STATE TROOPER PATRICIA BRANSTON
Northern Iowa is boring as fuck. I don’t mean that in a disparaging way; I quite like the fact that it’s boring. Flat cornfields stretch as far as the eye can see, only interrupted by the occasional derelict farm house, and county road. Being an officer of the law, my only near-dangerous encounters in Winnebago county have been errant livestock, and the occasional meth-head, but even the latter has declined since heroin has become more popular. I don’t vocalize it, but I’m glad that heroin took over. I know it’s a terrible drug that destroys lives, but stoners usually don’t pull a knife on you in a drug-fueled panic, and tweakers do.
So, when I got the call about suspicious activity off county road two, I didn’t think much of it. Some middle-aged man was seen sneaking women’s clothing into his back door, so what? The guy lives alone, but I’m not one to judge people’s kinks. Being a lesbian in a conservative corn town is hard enough, so I could imagine why a transvestite would keep to himself. I’d just knock on his door, ask him if he’d seen anything suspicious, then bid him farewell, and leave him to his panties and garters.
“This the house?” Trooper Brady asked as he slowed on the gravel road.
I looked out of the passenger window of our cruiser and checked the broken-down bungalow. The white paint, leaning porch and rusted truck all matched the description, and the address appeared to be the same.
“Yeah,” I replied, “this is the place.”
“You wanna take this one by yourself?” Brady asked, “I don’t see the point in both of us going.”
“Protocol, trooper,” I replied, “I’m a slave to it.”
“Fine,” Brady murmured, and put the car in park, “bitches first.”
“That’s very chivalrous of you.” I smirked.
“You know me,” Brady smiled, a set of white teeth contrasting his black skin, “always the gentleman.”
I nickered mockingly and stepped out of the car. My boots crunched against the gravel in a loud, grinding sound. I swung the door shut, unbuttoned my holster, and then rested my gunning hand nonchalantly to the side. Brady did likewise, and we made our way up the path to Fred Langston’s bungalow. Crunch, crunch, crunch, our feet gave our approach away. Had this been a tweaker house, I would’ve been very wary of that sound. But it wasn’t a tweaker house, and Langston had no record to worry about. Crunch, crunch, crunch; god, I hated that sound. The grating tenor of feet on uneasy ground. Crunch, crunch, crunch. You couldn’t even walk fast on gravel; your feet just slid across it as you stepped, giving you no firm footing for when things went south. Crunch, crunch, crun-
The blast of a rifle slammed into my ears, and a spray of crimson erupted from Brady’s chest. I fell to my knees as another shot screeched past me. Brady gurgled next to me, his eyes bulging from his sockets, his hands clutching his throat as bright, red, life stained his perfect, white teeth. The image burned itself into my mind, and then another shot sent his brains erupting from the back of his skull. I scrambled forward, slipping all over the loose gravel and searching desperately for cover. A shot sang right over my head, and I dropped spread-eagle on my belly. I heard the metal clank of a bolt-action reload, and I made a desperate, clawing, crawl for the porch. Fucking gravel. My heels slipped and flailed in a frantic dance of soft footing; my fingernails broke and split against the grating pebbles. An explosion of wood sent splinters in my face, and I dove beneath the leaning structure and grabbed for my gun. My fingers seemed to lose their ability to function, and I fumbled uselessly for a grip. I swore and ripped the standard issue out of its holster, and desperately grasped it in my shaking right hand.
Silence.
My breathing was loud and frantic; my heart was thumping to a chaotic cadence. I aimed my gun upward along the planks of the porch and waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. I managed to calm my panting to a short burst of sporadic breaths, and my heartbeat quelled from its death-metal roar, to a Charleston step. I took my left hand off the handle of my pistol, and warily reached for my radio. My head shifted from side to side as I checked my flanks, while my right hand stayed firmly in the neutral position above me. I didn’t think I had a real chance of reeling to the side in time, but it was better than enslaving myself to one flank, and getting shot in the back. I listened for a moment; silence. I thumbed the radio, and opened my mouth to-
My ear drums blew in their canals, and screeching tinnitus drilled into my skull. Splinters erupted right above my head and showered my face. The fucker was shooting through his own wall. I rolled to the side as another shot punched through the boards of his bungalow. I flattened on my stomach, and fired five shots in succession from left to right. The hail of gunfire erupting from the barrel of my pistol sounded faint and distant in my ringing ears, and I watched in adrenaline-fueled fascination as five holes were punched into the planks. Nothing for a second, and then another blast sent shrapnel ripping into my face. I rolled to the side again, and fired five more silent shots, this time raking the boards from right to left. I didn’t even notice until afterward that I was shrieking at the tops of my lungs. My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else, and when I finally caught it in my throat, I realized I hadn’t been the only one screaming. A high, shrill note was gurgling from inside the house. I levelled my gun to the source of the sound, and emptied my clip into the board. The hole expanded in a spray of fibrous wood, and seemed to grow in a strobe-light of flashing gunfire followed by darkened vision. When the burning smell of an empty clip filled my nostrils, and the singed stench of scorched wood accompanied it, I dared a look through the gape I had created.
I had painted the basement red. The man had moved right in front of the boards, and I had put five in his gut, and three in his chest. He laid on his side across the cement floor, the cavity of his diaphragm caved in, and dark, red blood gushing from his gut. He was as dead as could be, but I wasn’t taking any fucking chances. I briskly reloaded my weapon, fascinated at how easily I now did it, and then put three into his head. His skull smashed against the cement floor three times, and then lazily tilted onto his shoulder. He was gone.
A single, sweet exhale flowed from my lips. I couldn’t hear a thing, but I could feel my heart thumping against my temples. I reached for my radio, thumbed the button, and made the call.
“Ten-ninety-nine, shots fired, officer down. South Tower Road exit fifty-one off county two. Send backup, I repeat, send backup. Suspect is down, white male, mid-forties, possibly Fredrick Langston. Send ambulance.”
I could feel the radio buzzing with chatter, but I couldn’t hear a fucking word. I told them as much, and then dropped the thing into the dirt, and levelled my pistol through the hole.
Movement.
I aimed my gun, my hand no longer trembling, my breath now deadly quiet, and my heart now impossibly calm. The notch of my barrel traced the source of the movement and then stopped. My finger squeezed the trigger slowly, and then also stopped. A black-haired woman dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, stared levelly down the barrel of my pistol. She couldn’t have been any older than twenty-one, but her eyes were so ancient, so piercing blue, they appeared to burn into my soul. Her high cheekbones, flushed cheeks, tan skin, and full lips structured a face so pristine in its beauty that it stopped my breath. She pointed forward, and I noted the padlock on the cage she was trapped in. I nodded, and motioned to my ears, trying to communicate that I couldn’t hear. She nodded in return, pointed to Fredrick Langston, and held up a single forefinger. She slowly lowered the finger until her fist was clenched, communicating that he was the only one here. I nodded again, but stayed in my cover. I wasn’t going into that fucking house until this place had every gun in the precinct on it.
