She breathed in an effort to calm down. She’d talked herself out of some tight spots before. There had to be some way to reason with this fucking pervert. She believed that if she thought hard enough and showed patience and respect, she could convince him to let her just get in her car and go home.
She’d meant it when she said she’d never come back. Hell, at this point she didn’t even want to get back at him for making her suck him off.
She just wanted out.
That wasn’t so much to ask was it?
Night fell and he still hadn’t come downstairs. She heard no television or any other noise and she wondered what he could possibly be doing. Her only guess was that after his blowjob and beer he’d acted like most guys she knew and had taken a nap. But no matter what he was up to, she needed to urinate—badly. She’d been crossing her legs but now they were bouncing and dancing in an effort to keep the levee from breaking.
“Hello!” she called out again, frustrated, frightened, alone. “I need to piss!”
She received no reply but heard something stirring above her. The floorboards creaked, followed by feet stomping down the staircase. A light came on in the living room, lighting up some of the kitchen but keeping most of it stuck in heavy shadow, and the man emerged and stood in the doorframe. He lifted his shirt and scratched at his hairy belly.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
“I need to pee, seriously.”
“I done told ya that you could.”
He walked to the fridge and looked inside, the light from it breaking the darkness like an axe blade. The room had grown hot and stuffy as the sun had set, and Emma was sweating. Her hair was sticking to her and her underarms had moistened her nearly to her waist. The fridge closed and he came back around and sat at the table beside her with two frozen pizzas.
“I know ya like pepperoni,” he said and snorted a laugh.
“Please let me use the toilet. I promise I won’t run away.”
“Ain’t ya hungry?”
She thought about it and, admitting to herself that she might not be leaving anytime soon, she decided not to pass up the chance. She wasn’t sure when he’d offer her food again or for how long he’d retreat to upstairs the next time.
“Yeah, I’m hungry.”
“Piss your pants for me and ya can have some pizza.”
You fat motherfucker, her mind hissed.
He snorted a laugh that made her seethe inside.
“I’m not gonna—”
He stood and belted her with the back of his hand. Before she could even collect herself he did the same thing to her other cheek. She gasped each time and trembled against her will.
“You gonna make me beat it out of ya?” he asked.
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her face pinching as she resigned herself. Deeply uncomfortable with him standing there, it took a few moments, but then the seal broke and her panties slushed. The piss flowed out of her shorts and dribbled into her seat, riding down her legs and sopping into her socks. She fought the urge to cry, not wanting to give the bastard the satisfaction.
When she finally opened her eyes she saw that he had knelt down. He smiled at her wet crotch, then ran his fingers through the puddle on the floor. She watched him lift his wet fingers to his nose then, and he inhaled the scent of it before he popped them—one by one—into his mouth and licked them clean. She turned away in disgust.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked. “You’re not Mr. Harrington. You can’t be Mr. Harrington.”
He wasn’t listening. He had gone back for seconds.
The first night she spent in the chair he left her alone.
He kept her sitting there with her piss chilling her while her back ached and her ass went numb. Her shoulders hurt from being pinned backwards so long and her hands were rope-burned from struggling against her restraints all those hours. He hadn’t let her clean up. He hadn’t even been decent enough to wipe her face clean of his cum-crust. All he’d done was slurp up her piss puddle, throw the pizzas in the oven, and fed her three burnt pieces.
She did not sleep, so she tried to concentrate on an escape plan, but still she pondered the man’s true identity and tortured herself with horrifying scenarios of things to come. She cried quietly for a short while, alternating between terror and anger. This could have been her last job. The money she would have scored would have given her the ability to relax, lead a normal life—cut back on hours and maybe buy a brick of the good stuff. Why the fuck did the Harringtons have to go on vacation when this sick fuck was stalking the neighborhood?
She forced the self-pity from her mind, then refocused her attention on the back of the chair where she’d felt just a slight splinter. She picked at it diligently, trying to remove enough of the wood to make a jagged edge she could rub the ropes upon. It was slow-going work, but it was hope, however small, and she clung to it to keep her out of the jaws of panic.
As the sun rose it filled the room with instant heat and she couldn’t help but wonder why the air conditioning wasn’t on. The summer morning was already blistering outside but inside the kitchen was worse. The trapped air was stagnant and reeked of piss, a rancid reminder of her shame. Her body odor grew stronger.
When he finally came into the living room he was wearing nothing but his tighty whities and they weren’t all that white anymore. He smiled, baring the yellow teeth that held a cigar between them. He took a puff and then blew the smoke into her face. She turned away from it, coughing, and that made him laugh. But he didn’t say a word. He merely walked up to her and pulled his underwear down, letting his fat, semi-hard cock plop before her.
“Ready for your breakfast sausage, girly?”
“Go to hell.”
“Open wide now.”
“I’m not sucking your disgusting cock again!”
