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Miami Noir

I lament, gentle lover, you've unlocked me with my own key.-Erotic Thai proverb.

The assassin Charlotte entered the deserted warehouse slowly, the clicking of her stiletto heels on rough concrete beating time like a ticking clock.

Dressed in a sensual but low key grey trench coat, cut fashionably to the top of her thigh and form fitting, it wrapped her hips becomingly, top buttons undone revealing a wave of cleavage. Hair tied in an elegant bun, her makeup discrete and perfectly applied, her lipstick and eye shadow alluring but tasteful, the only surrender to extravagant style were a diamond choker clasped around her throat and chain earrings hung daintily from her lobes.

She spoke softly into a burner cell phone as she walked.
"He's here."

The man to her front regained consciousness. Woozy and unbalanced, naked and tied to a high-backed wooden chair in the middle of an arena-like space, Charlotte guessed him somewhere in the range of fifty years old. Wide windows to the sides and rear of the enclosure letting in late evening light revealed a fit and handsome figure. With sandy hair and blue eyes, he was broad shouldered and tight at the waist. Lashed to the seat uncomfortably, wrists crossed painfully behind him, taut and sweating abdomen strained against his bindings. Maybe just under five feet ten, it was hard to gauge his height exactly under present conditions. Compact and powerful, Charlotte noted his exposed manhood twitch slightly as he looked upon the dangerous beauty striding toward him.

She breathed deeply as the usual wet fire stirred.
Again into the phone.
"His name doesn't matter. It never does. I understand the contract. Extract the bank account number. Then lose him."

She stopped in front of her target, her face set in cruelty typically hiding so much contentment. Her words widening his eyes, he once again tested his prison. Kicking helplessly to the left and right, his muscles-no doubt honed by an army of expensive trainers-compressed in opposition. Sweat began to glisten on his chest, stomach and between his legs. As he struggled, the arrangements were finalized.
"Just so you understand. Money in my account in the next minute."
Charlotte switched off the phone and slid it into the clutch she carried.
Her prisoner-an American-spoke for the first time, trying to find strength in his humiliation. Typical demands were made.
"What is this? Who are you? Release me!"

Said with force at first, his last words were less committed. Charlotte noticed his ampleness grow stiffer. Though not yet fully erect, It lifted itself from the chair seat a centimeter.

Her lips parted slightly at this, the carnal reaction to her entry. A warmth building inside her, she bent over him. A look of hope growing in her prisoner, it disappeared when she slapped him ruthlessly across the face. Conditioned to the rigors of unarmed combat, her blow stunned him.

The captive squirmed and quivered, let out a groan of pain and shock.

With the rules sufficiently underlined, Charlotte took her time now. Looking him over casually, enjoying the sovereignty she wielded, the thrill in his final moment was anticipated. Men and women of stature, so powerful and confident, brought to their knees, were like wine to her. They were a pleasing narcotic coursing through her body and organs. She began undressing. The warehouse was a secure location in the Port of Miami. Maintained by the Yakuza cartel who sometimes flew her in from London for jobs, just off an abandoned wharf, it was isolated and protected. She would neither be disturbed nor rushed.

Slipping out of her trench coat, she draped it neatly on another wooden chair, the same type her victim was tied to. Disclosed when Charlotte presented herself were a sheer black corset and lace thong panty combination accenting her skin to perfection and seizing her athletic figure adoringly. Lingerie cups embracing conceited breasts low cut, her nipples peaked just above its material. Sheer stockings, their seams running up the back of her calves and thighs, complimented the shiny black leather of knife-heeled pumps.

She stretched brazenly, caressed her stomach with her fingers. The maneuver induced her prisoner to throb to full erectness, to strain off the seat completely and stand unaided. She bent over him again. He flinched in anticipation of another blow. Instead, she grasped his chin with the thumb and index finger of her right hand, raised it, and thrust her tongue between his teeth.

