DOA III

by Bentley Little

  As this sodomy continued, she felt herself retreat inside her own mind. This defense gave her a feeling that was otherworldly, something she had experienced a few times when high. When life was too much too bear, she had always been able to escape with the aid of drugs, and sometimes, though rarely, she would even hear a voice in this state, one that was both her own and not her own, that would guide and advise her, coaxing her. As his cock tore her open, she was able to find that far away place without any snorting or smoking, and she heard the first faint murmurs of that old, familiar friend. The voice beckoned her from the edge of consciousness, just barely audible, a lover’s whisper in the dark.

  But this time the voice did not calm her, did not soothe her with promises of relief. Instead it was angry, its whispers seething, fueled with hatred for the man, for her lot in life, and for what the Harrington house had so easily offered her only to take away. Rapid and mad, a message wove its way around her brain, taunting her with malevolence and lust for revenge.

  As the man came closer to climaxing, he moved faster, plunged deeper, shocking her back to this bleak reality. She heaved and swallowed a hint of vomit. The thrusts intensified and the swirl in her stomach overpowered her, making her dizzy, and without making any effort to she suddenly shat, uncontrollably, and the noise was wet and flatulent. Fecal stink instantly soured the air and she felt her waste run down the insides of her thighs. Before the man realized what had happened he made two more quick thrusts, further spattering the feces before he yelled out in enraged disgust.

  He exited her. “Ya nasty little cunt!”

  The man came around in front of her and she could see her shit all splattered across his groin and belly. She was surprised at how much this pleased her, but the vengeful satisfaction didn’t last long. Still tied, she could do nothing to resist the stomping. His foot came down on the small of her back and she feared that he might shatter her spine. When she screamed he reared back and kicked her in the face again and again. Some of her teeth loosened and her mouth overflowed with blood.

  “Ya wanna shit on me, bitch?” he said. “I’ll fix ya of that.”

  She tried to turn away as he came in close, but there was nowhere for her to go. His shit-covered cock moved towards her face, still hard, and he began smacking it against her lips. The awful stench of her own waste filled her nostrils. Then he forced his way into her mouth, the shit swishing around with the broken teeth and blood, creating a foul, hellish brew for her to wretch upon.

  “Don’t shit where ya eat, bitch! Don’t shit where ya eat!”

  That night dinner was a little different, but she was glad to have something to wash the taste of feces and semen out of her mouth. Her lower back was in agony, as was her swollen lips and bruised face. Her tongue dug into two holes where her front teeth had been. She would have cried had she anything left in her.

  He dropped the dish down in front of her and she cringed at the sight of the red, rubbery mess. She’d heard him cooking something in a pot but had been unable to see what it was, her chair facing the wall in a dunce’s punishment. The stuff was spongy tubes covered in some kind of sauce—like some exotic squid. It reeked and couldn’t look less appetizing.

  “I made ya my specialty tonight,” he said. “I feel bad about stomping ya like I did. I reckon ya didn’t mean to shit yourself. It just happens sometimes.”

  He forked a length of the goo and cut off a small segment and brought it up to her mouth. As nauseating as it was, she was damn hungry, and anything would be better than the current aftertaste.

  “What is it?”

  “Tripe.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s guts.”

  She blinked at it, seeing the dish now for what it was—blood-soaked intestines and what looked like some kind of organ she couldn’t identify. She hoped she could keep it down.

  Christ, the things some people eat.

  She bit into it and was surprised at the acidity. The goop was even more rubbery than it had looked. The blood was rich though, like a rare steak, and she savored it, sucking on the goop so that the flavor would cleanse her mouth out. The man shared the meal with her and he wolfed it down like it was a stacked hamburger.

  “Ya can’t beat good tripe,” he told her.

  That night she started fading in and out of consciousness. And though pain ravaged her entire body, from her torn anus to her busted-up face, her accumulated insomnia finally gave way to her overpowering exhaustion. Yet even in her dreams the man tortured and debased her. Her nightmares had him on top of her, belching cigar smoke into her mouth as he raped her, cut her, laughed at her.

