Considering I hadn't killed anyone for months, life was good.
People say, "Do what you know." I know killing people. This is not a skill accepted in great degrees by our society. If you're good at killing people, you go into the military, or if you're really good, you get into politics. Neither option appealed to me, so I had used my skills in an illegal fashion, encouraged by the embodiment of Machiavellian evil whom I had known as Pops. After the murder of my father by my hands and the murders of my family's rivals by some helping hands, I was forced to live a life as straight as the owner of a bar-slash-emerging-night-club could.
I'd invested my time into making
The Deep End
a premier establishment. For awhile, Sheila— the only person who had ever really mattered to me— worked there, too. She decided to run with the moniker's established water theme, and with the help of her talented and insanely attractive friends, customers began to show up. Sheila had proved essential to the success of the club and demonstrated an acute business savvy.
That is, until she left me.
Since our relationship had been built on an Everest-caliber mountain of lies and since she'd never truly be safe as long as she was with me, I couldn't blame Sheila. Trust should be the foundation of a healthy relationship, not the knowledge that your girlfriend had originally dated you because she'd been hired to spy on you. Or that you boyfriend was not just the son of an underworld kingpin but a contract killer to boot. In short, our split was amicable. We knew it had to happen.
Our lives, however, remained complicated. I'd spent the last few months trying to simplify mine.
Simplification: stop killing people. Easier said than done if you've ever driven in the city.
Simplification: no new girlfriend. While Sheila had vastly improved my life in many ways, she had also confused it a great deal.
Simplification: focus on my job as owner of
The Deep End.
It needed to be more than just a cover but my tried-and-true nine-to-five. As in nine P.M. to five A.M. job. With Sheila's help, I made it happen. If I could make money in a legitimate fashion, I knew things would work out.
And I had to admit, the work had its benefits. The thing about running a night club is that the dancers are quite nice, especially if you're the owner of the club. The thing about not having a girlfriend is that I didn't have to say no to them. I had learned that they liked to be called dancers instead of strippers. Sheila had attempted to explain the difference, but to me, it was all semantics.
I tried to remember the name of the dancer on her knees in front of me. It seemed like all dancers' names fell into one of four categories: precious stones (
Diamond, Sapphire, etc.
), things in the sky (
Star, Venus, etc.
), cartoon animals (
Bambi, Tweety, etc.
), or sugary treats
(Candy Lane, Candy Kane, etc.
). This one's name was Kandy... something. She slurped, spat out my erection, and looked up at me with caramel-colored eyes. In my experience, one thing that whores, strippers, and dancers all seemed to have in common was a natural ability at giving exemplary blow jobs. Her name came to me. Kandy Karnal. I liked the name, weird use of K's and all. It fit her.
"Center stage, prime time, tomorrow night?" she requested, rubbing a soft, smooth cheek against my throbbing flesh.
Oh, yeah. Usually the good blow jobs come at a price.
"No promises," I said and winked.
She gobbled me back up. I squirmed in my chair, the leather squeaking around me. Having left her wig draped on the corner of my desk, Kandy's short, dark brown hair was mussed. Glitter covered her skin. Her eyes were heavily shadowed with dark purple make-up, and her glossy lipstick matched. You could probably guess at the color of her wig. Curvaceous yet hard-bodied, she was the kind of hot that drew in customers, so she probably would have been on center stage during the busiest hours, anyway. I figured oral sex from her was just icing on the Kandy Cake.
She stroked me into her mouth, lathered me with her tongue, and glared at me in lusty challenge. I sighed between clenched teeth. Kandy was good. Really good.
She stood up and said, "I'm soaked." I didn't have to ask what she meant. One of her hands was between her legs and showed me. She continued, "Why don't you just tell me I have center stage, so I can take care of this?"
"The customers are liking Ruby lately," I said. It was true enough.
Kandy frowned. "I don't care if the customers like her. I want
you
to like
me
."
Taking ahold of me with one hand, she lowered herself onto my erection. I admit to you, Dear Reader, that I liked her. At that moment, I liked Ms. Kandy Karnal a-whole-fucking-lot.
She began to ride me like I was the favorite in the Kentucky Derby. Her abs flexed, and her hips gyrated. I stared at her bouncing breasts, thinking that they were too perfect to be real. Either Kandy was the result of miraculous genes or her surgeon was an artist. Even with two squeezing handfuls, I couldn't decide one way or the other. I tested them with my mouth, one, then the other. I sucked on her nipples, flicked them with my tongue. I remained undecided but hornier than ever.
Her warm, wet pussy milked me with swift strokes. Kandy's hazel eyes bore into mine, and a smile curled her lips. She said, "You like my hot cunt, don't you?"
I decided to not admit that I actually liked Ruby's "hot cunt" more. Kandy might be a close second though. Instead, I murmured something unintelligible and met her bouncing gyrations with synchronized pelvic thrusts of my own. Kandy's eyes rolled into the back of her head.
This was not my first rodeo, despite the fact that this woman was treating me like a wild bronco. Knowing I wouldn't be able to last if she kept up her pace much longer, I decided to take charge of this little cowgirl.
