heist, part 1
Feels amazing, huh? So if you won’t let yourself indulge in that way, maybe you need someone to make it happen. Someone desperate, who has to make a few people disappear.
Picture it: Night out, friend of a friend introduces you to this guy. Charming, bit jumpy. Workman’s hands, nice glasses, fits his T-shirt well. Later, when everyone’s more drunk than you are, they go trawling for a late-night shame feast. Dixy Chicken looks like a worrying possibility. This guy makes his excuses but looks at you, and you decide to flirt your way into the taxi with him. He looks like he can’t believe his luck.
Perhaps you can actually hear his pulse racing when you brush up next to him in the taxi. He compliments your smile, actually calls it “dazzling”, and you give him a grin in return. The heart ratchets up a couple of notches.
Taxi pulls up, you slink out after him, lightly holding his hand as he leads you down a well-lit driveway to an astonishingly nice house. Like, two degrees below mansion, just out of town. Security cameras make you nervous, but they aren’t moving, and no lights are on.
He opens the door with a keycard and lets you in. Asks if you’d like a drink, and without waiting for an answer heads to the kitchen. “I need to make sure we’re not going to be disturbed.” You’re weighing up the situation, slightly annoyed at being treated like this by a meal, and then the last thing you remember is shock and a slight sting as he turns in the door and actually fires something.
Sleep for a while, something deep down howling and angry.
Light comes back with the taste of blood. A mouthful of it, metallic, thick, hot from the wrist against your lips. You instinctively swallow and lean forward to follow as it is drawn away, but something is holding you at the elbows, wrists, chest, hips, knees—even ankles.
“People don’t swallow like that.” You open your eyes to see him stepping back, pale faced, dressing clutched tight to the wound he opened for you. “I can’t believe it’s true.”
Your jaw feels a little weird from the whatever-is-in-your-system, but the blood brings with it a little bloom of warmth that helps. Mostly it makes you just want to tear the fucker’s throat out, or possibly eat him and keep swallowing air to make it last as long as possible.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Quite the… I’m going to feed you. I need some people gone. It’s hard to make people completely dis— go away.”
“Shoot them like a normal person and build a patio in your giant fucking house.”
“Not mine anymore. They took it.” He’s animated, now, almost jumping from foot to foot. The slant of his shoulders, his air—he doesn’t look like a victorious captor, looming and threatening. He looks almost deferential. Like he thinks you’ve agreed to do him a favour. “Took everything. Made my brother disappear. Dad… well, they forgot I knew the fucking codes to get in.”
“Where do I fit in with all this?” Your wrists—there’s a little leeway. If you keep him talking, maybe you can work free and start a one-person massacre.
“You just do what… what comes naturally. Hang tight.”
He’s gone from the room—a study, now you come to look, with gorgeous windows overlooking forest—for five minutes. You’ve not really made progress on the wrists other than to bruise them, but you’re patient.
He comes in leading a woman tied in a similar manner to you—arms behind back, hands on elbows. She’s groggy, too, and gagged. Underwear alone. Mascara runs sideways from her eyes. She must have been lying on her side while she cried.
“Beatrice. ‘Bea’. Accountant for the fuckers who… well, you know. Meet Raven. She’s going to eat you and the rest of you monsters for me.”
Eye contact. You watch incredulity morph into pure animal fear. While you didn’t choose this, your expression clearly didn’t reassure her that you wouldn’t, or weren’t capable.
“Be thankful I’m not vengeful, Bea. You’ve a family, I know.”
Now she’s in the room he grabs a knot at her front and overbalances her, lowering her to the ground. Sitting on her hips he makes quick work of isolating her legs, and you get to see first-hand as he uses short lengths of rope to tie her at the knees and then the ankles. You realise you haven’t been trying to work free, and in fact might have been rubbing your thighs together out of a different sort of frustration.
“Up we go, Bea. Say goodbye to this lovely house you helped steal from me. Say hello to— to a very different sort of accom— accommodation.”
He hefts her like a carpet, hup, hup, throwing her so she’s actually seated on his shoulder, and then he looks at your face. You’re not sure what it is, but he rocks, almost losing balance. It takes him a second to regain composure, but he’s not stopping what he’s doing.
Her toenails are burgundy red, her skin olive, and her calves shapely. Your throat deforms effortlessly around them all, obliterating all those details and replacing them with your own pale skin. Meat in the form of a terrified fills you, practically poured in, forcing your jaws wide and burning a path through your chest with that gorgeous, visceral stretch. Her legs curl under and she slips inside you easy as you like until your lips close around her waist. Then, a line of tension becomes a burning—the rope under your breasts won’t let any more in.
“Fuck, forgot.” Leaving one hand on the shoulder of the weeping woman whose body is halfway sacrificed to you, he reaches behind him for paramedic’s scissors. “Right, Raven: Swallow.”
The snip is synchronised with a long push on Bea’s shaking shoulders. If flesh was being poured before, now it gushes. Your tongue barely has time to track her flavour as she spills over it. Soon you feel the familiar trace of someone’s nose across your hard palette, hear one final sob from somewhere just above your own larynx, and then, glck, she’s gone.
You catch your breath and strain a little against your bonds, trying to get comfortable more than trying to escape. Under your skin her body is still moving, physically rotating as your relentless oesophagus pounds her in to the fleshy pit that will strip her bare. You breathe hard and look at your captor/waiter.
He’s backpedalling, slack jawed, eyes open wide. His expression is half way between someone who has seen a ghost and someone who has met God.
He’s absently rubbing his fingers together. You vaguely remember his pressing hand brushing your tongue before being hurriedly withdrawn before you could snap it up.
You work your jaw, maintaining eye contact. Even tied to a heavy chair, even half-full of the endorphins that creep into your system from the ecstatic fullness of living meat, there’s only one person in charge in this room.
He looks away, down to your grossly distended belly. She’s in there, and the long lines of her forearms glide smoothly beneath your creamy flanks, where not obliterated by your prison ribcage.
Is he even aware that he’s walking towards you? He speaks softly, like a man in a dream. “How thin, the line between life—” he strokes where a shoulder makes its temporary mark, touching only your skin and not the woman being killed inside you—“and death.”
Your own response, more direct than poetic, follows straight on: “Bwroooarp!”