7. This is not the spice you were looking for.

7

This is not the spice you were looking for.

Camila

S mitty acts like I'm not even here, aiming directly at Demetri like a charging bull. He's nearly at him in three steps, but I stick the blunt edge of my ax out and plunge it into his stomach. Blood falls from his mouth like vomit, and maybe it is. It's too dark to tell, and I don't care to investigate.

Before he has time to recover, Demetri has already set the flashlight on the ground and sent his fists into the inmate's stomach. Smitty keels over once more, the same foul liquid spewing from his teeth hole. Demetri sends his elbow down the back of his neck, and the guy splats down flat, wheezing something frightful, like maybe the blow was too much.

Harkins doesn't ask to stop, and I don't want him to. I grab the flashlight, leaving them in the dark, the brute percussion of his fists against the pedophile's bones is the only noise left in the cell block. "What? No one else wants to play anymore?" I chortle, waving my little beam of illumination around, but every single one of the cowards stay pressed to the back of their cells, their hands shielding their faces from the glow.

"Shame. We're just getting started." I find a dead cop on the ground—my favorite kind.

I use my foot to turn him over and look for what I need. "Bring him to the door."

Harkins doesn't miss a beat, dragging Smitty over to the bars. "Unzip his jumpsuit." The guy's eyes go wide with panic, but he's too weak, too pulverized by Demetri's hands to fight back.

Demetri doesn't bother to ask why; he just does it. When Smitty is ass out to the cell door, exposed to the other pedos, I take the two pairs of handcuffs I commissioned from my dead pig buddy and secure one ring to a cell bar, the other to Smitty's wrist. I do the same on the other side so that both his arms are stretched behind his back, locking him to his own cell.

"On your knees," I command, knowing damn well it'll be agonizingly painful for him to support himself that way.

Good.

"P-please." He's sputtering nonsense about forgiveness. "I-I found God, I've repented. P-please."

"Didn't you hear her, buddy? She's your God." Demetri's voice is full of amusement as he takes the unmoving chainsaw blade and uses it to tilt Smitty's head up.

"Spit." I stick the handle of my ax out in front of his face.

"N-No, God." His nose makes one snot bubble after the next.

"Spit, Smitty," Harkins encourages him.

He's leaking nonsense from all his holes, shaking his head like it's somehow going to stop me from doing anything.

"Look, it's your asshole's funeral. You can make it a little smoother and help by lubing it up, or we can rawdog this whole handle dry. Whaddya think?" I push it closer to his mouth.

His spit is so dry, it sounds windy.

Demetri grunts in annoyance.

"Last chance." I hit his mouth with the wooden end, his pained cry ricocheting off the iron bars.

Smitty manages a wet glob, but I'm pretty sure I pull the handle away too soon, so it lands on the floor. Can't tell. Too fucking dark. And I'm too eager to shove this thing into his colon.

"Deep breaths now. This one's gonna burn a little," I coach him, positioning the end of my ax below his crack.

He's mumbling incoherently, shaking and pissing all over the place and kinda killing my vibe. I push that handle in anyway.

Okay, not as easy as it looks to just rape somebody's ass. Go figure. I push a little harder, but it may not be physically possible to cram something so big inside something so little for the first time. I mean, that thing is about as thick as my wrist.

"You good?" Demetri asks, shining a light my way.

Maybe I don't know anatomy as well as I thought. "I just can't get it."

"Want my help?" He just stands there, waiting to see.

I try again, but I really can't, and I'm kind of disappointed in myself. "Yeah," I sigh.

Demetri comes behind me, wrapping his grip over mine, hands large enough to hold mine and the handle. I lean back into his touch, but the moment is fleeting. In one, powerful thrust, he sends my arm forward.

My biceps burn from the blunt force but it's the shrill screech Smitty releases when the butt of my handle buries itself an inch inside of him that makes it all worth it. I pull only a little. It does nothing but make him scream louder, and with no say on my part, Harkins sends the handle deeper.

