For the fifth time now, I revise my plans for tomorrow's heist, my eyes glazing over the projection from my digipad. All these plans won't mean anything unless I have access to Atlas' notorious penthouse party. A party that is known to quench any fantasy imaginable. As much as I'd love to take part, let loose my deepest, darkest desires, I have entirely different reasons for wanting to gain entry.
I check my phone for Myra's message again. Nothing. She's supposed to be here already and hand over an invitation with my name on it. Yet, except for a rustle here and there, I appear to be the only one in this deserted park. I have a vague idea as to why she chose this spot and the thought alone makes me want to rub my thighs together. Even the cold breeze isn't enough to quell the hunger that begins to take root.
My drones finish their periodic sweep of the park perimeter and report no movement. Not even Myra. That's to be expected, though. Despite being a Tier 5 user--the lowest of tiers--her powers are no joke when it comes to evading surveillance. Her senses are infinitely more sophisticated than any sensor array out there. Eyes sharper than an eagle's, nose more sensitive than a bloodhound, ears on par with a bat, and touch and taste, incomparable to anything in existence. But none of these are tactically beneficial when compared to Tier 1 folk who are invincible or can detonate anything they see with a mere thought, so people tend to underestimate her when they hear of her rank. But over the years of knowing each other, we found more exciting ways of putting her powers to use. At that, I can't help but bring a hand down into my pants.
"Hi, Dex darling." I yank my hand out as soon as I hear her voice--all spice and honey. I don't see her, but my body reacts to her all the same. I clench my things on instinct as if that'd stop the wetness that begins to pool there.
No, don't lose sight of what's important, I tell myself. And because I don't want her to sense what her presence is doing to me, I begin shifting subtly, morphing my vagina into a dick.
"Don't do that to me now." Her voice comes from behind the tree I'm leaning against. When I turn to face her, my restraint becomes a thing of the past. "You should know by now that nothing escapes my nose. Or my eyes." Her gaze moves lower to the bulge in my pants.
She's dressed in all black. A tank top with arm holes that droop all the way to her waist and a frilly little skirt that barely covers her thighs.
Witch came prepared.
Despite all her wiles and attempts to tempt me, I see that her hands are empty. No invitation in sight. And with that my anger slips.
She kept me waiting for over an hour for nothing.
I reach for her throat and with force--just the right amount--I slam her against the tree. A moan escapes her lips. My other hand presses into her hips, squeezing the delicate muscle underneath that thin layer of clothing. My fingers want to dip lower, tear that frilly thing called skirt, slap her tits out of those ridiculous armholes. Just play with her.
I take a deep breath. And another. There is time yet for those things.
My face an inch from hers, I say, "Where the fuck is the invitation you promised?"
She smirks at me, her senses no doubt picking up on the war inside my head. "Hmm maybe I forgot. I thought you wanted to see me tonight." She then roams a finger over my breast, barely touching my hardened nipple and takes it lower to the hard length threatening to tear a hole in my jeans.
That's enough.
I twist her hips so that her front is now pressed against the rough tree bark. My grip on her throat moves to her neck, pressing her cheek on the tree, and my other hand takes hold of both her wrists. I then press my breasts into her back, nuzzling my face into her bright purple locks.
"Why do you insist on punishing me like this?" I breathe against her neck.
She laughs, but can't help herself from arching her back and letting her head fall on my shoulders. "What are you going to do about it, Dex?"
