Chain of Command

by Nicole Dere

  She was relieved when Mr and Mrs Edwards had been safely dispatched, and she let her gaze wander with a keen sense of pleasure and anticipation over Andy Wise’s form when the two of them were left alone. The noises of the traffic, the faint cries of children from a nearby school yard blown on the wind, the bark of neighbouring dogs and the loud tick of the clock proudly centred on the mantelpiece of the small front room, served only to emphasise the quiet, and the sense of insulation. ‘Alone at last.’

  Andy blushed, delightfully, and Jackie felt that thrilling desire stirring. The girl looked good and tastefully ripe, and Jackie was hungry. Andy was wearing her denim outfit of faded jeans and jacket. The jeans stretched tightly over that pertly thrusting bottom, both cheeks individually outlined, and clung to those splendid hockey player’s thighs. Already Jackie could feel her own sex furrow spasming at the thought of peeling that skin-tight cover off her young acolyte. In spite of the dull October day there was a five-inch gap between the top of the jeans and the tight hem of the battledress type denim jacket and the sweater beneath it, which showed the light honey shade of the midriff, and that shallow little eye of the navel. Jackie’s mouth watered as she savoured the thought of her tongue poking delicately into the dainty little fissure, lapping its sweetness. She had noticed with quickening appreciation, as Andy bent down to pick up the one suitcase the Edwards were taking and help them towards the taxi waiting in the street, the gap which appeared at the back of the jeans, and the merest hint of black elastic that denoted the knickers peeping coyly forth, across that enticing vista of the hollowed back, and the faint risings either side that swept down towards those tempting, fuller swellings of buttocks hidden by seamed denim which stretched so tightly and so invitingly over them.

  Now, in the ticking stillness of the front room, the grey light filtering through the spotless and concealing net curtains at the window, Jackie advanced slowly, her smile looking even more predatory. Andy stood motionless, trembling. She felt, as she habitually did now in her superior’s presence, that mingling of fear and sexual excitement. ‘I’m not rushing off, Andy, my pet. I want to see you well settled in, help you to feel at home. And the first thing is to get you out of those denims and those boots of yours. You look like a right little ladette, a proper little bovver boy, and we can’t have that now can we, sunshine?’

  Andy’s voice was as unsteady as she felt inside. She had to clear her throat before she could answer in a rusty half-whisper. ‘I have to wear them, Ma’am.’ She gave a timid smile, far from her former ebullient, outgoing personality. ‘I wouldn’t dare wear anything else with Chopper... DC Harris and DS Wills, Ma’am.’

  ‘Why? They haven’t tried anything on, have they?’ Jackie’s voice was sharp, her look suspicious.

  ‘No!’ Andy answered hastily. ‘They... they wouldn’t dare. Not now. Not now that...’ Her face crimsoned and she faltered into silence. She was relieved when the older woman merely gave a soft chuckle and her face took on an amused, teasing expression.

  ‘What? You mean now they know you’re my little girlie, Wise?’

  Andy gave a resigned shrug and looked uncomfortable. But she did not retreat or stiffen as Jackie took her in her arms and, with an ease which indicated just how true she believed her words to be, sought out the uplifted mouth and delivered a long, increasingly passionate kiss, to which Andy’s responsive lips parted and accepted the thrusting of the claiming tongue, as she accepted the pressure of the body against hers.

  Jackie hustled her out into the dim narrowness of the hallway, gesturing for her to go ahead of her up the narrow staircase, feasting her eyes on the view as the girl obeyed. Andy entered the tiny bedroom opposite the bathroom. Her bag was already on the neatly made single bed, whose length occupied almost the whole of the wall against which it stood. Jackie laughed. ‘Oh, single bed, eh? Not much room. No rush, though. Come on then, get out of that outfit.’ She swung Andy’s grip onto the floor and stretched herself out on the counterpane, folding her hands behind her head. A dark eyebrow rose questioningly as Andy hesitated for a second.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ She slipped the short jacket off, dropped it on top of the grip, and then peeled the brown jumper over her head. She was wearing a plain white cotton camisole underneath, with thin satin shoulder straps.

