybe I was naive or maybe I didn't want to know or maybe I was just so lost in the image of Jinny's body under the hot steamy water the night before, but for some reason I didn't sense any danger in this situation.

Jack would have sensed it right away. That's what Jinny said to me on our way back on the plane to Glasgow. I looked at her for a few seconds, seeing the tension in her face.

"Then why didn't Jack go with you?"

She wasn't expecting this and turned back to the book on her lap. Nothing more was said between us for the rest of the trip. At the airport, she insisted on getting a taxi back home on her own. I didn't argue. Inspector Maher leaned forward, folding her arms on the desk and showing off some more cleavage. I thought again of Jinny that night, the water running in rivulets over her small, pert breasts, her nipples erect and hard as she ran her soapy hands over them.

Just then, I wanted to touch Maher's but it was delicious enough to just imagine their warmth and firmness in my hands. She knew I was looking that them but made no attempt to hide from me. Yet at the same time, she fixed me with a hard gaze and dared me to lie to her.

"And was that the last time you saw Mrs. Behan?"

I nodded and waited for her to ask me more about Kirov but she just turned to the Bull, shrugged, and got up to leave. He signed off the recorded interview and ejected the tape. With that, they left the cell without another word, leaving me again to my own thoughts. I followed Maher out with my eyes, watching her move, her resemblance to Jinny so uncanny it unsettled me.

I lit a cigarette and sat back to think it all over. How had I ended up in a Strathclyde police cell accused of murdering one of Glasgow's leading crime bosses and his wife?

I had called Maher's bluff because I knew she had no "dirty" photos in her file. Apart from watching Jinny in the shower, nothing else happened between her and me in Spain. It was only when we got back that things got complicated.

I was down in the bar one quiet Monday afternoon, cleaning around, listening to old Duncan tell me one of his shaggy dog stories. Then came a delivery of bottled beer, which I was asked to sign for but couldn't. It had to be Jinny. So I went back and called up the stairway to her. There was no reply. I called again; still nothing.

I took a breath and went up to her office. The door was slightly ajar so I pushed it open and peeped inside. Jinny was sitting on her office chair, her back turned to me, speaking on the phone in Russian. Her bare feet were propped on the solid oak bureau. Her skirt was hitched right up to her waist and her tight top rolled up over her breasts. She was masturbating with a vibrator.

I was both embarrassed and mesmerized, forgetting why I had come up in the first place. But there was another feeling, too, that took me by surprise: jealousy. Was she talking to Kirov? Her words quickly turned to sighs and moans, one hand applying the buzzing vibrator to her clit, the other pinching and pulling on an aroused, hard nipple.

She dropped the vibrator and closed her thighs on her hand, writhing, squirming and thrusting in the chair, until at last she threw herself right back, body arched, eyes shut tight. Her face flushed and sweated as she let wave after wave of shuddering pleasure wash over her.

It was when she finally opened her eyes that she caught a glimpse of me there in the doorway. She leapt to her feet, murmuring something in Russian on the phone before she hung up. In a fluster, she started fixing herself, trying to hide her nakedness from me. I turned my back, just as embarrassed as she was.

"Jesus Michael! How long have you been standing there?"

"Sorry, I called up a couple of times but you didn't reply so..."

"Yes, yes...what's so urgent?"

I turned to hand her the delivery manifest just as she was smoothing her skirt down over her hips. With a glare, she snatched it out of my hand, signed it and then told me to get out. I was shocked at her reaction, hurt even, but went back down to the bar and tried to put it out of my mind.

A little after closing time, as we were clearing up, she apologized. I told her it was me who owed her the apology, and we went back and forth like this a few times before laughing it off.

She poured us both an expensive cognac and toasted my good health. We made small chat for a while until she suddenly asked me how much I saw of her upstairs in the office. I hesitated but she came close to me and stroked my cheek, placing her lips to my ear.

"Tell me," she whispered, her breath hot with the brandy, her hand slipping down over my crotch and squeezing. "I know how it made you feel. I could see."

"I saw it all," I lied.

She moaned, "Everything?"

I nodded. She sighed in my ear and nibbled on the soft lobe, her hand unzipping me and slipping in to draw out my hard cock. Her fingers felt cold at first, sending a shock of pleasure through the swollen, veiny shaft.

"What did you want to do to me right then, Michael?" she asked, pumping my cock in her hand. "Tell me!"

