by Lee Pletzers
“Please, Peter, put it in my mouth.” I needed him to save me again, to make me whole again. I was salivating.
“Put what in your mouth, Christine?” There was mockery in the question.
Something broke inside me; the remnant of anything like pride, self-control or even humanity. “The pipe…and then…W-whatever you want, Peter.” Tears welled up.
I hadn’t noticed Hadley stopped weeping until he spoke, “You’re a sick bitch.”
He said aloud what my former lover expressed with his eyes. It was true, but no one had the right to judge me. Not mister high and mighty rich man and certainly not the dumb-ass gambler. I managed to allow my anger to deviate my desire long enough to answer Hadley. “Who’s the one on his knees? Bitch!”
Peter lowered the pipe. “I’m sorry, darling, but I need you fully aware of your surroundings. This would kill reality for you, right?”
I was a slave to the trip and he knew it. If I couldn’t escape one way, then the drug-induced journey was the only other thing that could save me. I shouted, “Give me a hit!”
He shook his head. “Perhaps I’ll give you some later, if you’re good.”
“What do I have to do? I’ll suck your cock right now, Peter, I’ll suck you dry. You can fuck me however you want, as long as you want. I’ll fuck you and your wife…who do I have to kill? Do you want me to kill him? I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for you, baby.” I was sobbing in an ecstasy of groveling; I couldn’t make insane offers fast enough. If I’d had a teenage daughter, I would have sold her to him. Fuck! Teenage daughter? I would have sold him my baby for a hit.
Hadley chimed, “God, you’re pathetic!”
“Fuck you!” I yelled, straining my throat, “I’ll kill you, you bastard!”
Peter Riverton smirked, as though disappointed, and went back to the other room with my only chance at freedom.
Hadley said, “If you ask me, I hope he takes you next. You’re a useless cunt.”
I wanted to shave his head, claw his eyes out and shove them down his throat. I didn’t know when it happened, but my breathing became erratic. I was on the verge of a panic attack.
Hadley sighed, “What an actress!”
The door reopened and our captor stopped in front of Hadley. He stared at me. “Hadley is right about one thing. You were beautiful…once.”
“Sir,” Hadley kept his head lowered, “Permission to speak, Sir.”
Peter grinned, as though amused by a dog performing tricks. “What is it, Hadley?”
“Something’s been bothering me all this time. I heard rumors about Potts and I see this skinny bitch for what she really is.”
“What are you saying?” Riverton sounded impatient. His fingers fidgeted with papers.
“I understand they have addictions.” Hadley shook the hair off his eyes. “Potts was addicted to having his way with children and Christine is a drug addict, but I’m not addicted to gambling. The only habit I have is my affinity for beer.”
Peter cleared his throat, “Are you confessing to being an alcoholic?”
“Hell no!”
Peter waved what looked like photos and gazed at me. “It’s a shame you won’t be able to see what happens between his legs.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. My ex-lover was a madman who refused to feed my needs. I didn’t care about Hadley or Potts. When he looked away, I pulled my hand again, disappointed that unlike before, the bracelet didn’t budge.
Peter spread pictures across the floor so Hadley would have no choice but to look at them. The trapped man gazed up at his captor. “You bastard!” Somehow, Hadley found enough courage to insult the man who held his life by a string.
Peter laughed. “Christine, right now this wretched prick has a hard-on.” He picked up one of the photos. A naked brunette lay on a table. Upon closer inspection, I realized the girl in the picture was dead. Peter slammed the picture against Hadley’s head and said, “You worked in the funeral parlor I own. Did you really think you could fuck my dead niece and get away with it?”
A thick air of dread filled the chamber. It was as if I could sense other souls lingering, waiting for me to die. I didn’t know if my mind was playing tricks on me, but I heard whispers and someone weeping.
“You thought crack was a rush?” Peter grabbed my cheeks. “Now you’ll see what gets me off.”
He flashed a small skeleton key and released my shackles. With my arms free, I thought I would have enough strength to hit him. I tried to pound my fists into his broad back. I attempted to kick him when he released my feet, but in the end; he carried me like he did on our first night together, like a fragile child in a father’s arms. He took me to the other room and placed me on a table. He fastened my arms and legs again. In my mind I wanted to fight him, but my ninety-pound body didn’t respond.
Peter Riverton leaned his face close to mine. He studied my eyes and said, “I know the real Christine is somewhere in that shell of a body. If it’s worth anything to you, I’m sorry you chose poison over our love.”
I tried to speak, but my tongue was numb. I didn’t recall him sticking me with a needle, yet I couldn’t control parts of my body. I felt his fingers glide along my right cheek. The disappointment he showed earlier gave way to a loving gaze. The fact he still cared about me renewed my hunger to survive. I understood that as long as there was love, then hope followed. He opened my mouth with his tongue and kissed me.
