EXTRACTS

 

ONE

 

Her eyes are a stunning pale-blue.

They have turquoise irises that extend like sunbursts from large black pupils that are gazing up at him in awe. Her forehead is creased with effort. Her cheeks are puffed out and her fluffy, straw-coloured eyelashes flutter delightfully.

Bull stares down into those turquoise eyes. He's not moving. Sat in a comfortable chair with his knees wide apart. She's looking at him from between his dark thighs. She's doing her utmost to control her gag reflex whenever his cockhead brushes her larynx. Only his cock is moving, the rest of him is stationary. Her jaws are stretched as far apart as she can open them. He can see tiny bubbles of snot oozing from her nostrils as she repeatedly slides her scarlet lips up and down his gnarled shaft.

"Come on darling ... you can do it ... make the Warden cum."

Bull glances up and arches his eyebrow at the handsome man who's standing just behind her. Her husband is watching from a few feet away, like a coach encouraging his charge. And by his side, the other pair of competitors are awaiting their turn.

"Uuum ... uugh ... uuum ..."

There are few more erotic sights than a white woman's lips sliding up and down a genuinely thick, ebony cock. Especially a white wife. Witnessed by her husband. To enhance Bull's view he's had her apply the glossiest, sluttiest, ruby-red lipstick in his makeup kit to her full lips. The veins in his shaft bulge like knots of purple elastic. She can only really fit the bulbous helmet and a fraction of his length in her mouth. She occasionally tries too hard and her eyes water as the tip bashes her tonsils.

Bull is fully aware that the gorgeous blonde now sucking his cock has little prior experience of oral. Although she's 28 (and despite the fact she's been married for 6 years), she's chosen to focus on her career. To date, sex has ranked as a much lower priority than work throughout her life and in her marriage.

Okay, she's described making occasional, exhausted, midweek love to her husband, and sometimes allowing him Sunday morning missionary as well. But apparently even that twice-a-week monotony has declined after her most recent promotion at work.

And as for oral sex, well, it's been off the table. Her hubby is her first and only lover. Well, until Bull, anyway! Wyatt Sullivan has been, shall we say, an undemanding partner? During that exciting, initial flush of dating, she may apparently have placed a little kiss on the tip of his cock during foreplay. But she never once offered to suck him and Wyatt never once asked. Imagine that? Sweet, huh.

Mind you, Wyatt has never once gone down on her either. Cunnilingus is an alien concept to both of them. Although they have at least heard of the word. Amusingly, neither has a darned clue what rimming is.

Bull can already imagine how good this one's tongue will feel between his cheeks. But there's no rush. There's plenty of time; days, weeks, even months if he likes her enough. He used to rush things when he was first appointed. He'd complete a full circuit of a woman's charms within a day or two. But now he draws things out.

He knows there are only 20 years between Barbie and himself in age. He hasn't chosen a plaything this old for a few months. But the combination of her stunning looks, obvious intelligence and untapped sexuality compensates for her birthdate. Besides, her husband appeals as well, as an amusing afterthought.

Bull reaches down and caresses a single blonde strand away from her perspiring forehead. He forgives her inexperience. After all, she'll learn. Very few women indeed find his size an easy prospect. And she's doing her best. An actual, honest-to-goodness, down-on-your-knees blowjob isn't exactly the easiest way for anyone to embark on their overdue oral career.

And she's certainly beautiful. Sure, a pale redhead can sometimes make a nice change, and he's enjoyed loads of luscious brunettes in his time, but blondes are still his favourites. This one has natural citron-yellow hair, not peroxide from a bottle. It's centre-parted, shoulder-length and her most recent haircut on the Mainland was obviously an expensive one.

Below those glistening turquoise eyes, she's been blessed with a pert button nose and a perfect BJ mouth. Rosebud lips. Overall, she's a 'One in a Hundred'. In fact, Bull did actually choose her out of a hundred candidates. Well, ''candidates' is probably not the right term. None of them actually applied for this position, down on her knees.

So it's more accurate to say he chose her from a list of a hundred 'possibilities'. Her looks were a major factor, of course. But not the only consideration. Her file, her spirit, her responses to intimate questions, and her husband too, they all appealed to Bull.

He beams at his audience. It's the middle of the afternoon. They're out on his deck, in the sultry air, overlooking the island. As well as the other three prisoners, his two guard dogs are lying in the shade nearby, resting but alert, their ears pricked. K-9 is a tan and black Alsatian. K-10 is a pure black Doberman.

