Chapter 9
Izzy
Why do I write about killers?
What sort of answer will make him happy? Why does he even ask me?
Thinking means battling this foggy-blah-crap in my head and the pain in my hand. The blood on the white bandage covering the stab wound is a sharp reminder of what this man might do if I anger or upset him. What he has done to me already would drive some to despair. I refuse that option.
I’m stronger than that, and I see a weakness in his armor, a way into this man’s wants and needs. Least, I pray I do.
He joked and said it was a hobby, but he must be a professional killer.
His willingness to listen is a crack leading into his mind.
“I’ve asked myself that many times.” I shrug, look back at him and glimpse his hideous scars. Hideous and yet, on a man, I can somehow admire them. They speak of survival and strength.
He burned five years ago, burned in the worst agony and recovered, and still he remembered the details of my night out with…him, the dead man whose name I’ve forgotten. That’s fucking insane. He remembered the word we agreed on, the sex we arranged, and he kept the bracelet—and I don’t think I want to know how he came to have that.
He’s read my stories, tracked down my pen name online, though it wouldn’t be that difficult to do. It never worried me enough to obscure the trail. Now it’s too late. I’d see it as nothing, if it hadn’t made him ask that question.
And I’m to die at his hand unless what he said to me, whispered out of earshot of Montez and his men, is the truth.
The deal where I gave him my body.
Even I know it is a gift he already possesses.
“Are you really a k—” He stifles my words by slapping his hand over my mouth. His hand is beneath my nose, his muscled body shifts against me, and a subtle thrill stirs…a snake unwinding. A blight on the stars of my normal existence.
Do I have a death wish?
Unasked, I lick his palm, my tongue slowly gathering his taste from his skin, and he lifts it from me, then winds my hair in his fingers. He almost twists my hair from my scalp and gives a massive jerk.
My neck is taut and curved back by his fist, I wince and open my mouth wide. It’s the same position I used on the woman whose throat I cut.
“Bad girl,” he growls.
With difficulty, I swallow. He wants to know if he can trust me. It’s funny until it isn’t.
“You’re afraid of what I might say.” My voice is hoarse, and I say that so very quietly.
If saying things here is a worry, it will be doubly so at this party. That could be a weapon, except I am sure he will exterminate me on the spot if he suspects I will blurt it out to his enemies…
And that is what he means by trust.
“I am getting tired of waiting. Why do you write about killers?” I hear the smile in his tone then the sound of a zip, feel his fist moving behind my ass. He picks me up and hoists me backward to sit on top of his thighs. “Open.” He slaps my legs wider then puts his cock between them. Hand at the front of my throat, he holds me sitting and close to his chest as his cock thrusts upward. It nudges at me, and almost enters before it slides past.
With teeth, he latches onto the muscle that runs to my shoulder. Those teeth sink in, deep, deeper.
Fuck.
My shoulder spikes with delicious pain and I gasp. His cock pokes again, slips along, catches on my entrance…almost where it needs to be.
Ugh. Lust hits like a freight train, smashing thoughts to splinters.
“Your poor cunt keeps neglecting to swallow me.” He’s teasing me?
He slaps his palm over my clit and pussy, and he keeps it there. The weight of his hand, the circular pressure… He’s definitely teasing me.
Warily, I put my good hand over his, grind my ass into him.
“No.” He taps my clit with a finger. “Direct me, Izzy, and I’ll put a fucking needle through you. Somewhere.”
Oh god. I’m holding my breath.
He pushes my head forward so I can see how his finger touches me, presses, revolves. “Can you not behave?”
“But…” I almost whine for I’m fantasizing.
My kinks are many and evil.
The steel needle slipping into my skin, popping out of me. The well of blood. The pain, the minor gleeful horror, and the slow but sure tang of dark pleasure.
Sadism both repulses and attracts me.
I’m dragged back again, and he slaps my pussy, hard, makes me jump and yelp, but a lustful wave chases the pain so I make a sigh that morphs, quietly, into a moan.
