by Matt Shaw
“No problem,” she said, biting her tongue.
“Good. Well, then, when you’re ready. Begin.”
Emma-Jane took a breath and opened the book, flicking through to the relevant page. She tried her best to block the whimpering sounds of Hayley from her mind just as Hayley found herself concentrating on anything but the words that Emma was to read out loud. Words centred around a younger lady named Frankie: one of the first girls to have been collected.
Frankie had been in her early twenties. She had dark hair and a petite frame. She was pretty. There was no denying that. But whilst that may have been what caught Chris’s attention first, it wasn’t the sole reason he snatched her away from her comfortable life. It was her size. Just as Emma-Jane was, Frankie was slim, not too tall and - therefore - easy for him to snatch away with minimal resistance. The story recounting her abduction wasn’t noted within the pages contained inside of the book’s hard cover. She was simply ‘there’ when Chris had found himself writing about another of his play-things; another young girl who didn’t last half as long as Frankie had. Chris wanted to go back and put her backstory into the book, as he believed it to be of interest - especially after he’d discussed her parting, but he found himself unable to do so. The front of the book detailed the first killing spree/death-scene he’d been a party to and that had happened after the abduction. There simply wasn’t room enough to go back and add extra details although - the thought had crossed his mind - he could have added a section towards the back. Maybe marked her death scene with a little star pointing readers to the relevant page showing how they came to be together? Easier said than done. Every time he thought about doing it, he found himself embroiled in another potential scene for the book; such as the restaurant with Sara, Stephen, and the chef. Even if he hadn’t kept moving on, before writing the ‘meeting scene’, he also wondered whether people would give a fuck after reading how she’d come to die. Part of him didn’t think so. Part of him thought it to be backward steps in the story. She’s dead. They don’t care anymore. They only care about the next victim.
“Today would be nice,” Chris said to Emma-Jane as he grew impatient waiting for her to start reading. He could see she was on the right page. There was no excuse not to start. He didn’t want her to read it to herself first and then read it out loud after she’d processed it. He wanted her to read it out loud, the first time she was reading. He wanted that initial reaction; the one which told him all he needed to know.
“She was a good girl to start with,” Emma started reading with a shaky voice.
“Slow down. Don’t rush it. Savour it. Let the words sink in. The more you rush, the more you’ll make mistakes which will - in turn - ruin the flow.”
Emma started again wondering whether she could just keep rushing the opening line, forcing him to get her to read it again and again until he’d eventually get bored and put her back in her cage.
“What’s the rush?” Chris asked, stopping her again in mid-sentence.
“I’m sorry. I need the toilet,” she said, further stalling for time.
Chris shrugged, “When you’ve finished reading, I’ll let you use the potty.” The chamber didn’t have an ensuite bathroom. There was no luxury to be found here. It was merely a small room with the chest of various bits and bobs, the leather seat, and the cages. If he needed anything, to help him with his sick games, he’d bring it in from outside. If the girls needed the toilet they were either forced to wet themselves (sometimes worse) or, if they weren’t able to wait, were permitted the use of a small child’s potty which was kept hidden under the leather seat. Once they’d done their business, and were locked away once more, he’d toss the contents of the pot outside, usually in a bush somewhere. So far - touch wood - an act no one had witnessed yet.
“I’m really sorry,” Emma continued, not wishing to anger him yet still trying to delay the inevitable, “I’m not sure I can wait.”
“It’s not a long chapter,” Chris pointed out. He nodded down towards the book in her lap. “And if you can’t wait, the chair is leather. It will wipe clean.”
“Please don’t make me…”
“Quickly now!” Chris snapped. Emma knew, by the tone in his voice, that to stall further would result in punishment. Maybe even loss of life.
“She was a good girl to start with,” she started again.
“Good. Better. Continue.”
#
She was a good girl to start with but her attitude started to sour after a few weeks on the road with me. Her name was Frankie Yates. I couldn’t tell you her exact age. At a guess, I would put her in her early twenties. Possibly she was younger but, if so, not by much. There was a sweet tone in her voice when she spoke too, although as the days passed and the more we spoke, the sweetness seemed to have all but gone. Replaced with a sulky, insolent bark defying me at every given opportunity; an attitude which suggested she could have even been a teenager. Certainly no younger than eighteen though, although - if she were - she certainly shouldn’t have been out on the streets so late, as she had been when I met her.
Frankie was bound to the leather chair. Initially she’d just been wearing the collar around her neck; chained to the hook nearby, with the long lead. But having refused to do what I asked, I’d been forced to add more restraints. Her ankles tied to the legs of the chair, with thick leather straps, and her wrists to the arms with the same. The chamber is soundproof - of course - but, with what is to come, I’m not sure whether it’s enough to protect the outside world from her screams. That is why there is a rubber ball-gag in her mouth. The added bonus - of course - being that she can no longer rant, shouting out swear-words either. There are only so many times a man can be called a ‘cunt’ before he loses his temper. And speaking of ‘cunt’…
I was leaning down close to her and couldn’t help but feel aroused by the way her legs were being stopped from closing. Restraints doing their job, keeping them apart. Black leggings stretching around a delicious looking camel-toe and thoughts of sliding my hands down the front of both leggings and knickers. Easy access to what must surely be a young, tight pussy. She looks the sort to enjoy restraints and a fleeting thought rushes through my mind, pondering as to whether she’d already be a little wet with anticipation.
