CHAPTER 1

 

"Move, move, spread-eagle against the wall on tiptoe, don't fucking move or speak," the hooded man screamed at Carol whilst his female accomplice, dressed similarly to him in black jacket and trousers, waved a stun-gun in her direction. Sickness rose in her; it was happening again.

"Hah," she gasped, dropping her shopping bags as he roughly grabbed her, jerking her into the position he required until she was awkwardly balanced on her toes with arms and legs wide. Her feet were about a metre from the wall and her nose was pressed painfully against it. Her belly quaked in dread, breasts heaving with fear as she strove to still her panic; his hands trawled through her hair, painfully squeezing her boobs then moving to pat down her waist. She felt sick as those hands crawled over the cheeks of her bottom, over her skirt, then slid down her thighs to her ankles. They ran over her body as if they owned it, she thought wretchedly.

"She's clean," he shouted gruffly in a strong Tyneside accent, which she found horribly common. The harsh words echoed in her neat and tidy kitchen. Why did they always shout at her when they subjected her to these ordeals? She pondered how these fiends had recently entered her life, her family's life, and turned it upside down. It was as if she was a dangerous criminal rather than a housewife - albeit a housewife with a guilty secret. She guessed correctly that their manner was to do with intimidation and instilling fear and obedience - and it worked. She was terrified and cowed, willing to do anything to avoid their wrath.

"Yeah but she's been out - don't know who she might have had contact with; better do a complete strip search," the woman's catlike voice, also with a strong Northern accent, added tartly.

"Please ..." Carol practically whimpered.

"Shut it bitch, no talking, my partner's right we'd be better be sure. Get it all off you cow, now! Hurry," he shouted into her flinching face, tugging her hair, jerking her into reluctant mobility.

She knew the uselessness of resistance, knowing from harsh experience that these bastards would always get their way. The only choice she had was to delay, but she would inevitably pay the price of that with pain. Sniffing back a tear she pushed herself away from the wall, her fingers reluctantly unbuttoning her smart red blouse.

"Give it to me, come on you know the routine," the masked woman snapped, clicking her fingers.

With the prickly heat of shame flushing her cheeks she handed over the garment before unzipping and stepping out of her pleated black skirt and passing that across too; she was conscious of the man's eyes roaming over her beautiful and scantily clad figure.

"Good, glad to see you're wearing the correct colour panties and bra I told you to, but I don't recall saying you could wear tights. I don't like them; don't let me catch you wearing them again, right?"

"Sorry sir," she whispered, biting her lips as she was forced to bend to his will. Her fists clenched in frustrated shame that she could be made to, had to, adhere to his crude demands.

"Now, hurry up ... the rest ... everything, tights next then the other crap ... you know the procedure," ordered her male tormentor whenever she hesitated. "Move or it'll go bad for you."

Her fingers felt as clumsy as balloons as she slid off her dark tights and then so reluctantly unclasped her green bra to let her breasts fall free before sliding her matching panties down her endless thighs. She handed all of her warm scented garments to the woman, who Carol could tell was sneering beneath her mask.

Crack!

"Ow," she gasped as the man sharply slapped the curve of her bottom with a rough hand.

"Back against the fucking wall you cow," he snapped until she was again leaning against it at an angle on spaced legs and hands, painfully resting her weight on just her fingertips and toes.

A sob shook her as his hands again began their familiar route over her body but this time touching her bare flesh, cruelly pinching the sensitive buttons of her red nipples before groping her bottom and delving into the tiny delicate feminine curls between her cheeks. It was awful, so intrusive, disgusting. She felt like a prisoner or a dangerous spy being frisked. Shame and anger burned her cheeks bright red.

"Hey what the fuck!" the man exclaimed, looking round the tidy kitchen. "This place looks too clean, there's not many dirty dishes out," his eyes took in the few cups and plates. "No cooking stuff, and no mess in the lounge," he peered into that room to take in the fairly neat orderly state of the large room. "You remember what I told you about not clearing up?"

"Please - please S-Sir," she hated the cringing, servile tone of her own voice. "I-I had to keep it a bit clean and ..."

Slap!

"Oh please no," she flinched, her bottom red and smarting from where his hand left a red imprint on a magnificent globe. It hurt and stung. His treatment of her made her feel, rather than a mature woman, like a naughty schoolgirl being punished - but with the fear and shame multiplied ten-fold.

"Shut it, cow! I told you to leave this place looking untidy; don't tidy up, don't wash up, live in a mess, a pig-sty for maybe a change in your prissy life," he snapped, throwing a few magazines from the breakfast room adjoining the kitchen onto the floor in a heap. Then he scattered a few biscuits around the kitchen worktop after helping himself. "And that's how I expect to see it, gradually looking worse. I expect to see you living like bloody working class slags - only far worse. Got it this time, you thick cow?" he shouted, adorning her flinching face with spittle when she turned her head slightly from the wall to look at him.

"Y-yes Sir." Her voice was utter meekness.

This was a nightmare. Not only had they invaded her life and her body, but they dictated how she should live. Every aspect of her life was seemingly theirs to control. She was naturally fussy and tidy, hating living in a mess, in a pigsty - as she always used to say chidingly to her husband Terry when he left things out. Now she would be forced to live like it and even add to it; live in an absolute tip. Then her mind's frantic wanderings were interrupted by the sound of an expensive and throaty car pulling into the drive. Everyone momentarily froze where they were and a deeper feeling of sickness churned in Carol's stomach.

"Hi Mum, I'm home!" Her daughter's cheery voice in the hallway following the sound of a key in the front door felt like a kick in the stomach to her under these circumstances. "I took my car, the creeps can't expect us to walk everywhere or go by bus - besides they'll never know," Charlotte confidently continued from the hall.