Posted by critmk on May 05, 2003 at 06:57:45:
Cash commissioned this story, which was one year in the making, and kindly gave me permission to post it elsewhere. It's in the hard-boiled detective/hitman genre. Body count: 96, in 25 chapters. An illustrated version (just pix I found on the net, as visual aids, will appear in the archive eventually, I'm sure.) Thanks for reading.--c.
Sisters
a story by critmk
written for CashTV
Part 1 – The Koncharova Girls
“He’s probably given them more than a hundred grand already, and now he’s changed his will. Those sluts are going to get everything my father ever worked for – everything I’ve worked for over 25 years! Now the fool is talking about making those bimbos vice-presidents.”
Norman Laufer’s jaw trembled. He spoke in a hard, suppressed whisper as his rage fought with the need for secrecy. Not that it would have made much difference if someone had overheard. No Man’s Land was almost empty at 1 a.m. The three aging rummies at the bar were too far gone to care. Hank, the bartender, knew enough to make it his business to know nothing of my business.
Laufer was in his early 50s -- about my age. He looked much older. He was doughy, hunched and ashen, a heavy drinker and smoker. I spotted condoms in his wallet when he bought our drinks (bourbon, neat -- he downed two before I touched mine). He was the kind of guy who picked up hookers and maybe set up a mistress. He treated his wife badly. Like father like son.
But that wasn’t my concern. Money was.
“I gave my life to that company, and now he’s handing it over to those piggy bitches, just for blow jobs? It’s so fucking unfair. He rubs my nose in it – he even has me call their answering service to set up his sessions with them. The fucking bitches call back and taunt me.”
He was getting sloppy, now, and maudlin. He was disgusting enough when he was sober and vicious. He looked into my eyes in search of sympathy and justification, but found only cold calculation. He averted his eyes and gazed into the dregs of his whisky.
I let him stew for a full minute, then got down to terms.
“My price is $30,000 per, plus expenses. In this case, that will be about another $5K. Half, now, half after.”
Another long silence. He drew a fat, sealed envelope from his jacket.
“Not now. Leave it locker 147 at the Amtrak station tomorrow morning. Here’s a key.”
“One more thing,” he said. “If those girls turn up dead, I stand to gain. The cops will want to pin it on me. So make it look like my father did it. Use his gun…”
Again, he reached for an inside pocket. I reached across the table and stopped him.
“I decide who takes the fall. Maybe the girls will just disappear, and there won’t be a trial. I’ll think about it. Wrap the gun in newspaper and put it in the locker with the money.”
“So it’s a deal then?”
He extended his hand to shake on it. I ignored it.
“It’s a deal when I find a gun and $32,500 in locker 147 at 9 a.m.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The client gave me little to go on but the address of his father’s Downtown condo. His sprawling suburban homestead wouldn’t do for his playtime with his Russian mistresses. I staked the place out and waited. Patience is my one virtue.
They showed up on the second night. At about 9:30, the old man arrived in a long black Lincoln. He had spring in his step. He was in a good mood and looked to be in great shape.
The girls drove up 15 minutes later in their Porsche Carrera, parked it on the street and didn’t bother to put the top up or set the alarm. If that one was stolen, sugar daddy could always buy another.
They were buxom and a little overweight, but attractive in a slatternly way. They were sisters, I reckoned, in their mid-20s. Short, shaggy brown hair, brown eyes, both of them. Both wore tight jeans, strappy sandal heels and halter tops. Their soft bellies showed. Their plump, braless breasts swung and bounced as they walked.
The street was narrow and quiet on an atypically cool and pleasant July evening in St. Louis. From my post at the outdoor café across the street I heard them speak in Russian. They giggled and hung on to one another as they teetered up the steps on their heels. They were a little drunk or a little stoned, maybe a little of both. Of course they were; they faced the unappetizing prospect of going down on an 81-year-old man.
While they were inside working their magic on their mark, I punched up my wireless Internet connection and ran a reverse-directory search on the phone number the client had given me. It registered not to the Koncharava girls, but to a law firm, Kennet and Sikes. I’d never heard of it. The address was just a few blocks away, in an old office building on Olive Street. Interesting.
David, the senior Laufer, found Sonya and Karina Koncharova endlessly amusing. Tonight, they were playing his favorite game for him: pretending to fight over the privilege of swallowing the few drops of cum he could muster at his advanced age.
They wrestled and tore at clothing as he sat calmly in a chair and watched. The sister with temporary advantage would lunge at him and take him into her mouth, only to be pulled away. Finally, one sister would get the upper hand and pretend to strangle the other; Laufer found this mock murder play strangely exciting.
Karina, who tonight wore red stockings, heels and garter, had just finished “murdering” Sonya, who was similarly clad, but in white.
