Chapter Six: Cat? or Mouse?
The Thunder Sky’s sole video roulette machine was placed in an out-of-the way bay, surrounded on all sides by rows of slot machines… penny, nickel, quarter and dollar machines were aligned in rows. Five and ten dollar machines had their own “high stakes” area.
The false Mr. Largo sat at a penny machine, so placed so that he could watch Taran Tula at the roulette machine without her being able to see him. He’d watched her for an hour now, impressed as ever by her total calmness, her total control. He could tell, from here, what was going on. The other five players would spin their trackballs and press the button to make their bets, so busily. Usually they would continue betting their money until the time limit was up. Not her. Sometimes she wouldn’t bet at all. Most times she wouldn’t bet. Then, by some alchemy, she’d choose her time and place bets on two or three numbers, and then sit and wait.
The ball would spin, and if the others won, you could tell by their faces, by their body language. Not with her. Win or lose, she was impassive, except for a mischievous smile now and then, like when he’d sat opposite her earlier that day. When he’d started mimicking her bets, she’d grin at him when they both won, shrugged when they’d both lost. But they’d won more than they lost.
He’d come down to the casino three hours ago. He’d had no instructions about not gambling, so why the hell not gamble? He’d tried his hand at blackjack – it hadn’t taken him more than ten minutes to lose $100 (at night there were no $2 tables, the lowest table minimum was $5.) Before risking another $100 he’d decided to wander around to the $10 tables, see how the skilled players did it. The skilled players all lost.
Then he’d wandered around the slot machines, shaking his head at the rows and rows of elderly men and women, and young men and women, staring so hopefully at the rows of little cartoon figures, or cherries, or whatever games they were playing. When he’d been young, he’d heard of one-armed bandits. You put in your money, then you had to grab a machine-arm and pull it down to set the reels spinning. That at least would have been fun. But these slot machines? All the player had to do was press a button.
And the ever-present noise. Bells jingling, each different slot machine had its own theme song, it was enough to drive you crazy.
Then he’d decided to go back to the roulette table, to see if he could do on his own what he’d seen Taran Tula doing earlier that night, only to see her sitting there. He’d decided to watch from afar for a few minutes.
She was winning. You couldn’t tell that from her body language, but every twenty minutes or so she’d print out a slip, and then feed more money into the machine, so he knew she was winning.
And no one else at the table was smart enough to follow her lead. He could tell that from their body language. Plus the fact that they bet every single spin, instead of picking and choosing, like she did.
It had to be hard, he thought. To sit there and wait, and wait, and wait some more, and then bet. And if you lost, not to start betting wildly, but to wait and wait and wait some more. Especially with that ever-present music in the background, and the sight of your fellow players – sometimes winning money (before they lost it back). Jesus, she had iron self control.
What had come first, he wondered. Did the iron self-control lead to her profession as a master art thief and sometime assassin, or had she developed that self-control once she’d entered a life of crime?
Hell, if she could win with such ease at roulette, why even steal? She didn’t seem to be the kind of woman who liked to live in luxury, although she obviously liked to eat. But maybe that was it… winning at roulette…gambling…presented no challenge to her, whereas stealing millions of dollars worth of art objects obviously did.
The false Mr. Largo snagged a cup of Pepsi from a passing waitress, downed it in a single gulp, and decided it was time to bit the bullet.
Did he dare…?
He walked up behind Taran Tula, and gently placed his hands on her shoulders.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Michelle Bravo and the Mystery of Mr. Largo, part 4
Chapter Four: The Ultimate Orgasm
Michele Bravo typed the final words of her story, then lay back against the pillows bunched up against her back, and laughed softly. It was too bad she had pleasured herself earlier, now she was feeling really hot.
Well, there was a way to relieve that tension, she thought ruefully.
Michele flipped open the lid of the briefcase and counted out 20 one-hundred dollar bills. Then she put the briefcase into the bathtub and threw a couple of towels over it, dampening one of them. She dampened another towel and arranged it artistically on the floor. She didn't really expect someone to break into her hotel room, but if they did...
As was her custom, Michele took the stairs down to the lobby, then walked into the casino and to the video roulette machine. It was past midnight, and the casino was busier – and louder – than ever. People were standing three deep around each station at the machine, but they appeared to be spectators only. When a dejected player bet his last five dollars on zero/double zero, and got up in disgust when he didn’t win, no one sat down. So Michele slid into the seat.
She fed four one-hundred dollar bills into the machine, then sat back and looked at the screen that showed the last twenty numbers spun. No patterns jumped out at her, so she folded her arms and let the croupier spin the wheel without her participation.
Now that she was playing with other people’s money, she intended to up her bets a little bit. What she really wanted to do was get the ultimate orgasm.
Michele had worked out her theory of sex and gambling long ago. Every gambler received a little orgasm every time he or she won a bet – won a hand at blackjack or got three of a kind on a one-armed bandit, even if they were playing on a penny machine and all they’d won was a dollar. Having that win recorded on the screen in front of your eyes gave you a little thrill of pleasure. That was one of the reasons why people gambled, more so than just to win money. It was the pleasure they received when they won the money that was the key.
She’d always preferred video roulette…for several reasons. Most importantly, of course, you could actually win on a regular basis at video roulette, if you practiced money management and used a bit of common sense, unlike every single other game at a casino in which the odds favored the house and 99% of the gamblers walked out as losers.
With roulette, if you bet one dollar straight up on a number and won, you got 36 dollars back. So much better than blackjack, where if you bet one dollar and won, you’d get another whole dollar back. Big deal. And the slot machines? Pure luck, most of it bad. Anyone who won a big jackpot on a slot machine was probably just breaking even from all the money they’d poured into it fruitlessly over the weeks, years or decades that they’d played it.
No, thought Michele. She didn't gamble for fun, she gambled to make money, and you could only do that at video roulette. And winning $36 on every dollar placed was orgasmic. You placed your bet, and then the croupier spun the wheel and all eyes were on that little white ball, zipping round and round the wheel. It was like foreplay, or the anticipating of coming, then the ball fell into its slot and, if you’d guessed right, or at least bet properly, you got that orgasm, as the money you’d won totaled up on the screen in front of you.
The ultimate orgasm would be the ultimate victory, one that she could work toward now if she wanted to. Michele had worked it out long ago, when she'd gone through a couple of hours sitting at a video roulette table waiting for her number patterns to show up.
The maximum of any one bet on a number was $99. So she could bet $99 straight up on a single number, and that win would net her $3564. (Yes, she had worked these numbers out exactly.) But there was more. $99 split between two numbers (a payout of $18) would net her $1782. $99 splitting each of the four adjacent numbers (if betting a number in the middle row, paid out $9) would net her an additional $7128. Then, betting $99 on each of the four corners of that number, would net her $3,564.
But there was more pleasure to come. Betting $99 on the row in which the number was ($12) would net her $1,118. Betting $99 by splitting two rows ($6) would net her $594. Of course every dollar had to be milked out of the win, so $99 on the appropriate column ($3), for $297, and $99 on the appropriate color, for $180. All told, the ultimate orgasm would net her $16,445.
And it would be a prolonged orgasm, as each individual bet would ratchet up on the screen in front of her, one after the other after the other, and she could watch it as the money grew and grew, screaming as each number appeared, until finally it was all over and she was left sitting there, breathless.
And she couldn’t do it.
Any win over $1,000 could not be cashed out of the machine. Instead, a representative of the casino would come to the table, demanding to know her social security number, and she’d have to present two forms of ID, and they’d give her a check instead of cash. All very well for a normal citizen, but for her? Someone who needed to maintain a low profile at the best of times?
No…that pleasure was forever denied her.
Besides, thought Michele with a smile as the 5 hit, and she placed $5 bets on the 5, the 10, the 15, the 20, the 25, the 30, and the 35, anyone who bet $99 on a single number was an idiot, let alone $99 on a single number and every other possible permutation surrounding it.
She would maintain her playing strategy, the strategy she knew worked, playing very conservatively. But since she was playing with someone else’s money, and she had such a lot of it, “conservative” had a different meaning. $5 minimum bets were her new watchword, and she’d ratchet the stakes up from there.
On this occasion, the 5 hit again, and $180 arrived on her screen. She hit the "repeat" button, and all her bets reappeared on the board. The croupier spun the wheel again, the ball fell into the slot for number 35, and $180 more arrived.
Michele cashed out her slip, folded it and placed it in a zippered pocket in her sweatpants, and put in four more hundred dollar bills.
Little orgasms…to the tune of $180 or so. So much better to have dozens of little orgasms over the course of several hours, than one ultimate orgasm that probably would never come.
Michele Bravo typed the final words of her story, then lay back against the pillows bunched up against her back, and laughed softly. It was too bad she had pleasured herself earlier, now she was feeling really hot.
Well, there was a way to relieve that tension, she thought ruefully.
Michele flipped open the lid of the briefcase and counted out 20 one-hundred dollar bills. Then she put the briefcase into the bathtub and threw a couple of towels over it, dampening one of them. She dampened another towel and arranged it artistically on the floor. She didn't really expect someone to break into her hotel room, but if they did...
