Horrific Whorehouse Hit.

Posted by Ric delCampo on August 22, 2003 at 17:59:46:

The Horrific Whorehouse Hit.

By Ric delCampo.

I cruised by the target building a second time searching for any sign of police presence. My car was a beat-up ’78 sedan with mud-obscured license plates. The target had that wrong side of the tracks look; though it was actually located about three blocks from the docks. Ideally located to service the sailors and dock hands. The street crowd appeared to be less than ideal witnesses; though I doubted any one of them wouldn’t rat me out to get out of a personal jam. I decided it would be best to make as unseen an entrance as I could. There was an empty dirt lot behind the building and I parked there.
I checked my weapons. A silenced Merch & Foulier .25 caliber automatic. Ten spare magazines, each loaded with my own, altered wad-cutters. I had drilled out the center of each bullet, filled each with mercury, and resealed them. Voila! Home-made exploding bullets. A gas-power, magazine-fed cross-bow. Cross-bow may be an obsolete term, as, due to the gas cartridge, there was no actual bow. Two knives, one: a stiletto throwing knife and one: an Israeli knock-off of the Marine K-Bar.
There was an awful HARRUMPH! I looked to the north were a huge black cloud of smoke mushroomed into the dark sky. My diversion had gone off on schedule. The police and fire departments would be busy elsewhere tonight.
Sticking to shadows I entered the target building unwitnessed.
There was a girl at the receptionist’s desk. She was in her mid twenties, about 5-4. She had dark brown skin, black, shoulder length hair, parted in the center, with one wisp of hair over her left check. She had a pleasant smile on her large mouth. Playful, brown eyes. She wore black, stiletto high heels, a dark-blue mini-skirt, and a white blouse, one size too small, which stretched tightly over her plump breasts, and was neatly tucked into her skirt. There was a watch on a silver bracelet on her right wrist and a thin silver chain on her left wrist.
She smiled brightly when she saw me.
“Are you the man who’s come to kill us?”
I wasn’t expecting that reaction.
“Am I the first? Oh, this is so exciting! Do you think there’ll be pictures?
“Pictures?” I dumbly repeated.
“In the newspapers. Do you think there’ll be pictures of my sexy corpse in the newspaper?”
“Maybe in the tabloids.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“I am so excited! To think I am the first victim. How’re you gonna kill me? I wore a white blouse just for you.”
I didn’t let her explain that. I shot her three times in her left breast.
Her white blouse was stained red as three red hot slugs punched through the crisp, white fabric, through her bra, and into her soft flesh. Red hot blood sprayed. The receptionist gasped, clutched her bleeding breast, and slumped backwards into her seat. Her head rolled back, her wide mouth open and silent.
Well, she was right about one thing, at least: she did make a sexy corpse.
I moved, cat-like, into the office behind the reception desk.
A girl sat on her desk, masturbating. Her black hair was a bit longer than the receptionist’s, her mouth smaller, her skin a bit lighter.
Her legs were spread wide apart; panty-hose was bunched up around her right ankle. A white high-heeled shoe dangled from her left foot. She wore a golden, sleeveless blouse, under a yellow business jacket; one shoulder was bare as the jacked had fallen from her left shoulder. She supported herself with her left hand behind her, while the long delicate fingers on her right had probed at her moist pussy. Her short, yellow skirt was pulled up around her slender waist.
Her head was back, her eyes closed, and she emitted soft moans.
She suddenly took notice of me. Calmly, solicitously, she requested, “Please don’t kill me until I’ve finished. I want one more orgasm before I die.”
She closed her eyes again and went back to her moaning. Her breaths became more rapid, her moans deeper. She groaned loudly. “Oh my! That was a good one!”
“Can I shoot you now?” I politely requested.
“Oh yes. Please do. While I’m still in ecstasy!”
I put three slugs dead center of her chest. Her right arm collapsed and she collapsed with a thunk as her dead head struck the Formica desk top. She lay sprawled out on the beige desk-top, blood oozing from her heart, love-juices oozing from her pussy.
Did I mention I love my job? I love killing women, especially sexy, exotic Asian women.
This was not only the gig I’d retire from; this was my dream gig!
Back into the hall. And on to the next room. It was the bookkeeper’s office.
