Gift of The Storm
INtrinSicliValud
Gift of the Storm
By INtrinSicliValud
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 INtrinSicliValud
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: intrinsiclivalud100@yahoo.com
As I make my way home, the wind is howling louder along a broad city street, driving ever-heavier snow sideways. As they shoot beneath the streetlights, fat flakes glitter. With every leaning step, my boots crunch through the gathering drifts.
The storm electrifies me. At least it’s something different. Life has been—boring. After an even longer day at the office, I’ve nothing ahead of me but a longer night.
Except, right as I’m passing the darkened entrance to a dank alley, a woman’s moan echoes. My shoes drag for a second on the icy pavement. I should keep moving. It’s rarely good for me. But already my core is tightening. When I surge from the wind into the darkness, my pulse races.
“One should never turn from gifts,” I mumble when I spot the huddled form.
Once more I seal my fate by stepping through piles of crinkly frozen garbage to stare down at the figure. With splayed legs bare, she’s wedged between a dingy concrete wall and a rusted blue dumpster.
Matted, filthy blonde curls dangle as her lowered head eases from side to side. Neither fat nor slim, she’s clad only in a glittery party dress. Sequins glisten as its hem flaps in the breeze. Besides her shoulders and back, it leaves most of her legs bare. In this foul weather? Ah, but when the wind dies for a moment, the reek that greets my nostrils tells a familiar story.
Booze and dope, along with cum and piss.
After a curt sigh, I trace the stains on the thin clothing as well as the dried streaks over her thighs and across a mediocre chest. With the toe of my shoe, I lift the hem enough to see her panties are long gone. No doubt they’re wadded on the floor of a men’s room stall in an upscale dance club. Or lie on some rich boy’s backseat.
After gripping a snow-covered purse, I tug out a high-end cellular phone. So she’s also got money. Or daddy does.
For a while, I stare down at her. She tries to lift her head, but can’t. After her spit-covered chin flops back to her chest, another moan slides from her. Although I glance at the alleyway entrance, there’s nobody to hear it. No one else is mad enough to be out in such an icy tempest.
This is easy. Too easy. But is she worth it to me? With a heavy exhale, I scan the sky, letting errant snowflakes land across my face.
Yes. It’s been far too long. And she is a gift. It would be rude. Ungrateful, I am not.
After a curt nod, I drop the phone to the ground and use my toe to lean it against the dumpster’s grime-encrusted wheel. One swift stomp and it snaps. Several more and I sweep up the wreckage, tossing it and her purse into the dumpster. A quick inspection shows the snowfall already filling my tracks.
Yes, far too easy.
Oh, she yelps when I grip the hair at her skull, but I’ve no trouble lifting the tiny frame to shaky feet. At my yank, when she stumbles behind me for a few steps, I look down. Only a single stiletto remains, and I rip it free, adding it to the dumpster’s trove. By morning, storm or not, the container’s contents will be in the riverside dump, ready for shipment overseas.
While striking at me with languid blows, she continues to burble and groan as I tug her further into the darkness. It’s the long way, but it’s monitored by neither cameras nor prying eyes. And not long after, we’re at the front door.
A nondescript three-story row house, my home is sandwiched between other tony brownstones on a cramped, car-lined side road. Close, but distant enough from my business that employees know better than to call me for inanities.
Once inside, two quick steps from the entrance bring me to the heavy door before a descending staircase. As I drag her down the stairs, her cries become more strident. Angry, desperate words leave her, but are so slurred I can’t enjoy them.
It’s only after I toss her across the glossy gray concrete floor, towards a solid round steel beam, that she forms a word. Although garbled, the first expected curse warms me. As much as I wish to smile, I don’t. Of course, more angry words follow. They’re joined by awkward blows as I secure heavy metal links around her neck with a padlock.
At last, once I’ve torn away the dress, leaving her naked and shivering on the floor, her head shoots up to glare at me. From beneath her smeared clown-face makeup and more glistening streaks, hints of an interesting if not great beauty peek.
Truly a gift.
Filled with anger, and not a little fear, sky-blue eyes leap around. Although hazy from some drug or cocktail, or both, they’re quite pretty in the bright lights. They scan the thick acoustic padding lining brick walls and a solid ceiling. After checking the door behind me, she traces the long, heavy chain securing her to a sturdy pillar.