castlecat579 on The Cabin Susan Lewis on Shackled & Spread A Pleasant Sort of T… on Shackled & Spread
Lunch had been lovely. I felt satisfied, relaxed, and maybe even a little bit tipsy. Certainly on a high. A sexually induced high. The conversation had been interesting. An eavesdropper would have been enthralled. Would have leant in just that little bit closer to try to catch Daniel’s whispered words. Words which left me in no doubt as to what was going to happen once we left the restaurant.
I shivered as we made our way across the carpark to his car, the scent of wet leaves underfoot heralding the change in seasons. There was a definite chill to the autumnal afternoon air, but my shivers were more from anticipation than from the cold. Daniel took my hand. Enveloped it in his. A romantic gesture which, ever since the wedding, had become increasingly frequent. But I knew that what he had in store for me couldn’t be filed under romantic. Romance would end when we were cocooned within the confines of his vehicle.
Once inside the car he started the engine and put it into gear. As he drove towards the exit, he turned and looked at me. Just one look. That’s all it was. A brief glance. But a glance which spoke a thousand words.
On cue, I raised the skirt of my dress slowly, inching it up my thighs. Slowly, slowly exposing the nylon clad flesh. Inch by inch, I lifted the fabric to reveal more and more of my legs. I could see him watching out of the corner of his eye as he expertly steered the car along the winding country lane. The lacy tops of my hold ups came into view. Now a staple in my wardrobe, Daniel insisted that I wore them whenever we met. We’d now reached the stage where he chose all my clothes for our ‘dates’. From my dress down to the colour of my underwear. Today was no exception. The fitted black dress with its short flirty skirt was a favourite of his. Whilst not exactly revealing, combined with the ubiquitous hold ups and high black shoes, it looked stylish, sexy and above all, provided him with the access to my body that he required.
I adjusted and positioned my dress until it exposed the v between my parted legs. The damp tell tale patch on my pants betraying my arousal as they stretched tight across my lips and mound.
I sat, eyes glued to the road ahead as instructed. Daniel was a skilled driver and I felt safe with him. He made me feel safe. Over the past six months my trust and respect for him had grown, along with my love. He’d taken me beyond my sexual comfort zone many times and yet he’d always held me safe, always been there ready to catch me if I looked as though I might fall. I trusted him completely.
“Push your pants aside, Lilly.”
I hooked my fingers underneath the lace edging and moved them over my mound, exposing my already swollen lips. I could sense rather than see his eyes on me.
“Slide a finger between your lips.”
His instructions were clear, precise, delivered in that smooth, seductive voice of his. I never tired of hearing it. He made even the most mundane of things sound interesting. His innate confidence shone through. Once again I wondered why his former fiancée had left him. Since the night of the wedding, we’d never touched on the subject again. And so I’d had to bury my natural inquisitiveness, for the time being at least.
I slid my finger between my lips, through the delicious wetness that emanated from my very core. A wetness that was ever present in Daniel’s company. I had never met a man who drew out my carnal desires in the way that he did. And certainly had never met anyone who could suggest something so seemingly innocuous, but so highly sexually charged; such as the scene that was transpiring before our eyes now.
So, so simple. Yes, there was the danger of another driver catching a glimpse of what was going on, but the excitement generated came from a far deeper part of my psyche than that of being seen by a stranger. I’d asked myself the question over and over again. How could such seemingly small requests cause such a feeling of lust and arousal?
“Let me taste you.”
I drew my finger through the glistening juices. One silky, transparent filament connected my finger to my sex, like some ethereal umbilical cord. Stretching, growing finer as I moved my hand slowly away. Just when the tension reached its climax, just as the strand reached its full extent, the bond was broken, the viscous substance parting and snapping back.
I placed my finger against his full lips. Lips which I loved to kiss. Lips which had explored every inch of my body. They parted and he sucked my finger into the warm cavern of his mouth . Tasting me, tasting my juices, tasting the confirmation of his ability to inflame my passion. I shuddered as his tongue curled and eddied around my flesh. I closed my eyes, concentrating my whole being on that one sensation. The sensation of his tongue on my finger.
His slow and careful lessons, built up over the months we’d been together, had taught me to crave more and more, to want to push my boundaries further but at the same time they had taught me to find extreme sexual pleasure from the smallest of physical acts. This was way beyond the physical; I could be aroused to the same degree just by hearing his words, or seeing his words written in a text message or email, as by being touched. He controlled my mind just as much as he controlled my body.
He ejected my finger from his mouth.
“Now Lilly, let me see you play.”
My hand found my pussy again and started its familiar dance. Whilst my left hand held aside my pants, my right hand played. Teasing and toying with the secret folds and nub of flesh that were the source of so much pleasure. My fingers moved purposefully, finding the sweet spots that made me gasp and whimper with delight. I knew Daniel loved to hear the vocal signs of my arousal.
“How’s my pussy, Lilly?”
“Wet Sir,” I answered.
“and ……..” He waited for me to carry on.
I was still a little uncomfortable with talking in this way, but he always persevered and pushed me out of my comfort zone. He forced me to describe how I was feeling, to describe my innermost thoughts. To tell him exactly what was going on in my head as I played or as he subjected me to his will. It was his way of discovering more about me and my sexual desires. He peeled back my inhibitions like peeling back the layers of an onion, uncovering more and more of my hidden fears, my reservations and the buried yearnings that I couldn’t even admit to myself.
Some I didn’t even know existed.
And some so powerful, it was like the re-opening of Pandora’s Box.
“…and,” I continued, “it’s aching to feel your touch Sir.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is it now Lilly? And do you think you deserve to be touched by me?”
I was always stumped by this kind of question. Yes I did think I deserved to have the attention of his fingers, his lips, his cock, but I could never think of a good enough reason. I knew that he didn’t really expect a logical or meaningful answer; he just liked to make me uncomfortable, to squirm a little bit with embarrassment. Slowly, I’d become better about talking about sex, more able to vocalise what I enjoyed, what I didn’t like and more importantly, what I wanted. As females we’re taught not to ask for what we want, particularly in sex. Daniel was working on removing that barrier, encouraging me to be comfortable asking for things.
I bit the bullet.
“Yes Sir, I do think I deserve to have your touch. I try my hardest to please you, give you pleasure ….”
I dropped my eyes, suddenly unsure.
“And how would you like me to touch you Lilly?”
I swallowed, and took a deep breath.
“Oh Sir, I’d like to feel your fingers on my pussy, teasing my clit, rubbing it in that special place, before you slip them inside me and finger fuck me …..”
I broke off. His voice filled the silence.
“Then that’s what you’ll have my love.”
I couldn’t help but smile. I wanted that so badly. Hmmm maybe I should have asked outright for his cock.
“Continue playing, keep yourself wet for me. But don’t come. You are not allowed to come. Do you hear me?”
“Yes Sir,” I answered, like the good little submissive I was.
I started to rub the little place just beside my clit which I knew would guarantee me an orgasm. I liked to play this game. Bring myself really close and then stop. The sexual tension it built up was incredible. I knew Daniel was enjoying the show too. The evidence was clear to see, his trousers clearly distorted by his straining erection.
I closed my eyes and let my fingers do my talking for me, showing him how I liked to arouse myself, how I made myself come. He’d watched me many times. It was one of his most favorite things to do. To watch me pleasure myself, watch me bring myself to orgasm. He loved my frenetic rubbing. How I let the pursuit of my climax override any inhibitions I might feel. He just loved the whole voyeuristic experience. And I loved him to watch me.
Daniel knew by my little gasps and moans that I was close to coming. Now all you readers out there, I challenge you to play and tease yourself to that point where you feel you can’t hold on any longer. The point where all your senses collide in a joyous meeting of sensations, where you know you’d do anything to gain release. And then just as you feel you can’t hold back any longer.
Stop your movements, clench all your muscles, grit your teeth and stop your impending orgasm. It’s not as easy as it sounds. And believe me, it’s really excruciating. You’ll find yourself in the middle of one gigantic conflict, when all your nerve ends are saying YES, but your will is saying NO. And then when your body has calmed, when the urge to come has all but passed. Do the same thing again.
Your body and your mind will be screaming for release and the whole of your genital area will be so sensitive that just the merest touch is enough to push you over the edge.
