"Oh, mistress,” Simone murmured when she was finally allowed to topple off and fall to her side in exhaustion. “That was so..."
"Incredible,” whispered dara, thinking for the first time that she and this woman might actually grow to be friends, under different circumstances. As it were, they had a master to fight over and she couldn't forget that.
"Lick it clean,” dara ordered her onto the shaft. “Then we'll begin again."
"Oh, yes.” Simone, wild haired and bound, struggled to find her place. “God I have dreamed of this moment,” she confided. “Someone, strong enough to take me to this place. Dara, I can tell you ... you'll understand, what I want to be, what I am."
"Shut up, and lick."
"Oh I love it when you talk that way to me. I want to be treated like this. I want to be ... owned."
"Well, crawl to one of the others, then. The computer freak or the Russian psycho ... they seem like your kind of masters. Just leave mine alone."
Simone kissed the penis then licked the underside. “I'm a slut,” she confessed. “I always have been. Dara, how do I get a man to ... to..."
"Enslave you? Honey, you have a long way to go to get to that."
"But do you think,” she caressed with her tongue. “That one of these men might want me?” She laughed, like a schoolgirl. “Listen to me, I don't even know what I'm saying. It's from being a prisoner, isn't it? I am getting a sick attachment to my captors."
"Only one way to find out."
"What's that, dara?"
"Submit, fully and completely, the next chance you get.” Dara couldn't believe she was helping the woman. “The rest will come natural. It's all fate anyway."
"Dara, it frightens me."
And now dara was doing something even more impossible, calling the woman to wriggle her way up into her arms, so she could comfort her. “It will be all right,” said dara, though she had no idea if it would.
All the rules were broken now and there was no telling what would happen next. Bonds were being formed and maybe they'd be broken, too. In short order, dara, too, was sobbing.
"A fine pair we make,” dara mused through her tears.
Simone laughed, deep and heartfelt. Music to dara's ears.
Yes, dara thought, this was definitely taking a strange direction. So much so, that not only wasn't she hating the older woman now, she was wanting to keep her tight to her breast, even if it meant discovery by her master.
"It's not easy,” Simone sniffed. “Being a woman."
"No,” admitted dara, stroking her hair, “But I wouldn't trade it for anything, would you?"
"No, me neither."
The next thing they knew, they were kissing. For real.
* * * *
Martin and the others stood at the makeshift grave. A filled in dirt pile, a quarter mile off the old state park road. General Lucien was going to have a pretty good view, overlooking a grassy valley. He'd have shade in the heat, too, from a decent sized oak tree. Probably more than he deserved, but who were human beings to judge these things?
"Should we say a few words?” Martin wondered aloud.
Charlie cleared his throat. They were standing in a semi-circle around the back end of the mound, a party of three, counting the Russian. “I don't know very much. How about the Our Father?"
"Was he Catholic? Coming from Haiti, what if he was into voodoo?"
"Jeezus, Martin,” grumbled Charlie. “How the fuck are we supposed to know what to say? It's not like he had a card in his wallet or anything."
"What if we did some kind of meditation thing?"
"No.” The Russian stepped forward, indicating he would handle the matter. Dropping to his knees, grabbing a fistful of earth, he looked up to the sky. A long recitation, heartfelt and gut wrenching followed in his native tongue. It was so moving, Martin ended up in tears.
"What the fuck did he say?” Charlie leaned over to whisper.
"I have no clue,” Martin sniffed.
Charlie muttered how he and Uchenko were both crazy and ordered them back to the car. It would have been nice to still have the van, then again it would also have been nice not to have to be burying members of their operations team either.
"What are we gonna do when we get home, Charlie?” Martin asked once they'd reached the main road.
"You mean after we break out another whisky bottle?"
Martin turned on the radio now, mostly to drown the sounds of Uchenko, who was talking to himself in Russian in the backseat. The news came on right away and his hand froze on the button as he heard the name of their boss.
