Mrs Volvo’s Gangbang

We called him Dimex because that was the name on the side of his truck. Of all the voyeurs on The Heath, he was the best. Even better than me. Except we felt uncomfortable with the word ‘voyeur’, so called ourselves doggers. You kind of sensed Dimex rather than saw him, but eventually I met up with him. It was a hot Saturday afternoon and I was on a young couple that had chosen to make love in the shade of some trees – the ones I was using as cover to keep watch on the main car park. So it was pure chance I got so close. In effect, they came to me. All I had to do was lie low and let the camouflage gear do its job. Otherwise, I would never have got a ring-side seat. The ground was covered in dry leaves and twigs, and they would have heard me creeping up on them.

With youngsters, the second fuck is the one to wait for. The first is usually over in a couple of minutes but I shot it on my camcorder anyway, from a range of less than thirty feet. It was about an hour later, just as they were starting again, that I suddenly realised I wasn’t alone.

Dimex was so close I could have reached out and touched him, and yet I hadn’t heard a thing. With just one small movement of his hand, he signalled that it was OK, don’t panic, don’t say a word. All with one simple gesture. I didn’t move a muscle. I wasn’t about to upset someone who could walk fifty feet across dry leaves without making a sound. Shit, this guy was good.

Together we watched the couple screw for a good fifteen minutes. Because it was cool under the trees, they didn’t strip off, but we still saw plenty. Especially when he did her doggy-style. Big, beautiful white titties swinging and bouncing in the dappled light, as he slapped into her, making her gasp in pleasure. She could only have been nineteen or so. And she was lovely.

After they’d gone, we got talking, Dimex and me. Swapped a few stories about couples we’d watched recently. Seems he’d had most of the ones I’d had and had seen me on them. Liked my style, he said. More professional than the others. This was not the compliment it might have been. Some of the doggers on The Heath were a menace to themselves and everybody else, getting too close, too quick. Just because a few couples put on shows, these dick-heads seemed to think every couple did. Nothing could be further from the truth. Most of them were “straights” – young courting couples who were mortified to discover they were being watched. And sometimes reacted very badly. It was only a matter of time before someone complained to the police, or worse, kicked someone’s head in.

This was the first time I’d ever seen Dimex close up. He was tall and lean and tough, with cold eyes; not the kind of guy you’d argue with. Maybe he was bored at playing the loner, but that day he opened up and before long we were chatting away like old buddies.

Eventually he asked me about The Volvos. All of us had nicknames on The Heath. Because I usually had a camera on me, mine was Bailey, after the photographer. I knew Mrs Volvo as Mrs Slap-Ass because she’d got as far as sticking it out of the car door and asking for a slapping. I’d never obliged but I’d watched others do it. And I told him about the time I got them on my own, and her old man had switched the light on and stripped her down to her stockings. And how I’d watched while she spread ’em wide and played with her pussy for me. All on the other side of the glass, though. No sex. No-one had ever had the woman in the Volvo.

Wrong, said Dimex. He’d had her. I chewed on this for a while, not believing it but not wanting to dispute it, either. He must have read my mind, for he smiled and said next time, he’d bring a video of him screwing her, just to prove it.

I said I’d make him a copy of the tape I’d just shot and asked where we’d meet up to swap tapes. “I’ll find you up here tomorrow,” he said. And he did.

After five years of dogging on The Heath I thought I’d seen just about everything but the tape of Mrs Volvo getting laid was a new experience altogether. It looked like it had been taken in their home and started with her lying on a settee, dressed, her back to the camera and apparently crying.

Then her old man walked into view, from behind the camera. He was carrying a heavy leather belt and without warning brought it down with a crack that sounded like her back breaking. I don’t know who jumped the highest, Mrs Volvo or me.

“Slut! Fucking little whore! Dirty, fucking little whore!” he screamed at her.

OK, I can’t remember it word for word but you get the idea. My God he hit her. No, he really hit her. She shrieked in agony and covered her head with her hands, writhing in the sudden shock of the pain.

“Stick it out!” he yelled over her screams. “Stick your great fat arse out, you slag! Stick it out when I tell you!”

So out she stuck it and down cracked the belt again, to more shrieks of pain. My arms had goose-bumps and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. This wasn’t pretend, this was real violence, and wife-beating’s not my scene. I’d seen enough. I reached for the switch.

