Dead Man Walking

It was the night of Halloween when she would meet the dead man walking. Children trick or treating, teenagers partying, adults drunk on the streets. Everywhere strange figures, unfamiliar faces. Nobody will remember her, one woman out of dozens, dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket. Nobody will remember her, but the dead man; and he’s not like to tell.
He was not the first dead man she had known, nor would he be the last. Sarah worked with the dead. Someone would come to her and give her a name. A name of a rival, or an ex, or a spouse. A name of a businessman or a beggar. It made no difference. When the name was spoken, the man was dead. He might breathe for another day, or maybe a week. But sooner or later her bullet would find him, and his eyes would shut for good.
She found the alley where she would meet her victim, and she faded into the shadows. The night grew cold. Her thin jacket could not keep out the chill, but her gloves kept her fingers warm. That’s what mattered. She made sure her gun was loaded, and she waited.
She was thirty-one years old, the man looked more, than forty. He wore a long, woollen coat, and a black suit beneath it. He arrived from the other and of the alley that she had anticipated, but it made no matter. She stepped out of the dark, facing him, and put a bullet through his head. His skull jerked back from the force, and he trembled back, but didn’t fall. She took aim to make another shot, but the man, quiet as a ghost, spoke.
“Don’t.”
When he said the word, her fingers froze on the trigger. She saw that she hadn’t missed the first time: the bullet caught him in the middle of his forehead, and a single stream of blood trickled from the wound. He wiped it off with the sleeve of his coat, and started to walk towards her. She wanted to flee, to run for her life, but she couldn’t move.
“You won’t be needing that.”
The dead man took the gun out of her hands and tucked it away. Then he lowered her arms to her sides.
“You… don’t… frighten me,” she uttered, fighting to pronounce every word.
“No? You don’t frighten me either.” He smiled slyly. “Better men than you have tried to kill me. Though I have to admit, no better woman.”
He slipped his hand down hear jeans, his fingers cold and strong as they grabbed her. He slipped a finger between her lips, while he kissed her. His mouth was as cold as his fingers. She would tell him off, but her voice was hers no more. Finally he took his hand out of her jeans.
“Come with me,” he said. His voice was the calmness of the grave. She did as he said.
From the alley, they went inside a building, then down, to a basement old and damp. He opened a heavy metal door, which closed after she stepped in. Flickering electric lights turned on, exposing a room no larger than her kitchen, with only a messy desk, a chair and an old wardrobe in it. No bed, she noted. The dead man didn’t sleep.
“You may speak now.” She still couldn’t move. “Who sent you after me?”
His face was two inches from hers. She could see inside his skull through the hole where she shot him. She looked him in the eye.
“Nobody.”
He unzipped her jacket and pinched one of her nipples through her shirt. It was erect from the cold. Her mouth twisted from the pain. She would not cry out.
“Don’t lie to me.”
His voice remained calm. He took of her jacket, and gently touched her breast.
“I must know. Who wants me dead?”
You’re already dead, she thought, but said nothing.
He knelt down in front of her, gently lifted up her legs, on at a time, and took of her shoes and socks. It was warmer than it had been outside, but the floor was still cold under her bare feet.
“You will speak his name,” he promised. “Why not now? Who wants me dead?”
“I won’t tell you.” She killed for a living, but she had a code. She would never tell.
The dead man undid the button on her jeans, unzipped them, and pulled them down. He moved her leg so she would step out of them. He stroked her through her panties. She felt ashamed. She still couldn’t move.
“Are you going to strip me naked?”
She tried to appear strong, but it sounded stupid. Of course he is. That’s what he’s been doing.
“If you do not tell.” He sounded more sorrowful than threatening.
“I won’t. I can’t.”
Moving faster than anyone she’d seen, he grabbed the neck of her shirt with both hands and ripped it open, then pulled the torn garment down her arms and threw it away. I’m afraid, she realised.
He walked behind her, and he moved his hands up along her spine, until it found the cold metal clasp.
“Who?” he asked, and she shook her head as her bra fell to the ground.
He didn’t lift his hand, touching her back and arm, and then her breast as he came in front of her again.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, stroking her.
He leaned closer and kissed her breast just below her nipple. He then put it in his mouth and licked it gently.
“Stop it,” she shouted. As a response, he pinched her other nipple, and twisted it. This time, she let out a cry.
When he finished twisting it, he let go.
“Just one name,” he almost sang. “Who sent you to kill me?”
“I…” she started, but stopped. I can’t tell? She could. But then she’d kill her.
He did not wait for long. He pulled her panties down, leaving her stark naked in the cold, silent room.
