The worst part of waking up with a corpse and a hangover is forever wondering if they died before or after you fucked them.Balls Malone
By Balls Malone
When you think about it, figure skating is really based on who is able to showcase their taint in the most grandiose way.
I suppose you don’t have to think about it this way, but it makes it a lot more entertaining. Particularly when you’re watching in Japan and don’t really understand what the commentators are saying.
Announcer 1 (male), yelling:
“Ohhhhh!! Subarashi!” (translation: “Wow! What a taint!”)
Announcer 2 (female), breathlessly:
“Hai! So desu ne.” (translation: “Indeed! Nothing much left to the imagination in that play, Bob.”)
But we really should not allow the spectacle of the whole event distract us from just how much work these world-class athletes have put into preparing themselves for the competition. All those long, early mornings spent stretching out and limbering up their taints. All the hard falls on that unforgiving ice that have bruised those taints.
So I salute you and your taints, you intrepid purveyors of your intimate, inter-orifice treasure.
It really is a wonder of the modern age, this taints on ice.
“Do your best. Get out there, fuck today in the ass, and cut its throat.”
by Balls Malone
Big Bob had the silkiest anus in the village. It was big too. Like a bisected grapefruit. There might have been bigger anuses around, but none were so silky as Bob’s. That was something everyone could agree upon. Big, red, and silky; that was Bob.
Bob didn’t rest on his laurels, though. Not Bob. Why, he might have had the silkiest anus in the village, but that was just his steppingstone to true anal glory. It was Bob’s muscular control over his sphincter that made him the star that he was in these parts. Why, his bum-minstrel show at the county fair made him the talk far and wide.
It’s a curious thing, that one man would be so blessed in just that particular area. But it has been supposed that the attention and interest lavished on his orifice from an early age meant that he was encouraged to develop his athletic skills with it. Nature and nurture coming together in a happy confluence, if you will.
Whatever the reasons for it, Bob’s anus truly was a miracle. “Some grip!” folks would ejaculate at the fair, as they struggled to retrieve whatever objects they had paid Bob to show his skills with. Bob could also open and close that anus of his, like a toothless mouth, and would conduct a ventriloquist’s act: with a comical face painted on his behind and a straw hat propped on his lower back.
The fair was, of course, Bob’s bread and butter, but he got along okay in the village over the rest of the year. His shack backed up on Turtle Creek Lane. He cut a couple holes in the back wall: one big for his behind, and another small for a coffee can. When he heard the happy sound of coins falling in the can, Bob would present his ripe glory for his patron’s amusement. Whatever folks chose to do with Bob’s wonderful talents was their business. We aren’t the sort to pry into the affairs of others (unless, of course, we help them fill up their coffee can first).
Sadly, for all of us here, but especially Bob, some folks can’t leave well enough alone. A lawman from Town got it in his head that there was some kind of funny business going on with Bob. He came down to the village a couple weeks ago and shot poor Bob. Shot him dead right on his front stoop. Claimed that Bob came at him with an ax. It’s supposed this is probably true; since Bob had been working on a lumberjack routine for the fair, and the lawman shot him in the back. But Big Bob surely never meant the lawman any harm. He was probably just trying to lighten the mood. That was the kind of man Bob was.
Rest in peace, Big Bob. You brought joy to the lives of dozens, and will not be soon forgotten.
by Balls Malone
The location for the swimsuit edition shoot was truly lovely. Hedda had always been useless at place names, so she had no clue what any of it was called, but she was very taken with it.
The place was secluded; hundreds of kilometers up the coast, where the sandy beaches and rolling hills had given way to sheer, rocky cliffs and narrow pebble beaches. There were lush trees everywhere, affording a marvelous color pallet of greens to juxtapose the greys and blues of the stone, sea, and sky. With the women, the swimsuits, and the setting all being ideal, the only thing that could go wrong was the weather or the photographer.
The weather was fine.
As a photographer’s assistant, Lance was singularly useless at everything but the heavy lifting. The saving grace was that there was an awful lot of heavy lifting to do. The pebble beach they were on was only accessible by a very steep, rocky trail down a sheer cliff. Lance had pulled double duty with that: humping up and down the trail to carry the equipment cases, folding chairs, tarps, tents, and pavilions that the shoot required. However, when it came time to unpack and set up the equipment, it quickly became clear that he had no idea what he was doing. Even so, besides a few ruffled feathers among the other assistants over this, it did not cause any real problems.
Over the next two days, things went very well (for Hedda and Lance, at least). Hedda performed perfectly. Lance’s willingness to do more than his share of the physical labor, along with his very reasonable rates for excellent cocaine and pure MDMA, made him quite popular indeed.
Of course, everyone assumed that Rupert and Hedda were fucking (especially since she and Lance had decided to keep quiet about their relationship and affiliation). There was some snark to deal with from her fellow models over this, who felt she was jumping the queue to steal their share of the spotlight. But Hedda knew that haters are going to hate and did not pay it any mind at all.
As was his custom on these big jobs, Rupert had rented a house near the location. This gave him a place to unwind and party in privacy and comfort for the duration of the shoot. When things wrapped, he, Hedda, Lance, and a number of the models assembled there to party in earnest. The other professionals on the technical side of things, such as the stylist and the hair and makeup people, were conspicuously absent from Rupert’s party.
The house was gorgeous. With an open plan and windows almost all the way around, it jutted out over a cliff’s edge; hanging right over a sheer drop to the rocky coastline pounded by the Pacific surf. The party was mostly centered on the wide balcony on the seaside of the house; with its warm breeze, marvelous view, and hot tub. With Lance’s contribution to things, it was a lively affair.
Lance was mostly spending his time with the one corporate executive who had come along after the shoot. They were in the kitchen, where the executive was buying lines for anyone who wanted them. Hedda, Rupert, and the other women were mostly spending their time in the hot tub (when they weren’t in the kitchen partaking of the executive’s generosity).
Hedda would have found the scene sexy, but she was feeling very over Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer. It was tired. Definitely time to move on.
That Rupert would not stop whining about his beef with the shoot’s stylist was not helping matters. Hedda sighed, climbed from the hot tub, toweled off quickly, threw on her dressing gown over her bikini, and went into the kitchen.
The executive was holding a model’s hair for her while she did lines off the kitchen’s marble counter. When she had finished, he turned his focus to Hedda.
“Hi, I’m Reuben,” the executive said, extending his hand to Hedda with a leer.
“I know. I am Hedda,” Hedda said, accepting him warmly.
