Accordingly, he pulled her arms up high until she winced with pain. And when she attempted to scream out and summon assistance in the person of the janitor or concierge, Drew didn't hesitate to clamp one hand over her mouth, stifling her cries of outrage.
"You'd best calm down, kiddo," he warned her, looking wildly about until he spied the narrow short hallway which led from the living room to the back of the apartment. He'd had it with doing numbers on living room floors and now he began to drag the unwilling teenager through the living room in the direction of the bedroom.
She was harder to handle than he would have first thought. Christine kicked up a storm, but he had her wrists in one hand, her arms pinned securely behind her back and her mouth sealed off with his other hand.
He nearly had to carry her bodily to the bedroom. Then, kicking a likely looking door open with his foot, he cursed when he saw the bathroom with its stall shower, toilet, sink and characteristically French bidet.
He kept dragging her down the hallway and the next door was partly ajar. He spied an unmade double bed, the sheets thrown back as if she had been sleeping when he'd knocked on the front door. It was to this room that he now hustled her, slamming the door shut behind him. If Rene was going to arrive, which he sincerely doubted since the girl had begun to tell him where Martinon was now to be found, it would be a perfect Livingston-style introduction.
But before that was destined to happen he'd get his way on all counts, both physically as well as in terms of information about Amy's whereabouts. So without any trouble at all he managed to throw Christine onto the large unmade bed, not in any mood to waste more time.
She rolled to the side, but he lunged down on top of her and despite her efforts to the contrary, it took little on his part to pin her down onto the bed. He was kneeling between her spread-eagled thighs, his hands securing her wrists and her arms bent and above her head, pinned down to the mattress.
"Don't you think it's time you cooperated, dear?" he whispered with a sarcastic twinkle in his eyes. "I'd hate to make things more difficult for you than they already are. Now, where's Amy Mitchell?"
"Eat shit, merde you pig," she snarled like a trapped tiger.
But her fire and spirit delighted him considerably. There was nothing as much fun as taming an unwilling chick, especially one as young and seductive as Christine Pedersen. So when she refused to answer him, he pulled her hands up higher until he's managed to hold unto both wrists at the same time.
Then, as she continued to struggle, he slid his knees over until he was pressing them down most painfully along the tops of her bronzed and shapely thighs. Her body was immobilized and with his one free hand, Drew Livingston took hold of the front of her flannel wrapper and wrenched it open, the snaps forced apart so that he suddenly was once again confronted and dumbfounded with the sight of her lush naked young body, tossing and turning, writhing on the bed as she continued to try to escape his steely and viselike grip.
"I told you that you're not going anywhere," he snickered, ogling her lush creamy-white boobs, her tan line cut so low that the bikini she must have worn couldn't have been much wider than two strips of handkerchief-sized cloth. "Now are you going to answer my questions or aren't you, Miss Pedersen?"
"I don't know shit. Ask Rene, if you can find him, sucker," she snapped, suddenly drawing her lips back and spitting out a gob of phlegm which hit him right in the face.
Her laughter was filled with scorn. But that didn't stop Drew in the least. He wiped his face dry and with the one hand he had free, managed to slip out of his tweed jacket. He threw it onto the floor and then reached for the buckle of his belt. Her eyes followed him and she suddenly stopped moving, as if she knew moments before he actually began what it was he in, tended to do to her.
"Get the picture?" he said, dead serious and not about to stop what he intended to see to its eventual completion. He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned the top snap of his slacks, pulled his zipper down and began to push his trousers down off of his waist and hips.
"You can't be serious," she said with defiance. "What are you gonna do, big shot? Rape it out of me? Fat chance, you little faggot shithead!"
"So you know American English," he laughed, ignoring her words of anger and rage as he continued to push his trousers down, all the while holding her immobilized on the bed. And when he had gotten them down to his knees, it didn't take too much in the way of imagination for Christine to know what it was that tented up the front of his underpants, still hidden by his shirt tails as well.
With quick agile motions, as if he was borne to the task he had set out to perform, accomplished at undressing with the use of only one hand and five fingers, he unbuttoned his shirt up to the collar, glad that he wasn't wearing a tie. He pulled his arms, one and then the other, free of the sleeves, wanting to really enjoy himself and not be hassled by his clothing getting in the way of the contact of flesh against flesh, skin against skin and body against body.
And hers was, as he continued to notice, a body that could not be taken lightly or easily ignored. If anything, it was so lush and seductive that he would have wanted her under any kind of circumstances. But now he had the perfect reason to use sex as a means of getting the necessary information out of her stubborn and defiant little head.
Her sun-blonde hair was spread out, haloed around the pillow. Her aureoles, prominent and distinguishing her jugs by their tawny hue, were surrounding by prickly goose bumps, highlighting each large flaccid button-like nipple. But if Drew had anything to do about it, they wouldn't remain flaccid too much longer.
Once his shirt was off, she was able to see what his brute strength was made of, his pectoral muscles standing out boldly, taut and contracted so that his virile and hairy chest suggested the physique of a middle-aged athlete, that rare breed of man to whom age has little if any bearing.
It wasn't only vanity which kept him in good physical shape. It was also the awareness and knowledge that the girls he lusted after, the adolescent females he took delight in enjoying like young and fruity first-growth wines, looked askance at men who were fat and paunchy, who showed their age and hid their virility under layers of flab.
Flab was the last thing Christine saw now as the front of his youthful and tight-fitting cotton briefs bulged out with the hard and jutting outline of his imprisoned erection. As if she had switched off some inner mechanism inside of her mind and body, she suddenly stopped moving, gasping for breath and lying there as cold and frozen-as a statue.
But if her body was not responding to his mere physical presence, her eyes certainly betrayed what she was actually thinking. He'd seen the way she'd glanced down at the silhouette of his cock and he knew as well that she had been both intrigued and even a little frightened at the prospect of his unveiling the mysteries which lay behind the swollen crotch of his underpants.
"Well?" he said again, hooking his hand under the waistband of his shorts. "Where is she, and M. Martinon?"
"I told you that I don't know anything about any Amy, period," she said.
"Have it your way, my darling," he snickered and without another word began to make good his threat, or the threat she had assumed would be her punishment for not telling him all that she knew about his niece.
Without waiting any further, tired of playing games and getting hassled in response, he shucked off his briefs with a minimum of effort. And like a suddenly unsheathed sword his massive boner jumped out of confinement, jutting out at her like an infant's arm. A gasp tore through her lips and he smiled with delight, pleased at her apparent fear of his studly equipment.