Jack Stone - Deadly Revenge

by Vivien Sparx

  Jack Stone - Deadly Revenge

  Vivien Sparx

  One.

  Monday

  Katrina Walker had to die.

  The two men didn’t know why. They didn’t really care. They just followed orders – and that is why they were waiting in the car in front of her apartment block.

  She came out into bright morning sunshine, scurrying down the front steps, a big bulky white handbag slung over her shoulder, her movements hurried, her sun-tanned face filled with tension and anxiety. Like she was in a rush. Maybe like she was running late for an appointment.

  She was blonde – in her early twenties, with long curling hair that bounced across her shoulders and down her back. And she was slim, her legs long, her waist narrow, with a figure like a poster girl for Californian tourism advertisements.

  If she hadn’t been frowning with worry and concern.

  The two men had seen her before, but on those occasions she had always been topless, and wearing just lace black panties and her master’s leather collar.

  Now she was wearing a white lose-fitting short-sleeved blouse, and tight faded denim jeans that were cinched tight around her tiny waist with a thin black belt. The two men could tell by the way her breasts bounced as she moved that she was not wearing a bra. Yet despite being fully clothed and covered, the woman looked sexier to the men now than all the other times they had seen her practically naked and submissive.

  Maybe it was because she was unrestrained. Maybe it was because she wasn’t wearing a collar. Or maybe it was because they knew she was no longer The Dom’s property, and thus, she was someone they could actually lust after.

  Or maybe it was because she was going to die in eight minutes.

  The woman stood by the door of a red Toyota hatchback and rummaged through her bag, looking for keys. The car was maybe ten years old, dusty and dirty. The front fender was dented, the car low on its springs. Kind of weary. Kind of neglected.

  She got the door open. Threw her handbag across the seat and slid impatiently in behind the wheel. The two men waited.

  They heard the Toyota start up. Saw a belch of blue smoke from the exhaust and then the little motor wheezed into life. They waited while the little car across the street idled roughly and then settled into a steady burble of noise. They watched Katrina Walker pull away from the curb.

  They waited.

  They knew where she was going.

  It had been arranged.

  The guy behind the wheel of the dark blue Ford sighed and straightened his back. Stretched his shoulders. Started the big car. The cab smelled of gasoline and take-away food and cigarette smoke. There were crumpled food wrappers and empty soft drink cans in the foot well. There was a cardboard scented pine tree hanging from the stem of the rear view mirror and next to it a woman’s lacy garter.

  Not their car.

  Stolen.

  Traffic was light. Just a few mom’s on their way to and from taking kids to school and elderly tourists cruising around to soak up the sights and the last of the summer’s sunshine. The driver took a long glance back over his shoulder at the traffic. Then he swung the big car across the road in a U-turn between vehicles and slipped in behind a battered old Chevy, just biding his time and waiting until the Toyota had cleared the town limits and begun to wind its way north along the ridges and cliffs of the coastal road.

  Once they crossed the bridge and rumbled past the school, the traffic dwindled away quickly.

  A huge billboard on the side of the road loomed into view. It showed a big yellow smiley-faced character, only he wasn’t smiling. He was sad. There was a tear dripping from one eye, and underneath in big black lettering was the message; ‘We’re sorry to see you leaving Heston’s Cove’.

  The big Ford closed the gap, edging closer to the little red hatchback. The driver glanced in his rear view mirror. Saw the other side of the sign. Saw the yellow smiley-face beaming a huge grin of welcome to the town’s tourists above the legend, ‘Welcome to Heston’s Cove. Enjoy your stay!’

  The guy smiled. Put his foot down a little to pick up speed. Not in a hurry. Not in a way that would attract any attention. Just gradually building up momentum until the big car was closing the gap to the Toyota at a steady rate.

  Around them, the last of the residential houses and streets petered out and the winding road became crowded in on both sides by tall dense trees. They passed half a dozen dirt trails with mailboxes by the roadside. The mailboxes were clumped together in groups of two or three and the tracks led deeper into the woods to farm dwellings and industrial sheds that were well away from the road.

