Posted by critmk on February 22, 2002 at 09:28:07:
The Scamming Stewardess
a story by critmk
Chapter 22: A Ghost
Three Years Later
Dominic swam up from a deep sleep to find that his dream of a beautiful woman licking his erect penis was no dream at all.
Leona paused for a moment and smiled at him.
“Good morning, love. Happy third anniversary.”
Leona slid up his body and pressed her vagina down over his erection. They started the special day with the long, slow, gentle kind of sex that comes with love and experience.
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They had become Dawn and Marie Pike, complete with U.S. passports and social security numbers. They bought a little island a mile off Sao Paulo, Brazil. They built a pier, an airstrip, a desalinization plant and a handsome curving white stucco estate reminiscent of Le Corbusier on the otherwise uninhabited isle.
When anyone asked, they said something about beating the burst of the dot.com bubble.
They weren’t high-profile, but neither were they reclusive – they did not want to be the mysterious talk of the town. They went to the opera and ballet in Sao Paulo, and they came to the mainland to shop. He spoke flawless Portuguese, and she was learning fast. The locals liked them; they suspected that they were the source of the large, anonymous gifts to schools and clinics in poor neighborhoods.
“Dawn” and “Martin” traveled a lot – up the coast to Rio on their big boat; to New York in his sleek, fast Beechcraft; to Europe and Asia on private charters.
This good life changed Leona and Dominic. They had assumed that they would continue their murderous ways, for fun rather than economic need. Early on, Dominic’s special, encrypted phone link had rung once or twice a week with offers of hit jobs. He was tempted by one involving a mobster’s hot wife and twin daughters, but in the end he turned them all down. The desire just wasn’t there anymore, and he didn’t want to risk disrupting his paradisical life on the island. The phone calls dwindled.
The sweet day-to-dayness of life -- of swimming every morning in the ocean, of playing music together (she the piano, he the cello), of collecting art, of tending the garden – had calmed them. They most enjoyed quietly giving away millions of the dollars they had stepped over so many dead bodies to acquire.
Not that they had lost interest entirely in sex and violence. They sublimated it in play. They joined fantasy snuff websites and financed big-budget customs, which they shared with the membership at large. Leona became Dominic’s victim in sex games spiced by film-quality special effects. Their generosity and gentleness made them favorites of a number of high-priced Brazilian call girls, who were more than willing to be cast as victims in amateur theatricals played out in the privacy of the island.
When Dominic’s special phone chirped to life as he and Leona breakfasted on the veranda, he was going to let it ring. Leona devilishly urged him to pick it up and get the details: “It might make for a good fantasy story.”
“Mm-hmm… an investment fraud and blackmail operation… run by a group of women. And where is this office? How many? Thirty-seven…hmmm.
Yes… yes, that is a lot of money. But I think I’ll have to turn it down. Thanks for thinking of me, Ian, but we’re pretty much out of the business.”
“Business women in power suits, sexy secretaries – sounds like fun,” Leona said. “Let’s see what we can work up on that theme, later.”
While Dominic was on the mainland buying an anniversary present for Leona, she was off in the other boat, picking up three of their favorite girls. They would be her surprise present to him.
When they got back to the island, the four women had coffee on the veranda overlooking the rolling Atlantic. Paola, Mariette, Nina and the woman they knew as Dawn chatted and laughed like old friends as they planned the evening. First, they’d doll up in dresses and play a slaughtered secretary game in Dominic’s spacious office. Next, the three black girls would get into lingerie and Dawn and Martin would hunt them down, one by one, throughout the house. Then an all-girl knife-fighting tournament, which Dawn would win, only to be killed by Martin. On and on it would go, with the fake blood spilling and the videotape running through the night and into the morning.
They broke up the hen party to dress and prepare the props. Leona expected Dominic to return in a few hours, and she wanted everything perfect. She sent her youthful trio to the office to change, and she went to her dressing room upstairs.
Dominic came home barely able to contain his excitement, for two reasons. First, the Manet painting, which had taken months and millions to acquire, was in the heavy crate he was wheeling in the front door. It would make Leona very happy. Second, he knew that she was dreaming up some amazing sexual game to make him happy.
On a small easel in the foyer stood a placard with words in Leona’s flowing hand: “Your office is full of very bad girls. Come armed.”
He laughed and jogged to his den. He pulled a pair of low-velocity paintball guns from a cabinet and hustled toward the office. He slowed when he got close, to get into the stealthy spirit of the game.
A classy brunet in a short, tight business suit, black with white lapels, sheer dark hose and tasty black pumps, stood silhouetted in the doorway, facing into the room. A silenced 9mm hung at her side in her right hand.
“God, Leona has a gorgeous ass,” Dominic thought, as he crept up.
Beyond her, he recognized Paola, with her dark chocolate complexion and crinkled mane, seated in his desk chair. She had been riddled; several bullet holes were visible in the white stripe across the chest of her tiny black pullover dress. The V of white panties over her pussy was red with flow from two holes, and two more had bloodied the inside of her left thigh. Mariette wore the red tube dress that she knew “Martin” liked so well. She was sprawled on her back over desk, with large knife wounds in her throat and left nipple. A big, heavy, ebony-handled hunting knife protruding obscenely from between her tits.. Her long, straightened brown hair hung to the floor.
Blood from her throat had dripped onto the naked, coffe-au-lait flesh of Nina’s thigh, between the hem of her short black dress and the top of her gartered stocking. She half-leaned against the desk, with her unlikely blue eyes staring up. Nina had been shot eight times in the throat, upper chest and through the black fabric covering her tits. The sight of the three “dead” black girls made Dominic’s dick strain against his trousers.
The woman in the doorway gave a start when he poked the barrel of his paintball gun into her back, just inside her left shoulder blade.
“Well – it looks like someone started without me,” he said.
He wasn’t ready for the speed of her turn or the force with which she pressed the cold steel of the 9mm into the hollow of his throat.
“Yes – it looks as if someone did!” the woman hissed.
In his decades as a hired killer, Dominic had developed the ability to suppress shock, not only to maintain composure in difficult situations but also to regain it quickly when lost. This ability did not desert him. It did, however, take a moment for him to settle himself, meet the woman’s eyes and make sure that no hint of a tremble would be in his voice when he said:
“Hello, Linda.”
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