Bull is relaxing under a parasol. Nevertheless, it's humid in the shade. There's a hint of salt in the air rising from the sea breeze, mingling with his own body odour and, what he always thinks of as, eau de blowjob. There are those fresh, feminine high notes she exudes that contrast with his own sour base notes.

He parts his knees a bit further and stares down at her again. She's classy and elegant, beautiful yet not extravagantly sexy, sort of like a cheerleader who's somehow been cast as a successful businesswoman. Of course, right now she looks more like a dyed-blonde Linda Lovelace having her mouth stretched in Deep Throat.

Her real name is Barbara but Bull has already renamed her 'Barbie'. Her creamy skin is flawless, even if it's a little sweaty and stressed right at this particular moment. Her cheekbones are high and delicate and - at least in some of the photos he's seen - she has one of those perfect, toothpaste-advert smiles. She's the butter wouldn't melt in the mouth type.

But Bull's porridge will certainly melt in her mouth.

She's not smiling at this moment. She's gagging. Still, there are some lovely images in her file: the successful student dressed in dark robes on her graduation day, the happy bride cutting the cake in their wedding snaps, the dynamic careerwoman beaming upon receipt of her enterprise award and, of course, loads of social media posts. It was actually one of those that caught Bull's eye; a bikini shot taken on a vacation beach last year. Social media made things so easy. He'd seen that pic and immediately knew he had to have her. To own her.

For a while, anyway.

"Come on darling ... pleeeease ..."

Her husband's getting increasingly agitated. All four of them know the rules. Bull has laid out the terms of the competition. The winning couple will get to remain together. Whatever happens, they have his word as warden that they won't be separated.

The losers? Hmm ...

 

TWO

 

They have remained undiscovered for many years.

In an underground cellar that's littered with cardboard boxes, broken filing cabinets, piles and piles of papers strewn everywhere, several old laptops with their hard-drives removed, even some cracked compact discs, mounds of rotting footwear and mouldy clothes, plastic bags containing stained underwear, empty wine and spirit bottles, numerous discarded cigarette packets and cigar butts and, long-since-used, knotted condoms.

In one stinking corner of this dark cellar there's a suitcase. Or rather, the remains of a suitcase, one that's obviously made many journeys in its time. It's covered in flight number labels and stickers with the names of worldwide destinations: Bangkok, Manila, Nairobi, Rio de Janeiro, Bogota, and even two cities that no longer exist. The case's handle, clasps and zip have all been smashed and some of the case's contents have spilled out: a nurse's uniform, a gimp mask, a grimy straightjacket.

Upon opening the suitcase, she finds nothing but a bundle of sex and BDSM paraphernalia: steel handcuffs, a spreader bar, what was once a sophisticated male-chastity device for its time, a plastic bottle of lube, ancient packets of unused condoms, a dogeared collection of vintage girlie magazines, a velvet blindfold, a leather hood, a shoe box, a gun and a single ... velvet glove.

She checks the gun first. It's an old Glock 19 semiautomatic pistol. And it's loaded.

She spins round, sensing danger, shining her torch into the silent shadows. But there's nobody there. She's alone.

Although she's frightened, she had to come. To seek the truth. A rat scurries amongst a nearby heap of clothes, stopping to stare at her with its beady eyes, whiskers twitching.

Hands shaking, she sniffs the velvet glove for any trace of his familiar scent. It's old, fusty. But she eases it onto her right hand and opens the shoebox. A layer of dust coats her gloved fingers. But ... there they are. Three volumes. Undisturbed for all these years and, more than likely, they would have remained that way forever.

But for her.

Velma picks up the first book and tentatively wipes the front cover with the back of the glove. In the torchlight, She can see five letters ... ook Te ...

She wipes again and her heart misses a beat.

Penal Colony Nine.

Book Ten.

She lays it aside carefully and stares at two other dusty covers below. Books Eleven and Twelve.

She's already read Books One to Nine.

And now, down in this cellar, Velma finds herself holding the lost trilogy. It's time to share the truth. To return them to the light.

She opens Book Ten and brushes more dust away. There's writing on the inside front cover. Handwriting she knows well, a date and finally a kiss.

 

For my darling Velma.

Read on and you'll discover a load of old bull! X

 

END OF EXTRACT