It grew farther and farther out of reach, until all was dark, as Chet undertook his final trip, alone in the blackness, hurting and afraid.
CHAPTER 12
For Pauline, the shards of glass that dug into her exposed knees, lacerating her skin in a hundred different places, only added to the sensation.
She embraced each tiny pinprick of pain as she was thrust forward, her head scraping the cold concrete, as behind her, the tramp pushed himself into her, ever deeper.
All her fantasies were coming true.
She was wanted.
Needed.
Someone’s plaything to be fucked, abused, ruined and bloodied, here on this alleyway floor.
The smell of old vomit and the tangy odour of piss that poured from the filthy tramp in waves, only got her wetter, as he pushed his filthy member into her willing, wet hole.
Pauline moaned as his rough hands grabbed fistfuls of her hair and pulled her head back, sending fresh tremors of pain through her ravenous, half-crazed system. She balanced herself with her hands, arching her ass so the hobo could penetrate her deeper. He was large, inordinately so, and could have made quite a career for himself as a porn star, had he not taken such a clear dive down to the bottom of a bottle.
Not to mention whatever other unsavoury substances he had no doubt ravaged his body with, over the years.
Pauline figured he was at least sixty years old, but it was hard to tell. His features were hidden beneath layers of ingrained grime, and his long, wiry beard crawled over his face like stinking, poisonous moss, threatening to claim his visage entirely.
The drunken vagrant moaned in delight as he pulled his slimy cock from inside her and spanked her ass.
“Yoo’s a good girl. Oh yes,” he grunted, spitting on his stiff cock as he repositioned her ass with rough, callused hands.
“Do it. Put it in my ass,” she moaned, grinding the crevasse of her buttocks against the head of his swollen meat. “Fuck me till I bleed.”
“Yoo’s don’ gotta ask twice, bitch.”
Pauline’s smiled as she felt him stretch her wide and carelessly squeeze himself all the way in.
She felt like she may come apart from the inside out.
It felt like heaven.
But for Pauline, it wasn’t enough.
Not yet.
Succumbing to her darkest fantasies had afforded her the most pleasure she’d ever experienced in her miserable life, and now, bled, fucked and used, she felt her orgasm approach with an unholy fervour.
All she need was a little something to push her over the edge.
The tramp’s hand reached round her neck, explored her features from behind, and found her mouth. She opened wide for him, and like a perfect gentleman, he forced his fingers into her mouth. The taste made her gag, a mixture of sour whiskey, rotten food and urine that burned her tonsils until she threw up. Her vomit coated his probing fingers as he rammed them in and out her gullet in time with his throbbing cock.
It still wasn’t enough.
“Cut me,” she panted, her words slurring around the stew of vomit.
“No prollem,” the drunken hobo grunted.
Behind her, she heard the scraping of glass on concrete, as he searched with his other hand for a suitable tool.
The alleyway, this stranger’s home, was peppered with broken bottles of all colours, and Pauline found she had no time to wait, her body demanded release, and with a snarl, she clawed with her hands at a green shard of glass the size of a dagger. It cut into her fingers as she clutched it. Balancing herself with her other arm as best she could, she held it aloft.
“Use this!” she demanded.
Without another word, the tramp took the glass from her shaking, bleeding hand.
His dick pounded ever harder into her ass, as she felt the first slice open her back in a deep, agonising furrow.
Warm blood poured from the wound, running down her naked back in rivers.
“Again!” she screamed, almost at the point of frenzy.
The next cut opened up her left ass cheek. She howled as the flesh parted like butter under a warm knife.
Behind her, the hobo roared as he reached his own climax and released his load inside her torn and bloodied anus.
Still, after all this, Pauline found she needed more.
Letting go of oneself required the fullest of devotion.
Pauline understood this implicitly.
The tramp pulled his cum-slicked cock from her ass with a sigh, and she feared she may be left unsatisfied.
It wasn’t an option.
She was too far gone.
“Fuck me with it,” she moaned. “Fuck me with it, now, you miserable old fuck!”
The crazed hobo needed no more urging.
As the razor sharp glass cut deep into Pauline’s most intimate place, she screamed a hellish exclamation of torment and delight. Her orgasm washing her senses away even as her insides were sliced and cleaved; the fluids of her excitement mixing with the crimson storm as the walls of her vagina were shredding to ribbons.
Then the hobo was gone.
A shambling, stinking shadow; eaten up by yet deeper shadows.
She was all alone.
Pauline lay there, allowing her lifeblood to flow from the place where life should be created, and smiled at the atrocity of it all.
Beside her, a rat gnawed on the remains of a half-eaten burger.
The wrapper read: Only Waldo’s Can Satisfy Your Hunger.
Gurgling red laughter followed Pauline into oblivion.
CHAPTER 13
“I’ve had a lot of shitty ideas in my time, but this might just take the cake,” John whispered.
“Shitty ideas, huh? You thinking of Pauline?” Slim couldn’t help but smile.
John stopped his approach towards the dark house and turned to face her, “I’m thinking screw you, Slim.”
She laughed, quiet as she could.
