There was hardly anyone less likely to be under
the employ of New York Italian mobster Sal Petrone than
Scott. Scott's last name was Kim; American-born to Korean
parents. Always a stocky kid, he had begun practicing
martial arts at 6, and developed a taste for weightlifting
at 13. Young Scott's life changed forever when, as a freshman
in high school, he fought a junior. He brought the bigger kid
to the ground with stunning speed, ensnared his opponent's
torso in his young but already thick legs, got the arm in a
joint lock, and efficiently snapped the poor kid's arm. The
kid lay on the ground wailing, his face red and streaming with
tears, slapping his palm against the ground, while Scott had
the widest grin on his face as he cruelly tweaked the twisted
and limp arm to illicit a few more piercing screams. It was as
an exciting and new moment for Scott as the first time a young
man experiences orgasm. He'd discovered the thrill of physical
domination. From that moment on, every moment of free time was
spent in the gym and devoted to practicing the fighting arts.
He committed himself to building his rapidly growing body; eating
everything in sight, keeping meticulous workout journals, resting,
all in a single-minded quest to pack on as much muscle onto his
frame as possible, and to increase his raw strength. He spent
countless and exhausting hours mastering a combination of jujitsu
and kenpo, acquiring skill at a frightening pace and soon taking
down older, more experienced men in the gym. He was supremely disciplined
in his desire to become strong, powerful and dangerous in both
mind and body. He rapidly outgrew his shirts and unquestionably
dominated his school yard opponents to the point where classmates
sought him out from protection.
By 19 he won a teenage bodybuilding competition as
well as several regional mixed-martial arts competitions. They
left him feeling hollow though. When he sensed a rising fear
and defeatism in the other man, when he coiled his thick,
sculpted arms around his opponent's neck in a chokehold, Scott's
heart would race, his cock would harden and his blood would
pulse with the desire to kill. He wanted nothing more than to
break his opponent's spine on the mat, to pound their heads into
the mat until the brain died.
In his earlier twenties he landed a job that utilized his
skills well, as a bouncer at a Queens nightclub. The club was
owned by mobster Sal Petrone, who sitting in private booth one
night, noticed the Korean bodybuilder quickly immobilize two drunk
punks and drag them out the back alley door. Petrone and his cronies
quietly followed them outside and watched in admiration as Scott
completely pulverized the poor bastards in the seclusion of the alley,
finally stomping on the thigh of one punk with such force the mobsters
could hear the crack of thick femur bone. The final tally: two
unconscious punks, one skull fracture, 2 broken noses and each with
a snapped limb. It turns out one had nasty internal hemorrhaging in
his abdominal cavity. Scott never found out if he lived and nor did
he care. No one in their right mind would pick a fight with him.
Those punks did, which made them stupid as shit, and the stupid
deserved to die. Petrone assured Scott his organization would smooth
over any difficulties with the police, and if the victims dared to
threaten legal action or press charges, his men would have a "nice
chat" with their families.
Soon Petrone put Scott on his private, tax-free payroll
as his personal bodyguard. It wasn't long before one night Petrone
invited him into his office at the nightclub. In a dead serious
tone and unblinking gaze, the mobster asked Scott if he was willing
to take a promotion, from simple bodyguard, to someone willing to
use more "extreme methods", that of assassin. It was the moment Scott
had been waiting for ever since he first heard bone break when he was 14.
It was noon and Scott stood and quietly waited by the
side of a secluded dirt road outside suburban New Jersey. He
wore a black tanktop that showcased his marvelous arms and
shoulders, and contoured his sculptured torso. The road lead
nowhere but to a secluded radio tower, but his prey didn't know
that. Soon enough a brown UPS delivery truck came bounding down
the road. Seeing that the driver was clearly confused, Scott
waved him over and the vehicle ground to a halt. The driver hopped
out of the doorless opening and stood before Scott.
