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End Game Ch. 01

By: cckuay



I did not expect to kill two times within twenty four hours.

The evening before, I had just finished a job in Los Angeles. An easy one. The target was lured to a restaurant in Chinatown. I was the waitress.

When I took his order, he placed his hand on my butt. I took a deep breath and wrote down what he wanted. This was his last meal, so I made sure I did not make a mistake.

Our client sat next to him. After dinner, the client repeatedly poured more Tsingtao beer in his glass. Beer meant his bladder filled up quickly. When he went to the bathroom, I followed with a gun.

His fountain of urine bounced off the wall when the first bullet sliced through his neck. He turned around, the yellow stream continued to escape his body.

I squeezed the trigger again. The second bullet drilled through his chest. He toppled to the ground, his eyes bulging, not believing he had been ambushed by a woman. The ultimate insult.

I unscrewed the silencer and wiped clean the gun with my restaurant uniform. The blood flowed from both sides of his body, soaking the uneven bathroom floor. It would soon flow under the door and out to the restaurant. I hurried to the last stall, put down the lid of the toilet seat, and climbed out the tiny high window.

Don's car was on the other side. He drove as I stripped off my uniform in the backseat. The Toyota Corolla kept a steady pace on Interstate 10. I was ready to party, so I put on a halter dress, tying the straps at the back of my neck. The little black dress was backless, so it was impossible to wear a bra.

Don, my business partner of five years, was formally dressed in a three piece suit, complete with bow tie.

"You looked like a waiter." I crawled between the seats so I could ride shotgun.

"And you look drop dead gorgeous." He enjoyed teasing. I never did. I believe a professional distance was healthy. Besides, he was twenty years older, old enough to be my dad. In fact, he was dad's partner until dad passed away.

"I wish all jobs were that simple."

"If they are all like that, our clients won't pay us handsomely, right?"

Don had a point. Our jobs were mostly very risky types. Over the years, we had some really close calls. I had been shot twice. The scars on my stomach and thigh were constant reminders.

Interstate 10 quickly became Interstate 15. We pulled over to a gas station just outside Barstow. I dumped the blood-soaked uniform while Don shoved the gasoline gun into the small hole at the back of the Corolla, half the gun sticking out. Somehow, it felt right to deposit the bloody dress in California, before crossing the state line.

When we crossed into Nevada, we both screamed at the top of our lungs for having survived yet another job.

We drove on to the Las Vegas strip, but did not stop to gamble. The thrill of gambling with money could not excite us. After all, we had just gambled with our lives.

Instead, we went strip club hopping on Industrial Road. We were equal opportunity customers, checking out both male and female strippers.

"I'll bet $200 your whore does not dare to take the stage." A man, visibly drunk, shouted at Don.

Don played it cool. "You'll have to wager directly with her."

He repeated his dare, this time in my face.

"Show me the $1,000 and I'll consider." I pulled down my dress to show more cleavage.

"Here," he removed his wallet and counted out ten bills. Don used his cell phone to check that they were hundreds.

When the song ended, I climbed the two steps to the round stage. Holding the pole, I struck a pose. A dozen men or so moved closer.

"This man is betting a grand that she does not dare to strip." Don was loud enough so that the men around the stage could all hear. Nobody offered to raise the stakes.

The thumping music came on. I wowed the audience by inverting myself, gripping the pole by my ankles, my hands on the floor, the dress floating around my chest, my thong undies visible. When I stood upright again, stacks of twenties appeared. I sauntered around the stage, taking my time to let them slide it into my g-string.

For the second song, I untied the knot behind my neck, letting the dress drop to my waist. The catcalls were deafening, almost as loud as the music. More twenties, and even a hundred. Las Vegas was a rich town.

I let my dress drop completely to the floor on the third song. This was not a nude club, just topless. I pranced around in my thong, crawling on the stage, pretending to be a tigress.

By the time the song ended, the entire club was standing three deep around me. Don held my hand and helped me off the stage. We were up at least fifteen hundred.

We decided we had celebrated enough.

"Can we switch cars?" Don asked when we were almost at his house. "I have to meet a new client tomorrow." For some strange reason, new clients had a tendency to trust only assassins with luxury cars.

I hesitated for several seconds. "Sure," I said as we pulled into a gated community on a golf course in Boulder City, just outside Las Vegas.

"Thanks. I'll see you soon." He leaned over to kiss my cheek. He had never done that before, This was strange.

It's not a big deal, I thought to myself as I merged with the traffic on Interstate 40, heading east. The morning sun was suddenly in my eyes. I reached down to the glove compartment and pulled out a greasy pair of oversized sunglasses. Don really had bad taste. 