Before them, the Stevens’ property loomed like a dark wall, silhouetted by the rapidly sinking sun. The sky, burned orange and awash with red, gave the shadowed property the look of a burning building, and Slim couldn’t help but wonder, and feel dread, at the symbolism.
She had no idea what they would find here, or even what exactly the hell they were doing here in the first place.
When Meg had called, it had rocked her. Her friend’s sister was the sweetest little girl, and had always doted on her cat, Clive.
The idea that she would kill the animal in cold blood had shocked her, sent her mind into a temporary tailspin. That, coupled with John’s disquieting observations about his best friend, and the behaviour he’d witnessed on the streets on Plainfield, left Slim reeling, slowly succumbing to the same paranoia that so obviously gripped her companion.
Still, here she was, crouched down, scurrying along the hedgerow to the west of the Stevens’ property, with her heart beating in her chest like a fucked clock, and adrenalin coursing through her veins like iced mercury.
She was scared.
She had to admit it.
Slim wasn’t yet convinced that there was any weird-ass conspiracy taking place in her quaint little hometown, but John had seemed so resolute.
That, along with the death of her friend’s family pet, the disappearance of Sam, and even the strange behaviour she’d witnessed with her own eyes and ears in Waldo’s Burger Emporium, had seeped into her sense of normalcy.
She’d found she was far more susceptible to John’s paranoid plot than she liked to admit to herself.
And if what he had said was true? If Sam’s father had threatened his life, then perhaps there really was something amiss in town.
But if there was something going bad in town, what in the hell did they plan to do about it?
That was the twenty million dollar fucking question, and it poked at her skull like a mocking crow as they reached the western wall of the dark house.
Ahead of her, John stopped, gesturing for her to do the same.
Crouching beside him, Slim looked up at the Stevens’ place.
There were no lights on, at least on this side, and the house was deathly quiet. She imagined all sorts of nefarious shit going on inside, and wished she could be anywhere but here.
At home with Dad, or comforting Meg...
But no, she was stuck here with a boy who had the steaming hots for her, with grass-stains on her denims and a heartbeat that felt like it could only lead to an early grave.
“Ok, John. No one’s home. So now what?”
John frowned, “The house was just like this earlier, and they were home. We should take a look around back.”
“Good idea, lets head around back in the dark, where it’s even fucking scarier. And say we do spot some lights on or some movement...then what?”
He turned to her. “I just wanna get a look inside. See what we can see. If we see anything fucked up, we can go to the cops. If not, I’m a fucking paranoid schizophrenic and you can steer clear of me during all future encounters.”
Slim sighed, “I’m here aren’t I?”
“I know you don’t believe me.”
“I said I’m here.”
“Okay, then follow me...”
Together, they made their way around the siding of the house. Around back, there was no sound but the chirping of a lone swallow, singing its song for the dying day. The night was falling fast, impenetrable shadows gathered in every corner of the large garden.
Slim could just about make out the tool-shed in the gloom.
She thought of John’s story.
A shiver ran up her spine.
“I don’t like this, John.”
“Me neither.” He reached behind for her hand, and she allowed him to take it. There was comfort in the contact, and in a strange way, Slim felt more tethered to reality by the simple act of touching.
In a situation this crazy - prowling someone’s backyard like a goddam pervert looking for soiled panties - any damn thing that could keep her brain from drifting off into nutsville had to be a good thing, didn’t it?
They approached the rear porch.
“Look,” she whispered. “Someone’s home.”
“That’s Sam’s room...” John left the words hanging.
“Let’s go take a closer look and get this over with, seeing as we’re here on a reconnaissance mission and all.”
John ignored her sarcasm, and she was grateful. Slim knew how she sounded. She also knew herself well enough to know that it was a defence mechanism.
She was downright frightened.
John had been right when describing this place.
It felt all wrong.
Something in the near silence, in the pitch black corners of the empty garden, in the warm light shining from that one window, that should feel like the most normal thing in the world, but instead felt alien, corrupt.
I don’t wanna look in that window.
Pull you’re shit together. This is all some fucked up misunderstanding. Sam will be sat in there, jacking off to The Walking Dead, or sucking on a pizza, or....hell, I don’t know...something.
Just get on with it and get home.
Side by side, they manoeuvred themselves beneath the window, and in tandem, they reached for the sill with shaking hands.
They raised their heads.
Slim felt dangerously exposed as the radiance cast by the interior light washed over her face. If anyone was looking out, she would be seen, quick as a flash.
She needn’t have worried.
The two bodies in Sam’s bedroom had other things on their minds.
It’s official, then.
You’ve allowed old John, here, to make you into his accomplice prowler.
In the room, Sam’s mother was stripped naked, her sweat soaked back turned to them, as she rode her husband, who grunted beneath her. She lifted her arms above her head and ran them through her hair as she grinded on his erect rod. In turn, his large hands caressed her back, reaching for her shoulders and urging her to impale herself deeper.
Slim felt a damn fool.
There was nothing going on here but some deeply fucked up sex.
