Chapter 15: "The Filthy Tramp"

Harriet froze. She was trapped. She was squashed, breathless, bemused, unable to move. Fuck. There was a sooty black building behind her and below, somewhere, was the river, full of endless foam and icy noise, gurgling and rumbling, and beckoning that she jump.

And here, in her face, was a tramp, and she was sandwiched between him and the building. He was holding her jacket and his hot burning eyes was traversing her clothes.

First, he looked at her chest. He stared at her jacket and her strings of white pearls. He stared at the swell of her cleavage and the globes that sat on either side of it. He stared at her crudely, hard, like he'd stumbled across her naked and her breasts were exposed. He stared at her like he could see the fossilised marks that surrounded her nipples and he knew what they meant.

He grinned, impishly and boyishly. His attention was unfriendly and Harriet couldn't move. She was confused. She'd been thinking about the river and about the fog of unwanted memories that had been floating in towards her and how she needed to escape them. She'd been thinking about Dominic and the red headed mum from the corner shop and the water pistol in her mouth. She'd been thinking about how that woman had been tied up and naked on Harriet's bed, and how Dominic had been fucking her.

She'd been thinking that perhaps the river and the fog and the water pistol were all somehow connected although she didn't know how.

And then, suddenly, the tramp had appeared and his interest was only in Harriet, in hoisting her from the ground. His hands had pinned her to the wall so that her feet dangled uselessly above the abyss, and Harriet shuddered from the pain and also from an involuntary disgust, for this tramp's garments were flea ridden and soiled, and his hair was crawling with lice. Not only that, but he stank of alcohol and of something infinitely more revolting. His teeth were rotten, yellow and black, and they were grinning at her like the hideous last of death, beckoning from the other side of the grave.

His lips pursed and then hurtled towards her mouth and she knew that he wanted to kiss her, and she recoiled from that prospect in horror.

"Leave me," she gasped, salty tears springing from nowhere and mingling and smudging her mascara. It was an insult that this tramp should interrupt her and want to touch her when she couldn't think, look or feel; when her heart was bitter and confused. She was emotional and fragile, but even so, she was instinctively aware that her feet were now kicking at the empty air and that there was a roaring emptiness below.

It was the river and it was calling to her - asking her to throw herself from this ugly man's grasp, and she was yearning to obey, to do as it bid her because he was hideous, and yet she couldn't, for she was trapped beneath this ugly tramp's weight by her own feminine fear.

"I fish what I want from the river," he spat at her, and his lips came closer, dirty and musty; calloused and blistered. "I get the pickings of the things that goes in the river. It belongs to me. Even you, pretty lady. You belongs to I fished you up on my hook, and so now I get to take what I want."

Jesus!

He was determined to kiss her. His tongue was after penetrating her mouth. His lips were coming closer, even as his cock was after penetrating her pussy, but then, he stopped, and he frowned. He stared inquisitively into her eyes, and a benign temerity registered her despair and her feeble exhaustion. He saw her loneliness and he listened and he waited, holding his mouth just inches from hers.

Harriet's heart fluttered. What was he doing? Why was he waiting? And then she felt the masculine interest gnawing at his loins and she realised that her very fragility was turning him on.

She's misread his expression.

His cock was pressing against her belly and his hot breath was blowing at her face.

Oh God.

It was inevitable, she supposed. He was turned on by her frailty and her fear, and it was giving him a thrill, making him more determined.

"Rich kid, are you?" he grunted, breaking the silence, his hands gripping her arms, and he was looking at her clothes, but not yet letting her remove them.

She didn't answer. She was confused by the deafening roar that was distracting her - chortling and teasing, beckoning and directing that she jump. It was the weight of her thoughts that she heard, the spasm of painful memories and the cry of a naked woman pinned to a bed, a woman with a plastic gun in her mouth and a hard cock in her cunt. It was stabbing her and making her recoil, this memory. It was frightening because as she looked at the unfamiliar woman, Harriet recognised her own face. She was looking in a mirror and seeing someone else. The gun was in mouth of the woman in the reflection, and the tramp was on top of her, his cock spearing her to the bed; and this last image made the greatest din of all.

