Chapter 1: Pickup

"I can't understand it!" Mark Outhwaite muttered. "I know I filled up at the last stop, ten miles back. Now the gauge shows empty!"

He had free wheeled his late model top-of-the-line Mercedes Benz onto the shoulder of the seldom travelled country road. He now stood looking forlornly at the area of the car where he suspected the gas tank was located.

"Use your cell-phone, dear," called Helen, his second wife as she got out of the car to stretch her slim, shapely, legs. "Call the roadside help people."

Helen looked like the typical trophy wife. She was a doll-like creature with natural blonde hair and big blue eyes. She was carefully dressed in a lightweight linen dress, which was cut low enough to show her full bosom without being obvious. Helen was no bimbo. It was her fortune and management skills that had saved Outhwaite and Partners from going to the wall during the panic of the previous year. She was now the controlling partner. Her marriage to Mark had been her way of clinching the deal. Mark, who thought the nuptials his idea, had difficulty in believing his luck. Not only was she clever, beautiful and wealthy but she was a tiger in bed, which made him feel slightly guilty.

Helen was not more than six years older than his teenage daughter, Katrina, who now sat sulking on the rear seat of the plush automobile. She was cross because Helen had insisted on taking the "scenic route" and it now looked as though they wouldn't reach "civilisation" until late.

"I've tried," he whined, "but we seem to be in an area where such communication is not feasible!"

"Don't be such a pompous old fart!" muttered Katrina too quietly to be heard. "It's called a blind spot!" She stretched her lean denim-clad legs along the back seat and tried to look interested in a copy of "Vogue" her stepmother had bought at the service station.

It was four o'clock. The summer sun was still high when a biker turned up. The Outhwaites had been marooned on the roadside for twenty minutes

"What's the problem?" he asked, swinging his leather clad bulk off his powerful machine. "Maybe I can help?" He was a young man, bearded, tall and well built, but going to fat.

Katrina later remembered that she had seen him at their last stop, giving her and Helen the once over and practically undressing them both with his eyes. He'd looked away when Katrina returned his stare, concentrating on the exaggerated bulge in the fork of his leathers.

It took the biker less than two minutes scrabbling under the Merc to discover a leak in the gas tank. A tow was needed, he said, to a local garage where a temporary repair could be made. He suggested that he lift either, "one of the little ladies," or Mark himself to a nearby hotel, where he or she could telephone for a recovery vehicle. Mark volunteered to go, possibly because the bearded biker - "Call me Spike!" - suggested, with a leer, that, "one of the little ladies might enjoy having five hundred see sees of Japanese know-how throbbing and vibrating between her thighs."

When the tow truck arrived thirty minutes later, the "little ladies" were surprised that Mark was said to be, "Waiting for you at the hotel, ladies!". The truck was driven by Spike's older brother - "Call me Pat" - a clean-shaven skinhead who was fatter and squatter than his biker sibling. His attitude was even more chauvinistic than Spike's. He cranked up the front of the Merc for a suspended tow and invited "you girls" to share the bench seat in the front of the tow truck for the trip to the hotel.

The women climbed into the cab of the truck. The seat was littered with well-thumbed pornographic magazines and empty cans of mixed drinks. Pat watched as the women cleared a space to sit. He seemed amused at their embarrassment as they tried to stuff the lurid publications into the glove-box or the side-pockets on the door. Helen dropped "Lesbian Lust" on the floor of the cab. Pat recovered the glossy magazine and handed it to Katrina managing to press his beefy arm into Helen's chest as he did so. He tugged at the crotch of his grubby jeans as he settled behind the wheel. "Bit of a stiffy!" he explained, grinning."It's the mags. You can look at 'em if you want."

The journey was not comfortable. Pat's hand brushed Helen's knee whenever he changed gear. When she snapped at him to keep his hands to himself he just laughed. As the journey progressed Pat leered at the women and maintained a steady stream of questions. Some of them were very personal. Such as, "If she's your daughter, how come she's a brunette?" Then, "Are you a natural blonde? 'Course there's a sure way to prove that, eh!" And, "I reckon you both take the same bra size? Or is Momma a wee bit bigger?"

The frostier Helen became, the more outrageous were his questions. When he asked, "D'you two ever get together for, what d'ya call it, a bit of female bonding? You know, girl on girl?" Katrina quickly jumped in, telling her stepmother to pay no attention because the slob was merely jerking her chain.

"'Slob', is it?" said Pat, as the vehicle pulled up outside what looked like a dilapidated farm house. "Well this 'slob' is gonna teach you two high class cunts a thing or two. Get the fuck out of the truck and into the house! Your days of being lady-muck are over!"

There were protests and a brief struggle before Pat hustled the two women out of the pick-up and up the steps and through the heavy wooden doors of the building.

They were dragged, protesting, through the doors and into a stone-flagged hallway. Here they were met by a short, wiry, dark-haired woman of about forty who radiated considerable energy. She was wearing a denim skirt and a black T-shirt which clung to her damply. She wasn't wearing a bra. Between her prominent nipples was printed "Butcher".

"So these are the rich bitches you two boys found," the woman greeted Pat. "Barbie and fucking Mandy no less!" She inspected the two. "With, I'll grant you, nice tits!"

"Yeah, Ma," he responded. "Where d'ya want them?"

Ma considered the pair for a moment before making her decision.

"The big bedroom with the brass bed," said Ma."You boys can have your fun with 'em tonight!"

"I'm a mite horny now, Ma," Pat grumbled.

"I must protest in the strongest possible ter..." began Helen breathlessly, at last pulling away from Pat's grasp.

Her speech was cut short as Ma punched her hard in the stomach. Helen gasped and dropped to her knees clutching her midriff. Katrina moved to help her stepmother but Pat held on to the younger woman with a meaty paw.

"You speak when you're spoken to, Barbie!" snarled Ma. "You gotta understand that things have changed. From now on you belong to me and my boys. You wanna live? You make yourself useful! You give my boys a good time. Me too, if I feel like it. You'll maybe clean and cook and whatever! You'll be a fucking domestic, Barbie, and I do mean, fucking!"

"Her name's 'Helen'!" shouted Katrina defiantly.

Ma looked at the teenaged girl and smiled a thin, cruel, smile. "Feeling protective are you, kid?" she sneered. "She's your step-momma. Kid's ain't supposed to like their step-mommas."

"Helen's Okay!" muttered Katrina. "How did you know she's not my real Mom?"

"Why, Sugar, your Daddy told me all about you while I was waiting. He's in the cellar."

"I reckon they frig each other," grunted Pat. "I'll bet Barbie gets her tongue in the kid's twat then fists the little slut twice a night! That right, Kid?"

"You... you're disgusting!" groaned Helen.

Ma chuckled. "Well, Barbie, if you didn't screw the kid before, you will before we've done with you! We ain't got no Tee Vee and we do love to watch porn!"