So this was the situation I found myself in with Daniel. My whole body was on red alert. I was coiled as tight as a spring. My fingers, pussy, pants and legs were covered in my juices. My head thrown back, eyes shut tight. Tension everywhere. It wasn’t the nice, slow build up you get when you’re in complete control of yourself. It was a primal, instinctive feeling where the only things on my mind were the myriad of sensations rushing through my body and the need to obey.
I could feel Daniel’s eyes boring into me. He didn’t speak. Just observed. Watched his sub slut rubbing herself for his pleasure. Oh no doubt about it I was enjoying it too, but all this was entirely for his pleasure.
I was getting to the point where I couldn’t stand anymore. Now when you’re alone, it’s easy to cheat. Easy to hold back on the stimulation. Easy to give yourself a little breathing space. Easy to just take your finger off the pulse, so to speak, and let the impending orgasm retreat a little. In the presence of your Dom, there’s no such luxury. I had to fight with all my determination to keep my fingers moving but to stop myself from coming. My face was scrunched up in concentration. The muscles of my thighs strained and quivered.
“Don’t you dare come Lilly!”
His words tormented me. Mocked me. I had to obey but I wasn’t sure how much longer I could carry on.
And then, with horror I knew I’d passed the point of no return!
Now once your body has given in to release, there’s just no going back. All my nerve endings were in freefall, my pussy twitching, pulsing and contracting for all it was worth. It was all I could do to stifle my moans, my voice constricted by the realisation of what I’d allowed to happen. I clenched my thighs together tightly, trying to stem the flow of pleasure through my groin, but to no avail.
By this point Daniel had pulled the car over to the side of the road. I didn’t even dare look at him. I knew my lack of control had displeased him. And I knew that I was likely to be punished for my disobedience.
It wasn’t so much the punishment I was dreading, but the knowledge that I’d disappointed him. That I’d given into my own desires rather than submitting to his. That I hadn’t been strong enough to stop when my orgasm was about to erupt.
He switched off the engine. Silence engulfed us. Neither of us spoke.
I covered my errant pussy with my pants.
“Did I tell you to cover up?” he asked coldly.
“No Sir,” I said, pushing the wet fabric back across my seething flesh.
“So you want to come so badly you disobey me do you sub?”
I dropped my eyes.
“I didn’t mean to, I just couldn’t help it.” I offered feebly by way of an explanation.
“Hmmm,” his voice didn’t betray his thoughts, but I knew they weren’t good.
“I’m debating what your punishment should be,” he continued.
I remained silent. It wasn’t my place to comment or speak. That would just make matters worse. Our dynamic of Dom and sub meant that he gave the orders, I obeyed. To disobey whether deliberate or unintentional meant one thing and one thing only.
So far my punishments for disobedience had been minor. A spanking. A few hard strokes of the paddle or being made to stand in the corner like a child. Actually the last one, whilst not physical was most definitely the most humiliating.
“Ok,” he said. “Give me your hairbrush.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out a wooden hairbrush. It served a dual purpose, to keep my hair neat and as a handy little spanking implement. I sighed, quietly relieved. At least it didn’t hurt too much and well, there wasn’t much room in the car for a good spanking.
I handed it to him contritely, head still down.
He took the brush from me, and slapped it against the palm of his hand, just to remind me of its stinging capabilities.
“Ok, take off your pants.”
I did as asked, wriggling out of them the best I could in the confined space.
“Now move down so your arse is on the edge of the seat and open your legs – wide.” He instructed.
I knew what was coming.
He moved to a better position, raised his hand, and brought the brush down firmly on my pussy. The wooden back gave a soft thud as it made contact. It wasn’t exactly painful, but enough to cause me to suck my breath in. He repeated this five times. His actions hindered by the confines of the car.
“Now,” he said, “that was just a gentle reminder that your pussy belongs to me. That only I decide when you come. And hopefully it’s stopped any further urges you might have.”
Relief washed over me. It hadn’t really hurt and now it was over.
Big mistake! I should have heeded Daniel’s famous saying ‘Always expect the unexpected’.
“But just to make sure you don’t forget yourself again, and just to make sure that you know exactly what I mean when I say that I control your orgasms, I’m going to give you a lesson that you’re not going to forget in a hurry.”
My heart dropped right into my stomach. Just what did he have in mind? I remembered the time he’d forced me to have orgasm after orgasm. Now that might sound like every girl’s dream, but believe me it’s not. I wasn’t too keen to go through that again.
His next words made it very clear that forcing me to orgasm wasn’t his intention at all. Oh no, Daniel had something far more diabolical up his sleeve.
“From now on Lilly, you are on orgasm denial. You are not allowed to come for one week. I might ask you to masturbate, I might ask you to do other things, I might even fuck you, but you will not come. Do you understand me?”
My voice was trembling as I took in the full implications of this. Orgasm denial? A whole week? Was he crazy? But I managed to reply.
“Yes Sir I understand.”
“Good, because I don’t want to punish you further.”
And with that he started up the car and took me home.
He calls me his ‘Minx with the flashing eyes’. The eyes that tease and taunt. The eyes that hold a trace of rebellion. The occasional look of defiance.
But we both know that when it comes down to it, I’ll submit. I’ll submit and subjugate myself before him. Give in to his demands. Bow to his wishes. Bend and flex to meet his innermost desires.
And so we play the power game. I give up control to him. Allow him to grow stronger as he imbibes my power. Let him feed from me. Feed and grow.
Of course, which of us is actually in control is debatable. Yes he is the one giving the orders. He is the one expecting and receiving compliance. But in actual fact, he is only able to do those things because I allow him to do so. I give him the permission to dominate me. I am the one who has the power to stop everything. And therein lies the delicious paradox of which one of us is controlling this power play. The paradox of exactly who is giving power to whom.
Because in a strange sort of way it makes me feel powerful too. Powerful because I evoke these feelings in him. Powerful because I give him the permission to live out the secrets he’s carried so long inside him. Powerful because I have the power to arouse him in ways he’s only dreamt about before.
I’m not sure whether I’m a typical submissive. I don’t particularly enjoy pain. That’s not to say that you have to enjoy pain to be submissive, but certainly masochists and submissives tend to go hand in hand. I do submit to receiving pain, because I enjoy the feeling of knowing that I am giving him pleasure and that in itself turns me on, makes me wet, makes me squirm. And so gradually I’ve begun to associate the pain with that feeling and gradually I’ve started to crave the pain because of the pleasure it brings.
And he knows all this. He knows me and how my mind works. And he knows just how to play me to get me to submit to more and more of his demands.
And for this reason I found myself in the position of agreeing to submit to him for an extended period of time. Agreeing to be his slave. Agreeing to obey his every desire without question or hesitation. That’s how my twenty four hours of complete submission came to be. And that was how I finally realised where I’d allowed my relationship with Daniel to lead me.
Now that I’d recovered from the shock of my kidnap, I was looking forward to seeing where Daniel planned to take me on the next step of our journey. He’d obviously planned it with meticulous detail and I knew that my subservience would be tested over the next twenty four hours.
“Ok slave,” he spoke slowly, “Empty the bag on the table. Place each item neatly on the top and then come and kneel before me.”
Without raising my eyes, I walked the couple of steps to the table. The holdall lay open. Its zipper pulled back to reveal a length of black rope lying on top of several other items. I removed it from the bag and put in on the table top. So some kind of bondage was on the menu.
Delving into the bag again my fingers touched something wooden. A paddle. Plain, unadorned, this Singapore Stinger did exactly what its name suggested. I placed it alongside the rope. The next item was the black leather paddle with the recessed pink hearts that had given me my first real taste of pain. Just the sight of it caused me to shudder a little. This too was positioned neatly on the table.
A pale pink suede flogger came next, followed by a black leather version. I then pulled out a length of black silken fabric, which I folded neatly before placing it next to the other items. Scattered on the bottom of the holdall were some small items. The Japanese Clover Clamps. Well that wasn’t much of a surprise. They always seemed to feature in our play. A sharp edged pinwheel. A small vibrator, a heavy stainless steel butt plug and three white candles secured together with an elastic band. Alongside these items I found a thin plastic sheet, tightly folded, rolled and secured into a cylinder. I swallowed, realising some form of wax play may be forthcoming.
As I retrieved the contents of the bag I could sense Daniel’s eyes on me. I could only imagine the vision I made as I went about the task. Naked except for his collar and cuffs and the hold ups. I concentrated all my efforts on completing the job with as much grace as I could muster. Keeping my back straight and my movements sensual as I positioned the items in perfect alignment on the table top.