As was her custom, Michele took the stairs down to the lobby, then walked into the casino and to the video roulette machine. It was past midnight, and the casino was busier – and louder – than ever. People were standing three deep around each station at the machine, but they appeared to be spectators only. When a dejected player bet his last five dollars on zero/double zero, and got up in disgust when he didn’t win, no one sat down. So Michele slid into the seat.
She fed four one-hundred dollar bills into the machine, then sat back and looked at the screen that showed the last twenty numbers spun. No patterns jumped out at her, so she folded her arms and let the croupier spin the wheel without her participation.
Now that she was playing with other people’s money, she intended to up her bets a little bit. What she really wanted to do was get the ultimate orgasm.
Michele had worked out her theory of sex and gambling long ago. Every gambler received a little orgasm every time he or she won a bet – won a hand at blackjack or got three of a kind on a one-armed bandit, even if they were playing on a penny machine and all they’d won was a dollar. Having that win recorded on the screen in front of your eyes gave you a little thrill of pleasure. That was one of the reasons why people gambled, more so than just to win money. It was the pleasure they received when they won the money that was the key.
She’d always preferred video roulette…for several reasons. Most importantly, of course, you could actually win on a regular basis at video roulette, if you practiced money management and used a bit of common sense, unlike every single other game at a casino in which the odds favored the house and 99% of the gamblers walked out as losers.
With roulette, if you bet one dollar straight up on a number and won, you got 36 dollars back. So much better than blackjack, where if you bet one dollar and won, you’d get another whole dollar back. Big deal. And the slot machines? Pure luck, most of it bad. Anyone who won a big jackpot on a slot machine was probably just breaking even from all the money they’d poured into it fruitlessly over the weeks, years or decades that they’d played it.
No, thought Michele. She didn't gamble for fun, she gambled to make money, and you could only do that at video roulette. And winning $36 on every dollar placed was orgasmic. You placed your bet, and then the croupier spun the wheel and all eyes were on that little white ball, zipping round and round the wheel. It was like foreplay, or the anticipating of coming, then the ball fell into its slot and, if you’d guessed right, or at least bet properly, you got that orgasm, as the money you’d won totaled up on the screen in front of you.
The ultimate orgasm would be the ultimate victory, one that she could work toward now if she wanted to. Michele had worked it out long ago, when she'd gone through a couple of hours sitting at a video roulette table waiting for her number patterns to show up.
The maximum of any one bet on a number was $99. So she could bet $99 straight up on a single number, and that win would net her $3564. (Yes, she had worked these numbers out exactly.) But there was more. $99 split between two numbers (a payout of $18) would net her $1782. $99 splitting each of the four adjacent numbers (if betting a number in the middle row, paid out $9) would net her an additional $7128. Then, betting $99 on each of the four corners of that number, would net her $3,564.
But there was more pleasure to come. Betting $99 on the row in which the number was ($12) would net her $1,118. Betting $99 by splitting two rows ($6) would net her $594. Of course every dollar had to be milked out of the win, so $99 on the appropriate column ($3), for $297, and $99 on the appropriate color, for $180. All told, the ultimate orgasm would net her $16,445.
And it would be a prolonged orgasm, as each individual bet would ratchet up on the screen in front of her, one after the other after the other, and she could watch it as the money grew and grew, screaming as each number appeared, until finally it was all over and she was left sitting there, breathless.
And she couldn’t do it.
Any win over $1,000 could not be cashed out of the machine. Instead, a representative of the casino would come to the table, demanding to know her social security number, and she’d have to present two forms of ID, and they’d give her a check instead of cash. All very well for a normal citizen, but for her? Someone who needed to maintain a low profile at the best of times?
No…that pleasure was forever denied her.
Besides, thought Michele with a smile as the 5 hit, and she placed $5 bets on the 5, the 10, the 15, the 20, the 25, the 30, and the 35, anyone who bet $99 on a single number was an idiot, let alone $99 on a single number and every other possible permutation surrounding it.
She would maintain her playing strategy, the strategy she knew worked, playing very conservatively. But since she was playing with someone else’s money, and she had such a lot of it, “conservative” had a different meaning. $5 minimum bets were her new watchword, and she’d ratchet the stakes up from there.
On this occasion, the 5 hit again, and $180 arrived on her screen. She hit the "repeat" button, and all her bets reappeared on the board. The croupier spun the wheel again, the ball fell into the slot for number 35, and $180 more arrived.
Michele cashed out her slip, folded it and placed it in a zippered pocket in her sweatpants, and put in four more hundred dollar bills.
Little orgasms…to the tune of $180 or so. So much better to have dozens of little orgasms over the course of several hours, than one ultimate orgasm that probably would never come.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Erotica By Bravo #1
Chapter Four: Taran Tula and the False Mr. Largo
I.
Michele Bravo had a lot to think about. Just what did the false Mr. Largo portend? Was he an agent of the police, setting her up for capture? Or was he simply an aspiring businessman, who had done away with the real Largo simply in order to step into his shoes, and continue his life of crime unabated?
In order to help her think, she placed her laptop on her lap and started to type a story for her erotica blog. Michele had several identities, so that if necessary she could abandon one identity within minutes, and have another identity ready to step into. As Michele Bravo (which was not the name under which she had registered at this hotel) she was author of romance novels and erotica, a profession in which she did very well.
II.
Taran Tula and the False Mr. Largo (she wrote)
The exotic Taran Tula applied just the right amount of white eye shadow above her eyes to bring out their incandescent blueness. Her clingy, form-fitting sarong-style dress was of the same blue as her eyes. Her long fingernails glistened whitely, but each one had a tiny blue spider – a tarantula, naturally, in the exact center. She carried a small beaded…a little squatter than one might expect…indeed, if a style maven had seen Taran Tula on a runway somewhere, or entering the premiere of a movie she would have been excoriated for how squat that little bag was, as it distracted from her overall ensemble.
But she never went anywhere without what was in that bag.
She knocked on the door of Room 612 and waited expectantly. When the door opened, she expected to see Mr. Largo, a handsome six-footer with the body of a young Jean-Claude von Damme and the face of Cary Grant. Instead, she saw a man some ten years his junior, too slender, too fresh-faced.
“Taran Tula?” he asked.
“Mr. Largo?” she asked, in an Italian accent. Her Sophia Loren accent.
“Yes. Come on in,” and the man stepped back.
Taran stepped across the threshold, and then stopped. When the false Mr. Largo turned after closing the door, he almost bumped in to her. He stopped, disconcerted.
Taran smiled at him, sweetly, and placed her hand on his left chest. “Your reputation has preceded you, Mr. Largo. I hope you have heard of me as well.”
He smiled, revealing white teeth. “I have indeed.”
She ran her hand down his chest to his flat belly, then smiled and turned away. “Business first, eh?” she said throatily as she swayed over to a leather chair and sank into it gracefully, placing her little bag on the table near at hand.
The false Mr. Largo pulled the other chair closer to hers, so close that their knees touched, and said, “Sie sind sehr schön.”
“Danke,” replied Taran Tula, reaching out to cup his jaw with her warm hand. She removed her hand by rubbing her fingers across his mouth.
“Und sehr reizvoll,” he said, a little thickly.
“Very sexy,” she translated, in her Italian accent. “Thank you again. But before we get ahead of ourselves, where is my fee? $50,000 now, $50,000 upon completion of the job.”
“The briefcase with your money is on the other side of the bed,” he said, nodding towards its vast expanse.
Taran looked into his eyes. She smiled. “Perhaps,” she said softly, “I can put business before pleasure just this once.”
“I’m glad.”
“But wait,” said Taran, putting her fingers on his arm briefly. “Wait. I want to show you something.”
She opened the zipper of her squat little bag, and brought out five long pieces of black silk. “These are for you,” she said.
“For me?”
“You’ll indulge me, won’t you? I feel so much safer…and I’m always….so much more passionate, when I feel safe.”
“I want you to feel safe,” he said.
Taran rose and, gathering up the strips of lack silk, approached the bed. “Take your clothes off and lie down,” she said.
Without hesitation, he shed his clothing, revealing a slender musculature and a cock already beginning to harden.
“Lay down and spread out your legs,” she told him gently. He did as she instructed. His penis stood straight up, she jiggled it playfully before she took his left ankle and bound it securely to the left corner bedpost. Then she tied his right ankle to the right bedpost.
She glanced at him. He was watching her, his breathing a little rapid.
Taran stood up to her full height, and reaching up to her mandarin collar began to pull. The Velcro parted and the dress fell to the floor. Underneath it she wore nothing, no panties, no bra. Her pert breasts bobbed, and the false Mr. Largo licked his lips.
Taran climbed onto the bed and straddled the false Mr. Largo. She took his cock and guided it into her vagina, which had been wet for some time. It slid in, long and firm, and her own breath caught a little bit.
Then she leaned forward, her breasts bobbing close to the false Mr. Largo’s face, and guided his left arm up toward the left bedpost, where she tied it securely, while he occupied himself gently kissing up and down her exposed right body below her breast.
As she transferred her attention to his right arm, `he nibbled on the left side of her body as well.
