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Contol

By: 8828



I.

Ryan asked her because he thought the chances of fucking would be close to certain and she knew it. It was a certainty he had begun to brag about it before anything had happened. He was nineteen, held behind a year and still the envy of most guys because of his looks and general confidence. Kelly was envied by no one. She was not ugly but not pretty, not the smartest either or particularly good at anything. In all her ordinariness she had decided that her only chance at any attention from males, or females for that matter, would be to dress a little differently than most girls. It had long been assumed she was a whore by everyone in school but she was technically a virgin having only given the occasional blowjob. She knew people thought this and even if she could she didn't want it to change. People talked about her behind her back and even though it was only malicious gossip it was still satisfying to be known..

Around school she walked as if on a tight rope, one foot behind the other so her ass swayed. She was short and thick. Though she had tight legs, a full round ass, a flat belly, and tits that perfectly balanced her lower half, her face was plain. She had long straight dark hair with blunt bangs. She moved with a confidence previously unseen in high school. She didn't belong there and she knew it.

This was what Ryan saw and thinking first and only with his dick had asked her to the dance. Kelly not being popular answered yes as it was the only thing she could say. After all what would people say if she had turned him down? Kelly and Ryan barely talked before but now when he saw her in the hall he would say hi and try to chat about something banal - third period English with Kieslowski or something less interesting. Kelly always thought Ryan was hot, tall, not overly muscled but in shape. In her mind, it was not a possibility that she could have dated him, but now it was happening and she would have to impress.

Kelly had come to school in her usual attire: a bit lazy but still slutty in a pair of tiny gray gym shorts rolled down at the top with the words "PINK" splayed across the ass. A pink tank, skin tight, puckered around her tits and a baby blue zip up hoodie added the slightest bit of modesty. Her skin was dark, orange from a habitual use of sunless tanner; she was never seen with out a plentiful amount of makeup. With the dance in a week and having managed to put some money together she focused on finding a dress. When lunch started it seemed a good time to leave for the mall.

She made her way through the hall and out the front door like it was 3:30. No one stopped her because she walked like she knew where she was going and they had accepted some time ago that Kelly would do what she wanted.

The mall was populated with the elderly, housewives and a handful of mallrat dropouts. She loved shopping especially when she had something to do it for. Kelly was not the kind of girl that had sales people queuing up to help. She was not wealthy but had a waitress job that gave her plenty of spending money. The first department store yielded little. Everything was for prom, expected and on the matronly side for Kelly. Though she usually stuck to the mid-range stores, this occasion being what it was, decided to go to the one with all the designer stuff.

It was there, framed by the swinging glass doors before she even walked in. Modeled by a less well-endowed mannequin, she was to it in seconds. A silk bubble baby doll in ivory with an obscenely short a plunging neckline, it had everything. Six hundred ninety five dollars was far more than she had allocated but she would get it. Approaching a salesman she nakedly flirted her way into the changing room. It fit perfectly at size 4 and with her height it was probably more lewd rather than full on obscene. The only issue one may have found was that the bodice strained to contain her boobs. She spun round and round checking every angle seeing that everything was in place and just the right bits could be seen and seen well. Here smile did not break as she slid her tiny shorts back on.

The young salesman found her as she was leaving the changing room.

"Shall we wrap it up?"

"Yes!" Kelly replied.

"Very good. I wish you would have modeled it for me," the man said. "How will you be taking care of that?"

"That's the thing," Kelly said, just starting to turn it on. "I kind of forgot my wallet and, well, I really need the dress for tonight. Is there anyway I could, you know, pay later?" She had fully extended her self across the sales desk, straining to expose every bit of her tits as possible.

The young man looked around nervously. He was handsome with gelled hair and an obviously expensive suit. He took a deep breath after looking in all directions and then repeating his survey.

"Umm, well maybe we should see how it looks on. Just to be sure you should get it." He smiled.

"Sure," Kelly said.

The young man motioned for her to follow him to the changing area. He closed the door behind them and hung up a "Temporarily Closed" sign. Kelly was not smart but had no illusions about the situation.

The young man swung the door open to a dressing room. "Here you go," he said.

As Kelly went in he edged forward in the doorway, not giving her the option to close it.

"Go ahead and try it on."

She was far from bashful but still this bothered her. It would not prevent her from getting what she wanted though. She let her hoodie fall to the floor. A full-length mirror was on one wall. The young man stood perfectly still filling the door, tracking her with his eyes. She pulled her top over her head leaving her in her shorts and a cute lavender bra with white lacy trim. She eased the dress up her small body.

"Aren't you going to take your shorts off? See if it fits?" he said.

"Umm yeah." Once she was covered, she shimmied them down her hips, hardly exposing more than her legs.

"Very, very sexy," the young man said.

She turned around sticking her ass toward him a bit as if offering it to him.

"Nice," he said. "Well you have to have it. Take it off and let me wrap it up"

She smiled. Carefully but quickly removing the garment once again. 

"Thank you so much. I am so excited." In taking the dress off she had only half realized she was now only in her underwear: a thong with a wide lacy top and lavender satin between her legs and her bra.

"Well one more thing though," the young man said.

He moved in closer making the cube smaller. He reached toward his pants, unbuttoning them.

"There is something I need you to take care of."

He pulled his half-mast cock from his pants. It was clear what he wanted done. Kelly did not have a huge problem sucking some random guy's dick but this was different. She was not a whore and was not about to start.

She reached down and graded the flopping appendage while running her thumb side to side across his cock head. Looking him right in the eyes now she said, "Why don't you put that dress in a bag, ring it up and I will be ready when you come back?"

The young man, seeing at least a blowjob in his future, ran out of the changing room area with the dress in hand. When he returned with the dress and receipt he was somewhat disappointed to see Kelly had put her shorts and shirt back on. He dropped the bag and said, "Why did you get dressed?"

"I thought it would be more fun that way, to take it off again."

The young man smiled and unzipped his pants again pulling out his now fully ripe member.

"Where did we leave off?"

Kelly dropped to her knees, first grabbing the long shaft and pumping it quickly which brought a controlled moan from the young man. She pursed her mouth and brought the head to her lips, sucking to draw it into the tight ring formed by her lips. With her right hand she latched on to his balls, tugging gently as she sucked. She saw her opening within seconds of starting. With her thumb and index finger she formed the smallest of openings just above the man's balls and yanked down with all her strength. She forced one ball through an opening no bigger than the shaft of a ballpoint pen while the other ball was nearly forced through has sack; it stretched to its limit but held. He let out a sharp and sudden yelp, falling toward onto the changing room bench gasping for air. Kelly without remorse or hesitation grabbed her new dress and fled the scene. She walked out of the changing rooms with a full calm stride leaving the young man writhing in her wake. She threw both of the glass doors open without looking back. For her there was always another way to get things done. She almost had her shopping done. She thought she might need some new panties but still had not decided if they were entirely necessary for the dance.

II

Kelly thought some sheer panties would be a good compromise between no panties and whatever all the stuck up girls might be wearing. She had left the mall and made her way to an upscale lingerie boutique down town. Well beyond any mall shop, the place was beautiful: Victorian with light and freshly cut flowers. Predictably the décor was reflected in the prices but Kelly did not mind. She seemed to have to rarely pay for anything.

Entering the store, a clerk greeted Kelly at the door before taking her purse and offering her any help she might need. Kelly had the new dress with her and explained her needs. Being still early afternoon the store was empty. There were three gorgeous women who staffed it. The clerk speaking to Kelly was a tall thin woman with curly red hair that just hit her shoulders. She was probably just 30 but seemed only so in the manner in which she carried her self and not her physical appearance. Kelly only saw the other two girls from the back. They were both at the back of the store busily shifting inventory. All three wore dark pencil skirts and light silk blouses buttoned low.

The saleswoman introduced herself as Molly and seemed very interested in Kelly's situation. She admired the dress and seeing the price was less suspicious that such a young girl could afford anything in their shop. Molly asked, "If you prefer you can take a look around or we can give you a fitting room and bring you some recommendations. What would you prefer?"

Though Kelly had definite preferences she liked the idea of being personally waited on more. She was led past walls lined with drawers of bras and racks of garters and teddies back to a room much larger than the usual changing room. It had mirrored walls on two sides and pink striped wallpaper on the other. A velvet chaise lounge was against one wall and a footstool on the other. A folding screen was positioned further back.

"We need to start by getting you measured. If you would, please remove all of your clothes, though you can keep your panties on if you wish."

Kelly was a bit shocked. Though she dressed provocatively it was a bit different to be actually naked in front of a stranger.

"I need to take off my bra?" Kelly questioned.

"Definitely. We need to make sure we have a good fit. It is very important for comfort and also the look. Not that you need any help there." Molly eyed Kelly's perfect breasts. 

Molly stepped behind the screen, folding each article of clothing over the top as she removed them.

"Okay, please step out and I will measure you," Molly said.

Kelly held still for awhile but was afraid that Molly might ask again, so stepped out with her arms across her chest hiding her nipples. She had decided to keep her panties on.

"Thank you. Please hold your arms out so I can measure." Molly had produced a tape measure.

Kelly reluctantly let her arms leave her nipples. Molly started first with the bust, taking one measurement high around the chest just at the top of her boobs, then a second at her nipples. Molly worked quickly and methodically starting on the breasts and moving down to Kelly's waist and hips. It took less than five minutes to complete and Kelly grew more comfortable by the second. She watched herself in the mirror with a beautiful woman crouching next to her. She had not generally been sexually attacked to women before, not that she did not appreciate women's beauty, but somehow this situation seemed appealing to her in the moment.

"Very good," Molly said, "you are a 32C and have a 26 inch waist and 30 inch hips. Most girls would die for those kind of measurements."

"Thanks I guess," Kelly replied, "I think people would envy you as well."

Molly seemed to miss the comment and instructed Kelly to recline on the chaise while she went to bring her some selections.

"Do you have any preferences?" Molly asked. "The panties you have on are very cute. I assume you want a thong."

Kelly felt her face grow a bit warm, "Yeah I think so if you think that is best. I really wanted something sheer too. And maybe with less coverage if that is possible. Something that is really sexy."

"Okay, I think I can help you with that." Molly gave the young girl a smirk and left the room.

Kelly relaxed in the comfy chair. The velvet felt wonderful on her skin. She couldn't help but think the sales girl was flirting with her but before she could ponder too much Molly came back.

"Thanks for waiting. I have so many things for you to try. I hope you have time." Molly had brought a small cart brimming with bras and panties. 

"I wear this style all the time," Molly said as she held up a pair. "They are sheer like you wanted. It is actually very thin muslin, which is completely sheer when worn and breathes very well. It is cut higher on the leg so it is best with a dress. If you wear them with jeans the straps always stick out, not that some people don't do it any way. The front is quite small too. It really just covers your pussy."

Kelly was a bit shocked by Molly's language. Of course she was standing nearly naked in front of someone of whom she knew nothing more than her first name and panty preference.

"Okay, they look hot," Kelly said.

She picked up the panties and made her way behind the screen and changed into the new panties. Looking down at them, still behind the screen, she was quite satisfied. They were the perfect size sitting mid hip, plunging in the frontto just above her mound. The gauzy white did not conceal but rather obscured what was beneath. A lace ribbon formed the waistband, no more than a half inch wide. They were perfect, she thought.

"Come out please so I can see if they fit," Molly ordered.

With some reservation Kelly took a broad step out from behind the screen.

"Oh wow! Those look so sexy on you." Molly walked over to Kelly and without reservation reached out and pulled up the waist band ever so slightly, brushing her hands against the skin just above Kelly's pussy causing her to ever so slightly shudder and exhale at the same time. Kelly tried to hold back but it was too sudden. Until then she hadn't fully realized how turned on she had become. 

"I'm sorry," Molly said, "did I hit a sensitive spot?"

Kelly's embarrassment over took her face. "Umm, I am sorry I don't know what happened. I am really embarrassed."

"It is okay," Molly replied, "it happens all the time. Really I am used to it. I take it as a compliment especially with a girl as cute as you."

This did not help Kelly's embarrassment but did put her at ease a bit more.

"Well they are perfect for you. I love the way the white looks against your tanned skin. It is good you tan naked because with those panties, you would have tan lines showing. The only thing is I think you need to get rid of the hair, all of it."

Kelly looked down. Her well-trimmed landing strip did look a bit odd underneath the white muslin. It was visible from the point where the panties double lining stopped at her clit hood and extended straight up about an inch and a half.. She had been keeping it trimmed that way since she had seen some of her father's porn. All the girls in it had either no hair or kept it trimmed. Kelly thought it was a bit extreme to shave all the way though she loved the way it looked on other girls.

"You think?" she asked

"Definitely with panties like those you can't have any pussy hair. Plus, it looks hot and usually it makes it better for someone who is eating your pussy. They won't get hairs in their mouth. I can get you an appointment with an esthetician friend of mine. She is the best waxer ever, completely painless. She waxes my bush twice a month. Well, where my bush would be," she giggled.

"Yeah, that would be great." Kelly said.

Molly then proceeded to select a bra to match the panties. At first Kelly said she did need a bra but Molly convinced her that her tits would look much better in even a minimal bra under the dress. The one they agreed on was the matching pattern to the panties. White relatively plain with lacy straps and sheer white cups. Kelly admired herself in her new lingerie, turning in front of the mirror.

"I think we have found the perfect combination: sexy lingerie on a very sexy girl," Molly said as Kelly giggled with embarrassment. "Okay, take it off and I will wrap it up for you." Kelly looked back at the screen and noticed her clothes were gone.

Molly said, "Oh, we have had your clothes steamed and pressed while you were waiting. They should be ready soon. You can wait in here; it should not be long."

Kelly, at this point feeling completely immodest, without a thought took off the bra and panties and was completely naked. Molly told her that she could have a seat on the chaise and she would be back shortly. Before leaving she went to a drawer a produced a small pink cylinder. It was plastic, the size of a marking pen with tiny nubs on one end. She handed it to Kelly, "Just in case you still need it, this works pretty well. You just turn it on by twisting it here."

She demonstrated and the thing came on with a high pitched buzz. Kelly was too embarrassed to respond but she took it none the less. She sat nude in the chair with her feet up, knees bent. In the mirror her whole body was reflected. Despite her insecurities she was quite happy with her body and now more than she could remember. Seeing herself in the mirror, she may as well been someone else, someone more beautiful and perfect. She stood up and walked toward the wall staring straight at her self.

It would not have mattered where she was at this point. There was no thought put into it; she slid her hand down her body and ran it the length of her pussy. At first just checking its wetness, and it was wet, but then she began moving her fingers more quickly focusing just on her clit. Watching herself but seeing Molly standing in front of her with her red hair and pale skin. She couldn't take it and fell onto the chaise, snatching up the vibrator. Flicking the power on she pinned the nubby head to her clit. She began making low, drawn out moans barely audible. Her hips ground into the air as she lay.

Molly's entrance did not stop Kelly's work at first. She had become a bit too single minded. When it finally occurred to her what she was doing and where she was she came to a quick halt.

"I am sorry I didn't mean to interrupt anything," Molly said. "I have your items wrapped and I threw in a few complimentary gifts. Please take your time though.. No need to rush out the door."

"I don't know what happened I just started and didn't really want to stop," Kelly said.

"Well you don't have to on my account. I kind of liked what I saw," Molly said.

"Umm, well but I can't just like do that with someone watching. I would feel weird," Kelly said.

Though not intended as an invitation Molly took it as one. First grabbing the vibrator from Kelly and pushing open her legs, she sank down to her knees and found Kelly's clit right away.

(to be continued)

Contortionist Cum Eater



I stopped by my local pub for a beer last week. This was the beginning of another experience that I thought would make a great story. 

As I was drinking my beer, this sexy brunette gets up from one of the tables where she was sitting alone, and sits herself down right next to me at the bar. I smiled at her, said hi, and introduced myself; she did the same and we started talking. 

One thing led to another and pretty soon we were talking about sex--likes, dislikes, and so on. All of a sudden she leans over and asks me if I'm able to suck my own cock. 

This took me a little by surprise because our conversation hadn't progressed to that level. She kind of jumped way ahead of me. 

Well, as those of you know, who've read my stories before, I answered, yes-I can. 

She suddenly got this look on her face that I really can't explain other than to say it was almost scary.

Next, she asked me if I liked to eat my own cum. 

Here again, I answered yes, which got that look again. 

She asked me if I was interested in showing her how I did that. Well, I know that my girlfriend who loves that about me too, probably wouldn't mind but I'd have to make sure it was ok. I explained this to her and she understood. 

She told me that if it turned out to be ok with my girlfriend Lori, and we wanted to get together, I should give her at least a half a day notice. I said great and I'd most likely be giving her a call. 

I figured that this girl was going to turn out to be some kind of wild one. Not that Lori and I needed any additional craziness to our already wanton sex life, but I thought this might be exciting. Also, just a little description of Julie:

Short brunette hair, big blue eyes, a mouth like Meg Ryan but with a little puffier lips. Around 5' 7," long legs and she was wearing strappy open toe heels which revealed really shapely, beautiful feet. Overall measurements, approximately, 34"-22"-34." 

Lori, as I suspected, had no problem with this. As a matter of fact she was quite excited about it. Not knowing exactly what Julie was really all about was a bit of a thrill in itself. 

I gave Julie a call and set up a date and asked if she needed anything. She said with this sexy voice, "no, I'll have everything I need with me.".....The excitement was building. 

Lori and I were waiting in anticipation of Julie's arrival. We never would have guessed at what was in store, but we had a feeling that it would be different.

Finally, there was a knock at the door. It was Julie, dressed in this slinky plain black dress with what appeared to be nothing underneath. Nipples sticking right out and the material just draping her body so that everything was plainly visible. The shape of her hips, the crack of her ass, the arch of her back, her flat stomach. All this, and she was still--dressed. Also, great legs and another pair of sexy black open heels. She also, was wearing this great red nail polish that was sexy as hell against the black dress and heels. 

I introduced Lori to Julie and they hit it off immediately. 

Before I knew it, the two of them were making out on the couch. Julie looks at me and says, "I know that once a guy cums it generally takes a bit for him to be able to get going again, but could you show me how you can suck your cock and cum in your own mouth. I promise you that it won't take you long to get that feeling back after I show you what I can do." 

She went on to say, " watching you suck your own cock and seeing your cum on your own tongue will get me so crazy that I'm going to do something that you probably wouldn't believe unless you witnessed it yourself. Just the thought of being able to watch a guy actually suck his own cum out of his dick has already made me do something that I've never done, so believe me, you and Lori will both be driven to the brink considering what I've already learned about you two. 

Well, with that type of set up, both Lori and I were starting to feel our hearts racing. My cock was already hard just listening to Julie's requests, and the anticipation of what she had planned. Lori was getting soaked just listening to her. 

As I was preparing to suck my cock, Julie stopped me and asked," could you position yourself so that I can still have access to your mouth as the head of your cock is at your lips?" 

Lori jumped in and said, " Oh yeah! He can do that. I know, because I've asked him to do that myself, so I can get a good look at his mouth when it's full of cum." 

Julie's response was this sexy moan type growl that made Lori and I look at each other with increasing lust. 

I had already done a bunch of stretching exercises before Julie arrived, and I was as limber as I could get. Normally, I don't have a problem sucking my own cock but when I have to keep my mouth accessible like I do for Lori, I have to make sure that I'm extra loose and limber. I certainly didn't want to miss out on anything Julie had in mind. 

I laid down with my lower back against one wall in our bedroom. My legs were over my head and my ankles next to my ears. Little by little I scoot closer to the wall so that I can crunch myself just enough to get my cock near my mouth. Lori helps me by making sure that the pillow stays tucked under my head. If I need a little more lift she uses a different pillow or combination of a pillow and towels. Pretty soon with Lori's help, I'm positioned just right. My arms are holding my legs down and are wrapped around my back. 

Julie's watching, as all this is going on, and all she can say is, "holy shit! Oh my god! Holy shit! Oh my god! " Over and over again.

By the time I was ready, Julie was standing naked with her fingers inside her pussy. It was the first time that I actually got to see Julie's body. A knockout! Firm all over and shaped just the way I like. She was competition for Lori, but Lori didn't mind; she knew Julie was hers too. 

All of a sudden, Julie says, "it's time for the beginning of my surprise. On that note, she starts to pull something out of her pussy. Lori and I are watching intently. Julie pulls out a condom that's full of what appears to be cum.

Then Julie says, " the reason I needed some advance notice before coming here is, I had to stop by the adult book shop that you guys usually go to. I took a chance that you guys might like what I had planned. Hopefully, I didn't do all that sucking in vain." 

"This condom is one of five. Each one has 10 loads of cum in it. I shoved all of them in my pussy so all 50 loads would stay warm. I sucked each cock through a glory hole until each came in my mouth. Then I transferred the cum to a condom. I jacked most of the guys until they were about to cum, then let their cocks shoot their cum into my mouth. That way when I transferred the cum, there would be a minimum of saliva mixed in. I wanted each batch to be as close to pure cum as possible." 

"Now, what I'd love to do and is a major fantasy of mine, is to have you (me)open your mouth real wide and let me pour the cum from this condom into your mouth until it's about ¾ full. Then I want to coat your cock with whatever amount of cum is left in the condom. Then, I want to put your cock in my mouth so I can suck all that cum off and get you really hard. Next, I want to take your cock and put it into your mouth and stir the come around in your mouth with the head of your cock. During that time I'll have the taste of all that strange cum in my mouth and I'll be staring at all that strange cum that the head of your cock will be submerged into. Then little by little I'd like to see your cock go deeper and deeper into your mouth while I help you try to cum in your mouth. I'd also like Lori to be licking my pussy while I'm watching this." 

Lori said that she'd be glad to be licking her pussy, but when I started to cum she wanted to watch too. Of course, Julie had no problem with that. 

Both Lori and I couldn't believe what was going on here. We actually found someone who has exactly the same kind of fantasies that we have. Julie is a cum maniac just like we are. 

Essentially, all three of us could hardly stand the degree of excitement that we were feeling. I wasn't sure how long I would last but with Julie around I was sure that I'd be ready to go again pretty quick. 

The fulfilling of Julie's fantasies begins. I opened my mouth real wide and the tip of my cock was right at my lower lip. Julie asks Lori for a champagne glass so she can pour the contents of the first condom into it. She says that she wants to be able to control the amount of cum she pours into my mouth. 

Lori gives Julie the glass and Julie opens and pours the 10 loads of cum into the glass. Next she comes real close to my face and fixes her eyes right at my mouth as she starts to slowly fill my mouth with the cum. 

Little by little I can feel the cum filling my mouth and I can see Julie staring into my mouth with this crazed look on her face. My mouth is now at least half full of cum. 

Julie asks me to just hold the cum in my mouth for her. Now she takes my cock in her hand and coats my cock with a generous amount of cum. 

Next she takes my cock into her mouth and starts to savor the taste of all that cum. When she takes my cock out of her mouth she helps get the head of my cock into my mouth. Then she starts to stir my cock around in my mouth as she intently watches my cock disappearing into the pool of cum in my mouth. 

Lori gets real close in order to watch all this as well. 

Julie says that there's still some cum left in the glass and she wants to fill my mouth to the top, while the head of my cock is still in there. 

Lori says, "yes Julie, yes, fill his mouth up, right to the top and then lets help him cum right into all that cum that's already in his mouth." 

Julie says, "Lori, you must be reading my mind." 

Well, at that point Julie starts to jack me off using some of the cum to lube up my cock. Lori props my head up some more and Julie continues stroking my cock. 

Suddenly, Julie says she can't take it, she needs to get some cum in her mouth. She reaches down and pulls out another condom from her pussy, opens it and pours half the contents into her mouth and the other half into Lori's mouth. Then she asks me to start to suck on my cock with all that cum in my mouth. 

As I start sucking, cum starts to ooze out the sides of my mouth which Julie quickly scoops up and adds to her mouth. Now of course my mouth isn't full of cum anymore so Julie asks me to open my mouth real wide again and positions her mouth right next to one side of my mouth and asks Lori to put her mouth right next to the other side of my mouth. 

Now Julie starts to jack my cock nice and slow and as she's doing that she starts to let the cum from her mouth start to flow into mine and Lori follows her lead. My mouth is filling up with cum and I'm starting to feel myself getting ready to shoot my load. Julie keeps stroking my cock and keeps it pointed right at the huge pool of cum in my mouth. 

Finally, I shoot the first stream of cum into my own mouth and Julie is looking wild. She says, "yes, yes, keep shooting your load into your mouth and Lori is chiming in the same way. I started to swallow some of the cum in my mouth and continued to cum.  

It's possible to swallow with your mouth open, which I did so that Julie and Lori could see me swallowing cum and shooting cum into my mouth at the same time. 

I was enjoying this immensely. Not only was I going nuts but so were Julie and Lori. Just seeing the looks on their faces was adding to how crazy I was getting as well. 

To be continued if you'd like-with the rest of the story. 



Contraband



"Hands against the wall!"

"Why? I didn't do anything."

Rather than answer, I grab your right wrist with my right hand and pull your arm towards me and to the right. The sudden motion throws you off balance and before you realize it you are spinning around facing the wall. Your right palm pressed against the wall. It is cool to the touch. You feel me grab your left hand and pin that one to the wall. 

You feel my knee spreading your legs a little beyond shoulders width apart and move your feet closer to me so that it becomes necessary for you to support yourself with your arms to keep from falling forward. This causes your blouse to fall away from your body a little. You can feel the cooler air on your stomach and breast. The cooler air causes your nipples to harden just a little. 

It’s a pleasant summer day, so you are wearing a light blouse with a medium length skirt. You were just going to run out to take care of a quick errand and hadn't even planned on getting out of your car so you didn't even bother to put a bra on. 

The motion of using my knee to spread your legs creates a subtle sway in your breast. You can feel tips of your nipples brush against the soft fabric of your blouse. A shiver of pleasure runs through you, causing goose bumps to appear all over your body, making your skin that much more sensitive.  So that when you feel my hot breath against your ear, another shiver of pleasure runs through you and you can feel yourself starting to become wet.

I whisper into your ear "Are you going to continue to be difficult, or am I going to have to cuff you?"

"But officer, I didn't do anything!"

"You were doing 35 in a 30."

"But that is just 5 miles an hour over the speed limit! Hell, I shouldn’t even have to get out of my car for this!" You start to try and turn towards me, but find that you are unable to move your hands and feel me slide my leg further between yours to keep you pinned where you are. 

"Why are you being so difficult, you trying to hide something?"

"No!"

"I don't believe you, I'm going to have to search you. I know your type, looking all sweet, sexy and innocent when in reality you are smuggling contraband. "

"Contraband?"

"Yeah, now keep your hands against the wall and legs spread!"

I let go of your wrist and the tips of my fingers graze your arms as I do so. The sensation borders on being ticklish, but you feel yourself getting wetter. 

I start at your ankles now. You can feel my hands moving them up your legs, it feels more like massage than a search. They are now halfway up your thighs and you can feel the hem of your skirt starting to lift.  Your body starts to tingle in anticipation, wondering just how far I'm going to going. One inches, two inches, three inches my hands are now almost all the way up your thighs. 

As my hands move higher and higher, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter. You feel a bit of your wetness escape and start to run down your leg. You start to become worried that I might notice and start to shift a little and hope your moisture loses its momentum before it hits my hand.

"Be still!" And to emphasize my point, you feel my hands squeeze your thighs. This causes more moisture to escape giving the first drip of moisture just enough additional momentum to connect with my hand.

"Ah ha! Just want I thought! Contraband!"

I remove my hands from your thighs and let your skirt fall back down. The rustle of your skirt creates a gentle flow of air that caresses you. You are not wearing any underwear so the cool air touches your moistness and generates another tingle of pleasure. 

"Turn around." 

You turn around and you can see wetness glistening in the sunlight contrasting nicely with the darkness of my skin. 

"This is what I am talking about! Contraband!" 

To verify the potency I lift my finger to my nose and inhale deeply. My eyes close and my body shudders as I take in the aroma of your wetness. You can see me starting to get hard as I stand there with my eyes closed savoring your scent. You know that you are caught because you have great stuff. Knowing that you are caught, you feel a shiver of pleasure run through you in anticipation of the punishment for getting caught with contraband.

I open my eyes, give you a wide smile and say "Looks like I'm going to have to gather more evidence." I take a step to you, which causes you to take a step back into the wall. It is cool and hard against your back. I continue to move towards you. Pressing my weight against you. Your breast crushed against my chest, the bulge of my excitement pressing against you just below your stomach.

I hold your head in my hands and bring my mouth to yours. My large lips feel soft against your smaller thinner ones. You feel the tip of my tongue caress your lips. Your mouth opens slightly to let me in. Our tongues touch and slowly start to dance with each other. You can feel my hardness growing even more against your stomach. You can feel your own moistness increasing as my tongue penetrates deeper into your mouth and the tingle of pleasure running through your rock hard nipples pressed firmly against my chest. 


I take your hands in mine, interlocking our fingers and squeeze passionately.  Our tongues are dancing their little dance, no longer just teasing. I raise your hands above your head and hold both wrists easily in one of my hands. I break the kiss and pull my head back to look deeply into your eyes. The passion in your eyes turns me on. I move in and kiss you deeply again. Then say with a smile, "Time to gather more evidence." 

You can feel yourself tingling with anticipation. You spread your legs a little further to give me better access. My free hand moves down to your leg while still keeping your arms pinned above your head with the other. 

You can feel my hand on the inside of your thigh now, slowly lifting up your skirt. I stop when I encounter some more of your escaped moistness. I use it to lubricate the tips of my fingers and start moving them in a circular motion as I make my way further up your thigh. 

I'm close enough now to where even with your legs spread I can touch of both you legs at once. Starting from your inner thighs, I run my ring and pointer fingers along the line that would normally be highlighted by your panties. My middle finger grazes ever so lightly against your slightly parted lips.  It comes away wet.

I bring it up to my mouth and suck on it, savoring the taste of you. With my finger still in my mouth I move to you and kiss you, moving my finger from my mouth into yours. You can still taste some of yourself on it. You are very sweet. I slowly draw my finger out of your mouth, the darkness of my skin contrasting nicely with the paleness of your own. 

I let my finger linger on the edge of your lip for a second before letting it drop down to your chin, trace down your neck, run between the little valley at the base of your throat formed by where your collar bones meet. 

I put my finger back in your mouth. I can feel you sucking me deeper into your mouth, your tongue caressing me. I bury my face into the side of your neck and start kissing it, intermingling the kisses with gentle nibbles. 

I start sliding my finger in and out of your mouth. I can you quickening your pace. The energy that you are devoting to my finger is translating directly through my body and I feel like I'm going to cum. 

I don't want to do that yet so I withdraw my finger from your mouth and cup your breast in my hand. I rotate my thumb in a circular pattern over your breast looking for your nipple. The fabric of your blouse feels smooth against my skin. I find your nipple and give it just the slightest of tweaks with the nail. I hear a moan escape from your lips. I then take the finger that is wet and slowly start to circle your nipple. The thin fabric of your blouse is quickly wet and immediately starts clinging to your nipple, adding to the pleasure you are feeling. 

I move my mouth from the nape of your neck to the same nipple. I give it a few flicks with my tongue before taking it into my mouth. Then I flick my tongue back and forth across your nipple very quickly. 

Letting go of your wrist, I move my hand back down between yours legs, my palm pressed firmly against your mound and fingers resting on you lips. You are so wet now. I start moving my fingers, lubricating them with your wetness. 

I pull my mouth from your nipple and whisper into your ear, "Yes, just as I thought, lots of contraband"

"Yes officer, your caught me. I guess this means that you will have to arrest me." You say as you hold your hands out for me to slap the cuffs on. I take a hold of your wrist, put the cuff on it, flip you around so that your arms are behind your back, put the other wrist in a cuff and walk you over to the squad car.


As we approach the squad car you start to walk towards the rear door, but I change your direction and direct you towards the front of the car. I put my hand on the back of your head, grab a fist full of hair and bend you over the hood of the squad car. You feel the heat of a hood warmed by the sun and engine on your face and through the flimsy material of your blouse. 

You can hear me behind you, but you can't see what I am doing. You are thoroughly wet though and can feel your wetness running down your legs. It seems like an eternity before something happens, when suddenly you feel the cool air on your exposed bottom as I lift up your skirt, your wetness intensifying the feeling all the more. That feeling is immediately followed by the sound and stinging sensation of my hand slapping your ass, a pleasant stinging sensation warming my hand also.

I slowly start moving my hand in a circular motion and then bring the other hand to your ass with a slap. Now both of my hands are moving in a circular motion on your ass. I'm getting more turned watching your lips open and close as I move my hands back and forth across your ass.

"Mmm, yes, yes, looks like I've hit the contraband jackpot. I think its time that I see how deep the well really runs" 

You hear the sounds of me undoing my gun belt, belt and zipper. You hear the sound of my pants falling to the pavement and feel the head of my cock brush up against your leg as I free it from my boxer briefs. You can feel a bit of my wetness on your leg where my cock grazed you. 

I push my cock back down between your legs and let go. It springs back up and you feel the head smack against your open lips. My head gets coated with your juices. I put both hands back on your ass and start moving my hips back and forth, moving the head the length of your pussy, my pre-cum and your juices acting as a lubricant to make it feel silky smooth. I can feel your pussy opening up inviting me in. 

I use my hands to spread your ass even more so that can get a clearer view of my cock rubbing up against your pussy. It is such a hot sight. The dark brown color of my cock contrasting nicely with the pink of your open lips. Your cute little asshole, stretched wide by my hands on your ass. 

I start rocking my hips a little more, my thighs bumping up against your ass. It causes your whole body to move. You can feel the fabric of your blouse moving across your nipples as you rock back and forth. I can see you struggling against the cuffs, trying to free your hands so that you can give your clit some of the attention that it is looking for.

Your clit is out and exposed now. I can't see it from my angle, but your lips are so open that it must be out. I lower my hips a little so that length of my now slick cock is rubbing against your clit as I move my hips back and forth. 
You can't take it anymore and scream "Fill me! Let me feel your cock inside of me!" Ever the obliging civil servant, on my next forward thrust I change the angle of my hips and slide slowly into your wetness. 

Your hungry pussy easily accepts the head of my cock, but I quickly meet some resistance. You can feel the head of my cock stretching you to make room for me, your juices and my pre-cum acting as the perfect lubricant. I apply a little more pressure with my hips and feel my head break into the deeper wetness of your pussy. 

"O my God!" I bellow as I slide further into your wetness. You are so incredibly tight despite how wet you are. I continue to slide deeper into every so slowly allowing you to adjust to my girth. I can feel your body start to quiver and shake as an orgasm takes over your body. I can feel your wetness running down the length of me and onto my balls. I'm ready to explode, but I don't want to just yet. So I stop continuing to push deeper inside of you and just enjoy the sensations of your pussy coming on my cock.


As I feel the tremors in your pussy starting to subside, I slide further in you until I am buried to the hilt. I can feel the head of my cock just barely pressing up against the opening of your womb. I slowly start to pull out, savoring the sensations of your pussy as the head of my cock glides against your walls. 

There is a loud popping sound as I withdraw from your pussy. My cock is coated with your juices. I bury my cock back deep inside your pussy. The suddenness of it catches you by surprise and I can feel your pussy tingle with excitement. 