When I was sure that the bag was empty I turned and walked across the room to where Daniel was sitting on the sofa. I dropped to my knees in front of him, once more focusing my eyes on the floor.
“Now slave, tell your Master who owns you.”
She looked at him with seductive eyes. He knew exactly what she meant. He knew that this meant business, and he was in for a long night. He liked it when she took control, it let him sit back and enjoy a show that rarely gets put on. She prefers that he takes control, and makes the move. Even though they have been together for almost eight years, she still was shy about that kind of stuff. It doesn’t help that she is a submissive. She would much rather be tied up and blindfolded and let him explore her body like it was a wonderland. But tonight, she couldn’t help it. She wanted him, and he wasn’t taking any of the usual obvious hints. Maybe he had a long day at work, maybe he was just too tired to notice, she didn’t care. She was going to get what she wanted tonight.
She was wearing a simple outfit really. Nothing too difficult, easy to take off, but definitely eye candy to him. Simple black lace boy shorts, black lace see through top, no bra. Her nipples were erect and perkier than ever. She hadn’t even done anything yet, but her mind was wandering all the dirty things that she wanted to do with him. This was the reason her pussy was already wet, and just about dripping. She was so horny for him, she just wanted to put that hard cock into her tight pussy, and not enjoy any of the foreplay. She wanted to feel him deep and hard inside her. But she needed to control herself. She wanted to enjoy this night.
She could see that his cock was already starting to bulge in his pants. He had just walked in the door from work, so he was still standing there in awe looking at her, knowing exactly what was going through her mind. She walked over to him, and started to undo his belt, then unbutton his work pants, unzip them and down they fall. She lowered herself to her knees, and rubbed her hand along his cock, which was still located inside his boxers. She pulled his boxers down slowly to let his cock pop out. She hungrily licks her lips just looking at it. She slowly takes his cock in her mouth, right there in the doorway. He hadn’t even had the chance to put his keys on the key hook or take off his shoes yet.
She starts out slowly, getting him all the way erect. She hungrily takes all of his cock into her mouth and swallows it down her throat. She does have a gag reflex, but she fights against it. She wants to feel him enlarge even more inside her throat. While his cock is still in her throat, she grabs his balls. She hears him moan, and he grabs her hair in a fist and starts fucking her mouth and throat. She takes a breath whenever she can, and doesn’t complain when tears of mascara and eyeliner start running down her face. He backs up and takes his cock out of her mouth, just to shove it all the way back in. She is still rubbing her balls with one hand and starting to run her pussy with the other. She is soaking wet, and there is so much of her wetness on her hand. She rubs her clit for a mere five seconds and cums right then and there. So much so, that she drips it onto the carpet. When he notices this, he tells her to lick her fingers, to lick her pussy juices. She obliges. He shoves her face towards his balls, she knows what he wants. She takes both of his balls into her mouth and sucks on them. He moans and calls her a dirty slut. She loves when he calls her that.
He tells her to get up, they are still in front of the doorway (of course the door is closed, it is an apartment building after all). He sticks a few fingers in her pussy, and starts to finger her. She moans, and bites her lips. He lifts up her top and sucks on her nipples. She is leaning against the couch trying to hold her footing. He takes his fingers out of her pussy and shoves them in her mouth. She licks his fingers clean, staring into his eyes as she does it. He turns her around, bends her over the couch, and sticks his hard cock right into her tight wet pussy. He lets out a little moan, he loves how tight she stays. Her pussy is just as tight now as it was eight years ago when they first had sex. He loves that more than she will ever know. His cock is so wet her from her pussy, she is moaning loudly. He grabs a fistful of hair and pulls her head back and up. She loves when he does that, she lets out a loud moan. She starts to rub her clit as he is fucking her.
She starts to feel an orgasm coming on, he can tell, and he pulls out. He pushes her further over the couch, and spreads her ass wide. He smacks her ass so hard she screams. Her skin stays stinging for quite a while after that, he doesn’t rub it to make it feel better, he wants her to be in pain while she cums. He puts his fingers in her pussy to get some of the wetness on his fingers. He then put some on her ass hole. He sticks his cock in her pussy one more time, then out, and into her ass. She lets out a few moans. She prefers him to do this slowly, but he doesn’t care. He shoves his cock in her ass deeper and deeper, until he is fully inside her. He starts to fuck her ass as she moans loudly. She starts rubbing her clit again, and immediately she cums. He keeps going, he doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon. He wants her to scream. He pulls her hair, and pulls her up so he can grab her tits as he fucks her. He grabs them and holds on hard while he fucks her tight ass. Her pussy is dripping down her leg at this point.
He stops, and quickly exits her asshole, and tells her to go to the bedroom. He leans her over the edge of the bed, and hands her the Hitachi. He loves when she uses it, and he thinks she may squirt if she does that while he fucks her ass. She puts the Hitachi to her clit and turns it on high. He sticks his cock back into her ass. It’s still wet. She moans loudly while the Hitachi is making her cum. He grabs her tits again, she lifts her leg up onto the bed to spread her pussy and ass more for him. He goes deeper and harder into her ass. She starts to cum again, and he can tell she is cumming more and more. He continues to fuck her ass, determined not to cum until she squirts. Finally, he can tell she is about to have a major orgasm. Her muscles tense up on her whole body, she buries her face in the pillow, and holds the Hitachi even closer to her clit. He starts fucking her ass harder, and deeper and then it happens. He feels the sudden gush spraying out of her pussy onto his legs. He feels it going down his legs, creating a small puddle at their feet. She is screaming loudly, enough to probably wake the neighbors. He cums hard into her ass. She is still cumming and still holding the Hitachi to her pussy, so he doesn’t dare stop.
She can barely breathe now. The last orgasm was so intense, she doesn’t squirt very often, but when she does, it takes a lot out of her. He is still fucking her ass as she turns off the Hitachi and lays it on the bed. He pushes deep a few more times, and then starts to slow down. She knows he came inside her ass. He slowly starts to make his exit. Before she is allowed to go clean up, he tells her to get both legs on the edge of the bed, spread her legs wide, and stick her ass out. He goes and grabs the camera, he wants a picture of the cum dripping out of her ass down her pussy. He tells her sit up a little, let gravity pull the cum out. So she listens, and it works, he pushes her back over, and takes his pictures. When he is done, she simply lays down. She doesn’t even want to get up to clean off. He will bring her a towel, and she will use that for now. She will shower after she wakes up.
Off she drifts to dream land. She has a smile on her face, and she got exactly what she wanted. He knew she wasn’t really in charge. He was always in charge. She had to just show a little effort, and he will always give what she wants. That’s the way it’s always been, and the way it always will be.
It’s only fair that I give Hector a goodbye fuck.
I hate him, I hate cops, and I hate the fact that he fucks me and calls out some other bitch’s name.
But it hurts so good.
When his cock’s crowding into me and pushing these delirious moans out of my throat. When his fingernails scrape against my scalp as he grabs my hair to pull me close. When his eyes slide closed after he comes, and I know that even though he was somewhere else –someone else- the whole time, he’s still completely mine.
It’s like high-grade smack.
The kind of stuff you try once and never touch again, because you know you’re already hooked, and it’ll kill you.
I’ve gotten all the information I can out of him anyway.
So the next day, I give him a call. Paul’s apartment, three p.m.
And the minute I see him, I’m grinding up against him, scraping my teeth against the underside of his jaw.
He growls and hefts me up across Paul’s living room and over to his room, onto the dead guy’s bed. I tighten my legs around him to gain more leverage, and I run my tongue up the side of his neck to his earlobe.
I grunt when he slams me into the mattress, and I hook my fist into his shirt to pull him down too.
He doesn’t tip over like I expect him to. Instead, he bends his knees with the weight of me, and goes straight to business on my snatch with his tongue.
I’m glad he’s stopped muttering sweet lies into my ribs and neck; saying that my pussy’s the sweetest, prettiest thing in the world.
I don’t do pretty. And I sure as fuck don’t do sweet.
He trails tiny, burning bite-marks down my hipbone as he undoes my pants and slides them down. Each nip is a white spark shooting into my crotch, and I tangle my hands in his short-cropped hair.
I can’t decide if I want to pull him up so I can stick my tongue down his throat and make him put that huge, delicious cock of his into me, or if I want to push his head down so his magical fucking tongue can do its work. In moments, I don’t have to decide at all.
