Posted by critmk on January 28, 2002 at 07:14:48:
The Scamming Stewardess
a story by critmk
Part 17: The Final Massacre Begins
“Ooh, I like that, Linda,” Leona said. “There’s something exceptionally sexy about dead women floating in water like that.”
“Thank you,” Linda said. “Wouldn’t it be even sexier if you joined them?” She quickly raised her gun to Leona’s throat. Leona didn’t flinch.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, icily. “If you killed me, Dominic would cut your pussy off and feed it to you.”
“Mmmm… you think so? Maybe he’s come to prefer me.”
“Ladies, ladies, same team,” Dominic said, heartily. He startled both of them. He had seen what was going on and made a point of approaching quietly. Linda quickly put her gun to her side.
“Uh, we were just…”
“I know, I know,” he said, dismissively. “We can sort that out later. Now it’s time to get ready for the Lissair girls. They’ll be here soon. Let’s assume there will be 15 of them, at least half of them armed. Here’s the plan…”
“My god, Leona, they’re looking hot,” Dominic murmured to his partner, as he watched 18 Lissair stews climb out of three vans. Several of them wore variations on the tight, short-skirted white or beige suits that served as official Lissair uniforms. Others were poured into slinky dresses and teetered on heels more suited to an evening party than a midday business lunch. Two youthful types wore schoolgirl outfits. A black girl was in an amazingly sexy swimsuit. Several carried beach bags.
“I told them that you like girls a lot, and if they dressed sexy they might get a better deal from you,” Leona said, with a sly smile. “I also invited them to take a swim before the meeting, if they wished.
“Who takes care of you, baby?”
“You do, Leona,” Dominic answered. He drew her close and gave her ass a squeeze. “Now go greet the girls and send them to their proper places. All those short skirts and high heels are getting me horny again.”
He watched from the second floor as the women gathered near Leona in the turnaround in front of the resort’s main building. Bettina did most of the talking – she was clearly the ringleader, the one responsible for nosing in on his and Leona’s business. Sandi, the other instigator, stood next to her and offered a comment or two.
The stews ranged from barely 18 to about 35. There were Americans, Europeans, Latinas, Africans, African-Americans and Asians in the mix. All of them were gorgeous, and all of them were crooked.
Lissa didn’t hire ordinary stews. She looked for hot babes with criminal records. She encouraged blackmail, smuggling, prostitution, middle-man services for bribery, financial scams, con games and all manner of low-profile crimes. For a 30% cut, Lissa had offered mobility, cover, and a steady stream of well-to-do gentlemen passengers as marks. All that was on top of legit charter fees. It was a sweet operation.
That’s why Lissa and the other stews were so enraged when they sniffed out Leona’s big deal and her intention to cut them out. Leona knew that they would rather rat her out to the cops than let her and Dominic complete their outside deal. And that’s why they had to die. All of them.
Leona directed the seven girls who wanted to swim toward the ground-floor rooms of the guesthouse. She ushered the other 11 into the airy bar and lounge of the main building.
“Help yourselves to drinks, ladies,” Leona said. “Due to the delicate nature of our meeting, the resort staff has the day off.”
Linda, armed with a switchblade and two silenced 9mms, was waiting for the seven would-be swimmers.
They split up four and three in adjacent rooms. Linda observed from behind an ivy-covered trellis next to the path to the pool, which was 50 yards away.
Linda knew that a nobly athletic black woman with boldly chiseled features, a mane of dark hair and large, round, widely separated breasts, would be the first to emerge from the rooms. She had worn her swimsuit on the ride to the resort and thus had no need to change. She simply hung her uniform in the closet, grabbed a towel and headed for the pool, her slim hips rolling above her high wedge sandals.
“Shonta,” Joanie called to her, as she stepped out the door. “Shouldn’t you take your purse? Bettina and Sandi said this might be dangerous, and we should keep our guns ready.”
“Bettina and Sandi are so paranoid,” Shonta answered, in French-inflected English that reflected her West African origins. “There are 18 of us – they are going to kill us all? Don’t be absurd.”
