Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (3 page)

Shit.

So there I was, passed out in the driver’s seat, when those hypnotic drops of rain started to grow louder. The change in noise and tempo sunk in, but sleep still had a good hold of me and wasn’t about to let me slip away just yet.

When the rain grew louder still, so loud I can remember a dream where kids were throwing rocks at my car for some reason, I jerked awake to find the imaginary rocks a very real set of knuckles, rapping on my car window.

My whereabouts were a mystery for a brief, frightening moment, and then I saw Angela peering into my car, one hand over her eyes like a visor. I instantly rolled down my window.

“What are you doing?” I said, immediately regretting how curt and accusatory it came out.

I was unsure as to how long she’d been standing there trying to wake me, or how she had even managed to
find
me, but there she stood—hair wet, clothes soaked.

“Are you okay?” she asked with what seemed like sincerity.

I paused for a second, her concern for my well-being making me re-evaluate preconceived notions. I also realized she was still standing in the rain.

“I’m fine. Here—get in.” I leaned to my right and opened the passenger door for her.

She obliged my gesture and was soon sitting next to me. The rain had amplified the scents of her hair—some kind of herbal and fruit shampoo I guessed. Whatever it was, it smelled amazing, and made me want to lick every drop of rain off her body.

“I’m really sorry about what happened earlier,” I began, deciding to get my bit in first. “I guess I kinda lost it when I saw that guy bothering you like that.”

She didn’t respond right away. In fact, it didn’t even look as though she’d heard me; she seemed transfixed by the endless patterns of rain on the windshield. I questioned whether or not I should repeat myself, and I was just about to when she leaned over and simultaneously kissed me while grabbing my cock.

What should have been a wet dream was handled like a nightmare; her behavior knocked me completely off-guard and caused me to regretfully jump. I didn’t need to speak; my befuddled look said it all.

Undeterred, she leaned in again. “That was
so
fucking hot the way you handled that guy. You almost killed him.”

I was beyond dumbfounded. “
Hot
?
That whole debacle turned you on?”

“Oh
God,
yes.”

“Well, where did you go then? I looked around and you were gone.”

“I went for my car. I was planning on coming back for you, but I saw you had an admirer."

It took me a second to get the joke. “You mean that girl who was screaming bloody murder?”

“Yeah. She kinda ruined everything.”

“She did?”

“Uh-huh.” She buried her mouth into my neck.“If she wasn't there, I'd have fucked you right then. In the car. Next to what you'd done."

“Are you serious?”

“
Oh yeah…
”

I had absolutely no clue how to respond to this.
I
was the one who was used to being in control when it came to sexual situations. It was usually
me
that proposed off-the-wall scenarios that were met with looks of uncertainty.

“Does that bother you?” she said, glancing up at me, eyes playing innocent, their true intentions bad, the good kind.

“No,” I said softly. And here’s the thing: I don’t think it
did
bother me. It intrigued me, perhaps for the same reasons my true self had intrigued her. It was the kind of thing I was referring to earlier. What lay behind the beauty? Sex was sex to me, bodies interchangeable. I had no desire to fuck this woman with just my cock; I wanted to fuck her with something as yet untapped; her to fuck me with what seemed like a keen capability to excavate that unexploited relic and make it all virginal,
my
first time being fucked
. How the
hell
could this not qualify as therapy?

“Good,” she said, lips still to my ear. “Would you like to follow me back to my place?”

“Yes I would.”

She pulled away and smirked, confidence everywhere. “I’m going to show you things you won’t believe.”

Genuinely confused, I say, “What?”

“Getting aroused by violence? Her lips on your neck?
‘I’m gonna show you things you won’t believe’
?”

I frown. “No, she’s not a vampire. Why the hell would I tell you a story about a vampire?”

He shrugs. “Sounded like that’s where this was going. My daughter reads all those vampire books. Has the DVDs of the movies playing non-stop.”

I sip my Beam. “My condolences.”

He grunts in agreement and finishes his second Beam with ice.

I pour him another and he doesn’t refuse. I smile.

“Okay,” he says, “you’re following Angela back to her place…”

In a matter of moments we were on her porch, and, I shit you not, she
kicked
open the front door. Her hand gripping mine, she pulled me up a flight of stairs and led me to a bedroom.

I had not managed, nor had the time or opportunity (or a fucking care) to get a look at the rest of the interior of the house, but the room the two of us now occupied was huge. It’s red and black décor suggested eroticism with a devilish taste of the unknown, a kind of danger that entices our better judgment, woos with control and power and all kinds of good wrong.

I barely had a chance to take everything in before Angela was guiding me towards the foot of an enormous bed. She kissed me, sucked on my lower lip as she withdrew, and then shoved me backwards onto the bed where I happily flopped.

She wasted no time in joining me, straddling my waist, undressing the both of us, pausing every now and again to fondle, tantalize, and tease, securing my state of arousal (as if it was going anywhere).

This was brutal anticipation at its best. My entire body throbbed.

We were nearly naked—me in boxers; she in a pair of bra and panties I wanted to eat.

We locked eyes, and then with a flick of her chin she gestured above my head. I followed her gaze, turned and glanced up. A pair of leather wrist wraps dangled across from one another along the headboard. Handcuffs that didn’t look like handcuffs. I hadn’t noticed them when first flopping on the bed; they too had been demoted to vegetables. 

I turned back to Angela, and in a failed effort to control my eagerness, attempted to cut short her performance by reaching up and pulling her to me. My grip was instantly met by hers. She released hold on one of my wrists and wagged a playful finger in my face.

Bad boy, Mr. Court
, that waving finger said.

