The Devil and I by Kay Alastor
Chapter Sixteen
Lucas
Driving the final hour with a painfully hard dick feels like the kind of torture a man like me deserves. I'm so hard it hurts. Listening to Rayna moan and beg over the phone while I told her every filthy thought in my head was hands down one of the sexiest experiences of my entire life. I could hear the sounds of her fingers fucking the wet depths of her pussy over the phone, and it was absolutely maddening.
What a goddamn sweet torture to be out here with her rapist in the trunk of my car while she is wet and needy back at home in my bed. Our bed. She doesn't realize it yet, but she has become my most prized possession. Her new cage is gilded, but that doesn't change the fact that I hold the key to it with a vice grip.
I turn down the dirt road leading deeper into my property, so far removed from society that I can stand out here screaming at the top of my lungs for hours and no one would ever wander close enough to hear me. The road isn't maintained, so the drive in is rough. Half the reason for leaving it in this condition is to help keep people from wanting to drive down my road, whether they're interested in exploring or are confused about their exit off the main stretch of road. The large private property sign helps, I'm sure.
Most people would agree that it wouldn't be worth the risk of damage to their vehicle. Not that this particular turn off is easy to find, anyway. It's tucked away, which makes it the perfect place for me to let the beast out to play.
I pull into my driveway, which is nothing but a strip of dirt surrounded by overgrowth, and park my car. The place looks abandoned until you get up close and personal with it. Despite looking like a worn out hunting cabin, I give it just enough care to keep it upright.
When I step out of my car and stretch my body, I take note of how it looks identical to how I left it. It doesn't look like anyone has invaded my kingdom of death out here in the Canadian wilderness.
It's pitch black out here, with minimal light pollution, which means I'll have to get some lighting up before I haul Marky boy out of my trunk. Without electricity out here, that leaves me having to use gas lamps and candlelight.
I walk up the steps carefully, unable to see much of what is in front of me with the clouds overhead and lack of moonlight. Feeling around for the front door, I find the worn out handle and give it a turn.
Pulling the heavy wooden door towards me opens up the small cabin, and when I step inside it feels like coming home. The place wasn't in the best of shape when I bought it, and I haven't done a ton to maintain it, but it's rugged and holding up against the weather. One corner of the roof has caved in a little from this past winter, but that doesn't get in the way of what I came here to do.
I move around the cabin carefully, lighting lamps as I go. Before long, the room is illuminated. The hardwood used to construct the cabin is still in good shape, and it makes the room feel exceptionally cozy and warm. There is one large wooden table along the wall, a wood stove fireplace in the corner, and a few chests and boxes scattered around the perimeter of the small space. At the center of the room sits a blood stained hard wood and cast iron chair. The thing is a beast, and has been painted red so many times the piece of furniture looks grotesque.
There are plenty of dark corners throughout the cabin, but I leave them that way. I only need my work space illuminated. As I move about the cabin, I check the state of things. I always clean my mess and set my tools back in place before I leave. That means the next time I show up, everything is already prepared for my arrival. Other than lighting things up, there's nothing for me to do but haul Mark in and get him settled. I walk over to the chair and double check the chains that bind it to the floor, making sure nothing rusted through or fell apart while I was away.
With nothing left to do, I exit the cabin and jog down the uneven wooden steps as an eerie calm settles over me. As I round my vehicle, I reach behind me and palm the substantial weight of the sleek black pistol tucked in a holster at my lower back. Pulling it free, I raise it to eye level and flip the safety before lowering it again and popping the trunk. I aim the business end of my firearm into the dark space, but Mark isn't moving. I take a small step back so I can push the bumper of my car with my foot, rattling the man inside. The drugs are still circulating through his system, leaving him breathing deeply despite the jarring movement I caused.
