Just a Taste Part 11

Ch 11: Payback

December 20th, 2024- Basement of the Montgomery Estate, Time: Unknown 

All the times for my savior to show up, and he chose when I'm chained, frozen to near-death, filthy, and stinking of my pee!

He showed up in the nick of time, though...

Oh, shut up. I know he did, but still!

Look at him: tall; clothes disheveled ever so slightly from movement, his dark brown hair wilder than before, and his amber eyes were darkened with sinister intentions. 

He's the epitome of a dark knight on his way to save the hapless princess. 

Unfortunately, that's me. A naïve daughter wrapped up in a cannibal's plea deal.

Jeez, my life is a damn dumpster fire!

On a positive note, the way he manhandled Daddy was so hot. I had never seen someone take him down so easily and without prejudice.

I wanted him to do filthy things to me in that basement, while Daddy's chained to the stupid radiator, frothing at the mouth like a dog.

Then I remembered my condition and thought otherwise.

Whenever he went in for the kill, I contemplated letting him do it.

Yes, I loved Daddy dearly, and he raised me when others wouldn't, but that didn't excuse his sins.

He abused me, he faked my kidnapping, then proceeded to murder Rhonda and Mommy while trying to cover up his foulest secrets!

All his crimes deserved the death sentence.

But I hesitated when my savior tried to exact my revenge.

His eyes locked on me, silently asking permission to continue.

No, he's done enough for me. It's time I handled my demon. Face-to-face.

Exhaling sharply, I said, “Let me do it.”

With a grin, he replied, "As you wish."

Briskly, he stepped closer, grabbed ‌hold of the radiator pipe and yanked it apart. Damn, he must be strong. That pipe was heavy!

My shackles fell to the floor, releasing my arms from their restricted position. I groaned in relief.

He pulled a safety pin out of his jeans and used the pointed end to pick the lock on the chains. Wow, he's really handy in hostage situations.

Once they opened, he helped me to stand up.

I stumbled, falling forward. My savior caught me and whispered, "Be careful. You haven't moved in days and you're frigid." He stroked my shoulders. "I'll warm you later, but we need to finish this now."

My thighs pressed together. His words were a dark promise of what's to come; however, he's right. Time is of the essence.

With his assistance, I turned to face Daddy.

"Sweet girl," Daddy sneered, looking up at me. "You're a lot of things, but a killer isn't one of them."

"F-fuck you..." I mumbled, pushing my confrontation anxiety down as far as it would go.

His beady eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"I said: Fuck you!" I yelled, kicking Daddy's injured calf.

Daddy screamed in agony as I struggled for balance. My savior held my waist, which secured my footing.

"Thank you, um, I don't know your name..." I whispered, blushing slightly.

He leaned in close and said in a deathly quiet tone, "Dylan."

With a nod, I returned my focus to Daddy.

"You don't get to tell me what I am anymore, understand?" I stated firmly. "No, I think it's my turn."

"What the hell are you talking about, Issa? This isn't like you at all!" Daddy snarled, trying to sit up.

Dylan shoved him back down with that hunk of wood he's been carrying around. "Sit still and listen."

Clearing my throat, I remarked, "Daddy, you're a lying, abusive, racist asshole! Ever since I was adopted, you've shown me a loving father side, but also, a horrible bastard that deserves to die."

Gesturing to my shackles, I asked Dylan, "Can you chain him up? More‌ securely than I was?"

He winked. "Yes, ma'am, whatever you desire."

Please God, stop making him so damned sexy!

After grabbing the shackles, Dylan dragged Daddy to a distant corner, far from anything he could use, and chained both his wrists to the back of his calves, bending his body into an uncomfortable arch.

Jesus, that looked painful.

Oh well, he deserves that and much more.

"This is ludicrous! Untie me, Diablo!" Daddy shouted, flopping back and forth in his uncomfortable position.

Daddy's beloved meat cleaver lies alone on the floor.

Carefully, I leaned down and picked it up. The utensil felt both light and heavy at the same time.

Its weight was light, and strangely, it felt empowering to wield this weapon. Almost as if I were the predator rather than the prey. The heaviness... was the horrific crimes that it had committed minutes ago.

As I approached Daddy, his eyes widened. "You had better kill me, Issa, because if you don't, I'll find you. No matter where you go!"

He sounded so confident while he said this, yet his face paled in terror as his chest rose and dropped. I wonder if he's afraid of death?

Dylan tightened his grip. "You can do this, Isabella. Just breathe, and release your anger."

Inhaling deeply, I grasped the cleaver and raised it above my head. Exhaling, images of Daddy's crimes flooded my mind.

Yelling at me, physically and mentally abusing me for years, whatever atrocities he did to Rhonda, and the brutal execution of Mommy.

Lying to me about my adoption wasn't my concern anymore, because I knew he was hiding something. Just not the extent.

I clenched my jaw as I muttered, "Goodbye, Daddy."

Forcibly, I brought the cleaver down on Daddy's shoulders, sobbing, "This is for the abuse!"

While he wailed in pain, I continued the 'therapy' session by chopping into his arms, thighs, and calves.

"And that's for Rhonda and Mommy!" I croaked, feeling lightheaded.

Dylan released me long enough to kick him over onto his side and suggest, "There's some prime flesh real estate back here." He looked at me and his eyebrows furrowed. "Isabella? Are you alright?"

"Just... tired." I uttered feebly, wobbling back and forth. "I can do this... I..."

My fingers slipped, sending the cleaver clattering onto the floor. Suddenly, I couldn't catch my breath and my pulse stuttered to a low lub-dubbing.

As everything fades to black, I heard Dylan shout, "Fuck, Isabella, hold on!"

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are fictitious and the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, organizations, or events are entirely coincidental.

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