CHILDREN SHOULDN'T PLAY WITH DEAD MEN
Guy parked the venom green Porsche Carrera 4S Cabriolet convertible and dropped a breath mint
into his mouth. Sepp reached behind him and picked up the baseball bat from the back seat, a
metal Louisville Slugger. The baseball bat had been a gift to Sepp from his older brother on his
sixteenth birthday and it was dented and scratched and worn from breaking many noses and
kneecaps and shins and it was also stained with dry blood.
If this pace keeps up we'll need to hire another hit man, Guy thought to himself as he pulled the
keys out of the ignition. Things are more hectic now than they've ever been. The lending business
is fiercer than ever. All these layoffs in this shit economy in this shit town have brought a new class
of cash-strapped money-hungry clientèle to our door. Bad for the straights, good for us. We've
still got our regulars of course, people we've lent to forever. We'll always have them, our core base
of customers, folks who've always been with us and who always will be with us. But the mass
layoffs have produced a rash of crybaby newbies looking for quick cash. The rush is on and it
requires plenty of additional legwork for Sepp and me. We're dealing with a flash flood influx of
first timers, laid off employees from every walk of life, factory workers with families to support,
businesspeople caught in the downturn with elaborate lifestyles to finance, lifestyles they can't
afford any longer. Yeah, business is better than ever.
Guy checked out the time on his Cartier Tank watch. The thing with these newcomers is they
don't know us and we don't know them, he reminded himself. And since they've never done
business with us they don't know the guidelines. Not yet anyway. So we have to teach 'em the
rules, whether they like it or not. And if they forget those rules and need to be reminded of them
then we remind of the rules.
The first rule is as follows: Little children shouldn't play with dead men. Dead men like me and
Sepp.
Wearing a single-breasted, two-piece, three-button, extra fine, black, pin stripe Italian-made Super
150, Guy, fifty-five and at the peak of his masculine powers, straightened the silk tie of his tailored
suit and reflexively felt to make sure his silver star-shaped cuff links were fastened. Then he put
his gold key chain in the right pocket of his jacket and checked to see if the parking meter had
expired. It had, so he stuffed a couple of coins into it.
Sepp, boyishly twenty-three years old and loving every minute of it, wore a single-breasted, three
piece, vested, three button, extra fine, brown Italian Super 150 with gold cuff links monogrammed
with his initials, SP. Sepp looked down at the mobile phone in his hand and thumbed through his
texts from his many girlfriends.
A full day's work ahead of them, the two impeccably dressed businessmen stepped out of the
Porsche Carrera and walked across the lanes of the busy city street with fury and panache.
These two dead men were style and ice. Black ice. The kind that causes serious fatalities and
severe carnage on the street. Mechanized soldiers of death serving an underworld dynasty of illicit
finance and trade. They never lose. Tailored and cut white-collar trash flush with dirty money and
bad attitudes and the ever-present winning hand.
“Ah, Michelle's left me a text,” Sepp said.
“Michelle's such a tart,” quipped Guy. “You can do better than that harlot.”
“Sure she's a tart,” Sepp answered. “But she's a tart with character. Whatta ya got against tarts
anyway? Tarts are to be eaten. They taste good.”
“Lollipops taste good too, kid,” said Guy. “You won't see me eating none of those neither.”
The two suits walked up the steps of the rundown old building on Hard Attack and Vine and
entered through the front doorway. They stood and waited in the lobby for the elevator to arrive.
After a minute or two the elevator doors parted open and the two suits took it upstairs. When the
doors opened they stepped out of the elevator and walked down the seedy hallway.
