Beautiful Torture

by C. P. Mandara

  BEAUTIFUL TORTURE

  by

  C. P. MANDARA

  Published by Chimera Books

  ISBN 9781780806853

  Distributed by Smashwords

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright C. P. Mandara. The right of C. P. Mandara to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time. Albert Camus

  Chapter 1 - Harper: Two years ago

  My face whips around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. For a moment, I am blinded. My face stings like it's on fire and the burn rises up through my eyes and down into my neck. The backhander I've just been given is brutally hard and disorientating, driving me instantly to my knees.

  "Get up," he barks. I stumble back to my feet. There are punishments for disobedience, and they are much worse than the one I've just received. When he's in this mood, I need to do everything he says. It's the only way to limit the damage. If not, I'll be driven to my bed for most of next week, and the last thing I need to be is helpless before this man.

  "Have you got the package ready?" He's advancing towards me again, waiting for another opportunity to strike. I'm not going to give him one. I learnt the hard way that I need to be obedient and dutiful at all times.

  "Yes," I whisper. I know my role. The package was prepared almost the instant he told me about it, and I have been waiting to deliver it ever since. Nausea swims in my bloodstream at the thought of what's ahead, but barely a day goes by where I don't upend the contents of my stomach, so that's nothing new.

  "Good." Alex pats my head. "If Mal wants you to sweeten the deal you know what to do, don't you darling?" His fingers tangle in my hair, and he tugs at my roots, drawing my head back until his face looms over me.

  "Yes." I know exactly what to do. If I'm told to drop to my knees and am presented with his cock, I suck it. If I'm told to spread my legs wide and masturbate in front of his friends, I plaster a smile upon my face and give them a good show. If they want to watch while I'm sandwiched between half a dozen men, with fingers and cocks in every hole, I'll take that, too. My mouth is rarely used for talking, and I know exactly who is in charge of me at all times.

  "Then what are you waiting for? Get that shit on the road." Alex spins me around and slaps my ass hard, making me stagger forward on my spike heels. I'm amazed I haven't managed to bust one this evening, but perhaps that will come later. I've heard Mal is an evil bastard, and I'm under no illusions that I'll come out of this transaction the same way I went in. The girls all shudder in horror whenever his name is mentioned, so I already know I'm not going to like him much. Most of the men in this business are dark and depraved, and I've come to expect that, but Mal is reputed to be the worst of the worst. I've been fortunate enough not to meet him until now, but my honeymoon period with Alex is officially over. It's time to earn my keep, or so he informs me. What he really means is that we've got to the stage where he doesn't really give a shit if someone shoots me.

  Nodding, I say, "Tell him I'll be with him immediately." My voice is devoid of all expression, mostly because I'm dead inside. Where once upon a time there was a warm, beating heart, there now resides a burnt offering of cinders and ashes. The merest breath between my ribcage would blow my house of cards over. I'm living a lie, and I'm one step away from prison or something far worse at all times. Alex says prison is not a safe haven for me, anyway. He knows people on the inside. People who could kill me and make it hurt. Thugs who could drag my death out for days, or butcher everyone who's close to me. I don't disbelieve him for a second. I've met some bad people in this industry, and I've seen some scary shit. I am one step away from suicide at all times, but I don't have enough courage to take the plunge. It's going to be the death of me.

  Alex picks up the phone and in lowered tones, lets Mal know I'm coming. I'm already halfway out of the door before his voice halts me.

  "I haven't checked the goods yet, sweetheart." As my back is towards him I close my eyes. The last thing I need is his hands on me before I'm about to do a job, but Alex trusts no one, least of all me.

  "Of course, darling. I'm sorry." Turning around with another one of my plastic smiles, I feel my face stretch so tight I fear it might break. Still, with any luck this won't take but a moment. Walking towards him once again with sharp clicks of my heels, I don't stop until our bodies are touching. My pulse is rocking wildly, and I know he'll be able to feel it, but I swear that turns him on. Alex is a sick bastard in every way that counts.

  When my eyes reach his I'm sure he can almost see the panic swirling in them, but that's not what he's interested in right now. We always play this game just before I walk out of the door. He's a bit like a dog marking his territory by pissing on every street corner. He needs to mark me as his before some other fucker gets his hands on me. Just to make sure I know what the consequences of defying him are. Believe me, I know. We've been through this routine so many times before, I could almost tell him what he's about to do before he does it. Call me clairvoyant, why don't you.

  Trying to control my breathing, so I'm not panting out loud in his face, I wait patiently. Alex likes to make people wait. He enjoys making them uncomfortable, and he loves seeing them sweat. I've seen this game one too many times before, though. He knows I'm on edge, but that's all he's getting from me.

  When the silence feels like it's stretched out longer than all the completed seasons of Smallville, the man finally begins to roll up my dress. Just get on with it, asshole. The cheap red viscose that clings to my thighs is pushed up towards my hips, and Alex is uncaring of who sees me like this. In fact, this is small fry for him. He often parades me around naked in front of his friends, just because he can. Even though the asshole whores me out to whoever he chooses, his friends know better than to touch me without his permission. You do not cross Alex Wilkinson. If you do, you aren't around long enough to breathe a word of it to anyone. Still, I made my bed. While I knew dating Alex wasn't one of the smartest decisions I would make in my life, the other options at the time hadn't looked promising. Rock plus hard place equals hideous consequences.

