DOA III

by Bentley Little

  A hard hand slapped her and she gasped. The other hand still held the hair and it jerked her neck back toward him after the catapult of the slap.

  “Open your fucking mouth!”

  The cock came at her again and she did as she was told, her jaw stretching wide to receive it. He had the salty beef taste of a stick of jerky, and his wet pubes crawled up her nostrils as he forced her face to his waist, pushing every bit of his coke-can cock into her head. Then he pulled it out, only to thrust it back in. This time his dick was a little harder. Each time he did this the shaft inflamed. He pinched its base with his thumb and index finger and began slapping her in the face with it, getting her own drool all over her rosy cheeks, and then he plunged into her again and began fucking her face, his hips rocking as he jack-hammered his cock in and out of her skull. Her tongue pushed out over the rim of her bottom lip as a drain to let her saliva spill out, washing his balls and slathering her shirt. The bottom roll of his paunch surrounded and then released her nose so she could grab only short breaths between his thrusts. Normally when a guy would get over-excited like this she would put her palms up on his thighs to push him back just a bit, but with her hands tied behind her all she could do was lock up her muscles and brace herself against the chair, waiting for the beast to just cum and get it over with.

  Her wish was soon granted as he exited her throat and snapped her head back again. She gasped and felt mascara tears falling from the corners of her eyes from the pressure. He was on his tippy-toes now as he milked his cock, his face equally flushed and coiled into a grimace of ugly ecstasy. Hot ropes of sperm spurted out of his hole and splashed across her face. One wad slapped into her eye and she shut it against the burn as he continued to baptize her in dick-snot. Once done, he began slapping her with his erection again, stirring the goo, an artist with a painter’s board.

  He popped it back in her mouth and let her taste what remained.

  Just a few hours beforehand, Emma had been driving through the winding back roads that led to the mansions hidden in the lush forests at the edge of Wayland. She knew the area well, having spent the past year doing dog pickups in the company van. She worked for a small kennel that offered boarding and daycare services; one of the extra services they provided to their richest customers was free pickup and delivery of their dogs to attend a day or more at the facility. It was her job to take the van—which was filled with crates and had cartoon pictures of paw prints all over it—and drive to these clients’ homes in the morning, pick up their dogs and then deliver them in the afternoon. The work wasn’t too bad, but seeing how these elitists lived filled her with sour envy; unnecessarily huge homes plopped down in the center of several beautiful acres that were well-kept by professional landscapers, massive swimming pools and Jacuzzis, snowmobiles in the garage and expensive- looking antique furniture inside the houses.

  She’d been inside these homes many times and always had to bite her bottom lip to keep from cursing. The owners would often still be in their pajamas when she’d do these pickups, having nowhere to go, but still they’d ask for her to come out to them in the snow and sleet and pissing rain to get their pups. Some of them had even allowed the business to make copies of their house keys so that they could have her get the dogs when they weren’t home.

  She even had a list of alarm codes.

  She’d been working at the facility for months, building a good reputation. She worked hard, never complained or let her disdain of the rich show. She never called out and never even came in late. Emma worked when she got sick, was hung over, or was strung out, and she covered other peoples’ shifts even if it meant she’d have to work over seven days in a row. Best of all, she beamed when she talked to customers and let her voice rise to a near squeal when she took their dogs.

  It wasn’t a dedication to hard work and a general philanthropy that made her toil and always show great customer service. Emma did this so people would put their guard down and never suspect her of being a criminal. And the ruse was an easy one to upkeep. All she had to do was keep on smiling. Then, once nobody would ever suspect her, she’d move in, take what she deserved, and leave them wondering who would have done such a thing.

  She felt no remorse. It wasn’t like these people didn’t have all their expensive luxuries insured. Or the money to replace anything that wasn’t. In her mind, you had to take what you needed when you could get it. You had to always be on the alert for opportunities and sure as shit ready to act upon them before it was too late.

  Which was exactly what she was doing now.

  The Harringtons, a particularly wealthy family who Emma knew had just had their first baby, were going on vacation. She knew this because they’d canceled their usual routine. Every weekday she picked up their butterball bulldog, Zoe, and their aged and decrepit terrier, Ellie, and brought them home at night. They kept this schedule unless they were going away on one of their extravagant vacations, during which they would board their dogs. Fourth of July weekend was coming, and Emma’s boss told her to strike the Harrington dogs from the list. They were going to be staying with Mrs. Harrington’s mother in Belmont. The family was planning to go to the Bahamas for a full week of relaxation, margaritas and scuba diving in gorgeous, blue waters that Emma could only dream about, being a poor girl from shit-ass Lynn. Jealousy and hate burned through her at this news, but a plan had formed as well, creating knocks on that golden door of opportunity.

  The Harrington’s house was an exceptional display of how the upper one-percent lived. Mr. Harrington, although he was only in his early 30’s, was one of the top surgeons in Boston. His wife was a gorgeous and wealthy socialite, having been born into old money, and she always came into the kennel wearing staggering rings and necklaces that would have taken Emma a year to afford—provided that she didn’t spend a cent of any of her paychecks. Of all the houses she had a key and code for, this one was the fucking jackpot.

