CHAPTER 2: PEYTON
"No more deadly curse has ever been given by nature to man than carnal pleasure. There is no criminal purpose and no evil deed which the lust for pleasure will not drive man to undertake."
~Archytas of Tarentum~ Cicero, De Senectute, Ch. 12
The sound system screeched like nails across a chalkboard and echoed throughout the concrete and steel, iron-barred Pod. “Why don't they fix the fucking thing with all that tax money,” she snarled to herself, (thinking: not that she ever paid taxes), and stared up at the iron plate of bunk just a foot above her head. Mother fucker. It was 4 a.m.
"Lisa Schmidt, Peyton Woede, Allison Wyckoff... " Peyton rolled off her two inch thick mattress on one of the six coveted bottom bunks in Cell 3, just missing a solid bang on the head from the bunk above, grabbed the torn muslin sorry ass excuse for a sheet, the white government issued sports bra drying on the ventilation grate, the haphazardly stitched tattered green wool military blanket that was too short to cover her feet, and the god-awful mattress itself. She hauled it all atop the mattress to the heavy barred mechanical door.
The two crack whores she had been feeding on were sound asleep in their bunks. They did not stir at her leaving. She didn't care. She had grown sick of their anemic blood. Their lack of health and low energy did nothing to feed her spirits or her body. She had just been getting by. She could subsist some on the cafeteria style meals, but not to the best of her health. Well good. Now she wouldn't have to recruit another lover in here. Not that it was difficult. Nor subsist on such poor fare. She would pick up something better on the outside. Soon.
The guard in the dog house waited impatiently for one last lagging inmate and pressed the release button. The door slid on tracks along the exterior wall. A second door with a Plexiglas window sighed metallically, clicked and opened. She stepped out into the empty hall with five other women. In a moment, the door slid shut on iron tracks and locked. Silently, they followed the green stripe painted hip level on the cement block walls and made their way unaccompanied to the way station. Cameras, shiny black eye after eye, followed their every move and broadcast it back in grainy black and white to the Pod they left and to four other locations between the jail interior and the final check out point several floors below.
She was excited. She smiled. She was anticipating. She loved the chase. There had been no challenges in this jail, and she had grown bored. She loved luring her victims in, the seduction, taking them in their moment of complete submission, piercing their flesh, and drinking. Drinking their sweet blood, feeling their life essence, their sweet energy fill her ever cell, suffuse through her body, was a rush like no other, intensely sexual.
She learned it paid to choose her subjects well. And it was not very long after her initiation into this life of thievery years ago that she had found it also paid to drive her victim’s endorphins sky high until that sweet chemical saturated their blood. She would wait for this moment, a sweet torture, the moment of complete saturation just before the victim might break, and then she drank deeply. And the glistening fluid, hot on her tongue, sweet as honey, filled her senses and poured life into her own hungry cells. It was completely and utterly intoxicating. The pleasure suffused her body with a tingling warmth. Initially, the sensation heightened her need and she had to drink more deeply, pulling their flesh to her aggressively as their energies joined with hers and she soared, and they died. The flood made her head spin.
She sought out victims that could reach these great heights. They were like heroin, or so she was told. She was certain it was true as she had never before felt anything like it. She excited her victims with torrid, will-consuming sex and stimulation or a heightened combination of pleasure and pain that would rise to a blinding, breathtaking crescendo for them both. Then she would finally sink her fingers into their hair in an unshakeable grip, bending the necks away from the shoulder and exposing the pulsing whiteness of the throat. Exhaling, she plunged her white stiletto teeth into a fat, pulsing artery and imbibed. When she did not have energy for the game, she had others who would tease them into the ecstasy that would be their undoing. Their death. At the thought, her hunger began to build.
Today, she would finally be free again. She would build her strength quickly. She had been making plans during this down time. She had a lot to do. She had a fucking empire to rebuild.
Five hours and four filthy holding cells later she was changing back into her street clothes which had been hanging in clear garment bags with thousands of others, all in numerical order, all in various states of uncleanliness in the jail’s warehouse sized closet. Dirty orange jumpsuits were piled in heaps on the greasy concrete floor waiting to be washed by the trustys upstairs. The place smelled sour and rank. Peyton dressed, careful not to step barefoot on the damp cement floor. Her toenails were so long they might have clicked against its hardness. The leather of her name brand sneakers pressed hard against her nails uncomfortably. First the bra. Then she slipped into a slightly wrinkled blue and white striped Tommy Hilfiger polo shirt and men's jeans. Mmmm. They fit better, she thought. She had dropped some weight. The food in there was god awful and she was used to the best. Well, the best when she chose to have it. She traded with the other inmates for the foods she liked, which sure was not much.