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The chief gave me his condolences about Brady, praised me for a job well done, and then requested my gun. I gave it to him willingly, and gladly took my mandatory two weeks paid leave. I put on a face of stoicism the whole time; somberly greeting fellow officers, embracing them in solace, and receiving countless pats on the back and shoulders. It was only when I got home and shut the door behind me, when I was sure that no one could hear me, that I collapsed to my knees and let out a single, primal wail. The catharsis came over me in a wave, and I screamed, and screamed. But it wasn’t a cry of sadness, or of fear, but of some deep, triumphant roar of survival. I fucking made it. I fucking lived. I fucking won. I buried my face into the carpet, tears streaking down my cheeks, and I screamed, and screamed, until my voice choked in my throat, and my mind drifted to nothing.
I stared at the woman in the cage. She wasn’t wearing the baggy sweatshirt and jeans anymore, in fact, she was wearing nothing at all. Her bust jutted from her chest in a vulgar protrusion; her pink nipples toying with the cold metal of the bars. Her torso was lined with lean muscle beneath a tender, thin layer of fat, and it curved and flexed in a perverse belly-dance. Her hips swayed from side to side, and the cheeks they bore rippled with waves of delectable flesh. Between her supple thighs, a strip of black, curly hair traced the crease of her womanhood, which seemed to gleam in the light with a sheen of her nectar. Her complexion was almost perfect, with just the small line of a scar crossing laterally about her navel. She danced for me; clutching the bars, moving from side to side, swaying to some unheard samba. Her eyes pierced into me, their blue depths dancing with playful life, and a darker, more sinister undertone. I was lost in them, and my perspective seemed to narrow and narrow until I was swallowed by their sapphire regard. Come to me, they seemed to whisper, come to me…
The obnoxious ring of a phone blasted in my ear, and I was torn from those blue eyes. My vision was flooded with the haze of mid-morning sunlight, and I grasped painfully for the source of the tortuous ringing. My palm met the screen of my phone, and I wearily peaked at the caller. Shit; it was the fucking station.
“Bob,” I said after pressing ‘talk,’ “I’m on my two weeks, so don’t fucking bother me.”
“Hey, Patricia,” an impossibly seductive voice whispered, “I really think you should come down here.”
“Who-”
This number is currently unavailable. If you would like to make a call, please hang up, and try again. This number is currently unavailable. If you would like to make a call, please hang up, and try again. This number is-
I hung up and frantically searched through my contacts. Captain Anderson: This number is currently unavail-, Sergeant Frankowski: This number is-, Chief Temberline: This number-, Officer Dawson, Officer Manning, Officer Huston: This number is currently unavailable. If you would like to make a call, please hang up, and try again.
I scrambled for the radio and thumbed the button, and was not at all surprised to hear the crackle of static. I dropped the radio to the carpet, and stared at my phone. I had a message from an unknown caller. I reached forward, my hand shaking once again. I slid the lock screen down, and checked the message.
11:15, station. Come alone, come unarmed. After you read this message, break your phone. Don’t test me, Trish. I have your friends.
I stared at the message for a long time. It was 11:01 am right now. She had them, she had them all. My hand stopped shaking, and I placed the phone on the carpet. I took out my flashlight, and smashed the Samsung with a single swipe. I took out my tazer, my spray, and my utility knife, and laid them on the carpet. Then I got up, took my keys from my pocket, and walked out the front door.
JUSTINE
I am the life of the party. I always was, ever since I could partake in such affairs. As I grew older, it seemed that no matter where I went, a party followed. It didn’t matter if I was raging with undergrads at UWM, or apparently, with police in Winnebago, Iowa. Where and whenever I arrived, so did the party. And why wouldn’t it? I’m fun, I’m sexy, I’m the daughter of Satan.
I am in the holding cell, sitting on the bed, waiting for my chance. I am hungry, and need to feed. Hunger for me isn’t the growling emptiness of my stomach, but a deep, needful, ache in the moist depths of my nethers. Fred Langston fed me well for years, but now Fred Langston is dead, and I need a new meal. And who is this? A strong, young officer of the law named Forrest Manning? Is he coming to give me a cup of coffee? How sweet.
“I hope you know we’re not holding you here on charges,” Manning says, “we’re just trying to get you processed and then you can leave. There’s a sexual assault victim’s specialist we can call if you want to talk to someone.”
“That’s quite alright,” I smile, and take the coffee from his hands, brushing my fingers against his as I do, “I’m a tough girl.”
Manning’s pupils dilate with the touching of my flesh. His compassionate, caring smile grows dark, and hungry; the same hunger I feel.
“Care to join me?” I ask him, looking up with big, innocent eyes as I slurp my coffee. I pat the spot on the bed next to me, and he sits down; his smile wide and toothy.
“Do you want to know a secret?” I giggle suggestively.
“What?” he smiles back, and places his left hand on my right thigh. I don’t make him move it. I shift my ass forward and let it slide further up.
“Fred Langston was an innocent man,” I whisper, “I wasn’t his captive; he was mine. He killed your trooper because I made him do it. I told him to kill anyone who came close to me, but he failed in the end. Now, I need someone else to protect me.”
“I can protect you.” Manning says, his hand traveling further up my thigh.
“Mmmm, no.” I smile, bringing my face closer to his, “I need someone without your handicap.”
“My handicap?” he asks.
“This,” I whisper through a needful gasp as I grasp his cock, “this is your weakness. I just told you I killed your friend, but you don’t care. You’re not thinking with the head on your shoulders, Manning; I need someone who can keep their wits about them in my presence.”
Manning looks legitimately dejected at my words. His gaze falls, and I swear I can see a film of tears forming on the curve of his eyes.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” I giggle, and massage the stiff rod beneath his pants, “I still have use for you.”
I unbutton and unzip his fly. His breath is short with anticipation. I look into his eyes and smile as I clasp the throbbing heat between his legs. It’s pulsing and rigid in my hand, and too thick for me to wrap my fingers all the way around. My mouth waters. I keep my eyes fixed on his, trapping his mind in my lustful regard. I lower my head into his lap as my tongue wets my lips. I lick him slowly, moving from his base to his tip in a single stroke, keeping my eyes locked with his. When I reach the top, he moans, and I let out a delighted giggle. Then I wrap my full, luscious lips around the crease of his dome, and take him in, deeply. My wet embrace slinks down the veins and bumps of his shaft, not stopping in my throat, but going past it. I constrict the inner muscles of my neck and choke myself on his girth as my lips press against his base and rotate. He groans, and I moan. A humming tone of satisfaction permeates from my violated mouth; it's been so long since I’ve had fresh meat. I hear the door open, but I’m not worried. The man I need has come to play.
