Lyra stalked down the hall, a latex bodybag over one shoulder, a heavy messenger bag slung over the other, her face currently set in an expression that would have stripped paint. A can rattled against her stiletto heel and she kicked it viciously across the alley, the black latex gleaming in the flickering orange light of the nearby streetlamp. Lyra was not the kind of woman who appreciated being messed about or being kept waiting, and today she’d had both, so as she approached her second rendezvous point of the night, her temper was mounting to critical levels.

She cut an impressive figure, tall and terrifyingly slender, with very little chest or hips, her bones painfully visible under her tight pale skin. She was wearing a fitted black leather jacket, hanging open to reveal a sleeveless grey top and jet black skinny jeans, metal studs running down the seams. These were tucked into heeled New Rock boots that boosted her to 6 foot tall with their 4 inch heels. Her black hair was cut close to her angled face, making it seem all that paler and sharper. There was nothing soft about that face, her cheekbones seeming almost to punch through the paper cheeks, her thin lips making her mouth a sharp gash. One of her razor-edged eyebrows was bisected by a scar, although it seemed to have missed the rest of her eye. Some people would have said that they were blue eyes, but they would be lying. Lyra’s eyes were grey, slate grey with an obsidian ring around the outside of the iris. Her face was totally devoid of make-up and so was a pattern of orange light and black shadow, jaw set, eyes cold.

Lyra had been called many things in her life, striking being one of them, but she’d never been called pretty. And that was the way she liked it.  

Pretty people were always in danger from people like her.



At last she reached the doorway marked with the spray-painted symbol and she thumped hard on it with the side of her fist, resisting the urge to just kick it down and have done. There was no reply at first and she hammered on it again, glancing up as a drop of rain fell onto her face, running the length of her long nose.

Alright you bastards, Lyra thought coolly. I’m going to count to three, and then I’m coming in, whether you like it or not. 1, 2…

“Who is it?”

The shout from behind the door interrupted her mental countdown and her expression soured as her chance to unleash her temper was lost.

“Collection for Mr Raven,” She yelled back. “Now hurry up and open this door before I kick it in.”

“Raven… Raven… ah yes…”

It actually started raining now, a thin drizzle that damped down Lyra’s hair and got down the back of her jacket.

“Sorry, his object hasn’t come in yet,” the voice called back. “Unexpected shipping problems.”

Lyra’s jaw dropped slightly as she stared at the door in utter disbelief.

“I had a message today saying it was ready for pick-up.”

“Change of situation, you know how it is.”

Lyra’s temper spiked. She took a step back and lashed out, driving through the door and sending it slamming inwards. The little dweeb that had been standing behind it with a clipboard fell to the floor and scrambled desperately backwards before the oncoming woman, who was now resembling a slightly soggy avenging angel.

“Are you seriously telling me that you sent me to about 3 different locations today to pick up something my boss express-ordered from your organisation, only for you to tell me that the thing isn’t even here?” Lyra demanded, eyes sparkling with rage.

“It’s nothing personal…”

Lyra reached inside her jacket and pulled a gun.

“Run. Now,” She commanded.

He screamed and scrambled to his feet, fleeing past her and into the rain. Lyra allowed herself a small smile. It had been petty, but amusing all the same. She picked up the clipboard the man had dropped and scanned through it. Her sharp grey eyes soon picked out Mr Raven’s name… and where the package had gone. They’d sold his specially chosen request order to some-one else. While still having Raven’s deposit. The rage that had been temporarily quelled, reignited, licking at her insides.

Dropping the body-bag, she calmly tucked the clipboard under one arm and scanned her surroundings. She was in a dingy hallway, a smashed-up bathroom to her left, proceeding forwards, there were 4 doors off the end of the hall. Lyra listened intently and heard voices from the door on her immediate left. She drew her gun and pushed it open with her foot, scanning the room ahead of her. 3 people looked up.

“Don’t even think about it,” Lyra said calmly as one of them reached for the Kalashnikov around his neck. “I’d drop you before you got the safety off.”