Fucked up in that the rutting couple are doing it on their son’s bed.
That’s pretty fucked up...
“Okay, John. This is some sick shit, but it doesn’t prove a thing. It’s just Mrs Stevens getting some comfort sex from her husband...we’d better...”
Slim’s words were cut short as she collapsed to the ground, thundering pain causing her to almost lose consciousness.
Warm blood ran into her eyes from the impact where the man had hit her.
He came into the light of the window.
“That’s not her husband, cunt!” he sneered.
It was Mr Stevens, and the look in his eyes told Slim that everything John had suspected was real.
He looked completely, utterly, hopelessly insane.
And he was holding a set of garden shears.
John turned just in time to feel the blunt edge of the handle crash into his temple, just as it had Slim’s. Dizzy and feeling close to vomiting, she could only lay there as the lunatic knelt over John, grinning like a demon.
“What did I tell you I was gonna do to you, boy?” he asked John. John couldn’t answer, the blow having knocked him right to the precipice of unconsciousness, himself.
He mumbled something, as Mr Stevens flipped around the shears, and then roughly pulled at John’s slacks. When he found that task to be too time consuming, he went for John’s fly, unzipped it, and reached into the folds.
Within moments, his hand withdrew, holding John’s flaccid penis in a firm grip.
Despite his stupor, John’s eyes opened wide as caverns, as over him, Mr Stevens opened the shears, chuckling maniacally.
The blades were all the way parted now.
He lowered the metal edges to John’s organ. “Say goodbye to pee-wee, sunshine...”
The crash as Slim broke the plant pot over his head was like a thunderclap in the deathly quiet of the yard.
With a grunt, the madman collapsed on top of John, moaning like a drunkard, as he blindly reached for the shears.
Wasting no time, Slim cocked her leg back and swung a wide kick, right between his legs, mashing his balls with the caps of her boot. He squealed as he rolled off of John, cupping his hammered testicles with both hands.
“Get up!” Slim shouted at John.
He was coming round, but nowhere near fast enough.
In the lighted room, she heard a commotion, saw Mrs Stevens appear at the window.
Incredibly, she looked amused by what she was seeing.
“Fucking fabulous!” the woman exclaimed.
Slim saw the same all-consumed madness capering behind her eyes as had claimed her husband.
Turning from the demented bitch by the window, she reached for John, took his hand, and began to pull him up.
Behind her, the rear-porch entrance burst open with a crack, and the naked stranger who had previously been banging the bitch by the window was running at he.
A butcher knife in his left hand.
A huge erection in his right.
Oh, shit!
He stroked his cock as he sped towards her. “Gonna knife-fuck you good, cunt!”
Without thinking, Slim let John fall to the patio and grabbed the shears that the debilitated Mr Stevens had so recently dropped. She swept them up just as the naked crazy-man reached her, and thrust them in out in front of her.
Time slowed down.
She felt the man’s flesh give way, felt him throw himself unwillingly upon the long blades, and watched as they cut through him like a fork through tender meat until his face, startled and terrified, was almost pressed against hers.
On his breath, she smelt pussy.
Then he spat a huge glob of warm blood in her face.
He went still, his last expulsion now trickling down her chin.
For a moment, she held him there, impale
d on the garden tools deadly blades, until slowly, he began to slide backwards. It seemed to Slim to be almost sexual, the fluid grace with which the shears slid from the wound.
He was deader than disco before he hit the patio,
“Fuck. I killed him!” she panted, staring at the still corpse on the lawn.
“You fucking whore!” Mrs Stevens yelled from the window. “That was my brother you just wasted!”
The woman disappeared from the window, and Slim fought to get John on his feet.
She had no intention of being there when Mrs Stevens reached the porch.
The woman would be on them in seconds.
She had thrust John’s arm over her shoulder when the night split open with a deafening crack, and John was hurtled backwards.
In the split second before he fell, Slim saw the blast from the pistol and smelt the smoke from its barrel.
John screamed as he went down.
Slim had no time to help him.
Only one option, or we’re both dead!
She charged at the gun-toting woman with a scream, and made the ground between them in three steps.
It wasn’t quick enough.
Mrs Stevens got off one more shot, and Slim felt blistering fire tear into her left shoulder.
The shears fell from her hand.
Ignoring the dizzying pain, she charged into the woman with all she had, and threw her to ground.
Slim came down on top of the naked maniac, knocking the breath from her as her full weight drove the psycho into the grass. The gun flew from the woman’s hand as she fell, landing somewhere in the brush to their left, lost to the evening shadows.
The crazy bitch was still grinning, a wild, untamed frenzy capering behind her fluttering eyelids.
Slim drove her head down with all the force she could muster; her forehead pulverising the woman’s nose with a crack.
The woman wailed as blood pooled over her face like a twisted Pollock painting.
Slim raised her good arm, still ignoring the white hot fire that enveloped her left shoulder. She balled her fist up and whaled on her would-be killer, punching until the woman’s struggles ceased.
The adrenalin dissipating, she climbed off the beaten and bloody lunatic, and turned to John.
AFTERTASTE Page 9