His mouth neutral at first, it then surrendered willingly. His manliness answering her femininity, a breath of surprise flared his nostrils. After a long, leisurely kiss, she disengaged. Placing her cheek next to his, feeling his heat on her throat, she whispered to him tenderly.

"Darling. You've angered my employer. For that you'll die. You'll suffer until you tell me everything. And when I'm done with you, I'll tease you without mercy, as I've teased so many men and women before you."
He gasped under her, let out a strangled cry.
"No. Please. God. No."

Aroused by his panic, impervious to his entreaty, she stroked the head of his cock furtively with the index finger of her left hand. The give of tissue under her polished nail appetizing, the shaft bobbed tenuously to the pressure. Moving with a dancer's grace to the chair, she picked up the clutch she'd placed there. Out of it she removed a small nickel plated Beretta .22 automatic, a hit-woman's weapon. A short silencer next, she expertly screwed it into the barrel, watching the charged expression in her helpless victim's eyes. Jerking the slide back to seat a round in the chamber, the pistol was carefully returned to the chair's seat. She then pulled out a small syringe filled with pale green liquid from a leather carrying case, and held it lovingly between her fingers.

Approaching again, Charlotte sensed her perfume undo him. Applied in artful portions to her neck, breasts and neatly groomed pubic hair, she noted his drawing a long bite of it into his lungs. She placed her cheek next to his once more. As her excitement grew, the treble of her voice registered deep and throaty.
"Understand. I'm going to tease you for the money. But I'm going to torment you..."
She let the words linger before punctuating the phrase.
"...for my pleasure."

As soon as the word pleasure was spoken, she plunged the syringe needle into the nipple of his left pectoral. He gasped in pain and surprise, his body and neck tightening, trying to hitch away from the steel bit. But it was no use. He was powerless to fight the icy violation of insertion.

Charlotte felt the needle pierce tender flesh, but then stop against resistance. Working it in with her wrist, she pushed through until the shaft was buried to the hilt. With her thumb she then depressed the plunger so the serum within was transferred to his blood stream.
He grunted.
"Ugh. It burns."

She extracted the needle and tossed the empty syringe aside. Relishing his hurt and degradation, standing upright, hands on hips, Charlotte took a deep and pleased breath. Enjoyment began to spin inside her, a breathlessness animating her lungs and heartbeat. A single bead of perspiration slid around one of her breasts and another from her back between her buttocks. In total control, a pleasant lightheadedness engulfed her. She knew how good she looked, knew what it produced in him. Displaying her ripe body with callous pride, relaxed and fit, she explained.

"An ancient Korean recipe. Part aphrodisiac, part adrenaline, part truth serum. You will tell me everything I want to know. It will extend your stamina, will heighten your sensation. It will get you where I want you to be."

The formula worked quickly, coursing through his blood stream. She watched him enlarge and harden by three centimeters. A tiny syrup button oozed from the head. Mesmerized by the phenomenon-something she'd seen so often-she reached down and transferred the dollop to her fingertip. She then sampled its rich, oyster-like earthiness. Eyes closed, its taste savored, she let it heighten the context of her malice. When she was through, she looked down on him again. With level harshness, she made her demand.

"The funds you embezzled. Where are they?"

Without hesitation, firmly under the influence of the potion and the crush of Charlotte's brutal femininity, he blurted out the bank of deposit, account number, and withdrawal password. He then negotiated for his release:

"Please. I've told you what you want. Let me go. I beg you. Have mercy. Don't tease me."

Leaving the suggestion unanswered, she pulled the cell phone from her clutch, confirmed receipt of her payment, and then texted the required information. With that task completed and the phone returned, she stood before her tease. Her feet shoulder width apart, her eyes silent and aloof, her expression cold and domineering. She licked her upper lip, then bit her lower in keenness of what came next. She made all these movements leisurely, relishing the moment.

