The next best thing had become the best in show and tell all. Sara was riding the storm of her whoring horniness. She’d lost touch with reality inside her lust phantasms. Her high pitched squeals came from deep time. There was nothing inside her ocean but Moby Dick. And he was the one wielding the harpoon.
Fireworks went off inside Sara’s cunt, body and soul: roman candles, rockets, sparklers, Catherine Wheels; the lights blinding her inner eye. She clenched her eyes, her fists and her cunt, cumming around her mountain. She humped herself off the charts, gyrating her ass, gasping loudly, deeply.
In the immediate aftermath of her orgasm Sara forgot where, who, even what she was: animal, vegetable, mineral? Pumping her cunt unselfconsciously, the engine of her lust incrementally slowing down to idle, she floated on Tiepolo pink fluffy clouds of big dildo-induced amnesia. She let all the sensations flow over and inside her, letting the ersatz cock linger in her fluttering stretched cunt.
“I’m a rabbit–a dirty rabbit,” Sara murmured, her eyes still shut, her breaths slowly down, discombobulated. The hot spray poured over her.
Sara’s eyes opened wide in surprise from the sudden twisting and then withdrawal of Del Toro’s gift from her cunt. Someone had opened the shower door. Sara gasped from the withdrawal of her giant candy cane.
Then she gasped with pleasure. With her hands still on the walls, her back and ass toward to open shower door, Sara giggled: “Did you enjoy the show boss? You want sloppy seconds for breakfast?”
The naked woman turned around, her skin a hot pink a-glow, her nipples still pointy, grinning with unabashed excitement and a thoroughly bashed cunt. And Sara got the shock of her life.
Sara’s field of vision was filled by a long, thick, black cylinder pointing at her chest. It was held by a woman in a tight black sleeve-less dress wearing large, round, mirrored sun glasses. The woman’s raven black hair was tied back in a fierce bun. She stood about three feet from the entrance of the shower.
The lady in black was incongruously wearing sensible black sneakers. She held her hands together at the back end of the cylinder, stretched arms out from her shoulders with the tube level with her eyes, her legs apart, standing firm in the dissipating steam drifting out of the opened shower.
“Is that a..?”Sara’s bewilderment was cut short. It was a sub-compact Beretta APX pistol with a silencer attached.
“The boss says your fired,” said the assassin tensely.
TTTHHHRRIPPHPT! The cylinder pointed at Sara’s chest twitched once.
Both women stood there on the edge of eternity with no sound to be heard but the hot water spraying over Sara’s tits and tummy.
The bond servant looked down at her own nakedness and was confused to see a small patch of inflamed flesh just under her collar bone, a little to the left of her sternum. It was like a huge bee sting. And it stung a lot. A lot.
Sara got weak in the knees and leaned back against the wall for support. She felt heavy. Gravity dragged her down. She slid down the wall til she was sitting on the floor of the shower with her legs splayed open. Her heart pounded in her chest like hate fucking.
Sara couldn’t take her eyes off the stinging welt on her chest. Abruptly a thin stream of blood spurted out of the welt and trickled down betwixt her quivering tits.
Her head snapped up and she saw her crumpled reflection in the mirrored lenses of the woman who still had the gun pointed at her chest. The glasses had a highly sophisticated camera in its frames which broadcast the this part of the Whore-stoppers’ live-feed. The glasses were a gift from Master Layman.
The wind had been knock out of Sara’s sails. She was at a loss for words. The first spurt of blood was quickly followed by slick rivulets that fanned across her writhing tits, over her twitching tummy and flooded her delta of Venus. Sara started wheezing. Her puffy, pointy nipples were hard and crimson. The pounding in her ears became deafening.
Darlene had been ordered by her husband to double tap this whore’s ass. But after the screaming orgasm provoked by Leilah’s danse macabre, Mrs. Del Toro had acquired a taste for darker pleasures. When the Yummy Widow was twisting in the wind on the Big screen TV, Darlene had jumped her husband’s boner and rode on top of him like a bucking Pegasus.
When it came time to fulfill Del Toro’s commitment to Master Layman made after the gang bang in the mountains, Darlene had volunteered to execute the mission: “To prove I’m a loyal wife.” And to indulge in new found dark pleasures.
The shot into the whore’s chest had brought Darlene to the edge of orgasm. The silly whore’s writhing tits got her even closer. “Guns really are substitute penises!” she gushed inside.
“You don’t deserve a coup de grace,” Darlene snarled at Sara and lowered the gun.
Sara blinked at her assassin uncomprehendingly, pouting, pale, wetly wheezing, watching her little reflection in the mirrored lenses getting smaller and smaller, her blood circling the drain.
The naked whore was sinking into a smoky pit. Darlene panted heavily, her own nipples hard as pebbles, savoring her handiwork but she kept her head still for the pleasure of the audience.
To Mrs Del Toro’s amazement her husband’s fired whore cupped each of her sagging tits, putting them on display, offering them up to…
“Who is she offering her body to?” Darlene asked herself, “The Grim Reaper? He already has your body. Lance? How could he get rid of such tits? Is that what your trying to say?”
Awash in her sins Sara’s eyelids grew heavier, her wheezing grew sporadic; her budget was deeply in the red; she was morally bankrupt.
“Lance wishes you a happy birthday,” Darlene told the naked painted scarlet woman on the cusp of her death rattle snake. It was Sara Service’s fortieth and last birthday on earth. The whore was born again in hell.