Marquis De Sade
1st Level Blue Feather
- Joined
- Nov 21, 2007
- Messages
- 5,175
- Points
- 0
I shut the window to keep the silence out.
Went back to pacing. Then stopped. Realized my back-and-forth made the floorboards creak and that would give away my indecisiveness.
Stay away from windows.
This stuff was basic. Come on now. I can do better that that.
I’m in control.
I’m in control.
Breathe.
Fuck.
Pulled up a chair, took a seat. Sound of my cigarette case and lighter chimed like the mechanisms of my favorite guns.
Think.
Put the dry tip to my dry lips. My lungs caved in on themselves and fire burned right down to my stomach.
Then snaked its way back up again. Little cloud of smoke right above my head.
How fucking appropriate.
Phone set to Vibrate began doing just that.
Slid it open, said, “Charles Dickens.”
Recorded voice said, “Toblerone.”
Then the line went dead. Same sound as in my head.
Fuck.
Charles Dickens: Oliver Twist. Most quotable line is “Sir, can I have some more please.” More please. Means my plate is empty. Finished. I’m hungry.
Means the client has a bullet in her head and I expect to get paid as promised.
Toblerone: Swiss chocolate candy bar. Means my bank account has a new number with a much longer succession of zeros and commas at the end of it.
Last thing you said before I taped your mouth shut was, “I hope for your sake I don’t wake up.”
I smoothed the tape over your lips. Pressed the cloth against your face and watched as your eyes faded and your bones and muscles fell slack in your beautiful skin.
I’m in control.
Fuck.
Letting the Target live was not protocol. This is basic stuff. 101. I could. No. I will. Pay for this in one form or another.
Three hours, forty seven minutes and twenty eight seconds I’ll have to answer to The Cleaner.
Or snuff him.
Think.
That’ll create even bigger waves in the ocean of shit that I’ve already set in motion by letting you live.
You woke up screaming in your own ears. The tape over your mouth rising slightly as your voice tried to seep its way through the layers of heavy packing tape strapped tight across your lips, mouth and lower jaw before finally being sucked back in again by your own lungs.
I counted one, two, three, four and a half seconds before your eyes fully registered that you’d figured out what I’d done to you in your sleep. Four and a half seconds is a lifetime. You’ve been taken off guard Firefly.
I’m in control.
Your name, who you are and what you did in a past life is none of my concern. All I know is you’ve made a name for yourself in eleven and a half months and other businesses that contract out people like me and you saw you as a threat, a form of corporate takeover in a small enough market to want you eliminated.
I’m next in line to the best.
That’s you Firefly.
You’re better than all of us put together.
“Wakey wakey Firefly.”
“MMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!” Was your reply. Then a series of muffled shouts and curses in between every cold wet drop that splattered right onto your exposed crotch.
I’m in control.
Silly, naïve little girl. You have to earn your right to be among the elite. In eleven and a half months all you really managed to do was attract the kind of attention that makes my phone vibrate with information on:
WHO (Firefly)
WHERE (The Santa Fe Pearl Hotel and Casino)
WHEN (Check In: 3:17 AM Tues. Check Out: 12:00 PM Fri.)
HOW (Seduction. The Art of. I would find her. Fuck her. Then sink a pillow-silenced bullet into the side of her skull)
but never WHY.
Except in this case I could figure out the WHY on my own.
So fucking good at what you do, it wasn’t long before you started stealing clients from us.
From me.
Still, you’re the best at what we do. You finish the jobs faster, clean up better. Leave no trace or cause for any further investigation.
The company exec who tripped and fell down five flights of stairs breaking every bone in his body simply tripped and fell.
End of discussion.
The drug overdoses were always PR-silenced suicide attempts once the toxicology reports came back. There was never any need to drag the family’s shame out into the public spotlight.
You cleaned up well, Firefly. And so do I.
I want my title back.
I’m in control.
