Summary: A serial criminal kidnaps a young man in the middle of the forest. With no one else to turn to, his girlfriend is left to rescue him.
The challenge she faces is as towering as her stature.
Categories: Giantess,
Couples,
Crush,
Muscle,
Violent Characters: None
Growth: Amazon (7 ft. to 15 ft.)
Shrink: None
Size Roles: F/m
Warnings: This story is for entertainment purposes only.
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 3
Completed: Yes
Word count: 11486
Read: 7859
Published: February 07 2022
Updated: February 22 2022
Story Notes:
Lots of violence in this one, some of it amazon action, some of it gunplay.
1. Your move, creep by Divediveburners
2. Dead or Alive, he's coming with me by Divediveburners
3. Buddy, I think you're slime by Divediveburners
Your move, creep by Divediveburners
Author's Notes:
No giantess action here, but still a good amount of violence/torture, all normal people. Setting up the scenario to come. All the action will be in the next chapter.
Night had fallen upon the forest. It was a silent witness to struggle
and strife, as two men clad in black jackets lugged along a squirming
figure. His body writhed and twisted, testing the grip of his
captors. Yet, it was to no avail.
There
was a dark shape, in the form of an old boxy pickup truck. Weak light
provided by a thin crescent moon could barely reveal small rust
stains and chipped paint along its aged body. It was in the back of
this pickup truck that the captured man was thrown. His hands and leg
were bound with twine rope, tight enough to hinder blood, and agitate
nerves. He still continued to squirm, even as his captivity was all
but ensured.
The
roar of the old engine drowned out his silent pleas, gagged by crude
cloth. Yet, as the truck prepared to chug along, a voice raced
through the forest.
“Peter!
Peter!”
It
was that of a woman. Desperation and despair clung to it. As the
truck raced away, fumbling through dead branches and moist dirt, the
voice faded.
The men in the driver’s cabin paid no heed. Their expressions were
concealed by black ski masks, only allowing stoic eyes and silent
mouths to show through. They remained quiet for the duration of the
journey, never taking time to congratulate one another, to watch out
for any sign of pursuit nor to taunt their unwilling captive.
Dull
light from the truck’s headlights illuminated the vast shape of a
square structure. An abandoned warehouse, rusted, and teaming with
growth upon the sides of its off-white walls was the destination.
Various crates lay in the area around it, scattered haphazardly as an
afterthought.
The
truck steadied as dirt was replaced with crude asphalt and concrete.
As the vehicle turned into the entrance to the structure, two
additional men rushed to greet it. They wore heavy gray jackets, upon
which a jet-black rifle was slung across. Black gloved hands moved
towards the rifle, as the windows on the truck were pulled down.
A
familiar look was exchanged between the criminals in the truck, and
the armed men outside. With a nod and a gesture, the truck was
allowed to lumber forward.
The
inside of the warehouse was cloaked in shadow. Few lights relieved
the blindness imparted by night. Large blocky silhouettes could be
perceived, but only a wild guess would suffice as to what was their
contents. It was once inside did the truck come to a stop, and its
engine was silenced.
There
was only one room that had the benefit of light, provided by a single
hanging incandescent bulb. A man resided within, wearing a heavy dark
leather jacket, with black denim jeans. He had thin, brown hair that
was combed over near the top. His eyes appeared eternally squinted,
beady and ruthless, while his lips formed a thin scowl. He was
clearly a man of middle age, with wrinkles around his mouth and eyes.
Yet, a youthful bloodlust still shone through.
The
rusty metal chair in which he was seated was rotated with an
unpleasant screech once the others arrived with their captive. The
unlucky man was clearly far younger, with a full head of curly,
matted dirty blonde hair. Wide dark eyes darted about with fright and
uncertainty. His manner of dress, a collared shirt and tan pants,
suggested a man who worked a white-collar job. Yet, in their current
state, caked with dirt and a bit of blood, he would not be
presentable in any office setting.
With
a long list of allegations, from petty to serious, Sinclair was in no
hurry to stop his own personal reign of murder and mayhem. In the
secrecy and isolation of the forest, he had made for himself, and his
other depraved hired hands, a sort of haven where the thrill of their
criminal acts could go undisturbed. To the rest of the men, except
those closest to him, he was but a petty drug dealer and a quick
paycheck. To those who knew him best, money was the least of
pleasures he indulged himself with.
Both
of the unfortunate man’s original captor’s had already discarded
their ski masks. One was a man of dark complexion that gave way to an
excitable expression. His clean-shaved head reflected what little
light hung above. The other sported far more hair, brown and ragged,
hanging down his head, almost over his eyes, leading to a rather
bushy beard that nearly obscured his mouth. His own expression was
that of stark contrast to his companion, cold and stoic, failing to
derive any joy that Sinclair felt from this particular event.
There
was an empty chair that lay opposite of the one Sinclair was seated
at. The young man’s forceful escorts practically threw him in,
causing the chair to lean back from the impact. With his hands and
legs still bound, he found it difficult to adjust to attain a
comfortable posture. Yet, comfort was the least of his worries as of
now.
Sinclair
unsheathed a pistol from his waist, a simple Glock. A high pitched
whistle escaped his lips as he carelessly waved the pistol about.
With his free hand, he struck the young man across the face, leaving
a red mark, and bringing his eyes to bear on his tormentor.
“Wakey
wakey.,” Sinclair sneered in a sniveling tone, the kind that could
wear sharp nails on a chalkboard, “I’ve got a favor to ask of you
little runt.”
The
young man let not a word escape his mouth. He could only glare back
at the man.
Sinclair’s
pistol hand struck next, leaving a gruesome black and blue mark on
the young man’s face. What little bravado he attempted to present
had been violently banished. He could only look away, as to not bring
shame to himself.
“I
don’t appreciate back talk,” sneered the serial antagonizer,
“Handsey, let’s see what he’s got.”
From
behind, the dark-skinned man emerged. In one deft motion, he had
swiped from the pockets of the young captive, his wallet. Handsey
began rifling through, flipping through several cards, credit,
business, insurance. A driver’s license, with the name “Peter”
was observed with some interest, before being promptly ignored. Upon
finishing his search, he let out a dissatisfied huff.
“Man’s
bone dry!” he exclaimed.
The
butt of the Glock was brought against Peter’s face once more. His
cheek had begun to swell, and he could feel just the faintest
trickling of blood dribbling down from his nose.
“Son
of a bitch!” Sinclair exclaimed, “You went cashless! What, didn’t
want psychos like me to get your hands on your money?”
The
man clicked his tongue while wagging a finger in front of Peter’s
face, in a manner evocative of a disappointed parent or teacher.
“White-collar
cunt alright.” he commented, “I kill white collar cunts you know?
Hey!”
Another
slap across the face, and Peter was beginning to perceive lights that
were of his own imagination. His head began to rock deliriously, as
the depths of unconsciousness threatened to creep in.
Peter
was kept awake courtesy of the cold barrel of Sinclair’s pistol
pressed into his chin.
“Kinda
fun introducing some excitement outside of your desk job, eh?” he
inquired, a question that could not have been less sincere with the
amount of venom it was laced with.
The
psychopath pulled away his weapon, allowing Peter’s chin to drop.
Matted hair hung down, obscuring his eyes that had begun to flutter.
A
steady, raspy voice escaped from the bearded man, “Hey boss, the
cards are locked, we’d have to make a phone call to use em.”
“All
these layers of security.” lamented Sinclair with a degree of
sarcasm, “Can’t they let an honest criminal do his work in
peace?”
