Mesmer, page 22
“Hah!” Roman sounded as if he’d giggle.
The man loved tormenting me, but that I understood.
Not Tomik? Why, Greta? “I don’t understand,” I said aloud.
“This is brilliant.” Tomik slid his cock from my hand. “Video running?”
“Yes.”
“Then we make sure he knows she thinks I’m him.” His hand sneaked between me and the trolley, grabbed my hooked breast, and pulled it forward. “Say my name whenever you want to, dear little cunty Hannah. Say it loud. Thank me! Is your cunt wet? Make it so.”
“Thank you, Tomik!” A burst of pleasure scintillated into bones, flesh, pussy. Tomik, my magic lover. I huffed, trembling as I let it run deep, closing my eyes to better the feels. My thighs parted, my lips also.
“Open that mouth wider. Tongue out.”
I obeyed, opened until my jaw hurt.
Chains jangled behind me. A hook looped into one side of my pussy, tightened and tugged at my entrance. I froze, swearing in hisses through my agony, wanting to wriggle because the desire had amped also. Another hook latched on and I was stretched, played with. Fingered.
The finger probed and dipped inside, and I whimpered, ashamed at how my pussy had grabbed onto that finger. So sore from previous fucking and yet I wanted them.
*Stop beating yourself up. Mesmers do the impossible every day. Zzzz.”
Where was Greta?
*Outside.*
I opened my eyes. She was up on-stage pirouetting like a goth ballerina.
“Want her cunt hooked apart… Tomik?”
No. Don’t. I begged silently with my eyes. My mouth was still obeying and open. My tongue protruding as I waited for him.
“Fucking excellent suggestion.” He shoved his cock into my mouth, held the trolley with both hands while he fucked my mouth until his balls were jammed in close. Then he pulled out and watched me gasp. “Whose cock do you want, girl? Say my name.”
“Yours, Tomik.”
Three or four fingers wormed in and an orgasm shuttled through me, fucking my mind while those fingers fucked my cunt. I arched backward, painfully, crying out and hearing my spine crack. My ass squirmed, and I felt a squirt of liquid, then another.
Tomik yawned, watching me slump lower, pursing his lips. “Details? Whose cock. Where would you like this cock?”
It was a few seconds before I could answer.
“Back there… where the hooks are. Yours please, Tomik.” I licked my lips. The taste of him alone was nirvana. Inside me…
The red-hot lance of a third hook caught at my pussy. It tugged at my labia, and was tied somehow, to the trolley. The other hooks were tied, and my pussy felt stretched to the point of tearing.
I clutched the wire.
“Hooked and fastened Hannah cunt.” Tomik breathed the dirty words, inches from my face. “Who wants to buy the latest supermarket special item—sloppy Hannah?”
That was me. I knew this, and I was nothing worth having.
This man was my love, my Tomik, and he was treating me like the slops in a piggery.
Tear-sodden, cunt-sodden, blood-decorated Hannah. I was to be fucked through the wire at one end, my mouth used at the other.
The edge of the trolley hurt beneath my chin but the hook he shunted into my cheek and out again hurt far more.
My little screams rendered me a sobbing mess in combination with his next cruel words.
“Tomik doesn’t give a shit for you. It was all pretend. Why would I like a whore thing like you? Tell me why.”
I shut my eyes, refused to see him. I had no answer. None. I’d believed his lies.
*Pulling it off and knotting it would be better.* Another gulp of imaginary liquor went into Greta. What was she talking about? Cocks?
*What else?*
The trolley lurched as Roman grabbed the handles and spun it. They paced around the trolley, yanking it. I was holding down whatever was in my stomach. Water only, and bile too I guessed as I swallowed a bitter taste. I’d drunk water, as well as other fluids. I pulled a wretched face. When had they last fed me?
“Magical trolley cunt. Round and round she goes, where she stops…”
When they stopped, Roman pushed a broom handle into my pussy and fucked me with it, while Tomik continued doing my mouth. By then I didn’t care.