The bookkeeper looked at me, head slightly askew, with her big, innocent, doe-like eyes. “It’s about time,” she said, seemingly relieved to see me. She was a very slender girl, with long silky legs. She wore an ultra-short, black skirt and a yellow, silk dress blouse. The blouse was open, wide open, to just below her ample breasts. So full and round, she would have had a hard time buttoning her blouse. Her auburn hair hung just below her shoulders, with just a bit or a curl at the tips. She had small, but full, pouty lips.
“Being a bookkeeper is soooo boring!” the flirty slut complained. “D’ya think the police’ll mistake me for a dead whore?”
“There’ll be no mistaking you for a live one.” And I shot her. She moaned, clutched at her bleeding breast, twisted in her seat, and fell, sprawling onto the floor. A last breath gurgled out of her punctured lungs.
My employers had told me this was going to be an easy gig. I hadn’t believed them, what with so many targets; but they, thus far, had been right.
Beyond the bookkeeper’s office was a customer lounge with a bar.
The bar maid was dressed in sort of a French maid’s costume. A white frilly cap; black peasant blouse trimmed in white lace, one sleeve off her left shoulder; a black mini-skirt, also trimmed with white lace. Black, thigh-high, fish-net stocking, (she pulled up her skirt to give me a peek at her garter belt, or her gorgeous legs,) black high-heels; and a white silk apron.
She smiled while she flirted with me, showing off her legs, lifting and fluttering her skirt. Her left shoulder was bare except for a black, spaghetti bra strap.
She had straight, black hair, her left ear poked through her hair. Her eyes danced with excitement.
“I’m not one of the whores,” she explained; “I really am the bar maid; I just wear this costume to help get the customers horney.”
“You’re very hot,” I agreed.
“Do you get to kill me anyway?”
“That’s my orders: No survivors.”
“That’s wonderful news. I’ve been worried all afternoon that you wouldn’t murder me because I’m not a whore. Your guns look so sexy, are you gonna shoot me? I think it’d be so sexy to be plugged in my stomach. Shoot me right through my white apron and soak it red with my blood. That’d be so delicious!”
I plugged her three time in her lower belly.
The bar maid gave a couple of short, sudden grunts as the slugs punched her in the belly. She hunched over slightly at her waist and clutched at her bleeding belly with both hands. She looked up at me with a forced smile through the excruciating pain. She stumbled about a bit, lost her footing and slumped against the bar, slowing sinking to the hardwood floor. She gasped quickly as her lungs failed her. Her bloody hands fell to her side. A pool of blood spread beneath her.
“I hope that was as good for you as it was for me.” Of course she was beyond hearing. But her odd attitude, and that of her fellow victims, had put me in an oddly jovially mood.
I inserted a fresh clip. There was a sound from the room—a kitchen, as it turned out—behind the bar.
In the kitchen there was a girl dressed only in a blue and white checkered apron and floppy chief’s hat; nothing else.
She dreamily closed her eyes as I aimed at her belly.
Phuut!
One slug right into her lower belly.
She sucked in air between her teeth and lower lip. “Oooh!”
She sat down hard on the table behind her and savored the burning pain. Her eyes were still closed. Her left hand groped at her bleeding womb.
“Oooh!” she moaned softly. Her lithe body began to tremble. She lay back onto the table, one leg extended, naked.
Her lovely chest sank and didn’t rise again.
“Now that’s a delicious dish!”
As I admired the chief’s death pose, there was the sound of giggling behind me.
Two girls had entered the kitchen. They were oblivious to my presence. They were engrossed in caressing each other. One girl stood behind the other, running her fingers through other friend’s long black hair. Both had long, straight hair which hung down to their round little asses. She pressed her full bosoms against her friend’s back, rubbing her breasts back and forth. She pressed her pussy into her friend’s ass, bumping and grinding.
They were dressed identically in innocent schoolgirl costumes; though both were in their mid-twenties, and were obviously not innocents. They wore black, pleated mini-skirt with a black leather belt around their tiny little waists. They wore crisp, long sleeve blouses, with rounded collars and black neck-ties. Their full breasts delightfully filled out their white blouses.
Suddenly they noticed me.
“Ah shit!” said the first schoolgirl, “we hoped we’d have time to fuck before you killed us.” While she spoke the schoolgirl behind her franticly increased her tempo, trying to bring herself to climax.