The room might have been a sitting room once, the carpet and walls damp and stained, torn and peeling in places. A trashed sofa was on one side, bleeding stuffing all over the girl lain on it. Lyra felt a pang in her heart. The girl had to be in her late teens, her young nubile body not even slightly left to the imagination. Her eyes and mouth had been crudely taped shut and her hands were cuffed behind her back, over the sleeves of her pink jacket. The jacket had been unzipped, her white strappy top roughly shoved up to reveal her small breasts, her dark pink nipples puckered in the cold room, goosebumps on her exposed mounds. Her jeans had been yanked down to her knees revealing her pastel-pink lady boxer shorts. From the looks of it, she hadn’t been raped yet, but she was shivering, in a mix of cold and fear, Lyra wagered.

Further along, there was another sofa, in better repair, an older woman, maybe in her mid to late fifties sprawled across it, her wrinkled lips pursed around the cigarette she was dragging on idly while she surveyed the chessboard infront of her, barely taking any notice of Lyra’s sudden appearance. A guy was sat opposite her in an arm-chair, his legs kicked up over the arm lazily as he ran his hand through his blonde hair. He reeked of some strong aftershave, and from his well groomed hair, manicured hands and six-pack under his tight black shirt, he clearly loved himself.

Between them was a woman on her knees, her butt facing towards Lyra, giving her a good view of the hefty butt-plug inside her, and the dildo just below it. She was utterly naked, kneeling on the ragged carpet, her legs tied together at her ankles and above and below her knees. Her arms were pulled back and tightly roped together at the elbows and forearms, her hands laced together and forcibly kept that way with more rope. More rope banded around her arms and chest, forming an elaborate chest harness that tightened cruelly around the base of her breasts. There was more rope around her neck, attached to a ring screwed into the floor, forcing her to stay bent forwards. Directly in-front of her face was a stand with a tripod base, like a music stand but nowhere near as innocent. On the pole of the stand was an attachment, that could be clearly adjusted to move up and down the pole as necessary. The attachment was a massive black rubber phallus, almost 10 inches long that had been shoved into the woman’s mouth, holding her rigidly in place.

Balanced on the woman’s back was a chessboard and the two players paid no more attention to Lyra as they did to her whimpers. Red welts decorating the girl’s butt, probably explaining why she was trying so desperately to stay still, despite the vibrations running through her – partially from the toys inside her, and the chilly air of the room.

The man with the gun was stood on the other side of the ‘coffee table’ and he raised his hands away from the gun as Lyra pointed her own at him.

“Do you like our exhibits?” The man drawled lazily.

“I’ve seen better,” Lyra said coolly. “Don’t blame me if they both die of hypothermia.”

The man flicked his fingers dismissively at her.

“That would probably be kinder on that one,” he pointed at the girl on the sofa. “Her father couldn’t pay his drugs debts, and so thought that he could square the deal with that paltry offering. As if she was worth a few thousand.”

The girl whimpered softly.

“Shot him, not sure what to do with her,” He continued, running his fingers through his hair. “Check.”

“Like hell is that check.”

“I’m here to collect the goods for Mr Raven,” Lyra stated loudly. “If you’re not too busy.”

“That’s going to be difficult,” The woman cackled, still not looking up, her long hawkish nose and prematurely wrinkled face making her look like the stereotypical old witch, sans gingerbread cottage. “Being as how we sold it earlier. Don’t worry, we’re getting replacement stock sent over for him, but it won’t be here for a few days.”

“And you expect me to come back?” Lyra demanded. “You have the nerve to send me driving aimlessly all around the city, to tell me that you’ve fucked my employer over, and then tell me to come back? I don’t think so.”

The man looked up.

“You can have her,” He pointed at the girl. “Surely she’ll tide Mr Raven over.”

“As my boss is gay, I sincerely doubt that,” Lyra snapped.

For one long second, she surveyed the man, then tilted her head on one side, carefully appraising every inch of him, from his blonde hair to his shiny boots.

“How tall are you – 6 foot?” She asked interestedly.

“6ft 2”,” The man said with a yawn, moving his queen lazily.