He walked to his desk, took off his coat, and pulled the chair to the middle of the room. He sat her down, her waist almost hanging off the chair, her legs apart. She had waxed the day before, which made her feel even more naked. Sitting like this, the whole of her was exposed to him.
He knelt before Sarah and put his hands on her thighs. He gave her a kiss; his cold, dead lips touched the warm ones between her legs.
“What must I do with you?” he asked in a sombre voice.
He pulled her lips apart and kissed her again, longer than the last time. Her body responded: her breathing quickened, her sex became more sensitive, her nipples stiffened. She didn’t want it, she wanted to get up and run away, but she couldn’t. The dead man was between her legs, placing kisses on his inner thighs and her lips, and licking her. His saliva merged with the moist that had come from her.
“Stop,” she cried. “Stop, I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything, just stop. Just let me go.”
He looked up at her. His forehead left a smear of blood on her stomach. His eyes were a deep, deep blue. He looks said, she realised.
“Let you go, yes. Why should I? It has been so long since I have kissed a woman.” He kissed her belly.
“You said that if I told you…”
“I said that you would tell me. I did not say I would let you go. Now tell me.”
That angered her. It was good. Anger was better than fear.
“Why should I now? If you’ll keep me here anyway.”
He shook his head, and stood up, sorrowfully. He went back to his desk. Sarah’s anger and fear gave her a rush of strength, she lifted herself up, ready to run, but a moment later a force pushed her back against the chair, stronger than before. She fought, but to no end.
He walked back to her, with a wooden ruler in his hand.
“What’s that for? You’re gonna spank me like a little girl?”
“No. I will spank you like a woman,” he said.
He knelt back. He stroked her loins with his free hand, then he lifted up the ruler to strike. No, she wanted to say, but she was late; he brought down the ruler on her swollen lips, and she yelped in anguish.
“Tell me. Please,” he pleaded.
When she didn’t, he started hitting her vulva, again and again. He didn’t strike too strong, but he didn’t stop either, until her lips were huge and red, and she could no longer bear the pain.
“Amanda Heith,” she cried out. “She hired me, she told me to kill you.”
“Thank you.”
His head went down again, and he started to lick her again. The coldness of his tongue made her shiver as it touched her burning labia. But it did not spend too much time there; instead it started to circle around her clitoris, stimulating her spot until her body became fully aroused. Her muscles tightened, her heartbeat accelerated. Then he stopped, looking at her with eyes that regretted long-hidden secrets.
The ruler moved supernaturally fast and sent a burst of agony through her body as its end landed on her clitoris. She shrieked inarticulately. When the pain died down a bit, he struck her again. Nine times he hit her, never missing her clitoris. She screamed each time, always louder than before. After each strike he waited a while; he never hit her when she’d anticipated. When he finished, it felt like the cool air had tiny teeth, biting at her private parts.
“You should not have shot me,” he said remorsefully.
He reached in his pocket, and pulled out a long needle.
“Do you know what it felt like, when the bullet went through my brain?” He shook his head. “I cannot show you, but I can show you this.”
With one hand, he pulled her clitoral hood, exposing her clitoris, red from the beating. With the other hand, he slowly moved the needle towards it from the side. Sarah screamed when the point penetrated the soft tissue. Everything was gone, only the agony remained as he pushed the needle through the most sensitive part of her body. When it was halfway in, he stopped.
She panted. He put on finger on her throbbing clitoris, which made her scream again.
“Ten,” he said, sadder than ever.
At first she didn’t understand; then she saw him reach for the ruler.
He didn’t miss this time either. Each strike landed on her clitoris, sending her over the edge. The pain was excruciating. She probably fainted for a split second, between hits, but he felt each one.
“Stop,” she begged. “Please, stop, please…”
He did. After ten, as he’d promised. She was crying by then. Her throat hurt from the constant screaming. But her torment had not ended; the dead man grabbed the needle, and continued to push it forward. It was as if her clitoris was on fire. She was still screeching, but she no longer heard herself.
After what seemed like hours, he pulled out the needle. He looked smaller now, like he had shrunk.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised again.
He went back to the desk, and brought back a bottle full of some colourless liquid and a small cloth.
“This is going to hurt, but I will have to sterilize your wounds.”
He poured a bit of the liquid on her clitoris. She screamed again. After all the torture, the alcohol on the fresh wound was fuel to the fire. But he dried most of it off with the cloth, and gave her inner labia a long, passionate kiss.
“Go now,” said he, softly. “Run.”
And she did. The unwieldy door opened, and she ran through it, never bothering to stop for any of her clothes. She ran away out of the building and the alley. The streets were crowded, and everyone’s eyes were on her, as she pushed her way through them, naked, her vulva burning red.
Back in the cold, silent room, the dead man wiped the blood off his forehead once again, while the big metal door closed on him.