“Oh you little bitch. Pain is your key, your kryptonite.”
His soft laugh, the thrust and withdrawal of his cock that doesn’t quite enter, it’s an intimate insult, a finger sloppy-fucking my brain. If he’d release me, I’d look. I want to see the head of his cock appear down there, jutting, to see my nakedness against him, my arousal coating him. I want to see how he has me in his hands.
I just want.
“Why do you write killers?” His lips whisper over my ear lobe. “This room may have ears. Be careful if you want to keep your tongue.”
I shiver at the threat, feeling the warm wet tease of tongue and teeth as he tells me he would love to needle me, shove a knife in my pussy, and leave me mewling and kicking on the floor.
I’m guessing he means the hilt of the knife, though him doing worse with the sharp end is scarily possible for my stabbed hand is a bloody testament. Yet an ache shudders and worms about, deep within me, like a vulgar graveyard fuck.
Threats are his currency.
“Killers, they’re interesting. Fun,” I murmur, my eyes closing. I’m naked and trapped against him, with his iron-hard cock cramming up and down my slit.
“More,” he says.
I wriggle in his lap, lick my lips with the tongue he wants to sever. He’d do that singing nursery rhymes and taunting me. Why, why, why do I write killers? I’m stalling with whimpers queuing in my throat, begging to get out.
I dig encouraging fingers into his wrist, but stop when he whispers nastily, “Needles in your fucking tits. More. Interesting isn’t good enough.”
“I might like that,” Stupid, stupid. Except he knows my secret. “I need to whisper this, closer. Can I turn over and say?”
He opens his arms which I take as a yes. I clear my throat, then carefully turn over and climb onto him on all fours. To do this I must open my legs and my breasts sway in his face. I straddle his hips and sit up.
Then I lean in and say my soft-spoken words. “You may as well ask why I have this sick attraction to you, a man who kills and enjoys it.”
The facial scars contort as he inches his back further up the wall. Then he repositions me with his hands about my waist. Hands slip to my rear and mold themselves to me, caressing.
I squeeze shut my eyes, getting my thoughts in order.
“I know I’m perverted, sick. Ever since you said you read my stories, if anything my fascination with you is worse.”
Am I betraying myself? Will this help my cause? Or will he kill me now for being a fool?
I’m flustered, struggling to make sense of what has never made sense to me. Again, I lean in and whisper.
“It seems a darker, stickier fascination. Like, I know you are bad.” He smirks. We both know that bad is an understatement. “You ignore the humanity of others, their right to life. And yet…” I raise my hand, advance it, until it hovers, shaking, near his face. I touch his mouth, dare to cradle his stubbled jaw. My fingers ride the bumps of his scars and still he only watches me.
My thumb ventures into his mouth, dipping past his teeth. He could snap them shut.
Be terrified later. If I were sensible, I would be asking about our deal.
His cock twitches at the crease of my ass, his nostrils widen. I can almost hear his bemusement.
This is not the time for being sensible. Ride the wave. Ignore the fear. I need him on my side.
I. Need. Him.
“And yet?” he prompts.
I’ve forgotten what I meant to say after that.
With both hands he cups my breasts. His gaze zeroes in on my nipples. I arch, offering myself, and he takes a nipple in his teeth, sucking on me, pulling.
Mouth open I feel my arousal leak from me.
Desire washes higher.
After one harder, prolonged suck, I’m gasping.
He leans back. “To bite or not to bite, that is the question.”
“A new question?” I laugh, feeling giddy.
“I’ve never had a girl mock me as I decide how to fuck her up.”
“I’m not?—”
He grabs my wrists and takes them behind my back, keeping them there while he reaches for something off to the side. When I try to see it, I overbalance.
A moment more and he’s slipped from under me, pinned me face-down and on my stomach, though I struggle to get free. He kneels on me, that knee a point of agony, and I shriek as he puts more pressure on my back. Loosely, he winds the chain that leads to my wrist about my neck.
