Page 24 of The Devil and I
Lucas
Driving the final hour with a painfully hard dick feels like the kind of torture a man like me deserves. I'm so hard it hurts. Listening to Rayna moan and beg over the phone while I told her every filthy thought in my head was hands down one of the sexiest experiences of my entire life. I could hear the sounds of her fingers fucking the wet depths of her pussy over the phone, and it was absolutely maddening.
What a goddamn sweet torture to be out here with her rapist in the trunk of my car while she is wet and needy back at home in my bed. Our bed. She doesn't realize it yet, but she has become my most prized possession. Her new cage is gilded, but that doesn't change the fact that I hold the key to it with a vice grip.
I turn down the dirt road leading deeper into my property, so far removed from society that I can stand out here screaming at the top of my lungs for hours and no one would ever wander close enough to hear me. The road isn't maintained, so the drive in is rough. Half the reason for leaving it in this condition is to help keep people from wanting to drive down my road, whether they're interested in exploring or are confused about their exit off the main stretch of road. The large private property sign helps, I'm sure.
Most people would agree that it wouldn't be worth the risk of damage to their vehicle. Not that this particular turn off is easy to find, anyway. It's tucked away, which makes it the perfect place for me to let the beast out to play.
I pull into my driveway, which is nothing but a strip of dirt surrounded by overgrowth, and park my car. The place looks abandoned until you get up close and personal with it. Despite looking like a worn out hunting cabin, I give it just enough care to keep it upright.
When I step out of my car and stretch my body, I take note of how it looks identical to how I left it. It doesn't look like anyone has invaded my kingdom of death out here in the Canadian wilderness.
It's pitch black out here, with minimal light pollution, which means I'll have to get some lighting up before I haul Marky boy out of my trunk. Without electricity out here, that leaves me having to use gas lamps and candlelight.
I walk up the steps carefully, unable to see much of what is in front of me with the clouds overhead and lack of moonlight. Feeling around for the front door, I find the worn out handle and give it a turn.
Pulling the heavy wooden door towards me opens up the small cabin, and when I step inside it feels like coming home. The place wasn't in the best of shape when I bought it, and I haven't done a ton to maintain it, but it's rugged and holding up against the weather. One corner of the roof has caved in a little from this past winter, but that doesn't get in the way of what I came here to do.
I move around the cabin carefully, lighting lamps as I go. Before long, the room is illuminated. The hardwood used to construct the cabin is still in good shape, and it makes the room feel exceptionally cozy and warm. There is one large wooden table along the wall, a wood stove fireplace in the corner, and a few chests and boxes scattered around the perimeter of the small space. At the center of the room sits a blood stained hard wood and cast iron chair. The thing is a beast, and has been painted red so many times the piece of furniture looks grotesque.
There are plenty of dark corners throughout the cabin, but I leave them that way. I only need my work space illuminated. As I move about the cabin, I check the state of things. I always clean my mess and set my tools back in place before I leave. That means the next time I show up, everything is already prepared for my arrival. Other than lighting things up, there's nothing for me to do but haul Mark in and get him settled. I walk over to the chair and double check the chains that bind it to the floor, making sure nothing rusted through or fell apart while I was away.
With nothing left to do, I exit the cabin and jog down the uneven wooden steps as an eerie calm settles over me. As I round my vehicle, I reach behind me and palm the substantial weight of the sleek black pistol tucked in a holster at my lower back. Pulling it free, I raise it to eye level and flip the safety before lowering it again and popping the trunk. I aim the business end of my firearm into the dark space, but Mark isn't moving. I take a small step back so I can push the bumper of my car with my foot, rattling the man inside. The drugs are still circulating through his system, leaving him breathing deeply despite the jarring movement I caused.
I lower my weapon, putting the safety back on before tucking it away behind my back again. I don't know how quickly his body is metabolizing the drugs, so I need to get him inside and strapped down. I shuffle his body towards the lip of the trunk, reaching underneath him to haul him up in my arms. Despite not wanting to touch him, I carry him like a child from the car to the front door, pushing it open with my boot and passing through. Once inside, I kick the door shut and plop the scumbag in the chair. Much like his friend, Mark is a lot smaller than me. In height and weight, which makes moving him easy for me.
