Stone The Crows


Tom Bishop knows something is happening. But when The Horror begins, it will be too late for everyone else.

The crows outside Bishop’s flat have destroyed the morning birdsong. A vicious, aggressive black cloud of razor-sharp beaks and talons begin to taunt then attack him, a stark warning that the delicate fabric of daily life in the commonsense world is about to be altered forever.

The woman, the Japanese assassin, is pursuing him through the snaking dark streets of London. No matter how hard he tries to shake her off, she is always there waiting for him like a spectre. Is she some kind of shape-shifter morphing into familiar surroundings, lulling him into some false sense of security before she attacks him again? What does she want? Why him? But she is only a small fragment of this apocalyptic puzzle.

He knew they existed. The Inorganics. Flickering around him, as if on the extreme border of his consciousness, corporeally invisible, Bishop felt their presence as strongly as any worldly creature. It was as if energy had seeped into his existence and acquired a predatory soul. He knew some Inorganics could be harmful, but through his training he could defend himself  so far.

Roulla Mavromati, the enigmatic woman he meets one day on the train, craves his knowledge. But these will not be the lessons found in any university surrounded by the leafy comfort of academia. She will be pushed to the very edge of pleasure and pain to discover they spring from the same source. As her thirst for Heaven and Hell intensifies, Bishop has to find new extremes where the boundaries of flesh and consciousness dissolve. Roulla possesses a power Bishop has never encountered in any woman he has known. Unleashed, the potential could be devastating. As Roulla excels in her studies, Tom Bishop realises this is the woman he was always destined to meet and that these are not merely games of master and slave but a frightening prelude of what is to come.

Then it begins

It is during one of the many conversations with another resident of the house, his philosophical sparring partner, the Red Yank, an out-of-work actor with a passion for classical music, pipes and women. His flat is cluttered with chaotic displays of his theatre and film work, and he shares it with the love of his life, a politically incorrect parrot called Louie.

At first it seems like a simple car accident in the street outside with the two drivers in an angry stand off  maybe an exchange of blame, then insurance details? An axe swings, bullets spray from a gun and a man lies dying on the floor. A hate-fuelled mob floods the neighbourhood charged with insanity and chaos as Bishop and the Red Yank unbelievingly crane their heads out of the window to watch as the police, outnumbered and helpless, disappear beneath a tidal wave of blood and anarchy. It could be the beginnings of a long overdue revolution. But this is what Bishop has always known. The Horror had begun.

The landscape has dramatically changed overnight. Dismembered corpses hang from trees, the dead litter the streets as the crows and rats feast on the banquet. At first it seems that the only living creatures are the crows. Patrolled by armed guards, huge razor wire pens have been constructed. Inside, a new breed of animal is being broken in and conditioned to obey their new masters. Naked and dehumanised, the filthy rich, the ex-rulers of the people and the upper echelon, have become the primary fuel as they pull the new order around in makeshift chariots. Whipped into a pulverising subservience, these scarred and tattered people scream out for a system that has crumbled into the bloody filth and human detritus of stinking London streets.

Animals with reborn primal savagery hunt in packs, tearing apart anything in their path and adding to the growing carnage. The Horror is engulfing everything, not just people. The earth is in revolt.

Tom Bishop and the Red Yank find to their amazement they can walk around without drawing attention to themselves while watching the blasphemy of deconstructed humanity at their leisure. But the crows see them. The crows always see them, and the crows haven’t forgotten.

Then Bishop hears The Voice and learns why things are the way they are. Why they always will be. Why The Horror has to exist.


4. Chapter Four




It was a complete surprise, and her aim was precise.  As they entered the front door, she wheeled and punched him in the solar plexus as hard as she could.  He immediately doubled over, and she grabbed his neck in a lock.  She intended to wrestle him to the floor and subdue him with her knee to his groin, but he stopped her right there.  He was winded but kept his balance, put both arms around her waist and lifted her off the ground.  Catching sight of a sofa out of the corner of his eye, he carried her over and threw her on her back.  At the same time he tried to wrench his neck free of the lock.  But she was stronger than he thought.  So he prised off her fingers, one by one.  As her grip loosened, he grabbed one of her hands with both of his and twisted it into a wrist lock.  Simultaneously she cried out and seized a handful of his blond hair with her left hand.  As he put pressure on her wrist, she pulled hard with her handful of hair.

