Cupid's Arrows


Posted by Kewpid on June 03, 2008 at 12:20:08:

“One last question,” said the female interviewer calmly. “Could you describe the knickers you have on?”

Frances stared at her, convinced she hadn’t heard correctly, though her pale cheeks were already turning pink. The woman waited, po-faced as a teacher, while the man beside her quelled a pervy smile. For a moment, Frances felt like a humiliated schoolgirl. Then her feisty Geordie nature bubbled up.

“I’m sorry, that’s my business,” she said tartly, and felt her eager face becoming pinched. The interview had been going well, and she clung to her composure. This was a dating agency. She’d been burbling on about her ideal match.

The man looked apologetic. “That one was … below the belt.” He met her eyes, then dropped his gaze to focus on the tight crotch of her jeans. Flustered, Frances glanced away. Her cheeks had started burning. Everything seemed different now. The room felt like a trap.

The woman’s pale eyes blinked behind her glasses. “I think you’re just the kind of girl we want. Miss Hereford will see you out and finalise the details.” The woman who’d been taking notes behind the chair stood up. Frances sensed her moving, but she didn’t look around. Her bafflement had turned to pique, and she pulled a sulky face.

“Yeah?” she said. “Well I’m not so sure I want to sign up now ...” She rose abruptly, pouting – and the secretary’s arm slid round her neck. The smart suit which the woman wore concealed an athlete’s muscles. They bulged as Frances struggled vainly, squirming to get free. Unfazed, the secretary raised a syringe with her free hand. The needle pierced her victim’s neck and she thumbed the plunger down against the drug. Frances reared, her round breasts swelling tight against her tee-shirt. She whimpered, then her green eyes glazed and fluttered closed. She drooped like a dead weight.

The woman lowered her slender body back into the chair. The female interviewer smiled. “Let’s clear her out and get the next one in.”

* * *

Claire had come this morning with mixed feelings. She was a rather strait-laced girl, and always awkward in relationships. A part of her had grown resigned to being a singleton – till she’d been headhunted by this agency.

It was flattering, of course. She felt both nervous and excited, not sure why she’d been chosen. Did they think she needed it? But the agency was new and it looked classy. They were targeting professionals, and they wanted some good catches on the books.

She parked outside the country house and walked up the front steps. There were several cars already there, and she wondered just how wide they’d cast their net. Unconsciously her fingers touched the card in her suit pocket. The Cupid’s Arrow Agency requests the pleasure of your company …

Claire was tall and willowy, with an earnest, winsome face. She had mid-brown hair and clear blue eyes, the latter framed by stylish spectacles. She’d hummed and hawed about putting in her lenses, then decided that a worthwhile man would like her as she was. Straightening her suit, she rang the doorbell. A butch-looking young woman came to welcome her inside.

Another girl was sitting in the parlour, and beamed at Claire as she was ushered in. She was petite, with dark, bobbed hair and kittenish good looks. “Hey,” she said, “I’m Emma. This is different, isn’t it?”

Claire nodded, smiling shyly back, and joined her on the sofa. She felt a bit too formal in her pinstriped trouser suit. Emma wore a short black dress, as if she’d come for cocktails. But someone’s denim jacket lay across an easy chair.

“That’s Frances’s,” said Emma. “She’s gone in for interview. A girl called Sophie got called first, but I don’t know where she’s gone ...”

There were copies of Glamour and Cosmo lying on the coffee table. No sign of any coffee, though. Claire waited hopefully, but none appeared. She picked a magazine up without interest. “How many of us are there?” she asked, trying to sound offhand.

“I think there’s someone else to come,” said Emma carelessly. “The five of us should be enough to launch their agency.” She gave Claire a good-natured grin. Claire smiled back, feeling dowdy. She wondered why a girl like this needed her dates arranged. Perhaps she worked unsocial hours, or preferred to screen admirers. Perhaps Claire should feel privileged to have been chosen too.