Whatever they found in this room seemed fair game to put inside me. It was all being filmed. They wanted to shock someone, whoever they were sending copies to.
They used a large dildo, showed me how sticky it had become after I came while they thrust it in and out, laughing. Showed me also a shoe, a section of chain, an old snow globe. I was so freaked out and cracked loose from what was happening to my body that I wasn’t sure what was true and what was fake. They shoved things in, made me orgasm, and filmed it. The end.
Afterward I cried. I also leaked from every hole. Their come, mine, I was probably leaking glitter and shoe polish by then.
They hauled me from the trolley, strapped me with a belt and rope, told me to STAY, and left me with a noose around my neck up on the stage. I heard one yell at the other to turn off the camera.
Minutes later, one of them came back and gave me some water, then let my head fall to the timber with a clunk.
Night fell. Silence fell, perfect silence except the distant noise of bugs going creek creek. Nobody switched on any lights. I curled up, wondering why I wasn’t already insane.
I was hurting more than I had when I woke, and I was starving.
My one blessing: I was one day closer to dying.
No one could last through this. No one. They didn’t want me to live.
I’d heard doors slam and had a feeling neither of them were staying here, wherever this theater was located. I vaguely recognized the floor I lay on. Something about the design was familiar.
The holes in the worn timber before my nose, denting it, reminded me of the time Billy Handel had bounced an old pogo stick on the stage at Glebe. The end of it had been rusted. They’d banned him from drama classes after that.
Could this be the theater outside my hometown? Did it matter? The place had fallen apart years back. No one went there… here. If it was here. Except spiders.
I’d wake tomorrow and find myself webbed to the floor. Cocooned, strung upside down to be jellified spider food.
If only…
Tomik betrayed me. Again with the dribble of tears, blurring my vison, tickling my nose, dripping off the end of it.
I sniffed.
*No, he didn’t! Damn. I hate saying this, but he didn’t. He’s better than these two. They messed with your perceptions. This is not Tomik. Believe me. I am your lodestone, your truth.*
Really? Could I dare hope? That had been Tomik. I knew it.
*No. That was not him. Tomik is out there. Maybe he’s coming.*
Make him come then. Before I die.
I heard Greta smash a bottle on a wall. What wall? No idea.
Before I swam into unconsciousness, she whispered words: *You and me both, sister. We’re both in trouble. Bad trouble. You die, I die.*
That woke me.
Greta, you know we’re at Glebe?
*Glebe, yeah. I caught a glimpse of that much earlier.*
“You can’t have.” I squinted at her, realizing I’d said that out loud.
*Did. I do that sometimes, catch glimpses of ideas swirling.*
“Not possible.”
*Because I’m a figment of your imagination? Dream on.*
I watched her clomp over in her biker boots and sit on the edge of the stage, her back to me, and she was smoking. She seemed as sad and weary as I felt.
I didn’t even smoke. There was the usual offensive slogan across her leather vest.
You are a figment.
*Neither of us knows what I am.*
Smoke puffed out, clouding the air, obscuring the mess of piled chairs and the trolley left abandoned mid-floor, like a discarded pet.
*Neither of us knows, Hannah. One of the twins said we’d be moving soon—somewhere else. Bet you missed that.* Another cloud of smoke drifted from her. *Go to sleep.*
24
Tomik
The faint notes of a piano solo penetrated the hotel room.
The glass in my hand was cold and solid, with a small sea of amber sloshing about inside. Solid glass, though I was trying to crush it with both hands. I sat in the dark, remembering how and why I’d slid the balcony door aside. I’d walked out there to clear my head, getting some rest from these videos. Wasn’t doing the room’s air conditioning any good, letting the plastic hotel air out to mingle with real-world air.
I chinked the cut-glass tumbler against bared teeth, thinking. Ice cubes slid and spun.
Tonight I’d watched Hannah be fucked by the twins on four different videos, in twenty different ways. Why? Why watch? I’d seen them all before.
