Twisted 9

WARNING: This story contains scenes of graphic violence and non-consent. If that disturbs you, don't read any further. Click the back button, now. If you continue, I don't want to see any comments about how you are disgusted about what I warned you would be here. I will simply delete those comments. You have been warned.

I must thank my team. Harddaysknight is my mentor and gives me critical review. SBrooks also gives me a pre-post read. My editors are Girlinthemoon, Hale1 and GeorgeAnderson. I thank you all. Randi.

I was just getting off work when I saw them. I was a security guard for a big apartment complex. When I got out of the army, I discovered that there aren't many jobs that require killing people and breaking stuff. I joined straight out of high school and I really didn't know how to do anything but fight, march and make up beds really well. I started college using the Army plan and I was doing well. A former sergeant got me the security gig and I was working that in the evenings and going to school in the day. It was almost midnight and a van pulled into the garage. I recognized the van. It belonged to a guy that lived in one of the apartments. There were a lot of parties in his apartment and I got a lot of complaints. We knew each other and shared a mutual dislike.

The last time I had a run in with him there was a noise complaint and they were really going at it in there. The music was blasting and when I knocked on the door, they didn't hear me for a while. I beat on it pretty hard and someone answered the door. When he saw my uniform, he closed the door so I couldn't see inside.

"Your neighbors are complaining about the noise," I told him. "If I can hear your music out here in the hall it's too loud. Turn it down."

He yelled at someone inside and the music died. It was replaced by the sound of a woman crying out. I couldn't tell if it was pain or pleasure.

"Open the door," I told him.

He didn't want to so I hit it with my shoulder, driving it into his face and making him fall to the floor. In the middle of the room there was a woman. She had on a dog collar with a chain attached to a ring on the wall and that was it. She was riding the guy on the floor under her and another guy was fucking her in the ass. A third guy was in her mouth and there were two more waiting their turn. She was a spectacular blonde; one of the most gorgeous women I had ever seen.

She was plainly coming like a bomb, and I just shut the door and left. That was three weeks before. I was watching the cameras and I saw the guy from the apartment get out. Three of his boys were with him, and the same woman I saw the time before. The elevator door was next to the door to the security office, and when they got to the door I stepped out.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, we're cool," he said.

The woman was being held by the arm by one of his boys and she immediately began to struggle.

"No! Help me," she screamed. "They're holding me captive! They're raping me!"

"She's drunk," the guy from the apartment said. "She's my girl."

"No, I'm not!" she cried. "I have a husband and they kidnapped me. They're forcing me!"

"You boys mind stepping into my office and we'll straighten this out," I said.

"This ain't none of your business," one of the others said. "This bitch is crazy."

"Well, we'll get it sorted out then," I said. "Miss, step in here please."

The one holding her arm dropped it and took off running. One of his buddies went with him and then there were two.

"We're going to fuck you up," the apartment guy said.

"You're making a mistake," I told him.

"Ain't no mistake," he said.

I reached inside and grabbed my nightstick. They rushed me and I gave the first one the end of the nightstick in the belly. He went down and I was moving to the left. The other guy slammed into the door where I had been standing and I gave him a wicked blow to the inside of his thigh. He screamed and went down.

They were just trying to get away now, and I helped them on their way. That just left me and the woman. She stood there trembling; wearing a blue dress that looked like it had been painted on. Damn, she was hot!

"Miss, you okay?" I asked her.

She collapsed to the floor, sobbing hysterically. I hurried over and helped her up. She could hardly stand, and I took her into the office and sat her down on the sofa in there. She clung to me and just bawled. She was saying something, but it was unintelligible. Her crying made it just gibberish. I got her a hand towel and a bottle of water. She held the towel to her face and took a drink of the water. As she began to gain a little control of herself, I could hear words. She was saying something about her husband, about being raped and made to use drugs. She had track marks all over her arms.

