Way station by Martin Kane Here there be cowboys. Author's note: Should anyone out there wish to get in contact with me, I happily invite you to do so, via the messageboard for readers and writers. I welcome any comments. I only refrain from leaving my e-mail address here and now due to previous problems encountered with spam, worms and virus. Copyright is mine. If you do wish to use this tale elsewhere I ask you to please seek permission first. Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters contained herewith are merely the products of an overwrought imagination, not to mention an unfortunate quantity of truly bad B-movies. As for the adult content warning... what else would you be expecting? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Kelly was sitting at the table, waiting for the others to arrive. It was a typical country place, bad western tunes on the jukebox, cowboys propping up the bar. The smell of steak and chilli floated from the kitchens and reminded her that the last time she had eaten was far too long ago. She walked up to the bar, ordered up another beer and glanced across the menu, hand written on the chalkboard. They were supposed to be conserving money but she was hardly in the best of moods and playing the pauper wasn't going to improve it much. If it came to it, there were always ways to subsidise their income, though it meant blowing the low profile they also valued. 'And I'll have a steak, peppercorn sauce.' 'Sure thing honey,' the young guy behind the bar agreed. 'How you wanting that?' 'Rare.' As she returned to her seat, beer bottle in hand, the table nearby moved, heads turning to follow her progress back to her own seat. What was it about small town places like this? There was going to be trouble here, she could just feel it. Well, if that's what they wanted, she was willing and more than capable of playing ball. She was dressed in leather, as was her habit. She loved the feel of it, tough and yet soft against her flesh. She loved the smell and the look of it. She felt it gave her a mean and dangerous appearance, something to even out the overt sweetness of her naturally pretty features. It was hard to look cruel and intimidating when you reminded a guy of his high school sweetheart. That's when muscles came in handy. People didn't associate ripped biceps or rolling shoulders with sweetness or demure and delicate charms. But she hadn't taken her jacket off and didn't intend to. Low profile. However, the leggings were tight enough to reveal powerful thighs. Her jacket was heavy and bulky, covering the true size or taper of her upper body. It was unzipped enough to show the leather beneath, a vest-style waistcoat, black and shiny. This too was tight against her body and the protrusion of her chest was clearly defined, round and fair sized for one with a careful eye on her bodyfat. 'Evening Ma'am.' This from one of the cowboys. A grizzled and not unattractive man dressed like a denim devil, skin tough as leather. She ignored him, not wanting to provoke him in any way. There were two people with him, a woman and another cowboy. The woman acted like a girlfriend, clingy and jealous of his attentions. She sat and drank her beer, moving her back quite deliberately and obviously to the table. She hoped they'd pick up on such subtleties but doubted it. Where are they? she wondered to herself. The three of them were supposed to meet here, in this town, in this very bar. Early evening they had agreed but it was already dark out. Kelly didn't want to have to continue travelling through the night but liked the idea of stopping in town for the night even less. Even with her back to the table, she could feel three pairs of eyes boring into her. Two in lust and one in spite. She ignored it, despite how uncomfortable it made her and focused her attention on the rest of the patrons here. A pair of old guys in the corner. No trouble there unless anything began. A group of kids at the far end being loud and obnoxious, but generally keeping to themselves. If anything started then there was a danger they'd want to get involved. Problem with kids was that they felt like they had something to prove. She'd seen it time and again. Other than that it was just the table behind her and three guys sitting along the bar. More cowboys. It was these five men and one woman that she knew to be weary of. The rest of the bar's patrons, coming and going here and there, were totally irrelevant to her. They posed no potential threat or interest. The kid brought her steak over. It smelt fantastic, setting her mouth watering the second she caught that distinctive aroma. He smiled at her. 'Enjoy your meal,' he said. She watched him walking away, the food forgotten for a few delicious moments, in favour of other hungers. He was sweet. Then she ate, forgetting all else. The steak went down easily. She finished and settled back in her seat, sipping lightly at her beer. Deciding to check on the table behind her, she wiped the steak knife clean and used its reflective surface to discreetly sweep the area behind her. The three at the nearby table were drinking, talking in low voices. Both guys threw her looks here and there, the sinister slant of a lust tinged with viciousness all too evident on already ugly expressions. She'd seen it before. In fact, she'd deliberately provoked it often enough, either out of her own twisted desires or pure boredom. But she didn't want trouble here and now. She was just passing through, trying to keep her head down. Where the hell were Jet and Tara? She headed back over to the bar. The kid who'd served her previously wasn't there, probably busy in the kitchen. A middle-aged man approached her instead. He too looked typical of small town, hick country folk. He brushed straw like hair from his eyes and offered a salacious grin. 'Well hello there sweetie,' he said, as though this were the first time he'd noticed her. 'What can I get ya?' 'Another,' she said, putting her empty bottle in front of him. 'And have you got a phone in here?' 'Fraid not, but there's one on the street, just outside.' 'I'll get that for the Lady,' a voice offered from behind her. She'd heard him step up, heavy footfalls. The cowboy from the nearby table. She knew which one too, the other one was wearing spurs. 'Thanks,' she said sweetly, smiling at the barman and placing the dollar bills down in front of him. Then, dropping all sweetness, staring down the cowboy. 'I buy my own drinks and drink them alone in the peace and solitude of my own table.' Then pushed past him and away. Her shoulder barged him aside as she strode past, hopefully putting the message across a little more forcefully. If nothing else, it showed him that physically she wasn't the feeble pushover he might have anticipated either, woman or not; when she struck him, he staggered back at the impact. She put her refill on the table, decisively marking her territory, then headed outside to find the phone. If there was anyone at her table when she returned then there would be hell to pay, low profile be damned. She found the phone, crooked the receiver into her shoulder while fumbling in her pockets. She pulled out a scrap of paper and a handful of quarters. She began feeding them into the slot. Tara carried a cellphone, a hangover from her businesswoman days, before she took to the road with Kelly and Jet. The reception was poor however, especially out here in the desert end of Middle America. She felt little surprise when she failed to get through. She just hung up, repocketed the handful of coins and turned back to the bar. What surprised Kelly was not the fact that the woman had come to confront her, but the fact that she hadn't heard her step up. She'd got close and Kelly had been none the wiser, for one who prided herself on supposedly remaining on guard, it was a bad sign. The cowgirl was in her mid twenties, bottled blonde and dressed in a semi-slutty, fashion chic. The cruel jut of her chin only added to her trashy appearance. She was jowly which detracted from any natural prettiness she may have possessed but it was the excessive makeup that did her real damage. She stepped deliberately into Kelly's path, her aggressive stance showing no sign of fear or self-doubt. Credit where credit's due, she was one tough little cookie. But then, so was Kelly. 'You want to get back to your trailer-park Babe,' Kelly advised mildly. 'Before you start something you won't be conscious to see the end of.' 'Don't threaten me,' she hissed, her voice full of spite. 