"Home," the CEO told his driver, sliding his hand into the car's warm leather as the secretary leaned in for a last, careless kiss.
"Right away, sir," the driver said, eyes polite, hands steady on the wheel.
The sedan purred and left them in a cone of streetlight.
"Good night, sir," the driver called, when they reached the garage.
"I'll leave the car," he said. "Lock up."
"Will do." The garage door ate the car's tail-lights.
The CEO walked toward his front door, keys jangling like small, confident accusations.
A soft scuff made him pause.
He turned and saw nothing but the garden's shadow.
"Probably a fox," he muttered, placing his palm on the door.
The sound came again—closer, deliberate.
A man stood across the pavement, shoulders rounded, coat smelling of old rain.
The man did not move beyond the dark.
"Who are you?" the CEO called, the formal tone sharpening like a legal brief.
"You okay out here?" he added, stepping forward.
No answer came. The stranger's face was an empty, crazy map—eyes wide, fixed.
Something gleamed in the stranger's hand.
A long blade caught the streetlamp and held it like a question.
The CEO's voice thinned. "Stay back. I'll call—"
He fumbled for his phone with an authority that suddenly had fingers too clumsy.
The man in the coat did not flinch. He only watched.
"911," the CEO breathed out, thumb trembling.
Then the man moved—fast, furious, without hesitation.
"No!" the CEO shouted and ran for the bell, hope raw and ridiculous.
Metal met flesh with a sound that was not a shout so much as a collapse.
The machete struck again, a quick, terrible rhythm.
Blood darkened along the frame of the front door.
The CEO sank, palms useless on the threshold, eyes surprised at their own end.
He went still. The world kept its ordinary hum.
The stranger knelt, looked at the spreading red as if seeing an answer he had been looking for.
Hysteria and fear wrestled across his face.
He took two steps backward, then turned and slipped into the hedgerow toward the woods.
For a moment the night was only the sound of someone far away running branches.
The front door moved. Two small figures tumbled out, pyjamas in hand.
"Daddy!" the daughter called, voice too high with planned greeting.
Her shout died when she saw the shape on the step.
She screamed and flung back inside, feet pounding, running to a phone with fingers that could barely manage buttons.
The boy, six, stood frozen, confusion folded into him like a new instruction he had not asked for.
"T—" he began, then the sound broke into sobs before the name could finish.
Neighbors' curtains parted, lights snapped on, voices scattered into the street like loose birds.
Someone shouted for an ambulance. Someone else called the police.
The night filled itself with sirens on their way, and the children's cries braided into the dark.
The man who had come with the blade watched from the trees, chest heaving, eyes hollow as if he'd lost a bargain.
He did not strike again. He only watched the chaos he had made, then turned away and vanished into the city's breathing.
---
"You're cheating," she hissed, the words slapping against the tiles like evidence.
"Paranoid," he answered, tone clipped, a dismissive umbrella.
"Don't call me paranoid." She slammed his phone down, the screen bright with messages.
"Those texts aren't hers," he said, hands reaching, pleading.
"Give me the phone." His demand was soft but urgent.
"No." Her fingers tightened around the device like a vice.
She dialed, voice sharp as a shard. "Hello? Yes, I'm speaking to you."
The other woman answered and the line became a battlefield.
"Who do you think you are?" the wife spat into the call.
He lunged, quick and suddenly not gentle, to yank the handset free.
Her grip held. He pried it away like someone stealing something obvious.
The call cut off. Silence fell like a closed trap.
"Stop it," the little boy in the corner cried, small and raw.
Their daughter started to cry, her face blotchy and wild.
"You bring shame," the wife said, words jagged with hurt.
His face changed—anger unfurled like a storm.
"You want to humiliate me?" he barked.
She lunged first, the anger a desperate thing turning to teeth.
He shoved her back; she hit the counter and teetered toward the sink.
In a moment that blurred, she reached for something—eyes frantic, hands shaking— and the object found his back.
A sharp sound, a surprised scream. "Ah!" he cried, stumbling forward and clutching at the wound.
Pain stripped his composure like paint being peeled.
Rage took him fully then, closing around him like a fist.
He punched. Once. Hard. The kitchen felt the impact like a bell.
He punched again, until the room's edges blurred and the world reduced to a rhythm of blows.
She fell to the floor, the sound of her body a slow, sick drum against tile.
He kept hitting, the awful mechanics of it—one, two, again—until there was no answer but the crooked sigh of spent motion.
Silence came like a thud. He looked down and saw the cost of what he'd done.
A living room, children crying, the smell of iron and fear and too many small things gone wrong.