“Alright, Justine; it looks we’re done with you. If I can just get an official statement-” Captain Anderson walks into the room, looking over his papers and then stopping when he sees us. Manning starts to reach for his gun, but I stop him with a touch of my hand.
“Manning, what the fuck are you doing?!” Captain Anderson growls. He’s about to intervene when my other hand reaches out, and touches the skin of his wrist. Captain Anderson stops in his tracks, his pupils dilating until his grey irises are black. I slowly pull my head upward, my lips sucking hedonistically along Manning’s length, savoring the taste of his loins as my tongue glides against his underside. A smack of lips, a sigh of satisfaction, and a wicked smile are given to my captive officer, and then I turn my attention to his newly-enslaved superior.
“Captain Anderson,” I coo, “you seem like a man who likes to take control.”
“I am.” He smiles stupidly.
“Do you want to take control of me, Captain?” I ask, pouting my lips and staring up with innocent eyes, trying to appear as vulnerable as I can.
“Yes.” He almost whispers.
“Do it.” I whisper back, and he does. My sweatshirt is torn from my body, and my bra follows. Strong hands grip my waistband and tear my jeans and panties off in a single, desperate swipe. A jubilant laugh escapes my lips, and I bend over on the bed and spread my tan thighs for him. He grips my ass with his strong hands, sinking his knuckles into the supple fat. I hiss with excitement and lower my mouth back to Manning. My lips wrap around his cock as Anderson presses his own to the dripping folds of my pussy. I take them both at the same time. A groan muffles from my sucking mouth, and my eyes roll to whites in satisfaction. Manning grabs my head with two handfuls of black hair and begins to thrust into my mouth with increasing force, trying to prove to me that he is the dominant male. It’s nice when a man takes the initiative. Spit leaks from my violated lips as lewd gagging sounds slurp from my choking throat. Anderson isn’t one to be outdone, so he starts driving into my pussy with hard, deep thrusts. His cock grinds through my tender insides and fills me to capacity. His balls slap against my clit as his pelvis smacks against my supple cheeks. I lurch back and forth from the veracity of his drives, moaning with a higher and higher pitch around the cock burrowing into my throat. The holding cell door is wide open, and I see Officer Huston walk into the station. He sees me in my vulnerable position, looks around, and takes off his belt. You little pervert, Huston; I didn’t even need to touch you.
Anderson and Manning reach for their guns. A gentle touch of my hands on their thighs tells them to let the young man in. Huston looks at Manning and then Anderson, grinning from ear to ear. My two slaves don’t return his smile; they don’t like to share. I reach back and press my fingers against Anderson’s driving pelvis. He stops, and then reluctantly pulls out. I spread my legs wide, reach between them, and then beckon him beneath me with a single, leering finger. Anderson slides his body underneath my own, and I relax on top of him. His muscular body radiates his heat against my breasts and abdomen, and his cock pushes back inside. He fucks me to the same rapid cadence as before, and I moan around the driving cock in my throat. My beckoning hand now directs Huston to take me where I’m vacant. My finger slides along my taint and circles the sensitive spokes of my pink anus. Huston pulls down his fly and reveals the lengthy, black cock jutting from his pelvis. It’s been a while since I’ve had dark meat.
Huston grips the delectable fat of my ass and falls under my control. He aims, presses, and drives. My rim expands to a stretched, white circle; my insides are forced upward in a violent lurch. His cock grinds against the thin layer of nerve-laced flesh that separates my two, stuffed holes, sending deep pings of stretching pleasure into my nethers. My eyes widen, my back arches, my pelvis drives, and my mouth screams a gagged note of pain and pleasure. I’m so full; so painfully, deliciously, full. God, it’s been so long since I’ve had so many. Their heat burns inside me, their girth stretches me wide, and their length pushes through the tightest reaches of my esophagus, cervix and rectum. Aaaahhh, fuck.
They’re not nice to me. They slam their pelvises against my face, ass and hips. My glutes ripple from each ferocious smack of flesh, my abdomen stretches to the whim of my arching back, and my neck deforms with the bulging heat driving down it. I scream and wrench in reflexes tuned to my violation. My spine twists in a conical rotation about my gyrating hips, my neck bends as Manning gets to his knees and ravages my throat, my thighs lock as Anderson’s drives send my pussy into a torrent of spasms. I reach around Manning, sink my fingers into his muscular ass, and pull him forward, willing him to hurt me deeper. I swallow around him, and he groans with satisfaction and pulls my hair until tears well in my eyes. Spit leaks from my defiled mouth and down my chin, fluid drips from my cunt and onto Anderson’s cock, and sweat gleams from the top of my crack and drips onto Huston’s sodomizing member. They fuck me like this for ten minutes; ratcheting up the intensity until I’m nothing but a writhing mess of disheveled, black, hair and glistening, tan flesh.
Huston pulls out before he comes in my ass. I’ve been squeezing him with my anal muscles, and it seems he’s at his limit. I direct Manning to switch places with him, and take a moment to inhale through my mouth for the first time in ten minutes. My diaphragm heaves as I desperately draw in air, and then my breath is violently cut short. Manning buries his cock into my ass in a single stroke; stretching my rim to a ruinous gape and piercing my tender insides. I scream and dig my nails into Anderson’s chest, and then Huston silences me with a forced oral entry. I gag on his length and revel in its taste. My tongue curls around the underside of his shaft and licks the delicious tang of my asshole. He looks down at me and caresses my face with a gentleness that starkly contrasts the veracity of his thrusts. His gentle expression warps to a sneer, and he grabs my hair with a forceful grip, and rips backward. My head wrenches upward, and the roots of my mane sing out with delightful stings. I growl in animalistic approval and suck him deeply. Manning and Anderson sink their fingers into my jiggling glutes and spread me wide open. They pull out as one, giving my exhausted holes a moment of reprieve, and then penetrate me simultaneously. A screech erupts from my gagging throat as a blast of intense pleasure rips up my spine. They pull out again, and my pelvic floor juts from my body in a deep pop. My eyes roll back in my head, and my mind numbs. All three of them lock in rhythm, and take me as one.