The door opened and she looked round, but it wasn’t her turn yet. The woman smiled at Emma. “If you’d care to step this way …?” Emma stood up quickly, full of fresh-faced confidence. Left alone, Claire settled back and fiddled with her hair.

* * *

What kind of knickers are you wearing, Sophie …?

The words were like an echo in a fogbank – and then the sun broke through and Sophie woke. She sat up on the bed in sudden panic. Her head reeled and she almost retched. A patina of sweat had bathed her skin.

She realised she was only wearing panties. The question had been answered now: her knickers were expensive purple silk. She glanced around the room in fright, but nobody was watching. Her heart thumped as she panted softly, listening to the hush. The bedroom was luxurious, which made her feel no better. Her olive skin was glistening, and her toffee eyes had darkened with alarm.

She thought back to the interview, but her memory was muddled: a pair of arms restraining her, and then a waspish sting below her jaw. Reaching up, she touched her neck and felt a spot of soreness. Her stomach tightened sharply and the nausea turned to dread.

Sliding off the bed, she tiptoed over to the window. The grounds appeared deserted. Sophie nibbled at her lip. It was a lovely day outside. The gardens swarmed with colour. But it seemed like so much mockery. The house loomed round her like a monstrous trap.

She could have kicked herself for having sauntered into it. She was beautiful and knew it, but too coy to go on dates. The invite had appealed to her frustrated vanity. They’d promised her her pick of doctors, lawyers, City types …

She crept towards the door and tried the handle, convinced she’d been locked in – but it slipped open with a click. The noise of the spring seemed very loud. She wavered on the threshold, then crossed her arms against her breasts and ventured out into the passageway.

A murmur of voices reached her ears and set her fine hairs prickling. She stiffened like a scared gazelle; but the tones were female, with a plaintive note. They didn’t sound like kidnappers. She stole towards the staircase. The house’s foyer came in sight.

Three other girls were huddled in the hall.

Like her, they had been stripped down to their panties, and the dusty sunlight tinged their naked skin. Frances sensed her presence and looked up, her eyes accusing, as if this horrid mess was Sophie’s fault. Claire, who was sitting on the stairs, glanced back over her shoulder. She was pasty-faced with panic. Sophie’s hand went to her mouth.

“So where have you been?” Emma asked, a quaver in her voice. Sophie stared back, lost for words; and then they heard a car come up the drive.

* * *

Susannah was late and drove up feeling flustered. The day had started going wrong when her cat got stranded up the cherry tree. She’d gone out in her bathrobe to investigate the mewing, and the kitchen door clicked shut behind her, making sure that she was stranded too. Short in stature though she was, the bathrobe was much shorter. Her cheeks had been bright scarlet by the time she got her spare key from next door.

Then she’d lost the letter with directions, and let the toast burn while she looked for it. Her brisk efficiency had quite deserted her this morning, but she’d got here now, and her heart welled with relief. She was a perky girl with short blonde hair and dimpled cheeks – which started turning pink again as she saw someone was waiting on the steps.

Parking her car, she checked her makeup in the rear view mirror, then quickly swapped her driving shoes for courts. A glance showed the man was on his way towards her. Susannah clambered from the car and tugged at her short polka-dot black dress.

The gravel crunched under his shoes. “Susannah, isn’t it?” His smile was reassuring, but she simpered nervously. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she gushed. “Won’t bore you with the details … Just tell me where you want me.” She gave him an eager look.

“Well, Miss,” he said slowly, “since the fun’s already started, I suppose we’d better cut right to the chase.”

His hand came up and a blade sprang out of nowhere. Susannah flinched away in shock, then stiffened as the cold point pricked her throat. “Right, girlie – let’s get undressed,” he grated. She stared at him with huge blue eyes, and he nudged the switchblade up under her jaw. Whimpering, she dropped her bag and reached around behind her to fumble with her buttons while he kept her on her toes. It took her several moments just to get the dress unfastened, and he ripped it off her shoulders brutally. She was wearing satin underwear beneath it: a light blue bra and skimpy matching thong. He cut the bra straps with his blade, releasing her pert boobies while she goggled at him tearfully. The plump tits popped out of the loosened cups. He fondled one with his free hand, which made her moan in horror. He was tempted just to stab her now – but why burn up his pleasure in one go?

