Out of the Past Pt. 01bymadam_noe©
Author's note: This is a 4 part series of erotic couplings set in a high-drama world. There is a plot, it's fairy light, not my usual who-done-it but styled like an 80's pulp novel. The sex is between men and women and veers into male domination/female submission but contains light or no BDSM.
As always I welcome comments and feedback!
Watching was fun, but Claire would so much rather be doing. Impossible at the moment, she had to content herself with the goings-on at the apartment across the way. Gigolo John she called him in her head, he was young, well built, tanned, bleached, and sculpted by design into overly-perfect , male beauty, and every night he had a different woman over.
That night she was slim, with a fall of long dark hair, and old enough to wear her tiny scrap of dress with total confidence. Claire liked her lips as his wandering hands disappeared under the cloth to raise it over her head. The woman's breasts were small enough she didn't need a bra and her panties were a brief scrap.
What she liked best about Gigolo John was he chose his partners well. Older women it seemed didn't need as much foreplay and though he worked fast they always left satisfied. Claire snuggled deeper into her chair and made sure her apartment was dim so she could keep watching, unseen.
John, that was his actual name, she knew, immediately palmed the woman's small breasts, nearly chewing on her lips. It was usually at this time that...oh, yeah, here it was. The woman threw her head back and yet managed to unbutton John's pants and slid them down, freeing his erection. Claire bit her lip as the woman wrapped a slim hand around the thick root, jeweled rings dancing in the moonlight.
"Harder, grip him harder," she whispered, but of course they couldn't hear her and the woman was either uncaring or ignorant and stroked his cock as gently as a teenager would. John, true to form, lost patience and picked her up, muscles bulging. With a sigh Claire rose from her chair as Gigolo John moved his night's entertainment to his bedroom, moving into hers.
With the lights off she parted her curtains slightly and saw his were wide open. His bed was huge, king-seize, topped with black satin sheets and against them his partner was pale and glowing like moonlight. He set her down and thrust two meaty fingers into her cunt and the woman arched her back, writhing with her hands twisting the sheets.
Sighing again Claire wished John would just bend down and bury his head into the woman's pussy. Sure, she wouldn't be able to see much, but god it was such an erotic thing to watch the way a woman gasped and moaned, the way a man totally and completely focused on her pleasure. John was resourceful but not that caring.
With flourish he produced a condom packet from between the mattress and box spring and ripped it open, sheathing himself quickly. He spread her legs, grabbed her sides, and brought her angled up as he settled between her and pushed his short, fat cock into her. Of course the woman swooned, and then john began the rhythm that looked so damn good.
Claire found herself parting her robe, her cool, slim hand smoothing over her soft belly and the satin covering it, seeking the lace hem and her aching pussy beneath it. John thrust all the while, a sliding tease the woman seemed to love but find frustrating.
She knew what came next and within minutes John grabbed her and rolled. From the next building over and one floor down she could see the mirror on his bedroom ceiling, and as John let the woman ride him he made kissy faces to his own reflection.
Claire concentrated on the woman. Not a lover of women at all, she still liked to watch their reactions. Three years of no sex had reduced her to watching and she had learned to take pleasure by watching for signs of true ecstasy on John's partners' faces, and this woman did not disappoint. She ground against him rather than thrust and forced John's hands onto her breasts, moving faster and faster.
Claire frigged herself hard and fast, close to the edge, keening with need, but she wanted to wait, draw it out until they finished. As nice as this was, the finish was incredible. The woman came, throwing her head back and howling the way a wolf might as her body jerked, rocked only his hands on her hips.
As soon as it passed John moved them, scooting from beneath her to force the woman the kneel and grip the headboard while he positioned himself behind her. Claire loved seeing his ass as he thrust in, despite Gigolo John's many faults he had a fantastic ass.
Immediately he began to thrust and the woman gripped the headboard. Claire often wondered why John never out a mirror above the bed, as he fucked with that sublime rhythm he flexed his bulging biceps and kissed them. Ignoring that Claire fathered her fingers over her clit faster knowing the moment was close. Proving he was a gentleman to some degree, Johnny reached around and buried his hand between the woman's legs. She went off, ol' Johnny went off, and Claire thought her head might explode with the force of her orgasm. It went on and on, intense waves radiating through her as juices filled her palm.
