Door to Pierre’s lab office clicks shut. Locked. Friday, 8:30 PM. Building empty. Distant printer whirs. Coffee stench mixes with my vanilla perfume. Heart hammers. Poker night haunts me. Anaïs’s royal flush crushed my king-high. Quentin, my 18-year-old son, now their prize. Barbara’s guns flashed. Their Porsche Cayenne target. Need bomb. Now.
Pierre hunches over workbench. Stained coat. Tubes bubble softly. Mouse clicks on his laptop. Eyes glued to screen. ‘What?’ he grunts. No look up.
The Building Tension
‘Mélanie, lit department.’ Step closer. Tension coils. Open-space outside dead quiet. Day’s echoes: keyboard clacks, phones buzzing. His gaze lifts. Locks on my tits. Smile creeps. Predatory.
‘Big favor.’ Voice shakes. He stands. Tall. Sixty. Hands grab my corsage. Fingers knead breasts through fabric. Nipples peak. ‘Name it, slut.’
‘Tell you first.’ Bluff fails. Blouse unbuttons. Bra exposed. He pinches hard. Pain sparks lust? No. Desperation. ‘Build bomb. Big SUV. No innocents.’
He freezes. Then laughs. ‘Those gangster bitches? Fuck yes.’ Hands dive lower. Skirt hikes. Thighs groped. ‘Payment: your holes.’ No choice. For Quentin.
Pants at ankles. Bent over desk. Papers fly. Ass up. Panties ripped down. Zipper rasps. Condom snaps on. Cock slams pussy. Raw. Deep. Desk shakes. Beakers clink. Coffee mug tips. Bitter spill blends with my wet scent.
The Explosive Release
‘Fuck!’ I gasp. He pounds. Grunts animal. ‘Tight cunt, prof whore.’ Hips slap. Printer hums louder in ears. Door locked holds secrets. Adrenaline surges. Risk of janitor? Thrill.
Flips me. Legs wide. Ass cheeks spread. Spit lubes. ‘Anal now.’ Rams in. Burns. Tears. ‘Take it!’ Fists grip. Pounds brutal. Eyes bulge. Sweat drips. Fiolets crash. Glass shatters.
Pain twists pleasure. Visions: Porsche explodes. Anaïs shredded. Barbara’s jewels fly. Vengeance cums. Pussy clenches empty. Ass milks him. Scream muffled. Waves crash. Revulsion mixes ecstasy. His roar. Fills condom. Pulls out. Drips hot.
Skirt smooths. Blouse buttons. Cum wipes on thigh. Hair fixed. Perfume masks sex stink. Coffee lingers. ‘Bomb tomorrow. Seven.’
Door clicks open. Stride out. Legs jelly. Meeting at nine. Smile ready. Poker face on. Sirens tomorrow? Pierre’s limbs scatter. No witnesses. Debt unpaid. Flesh owed. But car next. Tension builds again.