“You’re a bastard!”
“I won’t argue with that.”
A mixture of pain and pleasure courses through me as his hand slaps down over my swollen, aching clit. His fingers pinch and pull, and what should be causing me pain, instead, has me on the verge of coming. His body slaps violently against mine as he forcefully fucks me, pinching my clit until I scream out and climax against my will.
“That’s it. There’s nothing like a good angry fuck.”
“I hate you. I fucking hate you,” I cry out, lying. I am pissed that he scared me and has taken me against my will, leading me to believe he was stranger in a darkened warehouse.
His hips rotate in small circles as he slows down, entering and exiting until he’s playing my body like it’s an instrument he’s mastered through years of practice. He’s right; I enjoy the way he takes me at will. I get excited by the vile things he does, and the thought that he has me strapped down in a room where he has killed people in the past turns me on.
“Yes! I like what you do to me,” I scream out as, once again, my body is racked with pleasure. “Fucking take it. Take me. Do whatever you want… I’m yours.”
It’s as if he’s been waiting for me to admit that I enjoy all of the ways he takes me because as soon as I say it, he explodes within me. I can feel the tremors that overtake his body, and I know it isn’t just him taking me. It’s reciprocal—I’m taking him too.
Chapter Fifteen
Charles
My wife fulfills a part of me that no woman has ever been able to satisfy before. For me, the enjoyment of sex is as much about domination and control as it is about the actual act of penetration. I don’t just want to penetrate her body; I want to penetrate her mind. I want to roam the corridors of her thoughts and discover secrets even she isn’t aware exist within her. The ability to mind fuck her by setting up this evening’s attack is pleasing to me, and I know it met a need in her that she wasn’t conscious of until I showed it to her.
I am introducing her to a side of her personality she didn’t know existed. She watches me like an excited child as I show her around the warehouse, the chosen locale for my acts of vengeance over the years.
“The two most important things about killing are making sure your target is guilty and not getting caught. It’s very important that you carry out the full execution of a kill, and that means covering your tracks. With today’s technology, one drop of blood is all it takes to get caught. From start to finish, it’s important that you take your time and follow through. Even though you’re excited while doing it, a kill should never be frenzied. Being in control is an absolute must. The professionals have a term they use for frenzied killers—disorganized. Disorganized serial killers operate in a more agitated state, or what I like to think of as the emotional realm. Though you and I are emotional in the sense that we’re passionate about avenging victims who have been wronged, we’re organized about the kill itself. In this line of work, you’re either organized, or you’re caught.”
“Do you have a list you go through?”
“A mental list, yes. It is necessary to gain control as soon as you confront your victim. This is how I manage that.”
I open a cabinet that has vials neatly lined up and pull one out, holding it between my thumb and forefinger to show it to her.
“This is ketamine. It’s mostly used on animals, but it works on humans too. This agent not only works as a sedative, but it also induces a dream like state when the victim regains consciousness. That way, even after he awakens, it still keeps him under your control. By then, you should hopefully have him tied down to that table I just had you on.”
“So, you’ve allowed yourself time to subdue your victim by drugging them?”
“Absolutely. You want to make sure you have effectively transported and subdued your victim during the time he was in a drugged state. Don’t ever make the mistake of underestimating your victim. Always remember that you’re dealing with someone who is in the mindset of survival; every instinct he has will be telling him he needs to fight in order to live. Fight or flight has kicked in, and the adrenaline in his system is enabling him to do things he wouldn’t be able to do under normal circumstances. If he gets away, he can identify you. If he fights you hard enough, he takes your DNA with him to the grave, or to the precinct if he was successful in his escape attempt. One hair or one skin scraping from where he scratched you while fighting you off is all it takes to get you caught.”
“Do you have access to an incinerator?”
“Spoken like a true criminal,” I chuckle, feeling a sense of pride in being able to teach my wife something no one else can. I want her to be inquisitive. Curiosity breeds a fertile mind and a love of learning. She has a lot to learn and a short time to learn it in. I’m pleased with how much progress she’s showing already. If I mentor her correctly, she’ll do fine.
“Or, you’re at least one in training—a criminal, I mean.” The lopsided grin on her face is adorable. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have an incinerator here.”
“What’s your reasoning for not using it all the time?”
“Our purpose in doing this is to send a message to the public, especially to the criminals.” I take a moment to pace the length of the steel surgical table; it helps me think. I don’t want to miss relaying any information to my trainee. Being a successful serial killer is hard enough for just one person. Trying to pull it off with two people is nigh impossible. The only thing my partner has going for her is the fact that I will be here, going over my mental checklist to have her back. Two of us working will leave more room for error, but if the situation is handled correctly, it could also leave room for more success. After all, two heads are better than one. That is, of course, if the right people are working together. It’s also much easier to transport a body and set up a kill room with two people. It literally cuts the workload in half.
