AllFreeNovel
Share Us
His pressure is light and gentle, almost playful, as he trails it lower and lower, resting it over the one area I never wanted to see. Arlo’s cock rests limply on his balls between his legs, tiny and unassuming to the naked eye, though I know even that thing has the power to destroy a person. The size doesn’t matter.
The stalker nudges the point against the member attached to its master as a mangled cry releases from his throat, his movements weak and pathetic as he tries to jerk away. The stalker glances back up at Arlo’s mutilated face before pulling something from his pocket.
A small black voice recorder sits in his hand and his gloved finger presses play. Arlo’s voice fills the space, menacing and laden with desire.
“There’s a good girl. Just relax and let me make you feel good.” A woman’s–my–whimpers play from the small speakers. Though quiet, they seem to fill the small space with their significance.
A faint, accented voice picks up on the recorder calling my name, as a strangled sound surfaces in a feminine tone. My feminine tone. Like I was trying to call for help. “Shh. We don’t want him coming and ruining all the fun, do we?”
A grunt surfaces before another femine cry of pain rents the air. The stalker’s eyes focus back between Arlo’s legs, showing the growth of his cock between his thighs, his obvious excitement at the memory of my fear and pain. Even through the agony and torture he’s experiencing, his dick continues to rise as the recorder continues playing.
“You might want to stay still for this part.” There’s a shuffle of movement and more cries right before the sound of Arlo spitting into his hand.
Then a booming crash echoes from the device, sounding far closer to it than any other sound it’s picked up so far.
The stalker presses the stop button when Arlo’s dick is at full mast and he replaces it in his pocket before shifting his blade to his right hand, his left grabbing hold of the offending appendage.
“For you, my dear Wicked.” He almost sings the word in his robotic, broken tone and, without any hesitation, he arcs the blade down, completely cutting through his member like it’s made of butter. A piercing, bloodcurdling scream follows quite a few seconds after Arlo’s gore starts pouring from between his legs, like it took a few moments for his brain to register the trauma and react.
The stalker ignores it all, returning to his table and dropping the knife before grabbing a meat cleaver, the shiny silver metal a stark contrast to the dark and bloody backdrop. He swings it in arcs as he returns to his victim, before immediately smashing it between Arlo’s legs.
His screams of agony grow thick and clotted as the psycho continues raining down destruction with hammer after hammer of the meat cleaver on his most sensitive area. The stalker doesn’t stop for what feels like hours, merely continuing to beat down over and over until, finally, Arlo’s screams taper off.
He drops the meat cleaver to the floor, gazing at his handiwork, before shifting and delicately placing the sunglasses he pulls from his other pocket onto Arlo’s face. Turning back to his table, he hums to himself once more as he collects all of his tools and weapons, placing them neatly in a plastic bin by his feet.
His hands hesitate when he moves to grab a small black box and, glancing back to see Arlo’s still form, he opens it. The contents are confusing. Newspaper articles, pictures–though I can’t see what of because he’s rifling through too quickly–and little trinkets and odds and ends.
Nothing stands out until he flips to a picture and stops.
The girl stands in front of an unassuming red brick house, large circular glasses covering the bandages on her face, as the woman next to her holds a hand on her shoulder, sadness in her gaze as she stares down at the young blind girl beside her.
Another woman, similar in features to the two standing together on the sidewalk, stares furiously at the duo from her porch, her contempt and hatred obvious on her delicate features.
A memory sneaks up on me as he gazes at the photo, flashing through my connection to the vision, causing it waver.
My nana took me to visit my mother after I just got out of the hospital from the car crash. I wanted to get a few of my dad’s things to remember him by, but my mother refused to let me in. She drew the attention of every neighbor surrounding us as she screamed at me in a shrill voice lade with hatred. Telling me that I killed my father. That she never wanted to see me again. That I was dead to her.
That was the last time I was at the house I grew up in, before I came to live with Nana.
The vision flickers back into view for a moment longer as the memory fades, just in time to see the stalker’s gloved fingers trace the edges of the photo. His touch leaves behind smears of blood, before he sticks one finger out and draws an X right over my mother’s face. The crimson color stark against the grainy black and white of the picture.
Then I’m thrown from the vision.
Ibarely manage to trip away from the crime scene before losing control of the contents of my stomach, my bodily sensations coming back to me full force. Keeling over on my knees, the cool concrete settles into the fabric of my jeans. I heave and heave as I upchuck the coffee and bagel I shoved into my mouth on the way here.
I don’t stop until my stomach is empty, yet I still feel more nauseous than I’ve ever felt in my life.
A set of hands grab me, lifting me away from the mess I made and pull me into their arms, my feet leaving the ground completely. Ezra’s aura is leaking his worry as he manhandles and cares for me in the only way he knows how…by holding me.
“Wicked! Baby! Are you okay?” Kai’s hand grabs at mine, holding it in a vice-like grip as his other one pushes my hair out of my face.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” I breathe deeply, pushing past the churning of my stomach as I melt into their care and concern.
Nic hovers nearby, standing with Alan off to the side. Even though he doesn’t outwardly show it, I feel his worry for me all the same, he’s just far less outspoken compared to the other guys. I motion for Ezra to let me down and he does, but he doesn’t let me step away, instead holding me flush against him.
I feel Alan’s confusion growing at our display, but that’s the last thing I want to explain right now.
“Alan.” My throat is dry and my breath feels gross, but I keep going. “Where’s my mom?”
