Chapter 2

Hack Kaiser gradually regained consciousness in the wire cage in the back of the police truck. He knew it was a police truck because of a notice attached to the other side of the cage which read, "Property of the Black Bear Mountain Special Precinct — Police and Environmental Authority." His head hurt where the big man had hit him. He was covered in sticky mud. He was wet, cold, and frightened for himself and his wife and daughter. The truck, a Toyota by the logo on the boss of the steering wheel, was parked alongside a cabin built close to the top of a ridge. Hack could see lights in the cabin and a big shadowy figure, possibly his assailant, moving about inside. It was raining still. Hack yelled and shook the wire of the cage but the man in the cabin either didn't hear or didn't give a damn.

After about half an hour—Hack could only guess how long, his Omega was missing from his wrist—the rain stopped and the sky began to clear. The waxing moon shone fitfully through the scudding clouds. Hack saw his mud spattered Ford four-wheel-drive slide to a stop in front of the cabin. A tall, broad shouldered, man in black jackboots and a hooded slicker got out of the driver's seat and, after doing something to the passengers in the back led them up the steps to the verandah. Hack recognized his wife, Fiona, and their daughter Juliette. He shouted and banged on the cage but the group paid no attention as they made their way through the front door. He wondered, frantically, what was happening. His last clear memory was trying to get his cumbersome auto out of a shallow ditch. He remembered he had flagged down the only other vehicle he had seen that afternoon and being king-hit by one of the men who had dismounted, after that his mind was a blank.

The front door of the cabin opened into a small hallway. A row of wooden pegs lined the wall opposite the door. A tub held two umbrellas, a walking stick, and a thin, broken, coachman's whip. Al led Fiona and Juliette into the hall and shut the heavy front door. He took off his rainproof cape and hung it next to Max's. Fiona saw he was wearing the neat black and gold uniform of a State Police and Environmental Authority Senior Ranger, complete with a utility belt adorned with cuffs, flashlight, truncheon and a heavy looking automatic pistol.

"Welcome to your Black Bear Mountain home-from-home, ladies," he said and opened the inner door that led to the main living-room and kitchen of the recently renovated cabin. Al pushed Fiona and her daughter into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Quite a place you've got here," he said.

It was warm and softly lit. The polished, waxed, wooden floor was covered with a number of deep-pile rugs and one enormous bearskin was spread in front of a cheerfully blazing open fire. The living area was furnished with a number of soft leather settees and chairs and a scatter of low solid wooden tables. The walls were hung with subtly illuminated oil paintings, mainly landscapes. The kitchen area was agleam with the latest modern conveniences. It was, indeed, "quite a place."

Max stood in front of the fire. He had a white fluffy towel around his hairy beer gut. Otherwise, he was naked.

"You ain't seen nothing 'til you see the fucking bathroom," he said. "Cousin Aaron told me 'bout it but, Jeezus, seeing is believing. Three kinds of crapper, including one of those French things—squirts water up your ass, or in the case of the ladies, washes their pussy—what d'ya call 'em?"

"Bidet," snapped Fiona. "Where's Hack? Where's my husband?"

"Yeah. Bee day. And a shower big enough for four, and a spa bath. I ain't never been so clean. Good job they got a generator that could run a battleship and enough water to float one."

Max grinned at the two women. Their wet clothes had started to steam in the warm, dry, air.

"You gonna fuck them first or am I? How about we fuck one each?"

"Hell, Max. I told momma here I'd let Juliette here nibble my nuts while I fucked her. Give the kid a taste of a well-creamed cunt and an idea of what goes where before you doodled her on that fuck-pole of yours. Why don't you fix us a drink while they strip for us?"

"Please," protested Fiona. She made a supreme effort to remain calm and to seem in control. "This joke has gone far enough. If you leave straight away I promise not to say anything to your superiors about your... your robust humor. You did, after all, pull us out of the ditch and get us here. Just... just reunite us with my husband and... and go!"

Al laughed. Max looked surprised. Juliette held onto her mother's arm.

"Lady, it's no joke," said Al quietly. Then he bellowed, "Now, STRIP!"

Al's sudden yell made both the women jump. Juliette began to sob. Al reached for the young woman and threw her across the well-upholstered back of a small settee. He held her against the soft leather her wet, denim clad, buttocks uppermost.

"Max," he said. "Get me that old coachwhip from the porch. I think I'm gonna have to teach these two up-market cunts a lesson."

Max grinned and obeyed. Fiona tried to pull her daughter from Al's grasp. He backhand the woman across the side of her head and she sat down hard on the bearskin. When Max returned, carrying the whip—a thin rod covered with braided leather, frayed and tattered at the tip—Fiona was dazedly struggling to her feet.

"No!" she cried as Al took the old whip from Max and gave Juliette's buttocks a firm, but not damaging, cut.

"No. Stop. I'll do it. I'll strip. Oh, God, don't hurt her. I'll do anything only please, don't hurt her," begged Fiona. She fumbled at the zip on the side of her stretch-denim jeans. "Please," she implored desperately.

Al let go of Juliette.

"Good," he said. "Get on with it then."

The young woman pulled away from him and ran to her mother's side. Fiona was having difficulty in getting the wet material down her long legs. She leaned on her daughter as she struggled to pull the jeans over her bare feet one leg at a time. Fiona's white cotton panties were rain-soaked and transparent where the cloth pressed against her pale skin. It was clear she had recently been depilated. Al gave a grunt of satisfaction.

"Your tee, next," Al said. Fiona peeled the wet top over her head and dropped it on her discarded jeans

"Yeah. Let's see your tits, sweetheart. I do like a slut with big melons," added Max. He had dropped the towel and was cradling his long, helmeted, penis in one massive hand. Fiona looked at him and quicky looked away. She unclipped the bra fastening behind her back. The action pushed her breasts forward and they bounced softly as she shrugged the bra straps over her shoulders and dropped the white, lace-trimmed, garment on the floor. She kept her eyes on Al as she slid her hands to her hips and began to roll her wet cotton panties down her thighs.

"Just me, right? Not the girl," she begged. She was leaning forward and her large breasts swung like ripe fruit. Al touched her right nipple—large, plum colored and surprisingly erect—with the tip of the broken whip.

He tapped Fiona's pendent breasts with the frayed leather whip as she slipped her panties over her calves. "Just me, right?" Fiona stepped out of her Ants Pants and straightened up.

Al grinned cruelly. "Wrong. You and the 'girl'."

Fiona flinched at the savagery in Al's voice. She reached for her daughter and put an arm over Juliette's shoulders. "She's only a child, really," Fiona said.

"You undress the little bitch now, or I will with this," said Al. He brandished the old coach whip. He made it swish through the air.

Fiona looked at her daughter. "I'm sorry, darling," she whispered, her voice quavering with fear. "It's best to do what he wants. Let me help you."