Hell In High Heels --- A Jane Delacroix erotic novel: Sex, Sin, and Slaughter in Southern California (2 page)

              She was here to service this cock any way it wanted.

              She let her neck relax and his grip tightened down hard. He began forcing her mouth up and down along his length, shoving as deep as he could manage, back arcing off the seat. His breath came fast and hard, and she thought he was close to cumming. Her fingers worked in and out of her pussy.

              Abruptly, he pulled her off his dick and pushed her roughly to the limo floor. She sprawled out, tits swinging free, hair falling across her eyes. Her knees spread as her tight dress hiked up around her thighs.

              She gasped at the sudden violence and her nipples tightened so unexpectedly they throbbed with ache. Subjugated, her eyes went immediately to the symbol of his manhood. His cock jutted up, glistening with her spit.

              She felt the dampness of her own drool on her face and subconsciously ran the back of her wrist across her mouth. Face dark with passion, the face of a man who commanded death squads, Sen snarled at her.

              “I want that blonde American pussy.”

              She smiled, slinky and seductive. She went onto all fours, tits dangling openly, and crawled leisurely toward him across the short distance separating them. He watched her, cock hard, eyes hooded. He looked like a barbarian king appraising his harem.

              The feel of the ridiculously thick carpet under her, and smell of the plush, leather interior, enveloped her. The back of the limo was its own world, a separate universe of opulence. There was nothing else. Just comfort, and her, and the cock.

              At his feet, she looked up, voice husky. “You want this pussy?”

              “Give it to me.”

              “You want American pussy?” She rose, straddling his legs, dressed bunched around her hips. “Want to don’t you get it cowgirl?” she asked.

              His hands, greedy and strong, found her, and pulled her forward. She laughed at the urgency, but came easily to his command, sliding up his lap. Her full breasts pushed into his face and he leaned his head eagerly forward, taking a nipple in his mouth.

              She moaned as his tongue slid across her hypersensitive nipple. She wrapped one arm around his head and ran her fingers through his short, military cut hair. With her other hand, she reached down and shifted her panties to one side.

              His cock protruded between them and she guided it toward the damp slit between her legs. Still sucking her tits, Sen growled as the head of his dick rubbed against her opening.

              She squatted, poised with him at her entrance. She sank, slowly engulfing him until just the tip penetrated her. Sen’s growl trailed off into a sound almost like a whimper and his head fell back on the seat, eyes closed. She felt his fingers tighten in steel bands around her waist.

              Sure she was aligned, she plunged down his shaft. The sensation of being split, of being filled rolled into her body as he slid into the sheath of her vagina. Both her hands went to the sides of his face and she rolled her belly downward, rubbing her swollen and tender clitoris against his pelvis as she took him, balls deep.

              This was the feeling, the one she craved. And in her secret heart the sleaziness of the situation aroused her in a way she never found anywhere else except with a client. Yes, she was an elite escort to a millionaire class, courtesan to the jet set. But at her base, inside where the animal who drove her hunger coiled like a dark snake, she was what she was; a whore.

              She was a whore putting out for money. She rolled her hips again, grinding her clit hard, fucking the stiff dick between her legs. She was taking cock for pay, an activity that dated back through the millenniums.

              She found her balance on her knees now, shifted her weight, and began bouncing up and down. She pressed her tits into Sen, smearing them across his face. They were both full into it now, fucking hard, Sen snorting like a stallion, her crying out with each hard stroke.

              She ground down with her hips, changing the angle of entry, and the head of his dick skimmed across G-spot, making her shout.

              “Fuck, yes,” she yelled.

              Sen’s hands, the brutal hands of a killer and soldier, grabbed the full, soft globes of her cheeks and squeezed hard, and she panted in response. Her body burned with feeling, surging with pleasure signals like electricity through copper wire. Their groins made a wet, slopping sound as they fucked and that familiar burning pressure of an impending orgasm began building.

              “Come on, baby,” she begged as they fucked, head back, eyes closed. “Come on, baby. Put it to me.”

              Sen responded by pulling her down into his thrust as his hips slammed upward. It was too much, all of it, too much. Her clit mashed into his lower abdomen just above the root of his cock, while the dick itself scrapped over her G-spot in a fevered rhythm. Hot, wet lips clamped onto her tits, sucking her nipples. Strong hands massaged her ass cheeks.

              It didn’t matter who she was with, which dick was inside her, it was this bright, intense moment she lived for. The Spanish had a saying for that instant when the Matador stepped into the bull’s charge and slid his sword home; they called it, The Moment of Truth.

              Teeth clenched, her moment of truth, hit her like a train and she shrieked her pleasure. Inside her Sen shot, and she felt hot ejaculate splash up inside her, squirting in a convulsive rhythm so the feeling of his cum pushed her further over the cliff.

              Her body shook as she lulled forward and sagged into his embrace. They sat for a long moment, neither moving. Inside her, she felt his dick begin to soften and she moaned at the sudden sense of loss.

              Faces pressed tight, cheek to cheek, Jane felt herself smiling. Sen slumped, clearly spent. Slowly, his penis slipped out of her and she felt some of his sperm leak onto her thigh. Her grin of triumphant made a hard mask of her beautiful face.

              Now came the betrayal.

               The back door opened and the thick set bodyguard and driver stood to one side. He was built like a brick shithouse, square and low to the ground with a neck so thick and squat it seemed to set squarely on his shoulders. He had the dull black eyes of a Mako shark, and Jane was afraid of him.