“Now, dear, spread your sister’s legs and give her a lick, just to make daddy happy,” the old man instructed. Karina, the younger of the two, did as she was told; Sonya suppressed a shudder of disgust mixed with pleasure as her sister’s tongue opened and moistened her labia.
“I’m ready now, dear,” David Laufer sighed.
Karina slithered over her sister’s “dead” body and crawled to Laufer. She took all five inches of his semihard dick into her mouth, circling it expertly with her tongue and gently massaging his balls with her soft left hand. He moaned, she felt a few drops of warm liquid in the back of her throat, and her work for the evening was complete. She pulled back and sat on her haunches and helped him get his trousers up from around his ankles. He rested for a moment, then stood and zipped up.
“Thank, you, dear girls,” he said. “You’ll find a small gift and the new contracts in the glove compartment of your car. Now could I ask one more small favor? Would the two of you just play dead for a moment?”
Sonya resumed her death stare; Karina draped herself dramatically face-up across her sister’s body. She pressed the cum to the corner of her mouth. It dripped across her cheek. This wasn’t lost on Laufer, who clapped his bony hands with delight.
“Details – it’s all in the details,” he exclaimed. “That’s why I love you girls so much!”
They knew to stay “dead” until the door clicked shut.
I watched the old man put something into the glove box of the Porsche and then drive off in the Lincoln. As soon as he rounded the corner, I hustled across the street and up a back stairway to the fifth-floor condo.
It took maybe four minutes. I paused outside the door to catch my breath, pull on my gloves and attach the silencer I’d improvised for the old man’s .25. I entered, using the key that my client – his loving son, Norman -- had given me.
I expected to hear girlish chatter in Russian, maybe the sound of a shower running, a television droning, or ice clinking in a glass of vodka.
Instead – nothing.
I backed up to the window of the foyer and cracked the blinds. The Carrera hadn’t budged.
Without a sound, I made my way through the empty living room, dining room and kitchen. Nice place, all Scandinavian modern, lots of birch, glass and stainless steel.
I found them in the guest bedroom.
The one in white had been shot through the dense lace at the top of the stocking on her right thigh and through the white half-corset that covered her midsection. The nickel-sized bullet hole was just beneath the violet ribbon at the top of the lacing that cinched the lingerie up the front. The kill shot was dead center, where the inside arcs of her pendulous breasts intersected. Blood had trickled beneath and over the corset and into her luxuriant bush. The force of the bullets had thrown her back onto the twin bed and into the birch-paneled wall beyond it. She half-leaned against the wall. Her light-brown eyes were wide open; so was her small round mouth.
The one in red was seated on the floor, propped against the bed behind her and her dead sister’s leg to her right. A shot on the exposed right thigh, between stocking top and pussy, had forced open her legs; she was showing a lot of pink. Otherwise, fire had been concentrated on her huge, soft tits. A bullet hole had replaced her right nipple, and there was another red-black wound in the center of the inside curve of the breast. That right tit pressed against her sister’s leg and bloodied the white stocking. Three bullet wounds stitched a line across her left tit, with the center hole in the pink areola just above the nipple. Blood had streamed down the curve of her breast and across her ribs and the left side of her belly before disappearing into the red band of her broad garter belt. I couldn’t see her eyes; her head slumped forward and her dark brown bangs hung in front of her face.
“Don’t turn around, or I’ll have to shoot you, too, and that would be a pity. Pitch the gun onto the bed, please.” The woman’s voice – rich and throaty as Lauren Bacall’s -- came from behind me. Dead Sonya’s tits cushioned the landing of the .25.[barblaufer.jpg goes here.]
“Nice toss,” the woman said. “Now clasp your hands on top of your head and turn around, slowly.”
A classy blonde, about 40, had a big silver Colt automatic with a silencer trained on me. She wore white linen gloves and an elegant ecru suit that showed off long, tanned, toned legs.
She smiled.
“Sorry I stole the fun of killing those bimbos,” she said. “You can still collect on the contract. I have bigger things in mind.”[sisters.jpg goes here.]
She went on, in a mock Russian accent: “Pliz, pliz don’d shood, vee poor immigrants, just try to make leeving. Vee pud up hands – you cand shood voman who pud up hands.’
“It was amusing. So is this.”
She waved the Colt languidly across my chest. I felt my scrotum contract. I tried to stay cool.
“I can see how it would be. Pardon my ignorance, but would you mind telling me who you are and how you figure in this?”
“I am Norman Laufer’s wife. And this is Norman Laufer’s gun, which is just covered with Norman Laufer’s fingerprints. And you, Mr. Conlin, might be of use to me.
“Shall we talk business?”