When the traffic thinned, I spotted a silver Buick of some sort in my rear mirror. I sped up, and then slowed down, the Buick followed. God, who drove a Buick anymore? Didn't General Motors stop making them ugly cars? Or was that the Hummer?

I floored the pedal to pass an eighteen wheeler, shooting the needle to ninety. The Buick effortlessly kept pace. It was only a foot away. I resisted the urge to slam the breaks. The Corolla was not match for any car, even the Buick.

I blinked and tried to concentrate. The dotted lines dividing the lanes blurred and merged into a single continuous line. The needle was at one hundred, as fast as the Corolla could go.

Chancing a glance to the right, I fished out my cell phone from my purse. Pressing just one button, the ring tone went on and on. God damn it, Don. What the hell were you doing? Rubbing your own dick or sticking the middle finger up your own asshole?

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, his lazy voice came on.

"Hello honey, what can I do you for?"

"Cut it out, Don."

"Ashley, what's wrong?"

"There's a guy on my tail. What to do?"

"Step on the gas and lose him. Don't worry about the cops. I have many friends in Nevada."

"I'm in Arizona. And I'm stuck in your stupid Corolla. You took my BMW, remember?"

"Hang on," he said.

I heard the whirling fan inside his laptop computer.

"Where are you now?" he asked.

"Exit 157 on I-40"

"Get out at Exit 161. There's a single gas station off the ramp. There should be nobody except the store clerk at this hour. FM him."

"Understood." FM was our code for a flanking maneuver.

I kept going as fast as I could. At the last minute, I slammed on the brakes, tires skidding and screeching, the burning smell of rubber filling the air, the car narrowly missing the concrete wall. 

He braked, but had missed the exit ramp. He stopped and reversed furiously. I had only a few seconds.

I parked the car directly in front of the mini-supermarket and grabbed my purse. I pushed the glass door hard, the bell on top of the door clanging. The clerk was astounded. I held my index finger to my lips to signal silence. His face was white. He could not speak.

The man parked next to the Corolla, in the blue handicapped lot. The bell clanged again. He was in the store, his gun drawn, his eyes narrowing. The clerk was nowhere to be seen. Smart clerk.

The small supermarket had only three rows. The man systematically checked out each one, crouching and keeping his body low. The front row had all the snacks. He quickly reached the end and turned around to the next aisle.

One side of the middle row was filled with toiletries and feminine hygiene products. The other side carried Pepsi, Sprite, Coke, Mountain Dew, Dr Pepper, and Fanta. Strangely, there were no diet sodas. It took him barely a minute to complete the first two rows. There was only the back row left.

On the back row were alcoholic beverages, mostly beers, kept cold inside giant refrigerators. He got down on one knee next to the alumimium siding. Peeking with one eye, he saw that nobody was on the last row. She must be hiding in the bathroom, he thought.

I knew he was coming, the fluorescent lights casting his shadows in all directions. I was starting to shiver, my bare back touching the icy cold beer cans.

I saw a shadow creeping from left to right. I stopped breathing, both hands holding the glock, my right index finger on the trigger, legs shoulder length apart, aiming slightly upwards.

First, his gun was visible, then the arms, and lastly the sideview of his face. I squeezed the trigger gently. The glass shattered, a thousand fragments flying outwards. The bullet went in through his jaw and went out through his temple.

I stepped out, tiptoed around the broken glass, and checked his pulse. He was dead.

In the Corolla, I put my purse in the glove compartment, locked the doors, and turned the ignition key. I wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as I can.

The cold barrel of a gun was on my neck.

"Put your hands behind the seat."

Plastic cuffs secured my wrists behind me. I stole a glance at the rear mirror. The man behind was wearing a spiderman mask and a leather jacket. When he saw me looking, he placed a hood over my head so I was blinded. I had to concentrate to breathe through the tight leather hood.

I was dragged by the elbows out of the car. He slammed my body faced down on the hood, kicking apart my legs at the same time. After a quick search, he removed my panties, shoved them into my mouth, and sealed it by duck tape.

Finally, I was thrown into total darkness in the trunk.

>>>>>

To be continued in Ch 2, where there will be nonconsensual sex.

End Game Ch. 02



The windowless basement was full of terrible steel objects. There was a fridge, microwave, dishwasher, stove, and sink.

I was forced to kneel on the cold concrete floor. The plastic cuffs had been replaced with police-issued handcuffs, steel cutting into my wrists. My tormentor sat in front of me, with the chair facing backwards, his legs straddling it. The Spiderman mask and his leather jacket were on the empty chair next to him.

He walked towards me and tore off the tape that sealed my lips, allowing me to push the wet panties out of my mouth.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" I attempted to take control, spitting in his face. It was a mistake.

