A Prize Catch	Back to D	Back to main page

Collected by Djian

updated dec 18 - 2010Another story by Wolverine

This is fantasy. I do not condone non-consensual activities. Really, I find it hard to believe that I need put this kind of disclaimer as a sort of preamble. I would have hoped that everyone would understand that no one condones this sort of thing in reality.



A Prize Catch
by Wolverine


The man shifted soundlessly in his well-prepared position on top of the ridge. He had carved away the spiny branches and tough leaves of the bush just enough to give him a clear view across the slight, thorn-tangles depression to the next ridge. He put down the rifle whose cross sights had been fixed on his target and picked up his powerful, sharp-definition binoculars instead.

It had hardly moved for an hour. The arse in its tight, dark blue trousers was pushed out invitingly straight towards him and his rifle as its owner peered through straggly vegetation over the slopes and lower country of the vast nature reserve. She had chosen her place well enough. She had a superb view of the country in front of her and on either side. Her ridge was a little lower than his, but offered a much wider view because beyond it the land dropped quickly. A well-trained professional like her would no doubt have scouted out the ridge behind as well, but that was before he had arrived after tracking her from the four-wheel-drive up the gulch.

The superb arse shifted so that the left cheek rose and its sister fell. A shapely brown arm reached for the camouflaged canteen and the girl took a swig of sweet water. Then she resumed scanning with her own binoculars.

He could have taken her right away, but it pleased him to watch her, knowing she was unaware of him. He was able to take in all the detail of his classic target, the buttons on the arse-cheek pockets, the plush size but firm texture of it, the full curves, the sweetness and neatness of her juicy young undercheeks, the slight but inviting mysterious crevasse between her high, queenly, magnificent cheeks, the swell from narrow waist to wide lower arse. He’d classify it as pear-shaped, but within these classifications there was endless subtlety and variation. It would make a magnificent trophy. Some day, maybe, he wouldn’t sell the slut. He’s have her stuffed and mounted, arse high, for his permanent enjoyment in his fine country house in Eastern Poland.

Just over an hour ago she’d cautiously slipped down a little from her vantage point and had shaken out her long, glossy black hair. She’d pulled out a small red comb and had drawn it through her beautiful long locks, smiling slightly to herself as she did so. She’d also smiled when she unwrapped some kind of snack, some cereal biscuits and a bit of cake. Twice she’d seen something and had watched closely for a while before making a brief note in a notebook. The rifle lay dormant by her side and her sidearm was still in its holster.

She wouldn’t be the first cop Kreuzfeld had taken. Some big-arsed Turkish-German had been the first: she’d made the bad mistake of arresting some far-right youth leader and his friends had commissioned him to take her. In her absence the case against the leader had collapsed and he’d got to fuck her and play with her too. Then there had been those two in India, who’d made the mistake of having beautiful faces, arses and tits and on top of that of refusing bribes from some smugglers; but he thought this one would be the best. It was even sweeter because she was hunting him.

The contract had said “four or more outdoor girls from America”. He’d checked foreigners in America were OK and had chosen this vast and wild reserve as a good area for his kind of operation. He’d arrived openly as a tourist under one of his many false identities – an Israeli wildlife tour operator – and had soon picked up a couple of trekking tourists, one American and one Japanese. A rather nice nature warden had followed and then some student from North Carolina on some scientific project. He could have called it a day and might have done if he hadn’t seen a curvy if rather blowsy blonde cop girl among the police patrols that were beginning to infest the place in response to the disappearances and more particularly to the discovery of a warden with a bullet in his head (he’d had to waste him to get the warden girl). He’d thought it would be amusing to take the blousy cop so he’d hung on. Instead he’d got in his sights something far classier. This one was not only unbelievably beautiful and sexy, she was also clearly a specially-trained firearms officer, a sharpshooter. Taking her would be like winning a contest with a Great White Shark or a Tiger or a Grizzly Bear, only of course a lot sexier.

