Payback

By J P Philips

A young woman is tricked into giving her body to two strangers, but there’s far more to this shockingly dark story than that alone...

I have to confess that I’m not completely comfortable publishing this story. It has nothing to do with its construction or the style of writing – that, I’m perfectly happy with. It more comes down to the subject matter of a young woman being manipulated into offering her body to two strangers.

Payback began when I was writing for a publisher who’d requested a control story along these lines. I was a little reticent, even then, but I began to write it, nevertheless. Soon I decided that, if I was going to head down such a questionable route, I was going to push the boundaries even further and add a darker sub-plot to the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J P Philips
• Release date: May 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310027840

J P Philips

J P Philips describes himself as, "A perfectly ordinary, happily married, forty-something-year-old man who accidentally stumbled upon a talent for erotic writing." It began back in 2006 while, on a wine-fuelled whim, he decided to write a fictitious 'girlfriends' confession' in an attempt to be published by a certain mens' magazine. As a bi-product of that experience he discovered a strange thrill in writing erotica, and so he went on to create more stories, publishing them online in an amateur capacity, where he was awarded several prizes and quickly amassed a considerable fan-base. An early attempt at a personal website then followed, a professional publishing contract was duly signed, but in the end he decided that he really wanted to go it alone, and so he now publishes all of his short stories and novellas independently. Asked how best to describe his writing style, JP has come up with the snappy title, "Slightly-larger-than-life-story-led-hardcore".

Book preview

Payback

by

J P Philips

Payback

Copyright © 2015 MDD Publishing

http//www.mydarkestdesire.com

All rights reserved. EBooks and eStories are non transferable. No part of this work may be used or transferred without the prior written permission of MDD Publishing (excepting circumstances where short extracts amounting to no more than 100 words are quoted in promotional material or critical review). Unauthorised reproduction of this work is illegal. No part of this story may be scanned, uploaded or distributed by any means, print or electronic, without the express permission of the publisher.

This story contains themes of a sexual nature and is to be read by persons aged eighteen years or over. In owning a copy of this story, readers must also make sure that they are adhering to the law of the country of their abode. MDD Publishing takes no responsibility for illegal behaviour resulting from the acquisition of this story.

This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidences are the work of the author’s imagination only. Any resemblance to people, living or dead, is coincidental only.

Published in the UK by MDD Publishing 2015

Payback

Donovan’s stomach lurched at the sight of those two familiar faces entering the bar. Paul Sharkey, the young, good-looking Irishman with his cold, blue eyes, angular features and permanent two-day beard growth. Wiry and fearless, Sharkey had an on-off temperament: one moment charming, the next, calculating and utterly brutal. Following behind him, Hakim, the big, shaven-headed black man, once tipped to be the next cruiserweight champ until his natural aggression got the better of him and he killed a man in a barroom brawl over nothing. He’d successfully argued manslaughter and had gotten away with a five stretch only, but it spelled the death of his sporting career, a fact that fed his bitterness each and every day.

‘Drink up, Mickey old son,’ Sharkey said with almost believable affability as he flopped down onto the stool next to Donovan’s at the bar. The younger man’s arm fell across Donovan’s shoulder in a way that could easily have been mistaken for friendliness had he not known the ritual all too well by now.

It was funny in a way: Donovan had grown so used to the routine beatings that he could say in all honesty that he no longer feared them. That’s not to say he suffered any less through the pain, but he’d at least given up on begging for mercy and had even grown to accept the inevitability of it all. This time, however, things were going to be different. He sensed it in the sour pit of his stomach. And as Sharkey’s grip steadily tightened – as Hakim stepped to his side in readiness for the struggle he would not be putting up – he stood, downed what remained of his pint and allowed them to guide him from the bar.

Today things were going to be different. Ordinarily Donovan would have been led down the adjacent alleyway where he’d be subjected to a swift and brutal kicking before Sharkey would lean over him and hiss how he had better settle his debts quickly or things would only get worse, to the accompaniment of a final booted foot to the stomach.

