Glasgow Noir Box Set

by Gavin Graham

  “Good, can I show you the rest of my body then…?” the heels were off and she was unzipping her skirt, easing it down over her hourglass hips. She peeled of her panties and they fell to the floor, revealing a plump, shaven fold; her vaginal promise of a sexual paradise.

  The long, hard Glasgow fuck.

  He felt her energy, and the heat of her blood as it boiled in her labia; the crudeness of her promiscuous smut.

  As he watched her, he quickly grew to have a rock-solid staff. “What a beautiful and delicious whore,” he said with a fixed gaze of genuine appreciation and fascination.

  “This body right here,” she said, caressing the skin around her tummy with delicate fingertips, sensually, “is for men, not boys…”

  “Is that so? Well, let me tie you up then? And, you can have it as hard as you like? I’ll have you begging for mercy and begging for your life, that’s a promise.”

  “Don’t make empty promises, Mister journalist, I really hope you are a man of your word,” she was breathing heavily, her bare chest became flushed. “I haven’t had it for weeks, and now I’m totally gagging for it…”

  He drained his glass of wine in one gulp, took her by the hand, and he led her directly to the bedroom where he shut the door and closed the curtains. The room feel shadowy and he removed his shirt whilst keeping his back to her.

  “Nice artwork…so now I get to be bedded by the Man with the Crucifix Tattoo? That is so sexy…” she said, as she lay down on the bed, none the wiser as to his true identity. She offered up her wrists and ankles to be bound and tied in leather. Little did she know, she was giving herself to The Devil.

  He felt her need, not just for sex, but for the thrill of pain and the need to die. He wanted to fill her and sodomise her till she bled and cried and begged for that final crack to the skull.

  He would feel her heat, for real, and make sure that she was hot enough to be received in Hell. To be roasted in the flame at the venomous altar of the high-priest, the Beast.

  Then, at the right moment, he would make her feel the brilliance of the next dimension as the Reaper came, to keep her filth forevermore; sacred and kept.

  Then, and only then, would her brains spill upon his bed.

  Sweet, delicious murder…

  When you break it all down, we are primitive to the core, just animals and monsters…

  She was a big lady and a joy to abuse; ripe for The Devil’s cage.

  She was everything a whore was supposed to be.

  Well-shaped, with a filthy mouth and a serpent’s tongue.

  She’d do anything for a bit of cash, even give up her body where it wasn’t required. The greed of almighty fools, the blindness of Godly followers, destined for the fall. Like now, because a whore is a whore, forever and a day.

  He tied her up with leather bondage straps and shoved a gimp-ball into her mouth. She couldn’t stop whimpering and moaning and gyrating her hips up and down, looking for something to fill her; just a repugnant nympho maniac.

  Murdoch stood on the side-lines, watching her movements with fascination, like she was the best catch in the sea and he’d been the one to hook her and reel her in.

  Illegally.

  Poached for the kill.

  The urge to fuck her was almost as strong as the urge to cut out her liver and shallow fry it in salted butter with a sliced clove of garlic.

  He so wanted to violate her body, using her as nothing more than a sexual object; for all reasons of primitive need and Satanic offering.

  For my ecstasy, is his ecstasy…

  Animal, as we were, and as we shall be…

  He circled to her rear and admired the humped-end. He took a sneak-peek up into her shadowy crotch.

  Pulsing and hot.

  Mucky and putrid.

  Creamed and slick.

  Needing of vindication.

  He could smell all of her bodily perversity.

  At the sides of her body, her humongous breasts lay splayed across the mattress. Indeed, her body was a sight to behold.

  Full of filth and dirt; a dog.

  She was moaning best she could through the gimp-ball, struggling in the straps, begging for it. The pelvis was moving in increasingly vertical motions like she could feel his penis already inside her, riding it on the bed, having full-on intercourse.

  She would need it strong and hard too.

  No lie.

  He felt weak.

