Montau

Steve Clarke battled against a biting wind that whipped sand into his face as he took his usual walk on the beach in Montauk. His shoulder length brown hair waved wildly in the stiff gale. The gunmetal sea crashed against the shore. The detritus from the past few months littered the beach- broken children's toys, glass bottles, a bucket of sand. Steve saw a large red piece of debris on the horizon, closer to the town seafront, but he didn't know what it was.

As he got closer to red object he realised it was a woman. She was sitting, looking out to sea. Steve thought she might be dead from exposure or maybe a body that had someone dumped. He ran to her. What he saw puzzled him. Here was a good looking woman, quite alive, wearing a red dress, sitting on the sand in a gale. Her long black hair fluttered in the wind.

"Are you OK?" Steve shouted, struggling with the noise of the wind

"Yeah." the woman answered, faint and distractedly.

"Are you cold?" The woman nodded her head. Steve took off his brown trench coat and placed it over her shoulders. He sat down beside her.

"My name's Steve. What's yours?"

"Amy."

"Well Amy, why don't we go somewhere warm and maybe get something to eat?" Amy nodded and they both stood up. They walked along the beach back towards Montauk.

Steve Clarke was twenty five and a born and bred Montaukian. He left town to attend college but came back to Montauk to work. His work was enjoyable and it was his life. Steve's house became his when his parents died in a car crash, two years ago.

As something of a loner, by twenty five, he hadn't gotten laid yet. He wanted to, but he just hadn't got around to it yet.

They took a booth in a little café back in town. Steve ordered two coffees and some onion rings. He was curious about this woman so he began to ask questions.

"Why were you sitting on the beach in weather like that?" She had been avoiding eye contact but now she looked him in his emerald green eyes, her face tear stained.

"I go there to think." Amy replied.

"So do I. I go there every day. What do you think about?"

"It's my turn to ask you a question."

"Go ahead. Shoot."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a writer. I write stories for magazines and for pleasure. Now, tell me, what do you think about when you're sitting there, with the wind howling through you, in nothing but that pretty, red dress."

"You like this dress?"

"Sure."

"I think about stuff. You know, like why I'm here, where do I go next, that kind of stuff. My turn again. What kind of stories do you write?" Steve smiled.

"It's a little embarrassing."

"You can tell me; seeing as we're both being honest." The guy arrived with the coffee and onion rings.

"Well, I write erotic novels." Amy's eyes lit up and her face brightened.

"Really?" she said, now fascinated, "I'd love to read some of them."

"I've got some back in my place if you ever want to look at some of them."

"Groovy, why don't we go now?"

"I don't know, wouldn't it be a bit...."

"Of course not. I'll tell you more about myself on the way back." It wasn't a bad offer for Steve. Maybe this would be it. They finished their onion rings and left.

Amy Arnold grew up on a farm in Oklahoma. Her old man taught her to use shotguns and revolvers; by twelve years old, Amy was shooting rats in the barn with pinpoint accuracy. She married a local boy, Billy McKay at just seventeen and they moved to New York City. Billy became a surgeon and within a few years they were living in their own apartment in Manhattan. By the time Amy was thirty two, Billy had started to drink heavily. He'd come home and knock Amy around a bit.

One night it got too much for Amy. Billy's dinner wasn't ready by the time he got back from work. He went to punch Amy but she was too quick. She clobbered him in the head with a saucepan, killing him.

She had a hell of a time trying to convince the prosecution that it was done in self defence. Her apartment was sold and she hired the most expensive lawyers in the business. When she ran out of money her lawyers left her. Her cause was lost and Amy went to prison for a year. Out of the goodness of his heart, a young lawyer from the firm that deserted her decided to take on her appeal pro bono. The appeal was successful and Amy walked free.

At least prison hadn't been too hard on her.

Her job in Montauk barely covered the rent on her dingy two room apartment. When her boss gave her time off, Amy would sit on the beach, just to look out at the waves and think. Sometimes she'd cry at the memories but now, she was determined to make good. She'd find someone new and scrape together the money to go to California or Miami or somewhere warmer than Montauk. That was the dream anyway.

Amy and Steve didn't have to walk too far to get to Steve's place. It was a two storey house in a terrace and it wasn't big. He led her into the kitchen as that was the only way through to the living room. Amy thought the house was remarkably clean. There was nothing out of place except for the plastic bag of dryer lint beside the trashcan.

The living room was a nice sized room with two facing armchairs in front of a fireplace with a bearskin rug on the floor between the two chairs. There was a record player in the corner. Steve lit the fire and left Amy sitting in one of the armchairs while he went and got a couple of beers from the fridge. He handed Amy a beer and put a record on the turntable. Dusty Springfield- not loud, but just loud enough so as they could listen to it and talk at the same time. Steve sat down and they both drank beer and talked until the fire was nearly dead.

