"Ladystalk"


Posted by Extranjero on February 08, 2003 at 04:37:27:

LADYSTALK

She stumbled to a breathless halt, arms braced against the stone rim of the fountain. Lowering her throbbing head, she tried to fill her lungs. The afternoon was muggy and she'd bathed herself in sweat, a greasy sheen across her naked skin. Her bob of hair was still tied back, but wisps were coming free. She felt them, dark and sticky on her brow.

A twig snapped in the garden, somewhere close. The dry sound pierced the drubbing of her hot, constricted heart. Sophie gasped aloud and twisted round.

There was no-one to be seen, which only frightened her the more. Just rosebushes and topiary around her. Beyond the carved stone balustrade, the house's lower garden opened out. The paths between the flowerbeds were empty.

Sophie waited, poised to flee, her face a mask of doe-eyed apprehension.

The grounds of the old mansion waited with her, oppressive with the promise of an English summer storm. She glanced at the sky; then down into the fountain's tepid water. Her reflection rose to meet her like a ghost. Her pretty face, she saw again, was painted like a doll's: white makeup, pencilled eyebrows, pouting mouth.

Apart from that, she only had her briefs to spare her blushes. You'll forget you have them on, the advert said, and she might as well be wearing nothing now. The Lycra was too flattering, the waistline much too low. Her sylph-like figure (Mummy's term) exposed for all to see.

Dread crept up and pounced on her. She flinched, and pressed her fingers to her lips. Her anxious eyes kept watching, dark and soulful as a deer's. But still there was no movement to be seen.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. No sense in hanging round, she had to move, get well away. Her heart still hammered solidly. She hadn't got her breath.

She flicked a strand of damp hair off her forehead. Oh please, let me get through this. Her legs were wobbly, kitten-weak. Her smooth and shapely breasts felt swollen tight. Pushing herself up, she gave the house a nervous glance. Its windows seemed to watch her, and she shivered, looked away.

Two men were standing in the lower garden.

The shock was like a punch in the stomach. Sophie gasped and cowered back, convinced that they could see her. But neither of them made a move. They were standing on the path, beyond the statue. Their postures made it clear that they had come in search of her.

Both were wearing tracksuits, and one of them was carrying a bow. A fancy sporting model, she could see as much from here. A quiver full of arrows was slung low across his thigh. As she watched, he drew a shaft and notched it to the string. The flight was butter-yellow, even brighter than the flowers.

Whimpering, she backed away. The grass felt cool and squelchy underfoot. The grounds were shrinking, closing in around her. An overgrown back-garden now, with nowhere left to hide.

The unarmed man walked over to the left; began to forage through the bushes at the edge of the lawn. The rustle and crack of twiglets carried clearly. The archer, meanwhile, was working round to the right, advancing through the garden at a walk. She could see the quiver dangling, the arrows like a sheaf of daffodils.

The two of them had cut her off. The garden was a cul-de-sac, it ended at an ivy-covered wall. Stuck here on the terrace, with her hands against her mouth, she had a frantic urge to wet herself. She might have been just two again, not twenty.

She’d breezed into the trap of her own free will, swanning up in her best black suit. Single-breasted jacket, matching trousers, snowy blouse ... and here she was in nothing but her briefs.

Swanky Sophie. Posh young lady. Silly, silly girl.

Her eyes filled up with stinging tears; she sniffed, and blinked them back. She had to hide somewhere, and then slip past them. The greenery was welcoming: green shadows all about her. And she was tall, but surely slim enough ...

The first man was still poking through the bushes. His back was turned, he clearly hadn't seen her. The other, and his bow, had moved beyond her field of vision. Sophie’s heart beat harder in her chest.

She knew he’d only brought the thing to scare her. One glimpse and he would send an arrow skipping past her heels. Just a horrid game to him; she felt a rush of fury. But icy panic stifled it at once.

Loath though she was to move, she knew she had to get him fixed. Heart in her throat, she started creeping forward: up towards the balustrade, as cautious as a cat. She reached it on all fours, and peered nervously through - then flinched and pressed her palm against her mouth. Anything to keep herself from breathing. The second man was standing right beneath her.

His head turned left and right to scan the garden. The bow was half drawn, ready for a shot. Her eyes fixed on the arrowhead: a slender, polished point. She cringed and felt her stomach churn. Her nipples tingled, sensitive and sore.

The archer swivelled on the spot, and stalked away, oblivious. Stifling a sob, she closed her eyes.

A secretarial job: that's all she'd come for. A chance to use her typing skills, give studying a break. I'm quite poor at the moment, so she'd told them. The interview came back in all its detail.

Had they laughed behind their hands to hear her say that? Seeing her there with her posh girl's poise and her smart designer clothes ...?

She felt a shudder building up, and fought it down again. The effort left her feeling drained and sick. Back she scurried, almost to the wall. It loomed above her, damp and green with moss. The air was growing heavier, more humid. Sullen thunder muttered in the distance.

The birds had fallen silent. The stillness was unbroken: not a single snapping twig. She felt her flawless skin becoming gooseflesh.