  He wondered with curiosity if he would, in fact, have the level of strength, stamina and virility to satisfy her dog-like need. He glanced across to a mirror on the wall he noticed that he’d lost weight since getting out of jail and especially since returning from Thailand.

  In a split second, he no longer lusted for her sex.

  The urge to kill was too strong; it was all-controlling.

  He took the spanner.

  It was a huge, heavy tool and he placed it down upon her back and noticed how she flinched. A slight, thrilling jerk as she felt the steely chill.

  The cold edge.

  The fearsome weight.

  It confused her, for a brief second, and he noticed her head spin to the side as if wondering what the Hell it was.

  Meanwhile, he gripped his hands onto her mountainous rump, indulging in the softness of her wicked flesh; enriched for the slaughter. He splayed her open and looked down at her filth, like an amateur gynaecologist, with a professional and inquisitive eye. He turned to the camera and simultaneously put a hand deep down to the space between her legs. He began to massage her genitalia, with generous motions of the hand and fingers; all the time, smiling at the camera.

  It drove her crazy, instantaneously.

  She grunted and groaned with pleasure, jerking her hips, like the Great Whore of Babylon. She was closing up her bottom with tight clenches, smooth and strong, to pull him deep into her miscreant darkness. He caressed the left hip, holding with a tight grip, and with his right fist he closed in against the flesh of her buttocks, probing hard and deep with his finger.

  She took enormous pleasure from her sin, that much was clear, getting lost in her own little dimension of space - her private little world of sordid erotica - her final ‘fix’ before he sailed her into the gross void of ash.

  It was time to use his tool and sacrifice her to the Gods.

  He slowly eased out his finger, sticky and glistening with her warm, fetid moisture.

  She is a foul harlot…

  She has to die…

  He picked the spanner and swung it in the air like it was Thor’s almighty hammer. She was hungry and hot, whimpering for more, as he swung down with all the strength he could muster and with one cracking blow he broke her skull into two pieces.

  Her head split with surprising ease.

  It cracked, like a nut, and made the same sound.

  The blood spray from such a head blow is always quite specific and is hard to replicate in a Hollywood film, unless of course your name is Quentin Tarantino. A head-split gives way to a shallow type of ‘V’-shaped spray.

  The blood has form and vitality.

  It is coagulant.

  A head-split brings profound satisfaction, too, when you get it just right. The sound of the crack and the taste of the victim’s blood as it paints your face; it makes for a rare moment of certainty and power. This is what Murdoch was feeling, in his peculiar moment of release.

  There would be no more finger-action for the old Matron; her trollop days were well-and-truly over.

  He felt himself get a hard-on as he licked at a bloody little remnant of brain the had landed perfectly upon his lips. As he tasted and swallowed, he wanted to pleasure himself the way he’d done on the Swinstie Farm.

  So, he stood back from the view of the camera, where he could stand in the shadows and do it by hand.

  He didn’t even bother with a condom.

  Chapter 41

  A dark & thought-provoking piece of art

  The Devil always knew how to seduce his women…<
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  Irene Campbell was entranced by the beautiful darkness in what she saw, a depiction of Jesus Christ on the cross, floating in a pitch-black sky over blue water.

  It moved her far beyond words.

  She didn’t feel the figure that was breathing down her neck as she was buried in her thoughts, lost in a world far away from Glasgow, on the Costa Brava of the Mediterranean Sea.

  She heard a voice, the man that was standing right behind her.

  “It’s an interesting painting, isn’t it?”

  “Interesting? I’m not sure if that would be the correct word to describe such a masterpiece by none other than Salvador Dali?”

  “It’s lacking realism.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s no blood in the painting. No nails. No thorns. It doesn’t quite capture crucifixion for what it really is.”

  “Which is?”