For a moment they stopped, breathing heavily.  It was a Mexican stand-off.


Tactically, Tom Bishop was in the slightly weaker position.  Because he had no intention of breaking her arm, if push came to shove.  On the other hand, she probably wouldn’t pull out his hair.  And she was as uncertain as he was.  It was down to whoever could bear the most pain.  But he had to be very careful with the wrist.  It was a tricky hold, and he had known arm bones to break without warning.  So he applied the pressure slowly and evenly.  He found himself wincing as she twisted the hand holding his hair, but he bit his lower lip and refused to cry out.

She reached her limit a few seconds before he did.  She gasped, then screamed with the full force of her lungs, letting go of his hair.  He stood up slowly in triumph, his hair standing on end, still holding her bent wrist with both hands.  Slowly and carefully he turned the wrist.  Roulla Mavromati rolled off the sofa and onto the floor with a thud.  Her arm was forced straight behind her, as her face pushed into the carpet. 


Bishop looked around the room as he held her twisted hand firmly.  A small table stood beside the sofa.  Carefully he adjusted his grip so he could hold her with one hand as he leaned over to open the top drawer.  Nothing.  Pens, pads of paper, paperclips, detritus.  In the bottom drawer, though, was a tasty-looking roll of packing tape.  He grabbed it with his free hand and searched for the end with his teeth.

“You haven’t got me yet, you bastard.”  Her voice was muffled by the carpet.  “You have to let me go some time.” 


The shriek of the tape being pulled back was his reply.  But he knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

“Put your other wrist on top of the one I’m holding,” he said through the teeth holding the tape.


“Fuck you, English bastard.  I’ll see you in hell!”

“Do it now or I’ll break your wrist,” he bluffed.  Carefully he increased the pressure.


She screamed again, and as she screamed she beat her feet on the floor and abruptly clasped her free wrist to her trapped one.  He lurched forward with his head and stuck the end of the tape to her left wrist with his mouth.  Then using his free hand, he wound the tape slowly around.  One layer.  Two.  Three.  Four.  He risked letting go of the wrist lock.  She bucked and shrieked as she tried to twist her hands from behind her.  The tape held.  He grasped a handful of her hair and pulled her head up from the floor sharply before placing his face close to hers.

“You’ve lost it, you Greek slapper.  I want you to sit up now.  Turn over slowly and sit up.”


Without a word she rolled over.  Then suddenly she lashed out with her foot, aiming for his crotch.  He anticipated her attack, and her black boot was trapped easily between his thighs.  With her hair he pulled her into a sitting position, reached back and grabbed the roll of tape.  She was wearing a red and yellow sweater.  He yanked at the tape so her arms were forced up her back and brought the roll over her shoulder, down to her waist, around her waist once, then twice, back over her other shoulder, around her wrists, around her chest underneath her bosom.  Finally the tore the tape with his teeth and pushed her backwards before turning around and sitting on her thighs.  He pulled off her boots and slowly, carefully wrapped her ankles with tape.  All he heard behind him was heavy breathing.

Bishop stood up and brushed himself before surveying his handiwork.  He shook his head.  It was the messiest tie he had ever made, but she wasn’t going anywhere.  She was by far the strongest woman he had grappled with.  As he gazed down at her, she locked her eyes with his and spat at him.  He laughed and walked easily back out the open front door.  He pulled his hold-all from the back seat of her Jeep SUV and carried it back to the house.  It was very heavy and landed with a thud beside Roulla Mavromati’s head.  She watched as he squatted down to open it, but she didn’t speak.  Her chest was rising and falling, and her brow was beaded with sweat.


Bishop didn’t say anything either.  Sometimes speech is not necessary.  They both knew what was going to happen now.  She would be full of fear and anticipation.  She knew what but not how.  The possibilities tingled through her with spiralling electric voltage.

