by Sam West
But there he was, with a boner.
I am as sick as she is.
It’s because I want to break her arse. Because she’ll be vulnerable if she’s in pain.
No, you’re just sick.
His penis popped out of her mouth once more, a trail of saliva still attaching his glans to her lips. She stood up and turned her back to him, the perfect, round orbs of her muscled arse hovering parallel to his face. With the gun still in hand, she prised apart her butt-cheeks with her long fingers, exposing the puckered, brown-tinged ring of her anus and her glistening sex hanging down beneath it.
She was every bit the average bloke’s pornographic wet-dream.
“Are you ready?” she asked over her shoulder.
He was ready alright. He hoped he would split the bitch open and make her scream. She spat on her hand then massaged her wet fingers all around her rectum, taking care to insert a damp forefinger inside of herself.
Greg watched, mesmerised.
“Here goes…”
Facing away from him, she straddled his lap and, holding his cock steady with one hand, she positioned her anus over the swollen head.
She plunged down in one fluid motion, fully impaling herself. She was so tight it felt as if her back passage might pulverize his dick.
“Fuck,” she wailed, “that really fucking hurts.”
As she said it she began to bounce, repeatedly slamming down into his lap with ferocity. He felt wetness on his thighs.
Blood, he thought.
He didn’t want it to feel as good as it did and tears of shame slid down his cheeks.
Suddenly, she stopped and eased herself off of him. “I think I’ve ruptured my back passage,” she said in obvious glee. “Now I know how Susan felt when I fucked her in the ass with that dildo.”
Her laughter died abruptly and she winced in pain. Greg sat there panting in a shameful mix of horror and arousal. When he glanced down at himself, his still-hard cock was sheened in red.
I’m glad I hurt her.
He watched as she walked gingerly over and plucked out Susan’s head from the carrier-bag. She was quite a sight, naked and holding it aloft like Perseus with Medusa’s head. She held on to Susan’s once luscious, long dark hair and her lifeless face banged against her thigh with every step back over to Greg.
“Now Greg, this is the fun part, this is where you actually get to fuck Susan.”
He thought about kicking her away, but she had the gun and he feared for his mother. He glanced over at her; she was still lying on the floor but she had quietened down somewhat and stared blankly ahead at the skirting-board.
“Aw, God, no, please don’t do that…”
But she didn’t stop. She kneeled down next to him and held onto the base of his cock with one hand and shoved the bloody pulp of Susan’s neck-stump over the head of Greg’s cock.
His erection withered and died.
“No, no, no,” she said, “you have to come inside Susan’s head. Come on Greggy, fuck her brains out.” She began wanking his flaccid cock with Susan’s head, pumping up and down faster and faster. “Come on, you stupid fucking bastard, just fucking come…”
Greg eyed the gun. It was on the floor, just a few feet from his mum. As if reading his mind, slowly his mum turned her head to look at it. Chloe was so busy with the task at hand that she didn’t notice Janet inch across the floor on her stomach and reach for the gun.
“Leave my son alone.”
Relief washed through him at the sound of the familiar voice. She was sitting upright and had stopped crying. Fleetingly, he harboured a glimmer of hope; if they got out of this alive, then maybe there was a chance that his mum would emerge with her mind intact.
Chloe stopped abusing his now tender cock and Susan’s head tumbled to the floor. She got to her feet and stood there with her hands on her hips.
For God’s sake, Mum, just shoot the bitch...
Chloe threw back her blonde head and laughed. “You don’t have the nerve.”
The dull thud of a muffled gun-shot rang out and suddenly Chloe wasn’t standing there anymore but was lying on the floor. The rest happened in a blur. For a second, Greg thought that his mum had shot her.
He was wrong. Due to either his mother’s inexperience with a firearm, or Chloe’s lightening reflexes, she had managed to evade the bullet. In the brief second that his mum took aim to try again, Chloe was on her.
“Fucking bitch,” Chloe screamed, straddling his mother and trying to wrestle the gun out of her hand.
The gun fired twice, and the two women stopped struggling. Slowly, Chloe got to her feet and Greg’s heart sank.
Oh no, not mum, please not mum…
“Fucking bitch took my last bullet,” Chloe said. “That one was meant for you.” She took a step towards him, then froze in place. “What the fuck is that?” she hissed.
Greg didn’t get her meaning straight away, but then he heard it; a car pulling up on the gravel-driveway outside.
He had never seen her move so fast. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she said, throwing on her dress and grabbing her handbag.
The doorbell sounded and without another word, Chloe disappeared from the room. He could hear her in the kitchen, and the backdoor opening, then shutting behind her.
“Help!” Greg bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Break the door down!”
Greg realised he was laughing hysterically when two uniformed policemen burst into the room. They skidded to a halt, their faces white and their eyes bulging.
“She went out the backdoor. Hurry.”
His laughter gave way to gut-wrenching sobs. Dimly, he was aware of one of the policemen talking over his walkie-talkie, demanding back-up.
It was over.
