The Murdered World 41

Frank took an AR-15, several clips, and boxes of 5.56mm ammunition from the gun room. He took them and the paint to the kennel on the second level. He showed her how to load the clips with rounds, then walked her through the gun safety lecture he’d given a thousand times during his assignment at boot camp.

Then he painted a bullseye on the wall, all in the one color. A center, a ring of unpainted wall, a painted circle, then another circle left unpainted, then a final painted circle around it all.

As he carefully made one ring after another, Frank quizzed Emma on the lecture he’d just given her. He’d put her to work transferring rounds out of the box and into the empty magazines, so they were both multitasking.

“When do you unsafety your weapon?”

“When I’m about to fire.”

“When else?”

“Never.”

“When do you point your weapon at something?”

“When I want to shoot it.”

“When do you shoot something?”

“When I want it dead. Can we get started already? I get it, right, I’m not going to use the damn thing as a backscratcher.”

“You’re not going to shoot it, either, if those magazines aren’t loaded.”

Emma curled her nose at him. It was tedious, punishing work and she’d already broken a nail doing it. She knew she sounded like such a girly girl, thinking that, but when was the next time she’d visit a nail salon? There might not even be any more Asians now. Well, there probably were. They had numbers on their side.

Finally Frank let her shoot. The rifle bucked at her shoulder, but there wasn’t as much power as she expected, on either end. The bullet jerked its way out of the rifle and made a dingy hole at the other end of the range. An interruption of the color in the bullseye Frank had painted. It wasn't that fearsome, the thing in her hands. Just a machine, a power tool, designed to make little bits of metal go as fast and straight in a specific direction as engineering would allow.

Frank showed her how to fold the stock against the rifle so there wasn't as much space between her and the rifle. It fit better into her hands. Then he tutored her on looking through the scope so there was no black on any side of her vision. When she fired, the bullet went almost exactly where the reticle was. Frank adjusted her shooting stance. She kept scoring hits on the bullseye, but Emma didn't care as much now. She was more concerned with the closeness of his body and how easily he touched her, unapologetic. Remorseless, in a way.

There was no hesitation and precious little gentleness in his touch. He did it like it was his right to do it. She knew she should've been offended by how thoughtlessly he laid hands on her… not even with a sense of ownership, but like he could have her if he wanted, as easily as he'd pick a stone up off the ground. The only reason he didn't was because the thought hadn't occurred to him.

It was infuriating, really infuriating, the combination of his effect on her and her own lack of effect on him. He could throw her down and overwhelm her whenever he wanted. Emma thought of all the bodies she'd seen upstairs after he'd rampaged through it—pictured how skillfully, how brutally he must've dispatched them. She didn't get any less aroused.

His powerful body could do anything he desired with her. He could hold her down, pin her against the wall, throw her across the room. She couldn't do anything to stop him. But all that strength stayed locked in his body, denied to her.

She kept shooting, trying to put all this energy into aiming. It worked after a fashion. She kept scoring hits at least inside the circle, but her body's energy didn't go anywhere. It built and built, her awareness of what Frank could do to her, a restlessness that only came to an end when they ran out of ammo. Frank grunted that she had potential. Emma stared at all the holes she'd left in the wall, mostly inside the target, and knew she was going to masturbate the moment she got alone.

***

Frank brought his hand back again and again. Christina heard it swish through the air again and again. And, again and again, she felt it rain down on her ass, stinging blows lashing her flesh around the ecstatic hurt of his deeply buried penetration. She twisted and writhed as best she could under the merciless rain of slaps; fiery kisses burning on skin alive with hot-blooded tenderness. After the extreme of pleasure that was him pumping into her, now she felt pain after pain. And him, his cock, so deep inside it felt like it was at the very core at her. Throbbing with his enjoyment of what he was doing to her, how she begged and pleaded for him to stop.

He knew she truly wanted that… desperately wanted him to stop. But not as much as she wanted him to keep going.

Christina came back to herself—barely. She wasn’t in the shower. It wasn’t that night. She was sitting in the living room, reading a book. Trying to, at any rate. The words didn’t grab her. She flipped from page to page, skipping wildly through the story, looking for anything that would hook her interest. But as soon as she settled on one batch of words, her mind began to wander. Her eyes glazed. And her thoughts were all…

Frank kept striking her. Christina felt the bruise going deep, nerves and muscles becoming a raging inferno. Smack after smack sounded like crashing thunder. His hand slapped her thighs too. She felt like her blood was boiling just under the skin. His prick was pounding like a drum, full of his sexual enjoyment. It must’ve been torture not to pump it in and out of her until he’d sated his lust. But Frank was better used to torture than she was.

