Crimson Flare:
Blackmail
by marat
Chapter
Nine
Fareed
Gouyannou glared at the bound figures before him. Tim Westbrook lay on the
polished floor of the ballroom, curled into an unmoving ball. He had been
carried up from the cell below and unceremoniously dumped there. Since then, he
had been silent. What Gouyannou saw of his face told him that the policeman would
likely not recover.
That
would be fine.
But
Maria Blakeman was most assuredly conscious—conscious and aware of what was
happening. She stared fixedly, defiantly, at the ganglord. Her bound wrists lay
against her hips—hips and thighs shown to glorious advantage by the skintight
black catsuit her wore. Her head held high, she was unafraid. Was it a bluff? the short paunchy man wondered. Or police training? Or—and
this thought frightened him—did she know something, something he didn’t know?
What
Maria knew was that she had only two options. Her session below in the cell
with Tim had told her that Gouyannou intended to establish his credentials as
the crime kingpin in Mitropoulos tonight. What little Tim was able to
communicate—he had fallen into and out of consciousness, and speaking in any
case was difficult given the beating he had taken—was enough for her to
conclude that the criminals gathered here tonight had come at Fareed’s behest;
that they were here to witness his triumph over Crimson Flare and her humbling
at his hands; and—here she could only draw conclusions based on little things
Tim had witnessed and heard—that his mastery of the City was being aided from within
the Police Department.
Therefore…
on the one hand, she could adopt a position of weakness, plead with Gouyannou
for her life and Tim’s; bargain to stay alive; appear willing to do anything he
said. While this would be designed to buy time, of course, time for Crimson
Flare to return, Gouyannou was unlikely to show mercy.
The
alternative, the attitude she had chosen to adopt, would be silent defiance.
Silence would leave open the question of just how much she knew was going on.
Defiance would imply a position of strength, though from what that strength
arose was not at all clear. Silence also would allow Gouyannou’s imagination to
fill in the blanks. And imagination, Blakeman knew, would likely be much worse
than reality.
She
saw that the ganglord’s henchmen were now scattered around the hall, and they
were likely placed around the entire mansion. Only Crimson Flare could be the object
of all these preparations.
She
would remain silent, no matter what Gouyannou and his thugs would do to her. She
must buy time!
* * *
Karen
lay on the bed, now freed from the ropes. Her mask and cowl had been removed; her
belt with her baton lay on the floor beside the bed; but the famed costume of
Crimson Flare was still in place. It clung tightly to her form; the heroine’s
breathing had slowed and showed as the petite, perfect mounds of her breasts
rhythmically rose and fell. Perspiration had been wiped from her face, but the
moistness on her arms still shone in the bright lights on the bedroom.
Lynn
sat on the edge of the bed, hovering. She gently stroked Karen’s face. The
lithe blonde wanted to coo softly,
like a mother calming a child, but she instead remained silent.
‘What
happened?’
‘You
fainted.’ Lynn whispered. ‘What do you remember?’
‘Give
me a minute.’ The girl paused as she tried to recollect something from only a
few minutes earlier. ‘I think… I think I felt… violently ill.’
Lynn
just listened.
‘It
was like my insides were tying themselves in knots. It was painful. Then the
whole room began to spin, and…
‘You
didn’t feel… weak?’
‘Yes,
I did… but… I don’t know… it wasn’t like my strength was gone. It was more
like… I was sick. That
kind of debilitating. I was… dizzy… like… vertigo. And I felt like…
like…
‘Like
what?’
‘Like…’
she paused, embarrassed, ‘like I should run as fast as I could for the
bathroom!’
Lynn
smiled and turned her head. She needed to keep the moment serious. Then she
looked down at her friend. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t… shouldn’t
go…’
Karen
sat upright. Her vigor surprised both of the women. ‘I have to go! Really!’ She added, ‘I feel all right now.’
‘You…
you can’t. We have to figure out what happened to you. We have to be prepared….
You have to be prepared!’
‘And
what about…?’
