by marat
Chapter Four
Crimson Flare
rocked backwards, exulting in the knowledge that her hero had now embraced her
as his own. She was now the object of his love, a love that had physically
manifested itself. She scooped and pushed the viscous fluid that had been
spread over her small hard breasts downward, downward, past her firm stomach
toward her hungry sex. There, visible to all but the heroine herself, the organ
bloomed; its blossom sent sharp tingles across her hips and up her spine, which
only added to her bliss. Her body shivered and jerked involuntarily as the
message of his yearning for her sank deep into her distorted consciousness. Her
mind did not see the blossom; nor did she sense the humiliation of her actions.
Rather, she only knew that she was protecting the seed of her god-lover the
only way she could, by internalising it.
Must protect
him, she thought. He
meant this for only me.
Through the
mists that surrounded her, she heard his laughter and his voice told her that
he was pleased. It swam up at her from the depths of that fog. ‘Crimson Flare,
do you know what you are doing?’
Yes.
‘Are you trying
to make me happy?’
Yes, my lord.
‘You do well.
But you must do more. Will you do all that I require of you?’
Oh, yes, my
lord. I only live to fulfill your needs.
‘Good, Crimson
Flare, very good. I am very pleased. But now you must please those who serve
me. If you do this, you will satisfy me. Will you serve others to serve me?’
Oh, yes.
*****
‘Then you will
wait on your knees,’ Fareed Gouyannou said softly, his malicious smile
reflecting his deep enjoyment of the moment.
The naked
superheroine shifted her weight forward. The satin gloves that covered her
powerful hands were encrusted with the seed of Nick Napolitano. She placed them
on the hard floor as she curled her legs under her bare hips. The scuffle of
her black leather boots as they settled under her was the only sound in the
hushed ballroom. Outside the wind rose and rattled the French doors again, but
hardly anyone heard the sound, fascinated by the defeat of Mitropoulos’
Champion. She settled back on her haunches, looking blankly, expectantly,
straight ahead, but seeing only what her tortured mind played out before her.
‘Good,’ said
Gouyannou, ‘now stay as you are, and they will come to you. They will tell me
if you have kept your word.’
‘Oh, yes, my
lord,’ Crimson Flare mumbled, almost incomprehensibly. She rested calmly,
serenely, on her haunches, her petite but magnificent body swaying in the middle
of the roomful of men.
Smiling,
Gouyannou stepped back. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘your slave awaits.’
Three gang
members stepped forward immediately. Roughly they pulled the insensible heroine
upward.
The last female
observer of the Masked Maiden’s humbling finally left the room, choking back
tears, her sisters awaiting her in the anteroom beyond. Their last desperate
hope that somehow the Champion of Mitropoulos would be spared this degradation
was gone.
*****
Lynn and Maria
traveled silently back toward Karen’s apartment. In Lynn’s mind, confusion and
fear. Why would Gouyannou want Crimson Flare? What was happening to her now?
Was she dead? Or worse?
Maria’s mind was
likewise a jumble. Why had the criminals freed her? What was the involvement of
her partner, Tim Westbrook, in these events, if any? Could these two women
still act to save Crimson Flare?
As Lynn’s blue
Ford pulled into a parking space outside the apartment building, the rain,
until now either sporadic and misty, began to pour down, loudly pelting the
van’s roof. But the two women seemed almost unaware of these conditions as they
both stepped into the deluge and made their way to the building’s entrance.
They failed to notice the Lexus that had pulled into the lot behind them, its
two occupants quietly watching as they entered the building. Only when the
lights in the fifth floor apartment winked on, indicating that the women had
arrived, did the shadowy figures venture into the downpour. They carried large
containers with them, whose contents would be used to erase evidence of the
crime.
The men entered
the lobby and headed directly for the stairs.
*****
Crimson Flare’s
addled brain slowly struggled its way through the haze. She had quietly endured
numerous lovers, as commanded by her god. But now her body ached as the effects
of the heroin cocktail began to diminish. The avenger’s great strength proved
insufficient against the pain that was now gripping her. She felt sharp blasts
streaming across her hips and up her spine, agony such as she had never felt
before. It seemed to be emanating from inside her very being. At the same time,
the hard wood floor pressed against her naked torso. It felt cold.