Finally, when she was secured to her satisfaction, she leaned back, smiling down at him.
“How does that feel?” she murmured.
“I feel…very secured…” he said.
“Good.”
She leaned down and caressed his lips with her own. “I have something to tell you,” she whispered, one word after a brief kiss on his face….
“Ye….uh….yeah?” he whispered back.
“I know Mr. Largo.”
She continued to kiss him, on his cheeks, down to his neck, then back up the other side of his face. Then she set back once more.
He was staring at her, looking somewhat concerned.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” she asked, gently.
“Uh…well…that’s rather unfortunate.”
“It is for you,” she agreed, gently.
She noticed the muscles in his forearms bunching, as he tried to pull loose from his silken bonds, to no avail.
Taran tightened her clitoris against his cock, and gently began rising up and down, up and down, driving his cock deeper into her while at the same time ensuring that her clitoris stroked it enough to give him pleasure…
“What…” he had to take a breath, as her manipulations of him were beginning to have an effect… “What are…what are you going to do to me?”
“Where is the real Mr. Largo?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
She continued her manipulations, while she reached out and picked up the fifth and final piece of black silk. “Didn’t you wonder what this was for?”
“I…uh…” his whole body was tense now… here he was afraid for his life and yet his penis had a mind of its own…
“If you want to get out of this room alive, you will tell me.”
“I….oh god…” this was not for any pain she was inflicting but rather for the pleasure.
Taran Tula sighed.
She was not a murderer, still less was she a torturer. [Torturess?]
She held out the fifth piece of black silk. “I stuff this in your mouth, and take my leave. Tomorrow morning a maid comes in and finds you lying here, with no vase of flowers to protect your modesty. Do you think your employers won’t fire you, when they find out I’ve made a fool of you?”
His breath was coming in short gasps, his back was arching.
And then, he came. She could feel his body jerking under hers, as his cum pumped out, sending waves of pleasure streaking through his thighs.
She smiled to herself as she watched his face, twisted in pleasure. She should have stopped just as he was cumming, leave him hanging. Serve him right. But she’d been getting a little bit of pleasure out of it too…
Taran Tula rose from him, walked into the bathroom and took a towel to her nether regions. She could hear squeaks from the bed, but it was sturdy and her knots were good. The false Mr. Largo wasn’t going anywhere.
She returned to the room and slipped back into her dress.
“One more chance, Mr. X,” she said. “Who are you working for?”
He shook his head.
Taran Tula nodded. “Very well. Vaya con dios.”
She took the strip of black silk and attempted to fit it into his mouth, but he refused to unclench his teeth. Easily solved. She pinched his nose shut. After a few seconds he opened his mouth to suck in air, and the cloth went in as well. She tied it behind his neck.
Then she headed for the door. Halfway there, she stopped, ready to make another threat. Then, she waved it off. Why bother? After her night of pleasure, Taran Tula’s reputation had been made. The false Mr. Largo would never forget her.
And really, that was all that mattered.
I.
Michele Bravo had a lot to think about. Just what did the false Mr. Largo portend? Was he an agent of the police, setting her up for capture? Or was he simply an aspiring businessman, who had done away with the real Largo simply in order to step into his shoes, and continue his life of crime unabated?
In order to help her think, she placed her laptop on her lap and started to type a story for her erotica blog. Michele had several identities, so that if necessary she could abandon one identity within minutes, and have another identity ready to step into. As Michele Bravo (which was not the name under which she had registered at this hotel) she was author of romance novels and erotica, a profession in which she did very well.
II.
Taran Tula and the False Mr. Largo (she wrote)
The exotic Taran Tula applied just the right amount of white eye shadow above her eyes to bring out their incandescent blueness. Her clingy, form-fitting sarong-style dress was of the same blue as her eyes. Her long fingernails glistened whitely, but each one had a tiny blue spider – a tarantula, naturally, in the exact center. She carried a small beaded…a little squatter than one might expect…indeed, if a style maven had seen Taran Tula on a runway somewhere, or entering the premiere of a movie she would have been excoriated for how squat that little bag was, as it distracted from her overall ensemble.
But she never went anywhere without what was in that bag.
She knocked on the door of Room 612 and waited expectantly. When the door opened, she expected to see Mr. Largo, a handsome six-footer with the body of a young Jean-Claude von Damme and the face of Cary Grant. Instead, she saw a man some ten years his junior, too slender, too fresh-faced.
“Taran Tula?” he asked.
“Mr. Largo?” she asked, in an Italian accent. Her Sophia Loren accent.
“Yes. Come on in,” and the man stepped back.
Taran stepped across the threshold, and then stopped. When the false Mr. Largo turned after closing the door, he almost bumped in to her. He stopped, disconcerted.
Taran smiled at him, sweetly, and placed her hand on his left chest. “Your reputation has preceded you, Mr. Largo. I hope you have heard of me as well.”
He smiled, revealing white teeth. “I have indeed.”
She ran her hand down his chest to his flat belly, then smiled and turned away. “Business first, eh?” she said throatily as she swayed over to a leather chair and sank into it gracefully, placing her little bag on the table near at hand.
The false Mr. Largo pulled the other chair closer to hers, so close that their knees touched, and said, “Sie sind sehr schön.”
“Danke,” replied Taran Tula, reaching out to cup his jaw with her warm hand. She removed her hand by rubbing her fingers across his mouth.
“Und sehr reizvoll,” he said, a little thickly.
“Very sexy,” she translated, in her Italian accent. “Thank you again. But before we get ahead of ourselves, where is my fee? $50,000 now, $50,000 upon completion of the job.”
“The briefcase with your money is on the other side of the bed,” he said, nodding towards its vast expanse.
Taran looked into his eyes. She smiled. “Perhaps,” she said softly, “I can put business before pleasure just this once.”
“I’m glad.”
“But wait,” said Taran, putting her fingers on his arm briefly. “Wait. I want to show you something.”
She opened the zipper of her squat little bag, and brought out five long pieces of black silk. “These are for you,” she said.
“For me?”
“You’ll indulge me, won’t you? I feel so much safer…and I’m always….so much more passionate, when I feel safe.”
“I want you to feel safe,” he said.
Taran rose and, gathering up the strips of lack silk, approached the bed. “Take your clothes off and lie down,” she said.
Without hesitation, he shed his clothing, revealing a slender musculature and a cock already beginning to harden.
“Lay down and spread out your legs,” she told him gently. He did as she instructed. His penis stood straight up, she jiggled it playfully before she took his left ankle and bound it securely to the left corner bedpost. Then she tied his right ankle to the right bedpost.
She glanced at him. He was watching her, his breathing a little rapid.
Taran stood up to her full height, and reaching up to her mandarin collar began to pull. The Velcro parted and the dress fell to the floor. Underneath it she wore nothing, no panties, no bra. Her pert breasts bobbed, and the false Mr. Largo licked his lips.
Taran climbed onto the bed and straddled the false Mr. Largo. She took his cock and guided it into her vagina, which had been wet for some time. It slid in, long and firm, and her own breath caught a little bit.
Then she leaned forward, her breasts bobbing close to the false Mr. Largo’s face, and guided his left arm up toward the left bedpost, where she tied it securely, while he occupied himself gently kissing up and down her exposed right body below her breast.
As she transferred her attention to his right arm, `he nibbled on the left side of her body as well.
Finally, when she was secured to her satisfaction, she leaned back, smiling down at him.
“How does that feel?” she murmured.
“I feel…very secured…” he said.
“Good.”
She leaned down and caressed his lips with her own. “I have something to tell you,” she whispered, one word after a brief kiss on his face….
“Ye….uh….yeah?” he whispered back.
“I know Mr. Largo.”
She continued to kiss him, on his cheeks, down to his neck, then back up the other side of his face. Then she set back once more.
He was staring at her, looking somewhat concerned.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” she asked, gently.
“Uh…well…that’s rather unfortunate.”
“It is for you,” she agreed, gently.
She noticed the muscles in his forearms bunching, as he tried to pull loose from his silken bonds, to no avail.
Taran tightened her clitoris against his cock, and gently began rising up and down, up and down, driving his cock deeper into her while at the same time ensuring that her clitoris stroked it enough to give him pleasure…
“What…” he had to take a breath, as her manipulations of him were beginning to have an effect… “What are…what are you going to do to me?”
“Where is the real Mr. Largo?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
She continued her manipulations, while she reached out and picked up the fifth and final piece of black silk. “Didn’t you wonder what this was for?”
“I…uh…” his whole body was tense now… here he was afraid for his life and yet his penis had a mind of its own…
“If you want to get out of this room alive, you will tell me.”
“I….oh god…” this was not for any pain she was inflicting but rather for the pleasure.
Taran Tula sighed.
She was not a murderer, still less was she a torturer. [Torturess?]
She held out the fifth piece of black silk. “I stuff this in your mouth, and take my leave. Tomorrow morning a maid comes in and finds you lying here, with no vase of flowers to protect your modesty. Do you think your employers won’t fire you, when they find out I’ve made a fool of you?”
His breath was coming in short gasps, his back was arching.
