Hell Bound: Spinnaker's Gold

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Bolt Hole

At seven in the morning, Sarah Bolt carried a tea tray out onto the penthouse patio, shoes making pistol shot sounds on the stone flagging. John Willis, on a chaise, looked up from his paper. And up. And up. Sarah was six feet tall without the French clogs on her long, elegant feet. The shoes added another fifteen centimeters to her already impressive height. Six inch heels didn’t seem to bother her at all. She walked in them like a queen.

Her robe was floor length, white and virtually transparent and, in any case, hung open down the front. Sarah was built like a teen-ager’s wet dream, stacked out of her mind, achingly beautiful. As lush and inviting as anyone could be. The words Bolt Hole were tattooed in black script across the high arch of her prominent, smooth shaven Venus mount. Her husband’s youthful proclamation that Sarah had worn with varying degrees of enthusiasm for her entire adult life. She was thirty-eight years old, a woman by any measure, and a marked woman at that. The hairless display showed a certain level of maturity, if occasionally wry, acceptance.

“You’re an angel,” Willis said.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Shall I pour?” Playing the servant game, her favorite.

“Fletcher and Amy still asleep?”

Fletcher was not only Sarah’s husband, he was her owner and master. Amy belonged to Willis, but without the matching wedding bands. The similarity of their relationships had developed separately, but were so parallel that in the spirit of hospitality, each man had offered his woman to the other for the week-end. More out of courtesy than avarice, each had accepted. The girls pretended they hadn’t been consulted beforehand.

“In the bathroom, sir. Have been for quite some time.”

She poured the tea. Gave him a glinted look.

“What are they doing?”

“My master is giving your slave her morning coffee, sir.”

“Through an enema bag?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“She’s going to love him for that.”

“Of course she is, sir.”

Willis laughed and went back to his paper, rereading the headline and the first few paragraphs of the lead story.

Suspected Pedophile Found Mutilated and Near Death

IP-Alleged serial rapist, pedophile and murderer, Aaron T. Farnsworth, age 36, was found unconscious in a luxury hotel room in Palm Beach early this morning. His testicles had been surgically removed.

Police acted on a phone tip given by a young woman identifying herself as Sheila Jefferson. It will be remembered that Farnsworth has been on the wanted list for three months, since the disappearance and subsequent discovery of a girl, also named Sheila Jefferson, who was kidnapped from a bus stop, tortured, raped, and strangled to death. The body was found a month later, and Farnsworth was listed as a person of interest in the case.

During the arrest, a computer was taken into evidence which, according to anonymous sources, held thousands of kiddy porn files, including photographs of murder victims and many others. Mr. Farnsworth was moved to the emergency room in a local hospital and is currently being held under heavy guard. Judge Diane Kesto is reported to consider Farnsworth a flight risk, and has remanded the accused to prison without bail when he is well enough to be moved.

Police are seeking information as to the whereabouts of the tipster calling herself

Sheila Jefferson. This stunning coincidence has not been lost on either the officials or the press. The call was made on Farnsworth’s personal cell phone, from the hotel itself. This young woman has disappeared and it is feared that she may be yet another victim of foul play.

Willis folded the paper and dropped it onto the table beside him. He knew all about Farnsworth’s history and so did the police. The issue had never been about whether the bastard did what everyone thought he was doing it was about catching him legally, prosecuting him successfully. Or, in this case, catching him illegally, but making it a ripe plum for the police, so that the investigators and prosecutors could go to work on him.

The one word text from Archie Picket said that their part of the job was done, and they were safely away. After that, it was up to the cops. The message should have been the end of two months work and yet, the newspaper suggested otherwise.

Castration?

What the f**k?

Sarah, who had already read the article, stood patiently beside him, looking out over the ocean. It was a fine view, available only to the very rich of which Willis was. The penthouse belonged, in fact, to one of the family corporations and Willis had only been in it twice in his life, neither in recent memory. However, it’s convenience for the Farnsworth operation had been convenient.

Ordinarily, Willis found the trappings of wealth cloying, even occasionally stifling. He was a plain man with regular habits and little need for ego satisfaction. He preferred doing for himself, rather than having it done. Sarah Bolt knew that about him and dropped the servant routine as if reading his mind.

“Mission accomplished,” she said.