"What have you got besides your clothes?" the tramp growled, holding Harriet above the crevasse and letting her dangle by his grip. He was toying with her. His head was rolling sideways, and then he looked again at her breasts, and his gnarled grey lips retreated from his teeth. He felt such massive, explosive lust. "What have you got, pretty lady? Jewellery? Money? What are you going to leave me once you're drowned?"

"I have no money," Harriet wailed miserably, for the tramp's tongue was kissing her face - licking her tears. "Leave me, please. I have nothing, nothing but credit cards."

"No money, eh?" the tramp whispered, and he looked lasciviously down her blouse. His eyes traversed her breasts, touching and caressing their shape. He observed the white pearls that encircled her neck and that dangled loosely against her cleavage, and he licked his lips. "Course you have money," he smiled. "You're a smart lady and well heeled. The question is: where have you hidden it? In your bra, perhaps? Or is it in your silk panties? What goes into the river is mine, you know. All of it. The pearls. The purse. The bra. The panties. Everything inside your panties too, including your pussy and your ass. It's mine. Shall I peel off your silks and shall we take a better look at you? Eh, pretty lady? Or would you prefer do it yourself?"

Harriet wailed, for it was already too much. "Oh God! There's no money! I swear it! I have credit cards and you can take them! And my necklace, anything you want. But don't touch me! Please don't touch me! I beg you. I can't stand this any more!"

It was just unbearable that this tramp was gazing at her tits and she could feel his rampant excitement, and now, his hands were wrapping her ass and cupping her thighs and there was nothing she could do to stop him. God. She was pinned to the bricks and caught, at the mercy of this monster and unable to break free.

"You're mine!" he lisped, threatening to kiss her.

Shit!

She couldn't endure another rape. Not again, not today - no more - and she tried to jump. She tried to end her life and fling herself into the water with every fibre of her being, to escape this terrible vile creature with his strong reassuring arms, but he held on to her too tightly.

His clasp became stronger and his fingers slid easily between her ass cheeks, parting one cheek from the other and stretching them apart, working his fingers up to her asshole.

Oh shit. Oh fuck! No! Please! What could she do?

Her shoes clung uselessly to her feet - black stilettos with silver filigree buckles, leather, with fine patent straps.

"What would I do with a credit card?" the man whispered in his slow melancholy voice; and he was examining and discovering the hollows of her face. He was feeling her womanly texture and measuring her past. His eyes were consuming her body and becoming like eddying whirlpools - and yet he was searching her out, shy and intelligent, but he was determined to see more. He could see her desolate nakedness through her civilian disguise, and soon, he would remove it.

"I've no use for plastic," he murmured, his fingers wandering across her rich satin blouse, cradling her chest and touching her black teats. Oh shit! Oh Christ! Please no! Don't touch me there! Not there! Please! "Cash on the other hand - that I have a use for, or kind."

His fingers tightened on her Frankenstein nipples and he gripped them, and as he did so, Harriet closed her eyes and she baled from the scene, and a moment later, Cecily woke up to take her place. Cecily awoke and saw the old tramp in front of her and she knew instinctively from his expression that he was going to rape her even as her stilettos dangled above the edge of oblivion, swinging precariously, slipping and cloying to her feet. She curled her toes and hoped this would keep her shoes from falling, but it didn't. They were sliding down her arches into the abyss.

"Oh God!"

She was falling towards the river, and there was no way to escape it. She was swirling about in a dream, confused and with all her thoughts jumbled, because Harriet had metamorphosed into Cecily and now her one world had disappeared and another was remembered.

In this new world there were a thousand random scenes, all of them known and painful to Cecily but concealed and hidden from Harriet.

For instance, in one of them, nails were penetrating Cecily's nipples and electrical current was running through the nails. She was spread-eagled and tied up, and Albert sat in his comfortable chair with his creased black trousers, and with his black polished shoes, and he sipped at his expensive red wine and he looked at her pain and her misery and her body.

Cecily growled as she remembered this. Her chest constricted. She was lying on an iron mattress having been dipped in tar and feathered with goose feathers. She was naked, of course, and Albert was dressed in his uniform, with creased black trousers and polished black shoes. There was a glass of red wine in his hand and he was relaxing. This was to be a pleasant evening spent enjoying Cecily's misery - pleasant for him, not for Cecily.