  ‘What, no bra?’ Jackie taunted. ‘A big girl like you?’

  Andy coloured once more. ‘I don’t need it. My tits are firm enough.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ She nodded and Andy removed the little garment. Her arms moved instinctively to cover her breasts, and then self-consciously she let them rest at her sides, her fists clenched. She moved to unfasten the waistband of her jeans, but was stopped by her boss.

  ‘No, wait, I’ll do that. We can’t let you do all the work, can we, Constable?’ She sat up and turned the standing figure by the hips, pulling her in close between her knees. Deftly she unhooked and drew down the fly. The denim parted to reveal the neat little black ‘V’ of the bikini briefs beneath, hugging the triangle of her crotch. She had to tug hard to ease the jeans down over the hips and the rounds of the buttocks, and they clung obstinately to Andy’s upper thighs.

  Andy made to move. ‘They won’t... I’ll have to take my boots off first.’

  ‘No.’ The single word was an imperious command. Jackie swivelled the girl round by her hips and pulled her onto the bed, so that Andy found herself lying on her back with her legs draped over Jackie’s knees. She waited for Jackie to start plucking at the laces of the boots, to tug them off her feet, but instead Jackie twisted round so that she was lying along the edge of the bed, almost on top of the supine figure whose legs were still entangled in the bonding denim around her thighs. Jackie made no attempt to continue the undressing, but lowered her face to Andy’s and began a slow series of kisses to the upturned mouth and throat, until their mingled breath pounded in their ears along with the drumming of their blood.

  Jackie let her hand move to the warm softness of Andy’s belly. Her fingers slid underneath the elastic of the knickers and were trapped in their warm confines. They moved slowly over the patch of springy pubic hair, and on to the soft swell of the mound and the upper folds of her labial cleft. Under the cover of the black cotton the fingers searched, knowingly traced the line of the labia, parting the tissue to probe into the slippery wet surface, to seek under the fleshy protection the tiny shroud of the clitoris, and to caress its ultra-sensitised surrounds.

  Andy whimpered. Her belly lifted, the globes of her bottom tightened and clenched, the muscles of her thighs stood out. ‘Take my pants off, please,’ she begged passionately.

  ‘Please, what?’

  ‘Please, Ma’am.’

  Two fingers slid in, deeper, below the roused bud, into the entrance of the vagina, whose walls spasmed convulsively and hugged the intruders in flooding welcome. The thumb rested on that exquisitely throbbing upper crest, where the fingers had formerly caressed, and Andy gave a sobbing cry of utter helplessness, a curious mix of despair and ecstasy, as her hips and tummy lifted again, completely at the mercy of that hand, hidden but outlined under the now soaking strip of black.

  ‘Oh, Ma’am, it’s... I’m coming! I’m coming!’ The boots caught up in the counterpane, lifted and struggled to kick free. Jackie’s sweating face had buried itself deep in the sweet envelopment of bare flesh, her mouth fastened with exultant force around the engorged nipple of the right breast. There was one last wrenching bark of lost consummation as the half naked body exploded in violent orgasm, and was stilled only sobbing seconds later as the aftershocks finally died down.

  At last Jackie raised her face from the breast she had been devouring. Her hand moved from between the trembling thighs, leaving the crumpled little slip of black cloth still half concealing the crotch, the darkened pubes exposed to view. She groaned and extended her fingers, thickly coated with the lubricious secretions
they had caused. ‘Now come on, darling. Shift your gorgeous arse and get the rest of your kit off. I’m sick of you youngsters leaving me to do all the work while you have all the fun.’

  There was other, more bizarre activity taking place while DI Barlow was helping her new subordinate to settle into her surveillance post at number 17, several miles distant but involving her other protégé and lover. It was perhaps fortunate that it was this time beyond the range of Willy and Chopper’s technical expertise to view it ‘live’, even though they were endeavouring to keep their discreet watch on the building where this activity was taking place.

