A Hunting We Will Go!

This content is Erotic in nature. Sex is just: normal heterosexual activities, masturbation, oral pleasuring, and lesbian innuendo. Also alluded to are some anal penetration thoughts.

This is a fictional story, grounded in real locations in the USA, Mexico, Brazil, and Cuba.

Jackie Wilson first materializes as a shadowy, young Asian American in 'Life is a Bucket of Shit — Not Chocolate'. [currently rated 4.61] Nearly shot twice, she escaped death only to fall into the hands of a hapless, lovesick carpenter. She helped him out of his dilemma, as a reward for rescuing her in a driving rainstorm, while being pursued by a determined FBI Agent. She, once again, comes out of her day-to-day mundane job and takes on Jack Wilson's latest pursuit.

As a shadow government agent, Jackie, AKA 'The Fixer' is quite capable of 'fixing' nearly any wrongful act that makes innocent victims targets of evil using by use of: cunning, deception, her short swords, and mixed martial arts as a last result.

In this story, Jackie Wilson is on the hunt again for an elusive link to the drug cartel kingpin that used Gloria Moreno as a smuggler for intelligence information on DEA agents, FBI, and Treasury links to the free flow of drugs across the Mexican border. Having taken out the lower links, she and Jack Wilson are on a feeding frenzy aimed at the head drug lord who is living large, deep in the Mayan Jungles of Mexico.

Kenjisato, a voluntary Literotica editor, provided a keen eye to details and corrections needed in this storyline. Through his editing, I have learned to correct additional grammar errors and appropriate vocabulary nuances in the process of making those recommended changes. This story reads so much better for his efforts!

Pulling into my condo's sub-basement parking lot, I gunned the Maserati Turismo's engine—listening to the throaty sounds diminishing to a steady purr before killing the engine. The vibes and sounds of this well-tuned tigress echoing off the concrete walls felt satisfying to my soul.

In Jack's laconic approach, with keys in hand, he assured me it wasn't a bribe; just a Treasury seizure that needed to come off the books. Still, there was a hint of a grin that pulled at the corner of his stoic lips. I didn't care; I still was glad it came to me free. And, yeah, I took it as a reward for a job well done! It's also nice that it turns heads my way; when I drive up to valet parking at restaurants. Those guys don't often get to careen around the corner with a $180,000 sports car. I don't even mind that someone steals a look at or even lusts after my body as I stroll through the entryway! I know I am a man's wet dream trigger. Guys have always been tripping over their feet gawking at me—even when I was Navy; a few good looking ladies also. I don't mind either gender. It's okay to stroke your own ego, you know!

The sounds of the dying engine brought about a sense of renewed strength and served to cleanse my frazzled nerves; of being grounded—centered again after taking care of Sabatino Martinez, also known as 'The Rat.' The Rat's lifestyle left a scar on my heart, wondering how many others he had destroyed in his lust for money and sex. He has accomplices that are yet to be caught. One day, I contemplate 'purchasing a hunting license' and spending a little time in the jungles trailing their droppings for a chance to end their miserable ...

At least Gloria Moreno is now out of his sights, living in the Midwest under an assumed name with her family. She has a job, some cash thanks to Jack, and a way to stay out of cartel trouble. In exchange, she provided me with a treasure trove of cartel contacts in the USA. I funneled those to Jack Wilson and he was on the hunt for them. I chuckled at the thought of that; 'Damned right they ought to be shaking in their shit-filled underwear when they find out he is hot after their asses!"

The intelligence grapevine sieve would be leaking torrents about those arrested after Jack rounded up two or three, for sure. Damn certain the rest would be scurrying for safe harbor into other countries or trying to cover their tracks as best as they could. Jack was the lawnmower and their asses would be the grass he intended to cut!

Who said, "Vengeance is mine?" I think it originated with Jack Wilson!

The echoes of my high heels resounding off the concrete as I strolled toward the elevator gave me another sense of satisfaction. I could hear the confidence in my walk building to a brisk pace. It meant less time in the oppressive heat wafting through the subterranean garage. At least it was out of the blazing noonday sun. I hit the lobby floor button and heard a whisper of air conditioning filling the confining space. A small jolt, a hum, and I was lobby bound.

