The Taking of Cheryl, Book One: Cheryl Captured

by Paul Blades

  Pressing his mouth down on Cheryl’s sex, Stoner lapped at the entrance to Cheryl’s tunnel. In spite of herself, Cheryl began to feel the stirrings of passion. She knew that she was going to be raped again by this bastard, and she welcomed the opportunity to lubricate the already wounded passage. While Jeremiah knew how to glide his tongue across and into the most sensitive parts of a woman’s sex, Stoner was only after the feeling of mastery it gave him to sup between the un-consenting thighs of a woman. It was enough, however, for Cheryl to let loose her fluids, moistening the sheath that would soon be filled with Stoner’s engorged flesh.

  Having had enough of a taste of the new cunt he had bought, Stoner lifted himself and pressed his body forwards so that his cock was presented to the now wide-open lips of Cheryl’s cunt. Cheryl felt passion mixed with revulsion as she prepared to be entered by this man that she hated with all of her being. She knew she was powerless and as Stoner slid his piece into her body, she cried out in futile desperation.

  Cheryl cried and sobbed as Stoner sawed into her. She was being fucked by a man she could not see. His thighs slapped against hers, causing her body to buck in return. Stoner leaned over and took one of her nipples in his mouth. He sucked hard at the teat and Cheryl’s inevitable reaction occurred. She was going to come and she hated herself for it. She tried to fight it off, but Stoner kept sucking and mauling her nipple with his mouth. The tell tale tingling began in her sex and started to spread throughout her body. She was thrusting back at Stoner now, her need for release having overcome her scruples. When she felt Stoner stiffen and heard him cry out, Cheryl’s orgasm was triggered and she shuddered and moaned through the ring in her mouth. Her cunt was still pulsing with pleasure when Stoner pulled himself out. He was panting heavily. “She’s a good fuck,” Stoner thought to himself. “I’ll give her that.”

  The now satiated man loosened the ties that bound Cheryl’s ankles and let her legs fall to the mattress. Cheryl lay listlessly as he circled round the bed and untied the binding that held her head in place. He pushed her up and rolled her over so that her whole body was on the bed. Cheryl lay on her stomach, her hands still affixed to her sides as she awaited the next development.

  But Stoner had had enough. He went to the bathroom, pissed, and returned to the bed. Cheryl had begun to drift off, having been exhausted by her ordeal. Stoner slapped her on her ass, startling her.

  “This bed is not for sluts to sleep in. Get up,” he ordered.

  Hesitatingly, Cheryl rose to her knees and edged herself over to the side of the bed. Stoner grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to the foot of the bed. She had not noticed the small steel cage when she had come in. She realized that this was where she would spend the night. She dreaded its cramped confinement, the feeling of harsh imprisonment. But she knew that, one way or the other, she would soon be inside it.

  “Get on your knees cunt and crawl into your cage,” Stoner ordered in a slurred but harsh voice. Cheryl complied meekly. “Have a good night’s sleep, honey,” Stoner said. “Tomorrow we’re getting married.”

  Part Five

  Denise

  In a dingy, cramped room on the third floor of a drab, stone building on the west side of New York, a thin, young, blond haired woman sat tapping her heel on the dusty tile floor. She had been waiting about an hour and she was pissed. There was no smoking in the Detective Bureau, and Denise Purnell’s ire was intensified by the need for tobacco. Det. Sgt. Krasnowski would be back in a few minutes, they had told her. They had offered and she had accepted, to her regret, a cup of thick, stale coffee in a tiny plastic cup. It lay cold and rejected on the table next to her.

  Two weeks ago Denise had come to New York to look for her sister, Cheryl. It was not like Cheryl to miss her weekly call and she had not answered any of Denise’s emails. When Denise called Cheryl’s employer, she was told that one Monday, two months ago, Cheryl had just not shown up. She had now been fired. Her final paycheck was in the mail at her apartment when Denise went there to find her. The landlord had given Denise a hard time, but, since she was a sister and was willing to pay the past due rent, she was admitted.