This time he punched her in the stomach. The wind left her, and for a moment the sensation made her feel like she was dying. She struggled to regain her air as he grabbed her jaw, wrenched her head up, and puckered her lips together like a fish. She could feel the veins pulsing in her taut neck, pumping the terror on a main line through her heart. He stared into her face and she couldn’t stand to look him in the eye, so he puffed more smoke in her face and then walked out of the room. She began to breathe again but now she was shaking so hard that the legs of the chair clicked upon the tile like a tap dancer.
When the man came back in, she saw that he had Zoe’s leather leash in his hands. At the end of it was a prong training collar. It was a small length of chain with several prongs—V-shaped pieces of metal that were spread out in links. Zoe had been trained on one to keep her from dragging her owners around on walks. Emma knew these collars well. They snapped together and when you pulled on the leash they tightened, giving the dog a pinch when tapped lightly and a harsh correction when you really pulled.
But this was not what the man had in mind when he adjusted it to fit her neck.
He popped a few prongs off and let them hit the floor. Zoe’s neck was much fatter than Emma’s, so he adjusted it to fit her. She went rigid and even held her breath whereas moments ago she’d been worried she’d never have any again. She was afraid of the prongs because one time she had gotten curious and put one around her bicep and tugged. It wasn’t too bad and so she’d pulled harder. That’s when it hurt and it even left a tattoo of small, pink dots where the prongs had sunk in, not breaking the skin but bruising it. Dogs had much thicker hides and a much higher tolerance for pain than humans. But the prong collar would be very unforgiving to a woman’s delicate neck, and she knew it. She felt it snap into place and the man stepped back holding the end of the leash in his hand. His cock was now fully erect and pointing at her in an upward curve like a nasty thumbs up.
“Ya startin’ to get the picture?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I am your master,” he said. “You’ll do as I command, because you’re my bitch, bred just for me.”
He moved in closer and her eyes began to water. He then tapped on the leash and she felt the collar pinch ever so slightly in a warning. He came closer still and she felt his cock glide across her face. He smelled even worse than yesterday, his night-sweat collecting to form a pungent tang. He tugged once more, harder this time, and she got the message. The command had needed no verbal cue.
She closed her eyes and opened her mouth.
Over the past day or so—she was unable to keep count in her sleep-deprived state—a heavy layer of dried cum had formed a plaster mask upon her face. At one point it had taken her great effort to pry her eyelids apart, breaking the glue of the semen in her lashes. He had continued to force her into oral sex several times a day, and each time he fucked her face with more ferocity, as if he was using the head of his dick as a battering ram to get through the back of her skull. She’d gagged several times and had vomited once but he’d just kept on going, thrusting his pink and engorged member in and out of her with the leash held high in his hand.
The leash went on and off but the collar stayed on her at all times, a vicious reminder. It claimed her, much like his shot wads marked his territory as he jerked them onto her crusty face again and again. She was given little opportunity to move and increase her circulation, only being released for bathroom breaks, and her body betrayed her, twitching and pinching, and only grew more painful when she struggled in vain against the ropes. The man fed her only at night, and only if she had obeyed. At times she had to fight the urge to bite down on his man-meat and tear it right off of his fat- fuck body. But she knew the satisfaction of that would not last long. At the first hint of teeth the prong would yank, sending small knives of pain through her, and that would be just the beginning.
When she did get those bathroom breaks, the man made snide jokes about how much her shit stank. And as soon as she was done she was walked back to the kitchen while she fought the urge to make a run for it, knowing it would only get her a bullet to the head. She’d sit back down and he’d tie her up once more, not noticing the chip in the back of the chair that had grown so much bigger.
It was at night when she first heard the crying.
It was distant but high pitched. At first she’d thought it was a cat in heat but as she listened more closely she knew it was something else. The house was very big and the sound was echoic, as if it was coming from the other side of the world entirely. It started as a quiet murmur but built to a wailing that was unmistakable.
Jesus, there’s a baby in here.
She stretched her ears and leaned towards the noise. The sound grew louder and reverberated through the house in a haunting cacophony. It seemed to circle all around it like a poltergeist, a spooky thought that sent a mean chill through her.
Suddenly she remembered Mrs. Harrington having just had a baby last fall and she wondered now, more than before, just what the hell was going on in this house. She tried to listen closer as she heard footsteps moving about. They thumped above her like bass drums and then wandered off to where she could no longer hear them.
But the baby’s crying went on, at least for a little while.
Exhaustion had pummeled her now and as the sound faded she began to wonder if it had truly been there at all, or if the hallucinations of sleep deprivation and confinement were finally kicking in.
Another sound she would sometimes hear came during the day. She heard a car start and then drive off, and she would call out to the man after that but would get no reply. She knew he was going somewhere, doing something. It made her wonder where the car had been when she arrived.
Probably the garage, she thought.
She tried to use this time to pick at the chair with more gusto. She’d developed a notch but it still remained too smooth to make any progress on the rope. She tried to tear away small fragments in the hope that it would splinter.
After these brief absences the man would usually return with some groceries, mostly cold cuts and beer. One day he came back with a small pharmacy bag and a big bottle of bourbon.
He poured two shots and lifted one to her lips.
She sipped at it, just glad for something wet.
When she finished, her poured her another.