I reach down grab a fistful of your hair, pull you head back towards me and start driving my cock in and out of you hard with nice long strokes. Pulling your hair has just barely pulled your breasts off the hood of the squad car. Your breasts are now swaying with every thrust of my cock, your nipples brushing against the fabric of your blouse sending tingles of pleasure throughout. 

You can feel my balls slapping against your pussy. I slow the pace down and you can feel may hands on your pussy, pressing your lips against my cock. My hand is soaked with your juice which gives me an idea. You feel me pull out for a second and then I’m back inside of you, my hand massaging your clit. 

I start a steady long stroke rhythm and enjoy the ride your pussy is giving me. You then feel my fingers working there way around your asshole. At first I just tease the edges a little bit, which causes you to involuntarily clench up, but as you become accustomed to my fingers being there I can see you start to relax. 

Using your own juices as lubricant, I slowly work my finger into your asshole. There is a moment of resistance and then I slide the rest of my finger smoothly in. I start pumping your asshole with my finger and feel you slowly start to relax enough to let two fingers in.

My fingers are moving easily in and out of your asshole now. You are totally relaxed. I can feel my cock sliding in and out of your pussy with my fingers.  I withdraw my fingers from your ass and replace them with something else. It is cool and hard. You scream “Oh My God!” as you realize that I am about to stick my baton in your ass. 

The moment it enters you, I feel your pussy clamp down on my cock and spray me with your juices. Your body starts to shudder and shake as I work a little more of the baton into your ass. Its almost like having two hard cocks in you at once. Feeling your pussy explode like that on my cock sends me into an instant orgasm. You can feel my cock pulsing and throbbing as I come deep inside of you. Waves of pleasure cascading through my body and I collapse on top of you in exhaustion, my semi hard cock still inside of you.

It seems like forever before we both feel the need to move, but reality is starting to creep in and we have to get a move on. As I withdraw from you a thick glob of cum drips out of your pussy and lands with a loud splat on the. You turn around and we kiss. 

I say to you “Thank you so much honey, that was wonderful” and kiss you deeply again. ”So am I picking the kids up after work or are you?"



Contract



Contract -- For Health and Weight Loss

By: Your Loving Wife

This is a contract to help you lose weight, quite smoking and get in shape. It uses your desire to play with submissiveness and your natural strong desire to orgasm as the catalyst for success.

I will tease you most of the week, and I will be your orgasm facilitator on the weekends. Basically, you give and I take complete control of when, how and if you orgasm.

The schedule for the week would be, Monday – Friday evening, you should not expect to have an orgasm because you will willingly give me control of your orgasms. Friday evening through Sunday night, you will be encouraged by me to orgasm as much as possible. But there are rules.

1)If you don't work out for one day, you are denied a day of orgasms.

2)If you don't eat properly for one day, you're denied a day of orgasms.

3)If you drink alcohol during the week, Sunday night through Thursday, you're denied a day of orgasms. 

So here is how it adds up. If you smoke one cigarette in a week, the first day you can expect to orgasm would be Saturday. If you don't work out and drink one night, two infractions, the first day you could expect to cum would be Sunday, just one day of a two week period. If there are three infractions, you don't get to cum at all for that weekend, and you start another week without having an orgasm and not being allowed to orgasm until the following Friday night at the earliest. Two weeks without an orgasm.

During the week I will tease you as much as possible to reinforce your horniness and remind you of our agreement while giving you an incentive to stay with the contract.  I will insist you take a shower with me each day, I'll stroke you cock, squeeze your balls or just pat your crotch while teasing you about your hard cock, full balls and no orgasms. Most importantly, you will give me back rubs, foot rubs and I will be physically close to you with kisses and touching as a constant reminder. Of course I expect oral sex when I want it, as often as I want it and as many orgasms as possible with no sexual release for you.

You will agreed that your sexual relief is in my hands seven days a week, but if you mange to get through the work week following the above constraints, you will be allowed to cum on the weekend starting with Friday night. It is not guaranteed because you still concede orgasm control to me, but Friday through Sunday night you would be allowed to cum at my discretion. In fact, Friday night through Sunday night I promise to encourage you to cum as much as possible so Monday through Friday evening you are that much hornier. 

An example weekend could be, Friday evening making love followed by me telling you to masturbate for me before we fall asleep. Saturday morning should be the same, with a masturbation session in the middle of the day, and making love at night. Sunday the same, or any other combination I decide. To make sure you are not getting too good of a deal on the weekends, I will also make you "live your fantasy", by having you lick your sperm from me after we make love or feed you your sperm after supervised orgasm. This helps establish the fact that there is "a price to pay" for the privilege of me allowing you to have an orgasm, and that price is making sure you "clean up your mess". This contract will reinforce your fantasy of orgasm denial, orgasm control and a willingness to be sexually controlled and submissive to me. I know it is your fantasy and now it will be used to make you healthier and therefore happier.

You will also keep your pubic hair shaved. This helps reinforce my status as the "leader" in our sexual relationship and your submissiveness. This overtly physical display of your desire to be submissive is important to you so now it is important to me. 

No matter how many times I let you cum, one time during the weekend you must "ask" to cum. You must make a request to orgasm when you think you can, but I make the final decision on how, or even if you do. Needless to say, you being naked and masturbating for me will become more common place, a totally embarrassing and stimulating thought for you, I know.

Also, at any time during the weekend, I can tell you to cum. You should then strip naked and masturbate for me or I will masturbate you. You have to try as hard as you can to cum every time, no matter how recently your last orgasm may have been. This should make for some fairly entertaining and embarrassing "jerk off" sessions. I will not necessarily supervise the whole session I would just tell you to bring me the results.

This contract is good for a month. If you are losing weight and getting in shape, I can decide to continue the contract. If I would like to change the contract, I can at any time. If I want to make love during the week, that is my decision and my decision alone, but you will probably not be allowed to cum. You can not ask for release or pester me about your horniness. 

You MUST promise to abide by all of these rules until I decide to change them. My sexually control is complete and total for the duration of the contract.

You know this is the best thing for you. There really is no choice on your part. You want everything in this contract. Anything but total agreement is total rejection, and I know you will not do that because you need this. You have wanted me to take more sexual control, now I will and there will be a proof positive effect of my control. You will lose weight, get in shape and lovingly submit to me. 

________________________________

Signature 

____________________

Date



Contract End



Bruce lay back on his bed and contemplated his days work, his deal for support services to the Saudi government had been accepted, guaranteeing Bruce a bonus of over $250,000 and bringing $5 m into his company. He reflected on the major aspects of the negotiations, proving the quality of the services offered and the ability of the individuals involved. He wondered what would have happened if he had taken the advice of his MD, Stuart Chambers, to provide the Saudi's with the services of call girls during their visits to London. 

Instead Bruce had argued successfully that the money would be better spent flying the project team to Riyadh for six weeks to learn and understand the culture of the customer. A strategy which paid off handsomely at a particularly difficult point in the negotiations, where Sheikh Omad had requested a local administrator to oversee the project management. Under normal circumstances this would have been totally against company policy, however the team had recognised the Saudi middle east tensions, and their absolute requirement to be able to be seen 'in control' even if it had no effect on company direction. In the end, and agreement had been reached with a little budget padding to finance a local 'executive' to manage all office matters. Bruce took a shower, and prepared himself for dinner. He wished that Debbie, had come over to Saudi Arabia with him, but she had decided that their marriage would survive his 2 year secondment to the middle east, and remained in London. 

He left his 8th floor room at the Marriot, at a little after 8.00pm, and summoned the lift to take him to the restaurant for a celebration dinner with his team. As he arrived in the restaurant, it was clear that his team had been celebrating for some time. They were in a rowdy mood, and cheered loudly as he joined them. He ordered drinks all round, and a toast was proposed. 'To Bruce and the team'. He felt a little flattered, but accepted their congratulations with good nature. The Maitre D called them through for dinner, and Bruce found himself centre of the table sitting between Sarah and Jackie. 

"That's your present," said Alistair the company sales Manager, winking. Sarah and Jackie had been seconded to the Saudi project team as 'girl Fridays'. Both spoke good Arabic, and had been heavily involved during the inevitable wining and dining of the Saudi delegation, in support of the negotiations. 

Bruce was struck by the change in the way both girls were dressed, compared to their business attire. Jackie had on a tight, short black dress, with deep revealing cuts both front and back. Sarah also had a short dress, but the dress was shoulderless and was unbelievably low cut. She was obviously wearing a push up bra, and her breasts were almost completely revealed before the dress began just covering her nipples. Bruce couldn't help side glances at both girls throughout dinner, and found eye contact almost impossible during conversation. Left alone his eyes returned, like homing pigeons, to one of the girls cleavage, a point not missed by either of them. Bruce noticed during dinner that both Sarah and Jackie disappeared off to 'powder their noses' together. He also noticed that both had dropped a couple of forks during dinner, and had bent down towards Bruce to recover them. The suggestive way that they had bent towards Bruce's lap, and their obvious enjoyment at his embarrassment as he tried unsuccessfully, both, to avoid looking at their exposed breasts, and also to disguise the bulge in his trousers. The obvious way that the tools were dropped confirmed to Bruce that he was being toyed with. Very pleasant!

As the meal ended, Sarah suggested that Bruce, Jackie and herself excuse themselves from the rest of the team, and retire to Bruce's suite. Bruce agonised for a moment, but re-assured himself that it was probably innocent and would get him away from work and allow him to relax a little. They entered the lift and Sarah pushed the button for the 8th floor, she then turned towards Bruce and kissed him. 

"Thanks for such a lovely evening," she said.

"Yes, Thanks it's been really nice," said Jackie, and then kissed him full on the lips. Bruce felt a stirring in his loins, and attempted to pull back in order to avoid embarrassment, however Sarah was immediately behind him preventing him from moving. Jackie finished the kiss, and looked deep into Bruce's eyes confirming that she was aware of his reaction, and approved. She slid her hand down to Bruce's fly and gently massaged him through his trousers, adjusting him as he grew in response to her encouragement. The moment was broken as the lift stopped with a slight bump on the eighth floor, and the door opened to allow them out. Bruce's mind was racing, in an attempt to work out what was going on. He was heading for his hotel suite with two beautiful, outrageously dressed young ladies and one had 

already begun to play with him. His confusion was interrupted as both Sarah and Jackie gabbed his hand and dragged him out of the lift up to the door of his suite. He fumbled for his keys, not sure what to do once the door was opened, should he run in and close the door or allow the situation to develop? As the key turned in the lock, the door opened and he slowly entered the suite followed by Jackie and Sarah. 

"Put some music on," said Sarah. Bruce put on Wonderful tonight, by Clapton. He turned and saw that both girls were sat on each end of the sofa, Sarah patted the space between them.

"Sit here," she said. Bruce went over and sat between them, not quite knowing what to do. He needn't have worried, Sarah again began to kiss him putting his arm around her, and his hand upon her breast. Jackie resumed her attention to his penis, and after a short inspection through his trousers she undid his zipper and reached inside. Bruce could feel Jackie's hand close around his erect penis. He was lost, any reluctance to participate ahd disappeared. He began to squeeze Sarah's breasts much more vigorously, and slid his hand into the cleavage to investigate her more intimately. He could feel that Jackie now had his erect penis out of his trousers and was massaging it using both hands. She undid his belt, and his trousers and then stood up and pulled them slowly down until they finally passed over his shoes leaving him naked from his waist down. Bruce slid his hand down Sarah's cleavage, and slowly released her breasts before massaging them firmly in his hands. He could feel that Jackie was bent down between his legs, holding his penis in both hands and it came as no surprise as he felt her slide him slowly into her mouth. 

He responded immediately, growing inside her and began to kiss Sarah's neck and then breasts. He began to suck hungrily at Sarah's bosom, attempting to accommodate as much of each breast inside his mouth as possible. He slid his hand down her dress to the hemline and then slowly up her legs. She shifted a little allowing him to investigate her inner thighs, where he discovered perfect bare flesh above her lace topped stockings. He explored further finding the soft flesh of her unprotected vagina, her outer lips moist and open, to welcome his invading fingers. As he opened her, easing his fingers slowly along the inside of her moist vagina she helped him by opening her legs as much as her tight dress would allow. 

Bruce could feel his erection buried deep inside Jackie's mouth and thought that he must have died and gone to heaven. Sarah took hold of Bruce's hand and eased it away from her, she then stood up and unzipped her dress allowing it to fall to the floor revealing herself completely naked except for a tiny suspender belt and black lace topped stockings. Her perfect breasts wet from Bruce's earlier attentions, and her shaven vagina complemented by the most magnificent outer lips that Bruce had ever seen. Jackie watched as Sarah stripped, and then stood up turning her back on Sarah looking directly into Bruce's eyes. Sarah unzipped Jackie's dress, eased it off her shoulders and down her arms until it fell freely to the floor. Bruce gasped at the sight of Jackie's lovely figure, her breasts topped with firm nipples, and her closely shaven pubic area allowing a perfect view of her already open vaginal lips. She turned to Sarah and they kissed for a short time, allowing Bruce to check out Jackie's rear. He followed her legs from the floor up beyond her lace topped 'hold up' stockings to her bottom, which he thought was a magnificent sight. His eyes lingered at the sight of her open moist vaginal lips complimented by her tight anal opening, and perfectly shaped cheeks. His erection visibly stiffened as he allowed his mind to wonder what the feeling might be like to enter such a tight little space. 

Jackie turned and sat down beside Bruce, kissing him passionately as he began to massage her nipples and breasts. He could feel Sarah's attention to his erect penis, as she slowly and very tightly gripped him and masturbated him. 

Jackie whispered in his ear, 

"Lick me, I want you to taste my juices." Bruce didn't need to be told twice, he slid down Jackie's body, kissing and licking her breasts, then slowly down her tummy through the tiny patch of blond pubic hair until his tongue was resting upon her clitoris. Jackie shifted at the sensation created by Bruce's tongue, and she lifted her legs off the floor and raised them high in the air, allowing Bruce full access to her vagina. 

"Oh Jackie, he likes that," said Sarah. "He's just grown much bigger, keep it up."

Bruce was too busy to notice, but Sarah had every intention of profiting from Jackie's performance, as she stood up and positioned herself in order to mount him. He had his tongue deep into Jackie's cunt hungrily licking her juices, as he felt his swollen penis being guided deep into Sarah's tight little cunt. Bruce responded by pushing back against Sarah, forcing him even deeper, until he could feel that he was in to the limit of her cunt, still with a little of his penis to spare. 

"He's huge," said Sarah. Again the effect upon Bruce was to increase further his arousal. Sarah yelped as he pushed hard, and forced her tight cunt to accommodate fully his erect penis. He was slowly licking Jackie from her aroused clitoris, through her outer and inner lips deep into her cunt, which was now wet through with her juices. He slid his tongue, along her vagina until he passed over the small section of flesh between her cunt to her tiny anal opening. He began to lick around it, exploring the effects upon Jackie as she reacted to his attention to her 'other' hole. She didn't react, and the juices coming from her 

cunt, confirmed that she was happy with his attentions. Bruce began to invade her anus with his tongue, licking her as he had licked her cunt, with the same effect that she slowly opened up and filled with juices. 

Sarah was now making the most of Bruce's erection, she had him buried deep inside her and was fucking herself. On some occasions she was forcing herself to take all of him inside her, Bruce could feel himself bottoming out as she moaned with a combination of pain and intense pleasure. After a short period of intense strokes she screamed,

"Fuck me, I'm coming." Bruce obliged and pushed back as she forced herself hard, and Bruce as deep into her as she could, she then convulsed, as wave after wave of orgasm hit her. Her vagina repeatedly tightened onto Bruce's penis, as cum was forced out of her onto him and around her cunt and anus.

As Sarah's convulsions slowly subsided, Bruce could feel her dripping cunt draining onto him, wetting him with her delicious cum. She eventually stopped, and sighed,

"Fucking brilliant, Jackie he's fucking brilliant." Bruce was quite flattered, and the compliment had the effect of hardening him again much to Sarah's delight. Jackie said, 

" It's time for you to return the compliment Sarah, I want the ride of my life so don't disappoint him, or you'll disappoint me." She stood up, and Sarah reluctantly withdrew Bruce from her dripping 

cunt, holding him in both hands as she surveyed the sight of his erect penis shining with her cum. Jackie knelt over Bruce and lean't towards him allowing him to suck at her stiffening nipples. Bruce could still feel Sarah's hands around him, playing with him up against Jackie's anus. She was teasing both of them by offering him to Jackie's cunt, then as she lowered herself to mount him, Sarah was redirecting him to Jackie's anus, threatening it with penetration. 

"Later," said Jackie, "save my butt for later, now I want a serious fucking." Bruce couldn't believe what he'd heard, could he? Maybe he could, judging from the effect upon his erect penis which grew in Sarah's hands. Sarah said,

"Oh Jackie, you hit the spot then, he's looking forward to fucking your little greedy butt." Maybe he could believe it. Again Sarah's words had a stirring effect upon his swollen organ, raising it to a point where Bruce could feel his foreskin being stretched to limits never seen before.

"Sarah you bitch, put him it, I want him now, my cunt is crying out to be fucked. Please help him to fuck me." Sarah immediately moved Bruce's penis between Jackies vaginal lips and held them open as 

Jackie lowered herself slowly and firmly onto Bruce. She took almost all of him immediately inside her. Bruce could feel that he was too long for Jackie's tight little cunt, although she certainly wasn't complaining. Within seconds she was riding Bruce, just about as hard as she possibly could. He could feel 

his seriously stiff Penis pounding in and out of her increasingly wet cunt. Sarah was holding his balls in her hand, and allowing them to slap against Jackie's bum as she completed her deepest stroke.

"Oh Sarah, that's fucking wonderful, he's touching the end of my cunt, and I can feel his balls against my bum, I don't want this to end." That was echoed by Bruce, who laid back and allowed Jackie,

aided and abetted by Sarah, to fuck herself using him, almost like a lifesize vibrator.

"You must reward Bruce when you've come," said Sarah.

"Oh I will," said Jackie, "I will."

"You promise," said Sarah, slapping Bruce's balls a little harder against Jackie's bum.

"Of course," moaned Jackie, "Of course, what should I do?"

"Oh that's easy," said Sarah, "you'll fuck him using your tight little butt. You'll take all this meat up your bum and allow him to fuck you hard.” 

"Oh," moaned Jackie, "that will hurt."

"Do it for me," said Sarah.

"Will you do it as well?" replied Jackie.

"Of course, I'm looking forward to my turn being stuffed up my tight little bum by this beautiful stiff dick." Bruce was now in an extreme state of arousal, he could feel his balls in Sarah's hand and his penis almost bursting inside of Jackie's dripping cunt. He was having severe difficulty in controlling himself, it was simply the thought of what was for dessert, which sustained him as Jackie gradually, and thankfully approached orgasm. It began slowly, with her slowing her strokes, and pushing her cunt onto Bruce's bursting penis slow and hard until she could accomodate no more of him, she would then raise quickly and begin the slow downward movement towards orgasm again. 

"Look at that fuckable little bottom," said Sarah. "Bruce will love fucking that sweet little hole." At that Jackie groaned, as she began an orgasm that lasted for a full minute. It went from her increasing the pace of her strokes, through full length slow strokes in which Bruce's penis was fully withdrawn from 

Jackie's hungry cunt before being rammed in again, to finally almost no movement other than the sucking of Bruce's invading penis by Jackie's cunt as her muscles spasmed during orgasm. Bruce could feel and hear, the cum spurting out of her as each spasm concluded. He expected that she would now want to 

rest and gather herself before any further play, however he couldn't have been more wrong.

"Reward him," said Sarah.

"Yes, fuck my bum, put him in me," said Jackie. She lifted herself off Bruce's stiff penis allowing it free of her cunt, and Sarah guided it towards Jackie's tiny anus. Bruce could feel an air of expectation as she lowered herself until she had his increasingly stiffening penis at the entrance to her beautifully tiny bottom. He recalled the view earlier of her glorious other 'hole', as she kissed Sarah, again he felt his penis push harder at the tiny opening. Jackie didn't pull away, instead she settled a little lower allowing the force applied at the end of Bruce's stiff erection to increase.

"He's almost in," said Sarah, "push hard Jackie, fuck him." At that Jackie groaned in pain tinged with pleasure as she dropped onto Bruce's penis, fully accomodating him in her anus on the first stroke. She groaned on each of the first few strokes as she slowly adjusted to the size of his straining organ.

"Fuck him hard, you sexy bitch," said Sarah. Jackie immediately speeded up her pace, as if she must comply with Sarah's commands. Bruce was on 'cloud nine' as the feelings from his groin hit his brain. His penis was being gripped tight, and on the withdrawal it was being stretched to breaking point by Jackie's accommodating little anus. Bruce continued his attempts to control himself, but he was losing fast. Sarah still had hold of his balls, and was shouting encouragement to Jackie to fuck him hard. A request she was doing her best to accommodate, Bruce's head began to spin as he imagined the view from behind Jackie of him up her tiny little bum, and his balls cupped in Sarah's hand. Almost at the point of coming, Sarah slapped Jackie on the bottom, and she pulled immediately off Bruce's desperate organ, leaving him almost insane with frustration. 

"You've not had me yet," said Sarah, "my turn,"...

Sarah lay on the settee, with her legs open, her open vagina glistening with the products of Bruce's earlier activities. Jackie held out her hand, and motioned to Bruce to stand up. He did, and was organized by 

Jackie, o stand facing Sarah, between her open legs. Sarah lifted up each leg in turn, and placed them on each of Bruce's shoulders. Bruce wasn't completely sure what was going on, clearly he wasn't in charge of the situation, and he couldn't work out what was expected of him. However, Jackie and Sarah appeared to know exactly what was happening, so Bruce simply followed their lead. He could feel Jackie's hands around his penis, she was encouraging him back to size after her frustration of him earlier. He was responding quite well , as she worked him using both hands. He could feel her body pressed against his back, and her pubic region pressing on his naked bottom. She slid one hand down and began to massage his 'balls' as she masturbated him using her other hand. Sarah had positioned her anus close to Bruce's 

increasingly firm penis, as he was being prepared by Jackie. 

"Jackie, fuck my bum," said Sarah.

"How hard?" said Jackie?

"Fucking hard, I want to come being fucked up my butt," replied Sarah. Bruce couldn't believe what was going on, it's as if he wasn't there, and they were using a vibrator on each other. On the other hand however, he had no intention of looking a gift horse in the mouth, he was fully prepared for what was to come! Jackie guided his penis gently up to Sarah's anus, and Sarah responded,

"Mmmm, my tight little butt is looking forward to being fucked," and she pushed against Bruce. As she pushed, Bruce felt his penis almost crushed as it strained to enter her impossibly tight anus. The pain caused Bruce to pull away for relief. However, Jackie now had her arms around him and was pulling on Sarah's thighs. He was trapped between them, and could feel Jackie gradually increasing the pressure on Sarah's tight little anal opening using his stiff penis. 




Contract End



"Ohh, he's almost there," said Sarah. Jackie gave a little extra nudge, and Bruce could feel that the resistance had eased, he had now entered Sarah's tiny anus. He could also tell from the expression on Sarah's face, as she moaned in a delightful combination of both pain and pleasure.

"Fuck me Jackie," said Sarah. Jackie pushed harder at Bruce, forcing him deeper into Sarah.

"Harder, harder," said Sarah. Jackie gave a huge push as Sarah also pushed, Bruce went through agony's as he bottomed out in Sarah tiny hole.

"Ohh it hurts," moaned Sarah. Jackie eased back slightly, allowing the pain in Bruce's penis to subside, she then pushed hard again and both Sarah and Bruce cried out in pain.

"Yes fuck me hard," said Sarah. Bruce was now responding to the increasing stimulation caused by the situation, and also the pain. His penis was 'rock hard' making him far too big for Sarah's tight anus, but he was penetrating her with increasing ease. He began to fuck her harder and deeper, causing her to wince at first, but she was still encouraging him for more, so he carried on. Jackie had now eased off her pressure, as she could see that Bruce was doing her job. She lay down on the settee beside Sarah and began to masturbate herself, as she watched Bruce fucking Sarah's bum. Bruce was now spoiled for what to look at, Sarah splayed out in front of him her anus impaled upon his erect penis, or Jackie legs open and fingers in her wet sticky vagina. The visual stimulus caused a rush to Bruce, and he began to fuck Sarah very hard. He could see from her face that it was hurting her, but she still continued to encourage him to go harder. His penis was almost bursting from the combined pressure of his erection, and Sarah's tight anus, as he continuously penetrated her to the deepest point. After a short time he felt her begin to orgasm, he could feel through the walls to her vagina the contractions as her cum squirted out of her cunt onto him and around her bottom. Bruce tried to help her using his fingers, but she pushed him away.

"Just fuck me hard," she said. Bruce attempted to fuck her again. However, as she orgasmed, he could feel wave after wave of contraction gripping his penis tightly, forcing him to slow his movements to a stop at her deepest point. The only movement became Sarah's muscle contractions as she slowly and relentlessly enjoyed the extreme emotions gripping her body, and squeezing Bruce in a vice like grip around his penis. As she finally recovered from the deep sensations, Bruce could see from the juices coming from her open cunt the depth of her orgasm. She looked up at him and said,

"Time for you to come, I want you to empty your balls deep into my butt." Bruce was ready to comply, but Sarah began to remove him from her anus.

"I want to stand up, and you can fuck me from behind," said Sarah, as she completed Bruce's withdrawal, much to his disappointment. 

"I want him in me," said Jackie.

"We both want you," said Sarah. "How are you going to accomodate us both with your lovely cum, how are you going to reward us both?" It seemed like hours since Bruce had been in control, he didn't know what to say. While he was considering his response, Jackie said,

"He can come in us both, he can fuck my butt until he begins to come, then he can pull out and give you the rest Sarah." Bruce didn't fully understand, but events were clearly overtaking him as both Sarah and Jackie stood in front of him, and turned and bent down allowing him a view of their spreading anus and cunt. 

"Fuck my butt," said Jackie, and after you have come in me, you can pull out and fuck Sarah." Bruce was in a dream as he was pulled towards Jackie, and his throbbing penis pushed against her anus. He rested his hands on her spreading buttocks as she pushed against him, increasing the force until he entered her. He pushed hard, and Jackie gasped as he forced himself deep into her tight anus. He could feel his penis being resisted as he attempted to explore Jackie's anus, and the grip of her anal muscles prevented him making too much progress. 

"No, you must fuck me hard," said Jackie. "I want you in as far as possible, until you hurt," she whispered. Bruce grew a little in response to Jackie's request, allowing him to overcome her 'tightness' and force himself deeply into her. 

"Yes, yes, that's it," said Jackie. And Bruce began to fuck her slowly.

"Fuck her hard, Bruce," said Sarah. She reached around with her hands and opened her bottom as she slid a finger in her anus. Bruce was now beyond control, he could feel his penis increasing in size inside Jackie's tiny hole. 

"Ohh, fuck me," moaned Jackie, as Bruce forced himself as deep inside her as he could. He began to orgasm at the deepest point. Painfully, he could feel his penis growing and his orgasm building against the force being applied in resistance by Jackie's tight anus. As his muscles began to spasm, he couldn't push deeper into her. He withdrew slightly, and the pressure reduced, allowing him a slight ejaculation.

"He's coming Sarah," shouted Jackie. Bruce pushed hard into Jackie again, but although he was experiencing an intense orgasm, he couldn't ejaculate! Again as he withdrew he ejaculated slightly, allowing his cum to lubricate Jackie's tight hole. He then pushed as hard and deep as he could, causing her to moan and as he eased back he ejaculated deep into her. Jackie moaned, and Sarah said,

"Now me, fuck me now." Jackie pulled away, releasing Bruce from her anus. As he withdrew fully from her, and was moving towards Sarah, the massive release of pressure on him from Jackie's tight anus allowed a sudden release. A huge amount of cum spurted across Jackie's bum, all the way onto Sarah's, as he moved to her anus with his throbbing penis. He was coming as he entered her and overcame her initial resistance easily and slid deep into her. He could feel each ejaculation as he came in huge amounts in Sarah's hole, filling her with his sticky appreciation. His penis increasingly began to slide easily in and out of her, lubricated by his cum. His orgasm lasted for a full two minutes as wave after wave of sensation came over him, as he pumped cum deep into her. Finally, exhausted, he pulled out of her and watched as she and Jackie stood in front of him opening themselves to his gaze, allowing him to view their anus' dripping with his cum.

What a good day thought Bruce!!



Contract Killer Get a Clue



The old man was lecturing, so I amused myself by attempting to figure out which customers in the restaurant were really Feds. My money was on a couple in matching sweater vests. They were just a little too cute to be real, and I had caught them sneaking furtive glances towards us one too many times. 

Naturally, Pops-- being something of an underworld celebrity-- was always shadowed by eager Feds who, through enhanced listening devices, hung with rapt attention on every garbled syllable that the old mumbled man through his phonetically-challenged lips. So while his lecture seemed to be about one thing, it was really about something else entirely: the ever-growing feud between the old man and Simeon Dread. I listened with one ear while I continued my federal agent guessing game with the other and the rest of my remaining senses. 

Pops, thinking he was clever, had disguised the conversation with a completely transparent analogous discussion of chess. He kept referred to an opponent that he called "Simon", all too obviously close to the name "Simeon" even for my wry tastes. Clearly, "chess" referred to the silent but deadly gang war that had started to be played out across the streets of the city and was slowly gaining momentum. Any idiot, including the federal kind, who couldn't see through this shallow metaphor deserved to have his badge and gun shoved elbow-high up his ass (right next to the place where it kept his head). 

The old man said something along the lines of: "None of Simon's moves make any sense. He throws pawns away like they were nothing, and his knights seem to be every where at once but without reason."

He meant: Simeon was cutting his losses, and more and more men were leaving his employ (one way or the other) every day. Pops wasn't sure what the end game was for Simeon. His valued men, the ones that Dread kept on or didn't straight out execute in anger, seemed to be merely spinning their wheels. Simeon Dread was treading water and waiting for something. But Pops didn't know what, and that bothered him.

I said, "That blonde woman in the sweater vest has amazing tits." My words had been spoken barely above a whisper, but the woman seemed to flinch in her chair, all the same. Had she heard me through a hidden ear piece? Was that a blush reddening her cheeks? Hard to tell from this distance, and it could have just been coincidence or my imagination. I followed this up with: "Her husband looks like prick though." The man (her pseudo husband/real partner in this little dinner theater drama) frowned. I was more and more positive I had the couple pegged. I gave myself a mental high five. 

Pops ignored my ignominious comments (he was used to them by now) and continued his chess lecture: "When one does not understand one's opponent, one can never be too careful. I wonder if Simon is mad or merely playing at appearing mad." Personally, I wondered if the old man knew how irritatingly condescending he sounded. The only people I knew who used less first-or-second person perspective during a conversation were literature professors or gigantically arrogant dick heads. Oftentimes, they were one and the same. Pops went on. "The trick is to get him to keep it up until either he is truly mad or so deeply invested in his strategy that at the point he needs to change it, it is too late." 

He meant: Do not underestimate Simeon Dread. Everything Dread did was loaded with purpose, even when it did not seem to be. The only way to beat an opponent like Dread was to outwit and outmatch him at his own game. 

My reply: Duh.

The waiter appeared and placed our steaming plates of Italian food before us, so I looked at Pops and replied, "Your sausage is huge." 

Whether he knew it or not, Pops had made his point albeit one that I already knew. I was very familiar with the dangers regarding Simeon Dread and his corporation, too much so. If Pops had been aware of how involved I had already become in the affairs of the infamous Mr. Dread, he probably would have keeled over with a heart attack right there and then-- before he managed to have the one his Italian sausage would undoubtably give him during dinner. 

Would what the old man say if he knew that Veronica Dread, the voluptuous and deadly wife of Simeon, had offered to hire me to kill her husband? Better yet, how would he react if Pops knew that I had hesitantly agreed? The portrait of such a human expression might be titled, "I Doth Shat My Pantaloons". 

The more we stuffed ourselves with delicious food, the less the conversation revolved around a coded discussion of work. Dinner ended with the weekly tradition of the old man passing me a manilla folder and saying, "Here's your allowance. Be careful. Don't spend it all in one place." 

If the federal agents and their sweater vests had any clue as to what sometimes accompanied my "allowance" within these manilla envelopes, I would have been sitting in a maximum security facility many years ago. I had a feeling, however, that this week Dad had no contracts for me. The Dread business demanded his full attention, and one did not assassinate employees of Simeon Dread without fear of repercussion. A silent gang war was costly enough. An official one meant blood in the streets, and my dad and Dread both considered themselves businessmen at the end of the day. Blood in the streets was inevitably bad for business. 

Our dinner concluded, we made our way outside where Pop had a car waiting from him. I looked over my shoulder but didn't see the sweater vest couple. As the old man climbed the vehicle, I held the door. "About the chess game," I said. Pop raised his eyebrows in an expectant but wary fashion.

"Beware the queen," I said and closed the door behind him.

***

The people in this area of town knew me, if only as my father's son, so I had the privilege of being able to walk the streets without the fear of being mugged. To be fair, everyone who lived for several blocks around were able to live under a relative umbrella of my father's protection. That is, as long as they did as they were told. Such protection wasn't always a guarantee, however, so it helped to have my last name and face. It also helped to know that I could kill any would-be muggers with my bare hands. It wouldn't necessarily deter any muggers stupid enough to try, but it gave me a certain peace of mind. I knew I could walk the three blocks to The Deep End, the bar I owned, without having to look over my shoulder like some kind of paranoid loser who had at least three people seriously wanting to kill him. Which I had. 

Considering this and considering the bottle of very expensive wine I had finished off with dinner, it was a miracle that I heard the car at all before the gunman opened fire at me. One moment, I was admiring the stale night air and the aromatic smells of the city (exhaust and asphalt), and the next I heard a roar of an engine, and the night exploded into a bullet-buzzing nightmare. 

By instinct, I threw myself down and made myself small, rolling into the nearest doorway and behind a steel trash can. Cement popped up in sharp chips around me, and the trash can echoed with metallic clangs as bullets spattered it. The car flew by, engine revving, in a flash of headlights, gunfire, and then taillights. To my horror, it spun in the street, tires squealing, coming around to make a second attempt. 

Of all the streets in the city that I could have been walking down, I'd been on the ONE with no other moving vehicles than the Murder-mobile. I cursed my luck and my timing. 

Well, maybe not my timing. On most of the evenings that I met with my father, I did not carry a firearm. Since my run-in with Dread, his wife, his gorilla-suited bodyguards, and a ferocious assassin who went by the nickname "The Black Ghost", I carried a (mostly) legally licensed firearm on me at all times. I reached into my coat, pulled the gun from its shoulder holster, and pulled myself into a firing position behind the trash can. As the car made for me, the gunman leaned out of a window, apparently to get a cleaner shot or to see if perhaps he had hit me during the first pass.

Either way, it was a bad move as it made him an easy target, so I made him pay. I fired once, and I saw the man's head buck backwards as if he'd just experienced a drastic case of spontaneous whiplash. In the sickly yellow light of a street lamp, I saw something red and thick splash across the top of the car. It was going to need a thorough wash in the morning. The gunman went limp and hung from the window. His gun fell from his hand and skittered across the pavement. I fired again, and a small spiderweb crack appeared in front of the driver of the car. I groaned. Bulletproof glass.

