Victim: An Extreme Horror Novel

by Sam West

  “If you say so.”

  “You’re not still sore about it, are you? I told you, I have to go.”

  “Are there any hot women that work in the office?”

  Greg shifted uncomfortably on the bed. He hated bloody questions like that.

  “No,” he lied.

  “But there are women that work in the office, you told me there were women there.”

  “Yes, there’s the secretary. And the boss’s wife does the books and stuff.”

  “Are they hot?”

  “Mrs Anderson is like seventy.”

  “And the secretary?”

  An image of Susan exploded in his mind, with her turbo-charged curves, long, glossy black hair and striking, Oriental features. “Oh, you know, she’s just ordinary.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Babe, what is this? You know I only have eyes for you.”

  He spoke the truth. Yes, Susan The Sexy Secretary, as the lads called her on the work-floor, was indeed a stunner. But so what? He loved Chloe, no one else.

  “I’m sorry, I guess I’m just feeling a little insecure, I’ll stop going on about your stupid, not-a-party, party.”

  “Good.”

  She sighed deeply, crossing her long, slim legs and fiddled with the edge of the towel that draped her thigh. His gaze automatically travelled higher, to the shadowy triangle between her legs beneath the towel. An extract from the diary popped into head and he winced: Don’t you just wish you could bury your face in that succulent little cunt? Nibble on those nice juicy lips…

  Chloe withdrew her hand from his head. “Why are you pulling that face? You think I’m weird, don’t you?”

  Greg felt the first pang of a headache. “No, of course I don’t.”

  “Yeah, you do. You think I’m strange for fictionalising what happened.”

  “Not if you think it helps.”

  “So if I didn’t think it helped, you would think it’s stupid, right?

  Now his head throbbed in earnest. That was one of those woman questions where whatever answer he gave would be wrong. The question didn’t even make bloody sense.

  “Like I say, if you think it helps, then it’s not stupid.”

  She sighed and sprang to her feet.

  Wrong answer. What a surprise.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Downstairs, I want a glass of juice.”

  “Chloe, please, don’t be funny with me.”

  “I’m not.”

  Dressed in only the small white towel wrapped around her body, she strode with as much dignity as she could over to the bedroom door.

  “Chloe, stop. I think it’s cool you wrote it down like that, really.”

  She stopped in her tracks with her back still to him. “Then why didn’t you finish it?”

  “Because I fell asleep.”

  “I want you to finish it, Greg. It would mean a lot to me. You stopping reading like that makes me think you don’t care.”

  It’s just the way you tell ‘em, babe, he thought humourlessly. “Your writing is just so vivid. I can cope with cold, hard facts, but to be honest, your diary upset me. It was like reading one of your books, but that shit actually happened to you.”

  Slowly, she turned round and looked beseechingly over at him. “That diary has helped me a lot. So will you finish it? I think you reading it will help me, too.”

  “Oh Chloe, of course I’ll finish reading it,” he said.

  And he meant it. What a wanker he was, getting upset because his fiancé dared to write down her feelings. Of course it was uncomfortable reading, his darling Chloe had been to hell and back and had documented it for her own sanity.

  “Thank you, Greg,” she said, smiling sweetly at him before leaving the room to get her juice.

  Christ, she’s so beautiful, came the involuntary thought. She’s got the face of an angel and the body of a temptress sent straight from hell…

  It was so hard not to be dazzled by her exterior, sometimes he forgot that inside she was hurting and damaged.

  The diary sat next to him on the bed and he frowned down at it with conflicting emotions. He was the one that had wanted to read it in the first place, so then why now would he rather not? It didn’t make much sense and he wished he’d never found the damn thing in the first place.

  What are you, a man or a mouse?

