Dark Impulse

FIFTEEN

I got the gang together. It was night when we drove out to Glendale where Doolittle's house was situated on a corner facing a large park on two sides. Behind was a stone cliff and to the side a thick hedge that blocked any view from the house next door.

The windows were dark except for one which cast the flickering glow of a TV screen. We put on our ski masks and got out, except for Jean who got in the driver's seat and drove off in case security passed by.

Doolittle had given me the key to the house, so getting in would be easy. We sneaked up the driveway next to the hedge to the back of the house. There was a screened-in back porch and the door was latched, so I had to cut the screen and lift the latch. The key fit the indoor lock. I eased it open slowly. According to what Doolittle had told me, about the layout of the house, the room with the flickering light would be the master bedroom which was on the other side. I turned on a pen light to guide us.

"What if she's got someone with her?" Debra whispered.

"How do you spell screwed?" I replied.

We went through a kitchen into a dining room then some kind of office-library and into a sunken living room. Beyond was a hallway at the end of which was a traverse hall that had a guest bedroom on one end; a bathroom in the middle and the master bedroom on the other end.

Suddenly, Lisa appeared at the end of the hallway, her nude body outlined by the luminous glow from the master bedroom. She flicked on the bathroom light. In a moment there was the sound of a shower turned on. Harold and I put our backs to the wall on either side of the bathroom door. I reached in and flicked the light switch off. I heard Lisa utter a curse and the shower went off. There was the pad of wet feet on the tile floor. I grabbed her wrist as she came to the doorway. Harold grabbed the other. She let out a piercing scream, but there was no one to hear it.

Debra hit her in the stomach, and we dragged her back into the bedroom. I got my camera out of the duffel Debra had carried and began filming as she and Harold spread-eagled her to the bed.

"Let me go you cocksuckers!"

"Shut up, bitch," Debra said, and slapped her hard back and forth. Then strapped a leather blindfold on her. "Scream all you want, bitch. It'll only excite us more."

Harold got between her legs, so excited his banana cock was jerking up against his belly. He fumbled a thrust then got it right and rammed home.

Lisa grimaced, clenching her teeth, her tits jiggling as Harold slammed into her. Up and down his ass went faster and faster until his body went spastic. When it was over he collapsed on top of her, panting like a dog. I took my turn on her then Debra straddled her and made her lick her cunt.

When we were through, I dialed a number on my cell phone. "She's ready," I said.

About twenty minutes later, Doolittle and Jean came in and Harold and Debra left. I stayed to finish filming. Without saying a word the doctor took off his clothes and climbed on the bed between Lisa's legs. His cock was big and hard. Enough, in my opinion, to satisfy any woman. But Lisa was one of those women who liked to sample a variety of meat. The doctor wasn't in a mood to be gentle. He slapped her face hard as he rammed his cock in her then bit down savagely on her tits. Her screams were piercing. When he was through with her, he pulled out, dripping copious amounts of come on her thighs. He went into the bathroom, took a shower then came back and sat down in an armchair. Jean held the flame of a butane lighter against Lisa's nipples then her clit. The screams were beyond anything human. This was truly the cry of the damned in hell. Doolittle was hard again. Lust was sculpted into every facial feature. He climbed back on her and spared her nothing, thrusting into her relentlessly. By now there was only endless whimpers and cries of agony coming from her. Her wrists and ankles bled as she tore at her restrains. He hit her with his fists, screaming epithets like a madman—which by now he was.

He was still beating her when Jean and I left.

SIXTEEN

A few days later, according to the local news, the Doolittles's cleaning lady found the nude couple in their bedroom. Mrs. Doolittle, dead from multiple blunt force injuries, was restrained on their bed while Dr. Doolittle was slumped over in an armchair, dead from a self inflicted gun shot. Murder-suicide apparently.

And I had practically all of it on tape. What the media would have paid for that. But, the drawback would be in explaining how I came by such a tape.

As a nude Alice was fixing me breakfast, there was a knock on the door. I put her in the closet and answered it. A slim attractive woman in a gray suit announced herself as Detective Sergeant Williams with the RCPD.

"I'm doing a routine investigation into the murder-suicide of Dr. Doolittle and his wife."

"Tragic, I said. I heard about it on the news. The world has lost a great man."

Her face remained passive, but I could tell she knew bull shit when she heard it.

