Farah's Revenge: Reginald St. James

I was nearly at my climax -- so close, so very close! -- when he began to wheeze. He was close to hyperventilating and his whole body went through a paroxysm. His body went rigid and loose in succeeding waves, before becoming still. He lay on me with his entire weight. He had cum and left me on the brink again.

Drugs could give him an erection, but they couldn't refresh his reservoir of semen. His orgasm was nearly dry, I felt no gush inside me. His cock slid out of me with a plop and some post-orgasmic jism leaked out onto my belly.

I pushed him off me, and he rolled off the sofa onto the thick carpet. He lay on his back, still gulping in air with shallow breaths.

I reached into my big purse and pulled out the gun. It was the Glock that had been in Jack's hand when he died. I sat up, put the barrel on the left side St. James's belly, and pulled the trigger. The close proximity of the shot muffled the sound and St. James's body was pummeled back into the carpeting.

"What ...?" he expostulated.

I put the barrel to the center of his belly and shot him again. Now he knew he was shot.

"Why, why?" he whispered. "You didn't say 'dolphin' ..."

I put the barrel of the gun to the right side of his belly and shot him a third time. His hands covered his belly and were rapidly reddened with his blood.

"Call 911," he whispered, desperately. "Please, please. Accident, I'll say ... accident ..."

"I'll call 911," I said. "All in good time."

I picked up my ripped thong, pushed it into his mouth, and tucked it back toward his throat so he couldn't spit it out. In his current state, it was an effective gag. Now all he could make were unintelligible sounds.

"Taste me, Reggie," I said.

I watched his blood leaking out steadily and creating a widening stain on the carpet. Then I pulled my phone out of my purse and his eyes widened with hope. I put the phone on speaker.

"911, what's your emergency?" asked the operator.

I switched my phone to video mode with the speaker on.

"I've been sexually assaulted," I cried. I hurt from St. James's hitting me and it wasn't hard to bring forth tears. I panned the phone video so the welts on my breasts and bruised nipples were in the frame. His smack had made a clear red outline on one side of my face and my eye was turning black from it. The effect was heightened by my split lip which was still welling blood.

"Location?"

"Suite 5401 in the Four Seasons."

There was the briefest of pauses.

"A team is on the way, miss. Where is your assailant?"

"I ... I ... I ..." I stammered. I was irrationally pleased that she called me 'miss' instead of 'ma'am'.

"Take your time, miss."

"I shot him," I mumbled. "I managed to break free and got my gun out of my purse. He's lying on the floor right here. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

"Stay calm, miss. Help is on the way. Do you want me to stay on the line?"

"No," I said, putting more confidence into my voice. "I'll be okay. But please hurry."

"Eight minutes out, miss."

I hung up and looked back at St. James. His eyes were pleading with me.

"You bastard," I said. "You rode Jack for years, took, took, took, sucked his lifeblood. And every chance you got, you stabbed him in the back. You did everything you could to help his killers. Now, I'm going to take pleasure in watching your lifeblood drain out of you. I hope you're dead before they get here. And I'm going to get my video on the internet, so the world will see you for what you are."

His lips worked and he drooled saliva. But my panties in his mouth were an effective muzzle. I could barely make out three words, "Please help me."

The police arrived first, a man and a woman. The man went to help St. James, the woman began working with me with a rape kit.

"You've been sexually assaulted," she told me. "With a great deal of violence. I've collected more than enough evidence."

The paramedics arrived a few minutes later. I watched them anxiously as they worked. Their actions and expressions told the tale -- they grew increasingly active, and their expressions grew less hopeful. Finally, they got him on a stretcher. As they wheeled him out, I heard one say to the other, "No pulse" and felt a savage joy.

* * * * *

St. James was declared DOA at the hospital. The police took countless pictures of my injuries from all angles. I was happy to help in leaking these to the tabloid press, where the story went viral. St. James was vilified as a sexual predator and many women from his past came forward to make posthumous accusations.

A few weeks later, I sat with Amy, her daughter Mackenzie, Ryder, and Parveen Aziza, at Amy's beach house. It was the eve of Parveen Aziza's departure for Minneapolis to begin her new life as Sofia Antoniou. Ryder took me in her arms and petted my face, tracing the bruises.

"He hurt you," she said. "But you got the bastard. I should have done it, I'm younger and stronger."

"No," I said. "It's more believable that he assaulted a smaller woman like me."

"You poor thing!" said Parveen Aziza. "Look at your face, your breasts! How can you breastfeed your son? Doesn't it hurt?"

"It actually feels much better when he suckles on my nipples. Soothing. And my face is healing well, I should be fine in a few weeks."

"We have a list," said Amy, grimly. "Chip Bailey, Gretchen Lovewell, Sergei Merkulov. And the triggerman, Maksim Prokorov. That's for starters."

"I want to help," said Amy's daughter, Mackenzie.

"No, dear, this doesn't concern you ..." began Amy.

"Yes it does, Amy," I said, gently. "You have to tell her. She's turned eighteen, it's time she knew."

"Know what?" asked Mackenzie.

Amy sighed.

"I suppose you're right, Farah." She turned to Mackenzie, took her in her arms, and hugged her. She kissed her on the cheek before sitting back. "Mackenzie, your real father is John H. B. Grierson. And you are right about Jack and me -- we had an on-again, off-again affair for almost twenty years. You see now why he wouldn't have sex with you."

Mackenzie's eyes opened wide. She looked from her mother to each one of us.

"Jack fucked all of you," she said slowly. "And so many more women. Yet, you all still love him?"

"He wasn't a man you could own," I said. "That made him a hard man to love. Speaking for myself, I'll say yes, I did love him. Perhaps it was because there's no love in my marriage. Perhaps unconsciously I'm a harem woman. Who knows? All I know is I will cry every day for the rest of my life as I think about him."

"He had such kindness, such selflessness," said Parveen Aziza fervently. "He gave of himself so freely, asked nothing in return. How could I not love such a good man?"

"I've known Jack the longest of anyone here," said Amy. "But I can only echo what's been said. Jack was a wild animal, not a house pet. You couldn't tame him, domesticate him, tie him down. But when you were with him, he thrilled every one of your senses.

"I'm just a crude jockette," said Ryder. "So I'll just say that the way he fucked me made me so high, I couldn't get enough of him. When he lay with me, his cock deep inside me, hot, throbbing, stretching me, I never wanted him to pull out. The thought that I will never feel like that again ... is that love? I don't know."

We all sat in silence, each with our own thoughts.

"My father," said Mackenzie, finally breaking the silence. She put her hands on her thighs, and repeated, "My father, Jack Grierson. It sounds so good to just say it." She stood up and walked around the room with her hands on her hips. "I'm Mackenzie Grierson ... and I will make them pay. All of them."