"Heya. How ya doing?" the driver said nervously, stepping back
a fraction of an inch. Scott smirked with supreme self-confidence and
kept his eyes locked on the man. Scott never failed to be intoxicated
by the way his physique, dense with wide muscle, intimidated other men,
and amused by the pathetic ways they tried to conceal it.
"I'm looking for 2 Pinecrest. Do you have any idea where
that is?" the driver asked.
Scott looked the man over. He was in his early thirties,
with a slender but unconditioned body, about the same height, with
dirty blond hair beneath his brown cap. The bodybuilder's eyes
scanned the driver's standard brown uniform; shorts with the
standard button up shirt with UPS logo on it.
The driver was feeling increasingly more uncomfortable
under Scott's gaze.
"Did you call for a package pickup?"He asked.
"Yes." Scott smiled, "Yes I did. I'm taking your truck"
The driver stiffened and smiled disbelieving. "And how
do you suppose your gonna do that?"
Scott moved in closer to the man. "I'll take it after
I'm done killing your stupid ass and yank that uniform off your
dead body."
In a flurry of panic the driver attempted to dive back
into the cab, his hand reaching for the dashboard mounted radio
when Scott slammed his fist into the man's kidney. The man cried
out and fell backward onto the road.
Scott's shadow loomed over the fallen man.
"Come on, get up!" He shouted and giving the man a
playful kick to his thigh. "You want to live huh? So RUN! RUN!!"
The man pawed his way up and broke into a dash down
the road. Scott stood there grinning, as he watched the man
gain some distance. Then suddenly, he broke into a sprint.
The driver looked behind him, horrified at the sight
of the bodybuilder racing up behind him, his pecs bouncing
beneath his tanktop and the sun glaring off his boulder deltoids.
"No!" the frantic man cried out, desperately trying
to gain some speed.
Scott dove straight for the man's legs, knocking him
face forward to the ground in a cloud of dust and dirt..
"Uh!" the man grunted as his face smacked into the
ground and he chipped a tooth.
Scott was upon the man in a fraction of a second. He
snaked his thick legs around the man's waist while wrapping
his arms around the man's head. The driver feverishly tried
to pry away the muscular forearms and wiggle his way out of
the leghold. The headlock caused Scott's hard and swollen
biceps to press against the man's face, almost smothering him.
His victim couldn't believe the control and power this young
man exerted over him, had never before experienced such helplessness.
Scott was grinning to himself, clearly savoring this
feeling of power. Then, he jerked his arms up, stretching up
the man's chin at an angle it was not meant to go. Something
snapped loudly in the man's neck, right where the spine joins
the skull. The man immediately stopped squirming and his lifeless
hands fell away from Scott's meaty forearms and flopped on the
ground. He gave the man's head a good wrench the the side, the
neck now easily twistable, ensuring the spinal cord was severed,
before uncoiling himself from his kill.
He hoisted the corpse up and carried it over his
shoulder back to the truck. There, he began to strip off his clothes.
Standing there in his white underwear, the full glory
of his body was revealed. His arms hung by his sides, unflexed
yet still huge. His pecs were delectably squeezable and
capped with succulent nipples, and they cast a shadow over
his abs. If you ran your hands along the smooth skin that
encased his taut hamstrings you'd quickly find his gloriously
rounded ass in your grasp. The sculptured muscles of his
waistline curved downward and drew the eye to the bulge that
pushed out the white fabric of his underwear, snugly housing
his tasty cock and balls. This bulge was like a crown sitting
atop his granite glutes. He'd killed men with those legs before,
compressing their necks until he felt vertebrae pop against the
sensitive belly of his dick. He looked forward to doing that again
today.
He stripped the uniform off the dead man and squeezed
himself into it. The brown fabric could barely contain him.
Unable to fully close the top buttons, the top cleavage of his
chest was thrust out and his thighs wanted to explode from the
shorts.
Scott tossed the floppy corpse, naked except for his
briefs, into the back of the truck. He picked the dead man's
cap off the ground, dusted it off, put it on and hopped in the
cab. Time to make a delivery.