"Hey, you said you'd show me some of your work." Amy exclaimed.

"I did, didn't I? I'll go get a few pages." Steve returned with an inch thick wad of typed sheets and handed them to Amy. She leafed through it until she came to the first steamy part. After reading through it she looked across at Steve.

"This is good."

"Thanks."

"I mean really good." She had a devious smile on her face. "Why don't we go upstairs and act out this scene?" she asked. Steve wasn't going to let this opportunity go.

"I'm game if you are." he said with a smile matching Amy's.

"Have you got any scarves?" Amy asked.

"There should be a pile in there somewhere." Sitting on his bed, Steve watched Amy root through the antique free standing wardrobe beside his other record player. Eventually, she produced the elusive pile of silk scarves and threw them on the bed. Unzipping her dress she let it fall to the floor revealing her pale, naked body- no underwear. Her nipples stood fully to attention.

"Aren't you going to do anything?" Amy asked. Without question, Steve hastily undressed and threw his clothes in the corner of the room. They stood for a moment gazing into each other's eyes, Steve, for the first time noticed how her eyes resembled icy pools. Both their bodies embraced passionately and their lips became as one. As they held each other tightly, Amy nibbled softly on Steve's earlobe. Playfully, she shoved him onto the bed.

Everything went dark for Steve as Amy tied one of the scarves around his head, blindfolding him. He felt the silk fabric carefully tightening around his wrists and as he tried to move his arms his bindings snagged as they were tied to the bed posts above his head. Amy wound the silk around his ankles and with one final pull, she secured his ankles to the bottom of the bed.

Surveying his spread eagled body, Amy whispered in his ear.

"Have patience, all good things come to those who wait. I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail." Lighting a thick candle beside the bed, Amy headed downstairs to the freezer in the kitchen. Steve felt vulnerable- after all, he could neither see nor move. She returned with a container of ice cubes and put a record on the turntable. "Gimme Shelter" by the Rolling Stones was the first song they heard.

Amy sat, legs astride Steve, and popped an ice cube out of the container. She ran it along his neck with her hand and through the cleft of his chest until it came to rest in his navel where she left it to melt. Kissing his neck again she took another ice cube and held it between her teeth. Steve felt the cool ice as Amy caressed his left nipple with her lips. She took the candle beside the bed and poured a small amount of the melted wax on each of Steve's nipples and then in a narrow strip from his neck, down to the base of his cock. His body tensed as the hot wax hit his skin, but it soon cooled. She put three ice cubes in her mouth and slid his cock carefully in her mouth so as the ice wouldn't fall out. Using her tongue, she swirled the melting ice in circles around the head. Steve felt a thrill as he knew Amy was in complete control. But then she stopped. This was all the foreplay there was in Steve's story, so now it was time to do the beautiful deed. She untied Steve.

Amy lay on her back as Steve tied the a scarf tightly, but not uncomfortably around both her ankles. Facing her, he hoisted the scarf over the back of his neck, suspending Amy's legs in the air. After positioning himself he plunged his knob into her tight, wet pussy. As a first-timer he didn't realise that the thrusting movements were so tiring and he struggled to keep going for the time. He concentrated on Amy's breathing and tried to match that rhythm. Soon, Steve was looking to the ceiling and crying out to the God he didn't believe in. Not long after, Amy came with an explosive scream of ecstasy. He didn't know whether she was faking it but it made him feel good to think not.

The couple lay on the bed afterwards trying to regain their breath. For Steve, it was exactly how he imagined it when he was writing his novel. Amy had been so faithful to his work, that he didn't believe anyone could better her. Everything about her- her silky hair, her sweet scent were addictive. He knew that he couldn't let her escape. He wanted her until the end of time. He would do anything if it meant more time together.

"So, what did your pair of lovebirds do next in your novel?" Amy asked.

"Well, they went and robbed a bank."

"Interesting. How'd they do it?"

"They went in and shot the place up and the teller gave them the money."

"They get away?"

"You'll just have to find out when you read it, won't you?"

"I'm pretty handy with a shotgun. I reckon we could go in and take over a little place like that bank in town." Amy joked.

"You and me together?" Steve asked.

"Just like Bonnie and Clyde. It'd be swell too 'cause it'd be just like your book."

"I'll make my money when I go to LA. Sell a script or two, live happily ever after."

"We need money to go to LA."

"We?" asked Steve.

"Me and you. We'll need cash to keep the gas tank full and I've only got a couple of hundred bucks."

"Well, if we're going together, I've got to admit, I don't have much either."

"Looks like that bank is our only way out of here. I can teach you to shoot and I'm not bad behind the wheel of a car." Steve thought it over. If they managed to pull off this heist, they could live happily ever after in Mexico or they could hire a plane in Florida and get the pilot to fly them to Cuba. Two outlaws on the run- just like Bonnie and Clyde.