Blood sprays over my hand, the sounds from Smitty's mouth nothing short of symphonic in the cell block. I can hear Demetri's breathing just over my shoulder, my arms burning with the back and forth pull of the ax, even though I'm not the one doing the brunt of the work.

"God!" Smith pleads, sucking a loud gust of air with his sobs.

But I am not a merciful God. I'm a butt-raping God who's starting to wonder if maybe Pilates is a good idea. I really don't have the stamina for this shit. But Harkins moves our arms in sync, and together, we fuck his ass with the ax handle.

It's not so much fucking as it is tearing his rectum apart, shreds of tissue sticking to the wood as I move it in and out. My hand is slippery on the handle from the blood, but it makes no difference. We keep going, moving without fail until I feel a barrier creating some sort of resistance.

It only enrages me, giving me a second burst of energy to keep my arms moving through the burn. Smith's bitching has turned into a gargled mess of donkey braying; there's no words anymore, but it somehow fuels me further.

His body seizes, but I don't pause, I don't break, I just keep moving. It's harder now than before, Smitty's arms shaking violently behind him. He convulses but doesn't die, so I work even faster.

I hear a noise that sounds like ripping, and that's when his head drops down, hanging beneath his shoulders, limp and lifeless. My arm is still moving, until finally, I feel a squeeze on my forearm.

Looking down, I see Demetris' hand wrapped around my wrist now, slowing me. How long had it been just me? I wheeze, struggling to breathe, sweaty and my arm almost numb from exhaustion.

I'm too embarrassed to ask, though. Instead, I just pull my ax out, Smitty's inner tubings trying to hold onto my weapon at the last minute and sucking it back in. I give one more firm tug, and with it comes out his asshole's goodies, bits of the pedo splashing loudly on the ground.

"What do you need?" Demetri asks before my ax has even dropped from my hand.

"I just need a second," I breathe loudly, trying to get a hold of myself.

"We need to move fast if we want to get your boy before it's too late," he reminds me.

I'm grateful that one of us is focused on the logistics. I'm not here for the serious stuff.

I drop to the floor and lean against the bars, taking in a full view of Smitty's ruptured ass crater.

It's really innovative.

Gallery worthy.

But Harkins is right—we need to move. The inmates surrounding us are getting rowdy, making far too much noise in their terror from the scene they could do nothing but listen to. I wipe the handle of my ax on Smith's jumpsuit and then we're on our way.

Ending back up in the dungeon isn't part of the plan, but I'm thrilled when we get a clue that Kyle might be hiding in the more touristy part of the prison attraction. I'm forced to promise some woman who Lucy Letby-ied her way in here that I wouldn't kill her. There's a lot of shit I can look past; my moral compass has no needle.

So when she says she saw the douchebag white kid in the Puka shell necklace take the exit stairs to the dungeon, I almost consider letting her go. But when I ask her crime and she pisses down the legs of her jumpsuit, I know I have a winner.

"I bet it's a real good one." I grin, making her eyes go wide.

She nods, clutching her hands to her chest, unsure what brand of psycho she's dealing with.

Surprise—it's all of them.

"Tell me," I sing in a sweet tone to encourage her, bringing the ax behind my shoulders.

"I-I was a nurse," the gray-haired woman stutters.

"Oh-ho," I laugh. "Let me guess: killed a bunch of people? Old, sickly, dying, miserable fucks?"

She's nervous, and I can only tell because I'm inches from her face. It's the only way to see enough in the dark, which means I'm unfortunately close enough to smell the piss soaking into her pants. "N-no."

"Interesting." I brighten my tone. "Go on, girlfriend." I nudge her with the butt of my ax, my wrists now resting over the wooden handle, still over top of my shoulders.

"Infants." A snot bubble inflates and sucks back into her nose.

"How many?" I continue to put on the sweet act, getting what information I want from her while she thinks she's in my good graces.

