He was sitting across from her, looking at her made-up face, perfectly applied. She had dark eyeliner and jet black mascara, making her eyes look huge. "Blue," he thought. Her eyes were a sparkling blue. She was half-snarling, half-pouting. He knew her sort: perfect little party girl, spoiled, thought she could do anything she wanted. She was overgrown, one of those people who keep up a party lifestyle for far too long, too spoiled and coddled to develop a sense of responsibility. She thought she had the right to do anything she wanted. She was about to learn different.
He selected an ID with his picture on it, from one of the security accounts, with a false name on it. He slid it across the table like it was an ace in a poker game; it was very official and said what he did: Security and Surveillance Specialist. He introduced the false identity he had just taken on and addressed her by name.
He said, "Chaz didn't hire me. Someone else did, and I'm not going to break professional trust by telling you who. So don't ask. Now-" She opened her mouth and started a tirade of sorts, but he held up a hand and said, "Shut up."
She glared at him, murderous. She opened her mouth again, and in response he flipped open his phone and showed her the fucking photograph. She stared at it, then blurted, "How did you get that?"
He smirked, enjoying her confusion and discomfort. "Do you think Jared is so perfect? Do you think a possession with intent to distribute charge won't get him to toss you to me?" Her eyes went huge and her mouth started working. He heard a murmured 'motherfucker', and leaned in. "Maybe he did and maybe he didn't; but don't ever," he leaned even closer, forcing her to back away, and continued, viciously, "EVER, assume anything on a device is safe. EVER." He glared at her, the 'look' he'd perfected knocking down pathetic little people in low-paid jobs, people stealing candy from stock for their squalling brats, people stealing to buy their dirty drugs, people stupid enough to fuck on hidden cameras, people vandalizing lockers with paint pens, stupidly writing love notes on company property.
He'd fired them all, showing the footage, showing the captures, fighting down hysterical laughter at their sad squirming and brain dead protests. Even so, this one was the best by far.
She moved to get up to leave, and snapped at him, "This is bullshit, you're a sleazy little bald-headed crook. My dad's a lawyer and he's going to fuck you so hard his cock will come out your fucking eyeball."
He sat back, spread his arms wide, and instantly rolled with this new information, information that put him in the end zone for sure. "I'm aware of your father's profession," and he said her name. He lowered his head and smiled, looking directly at her. She flinched as if she'd sat on a tack with that perfect ass, and dropped heavily back down. He raised his eyebrows, hinting wordlessly who may have hired him. The whole thing was an impressive stunt and he knew it; he'd outdone himself. It was a perfect magic trick, and he couldn't help but be pleased with himself.
He had her. He knew it. She looked out the window, mouth working violently. He said, laughing, "You are a stupid bitch. One of the stupidest I've ever seen," he said her full name and address, then sat back, chuckling. He deliberately moved his coat aside and made sure when she glanced back in fury she could see the gun. Her eyes widened, and she folded her hands on the table. She looked like she might cry. He couldn't stop himself from laughing out loud.
"So," he said her name again, "you, daddy's dick sucking cokehead sweetheart, have a couple of choices." He laughed in her face.
He made his pitch quickly and bluntly. It was easy. The words flowed out of him, silver and sparkling and perfect. He felt powerful and amazing, brilliant, a genius. He was a genius, and this shitty little bitch was going to do what he told her to do. He outdid himself, speaking quietly and carefully, hiding his excitement at his power. The gun on his belt felt light and heavy at the same time, evil and calculating, gifting him all the power in the world.
It was good; the best ever. He felt his cock getting hard just hearing his own voice. It was amazing.
She kept her mouth shut on the way to his car, stopping only to drop her phones at her own vehicle, as ordered. He didn't bother opening the door for her, instead waiting for her to enter of her own free will. She pushed the astounding, perfect ass in first, showing him what he was going to have, and sat down in a heap, deflated and dejected, face working in hatred and fear.
He said nothing on the way to the sleazy motel. It was unnecessary. He didn't have to say anything at all. This cunt wasn't worth it. "Cunt," he found himself saying in his mind, and the word rolled around in his brain like a loose boxcar. His chest swelled at it, and his cock got uncomfortable in his dress pants.