  The police had already been there. Denise had reported Cheryl missing after she hadn’t heard from her for over ten days. A missing persons report had been filed and a cursory investigation undertaken. She must have talked to half of the detectives in Manhattan, trying to get a straight answer about what they were doing to find Cheryl. Finally, she had given up her efforts on the telephone and come to New York herself.

  Now she was waiting for Det. Sgt. Krasnowski who, she was told, would bring her up to date on the investigation.

  Finally, the door to the room opened and a balding, badly dressed, gum-chewing caricature of a New York detective walked into the room.

  “Ms. Parnell?” he asked.

  “That’s Purnell,” Denise spat back. “And yes, I am she. I’ve been waiting here for .”

  “Oh, I’m real sorry Ms. Purnell,” the detective interrupted her. “Ya see I’m on this case and we had a call so I had to, well listen, can I get you some more coffee?”

  “No thank you Detective,” Denise replied curtly. “I’ve had a sample of what you call coffee.”

  “That’s Detective Sergeant, miss, and I’m sorry you don’t like our coffee. But I’m here to answer your questions.”

  Denise, realizing that her anger would get her nowhere, took control of herself. “I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant, you have to realize I’m frantic about my sister. She’s been missing for two months and I’ve gotten nowhere over the telephone. I’ve been shunted all over New York, from department to department. You’re my last hope. I’ve got to find my sister.”

  The detective sergeant accepted the apology and sat behind the faded institutional table that served as a desk in the sparsely furnished room. He held a small manila folder and dropped it in front of him. “Ms. Purnell, you have to realize that New York is a city of about eight million people. Dozens of people go missing every day. Most of them show up sooner or later. Some unfortunately do not. And some, well, you know ”

  “Yes.” It was Denise’s turn to interrupt. “Some turn up dead. I know. But I know Cheryl’s not dead and I know she wouldn’t have gone anywhere without telling me, at least not for so long.”

  “Ms. Purnell,” the detective replied, “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re what, 25 years old?”

  “Twenty three!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean, that is ”

  “Yes Detective Sergeant?”

  “Listen, I’m sorry, just call me detective. I was wrong to be rude.”

  Denise’s eyes were filling with tears. She had been so strong for so many weeks and now she felt herself slipping. The detective watched her in silence. He was used to tears. They came with his job.

  “Ms. Purnell, what I meant to say was, even though you grew up with your sister, your both older now, you’ve developed your own lives. Maybe she didn’t tell you everything that was going on in her life. Maybe she met someone. People do. And they run away.”

  “Cheryl didn’t meet anyone and she didn’t run away. I’m the closest friend she has and she would tell me anything.”

  “I’m sure you were close, Ms. Purnell, but this is my business. I’ve talked to several hundred people who thought they knew someone before they took off and went somewhere. Most of them call eventually, even after many months. Look, I’ve brought the file. You can look at it. I’m not hiding anything.”

  Krasnowski opened the manila folder to reveal a single paged report, three paragraphs long.

  “This is it?” Denise exclaimed incredulously. “This is your investigation?”

  “Ms. Purnell, the officers went to the apartment. They found no evidence of foul play. Her bank account was emptied. She didn’t report to her job. What more could we do?”

  “You could have called her friends, dusted the apartment for fingerprints, done something. I don’t know, I’m not a policeman.” Denise was on the verge of breaking down. All the months of frustration, all the hopes she h
ad built up when she came to New York, all dissipated by a three paragraph report.

  “Ms. Purnell, we don’t know who your sister’s friends are. Two of them called, just like you did. It’s here in the report. They had no idea where your sister went.”

  Twenty minutes later, after a good cry and the uncomfortable consolation of the detective, Denise was in a taxicab heading back to her sister’s apartment. She looked passively out of the window as she tried to hold her sorrow in. “Cheryl, oh Cheryl, where are you? What’s happened to you,” she thought. She took the elevator up to the tenth floor of the apartment building and let herself in. It was after dark now. The lights of the city sparkled outside of the windows. New York was a cold, impersonal place when you were hurt and lonely. She went into Cheryl’s bedroom, lay down on the bed and cried herself to sleep.