And then, he came. She could feel his body jerking under hers, as his cum pumped out, sending waves of pleasure streaking through his thighs.
She smiled to herself as she watched his face, twisted in pleasure. She should have stopped just as he was cumming, leave him hanging. Serve him right. But she’d been getting a little bit of pleasure out of it too…
Taran Tula rose from him, walked into the bathroom and took a towel to her nether regions. She could hear squeaks from the bed, but it was sturdy and her knots were good. The false Mr. Largo wasn’t going anywhere.
She returned to the room and slipped back into her dress.
“One more chance, Mr. X,” she said. “Who are you working for?”
He shook his head.
Taran Tula nodded. “Very well. Vaya con dios.”
She took the strip of black silk and attempted to fit it into his mouth, but he refused to unclench his teeth. Easily solved. She pinched his nose shut. After a few seconds he opened his mouth to suck in air, and the cloth went in as well. She tied it behind his neck.
Then she headed for the door. Halfway there, she stopped, ready to make another threat. Then, she waved it off. Why bother? After her night of pleasure, Taran Tula’s reputation had been made. The false Mr. Largo would never forget her.
And really, that was all that mattered.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Michelle Bravo and the Mystery of Mr. Largo part 3
Chapter Three: Mr. Largo
I.
Michele Bravo stood in front of the hallway mirror, and made a couple of dives under her sweatshirt to pull out the derringer. She’d always had reflexes like a cat, and the bulky sweatshirt impeded her not at all.
Not that she felt that she had anything to fear from Mr. Largo. She had worked with him before, albeit long ago, when she’d first started out in the business. But she was a professional, and covering all the bases was what a professional did.
She picked up the book on the Entartete Kunst and went out into the hallway. Her instructions were to go to Room 621 at precisely 8 pm.
The 6th floor hallway was empty when she arrived. As was her habit, she took the stairs rather than the elevator. She glanced at her watch…being on time was a mania with her. At precisely 8 pm, she knocked on the door. The “shave and a haircut, two bits” knock.
The door was opened promptly. To Michele’s surprise, she found herself staring at the man from the roulette table. He stared at her in surprise as well.
“Taran….?” He asked.
“Mr. Largo?” she asked in return.
“Yes,” he said, stepping back. “Come in.”
Michele paused, alarm bells sounding mentally, but then shrugged mentally as well and walked in.
The man calling himself Mr. Largo was about her age, she guessed, in his late 20s. He wore a black turtleneck sweater…she liked guys in black turtleneck sweaters, but he was too slender for her choice. She preferred a little more musculature…
This Mr. Largo had a suite, with a large table and two chairs nestled by a big plate glass window – dark blue curtains closed against it.
“Sit down,” said Mr. Largo, gesturing toward one of the chairs. He drew out the other one by a couple of feet and sat down himself. There was a look of disappointment on his face.
“You look disappointed,” Michele said. She would have preferred to have given him a German accent, but she had already spoken to him down in the casino, with her normal voice. Damn. She wouldn’t make that mistake in future. Play a role from beginning to end, not just in spurts throughout the day.
The man wiped all expression from his face. “Do I? Sorry. I…” he paused, leaned forward, and picked up the book that Michele had placed on the table. “I thought you were supposed to be an expert on the Entarte Kunst,” he said.
“I am.”
“Then why do you need this book?”
An imposter, and not too smart, with it.
“Turn the book over,” she said. “The author of that book is Richard Edmonds. Our mark?”
He turned the book over, looked at the photograph on the other side. “Of course he is,” he said. “I was just testing you.” He didn’t smile but his lips twitched as if he wanted to.
(What is the Entartete Kunst? In 1933, when Adolph Hitler came to power in Germany, the failed artist decided to collect and destroy all examples of modern art, which he called “degenerate art”, from such artists as Picasso, Dalí, Ernst, Klee, Léger and Miró. (Much of this confiscated art went into the private art collections of many of the top Nazis.) On the night of July 27, 1942, many works by Picasso, Dali, Ernst and the rest were said to have been burnt in a gigantic bonfire. According to Richard Edmonds, several works had not been, and were still in existence today.)
“So,” said Mr. Largo. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Naturlich,” said Michele. “Das ist, warum ich hier bin.”
“Selbstverständlich,” replied Mr. Largo.
“Now that we’ve both proven we can speak German,” said Michele, “Wo ist mein Geld?”
Mr. Largo rose, went to the other side of the bed, picked up a briefcase, and returned. He handed the briefcase over to her. She opened it, and gazed at several bundles of $100 bills nestled within.
“Fifty thousand dollars in advance,” said Mr. Largo, “the remainder upon completion of the job. As per our agreement.”
Michele nodded and snapped the case closed. “Very good.”
“So,” said Mr. Largo, “Now that that’s out of the way, how about a drink? The minibar is fully stocked.”
“No thanks,” replied Michele.
She looked at the false Mr. Largo. If he knew her reputation, what was he expecting now?
He was just sitting there, staring at her.
“Very good, Mr. Largo,” Michele said briskly, rising to her feet. “The job will be completed in 48 hours. I will be back in touch with you then.”
“Yes…uh…very good,” said Mr. Largo as well, rising to his feet also. He followed her to the door. “Good night,” he said, “and thanks for that lesson in video roulette from earlier today.”
She nodded, sharply, as if he had offended her, and walked into the hallway. He closed the door behind her, and then stood there, as he slowly brought his head forward to rest against the door.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
II.
The false Mr. Largo walked over to the mini-bar and pulled out a mini-whiskey. He opened it up and drained it in a gulp.
So, that was the famous Taran Tula, was it? He’d been disappointed at first sight of her, he had to admit. Well, first sight of her in the doorway. Actual first sight had been downstairs at the roulette table, where he’d been rather taken with her, for all that she was a bit chunky. The way she’d played that roulette, so calm, cool and collected, and then walked away a winner…
But when she’d appeared in the doorway. Her! The famous..well, perhaps notorious would be a better word… Taran Tula? He’d fantasized about something straight out of James Bond, someone tall and svelte, with a beautiful Russian accent. This girl…well, woman, really, had been tall enough..at least five foot ten, but she sure hadn’t been svelte. And really, to come to a meeting of this kind in a blue sweatshirt and black sweatpants? She’d’ve been kicked off the set of James Bond.
The false Mr. Largo reached down and adjusted himself. Things were getting a bit tight down there.
He’d been attracted to her… attracted to her personality… so calm and in control.
And he’d handled it badly, anyway you looked at it. He’d been supposed to get her fingerprints on something, but she’d refused a drink…and after that he’d had a brain freeze. He’d just been…disconcerted…for some reason… Taran Tula…the deadly and dangerous Taran Tula sitting opposite him, and he hadn’t been able to think of a damn clever thing to say.
His first job, and he’d muffed it.
Largo unzipped and shrugged out of his pants, and went to relax on the bed. He turned on the TV , and as he began flicking through the channels, he rubbed his hardening penis gently with his hand.
They…..his superiors in the agency….had captured the real Mr. Largo, and they’d needed a ringer for him, promptly. Someone who could speak German and Spanish like a native and knew about European art, and in particular the artists of the Entartete Kunst. And that had been him.
So he’d been taken from his desk job and thrust out into the field, and he’d muffed his first assignment.
Well…not muffed yet. Taran Tula still had her job to do, and then he’d meet with her again.
Or perhaps..perhaps…it was still early…would she be returning to the roulette tables.
Largo sucked in a breath of air and spread his legs wider as his pleasure grew. He rubbed his cock with a firm grip up and down, up and down, imagining that it was Taran Tula’s lips fastened around it, sucking hard as if on the most delicious of ice-cream cones…and then the pleasure hit and his cum fountained up over his hand and onto his thighs…
I.
Michele Bravo stood in front of the hallway mirror, and made a couple of dives under her sweatshirt to pull out the derringer. She’d always had reflexes like a cat, and the bulky sweatshirt impeded her not at all.
Not that she felt that she had anything to fear from Mr. Largo. She had worked with him before, albeit long ago, when she’d first started out in the business. But she was a professional, and covering all the bases was what a professional did.
She picked up the book on the Entartete Kunst and went out into the hallway. Her instructions were to go to Room 621 at precisely 8 pm.
The 6th floor hallway was empty when she arrived. As was her habit, she took the stairs rather than the elevator. She glanced at her watch…being on time was a mania with her. At precisely 8 pm, she knocked on the door. The “shave and a haircut, two bits” knock.
The door was opened promptly. To Michele’s surprise, she found herself staring at the man from the roulette table. He stared at her in surprise as well.
“Taran….?” He asked.
“Mr. Largo?” she asked in return.
“Yes,” he said, stepping back. “Come in.”
Michele paused, alarm bells sounding mentally, but then shrugged mentally as well and walked in.
The man calling himself Mr. Largo was about her age, she guessed, in his late 20s. He wore a black turtleneck sweater…she liked guys in black turtleneck sweaters, but he was too slender for her choice. She preferred a little more musculature…
This Mr. Largo had a suite, with a large table and two chairs nestled by a big plate glass window – dark blue curtains closed against it.
