Any resemblance between the content of this story or any of the characters depicted herein and real persons or events is highly unlikely and purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. The author does not condone any sexual activity unless all parties are able to clearly and consciously legally consent and choose to do so.
Charlie Morris unpacked his briefcase onto the gigantic table. Light filtered in the colored glass from the midday sun. This conference room was once the Solar of the castle. Cold and clear, no clouds filtered the light. The Old oak table laid awash in color and random lines. Those distortions resulted more from the inch thick bulletproof Lexan rather than the centuries old glass.
Charlie felt comfortable. Castles like this one, stuck on an island in the North Sea, should be bitterly cold in late November. Even with eight-foot thick walls, he suspected insulation behind the dark paneling. Heat did radiate from the floor. The fireplace was empty, shuttered by heavy decorative doors.
His bum knee had twitched on the entire helicopter flight to the island. Climbing the stairs had worked some of the stiffness out. He felt he might even be able to score on a penalty kick. Ok, the keeper might need to be limping a bit. He felt better anyway.
From a portfolio case, he gently removed a large three-foot-by-three-foot piece of vellum. The research he had done on the Black-Mal written on its surface was completed. The Jameson families shared a common home over a thousand years ago. Then the family split between the Gunn and Stewart Clans. The Stewart-Jamesons had controlled this castle, called Caisteal Geasan since 1420 and by decree of James the Second were the 'Law under God himself.' On the island, the head of the family literally ruled by whim alone.
In 1590, the Gunn-Jamiesons forced the Black-Mal he laid on the table. Provisions in the Treaty of Union made the document binding. The Gunn-Jamiesons had had seven unique tries to invoke the clauses written into the Black-Mal. Charlie had found only six documented attempts.
Presently a small military unit had a base on the southern portion of the island under a carefully worded lease between the Crown, and the Elliott Jameson the family's patriarch, at the time. The Crown needed a "collocet ut obliviscatur," somewhere to place prisoners to disappear, literally forgotten. The Jameson family wanted no interference with passage of any persons or goods that passed through the island.
Ian Jameson, Charlie's employer, had one year to provide an answer to Edmund Jamieson. As the party called to defend the Black-Mal, Ian could choose where the challenge could be made. Caisteal Geasan gave Ian the right to interpret the law to his will. He could not escape the letter of the Black-Mal. Ian would twist it to his advantage.
Reunification, the last unanswered portion of the Black-Mal, Edmund had little left to lose. He was the last surviving Jamieson male. Edmund's son Robert died shortly after his wife gave birth to a daughter named Lillian.
"Well my boy, have you set my plan in motion?" Ian appeared at Charlie's side. That startled him.
"I have the documents written to your specification." Charlie had a hard time hiding his displeasure. Immoral to the core, what he had set in motion would damn him to hell. Parts were palatable, even admirable. Treating four couples to all expenses paid honeymoons and nuptials made Ian out to be a romantic. The changes made to the tower suite were not romantic.
Ian was well aware that Charlie didn't like his plan. Here on the island what he proposed was legal, anywhere else, in the civilized world, these crimes bordered on the unfathomable. "I'll sign them here." This would end the Jamieson's infantile attempts to wrest control of Caisteal Geasan.
Charlie spread out a set of three documents. Ian crossed over to the mantel and grabbed the great seal of Caisteal Geasan. Returning, Ian placed the seal on the table. A heavy deep thump punctuated the act. The next half hour was filled with sign here, initial there.
An excursion to the stables was a rare opportunity to escape the watchful eye of Mrs. Sturbridge. Lillian Jamieson knew the old bitch lived for the express perverted pleasure of assigning demerits. Once you received twenty-seven of them, any discounts your parents had for tuition evaporated. Gran-da was convinced she got kickbacks.
Lillian had collected her fortieth demerit today for the ponytail she sported. Her hair never would stay fixed under the school's official riding cap. Besides, hiding her natural shade of deep red when it desperately needed sunlight to add natural highlights made the demerits worth it. She was blessed with emerald eyes that all the fashion magazines said screamed for a lighter shade of red hair that emphasized and complemented her skin tones.
