Authors: Allison Brennan
His cock was already hard, but at the thought of her mouth on him he groaned and pressed his body firmly against Ashley’s so she’d know exactly what he had in mind. She could say no, right now, and he’d walk. He smirked as he bit her lip. She wouldn’t say no. He could practically feel the drugs coursing through her body. She was hot, she’d do anything. He was ready for anything.
“Let’s go,” he said.
She hesitated. “I don’t know—it’s so fast—”
“Come on. Just a blow job. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”
She didn’t say anything, her face confused, and he took her hand and led her out the back gate of the club into the alley. He’d parked half a block from the rear exit, and in five minutes her tongue would be doing anything he wanted …
“Ashley!”
Brad hesitated, then kept walking. He didn’t want to get into a confrontation, but dammit, he wasn’t letting the bitch just go back to her boyfriend when she was all primed to be fucked.
“Ashley, dammit!”
“My boyfriend,” she said, slurring her words.
Fuck fuck fuck
.
He stopped and turned around.
The prick who’d walked out on the blonde nearly an hour ago didn’t take his eyes off him, but said, “Ashley? What’s going on?”
“Go away,” she said.
Brad quickly assessed the boyfriend as harmless. He said, “You left; she wants to come with me.”
“Not anymore, buddy,” the prick said.
Brad’s jaw tightened, and he said to Ashley, “You want to go with him?”
“No.”
“I don’t want trouble,” Brad told the guy, “but the princess doesn’t want to go with you.”
“Ashley,” the guy said, his voice stern, “you come with me right now or I’ll tell your dad about your fake ID.”
“Excuse me?” Brad said.
“She’s seventeen.”
“No way.” He dropped his arm from around the girl and stared at her. No way she was seventeen. But … he wasn’t certain. He didn’t care how old she was—she was definitely old enough to screw—but now the situation was fucked. Her boyfriend could identify him.
“Ashley?” he questioned.
She pouted, but didn’t say anything.
Brad wanted to strangle her. “You can have her.” He pushed the bitch toward her boyfriend. “Fucking tease.”
“Jerk,” Ashley said, but Brad didn’t know if she was talking to him or her boyfriend, and he didn’t care. He wanted a warm body to screw, to do exactly what he told her to do, and he was going to have to find a hooker, because no way he was going to jerk off.
He barely heard Ashley arguing with her boyfriend as he walked down the alley toward his car. Damn fucking
jailbait
tease.
I am the teacher. The master. The keeper of truth, justice, and the American way
.
Silently, my laugh cuts into the night as I wait, watching the dark house. Superman? Yes, I am a superhero. I do what no man has the balls to do
.
I educate females, as much as the stupid, vacuous, weak creatures can be taught
.
Females disgust me
.
Foul, pathetic things, they lie as easily as they breathe. Their hair is rarely the shade God intended. The false colors embellishing their faces are a physical testament to their continuing lies. The jewelry on their necks, in their ears, on their fingers—diamonds and sapphires and gold—catches the light and shines, but none of those baubles can compare to the simple unadorned beauty of a perfect gem
.
The mask that females wear is a lie. When they look in the mirror, they lie, even to themselves. When they look at me, they lie. With their eyes, their mouth, their hands
.
They lie with their bodies. They lie with their words, their fingers, their thoughts. Women think they are invincible, that they can do whatever they please, that they can lure men in with their falsities and gimmicks and then enslave us. We’re always giving, giving, giving …
money, a house, a car, jewelry. They take, take, take, and the lies pile up
.
I am the keeper of the truth. I expose deception, one by one by one, until they accept the truth. Until they get on their knees and obey
.
They die so I can live. The ultimate sacrifice for love. The punishment for betrayal
.
I watch and wait because I am patient. The house is dark again. I arrived late tonight, but now I have time to wait. Watch. Wait. Tick. Tock. Time passing. My time wasted. Months of my valuable time wasted! And why?
My anger grows, a real, living being that taunts me. Fills me with heat that is both fearsome and welcome
.
She thinks you’re nothing.
I consider leaving the anonymity of my car, walking into her yard, and waiting for her. When she comes home, I will slit her throat
.
My vision darkens and for a moment I see nothing. I want her to understand that her actions have consequences. I can’t teach her if she is dead
.
Lights cut a swath in the foggy night, blurry and indistinct. The car slows, stops
.
Lucy Kincaid is home
.
My heart pounds in my chest, then it skips a beat. She is not alone
.
She is with a man
.
The female who deceived me, is sitting in her driveway with a man
.
She is a tricky bitch. But no one has my patience. No one has my skill
.
Lucy Kincaid will be my next pupil
.
If my one transgression taught me anything, it is to never again act on impulse. I will not take her now
.
I am a careful planner, every detail practiced, improved, perfect. For years, such organization has served me well. It is a testament to my fortitude that I have been tricked only once by the lying gender into acting too soon
.
She plays a dangerous game, catching my attention with her lying, whoring ways and setting me up. But I am far smarter than a mere female
.
I watch the man get out of the car, open her door, and walk her to the entrance
.
I want to kill them both, though she lied to him as certainly as she lied to me, the whore
.
But I do not have the luxury to make a mistake. I must control this powerful impulse. I breathe in the cold January night while my hands clench the steering wheel. Peace settles on my soul
.
I see the truth. I am the keeper of the truth
.
The man leaves, and I consider again going inside to confront her
.
But I must prepare for the whore. And that means taking care of unfinished business
.
I leave Georgetown and drive the forty minutes to my house. Or what would take forty minutes but for this weather. The longer it takes, the more frustrated I become. Because my student is waiting for me
.