Killing together will do something no other single act can do. It will forge an unbreakable bond with the woman I am spending the rest of my life with. There’s something disturbingly romantic about it all.
Melanie
I watch my husband as he paces the length of the steel table. His copper hair blends nicely with the tan suit he’s chosen to wear, glinting in the bright fluorescent light of the sterile room. I can see the lines of worry on his face, and it’s startling to see on a man who rarely shows me or anyone else what he’s thinking. He’s concerned we will be caught because of me. I, on the other hand, am determined not to let that happen.
I turn my attention away from my husband and study my surroundings. The room we’re standing in looks like a sterile operating room, and I wonder where my husband gained the knowledge on how to set one up. I resolve, in that moment, to be an asset to him, not a hindrance. With my medical training and his police procedural knowledge, we can do this. In fact, I believe not only can we do it, we can be a successful team at it as well.
“How do you determine whether you’ll torture a victim or not?”
“It just depends on the nature of their crimes. If they’ve tormented society with senseless killings, and I feel the need to make them suffer for it, then I do. If I need information, and they won’t give it to me, then I convince them to do so by any means necessary.”
“How do you get them to give you information if they know they’re going to die anyway?”
“When the pain gets intense enough, believe me, death is seen as a welcome escape. I’ve had victims beg me to kill them just to put an end to the suffering I’m causing.”
I begin walking around the room, processing everything my husband has said and looking at all the implements he uses to kill men who don’t deserve to breathe the same air as us.
“What is this tank for?”
He saunters over to me, laying his hand over mine and looking at me face to face.
“Nitrous Oxide, better known as laughing gas.”
“You’ve certainly thought of everything.”
“What is this?”
I point to a black rolled-up piece of suede material. With the expertise of a man who knows what he’s doing, he unties the black satin string and rolls out the material on the long formica countertop. The fluorescent running light, shining down from overhead, reflects off the silver blades, making them gleam as if they’ve just been polished. How can something so deadly be so beautifully intriguing?
I run my fingers over them with loving care.
“Careful, I keep my blades razor sharp.”
“I’m well aware how sharp you keep your knives. Have you forgotten so soon that I’ve been on the receiving end of them?”
I gently touch the bandaged area on my breastbone, wincing from the pain that’s still so fresh.
“Of course not, love. How could I ever forget something so deliciously gratifying?”
There’s no doubt my husband has an appetite for my pain, and he’s created an equally strong hunger in me to feel the pain he subjects me to.
More than once, we have given ourselves over to the excitement the danger of knife play brings us—tonight certainly wasn’t the first time he’s cut me. It is, however, the first time I have been branded with a specific carving. There really is nothing like knife play to get the adrenaline pumping. The fear my husband is able to instill in me serves as a powerful aphrodisiac, intensifying the pleasure of our sexual escapades.
“This is part of my kill kit. When I’m unable to take the time to bring a victim back here to our warehouse, I carry this and a few other necessities in a bag I keep in my vehicle.”
It’s the first time he has used the term our. This is no longer just about him. It is about me too. We’re a team, and I have every intention of adding to that team. I am determined to prove the addition of my skills will be advantageous and that I will not be the reason for our downfall.
Chapter Sixteen
Charles
I’m sitting in bed and working on my laptop, listening to the steady rhythm of my wife’s breathing. I’m updating my blog, not because I need to be connected with those who still follow it, but because it’s a connection to people who will give me tips about criminals. My followers contact me with information they won’t give to the police, and that is the site’s true purpose. The blog isn’t as much about me as my followers like to believe. It’s about seeking and obtaining justice for victims who would likely never receive it otherwise.
The authorities hate me. They feel like I am glamorizing vigilantism. I know law enforcement monitors the site, and I take that under consideration as I write my thoughts. My fingers fly over the keyboard, and it’s like I haven’t been gone all these years—like I never left. I know this will set off an avalanche of responses from the public, but what I am going to post needs to be said.
What are your thoughts about a man who takes a woman, holding her hostage, while he and three other men rape her before they throw her out like yesterday’s trash? Maybe I should reword that because, technically, the head of this little band of goons doesn’t actually rape the women; he just watches, forcing others to do what he can’t. It isn’t enough to control his victims, this guy feels the need to control the men he has doing his sick bidding.
Normally, now would be when I might ask for tips on these dirtbags, but this time, I know who I’m dealing with. I have every intention of bringing him down and taking the one thing this moron loves away from him—his sick form of control. I’m coming for him, and I’m coming for the goons who work for him. Stay tuned for all the glorious gory details of a man who is taking the law back into his own hands…
Yours truly, Black Rose
I know I’m taking a risk by publically calling him out, but I am pissed. I want the son of a bitch to be scared, realizing I know his identity. I want him to feel the kind of terror that comes from only one thing—being hunted. Now, he is the one who is prey! My prey!