  And circling through these dreams like a singsong narrator was that same voice. It had grown louder and deeper and still held that malevolent tone to it, sardonically laughing, mocking even, as she was brutalized. It spoke of dark, twisted things with a thirsty sense of bloodlust, plotting something that hinted at fatal violence—maybe murder, but maybe suicide. These dreams were bad enough that she was grateful to snap awake.

  During one of those waking moments, she heard the distant crying. It was low at first but then grew louder and louder until it roused the man. His footsteps moved overhead and then reached the room on the other end of the house. She heard him murmuring but was unable to make out his words. The sound of the crying baby turned to cooing.

  The man was singing a lullaby.

  She awoke to the feeling of something pushing into her vulva.

  The man was crouching in front of her with what appeared to be a length of hose in his hand. The weather had turned to rain, making the light in the room grow faint and gray, and so she had trouble adjusting her weary eyes. She blinked rapidly to regain her vision and saw that the hose was plastic. It ran back to a large barrel behind him. He seemed to be trying to put the length of hose inside of her.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” She shifted in her seat, trying to close her legs at the knees even though she was tied too tight to the chair to do so.

  “Time for your cleanin’.” He spat into his hand and rubbed it on her vaginal lips. Then he probed a finger in and out to dampen her. She hissed and cursed at him, but he seemed oblivious, focused on the task at hand. As her eyes adjusted she saw that the barrel was on wheels and it had a length of electrical cord running from it and into the wall socket. She’d used these appliances enough times at work to recognize them.

  It was a shop vac, a heavy-duty vacuum used for both wet and dry messes.

  “What the fuck are doing with that, you bastard?”

  The man attached a new head to the hose, a smaller piece that was used to get into corners and small areas. He spat on it as well, then moved forward and worked it into her. She squirmed, popping it out, and he rose in a rage and pulled straight up on the leash. The prong contracted like a metal noose, sending little stabs into her throat as it choked her. Her vision started to waver, a blackness surrounding her, and the voice found purchase and shrieked.

  Find a way out of this or die!

  “Bitches need cleanin’!” he shouted.

  He let her go and the leash smacked the floor, now covered in her terror piss. Instead of lapping it up like before, the man just forced the hose back inside her—harder, meaner. Once it was in he went to the power switch.

  “No!” she said, gasping from the loss of air. “Please! I’ll do anything!”

  “You’ll do that anyway,” he said, giving her a mocking smile.

  Then he hit the switch.

  It was during the daytime that she managed to get the rope loose.

  She was beaten, exhausted. Every inch of her body hurt. Her face was raw from abuse and covered with god knows how many cum-baths. The only time the semen had been washed away was when he’d pissed on her head and let it run down her face, all warm and putrid. Her anus bled every time she had to relieve herself, her vaginal walls were raw, and her mouth was so torn that one whole side of her head had swelled up. One eye had puffed up so black that she
could only open it a crack. Numbness, caused by being tied in place, kept her from feeling certain parts of her body.

  But now there was hope.

  The chip in the wood had gotten bigger. She’d been working on it so feverishly that her fingernails had cracked and bled; one she had accidently bent backward and ripped it completely off and she had to bite her lip to stifle her scream. But now there was a sharp and jagged edge that was more than just a splinter that would break away.

  The man had gone out for his regular shopping so she’d had some time to work without worrying about him coming into the kitchen. She’d been sawing away for a while, not sure just how far she had gotten, when the rope suddenly came loose, bringing tears to her eyes and making her whole body shake. She pulled her hands free and then rubbed her wrists where the red rings had been made. Her arms felt like they were moving through clay. Because of the dull ache, she struggled undoing the ties at her feet, but the man was clearly no boy scout. The knots were simple and she was free in less than a minute. Delirious with relief, she began to laugh uncontrollably.

