Billy (Hunger Book 2)

by Scott Richards

  He carried her into the bedroom, both of them sopping wet, and ignoring any of the consequences, he lowered her onto the bed and spread her legs with his shoulders.

  He lapped at her, licked her and then finally gave her clitoris the attention it was craving. The angry mound almost demanding to be sucked, and as he did so, his hands played over her breasts once more.

  He was so excited by her arousal that he almost ejaculated whilst lapping at her moistness and had to stop himself. He was so horny for her. She too was flushed and desperate to climax, begging him to enter her again and finish her off. Demanding him to fuck her hard, to fuck her brains out, to fuck her doggy-style and shove his cock deep inside her, fast and hard.

  He desperately wanted to, but told her breathlessly that if he tried to, it wouldn't last long and that he'd ejaculate too quickly now.

  She didn't care...Malik could not fuck her like he could.

  She wanted him now...It didn't matter anymore...

  He pulled her legs up over his shoulders and slid his erection all the way up to his balls in her, pushed as deeply as he could, as fast and as hard as he could, for as long as he could.

  ‘Oh, God...’ he moaned and ploughed on relentlessly as her moans of pleasure increased to the point where he thought she was going to scream out.

  Then suddenly, they were both writhing in the throes of their own orgasms, pulling each other closer still, deeper and harder in their embrace, her fingernails raking deep furrows down his back.

  They lay there for what seemed like hours, languidly stroking and gently kissing each other’s bodies.

  Sated but not exhausted.

  She pressed her finger to his lips to silence him.

  ‘I’ll make us some food shortly,’ Sulima purred ‘but first, I want to have you again...but slowly this time...’

  Her fingernails raked mercilessly over his scrotum and up the shaft of his flaccid penis, making him draw breath before her mouth closed over his to seal it. Her lithe warm body slid effortlessly over his and he surrendered to her passion once more...

  Fires stayed for dinner, which was not a traditional Indian dish, but merely something quick and easy for them to snack on.

  However, the cold chicken and salad were merely nibbled at, and they played with their plates until their impatience finally got the better of them and they retired to the bedroom for another night of uninhibited sex.

  In the morning, Fires awoke to find that Sulima had risen, dressed and prepared scrambled egg and toast for breakfast, which they ate out on the veranda and watched the sun gradually gain momentum over the horizon. It sent shimmering rays of heat over the garden for what was to be another scorching summer’s day.

  ‘Malik will be home from India soon, Fires,’ she said sadly.

  ‘I know...So, then it will end...?’ an obvious mixture of hope and disappointment in his voice

  ‘Maybe...we’ll see...He still has business trips away now and then, so we may find the time to have more fun...’

  ‘But they will be stolen moments, Sulima and that’s not at all what I want from you...I hate stealing.’

  ‘I know...but those stolen moments are all we can really have. You knew that from the start. We’ve enjoyed our time together, so let’s not spoil it now by being maudlin.’

  Fires ate in silence, drank his tepid tea, before helping her clear the dishes and wash them, playfully flicking soap suds at each other and generally trying to lighten the mood.

  Almost an hour later, and with a heavy heart, Fires kissed her soft warm lips for the last time, stepped out onto the porch, and made his weary way back to his rented rooms.

  Despite her clouding his mind for a long time afterwards, and his heart longing for her, wishing to be with her, he would only meet with her once more. The prospect of imminent revenge upon Billy Mafokeng, it appeared, far outweighed any notion of feelings for Sulima Rasool, and he could not resist that urge.

  The 20th of March was the beginning of autumn in Natal and only one week later, the Easter break arrived.

  Fires knew that the time for revenge had finally come, and could almost taste blood on his lips as he licked them in anticipation.

  He cleaned and inspected the rifle, before packing it and a box of special ammunition he had devised into a waterproof hold-all, and then hid them amongst the piles of boxes that littered the floor of an abandoned warehouse building, overlooking the train station in Pretoria.

  He knew Billy would definitely come this way to return to Durban for the winter and take advantage of the warmer climate there, but Fires was unsure as to when Billy would actually make the journey.

  All Fires knew for certain was that this next part of his plan had to be timed to perfection for it to work, and that there should be no rail delays en route for his calculations to be accurate.

  On Wednesday March 30th, the easily recognised shambling figure of Billy Mafokeng danced in the telescopic sights of Fires’ rifle for a few seconds before Fires squeezed the trigger and heard the satisfying ‘phut’ of the discharge, watched in fascination as Billy clutched at the bare skin below his left shoulder, above his collar bone, and wiped away the smear of fresh blood.

  Billy rubbed his fingers together, feeling the rasping crystals of the lacquer that had once coated the spent pellet mingled with the slick coppery smoothness of the blood seeping from the wound, then shrugged, despite the stinging pain, and continued on towards the train station, pressing the collar of his loose fitting shirt against the swelling weald to stem the flow.