"...the victim has been identified as Michael Gargano, prominent local businessman and member of the board of directors for the city arts council. Known to acquaintances as Mick, Mr. Gargano was found in his car off the expressway. Early indications are that the death may have been a suicide."
"Fuck!” Charlie slammed the wheel with his palms. “Mother fucking, fuck! How many fucking things could possibly go fucking wrong?!"
Martin absorbed the information quietly. The key to the whole plan had been blackmailing Mick. This was to be their Get Out of Jail Free card for kidnapping Simone and also a guarantee of safe passage, with a lot of money, to the tropical island paradise of their choice.
"This changes things,” agreed Martin at last. “And not for the better."
Charlie eyed him. “No shit, Sherlock."
They were silent for a while.
"We have to win her over now, Charlie. We have to make sure she's on our side,” Martin concluded. “So she won't go to the police after we let her go."
Charlie drew a deep breath, deep enough to worry his friend. “I'm not sure we can take that chance."
"What are you saying Charlie? What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means,” said Charlie as they turned up his driveway, “that I'm not sure we can afford to let her go."
They got out of the car as soon as Jenkins turned off the engine.
"There is a third vote,” pointed out Martin. “What do you say, Uchenko?"
But when they looked behind them, the Russian was gone.
"Great,” said Charlie, who seemed a little punch drunk at this point. “That's just what we needed. An unaccounted for psychotic with deadly combat training."
Martin pointed to the gun still tucked into his friend's belt. “You better have that out from now on,” he advised. “And I think we better lock the doors and windows, too."
* * * *
Simone was in dara's arms when the men came back. She woke up to find only two of them, Jenkins and Martin. The Haitian was buried by now, but where was Vladimir?
"Get up,” Charlie growled, grabbing his slave girl by the collar. “Who the fuck said you could get all cozy with the prisoner?"
Simone ended up rolled on her back. Dara had taken the collar and shackles off her a while ago, leaving her deliciously free and naked.
"This slave is sorry,” cried dara. “Please do not punish her."
Charlie pulled her off the bed and threw her to the floor. “Stupid bitch! What are you a lesbian now?"
"She was just trying to comfort Simone,” Martin defended.
"Stay out of this,” Charlie warned, pointing a trembling finger.
"We need to watch the doors,” Martin reminded him, feeling more and more like the solitary voice of reason. “The Russian may come back. He might do anything. And the cops may come, too."
Jenkins scowled, but a few seconds later he relented. “I'll take first watch. And I'll bring this slut with me."
Dara was again on her feet, his hand at the back of her neck pushing her toward the stairs. Simone did not find this sexy or arousing. It pissed her off. It made her not like Charlie one little bit.
"Simone, are you all right?” Martin sat beside her on the bed. She resisted the impulse to recoil. What had ever possessed her to reach out to him before? He was not her friend. He was just another manipulating kidnapper. If she were to survive, though,
she would have to use this man to her own ends. She could not afford to raise his suspicions or his hostility.
On the other hand, she couldn't be touching him either, letting her body play nameless slut to whatever generic masculine powers he seemed capable of exercising over her. She had to be tough and firm. She had to endure. And wait for Uchenko. The man was working on a plan right now, she was sure of it. That's why he wasn't here. He'd slipped away and on his own terms, he'd come back to rescue her. For Mother Russia. And maybe for love, too.
"Yes,” she smiled weakly. “I'm fine ... I ... I'm glad, Samuel, it's you here and not ... him."
"Him who?” He was looking at her intently, totally male and totally gullible. It was dawning on her now that she might yet beat them or at least hold them at bay by pitting them against each other.
"Charlie.” She spit the word with secret dread, shivering as she looked down at her hands.
"You're scared of him?"
"Yes ... he's going to ... kill me."
"Kill you?” Martin laughed uneasily. “What makes you say that?"
"Dara told me. After he takes his turn, raping me, he is going to kill me. That will be his revenge against Mick."
