Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: Rhettxxoo@aol.com Subject: "Southern Hospitality" by Rhett Dreams, 3/10 [mf, crime drama] SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY by Rhett Dreams (c. 1996) Chapter Two (cont.) Sheriff Trent did not have to utilize his right hand when he needed release, and right now he could feel the familiar feeling in his gut that told him he needed a good fuck. He was sitting at his kitchen table, sipping a beer after finishing the meal Celeste had prepared. They had eaten in silence, as was usually the case, and Trent had noticed that the young black girl wore no bra under the simple cotton dress she wore. Her dark nipples showed clearly through the worn fabric. When she rose to clear the table, first setting her dishes in the sink before returning for his, he stopped her. He reached under her knee-length dress and confirmed his suspicion that she was also without panties. His hands caressed the firm meaty cheeks of her ass and he looked up into her ebony face and dark eyes. "You happy here, girl?" "It's fine, masser," she said, using the term of address that she knew he preferred. He could only imagine the situation at home that forced this girl to run away. Trent was no joy to live with, he knew, but she ate regular and he knew she enjoyed the sex they shared. "You want to get fucked tonight, nigger girl?" he said, his hand between her legs, playing with her moistening sex. "Yes, masser," she said. "Take off your dress, nigger, then finish the dishes." Trent sat and watched her as she worked at the sink, naked, her back to him. After watching her meaty ass for several minutes, his cock got uncomfortably stiff in his pants. He got up, took another beer from the fridge, and went into the small living room. He undressed and sat on the sofa, drinking his third beer of the night. He also thought about the night that he'd nabbed the young couple, but not with the same frustration as Tom. Sure, he would have loved to fuck the redheaded bitch, and watching Burns butt-fuck the whimpering girl had given him a tremendous hard-on. But when he thought back over the events of that evening and the early hours of the next morning, it was not with frustration but with great satisfaction. Everything had gone perfectly. He'd strangled the girl after Tom left with Burns, slowly tightening a silk scarf around her neck. He took no pleasure watching the fear build in her eyes and the color disappear from the lips that had taunted and insulted him earlier that evening. The last thing Beth Albert saw was the face of Sheriff Paul Trent, inches from hers, as he squeezed the scarf around her neck, closing her windpipe, his lips set in a thin line as her life ebbed slowly away. Celeste came into the room and found Trent sitting on the sofa, his cock erect and his eyes staring off into the distance. She was wary when she saw the purposeful set of his lips, but went to him anyway. Kneeling between his spread thighs, she took his cock in her hand and brought her mouth to the job of licking and sucking his long tool. Trent's mind registered her entrance and the pleasant feeling of her warm, wet mouth on his cock. His mind replayed the remaining events of that evening. He gloved his right hand before pulling the .38 automatic out of the plastic evidence bag and shooting three times into the corpse. He and Ward Price wrapped the body in a plastic tarp and put the bundle into the trunk of Tom's old Caddy, reasoning that the cruiser would be too conspicuous if noticed so far from his county. They drove North, transferred the weapon to Tom, then drove for several hours before finding an isolated field in the same vicinity where the previous body had been found. They got her body out of the trunk and laid it behind some bushes, positioning the white corpse spread eagle on the ground. Trent ended his musings and looked down, watching the black head bob up and down on his cock. He reached for her and pulled the small girl up and into his lap. When he lifted her again she reached down and positioned his cock at her sex, then moaned as he lowered her until she was completely impaled on his meat. She rocked up and down while he played with her small firm tits. "You my nigger slut?" "Yes, masser," said the girl. "Say it, nigger!" "I'm your nigger slut, masser," she said. Sweat broke out on the girl's forehead as she rode Trent. Her breathing became more pronounced as the sensations from her stretched cunt intensified. Trent began pulling and twisting her long, thick black nipples as she bounced up and down with greater urgency, digging for her orgasm. She came a few moments later, crying out in release. "Masser... masser... masser," she chanted though her climax, then collapsed against Trent's chest. He held the girl to