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.
Across from the girl, Cathy reacted first, screaming for her to stop. Instead, Nori began unbuttoning the girl's blouse. As Matt finally joined in, Cathy exploded in cursing, straining at her binds like a wildcat, Malafacha thought, bemused (although he made sure to maintain his look of concern that her violent reaction might pop her free). Idly, he looked at the dark bloodstain behind her, where the boards crossed; that spot was evidence of how rowdy things got a few weeks ago with old Dr. Karafey, determined to keep his secrets to the grave.
He did.
When Nori reached in the sobbing girl's blouse and popped out her ripe tits, running her thumbs over the nipples and enjoying the girl's quivering reaction, Cathy changed her tack. She began begging that she be assailed instead, that the girl be left unmolested.
Nori turned and smiled at her, then strolled over to her perch. She stared at her a long time, until Cathy looked down in fear. Then Nori reached up and ripped open her yellow blouse about halfway down her chest. Cathy gasped in surprise and, rousing in anger, spat in Nori's face. The henchwoman paused, smiling, and wiped it away; then Nori backhanded the helpless woman as Matt screamed in protest. This time, it was Jody's turn to beg, but to no avail. Cathy began to rouse out of the stunning blow when Nori grabbed the waistband of her pedal-pushers, visible at her waist under the short blouse, and ripped them open in front with a single, powerful tug.
Cathy gasped again and rocked in place a moment, her trousers splayed open, barely on her hips, before Nori ripped away her bikini panty. Cathy squealed. All three screamed awhile, in fact. Waiting for the noise to subside, Nori slowly licked her middle finger, looked smilingly at Matt and Jody, and then thrust the finger into the bottom of Cathy's v-shaped pubic patch. She began stroking it in and out.
Reacting with a jolt, her expression in a tight twist, Cathy sputtered a protest. Jody squealed "Oh, no!" - a plea striking Malafacha a singularly unoriginal. Cathy made a begging sound as Nori's fingering quickened. She arched sharply from her perch, curving out her body as involuntary signal to all that Nori was dead-center on her clitoris. She tried to say something, but moaned, instead. Her naked abdomen strained against Nori's finger, rippling involuntarily in time to her stroking. From under the hem of her blouse, the bottom rim of her navel occasionally peeked out in vulnerable pleading.
Nori began running her hands up and down Cathy's chest and belly, finally ripping open her blouse the rest of the way. Cathy yelped again, made a little pleading sob, then moaned again.
Watching Cathy's wonderfully tanned torso bowed out and trembling, Malafacha was reminded of paintings showing cherubs and naked mymph's the old masters loved executing. For a moment, Malafacha wondered if they were so attached to Greco-Roman subject matter, or to stripping half-naked models in their studio.
Now Matt and Jody were quietly pleading, intermittently since obviously it was to no avail. Nori began licking one of Cathy's breasts in long, luxuriant swipes before closing on a nipple and sucking with slowly growing intensity. Cathy's head rocked back at this intrusion, her belly now grinding into Nori as the henchwoman moved closer; for her part, Nori began slowly coursing her other hand up and down Cathy's torso, letting her fingers and thumb pinch the tender flesh of her belly, and dig carefully and deeply in her navel.