His tongue swirls over my clit like a hot, slick whirlpool, and I grunt a little and push up into the heat. His fingers dig into the flesh of my ass to keep me still. I groan as a hint of teeth scrapes against the tip of my clit, and his tongue probes the entrance of my slit. I wriggle against his grip and stroke his torso up and down with my left leg.
I’m soaking wet, and he’s lapping me up like a cat discovering the gastronomic benefits of cream. Each tiny twitch of his tongue makes the heat inside of me expand, and when I feel like the only thing left for me to do is explode, he pulls away. And I let out a tiny, growling moan and try to pull him back.
But he’s looking at me with his black, black eyes, and I don’t know what they’re trying to say.
His pupils are blown, and there’s sweat beading on his forehead and down his neck, and I want to taste it. Lick it. Swallow him all up. His skin is a deeper gold against the window’s translucent light, and he’s flushed all the way down to his navel.
But there’s something heavy lingering on his shoulders, and he’s looking at me like he knows exactly who I am.
The autopilot part of me goes into high alert, but the rest of me can’t bring myself to care. I want his cock like it’s my soul’s fucking salvation.
I grab for him with clutching nails.
Maybe something clicks inside him. Maybe there’s a thread that’s finally snapped loose and is dangling free. I don’t know.
But when he grabs my arm and kisses my mouth, it feels like he’s thrown a part of himself away.
I catch it with his lips between my teeth, and I swallow him down and down and down. I can almost imagine Hector –who he is- trickling down my throat, resting in the hot space behind my groin, and diffusing like a date-rape roofie. I feel myself tighten around that space as the heat mounts, and I trail my fingers around the head of his suddenly naked cock. He twitches under my fingertips, and my pussy twitches in response. I clench inside, hungry for the girth of him.
But he’s staring at me again like he knows the names of every hit I’ve made. Every contract I’ve filled.
My hackles are raised, and a part of me has ripped itself out of the sex-spiked haze and settled into the present. It is watching and observing and waiting to react. I don’t care for it. So I ignore it, and I pull myself upright and turn around to grind my naked ass against his cock. The skin is smooth against my ass cheek. Smooth and fever-hot. I feel like I’m made of something brittle and molten, and there’s so much heat inside of me that my edges are starting to burn white and crack.
His teeth are blunt and bruising against the flesh of my shoulder, and I reach around behind me to get a hold of his dick. I’m soaking wet and hungry for the taste of him, and I guide the luscious length of him into me with fingers and eager hips.
The second the head of his cock touches my entrance, he grunts low. And my fingers make white-cored rosettes in the fabric of Paul’s bed sheets; gathering the material into my fists so that the pressure of him diffuses through the heat of my palms and the twang of muscles drawn tight with need. I have to wriggle a little so he can slide the rest of the way in, and I toss my head back and moan. He starts rocking back and forth, and my body obliges by turning every single inch of me into a seething mass of pleasure. And I push back against him until, distantly, I can hear myself scream.
And I come.
And I am the heart of the sun.
And he’s pushing up against me, quaking with his own orgasm and growling.
And it hurts so good.
I can feel him soften inside me, and I twitch as he pulls out. For all of three seconds, all I want to do is stand up and press my body against the heat of his skin and kiss him long and deep.
But the autopilot part of me uses what passes for afterglow between Hector and me, and it brings the memory of dark, wary eyes into sharp focus. And I go into high alert, even as I stretch and give a little pleasure moan while I wipe myself down with Paul’s sheets and pull on my pants.
There’s a small, flat-hilted knife tucked into the inside of my waistband, and a derringer in the inside pocket of my blazer. They aren’t exactly ideal tools for self-defense –combined, they have the stopping power of a loud fart- but they’re the only weapons I can effectively conceal under my thin yuppie-wear and the high-octane contact of our sex.
But that doesn’t matter.
I like improvising anyway.
And when he nudges the back of my skull with the barrel of his standard-issue Glock, I’m not surprised.
It’s almost a physical effort not to snort.
My jacket and my teeny, useless gun are across Paul’s bed, where I’d flung them. They’re near the headboard, and Hector and I are at the foot. It’s all a matter of rushing forward fast enough, out of the way of the barrel of his gun. But that little piece-of-shit pearl-handled girl-gun wouldn’t do much good against something as wiry-tight as Hector. Not unless I shoot him square in the eye, where that tiny bullet can get to his brain unimpeded by the impossible solidity of the human skull.
And I know about the structural integrity of skulls.
Mine has saved my bacon more times than I can count.
I can’t confidently say that this’ll be one of those times though.
“Your name isn’t Jeannie,” he says.
I don’t say anything. Experience has taught me that it’s generally best to let the guy with the gun to your head do all the talking. Unless he asks you to oblige.
Still, I raise my hands and straighten up, all proper and polite-like.
I turn a little and, out of the corner of my eye, I watch him. Silent and wary. There’s something wild there. Something unleashed and heavy with old pain and new hurt. Like the discovery that I’m not really who I say I am is some kind of final straw. And I know that I’m not looking at a Fed looking to break open a tough case. No. This is a man on his sanity’s last legs. And I curse at Paul for whatever drama he and Hector used to have going on.
The best sex always comes with the worst drama. It’s like a fucking universal rule.
My instincts have pushed past my post-coital languor, and every one of my senses opens up, assessing every aspect of Paul’s bedroom and apartment for possible weapons or avenues of escape. Paul had been pretty sparse with his décor, but there’s a reading lamp nearby, and in a pinch, I can use a pillow to distract Hector and block his view while I beat my retreat.
His gun’s safety clicks impossibly loud in the silence of Paul’s apartment, and I know that the time for observation is over.
I cock my head a little to the left a millisecond before Hector’s gun goes off, and it burns against my ear. I twist around, and his lips are moving, but all I hear is the ringing in my head from what could be a perforated eardrum. Godfuckingdammit.
I grab his arm and pull him forward and off-balance, and he pitches onto Paul’s bed. Reaching down my pants for my knife would take too long, so I hit him with a couple of well-placed strikes to the back of the neck.
There are ways to kill a man instantly with your bare hands. It’s usually not about physical strength, but about anatomy. The human body has an insanely disturbing number of weak spots, but exploiting them requires either a lot of skill and a lot of practice, or a lot of stupid, blind-ass luck. Usually it requires all three.
But it happens.
Sometimes completely by accident.
And I think of that when Hector’s head snaps back with the impact of my second blow.
Something cracks under the blade of my hand.
I don’t hear it through the fucking ringing in the space between my ears. Rather, I feel it, like it’s a stick breaking through thick leather. It travels up the meat of my arm and lingers in the center of my chest so that I stop breathing for half a moment.
And he slumps into the bed like a puppet with all the strings cut.
His gun vibrates on the floorboards as his fingers spasm open. The skin of my bare feet picks up the impact, and my mental autopilot files the information away. Like I’ll need it.
His eyes are open, but he doesn’t move.
He’s staring at me, and there’s something in his stare that’s darker than the familiar, animal hate I’ve seen in most of my marks’ eyes. It’s not the straightforward abhorrence of someone under the power of a victorious enemy. It’s old rage and old bitterness gone molten and curdled and molten again. A spray of spit darkens Paul’s white sheets as Hector struggles to speak. Struggles to breathe.
But something inside of him has snapped, and the connections are no longer there.
The ringing pulses in my head to the time of my heartbeat, and I count the throb as I watch him open and close his mouth.
Maybe he’s saying something. Maybe he’s just trying to breathe. I can’t read lips, so I can’t tell.
I watch him and wait.
The ringing starts to fade when his lips finally start to slow down. When his eyes start to lose their snake-pit focus.
And when the ringing finally fades into the background, all I hear is the traffic outside the window.
Hector’s eyes are still open. But he isn’t staring at me anymore.
I leave Hector there.
Let Paul’s neighbors find him.
Let the local flatfoots scratch their heads over this murder-mystery on their own.
But just to be sure, I make a sweep of any traces I might have left. I stuff the blanket smeared with Hector’s and my mingled cum into my bag, and I pocket Hector’s wallet, weapons, and all of his IDs.
I also take along Paul’s little lockbox full of Phillip Anders, and all the weapons and ammo I can find in his house.
