Cruel Mistress and A Caustic Snuff
Loki’s Trojan – Chapter 7
Cruel Mistress and a Caustic Snuff
The porno starlet’s skin was still damp under her quick costume change but she was relegated from center stage to a bit part. Oksana had showed the way into the large basement recreation room. Threadbare couches and chairs were already filled with the assortment of thugs and prostitutes who rounded out the mob household. Lyra perched her bottom on a sofa’s arm.
“~I’ve brought it.” Oksana handed the digital camera to the panicked photographer. He had hastily grabbed and carried the rest of the gear but forgotten the critical piece of equipment. Leonid sighed in relief and he loaded a DV tape. The mobster’s girlfriend then took a seat on the armrest of an adjacent chair and consolingly held her friend’s hand.
This was a new venue for Lyra’s eyes. There was a wide vacant space with a horseshoe of furniture surrounding it. A light pool table that also folded into a ping-pong table normally stood here: a rectangle of relatively unsoiled carpeting attested to a hasty rearrangement. The recreational item was now stowed upright against the wall. A television and entertainment unit had been pushed aside leaving another four-sided shape of cleanliness.
Sergey reemerged: his lingering embarrassment was now concealed in a dapper designer suit. “~Move your insignificant carcass.” He glared at a ruffian positioned in the best chair until the man moved hastily away.
Despite the number of people seated, perched and standing in close quarters along three walls of the room, there was an unnatural quiet. It was as an opera theater after the final tuning strains have died out, but before a first vocal note. Even minor noises of the video preparations reverberated ominously. Sergey grinned wickedly at the tension-filled atmosphere: he lit a cigarette to add tobacco smoke that coiled up like a thin misty snake.
The grand maestro of pain’s entrance rent the somber silence with the sharp click of his heels on the linoleum entry. Anaconda carried a straight-backed wooden chair, which he slammed into place exactly in the middle of the open space. The chair’s feet thundered in four thuds on the rug.
As the prisoner was escorted in between goons, the treads of two were shuffles and the third’s soles skied across the broadloom. Vlad tore strips of duct tape to secure ankles, wrists, lap and chest to the chair: each pull on the adhesive film roll resonated as a fickle zipper of fate.
The captive man was sweating profusely and his face was crusted with globs of clotted blood like a pigeon’s ruff around a crushed beak. His eyes sought for support, but none materialized. The friendships Max may have believed existed were now evaporated. No eyes would pass his, like ships in the fright, for worry a stain of his crime might wipe off on their bows.
The hush before Max was brought in had been looming, but now it was spirit invasively so. Even the wall clock’s ticking rang out with murderous clacks. The group waited and some seemed tentative of even breathing too noisily. Finally, the Obshina stood to an ovation of deathly silence.
“~You disobeyed me by marking the girl, when I had expressly forbid it.” Sergey’s baritone boomed as a kettledrum. “~Yet, I forgave that.”
Lyra watched as all of the blood drained out of Max’s face. With that pronouncement being a demonstration how limits of the mobster’s mercy had been overextended, the prisoner guessed his was a death sentence. In confirmation of that assessment, she saw a rivulet of yellow running over the chair’s seat, to cascade in a golden waterfall onto the tan carpet. The body instinctively prepares for a fight or a flight, by emptying the bladder.
“~You disrespected me and that is unpardonable.” Sergey’s tone was poisoned as he spit a final sentence. “~I will have my final giggle.”
Sergey glanced over at the cameraman to ensure he was recording this auspicious episode. He nodded to his number one enforcer and then sat. The Obshina took a deep draw on his cigarette and spoke with the smoke. “~You may now terminate this worthless man’s employment.”
“~Step away.” The Anaconda issued an order to his men. This was the life and death drama the sadistic snake man lived to savor and none would share it with him. He had carried a box under his arm and he extracted a long spouted plastic funnel. “~Open up your laughing mouth.”
Lyra lifted her eyes from the piss pouring that had now dwindled to a drip. Max tried parting his lips as slightly and tightly as possible. He’s too stricken to decide if his cooperation will purchase any leniency—it won’t.
“~It doesn’t matter.” The mobster ruthlessly tilted his prisoner’s head back and jammed the pale-blue spout into the man’s teeth. He leaned onto the rim and the plastic penetrated deep into the gullet.
From her vantage, Lyra could see Max widely open his mouth as a gag reflex tried to eject the foreign object. With his jaw so extended, the lower cone of the funnel slid in even further. The condemned man now couldn’t tilt his head as the rigid tube in his throat, locked his neck into position.