  As usual Jill was feeling the unpleasantly increased sensation of the butterflies which so regularly fluttered in her stomach when Liz announced with her disconcerting suddenness and lack of detail that the quartet of girls at 41 had another special assignment, at the ‘studio’ famed for its mud-larking and Victorian bed romps. ‘More filming, but something different, Jack said. That’s all I know, I swear, so be prepared for anything.’

  Even Jill’s heightened sense of alarm was temporarily overshadowed by sheer amazement as the mystery slowly unfolded. Four narrow trestle tables had been set out side by side with only a couple of feet of space between them, and all four bathed in the brilliance of a ring of spotlights surrounding them. There were two cameras fixed on their stands, as well as a handheld instrument, which seemed to be operating from the girls’ arrival in the studio. Jack Palmer was there with a select number of his associates, some of whom Jill could recognise, but centre stage was held by a theatrically arresting figure, a tall man of clearly advanced years with a carefully clipped silver beard, and a luxuriant but also skilfully groomed flowing head of hair, of the same colour. The thin features were lined, and of an aristocratic refinement, which went both with the rich finesse of the voice and the worldly air of debauchery.

  ‘This is Roland. Do exactly as he says, girls, and don’t piss around.’ Palmer’s instruction, despite its casual delivery, was clear and not negotiable.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies. If you wouldn’t mind undressing... everything off, please.’ The cultured voice was polite, couched in the form of a genteel request, in great contrast with Jack Palmer’s more direct tone. Nevertheless, the four girls began at once to peel off their clothing, striving to ignore the individual wielding the camera, which swooped and ducked and hovered, recording all their intimate movements as they quickly stripped naked.

  It wasn’t until they stood ready, unable to disguise the touch of self-consciousness, despite the fact that all four were well used to appearing unclothed in such public circumstances, that they realised the aristocratic Roland had an assistant, herself a very attractive woman, perhaps in her early forties. She entered the room wearing a spotless white overall and white rubber gloves, such as those a doctor or nurse might wear.

  ‘What about the redhead and the brunette?’ someone called. ‘Do you need them shaved?’

  Jill blushed fiercely as understanding dawned that the speaker was referring to her pubic hair and the red patch at Liz’s crotch. Karyn and Odette’s mounds were already hairless.

  The silver mane shook as Roland smiled and dismissed the suggestion. ‘No, not at all. In fact it can add a piquant touch to the finished article, a trace of pubic growth. Not that there’s usually much - just a hint.’ He was already gesturing towards the four parallel tables, on each of which a white sheet had been spread and a small pillow positioned at the head. Roland also smoothed on a pair of the latex gloves, and gestured elegantly towards the tables. ‘Take your places please, ladies. Any order. Just lie back and make yourselves comfortable. And please relax. The whole process is virtually painless, and won’t take any more than half an hour at most. My assistant will examine you and then prepare you for the process.’

  Jill’s brain was racing, close to panic mode. What was going to happen? Should she try to make a break for freedom now, before it was too late? Could it be something that might cause permanent damage? But even as she dithered the suave tone of Roland went on to explain succinctly what he intended to do to them, and once more her panic subsided to a feeling of surreal astonishment.

  The glamorous assistant, who was introduced as Verna, approached Jill first, who had taken one of the outer places. The woman beamed a reassuring smile at her. ‘Relax and bend your knees for me, my dear.’ Jill felt the cold smoothness of the gloves as Verna took her left leg and positioned it as she wished. Gently the latex hands pushed at the insides of her knees, opening her legs to an embarrassingly generous width and exposing her sex to her scrutiny, and to a swift but disturbingly intimate examination, including a brief penetration of the vagina by a straightened digit. ‘Fine. OK. Now remain relaxed, my dear. I’m just going to insert this inside and make sure it’s in place.’

