A Dish Best Served Cold Ch. 01

Felicity dutifully took it in her mouth and he came almost immediately.

She sat on her haunches, her face, hair and dress spattered with cooling semen. Someone handed her a napkin and she patted her face dry.

"Ok get up," Benjamin Roach offered Felicity a hand which she gratefully took.

The ordeal was over finally. She was free to go.

How stupid she was to think so. Later she would curse her naiveté.

Ben led her to the couch and offered her a disposable cup.

"I don't want a drink; I want to leave," she hissed pushing the cup away from her face.

"You leave when you've finished your performance so you might as well take a drink," Ben offered her the cup again.

Felicity took it in both hands and drank deeply. The strong alcohol washed away the taste of semen from her mouth.

"Here, fix your face," Ben thrust Felicity's handbag at her and she pulled out a package of facial wipes.

They didn't want her leaving looking dishevelled; people might see her and suspect that something bad had happened to her she reasoned.

But that wasn't the case at all. They wanted her looking pretty when they fucked her.

And fuck her they did.

Benjamin, the leader, went first.

Felicity finished touching up her makeup, brushed her hair and made a feeble effort to close the bodice of her dress before Ben slapped her hands away.

She kicked and struggled as he climbed on top of her. He was naked and his cock was rampant. The other four boys took a limb each and held Felicity down as Ben probed at her sphincter with his engorged phallus. Felicity briefly recalled the videos she liked to watch of pretty trans girls taking on multiple partners. This was nothing like that. This was reality.

None of her protestations were filmed. Not her pathetic pleas to stop, not her legs cycling as she tried to kick the men holding her, not her arms flailing as she tried to get free.

Ben lay on top of her holding her down. He had jammed a pillow under the small of her back so that her pelvis was raised off the couch. He eased aside the gusset of her panties and pressed his glans into her sphincter. Ben was well prepared and had slavered his cock with lubricant. Felicity was tight but he managed to slowly force his cock inside her.

Felicity screamed as Ben's cock invaded her anus, the pain was almost intolerable.

Shh, shh, shh, relax and it will be much better," Ben smiled down at her.

In a moment of clarity Felicity thought that Benjamin Roach was an imbecile. How was relaxing her sphincter going to make her rape any better.

But it turned out that he was right. When Ben had himself fully inside her he stopped pushing and just let his cock fill her anus. Felicity was so tight that Ben was scared that he could cum if he moved in the slightest and he wanted to enjoy the beautiful woman who lay beneath him.

Felicity took a couple of deep breaths and forced herself to relax her sphincter. The relief was instantaneous and the pain went away. What surprised her was the tingling feeling of intense pleasure that replaced the pain. Felicity had used vibrators and dildos on herself many times but this was different. Actually having a flesh and blood penis inside her was a totally different feeling and a feeling she could come to enjoy under different circumstances.

A cloud of self-contempt and disgust passed over her but she pushed it deep down inside. If she was going to survive this ordeal with any modicum of sanity and self-respect she had to stop being a victim. Besides, struggling against these youths was causing her unnecessary pain.

Felicity capitulated.

She stopped struggling and the others let go of her limbs one at a time. Out came the mobile phones as the boys gathered around to watch whar would happen next.

Ben's cock was pressing against Felicity's prostate and her own cock was rampant inside her satin panties. Ben's belly was pressing on her penis and when he moved he invoked delicious scintillas of pleasure, coupled with little sparkles of delight radiating from her sphincter and the deep ripples of pleasure emanated from her prostate, Felicity finally came to realise why the trans-women in the videos she watched enjoyed anal sex so much.

For some reason a masochistic trope flashed across her mind: 'If rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it'.

Felicity knew that it was ridiculous but it was the position she found herself in and when Ben lowered his handsome face to hers and tried to kiss her she turned away but only briefly. He began to slowly fuck her and her pleasure centres lit up.

She moaned like a slattern and opened her mouth wide to accept Ben's tongue. His cock was doing things inside her that she had never experienced before, a mixture of pleasure and pain that was almost indescribable radiated from her anus. She found that if she concentrated she could clamp the walls of her anus tight around Ben's long thick cock and then release it.

Even though the pressure made her anus feel like it was burning from inside out there was something seductive about controlling the intensity of her own pain. It gave her power where she really had none. She felt a sense of control, even though she was a prisoner.