“Sit down,” said Mr. Largo, gesturing toward one of the chairs. He drew out the other one by a couple of feet and sat down himself. There was a look of disappointment on his face.
“You look disappointed,” Michele said. She would have preferred to have given him a German accent, but she had already spoken to him down in the casino, with her normal voice. Damn. She wouldn’t make that mistake in future. Play a role from beginning to end, not just in spurts throughout the day.
The man wiped all expression from his face. “Do I? Sorry. I…” he paused, leaned forward, and picked up the book that Michele had placed on the table. “I thought you were supposed to be an expert on the Entarte Kunst,” he said.
“I am.”
“Then why do you need this book?”
An imposter, and not too smart, with it.
“Turn the book over,” she said. “The author of that book is Richard Edmonds. Our mark?”
He turned the book over, looked at the photograph on the other side. “Of course he is,” he said. “I was just testing you.” He didn’t smile but his lips twitched as if he wanted to.
(What is the Entartete Kunst? In 1933, when Adolph Hitler came to power in Germany, the failed artist decided to collect and destroy all examples of modern art, which he called “degenerate art”, from such artists as Picasso, Dalí, Ernst, Klee, Léger and Miró. (Much of this confiscated art went into the private art collections of many of the top Nazis.) On the night of July 27, 1942, many works by Picasso, Dali, Ernst and the rest were said to have been burnt in a gigantic bonfire. According to Richard Edmonds, several works had not been, and were still in existence today.)
“So,” said Mr. Largo. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Naturlich,” said Michele. “Das ist, warum ich hier bin.”
“Selbstverständlich,” replied Mr. Largo.
“Now that we’ve both proven we can speak German,” said Michele, “Wo ist mein Geld?”
Mr. Largo rose, went to the other side of the bed, picked up a briefcase, and returned. He handed the briefcase over to her. She opened it, and gazed at several bundles of $100 bills nestled within.
“Fifty thousand dollars in advance,” said Mr. Largo, “the remainder upon completion of the job. As per our agreement.”
Michele nodded and snapped the case closed. “Very good.”
“So,” said Mr. Largo, “Now that that’s out of the way, how about a drink? The minibar is fully stocked.”
“No thanks,” replied Michele.
She looked at the false Mr. Largo. If he knew her reputation, what was he expecting now?
He was just sitting there, staring at her.
“Very good, Mr. Largo,” Michele said briskly, rising to her feet. “The job will be completed in 48 hours. I will be back in touch with you then.”
“Yes…uh…very good,” said Mr. Largo as well, rising to his feet also. He followed her to the door. “Good night,” he said, “and thanks for that lesson in video roulette from earlier today.”
She nodded, sharply, as if he had offended her, and walked into the hallway. He closed the door behind her, and then stood there, as he slowly brought his head forward to rest against the door.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
II.
The false Mr. Largo walked over to the mini-bar and pulled out a mini-whiskey. He opened it up and drained it in a gulp.
So, that was the famous Taran Tula, was it? He’d been disappointed at first sight of her, he had to admit. Well, first sight of her in the doorway. Actual first sight had been downstairs at the roulette table, where he’d been rather taken with her, for all that she was a bit chunky. The way she’d played that roulette, so calm, cool and collected, and then walked away a winner…
But when she’d appeared in the doorway. Her! The famous..well, perhaps notorious would be a better word… Taran Tula? He’d fantasized about something straight out of James Bond, someone tall and svelte, with a beautiful Russian accent. This girl…well, woman, really, had been tall enough..at least five foot ten, but she sure hadn’t been svelte. And really, to come to a meeting of this kind in a blue sweatshirt and black sweatpants? She’d’ve been kicked off the set of James Bond.
The false Mr. Largo reached down and adjusted himself. Things were getting a bit tight down there.
He’d been attracted to her… attracted to her personality… so calm and in control.
And he’d handled it badly, anyway you looked at it. He’d been supposed to get her fingerprints on something, but she’d refused a drink…and after that he’d had a brain freeze. He’d just been…disconcerted…for some reason… Taran Tula…the deadly and dangerous Taran Tula sitting opposite him, and he hadn’t been able to think of a damn clever thing to say.
His first job, and he’d muffed it.
Largo unzipped and shrugged out of his pants, and went to relax on the bed. He turned on the TV , and as he began flicking through the channels, he rubbed his hardening penis gently with his hand.
They…..his superiors in the agency….had captured the real Mr. Largo, and they’d needed a ringer for him, promptly. Someone who could speak German and Spanish like a native and knew about European art, and in particular the artists of the Entartete Kunst. And that had been him.
So he’d been taken from his desk job and thrust out into the field, and he’d muffed his first assignment.
Well…not muffed yet. Taran Tula still had her job to do, and then he’d meet with her again.
Or perhaps..perhaps…it was still early…would she be returning to the roulette tables.
Largo sucked in a breath of air and spread his legs wider as his pleasure grew. He rubbed his cock with a firm grip up and down, up and down, imagining that it was Taran Tula’s lips fastened around it, sucking hard as if on the most delicious of ice-cream cones…and then the pleasure hit and his cum fountained up over his hand and onto his thighs…
Friday, March 23, 2012
Michelle Bravo and the Mystery of Mr. Largo, pt 2
Chapter Two: Afternoon Gambling
Michele Bravo dressed once more in her fat suit, not forgetting her cheek pads, and then took the stairs down to the lobby. The lobby opened out into the Casino, which flanked the hotel on both sides.
First, Michele wandered around the building, just getting the lay of the land and scoping out all of the exits. White-shirted security guards were stationed at regular intervals. Not enough of them to cause discomfort to the thousands of people in the building giving their hard-earned money up to the machines, but enough where they could take action if they needed to.
Most of the square footage was given over to slot machines, but there were several pits where people were playing blackjack, with live dealers working with real cards. And everywhere, everywhere you went, there was incessant noise…the burble and beep of all the slot machines, with probably a little seminal messages mixed in…. don’t leave, bet more, don’t leave, bet more.
Michele took a few minutes to walk through the blackjack pits…each pit had one table with a $2 minimum, most of the rest were $5, and some were $10. She passed an alcove where the high-stakes blackjack tables were, $100 minimum per bet. The tables were crowded with well-dressed men and women, probably gambling with their mortgage money.
Michele sighed. This was not her scene at all…except….yes, over there. She walked over to a computer roulette game, the only game she ever played in a casino. The only game in which one was guaranteed to win, if they exercised patience and money management, and had the sense to get up and leave with their winnings.
Michelle tugged a hundred dollar bill out of her pocket and fed it into the slot at her station. The machine consisted of a large screen on which a croupier stood, telling people to “Place there bets,” and then “No more bets,” and then spinning the virtual wheel, and finally announcing the winning number.
Below the vertical screen, extending horizontally, was another screen on which the numbers were laid out, three rows of 12 numbers each, from 1 to 30, alternating from red to black. It was an American roulette wheel, so there were two Greens – 0 and 00. Players could bet as many chips as they like, up to 99, straight up on a number, splitting it in half with an adjacent number, or in the corners of four numbers, or on the sides to take in one row or two rows. The more conservative players could bet on red or black, odd or even as well.
There were three other people playing the game. A middle-aged Asian woman had several hundred dollars in her credits, and was spinning her roller ball and placing $10, $20, and $30 bets with abandon. Another was content with scattering bets over the board for a $20 total bet. And a young woman, down to her last five dollars, was betting a dollar at a time on red or black, and not having much luck at that, either.
Michele scanned the screen, which showed the last 20 numbers that had hit. Almost ready to go off the board, she saw that the number 4 had hit and after it the number 31. The last spin, it had also hit a 4. Michele put $2 bets on the 31, and on the 18 and 19, the numbers on either side of the 31. But the little ball went into the 0 slot, and her bet was swept away.
After a 0 or 00, always bet the same numbers, was Michele’s motto. She replaced her bet, but also added $5 on the two green numbers, which were situated at the top of the screen so it was easy to split the two. (On the wheel, one was located at the top and the other directly opposite it.)
The ball hit in the 18. Michele watched as $72 appeared in her credits. She glanced at her watch. She’d give it an hour, or $72, whichever disappeared first.
Michelle continued her pattern….waiting until the computer itself developed a pattern, and betting on it to repeat. Twice more, in the course of the hour, a pattern emerged but did not repeat. Since she was betting conservatively, she was only down $12.
The Asian woman won every spin, but since she bet so much money, her actual winnings were very slight. She could have won the same amount by betting just a quarter of what she bet…but if the ball ever landed on one of the few numbers she left blank, she’d lose over $300 at a time or more. Stupid.
Gradually, the stations filled up. A man sat down opposite Michelle. She noted that he fed in a $20. Then he sat and watched as everyone else played. A newbie to the game, Michele deduced.
She checked the board. A pattern was repeating itself. 17 to 35. She’d bet two such patterns and lost… time for a pattern to reassert itself. She placed $5 bets on the 35, and the two numbers on either side of the 35, and dollar bets on each of the other 5s – the 5, 15 and 25.