“~You won’t find this quite as funny.” Holding the funnel with his left hand, the cold-blooded killer extracted a 4-litre bleach jug from the carton. He spun the cap off with his right thumb and poised the bottle. “~Have a drink to your rapidly deteriorating health.”
That vile creature is reveling in the torture. Lyra’s eyes centered on the malicious grin on the Anaconda’s face but she could also see the strong caustic liquid gushing into the receptacle. The cruel executioner pulled out the funnel and clamped a hand over his captive’s lower face.
The searing liquid ejaculated into Max’s stomach. His belly pulsed in an orgasm of agony and the full-strength beach put his gag reflex into overdrive. Chlorine fumes tracked up Max’s throat and his gut wrenched to eject the poison: the palm over his mouth forced the vomit to seek other routes. Burning like acid, the deadly fluid channeled up into his sinus and spewed in twin yellowish blasts from his flared nostrils.
“~Is my cocktail too strong for your liking?” As the gush of returning bleach subsided, the Anaconda callously unclamped his hand and replaced the funnel. “~You may need another big swig to acquire a taste for it.” He topped up the spilled fluid by pouring another full measure of mortality into the now convulsing body. The executioner jerked his funnel again but instead of his hand, he used a wrap of duct tape around the mouth.
“This is my transcendent sculpture in the sublime art of fatality”. The Anaconda spoke in English for his employer. Max jerked spasmodically and the chair jumped with his throws, as the bleach blistered his entrails. “A mortal canvas dancing death’s ballet is ample reward for my services.”
“I’m a very impotent person,” Sergey answered in his less than perfect English, “and I can’t afford to be limp in my punishments.”
“That is exactly why we’re here.” Anaconda’s teeth were ferociously clenched—but also holding a straight face straight at the poor word usages.
Lyra swept her sight back to the victim. The torment-racked man had his fingers and face clenched against his anguish but the killing liquid was winning the last battle. Fluid tinged with red leaked from Max’s ears: his motions subsided to lurches and tears of blood ran down his cheeks.
“~Remember always,” Sergey stood and panned around to meet each set of eyes, “~that this is the dear price of disloyalty.”
“~I killed Max,” Lyra whispered after the other people had left: she and Oksana had remained, “~as if with my own hands.”
“~No.” Oksana stated firmly. “~The Anaconda alone murdered him.”
“~He poured the caustic in, but my actions brought his last laughter.”
“~The Anaconda was entirely responsible for that too.” The blond cast about nervously: then in a hushed voice, she told of her unique perspective. “~The Anaconda intentionally caught Max’s eye and he made scandalously ribald hand gestures that ridiculed Sergey even more: that triggered it.”
“He deliberately set up a goon’s death.” Lyra reconciled it in her mind: then she felt a chill. “~I trust he doesn’t know what you saw.”
“~He is fully aware of what I know.” Oksana recalled his furtive eyes catching her watching. Her face was utterly incapable of keeping secrets. “~The Anaconda shoved me as a warning and the thrown camera was a further threat of his seriousness. Maybe though,” she added optimistically, “~there is more left of me than he believes possible.”
The chief mobster’s girlfriend led the way up the stairs to a sumptuous sunken living room and they sat on a leather sofa. Oksana used a remote to switch on the television: she selected the fashion channel and lowered the volume. It was just something that would take their minds away from the recent events whilst comforting each other.
“~It seems I’m elevated to some untouchable status,” a few times other gang members had walked into the room: on seeing Lyra, they had quietly continued through, “~or I suppose that I’ve been demoted.”
“~Do you mind if I take something?” Oksana hinted at her need.
“~Go ahead, but please come back. I’ll find us something to eat.”
Lyra soon found the kitchen and rummaged up fixings for sandwiches. With several pickles and sliced cheese on the side, she placed the repast on a tray with glasses of cold milk. Lyra set the snacks on a coffee table and then wandered around the comfortable room.
Turkish tapestries hung on the walls and were reflected in the highly polished parquet floor. It’s a shock that a cretin like Sergey could possess such a tastefully appointed room. This seemed like a place for entertaining people: there was even a baby grand piano in the corner.
“~I’ll tell you my long sad story now.” The junky returned shortly and the two nibbled at their small feast. Over the next little while, Oksana told a tale that began at the age of ten with a terminally ill father. Soon after his death, a stepfather entered the narration to torment the child and her mom. “~I was twelve when Boris married my mother and adopted me. Soon afterwards, he started molesting me. He made me promise not to tell but my face gave me away and so my mom knew.
“~What happened then?”
“~Boris became worried that she would turn him in to the authorities. He sold me to the mafia for the price of a contract hit on my mother.”
“~How do you know that?”
