The Hawker 144 business jet taxied to the private aviation area and shut down. A lone figure came down the stairs and went directly to the waiting Jaguar limousine. The car left quickly, the driver knowing his passenger's destination in advance.
Schloss Adlersee am Neckar was constructed in 1671 by Graf Ludwig von Adlersee as a retreat from the business of ruling this little section of Germany that had now become a major industrial area. Overlooking the River Neckar, the castle's battlements commanded the waterway, an excellent field of fire ensured against a landing by his enemies' troops. It was a medieval Gothic fort that had been updated into a luxurious home by the current owner.
Grafin Inge von Adlersee was the epitome of Aryan royalty. Though her title was purely ceremonial, von Adlersee lived the part of German Duchess. She had the money, the sole heiress of Herbert and Frieda von Adlersee, sole owners of von Adlersee Export of Stuttgart GmbH., a rail, truck, and shipping concern with operations in Stuttgart, Bremerhaven, Paris, London, and New York. Twenty-two year old Inge was an incredibly wealthy woman.
Beautiful as well, tall, a shade over six feet, golden hair, and sapphire blue eyes that could freeze boiling water. No one would think of her as anything but German, even with the deep bronze tan. Flatley noticed the tan and her beautifully proportioned figure as soon as she entered the parlor.
"Good evening, my Lord," she said in King's English.
"Guten abend, Grafin von Adlersee," he replied in flawless Hochdeutsch. She put her arms around his neck and drew him toward her, kissing his lips passionately. He slipped his tongue inside her mouth and she bit down on it, causing him to pull away.
"Not yet, liebling," she purred.
He tasted blood and she could see it aroused him. He came to her again and pulled her close, his smile was lustful. "I wish you hadn't gone to Nice, I missed you," he said before kissing her once more.
She let his tongue in her mouth then, letting him explore with it. "You could have come," her breath was ragged in his ear.
His bites on her neck went from playful to painful, and it stimulated her. "I have this nasty business to look over, my darling," he whispered. His manhood began to swell against her thigh. "And I don't do well in the sun." From afar, they heard one of the servants clear his throat. They released each other and turned to him.
"Dinner is served, my Lady," the butler said.
Inge kissed him again, and looked down at the erection that was tenting Flatley's pants. She took it in her hand and squeezed. "Keep that thought, my Lord."
. . .
His breath came quickly, ragged as she stood over him, and his erection felt as if it were about to burst. His hands were cuffed behind his back as he knelt there naked, on the floor of a room that could only have been built for one purpose.
"You English," she spat at him. "British men are weaklings."
"Yes, Mistress," he said, keeping his eyes focused on the floor as she circled him, her spike heels echoing through the room as they met the floor. She'd changed, from the formal gown into a leather outfit, reminiscent of the SS uniforms of Nazi Germany. She slapped the back of his head.
"The Americans fucked all your women during the war, at least that's what my grandfather told me," she said. She whipped him once across the shoulders with her riding crop and tears welled up in his eyes. "Your women liked the strong Americans much better than their pale little men."
"Yes, Mistress," he said demurely. Flatley's eyes found his manhood, his raging stiffness that screamed for release. Dampness appeared at the tip, which she noticed.
"Oh no you don't, weakling!" She slapped him again. "You will pleasure me first, before you may be allowed to feel pleasure. If your efforts are less than satisfactory, you will get no pleasure." She unbuckled, and then unzipped, her leather pants, the two gold zippers running from the waist to her ankle. Inge stepped out and kicked them away. Pulling a stool from the corner, she placed it before him and sat. With a gloved hand, she grabbed a shock of his wavy brown hair and spread her legs, pulling his face into her. "Pleasure me now." She forced the back of his head as he lapped at her like a thirsty animal.
. . .
"Don't you dare," Inge growled. She could tell Flatley was losing control and cracked her riding crop across his chest, raising another welt. When she deemed he'd earned this, she released him, only to bind his wrists and ankles to the bed. Inge straddled him, riding his manhood as if she were atop a horse, using her fingers to help her achieve release again. "I'm not finished," she moaned.
