The Intruder

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Detective Constable Claire Wheeler looked around the flat knowing that even if she had a warrant to search it she wouldn’t find anything. Not what she was after, anyway. She looked across at Adele who was standing with one hand on her hip, her head c****d to the side and her eyebrows raised in a ‘whatever’ expression of indifference. Wheeler would have liked to wipe the look from her face but even more she would have liked to have pulled the soft t**s from her bra and given them a good sucking. She quite fancied Adele. She was still young and good-looking and she had really long n*****s when aroused. There weren’t too many whores in this small town; it was leafy and affluent, but its position in London’s commuter belt meant that most girls who went on the game were drawn to the richer pickings of the capital. Adele was definitely one of the best of a pretty average bunch.

“So, when is your pimp going to be here?” asked Wheeler.

“Carlos is not my pimp, he’s my boyfriend, and he won’t know anything about your passports, either.” Adele was getting stroppy, her pouting overly made-up face becoming even sexier in the detective’s humble opinion. She felt a familiar tingle between her legs as she eyed up the tart’s cleavage, which was threatening to spill out unceremoniously at every slight movement. It was a hot day but not too hot to preclude the probability that Wheeler would abuse her position of power before leaving this flat. She was mulling over the idea when her phone rang and distracted her attention. The interruption annoyed her and she only answered the call on seeing it was from her boss, Detective Inspector Rick Finch.

“Hi Claire,” he said. “There’s been another burglary reported this morning and it looks like the same person who did the Anwar’s. Forensics tell me they’ve found nothing, so I’m going to need you back here to go over the statements, ok?”

“Sure, Guv. I’ll be finished up here pretty soon.”

Wheeler rang off and cursed under her breath. This burglary inquiry was starting to annoy her. There was no evidence to go on and none of the booty had turned up in any of the usual places. They had so far linked two incidents, both thefts from houses in a particularly wealthy part of town, with only jewellery stolen despite the opportunity to take more. In both cases security systems had been disarmed before entry. The second victim was a Mr Arbosh Anwar, a particularly dislikeable man who shouted his way through the brief interview Claire had conducted, and told her in no uncertain terms that he expected her to swiftly bring the culprit to justice, despite the lack of evidence. He then filed his insurance claim, citing the disappearance of valuables totalling nearly thirty grand.

Claire wondered if it was some kind of scam, although it turned out that Mr Anwar had friends in high places, prompting the Chief Inspector himself to make rash promises about getting the best men on the job before shifting the whole thing onto D.I. Finch who, not to be outdone, promptly handed it over to Wheeler. Seemingly every other day Anwar would ring in demanding an update on the progress of the case; not an action you expect from someone trying to pull an insurance fraud, however suspicious a character he appeared to be.

There seemed only one anomaly to go on. The wife had apparently discovered the theft when she returned home at around seven in the evening. However, the security system had a timer which showed it had been disarmed at exactly 22.00. This was easily explainable—either the system moved to a default time after being switched off, or more likely the person disabling it had purposefully moved the clock forward to fool the police or deprive them of the evidence of when the theft took place. When informing Mrs Anwar that the system was apparently disabled after she claimed to have discovered the theft, the previously mute Mrs Anwar went to pieces, colouring up and stuttering on about how if it had been later she would have heard any intruder, an odd statement from someone who had earlier claimed to have found broken glass and an open door on her early evening return.

Perhaps Mrs Anwar had come home later and didn’t want her husband to know. Perhaps he had concocted a story for her to follow and this inconsistency had thrown her. Maybe she was just nervous in the presence of her overbearing partner. Claire was quite sure that the wife was not revealing the whole truth, but she never got the chance to follow this up, the husband interceding with a lecture about how the police should be out trying to catch the perpetrators, not trying to question the validity of his wife’s statement. Claire left with no evidence and no incentive to solve the case, and if not from the pressure from above, she would happily have rammed the whole thing up the ignorant Mr Anwar’s fat arse.

What annoyed Claire most about the thefts was that they were interfering with a more important investigation—the one that had brought her to Adele’s flat that day. The w***e might well have been able to help Claire with her enquiries, but currently she was leaning against the back of her sofa with her t**s nearly tumbling out of her top, a smirk spreading over her young face as she sensed the change in the policewoman’s mood following the phone call. Claire wanted to smack those fat t**s. She wanted to see them dance under the weight of her heavy slaps, to spit on the swelling n*****s and into the w***e’s shocked and incredulous face. She had forced herself upon Adele a few times but only on the streets. She had never yet had the time or place to bring down the full force of her sadistic perversity upon her. That goading smirk was like lighting touch-paper and it was all Claire could do to quell her urges and bring her thoughts back into focus and concentrate on the case she was desperate to crack.

Over the last few months there had been a sizeable increase in illegal immigrants in the area, obviously the product of a people-trafficking operation. It was quite a high profile investigation with the local media taking an interest, and Claire had been surprised when Finch had entrusted it to her. True, she had come up with the original lead but he was showing great faith (or favouritism, as many would have put it) by letting her run with it. If she could crack it then it would help her career prospects enormously. It would also help her prove she was good at her job, and did not rely on help from above to get her through.

