The Spider Pt. 06

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The cull.
7.8k words
4.64
16.8k
14

Part 6 of the 44 part series

Updated 06/16/2023
Created 08/12/2016
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It was a beautiful and quiet morning in the gated, private street of Northbrook. A mild fall morning was blossoming, the sun was shining, the fallen leaves chased each other in the streets as the warm and cool of autumn mingled together.

John was laying in his bed, only half awake. He was on his back, his eyes closed. His hands gripped the sheets as he felt himself orgasm into a warm and soft mouth. He felt that mouth suck from him, drink from him, pulling every drop from his rigid cock. He felt his bed shake as she quivered with orgasm herself each time his warm cum rolled over her tongue and into her belly. After a minute or so of that, she shopped cumming, and kissed his softening cock as she pulled her lips away.

Opening his eyes, he looked up and smiled at the blonde beauty, she smiled back, radiant in the soft morning glow.

"Good morning, Amanda," he said. "Good of you to wake me up the way I like."

Amanda smiled down at John, happy and refreshed. She stretched out her long, lithe body, her breasts pulling taut against her rib cage as she reached for the ceiling.

"Every morning, John, just the way you showed me."

She let out a little yawn, and got out of bed. She stopped and looked in the mirror, fixed her hair slightly, wiped her mouth, and looked back at John. She smiled at him, feeling a little silly at being so vain in front of the man who owned her.

John smiled back. There's something very special about this person, he thought. I don't know what it is. More than morning blowjobs. I could get used to this.

"I'll get us our coffee, John," she said. She walked over to the tempered glass door that led to the rest of the house, and she put her hands up to the control panel, stopped, and looked back at him.

"What's the security code again?" she asked him.

"You don't need it, darling," he told her, still half asleep in his bed. "Remember, you are entered in the system now, all you need to do is put your fingerprint on the sensor, and the door will open."

"Oh, right," she said. She blushed. John thought it was cute the way that she still felt privileged to know his security information and how to open the eight-inch-thick reinforced security door that protected him while he slept.

Amanda didn't know that there was no way she could ever betray him, even under the most extreme torture leading to her own death, there was no way she would ever reveal anything that could lead to her Master being in danger. John had seen to that when he enslaved her, he had bent her will to the point where she would sacrifice anything to protect him if needed.

She put her finger to the sensor pad, and as he had said, the door slid open immediately. The door slid into the rest of the security cage that had been built into the framework of his bedroom and study. The cage ran through the walls, under the floors, and over the ceiling of his bedroom and study.

It was designed to keep him safe to the point of a small missile hitting it, he had his computers, fresh water, and an electrical generator in there as well. Some food. It had cost him a fortune. But he would be able to hole up in there for a couple of weeks if he needed to, and virtually nothing could get to him.

Amanda stepped through the door and into the hallway. John watched her tight little ass in her little panties as she padded down the hallway and to the kitchen to get them both some coffee. He thought about fucking her there when he got home later that night, if he had the energy after what was going to be a long day. She loved that now, begged him to take her there in the dark, soft bed. He thought that if she begged tonight, like she often did, curled up his arms, there would be no way to resist her. No matter how tired he was.

The door whisked back shut behind her.

Still half awake, needing coffee, he reached over to his nightstand and looked at his phone. 9:23, his clock told him as he lit the screen up. He sat there for a second, blinking at it.

Why is it so late, he was thinking groggily? Why am I still in bed? What happened to my wakeup call?

Amanda's scream reverberated off the walls and the security glass. John leapt out of bed, and ran to the control panel. He jabbed at the numbers on the panel in a panic, entering the wrong information a couple of times, before he remembered to use his own fingerprint.

The door whisked open, and John ran to find Amanda.

He burst through the hallway and into his living room, sunken beneath the rest of the floors. He went down the three stairs and ran across the carpet. Amanda was standing in the center of the room, her hand on her mouth, crying. She saw John, and turned to him, and pointed up at the ceiling.

The three men hanging up there were struggling against the black filament that they were suspended from the ceiling by, kicking their restrained legs futilely, their hands secured behind their backs. They had the same black filament wrapped around their eyes and mouths, and they were dangling helplessly up there, blind and unable to make a sound, struggling pointlessly.

