by E. S. Carter
His hidden leer turns into a full-blown grin.
“And here I thought we were getting to know one another, James,” he tuts. “You should know that if I wanted Plummer extinguished, I’d do it myself and not order someone else to do the job. I’m not one for delegating away my pleasure. I take what I want when I want.”
His message is clear. Everything is on his terms, and a large part of me wants to test this, wants to see how far I can push him.
Later. He’ll see I’m not as submissive as I appear later.
“As long as he wasn’t harmed.”
“No more so than when you saw him last.”
I nod once to signal the end of the conversation and with my eyes back on the farm, I ask, “Do you want to get closer?”
“Always.” His one word response is husky and rich like a vintage whisky.
“To the farm,” I counter tonelessly, ignoring the dark seduction in his voice.
I feel him shift before responding, “We could make our way over to the old red-painted barn. See what they have inside. I assume the cattle will be in the farmhouse rather than the outbuildings.”
“Lead the way.”
This time he doesn’t offer me instructions, he moves, I follow, and we trace the edge of the treeline until we are close enough to the old outbuilding to make a dash towards it.
With our backs against the roughly finished wood siding, we slip around the corner and place ourselves in a position that could be quickly spotted from the main house. Both of us slow, our awareness heightened, and when no sirens blare, or no shots are fired, Luke gives me the nod, and we creep towards the front barn doors with our weapons raised.
“It’s too quiet,” I mutter almost soundlessly.
Luke’s eyes find mine, and I see agreement in their dark depths.
Something is off.
The sound of a car engine approaching has us both on alert. I tilt my head to indicate we should move towards the back of the barn, but Luke slips open the unlocked front door and slides his body into the darkness within.
Fuck. I have no option other than to follow.
I expect to encounter the smells of musty animals and hay, but that’s not what assaults my nose in the murky darkness. What I smell is sex and the almost pungent aroma of violets.
The sound of the car comes closer, and my eyes scan the gloom for somewhere to hide. Luke has already disappeared to God knows where and left me to fend for myself. As my eyes adjust, I see the front of the barn isn’t a barn at all but a small vestibule. To one side is an array of stacked boxes and to the other is a single door.
I hear the slam of a car door outside and realise I have no choice but to take my chances with whatever is behind the door, my time is running out. Besides, that’s the only place Luke must’ve gone because the stack of boxes isn’t big enough to hide behind.
Decision made, I test the handle and push. It opens without a problem, and I slip inside into yet more darkness, but a faint light comes from deeper within the structure and allows me to see a little more clearly. Before I can scan my surroundings, a hand covers my mouth and drags me up against a hard body. I could fight, but I don’t. I knew who it was a second before he made his move, and shame runs through me at the instant urge to run my tongue over his palm and taste his flesh.
“There’s another door further down with a small observation hatch. It’s locked, but my guess is the merchandise is in there,” Luke whispers directly into my ear sending shivers down my spine. “I haven’t had a chance to look inside. I came back for you. Follow me.”
Once more, he leads, and I follow quietly through the gloom.
The inside of this place is cavernous, and what looks like metal weapons lockers run the length of the area on one side, with rows of chains and restraints hanging from the walls on the other.
Luke drags me behind the closest set of lockers, the door he described moments ago only a few feet away, and just as we both conceal ourselves, we hear someone else enter the room.
One set of footsteps echo on the concrete floor, followed by a single man as he comes into sight.
He’s not a soldier or a hired mercenary. He wears an expensive tailored suit that barely contains his fat gut. The hair on his head is greasy and greying, and as he walks by our hiding place, I see a prominent bald patch he’s pointlessly attempted to cover with wispy grey strands.
Rich but uncultured. This man obviously has money but no class. He looks to be in his fifties and carries no visible weapons signalling a belief that he thinks he’s safe here.
He’s not.
From his pocket, he retrieves a key and slides it against the door in a taunt, the scrape of metal against metal echoes around the room and signals his arrival to whoever is locked inside. He gets off on this. Even in profile, I can see the leer across his flabby face as he adjusts his cock with one hand as the other opens the locked door.
“Ah, there you are,” the man coos approvingly, his accent thick and Russian. “Sasha said you were delicious.” He steps into the room but doesn’t slide the door shut allowing us to hear everything that happens inside.
The cocky fucker doesn’t think he needs to watch his back.
“I can’t wait to eat you alive,” he leers, his tone heavy with warning before we hear the strike of a hand against bare flesh, followed by the thump of a body as it falls.
Luke turns his head and looks at me with unrestrained bloodlust in his eyes, but I still him with a hand on his shoulder, holding my palm up in a ‘wait’ gesture.
His stare flashes with fury but he doesn’t advance, and both of our attention returns to the open door.
“Red looks good on you, malishka. Now get up and paint my cock with those plump crimson lips.”
A faint whimper, followed by the unmistakable sound of a zipper opening.
“Fuck, you suck cock like the most perfect little whore. Sasha was right. Take it all, kukolka. Swallow my dick.”