The engine revved, roared, and the car became a dark blur. It made a hard right on two wheels at the end of the block, and then it was gone. 

I holstered my gun; it was registered to me and had been used in self-defense. I imagined that the dead gunman and the gore-splattered car would disappear before they ended up in any police reports, so I didn't think I had too much to worry about on that end. As added insurance, I kicked the gunman's weapon into the nearest gutter. If I was lucky, maybe it would land in a puddle of shit, and the NYPD forensic team wouldn't want to touch it. But I didn't think I'd be lucky. 

My heart pounding in my chest, I spun on my heels and headed in the opposite direction. Towards home. 

***

My mind whirled at how holy fucking shit bad things had just gotten. Someone had tried to kill me, Pop's boy, out in the open. Talk about a surefire way to get the war started. Which was exactly what someone was trying to do. But who? And why? No one would benefit from the kind of all-out destruction my father and Dread would put each other through.

Then I thought-- Veronica Dread. Somehow the whole thing had her sexy little fingerprints all over it, but I couldn't figure out what or how she'd gain from my death. She had hired me to kill Simeon. Why kill me before I finished the job? What was her play? I had guessed she wanted her husband out of the way so that she could spend the rest of her days in sunshine and splendor without having to cow tow to Simeon's every demand, but maybe I was wrong. Dead wrong. Maybe it wasn't even her. Now that both Tuxedo brothers were dead, there were a lot of underlings who weren't getting paid and might have a beef with me. Maybe even Dread himself had become so paranoid that he wanted to put me out of commission before I could do the same to him. The only enemy I could totally rule out was the Black Ghost. She was way too good to have put my life in the hands of amateurs. She would have killed me in a much more... classy... way. 

I let myself in my building and made my way to the elevator. That's when I heard a whispered voice from the stairwell: "Psst, here." 

The door banged closed, and I heard footsteps plod up stairs before I could identify the person who had spoken. Luckily, ice-cold blood runs through my veins. If I had been any other person, I probably would have put a bullet through the door and been done with it. Instead, I pushed it open. 

Sheila, my girlfriend, sat on the stairs in one my of dress shirts. On her it hung low, but she wore nothing else. A smile that was somehow equal parts angelic and demonic curled the corners of her mouth. Her blonde hair was messy in that sexy way that women can manage, and her green eyes shone with seductive lust. Any words I might have said in greeting morphed into an admiring moan in the back of my throat. 

"Hey, there, lover," she said in a low voice, her tongue running over each word in a way that sent tingles shooting into the tips of my fingers. She fingered the collar of my shirt which revealed a slender neck and lower, a tempting curve of breast. 

Somehow all of the thoughts about the Dreads and my dad and the Ghost and all of that other bullshit didn't seem to matter. At least, for the moment. My entire world was just this incredibly cute blonde, this stairwell, and an ever-growing bulge in my trousers. Sheila had this kind of effect on me, and that's why I desperately needed her. 

Some shitty, cynical part of me that clearly wanted me to be unhappy all of my life said, "Hon, is this a good idea? We could get caught." 

I wondered which shoulder that particular angel sat on who had whispered those words in my ear. Because I wanted to beat it to death with the butt of my gun. 

Instead, Sheila (proving why I loved her) said, "In your building? Everyone else is either old or fat. Baby, this is the only time these stairs will ever be used. We'll actually be doing them a favor." 

Then she added, "Plus, I bet I can make you cum in less than two minutes."

It had become something of a game for her to humiliate me by owning me with her sexuality. I took a lot of pride in my sexpertise (call it Masters Level Fuckology), so it amused her to no end to show me up in any way possible. And for her, it was easy. She was one of the sexiest and sincerely eager women I had ever known. Her aggressiveness made her a sexual predator to the degree that I was one in all other aspects of life. 

I walked over to the stairs, put a hand on the back of her head, and drew her into a hard, starving kiss. Breaking away, I said, "I'll take that bet."

Her pink, moist lips peeled away from her teeth in a smile. She had the kind of face that lit up when she smiled. Have I mentioned how insanely cute she was? Sheila was the kind of girl that made you ache to kiss her when you saw her. If that makes me sound like a hapless romantic, allow me to ruin this feeling with my next sentence: if Sheila caused me to become any harder, my dick would probably be classified by scientists as some kind of newly-discovered metal. Hell, you could have added it to the Periodic Table of Elements and named it Erectium. 

Sheila's lithe body pressed against mine, and I could feel her nipples poking me from beneath the fabric of my dress shirt. She maintained eye contact as she slid to her knees, her hands running from my chest to my stomach to my groin. Her fingers found the bulge there, and she caressed it through my pants, continuing to look at me with an expression that could be best described as wanton. 

"Gentleman, your two minutes begins now," she said, unzipped my pants, and pulled me out. She regarded my throbbing manhood for a moment and then gave it a soft kiss on the hood. It twitched in her hand and strained in response. I moaned in anticipation. Sheila giggled and whispered, "This is going to be too easy."

She slid me into her mouth, and my knees went weak. I had to look up at the ceiling and suck air between my gnashed teeth. Sheila was right, oh so right, but especially right about this being easy for her. The sight of her on her knees, my dick between her lips, her shiny emerald eyes peering up at me with undisguised lust, the curve her breasts subtly pushing open the shirt she was wearing, Sheila could have me finishing in her mouth in less than thirty seconds. I thought I deserved an award for not cumming as soon as she kissed its head. 

I felt her hand stroking me, her tongue gliding over my flesh, her lips encasing me, and I closed my eyes. I leaned against the wall, my ass pressing against the stairwell banister, and allowed pleasure to course over me. 

I am a bad guy, a villain, an antagonist in every sense of the word. I murder for a living, and I would be dishonest if I told you that I did not derive some enjoyment from my occupation. I would also be dishonest if I told you that I had been entirely faithful to Sheila, good excuses notwithstanding. I did not deserve this girl or this moment, yet I would enjoy it for as long as the ride lasted. 

"So good," I breathed. Sheila responded by hastening her pace. I chanced a glance, and saw her blonde hair bobbing, both of her hands stroking me. Glistening with saliva, the length of my shaft disappeared in and out of her mouth. Her sparkling eyes found mine, and then she slid me out, opened her mouth with a huge smile, and slapped my cock on her tongue. I shuddered with intense pleasure. For a moment, my eyes rolled up into my head, and I wobbled, placing both hands on the stair banister for additional support. 

She paused to say, "You mean so BAD." Then she stood up, kissed me, and pushed me down to a sitting position on the stairs. I allowed her to manipulate me as I was too woozy from her sexual onslaught to put up much of a fight. She slid my pants to my ankles and hovered over me. The cement stairs were cold pressed against the my skin of my bare ass, but I didn't care. Life lesson: You can't afford to be picky or be a germ-o-phobe when it comes to hot sex in public places. 

I watched through hazy eyes as Sheila lowered herself onto my erection, and it was enveloped by the wet, tight, warmth between her legs. She began to move up and down, up and down, slowly, and then with gaining momentum. Sheila unbuttoned the shirt and let it droop from her shoulders. Her pert breasts bounced as she expertly fucked me. The sight of her was like something directly out of one of my pubescent fantasies or even, hell, one of my adult ones. I placed my hands on her hips, gritted my teeth, and dug in while my mind snapped mental photographs for future reference. 

I don't know how long I lasted. It might have been only two minutes, but it might have been twenty. At some point, I felt Sheila go all gasp-y above me, and then she went tight and breathless. I knew that she was nearing orgasm, so I opened my mouth to make some smarmy remark. I had not only defeated her two minute mark, but I was going to make her cum before me. Then I felt her hand on my balls. She gave them this little, tickling squeeze, and all I could manage was a senseless grunt as I felt my lust jettison out of me in eruptions of liquid release. 

"Oh, my God," were the only words I could manage, and even those seemed to come from a space outside of me.

"Yeah," Sheila said, buttoning the dress shirt. She leaned over and kissed the bridge of my nose. "I'm pretty fucking amazing." 

***

Later, lying next to Sheila in bed, I slept through the night, undisturbed by nightmares and my own thoughts. 

*** The following morning, my time with with Sheila as well as the drive-by attempt on me seemed like surrealistic dreams from a Dali-inspired alternate universe. I knew that they had happened, but the incidents seemed to have happened to someone else, long ago. I suppose our brains do whatever they need to do, so we can go about our daily lives without turning us into lunatics. Consider John Wayne Bobbit the day after his wife cut off his dick and threw it out of a car window. A normal person should have been institutionalized after that kind of trauma. Weeks later, his wife was found not guilty by reason of insanity (hah!), and Bobbit starred in a couple of adult films (which I had the mispleasure of seeing). It's truly a mad, mad, mad, mad world. 

Part of the routine of my daily life was to check in at The Deep End-- which I had attempted to do last night before nearly being gunned down-- and so that's where I headed. Kross, the bartender who had a head like an anvil, welcomed me with the greeting: "Hey, do you think someone could get seasick by fucking on a water bed?" 

Normally, Kross' idea of a conversation was a grunt and a curt head nod, so I was intrigued. I stopped in my tracks, and said, "Of course." 

Kross responded with a grunt and a curt head nod. I waited another moment, but he had already turned away to pour a bourbon for a customer who had no ethical objection to drinking hard liquor before noon. The Deep End was a twenty-four hour joint, more or less, and I don't think I had ever managed to enter the bar without seeing Kross behind it. I knew he wasn't the only bartender, but I could barely remember the names of the other ones, much less what they looked like. 




Contract Killer Get a Clue



Realizing I had been summarily dismissed, I made my way to the back where the manager's office was located. The bar had once been owned by Sharky Fontana, my old man's one-time right-hand man. His name was still on the door, but his body was deep in the Hudson, put there by me after having discovered that he was more of a shark than his name had indicated. Now I owned the bar, but I left his name on the door. As a reminder. 

A neglected stack of paperwork, mostly bills of sale and order forms which needed my signature, lay piled high on my desk. I needed to catch up on it before it became any higher and the desk broke under its weight. The air conditioning didn't work well back here, something I continually promised myself to fix but never seemed to get around to doing. I turned on a small, revolving desk fan. The fan did not do much to cool off the room, but it did an amazing job at shooting much of my paperwork all over the floor. 

I cursed, and that's when Cynthia Skye, investigative reporter and red-headed tornado of doom, walked into my office without knocking. She wore a charcoal grey business suit which curved in all the right places and her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. 

Motioning to the mess on the floor, she said, "Bad time?" 

I frowned. "I'm going to have a conversation with Kross about letting you in here."

Cindy gave me a smirk and said, "He can't help that I'm so persuasive." And then she smiled. "Neither can you." 

I left the mess of papers on the floor and took a seat in the leather chair behind my desk. I had to give Cynthia Skye credit; she demanded one's attention. She had creamy white skin, and just enough freckles bridged her nose and cheeks to appear cute rather than freakish. An intelligence gleamed in her eyes and on her expression that was sexy as well as a little scary for a guy like me. Whenever I was around her, I found myself wondering how much about me she really knew. After all, she had to have recognized me as Pop's son the night she met me, the night that the Tuxedo Brothers had tried to gun down the Black Ghost and me. The official statement wrote the whole thing off as a terrorist attempt on Simeon Dread's life, but Cynthia had to know better. She was anything but stupid. And boy, had she gotten to know me since that moment that fate had thrust us together. 

Actually, I had done most of the thrusting. 

"Guess what I did yesterday," Cynthia said.

"Spent the day thinking of ways of not getting to your point? I don't know. I'm not very good at guessing games."

She ignored the jab. Instead Cynthia propped herself at the corner of my desk, perilously close to me but maddeningly not close enough. "Interviewing Simeon Dread, founder and president of Dread Industries, Dread Properties, and Dread Incorporated, among other less sinister-sounding sister institutions, corporations, and companies," was her smarmy-reply. She sounded quite proud of herself, and she had every reason to be. An interview with Simeon Dread couldn't be an easy sell. 

"That sounds like quite a coup for you," I said, doing my best to not be distracted by the tempting swell of her breasts curving towards me. She had her jacket and blouse strategically unbuttoned, so like a good movie preview, they showed enough without giving everything away. However, her words were almost as interesting as her body, and it was to them I was now drawn. I leaned back in my chair, as far away from her breasts as I could get without literally crawling out of it, and waited for her to continue.

"I actually have it on tape. Right here. It's funny how small they can make digital recorders these days. You can hide them just about anywhere." From one of the pockets of her business suit, she pulled out something that looked like an iPod, probably not the recorder itself but something on which she could play back the interview. I knew Cynthia wouldn't insult my intelligence by pulling out a digital recorder in front of me. She undoubtably had one tucked away somewhere, though. In fact, it might be fun to guess where she was hiding it. "Care to take a listen? I think you might find it interesting."

I would, especially if it had something on it which Cynthia thought I'd want to hear. The woman had yet to ever waste my time, and I appreciated her all the more for it. 

"Go for it," I said with my most indifferent tone of voice, but I'm sure it didn't fool her. 

She hit play, and the room was filled with two voices-- Cynthia's silky sexy one and another one, one that was both stealthy and smooth, the auditory equivalent of a shot of high-end vodka to the ears: the voice of Simeon Dread. The interview started innocuously enough, with questions about Dread's recent charitable contributions and newly-founded civil organizations, then gradually became more biting with deeper probes about Dread's corporate lay-offs and blunders. Skye's line of questioning was admirable; she went from lobbing softballs to head-twisting knuckleballs and filthy sliders before even a wizened fox like Dread had figured out what she had done. He'd been cornered so quickly, he had no choice but to answer her questions or come out of the interview looking like a complete and utter fool. I had a hard time believing such a thing could happen to Dread. Either Skye was as good as her reputation (a very rare thing), or Dread had allowed himself to be cornered. Having met Dread, I tended to lean towards the latter prediction. 

Finally, Cynthia asked about the so-called terrorist attack at Dread Towers. She asked, "The night of the terrorist attack, you had a fundraising function, a party?" This was an obvious question, and Dread had no problem saying, "Yes." 

Then she asked, "You invited..." and she said my fucking name... "to this party? And met with him." I went cold in my chair. Cynthia Skye had said my fucking name to Dread. Skye knew who I was and knew I had been there. She knew I had met with Dread. In fact, I had told her as much. I knew she'd probably ask Dread about what I had said if ever given the chance, but I had no idea what Dread's response would be. That was the uncontrolled variable. 

"Indeed, I did, Ms. Skye," Dread replied, and I did my best to not let the relief explode out of me in front of Cynthia's watchful gaze. "I offered him a job, in a way. I asked him to be a go-between me and his father in the hopes that he and I could broker a kind of peace between our companies." This more-or-less matched what I had told Cynthia, so I could scratch that worry off the list.

Cynthia's voice: "The federal government believes that his father is a criminal."

Dread responded, "The federal government thinks every private corporation and every successful, self-made businessman is criminal. It does its best to take away anything it can from the private sector. It is a beast whose sole purpose is to feed itself, and you can quote me on that, Ms. Skye." I could almost see Dread's feral smile after he said it. 

"Is it true that one of your bodyguards stated that he would kill..." she said my name again on the tape. I remembered how Cynthia had been the one to tip me off that Knox, the bodyguard to whom she had just referred, wanted my head as a trophy. You know, in the good ol' fashioned tradition of revenge. Luckily, it hadn't worked out that way, and Knox was buried where no one would ever find him. I enjoy my head where it is.

In my office, Cynthia was looking at me with a searching intensity; I met it with my own steeliness. Why was she playing this for me? Was she hoping that I'd show her a tell, or better yet, just show my cards and blurt out something newsworthy? Did she just want to make me uncomfortable? Did she want me to get really pissed and take out a grudge-fuck on her? That last one had potential but was (sadly) unlikely. 

On the tape, Dread answered her question: "That I cannot answer. Mr. Knox left my employ shortly after the terrorist attack on Dread Tower. Naturally, I questioned his ability to head my security when he allowed terrorists to enter into my building."

"Is there any reason anyone would want you dead? Or (my name) dead?" Skye asked. I heard Dread sigh on the recording. 

"Every successful man has enemies because of his success. People envy success and create imagined wrongs in their own minds. It is impossible to be successful without someone hating you. I do not believe I have consciously given anyone reason to hate me or want my death to occur before its due time..." I almost laughed aloud at that one, but I had to admit, it was a smooth answer. "... but indubitably, there are those who desire my death." 

Skye's voice changed on the recording. She said, in a voice I knew well, "You are a powerful man." 

In my office, Cynthia's lips curled into an impish smile. She said, "Here's where it gets interesting."

On the tape, she said, "People desire the death of powerful men." A pause. "They also desire powerful men."

I said, "You didn't."

Cynthia shrugged and said, "Why not?" And something about the way she looked at me with those green, sparkly eyes made my dick go hard. 

From the recording came the unmistakable sound of clothes rustling, Dread's surprised gasp, and the sound of slurping. "My dear Ms. Skye," he said, his breaths becoming quicker, "I had no idea."

"So you're in with Simeon Dread now," I said, thinking: 'This could be used to my advantage.' If this was not a one-time tryst, having a Dread-Skye connection could be very helpful. The way Cynthia Skye looked, Dread would not want it to be a one-time tryst, especially if he thought the affair would put a Times reporter in his pocket. This was an opportunity for me, that is, as long as Skye kept feeding me information and not the other way around. Dread was a rich man, and money talked. However, Cynthia had already made her bed, and it was with me. At least, she wanted it to be. Or so I hoped.

On the recording, I heard a deep moan from Dread, a sloppy wet sound, and a "mmmm"ing from Cynthia. "Yes, yes, my dear," Dread was saying, "Swallow i..."

Cynthia hit the stop button on the player, slipped from the corner of my desk, and leaned over me, the swell of her breasts pressing against my chest. I didn't want to want her, but damn, it was hard. Literally and figuratively, if you know what I mean. Hint: you do. Cynthia Skye was the kind of girl you didn't mind getting a little dirty because you know she'd always come out clean. She was using Dread, and she was using me, and we all knew it, and none of us minded. Her eyes glittered as she said, "Don't worry, babe. You taste much better."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Plus your balls aren't all wrinkled," she said and unzipped me. I knew I should stop her. I knew I should protest with the word, "Sheila!" But Cynthia knew all about Sheila, and I couldn't stop her. If you could only have seen her red hair, green eyes, white skin, and the mouthwatering curves of her breasts and hips, you would understand. There was no stopping Cynthia Skye when she put her mind to something. 

Or her mouth. Especially, her mouth. 

I sucked air between my teeth as I watched my erection disappear between Cynthia's pink lips. My hands curled over the armrests of my chair and clenched, and my knuckles turned white. She moved her head up, and my shaft returned wet and shiny. She moved down, and it disappeared again. So did any remaining chance of refusing her. One hand worked magic on my testicles, the other moved to assist the manipulations of her mouth and tongue. Everything turned to putty except my cock. That remained long, hard, and throbbing. I'd write purple and veiny as well, but that might put a gross visual in your head. Wait... too late! 

Should it have bothered me that she was doing to me what she had just done to Simeon Dread only one day before? Should it bother her that I had taken Sheila the night before? There was an undeniable connection between Cynthia and me; that was certain. We both felt it. We also both knew that it would never work, but that didn't mean we couldn't enjoy each other's company when we had the chance. I had no doubt that Cynthia was just as cold-blooded as I except when it came time to be hot-blooded. That time was now. 

She pushed me against her cheek so that it bulged and lashed me with her tongue. Her eyes never left mine. Down and up, down and up, we maintained eye contact. 

Finally, I told her, "Stand up." She did, and I turned her around and bent her over the desk. The rest of my paperwork went sliding to the floor in an avalanche. I pulled down her pants and the black lacy underwear underneath it. She was pink, moist, and tasty. I gave her a tongue lashing of my own, my fingers delving into her and coming back slick. Cynthia purred and pushed her ass into my face. My fingers went deeper, and her purrs turned to moans. She began to drip onto my tongue, tasting better and better. She twisted her head to get a glimpse of me and what I was doing to her. 

"This is why I like you. That old man couldn't last thirty seconds in my mouth, but you're not satisfied until I am begging," Cynthia whispered, her eyes mere slits with a hint of green glowing behind them. I grinned. My mouth and chin were gleaming with what she gave me. 

"So I'm begging you now," she said. "Please, oh, please god, fuck me good." 

I can't stand to see a woman beg. I had to give her what she wanted. I had to literally stand to do so, and my chair creaked as I got out of it. Like a magnet, my erect penis was drawn to her velvety crease, and we both moaned with pleasure as I entered her. 

"Holy Jesus," I gasped.

"Perfect fit," she replied and with an arch of her back, bucked hard against me. Her ass clapped and rippled, and my eyes rolled into the back of my head. Then, she didn't stop. She kept bucking hard, and I met her with my thrusts. I grabbed her ponytail and pulled it. Her back arched more, and she bucked harder. She kept saying, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" I could tell her brain had more or less shut off, and she was doing whatever her body wanted. Make that needed. She fucked me like a starved woman. It was glorious, filthy and hard and hot, and I cursed myself for ever thinking about denying this woman. But Sheila... No! This was no time to think about my girlfriend, the woman I loved. This was business, and that's what I needed to give to Cynthia Skye to keep her on my team: the business. I grabbed her hips and turned off my brain. I merely felt her slamming against me and savored every inch of her creamy white body with my eyes. She shimmered with sweat as her onslaught continued, and I could feel my own sweat beginning to drip down my face. 

Knowing I wouldn't be able to last if I tried to keep up with her, I slid out of Cynthia and pulled her around into a long kiss, our tongues meeting and clashing and whipping against one another's, her breasts mashed into my chest, my cock pinned against her stomach. Knowing what was coming, she stepped out of her pants. I gently laid her on the table; then I savagely tore open her jacket and blouse, sending buttons flying. The clattered as they landed the floor. I tore off her bra-- not an easy thing to do, I suspect she must have unlatched it earlier, but I didn't think about that until later-- and freed her milky breasts. I cupped them in my hands, leaned over to kiss her, and penetrated her. Her hands gripped my hair, nails digging into my scalp. I didn't mind. 

I felt her legs entwine me; her ankles locked around my neck. Her toes curled. She broke off our kiss and whispered, "We've waited too long... Oh, shit, you're going to make me cum already! Shit! SHIIIIIIT!" Her face clenched; her body clenched; and then she just started making these breathless squeals and writhed against me. 

Then a roar resounded, and it wasn't the sound of Cynthia cumming in ecstasy. I heard Kross' muffled shout through the walls and another roar. I froze, still buried in Cynthia, and she froze, too, with her ankles wrapped around my neck. I recognized the sound. Shotguns. They were coming for me. 

"Get your clothes on!" I ordered, slid out of her, and yanked up my pants. Cynthia did so as well as she could; enough buttons remained on her white blouse that she could at least get it closed. She was shaking. Either from fear or exertion, I don't know. 

The latch on the office door turned, but I had already pulled my gun from my desk and held it ready. A ski-masked head poked in, and that was enough for my gun to bark. The head snapped back. Red splashed against the wall. The head slid down, leaving a trail, and the door opened all the way as the body went limp against it. Another masked man stood behind the door, and he brought his shotgun to bear.

I dove against Cynthia. The shotgun bellowed. My gun barked a second time as Cynthia and I hit the floor. The gunman staggered backward, hit the hallway wall opposite the door, and dropped the shotgun. Then he slid down, too, and didn't move anymore. One of his eyes was gone. 

Cynthia's green eyes were the size of Lake Michigan and Lake Eerie, respectively. She said in a voice that was barely audible, "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm me. My dad had me taking shooting lessons since I was nine," I said. This was a true statement, but I left out the part about my Dad recognizing my psychopathic tendencies and honing them razor-sharp, so he could use them against his enemies. I decided to change the subject. "Are these guys after you, or are they after me?"

"I don't know. Why would they be after you?" she asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "Why would they be after you?"

"I don't know," she said. We gave each other looks that let the other know that we knew we were lying. Despite the smell of blood in the air, I have to tell you that Cynthia Skye looked damn sexy, all red-faced with her shirt randomly buttoned and all that white skin half-hidden behind it. She still had that smoldering, sexed-up look in her eyes, and I knew if we got out of there alive, we'd have the best sex of our lives. 

"Well, that answered all of our questions, didn't it? Now let's get out of here before something really bad happens," I said and got moving. I peeked into the hallway and heard Cynthia tip-toe to my side. I saw a shadow lurking in a doorway. I held up my free hand towards Cynthia, and she froze. The shadow did not match Kross' hulking-figure. Had to be another skiing enthusiast. I knelt, took careful aim, and tapped the wall with my free hand. 

The figure moved into the hall. A shotgun blast roared, and a fist-sized hole appeared two feet on the wall above me. Almost simultaneously, my gun gave its rebuttal, and a body hit the floor. The shotgun thudded out of the dead man's grip. 

"Why don't you grab one?" I said and motioned towards the shotgun. "If you know how to work it."

"Hey, I was in Girl Scouts," Cynthia said. She picked up the shotgun of the first man I had killed, and she looked it over. It had been sawn off. She made sure it was loaded, then checked the safety, and she looked like she knew what she was doing. She pulled extra shells off the body. I knew there was a reason I was so attracted to her. 

"Let's go," I said and snuck into the hallway. The initial noise came from the front, so I figured our assassins would expect us to make our escape through the back. This meant we'd head to the front. Most people panic when they're faced with shotgun-toting killers, and they don't use their brains when they panic. They just run in the opposite direction of the guns. Trained killers count on this. I smiled. I was not most people and definitely not someone prone to panic. Apparently whoever hired these guys didn't tell them about me. They came stumbling in my place like I was some kind of chump. So far, the count was me: 3 and them: 0. 

I decided to check under the mask of the guy in the hall. It was a risky move because we didn't know how many guys we were up against, but I decided to chance it. I turned to Cynthia and said, "Watch our backs."




Contract Killer Get a Clue



As if on cue, a mask crept into the back of the hallway. Cynthia fired. She had a dead aim. The man went down with half a head. I bent over and de-masked the other one, the one I had killed. I didn't recognize him. He was a fresh face like the guys who shot at me last night. Where were these guys coming from, and why didn't they know who I was? 

Lady-fucking-Dread. Veronica was the only one bold enough to attempt something like this. Simeon was too cautious, the Ghost too classy. Veronica had hired me to kill her husband while hiring outside goons to kill me? What was she hoping to accomplish? 

"Well?" Cynthia asked as she reloaded. With wet, sweaty strands of red hair glued to her forehead, she looked ridiculously hot. I couldn't help but pause, pull her to me with my free hand, and kiss her. She returned it, the shotgun awkwardly pinned between us. I broke the kiss, realizing Cynthia might accidentally pull the trigger and blow my knees to shreds.

"Keep moving," I said, stood up, and followed my own advice. In the main room, I saw Kross huddled behind the bar and two goons lying by the door. Kross had a short-barreled shotgun of his own, and he'd been itching to use it since I'd known him. The fools had no idea what had been waiting for them with a guy like Kross behind the bar. 

He saw me and called, "This room's clear. Don't know about the lot out front." 

I replied, "Going for it."

Kross said, "Right behind you."

He fell into line behind us as we made our way through the room. At the door, I paused and peered through the glass. Blood pooled around the corpses, and we had no choice but to stand in it. Kross had hit one in the head, Cynthia-style, and the other in the neck, nearly decapitating him. I caught it all with a glance; Cynthia made a point to avert her eyes, I noticed. Maybe Girl Scouts could teach you how to own a punk with a shotgun, but they forgot the part about dealing with the body. 

The lot looked clear, but there was only one way to be sure. I turned to the others and said, "I'll go for my car and bring it to the door. Come out and get in as fast as you can."

"Shouldn't we wait for the police?" Cynthia asked. Her eyes had gone to the size of lakes again. 

"She's kidding, right?" Kross grumbled with a snort. 

I nodded. "Yeah, she's kidding." Then I pulled the door open and dashed through the lot. An engine gunned, and I turned towards the sound. Around the corner of The Deep End, a black limo peeled out, then headed straight for me. I knew who was inside. I stood and waited for it.

Cynthia voice came from the front door, "What are you doing! Get down!" It was sweet that she was so worried about me, but I didn't want her or Kross firing a weapon and catching me in the crossfire. 

"Don't shoot!" I called back. "I've got this!"

The limo didn't run me down. I knew it wouldn't. Instead, it screeched to a stop in front of me, the smell of burnt rubber heavy in the air, and the back door opened. A gorgeous, voluptuous, raven-haired demoness peered out. Veronica Dread was sin incarnate, and she reveled in her own corruption. She waved me towards the seat next to her with one red-nailed hand: a devil's invitation. 

"Get in, lover," she crooned. A better man would know to not give in to her temptation. Needless to say, I followed her order, and the door swung shut behind me. With a lurch, the engine roared, and we were moving. I didn't mind leaving Kross behind with Cynthia. He was a good man despite literally having a block-head, and he knew what to do. She'd be safe, and Kross was more than capable when it came to dealing with the authorities. I was sure that I'd have to answer questions, but at the end of the day, we'd write it off as a failed robbery. It helped that my Dad had helped clean up this part of town, partially by supplementing most police officers' normally-meagre incomes. 

I stayed silent and waited while Veronica Dread appraised me and devoured me with her eyes. The last time I'd been in the limo with her had been brutal, violent, and probably one of the meanest fucks I'd ever experienced in my life, and Mrs. Dread was probably replaying the whole fiasco in her mind's eye. Last time she had worn a breathtakingly tight navy blue dress and a pearl necklace. Today she wore a breathtakingly tight white dress and diamonds.

"You're taking too long," she said. Her dark eyes met mine and demanded their attention.

"To kill your husband? We never discussed a timeline. If you want it done, it has to be done right," I said. I still wasn't sure if I actually intended to kill Simeon on her behalf. I wanted to buy as much time as possible, in case of the very real possibility this was nothing more than elaborate trap. If there was one thing I knew about Veronica Dread, it was that she could not be trusted. "Is that why you sent those clumsy gorillas to my bar? I've inconvenienced your schedule?"

"You're still with the blonde," Dread replied. Her eyes hadn't left mine. Her look was serious, intense. Yet could she be serious? She had mentioned Sheila before. Leaving her was part of the deal that Veronica had proposed, but the request was ludicrous. 

"Don't tell me you're so overly dramatic that you'd have me killed because I'm with Sh... the blonde? The whole 'If I can't have him, no one can' thing? That's way too daytime soap-ish for you," I said. Veronica Dread smiled, and the effect was chilling. I'd never met a person who could look so evil and yet so compelling. She placed a hand on my leg and began to rub my thigh. 

"Let's just say, if I were to have you killed..." Veronica scooted closer to me. She leaned into me; her breasts pressed against my arm. Her hand rubbed higher up my thigh, nearing my crotch. "...which I would NEVER..." She found my penis and squeezed. Already half-hard due to her proximity, it turned to iron in her grasp. "... do, the best way would be to come at you indirectly. Let's say, if I were to hire... oh, I don't know, the Black Ghost, for instance..." As she said the words, my blood turned to ice, but my cock remained hard as Veronica massaged it through my pants. Her tongue came out and tickled the lob of my ear. Then she whispered,"... coming at you directly would be suicide. At the very least, the chance for success would be far less than if one could find a way to make you less than one-hundred percent. If there was a way to take you off your A-Game, to have you reeling a little, to dull that sharp mind of yours by taking away something or someONE you care about... your little blonde, perhaps... then, maybe, just maybe, someone like the Ghost would have a good chance to ridding your Daddy of his favorite toy."

She was right. At dinner the night before, Pops had likened his duel with Simeon Dread as a game of chess. I was his favorite piece. If I were to be eliminated then the game would be tipped in Dread's favor. However, the best way to get to me would be to lure me into a trap. The best way to lure me into a trap would be to take away my greatest weapons: my senses. To strip me off my senses, you'd not only have to find something I care about but to rip it away from me. The only thing I cared about was Sheila. 

"But why the men at The Deep End? They weren't after Sheila, they were after..." But I couldn't finish the thought because I knew I was wrong. The men at the bar weren't assassins. If they had been, they were the worst assassins on the face of the planet. They hadn't been sent there to kill anyone. They had been sent there to draw me to the bar, to distract me, to keep me away for Sheila, so she could be alone long enough for them (but who was them? Did it matter?) to kill her. If I hadn't had my head so far up Cynthia Skye's pussy, I would have seen right through it. 

The real target was Sheila, and here I was in a limo, getting an over-the-pants hand job from Veronica Dread. 

"Let her go. If you can do that, you can't be beaten. She's dead already, lover. Let them kill her, and fuck me over her corpse. The way you fucked me over the body of my dead brother," Veronica cooed, her voice like silk, but my mind was made. I just wasn't that dead inside. I couldn't let them kill Sheila. I couldn't celebrate the rottenness in me the way that Veronica did. 

"You're soft," Veronica said in disgust, and I didn't know if she was talking about me or my penis. 

"No thanks to you," I said, and I could have been talking about either one, too. "Take me to--" and I gave her the address of Sheila's grocery store. Veronica flung me aside and leaned back in her seat, her cheeks flushed and her jaw clenched. Hell hath no fury... well, you know the rest.

Her ebony eyes narrowed. She said, "You're making a mistake."

I said, "Not yet." 

Veronica pressed a button, hissed my directions to her driver, and then we sped towards Sheila.

***

By the time I got there, the place was already in flames. 

"I told you," Veronica muttered like a pouting child. Somehow, she still looked alluring. She peered out the window with her arms crossed over her breasts. Diamonds gleamed from the depths of her cleavage. I knew that if I changed my mind, she'd probably fuck me then and there, with the smoking ruins of Sheila's family's store smoldering beside the limo. Mrs. Dread was evil and dangerous, made all the worse by her beauty.

"She's not dead yet. She'd not dead until I see her and say so," I said, and my voice was so icy that Veronica had no choice but to look at me. Despite her reptilian blood, she shivered when she saw the expression on my face. Deep in her heart, despite her money, despite her power, she still feared me. 

"I want you so bad," she croaked, her voice desperate and quaking.

I got out of the limo and didn't look back as it peeled away from the gathering crowd of onlookers. The fire was raging, but it couldn't have been for long. No firetrucks were at the scene, and the gawkers were not in full force. I grabbed the nearest person, a geeky-looking teenager who had pimples dotting his face in angry red mounds and who was wearing a Marvel T-Shirt with some newfangled superhero I'd never seen before. God, I miss Ant-Man. 

"Anyone inside?" I yelled in his face.

"Dunno! Nobody's come out though," he squeaked. "An' I been standing outside since it started." 

I pushed him away and headed into the inferno. A couple of people yelled at me, but no one tried to stop me. I pushed the doors open, and smoke came out. I stepped in, and it was the inside of hell. Flame and smoke and not much else. I bent down, covered my mouth with my shirt, and made my way through the store. I had been there enough times to know my way around without the benefit of my eyes which were useless because of the smoke, anyway. 

"Sheila!" I yelled, and smoke got in my throat. Even as I yelled her name, I knew it was pointless. They'd got her, taken her, and burned the store in their wake. I could only pray they'd left...