him, his embrace almost tender, and let her breathing and pulse reduce to normal. He took her head between his hands and brought her lips to his, kissing her wetly, his tongue wrestling playfully with hers. After they broke he rapped her ass, motioning with his head. She smiled and pulled herself off his cock and crawled to the opposite end of the sofa. She lowered her head to rest on the cushion and kept her ass high in the air, pointing toward Trent. Kneeling behind her, Trent wet a finger in her cunt before working it into her ass. Holding her meaty buns part, he then positioned his cock at her anus and pushed. The girl pushed back against him and his cock popped past her sphincter and into her tight hole. "Oh, God!" she cried, then groaned as he drove fully inside her. His cock was slick with the juices from her cunt, but not as well-lubricated as he was after his usual practice of coating his cock with jelly before taking her this way. He felt bigger than usual to the girl but she knew the discomfort would pass soon enough. She'd been taken this way since she was twelve, forced by her brothers once they got tired of using each other, and then her father. They preferred this passageway because it was very tight and it wouldn't make her pregnant. But they beat her to get her to do it, or just for the hell of it after she stopped objecting, while they raped her ass. Trent had never laid a hand on her. She didn't love him and would not have been surprised to learn that his feelings for her were not much different from those he might have for a loyal dog. As Trent worked his long cock back and forth in her butt, and the feelings changed to pleasure, she was suddenly very happy. She realized, just then, that while she had escaped the beatings of her family and was glad, she wanted and needed to be treated in this manner. The excitement she got from being used was intense. "You like fuckin' my nigger ass, masser?" she said, surprising Trent who was used to her rarely saying a word to him, and never when he butt-fucked her. "Yeah, nigger," he said. "I like fuckin' your ass." "And my pussy, masser?" she said, rotating her ass in small circles as he fucked her. "I like that too, nigger-slut." "My mouth too, masser... do you like it when I suck your white cock?" "Uh huh," he said, increasing the pace of his strokes, slapping his hips against her black ass with every forward thrust. "But you like this best... fuckin' your white cock up my nasty nigger ass... oh, yeah... harder, masser... fuck my nigger ass... ugh, that's it... ohhhhh" They came together, the girl feeling his cock erupting in her bowels and reaching down to finger her clit through her own powerful orgasm. "Nigger-slut... Nigger-slut..." Trent chanted as drove his erupting cock into the black girl s throbbing and gyrating ass, cuming hard and long, his passions enflamed by the submissive girl's words. Chapter Three Clarice Starling's expectation that she'd wrap the case up inside a week proved a bit optimistic when she went to Birmingham to interview the Burns and Walters families. Congressman Walters and his wife were stunned to hear her account of what had happened to their daughter. Starling was as delicate as she could be when she explained the semen found in both her orifices, and their theory of her death. "That's not... our girl!" said the mother, crying into her hands. Congressman Walters face went from pale to red with anger. "It doesn't make any sense," he said between clenched teeth. "We know Debbie's not like that, and we've known Henry Burns and his family since he was little." "All the evidence points to Burns," said Starling, reasonably, then suggested that she be allowed to talk to him privately. He led her outside and they walked in the garden while she told him of the prints found on the gun, the presence of fluids in the girl that matched Burns's blood type, shared by less than two percent of the population, and the evidence than Burns had engaged in anal sex shortly before taking his life. Walters was still shaking his head when she finished. "I like to think of myself as a logical man, Agent Starling. If A plus B equals C, then C minus B must equal A. If what you're saying is true, then I have to conclude that her mother and I were living in this house with a complete stranger, and that we'd hopelessly misread Henry's character. I don't believe either is true." Starling could not keep her face neutral and Walters picked up on her expression that said, "I've heard this before from other parents." He didn't get angry, just determined. "I know my daughter, Ms. Starling. She inherited my temper, and could be quite a... bitch, at times... as can I, I know. And I'm not one of those fathers who deludes himself that his daughter is and will remain a virgin until she's