Sex and Murder

by Douglas Allen Rhodes

  The driver noticed Rachel and pointed her out to his passenger. “Heeey,” he leered, “why don’t you ditch that guy, baby?”

  His friend laughed and smacked him conspiratorially on his arm. “Yeah, you come on with us, and we’ll all have a good time.”

  “Your dude won’t mind,” the driver yelled. “He’s a little bitch anyways.”

  My wife held up her pointer finger to signal to them that she wanted them to hold on for a second. She turned to me and smiled in a way that said, “Oh, yes. These are the ones, all right.” She turned back to the Jeep boys and flipped them off.

  “Fucking cunt!” the passenger screamed. “You fucking bitch! You ain’t nothing special, whore!”

  The driver chimed in. “You and your boyfriend are lucky that we don’t beat his ass and fuck you anyway, you slut.”

  My wife flipped the button to roll down the window and stuck her face out. “You want to fight for me?” she yelled. “Is that what you want, you little pussies? I’d beat both your asses.”

  The driver laughed, a wiry little angry laugh, but the passenger wasn’t amused. He lost all control. “Bitch!” he shouted. “Your boyfriend ain’t saying that shit. He knows he’ll get his ass beat, so you better watch your mouth before you get yourself fucked.”

  Of course, she didn’t watch her mouth.

  I knew she wouldn’t.

  “So what? You wanna fight?” she continued. “Follow us. We’ll pull over where there won’t be any cops to save your pussy ass.”

  I veered in front of their Jeep and increased speed. They took it to be a sign of fear and sped right up on my bumper. They yelled all kinds of shit, flashing their brights and honking their horn. The passenger stood up and flexed like a jackass.

  I saw the turn I wanted, signaled, and slowed down, making sure they followed. I drove for a few blocks, taking the occasional turn, until we reached a small, secluded park. I parked, turned off my lights, and left the engine running.

  The Jeep pulled in a few spaces down from us, and the two blonde boys jumped out, heading immediately towards our car. Rachel threw her door open and got out of the car so fast I still sat working to get my seatbelt undone. They made a beeline for her. I climbed out of the car just as the passenger reached my wife. He slapped her hard across the face, knocking her to the ground.

  “Now, bitch!” he said, towering over her, “you aren’t so damn mouthy now, are you?”

  Casually, I walked around the back end of the car and faced the two large Jeep boys. They both turned towards me, forgetting my wife, and advanced on me with menace.

  I smiled. “You boys don’t know how badly you just fucked up.” I chuckled.

  The passenger couldn’t take any more, and he flew into a rage, throwing a sloppy, off-balance right cross at my chin. I side stepped it, grabbed his wrist in my right hand, and wrenched it clockwise. Next, I brought my left forearm down hard on his elbow, breaking it. The sickening, loud crack stopped the driver short. His friend dropped to the ground howling in pain.

  I smiled again.

  “And that’s not even the fuck up I was talking about.” I pointed behind him to illustrate my point.

  He turned. Rachel, back on her feet, aimed a 9mm at his chest. Her eyes blazed fury. The driver opened his mouth to speak but never got the words out.

  Rachel unloaded a full seven rounds into the Jeep boy, the gunshots tearing the park’s silence in two. She continued to shoot him even after he’d hit the ground.

  At the sight of his friend being put down like a bad dog, the passenger forgot the agony in his elbow and ran. He only got a few feet away from us, though. I pulled my .45 out and fired once, throwing him back to the ground, a bullet in his leg.

  “Rachel, help me load him into the car,” I said.

  She didn’t respond; she just stood there, staring wide-eyed at the corpse of the Jeep boy she’d gunned down.

  “Rachel,” I called again, a little force in my voice, “there’s no time now. C’mon.”

  Chapter Six

  Lethargic, as if in a dream, she helped me load the screaming passenger into the trunk. He fought us the whole way. I got fed up and smashed my gun into his nose, told him to either cooperate or die. He shut up, but he still squirmed too damned much.