My hands search his pockets thoroughly as I move around the chair, securing him with chains of various sizes. I test the binds a second time once he is strapped in, just to make sure there is no possible way he can break out of them. If I'm being honest, though, that isn't really a huge concern. I highly doubt this man has the level of training and skill I possess when it comes to fighting and restraining someone that doesn't want to be restrained.
With Mark secured in a sitting position, I lean back against the table he is facing and observe my handiwork. All I need to do is administer the reversal medication, and we can get this party started. The sooner he is awake, the sooner I can carve him up, and the sooner I can get back home to my girl.
I turn towards my work bench and pull a spare black box down from the shelf, opening it up and shifting through the various labeled vials to find what I need. I grab a syringe and fill it up, removing the air bubbles from the tube as I wander back over to Mark. I give the hub a firm flick and pull Mark's arm taut against his binds so I can slide the needle home. I know I've hit the vein when I pull back slightly on the plunger and several drops of blood pop into the barrel. Satisfied, I depress the syringe and administer the reversal drug.
Now that I'm left waiting for the drugs to work, I toss the empty syringe into a small bin beneath my table and lean back against it. Arms crossed over my chest, I watch and wait for Mark to slowly regain consciousness. As I wait, I tug the black leather gloves off my hands and toss them aside. It's fucked up, but I really love the feel of hot blood on my hands. Unfortunately for me, I don't know this motherfucker and what potential diseases he carries. Drug use, unprotected sex, and general life as a scum bag can leave a man with some seriously contagious shit. As a police officer, I end up with a lot micro abrasions on my hands from work. The last thing I want is Mark's wretched blood getting inside of me.
Besides, by the time I'm done with him, I am certain Mark's blood will be all over my clothes. As I fantasize about his blood raining all over this fucking cabin, I reach around behind me to grab a clean set of surgical gloves and pull them on. Once my hands are covered, I turn slightly to grab my favourite knife off the table.
It takes nearly five minutes before Mark's breathing begins to change. It switches from long, deep breaths to more regular ones. His eyes flutter open a few times, but he isn't fighting hard enough to wake up. I walk over and stare down at him momentarily before lifting my arm and backhanding him across the face. He groans, his head rolling around on his shoulders, and I step back again.
“Rise and shine, you sorry sack of shit.”
Mark's eyes open and I watch his pupils constrict and then dilate again. Panic sets in through the chemically induced fog, and although his head is wobbly, he tries to focus on the scene before him. It takes him another long minute, but he coughs and peers up at me with wide eyes.
“W-who are you? Where a-am I?” he stammers, his speech still slightly slurred. Between the dissipating drugs and the alcohol, Mark is in rough shape. The backhand I delivered to his face split his lip, so a warm trickle of blood is starting to trail down his chin. The sight of it excites me. A teaser, a promise of the unbearable hell I am about to drag him through.
“So many questions. I don't think you deserve a single one answered,” I tell him firmly, leaning back against my table and crossing my arms over my chest once again. The smile I know is plastered across my face must make me look like a psychopath unraveling before him.
“Who the f-fuck are you, man?” he shouts at me, his voice cracking. The smile drops from my face, replaced by an unsettling scowl.
“Satan.”
“Why am I here?!” he shouts again, but instead of anger in his words, I only recognize fear. Sweet, palpable fear. Mark is terrified, and seeing him so god damn scared sends pleasure shooting up my spine.
I laugh darkly, unfolding my body and stepping closer to him. When he catches sight of the knife clutched tightly in my hand, he begins to thrash helplessly in his binds. The chair doesn't budge an inch, and the chains cut into his skin with every twist and turn of his body.
“You don't know me, Mark, but I know you,” I tell him, taking slow but sure steps in a menacing circle around him as he desperately tries to free himself from his carefully constructed restraints. When behind him, I take the sharpened edge of my blade and press it to the back of his neck. He jerks forward, and when his body hits the back of the chair again, he cuts himself on the gleaming silver edge.
“Fuck!” he shouts.