“I know. You’re the one that caused us all the trouble. Rupert just about shut us the fuck down getting you put on the roster. You know, all his bullshit aside, I’m actually glad he did. Everyone was very pleased with your work. You are very talented.”
“May I offer you something here?” Reuben asked, gesturing vaguely at the counter.
“Thank you,” Hedda smiled.
Seeing his forces were a little light on the ground, Reuben snapped his fingers at Lance and pointed down at the counter. “Lance, my man, set us up another half dozen lines for my lady here.”
Lance nodded and scooped a generous portion of cocaine out of a baggie with a straight razor, with which he chopped the drug into lines on the counter.
Reuben took his rolled up one-hundred dollar bill from the other model and handed it to Hedda with an exaggerated flourish. Hedda snorted up her fill and handed the bill back to Reuben, who killed a line before handing the bill back to the other model.
When the model had finished, Reuben put his arm around her and pulled her close. He smelled her breasts, armpit, and neck while she giggled and pretended to struggle against him. Then Reuben ran his gaze up Hedda.
“I think I’m about ready to get more private with this,” he said. “How do you ladies feel about taking this somewhere more private? And horizontal.”
The model murmured her assent. Hedda smiled and reached out to stroke Reuben’s cheek.
“You are very charming man, but I am here with someone. You know!”
“Yeah, I know. You have to dance with the one that brought you. I know. But you can’t blame a man for trying. Speaking of that pain in my balls, there’s the bitch now. Hey, Rupert! Get over here! I got some shit to say to you and I don’t know how much longer I’m gonna be here. Come on, let’s get this over with!”
Reuben had spotted Rupert coming out of the bathroom looking as though he had just vomited. Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, grimaced and shuffled into the kitchen with a petulant scowl.
“What is it, Reuben?”
The executive leaned back against the counter and pulled his model close into his side. He smiled expectantly at Hedda and Rupert, so Hedda performed as expected and snuggled up to Rupert.
“See, that’s right. Just as I thought. You dance with the one that brought ya,” Reuben said. “But the question is, Mr. Cornelius, who the fuck do you think brought you to the dance? Because this whole scene here is my fucking dance. And you sure as shit did not dance with me this time round. So, I guess what I’m wondering is: if these two ladies can have such a clear handle on what they’re all about, what the fuck is your problem?”
“Look, Reuben. I don’t—”
“I know you fucking don’t,” interrupted Reuben. “And you didn’t. And you won’t. You fucking blew it, man. You blew it! You gave us shit! All a big fucking waste of my time and money! The big fucking artist with his muse, playing the whole fucking part, and I may as well have taken those fucking pictures myself! Garbage! Fucking garbage!”
“Fuck you! What the fuck do you know about it, you fuckin suit!”
“I know I’m not qualified to judge it, and even I can tell it’s not fuckin good. But I don’t need to know it myself: I got the heads up on it from your own house here, guy. I know what my people tell me. People I pay to know what the fuck they’re doing. Like I paid you. Shit, son, you’re supposed to be the best! Get your shit together! You have to get your shit together, man. I mean, pushing to get your latest peace of ass on as a model is one thing, and bad enough, but bringing your fuckin dealer onto the shoot as your assistant? I mean, points for being balls out with your big fucking brass balls, sure, but maybe it’s time to pump the brakes, huh guy? Maybe time to think about checking in somewhere for a bit of a rest.”
Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, had nothing to say now. He stared dead eyed at Reuben for a long moment before disentangling himself from Hedda and leaving for the hot tub without a word.
“Okay, then, have a good one, guy! Jeeze! Just don’t say I never tried to help you!” Reuben called after him. Then he turned to Lance: “Hey, my man, I’m sorry to bring you up like that just now. It wasn’t meant as any slight on you, your profession, or the quality of your product. You clearly are a man that has his shit wired tight. It’s nice to see that someone around here does!” Reuben shouted out at the balcony.
Lance simply nodded deeply at this.
“Okay!” Reuben exclaimed, clapping his hand sharply and rubbing them together. “I think it’s time for us to be somewhere more private. And horizontal,” he said to his model. “Are you sure you don’t want to join?” he asked Hedda.
Hedda made an effort to looked pained about saying: “I am sorry. I should stay with Rupert. He will be so upset now.”
“Loyalty. I like that. That’s good. Speaks well of your character. But when you’re all done babysitting the train wreck and want to get your own car on a better track, give me a call. I’ll be more than happy to consult with you on any number of career opportunities.”
Reuben pulled out his business card and handed it to Hedda, who took it with clear delight.
“Lance, I have your digits. I will get in touch about setting something up soon. Middle of next week, when I’m back in town from the bullshit in Europe. You’ve got me covered, right?”
“Oh, you know it brother!” Lance said, pushing his fist out to Reuben to be bumped.
“All right! All right! All right!” Reuben exclaimed happily. “So today was not a total fuckin write-off after all. Love it! Love it! Okay, let’s go!” He smacked his model on the ass to get her moving towards a bedroom. He paused briefly as he left to shake Hedda’s hand in a sleazy way once more. “Hedda, it was lovely to meet you. You are very talented. I have no doubt I’ll be seeing a lot more of you in the future. You clearly are a woman who knows how to get a head in this business.”
The party ground on in a predictable way for the next while. After a couple more hours, once he was finished with her in the bedroom, the executive and his model left in his Porsche. With only half a dozen people there, and all of them beautiful, it seemed possible that things could get properly sexy as an intimate little group. There was Hedda, Lance, Rupert, two models, and one of the model’s hangers on: a twink who was giving the models a run for their money in presenting himself to Lance.
Unfortunately, for all of them, Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, shit himself in the hot tub as the sun set into the Pacific.
They were all enjoying the beautiful sunset in the hot tub together. Lance, Hedda, and one of the models were nude after an intensive game of strip rock, paper, scissors had lost them their swimsuits. The twink, with an otherworldly prescience, had dominated the game, and was gloating over his hoard of nylon winnings.
Then Rupert groaned. The brown cloud emanating from his nethers soon explained why. Things were predictably noisy as everyone but Rupert evacuated the hot tub. Group showering in the master bedroom’s grand bath ensued and things soon got back on track.
Some time later, Hedda left the bedroom to get a bottle of champagne for Lance to put up the twink. Rupert was still sitting in the hot tub. Mortified, and thinking he must have passed out, Hedda came closer to get a better look.
No, he was upright and conscious. Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, was sitting up to his chest in the murky water, like a pasty, limp little sausage stewing in a bowl of lukewarm baked beans. His head drooped low. Tears and snot were dripping off his face into the water. A stink like stale vomit with a faint undertone of shit hung in the air over the scene: the fragrance of failure and cataclysmic fall from grace.
