Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) (15 page)

The Killer

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

I’m banging my hands on the steering wheel so hard I’m surprised I don’t do any damage. Through the binoculars, I can clearly see that my house is a crime scene. Thankfully, I’m far enough down the street that I can’t be seen by the law enforcement descending upon my home en masse. There is no way they could have found that girl without
Black Rose
interfering and revealing her location to them.

This is not the way it was supposed to go down. What happened to it being a battle of wits between two killers? Why would he do this? The son of a bitch has forced me into a position of having to go underground. I do have an isolated place on the river I set up just in case things ever went south, and I’d definitely consider this a worst-case scenario. I need to get somewhere I can watch the news and find out what the hell is going on. No matter how omnipotent
Black Rose
thinks he is, he can’t control the media; they’ll kill for an exclusive and will unwittingly fill me in on what’s going on.

I back into a driveway and start driving toward the river. Out of everything I anticipated my fellow serial killer might do, involving law enforcement never crossed my mind. Why would he betray me like this? How could he break the unspoken code of silence amongst criminals? We don’t snitch; it’s just accepted as a rule. What happened to
honor among thieves?
As mad as I am that I’ve been forced to run, the predominant emotion I’m experiencing is betrayal. 

Right now, I know they have me on abducting the woman, but they don’t have proof I’ve killed anyone. I just need to get somewhere and find my bearings. If they have a case on me, then there’s always the option of getting out of the country. From all appearances, it looks like I might actually go down on the word of a killer. Oh, the fucking irony! Maybe I can pin this whole killing spree on my partners in crime. Even though I have been the one to take their final breaths, they’re the ones assaulting and beating the women. Well, I have done some torturing, but no one needs to know about that. No jury is going to believe one man could hold that much power over three men. They’ve done such heinous things to those women at my direction, but in the end, they are the ones who did them. As for me ordering them to? It will be my word against theirs. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Should they come to light, I’ll pin the crimes on my partners.

I pull into the underground garage I had constructed to hide my vehicle and head toward the entrance of the house from inside the garage.

I just need time to wrap my head around all of this and figure out how much the police actually have on me. I don’t want there to be any surprises, finding out there’s a whole lot more going on that I’m not aware of… yet. I need to calm down, watch the news, and hope for the best. Maybe I’m just overthinking this. No matter how much I try to talk myself down from the panic, it isn’t overriding the gut feeling that’s telling me the one thing I’ve always been scared of has come to pass—scandal.

Black Rose

I circle my wife as I eye her nude body. She’s strung up in my playroom and completely at my mercy. Nothing will ever change the fact that killing and torturing people sexually excites me. My thought processes are unlike those of a
normal
person. I am and always will be a serial killer, and no amount of time ‘cooling off’ from my escapades will ever change that. Rehabilitation for a man like me is a joke. There’s no deep, dark secret to why I kill; I don’t fit any textbook psychological profile. I simply watched a man get beaten to death in an alley one day and made up my mind, then and there, that I wasn’t going to be an innocent bystander anymore.

I whisper into my little blindfolded victim’s ear.

“Was it everything you thought it would be?”

Her arms are spread out, held by chains hung from the rafters, causing her breath to come in short, labored pants. She is splayed out, spread eagle fashion, with manacles around her ankles that spread her legs as wide as her arms.

“It wasn’t as bloody as I presumed.”

“But it wasn’t
his
blood I craved. My craving is for you.”

Though I only whisper this in her ear, the tremors that overtake her body clearly reveal how frightened she is. Her fear is almost palpable which, of course, only makes my cock harder. She’s well aware that tonight will be a journey only I can take her on. Even more importantly, it will be a journey only I can bring her back from. When you’re engaging in edgeplay, like I’m doing tonight, you had better be damn sure you know what you’re doing because it can result in the loss of someone’s life if you don’t. I continue speaking as I begin working on the surprise I have in store for her.

I begin the task of looping
3
/
16
elastic cords at the base of each of her breasts. The result will have each of them slowly swelling until they become hypersensitive. I gently apply an adjustable clamp to each nipple, tightening them just enough to result in a pleasurable pressure.