married. She lost her virginity when she was sixteen, after first discussing it with Harriet---my wife. She concluded Debbie was ready, well protected, and gave her blessing. I know she has sex regularly with Henry, and I've been happy for both of them. They were learning to be adults." "Did you know they were into, um, kinky stuff?" asked Starling. "You see, Agent Starling, I don't believe they were. Debbie was too squeamish, always had been. A needle would cause her to feint. She had no tolerance for pain or discomfort. I just can't imagine her agreeing to anal sex, or letting herself get... choked. I know this stuff happens but it doesn't fit either Debbie or Henry. And Henry was... well, it's a crude and tasteless expression but it fits---the guy was pussy whipped. He took more shit from that girl than I ever would from anybody. He was absolutely devoted to her." He gave her names of close friends of Debbie's and Henry's. As he walked her out to her rental car he said, "Let's be logical again, Agent Starling. If I'm right about the kids, then one of two things happened to my girl. The evidence was either manufactured by the FBI in some bizarre conspiracy to get back at me, which seems rather far-fetched, or somebody forced Debbie and Henry to have sex before they were killed. I admit that doesn't seem very plausible but please, keep an open mind to what I've said." "I will, Congressman." "I suspect you will, Agent Starling. Senator Martin called me last night, and told me that you were almost single-handedly responsible for rescuing her daughter from that "Buffalo Bill" psychopath. She said you were headstrong and impertinent but totally devoted to finding her girl. It's too late for Debbie but I hope you remain as devoted to finding the truth." She shook his hand and drove off. - o - After two days in Birmingham, she'd talked to the Burns' family and to several friends of both Debbie and Henry. The refrain that was repeated often was, "That's not Henry... or Debbie ...or Them." Nobody believed that Henry would perform anal sex with Debbie or any other girl, and nobody believed that she'd let him. One girl, a friend of both Henry and Debbie, confessed that she'd slept with Henry before he and Debbie were a couple. "He was a very sweet guy, Ms. Starling. Gentle and caring... and incredibly good looking. But he was really quite boring in bed, if you know what I mean. I once suggested that we play a game and pretend that he was, y'know, raping me. He refused to do it. I just can't imagine him doing... that!" The girl giggled and added, "I never would have let him go." - o - On the flight back she reviewed the case folder from front to back, not as she had earlier, convinced of the circumstances that led to both deaths. This time she looked for anything that might be out of place. Any detail that might suggest some other answer. She found none. It came to her in the middle of the night. She sat up in bed and let the thought form in her mind. The car. The Porsche didn't have enough gas to make it from it's last fill up, a credit card charge two days earlier, on their way to New Orleans, to make it there and back, up to the northwest corner of Mississippi where the body was dumped, and then over to where the car was found twenty miles west of Birmingham. She got out of bed and retrieved the file from her briefcase and an atlas. Assuming they drove around a bit in New Orleans, which seemed likely given the dispersion of their credit card charges while they were there, it would be seven or eight hundred miles to complete the loop. She search through the file and found the report on the Porsche. "Shit!" she said to herself. The report stated that the Porsche had a full tank of gas when it was found. "Why would Burns stop and fill up the car with gas, paying cash presumably because he was running and wouldn't want any record of a charge, only to go a few more miles, drive off the road and kill himself?" - o - Starling never went back to sleep that night, and arrived at her office shortly before seven. She reviewed to case folder again until eight and called the State Police in both Alabama and Mississippi. Using her West Virginia accent, she sweet- talked them into checking all the service stations on any possible route taken by Burns. They had already done this with motels, hoping to find where the couple had stopped for the sex, but had come up empty. She called the Alabama State police again and got herself transferred to the sergeant who had overseen the towing of the Porsche to their evidence lot, where it remained. She explained her concern and he agreed to recheck the gas level. He called back an hour later. "It's about as full as the tank'll allow," he said. "Couldn't have traveled more than ten or fifteen miles since the last fill- up." She