She wasn’t wearing hose; her legs were trim with exercise. He let her keep her panties and her swanky high-heeled shoes. Her breasts heaved with her frantic, squeaky panting. “Do you want to live?” he taunted, and she gave a tiny nod. Abruptly he withdrew the blade. Susannah tottered backwards. “Then try and lose yourself,” he sneered, and she fled in terror, stumbling like a foal.

The man turned back towards the house. The other Lonely Hearts were at the windows of the parlour and the hall. Their tits were pressed against the glass below their frightened faces. For a moment they seemed mesmerised, and then they shrank away beneath his gaze. The windows emptied, leaving smudges like the shapes of phantoms. He raised his wristband microphone. “This is Fortune calling Cupid … They’re all yours.”

* * *

Susannah lurched around the nearest corner and fled along the path beside the house. Her court shoes were impossible to run in: they twisted inward, almost tripping her. But she staggered on, too terrified to shed them, her elfin face contorted miserably.

One of the archers watched her from the tree line, then raised his hunting bow as she limped past. He drew it taut and loosed a shaft towards her. The arrow sped across the lawn, its yellow feathers spinning in the sun. It was a ranging shot and didn’t reach her. Susannah heard a whizzing thud as it struck the turf a few feet from the path.

Startled, she looked round. The shaft was lodged where it had landed. She almost stumbled to a halt, her eyes still saucer-wide. Her hand crept to her mouth as she stared dumbly at the arrow. And then, too late, she sensed the watcher eyeing up her boobs.

The man had plucked a fresh shaft from his quiver, but as he nocked it to the string, a second bowman beat him to the shot. This time Susannah glimpsed the arrow coming, a blur too fast to focus on and then a whiplash through the topiary. She reared back with a jerk, her bosom wobbling. A spasm went through her belly and she almost wet herself. Instinctively she clenched her thighs together, still gawping at the treeline while the first archer took aim.

Then she bleated fearfully and broke into a run, her high heels clicking on the paving slabs. Another arrow glanced off a stone flowerpot, so close she heard its hiss and squealed aloud. Her pear-shaped breasts jogged left and right. They felt like perfect targets. She reached the corner, whimpering, and dodged behind the cover of the house.

Inside, the other girls were numb with horror. They’d watched Susannah being stripped and threatened with a knife. Then the gloating man had turned towards them, his eyes more baleful than his blade, and sent them scurrying like frightened deer.

Suddenly the house felt claustrophobic, despite its lofty ceilings and wide rooms. “Oh God, he’s coming!” snivelled Claire and clutched at Emma’s shoulder. The smaller girl shrugged free, but was too petrified to run. The two of them had been watching from the parlour, and Claire was sure they’d be cut off before they reached the hall. Her skin crawled at the thought of the man’s switchblade, and she blinked against a sudden rush of tears.

The others were already in the hallway, and they fled before the man could reach the door. Frances hared off up the stairs, her perky bosom bobbing, and Sophie almost followed, till she realised they’d be trapped on the first floor. Instead, she scampered on along the passage and cast round wildly for a place to hide.

All of them were waiting for the front door to burst open, but a minute passed, then two, and it stayed shut. There was no sound from outside. The silence seeped into the building. Claire blinked at Emma fearfully, then plucked her glasses off and wiped her eyes. She wished she’d chosen more substantial knickers than the rather daring number she had on. The black briefs were as sheer as gauze and flattered her firm bottom. They made her feel quite sexy, but she’d never wear them on a real date.

Emma’s low-cut briefs were pink and frilly. They were just the thing to taunt a psycho with. The prospect of being cornered made her shudder. But it seemed the man had moved away. She crept towards the windows nervously.

