michael antony
Forum Regular
- Joined
- Dec 23, 2011
- Messages
- 334
- Location
- wash dc
a shooting scenario "Posh Bitch"
contract murder; large-caliber automatic, posh setting, cartel scene (setup for extended rough body handling and necro)
The photos and manip are mine, with bullet wounds from photos of corpses on CDG.
I don't normally like being shot naked; I like being dressed tight and hot, so you can search my pockets and roll, strip and manhandle my body the way the crime scene guys in those videos manhandle those freshly shot-up Brazilian boys. Every once in a while, though, I get hot imagining being shot naked, or nearly naked. Of course, as usual, my murderer is also always naked, having just finished fucking me one more time before carrying out "the deal"...
...beside a posh pool on a posh patio at my "owner" Max's out-of-town villa, alone past the south end of the bay about an hour out of Puerto Vallarta... wearing only a tight little torn-off baby-doll T-shirt and my little leather collar and dog tag with my name on one side and 'property of Club Max' on the other, the t-shirt sticking to me, soaked with sweat from my evening's service of Max's "friend" Javier who's been sticking hundred-dollar bills in my teeth and giving my sweet diva ass a hundred-dollar nailing in my dressing room nearly every night for the past two or three months.
I've been down from Miami almost six months, sweetly tanned all over from lounging around the terraces and poolside naked, like a pet. I'm glistening all over with my sweat and Javier's sweat, and my loads and Javier's loads, hair tousled, crazy-looking heavy-lidded eyes, slack-jawed well-and-soundly-fucked look... The sight of my ass and thighs flexing and sparkling as I stride lazily to the wet bar causes you to thicken yet again as you feel another load building up while you discreetly check your piece. Then, lay back and idly heft and stroke your meat while you listen to me bragging about what I'm going to do with my share of the money, and watch me strut my goods around. This is going to be pure satisfaction; I'm the kind of stuck-up, dumb slut you'd happily kill for free.
I'm done bragging for the moment. I need a drink. I lock my eyes on yours as I make a little show out of licking the salt from my hand before thowing back a shot of tequila.
Still sitting back on the lounge sofas we were balling on just a moment ago, you watch me stride toward you -- my sleek abdomen and thighs gleaming, slim hips swaying loose and free, my still-thick and swollen seven inches bouncing and swaying like a fresh raw brisket.
I invite you along. I promise you ownership of me. Nobody knows the place I've picked out, I tell you -- not even Max knows about this spot. I smile slyly, stretch a bit, arch my back, shake my thighs a bit, working my body as I speak.
Your balls are nearly bursting, your hardness painful. The light tropical breeze feels good on your skin. Time to pay off this cocky whore. You stand up from the sofa and pull that silenced Colt military .45 from the drawer in the end table...
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