Copyright© 2007 by NightShade
BDSM Sex Story: Epilogue - A young country girl comes to the big city and finds her darker side. Murder, meyhem, mob and intrigue. A BDSM Romance
Alvin found her locked in her cage very early the next morning. He had waited outside the club and had seen Vinnie and Max haul up two large plastic coolers and load them in the van. He had opened the coolers while the two idiots had put the cart away. He didn't recognize either body, but suspected, from her description, that the man was Harold.
He had followed the van until it reached Highway 95 and turned south. He followed it for a while, but when they pulled into a gas station and filled up the tank and bought two large coffees each, he figured they were in for a long haul. Miami or the Keys, he guessed.
He had turned around and gone back to the club. The new security system had a timelock on it, and Mr. D had shut everyone out until tomorrow afternoon. He had put in a secret backdoor into the system, but it still took him a couple of hours to get through it without setting off one alarm or another.
After the blood spattered scene Alvin had found in the bathroom he had searched for her frantically, not knowing what he would find. He was about to search the third basement when he took a quick look into her room, her cage, she called it.
Miss Alex was in her bed, shackled, tear stained, but sleeping peacefully. She smelled of sex, but that didn't worry him nearly as much as the blood on the soles of her feet. A drop or two had fallen on the bathroom floor and she had not seen it as she stepped in it. It put her at the scene of the crime.
Alvin shook her gently. He didn't let her loose. Not yet. Her eyes were haunted as she looked up at him. She didn't have to tell him she was still hearing the voices. He asked her what had happened and she told him everything, including how she sliced his wrists.
After that, she was hazy. She thought she had tried to clean up the bathroom, but was careful not to use the towels. Only paper she could flush. She had scrubbed her hands and arms with bleach. She remembered putting the syringe away upstairs. She told him where the hiding place was. She remembered seeing the envelope with the forms she had signed. She had shredded it in the big office shredder. Then she opened her fist. She had her wedding ring tightly clasped in it. Damon had thrown it in the trash. She found it in there and picked it up. She asked him to keep it for her. Keep it safe.
Alvin went upstairs first. He found the syringe and wiped it clean. It was OK for her fingerprints to be on the bottles. It had been her job to keep them neat and clean. He was amazed she had been able to clean up as much as she had done. There was very little evidence to counter the suicide theory. But what there was, if it was found, would hang her.
Alex looked up at the towering black figure above her. He had gloves on and was holding Master's little whip. He'd only used it on her once. Last night on her back. She had begged him for more and more and he had become aroused. It had been the last erection she had been able to draw from him. Alvin was telling her about the blood on her feet. She understood. She closed her eyes and tried not to scream as the whip bit into the tender soles of her feet, cutting and breaking the skin. They waited together for the blood to congeal, her blood covering all traces of her dead Master's blood. It would never be found. They hoped.
An hour later, the local 911 emergency service got a call for an apparent suicide. The whip was left in the door to Alex' cage. It propped the door open a crack and she could be heard moaning and weeping, still shackled to the floor. Alvin wanted them to find her as soon as possible.
Vinnie and Max arrived on schedule in Miami. After Mr. Smith's gentle tongue-lashing, Vinnie was doing everything by the book. He still couldn't believe the cocksucker didn't know what was going on. But until Mama put him out of his misery, he would keep his nose clean and follow orders.
The bodies were kept on ice during the day and loaded onto the decrepit yacht that night. The "Big Break" had had many names in its life. The latest and last name was part of a small scheme of the owner of the marina. He had taken this old tub as a trade-in and it had been sitting for years. He had too much tied up in it to tow the tub out and sink it, but he couldn't sell it either. No one wanted it.
Then Mr. Smith and his friends had called. They had been recommended by a certain, well, let's just call him a good fellow he knew from the old neighborhood in Newark. Yes, he had a boat he could rent them. No, he didn't mind if it didn't come back. He would insure it. No problem.
