“Don’t pass out just yet, we’re about to have fun.”
I watch as he teases her, plays with her. If what she says is true, the American sold her out, knew we were coming. Knew we were cleaning house and is allowing us to. Why? But like Idris said, that’s not our issue, not our hunt. That’s Donald’s. We are simply here for revenge, and then…
What? I have no idea. I focus on one second, then the next, the same way I survived.
Her screaming punctures my inner monologue. He cut her dress away, leaving her in her matching panties and bra—she was planning on getting lucky, poor girl—and used it to hang her from the ceiling beam above us. She dangles there, kicking her legs and screaming at him.
Tied up like we were.
He really does have a thoughtful side.
I put my feet up on the white tablecloth and relax as I watch him work. He truly is a master. He knows where to cut, hit, and even burn for maximum pain without making her pass out. It’s a beautiful thing to see, like watching an art exhibition… just with more blood.
Like a true sculptor at work.
I tilt my head as I survey her blood dripping down her nearly coated body. He’s really fucking angry, and it’s fucking hot as hell. His nostrils are flared, and his eyes are hard and narrowed. His fists are clenched, and his muscles are tight. If this is what he does to people who he didn’t even trust but annoyed him, then what would he do to someone he truly liked?
I shiver from the thought, my pussy clenching as I imagine all that fury aimed at me. Between her screams, she just cries, resigned but not speaking, giving us nothing. Her loyalty to the American is strong, and my respect for the cow goes up a smidge.
But everyone breaks.
Deciding to move this along so I can get those bloody hands wrapped around my throat while he pounds into me like he’s pounding her with his fists, I get up and move to the bar in the corner. There’s an ice bucket sitting on the polished black and gold marble bar. I grab it, move behind the bar, and fill it with water in the sink before snatching a slightly dirty towel from the floor. I hesitate before taking a shot of whiskey and knocking it back, the warmth making me shudder. I stride back over to Idris, where he’s shaking out his bloody hand.
“Here, try this,” I offer.
Idris’s head turns, and he looks at the bucket and then at me. “You make me so hard,” he growls.
I wink as he takes it, and then I return to my prime position to observe. Pulling her down, he lays her on the table right in front of me, giving me an unobstructed view. Her legs twist as she sobs and fights.
“Please—”
He drapes the cloth over her face and then tips the bucket slowly over it. She chokes as the water fills her mouth, and I smirk, knowing exactly how that feels.
It was one of the first things they did to me. It feels like you’re drowning. The water goes up your nose and into your mouth, even when you try to keep it closed. It gets in your eyes so they sting for the next few hours, as does your throat. It’s horrible.
Fun to watch though, especially knowing this cunt almost got him killed and ordered me to be tortured. What’s that saying? Don’t dish out what you can’t handle.
Fucking karma, babe.
Her body twists as she struggles, kicking plates off the table. He finally stops pouring and removes the towel as she coughs up water onto her own face. Her eyes are red and her face is soaked as she wheezes and chokes. “Ple—”Cough. “Just kill me,” she begs breathlessly.
“Just kill you?” he snarls, getting in her face. “Did you just kill me? No, you ordered my torture, you ordered her torture.” He jerks his head at me. “You didn’t offer mercy, so why should you get it?”
“Please,” is all she says as he covers her head again and pours more water. It’s sick, but my pussy is wet as hell from watching him hurt her. From watching him make her pay for what she did to us.
He removes it again, and she turns her head, throwing up water as she cries and coughs. Picking up the knife from the table, he presses her other hand down and stabs the blade through her palm, pinning her to the table, and then he does the same with the other before impaling both feet. She passes out during the second stab, but wakes up when he throws the remaining ice-cold water on her face.
She’s given up, I see it in her eyes. The retreat, the defeat. How many girls’ eyes did she put that look in? How many kids’? Men’s? How many families did she destroy? How many mothers sit in their child’s empty room, crying, begging, and praying for their children to come home?
How many fathers sit up at night or drink themselves into oblivion to forget their child’s face or what might be happening to them right now? She doesn’t deserve mercy, she’s a monster bigger than either of us. We killed those who deserve it, while she destroyed innocents. Destroyed lives, marriages, and families.
I don’t care if this makes us just as bad as her. I remember the innocents’ cries, their screams, and hearing them beg for her to kill them. She did that. She deserves every inch of this treatment. Those women could have been lawyers, inventors, counsellors, mothers, and so much more. Their possibilities were endless, their lives had meaning. They had the chance to make an impact on the world in a way only they could. And now they never will. She snatched that away from them, stole their lives like they meant nothing.
She should be as ugly outside as she is inside, showing the rot in her soul.
“You’re not worth my time,” he eventually snarls an hour later.
I stand, knowing he’s had his fun. She’s broken, her eyes numb and empty as they roll to him, bloodshot and wounded. “Please, please kill me,” she begs again.