It was with a certain undeniable degree of reluctance that Drew Livingston bid Janet Halston good-bye outside of the Orly air terminal. Customs had given her a hassle but she had gone through it, nevertheless, emerging unscathed from the untoward experience. He offered to drive her into the city, but she told him she was going to hang around the airport and wait for another flight to get in.
"I'm supposed to meet this chick I know in about an hour," she told him, thanking Drew for his concern and, needless to say, their most interesting experience aboard the plane. "You made my flight, what can I tell you," she giggled naughtily.
He kissed her on the cheek, made his last good-bye and waited in line for a taxi to take him into the city. But as he drove into Paris, his heart was not with the city nor was it light by any stretch of the imagination.
It was early morning and the sky had that marvelous clarity so indigenous to Paris and so unlike New York. But the beautiful thoroughfares and streets held little magic for him that morning. It was Amy he thought about, not Paris. It was Amy who occupied his waking and sleeping dreams.
And now, he had a single name to go by, a name that Rachel Strauss had given him under pressure and considerable sexual duress. It was, Livingston knew, better than nothing.
"I don't know… she just grooved on him. Maybe she was looking for a sugar daddy… how the hell was I supposed to tell her what she could and could not do? I mean, dig it Livingston, Amy's fucking independent, a free spirit…"
That had been the gist of what Rachel had told him, explaining how a few days before they were all scheduled to return home, she'd met a man at one of the cafes they were at, how the guy had come on really strong and how Amy had agreed to go out with him – "In style," avowed Rachel – for dinner.
"The next I knew she said she was gonna move in with the cat, said he was a gas and loaded with bread, that she'd live like a princess and smoke all the dope she wanted, he had everything you could ask for," the girl had concluded.
The man's name was Rene Martinon and supposedly, he kept an apartment in the city as well as a villa outside of Paris. That was all Drew had to go by. Once he had ensconced himself in his hotel room, he had the management send up a telephone directory. With the bellboy's help he was able to narrow his choice down to two possible individuals, both of whom bore the name of Rene Martinon, both of whom, flaunted properly acceptable and prestigious addresses.
Phone calls elicited responses at both numbers. But he hung up before speaking to his party, not wanting Amy to have any idea that he was on her trail… or Rene, for that matter. But the following morning, having divested himself of jet lag, he began his amateur sleuthing by arriving at around eight in the morning in front of one of the addresses he had gotten from the telephone directory.
The man who emerged from the private house seemed far too old to fit Rachel's description of a fellow of about his own age, replete with suave Continental manners. Nevertheless, after the gentleman had hailed a cab and left the area, Drew rang the doorbell and presently a young woman dressed in a maid's costume answered the door.
Five minutes later he knew that this was not his man. The Rene Martinon he sought lived five or six blocks away and so with a determined step he headed in the right direction, hoping that he would find his niece with a minimum of effort.
Unlike the "wrong" Martinon, this one lived in a small townhouse which he shared with another tenant. He let himself into the building and climbed the flight of stairs that led to the man's suite of rooms. No sounds emanated from the other side of the door.
But that didn't stop him or goad him into turning around, retracing his steps and accepting defeat. Rather, he pulled his shoulders back as if he was prepared for an immediate man-to-man confrontation. And then he took hold of the brass lion's head knocker and brought it down with three loud and resounding knocks.
A flurry of footsteps could be heard coming from the other side of the door. And then a voice, a young female voice in fact, was heard calling out, "Rene, Rene is that you, mon cher?" The French accent was not a native one and Drew was glad he spoke the language fairly fluently, having mastered it during several business trips he had made in the past few years to Paris and Marseilles.
He held his breath and waited as the doorknob turned, a lock was unlatched and then the ornate oak door swung open to reveal the suddenly startled figure of a young Nordic looking girl dressed in absolutely nothing but her birthday suit.
"Monsieur!" she cried out with alarm, ducking back out of sight and trying to close the door in his face.
But Drew, by no little means delighted, was also one step ahead of the youngster. He stuck his foot in the doorway so that she was unable to close the door in his face. "I'm looking for Amy, Amy Mitchell," he announced in English, his voice taking on a suitably authoritarian ring.
"Let go. I know nothing. I know nobody named Amy," the girl said in fluent English.
Danish or Swedish, Drew supposed from her accent.
"Will you just let me in a second to talk to you? Jesus, I'm not going to rape you, for God sakes," he exclaimed, though the thought had certainly entered his mind.
