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You clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle the terrified whimpers that threaten to give away your hiding spot—balled up on the floor of the closet, a pile of heavy winter coats pulled hastily over your body, your right cheek pressed painfully against the cold tile floor.
In the street outside, a woman screams desperately, a stream of panicked cries, pleading with her captors. A single gunshot rings out. The screaming stops.
“I want them found, and I want them found now !” The voice is American, the accent thick and southern, like something from the movies. But this isn’t Hollywood. This is real life.
A loud bang from downstairs makes you flinch and pull your knees closer to your chest, curling into yourself, making yourself as small as possible, as if willpower alone could make you disappear. Heavy footsteps—it sounds like more than one person, maybe four or five—are crashing through your kitchen.
There’s a creak on the stairs. You’d know that sound anywhere. You grew up in this house. Every wobbly floorboard, every squeaky hinge—it’s all familiar to you. As a kid, you’d lie in bed and learn the sounds of your parents' footsteps, their pace, their weight, mapping out where they are, even what mood they’re in, just from the sounds they’d make as they moved through the house.
Now, you can hear these American invaders making their way closer towards you, reaching the third step, the sixth step, the top of the landing, gear creaking and rustling as they move. And now they’re right outside your bedroom door. You hold your breath.
With a bang, they kick it open and enter. You fight the instinct to clamp your eyes tightly closed, to block out the inevitable horrors that wait for you, forcing yourself to watch through the tiny gap under your closet door as heavy, laced black boots traipse past you and into your dimly lit bedroom.
“All clear.”
“All clear? Trying to get a medal for being the biggest dumbass in the Shadow Company?”
“Look, there’s nobody here. And we’ve been at this for hours. Let’s just move on to the next one.”
“Check under the bed. I’ll take the closet. If we miss anything, Graves will have our heads. He’s in a foul fucking mood tonight.”
“Fine.”
You hold your breath as a pair of boots walks slowly, cautiously toward you. In your trembling right hand, you grip the knife that you grabbed when the shooting started. If you’re going to die, you're going down fighting, not cringing like a stray dog.
A pause. Then the door flies open. Above you, you hear hangers being shifted as the figure pushes the clothes aside.
Another pause. Then suddenly, the coats are ripped away from you, and a bright white light shines into your eyes, blinding you. Unthinkingly, you lash out with the knife, stabbing, swiping, desperate to make contact with a calf or a foot—anything that might buy you a window to escape—but instead, you feel the butt of a rifle make contact with the side of your skull. The shooting pain rips through your head, and you feel the knife fall from your grip, clanging onto the floor, where the boots kick it out of your reach.
“Fuck. Little bitch.”
“You got one?”
“Yeah. I told you we should check the closet. Get Graves up here.”
You're dizzy, your vision blurred. A shape is standing over you—another one disappearing back out the bedroom door. You try and claw yourself upright, but your head spins wildly, and you slump weakly back onto the cold tiles.
After a few seconds, the second pair of boots return, this time joined by a third.
“Well, well well, look what we have here. You doin’ okay down there, sweetheart?” That drawl again. His shadow moves closer, crouching by your head. You groan as you look up at the man. Neat, dark blond hair. Blue eyes. A smirk that turns your stomach. An American flag is prominently displayed on the chest of his tactical vest. This must be “Graves”:
“Get the fuck away from me.” You’re trying to shout, but all that comes out is a broken whisper, like trying to scream in a nightmare.
“Phew, she’s got a mouth on her, this one. Now, this is no way to treat a lady, is it gentlemen? Help her up.” Rough hands pull you into a seated position. “I have a few questions for you, and I’d be very much obliged if you answered them.”
“I don’t know anything,” you reply. He ignores you.
“El Sin Nombre has been hiding an enemy of the state, and I have good reason to believe that person is here in Las Almas. What have you heard about an Iranian?”
“An Iranian?” you respond. What the fuck is this? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The man sighs.
“How about two men who passed through here earlier tonight? Dangerous men. A Brit and a Scot.”
“You’re the only dangerous men here. You’ve slaughtered my neighbors; women, children—“
“Honey, we’re here to protect you.” His voice is sickly sweet, his tone condescending. “We won’t hurt you if you help us.”
“I told you, I don’t know anything,” you say, your voice trembling in fear, betraying just how frightened you are. “So I guess you’ll have to kill me like the rest.”
One of his men clicks the safety off of his gun.
“Shall I take her out, sir? Put her with the rest?”
The American observes you for a second or two, his eyes roaming across your face. You can feel a trickle of hot blood running down your forehead from where you were hit.
“No. This one’s mine.”
“Sir?”
“Go door to door. I want this place turned upside down and cleaned out. Bring me something to take back to Shepherd.”
“Yes sir.”
