Destroying Angel (15 page)

‘Enough, I think,’ he decided. ‘I think perhaps it would also be amusing to have you select a place for your own whipping.’

Paulette nodded and looked around for somewhere reasonably comfortable. They came into another clearing, similar in size to the first, yet more silent and lonely. A fallen oak lay across it, blocking their path. The trunk formed a perfect whipping place; just right to position her bottom at the perfect angle for punishment. A secret part of Paulette wanted to suffer as much as possible.

‘Here,’ she said softly. ‘Over that tree-trunk… please.’

‘My pleasure,’ Charrier nodded. ‘Then make yourself comfortable.’

Paulette passed him the birch. Her pulse was thumping; a concoction of fear and excitement. She knew the beating would hurt, and that Charrier would undoubtedly take his own pleasure when her bottom was a burning ball of pain. The thought made her feel weak and totally compliant.

She walked to the oak and bent forward, pressing her stomach to the rough bark. Her hands hung down and touched the cool grass. She was unable to see what Charrier was doing, and that increased the delicious uncertainty of the situation.

‘I will tie you,’ she heard him say.

Paulette did not resist, submitting meekly to having her ankles tied to a branch. Charrier fixed her legs well apart, running a hand casually over the exposed mound of her pussy as he straightened up. Paulette found herself as open and helpless as she had been over the barrel.

Charrier appeared in front of her, holding a length of twine that she recognised as the sort used to tie vine shoots to their supporting wires. She tried to relax as he leant over her, pulled her arms into the small of her back, and lashed her wrists tightly together.

‘We shall, I think, see just how much you truly enjoy being beaten,’ Charrier said casually. He squatted and lifted Paulette’s chin, so he could look deep into her wide eyes. ‘But your body is making me unsettled, so first…’

He knelt and opened his trousers. His hands were inches from Paulette’s face as they worked to free a half-stiff cock. Her lips peeled apart hypnotically as he offered it to her. His hand closed gently in her hair, drawing her closer, and she let him feed it in. She swallowed the thick shaft; tasting him. It stiffened instantly as she sucked and he pumped it slowly between the tight softness of her lips.

He expressed his pleasure in French, but just as Paulette was wondering if he intended to come, he suddenly pulled away.

‘Ah, my little whore,’ he chided, rising to his feet, ‘so eager, so dirty. That was a great pleasure, but we must not hurry, must we?’

He moved out of sight again. Something tickled her thighs: the leaves of the birch she had picked. She shivered, fighting down a panic rising more from not being able to see than from the thought of what was about to happen. The tickling continued, making her squirm. The leaves flitted against her pussy.

‘Now, I will beat you,’ Charrier announced theatrically, and without further warning her bottom exploded with pain. She squealed and bucked, her buttocks feeling as though a thousand needles had spitefully pricked them.

‘Curse as much as you like,’ Charrier said over her expletives, ‘nobody can hear you.’

Again the birch sliced down, lashing into her fleshy cheeks and upper thighs. Again Paulette squealed and bucked against her bonds. Her bottom was alive with the overwhelming sensations of the birching. A third blow fell, and then Charrier set about beating her in earnest. Poor Paulette begged him to stop with every stinging bite of the twigs.

Charrier merely laughed, calling her a whore as he thrashed her squirming buttocks. She kicked and shouted. She cursed him, even while the pleasure of her beating began to build. The strokes rained down mercilessly.

Through the burning haze Paulette realised she was going to come.

‘Harder Christian!’ she implored, as she started to tense in the first flush of orgasm.

He immediately changed the angle of the birching, bringing the bundle down between her buttocks instead of across them, then changing to strokes that came up between her spread thighs, impacting directly onto her pussy. Paulette screamed more loudly than before as the birch slapped against her vagina, then suddenly the pain was gone and she was riding a wave of pure pleasure. Every muscle in her body tensed as her orgasm hit her, starting in the flaming centre of her vulva and spreading to explode in her head.

The last thing she was conscious of was the tension of the twine binding her wrists – then everything went black.