Martin had a sick look on his face, though she wasn't quite sure what it was. Could it be her fiction was closer to the truth than she'd realized?
"Simone, I have to tell you something, but you need to promise me that you'll trust me no matter what. You'll stay by my side, you'll let me protect you?"
"I swear it,” she lied.
"It's about Mick.” His face was blank, bloodless.
Panic swelled in Simone's breast. “What about Mick?"
"I-we heard it on the radio. They think it was a suicide and—"
"No,” she screamed. “They fucking killed him. The fucking bastards. And you-you assholes kept me here so I couldn't help him! I hate you! I fucking hate you!"
Martin grabbed her flailing wrists. “Simone, please don't say that. We had no way of knowing. We had good intentions."
"Good intentions?!” Gone were her stratagems now, her cold calculations. She was all fury, and she was going to make them pay. “You're a bunch of kidnappers and rapists,” she cried. “What kind of intentions are those?"
His eyes were dotted with water. “Please don't say that, Simone. I love you. I have since the first time I saw you."
She shook her head frantically. “You're insane. You're all insane."
"Simone, be reasonable."
What happened next was against all probabilities. The odds of her recovering Lucien's razor knife while struggling with Martin were astronomical. The only thing she could figure was that it must have dug itself blade first into the far edge of the mattress after falling from the Haitian's hand. Somehow it had hung there, waiting for her to find it as she lay face down, Martin on top of her.
Had she thought about what would really happen as a result, she would never have acted as she had. It simply did not feel like murder, or in any way a violent behavior. She was slicing, that was all. Turning herself beneath him, wriggling onto her back and reaching for his throat, that stupid Adam's apple, that throat out of which had come all those apologies and all that drivel about him loving her.
Martin seemed to be in the same kind of slow motion world she was. His eyes got large and petrified, but he seemed unable to move or resist. Of its own accord, her hand swung, across the jugular, coldly, efficiently. The blood sprayed across her forehead and naked breasts. It was a crimson offering, a shower, thick liquid, warm and semisweet.
He clutched at his own throat in shock and got up off the bed. Still coughing and gasping, he took a single step backwards and then tumbled to the floor, landing with a heavy thud.
Rather than look at him, she looked at her hands. Bathed in a man's blood. The blood of her kidnapper. The man who'd put himself in a position to use her sex, to seduce her against her own will.
Another down, she thought.
And one more to go.
* * * *
Charlie thundered down the stairs, the pistol in his shaking hands. Now what? he moaned to himself. Now what? Now what?
The first thing he saw at the bottom of the stairs was Samuel Martin on his back, lying in a pool of his own blood. His throat was cut and he was still dripping fresh and red.
"Simone,” he whispered. But she was gone. Had she made it up the stairs already? Crouching down, aiming the gun, he did a search of the perimeter of the basement. He'd reached the far corner and was checking one of the walk in supply closets when he heard scrambling feet.
She was making a run for it. Wheeling about he took aim, both hands on the pistol grip. A pair of tiny bare feet was all he saw as she clamored up the stairs, already three quarters of the way to the door. And freedom.
Desperate, he fired the gun.
The recoil knocked him back. It had caught him off guard. He wouldn't let that happen again. Using his longer legs to advantage, he tore after her, taking the stairs two at a time.
By the time he got upstairs, she was out of sight. His pulse racing, he began hunting, room to room. Sweat poured down his forehead. He was seeing double. Too little sleep for too many days. Was it still Friday? Two men lay dead because of this plan of his and the weekend had only begun. He must catch Simone now and end this thing.
He was in the kitchen when he caught sight of the small shadow, cast from the pantry. A woman, naked, about to swing a frying pan. He shot at her point blank, aiming high.
"M-master,” he heard a groan and down she went.
"Dara,” he cried in horror.
His slave had been hiding in the entrance to the food pantry, waiting to spring on him. “Why?” He cried. “Why?"
