Hela... is Ch. 03 - Mortality

This is a story in 4 parts about a woman who's a dominatrix for recreation and a hitwoman for a living. Each chapter can be read as an independent story but they are linked and I think they are better read in chronological order. But as the reader it's up to you.

In case anyone thinks they are reading something familiar and accuses me of plagiarism the basis of this series comes from a story I submitted some years ago, now deleted, which forms the basis of the first three chapters. It's been edited, partially rewritten, and new content added,

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I was ten years old when my mother gave me the answers to all the questions I had been asking since I was old enough to realise my life was different from the lives of the children I'd made friends with in all the places in which we had lived.

After kindergarten I became more aware, as children do, of what was happening in my school and home life. I began asking my mother why we kept moving from one town to another. Sometimes a big town, sometimes a small town, but always a long way from the last school and last town. Eventually she gave in. After my tenth birthday party, when my friends had gone home, she sat me down and told me the truth as to why our lives were unconventional.

My mother had thought my father was quite a catch when they were married not long after finishing school. They had gone through school together, with her the academic one and him the star of the football team. First they became friends, then boyfriend and girlfriend, and as soon as they left school they became engaged to marry.

Everyone, including my grandparents, their friends and relatives, thought they were the original 'golden couple.' His father's family owned several businesses and he automatically went to work in them. At first it seemed an idyllic life.

It wasn't long before things started going wrong with the marriage. My father became jealous of my mother's friends, whether girls or guys, although they both knew them from school. The regular get togethers with her girlfriends had to stop and he accused her of having affairs with other men, despite there being no evidence to support his paranoia. He became abusive with her. Not just verbally, but physically abusive. Sometimes her injuries were so serious she was taken to the medical centre.

She also discovered that not all the family businesses were legitimate. Her father-in-law was not the law abiding citizen so many people thought he was, and the intention was that my father would eventually take over.

The turning point was when, just over a year after they married, my mother became pregnant. The abuse didn't stop and she fled. Afraid, not only her life but, for the life of her unborn child. As far away as she could go, with the few thousand dollars she had taken from the safe in their home. I was born a few months later, fortunately healthy, despite the beatings my mother had endured. Knowing my father would send someone to find us she discharged herself from hospital, and began the first of many moves that would happen over the next ten years. Somehow, despite several schools of varying standards, by the time I became a teenager my mother was telling me I was just as clever and articulate as she had been at my age. I used to swell with pride when people told me how pretty I was and said I looked exactly like her. The one thing, the only thing, I got from my father was my athleticism and my liking for sport, particularly the multi discipline heptathlon.

We stopped running when my mother was thirty~two and for the first time she could look for a long term job instead of the temporary ones she'd had for the previous thirteen years. There was a branch of Macy's in town and she got a job as a counter assistant. With her academic abilities and people skills, plus lucky in being in the right place at the right time, she became the store manager three years later. Our life improved dramatically and we were happy, even though her job often meant she had to work late, and I began taking martial arts classes most evenings.

One evening I was at home, wondering why my mother was late, when the police called to take me to the local hospital. My mother had been mugged and shot when going to her car in the underground parking lot. A few hours later she passed away just short of her thirty sixth birthday.

The police arrested the mugger and he was prosecuted. But with a good lawyer, and a lenient judge, he received a suspended sentence despite a prior criminal history. In my mind he was a man like my father and I took revenge.

I was surprised how easy it was to take a life.

I didn't need a gun. I didn't need a weapon of any kind. My strength and athleticism were all I needed. Darkness, a quiet place, and my body. That was all. Afterwards I felt nothing. No guilt. No elation. But I had the satisfaction of taking revenge on the man who had killed the mother I loved. The mother who had been taken from me for the sake of a few dollars.

After the death of my mother, because I was still a minor, I was taken into care and moved from one foster home to another.