"You were his patient, were you not?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And you saw him on the morning of the same day he killed himself?"

I nodded.

"Did he seem upset, out of sorts, in any way?"

"Hmm, not that I recall."

"Hmph, that's odd. His secretary says, that after you left, he canceled all his remaining appointments for that day and stormed out of his office."

I shrugged. "Beats me. But why all the questions about what was just a murder-suicide?"

"Just routine."

She had a nice body. Like a dancer. Lush brown hair and grayish-blue eyes. Faint pink lipstick with a touch of mauve eye shadow. I wondered if she had handcuffs and a gun. I was getting turned on.

"I was wondering..." she said, "just what it is you do for a living?" Her grayish-blue eyes searched my face. She was good at concealing her feelings, but it's hard for a woman to resist me. I am, after all, fairly good looking. I could see interest in those perfect eyes.

"I film documentaries." I paused. "Say, would you like to come in? I'm sure you would be more comfortable sitting down. I forget my manners sometimes. Coffee?"

As she stepped inside I found myself wondering what she would look like hanging naked from a tree limb.

"Yes, please. Cream."

There was a brief awkwardness as her officious persona was dropped and her social feminine side emerged. As I made coffee, I saw her glance around the barren room.

"I lead a Spartan-like existence," I said. "I only splurge on cigarettes, haute cuisine, women, booze, riotous living and fast cars."

She smiled.

There was only a double wide bed with a nightstand, a table against a wall with three straight back chairs, and a laptop on the table. There were no pictures on the walls. The thought suddenly hit me that I would like to have Doolittle's painting of his nude wife.

She pulled out a chair from the table and sat down crossing shapely legs. She was wearing high heels, and I wondered how she would chase criminals in them.

I sat our coffees on the table and took a seat across from her. She sipped hers leaving a trace of lipstick on its white edge, like lipstick smeared on a white ball gag.

"There's one thing that puzzles me," she said, after a moment.

"Oh, really. "What's that?"

"Well, Doolittle's wife had third degree burns on her nipples and vagina."

"Doolittle burned her?"

"Um, that's just it. There was no cigarette lighter or matches about."

"That's odd," I said, nodding thoughtfully.

"Yes, I thought so, too."

"How do you explain it?"

She raised the coffee cup almost to her lips, paused, her eyes fixed on me. "There had to have been somebody else there."

I pretended surprise. "You think someone killed them and made it look like a murder-suicide?

"Hmm, don't know. It's a big house. Perhaps Doolittle left the bedroom for some reason, before he whacked himself, and left the lighter elsewhere. If he'd used matches to burn her there should have been remnants lying about. But there weren't any."

"Hmm, sounds like an intriguing murder mystery that would make a great subject for a documentary."

She smiled and glanced at my camcorder sitting on its tripod by the closet. She got up and walked over to it. Her heels clicked on the wood floor. "Is this what you use for your documentaries?" She stood with her back arched, the palms of her hands resting on the back of her hips, the fingertips pointed downward. It was an enticing pose done unconsciously on her part.

"No, I just carry that around on the off chance of something unusual popping up." The tape I'd taken at Doolittle's was still in it.

"I'm a complete klutz when it comes to cameras, lighting, focusing and all that."

"That's pretty much automatic," I said. "Hard to screw up."

She popped out the viewer and pressed the play button. Fortunately the battery was drained.

"I guess you've been taping a lot," she said, and flipped the viewer shut.

Like all good cops, she had a strongly developed sixth sense. I was certain that she felt there was a connection between me and what happened to the Doolittles, but what that was she didn't know. I lit a cigarette and saw her eyes fix on the bluish flame. Was she wondering what it would feel like on her nipples?

When she was at the door getting ready to leave, I asked her if she would like to go out sometime. She gave me her number. I knew she would. I was her only lead.

SEVENTEEN

It was late at night when I climbed into my silver Mustang and drove to Glendale. I circled the Doolitttle place several times. No lights were on. I would have to be quick. I backed into the driveway so my license plate didn't show. Yellow police tape was strung from the garage to the screened-in porch. I keyed open the door, snapping on my flashlight.