"Over thirty-four in my career." There's a hint of pride when she says it, puffing up her chest.

"Why?" My tone is genuine. I don't need a reason; I know that none of what I do makes sense.

But I want to know if it's the same for her.

Her voice is a shrewd tone, laced with hatred and bitterness. "Ugly little things. Needy and crying for attention."

The blood pours like a fountain, spilling freely before she even notices I slit her throat with the blade of my ax. She flaps her foul tongue to speak, only further ruining her chances of coming out alive while she chokes on her blood.

The woman clutches her throat, panic filling her eyes, her nostrils flaring in pure desperation. It's not that I draw the line at innocent babies.

It's that her reason is just so fucking stupid.

"Get a different job, you fucking maniac," I yell down at her as she drops to her knees, but I don't watch to see what happens.

My gaze is only on the stairwell exit doors as I lift my ax into the air like a sword. "To the dungeon!" I profess, knowing Harkins is only a few feet behind me.

So I don't expect it when I'm hit in the back as soon as I open the door. All the oxygen is pulled from my lungs as I wheeze, struggling to take little sips of air, a painful burn filling my chest.

A boot kicks me in the rib, sending me flying against the wall. My back slams into the concrete, a demonic croak escaping my throat when I'm finally able to breathe. I brace for impact again but hear my favorite sound: Harkins' fists.

The chainsaw swings on its strap behind his back while he pummels the guard with his bare fists, only stopping to relieve his holster of the pistol. Demetri throws the gun to the ground, sending his fist into the guard's stomach. I crawl closer, clutching my stomach, coughing in desperate attempts to relieve the pain in my chest. The guard lands on his back next to me, already bloody, his face swollen from Demetri's hands.

"I'm a police officer!" he spits out. "You'll go to prison for this!"

Demetri laughs. "You touched my girl; you're a dead officer." His words are steady and clear, sending a wave of hot arousal between my legs.

I'm suddenly healed.

Cock can be better than codeine, if administered correctly.

"Nurse!" I cry, crawling over the dying cop to get to my man.

"Grab his handcuffs." Demetri's voice is low, his tone full of command, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand.

Demetri's shoe is on the cop's other arm, and his chainsaw is pressed to the cop's chest, the threat ringing loud and clear. He moans from pain, his only free arm holding the motor of the chainsaw in a wasted effort to keep it away. It's futile; the only thing keeping that chainsaw from slicing his face open is Harkins.

I reach for his belt, unhooking the handcuffs and securing one of the guard's wrists to the metal railing of the stairs.

"S-stop!" he shouts, demanding obedience.

Poor little white boy never had anyone say no to him before. It's always that type who become cops. The ones who thought they had it bad, but really, they just had rules. The ones who bitched and moaned about authority so when they grew up, they felt the need to exert it over anyone they could.

I grab his chin, and when I'm two inches from his face, I yell back at him.

Not very ACAB of me to fuck a cop, but maybe if he's dying, we can count it as my effort to the cause. "Ugh," I moan, grinding my crotch against him, the fabric between us making it impossible for me to feel anything.

Or maybe he's not hard.

"I think he's too scared to get a boner. Turn the chainsaw off." I twist my nose up, waiting.

Demetri turns it off, setting it on the ground before he drops to his knees on top of the cop's uncuffed arm. I hear a sickening crunch, a slew of curse words flying from the cop's mouth as he writhes in pain.

But the arm is no longer an issue now. Dead and useless, it lays there, allowing Demetri to shift his focus back to me.

He's breathy when he speaks. "Hi."

A million butterflies flutter down my stomach and a girlish laugh bursts out of me. "Hi."

His hands are everywhere: at my breasts, at my throat, a hum from his lips so low, his vibrato feels like thunder between my legs. "Take your mask off; I need to kiss you."

Demetri shakes his head, slowly moving behind me. His hands lower to my hips, guiding me as he grinds my pussy over the guard's cock.

"No mistakes, Darkling," he reminds me.