Allan Leverone - Mr. Midnight

Eventually, though, the girls always reached the breaking point. Often it was not until he started in on them with his knives and his pliers, but it always happened. They would break down and begin screaming (hence the all-important duct-tape gag) and babbling incoherently, unable due to fear and pain to manage a coherent sentence or even an intelligible word.

The cycle was as regular as the tides in Boston Harbor. But this girl was different, which of course made him hate her even more but also—if he was being honest with himself, which he always tried to be—fear her just a little bit. It wasn’t a fear that she might overpower him and somehow escape. That was a complete impossibility, so unlikely as to be laughable.

Rather, it was a twinge of concern, a vague notion that he might be unable to gauge her reactions properly and thus be ineffective in controlling her. With everything that had happened over the last few minutes, this clean-cut, innocent All-American beauty should have been well on her way to her inevitable nervous breakdown. And yet there she stood, clad only in bra and panties, clearly uncomfortable about her near-nakedness but standing ramrod-straight and looking him in the eye, determined not to let him get the upper hand.

It was a ridiculous notion, of course. He already had the upper hand and was not about to relinquish it. But it did throw him off his game for just a moment. He reached behind his back, stroked the knife handle, comforted by its presence, excited he would be getting an opportunity to use it, and very soon now.

He said, “Lie down on the couch,” and she stood there, gazing into the distance, as if just now realizing she had left the iron on or forgotten to put in the roast beef for dinner. Jesus, this bitch was annoying!

“I said, get your pretty little ass onto the couch.” He raised his voice for emphasis and the woman came back from wherever she had gone, blinking hard and looking at him in surprise, almost like she had forgotten he was there. Again, annoying as hell.

A tiny flicker of fear passed across her eyes and then she seemed to regain her composure and it disappeared. Not for long , Milo thought. Pretty soon it will be back for good . She eased into a sitting position on the threadbare couch, crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest. She looked good, had a great figure, well-toned abs, smallish tits but very proportional, and long, lean, athletic legs. For a moment Milo wished he was like most men. He could have had a field day with this girl.

But he wasn’t like most men. An attractive female form did nothing for him unless he was working it over with a knife or pliers, stabbing and slashing and ripping. Then, and only then, would he find himself getting hard. Then, and only then, would he be able to achieve sexual release.

Of course, he had no intention of letting this girl in on that little secret. It had been his experience that the longer a playmate thought she was managing to avoid being raped, the easier she was to control and the longer she would remain compliant.

He eyed her, seated demurely like a virgin on prom night. “That’s a good start,” he sneered. “Now, lie across the couch on your back.”

The fear returned to her eyes, this time not just flickering across them but thundering into them like a runaway freight train. Milo felt a twinge in his groin as his body reacted to this demonstration of the power he held over his victim.

The girl hesitated, just as she had done when instructed to strip, but after a moment she seemed to acknowledge the helplessness of her situation. She lifted her feet, knees still locked together, and swung them onto the plush cushions. Then she slid her upper body down along the couch-back, never taking her eyes off Milo’s, until finally arriving at the position he had intended, fully horizontal with her head propped up on the armrest.

A smile spread across his face and he pulled the long knife out of its makeshift scabbard at his back. He studied his victim like an artist pondering a blank canvas. An electric tension hung in the air. Milo could not see the older broad—she was behind him, still trussed up on her chair next to the unconscious hero who had tried to save the day—but nevertheless he knew she was trying to avert her eyes and failing. She didn’t want to watch but she had to, which added a nice little charge to the excitement he was already feeling.

At last he stepped forward, knife held firmly in his right hand.

And the girl said, “There’s something you should know.”

Cait thought she had done a pretty good job of keeping herself together until the crazy bastard told her to lie down on the couch. That was when she thought the tenuous grip she had managed to maintain over her emotions might come crashing apart, like water rushing out of a smashed drinking glass.

The thought of lying nearly naked, utterly exposed in front of this monster, was terrifying. It made no logical sense, of course. Realistically, she should have been just as frightened sitting on the couch with her legs crossed and her arms folded. None of that would provide her with the slightest protection if Milo decided to begin wielding his blade.

But then, nothing that had happened since leaving Tampa made sense anyway. A simple trip up the East Coast to reunite with a long-lost parent had turned into a nightmare of the highest order. This whole experience was a tumble down the rabbit hole, a field trip to hell, an inexplicable descent into madness.

So in a matter of seconds, when the lunatic grinned his greasy, terrible grin and told her that sitting on the couch wasn’t good enough, that she would have to uncurl her limbs and stretch out on her back, her body almost completely unclothed, Cait Connelly fully and unforgettably discovered the meaning of the phrase, “the last straw.” A roaring that only she could hear filled her ears and puffy black clouds bloomed in her vision and she thought for one awful moment that she was suffering a stroke and that she would either pass out from the debilitating fear or just freeze up and turn into a gibbering, drooling mental case.

But again the thought of Kevin kept her going. His condition had not improved, he was still unconscious and taped to a chair, hanging on to life by a thread, blood slowly seeping out of him, still depending on her resourcefulness for whatever slim chance at survival he might have.

She clamped down on her fear and forced the clouds away.

Forced the roaring freight train out of her ears as well.

Did the only thing she could think of that might buy her a little more time, although what good could possibly come from it, she had no idea.

She started talking as he moved toward her, the bloodstained knife held in front of him in both hands like some religious icon. “There’s something you should know,” she said, and he stopped dead in his tracks and stood unmoving. He stared at her, seemingly flummoxed by this unexpected development. It was clearly not the reaction he had been expecting.

“What are you talking about?” he said.

Cait knew his indecision would not last long, so she pressed on, willing her voice to remain steady, making up her strategy as she went. “I’m your sister.”

Milo shook his head and Cait wondered whether he was disagreeing with her statement or simply trying to process it. Maybe he was doing both. “What the fuck are you talking about, bitch?” he finally managed. “I don’t have a sister. I’m an only child, and thank God for that.”

Cait wondered what he meant by the last part of that statement but continued on quickly, while she still had his attention and before he came to the conclusion talking was pointless. “You were adopted as a baby, weren’t you?” She was grasping at straws, trying desperately to recall the incredible story her mother had related to her, putting things together as she went, wondering as she talked whether she hoped it was all true or all a lie.