And before I close the door on Paul’s apartment for the last time, I rush back inside to pull up Hector’s pants and fasten his belt. He’s still pliant, but his skin is getting cooler to the touch. I consider the nature of the fatal injury I’d dealt him, and I arrange his corpse so that it looks like he fell over and hit his head.
Blunt force trauma to the back of the neck. My hand is soft enough that it won’t leave an obvious mark. And I let it hover over the glaring black of his dead eyes, wondering if I should close them and grant him the dignity of some kind of symbolic closure.
In the end, I go with “No.”
Because it wouldn’t be realistic.
Because he went after my people.
Because he kept yelling out some other woman’s name.
The door to Paul’s apartment clicks shut with a finality that rings in my still-throbbing head.
Inexplicably, I feel gorge rising in my throat.
That wasn’t how Hector was supposed to go.
Yeah, people die. It’s a thing that happens, and I help it along. A lot. But Hector was supposed to put up more of a fight. He was supposed to give me trouble: give as good as he got and then pin me to the floor like we’re about to fuck each other again. Maybe refresh the bruises I’d gotten from the Diamondbacks job.
Those injuries have faded away completely now, and the rib I’d fractured then barely registers as a light tug when I breathe in too deep. Or get fucked too hard.
And there’s that tug now. Pulling around the top of my abdomen and pinging off the center of my chest.
And it’s still there as I rev up my car and drive away.
I shower the minute I get back to my apartment.
With the traffic and the ringing still ricocheting across the inside of my skull, a two-hour drive became a three-and-a-half-hour torture-session, and on the freeway, I could feel the universe pressing down over me in the claustrophobic dimness of my little car. I should’ve gotten one of those roomy luxury car types. Or one of those classic ones, like a ’73 Viper, or a Desoto. Because at least I’d be suffering in style. It wouldn’t have hurt my bank accounts that much. But nooooo, I went stealth and got myself a nondescript black Corolla, so I’d be harder to track.
This isn’t the first time I’ve regretted that old piece of shit. Don’t get me wrong though; it’s reliable enough transport. But that’s all it is. Reliable transport. Fucking boring.
And I try to keep my mind there as the flow from my showerhead cools from scalding-hot to warm. But I’m thinking about Hector and his enormous cock. And I know he’s dead, but I’m thinking about how that cock rammed into me and sent burning sparks flaring through my cunt and up my abdomen. And somehow, my fingers find their way to my clit, and the water is warm and slick down my back and breasts.
I breathe heavily against the green tile as my fingertips grow slippery-slick with me. I slide two of my fingers in and out of my entrance, and I tighten around the second joint of my knuckle and moan, remembering how Hector’s dick seemed to fill the entire space inside of me with heat. It’s not enough. I lean into the shower’s spray, my left arm braced against the wall as my right presses against the side of my tit, fingers rubbing desperate figure eights over my throbbing clit.
The pressure inside of me builds and builds, and I almost catch myself begging for release. But it doesn’t quite come. I don’t quite come. And I whimper desperately as I frig myself. While in the background, the echo from that gunshot rings and rings.
Because all I see is Hector’s black, black eyes, livid and bubbling with hate.
And the water has gone cold.
I’ve used up all of my hot water, and I’m still thinking about Hector.
It’s like there’s a red rope tying him to Paul and to Young Victor and to Old Victor and to Cruz and Barton, and finally, to me. Red like blood. And it feels like all that rope is looping around and around my neck. And I can’t breathe.
I still have a headache from that fucking close-quarters gunfire, and all my frustrated frigging has done absolutely nothing to help. The ringing hasn’t stopped either, but I’ve got most of my hearing back. The world still feels far away despite that. It’s like there’s a layer of hot, humid air between me and the rest of the world, and I kind of welcome it. Like it’s insulation. Because every exposed surface of me is desiccated-dry, and the slightest change in temperature or air pressure could set off a spark and make me explode.
But I don’t. And I can feel myself crackle inside like a pile of autumn leaves. So I head straight for my heavy bag after I towel off, and I just pummel it and pummel it until I feel like my knuckles and my shins are one huge bruise.
And the headache’s still fucking there.
It’s an occupational hazard, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s still an enormous pain in the ass.
I growl and throw one last, furious punch, and the impact rattles down my muscles and through my clanging head.
At some point, I tell myself, I’m going to have to get my shit together and go through the rest of the day.
So I do.
And I’m sitting at my table, staring at my phone and trying to decide what to do next.
I can’t really say that that week at Paul’s had been an idyllic getaway, but calling Barton –letting anyone know that I’m back in the neighborhood- would mean that I really am. Back in the neighborhood. Back in the mess I’d created for myself –whatever that mess might be- when I slid my knife between Old Victor’s ribs. Back in the mess Young Victor’s creating of this city’s once-stable underworld. Back to being another blind pawn in the gigantic chessboard of my life.
I fucking hate politics.
But now I’m back. Tit-deep in the game.
My cupboards are dry, so I end up trudging back to Parentheses instead of just picking up my phone and giving Barton a call from the cocoon-dimness of my apartment. It’s still daylight when I show up. There are already a couple of patrons nursing their drinks and eating whatever overpriced tripe Barton has on his menu. The afternoon crowd has more of a strung-out salary-slave flavor than the horny post-teens of late night. So the house-lights are on, and the music piping in from the sound system is softer; more Billy Joel than dubstep.
He’s busy taking orders, so I catch Barton’s eye as I come in, ask for a coffee and some whiskey from the bespectacled stick-insect dressed as one of Barton’s waiters, and I find a booth in a corner to wait.
I remember my first kill. It was a man. It’s almost always a man. Not too many women have the inclination to go into my field of work.
He had blue eyes. Like daylight after a week of storms.
I threw up all over my shoes when I saw them. And every time I looked up, they’d still be there. Staring. But not.
And blue as the summer sky.
I ended up retching until I was dry-heaving and sobbing into the dust. And I couldn’t sleep for weeks after.
I guess I’m used to it now.
I’m sure I’ve pretty much mastered the ability to control my own physical reaction to death.
After all, it’s my job.
I’m nursing my seventh glass when Barton slides in across from me in the booth. He thumps a shot glass and a bottle of tequila on the table between us, and his grin is blindingly bright against his skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s genuinely glad to see me back.
But that’s the grin he wears for everybody. Even if there’s a deeper crinkle around the corner of his eyes.
“How was the Weekend at Bernie’s?”
Barton pours me a shot, and he’s dark and stretched across the other side of the booth like a big housecat.
I down it in one gulp, savoring the acid heat flaring down my gullet. Tequila doesn’t burn like whiskey. It’s like the difference between desert sand and hardwood. It tastes like dust and grit.
“Informative,” I reply. “Might’ve left a little mess though. The other houseguest went on a bit of a bender. He took a really long nap on the floor.”
Barton’s eyebrow quirks and he nods. “Is that so?”
I shrug. “Things got interesting.”
He rolls his eyes like he’s saying it always gets interesting when I’m involved. His gaze flutters to the cluster of empty whiskey glasses I’d lined up on the far side of the table.
I grab the remains of the glass I’d been nursing before Barton can beat me to the last few gulps.
“Anyway, you guys won’t have to worry about the ghost of Paul Abraxas anymore.”
I Irish up my coffee with about half of my glass, and swallow down the rest.
Barton snorts and shakes his head. “Mal, I’m pretty sure you don’t have any liver left. You’ve got to slow down on that shit.”
This is Barton. Telling me to drink less. I give him my best “What the Actual Fuck?” stare, and pointedly take a swig from the bottle of Patrón he’s got on standby next to his elbow. Then, I take a sip from my coffee.
“Good morning to you too, Mr. Barton.”
Cumulatively, I’ve had about eight shots. Maybe twenty. I’m not so sure anymore. Either way, it’s enough to warm me up from the inside, and it compounds the muffling effect of my tinnitus so that I feel like I’m surrounded by cotton; somewhere protected and far away.
He rolls his eyes again, and waves to one of his lackeys to serve us some water and some potato wedges. As if on cue, my stomach rumbles.
Huh. I guess I forgot to eat.
It’s been a busy day.
I set aside my spiked coffee and my glass, and watch as Barton tops himself off.
“So listen, I got my hands on whatever papers and shit Paul and Hector had there. I know Young Victor probably got rid of Paul because he used to be a cop, but you and Cruz might see something I missed. I’ll let you two lovebirds take care of the brainy shit. As far as I’m concerned, my job’s done for now. ” I reach down to hand him the battered duffel where I’d stuffed all of Paul and Hector’s shit.
