Post by Chris Hedges on Aug 30, 2010 5:38:10 GMT -6
This story originally appeared in the Raw Meat anthology.
The second story hallway of the Motel was deserted, save for the two writhing bodies clutching at one another against the worn and paint starved door of room 26. Hands searching. Tongues dancing. Lungs pumping.
Jacky broke the embrace, with much effort, and held the brunette at arms length.
“Let’s finish this inside, shall we?” Jacky said, voice husky with lust.
“Oh, we shall,” the brunette said as she used a red tipped finger to smooth the moisture from around her generous lips. She stepped away from the door, allowing Jacky to slide the room key home with a click. With the door opened, Jacky invited the brunette to enter, with a swoop of the arm and a gentle, more than friendly pat on her rear--savoring the smell of her perfume as she passed. Delicious.
Jacky watched from the doorway as the brunette entered the room--her calves flexing and butt swaying with each measured step, as if she were walking a fashion runway, instead of the cigarette-pocked carpet of a cheap, dimly lit motel room that had seen its better days.
This girl knows what she’s doing. She knows she’s making me hot, Jacky thought.
Reaching the foot of the bed, the brunette leaned over, legs straight to allow the best view of her hindquarters and tested the firmness of the stained mattress with open palms. She reached back, lifting the skin-tight fabric of her mini-skirt up over the cheeks of her ass. The silk of her thong bulged with her womanhood—moisture darkening the material.
Looking back with an expression that bordered on pouting, the brunette said, “Ohhhh, Jacky. The games we’ll play tonight.”
“You have no idea,” Jacky said with a shake of the head and placed the nylon backpack on the rounded table next to the door. It had been a constant companion since leaving the bar.
Once the door was closed and locked, the brunette turned and began unbuttoning her blouse at a tortuous pace. Jacky took a step towards her, barely able to contain the pure, animalistic passion building within.
“No. Wait there,” the brunette said, “I want you to see me. All of me.”
Jacky held position, in awe of the sleek, female form coming into view as each article of clothing was removed. In minutes, that seemed to stretch into days for Jacky, the brunette was naked--standing with no sign of self-consciousness, completely bare of pubic hair. There was a small tattoo of a rose on her hip. Maybe to hint at her name?
The brunette made her way to where Jacky stood. Their lips met, sparking an explosion--a frenzy of raw emotion. The brunette began to tear away at Jacky’s clothing, buttons clicked off the linoleum of the entryway and the condensation-covered air conditioner mounted to the wall and in moments, they were both naked--clothes littered the room. Jacky grabbed a fistful of shiny brown hair and forced the brunette to her knees. She—Rose?-- knew what to do, and wasted no time getting to work.
Deep, guttural moans escaped Jacky’s throat as orgasm approached, but it would not be allowed to peak. That was for later. With great effort and concentration, Jacky’s hand creeped toward the backpack and unlatched the flap, eyes never leaving the undulating head below and the sought after item was located.
“This is the best head I’ve ever had, baby,” Jacky panted. The brunette answered with only a moan--her efforts increasing. “It’s too bad it has to stop now.”
That statement puzzled her, making her stop and look up…just in time to see the arc of a twelve-inch length of pipe as it crashed down upon her head. After that, there was only darkness.
Ahhhhh. The wet work. That’s what it’s all about, now isn’t it.
The surgical steel parted the flesh just above the sternum of the recently deceased brunette. Blood coursed from the wound, trailing under the victim’s breasts and following the scalpel blade down to the pubis where it created a crimson pool on the bed sheets between her slender, inner thighs.
“I knew you wanted me,” Jacky said. Hands reached into the body. Digging. Searching.
They worked in the same bar—Jacky as the bartender, the brunette, as a new waitress. It was three weeks ago, to the day, that they’d shared their first words and curious glances with one another. It was only a matter of time.
“Ah. There we go.”
The victim’s uterus was extracted with a wet, sucking sound. A couple of small cuts and it was free.
“This will do nicely as a gift to my favorite sheriff. Wouldn’t you say, dear? He never tires of my gifts to him.” Jacky held the organ up as if for the corpse to see. Of course she couldn’t see, but even if her optic nerves were still firing, her eyes had been removed moments before and placed in a baby food jar. They stared at Jacky’s macabre performance from their perch on the nightstand.
“Hum. Quiet one, aren’t you? No matter. I know he’ll like it all the same.” Jacky placed the orb in a Tupperware container and sealed it for freshness.
A fingertip traced the wound that had sealed the brunette’s fate. Open wide from earlobe to earlobe, a hideous grin of a wound yawned just under the jaw line. Jacky detested having to bash their skulls in before getting down to real business, but a struggling victim tended to interfere with the precision needed to achieve the overall effect of the scene left behind--a lesson learned from the first victim. Feisty one, she was.