“Give you this at least, you’re both fuckin’ inventive,” I muttered, draining the last of the whiskey from the tumbler. Rotating the glass against my forehead, I stared through it at blurry nothingness.
Empty, like my brain. Leastways, the good part of it. Did I even have a good part anymore?
I stretched my arm along the back of the couch. According to the report, the last email could’ve been sent from anywhere in the deep south. The last video was completely anonymous in location too, unlike the one I’d known in a second was filmed at the old Glebe Theater.
They’d done that just to show off. By the time I’d flown to the US, they’d moved on. I’d driven there anyway. Had to. Even if my cop had already reported it empty.
They’d left a note on the floor, scrawled in something dark red. I’d crouched and stared at it, head aching with a need to punch someone, wondering if this was her blood. Knowing it was, because the twins had done it.
You’re dead, Tomik. So is she.
Ever so profound. Assholes.
Hannah had left her own private imprint, not just in blood, in scent, in some indefinable presence. I could sense her. Had ended up sitting on the edge of the stage next to the stairs, with hand pressed to heart, my head down, trying to feel the thumps of each beat.
She’d rested her head there, once, days before, in one of our quiet moments.
Weak, I knew it was weak, still I’d sat there morose, angry, contemplative. Then I’d risen and gone off to employ another IT expert and a private detective to track the emails. The one huge obstacle, I couldn’t show anyone the vid attachments, unless they were collectables. My current pet cop gave me zero. If I used her too much, the police might spot her delving into things that were off limits, and if the twins saw her getting close, maybe worse would happen.
From where it lay on the coffee table, the laptop glowed its ineffably porno screen at me, lid up, like a Venus flytrap begging for one more fly.
I was the fly. A dirty, scummy fly. The thumbnails of the vids taunted me. Turn me on, one more time.
The widescreen TV on the wall beyond was off. This was one of the higher floors, and traffic noises were minimal, just that piano solo to remind me of humanity, of the gentle arts, of music. I’d begun to love playing the guitar for her. For years I’d rarely put fingers to strings, all those relentless, violent, perverted years.
New York wasn’t the same when your lover was in the middle of a torture session with men you hated—men I hated with a passion that’d see me grind them to a pulp of blood, flesh, and bone, given the slightest chance.
And still the screen taunted.
I reached forward and clicked the mouse, set the latest one going, felt my dick swell into a new erection, same as it had before.
Never failed. Watching her be fucked and hurt never failed… to make me wish I was there, joining in.
I slapped both hands over my face, my eyes, hard enough to sting. Did it matter if I loved her? If I rescued her, I’d still want to hurt her. Same. Same.
I’d not jerked off to the vids, there was that. I should award myself a pat on the back.
If I was truly sincere, I’d delete these. I’d wrung all the info from them and wasn’t going to find her by using them. The twins were staying in the States, that was all I knew.
Light flickered on my eyeballs. The video was still playing.
I let my hands slip down my face, feeling the scratch of day-old stubble, staring at them reaming her at mouth and ass with sticks while they chuckled and made lewd jokes. Hand muscles taut, I leaned in and jabbed a finger on the mouse, missed and made it skid. I retrieved the runaway plastic critter, paused the vid. I clicked back and transferred all four videos to trash, knowing full well I could retrieve them from emails if I wanted to.
I rose and padded outside.
On the balcony a breeze ruffled my hair, threatening halfheartedly to blow me sideways. Claire de Lune must be on a loop in the room next to mine. They’d have their balcony door open too. Other noises informed me whoever was in there was making love, fucking, also known as making the beast with two backs—the advantage of knowing my Shakespeare. My senses pricked up. The woman was a collectable. How… quaint.
With a little effort I could climb around to their balcony and be the creature from the darkness come to murder him and rape her. Not that rape described what a mesmer could do. It was all so sickeningly voluntary. She’d even shoot or stab her lover for me, if I asked her to. Grind his head in a food blender, if I asked her to.
That was me. The monster. No matter how often I said I loved Hannah, I was the monster.
“Where are you?” I screamed.
The sex noises ceased. A few moments later so did the piano solo.