Lyra scrutinised him a little further, then nodded softly to herself.

“You’ll do.”

Every-one in the room looked sharply up, the man dropping his chess piece, a momentary flash of shock crossing his handsome face and deleting the casual arrogance that had been there before.

“I’m not for sale,” The man snapped.

Lyra smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It had entirely too many teeth in it for that.

“Every-one’s for sale.”

“Stephen, shoot her,” the man said lazily.

Lyra looked up as the boy opposite reached for his gun again and her gun made an audible click.

“Stephen, go and take a walk around the block,” she said quietly. “Trust me, it’ll do a lot for your longevity.”

The two stared each other down, then he swallowed… and walked slowly towards her… then past her, and out of the door.  Lyra shut the door after him and holstered her gun. The woman got up, uncertain now.

“Look, if you attack us, you’re declaring war on the organisation.”

“Your organisation didn’t treat my employer with due respect,” Lyra breathed. “You have already declared war.”

She dropped the clipboard and the bag to the floor and slipped off her jacket, freeing her arms. The blonde guy and the woman both got uncertainly to their feet, staring at her.

“The organisation will come after you.”

“Let them,” Lyra breathed.

The woman slapped out at her with a whip. Lyra caught the shaft and drove her foot into the woman’s gut, following it up with a hook-shot to the side of the woman’s head. The crone crashed to the floor, unconscious. The blonde guy backed away, falling over the ‘coffee table’ woman, who gave a scream of pain. He scrambled back up, hands extended towards her like he was trying to ward her off, eyes wide with fear. It was a good look for him, Lyra thought. Fear was so much more attractive than arrogance.

“Look, let’s talk about this…” He stammered, throwing a rolled up newpaper at her.

She brushed the newspaper off, advancing unstoppably towards him, face impassive, tone perfectly emotionless.

“You know, if you’d messed me around less, I wouldn’t be doing this,” She said quietly. “If you’d sent me a message earlier saying there had been problems with delivery, then it wouldn’t have been a problem. But you fucked me around, and now, my boss is going to do the same to you.”

The man lashed out at Lyra. She slipped the punch and stepped close to him, driving a punishing uppercut to the bottom of his jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Lyra shook her head slightly. 2 punches. That’s as long as a fight should ever last.

Lyra turned back, and saw the woman being used as a coffee table’s face for the first time. Her face was lined with exhaustion, and her cheeks were hollowed, her whole face seeming haunted and gaunt. Lyra hesitated, then eased the stand out of her mouth. The moment it was out, the woman virtually collapsed to the floor, chesspieces falling everywhere. Lyra cursed softly, then untied the rope from around her neck and lifted the woman bodily onto the sofa, easing the vibrating toys out of her.

The woman shuddered and closed her eyes, pressing herself against the pillows like she was trying to vanish into them. A number was inked into her thigh, a numbered slave. There was nothing Lyra could do for her. She was property, and the organisation would seek repercussions and claim that Lyra stole her, even if she just released her and if she ever did make it to freedom, she would be swiftly caught again…

Lyra pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialled. Her boss answered within a ring.

“Lyra.”

“Is now a good time, Sir?”

“As things go,” he said mildly, then paused, clearly hearing something in her tone. “Is something wrong?”

“Boss, we have a problem.”

Lyra outlined everything that had happened while Raven listened silently.

“Your path is clear to me Lyra,” He stated after she’d finished. “Bring me the boy and the house slave. I asked for a well-trained good looking male that I’d specified, not an unwilling, badly mannered, barely trained slave. I think she counts as recompense. Leave them a receipt, and I’ll be in contact with the organisation. I don’t think we’ll ever deal with them again Lyra.”

“I would agree Sir.”

There was a pause.

“Hurry home Lyra.”

“Sir?”

“I haven’t had a fresh slave for years Lyra,” Raven said, and he actually sounded delighted. “I can’t wait to start!”

“You had a new slave…”

“I meant an untrained one – as you very well know. Hurry home.”

“Will do.”

She turned to face the room and cracked her neck, then fingers, in a business-like manner. Time to get to work.