He pulled out a 18-inch tawse, stood up and shoved the bag towards the sofa with his foot.  The tawse had been specially handmade to his specifications.  It was leather, one and a half inches wide and a half inch thick.  It was already heavy, but Bishop had it weighted in one end with a few lead shot.  He now slapped this end against the palm of his hand as he looked down at his prey with a little grin on his face.


Wordlessly she tried to fight him as he rolled her over on her stomach.  He had to put down the tawse and use both hands.  She wore the same wool skirt she was wearing when they met.  He yanked it up to her waist with a single strong movement.  Her bottom was bare.  Then he knelt and sat on her ankles.

He whispered to her.  “You have to beg me with slobber before I stop…”


“Never.”  Her voice was a whisper, too, but it was strong.

“Because I’m going to tenderise your meat.”  This time he spoke at full volume.


He hit her bottom with the tawse, then again and again in a steady, remorseless rhythm as he slowly increased the height of the swing and the force of the blow.  Colour rose in her buttocks.  First it was pink-and-white, then pink.  Finally it was red and beginning to look angry.  Dark welts were beginning to form.

With the initial blow her body tensed into trembling rigidity.  Then she began trying to buck him off, heaving herself from side to side as she struggled against her taped wrists and the weight of his body on her ankles.  But she could not escape the relentless beat of the heavy leather tawse.  It was awful.  The jolts carried all the way through her pelvis, going right through the bone and into the soft tissues of her bowels and uterus.  She felt it in her hip sockets, and the jarring thunder pulsed into her knee joints, past them, down her legs to her ankles which were held firmly in his crotch.  It made her spine throb, in the vertebra and in the spinal cord itself.  Slowly a fiery curtain of pain drew across the entire horizon of her consciousness.


That’s when she began to scream.  As she screamed her body went limp.  It gave up the struggle.  The beating didn’t stop.  It became heavier, harder.  She screamed louder, and this time there were words.  She didn’t know what words they were, because the sheet of red pain was inhospitable to words as well as thoughts.

Suddenly the pain ebbed as a kind of grace spread through her whole body.  Her screams became a long, continuous moan.  She raised a little out of her body and saw through half-lidded eyes her lifeless form lying on the floor as it continued to be beaten by the Englishman.  The red mist of pain lifted to reveal a world of bright, shining gilt and steel and chrome.  It was – she knew – a world of submission.  That’s when the tears came.  They were not tears of pain but hot tears of joy and hope.  She wept.


The beating stopped because there was no point in going further with it.  Roulla Mavromati could not move, not even to open her eyelids.  She just waited.  There was nothing else to do.  She heard him rustling in his hold-all, and then she felt his finger searching the cleavage between her buttocks.  There was no resistance in her as the finger probed into the opening of her anus, turning as it pushed deeper and deeper.  He was smearing her rectum with lubricating jelly, lots of it.  She waited again in silence before she felt something cold and blunt and large pushing into her.  Her heart began to flutter.  Her eyelids opened like a set of blinds.  What was he putting inside her?  Her anus was stretching and stretching and stretching...!  She squeezed her eyes shut as, instinctively, she rolled on her side and drew her knees up into her bosom to try and accommodate him.  Whatever it was, was too big!  It wouldn’t fit!  It would tear her!

On the other hand his touch was strong.  He knew what he was doing.  He was no amateur.  The butt plug moved in a little, then he would retreat and put more lubricant on it before pushing slowly in again.  She was already in a dazed state and tried to comply with his demands by relaxing her sphincter muscles.

It was enormous, bigger than anything she had up her before.  The Englishman worked patiently for over twenty minutes to get the thing all the way in.  The final inch or two zipped in almost unexpectedly as her anus slid down and gripped the smaller neck of the plug.  She felt the weight inside her.  It was heavy, like a big turd.  Her instinct was to try and expel it, but she knew it was impossible.  The weight of it made her even weaker.  She had no strength at all.  The man was cutting the tape round her wrists and ankles, but she couldn’t fight him even if she found the will somewhere.  He took off all her clothes, and she lay naked on the carpet.  Things dropped on the floor near her head.