"Hey Ms Jackie! Welcome home! Missed you—this much!" Felicity squealed as she held her arms wide open to show me how much; just before that forever hug.

I fell into her arms, feeling the softness of those braless, cherub-sized breasts flattening against mine. Felicity was a flirt, but she knew our boundaries. The hug was longer than usual. I had been gone for two weeks to El Paso; ostensibly on a large commercial real estate deal. It seems the longer I am away the harder and longer she squeezed the life out of my petite frame. It's difficult to image what she would do if and when I got back from a far longer mission for Jack!

As a real estate broker and owner of the condo, I am her boss. She runs the day to day operations. It really isn't much work, but I need the building to be covered when I am away. Being a real estate broker, not tied down, is a great cover job for my 'other day job' working for Jack Wilson, or whatever his real name is. I'm Jackie Wilson, also not my real identity, since my work tends to be dangerous. Jack just calls me 'The Fixer.'

"Mail?" I asked Felicity.

"Oh! You got a great big crate! It came, yesterday. And it's heavy, marked fragile, too!"

"You're not expecting a box?" she asked, when she saw my frown.

"Not really," I responded, trying to erase the frown, and put on a friendlier face.

"Could be something from the local realtors' group, I suppose. Felicity, I haven't ordered anything."

My phone buzzed with a text about that time.

'Smile. It suits you better! The crate is from me. Good job with Gloria.'

There was no contact reference. It left me wondering where else he had cameras watching over me. I just smiled up at the front desk camera system, at seeing the message. 'Big brother' was everywhere, but he better damn well not be in my bathroom!

"I'll get the two-wheeler, Ms. Jackie, and bring it up to the penthouse for you!" Felicity acted as if it were Christmas, again.

"Thanks, Felicity," I replied, checking through the other stack of junk mail. Nothing worth reading. The heavy duty shredder was in for a workout today.

Felicity placed the crate in the middle of the living room floor. That girl always planned ahead. She left me a clawhammer as well. I made short work of removing the strapping and the rough planking that shielded the cardboard box from damage.

Now it was my turn to act as if it was Christmas time again. No damn wonder Jack talked about smiling! I had just finished slicing open the box top. Buried in peanut packings was a new Redbird TD Simulator, and control systems. I sat, looking down on an expensive pile of 'learning to fly a plane' crap. A smaller brown box held software, and a photo of a Phenom 300E series jet. I tossed that one on the table, thinking it had to do with the simulator crap.

'What the hell!' This shit was nice, but I don't have time to screw around with becoming some damn couch potato. I'm not into computer gaming. 'What the fuck was Jack thinking?'

I got that answer when I found a brown 8 ½ by 11 envelope mixed in with the Styrofoam peanuts. It contained room reservations for three months at the downtown Hyatt, on the River Walk, in San Antonio, Texas — five hundred miles — a day's drive away. The reservation was a month away. Along with the room reservation was an address and contact name:Jack Wilson. He is a trainer at SkySafety Flight Academy at Stinson Field, a small out of the limelight topnotch training facility, according to the hand scrawled note from JW.

'So...shit!' I thought, four damn years and now I find out there is another fucking Jack Wilson—just like the other three Jackie Wilsons I found out about doing exactly what I do for some shadow agency...Cleaning up someone's damn messes!

The last item to drop out of the envelope stopped my venting, deathly still in my tracks. The single photo did more to explain why this box showed up on my doorstep than Jack Wilson's quasi-reward for cleaning up the FBI's mess concerning Gloria Moreno.

I sat staring at an 8 x 10 black and white glossy of the nefarious cartel employer of Sabatino Marquez 'The Rat' Sanchez! The hairs on my neck prickled. The tension in my thighs drew my legs inward—not from climax, just adrenaline coursing through my body.