Two people, an old guy in his fifties and a big-titted broad that looked like a hooker, came by and took the rental forms. She had on a hot bikini. Yellow. With a body like that, he had no idea what the guy's face looked like. Or the broad's. She could have been a blonde. Or maybe a brunette. He wasn't sure. But the melons on that babe, Wowie!
The rental forms came back in the mail a week later, signed by Harold Wilson, with the full deposit.
Per instructions, he had stripped the boat of all valuables, changed the name of the boat to what the dumb guy asked for and sent two new life jackets to a PO Box up north. They were the newest equipment on the boat by decades. He renewed and increased the insurance, as befitted a rental property. As instructed, he had fitted a tow line to the bow. Then he cashed his hefty check and waited.
He was not there when two men loaded the bodies, in two large coolers and packed in dry ice, onto the leaking boat. He was not there when the two men hooked up the towing line to a powerful yacht and motored out of the private marina without running lights later that night, setting out almost due south after they cleared the harbor and were far enough out to avoid any casual observers. They were in for a hard five days of sailing towing that leaking wreck. He was not there five days later when the men took axes to the hull of the Big Break after running the craft up on a reef in the dark just off Road Town, the capital of the British Virgin Islands.
The incessant surf quickly tore the weakened boat to bits. The bodies, by now thawed and quickly reaching water temperature, floated face down until noon the next day, when the rescue helicopter spotted their bright orange life vests in the sparkling water. The partially eaten bodies of the couple were taken to the morgue for identification and autopsy.
Vinnie and Max stayed within sight of the morgue until the helicopter came back and unloaded the two bloated bodies. Vinnie put the high powered binoculars back in the holder next to the captain's chair and patted Max' head as he worked diligently on his knees in front of him, sucking his cock for the third time today. Today was Vinnie's day. Tomorrow he would suck off Max. Unless they could get women, which they both preferred, it was how they passed the time. As it had been since those racist bastards as the private boarding school had been so mean to them, two lonely boys, ostracized for being Italian. It hadn't occurred to either of them that it might have been because they were just stupid and mean bastards, to boot. Half the kids in the school had been of Italian descent. But they had found and comforted each other in their own way, from the until now.
Interrupting his devoted friend, he handed him a glass of the exquisite champagne Mr. Smith had given them. As requested, the two hoisted a glass to the first anniversary of the dead man. Cheers, sucker! Then they had one for the success of the plan. Then they just drank. The wine was excellent.
Three hours later Vinnie rushed to the head, only to find it was already occupied by Max. His urgency so great, he didn't wait to yell at the rude man. He could tell by the smell that Max had a problem. It sounded terrible, too.
Vinnie dropped his shorts and hung his ass over the port side rail. Shit flew for several yards as he explosively defecated into the pristine waters of the deep blue ocean. The dark brown fecal matter continued to spew from him, forced out by painful contractions and compressed gasses. The flowing excrement turned a reddish brown and then a bright red. The ocean beneath him turned a pale pink and the scent of that much fresh blood in the water attracted every sea-going carnivore in hundreds of miles.
A gentle wave from a distant passing boat broke Vinnie's precarious balance and he fell backwards into the churning water. He had lost so much blood he was too weak to scream for help or to try to fend off the ravenous beasts that attacked him. Max wouldn't have heard him anyway. He was already dead.
Damon would have been pleased to know his revenge had been successful. It had been a gamble, giving them the champagne. But they were soldiers, they would follow orders. Mama needed the money and Vincent needed to get it for her. Still, it had been a gamble. Had they opened the wine too soon, the fast acting poison would have ruined everything. Still, he would have been pleased to know he had won.
Alex was taken for treatment to a secure medical facility while her feet healed. Two weeks later she was quietly transferred to a secure psychiatric facility for observation. She was hearing voices and wasn't sleeping well. Her legal case was still pending and she was the only suspect in the questionable death of a prominent local businessman. It was just a precaution.