Hedda left him to it.
Once things were finished in the master bedroom, Hedda met Lance’s eye across the smooth and glistening body of the twink laying face down in a puddle of model. She gave him a nod.
“All right, bitches! Time for a nightcap!” Lance said loudly, clapping his hands to get everyone alert enough to register what he was saying. “I’ll make us all a nice drink to round things out.”
Hedda went with Lance and helped him mix drinks for the models and the twink: vodka screwdrivers with a little something extra to help them sleep. Hedda and Lance had orange juice. In the master bedroom, they all shared the drinks and another group hug.
Lance and Hedda waited until the models and twink were sound asleep before they left them. Lance went to get things squared away with Rupert while Hedda packed their bags. When Hedda returned to the balcony, Lance and Rupert were sitting on the comfortable patio furniture. Lance was pouring scotch into Rupert; topping off his glass every time the photographer finished it.
Hedda rolled a joint and she and Lance shared it in silence while Rupert dozed off between them. Then they waited another half hour.
“That’ll do,” Lance finally said. “Blood of a rock star flowing through his veins now.”
Hedda went and peeked into the master bedroom. The three there were sleeping just as they had left them. She returned to the balcony and gave Lance his final nod.
Lance slapped Rupert on the face a few times to get him awake. “Hey! Rupert! Wake up! Time to go!”
“I said time to go! Stand up!”
Lance got Rupert upright and led him over to the balcony’s railing.
“Where are we going?” Rupert asked, swaying on his feet like a palm in a storm.
By way of answer, Lance ducked low, locked his arms around Rupert’s waist, and lifted him up onto his shoulder. Rupert made not a sound as Lance dropped him over the railing. It was about a hundred meter drop to the rocks below, so with the pounding of the surf, they heard nothing of his landing.
And, with that, Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, was gone.
Lance picked up the bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label and took a swig. He handed it to Hedda, who did the same. Lance poured the rest of the whiskey out over the railing where Rupert had left. Then he threw the bottle far out into the night.
The next morning, Hedda and Lance left before the others were fully awake and wondering too deeply about where Rupert might have gotten to.
Hedda had Lance drive her to wine country for a little getaway where they could plan their approach with Reuben, the corporate executive.
They had a very lovely time.
by Balls Malone
Hedda was sitting down to another of her lunch dates with Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer. They were seated in the patio of Maurice’s Grill, under the pleasant shade of palm fronds swaying overhead in the warm breeze.
Hedda was very pleased. Maurice’s Grill was just about the best place to eat these days. Since Rupert was sure to pick up the check, she always insisted meeting him somewhere worthwhile being seen.
“How are you, Rupert? You look so tired.”
“Yes, no shit I look tired, Hedda. IBS is no joke!” Rupert snapped.
The quartet of actresses seated at the next table glanced over with shocked and disgusted looks at this. The two nearest ones slid their chairs further away from Rupert and Hedda’s table.
“Do not be so not nice to me, Rupert. If you are the one who makes chocolate shame in his pants, it is only you to blame.”
Rupert stared at Hedda in rage for a long time at this. He actual began to speak several times, but bit his words off again and again as he thought better of them. Hedda met his eye calmly the whole time. Finally, she gave him a cold smile and continued.
“I do say thank you now, for making contact to me at agency. I am booking many good shoots now. Is very good for me. You are good friend.” Hedda reached out to pat Rupert’s hand in a marginally friendly way. Then she picked up the menu to peruse.
“Yes, I told you Sandrice would take good care of you. She’s the best agent in the biz. Her taking you on was a huge favor to me. A fucking huge favor. She won’t be picking up another of my calls until I answer ten of hers.”
“I know. You are so nice. Is lobster keto?” Hedda asked without looking up from the menu.
“What? The fucking lobster now? How should I know? Probably. Don’t you have a fucking ap to tell you that?”
“Again, you are not being so nice to me now. I don’t like your tone,” Hedda said, looking up from her menu to lock eyes with Rupert.
Rupert took a few deep breaths to calm himself. “I’m sorry, Hedda. I’m just under a lot of pressure with everything right now. And I thought that, maybe, since I hooked you up with Sandrice, that… maybe…”
“Well, I thought maybe that would be the end of all this now,” Rupert said. He stared down in his lap and looked like he was about to cry.
“I know. You tell me this. You tell me that you want Lance to finish it with you.”
“No! That’s not what I fucking said! Is that what you told him? Does he think that’s what I said?”
“I don’t know. I forgetting so many things what I say these days. And English is so hard! Lance, he is sweet, yes. But he does not listen good. So he come soon and we talk. You can tell him what do you mean yourself.”
Hedda flagged down the waiter and ordered the lobster for herself, the sirloin steak for Lance, and more mineral water for the table, while Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, dealt with his panic attack. Hedda then sent Lance a quick message on her phone. It did not take him more than a couple of minutes to join them.
That day, Lance Johnson was wearing a mint condition, Adidas track suit: red with white piping, circa 1992. His red Adidas running shoes were a perfect match. As was his habit on sunny days, Lance had on his Ray-Ban mirrored aviator sunglasses, and a fuzzy white Adidas headband. He was also sporting a gold Rolex.
Lance gave a friendly nod to the four actresses who paused in their banter to look him over quickly. Only one of them lingered over his muscular form as he kissed Hedda on the cheek and sat down next to her. With his track suit zipped up and hiding his full sleeves and torso of prison gang tattoos, Hedda knew from experience that everyone would not think him anything other than a model himself.
They sat in silence until the food showed up. Rupert fiddled on his phone and Lance felt Hedda up under the table as he ogled the actresses. The one that had scoped him as he sat down continued to give him attention. Seeing the potential for a very lovely three-way, Hedda began beaming the actress with come hither lamps of her own.
The food arrived and Lance tucked in. Hedda played around with hers suggestively at the actress; taking a little bite here and there just to show everyone what she was all about orally. Rupert ordered a double scotch and soda.
“So what’s this Hedda tells me about you getting bitchy about helping her out,” Lance finally said through a big mouthful of steak.
“I’m not. Seriously, man! I’m not! I just think there’s only so much more I can do for her now. I mean, this has to end somewhere, right?”
“Well, what next, man? What else am I supposed to do for her over here?” whined Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer.
“You know what, Rupert? Yer talkin to me like it’s been all take and no give with us. I think yer forgetting all that I’ve done for you. Didn’t I get those bangers off your back? Didn’t I take you to the orgy?”
