by Syra Bond
I felt as if I was whirling through space. Then I knew I was face down, pressed against the dirty damp ground. I smelled the mould in the alley - rotting rubbish, half empty dustbins, discarded clothing. I tasted it against my lips - human debris, detritus from the erosion of human flesh. Its heady acrid stench filled my nostrils. I felt trapped by evil in a place of evil - overcome by darkness in the darkest of places.
They pulled me up by my ankles, dragged me across the filthy cobbles, rubbed the stinking stench that stuck to them onto my skin, my face, my lips. I shouted out. My voice sounded hollow and empty - as if it belonged to another, as if it was merely an echo of a plaintive cry from the past. I felt the pressure of their hands around my ankles. I imagined being dangled from them, bound to a rock and held over a gaping precipice. I felt slapping hands against my bottom - stinging pain, penetrating me, hurting me. Then it spread to my hands, my fingertips and from there it dissipated like sparks from my fingernails.
I realised what was happening when I felt smooth metal against my chest. I still had my blouse on but it was thin and the coldness that emanated from the smooth surface struck me as if I had been flung into an icy pool. They draped me over it so that my full weight was against it. I lay there. Panting, realising my situation, bent forward over the large galvanised waste bin that lay on its side in the alley.
For a moment I thought of the woman and the man. I wondered again if they could see me - if now they were watching me instead of me watching them. I wondered if the woman was still plunging up and down on the man’s cock, and the sight of me only excited her more. I imagined her clinging onto the man’s neck, staring at me as I lay curved over the heavy waste bin, my bottom already exposed, victim to whatever my tormentors decided would be my fate. I imagined her spit running freely from her mouth, dripping over the man’s hair. I pictured her rubbing her face in it, wetting her cheeks, drawing it up her nostrils, thinking of it as his semen, driving herself down hard, riding him, sucking at his cock, eager for its product, fervent for the heat of his fluid.
They were wrapping something around my wrists. I could feel it cutting into my skin, like thin twine or leather thongs. They pulled my arms forward around the large metal bin. I felt squashed against its cold smooth surface. Then I felt them putting something around my ankles - it cut into my skin like the thin twine around my wrists. They splayed my legs so that they would pull forward in line with the cylindrical curve of the bin. I felt the icy coldness of the galvanized metal against the insides of my thighs. They pulled on my wrists and ankles; I pulled against the pressure and felt the same movement in my ankles. Somehow, they had laced my ankles to my wrists - they had led the twine beneath the waste bin and pulled me down firmly against it. I pulled again on my wrists; the pressure on my ankles was instantaneous - it was drawn that tight.
I could feel my heart beating against the hollow metal bin - it echoed inside it, as if my heart itself was empty or had been torn live from my chest and flung into the waste bin. They pulled my head to one side, yanking at my hair until they had it at the angle they wanted. The waste bin rocked forward and back. I felt giddy and tasted heaving vomit in my throat.
There was a pause. I was sure I heard the woman again - groaning, crying out, and groaning again. I thought of her in the final throws of her ecstasy, gripping the man’s head in her arms, pressing down, jerking, allowing her orgasm to flow, being overcome by it, drowned by it. I imagined her eyes - wide and staring, declaring that for those few moments she no longer inhabited her body, for those few moments she was transported to another place where nothing lived, nothing died and nothing but ecstasy existed.
Hands forced open my mouth - pulling at my lower jaw, prising it open until it ached. I thought they would press a ball in my mouth, stuff me with it, but instead I felt the heat of a cock - a massive hot swollen cock. It plugged me completely. The glans wedged between my teeth at first then it squeezed in only to be locked there as it swelled up behind my teeth. My lips were stretched so wide they were numb.
I gulped and fought for breath. I tried to shake my head, to escape the stuffing cock in my mouth, but my head was being held fast, pressed against the waste bin by powerful hands, crushing me against it, preventing me from moving at all. I was completely captive, held against the heavy metal cylinder by the twine around my wrists and ankles, my head held fast, my mouth plugged by the massive hot cock.
