Chain Story
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Chain Of Desire free porn video
The Past.
It was one of the vivid dreams. Even when she was in it, she could tell. She could feel her heart beating faster just at how real everything around her seemed: blades of grass under bare feet, a cool breeze against her skin.
The sound of screams borne on the wind.
She looked down at her body. She was sleek, compact and well-muscled, a match for her form in real life. But she was naked. Her body was covered from neck to knees in an intricate tracery of blue tattoos. Her nipples stood to attention in the chill air. Her long hair whipped in the wind, and she caught a strand on the fingers of her left hand and looked at it: bronze-coloured, just like in life. That was how she knew this was just a dream.
But it was no comfort. This was no lucid dream, she could not control it. And it was one of the bad ones. She’d had it before. She held a rude cudgel in her right hand, caked with blood and brains. Her intricately-inked flesh was splashed with gore. Looking out on the field, she could see Queen Budugg’s mighty host scattering, broken. The merciless legions were shoving their way through great stacks of corpses, starting to advance down from the ridge to press their advantage.
She had to run. She knew it. She looked back behind her at the wagon train, drawn up to survey the battle in expectation of a victory. After all, they had outnumbered the enemy eight to one. But now, the families of the Iceni and their allies were gathering what they could, scrabbling desperately, fleeing for their lives. Already the Roman cavalry had broken through and over a dozen of the wagons were ablaze.
Queen Budugg was dead, the day lost. She didn’t know how she knew it, why she felt the raw grief of it so powerfully. But she did. She could remember her brave Queen’s face, which made up in inspiration and openness what it lacked in classical beauty. The desolation was overwhelming.
Then she saw a warrior go down in front of her, a sword in his back. It was always the same warrior in the same way, with the same terrible cry. She looked up and broke from her trance, realizing the front edge of the Roman infantry were closer than she’d thought. And she turned and fled.
In the dream she was fleet of foot as a gazelle, and her callused feet hardly felt the ground. She could nigh have flown over the fields if the exhaustion of the failed battle wasn’t on her. But it was.
She broke past one of the burning wagons and sagged to her knees as the screams of her countrymen surrounded her. This was the end of the Iceni, she felt it in every fibre. Where was there to run?
Even Roman discipline gave way before the hot rush of victory. The legionaries were hunting their enemies like foxes chasing rabbits. She felt an armoured body hammer into her from behind, knocking her wind out as her club span away from nerveless fingers. She saw stars, struggled to drew breath.
By the time she managed to suck in a lungful of air with a great, sobbing gasp, she had been forced onto her back and he was atop her. Shushing her.
She looked up, saw his face. His helmet was gone. He had short, woolly hair and a nut-brown complexion, chiseled features and striking grey eyes that looked down at her with something that almost seemed like pity. Strange eyes to see in such an hour. He didn’t look like a Roman ... but then, what did a Roman look like? Their mad Emperor had the whole world under his boot.
He held his short gladius at her throat. The blade was dark with blood. He put a finger to his lips. All around them she could hear the despairing cries of women falling into the hands of the Romans, the guttural cries ripped from their depths as they were subjected to the ultimate outrage.
Every fibre of her vibrated with the fear of that. But then the legionary said, in thickly-accented Latin: “Stay down. Stay quiet. I’ll try to spare you the worst of it, but you must be still.”
She wasn’t sure how she understood him. How she even knew he was speaking Latiin. But she held still, her screams of defiance dying in her throat.
She breathed. Watched the blade of his gladius. He pulled it back as if not wanting to menace her, his eyes still wary, a finger still at his lips. All around them she could her the cries of woman being dragged by their hair, thrown to the cold earth and taken on the spot or hoisted over armoured shoulders as booty. She heard one legionary call out to the man atop her. “See how Dracontius guards his prize!” A gale of coarse laughter. “Give her one for me, Africanus!”
There was the ring in that last of a half-mocking nickname. Dracontius looking up and giving a half-hearted smile as he held her down. Her right hand felt blindly around for a new weapon, found a stone in the turf nearby. She could strike him with it, be up and away ... but where?
This part of the dream made her want to wake. She knew what was coming next, and it confounded her, even horrified her. But she could not wake.
She felt a wild urge rising inside her. Perhaps fuelled by the proximity of death all around, the rising need to live, to feel something of life amidst the reeking miasma of the realm of Thanatos. She heard herself say the words, somehow in Latin: “You must do something.”
“What?” The legionary looked back at her, quizzical. “What do you mean?”
“Your comrades won’t let us just lie here until they go away.” Her voice, speaking a terrible truth that could lead to only one thing. “You have to at least look like you’re one of them. Like you’re taking your pleasure.”