The girl shifted her fantastic buttocks again, unbuttoned the top button of her uniform shirt, reached down the back, adjusted something (or maybe scratched), took her narrow-peaked cap off, wiped her forehead, shook her lovely head of hair and settled down again, arse in his sights, to look for him.

There was no reason for him to hurry as she seemed to be going nowhere and he couldn’t get rid of her till the night. A big bird of prey soared slowly over. The cop girl noticed it and watched it through her binoculars for a couple of minutes before, with a little shrug, returning to her watch. A few minutes later she took an envelope out of a pocket, extracted what looked like a handwritten letter and read it, again smiling. She put the letter away and resumed her watch.

He took up the rifle again and fixed her arse in his sights, the crosshair running along the line of her underbuttocks and the vertical right down her arsecrack. He raised it a tiny fraction and shifted the focus slightly to the right, checked everything was OK, and fired.

The cop girl sprang up, was frozen for a millisecond erect in shock, then tumbled backwards down the slope, doing a back-somersault (Kreuzfeld would have wished to preserve that in slow motion for the view of her glorious arse in action) and came to rest face-down among thistles and thorny dwarf trees. Her buttocks and legs twitched once. Then she was still.

He raced down from his vantage point and across the intervening rough ground till he stood above his motionless prey. Close up, she looked just as appetising as before. He had to work fast. The bullet he had used (not a dart, for that would carry less far and be less accurate) was of a type he had developed himself. It left a small, neat wound and released a nerve toxin into the victim’s bloodstream. It was always best to aim for the hindquarters, as an entry elsewhere was much more likely to disable and kill. Bony areas might deflect the bullet so the toxin did not do its work, while most other areas of the body were more likely to be protected by some hard object such as a cell phone or a belt buckle. On its own, the toxin paralysed all muscles including those of the lungs and heart. He pulled out a large syringe. The bullet had made a neat hole in her uniform trouser seat, and a little blood had oozed out. Excellent. He inserted the syringe in the hole and emptied it. The antidote should keep her heart, lungs and other vital organs working and soon she would even be conscious, though so weak in her limbs she could not get up or even crawl, and so weak in her vocal cords she could only whimper, not shout or scream.

About one in eight failed and the girl died of the toxin. That wasn’t too bad. He’d still have the body, and some guys would pay good money for a sexy girl’s carcass, especially, he supposed, a cop. But it would be better if she lived. He searched till he found her cell phone and threw it into the thickest thorny bush. He unclipped her radio and sent it the same way. He picked up her cap. She had nice tits, only medium-sized but round and very firm. He threw her over his shoulder – head hanging down the back and arse almost in his face, a position he found more enjoyable than the alternative – picked up her small, almost girlish back-pack and her rifle (an excellent model worth good money, though not nearly as much as her) and set off for his prepared hideout. Her lovely plump arse nestled against his neck and cheek. He could feel her light, fluttery breathing.

When he had laid her down in his hiding-place he took time to study his catch carefully, taking a few photos for his personal record. She was beautiful, all right. The toxin and antidote had worked together as they should, so her breathing was back to normal and her eyes followed him around. That was good. He wanted her to see and understand what he was doing to her. She was for sale, of course, but he would have fun first.

There were a few more things to check out first, though. She had a neatly-packed snack in her back-pack including some home-made cake which he ate. That letter was from her mother, hoping she was well, saying how proud she was of her fine girl, giving news of the dog and of her sister. Her I.D. named her as officer Esmeralda Flores. The name sounded vaguely familiar: he’d look it up on the internet when he had a chance. But now it was time to strip her.