“You wanna fuck with a man you go to his home,” Guy said thoughtfully to Sepp, teaching him the
ins and outs of the collections trade. “You fuck with him where he lives. Messes with his sense of
personal security. But if you really want to fuck with someone you go to his home when the wife
or girlfriend is all alone and you pay her a visit. You slap her around, wake her up, alert her that
her old man's in some real serious shit. But before you start hitting you make like you're coming on
to her, flatter the shit right outta her, get all personal with her and ask her a bunch of questions
about the relationship and how he's treating her in bed. Game playing like that throws 'em off
balance. Then you smack her and tell her to expect another visit if her old man doesn't pay what
he owes. Of course when the husband or boyfriend comes home he's gotta deal with his bitch
being all hysterical and crazy on him on top of dealing with his debt woes. Now that really messes
with the ego and comfort zone.”
“We going to Big Rob's home?” Sepp asked casually.
“Not today,” Guy said. “We ain't got time today.”
Sepp held his Louisville Slugger baseball bat firmly in his hand as the two stone cold men of ice
approached the door in the hallway they were looking for.
S.S. STANDS FOR SEX SLAVE
Paris lay comfortably on the futon while Britney gently rocked her, fucking her with the rubber
dildo strapped to her waist. She moaned with pleasure with every pelvic thrust from Britney's wide
hips. Britney could tell something was up with her new girlfriend. Paris was taking a way long time
to come. Way too long. Maybe it was all the Bloody Mary's they drank the night before at
Smokin' Joey Vincent's nightclub that had her feeling blue.
“Are you getting close to orgasm?” Britney asked.
“Yes,” Paris purred. “I'm almost there.”
It wasn't the alcohol that had Paris in a funk. Something else was bothering her and making her
quasi-frigid. She couldn't concentrate on having an orgasm because she had a dark cloud of fear
hanging over her and she wasn't sure what she should do. Everyone had always loved Paris San
Lorenzo. Of course they did, she was Paris after all. Until now she hadn't ever met anyone who
wanted to do her harm. She'd never ever been hit with a nasty surprise like this one before.
The scorching morning sun had come up over the Hollywood hills and Paris and Britney were still
dizzy and drunk from the clubbing and hadn't slept at all. They'd left Joey Vincent's nightclub at 4
a.m. in Paris' red Corvette Stingray and they drove to the upscale Hollywood loft they shared.
Talking led to touching which led to sex and then they'd ended up on the futon together.
Paris tried to enjoy Britney's gentle thrusts of the humongous rubber cock into her vagina. It did
feel good. Yet all she could think about was the 10 a.m. deadline fast approaching. Her mind spun
through her weird situation. She turned her beautiful head to the side as Britney banged her and
looked at the time on the clock radio. 8:05 a.m. Her long, perfect legs spread wide open for
Britney, Paris closed her eyes and tried to come. All that came was worry. She considered her
options. Option number one was wait here for another couple of hours for Joey's men to show up
and allow them to take me where I don't want to go. Or option number two is to get the fuck out
of here and dodge the bullet and hide out somewhere till Joey cools off. And hopefully he'll cool
off sometime soon.
How did I wind up in this crazy predicament? Paris wondered. Why did I let this happen? It's my
aspiration that did it, my ambition that did me in; my blind, blond unswerving ambition. Two years
ago I was this child, a starving small-town runaway from a Minnesota suburb who took the
Greyhound bus to the big city of Los Angeles and in two years of working it not hard but working it
smarter than a genius I made the ultimate fantasy happen. I traded on my looks and I worked it to
the bone like a pro. I was so unbelievably pro I made Heidi Fleiss look like an amateur. I used the
beautiful perfection of my hot body like an investment banker uses his hot millions. I even learned
to speak like California high class money. And it worked! Success! I won and all my dreams
came true: Great sex and easy cash and exotic vacations anywhere in the world and a powerful,
wealthy sugar daddy who set me up in this million dollar Hollywood loft with Britney.
So how did I become the girlfriend of Smokin' Joey Vincent, a two-faced fuckin' shit who's a liar
and a pimp who treats his women like dirt and doesn't deserve me? Come on. I've been attracted
to the rough and rowdy types all my life. They're more interesting, that's all. Put me in any
downtown club and I'll end up going home with the toughest Vin Diesel-type guy in the room.
