Magda

Magda opened her eyes. She turned and looked at the snoring man next to her; his mouth agape, a thin dribble of drool on his stubbled chin which pooled into a damp spot on the pillow, his rancid breath sour in her nostrils and thought, as she did every time she saw him, “I fucking hate that bastard.”

He woke with a snort, scratched his crotch and reached for a cigarette, “Hey, Mags, get me a cup of tea.” She rolled her eyes; she couldn’t bear being called that.

His hand clamped on her jaw, a nicotine stained finger thrust into her face, “Don’t think I didn’t see that! It’s lucky for you we’ve got that gig tonight or else you’d get a shiner for that.” She hurried from the lumpy mattress and went to the kitchenette to make his tea before he changed his mind. He never once suspected that she spat in every mug she made for him. A hint of a smile on her lips as she cursed under her breath, “Dai dracu, pulaman.”

He slurped and belched long and loud as he pulled on jeans and rugby shirt, “Get yourself sorted for tonight. There’ll be you and a few of the other girls. I want you clean, shaved and looking good. These men important clients. I want to keep them happy.” Grabbing his keys and coat, “I’ll be back later,” he called as he left the small flat, double locking the door behind him. She raised her middle finger to the door.

Almost eighteen months now. Almost a year and a half since she had answered the advert to be an au pair and took the train to Bucharest for her interview, only to wake up bound and gagged in the back of a van along with five other girls, en route to their new lives.

The first few times he had tried to have sex with her she fought back, but she learned fast that it was wiser to give in. His punishments were vicious; she knew she would never hear properly again in her left ear, or pee without pain. Besides, after you’ve been passed around enough times you learn how to switch off your brain. For some reason, he seemed to favour her over the others and visited her bed more frequently than theirs. The one and only benefit to this was that he frowned upon customers being too rough with her or leaving marks on “what’s his”. Small mercies.

She nibbled on a piece of toast and thought about home, about her Mama and her little sisters. What did they think had happened to her? Did they think she’d ran away? She hoped they knew she would never have done that, no matter how tight things had gotten at home since Tata had passed. She hoped they knew she loved them. She wondered if she would ever see them again.

There were no tears in her eyes; her days of weeping for her past life were long gone. The grey eyes that once sparkled with youth and energy were now hollow, empty of expression, as glasslike as a mannequin’s. She moved differently these days too; her body had been through too much and had suffered at the hands of too many men. She moved slowly, cautiously, like a wounded animal. Nothing about her was the same.

Her eyes caught the clock and she realised she needed to get ready. She had a plan and she needed to get it perfectly right. If she messed this up he would kill her. Of this she had no doubt. She had heard from other girls what he was capable of; how girls who stepped too far out of line were never seen or heard of again. She also had first hand experience of his fists. She had to get this right.

*

The sound of his key in the door spiked sweat under her arms. Adrenaline coursed through her. Breathing deeply, she tried to slow her heart rate. She must appear normal.

“Mags! C’mere!” he entered carrying three plastic bags of shopping, “Here’s your stuff for the week.”

She had never been outside the flat alone. When he brought her to the parties, he made her wear sunglasses with the lenses totally blacked out and he lead her to the car. Apart from the concrete floors of the hallways, she had no clue what the block of flats looked like, or even where they were. He had nailed chipboard to the windows. To anyone looking, she just looked like another girl in a too-short dress and over sized shades. But his hand firmly gripping her wrists was a constant reminder to behave. Not that anyone in the council block would have cared if she called out. People tended to not look for trouble in such places.

He cast his eyes over her, “You’re not dressed yet,” checked his watch and grinned, “time for a quick one before you get ready then.” He started to open his jeans and pushed her to her knees.

“I’m starving,” he said afterwards, “make me a sandwich and a cuppa. I’m going for a piss.”

She knew she didn’t have long.

He grimaced as she slurped his tea, “What the fuck? Is the milk off?”

“Oh! I forgot the sugar! I’m sorry,” she lied fetching the sugar bowl over and ladling in two large spoonfuls, stirring for a few seconds, “Is the sandwich good?”

“It’ll do,” he drank more tea, “Not the best you’ve made Mags, it’s bitter. You squeezed the teabag too hard, you stupid cunt. Don’t do it again,” but he gulped the rest down noisily and belched, treating her to the aroma of stale cigarette and the pickle he had just eaten, “You go get into that slutty little dress I brought you. Nothing underneath, right?”