He took care to unbutton the tunic, not to rip it. There was no need to leave clues lying about and an undamaged uniform was worth something, especially with a cop girl inside it. Her bra was white, setting off the warm brown of her skin nicely. He left it on for the time being. The boots, mannish but narrower than a man’s, came next. They looked almost new and had little wear underneath. He unfastened her stern belt with all its attachments. Bit by bit she was losing the marks of the authority she had so stupidly claimed. The mannish trousers were next to go. Because they were quite tight, it took some effort to get them off her, but he took care to damage neither them nor her. Under them she was wearing plain white panties, respectable girl panties, almost virginal, but a tight little bulge just above the join of her legs showed she had a fine bush, unshaved. He rolled her over to have a good look at her arse before he peeled the panties off. He just couldn’t remember a better one – plump, round, a bit pear-shaped because of her wide, womanly hips, a slight cheeky sliver of brown sticking out of the elastic just under the left side and a neat, curvy crease full of Southern promise. It was well worth a photo or two. Then, almost reverently, he inserted both index fingers in the elastic top and peeled them down very slowly over the high round hills of her arsecheeks, down her firm thighs and right down over her white socks. He raised them to his face, delicately sniffed them, relishing the essence of healthy young woman hunted and taken, and planted a kiss on them. That was symbolic, but he’d be dealing with the real thing next.

Her lovely piggy arse was even better without the panties in the way. As he watched it the firm, plump flesh quivered slightly with her light breathing. He parted it and stared into the deep, dark crevasse. He kissed one cheek and then the other. Tearing himself away from them, he unclipped her bra and squeezed her beautiful breasts, very hard because they resisted. He would give them more attention shortly. He stood up, walked round so she could see what he was doing, and released his stiff, throbbing piledriver of a cock. He could see that her eyes were transfixed. Soon her cunt would be – but he was going for her nice tight little official arsehole first. He dragged her over a fallen treetrunk to get her arse stuck up more. Walking round the back again, he spread her arsecheeks wide and rammed his cock in. Stupidly, her arsehole resisted him until he was thinking of forcing it open with her stick or his knife, but then it gave way, the ring snapped open, and he was in. It was the tightest arsehole he’d fucked for a good twenty years. He gave it to her extra rough for being so tight, for being a cop, for trying to catch him, for being there. It seemed like she must be about to explode, but she only whined and moaned. Her vocal chords were beginning to revive. That was good, for he liked the sounds and no-one else was going to hear them. It was time to give it to her cunt.

That resisted less, but it was still fantastically tight. He pressed into her till he half felt his cock should be bashing its way out of her mouth, scattering nice white teeth as it went. She was moaning, and he could make the moans follow the rhythm of his fucking. She was his. That was right. She had a cunt and an arsehole and a mouth. What else were they for? Slags like her were his by right, especially if they wore uniforms and had the nerve to carry guns. Especially if they were hunting him!

She got a good load. She should have been grateful but her eyes said she wasn’t. He’d like to shove her nightstick up her cunt and her rifle up her arsehole, but this wasn’t the time or place for that. He’d like to shove her rifle up her arsehole and fire, but he wouldn’t do that because he’d lose a lot of money.

The effects of the toxin were continuing to wear off, so he cuffed her wrists behind her back with her own cuffs, tied her ankles up tight and shoved her mother’s letter in her mouth. He followed that with her own panties and taped her mouth so she couldn’t scream or shout. He rolled her over, planted a booted foot on her belly and tugged at the central bridge of her bra till the strap broke with a twang and he pulled the whole pathetic thing from under her. She had fantastic tits – quite big but not huge, very firm and with big aureoles.

He took out a different knife, very small and with a flexible blade, more of a surgeon’s scalpel than anything else. Into the middle of her right buttock he carved deeply and precisely three tiny letters – KRK for Konrad Rainer Kreuzfeld. It was like a hallmark, a guarantee of genuineness and quality. It showed she was his. He plugged the small hole made by the bullet with a paste that would help it heal and leave only a tiny mark. The bullet would slowly dissolve, so a man could beat her hard there and just cause the pain you’d expect.

