Chapter 3: The Seductress Helen

Randel left work by 5:00 pm and went straight to his favorite watering hole. He hadn’t been there in a while. Maybe a bitch he hadn’t hurt yet would be careless that night. Planting his ass on ‘his’ barstool, he ordered a draft and nursed it like he’d spent his last dime.

On the other side of town ... Helen Ainsworth stood before the mirror, her reflection a poster to defiant aging and smoldering unspent desires. The platinum-blonde mane cascaded around her shoulders like frosted silk. She’d brushed each strand to a radiant sheen. Today marked 48 years of a life that had seen its share of upheaval. And Helen, feeling the weight of two sexless years since her divorce, was not about to let the significance of the day go unnoticed.

With a practiced hand, she applied her makeup, layering it bolder than usual. Accentuating the blue in her eyes seemed to hold a spark of rebellion against the creeping hands of time. The low-cut dress she slipped into clung to her curves, announcing her presence without a single word. Its plunging neckline left little to the imagination, proudly displaying the ample swell of her melon-sized natural breasts.

In an act of liberation, she left them unincumbered by a bra. Casting off a symbol of the invisible shackles of middle age.

Opting for the sensuous touch of silk stockings held in place by a garter belt, she discarded the thought of any other undergarments. This was her silent declaration of intent, a whisper of longing that yearned to be heard over the din of another solitary evening. With one final glance at her reflection, she nodded approval, stepped into her heels, and ventured out into the night.

The bar’s atmosphere was thick with the scent of alcohol and the hum of mingled conversations. Randel, a hulking silhouette against the dimly lit backdrop of the club, occupied his regular haunt at the far end of the bar. His immense frame was both a fortress and a beacon, luring attention yet warding off intimacy.

His right eye, an intense green, scanned the room with predatory precision while its dull grayish-blue counterpart followed suit, lending him an unsettling air. He nursed a beer, the glass dwarfed by bear-paw hands, each sip punctuated by a leer directed at the pretty girls who dared cross his gaze. They knew him—their discomfort palpable, their exits hasty—leaving behind whispered warnings and vacant seats.

There wasn’t a single girl he had raped in the bathroom or the parking lot or followed them home, broken in, and raped in their own beds.

Randel’s persona was an enigma wrapped in the trappings of muscle and flesh. His public demeanor, soft-spoken and humble, hid the cruel sadist that lurked beneath the surface. A psychopath adorned with false praise.

Given a chance, he wove webs of trust only to ensnare and destroy. Many a man fell victim to Randel’s seeming ineptness with women, and his polite tone often led to him being mistaken for a friend or friendly coworker. He’d worked his way into their lives and devastated their relationships by raping their pretty wives for girlfriends.

He was an ugly man, and women were put off but couldn’t escape from a double date. Once Randel had the woman alone, he forced himself on them. Once he’d fuck them enough, he warned them, “Tell anyone I’ll kill you.”

Sometimes, when his ‘friend’ was at work, Randel showed up at their house. The wives, feeling sorry for how ugly he was and how their friends never wanted to date him again, let him inside. Big mistake. By the time he left, they were shattered women who’d take their rape to the grave. The alternative was to watch their husbands die by his hand and then suffer the same fate. Fear is a powerful motivator for silence.

Helen’s high heels clicked on the asphalt as she made her way from the Lincoln Continental to the bar’s entrance. Her heart, a peculiar mix of trepidation and excitement, thrummed in her chest. She could feel the silk of her stockings gliding against each other, a sensation that promised the thrill of the illicit this evening. As she approached the door, a gaggle of young women burst out, hushed whispers about someone in the bar. Her presence seemed to inspire an abrupt halt to their play as they passed her.

One muttered under about the behemoth inside, she couldn’t stand to look at him.

“Who could be so repulsive?” Helen mused silently, her curiosity piqued.

She entered, pausing momentarily to let the dim interior come into focus, the transition from night to neon casting shadows across her vision. The bar was alive with the din of voices and clinking glasses, but even in the semi-darkness, she noticed him immediately.

Randel Wright, a man-mountain seated at the bar, his broad back an unmissable landmark. He was younger than any man she’d considered before. The man could barely be of legal age, or perhaps tipping into his twenties. His face wasn’t handsome, but she thought it had character. A raw, untamed edge that intrigued rather than deterred her.

Yes, he’s a giant, she thought. Why was the girl so upset about him?

Ignoring the small voice of caution within her, Helen smiled and nodded at Randel, acknowledging the beast in the room. She walked past the regulars, sensing their eyes on her voluptuous figure, and chose a secluded table, a private corner stage for what might unfold tonight.

Randel had felt her presence before he saw her—a shift in the atmosphere, a disturbance in the stale air of the bar. Lifting his glass in a silent salute, he watched her settle into the corner, her platinum hair catching the light like a beacon. Her gaze didn’t falter from him; there was intention in her stare, a direct challenge that stoked the embers of his dark desires.

Their silent communication was interrupted by the waitress’s approach. Helen ordered a drink, her voice confident and sultry, and added a directive that surprised the waitress.

“And whatever he’s having,” she said, nodding towards Randel.

“That thar giant man, that’s Randel, and that fucking, ugly hulk ain’t a nice man,” the waitress warned, her tone low and severe, almost protective.

Helen’s reply came swift and sharp, laced with a note of recklessness that she rarely allowed herself to indulge.

“I’m not looking for nice,” she said, her lips curling into a leering smile.

Carmen leaned toward Randel, her voice barely above the drone of bar chatter. “That lady over there,” she nodded discreetly towards Helen’s table, “she’s covering your next one.”

Randel glanced at the solitary figure in the corner, a smirk creeping across his face as he ordered another beer. The bottle was cold and fresh in his grasp when Carmen turned to deliver Helen’s drink—a frosty glass that held an icy concoction topped with a delicate sprig of mint. He followed her, and each step was a measured tread. The predatory anticipation within him was concealed beneath a thin veil of civility.

“May I?”

Randel’s voice was low but clear as he gestured to the empty chair opposite Helen. The dim lighting played across her features, casting half her face in shadow while the other half was illuminated by the neon signs flickering outside the window.

“Please, do. I’m Helen,” she said, her tone infused with daring and curiosity, perhaps even a hint of defiance. But who was she defiant toward—Randel or Carmen’s veiled warning?

As Randel settled into the seat, his knee brushed against the table. It rocked as if a shiver ran through the wood—and possibly through Helen, too. His agitation bubbled just below the surface. A vicious creature inside him paced behind the bars of a cage. He yearned to lash out, to let the beast loose on this voluptuous stranger who dared to invite darkness to her table.