Then a crashing, a metal scream—the fire extinguisher swung by a small, furious arm.
It hit his head with the blunt, miracle force of a child defending a home.
He folded and went out like a switch being thrown.
The eldest daughter stared, chest heaving, hands trembling from the weight of what she had done.
The younger ones clung to their mother, eyes wide and wet and needing answers.
Outside, police sirens threaded the air and neighbors gathered on stoops with phones held tight.
Paramedics moved fast, voices businesslike, wrapping urgent hands around slow grief.
She breathed shallow, bandaged, and rocked slightly, fingers fisted into the rug.
Her report would build into papers and timestamps, words made legal to hold this moment steady.
For now, the house breathed like someone asleep and suddenly safer, the man unconscious, the children gathered close.
---
She'd followed her friends to a nightclub; the night was a bad-blue neon promise.
They'd all come in matching school uniforms for the themed event, laughing like conspirators.
Her friends drifted into conversations with other guys, voices raised, drinks sparkling.
She sat alone, phone a small pale moon in her hand.
A man came and sat where he was invited by his own confidence.
He was older, face marked by a mature hardness she'd seen in films.
His clothes were clean, expensive casual; a Rolex gleamed at his wrist.
He smiled and asked, "Is this place taken?"
"No," she said, curious and cautious.
He spoke like someone used to getting answers he liked.
"You're with friends?" he asked, tone easy.
"Yes." Her friends were a few feet away, too busy to notice.
He offered a drink; the glass was cool, the gesture rehearsed.
They talked. He flirted with the effortless greed of someone who enjoyed being desired.
She laughed, and his attention made her feel seen in a soft, dangerous way.
"Come with me," he said at last, voice low as an invitation.
She scanned the room; the others were occupied, tucked into other conversations.
She hesitated a breath, weighing the small risks she'd been taught since childhood.
"Why?" she asked, protective of whatever she was becoming.
"Just come," he said, charm curdling into insistence.
She looked back at her friends again, their backs turned, their laughter like a shield she could not step behind.
"Why not," she thought.
She rose and, deciding quick as impulse and boredom, she followed him without telling anyone.
The private room pulsed with the muffled thump of bass from the nightclub beyond the door, bad-blue neon seeping under the frame like a illicit glow. The air hung heavy, scented with his cologne and the faint tang of her nervousness. He guided her inside with a hand on the small of her back, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing out the laughter and lights. The space was sparse—a low bed against the wall, a single chair, shadows clinging to the corners. He didn't waste words, just sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, his expensive slacks tenting with obvious arousal.
She stood there a moment, heart hammering, the pleated skirt of her skirt brushing her thighs. Curiosity won over caution as she dropped to her knees between his legs, fingers trembling as she unzipped his fly. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, already hard and curving upward. She wrapped her hand around the base, feeling the heat pulse against her palm, and leaned in. Her lips parted, tongue flicking out to trace the slit where pre-cum beaded. He groaned low, threading fingers through her hair, guiding her forward.
She took him into her mouth, sucking slow at first, lips stretching around his girth. Her tongue swirled along the underside as she bobbed her head, taking more with each pass. Saliva slicked his shaft, dripping down to her chin as she hollowed her cheeks, drawing a hiss from him. He bucked his hips lightly, pushing deeper, the head nudging the back of her throat. She gagged softly but didn't pull away, humming around him, the vibration making his grip tighten.
'Good girl,' he murmured, voice rough with approval. He tugged her up then, pulling her onto the bed beside him. His mouth crashed against hers in a deep French kiss, tongue invading, tasting himself on her lips. One hand roamed up her blouse, shoving the fabric aside to cup her breast. He fondled her roughly, thumb rolling over her nipple until it hardened into a peak, pinching just hard enough to make her gasp into his mouth. His other hand squeezed her ass through the skirt, pulling her closer as their kiss grew messy, teeth nipping, breaths mingling hot and urgent.
He broke away only to strip her, yanking the blouse open, buttons scattering. Her skirt hiked up as he flipped her onto her hands and knees, the uniform a rumpled mess around her waist. He positioned himself behind her, cock slapping against her ass before he gripped her hips and thrust in. Her pussy clenched around him, wet and tight, the sudden stretch drawing a sharp cry from her. He didn't ease in—slammed deep, balls slapping her clit with each brutal drive. Doggy style let him dominate fully, one hand fisting her hair to arch her back, the other spanking her ass red as he pounded relentlessly.
