Mystery and Crime Fiction posted July 14, 2013 Chapters: 2 3 -4- 5... 

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Rampage of Lust

A chapter in the book Fatal Beauty


by Mastery

Book of the Month Contest Winner 
The author has placed a warning on this post for sexual content.

The world is plagued with evil.

Bart felt a catch of lust in his throat. The thought of killing the woman made him tingle, pulled at him, like a nicotine addict who had gone too long between cigarettes.

His gaze darted everywhere, his mind a micro-processor clearinghouse of potential problems and what to do about them as he tailed her to her house in the suburb of Des Plaines. His ego was intact, while his predatory senses were always alert, a lone wolf who knew what prey was weak and vulnerable and what was dangerous.

He had shadowed her for more than four weeks and knew she was the one. He thought he knew everything about her--at least everything he needed to know. Several times he had watched as she used the front door key which she foolishly kept hidden under the welcome mat.

She wore a cream-colored silk blouse, hip-clinging slacks, and low heels that lengthened her legs and tightened her heart-shaped ass at the same time. She walked with that long busy confidence seen on young business women, full of themselves, still strangers to hard decision and failure.

Her hips twitched sideways with each of her steps, like two bobcats fighting in a gunnysack. They were soft moves, the motion of the world, right there in raspberry slacks, with the slender back tapering down to her waist, her heels clicking on the sidewalk, her shoulder-length hair swinging in a backbeat to the rhythm of her legs. He doted on that memory now as he sat in his car, waiting.

His anxiety accelerated as he watched his prey use an automatic garage door opener to pull inside and close the door. Parked just down the street, he would wait until all the lights went out in the house. He hated the wait, but knew it would be worth every second once she was his.

His patience paid off near midnight, when he saw the drapes being drawn in the front room. On her way to bed, he assumed. She didn't even bother to look outside, not that it would have mattered one way or the other.

Bart turned off the inside courtesy light, pulled a small Maglite from his pocket and checked his watch. It was nearly one in the morning when he reached for the Smith and Wesson and silencer tucked under the front seat. He gripped the flashlight with his teeth while using both hands to attach the silencer to the muzzle of the gun. He checked out the house once more before slipping a ski mask over his head. It was as dark as a womb, and she was in there...alone.

He popped the trunk, and eased out of the car. His eyes swept the area all around before he raced toward the house with the gun held down at his side. Crouching on the doorstep, he heard the dim sound of air-conditioning, and a television played somewhere.


Adrenaline surged through his body as Bart located the key under the mat and slipped inside through the front door. Standing still, he scanned his surroundings and listened. Then, carefully shoving the gun inside his belt, he pulled the hypodermic needle from his jacket pocket. Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness another moment, he made his way to what he knew to be the woman's bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. A portable television was located on a dresser at the foot of the bed. Audience laughter accompanied the jittery blips that flashed sporadically on the bed and opposite wall.

Lisa awoke from a restless, dream-filled sleep and saw the man in the ski mask. He stood beside her bed, backlit by the grainy light that seeped around the bathroom door: a faceless silhouette with shoulders like mountain slopes.

Her eyes widened as panic exploded like a bomb in her chest. Shards of it wedged in her throat, making her gasp for breath. It tore down through her stomach like shrapnel, and the muscles in her arms and legs spasmed with the shock. Bart abruptly smacked her across the face. He slapped his hand over her mouth and growled, "No, no. Don't move, don't scream."

Before she could recover, he jabbed the needle into her neck and watched as her eyes slowly closed. Then, he snatched up the bedspread, rolled her body up in it and slung it over his shoulder. He paused briefly at the front door, and satisfied all was clear, quickly walked to his Volvo, dumped the body in the trunk, slammed it shut and drove away.


Twenty-eight miles out of town, the road shrank from four lanes to two. Shadowy hills sprouted up and soon the landscape was nothing but a forest. The road was straight, like a tunnel through the trees that were twisted and opportunistic, like weeds competing for light and air and minerals, as if they had seeded themselves a hundred years ago on abandoned arable land. A few miles further down the road he approached an asphalt ribbon that wound through a wide flat area of greenery the size of a football field. It was Lewis' driveway.