It would not go any further into my mouth, it touched the back of my throat as it swelled but it would not go down. It simply expanded, pressing my tongue down against the floor of my mouth, squeezing against my cheeks, pressuring against the roof of my mouth.
I felt pain. I reacted but I don’t know how - it was impossible to move. I could only imagine how my body wanted to respond - pulling back, tensing, pulling away from the source of the pain. I soaked it up. It started against the taut exposed skin of my buttocks - where they were struck - and flowed into my cunt, my anus and then into the rest of my body. It was a pure pain, uncorrupted by any movement or response, it was simply pain.
Another and another, and the sensation was the same - clear and undiluted pain, stinging, deep and totally penetrating. Another, and yet another. I could not bite down on the cock in my mouth - my jaw was forced too wide. I could not pull my wrists away - if I tried they only pulled against my ankles. I could not yell out, or cry for mercy. I could hardly think. I could only see the pictures in my mind of the woman, groaning and dribbling as she jerked unendingly on the still thrusting cock that was pressed so deeply inside her open wet cunt. And this I could only see through a cloudy haze of red.
I thought I felt hot breath against the stretched side of my neck - an open mouth, a tongue licking, the sharp points of teeth pulling against the skin. Yes, it was a mouth - I could hear the breath - slow and considered, even, unhurried. I felt the teeth against my skin - pressing against it, their tips so sharp. Then another smack across my bottom - so hard, so painful, so penetrating. I was filled with it and with the cock in my mouth. Suddenly, nothing felt right. I felt confused, puzzled. Who was smacking me? I imagined it must be the woman; she must have climbed from the man, her cunt still dripping with his semen. She must be standing behind me, under the instructions of the two men. They must be telling her what to do - when to spank me, when to bring down her hand, when to inflict the next pure pain. Yes, it must be the woman. Perhaps the man was on his knees between her legs licking her dripping cunt, sucking up his own semen, keeping her wetness on his lips so that he would not forget her scent.
Suddenly, I felt the bite in my neck - it was sharp and certain, it cut straight through my skin. I felt the suction against my vein. I felt my blood flowing out of me and into him. I heard his mouth lapping, sucking, then all I felt was the pressure, the flow, the loss. My heart was beating so fast - as if it was excited by the draining, as if it knew I was giving my essence, as if it knew I was being emptied.
The smacking continued, my mouth stayed plugged. I breathed in heavily through my nostrils. I could not change what was happening. I thought of the woman again - beating me in time with the rhythmic sucking at my neck. I thought of her cunt, her beautiful wet cunt, and I slipped into darkness with the scent of her in my nostrils and the red shrouded picture of her in my mind.
I shivered all over - that was the next thing I knew. I had been freed from the waste bin. I was naked. My dress was thrown down like a rag behind it. My jaw ached, my bottom felt on fire - I could hardly touch it. I held my hand against my neck. Yes, my blood had been taken. The raised punctures in my skin testified to that. I felt light headed. I leant against the wall near the entrance to the alley. My heart was beating fast, as if it was struggling to pump my blood around, as if there was not enough for it to work properly. I felt its craving - for more. I pulled my dress on. It was crumpled and dirty. I stumbled out into the street and sat on a bench until I felt strong enough to continue.
&nb
sp; Still shaky, I found my way to the address easily. It was a cheap hotel called “East-East” on a side street off the main square. Red geraniums trailed from window boxes beneath the bedroom windows, cascading their harsh scent onto the single canopied table and chairs which waited for diners at the front door. It was quaint on the outside, austere on the inside - dark brown wooden surfaces, drawn curtains, no light, a pervading smell of polish.
The girl behind the reception desk spoke heavily accented English.
When I gave my name, she looked at me inquisitively, and then reached for something from beneath her desk.
