The Cliff

The cliff was a popular suicide spot. Too far from any towns or cities for the cops to keep a constant watch on it. Isolated, quiet, the perfect place for people who wanted to end their lives to come and do themselves in undisturbed.

Or so they thought. Hank had lived there for seven years. Or rather, in a lonely log cabin a little way along the coast. It had started small with him – by fitting a few motion sensors around the cliff top, he always knew when somebody was coming to end themselves, and roughly where, and the rest was all down to his trusty telescope and the digital camera it fed into. He had a lot of footage of people leaping into the pounding surf below, and in a surprising amount of it the jumpers had chosen to disrobe before leaving the world.

He'd taken to cleaning up the cliffs too, doing his bit for the environment. He bagged and disposed of their litter, sent their clothes to charity shops, made a bit of money delivering their cars to a fence he knew across the State line.

That, eventually, had not been enough. So, over the course of several quiet months, he'd trapped the cliff. He'd gone about it carefully, building his nets into cracks in the rock wall so that the only way to tell they were there would be to rappel down the cliff and look in exactly the right place.

The setup was simple. He'd split the cliff into zones and kept a watch on the face as he had before. Only now, the nets were waiting to catch people when they stepped out into empty space. It had been a calculated risk – if the police took a particular interest in a missing person and thought they might be in the area, they'd quite likely find his nets, but by and large once he started disposing of the cars and evidence that they'd come here, the cops stopped dropping by, perhaps assuming that people were choosing other places and means to suicide.

He was fortunate tonight. The would-be jumper was a girl, a young woman. Pretty, if you ignored the trashy clothes, the too-thick mascara that was running in black rivers down her cheeks, and the awful blonde dye-job. She'd come out to the cliffs on a clear full moon night and, to his delight, had stood right above Net Seven, his most reliable one. She'd stood there crying for some time, then slowly stripped out of her clothing and tossed it into the sea. Her skin was too slathered in fake tan to glow delightfully in the moonlight like some of the jumpers did, but she did still look stunning up there. There was nothing wrong with her body.

It took several minutes, during which he captured excellent footage of her body as she dithered on the brink... then finally she turned her back to the sea, spread her arms, and toppled backwards to her death.

Hank pressed the button. There was a pneumatic BANG! From somewhere below and a squeal of surprise and sudden fear. He sprinted to the cliff edge, unslinging the tranquilliser gun from his back. The surprised girl in his net had only a second to notice him up on the edge before the dart pierced her flesh and she was suddenly too woozy to do anything other than fall asleep...

*

“Wake up, darlin, you've been asleep two hours now.”

She was on a couch, wearing a bathrobe. She was warm, and comfortable, and she could smell hot chocolate.

Carrie opened her eyes cautiously. She was in a warm, wood-walled room that looked like somebody's hunting lodge, and the owner – a tall, broad-shouldered man in a check shirt and jeans, with his hair pulled back into a ponytail – was just setting two steaming mugs down on the table.

She sat up cautiously, and groaned at the pain in her head.

“Sorry about the tranq dart honey, didn't want you climbing outta my net 'fore I could get down to you.”
“Where... who?” She could barely talk from confusion and her aching head.
“Name's Hank, kiddo. You're in my cabin, not far from those cliffs you went and did a swan dive off. Got nets set up all over that place to catch jumpers like you. Now come on, the dope in those darts gives a powerful hangover, I know. Aspirin and hot chocolate's the best remedy.”

He was so friendly and calm, and her troubles were so far away already, that Carrie didn't hesitate to obey him, wrapping the towel robe around herself and sitting at the table. She took a sip of the chocolate and pulled a face at a strange, powerful taste in it that went to her nose.

“Shot o' whisky in there too.” Hank said, settling down opposite her. “Warms you right up. Never drunk it before kid?”
“I'm nineteen” she said, simply. He was right though, she felt... calm, relaxed. At peace, where not long ago her world had been grief and the mad desire to end it all.
Hank nodded.
“Now what possessed you to do a silly thing like go jumping off my cliff at midnight?” he asked.

Carrie looked into her drink, and before she knew what she was doing, it all came tumbling out. Her boyfriend Matthew, her best friend Sarah, the threesome, the pregnancy, the miscarriage, the car crash that had killed her parents, finding Matt and Sarah fucking behind her back...
“...I just wanted to die...” she said, and her gaze drifted out the window to the moonlit cliffs.
“Careful what you wish for, sweetie. You might just get it” Hank said, not unkindly.

“I guess I owe you thanks for saving my life.” she said.