When I was sixteen in junior high my boyfriend was this thirty-five year old drug dealer who drove
a Mercedes and sold dope to the high school meth freaks. Mom and dad were disgusted and they
forbade me from going out with him. So it was the finger and see you later to mom and dad. I've
always been attracted to bad boys. I can't help it. They turn me on. They're much more fun than
the straight and narrow boys. And here in Hollywood the outlaws are the crème de la crème of bad
boys, the baddest of the bad. Hollywood Outlaws. Hollywood Outlaws like Smokin' Joey Vincent.
Britney smiled and Paris felt her slip the strap-on out of her cunt. Britney unbuckled the dildo from
her waist and placed it on the floor beside her. Then Britney crawled backwards and went down
onto the floor on her knees.
“What are you doing?” Paris asked.
“I'm going to eat you out till you come for me, girlfriend,” Britney said.
Going down on Paris, Britney put her head between her thighs and she kissed the envelope of Paris'
shaved pussy. Then with the fingers of her left hand she parted Paris' cunny lips and she used her
tongue to lick Paris' vagina, moistening it with her saliva. Britney stroked the groove of Paris' cunt
and stuck her tongue as far down her hole as possible. Then she kissed Paris' clit and flicked it and
lapped it incessantly with her tongue. Britney had turned on Paris' faucet. Britney's nose and chin
and lips where soon drenched in a liquid torrent of the most incredibly succulent pussy juice that
poured out of Paris' cunt.
“Mmmmmm,” Paris moaned, her face all contorted and twisted with the expression of immense
physical rapture. “That's it. Keep doing what you're doing to my clitoris with your tongue.”
Paris pushed her pelvis and hips into Britney's face and she grabbed hold of the fabric of the futon
mattress with the long fingers of her clenched fists. Britney's entire face -- her nose and her mouth
-- was sunk deep into Paris' burning, sodden vagina. The tickling sensation originating from Paris'
clitoris took hold in Paris' labia and loins and finally she was able to come. Her sexy body rippled
with her orgasm and she shot a river of cum juice into Britney's already drenched face.
Britney wiped Paris' nectar from her sweet face and she picked up the dripping dildo from the floor
and handed it to her sex partner and the two girls traded places. Paris strapped on the sex
implement and Britney lay down on the soft mattress of the futon underneath her. Britney parted
her milky-white legs and Paris took hold of the dildo jutting out of her abdomen and put it to the
lips of Britney's vagina and then she gradually pushed the eight inches of it into Britney's slippery
cunt and started pumping her.
“Mmmmm,” Britney groaned, taking in the waves of ecstasy Paris was giving her with every stroke
of the rubber dong. “Hit it, baby. Hit my pussy.”
As Paris banged Britney she thought about what had happened Thursday night. She remembered
how Joey had pulled a crazy on her at the club. He'd produced a small jewelry box from his pocket
and gave it to her and told her to open it. She thought maybe it was the engagement ring that she'd
been waiting for forever. She opened it. A beautiful pendant on a necklace -- all silver. Then
she'd taken a closer look at the pendant and saw the two letters engraved into it, S and S. She
asked Joey what the letters stood for. He said that she was his girl and as his girl she was a
member of a very special elite group, a secret service. Thus the engraving stands for . . . Secret
Service!
“Oh that feels sooo good,” Britney said. “Ram it into me hard till I come.”
What a pile of garbage, Paris thought to herself as she pushed deep into Britney's juicy pussy with
the rubber phallus. Joey used to call me his 'little peanut' but what he really meant was his 'little sex
slave'. That's what the S.S. really stood for, for Sex Slave. Apparently when you sign on to be
Smokin' Joey Vincent's girlfriend you're also signing on to be a comfort girl for him and his brothers
and the rest of his entire team. The secret service Joey was talking about is his Secret Squadron of
Sex Slaves.
“Fuck me! Fuck me deeper with that thing!” Britney cried, staring down at the dildo plunging into
her twat through the gap between the mounds of her full, shapely tits. “Fuck me raw, Paris! Fuck
my brains out! Screw me senseless like only you can!”