Her curse had been her hips, all thirty-nine inches of them. She would, at best, described herself as bottom heavy. Her breast had stopped at a 'C' cup according to Silks and Secrets in Glasgow. According to the American charts, she would have had a 'B' cup. Having her hair able to billow and cascade down her torso would draw the eye from her hips. Very few people understood the frustration of having to consistently buy outfits that were mix-matched. Yes, her grandfather had her formal gowns made but just once, she wanted to go into the GAP and buy a form-fitting outfit off the rack.
The old Ford minibus bounced down the lane heading to the stables. Lillian shared similar views with most of her classmates: the ride to the horses was more dangerous than riding the horses. They had just passed an old barn painted red. After the next corner, a bounce was to happen after a small bridge. The driver, Mr. Creedy, known as Mr. Creepy, would gun the motor, making the girls bounce in their seats. Everyone knew he would then look at the monitoring mirror to watch the girls' breasts bounce. The old biddy Mrs. Marshall ignored his antics. She sat stoically staring down the lane.
Instead of being pushed into her seat, Lillian was thrown forward. She heard a squeal from the brakes. The front of the minibus dipped down. Lillian felt herself pressed into the seatback in front of her. Mr. Creepy let out a string of profanity. A panel van blocked the lane. The sound of an engine made Lillian turn. She saw a lorry stop inches from the rear emergency exit of the minibus.
Everyone was talking at once. The cacophony made it seem like everyone was shouting. One girl was screaming. She was looking at the word 'SCANIA' in large block letters directly out the rear windows. Her seatmate pulled her back onto their bench. The girl changed from a screech to a series of "Oh Gods" as she calmed down. Evelyn started to complain that her cell was not getting any service.
Mrs. Sturbridge waddled up the aisle to the door. When it opened, she accelerated through it. In her place, a dark skinned man stepped into the bus. "You bitches exit the bus!" He sounded foreign, like the Egyptian shopkeeper in town.
"Now see here!" Mr. Creepy shouted back. "Do not speak to-" A pop occurred and faint wires stretched from the dark man to Mr. Creepy. Mr. Creepy shook then collapsed into his seat.
This produced a series of screams. The response was a burst into the roof of the minibus by a machine pistol. Silence became the result of the gunfire. "Exit the bus!" He waved to encourage them. "Whores and bitches that've lost their maidenheads in the yellow van, pure and virgin cunts in the red van." The man injected a syringe of something into Mr. Creepy.
Lillian was one of the last girls to exit. She could see Mrs. Sturbridge lying on the side of the road. "Virgin cunt or whore?" the dark skin man asked her. Lillian could not answer such a question. She was doing good to walk. A slap refocused her attention. Lillian still could not bring herself to answer. Hands ran roughshod in her pockets. Her cell phone and iPod were tossed aside. "Virgin or whore?" He grabbed the waistline of her riding trousers. "Hold still!" With his fingers behind her briefs, the man slipped short heavy knife into the gap, designed so that the cutting blade could never cut the skin. Lillian felt the plastic guard as it slid down toward the base of her crotch. The plastic guide was replaced by fingers, "Good little cunt, get in the red van." He pushed her toward red van. Bags, cell phones, purses, and clothing littered the ground.
Lillian had to grab her pants on both sides of the cut. She walked without thinking. Tears began to roll down her face. There were more girls in the red van than she thought there should have been based on the late night chats in the dorms. Once she topped the ramp into the red box-van, hands grabbed hers. She lost the grip on her pants and they fell away. She tried to grab them, but could not break her hands free. Handcuffs snapped shut. An industrial zip tie secured them to a chain bolted to the floor. Something stung her upper arm. She looked to see a syringe pulled away.
As the door of the panel van closed, Lillian sat down. The cold metal touching her ass reminded her she was exposed. Hastily Lillian pulled up the remnants of her pants. Surrounded by darkness, she joined the chorus of sobs that were dying down. Banging on the side of the van must have signaled the driver. The van jostled away. Lillian found herself drifting into sleep.
.... There is more of this story ...