He slapped me hard, dropping me to the right, my shoulder unable to properly cushion the fall with my arms behind. He yanked my hair, almost pulling the roots out until I was forced back on my knees. Warm blood flowed from my cut lips. 

He laughed.

"What's so funny, motherfucking coward. If you are really a man, uncuff me and see if you can handle me one on one."

He laughed again. When he stopped, only the sound of the air conditioner could be heard.

He went down on one knee, looking me in the eye. His eyes were the coldest blue I've ever seen. It reminded me of the cold ocean waves in San Francisco.

Without warning, he pinched and twisted both my nipples through the thin fabric of my dress. The twisting continued until I screamed, involuntarily. Then he stopped.

"You will not talk unless I ask you a question, understand?"

I nodded.

He twisted my nipples until I screamed again.

"And when I ask you a question, you reply verbally, understand?"

"Yep," My tone was reluctant.

Another twist of my tits, this time raking in his fingernails. I was going hoarse on my third scream.

"You address me as sir, got that whore?"

"Yes sir." My breathing was rapid and shallow.

"Good."

He sat down and took out a cigarette, leaning back and crossing his legs.

This was very strange. What did he want? Who was behind him? Was he working alone?

As a woman, I was very effective in my line of work. Very few people expected a young blonde with an angelic face to be capable of killing. But as a woman, I knew the horrific things that would happen if captured.

A captured male assassin would be tortured. A captured female assassin would be raped and tortured, usually in that order. But my dress was still intact. Spiderman had not stuck his dick into my cunt or mouth.

Neither did he interrogate me. It was as if he already knew everything about me. This was driving me nuts. What could have gone wrong?

The last job was easy and perfectly executed. Very few people saw me in the restaurant. The client was absolutely trustworthy. Don had carefully screened him, as he had done so for all our clients. The drive out of Los Angeles was uneventful.

Also, why would anyone wait so long before making a move? If the client wanted to kill us, we would have been blown up by a car bomb or shot on the way to Vegas. The strip club in Vegas was also very dark. We were most vulnerable there when we were celebrating. I had been near naked on stage and had no weapon on me.

After Vegas, I was driving alone. Why would anyone follow me, but not shoot until he was in a gas station?

A second man entered the room. He had slick black hair that was tied back into a pony tail. His eyes were narrow and lifeless. His facial skin was so smooth it reflected the light from the single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

Wasting no time, Oily Hair tied a rope around my neck. I was led by the rope and forced to crawl on my knees. I was made to stop in one corner of the room, which had iron hooks protruding from the floor.

The sound of metal chains came from behind me. Oily Hair had a knife. The cold knife was on the back of my neck. At first, he tried to untie the knot behind my neck. When he fumbled and failed, he simply used the knife to slice through. My dress dropped to me waist.

Oily Hair walked in a big circle around me, making sure I could see the two pairs of nipple clamps. He held them with one hand, the other stroking his chin.

"You want to guess what these are for?" Oily Hair grinned, exposing his missing front tooth.

"They are for you to link your nipple to your mother's cunt." I spit at Oily Hair right after the insult. It landed on his face and dripped down. He was stunned, but recovered quickly. After wiping his face with the back of his hand, he rubbed his hand on my hair.

"Clamped her and start taking pictures." Spiderman did what he was told.

One end of each clamp was secured to the floor hook, the other bit into the soft skin around my nipple. I gasped and bit my tongue. The world was turning gray.

One of them, I no longer could keep track, yanked back my hair, forcing me to kneel upright. The clamps bit harder into my nipple when the chains are fully extended. The camera snapped away, capturing my tortured look.

Why did they want to document the incident? Would that not be incriminating evidence? Was it just for their client to see? Were they planning to blackmail me in future, compelling me to do what they wanted, perhaps to kill for them?

The combined effects of the pain from the clamps and the delayed effect of the alcohol I consumed at the strip club were beginning to blunt my thinking. I was confused. Blackmail implied they planned to keep me alive. Was that wishful thinking?

After what seemed like a thousand camera flashes later, the clamps were painfully pulled off. Blood rushed back to my chest.

I was hogtied on my stomach, thick ropes binding my ankles and wrists together. After a few kicks from heavy boots, I was flipped over, like scrambled eggs. Facing the ceiling, my arms and legs were trapped by my own weight.

One man sat on my neck, pinched my nose and twisted one nipple. When I opened my mouth for air, he pushed his enlarged organ into my throat. I choked.

The other man kicked apart my bent knees. Spitting on his right fingers, he penetrated with three of them, skillfully prying me open. It was clear he had done this many times. Once he was satisfied I was wet enough, he straddled me and inserted his throbbing manhood.