Bart used the opener and pulled his car inside the three-car garage, where he parked next to the Mercedes. Closing the door, he grabbed his gun off of the seat, and got out. He followed a narrow stairway out to the backyard; beautifully landscaped, it was filled with plenty of natural flora: scrub oak and maple trees, monkey flowers, asters, lupine, potato vines, clover and renegade grass. He walked to the edge of the porch and spat in the shrubs before he entered the house through the back door.

The house was a tri-level with an interior that screamed money. The living room boasted a cathedral ceiling. It was elegant with comfortable furniture and chandeliers. Matching chairs faced an immense flat-screen television, snugged perfectly into a mahogany entertainment center. The windows were draped in white sheers, and polished mahogany end tables held lamps and crystal candy dishes. An orange, brown, and cream hand-crocheted afghan was precisely folded and arranged over the back of the champagne-colored couch. Coasters and magazines were neatly arranged on a narrow coffee table. A huge stuffed arm chair with maroon and gold stripes had left an impression of Lewis's ass permanently imprinted in the seat cushion.


Lewis Lisecki was an aging psychology professor at DePaul University. Prior to that he practiced law and served as a judge in Cook County. So, Bart had to accept the fact that he was opinionated and full of shit. His past was squeaky clean, but his mind was plagued with filth. For him, the entire abduction scene was like enjoying great food, great sex, and driving 120 with the headlights off all at the same time.

He was a slight man, bald, unflappable and soft-spoken. He looked right at home in bow tie and suspenders. His eyes were dilated black and glittered in his feverish face. His jowls shook when he talked, and he had small, square, yellow teeth behind fleshy protruding lips. He wore bagged-out dark dress slacks and a white dress shirt, open at the neck, showing a mat of gray chest hair. He was visited by dark voices that came in the night. They whispered rage. They filled his head with images of revenge.

Bart found him seated in his throne-like chair, one leg hooked over the chair arm, his leg swinging up and down on some kind of pent up energy, his head moving too, as if plugged into a Walkman. A cigar hung out of his mouth. He was gumming it around, sucking in smoke and blowing it out, all at the same time.

Bart hovered nearby, ready to step, fetch, or kiss ass. He knew Lewis saw him, but insisted on playing his usual head games by ignoring his arrival.

"Yo--Lew!" Bart stood with his hands hanging folded in front of him, a pose of respect. "Got somethin' for ya." Every once in a while--it was like getting ice water thrown in your face, Bart thought. Lewis would get him pissed off when he didn't know what the man was thinking or how he felt. Then he'd get mad because he didn't see why he was expected to be able to read Lewis's mind.

Lewis finally acknowledged him. "There you are, Bartholomew. Want a beer?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods? Ha. Ha. Yeah, man."

"Help yourself," Lewis murmured.

"I sure as hell will," said Bart. "Want me to get you a Grey Goose while I'm at it?" He was somewhat relieved and eased over to the fridge located below the bar.

"No. I'm all set, thanks." Lewis slid back in his chair and watched Bart take a swig of the beer, his fist wrapped around the neck of the bottle.

"The heat is on, my friend. You know that, of course."

"No. Why? What do you mean?"

Lewis studied him and glared. "Do you think someday you might conduct a conversation without scratching your balls?"

"Ahhh! Get off my back, will ya? You know, sometimes dealin' with you is like jerkin' off with sandpaper." He chugged the rest of the beer and headed to the fridge for another. "Hey, here's one for ya' boss. What's black and brown and looks good on a lawyer?"

Lewis glared at him with his "don't-fuck-with-me" look, which Bart fielded with an incorrigible grin.

"Give up? A Doberman. Ha. Ha. Ha."

Lewis sighed. "As I was saying, the heat is on."

"Meaning what exactly?" countered Bart.

"Meaning. . . we may have to lay low for a while after tonight. The papers are full of it every day now, pictures and all, you know what I mean. And you can bet the police are beginning to put some pieces together. We need to do without for a while."