  ***

  As Denise passed mercifully into sleep, the Turk was deplaning at Newark International Airport. His van was stored in long-term parking and he hustled through check-out, recovered the van and headed into the city. He had spent a few more days at Nora’s after the abduction of Heloise. He had fucked her fore and aft to his content. He decided to leave when Nora had paid him off and Lenny the snake rolled in. Lenny had come to recover the van and drive it to Dallas. He would stay long enough to enjoy himself with the new slut. Watching Lenny stick his greasy cock into what had been a free woman a few days ago was something the Turk could do without seeing.

  No matter how he tried, he could not get Cheryl out of his mind. Nora had given up on him.

  “Turk,” she said, “you gotta snap out of this. She’s just a cunt, a set of holes. There’s a million of her all over. Go out and get one for yourself. You’ve got the place for it. Grab a girl and take a long vacation. You’ll get over this.”

  Turk decided to take Nora’s advice. His van was back east and New York was as good a place as any to get fresh meat, even better in some respects. He bet that no one would look twice if he dragged some protesting bitch down the street on a leash. So as he drove through the Holland Tunnel into the city, he began to lay his plans. He would hole up at Marty’s for a few days and scope out the talent. There had been a couple on his short list a few months back when he had grabbed Cheryl. Maybe he would look them up.

  The next morning, Turk parked his van down in the Village and took a little stroll. It was late summer and the last few days of hot weather had inspired the city’s nubile young female population to let it all hang out for what may be the last time until next June. New York women had it all, style, sophistication and beautiful bodies. Well, not all of them, but enough so that you didn’t notice the rest.

  Strolling aimlessly for an hour, the Turk found himself wandering down 9th Avenue. He thought he was heading for the Chelsea Pier to scope out some roller-blading beauties. They all wore the smallest spandex tights they could fit into and were usually in splendid form. Suddenly, he looked up and realized where he was. Over there was where he had parked his van. About a block and a half further down was the café where he had waited for Cheryl to emerge from her building so that he could follow her uptown. And here was Cheryl’s apartment. What the fuck was he doing here? His subconscious had walked him here, the last place his conscious mind wanted to be. Surrendering to fate, he grabbed a seat at the café and ordered an espresso.

  Sitting on the sidewalk on one of the last hot days of the year in the city, Turk watched the world go by. Who was he fooling? He was fucked royally. This broad, Cheryl, had gotten inside him, had ruined him. He was mean before, cruel, spiteful, hating and hated. But now, he wanted to destroy the world. It would only take a wry smile, a sarcastic glance, someone kicking dust on his shoes and he would be out with his knife and slicing away. They would have to shoot him down like the dog that he was.

  Suddenly, the Turk’s heart leapt into his throat. There, across the street, it couldn’t be. Coming out of Cheryl’s building was a woman that, if she wasn’t Cheryl, was her twin. The hair was different, she seemed a little taller, but that sashay, the sharp look of her eyes, all said Cheryl. She was even wearing the same yellow dress that he had first spotted her in.

  That morning, Denise had awoken still in her clothes from the night before. It took her a moment to realize where she was, but once she did, the gnawing feeling of despair returned. She felt so powerless. But what could she do? She rose, showered and forced down a cup of coffee. The sun broke in on the apartment like a new puppy, all smiles and play. It was hard to remain glum when the sun sparkled so clearly on the windows of the high-rises that surrounded Cheryl’s apartment. She thought back to her teenage years with Cheryl, her older sister by eleven months. Irish twins. Denise decided that she would go home, back to LA, where she had traveled when Cheryl had come east. They had promised not to lose touch, to remain best friends, to share everything about their lives. Well, she would take a nice walk around the city, Cheryl’s city. The day was beautiful and she would enjoy it. Tomorrow, she would fly home.

  The trouble was, she hadn’t really brought any appropriate clothes. Cheryl had left a closet-full behind. Denise opened the closet door in the bedroom and glanced through the offerings. A nice, bright yellow dress caught her fancy. She and Cheryl were about the same size and Denise was sure it would fit her perfectly.