Small beads of
perspiration rolled down her face and neck in response to the torment that
gripped her within, a torture spreading across her body like an open flame,
spreading outward from her hips, from… her most private….
She groaned. The
emptiness she felt only added to the suffering.
A voice from
behind her asked soothingly, ‘Crimson Flare, are you in pain?’
‘Y-yes,’ she
mumbled.
‘Do you want
relief from your pain?’
She took a deep
breath and felt the anguish surge up her spine to her shoulders and down her
arms. She shook as she replied, ‘Please. Yes. Help me.’
‘You have to
pay.’
For the first
time, she opened her eyes. Through the mist, she saw that she was naked.
‘Wh-what?’
‘You have to
pay. Relief from pain is expensive. What do you have that you can pay us with?’
She remembered
how she had paid the Normans in the abandoned subway stop. Tears roiled up in
her eyes and poured over her black mask. ‘I—I…’
‘Surely you must
have an offering, an offering to the gods.’ Fareed Gouyannou began to chuckle,
then cut himself off.
Another sharp
spasm of hot pain lacerated her hips, and the Champion of Women tried to catch
her breath.
Breathing hard,
her face and neck now streaked with perspiration, she looked around for
assistance. ‘I… don’t….’
‘I’ll help you,
Crimson Flare,’ a voice said from behind her. She twisted her naked body and tried
to sit up, but failed. She saw a muscular young man enter and move across her
hazy field of vision. ‘But you will have to satisfy me first.’
Gouyannou spoke
to the hapless girl. ‘You have agreed to do as we demand, slave. You must
satisfy your master first; before you receive your relief from pain.’
‘And after,’ the
young man said.
‘And after,’
repeated Gouyannou.
Crimson Flare
struggled to her feet, awkwardly, still in a daze. Her boots clumped and
clicked on the hardwood floor as she stumbled across the room. Though he was
only a few meters away, her agony and disorientation meant that she required a
great deal of time to reach the young man. When Crimson Flare finally found her
way to him, the Maiden dropped to her knees.
‘No, not here,’
he said, angrily, as she began to undo his pants. ‘Get up and come with me, you
slut.’
‘Obey him!’
Gouyannou ordered sharply.
Frightened by
the tone of her masters, her gods, the bewildered and helpless heroine again
struggled to her feet, yanking at the young man’s clothing, desperately trying
to pull herself up and to bring her feet under her, so that she could walk with
him. It was a difficult, almost vain, struggle. On the verge of sobbing, she
eventually succeeded, though she now leaned heavily against his shoulder as he
led her from the ballroom.
‘Brandon,’
Gouyannou called after him.
‘Yes, sir,’ the
muscular young man replied, stopped in his tracks.
‘Don’t break
her. She has much to do for us.’
Crimson Flare
leaned in and began to sensually kiss his chest, shoulders and neck, working
her way upward toward his lips and face. Brandon had to push her away to
respond. ‘I understand, sir.’
‘And Crimson
Flare.’ Gouyannou said softly.
She did not
answer though she ceased in her caresses.
‘You will do as
he requests.’
Crimson Flare
resumed her kisses and licks.
Brandon led her
across the room and through an open door.
The door slammed
shut.
*****
Once the two
women reached the apartment, Lynn headed directly for the bathroom, already
removing her wet outer clothing. Once there, she removed all of the soaked
outerwear, and threw on a thick cloth robe. ‘Use the bedroom, there on the
right,’ she called to Maria. Maria disappeared into the small room, closing the
door behind her. Inside she found a similar robe, one that belonged to Karen,
lying on the bed. She quickly put in on and returned to the living room. As
Maria seated herself on the sofa, Lynn took herself to the kitchen to prepare a
hot drink.
‘Coffee or tea?’
‘Coffee,
please,’ Maria replied.