  Then they were climbing up into low hills, a gradual elevation through wooded thickets. There was no traffic behind them and nothing ahead beyond the Toyota apart from the narrow road rising and falling. Lonely billboards at intervals advertised gas stations and motels many miles away. The trees grew high and thick, almost to the edge of the road, leaving just a narrow strip of blue sky directly overhead.

  The guy in the passenger seat of the Ford wrenched his head from side to side and pushed back his shoulders, like he was a boxer loosening up before a big fight. The driver said nothing. He glanced at the man in the passenger seat. Saw his tension in the way the man was holding himself. It wasn’t nerves. It was impatience. The man had the distant, steady look of a veteran soldier who knew what to expect, but was experienced enough not to be familiar or complacent. The driver just kept his eyes on the Toyota, kept his face grim and impassive.

  Kept his mind on the job.

  The road was deserted. Just a lonely strip of two-lane blacktop that was lumpy with patches and cracks because it wasn’t a main road. It was an artery – a road that linked Heston’s Cove to the highway, and roads like that weren’t high on the priority list in California. Roads like that got patched and fixed, not resurfaced.

  Three minutes out of town and suddenly the trees on the right hand side fell away and there was just nothing – just the edge of the road and a thirty foot drop to jagged cliffs, and then the Pacific Ocean, shining and sparkling calm and blue under the glitter of dazzling sunlight.

  The shoulder of the road was just a low unkempt belt of scrub where the rocky ledge grew nothing but a sparse cover of ragged brown grass and loose gravel. The driver accelerated until he was on the tail of the Toyota. He glanced ahead. The road before them wound along the edge of the cliffs, snaking and twisting to cling to the fringe of the land. Promontories and low headlands in the distance were misted under a warm blue haze. They could hear the sound of surf pounding against the rocks, carried on the breeze. They could hear the seething hiss of waves crashing above the low rumble of the Ford’s big engine, and yet somehow above it all they could sense the vastness of silence and the emptiness.

  The road ahead was empty. The driver cracked his window down an inch. The sounds of the ocean became louder, and he could smell the salt air.

  The driver glanced at the man in the passenger seat. Looked a question at him.

  The other man nodded. “Do it now,” he said.

  The big Ford’s engine suddenly howled as the driver flattened the gas pedal and gunned the motor. The car leaped forward. The rear end of the little red Toyota filled the windscreen. The driver braced himself, and then both men were punched forward against their seatbelts as the Ford crashed into the back of the hatchback.

  There was a huge metallic smash. The driver saw the woman in the Toyota being flung forward against the steering wheel. Saw her hair flying about her face, then saw her bounce backwards, her head flung back into the headrest.

  The little car fishtailed out of control, swerving and skidding across the middle of the road in a snarl of blue tire smoke and locked
-up burning rubber. The brake lights flashed bright red for a second, and then the Toyota seemed to sway on its suspension and gather itself.

  The Ford surged again. The driver watched the woman’s face through the windshield for a long moment. He could see her in the Toyota’s mirrors. Her mouth was open in a scream of fear and terror. Her eyes were wide and enormous, like pools of shock and bewilderment and horror.

  The driver wrenched the big car into the middle of the deserted blacktop and rammed into the back of the Toyota again, hitting it at an angle. The impact was jarring, the sound of tearing, crushing metal deafening. The Toyota’s fender was ripped clean from the vehicle, crushed and cracked. Plastic and glass shattered, littering the road in sparkles of white and red and orange fragments. The big rear window cracked into a spider’s web of crazed lines and fell onto the asphalt and under the howling tires of the Ford. Thin sheet metal panels crumpled as the little car was heaved towards the shoulder of the road. It slewed into the loose gravel and a cloud of dirt and stones billowed into the air.

  The driver thought he heard the woman scream.

  Then he was fighting with the Ford, clamping his hands tighter on the wheel and slamming hard down on the brakes to halt their momentum. He hauled the Ford back from the precipice at the same instant the Toyota suddenly dropped away and disappeared into the void of space – crashing and rolling end-over-end down the rocky cliffs towards the surf and jagged rocks below.