Assessing the features of his face and body, the cut of his jaw, the set of his brow, the heft of his shoulders and calves, she permitted herself to enjoy the rugged beauty made feeble before her, to let it feed greedy things. Bending down, playing on contradictions-on the blade of violent consequence and the softness of a lover-she whispered in intimate tones.

"Existence hangs on a thread. It hides behind two gates. The first? My orgasm in your mouth. The second? Controlling your load while excited by my hand."

Charlotte looked into the captured eyes to see if they comprehended. Reflected in them was only confusion, an ache and betrayal, the unthinking terror of a rabbit cornered by a wolf. Between steadily more labored breaths he spat disorientation.

"Wha...? I don't...? I don't...?"

Impatient with him, driven by a rising and near uncontrollable need, with the ease of a dancer she lifted her left leg onto the seat back on which he was trapped. Resting the heel of her stylish shoe by his right ear, she grasped the other side near his left ear with her right hand. Pulling herself into him, flexing the muscles of her legs and hips, she adjusted her flimsy panty so her now steaming lips were exposed. Pushing forward until her opening rested in his mouth, she finalized her terms.

"Lick me for your life."

And he did, motivated-as they all were-by the desperate and thoughtless urge to survive. His tongue thrust roughly through her labia and into the moist heat of her cavity. Shoved to one side and then the other, it lapped what was given, worked in and out and up and down. Breathing noisily, slurping air when he could, half smothered by the seal of her flesh, he worked in her lower regions first. Exploring greedily and with rapid desperation, his skill was proved, his mastery of the patient and forceful art of cunnilingus. Developed no doubt with countless women, a moment more and he lifted his chin to focus his efforts higher up, on the pay dirt he hoped to uncover in due course.

Charlotte rode her mounting excitement, the electric invasion of her, the churning of goo and voltage beginning to radiate through her torso and limbs. Now it was her breathing that deepened, it was she who-though she was unaware-began moaning softly. The single beads of perspiration on her chest and back multiplied, expanding to form clammy sheets clinging from neck to toes, soaking through her lingerie and stockings. A wave of goosebumps rolled into the skin and her nipples hardened to the density of stones.

Rocking back and forth, aiding his efforts, looking for the most useful rhythm, she sensed her earrings swing at their anchors, her choker strain at her throat. Taken outside herself, her eyes didn't know where to rest. She looked down on the top of his head, saw his nose pressed against her pubic line. She smelled her perfume mix with her own pungent musk, let it light erotic candles inside her. Then she tilted her head up, inebriated with pleasure, drunk on the hypnotic swirling between her legs, the dizziness in her head and lungs.

Closing her eyes, she tracked its migration, made herself audience to the power welling up in geysers and waves. His nose sliding higher, the tongue now beat wildly against the delicate knob of her clitoris. Irritated by his lack of finesse, she moved her left hand, which had been tracing circles around her starred anus under the g-string of her panty. Grasping the chair with it, she pulled fiercely with both hands, plunged her pelvis out, forced herself deeper onto his teeth.

Regaining composure, with better leverage, he began folding her molten nub with purpose and to greater effect. She was so close, tried to control herself, tried to ride the liquid surge gingerly. But it was too late. With a gush of emotion and physicality, a riotous earthquake of indulgence, she was wracked by the spasm twisting her body from hips to toes. Her feet curled inside her shoes, once, twice, a third time. A hitching gasp wrenched from her lungs, she felt herself squirt into his mouth. Clenching for a second, then another squirt. The flood then receding, the strength of it over, she relaxed.

Spent and satisfied, she stood off him, brought her foot gracefully back to the floor. The heel of her shoe ticked on concrete like a castanet. Overstating the curve of her back, she felt the beautiful tension of her breasts against the inviting material of her corset. Poise re-established, she refused to give anything away. Her manner pitiless, her nostrils flared, she balanced predatory contempt with untamed desire. Panty still askew, she left it that way, its disarray pleasing her. The cream from within sliding down the inside of her thighs, she looked him over.