  Her plan was simple.

  She would enter the house on the day after they left for their flight. She’d already made her own copy of their house key and had memorized their house code. She’d asked for the day off. Going there on her own time in her own beaten down El Camino, she would load up on expensive clothes, jewelry, the home theater system, authentic art and whatever else would catch good scratch. The house was isolated enough that no neighbors would catch sight of her with their prying eyes. Despite their high-tech alarm system, the Harrington’s had no security camera on their property like the Abbotts and the Forziatis. She would wear latex gloves to avoid prints and when she was finished she would bash the doorknob to bits with her crowbar and pry apart the seam where the deadbolt was so it wouldn’t be obvious that she’d used a key. She’d let the Harrington’s blame the alarm’s failure on a faulty unit. She didn’t want to fuck with that.

  The day of the heist she drove out to the Harrington house around noon. The way she figured it, if someone did see her, they’d probably think she was a house sitter, whereas a night visit would look suspicious. Her El Camino struggled on the hills. It was pushing on thirty years and hundreds of thousands of miles. The noon sun was pulverizing, so she pulled her platinum blonde hair back in a ponytail as she drove, glad that she’d worn cut-off jean shorts and a tanktop. She bopped her hands on the steering wheel to the sound of the Judas Priest cassette in the tape deck. It was out of date technology but tapes were cheap and she liked older metal anyway.

  She was getting pumped now, the excitement of the game giving her a rush along with the buzz she’d gotten from the ice she’d smoked earlier. She was cautious about how much meth she allowed herself on “break-in” day. She was a functioning drug user; always well-groomed and pretty at that. She was fit and healthy, and hadn’t deteriorated like some soup kitchen scrounge or the overblown junkies you see in movies. She was stable, and she knew she had to be to keep up appearances. You can’t be good at what she did and allow herself to get angry and over-pumped the way so many drug users did.

&nbs
p; On the floor was her crowbar and on the passenger seat she had two duffel bags to steal clothes in. She’d never seen Mr. Harrington, but Mrs. Harrington had a very similar frame to Emma’s. Emma had seen some of the immaculate dresses and blouses that the woman owned but was more interested in her casual wear—the four- hundred-dollar jeans and the galaxy of shoes from around the world.

  When she reached the house she waited for a few minutes, scoping it out. There was no car in the driveway. The garage was closed. No lights on. She peered through the slats in the gate that surrounded the backyard and pool. All looked clear, so she got out and headed up the driveway, walking quickly. She reached the front door, opened it, and walked through the hallway to the mounted alarm system. She went to punch in the code but saw that the system was unarmed. This puzzled her. Every day when she picked up the dogs they had set the alarm. Why was it off now? Maybe they’d been in a hurry to catch the plane, she thought, and their minds had been too preoccupied with not forgetting toothpaste and cell phone chargers.

  She shrugged it off and looked around. The house was still and silent as she made her way back down the hall toward the living room. There was plenty in here she would take, but first she was going to wrap around to the dining room where she’d seen the expensive china that was displayed on the walls. Those were a top priority and she wanted to get the most expensive items into the car first so she wouldn’t have to bother jettisoning things when she ran out of room.

  She walked into the kitchen, which was dim with the blinds drawn, and put her bags on the table, wishing the solid oak masterpiece could come with her. She reached for the first plate and as she brought it down she heard something click behind her. Although she was not a gun person, she recognized the sound from watching movies.

  A hammer was being pulled back.

  Fuck, she thought without turning around. I’m not alone. Must be a security guard or house sitter. Maybe even a family member. Fuck, oh fuck.

  “Turn around,” a man’s voice barked.

  She did so slowly, and when she looked up she saw a middle-aged man with a paunch standing in the doorframe with a revolver in his hand. He had a giant head and a horseshoe mustache that underlined his shaggy, curly hair. His eyes were beady and mean, caves in boiled meat.

  “Whatcha doin’ in my house?” he asked.

  Mr. Harrington? she wondered. He’s still here?

  He didn’t look the way she would have imagined him. He had on an old, pilled pocket tee and a pair of worn jeans with a hole in the knee. His railroad boots were covered in scuffs and around his waist, hiding somewhat under his gut, was a belt with a big, shiny cowboy buckle that read cockfighting with a picture of two roosters going at it. Tucked into the belt was a length of yellow rope. All she could figure was that he’d been working in the garage. She’d heard that Mr. Harrington had a ’69 Chevelle that he’d restored. Emma figured he must have been perking up his engine when he’d heard the front door open.

  “I said, what are ya doin’ in my house? You better speak up, girly.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, near a whisper.

  “Sorry, huh?”

  “I, um, I made a mistake.”

  “A big one, I’d say.”

  He moved closer, looking her up and down.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Amy,” she lied.

  “You tryin’ to loot my house, Amy?”

  “Um... no.”

  “Well then, why’re you here?”

  She didn’t have an answer to that.