I just kept my arm around her and kept telling her it was over and she was safe now. She finally calmed down enough for me to get some information out of her. Her name was Molly Keene, and she had been at a party with her husband. She had a couple of drinks and everything went away. When she woke up, she was in this building. She was naked and there was a dog collar locked around her neck. It was fastened to the ceiling, too high for her to reach. After an hour or so, the guy who lived in the apartment came in, gave her an injection of something and she went to sleep again. She had been there for a month, and this was the first time they had allowed her out of the apartment.

"Should we call your husband?" I asked her.

"No, I can't let him see me like this," she wept.

"Do you want me to call the police?" I asked.

"No, two of those guys were policeman," she wept. "They made videos of me. Oh God, what am I going to do?"

"Would you like to go home with me?" I asked her. "You could clean up, get something to eat, sleep and then decide what you want to do."

"Please, will you let me do that?" she begged. She looked up at me and she had the softest, saddest, biggest brown eyes I've ever seen. "I'll make it up to you, I swear I will."

"Don't worry about it," I told her. "I'm glad to help you. I'm off work now and I'll take you home."

"What's your name," she asked.

"Cale Henry," I told her.

She never stopped crying the whole drive home. She wasn't sobbing but big tears kept rolling down her cheeks. She asked me what my car was.

"It's a 1970 Buick GSX stage 2," I told her. "Do you like it?"

"I love it," she said. "It looks like a big bumble bee."

I laughed. "I guess it does. The Saturn Yellow with that big black stripe does look like a bumble bee."

She smiled a little and her face lit up like a beacon. She was, no doubt, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. The tears kept coming, though, and the smile quickly faded. When we got to my place, I showed her around. The master bath had a big sunken Jacuzzi tub and marble floors. It was my parents' house, and when they died, they left it to me. I asked her if she was hungry, but she wasn't. I asked her if she would like to take a bath. She nodded and I got her a terry cloth robe, dumped in some bubbles and ran the water. She sat on a chair with her half empty water bottle and watched. I turned on the jets, got her a couple of towels and went out. She was in there nearly an hour. I nuked a pizza and turned the TV on. It was two o'clock in the morning, and after I ate a couple of slices of pizza, I fell asleep with the remote in my hand.

I felt it falling and jerked awake. Molly was easing it out of my hand. She had the robe on and a towel wrapped around her hair.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You were looking uncomfortable and I was just going to turn the TV off."

"Do you want a slice of pizza?" I asked.

She sat down and nibbled on one for a minute. She jumped up and ran to the bathroom and I heard her heaving in there. I went in and got a cool wet washcloth and washed her face with it.

"They gave me drugs and I can hardly eat," she said. "I'm not hungry and when I try to force myself to eat, I get sick."

"It's okay," I patted her. "Let's get some sleep and maybe you'll feel better."

I took her to the spare bedroom and showed her where the light switch was. I was down the hall and across the living room if she needed me, and I told her good night. She hugged me like she was drowning and I was a life preserver. I peeled her away and went to bed.

In the morning she wasn't up, and I knocked on the door. She didn't answer and I called her name. I heard a moan and I opened the door. She was a mess. She had kicked the covers off and her body was covered in sweat. She was trembling like she was freezing to death and she had found a basin under the sink. She had thrown up and she retched occasionally. I felt her pulse and her heart was pounding.

I picked her up and took her back to the master bath. She kept mumbling and I could hear "no" and "please don't, I'm begging you." It broke my heart. This little lady was so traumatized and plainly going through withdrawal symptoms from some kind of drugs. I put her in the tub and ran her a bath. She was evidently very nauseous and I got a pan and held it for her. She relaxed in the tub for a while and she seemed to be doing better. I left her there and went and changed her sheets.

When I got back her eyes were open and she recognized me. "What's wrong with me?" she croaked.

"You're suffering withdrawal symptoms from the drugs they gave you," I told her. "Don't worry; I'll take care of you. You won't like this, but you have to drink. I'm going to give you Benadryl to help with the nausea. You'll get dehydrated and die if you don't drink. I'll have to take you to the hospital."

"Nooo! Please don't," she started to cry. "I'll try to drink. They'll find out about me!"

"Molly, I'm not going to let you die," I told her. "I'll try to keep from taking you, but if I think you're getting too bad I'm going to take you."