'Move. I won't tell you again.' The cowgirl went to slap her. Kelly took note of the genuine definition of her arm as she drew it back. This girl had never seen the inside of a gym, she'd swear on it, but she was still in remarkably good shape. Her biceps had no real size or sharpness, but they were tight enough to be discernible. She was pretty tough, and clearly that had gone to her head. This was a fight she expected to win. She was wrong however, and Kelly had no qualms about proving just how wrong she truly was. Kelly caught the swing of the slap with ridiculous ease, catching a cruel grip about the girl's wrist. She jerked the arm back down, harsh and sharp away from the body. The girl gasped as pain ruptured through her chest and shoulder. With a careless twist, Kelly had her on the floor, on her knees. Kelly allowed herself a sardonic smile as she eased the cowgirl's arm past the natural point of alignment and hovering at the brink of breaking the bone. She knew the pain was excruciating and the girl's shriek confirmed it. She released her finally, knowing she'd have others to deal with now. Sure enough, the cowboy was running out the bar. He didn't run to his beloved, check she was OK. Instead he came right up to Kelly. 'Just what the Hell-?' Her slap cut him short. Tempted as she was to deal with this and be done with it, she offered instead, one last opportunity for these country folk to just back the fuck off and let her alone. She had friends to meet and other places to go. She had a low profile to maintain did want to be party to an atrocity. Correction: she didn't want to be party to another atrocity. So she'd taken the wind out of cowgirl's sails with a simple armtwist, no damage done, no punches thrown. And she'd restrained herself when it came to dealing with her cowboy boyfriend and he came running up like the cavalry. Instead of laying him out with a blow that could smash brick, or slicing him in two with a kick that he'd never walk away from, she'd merely slapped him. She considered that OK because it was how women dealt with men who stepped out of line. A simple open handed slap across his cheek. However, this particular woman had muscle to aid even the simplest of blows. The slap not only cut short his assault, but threw him bodily off his feet to land past his fallen girlfriend in a sorry heap, nursing a shattered jaw. If the man had any brains beneath that cowboy hat, he'd take his cowgirl girlfriend back to their trailer park and leave well enough alone. She'd proved to them that she was not to be fucked with. She only hoped they'd take that rather unsubtle hint as their final warning and back off. She hoped but she doubted it. Kelly walked back into the bar. Sat at her table. Picked up her beer. Drank slowly, waiting for shit to hit the fan. She didn't have time to finish the beer. She hadn't thought she would. She put it down and stood, turning to face the cowboy as he stomped back into the bar. There were nods made, chairs pulled out, looks exchanged and jackets loosened. They had an audience. Not one person in this bar had their attention on anything other than the showdown that was about to go down between the cowboy and the strange woman. No one would interfere, no one would assist her, no one would try to calm the man whose face was a picture of violent fury. (Even if his jaw did sit at a slightly strange angle.) She'd encountered places like this before. What went on within the town stayed within the town, strangers be damned. Fine. They wanted to play it like that, she knew the rules, she knew the game by heart. And if they wanted to just stand there and watch what went down, by God she'd give them a show to talk about. With a careless flick of her arms, Kelly eased the jacket off of her broad shoulders. The jacket's weight dragged it down to the ground, exposing arms which were too thick to belong to the pretty young girl they'd all observed with interest. Her leather waistcoat was tight and it clung to a well built bosom, but despite the size and firm jut of her chest, she knew it was her biceps and not her breasts that people were staring at. She heard a few gasps of surprise. People like this didn't expect to see a woman with the kind of muscles she wielded. But the one person she'd intended to shock and intimidate with her awesome physique was the only one there who didn't even notice. There was no surprise in the cowboy's eyes, no fear or awe. She saw only blind fury. Again, she accepted this with a resigned sigh. So be it. With her skill at fighting combined with her formidable strength, Kelly was capable of incapacitating an assailant painlessly, should she choose to do so. She was capable of rendering the man unconscious without resorting to excessive violence or needless breakage of bones. She could, if she so desired, knock him out cold without even throwing a punch or kick. On the other hand, fuck that. If he wanted to play rough, then she was more than happy to accommodate him. He yelled a handful of mangled syllables, which she interpreted as 'fucking bitch.' His punch never had a chance of hitting her. Kelly blocked his roundhouse, raising her left arm to absorb the blow. She folded her arm further over his fist, trapping it between her ribcage and the heavy meat of her bicep. Now she had him trapped, the only decision was what to do next. Should she catch his other fist in her free hand and crush it, grinding the bones to powder? Should she slam her own fist into his belly, liquefy his intestines? Should she fold her free arm over the back of his neck and fold him over, letting her knee pulverise his chest? Kelly jammed her free hand against his throat, threatening to choke the life from him, or simply end it with a quick, sharp squeeze. She didn't however. The arm she was using to pin his fist moved down. Keeping her thick upper arm tightly against her chest, she moved it from the elbow, lowering her hand to the small of his back, bracing it. Then she flexed. With all of her considerable strength, she pushed his upper torso bodily away from herself, shoving at his throat and collarbone to ease him down backwards. He realised what she was doing as soon as he felt his spine begin to bend and he began screaming. He struggled like a maniac but was completely helpless within her grasp. His free arm flailed and found her right arm. He closed his fingers around her huge bicep, trying to fight her, trying to push back against her relentless force. It was hopeless. She was far stronger than he and his struggles barely slowed her careful, cruel progress as she folded his body over backwards. She hugged his hips to her own with her left arm, her arm hard and solid with tension. Her right was extended straight now and she had to lean forward to continue breaking him in half. The first pops sounded audibly around the hushed room, the horrified audience struck dumb by this calculated sadism. Then a rich snap that coincided with a visible shudder though the man. No one was in any doubt as to the fact that it was over for him now. Kelly continued however, folding the body over more easily it seemed. His legs had been lifted from the floor and when she released his trapped fist from her armpit, it fell free, loose and limp. A few of those closest noticed the crumpled, mangled look of the fist, the doubtless broken bones it had suffered. She dropped him finally, with little regard for the corpse. The back of his shoulders rested easily on his calves. 'Who's next?' Kelly demanded, turning to the mute audience. Her eyes swept across a sea of frightened faces, all too horrified to do or say a thing except shudder as her eyes fell upon them. The clunk of a shotgun being racked caught her attention. The bartender levelled it at her and the sea of onlookers parted like the proverbial sea to be clear of its line of sight. 