  When the whole of my lower body is on display, Alex brushes a hand up the inside of my thigh. I moan softly. This isn't because I'm aroused. It's because if I don't I'll get into more trouble than I can handle. I discovered a few months ago that Alex and I would never be equals. My job is to look pretty, spread my legs when ordered, and be his very convenient drugs mule. If I can do all of that without complaint and look fairly enthusiastic about it, the black eyes and broken ribs are kept to a minimum. Hospital stays aren't on the cards for me, so I need to keep the internal bleeding to a minimum.

  "Are you wet for me, love?" Love. Now there's a word. Alex doesn't know how to love. He knows how to push people around, bully and castrate them, though. You think I'm kidding? I've seen him do it. If you're one of Alex's mules, you don't lose your cargo. If I ever lose mine, I'll have to kill myself. There's no way I'll wait for him to finish me off.

  "I'm a
lways wet for you, sweetheart," I purr. Yet another lie leaves my mouth, but thankfully I won't get called on it. The amount of lube I've thrust into my vagina to enable myself to cart his heroin about is fairly impressive, and he won't be able to tell the difference. Alex thinks I'm a walking hot mess for his cock, but nothing could be further from the truth. I might have been hot for the bastard at the beginning, but that was a long time ago. Any lust I might have felt for him has long since left, but I've found ways to cope with his madness. It's survive or die around these halls.

  When his fingers thrust inside me they find a cylindrical shape wrapped in crinkly plastic - very firmly, I might add. If that stuff escapes the two freezer bag's worth of plastic I've parcelled it up in, I'm a goner. I'm not absolutely positive whether the heroin could be absorbed into my bloodstream from down there, but I do know I don't want to find out.

  "Come see me when you get back, darling," he growls, his eyes lighting up with the thought of sinking his fangs into me later. That will be the absolute last thing I need after tackling Mal, so I'll just have to hope he does a 'Speedball' (a really dangerous mix of heroin and cocaine) and crashes out on the sofa. It seems to be his new 'thing', and anything that keeps him away from my body is A-OK with me.

  "Will do, sweetheart," I say, pressing my lips to his. Will I ever. I'll be tiptoeing my way around our apartment with the lights out when we get back. There's only so many times you can be fucked over in a day without being committed to the nearest mental asylum - not that he'd allow it.

  Grabbing my ass with a ferocious squeeze, he leers down at my boobs before pushing me away.

  "Get on with it. The sooner it's done, the sooner you'll be back." He waves me away with a casual flick of his hand and walks out of the room. It's nice to see he's worried about my safety with one of the most notorious drug lords London has ever seen. I didn't even get a 'Good luck.' Let's hope I don't need one.

  Mal's headquarters, if they can be called that, are located on the outskirts of town in Bexley. His building is a big, corrugated iron shed that looks like someone's dropped a bomb on it. The roof is rusting so badly that when I get inside, I'm pretty sure I'll be able to see daylight through it. It must be cold as hell in there in winter. Perhaps that's why he chose it. It's certainly a good way to keep uninvited guests at bay.

  When I approach the wooden door that's falling off its hinges, I suddenly have a bad feeling about this. It's eleven pm, I'm waddling along with a packet of heroine shoved up my nether regions, and I'm about to go chat with one of the East End's most notorious villains. What could go wrong? Everything - that's what. Still, it's not as if I have a choice. I can't run, I have no money, and Alex has men everywhere. They'll find me and gut me. I have to do this.

  Raising my hand up to the door, noting that the interior is dark, I pray that someone's made a mistake and he isn't here today. Who knows? Perhaps Alex can send someone else in my place tomorrow? A sliver of hope squirms in my chest as my fist bangs three times against the wood. I wait patiently for an answer but hear nothing bar the faint hum of cars in the distance. Maybe my luck is in, after all. Banging once more on the door, when I hear no response, I turn around to leave.

  "Oo are ya, and what are ya doing 'ere?" The accent is a thick cockney one and comes from behind me. Spinning around with my heart in my mouth, I take a step back in shock. Holy fuck. There's a man standing behind me in a black suit and tie, and he looks like Jason Statham from Transporter. He's mostly bald, has a day's worth of stubble, and if looks could kill I'd already be in the mortuary. I can see his hand reaching underneath his jacket for what I'm guessing is a gun, and I don't want to give him a reason to use it.

  "Harper. Harper Wilkinson. Alex sent me." I hope to hell Alex told him my name because if not, I'm guessing I'll shortly be buried six feet under. At least it will be quick. I hope.

  "'Arper?" It's a common fact that no one this side of London can pronounce an 'H' worth a damn. He looks at me confused for a moment, as I hop from one foot to another trying to stay warm. The cheap jacket I've thrown over my dress is made of cotton, and it'd be fine anywhere nearing the equator, but is utterly useless in England. There is no point asking my husband for a replacement, though.

