Belle Âme

Ex-Lieutenant Frank Benson reclined upon a cushioned wicker chair atop his wooden deck with all the ease and flexibility of a newly bought leather wallet. A holiday along the southern coast of America was just what he had desperately needed, required, for a great number of years. The decades of trudging in bloody frontlines and the many seasons spent cooped up behind an office computer, listening to bureaucratic nonsense, had utterly pummelled his chances at experiencing the joys of true relaxation.

A salt-laced breeze from the gulf swept up toward his high perch, whipping his snow-white hair into an atrocious, unkempt mess. He brushed a long lock from his hazel eyes with one hand, pushing his darkened aviators up the bumpy bridge of his hooked nose. Frank believed he looked quite dashing dressed in a navy blue Hawaiian shirt with complementing pale yellow palm trees and dolphins decorating the thin fabric. The grizzled old man looked less like Tom Selleck from Magnum P.I. and far more like a European tourist attempting to camouflage as a local—which, in fact, Frank was.

He groaned when the sliding glass door belonging to the adjacent house slammed open, a young woman wearing only a skimpy red bikini walking out onto the oak deck. Frank watched, meaty hand harshly clutching the armrest of his chair, jaw clenched, as the tall, curvy girl strutted over to the pool sunken below the deck’s wooden grain. Her head popped out of the clear water, rivulets running from her cheeks down between her perky, bouncing breasts, and Frank was suddenly aware of just how long it had truly been for him. 

The crotch of his khaki shorts grew tight, his heart now thudding, pounding aggressively against his rib cage. Catching sight of the girl next door was the highlight of each and every day of his vacation so far. He’d witnessed the curving, slender figure of the young woman sunning herself on a beach towel across from the pool, walked past her laughing form playing in the shallow ocean water as he pretended to search for seashells buried within the burning, coarse sand. He did not know if it was cowardice or wisdom that kept him from talking to the girl, asking her over for a lemonade or whatever it was older men could politely offer far younger women to assure their company for an entire afternoon. 

Few houses resided along this portion of the southern Gulf Coast, a purposeful decision he’d made to remove himself from the annoying palatial resort complexes cropping up at an alarming rate at American beachside towns. A purposeful decision informed not only by his incredible dislike for crowds and people—a decision that would permit a far darker impulse of his to come to fruition. 

Frank’s decades of service had taught him a rather valuable skill—reconnaissance. He’d learned the young woman would be alone for the next three days, her family—mother, father, grandmother, and two brothers—a toddler and an infant—all intended on traveling inland. For what purposes the family was making this trip, and why they were leaving the young woman alone, he did not care. That information was never revealed to him. But with the girl being abandoned the following morning…the idea left Frank nearly salivating at the opportunity presenting itself prostrate to him. 

Frank stood from his chair, knees creaking from the effort. Prowling over to the deck’s rail, he pretended to gaze at the sea’s rolling waves, to watch a large ship dock at one of the numerous, rickety iron oil platforms ruining the flatness of the picturesque landscape. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the girl’s bikini top slip lower on her frame, silently hoping the ridiculous fabric would finally give way, for the thin straps to untie, and her breasts break free. That would make his quiet, lounging day loads better.

His cock throbbed, twitching with unrestrained interest at the girl next door, the girl he’d have before nightfall the next day. Frank Benson sighed, suddenly at peace. 

You stood, leaning against the wooden railing of the front porch, watching as your family pulled out of the sand-dusted driveway. The old Ford pick-up disappeared behind the rolling dunes lining the narrow street, and you finally released a breath you had not realized you had been holding. While you loved your family, you had no desire to spend the weekend camping with them. Reaching adulthood, the age of eighteen, provided you with the ability to opt out of such ridiculous family adventures. Adventures that usually entailed at least one disaster before nightfall. 

The tiny hairs, peach fuzz, really, lining the back of your neck prickled, the feeling of being watched, being seen, overtaking your senses. It was not the first time you’d experienced the feeling, either. Throughout the week, you had felt the hair-raising tingle nearly every time you walked outside, every time you went for a swim or a stroll along the sandy shore. 