She pushed back against him, moans spilling out, the burn of his cock filling her completely. He pulled out abruptly, flipping her onto her back for missionary. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, folding her nearly in half, and drove back in, grinding deep. His weight pinned her, thrusts savage, her breasts bouncing with every impact. She clawed at his back, nails digging in, lost in the rhythm.
Not done, he shifted again, hauling her up into a full nelson. His arms locked under hers, hands clasping behind her neck, holding her immobile as he impaled her from below. She dangled in his grip, pussy stretched wide around his pistoning cock, gravity pulling her down harder onto each thrust. He began to choke her then, one hand releasing to wrap around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her vision blur at the edges. Stars sparked as he slammed into her, the pressure building a dizzying high.
Her legs locked around his waist instinctively, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper. Pleasure coiled tight, overwhelming, her eyes rolling back as she came undone—body shuddering, pussy spasming around him in waves. He growled, thrusting through her climax, his own release flooding her with hot spurts of cum, marking her from the inside.
The release was a blinding wave, a cresting tsunami of sensation that washed away every thought. Her vision dissolved into a field of sparkling stars as he drove into her, the pressure at her throat a dizzying counterpoint to the pleasure building deep in her core. Her legs locked around him of their own volition, heels digging into the flexing muscles of his ass, urging him deeper, wanting him to consume her completely. Pleasure coiled, impossibly tight, then snapped. Her body arched, a silent scream on her lips as she came, pussy spasming around his thick cock in rhythmic, clenching waves. He growled her name, a guttural sound of possession, thrusting through her convulsing climax until his own release broke, flooding her with the heat of his cum, a primal mark laid deep inside her.
In the breathless, trembling aftermath, his hand, which had been cradling her neck, shifted. His fingers flexed, then tightened, no longer a lover's caress but a cage. He pinned her shoulders to the mattress with his weight, his other hand wrapping around her throat, pressing her into the pillows. At first, a dark thrill shot through her. She liked it rough, liked the edge of danger, the feeling of being completely at his mercy. But the pressure didn't ease. It increased, a solid, unyielding force that cut off her air. The sparkling in her vision wasn't from pleasure anymore; it was from oxygen deprivation.
"Can't... breathe," she rasped, her voice a thin, desperate wheeze.
He didn't stop. His grip, if anything, became tighter, his knuckles white. The adoration in his eyes was gone, replaced by something cold and terrifying. "Take this," he snarled, his face contorting into a mask of rage. "You like that, you bitch whore?" His eyes were bloodshot, the veins standing out like angry red lines. "Sluts like you need to be punished, don't you agree?"
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her arousal. This was wrong. This wasn't a game. She tried to scream, to beg, but only a choked, strangled sound escaped her lips. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, tracing hot paths down her temples. He slapped her, a sharp, stinging crack that whipped her head to the side and made her ears ring. He didn't stop fucking her, his thrusts becoming brutal, punishing things that slammed her body into the mattress.
Her arms flailed, useless, her hands clawing at his wrist, his arm, his face—anything to break his hold. Her legs kicked out, scrambling for purchase against the sheets, against him. It was a frantic, desperate dance of a dying animal. "Stay still, you fucking bitch!" he screamed at her, his voice raw with fury, spit flying from his lips. He was cursing her, a litany of filth and hate that barely registered through the roaring in her ears.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the frantic struggling ceased. Her body went limp, a dead weight beneath him. Her wide, terrified eyes stared at the ceiling, unseeing.
He didn't notice. Or maybe he didn't care. He continued to slam into her lifeless body, the rhythm of his thrusts growing erratic, more frantic. With a final, guttural groan, he came again, a shudder wracking his frame as he emptied himself into her cooling flesh.
And in that instant, the red haze cleared. The lust, the rage, the burning desire—it all vanished, leaving behind a vast, echoing emptiness. He looked down.
He saw her. Not the writhing, moaning woman from moments before, but a body. A doll with unblinking eyes and a slack, blue-tinged mouth. His hand was still wrapped around her throat, the skin already darkening with bruises.
A sound tore from his throat, a sound that wasn't human—a high-pitched, animalistic shriek of pure horror. He scrambled backward, throwing himself off the bed as if her body were on fire. He landed hard on the floor, his limbs tangling beneath him, and crab-walked away, his eyes locked on the terrible scene on the bed. His breath came in ragged, sobbing gasps. He had done that. He had done *that*.
Scrambling to his feet, he fumbled with the doorknob, his slick, trembling fingers unable to get a grip. Finally, it turned. He wrenched the door open and fled, running naked into the dark hallway, leaving the door wide open to the silent, still room and the thing he had left behind.