“Lie back Firefly. Get used to the rhythm. It won’t stop. Not for hours.”
You poor, sweet, beautiful creature. You weren’t trained for this sort of thing were you? Your dark eyes gleaming with fury. Your anatomy pulling and straining at the black lumps that formed around your wrists and ankles and spread you out across the bed.
Legs apart. Arms apart. Vulnerable. The large black mounds around each wrist and ankle were, “Nylon luggage straps Firefly, from your own suitcase.” And I held up my lighter.
You’re no fool Firefly. You put two and two together and screamed at me when you realized I’d tied you down and burned the ends and edges of the plastic straps so there were no knots for your beautiful fingers to reach for.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!” With every cold wet drop that splashed between your legs you crashed up. Then Down. Then up again and screamed at me.
In my profession, I’ve learned to snap someone’s neck using their bra-strap as I undress them.
The look on their faces still yearning to be fucked in the ass as they’re bagged up and loaded into the backs of unmarked vans.
Death by Sticky-Note is long, painful and messy but it’s no joke. It’s basically a two-hour long paper-cutting session.
In my profession, I’ve also learned that when faced with someone who exceeds you in every way, to simply use their own strength against them.
Your body arched up and you groaned deep. Your beautiful hands in beautiful fists. Your muscles bulging as you fought to avoid the frozen drips falling from the mirrored sky above your bed.
Each cold drop sizzling as it hit the warmth between your thighs. Your body stiff. Legs kicking. Wrenching at your ankles. Your beautiful middle shifting and squirming, slithering like a captured snake.
The ice cubes were from the champagne bucket. They were wrapped up in a small face towel tied at the top with curtain chord to form a little drawstring bag. The little dripping bag hanging from the light fixtures in the mirror above your bed.
The little bag centered right above your shaved crotch.
It had taken a while, but the bundled-up ice had finally begun to disagree with the room’s seventy five degree temperature twelve minutes before you stirred.
You lifted your head. The tape around your mouth billowing a few half inches away from your mouth as you screamed at me for letting you wake up.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The rhythm drove you mad.
I’m in control.
After the first hour you were pink and swollen. I watched from my chair. Watched you raise your beautiful hips up towards the drips. Your beautiful stretched-out nakedness lifted a few inches up off the mattress. Your glistening clit soaked in ice water or something else. I wasn’t close enough to tell.
You held your breath. I took in my third cigarette.
Drip.
You crashed down again, moaning and squirming.
I crushed my cigarette down to its filter, set my guns down in my place and walked over to you. Climbed up onto the bed with you.
Beautiful little mess you were Firefly. Your makeup mixed in with your tears and staining your cheeks with little rivers of mud.
Your beautiful breasts falling no either side of the rest of your body. Your nipples erect and wanting to be played with.
I straddled your waist. “Lights out Firefly.” And you screamed at me as I taped your eyes shut.
You squirmed. Hard underneath me. Your pleas muffled beneath the mounds of thick tape over your mouth.
Who’s in control, Firefly?
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I reached my hand around, careful not to shift my weight on top of you so you wouldn’t know.
And I caught one.
“MMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”
“Oh, I’m sorry sweetheart. Did I interrupt something?”
“MMMMMMMPPPPHHHHHHHHH – HHHHHHHUUUUMMMMMMMPPPPPHHHHHH” You were crying now. Poor sweet, beautiful snake.
“MMPPPpppppphhhhh.”
I let the ice drip three times more. Then caught the fourth. I smiled at your reaction.
“You knew who I was when I approached you at the bar, didn’t you?”
No response.
I let the ice drip eight times. Counting slow, wet splatters. I caught the ninth drip. Then the tenth. Then let the ice drip two more drips before catching the sixth and letting the seventh one spank you like the palm of a hand.
I let the eighth drip fall. Then kept my hand in place. The ice water filling my palm and rolling out of my hand and hitting the side of each thigh. Dribbling down your legs like your tears.