He was nowhere to be seen outside. The gravel drive was empty. It led out of this nightmare – but it had to be a trap.

On the upstairs landing, Frances stopped to listen. The eerie stillness made her hackles rise. Like the others, she was wearing her best panties – a silky yellow pair with sepia flowers. She padded cautiously into a bedroom. The furnishings were gorgeous, but they barely registered. She went to the window and peered out. There was no sign of the knifeman or the newcomer he’d threatened, but the girl’s dress still lay crumpled by the cars.

Frances wondered where the blonde had got to. She’d fled off to the left, around the house. Maybe she had gone to ground, and the man was hunting for her. Frances wavered queasily, then went to find a different vantage point.

The rearmost rooms had a view over the gardens. The windows were full-length, with balconies. She ventured up to one and pressed her nose and breasts against it. The sunlit glass felt cold against her skin. She opened the window and peered out. The air was laced with birdsong. No running feet or frantic screams; but the sense of lurking presence made her cringe.

She glanced over her shoulder then, afraid she had been followed, but the room was empty and the door stood wide.

Perhaps the girl had hidden in the garden. Frances craned her head to look, then stepped onto the narrow balcony. She leaned across the balustrade to scan the paths and bushes. The grounds appeared deserted, and she didn’t sense the baleful eyes below.

An archer in the shadows shot his arrow steeply upward and it struck below her pendulous right breast. Frances doubled forward as the impact jolted through her, a startled sob erupting from her mouth. For a moment she believed someone had punched her, then saw the shaft protruding from her flesh. The arrowhead had torn into the soft lobe of her liver. As she slumped against the balustrade, her midriff flared white hot. The piercing pain made Frances groan. It swelled to fill her body. She squirmed and overbalanced in its mortifying grip. The smooth stone of the balustrade compressed her burning belly, and she twisted and tipped over it, then plunged towards the ground.

In her distress, the weightless moment barely registered. She somersaulted in the air and landed on her arse. The thumping impact jogged the point and made her whinny shrilly. Then everything was hushed and still. The blue sky filled her disbelieving gaze.

Her body had gone numb. She didn’t dare to move a muscle. Her throat was tight with nausea, but the horrid pain had dwindled to an ache. She realised she was on the slope between the house and gardens. Frances wheezed to get her breath, then grizzled helplessly.

She knew she must have broken bones, and the arrow was still in her. Her breasts heaved as she gasped for air. She’d be all right … so long as she stayed still. But then a shape loomed into view above her. She peered up at him, horrified. The archer knelt between her parted legs.

His upper face was hidden by the smooth mask of a cherub which contrasted with the leering mouth beneath. Grunting, Frances tried to rise and pain lanced through her numbness. The archer dipped his head and took her left breast in his mouth. She whimpered as his tongue caressed her nipple – then hollered as he pushed the arrow deep.

The archer kept on sucking as he skewered his young victim. She bucked and writhed beneath him; arched her backbone like a bow. But the arrowhead kept ripping through her organs. She screamed again and threw her head back, gurgling as the barb punctured a lung. The nipple in his mouth grew hard as shock thrilled through her body. He sucked on it, still thrusting, till he pierced an artery. Frances made a mewling sound, her features clenched with anguish. Her body humped in one last spasm, as if he’d merely stuck his cock in her.

Her breast thrust up against his mouth and then deflated softly. He nipped the swollen teat and let it go. The girl was dead, her face now pale and sullen, her flowered panties soaked between her thighs. Kneeling back, he fumbled in the pocket of his jacket. The lipstick in his pocket had come out of Emma’s purse. The man applied its bullet tip to Frances’s left breast, inscribing a red heart on her soft flesh. He drew an arrow through the shape. A Lonely Heart no longer. He straightened up and left her where she lay.

Less than twenty yards away, Susannah cringed, both hands against her mouth.

