Free The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole! (1) by Timothy W. Long, Jonathan Moon Page A

the figure she subdued and whips the black cloth off its face. A scruffy fellow with half a beard stares into her eyes with fear oozing from his blood-splattered face. He is clearly terrified. His nose is smashed and bloody, and two of his front teeth are broken. His lips are split, and all he can do is raise his hands to his face in supplication.
    “Please,” he gags on his own blood, but Edwina has a different idea of what the man is asking for and delivers a crushing open-hand blow to his throat. He chokes and gags, tries to roll over and even sticks his fingers in his throat in an attempt to get air down. It’s useless, and after a minute his legs stop twitching and he stares wide-eyed at the ceiling.
    Darla is also having pretty good luck. She wraps her legs around her attacker-turned-victim. Edwina gets a look as she first lifts her leg high then smashes her ankle into the guy’s face. Then she wraps her thick thighs around the man and smothers him right into her cooch. Just as he stops thrashing, she lets a long and loud fart rip across the tent.
    Edwina collapses in tears.
    Darla chuckles as she extracts her legs from the dead guy. She pulls the hood of his black sweatshirt aside, and they both stare at him. This one is younger than the first but still scruffy and covered in blood.
    “What is that on his forehead?”
    “Smudged blood, I think. Wait, it’s a symbol.”
    Darla leans close. Edwina is ready to strike if the guy so much as twitches. It’s like that in the movies; when you get close to the dead bad guy, he always pops his head up with an evil grin. If he does that now, he is going to get a fresh fist in the s c hnoz. Just one of the many skills taught at this ‘girls camp.’
    “It’s a fucking pentagram.”
    Screams from outside the tent interrupt their scrutiny. Edwina is on her feet as fast as a whip with Darla right behind her.
    “Poor men.”
    “Yep.”

    “So what the fuck do we have here?” Marcel wears a skintight black leather dress and a no-shit-taking frown. She carries a whip in one hand and a knife in the other. Edwina feels a tightening in her stomach every time the statuesque woman looks at her. She has heard the stories of the big tent where women go to serve.
    Marcel is pacing up and down a row of chairs. Her high heels put her over six feet tall, and she is pretty much the spitting image of a dominatrix. Her prisoners are far from the spitting image of willing slaves. They are crying and moaning, and one of the little fucks has even pissed himself .
    “You mean to tell me that you came here to kill us?”
    “Yes,” one of the men sobs. He, like the dead men, has a pentagram on his forehead, but now it is smeared, and snot is running down his face and he almost looks pathetic. He cries when she stops in front of him and slowly brings the knife up to his face, to the place between his eyes and then drags it ever so slowly down his nose, lips, chin and chest until she stops at his groin. She uses the knife lightly, but it leaves a thin slit where it passes.
    The man is tied to a high-back chair, and someone had the good sense to strap a two-by-four behind his head so that he can’t move his neck. When Marcel moves out of his line of vision, his eyes flick back and forth at the ocean of angry women before him, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.
    “Why?”
    “We came to unleash he who will obliterate the sun. The spawn, Satan himself.”
    “Satan?” she asks lightly.
    “Yes, the light destroyer.”
    “Know something, champ? You are a fucking idiot.” And she jams the knife home in his groin. Blood sprays out, and he screams with such violence that his voice goes hoarse, and when he drags in a breath to do it again he can’t. He can only whimper with his mouth wide open while his life drains onto the wood floor. After a while, he stops twitching.
    There are only a few left, and their interrogations follow much the same pattern. Ask a question, get pissed and kill the