When I regained consciousness, I was naked and cold.
The room seemed brighter. Hadley was strapped to a vertical table. His naked body was on full display. Next to him was another table, with an assortment of knives and two empty dinner plates.
“Ah, Christine’s awake.” Peter said, “We can now begin.”
He lit a blowtorch.
And walked toward Hadley.
I begged, “No, Peter. Don’t do it.”
Peter placed the rushing fire against Hadley’s arm. Burning flesh mixed with smoke, added to the sick man’s screams. He pulled the torch away and waited for Hadley to quiet down.
“Peter,” I said, “please…don’t do it.”
Peter gazed at me with raised eyebrows, “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for this scum?!”
“No. I want to do it.”
“What?” Peter smiled.
The stench of human feces mixed with other odors. In addition to the blistering welt in his arm, Hadley had crapped himself.
“If I let you go, will you take this blowtorch and shove it where ever I tell you?”
I didn’t try to stop my grin. “I like the smell. You know—the smell of burning flesh.”
“You share my passion!” A raw excitement filled Peter’s eyes. He stepped closer. “How do I know you won’t try to burn me?”
“Because I love you,” I glanced at Hadley, “And I despise him.”
Peter released my restraints and handed me the means in which to regain control over my life. Another boost of adrenaline restored my energy. I placed the fire against Hadley’s thigh, enjoying his girlish screams. Peter and I basked in the smells of burning flesh.
While I gave Hadley time to settle down, Peter put his arm around me and whispered, “You’ll find it’s easy to replace one addiction with another. I will help you beat crack. Tomorrow night, we’ll cook my wife and eat pieces of her flesh while she’s still alive.” His eyes gleamed with pure joy. “Tonight, we’ll practice…on Hadley.”
Hadley’s screams were replaced by my moans, as I’d never seen this side of Peter. I felt his fingers stroking me below, and I felt wetness surging through me. I gasped as he entered me from behind, thrusting to his limit inside me. Our flesh merged as we moved as one, panting like wolves on the scent of a kill. My free hand gripped the edge of the table tightly so I could thrust back to meet him, and all the while I swept the blowtorch over Hadley like a witch with a wand. Entranced, I watched his body hair flare up, crisp and singe, then watched his flesh blacken, bubble and burst. I fantas
ized opera music was playing and I was the conductor, urging on my orchestra with gestures of flame. Hadley’s screams of agony reached a crescendo that clashed horribly with my fantasy music…so I shoved the blowtorch into his open, screaming mouth, frying his tongue and cauterizing his lungs as Peter came inside me with a bestial gasp. Hadley died within moments, but I was more alive than I’d ever known. Crack wasn’t even a memory. I’d been reborn…but as what, I wasn’t sure. It was something powerful and horrifying at the same time.
The examination table I thought would be my final resting place became the solidifier of our undying love. The combination of sweat, burnt flesh, Peter’s scent and his enduring hardness brought me to multiple orgasms. Peter finally withdrew from me, so he could begin slicing choice cuts of Hadley onto the dinner plates. Afterward, my lover held me in his arms with the promise of making me his bride. He interrupted my thoughts when he whispered, “I love you.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks…for I knew nothing would separate us again, not even hell.
Back to TOC
Although most every narcotic wreaks its own particular brand of havoc, heroin is widely imagined to be the worst of the worst. Somewhere there’s someone on meth, crack, weed, acid, booze and pills thinking (or at least trying to think) “Well, at least I’m not a junkie.” For a real-life account of a heroin user’s tribulations, read THE ALCOHOLISM AND ADDICTION CURE, by Chris Prentiss.
For a thankfully UNREAL account, read Marissa Farrar’s tale.
The Tortured Room
By Marissa Farrar
The street lamp above her flickered and a frigid wind lifted her hair from her face. An old crisp packet blew around her feet. It spun and danced, as playfully as autumn leaves.
Shivering, she pulled at the small amounts of material covering her almost child-like frame.
The sound of an approaching engine made her look up. A car pulled alongside her and she bent to the driver’s open window.
“How much for a…” the driver started to say, but then he saw the bruises and scabs on the inside of her arms. Quickly, he pressed the button to close the car window and pulled away. Even he wasn’t as desperate as that.
Stacey’s shoulders sagged and she jabbed her middle finger at the retreating vehicle, its red brake lights now small and distant. She needed that job. Without it she would have to use her last penny to score. Her pimp wasn’t going to be happy not to get his cut that night.
Still, her habit was more important than getting a beating. A few more bruises weren’t going to make much of a difference to her, but a night of DT’s filled her with terror.
