There’s a knock on the back door. I take a deep breath and run to answer it. But before I leave my upstairs bedroom, I steal a glance at the full-length mirror. Short short denim shorts—check. White cropped tee barely reaching navel—check. One cherry red bra strap peeking out—check. Girls perked up, pressing against the fabric—check.
I’m ready for Ronny.
He’s opened the door with a pick as per my instructions. I stop at the bottom of the stairs and see Ronny the Hammer, the 34-year-old convicted killer of David Reid and Fiona Winters. It was one of the most publicized murder cases of recent memory. A few minutes ago, I was watching all the television coverage about Ronny’s sensational escape from the maximum security prison where he was serving twenty to life. Nothing in the news was news to me, though. After all, I engineered his escape.
“Hey babe,” he says, walking towards me.
Ronny is an enormous man with forearms the size of oak beams and as back and wide as a barn door. His arms are covered with various crude prison tattoos. Ronny has spent the better part of his adult life in various prisons across the mid-west.
“Did you bring my…umm…things?” I ask.
He approaches and grasps my bottom. I feel so small and helpless as he bends down to kiss my lips. Standing on my tiptoes, I respond to his kisses. His hands cup and knead my buttocks as we exchange saliva.
Suddenly, then, I push him away and run upstairs.
“Catch me you fucking killer,” I scream with a giggle.
Ronny’s slow brain takes a moment to process what I’ve said—to realize that I’ve started a game and that he needs to run after me.
He catches me easily and grabs my waist near the top of the landing, then slams me against the wall. My mind goes blank temporarily with the force of the blow to my head.
“Ouch, you animal,” I say, and slap him.
In character, Ronny tears my tee to pieces as if it were a piece of paper. He pushes the rags of cloth aside and kisses me again—this time hard.
I am pushing him away with feeble strength. He kneads my breasts as if they’re balls of pizza dough. When I cry in pain and push him away, he slaps me. My head hits the wall and I slowly sink to my knees, head spinning this time around from the impact.
“Don’t play games with me, bitch,” he says, and pulls me to my feet by grabbing my hair.
I have tears in my eyes.
He smiles cruelly and says, “bet you didn’t know what you were getting into when you started writing to me in prison, did you, you rich cunt?” Then he bites my lower lip and draws blood.
I am protesting—weakly. His hands reach inside my brassiere cups and he yanks it. The clasp gives and my bra is wide open, broken. Ronny sees my milky firm breasts heaving with fear and excitement and bends to kiss my nipples. I press his head there. His hands are pulling my denim shorts down.
“Ronny, please, let’s go to bed.”
“Nah, you wanted some rough play, so here comes rough, babe. I’ll show you how those stupid bitches screamed when I did them.”
He’s referring to his previous two sexual assault victims. And strangely, my body is responding. My breasts are flushed and my nipples could cut through glass. My cunt is getting wet so fast I’m suspect I’m about to spot my shorts. I hook my legs around his waist and cling to him like a monkey. He yanks my shorts hard and pulls them down, the buttons pop and the zipper gives way as he pulls the shorts along with my sexy lacy panties down. The brute’s nails scratch my ass cheeks and I cry in genuine pain.
“Shut up,” he says, and slaps me again.
I plead with him not to hit me again. He smiles and turns me around to face the wall. His hands spread my ass cheeks apart.
“This is how the rod feels, baby,” he says, and slams his cock in my cunt from behind.
I am lucky that I was already wet down there. His rod, thicker than my waist, it seems, spears my tight wet cunt and he again leaves 3-inch-long scratches on my inner thighs as his fingers scrape them. I cry in pain and he pushes my face into the wall to silence me.
“Take it..ahh yess…take it…ohhh yeah!”
From the vigour of his strokes and the harshness of his panting, I know it’s been a while since he’s been with a woman. My cunt is bearing the brunt of his brutality. I am sure I will bleed at the end. His hands move up and cup my breasts though my armpits. His cock moves like a piston inside my cunt. His balls, the size of lemons, slap my ass in a dull rhythm.
After a few minutes Ronny turns me around and pushes me to the wooden floor. Our bodies make a racket as he mounts me on the floor. I wrap my long legs around his waist and scratch his barrel chest with my nails. He bites my breasts and scratches my ass.
He doesn’t slow down. His cock pumps and pumps.
He finishes strongly, ensuring that his come all squirts inside my cunt. We lie on the cold wooden floor while the television shows muted images of his prison escape.
“Ohh lover,” I say, running my fingers through his long shaggy hair. I am filled and spent at the same time. He looks satiated, too. “It’s cold, please take me downstairs, there is a fireplace,” I say, shyly.
“Bet you can’t walk right now,” he says, cupping my breast.
I giggle and tell him he’s right.
He picks me up easily and carries me downstairs. He sets me down on the carpet and gets the fire going. A gentleman after all. Who knew?
