by Smith, Bryan
DEPRAVED 3
Bryan Smith
First Digital Edition
All contents Copyright ©2016 by Bryan Smith
All Rights Reserved
www.thehorrorofbryansmith.blogspot.com
Cover photo by Rebecca Shockley
Cover design by Kristopher Rufty
Cover models: Jennifer Smith, Casey Lambert, Alisha Ramsey
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the permission of the author. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
For Jennifer Smith
1.
The man in the bathroom was humming an annoyingly merry-sounding song. Jessica Sloan did not recognize it, but hearing it made her want to break things. Sitting naked on the edge of the motel room bed, she smoked a cigarette and stared at the closed bathroom door. As she sat there, she struggled to identify the tune, which sounded like the kind of thing really old people would like. Big band music or whatever.
She didn’t much give a shit what the song was, not really. The attempt to identify it was just a way to pass the time until the asshole in the bathroom finally reemerged. The cigarette—her third since removing her clothes—had burned down nearly to the filter by the time she heard the creak of the door as it opened a crack.
An eye peered through the crack. “Can I come out now?”
Jessica flicked the cigarette butt away. The still-smoldering butt hit the beige carpet and rolled under a nightstand. A potential fire hazard, but Jessica didn’t care. Maybe the butt would ignite a blaze and burn the dump to the ground. She planned to be far away from this place shortly, so it was of no concern to her. She leaned backward and twisted her body at a careful angle, her right hand seeking and finding the handle of the heavy monkey wrench hidden behind her back. “Did you pay special attention to washing your dick like I told you?”
“I did.”
“Are you sure you were thorough?”
A soft sigh emerged through the door crack. “Yes.” The word was loaded with impatience. “I washed and rinsed five fucking times, just like you said.”
“I hope you’re not lying to me, Jake, because I’ll know. I better not get a whiff of anything other than soap when I start handling your cock.”
Another of those wearily impatient sighs. “You won’t, I promise.”
“I’m serious, Jake,” Jessica said, injecting her voice with a note of sternness. “Nothing but soap smell. I’m talking about your balls, too. Those better smell as fresh as a newborn’s skin. Otherwise none of that shit’s going in my mouth or anywhere near my pussy. You hear me?”
Yet another deep sigh came from the bathroom. Jake Wheeler sounded fed up. Good. This was what Jessica wanted. His annoyance would distract him. “I hear you. Jesus. You are the weirdest whore ever. Good thing for you you’re so much hotter than the average piece of street meat. I’d never put up with this shit from some fucking meth-head.”
Jessica smirked. “Yeah, but I am worth it and you know it.”
This elicited a chuckle. “Yeah. You’re right. God, just thinking about you has me rock fucking hard. You could hammer nails with this thing, baby.”
Jessica’s smirk deepened. “Mmm, I bet you’re right. Now why don’t you come on out here and show me?”
A groan of relieved happiness came from the bathroom. “Finally. Jesus fucking Christ. Much longer in here and I’d have gotten a terminal case of blue balls.” Another chuckle. “Might have had to teach you a lesson.”
The door creaked open.
Jessica got up off the bed as Jake came out of the bathroom. She held the monkey wrench tucked behind her back as she approached him, swaying her hips and smiling at the man she had been hired to kill.
His dick was fully engorged. He hadn’t been fibbing about that. However, it was distinctively unimpressive in both length and girth.
Jessica laughed.
Jake frowned, the swollen head of his penis deflating slightly. “What’s funny, bitch?”
“Your dick. Hammer nails? Seriously? With that little thing?”
She laughed again.
Jake Wheeler’s face reddened, tightening with rage as his hands curled into shaking fists at his sides. “You watch your mouth.”
Jessica smiled. “You’re the one who should watch his mouth. That’s a serious, practical piece of advice, by the way.”
The look of rage on the man’s face was now mixed with confusion. “What? Why?”
“Because you never know when someone might do this.”