“You knew who I was when I approached you at the bar, didn’t you?”
You nodded your head. Moaning. Sobbing.
“Did you get a call?”
You shook your head.
“You knew you were marked though, yes or no?”
You nodded Yes. Breathing. Heavy. Your chest rising. Collapsing. Your sweat soaking the satin sheets.
“You know why I’m here, yes or no?”
You nodded Yes.
“And you planned on taking me out first, correct?”
You nodded Yes.
“Little bitch.” And I know you can hear me smiling at you. “You even knew how to get my attention, didn’t you?”
Beneath the tape, I can see you smile back at me. “Mmmmpphh.” I ask her, “Who told you about my little kink?”
You just smile.
Your body itself is a weapon of beautiful devastation. Whether synthetically engineered for perfection by your employees or kissed by the hand of God himself I’ll never know. But it’s enough to distract men like me long enough for you to pull the trigger in the half split second it takes for us to pull ourselves out of the darkened haze of our own hesitation.
I’m no fool Firefly, and neither are you. Not when we both play in the same muddy sandboxes others only read about or watch on TV. You knew exactly who I was when I approached you. I knew you were onto me. The moment you disarmed me by crossing your legs and letting your shoe slip off your bare heel.
Fucking tease.
I’m in control.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHH!! MMMMMMMPHHHHHHHHHHHH!!” “What’s wrong sweetheart, does that tickle?”
“MMMmmmMMpppHHhhHHH- HHHHHUUUUUUUUUAAAARRRRRRRMMMPPPPHHHHHHHH!!”
“Awwww,” I cooed. Playfully. My fingers slow and as gentle as my practiced trigger squeeze now trailing across the surface of your soft skin.
“MMMMMMMMMPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” You bouncing up and down under me. Screaming as I scratched at your perfect sides.
“MMMMMMPPPPPPP!!” Poor Firefly. Crying now. Shaking your head in misery as I explored every sensitive inch of beautiful you.
“Different sort of torture than I’m sure you’re used to.” I tell you. Then realize the stupidity of my own statement. You’ve never even been caught until now.
You’re the very best at what you do.
I tickle you harder.
You scream. You beg. You cry and bawl. You thrash up and down as my fingers poke through the cracks of your self-restraint. You buck as hard as you can trying to throw me off of you but I don’t stop. Frozen water above you drip, drip, dripping the whole time and driving you to the brink of hysteria.
I’m in control.
My fingers trace the outline of your navel. You circle your taut stomach in the opposite direction trying to negate the effect. I reach up and tickle the smooth skin of your armpits.
Poor little Firefly, lifting yourself up off the bed and twisting and wrenching at your own stretched form. Throwing your pretty head back and shrieking at me with every ice watered drop of strength, anger and fight you have left.
I experiment a little. Using just the very tips of each finger, I begin a gentle line from the top to the bottom of your ribs.
My touch so soft it b...re..a...ks co...nta...ct. Barely brushing against the soft bumps and low ridges of your delicate bones wrapped in your beautiful flawless skin.
You buried your head in your biceps and howl.
After the second hour you really were a mess Firefly. If only the recorded voices that pay you what you’re worth could see you now.
Standing where your bait hung off the edges of the bed, I kneeled down and examined your beautiful bare feet.
“Fucking weapons, these, aren’t they Firefly?” And you knew where I was now. Unsticking your wet hair from the pillow underneath you, you sobbed into your darkness.
I cupped the smooth tops of each perfectly formed bare foot with my palms and moved each one into whatever position I wanted.
Your feet flexed forward. Showing off your arches. Deep ones. The skin pale in contrast to the rest of your tan and without wrinkles.
A smooth, continuous curve upward to the balls of your feet and up where your toes spread apart.
Your feet were as beautiful as the rest of you Firefly.