'OK Honey, you've had your little bit of fun. Now it's our turn.' The spell she'd woven over the audience evaporated and they came alive once more. Shocked and sickened, scared shitless certainly, but no longer frozen or mesmerised. At the barman's instruction, two men were sent to restrain her and the door was closed and bolted. Not before the girlfriend was brought back inside. She saw her neatly folded boyfriend and fell into hysteria, as was to be expected. She looked up at Kelly, fear and madness in her eyes. Kelly smiled, even as the two men bound her arms behind her back, giving the girlfriend a salacious wink. Her screams began anew and she was hustled quickly to the other side of the bar. Kelly noticed with some interest that the two men the barman had gestured to tie her up were the two old timers at the bar. They were both old style cowboys, in their fifties at least and possibly older but still as tough as leather. They moved around her from either side, as though approaching a wild animal. She offered no struggle however, the shotgun levelled at her face saw to that. The barman held it firm but it was his eyes that told her not to chance it, not to make a single wrong move. They were hard and unwavering. They didn't leave her for one moment and had a cold readiness that convinced her without a doubt that should it come to it, he would not hesitate to shoot. She had expected nothing less of the man. She quickly assessed the situation while the two men guided her back to her wooden chair and began trying tough knots about her wrists. Most of those present here wouldn't offer her much resistance in a fight, even twenty to one. They were slow and careless and she could sweep through them like a farmer with a scythe, clearing a field of corn. The small group of kids, now chatting excitedly and watching her with malicious intent might prove a small problem, but not for long. There was the barman to be considered. He would be dangerous even without the shotgun. Then there was the two old timers, still making doubly sure that the ropes binding her arms behind her back were secure. She felt one of them poking her arm, digging a bony finger into her hard, massive triceps. 'Holy shit,' he said. 'I ain't never seen nothing like that.' The other one gave a sharp laugh. 'I always said it, that woman's lib shit was gonna go too far.' And then there was the cowboy. The friend of the man she'd just slaughtered. She saw him now, standing back, eyes cold and hard. She would have expected some emotion from him, some fury, some shock, some grief. But he was simply cold. That made her wary. He met her intense glare and she saw nothing in those eyes, nothing at all. Then he turned away, and spoke to the bartender. 'You want I should go get the Sheriff?' 'No need,' the bartender assured him. 'His shift's up, he's due in here any time now.' 'Yeah, where was he five minutes ago?' This was from one of the kids, a leather bound punk of around twenty. He had greasy hair and a wretched complexion but appeared from outward appearances to be the leader and spokesman of their gang. 'I say we dice this bitch up.' As if to illustrate his point he punctuated the sentence with the snick of a flick-knife blade opening. The barman's eyes seemed to comment on the fact he was carrying such a weapon in this bar, but he remained quiet. 'She's got friends coming,' the cowboy told them all. A murmur went around the bar. 'How you know that?' someone demanded. It was a question Kelly would like to have asked too. 'She's been waiting here, you can tell.' 'You can tell,' one of the old timers agreed. 'You ain't taken your eyes off her since she stepped in here. 'She's been waiting and then she just made a call, see what's holding them up. I'm telling you, she got friends coming, friends who'll turn up at any moment.' As if forewarned, heads turned to the door. By eerie coincidence it thumped, someone trying to open it but finding it closed. A shudder of fear went though the bar but the barman just hissed. 'It's the Sheriff. For Christ's sakes people.' One of the old timers opened it and let the Sheriff in. He was an old man, a clone of the bartender or would have been ten years ago. 'What the hell's going on in here?' Then he saw Kelly and his face alighted with the ugliest expression she'd seen so far that day. Any hope that the law arriving might set some sanity into this room evaporated in a second. 'Hello Baby,' he said, lust and murder in his eyes. 'We got a party going on here or what?' The cowboy motioned to his dead friend, folded on the ground mere yards from the man. 'Oh shit.' He removed his hat and tapped the corpse with his foot. 'He's dead.' There was no sarcastic comment regarding his detective skills or criticism of lack of respect shown. People in this town knew better than to get on the wrong side of its Sheriff. He walked over to the bar. The barman had put his weapon down but still kept a hand on it. He was still wary of Kelly even though she was bound to a chair. They spoke for a few moments, low tones exchanging information and decisions. Kelly tested the rope for strength, trying to determine how long it would take her bust free. The knots were good, the binding wound over and over each other. These old timers didn't know just how powerful her muscles were and obviously decided to take no chances. The ropes were fast. She swore to herself and wondered where the fuck Jet and Tara were. 'OK folks,' the Sheriff announced authoritatively, 'this is the situation.' He paused a moment, as the bar quietened with the exception of cowboy's cowgirl girlfriend, still howling with hysteria. 'Will someone please shut that bitch up.' A mild slap was heard, followed by a harsher one. Soft voices and the howl became a sob, muffled as the woman was rocked and comforted. 'Thank you. Now we got ourselves a small situation, not unlike situations we've had to deal with previously and this one's gonna go just as smoothly. Our little wildcat here is waiting on someone. Maybe one person, maybe a busload, we just don't know.' 'Why don't we ask her?' the greasy kid asked. The slanted emphasis he put on the word ask made his intention quite clear, even if his waving the blade about hadn't. Try it Honey, Kelly thought to herself, and they'll be pulling that spike out of your ass. 'We ain't gonna ask her shit,' the Sheriff told them. 'We can't put stake in a damn word she says. This is how it goes down. No one leaves this bar this night. I know a few of you folks didn't ask for this shit but we're all gonna have to deal with it together. That's the way it works. 'We're gonna wait right here until her friend or friends arrive and then we're gonna deal with them. Easy and clean as that. I know a few of you guys are eager to get started on this pretty little thing but no one's gonna do shit until her friends arrive. She stays in that chair 'til I say otherwise and nobody goes near her. Is that clear?' A general murmur of agreement. 'Good. Now don't you worry, coz when it's time to party, I'll be right down there with ya all. But we hold off 'til we know what we're dealing with. Never know, when the time comes, we may have enough fillies to play pass the parcel with. Any questions?' 'What do we do in the meantime?' 'We don't do shit. We sit and we wait.' He motioned to the bartender. 'You can sit and keep your big old pecker there pointed at Herculena. The kid in?' 'Sure.' The kid turned out to be the young barman who'd served her earlier. He looked across to her and as soon as his eyes met hers, they dropped. Fear evident in every motion of his body. 'Get the Sheriff a drink,' the bartender ordered the kid, and he did so. He then set up his vigil over Kelly, sitting on a high stool. The butt of his gun rested in his lap but the barrel lay on the counter, pointing at her. 'You two, crowd control,' he told the old timers. 'Just keep everyone calm, let's not blow this.' The punk kid and his friends stood around the Sheriff expectantly. He looked at them and nodded. 'I want you and three of your friends outside on watch,' he told them. 'Find a suitable place close to the bar and keep your eyes open.' The punk nodded and motioned to three of his cronies to follow him. Kelly observed all this and couldn't help thinking that the Sheriff's intent was more to keep the punk and his friend out of his hair rather than any practical purpose. Now it was just a waiting game. She checked the clock, seeing it was midnight. It was past one when Jet and Tara finally turned up. Their entrance was suitably dramatic, as was in keeping with their habit. There was a heavy knock on the door, a resonating thud as if made by a huge hunk of ham. The bar went from quiet foreboding to silent anticipation. The barman's shotgun was raised and clutched tight. A silent motion from the Sheriff and he pointed it back at Kelly, though he seemed to be attempting the impossible task of watching Kelly and the door at the same time. The Sheriff stood and pulled a revolver from his belt, cocking the hammer back with a meaty thumb. All the patrons were tensed and ready. Despite the silence their mutual question seemed to be on every pair of lips. Where was their early warning? She saw the kid bartender back away into the kitchen. Smart move, she commended. Another knock. Hard and heavy - strangely thick and slow as though made by a large boxing glove. Kelly flexed her muscles, feeling her arms swell against the wooden chair, her