‘You, Miss Baund. You have message here waiting.’
I took the envelope. It was a scrawled message: “8.30pm, Main Square, outside Café Foil.”
I thanked the girl, went to my room, lay on the brown shiny eiderdown that covered the double bed and immediately fell asleep.
The next thing I knew I heard voices outside the window. I got up bleary eyed. I staggered to the window, hardly able to rouse myself. Below, in the alley, people were gathering together, deciding where to go for the evening, and arguing about how to get there. It was nearly 8.30!
I rushed down into the alley and straight to the main square - Hlavné Námestie. It was packed with people, noisy and bustling. All the cafés had chairs and tables spread out over the pavements and into the square. At its centre the Maximilian Fountain spilled out plumes of sparkling water. It reminded me of Vienna - heavy and overbuilt. Street lights lit in the early evening sunlight made it seem darker than it was. I looked for the names above the cafés. It was all a blur. At last I saw it - “Café Foil”. I rushed over to it and looked into a sea of faces. I saw a spare chair and sat down. Three other people at the table looked annoyed at my intrusion, staring at me reprovingly before finally carrying on chatting.
I looked around. How would I find the person I needed to contact in this crowd? Or how would they find me? How could we ever recognise each other?
I saw a man walking in my direction - he was tall. I couldn’t quite make out his face against the lights that surrounded the pavement terrace of chairs and tables. He came closer. There was something about him that seemed familiar. No, it was impossible! He stepped out of the shadow of the lights and stood by my side. The others at the table said hello to him - they clearly knew him. It was Pastor Wick!
SPARKY
Pastor Wick! I couldn’t believe it! The last I’d seen of him he’d been running behind me in the jet way when I boarded the plane at San Francisco. I didn’t know what to think. Why was he here? Was he still pursuing me? Did he still want to take me back to Pacific Heights? Pacific Heights! That seemed an age ago! Yes, of course, that was it. He was trying to get me back to that dreadful place, to service his flock!
I stared at him blankly.
He ordered a drink and asked me casually what I wanted.
‘Something to eat would be good,’ I said nervously, not knowing what else to do or say. As I said it I felt ridiculous.
‘Choose what you want. It’s been a long journey. You deserve it as well, for all your effort.’
‘Just a salad. That’ll do fine.’
My words sounded completely absurd. How could I be talking like this?
‘You look surprised to see me.’
‘Well...yes...I am.’
He laughed.
‘You didn’t make the connection! Of course! How amusing. Oh, Syra!’
I didn’t know what he meant.
‘Sorry?’
‘Don’t you understand, Syra? Why do you think I’m here? Do you think I have emerged out of nowhere? Do you think I’m a ghost? Do you think our meeting is a coincidence? Syra, your appointment is with me! I’m the one you have travelled all this way to meet. Well, actually, I’m standing in, so to speak, for the one who had originally planned to meet you. I’m afraid she could not make it! Now, do you have the package that was entrusted to you? Syra, the package? Perhaps you would be kind enough to hand over the package now.’
My heart was pounding. It was only slowly sinking in what was happening. Of course, he couldn’t have been the one I was meant to meet! That was impossible. How could it be him?
‘Where is the person I was supposed to meet?’
I looked around as if somehow the right person would appear and make themselves known.
‘Delayed, I’m afraid - permanently delayed.’
He laughed and swigged his drink - an opaque pink mixture with salt encrusted around the edge of the bowl shaped glass. The white ring around his neck showed prominently. Two puncture marks on the right hand side made me shiver as I was reminded again of Pacific Heights, of the flock and of Pastor Wick’s mission to bring me to them.
“Permanently delayed” - he made it sound so ominous.
He licked the salt from his lips as he placed the glass back carefully on the table.
‘I need salt in this heat - lots of it. Now, the box? Syra, perhaps you would give me the box?’
‘I’m afraid...I’m afraid...I don’t have it.’