“So soft and fragile. Have I found your breaking point already?”
“Fuck you!” I’m panting hard as my wrists are quickly bound with pieces of my dress. The knots are wrenched tight. He stands and rocks me with his foot then undoes and toes away the chain.
“Normally, I’d say it’s the other way around, in answer to that, but…since Montez told me I could fuck you, I decided not to. Now I’m torn.”
I turn my head, glare at him. “Do you always talk this much?”
“I could impale you on something to teach you a lesson. A broom handle? I’ll bet you wish I had one.”
If eyes can glitter with evil intent, his are beacons of Hell.
A chill crawls up my spine. It’s been a game, so far—a rough, nasty but strangely enjoyable game. A broom handle is too real, too cruel, too objectifying.
I curl and flex the fingers of my bound hands.
He hoists me onto my knees, squats before me, steadies me when I nearly fall. His erection is still sticking out from his fly, and it’s rudely wobbling.
“It’s tight?” I whimper, raise my eyebrows, twist to try to show my arm and my fingers.
“Here?” He caresses my fingers. “Of course it is, dearheart. Poor delicate girl. Now…” He looks around, searching for something. “Ah. There.” He pads over and returns carrying syringes with attached needles and his belt which trails across the ground.
“Is that clean?” I shrink away. As if AIDS or germs are the worst things in here.
“It’s only been stuck in you,” he adds casually as he threads the belt through the buckle then puts it on me like a noose. “Better. I love a woman with a leather necklace.”
The end of the belt lies in his hand. He pulls it high, forcing me to straighten and then to clumsily climb to my feet.
“Don’t slip,” he says, leading me toward the shower. Our chains follow us like silver serpents, rattling over the floor. “There. Stand, back against the wall, tits out. I’m going to play with them while I ask you more questions.”
The belt is tied to the shower head pipe. Head forced high, I totter as he pushes me into place with a hand at my breast.
I might get hurt here, but I’m beyond desiring the mundane or whatever the world beyond us treasures.
“You need me, want me,” I tell him as he ties one ankle with cloth then the other, so there is distance between my feet.
“I do. For now.” He steps back, looking me over. “Luckily for you. I’m going to toy with you, mark you, scratch my name on you.”
“Which name?”
I have hit the point of contention. Who is he?
“Adelmo?” I whisper.
The scar on his mouth twists. “You are so problematic. One.” The syringe appears and he approaches while I go on tiptoe, as he puts the syringe and needle beneath one nipple.
I’m hushed.
Achingly slowly, he ushers it inside my skin, as reverent as a surgeon making the first incision.
The pain lances in, and I gasp, my muscles flinch. The sharp inhalation comes first then a second later the erotic hit arrives, and my clit reacts. I flick out my tongue, touch my lip.
“I like this. Remember?”
He chuckles.
I’m bound and being made to take this. I don’t like this, I fucking love it. Only, I can’t quite see the needle. A little frustrated, I let my head tap back into the wall. He has me on display, breasts out, tied up, and to me being a voyeur of my own torture is the best of all.
I pant, concentrating on that burst of pain and replaying how this man did it to me.
“Yes, but I’m not about to cut off your fingers. Or stab you.” He clicks his tongue at what he sees, sounds torn. “Besides, I like doing it too. It’s crazy how I can do that, watch you, maybe make you scream, and still…like it.” He widens his stance, then bends at the waist and licks me above the needle, circling my nipple. “Absolutely nothing big to fuck you with though.” He sighs.
I stare at his cock, frown.
“No.” A new syringe is in his hand, and he stabs my other breast, pushes it until the needle emerges, lets it hang there. “Matching tits.”
I stifle a squeak.
“Let’s hope the antibiotics work, yeah? Now. List what can you do for me? If…”
“If?”