I pointed them for you. Scrunching them up with my hand and made you whimper. Made you gasp as I held onto your left foot, kept all your toes pointed and dug a fingertip into the center of your sole. I dug deep and dragged my nail up your arch. Then paused. Held your foot back again and used five fingers now to drag up the ball of your foot, then down again. My fingers leaving pink trail marks.
“MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!” Your muffled shrieks must’ve deafened everything else in your head.
“What’s wrong Firefly, not so tough anymore?” You whimpered into your mummified lips. Shook your head. Sobbing. Hyperventilating.
“Little Miss Deadly Assassin doesn’t like having her feet played with does she?” I teased. Tickling her.
“MMMMPPPPPPPPPPPPHHHHHHHHHH!!” As I switched to your other sole. I left a pink trail along the inside of your soft arch.
I was close enough to see the light splattering of freckles in a little patch of skin where I was tickling.
“MMMMMPPHHHHHH-HHHHHMMMMMPPPPHHHH-UUUUUUUMMPPPPPPPPHHHH!!” As I clawed harder. Leaving red trail marks this time not pink.
I switched feet. Tickled your right foot.
I applied just the right amount of gentle pressure against the round bottom of your soft bare heel to keep your toes spread and I hooked a finger into all the little spaces between each one, sending you, poor little Firefly, into spasmodic wave after wave of tickled anguish. I switched feet. Did the same.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The rhythm drove you mad.
I’m in control.
Tickling you. Tickling your body. Taking over you. Telling you what to do and how to behave.
I want you to scream for me.
I squeeze your hips.
I want you to sob. Hard.
I leave trail marks on the inside of each thigh and tickle the backs of your soaked knees and squeeze the backs of your toned calves.
You sob. Harder than you ever have.
I’m in control.
I want you, dear Firefly, to cum again and again and again. I catch the melting ice water and confuse you.
You arch your lower body – grunting and groaning at me to not stop as I tickle your throbbing, dripping clit.
I want you to see past the tape over your eyes. See into the darkness of yourself and discover something new.
You seem to do just that as I kneel down again, beside these pedicured weapons of yours and tickle your feet.
Your weeping distracts me as I suck on your toes.
Who’s in control now, Firefly?
Epilogue:
You opened your eyes and blinked me into focus. You moaned deep into the heavy silencing mound of fresh tape over your lips.
I counted one, two, three, four, five, six, seven seconds until you realized what I’d done to you in your sleep.
Poor Firefly.
“Third time you blacked out,” I explained, kindly filling the gap of darkness in your memory for you, “I doubled the effects with another round of chloroform.”
Just like I’d done three hours and forty seven minutes ago after you first invited me up to your hotel room to fuck my brains out, then snap my neck.
“Just to be safe.” I explained. “I had to prep you for transport, Firefly.” And you moaned. Long, loud and miserable.
Sitting behind you, still on the bed, sucking on the toes of your perfect left foot and still gently tickling the soft sole of your right and making you twitch with every stroke, I felt you buck in your hogtie and cry out.
Switching feet and sucking hard on the toes of your right foot, I explain:
“I called in. Said Dickens. Far as everyone knows, you’re dead. I can either go through with the contract for real or I can take you home and keep you.”
Switching feet again, I say, “Sorta like a little sex pet.” And I smile. Still with your toes in my mouth.
You moan loud, flex your right foot in my mouth. “Fuckin’ weapons these, aren’t they?” I say and I caress both of them.
Listen to you moan. These are mine now Firefly.
I’m in control.
Wait.
Fuck.
Look at my watch.
Oh. Shit.
Three hours, forty seven minutes and twenty eight seconds I’ll have to answer to The Cleaner.
How many seconds...
Door bursts open. Cleaner stands. Smiles at you. I don’t see you Firefly, but I know you're smiling back at him.
My guns are still on the chair.
Red light fills my eyesight.
I follow the clear red beam back to the barrel of what he points at my head.
Fuck me.
You’re better than all of us put together Firefly.
You’re the best there is.
These are really, really fucking distracting.
I’m in cont...
Last edited:
