A drop of clear pre-cum leaks from the tip of my cock, and I rub it over the head of my shaft. I pump my hand up and down, squeezing hard, imagining that each stroke is Penny's gorgeous pussy, milking my cock for all it's worth. Shit, I've been inside a thousand women before, but none ever had this effect on me.
I pump harder. Faster. I squeeze with more intensity. Finally, I have to stifle a grunt as pearly-white cum dribbles out the tip of my cock, then shoots out in several spurts. It splashes on my shirt, but I don't give a fuck. I just pump harder, with wild abandon, letting my seed shoot everywhere. I don't want to restrain myself. I can't. The girl makes me so horny and crazy.
When my orgasm finally subsides, my world feels like it's exploded. I breathe heavily, exhaling slowly to avoid waking her. My head spins, and my body still wants her so fucking bad.
And then she opens her eyes, and all the air in my lungs is sucked right out.
"Havok?"
29
Penny
He sits on the love seat, his hand on his still-rock-hard cock, strings of white all up and down his hand and arm. "Penny," he says, nearly gasping with surprise.
I should be freaked out. Should be alarmed that he was in here, masturbating to me while I slept.
Instead, it tells me how bad he wants me. Shows me the full magnitude of his desire. And I think it might be the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen.
I don't speak, I just sit up and pat the bed, inviting him to join me.
And he does.
He hands me the keys, and I free myself from the handcuffs. Then, I slide my sweatpants off, put a hand on his chest and press him down onto the bed. He strips his clothes off with a hunger I've never seen before, and finally, he's lying there, his cock hard as fuck, still covered in glistening white and clear liquid.
I want it all inside me.
I mount him, letting him slide into me, stretching me out, filling me so completely. I moan and shudder with pleasure, and his hands find my breasts under my cotton shirt.
He bucks his hips, and I buck mine back, riding him like a fucking wild bull. I want this. I've needed it for as long as I can remember. And now getting it, giving my body to him, letting him tear my pussy apart, it's everything I ever wanted it to be.
"You gorgeous fucking creature," he pants, thrusting into me, opening me up. "I need you so fucking bad, baby."
"No," I say, gasping to fill my lungs as he ruts me like an animal, "I need you."
With every thrust, my muscles clamp down on him, my inner walls squeezing and rubbing against his manhood, my body desperately needing this.
He grabs my ass hard, then slips two more fingers into my pussy, alongside his cock. I didn't think I could stretch this much, and I grit my teeth, bathing in the waves of pain and pleasure that flow over me. He takes one finger out and starts rubbing my clit, fast and hard, in rhythm with his thrusts.
"Oh my fucking God," I gasp, my voice husky, "You're gonna make me cum, honey."
I bear down, squeezing him with everything I've got. "Cum for me," he says. "Cum for me, you fucking beautiful little fucktoy. Cum on this fucking cock, and make me empty my fucking balls in you."
His words send me over the edge. I squeeze my eyes shut, and my vision explodes into a brilliant supernova of white, as muscle contractions roll through me, bringing me the release I've needed for so long.
"Oh, fuck," he says, "I'm there." A hot flood fills me, and I cry out, completely incoherent, his orgasm pushing my own over its final crest.
When we're both finished, I collapse on top of him, not dismounting his cock. "I want you inside me forever," I say, and my lips crush against his, and we catch up on a lifetime of kisses.
At last, with the opiates of my last pill still circulating through me, I become drowsy, and dismount him, falling asleep next to him.
The last thing I remember is him dressing, kissing my forehead, and then leaving the room.
He doesn't handcuff me this time.
30
Havok
Mackenzie chats into her cellphone as she walks down the dead city streets, and I catch snippets of it. It's 2:40 a.m., and I've been following her on foot since she got off her shift.
"Just heading home, yeah, Mom. Spaghetti tonight. Everything's fine."
Right now my brain is turned up to eleven, and I can't make it stop. Can't quit replaying the scene from earlier.