Karen
stood up. Lynn noticed that there was none of the unsteadiness that had gripped
the Champion only minutes earlier. Lynn watched silently as Karen replaced the
cowl and mask and pulled on her gloves. There was no doubt in her mind that
Crimson Flare had truly been restored.
‘You
have no idea how I feel.’ Karen smiled broadly as she pulled her belt and baton
into place on her hips.
‘You
have no idea how you look,’ Lynn
replied, ‘but…’
‘No
buts! I’m ready to go.’ Her whole
body shuddered, as if a bolt of strength had shot up her spine. Behind her
shining black mask, Crimson Flare’s green eyes sparkled. The Defender of
Mitropoulos smiled broadly.
Without
a backward glance, Crimson Flare pushed open the door and raced out.
Lynn
stood in the empty apartment. She was silent for a moment.
Then
she turned toward the next room where Ted’s body lay.
* * *
As
Crimson Flare sped through the streets of Mitropoulos, she realised that it was
true. There were no residual effects of whatever it was that had gripped her
when she had been bound. In fact, she felt stronger than ever.
There
were so many things about her body—her strength and her Powers—that she did not
understand. She had been a virgin until her capture and rape by the Normans.
Chan believed that her virginity contributed to her strength and power, and by
taking it away, she would be disarmed.
He
was wrong.
Then
he attempted to control her through drugs.
Again
he was wrong.
Brayfield
had tried to search her mind for an understanding of the source and nature of
her superpowers. He, too, had wanted to control them… and her.
He
had failed, too.
In
the last few hours, Fareed Gouyannou had attempted a variation on the drug
habit to achieve the same thing. The dependence on drugs had not taken hold,
and now, following a monumental orgasm, she felt better and cleaner than she
had for months.
No
one could control her powers.
Except her.
Even
though she had no idea where they had come from—they had always been there, as
she had explained to Stacy and Lynn—and she had no idea why they fell away
under the circumstances that they did, any attempt by an outsider to control
her had resulted in tragedy. Tragedy for Chan and the Normans
and Dr. Brayfield.
Now
it was Fareed Gouyannou’s turn.
She
sped into the low hills where the ganglord had set up his festival, leaping obstacles;
fairly flying back to what she was certain was a trap for her. But she must
rescue Maria.
* * *
The
McLeod-Slaughter Mansion had taken on a very different aspect since Crimson
Flare had left a few hours ago. When she had flown the place, leaving Fareed
Gouyannou at the peak of his power, it was brightly lit, a holiday mood filled
the place, with partiers speaking drunkenly and laughing loudly.
Now
it had the look of a fortress.
In
the large ballroom on the first floor, Fareed Gouyannou paced back and forth,
smiling at the firepower that had been amassed as a welcome for the return of
the Defender of Mitropoulos. But still, he felt uneasy. The initiative remained
with Crimson Flare. She would make the choices about where and when to attack.
That was not acceptable.
She
must be forced to attack, if possible at a place of his choosing. That way, he
would have all of the advantages.
He
paused for only a moment as he considered what he could do…
He
looked at Maria Blakeman. His eyes drifted to a few of his henchmen who stood casually
nearby, and he saw that their stares kept returning to the catsuited figure of
the young policewoman.
Gouyannou
pulled a communicator from his pocket. ‘Stevens!’ he said sharply.
‘Yes,
sir!’ quickly came the reply.
‘Focus
all of my resources on the library! Crimson Flare will be going there.’
Yes, sir!’
Upstairs,
Stevens began shepherding his men away from the rear of the house and toward
the grand staircase leading to the foyer. Many of these men moved slowly,
walking unevenly along the hallways, thanks to heavy drinking earlier. Even if
the heroine entered the house via a second-floor window, according to Stevens’
instructions, she would still seek to make her way to the library off the foyer
downstairs.
Then
he ran down the twenty steps to the polished marble floor that served as the
entrance to the mansion and began pulling his crew toward the single door that
opened on the library. Again, he noticed the sluggishness of these armed thugs
as they complied, not altogether willingly, with his orders.