The smell of urine filled the air. They had been up there for some hours.

John pulled Amanda into his arms, she sobbed onto his chest.

These three men were John's security detail that he kept in his house overnight. Someone had broken in, gotten past all his security and alarms, and gotten the drop on three armed professionals and disarmed them completely, hanging them from the ceiling of John's living room like so much slaughtered meat.

Well, not someone. John knew exactly who.

John's phone rang. He looked at it. It was his personal assistant, Lynda.

"John?" she said. "You had better get to the office."

******************************

Lynda had an espresso ready for John when he arrived at the office. He threw it back with one gulp, bitter and hot in his mouth. He didn't taste any of it.

Lynda looked nervous as she let John in, she had been in his employ for some time, but had never seen John so distraught. And she worried how he would handle seeing his office.

Everything had been thrown around. Every drawer in his desk had been pulled out and emptied. His closet had been ransacked, his spare suits tossed about wildly, some of them torn apart by what could have been claws. His computer had been smashed open, the hard drive had been pulled out of it and taken.

John looked over at his wall safe, which was sitting open somehow, although he never failed to close it. He rushed past Lynda to it. Inside were the stacks of money that he kept there, shoved aside, but it didn't look like any of it was taken. He wasn't surprised by that... she wasn't here for money.

There had been a manila folder in there, though. There wasn't one now.

"Fuck," he said, looking around at the destruction.

Lynda didn't bother to ask if he wanted her to call the police. She knew he didn't.

"I guess I could use another espresso," he told her, and she nodded, but paused for a second in concern before she went to get it. She walked over, and put her hand on his shoulder, and drew him in. She pressed herself against him, holding him, letting her closeness comfort him, flow into him.

Finally, she stepped back, holding his hand, and looked him in the eyes.

We're in this together, her eyes told him.

Lynda went to get the espresso.

John went and sat down at his desk, for lack of any other idea. He clicked on his keyboard out of habit, but of course his computer was destroyed. His monitor remained black.

Then he saw the note, folded and laying unobtrusively on his desktop.

I gave you a warning, the note said. I told you that I would disappear you if you didn't leave the city. I gave you a chance, and you don't get another.

Lynda brought the espresso in and put it in front of John. He picked it up, absentmindedly, the heat burning his fingers which he would only notice later.

I was in your home; the note went on. I looked at you through your glass, saw you sleeping next to your whore. I watched you dream. You looked peaceful there, sleeping and dreaming.

John gulped at his drink.

Your dreams will be over soon, John. The Spider will take them away from you.

John's hand was trembling as he clattered the empty cup to his saucer. He wondered if he was at all ready for what he had started, if he would finish it, or it would finish him.

******************************

Later that night, the Lexus crunched over the gravel road to the warehouse. The security gate, topped with razor wire, clattered open as they approached.

John knew that gate would stop nothing.

The Lexus pulled up to the security booth. The young security guard, Alex, leaned out. He spoke to the driver, and looked in the backseat where John sat.

"Hello John," Alex said. "Beautiful evening, isn't it? Man, I love fall in the City. Always have."

The other security guard came over, and began to take a look at the exterior of the car for some reason. This man's name was Lewis, and he was an ugly man, inside and out, pockmarked, scarred. John had never heard him say anything good about anything. John didn't think he ever would. The ugliness and hate of the City seemed to have killed whatever was in Lewis a long time ago, leaving behind only barren ground.

"Hang on," John said to the driver, and he opened the back door. The door beeped as John got out.

John walked up to the booth, where Alex still sat inside. This wasn't unheard of, John was usually friendly with the staff, still, Alex got up and opened the door of the booth and stepped outside into the brisk evening air.

"What can I do for you, boss?"

"Oh, nothing, Alex," John said. "How is quitting smoking? Still haven't had one?"

The young man's eyes lit up.

"Not a one!" he said. "Ever since you gave me that advice that one time, I haven't had a single one. I haven't even had a craving for one!"

John smiled back. This didn't surprise him, but it still made him happy to hear. He reached into the pockets of his overcoat, looking for something there.