“~My stepfather took a short trip: it was likely to establish his alibi.” Oksana stared into her lap as she finished. “~The Anaconda showed up at our house. After tying me up in my bedroom, he horribly raped and killed my mother. In my worst dreams, I can still hear her screams.”
“~Did he rape you too?”
“~No. I don’t know of a woman ever having surviving sex with him.” Oksana’s features showed concern for her new friend. “~I also haven’t ever seen him react to other girls in the same way he does to you.”
“~You’ve been here,” Lyra asked incredulously, “~for seven years?”
“~Not the whole seven.” The blond junky finished her glass of milk. “~I’ve been to work in other places but Sergey always wants me back.”
“~This day has caused problems.” The Obshina had taken his captain into the office: they were reviewing the video of Max’s horrible demise.
“~A weak reaction,” the Anaconda held his face impassive but inside, he tumulted, “~would’ve been much worse over the long term.”
“~I know that only too well.” Sergey took the cassette of Max’s death from the slot. “~We’ll forward this video to his cousin in Groznyy. He’ll understand or I may lose one of my cousins—but that’ll be no great loss.”
“~I suspect the girl intentionally did this to you.” The Anaconda shook the other tape between his fingers. “~Let’s watch her facial expressions.”
“~I don’t want to see this ever again.” The boss snatched the evidence from his second-in-command’s grip. He tossed the tape into his ashtray and pulled a tin of lighter fluid from his desk drawer.
“~Shouldn’t we check the contents?” The ex-commando put as much urgency into his voice as he dared. The death his opportunism had already bought for the henchman was only to be the frosting on his tasty cake.
“Nyet.” The gangster squirted fuel over the offensive video and then tossed in a match. “~This episode is at the utter end.”
“~The whore took delight in your shame.” Anaconda pushed the issue further. Getting the female for his dark pleasure was worth any risk.
“~You’ll forget this event ever happened!” Blood rushed into Sergey’s face that was a red mixture of anger and mortification.
Anaconda’s nod was a lie: he never forgot or forgave anything.
“~She hasn’t seemed stoned.” Sergey swiveled his chair away from the flames flickering on the molten plastic slag. “~Have you given her drugs?”
“~Of course.” The sadist’s mind waffled. Heroin flushed a future into a chemical toilet: he liked that part. But it offered a female an escape alley from the intense pain he loved to inflict. “I’d like it better in this instance though, if I could work on her without it.”
“~The snake likes the new girl,” the boss bolted a dollop of vodka and in scanning his man, his eyes strayed to the lieutenant’s lap, “~doesn’t it?”
“~Likes isn’t the optimum word but yes,” the man who bore the title was cold-blooded as a reptile but the employer knew the anaconda was a python between the legs that lived only to throttle the life out of females, “~the anaconda is quite hungry for this one.”
“~I would be almost willing to sacrifice her to it,” Sergey glanced at his computer monitor, “~but I might have an opportune use for her first.”
“You’ve been a difficult man to reach lately.” Collin Hersker found his boss in the new construction behind the CEO’s office. Several executives had lost prestigious workspaces and a staff lunchroom had been relocated.
“I’ve had too much on my dinner plate,” Bob left off his watching the carpenters and strolled back to his desk: he shut the newly installed door behind, “but I’m glad you’ve caught up with me. I want you to stop trying to sit in on those negotiations. It’s being handled exactly as I want it.”
“Someone’s having a key sequence bringing up an ownership message seems worth my looking into.”
“I know you need to know everything about our operation.” Wall saw that his executive was preparing to sit, so as a hint, he kept walking to the outer door. “In this instance though, your interest is counterproductive. If a senior executive sits in, it gives the impression of the matter being of more importance to us—and the asking price goes up accordingly.”
“Could you order the negotiators to advise me of their progress?
“As you’ve noted,” Bob opened and held the door, “the issue is critical and I’m on it like glaze on donuts: I’ll let you know how it bakes out.”
“Please do.” Collin sighed. “Now, I’ll let you get back to your dish.”
“She certainly is one of those.” He closed the door but instead of going back to the new apartment, Bob went to his desk and watched the porn clip again. “Yesterday, life looked dismal: now I’ll get the pussy by the tail.”
“For your sake,” Sergey closed his office door after the girl was shoved inside, “I hope you speak English.”
Does Anaconda have to pinch and twist my arm like that? Lyra rubbed her bruised skin. Do I resemble an ex-lover who screwed a soccer team in front of him? I can’t believe he ever had a willing sex partner.
“Seemingly, you don’t.” The ex-commando mocked. In contrast to her incorrect thoughts, a much younger Victor had many eager bedmates, but some reluctant ones too. Facing rape charges, he had joined the Spetsnaz forces to escape justice. “Should I give you some language tutoring?”