I lower my weapon, putting the safety back on before tucking it away behind my back again. I don't know how quickly his body is metabolizing the drugs, so I need to get him inside and strapped down. I shuffle his body towards the lip of the trunk, reaching underneath him to haul him up in my arms. Despite not wanting to touch him, I carry him like a child from the car to the front door, pushing it open with my boot and passing through. Once inside, I kick the door shut and plop the scumbag in the chair. Much like his friend, Mark is a lot smaller than me. In height and weight, which makes moving him easy for me.
My hands search his pockets thoroughly as I move around the chair, securing him with chains of various sizes. I test the binds a second time once he is strapped in, just to make sure there is no possible way he can break out of them. If I'm being honest, though, that isn't really a huge concern. I highly doubt this man has the level of training and skill I possess when it comes to fighting and restraining someone that doesn't want to be restrained.
With Mark secured in a sitting position, I lean back against the table he is facing and observe my handiwork. All I need to do is administer the reversal medication, and we can get this party started. The sooner he is awake, the sooner I can carve him up, and the sooner I can get back home to my girl.
I turn towards my work bench and pull a spare black box down from the shelf, opening it up and shifting through the various labeled vials to find what I need. I grab a syringe and fill it up, removing the air bubbles from the tube as I wander back over to Mark. I give the hub a firm flick and pull Mark's arm taut against his binds so I can slide the needle home. I know I've hit the vein when I pull back slightly on the plunger and several drops of blood pop into the barrel. Satisfied, I depress the syringe and administer the reversal drug.
Now that I'm left waiting for the drugs to work, I toss the empty syringe into a small bin beneath my table and lean back against it. Arms crossed over my chest, I watch and wait for Mark to slowly regain consciousness. As I wait, I tug the black leather gloves off my hands and toss them aside. It's fucked up, but I really love the feel of hot blood on my hands. Unfortunately for me, I don't know this motherfucker and what potential diseases he carries. Drug use, unprotected sex, and general life as a scum bag can leave a man with some seriously contagious shit. As a police officer, I end up with a lot micro abrasions on my hands from work. The last thing I want is Mark's wretched blood getting inside of me.
Besides, by the time I'm done with him, I am certain Mark's blood will be all over my clothes. As I fantasize about his blood raining all over this fucking cabin, I reach around behind me to grab a clean set of surgical gloves and pull them on. Once my hands are covered, I turn slightly to grab my favourite knife off the table.
It takes nearly five minutes before Mark's breathing begins to change. It switches from long, deep breaths to more regular ones. His eyes flutter open a few times, but he isn't fighting hard enough to wake up. I walk over and stare down at him momentarily before lifting my arm and backhanding him across the face. He groans, his head rolling around on his shoulders, and I step back again.
“Rise and shine, you sorry sack of shit.”
Mark's eyes open and I watch his pupils constrict and then dilate again. Panic sets in through the chemically induced fog, and although his head is wobbly, he tries to focus on the scene before him. It takes him another long minute, but he coughs and peers up at me with wide eyes.
“W-who are you? Where a-am I?” he stammers, his speech still slightly slurred. Between the dissipating drugs and the alcohol, Mark is in rough shape. The backhand I delivered to his face split his lip, so a warm trickle of blood is starting to trail down his chin. The sight of it excites me. A teaser, a promise of the unbearable hell I am about to drag him through.
“So many questions. I don't think you deserve a single one answered,” I tell him firmly, leaning back against my table and crossing my arms over my chest once again. The smile I know is plastered across my face must make me look like a psychopath unraveling before him.
“Who the f-fuck are you, man?” he shouts at me, his voice cracking. The smile drops from my face, replaced by an unsettling scowl.
“Satan.”
“Why am I here?!” he shouts again, but instead of anger in his words, I only recognize fear. Sweet, palpable fear. Mark is terrified, and seeing him so god damn scared sends pleasure shooting up my spine.
I laugh darkly, unfolding my body and stepping closer to him. When he catches sight of the knife clutched tightly in my hand, he begins to thrash helplessly in his binds. The chair doesn't budge an inch, and the chains cut into his skin with every twist and turn of his body.