Barton’s hand unfurls, palm-out, like an air traffic controller’s, and I stop. “Actually Mal, it’s a good thing you’re here. I wanted to talk to you about the terms of your employment.”
I shrug. “The job was kinda unconventional, but since you and Cruz have always treated me right, I’ll charge my usual fee. In cash, as per usual.”
“Yeah, actually, about the unconventional part-”
“I’ll swing by tomorrow to pick it up, unless you guys want to do the installment thing. I don’t mind installments.”
“Mal, hang on a minute, let me finish my train of thought.” His voice is like fine chocolate cream, and his accent sharpens the edges of his words. A surprisingly generous basket of wedges, with sour cream and ketchup on the side, magically appears beside Barton’s bottle of tequila. I reach across the table to inhale one. With my mouth full, I tilt my head a little to show him that I’m listening.
“Corporate security officer, remember? That’s the position you’d agreed to fill?”
I burn my tongue on the potato, and I take a swig of water to cool it down. The cold just makes a small, swirly low-pressure area in my belly, and it gives my tinnitus an oddly more resonant clang.
Or, I’m already a little drunk. That’s possible too; I’ve been drinking on an empty stomach.
“Oh yeah, I did, didn’t I?” I reply. And a smile curls up from the center of chest at the memory of Tiresias Cruz’s voice. “So hold on, what does that mean, exactly? Also,” I let my smile turn wry around the half-mouthful of potato I’m still chewing. “You sure you guys can afford me?”
Barton scoffs, gives me a mock-offended look and crosses his arms, “Are you implying, Miss Moon, that our little operation is small-time?”
I shrug, and it feels like my collarbones have gone unhinged and are swimming near the tops of my ribs. “You guys just work in one city. Parentheses –this place- is pretty much all the infrastructure you have. I’ve known you and Cruz since before my first hit, and in all those years, I haven’t seen a single effort to expand or diversify.” I flash him a smile that’s all challenge. “I call it like I see it.”
He raises an eyebrow, and his grin is all kinds of amused. He isn’t offended in the slightest. I’ve got to give him props for that. My line of work’s steeped in bravado and machismo, and easily three quarters of my gigs start out with little verbal transgressions like these. It takes a different kind of mindset to let the shit I said slide off one’s back; drunk or not drunk. “You’re pretty savvy, Amallia Moon,” Barton chuckles. “Maybe Cruz and I have gotten a bit comfortable staying in one place, but consider this little employment opportunity a first step in our expansion. This is an invitation to get in on the ground floor.” His teeth are white like ivory under the tungsten lights. “You get to keep doing your own work, and we’ll keep hooking you up with gigs that match your skill set, but at the end of the day, you come home to us. You keep an eye out for us –defend us, if necessary- and we keep an eye out for you. So to speak.”
I take another potato wedge, blow on it a little, and give him a long, slow, sidelong look. “So, I’d basically be your guy. Or uh, your girl.”
Barton’s grin makes the rest of him disappear, and I feel like I’m talking to Alice in Wonderland’s Cheshire Cat. The grin tilts forward a little; an indication of a nod.
“That means I get a cut of the profits, right?”
“Ten per cent off the net, because you’re new.”
“Then I’m still charging for the Abraxas job.”
Barton’s laughter is as buttery-smooth as his voice, and he’s turning on the charm like he thinks it’ll work on me. I tamp down the tingle crackling upward from my crotch. “Come on Mal; that was just your first duty as head of security.”
“Twenty-five per cent off the gross, and a bonus for out-of-town jobs, plus expenses.”
He leans forward, and I get the impression of a big cat sighting especially delectable prey. “Fifteen per cent off the net, and I’ll erase your bar tab. The business has a lot more expenses than you’d expect, you know.”
The laughter that spills out of me is part derision, part giddy hormones, and I don’t know if I want to lean across the table and punch him, or jump his bones. “Twenty per cent gross.”
“Twenty per cent net.” Our faces are dangerously close. If I leaned over a little farther, I could slip out my tongue for a taste of his lips.
I raise an eyebrow. “Throw in the bonus, and you’ve got a deal.”
Or Pianoman’s just a strenuous song to listen to for more than twice in a row.
And Barton seriously needs to fix his damn bar’s AC. It’s fucking sweltering in here.
“Deal” he says. It’s almost a whisper. And I can almost catch that whisper and slip it under my tongue.
“And you have to fix your playlist.”
He chuckles as he pulls back, and just like that, the spell is broken. And I want to leap across the booth and pin him to his seat with my crotch. Or knee him in the face. I still can’t decide.
“I’ll take that last one under consideration.”
He winks at me as he rises, and there’s something left behind on the table.
Come here tomorrow morning, 10am, the paper napkin reads, I’m taking you to meet Cruz.
His hands are warm and heavy against my skin as he pats me on the shoulder.
Too chaste for my taste.
I almost don’t hear what he says as he walks away.
“Welcome to the team.”
It leaves my insides cold for half a moment as the word manages to sink past the combined insulation of alcohol and traumatic eardrum-related injury.
I’m not alone anymore.
I wake up with a familiar tequila headache needling me between the eyes, and my frustrated snatch sends hot spikes through my torso and down my legs. Still fuzzy with sleep, I let my fingers probe the folds between my thighs.
I flick my clit a couple of times, and feeling my moisture smooth the friction of skin on skin to a pleasant glide, I shift a little and slide an index finger up my pulsing depths. With my other hand, I draw tiny circles over and around my clit. A tiny moan escapes my lips as pleasure ripples down my thighs. I shift a little and use two fingers to stroke the roof of my inner walls. I try to keep my rhythm steady and slow, but my breaths are coming out ragged as I grow more and more wet. Soon, I can’t help myself. I pick up speed, and I think about hot hands kneading my ass and my tits. I imagine a burning mouth leaving red bite marks along my collarbone and throat. And I don’t care whose they are. They are simple points of contact; focuses for my internal navigation towards my climax.
And I cling to them and to the building pressure radiating from my cunt. And then I come. And it ripples outward from the center of me.
And I am awake.
Paul’s address is in an unassuming neighborhood in the nicer part of another city, two hours’ drive away. I’ve travelled enough to recognize that there; I’ll have to dress up a bit to blend in.
I piss and moan to myself about having to make the long-ass drive, but I pack my shit and prepare to haul out anyway.
I have a job to do now, and it’s better than sitting around in my flat, pickling myself in scotch. It’s what I usually do when I’m between gigs.
Besides, it’s for Barton and Cruz. I don’t care what kind of bullshit beasts Barton has clawing around in his closet; just because he won’t let me fuck him doesn’t change the fact that he’s still the closest thing I have to a friend.
Just like Old Victor had been the closest thing I had to dad. Until I stabbed him in the left ventricle
It really didn’t feel so good, and I’m not exactly creaming my panties to do it again. So yeah, maybe part of my motivation here is guilt. The three of us hadn’t even discussed my payment plan.
My ass is numb by the time I park my nondescript little car by the curb across from Paul’s building.
It’s one of those places inhabited mostly by young wage-slaves who have no kids and who carry around those loyalty cards for coffee shops where you have to spend like eight dollars on a latte. I’ve ditched the armor of my boots and my leather jacket, and slipped on something that lets me blend in a little better: skinny jeans, ballet flats, and a pale gray blazer. I feel like some hipster asshole with an iPad and an “ironic” camera that still uses rolls of cellulose film. It’s two in the afternoon, and nobody gives me a second look. Still, I shift a little so that I can feel the press of my Glock in its concealed carry holster in the waistband of my jeans.
Paul’s door is triple-locked. It takes me fifteen whole minutes and all of my admittedly shitty lock-picking skills to get it open.
It’s actually a lot easier to sneak into a house in the middle of the day. That way, you can be sure that most people are at the office, but no one would think twice about someone walking around. It’s just a matter of looking like you have a destination and something important to do on the other end.
Unsurprisingly, his place is immaculate. In our line of business, there can be a lot of rough-and-tumble involved, but at the end of the day, survival is often a matter of keeping the mind organized so that agendas don’t get crossed. It has a tendency to bleed into other aspects of life, and the former Paul Abraxas’s domestic tidiness is an obvious sign of his professional expertise.
Although his being very dead is an equally obvious sign that he might’ve missed a spot there.
