Cross. Part One - Sex Stories

Cross. Part One

... murder of crows into flight. “I could give a shit if he’s supposed to go pro, no one survives in a den for seven weeks. It just doesn’t happen.” As he spoke, Abraham scanned the surrounding warehouses. They were all identical. Each one a gray mass of concrete with rows of rectangular windows, most obscured by lewd graffiti or simply broken. He stopped, shifting the phone in one hand while running the other over the day-old stubble growing on his chin. After a brief pause to listen, he veritably shouted, “Look! I’m the one doing your dirty work, Miller. If he’s alive and well, that’s one thing. But I’m not lugging some six foot ten lump of meat to the hospital if he’s just going to die in transit. Seven weeks, Miller. He’ll be lucky if he can get one more pump in before he just up and expires.... Well you relay that to them. In the meantime I’ll be taking care of the actual issue.” He snapped the phone shut and stalked purposefully towards a warehouse on the corner, shoving the thing into his pocket as he walked. Abraham checked the number printed in large black block letters beside the metal door, reading 7131. Perfect. He slowly drew aside the sliding mechanism, slipping into the darkness within. His report detailed that the den lay on the fourth floor, so he made his way to the far corner of the open space, producing a small pen light as he did. He flipped the light on, and was surprised to see a small pack of rats scatter from the corner at the bracing LED light. Normally ...

... this place would be devoid of life of any kind. Something was up. As he silently scaled the industrial stairway to the fourth floor, Abraham muttered under his breath. The words came to him without prior thought, but he felt his muscles tense as the syllables left him. Probably something from their language. There was definitely something amiss here. He continued to climb, trying to remain utterly without sound. Too much noise would alert her without fail, and Abraham preferred to make this visit while his host slept. As he mounted the fourth level, Abraham saw the entrance to the den. It lay in the far corner, covered in shadows that his pen light ate right through. She had draped the entrance in garbage bags, their tattered sheen all-too visible in the light he projected. Probably some sort of booby-trap rigged to that, he figured. Regardless of his apprehension, Abraham tread forwards. As he neared the doorway, he heard... nothing. There were no moans of pleasure, no gasping for air or ragged breathing. That was either very good, or inherently horrible. Abraham couldn’t decide, so he simply forged ahead. As he pushed through the trash bag curtains, several tin cans on strings fell from the ceiling, the pebbles and bits of metal within jangling as they fell. In a flash, Abraham ripped the silver knife from his belt, grabbed the strings and severed them. He held the cans together and quickly stopped them from shaking, then set them down without pause. He flipped his grip on ...