I smiled and let my arms go limp. She began fastening my wrists to the leather cuffs overhead. Finished, she slid off my body (tongue tracing my torso as she did, God bless her) and stood before me at the foot of the bed. She was still wearing her bra and panties, and I took in every inch of her.

I guessed her height at about five-seven, her weight I didn’t care to guess; my eyes gifted me with far more than a scale ever could. Full and curved in all the right spots, taught and firm…in all the right spots.

Her hair was shoulder-length and dark, almost black, the color accentuating her blue eyes; lips full and red, her blue eyes accentuating
them
.

Assuming I wasn’t still asleep in my car, this was real. I was about to have Angela.

“All good?” she asked, gesturing towards the cuffs that held my wrists overhead.

I could only nod my confirmation—words had no place here. She smiled her approval, and turned her back to me. Slowly, she bent and removed her panties, revealing an ass you wanted to bite, and kiss, and slap, and bite…

An uncontrollable spasm of anticipation hit me and I inadvertently tugged on the cuffs overhead—and my right wrist nearly popped free. Turns out the cuff was loose and not properly fastened.

Her back still to me, Angela had not noticed my incident with the loose cuff, and I sure as
hell
wasn’t about to let her notice lest she stop her performance to re-fasten the stupid thing. So I simply held my hand in a fixed position as though the cuff on my right was as tight as the one on my left. As long as I didn’t do anything stupid like that again, I figured I’d be okay.

Once her panties had been removed, Angela went to work on her bra, glancing over her shoulder at me as she did so. The look she cast me was something no surgeon could ever provide, a confidence I’d never seen in any woman, like she damn well knew she could make you come with just her eyes. The next time someone tells you it’s big tits or a tight ass, scoff; nothing is sexier than the elusive trait of true confidence.

The bra was off. She turned slowly and faced me, her arms across her chest, a hand covering each breast. It seemed illogical that she would cover her breasts while everything else was exposed (and looking fucking amazing FYI), but logic had no place in Angela’s world. And while men usually accommodated the breasts in order to get further below, I found myself wanting nothing more than to just
see
her breasts, even if it meant I might never get to touch, taste, or enter her where I’d always presumed it counted.

The power. The
power
this woman had. She was turning out to be everything I’d been pining for.

My state of arousal was now higher than it had ever been. I wanted her on the bed with me. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed. This strange room was my whole world and Angela and I were the only two people alive.

Or so I thought.

Something caught my attention to the right of me. About fifteen feet from the bed, a pair of long, red drapes hung and cloaked what I assumed was some kind of panoramic window. What made these drapes catch my attention at a time when very little else
could
catch my attention, was that I was sure I saw something move behind them.

Angela, reading my face, turned and joined me in staring at the drapes, hands still covering her breasts.

“Now,” she said.

I looked at her, and then immediately back at the drapes as a man stepped out from behind them. At least I think it was a man. Hell, it had to be; he was huge. The rest of his appearance was far too bizarre to initially comprehend. He donned a full-body get-up; tight to the skin and all black, like something a villain in a comic book might wear. His face was covered by a mask that looked to be fashioned out of the same tight-fitting black material as his body suit. There were holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth, but they were covered in circles of black mesh—nothing identifiable to the onlooker; vision, air, and a voice for the one wearing the mask.

I found myself almost laughing at the flagrant absurdity of it all. I wanted Angela to take me to places as yet untapped, but this…

Chuckling I said, “What the f—?” but stopped when I saw this freak pull an aluminum bat out from behind his leg. Hardly chuckling now: “What the
fuck
?”

As if my words were a starting pistol, the freak let out a deafening battle cry and rocketed towards the bed, bat cocked and ready. I quickly rolled to the left, my right wrist that hadn’t been properly fastened to the cuff breaking free, allowing me out of harm’s way.

Thank
God
I never mentioned the fucking thing.

The bat clanged off the headboard a mere two inches from my head. I rolled off the bed completely and began frantically working on the remaining cuff that held my left wrist. The cuff was held on by the same mechanism you might attach a leather belt, and the pulling I’d just done caused a good deal of tension to accumulate, tightening the bond. I needed to loosen the slack.

To my right, the freak was regrouping, cautiously circling the bed, securing his grip on the bat. I could hear him breathing, excited. I backed up further against the wall and felt my right hand graze something. I glanced down at a sizeable porcelain lamp on a nightstand.

He finished circling the bed. We now faced each other, maybe eight feet apart, the bat swaying over his shoulder as though waiting for a pitch.

Another battle cry and another charge. He vaulted forward, bat cocked. I spun, snatched the lamp by its neck, spun back and whipped it into his oncoming face. It shattered on impact, knocking him backwards, out cold.

Ignoring all of my mother’s childhood advice, I decided to use my teeth as a tool, spinning back towards the bed and chomping down onto the leather strap that held my wrist captive, hoping to loosen the slack. It worked, and I now had my left hand back.

Good thing too. The freak was awake and on his feet.

He’d dropped the bat after I cracked him with the lamp, and for some reason did not attempt to grab it again. There was a good chance he was still on queer street from the lamp and wasn’t thinking properly, and to be honest, I didn’t give a shit; the fact that he was no longer wielding the thing gave me hope.

The freak dove at my waist, shooting both of us backwards, crashing against the wall. Although the impact momentarily took my breath, I was happy the wall was there; it kept me upright and prevented me from landing on my back with his big ass on top.

With his shoulder driving into my stomach, I felt him reach down to grab the back of my legs so that he could scoop me up and slam me. Fuck that. I immediately took both hands and pushed down onto the back of his head until it was at my knees, preventing him from getting any leverage. I then snaked one of my legs free, and began hammering the bottom of my fist onto the back of his head like a jackhammer. After about five or six of those, he gave up trying to slam me and covered up.