She went over to take the skimpy dress from the bag and began to take off her clothes, aware of his eyes on her. He made her skin crawl.

“Show me what’s mine, “ he said and she bent over at the waist and used her fingers to spread her cheeks, revealing herself to him. It made her feel sick.

“Good. Nice and smooth. The clients prefer that.” He yawned, “Fuck! I’m tired.”

“We have some time yet. Do you want to nap?” she asked but heard him snoring before she turned for an answer.

He was slumped over in the chair, his head on the kitchen table. She could hardly believe it… it had worked! The tiny fold of white powder she had gotten from his new driver had done what it was meant to. She winced as she recalled the price she’d had to pay for the drug; it turned out the new driver had quite unique tastes when it came to getting off. She had told him she needed it to get to sleep but once he got what he wanted he didn’t seem too bothered about her motives anyway.

Now she needed to act fast. She had packed what few belongings she had and stashed the bag under the bed earlier. Keeping her eyes peeled on him, she changed back into her jeans and tee shirt and slipped on her trainers.

Where were his keys? He always locked the door when he visited. His jacket was on the back of the chair that he was slouched in. She knew it was risky but she had no choice, she’d come this far. Holding her breath, she reached into the pocket and took out the bunch of keys. They rattled off one another and she froze.

A loud snort from him, her heart hammered in her chest, but he remained passed out.

She began to move towards the door but paused. She needed money. Her eyes returned to his jacket and she once again snuck her small hand into the other pocket and found the leather of his wallet.

No time to check how much was in it; she silently carried her bag to the door and unlocked the door as quietly as she possibly could.

Time slowed down agonizingly. The door clicked open and she looked out, seeing the corridor for the first time, realizing she had no idea which way was out. “Think!” she told herself and tried to remember which way he turned her whenever they had left the flat before. Muscle memory kicked in and she stepped to the left and snuck down the corridor, careful not to make any noise on the concrete underfoot. The urge to run was overwhelming, she felt like she was wading through toffee. She kept expecting to feel his hand the back of her throat, or in her hair dragging her back to her death.

Deciding not to risk the noise of the lift, she pushed the door to the stairwell and finally fled, practically falling over her own feet as she ran down and down until she burst through the last door and out into the warm, low evening sunshine. Squinting and shielding her eyes from the glare, she looked around to get some bearings, spotting a bus stop across the road.

She had no idea where she was; she had no idea where to go.

Suddenly it didn’t matter. She was outside! She was free! She looked in his wallet and saw a large wad of notes. Lucky for her, he mustn’t have gotten around to buying the coke yet. Magda suppressed a slightly hysterical giggle and thought, “Payday!”

Dizzy with adrenaline and emotion she turned and headed for the road just as a double decker pulled up.

Taking a seat near the back, she looked back at the tower of flats that had been her prison, still expecting to see him coming for her. Her hand rested on her tummy, and she made a silent promise to the new life nestled there to remain free.

💋

Copyright, 2016, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

A Quiet Man

He was a quiet man. He lived a quiet, ordinary life.

Every morning his alarm went off at 7:01 precisely; 701 being his favourite prime number. He slid his feet into the slippers beside the bed and went downstairs to make tea and boil his egg for 5 minutes 47 seconds, 547 being another prime number he enjoyed. His eggcup, mug and spoon were always laid out from the night before.

He ate his breakfast slowly, then washed, dried and put his things away before making his lunch. A ham and tomato sandwich on whole wheat bread, safely stored in a Tupperware box, with a banana on the side.

After his shower he dressed in grey slacks, a white shirt and a blue tie, putting on his brown brogues at the door before leaving for work. As he walked the 20 minutes to his office he carefully avoided the cracks in the pavement. A nod to the girls on reception as he passed by en route to the lift to arrive at his desk at 8:09, where he sat and began to check his emails and see what the day held ahead of him.

Colleagues passed his desk during the day. He always glanced up and offered a smile but never initiated conversation. Work was work, not a party. He ate his sandwich at his desk, reading the online newspaper. He watched the clock on his screen and after exactly 29 minutes he closed the Internet and returned to his tasks. He took a tea break from 3:17 to 3:31 and shut down his computer everyday at 5:41.

He stopped in to buy supplies for dinner on his way home; M&S or Waitrose. Mondays were pork chops, Tuesdays – fish, Wednesdays – chicken, Thursdays – leftover chicken. On Fridays he had steak.