Returning to her tits, he made a small cut with the scalpel in her left aureole and sucked hard on it. Not milk but tasty, salty blood flowed into his mouth. She was watching him with her big, uncomprehending, helpless eyes. He gave her a load in one eye, pressing his cock down on the eyeball till it threatened to pop out.

He checked carefully that he wasn’t leaving anything behind and settled down to wait for nightfall and the helicopter.

He’d been doing this for twelve years. Before that he’d been a mercenary and a good one. The right people, those who were discreet and paid well, knew how to contact him. They valued him because he was the best, he delivered and he never tried to double-cross them.

He hardly ever went home to Austria now. After his grandfather had died there was little to attract him except the skiing. He had a house in the forest in Byelorussia and a kind of ranch in an arid, lowly-populated part of a former French African colony just south of the Sahara. He mostly used the second one for keeping and training the girls, but if there was ever a problem there, he could decamp to the first.

He’d worshipped his grandfather Helmut and the old man had told him many stories of the war and especially of the SS. Some were just stories of exciting battle, but that one about the teenage French cunt they’d caught running Resistance messages and the one about those British nurses, the bullwhip and the bonfire were the stories he loved best. He wanted to be like his grandfather and the old man encouraged him. The fine old man had drummed into him SS ideals – honour, courage, daring, utter dismissal of what weak people called compassion and dedication to the noble task of completing the triumph of the fittest over the inferior. He’d lived to see his favourite grandson take up the best profession in the world – cunthunter.

It was a fine, starlit night but the crescent moon gave little light. The helicopter came about forty minutes after dark, responding to his torch and hovering low – the terrain being dangerous for a landing after dark. A thick rope with a noose snaked down. He secured Officer Esmeralda Flores in it and up she went. A rope ladder came down next and Kreuzfeld climbed.

Stiglitz was at the controls, glancing back as his boss came on board. The big black mercenary they called Michel was fingering his rocket-launcher just in case another helicopter interrupted or a vehicle on the ground spotted them.

“Hi, boss. Got a good one there!” he grunted.

“She was after me, stupid cunt!” Kreuzfeld laughed.

Down below in the night search teams were looking for Esmeralda Flores, but they wouldn’t find her.


The transatlantic helicopter was bigger, big enough to take all five catches, Michel, Kreuzfeld and a Byelorussian called Grigori, or more often Greg. It was a good opportunity for Kreuzfeld to take stock of his five conquests together. The warden he’d taken for another Latino – till he’d found the silver star of David emblem on the little chain round her neck - with olive skin, black hair, pretty face if a little weatherbeaten and a huge arse. Maybe with all that meat a butcher would bid for her, he joked to himself. Maybe not a joke – you never knew. The Jap walker was a sweet, juicy little thing, like many from her country looking just like a kid though her papers told him she was 22. Almost no tits, but the curves she had were so tight and neat it didn’t much matter. The American girl who’d been with her was quite tall, with fair brown hair, nice curves but nothing exceptional, and top-class legs. She could be the girl next door, except she wasn’t going to be next door any more. The research scientist kid had short blonde hair, almost dykeish, nice tits and a round, pert arse. They were a good bunch, a fine catch, but Cop Cunt Esmeralda was the pick of the bunch. It was mostly with her he played as he amused himself during the long flight.

By the time they landed inside the barbed wire at the well-guarded compound in Zimbabwe, he was ready for a German schnapps, a German spatlese white wine and an American cunt.

The men knew what to do. They’d seen this sort of thing many times before. The boss liked to hunt alone, but they were privileged to help him with the results. The Jewish warden girl was most admired for her huge arse, though the little Japanese was unusual for them and therefore interesting. They helped drag the girls into the pens.

The pens were small, square enclosures indoors, with concrete floors sparsely covered in straw. Each one measured eleven feet by eleven. One side was formed by a bare concrete wall and the other three by thick metal bars, but on the far side from the wall the bars included a lockable door. They were open at the top but it was only another eight feet or so up to the flat roof. The pens were side by side without gaps between them. Apart from girls and straw, the pens held only a small water trough and a rolled-up mattress.