Paulette found herself momentarily disorientated, then remembered where she was. She knew her bottom had been thoroughly beaten. She shook her head, still dizzy from her shattering orgasm. In addition to the pain in her bottom and thighs, her wrists and ankles hurt, while the rough bark of the trunk was definitely uncomfortable.

‘Untie me, Christian,’ she breathed. ‘That was lovely, but I’ve had it.’

‘One moment,’ Charrier replied from over her shoulder. ‘I hardly think this is fair. You have had your fun, and now I will have mine.’

‘Sure, you can do anything you like – but untie me first,’ she said, not wanting to deny him, but badly needing to rub her bottom and stretch her limbs.

‘No, no. You are as I want you, just so.’

‘Christian,’ she complained. ‘Please.’

He said no more, and Paulette resigned herself to being bound to the tree for a while longer yet. She adjusted her position as best she could to minimise her discomfort. Then something greasy nudged between her tender buttocks.

‘Christian?’

A lubricated finger pressed against her rear entrance, and then pushed inside.

‘Oooh… Christian.’

‘Do not worry, my little one,’ he encouraged, wriggling his digit back and forth.

‘I… no…’ Paulette stammered. The finger withdrew, and something bulbous and firm replaced it. ‘No, Christian, not in my bottom…’

‘Ah, but it is so beautiful,’ he panted in her ear, as his cock pushed its way into her well-lubricated anus. ‘So, so beautiful.’

Paulette moaned as his cock slid into her bottom. She could feel her anus stretched around his shaft. It hurt a little, then less as he began to slide in and out and eased his passage. His groin pressed against her sore bottom-cheeks with each cautious push. His laden balls started to slap against her pussy, and he was grunting and breathing hard as he moved. Despite herself, she began to moan softly, slowly coming to terms with the sensation, and finding that she rather liked it.

Her pleasure was mounting again when Charrier stiffened and pushed his cock in to the hilt. Paulette realised he had given her the final delicious indignity, and come in her rectum. She also understood exactly what Susan meant by erotic humiliation.

As before, he was both apologetic and defensive once he had ejaculated. Paulette kissed and thanked him for an exquisite orgasm. Her bottom hurt, as she knew it would for a while, yet the pleasure had certainly been worth it and, despite her aches and pains, she mentally listed birching as something worth trying again.

Charrier returned to his normal effusive self as they walked back towards the picnic site, apparently oblivious to Paulette’s nudity as he pointed out various types of edible fungi among the leaf litter to either side of the path.

‘There are truffles, too, but they are not so easily found… And here we have something you should avoid with great care.’ He prodded an ordinary-looking white toadstool with his shoe. Paulette bent to look, finding it not dissimilar to an ordinary field mushroom, except that the gills were white.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘
Amanita Virosa
,’ he replied.
‘It is deadly poisonous, and there is no cure. You call it, in English, Destroying Angel.’

Ted Gage looked thoughtfully across the table. Opposite him sat three individuals, and his irritation with each of them was increasing steadily. First there was Detective Sergeant Paul Berner. Not only was Berner full of himself, but Gage suspected that he was involved in a relationship with the pretty girl by his side.

Susan MacQuillan irritated him partly because she was young and smart. She also irritated him because he was against private investigators, full stop. Finally, there was the fact that she was attempting to intrude a theory into the Fire Ghost case that would make it considerably more complex and harder to solve.

The third person was Dr Potheroe, a police psychologist and a man Gage could usually rely on to provide some theoretical backing for cases. Gage considered the entire subject to be mumbo-jumbo, but still valued Potheroe for his ability to blind juries with science. This time, however, the doctor insisted on backing MacQuillan’s over-complicated theory about there being a second arsonist involved in the case.

‘So,’ he began cautiously, ‘let me get this straight. You feel that the pattern of arsons shows two fire-raisers with distinct modes of operation. The original Fire Ghost, who is an insecure male with a background of mental illness and commits arson for the thrill of it. Also an imitator, who is at least reasonably affluent and motivated by some practical consideration?’