Jessica whipped the monkey wrench around in a savage arc. There was a clank as the wrench struck Jake in the face, breaking his jaw. He collapsed to the floor, landing hard on his side before rolling onto his back. He spat out broken tooth fragments. Blood burbled from his mouth. He whimpered. His mouth moved minutely as he struggled to speak, but whatever he was straining to say went unspoken as the attempt triggered a fresh spasm of mind-bending pain.
Jake mewled pitifully and at last found his voice. “Why?”
“Two reasons,” Jessica said, moving away from him and approaching the little table by the window that looked out on the motel’s mostly empty parking lot. The window’s beige curtain was closed. “One, the mother of a girl you beat up hired me to kill you. Funny, isn’t it? One of the meth-heads you hate so much actually came from a serious money background.”
On the table was a pneumatic staple gun. It was the industrial kind, with a cord plugged into the wall by the television. Jessica had retrieved it and the monkey wrench from the trunk of her car while her target was busy showering to her absurd specifications. Now she picked it up and slipped a forefinger inside the trigger guard. She then test-fired a staple into the table. The big staple punched through the wood with an emphatic thunk. Its top piece was almost perfectly flush with the table’s surface.
Jessica was pleased.
This suited her purposes perfectly.
She tugged at the staple gun’s thick cord, playing out some length from the coil resting on the floor beneath the electrical outlet.
Jake glanced up as Jessica approached him, grimacing in pain. He’d managed to turn onto his side and was trying to lift himself off the floor. “You’re…gonna pay for this.”
Jessica smiled. “You’ve got it kind of right, you woman-beating piece of shit. I’m definitely getting paid.” Her smile broadened slightly. “For services rendered.”
Jake groaned and managed to raise his torso up a little higher. He had one hand braced firmly on the floor, but the arm raising him up was shaking badly.
Jessica knelt next to him. “You’re probably wondering why I haven’t finished you off yet. Well, that’s the other reason this is happening the way it is. The girl’s mother asked me to make this as painful and emasculating as possible. I’d like to thank you for your help in making that happen.”
A deep furrow formed on Jake’s sweat-sheened forehead. “Wh-what…are you babbling about…bitch?”
Jessica chuckled. “You’ve kind of gone and placed yourself in optimal physical position for what I’ve gotta do next.”
Jake’s bleary eyes widened as they focused on the staple gun for the first time. “Hey…wait. No. I’ve got money.”
Jessica shook her head. “Not enough. Not nearly enough.”
She grabbed his cock and stretched it out as far as she could. Jake screeched as she pressed the head of his penis to the carpet and pressed the staple gun against its purple head.
The staple gun made that emphatic thunk again.
Jake screamed.
Jessica move
d the staple another inch up the stretched-out shaft of the doomed man’s penis and pressed the button again. And then she repeated the process twice more. After that, she stuffed Jake’s mouth with his own discarded underwear to stifle his screams. Next she took a picture with her phone and texted it to her client, who shortly thereafter responded with a smiley face emoji. This was followed by confirmation that a payment in the amount agreed upon was transferring to the specified account.
Once that final bit of business was taken care of, Jessica put a knife to Jake Wheeler’s throat and ended his life. She was about to begin the process of cleaning up when a battering ram knocked the door down and a squad of black-clad men decked out in body armor and tactical gear streamed into the room. They fanned out and surrounded her with weapons raised.
Jessica recognized at once that she didn’t stand a chance. There were too many of them and they were too well-armed. And too well-trained, judging from the way they handled themselves. She was just a lone naked woman. A very dangerous woman, yes, but she didn’t have super powers. She was fucked and was perhaps moments away from death.
Still, she wasn’t going down without a fight. She picked one of the men at random and launched herself at him. Something that felt like a bolt of lightning hit her in mid-leap. The next thing she knew, she was lying half-conscious on the floor, just a few feet away from the slack-featured face of the man she’d killed. Someone knelt next to her and she felt a sting in her neck.