I hadn’t touched any of the other women. I had wanted to but my taking of them wasn’t to be about that. It was never supposed to be sexual but here she was, refusing to do as I had asked (which was to read from the book) and so I knew our time together had come to an end. The amount of work I’ve put into this, and the fact I’m going to have to clean the chamber up and dispose of her body… Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself a little first? Why shouldn’t I allow myself the unexpected opportunity of a young snatch? Besides - all good horror needs a little sex thrown in to break up the sheer violence. Maybe this could be the point of the story where I insert… a little sex into the proceedings?
I reached down with my left hand and slipped it under the front of her leggings. She flinched at my touch but I think she secretly wanted it. The murmur formed around the gag sounded more like a ‘yes’ than anything else to me. At least that’s what I tell myself as I force my hand so that it’s between skin and knickers. Here’s a girl who takes pride in her appearance with not just the grooming required for the parts everyone gets to see. She feels neatly trimmed to the touch as I push my hand down, palm facing her, and slip a finger over her pussy - catching her clitoris in the process. She sighed and squirmed. Was that a sigh of shock or pleasure? Was the squirming to invite me to push further or an attempt to move away? I take it as a sigh of pleasure and a squirm of wanting and ignore the fact she’s dry as a desert down there. I pulled back a little so that only the tip of my finger was pressed - hard - against her clit. I leaned closer to her so that she could feel my breath against her face as I started circling her button. A look in her eyes telling me she was fighting against the feeling. Clearly she didn’t want to like it, at least give me the satisfaction
of knowing she was enjoying it, but her body was defying her and - as I continued - I could feel her tight, tight cunt get wetter. I pulled my finger away and took a hold of her ankles. A short, sharp tug and I pulled her away from the back of the leather chair so that the front of her body was close to the front of the chair. It wasn’t the best position - certainly not the easiest for penetration - but I could at least get my head down there and taste that which I wanted to fuck. I dropped to my knees, and low to the floor, before putting my face in position between her legs; an awkward stance which hurt my neck but I didn’t care. Not now. I needed to taste her before I killed her and she went ‘off’. I ripped her leggings with ease, exposing her cunt to me and I started licking at her, feverishly, as best as I could given the position. I couldn’t see the look on her face from this fucked-up angle but I didn’t care. Whether she was enjoying the licks and flicks of my tongue was not of a concern to me. She’s bound to the chair to die. This - now - is for my pleasure only. I sucked her vagina lips into my mouth and held them there a moment savouring the taste. I could sense her body quivering and found myself questioning whether she was in ecstasy or whether she was crying. I found myself saying I didn’t care. I bit down hard and my mouth filled with blood as she screamed, as best she could, with her mouth wrapped around the ball-gag. I pulled away and spat blood and cunt lips onto the floor of the trailer. I was just as surprised as she; although she was in more pain. I wasn’t sure what had come over me. I had just been curious to see if I could bite them off… Curious as to how they’d taste; something I am still unable to comment on for the taste of iron in the blood negated all other tastes. I stood up and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I remember looking at her. Her legs were straining against the leather restraints holding them together. She wanted to cross her legs. She wanted to take away the sting of what I’d done. A little part of me even wanted to let her. A little part. A bigger part of me wanted to make her suffer more.
I turned to the other girl, the new one, cramped in a cage of her very own and told her that this is what she needed to expect should she refuse to do as I instructed. She didn’t say anything to me. She didn’t tell me she understood. I could see she was quivering though. A quiver, no doubt, stemmed from fear. Rightly so.
The chest where I stored various tools, tucked against the wall out of the way, was open. I walked over to it and looked within. Tape, bulbs, foodstuffs (such as Pop Tarts, something simple the girls can eat), two large bottles of water, a hammer, some long nails… I reached in and withdrew both the hammer and two nails. The girl - Frankie - had refused to read from the book. What I had asked of her was not unreasonable. It was only a chapter I needed feedback on. She only had to open her eyes and read the words before them. But no, she had to play it foolishly. Even now, as she fought through the pain, her eyes were closed. Clearly she wouldn’t miss them if I were to take them from her.
