Invictus, p.1
Invictus, page 1
Invictus
Michelle Pace
Yolanda Olson
Contents
1. Atasha: Black Betty
2. August: The Cruel & Cunning
3. Atasha: Me and My Shadow
4. August: A Shared Torment
5. Atasha: Typhoid Mary
6. Robbie: Delightful Deviance
7. Magda: Fallout Girl
8. August: Three’s A Crowd
9. Atasha: Blood Brothers
10. August: Forgive and Forget
11. Atasha: Lady’s Choice
12. Robbie: A Serpent’s Tongue
13. August: My Brother’s Keeper
14. Atasha: Locks
15. August: Downtown Interlude
16. Atasha: Behind Door Number One
17. Magda: Door number Two
18. Atasha: Bad Seeds
19. Robbie: Sticks & Bricks
20. Atasha: Tug of War
21. Robbie: Black Mass
22. August: Time of Need
23. Atasha: Matching Baggage
24. Robbie: A Brother’s Love
25. Magda: Through the Keyhole
26. Atasha: Glass Slippers
27. Robbie: The Whore Behind Door #1
28. August: The Greatest Show on Earth
29. Atasha: The Red Death
30. Robbie: Things We Cannot See
31. Atasha: Warm Bodies
32. Robbie: Wanna Hear A Secret?
33. Magda: Burn One Down
34. August: The Games We Play
35. Atasha: The Other Shoe
36. August: Éloge
Copyright © 2018 Michelle Pace and Yolanda Olson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Though I’ve never minded rain, Seattle’s endless weeping sky is pushing my buttons. Ducking into one of a million coffee shops, I cut in line, ignoring dirty looks from three Ugg boot-clad basic bitches. They’ll just have to post a couple more selfies to Instagram while waiting for their pumpkin lattes. Mamma needs a cup of Joe.
Seconds later I’ve claimed my black coffee labeled with my misspelled name, and after swiping a handful of sugar packets, I slide into a half booth near the front window, ready to enjoy some peaceful people-watching. Unfortunately, I’m not there more than a minute when a frosted soccer mom in offensively patterned leggings plops down at the very next table, fussing over her baby while blindly shoving a cake pop at her chubby preschooler. The neglected older sibling begins to whine that he wants his sucker, not cake. My mood, which is already as dank as the weather spirals, and I sigh. I’m just about to bolt back out into the overcast afternoon when I catch sight of a square-jawed and muscle-clad college type out of the corner of my eye. I slant my gaze in his direction, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
He’s looking straight up my skirt.
My lip curls as I sip my coffee. Twirling my jet-black ponytail, I spread my legs a little wider, so this privileged little douchebag can feast his eyes. From all the way across the coffee shop, I watch him take in the sheer crotch of my panties. He flushes deeply, barely maintaining his cool façade as he sweeps his eyes up to meet mine.
Silver Spoon doesn’t seem to mind my Doc Martins or my gunmetal nail polish. I suspect the fact that I’m not the prom queen is most of my appeal. His chest rises and falls, and he subtly adjusts himself. He can’t fool me. It’s as plain as the Rolex on his wrist. This frat boy is rock hard and ready to party.
The brat at the next table winds himself up into a full-blown tantrum, and his mother, who’s struggling to nurse the baby, relents and pulls a sucker out of the diaper bag, shoving it at him. His keening ceases immediately as he works at the complicated wrapper.
I pluck a napkin from under my cup and hum to myself as I scribble on it with a Sharpie I retrieve from my leather studded purse. Rich boy’s eyeing me with keen interest now, convinced he’s won the white trash lottery. He’s probably never wandered this far from the campus Starbucks, and is congratulating himself for being a Maverick, in his five hundred dollar strategically stained jeans. He showily tongues his toothpick, as if advertising his oral talents. He obviously believes he walks on the wild side, and that he’s the one on the prowl.
I bet he drives without his seatbelt, too. Maybe even has the occasional bareback romp with the campus whore.
Stupid rich prick.
His size gives me momentary pause. He’s a beast, and big boys can be troublesome. He’s got bad boy written all over him, and I’ve crossed paths with his kind before, under the bleachers while the home crowd celebrates a touchdown, and washing my hands in grungy bus station bathrooms. He’s the kind that tops off your red Solo cup with schnapps, then calls you a bitch when you won’t blow him in his Camaro.
Guys like him are dangerous, but I just can’t walk away. After a month of sobriety, I need the diversion. It’s been weeks since I picked someone up and the last time was a bloody disaster.
I really need this.
I deserve it.
I’ve earned it.
I meet his glittering eyes once more, wondering if today will be the day I go too far. He’s all dark pupils and dirty promises, and with a coy head tilt, I bite my lip and reach over to take the sucker from the unruly toddler nearby. The little cherub smiles at me gratefully as I swiftly unwrap it, all the while, his mother obliviously coos at the newborn. I slip the plastic off the candy and toss it on the table.