Kreuzfeld already had two girls in pens when the new lot came in – a blonde Russian athlete who’d spoken against the government and a local black journalist girl who’d been foolish enough to try to investigate the complex. The Russian was almost broken in and would be sold to a Somali warlord, but the Zimbabwean was proving difficult and would need more training before she was ready for her Chinese buyers. Kreuzfeld supervised the placing of the new girls in their pens himself. Each one was fitted with a thick aluminium collar attached by a chain to a hook in the wall. Other arrangements were possible, for a thick rope dangled from the roof into each pen. There was no need now to gag the naked girls, and it always amused him to hear what they had to say. Miss all-American girl and the huge-arsed Jew were already pleading for mercy. The Japanese kid restricted herself to monosyllables like “No!” and “Oh!”. The dykeish scientist said nothing but stared at them in hatred. He was curious about what Officer Esmeralda would say. It turned out she had a lot of adjusting to do, for she stared at him and told him he couldn’t get away with this and he was sick. He laughed and the men laughed too. She was going to need some harsh training. That pleased him.

He left her to stew and checked her up on the internet. He was delighted to hit the jackpot. Officer Esmeralda Flores had hit the headlines when she’d intervened in a gangland killing and, despite her partner being wounded, had killed one gangster and wounded the famous Boss J of the East Side Gang, who was now in jail. Kreuzfeld immediately revised his plans. His Nigerian client had got his four girls: Esmeralda was surplus. If he wanted her he could bid against the East Side Gang. He returned to look at her – her long legs kneeling on the hard floor, her smooth olive-brown skin, her big brown eyes staring at him, her fierce little bush, her fantastic firm tits. He was amused to note that one of the guards had pissed in her water bowl. He stood and ate a couple of cereal bars and a banana while staring at her. Then he threw the banana skin into her pen and walked away.

When he came back it was for serious business. He and Michel unhooked the girl’s chain and threw her over the rolled-up mattress. They looped a noose around her neck and pushed the rope under the mattress so they could tie the other end to one of her ankles. Now if she kicked she would slowly strangle herself.

The cop had not been talkative, but now she spoke:
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I enjoy it. Because it’s my profession. For much money. Business and pleasure,” Kreuzfeld replied.
“One day they’ll catch you, or some half-trained small-town cop will get lucky with a shot,” she continued. That was a more intelligent argument than usual, he thought.
“Maybe,” he replied, “but in any case, one day I will be dead. One day you will be dead. You before me, my little chicken, I think. But for now we are alive.”

The girl’s arse was sticking up nicely and Michel was holding on to her arms. It would do. He’d use the belt first.

“Your belt, please,” he said to the watching guard. The man grinned and complied. It was a thick, black leather belt. He dipped it in the bowl’s mixture of piss and water to wet it and make it sting more. Then he raised it high and brought it down sharply on his prize’s plump, unprotected cheeks.

The SPLAT sound was beautiful, as was the way her arseflesh flattened and rebounded, but the best thing was her scream, wild, desperate, lost. He wanted to hear it again. The belt smacked into her flesh again – and again. Michel and the guard were laughing and cheering. Only when her arse was glowing red and she was moaning did he stop.

“The cane, Michel,” he said.

The fine, devilish cane was made for Esmeralda’s rump and she was made to be caned. He told her so.

“All that time your loving stupid parents brought you up, all that education, all that police training, all to bring you here to be caned and fucked, to be a slave and to be sold. Isn’t life wonderful?” She did not seem to think so, ungrateful bitch. It was time to use the cane on her.