  “A powerful act of violence. Pain. Suffering. None of that is depicted here, you see? No realism, it’s a shame. Dali’s so-called creative process was merely moulded to the restrictive confines of his own environment, it’s merely a construct of reality that suited his own ideals. I mean, look at this landscape of water and fishing boats that the figure of Christ is hovering above, it’s the bay of Port Lligat, Dali lived there when he painted this particular piece of art. You see what I’m getting it?”

  “Hm, perhaps he wanted us to know that God was looking over him?”

  “Just him? What about the rest of us then, all damned to Hell?” Murdoch chuckled with glee.

  “Yes, you do have a point, you have an interesting way of seeing things. How do you know so much about it?”

  “Oh, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands lately, so I’ve been reading a fair bit. There is another piece of art around here that I think you might like.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, one of a crucifix.”

  “OK…and…where is it?”

  “It’s tattooed on my back,” he flashed her a sly and deeply sexualised wink, projecting his masculinity and stabbing her, silently, with his corrupt intentions.

  The woman suddenly flushed red and hot at the very thought of seeing the man’s naked back. She cleared her throat, nervously, but smiled. She wasn’t sure what to say, nobody had ever flirted with her like this before.

  Swarms of butterflies tickled at the insides of her tummy and a hot stream of need burned in the innocence of her craving slit.

  “Look, I was just about to get a coffee. Would you like to join me?”

  “No, I eh, better not…”

  The man in the Harris Tweed jacket with the artistic charms looked genuinely deflated and saddened.

  He was roping her in.

  To fall as prey to be devoured, flesh and bone, upon The Devil’s sporting plain.

  “Well, I suppose one coffee wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

  The charming demon brightened up. “No, Irene. It won’t hurt at all, I promise.”

  It didn’t even register that she hadn’t told the man her name…

  At nineteen years old and a first-year student of Art History at the Glasgow ‘Cally’, Irene Campbell had the whole world ahead of her.

  Messy nights on the town.

  Hangovers.

  Holidays with the girls.

  Graduations.

  Boyfriends.

  A husband, one day.

  Kids, perhaps.

  But for now, she was still a virgin and many of her friends supposed that she would die a virgin. Not tonight though, because tonight she wanted it, not to be so bloody frigid. To be ravished by the man in the Harris Tweed jacket and to touch and kiss his crucifix tattoo.

  He was handsome.

  Intense.

  Artsy and intelligent.

  Just her ‘type’.

  Her ‘dream man’, and she couldn’t believe her luck.

  She looked at herself in the mirror and didn’t recognise the girl looked back at her.

  Not a girl, in fact, but a woman.

  She looked like a whore.

  A magnificent, sexy whore.

  The transformation was both disturbing and fascinating at the same time.

  Was she doing the right thing?

  Is this what he would want?

  To see her looking like this?

  That’s what all men wanted, was it not?

  A whore?

  A sexually experienced woman?

  His intentions had been made perfectly clear when he’d sent her a ‘dick pic’ and for the first time in her sheltered existence, she knew what it was to be hungry for a fuck. She felt it, the very moment she opened the image, casting her eyes on his large, well-hung penis. It had brought again the tickling butterflies to her burning innards and she’d wanted to touch and feel it, right there and right then. The message had read: I WANT TO MAKE LOVE TO YOU SO MUCH, IRENE, EVER SINCE I MET YOU AT THE ART GALLERY I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT YOU. I AM SO HARD FOR YOU, CAN YOU SEE HOW HARD I AM IN THE PIC?

  Her phone buzzed, a WhatsApp message:

  [William] HELLO IRENE, ARE YOU READY YET?

  ‘Oh crap,’ she thought, brushing her hair through once more before straightening her short skirt and walking through to the living room where she would have to confront Jodie; the bitch.

  “Oh. My. Fucking. God. Look what the cat dragged in? Frigid Mary, the gangster’s daughter, dressed up like a right tart,” Jodie mocked her weakling flat mate, like the nasty witch that she truly was.

  “Don’t call me that, I’m not frigid!”

  The bully laughed at her getting all flustered.