‘All we have is
instant,’ she cautioned.
‘That’s all
right.’
While waiting
for the water to boil, Lynn stood in the doorway, silently hoping that Maria
would remember something, anything, from her captivity.
A sharp creak
from the floorboards in the hallway outside the room brought the two women back
to their senses, and to an awareness of the danger that might be pursuing them.
Almost before
they could act, a heavy body smashed against the entrance to the apartment. The
door held, but a second crash quickly followed.
Again, the door
remained steadfastly secure.
The women stared
briefly at one another. Then Lynn headed for the bedroom that housed her
combination office and library. ‘Follow me,’ she said, surprising the
policewoman with her calmness.
‘It’s not a
panic room, but it’s the next best thing.’
Closing the door
behind them, Maria, saw that a steel door had been painted—camouflaged,
really—to appear similar to any of the other of the apartment’s entryways. That
and the reinforced walls, also plainly visible from the inside of the room,
would protect them until the police could arrive. But Lynn had no such interest
in the room’s security. ‘There,’ she said, pointing at a cabinet in the far
corner. ‘We have a gun there. You know how to use it.’
Pulling open the
cabinet, Maria saw not a single weapon, but two. She picked up the .38 revolver
and moved back toward the door. Lynn had fired up the computer and, as Maria
watched, the monitor flared to life, revealing a television image from the
living room. She wasn’t surprised to see two men busy there. The heavy security
door was an obstacle they couldn’t overcome, so they had begun splashing a
liquid across the furniture and floor from some containers they had evidently
brought with them. The smell of gasoline penetrated even into the library.
‘Come on,’ Lynn
said, picking up a gun from the desk. She led Maria through another door into a
dark hallway. The lithe blonde flicked a switch that brightened the passage.
Maria recognised as she turned the first corner that it led along side the
outer room where the intruders were now doing their dirty work.
‘Be ready to use
that thing. We’ll be coming on them from the hallway.’
When they exited
the passageway, Maria noticed that the exterior of the door was again
camouflaged it match the rest of the wall. She stood at a point about fifteen
feet from the apartment entrance, where the door was still open.
Lynn ran
headlong down the hall, reached for the doorknob and pulled the door violently
shut. The slam! shook the walls. As Lynn next twisted the doorknob
backwards, Maria heard the sharp click! of a locking mechanism. Then the
smoothly functioning blonde athlete smartly smashed her palm against what had
appeared to be merely a decoration above the doorbell. In a matter of seconds,
one of the big men inside the room smashed into the door in a desperate bid to
escape.
‘The gas will
have them out in a matter of seconds,’ Lynn said with a calmness that almost
frightened Maria.
No sooner had
she made this statement, a thud! echoed inside the apartment.
‘It helps to own
the building. There are no neighbours to annoy.’
Maria couldn’t
help smile, though she did so nervously. ‘Maybe now we can get some answers.’
*****
The two men were
tightly bound when their consciousness returned. Each had been secured to a
chair with several layers of a thick rope. One of the ropes circled their
bodies from chest to waist, lashing the torso of each to the back of their
respective chairs. Their jackets, shirts, and ties had been removed; one still
wore his tee shirt, while the other’s extra large body was naked. Their legs
were tied at the calves to the front legs of the chair; their feet—shoes now
removed—were elevated a couple of inches above the floor. Likewise, their bare
arms were also secured to the padded arms of their prison. Although their first
impulse was to try to overturn the piece of furniture that held them in place,
the weight of the object and their own lack of leverage prevented it. The
larger of the two prisoners desperately threw his body, within the limits
defined by the ropes, seeking to topple himself onto his back. Nothing seemed
to work.
Maria walked
into the room and faced the men. She was all business now.
‘Where is
Crimson Flare?’
‘Fuck you!’ the
larger man replied almost before the question had been completed.
Her expression
showed her lack of patience. She picked up a hammer from a nearby table. ‘I’m
only going to ask you once more. Where’s Crimson Flare?’
‘Fuck y—!’
