Blow

A welcome breeze stirred the sheer netting surrounding the four poster bed, caressing the flawless form sprawled there. A young man slowly massaged scented oils into his mistress. Pressing his thumbs into the dip at the base of her spine and molding her perfect buttocks, he worked the taut muscles. Despite his best efforts, tension still hummed from his life long friend. Desperate to relax her, he slipped his nimble fingers between her thighs. Parting her lips, he teased the tiny nub there until she moaned and started to squirm. He grinned, slipping first one, then another finger inside her snug tunnel.

"Cristo..."

The soft chiding in her sigh was negated by her hips lifting from the coverlet, pushing back onto his long fingers.

"You need it. You are tense, Isi."

A low groan of frustration tumbled from Isidora's lips as she rocked to hands and knees. Head hanging low, she flicked her long, inky tresses out of her face.

"Horny is more like it," she gasped.

Cristo laughed, continuing to thrust his fingers as the other hand rubbed slow circles on her back.

"Your Lars needs to cut back on the coke. What kind of man prefers blow over booty?"

"Man?" Isidora panted. "I sucked ...the miserable...bastardo for two...hours and only THIS to show for it!"

Not sure if she spoke of the bruise marring her high cheekbone or her unfulfilled need, he wisely kept silent. Feeling the trembles heralding her release, Cristo curved his fingers, increasing the tempo. 

A low keen sounded in her throat, her back arching.

"Why don't you join your guests and take care of business. I will make sure Mrs. Hahn joins you shortly."

The rumble of the bodyguard's baritone outside the door caused a scramble. Isidora leapt from the bed. Snatching up a robe, she waved a hastening hand at Cristo who disappeared into the bath even as the suite door swung open. She spun to face the American mercenary, giving the robes sash a savage cinch. Her stomach fluttered as his cold stare pinned her in place. Average at a shade under six foot and a solid two hundred pounds, there was nothing ordinary about the intensity Luke Lane exuded.

"Do they not teach you to knock in the United States, Senor Lane?" she snapped, arching a dark brow. 

"Be thankful it wasn't your husband. Get dressed. He expects your loving presence at the dinner table. You have guests."

The infuriating quirk of his lips left little doubt the hired gun knew exactly what he had interrupted, if not who.

"Fuck you."

"Those are harsh words from such beautiful lips, Senora. Diego is barely decomposed. Are you that eager to have another man die for you?"

The fiery Latina flew at him in a flurry of fists and verbal filth. Catching her arms easily, Luke twisted them behind her, flattening her heaving breasts against the solid wall of his chest. The purse of her full lips gave him warning a split second before the hot spittle splashed against his turned cheek.   

His grip on her arms tightened until she was forced onto tiptoe and pressed full length against the front of him.   

"Hit, kick or mock me, Senora, but spit on me again and I will snap your pretty little neck. Comprende?"

Fear wrapped its icy claws around her throat and Isidora found breathing difficult. She fought to pull her gaze away from the fury in his pale orbs. It took everything she had to force a nod of compliance and understanding, but still he did not release her. Heart pounding, she waited. With each passing second she became more aware of the man holding her. On tiptoe her hips cradled the prominent bulge behind his zipper. From the reaction in that region, Senor Lane was not quite the cold blooded killer he presented.

She risked a peek through her lush lashes and was relieved to see the ice in his blue eyes melting a bit. In his early forties, cue ball clean shaven, Lane's face was lined, but handsome. He looked down at her, not fooled by the lowered lashes. The heat of his body called to hers and color stained her honeyed cheeks as she realized she was rubbing against him. Biting her full bottom lip she forced her hips to still. She sighed, the pressure on one arm relenting. Her relief was short lived as her chin was captured by long strong fingers and her face tilted up to his. His piercing gaze probed hers, searching for something she could only guess at. A nod indicated he had found what he was looking for and he released his hold, thrusting her away from him.

"Get dressed. Your husband is waiting." 



One ear tuned to the monotonous bluster of Lars and his German guests, Isidora's attention turned to the vigilant American bodyguard. Unlike some, Lane didn't try to civilize what he was. Dressed in paramilitary fatigues and armed to the teeth, he didn't pretend to blend with the flashy European suits he protected. Her father would have approved of Senor Lane. Her gaze flickering back to her husband, her lip curled in disdain. Lane was one of the few things her dearly departed father would've approved of.

Thinking of her father, she resisted the urge to cross herself. Lars, once a hired gun like Lane, had seized control of the trade after her father's untimely passing. Already despised for his arrogance and cruelty, Lars had fostered further loathing among the locals by pressuring a grieving seventeen year-old into his bed with her father barely buried. While business had flourished under his iron fist, Lars had never learned the folly of mixing business with pleasure. His addiction had grown steadily over the past five years until the drug had him firmly in its grip. The abuse was starting to wear on his health, and that of those around him, as cocaine induced paranoia fueled uncontrollable rages with deadly results. 

The weight of a hand on her knee drew Isidora's attention back to the table. The chill of Senor Conrad's smile made the hair at her nape stand on end. Silk and the heat of his hand slithered up the inside of her thigh. Tensing under his touch, Isidora looked to her husband for assistance. Absorbed in his conversation, Lars took no notice of his wife's discomfort. Unfortunately for Conrad, Lane did. The German choked on his Jagermeister as the MP5 muzzle pressed uncomfortably into the base of his skull.

"Remove your hand, or I remove your head," Lane growled.