“Put them on.”  The voice above her was quiet, assured.


She stood before him with her eyes cast down.  She wore locked ankle and wrist cuffs, a studded collar and a belt with several D-rings, all made of thick but supple leather.  A length of chain between her ankles acted as a hobble.  She could walk almost normally but couldn’t climb, run or stride.


Tom Bishop leaned back into the sofa with his feet on a stool.  He held a five foot coach whip in his hand.

“I don’t really want to play this game all weekend,” he said softly.  “But I don’t trust you at all.  What bothers me is that I can’t get an internal fix on you yet.  You sold me on the passion.  You can’t disguise that, no matter who you are.  And your fire.  I like that…”


“Thank you.”  Her voice was tiny, like a child’s.

“But I can’t rid myself of a very, very small but nagging suspicion that you might be from the same stable as the Japanese woman.”


“What Japanese woman?”  She looked confused.

“These are terrifying times.”


“What are you saying?  I don’t understand.”

He sighed as he flexed the whip.  “If you’re genuine, Roulla, you’ll stay confused.  It’ll just be part of the game, right?”

She shook her head.  Her face held a pained expression.  “I’m sorry.  I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The whip whistled suddenly, and the end wrapped itself halfway around her left thigh.  It caught her off guard, and the pain was as sharp as a cut from a Stanley knife.


“You only need to see what it is necessary to see,” he said calmly.  “I don’t want you pushing at me for answers to things you know nothing about.  Ask me once when you don’t understand something.  If the answer is not clear, you just have to assume you are a stupid bint without the necessary intelligence to follow me.”

“I apologise.”


“Due to my lack of trust in you, I’m going to keep you shackled the whole time we’re together here.  Even if we go out for a walk in the evening, you’ll be hobbled.  You have no choice in the matter.  I have decided.”

There was a silence.  She bit her lip.  “I hope…I can soon convince you…to trust me.”


“I haven’t finished with you today.  Only just started.  The very first thing I want to do is to get you clean.”

“Clean?”  A flash of anger appeared in her eyes as she raised them from his fascinating boots.

The whip flicked sharply touching her hip and buttocks.  The sudden pain caused an involuntary arch to her back as she cried out.

“You heard me, stupid,” he replied languidly.  “You stink of cheap perfume.  Your skin is sticky, oily.  And you haven't douched properly, and your arse is dirty.  I’m going to teach you how.  Give you a good scrub.  And I’ll change your butt plug to something a little bigger.”


Bigger?”  Her voice was a frightened, stressed whimper.

He grinned, delighted.  “That’s just a baby one.  I’ve got something here you’ll have to sit on to get it in.”


Her head shook while he was still speaking.  “No…no, I can’t…I’m sorry…I just….can’t.

He kicked the footstool aside and stood up with the whip.  Then he struck her, first across the front, then the back.  He hit her again and again as she screamed and flailed with her arms to try and ward off the blows.  She moved backwards away from him, desperately trying to escape.  Her streaked blonde hair tangled as she shook her head from side to side.  Instinctively she tried to run away from him but fell sprawling onto the floor as the hobble truncated her lunge.  She snaked across the carpet, looking for shelter from the blows.  But the pain was sharp, not like the tawse at all.  It was an implement made for a horse, and she felt more and more like an animal as she desperately tried to evade him.  She already knew him well enough to know he was relentless.  He would break her.  He had no pity.  She had no choice…

That single idea gave her grace again.  The thought that she had no choice exploded in her loins.  It filled her with desire to be treated more like a dog, to go down further into the unknown, deeper, where she had not been before.  She whirled on the floor.  Instead of fleeing, she welcomed the sting of the whip, crawling on her belly.  His boots.  Her lips were dry.  Her belly burned.  She was seeking his boots.  She opened her mouth…

“No!” he said abruptly and sternly.  “No.  Don’t put your filthy tongue on my boots until I’ve washed it with soap…”

* * *

It was a tidy, rambling farmhouse.  The feeling was very positive when Bishop first saw it from the road as they approached it after the trip from London.  They entered the gate, and he noticed that when she got out of the Jeep to close it, she dragged the chain back around the post and locked it.  These little ambiguities worried him.  Was she locking the gate to keep him in?  Or was she keeping others out?


