Feral Democrats in Luv Ch. 02

ALL CHARACTERS ARE ADULTS.

*****

Upon the table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife. A large leather satchel concealing a hand gun sat on the floor under the table. Jack Wilson, the man who owned the satchel, knife, book, and linen handkerchief, was in the shower, covered in a soapy lather when Marisol Martinez, the motel maid, unlocked the door but couldn't enter because of the chain-lock. She called out and pounded on the door then left with her supply cart and returned after lunch.

Wilson was gone, as was the satchel. Marisol cleaned the room and left.

Close to four o'clock Miriam, the executive housekeeper, got a call, relayed from the front desk, that Jack Wilson wanted ice and extra drinking cups. Miriam handed Marisol a stack of plastic cups and an ice bucket. "Stop by room 287 and leave these, if he aint there leave em by the door." Marisol filled the bucket with ice and went to room 287. Wilson opened the door.

Jack Wilson was the biggest man Marisol had ever seen, he looked like a younger Jack Palance, Marisol guessed he was her age, thirty-four, but he towered over her plump five foot frame. She placed the ice and cups on the vanity and started back to the door when Jack stopped her. Pulling fifties from his wallet, he handed her four and waited for her to respond. "I lose my job if I take this," she said.

"Come back later," he suggested.

"When?" She asked.

"Eight o'clock?" He suggested.

"Nine, my sister watches my kids and works till eight," she explained.

"How much to spend the night?" He asked.

"I get five hundred for all night," she replied.

"OK, be back here by nine o'clock," he said.

Marisol was an illegal Mestizo from South America. Married, her husband was a convicted killer and sentenced to life in a Bolivian prison. Much of the money she made she sent to Bolivia to make Juan Carlos' existence tolerable. Most of the money fed him better fare than the stewed dog most inmates ate. Occasionally the police snared European youth caught with drugs, and the money bought a little sex when these people were passed around to those with enough cash. Many young women adapted to prison life, accruing wealth servicing the senior officers and VIP bandits.

She and her children rented a room at a cheap motel in a degenerate area of the city. Two of the children she had while working at the motel. Warned to keep her housekeeping and whoring separate, Marisol limited the whoring to quickies during her lunch break and at night. Payoffs to the manager kept Miriam off Marisol's ass.

A few minutes before nine o'clock that night she returned to the motel and tapped lightly on Jack Wilson's door. Her coarse black hair was combed straight to her shoulders, the bangs clipped even with her eye-brows, her green eyes matched the long green blouse she wore. Its tail covered her ass and nest, barely. She wore quality leather sandals. Her nails were painted bright red, her eyes looked sinister beneath the heavy mascara and green eye-shadow. She brought a short, translucent peignoir and pair of jeans along. Marisol laid her sack of apparel atop the desk and prepared to earn her pay.

Jack paid her, whereupon she opened the outside door, handed the money to her sister, then closed the door. Jack watched her unbutton her blouse, exposing her sheer panties and bra. Her nipples were fat, dark, and erect when she unclipped the bra and pulled it off.

Marisol carried her weight on her ass and thighs, like all curvy fecund females. She was no skinny boy. When her panties were off she hopped upon the bed, buried her head on the pillow, and spread her legs for Jack. She saw the satchel was back beneath the table.

Jack undressed, got on the bed between Marisol's legs, hocked up a thick wad of spit, coated his cock with the spit, and pushed it inside her. Her pussy felt loose and creamy warm. He preferred small latina women with wide hips and plump pussies. Marisol cooed and moaned softly soon after he was inside her. She liked the fullness big men brought to sex. She liked how their weight and size held her to the mattress. Sometimes she let Juan Carlos and his brothers tie her to the bed. Sometimes his father used her. Juan Carlos didn't care who made her babies. Sometimes she fucked her sister's black boyfriend when Maria was at work. Anthony often stopped by when Maria was not home, and the kids were at daycare.

Jack humped Marisol vigorously. "This man fucks like Anthony," she smiled, her short legs raised off the mattress limply bouncing in the air, and thought of Anthony as Jack plowed her furrow.

Jack groaned and came quickly, filling Marisol's small space till the cum had no where to go but out. When he pulled out she rolled over onto her stomach, resting her on the pillow. Jack fingered her gash to feel his semen seeping out, then got up and showered.

Marisol cased his satchel after she heard the water running in the shower. The bag was filled with bricks of cash. She forced down a squeal. "This man is loco," she thought. Then, "How can I get this money?" She remembered the knife and leapt from bed to find it. It was on the table beside the Gideon Bible and handkerchief Jack emptied his pants pockets onto.

She picked up the knife, opened the blade and locked it open, and got back in bed, under the sheet. Soon Jack returned to the bedroom to dress. He got clean boxers from the chest of drawers, pulled them on, then sat on the side of the bed to pull on his sox. "Go shower," is all he said to her. He pulled a cigarette from a pack on the table, lit it, and finished dressing before he sat on the bed again to tie his shoes. "I said go shower," he looked at Marisol briefly and turned his head away as she plunged the knife into his neck near the spinal cord. Jack lunged at Marisol but fell over onto the floor to spasm until he lay still.

Marisol called Anthony on the room phone. "This is Marisol, hi, I'm at the Best American Inns, the one by the interstate, room 287. Yes. I need you to come get me. My date tried to hurt me and I knocked him out. Yes. Meet me at the Waffle Palace. No! I don't want no police. OK. Yes. Just come get me and bring me home," she said and hung up.

She dressed, collected her things and the satchel, then left the room to walk to the Waffle Palace. Anthony arrived within thirty minutes. He noticed her struggling with the heavy bag, trying to lift it high enough to stow in the trunk. "Lemme take that," he said, and saw the money as he made room for the satchel beside the spare tire and his gym bag. He pulled a pistol out of the bag.

"Why you got the gun for?" She asked.

"I saw what's in that satchel, is what for?" He replied as he started the car. "You fucked over somebody big. They ain't gonna go with the flow, you understand what I'm saying?"

"Just take me home and let me worry bout it," she replied.

"OK, it's your ass when they catch you," he replied and drove without talking for three miles until he saw a highway patrol DUI check stop ahead. "WTF!" He said.

Flares were all over the road, strobe lights pulsed from several cars, and a huge trooper raised his hand for Anthony to stop. Anthony lowered his window. "Open the trunk then exit the vehicle please," the trooper said. Other troopers surrounded the car.