Realtor Revenge Pt. 09.1

That's what this was all about. It was a rematch. I was going to slide up and down his pole until he ejaculated a gallon of wasted sperm. And when he did, I would stand up and walk away... like he was just another silly boy with an overactive phallus. The kind of boy I had used and discarded all my life.

I kicked off my heels, parted my lower lips and slowly descended Mark's shaft until my shaved puss nestled in his dark curlies. I bent over, put my hands on his chest, bit his lip and gave him a tongue filled kiss. From that position, I lifted my ass in the air, until eleven of his twelve inches were unsheathed, and then slid down his shaft a second time, pounding my ass on his balls.

I continued to work his overtaxed cock with my talented puss and, as I looked into his dazed eyes, I knew I had him. It wouldn't be easy. We might be at it for a half hour or more, but I'd seen that look in many a man's face and it always meant the same thing. I owned him. I was in control. His body belonged to me for as long as I wished to possess it.

But I forgot about the scarf. The one around my neck, that was getting tighter. When I reached up to loosen it, two sets of hands grabbed my arms, pulling them behind me. Then a third set of hands secured my arms behind my back with more scarfs... tying my wrists, elbows and upper arms together... forcing my shoulders back and my chest out. I tried to stand and break away. But each attempt was countered by the strangle hold around my neck.

It was the Barbie Dolls. The five Russian sex toys took over my body and were forcing me up and down Mark's pole. They couldn't make him come so they were fucking him with my pussy. Tied up and impaled on twelve inches of man meat, I couldn't fight my situation. So, I settled back down on Mark's spear and concentrated on making him come... hoping once he did, if he did, the women would set me free.

The scarf around my neck was snug, but not life threatening. At least not yet. The girl in charge of the scarf remained behind me and out of my vision, but I knew it was one of the Russian women because I occasionally got a glimpse of blonde hair in my peripheral.

It was soon apparent that I was not the only one who would be deprived of oxygen. Once they helped me settle into a rhythm on Mark's cock, Anya stood in front of me, straddled Mark's shoulders and lowered herself onto his face. Then, just to make things interesting, two Russian women played with my boobs and nips while a third managed to get her face into a position so she could alternate between licking my clit and sucking Mark's balls.

The satisfying combination of a cock in my puss, lips on my nips and a tongue on my clit made the pleasure level slowly climb to what I knew would be a monumental experience. One I would most likely remember for the rest of my life. If they didn't kill me... which was also a possibility. The blonde with the scarf was applying ever increasing pressure around my neck, giving my brain less and less oxygen with each breath. And, unlike the Russian men, I didn't have a way to tell her to back off.

I could feel it coming. I could feel the energy growing inside me. And I could also sense Mark's imminent release. His upward thrusts were becoming erratic. His breathing labored. No, I wouldn't get the satisfaction of him coming and me walking away, but I at least wanted the consolation prize of making him come before me. I rode Mark's cock like a surfer on a tsunami -- not knowing if I should be thrilled with the experience or scared shitless of how it would end.

I had to hold off just a few minutes longer. But would they let me. I was losing control. The lack of air was making my mind and body do strange things. My vision was getting blurry and the sounds of encouragement from the surrounding men was starting to fade. I was slipping away. Into unconsciousness and perhaps even beyond. Just when I thought my eyes and ears had completely failed me, I heard a voice whisper into my ear...

"Your time is coming Raven. Your time of darkness is near. Not now, not today, but soon."

As my addled mind tried to comprehend what the words meant, the scarf was released from my neck, oxygen descended into my lungs, blood rushed back to my brain and I lost control. Wave after wave of powerful orgasms spread through me, reaching every crevasse of my being. The response was so intense, so physically debilitating, it bordered on painful. As the shock waves peaked, Mark let out an aboriginal roar, shoved his pulsating penis farther into me than any man has ever been before and drowned my womb in man juice.

I heard myself scream and, just before I passed out, I saw Janis Moorehead drop a scarf to the floor as she walked towards the exit.

***

I can't tell you how long I was unconscious. Somewhere between a few minutes... sufficient time to let Mark recover his pants... and several hours... during which the Russians could have done all manner of rude things to my comatose body.

I'm also not sure how I got from the living room floor to Mark's car. And, whoever dressed me must have kept my undergarments as a souvenir because the BMW's leather seats were cool against my bare ass and the bumpy road made my unrestrained boobs bounce like watermelons on a trampoline.

But I didn't give two shits about any of that. What occupied my mind on the ride home was what I saw, or thought I saw, just before I lost consciousness.

"I thought the evening went well," Mark said as he reached over and stroked my thigh.

Of course he did. Over the period of a few hours, he not only sealed a multi-million-dollar business deal, he also got to fuck five Russian beauties and one extremely confused American realtor.

"Yeah, it was a successful party," I said in response.