God, the longer she went without a partner the better her orgasms were, yet the greater her need. Something had to give. Sitting back she watched them collapse as John rolled gracefully aside, and she wished for a cigarette. Three years ago she'd had her last one, and it seemed to her when one didn't quit by choice the temptation never really faded.
Suddenly across the way john sat up like a springboard popping and put his hands out. The woman scrambled back, pulling at the sheets as someone stepped through the doorway. John reached to turn on the lamp and suddenly a flash lit up and the light went out. Claire could still see but instinct made her grab the binoculars, zeroing in tight on the room.
Just in time to see john's head explode into a million bloody pieces. Claire screamed but bit her lip and swung the binoculars slightly. The woman got two bloody holes in her chest. The stranger walked over to the bed, gun trained on her. Claire's heart hammered as the man, obviously a man, dressed all in black, waited, frozen for a moment.
Then he turned right into her view and she saw his face. Young, plain, slightly strange, Caucasian and something else, his features too small for his face but a slight degree. His expression was evil only in that it was so calm, so distant. He'd just murdered two people and looked as calm as someone waiting for the morning train.
He stopped and seemed to look at her, but she knew her room was dark, there was no way he could see her now that dusk had bled to night. Still her heart thumped and she remained locked still until he left. Panicked, she crawled the window and peaked over the sill. A minute later he emerged from the building and walked to a car. Raising the binoculars she saw him slide into a black Mercedes with a busted tailpipe.
The binoculars clattered to the carpeting. Oh, god, she'd just seen Morelli's hitman.
It'd been clean, he knew that, but he felt uneasy. Johnny was a useless rat with a big mouth and had to go down. It had been business, pure and simple, and it went like most jobs. Johnny liked to fuck, he'd been expecting a woman, and it had gone smoothly. He couldn't explain his nerves.
No one had seen him arrive or leave, but after the last time someone had spotted his car. He didn't know it until that morning, and the Mercedes was gone now. Still that uneasy feeling remained. The woman was nothing, no one would miss her after all, hell her ex-husband would throw a party to celebrate the end of alimony. Something felt off.
He heard his name called and turned to see which one of the uniforms it was. The cop shop was busy at the moment, bustling, but he always had time for the little guys.
"Wait up, I want to talk the Morelli case with you!"
"Hello, Sharon. What now? Forensics aren't back yet on the Gilson-Partlow killing, we don't even know if it's Morelli."
"It's not that. We have a witness."
He felt his blood chill. Twenty years of perfection, never a single witness, and now when he was so close to retirement there was one. "Who?" he asked gruffly.
Sharon, an energetic woman with a permanently stiff brown French braid above her plain suits grabbed his arm and lead him to an alcove by the water fountain. "She came to me, a personal friend. She saw everything, saw his face. I want you to come with me to talk to her."
He was shaking, caught between fear and excitement. This was going to be too easy, much too easy. "What's her name?" Tonight, he'd kill her tonight, dump her deep in Lake Ontario and tomorrow he'd help Sharon fill out the missing person's report.
He was so close. Morelli would go down soon, he had just one other loose end to clean up, and now this witness was his for the next twelve hours.
"Angela Johnson, she lives in the building across from the last murder scene."
"Tomorrow morning at nine then." He turned before Sharon could see his grin. This girl would die and then he'd be in the home stretch.
"Hey, wanna grab a beer and talk strategy?"
"Can't, Sharon, I have a very important date."
She smiled at him and playfully punched his shoulder. "Go get 'er, lady killer."
He watched her walk off and fought the urge to smile. "You have no idea."
Luckily her life was designed for this, but Claire still felt...empty, disappointed, regretful. Over the past three years in Toronto she'd worked hard to meld in but form no attachments, no roots. She would not be missed but she would miss her little life there.
