Author: Michael Hemmingson

About: A former Army Ranger becomes a reluctant hit-man, earning the possession of a sultry slave--a round-bed chick who pledges her body and soul for the freedom of her tawdry and painful past of sin and debauchery. Erotic crime noir pulled off the way only Hemmingson can!

Excerpt:

When she got to the end of the line of groping men, she came back to her feet and swayed for a moment as the music changed from driving rock to a sensual samba. Picking up the tempo, she swayed back to center stage, slipped most of the bills crammed into her stockings into the book bag and began to move to the samba beat. Every man in the room had their eyes glued to her as, ever so slowly, she toyed with the waistband of her miniskirt, easing it up, down, running her fingers beneath it, her hips bucking and churning. Without warning, she ripped it off and tossed it behind her. She wore no panties. They usually don't here. Without missing a beat, this marvelous female animal glided to the edge of the stage where waving hands clutching greenbacks awaited.

Even from the bar, I could glimpse the juices that glistened on her pussy lips as she worked the line, the eager hands fondling and probing her pubis, coming back wet. Her head thrashed on the slender column of her white neck without ever dislodging the choker she wore, apart from the heels and fishnets her only adornment. This chick was a true exhibitionist and looked like she enjoyed her work--either that or she was a damn good actress.

The greedy apes were satisfied for the moment and she moved to the pole that some of the other, more limber dancers used in their routines. The samba beat faded as the lights darkened to a single spotlight on the pole. She bent down to her book bag, swiftly shedding her stockings and their loot, then stepping back into the pumps while withdrawing two objects.

One she left on the floor; the other she held in her right hand as a modern rendition of "I Got Fever" began pulsing from the speakers, the bass shaking the bar counter it was that deep.

I'm tired of my life but my heads alright
I got the fever off a man I know
I can feel it comin' in the air tonight
And I know, I know, I know

Standing with her back to the audience, her legs spread wide, she grabbed the pole, then brought the limber cane she held in her right hand down onto her small, round buttocks, lashing them to the beat and throwing her head back in time to the bass line. By the end of the song, her perfect ass glowed red in the spotlight.

A new number came on, the generic fuck-music you hear in a pro porno video. The spot focused on the object she had placed on the floor: a dildo, one of those big, realistically molded rubber ones that tend to put any man to shame by comparison. The torrid wench began sucking on it, on hands and knees, her ass elevated, her head bobbing to the music. No man in that club could have taken their eyes off her even if they had wanted to. As the tempo sped up, so did her strokes. When the piece reached its climax, her head came up and liquid spurted from the tip of the dildo, splattering her face as she screamed in 'orgasm.'

The watching crowd split the air with applause, whistles and howls as the stripper, white fluid dripping down her face, stood up, made a slow, hip-swinging circuit of the stage to collect still more money--ones, fives, tens--smiling at the audience.

She grabbed her costume and prop, disappeared through the same door which she'd entered.