Hypo, she thought dimly, consciousness already drifting away. They’re drugging me instead of killing me. Why?
But there would be no answers to that question.
Not yet.
Jessica’s eyes fluttered shut as her conscious mind slipped into gray mist.
2.
The woman seated behind the desk in the large and ornately furnished office had been the warden of Prison 13 for just over a year. Her hair was a shade of dark brown tinged with flecks of iron gray. She wore it in a tight bun at the back of her head. This had the effect of lending a severe aspect to otherwise attractive features. She had pale skin, high cheekbones, thin lips daubed with dark lipstick, and piercing eyes that projected a coldness nearly as withering as the constant subzero temperatures that existed outside the walls of the prison. Her attire was all black—a long-sleeved black dress with a hem that reached the knees, black stockings, and black stiletto heels. She wore subtly different variations of the same outfit every day.
The dark attire matched the deep darkness suffusing her soul. From the beginning of her time as warden, she had displayed a penchant for absolute mercilessness remarkable even by the deeply entrenched sadistic standards of the facility.
Her name was Ms. Wickman. She’d come to Prison 13 in the aftermath of a prisoner uprising that ended with half the inmate population dead. Also discovered dead after the smoke had cleared were scores of guards and the previous warden.
The warden was found hanging from a noose attached to a sturdy overhead light fixture in this very office. Though there was no note to confirm, this was deemed a suicide. The shadow council overseeing Prison 13 was notoriously unforgiving where issues of compromised security were concerned. An extended period of intense torture followed by some appropriately medieval form of execution would have been the probable punishment.
The exacting standards of the shadow council did not trouble Ms. Wickman, who had previously served for many years in a similar capacity under arguably even more severe conditions. She had absolute confidence in her ability to do the job better than anyone else ever had. A willingness to mete out extreme forms of sadistic discipline wasn’t just an integral part of her skillset—it was one of the things from which she derived the greatest pleasure. Ms. Wickman was a firm believer in the old adage that it’s important to enjoy your work.
Dealing with the prisoner kneeling at her feet now was a perfect case in point. The young blonde woman was on the floor between the desk and Ms. Wickman’s high-backed swivel chair. Her hands were bound behind her back with strands of razor wire. The wire bonds had cut deeply into her wrists and blood was pattering on the hardwood floor. Her nude body was sheened in sweat, her flesh quivering from the pain as she whimpered pitifully. Probably not helping matters at all from the inmate’s perspective was the muzzle of the pistol pressed against the crown of her skull as she diligently worked to perform cunnilingus on Ms. Wickman.
The warden sat back in the chair with the hem of her black dress hiked up above her waist, revealing a glimpse of milk-white thighs above the black stockings. The prisoner’s bare upper arms were a nicely warm presence against her thighs. Ms. Wickman particularly enjoyed the woman’s pitiful mewling. It was as delightful as the loveliest music she’d ever heard.
Ms. Wickman bit down lightly on her bottom lip. She was intensely turned on and knew she was mere seconds away from orgasm. Her forefinger tightened minutely on the pistol’s trigger just as it began to happen.
The prisoner was crying as she flicked her tongue rapidly at the warden’s clitoris, pressing her face harder against the moist center. Ms. Wickman arched her back the slightest bit and gasped as she spread her legs wide and angled the gun at a safe trajectory. Safe for her, that is. Her forefinger then tightened on the trigger. The report of the gun filled the room as a bullet punched through the top of the inmate’s head. In another moment, Ms. Wickman felt blood from the undoubtedly messy exit wound as it pooled against her vagina, a sensation that sent another shudder of orgasm rippling through her body.
Another moment passed before she pushed the corpse away and glanced at the woman standing guard by the door. This was Helga Von Tramppe, the vice-warden at Prison 13.
