door, and went inside.
The scream was cut off very quickly. His hand was around her throat like the strike of a snake. Silencing her to a barely audible gurgle of horrified panic. The sound a kitten might make if you held it under muddy bathwater. Her legs kicked weakly and she felt a sharp pain in her neck. She gasped, fighting for breath, and reached out her right hand, snaggling her fingers in his thick curly hair, but before she could clench her hand and pull, the power seemed to drain from her muscles. Her body flopped like a marionette with its strings cut. He moved forward catching the droop of her body on his chest. She could feel the hardness of his prick as he pressed excitedly against her. Then the lights seemed to dim, she fought to blink her eyes open but, like her leg muscles, they refused to respond. She looked down, drool from her mouth falling to drop on the toe of his snakeskin cowboy boots. She felt a warmth rise from her lower body as though she were being lowered slowly into a very warm bath and then she was aware of nothing at all.
Paul Archer paused for breath, the sweat running down his forehead into his eyes and forcing him to blink. His breathing was ragged, gasping as much for oxygen as with desire. The woman on all fours beneath him was breathing hard too, whimpering, although he could make out no words, the gag he had tied made pretty sure of that. He placed his strong hands on either side of her perfectly shaped buttocks, raising them up to cup her waist and, positioning himself again, began to thrust deep into her, with the relentless and perfunctory rhythm of a gardener using a trowel to dig into hard earth. Stabbing at her. Her breathing was harder now, a yelping sound coming with every thrust, her luxuriant, dark hair flicking with the movement. Archer smiled coldly. Turn and turn about. He wasn't a misogynist, though he had been called one many times. He didn't despise women, he loved them, in fact, especially those that knew their place. And if they didn't, well, he enjoyed teaching them it.
A trickle of sweat ran down his nose and he released one hand to wipe it, wincing as a fresh stab of pain came with the movement. He gripped the woman's body again, not caring if he hurt her as he dug his fingers in and pulled her towards him. He had paid for his pleasures after all, hadn't he? Paid in so many ways.
DAY TWO
DC Sally Cartwright shivered and flapped her arms, trying to spread some warmth into them. Seven thirty in the morning now and she had been freezing her tits off on the heath since six o'clock. An old-fashioned bicycle, complete with front basket, was propped up against a tree with a puncture repair kit open on the ground beside it. A couple of concerned citizens, male naturally, had already offered to help her fix her tyre. She had moved them along. Their motives were not entirely based on the Good Samaritan principle, she guessed, but she also knew that neither of them matched the photofit of the flasher that they had been given by Valerie Manners, and neither looked the type, to be fair. Even so, she was learning that in matters of sexual deviancy you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. The most mild-seeming and normal of men were often capable of appalling crimes. You only had to look at Ted Bundy to see that. She slapped her arms again, unhappy to be made to wear a nurse's uniform, but Delaney, in a particularly filthy mood this morning, had insisted, arguing that the uniform itself might be the trigger. Maybe only nurses provided him with the desire to wag his wienie? Who knew, but she wasn't going to argue with her boss. Not with him in that mood, and what he was saying might well be the case. But if Delaney was right why hadn't the flasher been reported before? Why hadn't other nurses come forward? Either way she still felt a little foolish in the outfit, and was all too aware of her colleagues hidden away in the bushes and trees, looking at her. The honey trap. The wriggly worm on the hook. The bait in black suspenders. Although she had drawn the line when her colleagues had suggested that suspenders were an essential part of the nurse's uniform. Male colleagues, again, of course. But she knew better, and there was absolutely no way she was going to be wearing anything other than a very thick pair of tights and industrial-strength knickers under her skirt at that time of the morning on a cold, wet and windy South Hampstead Heath.