  “I thought so,” he said. “You’re fulla shit. You were just about to steal my dishes. Betcha wasn’t gonna stop there either, huh?”

  “Listen, I’m really, really sorry. Please, just let me leave and I promise I’ll never come back.”

  “You ain’t goin’ no place, girly. Not until the cops get here.”

  She swallowed hard. This was not something she could afford.

  “Sit down,” he said, pulling out a chair.

  She sat and he moved behind her.

  “Arms behind your back,” he told her.

  “Please, Mister…”

  He smacked her upside the head and repeated the order. It jolted her, and this time she complied. His hands went to work on hers, tying them at her wrists and looping the rope through the back of the chair. When he was done, he turned around to face her and put the gun on that fancy kitchen table.

  “Please,” Emma said again. “Don’t call the cops.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I can’t go to jail. I have two priors. This’ll ruin me. I’ll be nailed to the wall.”

  ‘”Oh yeah? What’re your priors?”

  “Drug possession… and shoplifting.”

  “What’d you steal that time?”

  “MP3 players.”

  He sniffled and sneered. “What kinda drugs they bust ya on?”

  “Some prescription pills.”

  “You some kinda dope fiend?”

  “No, just dabbled in it.”

  They sat there in silence for a beat, just staring at each other, the room like a yellow coffin closing on her.

  “Please, just let me go.”

  “I don’t see why I should.”

  “Look, I won’t ever bother you again.”

  “Seems there aughta be somethin’ in it for me. You don’t go to jail, that’s what you get outta this. What’s in it for the big man?”

  Her eyes fell to the floor.

  “What do you want?” she asked. “I’ve got maybe thirty dollars in my purse, in my car. But I could get more from the bank.”

  He just glared at her, and she instantly regretted the offer. What did he need with her chump change?

  “Well then what do you want?”

  He stood up then, moved closer to her. Putting out his hand he let it glide across her cheek. Then, slowly, he slipped a finger into her mouth. It was salty and calloused and had a hint of the gun metal taste to it. Hating herself for it, she closed her lips around the digit and let him slide it in and out of her mouth.

  She knew what was coming next. This is what the rich did. They took advantage whenever they could. That’s how they got and stayed fucking rich. She would just have to bear whatever sick fantasy he wanted of his new slave girl, whatever depravity he couldn’t convince his spoiled little wife to partake in.

  When it was over he just left her sitting there, still tied up, his jizz dripping down her forehead. He zipped himself up and went to the fridge, pulled out a Heineken, and then came back. He smiled at her, as if proud of the paint job he’d given her face. He picked up his pistol, tucked it into his jeans, and then he started to walk away toward the living room.

  “Hey!” Emma said.

  “What?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Upstairs for a bit. I wanna relax now with my beer and a nice cigar.”

  “You’re supposed to let me go! That was the deal.”

  “No it wasn’t. I said I wouldn’t call the cops. Never said nothin’ ’bout lettin’ ya go.”

  “You bastard!” she shouted, shaking in her chair. “Let me the fuck outta this chair!”

  “Maybe later.”

  He walked into the living room as she continued to scream. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and then the soft closing of a door and she rocked in the seat and looked around the room, fuming as panic started seeping into her veins. The rope was nylon but tied tight. She tried to find a metal edge or some kind of sharp corner she could rub the rope against and wondered if she scooted close enough to the wall if she could bang on it and get a dish to break. But it would be nearly impossible to get a shard from the floor the way she was tied, and the noise would just bring him back down the stairs.

  His cum ran down her face and slithered onto her lips. She spat against its snotty flavor. Emma had tasted her share of semen in her life, but this guy’s nut was particularly rancid, salty as seawater. She wasn’t happy to have it all ov
er her, but she was relieved that he hadn’t made her swallow such sour spunk, sure she would have gagged on it.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  Emma had been sitting in the kitchen for some time. The sunlight beyond the curtain had shifted and the cum had dried to her face like glue paste. The only clock was on the microwave, which was behind her, so she had no clear idea of just how long she’d been there. It could have been an hour. It could have been three.

  “Hello?” she cried out again.

  “What?” he hollered from upstairs.

  “Can I please go now?”

  “No.”

  “Can I at least go pee?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I can’t, I’m tied up!”

  “Piss your pants, stupid.”

  She cringed. “Come on, I’m not going to piss my pants!”

  She heard him laugh. “Yeah, you will.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Ya can’t hold it forever.”

  The sadistic son of a bitch.

  “How long are you going to keep me here?” she asked.

  “That depends on how well ya take orders.”

  Emma gulped sourly. The suggestion made her skin go gooseflesh and her bowels churn. The grim nature of the situation was slowly becoming clearer, no matter how much she tried to deny the harsh reality of it. The thought of him getting his rocks off in any part of her body again made her shudder—it was enraging, terrifying and goddamned sickening all at once. She’d blown Tommy for a gram once and used her looks to score cheap deals, but that was different than this. This man was her goddamn captor. She had no choice. Once again, the upper 1% was taking advantage.