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An untitled story
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Untitled
She flips the lightswitch, mutely obeying its orange "turn
me off" sticker, and reciting the dozens of adolescent lines she has
heard inserted after the phrase. Pulling her sweater around her
shoulders, she leaves the lab, double-doors swinging behind her, and
walks down the hall. Outside, beyond the mirrored glass panel windows,
the deserted parking lot, sparkling with glass under one flickering
streetlight, lies silent. As soon as she leaves the building, she
feels like she is being watched.
Her eyes jump across the lot, spotting her car quickly. She feels
reassured with its presence, and pauses to get her keys from her purse.
She crosses the lot, squeezing between the last cluster of cars in the
halo of streetlight. The familiar rattle of her keys against the lock
makes her smile. She's late, she knows. Her boyfriend is probably
pacing the hall, his macaroni and cheese dinner, so gallantly promised,
is probably growing cold, and the candle forming puddles of wax on the
table. She pulls open the door and tosses her purse across to the
passenger's side.
"Shhhhh, quiet now." A cold ring of metal presses against her
throat. "Give me your keys."
She starts. The gun shifts. "Keys," the voice repeats. She drops
her keys into the hand that waits. It is huge, a paw, rough and wide.
Sausage fingers close over her Batman keychain, and the hand withdraws.
"Good," the voice soothes. "Get in. I'm driving."
Her tiny body, at once tense and trembling, ducks into the shadow
of her car. She slides across the seat. "Please..." she begins, looking
over at the form that moves in beside her.
"So, Sandy Cassell, hm? Pretty girl." The door slams with a
sudden, alien violence. With a single cough her car starts, and they
roll onto the empty streets. "Cassandra Cassell, open the glove compartment
and put on the blindfold you find there."
She stares at him mutely, eyes wide and watering. He turns to her,
a smug smile on his face, one hand touching the wheel, the other stroking
her thigh roughly with the barrel of the gun. There is a click as his thumb
moves. "Sandy, open the glove compartment and put on the blindfold you
find there." He runs the gun beneath her skirt, the cold metal leaving
a trail of goosebumps.
With a hiccuping sob, she does as she is told. The blindfold is
a large athletic sock, long enough to wrap around her head and be tied
securely. She hears his chuckle of approval, and feels the gun move away
from her legs.
"Pretty girl," he comments as they turn onto the highway. "That's
the problem with pretty girls. They so dumb, and they so pretty. You're a
real pretty girl." He looks at her face in the passing lights. Pale
and terrified, lips half open, eyes covered, she seems ethereal. She
possesses no model's face, no centerfold's body-- wide hips, sexy ass,
shoulder length brown hair. Her cheeks are freckled like a little girl's.
"A real pretty girl who's never been out of momma's hands. Has she?"
Sandy cringes away as if the man has lifted a hand to slap her.
"Has she?" he repeats. She shakes her head quickly.
The car rattles over a dirt road. "Never been away from momma,"
he mutters. He takes the car between huge dark trees and silent fields,
his monologue spoken nearly inaudibly over the rumble of the engine. "Pretty
girl is a country girl. Country girl is in the country now, ain't she.
You know they put me in a jail? Huh? Did you know that?"
Again she shakes her head.
"What was that?" he asks, his tone both amused and dangerous.
"I didn't... I didn't know that."
He pushes the nose of the gun against her crotch and wiggles it
absently. "Didn't know that, what?"
Fleeting panic, and she replies, "Didn't know they put you in jail."
He clucks his tongue and pulls the gun away from her. "I know
your name, Cassandra Cassell, and I'm sure you'd really love to know mine.
Since I'm not gonna tell it to you, call me Jack. Got that?"
The car rattles and whines over the unforgiving gravel, then jumps
as a tire begins to spin in a puddle of mud. "Christ," snaps the man.
The engine's whine begins a tense crescendo as he pushes on the accelerator.
His attention is gone from Sandy for a fleeting moment. In a
rush of breath, she rips the sock from her eyes and pushes out the
car door. As soon as she finds her footing she is screaming, and as
she is screaming she is running, and as she is running, the man
lifts his gun. A shot rings out, a hot sting streaks across her cheek,
and blinded by the low branches of trees Sandy falters, stumbles, and
falls to her knees. Sobbing, she brings her hand to her cheek, and draws
it away stained red. Her face aches as if it has been slapped.