A
chuckle escaped him, infecting his companions as well. One could
suspect, however, that their jovial gesture was done under duress.
“Of
course,” he continued, “I believe from what I’ve heard from
Oddie here, you’ve got a lady friend back at the ranch.”
On
cue, Handsy produced another article that he had raided from Peter’s
pockets. The dim incandescent light revealed a golden sheen, a ring
the criminal held proudly between two fingers. He gave a cheeky
smile, before pocketing the object. It appeared he did not pay much
attention to it, for the ring’s circumference would have rendered
it a loose fit upon even his grubby fingers.
Such
a gesture was enough to rouse Peter’s attention. While the night
was certainly chilly, upon viewing the ring, he felt his insides
freeze. His breath threatened to cease, and cold sweat began to tease
his fresh wounds.
“Ooh,
you had something special planned I see!” mocked Sinclair. A
poisonous smile began to form upon his lips. “Got a little bitch
back at the ranch eh? I guess we’re going to have to keep her
company.”
Laughter
erupted again, this time far more rowdy and jovial. A touch of
raunchy anticipation did not lighten the load on Peters conscience.
It
was Sinclair, however, who sealed any speculation, upon what he had
planned, “And of course, I don’t want you to feel left out. In
fact, I’ll give you a front row seat to the fucking show!”
…
The
tracks the truck left were still fresh. Night was still upon the
forest, but for once, there was illumination, provided by a
flashlight.
The
woman holding the flashlight was crouched over. A hand, pale, lacking
any sort of glamor, aside from callouses and dirt, traced the marks
left in the ground. There was a cool breeze brushing through the
trees, yet her red-black flannel jacket, and loose, navy denin jeans
kept her warm enough. A black beanie hugged her investigating head,
allowing a few streaks of messy red hair to fall over her face.
Stark
blue eyes remained transfixed upon the tracks, before they followed
them to the horizon. Both night, and the thickness of the forest
obscured further vision. She was hesitant to investigate, for the
creatures of the night could impede her way, as well as those who had
made an enemy out of her. Yet, she could sense time was of the
essence.
Her
contemplation was interrupted by a buzz. Clipped to a rough leather
belt was her cellphone, a blocky older model. She reached down to
retrieve it. Despite the clumsiness of such outdated designs, the
phone managed to fit within her hand comfortably.
As
she brought it to her ear, the sniveling voice of Sinclair snuck
through.
“This
Peter’s little lady?” the serial criminal asked with the
curiosity of a snake.
“Where
is he?” she growled, making no effort to hide her contempt.
“Oooh,
we’ve got ourselves a fighter! You see, your boyfriend here left
his wallet at our facility. It’s how I got your contact, Samantha.”
Samantha
tightened her grip on the phone upon hearing her name. The material
threatened to break from the pressure she was applying.
“If
you want me to deliver the goods, I’ll tell you where to find me.
And only bring yourself sweetheart, otherwise, I’m afraid I might
lose poor Peter in all the commotion.”
…
Sinclair’s
pace was rhythmic as he walked back and forth. A gloved hand was
twitching in clear anticipation. It was as a drug addict searching
for his next high. Yet, such men as Sinclair could be as clean as a
whistle, for murder was their aphrodisiac.
Peter
remained prone. His stature had relaxed, for his energy would be
needed. No new wounds marked him, but the young man would not count
on that. Sinclair gazed disappointingly at his relatively intact
form. It was something he would have to remedy.
“Gee, 300 years and not a single fuckin knock or doorbell.” he growled,
“Guess your bitch doesn’t care about you.”
The
accusation stirred Peter, and he gave his antagonize his most
contemptuous glare yet. All his hatred, however, only resulted in a
snide smile from Sinclair.
Sinclair
broke his pacing, making way towards Peter. His left hand produced
his pistol, which pointed lackadaisically around the room. A gloved
finger teased the trigger, threatening calamity every second.
“I
don’t know about you,” he began, crouching besides the young man,
while his gun hand steadied, “but I’ve got a feeling that you
don’t like me.”
“It’s
more than a feeling,” Peter responded, his voice quiet and
cautious. Dark eyes anxiously followed where the barrel of Sinclair’s
Glock was directed.
“Oh!
“ exclaimed Sinclair dangerously, “He can speak! Well tell you
what, you desk types don’t tend to like me very much.”
The
gun was brought to Peter’s head. Immediately did his eyes squeeze
shut, awaiting his fatal destiny. Yet, Sinclair held his fire, and
began slowly, methodically, lowering his weapon. The barrel, however,
remained trained upon Peter’s body, tracing down his neck, his
shoulder, his chest and onwards.
“And
as a matter of fact, because of that,” the criminal continued,
keeping steady his aim, “I don’t like you.”
By
the time he finished, the Glock was directed at Peter’s knee. It
was then that Sinclair pulled the trigger. A snappy pop, and a brief
flare sent the nine millimeter projectile through skin, muscle, then
bone.
Peter
howled in pain, witnessing sickening amounts of blood flow out from
the small hole in his pants. Both his hands and legs remained bound
to the chair. All he could do was shake and rattle as fresh pain
flowed freely through his body.
“Woah,
hey hey! Let me lend you a hand.” quipped his tormentor, as he
produced a knife in his opposite hand.
The
knife cut with ease through the bindings ensnaring Peter’s arms.
Such was the ease Sinclair commanded the weapon, it was quite clear
it was something he was most familiar with, even more so than the
gun, which was currently aimed at Peter’s now freed arm.
Before
there was a chance to act upon this newfound freedom, Sinclair’s
weapon fired off another round. The bullet tore its way through his
shoulder, only serving to amplify his yells of torment. Now free of
their restrictions, his arms flailed wildly, driven by painful
stimuli that failed to fade.
“Hey
shuttup!” instructed Sinclair, making his way to Peter’s front
“Who don’t you sit back and …”
He
kicked out, his foot making contact with Peter’s chair.
“Relax!”
The
chair fell back, carrying Peter along with it. He could only gasp in
surprise as the world tilted back. His bones rattled as he made
contact with the hard floor, compressing his lungs, and adding
agitation to his still fresh bullet wounds. Peter had begun to lose
orientation, feeling the world shifting ever so much. He caught
Sinclair, making his way towards him, but could barely focus on the
man.
With
barbaric ferocity, Peter’s tormentor stomped down, finally breaking
his nose. Pain blasted Peter’s face, pain that he simply did not
have the ability to become numb too. Again did Sinclair bring his
foot down, nearly crushing Peter’s trachea forcing him to cough up
blood.
Again
and again, Sinclair continued his beatdown, his face growing red with
unexplained fury. Perhaps to a deranged mind such as his, it was
easy to concoct a good reason for having such a vendetta. Or perhaps,
his fury was also part of the joy he took upon tormenting hopeless
souls.
By
the time Sinclair stopped, Peter’s face had transformed. Certain
areas were swollen, particularly his mouth. One eye could barely
open. His skin, far from his usual pale complexion, was now darkened,
either red from the stains of blood, or a deep blue from bruising.
“Ugh,
bet you’re too ugly for your little lady now. Don’t worry, we’ll
take good care of her.”
Peter’s
mouth could barely move, thanks to swollen flesh. Within him there
was a scream, desperate to escape.
End Notes:
As mentioned before, next chapter's where the action's at. It's partially finished, so hopefully I'll upload it soon.
Dead or Alive, he's coming with me by Divediveburners
Author's Notes:
It's been slow writing this one. Some days I could only do a paragraph at a time. Here's where all the action is. There's a good amount of gunplay, violence and death in this chapter, so be warned.