"I can't . . . hold it . . ."
"You will," and she slapped his face. She felt it then, the sensation that told her orgasm was imminent, and she slammed herself down on him, harder, burying him inside her wetness. "Oh, yes," she screamed as waves of pleasure wracked her body.
"Please, Mistress, I can't . . ." Flatley pleaded. She rose from him and untied one of his arms before straddling his face.
"You may," she conceded, and he took his free hand to bring himself the rest of the way while his tongue explored her, bringing her to release once more.
From Technocracy - © 2005 RH Wood and Blue Dog Ltd.
Kim, Winters, and Clayton sat in the back of the S-76, the four surviving policemen were handcuffed facing them, their eyes directed to the floor for they knew that they had died last night when NoahCorp security took them into custody. What would happen in a few minutes was just a formality. Their destination was just over the next ridge.
. . .
Many years ago, a researcher named Pavlov put forth the hypothesis of conditioned response. He would ring a bell just before he fed his research dogs. He done this for a period, and then one day, he rang the bell, but was not forthcoming with the dogs' dinner. Pavlov found that the dogs would salivate upon hearing the bell in anticipation of food. Dogs, most of the theories in training them involved the conditioned response. This didn't only apply for domesticated dogs.
They began to salivate when they heard the rotor blades of the S-76 for they were dogs, and this was a conditioned response. This secluded valley was where these dogs lived, not domesticated dogs and not wolves. These were the feral dogs of the Australian Outback, the dingoes. Numbering close to a hundred, the dingoes were fed every day by helicopter, and they were fed live meals, mainly feral pigs, also a product of the Australian wilderness and a danger to the ecosystem there. NoahCorp subsidized efforts to capture the pigs and transport them to Sedona as food for the dingoes. Twice daily, a helicopter would fly low and drop several live feral pigs to the dogs.
As the chopper approached, the dogs began to circle, their drooling jaws pointing skyward in anticipation of their breakfast.
. . .
The helicopter pulled into a hover and Winters opened the side door. The dingoes below, seeing the door open, began to get agitated. Clayton removed the cuffs from one of the policemen. Kim nodded to Winters.
"This is for Carrie," she snarled as she grabbed him by his garments and threw him from the aircraft.
"Watch," Winters growled at the remaining three. They raised their eyes to see their comrade trying to stand, the dingoes circling him. A milky white bone stuck from his arm at a crazy angle, the compound fracture earned by his fall from the chopper. Blood poured from it onto the ground; some of the dogs began lapping at the dark stain, then at the blood dripping from his fingers into their drooling mouths.
His head spun from side to side, looking for a place of safety to which he could run. The dogs began shriek then, as only dingoes do, agitation was turning into frenzy among the pack. The Alpha dog, the dominant male, circled the prey, biting and shrieking at others who would try to eat before him. Alpha surged toward the man, and the pack followed in their insane bloodlust, to nip at his ankles, then his calves. He started to run.
One of the three turned his head to the floor, unable to watch what was coming, for the dingoes tasted the blood now, and they were hungry. Winters smashed the butt of her pistol into his face.
"Watch," she demanded and the man raised his eyes to see the dingoes take his comrade down; first tearing at his clothes then the flesh beneath. In their frenzy, they tore at him, and he screamed, inaudible to those in the helicopter, but he screamed at them for his life or to end it quickly, and he screamed for another excruciatingly long minute as the wild dogs tore him apart.
Kim nodded at Winters and the next man met the same fate, and the next, until the last, and this was done on purpose, for the last living member of Masterson's private army was a woman.
Kim looked to her now, the front of her clothes covered with her own vomit, her eyes glazed over after watching the horror that would surely visit her in a minute. "Do you want to live?" Kim asked quietly, a hatred glowing in the jade orbs.
"Yes," the shattered woman replied from that far off place.
"Will you cooperate with us, truthfully?"
"Yes, I will, I will do anything not to die like that," she said as vomit rose in her throat again.
Kim nodded to Clayton who spoke to the pilot. "Take us back."
From Lightning Crashes - © 2002 RH Wood and Blue Dog Ltd.