I was double penetrated but was determined to remain silent. I would not give them the pleasure of hearing my moans and groans.

The act completed, I was made to kneel, still hogtied. Both men put their hands around my neck and started squeezing. The four hands prevented oxygen from going into my brain. The world looked black and white, then gray, and finally pure black.

>>>>>

When I regained consciousness, I was tied to a wooden chair.

To be continued in End Game Ch. 3...



End Game Ch. 03



I was bound to a maple chair, my arms duct-taped to the arms of the chair. My thighs were separated, the knees forced to go outside the arms of the chair. My ankles were rope-tied to the feet of the chair.

The only part I could still move was my neck. I turned until I could see Oily Hair standing behind. He was standing at the sink, washing his hands. When he saw that I had regained consciousness, he snapped his head around.

"You're awake, that's awesome." He sounded like he was planning some kind of celebration. I hoped he was planning to celebrate alone. I did not think I could handle another multiple penetration.

"What's the matter with you?" He stood in front, his crotch inches away from my face. "Are you giving me the silent treatment?"

"You said not to say anything until you asked a question. There wasn't an inflection in your voice after the word awesome." I said in a matter-of-fact way. It was as if we were in a corporate conference room, negotiating over the fine print of a contract. The only problem with that imagery was that I was completely naked and he was wearing only a pair of jeans.

"We are alone now, just the two of us. I want you to enjoy your experience with me. What kind of foreplay turns you on? Or should I say whoreplay?"

"You asked two questions. Which one should I answer first?" I decided to push the envelope.

"Trying to be cute?" He whacked my face as he spoke those words. White and black spots exploded in front of me, like watching July Fourth fireworks on a black and white television.

"Is this the only way you can fuck a woman? Tied up and unable to reject you?"

He punched my rock hard stomach, moving the chair a few inches backwards. The chair rocked back and forth but did not topple. My hair hung over my face.

"You don't ask the question. I ask the questions. Understand?" He pinched and twisted my left nipple, pulling it a few inches until he could hear a long guttural scream.

"Yes, sir." Blood flowed back to my tits when he released his death grip. This was not the time to act tough. I had to buy time until Don could realize I had been captured. He would have time to disappear and lie low.

To emphasize his power over me, he inserted his middle finger into my vagina and scratched inside with his fingernails. "Next time you try to be funny, it will be with a screwdriver inside. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." I sat up straight and answered military style.

"You know why I'm so happy now?"

"I do not know, sir."

"You see this phone?" It was the iPhone 5.

"Yes, sir. I can see you have the latest iPhone." 

"I have programmed it to play my favorite song every time it rings."

"What is your favorite song?"

"I love Katy Perry's Fireworks." He had forgotten I was not supposed to ask questions.

"I love Katy Perry too." If we could have a conversation, he might start to think of me as a human being and stop thinking of me as a job. I could get an opening if he let his guard down.

"Sing with me, will you?"

"Yes, sir. Anything to help you relax." My plan was working.

"Baby, you're a firework...come on show them what you're worth...make them go oh oh oh..." I sang along and moaned the words. His sense of timing was good, remembering each word perfectly.

He relaxed and removed his jeans, freeing up his trapped cock. It sprang up and grinned at me. His foreskin rolled back smoothly, like the doors of an elevator.

"Come closer," I purred. "Let me kiss you."

He bent his knees and lowered himself, closing his eyes as our lips touched. His tongue tried to enter, but I had moved to lick his right cheek. He turned sideways to encourage me, his eyes still closed. My breath was hot and rapid, melting into his face. 

My wet tongue skidded until it touched his ear lobe. He stood up to relieve the strain on his knees, thighs, and calves.

"Free my legs so we can stand and do this." I spoke in as feminine and soft a voice as I could manage. He raised his eyebrows. "My hands are still secured to the chair. Where can I go?"

He nodded his head and went down on one knee, untying the ropes on my ankles. Not only had he forgotten I was not to ask any questions, I was effectively giving him instructions on what to do.

A minute later, I stood awkwardly. Although my legs were separated by the arms of the chair, I stood lip to lip with him. We began with the same routine, lips touching briefly, and then my wet tongue slid up to his ear, his eyes closed for maximum enjoyment.

Time slowed down for the next few seconds. After licking his ear lobe, I sunk my jaws on his ear lobe, crushing the soft cartilage and tearing it out before he realized what was happening. His piercing screams came a second later. By then, my forehead had rammed into his nose, the tempo of breaking bones combining with his soprano screams to form music in my ears. He staggered backwards, completely caught by surprise.

I shuffled along with the chair that was still taped to me. Moving backwards, I hammered the chair against the fridge with all my strength. The chair broke into half a dozen pieces, a loud cracking sound exploding, as if providing the soundtrack for an action movie. My arms were still glued to the chair, but my legs and most of my torso were completely free.