“Come for me, slut. Come before you’re black and blue. Admit you’re enjoying this. Come.”

Christina woke again from her waking dream. This time, though, she’d brought something back with her. Frank stood next to her. With her seated and him at his full imposing height, his cock was almost in her face. Christina could only stare at it, stashed in his undersized joggers, remembering how that bulge had felt when it’d been sheathed in her instead…

He was being careful with his blows, she knew—not hitting her with all his strength—only enough to inflict pain, keep her writhing in helpless spasms. She wondered if his expertise came from really torturing people or just getting them off. The thought turned her on, but then, not much wasn’t arousing at the moment. She felt like she was burning up with fever. Her ass felt like the exact shade of deep crimson that it was.

“Can I help you?” Christina demanded, covering her flushed embarrassment in rudeness.

“I tried the gun vault for inventory. It won’t open. There’s a code.”

“I hate fucking you! OOWW! I hate how much you make me come! You bastard, I hate coming for you!”

“Too bad,” Frank told her. He changed hands, the one he’d been using going to Christina’s hair to use them as reins, the other one beginning an onslaught against Christina’s other cheeks. Turning its snowy, virginal whiteness into that first blush of pink. “Show me how much you love my cock. I know just having it inside you is enough to get you off, bitch.”

Despite the degradation, her fire was burning too hot. It began to melt her—thawing her anger and her pain into a perverse arousal. She tingled with eroticism; both ashamed and intimidated by how she was responding. She keened in sensual enjoyment. Every cruel slap sent the flames higher, made her more helpless to the feelings wracking her body. Christina couldn’t resist. She went down cursing.

“You think I know it?” Christina asked him.

“You were his wife,” Frank reasoned.

“He wasn’t much of a husband,” Christina retorted. “He didn’t tell me shit. I don’t know a thing about your ‘gun vault.’”

Frank stared at her. His face unreadable. His gaze one of the most intense things she’d ever felt. Maybe he was angry at her now—if he was, it was still hard not to remember another time he’d scrutinized her. His eyes cold, and hot, then too… when what he was doing was anything but… ‘unreadable.’

“I hate you, you evil prick!” Christina whined. Her words accomplished nothing. His hand continued relentlessly brutalizing the ample flesh of her ass. “You son of a bitch! You fucking animal! Stop holding back! Fuck! C’mon, HIT ME!”

“Well?” Christina forced out, having to say something.

She couldn’t take Frank staring at her. Staring at her and not… not giving her anything. God, how could he give her so much one night and now…

It started deep inside her and spread like wetness under a thunderstorm—enveloping her stiff clitoris and the flaring tissues of her labia. It pulsed crazily against the walls of her labia and up into her womb, engulfing her completely, making her sag to the floor with its enthralling power. Finally anesthetized to the pain by pure warmth, Christina’s tongue lolled out of her mouth and she began to drool. And every time her beaten ass throbbed, she felt like she was coming again.

Now she couldn’t forget how it had FELT.

“See? Just feeling how fucked you are is all you needed.” And Frank hauled her up by the hair and wrapped her in a bearhug, pumping again against her battered ass, powering into her cunt.

“Do you like looking at me, Frank?” Christina added, not sure if she was crossing a line—it felt like she was—she had to do something. She resolved that if he didn’t respond, still, she would try to ignore him, but she could already tell that she couldn’t ignore the memories.

“Do you like being looked at?” Frank returned.

For now, Christina was insensate, a mass of dead weight, but she soon began to coo, to sigh, to gasp as feeling and awareness returned to her well-used body.

“What do you want with the gun vault, anyway?” Christina asked. “More target practice with my sister?”

“Just like having everything I need right where I can get to it.”

She realized that Frank was going to come inside her now. And her eyes rolled happily up in their sockets.

Christina realized she would at least have to try ignoring him. She didn’t know if she could live with herself if she didn’t make the attempt.

But Frank was already on his way out.

Christina felt like masturbating.

No.

She felt like coming.