The "special delivery" Scott was to make today was
at 1530 Newlawn in upscale Hillside Park. There he expected
to find Jesse Niles and his boys. Jesse was a two-bit, upstart
hoodlum from Long Island. He had come into some good connections
and flooded had flooded the tri-state area with crystal meth
and cocaine. He made a hell of a lotta cash doing so, but it was
money that belonged to Petrone. Jesse then went and made a
suicidally stupid mistake, killing Ted Albaro, one of Pertone's
men and long-time friends.
When it came to a job, Petrone had issued Scott some
very exact, very precise instructions in the past. This time,
it was only "I want every one of those cocksuckers dead."
Scott liked it when he kept things simple like that.
Scott put the truck in park at the front gate of Jesse's
estate. As Scott sat in the truck, examining a clipboard, a
lone guard eyeballed him.
"I have a package here for a Mr. Niles." Scott said
as he swiveled in his seat to face the guard.
The guard was a lanky punk, and like all of Jesse's crew,
a white ghetto-boy wanna-be. He wore a white tank-top over his
bony frame, elaborate tattoos coated his arms and his long,
black hair was greasy. He wore pitch-black sunglasses that did
not conceal the sneer of contempt on his face. "Give it to me."
Scott looked him over and sensed the thug was packing
something the back pocket of his shorts.
"Sorry," Scott smiled, "signature required. I need to
see Mr. Niles."
"Look asshole," the goon snarled, "You either give it too
me or fuck off."
"I'm just doing my job. Look, the label here says it all.
Look at it." Scott said, holding a small brown parcel in his hand.
The goon grunted and stepped in close to the open doorway.
Perfect.
Scott suddenly thrust his knee up, colliding with goon's
chin with a loud crack. "Uh!" the punk groaned as he staggered
backwards. Before he even had a chance to lose his balance, Scott
leapt out of the cab and, grabbed the man by the shoulder and drove
his knee up straight into the man's tender balls. One! Two! Three
times!...demolishing the delicate ballsack with savage force. The
guard's sunglasses fell off, his eyes dazed and rolling, mouth
gaping wide open, gasping for air and in too much agony to cry
out. Scott yanked his arm, drawing him closer. He curled his right
fist nice and tight, and slammed it three times in quick secession
into the man's heart. The goon let out a terrible and extended
groan, his face a fixture of shock and paralysis. The powerful
blows had achieved the desired effect, disrupting the rhythm of
the man's heart and instantly sending him into cardiac arrest. Scott
held the man upright, cradling the dying man's head and pressing
his face into the hard pillow of his meaty pecs.
"Who's the asshole know?" Scott asked the rapidly fading
man, as he almost tenderly caressed the man's hair.
Blood had ceased to flow throughout the man's body, his
body began to noticeably cool and his brain starved for oxygen.
His body was racked with seizures for about 20 seconds and his
breathing becoming shallower, his lips opening and closing like
the dying breaths like a goldfish knocked out his bowl. It took
about a full minute, but he finally lapsed into total unconsciousness
and died.
Scott easily flipped the man around and grabbed him under
the shoulders. He dragged the inanimate body behind some bushes
and dropped it.
Killing the truck driver had been a waste of time. Scott
had tried subterfuge, but now he'd have to use sheer force on this
job. Scott pulled the uncomfortably tight shirt off his torso and
stretched his body. He found a low section of wall. He leapt up,
his hands securing a portion of ledge, and used his impressive
lats to pull himself up and over.
Once down, Scott surveyed the property. A few hundred
acres of manicured lawns, trees and bushes, with a large luxury
home in contemporary Mediterranean-style situated in the middle.
A brand new Mercedes SLR, a Jaguar and four customized SUVs sat
in the driveway. Scott was anticipating for 5-6 targets on the
property. He had also memorized the home's blueprints, obtained
online from the real estate developer.
