Pete Warburton was almost grateful for the shrill ring of the telephone that forced him up off the sofa and away from the television set.
"Susan!" he answered, concerned. "What's the problem?"
At the other end his young wife frowned before allowing a brief giggle to escape her lips. Pete was a worrier. Wherever she went, whatever she did, he couldn't stop himself fussing like a mother hen. It was understandable considering the age difference. Not one of their friends had said the relationship would last. Hers told her he would spend his nights in front of the television, while his said she would want to spread her wings and eventually she'd need someone her own age. What they didn't know was how much they felt for each other.
"Are you still with your sister? Has something happened?"
She interrupted before his mind ran away with him.
"There's nothing the matter. The car's broken down, that's all."
"That's all! Christ, I knew I should have driven you. Why didn't you take my car. Christ, I knew I…"
"Pete, it's no sweat. I've got the phone, I've told you, just come and get me. We'll pick the car up in the morning."
"Right, be there in two minutes!" It was only Susan's shout that prevented him putting the phone down and dashing out before she had told him where she was.
As the temperature dropped in the car Susan pulled up the collar of her coat. When that wasn't enough she leant over the seats to reach for the blanket on the rear parcel shelf. Wrapping herself up warm she noticed the pin size glow of headlights away in the distance and felt relieved that quite soon she would no longer be alone. Her relief was short-lived as the lights grew brighter to reveal a large lorry that thundered past in the opposite direction.
Peter would obviously be a while yet. Being the careful sort, he was probably taking it slowly, making sure he didn't miss her. Her comforting thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the ten wheel truck that ground to a halt behind her vehicle. Help at last. With a bit of luck she might not have to leave the car here after all. She didn't like the idea of that anyway, you never know who could come along.
About fifteen minutes later Peters' car appeared out of the gloom within sight of the broken down Fiat.
It was empty!
He called out her name and when there was no reply he dashed for his phone and rang the police.
The official response was best described as calculated concern. Two police cars appeared within moments of each other and the officers began a detailed investigation of the crime scene, although in their view a crime had not necessarily been committed. Peter had no such doubts and as he sat in the back of a patrol car, he desperately tried to persuade them likewise.
"You don't know Susan," he sobbed. "She wouldn't just up and go with someone. She knew I was on my way, just half hour, three quarters at the most."
The young policeman thought hard for comforting words, his face illuminated by the headlights of the large ten wheeled rig across the road, which had slowed down to see what was going on. One of the other officers turned to the driver and motioned for him to be on his way.
"Morbid bastards," he growled before stabbing his thumb southwards. "On your way."
The driver flashed a sarcastic smile then moved his rig through the gears and pushed on towards Carlisle and the M6. In the darkness behind, Susan Warburton moved the only part of her body she was able to, her eyes. They bulged wide and white, glistening with fear. The rest of her body remained perfectly still, restrained by several haulage straps around her shoulders, arms and legs. A chromium spanner fixed by shortened bunjee ropes held down her tongue like the bit in the mouth of a thoroughbred.
As Peter spoke, the constable in the car read Susan's description straight into the radio, 'short bobbed hair, blonde. Height about five feet six, slim, style of clothes unknown. Age…' His voice stumbled as he repeated Peter's words. 'Twenty three.' At the confusion obvious on his face Peter repeated himself.
"Twenty three, you heard right. And before you ask, I'm fifty two. Not that that should concern you."
The policeman finished his message and resumed his questioning, only this time the atmosphere felt different. The constable shifted in his seat and refused to make eye contact.
"I realise this might sound offensive, Sir, but I have to ask."
Peter could see it coming, able almost to pre-empt the question word for word.
"Did you and your wife ever argue?"
Despite his preparation Peter fumbled for an answer, aware of the implications. "Of course we argued, like any other couple, but nothing serious. You know tiffs, that sort of thing."
"Tiffs." The policeman wrote something down, then appeared to ponder over his next question. "Then she wasn't what you call perfectly happy?"
Peter leant forward, enraged at the direction the questions were taking.
"It's probably best if you go on home now, Sir. Your wife may try to contact you there."
Peter took a step back and held up his mobile telephone, shaking it at the officer. "If she wants to phone me she bloody well can, but she can't because something's wrong! Can't you understand that? Can't you see it?"
With his arm around Peter's shoulder the policeman led him back to his car.