"Give me some water," she said.

I got her an old Knicks jersey I had and dried her off. I put in on her and carried her back to her bed. When I came back with a bottle of water, she was asleep. I woke her up and made her drink it. She went back to sleep and I called work and told them I was taking my vacation. I had three weeks coming, and I called school and told them my sister was sick. I got them to e-mail me my homework and I was set for a while. I had a sister, but she lived in Buffalo and they didn't know that.

Molly was sick for two weeks, and three times I thought she was going to die. I was ready to take her to the hospital, but she always begged me and it seemed like by an effort of will she got better. On the fifteenth day I was sitting in the living room eating breakfast and watching ESPN, and she came out. She was wearing another jersey and she looked better. She was stick thin and her hair was a mess.

"That smells really good," she said. "Is that bacon?"

It was and I cooked her some. She ate three eggs and almost a pound of bacon. For the next three days she was a buzz of energy. She ate like a horse and she zipped around, cleaning the house until it shone and cooking all our meals. Then it was like a switch turned and she couldn't get out of bed. She cried all the time and she was very irritable. I got online and did some research. They called it post-acute withdrawal. According to the experts it wouldn't last long, and they were right. After two days, she was up in the morning before me and she made us breakfast.

"I'm sorry I was so grouchy with you," she said. "I don't know what's wrong with me. You've been so nice to me and you don't deserve to be treated like that."

"It isn't you, Molly," I told her. "This is something you're going to go through for a while. It may last up to two years. You're going to have mood swings. It doesn't hurt my feelings. I know you're just having a hard time."

"You're the best person I've ever met," she told me. "I'm so grateful for everything you've done for me. I'll make it up to you somehow."

"You're welcome," I told her. "Molly we need to talk about what you're going to do now. You're cleaned up from the drugs except for the long-term effects. What do you think you want to do? Do you want to contact your husband? He must be worried sick."

"If he is, why isn't there a missing persons report out on me?" she asked. "I looked on the internet. There's not a word about me being missing. It hasn't been on any news reports. There isn't a word about me on the internet except old stuff. I even checked his Facebook. He hasn't mentioned me. I think he had something to do with it, Cale. He's the one that got me the drinks."

"Don't you think someone could have slipped something into them without him knowing?" I asked.

"It's possible, but if your wife was missing wouldn't you be raising the roof?" she said. "I think he gave me to those men. I'd suspected he was having an affair and I think he believed he could just get rid of me. I think those men were going to kill me when they got tired of me."

"Jesus Christ, Molly! Who would do something like that?"

"A really rotten person," she said. "You have no idea what those men did to me, Cale."

"I don't want to know," I told her. "I can imagine."

"Well, I need to tell you," she said. "I need to put this behind me and deal with it. If I don't talk to someone, I'm going to wind up killing myself. You're my only friend, Cale. Please, talk to me. Let me talk to you."

"Okay, Molly, but are you sure you want to relive all that?"

"No, I don't want to relive it, but I need desperately for you to listen to me and let me grieve. I need you to tell me it's going to be okay and that I'm not destroyed as a person. I nearly am, Cale. You're the only thing keeping me sane right now."

She was sitting on a barstool across the counter from me and I went over and picked her up. I carried her to the sofa and sat down with her on my lap and held her.

"You aren't broken, Molly," I said. "You're bent, but we'll get through this. I know it was horrible, but you're going to make it."

"I don't suppose you know what it's like to be raped," she said. "I'm not sure any man can understand that. Those men raped me, so many times. I was there nearly a month. There were four of them and they all raped me every day." Her voice began to break and she began to sob.

I just squeezed her tighter and she continued. "They gave me drugs, constantly, and they kept me chained up like a dog. The worst part wasn't the rapes or the beating. It wasn't being degraded and abused. I could always tell myself that it wasn't my fault. The worst thing was that they made me come. They raped me and they tortured me. They would bring me right to the edge of orgasm and then keep me there for hours. They would make me beg to come. I'd have to tell them that I was a slut and that I wanted them to fuck my cunt. They made me say that I was a slut and a whore, and they wrote degrading things like, big cock slut' on me with magic markers." She was sobbing uncontrollably now.

