Page 100 of Retrograde

“You’re a liar, you dirty whore. I can feel your cunt spasming, so much I couldn’t pull out if I tried.” His voice is coarse and husky, and so full of loathing it forces fresh tears into my eyes.

“I hate you,” I rasp.

He tries to chuckle, but the sound morphs into a moan, jarringly helpless and full of twisted surrender, so at odds with his words.

“I—”

Thrust.

“Fucking—.”

Thrust.

“Hate—”

Thrust.

“You—”

Thrust.

“Too.”

With a fragmented groan, he crashes into me and spills inside of me at the same time as my body clamps and dissolves around him, electricity surging through me, so powerful that, combined with the oxygen deprivation, it makes my vision go completely dark.

I black out.

When I come to, Aron is already up, tucking his cock into his trousers. He casts a brief look in my direction. When he sees me conscious and looking back at him, a ghost of something like relief flickers through his face. But it’s gone so fast I’m not even sure I’ve seen it.

He throws his automatic rifle over his shoulder, adjusting the strap as he marches towards the door.

“Wait!” I croak. “Untie me, you asshole.”

But he walks out of the door without looking at me or saying another word. Leaving me as I am, bound, half-choked to death, bruised, a trail of blood running down my chest from his bite, my pussy exposed, and my thighs sticky with the mixture of his cum and more blood.

Not just empty but hollowed out.

Not just alone but abandoned.

Done for.

38

ARON

On this day, heaven and hell collide in the Abyss Gorge.

The rock screams as it’s torn apart from the ravine wall, death and destruction falling on the slow-moving military trucks. The air vibrates with the thunder of explosions. Boulders crush the roofs of vehicles whilst others jerk with the impact of our grenades. The brittle limestone crumbles and collapses in a spectacular flood of scree, obstructing the road.

Screams echo. Men pour out of the trucks to meet our bullets. Blood turns the dust on the ground into dark red mud.

One by one, Martin deploys the small combat drones we had secured during one of our first ops four years back. Assisted by Corrado, he drops four payloads—all that we’ve accumulated over the years.

Concealed in crevices in the wall or looking over the top of its cliff, we are spread along the length of the gorge. We rain more bullets and grenades on the disorganised remnants of the advancing army until we outnumber its survivors. Then we rope down, abandoning our machine guns in favour of assault rifles.

Bullets buzz past us like drunken metal bees—chaotic and most with poor aim. No more than five Retrogrades go down, with only about five more injured.

My rifle keeps slamming back against my shoulder. My finger doesn’t stray from the trigger, my shots slicing the air with methodical aim, lodging in chests and in skulls, blood and brain matter misting the air before settling on the ground.