thanked him and hung up, excited now. Towards the end of the day she got a call from the Alabama Staties, who said they'd checked every station on every route to the Mississippi border and no one seen the Porsche or could identify the picture of Burns and Walters. "I wonder if he could've driven further toward Birmingham, filled it, then gone back for some reason?" she asked. "That's a negative," drawled the voice on the other end of the line. "We figured that was a possibility and checked all the way to the city limits. That boy didn't stop for gas." Impatient now, she called the Mississippi Staties and got the same guy she had talked to earlier. "We've checked all the stations up North," he said, "from Jackson up past where the body was found, and all the routes east to 'bama. Nobody saw the Porsche." "What about south of Jackson?" asked Starling. "We're still checkin'," he said. "I got all the County Sheriffs down there on a conference call this morning, and each agreed to check along the gulf coast roads, all the way North to Hattiesburg. But its hard to imagine why they'd take that route, given where the body ended up." Starling thanked him and asked that he call her office, or her home number, if he uncovered anything new. She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, rubbing them, trying to come up with some explanation for the facts. Her eyes open suddenly when the strange disappearance of Beth Albert popped back into her head. The agent in New Orleans had mentioned that he'd checked gas stations and found nobody who remembered the girl or her finances fancy Mercedes. She found his number and, as luck would have it, Gene Myers was at his desk. "Sure, Clarice," he said. "I remember our conversation. Congratulations, by the way, for solving the Walters case." "I'm not sure I have," she said. He listen attentively while she told him about the unaccountably full tank of gas in the Porsche, then went over what she'd learned about the personalities of the two victims. "Two victims?" he said, interrupting her. She realized that she had uttered that phrase because she was beginning to doubt the easy conclusion she'd drawn from the evidence, and was now wondering if maybe Henry Burns was a victim rather than the perpetrator. "I'm thinking, maybe--" "Maybe this couple met the same fate as Beth Albert," finished Myers. "And this may be linked to the other disappearances." "Uh huh," said Starling. There was a long pause before Myers said, "I don't know... Let's assume for a moment that there is in fact a car theft ring operating someplace down here." "Let's assume more," added Starling. "Let's assume that these women, all young and attractive, have been abducted and sold off, as sex slaves." "What?" Starling went over her conversation with Quinn, reviewing the gruesome facts of the abductions and slavery of girls, boys and women. Myers listened patiently. "Okay, Clarice. But that makes my point even better. Why would they kill the girl, set up this ass-backwards charade to implicate the Burns kid, and thereby lose the opportunity to collect on both the Porsche and the girl? I've seen the picture of the girl that y'all FAXed down. She was real pretty, right? And her boyfriend, the Burns kid, looks like a young Clark Gable without the mustache. Why wouldn't they sell em' off, and the car?" Starling's enthusiasm dampened. He was right, it didn't make sense. She thanked him and hung up. - o - Sheriff Trent had been on edge ever since he got the call that morning from the Staties, asking for his help checking gulf- coast gas stations for the white Porsche. The FAX that followed, pictures of the car, Burns and Walters, had his palms sweating. He put two deputies on the detail, then called Price and warned him to expect a visit. It took five minutes for him to calm his nervous partner, telling him over and over again that this was routine. "All you have to do, Sam, is look at the pictures, say something nice 'bout the car or the girl, and say you would have remembered them stopping for gas. Offer to call up Ward and see if he saw them. Get this right, Sam, or we're all fucked!" He shouted the last sentence and slammed down the phone. He got up, pacing his office, while he reviewed the facts in his head and calmed down. He realized the error they'd made, not thinking to siphon gas from the Porsche before dumping it and Burns. His plan was still solid, he concluded at last. Even if they never found how and where he filled the Porsche they assume that someone had lied or forgotten him stopping at a gas station. Or they'd assume that someone other than the folks they talked to had manned the pumps when Burns stopped to get gas. There was too much concrete evidence to keep this from being closed soon. "Who the fuck is investigating this?" he