“I told you, Jon. You were never going to do to another woman what you did to me.”
“Tell me, Jon. I know I’m not the first. How many more women and girls have you tortured and killed? How about it Jon, is it five, ten, dozens, a hundred or more? Tell me Jon. How many were there before me?”
“Fuck … you … cunt” he spat at her, a bit less aggressively than before.
“Oh, come on Jon. Just think. You finally get to feel just what your victims felt. Surreal, isn’t it? For once, you get to experience what they experienced, what I experienced.”
“How much fun is that Jon?”
Jolene continued her taunts, walking around and around the bench, dragging the tips of the shears along the length of his body.
Chapter Fourteen
“Fucking bitch!” Jon thought, not for a moment lamenting the loss of his digits. He knew he was in bad shape but he still had ideas. He needed to get off this damn bench, that’s what he needed to do. He didn’t need fingers or toes to slap her senseless. He could even manage to get her strapped in again if she were unconscious. Afterward, he would make sure she paid for her insolence.
“First, I need to figure out how to get off this damn thing.”
He knew the design of this bench very well. The trouble was, of course, he designed it in such a way as to prevent the very thing he was trying to do.
Everything had a weak point. If only he could figure it, out. It couldn’t be the bench itself, he figured. It was built with heavy untreated spruce 4x6’s. The wood itself was strong and despite the meager stresses, his body could put it through, it wouldn’t give. No, there had to be something else.
Evaluating the design further in his head, he started focusing on the cross member his legs were strapped to. They were bolted cleanly to the main part of the bench but with a lighter weight wood allowing closer access to his victim’s appendages. The fact was its ‘shape made it vulnerable, if only he could get the right leverage on it.
His legs were stretched wide apart from each other and strapped to each leg of the ‘T’. If only he could get some leverage with his legs. Perhaps he could split the wood or dislodge the bolts holding it to the main part of the bench. If only?
Of course, if he could somehow free his legs, he wasn’t sure he would be able to undo the straps around his arms and torso. He’d need his fingers for that. “One problem at a time Jon,” he said to himself.
Focusing his energies, he continued to stress his bindings as she continued her torment upon his flesh. Isolating his mind from his body, he was starting to put significant brainpower on the problem. Alternating flexing his legs, he tried to establish a rhythm in order to free himself.
It was slow going and he wasn’t making much headway. Still, it was better than to listen to her wicked laughs.
As she walked around him, dragging the point of the shears against his body, he found it difficult to continue concentrating upon the problem. When she stopped and pressed the point of the shears in between his ribs, he struggled to breathe through the pain.
Gasping for breath when the cunt resumed her pacing around his supine body, it took some time before he was able to resume working on the problem. So far, he made little progress. He knew, given enough time, he would. If only she gave him, the time he needed. When he was out of this mess, down she’d go and the cunt would be his again.
Chapter Fifteen
“Oh, Jon, I forgot to ask. What was that kiss all about?”
Pausing a moment, trying to figure out what she was talking about, he answered. “What … kiss?”
“Oh, Jon, you must remember. Earlier, I was still strapped to the bench. You know. When you thought I was dead. You were kissing me, tenderly, passionately and almost romantically. You know ‘That Kiss’. What was that all about?”
“… I … don’t … know … what … you’re … talking about.”
“Ok, Jon, if that’s how you want it. That’s all right. Say, you still have an appendage here. Can’t leave that there, now can we?” Jolene added as she stepped up between his legs.
Lifting his bloody cock and balls in her bloody palms, she played with them, as if she held a pair of steel marbles in her hand. Rolling them over her fingers, she would occasionally give them a good squeeze to see how he would react. She was pleased to see him grimace under her manipulations of his junk in her hand.
Looking at him, to make sure she saw his reaction, she poked his cock with the business edge of the shears.
“Jon, what do you think? Do you really need these anymore? Or should I put a clamp on them and force you to rip them from your own body as you tried to do with my clit?”
He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer. Perhaps he knew she was going to do it regardless of how he answered her. She was certain of one thing, though. He would never beg her not to do it. He wasn’t that kind of animal.
Placing his ball sack between the blades of the sheers, she looked up at him and said.
“Jon, what do you say? Anything to say before you say goodbye to your balls?”
“… Fuck … you … bitch. I … hope … you … rot … in … hell …” he managed to spit out.
“Oh Jon, maybe I will but you’ll be there long before I get there,” she told him as she squeezed the handles of the shears and felt his balls bounce off her feet as she glared at him.
He howled a bellowing howl but not so much from the pain but more from the pain of the loss of his manhood.
Giving him time to experience the loss of his balls, she watched him closely. He writhed, twisting his body as best as he could, still strapped to the bench. Blood dripped from his groin where his ball sack used to reside. His facial expression clenched as he gritted his teeth. His eyebrows furled downward, almost touching at the bridge of his nose.
As he started to regain his senses, he looked up at her and was about to say something. Before he could realize it, Jolene stretched his cock to its longest length, fitted the shears over its base, and as their eyes focused on each other, she smiled as she sliced his cock right off and dangled it overhead for him to see.