wrists painfully tight within the rope bonds. She eased her centre of gravity forward. The third blow sent the door flying forward, ripped off its hinges. It collapsed, revealing the silhouette of a tall and powerful woman. Tara had set the headlights behind her, she was making her entrance as monumental and operatic as possible. She too dressed in leather but unlike her friend she favoured red. With her halo of light and coat flowing back behind her in the night's heavy wind, she looked like some cartoon superheroine. No not the heroine, she looked like the villainess. Despite her heavy coat, hiding the powerful arms beneath, her hugely broad chest couldn't be mistaken for anything other than voluminous muscle. Her long blonde hair streaked behind her, fluttering with the cape-coat. Then there were her legs. As long a supermodel's but thick with layers of bulky muscle, evident through the skin-tight leather trousers. Skull-crushing thighs and spine-snapping calves. She gave the bar only a few seconds to take in the sight of her shocking presence before rolling the basketball she held in towards them. Except it wasn't a basketball. Basketballs don't have ears or a mat of greasy, black hair. Basketballs don't leave a trail of blood as they roll and bounce across the floor. Tara didn't wait long, knowing the shock value wouldn't give her much time to... The Sheriff barely glanced at the head, firing at Tara even as her other hand swept forward. She cartwheeled aside as soon as the flick-knife left her fingers but it was a close thing. The bullet almost grazed her as she spun aside. Kelly was already in motion, her powerful arms bursting aside. The rope held but the chair splintered as she ripped the wood apart. She was running at the bar, her arms still bound behind her, but the additional slack the absence of chair gave her, allowed her to rip herself free. She brought her arms forward, swinging a splintered chunk of wood forward and throwing it into the bartender. It struck him as the shotgun blasted, making him fire wide and high. Then she was over the bar and on him. The knife caught the Sheriff high in the chest and he fell back, firing more shots as he collapsed. His vision blurred but not before he saw the red clad muscle-freak descend upon him. The barman was stumbling backwards, trying to bring his shotgun down for another shot but powerful hands grasped around the barrel and ripped it unceremoniously from his fingers. The two old timers moved as one, both heading into the thick of the action, both drawing out long machetes. The knives were both as ancient and worn as the men that wielded them, but equally, they were as lethal and sturdy as those men too. A window behind them exploded inwards as a third apparition dived through, sending frame and glass shattering in. She landed and rolled, leaping straight up and at the two armed men. Broad and powerful arms swept around them, hugging them both tight to her, encompassing their necks with perfect symmetry. Jet found her feet and braced herself, then tightened the two necklocks. The clatter of two blades echoed as both men grasped at the powerful arm that tightened about their throats. Then she flexed, twisting with a demonic grimace. Two snaps were heard in unison and she dropped them, watching with grim satisfaction as the two corpses fell over each other. Jet favoured PVC, the inky blue of her second-skin reflected a muted rainbow, like an oil slick. It emphasised every inch of her muscled physique. She was the slimmer of the three, lacking Tara's raw bulk or Kelly's muscled voluptuousness. Her body was closer to that of an athlete - a runner or swimmer perhaps. But one with a serious set of biceps. Jet leapt on the closest guy to her and twisted his head around until the neck snapped with a savage crunch. The Sheriff howled in pain as a fist ripped into his stomach. Literally INTO his stomach. She'd hammered her fist through the flesh, ripping open his stomach and he could feel her now, her hand inside his guts, burrowing upwards with the sheer excessiveness of her strength. He felt a strange tearing sensation, hot and wet, and the world swan around him. The last thing he felt before everything faded to black was the searing pain of a signet ring scrapping against the inside of his ribs. The barman watched in sheer horror as Kelly snapped his shotgun into two. She held it up for him to see, holding each end in one hand. Then she flexed, pumping those staggering arms until with a creak, the metal gave and folded in the middle. She tossed it aside and grabbed him. Her hand wrapped around his throat and he felt himself being lifted up, his feet heaved up off the ground. The world began to dim as her tightening grip about his neck cut of precious blood and oxygen. He grabbed at her arm, trying to relieve the pressure on his throat. Kelly hissed something he couldn't understand and then she squeezed. He knew no more, blissfully unconscious as she crushed his neck and tossed him aside. Kelly turned to see Tara rip her hand out of the gaping hole below the Sheriff's sternum. She pulled with it a lump of meat - his heart, she supposed. They exchanged a quiet glance then both turned to see Jet who was still happily savaging the crowd. They watched as she left the corpse she'd just broken and jumped at the next, like a wild animal in the midst of a feeding frenzy. She lifted the man she'd caught, heaving him bodily above her. She raised him up to arm's length, betraying a strength that her lithe frame wouldn't have revealed. She brought the man down onto her knee, gasping with joy as his spine snapped. Kelly took the revolver from the Sheriff and fired it twice into the ceiling. It was the easiest way to get her attention. Tapping her on the shoulder while she was in the heat of the moment was likely to end up in further violence. Jet faced her friends, the lunatic expression fading into one of merely sardonic joy - lucid but still not quite sane in the conventional sense. She backed away from the mass of heaving and hysterical patrons and joined her friends. 'OK people,' Kelly announced to the minor throng still with them. 'Clown time is over. I appreciate that this has been a long and traumatic night for you but take comfort in the fact that it's almost over. If nobody does anything stupid then I won't have to do this.' She fired, putting a neat little hole in the cowboy's forehead. She'd deemed him dangerous but when the shit came down he hadn't acted. Was he merely biding his time? She couldn't be sure. Either way, he was certainly no threat any more. 'I swear to you all, that it the last murder to be committed here tonight, unless any one of you decides they want to be a hero.' Kelly turned to Tara. 'What kept you?' 'Some kid starting some shit, a gas station a while back. It had to be dealt with. Him and his macho friends.' 'So you dealt with it?' 'Let's put it this way,' Jet offered. 'The gas station is now a smoking hole in the ground. What's left of the kid and his macho friends are in the hole.' 'And what about the low profile.' Tara shrugged. 'Guess we just don't have your talent for low profiles.' Kelly nodded, resigned. 'OK. What's done is done. How many were with this guy,' she asked, prodding the decapitated head with her foot. 'Three more,' Tara told her. 'Chatty little fuckers too. You know how irritating it is when you're interrogating someone who won't shut up and listen to your questions?' 'First thing, Jet, switch the light off on the car. Last thing we need is a flat. Next we tie up everyone who's left. Oh yeah, there's another thing.' She walked up to the bar, looking through the open doorway into the kitchen. 'Everyone in there get out here now. Hands above your heads. Don't make me ask twice. If I come in there I'm gonna do so shooting. No fancy ideas about carving knives or cleavers either.' She turned to Tara. 'You secured the kitchen door from the outside?' 'Course. It's solid,' Tara assured her. Jet returned, the headlights now dead. She locked the bar's main door behind her. The kid bartender stepped fearfully out of the kitchen, followed by an older man dressed in white, evidently the cook. 'OK,' Kelly said, 'leave these two here but tie everybody else up. Sit them in chairs, hands behind back.' 'What, you mean like you...?' A single finger silenced her. 'Don't,' Kelly warned. 'No problem.' She couldn't repress a grin. Her eyes met Jet's and both women burst out laughing. 