When the bodyguards burst in through the curtain, suddenly overwhelming the studied “real museum” décor with a whole lot of very practical-looking guns and scowls, Ronchel grabbed a big stainless Ruger .357 from the nearest goon and stepped towards the girls, who had cowered back against the wall. He caught the slightest, quickly hidden, flicker of amusement from these professional tough guys; seeing him rendered limping and bleeding by two women. He advanced on them with the gun held straight out in front of him, shaking with fury. He placed the muzzle on MeiMei’s lips and pushed her back until her head was against the wall. “Open up, you sneaky little gook.”
MeiMei, surrounded by machine guns and ill will, saw little option. She opened her mouth wide, hoping to avoid any chipped teeth when he perpetrated the obvious violation. He slid the big muzzle into her mouth, rattling it around a little until the front sight pocked against the back of her throat, triggering her gag reflex.
He spoke in a low, insinuating tone. “Now suck it.”
MeiMei closed her lips around the barrel and osculated them a little, trying to breathe and swallow around the steel abrading her epiglottis. The men behind Ronchel laughed and made appreciative noises. Then he yanked the gun out, cutting her upper lip. He turned to stare at Curtsy, speaking to his men without breaking the hateful glare he was focusing on her. “Strip them both.”
Probably their all-time favorite order. Although maybe they stripped women for him every weekend, who knew? Rough hands jerked the thin strips of cloth from the women, leaving red marks where the fabric dragged and broke. Ronchel continued to glare at Curtsy as his minions whooped it up, making comments on MeiMei’s sparse thatch and the blond fuzz of Curtsy’s pubic crest. One watchdog stepped up and rubbed his hand through the blond curlies, smirking at her as he did. Curtsy spit in his face.
He instantly backhanded her across the tits and pulled back a fist.
“No! I want to have plenty of fun with them while they’re still beautiful,” Ronchel barked. He reached to cup the Curtsy’s nape and grip her hair, pulling her head back and tapping it against the wall. “Later you animals can do whatever you want.”
He stepped back, stiffening into as much dignity as he could muster with his dick hanging out and blood smeared on his face. “Take the guerita to my quarters. And the chink down to Three.”
Curtsy didn’t bother looking for a way out of the master stateroom, which was kind of “Hugh Hefner meets Captain Nemo in a Las Vegas Whorehouse”. There wouldn’t be a way out. And she didn’t bother putting on any clothes. Instead she started ransacking the place for weapons. Her brief live-in situation with a drug dealer during her brief post-highschool coke slut phase had hipped her to the way these things worked and she went under the pillows and king-sized memory foam mattress first, then all over the drawers to each side of the bed.
She was going through the dresser drawers, bottom to top when the door opened and Ronchel stepped in, his face cleaned up, an Ace bandage around his knee, and flourishing his big shiny gun in one hand and his little purplish weapon in the other. He locked a deadbolt behind him and smiled at her, dangling the revolver off his finger. “See anything you want to get your hands on?”
He leaned back and thrust his pelvis out, leading off with his whole engorgement. “How about now?”
Curtsy laughed and shook her hair, which left Ronchel a little nonplussed. “Hey, I’m sorry I tranked you. okay? It was the slope’s idea. She was paying me and I needed the money.”
She moved closer to Ronchel, tentative little-girl steps, but otherwise a blazing gold advertisement for the female race. “Look, you seem like a pretty cool guy. And you’ve got a great set-up here. I’d love to hang out here with you, you know? Go places, live good. Fuck your brains out. Gimme a break, okay? We might just want the same thing.”
Looking into her guileless blue eyes, Ronchel could almost buy it. Gringas were like that, was his experience. Sluts who would do anything to be around money. And she was a prize piece, no doubt about it. He’d much rather break her down on the bed there, give her a taste of what the macho Mexicano could do to a woman, than just rape her a few times and toss her away. He reserved his judgment, watching her.
Curtsy moved in closer, encouraged by his silence and lack of movement. “It’s more fun when I’m into it,” she told him with a look that promised untold delights. “We could really have some fun if you’ll overlook my shooting you up.”
Ronchel saw a slight frown flit across her face and she looked at him curiously. “Hey, what’s with that, anyway? Those drugs should have put you out like a light. They would have put a bull asleep.”
Ronchel laughed. “When you have billions of dollars and nasty habits you build a heavy tolerance to just about any drug you can think of.”
Curtsy nodded happily to have it all explained. “Wow! See, I could tell you were my kind of guy. I hope you keep some coke around the bedroom here. Do they call it a bedroom on a ship?”
Ronchel was already calculating the greater pleasures in having Curtsy while she was out of her mind of dope, versus whimpering in pain and not doing anything to help out. Close call. Then she stepped right up to him. He put the tip of the barrel right on her temple, raised an eyebrow at her. She giggled. She was fun, he had to admit.
She lowered to her knees, leaning in to brush him with her hair as she went down. This was a weakness of almost all Mexican guys, as she’d heard from a lot of girls. Fellatio was practically a sin for Mexican girls, sticking your business into somebody’s teeth when they weren’t having it was dangerous, and getting willing head was a grail quest for these assholes. She cupped his balls and examined the goods, cocking her head to one side.