"And how's everything else?" John wanted to know.

"Good!" Alex enthused. "I've been clean for over a year now, ever since I started here, and I'm getting pretty serious with Jenny. We've been talking a bit, maybe moving in together if we can afford a nice place in a safe neighborhood, I think we'll do it. I've been thinking about going back and getting my degree, maybe just night classes. I don't think I can swing being a full time student, but a class or so a semester at night, I bet I can do that, you know?"

"Absolutely," John said. John looked at the younger man, looked at him very intently. Alex seemed not to notice.

"I want you to study very hard, Alex," John went on. "I know you can do it, I know you'll be a great student, and you'll stay clean. Right?"

Alex nodded, still smiling.

"There's nothing you can't do. You'll get your degree, maybe continue for a Master's degree, there's nothing stopping you. You can provide a nice life for yourself and Jenny. I know you can."

"Sure," Alex nodded. "It'll take some time, but if you think so- "

"I don't think it'll take that much time," John said, finally finding what he'd been looking for, and pulling his checkbook out of his pocket. He scribbled on it a bit, and tore the check off and handed it to the younger man.

"Here's three hundred thousand dollars," John told him. Alex took the check with a numb hand, his eyes wide in mystery. "Take this money and get yourself a nice place, take a year or two off and get that degree. OK?"

Alex could only nod.

"Let's call this your last night, Alex. Things are about to get crazy here, and you need to register for classes as soon as possible. Right? You go home to Jenny now, and start that new life together. Go on!"

Alex turned to go, his feet moving in multiple directions at once, seemingly.

"Oh, and Alex?"

The young man turned around.

"Good on you for quitting smoking. It's not easy to do."

John watched the young man almost sprint over the gravel to his beat up car. He felt good. It had occurred to John that he really couldn't say how much time he had left in this world. It felt right to do someone some good before the clock ran out, he thought.

"Damn, boss," the other security guard was muttering. "Any of that money coming my way?"

John's eyes narrowed as he looked at Lewis.

"No," was all he said.

"What?" Lewis yelled. The driver stepped out of the car, a full head and shoulder bigger than Lewis. John put up his hand to the driver. He had this.

"Why did you give that fucking pussy that kind of money and you aren't giving me shit? Fuck you!"

John looked at Lewis for a few moments.

"I would think very carefully about what you are doing right now," John said finally, his voice cold and measured. "You should get in that security booth, it seems to me."

Lewis' face contorted. "Asshole," he mumbled under his breath, defeated.

He got in the booth. He sat in the glare of the fluorescent light and pulled the door shut.

John and the driver got in the Lexus and proceeded to the warehouse.

Lewis fumbled around in his shirt pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He put a cigarette to his lips, and lit it up, smoking and looking out the dirty window of the security booth. He flicked the lighter absentmindedly a few times, and took a drag on his cigarette, deeply.

He turned around and looked back towards the warehouse.

******************************

John crossed the wide open floor of the warehouse, empty now. There was one desk in the center, nothing fancy, an old plywood desk that looked as if it had been a teacher's desk in the fifties or sixties. Two suited men stood on either side of the desk, their arms crossed. Their names were Crease and Carlos, cold men, sharp and dangerous.

There was a single wooden chair behind the desk.

John took that chair. The driver of the Lexus nodded to the suited men, and took his own place directly behind John, crossing his hands over each other.

John pulled out his laptop, and spent the next hour looking at that. The other three men kept their eyes moving all around the wide open space of the warehouse, looking constantly for anything out of the ordinary. These three were the best security that John could afford, they had guarded Presidents, kings, celebrities. Each was trained in several forms of martial arts, had served in the most elite squads in various militaries, the kind politicians didn't admit even existed if they didn't have to. None of these men had allowed even a single scratch to anyone under their watch.

John knew that none of them would ever see the Spider coming.

The driver was a big German by the name of Gunther. He was proficient in every kind of martial art that John had ever heard of and some he hadn't, and Gunther had proved his skill at all of those in the world of mixed martial arts professional fighting for years before John had hired him. Gunther had never lost a fight, although he came close once, and despite his German reserve and incredible training, had bitten the ear off his opponent and almost killed the other man before the fight was broken up. Gunther's career was over, and that's when John stepped in to hire him.