If
it came to a battle, many of these gunmen would be of little use.
In
the ballroom, Gouyannou made a small signal to another of his capos. Maria Blakeman’s
arms were seized, and she was dragged toward the entrance of the ballroom, as
the thugs obediently followed their master. Maria resisted and watched sadly as
Tim Westbrook’s unmoving form receded from her view.
The
crime lord led the way into the library. He flicked the wall switch, and the
dim ceiling light flickered on.
Empty
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls of the dusty, unused chamber. Two
large overstuffed chairs sat near the single window. The lawn visible through
the tall window was well-lit, thanks to the spotlights that still illuminated
the house’s façade. The cover of a small grove of trees was many yards distant.
A large, heavy oaken table filled the centre of the room. Any other bric-a-brac
that might have marked the previous owner’s interests had been removed.
The
pudgy criminal chieftain looked around the room. Yes, he thought, this will do
fine!
‘Put
her there!’ he ordered, pointing at the table.
Maria’s
eyes suddenly widened as she realised Gouyannou’s intent. She stiffened, dug
her heels into the well-worn carpeting, and tried to twist and pull herself
free. But the two men who held her were strong, and her cuffed wrists did not
allow her to use her police training.
Maria
heard the men straining to control the catsuited wildcat, and she smelled their
vile, alcohol-laden breath on her face. She twisted her body violently… if she
could just get one arm, one wrist, free…
The
two thugs smashed their captive onto the table, stunning her.
‘Gouyannou’s
face was all serious now. ‘You may have your way with her, gentlemen. But make
sure that she is extremely loud in her resistance. Do not try to silence her!’
* * *
Two
of Gouyannou’s lieutenants held the policewoman’s arms. She tried to kick one
of them with the sharp heel of her boot, but struck only a glancing blow. He
shouted more in surprise than in pain, and in retaliation he yanked upward on
her arm.
A
third man, this one a little more hung over than his fellows, stepped between them,
behind the writhing girl, and slowly pulled down the zipper on her catsuit. As
the tanned flesh of her shoulders and back were exposed, he smiled and stopped
to admire.
‘This
is one sexy bitch!’ he said loudly, his speech still slurred.
‘You’ll
get your turn!’ one of the others replied impatiently.
He
continued to pull at the metal fastener. When it reached the small of her back,
he reached his other hand out to caress drunkenly the smooth, flawless skin.
Maria
reacted immediately to his touch. ‘Get your hands off me!’ she yelped.
The
thug smiled broadly, showing rows of yellowing teeth. ‘We have to teach this
little lady some manners,’ he said. ‘We should teach her to respect us!’
He
pulled the zipper to the base of her spine, and then dipped his hand inside the
shiny leather, gripping the policewoman’s perfectly round cheek.
This
time, Maria was more successful in her counterattack. With all the force she
could muster, she brought her foot up behind her, directly between the
offender’s legs. His eyes went wide and he howled loudly in pain. The thug
dropped to the floor like a stone, slowly curling into a fetal ball.
‘You
cunt!’ one of the men holding Maria shouted. He dropped his grip on her arm,
turned the girl and sent his fist viciously at her jaw.
Her
head spun wildly on her shoulders and her body was torn from the grip of the
other of Gouyannou’s lieutenants. Blindly, she stumbled across the open floor,
finally stopping when her hips struck the large table.
Another
of the thugs quickly walked up behind her and drove his fist into her
now-exposed back.
The
shock of the kidney punch curved Maria’s body into a shiny black arc. She stood
on the very tips of her toes, her body curved aesthetically into a bow. The cry
that emerged from her throat was high-pitched and very short, cut off when she
crumpled to the floor.
Gouyannou’s
men now encircled the quivering policewoman, some smiling, some
laughing softly. The lieutenant who had been floored stumbled to his feet and
moved directly over the helpless woman. As he kicked her—hard—in the midriff,
he shouted, Cunt!’
Maria
tightened herself into a ball, but he did not attack her further. Rather, he
and one other thug roughly seized her arms and yanked her to her feet. The
other capos stepped in front of the trapped beauty and smiled.