My body bends to them. I’m crushed in a spine-arching curve with each push, and stretched to a forced line with each pull. It’s too much. My clit is blasted with the top of Anderson’s shaft while his tip pushes against my cervix. My rim is stretched by Manning’s girth while his length forces my tight depths open. Between them, their cocks grind together against the membrane that separates me, and it’s from here, that I start to come. A torrent of convulsions tremors from my fleshy divide, and travels deeper and deeper. My gagging throat constricts around Huston, and my lips wrap tighter. My eyes widen to bulges in their sockets, and my cheeks puff as a scream is blocked from its exit. The churning in my nethers rises and expands. Sweat glistens from my straining body, my toes curl, my knuckles whiten, my abs flex and my back arches deeper. The feeling shoots from its source and arcs to every extremity inside me. My glutes slam together about the men ruining my pelvic floor, my neck constricts with striations from the man bulging in my throat. They pulse wildly, thrust as one, and then erupt. My orgasm explodes, and I shriek as I’m filled with their hot seed. The tension is released in a wave of scorching pleasure, and my body loosens to a limp mess of trembling legs and shaking arms. They keep themselves stuffed inside me, and I drink greedily from Huston as I constrict my holes about Manning and Anderson. I instruct them to fill me to capacity, and they don’t pull out until I feel the viscous magma seeping into my inner flesh. Huston pulls out first, and I make sure to suck him dry as he does. Manning pulls out next, and I prolapse. I yelp in pleasure and give him a wicked grin; what a pleasant surprise. Manning tenderly pushes it back it, and I moan at his touch. Anderson pulls out last, and I angle my pelvis with him to avoid too much leakage. They stand over me, awaiting further instruction as I absorb their seed and sate my appetite. I feel the energy coarse through me, and I sigh in satisfaction; this will be enough for a while.
The station door opens, and Chief Temberline, Sergeant Frankowski and Officer Dawson walk in. How eco-friendly of them to carpool.
“Kill them.”
Three guns raise, aim, and fire. I cover my ears as the thunder pounds into my skull. Temberline is down in an instant, Frankowski is blown over the counter, and Dawson seems to dance in a shoulder-shimmy of scarlet spray before he falls to his knees, and then to his face. The room is silent for a moment, and the mid-morning sun shines its beams through the layer of gun smoke that hovers in the air. I turn to Anderson and nod by head to Manning, and then to Huston. I roll back onto the bed and cover my ears again. Boom, boom. The crack of skulls and the confetti of pink mist, and it’s just me and the captain.
“Anderson,” I smile and take his hand, “I have some favors to ask of you.”
“Anything.” He says.
“Delete me from all your records, sign over the impounded F-150, and fill out a death notice.”
“Whose death notice?”
“Patricia Branston’s.”
PATRICIA
The station was dark when I pulled up to it at 11:32 am. There was no way the woman could’ve expected me to get there by a quarter past; she just wanted me to hurry. I glanced at the glove box which contained the .38 I kept for personal use. If she had the officers, it meant she had their guns. It meant she would have a pump-action leveled at my chest the moment I walked through those doors. I sighed, and looked away from the glove box. I put the car in park, and slowly stepped out of the vehicle with my hands raised. Nothing happened. I glanced to my sides, glanced down the road, and then lowered my hands to my hips, keeping my palms turned forward and my fingers splayed. I walked toward the door, seeing only my reflection in the glass. She was waiting for me on the other side; she had to be. I stepped to the glass, and pressed my palms against it to show her that I was unarmed. The sun glared off the translucent plate, and I still couldn’t see inside the station. I slowly wrapped my hand around the handle, and pulled the door open.
The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against the side of my head, and I dutifully stared forward and raised my arms. Strong hands…male hands, searched me; she had an accomplice. After a thorough pat down, including a rough spreading of my legs, the hand clamped down on my shoulder, and guided me forward. And then I saw them. All of them, dead on the floor, blown to pieces. I gasped, and the strong hand pressed over my lips before the breath could turn to a scream. The barrel dug hard into my temple, and I stifled the shriek in my mouth and resisted the urge to bite down. I was briskly guided into the chief’s office, where she was waiting for me. Her feet were up on the desk, her lips were wrapped around a cigarette, and her hand held a pistol; my pistol.
“Thank you, Captain Anderson.” The woman said.
My heart jolted, and my head whipped around. There stood the captain, his jaw set on edge, his face covered in specs of blood. He didn’t even look at me; he was transfixed with the woman sitting in Temberline’s chair.
“You son of a bitch.” I whispered. He paid me no heed.
“Patricia,” the woman said, smiling coolly at me, “are you a betting woman?”
I stared at her without response, and her smile only broadened.
“I think you are,” she said, blowing a cloud of smoke, “I’d like to make a bet with you. I bet your life, that Captain Anderson is too much of a pussy to put that gun in his mouth, and pull the trigger.”
“I-“
A deafening gunshot blasted in my ears. I jolted upright and screamed, and then spun in my chair and stared at the blood stain on the wall. It smeared along the cream-colored paint, and ended in Captain Anderson’s slouched-over body. The ringing in my ears quelled, and the sound of musical laughter rose. It was a laugh so infectious, so pure, that through my shock, through my terror, I still felt the corners of my mouth twitching in a smile. Trembling, I slowly turned my shoulder, and looked at the woman who projected such jubilance.
“You…” she coughed, “y-y-you should see your face!”
Now, I couldn’t help myself. It was funny; damn near the funniest fucking thing I’d ever seen. My lips tremored with the hint of a giggle, one that I managed to trap behind my teeth. But the chorus of merriment coming from her lips was too much, and the held-back laughter burst from my mouth. Now that the dam had broken, the hysteria flowed from me with ferocious abandon. I clutched my stomach and hacked breathlessly, pounding my head against the desk as I struggled for breath. I thought I might die from it, but the feeling subsided with her fading tones, and though I still shook with fits of residual mirth, I regained control of myself.
“Oh, fuck,” I sighed, wiping a tear from my eye, “you are too much.”
“Thank you, Patricia-can I call you Trish?” she smiled.
“Sure, sure,” I said with a wave of my hand, “call me anything you want.”
“Trish will be fine,” she said and then gestured to the gun she had levelled on me, “can I put this away?”
“Go ahead!” I laughed, “No need to worry!”
The woman put my gun down on the desk, and I watched, my lips still grinning. She drew her hand away, and sat back. I stared at her for a moment, my lips quivering in eminent laughter, my hand subtly shifting to my right. She raised an eyebrow at me, and my smile only widened. In a whirl of flailing hair and twisting ribs, I reached around, pulled Anderson’s pistol from his hands, levelled it on her face and pulled the trigger. Click. We stared at each other for a second, and then we both burst out laughing.
“Oh,” the woman groaned, and raised my gun to my face, “I thought we were friends.”
“Ha!” I chortled, and tossed the gun, “What the fuck made you think that?!”
“That’s too bad,” the woman smiled sadly, “because we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”
“In hell, probably.” I chuckled.