The wheel spun, and the ball fell into the 35 slot. $180 appeared in Michelle’s credits. She nodded, satisfied. Over $200 for an hour’s work, not bad.
She cashed out, then, smiling, placed another $20. Why not give it another hour?
She’d won all she’d wanted, but it was fun…if a little sad…to sit there and watch the rest of the players, fritter their money away. The Asian woman’s luck finally ran out, and her considerable supply of money vanished in three unlucky spins. The woman down to her last $5 had left long ago, and a young man had replaced her. He too was one who believed in quantity over quality, scattering his bets all over the screen.
But she noticed that the man opposite her… was betting as she was betting… waiting for the patterns, and then betting on them to repeat. She’d dropped her bet down to dollars only, and he was following her lead.
When they both won $36 when the 7 hit after the 14, they exchanged grins.
Michele pondered the board. She liked to bet 21 after the wheel went 7 – 14, but did she want to set a bad example for the neophyte, who appeared to have the brains to notice who was winning at a game and follow their lead? No, she would not bet.
The patterns let her and the man down the next three times.
Then came a fourth. “Well, I’m almost out of money,” she told the man across the way. And she bet as much money as she had left, $10, only on the number that should hit.
And it did.
She cashed out again, richer by $360 more. She sketched a farewell to her compatriot, and left the table.
Michele returned to her room, took the cash (when one cashed out at the machine, one received a slip of paper, which one took to a cashier for the real money) and placed it in a money belt, which she wrapped around her waist, before pulling her padded sweatshirt down over it.
The money belt had an interesting clasp, a bulky clasp. It was a two-shot Remington derringer.
Then she glanced at her watch. It was time to go meet….Mr. Largo.
Michele Bravo dressed once more in her fat suit, not forgetting her cheek pads, and then took the stairs down to the lobby. The lobby opened out into the Casino, which flanked the hotel on both sides.
First, Michele wandered around the building, just getting the lay of the land and scoping out all of the exits. White-shirted security guards were stationed at regular intervals. Not enough of them to cause discomfort to the thousands of people in the building giving their hard-earned money up to the machines, but enough where they could take action if they needed to.
Most of the square footage was given over to slot machines, but there were several pits where people were playing blackjack, with live dealers working with real cards. And everywhere, everywhere you went, there was incessant noise…the burble and beep of all the slot machines, with probably a little seminal messages mixed in…. don’t leave, bet more, don’t leave, bet more.
Michele took a few minutes to walk through the blackjack pits…each pit had one table with a $2 minimum, most of the rest were $5, and some were $10. She passed an alcove where the high-stakes blackjack tables were, $100 minimum per bet. The tables were crowded with well-dressed men and women, probably gambling with their mortgage money.
Michele sighed. This was not her scene at all…except….yes, over there. She walked over to a computer roulette game, the only game she ever played in a casino. The only game in which one was guaranteed to win, if they exercised patience and money management, and had the sense to get up and leave with their winnings.
Michelle tugged a hundred dollar bill out of her pocket and fed it into the slot at her station. The machine consisted of a large screen on which a croupier stood, telling people to “Place there bets,” and then “No more bets,” and then spinning the virtual wheel, and finally announcing the winning number.
Below the vertical screen, extending horizontally, was another screen on which the numbers were laid out, three rows of 12 numbers each, from 1 to 30, alternating from red to black. It was an American roulette wheel, so there were two Greens – 0 and 00. Players could bet as many chips as they like, up to 99, straight up on a number, splitting it in half with an adjacent number, or in the corners of four numbers, or on the sides to take in one row or two rows. The more conservative players could bet on red or black, odd or even as well.
There were three other people playing the game. A middle-aged Asian woman had several hundred dollars in her credits, and was spinning her roller ball and placing $10, $20, and $30 bets with abandon. Another was content with scattering bets over the board for a $20 total bet. And a young woman, down to her last five dollars, was betting a dollar at a time on red or black, and not having much luck at that, either.
Michele scanned the screen, which showed the last 20 numbers that had hit. Almost ready to go off the board, she saw that the number 4 had hit and after it the number 31. The last spin, it had also hit a 4. Michele put $2 bets on the 31, and on the 18 and 19, the numbers on either side of the 31. But the little ball went into the 0 slot, and her bet was swept away.
After a 0 or 00, always bet the same numbers, was Michele’s motto. She replaced her bet, but also added $5 on the two green numbers, which were situated at the top of the screen so it was easy to split the two. (On the wheel, one was located at the top and the other directly opposite it.)
The ball hit in the 18. Michele watched as $72 appeared in her credits. She glanced at her watch. She’d give it an hour, or $72, whichever disappeared first.
Michelle continued her pattern….waiting until the computer itself developed a pattern, and betting on it to repeat. Twice more, in the course of the hour, a pattern emerged but did not repeat. Since she was betting conservatively, she was only down $12.
The Asian woman won every spin, but since she bet so much money, her actual winnings were very slight. She could have won the same amount by betting just a quarter of what she bet…but if the ball ever landed on one of the few numbers she left blank, she’d lose over $300 at a time or more. Stupid.
Gradually, the stations filled up. A man sat down opposite Michelle. She noted that he fed in a $20. Then he sat and watched as everyone else played. A newbie to the game, Michele deduced.
She checked the board. A pattern was repeating itself. 17 to 35. She’d bet two such patterns and lost… time for a pattern to reassert itself. She placed $5 bets on the 35, and the two numbers on either side of the 35, and dollar bets on each of the other 5s – the 5, 15 and 25.
The wheel spun, and the ball fell into the 35 slot. $180 appeared in Michelle’s credits. She nodded, satisfied. Over $200 for an hour’s work, not bad.
She cashed out, then, smiling, placed another $20. Why not give it another hour?
She’d won all she’d wanted, but it was fun…if a little sad…to sit there and watch the rest of the players, fritter their money away. The Asian woman’s luck finally ran out, and her considerable supply of money vanished in three unlucky spins. The woman down to her last $5 had left long ago, and a young man had replaced her. He too was one who believed in quantity over quality, scattering his bets all over the screen.
But she noticed that the man opposite her… was betting as she was betting… waiting for the patterns, and then betting on them to repeat. She’d dropped her bet down to dollars only, and he was following her lead.
When they both won $36 when the 7 hit after the 14, they exchanged grins.
Michele pondered the board. She liked to bet 21 after the wheel went 7 – 14, but did she want to set a bad example for the neophyte, who appeared to have the brains to notice who was winning at a game and follow their lead? No, she would not bet.
The patterns let her and the man down the next three times.
Then came a fourth. “Well, I’m almost out of money,” she told the man across the way. And she bet as much money as she had left, $10, only on the number that should hit.
And it did.
She cashed out again, richer by $360 more. She sketched a farewell to her compatriot, and left the table.
Michele returned to her room, took the cash (when one cashed out at the machine, one received a slip of paper, which one took to a cashier for the real money) and placed it in a money belt, which she wrapped around her waist, before pulling her padded sweatshirt down over it.
The money belt had an interesting clasp, a bulky clasp. It was a two-shot Remington derringer.
Then she glanced at her watch. It was time to go meet….Mr. Largo.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Michele Bravo and the Mystery of Mr. Largo, ch 1
Chapter One: Afternoon Delight
Michele Bravo’s keen eyes caught the brightly colored sign of the Frosticles far in the distance, and assumed correctly that it would turn out to be an ice cream parlor. Her eyes flicked quickly to the dashboard clock. It was just after noon, and she had another hour to go before she arrived at the Thunder Sky Casino, just outside of Minneapolis, Minnesota. And once she was there, she’d have another seven hours to weight before her appointment with…. Mr. Largo.
Frosticles it would be, then.
Michele drove into the parking lot. She drove through it slowly, not so much looking for a parking spot but looking at the lay of the land. It was a habit of hers. She liked to ensure that she could make a fast getaway if she needed to do so.
And, indeed, the parking lot had two entrances. One was in front, in front of the Frosticles building itself, and one was in the rear. The front lot was half empty, there were no cars in the back. Michele reversed her car into one of the spots closest to the exit.
Grabbing her carryall from the passenger’s seat, Michelle walked into the ice cream parlor, glanced around casually as she did so. She saw nothing more than a few couples, and a couple of families, out enjoying themselves. She ordered a small hot fudge sundae, and took it into a rear booth so that she could watch all comings and goings while she savored her treat.
Finally, regretfully, she gazed into the empty icecream bowl. She would have liked another one, but she didn’t dare. For the next couple of weeks she’d be on the job, and probably wouldn’t be able to work out at all. Considering the role she’d be playing, she’d probably have to eat a lot and not be able to exercise, so she’d put on a few pounds. Best not to get started too early.
Michele emptied her tray into the nearest rubbish bin, and then took her bag into the bathroom. She locked herself into the large handicapped stall. There, she reached into her carryall, and took out a padded long-sleeve sweatshirt, which she drew on over her t-shirt, and padded sweatpants, which she drew on over her shorts. There was not too much padding. She didn’t want to look so overweight as to be memorable, she only wanted to look overweight enough so that the roving eyes of young men would rove over her and move on without interest.