I nip the sucker before taking it into my mouth so far that the cardboard handle almost disappears. Mommy’s little angel’s lip quivers, but my intended audience watches the entire spectacle like a filthy peeping Tom, and his cocky grin sealing the deal. I pull the lollipop from my mouth drag my tongue slowly across my blood red lips.
Oh, yes. You’ll do quite nicely, rich boy.
Unable to delay my own gratification any longer, I stand. With lingering glance, I exit the shop, leaving the napkin. I don’t have to look back over my shoulder to know he’s retrieved it.
I’m leaning against the brick wall of Uncle Nikoli’s seedy motel sucking on a cancer stick. Nikoli isn’t really my uncle; he’s my landlord. He likes to be called “uncle” because he says things are kinkier that way. I don’t live here, though. This is another one of his buildings. I’m not dumb enough to bring one of these privileged assholes to my actual place of residence.
I’m starting to worry that Silver Spoon chickened out, when I see him crossing the street with the swagger of a 70s movie gigolo. Adrenaline surges, temporarily pacifying the demon who’s squatting inside me. He reaches for the door handle like we’re going inside, but I shake my head.
“No.” I toss the cig onto the sidewalk and stamp it out, gesturing with my head. “Around back.”
His brow furrows, and he looks remarkably boyish. “Why?”
“Because I said so.” I strut in the direction of the alley without a doubt in my mind that he’s following. Scaling the fire escape all the way to the roof, I’m reclined back on my elbows when he catches up to me. He pauses at the top of the fire escape, curiosity and arousal battling for control of his features.
“How much?” He’s got a twinkle in his eye. I wonder if he’s equipped to put one in mine.
“I’m not a hooker, asshole.” Lying back, my legs fall open as I present myself to him on a dilapidated platter.
He’s reaching for his fly, but I shake my head.
“Didn’t those sorority girls teach you anything?” My voice is husky, but not because of this douchebag. Uncertainty about what I’m capable of has me remarkably wet. “Lick it before you stick it, Ivy League.”
With a cocky grin, he gives in to comply, but he’s just as incompetent as expected. Eventually, my own imagination arouses me enough that I might actually orgasm. My eyes drop closed as I allow my violent fantasies to run wild. Swirling images of bulging eyeballs and white knuckles catapult me toward my zenith. I wrap my thighs around his neck, and he growls, nipping my clit. If he means to deter me, or break free of my muscular thighs, he’s failed epically.
To my surprise, he sucks my bud enthusiastically into his mouth, and I squeeze tighter in response. We continue to writhe, but in my mind I’m somewhere else.
Somewhen else.
I used to be ashamed of my fantasies, but that’s all in the past. I can’t help what gets me off, and no one else apologizes about their brand of kink, not my hairy foster father or my overweight, sardine-scented landlord, so why should I?
I finally come, crushing Silver Spoon’s sculpted cheekbones between my thighs. When I’m finally done riding the wave, I unwind myself and he immediately slumps face first onto the rooftop beneath me.
“Shit,” I hiss. This is it. I’ve fucking done it this time. Strangled this tool…or maybe broke his neck. My heart’s hammering, I remind myself I planned for this…just in case this was the time I lost my shit. Casting nervous eyes over the side of the building, I verify the position of the dumpster below. Once t he sun goes down, I’ll just roll him over the side.
This fresh new brand of euphoria puts cocaine to shame, and I just can’t resist the urge to examine his corpse up close. Gripping him by his boy band hair, I lift his head so I can get a good look at his face. His nose bleeds freely, which means his heart is still pumping. Dropping him face first back onto the shingles, I’ll admit I’m mildly disappointed that I only choked the fucker out.
Relieving Silver Spoon of his wallet, I quickly slip his Rolex over my wrist. It’s way too nice to go unnoticed, and I know I should just leave it on him, but it’s the principle of the matter. Who the fuck wears a watch at all when any cell phone tells the time?
Rolexes are a bullshit status symbol. Symbols are for the simple-minded. Besides, I could use the cash.
I leave his keys behind, smiling to myself all the way down to ground level. It’s the Christian thing to do. He helped me come, after all.
Scarecrows.
I’ve always been fascinated by them because they remind me of silent wonders. The farther away from them you stand, the more they look like a blatant, unkempt mess, but upon closer inspection the detail and intricacy of the work is truly something to behold. The stitching, while never exactly where it needs to be, will tell the tale of craftsmanship and long nights spent attempting to achieve perfection.
I’ve spent many years researching the work that comes along with making scarecrows and I will admit that some aspects of it have amused me greatly. The thought of a straw-stuffed—or whatever-the-fuck-is-handy-stuffed—man with a large pole shoved up his ass to hold him in place has always made me wonder who thought this was a good idea to begin with. It’s also made me wonder why it became so damn popular, and do they work? They can’t; I’ve seen way too many paintings and drawings of crows sitting on their shoulders, so what exactly are they made to deter?
