The Road to Mercedes

Turd Fingers turned to the doorman. Sparks were shooting out of the rod in his hand.

"Oh, boy, I didn't expect it to do all that. Is she dead?"

Turd Fingers peered at her. To be fair, he'd been peering at her anyway.

"No. I can see her breathing. Get her purse."

"What for?"

"Trust me, we're not going to want that sitting around." Turd Fingers gestured at the sparking implement in the doorman's hand. "What the fuck is that?"

"It's a stun rod, so I guess she'll come to in a minute. I might be in big trouble. I'm not sure I should have used it just now." Suddenly repulsed by the thing, he laid it on one of the bed's pillows. Meanwhile, its sparks finally subsided.

Turd Fingers saw an opportunity. "I got an idea. Get her feet."

"What do I do with this?" The doorman indicated Mercedes' purse.

"I dunno. Put it on your fuckin' shoulder." The doorman complied, making himself look like a little bitch in the process, and together the two criminals carried the unconscious girl back to her own boudoir and laid her on her canopied bed. Turd Fingers fished the syringe out of his raincoat. The doorman, who'd stooped to drop her, let go of her ankles. The purse slid off his shoulder onto the bed. "No, no. Keep hold of her. Case she comes to."

The doorman complied, nodding at the needle in the meantime. "What's that?"

"This stuff called Relaxa. I stole a bunch off a shoplifter earlier today."

"Relaxa? What's it do?"

"Deidra said it was a compliance med. Here, just hold her ankles. I'm thinking we don't have a lot of time."

Suppressing his nervous fear and excitement—Mercedes looked intoxicatingly tempting, slim, exquisite in dress and form, angelic in slumber—Turd Fingers fondled Mercedes' waist. The sheer crinkly leather of her luxurious three-hundred-dollar dress cooled his palm. He knew how much it cost since he'd been stalking her the day she'd bought it, too.

Forgetting what he'd just said about time being of the essence, he ran his hand over Mercedes' mid-section until his palm picked up the hollow of her navel through the sheer dress and she began to passively rock. "I've always wanted a top-flight debutante like this. Nice arm-candy society girl."

He snapped out of it. He popped the single button on Mercedes' dress. Its flaps settled; he delicately peeled the top one to the side and the other fell on its own, baring her.

A silver chain ringed her slender waist, and she had a jewel in her navel he'd somehow not felt the second before. Her lacy white bra was so thin he could see through it that she had no tan-lines on her pert bosom, and her carnation nipples showed.

That familiar perverse thrill growing in his spine and loins, he cupped Mercedes' right breast from above. The scratchy lace and, under, the warm, soft, whipped-cream-light flesh of her milky yam delighted his groping hand. His prick, mostly hard already and tented uncomfortably in his pants, slid with a tingle up to his zipper and settled into the flap of his yellowed briefs. God, he'd just ass-fucked a girl like six hours ago. Why wasn't it ever enough?

Not having had much experience with such things, he carefully brought the needle up and pushed it in the underside of Mercedes' pliant breast until it punctured the sheen of her bra, dented her skin, and sank inside her. He let go of her and her round bag jiggled with the motion of the needle. He couldn't suppress a groan of sexual gratification when he pressed the plunge on the syringe, injecting her.

"You have to stick it in her tit like that for it to work?"

"Sure don't. Just felt like it." He pulled the needle out and, regretfully, refastened the girl's dress.

"And you say this stuff will make it so Mercedes won't want to file a complaint?"

"Dunno. The girl earlier today was pretty much anything goes and I just gave this chick three times as much as she was on, so if anything'll do it . . ."

"She was pretty fuckin' pissed, though. This isn't just about my job. I made up all that shit about being allowed to use that rod. She could land me in jail. You too, maybe."

"Yup, and that's why we better stay in here and keep a hold of her, in case it doesn't kick in before she comes to."

Deliberately, and with a studied familiarity to his motions that may have conveyed more to the doorman than he'd rather have had him know, Turd Fingers fixed one forearm across Mercedes' midsection, just under her bulbous tits. He clutched her right elbow, holding her own left arm against her side and trapping her other arm between his body and hers. He gingerly covered her mouth.

"So just stay like this, then?" Turd Fingers's unwitting henchman asked from Mercedes' feet.

"Yup. And hold tight. Keep her down and keep her quiet. We shouldn't have to for too long before the Relaxa kicks in."

Mercedes' eyes fluttered. They drifted open hazily. Her pupils servoed about, lost. When they focused on Turd Fingers she tensed bodily, arched her back, and shoved a hot, wet, full-throated scream into Turd Fingers's hand. She pumped her legs hard enough to make the bedsprings squeak. "Fuck," the doorman cried, as Mercedes wriggled one of her ankles from his grasp and swung her leg around. With the added leverage she nearly broke Turd Fingers' hold on her trunk as well. He had to center his weight over her to keep her from getting out from under him. After some clumsy grasping, the doorman caught her flailing calf again, then got her firmly by both knees to anchor her lower half to the mattress.

Turd Fingers howled in pain, seemingly before he'd even felt it. He snatched his hand from Mercedes' mouth. A pair of punctures marred the fold between his thumb and forefinger, blood already running from one of them. The pain chilled, deep. As he looked, the girl, feral with fear and rage, snapped at him again, and nearly took another chunk. "Fuckin' bitch." He raised to backhand her.

"Leave me alone! Go away!" This was followed by a banshee wail so loud dogs surely lifted their heads a mile away.

"Shut her up," the doorman insisted. "Or we're done for."

Turd Fingers couldn't cover her mouth with his hand; she'd just bite him again. He cast about for a solution and spied a fist-sized teddy bear on the other pillow. He stuffed it between her lips, stifling her, and held it in. She could bite that all she liked. Still, her screams were so loud, even through the bear, that he worried someone might hear them.

"God," said the doorman. "How could it be so hard for two men to hold down one skinny dame?"

"They get slippery when they're scared. Don't underestimate 'em."

The doorman studied him. "How you know that? Do this sort of thing a lot, do you?"

"What do you think happened earlier today with that shoplifter I talked about?" Turd Fingers answered the doorman's shocked expression with a wink. "I didn't have to hold her down this much, though."

Mercedes stopped screaming. The tension left her diaphragm, but her chest began bellowing with fast, shallow breaths. He looked at her. White showed above and below her pupils, and her face had waned clammy.

"That's right, rich bitch. After I stole those cute panties of yours, I ass-raped a chick." He closed to within an inch of her.

Mercedes' brow furrowed. She shook her head, pleading. The fight went out of her, and her body slackened. Turd Fingers waited a guarded minute. Her brow leveled. He dared to let some tension out of his restraining arms.

"I think the Relaxa's kick—"

Something wet splatted his cheek.

"That the only way you can get any, you pussy?"

Mercedes bolted longways across the bed, suddenly fast as a cougar. Distracted fingering the wetness on his face to figure out what it was (it was her spit, of course), Turd Fingers failed to even try and stop her. Only by luck did the doorman still have her ankles, so she got as far as clawing at the far side of the bed before he stopped her.

"Sick fucks!" she howled at full volume. "They're gonna pack you off to pound-in-the-ass faggot prison, and we'll see how you like it!"

It was sure another outburst like that would draw attention. Turd Fingers started to climb up on the bed. Out of ideas, he was just going to try beating her unconscious. He only got as far as planting one knee on the mattress before the scrabbling girl went limp. The tension left Hannibal's fists.