Maria smashed
him on the side of his head as hard as she could. The sickening sound of the
hard steel head of the implement against the skin and bone of his head was
unmistakable in terms of its effect. A spatter of blood washed over the smaller
man sitting next to him; a tooth hit his shoulder and fell to the floor. His
cheekbone had been broken.
She turned to
the other man. ‘Where’s Crimson Flare?’ The way she held the hammer, she seemed
to be simply waiting for a defiant answer.
‘McLeod-Slaughter
Mansion!’
Maria walked,
smiling, from the room.
*****
A few moments
later, Lynn approached the still-shaking thug. ‘What’s going on there? Why does
Gouyannou want Crimson Flare?’
‘She was
responsible for the loss of a major shipment of drugs. He wants her to replace
the goods and the money.’
‘Go on.’
‘She used to be
hooked on drugs. He intends to hook her again, then use her to supply him.’
His partner
weakly, dizzily, turned toward the speaker. Blood soaked his face and when he
opened his mouth to speak, more blood poured over his jaw, dripping onto his
chest and lap. What he said was incomprehensible, the broken bones and smashed
teeth preventing any comprehension.
But the sound of
his partner’s voice seemed to stiffen the other’s resistance. With eyes
widened, he drew a loud intake of breath, set his jaw and sat quietly.
‘What is he
doing to her there?’
There was no
answer.
‘Maria!’
The policewoman
entered and the trapped man twisted his body to see she was still carrying the
hammer.
‘I’ve said all
I’m going to say.’
‘Oh, no, you
haven’t,’ Lynn replied.
She wrapped a
rubber tube around his bare upper arm and, despite his efforts to wriggle out
her grasp, she quickly injected a serum into the vein at the crook of his
elbow.
A few moments
later, Lynn asked, ‘What is he doing to her there?’
They two women
got all the answers they wanted.
*****
The storm was
reaching its peak dumping the heaviest rainfall on Mitropoulos that the city
had seen in months. The McLeod-Slaughter mansion was ablaze with light, though
the pouring rain obscured some of the details on the molded facing that was one
of the reasons for the architectural fame of the former residence of the city’s
premier newspaper publisher. The bright lights that had been erected at the
front of the building revealed a line of parked cars filling the roadway
leading to the gate, even though the circular driveway inside the compound was
empty of vehicles. Armed men who stood near the entry as well as along the
short road leading to the mansion’s entrance were drenched in the deluge.
Only a short
distance from the entrance, Lynn and Maria stared at the surprising scene
before them. Protected by the greenery on the opposite side of the road, they
peered out into the rainstorm, watching the night’s activity at the estate.
Frankly, it was nearly impossible to see anything. The guards looked wet and
miserable, and the guests they could see—all of the female visitors seemed to
be leaving the party at once—were apparently caught without umbrellas and
raingear. They either ran headlong toward their cars, hoping to minimise the
damage to their evening finery; or else they walked, it seemed, in a daze,
occupied by weightier considerations that may have been left over from the
evening’s festivities. Neither of the women had any idea that the crime boss
had such a significant presence in Mitropoulos. He was known for his parties
and contacts upstate, in the capital. But in Mitropoulos he had always been a
minor player.
Not any more,
evidently.
‘We can’t get in
there,’ Lynn said, her heart sinking.
‘Not dressed
like this,’ Maria replied, referring to the sweat suit Lynn wore and her own
jeans and tee shirt. Two finely dressed ladies of the night passed through the
gate and walked toward their car, parked somewhere along the lane. The night’s
torrent seemed not to disturb them.
The two girls
looked at one another. They knew what they had to do.
*****
Lynn’s soaked
blonde hair hung over her bare shoulders. The tight blue minidress with orange
highlights clung to her athlete’s body, leaving little to the imagination. The
water running down the fabric reflected the light standards that had been
erected outside the mansion and caused the material to glimmer as she moved
toward the gate. The fact that she wore no makeup seemed to matter little in
the rain, but, in any case, it would likely not have mattered in the face of
the pronounced enticements that were otherwise so evident. Her long legs, her
peaches-and-cream complexion, the tantalising glimmer of her white go-go boots
clinging to her strong calves; she was a vision that would make any man here
forget that she hadn’t been invited.
