Chapter Sixteen
His Prey
I see the way that bastard is watching her, standing around corners, listening to her read. I know he knows about me, not because he’s seen me but because he’s still in contact with Lance. Liam Chambers is more like his bloodthirsty brother than he would ever admit. I’m seething as I think about how pompous he is, always dressed in a nice suit and tie, even cufflinks. His fucking shoes are probably a thousand dollars a pair. And that arrogant swagger when he struts around the hospital in scrubs after a surgery, with all the nurses ogling him.
It’s maddening that he’s got it so good when he’s no fucking better than I am. I’ll show him. I should have had the honor of being Lance’s twin. Me! After all, I’m the one willing to kill for him. This straight-laced son of a bitch isn’t worthy to be in any way connected to The Joker.
I unzip my backpack and set it on the table, using both hands as I lift a few things out for a better view inside. Yes, one last check of its contents to be sure I have everything I’ll need to send this unworthy bitch to her grave: duct tape, rope, a knife, bandannas to stuff inside her pretty mouth and shut her up – and, last but not least, a sedative to keep her compliant.
Mmmm, that mouth. Maybe I’ll have some fun with her before I slice her up. After all, I should honor Lance in the way I kill her—cut her up like he did his victims. I can bring him some pictures so he can relive what I’m doing for him over and over. Maybe I’ll be able to go and be with him after I finish my reign of terror. For now, I want to make her suffer and beg me for mercy, so I can record it and play it for him. This will give Lance images and audio. I know he’ll appreciate all I’m doing for him and I’ll get what I so desperately want: for him to connect with me more than his twin brother, for him to love me—or as close to love as a sociopath can get.
I run my fingers along the edge of the duct tape and smile as I contemplate this bitch’s plight. She’s a dead man walking – more like dead woman walking. I hold her life in my hands and she doesn’t even know it. But I know it, and it thrills the deepest, darkest corners of my soul. Or it would, if I had a soul.
Time to get busy. I close the backpack and cross the room to the door. The backpack strap slides over my shoulder as I secure the lock and head out. Soon darkness will descend on the city, giving me the perfect canvas to work from.
Madonna always catches the last daylight bus home so she can be safely tucked away in her apartment before dark. Today she won’t reach her destination. She will, however, reach mine.
Chapter Seventeen
Madonna
By the time I wrap up my conversation with Liam in the hospital cafeteria, it has gotten later than expected. I end up having to catch a later bus and I can feel my nerves on edge. I hate what my stalker is doing to me, how he’s making me feel.
I discreetly eye the people seated around me. One woman’s dressed like she’s headlining at a strip joint or working a corner downtown. She smacks steadily on her chewing gum and I jerk my head away when she notices me staring. My eyes land on a homeless man who is opening and closing the same plastic bag every few seconds. The way he keeps checking its contents, you’d think he had just pulled off a bank heist. A middle-aged woman in a rumpled, stained waitress uniform stares straight ahead, lost in thought.
People watching occupies my mind for the rest of the ride and I nearly miss my stop. Rising hastily from my seat, I pull the overhead chord to let the driver know that we’ve reached my stop. It isn’t my usual bus driver and I damn sure don’t want to miss my stop and have to walk an extra five blocks instead of just one.
My heart begins to race as I step off the bus and onto the curb. I watch the bus pull away until its tail lights disappear at the next intersection. On Sunday nights my neighborhood is a ghost town, with every boutique and even the coffee shop closing up early. The streets are deserted and even the brisk evening breeze seems to have stilled abruptly, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.
With the collar of my coat pulled up around my throat, I put my head down and walk briskly with a sense of purpose. My coat does little to keep me warm. I can’t help but wonder if I’m trembling because of the cold or if fear is intensifying the night air’s chilly bite against my skin. This one-block jaunt feels more like a mile. I’m seconds away from climbing the front steps of my apartment building when my worst fears are realized.
