LaVonda had been gulping down so many alcoholic drinks on the casino floor that the beverage waitresses were changing shifts. A fan of a particular penny-slot game at her favorite casino, she was trying to hold out for the next big-bonus round. On a previous trip, a mere $50 investment translated into a $275 win, but the allure of the casino wasn't the chance of winning a jackpot; it was the escape from mindless conformity in corporate America.

Ex-boyfriends had coined her "penny slut" yet held onto her cell number for booty calls. Depending on their occupations and adventurousness, she carried on with them at not-so-dimly lighted restaurants, on highway shoulders, on airplanes, at construction sites, in the fitting rooms of high-end men's stores, in trailers at on-location filming, in railway station restrooms, in parking lots, and at cemeteries -- anywhere but in a bed in her apartment or in a hotel. These activities kept her physically fit but bereft of love, and she knew that it was her own fault.

A slew of failed romances left her feeling lonely as Valentine's Day approached. Bad enough that Mondays were dismal; she didn't want to endure a workday filled with hand-delivered bouquets of all-stemmed roses and boxes of chocolate-dipped strawberries. She couldn't allow herself to imagine the mind-blowing sex that many of her co-workers would be experiencing on the weekend leading up to Valentine's Monday, so she planned a quick getaway via Amtrak from New York City to Atlantic City. With all the frequent-rider points she had accumulated over the past two years, her round-trip travel would be free. Loyalty in her life turned out to be ironic. She was loyal not only to Amtrak and her favorite casino, but to the men who had drifted in and out of her life. However, no man -- including the long-ago husband whom no one but her Gullah Grandmama Yorindah had known about -- had ever been loyal to her.

Seated before her cherished slot game, tens of thousands of pennies later, she drank in the surrounding bells and sirens that were not noise to her ears. Just as seductive as the electronic sounds were the overhead music and the drowned-out flirtations of men spying on her booty filling out the high-back, leather-upholstered stool. She started out sipping a Bailey's on the rocks, went through an uncounted number of Manhattans, and eventually worked her way to Cuba with mojitos so strong that the buzz had her conjuring up Desi Arnaz. The conga drumming of her budding hangover had her shouting "Babalooooo!"

Despite the pounding in her head, she smiled at her hallucination with lips thick and wide like Jennifer Hudson's. When she heard a man's voice whisper, "Hey, lady, you all right?" she hiccupped and said, "Sí, sí, Ricky." However, the concerned voice wasn't that of Arnaz's spirit; rather, that of a Latino slot attendant, who, with the exception of several streaks of silvery gray, looked nothing like the muy guapo Arnaz circa 1951.

LaVonda's lips had sipped so many beverages on Valentine's Day eve that all the matte color had rubbed off her lips, leaving them their natural berry-brown, and her pussy had left its intimate mark on the stool's leather cushion. There wasn't a clock to be found on the casino's walls, and not only had she had lost her Ann Klein knockoff watch, but also her cell phone's battery had run down. Still, she knew what time it was when her supply of twenty-dollar bills turned into ones as if through David Blaine's prestidigitation.

In spite of her intoxication, she also knew that it was her cue to leave when the soundtrack booming throughout the casino reached from the aughties all the way back to the 1980s. She loved Eldra DeBarge like many a sista, but she didn't give a damn who was holding "Donna" now. She bid goodbye to the synthesized rhythms of the night as well as the one-armed bandit seated to her right. Smirking at him with her blurry peripheral vision, she thought how he resembled El, except that he was a hundred pounds heavier and loads of testosterone hairier. What she didn't realize was that the beefy El DeBarge look-alike had been taking such advantage of her inebriated state that his left hand had been through her vintage black velvet clutch, which was positioned between their slot machines. That same mobile hand also had disheveled her thong several times just through the decade of nineties songs alone. His first entry was easy, as LaVonda was circling her hips like a seated burlesque dancer to R. Kelly's "Bump n' Grind."

Several hours later as she stood up, tugging down her micromini denim skirt, she slurred "Bye" to her slot neighbor. He, in turn, waved a hand bathed in her intimate slime with a sleazy smile on his face. His right palm didn't miss a spin of the reels via the "Maximum Bet" button. He tried to start up a conversation, but pre-empted it, saying: "Deuces." She stumbled away, nearly forgetting her clutch.

The man's eyes followed her dark legs closely, like a slot player watching "7's" line up on a reel. His stare was so insistent that it seemed to have the power to burn away her fishnets like a hot iron on silk. His head seesawed from side to side as his temporary target strutted toward a casino exit to the funky chorus of Finis Henderson's "Skip to My Lou." Everyone at the slots and tables over the age of forty knew the chorus of the 1980s tune by heart: "Skip to my Lou, my darling. I'm comin' for you. I wanna be your knight in shining armor. Ohhh-oh. Skip to my Lou, my darling. I'm waitin' for you. ... "

By the time LaVonda reached the glass elevator to the hotel's west wing, her damp thong was twisted so tightly that it stung her swollen slit as a strained guitar string stings the musician's thumb. Stretched from her generous vulva to her deep ebony cheeks, the thong wrung itself of her juices with every minimal movement of her thighs. She was barely aware of a twentysomething hetero couple entering the car at the last minute.