“We’ll get there eventually,” she said sweetly, “but first, we’re getting the fuck out of Iowa.”
“You’re going to have to shoot me,” I grinned with the remaining echoes of my hysteria, “because I’m not stepping one foot out of this station with you.”
“Christina Slater: 5131, Colfax avenue north, Minneapolis;” the woman said, “Brianna Johnson: 349 Jefferson street, Chicago; Tera Holding: 6798, P.O box 43, country road seventy, Wright County.”
The last of the merriment left me, and was replaced with a deep coldness.
“I have friends, Trish,” the woman said evenly, putting the gun on the table, “and they know where all your friends live. They know where they shop, they know who they fuck, and they know the bus stops of their children.”
“What the fuck do you want from me?” I whispered.
“There’s someone hunting me,” the woman said, “someone worse than me.”
“Bullshit.”
“My brother.”
“I guess I can believe it then.”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” the woman smiled, “I can be very persuasive, especially with men. Now, with women…that’s a different story, but in your case, with your sexual disposition, I have the perfect bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard?!” I hacked. I had no idea how this bitch knew about my sexuality, but the curiosity of that subject vanished in the face of my new job offer.
“My brother works much in the same way as I do,” the woman said, “with persuasion. Now; you don’t want men, which means he can’t perform his tricks on you, and since you’re not a man yourself, you can be within my proximity, and keep a clear head. I can’t have a bodyguard that kills every swinging dick walking my way, can I? Of course, not, and since I’m now officially back on the run, I need someone who can protect me, and stay incognito at the same time. Hence, you. Make sense?”
I stared at the woman for a long time. She looked back at me, her blue eyes smiling, her mouth curved at one corner in a small smirk.
“What are you?” I asked.
“A succubus,” the woman smiled, and cocked her head, “but I think who I am might be a more revealing question.”
“Who are you?”
“The devil’s only daughter,” the woman said, her blue irises flashing gold for a moment, “and my brother is her only son.”
“Her?”
“Satan’s a woman, of course.” the woman grinned.
“I believe you,” I whispered, “five minutes ago, I didn’t believe any of that shit, but now I do. So, I’ve got one more question for you: if I help you, will my soul be damned?”
“I think you know your soul is already damned, Trish.” The woman smiled, sweetly, “But if you help me, Mommy will make sure your stay in hell is very comfortable. Was that your last question?”
“Yeah.” I muttered.
“Great!” the woman said cheerily, and clapped her hands, “well, you ready to go?”
“I never said I would.”
“They’ll kill the kids first, Trish,” the woman said, “then they go to their houses, and take their sweet time with your ‘friends.’”
I stared at her in cold hate, but she regarded my intensity with nothing more than a passing fancy. I knew she wasn’t lying. I knew it with all my heart.
“Why me?” I asked, looking at her from the tops of my trembling eyes.
“Because you blew my cover,” the woman said, “I was in the dark; I was safe with Fred. And you killed him, and your cop buddies tagged me in their system, and now I have hours at most before he comes here. You’re my best option, and the way I see it, you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you shit.”
“You owe me everything.” She said, levelling the gun to my eyes. Her finger depressed the trigger, and I waited for the end, but she didn’t squeeze it all the way. Instead, she loosened her grip on the handle, and let the weapon spin on her index digit, until the barrel was facing her, and the handle, me. I stared at it for a second, and then grasped the familiar threaded grip. It felt good in my hands, and I remembered the rush I got when I blew Fred to pieces. I enjoyed it.
“You died in that firefight at Fred’s house,” the woman said, touching a finger to my file, “and everyone that has seen you since, has perished. A death notice has been sent to your loved ones, and your body was officially identified and cremated this morning. There’s an impounded F-150 that was sold and registered to a Miss Rebecca Donaldson three weeks ago; that F-150 is in the lot right now-”
“…and I’m Rebecca Donaldson,” I muttered, “I get it.”
“I erased all trace of me in the system, but probably not soon enough. We’re going to Chicago now, then Milwaukee, and then Minneapolis. If we’re lucky, he’ll lose our trail in the sea of people. We’ll part ways in the Twin Cities, and that’ll be the last you see of me.”
“Because you’ll kill me.”
“Because I’ll disappear,” the woman said, “and you’ll disappear wherever you see fit. I don’t kill those who help me, Trish; I reward them.”
I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I also didn’t have much choice.
“Ok,” I sighed, and holstered my pistol, “let’s go.”
“You never asked me my name.” the woman said as I walked away.
“I don’t give a shit about your name.”
ALEX
“Ho-lee shit,” I muttered as I looked over the carnage, “what a mess you made, little sis.”
I turned over each body with the toe of my alligator-skin boots and examined the faces, or what was left of them. Temberline, Manning, Huston, Frankowski, Dawson, and Anderson in the office. Hmmm…it didn’t make sense. I palmed the files of State Troopers Sean Brady and Patricia Branston. Both killed on duty yesterday by a Mr. Fredrick Langston the Third. Crematorium fried the remains before I could examine them, but I had a feeling the ash pile was probably one body too small. No, Justine had her fangs in Sean Brady. I looked over his file and read his report. Two tours in Afghanistan, one involving spec ops. A fucking Green Beret of all people. Still, not very subtle. A six-foot-five black man built like a brick-shit-house would stand out in Iowa, so, she wasn’t staying in Iowa. No, she’d go to Chicago. Southside? Sean would certainly fit-in there. Who was this Patricia Branston? College dropout from Iowa State, finished community college and joined the force, had a drunk driving incident the department swept under the rug. Hmmm, there’s more to her than meets the eye, but Justine would never take a woman with her, not unless…no. No, that would be too convenient. Patricia Branston was dead and burned. Still, it would be worth looking into. Leave no stone unturned, and you won’t have to retrace your steps. There was definitely something about her…
Ahhh, here we are: Fredrick Langston the Third. Born February twenty-fourth, the year of our lord nineteen seventy-five. This was a good one, Justine; a loner, a loser, no family and no friends. A hot piece like you comes around, and I bet your hooks were in him before you even worked your magic. Kept her fed for nearly a decade, didn’t you, Langston? You lucky dog, you. If she had told you that you’d die in a puddle of your own blood in a broken-down basement, you still would’ve taken the deal without a second thought. Went out with guns blazing, so I got to give you that. You’re very lucky the cops found you before I did, Freddy; I wouldn’t have made it so quick. Now Ma’s got you, and she spoils you poor damned fuckers. I wish she’d let me talk to you; I need to hear how it really ended. Hail of gunfire from a surrounded bungalow? Doesn’t match the ballistics report. Justine fucked with these documents, no doubt about that. No, Sean Brady got the drop on you, didn’t he? You nailed Patricia in the driveway, but couldn’t get the Green Beret before he did what he was trained to do. It’s gotta be Sean, it’s just gotta be.
