Break Free & Be Broken (22 page)

"I'm sick of this." Francis snarls, disappearing behind me. I don't bother cranking my neck in an attempt to see what he's doing. I don't want to know. He appears a moment later with a large knife in his hand. My reaction would be to back away, but my body is held tight.

There's a terrible helplessness that comes with having your arms trapped. I'm distinctly aware of every vital organ currently exposed, namely: all of them. I'd rather fight ten brutes with arms unbound then face one man while restrained. Francis looks like he's going to kill me. This can't be happening.

"Juxtapo said no! Remember!? Juxtapo said no!"

Francis giggles. "All he said was not to kill you or make you useless. There is a whole realm of things I can do to you without violating that criteria. Now, open your mouth."

I shake my head, defiance roaring through me. I can’t stop him from doing what he's going to do, but I will not help. If this is my last chance to take a stand, then god damnit, this is where I stand! He slaps me again and grabs the front of my pants.

"We can start in your mouth or we can start down here. Three seconds, then the choice is mine."

Fuck.

I open my mouth. Quick as a flash, Francis puts the knife inside, stretching back my cheeks so the knife can rest horizontally across my molars. My tongue gets lodged beneath the blade. Sharp metal is pressing against my teeth. It feels sketchy as all hell.

He puts a foot on the front of the chair-not concerned at all about the parts of my body he is squashing to do so-and rests his knee beneath my chin, pressing his free hand against the top of my head.

"This is the third and final time I'm asking. It's your last chance to talk. Tell me the name of the man you were with, or I'm splitting your teeth."

Oh fuck. No. This is too much.

Time to surrender.

"Inay wah Sej!" I spit through the blade, tears running freely down my cheeks. Francis pulls the knife from my mouth.

"Come again?"

"His name was Sage!" I bawl. I can't believe I'm doing this.

Francis stares at me a moment, then guffaws. "Surely you can do better than that!" He barks. "That might be the shabbiest fake name I've ever heard."

"It's not fake! Why the hell would I lie to you? This isn't a fucking joke to me! This isn't a game! I'm trying to save myself here! I'M GIVING YOU WHAT YOU WANT! Please, you have to believe me!"

His laughter stops. I hold my breath. He actually looks like he's getting a glimpse of the truth. I see it sinking in. I pray for it to take.

"Bah. I don't believe you."

I'm steamrolled by defeat. I surrendered to my weakness and it got me nothing. My suffering shall continue.

Francis’ face twists into a perverted grin. He walks behind me and starts massaging me again. "You and I are going to have a lovely time."

I’m so fucking repulsed that I lash out with words-the only weapon I have left. "Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit! Go get Juxtapo NOW! I won't take this, you hear? I'm sick of talking to a filthy faggot!" Normally, I am not one to use such base, vulgar language. Some words are simply better left unsaid. But this... this is too much.

"Faggot? I'm not gay. This isn’t about attraction..." He continues to massage me all over my chest and neck, “Well, not entirely.” He pinches my ear, then does something peculiar. He begins to unstrap me. I get the strong urge to strike at him when my right hand is released, but he's a big fellow. One fist surely isn't enough to beat him, so I bide my time. When both my arms are free, the urge to attack grows even stronger. I may be able to lock him up with a choke, but in order to do so, the opportunity must be perfect. Otherwise, I must continue to be patient. He bends over to untie my legs. As soon as the strap comes loose, I'll pounce.

Wait for it... wait for it... the strap comes loose, I poise to spring, but his hand finds my center and I'm knocked back to the floor. I roll when I hit the ground, quickly regaining my feet. I back up until I hit the far wall, eyes sweeping aggressively around the room for some kind of weapon.

This is the first time I've had a chance to give any real thought to my surroundings, but there isn't much in here. The room is all around cement, and its only contents are the chair I was sitting in, the bin of water, and a bed with a rickety metal frame. The only possible weapon is the chair, but Francis is standing right over it. I have no way to get it. He's bigger than me by far, but what I lack in size, I undoubtedly make up for in endurance. My best bet-maybe my only one-will be to wear him out.

