michael antony
Forum Regular
- Joined
- Dec 23, 2011
- Messages
- 334
- Location
- wash dc
Discreet bi MWM, 58; 6ft 170lbs, 7" cut, clean-shaven, boyish-looking. Seeking roleplay partner (must host) for gun murder/necro scene. Retired military/LE with firearms experience, gun enthusiasts especially welcome. Like a cold, efficient mob hit scene.
----
On the next floor down from Max's penthouse, you're waiting for the signal to move in while hanging out at a posh party with a bunch of Max's rich friends... and the entertainment for the evening was a smooth, lean, tight-built dude named Michael, a dancer from Max's club -- a thick-hung, graceful six-footer with long, sleek thighs and a tight, perky ass. He captivated you. Your eyes caught each other throughout the evening as he strutted among the guests on the patio and in the living room in thigh-high leather boots with 4-inch heels, over-the-elbow leather gloves, a polished leather collar with a gold dog tag, and nothing in between.
You spoke at the bar later on after his performance. He was looking tight and hot -- the way his boss always liked his boys to dress -- in a pair of blue skinny jeans, a tight little blue baby-doll t-shirt, and high-heeled suede cuff boots. He moved with the cocky confidence of a dude who knew he was the hottest bitch in the room. He came on to you brazenly. His cockiness heated you up. He wrote his room and phone numbers on the back of a Club Max card and slipped it to you before he left the party.
"Here. Call me later? Gotta run."
"How late are you up? I have some business first."
"As late as you want me," he smiled.
In mad anticipation of what was to come with him later, you watched Michael's ass and thighs flexing as he strode towards the door.
About an hour later, halfway through your second martini, a certain vibrating pattern sounded on your phone. The trap at the penthouse was sprung. It was time to head up and take out the mark.
You slipped stealthily into the darkened suite, pausing to let your eyes adjust to the street light filtering in through the blinds. In a few moments, you caught the dim glow of a penlight flickering through an open doorway to the outer office (and the safe inside). You quickly, lightly strode across the living room to the office door, flattening yourself against the wall just outside the door, listening to the activity at the safe. Suddenly, there was silence. Was he done? Had he heard you?
With your silenced .380 drawn, you stepped quickly into the office doorway. In the stripes of street light filtering through the blinds, you saw a tall, slim figure silhouetted as it dashed for the doorway to the inner office. Reflexively you squeezed your trigger three, four, five times at the dark figure darting across the darkened doorway. The sound of stumbling feet and the sick, heavy thudding of a falling body told you your .380 had hit meat. The sound of his rough, throaty, animal grunting and moaning as your slugs tore through him excited you.
You stood up, took a deep breath and let the silence sink in for a moment, your eyes fixed on the fallen body sprawled face down in the inner office, dimly lit by the street light filtering in. You walked across the office towards the doorway to inspect your kill. You pulled the blinds shut and flipped on a small table lamp near the door.
You froze for an instant with the unexpected shock of recognition. That outfit. That body. That ass.
"Oh, fuck! It's HIM...!" you gasped out loud to no one in particular. You started thinking your date might be a little earlier than you planned.
You'd just shot the hottest bitch in the room. The thought of it made you painfully hard almost instantly.
----
On the next floor down from Max's penthouse, you're waiting for the signal to move in while hanging out at a posh party with a bunch of Max's rich friends... and the entertainment for the evening was a smooth, lean, tight-built dude named Michael, a dancer from Max's club -- a thick-hung, graceful six-footer with long, sleek thighs and a tight, perky ass. He captivated you. Your eyes caught each other throughout the evening as he strutted among the guests on the patio and in the living room in thigh-high leather boots with 4-inch heels, over-the-elbow leather gloves, a polished leather collar with a gold dog tag, and nothing in between.
You spoke at the bar later on after his performance. He was looking tight and hot -- the way his boss always liked his boys to dress -- in a pair of blue skinny jeans, a tight little blue baby-doll t-shirt, and high-heeled suede cuff boots. He moved with the cocky confidence of a dude who knew he was the hottest bitch in the room. He came on to you brazenly. His cockiness heated you up. He wrote his room and phone numbers on the back of a Club Max card and slipped it to you before he left the party.
"Here. Call me later? Gotta run."
"How late are you up? I have some business first."
"As late as you want me," he smiled.
In mad anticipation of what was to come with him later, you watched Michael's ass and thighs flexing as he strode towards the door.
About an hour later, halfway through your second martini, a certain vibrating pattern sounded on your phone. The trap at the penthouse was sprung. It was time to head up and take out the mark.
You slipped stealthily into the darkened suite, pausing to let your eyes adjust to the street light filtering in through the blinds. In a few moments, you caught the dim glow of a penlight flickering through an open doorway to the outer office (and the safe inside). You quickly, lightly strode across the living room to the office door, flattening yourself against the wall just outside the door, listening to the activity at the safe. Suddenly, there was silence. Was he done? Had he heard you?
With your silenced .380 drawn, you stepped quickly into the office doorway. In the stripes of street light filtering through the blinds, you saw a tall, slim figure silhouetted as it dashed for the doorway to the inner office. Reflexively you squeezed your trigger three, four, five times at the dark figure darting across the darkened doorway. The sound of stumbling feet and the sick, heavy thudding of a falling body told you your .380 had hit meat. The sound of his rough, throaty, animal grunting and moaning as your slugs tore through him excited you.
You stood up, took a deep breath and let the silence sink in for a moment, your eyes fixed on the fallen body sprawled face down in the inner office, dimly lit by the street light filtering in. You walked across the office towards the doorway to inspect your kill. You pulled the blinds shut and flipped on a small table lamp near the door.
You froze for an instant with the unexpected shock of recognition. That outfit. That body. That ass.
"Oh, fuck! It's HIM...!" you gasped out loud to no one in particular. You started thinking your date might be a little earlier than you planned.
You'd just shot the hottest bitch in the room. The thought of it made you painfully hard almost instantly.
