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.
