Saturday, March 21, 2009

The Union of One Thousand Breaths
By Jim Parks

When the dude with Massachusetts plates on his Mercedes keeled over dead while screwing the blonde who blew in that morning for the first time, her hair in a pony tail and declaring a preference for, a desire for "a really big dick," it was a delicate matter, but nothing unmanageable. I've seen worse scrapes in a dozen states. This isn't really a brothel, nor is it a bordello, cat house or house of ill repute.

Call me Louise.

I operate a club for people who like to get it on with other normal people in - well, let's say - interesting ways. After all, there are plenty of motels available.

I'm not really a Madame; think of me as a social director on a dude ranch for sport fucking. My place is the typical four-bedroom ranch house on an acre lot out in the Florida boonies. There's a screened outdoor in-ground pool, a hot tub, and lots of privacy provided by bougainvillea hedges with hearts of barbed wire and tops of razor concertina. Just because the pretty hedge has grown up around it doesn't mean it's not there.

Anyway, that's how I manage. You know, prostitution is a felony in this state. Why not have some fun with that, give them what they want. So, they're sex addicts? Give me a break. I should be such a victim.

The rules?

No means no. It's got to be safe, sane and consensual. Condoms are a must. No one gets hurt unless they're cruising for it. Other than that, I'm insured. It's like I've got a twenty-four hour a day party going three hundred sixty-five days a year.

Besides, everything is leased in the name of a closely held shell corporation with headquarters in a post office box in the Caymans. Of course, it's expensive. I pay off the local gendarmes, the state police, the sheriff's department, each individual county commissioner and my checkbook is open to all the well-known, and some not so well known charities.

So there. Go figure.

The dude got in early, way before any women had arrived for play time. He had a couple of drinks to unwind, got naked and hit the pool, then he boiled out the poison in the hot tub. He was there when the blonde drove up in her little Japanese roadster dressed in an extreme bikini, an Australian straw hat and a smile. I showed her the play room, the bedrooms, the public space - clothing optional - and let her wander out to the pool and spa area on her own.

What happened next is on videotape. It happened in the play room. You see, I've got eye in the sky just like any other casino. No way I'm going to let some sex maniac come along and put me in a jackpot.

She knew how to play, all right. She got him sitting down on padded bench, his back against the wall, put a gas mask with hose attached so she could control his breathing and screwed a nine-inch dildo on the end. Unless she blew air into the dildo while she sucked it, he couldn't get any air unless, of course, he chose to rip the mask off and spoil the mood. I won't say she showed any class; she was all flash. Diamonds to die for. A killer tan, boob job, perfect abs - you know, a yoga chick on a high protein diet - lean, mean, a racehorse fuck machine.

She donned a sleeping mask in black leather. Then she blew that big dick of his until it was standing up as proud as any flag pole you ever saw. I think she must have been a pro at some point. She put the Trojan in her mouth and slipped it on down with a quick thrust of her head, then it was all head and hand action.

He just leaned back and sighed. Then he got frantic for air, which she supplied him at the last possible moment.

It was on.

I was especially enjoying the play of muscles across her back and ass. I was thinking maybe tennis, maybe swimming, for sure aerobics. The pony tail kept bouncing up and down as she sucked on the dildo mouthpiece. The dude kept on heaving and breathing and screwing his brains out with her sitting reversed on his lap against the wall. She had him pinned. But then something really curious happened. She held a little vial up to her mouth and took a deep breath from it. It looked like poppers.

Then she blew it into the mouth piece. The dude turned forty colors, weakened after a surge of frantic screwing, then fought her for breath and to get away from under her weight. In his condition, he was unable to make the getaway. He couldn't even pull the mask off his head because of the way she was holding his arms. He slumped over dead.

I saw her when she came out of the playroom naked. She stepped into her sandals, grabbed her purse and her bikini out of the locker and threw the key on my desk, saying, "Bye, honey. You got a nice place here."

Then she stepped into the little sports car without opening the door and left the lot slinging oyster shell dust in the air, the nasty little engine growling like a bitch in heat with only one bone left to her name.

I thought, "What was that all about?" When he didn't come out for more than an hour, I went to check up on him and found him dead, slumped over and about to fall to the floor. I called my guy who fixes things. We watched the tape and agreed it was bad juju. Who knows what was in the vial?

This wasn't your garden variety spanking or face sitting. This was hardball. We erased it and put in another one. We would tell the dicks he was dead when we found him - alone - and something must be wrong with the video recorder.

Who knows? I know this. I found it out just yesterday and I'm moving quickly now. First stop, the Caymans, then on to Brazil. I'm sure I'll have to pay the pussy posse off, but, hey, it ain't no crime to scratch that itch for people in a place like that.

The private investigator who came in from Boston had news for me. The dude was a big shot in an insurance company who had absconded with a lot of cash.


Come to think of it, the chick who did him paid with cash. That's what I'm talking about. I've got a half dozen passports and major credit in all those names. I'm going to use one of them for the last time and just disappear if I can.

I'm sick and tired of living in mickey mouse-ville, you know.

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