He spotted two guards. Well, two punk kids really, probably
barely out of their teens, the typical breed of dumbshit that was
usually attracted to and exploited by men like Jesse. One had an
AK-47 slung around his shoulder, the other with an oversized
handgun sticking ludicrously out of his back pocket. Scott doubted
whether either knew how to operate such hardware. As security
officers, both were clearly incompetent; bullshitting, laughing
and otherwise completely oblivious. Scott could've driven a
Sherman tank through the front gate and these two idiot "guards"
wouldn't have noticed.
Scott quickly devised his plan. The two punks circled
the terraced and landscaped lawn twice. They leisurely patrolled
past the water fountain and pool. The property appeared to them
to be completely undisturbed, same as always, and they came to
a stop against a tree.
"Yo, you got a smoke?" one asked the other.
"Thought you quit." his friend said, sighing and pulling
a pack.
"Ha! Dontcha ya know quittin' smokin' is never having
to buy your own cigarettes." They both cackled.
"Psst! Hey assholes. Look up!" someone whispered.
They both immediately looked up and stood in shock at
the sight of a shirtless Asian bodybuilder standing on a thick
branch 15ft directly above their heads.
One mouthed the words "what-the-fuck...."
Scott lept down, slamming his fists hard into the backs
of their necks. Their legs gave out and they collapsed like
house of cards. One had instantly been rendered unconscious by
the blunt force of Scott's fist, while the other lay on his back,
stunned and trying to collect his mental bearings. Scott wasted
no time. He pulled the dazed kid up, propping him against his
knee. In a quick, graceful maneuver, he's practiced (and used)
before, he wrapped his muscled arm tight around the neck, and
slid his other hand over the crown of the skull. The fingers of
one hand gripped his other forearm, creating a lethal headlock.
"Wa...wait a minute, nigga." The punk gasped, "Nigga,
just chill, just-"
"Shhh...." Scott whispered.
He jerked the punk's head hard. The neck made a juicy
snap and Scott felt vertebrae break against the unyielding
strength of his forearm. To make sure the fucker was dead, he
kept the deadly pressure on the head, forcing it down until the
punk's ear met his own shoulder, his neck now jelly-like and
unresisting. Scott twisted the head up and looked down into the
punk's death-glazed, unseeing eyes and his relaxed face, deep
into a still sleep from which he would never awaken. Clearly dead.
He finished off the other man in a similar fashion,
squeezing his thumbs in deep and hard between the 2nd and 3rd
cervical vertebrae until he heard bone crack. "Uh!" the fucker
grunted. His head flopped forward, chin on chest, and he ceased
to live. Scott nodded approvingly, impressed that it had taken
him barely 15 seconds to efficiently extinguish the lives of two
men, without breaking a sweat or sounding an alarm.
Scott dragged the two limp bodies and dropped them
behind a boulder. He qingerly made his way around the back
of the house. He approached a door that led to the pantry
and leaned against the wall, listening for sounds inside.
The house was booming with hip-hop music, so loud he could
feel the wall vibrate against his back muscles. Excellent.
Racket like that made for perfect cover.
Unexpectedly, the glass door swung open, and a young
man wearing a bandanna stepped out. Clueless, he didn't see
Scott off to his side, as he focused on fiddling with his
cell phone. Scott didn't recognize him from the photos Petrone
provided. This was probably some poor sap who'd just been
recently employed. His first day on the job and his last day.
Scott sprang into action. He slapped his palm onto the back
of the punk's head and swung him around with violent power,
slamming his forehead straight into the wall. The impact left
a blood-smeared dent in the stone. His skull fractured, the
punk dropped to his knees and began to convulse. Scott finished
him with an explosive palm strike to the base of the neck,
breaking it and killing him instantly. His crumpled to the
ground, his legs and arms twitching a little before stopping.
