Unpriestly Behaviour Ch. 03

Chapter 3

Everyone involved in this story is over the age of 18. It's a fantasy, and in real life such behaviour would be highly illegal and lead to long prison sentences. If you're offended by descriptions of rape and forced sex; read no further.

- - -

I hit the gym hard the next day; a weights circuit before a healthy breakfast. The circuit went well, though my leg was aching at the site of the AK-47 bullet scar. Then I called Henri.

"Henri, you old rogue; how are you, and how is the beautiful Michelle? When's she going to recognise you as the world's biggest loser and run away with me instead?"

Henri chuckled: it was a standard piece of banter between the three of us; brother Legionaires' families were off-limits, and we all knew and respected that.

"We're all good. She'd pack her bags and join you this afternoon but she's gone off priests - she knows you're all queers trying to cover up your sinful same-sex attraction by preying on weak-willed women. But I'll allow it this once, if you promise you'll take the kids as well!"

We bantered for a little longer before Henri turned serious.

"So, James. You didn't call me only to shoot the breeze. It's a WhatsApp call; not airtight, but secure enough. What's on your mind?"

So I told him. He sympathised over the Bishop and the financial bind with the community centre, expressed approval as I described the four eighteen-year-old girls, 'tut-tutted' when I gave him a brief run-down on my forcible defloration of the slim and so delicious Beth, and whistled softly when I told him of the financial deal which had been agreed.

"So, what's the problem?" he asked. "You sound like a pig in shit! Finances sorted and no shortage of pussy: just keep the girls quiet if you have to force them. But you're a handsome enough chap, if not a patch on a real hunk like me. The girls will probably want you to fuck them - and that collar of yours can be pretty attractive for the fairer sex. Or so I'm told?"

"OK Henri, and this time yesterday I'd have agreed with you. But things got a lot more complicated."

I went on to describe the secretly made video of Beth's rape ("Careless" was Henri's laconic comment), and how Rupert and Jeremy were now blackmailing me to have sex with the girls to order - to their order - to break them in for their work as very high end mistresses - amongst other duties - for wealthy businessmen. When Henri had finished laughing; and teasing me that now I really was in pussy heaven, he turned serious again.

"OK James. Yes you're right: it's bad. You can't trust the queens, and I guess they'll throw you under the bus when you've done their work for then and they're ready to move on. Plus, you don't know anything of their bosses."

"What bosses?" I asked.

"There must be others. Use your head. You've seen no evidence of a logistic or recruitment backing; no more any suggestion how they find customers. This is likely just one tentacle - the end of one tentacle - of a dangerous octopus."

"So will you help me?"

Henri's response was immediate and unreserved: "James, I owe you! Michelle too, and the kids: I'd be crocodile shit by now - or worse - but for you. So, the first problem is those videos - videos; they'll have filmed yesterday too. How long have they been in residence there; and did you see any obvious infrastructure going in?"

I told him: two months, tops, and no, though I had seen a BT Openreach team working just outside the property.

"Good. Likelihood is they're storing it all on a networked drive on site; maybe even just on a laptop. We need to crack their network. Do they have Wi-Fi do you know? I guess they must have. Well we have to hope. And, what sort of phone do you have?"

I knew about the wireless: a fast connection they'd said. I told him I had an Android phone.

"Perfect. So this is what we do. Meet me today, M25 services; same as always. 1300? We can risk a burger, or take a sandwich. And bring your phone." He ended the call.

We met as planned, at the usual place, which is absolutely not an M25 services, and he took my phone, handing it to a short man I might have recognised, but carefully took no notice of. I asked if he needed my passcode. Henri chuckled: "Now you've insulted him!" The man disappeared. The phone was returned before we parted: the man answering Henri's quiet question with a simple: "C'est fait. Tout bon".

"OK, next time you visit," said Henri to me, "when you visit the manor; make sure the phone's charged, and contrive to leave it behind, like you dropped it or something. Down the back of a sofa; you'll think of something. But not too, er, 'évident'. It needs to be active for a few hours only. There's a sniffer on it - should get us in. The next day, go and ask for it back. Meanwhile, just play balls - and 'ave fun!"

I thanked him and drove home, and in fact had no opportunity to leave my now presumably spy-phone at the manor until after the following three days: a break I needed, both for my weekend parish duties and to recharge my sexual batteries.