The death of my mother, the injustice of it, the disinterest of the police, and the impotence of the judge all had a profound effect on who I was and my behaviour. I changed from a happy girl to one who was aggressive with my foster parents, authority figures, and the world in general. On my eighteenth birthday I announced to my latest foster parents I was moving out the following day. I had got a job as a waitress in a downtown restaurant and the owner, as part of my wage, was going to let me stay in empty accommodation above the restaurant. My foster parents didn't object, they were glad to be rid of me.

The restaurant owner couldn't have been a better employer. He knew of my background and, over a period of time, he became more like a kindly uncle to me than an employer. He encouraged me to go back to my studies and over the next couple of years my life, and my attitude to life, changed for the better.

I went back to my self defence classes and he taught me how to handle a gun. He said I showed an aptitude not just with a handgun, but also with a rifle. We travelled to different gun show competitions and I soon became successful. It felt good to have success. Not because it involved guns but because I had proven, particularly to myself, I could be successful at something and not only did I make friends but it felt good to see the pleasure it gave Uncle, as I now began calling him.

In the restaurant Uncle recognised I was good with customers, even the objectionable ones, and as the business became more successful, I began to take more of a role in running it whilst continuing to live in the apartment above which was now looking much better than when I had originally moved in.

I realised myself I was a completely different young woman to the objectionable girl I had been after the death of my mother.

Then it happened. Uncle was visited by two smartly dressed 'salesmen.' One tall, one average height, but both of them intimidating. They offered Uncle an insurance policy. They would ensure, in exchange for regular payments, that the restaurant never had any difficulties with the local authorities, such as environmental health, or any other problems that might hurt the business. The implications were obvious. They didn't need to be explicit. Uncle refused.

The following night, after the restaurant had closed, I heard raised voices downstairs. I opened my bedroom door and recognised the voices of the two 'salesman.' Creeping downstairs to the stockroom I saw the taller thug holding Uncle whilst the other one was using Uncle as a punching bag. I launched myself towards the smaller guy and he turned to defend himself, but I was too quick and caught him with a kick to his stomach. As he collapsed the other thug released Uncle and went for me. I turned to face him, and as I did so, the first thug hit me over the head with a bottle. I collapsed, dazed, and they ran.

The following evening, just after the restaurant had closed, we were fire bombed. The restaurant was quickly engulfed by flames, and Uncle ended up in the emergency room with third degree burns. He died before the dawn broke. I was lucky. My burns were mainly superficial. I recovered fairly quickly, found the thugs, and made sure they would never hurt anyone ever again. It was quick. It was easy. As easy as dealing with the thug who had murdered my mother.

I found the man who had given the order and dealt with him. It wasn't pleasant, at least not for him. People like that have to accept the consequences of their actions. He begged, like his thugs, for his life which was not a surprise but neither he, nor them, had shown Uncle any mercy so why should I show it to them? Although I'd dealt with them quickly, and some might think an easy death for them considering what they'd done, their boss wasn't going to get away so easily. I was going to make him suffer. I waited until after Uncle's funeral before I took revenge on the slime who had given the orders.

It was simplicity itself to gain entrance to the mansion he called home. After midnight there was only two other people in the house. His housekeeper and whichever bodyguard had the night shift that night. I wasn't bothered about the security cameras. All they would pick up was a figure in black with a backpack. Gloves don't leave any fingerprints.

I didn't bother trying to open the iron gates. I went straight over the nine foot wall, throwing my bag over first, and then circled around the house keeping, as much as possible, on the grass and in the trees. I looked through the kitchen window and the protection was sitting with his feet up on the table, a bottle raised to his lips, watching tv.

He heard the miaowing of a cat. At first he ignored it until it got on his nerves sufficiently to interfere with his enjoyment of the tv. He heaved his bulk out of the chair and lumbered towards the door. Te key turned in the lock, the door opened, he looked down at the mini-recorder from which the noise was emanating and bent down to pick it up. That was when my billy club connected with the back of his head and it was lights out.

I dragged him back into the house, zip tied his wrists, elbows, ankles and knees. Chloroform pad over his nose and mouth followed by a cleave gag and that was him out of the way.