Finally, I am home
.
I walk across the new-fallen snow and unlock the front door of the old house I love. The familiar smells make me smile. The plastic of the runners that line the floors to protect them. The lingering scent of bacon from this morning. The lavender from the dried flowers Grandmother hung everywhere. The flowers are gone, but the smell remains
.
My home. My sanctuary
.
I walk across the floor, the old boards creaking with each step, comforting. I open the door to the basement and turn on the light. Mice scurry across the dirt floor, faint, light movements that also comfort me in their familiarity. The female cries out, whether from the mice or the light I do not care
.
The stairs are new. I had to rebuild them when two planks split the week I returned, after being gone for so long. Very little has changed in this house. The stairs. The basement. And of course, the cage
.
She sits in the corner of the large pen, arms hugging her legs, chin on her knees. She can’t stand in the cage, but she can sit up, which I think is quite generous of me. And there is room to crawl and even stretch out—it is eight feet square, four feet tall
.
She looks at me with large, fearful eyes. Fear, not defiance, the way it should be
.
“
I am ready for my lesson, Teacher,” she says
.
Too bad she must die to make way for the new student. It took her only three days to learn the proper way to greet me in the morning. She has been with me for twenty-seven days, and I have—had—high hopes for her
.
Maybe I can keep her awhile longer. A day? Two days?
I take out my key ring and insert the small key into the master lock. She flinches when the lock clicks, but doesn’t move until I say, “You may come out now.
”
She crawls to the opening but waits until I open it, reminding me that I will miss this one. She would have lasted longer than so many of the others. I picked well, this female. So obedient. So eager to please
.
“
Stand,” I command
.
She rises, her legs shaky, but I do not help her. She has lost weight with me, but she was too fat to begin with. A woman of her size—five feet four inches—should be between one hundred twelve and one hundred twenty pounds. She had been much more than that
.
“
Go,” I tell her, and she starts up the stairs. I am behind her. At the top she waits for me, as she has been taught. She is looking at the kitchen table
.
“
Aren’t we—
”
I backhand her. She falls to the floor and lies there, her hand on her mouth
.
“
I didn’t give you permission to speak, Female,” I say. “Get up.
”
I have been gone since breakfast. It is now after midnight. I know she is hungry, but I do not care
.
The female rises and stands. I say, “Go,” and motion her toward the living room
.
She walks and I follow. I open the closet door in the entry and remove my long coat. I take my shotgun from the rack above the door. “We’re going to walk,” I say. “Open the door.
”
She turns the knob. A gust of icy cold blows in and she shivers. She opens her mouth, but no words come out because she knows better
.
She knows better than to ask for a coat or shoes
.
I let her squirm for a moment, wondering if she’ll break a rule and ask. She doesn’t. I say, “Retrieve your house slippers and your coat.
”
The female turns to the closet and does as told
.
“
Good girl,” I say. When she is dressed, I command, “Go.
”
She obeys me, and I smile. I am a wonderful teacher;
my students learn what others would say is impossible to teach. But this proves what I have always known: a woman’s place is to be obedient to man
.
She walks through the fresh snow, her hands rubbing her arms through the thin coat she wears. She glances at me but dares not speak. Her face reddens from the cold; her lips become tinged with blue. We do not walk far, only to the empty barn less than fifty yards from the house. Not even the length of half a football field. But I acknowledge that it is cold and she is surpassing my expectations by not complaining
.
I am right to keep her alive for a few more days
.
I take another key and unlock the large padlock on the barn door. I push up the metal latch and the wind blows the door inward. We step in and I close it behind us, latching it from the inside. It is still cold, but not windy, and my female says, “Thank you.
”
“
Thank you” is the only phrase she’s allowed to say without permission
.
I nod, and motion for her to walk to one of the stalls on the right. She obeys
.
“
Step inside,” I command
.
She hesitates. The last time we were in the barn it was for punishment. She raises her hand
.
I say, “You may speak.
”
“
What did I do to displease you?” she asks, her voice quivering from cold and fear. I prefer the fear
.
“
You are a woman,” I tell her. I motion toward the saddle on the wooden sawhorse. She knows what to do. I do not have to instruct her again
.
I don’t like to repeat myself
.
She whimpers, but bends over the sawhorse and exposes her bare ass to me
.
I smile
.
I take the paddle off its hook and stare at her backside
.
You will behave. You will learn your lesson! I think I shout the command, scream it, but I don’t say a word
.
I smack her and she cries out. It does not matter how loud she screams; no one will hear her. I hit her ass with the paddle again, the slap of wood on flesh arousing
.
But I will not put my penis in this vile woman. I have not touched any of them like that. I do not know where they have been. I will take care of my needs later
.
First I must punish this female
.
I hit her over and over, faster and faster, and she’s screaming and crying. One last smack and the sawhorse falls over and she lies there, sobbing, her backside bloodied
.
“
Get up,” I tell her
.
She doesn’t. I grab her and pull her to her feet. She cries out in pain and falls to her knees
.
“
You will crawl back to your cage,” I order her
.
I raise the paddle
.
She begins to crawl. I open the barn door and she crawls through the snow
.
I smile
.
Even the most stubborn females can learn to obey
.
Even Lucy Kincaid
.
Though after meeting Kate Donovan Noah didn’t think she was a viable suspect, he still took the time to clear both Donovan and her husband, Dillon Kincaid, of Morton’s murder first thing Friday morning. At his desk, he glanced through the reports and statements again. Their alibis were airtight—not only were they out of town, but they’d had dinner with the warden of Petersburg Federal Penitentiary on the night Morton was killed.