The boys from Belteguese : mf fantasy

I also kept enough of my senses to know that I must try to follow the footprints as far as I could. One look at all the pine needles on the forest floor and I was downhearted. It didn't seem like much of a chance.

Yet I was wrong. Whoever had been wearing the trainers, they seemed to walk this way a lot. Enough to make a faint path anyway, and, thank God, one which traveled in a dead straight line. Because of those two pieces of good luck I was able to keep moving in the right direction. Not very quickly, but staying -- literally -- on the right track. Until I saw a mound of earth dead ahead, well overgrown with bushes and clumps of grass.

About ten yards long and three wide, obviously man made, though many years ago and long abandoned. Then it crossed my mind that perhaps it was a pre-electric ice house, dug out as a store for lake ice during the summer. That was why the earth was piled on top of it like a wartime bunker, to provide the maximum of insulation, here in the shade of the deep forest. So could somebody have an interest in coming here nowadays?

It seemed not, for I could find no sign of an entrance, not when I walked around it. But a casual look wasn't enough for me, not with the memory of those footprints tormenting my curiosity. And when I started probing the ground around the mound with my pen, I soon found that at one end there were a layer of planks covered over with leaf mould and fallen needles. I had to dig at the planks with my fingers, ruining my nails doing it, but I eventually managed to lift three out, making a big enough gap to drop into. It was like going into a tunnel and I cursed because I'd have to go back to my car to get a torch. But then I found a big upright neon-tube torch, apparently brand new. It was standing at the corner of the entrance and it proved beyond doubt that somebody came here regularly. I switched it on and crawled inside to explore.

The first thing I found was that there was room enough to stand up in. The walls and ceilings were made of planks, still in reasonably good condition. They seemed to be anyway, and I sure hoped they were, because I didn't want to get buried in a collapsed dugout. Then I moved around with the torch and found old plastic crates turned upside down for seats, a couple of stained mattresses and a rickety old fold up table covered in stacks of magazines. Porno magazines, very well thumbed magazines, and when I opened the pages I found out that the mattresses weren't the only things in the ice house which had bodily fluids spilt on them.

It seemed that what I'd found was a kind of clubhouse for adolescent boys, and all of them obviously obsessed by the usual obsession of adolescent boys -- sex. Another plastic crate had piles of cutout pictures in it of assorted fucking and there was another table at the end of the room, a whole lot of crumpled tissues dropped around it onto the dirt floor. Scattered across the top of the table were sheets of newspaper sprinkled with specks of soil freshly fallen from between the overhead planking. I held the torch over the table and my eye was caught by a small article which had been highlighted with slashed textra marks around it. The article was brief and concise, about a very, very famous Hollywood actress who'd had to cease work suddenly because of high stress levels. Which sounded familiar enough because I'd handled exactly the same news release at the 'Record' only three or four days ago. And when I checked the date on the paper I was right, it was only three days old.

I couldn't understand the way the evidence was pointing. This particular lady's main attribute was the biggest set of tits in Hollywood but the mere mention of her name in a newspaper didn't seem enough to motivate a circle jerk.

I shuffled the newspaper pages around and suddenly found a picture underneath them, a very high quality color A3 printout secured to the table top with pieces of ducting tape. And in the center of the photo was the very same actress that the newspaper article was written about. The last time I had seen her she'd been hosting a top music award show on TV in a low cut dress: Robin Williams had described the view it provided the drooling males of America as the grandest canyon of them all. The audience had applauded madly and the actress -- let's call her Ms X -- had coyly pretended she hadn't realized she was displaying more tit flesh than a queue at mammography clinic.

That time she'd been perfectly in control of the situation. This time she wasn't. This time she was lying on her back on top of a padded bench, her hands above her head, each wrist held down. And if the expression of horrified surprise on her face was make believe then she had far more acting ability than she'd ever shown in any of her movies.

And I'd been thinking about papperazzi! This shot couldn't be real though; it had to be a masterpiece of digital fakery. A product of the same mindset which had set up those footprints at the fence to make it look as if somebody had walked through the mesh and razor wire where there was no opening.

I kept on saying that to myself as I looked at the photograph. The detail was so fine I could see faint wrinkle lines around Ms X's eyes which made her look a lot older than she did on the movies or on a TV screen. Probably covered by makeup whenever she appeared in front of a camera, even in her famous bathing suit.

Then I realized the implication of what I was thinking: nobody making up a fake face on a graphics program would bother to invent a detail like that. Which meant . . . it was real? For God's sake, could this really have happened? But how could a gang of young boys have gotten these pictures? Unless they had taken them themselves? Which was impossible, they'd never get past her security protection: not unless they could walk through walls and fences . . .

My mind seized up like a locked computer program. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, I stared at the picture again and picked up on the details. It had come off a top quality printer, I was sure, so the original shot had probably been taken with a digital camera. The hands holding down Ms X's wrists were certainly male, though the fingers appeared remarkably long and tapering. The padded bench top the actress was being pinned down on looked like a massage table. A detail which seemed confirmed by Ms X's dress and appearance. She was wearing some kind of an exercise suit, a light red colored track suit with darker red stripes patterned vertically into it and a belt tied with a knot around the waist. A full length zip secured it from neck to crotch, although the zip was pulled down far enough to reveal a hint of Ms X's huge teats. The hood on top of the suit was also pulled back to reveal a damp mass of wet hair and lines of sweat trickling down the sides of her shocked face. Which at least explained the lack of makeup over those wrinkle lines.

