And that’s when she stepped out of the darkness, directly across my path; a babe who was also out to score. This woman should have been soaking bare-ass in some hot tub with Brad Pitt, sipping champagne. She was a rose amongst thorns. If she’d been copilot, Mohammad Atta would have forsaken Islam and set an alternate course toward the neon lights of Vegas.
She had long tresses of jet-black hair, as shiny and silky as the feathers of a raven. Her eyes -- slightly almond-shaped -- were nearly as dark as her hair, her skin alabaster-white in the comparison. The most perfect of noses with the cutest flare to the nostrils. And her lips; sensually pouting, like a female Elvis Presley. She had a dynamite body with a two-second fuse, all shrink-wrapped into a skin-tight leather jumpsuit. I observed all of this in the time that it took me to gulp, my heart beating faster than Desi Arnaz on the bongos.
“Hi, sweet cakes,” she purred. “Care to fool around?”
“Come on.”
“Is that spelled c-u-m?”
“Are you -- uh – serious?” For once my discretion won out over my dick. “I -- uh -- I think I’ll take a pass.”
Suddenly, I felt something hard being pressed against the back of my head.
“Oh, I’m serious, all right. I’m just as serious as my friend holding that .22 against your noggin.”
The stirring in my loins disappeared as fast as Jesse Jackson at a Klan meeting.
“What is this -- a stickup?”
“I sure hope it sticks up,” sh... อ่านทั้งเรื่อง
