Red by Kate Kinsey Read Free Book Online Page A

both hands.
    “You like being face-fucked? Having your . . . throat . . . raped?”
    Abruptly she shoved him away.
    “Please, Mistress,” he croaked. “Fuck my slut mouth some more . . .”
    He groveled, bending his head to lick her shoe.
    “Get your nasty tongue off me! Get up, over there. On the cross.”
    He scrambled to the St. Andrew’s, nearly twisting an ankle on the damned shoes.
    “No, you moron, face me!”
    He turned and she pinned him hard against the wood with the full weight of her body.
    “You disgust me,” she said, driving her knee up into his balls.
    He nearly bent in two, panting raggedly.
    “Stand up!”
    When she removed the first clamp, he screamed, high and shrill. The pain was razor sharp and blinding. He was still howling when she pulled the second off.
    “Shut up!”
    She slapped him hard in the face. He felt his teeth cut into his inner cheek.
    “One more sound out of you, the gag goes back in.”
    She snapped his wrist cuffs to the top eyebolts in the cross, then leaned down. She grabbed his left foot.
    “Move it,” she growled. “Spread those fucking legs for me.”
    When she had his ankles cuffed in place, she stood and regarded him with hard eyes.
    “Ah, here’s a good place!”
    She grabbed his nipple and caught the tip of it in the clamp’s teeth.
    He whimpered, tears rolling down his face. He pressed his lips together against a desperate urge to shriek.
    She added the second clamp to the other nipple, but not before giving it a vicious twist between two fingers.
    “Oooh, God!” he gasped, unable to stop himself.
    She slapped him again, so hard that his vision blackened as spots of white danced before his eyes.
    She bent to snatch the ball gag off the floor.
    “Open your mouth,” she demanded, shoving the ball gag against his lips. “Open it!”
    He tried to turn his head away at the dog hair clinging to the wet ball, but she just forced it between his teeth.
    She reached around his head to buckle the leather strap, pulling sharply to bring it so tight into his stretched, raw mouth that he could not move it at all with his tongue.
    She stood back, looking at him, a smile on her thin lips.
    All he could do was gaze longingly into her eyes.
    Then his eyes grew wider as the door behind her opened.

Chapter 11
    Beat me, beat me, o dear Masetto
Beat your poor Zerlina.
I’ll stand here meek as a lamb
And bear the blows you lay on me.
You can tear my hair out, put out my eyes,
Yet your dear hands I’ll gladly kiss.
    —L ORENZO D A P ONTE , Don Giovanni
(music by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart)
     
     
     
     
    R oger Banks’s murder had made the news, but so far they had managed to keep any mention of the mutilations out. They were holding that in reserve to weed out crackpot confessions.
    And now, seven days later, Robyn Ann Macy: a twenty-six-year-old bank teller who still lived with her parents.
    There was no semen in the vaginal vault, just some lube. The two used condoms in the wastebasket yielded DNA, but results weren’t back yet. DNA didn’t mean squat unless they had something to match it to.
    Robyn’s fingerprints were on one of the Coke cans and the lube; the fingerprints on the other can, the wrapper from the Oreos, and on the tube of lube, had not come up in IAFIS.
    They were coming out of the Macys’ tidy little ranch house for the second time. Their first visit, on the afternoon of the body’s discovery, had ended with Mrs. Macy having to be sedated; Mr. Macy had been too shaken to provide much information. Two days later, the conversation had been better, but still yielded little of use.
    Hanson felt as if someone had slipped twenty-pound weights into his pockets. Nice people always made him feel this way.
    Bad people—the ones always bumping up against the law in one way or another—had an attitude of resignation, as if they had known violent death was coming sooner or later. The nice ones—the ones whose experience with police went no further than traffic