0 comments/ 21557 views/ 2 favorites The Ira Saga Ch. 1 By: Insanity My name is Ira Petrova, and there are two reasons why everybody wants me. First of all, I sell it all. If you've got an addiction, then for a price, I can help you in your race to hit rock bottom. Over the years, I've worked my way up from being a girl with a backpack full of felonies, barely making a profit, to being the queen of my own little empire. Whether it comes in the form of a powder, a leaf, or a syringe, I've got it stashed. The market for weed in Minneapolis is massive, and most of my profits come from selling kind bud to college kids. Ecstasy is a fine side-business on the weekends, and every now and then I cater to your local morphine junkie. The demand for the harder stuff, like special k or coke, isn't all that large, but believe me when I say that I've got a fair-share of dedicated, hopeless addicts in my Rolodex. People who are outside of our little sub-culture tend to demonize individuals like me. I ruin lives, after all. I trade ethics for profits. I thrive off of misery and addictive illness. I start people on a downward spiral, and I keep milking them all the way down. When people wind up in an emergency room, I'm the reason they overdosed. When people wind up in treatment, I'm the reason they're chronically depressed. When people wind up in prison, I'm the reason that they had to turn to crime. People who are outside of our little sub-culture are absolutely right. I'm a real bitch, to be sure. I'm also fucking rich. So what if I prosper by ruining lives? That's the beauty of capitalism, isn't it? In my mind, selling drugs is the American Dream, and every little plastic baggie is the personification of the entrepreneurial spirit. Like I said before, though, there are two reasons why everybody wants me. My little substance buffet is one reason. My body is the second. I'm 29 years old, and while I may not have the body of a college freshman on spring break, I also don't have an eating disorder. I consider that a plus. I'm fairly tall for a woman, and if I had to categorize my body, I'd call it athletic. I'm thin, but not lanky. I've got some muscle tone to me, but not so much as to overpower my more feminine curves. My pale skin is so smooth, so unblemished, that it's almost hypnotic. My hair is naturally black, and since I've never had it cut, it hangs down to the small of my back. My legs are long and inviting, and where they meet, every man dreams to be. I'm shaved and I'm tight, and believe me, I'm no amateur. My breasts are firm, enticing, and above all, real. They're certainly above average in size, but not so large as to make me top-heavy when I walk. Barbie dolls may be perfect, but they don't exist. I, however, do. As for my face, my features are sharp. I mean business, and I don't often smile. When I do smirk, I'm either appreciating some irony or another, or I'm simply plotting delicious revenge. My eyes, though more vividly green than emeralds, are like one-way mirrors. You'll learn nothing about me from staring into them, but believe me when I say that I'll understand you after a single glance. I'm the sort of intellectual that's got a bitter chip on their shoulder, and I don't think much of most people that I meet. I'm easy to annoy, and even easier to anger, but I don't let my emotions show. If you've crossed a line, you won't know it for a week, and when you do find out, the lesson won't be an enjoyable one to learn. Most of my employees are simple runners and distributors, but like any shrewd mistress of the black market, I have more than one strong-arm on the payroll. Like I said before, I'm a bitch, and if you're hoping to appeal to my sense of compassion, you might as well go home. You see, I respond to cash and to cash alone. I don't deal in favors, like some of my less-focused competitors do. I've had several men assume that they can crawl their way out of debt with a well placed cock-thrust or two, and every man that's tried is still in debt. In addition, every man that's tried only has seven or eight fingers left. So much for the masculine ego. Don't get me wrong, though. I love sex. In fact, I indulge my carnal desires just as often as my customers indulge in my products. There's nothing that I like more than arching my back and screaming my passion, my flesh soaked in sweat, my legs quivering and numb beyond feeling. The difference is that I don't consider my body to be a commodity for sale. For me, the world of business and the world of pleasure are two very different places. Sure, I used to prowl the streets at night in heels that echoed for blocks, exchanging a fierce screw for a couple hundred bucks, but that part of my life is behind me. I'm higher on the criminal food chain now, and I like my current position just fine. What are my tastes, then? That's what makes me unique. I don't crave men who own fast cars and have clean fingernails. I like dirt. I like grime. I don't know why, but for me, failure is a serious turn-on. If you're down on your luck, with no reason to live except for the bottle of cheap wine in your hands, then I will hunt you down and