“What are you doing?”

“I have a surprise for you.”

“I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

I lean in to growl in her ear, “You don’t have a fucking choice.”

I have a small box that contains a 555-control circuit, a series of RCA female plugs, and a small toggle switch. I plug in an assortment of light gauge wire leads to the control box and then plug four of the leads into the vibrator I have rigged up between her legs. I top it off with plugging two leads into each nipple clamp. I step back to admire my work of art and turn on the power to the control box. I’m held captivated as I watch it work its magic. The vibrator turns on, and at first, my prey can barely sense it, but it gradually increases in strength.

Small electrical surges pulse throughout her body, and the vibrator attached between her legs by the waist belt steadily increases in intensity.

I’ve set up a table in advance with an assortment of toys, and I pick up the feather duster to start gently caressing her entire body. The result is a combination of sensory ascent—a slow build that I’m controlling. In taking away her sight, I’ve heightened her other senses. Because she can’t see, she is forced to rely solely on her other four senses. Every sound and feeling has, therefore, been magnified until it’s a keen sensation, alternating between pleasure and the torture of being taken right to the edge of climax, but not over. The process is known as
edging
for just that reason. When pleasure becomes torture because no release is allowed, it’s the ultimate form of control. I determine when and if she comes, and that kind of power is delicious.
It’s good to be king.

I use my lips, tongue, and teeth, randomly assaulting her body with my mouth and focusing on every one of her pleasure points. Behind her ears, the front of her throat, on her neck, down her thighs, on her breasts, even the back of her knees—I get them all, licking, kissing, and biting.

I begin to randomly increase and decrease the stimulation to her clit and her nipples through manipulation of the 555-box.

I watch, completely intrigued, as her breathing becomes shallow and rapid. Her body starts a sensual dance in which her hips gyrate, trying to gain more contact with the elements I’m purposely using to keep her on the edge of ecstasy.

Giving her no warning, I rip the blindfold from her eyes. I’ve placed a full-length mirror in front of her, and at her first glimpse of her wired and rigged up body, she lets out an audible gasp, her expression one of utter shock.

I look at her reflection, wanting to view her body in the same way she’s seeing herself. She’s standing with her arms and legs spread almost painfully wide, fighting and struggling against the chain restraints. Letting out a soft moan, she thrusts her hips forward, obviously aroused by what she sees.

“If you want to come, you’ll have to ask nicely, darling.” My voice is gravelly in her ear. “If you come without my permission, I will hurt you,” I whisper. The soothing, calm nature of my voice only adds to the gravity of my statement.

I know the vibrator on her clit is relentless. I hear her desperate cries, her pleas, but I’m not finished making her beg.

“You will have to do much better than that.”

Her body is shuddering uncontrollably, and she starts to beg me in earnest; now she’s afraid of coming without my permission. Any pride she may have had is buried under her need for release. I soothingly whisper in her ear, “Climax for me, baby girl. I want to watch your face in anguished pleasure”

I look at the state I hold my prey in. She’s begging me, pleading with me, agonizing for me. I watch as her muscles involuntarily clench. I study myself, along with her expression, in the mirror as I place plastic wrap over her mouth and nose. Her eyes are wide with terror, and I can feel my cock stiffen to the point of pain.

I clutch the plastic wrap and the hair at the back of her head, watching as the adrenaline dump courses through her body. It hits her like a freight train, and the explosion of her climax suddenly rages through her at the same time. For twenty or thirty seconds, the mixture of terror and arousal collide as her body thrashes against the restraints. I rip the plastic wrap away from her face. She inhales deeply, desperately filling her lungs with the life giving oxygen I’ve deprived her of.

I can no longer resist being inside her. After all she’s been subjected to, I gently release my wife from the manacles and make love to her. When we are both spent and satisfied, I pick her up and take her with me to the master suite. The rest of the night will be spent ministering to her as I see to her aftercare.

Even though the things I have just subjected my wife to are dangerous, there is no place safer than where she presently is—in my arms.