It was the fucking hottest thing I've ever experienced. My world, and all the walls I've built up inside, crashed to the ground the instant I slipped inside her. There's no place I'd rather be than home right now, with Penny. Exploring every inch of her tight body.
But I have to do this. I have to end Igor and this trafficking shit once and for all, and only then will Penny be safe.
I'll fight to my last breath to do this for her. May God have mercy on my soul for using this poor girl, Mackenzie, as a tool. I hope the ends justify the means.
With all the strength I can muster, I force myself to concentrate. I need to be in this moment, need to do this perfectly.
I follow Mackenzie fifty paces behind, wearing a bulky North Face jacket and a beanie pulled low over my face. I'm going to follow her to her apartment, The Chloe, to her room. #614.
Then I'll take her.
As we walk down Grant Road in file, we pass the alley where I ran into Penny and her scumbag boyfriend so long ago. I still boil with rage when I think of that motherfucker. If I could, I'd bring him back to life just to kill him again.
Of course, there's no chance of coming back to life when you're a puddle of red liquid in the West Ark sewer system.
For a moment, I imagine a different hitman stalking his target. Except the hitman isn't me, it's Igor. And the target isn't Mackenzie, it's Penny.
The thought makes me fucking sick. It's almost enough—almost—to make me break my pursuit, turn back, and go home to Penny.
I could forget this whole thing. Fuck that tight, wet little cunt until I forget it all. Kiss those ruby red lips, let myself fall under her spell, and take us both far away from this hellhole.
But I can't. These poor girls Igor is abducting don't deserve it. If I don't save them, no one will. And Penny will never be truly safe as long as Igor walks this earth. So I have to double down, push my limits, and challenge myself to do this.
Ahead of me, Mackenzie swipes her keycard and enters her apartment's gates. What she doesn't know is that my car is already parked inside the complex. Right around the back, by the service elevator—to make a quick exit. The trunk's all cleaned out, ready to transport her.
I pause on the street corner, only approaching the complex once she's entered the main building. The night is quiet, the moon in full view, not a cloud hanging in the air. If there were a God, he'd be looking down on me right now. And even he'd be powerless to stop me from what I'm about to do.
I swipe my key card copy and the light turns green, opening the automatic gate. Inside the lobby, the front desk is unoccupied. Not a guard in sight.
I ride the elevator to the sixth floor, and quietly step down the hall to room #614. I press my ear against the door, listening for conversation, but there is none. Just the clang of pots and pans, and the whirring of what sounds like a microwave. She's home alone.
I reach into my jacket pocket and withdraw my lock bump key. But then I think twice. Why bother forcing my way in? She'll invite me in.
Instead of jimmying the lock, I knock. Sure enough, the door cracks open a minute later and Mackenzie peers out.
"Vlady," she says, surprised. The corners of her mouth perk up in a smile, and she opens the door wider, tucking her hair behind her ear. "What are you doing here?"
I give her a smile. "I've seen you watching me at work," I say.
"Oh?" she says, her voice shy.
"Yeah." I look in her eyes, and I can tell she's getting lost in mine. "You should let me in."
She blushes. "Okay."
All too easy.
S
he opens the door wider, letting me enter her apartment, a tiny little studio with parquet flooring, an old beat-up sofa, and a mattress on the floor. The aroma of marinara sauce reaches my nose, and I hear a pot boiling. Just another night in, after the shift.
She clicks the door closed behind her, and turns around. She's wearing a robe, maybe over her stage clothes, or maybe over nothing at all. Once upon a time, it'd have given me a hard-on.
But now, there's not a damn woman in the world other than Penny who can give me a hard-on.
I step toward her, and she flattens herself against the door, smiling. "I never expected this," she says.
"I know," I say.
I pause. There's always so much adrenaline right before the moment of action.
"I'm sorry," I say, and for a brief moment her expression becomes puzzled.