"Just a second then. Let me get a robe," she reluctantly replied and stepped away from the door as he moved forward. He let himself in catching a glimpse of a stark white ass in contrast to the winter tan the rest of her body fashionably embraced.
She brushed back a strand of sun bleached blonde hair and moved towards him, not the least bit put off now that she had something over her naked skin. "Now," she said, as if she was determined to take control of the situation and master any difficulties he might be about to strew in her path. "What is this about an Amy person, Mr…?"
"Mr. Livingston," he said curtly, at which point he reached into his left side jacket pocket and pulled out a thin and impressive looking alligator billfold with gold corner bracings. He flipped it open and flashed it before her un-communicating blue eyes. "F.B.I., C.I.A., Interpol liaison between the White House and French intelligence," he said with matter-of-fact curtness.
The identity cards had all been provided to him by a friend and were, by no means, even copies of the real thing. But they were enough to change the girl's tune once she had seen him flash the glassine protected identification before her suddenly widened and almost frightened eyes.
"I see," she said in a more subdued tone of voice and behind the front of her hastily donned bathrobe he was able to see the way her breasts rose and fell, fluttering hotly with each breath she took.
"Now we know that M. Martinon has been seen in the company of this American teenager. She is the daughter of a wealthy industrialist and the American authorities do not take lightly to this situation, Miss…?"
"Christine," she muttered.
"Christine what?"
"Pedersen," the word coming out of her full sensual lips with a note of submission and glumness. "But I don't see what this has to do with Rene."
"Oh you don't, do you," he snickered knowledgeably, pleased that the girl had fallen for his story, that she had believed the cards to be the genuine article and not phonies. "Well suppose we sit down and have ourselves a little chat, Miss Pedersen. It would be a terrible thing if the Danish or Swedish authorities had to bring you home to face possible kidnapping charges, as well as your intake of drugs, I may add."
She nodded her head and with a weary sigh led him away from the front door and into the living room. Drew was almost having a good time, enjoying this charade, the power-plays he was exerting upon the girl.
"I'm telling you, Mr. Livingston, I don't know anything about this. Rene lets me use his apartment when I come down from Stockholm. That's all," she told him.
"A likely story," he snorted contemptuously. "And where is M. Martinon now, may I ask?"
"In… in… I don't know. I have my own set of keys to the house. He wasn't here when I arrived, hasn't been here for the past week, in fact."
"May I see your passport then? You say you've been in Paris only one week, is that correct?"
"Well… uh," and she shuddered, not knowing what to say to him.
She knows a helluva lot more, a helluva lot more than even Rachel did, Drew thought to himself, wondering if the same kind of cajolery he had used upon Amy's girl friend could work in this case. But no, despite the fact that the girls were all of about the same approximate age, Swedish Christine was a hard cookie and a tough nut to crack.
He knew he'd have to take a different course of action, for no doubt the girl was far from blocked or inhibited in terms of her sexual experience. If anything, she just might be Martinon's young mistress, or one of any young mistresses, he thought to himself.
Everything seemed to be getting heavier and more confusing with each passing second.
"Well," he said again with impatience. "Are you going to show me your passport or aren't you, Miss Pedersen?"
"I… I lost it," she announced with a sudden note of defiance. "I've already reported it to my embassy. Besides, you have no authority, no papers or search warrant to do this. In fact, I'm going to call for a gendarme, right this very minute," and she jumped up from the couch she had sitting upon and moved towards the phone to dial the police.
But she had made a big mistake by grossly underestimating Drew Livingston and his powers of persuasion. "I wouldn't advise that, Christine," he said in a cool and collected tone of voice, snatching the telephone receiver from her hand and replacing it on its cradle before she had a chance to get the operator. "This is serious business and the Surete has nothing whatsoever to do with this case, understand?"
"I understand nothing!" she yelled. "Who are you, anyway, mister? I don't believe you're anything but a liar, coming in here, flashing those cards at me like you own this place. Get out, get out before I… I…"
At that moment her voice trailed off as Drew suddenly grabbed both of her arms and pulled them tightly behind her back. "Either you shut your face, little girl, or else I'm gonna do it for you," he snarled, almost delighted to have the opportunity to put his fantasies to work.
He'd thought of countless ways of seducing the girl and winning her over, just as had been the case with Rachel. But Christine was a tough article, an international jet-setter kind of hippie chick with the body of a seventeen-year-old and the mentality of a hooker, so he thought to himself.