Then another.
“Ya said ya like pills, didn’t ya?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. He reached for the collar and popped it.
She twitched, gasped. “Yes.”
“Well, I got my little bitch a doggie treat today,” he said.
He opened up the paper bag and retrieved a prescription bottle. He shook it before her face, making the pills inside rattle like raw pasta.
“Doc says I need valium,” he said. “It keeps me from gettin’ too stressed. I tell ya, they’ve been workin’ too. I’m just as happy as a pussycat in a tuna factory.”
With this line he used his finger to flick at the zipper of her shorts. Then he popped the cap off the bottle with his teeth and put four of the blue pills into his hand. He came towards her with them and another shot of whiskey.
“That’s too much,” she said.
“No it ain’t.”
“I know valium. I’ve taken it. Nobody takes four and washes them down with whiskey.”
“You’re wrong. My bitch does. She always does what she’s told sooner or later. Don’tcha, bitch?”
“Why do you keep calling me bitch anyway?”
Her tiredness was making her extra cranky and daring.
“You’re a female on a leash ain’t ya?” he said. “Therefore, you’re the bitch.”
“I’m just a female dog to you, huh?”
“Just a female dog that doesn’t wanna be kicked in the belly.”
He held the pills up closer.
“I could O.D. on those,” she said.
“Or I could shoot ya in the face. With the gun this time, instead of my pecker.”
He snorted a laugh and, as always, she ended up opening her mouth for him. A helplessness had befallen her and it sluiced through her body like a nest full of snakes. Her anger faded to a vacant despair and her exhaustion just dragged it further down, burying it in her very core. She hoped now that the valium backed by the booze would at least make her pass out.
Maybe just for a little while, so I can finally sleep.
Pain woke her.
She was in thrall. Her body was fully nude and she was bent over the coffee table in the living room. Each of her legs were tied to a leg of the table while her hands were still tied behind her back. The collar was tight and the leash lay upon the floor in front of her, pinned under the table. Her back felt like it was burning. Something was gliding across it, sinking into her flesh and separating it. Its touch was cold but piercing, and each stroke, while gentle, created hot new wounds.
The son of a bitch is cutting me up.
She could turn her head just enough to see him behind her, also nude. He was masturbating with one hand and held the bowie knife in the other. With each slice he brought the blade up to his face and lathered it with his tongue. Seeing this horror, she screamed louder than she’d ever had in her life, her cries raking her throat like sandpaper. She shuddered at the sight of this human vampire drinking her blood and playing with himself right behind her bare bottom. Aroused by the scream, he slapped her ass and started making barking noises. She cried out and he replied with mocking wolf howls.
“What are you doing? You sick fuck!”
He just kept howling and she felt the knife pierce her again, this time at the base of her spine. But it didn’t end with a soft slice. This time he stuck the tip into the wound and twirled it, opening the hole further. The pain burned and she felt her blood pouring out more thickly, spilling down into the crack of her ass. He ran his finger through it, making little swirls on her buttocks as she tried to kick and shake herself free to no avail.
“You’d better relax,” he said, and she felt the tip of his finger, lubed with her blood, start prodding her anus.
She shook harder and screamed a
nd screamed and screamed.
The finger moved in, sinking to the middle knuckle.
“Ever been fucked in this pretty ass of yours?”
“Fuck you!”
She began to sob.
“Ya tellin’ me this here is a virgin butthole?” he asked. “Ya never let one of your boyfriends fill up your poop shoot?”
“No! No! Get away!”
Emma wiggled, popping out his finger. She heard him laugh and she turned her head around to see him unscrewing the cap to a large bottle of vegetable oil. He upturned it on her ass and slathered it across her cheeks, shaking them and slapping them together. He dabbed her anus. Then he poured some oil on his dick and worked it till it was full and hard. Knowing what was coming she turned away. She felt the wetness around her asshole, then the first probing of his cock’s head.
“You weren’t kidding,” he said. “You’re sealed up like Fort Knox.”
But he pushed on, squishing his way into her. A sick, hollow feeling overcame her stomach. The head eased in, his girth expanding her asshole wider than any turd she’d ever passed.
She hadn’t been lying. She’d never had so much as a finger in her butt. Some of her boyfriends had tried to coax her into it, but it was one sexual act she found utterly disgusting. He moved in deeper and she struggled not to vomit as she felt the rim of her anus begin to tear. He pushed on, pummeling the end of her intestines, her colon filling up with his fat meat.
“Don’t you shit now,” he said. “A bitch that shits is doin’ so in self-defense, and I don’t take kindly to that.”
He took it slow and she cursed herself for appreciating it, but she did. He slid in and out very tenderly—much gentler now than whenever he fucked her face. With one hand he began to rub her clitoris but he still played with the knife in the other, this time making thin cuts on her ass cheeks. With each sluggish expulsion of his dick it came back harder and thicker. She felt it stretching her further and further and his breathing became more rapid as his sweat began to fall upon her back. She grit her teeth against the nauseating pain and revulsion and just tried to go limp.
DOA III Page 42