Contract Killer Get a Clue

"I'm positive that there's an end game here, and we're not a part of it. In fact, I think we have to be eliminated if this thing is going to play out the way they want it to. And I don't play those kind of games, the kind of games where I'm picked last," the Ghost said, her fingers moving from my hair, down my chest, to my...

"Well, well. Something's not partial to relaxation, is it?" The Ghost grinned, and it only made me harder. She had the kind of face for which people fought wars, the kind that launched a thousand ships.

I wanted to tell her that what she was holding technically wasn't a muscle, but I couldn't speak. I have a feeling she wouldn't have appreciated the anatomy lesson, anyway.

"Sometimes I think about that night," she said, and her voice subtly changed, turning to what could be called semi-wistful (for the Ghost). She turned and caught my eyes with her gaze. "The one we were on that roof. I can't remember a night I felt more alive." She glanced down at me again and seemed to consider something. Her tongue slid between her lips, moistening them.

"I suppose since your girlfriend isn't really your girlfriend and you're drugged and drunk and will probably forget all of this, it wouldn't hurt to relive a few good memories," she said, took me in firm grip with both of her hands, and stroked me slowly. My body lay still, but my brain cried out in pleasure with each sweet, fluid movement of her hands and wrists. My eyes flittered and tried to roll into my skull.

"Oh, you like it, I see. Maybe the drugs are wearing off enough that this will be fun for the both of us," the Ghost said. She leaned over and gave me a soft kiss, her tongue darting between her lips and gently brushing mine. I simultaneously sobered from the alcohol but went drunk with something else.

Her hands left me, and I wanted to scream until I saw she was using them to remove her belt, which thudded heavily to the floor, and her outfit, which slithered gracefully around her ankles. She stepped out of it. In the moonlight, her bare skin shone. The Black Ghost had a body which would make other women hate her-- firm, round breasts, muscular arms, long legs, defined abs, a figure which was both hourglass-shaped and athletic. Genetically, the woman was a walking miracle.

The bed bounced as she crawled over me, maneuvering her lithe body over mine. She took me in her hand, grasped me a little too painfully, and lowered herself down, sliding me into her warmth. She was moist, tight, hot. The Ghost sighed and closed her eyes. Her hard face went soft in an expression of intense pleasure, and I watched helplessly as I was enveloped by her totally. Her smooth, hard thighs wrapped around my torso.

She looked down at me and said, "Right now, I could put my hands against your head and break your neck like a twig." Coming from the Ghost, it wasn't hyperbole. More like foreplay.

She began to move, and the Ghost's gyrations were slow and graceful and unbearably good. The muscles of her abdomen flexed as she used me; her breasts and her hair swayed rhythmically as the Ghost gradually picked up the pace. She moaned, then pursed her lips. She was so beautiful, so unreal, that I wondered if this was a dream, after all.

No, it couldn't be a dream. It was too good to be a dream. The other times I had dreamt of the Ghost, my dreams had morphed to blood-soaked nightmares. I could only pray it wouldn't happen now, tonight.

The room spun, but this time it wasn't the booze.

"Yes," the Ghost breathed. "Yes!"

She leaned back and began to move up and down, her hair and breasts now bouncing rather than swaying. Sweat appeared on her skin and glistened like stars in the moonlight. She placed a hand on my chest and another in a black swirl of her hair. Both clenched. Her nails broke skin, and the wounds burned like fire. The Ghost bit her bottom lip; her body began to tremble with electric shivers. She began to move more quickly. At this point, I had all but forgotten about Sheila. Did she love me? Was she a fraud? At that moment, inside the Ghost, I did not care. It did not matter.

I yearned to touch the Ghost, to lick the sweat off her stomach, to kiss her collarbone, but the drugs and the restraints kept me from doing much of anything but going insane.

The Ghost went wobbly; her entire body clenched and then exploded into a series of tremors. She cried out in pleasure; her eyes flew open; and then she went wobbly, falling onto me with a breathless gasp. I couldn't help but follow suit, and through the drugs, I made a noise of my own, an animalistic sound like "GNNAAAAAAAAAH!" as my lust streamed out of me in copious, liquid spurts.

Admittedly not sexy, but I was on drugs.

Her hair was a dark veil over my face, and her cheek was against my cheek. I could feel her hot breaths against my ear. Then the Ghost whispered "Tomorrow night, let's go kill some Dreads."

I thought, It's a date.