I was helped in this latter by the first French lesson with my four pretty students. It was arranged by a note which was waiting on my doormat when I returned from my meeting with Henri, and held in a meeting room at the community centre. Far too public for me to try anything really, and the centre too busy - though I did risk running a single finger along the outside of Beth's bare shoulder and upper arm, which made her catch her breath and tremble deliciously. The girls were dressed in sleeveless but demure cotton tops and mid-length skirts: certainly the very model of femininity, and of hidden, or rather unreleased sexuality. The girls were delivered by George in a Six-Sierra minibus; they stayed a couple of hours, and were whisked away again. Still, I knew what was under Beth's clothes, and had glimpsed Mandy's fine boobs ... it was a mark of my professionalism that I delivered a coherent and useful initial assessment and lesson.

The call from the Manor came out of the blue, just as I was dropping off to sleep on the Tuesday evening. It was Rupert, and he sounded panicky.

"James; James; we need you up here now! Right now!! It's George: he's gone beserk and he's got Beth. He'll kill her if you don't stop him!"

"Is he armed?" I asked.

"What? Armed?! Good grief no; but he stormed up to the house an hour or two ago; drunk; and just grabbed her! He's taken her down to his cottage."

It was fortunate I'd not be needing a firearm or body armour: I could get that kit, but not quickly. So I was on my way in a few minutes, just taking time to slip a trusted old friend into my pocket.

Rupert met me at the main gate, which stood open: a distraught Jeremy beside him - but not too distraught to take a look at my trousers and exclaim, "Good grief!" I drove in, and the gate was closed and bolted behind me.

"This way," said Jeremy and led me on foot down a path which wound around some trees to the 'cottage'; in fact a substantial house. The front door stood open and loud music was coming from an open window.

Rupert and Jeremy tagged behind me as I entered the house and quickly checked both floors. The house was empty, though a discarded shoe suggested Beth had certainly been brought here. The music was ear-splitting and I gestured to Jeremy to kill it. He found a power cable, unplugged it and the noise stopped.

Beth's cry pierced the sudden silence: it came from below us, and as quickly died away. "The cellar!" said Rupert and Jeremy together. They pointed to a door under the stairs.

The wise soldier checks the ground first, but this time I didn't have that luxury. I just checked my pocket, which was still holding its comfortable weight, and went in.

The door opened to a small landing, and then to a flight of stairs. Taking in the scene below me, lit by a bright bare bulb in the ceiling and, incongruously, a few candles, I saw first Beth, naked, spread-eagled face up on a surprisingly neat looking double bed in the centre of the room. Her wrists and ankles were secured to the corners of the bed, and at first sight I thought she was covered - or at least her chest and groin area - with bright red arterial blood. Whatever he had done to her breasts had left them distorted and misshapen. But at least she was alive, if only just: her tear stained eyes saw my arrival and she turned her head weakly up towards me in anguish.

George was at the head of the bed, holding in one hand a ball gag which he had apparently just removed from Beth's mouth. His other hand held a wicked looking kitchen knife. In the fight which followed he should have been at an advantage; and perhaps would have been, save for two things: he was drunk, and I had a Denver 2-ply Sap. They cost just £31.14 on Amazon: an absolute steal but you do have to know how to use it. I do.

I was half way down the stairs before he reacted; and then he was slow. He moved away from the bed-head and opened the angle: dropping into a crouch and holding the knife low. But the drink had made him clumsy, and as he moved forward to try to fillet me with the knife he stumbled, and I slipped the blackjack from my pocket and hit him.

There's a certain elegance about a well balanced cosh; a sense of 'This is the last word on the matter' as it strikes a human skull. George dropped like the proverbial stone and lay at my feet, snoring. Rupert and Jeremy joined me, and I gestured to a convenient tub of zip ties which stood handy.

"Tie him up!", I ordered, and they scuttled to obey.

I turned to Beth, expecting the worst. Arterial bleeds usually spurt -- there was none visible here. Had she virtually bled out? But there was no blood on the floor.

"How bad is it? There's quite a lot of blood on you: how deep are you cut?" I asked.

She looked at me as if I was her knight in shining armour, and astonishingly laughed weakly. "Oh Father - it's not blood. It's wax! He was burning me! My poor boobies! My poor coochie!" Then her brittle self control collapsed, and she broke into uncontrolled sobbing.