He slowly opened the pantry door, quietly made himself
down a short corridor and peeked around a corner. One on Jesse's
goons was in the kitchen, alone and with back turned, fixing
himself a sandwich at the center island. Scott sized him up
quickly as an easy kill. He had to dispatch him quickly though,
for resting on the counter top within the punk's reach was a
.44 Desert Eagle. Scott crept in slowly, his muscular physique
moving gracefully, his eyes unwavering and locked on his target,
the music masking and sound of his light footsteps. He was barely
four feet away now, his target contentedly cutting a loaf of bread
with a knife. From the corner of his eye, the punk caught sight
of the muscled man and reflexively swung at Scott with the knife.
Without hesitation, Scott seized his wrist in an iron grip and
unmercifully twisted it, easily breaking the joint with a crisp
*CRACK!*. The man yelped and went bug-eyed, the knife slipping
from his limp fingers. Scott slapped his other palm over his
other hand, pivoted and wrenched the skinny, straightened arm
hard over the solid, muscular slope of his traps. He was rewarded
with a sharp *SNAP!*. The man screamed out and Scott smiled at
the sight of the limb within his gasp now deformed and bent in two.
Still holding the wrist taut with his left hand, Scott swung his
right fist over his shoulder; the slab of his lat muscles extending,
his body becoming a flurry of stretched and whipping deltoid and
tricep muscle, as he slammed his knuckles three times into the
devastated, flopping head of the goon, each time striking with a
dull thud. A small spray of blood from a freshly broken nose
sprayed Scott in the face. He released the arm and let the barely
conscious thug thud to his knees. Scott quickly curled his arm under
the punk's chin, his beautiful bicep bulging, and snaked the fingers
of his other hand around the back of the skull. He tightened his
grip, adjusted his stance and twisted a little to the left, before
savagely jerking the man's head to the right. He heard a satisfying,
muffled pop and felt the skull break free from the spine. The punk
began to convulse spastically. Scott looked up and saw a corkscrew
on the counter-top. Still holding the man's head in his arm joint,
he grabbed the device and punched the curled, metal spear into the
forehead. The cranial bone cracked and Scott adjusted his grip on
the handle, pressed down and sunk the device deep into the soft
brain. The punk quickly stopped twitching. He dropped the carcass
on the floor, the corkscrew still planted in the man's head.
Scott swiped the gun off the counter, checked the clip,
and made his way to an open doorway, peering slowly around the
corner into the room that was the source of the blaring music.
In the living room were three targets. One guy sitting
on the floor with his legs crossed, an Xbox controller in his
hand, playing a game in front of an enormous TV. One thug
sitting on a couch, legs spread and relaxed, chatting with
another goon who stood at the edge of the sofa. The big black
fucker on the couch was Rafael, Jesse's personal bodyguard. He
was well over 6ft and 300lbs. Rafael wasn't fast or agile, but
he didn't need to be. The man was like a brick wall. Scott
had witnessed him once annihilate a patron at a club. It took
only three blows to the skull. The victim spent 2 days in the
hospital. The doctors cut a hole in his cranium to give his
swelling brain room to breathe, but he died anyway. Rafael
didn't swing fast, but he swung very, very hard. Time to move.
Scott marched right in, the gun steady in both hands. The goon
playing video games looked up.
"Wha.-"
Scott fired and the round punched a massive hole
through his ribcage. The strength of Scott's arms easily
controlled the weapon's formidable recoil. He took another
step and with steely eyes and a squeeze of the trigger he
removed a huge portion of the standing goon's head. Scott
turned the gun on Rafael, who was slyly trying to reach for
his jacket and whatever weapon it's pocket contained. Scott's
eyes smiled and he slowly shook his head at Rafael.
The gigantic man appeared resigned to his fate and
leaned back comfortably, seemingly unfazed by his own impending
execution or the partially decapitated body at his foot. Scott
could've eliminated him as summarily as the others, but no. He
wanted a challenge. We wanted the pleasure and personal
satisfaction of fighting and killing the widely feared Rafael
with his bare hands.
Scott pivoted and fired, the round cutting across
the room and shattering the cd player. A vast silence
enveloped the room.