He screamed again adding “You Fucking BITCH!”
After dropping the shears on the floor, Jolene walked around to his face, leaned over, and dropped his dripping, bloody cock into his wide-open mouth.
Grabbing the same kind of wide surgical tape Jeremy used on the cunt; she sealed his cock into his mouth. As she wrapped the tape repeatedly around his head, she made sure he would never open his mouth again. She also wrapped the tape over his nose. She enjoyed the idea of the last thing he would ever taste was his bloody cock shoved into the back of his throat.
“Jon,” she said in his dying moments, “that’s what it’s like to be choked on someone’s cock stuffed down your throat. I hope you enjoy it. Bon aperitif.”
Grabbing one of the knives stuck in the palm of his hand, she held it a moment before slicing it deep right across his neck. As arterial spray coated her naked body, she simply looked down at the gurgling, choking dying corpse before her.
For good measure, she raised the knife over her head, took another long look at him, and swung the blade down point first, piercing his heart.
Moments later, his bucking body relaxed, his face turned a pale color. Sporting a second smile below the one he was born with … he died, broken hearted and suffocated on his own cock stuffed down his throat.
Chapter Sixteen
Jon knew he was running out of time. He needed to get free now in order to survive. He struggled harder, trying to knock over the bench, even knowing it was bolted firmly to the floor.
She walked right up to him and then stopped right in front of his cock and balls. His blood, what little was left of it in his body, ran cold.
Say, you still have an appendage here. Can’t leave that there, now can we?”
“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed in his head as she cradled them in the palm of her hand.
Enduring severe discomfort
as she massaged his testicles as if she held a pair of balls in her hand, she alternately squeezed and relaxed her grip on them. With each squeeze, all he could to was to bear down on the pain he suffered.
“Jon, what do you think? Do you really need this anymore? Or should I put a clamp on them and force you to rip them from your own body as you tried to do with my clit?” She said to him.
Honestly, he stopped listening to her but redoubled his efforts to extricate himself from the bench. As such, he almost missed her last retorts. However, one thing was crystal-clear to him. There was no correct response in this situation. One thing he knew, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of a response anyway.
Feeling her cradle his balls in the palm of her hand, he felt the cold hard metal of the sheers take their position around the ball sack, between his body and his balls.
“Jon, what do you say? Anything to say before you say goodbye to your balls?”
“… Fuck … you … bitch. I … hope … you … rot … in … hell …” he managed to spit out a moment before he screamed.
It was funny, Jon thought. He was screaming more for the loss of his balls then from the pain of their loss. Yet, he also heard them bounce on the floor, in the pool of his own blood. With detached interest, he cataloged the sound they made as they landed, now parted from his body. It was an interesting sound. First, there was a splat, quickly followed by a subtle but distinct sound of flesh and blood reuniting. He didn’t know how to explain it. It was just interesting.
Opening his eyes, it took a moment but he found hers. Focusing on her eyes, he realized he was studying him right back. As the question of what she was about to do entered the front of his mind, he noticed the cunt was stretching his cock away from his body. That’s when he realized she had fitted the sheers over the base of his cock. As she studied him, he felt her close her grip on the sheers and a moment later, an indescribable spasm jerked him to full attention.
Howling, his eyes nearly popped out of his skull and he spat all sorts of expletives at the cunt.
“You FUCKING BITCH!” He added realizing his cock was still in the palm of her hand while she carried it overhead so that he could see it in all its pathetic glory.
As he screamed in agony at the loss of his cock, he was suddenly gurgling and gagging. She dropped his own cock into his mouth, where it was sucked deep into his throat during his scream.
His eyes wide stunned in disbelief, it took a moment for him to register what had just occurred. In his anguish, he had inadvertently sucked his cock deeper into the back of his mouth and almost swallowed it. His gag reflex kicking in, he started retching in an attempt to eject the foreign object choking him.
Unable to make a sound but screaming none-the-less, he felt her clamp her hand under his chin, preventing him from spitting it out. A moment later, she was wrapping tape around his head and mouth, as he would do when he needed to gag one of his cunts.
Struggling to stop her, he fought as hard as he could to no avail. Within moments, he was gagged tight, his own bloody cock choking him and unable to breathe as she covered his nose with the tape as well.
Struggling to breathe, he strained at pulling air into his lungs. The only thing his lungs got though was more of his cock, as it was sucked deeper and deeper into his airways.
Eyes bug-eyed, he stared back at her, only to see the dispassionate determination in her face. As his vision began to get red, he felt the feel of a knife on his throat and a moment later, blood filling his lungs.
Choking now on his own blood and his own cock, he stared at her blank face looking back at him with barely an emotion written on it. His vision faded as she brought her arms above her head and slammed them down on his chest. It was in that moment he knew. Screaming in bitterness and rage, she plunged the knife into his chest, piercing his heart.
To be sure, she was making sure he would never rise from the dead. He thought as his vision faded to black, never to return.