Oily Hair had recovered and was holding a knife. He charged at me furiously. I pivoted sideways and smashed the remnants of the chair against his forearm. He yelled in pain and dropped the knife. I kicked the knife along the floor until it was out of range.

I moved backwards and hit the chair against the fridge again. This time, only a few splinters left the chair. A part of the chair had also hit the lever of the ice dispenser, shooting out ice cubes.

I jumped on top of the sink, using only my legs. I was on high ground. Oily Hair tried to do the same. But he stepped on an ice cubed. The looked on his face was comical as he tried to stay upright. The more he tried, the more ice cubes he stepped on, sprinting and spinning his wheels in a futile way. The ice cubes spun and slid away from him in all directions. When he went down with a thud, his head bounced off the refrigerator. He was out cold.

Alone in the basement, I found the knife, cut through the tape, and was completely free of the parasitic chair in less than five minutes.

He was still unconscious when I tie a rope around his neck, his hands duct-taped behind. Sooner or later, he was going to tell me who he was working for.

>>>>>

To be continued in Ch. 04...



End Game Ch. 04



Oily Hair was tough and not easy to break. Worse, I did not have much time to work with. I had to find out what he knew quickly so I could warn Don.

It was dangerous to interrogate him in the basement. His goons might show up anytime. But I had no choice. I locked the door and hoped that luck was on my side.

I kicked his ribs to force him to come around. When he opened an eye, I pulled the free end of the rope around his neck until he was forced to stand up. It did not take much effort because the rope ran straight up, through a pulley at the ceiling of the basement.

I kept tugging on the rope until he was forced to stand on his toes. He swayed unsteadily, straining and twisting his head sideways to take the pressure off his neck. His hair was no longer pony-tailed, but hung sideways, partially concealing his mutilated ear.

I pushed a stool neared him, careful not to be within reach of his legs. I pulled the rope again, forcing him to stand on the stool. I pulled the stool away from him until he could stand only with one leg on the smooth top of the stool.

"Tell me who you work for and you will live to tell the tale." I secured the free end of the rope around the legs of the refrigerator.

"How do I know you will not leave me to hang even after I spill the beans?"

"You have no choice but to trust me." I pulled one leg of the stool slightly away. He stood precariously on his left toes, head twisted at ninety degrees, his eyeballs sticking out, a vein on his neck pulsating.

"Okay, lady. Let me sit down so I can think and give you the whole story." His voice was rasping like a chain-saw.

"No deal."

I tipped the stool at an angle. His big toe struggled to stay on it. His breathing was so loud and so rapid it sounded like he was having a seizure and heart attack at the same time. Still, the tough SOB motherfucker would not say a thing.

I increased the tipping angle until he completely slipped off. I had tied the rope around his neck so he would not immediately strangle, and there was no drop, so he would suffer for a while. His face turned reddish-blue, then purple. The pulsating vein on his thick muscled neck glared at me, still defiant.

I had to push the stool back under him again until both his legs stepped on it. He would soon be dead if I did not do that. I was frustrated that this was not working. I needed him alive and he knew it.

I pulled down his jeans to his ankle. He lifted up one leg, then the other so I could pull away his jeans. I left him standing butt naked on the stool, his neck still attached to the pulley.

I picked up a knife and used it to slice through the pair of jeans into two halves. I wrapped one half under my armpits and around my body, tying a knot between my breasts. I tied the other half just below my hips, the knot barely covering my pubic area.

Next, I released the rope so he could step off the chair. Before he got any ideas, I swept his ankles from under him so he fell headlong to the cement floor. His hands, taped behind, made a frantic and unsuccessful effort to break the fall.

"Are you going to suck my cock now? You are sexier now that when you were naked." His nose was bleeding when he said that. This man was thinking with his dick.

I picked up the knife under the sink and held it against his neck.

"Talk, or you will suffer the death of a thousand slices."

He laughed so loudly the building seemed to shake. He was clearly not afraid to die. Neither death by hanging nor death by knife worked on him.

It was time to try another thing. I kicked his hip until he rolled over with his face up.

I pointed the knife at his manhood and noticed he was not circumcised. I rolled back the foreskin, and then pressed the flat part of the knife against his purplish penis head.

"Let's see who will have the last laugh." This time, he was trembling. I had found his weak point.

I rolled forward his foreskin until it was partially restored, then slid the tip of the knife between the foreskin and the glans penis. He was shaking so badly there seemed to be an earthquake.

"Stop shaking or I might accidentally cut you." I ordered.

He was no longer defiant. His eyes were flooded with fear.

"Who?"