The journey from London, though, was relaxed.  They talked.  She bought some sandwiches and pickles from a shop in a small town when they stopped for petrol.  They ate them sitting on a big sheepskin Roulla kept in the back of the Jeep.  She parked and dragged the skin out.  Bishop carried the sandwiches.  It was quite cool but not freezing cold.  The ground was damp, but the sheep’s wool was warm on their skin when they sat down.  She leaned back against him as she ate, and he liked the feel of her body.  Touch sometimes told him more than the rest of the senses combined.

Yet…yet.  The doubt persisted.  She was a good-looking woman with a really nice bottom.  Not classically beautiful, though.  Her shoulders were a little too angular, and he didn’t like the way she coloured her hair.  It didn’t matter, because her personality was so powerful.  She was a woman who knew what she was doing.  It was a warning as much as a lure.  There was something in the world that could be called female strategy.  It was so clever and devilish that it sometimes scared the hell out of him.  It was also simple, which gave it the illusion of purity.  It is a mistake to call this strategy passive, just because it happens to be feminine.  It is a particularly male misunderstanding of what active and passive really mean.  In fact the misunderstanding itself is a projection of the female strategy.  It is encouraged in order to give the male a distorted sense of himself as the only active partner.  However, it is necessary for a lure to radiate more energy than its target because the target must be drawn over a distance while the target’s rational assessment activity is suppressed.  It is also a mistake to view the lure as a success only when sexual activity takes place.  The uses of a lure are multi-dimensional, and perception often depends on the distance and plane of the lure.  Female sexual strategy – above all other things – seeks control.  Not just control of its target but control of its environment.  This isn’t a damnable thing to say about a lure.  Instead, it is applause for the cleverness of the strategy.  As it should be, as it has to be.  The success of female strategy relies as much (or more) on rejection as acceptance.  For instance the lure can be turned on or off.  The energy may be raised or lowered with other variations.  Therefore it is quite useful for the lure to be left on subsequent to rejection of a target, as this conveniently further entraps him with confusion or humiliation – for the benefit of others.  Most importantly, the target continues to be defined in terms of the lure and therefore remains partly within its control.


Tom Bishop sighed as he stood looking at the farmhouse from the driveway.  He decided to walk down the little dirt road while Roulla drove into one of the outlying buildings which had been converted to a garage.  As he watched her get out of the Jeep with her overnight bag he had to admit he was full of admiration for her artistry in developing the lure in such a bold and creative way.  So far, her moves were efficiently designed for him.  No other sequence of events would have enticed him to come away with her for a weekend at her relatively isolated farm.

He could see another farm – apparently a working one – further up the hillside, but trees obscured the view once you were close to the buildings.  They passed several on the winding narrow road they took when they left the A386 after Tavistock.  But for all intents and purposes they were isolated.


It was more like the diabolical Oriental game of Go than something more ordinary like chess.  Go is quite simply based on devouring territory, and it is full of philosophical ironies.  As you gobble territory yourself, your own territory is simultaneously being consumed by your opponent.

Roulla Mavromati could easily be one of them.  They were getting more devilishly devious, and they would certainly know that, for him, a woman was the natural lure.  So much could be easily hidden in the scented folds of that soft and appealing flesh.  After the failure of their Japanese agent, maybe they wanted to Bring Him Back Alive.  So they sent a Greek, the nearest you could get to a human life force.  He played his moves carefully, snapping his stones onto the Go board decisively, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.  Even though he didn’t.