There was one bad thing about dusky sluts, he thought. Their arses showed the signs of punishment less well than whites. Nonetheless, her delicious orbs were glowing a deeper, warmer tint. Now he would mark them another way. He raised the cane, chose his spot, and sliced it viciously into the middle of her right cheek. Again that divine scream! No music could be better. The Blacks laughed. A long, narrow, dark red wound, his Oregon trail on this virgin American land, decorated the buttock. The second one, cut into the left cheek, neatly balanced the first. He waited for her writhing to cease and cut in the third with daring precision so it landed on the inner parts of the two existing weals and bridged them across the Great Divide of her dark, mysterious arsecrack. The fourth was central too, but higher. For the fifth he had to bend and twist, so the others knew what to expect and were chuckling. The cane bit into her sensitive right undercheek. This time the wild scream was followed by low moaning; but she was still not crying, the arrogant bitch. What did she think she was, a Nordic? The left undercheek got what its sister had received.

Eight strong and cunning shots later the cop girl’s arse was a work of art, decorated with fierce red lines in all areas. He gave two each to her firm athlete’s thighs and moved round to the other side. He put his hand under her chin and forced her head up so she was staring into his eyes. She looked wondering, uncomprehending, helpless – but not yet defeated and abased.

She had beautiful tits, ones no doubt she had been proud of as a teenager, ones that had not been suckled by a baby and very likely not by man or woman either. The large nipples and aureoles were a clear invitation. He raised the cane again before her horrified gaze and cut into the middle of her right tit. A floppy, fat tit would have recoiled more, but this one was superbly firm, to its own destruction. The less it gave way the more it was hurt. Her abandoned wails were glorious. His cock was pressing hard against his trousers. Michel had pulled his out. He exchanged looks with Kreuzfeld, who stepped back. A jet of cum splattered into the girl’s face, drowning her eyes, covering her hair. Her mouth had been open. Now it looked like the mouth of a greedy kid who had dived in on a birthday cake smothered in icing.

He walked round the back again, paused, and cut one into her open, inviting cunt. That brought the best and loudest wail of all. With her eyes stuck up, he could not judge if she was defeated. In the meantime he would fuck her beautiful, tight, mean cop arsehole. Michel would get her too, but up the cunt. It would not be worth risking that huge horse’s piledriver being rammed up her tight little arsehole. Doing her permanent damage would reduce her price and killing her would reduce it even more.


Four days later he knew the answer. Her will was still not broken. She’d had no opportunity to rebel, but she wasn’t co-operating and he could just tell she was still his enemy, his slave in body but not in mind. Perhaps the events coming that day would sort her out.

Of the captives he had held four days ago, the Russian had been shipped out to her new life and both the reserve warden and the American hiker had been broken in easily enough. The Nigerian was particularly going to enjoy the warden’s huge arse and big eyes. The Japanese hiker had proved more obstinate, as Kreuzfeld had guessed, but a little routine with a water-filled tub and Michel’s cock had sorted her out. Now she was ready too. Late the previous night some clever work by Greg, who was an electrician as well as a pilot, had finally broken the scientist girl’s will. It seemed that her small tits were especially sensitive.

That left just two – the Zimbabwean journalist and Officer Esmeralda Flores. The event this morning was to sort out the journalist. She had been a nuisance to the President and his people, so two of his trusted representatives – the Minister of Roads and Construction and the most senior general – were attending, as were some lucky locals considered to be influential or to have been helpful in the past.

The compound included a small football pitch, and it was round the edges of this that people were gathering. In the middle of the pitch two tall wooden posts had been erected to support chains for a sort of swing. The Minister and the General of course came with guards and aides. Some of Kreuzfeld’s guards who had wives, girlfriends or children had brought them in. One favoured customer, a Somali warlord, was there, as were tow prospective new clients invited to see what Kreuzfeld could do. There was an atmosphere of anticipation. Last of all the captives – other than the journalist – were led out on chains to watch and learn, Esmeralda among them.

There was a buzz of excitement. Michel was dragging out the journalist by her tightly-curled hair into the centre of the arena.