CHAPTER TWELVE
One month Later
The diary had appeared on his doormat sometime during his shower. He had come back downstairs, intending to crack open the whiskey and zone out in front of telly, and had been confronted with a brown, A4 sized envelope on his doormat.
Now he stood there in just a t-shirt and a pair of boxer-shorts, turning it over slowly in his hands. There was no stamp on it so someone had shoved it through his letterbox. Instinctively, he reached out to push down the handle of the front-door.
Locked.
Still holding the offending envelope in his hand, he legged it into the kitchen, passed the door to the laundry room and rattled the backdoor.
That was locked, too.
Letting out a shaky breath, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and trudged back into the living-room, taking his place on the armchair. Even before he opened it, he knew who it was from. He ripped it open, his heart hammering.
He was right. It was from her. Inside the envelope was a handwritten note secured to a small bundle of typed, A4 sheets.
I should call the police. Right now.
But first he had to quickly read the letter:
Hello darling, did you miss me?
I am amazed that you are still alive, that wasn’t part of my plan. In fact, it’s safe to say you royally fucked up my plans. You were supposed to be fucking dead whilst I played the part of the grief-stricken victim…
Maybe you were right, maybe my ‘plot’ was a little ambitious, but you weren’t supposed to fucking live and we weren’t supposed to have been interrupted. Alas, it was not to be, so here we are now.
The thing is Greg, I can’t run forever. I’ve spent my entire life running, one way or another. Trying to escape my past mainly, trying to escape the horrible things that they did to me at the children’s home…
But I’m not writing to you to tell you about that, it’s past history. I’ve been in hiding for the past month, but I can’t go on like this indefinitely. The game is up and my time is running out. After I left you at your parents, I was forced to put my back-up plan into action. I bought a car the week before; it was a cash transaction from a dodgy dealer under a false name. I parked it on a nearby street the day prior and
caught the bus home. So anyway, I hot-footed it over to the car when we were rudely interrupted and I made my escape. I had a ton of cash stashed away under the driver’s seat ‘just in case’.
I have to admit, I can’t believe I got away with it. Good job the police didn’t have the house surrounded, isn’t it?
I’m not going to tell you where I’ve been the past few weeks; suffice to say it’s been pretty miserable. Anyway, I’m ready to end this now. I’m ready to end everything…
As a goodbye present, I thought you might be interested in reading the ‘real’ account of what happened to Scott and his family. Of what I really did to them. This is the real diary, Greg. I hope you enjoy reading it.
I still love you, even if you did turn out to be a two-timing cunt.
Yours forever,
Chloe xx
Greg put down the letter. He was trembling violently and reached for his drink. He didn’t understand what he just read. Was it a suicide note? Or a death threat? Was it both?
“Jesus,” he muttered.
The whiskey burnt a trail to his stomach, going some way to making him feel better.
What am I doing just sitting here, he thought, jumping to his feet. I have to call the police. And I should be running down the street, looking for her...
He shivered. Truth be told, he was scared shitless of coming face to face with her again.
No. Let the police find her, it’s their job.
The landline was on the windowsill next to the armchair and he reached over for it. He only had to press a button because he had Detective Chief Inspector Robert Burney’s personal number on speed-dial.
Burney picked up after one ring.
“Greg Larson, what’s happened?” he barked in his customary, abrupt manner.
“Robert, I got a letter and a diary. From her.”
“What? When?”
“Just now. She must’ve shoved it through the letterbox when I was in the shower.”
“Okay, I’m sending some guys over now. Keep your doors locked and your eyes and ears open and whatever you do, no heroics. Do not go outside. They’ll be there in ten. I’m on my way too.”
“Great,” he said, reaching for the whiskey.
“She could still be in the vicinity so stay safe, Greg.”
The DCI hung up. Greg replaced the receiver and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. For the past month he had been on a potent mix of sleeping pills, anti-depressants and alcohol and it was fair to say he felt like utter shit.
Will I ever get over that night?
He knew he was lucky to be alive. If it hadn’t of been for Mrs Dobson from next door hearing strange noises when she was about to knock on the door with a surplus of home-baked cookies and having the foresight to call the police, he knew he would have been with his parents right now. His heart gave a painful lurch when he thought about his mum and dad.
No, don’t think about that.
There were far more pressing things to worry about. Like, Chloe making contact with him. The police hadn’t had a sniff of her in one whole month.
Well, hopefully they’ll get the bitch now. She can’t be far away.
He stared at the small stack of paper, resting on the arm of the leather armchair. Outside, it had begun to rain. A flash of lightning lit up the window, and he flinched. Thunder followed a few seconds later and a sense of doom curled snugly around him.
Don’t be so fucking melodramatic, just read the fucking thing. This might be your one and only chance before the police take it away.
He settled down in the armchair to read. He had less than ten minutes left so he figured he’d better make it quick…
WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO THE JONES FAMILY
“So, here we are,” Scott said, silencing the engine of the blue Audi A3.
It was so quiet here.
Spooky quiet. Perfectly fucking quiet.
“Yeah. Here we are,” I said.
“Hey, you’re not nervous are you? Just relax and be yourself, they’re gonna love you.”
