The boys from Belteguese : mf fantasy

I waited and I waited, but I didn't hear anything else except my pounding heart, and finally I looked at the shots again. They're as unreal as ever. These dudes aren't worried about being caught, they're cool, they're so cool they smile at each other like they're smoking behind the gym at a high school instead of mauling a major, major film star. How can that be? If these pictures are for real then this woman must have had security guards nearby, and if they come storming in these young delinquents will be hamburger meat.

But it's Ms X's biggest assets which are the fast food item here and she's not getting any help from anybody. None of the boys seem at all sympathetic to her. It's that kind of shared mindset again that I sense between them: they're in the groove, they're doing exactly what they want to do and nobody else matters at all. Instead of being frightened of being discovered they seem to be doing everything they can to make their victim yell out at the top of her voice.

It's power I'm seeing here, and the power of a pack of young males over one trapped woman is only the least part of it. Either I'm mad enough to be institutionalized or these guys seem able to make things disappear -- and re-appear too, maybe, because there sure wasn't any hole left in that fence where the footprints had crossed it. Not one big enough for a Rottweiler to get through, anyway.

I shook my head as if I'd been punched, trapped in a contradiction between plain sense and plain sight. Things couldn't be the way they looked, so these photos must be faked. And this whole setup must be some kind of strange joke staged for anybody who comes snooping around the Priscillians. But if it's a joke, how did this group of religious nuts arrange that report about Ms X in the paper? I know that's not a fake because the Record itself ran it -- for Christ's sake, it was me that took it off the wire service!

I couldn't find a way through the mental maze I'd become hopelessly lost inside. I didn't know whether I'd stumbled into something beyond incredible or whether maybe somebody was watching me on a surveillance camera and laughing fit to bust a gut. And then I realized my arms were crossed in front of my body and I was gently rubbing my own nipples. I also realized I was more turned on by the pictures on the table than just about anything I'd ever seen in my life.

Maybe it was because I was inwardly convinced now that it really was Ms X I was looking at on the shots. How often you get to see a movie star being set up for a real live gangbang? And every girl wonders about how she'd feel if she was in that kind of a situation: suppose it was me on that bench, suppose it was me that was held down and stripped off, suppose it was me who was having her tits played with and sucked on, being made hot and ready for the first of her impatient lovers?

Yes, for me that was a turn on too, but what was absolutely grabbing me was a fantasy I'd had ever since I reached puberty. A fantasy about the Greek myths and about how Gods like Zeus had come down among mortals to pleasure himself with their woman. What must it have felt like for a beautiful Greek girl to suddenly find herself being a fuck toy for a bunch of pleasure seeking immortals visiting from Mount Olympus? To be the slave of demi-gods with divine powers who could punish or pleasure beyond limit at a whim?

Yes, it was a dream because there are no gods in real life. Some good looking guys sure, a few I'd even gone down on my knees for, but none I'd ever felt like worshipping. Perhaps I hadn't found the right sect myself to join, or the right leader. But maybe that was changing, because either I was a total moron or here was a gang of teenage boys with genuine supernatural powers.

OK, maybe it was a crazy thought but I had enough evidence on those shots to make the idea seem plausible, and how much more evidence does anybody need to justify a sexual fantasy? True or faked, I wanted time to study all the photos for every detail in them. Even if they were digital trickery they were still an incredible discovery. If they were true . . . if they were true then fate had handed me a chance that would never come again in a thousand lifetimes. Overnight I could become the most famous journalist in history!

But this wasn't a place I should be lingering in. It seemed like I'd been here for hours already, and what if somebody had come to check on those noisy dogs, or saw my car near the road? Yes, it was time to be out of here. I needed time to think and plan. After I'd done what I needed to do.

The first chores were the easy ones. Taking flash photos of the inside of the ice house, then checking if there was any other photos anything like the ones on the table. If there were, I couldn't find them, everything else was strictly commercial type porn. Then I picked up a few of the crumpled tissues off the floor. If these guys were anywhere as near as strange as I suspected their DNA should be real interesting. The thought did cross my mind that I'd collected sperm samples before, but this was the first time I'd ever carried them home in my pocket instead of the more usual receptacle. Maybe I should tell that to Dan and watch him start panting.

The hard part was trying to photograph the shots of Ms X with my camera. As good as it was, and even with the flash and the macro lens setting, when I looked through the display screen I knew that what I was getting was well below the quality of the originals. So that left me staring down at the table with a multiple choice question. Take none of the below? Take one of the below? Take all of the below?

