by Baker, Alex
“I see you got the handcuffs off,” she said, playing the role she had auditioned for many times in her previous exploits.
Across the room came the sound of movement. A chair creaked as someone stood up. Footsteps fell heavy on the floor as the person crossed the room to where she waited.
“How did you remove them?” she asked.
Strong hands reached around her, grasping her wrists and wrenching her arms behind her. The force of the move bent her forward and pressed her hard against the desk, pinning her there.
“It was a trick I learned when I wrestled,” Roofy answered. “We had to know how to remove the handcuffs for gimmick matches.”
Holding her prone with one giant hand, the Russian tugged on the back of her department issue pants with the other. “What are these?”
“My pants,” Laura answered, the edge of the desk digging into her torso. It was uncomfortable. It turned her on.
“This is not how you used to look,” Roofy said.
“Things change. I’ve changed. We already discussed this,” Laura said. There was no effort to her words, though. The statement had been made more to goad a response from the Russian. It worked.
His enormous body compressed against her as he leaned in close and said, “No, you have not.”
The words evaporated immediately, though. All Laura could think about was the body grinding against her. Roofy was still naked, and his cock rubbed against her backside, sliding up and down as he moved. She wished her pants would melt off.
Roofy provided the next best thing. With his free hand, he reached around and ripped the front of her slacks open, shredding fabric and tearing off the buttons. The pants went slack and slid down her legs. How she loved the feeling of his power.
“You going to frisk me and read me my rights?” Laura asked playfully.
Throwing her over his broad shoulder and removing her shoes, socks, and ravaged trousers was the response she got. A few quick steps and Laura was flung down on the bed. Barely able to catch her breath, Roofy’s thick hand found its way to her abdomen, and his fingers slowly wrapped around the top of her panties. As he tightened his grip, the feeling of his skin against hers made Laura’s already heightened stimulation jump to a fervor.
Pulling the French cut, silken underwear down slowly at first, the big Russian suddenly yanked hard, tearing them from her body. With an unbreakable grip, he grasped her by the thighs and flipped her onto her belly, and she found herself pinned once again by a large hand pressing down on her lower back.
She could feel the head of his penis as he slid it between her legs and guided it on its course of insertion.
They were so close, and Laura wanted him inside of her with every fiber in her being. However, there was something else she wanted just that much more.
“What, no foreplay?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder with a playfully seductive smile.
Roofy grabbed a handful of her amber hair and yanked backwards, pulling Laura into a reverse arch and causing her to groan from the strain. “Fine,” the Russian said, “you have asked for it.”
Flipping Laura over onto her back, putting one of her legs over each shoulder, and grabbing her by the hips, the large ex-wrestler jerked her up into position, preparing to deliver an Apocalypse Bomb. This time, however, she was prepared. Latching onto his blond locks and locking her legs around his head, she held on tight and prepared for the ride.
Caught off guard and smothered by the tight grip, Roofy flailed about in his attempt to dislodge the surprise counter-maneuver.
Laura was determined to keep control, tightening her crossed ankles. The big Russian’s head was lodged between her upper thighs, and she could feel his hot breath pulsing rapidly against the sensitive skin of her center of arousal. I get any wetter and he may drown.
Turning around sharply, Roofy’s leg hit the edge of the bed frame awkwardly. He fell backwards across the mattress like a large oak, resulting in cracking noises from the buckling wood planks in the box spring. Obviously the item was not rated to handle someone of his girth.
With him down and prone, Laura slid down his body, pressed her hands down on his broad chest, and counted to three. “I win.” In more ways than one.
“Da,” Roofy acknowledged. “I submit.”
Slowly, with intent and great effect, Laura rubbed her wetness up and down the shaft of his penis. She was desperately ready.
Hardly noticeable at first, she began to quickly realize there was a problem. He was getting soft.
Looking down at his face confirmed the issue; the big Russian appeared distracted. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It is the demon,” Roofy answered, frustrated and embarrassed. “He is yelling in my head – saying to ‘get some’ over and over. I cannot perform in these conditions.”
As funny as his statement struck her, there was no way the moment was ending in such a way. Demon or not, she was going to get what she wanted; what she had been waiting for; what she desired. Laura leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “If you want to enjoy any of this, you need to leave him alone, be quiet, and let me do my thing. Understand?”
Rising back up to a sitting position, she was greeted by a smile from the Russian.
“We good?” Laura asked him.
“He says I am all yours. He will sit back and enjoy the ride,” Roofy said.
“Excellent,” she replied and slapped him across the face. It had caught her sexual partner totally off-guard, and his shock was priceless. She wanted total control and had taken it.
Rubbing back and forth over him, she had him hard again very quickly. With one fluid motion, Laura lifted up and back down, taking him inside of her and letting her suppressed sexual needs wash over her in a moment of ecstasy.
30
The scent was faint but fresh, hanging in the early hours of dawn amid the crisp air. Ambrose’s footsteps disrupted the dew forming on the overgrown lawn as he approached the rear of the house.