He struggled for breath as if he'd sprinted, the rising and falling of his chest causing his restraints to cut deeper into his arms and legs. Her grease smearing his cheeks and neck, her legs resting on the outside of his knees, she saw he was as drenched in sweat as she was. The look of a fearful child in his eyes, a gout of ejaculate coated his still projecting cock-which rested now close to her opening-from head to shaft.

As she had come, so had he.

She allowed herself a moment, absorbed the implications in it. Elated by her performance and his, her eyes hard and cruel, she undid the bun in her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. Shaking it out, flipping mounds of plush mane right and left, she felt it settle in place. Then she reached down for her victim, grasped him gently in the fingers of her right hand, and-the cum there serving lubricant-began to stroke him hungrily.

He gasped and inhaled at her touch. Accepting and resisting imposing control, he asked in an overwhelmed voice.

"What...? Why are you doing that?"

She bent forward, her right hand still working on the hefty shaft, feeling the underside vein pulse and squirm. The fingers of her left hand placed on his right pectoral for balance-the index finger and thumb sought out and pinched the nipple sternly. She kissed his lips lovingly, then lightly bit his ear. Tasting herself on him, she whispered, kissing and biting as she did so.

"You did so well. You lit fires inside me. Congratulations on passing the first gate. Now you must confront the second. You must keep yourself from orgasm as I play with you. If you can do that, if you can refrain from coming again, I'll let you go. If you can't, if I bring you to climax, then...?"

The thought left unfinished for a second, he was sensed thinking it through. Her hand beginning to work slightly faster, the point underlined, she began speaking now more in the language of touch and impression. Moving her face to his chest, to the same nipple she'd touched, she took it in her teeth, pulled teasingly, then let it go.

She breathed her ultimatum.

"If you can't, I'll kill you as if I were crushing a bug beneath my shoe."

He wheezed softly.

"God, no."

Planting kisses from pectoral to the ridges of his abdomen, lowering herself as she did so, her breasts brushing his thighs, she assumed a more advantageous crouch between his legs. Her right hand increased pressure, she concentrating her ministrations on the hub. She bent over its protrusion, released a long string of saliva onto the head to lessen friction. She stroked harder, faster, feeling him rise and purge, feeling his buttocks tighten and then relax.

Gifting him a hot, smoking, famished look, a look of predation-a defiler 's satisfied and uncompromising look-she used the fingers of her left hand to lightly fondle his testicles. In his features she saw hope and fatigue, an empty courage that kept collapsing as would a sand castle under crashing surf. His eyes squinted in irritation, stung by the sweat on his brow. His teeth gritted and relaxed, the tension in cheek and chin contorting his jaw. Breathing harder, the race run again, she began reading his thoughts, as plain on his face as the sun in a cloudless sky.

He was exhausted, having just completed so explosively. Surely, tired as he was, used up and frightened, he wouldn't come again. Not now. Might his own fatigue present a way out?

His mind grasping at phantoms, attempting to divert himself from the stirring between his legs, trying to dampen imagination and stimulation, Charlotte knew it was hopeless. His trust in illusions unfounded, between the potent serum she'd injected into him and her own irresistible technique, he didn't stand a chance. Having stepped onto her web, he was trapped, his end inevitable, his obliteration preordained from the moment the clacking of her heels possessed the room...from the moment she'd first laid eyes on him.

His vacant hope? It was nothing more than a mirage increasing the weight of his downfall.

She stroked with more intensity now, her fingers giving and taking pleasure. Feeling him twist under her, the victory he'd entertained crumbled before his eyes. Defeated, feeling the breaking point approach, she then slowed, not wanting to end it too quickly, wanting the man dying of thirst to reach for an offered glass of water. Relief pressed into his mouth, an escape opened its door. She could see him thinking, if I can only hold out.