Stacey shoved her hands into the shallow pockets of her denim mini-skirt and started to walk down the street. The heels of her fuck-me boots click-clacked on the pavement, the sound echoing around the empty street. It was quiet tonight; as though the rest of the world knew something she didn’t, and had hidden inside their homes.
A payphone stood on the corner—one of the few still around and in working order—and it was to this she headed.
She needed to call her dealer.
Graffiti smeared the phone box and the inside stank of piss. She ignored it, hoping only that the phone still worked and some asshole hadn’t come along and disconnected it. Lifting the receiver, a dial tone met her ear. She fed the small box coins and then dialed a number she had committed to memory.
But the phone didn’t ring.
“Hey, this is Kenny” the tinny sounding message said. “You know what to do.”
“Fuck it!” she swore, slamming down the receiver. She didn’t have time to wait for callbacks.
She chewed on the corner of her thumbnail, considering her options. There were plenty of other dealers around, but she never knew what she was going to get when she bought from someone new.
But she was anxious. Already she could feel the need creeping up, like thousands of tiny insects were scuttling through her blood. Within an hour she would be desperate, and the insects would feel more like knives. The thought of the pain terrified her. She didn’t have the strength to fight it.
Unconsciously she rubbed at the needle marks trailing up her arm. She gritted her teeth. Her heart was already doing that skipping beat—part need, part anticipation—of getting her next fix.
She tugged her crop-top down over her stomach, the thin material doing nothing to shelter her against the cold bite of the night. Her nipples pressed painfully against the coarse material of her cheap nylon bra.
Walking again, she turned down a narrow alley, planning to try a local place she had heard rumors that sell.
With her hands in her pockets and her head down, she didn’t notice the approaching person until they were almost upon her. She started in surprise as a woman’s voice spoke out of the darkness.
“You looking to buy, love?”
The words were spoken under her breath, and Stacey only just caught it.
Part of her hesitated. She didn’t make a habit out of scoring off of strangers, but no one else was around tonight and her desperation always over ruled her common sense. Even if the woman didn’t have any smack, she might have something else that could take off the edge until she can get hold of Kenny.
A small nod of her head told the woman she was interested.
Immediately, Stacey recognized that the woman was strange. She was older, in her forties at least. Dressed in long skirts and boots, with flowing white hair, she didn’t look like a typical dealer. Her eyes settled on Stacey for too long, her stare uncomfortably direct. The pupils of her eyes look iridescent, like spilt oil on the road, and Stacey was sure she could see colors floating across the black, even in the bad light.
The woman knew what Stacey needed without her even having to say it. All good dealers recognize their punter’s addiction.
With a sleight of hand she slid a twenty into the woman’s soft palm, just as the woman slipped the small, folded, cardboard wrap into her own hand.
“It’s your medicine,” the woman said.
“What?”
“It will make you better.”
Stacey gave a wry smile, wondering if this was supposed to some kind of sales talk.
“Yes,” Stacey said, without any hint of sarcasm. “I’m sure it will.”
She had everything she needed—lighter, tin-foil, syringe—wrapped within a cloth and stuffed down the side of her knee high boot. She was getting shaky, her brain was throbbing. Too desperate to wait to get back to her bedsit, she stopped at the end of the alley. She’d shoot up there. She had done it in worse places.
Commercial bins lined the bottom of the alley. A pile of cardboard boxes were stacked beside them and it was on these she squatted. It took her only moments to cook the smack and draw it up inside the much used needle.
With the tourniquet tight around her arm, her veins bulged. The strip of material was gripped between her teeth and, with her free hand, she tapped her arm, encouraging the vein to pop. Skillfully as an ER doctor, she slid the needle into the vein. She’d not reached the stage of injecting into her groin yet, though the veins were getting weaker and she knew it would not be long.
Stacey sank into the relief as she was injecting, riding on the wave of pleasure and calm. And everything was right again.
* * *
Her cheek was pressed against scratchy nylon. The smell of cigarette smoke and old vomit turned her stomach in a lazy flip. She had yet to open her eyes, but her gritty eyelids and pounding head told her it would not be a pleasant experience when she did.
But she needed to wake up, so she forced her eyes open. In front of her, an expanse of dirty beige carpet stretched ahead. She closed her eyes again, waiting for her world to stop spinning.
Where was she?
The last thing she remembered was being in the alley. After that there was nothing. She wasn’t in her bedsit, she knew that much. Had she picked up a John and collapsed? Was she even alone?
Stacey opened her eyes again and lifted her throbbing head.
The room was empty. That, at least, was a relief, and she let her forehead fall back to the floor.
She groaned, remembering something. The wrap had cost her last score. She was broke and would have to turn another trick before she could get another fix.
Her heart sunk. It was always like this. From the moment she woke she was either scoring, getting high, or turning tricks to make the money to get high.