'I mean it,' Kelly hissed sulkily and she stormed off to check the rest of the bar. Jet and Tara lined up the chairs in a long row. Their captives obediently sat as prompted, no one willing to risk inciting the wrath of either of these women. The evidence of what they were capable of still lay, littering the floor. They tied them all, hands behind their backs, securely confined to their chairs. Kelly returned. 'All clear. There's an apartment upstairs. We'll clear up down here and then rest a bit, set off just before dawn. Two bedrooms. Jet, you're on watch.' 'What, aw fuck that...' 'Jet, you're on watch.' Jet pulled a face like a sulky schoolgirl. 'OK.' 'There's a cellar access just behind the bar. The stairs are steep we can just toss the bodies down. OK girls, clear up.' Both women knew what she meant by clear up but Tara hesitated. 'What about these two?' 'Leave them.' 'Why?' Kelly smiled. 'A cook is always useful to have around. He makes a real mean steak.' 'And the kid?' But she knew the answer to that one. She knew Kelly's taste in men and knew that the kid fit it down perfect. 'Do I get one.' 'OK pick. But clean up everyone else.' Tara scanned the line of tied victims. She chose a man, young, though not as young as Kelly's choice. She grabbed the back of his chair and tipped him backwards, dragging him over to the bar. Then she nodded to Jet and they began to clean up. They walked up behind the row of tied captives. Each wrapped a muscled arm around their victim and twisted until the neck snapped with an audible crack. They then moved to the next and, in so doing, made their way along the line. After the first, the row of victims realised their fate and began bucking and screaming. Their restraints were too tight however and none could escape. Some were screaming, some were weeping. Some swore obscenities and others pleaded. Some prayed to God, and other simply remained silent and docile. All fell to the same quick and callous demise. Tara noticed something. 'How do you do that?' she asked. 'What,' Jet responded snapped yet another neck with her normal, careless ease. 'That,' Tara insisted, gesturing to Jet's now very dead victim. 'Look. I'm killing them like this,' she said and demonstrated her technique, wrapping her arm around the whole neck so her peaked biceps was hard against the throat. 'See. I use my whole arm.' And she wrenched the head around, making the bones crunch with sick clarity. Jet moved to the next in line. 'You mean this?' she asked, taking her normal grip on her victim's chin and cupping the back of their skull with her other hand. 'It's all in the wrists,' she explained, whipping his head around so it issued the same resonant snap. She mimed it in slow motion. Tara tried to copy, them moved to the next in line to test it. She whipped the head around but the crunch that sounded was muted somehow. The man's head lolled uselessly to the side. He was however, still very much alive. He bucked, his ricked neck flopping stupidly as he panicked. 'Nearly,' Jet enthused. 'Watch this.' Tara grabbed a hold of the man's skull. She jammed her two middle fingers into his eye sockets from above. The moment they plunged inside his face, his body began to spasm electrically, but that wasn't what she wanted to demonstrate. Tara supported the man's lower skull by wrapping free arm about it, her muscles flexing hard around the head, cushioning and supporting it as much as possible. Then she ripped upwards, tugging the cap of his skull right off. She backed up, throwing his chair forward as she did so, not wanting to get coated in gore. The plate of skull she had ripped free was still attached at the back by a flap of scalp but as he crashed onto the ground, his brains splattered out like a bowl of spilt fruit salad. 'Oh that is gross,' Jet gasped, but her voice was more of a giggle than repulsion. 'You are sick.' 'Quit fucking about.' Kelly yelled. They continued quietly. 'You ever kicked someone's head off?' 'No,' Tara admitted. 'No, me neither. I just wondered if it were possible. I once punched through this guy's chest. It didn't actually go right through but that was pretty funny.' 'Yeah, that's how I finished that Sheriff.' 'No shit! Damn it, and I missed it. There was this one time, I killed this guy while I was fucking him.' At this Tara just raised an eyebrow. 'Hello.' 'No, I mean by accident.' Tara laughed. 'By accident?' This was a story she hadn't heard. 'He was going down on me and I was really into it. And he just stopped. I'm shouting at him to carry on but he's just ignoring me. Then I look down at him and realise that something's wrong. I don't know, I guess I must have bucked hard or something, caught him at a funny angle.' 'Broken neck?' 'Yeah. Just like these guys.' They looked back along the line, a fine job done. 'OK cellar this way.' They did it fire-bucket style. Kelly stood behind the bar at the top of the stairway. Tara lifted each corpse in turn, cutting them free of their chairs in most cases. Then she would toss them to Jet, who passed them on to Kelly. Kelly then simply threw them into the inky blackness of the cellar below. Between them they made short work of it. Tara then turned on the cook. She grabbed a handful of his white coat and lifted him, one handed into the air before her. 'You're not going to give me any trouble.' He shook his head in passionate agreement. After what he'd just seen, he'd crawl naked over broken glass should one of these women order him to do so. She led him off into the kitchen. Kelly turned her attention to the kid bartender, the tender kid. He was absolutely petrified, quivering with fear. She stroked his face with amazing tenderness. 'You remember how you felt when I walked in here? Remember how I looked to you and what that did to you? I want you to try and focus on that.' 'Give it up, girl,' Jet laughed. 'He's too shit scared to think. You won't get a thing from him.' 'You underestimate my skills,' she cooed then turned back to the trembling barman. 'I'm not going to hurt you, I like you. Come upstairs with me now and I'll show you just how much I like you.' She led the terrified boy upstairs and Jet just shook her head. Each to their own. 'And as for you,' Jet told the other guy, the one Tara had picked out. 'Buddy, you are gonna wish you stayed in that line.' 'Don't scare the poor boy,' Tara said, returning from the kitchen, 'that's my job.' She smashed the chair beneath him, ripping the shattered fragments of wood aside. She then lifted the tied man onto her shoulder, supporting him easily with one hand. She too headed upstairs. 'Have fun,' Jet cooed and threw Tara a wink. The big woman returned it, gave her captive an affectionate slap on the butt and disappeared after Kelly. * * * Jet wandered around the bar, alone and bored. She hated watch duty, who was likely to come by anyway? Between them they must have slaughtered pretty much all the troublemakers of this piss-ant little town. There was a pool table at the far end of the bar so she headed over for a game. It was a coin-op and rather than walk back over to the till to get change, Jet brought her heel down hard on the panel the pool-balls were concealed behind. A crunch of metal and wood and she bent down to inspect the damage. She ripped off the splintered casing and pulled out the balls, tossing the mangled splinters aside. She was good; years of bars and clubs had honed her talents. Ode to a misspent childhood, she called it. The game ended without a missed shot, had she been playing another, they would not have got a turn. She sighed and began rolling one of the balls around her hand. She dropped it and swore. She picked it up and two others, juggling for a while until this also bored her. She put the others down, keeping just one ball. She examined it, sitting in the palm of her hand. She felt its weight, its smoothness. The hard, polished surface. She closed her fingers around it and began to squeeze. It was unyielding and completely solid. Her fingers went numb and her forearm began to ache but she squeezed with all her might. Still she persisted - still the ball remained solid. She only gave up when the pain in her arm became sharp and loud. She knew she had strength enough to rip her own ligaments apart and hardly wanted that. She swore at the cue ball then and threw it, twisting her whole body into the motion and hurling the thing the length of the barroom like a baseball pitcher. It hit the wood panelling at the far end, splitting the pane from floor to ceiling. Jet nodded satisfaction at this small victory and glanced around. Nearby was a dartboard, a set of darts hooked neatly into the frame. She picked them up and stood the requisite distance before throwing all three in rapid succession. She wasn't quite as sharp