by Wol-vriey
Keeping a firm grip on the skin cord around Posh’s neck, he turned her over so she faced him. She now lay on her bound hands, which was painfully uncomfortable.
Posh was horrified. Oswald now looked like a nightmare. His eyes bugged out of his face like they’d been inflated. His lips were curled back in an insane snarl. Worst of all, the skin of his face, neck, and shoulders was now cracked and dribbling blood. He looked covered in bleached alligator skin.
Posh fought back her desire to puke.
Her disgust incensed Oswald. “So you approve of what your fellow terrorists have done to me?”
“It wasn’t . . . I didn’t—”
He slapped her again. “You will pay for this!”
He folded Posh’s legs up onto her chest, spat on his cock and inserted himself forcefully into her anus.
***
Posh hardly noticed that he was fucking her ass. She was a prostitute—her anus was used to being used. (She was even grateful for the familiar sensation of a penis in her ass. It was the only normal thing about this nightmare.)
What she found scary was that he kept choking her while fucking her.
She blacked out twice. Each time, on seeing she was unconscious, Oswald would stop choking her, and slap her awake again.
Posh would resurface from negation back into her unending nightmare of Oswald still pounding HARD into her anus, his face a mad grimace, his eyes ghastly white expanses with tiny black central dots, his mind clearly far-off in the Syrian trenches again.
“Please . . . Please . . . !” she moaned. Copious spit dribbled from both corners of her mouth. Crushed under her, both her arms now felt dead, beyond pain, like frostbitten appendages.
In response, Oswald tightened the noose around her throat and fucked her harder, making her knees dig painfully into her breasts.
“Slut! Septic cunt!” Spitting in her face. “Tell me the cure!”
Once he bit her nose.
Finally, while yanking the cord around Posh’s neck so tight she felt her head would pop off her shoulders, Oswald came.
He froze atop her, orgasming in a long shudder that looked agonizingly painful. Posh, her brain close to shutdown from oxygen deprivation, almost felt sorry for him.
He ejaculated an immense amount inside her. His cum spurted hot like liquid hatred.
Then Oswald went limp and collapsed on top of her.
Then he began crying. “Oh, mummy, I’m so sorry, so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to come home like this.”
He rolled off Posh.
Posh lay beside him, gasping desperately for breath. She was scared to move in case he assaulted her again.
Between her legs Oswald’s semen seeped out of her ass and stained the bedclothes.
***
Oswald’s sobs ceased.
He sat up, looked down at Posh.
She stared at him in scared apprehension, but no, his face was once again normal. Serene and calm, human, not the monster who’d just been killing her.
He smiled at Posh. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head, as terrified by how horrible he looked as she was horrified by the terrible swiftness of the change in him. “I’m used to rough sex, but you didn’t warn me.”
He grinned. “My mistake. I can’t cum except I fantasize that I’m raping one of those Syrian cunts.”
Oswald’s eyes glazed over. For a moment his demons possessed him again. He indicated his nightmare face and body.
“It was a woman that did this to me. She was lying in a doorway, holding what I thought was a baby. I thought she was wounded . . . ordered my unit to hold their fire, ran over to pull her out. Next thing I know, I get a faceful of—”
“Untie me, please,” Posh interrupted him. Though she felt back in control of the situation now she knew Oswald hadn’t been planning on killing her, she was worried by the crazed look that had momentarily reentered his eye.
Oswald snapped back to the present. “Yes, of course.”
He quickly rolled her over and undid the skin tied around her wrists.
With almost no sensation in her arms at all, Posh pushed herself up on her hands. Oswald unwrapped the noose around her neck.
Posh looked down at herself.
Oh, shit. Her thighs were covered with blood. It looked like she was menstruating. Thin translucent slivers ran between the red, but the semen was in the minority.
Posh immediately lost all sympathy for Oswald. You veteran asshole, you’ve ripped up my asshole, you—
Her thoughts froze. Other than for the familiar soreness normally associated with unlubricated sodomy, she felt normal. So where had the deluge of blood come from?