She’d seen the girl come tumbling from the window and fall from sight behind the topiary. Susannah had been dumbstruck for a moment. The fear of rape was bad enough, but now she had to hide from murderers. The girl’s hoarse screams had reached her then and made her cold flesh quiver. She cowered low amid the shrubs and listened to the thunder of her heart.

Beyond her line of sight, another archer was advancing, an arrow fitted to his half-drawn bow. He scanned the gardens left and right. A warm breeze stirred the flowers. He couldn’t see the blonde girl, but he knew that she was close.

Susannah bit her lip tight shut to keep herself from sobbing. Her breasts were taut and gleaming with cold sweat. She didn’t dare to move; but staying put felt just as scary. She imagined archers all around her, closing in, their arrows poised to fly.

Then she saw the figure on the far side of the flowerbeds and stiffened as her fears turned into flesh. He wore the blank mask of a plastic angel, and she glimpsed the sheaf of arrows on his hip. Susannah watched him, motionless, her blue eyes round with horror. The man stalked past, half-hidden by the rosebushes and shrubs.

He moved from sight. She closed her eyes and breathed out shakily, then tugged the crippling court shoes off her feet. Discarding them, she slunk off in the opposite direction, still looking back to where he’d disappeared.

She never saw the figure on the terrace, and there’d be no second chance for silly girls. The archer held his breath, then loosed the arrow. It crossed the garden in a flash and struck the upper swell of her right breast.

Susannah didn’t realise she had left herself wide open till her boob was punctured like a ripened plum. The bodkin pierced her pliant flesh and drove into her torso, embedding in the muscle of her heart. The jolt of impact made her grunt and spun her body sideways, her shocked face gawping stupidly. And then her ruptured ventricle seized up.

Her chest was filled with crushing pain. Susannah’s face contorted and she made a grizzling sound through her clenched teeth. She stuck her tits out, clutching them as if to claw her heart out, but her frantic squirming was in vain. Her face went pale abruptly, and she slumped.

She flopped down on her back. The sunlight dimmed on her closed eyelids. Her final panicked thought was, who would feed her cat tonight? Then her mind was sucked into oblivion, and her breasts subsided as her breath wheezed out.

Emma and Claire were still huddled in the parlour. Emma thought she’d heard a cry from somewhere round the back. But the silence of the house was more unnerving. “What is he waiting for?” moaned Claire. “Shut up and listen,” Emma snapped at her.

Claire’s pale eyes blinked damply through her glasses. Emma almost bit her tongue – and then a window shattered jarringly.

They whirled and saw an arrow skid and flip across the carpet. It had left a jagged hole in the plate glass. Even as they gaped at it, another pane burst inward. The two girls squealed and scuttled from the room.

The arrows kept on coming for a moment, shot on a flat trajectory from over by the cars. They broke more glass and leaped across the parlour. Then silence filled the empty room. A curtain fluttered in the sudden draught.

Sophie heard the noise from where she crouched under the table in the dim surroundings of the dining room. She gasped and felt her stomach clench with panic. The long oak table seemed to press down like a coffin lid. The girls rushed, sobbing, past the door, and silence swelled behind them. Sophie whimpered to herself. She’d never felt so horribly alone.

Claire and Emma fled on through the building till they burst into the spacious drawing room. Its comfortable sofas seemed to mock them. Beyond the windows and French doors, the garden lay luxuriant in the sun.

Emma sidled warily towards the nearest window. The topiary and flowerbeds seemed like another world. From this angle, she couldn’t see Susannah’s crumpled body. The dead blonde’s perky face had soured, and a lipstick heart was scrawled on her left breast.

Claire peered anxiously back through the doorway, then crept up to the windows too. The French doors gave onto a swimming pool. The gardens opened out below the terrace. The water looked as smooth as oil. There were several sun-loungers surrounding it.

The sense of being trapped in here was horrid. They had no idea how many men were lurking round the house. The front door was still locked. The spread of gardens looked deserted. Then something flickered in the air and leaped towards the glass.