A car door slams. The dull but quickening sound of his feet on
the rocks and grass seems distant. He grabs her hair in his paw of a hand
and wrenches back her head. "That's the problem with pretty girls.
They pretty, but they real dumb. I have a story to tell you, pretty
girl. You oughtn't mess with Jack, 'cause Jack will mess you up."
He strokes her face softly, drawing his fingers over the slice
in her cheek, sliding the blood across her chin and forcing his fingers
between her lips. He pushes his fingers in and out of her mouth, watching
her features twist with tension, watching her lips become ruby.
"Jack will mess you up," he says again. "Did you know they put
me in a jail?" He tightens his grip in her hair and pushes her head up
and down in a forced nod. "That's right," he croons. "You do know,
because I just told you in the car, didn't I. Just told you before
you tried to get away. You real dumb, aren't you." He forces her head
again to nod, her lips moving down the length of his two fingers and
back up. She is frozen with fear, her muscles relaxing only for his
firm direction of her movement.
"You look to the left, there's walls. You look to the right,
there's walls. You look up, there's ceiling. They kept me all
alone, because of what I done." Jack holds her still with his hand,
and uses the other to pull a coil of thin woven rope from his
back pocket. He pulls her to her feet and shoves her, step by
step, towards a tree with a branch dipping low to the earth. "I
don't even know what I done," he continues. He releases a mirthless
laugh. "They told me they had papers on me. I think that's
what a man ought to do all his life; put things down on papers,
so that any time anyone tries to do him wrong, he can take out papers
just like them papers they have, and see if he's been rightly justified."
With a neat push to her shoulders, Sandy is kneeling on the
damp leaves, facing a dark arm of wood even with her waist. He
pushes her over it, draping her like a dirty blanket. Her cry of
protest is ended when a loop of course rope slips between her lips
and her tongue is pressed by a knot tied there. He secures the
rope around her head and carries on conversationally.
"Walls everywhere, and just the jailer to shove me trays of bad
food. Milk was curdled, potatoes was sour. She was a bitch too,
that Belinda. Country girl like you, but not nearly as dumb. She
was real shrewd, that bitch. But I done her, just like I done you.
And I ain't even through with you yet.
"She made me real angry. I don't think I ever been so angry.
She gave me no peace. Came by at six in the morning and hit on the
bars until I couldn't stand it, came in at night and hit at the bars
so's I couldn't sleep. One night she came by, shined her flashlight
onto me sitting on the pot.
"'I ain't got no paper,' I said to her, real sweet. 'Can you
get me some?' She pushed the light all around but I had hid them
sheets of toilet paper under the mattress where she couldn't see. So
I pulled up my shorts and came up to the bars, but not too close,
making sure she had to reach good and far to hand the roll to me. And
when she did I grabbed her arm and pulled back real hard.
"She was pretty to watch, losing her balance, all her body
crumpling against the bars, and the pretty clang of her head,
and the real delicate slide of her to the floor. Her hair was all
over, nice and soft, she looked like a sleeping child. I leaned
over and got the keys and let myself out.
"Now that would have been it. I would've stole her car and
gotten the hell out, but she warn't dead, just asleep, and she
woke up and went for her gun. I stepped on her hand and she
screamed, so I grabbed the gun and stuck it in her mouth. That
was pretty too, her lips all stretched around like that. She was
real quiet, had real big eyes. You ever been used before, Sandy?"
Jack tears her blouse from her back with two sharp twists
of his hands. With another rip he splits her skirt, then breaks
the waistband and tosses the fabric aside. He pauses, looking
at the curve of her ass, the forward arch of her back, the heaving
of her entire body. He grabs her arms and presses her wrists to the
bark of the limb, using the rope to tie them there.
"Belinda was dumb, trying for the gun. I hate dumb folks,
they piss me off real bad. But she was so pretty with her mouth
all around the barrel like that. I picked her up real careful,
and drug her back into the cell.
....to be continued?
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