at darts however: only one hitting the bulls-eye, the others a little way outside. She went and retrieved them. This time she threw them separately, hurling the first with excessive power. It drove into the bulls-eye, dead centre, but buried itself to the hilt. Jet knew from experience that were you to unhook the board from its case, you would see the tip of the dart poking through the other side. She glanced around for another target and saw a large pipe in the corner, running below the ceiling. She let loose and struck home, burying it, again to the hilt. A dribble of water began to leak down the length of the dart and drip onto the ground beneath. Jet made a mental note not to retrieve that one. Then she jumped, flipping herself onto the bar and landed crouched and poised. She felt like a cat, or a kid playing ninja. She tossed the final dart at an invisible enemy and spun through the air, landing into a graceful roll and pulled a table over as she crouched to a stop, the flat top her shield. She ripped the leg off and vaulted the table in a single smooth movement landing to address her enemy in a karate pose, the table leg a weapon before her. With a suitable excessive 'hei-yah' she punched the leg, smashing it into two pieces. She then spun around to kick the sided table into two splintered halves. 'Fuck me, I am BORED,' she announced to the empty room. All the action of earlier had whetted her appetite but left her unsatisfied. She thought of all the lives she had extinguished and of the professional manner it had been done. Never mind speed and efficiency, she wanted to have fun. There was a jukebox set up so she wandered across to check out the selection. It was mainly country and western, ('they got both types') and nothing that appealed to Jet. She punched through the front panel and then ripped it apart without effort or regard. She pulled out a few of the disks and began frisbeeing them across the bar. This too became boring very quickly and she shattered the few remaining in her hands. She then turned her attention to the jukebox itself, a mighty and ancient machine. Grasping both sides firmly she heaved the wretched thing into the air. Aided by her abnormal strength and fuelled by dangerous personality for one so powerful, she wrestled the enormous weight above her head. She then brought it down again as hard as her strength and gravity would allow. The floorboards gave way beneath it and it dropped about a foot below ground level. Jet looked at the wreck proudly. Its smashed electronics still frizzed like a dying animal. She felt a little better. Not just the satisfaction of the destruction but the pleasure of such physical exertion. Dividing two halves of the bar was an archway. It was subtle, more like a support structure than a part of the design. On one side a small ledge jutted out about an inch. It was small but more than enough. Jet reached up gripped tight. She lifted her bodyweight with ease and pulled herself a set of fifty chins. It got her blood pumping it a satisfying way. She loved the feel of her muscles working. She stopped at fifty, barely breathing harder than normal but she could feel that her pulse was up. She checked herself in the mirror behind the bar. Her broad, athlete's shoulders were sheened in a light sweat. She pumped a biceps shot, checking the way her arm exploded into a solid mound. She pumped it again, loving the way it felt as blood rushed into the impressive muscles. Then the other arm, a similar mountain rising in perfect symmetry. God, she looked good. She leapt onto the bar, pushing herself through a hundred press-ups, in slow, controlled measures. She then proceeded with another hundred, this time one handed, first the left then changing at fifty for the right. Another check in the mirror and her muscles were bulging like they were alive, her biceps hard and round like smooth, perfect little boulders encased in flesh. She had hoped that working her body would help quell the nagging stir in her loins. It didn't, it only stoked it further. * * * Tara tossed her victim carelessly onto the bed, turning to close the door and fold her large coat over a chair. 'I'm going to kill you,' she told the man, her voice as unemotive as one reading out cookery instructions. 'But not yet. Not until I've played with you a little. And when I finally do kill you, you're going to be in such agony, you'll beg me to end it. Except you won't, because, by that time, you'll be totally incapable of speech, or even rational thought.' The man was shuddering in fear, his voice uttering a gibbering insensible ramble of shock and horror. And she hadn't even started yet. Tara grinned and began to undress. The man watched as she exposed her staggeringly muscled physique. She was unlike anything he'd ever seen, either in real life or on TV. She was far more muscular than anyone he'd ever seen, man or woman. Her arms were thick and pulsing as blood pumped through biceps so big he would never have deemed it possible if he'd not seen it with his own eyes. She stood before him, naked and pumped up, some demon from hell, a feminist's idea of a twisted joke. In him addled state of shock, he focused on one fact, she was going to kill him. She was going to destroy him and she was going to use that abnormal body to do it. He began to scream. Tara massaged her crotch in anticipation, the broiling heat spreading through to her whole body. She'd taken a few items from her coat pocket and she lay them on the bedside table. The man couldn't see what they were, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the terrifying sight of her muscles. She lay besides him, propping herself up on one arm. She reached across him with almost tender care. Then she began to tear his clothes off. The thick material of his garments shredded easily in her powerful grip and it took her no time to render him naked, his clothes a pile of torn rags. She left the rope bindings, leaving him tied, arms behind his back. Even so, he tried to escape, trying to roll away from her and regain his footing. Tara kept him prisoner with comical ease, having no concern that he may escape her. Even if he wasn't tied, there was no way he cold get away from her. She picked up a small rubber strap, a buckle at one end. It was a gag, designed to completely stifle the wearer. A circular plug forced between the teeth gave them enough air and also pinned the tongue down. She wrapped it around the man, easily holding his head still as he tried to shake her off. She tightened it, completely gagging him. 'How's that? Comfortable?' He made a few dull ugh sounds, all he was capable of and collapsed back onto the pillow, defeated. 'Great.' She reached for another item and lay it flat on his podgy belly. 'Now this is a recording of my last plaything.' It was a micro tape player. She hit play and the sound of amateur recording could be heard. A white noise hiss and the muffled clunk thunk of the whirring machine. Then a voice. A hysterical male - conspicuously gagged. Then the gag must have been pulled free because he became articulate all at once. 'Ahhh, you fucking bitch. No. No don't. Oh God please don't. Don't hurt me. Please, please-' and on and on in a similar vein. There was a slapping sound, harsh and resounding. The cries paused a moment but continued again in a decidedly more shattered jaw manner. 'It's a habit of mine. I record the previous victim so I can play it to the next.' The man was struggling again, making ugh sounds against his gag. Tara held him in place with a flat hand against his chest. She seemed more concerned that he tip off the cassette player than free himself. 'So I'll play you this tape, give you an idea of what you're in store for. The next guy I play with, I'll do the same thing. Except, the tape he listens to will be of you. What do you think you'll have to say to him?' The voice on the tape had been gagged again. He was doing his best to scream hysterically through the plastic gag. Tara's current victim took the opportunity to join him, his own muffled hysteria sound just as panicked. The tape voice was cut short by a crack. The splintering of bone and the popping of joints and ligaments. The voice began again in a muffled scream of agonised pain. 'I'll let you guess what bone that was,' Tara told her victim with a grin. 