Bad Games

53



Amy had stopped fighting. She lay beneath Jim, his hand hovering over her mouth, ready to clamp back down in case she decided to scream again.

She had no such intentions. She now had a plan.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Jim appeared shocked. He even said, “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Amy said again. “I’m very scared. I won’t fight you anymore. Just please promise me you won’t hurt my children or my husband.”

Amy knew this attempt at bartering was futile given what she had seen from these men, but it helped support the idea that she was willing to be cooperative with her captor, let him think that her gumption had finally been stripped away, leaving nothing but a desperate naiveté. She needed to be careful though. If she appeared too desperate, too naïve, too willing…

“I promise,” Jim said. He was wearing a smile that revealed his lie to such a degree it looked as if he wasn’t even trying to humor her. She pushed her anger aside, remained focused.

“Can you sit up a bit please?” she asked. “I’m having trouble breathing with your full weight on me like this.”

Jim didn’t move. He studied her.

“Please,” Amy said again. “I won’t scream or run—just as long as you keep your promise.”

Jim continued to study Amy. He squinted, cast her a sly, sidelong glance. Then, with a quick burst, said, “Sure,” and hopped off her, rolling onto his feet beside the bed.

“Thank you,” she said. She sat up onto her knees and inched closer to Jim who had now relocated to the foot of the bed.

He watched her as she approached, a slight twitch to his manner as though perhaps she still had one good outburst left in her. But Amy was determined to portray the role of the passive hostage, willing to do whatever necessary to ensure the safety of her husband and children. She lowered her head and inched closer, the crown of her hair now touching Jim’s chest. She stayed there for a few seconds, inhaled deep, the exhale choppy with fear, intentionally so. “Remember your promise.”

She didn’t look up, but could feel Jim’s leer as he repeated his vow. She nodded into his chest and slowly lowered herself towards his navel.

With slow, calculated movements, Amy began working at the button on his jeans. Her wrists were still bound together, but this did little to impede her movements; she was managing fine, all things considered. She opened the button on his jeans. Paused. Performed the choppy breathing again before proceeding to the zipper. She made her hands tremor as she touched the metal. She prayed he was buying it. Prayed she looked like a terrified woman at her wits’ end, resorting to sexual favors in order to save her family.

Not like a woman who was planning to bite her captor’s dick off.

“What are you up to down there?” Jim asked.

Amy said nothing. She pinched the zipper’s tip and started sliding it down.

“Ahhh…” Jim said. “Good girl.”

With the zipper down, Amy attempted to grab both sides of Jim’s jeans in order to pull them to his knees. The binds on her wrists prevented her from doing so.

“I think you might have to…” she said, her crown still in his chest, refusing to look at him.

“Help?” he said. “I’d be glad to help, lover.”

Jim grabbed the edges of his jeans and cinched them downward. He wore no underwear and was already fully erect. The initial sight shocked Amy, despite her violent objective. Her choppy breathing was now equal parts act and real.

“You like?” he asked.

Amy said nothing. Her breathing was enough. Had she said yes it would have been too much. Too unbelievable for her to actually like what she saw. It would never sell. So she kept her head down, letting her calculated breaths become her words. He could have his pick. Were they breaths of desire, or breaths of fear? She knew his ego would choose desire. Scratch that. Fear. This man almost assuredly got off more to fear. And if Amy was to find even the tiniest morsel of joy in this situation, it would be that whatever fueled his sick desires was ultimately irrelevant. It would not stop her. Her objective was the same.

Let him think I’m afraid. Let him think I’m aroused. Let him think whatever the hell he wants. It doesn’t matter. I’m biting that thing off and spitting it back in his f*cking face.

She steadied herself, pulse hammering her chest. She lowered herself a few more inches. She was moving in for the kill. Her stomach churned, adrenaline teasing nerve-endings without remorse. Bile rose in her throat and she winced it down like cheap whiskey.

Here we go.

And then Jim spoke and she flinched, nearly crying out from being startled out of her zone.

“Wait,” he said. “I want you to take your shirt off. I wanna see those titties you wouldn’t show me in the supermarket.”