“The orgy? You’re going to bring that up like it was a favor to me? Like I even wanted to be there? Like I’m not Rupert Fucking Cornelius! Like I can’t have my own fucking orgy any fucking time I fucking want to! With fucking models!”
As Rupert started yelling all this, the actresses looked over; two appalled and two delightedly amused. (“Did he just say orgy? Like, oh my God! I can’t even right now!”)
Noticing the attention, Rupert dropped his voice low into an intense hiss: “Fuck you! You know what happened to me there!”
“Oh quit being such a fuckin baby about that. It was fuck all. Deuce gets like that sometimes. He just finished doing eight on a tier four yard. His intensity can be a little much for people sometimes.”
“His intensity? Is that what you assholes call that? Yeah, it was a bit much.”
“Well, yer shitty attitude aside, I think it’s time to talk about the next phase of your collaboration with Hedda. Is that the right word, baby? Collaboration?” Lance asked Hedda.
Hedda was stroking Lance’s cock through his pants in plain view of the actress she was making eye contact with. “Yes, baby,” she said. “Collaboration.”
“Okay, then, what the fuck now?” Rupert asked.
“The swimsuit edition. Shoot’s in two weeks, right?”
“Yes. What about it?”
“Hedda wants to book it. I think that’s a good idea,” Lance said. He licked his steak knife clean and smiled at Rupert as he scraped the knife’s edge over his own neck.
“The swimsuit edition? I can’t fucking get her that! It shoots in two weeks!”
“Oh, I think ya can get her that. You’re Rupert Cornelius, bitch! Tell em that she’s yer new muse. That’s something you artiste types play all the time, aint it? That’s it, right? Hedda is your new muse!”
“My muse? What the fuck! If that’s the case, it has to be reflected in my work! Which fucking sucks these days, by the way. I’m an artist, not some kind of fucking technician. How the fuck am I going to produce anything worth a shit shooting someone I’m fucking afraid of!”
“In my experience, fear is one of the best motivators. So what I’m hearing here is that ya can get her on the shoot as yer muse. Ye just don’t want to. That’s unfortunate. You know the cops fucked with me this week about yer two banger friends in the club.”
“What? They did? How?”
“They made me from the front door camera. With my affiliations, it was a matter of routine to track me down and grind me on it. Don’t worry, though. I didn’t tell em what you did. But they’ll be back.”
“What I did? No, fuck you! What about Ariana? She knows—”
“What she knows,” Lance interrupted, “is that those two bangers had beef with you. That they confronted you in the bathroom over that beef, and she left you alone with them in there. That’s what she knows. If I were you, I really wouldn’t want her talking to anyone about what she fuckin knows.”
“But she saw—”
“Shit. She saw shit. And, to be honest, if she remembers anything about that night, it’ll be what Hedda’s spit tastes like in my asshole.”
“Oh that’s really nice.”
“It is. I’m sure you know; you’re Rupert Fucking Cornelius,” Lance said with a big grin.
“Listen, I probably could get her on the shoot if I insist. I’m not going to lie. But if I do that, that’s the last fucking time I’m ever going to book a job like that ever again. That whole scene is really corporate. They don’t tolerate the whole temperamental artist schtick. Do you understand?”
“I do. Listen, Rupert, the real question you gotta ask yourself is: how many jobs you gonna book from a tier three or four yard with two murder beefs on ya. Ya already know what the yard’s gonna be like. You met Deuce. That’s your fuckin choice now. Book the swimsuit edition for Hedda, or get fuckin lawyered up like yesterday. Do ya feel me? We’re done playin now.”
“I said, do ya under-fucking-stand what I’m motherfucking saying, bitch?”
“Yes. Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m telling you, that’s the end of my fucking career.”
“That’s okay. Also, I want to be PA for the shoot. The first location is way up the coast there right? It wouldn’t be a bad idea for all of us to get out of town like that for a bit.” Lance said.
“You want me to take you where as my what?”
“Not PA, baby. It’s assistant. Just assistant.” Hedda interjected.
“Wait… what? You want to be my assistant for the swimsuit edition? After forcing Hedda in there as a model? Why the fuck don’t you just chop my fucking hands off while you’re at it!”
Hedda sighed. She was sure that Lance was going to convince Rupert to see things their way, but she could tell the whole process of convincing him was going to be tiresome.
Thankfully, just then, the actress she had been making eyes with gave her a very direct look and left her table to go to the bathroom. Happy to have a chance to focus on a person not drowning in negativity like Rupert was, Hedda excused herself from the table and followed her. She was pretty sure she had figured out what movie she had seen the actress in, and was excited to start the process of getting to know her better.
An up-in-coming starlet really would be a marvelous way to celebrate her booking the swimsuit edition.
by Balls Malone
In the club still. The Purple Onion. Hedda was dancing with Lance and fellow model, Ariana. Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, was hanging back in the cut taking pictures with his phone, watching them get frisky.
After some time, all four of them were together in the ladies bathroom’s handicapped stall. Rupert was sitting on the toilet, snorting cocaine off the back of his phone. Lance was leaning back against the wall. He had his shirt off, thrown over his shoulder, having wiped his sweaty body down with it, and was spooning cocaine into Hedda and Ariana. The models were kneeling in front of him, their faces upturned right in front of the enormous bulge in his Adidas short shorts. Lance knew for a fact that it would only be about a minute before Hedda pulled his cock out and presented it to Ariana to suck, so the bulge was getting bigger by the second.
Hedda was comfortable; in the zone. Her favorite zone. She knew Lance would perform just as she desired, and knew that Ariana would take it. Like any well trained mount, Lance moved as directed when handled correctly. There was nothing Hedda liked better than fucking other women with Lance.
The only unknown was how Rupert was going to react when Lance really started going to work on his girlfriend. All his signals of being down for voyeuristic cuckolding aside, there was no telling how he would deal with the reality of it.
Well, whatever Rupert’s reaction would be, they were about to find out. Sufficiently high for what was about to come, Hedda reached up and began stroking Lance’s cock though his shorts. Then, she reached down and gently took Ariana by the hand.
Some asshole started banging on the cubicle door.
“Occupied!” Lance yelled.
“Yo! Rupert! You fuckin punk! Don’t think we didn’t see you come in here, bitch! Get the fuck out here!” a man yelled, banging on the stall door again.
“Oh, fuck me,” muttered Rupert.
“Motherfucker! This is the ladies’ bathroom! Get the fuck outta here before I come out and show ya somethin you do not want to see!” Lance yelled.