But I never used it. I watched that tape all the way through. Because just as I found the remote control, Mrs Volvo gave herself away. Reaching behind with both hands, she pulled her tight skirt up over her hips and pushed her knickers down her thighs.

She was a well built woman and her naked white buttocks seemed to fill half the screen. They were covered with wheals and stripes, white at first but changing in seconds to scarlet, as the belt crashed down time and again. Her shrieks of pain were just as blood-curdling, but now she seemed to thrust upwards to every blow, as if eager to meet it. And suddenly I could see her knuckles, gleaming wetly between her legs, buried deep. She might have been howling the house down, but Mrs Volvo was having the time of her life.

Later on, with the help of the slo-mo button, I counted fifteen lashes with that big heavy belt, any one of which would have reduced me to a snivelling, weeping wreck. The colour of her buttocks was unbelievable, a mass of pinks and purples, scarlets and crimsons, like some obscene sunset. Her skin seemed to be on fire. But by the end, she had stopped screaming and was grunting as if giving birth.

It wasn’t over yet, though. Mr Volvo disappeared for a few seconds and came back with a bundle of what looked like white rope but turned out to be several lengths of that fat, soft cord that serves as a belt around dressing gowns. Roughly, he pulled the rest of her clothes off and grabbing her by the hair, twisted her round to face the camera. She was groggy, like a boxer who’d taken one punch too many, and her make-up was so streaked with tears, she looked like a clown.

Well, from the neck up, anyway. From the neck down she was just as I remembered her from the night they’d put on a show for me. Big, big tits. And big belly, big thighs, big everything. Especially her beaver, which was more like a badger than a beaver, if you get my drift. Mrs Volvo must have tipped the scales at around a hundred-and-eighty pounds minimum. A whole lotta woman.

Her husband now assumed the air of a headmaster reluctantly dealing with a particularly troublesome student. Long suffering and almost apologetic but you know, you’ve brought all this on yourself, type of attitude.

His wife sat there whimpering, completely passive as he arranged her on the floor, facing the camera with her legs wide apart.

He bent her knees, pushing her legs back so far her it hurt her. She was a big woman and the position must have been as uncomfortable as it was undignified. Next, he wrapped a long length of cord several times around her right ankle, tied it tight, then wrapped the long end around her upper leg, pulling her calf up tight against the underside of her thigh and binding them together. When he’d done the other side, he tied each hand to her leg bindings. Finally he managed, with a struggle, to pass a single cord under the small of her back, tied it just above her left knee, stretched it tight and fastened the other end around her right knee, pulling her thighs wide apart. Mrs Volvo was now trussed up like a very considerable Christmas turkey indeed.

Her legs were spread so wide you could practically see what the woman had had for breakfast, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to close them. She was sitting up, leaning against the sofa, with her weight on her sore and bruised buttocks. Livid welts framed her pussy, where the end of the belt had curled inwards, licking her curves and cracks.

And that’s how he left her. With the camera running, while he got ready to go out. I could hear him in the background, zipping a coat up, jangling his car keys, closing the door behind him. She couldn’t move and I soon got tired of staring at that big ol’ badger and listening to her whimpering, so I hit Fast Search.

After about an hour of real time had zipped through, a figure suddenly darted across the room at ten times normal speed. Before I could take my finger off the button, the screen went blank. But I hadn’t missed anything, Mr Volvo had come back and had changed tapes. When the picture cleared, it was obvious where he’d been, for out of shot I could hear a familiar voice. He’d been up on The Heath and had brought Dimex back with him.

Between them, they fucked Mrs Volvo in every orifice she had, sometimes alone, at others, together. Dimex was always careful to look away from the camera but it was him all right, and he was some stud. At one point, Mr Volvo took the camera off the tripod and took close-ups of Dimex fucking her, first in the pussy and then in the ass, making her come very noisily and yet never saying a word to her himself. It was strange, almost surreal. There she was gasping and groaning, building up to one climax after another, and yet apart from fucking her, they ignored her completely, like she was just a piece of meat.

Something else was strange, too. Dimex was given polite, but very precise instructions on how to come.