Oswald turned round from retrieving his wallet from his bedside table. “Here’s six thousand dollars, you get a two thousand bo . . . what’s the matter?”
She pointed to his crotch. “Your cock, it’s skinless.”
He laughed. “Oh, that. I must have left its skin in your rectum. Happens occasionally.” He grinned at her worried look. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be the first thing out next time you poop.”
Posh’s eyes widened in disbelief. She gaped at his skinless penis. It looked like an overfed earthworm.
Worse even was the fact that Oswald didn’t seem bothered.
Left it up my rectum. She was once again horrified. Shit it out? Are you fuckin kidding me? Asshole, your cockskin is up my asshole!
Face rigidly calm, Posh took the money Oswald held out to her. She was now desperate to be as far away from him as was humanly possible. Another planet wasn’t enough separation.
She got off the bed and began pulling on her clothes, not caring that his blood was messing up her pants.
Oswald lay back in bed, watching her dress. “I like you, Posh,” he said. “You’ve got class. I think I’d like you to be my regular woman. Maybe twice a week.”
Posh smiled tightly. “I’d love that, honey.” In her mind she was thinking, You must be fucking crazy!
***
“How’d it go?” Herbie asked when he picked her up.
“That guy is fucked up. A freak!”
“Yes, yes,” Herbie said disinterestedly. “But did you fuck him okay—is he pleased with you? That’s what matters. Does he want to see you again? Did he give you a bonus?”
She glared at him. “Money, that’s all you fucking care about.” Shit, Herbie, you’re such a turd, can’t you even see the mess my pants are in?
Herbie’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you fucked this up for us. Remember our deal: If you don’t become his steady, you keep screwing anyone I find for you.”
It was too much. Posh lost it.
She slapped Herbie. So hard that his head rolled on his shoulders. She slapped him again. His eyes rolled in his head.
The Lincoln swerved across the road, almost hitting an oncoming truck.
“Watch where you’re fucking going, dickhead!” the female trucker shrilled at them.
Herbie quickly parked. He grabbed Posh’s hands as she was about to hit him again. He glared at her, his face already bruising.
“What the hell is wrong with you? I just asked a question.”
Posh freed her hands. She threw the six thousand dollars Oswald had paid her at Herbie. “Here’s the fucking money. And yes, he does want to see me again—with his skinless cock.”
Herbie gaped at her. “Skinless?”
Posh didn’t reply. She burst out crying.
“I’m sorry,” Herbie said worriedly. “I honestly didn’t know.”
“Just get me out of here,” Posh said coldly. “And I promise that if you ever mention Oswald Watkins to me again, I’ll murder you.”
Herbie mused on that. He figured Posh was just upset. She’d calm down after a bit. He put the car in gear and drove off again, thinking of the six grand they’d just made.
And the guy wants to see you again? Shit, girl, we’re fucking made, can’t you see that?
Suddenly, Herbie saw a pte
rodactyl swoop down through a hole in The Grid and disappear behind a skyscraper. It was followed by another. He instantly forgot about money, began thinking about getting them both home alive.
The dino birds reappeared in the sky. Both had writhing, screaming people in their jaws trailing liquid crimson streamers.
Herbie only stopped shivering with fear when the pterodactyls were well out of sight.
Beside him, Posh was oblivious to the dinosaur threat. She was angrily brooding—in a hurry to shit Oswald’s crap out.
CHAPTER 13
Malone
Malone woke up to the certainty that he was in a fix.
Oops, he thought.
He was in a blue room—not the lab with the robot. This one was large and well lit.
Naked from the waist up, he was strapped down on a metal table.
His belly was cut open and there was a man fiddling in his innards, adjusting something.
With each adjustment odd sensations flooded Malone. Though he clearly felt that his body had been sliced open between his ribcage and groin, he felt no pain. He felt only lightheaded, as if the drug that had knocked him out now floated around his mind in clouds, seeking an exit.