‘You
will learn respect, bitch!’ one said. ‘But Mr. Gouyannou says you have to be
loud.’
‘So
you wanted to join the police, eh? Did you study this at the police academy?’ He roughly tore the shiny material
from her shoulders and arms. ‘You’re not gonna stop us from doing what we
want!’
Maria
tried to focus her mind on Crimson Flare. Crimson Flare, who was, she knew,
coming to rescue her—coming now! The
Darling of Mitropoulos, who was the reason she had become a policewoman, would have
to rescue her from these violent maniacs.
* * *
One
of the capos stood directly in front of the naked policewoman. Maria retained
her defiant aspect, but she felt her heart pounding in her chest. She was
sweating profusely; her throat was as dry as sandpaper. And when she looked
into the man’s eyes, she saw only his lust.
He
was evidently trying to smile, but his scarred face could only produce a
loathsome sneer. His nose had been broken, probably several times, and the
trenches left by the wounds of battles he had fought for Gouyannou ripped the
landscape of his countenance. Evidently high-ranking in the Gouyannou
organisation, this thug was to be the first.
Maria
was not bound now, for there were a half-a-dozen others standing in the shadows
around the room, hard men who would ensure that any resistance she offered
would be futile. They were likely not needed in any case because her body still
ached from the pounding that Gouyannou’s thugs had administered.
‘The
boss wants you to scream, girlie!’
He
roughly grabbed her hair and viciously yanked her head to the side.
She
screamed.
He
led her across the room to the table, still holding her by the hair. He bent
her body backwards over the smooth, polished surface, where he could admire the
tautness of her muscles and the smooth, flawless flesh. However, he didn’t
admire her body for long.
He
released her for but a moment, while he quickly removed his pants and briefs.
As he stood before her again, he licked his lips in anticipation. Maria felt
him lift her easily, and drop her onto her back. The polished oak was cold.
He
slipped onto the table and knelt between the girl’s spread legs. ‘I’m going to
enjoy this,’ he whispered harshly. ‘But you aren’t!’
He
reached forward and thrust his meaty fist deep into her dark hair to savagely
wrench the girl’s head. Again, she cried out. ‘That’s good,’ the thug said
softly, ‘keep doing that.’ He yanked again.
His
organ stiffened. On his knees, the thug’s body loomed above the much smaller
woman; one hand was wrapped in her hair; he moved the other to her shoulder, so
that thumb and index finger could feel the softness of her neck. That strange
softness stimulated him still more. Most of the women he had known had not felt
like this.
He
looked at the eyes of the captive girl and he saw fear. That was good. But, as
he looked deeper, he saw something else.
Hate.
That was good, too.
He
pulled on her hair again; she yelped again. This time he pinched his thumb and
forefinger on her soft and vulnerable throat.
She
screeched.
He
smiled.
The
fear and hate only stimulated him more. He felt his prick harden as the first
tears of pain flickered in her eyes. He rose up from his elbows and rested on
his knees alone; he released her hair, and enclosed her breast within his grasp.
His hand ripped at the mammary like it was a claw and then he clamped his grip
tightly on it.
She
screamed in pain.
He
hardened even more.
The
thug pressed his knee forward, against her sex. Panic appeared for the first
time in Maria’s eyes; her breathing became quick and harsh. Good! he
thought.
He
squeezed the huge fist he had clamped on the round, petite breast of the
policewoman, squeezed as hard as he could. She shrieked in agony. ‘NOOOH!’ she
wailed.
He
felt as if his sack would burst.
Releasing
her breast, the thug grabbed the woman like she was a child’s doll. She felt
herself lifted almost bodily from the table. Too weak to resist the big man who
now controlled her, Maria’s dazzling form was moved to the other end of the
table, where she was slammed bodily into the platform. The policewoman could
not resist as her chest and shoulders crashed into the polished oak. Then, before
she realised it, the thug had lifted her perfectly curved ass, exposing her
sex.
