Angel Faces Demon Minds

by Jessica Rael

  ‘Nothing, he’s just being Vladimir.’ She attempted a smile. ‘Bit of a maverick, likes to think he’s more important than he is, it’s best to just ignore him.’

  The redhead pulled a slick two-way digital radio from her pocket, signal boosted to cope with the metal sauna they’d entered. She’d left it switched on in her pocket. ‘Mac?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘What did he just say?’ she asked.

  McKenna turned to the translator beside her in the truck. ‘Basically that you’d never get off the ship alive, some stuff about no bitch talks to him like that, and some other stuff we couldn’t quite get.’

  ‘Okay, hold position, we can handle this.’ Amber nodded at Dakota, who flipped up the safety on the P90 and slipped it into the holder in the small of her back. She then calmly removed her faithful Glock and screwed in a long black silencer. Nina stared openmouthed as the woman moved stealthily along the gangway in the direction Vladimir had taken. Nina went to speak but Amber looked at her and held a finger to her lips, gesturing for the small Russian to remain quiet.

  ‘Well,’ said the Ice Angel, ‘I suggest we continue with the inventory check.’

  They checked on several similar chambers to the first. The girls were in poor condition, but cleaned up would be an unusual infusion of around two hundred fair-skinned additions to the stable. A host of interesting ideas could be built around a catch like this. The male crewmembers had been told to keep clear of deck six, so Amber, not realizing there were female crew on Russian ships, reacted when she saw movement in the corridor ahead, a pistol slipping reflexively into her right hand. A large muscular woman, her dark hair cut short, stood smoking a cigarette a short distance away, leaning against a bulkhead.

  ‘Don’t you know that’s bad for you?’ Amber lowered the gun a little.

  ‘Not as bad as that,’ the woman gestured to the pistol in the redhead’s hand. ‘You come to shoot me? If so, let me finish this first, it’s my last one.’

  Amber smiled and holstered the pistol. ‘It’s okay…’

  ‘Olga.’

  Amber nodded. ‘It’s okay, Olga, women have permission to be on this deck.’

  ‘So you’re the lady come to take our toy away, huh?’

  ‘Perhaps. What toy would that be?’ Amber felt herself relax; she liked the woman’s attitude, though the sailor was a little dykey for the redhead’s tastes. Olga gestured to the cabin door she was leaning next to. Inside were four bunks, two against each bulkhead, and a table in the center. Lying naked on the table, wrists and ankles tied to each corner, was a small-framed fair-skinned woman. The cabin was a mess, dirty clothes on the floor, and the whole place stank of sweat and unwashed pussy. The girl looked like the late night dregs of a wild poker game; there were playing cards on her belly, a couple of dice, and between her legs an assorted jumble of makeshift sex toys.

  ‘They let us have one,’ explained Olga, ‘for the voyage, one of the older ones. The men get one too. Lucky for our bitch there are only four women on the ship, but then, as there is little to do but play with her, well…’ she shrugged, ‘perhaps not so lucky.’

  Just then Olga’s companions came off duty, wandering into the cabin, releasing the Velcro on their coveralls, stripping down to their gray sports underwear. Olga offered her colleagues a quick explanation in Russian, while the women nodded at Amber in turn. They all looked strong, one was tall like Olga, the other two shorter, one stocky, one wiry. ‘We were going to have our last goodbye playtime before you took her,’ the Russian sailor said, ‘but I guess we were a little too late.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Amber said, reaching for her radio. ‘Mac?’

  ‘Online.’

  ‘State Girl checked in?’

  ‘Yes, mission accomplished. She’s waiting near the main gangway.’

  ‘Okay, I want you to extend my arrival time by one hour.’ The redhead replaced the radio in her coat pocket. ‘Hope that’s long enough for a goodbye, girls.’

  The four Russians stripped naked and untied the woman from the table, two strong hands pulling the slender, mousy-blonde’s arms behind her back and securing them. Olga and one of the shorter sailors began strap homemade leather harnesses to their waists, the thick girth of a rigid shaft protruding from the triangular section that fitted between their legs.

