by Baker, Alex
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Absolutely.” The man started getting undressed.
Acceleration achieved. Laura took position on her knees in the middle of the mattress.
Clothes off, he approached the side of the bed, and she handed the rope to him.
“Tie me up just like I tell you.”
Taking the rope and climbing up on the bed, he followed her instructions. The rope bit into her skin as he bound her wrists behind her back. He then ran it up and around her neck. It was the first time he had ever engaged in anything like this, but he was willing to do whatever she wanted if it meant scoring with someone who looked like her. He could not wait to tell his buddies the next time they got together for beers.
“Tighter!” she demanded.
The man pulled the rope taunt and tied it off.
Laura strained, her breathing short and forced.
He scooted up close behind her, putting one hand on her hip.
She nodded towards the last item sitting on the bed. “Now take the baton and hit me with it.”
He gazed over her shoulder at her. “What?” Had he heard her right? His thoughts skirted the line between fantasies of the best crazy sex he had ever had and going to jail for accidentally crippling the woman. This is going to end up on Youtube, I know it.
Laura turned her head as much as she could toward him. “I said hit me! And, don't stop until I tell you!” she demanded impatiently. Maybe she should have waited it out at the bar for a better selection.
Tentatively, he picked up the baton and cocked it back, but he could not swing. He was all for a good spanking, but this went against all the lessons about not hitting a woman.
Laura strained to turn her head more. “Come on! Show some balls!” she ordered.
“Um...okay.”
“Now!”
It was obvious she was frustrated. He had to do something quick or he was not going to get laid. It was gut check time, and he decided to man up. He swung the baton and hit her directly in the stomach. Effective as the blow was, he, still letting nerves get the best of him, had pulled his punch. Maybe it would be enough.
Laura exhaled sharply, and her expression cracked some, as she tried to cope with the pain of the blow. She lay over on her side on the bed.
The man held the baton over her prone body. “How was that?” Wow, did I just ask that. He knew he was better than this in bed, but he had never met a woman who was so dominant and into such freaky stuff. He could not help but still feel a little rattled.
”Stop talking and get to it,” Laura insisted. “Hit me!” She was never going to get what she wanted out of this if she could not get his full cooperation. What she would not give for a strong man who could meet her on her level.
The only thing worse than his uncomfortable feeling was the way she was yelling at him like a school teacher dressing down a student. Frustration overriding morality, he let the baton fly, hitting her in the side. The dull thump of the blunt object was outlined by a hard groan from Laura.
That was the determination she had looked for. Laura was not sure what button she had hit, but it was the right one. She reflexively rolled over on to her belly, but she only had a moment before the next blow landed on her lower back. Her head jerked back, causing the rope to dig into her throat.
Laura turned over to her back. The baton smacked hard across her stomach. Eyes squeezed tight, she exhaled deeply and pulled her knees up.
He was really getting a feel for it now. Inhibitions disappearing with every shot, he was captivated by the pleasure he derived from manhandling her. Was it right to feel this way. He was not sure, but he sure was not going to stop.
Catching her breath, Laura stretched one leg out and let it dangle over the bed. The man grabbed the other leg and yanked it toward him, exposing her body. He landed another blow near the ribs. She responded with a loud moan.
Before she could maneuver to another position, he was on her. With his free hand, he grabbed a handful of hair and yanked hard. Unable to defend herself with her arms, she lay on the bed prone. Not for long, though, as pain shot from her side where the baton landed.
The man pulled back for another strike, intoxicated with arousal. With every moan, he knew he was giving her what she wanted. Now, the thought of being scared to play through the fetish seemed silly. He knew he had done good.
Barely able to talk through her gritted teeth, Laura managed a strained command. “Okay, stop.”
Like a well-trained drug addict, willing to do whatever it took to get his next fix, the man stayed his hand and tossed the baton off the bed.
Exhausted, Laura rolled to her stomach. Spreading her legs was an effort, as the pain pulsated from all over her body. She imagined Sarah Whent feeling the same way as she begged for her attacker to stop. He would not have, though. They never do when you are not in control, she thought.
“Take me now.” The words leaked from her mouth.
“You're costume?”
“Rip it! Screw me! Now!” It was as much determination as she could muster in her current condition, but she was so close.
Eager to continue to please her, he grabbed the costume near the crotch area and ripped it across the seam, exposing the pantyhose covered lower part of her torso. The nylon tore apart with little effort, though, as the adrenaline pulsed through him. He mounted her from behind, put on the condom she had insisted he wear, and thrust himself into her as hard as he could. The expression on her face and reaction of her body was enough to tell him that he had fulfilled her needs, and it had awoken something in him, as well.
Overwhelmed by the mixture of extreme pain and the pleasure she derived from it and his penetration Laura let the orgasm ripple through her. How ironic, she pondered self-satisfyingly, that one could derive that much ecstasy from controlling someone by allowing them to believe they physically have the control. And, it was all about the control.
“Yes,” she moaned deeply.