He laughed as he twirled the glass slowly in his hand and licked all the salt from around the rim.
‘This is some kind of silly joke, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s not. It was stolen. I don’t have it, and I don’t have enough money to get out of this place.’
He stared hard at me. I could see he was enraged and barely managing to hold it back.
‘Syra, I’m not interested in your jokes. Now! Hand over the box!’
‘It’s not a joke! It’s the truth! I don’t have it!’
‘Tell me where it is, Syra. I don’t want to play silly games. Just tell me where it is.’
His face was reddening as he struggled to keep calm.
‘I don’t know. It was stolen. It’s the truth.’
‘Stolen! Syra, my patience is running out. I want the box you were given in San Francisco. I’m not interested in this nonsense. Just tell me where it is.’
I could see he was unable to restrain his anger much longer, but I didn’t know what else to say.
‘Two girls took it! They just ran away with it! At the station! It’s the truth - ’
‘Syra, just tell me where the box is. It will be better for you in the long run.’
His voice was quivering.
‘I have. It’s gone. That the truth!’
His face was red with anger. He leant across the table and took hold of my arm. I could feel his pulse beating hard in his fingers as they wrapped tightly around my wrist. He squeezed it tightly in a vice like grip.
‘Syra, I have been patient, I have tried hard to be patient, you are, after all, important to the flock - very important - but the box is very important to us as well, more important than you know. Syra, the box is very important to us. I must have the box.’
‘I’m telling you the truth. It was stolen.’
He pinched the skin of my forearm between his finger and thumb. I bit my lips, trying to hold back the pain. He squeezed harder. I thought my arm was going to break. He twisted his hand around my arm, pulling at my skin, burning me. I gasped for breath. Suddenly, with his other hand he grabbed my bag and tore it open. He pulled out my passport and held it up in front of me.
I felt as if my heart had stopped. I gasped for breath.
‘You went to a lot of trouble to get this the last time, I recall. I’m sure you’ll go to just as much trouble this time.’ He waved the passport in front of my face. ‘I’ll keep this for a few days, just so that you have something to think about while you find me the box. I’m sure it will help you in your search. Yes, I’m sure you’ll find the stolen box more easily now. I’ll see you here, the day after tomorrow, same time. You’ll give me the box, you can have your passport back, and then we’ll travel back to your true
home together. The flock will welcome you with open arms. Just think, Syra, you will be able to feed them and bring others into our world. Syra, just think, your life will then be complete.’
He thrust the passport into his trouser pocket, let go of my arm got up and dashed away across the crowded café.
For a moment, I did nothing - I was too confused, too filled with fear. My arm was burning from his twisting grip. The sound of voices around me filled my head like the beating of a drum. Then I went into a panic as I realised he had run away with my passport!
I jumped up and ran after him. I knocked over a chair and spilled a tray of drinks a young female waiter was carrying to a group of men on the edge of the sprawl of chairs and tables that reached out into the square. I apologised as I ran flustered across the square and into a narrow street that led off alongside a huge heavy walled building.
The street was dark. It was suddenly quiet - the massive stone walls of the building seemed to soak up all sound. For a moment I couldn’t make anything out. The dim yellow street lamps shed pools of light along its length. Pastor Wick ran from one to the next like a fleeing wraith escaping the exposure of the dark and seeking the sanctuary of the day. I just ran after him, not thinking what I would do if I caught him up, not thinking that I would be better to run away, to put it all behind me and escape. All I could see in my mind was my passport in his hand. All I could feel inside myself was the fear of being without it.
He seemed to jump from each puddle of light to the next. It was as if he flew between them - alighting on them like a fly, eyeing up his next target then flinging himself towards it before moving on again.
The walls narrowed, the cobbled street tightened, two heavy, cast iron bollards blocked the way to traffic. Pastor Wick mounted the top of one of them and crouched there, peering around him, swinging his arms by his side, perfectly balanced and poised.