(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' by Michael A Diaz

face and chest, muffled sounds of pleasure escaping from his lips as he grinded his hips on her. Then something incredibly huge parted her legs, engulfing her into a maelstrom of pain that came rushing at her like molten lava. She closed her eyes to escape from the leering face atop of her, terror engulfing her, making her mind escape from the moment, until the beast on top of her collapsed with a grunt and something warm trickled down the inside of her legs. A moment later the man’s weight lifted from her and she opened her eyes, full of tears and indescribable horror at what had transpired. She saw the man leering at her again, tucking his shirt in, putting the gun belt back on and she moved, hoping that she would be able to escape the nightmare; that it was all over now. She stopped her crying, wiping the swollen face with her hand, the pain coursing through her, coming from her most private parts in waves that left her weak and trembling like a small reed in the wind. She was about to get out of the car when another figure loomed in front of her. With a sinking heart she realized that the nightmare was not over.
    The man named Pete had come in and she was forced to relive the whole horrible experience, this time more forceful. The pig on top of her was slapping her, and then laughing at her pain. Eventually, her mind closed itself against the pain and the rage and they couldn’t touch her anymore. When it was finally over, the big man came into the back of the car, pulling at her, pushing her roughly out, and dropped her on the hard pavement like a discarded piece of meat. Small, beady eyes centered on her and the man squatted down, his hand cupping her jaw roughly, painfully, making her look at him. The right hand moved and suddenly a dark hole was looking at her, centered on her forehead, the cold glint of the pistol like a dream in front of her face.
    Her befuddled brain reeled, and her eyes watched the man closely, not fully comprehending what was happening to her now.
    “Look at me…bitch…listen”, the man said, his voice gruff and hard, the fingers digging her flesh painfully, until her blue eyes focused on him and the man was sure she was listening.
    The blue eyes centered on the pistol and she shook her head, tears falling down her cheeks, comprehension finally dawning on her.
    The man was going to…kill her. Her mouth was incredibly dry and she swallowed hard, painfully, trying to work some saliva into her dry mouth. ‘Oh God…no…no’, her mind screamed at her and her body recoiled from him, eyes closing. She tried to talk, tried to make sounds come out of her mouth, but she could not. The terror held her fast, as she waited for the sound of the pistol going off…waited for the end of her life, laying on the filthy streets of Chicago. She was going to die, she knew that now, her body left on the rough pavement, alone and discarded like so much trash, killed by men that were suppose to be protecting her from the same thing they were doing to her.
    But the gun didn’t go off and suddenly, she heard the man’s voice again.
    “If you talk to anybody about us…about this…I’ll kill you.” He stopped talking, the barrel of the pistol coming closer, stopping on her forehead. She felt the cold touch of the metal and she winced, whimpering, pushing back, and dragged herself away from the obscene object. Dunbar laughed, shaking his head, grabbing at her again.
    “You do…understand…don’t you?” he asked roughly, jerking her shoulder, the small beady eyes never leaving her face. He was willing to kill her if he couldn’t get it through her head that the best thing for her would be to keep her mouth shut. He saw the fear reflected in the depths of her eyes and he shook his head, pleased at what he had seen in them. He knew that she would keep her mouth shut now. She was the type; he had seen it before with girls her age.
    “Yes…yes”, she finally said, her voice small, almost a whisper, just