               Her information said he'd been trained by U.S. Army Special Forces, working as advisers for the CIA in the Southeast Asian country. Taking out the general would be one thing; taking out his chief torturer and primary hit man would be another matter entirely.

               As she slid out of the limo Hun Sen let his hand slide off the curve of her behind and down between her legs. She forced herself to accept the invasion as she found her balance in high heels on the driveway. She pretended to laugh and could feel the bodyguard's cold disdain as she pretended to stumble.

               She was drunk. There was no way to fake it under the general's watchful eye. An hour ago, when he'd finally excused himself to the bathroom of the China Town restaurant, she'd taken a Benzedrine to keep her sharp and slipped a dose of powdered Nembutal into the warlord's glass.

               If Mother's Little Helper was good enough for the Rolling Stones it was good enough for General Hun Sen, CIA asset against the communist forces in Cambodia, and opium kingpin. She was just praying that the glass marble gleam in his beady black eyes was a signal that he was close to Never Never Land.

               He came out of the car right behind her. She started stepping forward and climb the wide stone steps leading up to the rented mansion's doors. His arm, wiry thin and surprisingly strong, slipped around her waist like a Sheppard’s hook. He pulled her close until the hard shaft of his erection was pushed hard against the globe of her butt cheek.

             
Jesus, that was fast,
she thought.
He’s ready to go quicker than a teenager.

               His face brushed her shoulder and he whispered hoarsely into her back, his spittle blotting the green silk of her dress.

               "I think I'll take you like I do the village boys," he drooled and she took heart in how vicious his slur was. "I like a snug fit and your American ass just begs for it."

               Adrenaline flushed through her amphetamine jacked system and she almost fed him the sharp point of her elbow right then, but she fought the urge and forced the energy out in a tight, high pitched giggle. She was close to the end, she could make it.

               Taking a few quick steps forward, she rolled her hips in the skin tight dress, staying just out of Hun Sen's reach. The sick son of a bitch had Fu Manchu beat hands down for quote, “Yellow Peril,” unquote, and the naked lust on his face made him look like a hyena drooling over a lion kill.

               The sneer on the bodyguard's face was so scornful it practically bled disdain. It didn't matter, her heart was pounding hard in her chest as she let the warlord chase her up the stairs. Her eyes went to the walls running around the compound. She knew her backup was out there, but realized that if things went
really
wrong in the next ten minutes that Detective David Sten would never reach her in time.

               She opened the door and stopped cold. Snarling dogs greeted her. The Doberman Pinchers barked, showing wicked teeth. For a second the three beasts were so tightly packed they looked like a single animal with three growling heads, a black and tan Cerberus guarding the gates to hell.

               A single Cambodian held all three leashes, on either side of the dog handler two mercenaries armed with Swedish K sub-machine guns stood at attention.
It's a trap!
she thought and shrank back. Hun Sen came through the door and ran his hands up onto her big breasts. There was no way she could have worn a brassier under a dress that tight and his fingers easily found her nipples, pinching them hard.

               He snapped something in Cambodian at the men and they retreated out of the entrance way. "I can't wait," he said from behind her. "Get on your knees, now!"

               She turned to him, fear giving her creativity, desperation forcing her to play any hand she could think of. "No, please. I, I...I want to see the girl."

               The request seemed odd and as slow and stupid as the man was he paused, suddenly suspicious. She had to be brilliant and she had to be convincing and she had to do it quickly; he was a man used to having enemies who were brutal killers and his paranoia was hard earned.

               "Why?" he snapped. His eyes came even with the twin missile heads of her tits.

              
On second thought,
she told herself,
it doesn't have to be that brilliant.

               She leaned down low, until the pillows of her breasts were inches from the alcohol stink of his breath and she dropped her voice low, down into a throaty whisper, a whisper designed to make men think about the sound of her grunts and moans during sex.

               "Because I like to be watched when a man does me," she purred. "I like to look over and see another girl seeing me get it good. Nothing turns me on more and I'll do
anything
when I'm being watched."

               Hun Sen swallowed so hard his Adam's Apple bobbed with an audible click. His eyes never left the jutting shelf of her chest as he barked out his orders in a voice suddenly, painfully hoarse.

               "Go! Go now!" He snapped at his men. "Outside. Boupha!" he yelled at his chief bodyguard, "get Chau up to my room, at once." His eyes gleamed wetly as the bottom of a gin glass. He staggered and she was forced to catch him.

               Jane prayed he'd make it to the bedroom. "Baby, I'm ready," she urged him.

               The entry way was French, Louis the XIV influenced with twin, curving banister staircases running up the outside of the marble tiled room above a grand pillared walkway leading deeper into the downstairs.

At the top both staircases merged into a single balcony hall with numerous doors.

               As Hun Sen and Jane climbed the staircase Boupha emerged from one of the doors and led a slight, willow wisp of a girl toward the only pair of double doors on the landing. Even from twenty yards away Jane could see the girl was stoned out of her mind, eyes more glassy and gait more unsteady than those of the now drugged warlord.

               Pretending to laugh Jane hurried up the steps just a little bit faster. The rug was a thick cream and burgundy, late European Renaissance, with gold brocade. As she reached the landing the sickly sweet scent of opium smoke hung in a thick miasma despite the open space.

               The smoke was so thick it made her momentarily light headed. She again almost stumbled in surprise at the sudden, perfumed intoxication and pulled herself straight. Behind her Hun Sen tripped into a wall, almost knocking a minor Monet from its golden frame. The spring meadow scene complete with slightly out of focus maiden in a sun bonnet and demure dress rocked slightly, as if it too were high