I sighed, wiped below my eyes with a finger.
“I’m tired of this. So fucking tired. Love’s a useless sentiment, but I’ll find you, babe, I promise. I’ll find you. I’ll kill them.” And if I did this, and I must, then… what?
25
Hannah
It was the suitcase again. Whenever they travelled in the car, they put me in it. When they unstrapped me and dumped me out by tipping it over, water dribbled from it, and I could see the inside of a barn. They’d hosed the suitcase out last night. Said I was making it smell worse than a whorehouse. Their insults were expected, like heavy rain after thunder.
A rusted, antique-looking tractor was poised mid-barn. The seat was missing. The wheels were metal not rubber. Bales of hay were stacked against the walls, and light burned down from above. Birds cawed as they flew out through a hole high up on one wall. Sunshine was out there, somewhere. The normal world was out there.
It wasn’t my world anymore.
The camera was already waiting, set up and pointing at the middle of the barn where dirt and straw mingled on the ground. I hugged myself, shivering, wishing I couldn’t see what they had piled up—chains, a roll of barbed wire, and other things, including bolt-cutters.
Just to scare me? Left-overs from some farm boy tending to a fence?
*In the country, this time.* For once I couldn’t see Greta in my head.
I rubbed dried sleep from my eyes, wincing as bruises reawakened. Off to the side, the men had been talking. Roman stalked in my direction, his cowboy boots jingling. Spurs, this city man had spurs on his boots, black jeans, and a dark brown shirt. Tomik wore a red shirt and the same black jeans.
All the better to hide the blood.
Wait, no. Not Tomik? Greta said this was not Tomik. My eyes told me otherwise, yet I knew a mesmer could make a collectable believe anything.
*The twins took you while Tomik was out. Remember?*
Yes. That jarred me. This man could not be him.
I licked my lips, and my tongue found peeling skin.
Greta had sounded tired, and I wondered if, sadly, my torture was weighing terribly on her. A strange thought, but better than whining to myself about… this. My situation. In the dirt beneath my palm was a bent and rusted nail. Wistfully I looked down. If I could use that on them, or me, this would be over faster.
*Don’t.* I saw her trudging away toward the barn wall, as if to leave me. Her hands were dark, stained, her fingers slender. I imagined I saw them tremble.
Fuck. Please stay.
Her laugh was ironic, harsh, and she shook her head, but stopped where she was.
The day she left me would be my final day. Somehow, I knew this.
*I feel your pain. Every bit of it.*
Oh.
My arms shook as they tried to keep me upright. I had my knees folded under me. The nail? I prodded the sharp tip with the pad of my finger.
Using it on a twin would likely result in them hurting me even more. Bile rose to my throat, and I gulped, screwing up my mouth at the taste.
Bad things would happen to me. From what I’d seen them do, I knew they would have a limit past which they’d do things even they regretted. Like dismembering me with an axe on film, just because I riled them. I wasn’t ready for that.
*Who would be?* she whispered, her face turned up, as if she could feel the sunlight on her skin.
With Tomik—or was that Mitchell—adjusting the camera, Roman leaned in and peered at me then grabbed my hair. He towed me higher, onto my knees. “No making any moves that show the camera where we are. No words, no anything. Hear?”
I blinked, nodded. A command.
“Screams are fine. Loud ones, today. Business as usual.” He grinned. “Give the barn a last check before we start! I want him to recognize this place in tomorrow’s vid, not this time.”
“He’s never been in here. We emptied out what was here. I told you he’s only seen inside the house.”
“And tomorrow…” Roman had pulled a knife, and he poked under my chin with the point. “Tomorrow you get to start really hurting yourself in the old room in the house. Cutting yourself on camera. Might have you stitch that cunt like the movie star did. It leaked onto the net that film. The dark porn sites love it, her showing her pussy while she sinks the needles in, sewing her hole tight. You, we can mix it up. Add some other spice and make your lover bleed sad fuckin’ tears. Hey! What did he call it? A ballroom? Was that it?”
