Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

Footsteps pounded behind him. As soon as they reached the double yellow lines of the suicide lane, Lucia stumbled. He jerked his hand in the air, keeping her from falling.

Faster. Faster! He fought the urge to sprint, knowing his sister couldn’t keep up. With his chest heaving, his breathing crashed in waves in his ears. He leapt over the gutter, landing on the sidewalk. Lucia panted at his side.

Gravel flew under his shoes as he darted for the mesquite tree. Desiccated seed pods rattled and thorns scratched his scalp as he ducked under the low branches. Turning to protect Mary, he body-slammed the block fence surrounding the gated community.

With oomph, Lucia collided with his belly.

Irina and the boys rushed under the canopy as the spotlight swept the street. “Do you—” she gasp “—think they’ve … seen us?”

Manny gulped in a lungful of air. The light did not come back, but the gunfire continued. “Let’s not stick around to find out.”

Setting Mary down, he followed the wall away from the firefight. According to the map he’d memorized, the drainage ditch leading from the gated community was about two hundred yards away. Once they crawled under the opening in the fence, they’d be right next to their new home.

Trent Powers eased his arm out from under the slut, Belinda. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of vanilla and sex.

Lots of sex.

Her Sexts were shallow hints at the kink she’d begged for. He rolled her onto her back. Candlelight sparked off the nipple clamps. He tugged on the chain connecting the two and she moaned.

Even in her sleep, she liked pain. Trent jerked off the cuffs.

Her back arched and she groaned. Blood beaded in the scrapes on the side of her nipples. He slapped the over-sized globe. “Like that, do you?”

She moaned again. After a raspy breath, her nubile body sank into the pillow-top mattress.

Leaning over her, Trent sucked the raspberry bud into his mouth and sunk his teeth into the soft flesh. Nothing. The metallic tinge of her blood mingled with the sweet residue of whipping cream. She had better be as clean as she claimed. Locking his gaze on her face, he bit harder.

Not even a flicker of an eyelash.

Good old GHB. The handy date rape drug had gotten him laid more times than the most expensive dinners. Not that he’d needed it with her. Unlike his other dates, this whore actually liked taking it up the ass. He spat out her tit and threw off the black satin comforter. Dildos, butt plugs, beads and tubes of flavored lube rolled onto the floor.

Trent adjusted his flaccid cock before cleaning the sticky residue on the bed spread. A flutter of pink caught his attention. Picking up the feather, he rubbed the silkiness between his thumb and forefinger. Should he?

Bending over, he plucked the padded handcuffs off the floor. Thanks to the wine she’d drunk during dinner, she should be out for a couple of hours.

Long enough for him to do what he’d came for.

He spun the closed loop around his finger. Still… Bending forward, he grabbed her hand, snapped the cuff around her wrist and secured it to the headboard. He kicked the whip aside and picked up another set of handcuffs. For a moment, he caressed the leather.

Maybe he should consider seeing her beyond the morning. She’d be good for a few more screws before she got demanding, whiny. After securing her other hand, he yanked out the ankle restraints from between the footboard and the mattress. He made short work of the buckles then surveyed his handiwork. A naked woman, bound and spread-eagle on a bed, was a beautiful sight.

He could do what he wanted, when he wanted.

His dick stirred to life. He absently stroked it while eying the red bite, slap, and pinch marks. He’d already fucked her on the Beemer, on the stairs and on the dining room table. He’d stuck toys in every orifice she possessed in each of the upstairs bedrooms. She’d been dominated and liberated.

And still they weren’t through her entire list.

Trent’s thumb circled the bulbous head of his stiffening penis. His gaze traveled up the red patches covering her inner thighs to her shaved mound. He could fuck her now, while she slept. His erection throbbed in agreement and he smeared the precum on his shaft.

Nah. She was much tighter when her body tensed waiting for the next dose of pain. Much tighter. He’d remember that on the next bitch he screwed. Of course, it might take time to work out how much GHB allowed the sluts to be out but alert enough to feel pain.

He’d try it on a couple of fat chicks first. They were always grateful for a screw. Trent’s balls drew up tight against his body. Women should always shut their trap and do as they were told.

Just like in his personal photograph collection.

He quickly squeezed the base of his cock before he ejaculated. Turning away from the bed, he forced his lungs to work in measured increments. The array of mirrors reflected her open body. He squeezed his eyes shut.

There’d be time later.

Right now, he had a bitch to kill.

Opening his eyes, he grabbed the whore’s empty wine glass off the dresser and faced the bedroom door.

With his stiff cock bobbing like a dowsing rod, he strode out of the bedroom.

First, he had to get his murder kit.

Whistling, Trent strolled past the spare bedrooms and descended the carpeted stairs two at a time. Detouring into the kitchen, he grabbed the doctored wine bottle and his still full glass off the granite bar. He kicked aside her rolled up tank top on his way to the stainless steel sink under the window. Smacking the tap, he cranked it to hot. As soon as steam misted the closed vertical blinds, he emptied the bottle and glasses.

Red wine swirled in the water before it plunged into the drain. He rinsed each item three times then set the glasses on the rack and chucked the bottle into the recycle bin. His fingers sunk into the plush maroon hand towel as his distorted reflection stared back at him from the stainless steel refrigerator freezer.

After draping the towel over the handle of the matching double ovens, Trent crossed to the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. Cold seeped through the pads of his feet as he stepped onto the painted cement. He picked up a bottle of peppermint lube off the Beemer’s hood and returned it to its place in the empty cabinet on the side wall.

Belinda had been prepared for tonight’s sex marathon. Had she done it before? She’d claimed this was a first.

But women lied.

That’s why they had to be punished.

That’s why the bitch had to die.

Rolling his shoulders, he crossed to his Jag and yanked open the door. He grabbed the black duffle and the unopened bottle of wine. Trent eyed the interior door before focusing on the garage ceiling. Ears strained to pick out noises in the silence.

Nothing.

He eased the Jag’s door closed before heading into the house. Tossing the duffle on the chocolate leather sofa, he stripped the foil off the wine, twisted off the cap then dumped a third of it down the sink. He held the bottle up to the recessed halogen lights. “That seems about right.”

Trent set the bottle between foil rounds containing their half-eaten take-out. Rubbing his hands together, he took a deep breath. Time for the main event. His stomach growled in protest. He ran his hand down his flat belly then plucked the untouched breadstick off her pile of fettuccini Alfredo.

Ripping off a bite, he chewed the cold garlic and stiff cheese and unzipped the bag. The hangman’s noose stared back at him. He caressed the slick polyester rope while stuffing the rest of the bread into his mouth. The bitch had asked for all his climbing gear in the divorce. And the judge had given it to her.