  “Are you going to be here tonight, by the way?” she tried to sound more assertive and folded her arms in a psychologically defensive stance. “My boyfriend is picking me up, see, and I might bring him back here to have a really noisy shag, just to let you know,” she smirked with mock satisfaction.

  “Ha, you mean the boyfriend that doesn’t actually exist, like, as a mere figment of your overly-active frigid imagination?” she exploded, with derisory laughter.

  She stood her ground, maybe she had suddenly become more mature?

  Stronger?

  She held that knowing smile and her defensive stance.

  You can’t touch me bitch and a guy like William would never chose you, you’re too thick!

  “Well, I’m off for a real night out, so you can stay here and snuggle up with your imaginary boyfriend all you want,” the bitch’s laughter bellowed out on the landing as she slammed the door behind her.

  “Good riddance,” Irene said, gritting her teeth and giving her the middle finger.

  Jodie was being watched as she left the building, by an intellectual-looking man with ginger hair and thick glasses, sat up in his Land Rover, surveying the situation with casual alertness.

  He scratched at his arm where a slight rash was forming, watching the dumb looking bimbo as she bounced down the street. “Dumb fucking tramp,” he muttered under his breath, watching her as she disappeared into the backseat of a black cab.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket.

  Bingo!

  It was time:

  [Irene] ALMOST READY, WILL BE COMING DOWNSTAIRS IN A MINUTE X

  The man smiled, everything was going according to plan.

  Chapter 42

  Love & hate: the eternal battle

  Even serial killers have feelings, or perhaps not…

  He’d booked them a room at The Z Hotel.

  He’d be on the security cameras.

  They’d hunt him down, or try at least; he didn’t care.

  He held her close, beneath the sheets, enjoying the closeness as a whistling wind blew against the window.

  His limbs felt heavy as blustery pockets of air snuck in to touch around their bodies, their bare shoulders and the exposed napes of their heated necks.

  The fresh air calmed him as they kissed, easing his headache.

  He liked her.

  Actually, really liked her.
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  Murdoch enjoyed the feel of her swirling tongue and the minty sweet taste of her mouth, as they moaned and licked, her hands exploring the jailhouse muscle of his toned back and caressing the ink of his dramatic crucifix tattoo.

  Her body moved with a mind of its own, her hormonal autopilot taking over. She wasn’t just a horny girl anymore but a mature woman - the marvellous whore that he would want her to be.

  In the prime time of her life.

  She was coming of age.

  He’d never actually kissed a girl like that either.

  It was incredible.

  Sensual.

  For a moment, he even considered within himself that he didn’t have to kill her at all. That he might want to just enjoy this time with her and build a meaningful relationship with her.

  To get to know her.

  To fall in love with her.

  Could he actually be a normal person, after all?

  The more he fought with his own confusion, the more he savoured her taste and her touch, her body full and tender. Her virgin loins were screaming to be used and pleasured. The need and lust was mutual and they moaned and groaned in perfect harmony.

  In many ways, he too was a virgin, as he’d never really known ‘normal’ sex. All he’d ever known was rape, on both sides of the fence, as both the victim and the abuser. This could be it, his first chance to have real sex.

  Normal sex.

  It would be so incredibly special.

  Two virgins, exploring for the first time.

  Could it be?

  Was he even capable of love?

  Of having normal, non-violent intercourse?

  The sexual tensions were peaking.

  The pace quickened, galloping head-on into the inevitable act of sex. “Fuck, this is so good,” he was groaning and panting, totally in the moment, genuinely wanting her. “I want to come inside you, so deep inside you. I want to fuck you and feel all of you. I want to put my babies inside you.”

  “Oh yes William, God yes, fill me up…”

  He rolled over, kneeling between her legs, spreading them wide open. He felt the magnificent heat of the soft flesh at her inner thighs as it warmed his quads and made his hairs stand on-end. He looked to the side and spoke in a deviant tone, “I’m filming us, so smile for the camera…”