“A couple of spurts inside her, please, then pull out and fill her crack up.” Like he was in a gas station or something.

When his time came, Dimex did just as he’d been asked. And the old man got it all in shaky close-up. The next pictures, though, were steady as a rock. Dimex was as good a cameraman as he was a stud. In the background I could hear her old man urging her to push harder and the screen seemed full of wet pussy as her muscles tensed to squeeze out the sperm she’d taken. Suddenly a cock appeared and started sliding up and down her crack, picking up the come, coating itself in it, before burrowing into her pussy. It didn’t take Mr Volvo long; perhaps a few seconds, before he lost control. The last few shots were big close-ups of come oozing out of his wife’s pussy, as she pushed out the double cream pie she’d taken.

I didn’t see Dimex for about a week after watching the tape, then suddenly, in that very unnerving way he had, he just sort of appeared next to me. There was nothing much happening, so we walked back down to my car and I gave him his tape back. What had happened afterwards, I asked. Had they untied her, then sat around having a drink and making small-talk?

No, he’d been given his marching orders and told never to come to the house uninvited. He hadn’t been asked so far but one night soon after, the Volvo had made its routine tour of The Heath before pulling into its usual spot. The interior light had come on instantly, showing the old man to be alone. Dimex had gone over and they’d talked for a while.

Seems Bill and Margaret, as he now called them, had a gang rape fantasy and wanted some help to enact it. They felt they could trust Dimex to arrange it and wanted at least two and preferably three rapists. Once again, the instructions were precise. It was to be on The Heath, at night when the dog-walkers had all gone home, and to be reasonably violent. She was to be chased, caught, roughed up, some of her clothes ripped off, allowed to escape, chased and caught again and again, until she was naked and exhausted. Then she was to be overpowered, slapped around a bit and fucked simultaneously in all three orifices, while he watched. Finally, when she’d taken three cream pies, he was to be forced to fuck her while the ‘rapists’ jeered him on.

If that sounds more like a shopping list than an erotic fantasy, it’s because Dimex made it sound like one. He was so matter-of-fact about it, he could have been suggesting arrangements for a fishing trip. Together, we pondered the logistics.

I felt confident enough that I could perform on her. And we both knew Dimex could. But who to choose as the third man? We went through the list of the voyeurs we knew to be operating on The Heath. Like me, they all had nicknames.

Jesus, what truly depressing collection of cheese-balls, we concluded. Datsun, Painter and The Pipe were all the wrong side of sixty; ET made his namesake look attractive; Cabbie had a persistent, racking cough and Sid Snot a permanent drip on the end of his nose. Mastermind had an IQ of forty and needed to shave the back of his hands twice a day. That left Twitcher, Bazza, Pruner and Ben Gunn.

Ben Gunn was a burned-out, slightly mad ex-hippie, with wild grey hair and a beard that starlings could nest in. Pruner was a quiet little guy who didn’t bother anybody and spent his spare time cutting access tunnels and hide-aways in the thick undergrowth. Twitcher used bird-watching as his cover and seemed to assume even we found it convincing. But how could you possibly follow up a cream pie from a man whose pants were always too short in the leg?

No, the best bet was Bazza. At least he could get it up when required. In fact, he seemed to have trouble getting it down. He never watched a couple without his dick in his hand. It’s a wonder he never got it sunburnt. Still, credit where it’s due, plenty of couples had been impressed at how pleased he was to see them and Barry (his real name) had been offered – and had claimed – more wives on The Heath than the rest of us put together.

We’d spoken on a few occasions and I knew which pubs he used, so I offered to make contact. Dimex was worried about it all going wrong, about someone hearing her yelling and mistaking it for a real rape, so we decided one night in the week would be quietest. It was dark enough at nine for all the dog-walkers to have gone home and too early for the rush hour at eleven, when the pubs shut. “Wednesday at nine, then,” said Dimex. “You fix it with Bazza and I’ll contact Bill and Margaret – and whatever you do, park in town and walk up here. There’s only one road out of The Heath and if it all goes tits-up, the cops will block it and we’ll all have some tricky explaining to do. Without the cars, we can just melt into the night.” It made sense, even if I didn’t relish the prospect of an uphill two mile walk.

