nc-17 | sexual content | gun kink
He knows she's listening.
And she knows that fourteen other people are listening, too.
And even though those fourteen people have no idea that he's talking about her, even though she's almost positive that she's not blushing, she slumps forward, letting her hair fall in front of her face. For the millionth time, she thinks that Web was wrong, that Danny isn't right at all for this operation, that Jason is going to see right through him, that this is going to end badly.
"No, man, she's a nasty little slut." Danny's voice is slightly distorted, deceptively close. "She likes it when I tie her down. Fuck her so hard that she can't walk straight for days."
She'll have to be extra careful leaving the van this evening.
Jason spins a darker tale, telling of things that Danny would never do. He uses knives. He uses guns. His girlfriends don't have to worry about walking funny the next morning. Or walking, period, ever again.
"She wanted to play with my gun, once."
Why is he telling this story?
"Wanted me to fuck her with it."
She presses her legs together. She can remember it, feel it, the metal slipping into her, the way something hit her just the wrong way, tearing tender flesh, the way he didn't stop, because she didn't ask him to.
He makes it sound so much sexier than it really was.
Forty-two minutes of listening to her co-worker or boyfriend or fuckbuddy or whatever he was describe to a stranger all the ways he had taken her. Bent over his kitchen counter. On the floor of his living room, which was fabulously uncluttered by actual furniture. On the sink in his bathroom, feet against the shower door, crammed into the tiny space, faucet digging into her back, the mirror breaking when she slammed her head against it.
And the darker moments, when she asked him to hold her down, hit her, fuck her with things that were never meant to fit in a vagina.
Forty-two minutes and if she had been less distracted by her own memories, she would have picked up on it before. Before the whoosh of the knife and the bizarre gurgle of someone trying to talk when his throat had been slashed. She wasn't worrying about her walk as she flew out of the van, into the house, but of course, he was gone by then.
They were both gone by then.
Mel's fingers, covered in blood as she pressed her hand against his wound. Paul on the radio, officer down.
And Web, standing away from it all, wearing what he probably thought was an unreadable expression, but she knew, she knew.
Her hand on her weapon, but she knows she doesn't have the strength to shoot him.