Before they could react, an arrow splintered through a window, and Claire squealed like startled little girl. But the sound that Emma made was strangely muted, a grunt of shock as much as pain. The point had sunk into her abdomen.

Claire swung round and stared at her, eyes widening with horror. She pressed her hand against her mouth, while Emma peered down numbly at the shaft. It protruded stiffly from her gym-taut belly, two inches from her navel. She went reeling back a step. The movement jarred the barb in her intestines and she pulled a face and bleated with the pain. More arrows started crashing through the windows, but the girls barely reacted as they flitted past and thunked into the wall.

“Fuck …” sobbed Emma, gazing at the one which had impaled her. Her hand groped for the shaft, then pulled away. She’d drawn her pelvis back, like someone fighting a full bladder, and her olive skin grew paler as Claire watched.

“You’ll be all right,” Claire gabbled – but another shaft belied her. Its impact was so sudden that it seemed to sprout erect from Emma’s chest. The small girl’s bosom quivered with the impact, and her face looked almost comically surprised. She reared into the wall beside the fireplace and grunted thickly in her throat. Claire cried out in dismay.

Emma squirmed and clutched her tits and belly, but the wicked arrowheads had gone too deep. She made a mewing sound, like a hurt seagull, then drooped and slithered off the wall, collapsing to the carpet belly-up.

Claire retreated from her, panting hoarsely. The girl lay horribly inert, her face turned to the wall. Slowly her pink knickers turned translucent as her pelvic floor relaxed and soaked her crotch. Claire’s despairing gasps got high and squeaky. It was seeing Emma wet herself that told her she was dead.

An arrow flipped across the room and landed with a clatter. She cowered back defensively, and the hairs rose on her unprotected flesh. But no more shafts came through the broken windows. She waited with her throat clenched tight. Her heart drummed furiously inside her chest.

With a jolt of fear, she realised that the archers must be coming. She glanced towards the open door, not knowing where the other girls had gone. The building seemed to grow into a terrifying labyrinth. The thought of playing hide and seek made her feel faint and sick. The men would not give up till this was over. They’d root through every corner till they found and murdered her.

A bitter spasm surged upward from her stomach and she swayed and clamped her hand across her mouth. The nausea passed, but it left her cold and sweaty. She couldn’t help but snivel helplessly.

Sunlight spilled in through the broken windows. The grounds were as silent as the house, but she sensed the men’s implacable approach. She glanced at Emma’s crumpled form and saturated panties. She moaned, her wide eyes filled with tears – and then she had a desperate idea.

An arrow lay nearby: it must have ricocheted off something. She snatched it up and snapped the shaft in two. Discarding the sharp end, she threw a glance towards the windows, then scurried to a sofa and lay back against its arm. She let herself sprawl limply on the cushions. Gripping the feathered length of wood, she clasped it at right angles to her chest.

She tipped her head back; closed her eyes. Her heartbeat filled the silence. She was still wearing her glasses: wouldn’t they have fallen off? It was too late now. She fought to slow her breathing. Her nipples had gone stiff with shock. They tingled in the cool air of the room. Her bladder had begun to ache and she squeezed her pelvic muscles – then realised miserably what the deception would require.

She was scared enough to wet herself already, but it took surprising effort to release the pent-up flow. She felt the warmth come soaking through her knickers, and fought against a matching rush of shame. She thought that she was going to blush, and turned pale at the prospect. Her posture felt too false to her. She shifted – and heard boots crunching on glass.

Terror paralysed her. She stopped breathing. The room was an enormous void beyond her closed eyelids. There were footsteps in it – more than one man coming. The French doors creaked and more glass broke.

“We got two of them here,” a man’s voice said.

A pause, and then she heard a throaty chuckle. “Pissy missies!” She felt their eyes surveying her. Her skin began to creep. The sunlight flickered as someone stepped closer. She lay lax as a dummy, but she needed to breathe soon.