I’m getting away from my initial train of thought and I need to concentrate. My work is very delicate and if I miscalculate anything, this is going to be more of a mess than it truly needs to be.
Another thing I’ve spent time researching is some practices of tribes on the African continent. It may seem strange, but I agree with some of their views on certain religious beliefs, and as such, I have been dying to attempt one thing in particular. Having spent a few summers as child with my affluent family in the Serengeti, I would sneak away at night and watch some of the tribes come together. One of the things that stuck with me the most was what I had been privileged to see in the daylight. A coming of age ceremony for a young girl entering into womanhood.
I have my chance tonight and I want to get this right, so my test subject is tied securely to a wooden table, with the threat of imminent death if she moves or makes a sound. The soles of her feet are propped up in metal stirrups like a makeshift gynecological bed, and her ankles are firmly chained in place. The light above us in this dimly lit, sterile room is flickering slightly, which I think adds a nice deviant touch to the fear I must be inflicting by just lingering here for a moment trying to remember my lessons.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit to enjoying this kind of thing. I know she’ll scream when the time comes even though she’s my first in this particular experiment, but I have to prepare for the one I’ve been wanting the most. I have to show Atasha what I’m capable of so she’ll know that when the time comes. If she doesn’t stand by my side where she belongs, she’ll be nothing more than a failed socialite miscreant.
I’ve watched her for a while now and I’ve seen her snort those lines, and while I choose to not be the hero of this story, I do intend to save her—to a certain extent.
What I will do will be more to save myself than her, because while I understand that the only way to truly become a knight in shining armor is to feel like one, and I have a long fucking way to go.
“Are you ready?” I ask quietly as I pull the chair closer to the table. Her gash is displayed grandly before me and I push the plastic goggles back up my nose slightly. I don’t know if this will cause blood to drip or spurt, and if I lose sight of what I’m doing I might as well just end her now.
Savages; that’s what they commonly call tribes people, but the biggest savage of them all was the one watching; learning. We only label people savages because we don’t understand their way of life and we only deem others evil because we cannot see things the way they do.
No one deserves to be mislabeled for things others can’t comprehend; especially not when it’s their way of life. I, however, can be deemed a savage because I allowed myself to dance with the devil inside of me and I fully embrace what I’ve chosen to become.
I’m so lost in the grandeur of the new me that for the slightest of moments, I’ve forgotten about the task at hand. Magda was easy enough to apprehend. I spent the past few days watching her on skid row where she sells her cunt for fifty dollars a pop. I approached her on one of her slower nights.
She fails to hold her piss and the smell becomes prominent as a small stream escapes her. I open my legs slightly so that she doesn’t soil me then grab a cotton pad and dry her as best as I can. Now she’s starting to understand the severity of the situation. She finally gets that I’m not a john and this isn’t an ordinary trick. Her breathing becomes erratic and her body starts to shiver in response. She doesn’t speak, which is wise because I’ve warned her against it.
“Deep breath,” I instruct her, “here we go.”
I reach forward with the x-acto knife and place it at the top of her clitoris. This is the part where I agree with those tribes—that a woman should not feel pleasure from sex. She should not be able to enjoy something that she is essentially not built for and to be quite honest, I’m sick and tired of faked orgasms. I can spot those a mile away and if it happens to me again, I’ll kill the bitch while I fuck her.
Using the tip of my thumb, I push down on it as I begin to bring the blade down on the left. The blood rushes freely but doesn’t spray, which makes me smile. I guess I didn’t need the goggles after all, but better safe than sorry.
She swallows her pain wildly as I continue the incision and push the blade in a little deeper. I have to remember that enjoying what I’m doing to her would make the experiment a failure and that this is for research purposes only. I have to be well versed when it comes to the one I want and I’ll have to make sure that she is okay with this.
I don’t think she’ll object much once I explain to her my reasoning for my actions, but I also don’t think she’ll exactly lay down and spread her legs either. She’s going to take some training to get her to where I want and the only way to create the monster I so desperately want to stand with me, is to show her what a monster truly is.
As I busy myself cutting down the other side of this bitch’s clit I smile and hum a thoughtless tune. Soon I’ll be able to approach Atasha without hesitation and we’ll have our conversation about this and that. I’ll get her to trust me and then I’ll put her to the test.
My God, she’s going to be my greatest achievement and the best gift I’ve ever given to myself.
I think of Atasha often and in this moment, I’m becoming consumed with thoughts of her. I’m almost faint with the longing of how this should be her in front of me, pussy exposed and wet, ready for me to take away the parts she doesn’t need.
My fascination started innocently enough one night when I was walking home. I happened to be strolling through one of the shittier parts of town and a flash of movement caught my eye. I remember approaching the entrance to the alley where I saw two people becoming entangled in each other, but because the street lights above me were flickering out, I wasn’t quite sure if it was in lust or anger.
