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Black Roadster by George Hirvela


They say Eve tempted Adam with an apple. But we don't go for that. She likely wooed Adam from her sleek black roadster. Making his twisted-turning Gutter debut, we're pleased to present Southern California writer George Hirvela.

Black Roadster by George Hirvela

Her low-sleek roadster rolled up—purring like an uptown kitty, midnight black and slippery and oh-so-Cruella. It’s rag top offered a glassless view to a tightly-fashioned scarlet cocktail dress, cut too far in all the right places. Long-blonde hair cascaded down the length of her arm, blood-red three-inch nails, snaking over the steering wheel.
I stood cool as Clark Gable, her matching bee-stung lips dripping honey in my direction. “Care to take a ride with me?”
Nothing I’d like more, baby. But I charge by the hour.”
Hop in the saddle then. We’ll see how long you last.”
My hand glided over the seat, soaking up the feel of fine, supple leather. I suspected she was trouble, a gangster’s wife kind of trouble. But Lord, this babe looked stunning cocked-back in her seat, using nothing but her toes to control the roadster’s pedals, as we peeled out from the curb.
I leaned in close to her long, silky neck. “Where are we going, doll?”
She gently squeezed my face between her cheek and shoulder. “Heaven.”
Heaven? I’ve never been there.”
It’s not an easy journey. There may be pain along the way.”
I always figured the road to heaven would be a difficult trek. But now the trip looked easy. “Bring it on beautiful.”
Those words earned me a smile. She also fished her purse. Produced a hundred dollar bill, tucked the Benjamin in my pocket.
The roadster roared and soared, away from the city, along dark star-lit roads. The tailpipes rumbling, the car’s massive engine eager to respond. She never said a word. But shot occasional lustful glances, or she’d teasingly shift her hips. Mile after mile we drove, as she pushed the black beast onward to higher and higher speeds. The tortured tires complained, inching off the asphalt at every corner’s apex. My comfort threshold was also peaking. Sweat dampened my torso, the back of my neck began to drip. I pictured the three of us rolling—over and over—with no chance to escape.
But as the roads straightened, my fear quelled some.
We turned down a forested lane, gravel crunching beneath the tires, turn-after-turn—each more curvaceous than her own. An old wooden bridge creaked and thumped as we crossed: then springing into view—a wrap-around porched house.
The house stood dark and boarded … but I could see a dim light seeping from a basement window. The brakes weakly groaned as the enormous two-seater eased slowly to a stop. As we stepped away from the roadster, she placed a hand on my rear and goosed me. “Come see my dungeon.”
Dungeons never scared me. Getting tied and whipped was why women often hired me. I just charged a little more. She grabbed some rope and tied my hands. Led me to a chair that we both climbed on—where she swiftly cinched me like a boxer’s heavy bag to the ceiling’s rafters. She used a knife to shred my clothes, and tore away the scraps.
Her green eyes gleamed, and suddenly she winked. “Don’t go anywhere, darling. Time for me to slip into something a bit more comfortable.”
No worries, baby. I love hanging out with you.”
She returned in full DOM mode: a plunging black leather teddy, knee-high stiletto boots, and snapping a cat of nine tails whip like a seasoned pro. 
She tenderly brushed my hair back, strapped a ball gag in my mouth. And kicked the chair away.
This may sting a little,” she warned.
Here I’m expecting a playful “bad boy” slap. Instead she lit my skin on fire: there were tiny shards of metal tied into those nine tails.
She smirked. “That got your attention.”
Once again she raked that cat across my back. I started flipping around like a freshly caught tuna—uselessly fighting to spit that ball gag from my mouth.
Go ahead struggle, I like that! My mother was a fighter. She struggled too, just like all the others.”
Her blows rained down ... until I finally fell unconscious, dripping blood and sweat.
When I opened my eyes again, sunlight was streaming brightly from a nearby window. Only one of my hands was cuffed—
But to a hospital bed.
Rising from an adjoining chair, a detective flashed his badge. “About time you woke here, sleepyhead. You and your little girlfriend have a night of too much fun?”
Not me,” I countered, surveying my bandaged wounds.
Having so much fun with that whip you couldn’t possibly stop? Or were you dishing out payback for what she did to you? She had way less fun than you considering that she’s dead.”
What are you talking about? I didn’t whip anyone. Are you accusing me of murder?
He tossed photos in my lap. And had the gall to sneer.
We found you lying on the floor—whip in hand—and this female prostitute hanging from the ceiling, deader than a doorknob. No signs of someone else, no prints anywhere except for yours and hers.”
Sure, I was there. But with another woman. I’ve never seen this girl before. What about the car? A long and low black roadster.”
There was no car on that abandoned premises. Let alone a fancy vehicle such as you describe.”
Hey now, wait a minute. Before jumping to conclusions, we were way out in the woods. So who called 911?”
Settle down, pal—or I’ll cuff your other hand. Sounds like you’re delusional. Maybe all that blood loss.” He grabbed the remote at the side of my bed, stabbed the call button for a nurse.
After mere seconds, in strolled Cruella … a needle in one hand, a stethoscope dangling from her lovely neck—that I now ached to strangle.
A cruel smile filled the copper’s smug rat face, as the truth struck home.
That dame had promised heaven. And just a little pain. Not a ride to hell.
I glanced at my watch. Adding insult to my injuries, she owed me 1,400 bucks.
A Southern California native, George Hirvela is a metal artist, musician, motorcycle enthusiast and writer. He spends most of his free time kicking the shit out of himself for no good reason—other than that he needs it. He also hangs out on Twitter: @GeorgeHirvela