The
men scattered around the library watched with awe. A few now felt themselves begin to respond to the policewoman’s dazzling
body.
Then
the capo thrust himself deep into his captive. Again, the girl screeched her
pain.
*
* *
A
half dozen of Gouyannou’s lieutenants watched silently—many of them
smiling--from the shadows around the library. Each knew he would have his turn
with this prisoner. All of them gazed admiringly at her body, a body that
seemed flawless: silken skin stretched tautly over powerful muscles; the curves
of her body emitting a promise of a rapturous joining; gloriously beautiful features—her
eyes so dark as to be almost black, lips shaped perfectly for kissing,
pouting—and screaming; the perfectly round mounds of her breasts; a flat
stomach and round hips inviting any man who was a Man to plunge deeply into
her; and her sex, hidden from all who watched, the prize awaiting them all.
And
now, into this spectacle of female perfection and the male’s blind animal
impulse, came a soundtrack. So odd, and yet so perfect to
accompany the raptures of these upper-echelon gang lords and the degradation of
the policewoman.
Gouyannou
piped the glorious sounds of Gounod’s St.
Cecilia Mass throughout the mansion.
* * *
The
capo pressed his prick deep into the captive policewoman. He gazed down on the
silken flesh of her back, curving smoothly away from him. Focused on the Woman,
the soundtrack provided by Gouyannou made no impression on this thug. He
watched as she slowly—painfully, almost—pushed herself up from the table. He
smiled inwardly as she twisted her body, trying to pull her head around so that
she could look at him. To what end? he thought
briefly—very briefly. What would she do? What could she do? Would she fight him? Would she arrest him?
After
all, she was only a Woman.
The
thug returned to his pleasure. He felt the explosion swelling within him. He
gritted his teeth as he resisted. No, this must not be like so many others.
This one must last.
Gouyannou
had ordered that she must scream.
He
must make her scream.
* * *
Maria
twisted her neck and head so that she looked back at Gouyannou’s man who was
mounted behind her. The pain of his entry had not subsided, but had become a
part of the universe of pain that embraced her, a universe that existed in
bizarre counterpoint to the music she heard, only occasionally, wafting about
the room. She saw his teeth gritted and his brown eyes wide and blazing, like
they were on fire. His scarred face had become a mask worthy of a horror film
by Rick Baker. His powerful hands held her, pulling her to him, driving him
even deeper into her.
She
was crying now. No longer able to make out any details in the room, she turned
and pulled her head inward, dropping her shoulders to the table. The pain of
his penetration reached up her spine, spread outward from her sex, until it
embraced her whole body.
Suddenly,
the thug’s meaty fist grabbed her hair from behind and he viciously yanked her
head upward. He reached at her chest and clamped the other paw onto one of her
perfect breasts, crushing it with all his strength, his fingernails eating into
the soft flesh.
Her
scream was loud and long. As it ended, Maria felt his heavy, hot breath on her
back. He continued to mash her breast with one hand, but the other now moved
from her hair to her throat, as his fingers played over her chin and probed her
lips.
He
thrust again, driving his manhood just a little deeper into her dry, resisting
sex. His breath caught, as he swallowed, almost gagging on the approaching
ecstasy. Another low scream rumbled in her throat. Weakly, Maria reached up,
trying with one hand to pull his fingers from her mouth.
She
knew that she was too weak to resist. Too weak to pull his hand from her
breast; too weak to free her mouth from the other hand; too weak to even wriggle
her captive body free from him. Even with her police training, Maria could not
escape this moment.
The
thug thrust again, banging his hips against her ass, making her whole body
shudder. Tears welled up in Maria’s eyes, and then rolled down her face.
No!
He
hammered her again, driving his prick inward and upward, pushing himself to
fulfillment.
No!
Again
he drove deeper into her. He was rock-hard now.
‘NOOOHH’ she screamed, loud
and long.
His
body exploded with rapture.
‘GOD! NO! NO!’ she shouted. Again
and again, she screamed, ‘No! No! No!’