This shit was risky, but necessary. I paused at the door of the master bedroom and took out my lighter. I couldn't put it some place difficult to find. They'd probably searched the place thoroughly and wouldn't be likely to do so again. I rubbed off any fingerprints and tossed it on the floor near the baseboard at the head of the bed. It might be too obvious, but, what the hell, shit happens. Somebody would get an ass chew for incompetence. I backed out and stepped into the living room.

The lights came on.

Detective Williams was standing on the other side of the room at the office doorway. Smiling wryly. An automatic aimed at me.

"I thought you would show up after I mentioned that there wasn't a lighter at the crime scene. I had a hunch you were implicated somehow when Doolittle's secretary told me how he reacted to your visit. And here you are with a key to the back door and tossing a lighter into the bedroom. I told my colleagues about the missing lighter, but they weren't interested. It looked like a murder-suicide so that's what they decided it would be."

"That's what it was," I said. "All I did was film some of it—not the murder-suicide. I had no idea that was going to happen. We left before that—"

"We?"

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkened office door way and struck Williams on the head with a bronze bookend. She sank to the floor.

"Good thing I came," Jean said. "I got to thinking that I had fucked up by not leaving my lighter here."

EIGHTEEN

We tied and gagged Williams and put her in my trunk. I took a winding road through the park toward Jean's Aunt's place.

"I tried to call you," she said, "but you didn't answer, so I cut across the park to the Doolittles."

"Good thing you did."

"How do you like my hair?" she said. "I shampoo it everyday and brush it."

"Spiffy."

Jean's aunt was sitting at the kitchen table smoking and reading a movie magazine. Her false teeth were in a glass filled with liquid cleaner next to her elbow.

"Where's the key's to the farm, Marie?"

"You're not going out there this late, are you?" She sucked on the cigarette, her cheeks hollowing inward.

"Yeah."

"On the mantle."

Jean went through a bedroom toward the living room. I waited with the aunt.

"I don't suppose you could lend me a few bucks for a bottle, could you? I'll fuck you for it."

The lights from houses thinned out the farther we drove from the city until the landscape was black and the highway a narrow dirt road. Then we pulled into a dirt driveway next to a white frame house with and open porch.

"This belonged to my daddy," she said. She lit a kerosene lantern as we got out. I opened the trunk. Williams had revived. Her grayish-blue eyes stared up at me. I picked her up onto my shoulder.

"We've got chickens and pigs," Jean said, as she led me through a gate and down a path toward a block house silhouetted against the black landscape. We stopped by a pig pen next to it. "See that big old hog there," she said, raising the lantern above her head. "That's Hugo. He was my daddy's favorite. He won a blue ribbon at the state fair. My daddy taught me how to butcher pigs and ring the necks off chickens. And lots of other stuff. He was a survivalist. He believed a person ought to know how to hunt and grow their own food in case there was ever a nuclear war."

Rain began to patter on the tin roof as we entered the block house. Jean flipped a switch and florescent lights bounced off a blood stained floor and ceiling onto a long stainless steel table. Steel hooks hung from tracks in the ceiling. A pulley with chain was suspended from another track. Large sacks of salt were stacked in a corner on top of pallets. A screened-in fan was built into one wall. Another had meat cleavers, skinners, bone cutters, saws and several other tools I didn't recognize hanging from pegs.

I put Williams on the table. Jean pulled the automatic from the waist band of her jeans and placed the barrel against her head. "We're going to untie you, lady, but try one fucking thing and I'll blow your goddamn brains out."

"You know," I said to Jean, as I began untying Williams, "I think you ought to use a little make up. Eye shadow, lipstick—a pink like she has on, maybe. Nothing heavy. And have a dentist clean your teeth."

"What's wrong with my teeth?" she said, crestfallen.

"Oh, nothing really, nothing. It's just that they're a little yellow. You probably don't brush them like you should. Maybe too much coffee or pot."

I removed the gag from Williams. Jean placed her thumb on her lip and pushed it up. "Her teeth are really white."

"That's because she takes care of them. So could you, and yours would be just as white."

"Get up," Jean said to Williams, when I'd untied her.

Williams hung her legs over the side of the table and eased herself onto the floor. "You'll never get away with this," she said.

"Oh, we will, yeah," Jean said, casually. She jerked the gun upward. "Take your clothes off."

Williams glanced around the room; at the blood stained walls; the meat hooks hanging from the ceiling; the cutting and sawing utensils. Her eyes were wide with fear.