“Where ya goin’ in such a hurry? If you want to live, you better scurry, scurry, scurry!”
The thready, sing-song voice slithers through the night air, winding its way around my ankles, coiling around my neck, cutting off my breath. I freeze in place as a figure emerges from the shadows. His gray hoodie is pulled low, obscuring his features as he circles me slowly. But I’d know that creepy voice anywhere.
Shock dulls my reflexes and the split second of hesitation costs me dearly. I make a move to run, hoping to catch the doorman’s attention, but he’s away from his post and I’m too late. My attacker grabs me by the collar of my coat and slams me into the wall of my apartment building. The impact drops me to the sidewalk and I black out briefly. A pinching sensation in my neck elicits a moan from my dry throat. I try to shake my head to get my bearings, but my muscles won’t obey the frantic distress signals from my brain.
He grabs my ankles and drags me across the sidewalk toward the alley. My head bounces across the cracked and crumbling surface, my hair snagging on jagged chunks of concrete. I have to stop him. If he gets me to the alley, I’m as good as dead. But it’s no use. The onset of an excruciating headache is the last thing I remember before my world fades to black.
His Abduction
The cold wind nips at my skin as I peer out from my hiding place around the corner from her apartment. I’m lying in wait. Although this section of the city has closed down for the night, the distant sounds of the city amp up my senses. Occasional sirens and blaring car horns jar my heightened nerves. A series of deep breaths helps me brace for the burst of adrenalin that will signal the start of tonight’s mayhem.
I take a final, long drag and crush the butt of my cigarette beneath my running shoe. I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve missed her getting off the bus. I took a chance and caught a cab here when I saw her leave the hospital later than usual. I’ll be pissed if I’ve missed her. There’s no margin for error tonight; too much depends on my plan being executed perfectly.
I’ve already alerted Lance to what I’m doing and when I close my eyes I swear I can feel him cheering me on. The possibility of letting him down is unthinkable. This bitch better go down easy; I will not let her humiliate me.
I shove my hands in my pocket and exhale impatiently. I’ve almost decided to try again another night when headlights appear in the distance. I follow their progress and smile as a bus pulls up at the end of the block. A woman exits the bus. The bus stop is a block away so I can’t see her clearly, but it has to be her. I shift my weight restlessly from one foot to the other as I wait for her to pass my hiding place in the alley. It’s taking her for fucking ever.
At first she just stands there, looking around. Finally, she starts walking my way, her strides so fast that she’s almost running. When she’s close enough for me to hear her shallow breathing, that telltale burst of adrenaline rushes through my system.
Click clack, click clack, the sound of her shoes on the concrete sidewalk gets louder with each step she takes. She’s skittish like a young colt, looking over her shoulder every couple of seconds. Knowing that I’m the reason for her fear fills me with smug satisfaction. I’m inside her head but in a few seconds I’m going to take over her very existence.
Once I take her down, who knows where the night will lead. I wonder what her nipples look like, are they dusky rose or a soft brown? What color is her pussy hair? Does she even have any? Maybe she shaves it or, better yet, gets it waxed. At the thought of stroking silky, smooth pussy lips, I have to fight off the erection that threatens to distract me from my purpose. Plenty of t
ime for that later. Right now, I’ve got to focus because she is almost within reach.
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My fingers stroke the drug-filled syringe in my sweatshirt pocket. Everything is in place. It’s going to be perfect. Perfect.
Click clack, click clack…
“Where ya goin’ in such a hurry? If you want to live, you better scurry, scurry, scurry!”
Oh, the look of terror in her eyes. Fucking delicious. She tries to run but I’m too quick for her. I grab her by her coat collar and slam her into the side of the building with all my might. She drops to the ground and I jam the syringe into her neck.
The bitch is finally mine.
Liam
That son of a bitch just about outwitted me last night. Made me so fucking angry, I left the little bastard in a puddle of his own blood. I was within moments, maybe even seconds, of losing the object of my obsession forever.