The nearest house, besides the rental cottage next door, was nearly a mile away; the small coastal town was rather safe from the vile infection of beachfront development. That didn’t mean you did not see tourists and townspeople alike at the beach. There were plenty of people around that could be spying on you, you supposed. Except, the uncomfortable feeling never seemed to dissolve when the beach was absent of tourists, nor when darkness blanketed the white beach. 

You briefly wondered if the renter of the nearly identical house on stilts next door was perhaps the spy, but the idea sounded ludicrous to your troubled brain. The man next door was older, with grizzled white hair, a sloping belly, darkened sunglasses, and apparently a suitcase full of brightly printed Hawaiian shirts. He was probably someone’s grandfather, someone’s father, someone’s widow, and this picture you had built around the ashen-faced gentleman did not neatly allow the spy narrative to dwell within. 

You heard a sliding glass door click shut, the man in question’s quiet footsteps padding across the oak deck. You slipped back through the front door, slipping the metal lock into place with a sharp snap. 

The sun was low in the sky when you returned outside, passing the glistening pool that always called your name when the humidity was wretched and the temperature scalding. It was such a day, yet, still feeling the presence of searching eyes, you had not been brave enough to venture outdoors since watching the family Ford race down the street. 

The old man on the adjacent deck sat in his usual chair, sunglasses pushed up the bridge of his hooked nose, seemingly deeply focused upon a thick novel—a history of Churchill, judging by the black-and-white photograph stretching across the cover.

Shaking away the fearful feeling that someone—or something—was staring, boring a hole into the back of your head, you lifted the hood of the grill, intending to cook yourself a nice dinner. Except—the flames did not shoot up and lick the stainless steel grating, the smell of propane immediately entering your nostrils. One brow raised, you knelt down to investigate, to stop the leak before the gas suddenly caught all ablaze. 

“Something the matter?” A deep, British voice asked, breaking the dull, constant noise of the ocean’s waves crashing into the coast. Startled, you leapt to your feet, head knocking against the grill’s metal underside.

“What?” You questioned, voice impossibly high-pitched and feminine.

“Is something the matter?” The old, white-haired man renting the cottage next door had walked over to his deck’s corner, his stocky body leaning forward, head tilted in the direction of the broken grill.

“Um–it–the grill–it seems to be leaking propane,” you mumbled, cheeks pink, embarrassed by your inarticulacy. The old man’s thin lips pulled into a half-smile, eyes hidden behind the blackened sunglasses.

“Shall I take a look? You’re all alone today, yes?” He had turned to face you rather than the grill, one snow-white brow arched in question. If possible, your cheeks turned an even brighter shade of scarlet.

“Yes, please—that’d be—that’d be excellent.” There was still something in the air that made your jaw clench, that made your stomach tightly squeeze your insides with rippling dread. The old English man was beside you in an instant, falling to his knees with a grunt as he began to examine the grill’s metal interior, brows drawn in a squint. 

“There’s no repairing this,” he muttered, voice thick, as if struggling to leave the depths of his throat. With chubby hands, he closed off the tap to the propane, the issue of the leak resolved. He attempted to push off from his knees, only to stumble face-first with a groan. You gasped, rushing forward to aid the helpful old man up, hand steadying his heaving chest.

You had no idea what happened, nor how exactly it had happened—only that your ample chest was painfully pressed against the deck’s wooden boards, the old, white-haired man from next door straddling your lower back. His weight was unforgiving—a hardness located near the crotch of his shorts firmly against your butt. You weren’t sure what to think—what to do—you only knew nothing could be done with him looming atop your body. 

The man wheezed, jerking up from his high perch into a half-crouch. Acting on instinct—pure animal instinct alone—you hurried out from beneath him, launching yourself into a full-on run. Only—the world soon began to slant, the joints of your limbs making painful contact with the wooden boards, the stinging of broken, bleeding flesh erupting across your knees and elbows. 

“Get up,” the man snarled, breath hot and stinking and suddenly in your face. He lifted you by the scruff of your shirt with ease, like you were a sack of potatoes—weighted, but not impossible. Instinct flared once more within your veins—your knee catching a particularly fleshy part of him, forcing a low grunt leveled at the back of your head. But he did not release you from his hold—stocky body guiding your entwined forms past the squeaky gate—something cool and wet enveloping your overwhelmed, overworked senses in a flurry of seconds. 