I crept up the stairs towards the housekeeper's room. I'd watched the house on the previous three nights and worked out which was her bedroom and which her employer's. Feet each end of the treads in case the stairs creaked. I listened at heard her snoring. She was being very helpful even if she didn't know it. I still took the precaution of being slow and gentle with the doorknob hoping, when the door opened, the hinges didn't complain.

She was laying on her back, eyes closed and mouth open, and with her snores floating up to the ceiling. She woke up when I clamped the pad over her nose and mouth but once she smelled the aroma of the chloroform she was back in the land of nod. She was young for her job, maybe late thirties, nice figure and not unattractive. Maybe she had other duties apart from housekeeping. I secured her and then headed for the master bedroom.

This time I wasn't bothered about not making a noise. I wanted him awake. I didn't attempt to be quiet when I entered his bedroom and switched on the lights. He was lying on his side, facing me, his stomach sliding away from the rest of his body. I slapped his face and his saggy, flabby jowls wobbled.

"Wake up, fatty," I exclaimed. "Time for your exercises."

His waking up was as sluggish as his three hundred pound frame must have moved around when he was standing. I took the cat o' nine tails out of my bag and used it. Harshly. Cutting into his body and legs.

If his housekeeper did provide "special services" she must have closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.

I put the whip down and took out four lengths of strong cord. "Hold still, you bastard. Move and I'll start whipping you again,"

It didn't take long to have him spreadeagled with wrists and ankles secured at the corners of the bed. His hair was grown long probably in an attempt to hide his bald patch. Vanity of the egotist. I grasped him by the hair, roughly pulling his head up, until he was looking into my cold eyes. The fear in his face was a delight.

"This is your last night on earth, fatty, and I'm here to make it happen."

I let his head drop, picked up the whip, running the tails through my fingers, and began whipping him again. I began at his chest continuing all the way down to his legs as he writhed in agony in a vain attempt to escape the pain. I began with stripes across his body and changed to produce a criss-cross pattern. To say I was enjoying myself would be an understatement. He deserved everything that was happening.

He'd been screaming and begging me to stop since I started with the whip only stopping screaming when I stopped. The screams were replaced by whimpers as he begged.

"Scream as much as you want. No one will hear you. Your nearest neighbours are miles away. You made a bad decision when you decided to buy this house but you weren't to know one day I would turn up."

I suddenly realized he was getting a boner. The fat bastard was getting off on being beaten. The housekeeper might not be there to do what I thought but perhaps for an entirely different reason. I bent down until my face was almost touching his and the smell of his breath made me hurriedly pull back. Did he ever clean his teeth or use mouthwash? There were probably remnants of his last meal lodged in between his teeth. I doubt his housekeeper ever kissed him. Or anyone else for that matter.

"Well,well,well. What's happening here, fatty? Someone's not entirely hating being whipped, are they?"

I changed the whip for a crop and slipped the heart shaped keeper under his once flaccid cock. Lifting it up and caressing the underside with the soft leather it quickly became fully engorged. About six inches long, maybe a fraction more, I doubted he'd seen it for decades except in a mirror.

"What shall we do with this? He didn't answer just looked at me like a terrified rabbit in the headlights. "It's stiff and it bounces well," I said as I tapped the underneath. "What...shall...we...do?"

I slowly traced a line up and down his thighs as I seemed to contemplate what I was going to do. I began sliding the keeper up and down the top of his shaft. After a few times and seeing his eyes close as he enjoyed the feeling I smacked the tip of his cock. Hard. Very hard. I hit him again, and again, and again giving him no respite. His cock became dark purple and blood began weeping through the skin.

"Please. Please. Please. Stop. I'll do anything you want but please stop," he wailed.

"You definitely will do anything I want but that's my decision, not your's. Keep quiet while I think of what to do next."

There was a bottle of Dom Perignon by the side of the bed. Opened but with only one glass taken out. There was a glass by the side of the bottle but I certainly wasn't going to drink from a glass used by this stinking piece of shit even if I washed it.