“You don't know me, Mark, but I know you,” I tell him, taking slow but sure steps in a menacing circle around him as he desperately tries to free himself from his carefully constructed restraints. When behind him, I take the sharpened edge of my blade and press it to the back of his neck. He jerks forward, and when his body hits the back of the chair again, he cuts himself on the gleaming silver edge.
“Fuck!” he shouts.
“Indeed,” I agree. “There's no point struggling.” The terrified man bellows in response, and the sound makes me cringe. For an average sized guy, he sure knows how to use his voice to pack a punch. But his screams are music within these walls, and I aim to draw more of them from him before the night is over.
“There's no point screaming either, Mark. You're so fucking far from anyone and anything, only the predators outside my door will ever hear you.”
Without me standing in his view, Mark's eyes are able to roam over all of the grotesque tools spread out across the heavy wooden table in front of him. As though it suddenly dawns on him, an awful keening sound erupts from his mouth. As I round the side of him, I watch the spittle fly from his mouth with the intensity of his scream. Good. He realizes what he is here for.
“I'll do anything you want, man. I've got money. You can have it all!” he shouts, the veins on his forehead popping with the strain of his yelling. “Please, just let me go. I won't tell anyone.”
I continue moving slowly around him, coming to a stop once I'm at the dead center of his view again.
“There is nothing you could possibly give me that will stop what is about to happen to you.” I tell him, leaning down slightly as if to chide him. “Not a goddamn thing can save you from me.”
I take that moment, his eyes wide with confusion and fear, to spit in his face, finally letting some rage bubble up from the calm fog that had settled over me when I first arrived here.
“What are you going to do to me?” he cries pathetically, still wiggling in an attempt to free his hands. The man is sweating profusely, despite the chill filling the cabin from the early Autumn breeze outside.
“Many, many things,” I tell him. “Things that will end with you dead, turning to shit in the guts of the predators prowling around outside the door. Did you know there's a big family of wild pigs out here? They've been here for generations, or so the guy that used to own this place told me.”
Tears fall in earnest from his face as I step closer to him, drawing my hand up so that the tip of my knife leaves an angry trail of reddened skin along the slope of his jaw. The man begins to babble incoherently, but I recognize some pleas in the chaos of it.
“Somewhere in that empty head of yours, you managed to find enough brain cells to make some real bad decisions, Mark,” I explain, kneeling in front of him so we can be at eye level.
“How many women have you raped?” I ask, tilting my head and narrowing my eyes to focus on his response and the subtle nuances of his facial expressions. If he chooses to lie to me, I'll know it. Drugs and alcohol make it harder for people to lie, and to do it well enough to fool someone with a skill set as diverse as my own.
“I never raped no bitch, man.”
Bitch. The word feels unbearable in my ears. I clench my fist and surge upwards, connecting with his jaw and rocking him back in the chair. The chair doesn't move from where it is drilled into the floor, but his body sure does. His head rolls back and his eyes glaze over, a red welt blooming along the side of his face.
“Wrong answer, shit bag,” I snarl, standing to my full height where I can tower over him.
Mark coughs, sending blood splattering across my stomach. The red soaks into the black of my hoodie, and I fucking love it. I'll bleed every fucking ounce of blood from this man's body for what he's done to my girl.
I roll my shoulders to relieve the tension building there, before stepping back and leaning down so that I can use my knife to slice open the front of his shirt. The unmarred expanse of his chest is revealed to me, and I hate the look of it. He doesn't deserve to walk this world undamaged after all he's done. Hell, he doesn't deserve to walk this world at all. All that tanned skin will look so much better painted with gore.
“I'm going to give you five chances to give me the name I'm looking for, Mark. Five chances, and if you fail, I'm going to burn a hole in your face with my favourite lighter. Tell me you understand,” I tell him, turning from his momentarily to grab a high powered hand held lighter off my table. When I face him again, I flip the top and spark the flame.