But even as she twisted and sobbed on the bed, Cecily metamorphosed back into Harriet. Another scene. Another time.

What had happened?

Albert had kidnapped Ruth. Harriet remembered this clearly because Ruth was her child and since Cecily was childless she hadn't been able to hedge her anguish.

So what to do? She'd been frightened. She hadn't known where to turn and so in the end, she'd panicked and run.

It had been a stupid decision, leaving Ruth, but Harriet hadn't anticipated that Albert would send his dogs to track her down. They'd found her and grabbed her and they'd thrown her into their van, and inside...

What had happened in the van was a mystery, because Cecily had been in the van: and not Harriet.

Only Cecily knew how vicious they'd been, tearing her to bits, almost like wolves.

Harriet remembered her piece of the puzzle. Dear God. She remembered one or two other things too, just the hazy outline. She remembered that she had nothing to give. She was spent. She was drained, and beneath her, the river chortled and it called to her seductively.

It whispered her name and it swirled hypnotically around her clothes, scurrying in sweet, sinuous circles that rose above her head and plummeted beneath her feet. "Close your eyes, my dear one!" it chorused with its many seductive voices, wrapping Harriet's body in its warm protective embrace. "Relax, my honey! Let me fold you in my lover's kiss! Kiss me, my sweet one, and let us entwine and merge into one!"

But Harriet couldn't relax because the tramp was clutching her body in his hard, icy grip and he was preventing her from moving. He was controlling her. He dominated her mind, and his soft warm eyes wouldn't let her go.

"Pretty lady like you," he rasped, pressing his dirty heavy body against hers and rubbing it suggestively against her clean new clothes. His hands had gone from her breasts and they were now back on her ass, feeling her up, squeezing her cheeks. His fingers slid deliciously into the crack, just as they'd done before, but this time searching unapologetically for her hole, circling around, and he smiled, for he had her. He owned her, and his finger was about to go in. "Out here by the river in all your posh clothes - and me nothing but vermin. It doesn't seem right, does it, my lady? Such people as us - strangers they say, and yet - do you know how long it's been since I had a woman?"

Harriet was about to vomit because the stench of this man's breath was repulsive, and the touch of his hands an insult, and yet it was unsettling her, and she didn't know why.

It made her remember the time when Albert had sent his dogs and she'd stood outside the van with Cecily inside. They'd gone at Cecily inside the van, ripping her clothes and biting her flesh, tearing at her skin with their nails, long deep lacerations that had scoured her breasts, her torso, her back and her thighs. They'd made her a bloody state and then they'd raped her front and back while beating her with sticks.

All the way through Cecily had kept praying to die, to be oblivious, to be gone; but her prayers hadn't been answered, and the torture had lasted for hours.

At the end of it Harriet had followed Cecily at a discreet distance. She'd been curious, like jelly, and so she'd watched as Cecily had been carried to Albert, naked, bruised, battered, bleeding and covered in dirt. Even from that distance, Harriet had smelt the aroma of cum on Cecily's body. It had been in Cecily's hair and mixed with her blood, and dripping from all three of her holes.

Harriet had watched aghast as Albert had conducted a summary court martial and he'd followed it by sentence. She'd heard him say that Cecily was to be humiliated and punished, Islamic style, he'd said. Harriet had drawn breath in surprise and Albert had continued unabated. Both of Cecily's nipples were to be amputated with garden seceteurs, he'd said.

With that straightforward statement Albert had turned Cecily to mush: but at least, Harriet had been watching from a distance.

Harriet was safe.

Harriet had watched as Cecily had wept for her nipples. She'd been on her knees grieving, but Albert had taken no notice. He'd told her to go to the parade ground and undress, because if she didn't, the whole of her breasts would be forfeit.

Soldiers had gathered round, dozens of them. They'd stood silent and observant, but privately excited, and they'd watched Cecily walk to the centre of the parade ground and undress.