But I still don’t have a clue about what he could have possibly done to put himself in the ballistic trajectory of Young Victor’s ascent. A shotgun’s a helluva a way to go. It’s been over seventy-two hours since I found Paul’s corpse. I’m pretty sure Young Victor’s clean-up crew will have long since tidied up the scene in the hydro plant site. It’s not like I could’ve asked him anyway.
I don’t mind collateral damage, but I’m not too crazy about leaving an obvious trail, so I root through his cabinets and his drawers with the kind of obsessive-compulsive care that taxes the ragged edges of my patience. His apartment’s neatness indicates that nobody had been going through his stuff post-mortem, and I wouldn’t want to raise any flags in case some Dicky-Come-Lately investigator drops in.
It isn’t until I trip over a loose floorboard that I finally find my first prize.
It’s a small briefcase full of papers and a police badge, and I really don’t go in for reading very much, but I’m pretty sure I saw the words “dishonorable discharge” more than once.
They’re also all under a different name.
“Phillip Anders” makes another appearance, and here he is in a water-stained photograph in some seven-syllable elsewhere-state, wearing a uniform and shaking some important-looking geezer’s hand. And Phillip looks like someone Paul could no longer ever be. Same build, same hair color, same utterly fuckable face. But there’s something different in his eyes. It’s a genuine smile. It’s not the catacomb look I sometimes see in my own reflection; the one that won’t let anything out or in.
In the apartment, there are no other signs of young Phillip or his career as a cop. A shelf full of Grisham novels and a painting of a naked woman that only barely qualifies as art are the sole concessions to personal touch that Abraxas has on display. And it’s pretty clear that Paul worked hard to keep Phillip under wraps.
If it hadn’t been for the case under the floorboard, I wouldn’t have known about his old career at all.
The autopilot part of my brain gives Paul’s former identity the color of Young Victor’s gun. It doesn’t matter how Young Victor found out. Ex- or not, the local underground industries don’t take kindly to enforcers of the law who take such pains to conceal their occupations. Just because infiltration and double-crossing is part of business-as-usual doesn’t necessarily mean that potential betrayal is tolerated. That would just be bad fiscal discipline.
I replace the briefcase and move on. The light on his answering machine flashes red in the stillness of his living room. I hit “play.”
There are two messages asking Mr. Abraxas about his insurance plan, and one regarding whether he would like to invest in stock. I work through about a week’s worth of more useless phone-spam until I hit another jackpot.
“Hey P,” the man on the other end says.
His voice is gruff, and there’s a furtive note in it; like he’s pushing past a lump of guilt.
“Listen, I really appreciate you helping me out on the Cruz case. I know you don’t want to have anything to do with me after that thing that happened while we were on the force, but nailing this guy is going to make my career. As far as I’m concerned, once I have this guy’s behind bars, we’re square. Um,” there’s a rustle of cloth and static, as if he’s casting about for something else to say, “don’t worry, I’ll make sure to keep you off the radar here. Nobody’ll trace it back to you. So uh, keep me posted, yeah? You know how to reach me.”
I listen to it four more times before I hit “delete;” every word and background crackle committed to memory. And I glare at it in silence.
Paul’s apartment is dusty-quiet, and out of habit, I poke through the fridge.
Because the fridge is where all the good stuff is, and people generally don’t give that much of a fuck if a Pop Tart or two is missing.
Its contents aren’t exactly ample, but since I’m comparing them to the bottle of ketchup and the week-old lemon I have in my own fridge, I really can’t judge. There’s an open bag of store-bought cookies in the crisper, and I make short work of them while I chew through the information I’ve picked up.
They’re a little stale, but food’s food. And I’m stealing it from a dead guy, so I can’t be one to complain.
So. Paul used to be a cop, and he was helping a former colleague try to take down Tiresias Cruz. It makes me want to reconstruct his face, so I can blow it off myself.
If wasn’t for the fact that he’d been such a beefcake, I’d have regretted our little hotel room fuck.
And I hear the doors to the apartment click and unlock.
I freeze for half a second, and my hand instinctively travels to my 9mm.
In my other hand, I have a cookie, suspended halfway between its now-crumpled bag and my waiting mouth. I undo the gun’s safety, and my mind races through cover stories like it’s speed-reading a book.
I’m the cleaning lady, and Paul’s apartment is due for a vacuuming.
I’m Paul’s sister, and I hadn’t heard from him in a couple of days, so I thought I’d drop by to check in on him.
I’m an ex-live-in girlfriend, and I’m here waiting for Paul so I can tell him I’m pregnant.
In the space between the sound of the lock’s tumblers turning, and the expression of shock on the guy’s face, I decide on something closer to the truth: Paul and I fucked, and I left something of mine with him. He wasn’t returning my calls, so I broke into his apartment to get it back.
He doesn’t have to know that the “thing” I want is an explanation. He doesn’t have to know that I know Paul is dead.
“Hello?” I say, putting on my best Clueless Yuppie Voice.
The guy stands stock-still in the doorway, his black hair brushing against his brow. “Uh, hi.”
There’s a wariness about him; a smoothness in the way he stands that tells me he knows how to take care of himself. His voice sounds familiar.
“You’re looking for Paul?”
I introduce myself as Jeannie, and I give him my cover story and invite him to take a cookie.
He says his name is Hector. He claims he’s Paul’s best friend. He came into Paul’s apartment without having to break in; the house-keys jangle in his pocket when he walks. And he stalks across the floor like he’s Paul, but he’s the wrong color and the wrong shape. He’s thinner than Paul; long-limbed and dark like a shadow at sundown, while Paul had been noon; all gold and muscle and smooth. The only thing they shared was a certain physical symmetry.
And it’s distinctly pleasant to the eye, so I’m not complaining.
It takes me a few minutes of idle flirting to realize where I’d heard him before.
He was the voice in the answering machine.
Hector smells like cloves, and he has this wide, soft, nimble mouth, and when he eats my pussy, he makes me want to scream.
And he loves eating my pussy.
He tells me that when he kisses my mouth, and I taste my own juices on the pink of his tongue.
“Your pussy’s a sweetheart,” he says.
His left hand palms my tit, the callus on his index finger sending crackles down my nipple and into my cunt.
“It’s just the most beautiful, delicious thing.”
I don’t know what he means, but I press my breast harder against his palm and trace a fingernail up the vein on his cock.
It makes me uncomfortable when he talks like that. Like I’m some sort of delicate confection, made of whipped cream and spun sugar and silk. I feel like he’s lying. And I have to fight back the instinct to pull away and call him on his bullshit.
Because when Hector fucks me, it’s like he’s trying to outrun a sunrise with his cock. And it’s hard and it’s rough, and I push back against him so that the pressure inside me barely skirts the border between pleasure and pain.
And it’s so very good.
He gets me wet and ready with his agile, agile mouth. His tongue swirls an esoteric alphabet on my clit, and it feeds a rising flame that feels like it’s consuming me down to the tips of my toes. And I want to explode. But his lips and his tongue are always gentle. Always just barely touching. Always just barely leading me into the blaze.
And I don’t quite come.
Then he yanks up from between my legs and flips me over so that I’m on my knees.
And his dick is an extraordinary thing. One of the biggest I’ve ever had. And he wrenches into me like my soaking wet snatch is a place where he can escape from pain forever.
He’s so big that he has to fight to get all the way inside. And I groan and shudder as an orgasm finally lashes out and robs me of words.
And through that, he drives into me, again and again, so that I’m calling out to Jesus and Buddha and Allah and bracing myself against Paul’s wall.
I can feel the pressure inside of him mounting. As he grows closer, he growls out another woman’s name.
And I squeeze.
And he comes inside of me like an earthquake, sending me back over my own edge.
I don’t realize it until after I’ve wiped myself down.
I had been screaming out Barton’s name.
It’s been two days, and now I shrug on my Jeannie persona like she’s a fancy shirt. But it’s not easy to wear her when my hormones take the wheel. There’s nothing mild or clueless about the part of me that comes out during sex. But, I make the best with what I have, and maybe Hector’ll just think I’m a “complex” individual.
I make impressed-sounding noises when he tells me that he works for the FBI. He makes it a sex-thing, and we play at me getting arrested.
It hits a little too close to home, but when he’s slamming me against a wall with my arm twisted behind my back and his cock rubbing against my ass cheek, I’m wet like it’s monsoon season in Mumbai. And I writhe against his grip, making tiny mewling noises and thrusting my breasts into the paint.