With the contents of the crate scattered around the living room, I got around to the smaller box that I had tossed onto the coffee table. Peering inside, I saw it held documents, schematics, and flight manuals for the sleek looking Phenom 300E series twin engine light jet aircraft. I figured it must have something to do with the kingpin. I did an internet search and found its manufacturer was a Brazilian company. The schematics were for a five passenger, single pilot design. A cool ten million would buy you a nicely decked out one that could travel 1,800 to 2,000 nautical miles at about 340 miles per hour! That asshole drug lord had more than enough money coming in to buy one for every day of the year and a damn yacht with the pocket change left over!

I installed the Phenom jet flight simulator software. Then meticulously reviewed the documents between breaks while learning how to 'fly by the seat of my pants' on the Redbird TD. Its control designs were Star Trek sleek with touch screen controls. Damn sight better than the small Cessna my Dad flew. At twelve, I used to get in a lot of practice with that single-engine prop, on the sly. I couldn't see well enough to take off or land them because I was so far down in the seat, but in the air—Dad let me take the wheel. I was a natural he declared; just like I was with a sword. Being ambidextrous was a swordswoman's advantage.

Jack didn't indicate why he sent the damn simulator, but he doesn't do things without a purpose or a meticulous plan in place. I had time on my hands, now that I was back to normal mode; normal except for a picture of a syndicate gang leader on my coffee table and a fucking flying machine spread across my living room floor. I gathered up the sensitive documents and locked them in the vault along with my weapons, the ones I use. My display set of swords are showcased over the mantle—a way of remembrance of my mother's heritage— mine too!

Jack Wilson's intel on Nazario Moreno came via encrypted email. More intel poured in each day on the movements and background details about his associates, his petulance for horses, and his endless requirement for young girls. The girls didn't have to be willing; he could care less, reports stated. The bastard purportedly had his own 'talent scouts' scouring malls for ones that fit his likings. He didn't even give a damn if his wife knew about his stable of women flowing through his enclaves.

According to one nineteen-year-old victim describing his sadistic behavior, he took exhibited pleasure in demonstrating his stamina to his wife. He made her watch the girls he used; some were tied down for the more perverse stuff. The distraught victim's statement declared he made his wife lick his cum from the victim's orifices then clean her husband's cock with her mouth as well. Supposedly, he brutally took his wife during the next round because she whimpered about the cleaning chore, he gave her.

I re-read the original victim's statement in Spanish to verify what the translator said actually took place. The translation was accurate. It sent a shiver down my back. The world really had some sick fucks in it. A damn beer bottle for fuck's sake ...

I was spending eight hour days consumed with digesting and soaking every iota of intel to which JW had access. Some of the girls made it to a hospital. The graphic photos of the ass-wipe's treatment, before he released them, made my skin crawl. Mexico would be safer, the faster this bastard met justice; even if some other asshole took his drug trade kingpin role.

The kingpin "El Mas Loco," or "The Craziest One," Nazario Moreno rarely leaves his Tierra Caliente cartel security zone. His inner circle keeps to various enclaves hidden from detection within the state of Michoacán, one of thirty-one 'Estados Unidos Mexicanos.' When he does venture out in his private jet; it's in secret. Rumor has it, he frequents Mexico City and Brazil's top nudist beach in Florianopolis called Praia do Pinho; Nude Beach. With the jet's transponder disabled, no one has been able to readily track his movement. The only common link appeared to be that El Mas Loco's always uses the same pilot.

Once that was discovered, the NSA put on a full court press to identify the pilot and follow those leads. That course of action seemed be the best case scenario for a covert interdiction and capture, if possible. Identify the pilot, track the pilot's cellphone location, and hope Nazario Moreno put in an appearance.

I reviewed all the documents until I could practically recite them by memory. One thing about operating with Jack Wilson was that info was critical; one slip could mean your life. I had nearly lost mine in a raging storm in El Paso breaching an FBI stash house for cartel informants. My past military training stressed mission comes first; failure is not an option. If you are good at reading between the lines; clearly you know what's paramount in the equation—succeed, or die trying.

As the days counted down to my trip to San Antonio, I was getting well acquainted with the flight simulator and the control management systems. The enhanced navigation system on the Phenom 300E series jet was impressive. The automated features took on the heavy lifting while you were in flight. It became a monitoring and land communication mindset once the ship was airborne and locked into its destination.