Night had begun to brighten. The sky had taken on a lighter shade.
Beyond the canopy of trees, the fain glow of sunlight peaked over the
horizon.
As
nocturnal creatures had begun to retreat, one stalked the forest.
Samantha’s gaze was as heavy as her gait. Rugged leather boots sunk
into fresh dirt, following alongside the trail of tire tracks.
There
was slight hesitation each instance she trod upon a dead branch, or
happened across a patch of noisy foliage. Her breathing would hasten,
and her eyes would dart to and fro, in search of a hidden ambush.
When it would become clear her anxieties were unfounded, the hunt for
Peter’s captors would resume.
While
she was the sole pursuer of these criminals, she was not alone. One
piece of assistance was currently swinging slightly across her chest,
held to her body by a shoulder strap. The double barreled shotgun was
not as heavy as the weight of worry upon Samantha’s shoulders, yet
it’s stopping power, judging from its sheer mass, was significant.
There was not a light yet that would reflect off the blued steel
barrels, nor catch some of the simple engravings etched upon them.
Its stock was of pure polished wood, that would have been a deep
cherry color. Yet now, in the early morning, the wood was as dark as
all the other trees from which it was made of.
A
belt of slugs hung across Samantha’s opposite shoulder. Each was
meant to fragment upon launch, scattering into a refined, yet brutal
spray of blunderbuss. In all, they did not weigh as heavily as the
shotgun, yet still, their mass contributed significantly.
The
last bit of assistance she had called upon was strapped upon her
side, attached to her waist. In a dark leather holster lay a
colt-style pistol, operating with a single action hammer.
It
was with these tools that she ventured into enemy territory. Samantha
had come across a clearing. Across the dull dawn sky, she could
perceive a monolithic structure, the silhouette of the warehouse. Her
breathing hastened, yet her pace became slow and deliberate. Her eyes
strained, searching for any sign of movement.
From
her pocket, she produced a scope, the kind that would fit atop most
hunting rifles. Within it she peered, making use of what little
natural light there was now available. It was apparent that the
clearing within this forest was man-made, for the terrain had been
paved over with concrete. Several crates lay outside, as well as an
old pickup truck, the one that matched the vehicle Peter’s captors
escaped with.
Samantha
continued to survey the area. She spotted an entrance to the
structure, a lift door that was currently open. That was when her
precautions became justified. Within the mouth of the entrance were
three guards, their pale faces the easiest to spot in the dark. Two
were conversing, while the third was surveying the area with a pair
of binoculars.
Spotting
a massive bush, she took cover behind. Her stomach twisted as she
heard the rustling of leaves and the breaking of twigs. She
determined her hiding spot should at least provide adequate cover,
though she had to bend her head forward, for even in her crouched
posture, she was barely taller than the bush.
Near
the entrance of the warehouse, Samantha’s maneuver did not go
unnoticed. The guard manning the binoculars had caught the slight
movement in the bushes. He focused intently upon it, yet, due to the
dim illumination of dawn, could not perceive anything, or anyone
else.
Putting
down his binoculars, he elbowed his nearby peers, who ceased their
conversation.
“Hey,
movement near the southeast,” he grunted.
“Probably
an animal.” the other dismissed, “There’s a lot of deer around
here.”
“Pretty
burly for an animal,” he argued, “It also could be a cop scoping
out the place.”
A
small smile appeared on his hood-covered face, as his fellow drew his
pistol. His bald, pale face was twisted into annoyed resignation.
Following the directions of his paranoid peer, he ventured out,
tediously confident of a false alarm.
His
approach slowed as he drew close to the bush. He could definitely
make out an unusual shape crouched behind. The bush itself was
massive, easily overtaking him in height. The silhouette within,
though barely visible, appeared humanoid. Grunting, he veered off to
the side, as if he had seen nothing.
However,
the guard did not make his way back to his peers. If he alerted them,
surely, there would be a chance their unknown adversary would escape,
and perhaps bring back company. If he attacked then, a clear shot,
and clean victory would not be guaranteed. The elements of deception
and surprise would have to suffice.
Once
he was sure to be out of the sneak’s line of sight, he made an
about face, venturing into the forest. Black leather boots barely
made any noise, as the treads expertly rolled over soft dirt. As he
made his approach from the other side, he could confirm that indeed,
someone was scoping out the place. Samantha’s crouched form was
clear as day.
A
small smile formed on his lips, for he realized he was dealing with a
young woman. Indeed, a far more appealing catch than what he was
expecting. As far as he could tell, her eyes were still oriented in
the direction of the warehouse.
His
pistol was trained on her. It was brought against her back. Samantha
did not move, and the guard wondered if she felt the barrel’s
deadly touch. Her flannel jacket was thick and burly, and far larger
than expected, even if it fit her rather nicely.
Still,
introductions were in order. Her attention and a complete
understanding of her current predicament was necessary. “Hey
gorgeous,” he began, “bit late for you to be snea-”
The
man’s tounge was caught in his throat, for he realized that
something was incredibly wrong. Despite her crouched posture, she
still appeared to be at least equal to, if not even greater than his
own height. As she slowly drew back, squatting instead of crouching,
it became clear just what he was dealing with. His head only came up
to her chest. If she were to stand to her full potential, he couldn’t
imagine even making it past her waist.
The
shock of such a revelation stole his breath, and froze him in place.
“Oh
dear God…”
Samantha
acted decisively. Her arm shot out, quicker than he expected. Her
reach also exceeded his expectations as well, as he had been slowly
backing away out of pure fright. A mammoth hand engulfed his pistol
hand, much like how an adult’s hand could completely entrap a
child’s. With no hesitation, Samantha applied pressure, even as the
guard began to apply pressure to the trigger of his pistol.
Yet,
her grip was overwhelming, not allowing for much movement. She
continued to squeeze, feeling the resistance of metal, and the
contracting of the guard’s hand as it attempted to compensate the
great force applied to it. Soon enough, there was not much resistance
his hand could provide.
A
sickly crackle emerged from her ensnaring hand, as limbs popped out
of their joint sockets, bones snapped, and metal bent. The man opened
his mouth to scream, yet was silenced by Samantha’s other massive
paw. And so, the guard was left with the torture of silent pain, as
his hand, and pistol were rendered to broken bent forms in the giant
girl’s fist, useless to all.
Samantha
let out a curse, lost in the cool early morning air, as she thrust
the guard’s head down wards. Her knee rose to meet him, bashing
against his temple. She could discern a small crack upon impact, as
all tension in his muscles dissipated.
Out
cold, the guard lay prone. Yet, all activity from him did not cease.
Samantha heard the crack of static emanating from the man’s waist.
At the most opportune time, his fellows were attempting to reach him.
A voice, covered with electric cackles spoke from the device.
“Hey,
hey, you found anything? Over?”
As
gruff as her voice could get, Samantha didn’t bother try imitating
the guy. Surely, they would know the difference.
All
she could do was exclaim in a hushed tone, “Shit, they’ll know
I’m here.”
The
voice out of the walkie talkie repeated, “Report back, over!”
All
presumption of subtly and stealth were thrown out the window. It was
time to go to war. Samantha had taken off into a sprint, her legs,
twice the length of an average man carrying her amazonian frame
towards the warehouse quickly. Her eyes darted across her field of
vision, before settling upon some crates nearest to her position
…
Sinclair
paced about rapidly, aware that his own little hideout was in high
alert. He knew not the threat that had caused this. Handsy and
Oddball had both rushed in, presumably to provide him with update.