Once she'd given him this, however, once she'd offered him life, in an act of spitefulness thrilling her, she took it away. Spitting on his cock again, she increased the speed of her strokes, centered them on the shaft's upper portion. He begged for reprieve, knowing the abyss was close.

"No. Please. Stop. Please."

His disgraceful expectation, his pitiable limitations, his succumbing to her dominance...all this ignited combustions between her legs once more. It came on quickly, caught her by surprise, constructed itself out of deeply hidden passion. A building tide of warmth and wetness, a velvety rush, she pushed to have them meet together.

Though her eyes were savage, though a hunter's snarl pressed into her lips, her next words were tender and truthful.

"Oh darling. Can't you see how much I love you?"

After the phrase was spoken her right hand moved even faster. With frenetic energy her palm whipped him in a visceral blur. At the same time she moved her left hand under the curve between his buttocks. Seeking the rectum, finding it, she shoved an index finger, the perfectly buffed nail first, deep and hard. Sinking to the second knuckle, it plunged between unreceptive tissue.

Though the move was decisive, though it incensed him like the flicking of a switch, it was Charlotte's manipulative declaration of fondness, her counterfeit adoration that pushed him over the precipice. Screaming in pain and surprise, the primitiveness in his voice, the abandon and rawness of strangling need caught her out. As susceptible to emotion's fabrication as he was, they both raged together, they both burst against themselves. A long pearly ribbon erupted from his purple and swollen head, while a devastating, trembling shudder shook her as if she were a rag doll.

Charlotte kept stroking under the influence of her gratification, milking the final pudding-like drops from her victim as she breathed deeply, triumphant and all commanding. With parted teeth she regarded the vanquished sufferer, saw him staring back at her in terror. Lungs still pulling at themselves, betrayed by his own potent and gluttonous body, his own need for affectionate connection-hollow as that was-his demeanor collapsed. Eyes wide and distressed, conquered and done in, his mind reduced to basics, he spoke.

"I'll give you anything you want. Anything. Just...let me go."

The spirit of his phrasing reset Charlotte's imagination. A new image overcame her now, her last job. Occurring three months before, framed within it she then seduced a different target in the bar of a high-end New Delhi hotel. A former Indian beauty queen, crowned Miss Subcontinent several years before, she'd enjoyed a brief film career before founding one of the largest cosmetic conglomerates in South Asia. Made arrogant by her stunning looks, voluptuous body and acute business expertise, she'd unwisely refused to make payments promised to Charlotte's client in exchange for protecting expansion into Korea and Japan. An unforgiving lesson was thus demanded of her.

In a penthouse suite overlooking the city, they'd made sensuous playgrounds of each other, touching, kissing, licking, and probing. Tasting each other, leveraging tongues and other devices, glee and frenzied typhoons of orgasm were inspired. When Charlotte finally made herself known, when she'd announced her prey's sin, when she'd pulled the silenced small caliber pistol from underneath the mattress, her lover, still wearing high heels and a cream bra and panty combo complimenting the porcelain of her flawless skin, fell to her knees on a tiger skin rug in entreaty, raised her hands in nervous surrender.

Entitled wunderkind turned pauper, she made final appeals.

"Darling. Please. Don't do this. Let me live. I'll give you anything. Money. Power. Fame. Influence. My tongue and my pussy. My nipples and my naughty bung hole. All yours. Precious amour. Just let me live."

Unmoved, Charlotte answered with two slugs to a belly made razor tight, and then one to a magnificent left breast. The impacts wrenching the supplicant to the floor, the punches forcing grunts of astonishment from her lungs, her spine was arched in agony and her shapely legs flailed for a hold that wasn't there. Clutching her wounds in disbelief, blood flowed through perfectly manicured fingernails. Imperious millionairess to the end, through cherry tinged spittle she scolded as if her executioner were an errant servant.

"You can't...do this. You can't."

Charlotte finished her with a single round under the chin.

Anything you want.