Well I won't be anybody's damned sex slave, Paris declared to herself as she rammed the dildo into
Britney as hard and as deep as she could. I made that exceedingly clear to Joey when I poured his
gin and tonic over his head and kicked him in the balls. He won't be able to have sex with anyone
for at least a month, including with his wife. I'm nobody's sex slave. He comes on to me like I'm
the frickin' Queen of Egypt and he buys me a Corvette and moves me into this amazing loft (the
view is spectacularly unbelievable) and now he thinks he's going to take it all away from me and let
another one of his whore-girlfriends move in here? Into my place??? I can't believe he'd do that to
me. HELLO! NOBODY FUCKING DOES THAT TO PARIS SAN LORENZO!!! NOBODY!!!
“OHHHHH YESSS YESSS YESSS, I'M COMING!!!” Britney wailed. She climaxed with an
explosive intensity.
Paris withdrew from Britney and the sexy young lady sat lifeless like a wax doll on the futon.
Glowing and red-faced, Britney got up to find something to eat from the kitchen fridge.
“I'm hungry,” Britney said. “Like me to get you something?”
“No thanks,” Paris answered, her mind absent and elsewhere.
Britney left for the kitchen. Paris thought about it and then she made her final decision. She was a
survivor who'd fought the odds and persevered and who'd used her cunning and beauty to get
where she now was. She wasn't a woman to be pushed around by anyone and she wasn't going to
give up easy and be here when Joey's thugs showed up at 10 a.m. Paris dragged her suitcase out of
the closet and opened her drawers and started stuffing the suitcase up with clothes. Then she
retrieved her purse and dug out her cell phone and punched in the number to call Ming's place in
Burbank. Paris listened to the phone ring on the other end.
“Come on, pick up the phone,” Paris said aloud to herself impatiently. “Pick up the phone.”
Paris held her breath waiting then she exhaled a big sigh and relaxed when she heard Ming answer
her call.
Guy parked the venom green Porsche Carrera 4S Cabriolet convertible and dropped a breath mint
into his mouth. Sepp reached behind him and picked up the baseball bat from the back seat, a
metal Louisville Slugger. The baseball bat had been a gift to Sepp from his older brother on his
sixteenth birthday and it was dented and scratched and worn from breaking many noses and
kneecaps and shins and it was also stained with dry blood.
If this pace keeps up we'll need to hire another hit man, Guy thought to himself as he pulled the
keys out of the ignition. Things are more hectic now than they've ever been. The lending business
is fiercer than ever. All these layoffs in this shit economy in this shit town have brought a new class
of cash-strapped money-hungry clientèle to our door. Bad for the straights, good for us. We've
still got our regulars of course, people we've lent to forever. We'll always have them, our core base
of customers, folks who've always been with us and who always will be with us. But the mass
layoffs have produced a rash of crybaby newbies looking for quick cash. The rush is on and it
requires plenty of additional legwork for Sepp and me. We're dealing with a flash flood influx of
first timers, laid off employees from every walk of life, factory workers with families to support,
businesspeople caught in the downturn with elaborate lifestyles to finance, lifestyles they can't
afford any longer. Yeah, business is better than ever.
Guy checked out the time on his Cartier Tank watch. The thing with these newcomers is they
don't know us and we don't know them, he reminded himself. And since they've never done
business with us they don't know the guidelines. Not yet anyway. So we have to teach 'em the
rules, whether they like it or not. And if they forget those rules and need to be reminded of them
then we remind of the rules.
The first rule is as follows: Little children shouldn't play with dead men. Dead men like me and
Sepp.
Wearing a single-breasted, two-piece, three-button, extra fine, black, pin stripe Italian-made Super
150, Guy, fifty-five and at the peak of his masculine powers, straightened the silk tie of his tailored
suit and reflexively felt to make sure his silver star-shaped cuff links were fastened. Then he put
his gold key chain in the right pocket of his jacket and checked to see if the parking meter had
expired. It had, so he stuffed a couple of coins into it.