He squeezed my knee and returned his hand to the steering wheel. Which hopefully meant he didn't have any further plans for my body... at least not for the next few hours. We drove on in silence for a few minutes as I debated of the best way to approach the subject which dominated my thoughts.

"While you and I were uh..."

"Entertaining the Russians?" he suggested. "Or would fucking each other's brains out be more descriptive?"

"Either way, did you happen to notice whose scarf was around my neck?"

"Not really. One of the Russian girls', although I haven't a clue which one. I was a bit preoccupied at the time and, to tell the truth, they all pretty much looked the same to me."

"You're sure it wasn't somebody else. All the Russian women were tall and thin. The person with the scarf around my neck was larger."

"Larger? Do you think it was one of the men?"

"No. It was certainly a woman, a blonde. I caught a glimpse of her as she walked out of the room. From what I saw, I thought she might have been American."

"Are you're saying a fat American broad slipped into the party, stole somebody's scarf and strangled you with it?"

"Not fat. But definitely bigger in the bust and butt than the Russians."

"Just because she had some meat on her bones doesn't mean she was American. I'm sure Russia has a few curvy women as well."

"I know she was an American because she talked to me."

"Fine," Mark said. "A well-built American lady crashed the party and joined in on the fun. Is there a point to this discussion?"

"I think I know who she is."

"Who?"

I was suffering from an excess of booze and insufficient sleep. In my diminished state I almost blurted out, "Janis. It was Janis Moorehead with the scarf around my neck... and in the Mustang... and the acupuncture room... and all over town. She's come back from the dead and is haunting me for what I did to her."

But I didn't. Because, while I never gave Mark the details of my plan for Janis, I left no doubt that she would be permanently out of the picture. If he, for a minute, thought Janis was still alive, he would stop the car, throw me out on the curb, and go looking for her.

He dumped Janis and hooked up with me because he knew she would be incapable of doing what was required to blackmail the city council. But the dirty work was behind us. All we had left to do was collect the money. I had to face it... Mark tolerated me, but he loved Janis.

Since there was nothing to be gained by telling Mark that the ghost of Janis Moorehead was haunting me day and night, I did what any self-respecting woman would. I lied.

"She's nobody you know," I said. "A competing realtor from another town."

"Well, hopefully she was there for the fun and not trying to horn in on our business."

"Don't worry. If I see her again, I'll take care it."

"Good. That's why I hired you. I need a levelheaded woman who doesn't mind getting her hands dirty."

***

Peeking in the Pasture

"It's six o'clock in the fucking morning," Flanagan said when he finally answered his phone. "If you're bleeding, call an ambulance. If somebody's breaking into your house, call 911. And if you're horny, call me back this afternoon... cause I've been working all night and I'm too fucking tired to fuck right now."

"We've got to dig her up."

"Dig who up?"

"Who do you think?"

"Why?"

"Because she's haunting me."

"Have you been drinking? Maybe snorting?"

"I'm stone cold sober."

"Then you must be insane. Because sober people don't ask their friends to dig up dead people at dawn on Sunday. And they certainly don't see ghosts."

"I'm not asking a friend. I'm telling you, as your future boss, that we need to dig up Janis Moorehead."

"I thought we agreed not to mention names over the phone."

"Fine. Get your ass over here and we can talk about it on the way."

An hour later, Flanagan showed up in an old pickup truck... with nothing in the bed.

"You forgot the shovels," I said as I slid into the passenger seat.

"We don't need them."

"Then how are we going to uncover Janis' grave."

"We're not."

"That's not your decision to make."

"Like hell it isn't. I agreed to help you bury her, which may not be the smartest thing I've ever done. But digging her back up again? That falls into the all-time, dumb shit, get my ass thrown in jail category."

"If you're not going to help me, then where are we going?"

"To the pasture... where Janis is buried."

"We've done that already. I've seen the spot. I know the earth hasn't been disturbed..."

"But you don't believe she's down there."

"I didn't say that."

"No, not in so many words. But that can be the only reason why you want to dig her up."

Flanagan was right, obviously. I had to know. Had to see Janis in the grave with my own eyes.

"I hear her... at night. No matter where I sleep, I hear her voice."

"Is she your first?" he asked.

"The first person I killed? Of course." But not the last, I thought.

"The first is always the hardest. Especially since the two of you have some history. The nightmares are normal. We all get them from time to time."

"But there is more to it than a few bad dreams. A lot more."

"Let me guess, you're seeing her around town. You never get a good look, but you get a glimpse of someone who looks like Janis... a good-looking blonde in a passing car, or a familiar voice in a coffee shop... and you think it's her."

"It is her. I've seen her face, heard her voice. She talked to me. Told me 'my time of darkness was coming'."