muttered to himself. - o - Trent paid a visit to Tom at the Heinz farm, wanting to check on him before he went to the Price Garage to mollify his other two partners. Tom's condition surprised Trent. The black man was never very clean or well dressed, even in the best of times, but Trent found him looking especially worn and haggard. He smelled like he hadn't bathed in weeks, and his graying whiskers and furtive eyes worried the lawman. Trent covered his disgust and said, with as much cheer as he could, "It'll be awhile, Tom, before we can start up again. What you need is a good woman." He reached into his pocket and brought out a think roll of bills. "Get yourself shaved and cleaned up, Tom, and I'll treat you to a visit to Rosie's." Trent peeled off four hundreds and gave them to Tom. "That should be enough for a special. Rosie's girls will scratch whatever itch you have." The black's eyes widened and he took the money. "It has been awhile, boss," he said. "Sure has," said Trent. "And I feel bad having cheated you outta the redhead. Jesus Christ, I don't think I've ever heard such a commotion as when the boy fucked her sorry ass." "No sir," said Tom, grinning. "And that boy sure had a tight ass on him," continued Trent, knowing Tom's interest in fuckin' anything that moved, and guessing correctly of his interest. "He was somethin'," agreed Tom. Tom ran his hand over his two week-old beard, then excused himself to go shave and shower. Trent watched him go with a frown on his face. If there was a weak link in this operation is was certainly Tom. He decided that he may have to do something about him. Back in his office after stopping by the Price Garage to check on Ward and Sam, Trent called Rosie and warned her to expect Tom. "Shit, Sheriff, that nigger's gonna wear out by girls," complained the proprietress of the county's only brothel. Trent let her stay in operation because she kept her girls clean and safe and she didn't cheat anyone. Of course, she also allowed him an occasional freebie. "He'll pay top dollar," said Trent. "And I'll consider it a favor." She made a noise that Trent took as acceptance, the said, "Speaking of favors, Sheriff, we haven't seen you around for months. You got yourself a honey?" "Jes' gettin' old, Miss Rosie. Besides, I'm saving myself fo' you." She laughed heartily before they said their good-byes and hung up. - o - Starling used tweezers to hold the edge of the postcard and examine it. This latest note from Hannibal Lecter was postmarked from Oklahoma City, but she knew it meant nothing and would lead nowhere. The elegantly penned words read: I wonder if you're on this case, my dear The Little Rock Rapist I mean This last little gift was not his, I fear The timing's not right nor can be the scene As with the previous communiques, it was signed HL. This one unnerved her, because it must have been written and mailed just after the discovery of Walters' body and before the discovery of Burns' apparent suicide. If Lecter was following this case in the press, and she was sure he was, he could only have seen the first newspaper or TV accounts which assumed she was the fifth victim of the serial killer. Once again the brilliant psychopath was showing off for her, teasing her with his prose. She placed the card in an envelope and marked it for lab analysis, knowing that they'd find no prints and tell her that the card could be purchased at any of ten thousand stores across the country. Her phone rang and she took the call. "Hi Clarice, Gene Myers here." "Hi Gene. Anything new on Beth?" she asked. "Maybe, maybe not. But that's why I'm calling. I've been kicking myself for dumping all over your theory that maybe all these open MP cases are tied to the Walters case." Starling smiled into the phone. She liked this guy, and his southern accent reminded her of the few pleasant times from her childhood in West Virginia. "I needed some cold water thrown on me, Gene" she said. "My imagination was out-racing my reason." "I'm not so sure now that I've noodled on it awhile. I've also been poring over all the other MP cases that have come in, that involve both expensive cars and young women." "Yeah?" Starling's heart beat faster. "The reports were filed all over the South, as you know, and I've just now got them all sorted out. They're from the local PD's in Texas, Florida and up north to Virginia, but all of the MPs can be reasonably placed along the Gulf Coast when they disappeared." "Any luck tracing the cars?" "'Fraid not. But I was wondering if you and Agent Quinn could come down here for a couple of days and help me sort through this case." "I'd love to," she said. She told him that she'd check with Quinn and clear it with Crawford, and get back to him. -- Story Submission: Newsgroup FAQ: Archive site: (Not pretty yet)