  Once we had him packed away, we climbed back into the car and drove off. I did my best to not look too conspicuous, but it’s pretty hard to not speed with a living body in your trunk.

  I turned and looked at my wife. She stared back at me, a look on her face that I’d never seen before. I couldn’t tell exactly what emotion it displayed, something between desire and disgust, or an amalgamation of both.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “So, that’s what it feels like.”

  I placed a hand on her knee and ran it back and forth. “You didn’t like it?”

  “Like it?” She laughed suddenly, sliding my hand up her leg to her crotch. “I think I had an orgasm.”

  Around ten forty-five, we pulled the car up to the front door of our home. A quick scan of the neighbors’ houses revealed no lights, so we decided to get our hostage inside.

  We propped the front door open and sprang the trunk. Our reluctant houseguest almost screamed, but I rammed my .45 in his mouth and held a finger to my lips.

  “Shhhh,” I mocked. “You do what you’re told and you might live.”

  He stared at me with raw hatred, pure and undiluted from fear. It surprised me more than anything I’d seen yet. So far, everyone I’d killed had been horrified of me, but the Jeep boy didn’t seem to be scared at all, just mad.

  While I marched him into the house, I thought about it and came to a conclusion that I think explains it all. Simply put, he was from the suburbs.

  I know it sounds contrived at best, but hear me out. See, all his life, his parents had most likely sheltered him and given him anything—and everything—he’d wanted. He was good looking, athletic. School for him had probably been full of nothing but sycophants and willing lays. Any and all trouble he’d gotten himself into had been swept away by a joint coalition of Mommy and Daddy, the school faculty, and a few influential members of the sports boosters club, all doing their best to save their little baby, most popular student, or star sports hero from facing any real world reprisal for his actions.

  In short, he thought he would make it through this alive. Hell, he probably thought he would come out on top somehow.

  He was very, very wrong.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Rachel said, closing the door. “Take him downstairs and tie him to the work bench. I’ll be along in a second with a surprise.”

  Her eyes sparkled in excitement, and she shot me a smile so devious and full of erotic innuendo that I practically knocked the Jeep boy headfirst down the stairs in my rush to do what she said.

  We reached the basement, and I ordered my hostage, at gunpoint, to lay down on the workbench—a thick, sturdy, wooden affair. Surprisingly, he did just what I told him, without giving me any trouble. I set to the business of strapping him down, and the Jeep boy provided me with my second shock of the night.

  “Where’d you learn to fight like that?” he asked while I bound his ankles.

  I stopped and stared at him in open amazement. I mean, was he actually trying to bullshit with me? For lack of anything else to do, I answered him.

  “In the Marines.”

  “It figures,” he said as I returned to tying him down. “You guys are supposed to be psychos.”

  I cracked a smile at that, accidentally encouraging the jackass to keep going. I think he even tried to be charming.

  “You and your woman are into some pretty strange shit; I can tell.” He went on, “I figure you’re gonna do some kind of warped sex shit to me and all…. What I’m saying is, I’ll be cool…just don’t fuck me up too bad, all right?”

  I bashed my gun into his face. He let out a scream, so I whipped my .45 across his face a couple more tim
es, trying to shut him up. It didn’t work, so I duct taped his mouth.

  “You know,” I told him, “you’re a piece of shit.”

  He glared at me in anger and confusion, blood coursing out of his swollen features.

  “I mean it,” I continued. “You’re fucking low. My wife just killed your boy not half an hour ago, and now, here you are, offering to cooperate in what you think are gonna be fucking sex games.” I laughed, half hearted. “You’re a real piece of work.”

  A cough from behind me drew my attention. I turned around and stared in open admiration at the women I had married.

  Dressed in a skimpy little nurse’s costume that she’d bought two years earlier to wear to a Halloween party, she posed in the doorway. The outfit came down to just below her ass and not only revealed but accentuated her ample cleavage. She’d pulled her long red hair back into a severe bun and wore her glasses. Best of all, a pair of thigh-high white stockings showcased her legs, while black plats completed her attire.

  She held the doctor’s bag and sauntered towards the workbench—her operating table.