She had to be treated accordingly, even if that meant roughing her up a little. Drew was not a man who condoned violence, but when it was necessary, especially now when his niece's whereabouts were his total and primary concern, he knew he would stop short of nothing to find out what the voluptuous Swedish teenager knew about Amy's relationship with the mysterious Rene Martinon.
Accordingly, he pulled her arms up high until she winced with pain. And when she attempted to scream out and summon assistance in the person of the janitor or concierge, Drew didn't hesitate to clamp one hand over her mouth, stifling her cries of outrage.
"You'd best calm down, kiddo," he warned her, looking wildly about until he spied the narrow short hallway which led from the living room to the back of the apartment. He'd had it with doing numbers on living room floors and now he began to drag the unwilling teenager through the living room in the direction of the bedroom.
She was harder to handle than he would have first thought. Christine kicked up a storm, but he had her wrists in one hand, her arms pinned securely behind her back and her mouth sealed off with his other hand.
He nearly had to carry her bodily to the bedroom. Then, kicking a likely looking door open with his foot, he cursed when he saw the bathroom with its stall shower, toilet, sink and characteristically French bidet.
He kept dragging her down the hallway and the next door was partly ajar. He spied an unmade double bed, the sheets thrown back as if she had been sleeping when he'd knocked on the front door. It was to this room that he now hustled her, slamming the door shut behind him. If Rene was going to arrive, which he sincerely doubted since the girl had begun to tell him where Martinon was now to be found, it would be a perfect Livingston-style introduction.
But before that was destined to happen he'd get his way on all counts, both physically as well as in terms of information about Amy's whereabouts. So without any trouble at all he managed to throw Christine onto the large unmade bed, not in any mood to waste more time.
She rolled to the side, but he lunged down on top of her and despite her efforts to the contrary, it took little on his part to pin her down onto the bed. He was kneeling between her spread-eagled thighs, his hands securing her wrists and her arms bent and above her head, pinned down to the mattress.
"Don't you think it's time you cooperated, dear?" he whispered with a sarcastic twinkle in his eyes. "I'd hate to make things more difficult for you than they already are. Now, where's Amy Mitchell?"
"Eat shit, merde you pig," she snarled like a trapped tiger.
But her fire and spirit delighted him considerably. There was nothing as much fun as taming an unwilling chick, especially one as young and seductive as Christine Pedersen. So when she refused to answer him, he pulled her hands up higher until he's managed to hold unto both wrists at the same time.
Then, as she continued to struggle, he slid his knees over until he was pressing them down most painfully along the tops of her bronzed and shapely thighs. Her body was immobilized and with his one free hand, Drew Livingston took hold of the front of her flannel wrapper and wrenched it open, the snaps forced apart so that he suddenly was once again confronted and dumbfounded with the sight of her lush naked young body, tossing and turning, writhing on the bed as she continued to try to escape his steely and viselike grip.
"I told you that you're not going anywhere," he snickered, ogling her lush creamy-white boobs, her tan line cut so low that the bikini she must have worn couldn't have been much wider than two strips of handkerchief-sized cloth. "Now are you going to answer my questions or aren't you, Miss Pedersen?"
"I don't know shit. Ask Rene, if you can find him, sucker," she snapped, suddenly drawing her lips back and spitting out a gob of phlegm which hit him right in the face.
Her laughter was filled with scorn. But that didn't stop Drew in the least. He wiped his face dry and with the one hand he had free, managed to slip out of his tweed jacket. He threw it onto the floor and then reached for the buckle of his belt. Her eyes followed him and she suddenly stopped moving, as if she knew moments before he actually began what it was he in, tended to do to her.
"Get the picture?" he said, dead serious and not about to stop what he intended to see to its eventual completion. He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned the top snap of his slacks, pulled his zipper down and began to push his trousers down off of his waist and hips.
"You can't be serious," she said with defiance. "What are you gonna do, big shot? Rape it out of me? Fat chance, you little faggot shithead!"
"So you know American English," he laughed, ignoring her words of anger and rage as he continued to push his trousers down, all the while holding her immobilized on the bed. And when he had gotten them down to his knees, it didn't take too much in the way of imagination for Christine to know what it was that tented up the front of his underpants, still hidden by his shirt tails as well.
With quick agile motions, as if he was borne to the task he had set out to perform, accomplished at undressing with the use of only one hand and five fingers, he unbuttoned his shirt up to the collar, glad that he wasn't wearing a tie. He pulled his arms, one and then the other, free of the sleeves, wanting to really enjoy himself and not be hassled by his clothing getting in the way of the contact of flesh against flesh, skin against skin and body against body.