I reach inside my jacket and pull out the burlap sack. Without pausing for her reaction, I step forward and jam it onto her head. She tries to struggle, but I lock her arms behind her back, cuff her, then gag her.
"I'm sorry, Mackenzie," I say. "I have to do this. Don't struggle. It'll only make it harder."
31
Penny
When I wake up later in the night, Havok's gone, and my head is fucking pounding. My brain flashes back to earlier—me on top of Havok, him deep inside me. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced. But now I'm finally at the end of the line. No pills left. All I can do is face my withdrawal.
I wish I had just one more, though, to get me through what I have to do: get the hell out of here. Because no matter how good he was, no matter how complete his kisses made me feel, I don't know the truth about him. And now, with no handcuffs on me, this might be my only chance ever to escape.
"Havok," I yell. "Havok!"
I count to 60, and nothing happens. He's not in the house.
I rustle around in the dark, sitting up, cradling my aching head. I'm dizzy, lightheaded. The only light in here is the dim neon glow of the alarm clock, and I use its radiance to guide me across the room to the light switch. When I flip it on, the light stabs me in the eyes a million needles. I clasp my hands over my eyes, trying to adjust, trying to fight through this awful chemical headache.
I open my eyes after the impact. My head hurts, and the rear passenger door next to me is jammed up against me, hard. I feel a trickle of warmth, and when I look down, it's blood. Outside the car, a horn blares. I begin to realize what's happened as I come out of my daze. We're in the middle of the intersection, and we've been t-boned.
Another sharp wave of pain courses through my body. "Dad?" I say.
I yank the bedroom door open and stumble out into the loft hallway, making my way to the stairs. My head feels like a construction site, and even the tiniest noises send shots of pain through me.
I descend the stairs, nearly falling onto my knees. My joints feel like they're ceramic, and my stomach threatens to empty its contents everywhere. This is bad. I've never had a withdrawal this bad before.
When I'm at the bottom of the staircase, I beeline for the front door. I'm going to get my shoes on, get out of here, and hitchhike with the first car that takes me. I'm going to check into rehab, then take a Greyhound bus to the other side of the country.
But then I turn my head, and I see Havok's study. He's always told me it's off-limits. And he's never let me in, even when I'm cleaning the house. Even through my haze of pain, it piques my curiosity. If there's anything he doesn't want me to see, anywhere in this house that will reveal the truth about what he is and why I'm here, that's where it'll be.
I struggle across the house, the low roar of the waterfall scraping the inside of my skull like sandpaper. When I reach the stained French double doors of the study, I grab the handle and rattle it.
Locked. My head throbs.
Briefly, I consider searching for the keys. But I'm in this too deep to back out now. It doesn't matter how much damage I cause at this point.
I limp to the fireplace, where there's a poker and broom set. I grab the poker, and return to the study's double doors. Raising the poker, I thrust it through one of the glass panes with a loud crash.
I've treated my body wrong for all these years, putting off the inevitable crash with pill after pill, but the party is coming to an end.
I grit my teeth. I just need to hold it together another hour or two, and then I'll be long gone.
I want to have Havok again. So bad. It would be so easy to go back upstairs, get in bed, and beg for his forgiveness when he gets back. But I can't. Something in my gut tells me he's the one kidnapping the girls, and that I might be headed for a very unpleasant end.
Carefully reaching through the jagged hole where the glass pane used to be, I unlock the doors from the inside, then enter Havok's study.
The decor is rustic. The walls are bookshelves, from floor to ceiling, filled with Russian books. The wood is rich and dark, the trim carved ornately. But in the center of the room is a wide mahogany desk bookended by filing cabinets. That's what I'm after.
My feet thud heavily against the dark wood floor, and each vibration seems to travel right up my spine into the pain center of my brain.
When I get to the desk, I yank on the pencil tray. It slides open easily, and I hastily rummage through its contents. An old, expired passport with nearly a dozen Russian visa stamps, a letter opener, a lot of junk and a handful of Russian coins. Nothing.