“Hey!” he said. “What the hell are you doing to me?”
The man turned to face him. “You’re awake.”
Malone instantly recognized his voice. “Frank.”
Frank nodded. He straightened up, smiled down at Malone predatorily.
Frank was tall but stooped. He was handsome, with straw-colored hair and pale blue eyes.
With Frank out of the way, Malone could now see the machine sticking out of his abdomen. It was square in shape and covered in blood. An equally crimson power cable ran from it to a wall socket. The table Malone lay on was covered with his blood.
“What the hell is this thing?”
“You’ll find out.” Frank’s voice was even, his facial expression mild, but his eyes. . .
Frank’s blue eyes chilled Malone. They glittered with madness.
Malone shuddered. He suspected Frank’s insanity was the logical sort. He seemed the sort of monster who’d fit in normally in society, giving the illusion of being an everyday Joe whilst meanwhile committing the most horrendous atrocities. The neighborhood serial killer who was also a devoted husband and father.
“Where’s Rachel Fischer?” Malone asked, dreading the reply.
Frank laughed. “She’s okay. Don’t worry your head about her.”
He pulled up a chair, sat beside Malone.
Malone didn’t get it. “Have you sent her back to her mother?”
Frank sniggered. “Did you expect me to?” He laughed out loud. “That was a neat trick, making Mrs. Fischer pay us fake bills. Thankfully my partner’s smart.”
“It was—” Malone shut up. Frank would never believe it was Sara’s idea. “ —a gamble.”
“A gamble that didn’t pay off,” a woman’s voice said from behind Malone. “We needed that money. You’re going to pay for sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong.”
The speaker walked into view. “Sorry I’m late, Frankie. There was a dragon attack over on Fleet Street, I had to hide in Sumner Tunnel for two hours.”
She turned to face Malone. “I assume you’re here to rescue me, right?”
Malone groaned.
Frank laughed at Malone’s surprise. “I told you she was okay, didn’t I?”
Rachel Fischer was a younger version of her mother. Pretty, with an overly large mouth. Skinny, but heavy-breasted.
Unlike her mother, who made a point of dressing provocatively, Rachel was conservatively clad. She wore a grey trouser suit and cream blouse, and a cream scarf knotted under her chin.
In addition, she wore no makeup or jewelry.
She removed her scarf. Her brown hair was cut short and boyish.
Malone was surprised by how sterile Rachel Fischer looked. She gave him the same vibe one got from a hospital corridor as one smelt the disinfectant. Though she was undeniably good-looking, Malone found it impossible to imagine sex with her. What had her mother called her? Yes, a neuter. It was an apposite/accurate description.
Malone slowly came to terms with the fact that the woman he’d been sent to rescue had faked her own kidnapping.
What was it Yang Yang said? Ah yes, ‘Danger—unexpected danger.’ So fucking true. So now here I am, strapped down on a metal table, with my belly slit open; which can’t be good.
He was particularly wary of the way Frank kept darting ‘interested’ looks at his guts.
Malone frowned at Rachel. “Your mother’s very worried—”
“My mother is an outdated cunt,” she snapped back. Her grey eyes smoldered. “A cunt too concerned with sex to realize that the times have changed. In this screwy age I’d have at least expected her to put her sex drive on hold.”
She smiled, an expression that seemed forced upon her face. “I, however, have changed with the times, embraced them even. I’ve sublimated my sex drive—”
“According to your mother you don’t have a sex drive.”
She scowled. “Frank has opened my eyes to—”
“Okay, so you don’t wish to be rescued,” Malone interrupted again, “Can I leave now?”
“Surely not before dinner!?” Frank remarked testily. He looked inquisitively at Rachel.
She smiled her grim smile at him. “Of course not before dinner.”
“Okay,” Malone said. “I’ll stay for dinner, but can I leave afterward?”
“Definitely not,” Rachel retorted. She looked to Frank for approval. He nodded back.