Then I saw her Uncle David's shoes on the floor, toes-up, sticking out from behind an aisle. I'd almost stumbled over them; I got on my knees and took a look around the aisle. I saw that his throat had been cut. He'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but how could he know that? He owned the store, and the poor bastard was always here. The store was his second home. It was my fault the guy was dead. To whomever was after me, he was collateral damage. I kept moving. I could do nothing else but cough and gag until I stumbled through the backdoor. I gulped air and yelled again, "Sheila!" 

It was like they had stuck around, waiting for me, just so that I would see them. Thinking back, that's exactly what they were doing. One of them popped off a couple of shots at me, and I ducked behind a dumpster. The bullets clanged against metal, adding a few more pock-marks to the dented dinosaur. I gave it a moment and peeked around the corner to see the men climbing into a black SUV and driving away. The back was missing its license plate, you will not be surprised to learn.Through the rear windshield, I caught a glimpse of long blonde hair: Sheila. 

Then the car turned a corner, and she was gone. 

***

I went to Pops, but he was no help. He couldn't act on guesswork and baseless hunches, and I begrudgingly admitted he was right. After all, I only had a nondescript black SUV to go on. The guys who kidnapped Sheila, cut her uncle's throat, and shot at me could have been anyone. Anyone who was a professional murderer and kidnapper, that is. 

The investigation into the "attempted robbery" at The Deep End had also hit a dead end. The ski-masked men had not been recognized by anyone. No one could even guess at who they were or who hired them. They weren't Dread's men, that much was certain. Dread didn't believe in hiring amateurs and avoided outside help except when totally necessary. The dead men appeared to be out-of-towners, farmed in by who-knows-who. 

I was pacing, ranting, out of my mind. I was as belligerent with the police as I could be without getting my ass tossed in jail. Kross tried to put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and I screamed at him to "Fuck off!" Who knew where Cynthia was, probably earning her headline for tomorrow by blowing Simeon again. 

I had never felt so helpless. I couldn't go to the police; they'd been bought and paid for so many times, they didn't know who to answer to. I couldn't go to the press without compromising Cynthia. I couldn't go to Dread; I had been hired to kill him. I couldn't go to Veronica; she all but encouraged Sheila's murder.

The cherry on the cake had been when Dad said, "All you can do for now is get some rest," and I wanted to get pissed but couldn't. Because again, he was right. 

At some point, I made my way to my apartment and started trying to drown myself in liquor. I'm not a liquor guy; I'm a beer guy. It hit me hard. At some point, I slid out of my chair, lay on the floor, and cursed the ceiling. My legs were rubber. I had to pee and thought, fuck it, piss yourself. The world spun, shattered, and went dark. 

***

I woke up tied to the bed. At the window, silhouetted by moonlight, stood The Black Ghost. My head was pounding. Was I dreaming? Was this real? Was I dead? Or was I about to be?

"You're not dreaming," The Ghost said, her voice dark but musical. She had an accent which I couldn't quite place, perhaps Arabic with a hint of British. My eyes began to adjust. Her jet-black hair flowed just past her shoulders and matched the skin-tight spandex outfit she wore. Her hair and outfit-- along with her predisposition to lurk in the shadows, strike without a sound, and disappear without a trace-- had led to her supernatural moniker. Around her waist, she wore a utility belt of sorts with pistols holstered against each hip as if she were Lara Croft's evil doppleganger. I think the Ghost is why those games always gave me a boner.

She was speaking: "You are, however, sedated. Your muscles will be useless, so no point in putting up a fight. Along with the sedative, I mixed a lovely combination of muscle relaxer. Right now, you're just a quivering bowl of jelly that misses its girlfriend. You might not even remember this conversation in the morning. That actually might be to our mutual benefit."

The Ghost stepped away from the window and leaned over me. Her eyes were dark pools, sparkling with silver in the moonlight. She was beautiful, shapely, muscular, every aspect of her sculpted like a Michelangelo masterpiece, the Venus given life. She was also the deadliest woman on Earth and the only person who had ever fought me to draw. I couldn't help but compare her to Veronica Dread, another dark demon of death (pardon the alliteration). However, where Veronica seemed a corrupt force bent on the decay and rot of everything around her, the Ghost had a sense of nobility, of honor. Although the Ghost was an assassin, I sensed a camaraderie with her that I could only guess she felt, too. 

Unless she were about to slit my throat and piss all over my corpse. Or smother me with a pillow and then piss all over my corpse. Or pull the guns out her hip holsters, shoot me in the face, and then piss all over my corpse. I could only assume if she was going to kill me then and there, she would definitely desecrate my body with her urine. Then I wouldn't be feeling much camaraderie with her at all.

"I'm not here to kill you," she said, and I figured that proved she was a dream. The last time I'd actually spoken with the Ghost, she'd promised to kill me the next time she saw me. The Ghost continued, "I'm just here to talk." 

She found a chair near the foot of the bed and took a seat, wiggling a bit to get comfortable. I'd never wanted to be a chair more in my life. 

"We're being played," she said. She propped her feet on the edge of the bed, near mine, and crossed her legs. The Ghost said, "Simeon Dread hired me to kill you, then to keep an eye on you. Someone or something changed his mind about wanting you dead. Either that, or he changed his strategy."

My mind, though dulled by drugs, remembered Mrs. Dread's theory in the limousine. Maybe Veronica was right, and this was the change of strategy to which the Ghost referred. 

The Ghost seemed antsy. She stood out of the chair and slowly walked around the bed. She ran her fingers thoughtfully across the line of her chin as she spoke. "I killed the men outside of Johnny Knox's... favorite rendezvous location, for lack of a better description. Made it nice and easy for you. Mrs. Dread wanted Knox dead and wanted you to do it. I was just to assist. I'm sure you saw the bodies."

I had and tried to say thanks, but I couldn't move my lips. The Ghost moved her hand from her face to the bed, then to my torso. She ran her hand across my chest. I couldn't move, but I could feel her fingers. Electric tingles coursed through me wherever she touched. 

"I get the feeling they're wanting us to kill each other. Three times now we've been set up to happen upon one another; well, three times if you count Knox's hideout. I was there the entire time, of course, and to kill Knox if he killed you. You never saw me."

But I knew you were there, I wanted to say. Obviously, I didn't due to the whole "jelly-bowl" drug thing. 

"Also, I hate to be the bearer of broken hearts, but the blonde, your girlfriend, she's not who you think she is. I'm almost entirely sure that she's one of Dread's. He set up your 'meet-cute', and now he's using her to weaken you. And it's working, you fucking pup," she said, smiled, and ruffled my hair. 

Her words had nearly shocked me out of my stupor. Could it be true? Or were these just more lies? Was the Ghost attempting to confuse me more? To muddy the waters in the hopes that I'd be more vulnerable then ever? If so, why not just kill me now?

It made a kind of sense. I had met Sheila by leaving my wallet at her store. But if Dread knew I frequented that store, Sheila could have been a plant, and she could have stolen or moved my wallet when I wasn't looking while I checked out at her register. Coincidentally, I had met Sheila the very same day I'd been contracted to hit Veronica Dread's brother/lover. 

No, she loved me. I could see it in Sheila's eyes. Or maybe she was just a great actress, and she'd given the performance of a lifetime and fooled me into thinking it was true. Or maybe, I'd been goaded into feeling the kind of feelings that encouraged people to make stupid decisions. The kind of stupid decisions that could only be attributed to love.

I thought about Dad and Dread and chess. Those fuckers. For the stakes to be so high, they treated life as a game. If it was true, if Sheila was a fake, then a lot of people were going to die. Slowly. 

It seemed like an overly elaborate scheme to just kill me. I mean, I think I'm good, but was I good enough to go to all this trouble? I had a hard time believing so. There had to be something more here, but what? However, what the Ghost was saying seemed to be clicking with my own thoughts after what Veronica Dread and told me earlier in the day. Then again, maybe I was just too drugged to be thinking clearly.




Contract Killer Get a Clue



"I'm positive that there's an end game here, and we're not a part of it. In fact, I think we have to be eliminated if this thing is going to play out the way they want it to. And I don't play those kind of games, the kind of games where I'm picked last," the Ghost said, her fingers moving from my hair, down my chest, to my... 

"Well, well. Something's not partial to relaxation, is it?" The Ghost grinned, and it only made me harder. She had the kind of face for which people fought wars, the kind that launched a thousand ships. 

I wanted to tell her that what she was holding technically wasn't a muscle, but I couldn't speak. I have a feeling she wouldn't have appreciated the anatomy lesson, anyway.

"Sometimes I think about that night," she said, and her voice subtly changed, turning to what could be called semi-wistful (for the Ghost). She turned and caught my eyes with her gaze. "The one we were on that roof. I can't remember a night I felt more alive." She glanced down at me again and seemed to consider something. Her tongue slid between her lips, moistening them. 

"I suppose since your girlfriend isn't really your girlfriend and you're drugged and drunk and will probably forget all of this, it wouldn't hurt to relive a few good memories," she said, took me in firm grip with both of her hands, and stroked me slowly. My body lay still, but my brain cried out in pleasure with each sweet, fluid movement of her hands and wrists. My eyes flittered and tried to roll into my skull.

"Oh, you like it, I see. Maybe the drugs are wearing off enough that this will be fun for the both of us," the Ghost said. She leaned over and gave me a soft kiss, her tongue darting between her lips and gently brushing mine. I simultaneously sobered from the alcohol but went drunk with something else. 

Her hands left me, and I wanted to scream until I saw she was using them to remove her belt, which thudded heavily to the floor, and her outfit, which slithered gracefully around her ankles. She stepped out of it. In the moonlight, her bare skin shone. The Black Ghost had a body which would make other women hate her-- firm, round breasts, muscular arms, long legs, defined abs, a figure which was both hourglass-shaped and athletic. Genetically, the woman was a walking miracle. 

The bed bounced as she crawled over me, maneuvering her lithe body over mine. She took me in her hand, grasped me a little too painfully, and lowered herself down, sliding me into her warmth. She was moist, tight, hot. The Ghost sighed and closed her eyes. Her hard face went soft in an expression of intense pleasure, and I watched helplessly as I was enveloped by her totally. Her smooth, hard thighs wrapped around my torso. 

She looked down at me and said, "Right now, I could put my hands against your head and break your neck like a twig." Coming from the Ghost, it wasn't hyperbole. More like foreplay. 

She began to move, and the Ghost's gyrations were slow and graceful and unbearably good. The muscles of her abdomen flexed as she used me; her breasts and her hair swayed rhythmically as the Ghost gradually picked up the pace. She moaned, then pursed her lips. She was so beautiful, so unreal, that I wondered if this was a dream, after all. 

No, it couldn't be a dream. It was too good to be a dream. The other times I had dreamt of the Ghost, my dreams had morphed to blood-soaked nightmares. I could only pray it wouldn't happen now, tonight.

The room spun, but this time it wasn't the booze.

"Yes," the Ghost breathed. "Yes!"

She leaned back and began to move up and down, her hair and breasts now bouncing rather than swaying. Sweat appeared on her skin and glistened like stars in the moonlight. She placed a hand on my chest and another in a black swirl of her hair. Both clenched. Her nails broke skin, and the wounds burned like fire. The Ghost bit her bottom lip; her body began to tremble with electric shivers. She began to move more quickly. At this point, I had all but forgotten about Sheila. Did she love me? Was she a fraud? At that moment, inside the Ghost, I did not care. It did not matter. 

I yearned to touch the Ghost, to lick the sweat off her stomach, to kiss her collarbone, but the drugs and the restraints kept me from doing much of anything but going insane. 

The Ghost went wobbly; her entire body clenched and then exploded into a series of tremors. She cried out in pleasure; her eyes flew open; and then she went wobbly, falling onto me with a breathless gasp. I couldn't help but follow suit, and through the drugs, I made a noise of my own, an animalistic sound like "GNNAAAAAAAAAH!" as my lust streamed out of me in copious, liquid spurts. 

Admittedly not sexy, but I was on drugs. 

Her hair was a dark veil over my face, and her cheek was against my cheek. I could feel her hot breaths against my ear. Then the Ghost whispered "Tomorrow night, let's go kill some Dreads."

I thought, It's a date.



Contract Killer is in Too Deep



Author's Note:

If you haven't read the other contract killer stories, you may want to read them before you read this one. However, it is not necessary to have read them to enjoy each on its own merit (I hope).

They are, in order as written:

Confession of a Contract Killer

Contract Killer's Next Hit

Contract Killer Stirs the Pot

Drop me line; let me know what you think!

***

The hit had gone well enough until the man with the bobbing cowlick and Tom Selleck mustache opened his mouth and cried one of the only words capable of chilling my blood.

"Dread!"

But my finger was already pressing the trigger, and the word was punctuated with an echoing blast and the accompaniment of the target's teeth through the back of his head. 

The target's neck snapped back; his mouth opened in a yawning, toothless 'O.' His life fled from the back of his head like a rat off a sinking ship. Somehow the Tom Selleck mustache lent a certain absurdity to the scene. It twitched; a fuzzy caterpillar above his upper lip. 

Whatever knowledge the target may have had about Simeon Dread- the closest thing I had to a nemesis- now quivered on the far wall amongst wet spatters of blood and brain. 

A flash accentuated the scene. It painted the shadowy darkness of the empty subway platform with starch, blinding white, and my eyes went useless for a heart-stopping moment as I turned towards the light. I could already hear footsteps fleeing down the tunnel away from me and what was left of the target. They thudded and echoed like thunderclaps, and I sprinted at them, not wasting time waiting for my eyes to readjust to the darkness. 

My mind raced. My heart kept in time with the steps of my quarry. My eyes were receding curtains of black becoming thinner and thinner as my rods and cones worked their way back to coherence. 

Someone had a picture of me. A picture of me killing a man.

I had been set up. 

Someone knew that I'd be down there, or else they had been following the target, waiting for me to make my move. If the target did, in fact, have a connection to Simeon Dread that was bad news for me. The last thing I wanted to do was kill one of Dread's employees and make things between us personal. 

I suppose I should explain myself. (Back story Alert!) I am a contract killer, and in the criminal underworld my old man is a powerful figure, a puppeteer working in the shadows. At an early age, he discovered that I had a knack for... well, killing things. Now he gives me most of my contracts. Lately, a big-time player- the aforementioned Simeon Dread- has been making moves on a lot of pop's business. Naturally, this has made them something of enemies. I've found myself caught in the middle more than once.

Recently, we'd formed a kind of temporary truce. But it's a fragile thing: precious porcelain propped precariously (gotta love alliteration) on high-wire. One wrong move and it'd be shattered. A wrong move like killing anyone connected to Dread. 

I was going to have a hell of a bad time telling the old man. Pops would probably shit himself. I don't think it'd be the first time. He was getting older every day. 

Back story Alert ended.

I raced up a flight of stairs, stuffing my piece down the back of my trousers. Faint light glowed from the top. The quarry was leading me back to the surface, back to civilization. I didn't know what he looked like. Once he got someplace with people, he'd lose me. 

I heard a horn, and as I burst from the stairs and into the city night, I saw a black limo pull away with a screech, tires squealing and churning smoke on asphalt. The scent of burnt rubber hung heavy in its wake. I caught the license plate as it sped away: LDY DRD.

Lady Dread? A name split my lips, a hot breath on the cool breeze.

"Veronica."

***

I walked into the Deep End, the small club I owned, and caught a look from Kross that demanded my attention. Kross... let me tell you, this guy had a forehead like the side of a barn and a jaw so square and broad you could have turned it upside down and used it as an end table. He served as the Deep End's bartender and unofficial enforcer. He was also a good, loyal man. 

"Some redheaded dish is waitin' for ya in the back," he barked at me as he filled the glass of the sappy-eyed regular in front of him. 

"Cindy?" I said. He nodded without looking at me and continued to pour beer. 

I made my way to my office, past the low thrum of music, and paused when my hand touched the cool metal of the doorknob. I gathered myself together, opened the door, and there she was. 

Cynthia Skye, another factor in the complication I called a life. I loved Sheila, my live-in girlfriend, but there was something about Cindy. Something irresistible. Beautiful and intelligent, she was an influential reporter at the Times, and the less she knew about me, the better. All the same, it was hard to stay away. 

Her green eyes flicked up at me as I entered the room. She sat behind my desk, her legs propped up and her bare feet resting on a stack of paperwork, receipts and order forms for the bar. These legs and feet were encased by a pair of dark pantyhose, and above them, Cindy's face drew up in a bright, familiar smile. 

"Well, if it isn't my favorite son of Satan," she said.

"I'll tell him you said hi," I retorted. I took a seat on the other side of the desk, across from her. I tried not to stare but failed. Cindy was remarkably attractive: pixie face, dark red hair drawn up in a tight bun, a smatter of freckles dotting her nose.

"Kross let you in here?" I asked. Cindy's smile grew wider.

"I'm a people person," she said in way of explanation. I felt guilty just looking at her. Despite the fact that we had only slept together once and I had done so only under duress, it didn't excuse the fact that I wanted to do it again. I loved Sheila, but if Cindy gave me an opportunity, I wasn't sure I could say no. 

Right. I know what you're thinking: a contract killer in a moral dilemma, how fucking quaint. My response: Fuck off. Just because I kill people for a living doesn't mean that I haven't got feelings, too.

"Someone's out to kill you."

The words took a moment to register. I came out of my mental haze and looked at Cindy. My heart might have skipped a beat, but if it did, my face betrayed nothing. 

"Who?"

"One of Simeon Dread's bodyguards, the one that survived the shootout at Dread Tower. Johnny Knox," she said. 

She paused, then continued, "Did something happen in Dread Tower that you didn't tell me about?"

"Well, you know about the shoot-out. You were there. But I don't know why anyone would blame me for anything unless Knox thinks I'm involved because of my old man. How could I be hiding anything? Again, you were there," I said. 

"Yes, I was there. I followed the story, and it led me straight to you."

I couldn't read her expression as she spoke. Cindy would make a hell of a poker player on top of a hell of a reporter. Was she implying that she knew more about me than she had revealed? Or perhaps this was a bluff, an attempt to get me to reveal more of myself to her. Either way, Cindy played her cards close to the chest. 

She said she had followed the story- was this all I was to her? A part of her story? If that was the case, Cynthia Skye was as dangerous to me as anyone hoping to gun me down. I decided to test the waters and see what developed. 

"I was meeting with Dread when it went down. He tried to hire me," I said. Cindy's eyes brightened. I could tell that her reporter sense was tingling. She leaned forward in her chair, slipping her legs off the desk and a sweeping a pen in her hand. 

"Hire you?"

"Turn me against my dad. Gather information, give it to Dread, stuff like that. Dread thought that the estranged relationship I had with Pops could be twisted to his advantage."

A little of what I said rang true. Dread had attempted to hire me but to kill the Black Ghost, a rogue assassin; he didn't try to turn me. I thought the lie about the reason for Dread's interest in me was a little more believable and less suspicious than the truth. Cindy seemed to buy it. 

"How'd you respond?" she asked.

"Indifferently," I said and shrugged. "The next thing I know, I hear shots, hit the deck, and the shit hits the fan. I assumed someone was trying to get to Dread, and I got the hell out of there."

Cindy raised an eyebrow and said, "That doesn't explain why Dread's bodyguard was following you in the parking garage and why he still wants you dead."

"I was in the room with Dread. Maybe he thinks I initiated the shooting, who knows? I'm sure he knows who I was and who my father is. He probably assumes that I was behind any kind of assassination attempt. I didn't feel like explaining my innocence, and he probably wouldn't have listened, anyway. So I ran. Wouldn't you?" 

"No. I would have gotten him on the record and had the exclusive interview on the front page the next morning," Cindy said. "As it happens, my story was front page anyway."

"You're quite the talent," I replied and winked. 

"Thank you," she said, and something in her eyes made my cock twitch. I crossed my legs, a proactive resolution to hiding any potential hard-on. 

"I hope you don't feel like I am giving you the third degree," Cindy said. She leaned a bit more towards me, and I could the see the soft curves of her breasts swaying within her light blue blouse. I felt my throat tighten.

"I know you're just doing your job," I said. I struggled to keep my eyes locked on hers and not sneak down to the opening of her blouse. The potential hard-on was subtly becoming more than just potential. 

"Sometimes my job can make me a real bitch. I'd like to make it up to you, that is, if you don't have any ethical obligations to fucking girls in your office, on your desk," Cindy said in a low voice. Her eyes twinkled with naughty glee. 

This was the moment where I was supposed to say no, but the word just wouldn't come.

A serendipitous knock on the door solved the problem for me. The sound of Sheila's voice accompanied the knock.

"Hello?" Sheila called. "You in, babe?"

"Maybe next time," Cindy said, winked, and stood up from her chair. I took a deep breath and watched her ass work underneath the fabric of her short black skirt as she walked towards the door. I didn't stand, knowing that if I did, my pants would be inappropriately tented at the crotch. 

I called to Sheila, "I'm here. Come on in." Then to Cindy, "Call me."

The reporter smirked and said, "You know I will."

As Cindy left, and the door opened with Sheila behind it, the two women took a moment to appraise each other as they passed. The room was thick with tension, heavy and electric like the air before a severe thunderstorm. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I couldn't remember the last time that had happened to me, maybe when I was eleven and found a tape of pornography and saw the intimate details of sex for the first time. 

The silence fell heavy until Cindy was gone, her curves disappearing down the hallway, and Sheila turned to me. Her eyebrows arched high and questioning. Her light blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her pink lips pursed. Her expression said it all. She wanted to know the deal with Cynthia. 

"A reporter, hoping to get a scoop on Dad," I explained. 

Sheila frowned, unconvinced. She still looked beautiful. That was one of the amazing things about her. No matter what mood or expression crossed her face, she remained beautiful. She was incapable of being anything but. I ran my eyes over her. 

She wore a lime green sundress with designs of various fruits decorating it and matching sandals on her feet. Her oversized sunglasses were propped above her forehead, and she looked tan. As if she had just come from the beach. She had probably been sunning out on the roof of my apartment complex and reading, one of her favorite past times. 

"Thought I'd come visit you. Thought you might be missing me," Sheila said. 

"Of course, I miss you," I replied. 

Sheila rubbed her chin. Then she closed the office door behind her and locked it. She turned back to me.

"Prove it," she said. She slipped the straps down her shoulders, and her dress fell to the floor. 

I sat there, looking at Sheila's gorgeous and naked body, and felt like a complete asshole. I had Sheila, and she was more than any man deserved. She was mine. She should have been enough for an idiot like me. 

I forced these negative thoughts down and got my ass out of my chair. 

A moment later, I sat her down on my desk and went to my knees. I ran my lips along Sheila's legs, across her shins, kissing her knees, worked up, caressed her inner thigh with my tongue. Her fingers swept through my hair. 

Her breathing grew heavier as I worked my way up her thighs. I lightly treaded my fingers along the underside of her legs. Her skin felt smooth and cool. I heard Sheila moan as I licked the fold where her leg met her pelvis. 

My mind flashed, for just an instant, to Cynthia Skye's sterile-white apartment and to what I had done to her there. Something twisted in my gut, poisoning the pleasant lightheadedness of the moment, but I pushed it out of my thoughts and dedicated myself to Sheila. 

"You did miss me," Sheila purred as I delved my tongue inside of her. She leaned all the way back, and her back arched. She stretched like a content lioness under a hot African sun. She was warm and wet and tasted wonderful, a fine feminine wine on my prodding tongue. 

I moved my mouth slightly up and kissed her budding clitoris. My fingers tip-toed around her inner heat; then they found it and burrowed inside of her. 

Sheila wrapped her long legs around my head. The smell of fruit-scented suntan lotion drifted into my nostrils. Her knees rested on my shoulders, her calves draped down my back like fleshy scarves. She sighed in pleasure as I tickled her hardened clit with my tongue and worked my left middle and index fingers in and out of her. I took my time, going slow, knowing exactly what she liked and how she liked it and following the appropriate pace and technique. 

Take notes, fellas: Once you find what your lady enjoys, give her exactly THAT until she tells you otherwise. If you follow this advice, the only way she'll leave you is if you're the biggest asshole on the planet. (Note: you just might be)

After a few minutes of steady, determined oral manipulation, Sheila's body went tense; her teeth clenched; and she shuddered with a long, quivering sigh as she came on my face. 

"God," Sheila gasped, "So good, so good." 

"Glad you liked it," I said, wiping my mouth with my wrist. Sheila sat up, and her hands went to my belt buckle. A mischievous twinkle glimmered in her green eyes. I felt butterflies flutter in my chest, tickling my ribs. Jesus, she was beautiful. 

"You'll like this," Sheila promised and winked at me before sliding down, out of sight. A moment later, and she was right. I fisted my hands in her hair, clenched my eyes shut, and let the pleasure sweep me up in an overwhelming, wild wave. 

I didn't wait long. I wanted my lips on her lips and to be inside of her too much to waste time on oral delights. I pulled her up and laid her down and pushed carefully, courteously, and gloriously into her. 

"I knew it'd be a good idea to visit you," Sheila whispered and giggled. I shut her up with a kiss, and her tongue and mine entwined as did our fingers as I held her hands down against the wood of the desk. 

Whenever Sheila was under me, she did this thing where she bucked up into me and somehow simultaneously milked my cock with her heartbreakingly tight pussy. Sheila had at some point decided it would be amusing to make me cum as soon as possible and then make fun of me for not being able to last the length of the 100 Years War. 

I admit it. I don't understand women. 

She started bucking into me, and I met her with thrusts of my own. I thought if I just concentrated on giving it to her really, really hard, then my mind might overcome the temptation of my body to explode into a million ribbons of sensational pleasure. Our bodies met with short, fleshy claps as if our genitals were applauding our lust. I tried to pry my eyes off her swaying breasts, but I could not. 

I groaned, gnashed my teeth, and tensed my body, desperate not to let Sheila win this round. But she was too hot, too sexy, and (deadliest of all) too tight. Her green eyes flared; my resistance weakened. She slammed into me; her body quivered with impact; and I cried out in fluid, liquid orgasm. 

When I finished, Sheila laughed, kissed me and leaned up to smack my ass.

"Pussy," she teased. 

***

Most nights, I like to walk home from work. My apartment was a good distance away, but with the lights and traffic, the drive wasn't worth it. Besides, I enjoyed the fresh air- well, as fresh as air can be in the city. I knew some people would be wary walking alone at night, but I'm the sort of guy who knows how to take care of himself. I don't worry much about muggers. 

However, considering the fact that Johnny Knox, one of the deadliest men in the city, had it out for me, I would have preferred driving a reinforced armored tank home that night. But I hadn't known of Knox's desire to kill me before my morning walk to work. Alas, I was forced to take the shoelace express. 

I could've asked Kross for a ride, but having witnessed my bartender's questionable driving skills, that option was probably more dangerous than the chance some goon might take some potshots at my head. 

As it happened, I heard the guy before I saw him: clumsy, labored steps attempting to mirror my own. 

I figured it couldn't be Knox. Whoever was following me had to be an amateur, probably one of Knox's underlings. He couldn't have snuck up on a sleeping water buffalo. 

I knew of a cigar store down the block, one I had worked at for a small time between part-time jobs in college. I was still friendly with the owner, and I knew that in the small alleyway past the store, a side door was almost always left unlocked during open hours. The owner, Joe Hawk, had a habit of forgetting his keys when he went out on cigarette breaks; he eventually just kept the door unlocked. I passed an un-PC cigar store Indian (Joe was half-Apache or something and thought the statue was inappropriately hilarious) and slid into the alley. 

I quickened my pace to the door and discovered my luck was in; it was unlocked. I knew time was short before my pursuer would make his way into the alley behind me, so I shoved through the door, nodded at a surprised Joe, and cut a quick jog through the store and doubled back outside through the front. I turned into the alley just as Knox's man started down it. 

My gun was out and in my hand and gleamed in the cool-blue moonlight. The next instant, it nudged the spinal column of the thug. Knox's man froze, realizing his mistake. His ears turned a deep shade of red. I imagined the simmering rage he must have felt at being bested, and I smiled. 

"Be cool, and you'll walk," I said.

"Yeah, sure," replied the thug. 

"Where's your piece?"

"My pants."

"Trying to hit on me?"

"Shoulder holster. Left side."

"So you WERE hitting on me," I said in mock surprise. I reached to disarm him, and that's when I heard the second guy behind me. It was my turn to feel like an idiot. I should have known better than to think Knox would only send one man after me. Thank Christ that the collective speed of the two men was comparable to that of molasses on a cold day. 

I twisted around and grabbed the outstretched arm of the second thug as he brought his handgun to bear. He'd tried to get close, so he wouldn't miss. I made sure he didn't. As the first thug went for his weapon (left side, shoulder holster), I squeezed the finger of the second. His gun barked, and the Thug Number One cried out as his chest bloomed with lead-induced bleeding. He went down in a pool of flailing arms and crimson-colored failure. 




Contract Killer is in Too Deep



I brought my elbow down with violent force into the forearm of Thug Number Two. A bone snapped with a sickening crunch. The thug whimpered, spit bubbling on his thick lips, and sagged in my grip. I imagined he was wondering how things had gone so bad for him so quickly. Of course, the thought was probably secondary to the immense pain. 

I jammed my gun into the side of his neck, under his chin where his jaw ended. 

"Please, God, no," Thug Number Two blubbered. I don't think anything looks as pathetic as a scumbag begging for mercy. They're neck-in-neck with starving orphans and one-eyed puppies. 

"If you were smart, you'd be praying to ME," I said. 

"Anything," the thug whined.

"Information," I said and waited for the familiar song of a desperate canary.

*** 

Joe Hawk helped me hide the bodies. He's a good man. 

***

The thug had sung his song, but the tune was an old one. Knox wanted me dead for the murder of his brother and the attempted hit on Dread. Mostly for the Dread thing, I assumed, since the incident had lost him his cushy job. What was the loss of a brother compared to the loss of a healthy near-six figure income? 

But I had to wonder... why me and not The Black Ghost?

The Black Ghost was my rival, another contract killer who had crossed paths with me more than once. She had been there the night the shit had flown in Dread Tower and had not only instigated the shooting but had been the culprit behind Jimmy Knox- the dead Tuxedo brother-'s death. 

Something stunk in Denmark, and it wasn't the fish. 

I had little time to wonder about this as a black limousine with the license plate, "LDY DRD" idled outside of my apartment. I had ditched my unregistered gun since I'd used it to kill Knox's men, and it could be linked to their corpses if anyone searched me. Now I wished that I hadn't. I sauntered towards the limo, pulling my cap down over my eyes as I neared, hoping that maybe she wouldn't see me, and then the side door opened. I felt my insides lurch. I caught a glimpse of a long, white feminine leg, and then Mrs. Dread leaned out of the car to say, "Take a ride, handsome."

"Do I have a choice?" I said with a slight smile. 

She pursed her lips and then replied, "Of course," but something in the tone of her voice told me, "Hell, no." With a shrug, I walked around to the other side of the limo and let myself in. If nothing else, I figured it was an opportunity to gain some information. 

Veronica Dread wore a navy blue dress, sleek and elegant. It clung to her, accentuating the taut and curvaceous body hidden beneath it. Her dark, luxurious hair swooped down her neck and bundled at her shoulders in soft black curls. As dark as her hair was, her eyes were darker, two bottomless oily pits leading to hell. A glittering diamond necklace looped around her neck and pooled at the curve of her breasts. 

"Nice bling," I said.

"I'll leave it on when you fuck me," she whispered into my ear. I leaned back, allowing a bit more space between us. I kept an indifferent expression, a mask of selfless disinterest, but I felt my pulse quicken with a brisk tha-thump. 

"Really. You're the wife of the man who tried to have my father killed. Then I was nearly killed at one of his fashionable high-society parties. Now because of certain happenings at said party, his former bodyguard wants me dea. By the way, tell him thanks for inviting me."

Veronica regarded me for a moment. As much as I hated to admit it, she was a stone cold fox. We had met before, on a previous hit. We had... well, gotten to know each other quite intimately beside the corpse of her dead brother. At the time, I had no idea who she was. Later, I found out that not only was she a sociopath on the same lines as me but the wife of my worst enemy. Yet something about her turned me on in ways that I cannot begin to describe. It probably had something to do with her tits.

Veronica reached into her purse- just looking at it, I could tell it was worth more than I was- and pulled out a photograph. She twirled it between her fingers like a magician preparing a card trick, then dropped it onto the white leather upholstery between us. I glared down at it, and it was like looking into a reflection. 

Yep, it was me, all right. Me gunning down the dude with the Tom Selleck 'stache. 

"Why?" I said. 

"I want to hire you," Veronica Dread said behind her Cheshire grin. 

"I repeat the question."

"Let's call this," she said, tapping the photograph, "a bit of insurance. If you decide to be... uncooperative, a copy of it will end up in the formidable hands of my husband."

Her eyes twinkled. She enjoyed playing games with me, and I can't say I hated it, myself. But games can be tiresome, especially when you're playing with amateurs. The thing with chess: it's all about the Queen. I tried to lure her out into the open. 

"He'll know it was a set-up. It's too good of a picture to be a shot by some Joe who chanced upon a murder. So who? Someone who wanted to use the photo for blackmail. Someone who set me up," I said. 

"If you're being blackmailed, you're not totally under your father's control. This would mean you're a wild card. You could be working for anyone. Even the Black Ghost. Either way, you'd be a liability and better off dead in my sweet Simeon's mind," Veronica shot back, allowing her smug grin to widen. 

The game was deadlocked. I tried a different strategy.

"You never said why you wanted to hire me."

"To kill my husband," Veronica said, "of course."

Her words in no way surprised me. Knowing Veronica, they were what I expected. That is, with Veronica, one could only expect the unexpected, to borrow a worn out cliché. I frowned. The wheels of my mind turned, trying to see all the angles. Veronica should have been content as the wife of Simeon Dread; she had it all and didn't have to lift a finger. Something was going on that I didn't have a handle on yet, and that bothered me. 

"And what's in it for me?" 

Veronica's finger played along the neckline of her low cut dress, drawing my eyes towards the curve of her significant cleavage. Her brilliant black eyes glittered with imp-like mischief. 

"You mean, besides an insane amount of money? Do you really have to ask?" she said, then leaned in and placed her lips over mine. I let her press our mouths together in a slow, deep kiss. But after a moment, she pulled back abruptly and sneered. I had a fleeting thought that I'd done something wrong. Her expression was unsettling, a hint of her inner corruption. 

"Of course, you'll have to leave that blonde bitch you've been shacking up with."

My eyebrows rose in questioning arcs. Was she really implying that I'd have to dump Sheila to work for her? If so, Veronica Dread was more delusional than I had anticipated. 

I paused and replied, "I'll consider it."

"Consider this," she said, crawled over, and straddled me. She yanked the top of her dress off her shoulders, over her breasts, and then grabbed both sides of my head with her hands and pulled me forward into her soft mounds of flesh. 

I supposed I could have (should have) fought her off. It would have definitely saved me a lot of future grief. But I didn't. If you saw her, maybe you'd understand. 

Instead, when she demanded, "Lick 'em, suck 'em!" in gasping whispers, I did exactly that. I give a lady what she wants. What can I say? I'm a helpful guy. 

My mouth sucked on her warm skin; my tongue lashed out at her nipples. In response, Veronica writhed; her buttocks rubbed against my throbbing erection. They felt snug and firm through the fabric of her dress. Her diamond necklace shimmered. 