Rafael looked Scott over, examining the short but
amazingly built man who stood before him. "I know you. You
that guinea motherfucka Petrone's boy. Well, you got the gun.
I ain't movin. What the fuck you waitin' for?" he snarled.
"It's not going to be that easy asshole." Scott grinned.
He held the gun up for Rafael could get a good look, popped
the clip out and placed the weapon of the table between them.
He assumed a combat stance, fist tight and raised, and beckoned
Rafael to come for him.
"Shit..." Rafael grinned "Are you fuckin' crazy? OK
then."
With surprising quickness Rafael jumped up and used
his leg to bash the table out of the way. The splintered
remnants of the table slid twelve feet across the floor. He
took three rapid, stomping steps toward Scott, swinging his
massive fists in huge arches through the air. Scott arched his
back, barely missing Rafael's sloppy but still brutal right hook,
then ducked to avoid his left fist. Crouched, Scott swung his
arm upward, his fist thudding into Rafeal's gut.
"Ugh..." Rafael moaned, his feet shifting unsteadily
backward.
In a graceful display of muscle and skilled power,
Scott swung his foot out and caught his opponent in the back
of the knee. Rafael fell on his knee with a resonant thud,
and with lightening speed Scott sent his left heel crashing
into the man's face. The bodybuilder leapt onto the back of
his giant prey, immediately securing a headlock and hoping to
quickly break the neck. His face contorted with effort as he
pushed his palm, placed flat and firm under under the ear, in
one direction. The arm that ensnared the neck and crushed the
windpipe began to pull the opposite way. Rafael started wheezing,
his fat fingers trying to pry away the unrelenting arms. Rafael's
meaty, sweaty neck resisted mightily however. This wasn't as
easy as Scott had expected, and he was now eagerly hoping to
prolong the pressure on the throat long enough to accomplish
death by asphyxiation. With the shorter man still clasped to him,
Rafael heaved himself up to both feet, staggered for a moment,
then careened heavily backwards, slamming his backside-and
Scott,-into the wall. Scott's body created a raining, plaster
crater in the wall, and the back of his skull impacted with a
wood beam. Almost losing consciousness, his arms slipped from
the headlock and he slid to the floor next to the coughing, gagging
Rafael, who laid by his side.
Quickly coming to, Scott saw his opportunity. He suddenly
seized Rafael's head between his muscled thighs and locked his
ankles together. He now attempted to accomplish with his immensely
powerful legs what his arms had failed to do. Scott began to twist
his thighs towards the wall, and along with them, Rafael's head.
The bigger man was pinned against the wall, his enormous frame too
heavyset to follow the turning direction of his own head. Rafael's
hands began to despairingly slap against the thighs, his face
squeezed between a vice of pure muscle. As Scott continued to
relentlessly turn the skull, his own dick hardened with excited hunger,
as he felt stretching neck muscles and ligaments begin to tear
and surrender. The steady churning had caused his shorts and
underwear to slowly pull down halfway, revealing the top of his
beautiful, bulbous ass. Rafael began to make a desperate growling
noise, not out of fear, but rising from a fighting man's frustration
with his impending destruction. Scott had now twisted around to
his own stomach, and he heard the tantalizing crackle of twisted,
contorted vertebrae begin to slip.
Scott gritted his teeth, "C'mon. C'mon. Break for me.
C'monnnn.....let's hear it."
He applied a final burst of power to his hips. Scott
heard a rapid popping noise followed by a sharp snap and felt
Rafael's head wrench loose in his sweaty crotch. It was over.
A short grunt escaped Rafael's lips and the once fierce spirit
of struggle that animated his body immediatedly vanished and
left only a unmoving, oversized corpse. His half-open, lazy
eyes rested emptily between the two muscular thighs that had
taken his life. A look of satisfied relief washed over
Scott's face. His eyes closed, panting, his skin moist with
sweat from his efforts, still holding the skull between his
thighs, reflecting on how horny this kill had made him.
