Pixie Pt. 04 Ch. 11: The End of Sinn

The joy of slipping off our dresses, discovering our full perfect breasts with achingly hard nipples, and the glorious aromas of our cunts, foreshadowed orgasms of rich intensity. And with kisses, touches, licking and biting, the climb began up the mountain of pleasure.

I knew my place in her world and I was the first to move downwards, lavishing full attention on her glorious breasts before spreading her legs and engaging with her cunt. Licking, slurping, tongue curling and poking I soon had her primed to come.

The petite mort, her orgasm, that was approaching wasn't her Achilles' heel. Rather it was the moment when she, like all of us, embraced sensory pleasure and, naturally, her sense of danger diminished. And that was when I realised I should strike.

But as she moaned, "Fuck, I'm cumming," I actually hesitated for a moment, so into the joy of being entrusted with her orgasm and realising I would actually like to do this again and again.

But the legion that was with me, the standard bearers of the righteous, were still alive to their individual moments of truth. And I felt echoing down the ages from them, a reminder to always remember the power of love. I heard Pixie's voice, saw her face, with Mel nodding to me. They were with me at the crisis.

And I knew love. Nothing, not even the strongest lust I have ever experienced, would be allowed to undermine love.

So with an image of Pixie and Mel in mind, and keeping my mouth continually stimulating the Russian bitch's cunt, I did what I had been recently trained to do. Trained, in front of Roger Oli and Pixie in Selfridge's shoe shop, in shitting, which I thought I had successfully done since I was a baby. But no, there was a special way of dealing with the secret service's equipment, and so I contracted my muscles similarly to the way one shits, and the syringe slipped into the palm of my hand.

Slipping the top off I waited until her orgasm began, and then I struck. Given how much she was writhing in pleasure, I doubted she would feel a little prick.

But as soon as the needle touched her thigh, it was if the nearest cells had communicated the danger, and she began to grip my neck with her legs. increasingly violently, as she began to rage against the dying of the light. I felt like the prey of a fresh water crocodile. Having been snared, I was being rolled and pulled down to drown in that tsunami of girl goo. But I held on - just. Indeed, the pressure of her thighs on my neck made me lightheaded, and just when my concerns about blacking out peaked, she relaxed, unconsciousness having claimed her in the middle of what I expected would be her last orgasm.

I was victorious, but I felt hollow and empty having been deprived of the concentrated lust I felt for the Russian bitch. But deep down I knew she was a threat to what I held dear and picking up the phone I called reception and within a few minutes Oli and Pixie went to work.

Pixie had purchased what looked like industrial strength hand cuffs, better suited to restraining elephants than people.

"I'm taking no chances, darling," she said, dragging her eyes from my tits and their stiff nipples.

They trussed up Whispering Death, and Oli implemented the secret plan upon which she had agreed.

Placing the sexy Russian bitch onto the bed, Oli began to tattoo the thirteen safe deposit numbers from Mel's book onto her body. Her breasts, her legs, her stomach and her neck all received the numbers indicating where five hundred million dollars' worth of paintings were stored. There was one final one tattooed above her mound.

By the time we had finished, we had turned the Russian mafia's leading-up and-coming assassin into an advertisement for the location of ill-gotten gains.

And then Pixie called Emm's mistress and the mafia dogs of war were released. It appeared that President Put-in had become President Take-out, and the mafia were short of a bob or two. To discover the location of the stolen paintings was a gold mine, but sadly they couldn't let the Russian bitch walk around advertising the location of that particular mother-load. That was the beauty of Roger's plan. Whispering Death was condemned to that fate herself. A short-after life while her body was useful, and then - well I could not think of the coming of the dark.

By the time we arrived at the British Embassy to get the helicopter home, the Russian mafia had taken Whispering Death under their wing, and I was subsequently told that she has not troubled the scorers again. Given that the Russian mafia had access to the paintings, Roger had thought it wise to advertise that those who had let that information fall into their hands, namely the Sinn detectives, enjoyed the support of Her Majesty's secret service.

I was exhausted and for the first time I began to see why Frodo had gone to the Grey Havens. The joy of victory and the triumph of love did have one bitter taste, abandoning the concentrated pleasure from the Russian bitch which would live long in my mind. Not enough to ever suggest my commitment to Pixie and Mel was endangered, but just enough to always wonder what it would have been like to feel her mouth between my thighs.

But with the weariness that had overtaken me, I will leave Pixie to conclude this case.

ooo 000 ooo

Annie looked drained.

Oli had been worried, and so was I when we broke in.

She was between the Russian's gorgeous milky thighs, her mouth smeared with thick, gooey cunt cream, and her eyes glazed. Her neck was red, her breast heaving, her nipple hard. The Russian was passed out, her thighs viscous with the results of her orgasm, Annie looked drained.

After I handcuffed her, and while Oli was tattooing the Russian, I helped Annie dress.

It was almost as if she was my baby girl, she allowed me to pull her G-string up, out her bra on, and dress her. I brushed her hair. I fixed her make-up.

"It is okay Miss Annie," I whispered, "I know."

Haunted she looked at me.

"You can't!"

"What, that your lust was so strong you still feel it, or that you hesitated for a moment wanting her cunt?"

Annie gasped.

"How, oh Pix, Pix, can you forgive me, can Mel?"

"What is there to forgive darling? Lust is lust, it has a power like an atomic explosion, but there is a fallout shelter to keep you and us safe - our love."

She looked at me, so tenderly and loving. A tear came, I wiped it and kissed her full on the lips.

"Annie, my Annie, Mel's Annie, we are one. All for one and one for all and all that jazz."

She came to me, I hugged her.

So it was that we got back to our hotel.

Annie lay down, letting me undress her and put her to bed. She said she would not sleep, but she slept the sleep of the just.

She had faced her crisis, as we all must. She had triumphed. Love had conquered all. And if Annie lusted after sexy Russians, what of it? She was mine and I was hers, and we were both Mel's. The time of trial had come, and the power of our love had won the day.

I watched her deep into the night, Oli sleeping in the other bed.

She looked so beautiful, my Annie, Mel's' Annie.

Finally, the sun came up, and light streamed into the bedroom.

It was, I reflected, that thing the poet had said could never be, it was "glad confident morning" again. I slipped in beside her and snuggled up. We slept, and when we woke, the shadows were banished.