His evening routine never wavered. He removed his shoes at the door, washed his hands and cooked his evening meal, listening to the radio as he worked. Once dinner was finished and tidied away he watched the documentaries he had recorded during the day, before brushing his teeth and going to bed at 9:07. At 9:53 he put down his book and turned his light off.

On Saturdays he volunteered at the local hospice, where he made and served tea, read and chatted to the patients. Always modest about offering his time, he dismissed any praise directed towards him with, “It’s nothing really, just a small piece of my week. I’m happy to be of use.”

The staff chatted about him during their breaks:

“Isn’t Terence a sweet man? So quiet and unassuming”.

“He is. A diamond that man.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Not at thing! He keeps himself to himself. But you have to respect that.”

“Bless him.”

 They, of course, were unaware of his secret visits to the mortuary.

He had noticed it was usually quiet and unoccupied during the serving of the evening meal and had made a habit of quietly disappearing once his serving duties were taken care of.

His skin prickled at the coolness of the air there every time.

He locked the door before opening one of the compartments and sliding out the slab. A frisson of excitement in that moment where his eyes slid over the shape beneath the sheet, before he lifted it and saw the face below, drained of colour and life.

He only wanted the women, never the men.

He loved to look at their pallid, waxy skin. Some of them tragically young, torn from life too early; others old, their age-spotted skin wrinkled and sagging. He reached out and touched their breasts, finding them cold and firm. He stroked their stomachs, hips and thighs, his erection growing and straining against his Y fronts. He spat on his fingers and sighed as he pushed them inside the women, feeling their icy tightness grip him. He wished they could open their eyes and look at him as he explored them. He edged towards orgasm but always stopped before he spoiled his underwear. He hated mess. Removing his fingers, he sniffed them, wiped them on the sheet and returned the woman to her resting place. He left the mortuary carefully, glancing left and right to ensure no one was around to see him.

He rejoined the patients and staff to bid them good night for another week, thinking of how he would relive his illicit thrill once he got home and masturbated in the shower. His weekend treat that made the week bearable.

On Sundays he visited his mother. He always brought her pink roses and cut her grass. On the way home from the graveyard he would buy fish and chips for supper.

He did enjoy routine.

Copyright, 2016, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

The Collector

Everyday he takes his seat in Liverpool Street Station, on the bench facing the stairs, large Costa coffee in hand, a newspaper he never reads tucked under his arm. No one notices him, the beige man in the M&S clothes. He fades into his surroundings.

He watches them.

The City boys in their slick suits and cufflinks, the students in jeans and hoodies, the hipsters with their ridiculous beards and porkpie hats, the tourists, made obvious by their bum-bags, cameras and dazed expressions.

They are not the reason he is there.

He is there to watch the women come and go. The stressed Mums with howling toddlers, the old ladies, bent over with age and arthritis, the giggling school girls in their uniforms.

He smiles, remembering his past trophies…

The short Indian lady with a long, sleek braid that fell to the small of her back, glossy black in beautiful contrast to the ivory sari she wore. The tall platinum blonde in ripped leggings and DMs, with her shaved sides and a mowhawk that spilled down to her shoulder blades. The coffee coloured girl with a magnificent wild bush of black curls. The petite twenty-something with longs soft waves of honey blonde layers that bounced when she walked. They were all beautiful in their own way, each a unique specimen of feminine splendor.

He sees her.

Her slim elegant legs carrying her down the steps, dressed as always in a tailored suit. She passes him on her way to the platform, never spotting him stand and follow her. As they walk he catches the faint trace of her perfume on the air. He watches the sunlight reflect off the soft loose waves that cover her back. Copper highlights spark from her deep dark red mane. He longs to reach out and caress it. But not yet.

She doesn’t notice him stand behind her on the crowded train. Her eyes scan the smart phone in her hand, thumb flicking through emails, a tiny crease between her fair brows. As she reads, a sudden jolt from the tracks sends her body pressing back against his chest. He breathes in the scent from her hair, a light fruity fragrance. Soon he would change that to the coconut he preferred. All his girls’ hair smelled of coconut.

She glances back over her shoulder at him, smiling and murmuring an apology for invading his space. She has no idea. No idea that he has been watching her for days. No idea that he knows her every movement, her every routine, from when she leaves her house in the mornings, to her commute to reach her office and then her return home in the evenings.