At the motel he parked directly in front of his temporary door, got out, and unlocked the door. He walked in without looking back; he knew the girl would follow. When he heard her come in after him, into the crummy room with its dirty, stained carpet, mini-fridge and obsolete TV, he turned around and faced her squarely.
She looked around, then squared her jaw and looked directly at him. He waited, lusting over her fabulous body. He said, "Daddy didn't like your choices, little lady. Didn't like them at all."
Her eyes flashed, and then, to his intense interest, the expression in her eyes changed, far back behind the irises. Something was working in her mind and on her emotions. He leaned forward, staring into the eyes of the little coke-snorting daddy's girl. Her face shifted, and then her demeanor changed completely. Something deep down was moving around. He could see it.
He waited a few seconds, then slapped her across the face, hard. When her head rolled back in place he backhanded her, not quite as hard, smacking her cheek and leaving a red mark. Her eyes got teary, and the mascara started to run. His cock raged in his trousers.
He undressed her.
He took the waistband of her yoga pants and roughly yanked them down, revealing a cotton, stretchy thong. He looked around her body, and noted the fabric line that separated her lovely ass cheeks. She squeaked some weak objection, and when she did he grabbed the front of her top and slapped her across the face, just hard enough to turn her cheeks red and make her eyes water in shock. She stopped her whining and he unzipped the pinkish top and ripped it off, shoving back and down, trapping her arms behind her. When she was secured he slapped her again, and she started to cry. He finished pulling it off and grabbed her face, hand placed under her chin. He forced her to kiss him, and the taste of her lipstick, peachy and rich, made him rage with animal lust. She pulled back and whimpered, and while she stood trembling her pawed her breasts. He crudely commented straight to her face, "You have nice tits." She murmured something and he flicked the nipples. They responded nicely, enlarging and poking through the shiny fabric of a workout bra. He moved in close and ordered her, "Take this shit off," and she removed the garment, mussing her perfect hair. She had absolutely fantastic breasts, firm and delicate, shaped like fine brandy glasses, with just-right nipples and sexy raised aureoles begging to be touched and stroked. Topless, wearing nothing but the natural-color thong, she stood in front of him, shaking, looking fearful, and waiting for what came next. She asked, hesitatingly, "What are you going to do?"
He leaned close and told her, "How about I fuck you in the ass?" She froze, but knew better than to run, and he reached down and put his palm on her pussy.
He kept his hand on her pussy while stroking her face where he'd slapped her. She started losing her fear and developing a facial expression of hate, so he grabbed her jaw and rolled her entire body around on the balls of her feet. Tipping his head down he looked at the big diamond ring on her left hand; he asked her, "What does your fucking fiance think of you?"
She froze, so he continued, "Does he know you're a whore? Your fiance?" She stayed silent, and he turned her head in his hand. He crudely pawed upward from her crotch and ran his hand over her perfect breasts. He said, "You cheat on him all the time, don't you." She refused to look at him, but he continued: "Yeah, you take the ring and all that shit, and as soon as you hang the phone up on him you're out sucking your fuck buddy."
He slapped her left breast gently, shocking her into attention. "You take all his shit and his money and his ring and then your fucking coke head fuck buddy is fucking you in the ass every other night." He slapped her tits, back and forth, watching them jiggle and shake. Then he cupped them each in turn, pinching the nipples as hard as he could. She whimpered and tried to move her shoulders forward in a reflexive protecting motion. Her let go of her tits and grabbed her shoulders, pushing her back.
He put his hand on her pussy again, and when he did he was genuinely shocked to find her wet. She was wet, and he could feel the wetness through her thong panties. He got closer, breathing into her face, and when he did she closed her eyes and trembled, a shiver that went all the way through her body. He kept his hand down there, pressing and rubbing, and her breath went ragged. He moved in even closer, and when he did he saw her lips move. He recognized a word; he'd gotten very good at reading lips from watching eons of surveillance footage, and she clearly mouthed one word.
She silently formed the word, "Daddy."