She worked from home and had no regular habits besides Sunday morning coffee at Jack's often sharing comments on the weather with Sharon who lived around the corner. Other than that she watched, or had watched Gigolo John at night and lost herself in novels when she couldn't sleep. Not a single stick of furniture no piece of clothing would give anyone any idea of who she was. It was time to disappear...again.
It felt like something of a failure, but she'd done what she had set out to do, Claire had approved she could make it on her own. She couldn't say why she felt she had to leave, it was just an instinct that told her.
That morning she'd run into Sharon at the coffee shop and the cop had updated her on the most sensational case the city had seen in some time. Anthony Morelli, former mob boss in Miami, Florida had gotten out of prison and set up shop up north. He'd been pinched months ago, but all the witnesses for his trial had started disappearing or dying. Police had established one hired killer and Sharon had told her weeks earlier about a black Mercedes with a single rust spot and a broken tail light. The night before when she saw the killer get into just that car, she'd known.
That morning she'd told Sharon, given her the number to her rusty cell phone, and promised she would ID any suspect they brought in. Monday Sharon was due to come see her but something told Claire to run. Mixing with cops was dangerous, not when her fake ID could be so easily vetted and her identity would crumble under any examination.
So Angela Johnson would disappear and she'd...well, perhaps it was time to go home. That thought scared her too much and so as she made her way down to the parking garage with a single suitcase, she thought about where to go. She had cash and could fly anywhere. Europe, South America, Asia, her choices were endless. She didn't have to go home, but the thought of starting over was daunting.
Maybe she would go back and not contact the family. Maybe just Sebastian, the only one who'd ever understood. She often felt for abandoning him those years ago, turning him into Pip in the Dickensian novel her family seemed determined to live in.
The first time she'd left was the last time she had seen him. Those big green eyes had pled with her to take him with her but it had been too dangerous. His nose was always in a book, his body tall and nearly gaunt with youth, the streets would have eaten him alive. That first time she made it two years, getting her high school diploma, and that's how they'd found her.
A noise in the garage made Claire stop. There were almost two hundred residents of her building, but one a.m. on a Sunday night was not high-traffic time. Remembering the lessons of the street she put her keys in her fist, sticking out between her fingers, and stood up straight to her full lanky height.
Footsteps syncopated hers and Claire's heart began to hammer. She just had to make it twenty feet to the little Ford, and she'd be fine. Her imagination started to run wild, and she envisioned being followed by Michael, could almost smell his pipe and feel his disapproving look. Behind him would be grandfather Ferdinand with his permanent scowl and bony finger. Behind them would be Donna, a pretty face with the brain of a kumquat and the potential for evil Hitler aspired to. Behind them all was a stocky man, beady eyes, and evil intent.
Looking back she expected to see all the specters, but only one was there in the dim overhead light. And he had a gun pointed at her.
Claire made no sound, just dove between cars, hers and the her neighbors' by luck. With shaking hands she worked the key into the door and twisted but nothing happened. His footsteps pounded. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and turned, this time it opened.
She dropped the suitcase and scrambled in. A pop rang out and the window shattered. Quickly she started the engine and slammed into reverse, almost hitting him. He dove out of the way and she squealed backwards down the ramp. At the first corner she came to she executed a hasty turn and shifted into first, slamming the gas and shooting off towards the gate.
Instead of scanning her card she drove through it, banging the hell out of the Taurus' hood before the arm broke on her now-cracked windshield. Just as she cleared the drive and hit Dundas, lights appeared in her rearview.
"Shit, shit, shit!" She couldn't remember if anything in that suitcase would give a clue to who she was. It id however have brochures for the places she thought of visiting, guidebooks and such. Morelli's pet hitman somehow knew she had seen him and was after her.
At the last second she turned onto University and the lights missed the turn. She slammed the gas and shot up the bend heading for College. As she wound her way through the streets they didn't return, but with the few scattered pairs of headlights behind her she couldn't be sure. Heart hammering she made her way to the 401 and airport.
Morelli had money rivaling what once had tempted her in a former life, and his hitman was resourceful. There was only one place to hide where she would be safe from him, and that was where she would be surrounded by people far more dangerous than an aging rich mobster and his pet killer.
