We're the Millers

©

2023 PennameWombat

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This is my entry for

Literotica's 2023 Crime and Punishment Author Event

. It's a tale of sordid activities that I hope you find entertaining.

And, as it's about crime and criminals, there might be scenes and activities that some readers might be uncomfortable with.

Tags: Crime and Punishment, Action, Blackmail, Bondage, Career prostitution, College girl, Crime drama, Drugs, Violence, Virgin

*****

The Eagle Building

"Up there?" The young woman's voice was equal parts question and sarcasm.

The young man next to her let out an exhaled laugh and let his companion's huffed grunt answer it before he spoke.

"Not the highest ledge, next one done. Tenth floor."

At this, the woman's laughter settled into a clearly sarcastic tone, but added an amused lilt.

"I can count. Whose idea was this, uh, endeavor again? Gail's? She's always wanted to get rid of me."

His eyes darted right and left before he laughed and responded.

"Gail loves you, babe. I'm just surprised she's never invited you into her bedroom for a little, uh, girl on girl action."

He stuck his tongue out and flicked it up and down.

"BBBLLLEEEAAACCCHHH! Oh, holy fuck NO! I'd have to be the world's biggest dyke AND desperate as fuck AND so stoned and drunk I'd likely be unconscious to even be willing to be in a room with her naked. No, I'd have to be dead to even consider it. Why hasn't she invited you in for a little troll on boy action, Jakey baby?"

He grunted when her elbow caught him just below the ribs on his left side. He laughed.

"She saves her sweet poontang for Tommy. Mine's too big for her anyway."

She squinted at his grinning face and dancing eyes as they turned to meet gazes.

"That's only 'cuz her's probly bit Tommy's prick off. Maybe you should sleep with her. I'd get some peace at night now and again."

She stuck her tongue out at him.

"You gonna cut me off and make me seduce one of these old babes we sell pot to? I think that Joyce or her friend Brenda would both be sweet, ain't neither bad looking. And they like me. Both do some jobs now and then, bet they know bedroom tricks—."

His "oof" was followed by coughed laughter after her jab caught him in the gut. She twisted and raised her left arm to point at the building.

"Anyway, that building. Why do WE have to get onto one of those ledges and climb in a window?"

"Well, Jed's the boss. He decides. Besides... we're the smallest and lightest. Jed'll have a plan."

"Better. Won't be his ass on the ledge. In the dark. But, what, we're gettin' pictures? We're supposed to climb along a tenth floor ledge, get in through a window... and what? Pictures will just be sitting on a desk or some bullshit?"

"Well, it's like, what. Offices. Filing cabinets, that sorta thing. Apparently some big cheese's private office."

"Huh. So, what, a safe? I can pick pockets and locks. Not sure about a safe. Whose office?"

"Dunno. Bank president, something like that, and some sorta bigwig in the Church."

The woman pointed with a raised arm a few degrees to the left at the tallest building in view. Unlike their target's hewn granite with plenty of decorative stone highlights, it was in the modern style of smooth white concrete and steel.

"The Church has that giant building, all their stuff there. Tallest in the city."

"From Jed's info, the top cheeses keep private offices in this old one. Keeps, I dunno, private shit private. So one a'them."

"But if we're gettin' something on one a'these Church fuckers... not like mom and me don't hate each other, but if they hadn't kicked her out when she asked 'em for help when I was a kid, she might not be so fucked up now... so, good. Let's fuck one of 'em over."

The young man smiled. "That's the spirit, Bonnie not Parker."

She huffed but joined him in smiling before both heads turned slightly and their necks craned to allow them to focus on the topmost two floors of the building.

"It's pretty in this light," the man said in a low voice.

They stood mid-block on the sidewalk with their backs against the wall of a closed dry cleaning shop that occupied the ground floor of a three story building that abutted others like it along the full block. To their left was an empty shop, formerly a model train dealer, and past that a tiny restaurant that served up hamburgers and hot dogs the couple, or anyone else with even a single functional taste bud, swore was the worst thing they'd ever eaten. That it remained in business, the couple also knew, was because the owner had impaired vision when it came to noticing paying customers also buying and selling nickel and dime bags of 'condiments' as they waited for their gruel.