  "That's me," I confirm, nodding for effect. His gaze darkens.

  "Do you 'ave my dirt?" His eyebrows raise and his lips flatten. I can tell just by looking at him that he's one cruel motherfucker. There are certain people in this world you should never mess with, and Mal is one of them.

  "I do," I say, hoping to hell that 'dirt' is slang for heroin. I've heard a lot of terms for it before, but that's a new one.

  "Good." He then reaches past me to open a rusty wooden door that squeals in pain. The sound makes my teeth clench and my ears bleed, but a firm hand is pressing against my back, ushering me inside the dark interior.

  Lights snap on in the form of two massive halogen strips and Mal strides off. Looking around, I figure I'm in a workshop of sorts. There's welding and cutting tools everywhere. Maybe this place is a front for car body work repairs? Who knows? Stepping over the various debris that litters the concrete floor, I stroll forward on my spike heels. I'm going to break an ankle if I'm not careful, but I realise that's the least of my worries.

  Following Mal to the small room at the back, I watch as he opens the door and beckons me inside impatiently. I realise my mistake seconds later. The room is warm. We're in a bedroom. There's a single wicker chair, a bedside table, a sink, and a double bed. On the table there's a half-opened bottle of Jack and two glasses, both of which still have whisky inside them. The room smells damp and stale, and I'm guessing it doesn't get much of an airing as there are no windows. Unless I'm much mistaken, I'm trapped. There's no one around here for a mile or two, and no one will come running if they hear screams. Hell, I'm in the part of town where they're almost expected. Fuck.

  "Want a drink?" Mal looks at me expectantly. I'm a done deal. My darling husband has whored me out yet again, and I'm expected to perform. This is not what I signed up for. Every time I strip and have a stranger's hands all over me all I want to do is vomit, but I've learned to control the reaction. If Alex hears I've misbehaved he takes it out on me with his fists. That can mean anything from sassing one of his colleagues, to retching upon someone's cock. I'm beaten for the tiniest infractions. Alex doesn't really need an excuse to let his hands and feet fly, but he always seems to find one. I've given up trying to avoid them and have almost accepted my place in society.

  I have fewer rights than the doormat in front of our apartment, and just like the doormat, people wipe their feet all over me.

  Chapter 2 - Brandt

  When my alarm goes off at crazy o'clock, I rub my hands over my eyes and curse at the world in general. The last place I want to go to this morning is New York, and the last person I want to see is Helena, but no one cares what I want these days. All everyone cares about is 'saving face' or limiting the damage my disgrace might have caused them. This is doubly insulting when you consider that if my parents had thought to throw a decent lawyer at me, I might not have been sent to prison in the first place. It wasn't as if they were short of a bob or two.

  Reaching over to my nightstand I grab my phone and switch it on. I'm not expecting any messages, but I want to go through the news before I get up and face the world. In prison you only get to find out about current affairs by watching the TV, and more often than not the telly is focused on sport. Darts, football, rugby, cricket, boxing, WWE, MMA, tennis and even golf have the inmates' rapt attention - but not much else. Current affairs don't seem to be a high priority when you're on the inside looking out.

  When my phone bleeps at me I blink and struggle upwards. I think that's the tone for a text message, so I'd better see who's on fire. It better not be Gabriel. If it is, Harper's on her own for the next couple of days, and knowing my little princess she'll probably knock herself unconscious or do something equally as stupid the minute my head is turned.

  T
hankfully, it's not Gabriel. It's Simmons. Scanning through the brief message I find out I'm not going to New York after all. When my parents tried to get me a visa it was refused due to my current status as an ex-con. There is a God. Actually, scrap that, because this means Helena will have to come to the UK to visit me, and sure enough, Simmons confirms this in the next couple of sentences. I'm to go to her parents' house this evening. Her parents are inviting me to dinner, no less. This has all the hallmarks of being an epic disaster. I have to remind myself that it's just a meeting. No one is getting married - yet.

  It's not all bad news, though. If I'm still in the UK I can get back to Harper ahead of schedule. Even if I can't catch a flight back home this evening, I'll be able to get a train or a hire a car. The train will probably be my best bet. At least I'll be able to get some sleep. Otherwise, I'll be driving forever and dead to the world by the time I arrive home. We wouldn't want that, would we? I'm sure Harper's anxiously awaiting my arrival and counting down the hours until I return. That reminds me, I'd better call Gabriel and tell him he's off the hook. Ringing his cell, I'm not surprised when no one answers, seeing as it's three-thirty a.m., but I leave him a message. He'll get it when he wakes up. Harper will be able to cope on her own for a day. It's too bad if she can't. If she wants to lay those little fists of hers into my chest when I get back I'm pretty sure I'll enjoy it - along with everything else I'm going to heap upon her.

  Skimming towards the end of the text, I find out that I've been volunteered to pick Helena up from the airport. My lips twist. Why is nothing in my life ever easy? That is the last thing I need. Still, at least I can go back to bed for the foreseeable future. She doesn't arrive until four p.m., thank God. My head then crashes back into the pillow and within seconds, I'm once again dead to the world.