"I shouldn't really tell you this until we got you home," he said. "We don't want you driving recklessly around the roads in search of your wife and putting others at risk, but," he paused a moment before Peter demanded to hear the rest, "someone answering your wife's description was seen about a little while ago. In the company of a young man. They were holding hands and drinking tea together."
The roads around Lazonby Fell can be lonely enough during the summer months. In February, with a bitter wind scraping its way across the heath, it is desolate. There is no shelter, no hiding place except for the odd wind screen erected by considerate farmers trying to protect the hardy Cumbrian sheep. Young lovers appreciate the isolation at the roadside lay-bys, taking a moment or two between each intimate embrace to appreciate the stark splendour of the moonlit moor.
There was nothing different about tonight, though the couple in the smart estate were disturbed by the lights of a large lorry pulling in behind them. But then drivers often called in to grab some sleep and the man in the estate never missed his stroke, even when the wagon came to a stop alongside the car, flooding the vehicle with moonlight reflected off the gleaming black paint work. At that time, the most important thing to him was to get his load inside his secretary before his wife got home from bingo. He wedged his foot against the glove compartment for extra leverage and continued his work. Mrs Lennox might be a crap typist but she had a cunt like hot liver and legs so smooth her knickers had trouble staying up.
Whether it was over the desk or up on the moors, Mrs Lennox always gave a good ride. When the Driver of the black rig drew his curtains he looked down on luscious tits jiggling to the beat of the office managers thrusts. She saw him watching and flashed a smile, happy to be the centre of attention. If the Driver had watched a few seconds longer he would have seen jolts of cum jerk up from between their thighs and criss cross her face like the icing on a cake.
But the Driver had icing of his own to prepare and pulled across the material blanking out the arse of the man rising and falling between the long and well spread legs of his typist.
The blackness departed under the glow of the red cabin light to reveal Susan still bound on the bunk behind the seats. Her captor leant casually against the driver's door, studying his catch as she tried to make sense of her situation.
Her fears mounted as a sudden movement by him brought a length of wood out from under his seat. Severely restricted, her only action was to shrink ever deeper into the back of the cab until it was impossible to go further, and as if that was his signal, the Driver leant over the seats and slipped the buckle on the strap around her knees. Any thought of release was quickly squashed when he wedged the wood firmly between her knees forcing her to sit frog-like on the bunk, the vee of her knickers visible to the Driver.
Satisfied by her position, he returned to his place against the door and took out his cock. It was only semi erect but he made no attempt to touch himself and Susan knew that sooner or later that job would be hers. If only he would remove the spanner from her mouth she could reason with him, but she had read too many Sunday papers to believe there was any hope of that. Her only chance would be to go along with anything he wanted, whatever he wanted. Then she might just get dropped on some lonely road minus her knickers and full of a stranger's spunk.
Her escape planning continued until she saw him rise and stretch his hand out under her legs. They fumbled along her thighs, reached her crotch, forced their way around the material and onto her pronounced labia.
The thickness of her lips surprised him and he ducked his head beneath the wooden pole to see how she was made, pulling away the material hiding her slot. She was wearing plain blue cotton panties, sensible ones, the type Peter liked her to wear. Peter didn't like anything tarty, or frilly, they were quiet people, Peter was a gentle man. She felt the driver take hold of her lips with each hand and pull her open to inspect the inner folds of her vagina, studying her redness intently.
When he had seen enough he sat back and Susan saw that this time his cock was red and angry, but he made no attempt to strip her. Instead, he removed his trousers and sat calmly stroking his cock along its full length, enjoying the sight of her.
They were slow tight strokes that brought back the memories of her capture, of how she was so pleased he had stopped and how she had climbed into his cab for warmth while he looked at her car. How she had changed when he rubbed his hand against her tits…
'No!' she had cried out. 'No, I'm not like that'
He had grabbed hold of her hair and told her she didn't know what she was like until she had tried it. He had strapped her wrist to his with cable ties and taken her into the canteen for tea, a razor blade held tight against a vein in her neck. To anyone looking they were friends, lovers even, only she knew the terrifying truth.
He loved the display of power and his steel nerve, and he knew she trembled before it. She was his until he passed her over, his to enjoy, his to beat.
His to fuck.
But that was too easy, he would make her wait for his cock, there was no rush, first he would get to know her, all of her, and she would need training to what he do what he liked in a woman.
He began to untie the spanner he used as a tongue depressor.