Oh, God! Not again…please!
Her pelvic muscles contracted as another orgasm hit her. The surge of pleasure flooded every nerve in her body, Bob slamming harder and faster until finally, he reached his own climax, his seed jetting into her. Breathing hard, his face beetroot-red, he slipped his withering organ from between her legs.
“So - how’d I do, slut? Are you satisfied now?”
She sobbed. She was definitely satisfied. Bob’s jack-hammer performance had lived up to his internet profile’s promises - and then some. She was going to be bruised and sore in the morning…
She bawled louder.
Sore in the morning - she would be fucking dead in the morning…unless Bob’s talk of killing her was just that – talk. Maybe that’s how he got his kicks, how he got hard…seeing the fear in his victim’s eyes as he fucked them…
“I don’t know about you, slut, but after all that exertion, I am starving!”
She raised her head a little, watching as he walked to the stain-encrusted hob and picked up a large saucepan. Her eyes continued to follow him as he stepped over to the sink, his limp cock oozing its last dregs of semen between his boil-infested thighs. The effort of watching was straining at the back of her neck and she lay her head back down on the table, listening to the splashing of water as he filled the pan and placed it back on the stove. She heard a loud percussion of clicks, followed with a gentle ‘whoosh’ as he lit the gas.
“Toasted-Soldiers…” Bob mumbled under his breath and placed a couple of slices of bread into a toaster, flicking down the switch.
Was he boiling eggs? Perhaps, with his lust satisfied he no longer had the urge to torture and kill her and was now going about his normal routine. Maybe she could talk him into letting her go.
“Bob?”
He turned towards her.
“Thank you, Bob. I really enjoyed you fucking me. I have honestly never come so hard or so often in my life…”
Bob turned his attention back to the hob, the water beginning to bubble noisily.
“Perhaps we could be ‘Fuck-Buddies’? What do you think, Bob? You’re clearly a man who enjoys sex and there aren’t many men out there with your prowess, I can tell you. I’d love to come over a few times a week and let you fuck my brains out…”
Laura squirmed inwardly, knowing that she was not entirely lying. Bob may be a hideous blob of a man but he knew how to fuck.
“What d’you say? It would be win-win for both of us.”
“I don’t think so, slut. I won’t be hard again for months. Right now, eating is my top priority.”
As if on cue, the lightly browned slices of bread popped up from the toaster. Bob laid them on the work-surface, smothering them in butter before cutting them into strips.
“There’s my soldiers…just need something to dip them into…”
He stepped back over to Laura, staring down at her for a few seconds before taking hold of her right breast. He ran his hands over the fleshy mound, gently massaging and fondling, his tongue flicking back and forth across his lips.
Something struck Laura as off. The way he handled her breast was not sexual. This was not foreplay - Bob was not gearing himself up for round two. It was more like the way she had seen people handle fruit in a supermarket – gently squeezing and prodding, checking to see how ripe it was. The man repeated the process with her left breast, before cupping a hand around each, as if performing a final comparison.
“You have very lovely breasts, slut. A ‘C’ cup if I’m not mistaken – my favourite.”
He cast a glance across to the saucepan. The boiling bubbles were visible above the rim, clouds of steam drifting up towards the brown, nicotine stained ceiling. Bob punched Laura hard in the stomach, knocking all the wind out of her. As she gasped for air, he untied her arms, lifting her off the table and onto her feet. Taking advantage of her breathlessness, he shoved her towards the stove, towards the bubbling saucepan. She tried to dig her bare heels into the faded yellow linoleum but the floor was wet and slick, her feet sliding relentlessly towards her fate. At the edge of the stove, he punched her again, doubling her over, using her bent-double momentum to force her right breast into the pan.
The pain was agonising.
She could feel the skin on her breast blistering the moment it was enveloped by the boiling water. She tried to scream, her windless squeal barely more than a croak, and attempted to lift herself away from the saucepan. Bob smothered her back with his sweaty bulk, his weight pressing her down, pushing her chest tight onto the pan’s scalding rim. Her body bucked and trembled, her legs barely able to support the weight of herself and her attacker.
As her lungs recovered from his punch, air flooded her chest and she screamed loudly. The volume of her shrieking seemed to fill her with a renewed strength and she thrashed under Bob’s bulk. The man adjusted his feet, allowing more of his weight to overpower the girl, holding her in place as her breast cooked.
Laura was suddenly aware of the smell and for an instant, she was back in the kitchen at home.
Christmas Eve. Sitting at the table wrapping gifts as her mother boiled a ham, the odour of the cooked meat arousing both their taste buds.
She felt her mouth watering and screamed again as she realised she
