Compulsion

COMPULSION

by SemperAmare

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Below is a new tale from SemperAmare, the writing name we, being Vandemonium1 (Van1) and CreativityTakesCourage (CTC), use when we co-author a story.

Please Note: Some of the content of this story may evoke strong reactions. It contains violence.

CTC takes full responsibility and apologises in advance for the content which is quite dark. She's blaming it on having binged on a DVD series while Van1 was working away.

Meanwhile, Van1 is looking into moving overseas...

And please remember that this is a story, a work of fiction, and in no way represents the opinions or beliefs of the authors.

Regardless of subject matter, we hope you will sit back, relax, maybe have a drink, and enjoy a little escapism with us.

This one has been independently rated at 5/5 pickaxe handles which is our own unique rating system based on the level of retribution the wrongdoer(s) receives.

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PROLOGUE

BROOKE REGARDED HERSELF in the bathroom mirror. She was flushed and dishevelled. She held her breath and stood perfectly still. She knew that the smallest movement, even the merest thought, and the zing in her belly, the nerves strung so tight they were like a corset, would twang.

She inhaled. Her nerves jangled. She heard the sound in her head. It was loud. She broke eye contact with herself and looked over her shoulder in the reflection to the bed. It was a mess. Her husband lay sprawled amongst the tangle of sheets. Brooke tilted her head, still watching him, and listened for sounds. Through the clanging of her nerves the sounds came to her quietly, like waves on the evening breeze: slow even breaths. Brooke smiled, smug. She'd fucked him good. More than once. More than twice, actually.

She always did the night before he was due to go away on business. She liked to send him off happy and sated. She liked in the day or two following his departure to experience the twinge in her core that only came from vigorous and repeated sex. The hollowness, the ache, it was like carrying a piece of him around with her.

And that was important.

It intensified her excitement, her arousal, to still feel him while she flirted with other men, while she did the dance of words.

Brooke returned her full attention to her reflection. She was amazed. Other than the dilation of her pupils and the flush to her cheeks she looked the same. The same as she always had. Hair, dark and shiny, just brushing her shoulders. Glossy waves that framed her face. Dark eyes. Thick lashes. Defined eyebrows. Full lips and high cheekbones. Attractive. Striking. Somehow Brooke expected her thoughts to be visible, there in her eyes, on her skin, her lips.

She raised her hand and pressed her fingers to her cheek. She felt the smoothness, the warmth. Her nerves quivered and twanged. The excitement made her feel sick. It was like first love. Like when the anticipation of seeing your lover is almost unbearable. Scared and sick and excited at the same time. Emotions swirling. Alive. Soaring. Like that first hit when the drugs hit your bloodstream. A rush.

An addictive rush.

It had been so long. So long since she'd experienced the rush. The taboo excitement. God, how she'd missed it.

Brooke glanced again at her husband. Part of her wished she could make him understand--she genuinely didn't want to hurt him--but the greater part, the honest part, knew it had to be illicit. It needed darkness. It thrived in dark corners, shadows. In lies. Openness, honesty, light... permission; they were enemies of her excitement, her lust. Her addiction.

Brooke swallowed, tasting her desire. Not long now. The last six months of seduction, of slowly escalating flirtation, was soon to be fulfilled. Months of words. Initially tentative, enquiring. A testing of the waters. And then the delicious, slow, sensual dive into lust. The submersion into sexy words. Hot, dirty, enthralling words. Seductive words. Words that made her want to touch herself. All leading to one end.

Consummation.

Consummation of her deepest, darkest desires. Desires her smart, funny, loving husband could never satisfy. How could he? They were base. He was cultured. They were slutty. He was romantic. They were perverted. He was refined.

And she needed to face her husband the next morning over breakfast.

It had been so long since she'd felt this way. It had been five years between drinks. It was like the first time all over again. Last time she became careless. Last time she lost perspective and her husband found out and she'd hurt him. She'd almost lost him. It had taken years to win back his trust.

She wouldn't let that happen this time. This time she'd be smarter. More discreet. Brooke smiled at herself in the mirror. Thank you, Ashley Madison, for providing people like me with a safe place to meet like-minded souls.