Sepp, boyishly twenty-three years old and loving every minute of it, wore a single-breasted, three
piece, vested, three button, extra fine, brown Italian Super 150 with gold cuff links monogrammed
with his initials, SP. Sepp looked down at the mobile phone in his hand and thumbed through his
texts from his many girlfriends.
A full day's work ahead of them, the two impeccably dressed businessmen stepped out of the
Porsche Carrera and walked across the lanes of the busy city street with fury and panache.
These two dead men were style and ice. Black ice. The kind that causes serious fatalities and
severe carnage on the street. Mechanized soldiers of death serving an underworld dynasty of illicit
finance and trade. They never lose. Tailored and cut white-collar trash flush with dirty money and
bad attitudes and the ever-present winning hand.
“Ah, Michelle's left me a text,” Sepp said.
“Michelle's such a tart,” quipped Guy. “You can do better than that harlot.”
“Sure she's a tart,” Sepp answered. “But she's a tart with character. Whatta ya got against tarts
anyway? Tarts are to be eaten. They taste good.”
“Lollipops taste good too, kid,” said Guy. “You won't see me eating none of those neither.”
The two suits walked up the steps of the rundown old building on Hard Attack and Vine and
entered through the front doorway. They stood and waited in the lobby for the elevator to arrive.
After a minute or two the elevator doors parted open and the two suits took it upstairs. When the
doors opened they stepped out of the elevator and walked down the seedy hallway.
“You wanna fuck with a man you go to his home,” Guy said thoughtfully to Sepp, teaching him the
ins and outs of the collections trade. “You fuck with him where he lives. Messes with his sense of
personal security. But if you really want to fuck with someone you go to his home when the wife
or girlfriend is all alone and you pay her a visit. You slap her around, wake her up, alert her that
her old man's in some real serious shit. But before you start hitting you make like you're coming on
to her, flatter the shit right outta her, get all personal with her and ask her a bunch of questions
about the relationship and how he's treating her in bed. Game playing like that throws 'em off
balance. Then you smack her and tell her to expect another visit if her old man doesn't pay what
he owes. Of course when the husband or boyfriend comes home he's gotta deal with his bitch
being all hysterical and crazy on him on top of dealing with his debt woes. Now that really messes
with the ego and comfort zone.”
“We going to Big Rob's home?” Sepp asked casually.
“Not today,” Guy said. “We ain't got time today.”
Sepp held his Louisville Slugger baseball bat firmly in his hand as the two stone cold men of ice
approached the door in the hallway they were looking for.
S.S. STANDS FOR SEX SLAVE
Paris lay comfortably on the futon while Britney gently rocked her, fucking her with the rubber
dildo strapped to her waist. She moaned with pleasure with every pelvic thrust from Britney's wide
hips. Britney could tell something was up with her new girlfriend. Paris was taking a way long time
to come. Way too long. Maybe it was all the Bloody Mary's they drank the night before at
Smokin' Joey Vincent's nightclub that had her feeling blue.
“Are you getting close to orgasm?” Britney asked.
“Yes,” Paris purred. “I'm almost there.”
It wasn't the alcohol that had Paris in a funk. Something else was bothering her and making her
quasi-frigid. She couldn't concentrate on having an orgasm because she had a dark cloud of fear
hanging over her and she wasn't sure what she should do. Everyone had always loved Paris San
Lorenzo. Of course they did, she was Paris after all. Until now she hadn't ever met anyone who
wanted to do her harm. She'd never ever been hit with a nasty surprise like this one before.
The scorching morning sun had come up over the Hollywood hills and Paris and Britney were still
dizzy and drunk from the clubbing and hadn't slept at all. They'd left Joey Vincent's nightclub at 4
a.m. in Paris' red Corvette Stingray and they drove to the upscale Hollywood loft they shared.