Carl Huntley was filming the event and he made sure that he caught Felicity wrapping her legs around Ben's flanks and her arms stroking his torso as she mewed underneath him. Ben's face was screwed up with the intensity of the pleasure he was experiencing and he was trying desperately not to come. He wanted this to go forever.

The feel of Felicity's body draped in her satin gown, the sensuality of her sheer-stockinged legs against his tender flesh, the carnality of her fingernails raking his back, the feel of her anus squeezing his cock like a velvet glove. He could feel her hard cock against his belly but it didn't disgust him. On the contrary, the feel of Felicity's throbbing cock through the layers of silky fabric intensified his desire.

Felicity was gasping and rising to meet his thrusts as Ben began to pound his cock in and out of her anus. Feelings of intense sexual synergy wracked her and her whole body convulsed as she orgasmed. Hot semen flooded her panties and soaked her dress. Ben felt the scalding fluid on his belly and he pulled Felicity hard against him, drove his cock deep inside her and ejaculated.

He smothered her cries by putting her mouth on her and she kissed him passionately as her heels drummed on his back and her nails raked his shoulders. Two of the youths watching the performance were so excited by it that they too ejaculated, one against Felicity's gossamer-clad calf and the other in her hair.

As Ben's orgasm began to subside he climbed off Felicity and stood next to the couch looking down at her.

"Now that was a good show!" he gasped.

"She's all yours boys," he waved at his frat buddies as he walked away to get a drink.

The five youths took Felicity ceaselessly over the next four hours. They invaded her mouth and her anus repeatedly. They used her one at a time or ganged up on her as they saw fit. By the time they were finished with her it was the early hours of the morning and her dress was a semen-soaked tattered rag, her panties long discarded, her stockings laddered, her makeup ruined and her blonde wig had been torn away and her own brunette hair was stiff with drying cum.

Her anus felt like it was prolapsed and her jaw ached, but to her shame Felicity had orgasmed twice more during the ordeal. One of the boys had even fellated her while his pal was fucking her doggy-style.

She felt betrayed and degraded but also ashamed and disgusted with herself. She tried to justify her actions as self-preservation but found it hard to do so when she recalled begging Jamaal Washington to fuck her harder as he ravaged her anus with his giant cock.

Benjamin Roach, Carl Huntley, Jamaal Washington, Spencer Duvall and William Turner were all guilty of the sexual assault of Felicity Benson but there was no way she was ever going to prove it. They had already edited the videos they had taken of her into a thirty minute featurette of Felicity actively participating and obviously enjoying being gangbanged.

Spencer Duvall even showed it to Felicity on his phone while she tried her best to clean herself up.

"Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube not to mention Pornhub and XHamster," Spencer mocked her.

"We prefer to keep our home movies to ourselves but one squeak out of you about what happened here tonight and we will post this on all those sites and more," he threatened.

"And of course should you claim that you were forced to have sex with us I'm sure the campus police will find the video compelling evidence to the contrary," Ben chimed in.

He unlocked the door to the room which now reeked of booze, marijuana and sex. He checked that the coast was clear and led Felicity to the front door of the frat house. Felicity could hardly walk and she felt pathetic in her ruined dress, carrying her wig and her handbag, limping in her high heels. At least they had let her fix her makeup and brush her hair.

She turned to him at the door and gave him a look of complete sorrow and despair.

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because we can," he grinned at her.

She turned her face away when he tried to kiss her.

"Have it your way then, but just remember to keep your mouth shut," Ben slammed the door shut behind her.

*****

Ten years later...

Penelope Bishop was running hard through Balwyn City park dodging the early morning power-walkers and 'yummy-mommies' pushing strollers the size of small articulated vehicles, their daily exercise regime more an excuse to show off their lycra-clad tits and asses than it had anything to do with keeping fit. Most of them were wearing full makeup for fuck sake!

Penelope ran because she needed to, it was an addiction. Twelve months sober, she had replaced drinking with exercise. Normally she would be running alongside her partner, FBI agent Bradley Wilson, but he had been summoned to Austin to attend mandatory annual training and to receive his FITREP.

