Hysterical, you search for a place to hide, anywhere that will allow you to survive the massacre nearing completion. As the sole remaining member of your family, you owe a debt to everyone that has died before you. They have sacrificed their lives in hopes that you will continue the family line, and perhaps give birth to a son. In this way, their deaths are meaningful, your own life justified.
But you hear the men coming, their expensive shoes knocking on the tigerwood flooring. They are coming closer with each second that passes. Your time is running out, the number of places you can hide dwindling. The easiest, most obvious choices begin to look better, if only to end the mad hunt. Your eyes flash towards the bed, then the closet, and you curse yourself for such a critical lack of invention. It is especially now that you must think, you must intuit an escape from familial extermination.
You peer out of the window, and your lawn is a sea of slick, black hair. The uniform haircuts bob about in shiny suits, nodding, laughing, discussing future plans. This is a done deal. Once you are dead they can all go home. They have families waiting for them. Dinner on the table, kids that want help with their homework, things you no longer need to concern yourself with. Those are for the living.
Reeling back, you feel more determined than ever to live. Their sure-fire attitude disgusts you, it taints the memory of your parents and older brother. Your mind becomes a cold calculator, scouring the 17 x 18 room.
You spot the suitcase you have yet to put away since coming back home. Inside it are books for an end of semester project, and clothes for the week. But there is only one question on your mind that undoubtedly goes against the original intention of its manufacturers. Can a human being fit inside?
You empty its contents, sliding them under your bed and then examine the empty space. Turns out, if you fold up and tuck your head it will be a tight fit.
You haul the suitcase into the back of your closet, but leave the door wide open. All to appear as if there is nothing to hide. You want this space to be an afterthought, for them to rule it out with a single glance.
Looking around at your collection of shoes, clothing, jackets, bags and other miscellaneous items, it seems too neat. You begin to pull down different gear, to the men with greasy hair and fancy suits, these will be the leftovers from your last minute ***********ion process.
With your favorite things littering the closet floor, you lay down your suitcase and begin to shrink. Your legs fold and stick to your chest, pressing on soft mounds. Your back hunches, while your neck droops. One hand wraps around your shins and the other pulls the big closing flap down. Using your small, deft fingers, you zip the rectangular bag to its end.
Lying in wait, you pray they do not find you, that you can carry out the final wishes of your family. Pieces of the Hail Mary and Our Father come to you. They are the last wall of protection you put up. Hopefully, in accordance with the beliefs of your superstitious ancestors, they are also the strongest.
Someone tries your door. You distinctly remember engaging the lock, an act as natural putting down the toilet seat. You can hear the futile twisting and effortful grunts from your suitcase. He may be strong, but your door is an expensive one. It will not give to a chainsmoker whose only form of exercise is beating their wife.
Thinking this way helps, eases your breath. But you know they will not stop with one man, nor will they refrain from using machinery. A chainsaw is more than enough to get inside your room. Which, they will do.
There, you hear the second man. He degrades the first, calling him out on his weakness. His voice is still playful when he fails for the first time. After another two tries, the tension becomes more apparent. And then there is excitement. He knows you are inside. This is his chance to move up from Associate to Soldier. Then perhaps some other connection will need cleansing and he becomes Capo.
But the door has to open first.
The two congregate and then there is silence. A few seconds pass and your doorframe shakes. Heavy kicks land consecutively. You can hear their shuffling feet before each impact. They must be taking turns, and with a steady amount of force, it will not be long until your door gives.
You close your eyes, the short period of elation at their earlier failure ends. You are in the dark, with your warm breath and loud heartbeat. Whether your ruse will be successful is going to be put to the test. But in these last few moments it seems especially flimsy. You lack conviction and no one is so guileless as to fall for your simple setup.
The door splinters. An Italian leather and calfskin shoe steps into your room. Someone is calling your name. They say your family is waiting for you downstairs. They are lonely without you. You are missing out on a big party. Everyone is there except you, you are holding things up.