  Olga patted the shaft she was wearing. ‘Police batons, we cut off the handle and attached to the belts. Clever, huh?’

  ‘Very,’ Amber admitted, genuinely impressed at the improvisation.

  One of the dykes grabbed a small breast in each calloused hand and lifted the woman off the table, her slender frame made to look even more pitiful by the size of her playmates. The others grabbed her legs and they stood there with their toy, holding her entire body in the air as if she were no more than an inflatable doll. Olga opened a tub of grease and smeared it along the shaft, her colleague doing likewise, then the big dyke positioned the remodeled baton at the entrance to the woman’s ass and shoved it in.

  Amber was impressed as toned muscles drove the black tube into the petite anus in one smooth motion, never pausing until it was buried to the hilt in the woman’s body. She began to whimper and moan, mumbling in Russian, at which point the captor holding her breasts lay her head on a chair and promptly sat on it, cutting back the sound to a muffled sob.

  They twisted her sideways, allowing the second dildo assassin to plunge into her vagina with equal determination. The two dykes worked the captive woman with remorseless determination, their timing perfect. As the stout shaft pulled out of her stretched anus, the one in her vagina was driven in hard so the leather base slapped against her pussy lips. The fourth woman straddled the slender waist and lowered her mouth to the small breasts, biting and chewing on the woman’s nipples, then kneading them like dough in a baker’s shop. The face-sitter brought her legs up, placing them on the edge of the seat, then she grabbed the arms of the chair and used her powerful biceps to drive herself down onto the mouth that, from Amber’s viewpoint, appeared to be licking desperately at the dyke’s ass, the sailor’s thick black bush of pubic hair resting on the woman’s chin.

  After about ten minutes came a reshuffle of near military precision, and it was obvious this ritual had been played out on the hapless woman every long, boring night of the two-month voyage. All the dykes were hairy, which intrigued Amber as the fashion in the West had been for shaven pussies for years. As the new set of powerful buttocks swung over the quivering mouth Amber watched the dyke sailor wriggling as she located her asshole over the unwilling mouth, and a wave of pleasure wash over the dyke’s dark features as the soft tongue finally penetrated and found its mark, sliding into the sailor’s anus.

  The Metalworker’s Daughter

  Everything seemed as chaotically noisy as always, but it was the words that were silent, the shouted insults and usual zoo-like babble at the Guadalajara Female Penitentiary were… different. Another of those strange secrets that visited the collective women occasionally had come, it stalked the hallways like a silent ghost, dampening the usual insatiable curiosity and love of gossip with the certain knowledge that to know this thing was to die from it.

  Everyone inside the razor wire-topped walls knew that Rosario Hernández had stabbed and killed Maricruz. She took the opportunity while the two were walking single file along the narrow, strip-lit, bare brick hallway that led from the grubby, festering mold pit laughingly referred to as the shower block. Everyone knew, and no one cared. Maricruz had it coming; she’d been threatening Rosie for a while and something had to give. Nor would anyone shed tears; Maricruz was a viscous murderer, she’d killed her own kids along with almost everyone else in her sleazy little life she considered baggage. It was perhaps a little more mysterious why Rosie never got shoved through official channels; after all, she’d done for an inmate, and not a favored one at that. But no, she got shoved down a flight of steel
stairs instead, while handcuffed, dieing from head injuries several hours later. Usually you only got that for attacking a guard, or an informer, but the dark secret didn’t stop there. Somehow Maricruz was resurrected, living with the secrets like a ghost as the body in the morgue became Angelica Pérez… while Angelica Pérez herself was walked quietly out of the large gates to disappear into the hot, cicada filled night.

  The blonde American drove Angelica to a small motel just outside Caliácan, told her to shower and clean up, and gave her a change of clothes and a new name. The blue passport with the gold eagle on the front declared that she was now Angelica Ramirez, and a United States citizen residing in Phoenix. The strange blonde looked at Angelica intensely, moving beyond the ex-prisoner’s brown eyes into her soul.

  ‘I need an artist, one who understands things like you do,’ the American woman had told her.

