An Assassin's Life Pt. 01

This is the story of a professional hitman and his adventures traveling across the USA. He is a complex and complicated man with many sides to his personality, both good and evil and everything in between. A warning: There is violence in this story, so if that's not your thing, please move on. Then again, it's a story about a hitman. What would you expect? This is only the first part of a very rich canvas. I hope you enjoy it.

© 2023 RMcCIV & Rob McCall4 - All Rights Reserved

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I'm riding on an interstate bus. I stole money.

I stole a lot of money.

It is in a satchel on the floor between my legs.

I've got a stranger sitting next to me wearing a brown windbreaker with a company logo and a bag lunch on his lap, and I have $1 million in cash next to him on the floor. Do you think less of me?

The guy in the next seat over doesn't think so. "Hey bud, look at those fucking clouds," I said, pointing out the window. "Do you think it's gonna rain again, already"

"Christ, I hope not. I was planning to go to the track tomorrow. Fuck!"

"Well, good luck with that!" and I lightly punched him in the arm. "If I give you $5 bucks, will you put it on the winner for me?"

"Yeah, sure, okay. Who do you like?"

"Who do you like?"

"I like Dangerous" going off a 7-1 in the 5^th."

I handed him the fiver. "Dangerous it is."

"But how will how I find you?"

"Trust me, I'll find you."

I always found them. That was my job. That was what I was good at. That's what I was best in the world at. I'm the world's best professional assassin, and I'm retiring on this bus ride. Done. Quit. For me, it's over.

You know that Bruce Willis movie "The Jackal?" Horseshit. A fun piece of fluff, but no one kills for hire like that. Especially when you're hunting Big Game. But, you've got to admit Bruce seemed to be having a pretty good time with all of those costumes and disguises.

What if I told you it was actually over 1 million dollars in the satchel on the floor between my legs? That it was around 2 million dollars. Would you still think less of me? After all, stealing 2 million dollars ain't chump change.

Why did I do it? I needed the cash. Well, shit yeah! Everybody except for Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos needs the big green. Hell, they probably need the cash too.

And to save you the trouble, This ain't "Dog Day Afternoon," I don't need the money to pay for my friend's operation or save my ailing mother's life, and it isn't as morally correct as The Shawshank Redemption. I ain't doing the right thing.

I earned this money the hard way. I killed people for it. Some good people. Some folks I regret. Some unlucky people, and some who flat out needed killing. It is my money. I earned it fair and square. I wasn't being compensated as promised, and I stole it because it was mine. Got it??! It's mine.

That means I have a very large price on my head because the guys I stole from are bad guys and do not appreciate my actions. And that was why I was on this shitty bus, peeing in a dirty lavatory in the back, driving across the country to who knows where in an attempt to disappear.

However, to help ensure that the $2 million stayed safely in my hands, the stacks of $100s weren't the only thing in the satchel. A couple of Uzis, a sawed-off shotgun, and a handgun or two were keeping the cash company. Also, my trusty Glock 17 was lightly placed on my hip. Hey, it's America!

The bus was pulling into a TA Travel Stop for a pit stop. Nice clean place with clean restrooms that are so large there are no doors, and the crowd walks into them. Designed for truckers' privacy except for the huge lit-up billboard of Flo, the Progressive Insurance lady beaming down on me while I took a leak with my satchel between my legs.

I wonder if Progressive would insure my cock. You know, $1,000 a hardon. Or $5,000 if I couldn't pop a boner. Probably not. I heard some old movie star like Betty Gable had her legs insured. If she could do that as a publicity stunt, why not my cock? Flo, the Progressive Insurance Lady in her little white smock, was hot in her geeky way. Who wouldn't want to be the lucky guy who nailed Flo?. I looked at her beaming down on me and wondered how many cocks she had to suck to get that million-dollar gig. Speaking of insurance.

Anyway, peed, washed up, and ready, I walked out amongst the truckers. A few were walking around their rigs checking their tire pressures with a thumper, some taking a snooze, and a few getting serviced by a lot lizard, mostly quick blow jobs, even a few gay ones.

Back on the bus, I moved towards the backseats, kicked my legs out, and leaned back for a snooze since the sun had finally set. About 15 minutes out, I felt another's body slip in beside me. I opened an eye to see a good looking blonde.

"How about twenty bucks for a tug, Sweet Cheeks"

I shook my head no and went back to sleep.