Amy tried to swallow. Her dry throat refused. She coughed lightly to clear it. His penis was still hard, only a few inches from her mouth. Should she lunge for it? No. He would flinch at her sudden movement and pull away. She needed to ease into it. She needed to be the cat slinking along its belly towards its prey.

“I can’t,” she said, still looking at his penis, unable to look up. At this stage she feared her eyes would give away her intentions. “My hands are tied.”

Jim stroked her hair, increasing the pressure with each glide of his hand. Before long he had removed the band on her ponytail, her hair falling around her face. He stroked some more, tucking it back behind her ears as if trying to give her profile to a camera in the room.

“We can manage, lover,” he said. “Pull your shirt over your head and down your arms. You won’t need your hands for what your about to do, will you?”

Amy sat up, trying to erase the doubts sprinting throughout her psyche. She needed to stay quiet and strike without warning. She needed to be the cat.

Still avoiding eye contact, Amy obeyed without thinking. Her shirt was off and resting along her forearms in one swift movement. Her breasts were out now, but still covered by a black bra.

“Nice,” Jim said. “But you know the bra is gonna have to go too.”

Amy made eye contact without intention. His question was preposterous. “What? I can’t reach behind my back.”

“Pull your straps down. Pull the whole thing down to your waist,” he said.

Amy lowered her head again. She searched hard for the right response. “It’ll look…strange,” she said.

Jim reached out and pulled one of the straps down past her shoulder. “I don’t think it will look strange, lover,” he said. “And besides, I don’t remember asking for your opinion.” He tugged the second strap and let it snap back onto her skin.

Amy kept her head low and slowly removed the other strap with both hands. She paused there for a moment.

“Keep going,” he said. “Pull it down to your waist.”

She took a deep breath, her chest expanding, hating that the deep breath made her chest heave, assuredly exciting him further.

With both hands she gripped the center of her bra and inched it down to her stomach. She could not bring herself to look at her own breasts in this man’s company. She closed her eyes and looked away.

Jim moaned lightly under his breath. “Oh yeah…” He briefly touched himself. “Nice and firm. I guess you never breastfed those two rug rats in there did you?” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder towards the bedroom door. “You know I read somewhere that if a mother doesn’t breastfeed her kids, she loses that special bond between mother and child during those crucial developmental years. Is that true? Is there a bond lacking between you and Carrie? You and Caleb?”

Hearing her children’s names made Amy’s heart burn. She’d been desperately trying to put her family out of her mind during this most recent nightmare, and she would have bet anything that Jim knew this; that his speaking Carrie and Caleb’s names as opposed to something like your children or your kids was intentional. It brought her anger back full-steam.

“I breastfed them,” she said with an instantly regrettable defiance. She could feel the cold on her bare breasts and prayed her nipples were not hard for him. She did not look and see.

“Really?” Jim said. “Wow. I guess you’ve just got some winning genetics then, yeah?” He reached out with his index finger and circled the perimeter of her left nipple. Then her right.

Amy tried a swallow and her throat caught, forcing a cough. Her rage was the only thing keeping her from crying.

“Thanks,” she whispered. It was barely audible.

Jim stopped his exploratory finger, brought his whole hand to her cheek, stroked it. “You’re welcome,” he said. His began caressing her hair again. Amy kept her profile to him. “Look at me,” he said.

Amy didn’t move.

“Turn and look at me.”

Amy bit harder into her cheek and tasted the coppery hint of blood. She forced herself to turn and lock eyes with him.

He winked at her, leered, then established a quick, firm grip on the back of her scalp that made her gasp.

“Much better,” he said. “Now…where were we?”

The pressure on her scalp was painful. She took her eyes off him immediately and attempted to lower her head back to his groin. He allowed her, but kept a strong hold on her hair.

Do I try and sell it again? Or are we past that? I need to say something. I need to hear my own voice…

“I think we were here,” she said. Her voice was a weak, defeated offering—as she’d intended. She was inches from his penis for the second time.

He gripped her scalp harder. “Well then what the f*ck are you waiting for?”

