That's my job.
At the moment.
"Are you ready to sneak away and have your go at me?" I rub my chest against his, his grip on my breast becoming tighter.
"I sure as hell am." His blue eyes are glassy.
"Then let's go," I blow in his ear, and I feel his erection grow beneath my thigh.
I place the glass on the table and then stand, beckoning him to follow. As I lead him away from his party, I can feel the watchful eyes of the two other men on the couch bore into my back. These are not your average joes. They may be dressed in expensive suit's like high-profile businessmen, but make no mistake, they're no one to cross. They're liars and cheats and thieves and killers. More dangerous than a cobra.
But I can handle them, because so am I.
After we slip into one of the back rooms of the club, I lock the door behind us.
The young, good-looking man in the crisp-white button-up, black pants, and complete disregard for his wedding ring makes himself comfortable on the plushy couch, indicating he's ready and willing to be serviced.
This makes my job so much easier.
I saunter over to him and climb onto his lap. Kissing his neck, I begin to unbutton his shirt while grinding seductively on his cock.
"Suck my dick," he demands.
"We'll get there." I've barely reached the third button on his shirt. "I want you to get your money's worth."
"You choking on my cock will be a good start."
Class act right here.
"Relax." I become a little more aggressive. "I'm driving this. And I promise, the buildup will be all worthwhile." I slip my hand down his pants and suck on his neck.
"It better be." He drops his head, closes his eyes, and lets me take control.
First rule in warfare, never let your guard down.
Unbuttoning his fly, I free his cock and jerk him off until he's fully erect.
"Now we're gettin' somewhere." I can see the strain in his face and hear it in his voice. "But it'd be even better if you'd put your fuckin' mouth on me already."
"Shhh, relax." I squeeze him harder. "I'm going to send you to heaven."
Or, in your case, hell.
I literally have him by the balls, and he has no idea. No idea of what I'm capable of. He sees me like all the rest, a disposable whore.
As I continue to work him over, I slip out the small spade-shaped blade from beneath the back of my short, dark wig. The ends of the bob hitting just beneath my jawline.
He moans, elongating his arms and neck over the top edge of the couch, providing me the perfect opportunity. The opening I was waiting for.
Without hesitation, I stab the blade into the side of his neck, causing him to jerk and choke. "For Benny," I whisper, right before I slit his throat.
A numbing sensation spreads through me as the life drains from his eyes. As he bleeds out quickly and quietly beneath me. After a few staticy moments, that familiar pulse begins in my chest as adrenaline courses through my body. It's always the same right after a kill. Nothingness, then chaos. I've learned to control the highs and lows. I had to. I was forced to. Conditioned to.
I wipe the blade off on the dead man's shirt, leaving a swipe of red over the white material. An eye for an eye. The way of my world.
Sliding the blade back up into my hair, I expeditiously make my way to the window. I push it open and climb out, disappearing down the fire escape and into the dark alley behind the club. There, I pull out a small backpack laying just behind the dumpster. Quickly, I pull out a pair of faded jeans and a hoodie. Losing the stilettos, I dress in the casual street clothes and slip on a pair of blush-pink ballet flats. I rip off the wig and toss it in the trash, then slide the blade into my back pocket. In thirty seconds flat, I go from hot and slutty to sweet and innocent. My long, platinum waves the perfect complement to my virginal, girl-next-door look.
The very first lesson Benny taught me was, if I was going to master the art of deception, I needed to change my shoes. That's how he tracked me all those years ago. My sparkly, purple Converse are what gave me away. It was the first of many lessons Bastiano Velona would teach me. The man was, in many ways, my dark knight with corrupt morals.
He took me in. Clothed me, fed me, and he fostered me. Put a roof over my head and educated me in more than just English and math. He trained me to be a killer. His killer. When most sixteen-year-old girls were shopping for prom dresses, I was pulling a trigger.
I was his offense and his defense, dispensed to execute any task that required a deadly yet delicate hand. I was his ghost. His secret weapon. I took to his teachings like paper to glue. I thirsted for his approval. Strived to excel. I didn't want to give him one reason to kick me out. Or toss me back on the streets, or even worse, send me to juvie.