I told her, “Open your fucking eyes.” She didn’t. I wasn’t sure if that was because she was being purposefully difficult or whether she couldn’t due to the pain she was in. I sighed and set the hammer down by my feet. I didn’t need that straight away. I told her again to open her eyes. At the time of writing this, I’m not sure if there was a third instruction or even a fourth. For all I know I am simply imagining those now. When she did finally open her eyes, they were filled with water. Almost immediately salty tears streamed down her cheeks. I wondered whether she was regretting not reading the chapter yet. Honestly, one chapter and all of this could have been avoided. One chapter and - chances are - she would still have been alive. She’d have been fed, watered, a quick toilet break, and then back in her cage ready for whatever the following day brought us. But, no, she had to ruin it. She had to force me to… I grabbed her head by a handful of hair. She tried to pull away from me. Foolish girl. I pulled her hair tighter and leaned in close to her face. I told her why I was going to do what was coming her way. I told her, “If you don’t want to use your eyes, there’s little point in having them.” Of course she was begging me not to hurt her. Of course she was crying but that didn’t matter. I didn’t care about what she had to say. My relationship with her was over. We were over. I pushed a nail into her right eye. She screamed and tried to pull away but I held her in place. It felt similar to pushing one of those small wooden cocktail sticks into an olive. A little resistance before a ‘pop’ as it slid in. Or maybe a grape as opposed to an olive? Her eyelids shut as she continued to scream. At least one did. The other simply folded across the top of the nail. The other girl screamed as she listened to the horrors I was subjecting Frankie to. Oh dear, foolish Frankie. You brought this upon yourself. Second eye, second nail. There’s no chance she’ll open up for me to just push it in again. I was surprised I’d managed to get the other one in before she closed her eye to be fair. I told myself just to be thankful for that much. I pushed the second nail through the skin and once again ‘popped the grape’. A grape with a slightly thicker skin? Maybe like pushing the same stick through both ham and grape? Not that many people would put such a strange combination together but for descriptive purposes, it fits. Hard to say whether she screamed again or whether it was a continuation of the first scream. I took a step back and admired my handiwork, curious as to what her eyes were seeing now. Was she seeing shapes, through the eye not nailed shut? Was she still seeing colours? Or was the clear liquid leaking from the eyeball an indication that she was blind now? Fuelled by more curiosity, I scooped some of the gunk up with my two fingers and slid it into my mouth. A mixture of the previously fingered pussy juices and… What is that? Salt mixed with a strange metallic taste? Iron maybe? I gagged. It was fucking disgusting. I spat on the floor, to the side, and wiped my fingers down the front of my trousers. The bit of slime I hadn’t managed to lick off my fingers left a clear trail which gave the impression a snail had made its way across my leg. I’m sure it’ll wash off.
I picked the hammer up and paused a moment, listening to the sweet sounds of their screams. The two girls screaming in perfect unison. One from sheer pain, one from fear. The two voices merging together making them sound more alien than human. One girl will continue screaming a while longer. One will stop. I grabbed the back of Frankie’s head again. Regret flowing through me. She was such a pretty girl but needs must be met. She has outstayed her welcome. And then, a smile on my face, I started tapping the second of the nails with the hard head of the hammer. Her screaming increased but I didn’t stop. Not until the nail was completely in her eye. I wondered whether it had pierced the other side yet. I wondered if it were close to her brain. I wondered… How hard do I have to smack it to get it into the brain if it wasn’t already there? I turned my attention to the first of the nails; the one supporting the eyelid. The one allowing the clear globules to dribble out slowly. I swung the hammer as hard as I could, straight into the nail. A shot of clear liquid flew from the eyeball as the nail disappeared completely into it. Frankie’s scream turned to more of a gargle. I released her head and it fell to the slide as her whole body started to spasm, twitching and jerking hard against the restraints holding it up. I guessed that nail hit the brain then. I took a step back and looked at her as she continued to twitch like an epileptic having a seizure. Was she even alive at that point?
#
Emma-Jane turned to Chris. There were no tears in her eyes. There was no fear. She knew what had happened to Frankie. She didn’t need to relive the experience.
“Why did you stop?” Chris asked. He was annoyed. Emma knew this despite his voice being low - almost calm sounding. He was the type of character who’d appear to fly off the handle without so much of a hint if you weren’t paying close attention to his body language. Emma knew him now, as much as she wished she didn’t. She was fully aware that - at any minute - he had the potential to snap and hurt her. She also knew why he was getting them to read the books. She knew what he wanted to hear and that… That she was able to play to her advantage.
“I feel sick.
”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I don’t want to read anymore.”
Despite the girl sitting there, according to the pages, with nails in her eyes and seemingly dead - a glance told Emma that there was still a further page (at least) of stuff that he had done to her. She didn’t want to read it. She didn’t need to. She’d been there. She’d lived through it and this short snippet, the bit he made her read as he watched on with a look of a man getting aroused, it was enough to tell her that he’d managed to write it disgustingly enough to capture the horrors that he’d been keen to keep.
“What was the bit that did it for you?” he asked. Emma could tell his demeanour had - once again - changed. Gone was the anger. Replaced with curiosity instead. She knew she wasn’t out of danger though. She’d seen what his curiosity had led to.