Veronica had once told me, "Why kneel at the feet of an angel when you can fuck the devil?" I realized now- as she ripped my skirt open and licked the side of my face- that she had a point. The woman was intoxicating, and I was drunk off her.

My hands crept up her smooth, warm thighs and under the edge of her dress. Her skin was just as smooth and even warmer there, and (surprise, surprise), nothing covered her.

"No underwear," I said. "Classy."

Her tongue lapped my lips. Her hands worked my pants open, and my erection sprang free. My cock prodded her inner thigh, leaving a clear smear of pre-cum. Veronica wrapped her fingers around me, and I could feel my pulse pounding in my cock. And then she put me in her, and I felt her sheath me, encasing me with tight, wet heat. 

Her jet-black hair dangled around her face, and her eyes bore into mine with searing intensity. I was struck by Veronica's beauty, her sharp, feminine features. She was as gorgeous as any professional model or movie star, but there was something else, too, something sinister. Yet that only made her hotter as far as I was concerned. She was the evil bitch that every man secretly wanted to fuck. 

And I was fucking her. Or rather, she was fucking ME.. As a matter of fact, she was fucking the HELL out of me. 

Her breasts bounced in my face, twin mounds of softly slapping flesh, and her thighs clapped against mine. The weight of her shapely body pounded into me, lifted, then pounded down again. My hands dug into her hips, gripping her as she gyrated. Her toned abs flexed and writhed. 

It felt so good, insanely good, and I gritted my teeth and matched her look of challenge with one of my own. I was going to take everything she could give and then give her back double. 

"Waited a long time to fuck you again," Veronica growled as she impaled herself on my shiny cock. I felt her moisture dribbling down my shaft as she lifted and then drove down on it with a hard smack, skin-on-skin. Her entire body tremored with each impact. 

"Worth the wait?" I asked and managed a sly grin. She answered by slamming into me and grinding hard on my cock. She leaned back so far that I thought she might break me off inside of her and then humped me hard, my cock bending backwards as her hips gyrated back and forth as if Veronica was riding a mechanical bull.

Remember those old Atari videogame machines? The ones with the one joystick? Well, her pussy was working my cock like a kid with ADHD working that joystick during a ridiculously high level of Pac-Man. But damn, if it didn't feel good. 

Veronica's diamond necklace sparkled and swung between her large, flopping breasts. She had, in fact, left it on while she fucked me. She groaned and leaned back up, one of her tits slapping me in the face. 

"Hit me," she breathed. I froze.

"What?"

"Hit me, slap me, hurt me," she chanted in a singsong voice. 

"You are one crazy bitch," I said.

You find out what kind of a person you really are when you're fucking a woman with seemingly no limits. You can do whatever you want to her. Now I wasn't going to be doing any slapping, scratching, or hitting, but a little pile-driving wasn't necessarily out of the question. Considering what I could have done to Veronica Dread, I don't think that's too bad at all. She deserved and probably desired worse.

I maneuvered Veronica upside-down so that her head was on the floor mat and her pussy faced me like a pursed mouth. I half-stood, half-squatted above her, pushing my cock down with one hand, and slid it into her. She moaned softly under me, and I rammed down into her. The meat of her thighs rippled. Her toes curled at the ends of her spread legs. I gnashed my teeth. Both hands now available, I held her legs apart at her ankles. 

I pushed into her with hard, dominant strokes. Veronica's face turned red as blood rushed into her head. Sweat slithered down my forehead, slipped down my nose, and hung for a precarious minute before falling and splashing against Veronica's naked, glimmering chest. But even over her, I felt as though I was not entirely control of the situation. She had such a way of manipulation that no matter how the cards fell, you had to wonder if Veronica had predetermined knowledge of the outcome. 

"Ah, god, make me take your cock hard," she slurred. 

"Plan on it," came my reply. 

Placing her hands on the floorboard next to her head, Veronica pushed back up into me with violent gyrations, hips swiveling and torso twisting. She grunted, and spittle flew from her mouth like foam from some kind of rabid animal. Every muscle of her body tensed in impending climax. 

"Fuck, yeah, fuck, yeah!" she cried with rising volume.

Naturally, I followed suit, and just as Veronica Dread squealed in exquisite, carnal release, I pulled out of her with a slurping vacuum of disconnecting flesh and erupted in spasming spurts of liquid seed. I watched great white globs of it spew forth in arcing trails before splattering against the sweat-lathered skin of the demon under me. Then I collapsed back into the leather seat with shuddering breaths. 

I closed my eyes and felt the weight of potential consequences darken above me like thunderclouds. It happened that way sometimes when you fucked a woman who was not your girlfriend. Things like guilt and regret had a way of burrowing into your subconscious and nesting there. But you did what you had to do to win the game, and I had to play a little into Veronica Dread's hands if I wanted to stack the deck against her. 

A stickier version of Veronica climbed into the seat next to me, hiking her dress up over her breasts and pulling it down her thighs with opposing hands. Patches of her skin gleamed with my sperm; rather wipe it off, she had rubbed it into her skin like lotion. Content, her dark eyes were glazed with momentary satiation. 

"So, do we have a deal?" she said, all business now that the pleasure had been transacted. "I'll consider it." I punctuated the comment with a noncommittal shrug. The answer drew a grim smile from Veronica's swollen lips as if she had expected no less. I felt the limo pull to a slow stop, and the smile widened, allowing a view of straight, white teeth. I realized that again Veronica had manipulated the situation in a way that I did not yet understand. 

"Where are we?" 

Veronica crossed her legs and replied, "I had a feeling you'd be a tough sell. So, I figured I'd throw in a little extra to sweeten the deal. We're next to a warehouse. Inside you'll find Johnny Knox, unguarded, unarmed and vulnerable."

My eyes narrowed.

"He has a morally-challenged filly, a blonde with big lips and easily spread legs, that he enjoys breaking in on a weekly basis. The poor girl." An impish twinkle danced in her eyes as she continued. "I've set a few wheels in motion that have placed Knox and his filly in this building to be disposed of at your, well, disposal," Dread explained. 

"I don't have my gun," I said. Veronica winked.

"You'll figure something out."

***

The limo pulled away, leaving me and the looming warehouse alone with my misgivings. I tried to sort the situation out, but it was a tangled mess, a string of knots within knots that could only be unwound after a length of careful, skilled determination. I gave it a shot, anyway:

A)Veronica Dread wanted me to kill her husband. She had a photograph of me killing a man i.e. blackmail material to bend me to her will. I needed the photograph and any copies of it destroyed since a copy in the hand of, for instance, a federal agent could easily spell D-O-O-M. 

B)Johnny Knox wanted me dead. But he knew as well as anyone that the Black Ghost had killed his brother. This meant he was being influenced by some other force than mere revenge. 

C)Knox was supposedly in this building without the benefit of his men or his weapons. I found this hard to swallow. Knox knew better than to show up anywhere without back-up, even to a salacious rendezvous with a whore. This meant that Veronica was either lying or setting me up in some fashion. If she was telling the absolute truth and there were no guards or weapons with Knox, then HE had been set up, but by who? 

As usual, I had more questions than answers. This was nothing new. Despite the fact I could be walking into a deathtrap, I figured the only way I could get a better grip on the situation would be to enter the warehouse and see what happened. 

First, I decided to walk around the perimeter and check for guards. One can never be too careful when dealing with psychopathic killers. They have been known to be dishonest from time to time. A shadowy alley sat between the warehouse and the abandoned complex next to it, and I figured it was as a good a place to start as any. 

As I made my way through the dilapidated alley, past stagnant puddles and rotting cardboard, I noticed fingers. The fingers hung from the lip of a closed dumpster, and they didn't look like the fingers of a living person. They had a grayish, discolored look to them. I flipped the lid of the dumpster open and came face-to-face with the corpse stuffed within it. A nasty-looking exit wound gaped open like a third eye from the dead thug's forehead; he had been hit from behind. I let the lid drop closed. 

The guy was one of Knox's men; that much was obvious. Knox had come with guards, but someone had already taken them out. Who? My mind flashed to the Black Ghost, but I couldn't figure what role she had in the Dreads' gothic melodrama. And why would the Ghost lend an assist for me? Traditionally, we were mortal enemies. 

I felt a dry scratchiness in the back of my throat. My hands itched for a gun. I reopened the dumpster and searched the body, but I was unsurprised when I found it had already been disarmed and its wallet taken. 

Not knowing what else to do, I found a broken window and climbed into the dark of the warehouse. Inside, there wasn't much to see but broken glass, dust, and a whole lot of nothing. I heard sounds, something like fleshy snaps and weak sobbing. I followed them. 

I moved slow, careful not too make much sound. As large as the warehouse was, there was an echoing quality to everything. I could hear Knox and his girl from the depths of the warehouse as if they were fucking right next to me, and as I approached, the sounds only grew louder. I rounded a corner, and there they were.

A manager's office sat on a second level, a large platform in the middle of the center of the building. I could see them through the plate glass windows of the office. Knox looked like a shaved ape raping an eleven year old girl. His muscles rippled as he plowed into her bent over the desk. She was not eleven, but she was tiny, a rail-thin waif with dirty blonde hair and the glassy, dead eyes of a stoner.

Her smeared mascara made her wet, blood-shot eyes look like a raccoon's. Knox had pounded her to tears, and she whimpered quietly as he continued to hammer into her. It wasn't surprising he was hurting her; he was about three sizes bigger than she was. He could have easily broken her in half if he hadn't already from the inside. 

"Yeah, bitch! Take it!" Knox demanded. The girl gave a high-pitched shriek as he yanked back on her hair and thrust. I couldn't believe she gave into this routine degradation. Knox must have hooked her on something expensive and addictive.

My mind worked quickly, trying to think of ways that I might kill him. 

I started up the metal stairs to the manager's office. My eyes searched the room, but I didn't see anything useful as a murder weapon. Not unless I planned on killing Knox with old cardboard or crumbling drywall. I knew that I could technically shove enough rolled-up cardboard down Knox's throat to choke him, but he was too powerful for me to get close enough for long enough to finish the job. 

The stair under my right foot screeched a long, metallic cry. The entire staircase trembled, and a puff of grit shifted and fell to the concrete floor below me. 

I heard the assault and sobbing in the office come to an abrupt halt. Knox had heard. 

Thud! Thud! Thud! The sounds of the ex-bodyguard were like that of a rhino gathering speed for a vicious charge as he approached the door. I had no good option. I could either run down the stairs, giving Knox a clear shot at my back, or I could head up and face him. What the hell, I figured I'd come here to kill him, and I'd have to face him to do so. 




Contract Killer is in Too Deep



The door to the manager's office flew open, and a nude Johnny Knox, the remaining Tuxedo Brother, charged out of it. He stopped, and his eyes grew wide in recognition. 

"ASSHOLE!" he cried. 

"Good to see you, too," I said. Then we were racing at each other like the opposing armies in 'Braveheart.' Great movie, but I didn't want to star in the real-life version. 

Knox caught me with a hammer blow to my gut. I felt the air rush out of my lungs, and then he wrapped a hand under my armpit and another over my thigh and flipped me over his head. The room spun, and then my back crashed onto the grated floor of the platform outside of the manager's office. I should have been grateful I hadn't landed on the stairs, but at the time, all I could feel was a slamming pain as my teeth came together. Very quickly, I was losing this fight.

As if coming from another dimension, one far from Earth, I could hear the girl screaming in the next room. She probably thought she was having a bad acid trip. 

Knox barreled up the stairs towards me. I met him with a driving kick into his swaying groin. I felt the soft flesh of his cock and testicles squish beneath the rubber sole of my tennis shoe. His apish, guttural voice turned high-pitched and girlish. The short-lived victory made me so giddy I could not contain a loud, heartfelt laugh. 

I made it to up to my hands and knees, but Knox recovered enough to slam his kneecap into my face. I saw stars, went dizzy, and skidded backwards across the platform. I would have been over if not for a safety rail at its edge. My body was one big, throbbing ache.

I heard thudding footfalls. Knox was again on the move. I opened my eyes in time to see two mammoth hands close over my neck. I thought he planned to squeeze the life out of me, but instead, I felt the ground under me disappear as I was lifted into the air. Knox was going to toss me over the rail. The fall might not kill me, but it sure as hell could incapacitate me or, worse, break my neck. 

I jabbed at Knox's eyes with my thumbs, and my right made contact. I felt something squish and bulge as my thumb went in deep. Knox screamed and twisted, and half-blind, he flung me through the air but not over the rail. Instead, I went through the plate glass window of the manager's office. 

The glass exploded around me, and it and I went crashing into the wood floor of the office. Now the girl's screams did not seem so distant. They pierced my ears and drove into my brain like iron spikes. I felt blood dripping from my scalp, wet and warm and sticky. I staggered to my feet and wiped it from my eyes just in time to see Johnny Knox storm through the door.

His left eye swung from the socket like a pendulum. It looked like a socket pulled out of a wall, the cords still attached. Knox's jaw was set, and I could see his pulse throbbing from a vein in his neck. His coils of muscles were so tense that they might pop like stretched springs. The expression on his face signaled imminent death for yours truly. 

Knox raised one sledgehammer-fist to batter my face into jelly, and he opened his mouth just long enough to say, "You're one fucking dead motherfu-..." when a jagged piece of glass suddenly protruded from his throat and the rest of his sentence was just blood-choked gurgles. 

The girl, the waif with the dirty blonde hair and the glassy eyes, said, "You took the words right out of my mouth." Then she shoved the broken glass deeper with the palm of her hand, and Knox stumbled back, staggered out the door, and twitched over the safety rail. I heard him hit the concrete with a meaty thud, one fucking dead motherfucker. 

***

I guess I'm turning into a softie. The limo had mysteriously reappeared outside as if Veronica knew exactly how long it would take for me to kill Johnny Knox. I had the waif with me, the twenty-something user who had saved my life. I wanted to return the favor.

The back door of the limo opened, and Mrs. Dread leaned out with a demonic grin. The diamonds around her neck glittered like imitation stars. I wondered vaguely if she had ever cleaned off the mess I had spewed on her. I spotted a small crusty stain at the curve of her cleavage that could have only been dried semen. 

"So do we have a deal?" Veronica said.

"Get this kid some help," I replied.

"If we have a deal."

I paused, sighed, and looked Veronica Dread dead in her hellish eyes. Some cultures believe that eyes are the windows to your soul, but when you looked into Veronica's, nothing was there. 

"Deal."

~the end~



Contract Killer Stirs the Pot



Life comes cheap. 

A couple of thrusts, a grunt, an exchange of bodily fluids, and the mystery of life begins anew. 

Life can also leave just as cheap. I like to make sure that in a few instances, it doesn't.

This is by no means my philosophy on life and how things are. I do what I do because I am good at it, and it pays. I'm a contract killer. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I kill for money. I hope you don't hold this against me. After all, we've all got to make a living. 

Killing's not such a hard thing. Not when it and death have been a part of your life since you can remember. Similarly to how you can't remember much before you could walk and talk, I can't remember a life where death wasn't prevalent, as much of a routine as brushing after every meal. 

Well, maybe not every meal. Let's be honest. Who really brushes after every single meal (other than dentists and Matthew McConaughey)? We'll say at least twice a day. 

The first corpse I have an actual recollection of, a memory of some substance, I stumbled upon in the basement before Dad had really hit the big time. In case you're unfamiliar with my situation, my dad is a big-timer player in New York's underground criminal world. I am not tooting Pop's horn or anything but giving you an idea of the kind of environment in which I grew up. Pops is currently the man who gives me most of my contracts.

Anyway, back to the flashback. My first corpse, I think his name might have been Tony. It's a relatively good guess since half the guys I grew up with seemed to be named some variation of this whether Anthony, Antonio or even the Tonester. They brought this guy into the basement and splayed him out on a hard wood table down there, his blood everywhere, dripping like red sweat, splattering and forming star-shaped splashes on the cement floor. No one noticed me in their desperation to save the guy. I remember him lurching and coughing and then flopping back on the table, stone dead.

Sharky Fontana- my dad's right-hand man at the time- gave "Tony" a single-worded eulogy: "Fuck!"

I don't have the appreciation for life that others do. I don't cherish it. No one showed me how...

The hell! What is this? The Dr. Phil show? That kind of self-analysis sounds hammy even coming from me. More reasons to never go see a shrink. Trust me, "The Sopranos" is full of shit.

These are the kinds of thoughts that ran through my head as I watched my current target's guard run his half-assed patrol. The guard wasn't too big, but usually these turn out to be the worst kind, the type of guys who think they have something to prove. I observed the guard as he checked in on his walkie-talkie. If my intelligence was good (and it always was), I had a good fifteen minutes before the guard would check back in again. 

I slid out of the darkness and crept behind the guard. Even in the dark, I got close enough to see the short hairs on the back of the guy's head bristle as he finally sensed me. Silencer at the back of his skull. A muffled blast. A sharp recoil in my hand. Quick, painless, and it shreds the bottom of his brain stem ensuring that the job is done. 

He fell into the grass. I helped him a little to conceal the sound. I had fifteen good minutes to get in, do the job, and leave without a trace. 

There had been worse jobs. Hell, I could be flipping burgers. Now THERE is a job you should reserve your judgments for; a country with a system of free, public education and kids cannot manage to find something better than McDonalds for the rest of their lives? It's a crying shame. 

An unlocked window led me into the house, a spacious four story affair that made my bank account cringe at the thought of its cost. I couldn't understand how countless unused rooms, empty spaces, and doors that will never be opened except to flaunt the excess contained behind them equated one's symbolic status. 

I was sure a perceptive metaphor lay in that thought somewhere, but I was on the job and metaphors were a job better left to lit professors. 

Voices filtered down the corridor, and I slipped into a side room before the owners of the voices caught up with their words. I kept the door cracked, allowing a sliver of vision along the hallway. My target sidled up, his alligator shoes gleaming in the lamplight. He shadowed a buxom blonde decked out in a French maid get-up: frilly apron, short black skirt. She even had one of those little feather dusters in her hands. The maid stopped, stood on her toes and dusted the ornate gold frame around some gaudy portrait of a pregnant angel drifting on clouds. Maybe I don't get art, but the angel appeared half-retarded. 

"Mister S---, I am trying to do my work," the maid was saying. She seemed to have a slight European accent, but I couldn't place it.

"Jesus, Greta, you just don't know what you do to me. Drive me crazy," the target said, unable to keep his wide eyes off the lift of the maid's skirt as she leaned up to dust the retarded angel's frame. I couldn't blame the guy, but it seemed somewhat sleazy to be ogling the help, considering he was married and a proclaimed "devout" Catholic. The press would have had a field day with what I was witnessing.

But I'm not one to pass judgments. I merely carry them out. 

"Mister S---!" the maid squealed as my target's roving hands reached up into the folds of her skirt. She twisted around and at slapped his hands with her feather duster. Somehow, I got the feeling that Greta had played this game more than once. 

"C'mon, I need you so bad. You don't know how bad I need you. I promise I won't be long," the target begged. Ironic how he was pleading with his own employee like a child begging his mother for permission to stay up past his bed time, but the maid seemed to mull his words over, waving her feather duster thoughtfully to one side. 

"Well," she said and gave a slight pause, "I have been letting your candlestick get dusty." 

I checked my watch in the thin light from the door. I didn't have much time, and if these two started getting naughty, things might get complicated for me. I didn't want to have to ice the maid if it could be helped. 

"Let me get it out for you, so you can take care of that," the target said, and he unzipped his fly. Greta sucked in a surprised gasp of air as the target revealed his swollen member through the opening of his pants. The target's penis pointed at the maid like a chubby and accusing finger. 

"I forgot how big it was," Greta said and gave the cock a light sweep with her feather duster. My target shivered with pleasure in response. With gleaming eyes, the maid slid to her knees. 

"I think I will have to polish you in the old fashioned way. With a spit shine," she said. Then she slipped her lips over the target's "candlestick," and I thought the lucky bastard might fold in half at the knees. 

In my darkened doorway, behind the door, I checked my watch. Probably a lot of people would have gotten a voyeuristic thrill from the demonstration of debauchery in the hallway, but I was on a strict timetable. Still, Greta was a hot slice of knock out pie, and at any other time, I would have enjoyed watching her work her magic. As it was, I hoped she'd finish off my target quickly and get the hell out of sight. 

"Oh, god!" my target groaned, and I thought for a moment that my wish had been granted. But Greta voided him from her mouth and gave the target's balls a hard flick with her finger. The target smarted and squealed, "Jesus!"

"No cumming yet," the maid said like a schoolteacher scolding a naughty child. She went so much as to wag a discerning finger at the target, the same finger she had used to flick him away from orgasm. I cursed her in my head: Dammit, Greta!

"First, you must bend me over and fuck me," she demanded and leaned over a short shelf of leather-bound books. The shelf was directly under the picture of the retarded angel, and I wondered how the target would manage keeping it up while looking at that particular travesty of paint and parchment. 

The target maneuvered behind his luscious employee and stabbed her insides with his flesh spear. Greta bit her lower lip and gave a deep, lusty moan. Her round bottom rippled as the target began to work up a hard pounding rhythm. The target plowed into the maid, teeth grinding, and reached one hand out to grasp a handful of straight, slick blonde hair. 

"Take it, you whore!" he grunted.

I didn't have time for this. I slipped out of the shadows, pushing the door open as quietly as I could manage, my target and his maid too distracted to hear anything but their own sounds of lust. I raised the gun, sighted it and approached the target with long but stealthy steps. The wet slaps of their frenzied sex masked any sound I might have made.

And yet, the target sensed me before I could send him to hell. His head moved in a slight turn, and his eyes widened. He froze, and I saw Greta begin to look back and see what had happened to her thrusting Romeo. If she saw me, she was dead.

"Keep your head down, stay quiet!" I barked, and Greta did so, a thin squeal escaping from her lips. I didn't know why I was going out of my way for her; I knew better than to leave any kind of witness alive. But something, some little flag from my conscience refused to kill her unless it proved absolutely necessary. 

"Who are you?" the target managed, backing out of the maid with a syrupy slurp of fluids. 

The gun came to life in my hands as the target came to death, his brains and chunks of his skull adding a more human element to the artwork of the retarded angel on the wall behind him. The maid squealed again, and I kicked her in the stomach. She went to the floor with an airy gasp, collapsing next to the now lifeless body of her former employer/lover. 

"Stay down, stay alive," I ordered as I slipped back into darkness, into the room behind me. 

As I dropped from the window and back into the warm night air outside, I heard the staccato-ripping sound of automatic gunfire erupt from within the house. I crouched in the shadows, feeling the brush of grass under my hands and listened.

A voice called out, "She killed 'em! Fuck her up!" Then more gunfire. 

It sounded as if Greta might not be so lucky, after all. I shrugged it off. I had done all I could for her. I turned to make my way through the yard when a shower of glass exploded behind me just as a half-naked woman in a torn maid's uniform thudded to the ground. I thought she must be dead. Then she groaned, alerting me that this was not the case, and I was in over my head.

A head and an arm appeared in the window after poor Greta's fall, and the hand attached to this revealed arm through yonder window breaks carried a nasty-looking machine gun, one certainly not legal in this state. I had a split-second decision to make. A) I could make my own self disappear and leave Greta to the fates or B) I could attempt an even more difficult trick and spirit her away with me, perhaps saving or destroying us both. 

My gun solved this difficult question for me by greeting the head at the window with a kiss of lead to the eye socket. My finger had moved on its own as if by instinct. Or so I tried to tell myself. 

A second voice cried from within the room, "Holy shit, she's armed!"

A spray of wild bullets tore through the broken window and kicked up soil and grass around us as I helped Greta to her feet. 

"This way," I said into her ear and yanked her arm. She managed a weak nod, enough to know that she was with me. Greta seemed shell-shocked, perhaps too much to realize she was now escaping with the very man who had killed her boss.

A second head began to rise on the horizon of the window ledge, but I halted its ascent with a bullet into the slope of its skull. Then I turned and ran, Greta at my side, her hands over her ears and her teeth gnashed, lips pulled back as if in a panicked grin. I tried not to notice her bouncing breasts, but even in our present situation, I found it easier said than done. 

At least one of the guards must have given up on the window and come from the front door. His shadow led him around the corner of the house to our left. Security here couldn't have been the highest quality. An idiot knows better to come around a corner when you're backlit so your shadow gives you away. When the guard's shape caught up with said shadow, I was already firing and sent both to an early grave. 

We made it to the hole in the fence, one I had cut earlier when entering the grounds, and slipped through it. Hidden by an array of hedges shaped like giant beavers, I heard one of the guards proclaim, "Damn, that bitch is good!"

***

I stopped at a 24 hour retailer and found Greta some suitable clothes. She couldn't afford to be picky, considering she was only dressed in the remnants of her maid uniform. Then I brought her to the bus station.

"Disappear," I told her, inhaling more gas fumes than I found desirable. The farting Greyhounds around me rumbled like impatient lions. "Never come back. Forget who you are, where you came, and most importantly, forget everything about me."

"I will never forget you," Greta said, raising her hands to touch my face. In reality, I knew she would not be able to pick me out of a line up. I have no distinguishable features, and my hair was hidden under a baseball cap. Contacts disguised the color of my eyes, and I had these under a pair of dark glasses as further protection. I look like the hundred thousand other people you see every day of your life. Still, one can never take chances, and I wanted her to understand how dire her situation really was. 

"If I see or hear of you again, I will kill you," I replied, masking my voice in a low, raspy baritone. If I had been in a better or more amusing mood, maybe I would have tried out my Marlon Brando. 

"You can't kill me," Greta replied in her indistinguishable accent. "You saved me."

Then she pulled me into a kiss, her lips sweeping over mine, her tongue lashing out and brushing my own. I didn't stop her. She was a beautiful woman. I let her sweep me into a waterfall of passion for a moment, but the ride was short. I felt the press of her breasts, the flowery smell of her hair, and then a twinge of guilt kept me from enjoying it more. Maybe sensing this, Greta pulled away. 

I had killed a man who had been inside of Greta on more than one occasion (or so I could only assume after I having watched them so cordially interact), but this didn't seem to bother her. Either there was more to that story, or Greta was a dangerous kind of woman.

"Goodbye," she said and disappeared from my life and into another.?After a moment, I checked my watch. It was almost two in the morning. My girlfriend was going to kill me.

***

Since my encounter with The Black Ghost, I'd been visited by her nightly in my dreams. I wouldn't have minded, considering the Ghosty babe was one hell of a looker, but these dreams often morphed into nightmares.

Tonight:

A rooftop, surrounded by stars and a large red moon. I recognize it as the same roof where the Ghost and I dueled and fucked. And then, there she is in all of her glory, jet-black hair whipping around her head, a bazooka on her shoulder. She sees me and smiles.

"Kill me or fuck me," she says. Then she fires the bazooka. I dodge the rocket, and when it strikes the roof, the world lights up with flame. I find myself within this dancing circle of orange and red fire, and The Black Ghost is with me, nude and shimmering with a coat of sweat.

"Kill me or fuck me," she repeats. It's not a hard choice, seeing her there with her statuesque body, an eloquent song of curves. After all, it's just a dream.

I am suddenly naked and about to arch into her when I look down to see that the Ghost's vagina has turned into a gaping mouth with bullets for teeth and a tongue of lashing flame. I attempt to get away, but the Ghost's arms are snakes, boas to be exact, and they wrap around my shoulders and constrict. 

The Black Ghost laughs, and then the mouth of her cunt devours me. 

***

I woke up with my heart leaping its way up my throat like an excited frog. I had kicked the sheets and blanket to the end of the bed; they sat bundled up around my feet in a mountain of fabric. I wiped away the beads of sweat clinging to my forehead and then stared at the smeared moisture it created on my wrist with something akin to disbelief. This used to never happen to me, control of my senses and body was one of the main reasons I made such an effective killer. These dreams disrupted my control, and that was disturbing.

"Another dream?" Sheila asked from the doorway to the bathroom, her slim body lit by the warm glow of the florescent lights above the sink. She ran a towel through her wet hair.

I couldn't tell my girlfriend about The Black Ghost without revealing more about my life and line of work than I was ready. How to explain the presence of a mysterious female rival with which I had engaged in rabid monkey-like intercourse? How to construct an argument in which I wouldn't be accused of being a cold-blooded murderer when telling her about my occupation as a contract killer? Instead- like any red-blooded man who hopes to continue getting laid, I changed the subject. 

"You've already showered?" I said and chanced a glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. The green numbers on the digital readout were not in my favor. It was after nine. Kross would be expecting me at the bar, and Sheila would be off to the small grocery store her family owned to work as a cashier. I had tried to get her to quit and take a job at The Deep End (the bar I had "inherited" from Sharky Fontana) where I could keep a close eye on her, but she felt obligated to stay at her family's store. 

"Yeah, I did. But I'm willing to hop back in if you're up to it," Sheila said and let the towel wrapped around her athletic figure drop to the tile floor. Seeing her there, wet blonde hair plastered to her head, her creamy white skin glistening, I was definitely up for it.

Typically, shower sex proves clumsy at best, but the one time in ten where everything goes right makes the other nine more than worth it. Thankfully, this was one of those times in ten: perfect. Our soapy, slippery bodies slid against one another's, our hands roving wet caresses and rubs. Our lips met, exchanging cool moist kisses, our tongues meeting and entwining and flicking tingles of electric pleasure into each other's nerve endings. 

Sheila was an aggressive lover, and that was part of the reason I desired her so much. She was originally from California and moved out to the East Coast to stay with her aunt and uncle after having lost both of her parents in a devastating mud slide while she attended USC. She used to surf, and she attacked me as she used to attack her waves: with fierce determination and will. She still maintained her surfer girl physique and sun-drenched blonde hair (though the hair was getting a lot darker after a few months in the weak New York sun- which was often hidden by the shadows of skyscrapers). By the time I had met her, she'd already lost most of her southern California tan.

I spent some time on my knees, her hands clenched in my hair and her knees slightly bent and legs spread to allow me better access to her most private area. I drank the water that streamed down her body, from her neck and between her breasts, rivulets of water that leaked past her toned stomach and through the nest of curls between her thighs and into my waiting mouth. My tongue darted out and lapped the sweetness hidden within Sheila's vaginal lips. Mixed with the clean smooth taste of the water running along her skin, it was like the finest wine imaginable. My fingers spread her open; my tongue worked deeper, feeling the hot warmth of her lust. 




Contract Killer Stirs the Pot



Then I felt her pull me up, and my head went light and cloudy as I gazed into her intense and gorgeous face, so youthful and eager. It had been a long time since a woman had owned me this completely. I brushed her lips in a soft kiss. Her hand gave me a slight push back so she could speak.

"Fuck me, bad boy," she said over the splash of the shower as it cascaded around us. Her green eyes blazed, beads of water shimmering like tiny diamonds caught in her lashes. Then she spun around and bent over, arching her back and pressing the firm hump of her ass into my stomach, inviting me entrance to her pussy.

Naturally, I accepted the invitation.

I slipped into her and felt her warmth consume me. The shower head sprayed my back with pseudo-rain, splattering off me and dotting Sheila's back with liquid crystals. I gritted my teeth; Sheila's tightness clenched around me. Slowly, deliberately, I began to slide within her. I grabbed hold of her hips with my hands, my fingers sinking into her flesh, and worked up speed. 

My head swam, drugged by Sheila's sex. No amount of pot or cocaine or meth amphetamine could give me the kind of high this girl did. Sheila was so tight that it was always a challenge to not spend myself entirely in the first minute inside of her, you know, like trying to not stuff an entire piece of pizza in your mouth after you haven't eaten in two days. My vision wavered, and every nerve in body exploded with snapping synapses. She began to fuck me, bucking back into me, and encouraged by my protesting moan, she started doing it harder. Wet smacking slaps clapped as if in applause as flesh met flesh. 

"You going to cum already, you bitch?" she said with a bray of wild laughter. 

In response to her question, I began to meet her gyrations with my own thrusts. My body tensed like one clenching muscle, but I refused to let it all go. Sheila wouldn't let me hear the end of it if I didn't manage at least a good five minutes. After a moment of near eruption, the storm passed, and I was meeting Sheila's hard fuck with one of my own, safe from spewing an unsatisfactory ending into her (for now). 

"Not before you," I challenged. The hot jets of water shooting from the shower head were not the only things steaming up the glass doors. Sheila smacked one of the doors with a palm, leaving a smeared imprint. She arched into me, my manhood sinking deep.

"Ah, fuck!" she grunted. A satisfied smile curled my lips. 

Her ass rippled as did my thighs as they slapped, and Sheila flung her head back, hair sending a spray of water into my face. Suddenly she tightened around me, milking me beyond comprehension, and that was the beginning of the end. Sheila cried out, and I followed suit, pulling out and shooting an arc of jism over the curve of her ass and into the small of her back. 

The morning was off to a good start.

***

The first thing Kross did the moment I stepped through the doors of The Deep End was hand me an envelope. An expression that I could only interpret as mounting trouble shadowed my bartender's face as the envelope passed from his large, gnarly hands to mine. I frowned. 

"This came for you," Kross said with a grunt. He had the kind of voice that sounded like his throat was lined with grit. 

"From?" 

"Found it slipped under the door, so I dunno."

I took the envelope. I hesitated, thinking that I had bribed/threatened everyone and anyone who might harbor an inkling of dissatisfaction with The Deep End's change of ownership. I decided to put an end to the mystery and fingered the envelope open. I was greeted with nothing more dangerous than a dinner invitation. The danger level rose when I discovered the dinner invitation had been sent by none other than Simeon Dread.

Simeon Dread- my father's rival and the man who had sent the Black Ghost to help me to an eternal dirt nap. I had no doubt that Dread had some kind of diabolical plot up his million dollar sleeves, the end of which he no doubt hoped to find me dead. Nonetheless, I was intrigued. It was certainly more interesting than a potential night of nothing more than "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns. The invitation reeked of the scent of a trap, but it was also an opportunity to meet my adversary face-to-face. In short, a delicious dilemma. I decided to take a bite out of it. 

I looked up at Kross and said, "Looks like I'm taking the night off." 

*** 

I hate elitist black tie affairs, bumping elbows and sharing stock market tips with New York's finest. The upper crust of the class system always seems stale; for the most part, these people are primarily comprised of money. Take away their dead presidents, and they're not much more than rulers of cardboard kingdoms. All these people want to talk about boils down to who has more dollars and cents, and I suppose that makes a kind of sense when you realize the Almighty Dollar is the only thing that sets them apart and gives them their sense of entitlement. But then again, what better to give you a sense of entitlement than the knowledge you can kill a man with only a plastic spork? It's easier than you think. 

A sea of old, graying men in black-and-white stretched out before me like a lost scene of the geriatric version of "March of the Penguins." Many of the elderly penguins' arms were decorated with young, doe-eyed blondes who looked more confused than beautiful. A few older women decked out in pearls and stretched faces formed clucking groups that were no doubt gossiping about the penguins with the young blondes. My mind turned to Shakespeare. Life was certainly a stage, and we were but players on it. 

I noticed two large, trunk-necked twins in matching tuxedoes: Johnny and Jimmy Knox, better known as the Tuxedo Brothers. They served as Dread's personal guard which only meant that Dread was somewhere close. I felt my mouth go dry in anticipation. As if in response, Simeon shimmered out of the shadows behind and between the twins. A silver cane gleamed in his hands. 