  Pushing aside the niggling doubts, he settled down to read the diary once more, re-reading the last few lines to jog his memory and fully immerse himself in Chloe’s nightmare. As much as he didn’t want to be, he was thrust back into the living-room of the barn conversion he could see all too clearly in his mind’s eye. He could see Scott lying on the floor with his busted leg, and Mrs Jones lying dead. He was back at the scene of the crime with the psycho who was currently talking to Mr Jones…

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Don’t you just wish you could bury your face in that succulent little cunt? Nibble on those nice juicy lips? Look at those pink, plump inners peeking out, I love it when they do that, don’t you?”

  I squirmed in abject misery, the attention of these two men weighing heavy on my soul.

  “Yes,” Mr Jones said.

  Beads of sweat ran down his ever-swelling forehead, making him blink.

  “Then don’t just look at, fucking eat it. Lie on your back, Mr Jones. And Chloe, I want you to sit on his face…”

  I stared up at my captor in total disbelief, hearing the words but not making sense of them. I couldn’t quite catch my breath because my nose felt claggy with a build-up of snot born of abject misery.

  Realising I had no choice, I got shakily to my knees and shuffled awkwardly over towards him. Mr Jones was already on his back, ready to receive me.

  That position has got to really be hurting his bound wrists, I thought hazily.

  Facing away from his body, I took a deep, shaky breath and straddled Mr Jones face.

  I held my body over his head, reluctant to make contact. The feel of his facial features pressed between my legs was every bit as abhorrent as I had expected it to be and I cringed in shame.

  “Ride his face, Chloe. Mr Jones, rim that clit, make her come.”

  When Mr Jones moaned – which I assume was from terror and disgust – it reverberated up my body, making me shudder.

  I did as I was bid, pressing my vagina against his warm mouth until I felt my labia part for his probing tongue. I sucked in a sharp intake of breath at the direct and shocking clitoral stimulation. It made my nerve endings sing out and I gritted my teeth and moaned in horror at the wet firmness of his tongue.

  “You’re liking that, aren’t you, I can tell. I bet you’re creaming. Carry on as you are, I have to get something I stashed in the kitchen. If you stop, things will get very bad for you, do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal,” I said.

  He disappeared through the door once more and I lifted my weight of Mr Jones’ face. I needed to get that gun and I was confident that I could if he would just get close enough to me. When he burst through the door again I lowered myself onto Mr Jones’ face once more.

  What the hell has he got now? Oh, my dear fucking God…

  This was bad. In each hand he held a petrol can. He set one down where he stood and carried the other one over to me and Mr Jones.

  He smiled at me and I could hear the petrol sloshing around inside the cans with each stride. Before he had even reached us he had unscrewed the cap. Just as I was thinking about slipping my hands round to the front of my body to grab the gun, I was having a petrol shower. Mr Jones retched beneath me, some of it probably raining into his mouth. The overpowering and heady stench of it made me gag, and I glared up at him, my heart pounding. It took all my willpower not to bring my hands under my rump and wipe the stinking petrol out of my eyes and mouth. Instinctively I wiped the entirety of the left hand side of my face on what remained of my dress hanging off my left shoulder. There was a dry, petrol-free spot
on the underside which I nudged open with my chin.

  He was looking at me strangely and I panicked. I had forgotten that ‘normal’ people wouldn’t be able to twist their head round to their shoulder like that. I thought I had blown it. My insane flexibility was my trump card and if he so much as suspected I could free my own hands, the game was up.

  The moment passed and he turned away from me – my shoulders sagged in relief and I breathed out a shaky sigh of relief.

  The relief, however, lasted all of two seconds. I watched in terror as he proceeded to pour petrol over Mrs Jones and Scott. When that was done, he went back over to Mrs Jones.

  He bent down and picked up a leg and an arm, flipping her over onto her front like she was a carcass at a butchers. He produced a pair of kitchen scissors from the back-pocket of his jeans – apparently this guy was a veritable, walking tool-box – and proceeded to snip through her blouse and skirt. When her back and shrivelled buttocks were bared, he got out a penknife and began to methodically slice.