His mouth moved as if he was trying to say something, but no words came out.

"Give me a name." I said slowly. There was no need to spell out the threat.

"Please move the knife away."

I complied with his request. The knife glinted as I put in down carefully on the floor. I dragged him to one corner, sitting him against the wall.

"Promise me not to get mad when I tell you the truth."

"I'm listening." I sat down on the floor facing him, making sure my ears were at a safe distance away.

"It's Don." He whispered.

"Don who?"

"Don, your partner."

I connected my elbow with his nose. Fresh blood flowed, pooling on the cement between his legs.

"You're lying." I said in as even a tone as I could.

"Don said he was sick and tired of taking orders from a woman."

"Now I know you are lying. We were equal partners. Nobody took orders from nobody."

"Don did not feel equal because you took 80% of the money and paid him only 20% commission for arranging the hits."

His words struck me like a category five hurricane. I looked into his eyes to figure out if he was lying. It was hard to read. But nobody except Don and I knew about our 80/20 split. It could only have come from Don.

"What else did Don tell you?"

"He was happy working for your dad even though it was the same percentage because your dad taught him everything. But Don taught you everything."

"It seemed you and Don are close. Did you guys fucked?"

"No, no. Don loves ladies."

"Did he tell you how often we fucked? And how much he enjoyed it?"

"Don told me his biggest failure in life is that you rejected him. His biggest wet dream is to get inside your panties."

Everybody in the criminal world taught we were lovers. Oily Hair was telling the truth. I have one last hit to carry out.

>>>>>

To be continued in the next chapter... 



End Game Ch. 05



It was almost midnight by the time I got to the outskirts of Las Vegas. The entire city was before me as I turned a corner, the lights laid out beautifully like a gigantic spider web. How could a city that was so beautiful be so filthy and sinful? Even its suburbs like Boulder City housed an evil liar, a man low enough to betray my trust. Such evil deserved to be punished.

I pulled over at a small unmanned gas station without a supermarket. The car's empty gas symbol had been flashing for the last ten miles. I inserted Oily Hair's credit card in the slot, pressed the button for the lowest grade of gas, and refilled the tank. The total came up to sixty dollars, all charged to Oily Hair's account.

I lowered my head to make sure the overhead security camera did not capture my face. I was wearing Oily Hair's leather jacket, which reached down to my thighs. My hair was about the same length as Oily Hair, so the low resolution monochrome camera should confirm that it was him at the gas station, corroborating the evidence from the credit card swipe.

After closing the lid to the gas tank, I fired up the engine and drove to the back of the gas station, where the only toilet was located. There was another car in front, so I killed the engine and sat in the car, patiently waiting. I looked around to make sure there were no cameras at the back of the gas station. Oily hair had an old-fashioned revolver in glove compartment, which I held between my legs.

It had only been a few hours since Arizona, but the shock of his near-hanging ordeal must have loosened his bladder muscles. I did not want the naked Oily Hair, bound and gagged in the trunk of his own Ford Taurus, to mess up the car. It would distract law enforcement from coming to the easy conclusion that Oily Hair, an obvious criminal figure, had murdered Don.

A tall skinny man, wearing torn jeans and a sleeveless shirt, emerged from the bathroom. He had his keys in his hands, and was about to enter his car when he saw me from the corner of his eye. He walked to the side of the Taurus, tapping the window, rotating his arm, simulating what he thought was necessary to wind down the window. I pushed the button on the side of the driver's window.

"Yes?" I hid the gun under the leather jacket, pointing sideways at him.

"Lady, the bathroom is blocked. I could not flush after I did my business." He leaned over to look inside. He did not have a weapon, and the one inch gap did not allow him to reach inside. The doors were locked.

"Thank you for telling me."

"If you're heading into the city, the next gas station is just ten miles away."

"Okay. Thanks for letting me know."

"Or you could come to my place, which is only one mile away, in the foothills of the Mount Wilson Wilderness area." He winked as he spoke, his eyebrows moving up when he completed the sentence. He had seen my face and I was trying to decide whether to squeeze the trigger. There were no witnesses except Oily Hair in the trunk. He would not see what happened, and would make a bad witness in court.

"How bad is the blockage in there?" I decided to give him a chance. It was against my personal code to kill innocent bystanders. I did not believe in collateral damage.

"Come out here and let me show you." He turned his back and started walking to the bathroom.

I placed the revolver back in the glove box, took the keys, and followed at a safe distance. The winds in the desert were surprisingly strong, slicing into my bare legs. I walked barefoot on the sand, avoiding the sharp stones.

He was inside the one-person stall. "Look, there's too much paper stuck inside." His voice echoed off the concrete walls.