  Angelica just nodded and picked up the towel and clothes. ‘I knew you would come one day,’ she replied simply as she went to remove the filth of her confinement with a bar of lilac-colored soap.

  Angelica’s father had been a metalworker, but deep inside him had lived an artist, the artist that would come out to teach the eight-year-old Angelica how to make metal dance, twisting into fabulous shapes in the soft glow of the oil lamps. When she was twenty-one Angelica’s father died, leaving her his tools and his gift. She moved to a place of her own and learned how to work with new metals, ones her father had not known of. Her favorite, titanium, had something unspeakably beautiful hidden in its flat gray tones.

  One day her cousin, Aimara, had come to stay with her friend Erendira. The two nineteen-year-olds were making their way south along the coast looking for work, or a husband. Angelica made rice and beans and during the simple meal Aimara – tall, elegant Aimara – picked up a piece of Angelica’s sculpture and, opening her blouse, pressed it against the soft golden skin of her belly. The girl giggled that it was so cool and smooth, but Angelica saw how the dull gray of the metal became alive against the girl’s flesh, how the two were always meant to be one, and the artist saw the beauty of the angel’s sign and knew what she had been born to do.

  Angelica took the teenagers in their sleep, moving stealthily to the unconscious forms, gagging and binding them so quickly they had no time to cry out. Then she moved them to her workshop. Angelica placed the struggling Aimara on the workbench and removed her clothes, revealing the girl’s wonderful body for the first time. Then she placed the naked and tied girl in a chair and watched as the moonlight reflected off the sheen of sweat that coated the struggling teenager, saw the stark outline of the chair, and received her second revelation.

  Angelica worked hard, shaping the metal, making it smooth like never before, matching its crystalline curves with those of her living subjects. Slowly the frame of the chair took place, a thing of beauty. It took three weeks and the artist labored hard and long, suffering the annoying distractions of caring for the captive girls and telling distraught relatives that they had never arrived at her modest home. But now the chair frame was ready, its gray form crying out to be made one with the perfect bodies it had been designed to hold. It was a magical night, clear and cool and moonless, and by the light of the oil lamps she still used, Angelica laid Aimara’s naked form onto the bare metal, laying her on her back, arched in wonderful symmetry as the molded chair accepted her. Angelica moved upwards from the girl’s shapely ankles, buckling the leather straps that held her struggling form in place, fastening a strap across her belly, under her breasts, gently across her delicate throat, moving to the band that ran across her forehead, attaching her head to the flat plate. Erendira formed the back of the chair, her torso the main section, with her legs folded back on themselves at the knee, her head, bent forward, lay next to Aimara’s, where the two pretty faces would form the seat.

  Angelica marveled at her creation for some time before removing the girls’ gags, stripping naked herself, and taking her place on the living throne. The artist stroked the smooth curves, loving how the metal seemed to flow as it followed the girls’ forms and enjoying the way her own weight pressed her excited, sensitive genitals down onto those wonderful faces, the very seat of the throne.

  It was how the police found her. She had been sitting on her beautiful chair for two days, feeling those young faces between her legs as she pondered the problem of how to care for the girls without removing them, when the law officers burst in. They took her beautiful creation and sent her to prison. The attorney told Angelica to say she was mad, which was of course ridiculous; she was an artist, and anyway, one day the angels would send for her so she could continue her work.

  Now the angels had sent their messenger and Angelica could begin again. The artist towel-dried her hair, smiling to herself. She had no regrets, she knew why the angels had let her go to that place… after all, it was there that she solved her greatest problem.

  Paying the Devil Her Dues

  The Pacific spat itself into the heavy winds that carried the moisture to the land, laying the thickening drizzle across the stony-gray dockside in sheets. Amber paused at the base of the wide gangplank, noting the position of her vehicles and watching as the large removal trucks filed into the harbor. The first had already parked close to the ramp at the ships stern; the distant figures carried the cheap wooden crates with their precious living cargo down from the floating hulk like ants raiding a rival nest. Nestled between a large immobile rusting winch and a dull concrete storage bunker sat a dark car, motor gently idling. Amber pulled her long coat about her and walked towards it.