Malone caught the exchange. “Okay, so you two are lovers.”
“No,” Rachel said coldly. “We’re not lovers, we’re just work partners.” Malone thought he saw Frank wince when she said this, but he couldn’t be certain.
“Sex disgusts me,” Rachel continued. “It’s nothing but the brutal animalistic fulfillment of violent instinctive drives. Science is my lover.”
“Science is a whore,” Frank said. “She fucks everyone is sight.”
Rachel looked at him sharply. Then she smiled her creepy smile again. “I’ll not dispute that. If science seems a whore, it’s because most of those screwing her are men, who rape knowledge for their personal exaltation.”
“You think women make better scientists?” Frank asked in something like exasperation.
“I sense disagreement in the ranks,” Malone said.
“Yes,” Rachel said.
Malone smiled. “So there is disagreement.”
Rachel spun around and glowered at him. “I wasn’t answering you. I was replying Frankie here, with his sexist view of intelligent women.”
“I have nothing against intelligent women!” Frank thundered. He calmed himself. “My simple point, which I keep making to you, Rachel, is that most intelligent women don’t want to be research scientists. Your sex is addicted to money. Making the world a better place doesn’t pay as much as modeling, or being Mrs. Millionaire, or—”
Malone burst out laughing.
Rachel rounded on him, her eyes daggers. “Were you about saying something?”
Malone shook his head. “I can’t think of what to say. While on the surface Frank’s comments sound misogynistic, on a deeper level—”
Rachel silenced him with a wagging finger.
Malone shut up. She looked mad enough to kill him.
He suddenly realized why he was making such blithe conversation with his captors despite his dire straits—he’d been drugged.
That struck him as extremely funny. Frank and Rachel also struck him as insanely funny; they were an insanely funny insane pair.
Wow, he thought, that’s a good one.
He burst out laughing: “Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Rachel misinterpreted his mirth to be mockery of her.
She smiled tightly back at him. “Oh, so you think women with brains are funny, eh? Just wait a bit; I’ll show you what funny is.�
�
“No, Rachel, he doesn’t find female scientists funny,” Frank said tiredly. “You, for instance, are definitely no comedienne.” He smiled nervously. “Now please can we eat our fucking dinner?”
“Yes, Malone said. “I’m hungry too.”
Rachel smiled evilly at Malone, “But of course, let’s have dinner.”
Malone wondered what she was suddenly so happy about.
***
He found out.
Rachel and Frank were cannibals.
“What the hell is that thing?” Malone asked as Rachel bent over it. Frank had meanwhile ambled out of Malone’s view.
“It’s a sectional microwave oven,” Rachel replied.
“Microwave . . . ?” The horrible implications of what she’d said punched through his drug daze. Malone forced his head up and looked at the machine.
Still angry at him, Rachel held it up for his horrified inspection.
The machine’s lowest portion was a series of transparent overlapping concave plates. These were currently clamped over the innermost lobe of Malone’s liver.
Malone watched the clamped part of the organ turn dark-brown as it cooked.
“Fucking shit!” he shrieked, straining against his bonds. “Let me go, you psychopaths.”
Frank’s voice floated over. “Is he done yet?”
“Two more minutes.” She smiled at Malone. “We’re not eating all of you right now. Like I said—this microwave is sectional. It grills you in bits.” She glorified in his horror. “My design,” she added proudly.
“Fucking let me go!” Malone yelled, extremely alarmed now.
“Fat chance of that happening,” Frank said, returning then. He was carrying a tray with plates, a bottle of white wine and goblets.
He set them down on his chair, then glanced into the microwave, licking his lips. “Surely it’s ready now.”
“Be patient, Frankie!” Rachel snapped. “You know I can’t stand rare food.”
Malone began bucking his midriff, attempting to dislodge the microwave. “Fucking let me go, you creeps!”
“And I,” Frank retorted to Rachel with a pointed stare, “utterly cannot stand noise during dinner.”