I’d bite the damn thing off and let him bleed to death, she thought, but it would hardly make a meal. She said, “Looks yummy. You mind?”
Ronchel had no real objection to getting sucked off. But sticking your dick in somebody’s mouth was something you didn’t want to know unless you knew they were friendly.
I mean, he could shoot her after she bit the tip off, but that wouldn’t help much. He said, “Lets go over to bed.”
She hopped up with a sunny smile and led him over with a hand around his cock.
“You didn’t have to mess it up like that,” he said with mock admonishment.
“You think it’s trashed now.” Curtsy tittered. “Just wait.”
He lay down and dragged two pillows under his head, his gun hand laying off to one side. “How about we start off between your tits?”
Everybody has lips, he was thinking, but how many have tits like this? And tits don’t have teeth.
Curtsy was down with that suggestion, and knelt low over his thighs as she massaged him between her breasts, giving it enough variation to make it interesting. Let’s get him groaning, was what she was thinking. Enjoying himself at full volume.
And sure enough, in less than a minute, she had him calling out audibles. Probably exaggerating a bit for the benefit of the guards outside. Then she hunched up and started working up his body, finally straddling his crotch and looming over him like a blonde goddess, working her hips back and forth to rub her gold fur over his erection without denying him a view of the color of her damp hair. He was eating it up and getting pretty vocal about it.
Curtsy raised up just slightly, teasing his lunging member with the little contact prior to entering the main event. She leaned forward tossing her tits from one side to another, and stretched out her hands to support herself as she eased down on to him. Rested her hands on his arms, actually. While initiating the famous fate worse than death. Just imagine that he’s Flipper, Kurtz, she was thinking as she started showing a some spasms of her own, rhythmically clenching his arms as he groaned and heaved.
Then she clenched down hard, holding his gun arm down, and snapped her head forward, her wide forehead smashing into his already-injured nose. He screamed, but she figured that wouldn’t get all that much attention at that point in the proceedings.
She jumped off to his right side, keeping the gun hand pinioned to the mattress. She grabbed his package in her right hand and squeezed so hard he spasmed and squeaked and went limp. She slid her hand down to strip the Ruger out of his hand and jumped to her feet. She swung the gun at his temple with her full strength and ran to the door.
She stopped there, listening with her eyes on Ronchel, who wasn’t moving. Finally she took a deep breath and turned the knob on the deadbolt. She opened the door slowly, not seeing anybody in the passageway. She peeked sideways and could see cowboy boots in both directions, the bodyguards standing there listening to the show. She stuck the gun against the wall at about the level of her own heart and pulled the trigger.
She was out the door, facing the other guard, before the first guy even hit the opposite wall and spattered arterial blood all over it. The other asshole was too shocked to even raise the little submachine gun dangling in his hand. Curtsy put a round right through his face, blowing the back of his head down the wall to create a delta-shaped Pollock impression. She spun back the other way, pointing the gun, but there was nobody in sight. She ran down the passageway with the gun held out in front of her, hoping the reinforcements wouldn’t arrive from behind her.
She glanced at the bronze plaques on the doors as she passed, but they were all cute little names, no numbers. She was only six feet from the end of the hall when the door opened and a guy came through it at top speed, holding an UZI. She was on top of him almost simultaneous with the bullet that caught him in the sternum and blew him backward. She ran over him like a doormat. There was a shot from behind her, but she was already out the door, running aft to where the boat was tied. She heard steps and yells in the passage behind her, could see bodyguards running on the deck below. She wouldn’t have had time to start the motors and cast off anyway.
A bodyguard in white guayabera, toting an expensive Fabrique assault rife, looked up and saw her, a gorgeous blonde athlete running like a deer on the upper deck, her hair flying out behind her and firing like she meant it. He threw his gun up and blew a chunk out of the teak handrail, but doubted he hit her. He ran to the starboard stairs and went up them three at a time, but when he could see down the deck she wasn’t there. He came all the way up and moved to port, where he heard more shooting.
He came around the corner and looked forward just in time to see the blonde vault up onto the railing and set her feet to dive far enough out to miss the lower deck. He took a bead on her, but just as she jumped he heard a pistol shot forward and she dropped the gun and spun off into the night, off-balanced and slack. Now that was a hit, he was thinking as he ran forward to look down into the dark water. He almost ran into Sr. Ronchel himself, still naked, and looking even worse than before. Not to mention totally crazed. The Boss snatched up the Ruger and leaned out over the edge looking for a shot. He was afraid his jefe might fall over and stepped up close.
Ronchel turned a twisted face to him and screamed. “Get us out of here, idiota.”
He gaped a second and Ronchel hit him the chest with the gun. “Get under way, hijo de puta. Now!”
He turned and ran for the bridge, pulling his walkie-talkie out to call ahead. Gotta say, he was thinking, If I was getting that bad beat up by a piece of ass, I think I’d just let somebody else nail it for me.