A slim man, Dread sported a dark tux and a sly smile framed by a trim, gray goatee. His hair matched the color of his cane, and it swept back from his temples as if forming tiny horns. A more sinister and sophisticated-looking adversary one could not hope for. His intelligent, cold eyes scanned the crowd and then paused once they caught me in their steely gaze. He gave me a slight nod. I nodded back, two predators acknowledging the other. Dread whispered something into the ear of one of the Tuxedo Brothers before turning and disappearing into the crowd, apparently to mingle. 

First contact had been made. I worked my way to the bar for a much-needed drink and to wait for what would happen next. The ball was in Dread's court, and like Iverson, I assumed Dread would be a ball hog. 

I had just downed my first shot of bourbon when a brawny hand clamped down on my shoulder. I didn't so much as flinch, but I felt my heart flitter- just a bit. This was it. I turned into the stony features of one of the Tuxedo Brothers. 

"Someone wants to meet you," Johnny/Jimmy (who could tell which one) said. 

One Tuxedo Brother led me to a room where the other Tuxedo Brother stood guard, a look of petulant disgust chiseled into his face. The twins exchanged grunts like the dressed up gorillas they really were. The door opened, and I entered the private sanctuary of Simeon Dread, leaving both gorillas behind me. 

Dread rose from the depths of a thick, leather chair and extended a hand. I took it in an obligatory shake. His grip was crisp and firm. His hand slid away. 

"Please, sit," Dread said, and he motioned to a chair opposite his own. 

"Thank you," I said and took it.

"Drink?" he offered as he walked over to small bar and poured one. 

"Thank you," I accepted as he poured another. Drinks in hand, Dread sat down and took a moment to take his measure of me. I waited, having already taken my own of him. I glanced around the room. Large bay windows behind Dread allowed a sweeping view of the city below his building. The room, itself, looked sterile. No pictures, no papers, no files, no personal flourishes, simply two chairs and walls of book shelves lined with leather volumes with gold titles gleaming on the spines. 

"You don't look like much," Dread finally said.

"So my mother often told me," I conceded. Dread laughed at my reflection and stroked his goatee with one hand. In the other, he gripped his cane. I noticed the handle was an elegantly engraved wolf's head. The head's mouth was open in a snarl; Dread's index finger played amongst the intricately carved teeth. Fitting. I felt as though I was dancing in the mouth of a wolf, myself. 

"And I expected no sense of humor. You must forgive me, but the kind of people I have dealt with from your profession in the past were quite... what's the word?" 

"Insane."

Dread's lips twisted in a smile. "Let's just say colorful."

"I'm the exception. If not for my line of work, I'd be considered boring."

Dread's smile widened. His expression was not unlike that of the silver wolf's head in his grasp.

"Somehow, I doubt that," he said. I paused, sipped my drink and watched Dread's expression. Here was my arch enemy, inviting me to have drinks and showering me with minor compliments. Well, maybe not compliments but he had yet to incite me to violence, and that was a surprise. Then again, what did I expect? For him to press a button that would drop me into a shark tank or a cavern of bubbling lava? Life was not a James Bond movie, and Simeon Dread was not Blofeld. However, life might be a horror movie, and Dread was about to transform into the Wolf man. 

"We have a mutual problem," Dread said, breaking my train of thought. He remained in humanoid form (for now). 

"Sociopathic tendencies?" 

"The Black Ghost," Dread said. His smile disappeared; his face turned hard. I understood why so many people were afraid of this man. His expression would have turned most mortal men into stone, but it was his words rather than his face that put a chill in my blood. And let me tell you, it takes a lot to put a chill into my blood. 

"The Black Ghost," I repeated. "The woman you hired to kill me." A visual from my dream flashed through my head: the Ghost's womanhood opening like a mouth to swallow me, teeth like bullets, fire rumbling up from her core. 

Dread shook his head and countered, "I never hired the Ghost to kill you though I have used her in the past. But your death, you must realize, might lead to a mob war, a blood feud. Your father would come after me with every resource, assuming me to be the culprit behind your demise." 

"Naturally," I concurred.

"This kind of war would be bloody, long, and expensive. In short, they are not cost effective. And I am not one to waste resources unnecessarily." 

"I see your point."

"This means that either a third party hired the Ghost in hopes of weakening both your father's and my own enterprises or worse, the Ghost is working independently," Dread said and crossed his legs. He downed the rest of his drink, smacked his lips, and thumped his glass on an end table. His lips gleamed with moisture. 

"So why have you brought me here and told me this?" I said although the answer seemed obvious. I wanted to hear my suspicions verified by Dread. 

"I want to hire you," Dread replied. "To kill the Black Ghost." 

If Dread had given me a chill before with his words, now he had straight up frozen the blood in my veins. I had to admit, the last thing I would have imagined happening that evening was Dread hiring me for a job. I had visualized a match of wills most likely ending in with a shootout with the Tuxedo Brothers and a daring, 'Die Hard'-esque escape by yours truly out of Dread Tower, the building consumed by flames behind me. This alternate circumstance, however, would have to do. When one is a contract killer, one quickly learns to be flexible. 

"Easier said than done. Even if I had the slightest idea of where to begin looking for the Ghost, I can't guarantee that I'd find her," I said. 

Dread leaned forward in his chair. He allowed his cane to rest against his chair, and his hands and fingers templed under his chin. His eyes gleamed with sinister light. Dread looked like an illustration of Mephistopheles come to life. 

"What if I told you that she was here tonight by my invitation at this very party? I've given her an indication that I know about her attempt on you. She believes us to still have a very healthy business relationship." 

"I'd ask how you knew about the attempt on me."

"Mr. Fontana told me before he disappeared. He'd heard that I'd put a hit on you using the Black Ghost, and when I told him that simply wasn't the case, we put two-and-two together. A shame that Fontana so suddenly vanished after being placed on my payroll and the attempt on your life as I have a feeling that he might have known more than he disclosed," Dread said, and his wolfish smile reappeared. His teeth shone in the dim moonlight filtering in the bay windows. 

I said nothing, reminiscing on Fontana as he pleaded for his life. A dark shadow crept over my thoughts. Things seemed to be falling into place. But maybe a little too clearly and conveniently. 

"In any case," Dread continued, "the Ghost must be taken care of before she can cause any further disruption. It's for our mutual benefit."

I grinned. "Speaking of benefits, are there any attached to your proposal that may tip the scales of persuasion?" 

Dread patted his wolf-headed cane and said the magic words, "Three million dollars and the guarantee that I will never order harm to any member of your family." 

It seemed too good to be true, so I knew it probably wasn't. Still, why not?

"I'll do it." 

***

I worked my way through the throng of party guests, one eye on the look out for the Black Ghost, my thoughts now a flood of questions. I had only gotten a good look at Ghosty once, and I had narrowly survived the encounter. Since then, she visited me in my dreams, but that was it. Could I even recognize her? Maybe... 

The Black Ghost looked Italian to me, possibly Greek but certainly of Mediterranean descent. She had sweeping black hair, strong features, and an athletic body worthy of Michelangelo's best sculptures. She shouldn't be a hard person to miss, but people in my profession have a way of becoming chameleons. My eyes scanning the crowd, I saw no one fitting her description. 

Dread might not be telling the truth about his invitation to her, and even if he was, the Ghost might not have bothered to come. For all I knew, Dread was playing me into some kind of trap. I couldn't rule out the possibility, at least not yet. 

With my mind on the Ghost, I never noticed the other woman approach me, not until she was close enough to tickle my neck with her hot breath and make the hair on my arms ripple into goose bumps. 

"We meet again," the silky voice said into my ear, and I twisted, half-expecting the Ghost and only finding myself even more surprised. 

She was dark-haired and dark-eyed with a look fit for Satan's mistress and to be honest, that's close to what she was. Her face held a hot, smoldering expression that might have turned any other man to a puddle of bubbling goo, ready to perform any heinous dead she might ask of him. I, on the other hand, had met her before and knew her game. I had killed her brother and then made horrible, repulsive love to her next to her brother's still warm corpse. 

Needless to say, I live a very interesting life although one that has reserved me a very special place in hell. 

"And here I thought that this city was big enough for the both of us," I greeted her, meeting her gaze. The dark-haired demon's lips spread back in a diabolical smile. I tried to keep my eyes of her hourglass figure, one struggling against the confines of a short, black cocktail dress. Diamond earrings glistened and hung low from her ears while more diamonds circled her neck and spilled into the curve of her cleavage. 

"Before we set about getting nostalgic, I should take the time to introduce myself," she said and stuck out her hand. "I'm Veronica Dread."

I let her hand dangle in the air. For a moment, my heart stopped, did a double take, and puttered back to a coughing start. What was with these people and their uncanny ability to drop bombshells on me? I felt like Main Street, Baghdad. 

"You're Simeon's..."

"Wife," she finished. I knew Simeon Dread was notorious for protecting members of his family from the media, and hardly any pictures of his current wives or any previous ones existed in the public realm, but this revelation came as something of a shock. I had not felt more out of my element in a long, long time. I wondered if this was part of Dread's plan. Veronica's smile widened. 

"Don't worry. Simeon knows nothing about our... past. But you should know he was the one who hired you to kill my brother," she said. 

"Delightful," was all I could think to say. The taste had gone out of my mouth as my mind reeled to out all the fresh information into context. 

"Looks like you could use some air," Mrs. Dread said, and she grabbed my arm and started pulling me towards an open balcony. I allowed her to lead me, wondering how the evening could become any more complicated before finding the Black Ghost. 

On the balcony, the night air felt brisk and cool. Dread Tower maintained a stunning view of the city sprawled around it, all blinking lights, reds and yellows. Dread Tower was like a modern day Mount Olympus from which the immortal Zeus (played by Simeon Dread in his finest role to date) watched over the mortals below. Then Veronica's arms were around me, dragging me into her warm embrace. She smelled sweet and exotic like some kind of foreign fruit with mouth watering cleavage. 

"Kiss me," she breathed. My mind flashed to Sheila.

My mouth said, "Your husband."

My dark-haired demon grinned like an imp. Her teeth were a shiny, straight set of pearls framed by a set of luscious red lips. A breeze ruffled her hair. 

"He lets me have a few toys to keep me occupied while he stays focused on his business. So take advantage of this situation and let me play with you... toy," she purred. 

I tried not to remember the feel of her lips on me but failed. Veronica Dread radiated sex, poisoning all those who came in contact with her. I closed my eyes and saw Veronica, turned the image into Sheila, felt a strange twist of innards and an ache in my chest, and reopened my eyes. 

"I can't," I said. Veronica's arms dropped away from me like lead weights. Her eyes blazed for a moment, fire plowing through her mind and undoubtedly incinerating me in a vivid visualization. Then realization and a sly smile informed her face. 

"A sudden code of chivalry holding you back? Or maybe just a girl, someone innocent, someone new. A girl with a virgin soul and an angel's face," Veronica said, leaning in so close I could taste the wine on her breath. Her lips peeled back in a vicious smile. 

"Why worship at the feet of an angel when you can fuck the devil?" she whispered. 

Veronica Dread had a point. She was also built like a brick shithouse, so I probably would have fallen under her spell if she had not reopened her mouth and ruined her chances. 

"Besides, Simeon's going to be in his meeting with that woman. We've got a good ten minutes," she said and licked her lips. If life was a comic strip, a gigantic exclamation point would have appeared over my head.

"What woman?" I said. Every fiber of my being shrieked in alarm. 

***

Thank Christ, I have no fear of heights. Remembering the bay window of Dread's study, I noticed that the balcony of what I believed to be the same room was jumping distance from the balcony Veronica Dread had attempted to seduce me. I sent her away under the pretense of getting us some drinks and maneuvered myself on the banister. 




Contract Killer Stirs the Pot



The wind whipped around me at this elevation, and I forced thoughts of a potential fall and subsequent splatter out of my mind. At that moment, I did not envy Batman. This was not a stunt I wanted to attempt more than once. I sucked in an intake of breath, hoping it wouldn't be my last, felt the muscles in my legs tense and then leapt. 

My heart was in my throat as I flew through the night, my hair caught in a blast of wind, the flaps of my tux bellowing behind me. Then the banister of the opposite balcony was under me, and my arms wrapped around it, and my feet slammed into concrete. A sharp, blunt pain jerked at my shoulder as the force of my jump connected with the unforgiving dexterity of the architecture. 

I held my breath. I had no doubt that Dread Tower windows would be both soundproof and bulletproof, but bad luck had a way of following me. When no one raced to the window with weapon in hand, I felt safe enough to pull myself over the side and into the balcony. Using as much caution as I could muster, I peeked into the edge of the closest window. 

And there she was: The Black Ghost. She stood in front of a seated Dread, and he was talking to her, tapping the head of his silver cane. The Ghost nodded at whatever was being said. I felt a dull, dark throbbing ache slink into my gut. 

She wore a black business suit, something that would have stuck out like a sore thumb in the party amongst the skirts and dresses and diamonds. Not to mention, she looked even more incredible than I had remembered. Her long, black hair flowed and spooled at her shoulders. Her profile was eloquent, perfect. I couldn't figure out how I had missed her. Unless... she had never been at the party. 

If she had been in the study all along, hidden, listening to everything Dread and I had said... it made a kind of sense. I didn't know how Dread was playing this, but things did not look to be in my favor. I rubbed my lips and tried to figure out what to make of the meeting between the Ghost and Dread. There had to be a way I could use this information to my advantage.

Then the Ghost turned towards the window and saw me. 

Our eyes locked; time froze. Then her hand was at her side and up, and the glass in front of me suddenly cracked with spider webs. A gun was in her hand, and she had fired it at me. This time, luck seemed to be on my side. I had been right: the glass was bulletproof. 

Then the bay windows swung open with a creak. The Ghost had blown off the latch.

"Jesus fuck," I said in a doomed voice. The gun in the Ghost's hand barked to life.

Then the doors to the study flew open, and the Tuxedo Brothers appeared in the frame. The gorillas were already reaching into the coats of their tuxedos and revealing their concealed guns. It seemed that everyone had come to this party armed but me. 

Simeon Dread jerked up and out of his chair and shouted, "Assassins! Trying to kill me!"

"Jesus fuck!" I cried again (this time with more urgency) and dove into the room. I stumbled behind the bar. Bullets popped bottles of booze on shelves behind me. A rain of bourbon and whiskey splashed around me: an alcoholic's fantasy given life. As the top of the bar cut off my vision, I saw that the Ghost had turned around with a look of angry betrayal on her face to exchange fire with the Tuxedo Brothers. 

Fumes from the spilt bottles burned my nostrils. I grabbed a few bottles, tossed them over the top of the bar. They smashed to the floor, relatively quiet amongst the staccato eruptions of gunfire. I remembered that a small lamp was perched on one end, and I crawled over to where I saw the cord leading up and disappearing over the edge. I remembered the shelves and books and chair: plenty of flammable objects. I reached up, felt the body of the lamp in my palm and tossed it. 

Bullets peppered the wall above me. I heard the bulb of the lamp pop, an electric fizzle, and then flames roared to life. 

"Shit!" one of the Tuxedo Brothers cried. This was my cue. 

I flung myself from behind the bar and towards the voice. I caught either Johnny or Jimmy in a football tackle. His gun went flying into the fire. Out of the corner of my eye as we went sprawling, I saw the other twin chasing the Ghost through the study door, his gun spewing bullets. The crowd beyond exploded in panicked screams. There was no sign of Dread.

"Terrorists!" someone yelled.

Then we crashed into a bookshelf and thick volumes dropped onto our prone bodies. The Tuxedo Brother grunted as a copy of "War and Peace" bounced off his skull. Flames licked their way up around us. The fire was spreading more quickly than I had hoped, probably too quickly.

My knee went up and caught the gorilla in the groin, and then his head ducked down and drove into my chest. I went barreling backward. He came at me like a charging rhino and caught me with his shoulder in my ribs. I thought I heard something crack, and we were outside, the night air whipping around us, much cooler than the fiery heat of the study and yet red hot pain scorched through my chest. 

I swung him, using the gorilla's own momentum against him as we went flailing onto the balcony and then he was over the side, and I heard a single, garbled cry as he was swallowed by the night. 

"Booked you a flight to hell, fucker. One way," I said and spat. Then his baseball mitt of a hand came over the banister, and his head rose into view. He must have caught hold of the balcony before dropping to death. More bad luck.

"Looks like you changed your reservation," I groaned.

Not one to push it, I turned and ran. It's one thing to take on a guy bigger than you. It's something else when you're about 95% certain you've got a broken rib and no weapon. I leapt through the hungry flames of the study and was through the door and in the midst of the screaming crowd the next moment. The fire alarm blared in my ears. Water spigots from the ceiling erupted with sprays of manufactured rain. 

I stepped over the bullet torn body of the other Tuxedo Brother. Blood pooled like a crimson halo around his head. Apparently, the Black Ghost had fared better against her adversary than I. 

***

I used the stairs, jumping them more than using them, and then hopped into the service elevator a few floors down. The flock of freaked out party goers more or less assisted my flight, but I knew the surviving Tuxedo Brother would be on my tail, pissed off even more once he saw his dead twin. 

It was no secret that the party guests were all parked on the same level. When the elevator opened, I saw the surviving Tuxedo brother across the garage, twisting some poor schmuck around to see if he was me. I ducked behind a concrete partition, wondering how the hell I was going to get to my car without being spotted.

"You ok?" a female voice inquired behind me. I turned towards the voice and was met by an attractive, young redhead with pouting lips and wide emerald eyes. A short green dress matched her eyes and clung to a set of elegant curves. 

I said the first thing that came to mind: "I'll give you four hundred dollars if you blow me."

This was not the typical way I greeted women, but I didn't have much time for charm and small talk. This was not the opportune moment for, "Do you come here often?" I needed someone who get spirit me the hell out of Dread Tower with all my internal organs intact, and I've found sexual perversity is much more acceptable to the female mind than the fact people want you dead. 

The woman's sharp eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a thin red line. I figured she was about to reach into her purse and spray me with Mace, but instead, she grabbed my wrist with thin fingers and pulled me towards a row of cars. 

"C'mon," she said and led me to a gray Mercedes. She pulled a set of keys out of her purse, and with an electronic beep, the car doors unlocked. I opened the passenger door and climbed in; the woman in the green dress slid behind the wheel. I looked out the windshield to check on the lone Tuxedo's position. He was headed our way, but he hadn't spotted me. His perfectly square head turned from side to side, squinting at every guy that went by and scanning them for my likeness. 

"So, you got this four hundred dollars?" the woman said. I turned and saw her looking at me expectantly; she held one hand out towards me. 

"Uh, yeah," I said and fished out my wallet. I passed her four Benjamins. They disappeared down the front of her dress. Lucky Ben, he was always a ladies' man.

"Unzip," she ordered, licking her lips. I did so and checked for the Tuxedo again. He'd covered about half the distance towards us. I hoped to God that this worked. I figured Sheila would forgive me a rogue blowjob if it meant survival versus getting my brain bashed in by an angry gorilla in Armani. 

The redhead fished me out with a certain sense of enthusiasm. I couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't the first time she had done something like this. I felt myself becoming hard in her nimble fingers. I silently asked Sheila for forgiveness.

Then I was in her mouth, and my hands went over my face. I'd like to say that I didn't enjoy the redhead's stroking sucks and the roll of her tongue on my shaft, but why would I lie to you? My breaths were hot and trembling against my palms. I looked through the cage of my fingers, and the last Tuxedo Brother stood outside the Mercedes and looked straight at me. 

I imagined what he saw: a man with hands over his face, obviously to keep himself from crying out or looking ridiculous in the throes of intense pleasure while a mop of red hair bobbed up and down in his lap. The Tuxedo Brother sneered in disgust and moved away from the car. I blew a sigh of relief. 

The redhead must have mistaken the sigh for one of pleasure, and she said, "You likey?" 

"Yeah, yeah. Listen, can you get us out of here?" I proposed. Her eyes widened. My stiff penis prodded her cheek, leaving a wet smear. 

"It'll cost you another hundred to stick it in me," she said. 

"Whatever gets me out of this building." 

***

Outside, the Dread Tower shrinking behind me, I felt the sense of impending doom lift like the passing shadow of a cloud over the sun. I had survived yet another encounter with the Black Ghost, not to mention Simeon Dread and his underlings. Yet, I had come away with more questions than answers. My life, if anything, was murkier than before. A few lines from "Airplane" crossed my mind: "The fog is getting thicker. And Leon is getting larrrrger."

"You can drop me off anywhere," I told the redhead. 

"Whoa, whoa," she said in a petulant tone, "You can't just go. You owe me a fuck."

I didn't know how to respond. Four hundred of my hard earned dollars currently resided in the vicinity of this woman's milky breasts, and she wasn't satisfied. What can I say? Once they get a taste, they want the whole thing. 

God, I must come off like an arrogant fucker in these things. 

"The way I see it, I saved your ass back there. Don't pretend that Frankenstein's monster in the tux wasn't after you. I saw the way you looked at him," she continued. I really examined at the woman for the first time. She was slim with very white skin and a smatter of reddish freckles dotting the brow of her nose. Her breasts pushed against the fabric of her dress. She turned, saw me looking at her, and I flicked my gaze away, quickly. 

"You've got a good imagination. Truth is, I started thinking about my wife," I said. 

"So you couldn't blow your load down my throat because you thought of your wife? That is a sad state of affairs, my friend." A funny but cute smile curved the corners of her mouth. 

"Yeah," I said.

"Here's my place. You're coming with me, or maybe I'll just have to follow you home and tell your wife what you think about with your dick in other women's mouths," the redhead said and laughed, bright and full. Something about her made me like her despite the situation. She seemed inhibited, rebellious, and true. I know it's weird to describe a person as "true," but that's how she came off. Considering my line of work, I understood how few aspects of life seemed to ring "true." I had a feeling this woman could see right through my lies.

"Fine," I told her. "I'll come up."

Her apartment was an exercise in minimalism. Everything was an unsoiled white: the single couch and table, a tall metal lamp in one corner, the furry carpet. White curtains hung like shrouds over the windows. It was like a Klan member's wet dream. 

"Yeah, I know. Bland as hell. I'm not here often. Really just to sleep and fuck strangers," the woman told me and yanked my arms, pulling me towards the couch. Her red hair bounced in fiery contrast to the colorless surroundings. She swung around and threw her mouth over mine, and I accepted her affections with a surprised noise, a kind of yelp morphed into a low moan. Her lips were soft and cool like pulling a familiar sheet over you when you settle down on a hot winter night. I enjoyed the kiss more than I should have.

My mind thought 'Sheila', and my mouth said, "My wife."

"Fuck her," the woman said with an amused giggle. "No, better yet, fuck ME." 

So, I did. What can I say? I'm a sucker for redheads. Our mouths locked on to one another's, and we tumbled to the couch. Our hands tore at each others clothes. Hers worked at my belt, mine at her shoulder straps. Her dress slithered down her slim body and puddled around her feet on the floor. A red bra contained pert breasts straining against lacy fabric. I noticed the four faces of Benjamin Franklin giving me a sly smile, sticking out of the top of the bra. I unhooked it, and it (along with the Bens) flittered next to the dress. Her hands dipped into my pants, and my pants slid down my legs. Suddenly I felt myself free and hard, warm fingers encircling me and giving sweet, gentle strokes. 

The redhead on top of me, I sunk into the deep cushions of the couch. Pillows like clouds surrounded my head. My hands became explorers traversing curving hills and hot valleys. I tried not to think of Sheila, tried to push her out of my head, and tell myself that I was doing this not because I wanted the redhead's smooth, ivory skin sliding over mine but because I needed to do everything in my power to give this redhead what she wanted so she'd leave me alone after a harmless (hot), meaningless (exciting) fling (sport fuck with a stranger). 

At some point, sometime in the midst of the sixty-nine position, I managed to put thoughts of Sheila and all related guilt on the back burner. With the redhead's warm, dewy slit in my face, my mouth slick and sweet with her juices, I could help but become one with the moment and leave the rest of the world to itself. My cock was encased with her mouth; her tongue lapped at and licked my pulsing shaft, producing electric twinges of pleasure that raced through my body. Cushions bounced around me; I sank deeper into the couch. 

I prodded her insides with my finger, kept her clit held between my lips and flicked it, circled, then flicked it more with my tongue. Soon, I felt her tiny figure tense in response.

She spat me out and groaned, "Ah, God!"

I couldn't help but smile as I continued my pleasurable assault of her. Then she cried out in orgasm, and she began to twitch and buck on top of me, pressing her pussy harder into my face, my fingers sinking deeper into her. She cried out louder.

When she seemed to be finished, she swung around so that her face met mine, and then we were kissing. She kissed me as though she were starved for kisses, consuming them, feeding off of our combined lust.

Can you truly love someone in a moment? Or do you just love the moment? For an instant, I felt as though I loved this woman. She was my god, and her desire for me and our lovemaking swept me up in a feeling that I don't know how to describe except as love. It was an ultimate high, and that is a place commonly reserved for love. Yet I knew next to nothing about this woman. Perhaps, this is why so many men and women confuse sex with love. 

"I taste so good," she said when her mouth came away from mine. I smiled up at her, her lipstick smeared on our mouths. We looked like kids drinking cherry Kool-aide. 

"Jesus, you're hot," I told her. She nodded. Reddish hair dangled over her brow.

"I know." And then she took a hold of me and put me in her. I gasped, and she moaned. We started kissing again and worked towards a comfortable rhythm, her thighs clapping against mine. 

I grabbed her hips, my fingers sinking deep into her flesh. Her breasts bounced up and down, pink nipples hard and protruding like rubber caps. Her stomach was flat and toned; my mouth watered as I watched her abs flex as she gyrated. The sheen of her sweat shimmered on ivory skin. My cracked rib was long forgotten.

Time slid away like running water through my fingers. I did my best to keep it cupped in my hands and enjoy its taste, but it drained away all too quickly. 

I flipped my lover over and impaled her. Her legs wrapped around me, her heels digging into my buttocks. 

"God, yes," I said, and the feeling of going in and out of her annihilated all rational thought. The redhead's pussy was tight, warm, and slick: the holy trinity. I leaned over and kissed her, and I wrapped my arms around her. Holding her close, our lips locked, I felt the redhead buck up into me, meeting my fuck with her own. 

"Slow down," I said into her mouth. I felt her lips curl into a smile. 

"It's ok, you can cum in me," she whispered.

"What?"

"It's ok, I can't... oh, god. Oh, god." 

She kissed me hard. Our lips smashed, my own pressed deep into my teeth, painfully. Her pussy seemed to squeeze me, and I knew I would have to take her advice. There was no holding back now. Her feet squirmed; her heels prodded my ass with soft kicks. I drove into her. She pushed into me. 

"Yes, yes, yes!" she cried. We came together or as close together as a couple can. I gritted my teeth and felt my seed unleash into her. It seemed to go on for an eternity, a shooting explosion from my groin, and then it was suddenly over. I gasped for breath and rolled off the couch, plopping to the floor. My cock was still hard; covered and shiny with fluid, it trembled, smearing my stomach with wet warmth. 

"Sweet Jesus," the woman said from her perch on the couch. I couldn't have agreed with the sentiment more. I closed my eyes. I took in a deep breath. I wanted to stretch out the moment while it lasted; I wanted to savor it and the sweet feeling of release. 

I opened my eyes and asked, "Who are you?"

The woman's pretty face appeared over the side of the couch. Her eyes twinkled. She stretched out a welcoming hand.

"Cynthia Skye, investigative reporter."

My heart stopped. I recognized the name. Cindy Skye was the premier crime reporter at the Times, and I had just given her more than a good look at every inch of me. 

I took her hand, my mouth going dry. 

"Pleased to meet you."

~the end~ 



Contract Killer Wins the Game



Having breakfast with a rival assassin turned out to be much more cordial than I would have expected. In fact, I'd even describe it as pleasant. Not a single bullet fired, not a single drop of blood shed. I have a theory for this-- bacon brings people together. 

Even people who are paid to kill other people. We made quite the pair, two contract killers sharing a table. Between us lay toast, bacon, and eggs. We drank tea (her) and coffee (me), and we passed time by conversing about how we would murder our enemies. 

"Getting in won't be difficult," said the woman who sat across from me. People called her the Black Ghost. Her jet-black hair was mussed and hung over her brow like a dark drape; she wore an oversized T-shirt which she had confiscated from one of my bedroom dresser's drawers; yet even pre-shower, she remained a mind-numbing knockout. I have more than once compared the Ghost to a living Michelangelo masterpiece and with good reason.

She referred to Dread Tower, crown jewel of Dread Incorporated and home to Simeon Dread, a modern conqueror akin to Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan. The Ghost and I planned to waltz into the Tower and kill the king in his lair. The reasons to do so were many, the least of which being that Simeon Dread wanted us dead. In a way, he had fired the first shot, and we had no choice but to kill him to win the war. 

Just one problem, and I voiced it, "We don't know that Dread is behind any of this. Well, any specific thing. We have theories and guesses..."

"Educated guesses,"the Ghost interjected and raised a cup of tea. She sipped it without making a sound. That was her breakfast: tea. The bacon, toast, and eggs were all mine. Earlier, I had tried to reason with her that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. She had just given me a look.

I played with my scrambled eggs which were presently beginning to look more and more like exploded brains (I eat them with ketchup). "Theories and educated guesses," I corrected and continued, "but no real evidence that Dread or Mrs. Dread want us out of the picture. How do I know you're right about any of this? How do I know you're right about Sheila?"

Sheila was my girlfriend, or at least, she was supposed to be. The Ghost claimed she was a plant, a fake, a fraud who had manipulated circumstances to engage in a relationship with me. The Ghost believed Dread paid her to pretend to... love... me so that I'd lose my head if and when he took her away from me. If the Ghost was right, Dread's plan had worked: I was going to lose my head. I was going to lose my head right in front of him, and Dread would not like what he saw. 

"Let's say I'm wrong about everything," the Ghost said in a voice that let me know she didn't think she was wrong about anything. Her dark brown eyes demanded my attention over her tea cup. "By confronting Dread, we will be taking control of the game, away from whomever is behind the attacks on you, our recent run-ins with each other, the contract on your Dad, all of it. We'll flush him or her out." She smiled, and it was sly, sexy, and scary all at once. She said, "If I'm not wrong then we'll have finished it." She set the tea cup on a saucer (where the Ghost had found either in my kitchen, I had no idea) and dared me to disagree.

I sighed, stabbed my eggs with my fork, and thought about what she'd said. Some of our friends and colleagues might have found it hard to believe that the Ghost and I could fall so easily into benevolent collaboration. Not too long ago, the Ghost had been contracted to murder me. We had almost fought to the death on the roof an abandoned, dilapidated building. A short time later, I had been hired to kill her by none other than Simeon Dread. Last night we had shared a bed; this morning, we shared a table and an unspoken truce. Here's a second theory to supplement my bacon one: the Ghost and I understood that we were the opposite sides of the same coin. If one of us were rubbed out or destroyed, the other would lose its value. We co-existed to our mutual benefit. We had no choice. If this explanation doesn't quiet the critics, all I can say to them is this: eat a dick. Make that a bag of dicks.

After a moment a silence, the Ghost said, "I killed a man with a fork once. Shoved it into his throat. It was... interesting. Messy though." At her words, I glanced at the utensil in my hand. It gleamed in the morning sunlight. 

I frowned and wondered aloud, "What should I call you? It seems weird to call you 'Ghost', especially if we're going to be partnering up." The Ghost knew what I was doing. She knew my name; if she gave me hers, it'd be a show of trust and would cement the bond that we had precariously begun. Of course, she could always lie and make up one, and I'd never know the difference. 

"Amunet," she said. "I suppose you could call me 'Ame' if you want to be American about it."

I liked that. It sounded like 'aim' which fit the Black Ghost like a glove-- just not O.J. Simpson's glove. 

I leaned back in my chair, scanned the half-eaten food on the table, the half-full glass (yep, I'm an optimist) of orange juice beside my steaming mug of coffee, then glanced around the visible vicinity of my apartment. This small, cluttered space was where I lived. These inane, unassuming objects were the materials of my life. I soaked it in. Made up my mind.

"If nothing else," I said and looked into Amunet's eyes. They held my glare. "It will be very satisfying to see that condescending look wiped off Dread's face when we kill him."

Sunlight streamed through the kitchen blinds and covered us with warm, yellow light. 

***

I had not expected the Ghost, Ame, to stay the night. I doubted that she expected it, either. Things had gotten electric very quickly and spiraled out of control before we could stop it. Of course, I couldn't have done much to stop much of anything if I had wanted. Ame had tied my ankles and wrists to the corners of the bed with restraints and given me a healthy dose of sedatives and muscle relaxers. She had made all of the decisions and called all of the shots, and why she had taken a chance on me, I could not quite figure out but had no intention of questioning. The last thing I wanted to do was change the Ghost's mind about killing me. 

Every moment I spent with her seemed to bring another shocking revelation: her theory about Sheila, her plan to assassinate Dread, and her name, just for starters. The most exciting discovery of all? We learned we had an insatiable appetite for one another.

Having Ame in the shower with me helped me forget about Sheila relatively quickly, and as the assassin's soapy body slid against mine, a small part of my mind wondered if I was being played yet again. This might be a ploy to turn me against Sheila, the way that Veronica Dread had tried. Mrs. Dread had told me that I could not be beaten if I let Sheila go. In Dread's terms, 'go' was a euphemism for 'die'. I could let Sheila go easier knowing that she had been a fraud and that our entire relationship had been built on a foundation of lies. My heart still ached with regret and hurt, but I had never been a very good boyfriend to Sheila. I had loved her, but that had not kept me from using sex to better deal with Veronica Dread and with Cynthia Skye. Even if Sheila wasn't a liar, she would probably be better off without me as long as Dread (or whoever else might have her) didn't kill her. 

Ame put a hand against the back of my head, pulled me to her, and kissed me with passionate longing; her tongue found my tongue, and my thoughts turned off. Steam fogged the glass of the shower doors; I pushed her against them, her skin smearing the glass. Jets of water streamed and hit us and exploded, decorating our bodies and the walls with a thousand pinpricks of reflected light. 

My muscles still ached from last night. My penis felt flayed and useless, but it lengthened and went stiff with this woman pressed against me. I explored her with my hands, and I touched perfection. Her skin was smooth and flawless; her muscles, hard and firm; her breasts and buttocks, soft and supple. 

It was as if God and the Devil had uniformly designed this women for sex and death.

I went to my knees, and between her legs, I lapped at the mixture of water and sweetness which slid from her to my tongue. Ame sighed, then moaned, and curled her hands into my hair. Dark wet hair plastered across her neck and face, she leaned against the stall wall. My hands moved up her thighs; then I used them to assist my mouth. Ame moaned more loudly and pressed herself into my face. 

I did my best to give her the full V.I.P. treatment since Ame was my guest, and I desired to be a good host. She seemed to appreciate my efforts. It didn't take long before the Ghost's eyes flew open, and a cry leapt from her mouth as her body shuddered above me.

Shower water peppered me as Ame pulled me up. Her arms went around me. Her hands slipped around my neck, and they interlocked fingers. My hands grasped her buttocks, and she hopped off the floor and into my arms; her legs wrapped around the small of my back; her feet dug into the flesh of my ass. Then she squirmed, and I lifted her up slightly. She pushed her pelvis into my crotch; with a slight groan slipping past my lips, I felt her encase me. 