Brooke closed her eyes and pictured her dance-of-words partner. He was handsome. Sexy. Reminiscent of her husband. A little darker. A little more rugged. And a whole lot more dangerous.

Brooke touched herself. She was still sticky from the earlier lovemaking with her husband. She shivered, aroused. Tomorrow it would be her lover touching her in her most secret places. Stroking her. Penetrating her. Her nerves quaked, the sound discordant in her head. She bit her lip to suppress a moan. It wouldn't do to wake hubby now.

She loved it. Loved the feeling. The fear. The anticipation. The possibility of being discovered. Embracing the forbidden. All of it. She was Suzette, Crepe Suzette, aflame and ready to be served up as the most delicious dessert.

Brooke was so glad her soon-to-be lover had persevered, that he took the time to overcome her reservations. To court her. It was going to make the consummation of their sordid dance all the sweeter. If dirty could be sweet. If perverse could be sweet.

*****

THE HUNTER

The Hunter thanked the gods once again for Ashley Madison. It made selecting his prey just so boringly easy. When your quarry are cheating wives, where else would you go except the biggest, most degenerate cheating slut website on the planet?

He reviewed the profiles of the three ladies of questionable virtue he was currently stalking. All fit his profile: brown hair that barely skimmed their shoulders, dark eyes, lush hips, rounded thighs, and big tits. Just his type.

The Hunter wondered which of the three would be the first to give in to her sordid desires and thus become his sixth victim. Number five had been a mere two weeks prior but already the compulsion to see the light disappear from another set of lying eyes as he strangled them was becoming increasingly unbearable.

He took a sip of his bourbon, swirling it around his mouth before letting it drip down his throat, relishing the burn as he laid bets with himself on which of the ladies it would be. Would it be the one calling herself Karen? Even though he'd only been corresponding with her for a few days the gal was hot to trot. He surmised he wasn't her first rodeo. Not an hour since, he'd authorised her to see his photo. Well, he called it his photo. It was actually of someone better looking. More rugged than he was, but by the time someone like Karen found that out, it would be too late. Far too late.

Through the early conversations he let would-be cheater direct the conversation. The decision to cheat had to be theirs. Once that choice was made he'd try to lead them toward his preferred end goal - a tryst at their house. While their husband was away, of course.

He loved the irony of that scenario the most. The realisation that they were dying on their carefully prepared marital bed, rather than being fucked stupid on it. Delicious for him. Not so delicious for the cheater.

Unfortunately, he'd only managed that once, with his second dance partner. What was her name? Susan? Sarah? Who cared? The broad was so stupid, she didn't even realise he wasn't the guy in the photos.

He'd left the skank on the bed while he retrieved a carry-on case from his car which was parked in her garage before going room by room to remove her online life. First was the slut's computer, followed by her tablet from the bedside table, and her phone from the charger in the kitchen, thus removing all electronic traces of himself. No need to make it too easy for the cops by giving them a hard drive to search or a browser history to follow. They'd know about him when he was good and ready.

He'd stashed the case back in the trunk before retrieving a bottle of bleach, gloves, a garbage bag, and a small vacuum. Starting in the master bedroom, he removed the sheets, remade the bed with a fresh set, and repositioned the cheating slut. He wiped her down with bleach with no more feeling than he did the door handles. He washed glasses and vacuumed the floors as well as the furniture, even the pieces he didn't touch or sit on. You could never be too careful.

Three of the other four hadn't been as stupid as number two but hadn't been the smartest either. Rather than meet him somewhere public and neutral, somewhere safe, they'd arrived at his motel room like lambs to the slaughter, wits obviously dulled by lust. Driven out of their minds with the anticipation of being treated rough like whores and serviced by his ten-inch cock. Yeah, right.

His strike rate with the Ashley Madison cheaters was better than most because he knew the secret. There were thousands of 'good girl' wives out there that were ladies for their husbands but were itching to release their inner slut. By hooking up with a stranger who only wanted them for a no strings attached fuck, by being 'taken', they could justify their wanton behaviour to themselves as being given no choice. And they didn't have to face the guy over the breakfast table the next morning.