You can hear them creep through your room. They check around the bed, pulling some of your stuff from underneath. Next is your desk, where they examine a few old papers, tests from the near two decades you have been in school. Then they look atop your dresser, moving around make-up you hardly use. Finally, they walk into the messy closet.
Avoiding your strewn about clothes and shoes, they inspect your shelves, even snatching out a drawer or two. Each of them cover one side until they are standing right next to you. Somehow the Italian Cypress they are wearing stinks, like mouthwash and rotten trees.
You want to puke, get the very air that they breathe out of your system. The disgust takes a physical toll on your body, and your stomach contorts. Your face gets hot and your neck strains. Yet you remain silent. If you utter so much as a squeak, they will kill you.
A quiet conversation goes on above you. The hint of excitement in their voice is no longer there. Instead, you can make out a tinge of fear and apprehension. Then an argument. Someone has to report the missing girl. Accusations and rebuttals leak out in angry whispers between them. The second man to arrive wins out, the first plays scapegoat.
You hope he never comes back.
The one remaining, stalks anxiously around your room. He double checks the bed, and even opens the window, peering down at the bushes. You can hear him, searching, muttering curses. He blames you and then extends his badwill to your dead family. Their names fly out of his mouth accompanying foam and spittle.
His fury continues to rise, and you relax into the dark space. The release from momentary danger is satisfying. Perhaps they will extend their search outside of the house, checking with your neighbors, and all local means out of the city. Such aggressive pursuit may even allow law enforcement to pick up on what they are doing. Maybe the justice system does work? Then again, maybe your Father goes to jail instead of six feet under?
You know a few things. After all, how many accountants can furnish their floors with tigerwood, or send their daughter to school out of state without a scholarship? And what about the vacations? You tally up expenses from over the years, and you reach a staggering figure. Regret comes from even thinking about it, you can not be the one to ruin the image of your Father.
To your unpleasant surprise, the first man comes back. There are three others with him, each one unwilling to believe you are not in the room. They go through the same routine, and find themselves with the same disconcerting result. If they let you escape, there will certainly be cleansing amongst their own ranks. The ensuing panic brings you more excitement, erasing the let down from earlier. When they all leave, your heart leaps and you nearly exclaim from your place in the suitcase.
Luckily, your breath catches. You listen closely to the goings on downstairs, specifically what is happening with the front door. You will wait inside your suitcase for however long it takes, but with the knowledge of being safe, the mortal tension will not be as high.
Minutes pass, and yet no one returns. Their voices are dull and hardly audible from the floor below, but traces of dejection seem to be present, along with fear. Only cowards can act as they do, you think, while sneering at them. Without the sense to find even a young girl, you believe it will not be long until the day of their reckoning comes. And if your prayers have anything to say about it, a terrible fate is in order.
Contemplating how long to wait before leaving, the voices gradually get louder, and there is more clarity. People are on their way back to your room. A woman walks among them. Her heels make a distinct sound against the tigerwood. You get a sinking feeling in your gut. Women can be very shrewd.
She enters into your room. Her steps are slow, you know she is analyzing everything, from the contents of your suitcase, to the sheets on your bed. You even hear the flipping of pages coming from your desk, as if she is checking every grade. Your entire life is on display for her, bare, to what must be the cruelest and most judgemental mind you will ever encounter. It may also be the last.
The steady click of her heels draws closer. And then they stop. She can tell. You know she can tell. And your breath quickens. Your heart pounds in your chest. You feel the urge to jump out and run away. Anything is better than waiting for her to unzip you. Maybe if you struggle hard enough, you can escape.
Someone is in front of you. The suitcase lifts and turns rightside up. Then you are off the ground. They are carrying you towards the bed. You swing back and forth. Suddenly you are airborne. A scream issues forth. Horror fills you. The bag lands and springs up from your mattress.
Still bouncing, you reach for the zipper. The light stabs into your eyes. You climb out of the suitcase, only to have two men grab your arms. You go into a frenzy, trying to jerk away from their hold. But your limbs are small, and thin, they can easily grasp the circumference of your bicep.
Yet, controlling you is not enough. There are punches to your diaphragm. Hard blows that they like to wind up before throwing. Each one makes it harder to breathe. They purposely aim for the same spot. A punishment that does not allow your lungs to work.
