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Author Topic: Spring Cleaning  (Read 469 times)

Offline alice

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Spring Cleaning
« on: April 14, 2017, 12:41:15 PM »
The gun was long, large, and coldly metallic in the early morning sunshine.

It stopped her in her tracks, and as she stood, staring, the click of its hammer being cocked interrupted her ragged breathing and almost stopped her heart.

 She wanted to scream, but found she had no voice.

She wanted to run, but her legs were too weak.

Her knees felt like rubber.

Her lungs were on fire.

He'd emerged from the shadows of the spring-blooming woods, stepping onto the path immediately in front of her. If this had happened at the start of her run, she would've simply gone around him, but because this was the end—she could see the top of her building through gaps in the overhead canopy of leaves overhead—she slowed to a trot as she approached. When he refused to budge, she stopped entirely. Thinking he needed help, she removed her earbuds and was in the process of formulating her query—a smile on her face—when he pulled out the gun.

"Don't speak," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. "Don't even think about running."

The thought most definitely crossed her mind.

She could visualize it so clearly, too. All she needed was to get around the first bend and she would probably be all right. Trees would shield her from his line of sight, and if she zig-zagged, the chances of him hitting her were low. The first step would be the most dangerous; pivoting, she risked falling, and if she fell—well, that would likely be the end of her.

But if she could overcome her fear, conquer her deadly apathy, she could get away.

"If you move, I'll kill you."

And that's when he cocked the gun.

It was like a switched was flipped inside her head. Her thoughts went instantly from getting away to simply surviving. A light pattering sound drew both their gazes to the small patch of damp gravel growing between her spread legs. She hadn't known she'd wet herself until then, but all of a sudden she could feel the warm heat running down the back and inside of her thighs—her tights clinging even closer to her clammy skin as they soaked through—into her running shoes. Tears filled her baby blues as his gaze turned nasty, morphing from lecherous grin to contemptuous sneer, and she wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

"Disgusting," he muttered. "But if you think it's going to save you, you're wrong. Your ass is mine and I intend to use it until it breaks."

"Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse, weak. "Please don't hurt me."

"Oh, I'm going to hurt you—get that idea into your head right now. Whether you live through this or not, though, is entirely up to you. Now get over here."

All this occurred in a span of a few minutes.

If this were summer, they would've encountered at least a few more people—runners, like her, out to beat the heat of the day with an early morning jog; older, retired couples walking their dogs; even parents with young children, off to enjoy what little time they could together before work and school contrived to keep them apart. But this wasn't summer, only early spring, and they were the only people on the path, and very likely the only ones in the forest.

It could be hours before someone else came along; it could be days.

If I go with him, they might never find me, she thought, raising her hands above her head like a hold-up victim in a western.

The man sighed.

"Listen, bitch, I don't have time for this. Put your hands down and come here RIGHT NOW or I'll shoot you and leave you for the animals."

Like a lamb, she went to him meekly, her gait awkward as she tried to keep her damp thighs from rubbing together as she walked. He grabbed her, his hand so large he could almost close it entirely around her forearm, and yanked her close to him. She felt the heat of his body through his clothes—it felt like he was on fire—then, coldly contrasting, the barrel of the gun pressed into her navel. He held it there, gradually increasing the pressure until she almost doubled over from the pain. Her eyes flicked up to his, and he grinned, exposing neat, even teeth.

"It would only take the lightest twitch of my finger to send a bullet into your guts. If you think this hurts"—here he jabbed the barrel in even deeper, causing her to cry out in pain—"then imagine what it'd be like to have a fist-sized hole punched through your guts."

She whimpered, but otherwise said nothing.

"You wouldn't die right away. Oh no," he continued, starting off down the path, dragging her along with him. "It could take hours. You'd lie here in the dirt like an animal, trying to hold your guts in as you slowly bled to death." He increased their pace, leading her off the trail and into the bush. "I don't want to kill you, understand. I'm more of a catch-and-release kind of guy. But I won't hesitate to do so if you cause me any trouble."

Her mind raced a mile a minute. She tried to focus on a dozen things at once; where they were going, how she would get back, what he might do to her, while intrusive trivialities bombarded her at every turn. Her feet squelched in her damp trainers; the rich ammonia smell of her urine filled her nostrils. Branches clawed at her, raking her cheeks, her scalp, until she was forced to hold a hand in front of her face to protect her eyes from being gouged out. The man was relentless; his large legs carried him forward at a pace she had to work to keep up with, less she be dragged, and eventually it got to the point where her tired body could no longer cope.

Her knees buckled and she sagged into his grip.

His fingers tightened reflexively, digging into the soft skin of her forearm, finding muscle.

She cried out, and he stopped.

Looking around, seeing they were in a little clearing, he let her go and she immediately curled into a ball.

