Of Lady’s and Lore
by Monica Brinkman
“Ahhh”, a sharp, hot jolt of pain radiated knee to ankle. Lincoln panted and shifted his weight from left to right. The shackles molded to the metal table held him secure allowing a mere fraction of an inch movement on either side.
His limbs held in place, his eyes bound, his auditory perception on alert heard the nearing scurry of rodent and rustle of cloth echoing throughout the space.
“You Bastard,” rang out,yet the rat stood its place and continued nibbling at the forefinger. Lincoln felt the warm liquid ooze from the tip and heard the faint drip, drip of blood hit the concrete floor. He flipped his fingers to fend off the offending creature, repulsed at the touch of grimy coarse hair against his hand.
“Nooo”, he clenched his teeth when fang met bone, this time conscious to make no movement.
The throb turned into agony. Small nibbles at his ankle grew to large bites of flesh. With one last groan, Lincoln gave into merciful darkness of unconsciousness.
Lady Lynn jumped from the window perch, certain Lincoln could no longer sense her perfume or hear her rapid heartbeat.
Shame, she thought while walking the circumference around his long, lean body, he did have a brilliant smile, pleasing laugh and heavenly violet-blue eyes.
Never less, she’d been watching his dalliances for months, hiding her presence in the blackness of alleys and darkness of shadow seeking the perfect time to act.
This night she’d walked boldly pass him. He leaped upon her and pulled her frail body next to his. How shocked his face when this lady punched his groin and grabbed the knife from his hand.
The second kick to his manhood took his breath away. Lady Lynn giggled of how easy it was to manipulate his large body. She leaned it on her own as she walked two blocks and brought him through the cellar door.
One last glance before she’d leave him to his destiny. The stench of blood filled the air and rodents filled the table. Lady smiled.
Jack Lincoln, you’ve ripped your last woman.