“The
fuck’s going on?” he demanded, his harsh tone falling upon
relatively calm expressions, “the cops are storming the place?”
“They
got one of our guys.” Handsy reported, “I don’t see any sirens
though. Should we waste the hostage?”
The
psychopath looked back towards Peter. His bruises and cuts were still
fresh, while his faced remained puffed and distorted. The young man’s
head hung down, listless and motionless. Were it not for the slight
puff and contraction of his chest, he could have easily been mistaken
for dead. Perhaps in a few hours, he would be.
This
had crossed Sinclair’s mind. His pacing had stopped, for
contemplation weighed upon his mind. Yet, it did not take him long to
come to a decision.
“Sounds
like one troublemaker,” he dismissed, “Give ‘em a piece of our
mind, but keep him alive. I think our guest here needs some company.”
As
both his accomplices rushed out of the room, Sinclair paced about
again, much like a predator in wait.
…
The
crates Samantha had elected to hide behind were of sufficient height
as to not make crouching a requirement. She stood a head taller than
a single crate, yet there were two stacked. Her cover was racked by
gun fire, some semi-automatic, and other automatic. Samantha was sure
that should she try finding a different spot, her fate would be
sealed.
Her
head pressed against the crate. It was cold to the touch. Its coat of
paint had begun to flake. It vibrated, as if caught in an earthquake,
each tremor the result of bullet. While the cracks of gunfire filled
the morning air, Samantha could discern another set of sounds. She
heard the flurry of hurried footsteps. They were drawing close,
providing her with a hunch.
In
her hands, she gripped her double-barrel shotgun. A thumb pulled back
the hammer of the left barrel. Her finger stood ready at the trigger.
The patter of footsteps hastened, heading to her left. Meanwhile, the
rate of gunfire had slowed, perhaps as to not hit the man that was to
ambush her.
Her
breath steadied, as she readied her gun. She could here the paces of
the one to her left, about to turn the corner.
On
cue, a man, clad in a black jacket, and wielding a semi-automatic
rifle had popped into her view. Samantha could read the shock on his
face, as his neck craned to make eye contact with her. This
hesitation was a fatal mistake. She pulled the trigger to her
shotgun, the resulting gunfire evocative of a cannon going off,
rather than small arms.
The
massed blunderbuss tore through the man, sending shards of flesh, and
streams of blood out his back. The sheer force of Samantha’s
shotgun was too much for the man, and upon impact, he was lifted off
his feet, before tumbling down, meters away from where he stood. When
the guard came to rest, he was but a corpse, tattered and motionless.
Her
attacker dispatched, Samantha took the time to glance around the
corner. She could spot around three guards at the entrance. They
appeared motionless at the moment. Wasting no time, she advanced,
keeping her shotgun at the ready. A prone pickup truck, in even worse
shape than the one that carried off Peter, stood in parallel with the
entrance. The cover it provided would be less substantial than the
cargo crates, yet, Samantha had determined it would make an excellent
staging position for her to plan her next move.
She
could hear cracks of gunfire as she made her advance. Her posture was
hunched over, for her immense size gave her a rather large profile.
Yet, her legs were able to carry her at a swift velocity, certainly
far quicker than the average man could manage. In a few seconds, she
was seated, back against the truck, shielded from the hail of bullets
that assaulted the truck. So far, the vehicles steady metal frame
proved sufficient in absorbing ammunition, yet Samantha doubted she
would be allowed to remain there for long.
Footsteps
were heard once more, yet the gunfire persisted. Samantha could
discern a plurality of paces. Without even taking a peek, she could
tell the men at the entrance had begun to encroach upon her position.
Unlike her previous victim, their steps were more measured, slower.
Soon
enough, the crack of firearms had begun to slow. The three guards
were against the truck, no doubt readying a pincer attack. Two would
head one way, and one the other. Samantha would have to anticipate
where the one would go, so she could break the entrapment easiest.
However,
a stupidly simple idea had popped into her head. Were she not
clutching her mighty shotgun she would have brought a palm to her
forehead for not thinking of it earlier.
In
one movement, she stood at her full height, while also facing the
truck she had braced her back against. She briefly caught the rather
surprised faces of the men awaiting her on the other side. Before
they could bring their weapons to bear, Samantha kicked at the truck.
Her boot collided with the cabin, shattering the window in the
process, as well as bending the frame. The truck was sent sliding a
short distance, carrying the three guards along with it. Desperate
shouts of surprise could be heard from the men as they were unwilling
and unexpected passengers of the pickup.
Yet,
the pickup did not remain prone, it tipped back, looming over the
men. Their screams became blood-curdling, before the pickup fell, its
metallic bulk falling upon the three. A sickening crunch was heard,
silencing them for good.
With
a full view of the entrance, Samantha spotted a newcomer. Unlike his
now crushed peers, he did not possess a simple rifle. He was armed
with something that possessed a larger barrel. The barrel was fed
with a massive wheel, each round appeared as large as a fist.
A
grenade launcher.
Samantha
could not help but shout out, “Son of a bitch!” as she began
scurrying away. Though she still was a good distance away from the
door, she could tell the heavily-armed man was sporting a most
gleeful smile.
The
weapon was fired, its payload delivered with a soft thump instead of
an explosive crack as all other arms. A second later, the round
landed just behind the truck, sending orange flames and black smoke
spewing from the impact point. Samantha had managed to land a good
distance away, but was still hit by a concussive blast that knocked
her down.
Still,
she managed to roll over. As she did so, she pulled back the hammer
to her second barrel. Once landing on her stomach, she took aim at
the entrance. The man had been tracing her movement with the barrel
of the launcher. Another round had just popped into place.
Samantha
managed to squeeze off a shot just in time. Her buckshot exploded
forwards. Nearly thirty feet was she from the entrance, and yet, her
aim was true. The man was lifted off his feet, almost performing a
back flip, before landing in a lifeless heap within his own base.
On
her knees, Samantha pulled two more rounds from her shoulder sling.
The thick cylinders were loaded in the breech of her shotgun. The
blued steel was no longer cold to the touch as it had been earlier
than night. In fact, it was comfortably warm. As she snapped the
breech back, Samantha soldiered forth, her massive frame more akin to
an approaching storm.
The
entrance she now solicited had a ten foot clearance, requiring her to
bend down as to not hit her head. She breathed easier, having
survived the first engagement. Yet doing so, her guard was lowered.
Waiting
behind were two men, one to her right and one to her left. As she
passed through, the one to her right leapt up, brandishing a knife.
The other ducked down, heading for her legs.
Caught
by surprise, Samantha could only jerk back. Her shotgun could not be
brought to bear on her assailants, for they were far too close. She
stuck out a leg, bashing the man going from them in the head. He fell
back, still conscious, but clearly dazed.
Still,
with the other man on her shoulder, she had to keep moving. He kept
on her, yet could not steady himself so as to plunge his knife down
her neck. Samantha then swung to the side, sending his body jerking
and swaying. It was as if the man were riding a raging bull. Despite
gripping nothing but fabric, he could feel the muscles that lay
beneath, and the overwhelming strength that they could bring.
As
she continued moving, Samantha’s hands managed to get a grip on the
man’s legs. With a massive grunt, she bent over, throwing him to
the ground. The impact forced a burst of air out of his lungs, while
the trauma left him temporarily immobilized.
He
gazed listlessly upwards, before Samantha came into his view again.