A lone car drove past them in the farthest of the four lanes painted on the wide urban street in front of them. Beyond that, a parking lot sat mostly empty. A trio of people crossed the street to their left as the car slowed at that intersection's red traffic light. The young woman's right hand found her companion's right hand and he shifted slightly and they clasped.

The eleven floors and the crenellated roof that made up their target of their study offered the odd glitter and had morphed from silver-gray to a reddish hue. To the right as they looked it was separated by a narrow alley from a building just shorter and rather less ornate, an even shorter building and another alley on the opposite side. The shadow they used for slight camouflage deepend as the sun set behind them and the cloudless sky's beyond the building deepened in color. The woman finally spoke.

"How are we supposed to get up to that ledge?"

"Dunno," she huffed at his answer and he grunted when she squeezed his hand, "well, Jed has to have a way... he just hasn't told anyone yet."

"That's fine, if he's doing it."

"Ah, c'mon. Not like he's ever let us down..."

Both heads turned as a deep red LTD glided into the curbside parking spot just in front of them. Blue Öyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper" came through the open passenger door window. The driver was tall and broad, his dark hair in a grown-out crew cut, the thin cloth of his long sleeve shirt snug against solid muscles. As the pair stepped forward and leaned to look into the window the music stopped.

"You two going to stand here and tell every cop in this city which building you're casing? May as well be holdin' a sign."

His voice was a baritone, powerful and with a tone that assumed attention, an edge of anger clear but controlled and leavened with what might've been humor.

Might've been.

"Street's empty, boss," the young man said from outside, "eight-thirty. End of August. No one's doing shit. They've rolled up the streets already. Pigs are all gettin' doughnuts for dessert."

The car's driver growled out an extended hum as he turned and looked out the windshield. Then he turned to look at the pair.

"Get in. It's not dead everywhere. We've got a couple parties to make deliveries to."

A Date in the 'Burbs

Kelly Joy squinted at the house number scribbled on the otherwise blank card in her left hand. The nearest streetlight, the one just to the other side of the driveway she stood on was dark, the far one to her left the nearest that offered light. It was the longest day of the year so the sky wasn't yet black even though it was only moments to midnight. But black enough to not offer actual illumination.

She looked around. This was one of the suburbs she'd never live in, not because it was new, but because these were Homes, the capital H clear in her mind, large and widely spaced with expansive yards and perfect hedges, not 'houses.' Or more like hers, collections of 'reasonably priced' apartments and dumps that'd never had a prime, much less were now in the prime. The big trees had gained their full summer leaf, which didn't help with the streetlight issue.

She expected dead streetlights where she lived. Not in this kind of neighborhood.

That was one oddity. Another, she didn't know the street name, hadn't been given it and the nearest signs that she'd have expected hadn't been on the last couple of corners. She normally committed them to memory. But the car that'd brought her hadn't wavered. The driver knew where they were without them. And the only other light was on the side of the house she faced and illuminated three numbers.

That matched those on her card.

Gypsy Rose and Henri had been tight-lipped about the job. That'd upped her wariness. They were good to work for, took care of her, didn't... usually... put her in... she snagged her lower lip in her teeth then remembered and quickly released. Ran her tongue. Hoped she hadn't mussed the lipstick. It'd been specifically requested and she had no mirror to reapply.

"Shit," she said in a low voice, no one was around, at least she didn't think so as she glanced either direction, "move it, KJ, don't get made."

Habit and training kicked in and her heels clicked as she used the glow on the gleaming concrete to follow it toward the front door.

And the Job.

She glanced backward. The car had barely given her time to close the rear door before the driver had accelerated. There was nothing in sight and not even noise but for the odd insect. The instructions had been clear. She'd be picked up at half past eleven in the pee em in front of the building where her bosses had their 'office.' She'd be returned to her apartment.

But no time had been set for that last step. They were now in the southern reaches of the Valley, far from any of her regular haunts. Or near anyone who'd know her. Well, who'd admit to knowing her.