Yes, his target had been here, he was as sure of that as he was of the fact that the home was empty at the moment. There was still time before the first rays of sunlight would appear over the horizon, but he cared very little about being seen. He would be done and gone long before anyone realized it was him.
Of more concern was the fact that he had fallen a step behind his prey. Ambrose scolded himself for spending too much time on the girl when this should have been his first stop. Still, he was a man of patience, when it was needed. This option may still work as a fail-safe in the overall scheme of things.
Positioning himself at the nearest window, the elder blood-dealer braced his hands against the middle lip. Steadily increasing the application of his strength against the resistance provided by the locks, Ambrose broke the bottom part loose and slid it up.
With a leap from a slightly crouched position, he nimbly hurled himself through the opening and into the home. Once inside and steady, the next step was to take stock of the interior of the window. His eyes were drawn to a set of sensors placed near the top. There was not much time.
Ambrose proceeded with confidence. What he needed to do would not take long.
Breathing in deeply, the scent he was looking for was clearly present. The Russian had been here and recently, as had the detective. Again he cursed himself for not coming to Laura Stenks’ house earlier.
It was not the two weak humans that aroused his deep-seated drive, though. No, that was reserved for the demon, which Ambrose could detect as well. The monster was growing stronger if its trail could now be followed by use of smell, Ambrose thought. That meant its cells were manifesting, multiplying at a greater rate inside of the host. He almost felt sorry for the Russian.
The man seemed to be fairly innocent in his actions, even fighting against the evil spreading within him. Ambrose had seen so many collapse and embrace the demon. Perhaps Roofy was not as weak as he thought. There was honor in his struggle. Too bad he would need to die in order for the monst
er to be vanquished.
With forethought and purpose, the blood-dealer pulled a few small electronic devices from his coat pocket and planted them in spots he deemed would prove the most useful: one on the back of the microwave near the entrance in the kitchen, one on a lamp in the den, and the last on the underside of an odd looking item resembling a small hand-cranked chainsaw.
An osteotome. Crude but effective in its era, Ambrose recalled the first time he had seen one used, in the late eighteen-hundreds. It had been during the Battle of Adwa, which took place near the conclusion of the first Italo-Ethopian War.
One of the Italian soldiers had received a head injury and the field surgeon’s prognosis was that trepanning was required to relieve swelling inside the skull.
No anesthesia was given. And what were their choices at the time, Ambrose reflected? Spirits of some sort to inebriate the patient?
The tool was hammered into a stationary place in the patient’s skull, followed by use of the crank. As it was turned, saw teeth chewed through the bone in gruesome fashion, causing immense pain to the recipient of the treatment.
Memories of the screams were still very easy to recall, even after all the years that had passed. In the end, Ambrose remembered the doctor not being sure if the soldier perished from his wounds or the sheer trauma of the procedure.
His survival was inconsequential, though. For Ambrose, the man had served his purpose.
Having volunteered for body disposal, the blood-dealer had put himself in a position to have an almost unlimited amount of nutrients at his beck and call. He would take the fresh corpses to a central mortuary to be prepared for burial. Once there, he had all the time alone he wanted with the bodies. Most did not have the stomach for the work that was to be performed, so by its very nature, the job provided optimal working conditions for feeding.
In that environment, corpses piled knee deep, Ambrose had fed healthily and often.
Peculiar tastes, Miss Stenks.
A small amount of red flakes near a long empty area on the display caught his attention, and he found himself curious as to what Laura intended on placing there.
But he had wasted enough time. Ferguson had performed his latest duty with the efficiency he had come to expect and rely on, and the listening devices would at least provide an indication to his target’s return, as well as any dialog that might reveal their plans going forward.
Before exiting, Ambrose considered putting the broken latches back into place, or as close to their previous placement, as possible, but he was sure a keen eye or indicator from the alarm system attached to the sensor would determine his entry point in fairly short order. Not that he wanted to leave any extra clues for law enforcement, but what were they really going to do with his fingerprints at this point and did it matter?
No, the only thing that mattered was stopping the demon.
Slipping back outside, the blood-dealer was greeted by the faint glimmering of sunlight.
Time for breakfast. He closed the lower window frame.
The sound of an approaching siren wailed in the distance.
With animal-like speed, Ambrose disappeared in the opposite direction.
31
Stopping just on the inside of the entrance of Momma Rabbit’s, Constance paused and surveyed the contents: a handful of less-than-appealing males, a handful of equally unappealing strippers, and at least one female there purely for the entertainment. Most importantly, sitting more-or-less to himself on one side of the stage, was her target, Wes Richert.
Tracking him had been all too easy with the good detective having provided her with a starting point. After that, it was just a matter of following his scent.
He really was not an unattractive man, sporting blond hair, blue eyes, decent height, and a fit body, especially compared to the appearances of the other choices in the room. Constance suspected he would have no difficulty picking up just about any woman he wanted to, and based on the recent murders, that was exactly what he had been doing. The irony of the situation caught her as funny. Wes was probably at the gentleman’s club hunting for his next victim, and so was she.
