The Murdered World 31

In the dream, Frank was back on the boat, bobbing up and down with the sea like all of the fire had happened between blinks and then taken itself back. Lucy was at his feet, unzipping his fly. She worked his cock free of his zipper. It was hard, but not hard enough, not strong enough for how Lucy needed it. She held its limp length against her face.

“Kill for me, Frank,” she said, her voice pushing tiny gusts of wind across his cockhead. “That always gets you hard.”

A sniper rifle was in his hand. He aimed it and the sensation on his prick went from crisp ocean air to the warm wetness, the plush contours of a lipsticked mouth.

His knees buckled. It took all his straining willpower to keep from sinking down into the voluptuous decadence Lucy offered, the paradoxical hardness that could only come out of so much softness.

“Kill them good, Frank.” He looked down at her, seeing and feeling that she still had her mouth relentlessly pumping on his manhood, but her voice still pressed in on him from all sides. “Then fuck me with the hard-on that gives you. You know how I love it when you kill.”

He heard the gulps of her challenged throat on his too-long erection, brief snippets of the briny air caressing his member between her pumps on it. She barely left an inch of it unattended for even a second.

Frank looked through his scope. He saw himself. Clean-shaven, hair unruly, no fading bruises, no healing cuts. Just him.

And around him, his family. His wife. His son. His life.

He couldn’t get to it. But a bullet could.

The familiar calculations thundered in his mind. He heard, like a blaring klaxon, the range, azimuth, wind velocity, trajectory drop. He was like a machine, the data entered, the calculations made. Some machines split wood, others crushed rocks—he ate up everything around him and expelled death.

It was not simply how he was built; every change he’d made to his life, every exercise, every lesson, it was all to make him a better killer. He was a machine operating at peak efficiency. He put out no waste products. All he had to give was death.

“Kill them, baby. Then you can fuck me.”

He looked down at her and saw a woman of gray. Lucy blew away like ash in the wind and there was Christina, her face aglow in the dark.

***

Frank’s eyelids fluttered as he came awake. By now his cock was seeping precum, all of it lovingly sucked away by Christina. She laved her tongue around the flared knob of his cock, then sucked harder, knowing the flavor currently washing over her mouth was only the appetizer to how good it would taste when he fully came for her.

“Unnhh!” Frank couldn’t help but vocalize, lifting his head, staring in a certain fascination at the beautiful woman who’d now chosen to stuff her mouth with his cock.

There wasn’t much to say. He didn’t want her to stop. And he saw no desire in her to stop—not before she’d brought him to his culmination and claimed her liquid reward.

Winking at him, Christina sucked harder than ever. Filling her senses with more of the deliciousness his prick offered her. Dimpling her cheeks inward, then bulging them out, working her mouth like a vacuum on Frank’s now overwhelmingly sized cock.

A lewd twist took over Frank’s slack lips. He rested his weight on his elbows, adding the sight of Christina sucking him off to the deliriously good feeling. Her lips stretched wide while she slid down the veiled girth of his cock, coming back up only to bob back down, furiously pistoning herself on his prick to the point that it looked like she was pleasuring herself with it, fucking her face with his erection like it was a sex toy.

Christina heard her own loud sputtering, her gurgling, as she tried and failed to fully sate her passion for the entire length of Frank’s cock. The sound filled the bedroom, but she didn’t care how slatternly it was. She’d given up denying her licentious urges. There was no other man for her, perhaps no other man in the world. She had nothing to lose in total surrender to him.