“Beautiful. Simply beautiful,” Jacky said, admiring the art created by blade and flesh.
The air of the motel room was thick with the smell of stale sex and death. It was a smell Jacky had enjoyed six times in the past month. The frenzied media scrambled to place a face with the killer who was taking daughters away from their families, but so far, had nothing to offer.
With the back of a hand, Jacky stroked the brunette’s cheek, much as a long time lover would their mate while bidding an extended farewell. “Can’t make a stealthy exit, while covered in your juices now, can I, dear?” Jacky said and left the bed to bathe, disappearing into the bathroom.
Once clean and dry, Jacky gathered up the clothes that had so feverishly been discarded upon entering the motel room. The organs--gifts--were placed in the nylon backpack resting on the worn and wobbly table. Dressed, Jacky reached into the outside pocket of the backpack and extracted a small, sterling silver “J”. Another gift to be found with the latest victim; tucked nicely inside the neck wound. It matched the one that dangled from a chain around Jacky’s neck.
The press called the murderer the modern day Jack the Ripper. This amused Jacky. Though the police had no accurate physical description, they’re investigators profiled the murderer as a white male between the ages of 18 and 32. He would most likely have a professional occupation earning him a status of upper middle class and was probably abused sexually as a child.
Backpack in hand, Jacky left the room in time to see the elevator doors across the hall beginning to close.
“Hold the door, please!” Jacky called.
A large hand grasped the edge of one faded silver door, just in time to haul it back open. Inside, stood a large, athletic looking man in a jogging suit. He reminded Jacky of the guys in college they used to refer to as “pretty boy”, most certainly gay. He smiled and stepped aside to allow entrance into the cube.
“Thanks,” Jacky said as the elevator descended.
The man kept smiling as he stared at Jacky, obviously trying to think of something clever to say.
“That’s a beautiful necklace,” the man said. “What’s the J stand for?”
Oh, Lord. Is he actually hitting on me? I have to get out of here!
“Thanks. It stands for Jacquelyn,” she said as she smoothed her skirt over her rounded thighs. The elevator doors opened and Jacky exited leaving the man standing there, staring as she sauntered away.
My mistake, he’s not gay. Cute, Jacky thought, lucky for him I’m a lady-killer.
Jacky disappeared into the night. There was a delivery to be made and time was running out.
Wet Work
By: Chris Hedges
By: Chris Hedges
The second story hallway of the Motel was deserted, save for the two writhing bodies clutching at one another against the worn and paint starved door of room 26. Hands searching. Tongues dancing. Lungs pumping.
Jacky broke the embrace, with much effort, and held the brunette at arms length.
“Let’s finish this inside, shall we?” Jacky said, voice husky with lust.
“Oh, we shall,” the brunette said as she used a red tipped finger to smooth the moisture from around her generous lips. She stepped away from the door, allowing Jacky to slide the room key home with a click. With the door opened, Jacky invited the brunette to enter, with a swoop of the arm and a gentle, more than friendly pat on her rear--savoring the smell of her perfume as she passed. Delicious.
Jacky watched from the doorway as the brunette entered the room--her calves flexing and butt swaying with each measured step, as if she were walking a fashion runway, instead of the cigarette-pocked carpet of a cheap, dimly lit motel room that had seen its better days.
This girl knows what she’s doing. She knows she’s making me hot, Jacky thought.
Reaching the foot of the bed, the brunette leaned over, legs straight to allow the best view of her hindquarters and tested the firmness of the stained mattress with open palms. She reached back, lifting the skin-tight fabric of her mini-skirt up over the cheeks of her ass. The silk of her thong bulged with her womanhood—moisture darkening the material.
Looking back with an expression that bordered on pouting, the brunette said, “Ohhhh, Jacky. The games we’ll play tonight.”
“You have no idea,” Jacky said with a shake of the head and placed the nylon backpack on the rounded table next to the door. It had been a constant companion since leaving the bar.
Once the door was closed and locked, the brunette turned and began unbuttoning her blouse at a tortuous pace. Jacky took a step towards her, barely able to contain the pure, animalistic passion building within.
“No. Wait there,” the brunette said, “I want you to see me. All of me.”
Jacky held position, in awe of the sleek, female form coming into view as each article of clothing was removed. In minutes, that seemed to stretch into days for Jacky, the brunette was naked--standing with no sign of self-consciousness, completely bare of pubic hair. There was a small tattoo of a rose on her hip. Maybe to hint at her name?
