The Creep (27 page)

The dining-room was brilliantly lit by two dazzling chandeliers. The dining table of polished mahogany was fully twenty feet long, set
with a solid silver candelabra
, with three red candles blazing merrily away. Two places had been set. Each setting had three crystal glasses and solid silver cutlery. A waiter, dressed in a pink suit, pink bowtie and pink shoes, surprisingly casually and somewhat effeminately, came in and served them both with hot Kilpatrick oysters on a bed of crushed salt
. Madelaine attended to drinks -
she was now wearing a powder-blue miniskirt and tight-fitting pink top that showed off her ample tits.

They plowed through a succession of courses: thick juicy steaks, succulent lobsters, sorbets, oysters and various other platters, and a scrumptious cheese board, washed down with vintage port. Leo expounded in detail the great pleasure of fine food and wine, then lifted his weight to one side and let rip. "It's still working, ha ha ha."

Harvey was pleased that Bishman's mind had finally clicked into gear, but was disappointed that he hadn't finished the story. He never let on, but he was growing increasingly impatient:
time was not on Bishman's side
.

Harvey and Anita enjoyed an uncommonly special relationship. They both enjoyed long, protracted sessions of steamy sex and they both enjoyed quickies, which could be anything from thirty seconds - less on occasions - to a full five minutes.

This particular Sunday afternoon, they found themselves at Pinewood and Anita suggested to Bill that it was her turn to give him a massage. Who was he to say "No"? He was in the bedroom quicker that you could say, "I'm coming."

In the luxury of the mirrored bedroom, he took her tongue deep in his mouth and worked away at it until Anita pulled away. By this time Harvey was fully erect, no mistake about that. Anita had something special in mind. She told Harvey what she was about to do was called
The Tunnel of Love
, and quite frankly he thought about coming just at the thought of it - whatever it was.

Anita used four police-issue handcuffs to tie up Harvey,
spread-eagled
on the four-poster bed. He loved it. She warmed an ample supply of baby oil in her delicate hands and gently proceeded to massage his balls.

She warmed more oil in her palm and slowly started to work on his giant member. She was highly systematic, with a definite technique -
one she was exceedingly good at.

First, she pulled his cock into the bolt upright position, so it stuck out of his body at right angles. Then she started, extremely slowly and quite deliberately with one hand at the base of his mountainous cock, slowly working him upward, and as she got to the helmet she made sure her
fingers slipped over it, the rim,
the
tip. Every sensual part of the end of his dick was gently and tantalizingly caressed. Before she took her hand away from the helmet, the second hand was at the base of his great cock gripping it quite firmly but gently with lots of lubrication, and beginning to work its way slowly up the shaft to the helmet.

What made it even more special was that everywhere Harvey looked he could see their reflections in the hundreds of mirrors that were on the walls and ceiling. That was an incredible turn-on!
Like having a hundred dicks
, thought Harvey.

Harvey was writhing in excitement and she'd only been going about five minutes. She kept going and going. Even when she put more oil on her hands, which she did frequently, she wouldn't miss a beat at the same slow, tantalizing speed, with her perfect slippery grip, always right from the base in amongst his pubes, and slowly covering every single centimeter of the helmet with sensual, caressing movements.

Harvey thought he'd died and gone to heaven. The feelings in his cock were exquisite. They never stopped because Anita made sure there was some stimulation all the time, and the stimulation varied. At the base there wasn't much, but markedly it would increase the nearer she got to the helm
et. No matter how much he `Oooo
hed, and `Aaaaahed' she wouldn't increase her tempo.
Bitch...If anything she's going slower
! Of course, when she got to the helmet she deftly caressed every part of it, sometimes opening up the very end of it and gently massaging inside of the tip where he peed out of.

After about forty wonderfully slow and luxurious minutes, Harvey thought he was going to explode. Still Anita did not and would not increase the tempo. She kept going, then suddenly Harvey blew his bolt, like a sperm whale, the first spasm shot over six feet in the air, narrowly missing her face but she kept going ever so slowly, definitely not speeding up or going into a frenzy like you'd normally be tempted to. The magic was the slowness and now he was blowing his bolt again, another six-foot
spurt of steamy hot spunk, booof! ...
booo
f
!
...
boof
!
...
bof
...
bo
...
b. He wondered when he was going to stop, as he watched the whole thing for himself in the magical array of mirrors. Eventually he did, but Anita kept going right until the very end, until Harvey actually
pleaded
with her to stop.

Finally, she uncuffed him, got a warm flannel, mopped him up and he fell asleep in her arms.

Another time, another place, on the city limits of San Bernardino.
Bishman had no hesitation in picking up the thread of the Skybo Castle story:

After dinner, Leo and Bishman retired to a comfortable smoking-room where a huge log fire had been stoked up with chunky pine logs that were spitting and crackling and emanating a lovely pine smoke smell that tended to clear the nasal passages. The room was not overly hot, but
perfectly comfortable with its huge armchairs upholstered in rich oxblood-colored leather. Leo tried to entice Bishman to take a cigar and cognac, but Bishman had the taste for wine.