Despite her appeal to be dominated, he knew it was an elaborate part of the lure.  Oh, no doubt she was also intensely stimulated by a creative kind of sex which paralleled the real political and economic landscape.  In that respect she was the genuine article alright.  Before he ever touched her he could feel the pulsation as her inner harmonies tensed and resolved with dominance and submission.  Like yin and yang the two concepts were inseparable energies, realistically impossible to pick apart.  She was expectant and excited, fearful and exhilarated, ready at the same time to advance and retreat.  But female was female.  First-most and foremost.  Even while he was asked to dominate her, she would be plotting his domination on another level.  It was an image of the consumer being consumed.  If he succeeded in bringing her to the depths of submission, her grip would be stronger and stronger.  That was part of the danger.  The master is steadily enslaved by his existential definition.  In other words, if Mavromati was as good as he thought she would be – or better – he would find it increasingly difficult not to continue to see her.  And if he continued to see her, the natural female strategy would defeat him in the end – even if he won every round.  The “dominant” male is entrapped by constant and calculated levels of female submission.  Of course this calculation is almost never rationalistic.  It is instinctual, emotional, even spiritual.  This strategy is a structural part of the being of the female.

Bishop shook his head as he breathed in the pleasant, wonderful, invigorating country air.  Every cell of his body glowed.  And as he turned towards her after she took her overnight bag into the farmhouse, she was smiling and radiant.  His loins tingled vibrantly, but his eyes were drawn by a flicker of movement to the rank of chimneys sitting atop the roof of the farm.  A large magpie had just landed, and he was certain the yellow eye now tracked him.


“Do you like it?”  She was smiling.  “You like my place?  My farm?”

Dakadakadakadakadakadaka….  The magpie flew directly over them with a rattling scream, and Bishop instinctively stepped aside to avoid the shadow of the bird.


She put her hands on his shoulders.  “Are you alright?”

“Don’t put your hands on me like you own me,” he said sharply.


A flicker of anger as she snatched away her hands.  “Fuck you, then.  Sometimes you are like a…reptile.  No warmth, nothing.”

He stood his ground as she pulled away, then relaxed into a smile.  “It’s a great place, Roulla.  Fantastic, beautiful.  I’ve dreamed of a place like this.  Or maybe I dreamed of this place.”


Her manner changed a little with the praise.  “It’s good you like it.  I thought you would.  It’s a nice place for…play.  For you and me.  You know.”

“Perfect,” he agreed.  “We can play outside.  Even if it’s raining.  No prying eyes.  Except for the crows.”

“The crows?”  She was puzzled.

He watched her reaction very carefully.


“You are worried about the crows?”  Suddenly she laughed.  “You are insane.  Unpredictable.  I like that.  Now maybe we’ll see how tough you are.  Couldn’t be that tough if you are worried about a few harmless crows.”

It was impossible.  Either she was a very, very good enemy who might well kill him this weekend, or she was a woman of unique spirit.  Fuck it, he decided.  It was worth the gamble.

* * *

It was a large bathroom, and that was very good fortune.  There was a huge old-style bathtub with four large claws for feet, and it stood on its own towards the centre of the room.  The taps were old, worn chrome.  The shower handset was old, too, but the water was soft.  It worked well.  The spray was powerful.

Roulla Mavromati thrashed as wildly as her bondage would allow.  Her wrists were fixed behind her, and her ankles were now locked together.  Otherwise she was naked, lying on her back in the bottom of the bath.  She was physically protesting because Tom Bishop held her by her hair as he squirted half a tube of toothpaste into her mouth.  Then he forced a bottle brush between her lips and used it to scrub the inside of her cheeks, her teeth, hard and soft palates.  He was choking her, making her gag and splutter, but she had no alternative because the hand in her hair held her head painfully steady.  The bathtub was large, but the wet porcelain made the surface slippery.

It was without precedent.  She was being grossly humiliated, having her mouth harshly cleaned when it had never, ever been dirty!  But he was determined and relentless.  He stopped for a moment.  She couldn’t see because her eyes were squeezed together against foaming toothpaste, but she heard him unscrewing the nozzle from the handset.  Next she was shocked by the rush of cold water, because he immediately pushed the tube into her mouth.  The icy water went everywhere, chilling her whole body.  She tried kicking herself out of the bath, but he grabbed her hair again, forcing her head down in the drain.  Finally he stopped and slowly replaced the handset by screwing the tube into it.

“Your mouth is clean now,” he said quietly.  “I don’t want you eating before morning or I’ll do it again.”