"I didn't want you to kill her, master. Only wanted to ... knock you out ... to save her.” Her breathing was already ragged. It looked like a clean shot, right to the chest.
"Wait here. I'll call 911."
"No, master.” She was speaking in a tone he'd never heard from her. A voice of authority. “It's my time. We ... all of us are cursed because of this. But I love you, more than anything."
She died clasping his hand, a look of sweet serenity on her face. Whatever release she'd been seeking, she had just found it.
"Dara, I'm so, so sorry.” He was on his knees, sobbing like a baby.
Lost to the world, very nearly. Though not so nearly as to miss the feeling of someone over his shoulder. Tensing, he let the sobs turn into a rote chant, mechanical, a cover for what his brain was really preparing for. Hand clenching the revolver, he waited for her to get closer so he could spring his trap.
He couldn't believe it. The dumb bitch was actually going to try and kill him, using the same lame trick dara had tried.
"Drop it,” he growled, twisting himself 180 degrees.
Simone was standing there, the meat cleaver over her head.
"I said fucking drop it.” He would kill her, really he would.
The girl dropped the weapon.
"You owe me,” said Jenkins, his voice in a place colder than ice. Back on his feet he kicked away the cleaver. “Get on your belly."
Simone Leary lowered herself as ordered.
Charlie walked around her, placing his foot on her back. “You are the source of all of this,” he said. “You started it all, with your mileage bullshit. See where it's all led? My best friend. My slave. Dead. You're going to fix that, Simone. For starters, you may consider yourself my new slave. Call me master, slave."
"Yes, master."
His foot was on her hard, pushing down. “Lick the floor, slave."
Simone dabbed at the linoleum.
"Compared to what you're going to be put through, dara's life will seem like a queen's by comparison."
She made no reply as she continued to lick.
"You will sleep in a cage. You will eat off the floor, you will beg for everything. You will be beaten every day; you will forget you were ever a human being.” He unzipped his fly. “Get up
and suck me, slave, and it had better be the best I've ever had or I'll make you wish that Russian fuck was back here to rape you again."
Simone got on all fours and went to his penis without complaint, parting her lips like a good little slut. He rammed himself to the back of her throat with the first thrust. It was intended as punishment, not any kind of release.
"You'll swallow it all, cunt.” Good hard grunts followed, releasing all the tension. He rubbed the pistol barrel absently over her face. This slut would learn to love it, all of it. He would own her as he'd never owned a female before. Not even dara. This one would eat, breath and live by his commands. She would sigh for him, dream for him and love him. She would never betray him, she would never change ... never ... grow old.
"Yes,” he moaned, the sudden realization coming to him. “My god, my god."
A few seconds more, just enough time to allow himself to come and then he would pull the trigger ... the perfect climax and perfect ending. True justice, finally.
"Like this. You'll die ... just ... like this..."
Yes, die ... with the come squirting from the end of him, sweet release, the bottled up ... explosion, in slow motion ... a river of warm lava blood ... choking ... sweet pain ... but, wait, something wrong. The gun was not firing, his muscles were not working, the air was not coming.
Something was at his neck, yes, cutting off his air. Something very final and very deadly. The pistol fell to the ground. The killer was behind him, very silent, patient to the end, his hands on either end of the wire as it choked off the flesh ... thump ... thump ... the last few heartbeats, and then, nothing.
The final words came now from Charlie's mouth, ill-formed and heard by no one as he named his own executioner.
The Russian.
* * * *
Simone Leary waited in the anteroom, her face expressionless as the turtle necked bouncer checked her identification. He turned to the man next to him, some kind of underling and snapped an order in Russian. Cold hands explored her body, crisply, efficiently following the lines of her curves over the yellow, Lycra dress. There was a deep depression at the neck, enough to show much of her cleavage, and at both sides there were matching cut outs, leaving large patches of bare skin.
Stealing Simone Page 12