The two of them were out there still. She knew they hadn't gone.

She peeped between the bushes, but the men were lost to sight. She pinched her lips together, listening. All she could hear was the thumping of her heart.

"Here, girlie-girlie!" shouted someone.

Adrenalin burned down into her belly, and she winced. Still nauseous, she raised her head to look. The unarmed man was standing by the bushes, but his head was turned in quite the wrong direction. As she watched, he gestured, and produced a knife from nowhere, a flicker of sharp metal in the sombre afternoon. The dry click reached her ears an instant later.

Switchblade, Sophie thought - and felt her stomach plunge again.

He looked around him hopefully; then strode off to the left. Sophie crouched there, shivering. Her inner voice insisted that she'd still get through unscathed, but hope felt more hemmed-in with every moment. She knew she had to get down off the terrace. Quick, before they cornered her up here.

No sign of the archer. She hesitated, listening - then straightened up and headed for the steps. Her flushed and breathless haste belied this morning's swan-like poise, but even now she moved with inbred grace.

She started down the mossy flight - and found the knifeman waiting at the bottom. He offered up a handsome smile, and spread his hands in welcome. The switchblade gleamed in one of them. She froze in wide-eyed horror.

Still smiling, he began to climb. She whimpered and retreated. Back onto the terrace, still too mesmerised to run. Damp stone beneath her feet again; the fountain plashing prettily behind her.

The knifeman reached the topmost step: still smiling, but his gaze had grown intense. "Hello, dolly," he purred.

Sophie almost sobbed aloud. She’d never been so frightened in her life. They hadn’t stripped her bare for sex, they meant to murder her. She backed away, as if through glue, grimacing with the sting of pent-up tears. "Oh, no ...” she mewled despairingly. “Oh please ..."

The knifeman only licked his lips and savoured her dismay. The stuck-up little snob was going to get what she deserved. Oh, I’m studying at Oxford, she had told them, rather proudly. She wasn’t looking quite so clever now.

He kept on coming, python-slow. She gave ground at the same rate as he took it. The knife blade glinted cruelly. The shade around her changed to milky daylight.

She never even realised she'd been driven out of cover. Her gaze was still fixed on the switchblade point - her tearful eyes like toffee on the melt - when a voice to her left called: "Sophie!"

She swung around, and glimpsed him by the statue on the lawn. And then the arrow hit her in the chest.

Groaning, she reared back beneath the impact - and posed there with her tits stuck out, a snooty Page 3 Girl. Her sylph-like figure looked the part, but her anguished dolly face belied the image. Pinched with pain; distorted by despair. Like a spoilt little girl who's just been smacked.

The archer knew he'd hit her well. The shaft was planted deep and jutting stiffly. Its yellow feathers wavered as she clutched herself and squirmed. But for Sophie there was no salvation now.

In vain she tried to twist away, still clawing at her breasts. The grinning knifeman simply stood and watched. Sophie felt his hungry gaze enjoying her bare flesh. Even in the terror of the moment, she realised that she couldn’t die like this.

Mummy! she thought frantically – and then her legs gave way. She slumped against the balustrade, still struggling to breathe. In nothing but her knickers: they would say so on the news! Unless she kept her mind afloat. Unless …

A horrid pain exploded like a fireball in her chest. Sophie threw her head back, arched her spine across the stone. She squealed like a stuck piglet as the agony consumed her. She’d never known such suffering in all her tender years.

It couldn’t last. Her nerves burned out. Her frantic mind went blank. Suddenly she couldn’t care who ogled her bare breasts. The knifeman watched her swoon and slither downwards. She came to rest half-sitting; one hand slid into her lap, as if to tease herself. And as he watched, she peed her briefs, quite heedless of her manners. A thumbprint smudge that spread until the lace was sopping wet.

I’m quite poor at the moment, so she’d told them. The knifeman heard her careless words; recalled her soft, smug smile. Of course she hadn’t realised how unfortunate she was.

“Oh Sophie,” he said thickly. “Naughty girl …”

Silence in the garden. A muffled crump of thunder tinged the hush. The snotty Oxford student lay unmoving. Her panties were transparent now, revealing her soaked puff of pubic hair.

The knifeman snapped his weapon closed, and waited while the archer came to join him.

"Nice shot," he said, and meant it. Very nice.

The other grunted, went across and knelt beside his victim. Sophie’s head was turned aside, one cheek against the stonework. Her white face was a miserable mask.

“Pampered bitch.” He glanced across. “You think it hurt enough?”

“Oh, yes,” the knifeman murmured back. “It hurt ...”

The dead girl slumped indifferently between them, no longer such a preening little miss. Her bare breasts mocked this morning’s show of coyness, the tender nipples swollen into points. The archer smelled her light, expensive perfume. It couldn’t mask her sweaty curves or saturated briefs.

He straightened up and plucked a white rose from the nearest bush. As pure as Sophie’s briefs had been; as pallid as her sulky face still was. He sniffed at it – then stooped to lay it gently in the lifeless student’s lap.