Still, the simulator's software was designed to keep you on your toes, putting in a few deviations to help keep the what if scenarios reactions real enough. I began to think I could actually fly one of these babies. Yeah, then reality came back to land on Earth, again. I was sitting in my living room, on a chair, and in front of a 32" screen watching an imaginary runway on lift off and touch down. Still, I kept at it.

If JW sent this simulator—there had to be a reason.

The day before my reservations for the Hyatt in San Antonio that reason came. If JW had been within reach of my short blade, I would have been tempted to deliver a goddamn close shave to his balls! He deliberately delayed the last communique from intel resources. I knew damn well that was the case. It pissed me off; yet after blowing off some steam, I realized why. He wanted to save me from added days of anxiety for what the storms and safe house breach had carved into my mind in El Paso.

The email attachment was password protected and cypher-coded as well. The fourth period of the second paragraph contained a microdot image of a single black and white photo. She looked Vietnamese, perhaps Thai with long black hair. The photo was shot with a telescopic lens, catching just a portion of her upper body descending from the exit door of a Phenom 300E. To the right of her shoulder, the tail designation number barely registered in the photo.

It appears, from the photo's distance, I am her doppelganger!

I felt my temples pulsing as my breathing rose at the thought of that damn picture. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Jack already knew about the woman. Probably knew it from the beginning and had crafted a bait and switch operation that involved me. Shit! I needed a good stress releasing fuck—right about now. I felt the emotions of the escape in that torrential storm in El Paso resurging through my body as my jaw locked down thinking about that night.

That FBI bitch nearly shot me—twice, in the dark when the lights failed. Danny's serendipitous appearance in that storm had provided the kind of emotional release I needed that night. The one I needed, now.

But this wasn't the place! And now wasn't the time to go bar shopping for one! I stripped in the living room and strolled across the expanse of patio windows to shower. I had the shower remodeled when I bought the property to have an inside and an outside wall of glass. I could stand naked looking to the outside world at the roof top level and shower to my heart's content. I could watch the incoming planes headed to the airport. Watch a few naughty birds occasionally peering in to take note of my 'how to' demos. It also came with a bit of perverse pleasure thinking someone with a telescope across the freeway might be able to watch.

Yeah, that thought had me generating some heat as I lathered up. My hand tarried between my legs, building the pleasure. I found my other arm outstretched against the exterior glass wall. I knew the pose so well; a three point stance. It didn't take long for that wave to crush my core. My legs began to buckle beneath me.

"Fuck you, Jack Wilson, and the goddamn white stallion you rode into my life on!" I cried aloud. Then slumping down on splayed knees, I mauled, then pinched my nipples as hard as I could. I was hell bent for a second climax; the motion of my hand blurred as I crammed more fingers inside of me. Behind closed eyelids, I saw images of Jack Wilson with his stiff Army Recon Ranger cock pounding my cunt; controlling my imagination.

"Bastard!" crawled up my throat as I brought myself off again, before the first cum had a chance to subside.

That night's sleep was tumultuous, fraught with visions of 'El Mas Loco' and my doppelganger meeting aboard the Phenom 300E series jet. I dreamed of being under his control, of screaming for release, and finally as dawn rose through my bedroom windows of kicking his ...

I had briefed Felicity a week earlier, that I planned on taking a long cross-country drive to visit friends up the east coast and back around the Great Lakes returning down the Mississippi trails, through Nauvoo, Illinois. From there I would swing down I-44 and catch I-35 returning via Dallas. It was more info than she needed. The itinerary was to implant the idea that I would be away for several months; Nauvoo was my mental hook for her to recall the rare name—just in case someone came inquiring that shouldn't need to know.

"I deserve a long vacation, right, Felicity?" I injected into conversation while listing the itinerary.

"Yes!" She bubbled, like a freshly poured seltzer at the thought of being in charge again. "You sure do Ms. Jackie! You work so hard! You can count on me to keep things running smoothly." Her tits practically swelled with joy, or perhaps some lust as well.