"Really? A woman who we buried nearly a month ago, popped up out of the grave, sought you out and said, 'your time of darkness is coming?' Tell me Raven. What were you doing when this conversation took place?"

"I uh... I was at a business party."

"What were you doing at this party? Dancing? Playing charades? Debating current events?"

"Okay. If you must know, I was having sex. My arms were tied behind my back, a woman was chocking me with a scarf, and I was bouncing up and down on a cock twice as big as yours."

"And this voice you heard. When Janis supposedly said, 'your time is coming'. Did you hear it before or after you climaxed?"

"I don't know. After, before, during or all of the above? What difference does it make?"

"None at all. I just wanted to confirm that you experienced an orgasm. And since his dick was twice the size of mine, it must have been a big one... the coup de grace of erotic experiences... the orgasm to end all orgasms."

"Yes, I came. So hard that I passed out. But what I heard was real. Just before I lost consciousness, Janis whispered into my ear and then I saw her walk out of the room."

We drove in silence for several minutes. He'd made his point. I shouldn't believe anything I heard or saw while being simultaneously fucked by Mark and strangled by an unknown Russian. And the same could be said about my experience with the Chinese acupuncture master. That oriental combination of pain, pleasure and mystical tea didn't make me the most reliable witness to reality. The nightmares, while certainly unsettling, were obviously figments of my overactive imagination, at least to those who didn't experience them.

But what about that escapade on the highway? I was stone cold sober when the red Mustang played its little game of cat and mouse with me. There's no way I could have imagined that. Or could I?

"Where are you taking me?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"To Janis' grave."

"You don't believe me, so why take the risk of going out there?"

"To prove to you that Janis is either dead or close to it."

"How're you going to do that without shovels?"

He ignored my question and kept driving.

***

It had been well over a week since our last visit to the pasture. Not much had changed. We didn't see any fresh car tracks and the weeds were a few inches taller... much higher than the ventilation tubes. If it weren't for the dilapidated shed that was close to the area in question, I wouldn't have been able to find the right spot.

"I'll need to see more than a few weeds to convince me Janis is still down there," I told Flanagan as I stepped out of the truck.

"Which end do you want to see?" he asked as he pulled a laptop computer and some cables out of the space behind the seats.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"This here is a miniature camera," he said pointing to a small golf-ball shaped gizmo. "I'm going to run it down one of the air vents so you can see what's inside the coffin. Depending on which tube we use, I can give you a view of her head and boobs or her legs and pussy. What's your pleasure?"

"Really? You had to ask?"

"Right, head and tits it is. Just give me a few minutes to set things set up."

Flanagan took his time. He disabled the pump which provided air to the coffin, hooked his fancy camera to a long length of cable and then plugged the cable into his laptop. Once all was ready, he dangled the camera a few inches in front of my face and turned it on. The video on his laptop was surprisingly clear even though my nose looked larger than it really was.

"This is a wide-angle lens," he explained. "We don't have much room to work with in the coffin, but it should be enough to identify her."

Having completed his demonstration, he took the camera to the air vent but hesitated before lowering it.

"Dead or alive, she won't be pretty," he said. "Are you sure you want to see her?"

"I have to know she's down there. Do it."

"Okay, but don't blame me for your nightmares. I'll lower the camera; you watch the monitor. Let me know when you see something."

At first, all I saw was white as he slowly let the camera descend down the narrow vent. He was either purposely going at a snail's pace or I was overly eager. What felt like an hour was probably less than a minute before the white screen suddenly showed some detail.

"Stop there," I said as I tried to interpret the scene. It looked like a landscape with a gently sloping valley, grey sky and perhaps a meadow in the distance.

"Bring it up an inch or two," I commanded. Flanagan complied. The valley turned out to be two lily white hills with brown spots on top, and the meadow... well it was a patch of yellow pubic hair.

"Turn it around. You're pointing the wrong way."

I continued to watch the screen as Flanagan slowly spun the camera around. As it turned, I got a good view of her right hand and the chain that kept it secured to the side of the coffin. Her once flawless skin was covered with sores and bug bites. And when her face came into view, it was frozen into a permanent frown of agony.

"Is it her?" Flanagan asked.

"Definitely."

"Is she dead?"

I stared at the screen for over a minute. Looking for any sign of life. A flutter of an eye lid. A slight rise of her chest. Any change of expression. Nothing. Not a single movement.

"Yeah," I answered. "She's dead."

Flanagan didn't say a word during the forty-five-minute drive back to my house. He also didn't invite himself in and fuck my eyes out, as had been his habit when he did me a favor in the past. He just dumped me on my driveway and drove off.

Not that I cared. I was still recovering from the previous evening's sex-capades and there was no telling what the coming week would bring. But, sometime in the next few days, I would have to make nice with the overly sensitive police officer. In less than a week, I planned to eliminate Mark Seiman and would certainly need Flanagan's help.

***

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