Home Defense Lost

Home Defense Lost
By: White Feather

         Jane woke up suddenly.  She'd never felt so rested.  She yawned, raising her arms slowly, her loose blouse allowing her soft breasts to slip through the front.  After a slow pleasurable adjustment, she presumed her morning habits.  She finished adjusting the sheets and offered herself a sideways glance at the leather case on the nightstand.  She could still smell the hide and dye, mixed with a subtle new metal and Formula 409.  She wasn't sure exactly the proper method for cleaning a handgun, but the 409 gave that womanly touch.

         Upon entering the kitchen, blouse waving seductively, allowing the ghosts in the room a peek upon every lengthy stride of her legs, she stopped short of the crunchy sound of cereal on the floor.

         "Tickles! Did you do this?" her cat looked up from a jar of spaghetti sauce in front of the open refrigerator.  The cat's guilt was as short as Jane's layered brown and red hair.

         She pursed her lips, and surveyed the situation.  The kitchen was thrashed, food was strung everywhere with momentary clean spots as big as a cat's serving.  the cabinets were open wide as well as the door to the backyard.  Jane couldn't pinpoint whether it was the cold let in, or the absolute mess that made her nipples hard.

         She folded her arms, keeping her loose ends close, and squeezed against her ribs.  "Focus, Jane," she whispered, her tongue hanging on the n position as she tried to think clear.

         She ran over to the front door, her bare feet making slight screech sounds at every turn on the ball of them.  The mail was stacked a foot high on the foyer floor.  The front door looked like a crow bar had ripped through it, then closed again.

         Jane adjusted the tightness of her pajama tie before going outside.  She picked up the newspaper, trying carefully not to straddle the air too long.  "Monday! It can't be," she gasped aloud.  Last she remembered it was Saturday.  "Have I been drugged?"

         "Oh, God," she ran to the phone whispering "9-1-1" repeatedly.  She picked up the dead receiver, and threw it angrily down.  Her brow was wet with sweat and rage.

         Jane ran back to her room, to the freshly bought leather case, and opened it.

         "What the hell.." she gasped again, surprised to see the gun was missing, replaced by a black plastic dildo and a letter.

         Her body twisted in its confusion, writhed in frustration.  She had to sit.

         "Looking for this?" a man's eerie voice whispered across the room.  He waved the silver glaring death pistol up and down.

         She struggled to keep it together, her fingers and toes curled into fists with anticipated tension.

         "Aren't you-"

         "The letter," the man interrupted, "Read it."

The letter read:

Hello dear,

It's been a long time since we saw each other.  I know.  I want to make it up to you, tonight, so wear your favorite lingerie and make sure I can get through it easily.

I love you, Jane

         "How did you get this?  My husband, Brandon."  She tightened her legs closer together, and folded her arms around her sensitive breasts.

         "No!" the man yelled profanely, "the other side, you slut!"

Jane turned the letter over, and written in crimson:

You slut, you used piece of flesh!  You slept with my wife.  I saw the whole thing.  You took something dear from me, so I've taken something from you.  Your old husband is dead.

         Jane screamed, her tears mixing with the saliva on her freshly licked lips.  The man lunged, dropping the gun on the floor at the foot of the bed, he landed on her frail frame, pushing her back.  She struggled but it was no use.  He was too powerful.  He tore at her blouse shredding until only the cuffs on her sleeves were left.  Her screams were muffled by his strong left hand while his right undid his pants.

         His body lay flat on hers, his arms wrapped tightly around her soft waist flesh.

         "Was it good for you," he whispered heavily in her ear, his breath hot and misty on her cheek.

         She slowed her breathing to a gentle pant, "the note was a nice touch, the drugs were nice, but c'mon with the mess in the kitchen, Brandon."

         "I'll help you clean it up," Brandon grinned, his muscular face muscles compressed her cheek.

         Jane slapped him hard on the shoulder, "the cat's gonna be sick for a week."