Hank smiled at her, and she became aware of an edge in it that... didn't disturb her, but did suddenly change the tone of their conversation.
“Might be you want to sit and hear me out before you make plans for the rest of your life, cupcake” he said.
“W...what do you mean? What're you going to do with me?”

Hank gently took her empty mug away and put it in the sink.
“I'm gonna make you an offer” he said. “See, I can tell you're still not completely turned around on this whole “thank you for saving me, I'm gonna go be a new woman” thing. Am I wrong? And be truthful, I'm good at telling when folk lie to me.”

Carrie paused. “No. No I'm not” she said truthfully. “It'd be... so hard to go back there. Mom and dad gone, Matt and Sarah gone...” she realised what she'd just said and clamped her mouth shut, but Hank was smiling at her. He held up a little card and it took her only an instant to recognize her own driver's license.

“Carrie Marie Walsh” he said “There's an APB out on you kid. Heard it on the police scanner. Wanted for the murder of one Matthew Brendan Connelly and one Sarah Louise Carson.”
“...yeah. I go back there, I'm just gonna get arrested and tried. I'd rather die.”

Hank nodded. “Fortunately for you, I get my jollies from murderin' folk.” he said “hence the nets on my cliffs. But you're a sweet kid and I don't like killing anyone who's not legally old enough to drink, so here's my offer. C'mere.”

He patted the chair next to him, and in a daze Carrie went and sat next to him as he pulled a laptop out from a carry bag under his chair and flipped it open. He activated a program she didn't recognize. The logo at the top read “M-Net”.

“I'm now letting you in on a conspiracy that has only two outcomes. Either you become guilty of or an accessory to even more murders, or you become a victim of one. Are we clear?”

Stunned, Carrie could only nod.
“This here is M-Net. They're an international underground group who make and distribute snuff movies – you understand what a snuff movie is?” Carrie nodded, so he continued. “I'm a member of this network. Some nights I just film people jumping off the cliffs, some nights I capture them and snuff them right here in the cabin... You, I almost saved and let go. If you'd gone and been turned around by one stranger's act of kindness, I'd have let you on your merry way and God bless you.”

“But I can't go back.” Carrie said.
“Exactly. So, you know what option one is – you and me have fun in the basement and I make it look like your suicide was successful.”
“And option two?”
“Option two is you spend a year on a sunny tropical island somewhere, get paid a quarter of a million dollars, and get a new identity starting fresh somewhere else in the world. Catch is you'll be an accessory to anywhere upwards of fifteen further deaths, and there'll be a fifty-fifty chance of you being the victim of it.”

“I'm... confused.” Carrie said.
“Isla Moros. It's a private island, owned by the director of M-Net, pretty little miss Annie Richmond after Al Lawes, bless him, went and let her snuff him. There's a club there, some very rich people pay some damn good money to go there and watch girls like you – and some guys now, I hear – get killed. Pay even more to be the one doing the deed. If you sign up to be an M-girl, as they're called, you'll be one of thirty. You stay there for a year shakin' your ass and fuckin' the clients, and fifteen times through that year, there'll be a lottery and one of the team'll be selected to die. Make it through that and you'll be anywhere upwards of thirty million dollars richer, and M-Net'll see to it that you get set up somewhere comfortable with a new name where you don't have to worry about facin' justice for your two cheatin' friends.”

Carrie sat there and thought about it for a long time. “Can I have another hot chocolate?” she asked.
“Darlin', I don't want to give you a scalding hot liquid until I know you're not gonna throw it in my face and make a run for it.”
“Would it work?”
“Nope. Door's locked, windows got bars in it you couldn't squeeze past and even if you did get outside, I'd just hunt you down in the woods. That truck o' yours ain't goin' nowhere.”
“So... can I have another hot chocolate?”

Hank laughed and made her another one, complete with the shot of whisky. Carrie sat there drinking it thoughtfully. Eventually, she set the empty mug down on the table.

“Hank, it's a tempting offer. But... I can't live with myself, doing what I did to Matt and Sarah. If I lived through that year on the island, I'd just be rich, free and miserable. You've been better to me than even my own daddy was and... I'd be happy to die by your hand.”
“Oh, sweetie. You're a way better person than me” Hank said. “Now come on. Let's get you on your way.”
She stood up and dropped the bathrobe off her shoulders, only now noticing that he'd cleaned all the fake tan and makeup off her body while she was sleeping. She felt natural, comfortable and totally at peace.

“Where do we begin?” she asked, and was distantly surprised to find that she was eager for it to happen. Hank smiled at the ready tone of her voice, and merely gestured to the growing bulge in the front of his jeans.