Is there any foreseeable benefit to my divulging linguistic fluency? The girl mentally asked. Her intuition had suddenly given her an odd warning. Lyra put on a quizzical expression and sat gingerly on the sofa.
“My client in the States,” he mobster continued in the language the girl didn’t understand, “didn’t ask if she was conversant.”
“She needs humility before she’s ready for a trip.” Anaconda observed.
“We don’t have time. A jet has been dispatched to collect this package. I will go to Seattle and deliver her. You’ll be in charge in my absence.”
The Anaconda only nodded his accent: his lips were tight.
“Victor,” The Obshina used the discarded name to stress importance in his question, “can you restrain your methods into being non-fatal?”
“I can try.” The man called Anaconda and his weapon named the same both felt a thrill: Lyra was his for tonight. And when she fails to survive, I can apologize. The villain’s hand casually dusted the front of his trousers to check his state of arousal: his python had already begun to swell.
He is grossly huge! The girl struggled to maintain a dull expression as if she hadn’t seen anything, or understood a single word.
“Tonight you’ll pay a visit to this sweet thing.” Sergey cast a cloying smile in the girl’s direction and noted her vapid return grin. “After your finished, she should be relatively unmarked and still able to walk.”
“~It seems we don’t need you in here after all.” The Anaconda jerked the portal open and thrust her out with sufficient force to crash her into an opposing wall. “~Scurry off to your bedroom.”
Sergey continued to speak after the girl was gone but the captain barely listened to a word. He was savoring his upcoming night’s enjoyment.
“~Any questions?” The mob boss paused his monolog.
“~I know my duties in your absence.” The sadist would’ve whistled for joy if he hadn’t long since forgotten how to perform a carefree action.
Oksana had put her up in a nicer room, but Lyra’s anxiety made rest impossible. After a peek into the hallway, she tiptoed to the living room. She took a remaining pickle from their earlier snack and munched on it.
“~Forewarned is forearmed,” she wandered over to the piano and idly plinked a couple of notes, “~but I don’t know where any guns are kept.” A block in the kitchen held an assortment of knives: she might manage a stab but he was still much stronger and doubtlessly better in a knife fight.
“~I haven’t seen anywhere he’s vulnerable,” she poked at more keys: these produced higher tones, “~but there is one type of situation where I haven’t seen his performance! In a bedroom, I’ve stood up to challenges.” She recalled the apparent size of his trouser tackle. “~He is enormous!”
“~The bigger they are the harder they fall.” Lyra tried bolstering her confidence with trite phrase, but without success. The harder it is to make a big man fall. She touched some ominous sounding low octave keys and changed her mental topic to a less depressing one. At least I’m not stoned.
“~Why aren’t they giving me drugs yet?” Did heroin hook more firmly when the narcotic crept up in a nearly imperceptive way? Her mother had never mentioned incipient stages of heroin use. Is the drug diluted to lull and then to ensnare when it’s unexpectedly given in full strength?
On that thought, her gaze fell back onto the piano. She took a big bite of her dill pickle but the vinegar pucker on her lips spread to a grim grin. Anaconda doesn’t know I understood: he expects to catch me unawares. She had an idea and the mobster was due for a surprise—but Lyra wasn’t aware what a shock was in store for her also.
“Once I was Victor Rasputin and my endowment gave me joy.” More than that—he once thought of his body as just a life support system for his sex organ. The man that was now called Anaconda stood looking at his full-length mirror. “The mystic Rasputin was well equipped to satisfy an empress and my tool was bigger than any I’d seen in locker rooms.”
“Then she did this.” His eyes roamed down to his penis: it was like a wooden log covered with dead bark and it was similarly devoid of feeling. His entire groin area was burned, bubbled and blistered: no sensations of pleasure were possible anymore.
The Anaconda’s vision focused off his naked physique and into a storm cloud of tormenting mental images. The similarity between this new girl and the face burned into his brain cells was uncanny. Their facial features were so alike that they could be fraternal twin sisters—except for the age difference and Lyra’s lighter skin tone.
Victor Rasputin recalled his disfigurement night so vividly that he felt the searing anguish again. He had awakened from a dream of the next rape by the horrific pain. Her last mocking look was an image his agony had etched indelibly into his memory. Each time he looked at this new female, her face merged with the other one and his rage flared again.
“Now I’m the Anaconda and I’m nearly ready to choke another.” His hands monitored his progress. Leather hide on his tool lent a permanent semi-rigidity and he could coerce it by evoking sadistic mental imagery.