Talking led to touching which led to sex and then they'd ended up on the futon together.
Paris tried to enjoy Britney's gentle thrusts of the humongous rubber cock into her vagina. It did
feel good. Yet all she could think about was the 10 a.m. deadline fast approaching. Her mind spun
through her weird situation. She turned her beautiful head to the side as Britney banged her and
looked at the time on the clock radio. 8:05 a.m. Her long, perfect legs spread wide open for
Britney, Paris closed her eyes and tried to come. All that came was worry. She considered her
options. Option number one was wait here for another couple of hours for Joey's men to show up
and allow them to take me where I don't want to go. Or option number two is to get the fuck out
of here and dodge the bullet and hide out somewhere till Joey cools off. And hopefully he'll cool
off sometime soon.
How did I wind up in this crazy predicament? Paris wondered. Why did I let this happen? It's my
aspiration that did it, my ambition that did me in; my blind, blond unswerving ambition. Two years
ago I was this child, a starving small-town runaway from a Minnesota suburb who took the
Greyhound bus to the big city of Los Angeles and in two years of working it not hard but working it
smarter than a genius I made the ultimate fantasy happen. I traded on my looks and I worked it to
the bone like a pro. I was so unbelievably pro I made Heidi Fleiss look like an amateur. I used the
beautiful perfection of my hot body like an investment banker uses his hot millions. I even learned
to speak like California high class money. And it worked! Success! I won and all my dreams
came true: Great sex and easy cash and exotic vacations anywhere in the world and a powerful,
wealthy sugar daddy who set me up in this million dollar Hollywood loft with Britney.
So how did I become the girlfriend of Smokin' Joey Vincent, a two-faced fuckin' shit who's a liar
and a pimp who treats his women like dirt and doesn't deserve me? Come on. I've been attracted
to the rough and rowdy types all my life. They're more interesting, that's all. Put me in any
downtown club and I'll end up going home with the toughest Vin Diesel-type guy in the room.
When I was sixteen in junior high my boyfriend was this thirty-five year old drug dealer who drove
a Mercedes and sold dope to the high school meth freaks. Mom and dad were disgusted and they
forbade me from going out with him. So it was the finger and see you later to mom and dad. I've
always been attracted to bad boys. I can't help it. They turn me on. They're much more fun than
the straight and narrow boys. And here in Hollywood the outlaws are the crème de la crème of bad
boys, the baddest of the bad. Hollywood Outlaws. Hollywood Outlaws like Smokin' Joey Vincent.
Britney smiled and Paris felt her slip the strap-on out of her cunt. Britney unbuckled the dildo from
her waist and placed it on the floor beside her. Then Britney crawled backwards and went down
onto the floor on her knees.
“What are you doing?” Paris asked.
“I'm going to eat you out till you come for me, girlfriend,” Britney said.
Going down on Paris, Britney put her head between her thighs and she kissed the envelope of Paris'
shaved pussy. Then with the fingers of her left hand she parted Paris' cunny lips and she used her
tongue to lick Paris' vagina, moistening it with her saliva. Britney stroked the groove of Paris' cunt
and stuck her tongue as far down her hole as possible. Then she kissed Paris' clit and flicked it and
lapped it incessantly with her tongue. Britney had turned on Paris' faucet. Britney's nose and chin
and lips where soon drenched in a liquid torrent of the most incredibly succulent pussy juice that
poured out of Paris' cunt.
“Mmmmmm,” Paris moaned, her face all contorted and twisted with the expression of immense
physical rapture. “That's it. Keep doing what you're doing to my clitoris with your tongue.”
Paris pushed her pelvis and hips into Britney's face and she grabbed hold of the fabric of the futon
mattress with the long fingers of her clenched fists. Britney's entire face -- her nose and her mouth
-- was sunk deep into Paris' burning, sodden vagina. The tickling sensation originating from Paris'
clitoris took hold in Paris' labia and loins and finally she was able to come. Her sexy body rippled
with her orgasm and she shot a river of cum juice into Britney's already drenched face.
