Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series) (3 page)

An erotic show for him. Sheer terror for her.

Brandishing a wide grin of satisfaction, he peeled off his suit coat, loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Now the real
fun
was about to begin. Returning to the nightstand, the bottom drawer this time, he produced a liquid-filled glass jar, loosened the lid and placed it on top of the nightstand. Next, he extracted two forceps, tucking them neatly in his shirt pocket. Finally, a stainless steel apparatus resembling a skinny shoe horn with a razor sharp
tip and black handle. Holding it like a carving knife, he sneered, leaning over her.

Accelerated fear widened her already bulging eyes into banjos.

Slowly and lightly he swept the edge of the blade across the top of her cheek.

Automatically she jerked her head. Her body pitched about. Fists tightened. In utter torment she screamed.

But just as he had planned, the leather belts kept her body secure and the gag distorted her shrill screams as he
artfully
continued the razor’s wicked journey. Down the side of her neck. Across her chest. A figure eight around her breasts. Diagonally over the middle of her stomach. A circle around her belly button. A traced outline of the triangle puff of auburn hair then straight down the outside of her right leg.

Abruptly he stopped the trail-leaving descent at her knee, dropped the shoehorn razor-tool on her concave stomach and turned an analyzing eye on her. Blood marked the path of the blade across her body like a thin line of chocolate drizzled over a cake for decoration.

So far, her reaction was what had become the usual: breasts pumping up and down, eyes racing back and forth, and foamy saliva oozing from under the gag as fear consumed her body in dreaded anticipation of his next move.

But he was sure she couldn’t imagine what was next. That
alligator grin
resurfaced. “Time for
surgery
, Miz Tree-Hugger.” Purposely pausing, he let her think about it for a moment. “They call it female circumcision.” His eyes danced with delight.

Squirting urine and blasting spurts of gas, she went berserk frantically twisting and turning her body while crazily yanking on the restraints, trying to break free of the leather straps that could keep a rampaging Clydesdale in check.

All this peeing, farting, and pointless fighting was nothing more than
the
usual
. Certainly nothing new. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to dream. What would Sweet Cheeks do? Envisioning her beautiful hourglass body mercilessly bound to the bed, she was quivering from the unknown, but trusting him just the same. From under the gag, she let out moans of anticipated ecstasy, begging him to do
it
to her.

Again his maleness swelled.

While spending moments in imagined Sweet Cheeks bliss, he knew exactly what was happening with his current
lab rat
. By now, like her predecessors, Miz Tree-Hugger was nearing physical exhaustion. Not only because of her refusal to surrender to the restraints, but because he had brutally gagged her to intentionally reduce her air intake. Continued fighting simply exaggerated the futility of her efforts, escalating her fear. And as far as he was concerned, his ability to induce intense fear in a woman produced the ultimate high.

He opened his eyes. Back to reality. Back to his captive. Pulling up two more leather straps secured to the bed frame under the mattress, he completed the binding.

Buckling the final leather straps above her knees and tugging on the opposite end to muscle her legs even wider, she offered little resistance.

Abandoning her for a moment, he ransacked a kitchen cupboard, returning with a light blue bath sheet and a Snake light. Flattening out the bath sheet between her legs so he wouldn’t have to
work
in her urine, he then wrapped the Snake light around her right thigh to illuminate the area between her legs. Concerning himself with details like gloves, instrument sterilization, or anesthesia didn’t cross his mind. Those were trivial non-necessities.

“It’s surgery time,” he taunted as the thick fingers of his left hand vigorously spread the tender lips of her femininity, while his right hand reached into his shirt pocket for the forceps. “Surgical tissue holders,” he said unemotionally, locking forceps on each skin fold. The handle end of the forceps he fastened to the thigh restraint with a snapping carabiner to hold the hinged instruments in place for an unobstructed, hands-free, view of her
sex button
.