Take none of them and nobody back at the paper would believe what I was telling them. The second hand shots out of my own camera would never carry the conviction that one of the originals photos would.

Take one of them and my story would be more convincing, but then the owners of the photos would know beyond doubt that somebody had been here. Somebody who had been here and seen all their dirty secrets. Somebody who'd also picked up the tissues with the traces of cum from their own cocks which linked them straight into a rape case guaranteed to send the media totally apeshit if word about it leaked out.

Which meant at least that the jerkoffs couldn't be anymore upset if I took all their pictures instead of just one. And not only would I have all of them to prove what I was claiming, I might even be able to do better. I might be able to use the shots of Ms X's ravishment and the used tissues as payment for hard information. Information which I could use to write and authenticate my own story, whatever the hell it eventually turned out to be.

Oh yes, who could resist trying for a deal like that? And as for the mightily endowed and muchly abused Ms X, well, fuck her again as far as I cared. She'd made enough money to buy half the real estate in California by cock teasing millions and millions of guys with her bustline -- if she'd finally ended getting bust for it herself, that was her problem.

What with my shaky hands and broken fingernails it seemed to take forever to peel the photos off the table and put them in my pockets. I didn't waste time looking at them closely, but although they weren't any great displays of photographic talent they were brilliantly graphic in content. Ms X had been totally fucked every which way and it seemed that the usual opening routine was to have her holding her tits together -- with a lot of other helping hands -- for a guy to rub his cock between them while she licked his ass. No doubt about it, when I had all the shots of her performance stowed away in my pockets I had the makings of a real X file. More of an XXXX file, really.

The one problem left, of course, was that I had no way of getting in touch with this gang. And they had no way of getting in touch with me either. And I sure didn't intend leaving them my phone number or address.

OK, that was easily solved. In the old days it could be a bad move to give your phone number to a guy: he might be great to look at but a pain in the ass if he turned out to be a loser and wouldn't leave you alone. But give him an anonymous email address and he can pitch his woo as much as he likes without knowing a thing more about you than what you look like. Which is how come I can pick and choose my guys like Britney Spears; it's because I hand out hotmail addresses to anything in pants which takes my fancy. Collecting men for fun and profit is a great hobby once you learn to be one of the hunters instead of the hunted, but I never thought I'd go trawling for mutants -- well, not outside San Francisco, anyway.

I left my first name and one of my anonymous email addresses on the margin of one of the newspapers. Then, on impulse, I scrawled a few extra words alongside it: "What you people need now is a real woman!" I could almost imagine the ghostly figure of Dan Baldwin standing in the shades of the ice house and shaking his head sadly at yet another example of my impudence and imprudence. The poor old guy was right: I am a born prick teaser myself.

So, it was time to go. I'd done everything my sense of journalistic duty had ordered me to do and now I was off duty and out of here. Maybe Scully would have handled the situation better but I'd done the best I could. At least I was careful enough to remember to wipe my fingerprints off the torch before I put it back. Then I replaced the planks and covered them up again.

The dripping forest was darker than I expected, as though I'd spent hours inside the ice store. When I looked at my watch I was shocked to realize that the waning daylight was no passing illusion. I'd spent over two hours down in the dugout, and the one thing you could surely say about them was that I hadn't been bored, not once. Frightened yes, but not as frightened as I was now, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood scurrying away from a home invasion of the Wolf's den. If ever I came back here I was coming with some serious back up, and I'd never before been so glad to see the Honda.

Even when I was inside the car in familiar surroundings my nerves were stretched taut in case I got bogged in the wet ground. But it didn't happen and very soon I was driving back the way I'd come. Driving dangerously, to be truthful, because my mind was so full of what I'd found that I could hardly spare the attention needed to steer safely along an empty road. Not only was I excited, I was tired, more tired than I'd been for a long, long time. If I tried to make the long drive back down out of the mountains right now I was going to be a major danger to myself and anybody else on the road.

There was a motel in the middle of the township with the "VACANCIES" sign illuminated. I booked a cabin and hit the bed for a late siesta. But first of all I put all the photos and tissues in an envelope and made sure the receptionist locked them in the motel safe. My last thoughts before I dropped off was that I'd better find time to say goodbye to Scott and Diane before I left -- I might need their help again. But I certainly didn't want to spend much time with them: the temptation to talk about what I'd found might be more than I could resist.