  Shalyn smiled pleasantly as Amber climbed in the passenger seat and closed the door. The Shadow Stalker turned down the CD player, allowing Wagner’s dark harmonies to blend into the soft rain that fell noiselessly onto the vehicle. Shalyn watched the cargo being unloaded.

  ‘I didn’t think Rebecca would go for it,’ the assassin said as she lit a cigarette, opening the window an inch to blow the smoke out into the fine mist.

  ‘It was a close call,’ Amber acknowledged, loosening her coat and letting the car’s air blow over her skin, ‘but there were many considerations. The Russian cell is newly formed and the FBI was breathing down their necks, so what do we do? We leave them to sink and we have the biggest scandal in decades on our doorstep, or we risk working with amateur thugs.’

  ‘Tough call.’

  ‘Luckily it wasn’t mine to make.’

  ‘Not yet,’ the assassin smiled, then placed the cigarette between her dark-pink lips and drew another lungful of smoke.

  ‘Rebecca’s still young; I don’t want that weight on my shoulders just yet.’ Amber looked at the assassin, who just shrugged. ‘Rebecca wouldn’t give them money, so we offered them a little start up opportunity. We clear the family currently running the northeast drug supply, they move in. Minimum entanglement for us.’

  Shalyn thought for a moment. ‘Krohonas family, Greek. How many to topple it?’

  ‘Three. I’ll take out the old man. We want you to handle the son and the old man’s second, a guy called Pallas. The son’s a jerk, typical playboy, never got hardened on the streets like his old man, but Pallas is dangerous. If he slips us he’ll go to ground and become a problem.’

  ‘So we do it all in one night?’

  ‘Thursday. Gives you three days to prepare. You okay with that?’

  ‘Sure,’ the blonde assassin drew the last wisps of life from the cigarette held gently between her lips, which shifted into a cruelly amused smile, ‘why not?’

  XTC touched up her gothic make-up and adjusted the pendant that hung between her breasts bearing the letters of her snappy stage name in archaic black script. She smiled as Alexander Krohonas sauntered into the room. XTC felt no emotion; the slender young Greek was a regular customer, but only because he found the petite girl easier to hurt, playing out his macho fantasies on her tiny Asian frame. Basically he was an asshole. The strange
blonde woman had paid her three months’ wages for this one small favor; XTC dimly remembered lying on a table, drifting in and out of sleep as the dose of tranquilizers pleasantly numbed her brain. She lay on the table breathing heavily, her body limp. The woman had said it would be quite painless, well… for XTC anyway, but it was important she did not move. ‘So why take unnecessary chances?’ the blonde had said. XTC felt the gynecological spreaders slide into her vagina and she giggled a little because it felt nice. Then the woman released the spring, opening her up, and that felt strangely pleasant, too. XTC felt a little like Sleeping Beauty, hardly stirring as her sex was readied. The woman was careful to make her a full partner in the process, telling her how important it was that she knew what to do, but it hardly mattered to the sleepy girl; Alexander was a prick, he had it coming.

  The blonde smeared surgical glue onto the flat side of the spiked strips, then carefully inserted them into the girl’s gaping sex, sticking one either side. The woman had shown the dreamy Korean girl the strips with their needle sharp points and the plastic covers which formed a protective barrier over the deadly, poisoned metal teeth, angled sharply downwards so they posed no threat to the girl with the covers off, so long as she lay still enough. The plastic covers themselves were attached to a tough nylon thread, which dangled from XTC’s vagina like a tampon string.

  As usual XTC lay naked on the bed while Alexander undressed. As he turned his back to her to hang up his expensive Italian suit she pulled gently but firmly on the string, sliding the shallow strips of plastic from her vagina. A strange feeling came upon the girl; sessions with Alexander were always tinged with fear, each time was more violent than the last, but you didn’t say no to Alexander. Now the Korean girl lay back on the bed, aware of the power she carried within her small frame, like a diamond-back rattler, ready to strike.