Miz Tree-Hugger whined a pitiful whimper, body tensed, quivering in terror. Once again she waged a feeble battle against the straps, but, of course, they remained dominant.

As if her little erectile were a rare gemstone, his eyes fixed upon it. With his finger he callously pinched and pressed her clit several times before burying his face between her legs. In a violent sexual feeding frenzy, his hot tongue and wet lips severely assaulted her.

Gasps of misery leaked from the savage gag as her thigh muscles flexed and strained, exerting maximum force to slam her legs shut, but the straps wouldn’t allow it.

Once satisfied, his head slowly rose from between her legs. Allowing his eyes to drift shut, he inhaled deeply and slowly, nostrils flared, basking in the scent of his latest
lab rat
who helplessly whimpered and tremored.

Excitedly, his eyes flew open. Once again his fingers roughly toyed with her
sex button
as if preparing for a second gorging, but instead, in one smooth quick action he scooped out her clitoris with the surgical dissector, as effortlessly as digging out an eye of a potato.

Emitting a drawn-out muted scream, her eyes bulged. Face contorted grotesquely. Body violently convulsed. Then just as quickly, stillness and silence. Blood leaked from between her legs.

Cradling the tiny piece of precious flesh in his hand, he rushed over to the nightstand to a formaldehyde filled jar labeled
#4 MOMMA
, dropping the little lump of tissue inside.

Tightening the lid, he guardedly toted the container into the modest kitchen nook. Smashing the precious jar close to his body with one hand, he fished the other behind a large particle board cabinet in search of a hidden lever. Once he found it, a small section of the wall popped open, exposing the entrance to a secret room.

While holding the jar tightly against his chest, he slithered inside, slapping his hand against the wall to the right of the opening several times until it connected with a round, battery-operated touch-light.

The pale light revealed a tiny room, no larger than a modest walk-in closet. An old wooden rocking chair sat in the middle. Rows of six-inch wide pantry shelves lined the walls. But the shelves were not stocked with food. They were full of
treasures
. His treasures.

Carefully, he placed
#4 MOMMA
next to the jar labeled
#3 MOMMA
. Stepping back to admire his collections, he fixated on an eight-by-ten inch color-faded photograph of a seven-year-old boy and a pretty blonde woman happily embracing each other.

Smiling, he lovingly picked it up. The vintage wooden frame creaked in his grasp.

Reverently, he stroked the face of the woman in the picture with his pointer finger. “Momma, why couldn’t every day have been like
that
day?”

Oh, how he loved Momma and how happy he was when Momma and Daddy lived together. Yet, he had never blamed her for Daddy leaving. It wasn’t her fault. It was the fault of her
sex button
: the clitoris. That tiny piece of flesh hounded Momma, pressuring her to have sex with men other than Daddy and forcing her little boy to touch her in feminine places ordinarily forbidden to a son.

Daddy never knew about the taboo acts Momma required the six-year-old to perform, but Daddy caught Momma in bed with three different men, three different times, and forgave her three times. But the fourth time, well, Daddy just left.

By the age of ten, Momma had carefully schooled the little boy in a variety of finger rubbing, tongue licking and object using techniques to stimulate the flesh between her legs. The little boy grew to believe the tiny button of tissue had hooked Momma to seek a
fix
. Like an addictive street drug, the fleshy nodule created insatiable cravings for orgasms two, three, four, or more times a day and Momma would satisfy them by any means possible, even if it meant using her own son.

And though he felt shame for touching his mother
down there
, he was captivated by her beauty. Big blue eyes. Long silky golden hair that shimmered against her heaving bare breasts. Small waist. Flat stomach. And long, lean legs that engulfed his boy body, tightly squeezing it like powerful tentacles on an erotic ingurgitation as she moaned in sexual bliss.

Afterward, Momma would smile sweetly, gently caress the side of her son’s face, eye him adoringly. “I’ll always be
your
Sweet Cheeks,” she would softly promise while coaxing his head between her legs for another round.