'After all, I want you to have some surprises.' Next came some sick splat sounds a cross between a wet sponge and softwood tree getting chopped. Despite his shock and encroaching insanity, the man couldn't help but notice that the monstrous muscle-bound freak lying on the bed beside him had begun to gently masturbate. The tape lasted an hour. The torture didn't cease throughout. By the time it finished, Tara was quivering and sweating. She turned to look at the man tied and gagged beside her. He was also shaking, having gone into some form of shock. His eyes didn't seem to register her. He failed to make any sign as she waved her fingers in front of his face. Tara sighed and placed her thumb against his eyeball. Her skin, damp and hot, jammed hard against the wet jelly but stopped short of actually inflicting damaged. He squirmed appropriately. 'Do you want to listen to side two or do you want me to pluck out your eyeball and make you swallow it?' 'Ugh, ugh!' 'Good, that's what I thought.' She turned the tape over and began it playing once more. Like the previous side, it began with her victim's voice. This time however, he was no longer capable of articulate sounds. He simply howled and yelled in animal horror and misery. Even were the words eloquently shaped, they would have been indiscernible, such was the nature of the physical damage inflicted upon him. She hadn't bothered to re-gag him and each snap and tearing was accompanied by an unobscured screaming. Tara lay cozily beside the man as they listened together. She reached across lazily and played tenderly with the hair on his chest, running her finger across his flesh. It was a surreal juxtaposition, the sadist playing at the languid lover. She narrated the action for him, nonchalantly explaining the cause of the gruesome sounds as the tape played. Some she left blanks however, telling him he should imagine for himself and that he'd soon discover how accurate his guesses were. As the voice on the tape got more and more broken and wretched, if was joined by another. It was Tara of course, her cries of passion overshadowing her victim's agonies as she slowly destroyed him. Listening to the tape, Tara began to masturbate again, synchronising her current pleasure to those experienced on tape. She climaxed, both then and now, as a slow crunch spelt her victim's final and eventual end. Tara lay back against sweat soaked sheets as the tape ran to an end and clicked off. They lay in silence as Tara bathed in the warmth of gorgeous post- orgasmic haze. Eventually she stirred herself. 'OK, enough foreplay. You ready to get serious?' She rolled her body over and sat up, wrapping a leg over his tied body to sit astride him. She got herself comfortable, rubbing her damp crotch against his flaccid organ. She took the tape out the machine and replaced it with a blank one. She set it on the counter and set it recording. Leaning down, pressing her massive muscles against his body, she wrapped obscenely powerful arms about his arms and torso. She made the motion tight but didn't actually hurt him, just let him feel the hard flex of swollen biceps, make sure he knew that she was capable of crushing him like a beer can. She grabbed the ropes restraining him and tore them away as though they were ribbons. Then she undid his gag, pulling it free from his gasping mouth. 'Jesus fucking Christ, you sick fucking bitch. You fucked up evil fucking-' God. Men were so unoriginal. Could none of them think of anything original to say? At least this one was fairly spirited. Good. She'd have fun breaking that. Tara flexed her muscles and began to play. * * * Kelly peeled the leather from her flesh as seductively as she could. In other circumstances, the barman would have relished the sight, would have been struck dumb in awe and lust. He didn't mind chicks with some small degree of muscle, liked the look of a well toned body in fact. In his opinion Kelly had taken it too far, a fact that was especially evident in her arms, the tell-tale bulging of hugely over-developed biceps. But having said that, her stomach was flat and toned, and a gorgeous contrast to her striking chest. Breasts stood high and firm, oblivious to the weight that two such overhanging protrusions must be. He'd only seen tits like that once. It was a picture in a magazine and the image had haunted him, compelling him to drain the semen from his body every time he even thought of it. Even now he had the picture, kept over from adolescence, though it was worn and faded from excessive use. Even now, looking at the image, seeing such a fantastic and unparalleled bosom, could only ever result in furious masturbation. Seeing this stunning, if somewhat excessively athletic, woman standing naked before him, her torpedo tits aimed accusatory at him, he should have been more aroused than he'd ever been in his life. Instead, he was struck only by horror. What he'd witness this woman and her two equally insane friends do this night, rendered him utterly unable to feel anything else. When commanded, he stripped, he joined her on the bed. He told her his name, he answered her questions. When she thrust her amazing body against him, his body went rigid. Not in the good way, he was as flaccid a wet flannel, but her touch sent cold shivers through him and he felt physically sick in her presence. In any other situation, the crush of those amazing breasts against his skin would send him into simultaneous uncontrollable orgasm. Here and now, it failed to stimulate anything other than revulsion. Despite her tenderness and skill with her hands, he failed utterly to respond to her caress. He was obedient and compliant and did as she commanded, cupping and kissing, stroking and stimulating, as she guided him around her body. But it was cold and mechanical. The fact that he felt nothing but fear was all too evident and it gave her little pleasure. Kelly finally got frustrated. She was lying under him, trying to fake some sexual equality between them. She grabbed him by the throat, dug her fingers into his neck and left him without oxygen or blood. As his face choked up and began to turn purple she asked him, 'you know what cunnilingus is?' A frantic nodding. 'You ever given it?' More frantic nodding. She released him and he grabbed his throat, gasping for breath. 'Good. Get started.' She spread her legs and he obediently went down. * * * Jet sat splay legged of the pool table. Her body rocked and bucked as she slid herself along the cue, taking the thickness of it into her body and squeezing down on its solid hardness. She bent her back and floundered down, scraping her shoulders against the cushion. One hand wrapped around a pool ball, the other gripped the cue as she sunk herself with it. It still wasn't enough however and she knew this was a poor substitute to quench her fires. She drew the pole out of her cunt, casting it aside and then flipped her lithe body off of the table. She was naked, her PVC suit left forgotten on a nearby table. She strode purposefully into the kitchen where she saw the chef hanging on the wall. His eyes were wide and wild, the horror of all that he had witnessed taken him close to madness. His hands had been tied behind his back. Two meat hooks had then been carefully slid under his shoulders and he had been hung like that, as if he was just another piece of meat. One of Tara's rubber gags was tight about his mouth. Jet couldn't be bothered to lift him off the hooks. Instead she grabbed the hooks and bent the metal down, letting his body slide off towards her. She caught him and threw him carelessly over her shoulder. She carried him back to the main bar area. There she threw him onto the pool table then disappeared back into the kitchen. When she returned she was carrying a handful of kitchen knives. Whatever shock and horror the chef had felt previously had now doubled. 'Undress,' she told him. 'Use this.' She threw a knife at him. It twirled in the air a couple of times then landed in his chest. She'd only thrown it lightly and it fell out again, barely having rent the flesh. His white coat however quickly began to blossom with blood. Jet sat herself cross-legged and naked on a nearby table. She picked up her drink. One of the benefits of doing this kind of shit in a bar was you could be pretty certain you'd get the drink you wanted and not have to make do with poorly supplied liquor cabinets. She watched with amusement and joy as the chef tried to free himself from his bonds with the knife he given him. He turned his body over, taking the handle in one hand and trying to cut the rope with it. It was far harder than it would seem and he'd already scratched himself some good cuts. The blood on the rope made it slippery and made the task even harder. Jet laughed and then apologised. 'Keep going,' she prompted enthusiastically, 'you're doing well.' He eventually freed himself but was in quite a state. The chest wound seemed to have stopped but the spread circle of blood was thick and gory around it. 