Luke’s gaze once more finds mine as we listen to the wet slurping and other debauched noises echoing on the air, and I know he’s thinking about our recent encounter. I know because of the white-blue flame that flares to life in his eyes as the person with a mouthful of cock gags around it.
“Enough,” the fat Russian commands. “Get on the bed on your back.” Movement followed by, “Good girl, now pull the dress under your tits and spread your legs so I can see your well-fucked cunt.” A few beats later—slap. “No. Keep the shoes on.”
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Luke’s frame tightens as his body turns to approach the room.
“I said,” we hear before another whimper indicates the Russian is physically moving the woman. “Get on the fucking bed, or I’ll cut those little titties off and take them home with me for my dogs.”
Luke stills once more.
“Go fuck yourself.” The soft words are barely audible, but the stinging smack that follows them ricochets out of the room like a gunshot.
“I will not tolerate your disobedience, suka. Get. On. The. Fucking. Bed. Or once I’ve had my fill of you with my cock, it’ll be my knife that fucks your filthy cunt next.”
Movement. The slow shifting of a body across sheets, then a grunt of satisfaction followed by the thump, thump, thump, of the fat man fucking.
“Now?” I whisper to Luke, although I don’t know why I bother to keep my voice contained when the pervert in the other room won’t hear me over his pig-like grunts.
He shakes his head. “No. Stay here. I want to see who he’s brought with him.”
I nod in understanding. It’s wise to check our backs first, but hearing someone get brutally raped no more than a few metres away, has my instincts screaming at me to annihilate the Russian and then save the woman from any further trauma. It’s how I’m built. My objective is always to rescue with little thought for my own safety, but I usually have a team of men at my side to hold me back from charging in before it’s ti
me.
This time, I only have Luke. Our differences create a balance.
His ruthless need for control counteracts my innate desire to save those who cannot save themselves.
Luke moves swiftly through the shadows towards the front door, and I stand in silence. I close my eyes in a futile attempt to shut down my senses, hoping it will help block out the sound of the Russian rutting into his unwilling partner interspersed with a few slaps and curse words warning her to, “Look at me, suka. Watch me as I fuck your cunt. Your ass is next. I’m going to split you in half and make you bleed for me.”
Wait for Luke. Wait for Luke.
Thump, thump, thump. The noise continues, his pace increases and the bed springs squeak with his invigorated attack. Until he groans long and loud, his voice hoarse as he grunts a string of Russian which ends abruptly with a pain-filled roar of, “You fucking cunt. I’m going to kill y—”
Wet gurgling followed by a thud. Then silence.
Fuck. I know I should wait for Luke.
I turn quietly and stare at the exit expecting him to appear at any moment.
One, two, three, four—I get to thirty seconds before turning to face the open door. With no sign of Luke, I move towards it, my approach as silent as the room before me.
Everything is quiet, too quiet, until I hear the muffled sound of someone moving around in a hurry.
Shit. What if he’s already killed her or what if she’s alive and waiting for help.
With my mind made up I stalk slowly towards the light that spills out across the darkened floor. Closer and closer I get to the opening, the sounds of movement never stopping from within. Arm raised, gun ready to fire, I slide myself against the wall on the right-hand side of the doorway, not yet willing to give away my position. With small, silent steps, I slip into place until I can just see the corner of the small room within. The bottom edge of a single bed becomes visible, the sheets surprisingly clean, and my eyes scan the bare wall and floors in my field of vision. Although I still hear movement, I can’t yet see any of the people inside.
Mind made up, I spin, arm raised, my entire frame in the doorway, gun ready to fire at anyone who attacks.
It was a rash move.
Despite my dead silence, someone within heard me and attacks from the left. They slash across my forearm with a knife, before a bare foot comes out and kicks my gun out of my hand. Caught off guard, the same blade is then pressed into my ribs.
“Don’t fucking move,” a soft feminine voice rasps into my ear, and I can see long, dark hair in my peripheral vision as I slowly turn my head towards my attacker.
At my movement, the knife jabs harder, cutting into my skin through the fabric of my clothes. It’s not a direct stab, more a warning.
“I said,” she repeats. “Don’t move or I’ll stick you with this and then shoot you.”
I face forward but not before I quickly scan the room directly ahead of me. Blood pools on the linoleum floor with crimson footprints leading right towards me.
“That’s right,” the woman at my side hisses. “I’m not weak.”
My eyes land on the floor closest to the back wall and when I see her handiwork she continues, “Your friend over there learned that lesson too late. So, listen to everything I tell you to do, or you’re next.”
Twelve
Lily
Shit. I should’ve known the Russian pig wasn’t alone.
I was so consumed with stripping out of that slutty crimson dress which was saturated in that bastards cum and blood, that I almost didn’t hear this new man approach until it was too late. And even then, I only heard him because I caught his smell first.
He didn’t smell like the others.
His scent tore through the stench of bodily fluids and that awful fucking violet perfume like a strong wind, obliterating the stink of wickedness and death.
His scent was the colour of the ocean—wild but calm, soothing but dangerous. And, with my stolen knife in his side—the one that had just cut off the fat Russian’s cock and balls—I didn’t fear him.