The woman glanced up at LaVonda and then smiled down at the blinding rock of her wedding ring. She pushed the button to the twelfth floor and then shot a glance at her husband, who was craning his neck to eye LaVonda's rear. The petite woman moved quickly to stand closer to her husband, her breasts pressing into his rib cage. However, her defensive move didn't make a dent but, to her disgust, her husband's growing erection made one in the junction of his jeans.

At the twelfth floor, the wife started exiting, urging her man with, "C'mon, honey," but her reluctant half was preoccupied in a different realm. His wife's eyes narrowed watching his glued to LaVonda's natural lube, which was creeping its way down beneath her micromini denim skirt to her thighs and glistening through the diamonds of her distressed black crotchless fishnets. His wife tugged at his shirt sleeve only to find him missing from the end of it as the elevator doors shut.

As the elevator ascended to a jazzy Muzak selection, "Kiss You All Over," the husband was bended on dungareed knees ripping away LaVonda's fishnets with semi-rotten teeth. She was too fired up to be repulsed by his hygiene, and her walls responded involuntarily to his lust by producing copious lube. She moaned "Ohhhhh, ohhhhh, ohhhhh," pressing one hand against a side glass window. He cupped her buttcheeks -- whatever he could hold -- with both hands while she bunched his stringy, dirty-blond hair like a mess of yarn with the other hand.

"Damn, baby, you got that brown I like," he rattled in the Southern Jersey drawl of the poor whites whose homes straddle the railroad tracks through towns such as Little Egg Harbor.

"Yeah, boy, you ain't never had a taste of dark honey like this," she teased, breathing hard and enjoying the tingling of her ass getting squeezed by strange palms. "Whatchu gonna tell ol' girl once you get your white ass back downstairs, hunh?"

"Awwww, brown sugar," he said between sucks on her pink crevices, "I don't really give a fuck 'bout that right now."

She shifted positions a bit and gripped the horizontal railing behind her to keep her balance as the adulterous stranger's moustache tickled her swelling clit. "Mmmmm" was all she could mumble when his nimble pinky poked her sphincter. He grumbled words laced with "twat" and "cunt" into her messy hole. His hot, swirling tongue wasted no time getting to her reddened swelling, which brought out a religiosity in her that no worship service could.

"Fuuuuuck, dude! Ohhhhh," she cried out as the elevator's doors opened on floor twenty-one, only to glide closed again. She was in ecstasy, too hammered to be aware of security cameras capturing her uninvited lover savoring her sexy libation.

His thin lips were still getting busy on her clit while his gritty-nailed middle finger pistoned "fuck you" in and out of her gash. He paused only long enough to punch a button the panel that jammed the elevator between the fifteenth and fourteenth floors.

She spread her legs wider as if about to give birth, which enabled his head a better angle for giving her some hellified head. His whiskey-sour tongue started slurping and licking up her creamy thighs with such a force that his gold-toned-turned-green-framed eyeglasses bounced off his aquiline nose and clanged against one of the elevator's wide windows.

Acting like she didn't want to get sexed down any further in public, LaVonda shoved him away. While she reached down to yank away her poor excuse for a skirt by its snaps, he stumbled back on his rear, which already was halfway out of his jeans. She could tell by the seven-incher springing from the fly of his shit-stained boxers that he had been jerking off while eating her out.

Tugging at his turgid cock and kicking off, first, his smelly sneakers and, next his jeans, the man motioned for LaVonda to go down on him. "Come here, you skank! Crawl over here and suck this cock!" he yelled.

"No, motherfucker!" she hollered back.

"Open those fat lips and let me skeet in 'em."

"No you didn't. I know you didn't go there, townie."

He struggled to his feet and then banged a fist against the elevator panel, which shut down the lights and randomly sent the elevator upward.

She was too drunk to resist. Dropping to her knees as if in a trance, she did her feline best, meowing her way toward him. "Who are you?" she had mind enough to ask.

"Your Valentine's nightmare, bitch," he said, before grabbing a handful of black lacefront weave and stuffing his purplish head between her lips. She sucked like an addict on a crack pipe at first, making him sigh and erotically high. Then she bit down hard, eliciting piercing screams from her would-be lover.

Blood dripped down her chin, cleavage and pooled in her push-up bra. She wiped the sticky saltiness from her lips, watching loverman slump down to the floor. He was too busy doubling over in pain to curse her out any further.

Unbeknownst to LaVonda, the man's girlfriend had summoned security guards, so they already were waiting with her at the twelfth floor. Now, additional security guards were scattering to reach the higher floors on the other elevators, and the Atlantic City police had put out an all-points bulletin for the mystery woman's arrest.

LaVonda managed to pause the elevator at the twenty-third floor and scramble in blood footsteps down the stairwell to her floor. Her heart was lodged in her throat. Miraculously she had held onto her vintage black velvet clutch, and was fishing through it for her card key when she reached the door. She found only one of her keys and missed the slot in the doorknob several times before heard the click and saw the green light.

