Derry, Northern Ireland

Derry, Northern Ireland
A book I'm working on is set in this town.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

CK starts getting going...

I spent the night finishing up the artwork for a project, so here's a continuation of Carli's KILLS.

He leaned against her, his hands gripping the sides of the couch to hold him up, and they kissed. Long and deep. Breaking only for air.

“Now we taste alike,” she whispered, and this time she shoved her tongue into his mouth.

He pulled her to her feet and grabbed her ass. She grabbed his, in answer.

“Aw, fuck,” he gasped, nearly delirious from need.

“That’s the idea, playtoy,” she snickered.

She pressed her breasts tighter against his pecs and ran her fingers up his sides, pulling at his shirt. Up and up. He nuzzled her breasts, almost grunting as he ground his hips against hers. Off went his shirt, revealing more tattoos building out of the tree branches – one a growling cheetah, another a gorgeous woman in the Frank Frazetta mold, one of her naked breasts using his nipple as hers.

His hands glided under her top to undo her bra as she sighed and played with his (and his tattoo’s) tit.

“Cute,” she said. “Got any more tattoos?”

“You’ll see,” he grunted as the bra came loose.

She unbuckled his belt and the buttons of his jeans. He ground against her, even more insistent as she slipped the jeans down his ass. He breathed in, deep, ready, his dick about to show itself…but then he grunted and stopped and leaned against her, trying to keep his balance.

“Problem?” she asked, groping his butt.

“Got dizzy all of a sudden, he murmured. “Man, I must be beat…and…” He staggered back and frowned at her, weaving. “What the fuck…?” he mumbled. “That beer…”

“You know what roofies are like?” she asked, almost surprised. “Have they been used on you, before?”

“You fuckin’ bitch,” he slurred, “what the fuck’re you doin’ -- ?”

She shoved him. He fell on his ass and tried to get up, but couldn’t control his arms or legs. He tried to talk but his words dribbled into nothingness.

She rolled him onto his belly, revealing a massive tattoo of geometric designs spread across his back, looking a bit like wings. She sat on his butt and pulled his hands behind him, then strapped his wrists together with a police band. He tried to struggle, but the drug had taken over. She smirked, ran her fingers over the tattoo and down his spine to his cheeks, then she rolled him onto his back, again.

“Maybe I don’t need the restraint,” she said, “but I feel like playing it safe.”

He looked at her, confused, his mouth moving but saying nothing. Moments later, he passed out.

She worked his boots off. Removed his socks, which were holey. Pulled his jeans down his legs and away. And stood back to look at him.

“You’d have been nice-looking if you’d lost about twenty-five pounds.” Then she smirked. “But not a lot to offer.”

She grabbed him under his arms and dragged him into the garage.

It was big enough for two cars but had been stripped of everything, including the paneling. Plastic tarps covered the floor, walls and even ceiling…and in the middle was a stainless-steel table long enough for a man to lie on, with thick leather restraints attached to it for the ankles, wrists, neck, belly and legs. Beside it was a rolling medicine able, with assorted scalpels, scissors, a broiling pan and grate, and blue rubber ball gag with leather straps.

She dragged him in and lifted him onto the table in stages – first his torso, then one leg, then the other. She shoved him around to lie in the middle of the table, face up, then strapped his ankles down. Next, she strapped his neck. Now she cut the plastic strap around his wrists and secured those to the table. Finally, she wrapped the leather belt across his belly. She almost did both legs, just above the knees, but he had a colorful tattoo riding up his left calf and thigh to end at his hip. Another Frank Frazetta female. Big and buxom and naked. So she only restrained his right leg. She stroked her fingers along the tattoo and shook her head.

“You won’t want to see this,” she whispered to the tatt, then smirked. “It’s good he’s light on hair. Makes it easier.”

She worked the ball gag into Grady’s mouth and buckled it tight. He moaned and almost began to move away from her, but settled back to unconsciousness. She headed into the house then returned, a moment later, wearing nothing but a clear plastic raincoat and holding a metal folding chair, a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo tucked under one arm. She checked Grady, saw he was still dead to the world, opened the chair, sat down, pulled out the marker, and began to read.


Michael said...

I remember reading a preview from the screenplay you posted on this blog and I think I know what's in store for poor, sexy Grady.

JamTheCat said... like white trash. Guess that's why you love livin' in Floriday. Or is it Floridiah? ;)

Yeah...I tipped my hand, there. It's a bit different, but not a whole lot. Seems writing this as a book is demanding a different structure from the script. Who knew? (Snark)

So when're you gonna start writing?