Page 14 of Taunting Tarran
I try to shift further into the recess of the boot as the car comes to a stop. The sound of the car door opening and footsteps crunching over gravel causes me to freeze. With a deep breath, I prepare myself for whatever is about to happen.
The car boot opens with a click and two hands grip underneath my body hauling me out into the crisp air. Air that is so cold it cuts deeper than a knife.
The lower half of my body is still naked, and I feel the sharp gravel dig into my flesh as I’m lowered onto the ground with a thud. Agony shoots through me as I try to push myself up onto my elbows.
‘Who are you?’ I manage to choke out.
‘Oh, good, you’re awake,’ he responds nonchalantly. ‘I’m going to untie you, but count to twenty before you remove yourblindfold. Understood?’
I nod.
‘And one more thing, sweetheart…’
‘Don’t call me sweetheart. I’m not your sweetheart, I have a name.’
‘OK…’
‘And I’m only telling you because you…’
Rescued? No, that would be the wrong word.
‘Because you got me out of that situation. My name is Tarran.’
‘Well, Tarran, stay away from The Lickerish Lounge. If I see you there again, I’ll fuck you myself.’
CHAPTER 7
THE PUNISHER
The Conqueror wouldn’t be the first man I’ve murdered, nor will he be the last. Yet, I’ve never killed an employee before, so this will take some planning if no one is to suspect I had anything to do with his death. Maribel says what happened was consensual, but I don’t give two shits, because at that moment I’d already decided this guy needed eliminating before he did this to another woman, let alone her.
Since taking over the club, I’d scanned through employment files, and who was on shift and when. This guy Christopher Harris goes by the stage name of The Conqueror and sounds like a right fucking prat. Apparently he specialises in DominantTherapy, but this has nothing to do with any therapy and negotiations with a submissive, and therefore the submissive being on a so-called journey of growth. This is ownership. She’s a fuckdoll, an inanimate object for him to treat less than human. If his true intention was to cage an animal, torment it, and then show a twisted form of care by bathing and feeding it, he wouldn’t be casting her out when the time comes for the session to end which is still in approximately ten minutes.
‘This is what she wants,’Maribel had shrugged.
Just before I barged in, I witnessed The Conqueror’s mouth clamp down onto the girl’s shoulder, his lips wrapping around the curvature of her neck, and she yelped through the fabric stuffed in her mouth.
Fuck this dude!
And right there and then I decided this guy wouldn’t be seeing another sunrise. I can’t say I’ve ever killed a man for a woman before, but something about her ensnares my soul. Her scream stopped my heart, and all I could focus on was the source of her pained cry. I stood there, transfixed by her, torn between my primal urge to barrel in and the perverse compulsion to simply observe. My heart pounded in grim fascination, Maribel’s voice fading as I’m caught in the girl’s web, teetering on the edge of madness.
That should have been me touching her.
Now I’ve laid eyes on her, she won’t slip through my grasp, and if it’s pain she’s after, then pain she shall receive, as long as it’s me who delivers it.
I couldn’t get the memory of The Conqueror’s teeth clamping down on this girl out of my mind. Not to mention fucking her with some grotesquely modified saw. Maribel’s comments about her wanting it, the mere thought igniting a blazing fury within me.
I don’t even know how this dude was hired. He’s a fucking psychopath, and that’s saying something coming from me. He has a history of violent offenses, including multiple charges of Grievous Bodily Harm. It seems it runs in his family. His father was a small-time enforcer for a local gang, teaching his son the brutal ways of the street. His nickname “The Conqueror” apparently came from his preferred method of intimidation – any tool that enables him to break and conquer his victims. So far, he’s evaded law enforcement despite his victims often bearing both physical and emotional scars. This sick fuck’s anger is driven by a thirst for power and what better place to lay low, get away with it, and actually get paid than in my club! Unfortunately for him, his goose is cooked. This arsehole has met his match. No doubt he and his family remain a formidable presence in the criminal underworld, and for sure they would have accrued a few enemies alongthe way, so what’s one more? Fortunately, I know how to kill a man in fifty-six different ways, thirty-two of which are nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As I walk back into the club, I notice most of the clients have already left, and the few that remain are now re-dressing. The once bustling atmosphere has quieted, and the stragglers that linger hurriedly dress themselves before the final call. The ambient hum of moans and screams are replaced by soft sounds of shoes shuffling, garments rustling, and the clink of metal as items are cleaned. As the night is winding down, the club prepares to close its doors for the evening.
Maribel and The Conqueror are intheroom, oblivious to me watching through the two-way mirror. I bare my teeth as I activate the speakers. Both are engaged in a hushed conversation, occasionally exchanging a knowing smile and a conspiratorial glance. The Conqueror leans in close, his voice dropping to a whisper as he outlines the details of a kidnap. Maribel listens intently, admitting casually that she has already enlisted the help for reinforcements, ensuring they have the necessary backup to execute their plan.
There’s a distinct, pungent stink people ooze when they’re afraid, and I know he’s seconds away from shitting his pants, ifhe was wearing any! After Maribel left, I waited for The Conqueror. I lurked in the shadows. He had no fucking idea I was waiting as he put his key into his car door. I darted out slamming his head down onto the car roof, and he fell back landing on the ground. He’s out cold. I grabbed his shoulders, and with a firm grip, hauled him back into the club.
‘Mr Lewis?’ he spews. Not conquering much now is he, naked, legs spread out on the floor with the spreader bar! His legs are parted with a rigid centre bar with his ankles cuffed at each end. Usually the spreader is used for a psychological thrill; being bound and forced to receive erotic pleasure. With legs held apart, it leaves its captive at their lover’s mercy. But I’ll show him no mercy. Desperation and fear are his only companions now.
‘What the fuck, man?’ He writhes on the floor as I yank up his zip-tied wrists, bound tightly behind his back, and attach him to the X cross mounted on the wall.