Back in the warehouse, unfinished concrete replacing the furnishings of exclusive lodging, Charlotte now wiped her hand on the knee of her prey. Rising from between him, she glided to the chair holding the Beretta. Lifting it in her hand, taking aim at the vulnerable and twitching navel, she wondered why they didn't know, why they couldn't see. The offers and the pleading. The prayers and the bargaining. She wouldn't be swayed by any of this. On her no holds were made. For Charlotte, it was the kill lived for. The authority and supremacy and inevitability of viciously applied endings.
The joint of her finger resting on the trigger's icy crescent, testing the give in its spring, the objective of the hour made one last teary petition.

"Have mercy. I beg you. Have mercy."

In response Charlotte's lips parted, her breathing slowed, and her eyes closed. Suddenly and acutely aware of her body, from bottom to top she made inventory, drank in her own substance. Displayed in her mind's eye were feet mounted in expensive shoes, her toenails painted and buffed. Dapper and sporty legs sheathed in stylish nylon, elegant calves and graceful thighs were generously stained. Coupled at her hips, her rounded buttocks and pelvis challenged the skimpiness of her still disheveled panty.

Spine and ribs flexible and giving, she stretched in lush triumph, glorious breasts at war with the corset's entrapment. Her shoulders and arms and hands attractive and sensual, were equally capable of arousing yearning or mashing the cartilage of a rival's throat. Her neck and chin and cheeks unified dazzling aspects of a refined English womanhood. The hair atop her head furled itself in gorgeous and healthy excess.

She felt her heart beat in her chest and her lungs expand to draw in gulps of air. Her smell and sweat and look and ferocious vigor. The life she had and the life she stole from others.

Opening her eyes, bringing them into focus, the same unbending disciplines were climbed.
She spoke with wicked conclusiveness.
"Didn't I tell you, lover? I don't deal in mercy."

After Charlotte towelled herself off, after she dried the perspiration saturating her body, she straightened her lingerie and then quickly dressed. Replacing the soiled nylons with a fresh pair she always carried, stepping back into the trench coat and shoes, she resumed the role of an eye-catching socialite. Compact removed from the clutch, her makeup and hair-which she left down-were checked in its mirror. Tidying up, she wiped over-ripe lipstick away. A dignified swath of pinkish hue was reapplied.

When done with her lips, she looked back at him in wintry conclusion. He'd ejaculated again as she killed him. The trigger pulled with her usual calm mastery, his cock had thrown off its ultimate spurt as the first bullet met his abdomen. His mouth opened, he twisted forward, wrenched his head in anguish. A squeal escaped his throat, the sound of an animal being butchered. She'd fired three more times, each bullet higher than the one before it. The smell of gunpowder in her nose, the snap of the repressed discharge in her ear, the slide's recoil jolting her hand, the tinkle of spent shell casings hitting the floor. Spasms wracked his body each time, the unthinking reaction to lethal trauma. Enjoying the show, she'd ended it with a shot between the eyes.

His body reposed in demise, his vacant eyes inspecting oblivion, she'd dropped the pistol under his chair. The phone and syringe too. When the cleaners arrived to bleach the scene and burn the body-later to be sunk forever in the Everglades-the unwanted weapon and other equipment would be disposed of. She looked over the space one more time, shaded by darkness as the sun set outside. Coolly checking for loose ends that might incriminate her, she found none. The fact freed her mind to decisively turn the page, to move on to next job.

After stopping at a safehouse to shower and change, she would drive to the airport. She would fly to Hong Kong. Already briefed, she'd studied photography before coming here. A Russian SVR Major, a stunning undercover operative under fashion model cover. In Dutch-boy haircut and seductive cocktail dress slit high on the side, the next target intrigued her.

Indulging impiety, anticipating delight, the assassin Charlotte exited the deserted warehouse slowly, the clicking of her stiletto heels on rough concrete beating time like a ticking clock.