Dressed, she located the small zip locked bag of possessions they stripped from her. She was amazed: it was untouched. She popped the one carat diamond stud back into her left ear, the uppermost hole, and followed it with a small ruby stud in the hole just beneath. Once again the 4 oz gold link chain hung heavily, impressively from her wrist. She looked strong. She looked wealthy. She was meant to be seen. Like a pretty, shiny lure. Her lifestyle was meant to be coveted. That was part of the allure she cultivated. that is what it was all about. Come one, come all! You can have all this and more. Shhhhh! It may cost you, however. She smiled to herself.
She placed the large gold dragon’s head ring on her left pointer, its serpentine body coiling around her finger. The diamond, emerald and ruby set in the dragon’s eyes and mouth glinted in the dim fluorescent light. She would have to drop it off at the jeweler's and have it cleaned. Thus adorned, she was starting to feel more like herself. Her status changed from a nameless numbered prisoner with no rights to a respected human within minutes. Well, something akin to human, she thought, and laughed to herself. One thing was odd though: She had been searched and examined thoroughly, inside and out upon her admission to the jail. Now she was leaving and no one seemed to care what she took out with her. This amused her. Because she did indeed leave with something of value.
Smiling, she stepped outside into the crisp fall air. The sky was blue and wide. She headed straight for the gas station across the street and bought three boxes of Marlboro Light 100’s and a pewter lighter with an Ace of Spades enameled on the front. Luck would be with her now. Luck never forgot her. Her family and the expendable assholes she gathered around her just scared Lady Luck away. Put her off briefly. Luck was waiting in the wings, waiting for a signal to return. Peyton wouldn’t let them interfere again. She would just have to choose the company she'd keep more wisely.
With a click of the catch and the flick of her thumb she lit the tip of the cigarette, closed her eyes, and deeply inhaled her drug of choice. Soon it was thrumming through her veins and her head like the caffeine in a double shot of espresso. She felt on top of the world. She would get back to the House and then gather her resources, her would-be consorts. They would have to do for now. Her plans had been disrupted by a bad decision--she blamed Maren, the stupid motherfucking cunt. By now the bitch traitor would be at least 3,000 miles away, running home to mama. Running home to nothing. That is where Peyton had her. Peyton brought her ass back once before after just one week of wooing and reassurance, and she would surely do it again. The bitch could not live without her. And well, if it seemed she could, Peyton had already decided Maren did not need to live.
~Archytas of Tarentum~ Cicero, De Senectute, Ch. 12
The sound system screeched like nails across a chalkboard and echoed throughout the concrete and steel, iron-barred Pod. “Why don't they fix the fucking thing with all that tax money,” she snarled to herself, (thinking: not that she ever paid taxes), and stared up at the iron plate of bunk just a foot above her head. Mother fucker. It was 4 a.m.
"Lisa Schmidt, Peyton Woede, Allison Wyckoff... " Peyton rolled off her two inch thick mattress on one of the six coveted bottom bunks in Cell 3, just missing a solid bang on the head from the bunk above, grabbed the torn muslin sorry ass excuse for a sheet, the white government issued sports bra drying on the ventilation grate, the haphazardly stitched tattered green wool military blanket that was too short to cover her feet, and the god-awful mattress itself. She hauled it all atop the mattress to the heavy barred mechanical door.
The two crack whores she had been feeding on were sound asleep in their bunks. They did not stir at her leaving. She didn't care. She had grown sick of their anemic blood. Their lack of health and low energy did nothing to feed her spirits or her body. She had just been getting by. She could subsist some on the cafeteria style meals, but not to the best of her health. Well good. Now she wouldn't have to recruit another lover in here. Not that it was difficult. Nor subsist on such poor fare. She would pick up something better on the outside. Soon.
The guard in the dog house waited impatiently for one last lagging inmate and pressed the release button. The door slid on tracks along the exterior wall. A second door with a Plexiglas window sighed metallically, clicked and opened. She stepped out into the empty hall with five other women. In a moment, the door slid shut on iron tracks and locked. Silently, they followed the green stripe painted hip level on the cement block walls and made their way unaccompanied to the way station. Cameras, shiny black eye after eye, followed their every move and broadcast it back in grainy black and white to the Pod they left and to four other locations between the jail interior and the final check out point several floors below.
She was excited. She smiled. She was anticipating. She loved the chase. There had been no challenges in this jail, and she had grown bored. She loved luring her victims in, the seduction, taking them in their moment of complete submission, piercing their flesh, and drinking. Drinking their sweet blood, feeling their life essence, their sweet energy fill her ever cell, suffuse through her body, was a rush like no other, intensely sexual.
She learned it paid to choose her subjects well. And it was not very long after her initiation into this life of thievery years ago that she had found it also paid to drive her victim’s endorphins sky high until that sweet chemical saturated their blood. She would wait for this moment, a sweet torture, the moment of complete saturation just before the victim might break, and then she drank deeply. And the glistening fluid, hot on her tongue, sweet as honey, filled her senses and poured life into her own hungry cells. It was completely and utterly intoxicating. The pleasure suffused her body with a tingling warmth. Initially, the sensation heightened her need and she had to drink more deeply, pulling their flesh to her aggressively as their energies joined with hers and she soared, and they died. The flood made her head spin.
She sought out victims that could reach these great heights. They were like heroin, or so she was told. She was certain it was true as she had never before felt anything like it. She excited her victims with torrid, will-consuming sex and stimulation or a heightened combination of pleasure and pain that would rise to a blinding, breathtaking crescendo for them both. Then she would finally sink her fingers into their hair in an unshakeable grip, bending the necks away from the shoulder and exposing the pulsing whiteness of the throat. Exhaling, she plunged her white stiletto teeth into a fat, pulsing artery and imbibed. When she did not have energy for the game, she had others who would tease them into the ecstasy that would be their undoing. Their death. At the thought, her hunger began to build.
Today, she would finally be free again. She would build her strength quickly. She had been making plans during this down time. She had a lot to do. She had a fucking empire to rebuild.
Five hours and four filthy holding cells later she was changing back into her street clothes which had been hanging in clear garment bags with thousands of others, all in numerical order, all in various states of uncleanliness in the jail’s warehouse sized closet. Dirty orange jumpsuits were piled in heaps on the greasy concrete floor waiting to be washed by the trustys upstairs. The place smelled sour and rank. Peyton dressed, careful not to step barefoot on the damp cement floor. Her toenails were so long they might have clicked against its hardness. The leather of her name brand sneakers pressed hard against her nails uncomfortably. First the bra. Then she slipped into a slightly wrinkled blue and white striped Tommy Hilfiger polo shirt and men's jeans. Mmmm. They fit better, she thought. She had dropped some weight. The food in there was god awful and she was used to the best. Well, the best when she chose to have it. She traded with the other inmates for the foods she liked, which sure was not much.
Dressed, she located the small zip locked bag of possessions they stripped from her. She was amazed: it was untouched. She popped the one carat diamond stud back into her left ear, the uppermost hole, and followed it with a small ruby stud in the hole just beneath. Once again the 4 oz gold link chain hung heavily, impressively from her wrist. She looked strong. She looked wealthy. She was meant to be seen. Like a pretty, shiny lure. Her lifestyle was meant to be coveted. That was part of the allure she cultivated. that is what it was all about. Come one, come all! You can have all this and more. Shhhhh! It may cost you, however. She smiled to herself.
She placed the large gold dragon’s head ring on her left pointer, its serpentine body coiling around her finger. The diamond, emerald and ruby set in the dragon’s eyes and mouth glinted in the dim fluorescent light. She would have to drop it off at the jeweler's and have it cleaned. Thus adorned, she was starting to feel more like herself. Her status changed from a nameless numbered prisoner with no rights to a respected human within minutes. Well, something akin to human, she thought, and laughed to herself. One thing was odd though: She had been searched and examined thoroughly, inside and out upon her admission to the jail. Now she was leaving and no one seemed to care what she took out with her. This amused her. Because she did indeed leave with something of value.
Smiling, she stepped outside into the crisp fall air. The sky was blue and wide. She headed straight for the gas station across the street and bought three boxes of Marlboro Light 100’s and a pewter lighter with an Ace of Spades enameled on the front. Luck would be with her now. Luck never forgot her. Her family and the expendable assholes she gathered around her just scared Lady Luck away. Put her off briefly. Luck was waiting in the wings, waiting for a signal to return. Peyton wouldn’t let them interfere again. She would just have to choose the company she'd keep more wisely.
With a click of the catch and the flick of her thumb she lit the tip of the cigarette, closed her eyes, and deeply inhaled her drug of choice. Soon it was thrumming through her veins and her head like the caffeine in a double shot of espresso. She felt on top of the world. She would get back to the House and then gather her resources, her would-be consorts. They would have to do for now. Her plans had been disrupted by a bad decision--she blamed Maren, the stupid motherfucking cunt. By now the bitch traitor would be at least 3,000 miles away, running home to mama. Running home to nothing. That is where Peyton had her. Peyton brought her ass back once before after just one week of wooing and reassurance, and she would surely do it again. The bitch could not live without her. And well, if it seemed she could, Peyton had already decided Maren did not need to live.
posted by Divine Synchrondipity | 7:52 PM
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