“Sir?” Agent Fenton asked me as I mumbled my thoughts beneath my breath.
“What?” I asked.
“Impound notice for you.”
“Thank you, Felton.” I smiled, and took the file.
Sierra sold to an Edward Jeans, 350 to a Jacob Stratterson, 150 to a Rebecca Donaldson, Civic to a James Hawking, Mustang to an Alice Crowning. If Justine took one of these, then one of these names was bullshit. Pretty easy find for me, but she’d ditch the wheels the moment she got a chance. Still, it would leave me a trail. Follow the money, always the money. Chicago. There’s what…hundreds of used car dealerships there? Chop-shops up the ass, and people willing to turn titles for cash without a signature on the paper. Not only that, but she’d have connections. Bangers, dealers, hookers, you name it. I got my finger on the pulse of white-collar America, but she’s in deep with the low people and low places. She could disappear there, for a while.
“Sir,” Fenton said, “I have Mrs. Brady on the line.”
“Oh?” I asked, surprised. Justine was either in a great hurry, or getting sloppy. A next-of-kin left alive and well? That was very unlike her. I took the phone from my agent’s hand and put it to my ear.
“Mrs. Brady? This is special agent Alex Torring of the F.B.I. First, let me state that I’m so sorry for your loss, and I hate to trouble you in your time of grieving, but I need to ask you some questions. Is your place OK for an interview? Great. Oh, don’t worry about that, Mrs. Brady; it’ll just be me.”
JUSTINE
The dry Iowa air blew on my face as we raced down highway 90. I could see the individual rows of corn as I passed them, but if I stared in just one spot, the stalks were nothing but a blur of brown and gold. The radio hummed in the background, but I knew Patricia just had it on to keep conversation at a minimum. Being a natural extrovert, this bothered me. I am the most interesting woman in the world, after all. Over three-hundred years old, slept with kings, queens, presidents, gangsters, and artists alike. On top of it all, I’m the only daughter of Satan herself! Patricia should be boiling over with questions. But no, nothing but stoic silence. I glanced over at her and let my eyes take her in. Five-foot-six, a buck-twenty, full breasts, full thighs, well-muscled, and a cute face composed of full lips, a pointed nose, a pronounced jaw, a strong chin and apple cheeks. Straight, dirty-blonde hair hung in sloppy strands from her head, but she’d pull together nicely after a little bit of work. Just looking at her, I’d put her age at…early thirties, late twenties. Still baring the beauty of youth, but just the hint of lines starting to appear on her brow and the corners of her eyes. In actuality, she was on the wrong side of thirty-five, but she didn’t look it. Good genetics, I guess.
There was something about her I couldn’t quite put my finger on, and it bothered the hell out of me. It wasn’t that she was a stone-cold killer; I knew that the moment I saw her dead eyes level on me through the bullet holes of the bungalow. It wasn’t that she was a dyke, either; I definitely had my share of the fairer sex. No, Patricia was hiding something...no, she had a secret, but I don’t think she even knew what it was. In the back of my mind, I could see my brother paging through her file, and having the same disconcerting thought. We have a connection, he and I, but I usually keep my end of the line closed, for obvious reasons. Alex keeps communication open often, unless he stumbles upon something he doesn’t want me to know he knows. That same thought went through his mind when he looked over Patricia’s file: something wasn’t right about her. She was dangerous; not just lethal, but dangerous. And danger turned me on. Could I seduce Patricia? Maybe. Normally, that’d be a definite ‘yes,’ but I got the sense she wouldn’t be an easy mark. Still, I loved a challenge.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” I asked as I rolled up the window to keep the roar of passing air from my ears.
“We don’t have much to say to each other,” Patricia responded, “and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“My name’s Justine, by the way,” I said, “not like you care.”
“Mm-hmm.” Patricia concurred with a curt nod.
“So…where are you from?”
“You read my file.” Patricia responded. Stone-walling bitch.
“I’m from Salem, Massachusetts,” I said, “born in sixteen-eighty-six.”
“Yup.” Patricia responded.
“Doesn’t ring a bell?” I smiled, “Salem…sixteen-hundreds…nothing?”
“I took AP history in high school,” Patricia replied, “I get what you’re saying.”
“But you don’t care.”
“Bingo.” Patricia said, still looking out the windshield, still regarding me with nothing but passing disdain. I sighed and rolled down my window. I hadn’t exactly turned up the charm, but I was trying. A few minutes passed, and then Patricia broke the silence.
“How did you get that scar on your belly?” she asked.
I whipped my head around and stared at her with wide eyes. How the fuck did she know about that?
“That scar,” Patricia said, not noticing my shock as she stared through the windshield, “if you’re as old as you say you are, you should have more than just one mark. But all you have is that one across your navel. How did you get it?”
“My brother,” I said, searching her intently, “he tried to cut the baby out of me-how did you know about that?”
“That little vision you sent me,” Patricia said, finally looking at me for the first time since we got in the truck, “your naked dance in the cage. You’re a mother?”
“I didn’t send you a vision,” I said slowly, “I don’t have that power.”
“Hmm.” Patricia said, frowning and looking me over. Then she shrugged, and turned her attention back to the road. I stared at her, looking for anything, anything that could solve this mystery, this…feeling of uneasiness, of danger. But, nothing. Patricia was more than she seemed; much more.
MRS. KELSEY BRADY
When they told me he died, I wasn’t shocked, or immediately saddened, or even worried. No, I was just empty. I replied to the chief over the phone with a vacant, dead voice. He had the sympathy meter dialed to eleven, but I couldn’t even turn the grief knob past one. And when they asked me to identify the body later that night, I just nodded. “Yeah, that’s him.” I said, and then stared at the holes in him until they pulled the sheet back. I always knew this would be how it ended. I resigned myself to this fate back when he joined the Berets, and I resigned myself to it when he joined the troopers. Sure, Iowa was a boring state, but I knew, I just knew it didn’t matter, not for him. So, I had been prepared; I had the emotional shield raised high, and the salvo of pain just bounced off it. It wasn’t until the next morning, when I rolled over to touch his shoulder, that I realized what it all meant. Sean was dead, but so was I. That’s what grief really is: part of you dying. Sean was just the physical manifestation of that part of me, that part of me that laughed, and loved, and cared. I finally broke down in that bed. My heart tore open, and I drowned in my perfect grief. The kind of grief that is so painful, it feels good. The kind that takes you over and holds you close in its tortuous embrace. Hurt me, grief; hurt me so that I feel something.
