The woman in the black dress throws her handbag on the chair. Turning, she faces her companion, who shuts the door behind him. “You son of a bitch.”

He smiles as if he’s done nothing wrong. “What?”

“Wipe that shit-eating grin off your fucking face. He was my target.”

The man shrugs off his coat and lays it on top of her purse. “He got done, didn’t he?” He sets his gun on the bureau before loosening his tie. It joins his suit coat on the chair seconds later.

She licks her lips. They’ve been dry since they arrived at their shitty little hotel in the desert. The layers of lipstick don’t help much. “My paycheque, my hit.”

“Darlin’, you can keep the paycheque.” He opens a bottle of whiskey and takes a swig. “You always do.”

He offers her the bottle and she takes a drink from it. Placing the bottle on the small table, she cocks her head to the side, her hand on her hip. A tableau of a 1950s pissed off housewife. All that was missing was the wagging finger. “That’s not the point and you know it.”


He grabs her by the collar and pulls her to him. His mouth covers hers and her arms go around his neck. With one tug, he pulls off the horrible blonde wig. Now if he could just get rid of the fake tan. He pushes her back against the bureau and she sits up on it. There’s nothing better than angry sex. The thinly veiled violence. The kiss turns frenzied and she makes quick work of his shirt and pants. They’re both on the floor in seconds. His hand cups her breast and squeezes, playing with her nipple under the fabric of her dress. As she arches her back, his lips go to her neck. Bites are interspersed with kisses as he unbuttons the bodice of her dress. She sighs in his ear, making a noise that is part squeak and part moan, as he takes her nipple between his lips.

His lips on hers once again, his hands push the fabric of the skirt up her thighs. In one quick motion, he pulls off her panties, his nails scoring her thighs. Crumpling them, he throws them behind him and they land on the night table by the bed. He looks back and smiles at his impeccable aim before kissing her again. This kiss is slower, deeper, meant to be drawn out. Barely hidden is the urgency; for now the anger is diffused. Her fingers lace in his short hair as she tries to pull him closer to her, an attempt to deepen the kiss. When this doesn’t work, she tilts her head. He slides his hands up her muscular legs which causes her to jump. Groaning, she grabs his wrists and pulls his hands away from her legs. With a husky chuckle, he raises an eyebrow at her reaction. “You’re ticklish?”

She smiles. Her voice is rough. “I’m a lot of things.”

Another chuckle. His mouth finds hers again and her hands go to his face. His hands start to explore her hairless folds. She nips at his ear, “Welcome to Rio.”

In response to the soft brush of his fingers against her clit, she drags her nails down his back. As he continues to explore, her release builds quickly. She opens her legs wider, trying to give him greater access. He pulls her back from climax; exerting just enough pleasure to maintain her arousal but not enough to push her over the edge. She moans when he inserts one finger and then another into her. His fingers begin to thrust in and out. Her voice is barely a whisper, “Harder.”

He complies. Kneeling down, he brings his lips to her clit. He begins to lick, continuing to tease her. This is a game of control. Of dominance. And she lets him play, to pretend that he’s in charge. She knows better than that. Her hands go to his head, her fingers tangled in his hair. Thighs tensing, she arches her back as his tongue flicks over her clit, his fingers continuing their assault. “A little to the left.”

He doesn’t need much instruction. Promising, I may have to keep this one.

The dull throbbing escalates. It doesn’t take him long to push her over the edge. Her head rolls back. He likes that she pulls at his hair when she orgasms. As her muscles stop contracting, he removes his fingers. He offers them to her and she sucks on them, tasting herself on his skin. He stands and kisses her. His tongue is hot, probing, frantic. She reaches into his boxers and finds him hard, pulsating hot against her cool hands. She pumps his cock a couple of times, meant to tease more than anything else. While his fingers pinch at her nipples, she works his boxers down his thighs. They fall on top of his discarded shirt. And pants Holding her thighs up, he steps out of them and thrusts into her. She counterpoints his thrusts the best she can. This isn’t a position that gives her much leverage. It’s not a position for fucking. It’s a position to be fucked in.

As he drives forward, his only thought on climax, her mind is on something else. Her hand trails across the cold metal of his gun. She wraps her hand around it and in one quick motion the safety’s off and she’s pressed it in the hollow under his chin. He smiles as if it’s some kind of joke. The cold detachment in her eyes communicates otherwise. She has the look of a killer down to a science. It surprises him to realize that this has the opposite affect on his erection as it should: he’s still hard. “Interfere in my hunt again and I will kill you.” She smiles as his cock pulses inside of her.