She was almost in tears as he turned on the water again.  This time he adjusted the two taps.  The water was hot, just bearable.  Using a large fresh bar of soap, he lathered up her face before using the back brush on it.  Her nose, her cheeks, ears, neck, forehead – all were scrubbed as she squealed and howled at the rawness of the brush on her skin.  Then the brush was on her chest.  He paid close attention to her breasts and stretched each one by its nipple as he roughly scrubbed it with the lathered brush.  By now she had stopped fighting him so much.  He was going to do what he was going to do.  Nothing she could say would change him from his course.  Her belly was being brushed, her pubic triangle.  He flipped her onto her belly, brushed her back, then flipped her over again.  She felt like a carcass on a slab.  He grabbed her feet, quickly released the padlock and dragged one of her legs over the bath to be anchored by a chain attached to one of the bath claws.  The other leg was then secured as well, and she was now lying in the bath with her thighs akimbo.  She fought to open her eyes against the sting of her wet hair and particles of soap.


He was standing beside the bath, naked now, and soaping up his own hand, wrist and forearm.  His movements were slow and sensual, as if he were enjoying each slippery moment.  He walked to the basin, fetched a tube of lubricant, twisted off the lid and leaned over to push the top of the tube into her vagina.  The remainder he squirted onto his soapy hand and wrist.

“And now,” he hissed as he leaned over her, “the serpent hand.”


He formed the fingertips of his hand into a point and folded his thumb underneath into the palm.  When she realised what he planned to do, her face paled and a single negative monotone rose in her throat.  Her eyes widened in fear.

With his left hand he grabbed a fistful of her pubic hair to hold her steady in place.  He looked up and grinned evilly.  “There is no turning back, no giving up.  I can tell you have never been dominated before.  The experience will be an illumination for you.”


He pushed his tented fingers slowly and smoothly into her, rotating his wrist, pushing, withdrawing, pushing, patiently, insistently.  Her body still resisted, and he pulled down on her pubic hair.

“Open sesame,” he murmured as he worked his fingers in and out of her.  “Open, open, open.   For the serpent hand…”


He timed his push by anticipating her sharp intake of breath.  And his knuckles were inside, then his entire hand up to the wrist.  He felt her vaginal muscles clamp on him.

Her whole body was arching up as she pressed her bottom and the top of her head into the white enamel of the bath.  She started to tremble, shaking.


Ohhhh, ghodddd!”  Her voice was explosive and filled the room in a bellow that sounded like a wounded beast.

He moved his fist carefully back, then forward, back and forward.  “I’ve bet myself you’ve never been hand-fucked before.”

This time she screamed loudly enough to shatter the porcelain.  It was a long, lung-emptying howl, and it ended in wrenching sobs.  Her whole body was involuntarily quivering.  The howl became a staccato wail.  It reminded Tom Bishop of the sound made by the magpie late that afternoon.  He pulled the tuft of pubic hair back towards her belly and thumbed her exposed clitoris.  The volume of noise increased.  Roulla Mavromati appeared to be absolutely out of control.  She banged her head against the bath drain.  She rocked violently from side to side.  Her thighs were in spasm, and only the whites of her eyes could be seen between her lids.

Yet Bishop knew her climax was only beginning.  Therefore he deftly and quickly withdrew his fist from her vagina but held on to her pubic hair with his other hand.  He stood up and aimed a series of ten hard slaps with his open hand to her exposed and extended vaginal lips.  Her body bucked into the air.  She was pleading madly with him, begging him madly.  The words only stopped momentarily when she was out of breath and had to suck in air.  She did not know what she was saying, and Bishop couldn’t have cared less.


He swung one of his legs over the bath.  Brutishly he reached down and grabbed her head with both hands before pulling her up and pushing his erect penis into her open mouth.  He pulled her head onto him, driving himself deep into her throat as she gagged uncontrollably.

“Now your mouth is clean enough for my cock,” he said savagely as he thrust his hips back and forth into her wet, tear-stained face.  “As soon as I come, we’ll clean it again.  Then I will show you how to douche properly.”

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