  And so, when she exited the building, pausing a few moments to look around and get her bearings, she was wearing that fateful yellow dress that had been Cheryl’s unwitting demise. She paused to straighten out a strap on Cheryl’s sandals and as she did so, she struck precisely the pose that had captured the Turk’s imagination that fateful day a few months ago.

  The Turk knew it couldn’t possibly be Cheryl. She was gone and he, as well as anyone, knew it. But who was she? Could it be a sister? As in a dream, the Turk rose to his feet to follow the lithe woman as she strolled down the block and turned the corner towards the Village. He followed, mesmerized by her every movement. All conscious thought was gone from his mind. He was truly on autopilot, years of experience keeping him inconspicuous to his prey. But was he really stalking her? He didn’t know. He couldn’t think that far in advance.

  Denise couldn’t help but admire the just-opening swank shops that lined the boulevards of the Village, sharing space with record shops, tiny Japanese restaurants and three story walk-ups. Trees. There were trees here. Not like LA at all. Anyone who went for a walk in LA was immediately sedated and rushed to a local mental clinic for observation. In LA you drove.

  Stopping at a small café on Delancy, Denise ordered a decaf latte and a small croissant with apricot butter. The detective was right. As she watched all of the people walk by, busy in their lives, rushing casually as New Yorkers were prone to, she realized that Cheryl was lost. Something dreadful had happened to her and she would probably never know what. Tears blurred her vision when the waiter brought her fare.

  “You ok lady?” the waiter asked. He was a tall, skinny boy, a scraggly beard bedecking his face. He was dressed casually, with a white apron wrapped across his waist. He looked at her with what seemed like true concern. Denise was surprised.

  “Oh, I’m okay,” she said. “Just a little sad, that’s all.”

  “Well, I hope it turns out all right for you. Enjoy the day.”

  The waiter retreated into the café and Denise sipped her latte. She would cry later, she resolved. She wanted to enjoy the day.

  When Denise stopped for coffee, Turk took the opportunity to walk past her and get a closer look. God damn it it’s Cheryl all over. It has to be her sister. Of course. She’s come looking for her and she’s staying at her apartment. What were the odds that he would have sat down for an espresso just at the right moment to see her walk out the door, wearing Cheryl’s dress? But what would he do about it? He knew he should stay away, avoid the scene of his crime, but he was drawn as a bear to honey. It was like watching a train wreck happen right in front of you. You couldn’t look away.

  Denise finished her coffee and croissant. She’d had enough sunshine for today. Her soul desired
misery and darkness. She would return to the apartment.

  The Turk resumed his tracking of the graceful, but clearly saddened woman. He had seen the tears in her eyes when he passed her. He recognized the tilt of the head, the shrugged shoulders. It couldn’t be anyone else but Cheryl’s sister. The hair color was different, but everything else was Cheryl to a “T”.

  When Denise reached the apartment building, the Turk became desperate that he would lose track of her. Luckily for him, another tenant entered the building right behind Denise. Pretending he was with Denise, he held the door open for the self-absorbed woman and her tiny child. There was just enough room for the four of them to scrunch together in the pea-sized elevator. The lady and her child got off on seven. Denise, of course, got off on ten.

  The Turk let Cheryl’s double exit the elevator ahead of him. He held back, not wanting to spook her. He still didn’t know what he was going to do. He was like a lemming, rushing to his doom. When Denise got a few steps ahead of him, Turk stepped out of the elevator and walked slowly up the hallway. He let the distance between them increase. He was in automatic mode now. There was not a conscious thought in his head. It was all instinct.

  Denise stopped at Cheryl’s apartment door. She had the keys in her tiny purse and the door was opened with ease. She was about to step in when she heard a voice, a man’s voice, gruff, yet seemingly innocent, call out. “Miss Purnell?”

  Denise did what no self respecting New Yorker would have done. She was standing in a hallway with the apartment door open, watching a perfect stranger approach. She had about four seconds to wonder who this man was and how he knew her name.

  Afterwards, Denise could not piece together exactly how it happened. It was not that the Turk acted swiftly, although he did. It was just that the change in everything she was and everything she had ever hoped to be occurred seemingly in the blink of an eye.