One man went on past, towards the hallway, but the other’s presence lingered in the light. Her lungs had started tightening. She willed him to move on. What was the bastard waiting for? And then she heard his rhythmic breaths.

Oh God.

The looming archer grunted without warning, and a gob of sticky fluid struck her chest. Another spatter followed, scalding hot on her cold cleavage. It had a slimy feel, like egg whites, slowly oozing down over her breasts. Aghast, Claire didn’t even bat an eyelid. She heard his zipper rasping up, and his boots clumped on into the passageway.

She lay where she was, ears straining at the silence, but the room was empty now. She let her breath out cautiously. Her eyelids flickered open and she peered down at her cleavage. His semen glistened on her flesh. She grimaced in disgust.

Laying aside the broken shaft, she sat up awkwardly, her panties plastered to her crotch. Her pubic hair was soaked. Shuddering, she tried to smear the man’s cum off her breasts. Her gaze flicked back to Emma’s corpse. Reaction almost broke her down in sobs.

Then the front door opened, and she startled like a rabbit. The French doors were unguarded now. She had to seize her chance. It was too bad for the others: there was nothing she could do. She sniffed and clambered to her feet.

A leering voice behind her said: “Nice arse.”

She swung round with a gasp of fright to find a masked man watching, his bow half-raised, an arrow nocked in place. “I knew that you were shamming,” he exclaimed, “you po-faced cunt.” The brutal insult dropped Claire’s jaw and held her stupefied while he took aim.

He loosed the arrow smartly at her semen-spattered tits. It pierced the left one with a thud, embedding with a force that made her whoop. At that close range, the impact spun her backwards. She caromed off an easy chair, her face a mask of shock. Then she clutched her breasts and screamed as pain engulfed her body. She tried to twist away from it, but the paroxysm became a pirouette.

The archer watched her tumble to the carpet. She wriggled feebly on her back and made a gurgling sound. Her pelvis jerked and her bare heels drummed a protest before she sagged to lie inert. Her glasses didn’t fall off, after all.

Her cry rang down the passageway, and Sophie’s sweat turned icy. She was still under the table in the silent dining room. Her dark eyes widened in dismay as Claire’s wail choked and faded. A ghastly stillness followed it. She felt her hackles rise.

She was caught between two fires, or so it felt like. The other girls had fled from something, only to run into something worse. A frantic part of her said she could stay here and be safe behind the table legs and hanging swags of cloth. But Sophie was too smart for that. She knew she had to move or she’d be trapped – and made to scream in the same way.

She’d heard the front door open – so the first man must be coming, with his vicious flick-knife dangling from his hand. For a moment she was paralysed with horror, but then she forced herself to move, uncoiling from beneath the tablecloth. Gritting her teeth to keep herself from sobbing, she tiptoed fearfully towards the door. There was no sound from the passageway. She squeezed and turned the handle, all ready to recoil if she found someone waiting on the other side.

But when she put her nose outside, the passageway was empty. She looked both ways, then peered towards the rear of the house. The cry of pain had come from that direction, but the drawing room was silent now. She could see the sunlight through its open door. Sophie’s belly tightened with foreboding. She backed away, her fingers to her mouth.

Beyond her line of sight, the dead girls lay where they had fallen and the archers were still tagging them with hearts. Preoccupied with pliant flesh, they didn’t sense her presence. Sophie glanced behind herself, but no-one lay in wait. She edged into the foyer. There was no sign of the first man. Perhaps he’d gone upstairs – and left the front door open too.

Holding her breath, she crossed to it on tiptoe, and sure enough the door was just ajar. Her heart swelled with relief as she slipped through it. The driveway was deserted too. Susannah’s dress stirred feebly in the breeze. Sophie felt her fear becoming nausea, a horrible conviction that the man was lying in wait. She scurried past the broken parlour windows, then veered across the lawn towards the trees.

Reaching the cover of the wood, she paused to get her breath back, then shot a wide-eyed glance towards the house. But no-one was pursuing her. The building looked abandoned, apart from the cars drawn up outside, her sporty little Audi in their midst.

