Virgins from Estonia.
Outside he loaded up the white transit and drove back to his isolated farm close to the picturesque Somerset border and parked outside the warehouse next to several identical vans and Sonja’s motorbike. Mason’s crew, three tattooed bruisers in black T-shirts and jeans and smoking Marlboro by the pack load, were stacking crates and cartons into the back of one. He nodded a welcome, hauled out his carrier bags and walked up to the open doors of the warehouse. Inside it resembled Aladdin’s cave for nicotine-fingered alcoholics. At the far end, shelves were stacked high with contraband goods from the continent: some boxes had been opened and the contents sampled; a stale smell of smoke and liqueur pervaded despite gusts of fresh air blowing on his back.
He strode to the servicing area at one side of the warehouse; an inter-connecting door led into a corridor with toilets and a vending machine nearby. The corridor opened out at the end into akitchen/diner and beyond a spacious shag-pile lounge – a three-seated sofa with a couple of large teddy-bears propped up on the arm-rests, a few scattered cushions with painted cartoon figures, a DVD player with an album of movie concerts - and behind the lounge, a couple of recreation rooms with ensuite bathrooms.
He walked into the kitchen and dumped the bags in the fridge. He would sprinkle Rohypnol over the sandwich fillings and feed them after the show; just enough to keep them going while Sonja hosed down the two they'd broken.
He then walked back through the lounge and into a recreation room, opened a wardrobe and took out a large box.
His pleasure box.
He started to set up a table next to the python cage: sex toys and accessories; two hello-kitty vibrators, an empty beer bottle, handcuffs, nipple clamps, gaffer tape, cotton wool, bandages, and a bottle of TCP. Plus the heavy-duty secateurs – window dressing that would ram home the message.
He glanced at the Mickey-Mouse clock on the wall. Sonja would be here soon. He had it all planned. The music would be girly pop; Lady Gaga in concert; Sonja would know. She would know alright; how to turn him on; how to torment quivering teenage flesh and inflict pain without damaging the goods; how to get him off.
And how to install fear...
He would choose two girls – a gobby one and a timid one - make sure they all understood that whatever else they would be subjected to in their miserable stopover, what he was going to do would be the worst ever.
The others would watch...
He would force his little indulgences into pleasuring him. God, how he would enjoy listening to the girls moaning in agony; it would be so exquisite.
They would all learn...