Ame felt like heaven, but inside her, it was as hot as hell.

I thrust hard. Her back hit the foggy glass of the shower door, and in response, she slammed down into me. Her mouth opened, and my mouth found it. I thrust. She pushed. Me-- up. Her-- down. Up. Down. Me. Then her. Slowly, then harder. Her nipples prodded me as her breasts rubbed against my chest. Water cascaded around us. Up. Down. Me. Her. Her tongue writhed like an animal in my mouth. The shower door squeaked as Ame's wet skin rubbed against the glass. Faster. Up! Down! Her fingernails scraped skin from the back of my neck. Harder. ME! HER! The shower doors rattled.

UP! DOWN! ME! HER!

Then it was too much for the both of us, and with a gasping dual explosion, we came. Ame threw her head back and howled. I slammed into her and spasmed. 

A screw went loose somewhere, and one of the glass doors unexpectedly slid open in the midst of our screaming high. Tangled in a complex puzzle of locked limbs, we collapsed to the cold, hard floor of the bathroom. We lay there, a quivering mass of of very satisfied jelly. 

***

Entry into Dread Tower wouldn't prove too much of a problem. High-end shops and three-to-four star restaurants open to the general public (or at least those people in the general public with fat wallets) comprised the bottom floors. Enough people would be walking, browsing, and hobnobbing to make it easy for us to slip through them unnoticed. Higher up were offices: doctors' private practices, lawyers' offices, a few private businesses, whoever else had enough money. Above these, twenty stories belonged to Dread Tower Hotel, a ridiculously expensive place to spend your vacation, hold a convention, or to impress your wife (more often, your mistress). 

That's how we were disguised. I played the snobby rich guy. Ame acted the part of my wife or maybe my mistress. The staff of the hotel would know better than to make a presumption on our behalf as they were probably privy to more secrets than the President. Ame and I would check into the hotel and register for a suite which would put us about three-fourths up Dread Tower. The last fourth of the Tower contained offices for Dread Incorporated and the security hub on the second-to-top floor. Simeon Dread's private penthouse sat just above the security center and naturally enveloped the entire top floor, so Dread could watch over the city like Zeus at the top of Mount Olympus. In fact, I would not be surprised if Simeon envisioned himself as the modern version of the Greek god. He didn't strike me as a humble.

We approached the desk of Dread Hotel, Ame's arm wrapped around mine. Ame looked incredible in an tight, hip-hugging blue gown, and I felt uncomfortable in a suit which was worth more than I currently had in my bank account. We appeared to be just another spoiled couple; they populated the lobby area like ticks, dug into leather armchairs or at the adjacent bar, drinking themselves into lethargic stupors. It was easy to understand why the poor hated the rich, and it wasn't just jealousy. Hungry, malnourished kids died in the streets in every city of the world every day. The people in Dread Tower spent hundreds of thousands of dollars-- and, like Wiz Khalifa, that was just on champagne-- as if money was as easy to come by as air.

A skinny, middle-aged man typed on a computer and took a moment before he took notice of us. He had the air of a manager, subservient yet patronizing, which suited our needs perfectly. He had short brown hair, a long nose, and couldn't have been taller than five-five. The Dread Hotel's Napoleon, probably. I made a little throat-clearing sound to get his attention. His typing paused. I made the sound again, just to give him the impression that my time was worth more than his. 

Unfazed, the man looked up and greeted us: "Good evening, how may I be of service?" 

We took the most expensive suite we could without raising eyebrows. It needed to be ritzy enough to be on one of the higher floors, but if it was too expensive, the staff would be eager to give us their attention. Obviously, the Ghost and I didn't want to attract attention. We didn't plan to be staying in our room for very long. 

Once we were in the suite, I asked the question that had been bugging me throughout the discussion of our plan, "What now?" How the Ghost planned to get us through the remaining floors of Dread Tower without tripping any alarms was something that she had yet to explain. 

Ame slipped out of the designer dress she was wearing and kicked off her heels. I was struck yet again by her statuesque form. Wearing only her black bra and underwear, she padded to the bed, popped the latches to a case, and pulled out her midnight-black Black Ghost uniform.

"I have many friends," she said. "Some of them are very clever." She raised her arm, and something slithered out the case. I recognized her belt, and I was reminded of a superhero's utility belt with all of its pockets and pouches. Then she pulled out a contraption that looked like a plastic gun with a claw at is mouth-- a rappel gun. My mouth dropped open.

"You're Batman," I said after I found my voice.

"No," Ame replied with a half-smile. "I am something better than Batman." I had to agree. Seeing her there in her black underwear, one hip tilted against the bedpost, a rappel gun in one hand and a utility belt in the other, and her muscles gleaming in the soft light of the hotel lamp, I knew that Batman had nothing on the Black Ghost. 

She put down the rappel gun and opened a pouch of her belt. She revealed a gray box which almost looked like a radio or a short-range walkie talkie. Ame raised an eyebrow and gave me an amused look. I knew that whatever she was about to say was going to be awesome.

"This device interferes with electronic devices within a specific range. If I were to pass by a security camera, for instance, with this device turned on, the camera would momentarily cease to function. It'd more or less freeze. If you happened to be watching the closed circuit screen connected to that particular camera, you would only see a slight jump of the picture. Nothing to tip you off that your security had been violated." 

Yeah, it was awesome. I returned Ame's smile and said, "You're right. You're better than Batman. And you have very clever friends."

She explained, "Using the fire stairs, I will stealth my way into the security hub and lower Dread's defenses. The only way to his penthouse is by a private elevator. I will give you access to this elevator and then meet up with you when you reach the top floor."

I frowned. "Sounds like you're doing all the work," I said.

"You mean, having all the fun," she quipped. She dug into the bag and pulled out what looked like two plastic grips. She tossed me one. Ame said, "Our weapons." It was a box-cutter. 

"You're going to lower Dread Tower's defenses by infiltrating its security center with a box-cutter?" I asked with a sardonic grin. If it had been anyone other than the Ghost, I would thought she was joking. 

Ame explained, "Smuggling the rappel gun was a big enough risk. If we were caught with it, we could attempt to sell some story about mountain climbing and mixed-up bags. If we were caught with guns, our adventure would be over before it started. Plus, I'll be able to confiscate better weapons when I penetrate the security floor."

I stifled an amused giggle. "Why do I get butterflies in my stomach when you say the word 'penetrate'?" I said. The Ghost shot me a look, one which was not dissimilar to the one she gave me when I tried to talk her into eating breakfast. I just took it and continued to smile at her. Giving up, the Ghost rolled her eyes and began to slip into her black work clothes. 

"The time for play is over," Ame said. "Suit up." 

I felt a dangerous temptation to tell her I was already in a suit, but I didn't think she'd appreciate the humor. 

***

Unlike the Black Ghost, I don't have specific attire for murder. On this particular night, I wore gray coveralls identifying me as a utility repairman. If things spiraled out of hand, the idea was that the disguise would help get me out of the building without appearing too conspicuous if I was found someplace that I wasn't supposed to be. It would also help dissuade any suspicion if one of the security guards caught me on camera before the Ghost got to him. Pretending to work, I hovered around the closed doors to the shaft that only opened for Dread's personal elevator. Despite being used only by Dread, doors to the shaft could be found on every floor. I guessed this was so Dread could go wherever he wanted without being inconvenienced by the most inconvenient of inventions: stairs. Perhaps his wolf-headed silver cane was necessary for more than show. 

The thought of stairs made me think about the last time I was with Sheila. She had worn one of my white dress shirts and nothing else. She had looked radiant, even in the pale-white glare of the florescent light of our apartment building's stairwell. We'd put on a show the likes that stairwell had never seen and never would again. I shook the memories out of my head. I'd deal with Sheila when I had to. For now, the feelings associated with her were too fresh and too deep, and I never handled feelings well. 

The worst part of my job is the waiting. It takes a patient person to do what the Ghost and I do as the majority-- probably ninety-eight percent-- of our work requires stealth and patience. The other two percent is where intelligence, flexibility, and a cold heart come into play. 

I wondered how long it would take Ame to make her way to the security floor, slip through it, and take control of Dread's elevator. I checked my watch. Time moved so slowly, I felt like I was living in a John Woo action sequence. Just when I began to worry, I heard a car shuddering behind the shaft doors. It was time for the two percent. 

My Spidey-sense went off full blast as I heard voices come from behind the doors. They were muffled but audible. I moved to the side, out of the line-of-sight of whomever might be in the elevator car. I held the box-cutter in a white-knuckled grip and slid out a couple of inches of the blade. The shaft doors opened slightly as though forced from the inside. I had no doubt that was what exactly had happened. The voices became clearer.

One, a high-pitched but male voice, said, "What the fuck is goin' on, man? Somethin's fucked up with Mr. Dread's shaft!" Based on the voice, I imagined this guy as Mike Tyson. 




Contract Killer Wins the Game



Another person in the car chuckled. "Just don't say that to the old man. He'll have your job and your head. But yeah, somethin's fucked up with his elevator, all right." This guy had an unnaturally low, rumbling voice. I imagined thug #2 as Paul Wight, Big Show from WWE. 

"Can you fix it? I've an important meeting with Mr. Dread," said a third voice, a female one and one I recognized. I didn't have to use my imagination whatsoever. It belonged to a Times reporter named Cynthia Skye. I frowned. Undoubtably, Skye had been on her way to the penthouse for a "private parlay" with Mr. Dread, and of course, Skye would have scheduled such a meeting with Dread on the night the Ghost and I planned to storm Olympus and kill its god. I should have known circumstances would make themselves as complicated as humanly possible; nothing in life, especially in the life of a contract killer, comes easily. 

It wasn't like I could find another elevator, and it wasn't like there was a place I could hide while Cindy and the men exited to the stairs and left the elevator wide open for me. No stairs led to Dread's penthouse. The only ways to get there was by this elevator or by helicopter, using the helipad on the roof. I had no choice but to kill these men and take the elevator. The only reason it was even here was that the Ghost had control of it. 

"What the hell floor is this?" said Big Show. 

"I think it's one of the hotel ones. Can you get ahold of Freddy?" replied Tyson. 

A noncommittal grunt and then: "Intercom's not working. Get out and find a working one, will ya?" 

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, if the system's actually down, I'll hafta shoe it up to the security floor and see what the fuck's up," Tyson whined. 

I heard a gritty, shuffling sound as Tyson and Big Show pulled the doors open enough for Tyson to exit. I readied the box-cutter and coiled in the corner of the hallway beside the elevator. Tyson, who turned out to be much larger and whiter than I had expected, took a step out. His bald head gleamed in the dim hallway light, and he clearly didn't expect trouble as he did not bother to check the corners. Bad move. He didn't see me right away, so he had no chance. 

I quickly moved behind him. With one hand, I unholstered the gun at his waist, and with the other, I slashed the box-cutter deep into the flesh of his throat under the jaw and yanked my hand across his neck. Blood spewed, and Tyson gargled and fell forward. Without slowing, I dropped the box-cutter, kicked it (in case Tyson wasn't all the way dead), clicked off the safety of the gun, swung to aim inside the elevator, and shot Big Show in the face as he attempted to come through the doors. He died without making a sound but a dull thud on the carpet. I glanced at the body. The dude was no Big Show. Not much of a show at all. I grabbed his armpits and pulled him out the car. I walked over and checked on Tyson. Super dead.

Cynthia didn't scream. I could see her pushing herself into the deepest corner of the car with a terrified grimace on her face. It took her a few moments to recognize me, and even when she did, she didn't wipe off the grimace right away. It had been a bad last two days for her-- in fact, a bad last three days if you counted the fact she had put Simeon Dread's dick in her mouth and sucked the cum out the day before yesterday. Yesterday hadn't been much better. Our copulation (Cynthia's and mine, not mine and Dread's, yee-ech!) had been mutually wanted-- at least before it was interrupted. She and I had been nearly killed by ski-masked men. However, I figured that Cynthia could comfort herself with the knowledge that when everything was said and done, she'd have a hell of a story for the paper. 

She said, "We have to stop meeting like this." 

I stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid closed behind me. I turned to the set of buttons beside the door and said, "What floor, miss?" Without waiting for the answer, I pressed the button for the penthouse, and the elevator shuddered and rose with a stomach-churning lurch. I figured it'd impress Cynthia that I'd gotten the elevator working, but you and I know that it did not suddenly work due to clever maneuvers by yours truly. Ame had most likely watched the entire scene from the feed of the security camera in the hallway and activated the car when she saw me enter through the doors.

"You're not going to kill me, are you?" Cynthia asked in a tone which told me that she honestly didn't know the answer to her question. I turned to her and raised my eyebrows. Cynthia Skye was intelligent, redheaded, ivory-skinned, beautiful, and frightened, a porcelain doll balanced on the edge of a quaking shelf. She said, "I saw you get into that limousine with Veronica Dread yesterday."

I shrugged. "Yeah, so?"

Cynthia's lips pressed together, and she seemed to be considering something, probably how much to tell me without revealing anything she shouldn't. Her red hair was down, pooling on her shoulders. She wore a simple gray shirt buttoned to the collar and white pants with a brown belt, but she wore them well. I wondered about her meeting with Dread. She didn't appear dressed to whore herself out to Dread for a story, but with Cynthia, you always got more than what was presented by her appearance. It only added to her charm. 

Cynthia seemed to come to a decision about what to say, and she got talking: "Veronica Dread is embezzling from the Dread Foundation charities. I also suspect she was behind the death of one of Dread's bodyguards, Johnny Knox. Knox had been fired by Dread and was planning on using his knowledge of Veronica's embezzlement as collateral to win back his job."

I soaked up this information with a set expression, the infamous "poker face" of which Lady Ga-Ga sang so eloquently a few years back. Cynthia was right. Veronica was behind Knox's death. I knew this because I had been her tool of disposal. She had convinced me to proactively take out Knox as a way of protecting myself. Knox had attempted to place his own hit on me, perhaps as part of a two-pronged approach to re-attain his former position: kill me and blackmail Mrs. Dread. If Veronica had stolen money, this also gave her a reason for wanting Simeon dead, hence her attempted procurement of my services. If Simeon Dread discovered that Veronica was stealing from him, he'd either cut her off from her CEO duties for his foundation (best case scenario) or label her a liability and rid himself of her forever (worst case scenario). Veronica always got what she wanted, so to her, both options must have reeked of failure Her best strategy was to be rid of Dread and take over the whole empire as its Dark Queen. 

"And you're planning on confronting Simeon Dread with this information?" I asked.

Cynthia nodded, and her emerald eyes quivered. She still looked worried. I decided to ease her mind and said, "Don't worry. I'm not colluding with Mrs. Dread."

"You just kill Dread's men for fun then," Cynthia retorted.

"No," I said. "I kill them, so they don't kill me. It's too bad that you walked into this." 

She pressed herself against the wall of the elevator. She whispered, "So I ask again, are you going to kill me?" 

"Don't be dramatic. Tell me about your meeting with Dread."

She sighed, then spoke: "You know that I began a relationship with Dread. Tonight I was going to secure his trust through this information about his wife. After Dread heard that I was involved at the attempted robbery at your club, he thought we should meet again." 

I had wondered if Providence had dropped Cynthia Skye in this elevator with her tasty tidbits of revelation as a pure unbelievable and incidental coincidence. Now I realized the Fates weren't randomly handing me this information on a silver (make that red-headed) platter. It made sense for Cynthia to be here, and I should have expected it. 

Now I wondered if Dread had any idea that his security had been compromised. If not, the appearance of Cynthia Skye could prove propitious. I turned and met Cynthia's concerned gaze. I said, "I think you're going to keep your appointment."

***

When the elevator doors opened, Cynthia stepped in Dread's penthouse and looked around. The vast, expensively-furnished foyer seemed to be empty and dark save for a single lighted lamp. I stayed in the car, but I heard Dread's voice, smooth yet forceful, call out from his study, "In here, Ms. Skye. You may leave my personnel in the car. They may consider themselves dismissed."

Cynthia turned to glance at me, and I gave her a nod. It sounded as if Dread had no idea his men were currently staining a hotel hallway carpet. This was to everyone's benefit since it meant the killing could be delayed-- for now. 

Cynthia disappeared from sight, and I chanced a quick peek into the room. On cue, a shadow silently detached itself from the darkness, and as if she needed to continue to earn her nickname, the Black Ghost treaded like a cat towards me. For a moment, I could only see the gleam of her eyes, and then closer, her statuesque form could be seen, a slightly blacker outline in the gray light of the room. When the muffled voices of Cynthia and Dread could cover our own, Ame whispered, "Who is she?"

The materialization of the Ghost had sent my mind momentarily spinning. She had told me the only two access points to Dread's penthouse were the elevator and a stairwell leading to the roof. If this was truly the case then how did the Ghost get here? I suspected that a secret route led from Dread's quarters to the security floor; this would allow Dread to call in his private army in case of emergency but would be unknown to anyone who was out of the "need-to-know" loop. So did Ghost force this information from a guard, or was she somehow a part of the "need-to-know" loop? I suppressed these thoughts and answered her question.

"Cynthia Skye. She's with me. She'll distract Dread for us," I said in hushed reply. 

"She can be trusted?"

"Only as much as you or I can be," I said. Ame smiled, her teeth gleaming as a Cheshire grin in the muted lamplight. I wanted to kiss her, but I was afraid she might bite me. Then she nodded which I took as her approval. Together, we moved through the room and towards Dread's study. Our footsteps were quiet, padded brushes of carpet. A thin spear of light glowed from the cracked door and crossed the floor, and as we approached it, the conversation between Cynthia and Dread grew in volume and clarity. 

"... is most interesting," Dread was saying. "I appreciate you bringing such information to light. I must admit, I have had my own suspicions and had hoped to make my own internal investigation. I suppose that as a seasoned professional, you have no choice but to bring this dark secret into the light of day." He had the kind of voice which could lull you to sleep while he narrated how he would kill you if you made the mistake of doing so. 

Cynthia replied, "I suppose I could be coerced out of publication. Unless you wanted to keep our relationship purely professional." 

I gave Ame a look, smiled, and mouthed the word, "Distraction."

"My dear, I believe our relationship to be a perfect combination of professional and pleasurable." Then came a short but meaningful pause. "Come across this desk and let us continue it," Dread said. I had to give Skye credit. Dread hadn't even bothered to pretend to resist Cynthia under some false pretense of morality. I knew better than anyone that Ms. Cynthia Skye could make herself irresistible when she wanted. 

Cynthia was no slut, and she didn't have to sleep with Dread to further her career. Like any femme fatale worth her salt, she simply understood that sex was an incomparable tool to utilize on and against men. She could use her body as bait, as a reward, or for humiliation and blackmail. If you want to throw morality into the mix then you're just muddying the waters. It's easy to get on your high horse and preach. Go for it. And keep on preaching until your voice gives out while you watch everyone else get ahead in life. 

I positioned myself so that I could see into the study without breaking the bar of light which issued from the crack of the door. To do so would be the easiest way of catching Dread's attention and then his ire. I had no interest in attracting his ire. Then I considered that the Ghost and I had already disabled his security measures and taken out several of his guards. Maybe his ire wouldn't be so bad. It'd be like being attacked by an angry shark whose teeth had all been pulled out (by an extremely careful shark dentist, I can only assume). Still, I didn't want to chance it. When attempting to assassinate a criminal kingpin, I'd advise caution. 

Tall shelves lined three walls of the room, and leather-bound books filled them from wall-to-wall. I doubted Dread had the time to have read any of these books. A bar comprised the fourth wall, the shelves stocked with bottles rather than books. The last time I had been in that room, I'd had to duck behind the counter of the bar while the Tuxedo brothers and the Black Ghost shot at me. Bottles had exploded, showering me in a foamy, alcoholic rain like one of Charlie Sheen's fantasies coming to life. 

Also, the last time I'd been in the room, there was no desk. Presently, a massive and ornate mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, and it was on this desk that Cynthia Skye lay. 

Dread was in the midst of unbuttoning her shirt. When finished, he slipped the shirt over her milky shoulders and admired his work, looking down on her with voracious eyes. He smiled, and it was a wolf's grin. With one hand, Cynthia unlatched her dark gray bra, and with the other, she pulled Dread's head between her newly-freed breasts. She leaned back, her hair brushing the desk top, and purred. Nothing appeared to be on the desk but her. I couldn't help if Dread had bought it to use solely as a "fuck desk". When I had been in the room with him, Dread seemed content with only two chairs in true pseudo-minimalist fashion. Yes, I know that's an oxymoron, but that was Dread. He enjoyed being two things at once, especially opposites, whenever possible. For example, Dread presented himself as a ridiculously wealthy, well-educated man but now sucked and licked Cynthia Skye's breasts like a horny fourteen-year-old, all of his careful self composure tossed away as though it were as needless as a used cigarette butt out of a car window. 

For the record, Cynthia has fabulous breasts, and any man would morph into a fourteen-year-old when faced with them. After Dread's attention, they gleamed with wet saliva. 

Like a true villain, Dread had no time for foreplay. He fumbled with his belt, and his pants dropped to his ankles. His purple-headed, swollen member protruded from a set of silver silk boxers like the head and neck of Nessie poking out of Loch Ness. He aimed it at Cynthia and reached out to peel off her white pants. Cynthia coaxed more of Dread out of his boxers by stroking him with one hand as she bent her legs and twisted to help him free her of her pants. 

Ame's right hand came from behind me and suddenly went to my chest and began to rub me. I looked at her and she put her index finger over her lips to silence me. She took her hand away from her mouth moved it to my crotch where it began to manipulate me into hardness. While I had no issue with the potential pleasure that Ame's attentions offered, her motive became suspect. I didn't think Ame would waste time on a... oh, yes, she had a hand-job in mind, I observed as her hand slipped underneath my coveralls... unless she was totally confident that we would not be interrupted and that Dread was completely distracted. I couldn't help but wonder if she had something up her sleeve (other than my dick). Trust me, my paranoia has served me well in life. 

I kept my eyes on Dread and Cynthia, partly because they needed to be watched in case things went badly and partly because you can't take your eyes off Cynthia Skye. Her hands gripped the ends of the desk, and her hair spilled over its side like a swishing auburn waterfall. Dread had her legs curled over his shoulders and her breasts cupped in each of his hands. His eyes bulged wide as he pumped into Cynthia. It was a wonder he didn't give himself a brain aneurism. He thrust like a piston on speed. His skin turned redder than Cynthia's hair; veins strained in his neck. A loud, rhythmic clapping resounded through the room over Cynthia's soft moans and Dread's primal grunts.

Ame stroked me with a swift, fluid motion that made my entire body go tight. She worked me out of my clothing, and I could feel the cool breeze of air conditioning on the heat emanating from my erection. I kept my eyes open, but it was an effort to keep them from rolling into the back of my head. Her wrist increased its speed, and her fingers tightened their grip. Her thumb kept brushing and rubbing against the head of my penis. 

I figured Dread must not be receiving the satisfaction he needed from his wife or that Veronica saved her kinky side for impromptu encounters during limousine rides. Dread attacked sex the way that one would attack a most-hated enemy: with unrelenting force and anger. Cynthia's entire body rippled from the impact of his thrusts while Dread's skin bloomed a shade darker, from red to near-purple. He had gnashed his teeth in a hideous crocodilian grin, and spittle flew around them, peppering Cynthia with a foamy spray.

Ame worked me into a silent frenzy. Just when I thought my body couldn't get any tighter, I exploded into hot, thick streams which softly pattered the white carpet outside Dread's study. I didn't think it would stop; spray-after-spray erupted from me, and while I tried to contain it, my body shivered. I allowed my eyes to close, just for a moment, then opened them when I realized my climax had yet to end. Finally, Ame slowed, and I trickled to empty. I glanced at the gleaming mess on the floor. It felt right that I would leave my mark there. 

"Sorry," Ame breathed into my ear. "Needed you to finish before Dread did."

In a moment, Ame tucked me into my coveralls and zipped me closed. She nodded, and I returned it. Together, we moved into Dread's study. Ame held a silenced gun in her hand and fired once. It made a muffled thwip sound. The overhead light shattered; the room went dark; and the ugly sounds of Dread and Skye's copulation abruptly ceased. Cynthia squealed, and I heard a thick, syrupy sound which I assumed to be Dread disengaging himself from the redhead. 

"Guards!" Dread called in a voice that was the closest I'd ever heard him to panic, but we all knew it would be to no avail. 

From the time I entered the room, I never stopped moving. Dread had wasted time, frozen in shocked stupor, and I circled behind him before he had managed to take either a figurative or literal step towards the thought of escape. Probably, the guy had never previously experienced the feeling of being caught by surprise. One could almost feel sorry for him, but I didn't. I wrapped one hand around his neck, another around his chest, and pulled him back into his chair, pinning him there like a spider in a display case.

I couldn't see but felt the presence of the Ghost and her gun, covering Dread through the darkness and ready to spit death at us. I was aware that she could shoot me as easily as Dread; I positioned myself so that Dread's body shielded mine with the unfortunate exception of my arms and hands which held him in the chair. I had no choice if I were to keep Dread restrained.

"Checkmate," I uttered so only Dread could hear. I could feel Dread stiffen. No doubt he recognized my voice. 

Before he had a chance to respond, Ame's words cut through the black shadows, "Ms. Skye, get out while you can."

I heard the rustle of clothing and footsteps thudding away and out of the door. A moment later, the sound of the elevator doors opening then closing and the mechanical sound of the car departing. Ame said, "And now it's just us merry murderers."




Contract Killer Wins the Game



"Clearly, I am not paying you enough," Dread said with a snort. His icy, calm demeanor had returned in full force. "I take this to be your resignation."

Dread's words confirmed a few of my suspicions. Ame served as the head of his security. This explained how she would know about any pathways connecting the security floor to the penthouse; why Dread had no problem firing and replacing Knox; why Dread Tower's infamous security measures had proved so easy for the Ghost to overcome; and her inner knowledge that Dread had hired Sheila to establish an emotional connection with me. Why she had decided to betray him, I still had little-to-no clue. 

"I resigned the minute you used me as a pawn. You just didn't know it yet," Amunet replied. "I only played along to see how far you would go."

"Apparently not far enough," Dread said with regretful resignation. "So what now?"

"Tell me where Sheila is," I answered. The wall of bookshelves behind me was interrupted by a large set of bay windows which doubled as doors and led to an outdoor balcony. While Dread Tower stood higher than the skyscrapers around it, the auric glow of the city's lights leaked through the windows enough so that my eyes had begun to adjust in the dim darkness. I could see the side of Dread's face as he turned towards the sound of my voice. His eye shone like that of a wild animal. I also knew that the light turned Dread and me into perfect silhouettes framed by the windows. 

"My dear boy," he said quietly. "I have no idea."

I tightened my grip, and Dread winced. "Don't play games," I warned.

"What are you two talking about?" the Ghost queried from the darkness. She sounded amused at the idea of a private conversation between Dread and myself. For now, I ignored her. Let her sweat it awhile, the way she didn't bother informing me of the extent of her employment to Dread. 

"I hired her," Dread whispered through his gnashed teeth. It took a moment before I realized that he was talking about Sheila, not the Ghost. "But she refused payment after a month, stopped making reports. I figured it was a dead end. I let it go, and instead turned my attentions to our dear Ghost here. Figured I'd keep you busy with her while I attempted other, more legal avenues of dethroning your father."

"I said no games!" I hissed.

"Why would I lie?" he grunted, and I let up my hold, just a little. He had asked a good question. Dread had nothing to gain with this explanation. If he knew the location of Sheila, he certainly would used it for leverage to keep me from permitting him to die at the hand of the Black Ghost. 

"Talk to me," said the Ghost from the other side of the desk. 

"All done," I said. "Just exchanging pleasantries."

A new voice cut through the room. It said, "My turn." 

BAM! A sudden flash in which I caught the shape of the voice's shapely owner: Veronica Dread. Simeon grunted, and his chair smashed into me. BAM! I let him go and hit the floor. BAM! I rolled, praying that she didn't plan on having to kill me as well. BAM! I heard shouts, the Ghost yelling something and Veronica yelling back. BAM! I moved by instinct. BAM! In the muzzle flashes, I saw the Ghost ducking behind the bar. It appeared Veronica had turned the gun on her. Veronica swiveled and ran, firing blindly behind her. BAM! BAM! BAM! Unlike the Ghost, Veronica's gun was not silenced. 

My thoughts switched back on. I refused to believe that Veronica could have slunk into the room without Ame having heard her, and the only way she could have snuck onto the floor without alerting me was to have used the same passageway that the Ghost had, the one that linked the security floor to this one. A theory leapt to mind: the two women had worked out something between them, but Veronica had soured on the deal-- hence Mrs. Dread's and the Ghost's shouted-yet-inaudible words and the fact that Veronica had turned her weapon on the Ghost. Probably Veronica had planned on catching both her husband and Ame unaware and alone. Instead, Ame had included me and Skye in her plans at the last minute, flipped the game on its head, and played all of us. These thoughts flashed nearly as quickly as the bullets had torn through Simeon Dread. I glanced at his body and saw two new holes in his head. His eyes stared at the ceiling, but the shine in them was gone. 

I didn't hesitate to check my guesses with the Ghost or to even check to see if she was still alive. Instead, I chased Veronica. She was now my only hope of finding answering to my questions or at least verifying my theories. 

Plus, she had stolen the satisfaction of killing Dread from me, so she owed me as much.

An open door and the sound of fleeing footfalls led me to stairs that went up. Veronica was headed for the roof, and it took me only a second to figure out that her destination was Dread's private helicopter. If she had planned on assassinating Dread then she probably had put together an escape plan in case of failure. Already I could hear the start of a motor and the chopping whir of helicopter blades as they warmed for liftoff. I took the stairs three-at-a-time, the sound of my footsteps already drowned by the roar of the vehicle. 

I leapt through the open roof access doorway and nearly lost my head, decapitated by the spitting staccato of machine gun spray. One of Dread's men stood outside the copter, and apparently, he had been waiting for me. He looked to be the kind of tool who wore sunglasses at night, his hair shining with product in the silver rays of the moon. It didn't help his aim. No doubt Veronica had chosen him due to the size of his dick rather than lesser qualities such as capability or simple competency. I threw up my arm, squeezed a finger, and put a bullet through the front of one lens of his sunglasses and the back of his head. He staggered, fell. Shame to ruin such perfect hair. 

The bodyguard had, in death, succeeded in his mission to keep me from reaching Veronica. Already seated beside the pilot in the small helicopter, I saw her blow me a kiss as the vehicle began to rise. My entire body vibrated to the beat of the whirring helicopter blades. I put two bullets into the glass in front of the pilot, but they ricocheted harmlessly into the night. I cursed. Apparently, I'd need a bigger or meaner weapon to deal a death's blow. 

Fuck it, I thought and emptied my weapon. Cracks on the windshield spider-webbed but little else.The chopper continued to rise, and now I had an impotent gun. I went ahead and threw that at the glass, too. It bounced off and went flipping into the darkness. Again, I cursed, empty-handed. 

"Allow me," Ame said, and I turned to discover her standing alongside me. She had something big, black, and bulky in her hands. I didn't get a great look at it, but it looked like an assault rifle on steroids. I know a good amount about small and light firearms and a little about rifles, but this did not fit any of those descriptions. It appeared to be something experimental or so new that it hadn't appeared in Hollywood action movies yet. I don't know where she found it. Maybe she went back to the guard floor or maybe she knew about a secret cache of Dread's as well as how to access it. Either way, Amunet a.k.a. The Black Ghost fired before I could stop her. She had never looked more like a Greek goddess, and her gun agreed, thundering like Zeus splitting the heavens with the largest lightening bolt of all time. 

The front of the helicopter seemed to simultaneously crumple and explode, along with my hopes of getting any answers from Veronica Dread. Much faster than its ascent, the meteoric ball of metal and fire hurdled down, and I was thrown backwards in a roaring wave of heat. The helicopter hit the roof and exploded again. It landed on the body of the hunky bodyguard, squishing him, ruining his expensive suit along with everything else. Covered in fresh grime and dirt, I tumbled across the rooftop like dust bunny caught in a high wind, clawing for purchase amidst the cement and stone. I slid to an aching, throbbing stop about three feet from the ledge of the roof. 

Black smoke obscured sight in a hellish fog. I crawled to the small wall at the roof's edge and pulled myself to my feet. Flaming debris lit the area around me like obscene Chinese lamps. I rubbed my eyes, and a wavering form took shape. Standing on the far ledge adjacent to me, the Ghost aimed her rappel gun into the night. Her hair drifted on the hot breeze of the ravaged, burning helicopter. 

"Amunet!" I cried. 

"Forgive me," she called over her shoulder. Her eyes shone orange and black in the reflection of the wreckage. "If it makes you feel any better, I hope you make it out alive." She turned. The rappel gun fired. A taut, spiderweb-line flew from it. I stumbled towards her. It didn't matter that she had played me and the Dreads against one another; I had expected something along those lines from the start. The Ghost was my last chance at answers. She could explain her argument with Veronica, why the Ghost had hid the fact she was Dread's security chief, and perhaps why Veronica had killed her husband in cold blood. She could not get away. I forced my wobbly legs to move more quickly underneath me. My right knee almost gave way, but I shook it off, accelerated.

The Ghost checked her line's stability. Satisfied, she attached it to her belt with a metal clip. I wasn't going to reach her in time, but I didn't-- couldn't-- stop. She looked over at me and gave me a nod. "Good luck," she offered and swung from the roof. 

I fell to my knees. With the dramatic deaths of the Dreads and the escape of the Ghost, I felt the last thread, the last chance of finding Sheila, snap and disappear into the sky, trailing the fire's fading, red embers. 

At the place where Amunet had stood a moment before, I hissed, "Fucking Batgirl!" 

Somehow, it made me feel a tiny bit better. 

***

I didn't stay on my knees for long. My fight-or-flight response kicked in, and since there was no one left to fight, I kicked my ass into gear and got moving. I took Dread's personal elevator to the third floor, praying that it didn't shut down in the aftermath of the helicopter crash. I figured the penthouse had been reinforced in case of such an attack, albeit with one in mind of the more mundane underground-criminal-world kind a la Godfather III. 

On the third floor, I exited the elevator, found the fire exit stairs, and left in a mass of confused, panicked people. I figured it would not do to be seen on Dread's private elevator by too many eyes once someone discovered Simeon Dread had been assassinated in his office. People exchanged tentative-but-knowing rumors that Dread Tower had been hit by another terrorist attack. After all, the building now stood as the Western World's symbolic statement of the power of the dollar which drew extremists like honey draws flies or like the late Veronica Dread drew boners. 

I walked a few blocks before catching a cab since pandemonium reigned outside Dread Tower and it gave me a chance to do some thinking. 

It was now clear that the Ghost had been a part of a scheme with the Dreads as well as between the Dreads. Simeon had admitted hiring the Ghost to kill me, then changing his mind, later to keep me "busy" and out of his hair while he tangled with my old man. Veronica had ambitious plans of her own so had attempted to turn the Ghost against Simeon, but this must not have worked out the way either woman wanted it. Veronica had personally taken it upon herself to murder her husband and then attempted to turn her gun on the Ghost. Maybe to pin Simeon's murder on the Ghost, so Veronica could assume ownership of Dread Incorporated? Clearly, she had an escape plan involving the helicopter. Maybe she had planned to torch the security floor and the penthouse from afar in an attempt to truly make it appear to be a terrorist attack on the Tower. Clearly, Veronica had underestimated the Ghost's intelligence and ability. Now Veronica was a burnt heap of smoldering hair and flesh, indistinguishable amongst a tangle of twisted metal wreckage. Shame for such enviable female cleavage to be lost in the sands of time and to the fires of vengeance. 