Stepping out onto the street, Donovan blinked through the gunmetal grey of the late-afternoon sky before a hand shoved at the small of his back so that he had no option but to stagger forwards towards an idling Volvo that lay in wait by the side of the kerb. Someone pulled the rear door open and Donovan felt his head quickly forced down as he was bundled unceremoniously onto the back seat, the shot springs sinking to their limit as Sharkey and Hakim climbed in either side of him.

‘So, where we going today then, boys?’ he asked with feigned bravado, the greasy-haired lump of a driver stamping his foot to the floor to send the car lurching unsteadily into the traffic. ‘We off to the cinema?’

Sharkey laughed, a genuine, amused laugh. ‘I wish, Mickey; there’s a new Disney Hakim’s just dyin’ to see – aren’t ya big-man? – but sadly for the two of yous, we’re off somewhere very different.’ Hakim offered little more than a sideways glance and Donovan almost managed a smile at the mental image of the huge, impassive black man staring enraptured as Pocahontas flitted merrily across the giant screen. ‘No,’ Sharkey continued, ‘we’re off to see Mr Andrews; he wants a word with you.’

This was not good news. There were only two occasions when Mr Andrews would deal with his clients directly: one, when they wanted to borrow money from him, and two, when they had failed to pay him it back.

Twenty or so minutes later saw Donovan being dragged out of the car and shoved towards the ugly, matt-black cube of a building that sat just off the ring road on the outskirts of town – the ground floor, a strip club catering to bored, transient salesmen and stag-parties on a budget, the upstairs, Mr Andrews’ personal offices and God-alone-knew what else.

Donovan’s ear rang with a high-pitched squeal as the next stinging slap of Hakim’s palm came crashing down across the side of his face. He tasted blood where his teeth had inadvertently torn into the soft flesh of his lower lip and for some unknown reason he released a snort of laughter.

‘Something amusing, Mr Donovan?’ asked the smartly dressed man standing a few feet away, a subtle smile suggesting he wanted nothing more than to share in the joke. Donovan’s head lolled and he looked down through watery eyes to see an explosion of scarlet flecks across what once was a perfectly white shirt. In all honesty, there was absolutely nothing about his predicament for Donovan to find funny and he knew it.

His wrists had been bound tightly with thick, black gaffer tape wound round and around the wooden arms of the chair where he now sat – his ankles, fixed similarly to the front legs. He had no hope of protecting himself or – God forbid – from fighting back, even if he’d wanted to, but Donovan just looked up and laughed once more before reeling from the force of yet another blow to his cheek – Sharkey this time – and aimed from the other side of his head. ‘That’s enough for now, Mr Sharkey, thank you,’ the older man offered while holding up a pacifying palm.

‘Yes, Mr Andrews.’

Andrews was a dangerous man to find yourself on the wrong side of. With his thinning, yet well-groomed, grey hair, his neatly pressed suit and handmade brogues, he didn’t look like a dangerous man. In fact, to those who were fortunate enough not to know any better, he was the absolute epitome of middle-class civility. He wasn’t particularly big – a little wide around the waist perhaps, but only in a way that suited a man of his apparent bearing – and there was certainly nothing to suggest an aggressive nature about his appearance. Andrews counted the police commissioner and at least two semi-prominent politicians amongst his personal friends, he gave generously to local charities and was well respected within his church community, but he was a dangerous man nevertheless, a very dangerous man.

This time Donovan did not laugh. He merely sniffed up the blood that began to slowly trickle from his right nostril and lifted his head once more. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Are you gonna kill me then, or what?’

It was Andrews’ turn to laugh and Sharkey quickly joined in as though obliged to do so. ‘Kill you, Mr Donovan?’ he announced with delighted incredulity. ‘Why on earth would I do a thing like that?’

‘Because I can’t pay you, can I? I’ve got nothing – well, there might be a fiver in