make you mine. It's not charity, though. The moment that the words "hope" or "love" are so much as hinted at, I'll be gone, never to return. I don't like nursing people back into the light. Otherwise, I wouldn't sell drugs for a living. It's just a pure and simple fetish of mine. The greater the looser, the more they make my juices flow. I'm addicted to imperfection, I lust after hopelessness, and the only reason I'd set my sights on a stable fellow is if I felt like corrupting a hotshot that night. That's why, despite my wealth, I live in the worst part of town, in an apartment that, while large, screams of poverty. Sure, my place is furnished with all the luxuries that you'd expect a woman of my means to possess, but you can't help but notice the stains on the ceiling where the rain has soaked through, or hear the creak of the floorboards as you walk across them. There, on the top floor of a run-down complex in a neighborhood where you hear police sirens more often then laughter, I make my home. Why? Because there, surrounded by the lowest members of society, I can literally bathe in my addiction. Many a man in this neighborhood (and a good number of women too) has received an out-of-the-blue conjugal visit from me. I'm like a lioness in a cage full of trapped sheep, and you better believe that I feast often and that I feast well. This little ghetto garden of sin is my second empire, and here too I am queen. Because of my sexual habits, some of the locals have even started referring to me as the 'Twisted Angel'. It's a cute name, sure, but it's flawed. Don't ever make the mistake of assuming that I do what I do because my heart breaks for the plight of the suffering, or some stupid-as-shit motive like that. I already told you that it's pointless to expect compassion out of a woman like me. After all, many of these people are impoverished primarily because they spend most of their cash supporting a drug habit that I feed. I do what I do, indulge how I indulge, merely because that's what gets me off. I don't understand my sexual tastes, but I also don't ask questions either. After all, how often do you stop and wonder why your dick always twitches when you see a redhead as opposed to a blonde, or why your mind always dresses women in tight leather when you're jerking off? You never do. It's just a simple preference. Oh sure, I have my theories about my behavior, but that part of the story is still a long ways off. While the location of my apartment leaves me in an almost-constant state of nerve-tingling sexual arousal, it's not exactly the best place to do business. To be an effective drug merchant, you've got to convince your buyers that what you sell can make them happy. Even though my stash is top-quality, it's hard to make a customer feel uplifted if they have to hike through a sea of human misery in order to reach me. So, I spend my days in my second apartment, a place uptown that's surrounded by cultured theaters and over-expensive restaurants. My second apartment is much more what you'd expect a woman like myself to inhabit. It's a penthouse filled with lavish sofas and fine rugs, with rare paintings and tribal sculptures on pedestals. I even have a mini-pool in the living room that's got a floating, fully stocked bar at its center, and a large-screen TV at one edge. As a finishing touch, I employ a trio of high-class hookers right there in the apartment, and while I certainly skim a decent amount of profit off of them as they work their magic in the back rooms, I do it mostly just to add to the atmosphere. Yes indeed, this place is straight out of a movie, and for good reason. It's exactly the right illusion to make some preppie with money feel right at home. I have to admit, it's a beautiful apartment, and at times, I find it exciting. More than one of my fantasies has been fulfilled here, after all. Most of the time, though, I think of it as nothing but an office building. Sometimes, the place even gets downright annoying. You can't spend all of your daylight hours in a monument to bullshit and not get cynical. When the hours grow long and the customers grow sparse, my classy apartment can get on my nerves simply because I start to long for my true home, my shitty apartment on Lake Street. Nothing makes me happier than coming back to that place every night, and spending half of my life away from it can frustrate me almost as much as does the ever-so-common mispronunciation of my first name. My name, like my blood, is Russian, and I cringe every time someone pronounces it "eye-rah". The 'I' in Ira is a hard e, and it's pronounced "eee-rah". Get it right or my favorite strong-arm, Wallace, will pay you a visit. Wallace is Ojibwe, but that's not why I hired him. He's on my payroll because he's one hell of a big guy. I'm tall, but Wallace is a damned giant, and he's got arms that are thicker than my waist. The only time that Wallace isn't nearby is when I go out on my little nightly excursions. He refuses to be around when I go out on the prowl. Believe it or not, but the guy's actually a devoted family man. Why is he working for me, then? Sure, he may not