Posted by Megaton on October 07, 2000 at 18:47:44:
I fitted the clear plastic bag over Bobby’s head, tightening the cord around his neck just as he began to stir. It wasn’t
tight enough to choke him; he could even get air if he inhaled really deeply. I didn’t intend to strangle or suffocate him;
no, I had quite another fate in store for Bobby Tudor.
As he groaned and shook his head, I stepped back and looked him over. He was eighteen, two years younger than me.
Compact, sinewy, incredibly handsome, well-endowed. Bleached blonde, short hair. Muscular; a lot stronger than my
beloved Gary, no doubt. I had used almost two rolls of duct tape fastening his wrists together behind his back, taping
his ankles to the legs of the chair. Didn’t want any problems when the performance began.
The letters N H R were tattooed on his left shoulder. Norfolk Hell Raisers. He was one of the gang, and he had to pay.
Pay hard.
He looked up at me, an angry sneer on his face. “What’d you do to me, bitch?”
“I spiked your drink. What else?” I watched him struggle, the muscles in his arms and legs straining against the tape. He
wasn’t getting loose.
“I know you now.” He grinned. “You’d better get this bag off my head, or I’ll --”
“You’ll what? You and your gang will beat me up, maybe? Rape me? Kill me? I doubt that, Bobby.” I walked around
behind him; he struggled with his bonds, turning his head to keep me in view, mouthing off more threats. God, he was
good-looking. And I hated him. “You’re with the Hell Raisers. The bunch that mugged Gary when he left work.”
“Gary? You mean Weasel?” He laughed, hard and harsh, still certain that he had everything under control. “Weasel
narced on us, bitch. So we taught him to keep his nose in his own business. You’d better let me go.” His last words
had just a hint of nervousness. “Now!”
“No. You’re going to pay. All of you. You’re the first, but I’ll get you all.”
“GET us? You can’t touch us. The law can’t touch us. Luke’s folks got connections, the law won’t do a thing. They
never have.”
“I know. So you’re all going to disappear. There’s no other answer.”
“CUT ME LOOSE, BITCH!” He writhed and twisted, shaking the chair in his anger. “This bag isn’t going to hurt me,
bitch. You’ve got it so loose it’s a joke. You’re a joke. And when I get loose, I’ll fuck you to death, I swear it. Me and
the rest of the Hell Raisers. You think we put a hurtin’ on Weasel, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
“I’m not going to be sorry to watch you die.“ I stepped forward, stood right behind him. Reached down, took hold of
something in the bag, something hanging down at the back of his neck. I had put four of them in it before I put it over
his head. “It took me a long time to decide how to kill you, Bobby.” I snapped the plastic lid on the object in the bag; it
began to hiss, spraying white mist into the bag, inflating it around his head. “You and your gang are pests, so I decided
on some pest control.”
Black Flag bug bombs. You put them in your house, trigger them, and leave for a day. When you come back, the bugs
are all dead. I had some vermin to kill; Black Flag would do the job.
Bobby screamed curses, yanked and tugged at his bonds. Veins bulged huge in his strong, muscular arms, in his
clenched fists. The gas sprayed out around his neck, enough to keep from overinflating and bursting the bag, but not
nearly fast enough to keep him from breathing in the concentrated poison. He howled, shrieked, began to cough, over
and over, hard, throat-ripping barking. I walked around him, looked at his face through the misting bag. His eyes were
red, brimming over with water. He coughed and fought his bonds and called me a bitch again and again through his
coughing.
I stood and watched, no emotion on my face. Watched coldly, clinically, as this little bug began to die.
He arched his back; his hard, nearly hairless chest heaved in spasms as he sucked Black Flag into his lungs. His
washboard stomach brutally contracted in a convulsion; vomit burst from his open mouth, spattered and ran down the
sides of the bag. He was red-faced, bawling like a baby. The tough young punk had probably fought many men bigger
and stronger than himself, and probably won more than he lost. Five of them had beaten Gary so hard that he’d been
found unconscious.
But now he wasn’t facing a man. He was facing me. The deadlier of the species.
This is what you get when you hurt someone I love.
I clicked another bug bomb into life. As the hissing intensified, Bobby threw his head back and screamed, not words,
not curses, just a raw, ragged terrified shrieking, the sound of a lost soul in hell. Cords stood out in his neck; veins
bulged in his temples. His eyes, red and watering, stared at me as he screamed, pleading as the gas wafted around his
face, begging me to let him go. Every muscle in his body was straining toward freedom. The heavy chair wobbled back
and forth with the violence of his efforts, but the duct tape held.
As I watched, he began to snap at the side of the bag, to suck inward, finally catching the plastic in his teeth, chewing,
biting a hole in it. His tongue hung through the hole; he gulped air like a parched man gulps water.
I calmly put another bag over his head, pulled the tie cord tight. And another. Clicked another bug bomb, watched the
bags inflate. Bobby heaved and screamed and gagged and retched; his cock stuck out, huge and hard and glistening,
ridged with veins. Semen spurted in little jets from the tip, synchronized with his rhythmic convulsions, and splashed
stickily on the chair, on the floor, on his straining thighs.
He was only grunting now, deep, gutteral snorting, like a pig: “Uh! uh! uh! uh!” His eyes were glassy, stupidly crossed;
his tongue hung from his gaping mouth and his head lolled on his bull neck. The frantic struggling had become a simple,
mindless jerking in time with his grunts.
I stepped around behind him, remembering a fantasy I’d once had, back when I thought I really couldn’t hurt a fly. Put
my arms around him, ran my hands up his heaving stomach, along his ribcage. My left hand clutched his chest, feeling his
heart slamming without rhythm against my palm. My right hand was wrapped around his neck, feeling it shudder with
each thick grunt.
His heart’s slamming became a mere fluttering beneath his hard, firm chest. Stopped completely. Simultaneously his
stomach convulsed hard, his back arched violently; his balls contracted, his penis spurted hot sperm in a foot-long stream
before it sagged and drooped. The grunting still continued deep in his dead throat, mechanically, his body not yet
realizing that it was dead. A few minutes later it stopped, too.
The bug bombs had stopped spraying death; the bags slowly deflated around his head.
An hour later I was rowing a canoe in the deepest part of the Elkhorn River, Bobby sprawled at my feet. I lifted him up,
began working his body over the side. First his head; the cinder block I had tied around his neck pulled his neck long and
tight. I threw both arms over the side; the cinderblocks tied to the wrists twisted his arms, probably pulled them out of
their sockets. Bobby didn’t care, of course. Finally I worked the rest of his body overboard; he sank instantly, gone
from sight. No one would miss him for long. Probably not even his gang. I rowed back to shore and left, leaving my
secret in the dark waters behind me.
The next day Gary warned me to be careful when I was out. He didn’t want me to get mugged like he had.
I was flattered by his concern...but I wasn’t worried.
I can take care of myself.