  “Herr Doktor,” she purred in a thick German accent straight out of Hogan’s Heroes. “Ees der patient ready for der surgery?”

  “Oh, he’s ready.” I smiled and placed my left hand on her hip and pulled her close.

  Her breasts mashed against my chest, straining to escape her costume.

  “Ooh, Herr Doktor.” She laughed, flicking out her tongue to lick my lips. “You are such the naughty doktor, and here in front of der patient.” Playfully, she pushed me away, maneuvering me to stand behind her. “You must remember your promise, Herr Doktor. You told me I could perform der operation this time.”

  She placed the black leather bag on the table next to the restrained Jeep boy and opened it with a flourish, bending forward so that her breasts brushed against the table top. The back of her skirt rose up, uncovering her ass, and she swayed it back and forth while rummaging through the bag.

  She must have sensed just how much I wanted to take her right then.

  “You may only vatch and assist in those areas vhere der masterful touch of Herr Doktor is most needed,” she said, spreading her legs more. She looked over her shoulder at me, a devious grin on her face.

  She held up a small, razor-sharp scalpel. It sparkled in the light, its pristine coolness seeming to tell stories of deaths and tortures to come.

  I stepped forward, taking her hips in my hands.

  “Oh, Herr Doktor….”

  I dropped to my knees behind her and began to kiss her inner thighs. Occasionally biting, occasionally licking, I explored her. I moved down her stockinged legs to her ankles, kissing and teasing her.

  Rachel let out a few stimulated mmmm’s in response to my attentions. Taking a firm grip on the scalpel, she cut the Jeep boy’s shirt off. He wasn’t happy about this latest development in the least and, frantic, he squirmed, cursing all the while into his duct-tape gag. Rachel placed the scalpel next to his throat and smiled.

  “Now, now, now,” she patronized. “Don’t squirm too much. I’d hate to cut you accidentally.”

  On cut, Rachel slashed the scalpel down along the length of the Jeep boy’s torso, starting at the top of his chest and ending next to his belly button. He stopped his cursing and opted for screams.

  Still on my knees, I moved so that I faced away from the table and toward my wife’s front. Holding her ass in my hands, I pushed my face under her dress to explore her crotch.

  Above me, I heard her slash the scalpel again and again across our victim’s chest, moaning all the while. Deep, wracking sobs now punctuated his screams. I increased the intensity with which I explored her in equal fashion.

  “Oh, God,” Rachel cried out, her body stiffening and beginning to quiver. “Oh, God, yes…I’m coming, Daddy.”

  Again, I heard her slash back and forth—vicious slashes—a small, yelping cry of orgasm accompanying each cut. I climbed to my feet. The scene that greeted me went far beyond grisly.

  The boy’s upper body lay in ruins; she had slashed it to shreds. Blood covered everything, the wall, the table, and my wife. It seemed to excite her, and she squeezed and kneaded her breasts through the front of her blood-soaked outfit with passion.

  I moved to stand behind her, unfastening and dropping my pants. Jeep Boy wasn’t dead yet. He lay in some sort of semi-conscious near-death, sobbing and staring dimly through a haze of blood-stained tears at my wife stimulating herself.

  I reached around Rachel and pulled the top of her costume off her shoulders, over her arms, and down to her waist. Her breasts, now freed from the costume’s restraint, looked gory and beautiful. Blood stood out all along the cleavage line, and yet her breasts had stayed pristine and pale white where her outfit had covered them.

  I moved closer, pressing myself against her. My hands moved to cup her breasts, pulling her to me.

  “Finish him,” I whispered into her ear, thrusting myself deep into her body.

  She screamed, crying out from the fury of my intrusion, and I fucked her in earnest, spurred on by the vision of vivisection at hand and driven by the power of our spirits coupling.

  Rachel pulled the Jeep boy’s pants down and seized his limp and shrunken penis. In a single fluid movement, she brought the scalpel down….

  Her moans and cries reached to a fevered pitch, and I plunged myself further into her in response. With equal fury, she rammed herself back against me.