“Sorry, I have a schedule to keep,” I explained, “But you may kiss once last time.”
They passionately embraced, locked lips, and pressed their breasts together.
I walked up behind the second girl, took out the crossbow, and held the razor sharp bolt inches away from the small of her back.
FROOSH! THUUCK!
The CO2 cartridge drove the bolt clean though her small body impaling her lover in her belly. The second girl’s body’s stiffened with pain as the cold steel violated her. Her legs began to tremble. She clung to her lover for support, but her dying body failed her as she slumped to the floor. Pinned to her, the first girl followed her down, lest she painfully yank out the bolt head impaling her belly.
The second girl’s eyes rolled back as she bled out and died. The first girl, lying on top of her dead lover, began to rub her tits across her lover’s tits, trying in a frenzy to stimulate her nipples, to increase the flow of endorphins, to counteract the waves of pain wracking her writhing body. With a final groan the first girl expired also.
I knelt down and moved the second schoolgirl’s head to one side. Then I turned the first’s head the other way and gently lowered her lips onto her dead lover’s lips.
“I promised you a final kiss.”
When I walked back out into the bar area there was an elegant-looking woman waiting for me. She was in her late twenties, early thirties. She quite calmly sipped a glass of red wine.
“Do you want to do me next?” she politely asked. She was tall and lanky, and wore only a white g-strip panty and a flowery pink, backless bikini top. She had creamy, honey-colored skin.
“Would you like to finish your drink first?”
“That’s awful nice of you.” She savored her last drink, then put the glass down on the bar. “Okay, you can do me now.”
She was so understanding, I finished her quickly with a single shot to her left nipple, angled directly into her heart.
The bikini woman gasped involuntarily and collapsed onto the floor, dead almost instantaneously.
I didn’t find any more women on the first floor so I proceeded up the stairs to the second floor and the bedrooms.
In the first bedroom I found a young woman dressed only on a long white, button-up-front shirtdress. She had alluringly left only one button done, just below her navel. The open dress just barely covered her nipples. She wore no bra, and didn’t need one. Her pert breasts were erect.
She backed warily against the wall, eyeing my drawn pistol with increasing apprehension. Her bright red lips quivered as she asked, “Will it hurt?”
“Do you want it too?”
“Yes! I want it to last a long time. I was afraid you’d kill me instantly.”
Her bellybutton was such an inviting target, I shot her once right in the navel.
The girl groaned and bent at the waist. She straightened up and slumped against the wall, still clutching her punctured belly. “Ahh!” she moaned. And slid slowly down to a sitting position. Her hands fell aside. The last breath of air rattled out of her lungs and she died.
In the next bedroom I found a vivacious hottie dressed in a hot-pink teddie and silver-colored stiletto high heels. She knelt on a leopard skin chair, lifted her short skirt to show me her bare ass.
“Nice piece of tail, isn’t it,” she said confidently as she wiggled it at me and smiled coquettishly. “Would you like some?”
“No, thank you,” I said, “I have some at home.” I showed her my pistol. “Would you like some?”
I didn’t wait for an answer as I shot her three times. The slugs smacked into her tender flesh.
She gave me a hurt look with those beautiful eyes of hers. “I thou’ ya’d fuck me firs’ . . .” Her sexy body gave a little half twist to one side and she sank into the chair—dead.
Three more bedrooms, three more sexy Asian whores. I shot each of them, watched them clutch at their bleeding bodies, moan, and fall dead. One fell like a puppet, its strings instantly cut, the others were slower, the bodies writhing and twitching as they died.
In the last bedroom I found two whores lying naked one on top of the other, both face up. They were licking each others tits, deep French kissing, and masturbating themselves. Their legs were spread wide, their holes facing the door. When they noticed me they each reached down, and with delicate long fingers, spread their nether lips wide, showing me their bright pink holes—Perfect bull’s-eyes.
“Fuck us! Fuck us!” they demanded in a sex-drenched frenzy.
I took out my cross-bow and shot a bolt up the bottom whore’s pink pussy. Her brown eyes popped open as the razor head buried itself deep within her delicate pink flesh. Her slim body began to buck and writhing in agony. The younger girl on top rode her like a rodeo bronco-buster. The whore died slowly.
The younger slut on top was wet with anticipation. “Do me the same way,” she pleaded. “Do me! Do me!” She spread her nether lips wide and inviting.