She slid down and took me to her lips, kissing up the hard, thick shaft, still urging me to talk to her. I told her how I wanted to kneel between her legs and lick her but she wasn't interested in that. She was gripping my cock by the base now and running her tongue up and down, looking up at me, wanting to hear me talk dirty to her. So I finally let go and told her exactly what I wanted to do to her.

She groaned and started to suck me deep and hard and sloppy. The dirtier I talked to her, the dirtier she got with me. She wanted to hear details; every hot thrust, every feeling and sensation. She wanted me to tell her she was a slut, a whore to be used.

This was the woman they called The Ice Queen, yet she was hot and out of control with my fully erect cock in the hollow of her cheek, her tongue wrapped round it. She sucked me some more, long hard sucks, and then popped me from her mouth.

Gazing at my size and girth, she smacked and licked her gorgeous, wet lips. Then she looked up at me and opened her mouth wide, inviting me to give her what she wanted. I took my cock from her and jerked it over her face. She groaned and urged me on, calling me names, swearing at me, grabbing my heavy balls and squeezing them, until at last I came, shooting spurts of hot cum into her mouth and over her face.

She cried out and took it all with relish, gagging slightly as she swallowed. Then she took my throbbing, sensitive shaft and sucked tenderly on it, cleaning it, making me groan with such intense pleasure. Once finished, she stood up to kiss me and whisper thank you. I knew she wanted nothing more to happen so I meekly said goodnight and went home.

How did she make me feel this way? How did she give me such power only to take it away so brutally? And why did I let her do it to me?

We had sex one more time after that. It was at her home on the night she died. Jack was throwing a party to launch his new business with Valery Kirov. Strangely enough, Jack and his new partner never mentioned what this new business was and everyone had the good sense not to ask.

Jinny was the perfect hostess, though, the trophy wife to end all trophy wives. She was stunning in a short, black dress, fine fishnet stockings, and impossible heels. Yet she moved around so easily and gracefully, and it was hard for me to take my eyes off her.

Occasionally, she would catch my gaze and give me a slight little smirk or wink. I wanted her in that dress and imagined having her there in front of the guests, in front of Jack, thrusting into her as he stared in shock and helpless rage.

Did she do it to him? Did she take all his power away from him and reduce him to nothing? Would she enjoy being taken in front of him, taunting him, knowing he was powerless to act? It didn't happen that way, of course.

It was later in the evening, as guests drifted away. I was coming out of the upstairs bathroom and there she was, standing before me, fixing me with that wanton look. She pushed me back into the bathroom, closed the door behind her and locked it. I took her in my arms, kissing her full lips, her face, running my hands up and down her tall, sleek body. She tilted her head back to allow me to run my tongue along her neck and over her ear.

Then she took my right hand and pulled it up under her dress, up over the stocking tops, between the warm, slightly sticky flesh of her thighs. She opened for me and allowed me access to her warm mound, already wet for me through silk panties, already wanting me. Her hand over mine, she moved it harder and faster on her until she was moaning and groaning in my ear, and kissing me with raw hunger.

We were beyond the point of stopping then. She pushed me back and turned to face the door, very slowly hitching her dress up over her hips and bending over, looking back at me, eyes demanding.

"You want it Michael?"

We both knew we hadn't much time before Jack would start to wonder and come looking for us. It had to be now and it had to be fast. I moved in behind her and eased into her tight slit, her long gasp exciting me all the more. I got a firm grip of her hips and started to thrust my shaft into her in long, slow strokes.

She yelped and cooed despite the danger of discovery. And I couldn't help but to grunt and snort. She was so tight. I knew our animal noises would give us away; and the harder I fucked her, the louder it would get. So I slid out, took off my necktie and gagged her with it. This excited her and she accepted it willingly. Then in return she slid out of her lace panties and gagged me with them.

Now I lost control. I got aggressive and manhandled her, bending her over before me again and giving her fine, firm ass a sharp smack. The gag stifled and muffled her loud yelp and I put my swollen cock back inside her, groaning into her panties that stuffed my mouth. I felt her tighten and squeeze on the shaft and pumped it into her in slow, strong thrusts at first, my hands on her ass, fingers digging into the supple flesh.

She was so tight, so hot, I wanted to grunt and groan out loud. I wanted to smack her ass over and over, leave my handprints on those cheeks, brand her as my bitch and call her the dirtiest names; but I couldn't. It had to be quiet and controlled and that is what made it so intense.

I grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back, reining her in like an animal in heat. I slapped into her, her muffled moans and yelps driving me to do her harder and deeper and faster until we spasmed together, her pussy contracting intensely, lapping up my warm fluid, squeezing every last drop from my engorged cock.

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