  The big Ford didn’t stop. Just kept going. Kept travelling north, picking up speed quickly, and disappearing around the next sweeping bend in the road.

  The two men glanced at each other. The driver checked the rear view mirror. Nothing. No other cars. He was sweating. The August sun was blazing through the tinted glass of the windscreen. He wound his window all the way down. Cool air filled the car. He let out a long, relieved sigh, took a deep breath and settled himself more comfortably in the driver seat.

  It was done.

  The passenger glanced at his watch. “Nice,” he said. “The Dom will be pleased.”

  Two.

  Thursday

  Jack Stone stood back against the living room wall, folded his arms and smiled as he admired his handiwork.

  The woman before him was naked, kneeling on an office chair, her knees spread apart on the padded seat cushion, her upper body draped over the backrest. Her hands were tied to the large plastic adjustment dial that altered the height of the back of the chair.

  Stone took a long, lingering moment to admire the woman’s body. She had long black hair, kind of curled in a fringe framing her face, and then hanging loose across her shoulders. Her body was slim, her skin the color of honey. She had large firm breasts, and shapely muscled thighs that were now tensed with her anticipation and arousal. Her back was bowed, thrusting and lifting the smooth rounded shape of her bottom, and showing the knuckled line of her spine, like a necklace of pearls beneath the skin. Her waist was fluted in the shape of a delicate vase, flaring into wider curves at her hips and up to her shoulders and her skin was flawlessly smooth.

  She was blindfolded, and clenched between her teeth, were her pink lace panties.

  She was trembling.

  It was mid-afternoon. Through the closed blinds and drawn drapes Stone could still feel the Arizona heat beating against the glass. He pushed himself away from the wall and spun the office chair around on its ball-bearings until the woman’s prone body was facing away from him.

  He reached out and scratched his fingers down the woman’s back. A shiver of goose bumps rose on the skin of her smooth brown arms. She arched herself in a feline gesture, like a great cat, and then sighed, the sound muffled by the lace panties that gagged her.

  Stone peeled off his t-shirt. Felt a blast of icy cold air from the wall-mounted air conditioner. Stood there for a moment, making the woman wait.

  He had been in Phoenix for a week, the last three days staying in the woman’s apartment. She was a singer who worked the local music circuit doing solo jazz gigs most evenings, and while she was on stage, he had spent his time pounding the streets and dark alleys of the city, talking to pimps and prostitutes and showing the photo he carried of his missing sister.

  “Melanie,” Stone called softly, “are you ready?”

  “Yes,” the woman said, her voice husky and raw. “Yes, Sir.” The panties muffled her words.

  “Good girl,” Stone said. He got down on his haunches and ran his hands across the firm rounded globes of her bottom. The pouting lips of her sex were glistening and swollen and soft as velvet. Stone grazed his tongue slowly across the jutting little nub at the core of her body and felt it pulse.

  For the past hour Melanie had lain sprawled across the living room sofa, her legs askew, her skirt rucked up around her waist and her head thrown back and her eyes clenched tight as Stone had used his mouth and tongue to pleasure her to the brink of collapse. Three times Stone had brought her to orgasm, glancing up from between her parted thighs to see the tension in her neck, the rapid rise and fall of her heaving breasts, the taut hardness of her nipples and the wrenching expression of bliss on her face each time she had exploded.

  Her first orgasm had been explosive and sudden, and her body went into spasms and thrashed with the intensity of it. The second had been more subdued and had taken longer. Stone felt Melanie’s fingers in his hair, pressing him hard against her and guiding his mouth to the tiny bud of taut flesh nestled within the folds of her as his tongue teased and tormented until she could take no more, and she sank her fingernails into his shoulders and he had held her down on the sofa until there was nothing left of her orgasm but her heavy uncertain breathing. And the third… well the third had been slow and patient and gentle and tender, until Melanie’s muted little gasps of weak protest finally built into a low moan of desire and then a crescendo of ragged gasps and a desperate cry of release as Stone’s cunning tongue between her slim smooth thighs had tipped her over the edge one final crushing time.