In the following weeks, they purchased a couple of shotguns and a .38 pistol. Amy bought a beat up '65 Pontiac GTO. They went to the range and she taught him how to shoot. He loved being around her. She was irresistible when they stood close on the range, their bodies together as she adjusted his aim with the shotgun and all he cared about was the smell of her perfume in his nostrils. They had hired a pilot that would fly them to some place in the middle of nowhere and he would be waiting at the airfield when they screeched up in the GTO, with a sack of cash each. Pretty soon, everything was ready.

Dressed entirely in black, the couple pulled up outside the Montauk bank in the GTO. They sat quietly for a few moments in the car and then they kissed.

"Let's go do this." said Steve. Amy had a pistol shoved down the back of her pants and they both carried shotguns.

The bank was a small building with a big glass front door at the top of a flight of stone steps. Inside the glass door, to the left, was another door, leading into teller's desks. The couple walked in.

"THIS IS A ROBBERY! TOUCH THAT ALARM AND YOU'RE DEAD!" screamed Amy.

"EVERYBODY ON THE FLOOR NOW!" yelled Steve. There were a few reluctant people that wouldn't readily drop to the floor. Steve pumped the shotgun into a potted plant in the corner. The pot exploded into a shower of soil and pottery shards. The people soon got the picture. A woman on the floor began to scream. Steve fired at her, deliberately missing by inches.

"ANY MORE HYSTERICS FROM ANY ONE OF YOU, AND YOU'RE ALL DEAD!" shouted Steve. There was no more crying or screaming. Amy took out her pistol and pointed it in the face of the terrified teller. She was a middle aged woman with grey hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses.

"Honey, you are not getting a single penny from me." the teller told Amy. Her hand slipped under the desk and she hit the alarm button. Sirens began to wail. She was brave but foolish.

"You've just done one hell of a dumb thing." Amy told the teller. She cocked her pistol. A mother tried to stifle the cries of her infant. Amy turned around angrily. She called Steve over. Going to her, his gun still trained on the people on the floor.

"Get that kid out of here." she whispered quietly in his ear. He struggled to hear her over the alarms. "We don't want to be responsible for killing a young 'un if it comes to that." Steve went over and took the child by the arm. Amy pointed the thirty eight towards the crowd on the floor while Steve brought the kid to the door. He got down on one knee to the child's height.

"Kid, I want you to run out of here as fast as you can. Will you do that for me?" Steve asked him in a conspiratorial manner. The child nodded a tearful affirmative. Steve opened the door for him and the kid ran down the steps of the bank. He ran home- just a few hundred yards up the street. He never realised that the posse of police cruisers, with their lights flashing and piercing sirens were on their way to the bank.

Amy had turned back to the teller.

"What was I saying?" she asked quite casually. "Oh yeah, I was telling you how dumb you were. You really should've known better" With an evil smile, she pulled the trigger. For that split second, the sound of the gunshot drowned out the sirens and alarms in everyone's mind. The bullet hit the teller in the centre of the forehead. She crumpled onto the floor. "Dumb bitch." Amy said to no one in particular. She turned to the other teller, a young lady with long chestnut brown chair.

"Now, I hope you're smart enough not to do anything as stupid as what she just did. Open the drawers and the safe, and start throwing the cash into those sacks." She pointed to a pile of big sacks in the corner. The petrified tellers had no option but to obey. A customer on the floor tried to make a run for it, but Steve saw him and shot him in the back. They began to hear police sirens. The wailing was getting closer. Steve looked out the window of the bank and saw a wall of police cruisers at the foot of the steps surrounding the GTO, and their occupants out pointing guns at the front door of the bank, waiting for the pair to come out.

"That's it." the young teller told Amy. Amy looked in the sacks and smiled.

"Jackpot." Steve told her to look out the window. If she didn't like what she saw, she sure didn't show it.

"These sacks are heavy. We put the shotguns down and carry one each. I got the thirty eight. We can go out firing." Steve knew they didn't stand a chance. The police would open fire and they couldn't escape. But he didn't dare contradict Amy. He loved her and he wasn't about to leave her now. He hoped that he was wrong about there not being an afterlife. In prison, they'd be separated. Amy would probably get the chair for what she did. The only way they could be together forever now, is if they both ended it, in a blaze of glory, on the steps of the bank.

They threw the shotguns on the floor and they kissed again. The electric passion flowed through their bodies and the thoughts of their impending demise only made the moment more intense. Holding hands, they burst through the glass door, firing as they went.

Lieutenant Gil Hagen of the Montauk Police Department searched through the contents of a house that belonged to one of the thieves that robbed the local bank, one week before. He was about to leave for the day when he found a bunch of typed pages. He sat on the stairs and began to read. It was a story, about a couple who meet on a beach, fall in love, rob a bank and then die in a hail of bullets on the front steps as they try to make a futile escape.