He licks his lips and stares at me, eyes bugging out with lust and excitement. He puts a veined hand on his cock and summons me over with a finger. I can only shake my head and stare. What the hell is this night coming to? At least he gave me freedom to move. If he wants a challenge, he'll fucking get one.

With both of us fully clothed, I'm not quite sure how he is expecting this to go down. Maybe he's just gunna beat me unconscious and have his way with me. I shudder at the thought. For now, he is only staring, pawing at his crotch. I watch in abhorrence as a lump grows in his pants. I can't help but note its size is in proportion to his own. I commit here and now that I will die before I let him have me. He will
not
have me.

What a detestable fuck for even thinking that he can!

The ludicrous, revolting nature of the situation fills me with a strange desire, one that I've never felt before: a desire to kill. It carries me forward, strong and swift. I shoot in low for a tackle. Francis' smile widens as he crouches down in preparation-perhaps an attack of this nature is exactly what he wanted-but it's too late to stop my momentum now, so I hunker down and go for it.

My shoulder hits his ugly dick and my arms wrap around his bulbous thigh. It is broader and heavier then I would have guessed, but my strength is true. I'm able to get his leg off the ground and continue forward. By the way his arms flap in protest of his vanishing balance, I can tell he wasn't expecting me to be able to move him. With great satisfaction, I knock him back, almost laughing as he falls.

He lands against the edge of the bed. The frame is no match for his bulk and snaps beneath the weight of him. As I try to get up, his hands lock onto the back of my shirt and stop me. Damnit! I may have ended up in his trap after all.

I put my hands against his hips and push with all my might. I hardly gain any lift at all; I'm not going to be able to force my way out of this. His crotch is right below my face, so I drop my forehead onto it: hard. He grunts in pain, his grip weakens slightly, but he holds. I take advantage of the brief loosening of his grip to reposition myself, pushing myself further up him, placing my knee above his groin instead of my face.

The benefit of the position is immediately lost because I inadvertently gave him the chance to bear hug me. I start kneeing as hard as I can at what I hope are his balls but I'm not really sure if I'm hitting the right spot. Every part of him feels the same: mush and chub. My shots are landing with decent power but his grip doesn't slack. God damnit.

I give up the attack and try to just push out of his grasp again, but with his arms all the way around me, I can't move at all. I consider my weapons. My legs are free, but they are useless. I do have some movement with my hands, so I reach down for his eggs. Try as I might, I can't get a good clamp on anything.

Francis laughs while my hand scurries around his groin. "For someone who supposedly isn't willing, you sure are spending a lot of time around my hog."

Hearing him speak about the ugliness he is trying to force on me causes an outbreak of wrath to discharge through me, removing the cover from a weapon I had not yet considered: my mouth. I bite down hard on his flabby chest. My teeth snap through his skin right at the nipple. I rip half of it off in the chunk of flesh I sheer from him.

He howls and releases me with one hand, using it to whack me on the head. I take the blow in stride. One arm is not enough to contain me, and I'm able to pull free. His hand seals onto my shirt as I stand, halting me abruptly, but now that I've tasted freedom, I plan to claim it. I place both my feet on his thighs and rocket backward. His grip is true-as is my strength-so it is my shirt that must give way. It rips at the collar and I go tumbling out.

A victory in the escape; a defeat in losing my first piece of clothing.

Francis is slow in getting to his feet. I pick the chair up off the ground and charge at him with it high above my head. I swing at him with all the mustard I’ve got. He lifts an arm and easily blocks the blow, taking zero visible damage. Fuck.

There's a door directly to my right... should I make a run for it or continue to beat him with the chair? The split second I take to consider my options is enough for Francis to gain footing and begin to rise. Precious moments lost, I rush for the door. My hand hits the doorknob and goes stiff.