END – PART ONE
PART TWO – CIGARETTES & LOTTERY TICKETS
12
Grunting, Roofy pulled down on the lat bar, which lifted a large pile of weights via a pulley on a pole. The lat bar was part of an interchangeable system of accessories that could be swapped out by removing a large bolt that had an ergonomic grip on one end. A new towel hung from one of the barbell posts.
Roofy's cell phone, which sat on the same table as his radio, rang.
The big Russian pulled down on the lat bar one last time before letting it go and dropping the weights to the floor. He grabbed the towel and started wiping the sweat from his head, as he walked over to retrieve the phone. It was half way through another ring when he answered. “Hello.”
“Da. Is Roofy. You have news for me, Doctor?” Roofy responded to Doctor Laranitis, the neurologist he had seen a few weeks earlier. He had contributed his occasional headaches to concussions he had sustained from his head hitting on the wood plank flooring of the wrestling rings he performed in. Over time, the frequency of the pain in his head had subsided, but the outrageous hallucinations, like the one he had when Miguel was injured, had returned. Along with them came the loss of conscious control over his body. Doctor Laranitis had come highly recommended by some of his old wrestling colleagues; the ones that would still talk to him, at least. Roofy had waited nervously and anxiously for the test results.
As he listened to the explanation, despair set in. “Da. I understand,” Roofy responded, his throat suddenly parched and stomach pitted from the fear that settled over him.
“Sure. Yes. Come in right away,” the Russian muttered softly as the doctor concluded explaining his evaluation.
Doctor Laranitis began talking again, but Roofy was already ending the call and setting the cell phone down.
Thoughts racing frantically through his mind, trying to find something that would make sense of the medical result and allow him to cope with it. Standing stoically in the quiet garage, like an expressionless marble statue, Roofy was left with only o
ne feeling: finality.
A short distance away, wind whipped through Kate's hair, as she drove her green Mercedes convertible through the neighborhood toward home. She put a lot of care in her hair, including keeping it well-groomed and the blonde highlights fresh. Being in the car, though, was the exception. What man could resist pulling up beside her to take a look at the face under that beautiful mane. Cranking the volume up on the radio, she sang along with the music.
Unnoticed, a man sat inconspicuously in his car, which was parked in front of a nearby house. As she drove by, he took a picture with his digital camera. He then captured some more shots as she exited the parked vehicle and walked to the front door of her house. Satisfied with his work, he sat the camera on the passenger seat. It was so easy to exploit the self-absorbed. The more arrogant a person was, the more they prided themselves on drawing attention. Thus, the less attention they paid to the type of person watching them. It almost took the fun out of it, he felt; almost. Starting the engine, he drove off.
13
Engrossed in the paperwork he was reading, Chief Epps adjusted the reading glasses that rested on the lower part of his nose. The familiar sound of his office door opening told him he had company. Having spent several hours reviewing the case file for an upcoming appearance in court, he welcomed the break.
Detective Laura Stenks, folder in hand, crossed the room. Her steps were slow and deliberate; each one coming at the expense of soreness and dull pain. Coming to a stop behind one of the two chairs that were placed in front of his desk, she grabbed the back of the chair with her free hand.
“Sir.” Laura's grip on the chair tightened, and masking her discomfort the best she could, she used it to steady her stance.
“Have a seat, Detective,” Chief Epps said nonchalantly, not taking his eyes off his paperwork. He wanted to finish the last part of the current paragraph before redirecting his attention.
“I'm fine, sir.”
“Detective,” Chief Epps calmly insisted, “have a seat.” Without breaking stride, he began writing on one of the papers he scrutinized.
Taking a deep breath, Laura moved rigidly to the front of the chair. Using her arms to take most of the pressure as she sat, she eased in and leaned back, doing her best to relax. Reflexively closing her eyes from the strain of the effort, she decided the next time she did anything like the other night, it was going to be during her days off. As comfortable as she was going to get, she exhaled, regaining her composure, and put the folder down on her lap. The European label black skirt covering her legs was one of her favorites. Getting it on this morning, in her condition, was not a pleasant experience, however. She prided herself on maintaining her voluptuous appeal, though, at any cost. Bringing her attention back to her superior, she realized, sheepishly, he had been watching her.
“Rough round of palates, Detective?” asked lightheartedly, raising his eyebrows for emphasis.
Choosing to ignore the remark, Laura placed the folder on his desk. “I have an update on the Amazing Woman case.” Opening the file, she spread out the various crime scene photos, paperwork, and notes.
Chief Epps adjusted his glasses as he scanned the documents. His eyes were not getting any rest today. He reminded himself to bring his eye drops to work.
“Witnesses verify a man named Roofy Reiner attended the same party as our victim,” Laura stated, pointing at statements that had been taken. “His costume matched the one being worn by the man seen at her apartment by our eyewitness. I've also confirmed that he purchased the Halloween outfit from a local store.”
“Roofy Reiner? Why does that name sound familiar?” Chief Epps asked.
“He's an ex-wrestler with the UWA,” Laura answered the inquisitive look he was giving her over his glasses. “Ring name was Mr. Apocalypse.” She pulled a report from the folder, handed it to Chief Epps, and redirected the conversation back to the crime. “Forensics found plenty of the victim's blood but nothing from our attacker.”