The steel door was half way opened. When I looked in, his hands tried to touch my breasts. I twisted one of his arms behind him, kicked the back of his legs, and forced him to kneel.

"You bitch, teasing me by wearing nothing under the waist." He turned his neck sideways to yell at me.

I pushed his wrist up between his shoulder blades. "Does that make it right for you to attempt to rape me?"

"Of course, you're asking for it."

He grabbed my hair with his free hand, forcing me to sit on his neck, using my full body weight to press his head down. I jabbed the sharp end of the key into his left eye, momentarily weakening his hold on my hair. Capitalizing on his split second weakness, I surrounded his neck with both my hands and muscled his face into the filthy toilet bowl.

Choking on the floating debris, he was forced to fully release my hair. Free to move my entire body, I slammed down the steel toilet cover and jumped on top of it, crushing his chest and breaking a couple of ribs. I kept jumping on the cover, the cracking sound of his ribs popping like fireworks, his screams smothered by the swirling mixture of human deposits and toilet paper. It took a full minute before it was over.

Exhausted, I crawled back to the car, drove it to an abandoned construction site, and fell asleep.

>>>>>

An hour later, I woke up to the urine stench from the trunk. I had forgotten to let Oily Hair out and he had wet his pants. I drove to a quite side street, popped the trunk, and dragged Oily Hair out.

"Pee." I ordered the naked man.

His hands were bound behind, so I held his penis. Only a few drops escaped from him.

"Please, don't kill me," he pleaded. "I didn't betray you. It was Don."

"We are going to Don's house. If I find out you are lying, you will wish you had never been born." I rolled up his foreskin, flicked the penis head with my index finger, and rolled it back.

"I'm not lying, I swear."

"Don't raise your voice, or I cut you here." He walked back, climbed into the trunk, and folded his body into the tight space.

It was three in the morning when I parked a block from Don's house. I climbed the fence into his back yard. The house was dark and quiet.

I inserted and twisted a wire into the keyhole of the kitchen door, easily unlocking it. The glass door slid sideways silently; Don had maintained his house well. I took a knife from a kitchen drawer.

I recognized his snore from the open door of his bedroom. Unzipping the front of my leather jacket, I tiptoed quietly until I entered the bedroom. From the street lights, I could see he had no company. Good.

I removed the jacket, dropped it to the floor, and eased into his bed, naked. Pressing my breasts against his bare back, I nibbled his ear lobe, resisting the urge to sever it. As usual, he slept raw.

"Don," I purred. "I escaped and killed them all. Let's celebrate."

"Ashley, are you sure you want this?" He twisted his neck to look at me. "I'd fantasized about this ever since I first set my eyes on you." Before he turned his shoulders, I climbed on his back, hooking his legs with my ankles and spreading them apart. "Why now?"

"You asked too many questions. Just close your eyes and enjoy the moment, will you?" I started the grinding motion, digging my nails in his hips.

"I was worried about you," he sounded so genuine I was tempted to believe him. "But I knew you were tough."

"Wanna play," I dangled a pair of handcuffs in front of him.

"My kind of woman. I always knew you were not just daddy's little girl." His breathing became more shallow and rapid. He moved his hands behind, crisscrossing his wrists. I snapped the handcuffs on.

Yanking on the chains linking the cuffs, I forced him to flip over. His butt was now on top of the stainless steel handcuffs, his own body weight crushing the delicate bones of his wrists. The pain further aroused him. I ripped out the bedroom telephone cord, cut it into two, and used them to tie his spread legs to the base of the bed. I had never seen a middle aged man grow thick so quickly.

I sat on top of his enlarged tool, slowly guiding it in. When he was completely inside me, I leaned forward and whispered in one ear, "How much money did they pay you to betray me?"

"What do you mean?" He tried to sit up, but I punched him in the nose.

"For God's sake, stop your lies and talk to me like a man." I spoke as softly as I could.

"Ashley, whoever told you that was lying. I would never betray you, not after what your dad had done for me."

His erection had gone soft. I stood up, walked on the bed, and placed a leg on his chest.

"Tell me the truth or I'll break every rib until one of them punctures your own lungs and you drown in your own blood."

>>>>>

To be continued...



End Game Ch. 06



Don found himself in a vulnerable position. His legs were spread and tied to the bed. His arms were trapped under his own weight, twisted behind his back and secured by a set if sturdy handcuffs. He had badly underestimated me.

"Ashley," his voice was getting thinner as he pleaded. "You must believe me. We had a good thing going. Why would I betray you?"

I cut him off. "It's not my job to analyze your psychology. I am not interested to find out why. I just want to know whether you are man enough to tell me the truth."

"But I did not betray you. Somebody was lying to you to save his own skin."