He grimaced. “Somebody else knows what we’ve been up to. How else could they go in behind the team with enough time to cut his nuts off?”

“Perhaps Myoko got carried away?”

“Nonsense,” he said with an audible snort. “Someone knew who, how, what, when, and where. That worries me. A lot.”

“We all meet in Key West this afternoon. Right? Perhaps things will be clearer after you’ve had a chance to...?”

“Castration only works with the s****l predators,” Willis said. “Farnsworth is different, not only a pedophile, but a control freak. Worse, this guy is a sadist. That isn’t a pathology. It’s a choice.”

“Who would know that better than us?” she asked sweetly.

“There’s a big difference between banging a girl around who likes to be banged around, and hurting girls for fun especially little girls. And balls or no balls, Farnsworth won’t change his ways. There is just no cure for his particular problem except to lock his ass away forever and a day. What I want to know is who the f**k thought it did?”

“I told you we should have killed him out of hand, darling,” Sarah said gently. “Now you just drink your tea and settle down. No master of mine is going to be all wired up over something he can’t do anything about.” She smiled. “Besides, you’ll figure it out. I know you will.”

“I thought it was already figured out,” he said. He took the cup and saucer from her, tasting his tea, nodded in satisfaction and looked at her again. “Okay. I give up. We’ll wait. Now, how about some breakfast?”

“We’ve got fruit, bacon, eggs, and oatmeal. Whatever you like.”

“I’ll cook. You get yourself a cuppa and relax.”

Sarah smiled. “I’m supposed to be serving you, Johnny.”

“And if that means sitting bare-assed on the counter with your arms handcuffed behind your back while I make an omelet?”

“Ooh,” she said. “I’ll get the cuffs.”

He got bacon started in an iron skillet, what his grandmother had always called a black widow. Sarah came back with a pair of leather wrapped handcuffs with her name engraved around the lock. Willis handcuffed her wrists together behind her and lifted her onto the counter. He made it look easy, even though she was no lightweight.

He turned the bacon and cut fruit into a bowl: sliced banana mango chunks, cantaloupe wedges, a dollop of cottage cheese, and blueberries scattered on top. Sarah seemed surprised when he forked fruit into her mouth. And pleased.

“You aren’t what I expected,” she said after awhile.

“Because I f**k the help?”

“No, because the rumor mill at work marked you as an unpredictable, self-centered rich kid without a thought in his head beyond the moment, and your own personal needs.” She smiled. “It’s all true, of course, only in a better way than I thought.”

“Mm Hm,” he said.

Once, Willis might have ignored that. But he had come to value Sarah’s opinions. Six months earlier, while Johnny lay in a private clinic in California recuperating from a bullet wound to the thigh, Sarah had been a secretary and part-time bartender with a bad marriage and an unhappy outlook. Since then, she had divorced her second husband, remarried the first, Willis’s best friend, Fletcher Bolt, and worked her way up to assistant manager at a small airport near Lake Okeechobee in central Florida. An airport Willis owned, one of four in Florida alone. Soon, she’d be a general manager, if she wanted.

A person like that would be smart, but also possess native intelligence at the gut level. Good instincts, good decision making skills under pressure, but more importantly, she had the knack. In Willis’s view, engendering loyalty was more valuable than book smarts, every time. The good news was that Sarah had both in spades. Willis was already contemplating her future promotions, perhaps to the high level management team that ran all his transportation companies. He liked the idea that a woman in chains, whether physically or psychically, could still be the boss, and a damned good one at that.

“Is it a problem?” he asked. “Doing this, I mean. Playing? Sleeping together?”

“Well, I’ve always been told not to s**t where I eat,” she said, chewing.

“Present circumstances to the contrary, one would suppose.”

“One would,” she said, “besides, Fletcher made me do it.”

“Sure he did,” Willis replied dryly, and then gave her a sharp look. “Let me clarify, Sarah. Does this messing around with the boss thing distract from your ability to do your job? Is it the wrong thing for us to do?”

“I don’t think it is,” she said, matching his serious tone. “I’ve thought about it, of course, but if we keep things separated, I should be alright at work. I don’t know that for certain, but I’m pretty confident that I can still throw the bullshit flag on your desk if I need to as long as you don’t bend me over that same desk in front of my staff, that is.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said.