"I'll be back in a minute," I called over my shoulder as I walked out of the room. "Don't go anywhere and don't soil those sheets."

I soon found the dining room in which there was an extensive range of glassware. Beautiful. Someone else must have purchased it on his behalf or he'd stolen it from somewhere. I doubt if he had the taste to acquire it himself. Back in the bedroom I strolled over to the champagne and poured myself a glass.

"Want some?" I asked him.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

He thought for a few seconds. "Yes, please."

"That's better." I poured the rest of the bottle over his head. "Enjoy your last bottle of champagne. Or any other alcohol."

I still wasn't certain whether he thought I was just going to torture him but not kill him. After what he'd done, instructed his men to do, and the results, if he thought I was going to let him get away with it he really was stupid. I released his restraints and I think, just for a moment, he thought I was going to let him go,

"Roll over on your stomach, you fucking tub of lard."

It was fun watching him twist his belly, an inch at a time, with me abusing him with the cat until he eventually collapsed exhausted on his back. He had been trying to move faster, probably thinking I would stop, but he was far too obese. He slept naked and was a revolting sight, the blubber of his chest and stomach sliding to each side of his body, and his legs and arms flabby.

That was when I took out the paddle. Smooth on one side and rough on the other, The rough side was best when I wanted a slow rhythm but tonight I wanted to beat his ass like a dirty carpet.I worked up a rhythm with the paddle, making sure each side of his flabby ass got the same treatment, and saw the colour of his skin go from a sickly pale to a healthy tan and on until it was the colour of scalding water poured on it.

Pulling up a chair to the side of the bed I untied the rope on one wrist so he could turn his head to look at me. He struggled to speak but I knew what words wanted to come out of his mouth.

"Why? Why are you doing this to me? Why?" The words were split by his sobs.

"I could drag this out and make you keep guessing but I would like to get to my bed, where I will sleep soundly, just in case you are wondering. Three weeks ago two of your thugs visited a restaurant to extort protection money from the owner and when he refused they burnt it to the ground with him in it. It probably worked out well in making other businesses pay. But the mistake you made was that he was someone special to me. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, I'm sure you know the saying,"

The following morning his body was found, still naked but unbound, with an empty champagne bottle rammed up his ass,

After dealing with them, and the restaurant in ashes, I wandered for the next year. Although the police were, no doubt, grateful for what I'd done I knew it wouldn't prevent them from arresting me. I moved on, taking a job for a few weeks, and then moving on again

I well remember the fateful day which changed my life.

I was approaching a diner when I heard the thwack, thwack, thwack, of a bust tyre and realised it was me. I pulled into the parking lot, got out, and surveyed the damage. Another car pulled into a nearby space, the driver emerged, leaning up against the hood, watching me.

Stamping my foot in exasperation, I opened the trunk, and lifted the spare. I turned with the tyre in my hands, and he was right behind me. I took a pace back, gave him a suspicious look, ready to fling the tyre at him.

But there was something about him which stopped me. Something I couldn't put my finger on and something I've never been able to explain. I remember the conversation, and what happened that day, as clearly as if it was yesterday.

"You seem to be having a little trouble, young lady, can I be of assistance?" I don't think I'd ever heard anyone speak to me in such a polite manner.

Young lady? What the fuck? I'd never had anyone speak to me like that ever before. My indignation rose quickly.

"No. I'm fine. I'm perfectly capable of changing a tyre by myself. I don't need any help," I retorted.

"I'm sure of it. But if you are as hungry as I am I'm sure you want to get inside the diner as soon as possible. Also two pairs of hands are quicker than one." He spoke calmly and he spoke sense.

"Ok," I said. I just didn't want to argue and really did welcome the help.

He must have heard the uncertainty in my voice. But I thought, if this guy genuinely wants to help why refuse? I'd not had many people, since the death of my mother, volunteering to help me. But I was still wary of him.