That didn’t mean I was letting my guard down around him. I’ve learned not to trust anyone. Faith in people’s goodness will get you killed.
“Walk slowly over to the bastard on the floor, then sit next to him with your back against the wall.” I press the knife harder into his side, it only causes a surface wound, but it gets my point across. “Don’t think about trying anything. I’ve got nothing to lose here.”
I surprise myself with the strength of my voice and the power in my limbs. It was mere hours ago that I could barely move, yet, right now, despite the shaking under my skin and the churning in my belly, I feel almost invincible.
“Okay, I hear you,” the man that smells like the ocean says as he takes his first slow and steady step, then another. He stops a mere foot away from the dead man lying in a puddle of his own blood. “You want me to sit in that?” he questions, his head nodding at the mess on the floor before him.
“That’s what I said.”
He lets out a quiet huff but does as I ask, first going down onto his hands and knees and then slowly turning until his back is pressed against the bare, breeze-block wall.
I watch in satisfaction as the blood of the Russian paints his hands and sinks into his dark clothing.
With both dripping red hands held palm up towards me, he grimaces and asks, “What now?”
What now? Good question.
Before he became part of the equation the only plan I had was stripping, throwing on a blood-stained t-shirt that I’d found in the corner of the room and getting the hell out of here—I didn’t even know where here was. I could be in any country in the world for all I know.
Fuck. What if I’m in Russia? I’ll never escape.
I glance at the gun on the other side of the room, and his gaze tracks mine until he spots it too. It’s almost as if he’d forgotten he’d had a weapon before I slashed at him and kicked it out of his hand.
“You can get it if you need it. I’m not moving,’ he says calmly, his smell staying consistent. His words are honest.
“Are you with him?” I ask, nodding to the disgusting pile of flesh on the floor at his side.
“No.” More honesty.
Backing towards the gun, I keep my eyes on the newcomer. He hasn’t lied to me yet, and he hasn’t tried to overpower me, which, let’s face it, he could do easily.
“I like the shoes,” he states quietly when his gaze finally leaves mine, and I bend to pick up his weapon, thankful that my father taught me to shoot a long time ago.
Now I know why—my father was apparently the biggest monster of them all.
When I stand, weapon in hand, his eyes are not concerned with tracking my movements—he’s not fearful of me using his gun. Instead, he’s staring at the Russian with a grimace across his handsome face.
Yeah, it’s right when his features contort at my gruesome actions that I decide the man is handsome.
I look to the dead rapist on the floor and take in everything I’ve done.
A red stiletto protrudes from both of his eye sockets, the five-inch heel of each shoe is rammed in as far as they will go. Both of his eyeballs have been obliterated by some cheap, knock-off designer shoes likely made by women like me, in a sweat shop in some poor, forgotten corner of the world.
That’s how I got the bastard off me. As he shot his filthy load deep inside my body while bending my legs painfully back towards my head, I grabbed my left shoe—thankful he’d ordered me to leave them on while he fucked me—and aimed for the softest part of his head. His eye.
The pop and squelch was satisfying, even if he did spoil the sound by squealing like a stuck pig.
But at least now he’s a slaughtered pig—there’s no coming back from the things I did to him.
Then, as he fell to the floor with his cock still leaking, I’d moved faster than I thought I could and grabbed the knife he’d dropped on the floor by the bed. Before he’d stopped s
creaming, I’d slit the bastard’s throat, and as I watched him bleed out, I’d took off the matching shoe and rammed that one into his other eye so I wouldn’t have to look into his evil soul ever again.
Finally—and for no other reason than vengeance—I’d carved off his cock and balls and tossed them on his chest.
He didn’t feel that part, unfortunately, because he was already dead.
You’d think I’d have been disgusted with myself for what I’d done, but I never even gave him another look. I’d torn off the stained red dress and dived for the old, bloody t-shirt in the corner of the room, wanting to have something, anything else covering me, but his cum. Despite the fact I carried his filth deep within me and it still trickled down the inside of my thighs.
It was seconds after pulling the dirty shirt over my head that I smelled someone else, and pressed my back against the cold brick wall waiting for them to show themselves.
As soon as an arm came into view with a weapon raised, I’d slashed. Then I’d kicked away the gun in a move that made me seem skilled, when in fact I was running on pure adrenaline. The person I’d cut was the man looking at me now with a jaw covered in stubble, and eyes that were kind despite holding untold horrors in their brown depths.
I look at the dark-haired newcomer again and offer, “I like them better on him. He wears them well.”
Then I freeze. An aroma of death and darkness barrels through the air almost hitting me with the force of a truck.
Someone is outside, hiding in the shadows.
Above the smell of him—because it is a him—the scent of violets thickens, and I want to gag.
I slide to the side by the door, gun in hand and harshly whisper to the man sat in blood on the floor, “If he’s with you, tell him to come in unarmed with his hands raised.”
He looks from me to the doorway and I know he sees whoever is outside.
“Luke,” he calls out. “I’ve got this under control. Stay where you are.”
I point the weapon at him and snarl, “That’s not what I told you.”
The hidden man’s scent thickens, and it’s all I can do not to double over and vomit.