"Bob, I know it's getting late and you're probably whacked but I'd like to show you around the place a little.

"I want to show you the gun collection because there's a range here and we can let off a few rounds. It's kind of traditional, every Friday night I let my aggressions out in the armory. I blow all the cobwebs out of my mind. It's my therapy. The armory's in the basement."

They walked down a flight of stairs. The firing range was enormous. Just like a police firing range where six people can shoot at targets. The gun collection stood in cases and racks around the walls. Hundreds of guns
everywhere,
none locked up.

"Help yourself, have a good look around. Don't mind me. Make yourself at home." Leo motioned to Bishman to pick up some weapons.

Bishman picked up a .45 Colt automatic.
His favorite weapon.
It was heavy. It had a good feel about it. He put it down. He got the feel of a .38 Smith and Wesson -
a Saturday
Night Special
!
thought
Bishman.

"Boogaloo."

"What?" said
Leo.

"Nothing."

"Have some fun, fella. Get those
aggressions out!" Leo was fiddling with about a dozen firearms all at the same time.

Bishman picked up the .45 Colt auto and let off three rounds. He was off target. The next three shots all hit the target within a half-inch of each other.

"Where the fuck d'you learn to shoot like that?"

"Picked it up along the way.
Besides, that's my favorite piece of kit."

Leo let off a few rounds with a Colt .45
revolver
, stopped, then continued with rapid fire from an Uzi submachine gun. He let loose with twelve different guns, one after another. The noise was deafening. Any bullet travelling over 1,100 feet per second, which is over the speed of sound, will of course be like a tiny jet plane and break the sound barrier, causing an ungodly din quite independent of the noise the actual gun makes. "Use those shooters-baffles if you like." Leo pointed to a corner full of equipment.

Bishman noticed a pile of equipment and materiel including; grenades, launchers, rockets, bulletproof jackets, holsters, explosives, fuses, live ammunition and blanks, automatic rifles, submachine guns. A job lot by the looks of things, that hadn't even been sorted. A distinct smell of marzipan
permeated the air, over and above the smell of cordite and cigarette smoke. Bishman made a mental note: explosives, dynamite.

He put on a pair of ear-muffs and gripped a .44 Magnum with a ten-inch barrel. This was the same gun "Dirty Harry" used. Dubbed the most powerful handgun in the world, this gun still crushes the competition, delivering 971 foot-pounds of energy at the muzzle.
Awesome!

This will go through one side of a Chevy engine and out the other. The Chevy would stop, make no mistake about that. This gun will stop a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound man who's coming at you full of drugs or liquor. Take his limbs clean off, blow away vital organs, crack or no crack that may be overriding the nervous system and bestowing superhuman strength, this gun would stop the meanest son-of-a-bitch.
Bishman knew what he was talking about although he never said it out loud. The gun felt good, as though it belonged. It soon might!

The smell of cordite now permeated the atmosphere, despite the powerful air conditioning.

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone enjoy themselves so much with my toys. It's good to see the killer instinct, Bob - have you ever killed anyone?" The question was asked with a lot of enthusiasm and in a half joking, half serious manner.

"Let's say that I've been around a long time and when you've been around, things happen."

"Let's get out more of those automatics. They're noisy but a lot of fun."

"Let's do it," retorted Bishman rubbing his hands together.

Leo handed Bishman a Skorpion Model 61 submachine gun, which has the cyclic capability of firing at the rate of 840 rounds per minute; it was the type used by the Red Brigade to slay Aldo Moro, and Bishman could see why.
He let off twenty rounds and severed three of the human-shaped targets in half.
Targets that were a hundred
and fifty yards away, well within the Skorpion's range of two hundred and twenty yards.
The firing range at Leo's was four hundred and forty yards: a full quarter of a mile. You could electronically set targets anywhere you wanted them, and retrieve them fast.

"I can see you enjoyed yourself, I'm glad. Now let's go have ourselves some
real
fun." Leo was already heading towards the door.

"Let's do it." Bishman didn't know what he was going to do, but he was up for it - whatever it was.

They walked through halls and rooms, and at the end of the castle reached a chrome and-velvet-lined elevator which expressly took them to the cave room, some three or four floors up.

"This is the castle's main attraction and another of my Friday night traditions. Of course when we have house guests from the city I hardly ever bring them here, unless they have bee
n friend
s for many years. Arnold Rustemeyer loves this place; the cave room and wind tunnel were his brain-child. You'll be able to
fulfill
any sexual fantasy you've ever had. I just hope you're up for some frolicking in the wind, so to speak."