“Oh! where’s daddy,” whimpered a soaking, cold Trish as she gratefully grabbed the powerful arms reaching down for hers and clambered up into the big dirty white van, to grab a cheap ride home in a van her dad occasionally used. The weather was atrocious, lashing rain and howling wind so any shelter was welcome. For two hundred cheap yards to her house, it was worth it in her simple minded view.

She was lifted and squeezed between two men, as the driver gunned the motor and the Transit rumbled noisily away from the end of the road, her usual route home where Nigel her father often picked her up. Old Cyril Gundelow watched from his end of terrace house, his regular lust subject ascend the two steps up, savouring for a change in winter the sight of her little white panties in her hurried actions. He often saw those in the spring and summer when wind would blow her pale green/white striped, light gingham school skirt up round her round bum, along with her uncouth snotty friends from the council house estate up the road, Holly Pauncefoot, Cindy Makepeace and the biggest of the four school pals, Cass Treblefitz, who Cyril had actually felt her fully blossomed tits when he helped her after she had fallen outside his house, not getting a thank you.

“Shit, she’s in for a rough ride,” Cyril smirked to himself returning to his computer to view the illicit videos and stills he had archived. “Quite right too, fucking bitches.”

Nigel Perkentrude lay tied in the back of the Transit van, unaware his lovely only child was sandwiched happily up front. He was rolling painfully between the leg of an upturned cement mixer that stabbed into his battered, bruised lower back and a bundle of spades and shovel blades behind his swollen neck. Hands tied with wire chafing his wrists down to a bloody mess already, he couldn’t shout as his mouth, with missing and loose teeth was stuffed with some evil tasting smelly rag and his two black eyes and gashed brow was bound with dark brown gaffer tape. The tape covered his ears too,

16year old Trish happily munched her way through a bag of crisps, another one ready for her between Des’ meaty, grubby denim clad thighs as he stared at her gorgeous pale limbs and the tiny white panty vee of her crotch, as her skirt had ridden up when she was manhandled into the seat. The chat was so noisy, and the view so bad, she didn’t notice they’d passed her home. The men who she had finally recognised laughed and joked as they always did and kidded her that she was in for a big surprise and insisted she must wear a blindfold. She was a fun loving kid and accepted their rough humour, finding the cloth masked her ears too.

“Tasty bint,” chuckled Alf Gundelow the 58 year old van driver, trying to keep his eyes on the gradually quietening road as he headed out of town, thinking dad will be chuffed. “Always fancied a poke at her.”

“Fuck yes,” giggled Arif Mumbai, the 70 year old Paki bricklayer next to Alf, his sweaty armpit round Trish’s shoulders. “We drawing lots for who goes first... ?”

“Fuck no, that’s me up her cunt first, she’s bound to be a virgin, I want her blood on my cock and it’s my van. My dad started all this.” stated Alf, interjecting.

“I want her arse hole first then,” tittered Des Gundelow the 15 year old gay apprentice plasterer and self taught master of all things digital and communicative – like a lot of kids these days.

“You like little boys mate, this is better meat - perfect, untouched, sweet and soon to be so fucked up she will always remember the ride in Alf’s van,” snickered Arif, thinking fucking queers and finally wrapping a cloth over her eyes and ears. Being a quiet, in public girl, she hadn’t a clue what they were on about, they always bantered in words that went over the curly haired head.

Nigel wondered where he’d gone wrong that day. All for the sake of fucking a teen fanny, when all he had to to do was get home and do the usual on Patricia, known as Trish. OK he was caught shagging young Debbie, who’d only popped in for some buns, seeing him in the shop and really fancied him, behind the bakers business in the High Street where Gundelow and Sons were renovating the next door charity shop. You’re a silly cunt, Nige mumbled to himself. The gang he did part time work for on accounts and files, were packing up for the weekend, caught him out shagging the daughter of a mate they drank with. Sneakily Des got some video footage of the shag against the wall and then knocked seven bells of shit out of him while he was trying to explain he had to pick up Trish at the corner of Sycamore Street and Chapel Lane. They knew that she was 16, his precious only child and his wife had pissed off with a fucking old lesbian yoga teacher Gundri, so the ‘and Sons’ crew made the decision, having done the same over several years.