Finally, to complete the ensemble, she inserted pads in her cheeks, to plump them out.
Zipping her carryall securely, she exited the stall and glanced at herself quickly in the mirror. She nodded approval. Transformation complete.
Turning back onto the highway, Michele turned on her CD player. Robin Bailey, reading Catherine Aird’s The Stately Home Murders. The versatile actor gave voice to each character with a different type of British accent, from Nottinghamshire to Cockney. As he spoke, Michele amused herself by trying to match his pronunciations of the various vowels. She wouldn’t need such accents in this present job, but she always liked to be learning something that she could use in the future.
She arrived at the Thunder Sky Casino to find that, even at one o’clock in the afternoon, the parking lots were two thirds full. Michele shook her head at the folly of mankind. The hotel section of the parking lot, however, had plenty of empty spaces, and she found one to her liking.
The clerk who checked her in was pleasant, and she took her two bags up to her room. She unpacked only a few pieces from one of them, including her laptop, which she plugged in and turned on.
Michele glanced at her watch. A few more hours before the appointment. Well…she’d relax and read a book.
The bed in her room was large and sumptuous. She took all of the pillows and arranged them behind her as a backrest, then dug into her purse for her book on the Entartete Kunst. She knew the book by heart – indeed, she was supposed to be an expert in the subject, that’s why she’d been tapped for this little project by …. Mr. Largo.
As she opened the book and began to read, she began to hear a rhythmic bumping noise coming from the wall.
Michele closed the book and grinned. Someone was grabbing a little afternoon delight.
She listened for a few minutes. A man and a woman. She couldn’t hear what they were saying through the wall, but she could hear the sound of their voices, low and chuckling, and that ever present rhythmic bumping, as the headboard from the bed on the other side knocked against the wall, thanks no doubt to the rhythmic pelvic thrusts of the man on top of the woman…
Michele felt a fluttering between her legs.
It had been a long time since she’d had sex. There was more than one reason for that. She was between men, for one thing, and for another, although she carried a vibrator with her at all times, she felt about it as she did about hot fudge sundaes or other dietary pleasures… it all tasted better the more infrequent it was.
Now…now was the time.
Michele went to the door and made sure that she had locked and chained it. Then she stripped out of her “fat-suit.” There was a full-length mirror in this hallway portion of the room, she turned sideways, looking at her body. She had an athlete’s body, one gained by years of working out with weights. Not too excess…she had no desire to look like a man with breasts, but the natural bicep curves of a woman who was more interested in power and endurance. Her stomach was flat, her thighs firm from years of bike riding and roller blading. Her breasts just the right size, not too big. “Pert,” as her first boyfriend had told her.
Michele grinned. Moving with purpose now, she took her vibrator out of its bag. It was a simple thing, a tapering gold metallic cylinder that she’d had for years. She took out her DVD case, flipped through the movies, until she found her Fencing Duels compilation DVD. She put this into her laptop and started it.
Then, relaxing once more against the bunched pillows, with her feet drawn up so her knees were akimbo, she turned on the vibrator and applied it between her legs. For a few seconds she rubbed it up and down, up and down, then side to side, spreading the lips of her clitoris apart, getting things lubricated. But it had been a long time since she’d pleasured herself in this way, and she knew it wouldn’t be long.
So she relaxed, and just pressed the barrel of the vibrator up against her clitoris. She began to feel it working its magic almost at once. The muscles in her outer thighs were tightening, and there was a fluttering sensation in her inner thighs. Then, there was a sudden feeling of heat between her legs, and then an upwelling of sheer pleasure. She could feel the contractions of pleasure, feel the warmth of it…
After the initial surge of pleasure, she lay there, eyes closed now, even as Basil Rathbone sneered at Tyrone Power and their duel began… after a few seconds the pleasure came again, warm and sweet….
Michelle sighed. Such intense pleasure…lasting so briefly.
She wiped off the vibrator and returned it to its case, watched the end of the duel with Power killing Rathbone, and then padded into the bathroom and took a long, mice hot shower, to complete the experience.
Coming out of the bathroom, she checked the time again. Just a few more hours now before she met…. Mr. Largo.
Michele Bravo’s keen eyes caught the brightly colored sign of the Frosticles far in the distance, and assumed correctly that it would turn out to be an ice cream parlor. Her eyes flicked quickly to the dashboard clock. It was just after noon, and she had another hour to go before she arrived at the Thunder Sky Casino, just outside of Minneapolis, Minnesota. And once she was there, she’d have another seven hours to weight before her appointment with…. Mr. Largo.
Frosticles it would be, then.
Michele drove into the parking lot. She drove through it slowly, not so much looking for a parking spot but looking at the lay of the land. It was a habit of hers. She liked to ensure that she could make a fast getaway if she needed to do so.
And, indeed, the parking lot had two entrances. One was in front, in front of the Frosticles building itself, and one was in the rear. The front lot was half empty, there were no cars in the back. Michele reversed her car into one of the spots closest to the exit.
Grabbing her carryall from the passenger’s seat, Michelle walked into the ice cream parlor, glanced around casually as she did so. She saw nothing more than a few couples, and a couple of families, out enjoying themselves. She ordered a small hot fudge sundae, and took it into a rear booth so that she could watch all comings and goings while she savored her treat.
Finally, regretfully, she gazed into the empty icecream bowl. She would have liked another one, but she didn’t dare. For the next couple of weeks she’d be on the job, and probably wouldn’t be able to work out at all. Considering the role she’d be playing, she’d probably have to eat a lot and not be able to exercise, so she’d put on a few pounds. Best not to get started too early.
Michele emptied her tray into the nearest rubbish bin, and then took her bag into the bathroom. She locked herself into the large handicapped stall. There, she reached into her carryall, and took out a padded long-sleeve sweatshirt, which she drew on over her t-shirt, and padded sweatpants, which she drew on over her shorts. There was not too much padding. She didn’t want to look so overweight as to be memorable, she only wanted to look overweight enough so that the roving eyes of young men would rove over her and move on without interest.
Finally, to complete the ensemble, she inserted pads in her cheeks, to plump them out.
Zipping her carryall securely, she exited the stall and glanced at herself quickly in the mirror. She nodded approval. Transformation complete.
Turning back onto the highway, Michele turned on her CD player. Robin Bailey, reading Catherine Aird’s The Stately Home Murders. The versatile actor gave voice to each character with a different type of British accent, from Nottinghamshire to Cockney. As he spoke, Michele amused herself by trying to match his pronunciations of the various vowels. She wouldn’t need such accents in this present job, but she always liked to be learning something that she could use in the future.
She arrived at the Thunder Sky Casino to find that, even at one o’clock in the afternoon, the parking lots were two thirds full. Michele shook her head at the folly of mankind. The hotel section of the parking lot, however, had plenty of empty spaces, and she found one to her liking.
The clerk who checked her in was pleasant, and she took her two bags up to her room. She unpacked only a few pieces from one of them, including her laptop, which she plugged in and turned on.
Michele glanced at her watch. A few more hours before the appointment. Well…she’d relax and read a book.
The bed in her room was large and sumptuous. She took all of the pillows and arranged them behind her as a backrest, then dug into her purse for her book on the Entartete Kunst. She knew the book by heart – indeed, she was supposed to be an expert in the subject, that’s why she’d been tapped for this little project by …. Mr. Largo.
As she opened the book and began to read, she began to hear a rhythmic bumping noise coming from the wall.
Michele closed the book and grinned. Someone was grabbing a little afternoon delight.
She listened for a few minutes. A man and a woman. She couldn’t hear what they were saying through the wall, but she could hear the sound of their voices, low and chuckling, and that ever present rhythmic bumping, as the headboard from the bed on the other side knocked against the wall, thanks no doubt to the rhythmic pelvic thrusts of the man on top of the woman…
Michele felt a fluttering between her legs.
It had been a long time since she’d had sex. There was more than one reason for that. She was between men, for one thing, and for another, although she carried a vibrator with her at all times, she felt about it as she did about hot fudge sundaes or other dietary pleasures… it all tasted better the more infrequent it was.
Now…now was the time.
Michele went to the door and made sure that she had locked and chained it. Then she stripped out of her “fat-suit.” There was a full-length mirror in this hallway portion of the room, she turned sideways, looking at her body. She had an athlete’s body, one gained by years of working out with weights. Not too excess…she had no desire to look like a man with breasts, but the natural bicep curves of a woman who was more interested in power and endurance. Her stomach was flat, her thighs firm from years of bike riding and roller blading. Her breasts just the right size, not too big. “Pert,” as her first boyfriend had told her.
Michele grinned. Moving with purpose now, she took her vibrator out of its bag. It was a simple thing, a tapering gold metallic cylinder that she’d had for years. She took out her DVD case, flipped through the movies, until she found her Fencing Duels compilation DVD. She put this into her laptop and started it.
Then, relaxing once more against the bunched pillows, with her feet drawn up so her knees were akimbo, she turned on the vibrator and applied it between her legs. For a few seconds she rubbed it up and down, up and down, then side to side, spreading the lips of her clitoris apart, getting things lubricated. But it had been a long time since she’d pleasured herself in this way, and she knew it wouldn’t be long.