And hers was, as he continued to notice, a body that could not be taken lightly or easily ignored. If anything, it was so lush and seductive that he would have wanted her under any kind of circumstances. But now he had the perfect reason to use sex as a means of getting the necessary information out of her stubborn and defiant little head.
Her sun-blonde hair was spread out, haloed around the pillow. Her aureoles, prominent and distinguishing her jugs by their tawny hue, were surrounding by prickly goose bumps, highlighting each large flaccid button-like nipple. But if Drew had anything to do about it, they wouldn't remain flaccid too much longer.
Once his shirt was off, she was able to see what his brute strength was made of, his pectoral muscles standing out boldly, taut and contracted so that his virile and hairy chest suggested the physique of a middle-aged athlete, that rare breed of man to whom age has little if any bearing.
It wasn't only vanity which kept him in good physical shape. It was also the awareness and knowledge that the girls he lusted after, the adolescent females he took delight in enjoying like young and fruity first-growth wines, looked askance at men who were fat and paunchy, who showed their age and hid their virility under layers of flab.
Flab was the last thing Christine saw now as the front of his youthful and tight-fitting cotton briefs bulged out with the hard and jutting outline of his imprisoned erection. As if she had switched off some inner mechanism inside of her mind and body, she suddenly stopped moving, gasping for breath and lying there as cold and frozen-as a statue.
But if her body was not responding to his mere physical presence, her eyes certainly betrayed what she was actually thinking. He'd seen the way she'd glanced down at the silhouette of his cock and he knew as well that she had been both intrigued and even a little frightened at the prospect of his unveiling the mysteries which lay behind the swollen crotch of his underpants.
"Well?" he said again, hooking his hand under the waistband of his shorts. "Where is she, and M. Martinon?"
"I told you that I don't know anything about any Amy, period," she said.
"Have it your way, my darling," he snickered and without another word began to make good his threat, or the threat she had assumed would be her punishment for not telling him all that she knew about his niece.
Without waiting any further, tired of playing games and getting hassled in response, he shucked off his briefs with a minimum of effort. And like a suddenly unsheathed sword his massive boner jumped out of confinement, jutting out at her like an infant's arm. A gasp tore through her lips and he smiled with delight, pleased at her apparent fear of his studly equipment.
Not even bothering to pull his trousers and undershorts off completely, too impatient now to think of doing anything but what came to him most naturally, he held onto his dick and tried to guide it down towards the narrow pink furrow of her youthful snatch.
She spit at him once again, but he had her where he wanted her, and she was in no position to get back. Pressing down on the pressure points of her thighs made her groan with pain and he pushed forward until the huge swollen head of his monstrous cock was thrusting against her narrow and fleecy gash.
The color rose in her skin, blotchy and hot and she tossed and turned from side to side. But Drew didn't give her a chance to even say another word. With a vengeful forward motion, he lunged down and managed with some difficulty to cram the head of his pecker right inside her vulva.
She screamed out with pain, shuddering against him as he eased his knees off of her thighs and thrust down with all of his might, groaning loudly as he felt his joystick tearing and ripping its way down into the depths of her amazingly tight and juicy pussy.
The narrow walls of her vagina were forced brutally apart as he tunneled down into place, shoving one hard hot inch of meat after another, not even stopping to give her a chance to grow accustomed to the savage pressure of his swollen penis. She groaned as he did, her voice betraying her pain as well as her sinister delight.
He kicked off his trousers, pulled his underpants down right after and now that he had only his shoes and socks on he was really able to work his magic. Not worrying about hurting her, for pain would serve him as much as pleasure would, Drew fell upon the teenager and crushed and pinned her down to the bed, the entire length of his body covering and nearly smothering her.
He stared into her flashing eyes and pushed forward until he could feel the head of his mushrooming tool swelling even more as it hit against her cervix and tipped her womb. A flash of pain made her features contort with agony. And then she slumped back against the pillows, shivering uncontrollably now that he had buried his dong right up to the root and hairy virile hilt.
Not an inch of cock remained out into the open, the entire nine-inch length of his cunt rammer feeling and enjoying the tight wet grip of her virginal snatch. He caught his breath and swayed from side to side, pushing gingerly down against one vaginal wall and then the other as if he was attempting to stretch her cunt out of proportion, or break right through her tender split.