I complied, shooting a steel bolt up her dripping pussy.
She screamed in agony. Her tiny body revolted against the awful pain. Her back arched as the waves of pain wracked her body, then she slumped dead on top of her lover.
The two steel cross-bow bolts protruded from their bloody cunts like razor-tipped cocks.
“I guess I fucked you to death,” I said to their dead, staring eyes.
There were no more bedrooms on the second floor. The third floor was a single, penthouse apartment.
The owner of the whorehouse patiently awaited me in her living room.
She was older than her whores, and while not so sexy or glamorous, she had aged well. She was skinny, but not as athletic as her girls. She did have a nice set of tits which filled out her white, turtle-neck blouse quite nicely. She wore a knee-length, conservative grey skirt and black high-heels. A single white pearl earring was in her right ear.
“Are they all dead?” she asked me, all business-like.
“Yes, they are.”
“Can we talk before you kill me,” she requested.
“You can talk,” I said evasively.
“I did what they said,” she started, her voice trembling. “I gathered all my girls here, told them to wait for you. I sent all the customers away . . .”
“You told them, and they waited?”
“I explained to them that this was their fate for betraying their bosses; it was no use fighting fate. I told them to embrace their fate and they obeyed me. My girls are . . . Were quite loyal.”
“That’s not loyalty, that’s a cult!”
She showed me a suitcase stuffed with cash, a box full of video tapes. “Here’s all the money we skimmed. Here are our blackmail tapes. Can you please explain to your bosses how cooperative I’ve been? Take the money to them—Just, please, please, don’t kill me!”
“Sorry, I’m not authorized to negotiate.”
“So you’re gonna kill me no matter what I say?” She pointed to the cash. “Couldn’t I bribe you?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Shit!” she apparently resigned herself to her fate.
She pulled up her skirt. “Could you fuck me? I’d like to be fucked one last time before I die.”
Before I could explain my philosophy on fucking victims, she handed me a condom. “Here, put this on.”
“I really don’t believe you’re all that worried about AIDS this late,” I sarcastically said to her.
“It’s for you,” she stammered.
“Yeah! You’re really concerned for my health.” I unrolled the condom over the barrel of my silencer. “Let’s just see how concerned you are.”
I pushed her down on a couch and lifted her skirt. I slid the barrel of the silencer between her pink lips, deep into her cunt.
She began to scream, “It burns! It burns! Ahhh! Shit! It Burns! Kill me! Kill me! Quickly! Kill me! Arrrrr!
I fired a slug up her pussy. Her body jerked as the hot lead ripped through her most delicate flesh.
I took out my K-bar and drove it into her heart. Her body convulsed, her back arched. Blood bubbled up staining her white blouse. Blood trickled from her slender lips. She slumped dead into the couch.
I left the knife sticking in her breast, the pistol protruding from her pussy. I took out a digital camera and took a few shots of her dead body. I made a review of the house taking photographs of all the dead whores. I downloaded and e-mailed them to a pre-arraigned address, using the dead Madame’s laptop; then smashed it open and removed the hard drive. I dropped it on her body and placed a firebomb on top of that. I retrieved more firebombs from the car. I stacked the dead whores in piles and placed a bomb on each pile. As I lowered the receptionist’s cute corpse onto the pile of dead flesh, I apologized to her. “Sorry, no newspapers for you.” I placed the bomb on her belly and set the timer.
I was fifty miles away when the whorehouse burned to the ground. Nothing left but ashes.
A suitcase of cash sat beside me. A bonus, call it.
Two changes of identity, four changes of clothes, three automobiles, and an airplane later, I arrived home.
My wife was dressed in a frilly white teddie. She leapt into my arms and wrapped her long, slender legs around my waist. She looked deep into my eyes with those sexy, almond-shapes eyes of hers.
“How many fuckin’ bitches didja snuff this time?”
My wife is usually such a demure delicate creature. A pure China doll. But when she cusses, it’s a sure sign she’s hot to trot. She’s transformed into a LBFM, as the sailors say.
“Sixteen fuckin’ bitches!”
“Well, sir, you know what that means! You’ve gotta fuck the shit outta me sixteen times!”
We didn’t even make it to the bedroom before her first screams of ecstasy filled the house.

The End.