He sighs, his forehead wrinkles with what I guess is concern. “If I can keep you alive.”
I’m glad he’s worrying over me and disappointed. Despair niggles at me. He isn’t sure he can keep me alive, but…he wants to. That’s good. It is. Before, I was litter, a throwaway, a thing Montez wanted killed.
Didn’t I tell him all of what I might do for him, when he fucked me before Montez?
I’m thinking too much.
Then he arm-bars my throat, reaches between my spread thighs and wriggles two fingers into my pussy. He works at me there while he leans an elbow on the wall and half-strangles me. Narrow-eyed, thoughtful.
This is him not fucking me? I stare back at him, quivering, grunting at the worst and harshest efforts of those not-fucking fingers.
Needles, bondage, fingers in me, the lack of ability to do anything to stop him, and he’s a killer? I shut my eyes and consider joining a religion.
I hear myself sigh and grunt, part my thighs further, feel him kiss and bite my arm while he pumps into me. He paints my leg with wetness then plunges back in, his arm holds me against the wall, the belt shakes and tinkles from the rhythm.
“Ohhh, fuck,” I choke out, bang my head on the wall again. I’m lost in the wilderness.
“How about I let you come if you tell me something fucking worth it? Go.”
My breathing is no longer under my control. He begins to draw widening circles inside my pussy, then stuffs another finger in.
“Worthwhile?” I repeat, whimpering.
“So easily stirred.” My pussy makes wet sounds as he drives them in, pulls them out. My thighs are straining, my feet move apart, and I’m arching.
I draw a slightly strangled inhalation, resist swearing at him. “I can help you… I can plan how to get those you need to kill. I can lure them.”
“Keep going.” His fingers are jammed in as he kneels to bite and lick a track down one leg to my knee.
I mutter a string of fucks.
“Where were we?”
He stops. Hands, mouth, teeth still. Though he stays on the floor, arm between my legs.
“Why do you write killers.”
Why not say it? “It turns me on.”
“And?”
“I don’t know!”
“You want to die?”
“No! I just want a man who wants only me, and…he wants to hurt me like you do. A sadistic fucking asshole.” I frown at how I risked going there, then suck in a long, shuddering breath. “You wanted truth? That is my truth. It’s not simple to say why because I don’t know the whole answer. It’s sick. I know this—wanting someone who will kill anyone except me.”
I can taste the reality—inches, hours away. The craving for a man like this. I’ve bathed in gore and squirmed in the grip of possessive, violent antiheroes through the words on the pages of my books for so fucking long.
My protector—and who better to do that than a man who kills for fun.
Again I frown. The wound on my hand. He did that.
“I should hate you, but I don’t. Fuck me. Please?”
“Who is this girl who wants to be fucked?” He bites inside my knee, a small gentle bite.
“Me.” I close my eyes. “Me, a sick, disgusting girl.”
“You’re not that sick. I told you I’m not fucking you. Ask me again, and I’ll find more of those syringes to use on you like darts.”
Shit. I’m contemplating the two still stuck in me, when he rises and crushes my left breast. I’m struck dumb for a second as he presses, twisting the needles inside me. My knife-stabbed hand adds to the agony.
“Too much, too much!” I stomp my feet, get tangled in cloth rope and chains.
“Really?” Then he spears in with three, four fingers, crams them in over and over until I’m sobbing for release and can feel the slipperiness when he tries to thrust.
“You are a fucking sodding mess. You. Maybe you are sick.” He slides down me, frees my breast.
Swiveling my eyes, I look down, past the wobbling syringes, gaping, trying to breathe, and realize he’s on one knee and eyeing my clit area. He takes one bite above it, then takes a second bite that’s closer.
“Nooo,” I rasp. The belt presses on my throat. “Please?”
“No? You asked for it.” His whole hand seems to be worming into me, pushing, defying physics. My thighs and stomach tighten, spasm, muscles twitching. “Your cunt is trying to crush my hand.”