After a bit, a hand quietly undoing my zipper woke me. That wasn't the only thing it woke, or maybe it was already awake.

"Oh, you're a big boy, aren't you. $50 for a blowjob."

"How about we discuss the fee later."

"I've got a blanket," she said and put it on my lap.

Soon my cock was in the two-bit lot-lizard's mouth. Many women couldn't handle my girth and large head, but she was good, really good. Her mouth was soft, wet, and warm, and she knew what to do with it.

I whispered, "Take it slow. Really slow. More for you if you do."

She did.

She held my shaft locked below the ridge and sucked hard as she slowly moved her tongue around my head. First, the tip and then down to roll around the entire surface. Her hand started moving. Stretching what was left of my foreskin over the ridge as her tongue swirled around my cock head faster and faster.

Reaching under the blanket, I grabbed the sides of her head and pushed my full length into her mouth. There was resistance and a slight gag reflex as I hit the back, but she was a pro, opened her throat, and in an instant, I was all the way down with her lips resting on my balls. Somehow she stuck her tongue out and licked the side of my balls for a while, then wrapped her hand powerfully around the base of my cock and started to throat fuck my cock.

That gave me the sign that I could use her head as a whack-off toy. I love how pros tell you what they can do, and began to shove her up and down for my own pleasure. To her credit, she never fought it or moaned. I used her throat like a Fleshlight. Sometimes soft, sometimes hard, sometimes harsh, but always what I wanted.

I looked around the bus. No one was noticing or giving a shit, so I went for it and pounded her throat with everything I had. Larger than most. A full 7" thick and an impossibly wide mushroom head. I was reaming her out and enjoying every moment.

I leaned into her after about 10 minutes and whispered, "I'm going to cum, and if you swallow every single drop, I will give you a C-note, no questions asked. And if you plan to stay on the bus for another day or two, you could become a rich woman, especially if you are willing to take it up your ass."

And I shoved my cock as far into her throat as I could get it, my balls slamming on her chin, and came, shot after shot after shot after shot. I held her there, feeling the contractions as she swallowed it all. When she was done, she pulled her head out from the blanket, smiled, and opened her mouth to show it was empty except for the wad clinging to the corner of her lips.

I gave her the hundred.

"What's your name?"

"Ginger."

"Ginger, would you like to make more money than you've ever made in your life? I will be clean, nice, and I will not hit or hurt you in any way."

She nodded yes.

"How far are you planning to go on this bus?"

"You tell me."

"I will. Hang and be ready.

I figured I had at least two more days on the damn bus. I had a destination in mind. San Luis Obispo in the southern part of central California. A small college town, with a population moving in and out every school year, agriculture starting to boom with wine, a nice local downtown village, and folks who value privacy. A man could get lost in a town like that.

I was hoping I could.

My business was international, but my bosses were located in the Eastern USA and Asia. I spent a long time looking at maps before selecting San Luis Obispo, or SLO, as the locals call it. My second choice was Madison, Wisconsin. Same criteria. Same reasons, but too cold. After a lifetime of dealing death, I wanted the sun and warmth. Hopefully not a fatal flaw.

If you are hunted by an international organization, how many cities can one get lost in the USA? I say that because even though I have traveled the world, I only speak English fluently, and I didn't think I could blend in beyond "The American living over there."

Sure, one can get lost in a big city, but syndicates have arms all over big cities. If you are trying to get lost, they don't work. I looked at smaller cities like Atlanta, Louisville, Kentucky, and cities in Texas and states like Oklahoma, but the laws were a problem. I needed an aggie town with a changing population, like a college town with a stable economic base and land to buy for privacy because it was still an aggie town. San Luis Obispo fit the bill. Who knows? Maybe I could buy a vineyard? Probably nicer than spending my days looking at cows, but first, I had to get there.

The bus stopped for a night in the god-forsaken town of WaKeeney, Kansas. A dumpsite whose sole existence is to be between Kansas City, Missouri, and Denver, Colorado, on US Interstate 70.

We were in a Motel 6 for the night. Back in the day, Motel 6 was called Motel 6 because it charged only $6 bucks to stay in it. An important matter for folks looking for any kind of dry way-station with a toilet that worked. Nowadays, the name is meaningless, and Motel 6 charges $60 bucks. At least there is a 6 in the number.