She appeared to stretch forever, into the ceiling, although he
suffered a mere trick of perspective. The Amazon betrayed no words,
as she lifted her boot. He caught a brief glimpse of dirt-caked
treads, and smashed leaves. It was the last sight he ever beheld of
his life, as she stomped down. The sheer force and weight of her foot
and leg smashed the man’s face in, and caved his skull. What was
left was a bloody mess of mushy flesh, splattered blood, and bits of
bone.
She
turned back, observing the other man coming to. In two quick strides,
she made it to where he was. The man had been crouched down, trying
to shake off the last remnants of dizzyness. He was not given the
chance to as a massive hand took him by the collar. He was lifted up,
before being smashed into one of the walls.
His
eyes met those of his furious assailant. Her mouth was formed into a
gritted scowl. Her brow was furrowed along the ridges. Her eyes, blue
and clear, burned with explosive fury.
For
a second, he was held there. His feet hung a clear six feet off the
ground. The man flailed his arms against Samantha’s grip, to no
avail. Not a single ounce of her strength relented against him. As
his movements slowed, Samantha closed in. Her hot breath washed
against his face.
“Alright
you little scumbag, where are you holding him?” Her question was
spoken as if making a statement, not a query.
There
was a second of silence. The man allowed himself to smile, as he
asked most sheepishly, “Who?”
He
was pulled from the wall. There was no sign of strain from Samantha,
supporting the weight of a full grown man on her own with one arm.
The man was brought back violently against the wall, causing his head
to jerk forward far to quickly. Bright spots had begun filling his
vision. It did not take much for him to recall the sheer trauma this
woman could cause.
Samantha
had done away with any form of subtly. Her voice bellowed against the
wall, throughout the building, from the heights of the ceiling, to
the depths of the ground as she shouted, “Don’t waste my time!
You’ve got my boyfriend, where is he?”
The
man didn’t lose his smile. It was the sort of smile one had,
heading into a tornado. It was the sort of smile possessed by a lone
warrior, surrounded by ten thousand of the enemy. It was a smile that
dared death itself. It was due to this smile, that Samantha knew her
question was fruitless.
“Boyfriend?”
he began, attempting to sound as mocking as possible, “Just what
kind of freak is he-”
The
woman’s grip tightened around his neck. Her hand was almost too big
for the job. Only two fingers and a thumb could wrap around it, her
other fingers hand to be splayed across his shoulder.
Her
actions were instinctual, a pure reaction out of sheer rage. It was
not, by any means, accidental. Samantha was in no hurry to calm
herself down. As the man’s face became swollen, his mouth agape,
his eyes listless, and his body still, a sense of catharsis swept
through her. She suppressed a small grin of satisfaction, as she felt
his trachea crumble under immense pressure. This satisfaction only
increased in measure, as small cracks of vertebrae could be heard.
Soon
enough, the poor man could bear no more. His neck gave in, the bones
crumbled with a mighty crack. His head tilted listlessly to the side,
as if attached by string to the rest of his body. All movement
ceased, save for a few last jerks of neural activity.
A
critical eye inspected her latest victim, before she tossed his
corpse to the side. Her ears, now sharp from adrenaline, detected
additional movement. Readying her shotgun, she proved prepared as
another appeared around the corner of a massive crate, further in the
building. He was only in view for the blink of an eye, before he too
fell to a round of buckshot.
She
did not face a lone challenger, however. Three more scurried behind
him. Their weapons were at the ready. The red head knew she would not
get enough time to challenge them in a gunfight, and thus, sprinted
towards the crate, obscuring them from view. Unlike those outside,
the crate’s here were easily the size of a small condo. Samantha
even wondered if the object she hid behind was cargo, or simply an
entrance to another room.
Nevertheless,
at such proximity, she would quickly get overwhelmed easily if she
wasn’t careful. The worst case scenario would be to get surrounded.
Judging from the tactics her enemies had employed earlier, they
appeared to be aiming for such an advantage, and would no doubt move
to do so the next time she came into view.
With
a sigh, she looked upwards. A hand fell to her waist, and she
released the holster to her sidearm.
The
other three remained still, their weapons at the ready. Two carried
pistols, and were right up against the crate, while one hung further
back, armed with a rifle. The man back motioned for the other two to
move, and they began to slink around the crate.
A
series of metallic poundings stopped them in their tracks. The crate
was vibrating, and for sure, their oversized adversary was on the
move. Yet, the stomps echoed around the warehouse, making it
difficult to pinpoint which direction she had taken. The man back
swung his head towards each direction.
Yet,
neither direction would do him any good, for Samantha had climbed
atop the crate, and raced across it. Each step left a dent in the
material. In a few seconds, she had made it across, in full view of
her enemy. With no hesitation, she took a leap.
The
man with the rifle had spotted her out of the corner of his eye.
However, by the time he had realized what he saw, Samantha was
already in flight. Her twelve foot frame flew far, propelled by her
mighty legs. By the time he brought his rifle to bear, she was
already on top of him.
Gravity
did the rest of the work. As she came down, the man was thrown down
on his back, subject to her full weight. One of her boots came to
rest on his wrist, completely annihilating it. He would have
screamed, were it not for the fact that Samantha’s other foot came
down upon his chest, absolutely shattering his ribcage. All that
would exit his mouth would be a gush of blood and bile.
By
the time she had landed, and incapacitated the first man, did the
other two turn around. One raised his pistol, while the other began
scurrying to the side. Samantha too, raised her weapon. There was a
shot, a single small crack. The projectile met its mark. Etching a
deep dent into blue steel. Samantha felt her shotgun flail. Throwing
off her aim. The shock from the impact had managed to make her lose
her grip on her weapon.
The
man smiled, his gun still trained on the amazon. He raised his
eyebrows, while shaking his gun. Samantha saw his grip relax upon the
handle of his weapon.
Her
action was instantaneous. In one quick motion, she brought her Colt
up, and fired off a single shot. Such was the speed of her counter,
her arm was nearly rendered invisible. Her aim was true, she had hit
the man, directly in the face. The powerful round, fired from perhaps
the most powerful handgun in the world, blew his head clean off.
From
her side, she heard a curse. Samantha instinctively rolled out of the
way, as two quick shots were unloaded from the last remaining man.
Reorienting herself, she readied her pistol, yet, was pointing at
empty space, where earlier, a man had stood. Her eyes darted about,
yet she could not find where the man had run off to.
There
was a roar of an engine. Samantha felt her breathing stop. She heard
the rolling of tires, and the lumbering of metal. The illumination of
the warehouse was adequate, considering the dark sky outside,
allowing Samantha to pinpoint exactly where the mechanical noise had
come from.
The
last runaway had found himself a heavy forklift. It lumbered into
view, as its driver lay safely behind a blocky canopy. The engine of
this mighty beast lay in a metallic square container. Its tires were
tall, with massive treads that could accommodate boot tracks.
With
a roar, the forklift charged forward, at a velocity almost impossible
for its size. Samantha realized too late, within the cluttered
warehouse, that she had little room to maneuver. She raised her colt,
and fired two times. Her first bullet was caught by glass. The second
one managed to break through, but missed her intended target.
She
would not be able to fire a third. The forklift’s driver let out a
psychotic yell, as he crashed into the immense woman. Samantha’s
strength would not save her this time, as she was carried back, back
towards the crate she had hid behind.
In
short order, her back made contact with the crate. Samantha felt the
wind fly out of her from the force of impact. A searing pain shot
through her chest, as the vehicle’s weight was brought against her
massive frame. The forklift stood slightly taller than her, yet has
she braced her arms against it, her struggles proved a net loss as
the vehicle continued to advance.
