Karim al-Zib - Wild in the country book four

"Don't get too upset, Mrs. Denning," Sam tried to console her. "It might not be that serious."

"But-but… he needs blood!" she sobbed. "He's injured badly."

Sam shut up. If he wasn't careful, he was going to turn her into a hysterical mess before they got her to their provisional slaughterhouse. They wanted to be able to get her inside before she started kicking, screaming, and fighting. Damn, but she was a luscious bitch, with that shapely, warm pair of round tits, those creamy legs, and that smooth, clear voice of hers. He had never heard her sing, but he had heard that it was an experience not to be missed. He still remembered her the first time he had seen her, through the slats in her closet door where they had crouched, hoping to be able to plant some cocaine in her bedroom to give Clete Anderson an excuse to arrest her. His mind went back to the picture of her naked on her bed, masturbating, her dainty fingertips working in the wet gash of her pussy. He recalled the way she had panicked when Johnny had burst out of the closet, followed by him and Billy, how she had squirmed and pleaded for mercy while Johnny tasted her sweet, fragrant pussy with the butterscotch-colored fur, remembered how her tender hole had clasped around Johnny's big, hard cock when he had pushed it wetly into her, the two of them nearly coming to climax before the nasty dog Lobo had bounded into the room and chased the trio of rapists away with his flashing teeth, before himself falling under the spell of her feminine charms and mounting the moaning blonde angel and fucking her silly while Johnny watched through the window.

The funny thing was that DesirЋe didn't seem to recognize either Billy or himself at all, even though she had stared into their faces while they held her open to Johnny's lustful pleasure. And Sam was still wishing he had had his time with her then, those weeks before, because now they were planning to kill her and cut her up into pieces to feed to her black lover Clete, in revenge for his killing Johnny out of jealousy. Jealousy over DesirЋe.

Yes, it was regrettable, but it had to be, for Billy had taken obsessively to Sam's idea of murdering and mutilating this beautiful girl, even though Sam had said it half-jokingly. Regrettable to have to turn this angelically beautiful girl into a lump of rotting meat. But it was useless trying to talk Billy out of killing her. He already had a buyer for the "snuff" film, for which he hoped to make a handsome sum, and his hatred for Clete seemed to have been wholly transferred to DesirЋe as an outlet for his grief over his acne-scarred brother, whom Sam had never really liked anyway.

Shifting his gaze from the weeping blonde girl in the backseat, he looked at the smooth, aquiline profile of his old friend. There was no hope of deterring Billy from his plans to vent in anger on DesirЋe, for the horrible murder of his brother had done something to twist his feverish mind. He was obsessed with Clete and revenge and spoke of little else, except when speaking of DesirЋe as a vehicle for his revenge. There was little doubt that DesirЋe was doomed to breathe her last today in the old, unoccupied Pace mansion where the whole convoluted tale had begun with Nancy Pace's dog rape just a few months previously.

The car sped up in its approach to the Pace house and Billy braked sharply, throwing the car into a little sideways slide as it came to a stop before the veranda.

"He's here?" DesirЋe blurted, unaffected by the incongruity of Mark's being here injured in a car accident with no cars in sight. Throwing open the door, she jumped out, pivoted toward Billy and quickly searched his face with her limpid, blue eyes. "Mr. Jones, is this where he is?"

Billy was getting out, but without waiting for his answer DesirЋe mounted the steps two at a time.

Sam saw Billy turn with a wicked smile and give him a thumbs-up sign, then follow the girl into the old house.

Priscilla Devereaux sat morosely in the hospital, her wrists strapped to the bed. Things had become worse since her coming here, under Dr. Hemmings' care two days ago. She had required special surgery for an anal and a perineal tear after the dogs that had raped her had torn their swollen penile lock-knots from her tender orifices, and she had needed a pint of blood to replace what she had lost that day when they had brutally degraded her at the same time as she wallowed passionately in her own wastes in the dust near the Pace mansion. The humiliation she had undergone had thrown her into a state a depression and anger, but her father had vowed to see the evil animals exterminated, increasing the reward to fifty thousand dollars per head.

The final insult had been the mysterious appearance of the video tape in her bedside drawer. She had found it yesterday, after Hemmings had left after examining her, and the note that accompanied it, giving dire warnings about any further attempts to blackmail DesirЋe Denning. She had secretly viewed the tape on the video machine supplied with her private room and promptly gone into fits of anger.

The tape, graphically photographed and well edited showed her in the most degrading position she could imagine, from the time she had of necessity voided her bowels to her seduction and abasement beneath the pounding thrusts of three big, savage German Shepherd dogs! She, Priscilla, the world's most scheming manipulator, had been set up! Obviously, it had been DesirЋe, grown crafty beyond former experience, and now the older girl understood. DesirЋe was the leader of the dog pack. The dog-fucking bitch was controlling them with her nasty pussy. It had been she, DesirЋe, who had arranged for Priscilla to be lured to that remote spot and systematically assaulted. The video tape was ammunition against Priscilla's own designs to shame DesirЋe and alienate the two newlyweds.

She had raged around her private hospital room, breaking everything in sight, until orderlies came to subdue her, and in her fury she had kicked, scratched and bitten until a doctor had run in with a hypodermic to calm her. They had strapped her to the bed and this morning a psychiatrist had been in to talk to her. Still unsatisfied that she was no danger to herself, he had kept her on sedatives with arms and legs immobilized.

Priscilla still wanted Mark Denning back now more than ever, and more than ever hated DesirЋe for coming between her and the man she wanted and deserved. The auburn-haired girl now understood what had to happen. The only way to protect herself from DesirЋe's blackmail was to see the young woman permanently out of the way, and soon. So the spoiled and scheming Priscilla Devereaux resolved to bide her time for another day quietly, until they removed the straps and sent her home.

How would she do it? Arrange a car accident? Poison? Yes, that sounded good. Arsenic, so the little singing bitch would die puking her guts out. Or maybe just a gun? That was a pretty awful death in itself, Priscilla knew, much worse than any depiction in any movie she had seen. She would have time to decide this afternoon, while she waited for these idiots to remove her bindings.

While his erstwhile lover mentally plotted to murder his lovely, loving young bride, Mark Denning was finishing his meeting with Buchanan and Mr. al-Mazkum. The afternoon had been an education in practical politics, and not a pleasant one at that. Mark found himself faced with the necessity of gross conflicts of interest and dishonesty if he were to ever become elected to office through the influence of Buchanan and his many powerful business cohorts. It was amazing the power, all silent and under the table, that these men wielded in the government of his country, even to foreigners like the sinister al-Mazkum, whose dark, smokey eyes hid much more than his words could ever reveal. Mark was beginning to feel soiled by all the covert and immoral activities he saw rising around himself on the front of state politics.