  Jill tensed and gave a soft gasp as she felt the woman’s fingers peeling open her labia, pushing something which looked and felt like cling-film into the sheath of her vagina, a finger delicately continuing to probe so that Jill’s muscles contracted involuntarily about the invader. But she felt, along with the fleeting discomfort and far worse embarrassment, a strong pulse of arousal as the finger moved to ensure that the narrow sheath was lined with the film. The finger withdrew and, even more disturbingly, began gently to spread the film over the outer surface of her labia to the crease of her thighs and up over her pubic mound. ‘There, that should do you. Now lie back and enjoy.’ Even white teeth showed in a flashing smile and then Verna, already snapping off the gloves for another pristine pair, was moving on to Liz positioned on the next table.

  Too absorbed in what was happening to her to be aware of her companions, Jill stared in consternation at the urbane figure of Roland, who quickly took Verna’s place. He was bearing what appeared to be a small cauldron filled with white paste. ‘This is just like plaster of Paris, young lady,’ he informed her soothingly, ‘except that it sets a damned sight quicker. All you have to do is lie back and let nature take its course. I’m sure you’re very good at that.’ His right eye flickered in a wink, and Jill felt the tide of shame sweeping over her again. She was deeply shocked at the undeniable thrill she experienced at lying there, thighs slackly spread, naked, while his sure hands moved to her sex and competently poured and smeared in the warm, glutinous mixture, guiding and smearing it along the length of her sex cleft and over her mound. She felt its heat, far from unbearable, filling the tight passage of her vagina. With a final delicate dab at the edge of her thighs, and then, most shameful of all, the shady little depth that led to her hidden anus, to remove stray drops of the plaster, he moved on to his next victim.

  Jill found herself staring at the hunched form of the young man operating the camera, as he leaned over between her raised knees and held the lens no more than a foot from her plastered vulva and sighed with professional satisfaction. ‘Great!’ he exclaimed and nodded in friendly fashion before stepping back and turning his barrel lens on Liz.

  A plaster cast of her cunt! Even though Jill could feel the prick of tears behind her eyes at the humiliation she was enduring, she felt a wild urge to break into laughter - hysterical maybe, but it was savagely funny all the same. Oh, God, wait till Jackie heard about it! She prayed fervently though that the odious Harris and Wills would not be able to latch on to this, for it would certainly spell the end of her career in the police force. She would run, and never stop running, if this fiasco was ever made public to anyone she knew.

  Her despairing thoughts were powerfully distracted, however, as the plaster quickly began to set. She felt it first of all hot, and uncomfortably itching, then a kind of swelling, or maybe it was just her vagina contracting about it as it hardened. And that very hardness, filling her more and more emphatically it seemed, began to arouse sensations ever more stirring, until she gnawed at her lip and had to concentrate fiercely on the task of keeping perfectly still, except for that involuntary clenching and throbbing deep
inside. She could feel a light film of sweat on her brow and upper lip, and she had to clench her hands painfully, digging her nails into her palms to prevent herself from moving, from pressing her hands over that throbbing centre, to ease the heat increasingly consuming her. She blinked back the tears and lay staring desolately up at the ceiling, shadowy through the brilliance of the halo of light in which her body was bathed.

  Then both Roland and Verna were there, one either side of the table and their hands combined. The woman delicately began to peel back the outer edges of the film from between Jill’s thighs. There was an instant of pain as Roland’s hands pressed at the base of her belly, then along the length of her sex, and suddenly she could feel the mould of hardened plaster moving. She shuddered at its painful pulling of the tissue clinging to it, then with a long, smooth glide which made her shiver and sent a wave of thrilling excitement right through her, she felt the object expel itself from her, replaced by a tormenting itching. She whimpered with blessed relief at the cold caress of the water which, trapped in a sponge, Verna pressed and held against her sex.

  ‘Up you get and go and wash, through there. As thoroughly as you can. Take your time in the shower.’ The even white teeth showed again in an encouraging smile. ‘You can help each other out, if you like. Soon as you get the chance sit in the bath or use a bidet, if you have one. You shouldn’t have any trouble. We’re always careful and we’ve done dozens of casts. Cute, aren’t they?’

  The girls didn’t get the chance to really look at them until after they had showered and dressed. When they emerged into the studio again, there they were, the four casts, like some abstract, funnelled, furling sculptures in miniature, white, laid on their sides.