Preying Mantis 1: Seven Minutes (MF)
by Neil Anthony (aka DrSpin)
Write to: neilanthony@austarnet.com.au
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* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au
Anonymity is a killer's friend. Don't stand out in a crowd.
Don't dress up, don't dress down. Never be on the edge of
anything. Take a middle seat. Don't be first in line, or last.
Mix with average people. They make excellent cover.
But nobody's perfect. Even a killer has to take a break when
the work is done, and feed his desires.
The killer was overnighting in Brussels. The killing was done,
and in the morning he had an early flight. He'd get there in
plenty of time, melt into the airport crowd, take a seat in
the middle of economy class, read the latest thriller by John
Grisham, and get home safe to wait for the next killing job.
Nobody would be looking for him yet. It was safe enough in the
three-star airport hotel, surrounded by tired and jaded
business travellers. Not completely safe, but safe enough to
wander into the bar, have a couple of quiet drinks, and check
out the scene. More bored travellers, but a man could get
lucky three times out of five.
There were four women in the bar, and one especially took his
eye. She was sitting neatly on a bar stool, sipping at a
woman's drink and reading a book. The killer had professional
powers of observation and he knew that a woman who sat alone
in a bar and read a book was probably looking for company.
Don't be put off by the put off. It's a cover to preserve
her dignity.
He let seven minutes pass before he moved in on her. A seven-
minute buffer was good for most things, and just right for
seduction -- long enough not to be crude and desperate, short
enough not to be uncertain and timid. She looked him over with
cool measurement, said nothing, and returned to her book. He
persisted gently, knowing it was expected of him, and she
looked up again, smiled in apparent resignation, and closed
her book.
She was as pretty as most smallish women are when they're in
their mid-to-late-twenties, and in good shape. If she was of a
mind for dalliance, and he suspected she was, then she'd do
just fine. Small, darkly intense, intelligent, cool, amused,
eyes and hands active, conservatively dressed, perhaps a
little travel weary, perhaps a little strained, under a little
stress. In bed she'd be a little firecracker. She made no
effort to hide the wedding ring on her finger. He picked up
her hand and looked at it pointedly, and in her smile twisted
a smoky curl of malice.
The killer was well pleased. He had his own stress to deal
with, and a night in twisted sheets with a woman was just what
any doctor would order. In the morning, he would be back to
safe havens. Tonight, he could forget all that.
Susan, she said. His room, she said. Just in case of a
telephone call she wouldn't want to take. And again, the quirk
of danger at the outer edge of her smile.
Once decided, she was wickedly bold. In the elevator, standing
behind a middle-aged couple, her hand trailed slowly across
the bulge at his groin. The little minx. Delicious. He'd
scored very well with this one. He was going to drill her so
hard she'd never forget it.
In his room, she was grabbing at him before he'd finished
closing the door. He shoved her, hard, against the wall,
covered her small body with his, groped with his hands under
her skirt. Christ, she was hot. He slipped a finger into her
greasy, oily cunt, then two. She groaned and pushed her pelvis
greedily against his hand. He jammed three fingers inside her,
and she groaned again. What a feral little slut. She couldn't
get enough of it.
The killer fucked her with his hand and laughed softly. Some
poor dope of a husband would be waiting back home, maybe at
the airport to pick her up in his four-door sedan. Good trip,
dear? Do anything interesting? The killer laughed again, under
his breath.
He pulled his hand out of her cunt and swung her away from the
wall. He threw her roughly on the bed because that was his
mood, and he knew she'd like it like that. Treat her like the
slut she wanted to be. Everyman's dear little wifey, so nice,
so sweet, so neat, and as hot as mustard.
She looked up at him with wide-open eyes, breathing jerkily.
He laughed again, grabbed her by the jaw, and thrust his
fingers into her mouth. She whimpered and sucked her own
juices.
With his free hand he undid his belt, dropped his trousers,
and fished out his hard cock. By God, she was going to get it
good.
She grabbed for his cock but he pushed her hand away, pulled
up her skirt and dragged down her panties to her knees. With
his feet still on the floor, he leaned forward and rammed his
cock into her wet cunt. All the way. Right up there. Fucking
great. Fucking glorious.
She made little grunting noises as he fucked her. Little
squeaky grunts. Reminded the killer of the guinea pigs he had
when he was a boy. He laughed softly. Those randy little
guinea pigs. They could never get enough of it.
Neither could this one, this Susan, this randy little guinea
pig. He fucked her hard and she loved it. Not so nice, dear
wifey. Not so sweet. Hot, wet, nasty, noisy sex, and she loved
it.
Four days of watching, waiting, lurking, hiding, but it was
all worth it. The tension fell away from his neck and
shoulders as he fucked her and let it all go. Five spasms
shook him as he let it all go inside her.
He slumped across her, and glanced at his watch. Seven
minutes. By God. That was seven minutes of something, and in a
while he'd do it again, because she couldn't get enough of it.
He laughed silently. What a little slut. He'd sure got lucky.
Just needed to get his breath back, and maybe get a drink. Get
a good look at her body. Then do it all again. Soon.
He felt a sharp pain at the side his neck and raised his hand
instinctively to slap at it. What? Trouble. Danger.
But then he could think no more, and he died.
Susan Allingham walked out of the automatic doors of the
airport hotel and looked both ways. In the car park,
headlights flashed briefly, and in seconds the black car
cruised up to her. She opened the passenger door and climbed
in. The driver was young and impudently good-looking, cheerful
and brash. She knew the type. Junior embassy staff attached to
special duties. Dogsbodies, really, eager and expendable.
"All done?" he asked cheekily.
She didn't answer.
The car was closed, air-conditioned. She reeked of sex. She
could smell it, and knew he could, too. She looked at him
once, purposefully, staring straight into his eyes. He started
to say something, thought better of it, and got back to
driving.
* * *
Eddie was unemployed again. Poor Eddie. He could never seem to
hang on to a job. But he was an excellent housekeeper and an
imaginative and innovative cook, and Susan was making a lot
more money now. Things were okay, really.
"Can any of this be saved for another time?" she asked,
pointing to his efforts in the kitchen.
"Oh, sure," Eddie said. "You want to eat out tonight?"
She did. She was on a high and also flat, and at the same time
-- a curious state of mind she couldn't explain but had become
accustomed to. She was back from a day of work in Richmond,
Virginia. Nice that the job was close to home, for a change.
She took Eddie to a Vietnamese restaurant, knowing he'd like
it. Poor Eddie. Nothing much ever seemed to go right for him.
He was the nicest person, possibly, in the whole world.
Wouldn't hurt a fly. He was that most rare of beasts, an
innocent man. She could relax around Eddie, drop her guard,
imagine herself to be just another woman.
Okay, the sex was mediocre. No zip, no zing, no charge, no
thrill. But she could curl up against him at night and feel
safe, because he thought he was safe, and didn't know
otherwise.
Poor, dear Eddie.
ENDS
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