Game of Thrones: Champagne And Cigars

Although Petyr could do a pretty good imitation of a cold sweat when called upon, tonight it was unnecessary. He’d gone out into the rain without his hat for the brief trip from his Studebaker to the club’s backdoor, and the downpour had split a comma of dark hair from his neat part, sent up a few wiry bristles from his pencil-thin mustache. He looked as disheveled as he was supposed to as he burst into the dancers’ dressing room.

One of them, tall and Amazonian and altogether unsuitable as a receptacle for any kind of desire he could imagine, stood there in her underthings, staring at him with an outraged alarm. “What the hell are you doing here, buster? I oughta drum you back out the way you came—“

“Agnes, relax,” Sansa called. She was getting up from her chair at her station on the vanity, looking oh so pretty out of that ridiculous (if aesthetically unimpeachable) shimmer dress, just her lithe little undergarments and her dressing gown closed but hanging open too, like she’d been waiting for him, like she was always waiting for him. “It’s Petyr. He’s here to see me and he wouldn’t hurt anybody. Not a fly. Would you, Petyr?”

“Not unless it were annoying you, my dear,” Petyr said with a queasy smile, and finally gave in to the desire to smooth down his hair and mustache. “Please, I must speak to you. I know you’ll be going on soon, I so hate to interrupt, but I just must talk to you. It’s Boss Tywin. It’s—“

Sansa took his arm, reassuring him with a firm grip and a smile that lit up her face right up to her hair, which seemed to glow like it had forty watts and a need to shame Clara Bow. “Not here,” she said quickly, and altogether more serious than her easy smile and loosey-goosey habille would suggest. 

“Of course,” Petyr agreed, shaking a cigarette out of his book and lighting it as she led him out of the dressing room and into one of those backstage areas of bare wood and cat’s cradle wiring which seemed to be the Indian graveyard of show business, allowing a smooth and popular performance so long as it was not disturbed without some magic man doing his hoodoo. 

At last, they were alone.

Sansa ran a finger over his mustache, no doubt smoothing it into an oil slick. “Now what’s got my baby so shook up? Is it those awful men you work with? I swear, Petyr, they’re gonna give you a hernia just from worrying. You gotta get away from them and all their no good… you’re not like them… just get an honest job and see me all the time, insteada when they aren’t working you like a dog…”

Petyr demurred, nodding as if in agreement but not meaning anything besides the smoke he blew. “I wish I could… you know I wish I could, Sansa, doll, but the things they’d do to me… even if I’m loyal, even if I don’t step one foot out of line…”

“Tell me all about it,” she pleaded of him, stroking his cheek and gratified to find a rough five o’clock shadow where he was usually so assiduously shaven, delighting in the coarseness that was novel when he was always smooth. “You know you can tell your little china doll anything. Just like you’re so good to me, let me be good to you.”

Petyr grinned and meant it and didn’t. His fingers loosened on the cigarette; Sansa took it and smoked it for him. He scrubbed his brow with his pocket handkerchief. “It’s Boss Tywin. Oh, it’s always Boss Tywin. He’s bringing in a shipment of hooch on the seventeenth, trying out a new channel, all of it, all at once. I don’t know where, but if the cops find it, God, we’ll all hang. He’s gambling everything that nothing gets seized this time, not any of it.”

“One big smuggle?” Sansa asked. He took the cigarette back from her and smoked it nervously to its nub and beyond. “That’s crazy. How could he get it all in?”

“I don’t know,” Petyr moaned. “Probably the sewers, I think, but I don’t know. You can't tell a soul. This is very valuable information, Sansa. It could be worth my life," Petyr lied, as smoothly as the silk he wore, his hand trailing through Sansa's hair. How like her mother's it was, as soft, as red, but not nearly as unruly. As unmanageable. "You see how this all gives me a headache, it's given me the most distressing headache. You could set my mind at ease, couldn't you?"