FullSizeRenderShe has no idea that this is her last day. No idea that tonight he will be waiting for her in her house, his sharp blade in hand, ready to take that glowing crown of red glory from her to add to his collection.

So he smiles back at her, reassuringly and watches her return to her emails, the zesty scent of her hair still lingering in his nostrils. Soon to be coconut.

 

 

💋

Read more dark tales here!

Thanks to @cavey2014 for his time!

Copyright, 2016, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

Enter The Darkside

You might have noticed that I have been enjoying writing some slightly darker tales of late, featuring such delights as kidnapping, stalking and murder.

I decided to group them all on one page called… you guessed it

Enter The Darkside!

I hope to add more dark and twisty stories of the evils we humans are capable of inflicting on each other.

Enjoy!

Mwahahahahaha…

💋

Copyright, 2016, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

Mystery Caller

“You’re through to Crisis Line. My name is Jen, how can I help you tonight?”

Silence. Heavy breathing.

“It’s ok to take your time. I’m here to help.”

“I need to talk…”

“That’s what I’m here for. Do you want to tell me your name?”

More breathing.

The sound of a bottle being unscrewed.

Swallowing.

“My name don’t matter. I feel the need. The need is back again.”

“I see, what need are you talking about?”

“To cut.”

“Are you thinking of self harming?”

“I need to see the blood. I need to smell the iron. I need to taste it.”

“Can you…”

“I need to watch it flow from the veins, over pale white skin and pool on the floor…”

“Sir…”

“I need to savour that last breath leaving the body. I need to watch the spark of light die in her eyes.”

“Her eyes? Sir, did you just say, ‘her eyes’?”

“Yes. Or,” his voice lowers, almost seductively, “Jen, maybe I need to watch the life leave your eyes, those pretty grey eyes of yours…”

A chuckle.

Her blood ran cold.

Dialtone…

💋

Copyright, 2016, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

 

 

Taking Emilia

Her skin is flawless alabaster, smooth and cool to the touch. Her cheeks pale, expect for the slightest hint of pink flushing the apples beneath her clear crystalline eyes, which are generously framed by long, doe-like brown lashes. Honey coloured waves hug her perfectly proportioned shoulders and cascade down her back to her narrow waist. My fingertips softly brush some hair back from her collarbone, exposing the curve of her upturned breast, her nipple the palest shade of pink. A defined line runs between her breasts down to her navel, marking the place where her hips begin to swell into a pleasing figure 8. My eyes take in her flat stomach, smooth all the way to the tempting V where her thighs meet in a coy cross.

Emilia remains still, unblinking; the perfect woman… My perfect woman.

I have loved her since the first time I saw her as I passed the store one day. Her immaculate, unblemished skin all but stole the breath from my lungs. Once I started working there, I noticed how her silent tranquility filled any room she was in. I knew then I had to have her. I had to make her mine.

I had waited in the toilets after closing time, until I was sure everyone had left the building – we are alone, Emilia and I. I have the car ready beside the fire exit, complete with a soft blanket to shield her naked skin and keep her warm. Soon she will lie next to me and my arms will  be her protection from any chill. I plan to bathe her in scented oils, wash her long golden curls and tuck her in to her new bed. She will never want for anything ever again. I will make her happy, as she will make me.

“Come, my angel,” I whisper in her ear, resisting the urge to recoil from her slightly dusty scent, and lift her. She is feather light but stiff in my arms, her limbs unyielding, but I manage to transport her from the storeroom and through the department store to the exit leading to the back alley. I care nothing about the security cameras following me – from this moment I have no intention of ever returning to this place. I will have no need to, now that Emilia and I are to be together.

A grunt escapes me as I struggle to position her in the passenger seat of my car; I must help her bend her knees to fit. My good, wonderful Emilia, as compliant as she can be, given her limits. Wrapping the cashmere blanket around her, I pause and allow my lips to barely caress her elegantly chiseled cheek bone as I fasten her seat belt, “Now, my angel, it will be just the two of us soon.”

Pulling out from the curb I reach over and take her small, rigid hand in mine, and squeeze. The fiberglass is cold and unyielding. A wide smile brightens my face. My Emilia will always be beautiful. She will never age or wither, never tire of me, never resist me.

She is eternal.

Mine forever.

 

💋

Copyright, 2016, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.