Clive's Requiem

A .38-sized hole bled life. Sunk in a crimson puddle, Clive looked up at the lawman who’d felled him.

"Was it worth it, sonny?” The cop said.

Through pain and blood loss, Clive thought about it.

Thought about Colt barrels thrust in rent-a-cop faces, bags packed tight with green rolls, civilians crouching in balaclava-induced terror. Thought about breakneck getaways down back roads, a life of hot credit cards and shitty motel rooms. Paradise, USA.

Thought about HER, with all that fiery beauty, beside him every step of the way. With HER, that insurmountable rush from daylight bank snatches never ended.

Back from a score, blood pounding, they’d keep the high going. Strip off bulletproof vests and bandoliers, shirts and underwear, then spreading legs and letting tongues wander. He'd trace dollar signs on her clit, SHE whispering every statute they’d broken with filthy abandon. His cock rifle-hard, HER cunt bank vault-tight, the illicit euphoria of armed robbery extended into an orgasmic hereafter. Twin flames, fucking each other raw beside stacks of The Man’s cash.

And this cop had stopped to shoot Clive, meaning SHE probably got away.

Between bloodstained teeth, Clive gurgled, “Worth every fuck...”

The cop assumed Clive died mid-sentence.

Last Shot

The fifth of whiskey was empty. Mikey looked at the bottle despairingly, trying to ignore the reams of paperwork on the desk beneath.

Investment portfolios showing red. Tax bills with steep fines. Court subpoenas.

Half a million down the sinkhole, and worse yet to come.

He stood up and put his coat on. He wanted to go out, but where? Maybe Tossolini’s, but Mikey knew his favourite chef wasn’t working tonight. Dooley’s Bar, then.

Mikey left the building. The walk made his feet ache in protest, but it was only a minute away. He caught his reflection in a window – unshaven, tie loosened, fresh grey streaks running through his cowlick. Such unkemptness would’ve made him an apostate among his fellow Finance District slicksters, but lately he’d been depressed and borderline insomniac, and appearance was the last thing he cared about.

Progress

8:00 AM. I wake up, achingly erect and thinking of Janet.

Janet? That’s unusual. But with little hesitation, I grab lubricant from the bedside drawer, slather my cock, begin stroking myself.

I recall Janet, fucking me, riding me hard, hair spilling over her breasts and face twisted with lust. Janet, raking fingers and lips over my chest, letting me clench her ass tight as she bounces.

I gratify myself, stroking, gasping. The memories are intense; I’m desperate to come.

Beautiful, lustful Janet, fucking me. That’s all I think of in this moment.

A marvelous orgasm. Semen bursts from my cock, pouring everywhere.  I moan, loud.

I feel relaxed.

Then, I recall Janet.

Janet, shooting dagger-eyes and dark accusations whenever I interacted with, worked with, or even mentioned other women. Janet, demanding more and more of my time until I saw no one but her. Janet, keeping me awake all night, insulting, threatening, telling me she’d kill herself if I ever left her. Janet, who took four years and tens of thousands to finally divorce.

The memories are queasy, bitter.

But the hot semen on my fingers shows that – for a few moments – I can forget.

That’s progress, right?

Copyright Elliot DeLocke 2014. All rights reserved. Do not reprint in part or in whole without the author’s permission.

Just Rewards

With one last swing, Dukat’s blade cleaved through the Wyrm’s neck. Pale flesh and white bone were parted, and the beast’s head came free, tumbling through the air to land at Dukat’s feet. It’s corpse toppled, then lay still.

Victory! Dukat let out a triumphant roar that echoed throughout the surrounding caverns.

The Wyrm of Amasia – fabled guardian of the ancient Amasian ruins – had fallen. Now, nothing stood between Dukat and his just rewards.

Stepping over the beast’s wilted corpse, Dukat was somewhat surprised. He had expected a tougher fight from the Wyrm, considering the treasures it supposedly guarded, but the beast had been slow and rickety, an easy kill.

Perhaps, Dukat thought, I’m a better fighter than I realize. Just shows how much I deserve the reward.

Want

I want to run my hands up the thighs of the office babe, dressed in killer heels and a grey skirtsuit and stockings with slightly-crooked seams; to unbutton her starched white top to find she’s wearing a black lacey bra, with matching panties further down; to take her into a toilet or supply closet and have her wrap those thighs around me and make pornographic moans from beneath inch-thick librarian’s glasses while I penetrate her; to fuck the button-down corporate bitch and find out she’s a total devil-slut beneath all that professional reserve.

Want, and wish.