Page 158 of Pucked Around and Found Out

Alex pulls, twisting slightly, and the finger comes away at the joint. Blood pours from the stump. He drops the severed piece into a metal tray with a wet plop. The sight of the severed pinky and the blood almost makes me groan out loud.

“One down,” he observes. “Nine to go.”

Fiona is sobbing now, her whole body shaking. We haven’t even started and she’s already cracking, pathetic bitch. She put on a good front when she was surrounded by her guard dogs but now, she’s stripped bare and all alone.

It’s amazing how different people can act when they have an army surrounding them, they’re filled with a false sense of power. Fiona thought she was untouchable, that the badge somehow made her out of reach of us.

“Your turn,” Alex says, stepping back.

I select a scalpel from his case and move to stand in front of her so she can see me.

“The devil wears many faces, Deputy Director,” I tell her. “Today it’s my face, mine will be the last thing you ever fucking see before I send your worthless ass to hell.”

I position the scalpel at the corner of her mouth.

“You thought you could use her?” I ask. “You wanted to hurt her, didn’t you? Let me show you what that feels like.”

I cut.

Slowly. Carefully. Carving along her lips. The blade is sharp—clinical-grade—and it slices through flesh like butter. Blood pours over my hands, warm and slick. Fiona is making sounds I've never heard before, wet, garbled, primal. I peel the upper lip away from her face in one neat piece, examining my work.

Perfect.

I tuck it into my pocket carefully.

“This might be my favorite pair,” I tell her. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they go in my treasure jar.” I move to the lower lip, repeating the process.

More blood. More screaming. More beauty.

When I'm done, Fiona's lipless mouth is gaping obscenely, teeth fully exposed, blood running down her chin. This is the part I love most about taking the lips, seeing their faces without them. For me it’s like looking at a woman without makeup, you see the real person beneath the mask.

“She's in shock,” one of Alex's men observes.

“Give her a stimulant,” Alex orders. “Keep her conscious. We're not done by a long shot. I want her to feel everything.”

The man produces a syringe, injecting something into Fiona's neck. Her eyes, which had started to glaze over, snap back into focus. The agony returns in full force.

“Much better,” Alex says. “Now. Let's talk about what you know.”

He removes the blood soaked gag. Fiona tries to scream, but without lips, the sound is wrong. Distorted. It sounds almost maniacal and I fucking love it.

“Names,” Alex says. “Every CIA operative in your network. Every black ops operation you've run. Every piece of leverage you have on anyone. Start talking.”

“F-fuck you,” Fiona tries to say, but without lips, it comes out garbled.

“Wrong answer,” I chirp happily as I select another tool, a pair of needle-nose pliers and switch out the blade.

“Let's try the other hand,” I suggest. “See if that helps her memory.”

“Good idea,” Alex agrees.

His man holds her right hand flat. I position the pliers around her index finger.

“Last chance,” I warn. “Talk, or I'll start collecting.” She's crying, blood, tears and snot mixing together.

“O-okay,” she tries to say. Her words are slurred and hard to understand now without her lips. “Okay. I'll talk. Please⁠—”

I shoot the bitch a pout. “You ruined my fun.”