Since we were on the bus, we were only paying $49 for the night, and the hooker was staying with me, so we pocketed her $49. It didn't matter to me, but since it was in my pocket, I got to use it for her services.

We had grabbed some grub and a few drinks at a local tavern and were back in our room, showered, clean, freshened up, and naked. I asked that she be fully shaved and totally bare.

All things considered, Ginger didn't have a bad body. About 30, B-cup breasts with tight pert nipples looking as if she had never nursed a child. I guessed either careful birth control or other choices. I didn't care. She had a slim body, a nice chest, a tight stomach and ass, a shaved snatch, and by all accounts, no drugs or diseases. A bit too much ink for my tastes, but that seems to be the trend nowadays. For tonight and the price, she fit the bill.

I laid on the bed naked, my fully aroused 7" cock standing straight up, reaching for the ceiling.

I had always been lucky with my manhood. Not that it mattered. Especially in my profession. If you are dangerous, threatening to kill someone, and have a gun in someone's face, it doesn't matter if you have a 4" cock; it is always pornstar huge.

But I was actually blessed with a full 7" and huge balls. The balls got in the way sometimes. It can be difficult to run down an alley in tight jeans with a large package, but tonight I didn't give a shit.

I looked at the hooker and thought about her name, Ginger. That struck me as funny since she was a blonde and not a redhead.

I laid there with my cock reaching for the ceiling and said, "Put me in your ass and fuck me."

"Do you happen to have any lube?"

I waved my hands around the off-white walls and the lone really bad Norman Rockwell reproduction over the dresser and said, "Sorry, honey. This is a Motel 6 and not a fucking Walgreen's." No, I don't have any lube. But my cock is hard, and if you want to earn that $500 we talked about, I want to bury it in your ass. I know you have your tricks to make it work.

She bent down to my cock and sucked the head, slurping up her saliva to really soak it. Then Ginger reached down to her surprisingly wet pussy, scooped up a handful of her juices, and rubbed them on my cock. She went back for another handful and rubbed that one on her ass. She then positioned her tight backdoor over the throbbing head of my cock and started sliding down slowly.

I closed my eyes as the head opened her ass and popped into her rectum, and the first ring grabbed around my hard shaft. She moved a bit, getting used to my stretching her smallest opening and teasing me like the pro she was.

"Like that, baby?" Ginger said as her ass moved up over my cock and then taking it back in again.

"Fuck yeah! You know I do."

"Uh huh," she said as she continued to tease and then lifted up totally off of my cock with my head positioned at her rosebud and shoved all the way down to my balls, taking my entire cock into her ass through the second ring and into the soft, hot, spongy tissue that made up her bowels.

She rolled around my groin as my cock rolled around her insides, saying, "You like that, baby?" Do I get you hot?"

I grabbed her hips and started to use her once again to masturbate myself, this time with her ass going up and down my cock to fulfill my sexual whims. Her hot, tight ass made a great masturbation toy.

"Fuck me, baby. Fuck me, it feels so good. Let me make you cum," Ginger said like the pro she was.

For me, there is nothing like assfucking. I know we all have our kinks, but as far as I'm concerned, buttfucking is the hottest sex of it all because it is morally and naturally repugnant. A penis is made for a vagina. Their purpose is reproduction. An ass is an exit, not an entrance, and it is its supreme wrongness that makes it so hot. When blowjobs and oral sex were culturally not allowed, it was the hottest sex act. Because it was wrong. Bad is hot. Forbidden is hot. But nowadays, in the age of HIV and sex without marriage, oral sex is not forbidden; it is frequently the sex act of choice. The last remaining forbidden sex act is ass fucking. And THAT is what makes it so hot. And I was railing Ginger's ass.

I mean reaming her. The tight grip of her sphincter pumping up and down my steely shaft and my engorged head banged into her bowels. So much hotter than a mouth or a pussy. Ass fucking is the full 98.6 body temperature, and I felt every delicious degree on my cock as I banged my hooker's ass.

And I pounded her without mercy, yet, Ginger seemed to enjoy every thrust. She looked as if she was going to cum.

"Are you going to cum?" I asked.

"If you'll let me."

"Put your hand on your clit and cum!"

She did, and she did, throwing her head back and screaming in a gigantic orgasm.

And that triggered my own, and I shot stream after stream after stream of my hot, thick cum up Ginger's ass deep into her bowels.