Shonta closed the door behind her and went gracefully on her way.
Forty seconds later, Shonta was dead. She never saw Linda until the killer sidestepped from behind the trellis and plunged the switchblade once into each cantaloupe-sized breast.
Shock was immediate. The woman, too surprised to scream, could only stand there and look dumbly at the cruel smile of her killer and the bloody blade that had done so much damage so quickly and silently.
A slingshot stretched over her body would have given Shonta, 29, more coverage than the low-cut black one-piece. It barely covered her erect nipples and rode high over her muscular hips.
Shonta clutched at the wounds in her tits. Blood trickled through her fingers and under her hands and ran in fleet, dark streams across her belly and onto her thighs.
Before Shonta could fall, Linda seized her by the left arm and swung the reeling woman behind the trellis. Shonta remained on her feet as Linda’s arm reared back like a viper, then struck, pounding the steel through the center of the woman’s sternum and into her heart. When Linda let go of her bicep, Shonta fell onto her butt with heavy finality. She came to final rest in a sitting position, against the stone garden wall.
The sight of the ivory handle of the knife, hard and unyielding against the brown skin, excited Linda intensely. She pressed her thighs together hard as she stood over the body and had a quick orgasm. Her blood lust raised, she took a 9mm in each hand and headed toward the door Shonta had closed moments before.
“Who is it?” a girlish voice called out. Linda, in the best imitation she could muster, replied: “It’s Leona. I brought some towels.”
Joanie, 18, was the youngest of the stews. She looked even younger than she was; her sexual specialty was schoolgirl games. She wore nothing but her pooka-shell necklace and bracelet, her white over-the-knee stockings and her blue Keds.
“Oh hi… Leona? You look different… NOOO!”
The force of the 9mm slug blowing through her navel pushed her from the doorway to the bed. Linda quickly turned her guns on Gabriela, who had her own .38 halfway out of her purse.
Gabriela, a 32-year-old Mexican, caught the first bullet in the center of the diamond of blue lace that covered her crotch. Linda admired the woman’s smashing lingerie – the lacy, structured blue bra that pushed up her lush 36C tits so fetchingly, the matching, strappy thong panties – even as she kept firing with both guns. Gabriela died in a fusillade of nine more quick bullets that ripped quarter-sized holes in her tits and belly and sprayed blood onto the wall and armchair behind her as they exited.
It took just seconds to make Gabriela very bloody, very dead, and unbearably sexy – she ended up sprawled back over the arm of the chair, her long black hair hanging to the floor.
Those few seconds were enough for the Kelly, the third woman in the room, to bolt out the door.
Kelly, 21, had been a cheerleader at the University of Iowa before she was kicked out of school for dealing cocaine. Lissa heard about the case and recruited her. Every guy wants a cheerleader, and Kelly had been a goldmine for Lissair.
The tall, sunny brunet, in a white tube minidress and silver high-heeled sandals dashed out the door and up the steps.
That was a mistake. She found herself on a balcony with no other way down.
Linda shot her in the throat, then emptied five rounds into the girl’s tits. Kelly jerked violently with each hit, as black burn holes opened in the white fabric. Dark red heartblood surged through those holes as she dropped.
Kelly’s armpits caught the railing behind her as she died. So her butt never made it to the deck; her body was suspended. Her chin sagged to her chest and her legs opened, to reveal a bare, smooth-shaved pussy.
Linda’s hands trembled with pleasure, to the point that it was difficult for her to reload her guns. She collected herself and went back down to the room.
Joanie was still alive on the bed, though blood was streaming from her mouth and from her navel wound across her belly, pussy and left thigh, staining the top of her white stocking. Linda removed that stocking and twisted it into a cord. She got to her knees on the bed and straddled the dying girl’s face. She rubbed her pussy on the ridge of her nose and watched Joanie kick and convulse as she strangled her with the stocking. It took about 45 seconds for the girl to die, with Linda’s sexual broth streaming over her face.
Linda caught her breath, stood, and straightened her clothes and prepared to kill the three women in the next room.