“Of course, baby,” Sansa cooed, running her hand down his chest, along his tie like it was the most interesting thing she’d ever touched. “There’s no need to worry. Que sera, sera. And in the meantime, you’re here with me. Don’t you like being here with me?”

“Yes,” Petyr breathed. “I love it… I love the way you take care of me…”

“And don’t I always know how to take care of you?” Sansa whispered as she got down on her knees. “You just need to let off some steam, baby. And I know just where the pipe is…”

She barely had to pull down his fly before he was out of his union suit, already stiffly erect, a long thick pole of white flesh capped with a big purple mushroom. He looked at Sansa’s glossy red lips and wondered how the hell she was going to take all of him inside. And wondered how long he would have to wait to find out.

Not long at all, as it turned out. Sansa had no problem at all. Gentle and expert, she bent his stiff cock to her lips, got the fat purple tip firmly inside, and sucked on him like candy, moaning like she was spoiling her appetite. Petyr felt his sensitive, swollen prick more and more enclosed by the juicy suction she offered, sinking in all the way to his taut scrotum. The pleasure was sharp and dizzying, an overdose of the intoxicating feeling of being near to her.

“Awwwww, Christ, Sansa!” he gasped. “Sansa, you take such good care of me, oh, such tender loving care… a girl twice your age shouldn’t be so good to me… you’re so special, Sansa, such a blessing…”

Sansa took the head of his prick right into her throat, making excited little humming and gurgling noises as if she’d never kissed a dick before. Her sucking was fast and powerful and it made an obscene slurping noise that was better than any of the songbird numbers those sluts did on stage. Oh, even if she wasn’t starving for it, she sucked so hard he could imagine she was, and he appreciated that almost as much as the real thing.

“Jesus, that’s good, Sansa!” he whined. “Oh, Christ, yes, yes. You’re a godsend, baby, a miracle!”

Sansa wickedly winked at him and worked her throat on him even faster and harder. Petyr couldn’t understand how she kept his whole swollen dick in her tiny mouth, but it felt wonderful, stupendous, as right as the Sword in the fucking Stone. He loved how her mouth slipped and slid all over him. The only trouble was, he was getting so turned on he might not be able to control himself.

“You better quit now, babycakes,” he panted. “I might let the air out of the tires before we get anywhere!”

Sansa briefly released his spit-soaked endowment and said huskily, “But, darling, I want you to come in my mouth. I want to taste it. Just think of it as taking me dining…”

Her words made Petyr so hotly excited that she’d hardly taken him back into her steamy little mouth before he started to shoot. He yelped, moaned, and felt the pumping that would close his taps down for the night. Instinctively, he thrust himself into that wonderful feeling waiting at the tip of his dick, jamming his squirting head down Sansa’s throat. She took it like a champ, gurgling hungrily and swallowing her salty shake as fast as he served it. When his limp prick finally slipped from her mouth, she licked her lips and grinned.

“Christ on a pig-iron cross,” Petyr gasped, “that was great. I never got off like that before. You deserve a reward, baby girl—you name it, you got it.”

“Just come by here more often,” Sansa said happily, smiling like she’d just brushed her teeth. “And bring me something shiny to wear, now. Ain’t nobody gonna know I’m your girl if all you give me goes down the tube.”

Petyr chuckled in wry amusement. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“You do that, sugar.” She tucked him away, as fastidious as he would be. “I gotta go on stage, baby. You wanna watch me, see how good I dance when I’ve had a good meal?”

“I think I will. My usual table.”

“I’ll blow you a kiss, baby.”

And she hustled off, off to call the police commissioner and tell the boys in blue all about a shipment of booze coming in right under their noses.

Not that Petyr cared. If it was seized, all the better for him, and all the worse for Hounddog Sandor. And it would never be traced back to him.

And all it had cost him was the nice little tennis bracelet he’d had his eye on getting for Sansa—which she’d more than earned anyway.