Suddenly the scene made sense. The red stuff was candle wax, not blood. And now I saw that her breasts were distorted not from contusions but from a crude form of tit-torture: there were clamps - crocodile clips - attached to her nipples and in turn tied via blocks to weights, pulling her tits up and out. He had set the contraption up, then dropped hot wax onto the sensitive skin there and at her exposed pussy. I quickly unhooked the weights from the cables, then as gently as possible freed the clamps from her abused tits. She grimaced as the blood flowed back into her abused breasts.

"I'll have to get the wax off," I told her. "Candle wax doesn't actually burn you; just hurts like hell. But your nipples will be sore. Where's the key for the cuffs?"

Beth moved her head and indicated with her eyes: "Over there. He dropped them in something he called a 'timer box'."

I followed the direction of her gaze and found a strongbox bolted securely to the wall. A digital timer labelled 'Time to Unlock' was counting down: two hours to run. Rupert and Jeremy had finished trussing up George, who was still out like a light, and would stay out until mid-morning the next day if I was any judge. I directed them to drag him up the stairs and into the rest of the house; a difficult task. I turned to the bed again and examined the restraints. I knew instantly that I couldn't remove them - they were padded, but industrial strength - or military strength rather, from the South African markings on them.

"Sorry Beth," I said to the splayed out and helpless girl. "You're stuck there for a couple of hours." I turned to Jeremy, who was levering George's feet through to top doorway.

"Jeremy old fruit: you and Rupert put George on the living room floor. Recovery position; assuming you don't want him dead?" He grunted assent. "Then fuck off both of you. I'll bring Beth over to the house when the time-lock releases the key to her cuffs. About two hours: there's no way of getting her free before then."

I heard them moving George around, then the front door closing behind them. I turned back to Beth:

"So sweetie; let's get you as comfortable as we can."

A gentleman would not have acted as I did then, but I've never claimed to be a gentleman, and the sight of her eighteen year old body, cuffed and spread-eagled, naked and available on the bed, would have been an invitation too much even for most saints. And I'm no saint.

I moved over to the bed and leaned over her, before pulling the accumulated wax off each breast in turn. There were angry marks from the tit clamps but she wasn't cut. George must have tightened them slowly for maximum fear and pain - he'd actually done her a favour: snapping them shut would have torn the delicate skin of her areoles.

"Now for your little coochie." I told her. "This will hurt because it will tear the hair out with the wax."

I'd guessed that she'd never had a Brazilian wax, and I wasn't wrong ... but I wasn't right either.

"It won't." she answered weakly. "George ... he shaved me. Down there." Again she used her eyes to indicate a direction.

'George, you old pervert!' I thought to myself. 'You have hidden depths!' I peeled the wax off there too: there wasn't too much of it, and again the skin was undamaged apart from a little redness and a couple of nicks where George's fine motor skills had let him down. I wondered how he'd kept the bed dry, then saw a towel and basin discarded by a sink on one side of the room. I emptied the basin and refilled it with clean water, then wetted a clean corner of the towel.

"I'll clean you up." I began to wipe her tits with the damp cloth. She closed her eyes, sighing contentedly, and despite her predicament I noticed the nipples beginning to harden. My cock was hard already - had been for a while, and I moved the cloth down her body to begin on her groin. Her eyes flew open as I began on her sensitive nub, and I sensed her dawning awareness of a double betrayal: by me, taking sexual advantage of her helplessness, and by her body, becoming aroused in spite of herself. She began to thrash around in her bonds, but the movement simply intensified the sexual fire in her depths.

"Hush, little Beth," I told her. "You'll spend time enough on your back giving pleasure to your employer. Tonight you get to enjoy being given pleasure, and giving me pleasure, when you can do nothing about it."

Saying this I cast the cloth aside, and began circling her smooth outer lips with my fingers. I leaned forward and began licking and kissing her firm soft tits; soothing the redness caused by the hot wax, then sucking each nipple in turn into my mouth and caressing it with my tongue. She calmed down, and began to respond with growing sexual passion.

Suddenly her thrashing was of frustration for more stimulation and her cries of 'No, no!" became pleas not to stop my assault on her taught young body. She really needn't have begged; I'd no intention of stopping. Moving my fingers to her slit I found her wet, and not just from my cleansing ministrations. It was time to teach her my favourite number.

