The story you are about to read includes very explicit reference to sex. If you are not old enough to read this story where you live, or if you object to frank language about sex, please read no further.
If, however, you enjoy sexual fantasies and a bit of the dark side, please read on!
* * * * *
If only I hadn't gone to the bank on that Wednesday. If only Richard had taken care of his own damned deposit. If only. If only.
And now, here I am, driving through the darkened streets of the city, searching. I don't even know what I'm looking for. I guess I think that if I don't find what, or who I'm looking for, he'll surely find me. This is his city, his darkness. This is where his power lies.
I drive from one small pool of light through long stretches of deep shadow, where the streetlights have been shot out and no one cares enough to report it, let alone fix them. The crumbling mortar of the buildings around me only begins to suggest the deep decay of this part of the city, where life still resides, but deep, deep below the surface.
As I pass through an intersection, I see a doorway in the narrow street to my right, over it, a naked red lightbulb. In front of it, a small mountain shaped like a man. I stop, back up, turn down the street, my heart in my throat. I find a space and park my Beemer between two delivery vans, and after several deep breaths that fail to calm me in the least, I get out of the car and start to walk toward the dimly lighted doorway.
* * * * *
But let me explain to you how I came to this place. Or maybe it's two places, the dark street and the place of internal darkness. No, it really is just one place, but some of it lives outside me.
You see, Richard wouldn't stop on the way home on the 15th with his deposit from work. He didn't trust the direct deposit, and he wouldn't put the deposit in the ATM. No. He had to have a receipt. One generated by a human, which meant I had to take care of it, since we had a mortgage payment to make.
I don't usually mind doing this stuff for him. It always seemed silly to me, but I never thought about it much until, well, until this. It was Wednesday. They never rob banks on Wednesday, because they're supposed to have more cash on Fridays, on paydays. Besides, who robs banks any more? They all get caught, don't they?
I got the boys off to school. We have two children, both boys, 5 and 7. I had errands, so I drove them that morning, dropped them at the neighborhood elementary. I know most of the teachers there, since I volunteer there 2 or 3 days a week in the reading program. Well, I used to. Not any more.
I got to the bank just as it opened. I was going to make the deposit and then hit the grocery store on the way home. That's all it was supposed to be, a short run, then home to get Richard's laundry done. He likes the way I press his shirts, just the right amount of starch. I wonder if he still does. If he'll wear anything I've touched.
Anyways, it was Wednesday, the wrong day for all of this, and I was in line, and then the world as I know it came to an end. Guns started going off everywhere. Nobody got shot, but it scared everyone really badly. The guards were these two nice guys in their sixties, and they would've shit their pants if they hadn't been so constipated. 5 big men, in Halloween masks that completely covered their heads, came storming in. You couldn't see their faces, but the timbre of their voices made it clear, they were black. Two of them kept us all lying on the floor while the other three jumped over the barriers and emptied drawers into bags. You're not supposed to be able to do that in banks any more, either, but Richard liked the old fashioned system, without all the glass. It was "charming."
The whole thing didn't take 90 seconds, and then they were running toward the door. I was just about to get my life back when one of them that had been watching over the few customers on the floor pointed at me and said, "That one. Grab her, she looks good." One of the others reached down and grabbed me by the arm, lifting me easily and dragging me toward the door. I was sobbing, pleading with them to leave me alone, to let me stay. I told them about my boys, my life, my husband as they stuffed me into a black conversion van and started off. I noticed that all the men had black leather gloves on. They kept them on in the car.
I didn't even hear a siren before the bank was out of sight. I kept begging them to let me go. They just laughed inside those silly president head masks. "Nothing personal," one of them said. "We just need to slow them down a step. As long as they know we have a hostage, they'll go slower. We only need a little time."
A few blocks from the bank, the van turned into a parking garage. It was one of those with entries on opposing streets. They pulled in and we all jumped out of the van and into a big blue SUV. It had dark windows, so nobody could see who was in it as we pulled out onto the street. The man in the booth just waved as we pulled away. Last I saw, he was getting into the van.
The SUV had three seats. I was in the second seat, in the middle between two of them. Two more were in the front. One guy was behind me. I was squished. These guys were all built like football players. Not huge, just strong, and broad shouldered. I could smell the adrenaline in the car. This had been a rush for all of them. They didn't even look at the money. It was as if it didn't mean anything. As we wove through the city, headed toward the river, the tension eased, but the celebration kept going.
Down in the warehouse district the car slowed, and we finally turned into another garage. The motorized door closed behind us, and the men climbed out of the SUV, pulling me behind them. The crying had stopped along the way, mostly because they really weren't paying any attention to me. I had started to think that they'd let me go once they got far enough away. Once we were out of the truck I started to worry again. Would they let me go once I'd seen their hide out?
