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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Index:
- Part One
- Part Two
- Part Three
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Title: Hell to Pay
Author: MasterKey
Chapter Tags: English, Unfinished, Medium, Nonconsensual, Drama, Solo, Gang, Abduction, Humiliation, Interracial, Reluctance, Sleep, Bondage, Punishment
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Hell to Pay
Part One
As soon as she stepped across the threshold, she caught a whiff of something - sweat mixed with cheap cologne and burnt motor oil. Then big hands encircled her wrists and yanked her arms behind her back, making her cry out in surprise. She barely had time to realize what was happening before her vision went black and her senses were overwhelmed with the cloying smell of industrial chemicals mixed with rotting seaweed and molasses.
Then the blackness swallowed her completely.
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Vivian Hawthorne had not been tough to track down, not for someone with sufficient motivation and time… and Lester Boone had plenty of both these days. COVID had ravaged pretty much every business in the area, and Lester’s small machine shop had been struggling for years already. The pandemic had put the last nail in the coffin of his personal American Dream. His home, his marriage, both taken – the latter by the virus, the former by the bank when he found himself unable to make the monthly payments.
For the past six months he had been sleeping on a cot in the back of his shop, huddled close to an ancient space heater which buzzed alarmingly and had begun to smell like burning wiring. The shop was fully paid for, at least until the annual property taxes came due next month. Past that, he’d be living out of some roach-infested SRO, and when his pitiful bank account ran dry, his work truck.
Lester had no intention of quietly accepting his fate.
The plan had begun over beers with Sarge and the boys, the only spot of pleasure in his dreary day. Sarge liked to brag he lived large in his RV, able to pack and go at a moment’s notice, wherever the whim might take him. He’d never driven so much as out of the county. Sarge might be a blowhard, but at least the beer was cold and free.
Sarge was a war vet, which he brought up as often as he could so he could regale the boys with tales of his exploits in Vietnam as an MP. The men he’d killed, the men he’d saved – but mostly, the women he’d fucked. Every visit, Lester heard Sarge spin a fresh tale of the women he had screwed in Saigon, or wherever he’d served. If he’d served. Stories of paying some hooker for a fast fuck, then chaining her to the bed with his Army-issue cuffs so he could take his time with her. Most days, Lester tuned Sarge out when his stories wandered that direction. One day, when the heater was on the blink and the wind howled through every gap around every door in the shop, he didn’t. He listened.
“You can’t go wrong with the miniskirt,” Sarge said between long pulls of his Heinekin. “No fuss, no muss. Yank that thing up and whoo, full access to the fun bits. Quick and easy as you please. Course, the panties might slow you down.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn utility knife, the kind with the replaceable blade that retracted all the way into the handle and was built to last a lifetime. “Fresh blades always do the trick. One little snip and those panties come right off in your hand.”
Sarge leaned back in the weathered patio chair. “But you need both hands, right? So just shove ‘em in her mouth. The other holes are just as much fun.”
Lester listened, and pondered.
The foreclosure papers were in a shoebox on the workbench, right where he’d dropped them the day he’d slept in the shop. He’d barely glanced at them during the process, still trying to process his wife’s death. Now he dug them out and leafed carefully through them, a yellow Hi-Liter in his hand, marking the name of every department, every individual he came across. It wasn’t long before certain ones began to become familiar: Loss Mitigation. All signed by account representative Vivian Hawthorne.
Lester may not have had a computer or email, but big businesses still used the Yellow Pages. So he let his fingers do the walking, and dug out a handful of phone numbers associated with the bank. Customer service still meant something to some people, and just speaking to a customer who was sympathetic instead of angry convinced more than one customer service rep to share information with him that they really shouldn’t have.
And so after two dozen phone calls he had an address, some office building downtown. The kind of place which had work trucks going in and out all the time. One more wouldn’t be noticed, not if he timed it right. It wasn’t more than a few days before he had a good idea of her daily work schedule. He had plenty of time, a valid permit to park in a nearby commercial lot good for another few months, and a decent pair of binoculars he’d once used while hunting whitetail deer.
But Lester had a different prey in mind.
A rifle and skinning knife would not do for this one, oh no – this one needed to be bagged alive and intact. She’d no doubt panic, probably scream, and alert everyone in the goddamn building in the process. So he looked through the odds and ends that inevitably build up, and found a bottle marked ‘Trichloromethane’ that he’d tried once to clean the surface of a workpiece and wound up gassing himself in the enclosed shop. That day had taught him two lessons – one, to always open the doors while working with chemicals, and two, to keep that damn bottle nice and closed so he didn’t wind up passing out on the sidewalk again.
Trichloromethane was another name for chloroform.
A little more searching, a little more work, and he had a makeshift hood fashioned form an imitation leather car seat - nice and pliable, but too durable to rip with one’s fingers. He’d laced length of rope through holes he’d punched around the opening, allowing him to pull it tight. Pour a little of the chloroform inside the hood right beforehand, it should work like a charm.
All he had to do was choose the right moment.
End of Part One
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It’s been a long time since I did much prose writing, and I’d be grateful for any thoughts you may have. Thanks for reading!