Shrugging his shoulders, the man said, "This is as good a place as any, I guess," and pointed his gun at her.

Panting, her heart pounding in her chest, she felt like a little white rabbit caught in a snare. "Please," she whimpered, shaking her head, "no."

"Take off your shirt."

"No," she repeated, but immediately moved to obey. She lifted the clingy garment off her head and held it in front of her chest, like an offering. He motioned with the gun and she reluctantly let it fall to one side. She was wearing a sport bra, which thankfully concealed the size and shape of her large breasts, but knew it wouldn't protect her for long.

The man lowered himself to her level, spreading his larger body over top of hers like a spider, eclipsing it. Now, with surprising gentleness, he pushed her onto her back and she lay on a carpet of cold damp loam, with rotting leaves as a sheet. She tried not to think of what must be at work beneath the surface—all the creepy, crawly things that usually filled her nightmares—because she knew she had much more important things to worry about, but that's not how phobias work, so instead of fighting back as he first put his hands on then groped her breasts, she lay catatonic and let him.

She didn't react when he pulled down her urine-and-sweat-damp tights, exposing the thin line of her sex, topped with a light patch of carefully cultivated pubic hair. Didn't react when he removed his own sweats and boxer shorts, exposing his large, curving erection. Not even her eyes moved as he waved a hand in front of her face. She was, however, mumbling to herself.

Her words were rushed, her tone neutral, voice barely audible above the background noise of a small woodlot in the spring time.

The man leaned in close and cocked an ear.

"Good…don't need…good girl…hurt me…won't scream, won't run…please…"

Snickering, the man placed the barrel of his gun against the small patch of pubic hair immediately above her slit. Grinning, he cocked the hammer. Tension filled the air like static before a lightning strike. Suddenly she seemed to snap out of it, become aware of her surroundings and the danger she was in. She looked up at him, then down at the gun, then back up at him again. Shaking her head slowly, she mouthed words she no longer had the power to speak—no, please, no. Holding her breath, she was afraid of doing anything to provoke the reaction she felt was imminent.

He's not going to shoot me, she told herself; he said he wasn't going to and I believe him because why would he lie? I did everything he said. I was a good girl. I don't need to be punished, I—

"You're boring. I think we need to spice things up a bit."

He pulled the trigger.

A loud clap, followed by a hollow boom.

Pain filled her almost immediately. She screamed, but barely heard herself over the ringing in her ears. Curling up, she pressed both hands to the large wound in her groin, and felt blood well instantly. It poured out in frightening amounts, soaking the loam between her legs. While she was distracted by the agony of the gunshot, the man hit the side of her head with the butt of his gun, stunning her, and dropping her limply to the ground.

Quickly moving in, he spread her legs and inserted himself inside her.

Vaguely aware of her violation—the way a drowning person might notice a change in the quality of light as they neared the surface—she kept pressure on the wound and tried to focus on her breathing. It was difficult, as even the slightest movement caused a ripple in her abdomen, which sent shuddering shockwaves of agony coursing through her entire body, but she managed. The man, however, had no such concerns; he thrust into her with wild abandon, beating up the inside of her body with his thick, throbbing phallus, intent only on his pleasure. Her whole body shook with the force of his impact; her hair flew, her breasts bounced. Seeing the latter gave the man an idea.

Placing his gun against the outside of her left breast, barrel angled horizontally, he pulled the trigger before she even knew what was coming.

This time the pain was too much.

Her eyes widened and her chest filled with air—as if she were about to make a break for it—but quickly deflated as the light went out of her eyes and she went completely limp. Pulling out, he came across her ruined body, his cum mixing with her blood even as his cries of pleasure chased the resounding echoes of the gunshots up into the morning sky. It'd been the best orgasm of his life, and his body was still tingling from the afterglow when an idea struck him. He knew he had to get out of her, and fast, and he also knew that shooting three times would enable anyone who happened to be looking for him to triangulate his position (or some shit like that), but he would regret it for the rest of his life if he didn't follow this final impulse.

After pulling up his pants, re-arranging himself so he could run if he had to, he cocked his gun and placed it against her body a final time—right against her forehead, directly between her eyes.

"Well, bitch, it's been fun. Sorry I lied about not hurting you, but you understand I never could've let you go. And now…now I just gotta be sure."

He pulled the trigger and her face all but disappeared in a rain of gore.

"Goddamn," he chuckled, looking at the gun as if seeing it for the first time.

Then a siren warbled, cutting through his reverie as surely—and with as much finality—as the bullets had cut through her body. Without another word, or as much as a backward glance, he got up and walked calmly away. He knew the woods better than any of the first responders could, so he wasn't overly concerned about being caught, and there were plenty of places he could stash the gun on his way out. This may have been his first murder, but he would be damned if it was going to be his last….


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