Britney wiped Paris' nectar from her sweet face and she picked up the dripping dildo from the floor
and handed it to her sex partner and the two girls traded places. Paris strapped on the sex
implement and Britney lay down on the soft mattress of the futon underneath her. Britney parted
her milky-white legs and Paris took hold of the dildo jutting out of her abdomen and put it to the
lips of Britney's vagina and then she gradually pushed the eight inches of it into Britney's slippery
cunt and started pumping her.
“Mmmmm,” Britney groaned, taking in the waves of ecstasy Paris was giving her with every stroke
of the rubber dong. “Hit it, baby. Hit my pussy.”
As Paris banged Britney she thought about what had happened Thursday night. She remembered
how Joey had pulled a crazy on her at the club. He'd produced a small jewelry box from his pocket
and gave it to her and told her to open it. She thought maybe it was the engagement ring that she'd
been waiting for forever. She opened it. A beautiful pendant on a necklace -- all silver. Then
she'd taken a closer look at the pendant and saw the two letters engraved into it, S and S. She
asked Joey what the letters stood for. He said that she was his girl and as his girl she was a
member of a very special elite group, a secret service. Thus the engraving stands for . . . Secret
Service!
“Oh that feels sooo good,” Britney said. “Ram it into me hard till I come.”
What a pile of garbage, Paris thought to herself as she pushed deep into Britney's juicy pussy with
the rubber phallus. Joey used to call me his 'little peanut' but what he really meant was his 'little sex
slave'. That's what the S.S. really stood for, for Sex Slave. Apparently when you sign on to be
Smokin' Joey Vincent's girlfriend you're also signing on to be a comfort girl for him and his brothers
and the rest of his entire team. The secret service Joey was talking about is his Secret Squadron of
Sex Slaves.
“Fuck me! Fuck me deeper with that thing!” Britney cried, staring down at the dildo plunging into
her twat through the gap between the mounds of her full, shapely tits. “Fuck me raw, Paris! Fuck
my brains out! Screw me senseless like only you can!”
Well I won't be anybody's damned sex slave, Paris declared to herself as she rammed the dildo into
Britney as hard and as deep as she could. I made that exceedingly clear to Joey when I poured his
gin and tonic over his head and kicked him in the balls. He won't be able to have sex with anyone
for at least a month, including with his wife. I'm nobody's sex slave. He comes on to me like I'm
the frickin' Queen of Egypt and he buys me a Corvette and moves me into this amazing loft (the
view is spectacularly unbelievable) and now he thinks he's going to take it all away from me and let
another one of his whore-girlfriends move in here? Into my place??? I can't believe he'd do that to
me. HELLO! NOBODY FUCKING DOES THAT TO PARIS SAN LORENZO!!! NOBODY!!!
“OHHHHH YESSS YESSS YESSS, I'M COMING!!!” Britney wailed. She climaxed with an
explosive intensity.
Paris withdrew from Britney and the sexy young lady sat lifeless like a wax doll on the futon.
Glowing and red-faced, Britney got up to find something to eat from the kitchen fridge.
“I'm hungry,” Britney said. “Like me to get you something?”
“No thanks,” Paris answered, her mind absent and elsewhere.
Britney left for the kitchen. Paris thought about it and then she made her final decision. She was a
survivor who'd fought the odds and persevered and who'd used her cunning and beauty to get
where she now was. She wasn't a woman to be pushed around by anyone and she wasn't going to
give up easy and be here when Joey's thugs showed up at 10 a.m. Paris dragged her suitcase out of
the closet and opened her drawers and started stuffing the suitcase up with clothes. Then she
retrieved her purse and dug out her cell phone and punched in the number to call Ming's place in
Burbank. Paris listened to the phone ring on the other end.
“Come on, pick up the phone,” Paris said aloud to herself impatiently. “Pick up the phone.”
Paris held her breath waiting then she exhaled a big sigh and relaxed when she heard Ming answer
her call.
