The Murdered World 11 (Patreon)

The guard—who called himself Reinaldo, though there was no telling if that was real or another blast from his coke-fueled imagination—led Frank inside the mansion, down one expansive hallway and into another, through one sprawling room to the next.

“So what’d ya think is shutting off the web?” Reinaldo asked.

Frank had an old phone inside a thick case, with an app on the screen that made it look like it was scanning something, displaying read-outs. He waved it around; it chirped and beeped. “You guys get any new electronics in recently? Some of these Chinese jobs, they don’t install the batteries right. They crack, start leaking ions… that can really screw with the signal.”

“I think the microwave is new.”

“Show me.”

Frank’s wife had been the aesthete, not him, but he recognized that there was impeccable taste backing up all the wealth on display. Savonarola chairs lined the tables. The high, paneled walls were decorated with Gobelin tapestries. The corniced ceiling and tall windows, the maroon drapes threaded with silver, the Anatolian carpets with rich colors that nuancedly continued into the decorations of each individual room. Either Angel was a secret dilettante or his wife had a true talent for spending her husband’s money.

But the reach of crime festered like a cancer all throughout the decadence. This was less a home than the court of some barbarian king. Everywhere were Angel’s guards, rough and graceless men, openly brandishing firearms, wearing T-shirts and sandals with their Armani suits.

They smoked, drank, and endlessly harassed the waitstaff, who had to be well-paid to put up with such abuse. Then again, Frank could see that they were all Cubanos. His intuition told him that it was this for them or a return to Castro.

The bump of coke was hitting him like the rush of battle. His heart thudded. His blood shot through his veins. It was all he could do, as he was led through this junkyard of humanity, not to snap a neck, snatch a gun, and ventilate as many of these scumbags as he could.

His body shook with the will it took to stop himself. How good it would feel to break just one of those arrogant expressions with a fist, not stopping until it hit the back of their skull…

In the kitchen, Frank moved the ‘scanner’ around. He scratched his chest, reaching into the open zipper of his coveralls until he was below his real skin, down to the bulge of the fatsuit. He pinched off a piece of the plastique he was carrying, rolling it between his fingers to make a wad the size of a gumball. While Reinaldo was distracted… and the man luckily seemed to constantly distract himself… Frank slid open a silverware drawer, splatted the plastique on the bottom of the drawer, and quietly shut it again.

With a needlepoint-sized diode attached, there was an explosive with a crude radio detonator. That ounce of C6 packed the explosive force of a car bomb. It might not blow out the walls, but it would turn every fork, spoon, and knife in that drawer into high-velocity shrapnel. Anyone in the kitchen not wearing an Explosive Ordinance Disposal suit would learn just how sharp a butter knife could be when it was moving 26,000 feet per second.

“Everything’s fine in here,” Frank pronounced, lowering his ‘scanner’. “What about the next room? Changed the lightbulbs recently?”

He scratched at his chest again, coming away with another thumb-sized piece of radio-detonated plastic explosive. This one he would stick beneath that endtable…

***

Lucy rolled gently from side to side, as if her arousal had made her exquisitely sensitive to the motion of the waves the boat rocked on. Her cunt felt too big for her skimpy bottoms, her clit throbbing as though in answer to her own enticing touch.

She drew light circles on the muscle of her thigh, using only the tip of one finger. Lucy wanted to leave herself all but untouched for Frank, like a patch of freshly fallen snow. How warm and bruised and blushed she would be once he started to touch her.

She had touched herself before, thoughts of a man’s body garnishing the fantasy, but she’d never dared to imagine his face. Now, clearly, she saw Frank’s face, his lustful expression, his hard cock straining out for her. Its tip flared open, dripping with eagerness for her wet pussy.

By the look on his face, it drove Frank mad to think of her not carrying a bucketful of his seed inside her, as when he had left her. Her eager body had to know his touch every hour of every day. She would not be allowed to forget who was the best fuck she’d ever had.

***

The living room was all set up for a voluptuous evening. The ornate marble hearth was piled high with firewood, the cushions were flushed on the heavy settee of Umbrian walnut. The sideboard—a madia of fine oak, hand-carved with forest animals amid leaves and branches—had been freshly varnished and furnished with a full decanter. A remote for the eighty-inch television sat on the newly polished top of the Florentine refectory table.

Frank ran a hand over the table, letting out a whistle at its quality. “Angel sure knows how to live.”

“That antique junk? Yeah, the ball and chain seems to like it,” Reinaldo said off-handedly. “Too many damn colors for me. Everything’s all red and brown and orange and shit. She used to have this cassone that was pink, fucking pink. Thank Christ Angel got rid of it. Picked up this nice coffee table instead, all gold-plated, glass on the top. Real choice.”

Frank nodded. It would be hard to set a chunk of plastique underneath that the way he did with the solid pine refectory table. It was a shame that it would be blown apart, the same way furniture in the seven other rooms he had wired would be reduced to matchsticks (and the men in them refused to bloodbags full of matchsticks).

But with Angel exerting himself, it seemed all of his wife’s taste was on the way out anyway. The man seemed constitutionally incapable of allowing beauty to exist; his nature was contrary to it.

“You think the short’s in here?” Reinaldo asked.

Frank checked his ‘readings.’ “No, we’re good here. Maybe one of the bathrooms?”

He could only imagine what a storm of fast moving linoleum tiles would do to the human body. He hoped he didn’t have to imagine for long.

***

Lucy pulled up on her bottoms even harder than before, sliding the gusset into her slit so that her labia flanked it on both sides. She looked down at herself, seeing the neatly tendered pubic hair and hints of the pink flesh her panties were forced again.

It was as beautiful as it made her feel, her cunt. The lips were sweetly delineated, the clit was a soft little marble. She recalled Frank muttering about her tightness under his breath as he rutted her, but she certainly didn’t feel tight now, so soon after he’d made her take so much of his fucking.

Of course, it didn’t matter now. It mattered then. And it soon would again. Because when he was inside her, her sex would clamp down on him like it was trying to keep Frank inside her. She loved how her pussy seemed to have a mind of its own at times like those. It rarely happened, but she suspected that with Frank, it would quickly become a regular occurrence.

Holding her bottoms tightly in place, she stroked the outside of her sex with one finger. Even without penetrating herself, the contact made her hips jerked. She gasped hotly as a twitch made her finger roll down the exterior of her pussy, leaving passionate flames in its wake.

“Ohh!” she purred, and then said his name, just to try it out for later. She wanted it to sound as good to him as her finger felt on her right now. “Frank…”