Samantha
felt her biceps strain, and her knees buckle. She looked her enemy in
the eyes, watching him wildly stick out his tongue, and holler like a
hooligan in presumed victory, as he vigorously pressed on the
accelerator. Strain that took her muscles, leaked into her bones. It
appeared for the first time that night, it would be her’s that
would be broken.
“I’m
dining on giant bitch soup tonight!” she heard, hollered within the
shattered windshield.
With
a glare, Samantha release one of her arms, as she continued to brace
her knees against the vehicles advance. She was currently straddled
between the fork, and the crate. Only sheer constitution kept her
from becoming a bloody pancake.
Yet,
her next movements were swift. Her free arm reached through the
canopy. Her grip found the man’s chest, and before her could react,
he was pulled out.
He
flew, bashing his head against the crate he intended to smash his
enemy against. The blow sent him crumpling to the ground in a dazed
heap.
With
the man’s efforts off of the accelerator, the advance of the
forklift slowed, allowing Samantha to pry herself free. With a mighty
kick, she forced the heavy machine back, before it rolled to a stop.
A
loud exhale relaxed the towering woman’s posture. Her boots heavily
thudded against the floor as she approached the prone form of the man
who had nearly been the death of her. He lay face down. Aside from an
oscillating movement of his back, he lay completely still.
He
was brought to life once more as Samantha grabbed him from the
collar, lifting him up so that his eyes were even to hers. Again, he
was slammed into the crate. Feeling the strength of her grip, he made
no effort to resist. His eyes nervously twitched, relenting under her
hostile glare.
“I
hope you’re not as smart as the other guy.” Samantha began,
“Where are you holding your hostage?”
The
man shook his head, “None of your business.”
“If
you don’t squeal,” she threatened, tightening her grip, “I’ll
break you so you will!”
A
steely resolve, absent moments earlier, manifested within the man’s
eyes, “Try me!”
Samantha’s
bulky arm retracted, but her grip upon him did not relent. Her other
arm, once hanging down the side, was brought against the man’s
back. He was entrapped against her, his face in her chest, but there
was no trace of tenderness with her gesture. Both arms wrapped around
his torso, and beneath the heavy fabric of her flannel jacket, he
could feel heavy muscle that lurked within.
She
wasted no time increasing the pressure. The man’s spine began to
bend back. He grit his teeth, for the strain upon his back began to
become apparent. The woman’s chest, despite it being obscured by
her articles of clothing, was rather large, it took him the utmost
strain to peer up into her eyes. As always, her glare was
unrelenting, full of disgust and hatred. If she could kill with a
look, he would already be dead.
Finally,
his head was brought away from her immense body, but not of his own
will. Such was the strain on his spine, that his back had begun to
bend back all the way. He let out a scream, but moved to stifle it.
It was necessary to bite down on his tongue, sending a trickle of
salty blood down his throat. He could not stifle the pain, not as it
reached its apex.
There
was a mighty crack, deeper and more substantial than any gunshot. The
man’s view was turned upon its head, as he had now bent all the way
back, his spine snapped in two. A blood-curdling scream escaped his
throat, and there was nothing he could do to stifle it. Samantha’s
arms release him, allowing him to collapse in a broken heap upon the
concrete floor.
The
amazon brought a heavy boot upon his chest, the weight restricting
his breathing. As she leaned down, with the same tone, she repeated
her demand, “Mind telling me now? Or do you want to start lookin’
for amputee insurance, because I’m ready to start pullin limbs!”
Pain
had broken what resolve, if any, he possessed. Words could not escape
his mouth, yet his arms could still move. A finger directed
Samantha’s eyes to the far side of the warehouse, to a lift that
led to a balcony.
She
took her foot off of the man’s chest. “That’s more like it!”
she exclaimed.
Bringing
her shotgun to her chest, Samantha noted the dented barrel, and
cursed her carelessness. She couldn’t trust the weapon’s
operation,.Yet her colt, despite it being loaded with only five
rounds instead of six, was still operational, and still possessed
ammunition.
End Notes:
I don't know how many were waiting for an update, but I do hope your patience was rewarded. There's going to be another chapter after this one, the finale of sorts. I may write an epilogue, time permitting.
Buddy, I think you're slime by Divediveburners
Author's Notes:
Finally, the finale to the action. I'm counting this story as complete, it's my first multi-chapter work, but I might add on an Epilogue if I'm so encouraged. If I do so, the Epilogue will just be some smutty gentle scene, because that's probably the best way to end such a violent tale.
No gunplay in this one, but lot's of gore.
The lift was a small metal slab. A good coating of rust lined many of
the gears and chains that allowed for it to operate. From what
Samantha could observe, there were no guard rails, either they were
absent in the original design, or they had weathered away.
A
dusty control panel lay against the wall. There was a sign right
above, labeling clearly, a warning about a weight limit. Samantha’s
nose scrunched as her eyes rested upon the bold words.
Moment’s
later, Samantha was scaling the wall, finding that the rough,
dilapidated surface provided many convenient handholds and places to
rest her foot.
Unlike
the lift, the balcony above possessed a guard rail. In better days,
it would have been painted a dark green. In the present, however,
most of that paint had been chipped away, and gave way to scraggly
rust. Samantha winced as she took hold of the guard rail, feeling the
metal bend under her unrelenting grip.
There
was a massive pang of pain that shot through her hand. She was forced
to release her grip, now hanging precariously to the guard rail with
her other hand. A heavy wrench had been brought down , courtesy of
Oddball. His bearded face portrayed satisfaction, as he brought his
makeshift weapon back for another swing.
As
the wrench was brought down once more, Samantha managed to shift to
the side, finding another area to grip the guard rail, as her
targeted hand was released. The wrench hit nothing but metal, denting
and cracking it. The entire structure had become unstable, thanks to
the amazon’s formidable weight. Oddball’s strikes did not have to
hit true for him to force her off.
Yet,
Oddball was not one for waiting. He had discarded the wrench, and had
brought his hands to his waist, reaching for his sidearm. With no
time to waist, Samantha hoisted herself over the guardrail, causing
an entire section to bend back. Her body rolled over the frail metal,
threatening structural integrity.
By
the time she had breached the balcony, Oddball had brought his pistol
to bear. His finger was upon the trigger, and the barrel was oriented
towards Samantha’s massive frame.
The
red-haired girl wasted no time, using her long legs to sprint towards
her attacker. He was but one pace away. Not once did she break
stride, even as it appeared inevitable that she would be taking a
shot. One her her knees crashed into the man, sending his gun flying
out of his hand. A shot was squeezed off, sending the bullet
careening off towards the ceiling.
Meanwhile,
Oddball himself was careening through the air, taking the full brunt
of the girl’s momentum. He was stopped by a wall, the impact
sending traumatic shocks throughout every fiber of his body. Briefly
was he paralyzed, and made no effort to raise his hands to break his
inevitable collapse upon the floor.
As
he came to, Samantha stood above him. She grabbed the collar of his
jacket, lifting the entirety of his body from the floor. With a grunt
she threw him. He was carried over the railing, down to the floor
below. He impacted head first, snapping his neck as the rest of his
body followed him.
The
air lay still. For once, the amazon could not hear the shuffle of
feet, or the shouting of voices. None other approached to challenge
her.
A
moment passed, a moment which Samantha spent looking all around,
attempting to spot snipers or other concealed ambushes. Her blue eyes
could not spot anything concerning, but that in of itself was a
concern.