whole-heartedly approve of my business or of my lifestyle, but his two little girls eat well because of me. In fairytales, people value their principles above all else. Reality though, by definition, is no fairytale. In real life, most people, like Wallace, will do whatever it takes to get whatever they need. I do it for the money and for the thrills. Wallace does it so that his girls can grow up as far away from the demeaning and impoverished reservations as they can. I don't care about his values, though. All I care about is that he's a loyal bodyguard, and he'll do what I ask without hesitation. And with his tan skin and dark brown eyes, he isn't exactly painful to look at. In the end, I don't judge him, and he certainly doesn't judge me. We're both stoics, after all. The only person in my little empire that's as close to me as Wallace is would be Danielle. Dani is my personal assistant, and if you think that you can last five minutes in the drug world without a girl like her, you're mistaken. Dani is a mathematical genius, and not only does she organize my books and keep track of my business, but she's also a maid of sorts. In other words, she launders my money for me. She buys and sells auction pieces with it. She invests it in the stock market, and she donates it to tax-free charities. The money rolls in dirtier than a cheap whore's snatch, but by the time Dani's done with it, the best detective in the country couldn't smell its taint. You might be wondering, just like with Wallace, why a girl like Dani would be working for a corrupt bitch like myself, especially when Dani would rather die than experiment a little. Truth be told, she's just practical. With her talents, she earns a big fat check from me every two weeks, more than what she'd be earning as an accountant or a banker. Dani, like Wallace, is almost always nearby, but unlike Wallace, she doesn't really belong. Dani is young, only 22, and the girl's appearance and personality just scream innocence. With her big blue eyes, petite frame, and curly blond hair, Dani certainly is attractive, but she's so damned shy that, to the best of my knowledge, she's still a virgin. She's usually pretty quiet, and when she does speak, her eyes are on the floor, her voice wavering in an awkward sort of way. She always seems to be both mortally embarrassed and insanely curious at the same time. Perhaps that's because she really is. I never give her a hard time, though, and I'm fiercely protective of her when someone does. Sure, the girl's a crucial asset to me, but I also admire her in a way. If I had had a different past, I might have turned out much like her. Affinity breeds friendship, no matter how awkward the relationship. Yes indeed, I rely upon Dani, even if she is just about the last person that you'd expect to be neck-deep in crime. Why am I taking so long to describe myself, and the world that I live in? Why am I going into so much detail before the story has even begun? Because, my friends, this is no ordinary story. My life is not some quickie video that you can jerk-off to for a dozen minutes then hide under your bed out of fear of your parents finding it. No, my life is more complex than that, and my story is far longer than your average masturbator can last. I'm a woman with a past and a future, and within these pages, I'll describe both. Take what you will from my story, but above all, don't get impatient. If you want a quick thrill, read a story about a buff TV-repairman that finds himself called to a house filled with a score of naked teenage bisexuals fresh out of the shower. My story is a provocative one, I promise, but its also one filled with emotion, suspense, and the facts of everyday life. I won't waste any more of your time, though. Let's get right down to it. * * * * * It was a typical summer afternoon in the life of your favorite little czarina. It was hot as hell outside, and even with the air conditioning system running full steam, just looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my showpiece penthouse was enough to make you simmer. Wallace was being his usual stoic statue self; even though the sweat was streaming down his body, his face seemed calm and indifferent. Danielle was sitting at her desk fanning herself with one of her notebooks, and as for myself, I was reclining in the mini-pool in the center of the room, reading a collection of Browning's poetry. The water was at mid-chest level as I sat on a chair that I kept bolted to one wall of the pool. I was wearing nothing but my book as my eyes soaked in "Porphyria's Lover," and if anyone else in the room was uncomfortable with my nudity, they hid it well. Granted, I didn't prance around naked every day, but those that I worked with had gotten used to my sexual eccentricity long ago. Only those that don't know me are surprised by me, even though my associates understand me no better than you do. There were only a few sounds that pierced the stillness of the air. There was the gentle, rhythmic swish-swish of Dani's notebook as she slumped over her desk, her chin propped up by her free hand. A radio that sat on the floating bar was playing