He licks his lips and yanks as hard as he can at her hair trying to get her to drop the gun. Though clenched teeth he realises that she’s firmly in control. “It’ll never happen again.”

As quickly as it appeared, the gun is discarded. His hand drops from her hair and grabs onto her hips. His thrust is rough and deep. She yelps. An attempt to reassert his dominance. She grips his shoulders, her nails digging in. Her head comes to rest against his neck, her teeth find his shoulder. He groans as she bites, hard enough to leave a mark but not so hard that she’d break the skin. The pain spurs him forward. He tugs on her hair and her head falls back, her hand reaching to the top of the mirror and holding on; feeling it go thump, thump,thump against the wall. She raises her legs, tilting her hips, trying to give him deeper access. Her heels scratch against him. He orgasms, slamming into her one last time before collapsing against her. She milks him, prolonging his own spasms, eliciting a final groan.


Tending to his wounds, he can’t hear her above the spray of the shower jets. She applies her lipstick before writing a note on the mirror with it. She does what she can with the ruined hair twist before putting the wig back on. With one last look at the half-open bathroom door, she collects her purse and takes her leave.

He hadn’t really expected her to stay. Sitting on the bed, he fingers the fabric of her balled up panties – something to remember her by – and reads her message: Inspector Bradley, it’s been a pleasure.

He smiles and wonders how she discovered the game. So much for deep cover. He should call his team and tell them that he’s lost her, but he doesn’t. Instead he stretches out on the bed and closes his eyes.

I'm trying to write like Kateo, who does these really intense psychological things with her characters. She's got the psychological and emotional subtleties down to an art. Warning!: I'm no where near as good as her at this. I'm too obvious about it or something.

Okay. I'm shutting up now. Enjoy! Comments/constructive criticism are always welcomed (and encouraged) – as is praise (I'm a whore for positive reviews).

***

Stella only fucks men who are in committed relationships.


She sits across from her latest conquest, an older man in a four-year long-distance relationship. He takes a long drink from his pint glass. “I know why I’m here. I wonder if it’s the same reason you are.”

She raises her eyebrow and moves in closer. “Doubt it.”

Jackson smiles and tries to enlighten her. “I have problems with monogamy.” He pushes her hair out of her face. “Or so my therapist tells me.”

Stella sips at her cider, “He’s right about that. You do have issues with monogamy.”

He laughs. “Pot. Meet Kettle.”

“I only have issues with other people’s monogamy, not my own.”

“Then what is it?” Under the table, his hand squeezes her thigh. “What makes you wet for men who are...’unavailable’?”

She licks her lips. “For the simple reason that they are unavailable.”

He doesn’t say anymore, but watches how she flips her hair. Her eyes meet his and she stares until Jackson looks away, unnerved by the intensity of her gaze. She reaches into her wallet and pulls out a battered twenty. He shakes his head and pulls out two tens. Throwing them onto the table, he says “I’ll take care of this.” He’s learned not to use his credit cards on his mistresses.

Standing she pulls on her coat. Leaning in, she asks, “Your place or mine?”

“Mine. Angela’s going to call tonight.” He smiles, he likes it when Stella sucks his cock while he’s talking to Angela. No matter how hard Stella tried, she couldn’t break his unflappable control. Even when she looked up at him – his pupils so dilated that his eyes looked black, rather than their regular hazel – she could detect no change in his breathing or tone. There was nothing to hint to the person on the other end of the line that she was kneeling between his legs, her mouth on his cock.

Reading his mind, “You’re a naughty, naughty boy.” Stella grabs his tie and pulls him off of the chair. With a brief brush of her lips over his, she smiles. With his hand on her face, Jackson draws her in for a proper kiss. Stella refuses to respond, playing with him, until the kiss turns frenzied and he grows impatient trying to coax her tongue into responding to his. His other hand is soon tangled in her hair, pulling her into him as he presses his body against hers. Jackson’s body is hard and strong, a testament to his time at the gym. She tilts her head to deepen the kiss, her hands sliding beneath his suit jacket, nails pressing into his back. Their tongues play, frantically, with each other. His mouth is forceful, punishing; trying to assert control, to reassert his power and dominance. But she refuses to submit, instead pulling away from him. Their lips barely touching, she looks up at him, her hand presses against his chest. “Down boy.”

Hey y'all,

This is my *new* creative writing blog. Created even though I have a bad case of writer's block.

Actually, I figure if I actually have a blog devoted to creative writing then I'll, you know, actually write creatively. I just keep putting it off.

I keep telling myself it's only my procrastination that keeps me from writing; but I fear that my muse has (really) abandoned ship and all I'm left with is a tattoo of her name on my ass.

Hugs and kisses,
evilsuccubus