Oxygen failed to infiltrate your lungs—the normal, regular act of breathing now difficult. Untenable. Something large and stable tugged you upward, the rushing noise filling your ears gone silent, liquid escaping your mouth with a spluttering, damp cough. Relief coursed through your chest, pulsing in waves deep within your heart, yet that relief was short-lived. Your head was shoved back down below, the wetness suffocating and swelling all about your flailing body. 

Just when your windpipe had begun to burn, when spots began to swim before your obscured vision, your head broke the surface of the shallow pool. Face-to-face with your neighbor, reality finally slammed into your brain with threatening force, enough to take what meager breath you had gained since leaving the pool’s depths. This man had tried to kill you. This man had nearly drowned you, forced you under the small, rippling waves like you were a child’s doll. He surely was not the kindly, old, doddering figure you had made him out to be in your mind—no, he was far more cunning than that. 

The man’s windswept white hair had darkened to a near-grey, the locks curling at the edges. The black sunglasses had vanished, leaving his eyes—a stormy, interrogating hazel—gazing at you with a look that felt piercing—as if he were searching for your weakest point to stab you. Without the glasses, his face appeared far more lined—harsh and fierce—less like someone’s grandpa and far more like an ex-soldier. An ex-spy. 

Transparent drops of water dribbled down his hooked nose, down his cheek, disappearing underneath the collar of another of his Hawaiian shirts—this one sporting dark blue sailboats and waves against a white-flowered backdrop. The shirt no longer seemed as charming as it once did. 

You stared, foolishness and shame dipping low in your belly, waiting for some sort of explanation.

None came.

The hard hazel eyes continued to pierce, to stab, seeking something that was not there. 

“What do you want?” You timidly asked, the wind cool as dusk settled over the abandoned beach, stars starting to join the crescent moon in the sky. The silence, save for the relentless, crashing waves, had grown deafening and oppressive. Your clothes had grown cold and awkward.

The man stiffened, eyes focusing on your face before peering downward, the look making your stomach drop. “You,” he breathed, baritone voice suddenly soft, almost gentle, albeit the gruffness of a man accustomed to barking orders that were always obeyed lingered. “I want you,” his meaty hands forced you toward his chest with a splash, your head tucked under his chin, buried against his neck. 

His scent was powerful—leather, tobacco, and something distinctly earthy—sandalwood, or perhaps, cedar. The thin patch of stubble growing along his jaw brushed against your ear, the beating of his heart through the drenched material of his shirt shockingly rapid. You were caught up in the relief of not dying, in the tentative safety of his embrace, that you did not notice the removal of your shorts, nor his thick hands sliding to a halt beneath your t-shirt, idly flicking your narrow bra strap. 

“I’ve been watching you all week,” he purred from above, neck rumbling beside your cheek. The sensation was strange. “You’re beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful,” one large hand had discovered your tangled, waterlogged hair, attempting to run his fingers through the usually pristine locks. “You look like you were positively made for it.” His hands had found the bare flesh of your back, his crotch rocking forward. With a gasp, you suddenly understood what exactly it was.

“N-no,” you stuttered, voice catching with emotion. You didn’t want this—not here, not now, not with him. The grip of his hands tightened, your scalp stinging from the unrelenting hold. 

“I’d reconsider, sweetheart,” he snarled into your ear, stubble painfully scraping against your sensitive cheek. “You don’t want your little brothers to come home to their sister’s corpse floating face down in the family swimming pool.” 

The hand still burrowed within your tresses covered the back of your skull without difficulty, pushing you downward, to the grave he’d just threatened easily, with only just his palm. “I’ll do it,” you choked, eyes squeezed shut in agony, in the agony that you had willingly chosen this over death. The mental image of your family, your mother, your brother Henry, only a toddler, finding your unmoving, bloated body in the pool was horrifying—horrifying in how real it looked in your head—how close you’d physically been to experiencing that gruesome possibility.