At a guess, I'd have said that the exercise suit was rubberized and Ms X had been working and sweating away in it, fighting the daily battle to keep her superb figure when she'd been rudely interrupted. Well, if it wasn't a rude interruption yet I was certain it soon became one. Held down and heaving like a stranded whale as she was, it was highly unlikely any bunch of guys lucky enough to have a tight grip on one of the most wanted bodies in the world would pass up the chance to fulfill the ultimate male fantasy.

Oh, but hell, that was what it was, surely? A horny dream. Just a piece of wishful dreaming by some young guys playing computer games with a hard core porn picture and a movie star's facial image?

My brain cells were short circuiting every which way but my eyes were still working and no way could I not have lifted the sheets of newspaper from the table top and looked underneath them.

There were three rows of the same kind of color printouts, all taped to the table top. Each of them featured X's face and, increasingly, her figure. Judging by the number of hands on her there were four guys around the table grabbing at whatever they could, plus whoever was using the camera. Somebody with shaking hands, anyway, because some of the pics were blurred. But that was no surprise, because what had been going on in front of the lens was every high school boy's wet dream come true.

Especially like a dream, because some of the things in the photos didn't seem to happen the way they should in real life. But those aberrations were later on in the sequence. At first, what I saw is what I expected to see happen. The long fingers pulling down the zip on the front of the exercise suit, then easing the thin rubber covering away from the white cups of a sports bra with thumb wide adjustment buckles on each wide strap, apparently built to the same strength specifications as a parachute harness. And no wonder, because these cups started out where DD size finished: I'm a big girl myself and proud of it, but as far as this woman's bosom was concerned God had shown a total lack of artistic restraint.

The impression from the photos was that the boys themselves couldn't believe that the cups were for real. Their fingers stroked the massive fabric and wire domes, heads bent low over them for closer looks. And then I began to get an even clearer understanding of Ms X's totally dumbfounded expression. It wasn't only the assault, it was the appearance of the boys. They all looked different, yet somehow very much the same.

Light skinned, dark skinned, three Caucasians, one Hispanic, an African. But the faces were all triangular shaped, with hooded eyes and high cheekbones. Not peculiarities enough to stand out in a crowd, not if each boy was alone, but together they told an unmistakable story of a shared parent -- a father, it must have been, because they all seemed about the same age.

I pinched the palm of my hand and looked around the scummy interior of the ice store to get back in touch with reality. At least I could explain the gang's obvious relationship easily enough. These boys must be Priscillians and Dan Baldwin's suspicions about it being a sect were probably right. And all these religious sects seemed to center around the male founder's divine right to bed as many of the female members as he wanted to. It looked like this sect must have been around for at least fifteen years and that whoever started it was a man with a lot of sexual drive. Sexual overdrive was probably a better description, judging by the size of his family, and it seemed to be an inherited trait.

And then, suddenly, from one shot to the next, the exercise suit disappeared. In one picture it was there, unzipped all the way, but still on Ms X, her arms and legs inside it, the belt knotted around her waist, ends hanging free. In the next shot the suit had gone and all that was left on her body was a tiny pair of blue panties and the sports bra -- and the belt that was still tied around her waist.

I couldn't understand it. With that belt left in place it would have been twice as difficult to peel the exercise suit off Ms X's body. Taking the belt off first would have been the logical way to start stripping her. So if they did take the belt off, why would the guys bother to put it back on again? And would they knot it again with exactly the same kind of knot?

Then I noticed that her exercise shoes are still on her feet as well. Yet dragging the close fitting suit down over them must have been almost impossible. They'd taken her shoes off and then put them back on again? Just to see how they looked on an otherwise naked movie star? No way!

Again and again I looked at the two shots, comparing them. Then I noticed the large bead of sweat close to Ms X's right eye in the last shot with the suit on. In the first shot without the suit that same bead of sweat was still there, in almost exactly the same place. And Ms X's mouth is gaping open in astonishment. So is mine. Because in the next shot a forefinger reaches down and touches the top of the left bra cup -- in the next shot another finger from a different hand rests on the other cup -- in the third shot the bra has also disappeared and the two finger tips are gently rubbing the woman's bared nipples!

When I saw this I almost dropped the torch. Compared to what I was looking at here those Rottweilers back at the fence suddenly seemed like playful puppies. For either I'm missing something or else this is very, very strange shit, and no wonder Ms X is being treated for stress, never mind what else has happened to her. Just looking at the shots I've seen so far has put me on the edge of a nervous breakdown of my own. I ran my fingers over the camera in my pocket and knew I would have to use it to photograph these photographs. Without that proof to keep looking at I'd be doubting my own sanity as soon as I'd left this crazy place.

On the next row of shots groups of faces came together again, meetings of brothers -- half brothers. Not only are some of the facial expressions shared, there even seems to be a kind of empathy between them as they handle the massive bared udders, squeezing each one so the nipples are held high for waiting mouths to eagerly suckle. One of the boys had a length of elastic which he kept snapping against the swollen nipples whenever he could manage a clear shot: it's a hell of a way to treat a pair of tits insured for a million bucks apiece. For a crazy second I imagined the scene at Lloyd's of London when the underwriters read the insurance claim on this incident. I'm even giggling at the thought but I stop it when I think I hear something moving outside the ice store.