Naked, she was a magnificent sight. Two fine black breasts, wide as well as long, were topped by unusually long nipples. In contrast, her neck was slim, her face intelligent and sensitive, her nose and lips quite small for a sub-Saharan African. Her legs were not especially long, but firm and well-proportioned, swelling rapidly to the hips. Her arse was hidden, having bumped along over bare earth and grass (with the odd strip of concrete) but everyone could see it must be big. Beneath her flat belly, darker against her dark skin, a fierce tangle of hair pointed to her cunt. The Minister and the General smiled broady and clapped.

Greg came out to help Michel. The journalist was draped over the swing so that her feet hung just above the ground. Her arms and legs were left free. She did indeed have a magnificent arse, bouncy, meaty and deeply-parted. Greg clamped a thick metal collar around her delicate neck. Attached to the collar was a chain which he drew under her and handed to Michel at the back. On the end of the chain was a large, viciously-curved hook. Michel paused so everyone could watch and wonder. Then he shoved the hook inside the girl’s cunt and tugged down hard so it stuck fast. Now any movement of her head or neck would cause the point of the hook to cut in further.

Kreuzfeld had not shown himself until now. As he walked out, many eyes turned from the journalist to him. He was carrying a long South African bullwhip. He spoke to a guard, who hurried up to the two V.I.P.s and invited them forward for a closer look. Each came with just one bodyguard to inspect the girl who had dared annoy them and Mr Kreuzfeld. They smiled in approval. Kreuzfeld took up position. He bowed slightly to the two men, measured his distance, and made the vicious, big whip snake towards the captive’s plump buttocks, striking across the central divide so that for a moment, it seemed she had a second arsecrack at right angles to the first. Her scream delighted the visitors. She bucked and the hook sank deeper in. He flexed the whip and landed the second shot. His fourth, brilliantly calculated, seared into the crack itself. Blood dribbled down her inner thighs from where the hook was cutting in. He gave her three on her back and a couple on her upper thighs.

She was moaning and wailing. Soon it would be time for the next stage. But he was interrupted. Confused cries warned him. Esmeralda Flores had wrenched her chain free from her guard, had kicked him in the groin, and was running towards the torturer and his victim, the chain still dangling from the heavy collar. Some of the audience cheered and others yelled abuse. Kreuzfeld unhurriedly put down the whip and waited for her. As she prepared to launch herself at him, he kicked her in the cunt. She went down and he kicked her again. He stood on her in triumph, one foot planted on her plump hindquarters, and motioned for guards. The journalist was dumped off the swing and Officer Esmeralda Flores replaced her.

This had not been scripted, but for Kreuzfeld it was welcome. The crowd was screaming for her to be punished. They didn’t need to. When she was set out just as the journalist had been, he looked long at the fine target before burying the whip in her arsecheeks. She screamed as a vivid red weal rose. He struck again. Part of him wanted to flay her, but she was a valuable property. He soon moved on to her thighs and finally landed one on each tit. The specially-trained officer, the girl sent out to catch him, was crying. Clapping rang round the ground.

It was time for the two girls to be staked out, faces up, legs wide apart and pulled back alongside their heads so their arses were presented and a man could choose between all their holes. Metal pegs were hammered into the ground and rough ropes held them tight. Michel was organising the crowd into two long lines – one for the journalist and one for Esmeralda Flores. The two government V.I.P.s were lined up at the front for the journalist, but the line for Esmeralda was longer and was headed by the grotesquely fat local chief. Kreuzfeld strode over and looked into Esmeralda’s face. She was fighting to stop the tears. She knew what was coming.