  Focus, the voice said, above her laughter. You have to move fast.

  The voice was right. Sometimes the man was back in twenty minutes, other times it was two hours. She looked down at her naked, ruined body to her weak and tingling legs.

  Now!

  Emma moved through the kitchen, stomping to wake up her feet and legs, and sprinted up the stairs, leaning on the walls for balance, taking the steps two at a time. Her vagina still ached from being vacuum sucked, but she ignored it, letting the voice drive her past the pain and into a frantic hurry to find clothes, shoes, and hopefully her car keys. It warned her that her body might not make it down the long winding roads on foot, especially barefoot, and even if she could, god forbid he be the first car that saw her. And if she was going to trek through the thick forests of Wayland she had to be somewhat clothed. What if she passed out exposed and died of dehydration?

  Once upon the second floor she looked around and saw the two big doors that led to the master bedroom. Barging in, she saw the king-sized canopy bed, lavish dressers and shimmering, new entertainment center. But while this was the room she’d been looking for, she wasn’t happy that she’d stepped into it.

  The odor hit her first—a reek that was overpowering and yet familiar. When she’d shared a house with some girlfriends, one day she had detected a similar odor, which seemed to come from the floor. Finding nothing, she’d gone into the crawl space beneath the house and discovered the rotting carcasses of a few alley cats who had gotten trapped in there. It seemed that they had gone in during the recent blizzard and that the raging winds had slammed the door to the crawlspace behind them, latching it in place. Each of them had been eviscerated and had had their eyes scooped out. Emma had heard a rustling in the shadows and when she’d looked closer she noticed a bigger cat, still alive and covered in blood, and she knew what had happened to the other two.

  Now it looked as if something very similar had happened here.

  Spread out on the bed, with her legs propped open and her arms slung over the headboard in a Christ-like pose, was Mrs. Harrington. She was torn from her breastbone all the way down to her vagina. All of her internal organs where gone and Emma wretched and shuddered, recalling her meals.

  Bile boiled in Emma’s throat.

  Mrs. Harrington’s face was spattered with old semen, and so was her husband’s. He lay on the floor before the bed, on his belly with his pants at his ankles. His butt was bare and the crack was caked in dried blood, his evacuated bowels in a crusty pile beside him. He wore no shirt and Emma could see that all the flesh of his back had been removed in one perfect square. The muscle and sinew was shredded and each of his lungs had been pulled out from behind his broken ribs. They lay draped across his back like rubbery wings, and Emma wondered if the man had allowed Mr. Harrington to die before this horrible act.

  Vomit sprayed out of her and spilled across the expensive carpet. She gathered herself as quickly as she could and opened up a dresser drawer, finding Mr. Harrington’s t-shirts. Not wanting to waste any time, she threw one on. It was backwards but she didn’t notice, let alone care. Going to the closet for a pair of shoes, she grabbed a pair of Mrs. Harrington’s sneakers and jammed her feet into them even though they were a size too small. She ran out and went to the stairs—

  The sound of soft cries stopped her.

  The fucking baby.

  Emma had been so frantic that she’d forgotten all about the wailing she’d heard so many times and hadn’t been sure if it was a hallucination or not. It certainly sounded real right now. She looked to the front door, which she could see from the top of the stairs. But the crying echoed, sizzling her nerves.

  She shuddered and turned back to find the baby.

  The hall stretched all the way across the giant house. It was lined with door after door, all of them closed, making her feel as if she was in some sort of nightmarish fairy tale. She moved quickly, on tippy-toes, struggling to find where the sound was coming from as it reverberated through the hollow hall, trying to listen over the sound of her heart thudding in her chest and still stay alert for any sound of a car coming into the driveway or the front door opening.