The figures turn from Graves and shuffle back down the stairs. You hear them leave the house, and bangs begin to ring out as they breach more doors along the street.
“What do you want from me?” you ask, raising your chin defiantly to look him square in the face.
“I’ve had a long day, sweetheart. And a pretty little thing like you? Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes on a night like tonight. So I thought we’d have a little fun, just you and me. How does that sound?”
His face is mere inches from yours now. Now that your head is a little clearer, you can see that he’s handsome, in an unsettling way—light stubble scattered across a strong jaw, piercing blue eyes that bore into your own with an intensity that makes you want to glance away, feeling yourself squirming under his gaze. He’s so close you can smell his aftershave—clean and crisp, like rain on steel.
He smirks again as he glances down at your lips, subconsciously licking his own as he traces them with his eyes.
“Please don’t do this,” you beg, trying to ignore the way your heart hammers against your chest. Is it just fear making it do that? Or is it something else? This American is a murderer—a mass murderer, and you’re thinking about his lips, his tongue, about how they’d feel if you pressed your own lips against them?
Graves pulls a handgun from his holster and presses it into the side of your head. “Better knock that off, darlin’. There’s only one thing you should be begging for. Me.” And he grabs you roughly by the hair and stands up, dragging you towards the bed as you scrabble along the floor on your hands and knees behind him.
He lifts you up and throws you unceremoniously onto the mattress, the gun still pointed directly at your head. For some reason, a thrill runs along your spine at the sight. How sick are you, getting off on this?
“Now strip,” he commands, gesturing at your clothes with the barrel of his gun. “I deserve to see my prize.”
Wordlessly, you obey. It’s a difficult task with your hands trembling as they are, and you fumble a little as you undo your jeans, pushing them hurriedly from your hips and getting them stuck for a moment or two around your ankles.
Graves sucks his teeth impatiently as you struggle, his eyes narrowing.
“C’mon now. I don’t have all night.”
“I’m trying, okay?”
“Don’t talk back to me, little miss. It won’t end well for you. And when I said “strip”, I meant all of it. Shit, I’ll do it myself.”
Before you can even attempt to remove your bra, he’s on top of you, grabbing your shoulder, flipping you onto your front so you’re face down on the bed, as he leans over you and roughly twists apart the clasp with his free hand. Reaching beneath you, he rips the bra from your chest and throws it to the ground. He runs a hand quickly down the length of your spine, grabs your underwear in his fist, and drags it from your body, the fabric ripping under his strength. His skin is warm against yours, and you feel a pulling tension building in your lower stomach, an ache between your legs.
“Don’t…” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. You feel the cold barrel of the gun being pushed roughly into the back of your head.
“What did I say about begging, huh? I’m gonna take whatever I want from you. And you won’t be able to stop me. Nobody’s coming to save you.” Clenching your fists, you bury your face into your bed, your mind racing with thoughts of what he might do to you—what he might take from you.
Behind you, you can hear him unbuckling his belt, the sound of fabric rubbing on fabric as he readies himself for the inevitable assault. “Sit up,” he orders you, bringing the palm of his hand down hard on the bare skin of your butt, a stinging slap that draws a gasp from your lips at the shock of the pain. You do as instructed, pushing yourself upright, sitting back on your heels, as Graves snakes an arm around your throat, pressing the gun into the soft skin beneath your chin. You tremble in fear—and anticipation—and press back against his chest, leaning your head back against his shoulder in an instinctive move to try and distance yourself from his gun, but he only pushes it harder into you.
“Please…” you whimper. Are you begging him to stop, or to carry on?
“That’s more like it.” He snakes his free hand over your shoulder, down the side of your ribcage, and over your hips, where he digs his fingers roughly into your hipbone. It’s painful, and you gasp in response, making him squeeze harder. He seems to like it when he hurts you. His breath is heavy and rough in your ear, his lips brushing over your skin, his stubble scratching at your cheek. His hand moves to your stomach, flattening briefly as he skims over your waist and down, down between your thighs, where you know your body is about to betray you.
“Stop…don’t go further, I can’t…”
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, using the barrel of the gun to tilt your head back even further, exposing your vulnerable throat, as his fingers slip roughly between your folds. Fuck . “Oh honey, you’re not enjoying this are you?” You shake your head almost imperceptibly. “Because your pussy’s telling a very different story. You’re dripping for me already.”
“I’m not— fuck— ” his fingers cut you off, pressing against your slit, starting to stroke up and down, slipping over your clit and back down again, gathering your slick as he slides over you.
“Do you hear that, sweetheart?” he breathes, his accent thicker than ever. “Do you hear how you’re coating me with your arousal, dripping down my hand like the desperate little whore that you are?” You try to stifle a moan, choking it back as his strong hand cups you, his thumb rubbing in firm circles over your swollen clit, the sound of your desperation loud in the quiet bedroom. “So greedy. You like being helpless like this? Knowing that you make one false move and I’ll pull this trigger without a moment’s hesitation?”