"Can you guess who it might be?"

Don did not hesitate. "It must be Oily Hair. He was the only one who could convince you."

"What do you mean?"

"I told him how I feel about our 80/20 split. I told him I was not happy."

"That was why you wanted me dead?"

"Of course not," he protested. "Just because I was unhappy did not mean I would betray you."

As he was speaking, I left the house and went back to my car. I fished out the gun from the glove compartment, and then opened the trunk and dragged Oily Hair back to the house.

When Don saw Oily Hair, he shook at the cord holding down his ankles. "You motherfucking son of a bitch, you tried to set me up."

"Don, stop lying and just admit that you sent us to hunt her down." Oily Hair spoke to Don as if I was not there.

"Just be a man and tell her that you set me up."

"Hey," I interrupted. "I'm the one with the gun. So both of you shut the fuck up."

Both men ignored me and continued to argue and call each other names. I aimed at the ceiling and fired off a round.

"Sit down," I looked at Oily Hair and ordered.

He obeyed.

I walked around the room, trying to decide what I would do to test who was telling the truth. The two men waited for their fate.

"Don," I started. "You and I worked together for a long time. I was always loyal to you. Between you and Oily Hair, we have a longer history."

"Yes, yes," Don said. "Therefore you should trust me. It's his word against mine, so you should favor the partner who has stood by your side all these years. After all, why makes you believe I have changed?"

"But why would I show up to try to kill you if nobody tells me to? Do you really think I have nothing else to do except go around killing for any reason at all?" Oily Hair's logic was equally convincing.

I turned to Don. "Open your mouth," I ordered.

I climbed up on the bed and placed a knee on his chest. He was visibly shaken, thinking he would soon be dead. I shoved the entire gun in his mouth.

"Lick it," I ordered. "Suck it as if it's a penis. Your life depends on it."

Don did exactly as he was told. I did not know what that proved, but I wanted to know if you would still obey my orders.

"Okay, Don. You have proven your loyalty." As I started to unlock Don's handcuffs, Oily Hair made a move. I saw his movement from the corner of my eye.

Moving quickly to close the distance, I shouted, "Move another inch and I'll blow your head away." I stood with both hands on the gun.

Oily hair froze and started pleading for his life. "You have to believe me, lady. I swear I am telling the truth. Please, I have three kids at home."

Don's hands were now free and he was untying the cords that tied down his legs. When he was fully free, he stood next to me.

"What shall we do to this man who tried to set you up?" I turned to look at Don.

"Let me have the pleasure of killing him." Don stretched his hand out.

"There's only one bullet left, so make it count." I said as I handed the gun to Don.

With the gun in his hand, Don walked slowly towards Oily Hair. Instead of shooting him, Don pistol-whipped him, and then punched him so hard his chair toppled sideways. Don did not stop. He continued kicking at Oily Hair's head until he passed out.

When he turned to me, Don pointed the gun at me.

"You stupid bitch, you trusted the wrong guy."

As he stepped towards me, I stepped backwards.

"Get down on the bed," he ordered.

He had the gun, so I complied. I lay down with my face up.

"Remove all your clothing, whore."

Again, I obeyed. I took my time to remove my top, then my bra. I twisted my body to unzip the skirt, pulled it down with the panties until it was at my ankles. Don used the gun to hook it off my ankles and dropped it on the floor.

"Handcuff yourself." He tossed the metal chains to me, aiming the gun steadily at my chest.

I moved my wrists in front of me, clicking the jagged teeth of one handcuff to the right wrist.

"Stop," he ordered. "I want both your hands handcuffed behind you. I know how dangerous you are, slut."

"Now you have crossed the line," I said. "I do not mind being a whore or a bitch. But to call me a slut, that is outrageous."

"What?" Don could not believe what he heard. "What did you say?"

"You heard me, motherfucker. Take back what you say. I am not a slut."

"Let me remind you that you are hardly in a position to negotiate," he yelled.

"And let me remind you that you are a traitor, betraying your partner, making yourself the lowest of the low, deserving of nothing except to suck dick for the rest of your life." I had no idea where my colorful language came from.

Don could not take any more of my defiance. He squeezed the trigger, but only heard a click.

"There is no more bullet, asshole." I closed the distance between us and whacked him in the head with the swinging handcuffs, opening up his forehead. He staggered backwards, as much from shock as from the force of the blow. I kicked between his legs hard, causing him to double over. With a chop behind his neck, his knees buckled and he fell flat on the floor, head down.

I sat on his back, twisted the telephone cord around his neck, and kept at it until he stopped moving. To make sure, I curled my arms around his neck and forced it sharply to the right until I heard the sharp crack of death.

Don was the last man I killed.

--- THE END ---