We lie inside blankets, warming our bodies a little before the next round. His small carry-all is next to us. I reach inside and fumble till I get what I want.
When Ronny was in jail, I used to write fan letters to him every week. Every month or so I would bribe a guard to send those letters wrapped in a pari of my lacy panties. He has six of those. I used the last one to write his escape plan inside. The guard never thought to check.
Now I hold those silky, smooth garments in my hands. Three black, one cherry red, one blue and one cream. The black one had instructions written in grey inside. I take it and toss it in fireplace. The fire crackles briefly before it gets normal again.
“What did you do that for?” he asks.
“Disposing evidence you big bull,” I say and throw myself back in his arms.
My back hurts, my private parts feel scraped, and my buttocks feels like I’ve just run a marathon.
He traces a line on my bare back and kisses my shoulder blades. I feel the first stirring of his erection.
“So Ronny, truth or dare. Did you kill them really?”
Throughout his highly publicized trial, Ronny maintained that he had broken into David Reid’s love nest but did not kill either him or his young lover Fiona. Now I want to know the truth.
“How many times I gotta tell you, babe? I didn’t. I walked in on a blood bath. Panicked and in haste tripped alarms. Got caught.”
With a rap sheet longer than his arm, it wasn’t hard for the prosecutor to convince anyone that the 6’5”, 220 lbs mass of rage was the killer. Some last minute technicality spared Ronny from the death penalty, but he was sentenced to serve consecutive life sentences.
“If not you, then who?” I ask.
His face shows anger and I am scared a little when he finally replies, “Who the fuck knows? The guy’s wife was in some loony bin forty miles from where he died, so for all I know she ordered a hit on him.”
David’s wife was absent throughout the trial due to her severely disturbed mental state.
“You gotta trust me, Natasha,” he says with sincerity that touches me.
I push him gently and point to the wash room. He lets go of me.
I walk stiffly to the bathroom and do my business there. Before leaving the bathroom I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look haggard, tired and damned near the end of my rope.
I walk out of the bathroom and reach inside Ronny’s bag. When I took the panties out earlier, I had checked where the silenced gun was kept. Now I pull it out, cock it in one smooth motion and shoot Ronny as he is turning around to see me. I don’t want him to die right away, nor do I want him to get up on his feet and come after me.
“What…you…” he croaks and tries to reach for me.
I step back and point the gun at him with both hands. My hands are rock steady, like they were the night Ronny got caught in David’s love nest.
“I trust you, Ronny. I knew you were innocent, because I was there too. David’s wife in the loony bin? That’s me, kid,” I say.
Ronny is thrashing his legs. There is foam forming at the corner of his lips. His right hand is raised, whether in a plea or to attack, I don’t know.
“David was sleeping with his little intern. I begged him to let go of her. He wouldn’t listen. Then he told me he was leaving me for that little bitch.”
I shake my head in disgust and shoot Ronny once more very close to where I had shot him earlier. He is slammed on his back and lies there. He is too wounded to even turn and look at me. There is blood coming out of his mouth.
“I wish I could tell you I decided to kill him because I loved him so. Duh. I am bipolar and my medication costs a lot. David’s medical plan included pre-existing coverage for his spouse and that continued even after his death. Baby needs her medicine, get it? I constructed an elaborate ruse to prove that I was in the mental hospital and sneaked out for one night. Punched David and that little slut’s ticket as they were enjoying a post fuck cigarette. Then guess what? The plan got better. You broke in, panicked when you saw those dead bodies and ran. It was more than I could have wished for.”
I sit on my hunches next to him. Now he is harmless.
“Only problem? That stupid DA didn’t press for death penalty. I mean, with your record that would have been a slam dunk. God knows what possessed that little twerp. He got you sentenced to jail instead.”
Ronny turns his face to me. His eyes are glassy and I see tears in his eyes. Ronny the hammer is a crybaby, wonders will never cease, will they?
“So I knew till the time you were incarcerated there was always a chance—a small one, but a chance nevertheless—that some overenthusiastic liberal lawyer or investigative journo would uncover the damn truth and that I would be toast.”
“I worked at a media company before that son of a bitch proposed to me, Ronny. You see a convict serving sentence isn’t a complete story. A prison escapee raping his victim’s spouse and getting killed in the process, well…that is..symmetrical. It’s hard to come back from that kind of ending,” I say and stand up.
He paws at my ankle ineffectively. I don’t even have to kick him. I turn and shoot him in head from about five feet away.
“Sure died hard for a hammer.” I laugh, then I cry and then laugh some more.
Finally, when I am composed, I take my mobile and dial 911. In a hysterical, broken voice punctuated with sobs I inform the caller that I have killed my husband’s killer who entered my house and raped me.
Then I cover my nude body with a blanket and sit on the steps waiting for the cops to come. From my position on the steps I can turn my neck and spot the large portrait of David and me from happier times on the far wall.