As we get closer to the new year, I give you a story that’s a little on the racy side. Mina Vaughn has written you all a slasher – and I wonder if you’ll be able to tell which genre she usually writes…
by Mina Vaughn
When I awoke, eyes swollen and chin itchy from dried blood cracking as I moved, all I could see was a faint red light. Fear sunk in my stomach like that doughnut in the office that you didn’t really want, then regretted after you wolfed it down almost whole. I blinked, realizing I wasn’t in my office. Not really. This place was my just my second job.
And there was nothing office-like about it, I thought with a smirk, eyeing the festively adorned walls.
“Vixen,” a voice hissed, snapping me back into reality. My hand moved to wipe my bangs out of my eyes, but it remained immobile.
I glanced down and saw that I was tied to a chair. Ironic. Around my neck was a sign that read, Vixen.
He wasn’t wrong.
The man, apparently the source of the red light, walked from the bar’s doorway and out of the shadows. Toward me. I saw the glint of silver in his hand and no longer questioned my situation. He was most definitely the serial killer I had heard about on tv. The one who went after strippers.
“You got the wrong gal,” I said drily, wishing for swig of scotch to rinse out the coppery taste of my own blood. And to dull the ache I knew would take days to fade. “I’m no stripper.”
“Something tells me you’re lying,” he hissed. “And that something’s your little leather bikini.”
I glanced down. Right. That.
As the man came into full view, I unsuccessfully stifled a laugh, letting it slip from the corners of my sore, puffy mouth. “Seriously? The red nose?”
Mister Serial Killer was wearing a reindeer headband and a light-up nose. Now if only his knife was part of the joke.
“Dancer, Prancer, Cupid,” he seethed with each step toward me. “Ever notice how all those who mocked Rudolph sounded like stripper names?”
My mouth fell open and I felt a few flakes of blood drop into my cleavage. “You can’t be serious.”
The angry, ugly reindeer man with the knife lunged toward me. “Do I look serious?” His eyes flashed and he gnashed his yellow teeth at me.
“Of course you don’t look serious,” I deadpanned. “You’re wearing a light-up nose.”
His grimace faltered and he slashed his sharp santoku (I’ve taken my share of cooking classes, ok?) at me. “Slut. You’ll pay soon. Have fun dancing in your grave.”
I wiggled in the restraints for a second and realized he was an amateur. “Buddy, look around you. Does this look like any strip club you’ve ever been to?”
His beady eyes flicked along the room’s black walls—mistletoe wrapped floggers, a candy-cane striped riding crop, and an assortment of adorable paddles with festive holiday sayings on them. Naughty and Nice were my personal favorites.
“What the hell is this place?” he asked to himself, to me, to the Christmas tree adorned with ball-gag ornaments.
I had thrown him off, good. So far three strippers’s bodies had been left in their clubs in the last three days. If the news had known he was wearing a fucking Rudolph suit and calling the dancers by reindeer names, the story would be national news.
I’d survive to tell them.
We thought we had nothing to fear, here. In fact, I was the one who told the bouncers and security to go home early to be with their families. They knew I could take care of myself. Hell, I beat their asses on more than one occasion. And they loved it.
“It’s a kink club. Now, be a good reindeer and dash away, y’all.”
He lowered in front of me, and I smelled his rotten breath in my face. I didn’t flinch. “Confident little whore.”
This guy didn’t know he was digging his own grave.
“I’m not a whore,” I whispered.
He leaned in closer, unable to hear my quiet statement.
“I’m a Domme.”
I contracted the muscles in my arms and sure enough, the ropes slid off my torso in a split second. His method was amateur, as I had noted before. Mine, however, was flawless. As soon as my hands were free, I grabbed his head and brought it down onto my knee, eyeball flush with my kneecap. I heaved his weight off me with my arms and bound feet as he slid across the floor.
I freed my feet before attempting the knots that held my thighs down. I knew I could do serious damage without even standing up as long as he rushed me again. Which, after swiping at his knife, he predictably did. Dumb oaf. Reindeer were never known to be intelligent animals, right?
I skittered the chair backward a few steps, then right as he lunged at me with his knife, I swung my newly-freed stillettoed heel up to make contact with his throat. I heard a sick gurgle and an angry roar as he sunk down to the floor. I had managed to get the last of the ropes off my legs and now the chair and the bindings were mine, as they should be.
I dragged his mothball-smelling body to the chair and he protested weakly. I could see he was bleeding heavily, but he’d make it. Unfortunately. Using the skills I had honed over the years, I tied him to the chair with tight precision. I threw in a little pain, too, pinning his hands behind him in reverse prayer.
Pray for those girls you killed, you sick fuck.
His eyes lolled in his head, watching me as I finished immobilizing him in my web. Not to devour, as I am wont to do, but to hand him over, red nose and all, to the authorities.
“Aren’t you going to spank me?” he asked, eyes hazy with bloodloss and a new, confused sort of lust. I knew his type, the misogynist who thought women were weak and dirty.
I was just dirty.
“I could take something off the wall here and beat you until you were tenderized like a sirloin,” I said, picking his knife off the floor, measuring his gaze. I pulled the ball from his nose and shoved it in his mouth, like an apple in the mouth of a slaughtered pig.
I promptly picked up the phone behind the bar and dialed 911 with the tip of his knife.
“I’ll leave the spanking to your new prison friends. I think they’ll do a little more than laugh and call you names, though. You won’t like their reindeer games.”