She parked in short term and walked to the United counter. Several hundred dollars later she had her ticket and walked to her gate with no luggage, wearing only cheap clothes, her cuticles in shambles, her hair in need of a trim. Here at Pearson that was fine, she was just one more anonymous face in a crowd. Once she arrived she'd have to change all that unless Sebastian had remained and would be her salvation.
She bought coffee at a Tim Horton's and took it to sit at her gat. Back to the wall Claire kept her eyes on everyone walking past, waiting to see him, but her mind drifted. Sebastian, her best friend and confidant, the boy she'd left behind at sixteen. When they'd dragged her back at eighteen he'd filled out some but those green eyes were haunted. She had only seen him from afar before they bundled her off to Europe. Well, she'd done her time then, and when they wanted her to come home she'd checked into grad school and refused their aid or contact. She'd drawn it out as long as possible waiting for Sebastian to respond to her letters but he never did.
When the last bright light in that life had fallen into shadow Claire had set out to leave them all behind. New country, new name, new life. For three boring years it had worked; no drama, no chaos, no secrets, no pain, and then she had just happened to see the most dangerous man in town murder her neighbor.
"Attention passengers," a stewardess called and Claire rose with the others on the red-eye as the flight number was called. "To Chicago. We will now begin boarding rows..."
With one last look around the terminal, Claire resigned herself to going back into the soap opera she'd three times run from. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
He liked her hair, that was what had first drawn him to the young woman, name already forgotten. It was naturally dark blonde, like hair he'd spent years dreaming of. This one put those highlights into it in an attempt to look...he couldn't say anything more than plastic. God knew the tits weren't real, nor the tan. The tits made him sad, he loved teasing a woman's nipples until she was writhing, moaning, and begging for his cock.
Sebastian busied himself between her legs and it was amazingly affected. She was wet, just the right amount, and her moans were continuous and building, timed to no particular action. Still he wanted her to cum, damn it, over and over again. It wasn't good unless his partner was reduced to a quivering mass of jelly when he was done.
He licked between the folds of the inner and outer lips of her pussy, teasing her with long slow licks until her hips moved a fraction of an inch, pumping for more, and then he teased her clit. Here he closed his eyes, imagining another woman in her place. Only in his mind they were both kids, shy, awkward virgins, but she had been so beautiful, so delicate, so sweet. She had tasted sweet, and oh how he'd fumbled. Years later he knew what he was about, closing his eyes, and pretending it was that first time all over again.
The night's blonde began to moan and he kept going, licking, suckling, flicking his tongue side to side, up and down, licking up her juices until her moans turned real and finally her hands sought out his broad shoulders, manicured nails digging into his flesh.
He added a finger, then two, then three and finally she came, noisily, muscles fluttering as she made ungainly sounds that shattered his personal fantasy. Quickly before his mind grew cold he jerked her down on the bed and knelt between her legs. She was moaning, begging, writhing all right, and she was hot and wet if not tight when he slammed his cock inside her.
He kept his pace measured, slow, sliding, willing her to hurry up and cum again so then he could release and kick her out. His mind was finished but his body kept going, and once again she made those noises that told him all that had come before was an act.
When he damn near sprained his back grabbing her hips and dragging her along his deep thrusts finally she came again, and he let himself go. It went on and on for her, long after his balls had emptied and he wanted to roll aside. Finally at least she stopped, allowing him to roll aside and peel off the condom.
"Shall I call a car?" he asked casually but firmly.
"I- I thought I could spend the night."
"I have an early morning." He sat up and found her dress and bra. He'd torn the panties, Sebastian saw with dismay. "Get dressed."
He could see the indecision in her brown eyes. Follow directions like a good girl and hope he'd call, or fight and overwhelm him with her charms. He just gave her the same look that made peons kowtow in the boardroom, and she got dressed.
Pulling on a pair of loose light pants he grabbed his formal shirt and left it hanging open above. In the mirror he smoothed his hair, fixing his ponytail. He refused to cut it, but no one got to see it loose. It was the one piece of him from...the old days.