by Kirk Alex
“Do it.”
She reached for it at last.
“Stab the bitch. Stab the three-dollar diva cunt in her neck, her face, and in her belly. Stab the shit out of her tits.”
Pearleen held the blade. Held it, and was not able to do it. It was clear. She couldn’t. And tossed the butcher knife back down on the blue tarp.
Biggs ordered the other one: Miss Congeniality, goody-two shoes, prim and proper, “virginal pussy,” to lift the blade and stab the stripper in the neck and about the face.
Olivia Duarte refused to so much as handle the knife. Wouldn’t pick it up. This was murder she was being asked to commit, kill someone. If not a close friend, someone she had served so often, a diner regular; human being.
Biggs yelled at her out of the blue. Made them both jump.
“Pick up the blade, you filthy cum-guzzling tramp. Do it. Get your hand on it. Wrap your fingers tightly around the hilt.”
Did as told.
“Tightly.”
She tightened her grasp, her knuckles white with the determination she put into it.
“Now, shank the shit out of the porn-stripping slut. Stab her.”
It was evident to all three that there was no way she could/would do anything of the sort. Biggs released a sigh.
“I don’t want to see any looks of disgust and/or contempt from either of you whores just because a simple-minded, worthless chicken is about to have its head sliced off. Understand?”
They nodded.
“The hen gets it, or one of you. Which is it?”
“Hen.”
“The hen? You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You want the leghorn to lose its head?”
They nodded.
“Well, I’m happy that we’re all finally in agreement on something.”
CHAPTER 384
He informed the Mexican vic to be ready to slide the bottom of the cage out. “When I give the word. When she does, Pearleen, you reach in, grab the chicken by the ‘Adidas.’”
She didn’t know exactly what he meant.
“It’s feet, you dumb cunt. Turn it right side up; your hands on either wing. Hold it tightly that way. Because if it gets away, it’ll be a bitch to catch.”
He told Olivia that she would play the role of the butcher, doing the cutting. Gave the order to slide the bottom of the birdcage out, and watched the stripper grapple in a clumsy manner and way to do as instructed. She finally had the chicken the way Biggs needed to have it held: both hands on either side.
“Now, kiss the top of its head.”
She did that.
“Again. No point in scaring the crap out of a helpless chicken.”
He gave implicit instructions. The process had to take place a certain way. “When I give the word, not a nano second before, slice its head off. And you: Release it immediately. Turn it loose. I want to see it do a little jig. They like to keep running even after the head is gone. Has to do with reflexes, or something; body and muscles functioning without the brain to tell it what to do. Humans do the same thing.”
Deed had yet to be done. Biggs glanced down. Could feel it: his groin coming to life. Stirring, as if from a deep slumber. This was satisfying.
“The moose cock also rises.” His own private joke. Wouldn’t have hurt to be hung like one.
“I know what I’m doing. The bishop knows; the bishop knows what works. To make my dick come to life, something or someone has to die; something or someone has to lose some blood. In this case it’s the unlucky cluck cluck. Gallus domesticu.”
He rubbed himself. Growth continued. Had the Lapis Blue camera back in his grasp, viewfinder against the right eye. Ready for the bloodletting.
“On the count of three. . . . One. . . . Two. . . . Three.”
And it happened. He got his shot just as the chicken’s head was lopped off. It was released, as ordered, and all watched it do just as Cecil O. had predicted: jog in a type of circle that it failed to complete. Keeled over, while the head itself kept moving, the eyes twitching, the beak opening and closing. Blood spurted from the neck. It was a nice enough show, as far as Trusty was concerned. Worth it. Well worth it. Because his cock was rigid. Bishop was the proud owner of a full-blown erection.
CHAPTER 385
He had the shaken Olivia return the butcher’s knife to the closet. Tossed her the key to lock the door, and had her toss it back. Biggs had decided to leave the chicken lying where it had dropped for the time being. He stroked himself proudly. Cock was at full mast. A bonafide, all-out, rock-hard stiffie. He stayed with the stroking with great satisfaction. Had to let up from time to time, from fear of premature ejaculation.