When I collected myself, I felt fantastic. I stood in the mirror, cleaned myself up, and then did a little twirl to make sure everything was in order. It seemed grief did me justice, as my flushed cheeks and tearful eyes made me quite the beauty; if I do say so myself. I gave myself a wry smile in response to my vanity, and tousled my thick, black curls until they fell just the way I liked them. My milk-chocolate complexion, large, brown eyes, full lips, narrow nose and high cheekbones were framed by my slightly-nappy mane, and I unhooked the clasp of my night gown to see the rest of me. A long, elegant neck stalked from a delicate collar bone, which sloped into two small (but perky), breasts, which in turn, sat atop a muscular torso. My abdomen lined into a triangular pelvis, surrounded by wide hips that structured a supple, petite set of glutes. My thighs ran in silky brown angles to my knees, which lined to ankles, and then well-manicured feet. I was still young, and still beautiful. I had options, and Sean’s death didn’t have to be my own. In truth, I was ashamed at how anxious I was to get back on the market. I knew propriety demanded at least a few months of grieving, but propriety be damned. I didn’t care that it wasn’t healthy, I didn’t care that I was skipping every stage of grief; I just needed to escape. I looked around the house, and had a sudden urge to light it on fire without taking a single thing with me. Just pour some gas, light a match, and then drive away in nothing but my birthday suit. I almost did it, too. I was halfway into the garage, looking for the gas can, when my phone rang.
“Mrs. Brady?” the man asked.
“Speaking.” I replied.
“Special Agent Torring has some questions for you, please hold.”
I waited for a second, and then a voice came on the line. A deep, trebly, voice with just the hint of southern drawl, and a smoky rasp that dripped with sensuality. It was music; pure, music.
“Mrs. Brady?” the voice asked.
“Yes?” I replied, my finger twirling my hair.
“This is special agent Alex Torring of the F.B.I.”
“What can I do for you, special agent?” I sniggered playfully.
“First,” the voice responded, “let me state that I’m so sorry for your loss, and I hate to trouble you in your time of grieving, but I need to ask you some questions.”
The manner in which he spoke to me did not reflect the sincerity of his words. He spoke in a teasing tenor that seemed to suggest we were both playing along with some inside joke, as though the death of my husband was a euphemism. And it was, because every word he said poured into my mind, snaked down my spine, and then ached with tickling desire deep inside me.
“What… ‘questions,’ would you like to ask me?” I giggled, “Are you going to come over here and interview me yourself?”
“Is your place OK for an interview?” he asked, and I could practically see the suggestive raise of his eyebrow though the phone.
“My place will do fine.” I whispered, the hint of a moan on my lips.
“Great.” He replied, and the smile could be heard through the phone as clear as day.
“Will there be anyone else with you?” I asked, my hand grazing my fingertips down my pelvis, “I don’t want anyone to…interrupt us.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, Mrs. Brady;” the voice chuckled, “it’ll just be me.”
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It occurred to me as I was dressing myself, that what I was doing was wrong. It occurred to me when I put on my garters and fishnet stockings. It occurred to me when I slipped on my laced bra. It occurred to me when I put on the plaid schoolgirl skirt, and it occurred to me when I pulled over the white dress-shirt that stopped three inches above my navel. I just didn’t care. That voice…that impossibly seductive voice. I didn’t care if the man that owned it was a fat dwarf with male-pattern-baldness, I was going to have that man. Fortunately for me, when I opened the door after the knock, it wasn’t a balding dwarf, but a…a man.
Six-foot-three, broad shoulders, strong chest, narrow hips, thick thighs, and between them, a prize that dangled teasingly against the fabric of his slacks. His jaw was chiseled, his nose handsome, his hair thick and black, and his eyes…his eyes were gold. I was lost in them, a slave to them. I didn’t speak a word, I just stepped to him, and pressed my body against his. He did the rest.
Strong hands gripped my nappy hair and ripped my head back. I growled a tone of approval and looked up at him through half-closed eyes. My lips opened and trembled, waiting for his kiss, but he just sneered at me, and licked me in a possessive stroke from neck to cheek. I hissed in hedonistic splendor and angled my neck for him. The door closed behind us, and his other hand was up my skirt. Two fingers spread my dripping lips, and two more pushed in. I moaned and widened my eyes, staring into those golden irises that playfully stared back. I jumped and locked my legs around his waist, and he picked me up from the inside, prompting a yelp of delight from my gaping lips.
He carried me to the bed and tossed me on my back. His fingers moved in and out of me, grinding their tips along the erogenous ceiling of my slit; his thumb pressing on my clit and rubbing it into a frenzy. I laid helpless on the bed; my hands clutching the sheets, my knees swaying and spreading as my head tilted back. He pulled off his tie with a single swipe, and then lassoed it about my neck. I tightened it for him, licking my lips as I did. He kept his shirt on, but the pants came off. The rigid shaft that stared at me from between his legs was larger than any I’d ever seen. This was going to hurt, and I wanted it to.
“I have some questions for you, Mrs. Brady.” Alex said with a smile.
“Don’t call me that,” I moaned, “that’s not my name anymore.”
“Alright, Kelsey,” he smirked, “the record says that no one was present to identify your late husband’s body. Is that true?”
“No!” I screamed with need, his fingers teasing me to the point of anxious pleasure, but not giving me the satisfaction I craved.
“Were you there?” he asked.
“I’m not saying anything,” I smiled as I moaned, “until you give me what I want, Sugar.”
“Oh?” he chuckled, “Are you pleading the fifth? Well, Kelsey, we have ways of making you talk.”
His fingers left me, and his tip pressed against me. He started out slow; spreading my delicate petals with his heat, pushing them inward and slickening his cock with my fluid. I moaned and slid my hips forward, taking him deeper. He stopped, stared at me for a second, and then grabbed my hips, and rammed his way through me. My back wrenched in an arch, my head dug into the bedding, my shoulders pinned back and I screamed in pain and pleasure. The feeling ripped through my guts and shot up my spine. He pulled out, and then fucked me again, and again, and again. Every thrust brought a volatile mixture of agony and ecstasy, but each subsequent shot prompted more of the latter. Two minutes in, and I’d completely adjusted to his size, and was wailing and thrashing pathetically on the bed.
“Talk, Kelsey.” The man grunted. I could hardly form anything from my mouth but incoherent screams, but through the heat of my lust, I managed to form the words he wanted to hear.
“I (AAAH) I was (fffUUUu) I was there!” I shrieked, “It was (HuuaaAAAA) IT WAS HIM!”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“YES!” I screamed, my head tilting back so far, I was staring upside-down at the wall behind me. There we were, Sean and I, holding hands at our wedding. He stared back at me from his frame, stared back and smiled, and judged. I didn’t care anymore; I was a slave, a whore to this man. He could do whatever he wanted to me. I’m sorry, Sean, but it feels too good.