Alf’s dad Cyril was too old at 78 to be involved in the trade and the extra curricular activities he’d introduced twenty years back. The fact that Nigel had really pissed him off, initially in a fierce argument on politics, developing into planning issues about their adjacent back gardens and fence, then Nigel’s nephews playing football when visiting and constantly kicking the ball against Cyril’s fence had led the old chap to thinking if he could be young again, what he’d like to do to nasty little Trish Perkentrude. Her and her gang of rowdy black and brown girls jeered at his difficulty walking, frailty putting his bins out and stammering, mumbling speech. Seeing the girl daily and just to be at the front bay window when the Gundelow and Sons van chuntered by having collected Trish, gave him at least some satisfaction that the firm’s traditions were being upheld and he would have considerable satisfaction watching the video Alf would give him. Pure coincidences do happen he mused. He had moaned about the gang of four girls several time to Alf.

Doreen Randewick, a retired spinster doctor had seen Trish climb into a horribly dirty van and thought that was strange, knowing the sweet child always waited in the bus shelter in bad weather for her self employed IT specialist father at the corner on his was back from his regular gym workout at the leisure centre. Miss Randi as she was secretly known at the local surgery now working part time as a nursing assistant, was, in a part crouch squat position at the precise moment Trish ascended the van steps, wiping her raddled 81 year old sagging grey haired vagina, just having relieved herself of urine in the commode in her front bedroom. She had a feeling she’d seen the van before so it must be OK. She hadn’t noticed through the misted windscreen that Trish had been swiftly blindfolded.

Her two other upstairs rooms and bathroom were given over to her lodgers, Mik and Par a couple of Indian students at the art college who lived together. The old, large, semi-detached houses all had water and basins in the larger rooms upstairs and Doreen had commandeered the massive front one herself. Gundelow and Sons had done some work for Doreen through neighbour Cyril’s local contact when she decided to rent the rooms out and now the old chap had wonderful video live from Mikey and Pam’s bedroom and what a dirty pair they were.

Borak, Debbie’s Ukrainian boyfriend disappointedly smelt the tacky gusset of her black sensible knickers, not finding any cum in them after she’d told him the gorgeous, in her mind, Nige had shagged her up against the back wall behind bakers trays and bags of flour after work. She hadn’t told him Nigel had been dragged from her before cumming up her cunt by the gang, in fear of Borak’s violent reprisals not collecting spunk. Luckily he assumed that is was some men’s problem in that they spewed little ropes up pussies and it was weak. The piss odour was nice though, adding to the rich stench of her cunt, but someone else’s jism would have been a pleasant addition for his delicate senses being a chef at the 2 star Michelin restaurant in town. The taste was something he was trying to recreate and having licked the gusset a second time, he added the undies in their own freezer bag to his growing collection. There was another new pair she’d have to buy.

“This’ll do nicely mate,” Arif told Alf who was thinking stupid fucker I know that, as the van entered the disused farm they had used many time previously. Des got out to unlock the barn and Arif kept a tight hold on little Trish, as she nearly fell out, Des having exited the cab quickly.

The van reversed in and Des closed up, unlocking a dusty old cabinet, fetching a square medium size Tupperware box out of it and placing that on a bale of straw. Alf parked and got out, glancing around - nothing had been disturbed since their last visit two months back.

“If he came up now, dad’d never see any changes since he packed in farming,” Alf chuckled.

“That’s ‘cos it ain’t been changed has it?” snickered Des, helping Arif climb out carefully guiding little Trish.

“Right guys put these on,” Alf ordered getting some ski masks and handing them round. “Video ready?” he got a nod.

“Ts’in the box as usual dad,” Des snickered. “Hope it hasn’t run out.”

“Course it fucking hasn’t you stupid fucker,” snarled Alf. “Cor luck at her lovely pussy pouch, that’s going to be nice to spoil,” Alf added, grinning at Trish’s exposed pantied crotch and her juvenile cameltoe, the girl being trapped in his son’s arms, her skirt ruffled upwards.

The 16 year old girl stood mystified, not fully hearing the strange word and sounds, very tired and limp after the two hour journey in the rickety working van.

“Where am I?” she whimpered fearfully now, her lips dry and salty. “Where’s my daddy?

“Oh yeah, he’s in the back,” giggled Des. “You take her,” passing her roughly to Arif, who sat her down on a bale, one of his hands under her crotch making sure his big brown thumb pressed on her tiny cunt under her knickers. The thumb moved sideways and in and out, she squirmed.

Des opened the van door and grinned evilly at a battered, bruised in pain Nigel.

“Oh fuck he’s going to enjoy himself,” tittered Alf, taking a phial from the box, fiddling with it and other stuff.