“I didn't rape anyone, I swear!” he cries out, the swelling in his jaw starting to change the sound of his voice as he balloons up on one side of his face.
“That's not a name, Mark,” I tell him, drawing the flame closer to his face. “One.”
“I don't know what you want from me!” he shouts again, his head dropping to his chest as he sobs with eyes closed. The sound is pathetic, but it feeds the devil shifting beneath my skin. Every bit of suffering I bring him soothes me and strengthens my resolve.
“You're not good at following orders,” I say in a low, slightly amused voice. “That's two.”
“Lisa wanted me, man. I swear to God she did,” he says, his tone reflecting the mental misery he's surely experiencing. I can tell he is beginning to cave under the immense pressure of my looming threat.
The name of an unknown female makes my jaw hurt as I clench it shut, knowing another woman fell victim to this piece of shit. I can't help but wonder how many girls were raped, abused or mistreated by this man. His torture is its own brand of dark justice.
“I'm not here for Lisa,” I tell him. “Three.”
“Oh God, man. It's just sex,” he cries out, his voice breaking between the sobs making their way out of him.
“It's not just sex, Mark,” I explain, kneeling down again so that we're eye level with one another. “Rape isn't sex. And you picked the wrong fucking one. That's four. You've got one chance left,” I tell him firmly, flicking the lighter so that the flame pops on and off in front of his face.
“Is Rayna your sister or something? I thought she -” he didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. Gripping his head in my hand, I press the red-hot flame against his cheek. The blood-curdling scream that echoes within my cabin makes my nerve endings sing.
I can't help but smile in the face of his agony. It takes a lot of physical effort to hold his head still enough for the flame to stick to his skin, melting away flesh with a sickening, sizzling sound. There are a few pops I can barely hear over all the noise he is making as small blisters erupt and corrode in the fire.
By the time a small hole forms in his cheek, Mark has passed out from the pain. I release his head and step back, capping the flame and tossing the lighter back onto my table. I grab a bottle of water from the shelf and take a long swig before turning to dump the rest over his head. I land a few sharp smacks across his face until he starts to stir.
He startles awake, his body trembling from the trauma. Although I've burned away some nerve endings, the charred edges of the wound must feel like fresh agony with every shuddering breath. Mark begins to emit a repetitive moan, a low sound from deep in his gut. His breathing is shallow, but the burn itself won't kill him. We've got plenty of time.
“Rayna,” I say, her name falling reverently from my lips. “She is the reason you've found yourself in my chair, Mark.”
“F-f-f-fuck,” he moans, his speech fucked up just a little more than before. “I'm sorry.”
“Oh, you fucking will be,” I tell him, turning my back on him to observe the array of torture devices situated on my table. “The pain you put my future wife through, Mark. I can't let that shit go. Nothing soothes the black rage inside of me.” Turning back around, I show Mark the serrated knife in my hand. “Nothing but your suffering can calm me now.”
Mark jerks in his chair, but I ignore it. I walk over to him and press my blade against his sternum, making one agonizingly slow, long cut straight down his torso. He screams as the pain blooms across his skin. The serrated edge does not provide a clean cut, so it pulls and tears the skin unevenly as it goes.
“Fuck you and fuck her!” he shouts in the middle of the wet scream that pours out of him. I cock my arm back and throw my shoulder forward, my closed fist hitting the side of his face, sending his head snapping back so hard his neck cracks along with it. A sickening crunch echoes in the room, and his nose is left crooked and fractured. Once his head rolls back forward, his blood-shot eyes look down at the sea of red pouring from his chest. Blood rushes from his nose and drips on to his lap, and I laugh at the sight of it.
“The only man allowed to fuck that beautiful pussy of hers is me, Mark. That's the whole goddamn point here.” I shake out my aching fist. A few drops of blood splattering across his body from the act. My knuckles will be bruised for days, but I really don't give a shit. I reach out to snatch a handful of his hair and pull his head back, getting right up in his nearly destroyed face.