After letting herself into the hotel suite high above the boardwalk, LaVonda was so panicked and frightened that she didn't realize housekeeping had left all the lights on. "Damn, where's my fuckin' stick?" she murmured aloud as if to an equally hammered girlfriend. None of her "Loubou"-heeled trio could make this Atlantic City trip because, unlike her, they actually had Valentine's Day weekend plans. She was no longer feeling lousy at having no lover because of getting her slick pink licked down on the elevator. She went back to fumbling through her purse for lipstick and was so intoxicated that she didn't realize there was no need for any lip accent because she was alone in her suite. To her dismay, her cherished tortoise shell case was nowhere to be found in the zippered pocket of her satin-lined clutch.

She needed to strip herself of her bloodied clothing, including her bra. Her thong was damp but not with lover man's blood, instead with her cum, with the juices that he had licked out of her pussy and sucked from beneath her clit's sheath. She was itching for a long, hot bath, not a lazy fuck.

"Shit, I don't need to run from the police. Loverboy was gonna rape my ass in midair," she reasoned. She figured out a plan: Bathe and then summon security to her room in order to file a report and then have them wait with her for the police.

After shedding all her clothes, she left them in a blood- and cum-stained heap in the foyer of the suite. In a mojito haze she floated into the well-appointed bathroom only to freeze moments later. A message in the gilted gold-framed mirror had her straining her eyes -- the pinched Gullah eyes of her grandmamma -- through the effects of white rum. In childlike large, uneven letters, "I love u" was printed and in her favorite shade: Fire Engine Red. Aloof at the message's meaning, she smiled back through the "o" and "v" in love at her pillow soft lips that evoked Jennifer Hudson's -- lips that only a half-hour earlier had been spread over the thin pair of some local okie.

Before long LaVonda had the hot water tumbling into the Kohler tub like Niagara Falls in Hell. Her Gullah ancestry predisposed her to eating spicy foods, but her gradual descent into gutter values of big-city life had her craving a different kind of hotness: in her manner, clothes and men. The designer fragrance, a blood orange concoction whipped up in Italy, was wafting through the steam throughout the bathroom, which was nearly the size of her studio apartment in Central Harlem. "Aaaahhhh," she moaned as she leaned back in the tub, sponging off the filth and alcohol oozing from her pores.

Out of the steam stepped the hunky slot player who had waved goodbye earlier that night. LaVonda was still sighing and scrubbing away sin. The man began waving LaVonda's card key in a hairy hand with perfectly polished nails matching the shade of the message in the mirror. His lips, also colored in Fire Engine Red, were laughing and sporting gleaming white teeth. Any resemblance to El DeBarge was in no way apparent in that moment.

"Happy Valentine's Day, babe," he said in a baritone voice so smooth, it would make chocolate melt on a glacier.

LaVonda snapped her head so fast that the towel she thought she had secured around her expensive weave flung to the Italian ceramic-tiled floor. "What?!" was all she could muster before the beefy guy yanked her casino loyalty card out of his red-glittered thong -- his only garment -- and tossed it into her bath. She had no time to escape.

In seconds he was out of his thong and was splashing into the tub with her. He started punching her in the stomach and chest and then submerging her beneath the blood orange scented water. She struggled valiantly but her alcoholic state was working against her. Her last thought was to bite his tongue, but he didn't try to kiss her. Her last words as she momentarily came up for air were: "No, no, nooooo!"

One of the assailant's huge hands was shoving his disproportionately sized, hard prick into her resistant pussy while the other was gripping her throat. All the while, his eyes were bulging as he shrieked, "I'm your fuckin' knight in shining armor! I toldja I was comin' for ya! Didn't I?! Didn't I?!!!"

LaVonda's gurgling and the resultant bubbles underwater ceased, but her murderer continued pumping his Napoleonic dick into her lifeless body. He came in tiny spurts, roaring like a gladiator victorious in the Coliseum. Her windpipe crushed, she was left staring at his maniacal red-lipped smile and dark, dilated pupils.

As the killer stood amid his crime scene, toweling off his back and chest, the police burst through the door of the suite. "Police! Drop down to the ground!" the officers commanded, their guns drawn.

The murderer let the tower drop to the floor and grabbed his flaccid cock, desperately trying to make it erect. Slowly he turned around, revealing the red lipstick smudged around his lips.

"Stop jerking off, or I'll shoot!" shouted the lead cop, his top lip pulled back on his teeth and his gun pointed at the psycho killer. The other officers also had their guns aimed at him but were holding back laughter.

The killer wanked his dick faster, aiming it in the direction of the lead police officer. He was breathing aloud and drooling on his hairy chest as his puny prick hardened to a mere four inches. Then he spread his Fire Engine Red lips into the toothiest grin, and the main officer issued a final warning: "Let go of your cock! It's no use! Drop down to the floor, now!!!"

Instead, the nude murderer dropped a load two feet from the main officer's shiny black shoes. "I hit the jackpot!" he cried out, but it might as well have been "Suicide by cop!" because he went down in a hail of bullets.

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