Conrad slid his left hand out from under the table, placing it palm down beside his plate. His right hand trembled around the crystal tumbler and his voice cracked as he implored their host.

"Lars..."

Leaning back in his chair Lars took a drag on his cigarette, eyes narrowing in contemplation.

"Mr. Lane is paid a handsome salary to assure the safety of myself and my belongings, Conrad. He has recently been, shall we say, taken to task for my wife's infidelities, so he is understandably a little sensitive on the matter."

Isidora's gaze darted to Lane in surprise. His lips pressed into a thin line of fury at her husband's words and she couldn't suppress a shudder knowing the cruelty Lars was capable of. His paranoid delusions had lead to an innocent man's death and left her bearing bruises for weeks. Beside her, Conrad gasped in pain as Lane nudged the submachine gun barrel firmer against his head.

"It was a simple misunderstanding."

Infuriated, Lars lunged to his feet, slamming his palms down. Spittle flew as he leaned down the table.

"A rude or misinterpreted comment could be construed a misunderstanding. Manhandling my wife at my dinner table is disrespect." 

Turning away, he raked his hand through his blond hair and muttered, "Kill him."



Isidora's hand trembled on the railing as she descended the terrace into the gardens. She could still feel the hot splatter of Conrad's blood despite a shower and the hours past. A fresh hand on her thigh, two little words from Lars and another man was dead. The aftermath was a blur of revulsion and fear. Her husband's chest thumping tirade paled beside the silent fury of Lane. For a moment she had thought he would kill them all. His gun had swung effortlessly to hold their other German guest seated, but it had been the look in his eyes when he looked at Lars that froze Isidora's blood.

Bare feet whispering through the soft grass, she wrapped her arms around herself, looking up at the stars. Her body ached. Her cheekbone throbbed where her husband had silenced her hysterics with a soothing backhand.  Instead of the diamonds she had worn to dinner, fingertip bruises now encircled her slender neck giving evidence of how Lars had delighted in choking her while his finally hard cock battered the back of her throat tonight. A sad smile twitched her lips. Leave it to her sadistic husband to find sexual stimulation in the night's events.

She didn't have time to scream. Her back slammed against a pillar, driving the air from her lungs. Lane's hard body pinned her in place. His pale eyes glittered like fine shards of glass in the moonlight. Fury rolled off the man in physical waves but the hard press of his cock left little doubt what the mercenary wanted. Adrenalin raced through her body to explode in carnal flames between her thighs.

Isidora wet her lips in anticipation, her lush body relaxing into his press in acceptance and blatant invitation. His hand in her hair wrenched her head back and his lips devoured her throat, sharp teeth grazed her skin, scraping down her collar bone even as his other hand tore open the front of her robe. Cupping the full swell of her breast, Lane lowered his head to suckle. The strong suction paired with the flick of his tongue had her panting and humping helplessly against his thigh. Shifting, he ground the bulge of his erection against her with a guttural growl.

The course material of his fatigues grated roughly over her swollen clit making it throb with need.

"Please?" she gasped.

Lane picked her clear of the ground, bracing her back against the pillar and guiding her legs around his waist. His hips thrust and body strained in an arousing pantomime of the sexual act their bodies yearned for. She startled at the rasp of his voice in her ear.

"All or nothing."

Isidora's eyes locked with his, her body stilling with the impact of his words.

"You want the business," she hissed.

"I want you at my feet and Lars six feet under them."

"It is all about the blow," Isidora whispered sadly.

Lane's hand captured her jaw again and she tried to turn away, her body stiff in his arms. He chuckled at the raw hurt in her dark eyes and the pout of her lips. Tracing the full swell of her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, he drew her eyes again.

"Your husband and I don't crave the same kind of blow, Senora."

Her mind raced remembering something her father had said of the known devil versus the unknown. Indecision warred within her. She drew a deep shuttering breath before she spoke.

"You kill Lars AND promise to get that poison out of here and I, the estate and the loyalty of my people are yours. My family made a good living for years without dirtying our hands with the finished cocaine. Let others process this poison and stop the Columbians from killing my people."

"Deal, now seal it." 

Isidora didn't hesitate. She dropped to her knees at his feet, her fingers already reaching for the stays on his pants. Her mouth actually watered as his heavy cock sprung free. Wrapping her fingers around the base, she lavished the smooth head with sweeping swirls of her tongue before wrapping her lips about him.

Lane's hands fisted in her long dark hair as she bobbed her head in the ancient rhythm. The artistry of her tongue work was not lost on him, nor was the danger he put himself in, out in the open for the world to see him cuckold his powerful employer. The adrenalin fueled his passion. Driving her with heavy fists and the slow thrust of his hips he groaned when she hollowed her cheeks. The pant of labored breath and the slurping suction of Isidora's efforts broke the night quiet. Lane's finger itched for the trigger as his balls tightened. With one last grunt he blew his load, roaring in release, unmindful of any hearing.

Wiping her lips with the back of a trembling hand, Isidora fought to catch her breath. Lust thrummed through her body. Her heart sank as she watched Lane pull up his pants. It took every ounce of her pride to keep from wrapping her arms around this man's legs and begging him for the sweet succor of release. Her breath caught in her throat as he stroked her cheek, pulling his Glock free of the shoulder holster. She fought not to cower, but to her disbelief he turned and walked away. 

"Where are you going?"

"To kill your husband."     

WC ~ 2,220

Prompt: Forbidden love in the tropics

UENG Summer Short Story Contest  (18+) A big summer writing contest open to all UEN Group members! #1569994 by Jeff