It is all because they are upset with you. You do not die fast enough.
And so they ask you all sorts of questions, though most of them are rhetorical. They call you names, like whore and princess and bitch. They talk of your family and your meeting with them in death. Meanwhile, they never stop punching you. There is even the odd slap or kick every now and again.
It continues until the woman speaks. She is the one that found you. Boss Carmine they call her. They say “yes, Boss Carmine”, or “no, Boss Carmine”, and their eyes do not leave the ground. She tells them to sit you up on the bed.
Your despairing and forlorn eyes meet hers. They are a placid brown. There is an unassailable calm present in their depths. Such frightening tranquility almost obscures the rest of her beauty. Flawless, olive skin. Long, dark hair that cascades down her shoulders. Reddish-pink lips, giving out indisputable orders.
She peers down at you. A fine, delicate hand reaches out, poking at where they beat you. You wince hard. She does it again. This time you cry out. There is a certain strength in her that comes as a nasty surprise. Her expression does not change, but it looks farther away. As if she is no longer there. It is only you and the recurring agony.
No one is holding you anymore. Your body slumps over. Someone pushes you back onto the bed. It is Boss Carmine. She is telling the men to leave. She is telling them to leave so that she can have fun. You are scarcely aware of her hands on you, feeling you up. They run atop your belly, and slide their way up to your breasts. Your shirt bunches and smoothes under her touch. Then she slips underneath it.
You protest her warm, soft hands, pushing at her forearms. You grunt weakly, whimpering when she pulls off your shirt. Next is your bra. You fight with her exploratory hands, but she gathers your wrists in a tight grasp. Then she is rubbing your naked torso.
She kneads your breasts, molding them with deliberate actions. Her fingers capture your nipple, rolling it between them. They pinch your soft areola until it becomes erect and rubbery. Her nimble digits slide over your heaving chest. She is rougher this time, twisting and compressing the skin of your glands. The devious clutching leaves imprints of her fingers.
She lets go of your hands and you try to squirm away. She offers to invite the men outside into your room. You stop moving, in the hopes that she will spare you the guido gangbang. She slips off her heels, then climbs onto the bed. Her knees open up your legs, spreading them painfully wide.
The long sleeve dress she wears comes from Lafayette. It is black and has a collar instead of a plunging neckline. She starts bringing up its hem. Not far beyond her knees something hangs. It is very thick and long. There is a silk sleeve covering it, black to match her dress. Behind that, rests a large sack, swelling with its next load.
A wet spot is visible at the end of her sleeve. There, lies a rather big helmet. It slowly expands, as her shaft elongates. It rises to become a huge mast. She slips off the sleeve, throwing it onto your face. It obscures your view, offering only the musky smell of her genitals.
You shake her sleeve away, only to catch her undoing your pants. She lifts your legs into the air, and works the waistband over your bottom. Then she pulls them the rest of the way, exposing your panties. Those come off with a snap, and your legs fall close together onto the bed.
You tense your thigh muscles, trying to shut the road inward. But she is much stronger than you. Your resistance lasts a few seconds, and then her dripping pole is centimeters from your entrance. The spongy head bumps into your clit. Drooping lines of warm pre-cum connect you to her.
She leans down, pressing her body to yours. Underneath the dress her mounds are larger. It must have a slimming effect. An especially good one, because her fat chest is crushing down on you. To move an inch away from her is more than difficult. Even her hands keep you from turning your head. They grasp at your hair, with her forearms locking in along your face.
Her lips are close to yours. A warm, steady breeze of cherry and tobacco fills your nose. It is the wine she drinks. Amarone. One vacation evening, your Father let you try some. You still remember the flavor, and yet she gives you a second taste. Her lips mash against yours. She has a strong tongue. It moves freely in your mouth, slathering your palate with more of the lingering Amarone.
Her heavy phallus finds your opening. It spurts viscous pre-cum, coating your hole in slimy juice. The large tip begins to sink, pressuring your folds to spread wider. She does not pay any heed to your whimpering, only exerting more strength in her hips. The considerable helmet finally slips in.