As it happened, I didn’t have to track down Bazza, after all. The next day was a Sunday and a hot one. So many couples headed for The Heath we were spoilt for choice. I caught him watching some youngsters who’d got down in the long grass on the town side of the hill. He couldn’t possibly have seen much from where he was, but it was all the excuse he needed to pull out his todger and start polishing the helmet.

I waited till he’d finished. Well, once he’d started, a lighting strike wouldn’t put Bazza off his stroke and I didn’t want to be downwind when he started playing the whale. He listened with growing enthusiasm.

Seems Mrs Volvo was the one regular wife on The Heath that he hadn’t awarded a cream pie to, and he had his reputation to consider. No more than the three of us, I stressed. For Christ’s sake don’t go spreading it around. I might as well have gone down to the beach and pleaded with the tide not to come in.

I got there early but Dimex beat me to it. I didn’t see him, just practically crapped myself when this bush called my name. One of Pruner’s specialities was to hollow out a clump of brambles or a bush overlooking a parking place known to be popular. They were works of art, so good that even he forgot where they all were. We’d watch him searching for the entrance sometimes, then give up and start hollowing another one out.

I couldn’t quite work out why we needed to be hidden, since they were expecting us to be there, but Dimex was in full military mode. He’d been there for over an hour and was a little edgy. Seems Mastermind and Twitcher were hanging around. Since The Volvo’s favourite spot wasn’t one of the more popular ones, this was not good news and even in the growing gloom, I could see the hostile glint in his eyes when he asked me how many doggers I’d told.

I managed to convince him that I’d only spoken to Bazza about it and as if on cue, we heard a rustle in the bush behind us. Barry had heard our whispers and Dimex was not best pleased. We were getting careless, he hissed. We didn’t want Mastermind finding us, he was a fucking liability.

The plan, said Dimex, was that Bill and Margaret would put on a show for a few minutes, then get out of the car with a picnic rug, walk up the hill and get down in the grass. We were to let them get started, then jump them and enact the rape just as Bill had requested. Finally we were to force him to have sloppy seconds – or was it fourths? Anyway, we weren’t to break the role-playing once we’d started. It wouldn’t work if it wasn’t for real. Oh, and don’t forget she likes it rough, Dimex reminded us. Slap her around a bit.

As The Heath slipped under the cover of darkness, we waited, cramped together, in the middle of the bush. Pruner had done his job well. Nobody could see us and we could see nothing except a narrow, fading view of the parking spot. Perhaps it was just as well; a better view of the area and its other visitors would have done nothing for our confidence. Bazza had been less than discrete.

At last, a pair of headlights swung into view, and the Volvo slipped into the clearing, stopping at the foot of the bank some ten feet below us and perhaps thirty feet away. Our position was perfect, as was the view when the interior light went on, soon after the main lights were dowsed.

Margaret was obviously taking it seriously. She was dressed to the nines and looked as if she’d spent all afternoon at the hairdressers. Her tight new curls looked startlingly blonde in the weak light. She was wearing a plain black dress and its tight cut made her tits look even bigger than we all knew they were. OK, she was the wrong side of forty and a little overweight, but seeing her check her hair in the driver’s mirror, I knew I’d have no problem performing on her and began to relax. Maybe it was going to be all right after all.

Bill leaned across and began to squeeze her tits. They kissed, playfully at first, then longer, deeper. Bill’s hands were everywhere and suddenly we caught our first glimpse of black underwear and white skin. It was cramped in the middle of the bush and I was uncomfortably aware just how close we all were. Dimex was okay, his hands were around his binoculars. It was what Bazza might have his hands around that I was worried about.

Suddenly Bill got out, opened the rear door and picked up a tartan rug from the back seat. He walked around to the nearside and I saw Margaret reach up and switch off the light. There was no moon but we could hear them walking up the path that ran past our bush. Dimex was the one with the night vision glasses and as soon as they’d gone past, he crawled over us and out onto the hillside, so as not to lose them. After a couple of minutes he whispered and me and Bazza slipped out into the warm darkness. I could see nothing at first but Dimex pointed to a black mass of bushes just below the skyline and I thought I saw movement. My heart hammered in my chest my shirt was stuck to my back and I badly needed a pee. It was time for Mrs Volvo’s gang-bang.