He felt so pleased with his latest accomplishment, being stiff and eager, that he had the captives resume the business with the riding crop. Had Olivia position herself back at the dresser, her voluptuous culo sticking out—for a second helping of lashes.
“Shouldn’t it be my turn by now?”
“Give the Latina cunt five more. Hard ones, vicious ones. For not gasping loud enough, for not sounding convincing enough earlier. I want to see some hard red streaks across her culo. I want the bitch to feel some real pain—and I mean my dick had better stay up. We’re not wasting another chicken on this if my cock goes south, understand? Yardbirds cost money, just as everything else does. It’s far more cost effective to me to kill a cunt than it is to slaughter a chicken.”
Pearl followed through with what she was ordered. Put plenty into it. Olivia was gasping and in pain. Her rear end was streaked. She then took the other woman’s place and handed the crop to her. Leaned against the dresser and stuck that powerful, incredible rear out there for Biggs to get a good look from where he sat on the futon at her asshole and cunt below.
This was a wondrous sight to behold. Both bitches were unbelievably built, and he had them right where he wanted them: two hot whores as his own private sex slaves.
Olivia held the crop. Stood there, hesitating, unsure. Pearleen turned her head back. Urged her to get with it.
“I can take it, honey. Do it.”
Olivia’s eyes twitched nervously. Unable to proceed.
“Beat her ass, bitch.” Biggs held the Polaroid Impulse at the ready. “Beat her hard. Now.”
Olivia whacked her once, but it was obvious her heart wasn’t in it.
“This ain’t no fucking game.” Pearleen, speaking in a guarded tone that was only slightly more audible than a whisper, needed for the other girl to get with it. “Beat me. Beat my ass, sweetie. I promise you I can take it. I’m tough enough.”
Olivia went for it. This time putting more power behind it. What it took to cheer the man of the house up.
“There you go.” Biggs got his exposure. “Goddamn, my balls are aching.” He cupped his scrotum. “Do it again, harder. Put more into it.”
Olivia looked at the other woman, who was bent forward, her hands gripping the edge of the dresser for support. She had turned her head back and nodded: It’s all right. “Go for it.”
Olivia put more into it this third time. Heard the black woman release a loud gasp that sent chills up the Latina’s spine. Biggs was chuckling. This was the best for him. Two fine bitches flogging the shit out of each other. Olivia finished up with two additional lashes. Lowered her hand that held the riding crop.
CHAPTER 386
Trusty Lusty rose. Grabbed the crop from her. Had her bend forward against the dresser, so that she was next to Pearleen, and whacked them both a couple of times, hard. To show them how it was done—and had better be done this way in the future.
Red welts were visible across Olivia’s buttocks. The other’s skin had changed hue as well. Olivia was in the process of passing out, fainting. Was held up by the other woman. Biggs returned to the futon. Let them resume dancing to Pearleen’s number. He rewound the cassette. Pressed play. Watched intently as Pearleen sang along with the recording.
Sweetie-pie, please don’t be mad at me . . .
if all them other boys like what they se . . .
The crowd could be heard roaring in the background, going wild, clapping their hands. Twice more Olivia nearly fainted and twice more was held up by Pearleen Bell, who continued to writhe and tease, gyrate her hips, move her pelvis the way only she knew how to do, the way she’d been able to drive all those sex-starved customers at McCoy’s crazy, kept them coming back for more.
They say I’m too much . . .
Gotta have your touch . . .
Don’t you see . . .
nothing else works for me . . .
She had been gazing directly at him at the time while singing the words, just as she was doing it now, putting everything into it, giving him one hundred ten percent.
Biggs was loving it, salivating at the mouth, stroking himself slowly, gently, unable to take his eyes off the groping, dancing women for a single second.
You got hot moves, baby . . .
that make me scream . . .
and holler for more . . .
Let me be your nasty little ho . . .