The man started banging on the stall door again, and did not let up with a steady, rapid cadence like a jackhammer. Hedda and Ariana stood up and moved to the back corner of the stall as Lance squared up to the stall door. Rupert hurried up finishing his cocaine.
“Okay, motherfucker, you have my attention!” Lance said as he unlatched the door and swung it open.
Facing him were two gangbangers: one in his teens and the other his twenties. Both were serious and tough. Their eyes flared wide when they took Lance in, standing as he was in nothing but his pristine white tennis short shorts and shoes; his fuzzy wrist and headbands still in place. His full chest and stomach of prison gang tattoos matched his sleeves and left absolutely no doubt as to their origins and his affiliations.
“What?” Lance barked, when the gangbangers just stood there glaring at him silently.
“We need a word with our boy Rupert there. Hey, Rupert! What up, bitch? Ya got my fuckin money?”
“What’s the problem?” Lance asked calmly.
“The problem? The fuckin problem is that bitch is in here snorting shit with you when he owes me almost five grand! That’s the fuckin problem!”
“No, that’s not the fucking problem,” Lance said quietly. “That’s your fuckin problem. The problem is that yer fuckin up me getting my dick sucked in here. You can take your shit up with him another time. Are we clear?”
“What the fuck? Yer fuckin crew aint deep up in this bitch, motherfucker. You got one chance to get you and whatever bitch is with you outta here before I make his problem your fuckin problem. Right?” the lead gangbanger said.
As though of one mind, both the gangbangers stepped a little back and raised their shirts to show Lance the pistols in their waistbands. The lead banger simply flashed his piece; the younger one put his hand on his and looked imminently ready to use it.
“Okay, man. You hard, homie. You hard. I feel ya,” Lance said. He turned back into the stall and spoke to Hedda calmly. “Baby, you and Twinkie here are coming out with me. Rupert, sorry man, yer gonna have to fuckin deal with this yerself. Right?”
Lance turned back to the gangbangers. “Okay, back the fuck up so’s I can get the ladies outta here and I’ll get out of yer shit and leave ya to it. All right?”
“Oh, come on, man!” Rupert whined.
They assented, each taking a step back, but kept their mad dog glares on Lance the whole time. Lance stepped out into the bathroom, and Hedda led Ariana out of the stall after him. She pulled the bathroom door open and pushed Ariana out in front of her. Halfway through the door herself, Hedda paused, looking back at Lance to see what he was going to do next. She pulled the door tight against her to block anyone else’s view into the bathroom.
Lance winked at her. He raised his right foot up and set it on the edge of the sink. Stretching his legs out, Lance gave them all a glorious view of his bulging lower ends.
The lead gangbanger stepped up to Lance, almost bumping him with his chest. “Okay, get the fuck out now, bitch. I won’t tell ya again!”
“Hold on, man. Hold on! Just getting myself presentable. Gotta look good for the ladies! You players know how it is, right?” Lance said. He took his time pulling his sock all the way up his knee and then smoothed it down nicely.
Knowing what Lance kept in his right shoe, Hedda watched his hands carefully as he fiddled and fussed with its laces. She was just able to spot him palm the straight razor before dropping his foot down to the floor.
Lance’s T-shirt was still draped over his shoulder. He grabbed it by its collar with his left hand and snapped it like a towel, as though to shake it out. Both the gangbanger’s eyes followed the misdirection.
With a fluid sweep of his right hand, Lance cut the throat of the lead gangbanger. He cut the carotid artery and both jugular veins on the left side of the neck. This immediately sent a jet of blood spurting against the mirror and wall. Lance pivoted around the falling gangbanger, adroitly avoiding the blood that continued to pump out of him, and closed on the younger one.
The young gangbanger stepped back, away from Lance, pulling his pistol as he did. Lance lunged and slashed his wrist with a downward flick of the razor, and then came up across the face with a backhand. The gangbanger dropped the pistol and recoiled.
Lance kicked the back of the gangbanger’s knee, grabbed him behind the head, and kneed his face as he went down. Then Lance cut the lad’s tattooed throat from ear to ear. He kept steady eye contact with Hedda the whole time he performed the final act.
“Take her to the car, baby,” Lance said to Hedda calmly.
Hedda did just that. She took Ariana by the hand and led her out of the club, across the street, and over to Rupert’s parked car.
“What happened?” Ariana asked.
“Nothing, sweeties. They talk a little. We wait for our men.”
Some of the louts waiting around in line outside the Purple Onion looked like they were contemplating following Hedda and Ariana over to the car, but Lance and Rupert joined them quickly enough to disrupt that.
Lance had his shirt back on and looked the same as ever: all pristine white Adidas and bulging muscles. Rupert threw up beside the car. However, this meant his key fob was now close enough to the car that it could be unlocked, so while the acclaimed glamor and fashion photographer took care of his business, Lance opened the driver’s door and popped the trunk.
Hedda put Ariana in the back seat and got in beside her. Lance got his Adidas tennis bag out of the trunk and sat in the passenger seat with it. Then they all waited for Rupert to finish up.
Lance unzipped his bag and dug around in it for a bit. He then turned around and handed two capsules to Hedda.
“I guess you both are real upset about those two assholes back there, baby. Why don’t ya take a couple of these. They’ll help ya settle down.” He looked Hedda in the eye significantly and then flashed his gaze over to Ariana. “Maybe you aint that upset though, Hedda. But I think Twinkle here could definitely use something.”
Hedda nodded and got a water bottle organized to help Ariana take her medicine. Lance had not been wrong: she really was rather upset. Pliable to the end, Ariana took the capsules.
When Rupert finally joined them, Lance did not give him a chance to settle in.
“Here. Hold this,” Lance said. He produced a Glock pistol from his bag and set it in Rupert’s lap; the barrel pointed right into his crotch with the handle in easy reach for Lance. “Drive, bitch,” he instructed Rupert.
Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, did as he was told.
Lance dug around some more in his bag and got out a big Ziplock bag. Then he arched his back, thrusting his crotch up towards the windshield to reach down into his shorts. He came out with a folded up stack of paper towels stained dark with what Hedda knew could only be blood. He stuck the wad into the Ziplock bag.
“Okay, bitch. Pull over,” He told Rupert.
Rupert complied, parking on the side of the road next to what looked to be an abandoned warehouse. Ariana was already dozing off next to Hedda in the back seat.