  Now she was weak as a kitten, exhausted and satisfied, malleable and soft to his touch. The energy of her body had been drained and he had led her to the chair and bound her hands while she was still shuddering through the after-shocks of her orgasms.

  “Are you comfortable?”

  Melanie nodded, and then finally let the damp panties fall from her mouth to the floor. “Yes, Sir.”

  He was still behind her. She could tell by the direction of his voice, but he was standing now. She heard him slowly unzip the front of his jeans, and despite her deep sense of satisfaction, the sudden realization that he was about to take her sparked the smallest flame of renewed arousal within her. She nodded her head again, and said softly, “Please take me.”

  Stone slid out of his jeans and swung the chair around. It glided silently until Melanie’s blindfolded face was in front of him. Stone reached down and fisted a handful of her hair. “Open your mouth. Wide.”

  Melanie obeyed. The room seemed to fall away around her. All that she could sense was a feeling that she was clenched in a tight grip that held the two of them captive. She felt wickedly overpowered and helpless with this man. She felt a need to belong to him. To give herself to him completely for his pleasure, and thus her own. It was a compulsion she had never known before, yet with Jack Stone that instinct had been driven to the surface and exposed as a raw emotion she found bewildering and frightening. She knew he would never be hers. She knew he was no woman’s man – and yet the desire to please him and be possessed by him was something she could not deny. She made a small whimpering noise of contentment that sounded like a hum in the back of her throat.

  Stone slid himself slowly between her lips, feeling his hardness gliding over bright red lipsticked lips into the wet warmth of Melanie’s mouth. She gasped and swallowed the hard arrogant maleness of him and the sensation was enough to make Stone clench, and make him thick and hard. She felt a sudden sense of power and a keen edge of delight, knowing that she could have this effect on such a ma
n. She heard him gasp, and then she made the sound of another contented moan in the back of her throat.

  “Wider,” Stone said. His voice was deep and steady, but taking on an edge of intensity. “Open your mouth as wide as you can – and keep it open.”

  Melanie obeyed. Stone felt himself slide another inch deeper into her mouth, felt her beginning to tense a little on the chair as she became accustomed to the length and thickness of him. Stone felt the woman’s tongue fluttering and twirling along the underside of his shaft like a maddening torment and he forced himself to hold still.

  “Good girl,” Stone said, his voice like a satisfied sigh. He forced himself deeper inside Melanie’s mouth, and used his hold on her hair to keep her head still.

  “More,” Stone demanded.

  He pressed himself further inside her mouth and felt Melanie’s lips clamp around the heat of his shaft. Felt the sensations as her mouth adjusted and gripped him. Closed his eyes and threw back his head, his body arched as he began to slide himself in and out of the warm wet opening she had made for him.

  “Good girl,” Stone rasped. “Good girl.” Gradually his thrusts became more forceful and more rhythmic until he could feel the first sensations of his own arousal beginning to build. He let go of Melanie’s hair and wrapped his big hands around the back of her head.

  Stone’s shaft was glistening slick with the wetness of Melanie’s mouth, smeared with the remnants of her lipstick. He thrust again and again, heard Melanie moaning softly and gasping for breath. Melanie felt her eyes begin to water as she engulfed more of his length. She felt the tip of his swollen shaft touch against the back of her throat and her heart began to race in time with Stone’s thrusts.

  She tugged against the restraints at her wrists, wanting to reach up and take him in her hands, but also thrilling at the sensations of surrender and submission that her bonds evoked. It was such a powerful feeling – transcending the physical confines of her position, and touching some dark unexplored place in her soul that was responding in a distinctly feminine way. It was the tightness of the knots, the feel of the coarse rope against her skin, the sense of being utterly helpless and conquered by this man. It was all these things – and as Melanie sucked and swallowed, she felt herself begin to thrill.