So she relaxed, and just pressed the barrel of the vibrator up against her clitoris. She began to feel it working its magic almost at once. The muscles in her outer thighs were tightening, and there was a fluttering sensation in her inner thighs. Then, there was a sudden feeling of heat between her legs, and then an upwelling of sheer pleasure. She could feel the contractions of pleasure, feel the warmth of it…
After the initial surge of pleasure, she lay there, eyes closed now, even as Basil Rathbone sneered at Tyrone Power and their duel began… after a few seconds the pleasure came again, warm and sweet….
Michelle sighed. Such intense pleasure…lasting so briefly.
She wiped off the vibrator and returned it to its case, watched the end of the duel with Power killing Rathbone, and then padded into the bathroom and took a long, mice hot shower, to complete the experience.
Coming out of the bathroom, she checked the time again. Just a few more hours now before she met…. Mr. Largo.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The Avengers: White Christmas
Another fan fiction I wrote of the ultimate romantic couple (IMHO), John Steed and Emma Peel. The story takes place after the Christmas episode, "Two Many Christmas Trees", in which a group of psychics had been attacking Steed's mind so that he thought he'd been going insane. There is a Christmas party where Mrs. Peel had been dressed as Oliver Twist (from Dickens).
Note that "Too Many Christmas Trees" took place very early in the partnership of Steed and Emma, before they'd developed any romantic entanglements.
White Christmas
The sun shone white in a grey sky, and on the black road winding through the cold countryside, a forest green Bentley crept at only slightly more than a snail-like pace. The driver of the open car, John Steed, wore a camel-hair coat and a top hat, and wrapped up snugly in furs in the passenger's seat was Emma Peel.
John Steed ached in every bone of his body, from both physical and mental exhaustion. It had been an unforgettable Christmas Eve. He'd accompanied Emma Peel to a weekend party held at the home of newspaper publisher Brandon Storey, and while there had come under intense mental attack by three powerful psychics trying to force him to reveal secrets, gleaned through his position as one of England's top agents. With the aid of Emma Peel he had defeated his enemies. The aid...Steed smiled. Emma had saved his life. At the very end, he'd been knocked unconscious and was at the mercy of the villains. Emma had taken out two of them, giving him the time he needed to regain consciousness and assist her in defeating the third.
And now it was Christmas, and they were leaving that nightmare house behind and driving into the cold, clean air of an English winter.
Steed reached behind him, his face not betraying the effort it cost him to make that movement, and his hand came into view again carrying a long, sturdy twig, to the end of which was affixed a sprig of mistletoe. He held it above Emma's head. She glanced up at the twig, her lovely face framed within the white fur of her winter hood, and then she did something that shocked him. She lifted smiling lips to his.
He hadn't expected it.
They'd worked together for four months, on six assignments. He'd flirted with her to start with, of course. Despite the fact that she'd have none of it, he'd persevered, for no other reason than that flirting with women was as natural to him as breathing But the more they'd worked together, perfecting their teamwork during the deadly adventures they had survived, the more he had felt drawn to her. He had found himself no longer wanting to flirt - he wanted to have a deeper relationship. But he had not dared to reveal his new feelings. She was but six months widowed...she had already made her feelings clear and she was not the sort of woman who pretended no interest simply in order to egg a chap on.
Mrs. Peel broke the kiss first. ''Car!'' she yelled.
Steed turned and corrected the Bentley's drift simultaneously, and a silver Vauxhall honked its way past them, while its driver made an extremely rude gesture. Steed couldn't blame him.
''Marvelous peripheral vision, Mrs. Peel,'' he commented.
''A good thing, too,'' she replied calmly.
Emma Peel lifted the mistletoe twig from her lap and deposited it in the back seat of the Bentley. Then she drew her furs closer around her and gazed straight ahead. She had been as surprised as Steed by her action.
Steed drove on, his face a study in concentration. He increased the speed of the Bentley, but not by much. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the sheen of persperation on his forehead, under the brim of his tophat. She knew the stress Steed had been under these last few days...she knew how he must be feeling now.
''Steed,'' she said, ''You are in no shape for the long drive back to London. We're about to pass through a village. Why don't we see if they have an inn or a hotel of some kind?''
Steed blinked. ''What a good idea,'' he said, eyes on the road, nodding.
Emma glanced at him. He'd said the kind of words she expected, but he hadn't glanced at her while he'd said them, with that flirtatious grin on his face. He seemed very uncomfortable. She was very uncomfortable.
Emma rested her oval chin in her hand. She'd always been attracted to Steed. From day one. He was intelligent, with a good sense of humor. He respected her abilities. He was in lovely shape, he was handsome, and he was charming. Too charming, she had decided, with his never ending flirting. That meant shallowness. Love 'em and leave 'em, as the Americans said. That was not what she wanted in a relationship, no matter how attracted she was to the man in question.
But this latest case had revealed a new side. His vulnerability, and his courage in handling what must have been a terrifying experience for him, at least at the beginning. Could her feelings have changed due to the maternal instinct, her desire to comfort him now that he had revealed this vulnerability? Not at all, she thought with an inner smile. She had no maternal instincts. She had a nurturing instinct, but that wasn't the same thing.
Steed didn't need nurturing. The case was over, and they'd been victorious. Despite the fact that he was obviously tired he was clearly not changed in any way. He was still Steed. She'd seen another facet of him, that was all. A facet that, combined with all of his other qualities, had now changed her mind.
Emma Peel massaged her forehead. She was being very analytical here. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? Emma laughed out loud.
''What's so funny,'' Steed asked.
Emma grinned at him. Steed stared at her, and their eyes locked. After several seconds Steed brought his attention back to the road. Ahead he saw the sign that would lead them off the main road into the village of Upper Heyford. Steed took the exit.
Steed had no illusions at his ability to charm a woman into a mutually rewarding brief encounter. He was very good at it. He treated them all like ladies and they never had any cause to complain. But Mrs. Peel expected more from a chap. If it hadn't been for that kiss, he would have dismissed her offer that they stop for the day as a simple kindness, and not thought anymore of it. But that kiss changed things. She'd changed... He'd have to be careful now, not make any false steps. He'd have to wait for her to make the first move.
He drove very slowly down the Main Street of the village, and as they passed the local pub it indeed did have a sign out front declaiming, Rooms for hire.
Steed turned into the parking lot. He set the Bentley's parking break with a flourish, which caused a muscle in his back to scream irritably, and then he turned and looked at Mrs. Peel. ''Well, Mrs. Peel?'' he asked, calmly.
''A single room, I think, Steed.'' Emma said, equally as calm.
Steed's eyes lit up. ''Jolly good.'' He put a hand on the windscreen prepatory to levering himself out of the seat, when Mrs. Peel said, ''Wait - we need to visit a chemist's.''
Steed grinned at her with his old insouciance. ''Not to worry, Mrs. Peel. I had myself fixed years ago. No desire to have the patter of little hooves about the place, don't you know?'
Emma smiled.
She remained by the Bentley while Steed went in and resgistered. He returned with the key and came to a stop, smiling. She bent and picked up her suitcase, he picked up his - a muscle in his cheek twitched - and t hey walked down the pavement to their room. Steed twisted the key in the lock and flung it open. ''After you, Mrs. Peel.''
The room was large, but cozy, with overstuffed furniture and a big bed. Sunlight pressed up against the curtains - it was only noon, after all. They placed their suitcases on the tables provided and Steed opened his and removed his shaving kit. ''Bags I go first,'' he said, and went into the bathroom.
Steed ran some water into the sink and splashed it on his face. Cold and bracing. But it wasn't bracing him enough. He was soo exhausted. Even the iminent prospect of making love to Emma Peel wasn't doing anything for him. Damn, damn, damn!
Steed sighed, and brushed his teeth, and came back into the room. Mrs. Peel was unpacking clothes into a huge wardrobe.
''Mrs. Peel.''
She turned, concerned at the tone of his voice.
''My dear, I'm terribly sorry. But I have to sleep.''
''Of course, Steed!'' Emma caressed his arm with quick concern. She'd known he was exhausted. Well, so was she, come to that, physically if not mentally. ''Tumble yourself into bed and get comfortable. I...'' and she threw a sensible nightgown over her shoulder, ''will change in private.''
Moving more like an old man than he cared to acknowledge, Steed undressed and slipped into his pajamas. He climbed into the big, soft bed that embraced him like a lover, and sighed with pleasure.
Emma came out of the bathroom, smoothing the folds of white linen around her. ''How charming you look, my dear,'' said Steed.
''Thank you, Steed.''
Emma pulled back her side of the covers and slipped in. She scooched over with remarkable grace to Steed's side, looked down into his eyes for a second, and then very quickly bestowed a kiss. Then she scooched down and put an arm around his chest and laid her head on his shoulder. ''Is this comfortable?''
''Extremely.'' Steed raised his arm and draped it around her shoulders as well. Her body felt so warm beneath his...and she was here, in bed with him. And...there was always tonight.
Content, Steed fell asleep, and very quickly, so did Emma Peel.
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