* * *
Outside
the McLeod-Slaughter mansion, Mitropoulos’ greatest Defender, Crimson Flare,
stood in the trees across the road. She heard the policewoman’s screams that
were accompanied by Gounod’s masterful music. Her eyes hardened as she realised
that her friend was being used as bait—bait to draw in the heroine, to make her
take a rash action… to allow Gouyannou and his criminal enterprise to capture
her… and doom the city to his control.
She
winced as Maria screamed again.
She
began to move.
* * *
Her
rapist was exultant. His whole body seemed to be lifted by what probably passed
for a smile on that scored face. When he finally came, it was like an
explosion. He looked up to the high ceiling of the library and released a
guttural roar, as his pent-up passion rushed from him; his manhood likewise
burst from him as his rock-hard prick finally responded to the powerful
sensations that had gripped it from its sensitive tip to his base, held firmly
in the dry and unyielding canal of his victim; and Maria Blakeman cried out her
pain and humiliation.
As
he pulled himself from her, his cock rapidly declined to flaccidity.
When
he released his grip on Maria’s hips, they did not fall to the tabletop, but
rather they stood still, remaining high, supported on her knees. In this posture,
this captive, humbled Woman was made further laughable at the hands of the gang
of toughs.
The
capo slowly regained his senses and he slipped from the table, breathing
heavily. Already, another gang boss had stepped forward from the shadows,
rushing his partner from center stage. ‘It’s my turn,’ he said.
As
the second brute pulled off his pants and boxers, it was hard not to notice
that he was already hard. His cock was huge, and from the shadowed walls around
the library’s open space a murmur arose.
‘It
looks like he’s hiding a rabbit in his package!’ And harsh laughter flowed
around the room.
He
heartily slapped the elevated rear of the whimpering policewoman as he settled
in behind her.
The
perfect curvature of Maria’s hips and the smooth musculature of her thighs
hovered before him, and he felt the tip of his prick tingle. Oh, no, he thought to himself. Oh, no. I can’t cum all over her back. I
can’t let loose until…
He
felt his body shudder.
Oh, god! No!
With
a huge mental effort he regained control over his body, but the struggle showed
in the tenseness that gripped him from his shoulders and neck all the way to
his toes, which arched backward and upward.
He
unceremoniously grabbed Maria, pulling her--hard--to
him. Maria groaned loudly, but her groan became a shriek as he plunged his huge
prick into her.
Her
eyes widened as the pain was renewed. Inside her, she felt a shock race up her
spine. Behind her, the well-endowed ganglord began to saw his prick, slowly,
inside her aching pussy. Involuntarily, her moisture began to wrap around the
massive cock, easing its motion, alleviating some of her agony.
But,
even as the physical torture diminished, the indignity of being raped before an
audience of Gouyannou’s capos remained before her eyes.
The
criminal who now ravished her whooooped!
like a cowboy riding a bronco and he again loudly
slapped her hip. He moved wildly up-and-down behind Maria, pulling her hips
with him, adding a comic element to the policewoman’s tragedy.
* * *
Crimson
Flare climbed easily onto the roof of the McLeod-Slaughter mansion. As she did
so, she realised that she had never felt so fit, so strong. It was this level
of strength, these reserves of power that Stacy had imagined for her. Stacy,
whose hand could be seen in every element of Crimson Flare—her costume, her
actions and activities, her goals—had dreamed of Karen as a powerful
Superheroine, who would free Mitropoulos from the grip of the gangs and serve
as a role model for all its citizens, particularly its
Women. Stacy had dedicated the fortune she had inherited from her parents to
create Crimson Flare. She had died trying to preserve that work. Now the moment
she had dreamed of had arrived: The destruction of the gangs.
She
pulled the baton from its holster and, with a smooth whip of her wrist, felt it
extend to its full length.
At that same moment,
she heard Maria scream again. This time, the cry was weaker.
She stepped as quietly as she could
across the roof, toward the large skylight above the foyer.
End
of Chapter Nine
Comments, questions, suggestions
welcome: contact the author at marat1793@comcast.net