Chapter 16 James
James
She wants to take his cock first.
That thought hits me like a spark on old petrol. My Prayer, bare-legged and blood-smeared, stares down at Rick, and there’s nae fear in her, nae revulsion. Just cold calculation, like she’s pricing up a bit of meat at the butcher’s.
“He touched me with it,” she says, her voice flat as a dead road. “He doesn’t get to keep it.”
Aye. That’s my girl. My cock twitches, aching and half hard again, straining at my zip even after all that sex and blood and violence. Christ, she’s perfect. My heart thuds, fierce and proud. That’s worship, that.
“Tools are in my van,” I mutter, rough as sandpaper. “I’ll need the bone saw.”
“I’ll lock the front of the store, flip the Closed sign, and get the bleach from the cupboard.“ She nods, no fuss, already off to grab what she needs.
Cool as you like, like we’re just giving the place a deep clean, not about to carve up her shite boss.
She moves off, and I catch the sway of her hips, her sexy ass, her bonnie perfection. Then it’s just me and Rick’s corpse, the rage that burned white-hot in me cooling now, hardening into something colder, sharper. It’s called purpose.
This isn’t just getting rid of a body. This is a rite. A message. Our communion, aye.
When I step out into the cool night, the tang of blood still clinging to my nostrils, my van’s a shadow at the edge of the lot.
I fling open the back, and my tools hang neat as you like between my computer monitors: wrenches, pry bars, socket sets.
But under the false floor lies my special kit.
Contractor bags, tarps, gloves, and the bone saw.
I lift it out—solid steel, blade sharp as a Glasgow smile. I run my thumb along the handle, feel the heft, the promise in it. Aye, this is a key for dark doors. Feels right, like a talisman. Me and this saw, we’ve made plenty of history together.
Back inside, Prayer locks up behind me and has already dragged out the bucket and bleach. That wee, sharp smile graces her lips—the kind that says she’s right at home in the mess. Makes my blood run hot, that smile.
“Right,” I say, my voice echoing off the bathroom tiles, “let’s chop him up and make the rest of him fit down that drain.”
We spread the tarp—crinkle, crinkle—then roll the body on it. Rick’s arms flop like a burst sausage, his face mashed flat, but Prayer doesn’t blink. Her eyes are fixed, intent. Aye, she’s been here before, in her mind if not her hands.
Gloves on, thick, black, up to the elbows. I toss a pair to her, and she slides them on, her fingers swallowed up. Something about those wee hands in murder gear gets me harder. My little butcher queen.
“Prayer,” I rumble, “ye sure ye want to see this bit? It’s…messy. I can do it myself if ye—“
“If you try to send me away,” she says, soft but dangerous, “I’ll take the saw myself and start with you.”
I cannae help it—a laugh bursts out, low and rough. No threat. That’s a vow. My lass, my equal, soaked in blood and cheek. She’s a dark mirror reflecting every twisted impulse I possess. Christ, I’d marry her in this bog right now.
“Aye. Point taken.”
I kneel by Rick’s hips, Prayer opposite, her gloved hands ready. I pull back his jeans, and his cock flops out, pale and sorry, no power left in it.
“Clean cut,” I say. “Then the baws. Bag ’em separate, mind.”
She nods, no bother. Her breaths are quick, but her hands are steady as a surgeon’s.
I set the saw’s teeth at the root of his cock, cold steel on dead flesh, draw back, push forward. The sound’s obscene—wet, grating, skin against metal. Blood wells, thick and dark, pooling fast. The stink’s wild, like copper, sweat, and something sour under it.
Prayer doesn’t flinch. A wee spray of blood spatters her cheek, right under her eye. She just blinks, nothing more.
I work the saw, back and forth, the vibration shuddering up my arms. With a slight crunch and a jerk, his sorry cock comes free. I lift the bit—still warm, limp in my glove—and drop it in the bag Sera holds open.