Locked.

I should have known.

I can both hear and sense Francis lumbering toward me. Without looking, I spin my body and whirl the chair at what I'm hoping is head level. My eyes reach him at the same time as the chair. Unfortunately, I swung low. The brunt of the collision lands on his shoulder, and it is only in the ricochet that it reaches his head. It lands quietly and without lethal intent.

He is nearly upon me.

All I can do is leap back-not in a balanced, coordinated way-but in a desperate, 'final attempt to remain free' kind of way; the kind of way where you land on your ass instead of your feet, giving the giant above you the perfect opportunity to pounce. I slide back as far as I can when I hit the ground. The giant is descending. He's about to have me. His eyes are locked on the hard muscles of my exposed torso. He is literally salivating at the mouth. I cross my arms in front of my face and ball my knees toward my chest to cover myself for impact.

God damnit. God fucking damnit.

The sound of wet meat being smacked by a shovel greets my ears, followed by a trickle of warm against my face and neck. I look up. It's blood. Francis overshot me in his excitement-he slammed his fat dome against the wall! The momentum generated by his weight was enough to cleave the top of his head wide open. Blood is pouring out in tremendous amounts, yet still he woozily tries to grab me.

His weakened state, plus the fact I'm slick with blood, make it a simple task for me to wriggle away. The second I'm on my feet I grab the chair and smash it over him. He puts his arms up over his head and commits to a defensive position. I strike again and again, but his dense arms soak up each blow like the sponge that will eventually clean his blood from the wall. I won't be able to kill him like this, and eventually he is going to recover. I turn back toward the door, thinking maybe I can kick my way out, but I notice something as my eyes travel from Francis to the back of the room: the broken bed.

I rush over to it and bust the broken piece off the frame. I'm left with a four foot long metal spear, tipped with a jagged, pointed edge. Spear held low at my side, I zing toward Francis like lightning hurled from the mighty Zeus. My goal is to ram this bad boy deep into his neck. I long to hear the sound of metal clinking against cement as it bursts through to the other side.

I jack it into him with the full of my strength, but in the quest for power, I gave up accuracy, causing my shot to hit low and off center. It enters the fleshy part of his body beneath the collar bone where the shoulder meets the chest. Fortunately, the power of the thrust was true. The spear sinks a solid five inches inside him. He would have penetrated me with more than that.

Blood runs thick around my spear, mingling with the blood that's spilling down from the cleft in his head. For the first time tonight, I'm enjoying the violence-enjoying it immensely. I find myself staring deep into Francis' dazed, pain ridden eyes. I have him pinned down, stuck like a pig. A perverse pleasure finds me. He can't move. He's mine. As soon as I choose, I can end him. He recognizes his impotent state, then his face becomes defiant. He lifts one of his heavy arms and latches his hand onto my spear.

He starts to pull. "Let go!" I yell. Stuck awkwardly as he is with his shoulders, neck, and head against the wall and the rest of him hunched against the floor, the effort is futile, but the fact he would even try to deny my dominance at this point is unforgivable. "LET IT GO!" I throw my knee at his face, planting the cap on the bridge of his nose. The soil is tough; the seed does not quite take. I draw back my leg and pump it forward a second time. This time, resistance gives way; and this time, Francis's nose crumbles into his face. Feeling the soft cartilage of his nose mush beneath the hard bone of my knee gives me ecstasy beyond what I have ever felt.

Now this is living.

Francis' eyes drift into the back of his head. Blood gurgles from the crumpled hole in his face with each failed breath. More and more blood drips down his throat to tinker with his lungs, making him cough and wheeze.

I love it.

"You thought you could put your filthy hands on me!? HUH?" I roughly kick the side of his head. The pudgy skin of his face jiggles on impact. It doesn't seem to hurt him too much, so I do it again. And again. And again, until his eye is puffy and trickling blood.