White Heat Read Online Free

recollection, despite the wall of snow that blocked his exit, he smiled, reaching for his dick. It was then he recollected that he had no place soft and moist to stick it. He missed her, missed the freewheeling sex, her passivity that allowed him to do whatever he wished, to pleasure himself with the lushness of her body until even he was exhausted.
    He remembered giving her the ring, a diamond from a slick pawnshop. Then, when he saw her face was damp with tears as well as perspiration, he gentled her, stroking her hair, whispering “my darling sugarplum.” And then he rammed her hard in bed. The roses were an added touch that he was still proud of.
    And during their honeymoon, she was loving it like heroin; she was a sex addict just like him. But, after a time, her feelings seemed to slip. Marriage was for keeps, forever. Didn’t she know that? He swore under his breath. Bitches he’d had before, but none like this; none had her class, her skin, her breeding. His manhood boiled and swelled his pride.
    And so, he took her far up north where they’d be alone without distraction, where there’d be no one she could turn to except for him. She questioned it, but didn’t complain. And then, up where the air was cold, his dick got rigid and his body raged. The pleasure overwhelmed him, made him frenzied as he savored her, ravished her breasts, drilled down her cunt until she cried out even as he pierced her. Had he gone too far?
    Though he apologized for hurting her, for the bewildering fury of his lust, her feelings for him appeared to change a lot. Bruised and weeping, she withdrew. From then on, she was passive as he humped her, even cried aloud in agony each time he stuck his dick in her. And now, she was gone.
    Sitting there alone at the table, his back hunched, he curled his broad lips under his teeth as he tried hard not to grind them. He had been a grinder since grade school, despite trying fruitlessly to stop it. Anxiety over his father’s beatings, over the lessons at school he couldn’t understand, over the urges his mother throttled, had triggered the habit. The surge of rage overwhelmed him. A molar cracked as he ground down hard, then furious, he smashed a chair against the wall. A wooden leg broke off and splintered in his face, leaving a gash. Blood trickled down the stubble on his chin, but he merely scowled.
    He’d had to chain her to him and lock up her cell phone. She started calling home, and he couldn’t allow it. His temper flared again. Picking up the broken chair leg, he snapped it in two. Glancing out the frosted window, he saw the storm had not abated. By the time it stopped, she might be anywhere. Perhaps she was dead, lying frozen solid in a snowdrift somewhere.
    For a moment, the thought of her rotting and bleeding cheered him up. But then he realized it would mean he would never see her again; that he would never fondle her soft tits, paddle that sweet vanilla ass—
    No . His thinking raged uncomfortably. She must be alive out there; she must have taken shelter. Yes, she was alive. But where? And, how would he find her?
    Absently, he rubbed his palms together, as if the friction would spark a plan. His nails were long and dirty, and needed cutting. Fidgeting, he pulled out a blade, began trimming the cuticles. The Bowie was an old friend, his favorite sticker. He remembered she had taken his smartphone too, ripped him off while he was sleeping, wiped out and drugged from sex. Clever bitch. He shook his head.
    Then a thought occurred to him. That stupid whore . He could track her using GPS. He was not a physicist, but he knew a little electronics, a bit about computer systems. Cell phones were two-way radios, sending and receiving. The GPS-assisted ones, like that bitch had stolen, were even more sophisticated: they could send and receive from orbital satellites. And while even GPS devices might be difficult to locate in cities crowded and dense, in the wilderness here, there was nothing to