'Cool, now the clothes.' The chef looked down at the knife in his hands, at the psychotic woman sitting across from him, then back at the knife. What finally stopped him from making this last, suicide stand was her carelessness. Such confidence robbed him of his own and his spirit was completely crushed. Resigned to his fate, he began to disrobe, using the kitchen knife to open his clothes. He tossed the clothes aside and sat naked on top the pool table. Jet walked over to joined him. He meekly passed her the knife back and she took it, thanking him. 'Lie back, arms to your side.' He did so. She leapt easily onto the table and sat herself astride him. She lay herself on top of him, folding her arms on his chest and resting her chin on them. 'I love the feel you your body,' she confessed. He remained silent and passive, not even acknowledging her. 'You're so weak and helpless. I could do absolutely anything I wanted to and you'd be utterly incapable of stopping me. Have you got any idea what a turn on that is?' She sat up again and examined his chest wound. She jammed her finger into it and wriggled it around, making it bleed again. She took the knife and covered it in his blood then smeared it over his face. Still he remained still and unresponsive. Jet grinned and lent back. Without warning she thrust the knife down, double handed and stabbed through his shoulder. He yelled out in pain as the blade was buried to the hilt into his flesh. He squirmed but the blade had passed right through and down into the table beneath. Jet stood and jumped off the table. She retrieved another knife and leapt back up, returning to her place on top of him. She checked the first knife, checked the positioning and how well it had punctured the table. She was happy that he was securely stapled in place. She showed him the second, identical knife before placing the tip of it against his other shoulder. He began to scream and holler. Jet just made a twirling "come on" gesture with her finger and waited for him to quieten. This time she eased the knife in slow, carefully sinking it through his flesh. It was harder going than the hard slam, partly because of the strength required, of which she had plenty, but mostly because he wouldn't keep still. She had to hold him down with her free hand while she slowly drove it home. Jet jumped down again and walked around to the head of the table. She took a good grip of the end and bent her knees. Remember to always lift with the legs, not with the back. And she heaved the table up, tipping all the balls down to that end but leaving the pinned body stapled in place by the knives. It made him look like a collected butterfly specimen. Jet lowered the table and checked he was still secure. Happy with this she picked up the cue and climbed back onto the table. Standing at his feet, Jet looked down at her victim and smiled. 'Believe it or not, you are actually getting let of lightly.' As if on cue, a howling scream was heard from upstairs. Jet smiled. 'Tara, you are one crazy cat.' Then she took the front end of the pool cue and shoved it up his ass. He yelled out in horror and pain as she gave him a good half a foot. She twisted and checked she was fairly straight. She then sat herself at the foot of the table, opening her legs and placing her feet against his knees. She took the thick end of the cue in her hand. It was still sticky from her earlier antics. She jiggled it and gave it a little shove, making the chef's body convulse. Then she carefully lowered the end and eased it onto her cunt. She lent back, hanging precariously over the table but her balance was good. She drew her legs back instinctively, bending her knees so that her heels touched her thighs. She gasped as it entered her and she drew it inside, sliding her body further up the table to encompass as much as the cue as her body would allow. It was wonderfully rigid inside her but more that that, it quivered with the vibrations of her victim impaled on its other end. Jet gripped the side of the table and let out an involuntary sob of sweet rapture. The wood crumpled to splinters in her grip and she wrapped her hands around the nearest things she could find, need to squeeze until her knuckles cracked. She found two pool balls and gripped them as though her very life depended upon it. She gripped at the shaft with her labial lips, trying to draw it into herself ever further and further. She pulled herself up the table, the pole hard and deep inside her. Her feet tangled against her victims. She felt the spasm and tried to open her eyes to look at him. Through the purple haze of ecstasy, she could see his body convulsing, blooded agony writ large across every motion of his body. It was only seeing his yawning mouth that she realised he was in fact screaming. The sound had mingled so sweetly with the blood rush in her own head that it was all just a part of the sweet symphony singing through her senses. Further and further she drew herself, riding up the table, impaling herself as viciously as was humanly possible. Her thighs had met his now and her orgasms were coming in a thick stream. Each beat of her body thumped another wave of crushing pleasure blanking out all else. Her shoulders scraped the cushion and she couldn't even tell. She was screaming, howling in ecstatic excess. The poolballs in her hand crumpled like chalk and she didn't even noticed, too overwhelmed by the explosions in her cunt, the shockwaves swamping her whole body. * * * Kelly was coming down from her orgasm when she realised that the screaming wasn't coming from next door but from below, from the bar. The muffled agonies of Tara's victim could be heard if you focused upon it, this was someone else. This was Jet. She grabbed the barman by the hair and yanked him up. She tossed him aside and stood. 'What's wrong,' he asked, trembling. Kelly ignored him and stomped naked, out of the room and down the stairs. She found Jet lying on the pool table, gasping in post-orgasmic heat. She was still impaled on the pool cue her legs up and lying over the corpse of the cook. Only three inches of the cue was still visible. The rest had been driven up into her victim. By the look frozen onto his face, it was apparent that it hadn't been a pleasant experience. Kelly noticed something and opened the cook's dead mouth. She saw the tip of the cue at the back of his throat. Jet certainly didn't do things by half. Jet opened her eyes and gave Kelly a lazy smile. 'Hi.' 'What the fuck?' Kelly demanded. 'I got bored.' 'Jesus. That was the chef.' 'I didn't know he meant so much to you.' 'I'm fucking hungry.' She turned, hearing someone on the stairs. It was the barman. He was halfway down, looking nervously into the bar. He had pulled his trousers on. 'Get your ass down here,' she called. He rushed to obey. She grabbed his arm and threw him towards the kitchen. He stumbled and picked himself up. 'Get in there and start cooking.' 'But I don't know how to.' 'Well then, you better learn. Quickly. Right now it's the only thing keeping you alive.' That shut him up. He disappeared. 'What's up,' Jet asked with a grin. 'Your boy not so hot in the bedroom after all?' 'Anything wrong?' Tara asked suddenly. They turned to see her standing on the stairs. An agonised howl of pain could be heard from behind her. She was naked but she was still bright red. She was coated head to foot in gore and bloody viscera. 'It's fine,' Kelly hissed, but her anger was beginning to abate. 'Well then will you please keep it down. Some of us are trying to relax.' She turned and headed back up. Jet disentangled herself from her victim and spun around, jumping down onto still slightly shaking legs. 'Honestly, if he's not doing the business conventionally then get unconventional. It's not like we're gonna let him live anyway.' 'I suppose,' Kelly agreed. 'I just felt like something a little more romantic than that. I mean the psycho sex-kill, isn't the only way to fuck.' 'OK, next town we stop in we'll keep a low profile, pick up a few guys and let them walk away in one piece in the morning. How's that for kinky?' 'Sounds OK. But are we able to do low profile?' 'We'll give it a try.' Kelly smiled. 'But in the meantime, you're right. I think I'm gonna head back upstairs and get some proper mileage out of the kid in there.' Jet smiled at her. 'That's great, Honey. But do you mind waiting a bit? I'm starving.' 'No worries. I'll even take your order for you.' She did so and then followed the barman into the kitchen.