Lance pulled the bloody straight razor out of the Ziplock bag, carefully holding it inside one of the paper towels. He unfolded the blade and looked it over closely. Then he grabbed Rupert’s hand off the steering wheel and pressed his thumb down on the face of the razor’s blade. Rupert was so out of it, he did not even register what Lance had done until after he had finished.
Lance folded the razor away into the Ziplock bag which he then sealed and put away in his Adidas tennis bag.
“Okay, bitch, listen carefully now. Hey!” Lance gave Rupert a slap across the mouth to get him focused. “Listen, I said. There’s gonna be two DNA blood matches on that blade. I wiped the blade down before. Two bloods, one fingerprint now. Your fuckin fingerprint. Fuckin fingerprint in blood on a murder weapon. Slam dunk prosecution.”
“What?” Rupert asked.
“Well, cops start asking us questions, maybe you say one thing and I say another. Maybe Hedda says the same thing I say. How that plays out is anybody’s fuckin guess. But a fingerprint in blood on the murder weapon is another fuckin thing entirely. D’ye follow me now, bitch?”
Rupert looked like he was going to throw up. Another slap in the mouth got a nod and a very quiet, “yes,” out of him.
“Now, don’t worry, though. This is all just insurance for me. A little peace of mind. It aint gonna come to that. We’ll work something out. Now drive.”
Lance had Rupert drive them back to the Family Mart. There, Lance and Hedda helped Ariana out of the car and over into one of the lowriders.
“We’ll be in touch,” Lance said to Rupert. “When Hedda sends ya a message, you fuckin reply, right? Okay, fuck off now.”
Hedda watched Rupert’s Mercedes pull out of the parking lot, feeling even more optimistic about her career prospects than she had at the start of the evening. She just knew things were really going to take off for her now.
Having Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, as a friend was going to be very good for her indeed.
When the Mercedes could no longer be seen, Hedda got into the lowrider with Lance so they could figure out where they were going to take Ariana for the next part of their night.
by Balls Malone
Hedda eased back into the Mercedes’ well-worn, custom leather front passenger seat and let the warm, night sea air bathe her through the open window. The joint she had just shared with the car’s other two occupants was sitting marvelously with the light dinner she had allowed herself. Hedda was feeling good.
She opened her eyes to take in more of the night. The sea and the beach with its boardwalk and attractions flowed by her window in a wash of light, color, and sound. It was Saturday night and the heavy traffic on the seaside drive was moving slow, with people in no hurry to get anywhere but where they were.
The car was getting old, and was not running quite as smoothly as a luxury vehicle should, but it was still a lovely accessory for the evening. It’s owner and driver was Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer. His girlfriend, Ariana, was seated in the back.
Hedda knew exactly why Rupert had invited her to sit in front. It did not take him much longer to get to it.
“You know what I was thinking I’d like to do? I’d really love to go dancing? Do you ladies want to go dancing?” he asked.
Hedda smiled out the window and left Ariana to answer affirmatively from the back.
“Thing is, I’m all out of blow, and dancing just isn’t the same without it. Don’t you think? Say, Hedda, you don’t know where we could score some blow, do you?” Rupert asked with all the practiced nonchalance of a total cokehead asking someone they barely know for a hookup.
Hedda had known Rupert and Ariana just a few days. He was the photographer on her latest modeling job: the biggest she had booked yet. Hedda was not sure if Ariana was actually his girlfriend, or just the model he had chosen to fuck for the duration of that shoot. Either way, he had paid Hedda next to no mind until the day before when he discovered she had cocaine.
That her cocaine was straight-up fucking right meant he was really into her from that moment on. The shoot had wrapped that afternoon and Hedda had consented to be targeted by him afterwards. He was, after all, Rupert Cornelius: glamour and fashion photographer.
The restaurant he took her and Ariana to for dinner had been nice.
“I could like a dance,” Hedda finally said. “But I have no coke now.”
She sat in silence and let that sink the mood in the car for a while before she relented and continued:
“But I can get some. My boyfriend, he gets. It’s no problem.”
Hedda ignored Rupert’s verbal massage of her over this suggestion and got her phone out to track down her boyfriend, Lance Johnson. It turned out he was not far away at all.
“Okay, we meet. He’s at Family Mart just back in road,” Hedda finally said.
“What, the Family Mart at the Old Pier? That place? Really? Uhhhh… yeah… Okay!” Rupert responded.
The convenience store they were talking about was located right down at the dodgy end of the seaside drive, before it drifted inland into skid row. The cruisers who liked to drive up and down the strip to check out the vehicles and the girls tended to use the parking lot as their turnaround. The site was also a hotly contested gang spot and a known drug corner. Shootings were common there.
Rupert pulled into the lot and parked opposite from the squad of gangbangers clustered around two lowriders and three sports bikes taking up way more parking spaces than they ought to.
Hedda tapped the screen of her phone a couple of times. “Okay. He come.”
Rupert and Ariana barely had time to panic properly before Lance emerged from the crew around the lowriders and prowled his way towards their car.
That night Lance had on his vintage early-70s Adidas tennis outfit, all white with red piping: tennis shoes, socks pulled up to just under the knee, short shorts, and really tight tee. The ensemble was rounded out with fuzzy head and wrist bands. Pristine white all. He was also wearing his mirrored Ray-Ban aviators and had blow-dried his hair into a puffy miracle.
“Hey, baby! What the fuck! I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight! You’re lucky I aint gettin my dick sucked over here!” Lance said as he leaned down to peer through Hedda’s window. He grabbed the massive bulge in his short shorts and gave it a squeeze and a shake to punctuate his last point. He went on:
“But now that you’re here, I guess you’ll be able to take care of that for me. Isn’t that right, baby.”
Lance pointedly eyeballed Rupert across Hedda as he spoke. As he did, Lance put his left arm on the Mercedes’ roof and stretched low with his right hand on his hip. This gave everyone in the car a good look at his marvelously sculpted upper body. Both of Lance’s chiseled arms were covered in full sleeves of prison gang tattoos; some actively incorporating his many scars.
Rupert started to respond, but Hedda cut him off:
“We don’t want a fuck now, Lance. We want blow and then to go dance.”
“Yeah. I guess I could sort ya out. Ya got the money?” Lance asked Rupert, who enthusiastically assured Lance that he did.
“Cool. Cool. That’s cool and the gang. Yeah, I can sort ya out. No prob. I’ll join, huh?” Lance said.
“Oh, yes please, baby,” Hedda said, before Rupert could say anything to the contrary.
“Kay. Hold up. I got my bitch holding my shit down,” Lance said. He wandered back toward the lowriders and gave a shrill whistle. After exchanging some words with one of the gangbangers, he came back to the Mercedes.