So, how is that working out for you, bitches?

Two of the three had walked easily into his dimly lit motel room but one had balked at the door and had to be subdued when she saw he differed from the photos he'd sent her.

He'd used a false name and paid in cash for the rooms, a different room, different motel for each dance partner. He'd even disguised himself with a blond wig and stuffed some padding under his shirt to give himself a beer belly. Meticulous was his middle name.

And, as always, there was the cleaning afterward to remove all trace of himself.

The final one had thought she was being smart by meeting somewhere neutral. The silly bitch chose a dimly lit park at night. Dumb. So dumb. The Hunter could only hazard a guess that she, like those before her, had been so worried about someone from her "good wife" life seeing and recognising her that she'd failed to see the danger she was putting herself in. Regardless of her motives, by the time she saw him in a light good enough to realise she'd been duped it was too late. Her body was found in bushland several days later.

The Hunter knew he'd taken a risk with number five. He should have let that one go. It was much harder to control his environment when it wasn't enclosed by four walls. But the hunger, the compulsion, had gotten the better of him.

Each of his dance partners had used a false name of course, but all had brought their purses with them, effectively giving him their real names and addresses. And their house keys. A quick trip to ensure husbands weren't home and those keys had given him incriminating phones, tablets, and computers. He did so enjoy his souvenirs.

In a way it was depressing how stupid those five had been and how predictable the current three he was stalking were acting. The next to fall was most likely going to be Karen, his latest dance partner, but it could be Monica. He'd been doing the dance with her for a couple of months now. She wanted to be wooed. Seduced. To pretend it wasn't her fault she wanted a bit of strange.

It was too much to hope that the one calling herself Crepe Suzette would be the next to fall. His stalking of her had been going on the longest. Several months, in fact. She was an accomplished flirt. Pulling her victim in, then pushing him away. Painting pictures, sexy, dirty pictures, with her words. She kept dangling the carrot, making promises, giving assurances that she was just waiting to be certain that her good old hubby wouldn't catch her.

Suzette indicated she was interested in a longer-term affair. She had a long list of kinks she wanted to work her way through. She'd described them in vivid detail. The question was, would her perversions also mean she'd want her lover to take her in the marital bed if hubby was away? He thought the chance was high. What was it she'd written? That's right - there's nothing quite like doing the dirty in the marital bed. That in the past the act had made her hot for weeks afterward.

The Hunter anticipated the day would come when her lust would overcome her care.

The kaleidoscope of his memory stirred his need in the present to levels that tempted him to not follow his carefully calculated precautions.

The Hunter closed his eyes and moaned, the thought of ridding the world of yet another cheating slut was like a shot of heroin in his veins.

*******

BROOKE

Brooke looked in the mirror, not surprised to see her cheeks were flushed and her pupils dilated. She was aroused. Very aroused. This, despite the fact she'd masturbated three times in as many hours. Soon it would be her lover bringing her to orgasm. It would be his tongue. His hands. His cock. His big, beautiful cock. Brooke groaned. She squeezed her thighs together. If she wasn't careful she'd have to shower again.

Brooke took in her reflection, admiring the way the black lace and satin of her new demi-cup bra showcased the creamy smoothness of her mounds. The cups barely covered the pink of her areolae and she could feel her nipples straining against the fabric. She couldn't resist gently reaching in and tweaking them, sending a jolt of desire down to her core.

She ran her hands over her torso, brushing over the lace of the garter belt that matched her bra. It looked good. Sexy. She widened her stance and ran the fingers of one hand through her slit, brushing against her clit. She shuddered. She hoped her lover would appreciate the crotchless knickers as much as she did.

Watching her reflection, she brought her fingers to her mouth and tasted herself. She blew herself a kiss before turning away to sit on the edge of the bed.

Slowly, carefully, she pulled the gossamer fine stockings up her legs, clipping the lace tops to the garter. She slipped her feet into the black pumps. They were impossibly high and terribly uncomfortable but made her legs look oh so good.