"What are you going to do...to me?"

"If you have to ask you don't need to know."

Slowly, with trembling hands, she took off her jacket then unbuttoned her blouse. She lay them on the table and unhooked her bra, kicked her heels off, stepped out of her skirt and slid down her panties. All these she placed on the table--and with a sudden swipe, Jean brushed them off onto the floor. Williams inhaled abruptly, her tits swelling upward.

"Now put your elbows on the table."

She had a really nice body. Sleek and perfect. I could imagine her dancing Swan Lake. I took my clothes off and hung them on a peg. I wanted to feel her skin on mine. I positioned myself behind her and eased up. The touch of her warm smooth ass against the head of my cock was electrifying. I spread her ass cheeks and slowly forced my cock into her cunt. She arched her back and tried to pull away from me, but Jean grabbed her wrists and bent her over the table. I rammed into her so hard that she cried out. I was in and out of her like a piston in a race car.

She was gasping as hard for breath as I.

When I was finally done, I collapsed on top of her.

I felt come dripping out of her onto my thighs. She twisted her head from side to side as if she were trying to shake what had happened from her head. My body rose and fell on top of her, from the force of her breathing, like a surfer riding the swells.

I pulled out of her. My cock was quivering, glistening with her juices.

Jean released her. She remained bent over the table. Suddenly her legs gave out from under her, and she sank to her knees then sprawled over onto the floor.

I picked her up and laid her out on the table. She placed her forearm over her eyes. Her thighs were wet. I climbed onto the table taking her legs up until her knees touched her tits. My cock had stayed hard. I leaned forward sinking deeply into her perfect flesh. She lowered her forearm. Her eyes were aglow. Teeth clenched. Her hips rose to meet my thrusts with a fierce anger. Her breath came in labored bursts from her nostrils. Her tits rising and falling rapidly. I couldn't hold back. I came so hard it was like shooting ground glass.

As I withdrew, her eyes bore into me. With what thoughts I couldn't imagine.

I sacked her over my shoulder. Jean led the way. The pigs were suddenly alive with squealing. I kissed her perfect body and tossed her into the muddy pen.

NINETEEN

There was a knock at the door. A better-than-average looking guy of medium height, wearing a hooded sweat shirt and jeans, was standing there.

"I'm Barry, Tracy's boyfriend. She told me you had some really boss weed."

I recognized him from the sub. Cutie pie's guy. Pre-med.

"And you--"

"Wanted to buy an ounce. Trace said it was mind altering, course she's never smoked before." he chuckled. "But she said you said it was White Willow and that's some wicked shit."

"Hmm, is Trace with you?" I asked, using the familiar.

"Yeah, she's down in the car."

"It'll cost you four an ounce."

He tried to intimidate me by looking annoyed. "Man, that's kinda steep."

"That's because I don't deal in chicken shit amounts. You want it cheaper buy in pounds." I paused, looking conciliatory. "But I know how it is--going to college and all. Must be expensive. You're a smart guy. So you've got Tracy footing part of the bill. Now she's alright for that, but when you get through med school you're gonna need a wife who is sharp and sophisticated—someone who can further your career socially and politically. So you can get the better class of suckers--er, patients. The Knob Hill crowd. And let's face it, Tracy's not that someone."

"Man, what the fuck are you saying?"

"Wait a minute," I said, and shut the door. I got an ounce of weed out of the closet and went back to the door. I handed it to him.

"I'm saying I'll take it out in trade."

I watched him go down to the car and get in. Several minutes passed then Tracy got out and Barry drove off. I left the door open. I heard her footsteps on the stairs. She came in. I shut the door. There were tears on her cheeks. I unbuttoned her blouse then unhooked her bra. I got down and unlaced her joggers, pulled them off then the socks. I stood back up and unbuckled her belt and unzipped her jeans, pulling them down along with the panties.

I took my clothes off and led her to the bed.

There's no thrill greater than fucking someone's girl friend, especially when she has just realized she's being pimped. The only greater thrill would be to fuck a prepubescent girl.

She lay down on the bed without being told to do so. She didn't move when I entered her. At first. Then she started raising her hips, rotating them, moaning, until, finally, she was gasping.

I gave her some weed to smoke after wards. Then when she was properly sedated, I injected her with cocaine while my dick was in her. She went wild.