  When she reached the end of the hall she found the nursery and opened the door. Pink walls surrounded a fluffy crib where the noise blasted from. A terrible thought raced through her then—maybe it was a recording, a doll or some other horrible ruse made to trap her. But when she looked over the edge she saw a tiny baby wrapped up in fleece beneath a spinning mobile. She stared at it a moment, and strange thoughts, dark and confusing, seeped into her head.

  What the fuck do you have to cry about? He’s sung to you, cared for you. She tried to shake the thoughts loose.

  Concentrate!

  She snatched up the infant, blanket and all, taking no time to be gentle. Once it was scooped against her, she carried it out and jogged down the hall in a hurry, stopping only when she heard a car door slam.

  Emma made it downstairs just before he reached the front door, and bolted through the house in search of a back exit, cursing the mansion’s ridiculous size.

  Why the fuck do two people and a baby need all this space?

  She heard the front door open and tried to hush the baby, which was still crying.

  Ah, just toss the little shit, that strange, dark part of her said. It’s gonna get you caught!

  She continued to run, making lame attempts to coo the squirming mass, and as she reached the kitchen she spotted the large cutlery set on the counter. She slid out the butcher knife, then ran through to the den where the sliding glass door led out to the pool. She went to open it just as she heard the man cursing, obviously having heard the baby crying.

  The vicious voice came back. Throw the baby down!

  She shushed the infant, but it began to shriek.

  Emma pulled hard on the handle after unlocking it, but the door didn’t budge. She looked it over and saw that there was a steel bar at the bottom that kept it in place. She knelt to get it out of the groove, and this was all the time the man needed to spot her from the kitchen and come raging forward.

  He charged like a mad bull and as he dived for her she raised the knife high and brought it down into his chest as hard as she could. He yelled out and crumpled into her, the momentum he had built up sending her crashing through the door, which exploded in a crystal spray. Instead of trying to break her fall she held on to the baby, shielding its face from the flying shards. The concrete slammed into her back but she was used to pain by now and got to her feet quicker than the man, who groaned on the ground, clutching at the knife in him as blood poured from the wound.

  Emma kept on running as the man struggled to pull the knife out. She exited the screen overhang of the porch and looked back and forth, seeing that she was trapped by the surrounding wooden fence. The yard was enormous and she realized she had to completely circle the pool again from the outside to get to th
e gate.

  She ran on and as she did so she saw the man getting up. By the time she reached the gate he was at the screen beside her, just a few feet away, and was slashing it apart with the gore-slathered knife. He growled like an animal as he did so, smashing the bar that divided the upper and lower screens so he could walk through the hole he’d created.

  Emma burst through the gate, discombobulated, and saw that she was on the side of the house where the garage was. The small door that led into the side of it was ajar. She hoped she could duck in there long enough for him to run out through the front yard and into the street, giving her a moment to maybe sneak away through the woods. She slipped in and put the door into place and locked it, hearing the man raging as he ran past it a moment later.

  She put her hand over the baby’s mouth, finding herself growing increasingly angry at it for giving away their position.

  Privileged fuck! Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?

  It wasn’t until the infant began to writhe that she realized she’d been holding her hand all away across its nose as well, cutting off its air.

  Good, her new dark side snarled.

  She released her grip and made a grunting noise in an effort to shake the black thoughts loose.

  The gloomy light of dusk filled the garage. She saw that locking the door had been futile, for the large garage door itself was wide open. She thought about hiding behind the Chevelle, but the fucking baby started crying again the moment it had air. Soon the man would be in front of the garage and she’d be cornered. She plopped the baby on the hood of the car, then went to the workbench where an enormous variety of tools hung on the corkboards above it. She grabbed a sledgehammer with a long handle and then hid herself behind the towering 80-gallon air compressor.

  When the man reached the front of the garage his head snapped around at the sound of the crying baby. From where he was standing, Emma knew that he could hear but not see the baby. She crouched and waited, using the baby as bait, watching the man through the small space between the compressor and the edge of the door. He came sprinting up the driveway and she reared the sledgehammer back over her shoulder.