Her
sight came to rest upon a closed door. There was a small window that
allowed limited visibility within, but all that could be perceived
was the warm glow of incandescent light. Samantha carefully
approached it, pulling out her Colt. Taking a hold of the handle,
something which was completely swallowed by her hand, she pulled down
carefully, finding the door to be unlocked.
Samantha
had to crouch down to mind her head, while the width of the doorway
left little room for maneuver. She felt her grip tighten upon the
handle of her Colt, for her position was incredibly vulnerable. There
would be sparse maneuvering should another adversary rush her, even
her gun’s aim would be compromised.
Thankfully
no such attack transpired, and Samantha managed to make it through.
The room she had entered possessed a notably low ceiling, nothing
troublesome for an average man of six foot. Samantha’s twelve foot
frame, however, made it necessary for her to hunch over as to not
smack her head against the ceiling.
Her
pace remained slow and methodical. From left to right, her eyes
veered. At her hip, her gun rested, the barrel already directed to
her front, ready to smoke any assailant that dared cross her. It
would not be long before she would encounter someone else.
He
was seated in the center of a clearing. Two long tables flanked him,
filled with all manner of objects, including guns, knives, wallets
and a rather sizable golden ring.
The
man was slumped over, his curly matted hair falling over his swollen
face. Darkened, dried blood stuck to his skin like a sickly motley
body suit.
As
she peered down her beloved’s broken body, a metallic sheen caught
her eye. To her surprise, it was held by a hand, a hand that did not
belong to Peter. She followed the arm to its owner, who stood behind
Peter. The face of Handsy was pulled into a sickening smile, as he
felt the eyes of the amazon fall upon him.
Throughout
her campaign in the warehouse, Samantha dealt with those who opposed
her with nothing more than sheer loathing and contempt. But now, she
could not hide her trembling lips, her widened eyes, and skin which
had grown paler than the moon itself.
“Oh
man, a genuine supersized broad!” commented the man most jovially,
“The things you find in the forest these days!”
Samantha
felt her foot lurch forward. At this, Handsey’s free hand rose,
stopping her in her tracks.
“Ah
ah ah,” he warned, clicking his tongue, “I’m assuming the man’s
something special to you. Come any closer and my hand just might
slip. Don’t blame me, it’s a condition.”
“What’s
the condition?” Samantha inquired, her voice now meek, and quiet.
Handsey’s
outburst was immediate. The amazon could only wince, for she feared
the worst.
“Hey!
That’s a sensitive subject!” he bellowed. Yet, he did not allow
the knife to move, neither to slit his captive’s throat, nor to
relieve him.
“For
him!” Samantha clarified, as desperation clung to her, “What’s
your condition to release him?”
Handsey
tilted his head, “What are you talking about?”
Samantha’s
eyes darted about in a frenzy. She felt her breathing quicken to an
almost dizzying pace. “You captured him for a reason right? You
want money, weapons, a thank you note? I’ll do anything, just give
him back to me!”
An
eyebrow rose upon the dark-skinned man, “Anything you say?”
Samantha
felt movement behind her, yet she did not turn to satisfy her
curiosity.
“Watch
your words, ‘cause we’ll hold you to them.”
She
immediately felt weight on her back. Another had leapt upon her,
wrapping one arm around her neck. Such an action didn’t choke her,
but it allowed him to maintain his grip. Samantha’s nose was
immediately assaulted with a pungent smell, something she had never
experienced. It emanated from a cloth her assailant forced over her
nose.
Immediately
did conciousness leave her. Her legs lost their tension, and her arms
fell to the side, allowing her Colt to slip through her fingers.
Samantha fell forward, landing with a heavy thud upon the cold floor,
motionless.
As
she landed, did the slimy form of Sinclair roll off. He stood
immediately, throwing his hands out, as if he had performed a magic
trick.
“Tada!”
he shouted gleefully, much to the laughing delight of his last
remaining peer.
Handsey
removed the knife from Peter’s neck, rushing over to his boss’s
side. It was difficult for him to hide his gleeful smile. Dark eyes,
however, lay host to ill-intent, as he gazed upon the massive,
unconscious form of Samantha’s body.
“You
want the honors?” Sinclair offered, raising a thin eyebrow.
“Oh
yeah,” exclaimed his underling, rubbing his hands together, “I’ve
been waiting for some meat. Mmnh!”
Both
men assigned themselves the task of moving Samantha, a monstrous
undertaking. Sinclair had gripped her from her arms, while Handsey
was at her feet. The combined strength of both men could not lift her
off the floor, but they managed to drag her body closer to Peter,
providing him a full, unobstructed view of what was to transpire
next.
Sinclair
flashed a sadistic smile towards the young man, who could not take
this eyes off of Samantha. Her eyes were shut, and betrayed no signs
of stirring. The only movement she made was in her chest, involuntary
breathing that indicated life, as well as the will to live.
“Want
to make sure you’ve got the best seat in the house!” the
psychopath exclaimed, “I promised you a show didn’t I?”
A
pained moan escaped Peter’s lips. His eyes, gazing through swollen
flesh were beginning to water, while his blood stained mouth had
begun to tighten.
“Haha!
The bastard’s excited!” Sinclair continued, before turning to
Hansey, who was currently fiddling with Samantha’s belt, “We
don’t have all day!”
Already,
Handsey had discarded her boots. They weighed almost as much as
boulders, and were caked with dirt and blood. Pulling off the belt
was akin to starting a massive generator. The leather material was
rough and worn. In many ways, it was a patchwork of materials
designed to be bigger than it was originally designed.
After
he thew aside the belt, Handsey allowed his tongue to slip between
his lips as he undid the button to Samantha’s jeans. Eager fingers
gripped the waistline, both to her pants, and upon the band of
underwear he felt beneath. His breath grew heavy as he pulled,
revealing bare skin, and a heavy forest of hair that matched the
drapes.
Sinclair
meanwhile had undone Samantha’s jacket, tossing away such an
article that could have been used as a small tarp. Underneath, the
girl only wore a tank top, showing off arms and shoulders made toned
and substantial through significant work. He could even trace sparse
bulges of vein from arm, to wrist, then to hand.
The
psychopath worked with less visible enjoyment than Handsey who had
taken his sweet time at shimmying off the denim material from equally
tested legs.
Sinclair’s
hand took hold of the bottom of the tank top. As he pulled up her
body, he revealed chiseled abdominal that could have evoked envy from
classical statues. Material was pulled past Samantha’s significant
bosoms, full, taut and bare for all to see.
Such
violation of his lover only brought more torture to Peter. It was
painful than any gunshot, or strike that had been inflicted. Peter
tried to fix his gaze upon Samantha’s face, hoping this would be
the only thing left unravaged. It was then that he caught the
slightest movement of her eyelash, a flutter in a windless night.
“Damn,
I could make a tent out of these!” squealed Handsey, as he finally
managed to pull the last thread of denim off Samantha’s feet.
Sinclair
had made it to behind Peter. Both hands clutched his head, ruffling
matted hair, two fingers each held the young man’s eyes open.
“You’re pitching a tent!” Sinclair goaded, “C’mon, we want
some action!”
Handsey
could only roll his eyes. “Relax, I’ll let you have your turn.
I’m ready to plow me some virgin soil!”
There
was slight movement at Samantha’s neck. Her head was absolutely
clouded, and each limb of her’s felt weighed down with the force of
1000 tonnes. She could only gaze towards Peter, his head trapped in
Clockwork Orange hands. Her legs felt slightly elevated, and she felt
the shoulders of the one who made his way towards her.