Lance knocked on the back passenger window to get Rupert to unlock the door and then climbed into the back seat next to Ariana.
“Pop the trunk,” Lance said to Rupert.
“Pop the trunk, bitch! My boy is gonna put my shit in there.”
“Uhhh… I don’t know if… Okay. Alright.” Rupert popped open the trunk and one of the gangbangers ran over with a vintage Adidas nylon tennis bag. When that was shut in the trunk, the guy came around to the driver’s window and leaned down.
“Tell him what ya want,” Lance said.
“Wait, that wasn’t the stuff he just put—” Rupert started.
“No. I told ya. That shit’s mine. He’ll sort ya out. And don’t worry, the shit will be right. It aint what they usually slingin here, that’s fer fuckin sure. And he’ll be givin ye the friend price, so don’t be a bitch about it.”
Rupert handed his money over to the gangbanger who wandered off and had a youngster run the cocaine over to the car. While they were waiting, Lance turned to Ariana beside him and looked her up and down with a wide leer.
“Hi, baby!” Lance said to her.
“I’ve been called feral!” Lance said.
“What’s that mean?” Ariana asked.
“It means that I’m like a wild animal.”
“Like, on the dance floor?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, right, the dance floor. Yeah, or in a parole hearing. Some shit like that.”
“No parole for me, right?” Lance went on. “No! They never pinned a fuckin body on me. But they still violated my ass plenty for every other fuckin thing they could. So I did the full ten years, straight up! Fuckin pigs got nothin on me now, right? No parole officer getting up in my shit. No piss tests. Just walk out the fuckin door free and clear after doing the time straight up like a fuckin man. That’s the fuckin way to do it!”
Once Rupert had the cocaine, he pulled out of the parking lot and they were back to driving the strip.
“Okay, then, dancing,” Rupert said. “Where do you want to go?”
“Nowhere south of 60th,” Lance answered. “And no metal detectors!”
They settled on a club called the Purple Onion: a nice compromise between the higher-end clubs, where Rupert would not want to be seen with Lance, and those too far down the spectrum, where a lack of metal detectors would definitely be an issue.
The Purple Onion was a just a little off the strip in a semi-industrial area. They parked in an empty lot almost across the street and spent some time getting in the right frame of mind with Rupert’s newly acquired cocaine. Of the four of them, Lance barely partook. Rupert, however, was into it enough for the both of them.
“This is,” Rupert went on excitedly between snorts, “exactly the shit I hoped you could hook up, Hedda! You are a god! And Lance! What can I say? This shit is right! Your shit is right!”
In the club, things went predictably marvelously. Much as eggs, sugar, butter, and flour can be combined to create something wonderful, so too did the four talented and beautiful people combine with the electronic music in the dark crowded club. (Of course, the drugs didn’t hurt.)
Mostly, it was Hedda and Ariana dancing either side of Lance, with Rupert watching from the shadows and taking pictures of them with his phone. Within an hour, Lance had thoroughly familiarized himself with Ariana. Once he had, Hedda took the lead on the three of them working out a rhythm together.
Watching things develop, Rupert stayed in his lane as their audience. It was all very sexy; with nothing but open road ahead that looked sure to take them somewhere very marvelous indeed.
by Balls Malone
“Eat my ass, you dirty fuckin slut! Eat it! Lick it out, you fuckin hoor!” Lance Johnson yelled as he pulled his huge cock out of Hedda’s sopping wet cunt and pounced to reverse position and squat on her face.
Lance and Hedda were finishing up another of their nooner sessions where he would fuck her hard on her sofa while watching videos of bare knuckle street bouts off his phone on her big-screen TV. Lance slid his fingers over and into her pussy while she licked his asshole. It took less than a minute of this for Lance to explosively jet semen all over her stomach, leg, the backrest of her sofa, and the big teddy bear propped by the armrest.
“Oh, baby, that was fuckin awesome!” Lance said. He dragged her up off the floor and onto the sofa.
As was usual when he fucked, Lance had left on his shoes. This time they were pristine Adidas tennis shoes, circa 1982: white with blue stripes. He now planted one of them on the coffee table and did some stretches, showing off his magnificently chiseled physique. Hedda masturbated while she watched him pose, quickly getting herself off yet again. Lance then picked up a throw pillow off the floor and used it to wipe off his cock, balls, and asshole.
“Are you two done fucking? You know what? I’m getting really sick and fucking tired of you two– Oh, what the fuck?!” yelled Hedda’s roommate as she stomped into the living room and was treated a view of Lance in all his glory.
“Well, I told ya, Trixey, you wanna join in alls ya gotta do is ask. Whatever ya want! I’ll let ya take yer pick. If yer too fuckin prissy and stuck-up to toss salad, then I’m sure Hedda would let ya work cock for her while she sorts that out herself,” Lance said with a happy smile, stroking his cock.
“Fuck you, pig! For the fucking tenth time, my name is Roxy, you asshole! And put some clothes on, you’re fucking disgusting! Oh what the fuck!” Roxy had just noticed her teddy bear, Chester, all covered in Lance’s semen.
“I knew it was some shit like that. Tinky or Twinkle, all the same kinda shit with you peelers. Yeah, sorry about yer fuckin bear, he had to take one fer the team. If you were there to block fer him, he woulda been fine. Okay, then, see ya next time, Tammy!” Lance said as Roxy snatched Chester of the Sofa and ran to her bedroom to slam her door.
“Ya wanna go get something to eat? I mean, besides my ass,” Lance asked Hedda.
“I should tell a sorry for Roxy,” Hedda said. She got up and started getting dressed. Lance intercepted her as she bent over for her panties, cupping her ass to pull her into a sloppy kiss.
“Why don’t ya let me go and talk to her, baby. I’ll be extra nice. Then we can all have a shower together and see what happens. You know how much I love watching you eat pussy, baby.”
“Is not good time for three way, baby. She is anger about bjørn,” Hedda said.
“Who? Whatever happened to that asshole, it aint got shit to do with me. Give me those,” Lance snatched Hedda’s panties out of her hand and held them up between them. He smelled them and then tried to stuff them in Hedda’s mouth.
“No! It’s her bjørn. Her Chester. You made love explosion on him.”
“What, her fuckin bear? Whatever. Stupid bitch. Fine, then, let her be a cunt about some fuckin toy. We’ll just bring someone else home and make her jealous. What are ya doin this afternoon? Let’s go down to the beach.”