Bart laughed. "I told you, Lewis, you shouldn't sweat it. They ain't got shit."

Lewis got up and walked past a stuffed chair by the front windows. He parted the drapes and saw his reflection against a dismal view of trees and shrubbery in different shades of darkness. "Not yet." He turned, stared at Bart and took a long puff on the cigar. "You need to do something with that hair, Bartholomew."

Lewis spoke with New England Lockjaw. An affliction of women, mostly, but men are sometimes stricken with it, and it occurs usually in social situations when the speaker's teeth are clenched, and enunciation is accomplished by moving only the lips. This produces a nasal tone that's surprisingly audible and distinct, unless the speaker has a deviated septum.

"My hair? What do ya' mean?"

Lewis watched him rub the back of his neck, like he was feeling to see if he needed a haircut.

"I don't know. Change the color for one thing. That red hair stands out like red on dick of the dog. It's got to go."

"Say what? Look here, there's a lot of red-headed guys around. Why should I mess with my...?"

"Please don't ask me. Surely you know the answer to that one, my friend ...and it needs to be cut, also. It's 2010, not 1974. As it is, you blend in about as well as a rhinoceros in a petting zoo."

Bart's ass clenched like a boxer's fist and he almost laughed, but said, "Nobody's got their eyes on to me so far. You think I'm the only red-headed fucker on the planet? I don't think the color of my damned hair looks suspicious, but I'll dye it--okay? Damn! You're always looking for the dark lining in a silver cloud."

He was dying to tell Lewis, first, he ought to shove his hairpiece back further on his head instead of wearing it like an overseas cap. Jesus, all the money the man had and his rug looked like it came from K-Mart.

"It would be for the best--believe me. We must be extremely careful. That's all I'm saying. Now then... you have a gift for me tonight?" He smiled for the first time since Bart had arrived.

"Sure do," said Bart. "In the trunk--all rolled up and waiting for you . . . dying to get out, you might say." He paused. "Get it?"

"Ahh, yes," Lewis sighed. "Your sense of humor does amuse me now and then." His thoughts were elsewhere, and his heart was beating so fast he felt faint. "I must say, I haven't been this anxious in a very long time, my friend."

Bart sniggered. "Got that old Viagra kickin' in, do ya?" He fussed with a pimple on his Adam's Apple as he spoke.

A stern look came over Lewis's face. "Enough! I'll dim these lights. Why don't you go and fetch our new friend. Take her right downstairs. I'll be along directly."

"I would never let you down, boss . . . you know that."

"I certainly hope not. Our arrangement incorporates zero fuck-ups, my friend. And don't you forget it. By the way, I gave you enough money last time to switch vehicles--did you take care of that?"

Bart squinched his eyes closed and smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Aw shit! Sorry, I forgot about the car thing."

"See what I mean, Bartholomew? You don't listen," he growled. "You need to do that right away. I trust you still have the funds I gave you?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll do it tomorrow, for sure--first thing." He stared at Lewis to see if he was really angry, reading his face, his eyes. Lewis was the kind of man who believed he knew everything and had to have complete control. And he was always one or two steps ahead of the rest of the world. He'd be talking, thumbs hooked in his belt, turn his head to spit, turn his head back and still be talking.

Lewis sounded just a speck shaky now. "Get that new vehicle immediately. You know, the smallest details can cause big problems when they aren't handled properly."

"I know that. Jesus, you remind me enough." Despite his arrogance and street-punk posture, Bart tried to show patience. He figured it went with the territory. People in his business had to be cold-blooded and patient. He swallowed the last of his beer and burped. "Okay, I'll meet you down there."


Lisa moaned loudly when Bart lifted her out of the trunk. "Mmmmff. Mmmmff." He hoisted her over his shoulder. He wasn't concerned about her moans; nobody would hear her. The duct tape still covered her mouth and the nearest neighbor was almost a quarter mile away. Taking his time, he re-entered the house and headed down the long trail of polished steps leading to the basement. He tossed her on the bed and her eyelids fluttered as though the fluorescent lights in the room were short circuiting.