Frank led the shivering girl out of the shallow, heated pool with just one thick hand cradling her neck, shoving her lanky body roughly into the wooden deck railing. The sun had sunk far below the horizon; only small blotches of purple and dulled pink gave any reminder, any indication that the glowing orb had once ruled the sky. 

He was soaked—khaki shorts stiffly hanging off his stocky frame, steadily dribbling water onto the oak wooden boards, his Hawaiian shirt ice cold to the touch. Frank was hardly aware of his disheveled state of dress, his focus far more centered on the quivering figure standing before him.

The older man started forward, boards creaking beneath the moonlight, halting when the girl was an arm's length away. “Turn around,” he commanded, in the same tone he had used to bark orders at baby-faced privates far before breakfast was even served. His arms fell into place beside the shaking girl’s thin, curving frame, trapping her between the wooden posts. He would not tolerate any further disobedience, any ill-conceived plans of escape she might attempt. 

Frank was pressed into her backside, cock somewhere between half-hard and full-mast, enjoying the little squeaks the young girl made as he roughly grabbed her small, perky breasts over the dripping t-shirt, hands trailing steadily downward to give her slight stomach a squeeze. He wondered if his long, thick cock would show after he fully sheathed himself within, wondered at the horrified look the girl might give if he forced her to examine his handiwork protruding through her own flesh.

He reached her sex, smirking when he felt the thin fabric of a thong, doing very little to hide his prize. Her slit was tight; he’d bet everything she was a proud virgin, untouched and unknowledgeable concerning the pleasures of the world. Feeling daring, he determined to ask her.

“Have you ever been with a man, sweetheart?” he darkly hissed, mouth less than an inch away from the shell of her ear. He licked a stripe across the tempting skin before he could think better of it, his member enjoying the way her breath hitched. She remained silent, heart racing, even through the thin barrier of her t-shirt, and he wondered if her eyes held the fear of an animal caught under a predator’s evaluating gaze. “Answer me,” he growled, harshly grabbing her sex, eagerly wanting her to know his power. His control. 

“No,” she fearfully whimpered to the rolling sea, the black part of his soul satisfied. He made swift work of the skimpy thong, soiled shirt, and lace bra, loving the way her skin, battered in some places from their earlier struggle, immediately crawled with gooseflesh. Her incessant trembling stimulated his arousal, her body warm against his coldness. 

The budded nubs perfectly adorning her sloping breasts fit perfectly beneath his rough, calloused hands, the rosy points poking out from between the slots of his fingers. She smelled like a mixture of strawberries and the salty freedom of the sea, her scent utterly, hopelessly intoxicating. With his roughened hands, he ghosted further down her soft, pliant body, giving her hips a squeeze before releasing them to fumble about for his trousers’ zipper. 

His erection jutted out of his pants, hard, curving, and dripping, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a reddened tip. Frank paid no mind to the comfort of the girl below him, her breasts painfully pressed into the wooden rail. He spread her dry lower lips like he'd done the deed a million times prior, impaling himself without warning. The girl screamed, his meaty hands wrapping around her face in desperation, mentally praying that their remote location, coupled with the lateness of the day, prevented any further investigation from their neighbors. No people bustled down the abandoned beach with flashlight in hand, to his immense relief. Frank removed the hand gagging the girl, cock twitching within his newly sheathed hole at the heaving, choking cough she made. 

“Don’t try that again,” he warned below his breath, the wind howling in their ears. She was tight—tighter than even he was accustomed to, her walls fluttering around his hardness, wetness weakly dripping like condensation in a poor attempt at protecting the stabbed organ. Frank wanted her wetter, however. He wanted her to like this against her will—wanted her to always remember him every time she sought pleasure, alone or accompanied. 

With the point of his index finger, he dug through the girl’s folds, the small button of a clit perched at her sex’s crest, hard and pulsing beneath the hood. Frank nipped her ear, meaty finger exposing the bean to the world, to the shivering coldness swirling around the moonlight beach with the roaring wind. She jumped, the back of her head making contact with his stubbled jaw, his tongue narrowly avoiding being bitten. He pressed the full, uneven pad of his fingertip to the sensitive bundle of nerves, his hips began to rock forward and backward, learning to adjust to a rhythm synchronized with the flutters the girl’s insides gave under his ministrations. He settled on drawing circles upon the tiny nub, hips growing relentless as he chased the climax of his pleasure.