Maria’s black
cat suit clung to her and revealed every nook and cranny. The shimmery spandex
reflected the lights that illuminated the hillside retreat. Her dark hair had
been released from its tight bun and the soaking rain plastered it to the sides
of her beautiful face, accenting somewhat her Hispanic heritage.
The women walked
quickly toward the gate, just as the storm somewhat abated. Slowing their pace
as they approached the lit area, they immediately fell into their act, Lynn
laughing uproariously at everything that Maria whispered in her ear, at the
same time leaning heavily, drunkenly, against the policewoman. Meanwhile, Maria
did her best to appear the soberer of the two, nevertheless appearing not
completely sober.
The guards at
the gate watched them approach, the longing on their faces evident once the
women were close enough to clearly ascertain their attributes. One glanced at
the other and smiled. His associate also smiled, and then nervously shook his
head. ‘Gouyannou would have our heads on a stick,’ he said.
‘Hiya, boys,’
Maria cooed. ‘Are we too late for the fun?’
Lynn giggled
uproariously at that, then repeated the word ‘fun.’
‘You were supposed
to be here at midnight. It’s almost dawn. What happened?’ The guards seemed
more pleasantly curious than suspicious.
‘Ooooohhhh, you
know how it is. You start out with one guy and he promises you a good time,’
Maria began.
‘…and then some
other guy wants to offer you an even better time,’ Lynn sniggered.
‘And by the time
you finally make it to where you’re supposed to be…’ Maria sounded a little
tipsy.
‘…you’ve had a
whole lot of fun,’ Lynn snorted.
Then she
repeated the word, ‘fun,’ and shook with apparent silent laughter.
The two girls
leaned in toward one another and turned away from the men at the gate, giving
them a good view of their posteriors, wiggling them conspicuously.
‘Go on in. I’m
sure there’s something to please you there.’ The taller guard opened the gate
for them.
By this time,
except for the occasional droplet, it had stopped raining as Maria and Lynn
entered the soaked grounds of the mansion. They continued their drunken bimbo
act for the benefit of the gate guards, but they were already considering their
next move. Maria’s high heels clicked on the concrete driveway and Lynn’s go-go
boots seemed to offer a clumping echo of her partner’s walk. They felt eyes of
the half-dozen guards who were placed at strategic positions around the circle
on their every movement. The swerved and swayed their way toward the
double-doored entrance, eventually arriving before yet another armed man.
He looked them
up and down, then briefly nodded his head and reached back to the doorknob.
The door swung
open and a brightly lit interior greeted the girls. ‘Go on in,’ he said softly.
Stepping inside,
both noticed how warm it was. Perhaps it was nothing more than the coolness
following the downpour, but the interior of the mansion seemed to have its thermostats
set appreciably higher than traditional room temperature. Soaked as they were,
Lynn and Maria felt grateful for the warmth as their clothing began to feel
less uncomfortable. They even sensed a drying out of themselves and of these
costumes.
Alone in the
foyer, they quickly looked around.
‘What do we do
now?’ Lynn ventured almost afraid to make any sound.
Seeing the
glowing lights from the ballroom directly in front of them, Maria replied,
‘There, I think,’ indicating with her head the open doors.
Suddenly a roar
of laughter erupted from the room that they were approaching.
‘Yep,’ Maria
said softly, ‘there.’
*****
The room they
entered seemed to be another world. The ballroom was ablaze with light;
candelabras on the walls and a huge chandelier suspended from the ceiling
reflected in mirrors in the paneling, all multiplying to overwhelm the girls as
they crossed the threshold. The bare, polished wooden floors gleamed. Even the
painted portions of the walls, and the fine woodwork borders surrounding these
multicoloured surfaces, had been cleaned to a spotless brilliance in
preparation for this evening.