Masks came off and high fives were exchanged all around. I stood there, motionless, not sure what to do, until three more men entered the large space from a stair on the side. When they entered, things got quiet. It was clear that two of the three were bodyguards or something. Their eyes moved constantly, even checking out the five who'd arrived with me. The third walked with ease, as though he were walking through a park, not strolling among a bunch of heavily armed felons.
"Did you have a good time?" he asked. A chorus of cheers was his answer. "Fine. I let you have your fun. I don't want to hear any more moaning for at least a month. It's a bit early in the day, but it's a holiday of sorts, so I have a party set up in the conference room. Bring the woman. We're a couple short.
I started to cry again as they took me by both arms and practically carried me up the steps and down a long dingy cinderblock hall. On the right, we came to a heavy wooden door, beautifully finished. It opened into a board room that would have done any Fortune 500 company proud. A long, oblong teak conference table was surrounded by plush leather armchairs in an antique brown. The floor was covered in deep pile carpet in a warm natural wool color. Of course, the activities in the room weren't ones you'd usually see in a board room.
When the door opened, the moans and groans of copulation were immediately evident. I walked in to see two white women in their late 20's, in garters, stockings and bustiers, splayed on opposite ends of the table, having sex with two more of the gang's members. Though the sex was real, the moans had the forced quality of a bad porn flick. Even the dirty talk seemed rehearsed.
Not that the men seemed to mind. Their grunts and chuckles were very authentic. They barely looked up when we entered. The men who came in with me all grabbled bottles of different kinds of alcohol off the table and poured drinks into expensive crystal tumblers, downing it rapidly. I just knew I was going to be raped, but once we got in the room they all left me very much alone. I stood there, staring at the floor, trying to ignore the sounds of sex that filled the room, again at a loss for something to do. I sat in one of the chairs.
The pre-noon party picked right up. There were no windows in this room, so it might as well have been midnight. Large paintings hung were windows might have been, simulating a vew of outside. I was as if the painter had gone outside and figured out just what you'd see if there were a window, and painted that view, but at night. Dark streets were dotted with taillights and the occaisional street lamp. Men in nicer suits than you'd expect congregated in dark shadows and women in "come fuck me" outfits strolled the sidewalks. In one corner of one painting, you could maked out two men fighting.
I sat there, feeling invisible as the men who'd brought me tried valiantly to catch up with the level of inebriation demonstrated by the ones who'd been left behind to try out the two women. Those two were so drunk that they couldn't even reach an orgasm, or so it seemed. They tired of their efforts after a bit and turned their prizes over to the newcomers, who did much better. The women's noises became more animated and authentic. I was sure I heard a real orgasm or two in there and, terrified as I was, their arousal had its effect on me. I found myself wishing I weren't hearing all this, because it was making me downright horny in a very dangerous situation.
After several minutes of this, the room grew quiet and the sexual activity came to a standstill. I realized that the noise in the room had obscured the sound of the heavy door swinging open behind my leather wing-backed chair. The eyes in all the black faces shifted to a point behind and above me. (Though the two men who were in the midst of their conquests didn't really stop moving. They just slowed down. The women grew quiet, too.)
A deep voice that I remembered from the garage spoke. I was afraid to turn, so this disembodied sound floated over my head to the room. "Seems you boys made your little day trip worthwhile. Scored a couple hundred G's, by the look of it. That'll keep you in pocket money for a while." He laughed quietly and the men in the room joined him, as if on cue. "Oh, and you brought me back this play-pretty!" I felt a hand pat me on the head. A large, hard hand. I winced, and the room erupted in unscripted laughter.
He walked from behind me to a seat at the left end of the table. The two who had been engaged there moved quickly and silently, the man zipping his impressive member back into his slacks, grumbling. (None of these men wore average clothing. It all looked expensive, tailored, of fine wools and gabardines.) Sitting down, the obvious leader of this group looked over at me. "Come here," was all he said.
My heart lodged itself in my throat, nearly choking me as I struggled to my feet. Walking as if to my execution, I could hear the occaisional snicker of amusement from the others. I stared into a broad, flat face the color of coffee beans. Not quite solid black, but so dark it seemed that way, with a sheen that would have made the skin beautiful if it hadn't been marked with two long scars, one over his right eyebrow and the other under his left ear, travelling down his jaw line. The scars were hard looking, shiny, seeming even darker than the rest of his face.
Dark, cavernous eyes surveyed me from toe to forehead. I stood there, shivering with fear, waiting.
"Tell me your name."