Suckling the girl’s neck with a moan, his penis making wet plops every time he exited and re-entered her battered entrance, he smirked as he felt the tell-tale shudders of an orgasm blooming within her walls. The girl was coming before he was, lucky thing, this achievement sending a surge of pride, of reassurance of his skill, and egging his ferocity onward. 

A howling moan boomed from her cracked lips, each contraction slower in time than the last, the end of her climax nigh. Frank didn’t care to quiet the noise this time, the sound sending a throb straight to his swinging balls, the crashing waves certainly enough to drown her cries from carrying down the sandy coast. She was bucking into his chest, attempting to remove his prying hand from rubbing her assaulted clit, but her desperation was for naught. Tears quietly trailed down her face, dripping to the thick hand that continued to ruthlessly massage the center of her pleasure. The girl was swallowing back her sobs, the wetness that accumulated from when she came welcome to Frank, the newfound friction agonizingly sweet, perfectly made for him. 

Frank was close, so very close, balls seizing where they dangled between his legs, pelvis still pumping in and out, hazel eyes closing swiftly as he lowly groaned. The girl clenched around him, suddenly, surprisingly, the action exactly what he required. He could not have kept himself from releasing, even if he tried, the grip squeezing one of her breasts, crushing, the thick finger stroking her button, falling finally still. 

The man behind you was panting, panting like a large dog after a very long walk. Rope after rope of liquid splurted into your insides, your walls fluttering in a sort of half-orgasm. You hoped, silently prayed, that this was the end—that he was done taking from you. Everything was beginning to hurt again, the adrenaline finally wearing thin despite his continued presence. Your breath still came in short shudders, the air freezing cold even in mid-spring, the beauty of the beach staring back at you, mocking. 

The seriousness of what just occurred had slowly arisen following your blissful orgasm, the orgasm he’d forced you to have—what you first thought of as mercy, now clearly a cruel form of vengeful remembrance—for how could you do this again with someone and not think of him? Clarity had removed the scales from your eyes. Nothing would be the same after this—did you tell someone, your mother, perhaps? You did not even know the large, towering man’s name.

The man had pulled away from you, exiting with a wet plop, wiping your slick onto your thigh without a second thought. You felt dirty—utterly, completely used. He’d said nothing during the dreadful act—didn’t call you names like you expected, merely used you like you were a toy—a fleshlight he’d just picked up from the store. Shame filled your stomach, fueling the all-consuming, one-directional thought that said run—escape—hide. 

Suddenly, he was back in front of your face, white handkerchief pressed to your nostrils—the world nothing but black fuzz as conscious thought abandoned you—alone with him. 

Birdsong. The normal, predictable, cheerful chirps of birdsong met your ears—confusion swelling within your heart. Birdsong. What did birdsong mean? Morning, your brain easily supplied, body shooting upright atop a surprisingly gentle, pillowy surface. And that had been a horrible, terrible idea. 

Pain shot up your body, radiating particularly between your legs. It felt as if you’d been run over by an oversized bus. Or perhaps two in swift succession. 

Ignoring the throbbing ache permeating throughout your body, you hobbled out of bed, standing beside your bedside table. Everything seemed confusing, yet familiar. What had happened last night? And the memory surged forth—the next-door neighbor attacking and nearly drowning you—threatening murder unless you agreed—unless you agreed to do that with him—

You shivered at the unwelcome recollection, shifting side to side when you realized you still felt his–his sem—his seed inside. And you didn’t even know his name. Breath became difficult, all of a sudden, oxygen was scarce, chest heaving for air, fortifying air. 

Your gaze turned to the bedside table, anything to distract from the past, catching on a letter that had not been there before. With all the bravery, all the courage you could possibly gather within your heart, you began to read, the initials FB hastily scrawled in blocky, capital lettering at the bottom corner of the page.