It is his hand. His whole hand.
“I’m going to tear apart.” God. “No, No.” Teeth bared, I’m overcome, distraught at how his entire fist has actually fucking entered me. My feet screw into the floor.
“Your greedy cunt tells me it wants it.”
Sweat drips off me, my breasts shine with it, and he’s grinning and fisting me, slowly. Have I split open? I sob. It feels as if I’m seconds from tearing.
Gasping, I try to rip my hands free, as he moves his fist in small increments with his face an inch from my clit. His mouth opens. Teeth show.
Then he puts his mouth on me and sucks while he fists me. A knot builds within, tension ramps, burning high, higher, peaking until, until…
His hand is inside me. Impossible. Unnatural.
With every muscle, I strain to the utmost… I’m moaning, my legs are jolting in great tremors, and the world blitzes into absolute mind-rending, white-out chaos.
Shattered, I fall into the belt and hang there, shaking, only to somehow find the floor with my feet and stay upright.
When he extracts his hand, I’m still shaking, I’m making dumb noises, because breathing is hard to get my head around. Through the tears in my eyes, I see him lick his knuckles like a demon cat as he retreats, his pink tongue sliding.
I check out for a few seconds, mind blanking.
The floor.
The floor is down there, with my feet.
He’s still watching me, just…my gasps and the great thumping of my heart roar in and occupy my head. The belt on my neck keeps me from succumbing and slumping.
My back and hands are pressed to the cold wall.
I peer at him, a little angry, a lot exhausted and trembling.
Drool hangs from my mouth. “Oh. You. That…was fucking…”
“A little disturbed? Poor Izzy. Be glad I didn’t have that broomstick.” His voice drips with sarcasm. “Now, list what you can do for me. More.”
“What?” My brain is full of nothing—scattered, disarrayed nothings.
“Now!”
Frantic, rattled beyond imagining, I splutter out whatever I can.
“I can write stories about you. I… Ummm.” Logical thought is returning. This is what he truly wants to hear? He kills people, for money, I assume. Or did I hear him imply he liked killing? “Use my influence to lead people where you want them. I can find out stuff, addresses.”
His eyes bore in. What the hell does he want? If it’s only to bite off pieces of me and watch me bleed, I’m going to lose.
I straighten and discover my legs still function. “Don’t you get lonely? I can play chess, Fallout, Guild Wars with you.”
He laughs. “If I play, it’s singleplayer RPGs.”
“Me too.” I pinch my lips. We have a point of intersection. He’s human. I dig some more. “I’ll look at the stars with you at night. Let me be your pin cushion. Your victim.”
He waggles his head. He has those already.
“I’ll…I’ll watch you do your thing.” At the last second, I lowered my voice. He doesn’t want too much said out loud. I eye him from under my brow. “I’ll find people who really deserve their fate.” That. That rings a bell, a deep-down purely awful bell. Who hasn’t dreamed of killing enemies, pulling them to bits?
I have. I suck in a breath that drags the air through the shredded flesh and piteous screams of everyone I hate. “I’d love to do that. Really.”
There. I said it. Hello Darkness, here I come.
I’ll do anything to live. Anything. And I will even enjoy some of that anything. How droll.
“I thought you wanted to save the world, Miss Izzy?”
With the floor my haven, I think it through, the angles, turning over my blackened soul like it’s a pig on a spit. I raise my head. “I still do, and this way I can clean it up faster, speed things along.”
At that he grunts and makes a dubious face.
I spit out the last of my crazy, mad list.
“I’d lie in bed and cuddle with you after you’ve done things you regret.”
“I never regret. More. Is that it?”
“Then I’ll help you become fucking president.”
“Being president is not on my agenda.”
He steps in, plucks out the needles, and starts to release the belt from the wall, then he just…doesn’t. He takes one, two steps backward, swallows. His gaze sweeps up me, stopping here, there, maybe cataloguing my injuries.
What is he about to do?