Chapter Seventeen
The Killer
I’m sitting at my computer, going through the contact list of the nurse who works at the hospital. I had managed to copy all her information onto a cellular seizure investigation stick when she unwittingly draped her jacket over a chair behind the nurse’s station, leaving her phone unattended in the jacket’s pocket. It’s amazing to me how trusting people are. They always make sure to have their purses with them, yet they leave their cell phones accessible to thieves, or in my case, a stalker. Don’t they realize their entire lives are on their phones? If I get your phone, you’re fucked.
Evelyn, as I have already learned, is no different than anyone else in how much of her life is stored on her cell phone, and now I have access to all her personal information. It looks like little Evelyn is completely at my mercy, and she doesn’t even know it.
I want to find out who was on the other end of that line when I overheard her talking on the phone at the hospital. Well, I guess eavesdropped would be a more appropriate term. I don’t like the fact that my name is floating around out there in the mind of one of her coworkers. I also don’t want to have to kill the nurse. Picking up some hooker off the street to hold hostage and kill doesn’t garner much attention in the local community, but the murder of a nurse will. Idealistically, people like to say everyone’s life matters equally, but in the real world, nobody cares about the death of a prostitute.
As far as the professionals are concerned, hookers live a high-risk lifestyle that invites trouble. On the other hand, killing a nurse is front-page news. Even as cold-blooded as I am, I can see the unfairness in the disparity, but that’s just the way it is in society. We can gloss over it all we want, but the death of a hooker goes to the back of the newspaper—if it’s mentioned at all—and the murder of a nurse is headlined. Keeping my abductions limited to street people is what has kept me under the radar. I’ll save the high profile for my television show. I love being famous, having always had the need to be the center of attention, but I damn sure don’t want to be infamous.
I pull up her call log and start scrolling through her most recent history. I see where she was talking with a coworker, but that isn’t what catches my eye. What does snag my attention is the fact that she has the web address for a very popular vigilante in her browser history. Supposedly, the man is a serial killer legend. I do believe he exists, though there is no proof of the killer’s identity. The public recognizes him, and they aren’t the only entity acknowledging him as a bona fide judge, jury, and executioner rolled into one; the media does as well. Though law enforcement tries to downplay his role, the public won’t allow him to slide into obscurity. You’d think the man was a rock star with the following he has. What connection does this nurse have to the serial killer? My guess is she’s probably just another groupie. This does add another dimension to the game. Black Rose isn’t someone I want as an enemy.
I punch up the website to take a look, and I’m shocked as I scroll through the posts, working from the oldest submissions forward to the present. I’m astounded to find out Evelyn, the innocent little nurse, was the fiancée to a serial killer. Her late boyfriend was none other than the necrophiliac serial killer who had terrorized the area years ago. No wonder she watches Black Rose’s blog. After all, he’s responsible for the death of her fiancé. I wonder if she hates the man who killed her lover. Perhaps she’s thankful instead and worships him like so many others.
As if that isn’t enough of a connection to raise my hackles, his latest post is directed specifically toward me. Looking at the screen, I read the post.
What are your thoughts about a man who takes a woman, holding her hostage, while he and three other men rape her before they throw her out like yesterday’s trash? Maybe I should reword that because, technically, the head of this little band of goons doesn’t actually rape the women; he just watches, forcing others to do what he can’t. It isn’t enough to control his victims, this guy feels the need to control the men he has doing his sick bidding.
Normally, now w
ould be when I might ask for tips on these dirtbags, but this time, I know who I’m dealing with. I have every intention of bringing him down and taking the one thing this moron loves away from him—his sick form of control. I’m coming for him, and I’m coming for the goons who work for him. Stay tuned for all the glorious gory details of a man who is taking the law back into his own hands…
Yours truly, Black Rose
That son of a bitch is insinuating I’m impotent. Who the hell does he think he is? Any fear I had felt about pissing him off is gone. Despite my rage, I can’t help but wonder if he truly does know my identity. He’s calling me out. He’s telling me he knows who I am, and he’s coming for me. Before I have a chance to change my mind, I use a fake online identity to leave a comment.
You just cost an innocent victim her life. It’s easy to be brave when you’re safely ensconced in your home, hiding behind the safety of a computer keyboard. I’ll be thinking of you when I slash her throat and watch the light leave her eyes. It will be your taunts on my mind as I watch the life slowly leave her body. I’m watching and waiting, and you will never know where I might turn up. Until then, you can think of me when you look at this.
I feel my cock stiffen as I gaze upon the woman we spent four days torturing before killing her and throwing her out like the trash she was. Women are whores—all of them. They can all be bought for the right price. I’m only giving them what they deserve.
I’m showing them they are wrong for thinking the male gender is weak. There are still real men out there who know how to control a situation, real men like me.
In fact, I am beyond powerful. I not only control the whores I kill, but also the men I use to bring the women to me so they can meet their demise. Black Rose is about to learn I’m more of a man than he could ever dream of being.
Chapter Eighteen
Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) Page 6