"The really awful thing was that I did. I needed to come so badly that I would beg. I would have done anything. They kept me like that for the first three days. They would fuck me and leave me tied up with vibrators in me. They gave me drugs that made me so sensitive and horny that I thought I was going to die. They kept telling me I would have to beg for it. The fourth day I couldn't stand it anymore. I just gave up and did whatever they told me to do. Do you know how many times they made me do that? Do you know how many times they made me come in that month? Does that turn you on, Cale?"

"You turn me on, Molly," I told her. "The idea of making you come turns me on. The idea of torturing you and degrading you disgusts me. Those men aren't human, Molly. You used a key word there with everything you said. They 'made' you do it. You didn't have a choice. I used to be in the Army. I remember once we had taken a prisoner. Some spooks came around and 'interrogated' him. He was a strong man. He was a religious nut job who thought killing Americans was holy, and that Allah wanted him to do it. If anyone ever had a will not to give in, that man did. Those spooks tortured him. They didn't use sex like those men did to you, but they used drugs. They used everything in the book and he broke. He was a gibbering wreck and he would have done anything to make the torture stop. I got guard duty one night, and I saw what they were doing to him. I nearly killed those spooks. I would have if they hadn't pulled me off them. Humans don't torture other humans. The point I'm trying to make is that you didn't have a choice. Everyone has a breaking point."

"Yes, but I came for those men. I begged them to make me come."

"I know that. I'm ashamed to tell you this, Molly, but I saw you. Some of their neighbors made a noise complaint and I went to that apartment. I saw you, but I thought you were enjoying yourself, so I left you there. I'm so sorry."

"That's what I'm telling you," she said. "I was enjoying myself! I was coming and begging them to make me come."

"Did you go there voluntarily?" I asked her. "Did you ask to be fucked? We're you a willing participant in any of that? Would you have done any of that voluntarily? The first time you had a chance you asked me to help you. You didn't want to be there. None of this is your fault! You're the victim here."

"No, I would never have done any of that if I had a choice," she said. She was beginning to calm down and she snuggled into me, rubbing her face on my chest. My shirt was wet with her tears and I just stroked her silky blonde hair and held her.

She looked up at me. "Do you think I'm disgusting, Cale?"

"I think what they did to you is disgusting," I told her. "I think you're nearly perfect, Molly. I think that when this is just a memory, sort of like a bad dream, you'll be the girl of someone's dreams."

"Did you mean it when you said I turn you on?" she asked.

"You're gorgeous," I told her. "You don't need me to tell you that."

"I don't feel gorgeous," she said. "I feel dirty and cheap. I feel weak. I feel like I should have been able to keep fighting."

"You did keep fighting," I told her. "That's why you asked me to help you. If you had given up, you'd still be there if they hadn't killed you by now."

She settled in on my lap and we just shared the contact. I was really surprised that she'd let any man touch her after what they'd done to her. Maybe she trusted me because I had taken her away from them. For whatever reason, I wasn't about to let her go.

It was months before the periods of depression began to ease up. They became less and less frequent over time. After six months we started going out. I'd take her with me to the store or she'd go to school with me and stay in the library. I had quit the security job, and was doing an internship with the company I hoped to work for when I graduated. I really didn't need to work for a long time. My parents had left me pretty well off, and I hadn't spent much while I was in the army.

She had been living with me for eight months when she started to crack. I came home from school and she was crying on the sofa. I took her in my arms and she clung to me.

"What's wrong, Molly?" I asked her.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she said. "I feel like I'm going to explode. I keep remembering how I felt when I was on drugs and those guys were fucking me. I don't know how to describe it other than hunger. I hate myself for feeling like this, but I feel like I itch inside. I want to go out and have someone fuck me like a slut. I feel like I want to do drugs and just let myself go. What's wrong with me, Cale?"

I tried to reassure her. "It's just a reaction to what happened to you, Mol. Those neurotransmitters in your brain were suppressed and your brain is still overproducing. You got used to those endorphins and it makes you feel like that."