“Baws next,” I grunt, setting the saw under his sac.
More crunch, more blood, more stink. The baws come out easy, like wee eggs. In the bag. Done.
I glance up. Sera’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes wide, pupils big as saucers. She’s buzzing, and aye, so am I with the high of control, the rush of cutting a threat to pieces, and seeing her beside me.
“Arms next,” I say, shifting position.
The saw bites deep, screaming through muscle and tendon, then—crack—through the shoulder. Blood spurts, soaking the tarp. Sera holds the bags, helps me roll the heavy bugger, never flinching.
Legs after, through the hip. The screech of steel on bone makes my teeth ache. The leg comes free with a wet rip. Limbs bagged, sealed. We work quickly, efficiently, like we’ve done this a dozen times.
I have, but never with a partner.
Now just the torso and the head. Blood pools thickly, the air heavy with death.
“Head last,” I mutter, breathing hard.
The saw bites at the neck, scraping through skin, muscle, then the spine. I bear down, sweat stinging my eyes, till with a final, splintering crack, the head comes free.
I lift it by Rick’s greasy hair. Prayer holds the bag wide, and I drop it in. Done.
Standing up straight, we stare at the bags—limbs, cock, head—all neat and tidy, then we bag the torso too.
Sera’s chest heaves, her entire face and front spattered with blood, her eyes wild and alive. She keeps darting them to me, hungry and wanting.
I don’t think—I just move. Still clutching the saw, I grab the back of her neck, haul her in, and crash my mouth to hers.
The kiss is wild, teeth and tongue and blood, tasting of iron and cum. She grabs my shirt, pulling me close, her tongue fierce and hot. The saw drops with a clatter, forgotten.
I pin her against the blood-drenched wall tiles, my knee between her thighs. My cock’s aching, straining hard.
I break the kiss, my breath ragged. Her lips are swollen, smeared with blood. I wish it was hers, but it doesn’t matter right now.
“Need,” I growl. “Now.”
“Yes.” She gasps, grinding against my thigh. “Fucking ruin me.”
I fumble my jeans, my gloves too slick with blood. Finally, I wrench off my gloves and shove down my jeans just enough. My cock springs free, thick, leaking, and desperate once again.
She grabs my dick with her blood-soaked gloved hand, the rough rubber making me groan. “Christ, lass.”
She strokes me, once, twice, smearing my cock with a dead man’s blood. She hitches her leg up, and I grab her arse, haul her up, her legs going round my waist. I shove in, hard.
She cries out, her head snapping back, her cunt gripping me tight. She comes straight away, spasming round me, milking me. The heat of her, the smell of blood and sex... Fuck, it’s maddening.
I hold her pinned, buried deep, watching her face twist with pleasure, blood drenching her cheeks and chin, her mouth open in a silent scream. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Then I’m moving, hard and fast and relentless, fucking her up against the wall, the slap of skin on skin echoing. I grip her arse, and her arms go round my neck, her nails digging into my scalp.
“Harder!” she demands. “Don’t stop!”
I give her everything, each thrust a promise, a curse, a prayer. Her cries climb higher, her cunt squeezing me so tight I almost see God.
“That’s it, Prayer,” I rasp. “Take it. All of it. Ye wanted this. Ye earned it.”
She comes again, a scream tearing loose. Her cunt clamps down, pulling me under. I can’t hold back. I roar, slam in deep, pull out fast, and spill my seed in wave after wave, my knees shaking.
We stay there, locked together, panting, blood and sweat and cum all tangled. The bags of body parts sit nearby, the saw gleaming on the tiles.
Slowly, I set her on her feet. She sags, then straightens, her blue eyes meeting mine. A feral smile curls her lips. I laugh, cannae help it. It bursts out, mad and free. She laughs too, sharp and bright as breaking glass.
We stand there, covered in blood and ruin and each other, laughing like maniacs in the middle of our own carnage.
Some love song, eh?