Two hours solid sleep and I felt fine again. Well, physically I felt fine. Mentally, I was still off balance. A great big crack seemed to have opened in the way the world was supposed to be and that was hard to accept. In many ways I'd be happy to be proved a fool and have done with it, but those photos took more explaining than I could come up with. I guess I must have stood underneath a hot shower for about ten minutes just thinking about alternative plans. Call Dan now? Put the photos on his desk on Monday morning? Tell Scott and Diane? Hire some muscle and stakeout that ice store?

No, all those gallons of steaming water didn't wash away my previous decision: keep the evidence to myself, stay quiet and let the gang contact me quietly through the untraceable email back-channel. The one thing I was sure of was that they would contact me and that they would have to do a deal in return for the evidence I had on them. The greatest story in history and mine, all mine!

I was as hungry as a fashion model and eager for the one stiff drink I could allow myself before driving -- and that wasn't the only stiff thing I would have welcomed. Ms X's enforced dancing-with-cocks routine was still stirring up my basic instincts, not to mention the excellent chance that I was likely to be a millionaire very, very soon. Any good looking guy who made a pass at me tonight might be luckier than he expected. And since there was a bar and grill complex in the motel it was time to open the emergency allure kit.

Of course I'd only bought the bare necessities into the mountains with me. Just a simple silver and sequined mini skirt and matching top with plenty of bare midriff on show and high heeled shoes. That outfit and a generous splash of Fleur D'Rocaille should keep the wolves at the door. I squinted into the mirror with half closed eyes as I applied my makeup, trying to convince myself yet again that I really do look a lot like Lauren Bacall. It would be nice to find a guy who'd tell me that but none of the boys I date have ever heard of her.

I'd thought Lake Constitution was a quiet place but there weren't many vacant slots in the parking lot outside the bar and grill. And the waitress's smile flickered like a power outage when I asked for a non-smoking table for one. I could see why, the bar room had two big TV screens in it and one look at the crowd in there was enough to remind me it was Super Bowl Saturday. She asked me if I minded sharing, I said 'no', like I had any choice, and ended up sharing a booth with two other new arrivals. Two powerfully built Rhine maidens who politely switched from German to near perfect English as I joined them.

Well, both of them were from Berlin really, on holiday and driving a hired Winnebago around the tourist areas. Hanna and her sister, Muni. They looked more Spanish than German, both wearing stretch pants over muscular skiers' legs which neatly connected their taut butts to two pairs of high heeled boots. Each sister had wavy dark hair and brown eyes. Muni was wearing a light sweater but Hanna had accentuated her cowhide boots with a frilly white shirt. She gave the impression she would be out on the dance floor at the drop of a sombrero, clicking her heels and clapping her hands above her head. Perhaps she thought they were in Texas. Anyway, the three of us together were soon getting almost as much attention as each of the six foot by six foot TV screens. Something we were well aware of as we chatted over drinks, examined the menu and looked around the room.

It was a nice old fashioned sort of place. Dark green floral wallpaper offset by dark wooden paneling with highly polished brass light fittings. Waitresses in green shirts and khaki slacks weaved their way around the tables with piled up plates and platters. Plenty of hunks over in the bar room as well,munching wings, knocking back brews and getting cricks in their necks from trying to divide their attention between the NFL and our table. A couple of the guys deserved second looks themselves, but first things first. A healthy girl has healthy appetites, and one of them is eating. In exchange for a glass of Merlot from the german girls' bottle I helped them through the intricacies of an American menu. We'd just about agreed on Manhattan Frisbees for the entree course when I noticed Muni was looking out of the booth, half smiling but in a puzzled manner. I turned my neck: two boys were standing close to the booth, staring intently at us as if we were museum exhibits.

One Caucasian, one Hispanic. Triangular shaped faces, with hooded eyes and high cheekbones. Watching us: watching me. I couldn't help giving an involuntary start. Then I looked down at the place mat, my stomach churning. I scrabbled for the menu and pretended to be reading it again. For the first time I was suddenly very aware of my broken nails. I'm even more aware of the boys stepping up close to the booth. I looked up again. They were both lean, middle height, moving gracefully, smiling. Both of them looking intently at my hands. It was useless now to try to hide them under the menu, useless and much too late.

"Well, Ms Judith Stynes, I do believe. And so this must be your property."

It was the Caucasian one speaking to me. He sounded as self assured as he looked. I stared at him and at the envelope he handed to me. I took it and saw that it looked exactly like the one that should be in the motel safe. I looked again and read my name and room number written on it and the attached receipt and date stamp. It was without doubt the envelope I'd seen locked away in the massive old fashioned safe behind the reception desk.

"Take a look inside, Judith. Let me know if everything's there."