The fat chief lumbered heavily on to her and forced his way into her cunt, grunting with effort and with satisfaction. Greg was next and then one of the Minister’s bodyguards. As man succeeded man, her body became more limp, her breathing weaker. A few of the men struck her to get more reaction. Kreuzfeld watched closely, but he did not intervene till all who had chosen her had enjoyed her. Only when he noticed one of the chief’s sons coming round for a second go did he call a halt. The men had finished with the journalist girl too. Both girls lay almost as if dead, but quivering slightly with their breathing. Kreuzfeld went again to Esmeralda. He grabbed a hank of her lovely black hair and forced her face round to stare at him. Her eyes were vacant. He had seem that look before: she was broken in. So was the journalist.

He said to the cop girl,

“Open your mouth!” She opened it. She had nice teeth. He shoved his steaming cock in and ordered her to suck. She sucked. He didn’t worry for an instant about her biting. He knew when a cunt was broken.

The audience were all cheering and clapping.

He went back to find a few messages. The East Side Gang had outbid the Nigerian and she was theirs. What was more, they had some work for him, to organise springing Boss J from jail. They’d do a lot of the ground-work, but he’d be in charge and in on the action. They’d pay well. They wanted their boss out to enjoy the cop cunt.

Kreuzfeld assumed sooner or later they’d kill her in some slow and interesting way, though just possibly they’d decide it was more amusing to keep her as a slut whore for their friends and business partners, at least till she was no longer juicy, then maybe she’d go into dog food and fertiliser like he’d heard some people who’d crossed the East Side Gang had. It was up to them: she was theirs now. He wasn’t bothered that he wouldn’t see her again and wouldn’t fuck her again either. The triumph was in catching her, in the first fuck and in breaking her will. Did a hunter who stalked a dangerous beast through the forest care what was done with it once he’d triumphed over it?


A little over two years later Kreuzfeld relaxed in his Byelorussian villa, wearing a bathrobe after relaxing in the sauna, a good Czech beer in his hand. He put his feet up on his slave-girl and eased into a pleasant reverie.

The jail job had been an interesting change from his specialism. The East Siders were excellent people to work with, reliable partners who delivered with a minimum of fuss. They’d not only sprung Boss J and shot the Governor, they’d picked up a couple of first-class catches he’d taken back as part of his pay – an Italian-American prison guard with huge tits and a newly arrived Estonian-born nurse with quite the tightest arsehole he’d ever rammed open. A new client, the Zimbabwean general, had bought both. The tits hadn’t stayed on the guard for long.

He’d returned for a job that was a bit personal. Esmeralda’s younger sister had appeared on TV talking about her missing sister, and as soon as Kreuzfeld saw her, he knew he had to have her. Only eighteen and still at school, clever as shit and as beautiful as her older sister, if a bit slimmer. The East Siders were happy to help, so he’d gone over to do the job. He’d even reacquainted himself with Esmeralda, fitted with a nice thick collar and chain and kept with a randy Rottweiler. The guys were starting to hire her out for good money or use her as a reward for special friends. The sister was almost too easy, believing they were cops with news of her beloved sister. Chloroform did the job, a wet rag pressed into her never-sucked-cock face. They even introduced her to her sister again so each one could see what had happened to the other. Little sister was a good fuck. But although Kreuzfeld had been happy to share her with the East Siders and the Rottweiler, he’d done something with her he’d never done before – kept her for himself. She was the slave-girl. If he tired of her he could sell her, maybe to that Yemeni warlord or that Chinese businessman.

In the end Officer Esmeralda Flores had begun to lose her looks. That sealed her fate.

He looked up to the hunting trophies on the wall – wolf, bear, wild boar, elk, deer, lynx. But one in particular was his special pride, one he regularly showed to the slave-girl at his feet. Mounted on a well-polished pine shield, the fine head of Officer Esmeralda Flores stared back at him with her convincing glass eyes, the rest of the head all natural, her magnificent, long black hair falling well-combed around her horrified face, mouth opened in her last scream.

To have a little memento of a special success was sweet, Kreuzfeld thought. The slave-girl agreed. She always did.

In a way, he supposed, he loved Esmeralda, his finest catch. It was good now he had her forever.

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