John hoped that Gunther would be able to buy him some time when she arrived.

Later, after the sun was completely down, the door opened at the other end of the warehouse, and Big Fitz and his boys strolled in.

John hated Big Fitz. Big Fitz was a self-styled throwback to the days of the Irish mob in the City, a sadistic man who delighted in being crueler than he had to be because he thought that was how a real mobster dealt with his problems. He was a squat man in an expensive and gaudy suit that fit him poorly, too much jewelry, beady eyes sunk in deep sockets bulging with barely repressed rage at everything around him.

Big Fitz's two companions were goons of the old school as well, a couple of neckless bruisers who took professional pleasure in competing to see who could hurt the people who upset Big Fitz the most. The stories of the petty beatings and humiliations that these three handed out were legendary, trifling slights met with brutal and sudden violence.

"Hello, Fitz," John said, barely looking up from his laptop.

"John," Fitz said.

John looked up finally.

"You have money for me?"

Fitz walked over to the cheap schoolteacher's desk and put a briefcase on the desk in front of John. John nodded at the floor, and Fitz took up an empty briefcase in return, to be delivered back filled with money again on the next visit.

"Thank you, Fitz," John said. "I hate to think how you got this money."

"I do what I have to," Fitz said, but John waved him off.

"What else do you have to tell me?"

Fitz took a couple of steps towards John, hesitated, then looked back at his two goons. He took a couple more steps towards John and leaned in confidentially. Crease and Carlos kept a sharp eye on the cheap mobster, their hands hovering around their jackets where their Berettas hung.

"Three more of my guys were killed last month," Fitz said in a low voice. It seemed that this was something he was keeping from his crew.

John's face sank at the news. He'd been dreading this news.

"Red Eyes?" John asked, in a similar whisper, not sure if he wanted the answer.

"Unless there's someone else out there ripping my men open from throat to asshole, tearing their guts and lungs out and taking all the blood to I don't know where, and then hanging my boys up like fucking pigs from the trees, then yeah," Fitz told him. "It's Red Eyes."

"Fuck," John said in a hushed voice. He'd been saying that word a lot that way today, it occurred to him.

"My boys think it's the fucking Koreans," Fitz went on. "They want to start killing some of those motherfuckers in retaliation."

"It's not the Koreans," John said. "I asked them. They would have been truthful with me."

"Are you sure?" Big Fitz asked. "Those fucking cocksuckers are all liars, sneaky little liars, every one of them."

"They don't lie to me same as you don't," John replied. Fitz seemed to accept this. "No, it's not the Koreans. It's not anyone who reports to me."

"Then who or what the fuck is Red Eyes?"

John had no idea. There were only whispers, and rumors, and dead bodies. Some people claimed that they had seen a pair of red and inhuman eyes glowing like blood in the night. And then someone would be found ripped apart and eviscerated, hanging, drained of all the blood that had been in their bodies. One person, two people, five or six grown men: it didn't seem to make any difference how many, how armed, or who they were.

Except they were all thugs and criminals.

John just shook his head.

"Well, what the fuck?" Fitz demanded. "What are you going to do about it? What do we pay you for, if not for protection? We're getting killed out there!"

"I need some time," John croaked. He shook his head. "I need to think."

"God damn it," Fitz said. "This asshole is hanging us up like meat. You need to do something. You think it might be this Spider bitch?"

John shook his head no.

"You don't know shit," Fitz said.

John couldn't argue. His mouth had gone dry. He leaned back on the cheap wooden chair. He looked around, trying to clear his head. He looked over back at Gunther, relieved to see the big German standing there, arms crossed, looking intently at Big Fitz, a frown on his face.

John glanced over at Carlos, then over to Crease-

Where was Crease?

John stood up, shoved the chair from the table with a start. It fell over, cracking on the hard concrete floor.

"Where is Crease?" he asked Gunther, who shook his head and sprang into action, stepping closer to John, shielding John with his body. On John's left, Carlos pulled his pistol out and swung into a crouch, pointing his weapon into the darkness of the rest of the warehouse.