She and Bradley had worked together on the 'Sleeping Beauties' serial killer case and had fallen in love. At that time Penelope had been on the verge physical, moral and professional suicide with a self-destructive lifestyle of booze, promiscuity and neglect.

Bradley Wilson had saved her but not before Michael Kendal, the Sleeping Beauty Killer, had drugged her, abducted her and fucked her while she lay paralysed and unable to resist. The ordeal had brought about a crisis of conscience and Penelope had stepped close to the precipice but had stepped back into the arms of Bradley Wilson.

Not that Penelope Bishop wasn't a strong willed woman. When she was still a rookie she had single-handedly brought down the Balwyn City Police Department, exposing the Mayor, the Chief of Police and several high-ranking police officers involved in corruption and murder including the murder of her father. She had shot the Chief of Police dead in a shootout at a meth lab where the Chief and his henchmen intended to kill Penelope and blame the drug dealers.

Her smartwatch vibrated on her wrist and she read the scrolling text without missing a step or slowing down. She took the next exit from the park and ran back to her apartment texting a response to Silvia Bickle, her partner and best friend. She drank orange juice straight from the carton knowing that Bradley would have admonished her for doing so had he been home.

She showered, put on her makeup and came out of the bathroom to dress. Penelope looked at herself critically in the full-length mirror.

Approaching forty she was still an attractive woman with a great body. She had recently changed her hairstyle and her honey-blonde tresses fell in waves and framed her face, resting lightly on her shoulders. Her lips were full and sensual and the fine lines on her forehead and in the corners of her mouth enhanced rather than detracted from her beauty. The facial feature that attracted everyone's attention were her emerald-green eyes.

She followed her long elegant neck down to her shoulders and her full, perky breasts and berry-coloured nipples and then her gaze continued down to her slim waist and curvy hips. She turned sideways and looked at her pert buttocks and long shapely legs.

"Not bad for an old gal," she whispered and began to dress.

She had laid out her clothes on the bed before she had taken a shower: a charcoal-grey skirt-suit, white blouse, full-cut white satin panties and matching bra and a package of Haynes fifteen denier flesh-toned pantyhose. She sat on the bed and pulled on the pantyhose and then she stood and pushed her testes into her inguinal canals and pulled her penis and scrotum back along her perineum. She pulled the gusset of her pantyhose tight and stepped into her panties and pulled them up.

She put on her bra, blouse and skirt and padded over to the wardrobe and opened the gun-safe and took out her service weapon, holster, speed-loader and her police credentials. She put on the holster, checked her weapon and holstered it and clipped it to the waistband of her skirt, her credentials went into the inside pocket of her jacket. She put on her black low heels in which she could still outrun most of the police officers on the force. Putting on her jacket she picked up her keys off the hallstand and went outside into the brisk morning air.

Penelope punched the address she had been given into her BMW's navigation system and hit the streets. No need for lights or siren she listened to her favourite rock and roll station on the way to the crime scene. She was craving coffee but didn't stop to get any hoping that Silvia had stopped at Starbucks and gotten her a house roast venti.

Alighting from her vehicle and clipping her detective's shield to her breast pocket Penelope was pleased to see that Silvia Bickle had done exactly that and she stood on the other side of the police tape holding two containers of coffee. Penelope ducked under the tape, the young patrolman guarding the crime scene nodding respectfully at her.

"You are a goddess!" Penelope snatched the proffered coffee from Silvia's outstretched hand.

"I am indeed. I have the finest black ass in the city of Balwyn and arguably in the whole state," Silvia said in a Texan drawl that some people thought was affected but was actually her speaking voice.

A native Texan, Silvia was thirty seven, slim but powerful and was wearing her signature dark-grey pantsuit, dazzling white blouse and polished black low heels. Her makeup was perfect and complemented her flawless caramel complexion; her loose black curls cascaded to her shoulders. Silvia was a proud African American lesbian and had been Penelope's partner and best friend for five years.

"What have we got?" Penelope followed Silvia towards the swank townhouse.

"Thirty-five year old white male, deceased. Possibly death by misadventure but more likely a homicide," Silvia referred to her notes.

"Why are we here?" Penelope asked.

Penelope and Silvia comprised Balwyn PD's special two-person taskforce who worked only the most complicated or high-profile cases.