Amy swallowed dry again. She had no spit whatsoever. If she were with Patrick it would be difficult to do a decent job. But she didn’t need to prolong this act. She didn’t need to be concerned with performance. She would take him in her mouth for as long as necessary. Once the moment presented itself, she would chomp down with everything she had then jerk away violently like a wild animal. Hell, the dry mouth would even give her a better grip wouldn’t it? F*ck yeah. Keep the damn thing from slipping out.

Amy knew the assault would not stop her attacker, but she was hoping (praying) the intense pain would buy her the precious seconds needed to hop off the bed, snatch the giant lamp on the dresser, and then bring it down onto Jim’s skull, knocking the son of a bitch out. Maybe (hopefully) even killing him.

After that? After he was incapacitated? She had a plan. A damn good one.

Amy allowed the tip of his penis to touch her lips, her breathing coming in short, rapid bursts. She opened her mouth and allowed the first inch to enter. She didn’t need to slide too far down onto his shaft. Biting the head off would do just fine.

She bit.

And her teeth clacked together, catching nothing. Jim had suddenly pulled out, his member unscathed. Still gripping her scalp, he ripped her face into his, their noses mashing. She saw lunacy in his eyes, smelled his sour breath as he started laughing.

“You think I’m f*cking stupid?” he said. “You think I’m gonna let you bite my f*cking dick off?” He gripped her hair harder, causing Amy to cry out. “You’ve got to be the most predictable bitch I’ve dealt with yet.”

Amy’s panic was electric. There was no plan B. Not even a sliver of one.

Jim stepped back and yanked Amy off the bed by her hair. She cried out again, moving with him willingly to relieve the pain on her scalp. Jim spun her around and pushed her up against the dresser, stomach impacting along the furniture’s edge. With one hand still gripping her hair, he began to tear at her pants. Amy struggled but his strength overwhelmed her.

She was bent over now, her hands slamming down onto the dresser’s counter, knocking over a small jewelry box and spilling its contents.

Jim’s pants were still around his ankles, his manhood still erect and prepared to violate her.

Amy’s pulse was off the charts, her chest and head pounding, each throb threatening a blackout. And then, as if handed to her by an invisible savior, her frantic hands fell upon a metal nail file that had spilled from the jewelry box.

She snatched it up and leaned forward, hoping her upper body would shield her find. She needed something else. She needed him to release the grip on her hair so she could spin around. She had no available target from where she was positioned. She needed to face him.

So she screamed. She screamed until her throat hurt. And it worked. Jim let go of her hair and slapped it over her mouth.

Amy didn’t hesitate. She thrust her hips backward into his groin, doubling him over and knocking him back a step. She then spun, and with both hands gripping the metal file, drove all six inches of it deep into his scrotum.

The expression on Jim’s face was that of a man who had jumped into a frigid pool. He froze, his breath gone. What followed was a pitiful groan of both excruciating pain and disbelief. Blood began to seep from the wound, and when Amy let go of her weapon, she saw that it remained stuck and standing to attention in a deliciously ironic similarity to his erection from only moments ago.

Jim backed up another step and looked down at his wounded groin. His hands shook as he went to touch the file. It looked as though he considered pulling it free, but fear of possibly making matters worse caused him to jerk his hands away.

Amy used both hands on the heavy lamp’s neck, her adrenaline giving her the strength to lift it overhead with little effort. A forceful grunt that started in her abdomen matured into a ferocious battle cry as she brought the lamp down onto his skull, shattering the whole of its porcelain bulk on impact. Jim hit the floor hard—out cold.

Amy spit on him a fourth time.



* * *



The occupants in the bedroom across the hall heard Amy’s scream. They heard Jim’s low, guttural groan follow. Then another scream. The sound of something breaking.

It all made Arty smile. He thought his brother’s groan was one of ecstasy. He thought Amy’s screams were those of terror. He thought the sound of something breaking was Jim getting carried away like he usually did.

Moments later, when he heard his mother’s cry for help coming from downstairs, and he took in the upsetting scene now being broadcast on the television, Arty realized he had it all wrong.