Brooke stood, reaching down beside where she'd just been seated and clasped the black trench coat. She slipped her arms in and cinched the belt. The coat reached mid-calf. Perfect for what she needed. Covering her surprise for her lover but revealing her slender stockinged ankles.

With one last glance in the mirror, confirming she looked fantastic, classy but sexy, Brooke grabbed her bag and made her way to the garage. She glanced at her watch as she descended the stairs. Good. She was on time. This was one date she didn't want to be late for.

The Universe was blessing her date, Brooke decided - traffic was light, the peak hour having passed, and traffic lights green the whole way. She thanked the gods for her GPS as she wasn't familiar with this part of town. Brooke smiled as she pulled into the driveway. Her lover had left the garage door open for her. How considerate.

She pulled in beside his vehicle. Something grey and sleek looking. Dark and dangerous, like him. She liked it.

The garage door descended as she checked her make-up one last time. Perfect. She looked perfect.

She stepped out of her car, a smile on her face. Her heart pounded in anticipation. Her cunt throbbed, demanding to be filled. Her stomach fluttered. She felt sick and excited at the same time. Delicious. She loved it. It had been so long. Too long.

She turned toward the sound of the internal door opening...

THE INVESTIGATION

DCI Burns parked his vehicle behind the police cruiser and switched off the ignition. He sat with his hands on the wheel, steeling himself. Despite twenty-five years on the force, fifteen of those as a detective, crime scenes were still a challenge. The violence. The waste of life. Of lives cut short. The senselessness of it. The worst, of course, was when it involved children, but any malevolent death turned his stomach.

It wasn't that he was squeamish. It was the unanswered questions. Even when a crime was solved and the perpetrator put behind bars there were always unanswered questions. About the case. About the reasons. And then those that no one, not even the murderer could answer. The ones regarding what the future of the victim might have been.

Burns sighed. He wished he was still in bed with his wife, spooning behind her in the predawn grey he could see sneaking in through the gaps in the curtains. He loved listening to her slow calm breaths as she slept. Their rhythm soothed him like nothing else. Cath was his anchor. She made sense of the madness that was his work-world. Her and the kids.

He'd been awake when the message came through. Brief as it was, it still made his stomach drop. Another victim. He'd sworn under his breath. Cursed the killer. Cursed their lack of clues. Their lack of progress on the case. He hoped the latest victim would throw up some leads.

With one last deep breath, he brought his mind back to the present and reached across to the passenger seat and grabbed the tray of coffees and bag of donuts. The breakfast of champions.

Outside the vehicle, he paused a moment, adjusting the coffees and donuts. He shivered; glad he'd worn a heavier coat; there was a chill in the air. He trudged past a handful of officers walking a grid in search of clues on his way to a log cabin nestled in a clearing. He didn't envy the searchers. The morning fog wouldn't be making their job any easier.

He studied the cabin as he approached. It was small. Probably only a few rooms in size. Clearly, a weekender used to get away from the trappings of modern city life.

He could see the door was open and from within the sound of muted voices floated out on the still morning air. Another step and he stood framed in the doorway. He surveyed the interior with a practiced eye. As he'd surmised there were only three rooms: a combined kitchen-living area, a bedroom, and a bathroom. An officer was methodically searching each area. Each so intent on their jobs that they didn't look around at his approach.

In the living area, on a large, faded rug he spied the legs of the victim. Her feet were bare. He couldn't see her head or torso. One of the two old but comfortable looking armchairs blocked that view.

Reg McDonald, the medical examiner was taking photos. Burns hated what was involved in the processing of a crime scene involving a death. The victim was poked and prodded, photographed, weighed, measured, and dissected. It seemed a violation of the victim. A further indignity. But the dead are powerless, they have no voice, and only in the invasion of their remains lay the possibility of finding them justice.

Burns stepped into the room. He beelined for a small dining table that doubled as a work bench for the kitchen and offloaded the tray of coffees and bag of donuts.

Grabbing a coffee and donut for himself, he made his way toward the victim.

"Morning, Reg."

Reg looked up and smiled. It wasn't a happy smile, more one of greeting for a familiar colleague.