Hector and I kiss each other out of spite. I know this, and I embrace it for what it is: another way to fuck.
I can taste the vitriol in his teeth. In the way his hands are tangling savagely in my hair. He’s fighting me every step of the way, and somehow, that just gets me even more sopping wet.
Because I can also taste the slickness of my cunt. Taste the way his lips tenderly nipped at the edges of my outer folds. The way the hot tip of his tongue softly traced the concentric lines of my flesh.
I check into a cut-rate hotel in the less-than-pretty side of town, and start dating Hector like I’m addicted to the way he jumps my bones. And maybe I kinda am, because it’s the kind of bad that just feels all sorts of good.
And even though I’ve technically done my job by finding out who had hired Paul, I want to figure out how much Hector knows. How much the FBI has.
Later that night, I stare up at the square of neon blue light flaring on the wall across from the bed in my hotel room. The open blinds on the window turn it into a series of bars; blue and black and blue and black. I count them while waiting for Barton to pick up, because I’m pretty certain Cruz has changed his number by now.
When I tell him what I know, he swears a blue streak in three languages and starts winding up for a tirade in what sounds like French.
I don’t speak fucking French. I have to stop him mid-merde to let him know that I’m planning to stick around and pump Hector for more information. In more ways than one.
“Heh,” he huffs. His breath sends crackles of static across the line, “you’d do that for little ol’ us?”
I snort into my cell phone’s receiver and roll my eyes. “Don’t pull a muscle; I’m scratching an itch, too. I like killing two birds with one stone.”
“I’ll give you a receipt.”
I pull the phone away to end the call, but the thin sizzle of his voice pulls me back. “Mal,” he says, “things here are starting to heat up. One of Young Victor’s lieutenants was found in a dumpster, and Lulu’s got torched last night.”
Lulu’s. The last time I saw Old Victor was at Lulu’s.
It had been Elvis Night. He died.
I grunt in acknowledgement and clench my fist.
“Be careful.” His voice sounds smaller, and far away.
It isn’t an admonition. It’s a plea. I feel my fist clench reflexively.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll give you another call when I know more.”
Hector’s taken over Paul’s apartment like a layer of dust, and he isn’t nearly as discreet as I’d been when I had given it my own once-over. It’s where we meet to fuck.
Maybe he’s still mad at the guy. Or whatever. Their issues aren’t my concern.
He doesn’t know where Paul is, and he tells me that Paul hasn’t returned any of his calls. Except he once made the mistake of referring to Paul as Phillip. And I don’t tell him that his buddy P would have a bit of trouble answering his phone from beyond the grave.
Young Victor’s people probably have the former Paul Abraxas sealed up in one of the hydropower plant’s cement foundations. The autopilot portion of my brain cobbles together what I’ve picked up in the background, and it tells me that if he’s inherited Old Victor’s assets, it would probably be a safe bet that Young Victor now has considerable control over interest in that stillborn ground-scar of urban utility infrastructure. There seemed to be a bit more activity in the area when I passed by the plant site on my way out of town.
It fits in with what my mental autopilot’s already put together.
Old Victor had been getting complacent in his old age. I guess now his successor’s trying to prove to the world that he’s much more proactive. If Barton’s little tip about the climate back at home is any indication, I’m guessing that Young Victor has been going a bit too far.
I’m looking forward to an old-school throwdown, but I know that the arena for this war is probably going to be a bit different. Besides, I work for Barton and Cruz now, and they’re probably going to stay neutral for as long as they can. Me, I’m already tingling in anticipation of a decent fight.
I’m still trying to decide if this is bad or good.
I could end up like Paul.
Chances are, no one will ever find out what happened to Paul Abraxas.
And unlike Phillip Anders, no one will ever find him in a briefcase underneath the floor. No one will ever know what he had become.
I hate cops.
It’s not just about the nature of my profession; the fact that I’m part of the “underground economy” means that I have to hate them on principle. But even without that bit of additional incentive, they’ve always just pissed me off.
Them and their impotence.
The way they hover uselessly around a scene, taking their futile evidence samples and asking their pointless questions. They’re constrained by their own legitimacy; always dancing around the terms like “probable cause” and “Miranda rights” and “due process” to keep themselves in line when everyone else involved couldn’t give less of a flying rainbow fuck, and don’t have to work around those limitations. The very nature of a cop is suffused with the unholy terror of the violation of people’s rights.
But it’s not like rights are real. You can’t eat a right. You can’t kick it in the nuts. And that ridiculous reverence for paper keeps these government bozos from actually getting their job done. It works for me when I’m the perp, but when there’s actual justice to be served, they’re just a tragedy in blue.
Like at Halcyon Hills when all the smoke had cleared.
But I fight down the acid and the bile, and I push away the disdain.
And once I get past all of that, Hector is easy.
Hector makes it easy.
Him with his coal-black hair and his copper skin and his delicious, delicious mouth.
Even when he isn’t preoccupied with my pussy, that mouth of his does not disappoint. His lips nip at mine, and his tongue strokes against my own, drawing lines along the top so that I can taste his spearmint toothpaste and the apple he’d had for lunch. It makes wet hieroglyphs on my collar and along my ribs, while his fingers relearn the swell of my pussy and the shape of my clit.
After the sex, there’s always a sense of shame. Like I shouldn’t be feeling so utterly sated; not with this guy. Not with a Fed.
I can tell that his experience isn’t much different from mine. Because there he is, leaning against Paul’s headboard like all of his bones have turned into warm butter. And maybe there’s something of a smile paying around the edges of his mouth. But his eyes are hooded, and he doesn’t quite frown as he stares up at the leftmost corner of the wall. It’s like he’s fighting his own satisfaction.
I don’t ask him why.
I don’t go in for cuddling. It makes me want to punch things. But maybe Jeannie cuddles. And since I’m pretending to Jeannie, I give it a try. Because despite everything, there’s still that pleasant warmth softening the edges inside my skin. I let myself ask questions and pretend that I’m just as pliant as Hector. And even though he’s wrestling with his own personal bugbears, he takes me into the crook of his arm, and his voice is a slow rumble rising from the base of his chest.
And he tells me about his cases. About why he’s looking for Paul. And I listen and act clueless and sound so thoroughly impressed.
They’re investigating the Diamonbacks massacre. Hector mentions it while running the callus of his thumb over my hardening nipple.
I make a pleased sound and roll my hips so that I rub against his leg. We’ve just had about two hours’ worth of epically violent fucking, and there are bruises on my knees and shoulders, and red scratch marks down his back and ass. I’m satisfied right now, but I wouldn’t necessarily say no to more.
He likes to talk after we fuck. It’s taken me five tries to steer the conversation in this direction without him noticing. I’m not complaining, but it’s a relief to finally get somewhere.
Apparently, street gang-related crimes are Federal territory, and Hector and his unnamed partner are running point. Hector tells me that he and his partner aren’t friends, and Hector wants the upper hand.
Heh. I guess you just can’t get away from politics.
So far, they know Diamondbacks had been a specialist job. Professional pride leaves a warm swell in my chest. I like to get rough, but I do my job well, goddammit. They got a few hits in, but I finished all of them off, and I cleaned up afterwards, too. Of course it looks professional.
The Feds have linked it to the local organized crime scene. But they’re a little off the mark.
They think Cruz is the one running the show.
It’s almost a physical effort to stop from laughing out loud. Sweet Jesusfuck, they don’t have a clue.
Cruz might be a spider, but they’re blaming him for the wrong web.
Then again, with the little they know, the explanation makes sense. Paul probably told Hector about how freelancers went to Cruz for jobs, back at home. And by dint of the nature of his and Barton’s enterprise, they have their fingers in practically every pie. Tiresias Cruz’s discretion goes both ways; he doesn’t reveal his clients, and he doesn’t reveal us. Not unless an agreement had been hammered out beforehand. But his name still somehow ends up floating to the surface of almost every contract he’s brokered.
I guess it’s an occupational hazard.
Or maybe it’s because he has a catchy name.
I scrape my teeth against the side of his jaw and slide off him. I stretch the muscles of my shoulder and my back so that I unfurl like a cat.
He watches me from behind the thick black fringe of his lashes and grins.
“I hope you catch this bastard, Hector,” I hear myself say.
“Catch him for me.”