Petunia
Chapter 8

Copyright┬ę 2007 by NightShade

BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 8 - A young country girl comes to the big city and finds her darker side. Murder, meyhem, mob and intrigue. A BDSM Romance

Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   BDSM  

´╗┐

"I can walk, Alvin. Why did you say I couldn't? I'm a little sore, but I'm fine, really!"

Alvin came over and sat beside the girl. He was silent for a long while, then picked up her hand in his giant paw. He held it as if it were a piece of fragile glass that would shatter if held too tightly.

"I've seen a lot of bad shit working for Mr. D, Miss Alex. I don't think you belong here. I just wanted to give you a couple of weeks to think about what happened tonight before he could pressure you any more."

"I'm not afraid of him, Alvin," she said quietly.

"I am. He's a bad man, Miss Alex. You should be afraid of him, too."

"Well, I don't love him, if you're worried about that." She wasn't defensive, but she wondered what made her say that to him.

The big man guffawed. "He doesn't and won't ever love you, either, Miss Alex. Make no mistake. Mr. D is only out for Mr. D."

Alex was silent. "But Alvin, I--, I liked what happened tonight. I was excited when that man took me. He said he was taking me to Mr. Smith. He called him my 'master' and I was so thrilled. I--, I knew it wasn't right but it felt so good. Then he tied me down and said I had been bad and that I was going to be punished."

She looked up at him. "I was so excited, Alvin. I had never felt so alive. Then he hit me. A lot. And cut off my skirt. That's when I knew Mr. Smith wasn't coming. That's when I got scared, but I was too excited by then and then he hit me down there and I... I..."

"I know, Miss Alex. You probably think you're a pervert or crazy right now. Some crazy fucker takes a whip to your privates and you have the best fucking orgasm of your life. You're confused."

Alex buried her face in his broad chest. He knew. She was confused, but somehow Alvin knew. It was going to be OK. He put his hand up to stroke her hair instinctively.

"How could you tell? Does everyone else know, too? Am I a pervert?"

"I don't know how I know, Miss Alex. Something about your scream, maybe. And I was holding you right after, no one else knows. I could tell you weren't scared anymore. You just seemed, well, happy." He hesitated. "You're not a pervert. Believe me. You sang to me, too," he said softly.

"You heard that?" Alex blushed. She had sensed it was Alvin carrying her after she was released and that she was safe. From out of nowhere - no, from out of her heart she had sung a song just for him. She was gagged and handcuffed, but safe and relaxed in his strong arms. It just seemed right. It just came out, somehow. There were no words, just soul to soul. And he had heard it.

"Miss Alex, please be careful. Think about what you're getting into here. I know it's exciting. But use the time I've given you to think."

He paused for a moment, considering something. Then he continued. "I can't tell you how I know, but something is going on with your husband, some big scam or something. That's what the phone call was about tonight. Mr. D wouldn't have left you if it wasn't important, and the only thing that is important to him is money. Lots of money. I don't know what or how your husband is involved yet, but I'll let you know as soon as I can."

"Oh, Harold is always trying to get into some scam or another," Alex giggled. "He's harmless."

"Maybe, but Mr. D isn't. Just be careful." He got up. "I have to go check on the club. Think about taking a couple of weeks off, Miss Alex."

Alex watched the big man leave, her face thoughtful. Maybe she would take his advice and give herself a chance to cool down. But it had been so exciting tonight and there was so much more she had to learn still. It was too tempting.


Damon had had two drinks while waiting for the little shit to stop crying. God, he hated wimps. The sobbing slowly abated and finally he could get some answers. The big man stuck his head in the door on his way by. He was going back to check on the party. That meant at least that Alex was resting quietly, if not comfortably.

"So, Lewis, you've had a rough day, no?" he started gently.

"FUCKING BITCH, THE FUCKING BITCH! I should have FUCKING killed her..."

Damon started toward the cowering fool in a murderous rage. Then he stopped, visibly controlling himself. Too many people had seen the little shit hauled in here.

"... while I had the FUCKING chance. But no! The BITCH called the FUCKING cops and now I've got all those FUCKING medical bills."

Oh-ho! A gift. A bloody gift.

"And the fucking bank. My baby. They took my baby and I have to drive a fucking ass Ford. My baby. They took my baby."

The shit was fading fast and starting to babble, but with a little luck, well maybe...

"Lewis, I know it's hard for you right now. You've had a tough night, you're angry, you're confused, you're upset and everything is going wrong. Am I right? Of course I am." He had placed a sympathetic hand on the quaking shoulder and was patting him gently. He had to act quickly. The bastard was going to fall over soon.

"You know what I like to do to feel better, Lewis? I like to write all my problems down. Then I burn the paper, and 'Poof', the problems are gone. Like magic!"

The dip wad was stoned enough to actually buy that line of psycho-crap. He was nodding and sniffling, the snot glistening as it streamed down into his mouth. Damon took out a stack of paper copier paper, removing the top sheet. The one with his fingerprints on it.

"Tell you what, why don't you try it. Why don't you write 'Fuck the bitch' on the paper?" he said. "Here, use my pen." He handed him an everyday BIC pen. It would be untraceable.

He watched while the fucker wrote it out. It was laborious, but it was in his handwriting.

"Now, how about 'Fuck the bank'? They took your car, right?"