The two women,
drier now, looked across the wide expanse and saw a throng of men, probably
more than two dozen in number, encircling a small portion of the floor. Off to
one side, stood the unmistakable portly figure of Fareed Gouyannou, holding a
microphone and smiling widely.
‘Here we go,’
Maria whispered to her newfound friend.
They had not
taken two steps, however, when the room was filled with an ear-shattering
scream. The source of the shriek was not visible, but the overwhelming sense of
pain and desolation that it conveyed was unambiguous. It was immediately
followed by another peal of laughter from the body of men.
Gouyannou now
spoke up. ‘There you have her, gentlemen. The once-mighty Crimson Flare.
Sprawled like a clumsy rag doll! The Champion of Women. Flat as a pancake! And
we did it! Tonight, in a matter of hours, we turned this fearsome figure of law
and order into a quivering plaything, used for our amusement.’
Lynn and Maria
turned to face one another and then walked slowly toward the mass of
dark-suited figures. Lynn felt the inside of her mouth go dry. Almost
desperately she worked her jaw to moisten her cheeks and tongue. Even as she
did so, she felt sick and her knees felt weak. Right now, she wanted nothing
more than to run from the room.
The men seemed
to part as the women reached to edge of the crowd. As they penetrated to the
centre, they came upon a sight they would never forget.
Curled up in a
trembling fetal ball, the naked form of Crimson Flare lay on the polished
floor, whimpering, wrapping her arms around her torso, seeking security. Her
body was bruised, small signs of discolouration along her back and legs. She still
wore only her cowl, mask, boots, and one of her satin gloves. The Champion of
Women lay on her right side. Crimson Flare’s black boots were scuffed badly,
but there was still much evidence of the highly polished sheen that was so
familiar about them. Her legs moved up and down, up and down, came together and
separated, came together and separated, the motion irregular. Sometimes it was
only her calves that moved, her left knee shifting on to and off of her right.
At other times, the entire left leg rolled off of the right, the hard leather shusshhing
across the floor. The motion was uneven and both of the legs shivered
uncontrollably. Just above the tops of the black leather was now only barely
visible the tatters of the heroine’s colourless tights. The normally flawless
thighs were covered in filth and debris, smeared with the flaky remains of
someone’s manhood or a still viscous more recent deposit. Dirt and small flakes
of paper clung to her.
Her hips, too,
moved, responding to the spastic squeezing of her thighs, as well as their own
rotation around the focus of her right hand, which had found its way between
those magnificent appendages, and one finger of which had now secretly—or,
perhaps, not so secretly—wedged itself inside her. Desperate for the
stimulation of her sex, unaware of the audience surrounding her, America’s
Darling pressed her body down onto her satin-covered middle finger, but without
evident result.
Her naked back
was fully curved, her bare shoulders rounded. The powerful muscles could be
seen quivering uselessly. Her small breasts could not be seen while she was in
this position, and because her left arm, shorn of its glove, wrapped itself
across her chest. The firmness of her breasts pressed hard against her forearm
and the marble-like nodes that crested each would have been impossible for any
observer to fail to note, were they visible. The arm itself, bruised like the
other limbs, was also covered with men’s residues and encrustations of the
filth of the floors of this building.
Her masked face
and cowled head were the most familiar remainders of who she once was. The cowl
had been torn in places, Karen’s short, dark brown hair protruding in sweaty
tufts. The formerly shiny black mask was scratched and smudged, covered with
the scum of her indignities. Around her mouth and across her jaw, a mixture of
blood and cum had begun to form a disgusting crust.
She moaned. It
was like the sound of an animal in pain. Her mind, that fine-tuned,
crime-fighting weapon, had been devastated by pain and abuse. Now, all she
could do was plead for remission from her agony.
But no one
offered help. As she looked from one face to another, she saw only disdain and
hatred. Why had her gods turned on her?
Wait! There!
There’s… someone who’ll help. Someone who has never let her down. She opened
her mouth to speak, but was able to only croak out a mournful syllable.
‘Lynn?’
End of Chapter
Four
Comments, questions, suggestions welcome:
contact the author at marat1793@comcast.net