  Fires carefully re-wrapped and returned the gun to its hiding place, picked up the rucksack and stepped out into the street behind Billy to follow him into the station and watch him board the wagon at the rear of the train, before buying a single ticket to Durban and hopping nimbly aboard the first class carriage.

  The train had departed on time, and Fires idled away the hours by reading his completed dissertation, amending and fine-tuning it for submission on his return to classes at the end of the autumn break, occasionally glancing at the fob watch he kept in his jacket pocket.

  In the rear carriage, Billy began to feel unwell, with dizzy spells and sweating, despite shivering uncontrollably as though he was cold, and a constant throbbing from the spot where he had been bitten or stung. Perhaps it was a spider bite?

  He settled back into a corner of the wagon, away from the other passengers crowded inside it, and tried to sleep.

  At Kroonstad, all those bound for Durban would alight and await their connection, and this was to be Billy’s final resting place.

  It was only a small station, with a tiny platform and two disused rail sheds at one end, with no Station Master’s house, ticket office or any other buildings.

  Those remaining on the train would pass through Bloemfontein to the final destination of Port Elizabeth.

  From previous reconnoitres over the past months, Fires found out that there were usually only a few alighting here, as most would be heading on to Port Elizabeth, and this had been the main reason for choosing the backwater place for his plan. It was a deserted and solitary outpost that would have no prying eyes or witnesses to what was about to happen.

  The train squealed to a halt, carriage doors were flung open and the cattle trucks at the rear end began to empty of black migrant workers. Passengers stepped out of their private carriages onto the platform to stretch their legs whilst the engine took on water and more coal.

  Fires eagerly scanned the throng for his target and was soon to be rewarded with the sight of Billy Mafokeng, sweating profusely as a result of the venomous snake toxins coursing through his veins.

  He was leaning against the wall of one of the disused rail sheds, basking in the sunshine, but not enjoying its muted warmth.

  Billy was feeling very ill.

  Biding his time, Fires patiently waited for the passengers to board the train once more and continue their journey south, leaving only the few stragglers bound for Durban along the platform.<
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  There were less than twenty people on the platform when the train finally pulled out of Kroonstad.

  The Durban connection came into the station twenty minutes later and, as it did so, Fires began to stroll casually down the platform in the same direction as the incoming train. His nonchalant gait took him towards the shaded, prone, and now unmoving figure of Billy, knowing that all eyes would be looking away from where he lay, and watching the train pulling into the station.

  Billy pushed his aching body from the wall, swaying unsteadily as he tried to get to his feet, his exposed skin glistening with the slick sheen of uncontrollable perspiration, making his clothes clammy, matted and clinging to his flesh.

  He looked ashen and had an unpleasant blue tinge to his lips.

  Fires paid no attention to how he looked.

  He merely strode straight up to him and swung the rucksack from his shoulder to strike Billy across the jaw and knock him sideways off the rear of the narrow platform, and around the corner of the rail shed.

  He followed Billy down into the clinkers and coarse grass, kicking him in the abdomen to completely wind him and to render him incapable of resisting what was about to happen.

  Billy was swiftly and unceremoniously rolled onto his stomach and then pushed face downwards onto the ground.

  Fires weight upon him made coke clinkers grind his flesh, cutting into his cheek as Fires sat astride him and wrapped the thin chord around Billy’s ankles.

  Billy’s mouth opened to emit a low moan of pain, but Fires stuffed an old rag into it, stifling and muffling it.

  Fires worked quickly and methodically, listening to the squeal of the train’s brakes, the carriage doors slamming open or closed and the hubbub of the travellers boarding and alighting.

  He then hauled the semi-conscious black man further back into the rough ground with the chord, threading it hastily over the lowest branch of a nearby tree and using at as a pulley to hoist him up into the air.

  Billy struggled and tried to resist, flailing his arms wildly around like windmill, but Fires kicked him viciously in the midriff again and Billy began to cough and splutter, almost choking on the rag and, at the same time, desperately trying to yell for help around it.

  He could only wheeze his protests at this assault but Fires ignored them completely as he rummaged deep inside his old rucksack for the hammer and spikes.

  He grabbed one of Billy’s arms, pulling it harshly around the bole of the tree, shoving it against the rough bark, before hammering the spike through the wrist and pinning it in place.

  Then Billy’s other hand was grabbed and mercilessly yanked in the opposite direction around the tree to be pinned by another spike next to the first one.

  Billy was far too weak to resist, and was beginning to drool around the rag as the venom worked deeper into his system.

  Fires heard the train departing, turned and watched as the engine crept slowly out of the station, and he smiled and waved amiably at the passengers who were perhaps looking out of the window.

  Even if they saw him, they wouldn’t see Billy.

  Fires would be blocking their view.

  As the train rumbled off into the distance, Fires peeked around the corner of the clapperboard rail shed to see how many passengers were awaiting the final connection back up to Pretoria for the day, and smiled smugly as he noted the emptiness and silence.