Now piqued to full with his conjured images of excruciating tortures, the Anaconda tightened a rubber band on the base to retain its firmness. The snake stalked nakedly down the hall and opened the bedroom door.
“~Have you been enjoying drugged dreams about my passions?” The Anaconda whispered as a soft glow from the lights outside showed the girl was sleeping on her back. He slammed the door shut, switched on the light and ripped away her coverlet. “~They will become living nightmares.”
‘He plundered my innocence and I retaliated by robbing him of his sex life’. As she sleeps, Lyra’s dream recalls her mother’s words: the pillow cradled around her neck even feels as Jinder’s comforting arm. The story becomes a movie in the daughter’s mind, with herself in the mother’s role. A powerfully built man is spread-eagle and naked on a bed of past rapes.
‘I’ve had this nightmare before,’ her conscious mind interjects, ‘but his face has always been blurred out: now he is a much younger Anaconda. The reality dream, based on her mother’s memories retold, takes Lyra into a kitchen. A hot pot of cooking oil sizzles and spits as she lifts its handle. She walks into the dimly lit bedroom. ‘The pain you lent me is returned—and with interest.’ The mother/daughter dream perspective pours the oil.
“~They will become living nightmares.” The Anaconda’s harsh voice shreds the cobwebs of her phantasm.
“~It was—,” blinking at the sudden light and with his disfigurement in view, Lyra’s mind nearly stubbed-a-tongue on a twist of fate, “~you!”
The rapist vaulted atop the wide-eyed female. He pinioned her in place while splitting her legs open with the force of his hips. His flesh couldn’t feel but his move didn’t produce either a scream, or much resistance.
“~My nightmares,” Lyra yelled but not in pain, “~or your own?”
On a kitchen visit, she had secured a table knife. Returning to the baby grand, she used the knife as a screwdriver to loosen the ends of the highest ‘A’ note piano wire. Back in her room, she formed an eyelet and looped the wire’s end through. After tying the trailing wire end around the knife’s middle, she had a handle. Before sleeping, she positioned her snare with a wire in her butt crack and the knife under the small of her back.
While Anaconda was forcing between her knees, Lyra had grappled for the knife. With fingers wrapped around it as a T-bar, the wire trailed out between her knuckles. As the snake’s head found the lurking trap: the girl had wrenched with all of her adrenaline-enhanced strength.
The rapist turned casualty recoiled from the assault but that tightened the spiteful metal: it was already biting deep into dormant nerve endings, previously blocked by scar tissue. With a howl, the Anaconda rolled onto his back and grappled at the wire.
“~This is for Dmitri, Mom and Oksana’s mother.” In a heartbeat, Lyra was up and above him. She increased tension and put her foot in the ‘V’ of his legs for added purchase. Now what? I didn’t preplan the end ploy.
“~Stop.” The sadist realized the thrashing was hurting and he froze.
“~Will you let me go?” Lyra asked but she recalled how his deal with Dmitri had curdled faster than cream in lemonade.
“~Never!” The Anaconda roared in rage: his both hands shot up to her knees and he tried to jerk her down into his overpowering grasp.
The young woman kept a tight grip with both hands on her knife and she threw her body backwards. If I fall into his arms—then I’m toast. The piano wire bit deeper and for an interval, the girl hung over the edge of the bed like she was water-skiing behind a crash-diving submarine. Then, as if the towrope had snapped in a screw, the loop closed fully and pulled free. Lyra’s shoulders hit the carpet first and her legs flipped over behind.
Trying to scream in anguish, Victor Rasputin had no breath left for his voice: excruciating pain hadn’t allowed him to inhale after his last bellow. For the second time in his life, both due to retaliation by abused females, overloaded sensory receptors forced his conscience to flee.
“~I should stab my table knife into his heart.” It was tempting but Lyra doubted she could cold-bloodedly slaughter a sleeping man—however vile.
“~I’m not sure how long he’ll be out cold.” Quickly rummaging the drawers, she found some nylon stockings and a stashed heroine kit. The Anaconda’s wrists and ankles were soon knotted to bedposts. She muffled his mouth with the gusset of a pair of pantyhose and tied the legs behind his neck. Is he strong enough to break these or rip the posts off the bed before I’m safely gone? The girl turned his tactics against him even further by administering a healthy shot of the tranquilizing narcotic. “~I would be sure of his sleeping for awhile—if I knew if this was the real stuff.”
“~I wish I had a camera.” Of all visions her mind could’ve imagined of the Anaconda, this was about the least likely. She took one last look at the bed. My mother ruined his masculinity and now I’ve severed it completely. “~And to think some say that heroin a harsh mistress.”