The brunette made her way to where Jacky stood. Their lips met, sparking an explosion--a frenzy of raw emotion. The brunette began to tear away at Jacky’s clothing, buttons clicked off the linoleum of the entryway and the condensation-covered air conditioner mounted to the wall and in moments, they were both naked--clothes littered the room. Jacky grabbed a fistful of shiny brown hair and forced the brunette to her knees. She—Rose?-- knew what to do, and wasted no time getting to work.
Deep, guttural moans escaped Jacky’s throat as orgasm approached, but it would not be allowed to peak. That was for later. With great effort and concentration, Jacky’s hand creeped toward the backpack and unlatched the flap, eyes never leaving the undulating head below and the sought after item was located.
“This is the best head I’ve ever had, baby,” Jacky panted. The brunette answered with only a moan--her efforts increasing. “It’s too bad it has to stop now.”
That statement puzzled her, making her stop and look up…just in time to see the arc of a twelve-inch length of pipe as it crashed down upon her head. After that, there was only darkness.
#
Ahhhhh. The wet work. That’s what it’s all about, now isn’t it.
The surgical steel parted the flesh just above the sternum of the recently deceased brunette. Blood coursed from the wound, trailing under the victim’s breasts and following the scalpel blade down to the pubis where it created a crimson pool on the bed sheets between her slender, inner thighs.
“I knew you wanted me,” Jacky said. Hands reached into the body. Digging. Searching.
They worked in the same bar—Jacky as the bartender, the brunette, as a new waitress. It was three weeks ago, to the day, that they’d shared their first words and curious glances with one another. It was only a matter of time.
“Ah. There we go.”
The victim’s uterus was extracted with a wet, sucking sound. A couple of small cuts and it was free.
“This will do nicely as a gift to my favorite sheriff. Wouldn’t you say, dear? He never tires of my gifts to him.” Jacky held the organ up as if for the corpse to see. Of course she couldn’t see, but even if her optic nerves were still firing, her eyes had been removed moments before and placed in a baby food jar. They stared at Jacky’s macabre performance from their perch on the nightstand.
“Hum. Quiet one, aren’t you? No matter. I know he’ll like it all the same.” Jacky placed the orb in a Tupperware container and sealed it for freshness.
A fingertip traced the wound that had sealed the brunette’s fate. Open wide from earlobe to earlobe, a hideous grin of a wound yawned just under the jaw line. Jacky detested having to bash their skulls in before getting down to real business, but a struggling victim tended to interfere with the precision needed to achieve the overall effect of the scene left behind--a lesson learned from the first victim. Feisty one, she was.
“Beautiful. Simply beautiful,” Jacky said, admiring the art created by blade and flesh.
The air of the motel room was thick with the smell of stale sex and death. It was a smell Jacky had enjoyed six times in the past month. The frenzied media scrambled to place a face with the killer who was taking daughters away from their families, but so far, had nothing to offer.
With the back of a hand, Jacky stroked the brunette’s cheek, much as a long time lover would their mate while bidding an extended farewell. “Can’t make a stealthy exit, while covered in your juices now, can I, dear?” Jacky said and left the bed to bathe, disappearing into the bathroom.
Once clean and dry, Jacky gathered up the clothes that had so feverishly been discarded upon entering the motel room. The organs--gifts--were placed in the nylon backpack resting on the worn and wobbly table. Dressed, Jacky reached into the outside pocket of the backpack and extracted a small, sterling silver “J”. Another gift to be found with the latest victim; tucked nicely inside the neck wound. It matched the one that dangled from a chain around Jacky’s neck.
The press called the murderer the modern day Jack the Ripper. This amused Jacky. Though the police had no accurate physical description, they’re investigators profiled the murderer as a white male between the ages of 18 and 32. He would most likely have a professional occupation earning him a status of upper middle class and was probably abused sexually as a child.
Backpack in hand, Jacky left the room in time to see the elevator doors across the hall beginning to close.
“Hold the door, please!” Jacky called.
A large hand grasped the edge of one faded silver door, just in time to haul it back open. Inside, stood a large, athletic looking man in a jogging suit. He reminded Jacky of the guys in college they used to refer to as “pretty boy”, most certainly gay. He smiled and stepped aside to allow entrance into the cube.
“Thanks,” Jacky said as the elevator descended.
The man kept smiling as he stared at Jacky, obviously trying to think of something clever to say.
“That’s a beautiful necklace,” the man said. “What’s the J stand for?”
Oh, Lord. Is he actually hitting on me? I have to get out of here!
“Thanks. It stands for Jacquelyn,” she said as she smoothed her skirt over her rounded thighs. The elevator doors opened and Jacky exited leaving the man standing there, staring as she sauntered away.
My mistake, he’s not gay. Cute, Jacky thought, lucky for him I’m a lady-killer.
Jacky disappeared into the night. There was a delivery to be made and time was running out.