“Yes,” you hear yourself whispering, heat pooling in your legs as you rock your hips in time with the stroke of his hand. Against your lower back, you can feel his rock-hard erection pressing into you.
“Get on your knees.” You obey as his hand slips from your clit and shoves you roughly into position. “Elbows down. Arch those hips. Yeah baby, just like that. Nice and high for me. Holy shit…”
“I need…I need you…inside me…” you stammer, twisting yourself to look back at him over your shoulder. He’s standing behind you, blue eyes dark, burning with a dangerous fire as they roam over your naked body, his face hardened and jaw clenched. As you watch, he throws his handgun onto the bed next to your knees and pulls his cock from his underwear. You gasp as you see it spring free—straight and thick and glistening with beads of precum at the tip, and he starts to roll the fat head between your folds, gathering your slick as he rubs and teases.
“Higher.” He shoves you roughly in the small of your back, hooking his hands around your hips and dragging you towards him. You stretch your arms out in front of you, lowering your chest to the mattress, your hard nipples pressed against the soft cotton sheets, arching your back so you’re opening yourself up for him, spreading your knees wider. “That’s it. What a desperate little slut, huh? I’m not going to go easy on you.” He’s lined himself up with your entrance, and you feel him slowly starting to force his way inside. “You’re at my mercy, darlin’. And don’t you forget it.”
In one movement, he slams into you, his cock hitting painfully against your back wall, your pussy pulsing in pain and pleasure as it adjusts to his girth, stretching and throbbing around him as your knees buckle from the force of his thrust, a scream escaping your lips. You grab fistfuls of bedsheets in an attempt to ground yourself—but before you can catch your breath, he pulls almost all the way out and slams back into you again, harder this time, tears starting to prick your eyes.
“I can’t…it’s too much…”
“You don’t have a choice, I’m afraid,” he grunts, thrusting again, leaning forward and tangling one hand in your hair.
“It hurts,” you whine. And it does hurt—even with how wet you are, he’s too big, too rough—but despite that, you want him to carry on, to fuck you until your mascara streams down your cheeks, until you can’t feel your legs, until he comes deep inside you, finding his release as you writhe under him.
“I know it hurts, baby, but you can do it.” He shoves your head roughly down, crushing your face into the bed so you can barely breathe, pumping into you harder and faster, the sound of his hips slapping against you echoing through your bedroom. He’s impaling you over and over, grunting with each violent thrust.
“More…” you beg, your pleas muffled—but he hears you, and slips his hand from your hip around to your clit, rubbing and rolling it desperately as you cry out in response to his touch, every inch of your body on fire as he fucks you, your orgasm building so rapidly you can barely contain it.
“Holy shit, look at you taking me so fucking well, so…fucking…deep.” Graves’ voice cracks as he buries himself to the hilt. You’re desperate for him to push you over the edge, to let you collapse into waves of pleasure.
“Graves, please…I need more…I need it…”
“Yeah? Shit, I can feel you clenching around my cock…you must be fucking close…beg for me.” He shoves your face back down again, tears now streaming down your face.
“Please, please…make me come…”
“You wanna come around my cock while I fill you up with my hot fucking seed, baby?”
“Yes…please…”
Every new thrust knocks the breath out of you now, teetering on the edge of your orgasm, his fingers rubbing over your clit in a brutal rhythm that matches the relentless pace of his hips, his fist yanking roughly at your hair, pain and pleasure inextricably tangled as you moan and plead for release.
“Are you ready? Are you fucking ready for me?” he groans, his thrusts rapid and urgent. “Come on baby, come on baby, come on baby, come for me right fucking now .”
Your orgasm hits you like an earthquake, the ground falling away from under you, breath suffocated by the bed as you crumble into him, feeling Graves finding his own release deep inside you, shooting hot ropes of cum deep into your core, panting and groaning as he climaxes.
As he slips out of you, your combined juices trickle slowly down the inside of your thighs, pooling on cotton sheets beneath you, until you collapse forward and roll onto your back, utterly spent.
Graves is tucking his cock away and re-buckling his belt. He picks up the discarded handgun and holsters it, before turning to you and taking in his handiwork, your smeared makeup, the hair plastered to the blood on your forehead, the sheen of sweat glowing over your naked body. He leans down and presses his lips against yours, forcing your mouth open so he can push his tongue inside. You relent, melting at his touch, and he kisses you deeply for a few seconds, before slowly pulling away.
“Don’t clean that up, sweetheart. I want to know I’ve left my mark.”
And he turns and leaves your bedroom, thudding back down the stairs and out into the street, where you hear him begin to bark orders at his men once again, leaving you alone and naked in the darkness, on your back, knees pulled to your chest once more.