Given the competition working the establishment, Constance felt the odds of her success were good. Like there was any doubt. There was no way he would be able to resist her. She had come extra prepared to that end.
Although her attire did little to alleviate how nasty she felt being there amongst such filth, she did feel like a goddess surrounded by lesser beings. Instead of ogling each other, these people should be worshipping such a pristine form. Might as well get started with having them do just that.
She took stock of what she had determined was a strikingly impressive job of putting together an ensemble: short black skirt, form-revealing white blouse partially unbuttoned, shiny tan pantyhose, and a pair of white leather, buckle-up urban combat style boots with four inch heels that anyone would die to have adorn their feet. Of course, it was not the exterior outfit but the hidden surprise underneath that would bring her prey to his knees.
Satisfied with her attire, she readied herself for what she knew would be the real entertainment of the night. It was show time.
Constance strutted across the room directly towards the performance area, taking in the aromas: alcohol, sweat, smoke, bodily fluids, vermin, bad colognes, perfumes, etcetera. They all mixed together to create the atmosphere that defined the club, and she could smell it all in repulsive detail. She could also exude something that none of the patrons would notice, at least on a conscious level, and exude it Constance did in large amounts.
By the time she had reached the stage she had long since gained the attention of the dancer, who could not take her eyes off Constance. The woman struggled to maintain her routine, finally giving in, dropping down to her hands and knees, and crawling over to the teen like a feline begging for attention.
Reaching out, Constance stroked the young woman’s cheek, causing her to lean into the touch. Looking around, the teen was sure she had everyone’s attention. Not being certain how effective her prowess would be on the females in the club, especially after Cecile’s lack of response, the teen was pleased to see how potent her efforts were. She was not sure if it was due to an increase in her strength and potency or if some people were just more susceptible to the influence. She had been able to fight off Ambrose’s attempts to control her in the same way, so possibly the latter, or maybe it was a mix of both.
Whatever it was, it was not the main concern at the moment. That privilege belonged to the man straining to stare around the stripper. He’s about to get all he can handle and more. Constance took the woman’s hand and stepped up onto stage.
The dancer remained sitting at Constance’s feet as the teen moved seductively to the music and watched as the small crowd of people, including the servers, moved in closer to the stage. She leaned back against the pole, allowing the dancer to caress her legs. Entranced onlookers pined for the attention that they wanted showered upon themselves, but Constance locked her stare on her prey. Wes Richert was fixated.
Putting a foot on the stripper’s shoulder drew the response of having the white leather of her footwear licked. Constance snapped her fingers and pointed at the black laces, and her stage pet corrected herself, grabbing one of the tied strings with her teeth and pulling slowly. Loosened, the boot was removed and the scenario repeated on the other, with a kissing of the stocking covered feet being the only action that separated the two removals.
Footwear removed, Constance dismissed the dancer off to the side and centered herself in front of her prey. Running her fingers along the top of the short, black skirt and then unbuttoning it, the garment slid gently down her silky legs to the floor. Stepping out of it, the teen, beginning at her ankles, ran her nails up her form, allowing her fingers to rub playfully between her thighs before bringing them up over her breasts and to the upper most buttoned area of her blouse. Her eyes never left Wes’.
Excited did not adequately describe how Consta
nce felt. The big reveal was coming, and she could hardly wait to see the reaction it garnered. One by one she undid the fasteners holding the shirt tightly around her body. With them all undone, focusing all of her attention on her target, whose arousal seemed to have reached a fever pitch, Constance jerked the shirt back and threw it off, revealing the costume underneath. Standing on stage in all her glory was none other than Amazing Woman.
There was no doubting how deep the image impacted Wes Richert. In the recesses behind those intense eyes of his Constance sensed the yearning. It was wild, animalistic, and driven. It was a wanting that the teen empathized with and appreciated. It was a hunger she would cultivate and nurture. It was a desire she would use to its most potent end. She was in control.
Satisfied Wes was now hers, she broke their eye contact with a wink and opened her outstretched palm to the eagerly waiting dancer, who had maintained her place on the floor of the stage. Intuitively reacting, in handmaiden-like fashion, the young woman gathered up Constance’s clothing and handed it to her. The teen rewarded her with a delicate kiss.
Stepping down, the small crowd of onlookers parted before her and reached out to lay hands on the youthful body as Constance made her way to the door and exited. No need for a look back. He will follow.
Pacing herself, the costumed teen had barely made her way from the building when she heard the door open and hastened footsteps fall in behind her. As soon as she was sure her prey was upon her, he confirmed her awareness verbally.
“Where are you going?” he asked anxiously. Constance took a deep whiff. Strawberries maybe? No, pina-colada. Somewhat fruity - somewhat coconuty. She imagined jabbing a straw in his neck and drinking, and the thought left her giggling.
“Where ever the night takes me,” she answered, then added, “with someone who might interest me, of course.”
“I think I could make your night interesting – in ways you could never guess,” he replied.