Helga was tall, standing two inches shy of six feet in her bare feet and just over that mark in the three-inch heels she was wearing. Helga was leggy and possessed a large bust, the impressiveness of which was enhanced significantly by her tight black uniform blazer. She wore black stockings and a black skirt that reached mid-thigh. Perched atop her head was a black hat with a shiny brim. Affixed to the front of the hat were the eagle and skull insignia of Hitler’s SS. She wore a red armband with a swastika inside a white circle on her left blazer sleeve.
She wasn’t playing dress-up. These symbols of the fallen third Reich had a purpose behind them. Another swastika adorned the wall behind Ms. Wickman in the form of a huge Nazi flag. It covered almost the entire wall. Though Prison 13 had no direct affiliation—that Ms. Wickman knew of—with any surviving vestige of Hitler’s failed regime, the shadow council apparently wished for inmates to believe otherwise.
Thus the swastika was the prison’s official symbol of power. It was everywhere. That there was no direct lineage between the third Reich and Prison 13—probably—didn’t matter. The symbols were universally known. They evoked feelings of revulsion and dread and conveyed an important message about the facility’s dedication to merciless sadism. No one on the council had ever explicitly spelled out this aspect of the reasoning for her, but it seemed obvious enough.
Under Ms. Wickman, that dedication was firmer than ever. Through a campaign of random brutality designed to instill an atmosphere of perpetual paranoia and terror, she had excised the rebellious element of Prison 13’s inmate population and had effectively cowed the rest of them. The shadow council regarded her tenure as warden as an unqualified triumph.
This pleased Ms. Wickman immensely. Her previous stint as the ruler of another remote fortress had ended badly, to say the least. This was her chance at redemption and she had every intention of making the most of it for a long time to come.
Helga thumbed the button of the microphone attached to a lapel of her blazer and spoke softly into it, summoning a cleanup crew. The crew came and scrubbed the floor, cleaned the chair, and then took the body away.
When they were gone, the vice-warden’s expression betrayed faint amusement as she came away from her position by the door and approached Ms. Wickman. “How was the bitch? Did she satisfy
you?”
Ms. Wickman grunted. “She was dutiful, but I am not yet fulfilled, I’m afraid. I’ll need you to come to my quarters at the usual time tonight.”
The corners of Helga’s mouth dimpled as she stepped closer, lifting the hem of her superior’s dress. Ms. Wickman’s underwear had been discarded. She slid two fingers inside the warden’s blood-smeared vagina, smiling a little more broadly at the small gasp this elicited.
“Of course, warden.”
She flexed her fingers.
Ms. Wickman made a small sound of pleasure. She gripped Helga’s throat in her right hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “Has that special prisoner arrived?”
Helga swallowed a lump in her throat and managed to incline her head in a slight nod. “Yes, madam.”
“Is she ready for my inspection?”
“Not quite. She’s being processed now. She should be ready for you by this afternoon.”
Maintaining her grip on Helga’s throat, Ms. Wickman leaned forward and kissed her vice-warden lightly on the mouth. Then she pulled back and smiled. “Good. I need a shower before meeting her, anyway,” she said, turning away from Helga and heading for a door in a corner of the room. The door led to her lushly-appointed private quarters. “And I’ll need a new chair. See that it’s in place before I return.”
“Yes, madam.”
Ms. Wickman kept her back to the vice-warden as she opened the door to her quarters. She paused with the door open and said, “And Helga?”
“Yes, madam?”
“Bring another plaything when you come round tonight. A brunette this time. A skinny one. The more desperate and eager to please, the better.”
“Consider it done, madam.”
Ms. Wickman said nothing else as she stepped through the opening and pulled the door shut behind her.
3.
Consciousness returned with a blast of freezing cold water. Her first vague impression was that she had fallen off a ship and was drowning at sea. Despite the frigid cold, her mind remained mired in a state of soupy semi-consciousness for several more moments. The grogginess endured even after the next blast of cold water engulfed her body. She felt the water fill her mouth and go up her nostrils, making her cough and splutter.