Sadly, the original leads had come to nothing and now the whole investigation was running into a brick wall. Her failure to make a breakthrough was counting against her and she knew her boss would soon be forced to put someone else in to help or even replace her. She suspected that handing her the Anwar burglary case was Finch’s way of easing her off the people-trafficking investigation, without making it look too bad for her. She knew however that the plaudits would come from busting the immigration operation. The burglaries just threatened to be a spirit sapping, drawn-out and probably fruitless task.

She was determined not to give up without a fight, and was following every single lead however tenuous they appeared. Her current shred of information was this: Carlos, it was rumoured, was trying to off-load a DVD player and games console, items which had been amongst those taken during a recent break-in. As well as the home entertainment items, the break-in had also seen the theft of four family passports, and where there were stolen passports, there was a possible line of enquiry.

Claire knew that Carlos was a wannabe gangster and would have delighted in the epithet of ‘pimp’ but so far his criminal career had only amounted to a bit of fencing and drug offences. He was no Mr Big. He was generally pretty stupid and Wheeler reckoned he would have trouble running a bath, let alone any large criminal organisation. Big wheels have little cogs though, and Carlos was worth following up for any c***k of light he could shed on the bigger picture. His current absence was disappointing and only partially compensated for by the sight of his prostitute girlfriend’s luscious cleavage. Wheeler was annoyed that any progress here seemed remote and at the phone call summoning her back to the station.

Adele, obviously feeling safe in the knowledge that the detective would soon be gone, decided to mock her, asking sarcastically,

“Was that your Sugar Daddy calling you home? Does that mean we are finished here?”

Claire felt a sudden rush of anger at the jibe, an obvious dig at the rumours of the affair between Wheeler and Finch. Glaring into the tart’s eyes she snarled,

“No we are not f*****g-well finished. We will not be finished until you have done your dirty w***e duty and made me come.”

Adele was taken aback by the sudden fury but attempted to stand her ground.

“I knew it!” she said, “This has got nothing to do with Carlos; you just came here for a freebie!”

“Then you had better start getting you kit off, before I decide to nick you for possession, and have your i***t boyfriend arrested for living off immoral earnings.”

Adele’s face was fixed with an expression of disgust but tellingly she was already removing her clothes, resigned to her fate. Claire’s anger turned to an urgent lust at the sight of the girl in just her lacy underwear. The bra was at least one size too small and as Adele unclipped it her breasts sprung out, the n*****s already growing despite the air of resentment she was trying to convey.

“Happy now, are we?” she said defiantly.

Claire ignored the comment, instead moving forward and grabbing Adele by the hair and pulling her into the kitchenette where she bent her over a low worktop that served as a breakfast table. Adele was squealing but complying, and stayed in position as her panties were pulled down. As Claire went onto her haunches to untangle the underwear from Adele’s high heels, she paused to admire the w***e’s smooth bum, which looked way too pristine for a girl of her profession. Claire sank her head down onto one slender cheek, biting hard before sucking in a mouthful of flesh. She copied the manoeuvre on the other buttock, biting and sucking so that red marks appeared on the white flesh.

Her hands came up to help with the punishment, pinching and squeezing as Adele cried out and tried to wiggle her arse free from the torment. Claire took a good hold of the buttocks in front of her face and splayed them wide apart, watching Adele’s well-f****d anus shrink shyly inwards. Wheeler’s lip curled into a sneer at the sight of the w***e’s retreating bum hole and she gathered a wad of saliva onto her tongue, spitting it messily into the crack and using her index finger to work it into the tight anal opening. She then picked up the discarded underwear, extending her middle finger into the stretchy, slightly damp gusset and pushed her hand between Adele’s cheeks until she could feel her digit touch the tight knot of puckered flesh through the lacy fabric.

Keeping her finger just resting there, Claire stood up and leant against her victim, her mouth now finding an earlobe to gently nibble and tease. Her other hand moved around the front, cupping Adele’s large left breast and then gently pinching the long swollen n****e. The w***e was moaning softly now, pushing herself back against Wheeler and trying to encourage attention to the sensitive skin around her neck and ear. Claire whispered, the edge still present in her voice,

“You are a dirty w***e aren’t you, and dirty whores need to be punished, don’t they?”

There was no answer, except for a sharp breath as Claire increased the pressure on the n****e and slowly started to pull it forward. The pink flesh began to stretch and as Claire pulled at it she simultaneously drove her fabric-covered finger beyond the protesting sphincter muscles and upwards into Adele’s rectum, causing her to cry out. The w***e’s tit was lifted away from her chest as Claire continued to tug at the thin, inch-long n****e, all the while pushing her finger further up Adele’s arse and nibbling at her earlobe. When her hand could go no further she slowly withdrew it, carefully leaving the fabric behind, so that as the finger was removed and Adele’s anus squeezed shut, it clamped around the material, leaving her panties hanging from her backside.