I deliberately didn’t offer Madonna a ride home last night, ensuring that she would have to break from her routine and catch a later bus. As much as I fucking hate to admit it, hoodie boy and I must have had the same idea, to nab her after she got off the bus by her apartment. Too bad for him, I was sneaking through the alley next to her building when I saw the son of a bitch waiting for her.
I have to hand it to him, he did make it easier for me to take her when he jabbed that syringe full of drugs into her neck. I didn’t like it, though, because I had no way of knowing what he’d given her. So I monitored her carefully, just in case. The experience has been overwhelming, even cathartic.
As much as I’ve been fantasizing about having my Madonna in chains, at my command, I have been staggered by the sublimely visceral, erotic pleasure that her vulnerability has brought me. Even in the throes of the unknown sedative he administered so viciously, she has mindlessly struggled against her restraints, at one point fighting so hard that the manacles bit into her skin, making her bleed. I’m one deranged fuck because at the sight of her precious blood, I nearly came in my pants like some overly eager fourteen-year-old.
My work is just beginning. The easy part is over—the initial capture. It will be far more challenging from this point on. I need to set the stage for her to bond with her captor -- me. Even though I’ve taken her in order to protect her, I know it will take time for her to accept her fate. In the coming weeks she’ll move through predictable stages, much like the stages of grief: shock, anger, fear, even bargaining. Eventually, she’ll realize that she depends on me – requires me -- for her day-to-day, most basic needs. Then will come the final stage, a coup de grace that is to be savored and celebrated: acceptance. Her will to survive will break down her resistance and bring her walls crashing down. That’s my favorite part—the giving over of her will.
I straighten the cuffs on my tailored shirt as I peer through the door’s window pane. It’s interesting to watch her as she shuffles across the floor on her knees, blindfolded—the chains on her feet and wrists impede her attempts to move about freely. Her wrists are bruised and bloodied from her attempts to free herself, her vision hampered by a blindfold. And yet she fights. My brave girl.
My previous staged kidnap fantasy scenes have taught me some important lessons. For example, I cuffed her hands behind her back to ensure the blindfold stays in place. After the ‘big reveal’ when I remove the blindfold, I’ll cuff her hands in front of her as a show of good faith on my part. It’s all a matter of trust. Baby steps…
The manacles stop her before she gets to the bottom of the steps that lead up to the main part of the house. Her shoulders slump dejectedly. My cock stirs to life at the sight of her; she has enchanted me and I find that I cannot look away. I have reduced her universe to only these four walls and me. I am the creator of her whole world.
She’s different than the others, it’s why I knew I had to rescue her. Her fighting spirit has definitely won me over. I knew she was different the moment I laid eyes on her. Every day I know with unwavering certainty, I can never release her. If my noble intentions don’t endear me to her, surely Stockholm syndrome will eventually compel her to bond with me—her captor.
We are two people in the same sea of fucked up dysfunction. We have been brought together for such a time as this. Had it not been for me, she would have certainly met her demise last night. I was barely able to rescue her, and the thought of that sick fuck having her…well, I would have killed him before I ever would have let that happen.
Her head jerks in the direction of the stairwell when she hears the door hinges creak. She goes absolutely still except for her head swiveling back and forth as she tries to gain some sense of direction.
“Who’s there?”
She probably thinks he has her. Will she be happy when she finds out it’s me? Somehow I doubt she’ll be anything but pissed off. There will, however, probably be some degree of relief that she’s with me instead of with Lance’s groupie.
This initial ‘getting to know you’ phase has always been one of my favorites, depending on how well my various playmates performed. I loved every carefully scripted, meticulously choreographed moment, but to experience it as an authentic moment is simply…intoxicating.
Breathing in slowly, deeply, I catch a trace of her scent and let my head drop back, eyes closed. So good. Three years is a long time to go without. Anticipation has rendered me lightheaded -- probably from all the blood rushing south.