“Nothing?” He was having a hard time believing what he was hearing. Pondering the possibility, he leaned back into the soft fabric of his chair and removed his glasses. With the tools, training, and technology that forensics units had today, the idea of a clean crime scene had almost slipped into myth.
“Not a hair, a piece of DNA, or a fingerprint.” Laura shuffled another piece of paper in front of him, as he slipped the tip of one of the arms of his glasses into his mouth. “They had one sample that they thought was blood, but now, they aren't sure.”
“They don't know what it is?” he asked in disbelief, putting his glasses down on top of the ample sized court document he had read.
“They are still working on it. Otherwise, the place was clean.” Laura had to admit the statement did not seem plausible as she gave it.
The Chief put his glasses back on and began reading the forensics report again. “Doesn't seem like what you would expect from a professional wrestler, does it? A clean scene. A well thought out plan of attack.” It was near impossible for the most knowledgeable criminal with the best laid plan to achieve what they were discussing; much less a large, hulking man who might be prone to 'roid rage.
Laura shifted uncomfortably in her chair and winced in pain. She needed to stand up soon. It was not that standing was any better than sitting, in her current degree of pain, but it meant she might be on her way out the door and to her desk, where she had a plentiful supply of aspirin.
Chief Epps finished his line of thought. “Still, he's our best lead.”
Laura gathered up the papers and put them back into the folder. “Not enough for a warrant.” Using her free hand for leverage, she pushed up, out of the chair, and to her feet; her movements were very stiff and forced.
“Bring him in for questioning. Just be careful. More careful than with your recent exercises.” The Chief could not help but tease her. He did not make it a practice to involve himself in his subordinates' private lives, and he was sure he did not want to know the details of the detective's extracurricular injuries, especially if it did not interfere with her work. He enjoyed keeping her on her toes, however.
“If it's one thing I know how to handle, sir, it's men,” Laura replied naughtily to the jest.
14
Roofy recalled where he had seen Constance on Halloween night; he just hoped it was actually the house she lived at. The last thing he needed right now was to scare some poor housewife. He rang the doorbell and adjusted his English-style cap, wishing he had not left his sunglasses in the car.
“You haven't come to Apocalypse Bomb me, have you?” Constance asked, answering the door.
“Where is towel?” Roofy had expected the girl to be surprised, but her playfully inquisitive demeanor gave him the impression she had actually been waiting on him.
“Good. I've had it packed and waiting. Stay here.” Constance shut the door before Roofy could respond.
Looking around the neighborhood, he lit a cigarette. It had been a nice place to live, aside from the woman he shared his house with. Not that it mattered now, as he was sure he would not see his house or her again. Taking another drag, the door opened behind him and immediately shut again. He expected the teen to hand him the towel; instead, Constance walked by him, heading to his red Mustang with travel bag in hand. He watched as she opened the passenger door and stowed the luggage in the back seat.
Inhaling the strong smell of tobacco from the smoke wafting from his cigarette, Roofy walked off the porch and out to the car, where he stopped beside the driver's door.
“You live with parents, right? They will not be happy with this.” The Russian tried to sound concerned, although it did not appear to him that the girl was, as she leaned care free against the side of his car.
“I may have teenager in my age, but I'm an adult by law. Besides, do you really care?”
“Perhaps not.” It did not really matter if he cared or not, but he did have to admit that it mattered if he had company; particularly hers. At worst, she
would be back home in a few weeks, and he would not be around to be held accountable.
“Okay, then.” Constance settled down into the car and shut the door.
“Khorosho.” Roofy shook his head, took a deep breath, flicked his cigarette to the asphalt, and started them on their way.
Constance shuffled a little in her seat. “So, is everyone in your family named after a drug?” Constance adjusted the seat to better accommodate her. Judging by the lack of wear, she was fairly certain no one had ever ridden in the car with the big man.
“Have heard this joke before.”
“Did it hurt when they removed your sense of humor?”
“Da,” he answered, “they use large knife.”
“That's better.” Constance found comfort in hearing his voice again. She could not put a finger on why, so she chalked it up to attraction by karma. It was fated that people interacted with each other, she had deduced. They were meant to have an impact on each other's lives, no matter how big or small that effect turned out to be.
“It is name I take when I come to this country. Easier to pronounce for people here, I think.”
“It's unique, like you.” Constance could not understand why the Russian had his radio set to a country music station, but it had to go. She was diverse in her listening, with that one exception, so she began scanning the channels for a more acceptable set of sounds.
“My boss at UWA choose it for me.” Roofy was born Krysna Rabrenovich, but the promoter had insisted he change it for sake of the American crowd, who would accept him quicker if they could relate to the name. Although foreign names were sometimes popular if they lent to the character being portrayed, the UWA had no need for a hostile Russian antagonist, with the Cold War having ended. Roofy's given name was very close to the Russian word “krysha”, which translated to “roof” in English. The promoter ran with it, adding a y on the end and helping Roofy fill out the necessary paperwork to legally change his name. The Russian had no idea where the promoter got the last name of Reiner from, and he did not question it. He had just wanted to get on with his new life.