Beyond that, she'd only been told there'd be 'rough stuff.' That meant extra money, but always had a risk. More oddities. She usually received a fair overview about a client, his and very rarely her, wants. What their wife, or the rare husband, couldn't or wouldn't give them. Why she made enough untraceable money to buy... what kept the voices quiet. She'd had a tiny snort just before her ride'd arrived, just to keep her brain on slow, but Gypsy and Henri had made clear she couldn't be carrying.

Gypsy and Henri wouldn't send her into... not like the others. Like women she'd... known. The cops never helped. Assholes. Whoever this client was, the fucker had to be... Someone. Another capital letter clear in her mind. They never sent her out without a deadline, without an address, it was always that the client knew someone knew where they were and would be checking...

But not this time.

Then she forced her brain away. They wouldn't have sent her if... and they'd promised her this one job'd pay enough for her to finally take some time, go to Seattle and visit her sister and niece and nephew like she'd wanted, they'd give her the time. Well. She turned off the driveway and followed the walkway that curved toward the door and the single light alongside. And the three numbers.

Her heels clicked. They were the highest ones she had, she liked them and adjusted to walk smoothly with just the slightest strut. She was tall, even if not the tallest girl in the stable, and her legs that were by request in these heels, sheer stockings and garters meant what she thought of as lovely cross into awesome. She'd been told to not wear panties and an open cup uplift bra, not that, more of her opinion, her tits needed artificial uplift. She'd look awesome if...

She wasn't in these clothes. A loose long-sleeved cotton dress that fell to the middles of her calves, under that a full-length slip AND the Garments that she should've worn every day since her teen years but she'd given up almost at that same time. A long-sleeved jacket, like the dress in a second boring shade of brown. Well. Unless things were REALLY weird, she'd be out of these clothes at some point.

She stopped at the door, the same light that showed her the numbers let her see the low step that led to it. She reached toward the doorbell's glowing button, suddenly remembered the book in that hand. The card became the only item with her other than the lipstick in a jacket pocket and switched the book to her left hand, then smoothed her dress and put on her most alluring smile. She heard the muffled chimes when she pressed the button.

She was about to press the doorbell a second time when the door opened. The interior hallway was not brightly lit but the man in the doorway was tall. He had the advantage of the steps up into the house, but still. He wasn't broad or slender, in a button down shirt and slacks, gray hair cut short leavened with a few strands of darker color and a perfectly trimmed moustache of the same mix.

Sixty. Had to be. But. No gut hanging over his belt. Handsome. At least his shadowed face seemed to be. The one caution. He was backlit, she couldn't see or read his face well and definitely not his eyes. Smiles, words, all could be fake.

But not eyes.

Then the script came to her. Nothing for it at this point. Why she was top of the list for the Best Jobs.

"Good evening, good gentleman, my name is Sister Kelly Joy," she said in equal measures of seduction and sincerity as her left hand held the book up, "are you familiar with the Fully Restored Gospels of our Lord?"

"My dear," the man's voice was smooth, clear, probably used to public speaking although like his face she didn't recognize it, "this is a household in need of the love of the Word."

He reached out with his left hand to offer to take her right. She met it.

"Come in, young lady," he shuffled back and sideways and with gentle pressure with his hand he urged her to remember the steps and she entered the house, "you have your work ahead of you, with us poor sinners in need of your comfort."

He released her hand and urged her past him and into the hallway as he pushed the door closed and rested his hand on her lower back and guided her with gentle pressure. Even with her height and heels, she hadn't quite matched him.

"This way, Sister, we've awaited you."

She hadn't seen his eyes.

Brigham

"G'night," Brigham said as he grabbed the two six packs, one RC Cola and one Coors, in each hand and turned away from the counter.

The middle-aged cashier wearing multiple days worth of stubble and a stained "Bees" baseball cap offered some vague hand gesture at the words but his eyes and hands reached for the magazine on the shelf beneath the cash register to his left. The cover had been torn off, but Brigham was reasonably certain it was a 'Playboy' or one of the even less salubrious printed materials available in these dumpy gas station slash convenience stores in these dumpy parts of the Valley. He bunched the second six pack on top of the first and used his left arm to hold it against his side as he pushed his freed hand into his pocket for his keys as he walked toward the gas pumps and his car.