A flash of anger was gone from those eyes, replaced by the crush of confusion and fear. The left side of her face was swollen and bruised from the slap Bart had given her earlier. Blood oozed from the corner of her mouth, and she was covered with sweat. Her breathing was labored. Bart saw her pink nightie for the first time when he unrolled her body from the bedspread.

He cuffed her wrists to the sturdy brass poles on each side of the bed. There was no concern for her legs. Lewis always wanted them free to direct as he wished.

The room looked like it had just been built, or remodeled. Actually it was decorated tastefully, the way any woman might have done her own apartment if they had the money and time. ...A real brass bed. Antique white dresser with brass handles. Plush Berber carpeting. A dressing table with a silver brush, comb and mirror.

However, there were no windows, and several U-shaped hooks protruded from one of the walls. Long silver chains dangled from each of them, and an assortment of leather items, whips, black boots, masks, nipple pinchers, and other bondage items were showcased in a mahogany cabinet near the bed.

Lewis came downstairs wearing only his boxers and a white T-shirt. By the time he arrived, Bart had Lisa secured and the overhead lights were dimmed.

The two men stood side by side and admired the exquisite paleness of their new victim's body--her beautifully shaped hips, legs and breasts, the pink nipples and the dark thatch of pubic hair which was partially shaved and shaped. Bart's breathing was hard; he could feel his erection pounding at his groin.

"Good work, my friend. She's perfect," Lewis murmured. His words caught in his throat. "Simply perfect."

Lisa's eyes were filled with horror. Her body wriggled, bolted, shook. She moaned and thrashed up and down on the bed. "Mmmmff. Mmmmff."

"Shut up, bitch!" Bart barked as he backhanded her across the face. Clutching his gun and the hair on the crown of her head, he wrenched it straight back and locked his eyes on hers. Pushing the muzzle against her forehead, he growled, "Listen, sister--you can make this easy or real fucking hard--don't be foolish, calm your ass down."

His eyes slowly glazed over as he slid his hands inside her nightie and felt her body's heat against his palms. It was warm like the inside of a lampshade. He fondled her breasts, like a juggler with several balls. "You won't need this," he grunted as he ripped the nightgown from her body. Completely naked now, she made a desperate attempt to break free. She wriggled, bolted, shook.

Lewis was sweating. He swiped the moisture off his face with a handkerchief he'd wadded up in his hand. He gripped Bart's arm, and in a calm voice said, "Take it easy, my friend." He studied the panic in the woman's eyes. "We don't want to spoil this for the young lady, now do we?"

He ran the tips of his fingers along her cheek. "So wonderfully young-- and beautiful." He nudged Bart aside. "Pay my friend no attention, . . . I'll make you feel better momentarily." He bent down and suckled the nipples of each breast as he ran his hands up and down her wiggling body.

He glanced back at Bart. "A shame we had to tape her mouth." Then, leaning over and staring into her eyes he said, "I'd like so much to kiss you, my lovely." Realizing he could wait no longer, he pushed his boxers down and stepped out of them. He held his erection and slowly stroked it as he became delirious with lust.

Climbing onto the bed, he shoved her legs apart and kneeled, but Lisa kicked and flailed, so that he couldn't get inside of her. Her head lolled from side to side and she continued to moan. "Mmmmfff, mmmmmff. He saw the fear and loathing in her eyes and it furthered his raging excitement.

"Hold her fucking legs, Bartholomew. This pretty little thing is not cooperating. Feisty though . . . I like that."

Bart shoved his gun back into his belt and grabbed her legs. He held them apart. Lewis's erection stood straight out and he guided himself with one hand while squeezing one of her breasts with the other. When he entered her, Lisa jolted as if a very powerful electric shock ran through her body. The sensation was most likely akin to having one's skin pulled off in strips with a pair of pliers. Lewis delighted in probing inside her again and again until a moment later, with a gasp, he finished.

Bart wanted to slice her throat more than anything. He could smell the blood. He backed up and put his shoulder against the wall for a moment and then slid down to a seated position on the floor and watched. His turn would come soon enough.

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Thank you, once again,lilac Collas for your artwork.
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