His hand on my knee did little to dispel the adrenaline that coursed through my system and I let out a shaky breath. “What’s not to love, right?”
“Exactly.”
My smile felt tight and unnatural as my gaze flitted from my fiancé’s warm brown eyes to the imposing barn conversion in the middle of nowhere. It looked like the ‘after’ of some property-conversion, dream-home documentary that seemed to be on every TV channel going nowadays. I mean, when Scott had said his parents lived in a barn conversion, I had pictured a converted row of stables or something, not this glass-fronted, architect’s wet-dream.
The big glass window which was divided into eight panels that ran from floor to ceiling was easily as big as our terraced house in the heart of Canterbury. And it still only made up less than a quarter of the property’s frontage.
With a shiver, I thought about Mr and Mrs Jones waiting for me inside.
His parents probably would’ve loved me, if I was the ‘myself’ that Scott knew and loved…
Unfortunately for everyone concerned, that wasn’t the way it was going to play out.
“Ground control to Chloe Fox? Are you receiving?”
I dragged my gaze away from the imposing building and forced another rictus of a grin. “I’m receiving just fine. Just a bit nervous, that’s all.”
“I told you, don’t be. You’re gorgeous, funny, intelligent, kind… I could go on.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
“The fact we have to get inside and meet my mum and dad. Come on, I’ll grab the bags.”
“No,” I said, a little too sharply. I softened my voice for him. “I have a present for you I just dumped on the luggage, I didn’t have time to wrap it.”
What I neglected to mention was that the ‘present’ was a dead tramp. Seeing as I had been the one to pack our bags while dear Scott was at work, I had chucked in a tramp whose throat I had slit the night before. The good-for-nothing bum had been sleeping in the alleyway behind our house. (Although, as it turned out, he had been good for something after all.)
Under the cover of darkness, I had dragged him the short distance to the garden shed at the end of our little garden. Early the next morning, while Scott still slept, I had wrapped the bum’s body in bin-bags, dumped it in a wheelbarrow and wheeled him over to the car which I had backed into the alleyway… Not one curtain twitched – not that anyone was up at four in the morning, anyway.
“What kind of present?”
“I guess you’ll just have to wait ‘til later to find out.”
“I love surprises.”
I giggled and coquettishly batted my eyelashes, twirling a strand of long blonde hair around my forefinger. “You’re going to love this one.”
Just then, my mobile rang inside my shoulder-bag. “Sorreee,” I said, fumbling for the offending machine. “Shit, it’s my agent, I have to take this. Hello?”
It wasn’t my agent. My agent, (as you know, dear Greg) dumped me a while back. I might’ve bent the truth a little about the time-frame – the fact is he dumped me before I was due to meet Scott’s parents. (His loss, that’s what you told me, isn’t it Greg?) Scott didn’t know that, though. I liked my cunt of a fiancé thinking I was a hotshot writer and hadn’t gotten around to telling him the truth.
The fortuitous phone-call was just some loser in a call centre from the depths of Deli. But as I fancied a few minutes alone to gather my thoughts, you know, mentally prepare, I pressed ‘end call’ and seized the opportunity as a way to delay going inside.
“Hang on, Justin,” I said, clamping my hand over the receiver. “It’s about the film-rights, I’m sorry, I really do have to take this.”
“I know baby, it’s fine. I’m gonna go in, give you some privacy. Come in when you’re ready?”
“Sure. I love you.”
“I love you, too, my brilliant, writer fiancée.”
I blew him a kiss and turned my attention back to the d
ead-line, frowning in concentration at absolutely fuck all.
I pressed the phone to my ear, all of my attention focussed on Scott who had disappeared through the opened, heavy oak, front door.
Didn’t they lock their doors here? How could they be so trusting?
For fleeting seconds, I glimpsed Scott through the huge window. This part of the house was in darkness, and I watched his shadowy figure walk straight past the window and into the unseen room beyond.
The imaginary conversation took the best part of fifteen minutes and I drummed my fingers on the dashboard, going over everything I had planned in my head.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I got out of the car.
This is it, I thought in fluttery anticipation. The moment of reckoning.
I walked to the door beneath the darkening sky, a friendly smile plastered on my face.
I knocked on the door before entering.
“Hello?” I called out tentatively.
Where was everybody? I took a wary few steps inside until I was in the part of the house I had seen from outside. Now that the sky was darkening it was hard to make out Scott’s car and the woods beyond though the glass.
Nice space, I thought, turning slowly on the spot. It was a mix of old and new, a perfect design marriage that must have cost many thousands to execute. The high, vaulted ceiling with criss-crossing oak-beams was the nod towards ‘the old’ and the minimalist, modern furnishing was most definitely ‘the new’. I wandered into the gorgeous space, trailing my fingers over the long red sofa in the middle of the room. Big, abstract oils that looked like they belonged in the Tate Modern adorned the white-painted, pointed stone walls and my gaze was drawn to one in particular – a huge canvas over the post-modern, blocky fireplace that looked like a sea of blood.
Hey, perhaps these guys will be cool with me being an extreme horror author, after all...
Shame I’m going to kill the cunts.