He ate some fruit and put the bacon onto a paper towel to drain. The toast popped, he cracked eggs into the bacon grease and got one plate from the cupboard. He set the two pieces of toast on it, Arranged bacon across it and, when they were ready, slid the sunny side eggs off a spatula onto the top of each.

“My favorite breakfast,” he said with satisfaction.

“Arteries notwithstanding?”

Willis turned the burner off on the stove and set the plate beside Sarah’s bare hip. He took a knife and fork from a drawer and cut one piece of toast into two triangles then cut a smaller bite and mopped up yoke. He held it aloft and Sarah opened her mouth.

“Yum,” she said, chewing.

“f**k a bunch of arteries,” he said.

When they were done, he held a glass of orange juice to her mouth. She drank thirstily. Willis dabbed her lips with a paper napkin and kissed her again. Put the dishes in the sink and ran hot water. Washed, rinsed then stood them in the drainer.

“I love a man who cleans up after himself,” she said. “Thank you.”

“You’re making me horny with all that please and thank you stuff.”

“Got something in mind?”

“Wham, bam, thank you ma’am,” he said.

“Yum,” she said again.

He kissed her a second time, deeply, then set her on her feet. Turned her around and bent her forward. Her breasts swayed ponderously, hanging into the partially opened silverware drawer. Sarah shifted her feet apart as he pressed his hips forward into the grooved socket of her buttocks, sliding his erect c**k downward. She didn’t say a word. He wet his fingertips to stroke the silky slickness, drawing fluids immediately. He wasn’t surprised as submission agreed with Sarah like no one he had ever met.

Gripping his c**k, he sought the soft nexus of her body, probing. She shuddered, buttocks tautening as he thrust inward. She moaned, definitely not in protest. His c**k was large, very large. She liked that. In bed together earlier, she told him it hurt when he f****d her, told him she liked it and that she wanted more which he gave her.

Same thing in the kitchen. Not really prepared, but definitely enthusiastic. He stuck it to her, hard, reached around her sides and pressed forward, shifting her body, closing the drawer on her dangling breasts. Pushing gently, then harder as she writhed. He held her, stroking deeply, easing the drawer back as he withdrew, and pressing it forward when he thrust inward.

Her muscular innards gripped him convulsively. The drawer crushed her breasts, eased up, did it again over and over. Sarah clutched her captured hands against the pain, gasping for breath. The drawer thumped closed, silverware rattling. Her knees buckled as an orgasm swept through her. Willis held her, pummeled her body, And erupted, driving savagely to completion. Falling forward over her back, panting.

They stayed like that a long minute, then, “Please,” from Sarah. Whispery, desperate with pain, weeping gently. “My t**s, Johnny. You’re killing me.”

“Sorry.”

Most of his weight was on his arms, pressing against the drawer. He straightened, pulling it open to release her, helped her to stand upright and led her to a chair. Sperm leaving silver snail tracks down the insides of her thighs. Deep marks on her breasts, bruising as he watched. He wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“I’ve heard of getting into somebody’s drawers,” she said, shaky-voiced. “Guess I didn’t really know what it meant before.”

“Spur of the moment,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

“No apologies. You were magnificent.”

“I hurt you.”

“Hated every minute of it, too especially the orgasms. I guess you could tell, me complaining like I did.” She hadn’t, not even a little bit.

“You’re my kind of girl, Sarah Bolt.”

“I need to hug my chest and maybe cry for a little while.”

She lifted her arms in back. Willis unhooked the handcuffs, rubbed her wrists, and kissed her again - a gentle, lingering kind of kiss.

“Wow,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, wow.” He stepped away from her. “You go on, I’ll take care of the dishes.”

She kissed him. “Thank you, and thank you for Farnsworth, too,” she said. “And, truthfully, I’m not so sure the mystery castrator shouldn’t be thanked as well.”

Willis was the architect of the plan that culminated with the police raid in Palm Beach. The planner, the paymaster, and the director of operations. He’d done it almost on a lark, but even fun was serious business with a maniac like Aaron Farnsworth. The only question had been whether to trap the man, or kill him outright. As it happened, Willis was well satisfied with the choice they had made right up until it became apparent that somebody else had horned in on his plan.

“I’ll thank them with a size ten boot up the ass,” he said.

“Of course you will, my dear.”