‘Exactly,’ Susan MacQuillan replied.

‘A fair lay summation,’ Dr Potheroe added.

‘I agree,’ Berner put in.

Gage looked at Berner, suspecting that the sergeant had no more idea of what the others were talking about than he did, but knew a good bandwagon when he saw one.

‘And also,’ Gage continued, ‘that the second arsonist is either Philip Ruddock, Annabella de Vergy, or both, their motive being to cover a wine fraud which may also be linked with the death of a writer called Alan Sowerby?’

‘Exactly,’ Susan repeated.

‘Conceivably,’ Potheroe said. ‘Miss MacQuillan’s theory is based entirely on estimated probabilities of specific events being connected or not connected. The mathematics behind her calculations is sound, but her initial estimate’s inevitably somewhat conjectural. Statistically, her results fail to meet the ninety-five percent confidence limits generally considered a valid scientific proof, as I am sure she will be the first to admit.’

‘True,’ Susan responded, ‘but still—’

‘So you think there are two arsonists, but don’t suspect the de Vergy Fine Wines staff?’ Gage asked, eager to avoid another spat of statistical analysis.

‘Essentially—’

‘Yes or no, Dr Potheroe,’ Gage interrupted.

‘Yes, but—’

‘Good,’ Gage cut in again. ‘Paul?’

‘I agree with Dr Potheroe,’ Berner answered, ‘but I do think Miss MacQuillan has a point and that it would be wise to investigate de Vergy Fine Wines. I’d like that opinion to be on the record too, sir.’

Slimy bastard, Gage thought. Berner’s answer covered all eventualities. If Susan was right, then Berner would get the credit. If she was wrong, then he would merely appear to have been exercising reasonable caution in investigating every lead that came up. At the end of the day, though, it was he, Ted Gage, who had to take one or both theories and kick them upstairs to Julia Keeson. The first idea had the backing of Potheroe and was therefore safe. The second was simply too wild to impress the strictly practical Detective Superintendent. Nevertheless, he could hardly ignore it if it had Berner’s backing. Gage thought for a moment and then made his decision.

‘Right,’ he addressed them. ‘Thank you for your advice, Dr Potheroe, and also for your input, Miss MacQuillan. If the most recent three fires are connected and your idea is correct, then it seems reasonable that the arsonist is connected with one of the three companies involved. I intend to investigate all three for possible motives and if Miss MacQuillan’s idea is correct, then the details will undoubtedly come out in the wash. In the event of there being a link to the death of Alan Sowerby, which I frankly doubt, that too will certainly come out. Any questions?’

Susan MacQuillan started to speak but thought better of it, instead thanking Gage and leaving with the others. Gage sat back, feeling thoroughly pleased with himself. His decision not only advanced the investigation but covered his back, and might just possibly produce a lead in what was fast becoming the most frustrating case of his career.

Robin Riddell turned the corner and glanced nervously along the street. Visiting Jilly was a perfectly reasonable thing to do, he told himself. They had been friends for years. What was making him nervous was not that he shouldn’t be where he was, nor even that she was now Taz’s girlfriend. It was that he knew exactly what he wanted to do with her. There had been something sexual between them for a while. By her own admission, she liked to watch him masturbate and had several times lent a helping hand, squeezing his balls or holding the base of his cock right up until the moment he came. They had fucked at her birthday party, but that had been in a haze of drink and dope, not to mention having to take turns with Taz and Beadle. Now he wanted her full attention, and was sure that the kudos of his knowing the real Fire Ghost would be enough to make the difference.

There was no sign of Taz. Not that Robin had expected there to be. Taz was helping his uncle at a car auction and was guaranteed to be gone for the day. Robin made for the shop from which Jilly’s parents sold bric-a-brac. As he pushed the door open, his heart sank. He had expected Jilly’s mother. Instead, Jilly herself was minding the shop, seated behind the counter with a steaming mug of tea in her hand. If she was in charge of the shop, then sex was hardly practical.