“You fucked with something that belongs to the devil himself, and now you're going to pay for it. I don't care if you had no idea who she belonged to when you raped her. That's why you don't go sticking your dick in people without their permission, Mark,” I snarl, angling his neck painfully so I can observe the ruination I've caused all over his face. “You touched what is mine, and now you're going to fucking die for it.”
“You're sick,” Mark manages to bark out, blood and spit making his mouth sound full of cotton. The sound is satisfying. Every word is laced heavily with pain, so much so that I wonder if he is going to pass out on me soon.
“Yes, I am,” I admit, taking the blade in my hand and continuing to make more slices in his skin. He thrashes in the chair and cries out with every cut, begging for me to stop. Once his torso is coated entirely in thick, sticky red, I turn around and dump the used blade on my table. It clatters against the surface, abandoned in favour of a set of rusted garden sheers.
When I turn around to face him again, he looks utterly broken. His face is a disaster, and his chest is ruined. He is still firmly planted in the chair, though his head hangs heavy from his shoulders. A patch of burned skin with a small hole in the side of his face, a broken nose, a busted lip, one eye swollen shut, and a chest torn to shreds. It paints a satisfying picture for me. It soothes the monster within. Seeing the man that hurt Rayna, suffering for all he's done to her. Nothing makes me feel like an avenging death God quite like becoming a demon of vengeance for the woman I love.
Love. Fuck, I am already so deeply in love with her. Irrevocably so.
“I've killed a lot of men,” I start, leaning back against the table to admire my handiwork while I speak. I toss the garden sheers back and forth between my bloodied hands before pointing them at him. “None will be as gratifying as you.”
Mark coughs and sputters in response, staring at me through his remaining good eye. He eyes me wearily, exhausted from enduring so much pain in such a short window of time. I don't feel bad for him, of course. I'm a psychopath with a revenge kink. This shit is satisfying.
“The most important part of the night is coming up, Mark. Pay attention,” I tell him, crouching down in front of him. I use my hand to pop the button of his pants, tugging him so hard the chair creaks in protest. He moans, struggling weakly in his binds. I tug down his zipper and lean over him to pull his pants free. That's when the scent of urine hits me, and I grimace. I pull down until his pants settle around his ankles, lifting a brow at his yellowed briefs. His head drops again, broken sobs filling the cabin. I can tell he is equal parts afraid and exhausted.
“Your fear is extra sweet, Mark, knowing how badly you hurt my Rayna.” I tell him, using the garden sheers to cut through his underwear. His disgusting, flaccid dick is revealed and I can't help but laugh. The thing looks pathetic.
“P-p-plea-se,” he groans out, more blood dripping from his busted mouth. I look up at him and smile, shaking my head.
“I'm sure she begged you to stop, didn't she?” I ask quietly, but he doesn't answer me. I take the garden sheers to his dick, wrapping both blades around the dangling meat. His one good eye widens, and he begins to tremble and babble. I leave the blades hugging his dick long enough for him to realize what he's about to lose.
“She won't stop begging, Mark. Only now, she begs for me. She begs me to fuck her. Begs me to make her come,” I tell him, my voice louder than it needs to be. He recoils, his eyes starting to roll up into his head. I reach up and slap him across the face. Just enough pain to bring him back down to Earth. “This is my gift to her, you know. Your suffering. Your death.”
His eyes shift in and out of focus a few times before he locks his only functional eye with mine. I nod, holding his gaze as I close the blades. The scream that erupts from him is piercing and gargled, but it sounds like a beautiful fucking symphony. I watch his face closely as pain moves over it in waves until his head drops and hangs seemingly lifelessly against his bloodied chest.
I sigh deeply, standing up and wiping the sheers on my pant leg. I toss it on the table and grab a clean rag from a box. His blood has sprayed all over my face and neck, so I use the rag to clean up. Once I've done enough to wipe the majority away, I toss it in the bin below.