Harriet had been amongst them. She'd followed the crowd and she'd witnessed Cecily removing her uniform first, and then her stockings and finally her underwear. Harriet had stifled her sympathy because Cecily was covered in bruises and swollen with scratch marks and cuts, but no one else had shown compassion and Harriet had felt obliged to follow their lead.

She'd been a voyeur watching silently, but excitedly. She'd watched Cecily standing, crying, and then stifling an involuntary sob. She'd watched Cecily stepping toward a wooden chopping board set atop a table-like structure - screwed to it. And next to this chopping board was a kitchen knife.

Cecily had lain one of her breasts on the board as Albert had directed and she kept perfectly still.

Harriet had waited. Harriet had watched. So had Cecily.

Albert had said that Cecily must keep still. Cecily wasn't to move. And then he'd picked up the knife.

Oh shit. It was too much!

Harriet howled to the Gods because she needed this tramp. She needed his cock. The tip of his finger rested on the edge of her asshole and it pressed against the fabric of her dress and she couldn't breathe because there wasn't enough air for her lungs. They seemed paralysed and she was aware of a finger somehow inside her, penetrating her clothes and entering her ass.

"It's ten years since I fucked a woman," the tramp declared roughly, maintaining the pressure on Harriet's anus while staring intently into her frightened eyes - and round and round went his finger, deeper and deeper inside. "What do you say to that, my lady?"

Harriet said nothing, because she was melting, remembering, becoming one with his dirt. His finger was invasive, circling and making her feel thoughts that horrified and repelled her. "That's a long time," she shuddered eventually, wishing she could stop him, because the stink was nauseous and so was the groping of her buttocks, and he wasn't gentle. He was ripping her cheeks and every time that he did it, his finger slid more deeply into her asshole, through her clothes, and she felt a sinking griping sensation in her stomach.

It made her clutch at the grey sooty wall. It made her grovel. She was cheek to cheek with the bricks and she scratched the wall and broke several of her fingernails.

Oh shit.

She was desperate for something to hold on to and she was shaking. She had nothing to grasp but the soot and the dirt and she was slipping. Her hands were sliding down the crumbling bricks, and it was only the weight of this man's odorous body that stopped her from tumbling into the eddying nothingness seething below.

And suddenly Harriet felt herself falling, drowning, sinking, and she panicked. Her arms flew to the tramp's neck and she embraced him because she needed his support, and out of nowhere, she was clinging to his body as to a lover, and holding him tight, and she could feel his big masculine cock against her pussy, hard and aching and yearning to screw her.

"Fuck me!" she growled, rubbing his cock against her belly. "Oh God, fuck me!"

She didn't mean to say it but she'd said it and it was moving, his cock, sliding against her slit, over her dress, getting harder and talking persuasively with the gift of the blarney.

Oh shit!

Her knees were weakening. Her arms were locked around his neck and her legs were wrapped around his waist, opening up wide and sucking his cock into the depths of her cunt, and yet her clothes were a barrier to his entry, and he paused, distracted, and he stared even more deeply into her eyes. Then his hands came between them and he touched the front of her blouse, strumming the buttons like the weeping strings of an acoustic guitar.

Oh shit.

Neither of them spoke, but Harriet knew what was going to happen. Their faces were touching and at any moment he would kiss her, and unseen by either of them, his erection was touching and whispering to her pussy, urging it to open.

Oh God! Her hips moved.

Harriet wished she could scream. This man was repulsive. His body was pressed against hers and she could feel his terrible arousal digging into her groin, the hardness and weight of a man who'd been ten endless years without the smell of a woman.

His stick was thick and enormous and she wanted to scream. With one mind she wanted to give this erection to Cecily to cope with, to struggle with, and with another mind she wanted it herself.

Where was Cecily? Where had she gone? Oh God!

In desperation, Harriet began to scream, to do so in panic, in fear - for the tramp's cock was too big for her hole - except that there was no sound or air in her lungs and she clung to the tramp tightly, urgently, and there wasn't a cigarette paper's thickness between them. She could feel the outline of his cock, the foreskin and the tiny hole at the top, the hard masculine balls at the bottom. She could feel it through her dress and through her panties. She could feel the crinkly shape of his testicles and the constant throbbing of his purple aching veins.