Josephine (Joey) Murphy, M.D was admitted to the room in which Alex was being held. The eminent psychiatrist was an expert in traumatized women. She had helped hundreds of battered women rebuild their lives. The medical staff that had been observing their new patient were disturbed and concerned about her. Dr. Murphy had offered to consult. They accepted.
The doctor scanned the room. It was sterile and bare, like every other room in every other psych ward she'd even been on. Alex was strapped into the bed. Her hair was brushed and clean. Had it been visible, she would have seen that the hole in her cute little naval was healing. Body jewelry was not allowed in the prison. It had been a shame to cut it off, but there was no choice. She had been inordinately attached to it, emotion-wise.
The cool grey eyes smiled down at her. Alex met them calmly. She did not seem to be irrational at all. Still, the doctor was intrigued by the facts in this case.
"Hello, Alex. How are you feeling today?"
The patient grinned back. "Wow. That's a switch. Everyone else asks; 'How are 'we' feeling today?' I never know how to answer that."
The doctor laughed. It was a low, generous sound.
"Somehow, I don't think you belong in here."
"In the loony bin or in prison?"
"Thanks. Be sure to tell the warden."
The doctor was silent for a while as she did a basic physical exam, her smiling eyes constantly moving back to look at Alex' face. She lifted her eyelids, poked and probed gently, noting certain physical signs. She went back and checked her chart, then smiled sadly.
"Is the father Damon?"
"Did you love him?"
"I wanted to. But, no, I didn't."
They looked at each other, the doctor weighing her next question carefully.
"Do you want to keep it?"
Alex hesitated. It was wrong.
"No. I'd always be afraid he'd turn out like his father."
"Would you like me to arrange it?"
Silently, Alex assented. There were no tears.
"Alex, I'd like you to come and see me when you get out. Maybe stay for a while. It would do you good."
Alex looked down and shook her head.
"Why not, Alex?"
"I have a Master," she said quietly.
"He's dead, Alex."
The girl looked up the doctor.
"Not to me," she said simply.
The doctor took one of the fragile hands in hers, holding it lightly.
"Oh, how I wish you had found me first, before him. We would have been so good together."
Alex squeezed the strong hand tightly. "I know, Ma'am. I wish I had found you first, too."
With a parting squeeze, the doctor stood and walked to the door. Alex watched the beautiful Dom leave, knowing she would never see her again. The scent of her special perfume lingered for a long time.
Alex slept peacefully for the first time that night. She was free. The voices were finally gone.
A week later, Alex had a minor procedure in the OB-GYN clinic of the prison. Shortly after that she was moved to the general population. Surprisingly, both the inmates and the guards left her alone and her mind slowly healed.
The Syndicate Board met and discussed a growing problem within the organization. They met without the knowledge of one very powerful Board member. A decision was reached and it was unanimous, based mainly on the recent terrible loss of one of their top directors, who had tragically been driven to suicide by a vengeful woman. Mrs. Elizabeth Farnsworth was invited to a garden party a week later. Sadly, she was laid to rest the next day in a lovely ceremony attended by only the Board and their closest associates. She died two days later when the oxygen finally ran out of the large coffin the Board had special ordered for this occasion. She screamed until the end.
Alex stepped from the courtroom a free woman. During the brief questioning, the prosecutor hadn't asked her if she had killed Damon Arquette and she hadn't volunteered any information. A secret witness for the defense had cleared her. There had been a government agent in deep cover in the club who had witnessed the events that had occurred in the months prior to Mr. Arquette's death. That testimony corroborated the evidence.
She had not even been considered a suspect in her husband's death. He had been found dead with his secretary. The time of death was a little fuzzy, but regardless, she had been in custody at the time he was motoring down to the Islands.
When she was finally released from custody, the property clerk handed her the small envelope with her personal effects. Attached to the envelope were a couple of other claim tickets that took forever to find in the disorderly mess of the property room. Alex walked out with a large canvas bag and an envelope from a coroner in the British Virgin Islands.