The man grabbed my hips and flipped me over on the bed. I breathed against the fabric as he hiked up my schoolgirl skirt and pushed his thumbs into my crack. I whimpered pathetically as he spread me wide, and spit onto my tight rim. I’d never done it there before, never wanted to, but for this man, I’d do anything. I’d be his dirty, little, anal slut.
“How well do you know Patricia Branston?” the man asked as he pulled out of my pussy.
“Not too well,” I moaned, grinding my thighs together with need, “she was Sean’s partner.”
“Oh yeah?” the man asked, sliding his cock through my cheeks, parting my dripping lips with his shaft and teasing my puckered rim.
“Yes,” I gasped, planting my palms against the bed and bending my elbows, “they were partners for five years.”
He pressed his tip against my asshole and slowly started adding pressure. I gritted my teeth as my rim began to expand around him. His head pushed through, and I growled in strain, my neck striating with standing tendons and my eyes shutting tightly.
“Were you ever worried about them?” he asked, “Two young officers working together for long hours…”
“Patricia’s a lesbian,” I grunted between gritted teeth as I slowly slid his length inside me, “she (AHH!) wasn’t a thrEAAAT!”
The man grabbed my hips and forced his full length inside me. I screamed out the last word of my sentence as the pain rushed up my spine. My stomach dropped to the bed and my shoulders rammed together. My spine wrenched in an arc of concavity, and the man kept pushing. My scream grew higher and higher, until his balls dragged across my cunt, and his pelvis pressed against the fat of my ass. My head dropped between my shoulders and I panted desperately. The man held himself inside me, and my body began to adjust to the pain. He thrust in and out, keeping his depth, but only pulling a few inches. Soft whimpers of pain slipped from my trembling lips, but those soon waned, and died. The deep, sinful feeling of him throbbing in the wrong hole was starting to feel good; really good. My whimpers returned to my mouth, but they were no longer baring tones of pain, but of pleading desire.
“Fuck me harder.” I whispered. I looked back over my shoulder, my eyes begging for it. “I’m your little anal slut.”
“Yes, you are,” the man smiled, the southern drawl seeping through in his voice, “but I think ‘slave’ might be the better word.”
He took hold of my shoulders and pulled me to him. My back pressed against his chest and my head rested on his shoulder. I opened my mouth for his kiss, but he just laughed. I didn’t deserve to kiss him, and I knew it. I was just his slave, and I could be happy with that. Just as long as he did this to me, I’d be a happy little slut.
He thrust into me, and I dropped onto him. We met in the middle; his cock piercing deeply, my asshole tightening around him. Deep shots of pain and pleasure rocketed up my spine, and I cried out pathetically with each one. He reached beneath me and pulled my legs out. I came crashing down on his pelvis, and his cock speared through me. I screamed out and arched my back; my belly jutting forward, the small imprint of his member bumping from the lines of my abdomen.
“FUCK!” I screeched, “Oh god, fuck me!”
The man held me in the air, dropping me against his driving hips and punishing me from the inside. I screamed over and over, staring down at my belly as his cock worked its way into my insides. I knew at that moment, staring down in fascinated horror at the indentation pulsing from inside me, that this man was not human. Fear gripped me, but the pleasure gripped me harder. This man was a demon from hell, and I was his little whore. My body was lifted and dropped in a violent, rapid rhythm. My nappy hair flailed, my makeup smeared, and my eyes rolled back in my head. The man walked us forward on top of the bed, until my face was inches from my wedding photo. I dropped my gaze, but he clamped a strong hand on the top of my head and forced me to look.
I could see my pleasure-warped face in the reflection of the glass. It was a ruin of dripping eyeliner, flushed cheeks, and smeared lipstick.
“Prove to me that you’re mine.” he whispered in my ear. I looked at the photo of our wedding. I looked at Sean, and then I looked at me. I wasn’t that woman anymore. That woman was stupid, naive and hopeful. I didn’t need hope when I had this thing inside me; what could be better than this? I stripped the picture from the wall and threw it across the room. My new master rewarded me. He turned us over on the bed, grabbed my calves, and pulled my legs up until my knees were locked next to my face. My ass spread wider than ever, and he fucked me deeper than ever.
“Look at yourself,” he growled, and twisted my head until I was facing the full-body mirror, “what do you see?”
My anus was prolapsing with every pull of his cock. A thin, pink sheath of inner skin was stretched two inches outside of me, and then jammed back in. My pussy was a dripping, gaping mess after he’d done his work, and my glutes were a deep red from the impact of his pelvis.
“Your whore,” I screamed, and reached down to spread myself wider, “your little, anal slave!”
“Good girl,” he laughed, both tauntingly and encouragingly, “I’m going to give you a gift for being such a good slut.”
His cock began to ram into me with increasing speed and force. I thought my tailbone might crack from the blows, but my shrieks of ecstasy surmounted any of pain. His cock was a blur in the mirror, and my body was nothing but a jiggling mess of rippling, milk-chocolate flesh. Harder and harder he went, and higher and higher my screams rose, until they were just a fluctuating note oscillating to his impossible speed. My insides churned with an intensity I’d never experienced before. My mind melted, my tongue hung loose, and my eyes rolled back. The feeling rushed into me violently; rising in an expansion from my pelvis and radiating its heat into my abdomen, chest, and thighs. My back wrenched, my pelvis jutted, and I mouthed a final breathless, soundless choke. He thrust into me one last time and held my ruined body in suspension, and then erupted inside me. The tension of my orgasm tightened just a little longer, and then snapped. A flood of endorphins rushed through my body, and my soundless scream finally bore a note. A subsiding, desperate cry shot from my voice, and my diaphragm heaved with panting inhalations.
He pushed me off of him, my ass prolapsing completely as his cock pulled my insides out. I examined it in the mirror, and admired the rose-budded nature of it. My eyes looked into my own, and I was not at all shocked to see they had changed color. The dark brown was gone, and had been replaced with gold. I was his, his forever. He was my master, and I should treat him as such; I wanted to treat him as such. I crawled over to him, my hips swaying behind me, my eyes lingering on the stiff rod that gleamed with his seed. I licked my lips, and cleaned my ass off him. I tasted delicious, and so did he. He pet my hair as I dutifully swallowed all that had leaked from me. I took him deeper than I’d taken any man before, and though I choked and gagged, I kept going until he was all the way in. He bulged from my throat, and it hurt, but it also felt so good. Master was inside me. When every drop I’d spilled was in my belly, I pulled out, sat on my knees, and awaited him like a loyal bitch.
“Pack your bags, Kelsey,” Master smiled, “we’re going to visit Patricia Branston in Chicago.”
