Sugar and Spice
By AquaSoulSis aka LadyFangs
Fucking skinny bitches made his cock sore. It was like screwing a skeleton, all bones, no meat. The pussy was dry and it rubbed his cock raw. And while some pain he did enjoy, that wasn't his particular brand. It didn't help much that he was sittin' in a dingy, smoke-filled bar scoutin' for ass and all he was comin' up with were skinny bitches.
And not even the slim kind of skinny that was more muscle than fat and still worth a good bounce, nah, not even that. What he was lookin' at right now was that sick kind of skinny, that malnourished shit that was nowadays passing for "healthy" and had little girls goin' bulimic.
This was the kind of moment that made him miss the old days. Back when women were real—real tits, slightly thick around the middle, wide hips- the kind of shit to make a man's dick go hard and stay hard day in and day out.
Victor wrapped his large hand around the cup that had magically refilled itself with dark brown whisky in front of him. His thick, black claws chinked against the glass as he raised it and downed the fiery liquid in a single gulp, slamming the glass back down and sending it sliding back down the bar top for another.
He turned around on the stool to get a better look at his surroundings, fishing around in the pocket of his coat and pulling out a long thick cigar. He brought it to his lips, lit it and took a long drag, the smoke temporarily clouding his immediate line of sight.
A slender figure with a tiny skirt walked by in front of him, throwing a smile his way as she balanced a tray of drinks on one hand.
His cock twitched a reminder of his present situation.
Not bad, that one. But he could smell the youth on her.
Victor was many things. Mass murderer, expert thief, computer hacker, heartless, cold blooded bastard…but pedophile wasn't in his repertoire of crimes. No one could accuse him of moral behavior by any means…but shit if there wasn't honor among thieves.
Tiring of his present situation quickly, he rose from the bar, threw down a few bucks, downed the refilled glass of whisky that had appeared and pushed through the door to the exit. There was a strip-joint across town. At least the view was better there.
.
.
She had found this place three weeks ago, by chance. Actually she'd been following her mark, a heavy-set, balding guy with a bad comb-over and a very expensive suit.
The instructions she'd received had been simple. Take him out, no mess. The hiring agent hadn't been disclosed and the entire transaction had gone through a third-party vendor. Someone wanted this guy dead a whole lot, and judging by how much she was making off the job and the amount of effort made to conceal the payer's identity, "mini-Trump" as she'd come to call him, had pissed off the wrong person.
She'd told her contact it would take at least two months to get the kill. Sure, she could do it quick and dirty, but they had wanted discretion. And that required a little more work. So, she'd set about studying her target. Cataloguing his daily routine, staking out his business, his house, his comings and goings. She followed him everywhere, even when he went across county on "business trips".
That was his excuse for the frequent visits to the strip clubs.
His favorite place was New York's Gold Room. He was a regular on Sunday nights—an odd time, but once she'd done a little more digging, she'd discovered was the optimal time for loaded pockets to get their jollies.
Sunday nights brought out the power players, New York's business and political elite and out-of-towners who wanted to get their rocks off in a high-class place with a code of silence.
The owner had taken one look at her, his eyes skimming across the tight shirt with two buttons undone and hip hugging pencil skirt and Alexander McQueen pumps—and had hired her. After all the patrons were VERY particular.
She didn't have to take her clothes all the way off—unless, of course, her john paid extra. And she could pick and choose who, when and if. Each customer had his own particular kink.
Most of the time, they couldn't even get it up and preferred the domination side of the tricks.
In her two weeks at the club, she'd spanked, strapped, tied and teased. All the while watching and waiting on her mark.
Now, as she pulled herself up the pole and flipped upside down, holding herself up by her legs, she looked out across the crowd of suits and saw him—her mark, watching her intently, that hungry look in his eyes.
She slid down the pole and onto the stage, opening her legs into a split before slowly winding her body back up—the heavy bass thumping around her driving her movements.
She could feel his eyes on her and licked her lips as she added an additional switch of her hips, finishing off her set to a flourish of applause.
Tonight was payday.