Your entrance is under more strain than ever before. Such girth being completely unknown to your fresh body. Its greasy thickness digs further into you. The shaft of her immense member has few veins, but each one is nearly the size of your pinky. They scrape your sensitive walls, throbbing with purpose.
She pumps deep inside you. Her hips rising and falling quickly, without allowing you to adjust. Depth you do not remember having stretches far apart. This new heat and substantial pressure in your groin is terrifying. It makes your heels push into the mattress, for the instinct to flee is back.
But she holds you firm and in place. Her plunge continues, the powerful meat shoving its way through your tightening insides. The protesting folds can not stop her advance, she only lets out moans along your face, sometimes directly into your mouth. You must know how pleasurable it is for her to fuck your snug canal.
And your vagina does not seem to know that she is a killer. It gives in to her phallic supremacy, secreting juices to ease her passage. Your lower glands dilate for her, and she pushes all the way up to your womb. There, her pulsing slab rests. It spits pre-cum on your cervix, marking a target for rich semen.
She holds her full length inside of you. Her balls, they feel extremely heavy and hot on your rear. Pressing their weight into your ass cheeks, they tell of Boss Carmine's virility and abnormal sperm count. You struggle once more, but your weak efforts are futile. The meat mushroom squishing against your womb mocks you.
Finally, Boss Carmine moves, raising up on her hands. She gives you a long, vigorous stroke. Her thick rod glides in to its wide root. Her swollen sack pounds your buttocks. With no mercy to show, she rips from your depths, and then punches back inside. The vicious cycle repeats.
You are screaming. Your cervix is hit by lightning each time she pumps you. The nerve endings in your pussy are furiously sending signals of extreme sensations to the brain. They undergo a strong pummeling on her downward thrusts, and a fast, very fierce dragging on her pull outs.
Yet, a mix of your fluids creates a creamy coating on her breeding pole. You are leaking copiously onto your sheets. That you feel pleasure is undeniable. That you are close to a breakdown of your mental faculties is also undeniable. Boss Carmine kills your Father, your Brother and dear, dear Mother, still, her cock fucks the best.
Above you she grunts, her thick meaty pipe stuffing your cunt. Her hips come down like a mallet, while those large balls spank your ass raw. She is plowing you with severe intensity. The bed rocks from her perfect, brutal form. You squeal and cry more than loud enough for those outside to hear. You imagine them laughing. Laughing and jerking their tiny pricks. Because she does this to all the pretty young girls that lose their families. And they all cum on her imposing manhood.
You are not an exception. Your cunt clamps onto her huge length, convulsing madly. Hot, sticky discharge erupts from your spasming pussy. It splatters onto her sack and wets your bottom. The rest of your body seizes continuously, your legs flail in a wild manner, and your arms cling to her. They cling to a murderer and rapist.
And she shows you just why she is the Boss. In a bestial fit of humping, she cums. Her seed blasts out. She gives you a few hard, back breaking thrusts while she shoots. Then she buries her greasy anaconda, letting it spray musky venom into your womb. Thick jets of boiling cock juice coat your eggs. Soon, your pussy is frothing around the seal of her member, the sheer amount of nut milk more than any woman can handle.
She huffs her cherry and tobacco breath into your face, coming down from her orgasm. Those placid brown eyes are still there, no softer or warmer towards you, despite unloading inside your womb. They must be somewhere else, as are you.
Your rolling eyeballs are glistening. They hardly register anything, not even the hands now resting lightly on your throat.
Such beautiful, dexterous hands wrap around your neck. They tense and squeeze. Your red cheeks get redder. You can not find the next breath. Your arms push at hers. They flex with all the strength you have. Your legs kick, knees banging into her sides. But her expression remains the same. You are somewhere else. And she is wringing the life out of you.
You begin to feel heavy. Your body, your consciousness is sinking. Everything is fading.
Her penis is still inside you, pulsing strongly.
You feel fear and hatred and pleasure for the last time.
And finally, you are somewhere else.
You are dead.
