This effort is a departure for me. It contains some graphic violence and at least my usual quantity of sex. If that's not for you, then this is the time to pass on the story. I won't be offended. Please excuse the various cliché's I've deliberately included.
Edited by ErikThread and DaveT with my thanks and appreciation. Any errors are mine alone.
This story was previously posted on another site.
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The Contractor
Chapter 1 A Failed Task
I had my head tucked tightly between her meaty, soft thighs. My tongue was working her pussy in slow, agonizingly long strokes, avoiding her clit. She was moaning and writhing in pleasure, and I'd only just got started. As much as I was concentrating on the task at hand, I was trying hard to remember her name. Louise? No. Lorraine? No. Luanne? Yes. That was it. Luanne. Lulu to her friends I think she said. I was definitely now one of her friends.
I flicked my tongue on her distended clit and she jerked wildly in response.
"Oh, fuck! Oh, Lord Jesus, Rick. Spare me. You're killin' me," she cried in her thick brogue.
I doubted that. I ignored her and continued with my oral tactics. A few more minutes and she'd be begging me to finish her. I wanted her to feel she got her money's worth, not that any money had changed hands. She was another "Wednesday Night Special," one of many I'd entertained. An evening's fucking to mark another trip.
It wasn't long after that I sank into her right to the hilt. It's what she said she wanted and a gentleman always tries to please his lady, doesn't he?
"Fuck me, Rick. Fuck me ... hard."
Luanne was like so many other women when they were aroused. If they were cheating on their boyfriend or husband, they wanted it rough. They wanted it hard and fast to confirm they were sluts. Time enough for remorse and regret tomorrow. It wasn't my role to judge them, just to please them.
We lay on our backs, recovering from the energetic session we had just concluded.
"Am I going to see you again?" she asked.
"Nope."
"I want to."
"I don't."
"Why? Am I that lousy a lay?"
"Nope. I don't want any entanglements." I wasn't about to tell her that it would be a long time if ever before I would be back here.
"What entanglements?"
"Like your husband finding out about me."
"How did you know I was married?"
"You act married."
"What do you mean?"
"Your husband is probably a nice guy and treats you like a queen. But that isn't good enough for you. You want something different. You want to get down and dirty now and then. I can go with that ... once."
"How the hell can you say that? You don't know me."
"Look, Luanne, it didn't take me fifteen seconds to know you were on the prowl. I didn't even have to buy you a drink. If I can see that, a whole pile of other guys can too. Go back to your old man and keep him happy. Maybe if you treat him right, you might be able to get him to look after you the way I did tonight."
She got out of bed and began to get dressed.
"You're a proper bastard, Rick. You fuck me and then tell me to go back to my husband. Wasn't I good enough for you?"
"You were plenty good enough for me. You should be asking yourself if you're good enough for your husband."
"Fuck you! I don't need a sermon. I get that every Sunday in church. All I wanted was a good time."
There wasn't much point in getting into an argument with her. One of the reasons I insist they bring their own transport is that I don't have to drive them anywhere afterwards.
She tried to slam the door on her way out, but the pneumatic closer wouldn't let her get that satisfaction. Tough shit!
She hadn't been too shabby, all things considered. Looking good in the dimly lit bar, pretending she was single. Nice big tits, decent ass, long dark hair, maybe five-six tall, reasonable face with a typical milk-white complexion, and an attitude. There were a number of labels for women like her, bored housewife being the one that fit Luanne. Neglected housewife was just as common. On the other side of the coin - the currently single or divorced. At one time or another they all appeared at one of the local nightlife scenes.
I wouldn't have any trouble sleeping tonight. She wanted it and she got it. I knew right away she was married. I didn't give a shit. Just another easy fuck on a weekday night. No regrets, no remorse, just sex. Good night.
I had a good look at myself in the mirror Thursday morning. I'd shaved. I hated that unshaven look that so many guys thought was cool. To me, it looked like they didn't care if they appeared to be coming off a four-day-drunk. And the spiked hair? Gimme a break. It made them look like a cartoon character.
The gray in my temples gave away my age. I was forty, but not yet willing to surrender to it. I spent enough time in the sun to have a year-around tan. Women think I am handsome, so I suppose I am. They were the ones that made the decision, not me. At six-foot-four I was bigger than most men. I was fit because my occupation required it. I was tough because my occupation required it. I was cold because my occupation required it.
