By far, Malafacha preferred Volora's cocksucking to any of his other bodyguards. Sitting beside him now, as the nondescript but powerfully customized family sedan hummed quietly through city streets, he watched as she bobbed up and down on his penis. His other female helpmate, Nori, sat cross-legged on the other side of him, idly flipping through a Euro Vogue while he diddled her with his fingers, now shoved down the back of her tight, pegged leather trousers. Occasionally, she'd shift a little and put down her magazine a moment for a little shake and sigh; her eyes closed, she'd rock a moment in demi-climax, then return to her fashion spreads. Malafacha's fingertip grew more moist and he enjoyed it, pulling it out and licking it occasionally.
Volora suddenly deep-throated him all the way to the root of his dick, and Malafacha did some shifting of his own. He grabbed the car seat and thrust up into Nori's vagina deep enough to make her squeal. Smiling, Volora spun her head on his dick. In a moment, after some frantic fingering in a now helpless Nori, Malafacha came along with her. He exploded in Volora's mouth as Nori gushed on his palm, leaving it wet with lubrication which he then idly slurped while Volora finished tonguing his dick clean.
In the front seat, beside Mustafa, his driver, sat Durazo, Malafacha's chief lieutanant and favorite whipping boy. He let a little chuff of impatience escape at all this nonsense behind him. Malafacha smiled, knowing Durazo was so one-hundred percent gay any bisexual activity put him off his feed.
Suddenly, Malafacha hammered the front seat, which made them all jump. Startled, Volora trapped some tender skin of Malafacha's dick as she rezipped his fly and he yowled. Shoving her away, he pointed toward the street.
"We'll take them," he commanded, indicating a trio of obvious tourists strolling the boulevard. The car roared to a stop at the curb and Durazo leaped out. Two women and a man; young, one no more than a teenager. He flashed them his gun and told them not to move, as Mustafa wheeled the car around the corner and put it at the mouth of an alley at the opposite side of the block. Durazo pushed the man toward the alley and growled for all of them to proceed down it. By the time they were halfway through it, Mustafa had the car backed several feet into the other end and was popping the trunk.
They'd done this many times before.
When they reached the car, Durazo and Mustafa roughly pushed the trio inside the compartment as they weakly yelped some protests. Mustafa slammed down the trunk lid and a dull thump sounded - evidently a head that ducked a little too late. Back in their seats, Durazo looked back at Malafacha and shrugged for an explanation. "Hostages," Malafacha said simply. Nori continued reading her magazine. Volora idly peeled a banana.
"What the hell we need hostages for?" Durazo demanded.
Malafacha ignored him. Everyone knew the reason. The boss needed some fun. It was in times like these, when Malafacha conjured his personal demons, that he was most aware of Durazo's distaste for him. He knew someday Durazo would try to bump him out of top spot - with all due violence - and assume control himself. Durazo considered this horseplay dangerous insipidity, pointlessly endangering their entire international terror network.
It was Malafacha's brainchild - a private, for-profit terror consortium hiring out to countries and private interests to spread chaos among their real and perceived enemies. For several of these outwardly placid, secretly malevolent entities, he was working both sides of the street - plaguing one at behest of its foe, then turning similar hell upon that foe when the wounded opposition launched realiation. That kind of deceitful, blood-drenched hijinks was especially gratifying to Malafacha; it came near to his ideal of catastrophic, perpetual violence that so sexually intoxicated him.
They took their guests to the Crytal Works, a favorite lair of Malafacha's. It was an old glass factory on the dark side of town, and now stood as a huge, warehouse-like shell. Artifact of the Industrial Age, when the West still had ability to make for itself what it needed, its floor was layered in gravel of broken glass, and through what patches of roof were left, moonlight streamed in to turn it into a shimmering carpet of twinkling stars. Malfacha had outfitted the old operations center high in the mid-building with walls all-glass, and double-pane, to enjoy the view and soundproof screams.
Malafacha liked to call it his Crystal Cathedral.
Upon arriving, they immediately separated their guests, man from women. He was taken to a small room across the rampart running the circumferance of the building three floors up. There he was slapped around a little, just to shake him up. Then he was lashed in a wheelchair and rolled down to Malafacha's see-through church. Once inside, his spirits fell when he saw both women tied - although still demurely clothed - to what the gang called "the spots". Since 'x' marks 'the spot' these were sets of two-by-six pieces of lumber joined at their middles in an x-shape. More than these two scaffolds could be conveniently added if necessary; at times, Malafacha had quite a crowd in there. The women were bound by their wrists and ankles by black leather cords that shined in the sinister dim light.
Once in the room, they put the fellow facing the women, and let them run through a few exchanges to make sure all were still OK, intact, unharmed, etc. Then, the gang waited for the cue - one of the captives would ask, "What do you want?" or "Where are we?" Then Malafacha strode to the wheelchair and bitch-slapped the man several times, until the women were screaming at proper volume, begging him to stop. Then, one of Malafacha's cat-girls - tonight it was Volora's turn - would go batshit, screeching and tearing around the room, scratching the captives, pulling out a quirt and laying a few slashes across one or both women's midsection, that sort of thing.
Then, things settled down. Everything got quiet; only sound was heavy breathing and sobbing of the captives, now utterly punched through with fear.
After a bit, Malfacha asked them who they were, and got them talking. They were Matt and his wife Cathy, and their niece Jody, daughter of Cathy's sister Margie. As they talked, a calmness returned to the room. They spoke of their lives in Middle America, their jobs and hopes. Again the gang waited for the cue, this time it would be a repetition of the first question, or "please don't hurt us" - anything, really, regarding the kidnapping.
Then it was Nori's turn. As the quiet conversation continued, she walked gracefully over to Jody, just 18, and kissed her full on the mouth. When she tried to twist away, Nori grabbed her face and began deeply frenching her, exploring her mouth with her tongue.