Starting from the now hard nipple of her left breast I licked and kissed down her body, over her flat stomach, and on until my tongue replaced my fingers in caressing her pussy and clit. She trembled with the building tension of the approaching orgasm I was inflicting on her unwilling body. But before she could climax, and without ceasing my tongue-lashing of her sensitive sex, I climbed onto the bed and above her. I lowered my hard dick so it dragged over her face and I positioned the head by her mouth. Her delicate lips brushed against me. She moaned in passion, and on my order she took me into her mouth and began to suck on me, her tongue holding the sensitive underside of my erection against the roof of her mouth. We held that position for maybe a minute before she came; her vaginal muscles spasming around my tongue and her sucking interrupted by an involuntary and shuddering gasp of sexual joy.

I pressed myself hard against her splayed out body, and controlled my urge to let go into her throat. Instead I turned around and slid myself down her body so that I could lie between her legs and lick her into ecstasy a second time. As she was cumming I moved up her body until my cockhead was positioned at her entrance; ready to take her in the missionary position.

"Beg me!" I instructed her. She shook her head: her mouth moved, but silently. She was trying to resist the sexual instincts surging through her eighteen year old veins, but in vain:

"Please!" she whispered. "Please, fuck me. Take me with your hard cock! Make me cum again! Pump your seed into my helpless womb! I'm here for you - take me now!"

As she spoke she writhed as far as she could, within the confines of the unyielding chains securing her cuffed wrists and ankles to the bed, trying to impale herself. She managed to push her vaginal opening onto my cockhead, but could go no further.

"Take me!" she pleaded. "Split me wide open! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck, fuck, fuck ... aaaahhhh yes!! Yes, yes, yes!"

I was fully inside Beth now, and beginning to build to my own orgasm, which I knew would not be long delayed. Pushing up on one arm I opened a route for my right hand to return to her clit. She broke off her vocal cries and we began panting together in the throes of our mutual lust: her delectable slim body spread out like a delicate butterfly; pinned by my erect phallus.

We came together, my cum flooding her welcoming womb and leaking out onto the bedsheets below her. I lay still, totally relaxed, enjoying the soft girl-flesh below me. There were tears in Beth's eyes again, tears now of joy for the pleasure she had never expected a man could give her even when captive and at his mercy ... or was that because she was captive and at his mercy?

We lay like that, satiated and relaxed, as I gradually softened within her. I had no desire to move; Beth, constrained as she was, had no option. Finally I stretched languorously, enjoying the feel of her firm breasts under my chest muscles. My now soft penis dropped out of her just as a notification sound and the click of a sprung door opening signalled that the time-lock had released the keys to her cuffs.

I rose from the bed, giving each nipple a final lick, kiss and suckle, then collected the keys and released her. As soon as her arms were free she reached between her legs and scooped a little of my cum from her vagina. Fixing her eyes on mine she licked it lasciviously from her fingers and swallowed.

"Thank you!"

"Any time you want - or rather, any time I want." I replied.

Her clothes, which George had cut from her, were in a discarded heap; and were unwearable. Naked and barefoot she followed me up the stairs to the hallway. Catching sight of George's recumbent form through the sitting room doorway she stiffened, but he was clearly out for the count. I ran up the stairs and came down with a soft sheet.

"Best I can do; but it will cover you. You can't walk without shoes; I'll carry you."

Before I picked her up I cut the ties on George's wrists and ankles. I held Beth cradled in my arms, cock stirring again as my right hand felt her breast through the material. She put her arms around my neck.

"I can't hate you; I know I should, but I can't! I love you ... no I don't love you. I don't know if I love you - but I don't hate you."

I kissed her forehead.

"Come on sexy girl. Time to get your beauty sleep."

I carried her to the house. Rupert and Jeremy fussed over her as I carried her straight up to her room. I sent Jeremy out for a cup of hot cocoa for her, and I got Rupert to find her some nightwear. When they returned Beth was in the shower, and my phone down between the bed and headboard, where it could conceivably have fallen. Turning down the offer of a night cap I made my way home, having assured them that George would likely be fine the next day, apart from the mother of all headaches. Back home, and hoping my spyware-filled phone was doing its stuff back at the manor, I showered, sadly washing the scent of fuckable young woman off my body, and went to bed. I was instantly sleeping the sleep of the just. Ironic really, but anyway.