Chapter Seventeen
Standing over his lifeless body, Jolene was a personality removed from its shell. Later, as she reflected upon this moment, it felt to her she was levitating outside her body. Floating near the ceiling, looking down at her body, she finished off the bastard who had bought her, abused, and killed her.
She remembered she saw her body, all covered in blood, his blood. She remembered still being naked, her skin glistening not from body oil but from blood. The reflections of her body seemed to make her look as if she appeared in some horror movie. The trouble was, while it was a horror, it was no movie.
It took some time but eventually, she rejoined her body. Looking down at his corpse, she knew he was dead. The first part of her vow was now complete.
“Thank you Jul” she offered in prayer as she turned and walked out of the room.
Exploring the house, trailing bloody footprints and blood spatter, she poked her head into every room, curious as to see what a horrid man kept for himself. She found a full bathroom down the hall from the torture chamber. Stepping into the shower, she washed his blood from her body, taking the opportunity to stand there, pee under the hot water, soak in the heat and wash every trace of him from her hair and body. Collapsing on the floor of the shower, she cried as the water washed away the blood and her tears.
***
A long time later, she left the bathroom and continued exploring the house. She eventually found her way into his trophy room.
Standing at the threshold of the very large room, she was horrified that her suspicions about Jon were true. She was not the first to be held captive in this house, tortured and killed.
Along the walls were what appeared to be framed sculptures of every imaginable depravity? Reaching for one, she realized these were not sculptures but of actual flesh, tanned and cured to prevent decomposition. They had been framed and hung on the wall, as one might do with a piece of art.
“Art?” she realized. “Did he think of these as art? Oh my God, he did, didn’t he?” The realization of his sordid depravity almost made her retch. “To think, I was to be added to his collection.”
If she had any reservation as to the crime she committed, she had none now. “Oh my God, there are hundreds of trophies in here!” She realized as she quickly spun around and scanned the walls, bookcases, and shelving, covered from floor to high ceiling with memorabilia of past deprivations.
In addition to the framed pieces, he had numerous mounted heads of women, of all shapes, ages, races, and hair color. There were the heads of white women, black women, Asian women and even young girls, all mounted and preserved on plaques as if he had gone safari hunting.
“Safari hunting, well, that’s not far from the truth.” She mumbled to herself aloud. “And to think, he tortured each of these girls before he killed them. At least, he’ll never do it again.”
Some of the heads were still wearing their expensive earrings and necklaces. It was revolting. On the shelves, he had the remnants and souvenirs they came with. Much of it was jewelry or clothing they wore when they arrived. She was bewildered by the very numbers she was discovering.
Turning to a desk off to the side of the room, she noted sitting on the desk was what looked to be her dress she was wearing when Jeremy took her. After inspecting it a bit closer, she realized it was indeed her dress, a bit wrinkled but otherwise intact. Picking it up, she held it to her face and buried her tears in it.
Tears flowing in rivers down her cheeks, she could no longer stand. Plopping down in the chair alongside the desk, she doubled over and wept, her dress lying on her lap. Twenty minutes or more elapsed before her weeping slowed to a trickle. Her chest aching from the release of her pent up emotions, she focused on her dress. The dress, one of her favorites was now a dress she loathed to wear again, a reminder of the pain and anguish of the last few days.
Needing to get out of this place, she almost decided to leave it behind, uncaring whether she was naked or not. As her emotions threatened to well up inside her,
she realized she had none left to feel. Her emotions were used up. She had no more to give. She was empty as a spilled glass of milk. The vibrant, loving, and caring spark in her soul had gone out.
Standing, she put the dress on. As she was about to leave, she saw her jewelry also sitting on the desk. Scooping them up and without looking back, she walked out the door.
Chapter Eighteen
“Man, it’s been a long day.” he thought as he stepped out of his office and headed for the bar ten blocks away.
He’d been staking out a redhead who seemed to frequent the place. She was gorgeous. He estimated she was about twenty-one or twenty-two years old. She had long red hair with that reddish brown tint he liked so much. It wasn’t that orangey red crap, he detested. She stood about five feet six in stocking feet and who loved to wear very high heels. Wearing the heels, she could look a guy eye-to-eye without tilting her head. Her narrow waist, wide hips, and tits were to die for and in all probability; she would soon, very soon.
Perfectly fitting her frame, he hoped those tits were real. Implants embellishing her good looks would be a definite detriment.
He believed her tits were real. He took the opportunity to brush up to her the other day, apologizing for stumbling into her and accidently feeling her up. Not that it was an accident mind you. She probably knew it was a feint but he found out what he needed. If they weren’t real, she had used a very good doctor to enhance them. They certainly felt real to him. He’d find out for himself soon enough.
Over the weeks he stalked her, he had come to know her very well. She dressed well, never showing what was hidden underneath the wrappings of her outfits. He was sure she wore a thong, as he never detected as much as a panty line under her skirt. She did wear stockings, not pantyhose as the distinct outline of garter straps occasionally made themselves known.
Her Essentia: Make sure she stays dead (Her Client Trilogy Book 3) Page 4