She didn't need any more encouragement than that. She was on her knees in seconds and quick, nimble fingers were undoing his button fly. Released from its tight confines, his cock – all seven glorious, muscled, pulsing inches of it – sprang out and swatted her on the end of the nose, drawing a giggle from both of them. She took it in her right hand and rubbed it softly, staring in wonder at it. Matthew's had been bigger, but Hank's... looked perfect. She wasted no time in licking the tip, moistening him up and then engulfing him in her mouth. He tasted clean and salty, and she looked up into his smiling eyes as she took him all the way down.

Hank's shirt and the white T-shirt underneath it came off, lifted up above his head and dropped to the ground. He was all lean muscle and chest hair, which she reached up to run her fingers through.

The blowjob didn't last long. Soon enough he'd had his fill of it and, with a strength that made her shriek in delight, he lifted her up, stole a quick, passionate kiss as he adjusted his grip to under her buttocks, then hoisted her up again until she was sitting on his shoulders, her hands gripping the roof beams to hold her steady as he buried his face in her soaking pussy and started probing, stroking and teasing with an eager tongue. Matthew had never done that for her. Sarah had only done it reluctantly to put on a show for Matt. Hank ate her out like she was the source of the sweetest nectar in the world, like he wanted nothing more to be there, pleasuring her.

She came hard, gasping and twitching so violently that she nearly lost her grip on the roof beams. Hank sat her down on the table and, nuzzling the side of her neck just below her ear, guided her into a lying position. Together, their hands reached down and guided his pulsing prick inside her.

He fucked her hard, and she gripped the table and made totally unashamed noises of ecstasy as he fucked her. She had no idea where he produced the handcuffs from without stopping, but he used them to secure her wrists to the table legs, leaving her spread-eagled and restrained, utterly at his mercy. Shackles tied her ankles down in the same way, and she could only writhe and mewl in pleasure as he ground his cock up as far into her as it would go and growled like a beast when he came. Hot cum filled her out and the feel of it finished her off. She fainted from the force of her orgasm.

She came to when something cold touched her breast. It turned out to be a knife, a big sharp hunting knife. The sight of it didn't scare her at all. Quite the reverse, it excited her and a detached, distant part of her marvelled at the way her arousal only increased as she watched this tool of death caress her nipple, sliding over her skin without breaking it.

“Cut off my tit” she heard herself order, in the same seductive murmur she'd used to order Matt to do the things he wanted to do.

Hank had a smile in his voice when he said “Yes, ma'am” and the point of the knife drew blood as he pushed it with agonising slowness into the tissue of her boob.
It was agony. Carrie clenched down on the shriek of pain that threatened to erupt from her, and only succeeded in turning it into a strained “NNNNGGGH!!!!” as the torment continued forever, going on and on until suddenly there was a feeling of absence on her chest, and Hank was lifting a dripping, bloody chunk of round and wobbly flesh up by the nipple.

Again, that same detached part of her mind noticed that Carrie had enjoyed the pain, and that rather than feeling a sense of loss at the departure of one of her twin girls, She was happy to have given it to Hank, and a LOT aroused.

“You gonna cook it?” she asked, her breath coming back in ragged gasps.
“nah, there's no good eating on a tit” Hank said “They're all fat, no meat. No, I'm gonna render them down, use them to baste your ass when I roast it. Speaking of which...”

He raised the knife again, and took the other tit off with the same deliberate, excruciating slowness. Carrie didn't fight the pain this time – she embraced it, throwing her head around, jerking against her restraints, crying noises of torment that she again noticed with detached amusement sounded eerily similar to the sounds she made during sex.

Hank got to work properly once the other breast was off. Her belly became a shard of ice-cold pain as he opened her up and started to strip out her innards, a job that left Carrie simultaneously wailing and crying in agony, and also watching with amasement.

It was like she was becoming two people. One was a simple, base creature of meat and bone that didn't like what was being done to her. The other was Carrie herself, aloof to the torture of her physical form and, in fact, thoroughly enjoying it. With each new stab of pain, Meat-Carrie weakened and her essence fed Real-Carrie.

“this is what I did to Matt and Sarah” she thought as she watched Hank cut out her heart. “I didn't kill them... I freed them.”

She tried to tell Hank, to thank him, but the words wouldn't come. Her lungs and mouth were part of Meat-Carrie, and Meat-Carrie was dead.

Carrie could still control just enough of her meat to return Hank's loving kiss before she finally passed on.

Hank felt the life fade behind those soft lips and caught Carrie's very last gasp of breath with a soft shudder. It had been intense, even more so than usual. The video footage would undoubtedly earn him a LOT of money from M-Net, as would the sale of Carrie's truck.

“Thanks, Darlin'” he whispered.