I grabbed her shoulders and shoved her down to my crotch, grinding my cock deep inside her, and we lay there grinding against each other for a while.

I was a well-paying john, and she was a good professional hooker, and she did what her client needed and asked. I like and admire pros in any profession. It takes professionals like Ginger and me to make any business run, from a local dry cleaners to the CEO of the largest corporation on earth. Ginger's profession was fucking people for money. She did it well. My profession was killing people for money. I'm alive to tell this story because I not only did it well, I'm the best at what I do for a living.

"I've got to pee," I said and threw her onto the bed to go take a leak and wash up. My cock had been in her ass, after all.

I came out to find Ginger looking into my satchel, holding up a wad of cash.

"Wow! Golly! What is this? Did you hit the lottery or something?"

I had no choice. I shot her in the head.

Unfortunate, I liked her, she was a great lay, but it had to be done. Once she possessed that knowledge, I had to erase it. And that meant the bus ride was over for now, and I had to create a Plan B.

I was in a Motel 6 with walls thinner than a cracker, so there was no reason to wrap Ginger in a towel and try to hide her. Instead of wasting time, I grabbed my stuff, put my hoodie up, stole a car, and headed due north up I-283 to Hill City, thinking it was the least expected way. I turned west onto I-24, drove to the I-70 Auto Auction and bought a used Ford pickup - the most common vehicle on the road - for cash, and headed out. I was sure the cops were looking for Ginger's killer and probably thinking it was a local john, so I had that going for me. But this is what I did for a living, after all, and I was confident they would never find my trail.

It was too bad about Ginger, though. She shouldn't have gone where she didn't belong. We could have had fun all the way across the Western United States, and then with what I would have gladly paid her, she could have been set up for a good life. Oh well, Another dead hooker and, unfortunately, another notch on what I hoped was my retired gun. RIP.

I was back on a bus in Denver. Different hat and a new two-day beard. Same satchel between my legs and eager to make it to San Luis Obispo without any other incidents or distractions. I looked at my dick and told it to keep its mouth shut. Two heads talking to each other. I hope my larger one convinced my smaller one to stay the course.

That worked until Moab, Utah. I had to get off the bus for my sanity and my back. I needed fresh clothes, I needed a decent meal, I needed a comfortable bed to sleep in, and I needed a safe place to check the web and make sure no one was on my tail and that the cops and my former employers weren't sniffing around.

At the web café, I confirmed everything was copasetic and decided to enjoy my day. Why not? I was retired now, and there were two spectacular National Parks in Moab, Arches National Park, and Canyonlands.

After a pleasant shopping experience, I was sporting new stonewashed jeans, a comfy t-shirt, a great looking bush-style jacket with a lot of useful pockets, a pair of hip hiking shoes, and a new backpack with thief-proof zipper locks to replace my satchel. I went down the street and bought my second used Ford F-150 pickup, this time in white with a Sirus/XM radio, and headed out to the parks.

It turned out the real attraction at Canyonlands was further down the road. A State Park with the strange name of Dead Horse Point because, in the old days, they killed horses there. Yes. They actually took old or unneeded horses and threw them off the point. It looks like the Grand Canyon and is used as the Grand Canyon in many movies. For example, "Thelma and Louise" drove over Dead Horse Point at the end of the movie. The best part is I met a bevy of really cute young hikers out of the University of North Carolina on a fun, all-girls hiking trip.

We enjoyed Dead Horse Point together, reading the info and looking at the views, and bonding into a fun group. They were perky, enthusiastic, and goofy with the energy that five college sophomores have when out together on a grand adventure, and I had fallen under the spell of their enchanting southern accents.

I'm not a college sophomore. In fact, I've never been to college - if you don't include the college of hard knocks and how not to get your head blown off by another shooter - but I'm still young enough to know how to be a fun guy.

At 6'-0" tall, a muscular 185lbs, a tight butt, a full head of hair, and decent looking, I was doing all right with them.

Don't get me wrong. I'm no Brad Pitt or Idris Elba, but I luckily have no horrible scars on my face from my profession or a wart on my chin that looks like your grandmother's nose.

Something I've learned about survival in our world is being attractive helps. For anyone, if you are attractive, it can create opportunity. Not just sex. It helps with access into all sectors of the world, and if you are in the middle scale of attractive -- not movie star handsome, but not an ugly geek -- that not only helps you with acceptance, but folks forget what you look like.