"The DOA is Spencer Duvall of the 'Armadillo Oil and Gas' Duvall's," Silvia sipped her coffee and looked over the rim of her cup to catch Penelope's reaction.

Armadillo Oil was no Exxon Mobile but it was still a major player and headquartered in the Energy Corridor area of Houston. The Duvall family held a controlling interest in the company.

"Rich kid fucks up and the family leans on the Mayor who leans on the Chief of Police," Penelope sighed.

"Wait until you see the crime scene; this one is interesting to say the least," Silvia opened the front door to the townhouse.

The two detectives signed into the crime scene and put on the Tyvek boots and surgical gloves provided by Alice Leasingham, a member of the CSI team. They followed the CSI tech to the master bedroom where they found Bob Tanner, Balwyn PD's CSI team leader and Brendan Scott the medical examiner hard at work.

"Ah... my two favourite ladies," Bob Tanner opened his arms towards them as they entered and indicated the tiles that the CSIs had placed on the plush carpet to prevent cross-contamination.

Only Bob could get away with such a condescending comment because the women knew he was genuine. They worked closely with him and considered Bob a colleague and a friend.

"What have we got here Bob?" Penelope stepped on the tiles and approached the bed.

Silvia approached from the other side.

A man lay naked on the king-sized bed; his wrists were handcuffed to the bedhead and a stocking was tightly wound around his neck; so tight in fact that it was embedded in the flesh.

"Jesus! What do you think Doc; sex-play gone wrong?" Silvia directed the question to Brendan Scott who approached the bed from the other side.

"I'll need to conduct an autopsy of course but my initial hypothesis is death by strangulation. You can see the conjunctival and facial petechial haemorrhages here and his tongue and oropharynx are swollen," the doctor pointed to Spencer Duvall's bloodshot eyes and enlarged tongue.

"Ligature and manual strangulation injuries occur when a force that is independent of the patient's body is applied to the neck. Strangulation injuries can also be divided into categories of intent which include: homicidal, suicidal, accidental, and auto-erotic. The material involved in a ligature or hanging may also have implications on pathology and subsequent forensics," Brendan liked to lecture his small audience.

"Bob is the scene of crime expert but that stocking is so firmly embedded in the victim's neck that I'd probably rule out autoerotic asphyxiation and with his hands cuffed to the bedposts it obviously wasn't suicide, although accidental death during autoerotic asphyxiation by a third party cannot be ruled out just yet," Brendan moved away from the corpse so that Bob could take over.

"You can see here the abrasions to his wrists where he struggled while he was being strangled but my guess is he allowed himself to be cuffed to the bed, likely as some sort of sexual role-play. There are no other contusions and no sign of a struggle. Plus..." Bob nodded in the direction of Spencer's groin.

There was lipstick on the head and shaft of Spencer Duvall's engorged penis.

"Also this... get the lights please Alice," Bob called to his tech.

The drapes were fully closed and when the lights went out the room was completely dark. Bob switched on his forensic light source, basically a fancy UV torch, and played it over Spencer Duvall's body. The area around his groin, belly and chest lit up like a Christmas tree as did patches on the sheets and duvet. He called for Alice to turn the lights back on when he'd made his point.

"It certainly looks like a lot of sex took place. Most body fluids will fluoresce under UV, but the filter I used is designed to enhance semen and vaginal fluids. That is a lot of semen ladies; I'll defer to Doc Scott again," Bob nodded at Brendan Scott.

"The International Society for Sexual Medicine suggests that males expel, on average, 1.25 to 5 ml of semen each time they ejaculate. This is roughly 1/4 to 1 teaspoon. Obviously we do not know how many times Spencer Duvall ejaculated and that is likely dependent on how long he participated in the sexual activity," Brendan began.

"We know from witness accounts that he returned home late yesterday evening and I estimate his time of death at around two to three am, I'll need to take a liver temperature to confirm," Brendan pointed to the dead man.

It was only now that they were discussing it that Penelope and Silvia became aware of the musky stench of the semen that pervaded the air around the bed.

"I'll conduct the autopsy later today and provide my findings to Bob but I expect to find more than one ejaculator. The use of the stocking and the presence of lipstick tend us to believe there was a female presence," Brendan gave Bob a pointed look indicating he should take over.