Eight dead, one more to go. He opened his legs and
let the head plop to the floor. Jumping up, he cautiously
made his way up the stairway, knowing the exact whereabouts
to Jesse's bedroom. Encountering no unexpected resistance,
Scott followed the long hallway towards the closed door of
Jesse's bedroom. He stopped just at the edge of the doorframe,
listening. His bodyweight inadvertently shifted and the floor
creaked. A gun fired from inside and a round tore through the
door.
"You like that? Huh?" he heard Jesse yell from inside.
The cornered man fired another two shots through the door. "I've
got enough ammo in here to do this all day. I'll fill that
fucking hallway with all your sons-a-bitches dead bodies!"
Scott smirked to himself. Jesse had assumed his crew
had been eliminated by a hit squad, not a mere lone man. Scott
kept his mouth shut, listening carefully to Jesse run his off.
His target was ranting about Petrone and making the nonsensical
threats of a desperate man. Scott wasn't listening to the words
though. He focused on the volume, pitch and resonance of the
voice, listening for movement. Listening, listening, until he
heard the asshole make the small mistake that would finally
cost him his life. Scott's brain made the approximate
calculations and his body sprung onto action. He swung his left
arm an dizzying arch. His fist punched straight through the door
and immediately seized the waiting throat. He jerked his arm
forward and heard Jesse's face bash into the door and the gun
clunk to the floor. Scott's face grimaced with concentrated effort
as he brutally began to squeeze and crush the throat. Jesse tried
to open the door, but Scott slammed him forward again. The sounds
of Jesse's anguished gasping and his panicked feet shuffling on the
floorboards only inspired Scott to intensify his efforts. He felt
the thick, rubbery tissue of the windpipe collapse and heard Jesse
emit a pitiful squeal. He felt Jesse's fingers try to rip away his
hand with a tremendous desire to live. He did this at first with
great vigor. After a minute his desperate yanking became a gentle
tugging. Soon his fingers merely fluttered and tapped against
Scott's wrist, before they let go and fell away. He heard Jesse's
agonized gasps draw-out and lengthen, become coarser, almost
inhuman, then slow in frequency. There was quiet and stillness
for about 20 seconds. He felt Jesse's slack bodyweight suddenly
twitch violently twice, and then nothing more. Amid the new
silence, he kept the killing pressure on the throat for another
minute, ensuring the job was done. He shifted his thumb and
pressed it into the cartoid artery. No pulse. He opened his hand
and the body thudded to the floor.
He pulled his arm out of the hole in the door and used
his shoulder push it open and force Jesse's deadweight out of
the way. He looked down. Jesse lay on the floor, his eyes wide
open and his tongue protrubing, the white imprint of Scott's
fingers still on his throat.
Scott looked up and saw something unexpected, but not
unwelcome. A half-naked woman sat in Jesse's bed. Undoubtably
one of Jesse's many girlfriends. The expression of dread on her
face was quickly replace by awe, her eyes slowly examining the
body of this suberb phyiscal specimen.
"That was amazing..." she said, "What you just did."
Her thoughts turned inward a moment, then she asked timidly,
"Are you going to kill me?"
Scott shook his head, "If I wanted to you'd be dead
already. Your not on my list."
He moved in toward her, "But if you like what you saw,
why don't you show me." He said, taking her hand and pressing
it against his abdominal muscles, slowly pushing it down against
the muscled ridges, further down below the rim of his brown shorts,
where her fingers were guided to the hard, sweat moistened cock
that waited. He could smell her desire for his body, and after
so many awesome kills today, his dick excitedly craved explosive
release.
He pushed her down on the bed and proceeded to give
her the fuck of her life, within sight of the empty stare of
the cold corpse of her former boyfriend. Before he left, he
gave her a warning message from Petrone to relay to some of
Jesse's suppliers. On the way out, he grabbed the keys to Jesse's
Mercedes SLR from a rack near the front door. He'd have to trash
the car soon enough, but he had earned a little fun for a hard
days work.
(
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