  The intensity of the moment consumed me, and I sank into a crimson haze, pounding her with all my frenzy until I exploded.

  “Oh, oohh,” she wailed. “Oh, God.”

  Her entire body trembled in climax. I squeezed her breasts and held myself inside her. Screaming the last surge of her orgasm, she raised the scalpel and plunged it deep into her victim’s throat. Blood erupted, spraying haphazardly, and the Jeep boy’s body spasmed, almost synched with my wife’s trembling, he in the throes of death, she in the throes of life.

  Man and woman, sex and murder, life and death, all united in that one pure moment. Together my wife and I became gods. We were Osiris and Isis, Hades and Persephone, the Yin and the Yang. We came to embody all that is and all that is true.

  Don’t try to imagine it or understand it. Even my memories of it do little but profane it.

  Drained and exhausted, I crumbled to the floor and passed out.

  Chapter Seven

  I came to, laying in a pool of thick, congealed blood, on the concrete floor of my basement. My mind spun, and for a moment I couldn’t remember why I was there.

  With slow movements, I got to my feet, finding myself face to face with the mutilated corpse we had left tied to the workbench. A dam burst in my head. The memories of last night’s ritual slaughter came flooding back; warm and happy thoughts filled me. I looked around for my wife, but she wasn’t there.

  I moved to walk upstairs, but realized what a trail of grime I’d leave and thought better of it. Laughing to myself, I imagined the righteous fury my wife would unleash on me if I tracked this mess around her house. It would be best for all involved (except the corpse) if I cleaned up first. Stripping out of my thick and sticky clothes, I stepped into the basement shower—one of the oddities of the little house I lived in. The only shower in the house (the upstairs bathroom had a tub), it looked like something out of either a horror movie or a concentration camp, made of cinderblocks stacked to just above my head with a door of sorts—a sheet of plywood, painted gray—and a drain in the center of the floor for run off. The thing was, though, it always made me think about Pennywise, the clown from IT—and always spooked the hell out of me.

  I let the water run over me, rinsing the clotted blood from my hair and skin, until the shower floor ran thick with viscous red water. I soaped up and rinsed off (I’ll admit it—I did it quickly so I could get out of that shower—damn you, Pennywise). I climbed out of the shower and headed upstairs naked.

  I called for Rachel, but she didn’t
answer so I moved into the bedroom to see if she was sleeping. She wasn’t there either but she’d left a note on the bed. I grabbed a towel from the hallway linen chest and dried off. Back into the bedroom, I chose a pair of baggy, black cords and a T-shirt and got dressed. The cords were pretty unremarkable, but the shirt was one of my favorites—a yellow T that sported the symbol of the Reverse-Flash (a black circle with a red lightning bolt running at a diagonal through it) in the center of the chest. The first time I’d seen it I had to buy it, and, truth be told, I wore it way too much.

  Once dressed, I picked up Rachel’s note and scanned it over. She and her friend Rosa (who I’d never liked) had gone out for drinks. She wouldn’t be home until late.

  The clock on the wall read eight p.m. So…I’d spent the entire day sleeping in a puddle of someone else’s blood. I had at least a few hours to play until Rachel got home. I decided to drive over to Joe’s house and see if he wanted to go to the bar.

  He wasn’t home (a virtual miracle in and of itself) so I went over to Mac’s. He was there, and another friend I’d grown up with, Paul, hung out with him in the garage, working on Mac’s ‘56 Chevy and smoking bud.

  I walked in. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” Paul greeted me. “What’s up?”

  Mac nodded his head towards me, took a short breath to help hold in his hit, and passed me the bowl they were smoking. I pulled out my lighter to fire it up, but Mac held up his hand.

  “It’s burnin’ good,” he managed to croak out, still holding his breath.

  I hit the bowl a couple of times and passed it to Paul.

  “Where’s Rachel?” Mac asked, blowing out a massive cloud of smoke.

  I blew out my hit. “She’s with Rosa. What you guys planning to do?”

  “Shit,” he answered. “Why?”

  “I was looking to head down to Ida’s. You guys wanna go?”