Lewis dutifully wrote it out. Then looked up, expectantly, waiting for the next line. This nice man was going to help him. Maybe he could get his car back for him. He looked like he was rich enough.

"Any other problems, Lewis? Your job? Your family? Kids?"

Lewis shook his head 'No' to each suggestion.

"Well, then, son, let's have a drink to celebrate the end of all your problems."

Damon went over to the bar and fixed another glass of scotch. With his back turned to the young man, he reached to the back of the bar and lifted off the top of a bottle of Cognac. The bottle looked full and sealed, but with the top off you could see it was hollow. It was a hidey-hole of some sort.

With practiced easy, Damon took out a small glass syringe and a vial of clear liquid. He pulled out the plunger, inserted the needle into the rubber stopper, injected air into the bottle and withdrew some of the fluid into the syringe. The vial was back in the fake bottle and the bottle closed. The whole sequence had taken less than 5 seconds.

Damon held the syringe behind his back as he walked towards the trembling man, cupping it in his hand. He handed him the glass, picked up his own and said, "Cheers."

The crystal glasses clinked together and Lewis gulped the strong single-malt scotch whiskey. He choked. He wasn't used to such a smoky or strong flavor. He preferred those colored drinks with fruit and umbrellas in them. He coughed as a little of the burning fluid went into his lungs.

Damon stepped behind him, slapping him on the back to help him. To the casual observer, you would not have seen the syringe palmed in his hand that plunged into Lewis' neck. With the pounding on his back, even Lewis didn't notice the tiny pinprick.

Suddenly Lewis stopped choking and gave a funny little twitch, his arms and legs fluttering briefly. His eyes rolled up into the top of his head and then slowly drifted back down, glazed and unfocused. He sort of slumped down in the chair, like he was asleep. The empty glass thumped on the thick carpet, unbroken.

Damon dropped to one knee in front of the unnaturally still man. He slapped him once, hard. The man didn't react or flinch. The man's breathing was very, very slow and shallow. A sadistic grin spread slowly across Damon's face.

"Listen, you little piece of shit. That bitch you beat up tonight was mine and you touched her. Nobody touches my Pet until I'm ready to let them. I know you can hear me, so let me tell you what is going to happen. You're going to leave the party tonight very drunk and very depressed. Some friends are going to take you home. Then you're going to sit in your garage with the motor running, and you're going to die. Nobody fucks with me, asshole." He said all of this so quietly, than he wasn't sure if the man had heard. But he was sure he had. He would know he was dying until the last breath and be helpless to stop it.

But caution had made him say it quietly, almost in the guy's ear. A statement like that could get him put away. But he was so fucking mad. Anyway, only the best microphones would have been able to pick him up speaking at that volume. And those mikes weren't in this room. This room should be clear.

Damon went to the telephone and dialed a four-digit extension. An internal call.

"Hello, Vinnie?... Yeah, it's me. I need you and Max to do a job for me... Yes, now, dammit... Well, tell him to wipe his ass and get up here. Now!"

He slammed down the phone. Surprisingly, within a couple of minutes two burly men rushed into the room, the larger of the two doing the 'wedgie-walk' and buckling his belt. The smaller one, Vinnie, was putting on a pair of rubber gloves. He would be driving Lewis' car home.

The note Lewis had written was now held between two other sheets of paper. Lewis' prints would be the only fingerprints on it. Using a gloved hand Vinnie fished the car keys out of Lewis' pocket and the two men escorted the unresisting man out of the office. Mr. D had given them their instructions as they were hoisting the guy up between them. They would make sure that several party goers would see him leaving alive. Very drunk, very sad, but alive. That was all that mattered.

When they had gone, Damon sat at his desk. He was furious. That dip shit had cost him several thousands of dollars. He was going to be delayed at least another two weeks before that fucker Wilson could get Alex to sign the papers. He couldn't let him near her until she was healed and back to normal. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!

The hooker, Marcy, was going to cost him a bundle more, too. She had already been making noises about bailing out. Maybe she should join Harold in the islands. The CFO of that company would need to be paid off for another month or two to keep the vacant office available. He was getting a good cut so that shouldn't be a problem, but sooner or later someone was going to realize that Harold and Marcy weren't in that office auditing the books. Or that they weren't real employees, either.

It could be done, though. Marcy was the key. He had to get her cooperation. He looked at his Rolodex and dialed a number.

"Hello, Marcy?... Yes, it's me, Mr. Smith... Fine, just fine. Say, we had a little problem here tonight--... No, everything is still on, it's just going to be a little delayed... Oh, about two weeks, maybe a little more... No, Marcy, I know he's got a little prick--... I understand--... I understand--... Listen, Marcy, I really need your help with this... I know--... I know--... Just name your price, whatever it takes... Ouch! You sure know how to make a guy dig deep... No, no, it's a deal, if that's what you want. I tell you what. I'll even pay for your time to go with him to the Condo... Yes, the same rate for more three months lying in the sun on the islands. Just keep him quiet... Yes, I'll get you some more Viagra... Listen, Marcy, I have to go. I owe you for this. Big time... Yeah, me, too. Say 'Hi' to your Mom for me... You, too... Right. Bye, now."

He hung up the phone. "Fucking Bitch!"

Alex had a bad feeling. Oh, she had thought everything was going to be fine until she saw the needle. It wasn't that she was squeamish, but it had suddenly brought back unbidden a vague, unhappy memory.

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