THE THEATRE

 

Technincally, her weapon was the razor in her purse. An old-fashioned barber’s razor that folded into a thin, cherrywood handle, it had served her for years, since long before she was recruited by Taylor.

Recruited. A polite way to say blackmailed. He never revealed his last name, and she suspected Taylor wasn’t really his first name, but that was how the Theatre conducted business.

 

She swiveled her hips toward him and leaned her back against the door, lifting her bare calves onto his lap. Her schoolgirl skirt slipped up her thighs and for a moment he was surprised to see her plain cotton undies, then recognized the continuity of her costume. She rested the side of her head against the seat and looked into his gray eyes. “You’ll get your money’s worth.”

He placed his hand on her knee and slid his palm smoothly across her thigh as though across a fender on a classic Duesenberg. “You didn’t answer my question.”

She let him nudge her knee to the side, opening her thighs to his blatant appraisal. “You don’t feel flattered?” She rubbed her calf against the crotch of his slacks, felt the iron underneath. “I think you do.”

“Not that question.” He reached out as though for her panties, but instead tapped the small, pink purse in her hand. “You ever kill anyone?”

 

She wanted to move her razor into a new position but any movement would certainly open the throbbing pulse under his jaw like a garden hose. She twisted her hand at her crotch until she found his zipper, caught the metal flap between her fingers.

“If you beg him to stop, he will, but it only makes him angrier.” He could feel the warm exhales from her nose. “He’ll turn you around. He’ll put you on all fours. He doesn’t like anal, but that’s not why he’s behind you.” He watched the pupils of her ice blue eyes jump from one of his eyes to the other. “He won’t take your panties off, if you’re wearing any. He’ll just pull them to your knees.”

She unzipped him, her palm in backhanded position, so she was prepared. He extended from the breach like a drooping missile, rising to launch. She caught him mid-shaft and allowed the head to nestle against the slim dimple at the base of her panties. She watched his teeth gnash, but whether from her scalding spread or the gouge of the razor, she couldn’t tell.

“He’ll take his belt off.” Fire clawed from his throat to his balls and down the length of his pipe, welding him to her grip, tight as a vice, holding him back, defending her humid sheath. “After four or five strikes you won’t feel much, but he won’t stop.” No, not holding him back, pushing him in, right through her panties. “You might not even notice when he starts fucking you.”

Her high heels wobbled and she tightened to stay on her feet, which only drove him deeper, stretching the cotton fabric, but she didn’t dare release him. The razor trembled now, she couldn’t stop it. It had a mind of its own.

“He won’t come. Not for a long time.” He kept his hands planted on either side of her face, locking her head in line with his. “When he’s ready, he’ll use his belt again.” He scooped his hips up and in, lifting her to her toes and loosening her grasp on his flaming pipe. “He’ll loop it around your throat.”

Her flesh folded around his cock and drove her undies up inside. Her fingers tugged to pull them out, to free the way, but they were buried too deep. “He’s strong as a bear, so you won’t get away.” Air hotter than a sauna between them brought perspiration to bead on her chest. Something dripped from his chin to her breasts and she winced as it struck and rolled down her cleavage. “He’ll start fucking you harder then. At first, you’ll have enough air to fight, but you’ll only waste it all.”

Her hand wasn’t holding the razor any more. The razor was holding her.

“You’ll have maybe ten seconds. Just when he starts to come.” Talking straight into her mouth, through her pink, slack lips, his breath rebounded back against his cheeks. “That’s when you make your move.” His action was so fluid it didn’t need to be fast. His arms left the wall, elbows dipped between them and fanned out to his side, forcing her hand from his throat and away. As his pelvis plowed forward, his fist came up, razor in his grip now, straight to her throat, just above the ruby in her choker, his free hand pulling her thigh up to his waist. He drove himself into her, shredding her panties, and her eyes rolled back, the blade under her chin, snapping her head back as he heaved into her again, crashing her spine against the wall. She clamped her arms around him and strained as he pumped, and it didn’t take long. Alarms rang through her bones like jackhammers on anvils. She curled her leg around him and charged the screaming siren boring up inside her, every shove driving him deeper, louder, brighter.

With a proud grunt he split her open and blasted her to the winds in a spray of triumph, conquering her body, her mind, her spirit. How divine such a death! Every violent thrust of his hips rocked another ripple of defeat from knees to nipples, wrenched another spasm through her ribs, until she flailed and stiffened in seizure . . . tighter . . . tighter . . . until he dropped the razor and clutched her bottom for a final eruption of synchronized conquest.

Her back still against the elevator wall, they drained to the floor, him on his knees with her on his lap. Though still in the dark, flashbulbs popped behind her eyes, even when closed. He stayed inside her while they composed their breathing, though he was becoming soft again, until the smallest of movements evicted him with a slippery shiver.

 

When he nuzzled his nose into her silky pit she tossed the glass to the wall and clasped his head in her hands. It was all the encouragement he needed, and with more finesse than she would have given him credit for, he slid the gossamer skirt up her legs, over her knees, allowed her a moment to elevate her butt while he hoisted the dress up around her waist. Her thighs freed, she spread for his lips and teeth and tried to not think about Taylor.

Kingdom hooked his thumbs under her knees and shoved them up around her ears, pinning her against the sofa while his mouth and tongue probed and chewed and whipped her bud like a wild goblin. Unable to move, unable to even answer his pressure with her own, she resigned to the mad goblin playing her clit like a jazz violin, bow scoring into her, smoke braiding through her curls until she thought she’d ignite. And he guzzled her jazzy goblin smoke by the lungful, slurping so much so fast he robbed the very air from her own lungs, stole it down between her legs and fed the goblin’s jazzy embers smoldering on her clit.

She let go of his head and grabbed the edge of the sofa for leverage, but it didn’t help. “More,” she gasped, and he pulled her thighs forward, dragging her off the couch, then pushed her calves up and over, until her bare feet flattened against the wall over her head, and his tyrannosaurus hunger gnashed into her deeper, meaner.

She braced her arms against the back of the sofa and twisted her hips in his face, riling the jazzy goblin and spewing smoke down his throat in thick, merciless puffs. She tried to remember everything Taylor had told her, but so far it didn’t fit. So far, Kingdom’s brutality served her more than she expected. So far, the jazzy goblin was cooking with napalm, and Kingdom was wolfing down smoke harder and harder . . . faster and faster . . . yes, that’s it . . . get that tongue . . . that T-Rex tongue . . . get it in there . . . just like that . . . whip that goblin . . . flog it . . . uh . . . eat it . . . nnuUH! . . . right . . . right . . . right . . . there!

“You think you can put one over on me?”

Everything was upside down, inside out, trembling on the brink, on the head of a pin, a spinning, vibrating pin. Don’t listen to him. Start over again. Just close your eyes and rewind to the start.

“I know all about you.”

 

COPYRIGHT 2003 CHAZ THOMPSON