She’d been just like every other woman. Weak. She’d thought she could handle it, the sight, the smell, the sounds of death. That expression of realisation, the screams, the gaping wounds, the bite marks, the scrapes caused by the knife, the pink quick beneath the woman’s ripped fingernails, bleeding, and causing the trussed, bruised and battered twenty-three year old victim to cry out in further agony when Pete Norris, with a smile, literally poured salt on the wounds. The bruised face and cut lips, teeth removed with a pair of pliers, before, with wrists bound behind her to a tree, he’d raped her mouth. Then her cunt. And finally her ass. All the time Analise Helm had watched.
She’d told him she could cope, that she wanted it, and had selected the victim herself. Engaged her in conversation, talked her into the vehicle, where the triple murderer and rapist waited. Assisted in binding her arms and legs, and taunted her with what was to come as Pete had driven them through the dead of night, until they were so far into the woods that the pale moonlight barely filtered through the canopy of leaves above, and left the small clearing shrouded in shadow. Somewhere they’d not be stumbled upon, where a woman's screams would not be heard, where the man could enjoy himself, and test Analise's resolve.
At first, the high hopes he'd held had been boosted with her actions, and he'd believed Analise may be true to her promise. But as Cherie McMahon’s clothes were cut from her supple young body, and the blade sliced through her skin, Pete had noted it. The doubt in Analise’s eyes, the nervous shuffle of her feet, the way her gaze attempted to shift away, the soft cough and splutter that broke through the still night air. Still, he'd said nothing, and continued his work. Cutting, slicing, goading, slapping, kicking, punching, until finally his exertions had aroused him enough that he could no longer wait. That’s when he fucked her holes in turn, if fucking was the appropriate word. Every action was designed to cause torment, to elicit another high-pitched squeal of terror, anguish and despair. To hurt.
The girl’s eyes had glazed over, but Pete hadn't allowed the bliss of unconsciousness to claim her. A slap, a twist of the blade, a splash of water, the application of his lighter to her sensitive flesh. Her screams were music to his ears, her struggles, what he lived for. It was the aroma of frying skin, the stench akin to that of roasting pig, that finally did it. Analise Helm, face pale and breath heavy, had, with a groan of pure desperation and horror, thrown up.
If she could have had escaped then, made a run for her life, she would have, though where would she have gone? Fortunately, however, that was impossible, with the precautions he'd taken. As flames lit the night sky, and lapped at the screaming, screeching and writhing body of the young woman whose legs and thighs he'd doused with gasoline and set ablaze, Pete had shaken his head in disgust and disappointment. "I believed you could handle it, Analise. I believed you were strong. Lying, fucking whore."
Her arms and legs were bound, a choke collar placed around her neck and attached to a short chain, the other end of which was hooked to the top of the driver's side car door. It left Analise Helm unable to move her head, and with her eyes propped open with matchsticks, to look away, either. Of course, she'd resisted, but Pete had insisted. She needed to continue to prove herself, and he didn't want a knife in his back if she had doubts, or couldn't deal with the reality. She'd screamed and fought, and kicked and scratched, but in the end, what could she do? He possessed superior strength.
The first strike of his steel-capped boot had snapped the chain, and almost taken her head clean off. It possibly would have, if the momentum hadn't been stopped by the metal frame of the vehicle door, which created a wet, thudding sound, comparable to that of a water-melon striking the ground after being dropped from a ten-storey building. Pete Norris had thought he'd killed her, however the groan of pain, and gurgled breathing he heard emanating from her mouth and newly rearranged nose, told him that she'd merely been knocked unconscious. The next strike cracked her ribs, then he'd thrown water in her face, and entertained himself by adding a little fuel to the fire; Cherie remained alive and kicking, but had stopped screaming; and reveled in the sight of the other woman's throes of agony until Analise had regained enough of her senses to be able to feel what came next.
At least the dyke experienced a cock before she'd died. Pete's ego would have loved to believe that the howls and moans he'd elicited from Analise had been due to his sexual prowess, but he was realistic enough to know that they'd instead been caused by the serrated blade placed between her broken second and third ribs, strategically positioned to avoid any major organs, but deep enough so that each thrust forced it to twist and turn inside her, and the tattooing of her face against the metal ridge of the vehicle's roof as he'd raped her.
Eventually, she'd ended up on the funeral pyre with Cherie, and Pete had watched with an amused, satisfied expression until both women were nothing but charred flesh and bones. The young woman had a head start, and it had taken Analise an hour longer to succumb to the flames.
"Goodbye, Ms Helm."
Pete Norris spat directly in her face, or where it had once been, as one final insult, before, with the sky now lit with the first rays of the sun, he departed the scene.
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"Ohhhhh fuck." Pete shuddered, and groaned in his chair as he re-ran the events of that night through his mind; each detail as vivid as it had been at the time. His legs writhed, his chest heaved, and he panted and puffed, then collapsed in his seat. A moment later, he opened his eyes, reached for a tissue, wiped up the ejaculate, zipped himself in, tossed the soiled paper into the wastebasket, and allowed his gaze to drift to the monitor of the laptop in front of him.
Analise Helm may have been dead, but the concept she'd ignited in him, lived on. A partner.
"Five dead bodies. Five families who'll forever live with the pain. How many more?
This board is filled with pretenders and fakes, men who only wish they had the balls to do that which I make reality. Women who believe they could cope with the experience of observing that reality, but throw up when it's presented to them on a platter.
Who is weaker of mind and will, man or woman?
Who can stop me?
Who would join me?
The lights darkened, Pete Norris reached for his Pepsi, and fixated his eyes on the message he'd typed out on screen. Somewhere, on the dark net, lay a stronger and more capable version of Analise Helm. Waiting to be discovered.
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