By his late teens the boy had learned all women were designed with an enslaving little knob that compelled them to seek orgasms. The teen reasoned if Momma had been rid of the fleshy nub hooking her to orgasms and driving her to have sex with strange men, Daddy would have never left and the little boy’s childhood would have been storybook worthy. But that didn’t happen. Daddy had made a big mistake. He should have removed Momma’s sex button.

Now grown up, that little boy was determined not to repeat his father’s oversight. No, the woman of his dreams—
his
Sweet Cheeks—would be
cleansed
of her corruptive sex-seeking nodule and he would extract it himself ... after all, how hard could it be to snip out such a tiny clump of flesh? But first things first. Had to
find
his Sweet Cheeks. Using a long and uncompromising measuring stick,
his
Sweet Cheeks had to be nothing short of the perfect duplicate of his mother.

After years of searching, one day when he least expected it, Sweet Cheeks walked into his life: his mother reincarnated, even more beautiful and sexy than he remembered. He had found her. Finally found her. Nirvana!

Then, just as quickly as seventh heaven manifested, it disintegrated into fire and brimstone when Sweet Cheeks flashed a seductive smile and mentioned she was
happily married
. Instantly, he knew the evil little sex button was dictating her life.

Crushed, he resigned to settle for simply visualizing the
cleansing
process, as if she were his wife. Right before purifying her, he would touch her
there
. Stimulate her sex button one more time. Satisfy her evil craving one last time. Plunge her into the depths of base sexual desire before finally redeeming her with his cleansing ritual ... he would be her sexual tormentor and savior in one! Every time he played the scenario, the mental picture launched a wicked good hard-on followed by glorious bliss.

In a short time, however, the images in his head were no longer emotionally or sexually satisfying, compelling him to escalate his fantasies to mock versions of the
cleansing
process with pretty blonde-haired, well-endowed dolls he had bound, gagged and mutilated. Though toying with the plastic dolls in subservient positions temporarily gratified his deep-rooted compulsion to control women—specifically Sweet Cheeks—he yearned to cleanse the
real
woman. That’s when he decided he must possess her whether she was married or not.

With the prized photograph still in his hand, he dreamily waltzed to the rocking chair, plopping down. “It won’t be long before you get to meet
my
Sweet Cheeks, Momma. She’s beautiful, just like you. Remember the last time we talked and I told you I had a couple more details to finalize? Well, they’re all but done. And that means you’re gonna meet her real soon. Maybe even this week.”

Gently rocking in the chair, he cooed to the picture of Momma before kissing the photo and lovingly replacing it on the shelf. Surveying his collection of dolls tied in various enslaved positions, he focused on his latest: a doll brutally bound in a forced kneel restraint. Pleasure blossomed on his face as he dreamed of Sweet Cheeks tethered like the doll; she would be in ecstasy, eager to have him bind her, gag her, flog her or do whatever he wanted just because it made
him
happy....

Before leaving his secret room he scanned the shelves one more time. Compulsively he slightly twisted the jar labeled
MOMMA #4
a little toward the right to perfectly line up the labels. Satisfied that all was in order as desired, he slipped through the crack of an opening, dousing the battery-operated light as he exited. Cautiously he pushed the wall back into place with his shoulder, listening for
the
hidden lever to click and lock
.

Peering over at naked Miz Tree-Hugger, she lay motionless. Eyes closed. Skin pasty-white. A lake of blood accumulated on the towel between her legs. The cabin reeked of cooled urine and clotting blood; the nauseating stench of a slaughterhouse, but it didn’t bother him. The smell was familiar.

Another clap of thunder rocked the cabin.

Miz Tree-Hugger’s body and head twitched with a startled jerk. A barely audible shriek sneaked out from beneath the brutal muzzle.

“Good, you’re still alive,” he said, eyeing his watch. “It’s been nearly an hour. Looks like surgery was a success.”