I do the dirty work that the agency doesn't want to be associated with. Who do they think they're kidding? Everyone knows who is responsible for eliminating individuals that pose a threat. It's called "wet work." I'm one of them, but "they" haven't caught up to me yet. "They" being the bad guys.
I am far from being a social animal. On the other hand, I do enjoy female companionship. I enjoy it for the moment, but I don't wish to extend it. My travels give me a wide variety of opportunities without duplication. Cold? Perhaps, but I have the scars to remind me not to get involved. They may not be visible, but they are there, nonetheless.
This morning was like so many others. A different hotel room, a different city, but the same face looking back at me in the mirror. "Who are you, Rik Vermeulen, and why do you live this life you've chosen? Perhaps chosen is the wrong word. Slipped into? No ... hard to think of it as accidental. You chose it and you know it. It may not have been with enthusiasm, but it was a choice."
I've got to stop talking to myself like this. It's unhealthy. Self-examination was never my forté. Do what you do and move on. Don't dwell on it. Don't over-think it. It's a job. A job that pays very well. The side benefits are just that, side benefits.
I was scheduled for a meeting with my handler this afternoon. He had a room in another hotel some distance away. I had more than enough time to get something to eat and catch a cab to the hotel.
~*~
I knocked twice, then once more on the door. It opened a few seconds later. The woman standing there was unexpected. Instinctively, I was on guard. Expecting a man, this was out of the ordinary.
"Don't worry, I'm the right person in the right place," she said, showing me an identity card.
I took it from her and examined it.
"Why the change?" I asked as I moved past her, surveying the room carefully.
"Mr. Coltrane has been compromised," she said simply. No other explanation was forthcoming.
I walked through the room, checking the bathroom, closet and bedroom for any sign that something was out of place.
"Who sent you?" I asked.
"Your principal," she said, hesitating.
I had my back turned and caught the movement of her hand in the mirror on the bathroom door. I spun and back-handed her with a closed fist. She was on the floor, dazed. A small pistol was in her hand. I removed it.
It took her a couple of minutes for her to regain her senses and slowly pick herself up off the floor.
"Who are you?" I asked, holding my Beretta on her. Her toy gun was in my jacket pocket.
She remained silent, watching me, possibly looking for a way to disarm me. She didn't look dangerous, but looks can be deceiving ... and fatal.
"I assume Coltrane is dead," I stated.
Still, no answer. Her eyes were fixed on me, unblinking.
"Ah well," I said in resignation.
The hole in her forehead appeared and for a moment there was a look of surprise on the woman's face. She toppled to the lush carpeted floor, face down. There had been little noise and almost no blood spatter. I had touched nothing but the door lever and I wiped it carefully, checking the hallway for any signs of a reaction. There was none.
In less than a minute, I was down the stairwell and exiting into the parking area. I checked for video surveillance and worked a path that would hide my features from its prying eye. Once out on the street, I walked the two blocks to another hotel's cab stand and headed directly to Dublin airport. I would retrieve my bag from the locker in the terminal.
A hundred euros later I had a ticket to Frankfurt. My former native language would make it difficult to spot me as a North American. My passport said I was Dutch. I have more than one passport. Six hours later, I was buying a one-way ticket to Chicago via Lufthansa, using my American passport and name, Richard Miller.
From Chicago, I caught a four o'clock flight to Portland and arrived before seven that evening. I checked my car including underneath before unlocking the door. It had remained untouched in the five days I had been away. My meager luggage went in the back seat and I slipped into the dated Crown Victoria I used as personal transportation. I ransomed it out of the parking area and headed for my so-called "home."
Home was a 1968 Airstream trailer, 31 feet long. I'd bought it for less than ten grand from a widow in Raymond, Washington. Her husband had just finished polishing and upgrading it, getting it ready for their annual trip to Palm Springs. He didn't make it that year.
It was plenty big enough for me and Norton. Norton was my happy-go-lucky golden retriever. I bought the Airstream with the idea if things got too hot for me, I could move it elsewhere. I'd owned it for almost five years and it hadn't moved an inch from its spot on a ten acre plot I occupied above the Columbia Gorge, just west of Hood River.