Whore is right, Biggs thought. Watched as Pearleen kissed Olivia’s left ear, allowing her lips to travel down her neck while undoing her black bra. Dropped it, and kissed Olivia’s 38D breasts. Cupped them. Buried her face in them. Moved her lips back up toward Olivia’s neck, tongued her right ear. Planted kisses all over her face. Held her face between her hands this way, devoured her with her tongue and lips. Did it as though her life depended on it, because it did, and she knew it, and hoped to God Olivia Duarte would snap out of it.
CHAPTER 387
The recording was over, and Biggs pressed a button on the remote for something easy listening on the FM dial.
“Take my brassiere off, hon.”
Olivia reached back with her fingers, clumsily searched for the back of the strap. Undid the brassiere.
Pearleen held Olivia’s head in her hands and guided her mouth down toward her ebony breasts; pushed her down like that. Stuck one hard nipple in her mouth. . . .
“Suck my nipple. Suck it. Make it look good. Yes. Does it feel good for you? It has to feel great, Olivia. Act like it. It’s the best for you. Lick my tits. Lick my beautiful tits, and then go down and lick my pussy. Do it.”
Cecil waited, camera poised. Watched Olivia hesitate, as before, but then did as instructed: played with the stripper’s forty inch bosom . . . and then slowly, gradually, lowered her head and found herself parting the black panties and sticking her tongue inside the bush, as tears filled her eyes. This was so wrong; this went against everything she was raised to be: the way she thought of herself. . . .
It went against her religious beliefs and her ideas of what morality ought to be. But there she was, forced to do things against her will, forced to lick another women’s privates. It was not as painful as being beaten with that riding drop, or was it? She couldn’t be sure; she may have preferred the riding crop to what she was doing presently.
Biggs turned the music down some and watched as Pearly stretched out on her back against the tarp, watched as the Duarte bitch licked away at the other woman’s hot cunt. He took two shots of this.
Pearleen held her down like that, kept her mouth between her thighs. And there was no denying the guilt she felt right now, guilt and fear, guilt because there were sensations she was responding to. She’d never had a lesbian affair with anyone, ever; and here she was being licked by a beautiful woman like Olivia—and even though she knew their lives depended on how well they did this, there was no denying that it felt good. Olivia had learned well, had watched her lick that other woman in the walk-in cooler and she was now doing the same thing; her tongue worked away, lapped at the most sensitive areas.
Biggs was on hands and knees presently. Crawled over with the Impulse Camera for a closer look.
“Sixty-nine. I want to see you both lick cunt.”
Pearleen reached down for Livia’s legs, maneuvered them back toward her face, one thigh on either side of her head, pulled Olivia’s dark, hairy bush over her mouth. Pearleen stuck her tongue out and probed inside Olivia’s dark patch of hair, pushed in, and kept licking. . . .
Biggs was right in there with Pearleen Bell kissing Olivia’s behind. He paused long enough to take his picture, and lowered the camera. He got his face closer, toward the center of her rump, and stuck his tongue inside.
He pulled back after awhile. Kissed the black woman hard on the lips; kissed her all over. Licked Olivia’s cunt. Stuck a finger inside and began stroking.
“Got to break this young filly in first. There’s the right way, and then there’s the wrong way. Never let it be said that Cecil Biggs lacked finesse.”
He handed the camera to the high yellow and instructed her to aim it at the action, and to shoot when he wanted her to. He inserted his erection inside Pearleen’s mouth. Let her take it in her throat, let her work it: in and out several times, and then pulled out and guided it slowly inside Olivia’s vagina. He could hear the eighteen-year-old gasp and he liked that. No pain/no gain. His version of the old saying.
“Been fucked ‘twiced,’ as Muck would say, in her cunt now. Still not used to it. That’s all right. You’ll get used to it. What your cunt is for: fucking. And guess what? You’re being fucked.”
He pumped, worked it slowly. Gave it more rhythm and speed. It felt great in there. Tight and warm.