"Dad?"
There's no response. I force my eyes to focus, and when they do, I see my dad's head laying sideways against the headrest. He's not moving.
Outside the car, I hear bystanders murmuring. I think to myself that someone should call an ambulance, but I can't muster the presence of mind to yell for help.
Yanking my shoulder, I free my arm from the twisted interior of the car. I reach out and put my hand on my dad's shoulder, shaking him.
"Daddy?"
I try another drawer, a tall and wide file drawer on the bottom of the desk.
Locked. Now I might be onto something.
I take another look in the pencil tray, looking for a key amongst all the gold and silver coins, but there isn't one.
My heart wallops against the inside of my chest, and I've got dread in my stomach. I just have an awful feeling about what I'm going to find. I almost don't want to continue. But I have to know the truth.
The poker. Ignoring the agony inside my skull, I return to the study's entrance and retrieve it. I jam its tip into the lip of the drawer, and pull on it with all my weight.
There's a loud bang as the lock gives way, and the file drawer pops open.
As I peer inside, I start to shake. Not because of my body's desperate need for another dose of drugs, but because of what it contains.
Instead of an orderly file of papers, the drawer is a jumbled, tangled mess of guns, knives, wires, bullets, brass knuckles, syringes, scalpels, and other weapons and instruments I can't even identify.
I fall backwards into the leather chair, horrified. I've suspected that Havok is a bad man who does bad things, but this is horrific. I've never seen anything like it.
My hands shaking, I steady myself against the chair's armrests and breathe until I calm down. I grab the poker off the desk again, gripping it so hard that my knuckles blanch white.
I bend down to the file drawer on the opposite side of the desk, and slide the poker into the gap above the drawer. With a mighty shove, I pop it open, too.
Inside this drawer is a stack of papers. I swallow a lump in my throat and pick it up.
It's biographies of people, each one pages and pages stapled together. There must be a hundred of them. Each one has a photograph paper clipped to the front.
As I read them, leafing through the pages one by one, I notice something else. Most of them have a newspaper clipping stapled onto the very last page.
Obituaries.
Now I'm standing on soft soil, a light pitter-patter of rain falling on my head. I'm wearing all black.
"Why is this happening to me?" I ask.
He sighs. "I don't know. Sometimes the world just doesn't make sense."
I try to breathe, to swallow, to cry, to do anything at all to release the pent-up ball of emotion inside me. But instead, I just let out a wail of dismay.
I should run, bolt as fast as I can, and get away from this crazy, gorgeous killer's house. Go somewhere far away, where he'll never find me. But I'm immobilized. Instead of running, I keep leafing through the papers.
I get to the bottom of the stack, There's only one file left. I open it up, my heart racing at full speed. I just know what it's going to be.
And it is.
A picture of me. Clipped to a five-page document with all my past addresses, my social security number, my phone numbers and email. Everything. All that's missing is the obituary.
I feel faint, as though I might pass out. Instead, I start to heave. I lean forward, and then I puke my guts out, right into the open file drawer. It's mostly just clear green bile. My body is running on fumes.
When I've finally composed myself, I stand up, gathering all the files under my arm. I'm going to get the hell out of here, turn these over to the cops, and end this nightmare once and for all.
But as I start to cross the room, I suddenly get dizzy, and everything fades to black. My feet slide out from under me, and I crash down to the floor, hard. I slip into unconsciousness.
32
Havok
For the first half of the drive to the drop point, the racket in my trunk doesn't stop. It annoys the fuck out of me, reminding me of the dirty deed I'm doing.
Even killers have morals.
But I turn up the radio to drown out the banging and crying. Out of sight, out of mind. That's how I deal with guilt. And by telling myself that this is all for a noble pursuit, that everything will work out in the end and Mackenzie will emerge unharmed.
Fake Bride With Benefits Page 25