He looked back at her in surprise. She could feel his manhood stirring under his leather kilt, the lust rising even as he said: “I ... told myself I would not do that.”
“You’ve already helped to murder my people,” she said matter of factly. “Their blood stains your sword even now. What does the rest matter? You think your hands will be clean if you don’t cross this final boundary?” Heard the barb in her tone as she added: “Or maybe you don’t prefer girls?”
As always, there was disbelief at these words passing her lips, at the strange rush of desire – desperate, animal desire, a yearning for escape from the awfulness of their defeat – rising in her. Her waking-world self recoiled from it ... but the dream went on, implacable, and in her dream body she was only a passenger.
The legionary regarded her for a long moment and then said: “To kill a man in battle is one thing. But this ... I can’t. I can’t do a thing that you do not wish. That you cannot wish.”
“A fine philosopher in soldier’s garb.” She struggled now, spat at him with contempt, goaded him: “All you’re missing is the beard. Will it make you feel cleaner if I ask you, philosopher? Will it make you feel righteous if I beg? Will you be more of a man and less of a murderer?”
He gave a wry smile that only provoked her further. “You’re a fierce one, aren’t you?”
“What difference is it to you?” She felt an edge of hysteria in her laughter, but she laughed all the same. “Hear that? Your comrades can. They hear me laughing at you. One of them will do it if you’re too much of a hypocrite. We will never have this opportunity again.”
“And what opportunity is that?”
“You know.” She held his gaze defiantly. “We’re in the eye of the storm. My gods have abandoned me and cursed me with some madness in their going. The mad idea that I could have some last touch of life before you Romans sell me into slavery and living death. You know. The question is, do you have the courage to act on what you know, philosopher?”
Dracontius’ breathing grew heavier. His hardness pressed against her through his leather kilt. He looked like a man waiting to wake from a dream, the irony of which was not lost on her. His voice was thick with desire as he finally said: “What is it you want of me?”
Her disbelieving mind heard the words come like something pronounced by a dark goddess of lust. “I want you to touch me. Like a lover touches a lover. Give me that last mercy before I’m thrown to the dogs.”
As the words came, the tingling between her thighs testified to their truth. His sword point wavering slightly, the legionary watched her like a man in a trance as he worked his free hand down between their bodies. Down between her trembling thighs.
The conqueror touched her there, found her hot and wet, the blandishments of Eros trying to drive out the curse of Thanatos that she breathed in from the battlefield. His touch was knowing, he was no amateur with women. He found the sensitive nubbin above her slick sex, caressed ever-so-gently it in a slow circular motion, and made her moan, her spine arching as she shut her eyes and tried to shut out the dying screams of her countrymen.
Suddenly there were just the two of them in all the world, two bodies carving out a little island of clinging passion among the ravished and the slain. Her arms went around his armoured torso as he stroked, drawing out the honeyed dew from her petals as she ground against his clever, callused fingers.
“Is that it, my wanton little warrior?” he was panting now. “Is that what you wanted?”
“It ... it will do, philosopher,” she whispered. “For a beginning.”
His fingers slipped into her clasping channel. He began to fuck her with those long, knowing digits. She felt the tide of passion rushing in, gave herself to it like nothing she had ever felt in life, her hips writhing sinuously as she canted them to invite him deeper, deeper, his palm slapping against her swollen nubbin as he claimed her lips in a rough kiss, making her mewl into his mouth as he brought her closer.
The ultimate moment crashed in on her and she was creaming all over her conqueror’s fingers, biting his lower lip as her cunny exploded all over him in spasmodic waves of release, her whole body going rigid with pleasure as she lost herself in her strange lover’s touch and came, and came, and—
The Now (May 4th, 1961).
Delwen Jones jolted to wakefulness in a cold sweat.
She was panting. Looked down at herself, felt the sensitivity between her legs, lifted up her hand and gave her sticky-wet fingers a rueful grimace. It was the third time this week that the old dream had visited her, had roiled her sleeping form with lust. It happened the most when she was under stress.
She climbed out of the miserable little bed, whisked away its sweat-soaked sheets. She tossed them in the corner of the little room, made her way to the bog. She climbed into the shower, shuddered with the vivid memories of the dream as she let the lukewarm water sluice over her skin.
Out of the shower, she looked at herself in the mirror, wiping away the fog with a washcloth. A little foundation would take care of the dark circles under her eyes, and she made applying it her first order of business, hiding the hints of the constant strain that dogged her. Otherwise her old self was still there, and she took heart in that fact. The bouffant flip in her hair was as fashionable as red-light Birmingham would allow, her creamy skin was still flawless, her green eyes still clear and full of resolve. She would see the assignment through. No other outcome was thinkable.