  Not a soul in sight.

  Billy was still wheezing but regaining some of his composure.

  He tried to speak past the cloth in his mouth but couldn’t.

  Fires hunkered down on his haunches to look into the black man’s pleading eyes, his head thrashing from side to side against the roughness of the bark, raking the flesh and grazing his scalp.

  ‘Been a long time, Billy, hasn’t it...? Remember me...?’

  Billy head stilled and his eyes focused sharply on the figure before him. He shook his head slowly.

  ‘Come on, Billy...Umgeni Road? Durban? The botched burglary with Pietrus and Amos and the ensuing fire? The young white boy that you bastards flung from the upstairs bedroom...? Surely you must remember that?’

  Realisation dawned in the black man’s eyes; recognition glimmering below the surface.

  ‘Good...I’m glad you finally remember me. Now...let me ask you one final question before we begin...Do you believe in God, Billy Mafokeng...?’

  Billy stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Nod your head or shake it, Billy, you stupid kaffir, whichever is easiest for you to do...but answer me...Do you believe in God?’

  Billy began to nod slowly.

  ‘Well...I’m the devil, and I’ve come for your soul.’

  Fires’ hand dipped into the rucksack and pulled out the glass phial he had wrapped in several layers of cloth, peeled the material from it and then carefully removed the stopper.

  He wedged Billy’s head between his knees, forcing it back onto the body of the tree, and then poured the viscous liquid into Billy’s nostrils.

  Immediately Billy began to buck and thrash as the acid seared into his flesh and Fires could feel the strength of the man as he tried to twist and turn his head away.

  Fires clamped down harder and poured more.

  Bloody bubbles emerged from his ruined nose above the bridge as flesh melted and slid down over Billy’s eyes and forehead, causing more blistering skin, before dripping off onto the grass below.

  Smoke wisps erupted from the grass, but Fires ignored them and poured out the rest of the liquid slowly into Billy’s nose.

  The blistering spread across Billy’s cheek bones and under his eyes, which discoloured and melted into their sockets, and Fires could only gaze on dispassionately wondering what it was doing to the man’s brain.

  It was fascinating to watch, but once the phial was empty, Fires released Billy’s head from the vice-like grip of his knees and allowed the body to writhe and thrash against the thickness of the tree.

  He went to gather wood and kindling from behind the rail shed, lit a fire directly in front of the still writhing body and then fetched his pocket knife from the rucksack.

  He watched and waited until the fire was well and truly taking hold and the crackling flames were eagerly licking over the dried leaves and twigs, before he added a couple of thicker logs.

  Soon, there was a real camp fire burning before the tethered body and Fires began heaping large stones around it to form a hearth.

  He opened the clasp of the pocket knife and made a deep four-inch incision into Billy’s abdomen.

  He slithered his fist into the bloody hole and after feeling around gently inside the warm flesh, pulled out the man’s kidneys.

  This produced a vicious and violent reaction in Billy, sending his body into more thrashing spasms and moaning in sheer agony.

  His body arched out from the tree, making Fires lose his grip on the slippery organs.

  Fires kicked at Billy’s head and pushed him back against the rough bark, pinning him there with his foot, before delving back inside the gore. He pulled out another slippery red trophy, eliciting muted groans from his captive.

  Fires ignored it and began to cook the kidneys over the open fire.

  During the course of the next couple of hours, the snake toxin, the ruination of his brain, nose and eyes were secondary to the loss of flesh, as Fires carefully sliced sections from the man’s body and cooked them, ate them and washed them down with a few bottles of tepid beer.

  ‘Braaivlies, Billy...Lekker, man...Ja?’ Fires smacked his lips.

  He wasn’t sure if Billy could hear him anymore, wasn’t sure if he was even alive anymore, as he hadn’t moved for quite some time, but Fires did not care or have any compassion or feeling for this creature.

  Fires finished his supper, added several more logs to the fire and then cut the chord that suspended Billy’s legs.

  His torso flopped and doubled over, the shoulder joints cracking as they dislocated and his intestines began leaking out thro
ugh the initial wound that Fires had inflicted to get at the man’s kidneys.

  Billy’s legs were completely engulfed by the fire now, his trousers smouldering initially and then igniting and burning away.

  The body writhed once more.

  ‘Not quite done yet then, Billy...?’ Fires chuckled.

  Fires watched for a long time as the body burned, chugging down more bottles of beer, and popping the last morsel of toasted flesh into his mouth, before making up his tent and camp bed in the shelter of the disused rail shed.

  The following morning he relieved himself by urinating over the remains of the smoking coals to douse them, and what was left of the ruined, charred body of Billy.

  The Durban train arrived on time and, as Fires boarded, whistling merrily as he did so, no-one seemed to notice the blackened scar at the trunk of the nearby tree.