Foam flecked her lips and she was more than just beside herself, groaning loudly as he held himself steady and didn't pull back, his glans burning hot against her cervix and his hairy nuts tickling the tender and as yet unexplored crack between her tight and girlish buns. "Well?" he said again, as if what he had already succeeded in doing now justified getting the truth out of the girl.
"Well what, you fucker?" she snapped, wincing when he pushed down a little more, some of his long wiry pubes actually entering her vulva and scratching the tender pulpy walls of her muff.
"Have it your way, babe," he finally replied and with those words echoing in her ears he drew his sword halfway back and then pistoned it forward again, sliding and scraping his shaft raw as he tunneled back down into the depths of her tight and burning quim. Her cunt was marvelously wet and gripping and he wished the two of them had gone to bed under different circumstances.
But since that was not out of the question, he made it a point to really let go and enjoy himself, not worrying if he was hurting her or not. If anything, a little pain would do her good, he told himself as he rubbed his hairy chest over the knockers and then bent his head down to capture one of her half-erect nipples between his teeth.
He bit down on it gently, yet hard enough to cause her to moan anew from the additional pain. But that didn't stop Drew Livingston. Chewing and biting on her nipples was just the beginning and now he really went at it, hot and heavy, hammering and lunging back and forth and tearing his way in and out of her tight and overly stretched vagina.
He could feel himself hitting against her hips, but her pussy was meaty enough to absorb the shock of his careening and crushing body. He was consuming her, covering her completely with his burly torso and she began to beg him to stop after a few more minutes of bone-jarring cockstrokes.
"Tell me where my niece is," he blurted out, cursing himself for having revealed the truth.
"Your niece, your niece!" she exclaimed, a look of relief coming over her face. It was as if she'd finally believed his story, only to discover with chagrin that she'd been made the fool of, not Drew Livingston. "Oh fuck, oh that's too much, man, your niece!"
Drew was the last person in the world to appreciate the tone in the girl's voice. Annoyed at himself for being so stupid as to tell the teenager who he really was, he reared back and began to jab and pound his penis in and out of her tight and quivering hole. The think pink lips of her blonde-haired snatch gripped the moving sides of his penis and he pulled her legs up higher until he had gotten her to bend her knees over his wide set shoulders.
Half-raised off the bed, he rose up before her, kneeling now and pulling her towards him even as he lashed out with all of his might. There was no stopping him now and he had both of her hands pinned back so that she couldn't go anywhere but where he directed her. And that was towards his sweaty and hairy crotch as he funneled his meaty rod in and out with loud and searing thrusts.
His balls smacked against her upraised buttocks like a swinging fist or a punching bag, hitting her again and again each time he drilled his hard on down between her tight and pain-racked cunt lips. "Yeah, do it, stud, do it good and hard," she said then, her nostrils flaring wide as she seemed to taunt and revile him, daring him to hurt her by what he was now doing to her body.
It was too late for him to stop or turn back and he groaned with wild sexual fervor and kept at it, hitting into her with the force of two men, not one. Yet it seemed as if his renewed attack only served to inflame her senses, to give her pleasure, not any reason for her to spill the beans.
His rage grew more pronounced with each successive bone-jarring thrust and his body swayed violently, back and forth and back and forth again, cramming his nine-inch pole in and out and not daring to stop for one single second.
Her words now became unintelligible as she strained against him, obviously getting off on his sexual pyrotechnics and angered bout of frenzied fucking. He was livid with rage by then and it suddenly flashed through his mind what he would do, even before he got off and drained his balls dry, now that the girl had proven her abilities in bed, her ability to handle his enormously oversized cock, for starters.
If she digs this, let's see how she feels about something else, he thought to himself as he suddenly ripped his burning prong all the way out into the open. It was raw and coated with her slippery vaginal secretions. The lips of her battered twat snapped shut like elastic bands and she slumped back, groaning and shaking from side to side.
But before she had a chance to try to escape, he now directed his prong down towards an even narrower and far more sensitive part of her body, namely her asshole. Christine stared at him with gaping reddened eyes and at that instant he pushed forward, sliding his shaft past the bottom edge of her juicy muff, farther still until he was wiggling the plum-shaped and leaking glans right between the jiggling cheeks of her ass.
"Oh no you don't…" she started to say as he pushed his penis down towards her as yet unseen and unviolated bottom-hole.
"Oh, but yes I do, my dear, yes I most certainly do," he hissed between clenched teeth, thrusting down with all of his considerable might and burly weight. And when he felt the puckered tender folds of her hairless and virginal asshole, he tried to cram his juice-smeared pecker right inside her rectum.