Handsey
was visible struggling to further lift Samantha’s legs, yet the
weight proved too much. He let the massive logs of flesh fall to his
side, allowing them to straddle his waist. His own pants were
dropped, and left nothing to the imagination as to what he intended
next. A much smaller, yet rather stiff, rod of flesh made way to the
opening ahead.
The
muscles in Samantha’s legs flexed. Handsey was stopped in his
tracks. His hands clasped upon her legs, attempting to jar himself
free. His efforts were punctuated by desperate grunts, and his face
twisted from the strain, yet they were to no avail.
Sinclair’s
jovial expression had ceased, and was replaced by one of confusion.
He glared hard at Handsey, who had redoubled his efforts, futily
flailing against his victim’s grip. Grunts of effort became
strained, and then were laced with pain, as the lock around Handsey’s
waist tightened.
“Help
me!” Handsey cried, in clear agony, “Help!”
“What’s
wrong?” Sinclair asked.
“She’s
...” his underling’s voice was breathless. His efforts to free
himself had devolved into instinctual flails, “She’s got…”
Sinclair’s
eyes veered to the girl’s face. He could perceive the blue past
heavy eyelids. It did not take long for him to grasp the
implications. His hand’s released Peter as he reached for his gun.
“Son
of a bitc…”
He
was cut off, for Peter had suddenly pushed back, slamming his injured
body, as well as his chair, into Sinclair. The criminal’s gun was
knocked from his grip, sliding out of reach.
With
a quick move, Peter’s good hand fell upon Sinclair’s ankle,
preventing him from getting up. The man kicked at Peter with his free
leg, bashing his swollen face, reopening old wounds. Despite this,
Peter’s grip did not relent.
Upon
seeing her boyfriend struck, Samantha felt her rage rekindle.
She
pressed her thighs together, feeling Handsey’s bones strain and
buckle. The man’s grunts had turned into screams. The amazon had
mustered enough strength to where she could lift her legs off the
ground, carrying her assailant along. The crunch of pelvic bones
began making its way to her ears, causing her to push even harder.
“Oh
God!” Handsey yelled, as bones began to crumble, “Oh God! Help
me! Ahhhh!”
With
a mighty crunch, Handsey’s waist had been crushed. A stream of
blood was ejected from his mouth, spilling upon Samantha’s chest.
With a final push, the man-sized gap between her thighs closed. His
head, and torso fell forward, leaving a crushed pelvis and still lets
behind. The bisection was red and messy, no organ, nor muscle nor
bone could be discerned from the dark shredded mess.
Upon
the death of his peer, Sinclair finally managed to wrest Peter off of
him. From his pocket, he produced a knife.
“I should have just wasted you from the beginning!” he growled, his
eyes red with rage.
He
stood to his full height, knife in hand, readying to spill blood from
the whelps neck. It was there he would remain, knife in the air,
paralyzed in realization. In his fury, he had neglected a crucial
detail.
Samantha
was on her feet. Blood stained her chest, forming a morbid veil of
modesty that obscured her breasts. She did not bother retrieving her
pants, nor her jacket. Heavy breath was heaved from her mouth. Her
eyes, once sent to rest with the power of chloroform, were now open,
and brimming with unrelenting fury. Strings of red hair hung in a
haunting curtain in front of her face. She was as beautiful and
terrible as the dawn sun, that had peaked over the horizon.
Sinclair
did not see this. He did not need to. His scowl had vanished, and had
been replaced with a smile. It was the smile of a lone outlaw,
charging into a doomed crusade. It was with the twisted bravado of a
serial killer that he turned around and charged.
His
knife rose, readying to strike. It’s blade would not even meet a
millimeter of flesh.
Samantha
had grabbed the charging man by the head. Her hand absolutely
engulfed him, obscuring his eyes and nose, leaving his mouth to gasp
desperate breaths.
Sinclair
was lifted up, his weight insignificant to the amazon. Her muscles
didn’t even need to bulge. The criminal’s legs flailed, while his
body twisted and turned. Nothing would free him.
Samantha’s
finger’s dug into flesh, as she tightened her grip. Her teeth
gritted and her brow furrowed. All her contempt, all her disgust
flowed into her veins, coursing through the arm, the hand that held
Sinclair. From the moment she heard his voice upon her cell phone,
revealing him the culprit of her worst nightmare, her goal was this
moment.
The
pressure increased, until it was too much. Like a piece of fruit in a
press, Sinclair’s head exploded, spraying blood and brain matter in
an expansive radius. His skull had been absolutely annihilated,
soaked in the liquefied material of the organ it had been evolved to
protect. Samantha did not care to linger upon her latest kill, and
unceremoniously dropped what remained of Sinclair.
Slowly,
her gaze rose, veering to Peter, lying prone, soaking in what he had
witnessed. Samantha moved towards him like a blood stained specter,
her footfalls soft, yet heavy. It was such a frightful sight that he
instinctively began moving away from her.
A
small gasp escaped her lips. In a moment, Samantha’s rage cleared,
and her eyes focused, drawn to Peter’s broken, cowering form.
“Peter…
“ she begged, her voice now soft and wavering, “Peter please, I’m
not gonna hurt you.”
Peter
could only witness her form towering over him. From her feet to her
sinewy legs, her sculpted abdominal and shapely bosom’s, Samantha
appeared taller than she was, if that were even possible. She
appeared to stretch forever into the ceiling. It was only until he
gaze upon her face, that he was brought to his senses.
Samantha
knelt down. Her hand was extended, making it’s way to Peter’s
cheek. Her massive palm caressed his cheek, running over various
wounds that Sinclair had inflicted. Her other hand found it’s way
around his waist.
Before
he knew it, he was pulled into a hug. The sensation consumed him, of
his wife’s flesh against his dirty, bloody clothes. His face buried
into her shoulder, sinking into soft flesh and taut muscle.
Samantha’s
eyes peered about the room once more. Her eyes settled upon the ring
she had seen earlier, the ring far too large for any ordinary finger.
As one of her hands tenderly moved across Peter’s back, she bend
her head down, her lips breathing against his ear.
“That
ring, when were you going to ask?”
Peter
strained his neck, bringing his face away from her flesh. Gazing into
her eyes, he answered, “I was gonna ask you … today.”
A
warm smile spread across her lips. They were then brought to Peter’s
forhead, tracing over matted hair, cracked blood, and swollen flesh.
There they remained, as Samantha cooed, “I think you know the
answer.”
It
was then, and only then, that Peter found within him, the reason to
cry.
….
“We’ve
spotted several shells and id a couple of the bullets that impacted.
Massive slugs were used, and the bullets were 50 cal, likely fired
from a pistol. We only know of one person in the area packing that
kind of firepower.”
The
uniformed man held a casing high above. The sun had clearly shown
through the windows of the ware house, and reflected off the metallic
material.
An
older, uniformed man, clearly distinguished, shook his head. He gazed
upon the corpses left, tattered and torn.
“What
a damn mess.” he exclaimed.
“This
is a clear case if vigilantism.” his fellow proposed, his voice
laced with caution, “Shall we proceed?”
The
older man gave him an incredulous look, as if he suggested that he
was wearing a bikini.
“Proceed?
Son, the only thing we can take from here is a lesson.”
“A
lesson?” the officer questioned, “In what?”
Echoes
of a rougher, nobler age flowed forth, on behalf of the officer of greater experience.
“If
you take what isn’t yours, you get what you fuckin’ deserve.”
Without
another word, the agents of the law departed, their purpose satisfied.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.