Unwilling to let him ride out our time together in lala land, I dump some more cold water over his head and slap him around until he comes to. The blood loss is incredible, pooling beneath him like I've never seen before. His skin is sickly pale, and I can tell I've done too much damage for him to hold on much longer. It's a shame, really. I don't feel like I've done enough.
I watch him in silence, his ragged breathing labored from the blood seeping into his lungs. The macabre sight laid out before my eyes pleases the devil in me, but part of me looks forward to driving away from this place and putting the monster I've become back to rest. Putting this man's torture and murder behind me means getting back to building a life with the woman I love.
Some time passes before Mark lifts his head, his dazed gaze seeking me out. “Pl-ease. Kill me,” he begs on a cry, his head rolling weakly on his shoulders.
“I'm no angel of mercy. Begging me for it won't do you any good,” I tell him, turning around and picking up a clean, sharp blade from my table. “Lucky for you, I'm sick of listening to your death rattle and I've got somewhere better to be,” I tell him, slowly walking back to stand in front of him. My boots are coated in his blood from standing at the center of the pool beneath him.
I take the blade and press it against his throat, my free hand lifting to grip his hair and hold his head up. His one eye watches me, unable to really focus.
“You're suffering because you made Rayna suffer.” My voice is loud and firm, intent on being heard through the fog of death settling over the man in my chair. “You're going to die because you touched her and I kill those who touch what's mine,” I tell him, shaking his head a little to keep what little of his focus I can on me. I lean in a little closer and catch his one-eyed gaze, intent on delivering my next message clearly.
“I'll see you in hell,” I tell him finally, drawing the blade along his throat. His skin splits wide from ear to ear. A sickening sight. I hold his head up as blood sprays across my chest, watching the life drain from his eyes. Finally, after days of planning, the man that hurt the woman I love is dying at my hands. All this blackness I drew up from the depths of my dark soul in order to give this piece of shit what he deserves, drains from my body as quickly as the life drains from his eyes.
I exhale long and slow as he dies, his head completely limp in my grasp. Once the life is gone from him, I release his head. I begin to move on auto-pilot, removing the ties that bind him to the chair. I haul his lifeless body up over my shoulder and walk him to the door, moving around the wrap-around porch until I reach the small opening out back. I step down carefully and walk the corpse formerly known as Mark to the tree line. I dump him there unceremoniously, immediately turning around to head back inside.
Eventually, someone will file a missing person’s report. The only information they will have is that he disappeared from the night club. The file will go cold, and remain open for as long as possible. By the time anyone thinks to start searching for a body, the family of wild pigs that have lived on my property for decades will have turned him to fertilizer. Any pieces left over will be scavenged by bears, wolves, and other smaller predators.
Heading back inside, I continue to function on auto-pilot as I clean the cabin. It takes several long hours, but I get it done. By the time I'm finished, it looks very close to how it did when I first arrived. There are some new stains, but all of this will one day burn to ash in a controlled fire. That's a problem for another day, however. Now, it's time to break the hold my inner darkness has on me and get back home.
I strip out of my hoodie and the pants I am wearing and head out back, tossing them into the fire pit and lighting it up. I stand here and wait while it burns away. Once it's done, I pour some water over the fire and let the ashes drain out into the grass.
I can hear the sounds of creatures moving in the shadows, out past where I dumped the body. The smell of blood is heavy in the air, and before the sun rises Mark will have drawn the local predators in.
I head back to my car and pull out a spare pair of pants, along with another dark hoodie. Clothes I've stashed away so that my car isn't soaked in blood during the drive back. I get dressed quickly, then get into my vehicle. The drive home will be relaxing, thankfully. I feel peaceful, lighter, and eerily content. The light of the sun is beginning to peek over the horizon, turning the inky blue of night to something a little brighter.