He wasn't proud of his own less than salubrious habits, the purchases pressed against his body, and their sinful contents. But he made sure his stops were in these places where encounters were unlikely. And he'd beaten down the urge to add one of... those... magazines.

He worked the keys with his fingers to have the trunk key ready. Once he'd pumped his gas it was just over ten steps or so into the shop, but he knew he'd be out of sight while he gathered his purchases and he'd still locked the car. He'd seen no one close, the area a mix of light industrial and warehouses with only a scattered few operating this late and only the odd anachronistic ancient houses that'd survived from those distant decades when the area had still been farms.

He placed his booty on the floor of the trunk and pushed the lid down. And froze.

A face looked at him through his Camaro's rear window. It smiled, as best he could tell, although the scarce lights around the station didn't offer direct illumination. But he swore there was a smile. Then, a wave. Then that hand gestured 'come on' and pointed at the driver's side door. He glanced back at the store, couldn't discern the cashier through the grimy windows and crazy reflections.

He turned back and knew without seeing that the face had gone hard. Impatient. The hand jabbed at the driver's door. He fumbled the keys around his fingers and obeyed. As he arrived at the targeted door the hand helpfully pulled the lock pin up and the body sat back. He couldn't see the face from his new angle.

"Come on, Briggy baby, we ain't got all night," a voice said as he pulled the door open, "you owe me something. And howzabout we have a bit a'fun, jus me and you."

A shiver ran down his body. He'd been able to deny the who, with the shadows. But not now. Gail.

"Get in, Briggy, and drive. You haven't forgotten how to drive have you?"

Run. Run inside and...

His tense body sagged. He'd make it, but most likely she'd just follow. And he'd never get to the pay phone and call... and the cashier, him running from a woman.

A hand slapped the back of the driver's seat headrest. He jerked. He spun and lifted his leg and slid behind the wheel and both of his locked onto it.

"You really have forgotten how to drive, Briggy," the voice had softened, well for some usage of that word, into some sort of mid-timbre woman's voice, not one of those squeaky ones or a Kathleen Turner type at the other end of the spectrum.

"Close the door." His left hand left the wheel as the voice had gone a notch deeper and gruffer and he grunted when the fingers collided with the door before he wrapped them around the handle and pulled it closed.

"Key in ignition." His right hand loosened its grip that'd locked the keys against the steering wheel but managed, somehow, to hold onto them. His hand shook as he tried to guide the key and on the second miss a bare arm shot forward and a seat nudged forward as it was pressed from behind.

"Ow," he said as long fingers wrapped around his right wrist. The muscles in the arm that guided those fingers weren't like the guy in that latest "Conan" movie he'd seen a few weeks ago, huge and bulky, but he saw the tendons tighten under taut flesh as the pain in his wrist notched up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw flying strands of hair.

Did she EVER wash that hair? It didn't fall much past her shoulders, wasn't in any sort of 'style' that he'd ever noticed on his sisters or cousins or women at schools or church... he could... smell it. Or something.

"You're hur—- OW!" The fingers squeezed and guided the key into the ignition before it forced the hand to turn the key. The engine caught.

Brigham scrunched his neck down when he felt lips and teeth at his right ear, hot breath on his neck.

"Ooh, I like a car that starts without having to beg it," the woman whispered into his ear before she released the wrist and he jumped when it landed on his thigh and slid onto the inside of it, "now, drive. Straight, turn left."

He gripped the steering wheel with both hands for a moment and let out a slow breath as the fingers kneaded his crotch. After another moment, his right hand fell to the shift lever in the console between the front seats. He faced ahead but his eyes went hard right then left, didn't see any headlights or people.

"It... was locked."

"Locked," her voice had a mocking tone, "yeah, was."

"Wh... whe... where's Tommy?"

"C'mon, baby," the fingers loosened and slid to the inside of the thigh then rose and tapped on a hidden but desperately confused cock, "not like I'm connected to him. I can have my own fun whenever I want. Now, goddamnit, drive. We got places to be."