  Mr Jones groaned into my vagina, mumbling something incomprehensible. I think he said ‘what’s he doing,’ but I wasn’t sure. It felt very wet down there with what I could only assume were Mr Jones’ tears.

  I watched the unfolding scene, trying to look at it as objectively as possible because if I allowed myself to feel, then I would lose all ability to think straight. I wanted to live, and nasty old Mr Panic was my number one enemy right now who would surely kill me.

  I looked at the bastard, who was hard at work skinning Mrs Jones, and I looked at the gun which was lying on the floor next to him.

  I could get over there in less than two seconds, grab the gun, and end this.

  The man looked up from the job at hand as if he could read my mind. He stared at me, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth. “I can hear you thinking bad thoughts, Chloe, I wish you’d stop.”

  He reached for the gun and slid it into the waistband of his jeans. My heart sank and I did my best to stifle the wave of despair that washed over me. There had to be a way out of this.

  Mr Jones was no longer eating me out and I had raised myself of his face a fraction so he could breathe. I could feel him sobbing beneath me and I just hoped the psychopath wouldn’t notice.

  If he did, he didn’t show he had seen and continued to hack at Mrs Jones. I watched in disbelief as he cut off the skin of her back in the same way he had her clothes. He did it methodically and with great concentration, her skin coming away in one big sheet.

  When he was done, he held it up and gazed lovingly at it before burying his face in the bloody side.

  “Oh, God,” he said.

  I almost threw up when he freed his cock, still holding that foul sheet of skin to his face. The hand that pleasured himself as he knelt there on the floor was wet with blood, turning his cock bright red. With each frantic flick of the wrist, his foreskin pulled back over the bulging, purple glans and I closed my eyes in horror.

  “Don’t you close your eyes, bitch,” he panted, holding the sheet of skin to the side of his bloodied face. “Not unless you want me to do the same to you.”

  I didn’t. So I watched. My gaze flickered over Mrs Jones’ wet and gleaming back, a complex patchwork quilt of glistening muscle and bone.

  The veins on his neck stood out and his eyelids flickered, his body tense. Just as I thought he was about to shoot his load, he stood up, his cock sticking out of the fly of his jeans and bobbing as he walked. He stopped before me, cock in hand.

  Unfortunately for me, his penis was level with my face.

  “Don’t just look at it,” he said, giving me a good whack across the cheek with his stiff shaft. “Fucking suck it.”

  I looked up at his face leering down at me, which was as bloody as his penis.

  I can’t put that thing in my mouth, God help me…

  But God wasn’t helping so I had to help myself. Just the thought of sucking him off made my stomach heave and my tongue float in mouth water. Nevertheless, I wasn’t going to let a little bit blood get in the way of this golden opportunity – if there’s one thing life has taught me, a man with his pants down is a vulnerable man.

  Bracing myself, I opened wide, ready to receive him. The bastard chuckled and fisted the hair on the back of my head, ramming his cock past the startled ‘O’ of my lips. I almost threw up, there and then. I did think about biting the bastard thing off, I must confess, but I knew that what I had in mind would be far more effective.

  My mouth was filled with foul, acrid tastes; petrol, blood and the musk of cock. The petrol was the worst and I panicked as I fancied I could actually feel it poisoning my system. My tongue curled up at the base in protest, but like a trooper I persevered.

  Fuck this and fuck you, I thought, as I shifted from kneeling to crouching there on my feet. Most people would not be able to hold their balance doing this, yet alone keep their head in the same position, but like I say, I’m not like normal people.

  I glanced up at him as I sucked on his cock to see if he had noticed. I didn’t think he had – he was rubbing his face against the sheet of skin that had once belonged to my future mother-in-law, like a kid with a comfort blanket. Now that I was crouching on my feet, I was able to curl my spine forwards and my crotch upwards in a move similar to ‘the crab’, compensating for the drop in head-height by standing on my toes. Now my hands were under my knees, and moving slowly so I didn’t alert him to what was happening, I stepped out of the circle my arms made under my thighs, first one leg then the other. All the while I sucked on his penis, ignoring the bitter tastes that threatened to be my undoing.