“Now, who else would be here, my love?” I whisper gently as I step over to her and remove the blindfold. I am setting the stage for her to see me as her only source of stability, the one who rescued her from the dark forces that had gathered around her.
She blinks, having difficulty tolerating the room’s muted lighting after hours of darkness.
“Were you trying to escape?” I whisper indulgently.
“No, no. Wh-who are…” she whimpers tentatively.
I reach down, grab her chin, and squeeze. “Don’t. Lie. To. Me.”
She sits back on her haunches and swallows awkwardly, licking her lips. The rolling motion of her throat muscles makes my cock heavy and thick as I imagine her swallowing for me in a far more intimate context. She has unwittingly assumed one of my favorite poses of submission. I lick the pad of my thumb and rub the moisture across her bottom lip and a low hum rumbles deep in my chest. Mine.
“Where am I?” she gasps. “The last thing I remember is getting off the bus and then.…”
Her voice trails off almost absently, as if she’s speaking to herself rather than me. She lifts her chin and looks around, her gaze settling on my face.
“If you’re a good girl, perhaps we’ll discuss taking you somewhere else. Shall we say, a place that’s more appropriate? More comfortable. I’ll fill you in on how and why you got here later. All in due time, pet.”
Somehow I doubt that she’ll be trustworthy any time soon. “I must admit, I wouldn’t be nearly as entertained if you were a good girl. Now, as much as I enjoy your resistance, I’m afraid I don’t have time to play with you just yet. Now please crawl back over to your cot.”
I retrieve a bottled water and a sandwich from the mini-fridge. I’ve laced the food and drink with a mild sedative to help her relax and to keep her docile while I’m away. Don’t want her hurting herself. Until then, I’ll keep an eye on her via a video feed app on my phone.
“Hurry along now, I have a surgery to perform. Always remember…time waits for no man.”
Chapter Eighteen
Madonna
I wake up lethargic and disoriented. My hands are too heavy to move, the effort requiring concentration and motor skills that I don’t possess at the moment. I sift through my jumbled thoughts and try to remember what happened. At this moment I know only one thing: something is not right. Something is very, very wrong.
After another failed attempt to conjure any usefulness from my two-ton hands, I find that my feet and legs are similarly afflicted. An odd clanging noise catches my sluggish attention and
draws my eyes to the source of the problem: restraints. Cuffs. Shackles. Call them what you want, all I know is that they signal that I’m in deep trouble, and that my current circumstances are not of my own making.
A wail of despair bubbles in the back of my throat, but crying isn’t going to do me a damn bit of good. I’ve got to think. I strain to remember the last thing I did. Stringing two coherent thoughts together takes effort but an image flickers in my mind’s eye and a tsunami of physical sensations comes barreling down on me with no warning. Shit. The crazy guy in the hoodie slammed me into a wall. And now I’m here…wherever this is.
I look around at my surroundings and, although they’re meager, this doesn’t look like the type of place a guy like that would have. It’s too nice, too tidy, too…civilized. There’s a cot I’m almost lying on that has fresh linens tucked in with hospital corners.
There’s a small desk and chair. I try to crawl over to the desk to see if there is anything I could use as a weapon. Another image flashes across my consciousness and this one makes no sense at all: Was Liam here earlier?
Nothing is adding up. How did I go from being attacked by the hooded guy to seeing Liam? Are they working together? The thought pushes me toward the desk, clawing my way across the cement floor like a dying man endlessly pursuing a desert mirage that is always just out of reach.
Fear is a powerful thing. It can power useless muscles into action, and I have every intention of using it to get out of here. My fight or flight instinct just kicked in and I pity anyone who tries to stop me.
My hands are clumsy and sluggish as I grab onto the desk chair and try to pull myself up. I cry out in pain when the chair tilts to one side and comes crashing down on me, leaving me with a goose egg on my forehead.
Cellar Door Page 5