“I have shoot. I tell you. You say you want to watch. Will you come?” Hedda asked, slipping free from Lance. She finished getting dressed, got a dish towel from the kitchen and wiped up the sofa in a half-assed way.
“Yeah, whatever. But I’m hungry so lets hurry up.”
“I just have shower and tell sorry to Roxy. Then we go,” Hedda said.
She had a quick shower and changed into some yoga gear before going to talk to her roommate. The two had danced together at a higher-end strip club for a few months before Hedda’s modeling took off. The apartment had been Roxy’s, but she needed a roommate to help cover rent, since most of her money was going to pay for graduate school. Hedda had been paying more than her share of the utilities for a while now and it was getting a little tense between them.
Hedda ignored Lance jerking off to a video of her blowing him in a toilet stall and knocked softly on Roxy’s door. There was no answer, but Hedda let herself in anyway. Roxy was sitting on the floor hugging Chester, with a bunch of used wet-wipes next to her.
“I am sorry for Chester? Is he clean?” Hedda asked Roxy, taking a seat next to her.
“It’s not about the fucking bear. That motherfucker is an animal, Hedda. You have to break up with him! I can’t believe the way you let him talk to you!”
“Is just fucking talk. Is hot.”
“It’s abusive and demeaning. I think maybe you don’t understand just what it is he’s saying,” Roxy said.
“I am Norwegian, not stupid. You think I am some a kind of a fucking Swede?”
“I know you’re not stupid, Hedda… or Swedish. It’s just I think he’s taking advantage of you. He’s fucking dangerous! I mean, he’s covered in prison gang tattoos, and Dave said some of them are really hardcore. Like, you can’t get them unless you…”
“I don’t want to accuse him of anything, but some of that ink you can’t get unless you’ve killed someone on the inside. You need to be careful.”
“Oh, yes, the killings in the prison. He tell me about all it. He likes the knives fight. Don’t worry, he’s very good. He always wins!” Hedda said proudly.
“What?” asked Hedda.
“You know? He’s told you he’s killed people and you stay with him? I don’t even know what to say.”
“I don’t need what you say. I like real man. He is my viking war man! If you want to go a three way sometime, we can. He says your pussy looks really fresh.”
“No. I… No. I need to think, Hedda. I think I need to ask you to move out. I can’t have this anymore,” Roxy said.
“Okay then. I go. Just pay me money you owe and I go. About two-thousand now, yes? You pay and I go. I’m a sorry for Chester love explosion. He is a good bjørn.”
Hedda left Roxy with her sulking and went to get Lance moving. If they did not hurry they would not have time to rerlax over lunch before he took her to her photo shoot, and she did not want that.
by Balls Malone
“Oh, baby! You know what I love about you, baby? I love the way you suck my cock. I love that almost as much as I love your cunt. And you know how much I love your cunt,” said Lance Johnson, his voice heavy with lust.
“I don’t… No, put him away. It’s taxi!” said Hedda. She was from Norway and still a little shaky with the English. However, she was not wrong: they were indeed in the back of a taxi.
“I can’t, baby! Look what yer doin to me here,” Lance said proudly, as he finished pulling his huge erection out of his Adidas short shorts.
Lance and Hedda had been together for a heady two days. They had met in a night club, when she had all but thrown herself at him. He was tall, handsome, marvelously muscled, and had what she thought was a wonderfully ironic sense of fashion; with his pristine ensemble of vintage Adidas tennis wear. Lance’s seemingly inexhaustible supply of cocaine and ecstasy had not hurt either. He had been well worth blowing in the men’s room. They partied all night and all day and finished things late on their second night at his apartment with the kind of marathon fucking that only Viagra and a strict cardio regimen can provide.
Hedda had awoken that morning with a hangover and a heart full of dirty regret. She could not face putting her clothes back on after showering, so Lance loaned her a retro Adidas outfit of her very own. It seemed he took vintage Adidas very seriously, because he did not have any clothes besides vintage Adidas. He promised to drop her back at her apartment after they had breakfast and he ran an errand. She packed her own clothes in an Adidas shopping bag and they headed out together in their matching outfits, like some kind of nightmarish Adidas commercial.
They shared a special morning together. Lance had started the day by convincing Hedda to blow him in the shower, and he followed that with continued aplomb. He tried to get her to blow him in the booth at Denny’s, and, now, was trying to get her to blow him in the back of the taxi.
The taxi driver watching them in the rear-view mirror was working for her a little, so she almost let herself be won over by Lance’s wooing. After all, he was awfully good looking, and the best coke hook up she had found since moving there. But she wasn’t quite feeling it, and did not want to seem cheap, so she declined his offer yet again. When it became obvious that she was not going to blow him, the taxi driver started shouting for Lance to put his cock away. Lance shouted back some stuff about the reasons why certain kinds of people wind up with an ice pick in their skull. Hedda could not quite follow it, but she did ponder how funny it was that Lance’s full sleeves of prison gang tattoos had seemed so sexy-dangerous to her before, whereas now they just seemed dangerous.
Travel really is the best education.
They finally got out of the taxi at the beach and Lance and the driver exchanged a few more words before Lance threw some money at his face. The taxi peeled out of there, and Lance led Hedda down to the bike path on the beach. Rollerbladers and joggers were enjoying the beautiful day, going to and fro with that glazed enthusiasm so many of them have. Lance waited until there was a break in this sexy traffic, and he quickly reached in his vintage Adidas gym bag to transfer a Glock 19 to the front of his shorts.
“Don’t worry about that motherfucker, baby. He aint shit, and those cats he was talkin don’t got no juice this side of 60th,” Lance said, giving Hedda a sweet peck on the cheek.
They went down to a part of muscle beach where a bunch of guys even bigger than Lance, with very similar tattoos, were working out. She was gratified at all the attention they gave her. Lance had her “hold down his gat” for him and worked out for her. The hard weight of the pistol wrapped in a towel reminded her of the feel of his cock through his shorts. She moistened as she squeezed it tight, watching Lance blast through reps with sweat glistening on his chiseled physique.
Once Lance was all done, he stepped aside with a gargantuan freak show to exchange some boxes and vials for a wad of cash. Then they were on their way.
“Don’t worry, baby. I don’t use that shit. My game is one hundred percent natural. No shrinkin balls here babe! But those freaks pay, man. That shit pays!”
Lance hailed another taxi and Hedda’s heart was thumping as he helped her into it. She knew without a doubt that she was going to invite him up to her place. As far as the ride there went, she would just have to see how the taxi driver struck her.