She went back to the bedroom, pulled on the clothes of her counterfeit self: White stockings, a tight green mini-dress and matching shoes. Cheap costume-jewellery earrings and necklace. Returning to the bathroom, she applied the mascara and eyeshadow and lip gloss that completed her look, the look of a fallen woman fit for the wickedest street in Britain.
The doorbell rang just as she put on the finishing touches. She took a breath, centred herself. Went to the door and opened it. Smiled brightly for the expected guest. “Alright, Bill.”
“Alright, bab.” The man on the stoop was big, shambolic and pock-faced, with an endearingly hangdog look about him and a day’s growth of stubble on his jowls. He smiled at her, showing yellowed teeth. Proffered a scrunched-up copy of the Evening Mail in one hand and a paper cup full of tea in the other. “Thought you could do with some news and a kipper tie.”
“Ta, love.” She took the offerings and nodded him in. “Come on, then.”
D.I. Bill Watling strolled into the tiny flat with an air of abstracted bonhomie that she was convinced he had perfected with long practice over the years. For all his unprepossessing appearance, he was the tip of the spear in a vice unit that as yet called only a few men among its core members. The unit that had seconded Del for a most unusual sort of operation that had never been tried in Birmingham before. She saw him size up the surroundings with an acuity that belied his absent-minded air. Reminded herself that Watling was not the sort of bloke you should underestimate or try to dissemble with.
She closed the door behind him, glanced at the headline on the Mail. Another town wearing Birmingham’s name was on the front page, some group of civil rights activists called the “Freedom Riders” featuring prominently. She set it aside, took a sip of the steaming cup of tea. It was double cream, double sugar, just as she liked it. She savoured it, admired his attention to detail.
Watling took a seat on the broken-springed settee in the living room, the sheer mass of him occupying most of it. She sank into the armchair across from him, crossing her legs primly and giving him a smile.
“Worried, Bill?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “Don’t reckon so. Just here to see how you’re gettin’ on. If you need anythin’.”
“Not a bit of it, solid as a rock.”
“Nobody’s solid as a rock, Del.” His smile was nonchalant but his eyes were keen, appraising. “First mistake we make in this business, thinking we’re made of stone. I’m sure you know that.”
“‘Course. Just my way of talking, like. Care for a fag?”
“Wife says I oughtn’t.” His smile was self-deprecating. “But truth to tell, I could murder one.”
She fished in the purse hanging off the armchair, produced her pack of cigarattes and a lighter. Sparked up a pair of cigarettes and handed him one. As he pulled on it with clear satisfaction, she said: “Tonight’s the night, then. We’re sure he’ll turn up.”
“Always does.” Bill nodded. “He keeps his schedule more faithful than a vicar. I just wish I had men to send with you.”
“Last thing I need is men, “ she chuckled. “I can handle him.”
“I know you can.”
He was doing his best to reassure, but he didn’t sound so certain, despite the words. They were taking a risk on her, she knew it: a rookie Women’s Constable being thrown in at the deep end of things, on account of brilliant potential and the fact that she was just the type of bird the target fancied, to boot. Birmingham’s vice squad had never staged an undercover sting quite like this one. Heads would surely roll if it failed.
Bill’s eyes lingered on her small, shapely body, the oval shape of her pretty features, the touch of bouffant flip in her shoulder-length bronze, the striking green of her eyes. And not least at the firm nubs of her breasts pressing against the polyester fabric. It wasn’t a lecherous look, though; he wasn’t that sort, thank God. It was more like professional appraisal, reassuring himself she was the right bait for their particular fish.
He started when she arched a questioning eyebrow at him. And the actually blushed, which amused her. “Sorry, bab, I don’t mean to stare. Just, ah...”
“Trying to see me through his eyes?” she asked. He nodded. “Been practising my presentation, you know. Fancy a look, my old mucker?”
Bill swallowed audibly. He might not be a lecher, but he was surely not immune to the charms of the fairer sax. There was professional cause, though. His nod was a trifle jerky.
Del just smiled. She uncrossed her legs playfully, knowing she was flashing her panties in the process. Stood up and walked to the flat’s front window, making sure to impart a sway to her stride. The hem of the dress was daringly high, showing off the tops of her garters. It had to be; she had to stand out, to draw the target’s eye just the same way the previous occupant of this flat had done.
The windowsill was large enough to sit on, padded with cushions. She took up a place there. Opened the curtains to look out on the bleak expanse of Varna Road. In the daylight it practically looked a ghost town; the night would be another story.
Del had already caught the eye of a few punters on the pavement out there in her last three nights of practising. She had acquired the trick of arching her back, batting her lashes coquettishly, pushing out her shapely rump or her pert little breasts and biting her lip in a way that mixed innocence with lust. She looked back over her shoulder and gave Bill a taste of it, letting a little heat into her eyes and chuckling as she saw sweat begin to bead his brow.