  With my bound wrists, I plucked the gun from the waistband of his jeans and sprang upwards and backwards.

  “What the hell? How the…”

  His face was an absolute picture and despite everything, I felt a surge of triumph. I couldn’t help but laugh at how round his eyes were, how big they looked in his red-sheened face.

  “Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit. Face-down on the floor, now, hands above your head.”

  I spat on the ground, the vile tastes clinging to the insides of my mouth, the taste of hatred and revenge.

  He didn’t move, but his eyes told me all I needed to know. The tables had been turned and he was shitting himself. After hesitating for a moment more, he dropped to his knees. I kept the gun trained on him and brought my wrists up to my face, awkwardly gnawing through the tape.

  He might have been on his knees, but he didn’t lie face-down as I’d instructed. “You do know, don’t you, that if you fire that gun, you’ll go up in flames along with the house and everyone in it?”

  Shit. I realised I hadn’t even thought of that. But he had a point, even if he was trying to scare me into not shooting him. There was no guarantee that the spark of a firing gun would cause a flare-up, but it was most definitely a risk with all the petrol on my hand.

  “I’ll take the risk,” I said.

  “He’s right, don’t fire the damn thing, you’ll kill us all.”

  I snapped round her head to glare at Mr Jones, who was now sitting up and wiping the petrol

  (and my pussy juices)

  out of his mouth and eyes.

  What the hell is he saying that for? I wondered. He’s undermining my power, the stupid, stupid man…

  The bastard, who was still on his knees, leered up at me. “Listen to your daddy, Chloe, there’s a good girl.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I said with more bravado than I felt.

  To my absolute horror, he got to his feet. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

  “Stay where you are!” I shouted at him.

  He just smiled at me, then in one stride covered the small gap between him and Mr Jones. Too late, Mr Jones realised what was going to happen and shuffled backwards on his rump.

  Get on your feet, you blithering idiot, I thought as the man aimed a swift kick at Mr Jones’ head.

  Mr Jones went sprawling backwards, a spray of blood erupting for
his mouth.

  “Come on then, bitch, fucking shoot me.”

  The gun trembled in my hands, so much so that I almost dropped it. My forefinger pressed down on the trigger; just one little squeeze and it would all be over…

  Yeah, for everybody.

  Go on, just do it.

  I simply couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger, apart from anything else I wasn’t a murderer.

  Sweat trickled into my eyes, making me blink.

  “You can’t do it, can you?”

  The smug prick was right, but I wasn’t about to let him know that. “Get on your fucking knees now, or I will kill you.”

  The man rolled his eyes and before I even had a chance to act, I was confronted with an act of such barbarity my vision dimmed and my heart slammed against my ribcage with such ferocity I thought it might explode in my chest.

  My legs almost buckled beneath me and dimly I was aware of hot urine trickling down my inner thighs.

  The noise Mr Jones’ head made when the man stamped on it was unspeakable, it was a sound that reverberated through my very soul and one that I know will haunt me for the rest of my days. I didn’t manage to turn my face away in time, I saw the way his face buckled inwards, like a stomped-on football. Blood sprayed upwards with the impact, just once, like a spluttering, faulty hosepipe.

  And that sound. Dear God, that sound, that dull crack of breaking bones and the squelch of flesh and blood bursting out where it had no business bursting out…

  Needless to say, Mr Jones was dead, his face mashed up beyond recognition. Out of the corner of my eye I was aware of the bloody pulp that had once been his face, but I refused to look directly at it.

  The vision of the smiling killer standing over the dead man blurred with my tears.

  “Chloe. Get out.”

  My head snapped round at the sound of Scott’s feeble voice. He was still lying face down on the floor, the pool of blood surrounding him having spread all the way up to his chin. When I saw the golden glint of the Zippo lighter in his hand I realised his attentions. He curled his hand around it, obscuring it completely.