She smiled. ‘Including four specials. Virgin meat.’ She nodded towards the girl. ‘Including her … that’s Marcie … just turned fourteen.’
Mason smirked while his hand wandered, then gripped; pulled the girl close, despite her protests as she tried to wriggle free. ‘I can hardly wait.’
Sonja had backed the truck into his warehouse. Mason’s crew had been waiting. Door shutters had closed, the back had been opened. Crates of tulip bulbs, smokes and spirits — and seven young girls from Estonia.
Then he frowned. ‘Where the fuck is Davros?’
Sonja shrugged, like it was no big deal. ‘Cunt at Customs wanted to have a nose inside the truck, so Davros created a diversion. Pigs were called.’
Mason nodded in appreciation. With his grooming, she had become an ice-cool mistress and had delivered without losing the cargo or disrupting his business plans. She had presence, a great body like Lara Croft, and got off on money and sexual violence.
Just like him.
He scowled. ‘Bastards, I pay plenty for no fucking bother. I need to have words.’ It was a close shave, though. Probably Davros would be let off with a caution on a Bank Holiday. No-one would be interested in paperwork. He made a mental note to change the port entry on the next trip, and turned back to fondle Marcie. Ran his hand over her arse and squeezed. She squealed; her eyes wide open, an alarmed look on her face.
‘All fresh flesh, guaranteed,’ Sonja said, licking her lips.
Mason smiled, he felt in a charitable mood. Sonja would be looking forward to her treat — she had picked Lena, a tasty brunette with perky breasts and an innocent smile that wouldn’t be quite so innocent later.
He shepherded Marcie, Lena, and the others into the lounge. They huddled together and looked fearful and bemused, not understanding what was happening, but Mason acted the kindly uncle and the indoctrination began. Put on soothing background music, handed out cans of coke, asked them to sit on the shag-pile — made them feel like one big happy family — and with Sonja translating, told them that servicing men was how it was going to be until they paid back their loans. Pending that, their mobile phones and passports would be confiscated.
Just like that.
Several moments silence. Then the realisation hit home like he knew it would. Shocked now; first came the pleading and then tears. They fell on deaf ears, he shrugged them off, said it was going to happen and they’d better get used to it. Marcie seemed braver than the others, got onto her knees and spat at his feet. Told him in broken English that he was a fucking pervert. He expected that. This one had spirit, she would learn. He felt his Viagra-fuelled sex-drive kick-in, and he beckoned to Sonja with a wicked grin on his face.
‘It’s party time.’
He felt on a drugged-up high, Sonja was a six-foot dominatrix; the girls would become sex slaves. No messing or Mason would get upset. And when Mason got upset, there was punishment. That was made quite clear.
Marcie was first...
Just a little longer.
Sonja put her black latex gear back in the wardrobe. So the girls had cuts and abrasions over their bodies — Marcie was broken in with the beer bottle and bled a bit — but she had hosed them down, patched them up, and fed them sandwiches. Minimal damage, maximum impact.
She felt a glow coursing through her body; didn’t need amphetamines to get aroused, just power over powerful men. And Mason was big — an ex-Bristol prop-forward with a broken nose and a limp cock, but he sure knew how to handle the merchandise once he got into gear. That part of him she wanted, the rest she tolerated while the money came rolling her way.
The climax had been perfect. Marcie and Lena were little darlings wearing their nipple clamps. Had to perform, had to suffer, had to get him off. She had dug her long fingernails into his purple welts which drove him crazy, and he had grunted to orgasm.
‘Fucking brilliant!’ he had bellowed.
She would give it another year or so to set herself up, and then she would kill him for destroying her life...
...And her sister’s...