To be honest, the entire Dread-Ghost triangle was of secondary consequence to me. I was most concerned with how Sheila and her mock-kidnapping/the real murder of her uncle fit with everything else that had happened to me. Before becoming a shooting-range dummy, Simeon said that he had hired Sheila to (in my words) fuck me and file reports to him. He also told me that Sheila had later refused to do her job. Why? Had she found true feelings for me and couldn't force herself to be betray me to Dread? Wishful thinking, probably, but Dread wouldn't have kidnapped and killed her for that; he would have simply stopped paying her. She couldn't go to the police or even to me without destroying the lie on which she had built our relationship. Had our relationship truly meant something to her? I remembered the way she looked into my eyes, and like a true sap, I thought so, yes. I also believed Dread when he said he had nothing to do with Sheila's abduction. 

Who had the balls to offend and assault me directly? Who would benefit from taking Sheila away from me? Who had the gall to sacrifice a half dozen men at The Deep End just to distract me? Who was cold enough to order the murder of Sheila's uncle just to cover his or her tracks? 

Then it hit me. The answer to my questions was... the same kind of man who was evil enough to mold his own son into an instrument of immoral destruction, who would use his son as a sociopathic contract killer. The kind of Machiavellian schemer who would play dumb for decades just so that his son would constantly underestimate the rotten, black, dead piece of shit that served for the man's heart. 

Pops.

***

The nice thing about confronting the old man was that I didn't have to kill my way to him. Most of the men between him and me were people I considered the closest things I had to friends. They offered me consoling words, knowing that the loss of Sheila was still fresh and little hope was held for her recovery. Did any of them know that Sheila had been stashed away by the old man? Had some of them even helped secure her? It didn't seem likely. The old man was too smart for that, and I felt that a lot of these guys liked me enough that they would have difficulty fucking me in the ass that hard. Apparently, Pops had no such reservations. 

He was in the living room, reading a dime romance novel-- he liked to read the dirty parts aloud-- and watching a reality show about catching people in wife beaters or too-short tank tops cheating on one another. The masquerade Pops put on for me had never seemed so obvious, and I cursed myself for not having seen through it sooner. No man capable of building such a powerful illegal empire could be so obviously and obnoxiously stupid. I had assumed he was an eccentric who had gotten lucky, but this explanation was superficial and built on childish, familial assumptions. I knew I was smarter than that, or at least, I thought I was. 

Maybe it was time for a real in-depth self evaluation. 

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise," the old man mumbled. "I usually don't see you outside of allowance day. To what do I owe this honor?" 

"Cut that fucking bullshit," I said and took a seat on a leather couch. "Just tell me why." 

Pops placed the paperback on an end table, smiled, and said, "Be more specific."

Within the couch, Pops had most likely hidden a gun. He had a habit of stashing small caches all over the house since his ability to deceive was only matched by his paranoia. I knew at least that much held true regarding dear old dad, so I crossed my arms and allowed my hand to slip a bit past the mock cushion. In answer to his question, I stated one word: "Sheila." 

Pops cleared his throat, reached over to grab the remote, and turned off the television. The protests of a high-pitched, overweight trailer park woman were cut off mid-sentence. 

"Veronica Dread came to me," he said, and his foolish facade metamorphosed. In its place reposed a reptilian, Machiavellian countenance which suffered no fool. "She wanted it all. Dread's power, his money, his very life. She offered a partnership. The proposal reeked of opportunity. I could not pass it up."

He spoke freely, despite our mutual paranoia. The house was a fortress, staffed only by the most vetted, most trusted men. Pops still had it periodically swept for bugs, but this was more for tradition's sake. The days of secreting a listening device into criminals' televisions had long past. Agents of various government branches were much more likely to hack email or listen to cellular phone calls. Right, NSA? 

His words made it clear why Veronica had been embezzling from her husband. She'd been financing a campaign for Simeon's total destruction at the hands of his enemies. I wondered how Mrs. Dread currently fared in hell and how long it had taken before she blew Mephistopheles. Meanwhile Pops kept talking. Apparently, his penchant for exposition had been another truthful aspect of his character. 

"I designed a plan to destroy the Dreads, and the first step was to connect you to Veronica. I told her to get you to trust her with the ultimate goal of hiring you to assassinate Simeon. She proposed having you murder her brother. She was to witness the crime, confront you, gain your trust, and set you on a path which led to her husband."

It had worked like a charm. I said nothing and let the coldblooded crocodile who wore my father's face continue.

"Veronica had persuaded Simeon that you might be the weak link in the organization." At this, Pops smiled without humor. "Considering the familial connection and that fathers often have soft spots for their sons." The smile let me know my own father had no such feelings. "They approached a young woman, your Sheila, and paid her to manufacture an excuse to initiate a relationship with you. Obviously, the idea was that she would feed information to the Dreads, except that proved fruitless because you'd tell her nothing of your own crimes and you know next-to-nothing of mine. In any case, it seems that vivacious young Sheila became attached to you and started to refuse to tell the Dreads anything. 

"When I, myself, learned that my psychopathic son had engaged in a legitimate romantic relationship, I realized that Veronica had been correct in spite of her childishly manipulative vapidity. You were the weak link my organization. What is the use of a emotionless killer who discovers he does, in fact, have emotions?"

He told me this without averting his eyes. He was guiltless. Business came first, then family. Sometimes family, not at all. I kept my poker face and remained motionless. My finger touched metal and rubber-- a grip. I had already known that I meant little to Pops but a killing machine, one that had a sole purpose and one that would be useless if its purpose was compromised. I was expendable. Hearing it from his own lips still stung, but I couldn't let it show. I had Sheila to think about. 

Pops said, "That is when I hired the Black Ghost to kill you. I told you that she was after me, a ruse to lure you to your demise. When she failed, I believed that perhaps I had been hasty in my conclusion. You still might be of use if you could go toe-to-toe with the Ghost and escape with your life.

"At this point, I surmise that Simeon Dread became suspicious and somehow divined a connection either between Veronica and you or Veronica and me. I am not sure how he was tipped off. My guess is that the Black Ghost suggested it. After hearing of your escape, Veronica Dread no doubt let something slip to her husband, and Simeon met with the Ghost. He also met with you. I believe these meetings were on the same night, the night of the Dread Tower fiasco. The first one. It is after these meetings that Simeon seems to have somehow grown wary of his wife and her machinations. As Dread's bodyguards were little more than hapless gorillas in suits, or rather... tuxedos, I believe he hired the Black Ghost under the impression that she would keep him safe, at least from his wife. Clearly, this did not go as he planned."




Contract Killer's Next Hit



I knew that it was going to be a bad day when I read that Britney Spears was engaged. I stood in line at the grocery store behind a bickering elderly couple, a box of chocolate glazed doughnuts in one hand and a carton of milk in the other, and Britney's beautiful face smiled up at me from a number of tabloid magazines, the bold letters above her head proclaiming: "Britney to Tie the Knot!" 

My heart sank. With the engagement, I could kiss about two thirds of my masturbation fantasies goodbye. The same thing had happened when Catherine Zeta-Jones got married. I have trouble fantasizing about women who are attached; as ridiculous as it sounds, I feel a little guilty thinking about bopping a woman who belongs to another man. The less attainable the woman, the less desirable, and the thing about Britney Spears was that she seemed white trash enough to be attainable if only the proper situation presented itself.

I sighed. At least I could still rely on Salma Hayek to lead my mental dream team. For now, anyway.

The cashier was a cute blonde, old enough to be legal but young enough to be a girl. I paid for my doughnuts and milk, and she slipped me a wink as I left, my purchased items weighing down the plastic bags in my hands. 

I headed towards my apartment just down the block. It was comfortable but messy, more of a college bachelor pad than the dwelling of a mature and professional adult. Posters of old mafia films and hot pop stars decorated the walls. A framed and signed photograph of Mickey Mantle hung above the television. Dirty clothes and old magazines (People, National Enquirer, Maxim, Playboy... and gasp! even a copy of Cosmo with Tyra Banks on the cover, another starter on my mental dream team) littered the floor like land mines. 

As I pushed open the apartment door with my elbows, arms full, dropping my keys, I heard the phone ringing. I'd turned my cell off earlier, not wanting to be bothered, but someone had the home number. "Someone" meant Pop or an old girlfriend; no one else knew how to reach me at home. Naturally, I'm not listed in the phone book.

"Hello," I said as I picked up the phone. I hoped that it was Dad. I was not in the mood to talk to my ex, to discuss feelings of our relationship, to talk about old times; she expected me to come back on my knees, begging to be received by her. She had already forgotten I'd caught her on all fours, barking like a basset hound while some muscle-bound meat-head she'd met on the subway plowed her from behind. This was a mistake that I was not easily going to forgive and forget. She's lucky I didn't kill them both, and if I had been a stupider man, I would have. 

But when you're in my line of work, you can't just go around killing people you want to because sooner or later you'll get caught. Plus, if I were to kill someone and not get paid, it'd be like a surgeon giving a freebie open heart surgery. It's my job, not my hobby. 

"Junior, we got problems," the voice was that of my father's former bodyguard, Jake "Sharktooth" Fontana. They called him Sharktooth because he'd chipped a tooth during a fight then bit the guy in the arm, Fontana's jagged tooth tearing out a good hunk of flesh. 

"Ya bit a guy? What are ya, a woman?" someone had later asked him.

"He smelt blood and couldn't help himself," my father had replied. "Like a fuckin' shark."

Hence the name "Sharktooth" even though Sharky (only criminals and athletes have nicknames for nicknames) had a little cap that he put on every day, disguising his shark's tooth among his other teeth. Sharky was a formidable man, big, dark and dangerous, a bit of stubble seeming to always shadow his jaw no matter how many times a day he shaved. Dad demanded no less than the best for his personal protection, and Sharktooth was undoubtedly the best. Now, he was simply retired.

"What's up, Sharky?" I said. I didn't ask him how he'd gotten my number, but I knew that my dad hadn't given it him. This meant that Sharky had gone through Daddio's files, found my number, and called me without my father's knowledge. Sharky wouldn't have done such a thing if it wasn't important.

"When can you meet me?" he said.

"Whenever."

"Ok, this afternoon. My bar. Around three or so."

"Deal," I said, and I heard him hang up the phone. Sharky was not a man of many words, and I loved him for it. You never had to sort through any bullshit; he was short, blunt, and to the point. I wondered what the problem was. It had to be pretty serious for Sharktooth to call me out of the blue like that, and it probably concerned my dad. 

I sorted through my bag, pulled out the box of doughnuts, and got to work. I'd worry about what Sharktooth had on his mind when it came time to worry about it. For now, I would only concern myself with chocolate glazed goodness, a cold glass of milk, and Sportscenter on the television.

After I polished off my fourth doughnut, sucking some glaze from my fingers, I realized that I had left my wallet back at the grocery store. 

***

The cashier seemed to be waiting for me. Her hands were shoved down the kangaroo pouch in the front of her red apron, and she raised an eyebrow as I walked up to her. 

"Took you long enough," she said with a crooked grin. There's a certain arrogance to girls that age that I don't quite understand. Barely eighteen, these girls think they know everything there is to know, but by the time they figure out they've got it all wrong, their poorly chosen boyfriends have jaded them for life. What a vicious cycle is this world we live in. 

"Yeah, I think I left my wallet," I said. She nodded, looking bored. 

"Yep, you sure did," she said and pulled it out of the pouch of her apron. She turned it over in her hands as if searching for something but didn't hand it over to me. No one else was in the store, so the girl must have figured she had time to fuck around before giving back the wallet. I heaved a mental sigh. Girls and their games.

"Bet you want this back pretty bad," she said, her eyes moving up to meet my own. She slid my wallet back into her apron. 

"Uh huh," I replied. I was already tired of our dialogue. I had milk and doughnuts waiting for me at the apartment. Not to mention Sportscenter.

"You'd do just about anything, huh? To get it back?" she said, her eyes deep with meaning, daring me to play along. This type of flirtation wasn't unusual, especially from this cashier; she dropped a bit sexual innuendo to just about every other male customer in the store. I came in often enough, so she probably felt comfortable spreading out her feelers to see how far I would go. The only problem was that I didn't feel like playing her coy games. 

"Yeah, whatever. Can I have it now?" I asked and held out my hand. 

"I get an hour for lunch in ten minutes. How about then?" she said. Was she actually trying to get a lunch date out of me? I checked my watch. I didn't want to upset her and make a scene, but I also knew that if you gave just a little to these kinds of girls, they had a habit of running with it.

"Fine," I growled. She peered down the aisles to see if anyone was nearby before catching my eyes again. A funny look crossed her face.

"But you're going to have to earn it," she whispered and paused for dramatic effect, leaning over the cash register. "My car's parked in the alley out back. Nobody ever goes back there but employees, and Maggie's already here for the next shift."

The girl was proposing a back alley rendezvous with me. I looked at the cashier, really looked at her, for the first time. Her bleached blonde hair hung just to her shoulders; long hooped earrings dangled from her ears jutting behind a scoop of hair. Her neck was long and slender, a shell necklace draped around it at the bottom. Her breasts appeared slightly small but pert underneath her shirt. She was thin enough to make me think she'd probably never had a full meal in her life but attractive in a tomboyish kind of way. Her skin was smooth, unmarked, no wrinkles lining any part of her face. If you squinted, she might even look a little like Britney in the face. A stunning youthfulness exuded from her dark green eyes, a green to match the collared shirt she wore under the red grocery store apron that served as her uniform. A tingle of desire wormed its way through my stomach. 

"How old are you?" I said.

"Twenty one," she replied, her nose crinkling at having to answer such a question. No doubt she was the kind of girl who acted offended every time she was carded in a bar or a club since the very second she turned old enough to buy alcohol. She'd probably have reason to act offended for the next ten years.

"Ok, I'll earn my wallet back," I told her.

"Fuckin' A!" she replied. "And I do mean fuckin'."

***

Having sex in cars is always awkward business. There's just not enough room to do all the things that you'd like, your arms and legs and bodies tangled in a knot of flesh. Remember when you used to keep all your action figures in a toy box; and sometimes they were so stuffed together that you'd pick one up by the leg or arm; and a whole group of them would come out of the box in an entangled puzzle of limbs as if caught in the midst of a super hero orgy? Having sex in cars always reminded me of that.

The cashier, her name now known as Sheila, acted desperate to be out of her clothes, her shirt flying off in my face before the car door was even shut. My hands fumbled at the buttons of her jeans, and she swatted them away, undoing the buttons and zipper in world record time and slipping them into a pool of denim on the car floor. Neither did she allow me to undress myself. Her hands worked like bees, stripping off my t-shirt and buzzing down to my pants and through the zipper, hunting for some honey. 

Apparently, Sheila had no need of foreplay. Being the sensitive lover that I am (wink, wink), I was disappointed, but Sheila's enthusiasm more than made up for it. She acted... well... hungry. Starved. She dove into the sex as if it was water and she hadn't had a drink since her journey through some vast and lonely desert.

She engulfed my mouth with hers. Straddling me in the back seat, her hands were at the side of my face, her fingers brushing through my hair, her tongue licking the inside of my lips. Then she kissed my chin, my neck, every piece of naked skin she could wrap her lips around, hovering above me like an angel. My hands were on her hips, and I helped her slowly work me into her. She was so tight, it was almost painful, and I hoped that I wasn't hurting her. She gasped and moaned, a little murmur that barely escaped her lips.

"Are you ok?" I asked her, brushing a lock of blonde hair over her right ear. Her eyes opened, and she looked at me, her lips spreading to a girlish smile.

"Yeah, I need it. I just need it sooo bad," she said and licked the end of my nose. A thin trail of saliva hung and slid down from the end of my nose and her tongue as she peeled away. She giggled, and I returned her smile, my hands rubbing along her back. I relished the feel of her skin, so soft and smooth.

She put her hands on the back of my neck, interlacing her fingers and began to ride me, slowly and gently. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of her wet tightness gliding up and down my hard cock, her warmth spreading over me. There's nothing quite like a slow fuck: feeling every breath, every heart beat.

"Yes, yes. That's so good," I told her, my head falling back and rolling to one side on the cushion of the back seat. I allowed one eye to peek open and look at her. She was smiling, evidently very happy with herself and the power she had over me. My hands slid down and gripped her hips, fingers sinking into her lovely flesh. 

"I love this. God, I love this," she said, her green eyes flaming with hunger. She closed her eyes, and her brow knitted in concentration. She looked so cute, I began to kiss her chest, her breasts, her neck. I wanted to consume her, she looked so goddamn cute.

After several minutes of this, her left breast cupped with one hand and held in my mouth, I felt her hips begin to buck, pivoting, grinding on my cock. She bit her bottom lip, her brow furrowing harder in concentration, and then her eyes flew open.

"Oh, yes! I'm cumming! I'm cumming!" she cried. I always find it so nice of women to announce their orgasms because men often would have no other clue concerning their sexual success or failure. However with this girl, I would have been able to tell even if she hadn't uttered a word. Her breaths became hectic; a squeal slipped past her lips; and then I was with her, feeling her pussy squeeze and milk my cock as she came on me. I gnashed my teeth, feeling my own orgasm erupting with frantic bursts of pleasure, filling her. 

It was over too soon, and we were reduced from King and Queen of Pleasure Island to merely two sweaty, naked people who were out of breath. I ran my hands up and down her spine, simultaneously holding her and stroking her back as she gasped on top of me, still straddling me, her face buried into my shoulder.

"Can we do this again sometime? Please?" she asked between breaths from underneath a mound of messy blonde hair. 

"Why don't we have dinner first?" I said, and we laughed, holding each other tight. 

***

At precisely three o'clock, I stepped through the doors of The Deep End, Sharky's bar. I felt pretty good even though the news of Britney's engagement had started the day on the wrong foot and Sharky's meeting was probably not going to be good news. Still, I had gotten lucky with a blonde who only seemed to get cuter and cuter in my mind; her number was in my wallet (yes, I'd earned it back); and we had a date planned for the upcoming weekend. The bartender, a beer-bellied brawler named Kross, nodded towards me in recognition. 

"He's in the back," Kross said, pushing a glass of beer in front of a sleepy-eyed customer. The customer peeled his eyes open just enough to realize that there was a mug of beer in front of him before collapsing onto the bar with a meaty thud. 

I made my way to the back room where I found Sharky sitting behind a desk stacked with cash and fliers advertising a pool tournament. Sharky loomed over the desk, a bear in a totally unconvincing man suit. Seeing me, Sharky stood up and extended a large paw in greeting but did not smile. I took his hand and endured a brisk handshake. He offered a chair. I took it, and we sat down.

"Thanks for coming," he said. I smiled; the last time I'd heard the word "coming" was out of Sheila's mouth as she rode me to orgasm. I shook the thought off and brought my mind back to Sharky. His chair strained under the weight of him, joints creaking in protest, and I wondered how many he went through in a year. I guessed a dozen.

"I know you wouldn't have called if it wasn't important. Of course, I came," I said, returning his stoic gaze. Sharky's eyes were hard, were always hard, the eyes of a hard man. Beneath them, he was a teddy bear. A teddy bear that might break your neck if you got on his bad side but a teddy bear all the same.

"I know your Dad likes to solve his own problems and doesn't want to bring you in on this, but I thought you should know. There's a hit out on him."

My pulse stopped for a moment, but I didn't let on. My face was devoid of expression. Sharky was telling me this because he knew that I would take out the competition before the competition took out Pop. The decision was made as soon as the words were out of his mouth, and we both knew it. It was more a matter of loyalty than the fact they were after my Dad. No one took out my employer, regardless of who he was. Who else would pay me?

"Word on the street's Simeon Dread hired a hit man called the Black Ghost," Sharky continued. His hands balled into trembling fists, and he drove them into the top of the desk. A wad of cash strapped by a rubber band toppled off the side and landed in the trash can. Sharky wasn't usually so emotional, but the frustration he felt was understandable. What kind of egomaniac thought that he could take out my father without fear of repercussion?

"Hit-WOMAN," I corrected. Sharky's eyes widened.

"A broad? She black?"

"Just her heart," I said. "Just her heart."

Time for some much needed back story for you people out there who have never heard of A) Simeon Dread and B) the Black Ghost. I'll keep it short and to the point, just the way Sharky liked it. 

Simeon Dread was a wealthy real estate guru who had his hand into just about every jar that had cookies to offer. Some time or another, he began building a criminal empire to rival my father's, in turn becoming a business rival. My father never had a bone to pick with Dread, but Dread couldn't handle someone being bigger and better than him at anything. In his attempt to become the biggest fish in the sea, Simeon wanted to eat up my father's network piece-by-piece but hadn't found much success. Apparently, his next strategy was to take my father out of the equation entirely.

So Dread hired the Black Ghost. The Black Ghost was Catwoman to my Batman; although we'd never met officially, our paths always seemed to cross one another's every now and again. It wasn't surprising that Dread hired her to assassinate my father; other than me, she was the best: cautious, thorough, brilliant and deadly. Still, I knew that I was better, and she hated me for it. I'd successfully avoided being killed by her twice before, but as they say, the third time's the charm. 

They called her the Black Ghost because she seemed to strike best in the dark and never left a trace... like a ghost. In fact, some people claimed that she had been killed and had risen from the dead like Jesus Christ. Or a zombie. Do you think Jesus would have been classified as a zombie after rising from the grave? In any case, criminals are a superstitious bunch.

If you made it through all that boring back story, pat yourself on the back. I would have zoned out minutes ago. 

***

So I shadowed Dad, hoping to catch the Black Ghost before Pops caught a bullet between the eyes. It was tricky business, but I had two advantages. One: I was better than the Ghosty babe, and two: she had no idea that I was on to her. Surprise would be key if I was going to turn the tables on the bitch.

I figured that Ghosty would make her hit on Pops at his favorite restaurant. I would tell you the name of it, only it's in French, and I'd get the spelling all wrong. I don't understand why Daddio likes it so much; there's not a single cheeseburger on the menu. I guess it makes him feel important or something, you know, old men and their money and blah blah blah. I often wondered when he found the time to learn French.

Anyway, the restaurant made sense because he was in and out of there three nights a week like clockwork. You could set your damn watch by it, and it was the one place where Ghosty could be sure of catching him. Not only that, but an abandoned complex sat across the street, one building to the left. It was due to be torn down at the end of the month and replaced by a fancy new Italian restaurant, one I actually looked forward to trying out. This abandoned complex would serve as the perfect perch for someone with a high-powered sniper rifle, hiding behind the large billboard that stood on the roof. She could get off a shot, jump to the roof of the building behind it, slide down the fire escape and make her getaway in a car parked on the opposite street. 

She'd waste Daddio and disappear into the shadows before his corpse thought to hit the sidewalk; that is, unless I got to her first. 

The day that my father was due to eat out at the French restaurant, I staked out the abandoned building. Arriving earlier than the Black Ghost would think to be there, I forced open a boarded up window and climbed inside. The scent of musky feces coupled with bitter piss and rotting food assaulted my nostrils with dizzying force. Apparently, some vagrants had recently lived here. I assumed the cops had rounded them up and sent them on their way because I saw no sign of anyone. My eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom; the only light was that of the window I had just forced open and yellow spears sneaking through the slits of the other boarded up windows. Dust covered everything with a thin coat; a few old newspapers sat crumpled on the floor; a few overturned beer cans poked up through the debris. I was alone for now.




Contract Killer's Next Hit



I found a shadowy corner and sat down, drawing my knees to my chest. I closed my eyes and let my body relax. So much of this job was waiting. Violence was quick, over in a heartbeat, but the waiting lasted for days on end. Drawing deep breaths, I eased into a light sleep, my ears listening for any movement to wake me. 

Sometime later, I heard footsteps, and my eyes fluttered open: someone walking up the stairs to the roof; someone with a quick and light step; the step of a sneaking cat. The Black Ghost. Night had replaced the dim glow of light between the boarded windows. I slid my gun out of its shoulder holster, twisted on a silencer, and clicked off the safety. I have to admit, my nerves were a little on edge. The Black Ghost was a worthy adversary, and our meetings were always memorable. I hoped that tonight would be no different and wondered (cue the tired cliché!) if our next meeting would be also be the last. 

This would be the first chance I'd have to really get a good look at the Ghost. The other times before I had only caught fleeting glances of a swirl of brown hair and dark clothing as I dodged her bullets. She'd gotten one in my arm and shoulder; I still bore the scars. This time (cue another tired cliché!) I hoped to return the favor.

I waited until I heard the access door to the roof open and bang shut behind her with a metallic clang. Quietly, I stood up and snuck through the room and into the connecting hallway; the stairs stood at the opposite end, creeping up into the dark. I padded my way to and up the stairs, traveling up the left side as the middle of old staircases is more often prone to creaking (take notes, boys and girls), and I held my breath as I approached the door to the roof, my pulse burning in my ears. 

I pressed my hand against the cold metal of the door and thought 'Here goes nothing.' Taking a deep breath and holding it, I pushed the door open and pounced onto the roof, my silencer held out before me. 

"Good evening," she said as soon as I was out in the open.

The Black Ghost was waiting for me. She sat on the edge of the roof, a semiautomatic machine gun in one hand. It looked like an Uzi. The gun was aimed directly at my chest, and the Ghost motioned with her other hand for me drop my silencer. Not really having a choice, I did so; and it landed in the gravel at my feet. Her long brown hair blew in the breeze, and she regarded me with a smug look. 

She was a beautiful woman, probably in her late thirties, but she looked years younger. She had sharp, stunning features that spoke of Mediterranean descent, and her body beneath the form fitting black clothing she wore seemed sculpted by Michelangelo, himself. Her breasts were well-rounded and curved under the fabric; her stomach well-defined; and her hips voluptuous. I guessed she was wearing black spandex. It wouldn't have looked out of place in a gym and a comfortable choice if she faced any action. 

Realization dawned, and I said, "The hit isn't on my father. It's on me."

The Ghost smiled, "Well done. I'd clap if I didn't have to hold this fucking bulky weapon in one hand, and I'm afraid you'd run away if I set it down." Her voice was low and smooth, a voice I associated with well bred, wealthy women.

"Try me," I snorted. The Ghost shook her head.

"Nope. Can't take the chance. I knew that you'd think this was perfect spot for a hit and come here to look for me. Dread wants your annoying little daddy out of the way, and the only way we can get to your father is if we get rid of you first. That way, who's going to stop us?"

"Sharky," I said, knowing her reply before she said it.

"Hah! How do you think we got to you? Sharky knows that it's only a matter of time before Dread takes what he wants, and Sharky is a businessman. The only loyalty anyone in this entire city has is to money," the Ghost said, enjoying the look of hopelessness that I allowed to cross my face. I wanted her to think I was beaten. If she got too cocky, I might have a chance. 

"You were good competition; I'll give you that," she said, her finger tightening on the trigger of her machine gun. "It's a shame to think of doing this job without a rival like you lurking about town. Then again, it's high time a woman had a monopoly on this business. The city's not big enough for the both of us. But I'll allow you to say any last words if you have them."

I paused and said, "Catch."

I soccer kicked my gun at her, the weapon flying through the air towards her in a hail of gravel, and the Ghost raised her hands reflexively over her face. The gun hit her in the elbow and spiraled out into the night. I charged at her with a yell, hoping that I had enough time before she could react and get a good aim with her machine gun.

Blindly, the Ghost swung her arm back and fired off a spray of bullets. I felt a whoosh past my ear, blowing my hair, but we were too close, our bodies meeting with an "oof!" I rammed into her, a lowered shoulder placed into her stomach. I reached up and twisted the wrist that held the machine gun, and her hand lost its grip. The gun fell off the roof into the alley below.

The Ghost's knee shot up and caught me in the gut. She'd aimed for the nutsack, but I'd twisted away at the last moment, her curses filling my ears. Then she head butted me, and I lost my grip on her, falling backwards, seeing nothing but stars. Her leg swept through the air, her foot catching me square in the jaw. My teeth met in a devastating crunch. This woman knew how to fight. 

I was no slouch myself, and I caught her leg in the midst of her next karate kick. I twisted it and drove my elbow into her knee. The Ghost screamed, lost her balance, and landed on the roof in a heap of heaving flesh. I dove on top of her, pinning her to the ground.

I hadn't wrestled with a girl since high school, and the Ghost's tight body squirming under mine must have brought back some old memories to my body because despite the danger of the woman below me, I felt my cock stiffen in my pants. I knew she must have felt it too, throbbing against her leg, because I was pinning her down with all of my weight, my hands locking her wrists, my thighs clamped over her own. 

She was beautiful and dangerous, everything that I desired in a woman, and I don't know what came over me when I kissed her. Something electric passed between us, perhaps the power over life and death we both seemed to share, and she was kissing me back, her body no longer squirming under mine but allowing me to rub against it. Her hips raised to press herself harder against my body, and I could feel her heat building through our clothes.

Her tongue was in my mouth, and I caught it between my lips and sucked on it, feeling it writhe and twist in lustful passion. The Ghost moaned softly and began to grind against my crotch while I slowly dry humped her glorious body, our pelvises struggling to give and receive pleasure through the constraining clothing. I broke our kiss, and we drew deep, trembling breaths. Our hearts thudded against out chests, beating in time. 

"Just for tonight," she said. "Tomorrow I will kill you."

I released my hold on her and tore through her spandex like gift wrapping on a new birthday present. Underneath was the greatest gift a man can be given, and I ran hands and my tongue over her naked skin. It was cool and smooth to the touch. My hands roamed everywhere: legs, thighs, hips, stomach, breasts. I needed to feel all of it. I kissed along her stomach and moved up towards her supple breasts with circling licks of my tongue. I closed my teeth carefully over a nipple and flicked at it with my tongue, then circled again before taking it in my mouth to suck. Her hands balled in my hair and pulled me up to her mouth.

"Taste me, darling. I want you to taste me," she said, kissed me delicately, and then pushed me down her body to her secret treasures below. I kissed along her inner thigh, teasing her with my finger. Need mounted from her pussy in waves of heat and moisture. I ran my tongue along the place where her pelvis met her leg, and then her hand pulled me to where she wanted me, not able to contain herself any longer. 

Each woman has her own unique taste, and the Ghost's was the most amazing I had ever experienced. Only a woman like her (dark and mysterious; gorgeous and deadly; unattainable except in your deepest dreams) could have such an indescribably exquisite taste. My fingers toyed with her clit, rubbing and rolling and squeezing, as I lapped up everything her body fed me, my tongue slipping through her pussy lips and wiggling for all the feminine honey that it could get. 

Then I changed position, slid my fingers inside of her and closed my lips over her clit, licking and sucking in expertly paced increments. I searched with my fingers to that special place all women have inside but not enough men take the time to find. I knew I had it as soon as she blew a heavy, lusty sigh through her lips.

I rubbed the spot with my fingers, sliding my hand in and out of her, working her clit in my mouth in rhythm with her gasps of pleasure. I felt her heat mounting, washing over me with wave after wave of ecstasy, and she began to buck on my hand, making her pussy slap against my fist with meaty authority.

She came with a shaking sob, her head flinging from side to side, hair flying around her in a swirl of brown. Her thighs and legs trembled around me, and wet streaming tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

"I need you," she whispered. "Fuck me or kill me now!"

Tough choice. I fucked her. I pulled down my pants, slid my pulsing cock into her and gritted my teeth as I felt her pussy wrap around me. Her lips met mine, our tongues flickering out and touching, and I thrusted in and out of her, my arms wrapped around her waist, each hand locked onto the opposite wrist, binding her to me. 

I licked away the warm tears on her cheeks and felt her nail dig into my back as I plunged myself into her again and again. Our stomachs slapped, flesh meeting flesh, a sticky wetness attempting to glue us to one another at the crotch. Her legs wrapped around my hips and tightened their grip, forcing me harder and deeper inside of her. She arched her back and violently pulled herself into me, meeting my thrusts with her own. 

"Yes, oh yes. Fuck me girl, fuck me," I muttered. The words seemed to be coming from a separate entity in another world. The only real thing I knew, the only thing that mattered was the explosive feeling of incredible passion that drenched me, overwhelming me, rising in my body, forcing my eyes shut and quickening my thrusts into the assassin below me.

She came again with a guttural growl, her lips curling back in a snarl, her body trembling from head to toe like a wet puppy. Then she screamed, a scream that tore out of her throat and howled through the night's air. Then it was over, and her scream was lost forever among the constant rumbles of the city: honking horns, far away sirens. We kissed again, her hands holding the sides of my head, and then she peeled her lips away from mine. Her eyes glowed with sinister desire.

"Cum on my face," she said. "Drench me with your cum."

I pulled out of her, feeling the cool breeze on my naked cock, and worked myself over her head, my hand on my dick, stroking quickly. She peered at me with a murderess's eyes, daring me to spill my seed over her sculpted features. 

"Cum on me," she ordered. "Shower your hot jizz all over me."

Her voice signaled the end for me. I felt the cum build in my sack and erupt through my shaft and out of the engorged, purple head of my cock, splooging spools of jism onto the Ghost's perfect white skin, splattering her with strands of my nut cream. One rope landed in her hair and clung there; another smacked against her cheek with a wet splat and slid down her neck. A strand missed her eye barely, a bit of goo sticking to her eyelash. A puddle formed where the cum pooled in the small indentation at the bottom of her neck. It was like something out of a porno, and I mentally congratulated myself at the amount of cum I had mustered up. 

I finished up and stuffed my cock back into my pants as I pulled them up, stood, and backed away slowly from the Black Ghost, knowing that this would be my only time for escape. I watched as she wiped the cum from her face with her hand and then licked it off her palm like a cat cleaning its paw. She waved at me just before I pulled open the roof door and disappeared down the stairwell. 

"See you soon," she said.

***

I waited for Sharky in his office, the walls shaking from some techno music as the strippers paraded their bodies like juicy steaks to a mass drooling dogs in main room of The Deep End. Sharky had quite the setup here; it was no wonder he was rolling in dough. In fact, I wouldn't mind a setup like this. Nope. Not at all. It'd be pretty cool actually, with all the naked woman walking around backstage. I heard the door open, and then Sharky flipped the light switch, stripping away the darkness like the bodacious stripper tore away her thong in the other room. Sharky's eyes opened wide, seeing me in his chair with my silencer pointed at his burly chest.

His shock was apparent. He expected me to be dead by now.

"Junior, what's going on?" he said, but he didn't ask the question as though he didn't know what was going on. It was just something to say, a part he had to play now that his fate was decided. He knew that I knew that he knew precisely what was going on. Trust me, that last sentence makes sense.

"Sharky, don't play dumb. You are many things, but dumb was never one of them," I said, leaning forward in Sharky's large leather chair. My elbows rested on the desk between two leaning stacks of cash. I trained my silencer on his right eye.

"Junior, what about everything I've done for your family? I... I... got responsibilities. My family, my bar. What about my bar?" he stammered. It was sad to see such a big man's knees tremble with fear.

"You mean MY bar," I said and fired the gun. 

~the end~