Page 20 of The Collector
He drove the short distance back to his car and parked hers just ahead of it. Another glance in the mirror—then silence. He waited, watching for any sign of pursuit.
After a minute or two had passed, he felt secure. No one followed.
In the seat beside him, the slim brunette figure lay motionless, the bag of food beneath her body smashed under her weight. She was so slight that it wouldn't be a challenge to lift her and place her into the trunk of his car. She'd be out cold for at least an hour—plenty of time for him to reach the mausoleum at Holy Cross Cemetery. He needed to get her secure and dose her for the day alone so he could return to the mansion before his absence was noticed. And the sky was already beginning to lighten to a dark gray as the sun slowly ascended.
Thirty minutes later, he pulled in front of the familiar vegetation-covered mausoleum. At this time of morning, even the caretakers weren't around. And if he did see someone, it would be easy to explain away her condition.
He pulled a wheelchair from his back seat, caressing the handles after clicking it into place. A wicked smile bloomed on his sullen face. It was his conveyor of death.
Rolling the chair to the back of the car, he opened the trunk. Sugar was still sleeping soundly. He brushed a blonde lock of hair from her face, admiring the beauty of her smooth skin. A rush of adrenaline hit him hard; the urgency of killing her pulsed through him. He couldn't wait much longer to slice into her.
The Collector grabbed her roughly, securing her to the chair. He quickly slammed the lid shut. She didn't stir. Still out. Perfect.
Inside the mausoleum, the skylights carved into the ceiling offered only slivers of light—just enough to illuminate the panel that would trigger the floor to the kill room to slide open. Wild vines and moss covered most of the inside surfaces of the room, but beneath the layers of dirt and foliage was a hidden passage that revealed itself at the touch of The Collector's thumbprint to the pad. The scent of damp earth and musk rose to meet him while he waited for it to open. He breathed it in without hesitation, and it put him at ease again before he began his descent.
He hummed "Highway to Hell" as he pushed the chair down the ramp further into the depths of the waiting torture chamber below. Just one last security measure awaited him at the door. He scanned his retina at the security pad; the door to the inner chamber opened while the upper door simultaneously ground to a close.
The sanitizing smell of bleach hit him. Good thing he'd visited earlier in the week to prepare for Sugar's visit. He glanced around the room. Everything was in its place.
He lifted her from the chair and onto a metal table in the center of the room. Slowly and methodically, he cut her clothing away, leaving her tight, curved frame bare. Her pert breasts tried to taunt him like before; nipples tightened into peach buds from the coolness of the room. They would be the first thing to go.
Shouldering her body, he lifted her full weight as he attached her hands to the chains that hung in the middle of the room. Her body hung languidly, pulling at her armpits from the weight, and her eyelids finally began to flutter. He grabbed the chains on the floor, securing one to each of her legs, effectively spreading her body into an X.
Perfect.
He walked to his workstation to get the smelling salt from among the tools he'd already prepared for her time with him. He took a deep breath, savoring the moment—time to begin.
He exhaled, enjoying the excitement he felt pulsating through his veins, pumping blood to his dick. This feeling and this feeling alone got him hard.
He held the salt under her nose. Sugar jolted awake.
It only took a moment for her eyes to widen in fear as she took in her position. She screamed, the sound blood-curdling loud, full of fear at the top of her lungs. Twisting in the chains, she fought to get free.
He tsked her. "Now— now it's not time for that yet, the screaming I mean. Unfortunately, I have to go soon. I just wanted to wake you so you'd know I would be back soon. Can't have my little dear worried now, can I?"
"What the actual fuck—you sicko? Let me go! I know you, your—"
The Collector shoved a ball gag in her mouth before she could finish. Tears streamed down her face as he tightened the gag, drool began to form around it, before dripping down her chin.
"First rule, my dear, is only speak when spoken to. If you break the rules, you get punished."
He returned to the worktable and picked up the scalpel. Sugar's eyes tracked the movement—wide, glassy, trembling with dread. It stirred something in him—desire, control, a quiethum beneath his skin, steadying his breath, sharpening his focus.
She didn't speak. Didn't move. But the fear in her eyes was loud and clear. And played like a symphony to The Collector.
He needed blood—just a tiny bit to make it through.
It only took him a heartbeat to make it back to her side, a moment later, and his blade was slicing across her cheek, deep crimson droplets dripped to the floor. She attempted to scream, but the gag blocked any sound.
The look on her face and the crimson liquid as it flowed freely from her broke the last of his restraint, and release coated his pants.
Sugar was now consumed with fear as she fought against the chains. She pulled, flailed. Again. Harder. The restraints didn't budge. Her effort was futile. He knew she hadn't accepted that fact yet. That's okay— he'd help her.
He returned the blade to the table, picking up a syringe and walking back to her.
"As I said earlier, I'd love to stay and play, but there are other demands that need my attention. Tonight, when I return, we will start with your tattoo and have a little more fun. Until then, I hope you dream about me."
He leaned in, eyebrows dancing with cruel delight, and pressed the plunger. Sugar's resistance faded in stages—first the tension in her jaw released, then her grip, then her gaze.