“Grab the camera. After I blast cum in your cunt I’ll be shoving my cock in the stripper’s mouth. Take a picture of that. Step back about four feet before you do, make sure we’re both in it. It’s crucial that we’re both in the shot. Don’t botch it. Lens does not require focusing, so there is no reason for you to screw it up.”
She obeyed. Waited with the camera.
Biggs followed up with a dozen more strokes. He was ready to explode, and did just that: unloaded inside her and held on. Pulled out soon enough, and shoved his spent groin down Pearleen’s waiting throat again. High yellow polished the knob like an expert cocksucker.
“Get the shot, Olivia.”
Certainly nervous, certainly unsure, she did her best. Pearleen Bell continued to work that smart tongue like a clever and knowledgable cock-possessed/sperm-obsessed she beast from hell. She slurped it; gasping. Gurgling as she swallowed. Moaning for all of it; beseeching for every damned last drop that there was to drain out of him.
“Lip-lock, baby. Lip-lock, you filthy whore. Get it all. Lick my balls, two-bit nympho. Get my asshole, you degenerate wench. Get it, slut. Get your breakfast, lunch and dinner—all at once. Three meals combined for one low price. It’s feeding time at the Cecil O. Zoo. Trusty Lusty’s got sperm to spare here.”
Spent, needing rest, Trusty Lusty rolled off on his back to catch his breath.
CHAPTER 388
Olivia sobbed quietly, relieved that it was over. Wondered what would happen to them now? Unable to shake the gruesome images, the slaughter that had taken place in the cooler in the basement, convinced that they would end up the same way eventually. She had tried to please him, tried to do her best, to do as Pearleen had instructed and encouraged, only she did not think she had performed to Biggs’s satisfaction and feared what the inevitable would be.
Pearleen was lying on her side, resting her head on her left hand, looking at Biggs, who was lying on the tarp beside her waiting for the latest exposure to come in. It was all right. Colors faded in gradations. He liked it, surrounding reddish tint and all. Biggs closed his eyes for a moment.
“How was that, lover?”
Bishop opened his eyes. “Not bad.”
“I tried, lover. I really did.”
“It wasn’t you. You did fine.”
“The girl is inexperienced, Cecil. Can’t expect too much, you know.”
“I can. She was good, except good isn’t good enough when it comes to my fun. Better be a lot better next time.”
He lifted his head, looking at Olivia’s healthy behind, the well-shaped buttocks: slightly larger than average, b
ut firm and round. She had the kind of ass a woman should have, the kind of ass all women should have: Just as great as the black dancer’s, maybe in a different way, maybe not as muscular (only because Pearleen stripped for a living), but great looking nonetheless.
“She’ll do all right. I won’t be getting tired of her anywhere in the near future, that’s for sure.”
“How about me, lover? Think you’ll be getting tired of me anywhere in the near future?”
He responded by ejecting the cassette with Pearleen’s number on it and popping one into the stereo with gut-wrenching, horrific sounds made by a victim being methodically beaten and tortured.
There was Biggs’s voice calmly encouraging the female victim to scream louder and beg for mercy and forgiveness. He insisted on wanting to be able “to feel” the victim’s anguish.
Pearleen and the Duarte ballbuster both flinched. There was no way for them to conceal it.
Good. Made it sweeter. Made it ever-so-sweet. You lived long enough you learned to make the most out of every move you made. Quality of Torture. What it was about. He’d said it before—and would say it many times more. Quality. Of. Torture.
“Turn over. Stick your bronze ass out at me. Lemme lick it. I want to kiss your butt-crack, baby.”
Pearleen rolled over. Pushed her rear end up against his face. Biggs held on and started kissing her buttocks, licking the sweat off.
“How could I ever get tired of this?”
Biggs rolled away on his back to rest up. He had the women give him a neck rub, back massage. Fought the old urge, desire and bloodlust, while they worked on him with their hands, to slice and dice, stab and bludgeon, carve and eviscerate, squash, crush and dismember—and watch and relish it for all it was worth—as the blood spattered his open mouth and body.