“You see?” she told him. “He won’t be able to pass me up, now will he?”
“You’re right enough there, no doubt about it.” Bill gave a rueful shake of his head, lurching up off the settee. “Now show us some mercy.”
She laughed. It felt good to laugh; some of the lingering strangeness of the dream seemed to slough away, leaving her lighter. She pulled the curtains shut and went back to her armchair as Bill busied himself with checking the transistor mikes and recorders hidden in their recess behind the cheap landscape print on the wall. She wondered how long that painting had been there; it seemed partly discoloured by cigarette smoke.
“It’ll be different tonight from letting in one of our ringers,” he said. He was referring to the vice squad’s assortment of paid informants whom she’d pretended to accept as customers on the previous nights—dodgy-looking fellows all but surprisingly polite, they had mostly passed the time playing cards save for one particularly witty one who had brought her to tears of laughter as he jumped about on the bed and produced counterfeit howls of passion for the neighbours’ benefit. Bill tapped the microphone receiver with a fingertip as he went on: “You mind the word to say if you need us to come riding to the rescue, aye?”
“Periwinkle.” She nodded. “‘Course I remember. Really, Bill, you’re like a mother hen.”
He grunted with satisfaction, finding the surveillance gear in working order and slipping the painting back into place. Gave her an apologetic grimace: “Sorry, Del. Not trying to make you nervous, likes. You’ll be brilliant, I know it. Tonight we land our fish and it’s all over.”
He finished his fag and gave her a fatherly hug and a “Ta-ra” on his way out. As the door closed behind him, Del composed herself and sipped at her tea, knowing the day would feel like a week as she waited for the main event to begin. Right. Tonight we land our fish. She resisted the temptation to retrieve the target’s file from its hiding place in her closet, to look at his picture again. She tried to forget the dreams, and almost succeeded.
***
It was gone nine o’clock by the time the sun set that evening. Del took up her station as the sun dwindled. She could see girls in the windows of other flats across the road, some of them watching the “new” girl curiously. She’d spied a few of them in the shops when she’d popped out for supplies; but though they shared knowing glances of a sisterhood with a common secret, they never spoke. It were just as well.
Varna Road was coming alive. It didn’t look so bleak in the night time. Cars were beginning to cruise the pitted pavement—mostly Anglias or Morris eleven-hundreds—and groups of lads could be seen walking the streets: either going to or coming from the Kashmir down the way, or pretending to. Del watched them, her heart racing, alert for a certain someone.
She sighted him at nine-thirty on the dot, just as D.I. Watling had said she would. He pulled up in a red Daimler, the flashest car on the street, parked it a few doors down. Also as Bill had predicted.
Two men climbed out of the car. One was big and husky, a Yardie with an ebony complexion and an air of restrained violence about him. He reclined casually against the car, guarding it as his mate came down the road. The second man, her “fish,” was tall and well-muscled but not hulking, neatly turned out in a dark suit and spats with a pork-pie hat and a narrow tie. His stride was confident and measured.
Del bit her lip, batted her eyelashes, pushed out her breasts as he came fully into view. The girl, Sandy, who’d worked in this flat before the squad had rousted her had been more buxom. Women’s Constable Jones would have to make the most of her assets if she was going to hook the target anywhere near as thoroughly.
She saw him stop. Turn toward the window and look at her. His eyes were obscured by the brim of his hat, his features in shadow. She gave him her prettiest smile.
He stood still for a long time. Her heart whumped in her chest as she waited for him to move.
And then, finally, he took off his hat and stepped forward, into the wan light cast by a nearby streetlamp. She caught her breath.
In person, it was even more disquieting than the pictures in the file. He looked exactly like the man in the dreams. The same short, woolly hair, the same nut-brown skin and chiseled features. The same grey eyes, soulful and uncanny.
It was more than just the likeness of him, though. He was staring at Del transfixed, as if she’d stepped out of a vision. His face was incredulous, his eyes shifting as if trying to fully believe what he was seeing. The connection between his gaze and hers was electric, and she couldn’t keep a hand from flying to her mouth as the realized what his expression meant.
He recognized her.
Impossible, she would have said a few days ago. But there was no mistaking it. The target was looking at her face, her body, with the air of a man experiencing the most powerful deja vu of his life. He ran a hand through his hair, and she could see it was shaking.
They watched each other for a long moment. And then, abruptly, the target put his hat back on, turned on his heel and walked away, back to his Daimler. Giving a curt nod to his clearly surprised driver, he climbed in, the roadster’s powerful engine fired up and just like that, he was gone. And Del was encased in shock as she watched him go.
The Past.
Kaidence
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