She rested her brow against the nearest tree trunk, her boobs pulsating as she filled her lungs. Her skin was oiled with sweat, as if she’d just finished a workout, and her panties had a sticky, slept-in feel. Glancing back again, she thought of Emma and the others, with a shudder at her own hairsbreadth escape. Like Claire, she told herself that there was nothing she could do except fetch help. She turned and loped on through the trees.

The woodland floor was rough under the soles of her bare feet, but she kept going with a grimace on her face. A breeze was soughing through the leaves above her. Then she heard another noise – it sounded like a car. The swoosh of movement passed from right to left in front of her. There was a road somewhere beyond the undergrowth.

Her bosom heaved with hope again, and she floundered through the foliage. She had to flag the next car down. It didn’t matter that she’d lost her clothes. She glimpsed the road below her, and another car was coming. She heard the rising engine note.

She didn’t see the figure lying in wait.

He had his back against a shady tree trunk, and let her pass before he straightened up. Sighting on her graceful spine, he drew his bowstring calmly – distracted for a moment by the taut seat of her briefs. Then his eyes refocused on a spot between her shoulders, and his fingers loosed the arrow with a whirr.

It thudded into Sophie’s back, and she whinnied like a pony as the shock of impact quivered through her breasts. The car went sweeping past; there was a face at the back window, and she glimpsed the wide eyes of a teenage boy. Then a choking surge of pain went through her, and she thrust her boobs out, throwing back her head.

The car sped on. The boy peered back at the receding bushes, unwilling to believe his luck; unfazed by the mysterious beauty’s plight. Lost to sight already, Sophie gurgled in her throat but didn’t fall until the engine faded out. She pitched over the bank and dangled limply, her dark head bowed between her outstretched arms. The arrow in her back protruded skywards. She felt coarse grass against her boobs, and then her thoughts receded and winked out.

The archer crouched to pat her upturned buttocks, then placed a hand on one smooth shoulder, braced himself and tugged the arrow out. He heaved her body up, but she was lifeless. The snooty bitch still smelled of perfume underneath her sweat. She hung over his shoulder with the grace of a slain deer as he returned her to the house from which she’d fled.

The other Lonely Hearts were waiting for her on the sun loungers around the terrace pool. The arrows had been plucked out of their bodies, leaving crimson puncture wounds in their pale flesh. Each girl wore a pair of shades which covered her closed eyelids, but otherwise they were completely nude. Their knickers hung like trophies on a rosebush. Their thighs were spread invitingly, and a red rose lay in every pubic puff.

Apart from the flowers, they looked like they were topping up their tans, although it wasn’t sunscreen glistening on Claire’s breasts. The archer carried Sophie over to a vacant lounger and stripped her purple panties off, then parted her long legs. The posh girl’s pussy opened to receive him, but a richer man would have that privilege. The archer drew a heart above one nipple, then slipped a pair of shades over her eyes. A rose between her thighs and she was ready. He gave her tit a final tweak and left her and the others to their fate.

After a pause, the clients were shown out onto the terrace. They were all exclusive members of the real Cupid’s Arrow Agency. Men who got turned on by watching innocent young ladies being stalked and murdered in their underwear. And now they got to date the hapless victims who were lined up for inspection by the pool.

The girls sprawled wantonly in the warm sunlight. The roses barely hid their modesty. Their breasts had softened in repose, but the nipples poked up stiffly with the shocked reaction to a painful death. Susannah had stopped worrying about her pampered cat, and Claire was through with being a prissy singleton. Frances’s vivaciousness and Sophie’s vanity had been snuffed out, while Emma looked a lot less smug.

One by one, the men made their selection, removed the flower from each girl’s sex and carried her head-down into the house. Poor Claire would have blushed scarlet if her heart had still been beating when the rose was lifted from between her legs. She was the only virgin, but would not be for much longer.

The last word she had heard on earth was all that counted now.