some old jazz tune, but with the volume turned down, all you could hear were faint echoes of a throaty voice. There was also a steady thumping noise that was coming from one of my modern harem back rooms, and the monotonous sound only varied when a lingering moan drifted through the walls into the living room. Considering that those back rooms are supposed to be soundproofed, there must have been some serious skin-smacking going on. Yes, it was your typical day. * * * * * There are several ways in which my illicit goods can wind up in your hands. The majority of my business is done through prowling. My street dealers roam around their usual haunts, making small trades in broad daylight, or stepping into an alley for the more paranoid variety of customer. I also employ a few runners that make deliveries to my habitual consumers, but in general, appointments can be risky. That's why I do business in this apartment: to tempt the truly wealthy and corrupted elite. If you think you can get rich just selling reefer to teenagers, you're one crazy shit. Your average John Doe addict doesn't know my name or my address, but if you're a bored executive or the suave son of an oil giant, then you get the privilege of watching my slender fingers drop a plump little bag into your eager grasp. Even middle-class grunts can find themselves in my penthouse, but those customers are quickly overwhelmed by the charm of my posh paradise. They usually bleed their life savings dry on my drugs and on my hookers, then wake up one morning wondering what has happened to their lives. The guy pounding one of my girls in the back was one such specimen. His foray into my illicit world has probably got him feeling like he's on the top of the world, but inside of half a year he'll probably be squatting in the dumps of Lake Street, receiving anonymous midnight pleasure from the Twisted Angel in-between his bouts of drunken despair. Like I said earlier, I'm a bitch, and true bitches have no time for scruples. It was five o'clock already, and today had been a pretty slow day in the office. A group of lawyers had stopped in this morning to stock up on candy for some bourgeois party they were planning, but that was pretty much it. Though the street was alive with deals all day long, inspiring a steady stream of dealers marching back to re-supply and to report their earnings, only a handful of customers had visited the penthouse aside from those lawyers. If I recall, the balding, middle-aged man at the peak of his illusionary power, who by the sound of it was also reaching the peak of his sweaty screw, had been the only customer to stop by in a couple hours. The boredom, coupled with the heat that was somehow felt indoors, was making me restless. I had Wallace bring me a joint, and I put the book down on the tiles next to the pool. Weed was my personal drug of choice, though I wasn't the daily pothead that most of my customers were. A good bake can pass the time beautifully, and that's exactly what I needed right now: for time to pass quickly. I was feeling hungry for the kind of gritty sex that I adore so much, and I couldn't wait to head over to the run-down neighborhood where I made my real home. I lit the thin joint, then placed the lighter on top of the Browning volume. I was floating on my back in the pool, leaving a haze of soft white smoke in my wake. After a few minutes, I started to feel the hallmark weightlessness in my forehead, and coupled with the sensation of floating, I was feeling giddy and good. The thumping had stopped about five minutes ago, but I hadn't noticed the transition. I flicked the roach out of the pool and continued to float calmly on my back, my eyes closed, undisturbed until I heard a sharp gasp nearby. His clothes disheveled and his face flushed and ruddy, the middle-aged customer was standing near the edge of the pool, gaping at me openly. I suppose I was a bit of a spectacle, with my breasts breaking the water and my limbs spread lazily in all directions. More than a little stoned, I blew him a kiss of torment. His face contorted immediately and his crotch twitched. This man was probably still physically sensitive and over-aroused, and I couldn't pass up a little opportunity to torture. After all, desire was good for business. The drug trade is inherently sensual in its own way. I swam up to the edge where he stood and pulled myself out of the water slowly. My hair cascaded all around me, dark tendrils that stretched across my breasts like a breeze over springtime hills. A loose little smirk on my face, I walked right up to him, water dripping from every inch of my smooth skin as I placed my palm against the center of his chest. With a whisper, I asked him if he'd enjoyed his visit. He nodded dumbly as if in a spell, and I could literally smell his barely restrained craving. It's as if my small palm was the only thing keeping him standing – his knees were made out of melting butter. I cracked a bit of a grin, showing off my white teeth, as I purred the word "good," then pouting, leaning into him, drenching him, I asked him if he was going to come back into my realm some day.