By Janet and Mr. X
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It’s a rare rainy night in Vegas, every surface reflecting like a mirror, making the thin veneer of beauty the city offers especially attractive. Of course, beneath that glossy surface is one of the most backwards-crooked cities in the world, which is why I so enjoy the occasional visit. Nobody’s quite prepared for the sudden attack of moisture, including myself, so everybody unlucky enough to be on the street has to get a little wet. I bustle my way through the crowd, edging past a man with no legs whose cardboard sign claims he’s a veteran, only to emerge in an alley behind The Purple Nugget, an unfortunately-named budget hotel on the outskirts of downtown Vegas.
The stench hits me immediately, a marvelous bouquet of body odor and excrement that most hidden Vegas nooks seem to possess. I make my way down the alley until I find a specific brick in the Purple Nugget wall; it’s marked with a special ink that I can pick up with my shades. Making sure nobody is watching, I slide the brick out of the wall, grabbing an unmarked black flash drive and stowing it in my coat pocket. Sliding the brick back, I emerge out from the alley and into my vacation.
On the drive is my payment -- at long last -- for the ridiculously difficult Loki operations, each of which nearly got me killed several times over. Not literally of course, the drive itself contains encrypted access information for the Swiss bank account the payment’s stored in. Still, after a brief trip up to my room, and a run through with the decrypting software on my laptop, I’d have a lot more zeroes in my account. Enough for a nice long vacation; I specified Vegas as the drop location because lately I’ve had an itch to blow a few grand on blackjack. As I’m daydreaming about my score, the shining ivory castle/casino New Camelot catches my eye. I decide it couldn’t hurt to grab a drink before I get back to my room, and wander through the shining gates – well, revolving doors -- into New Camelot proper. A guy dressed as a jester ambles up to me as I’m crossing the floor to the bar, wanting to know if I’d like to ‘tarry’ at the Craps table. A patented Mark Rain “don’t make me break your neck” look drives him off quickly enough and soon I’m at their little bar on the far end of the slots.
For a few minutes it’s just me and a couple of aging gambling addicts, the types that need to get a drink after a depressingly fruitless round of video poker, only to get even more depressed as they get smashed. Not the best company in the world I reflect as a sunken-eyed bartender mixes me another White Russian. Soon enough, however, my day gets a little brighter as a beautiful girl takes a seat beside me.
She’s a fair-skinned brunette in a modest yet stylish black dress, her reddish-brown hair drawn back in a bun. It’s bound together by a single chopstick, the kind of hair that looks like it’s going to unravel any minute and never quite does. Her big brown eyes are framed with spectacles, giving her a sort of bookish look that reminds me of a girl I worked with on my last job. Like that girl, Penny, and this one manages to exude a strange mix of confidence, bashfulness and, in this case, a deep weariness. It must have been a long day for her, I deduce that she works here or nearby and has just gotten off for the night. I feel my heart rate speed up just a bit, an impressive trick. I signal the bartender, “Whatever she wants is on me.”
The girl lets slip a tired little smile and turns toward me, “Vodka, rocks.”
I raise my eyebrow, “Straight up? Color me impressed.”
“What can I say? Sometimes a hammer to the brain takes the edge off your day. I’m Angeline by the way … I keep this little slice of misery humming.”
“Nice to meet you Angeline, I’m Bob. Bob Masters. I’m just passing through.” I give her the name on my current ID, one can never be too careful. Of course, by this point I’ve completely forgotten that I have a small fortune tucked in my coat pocket.
Angeline gets her drink and takes an impressive gulp, “Nice to meetcha Bob, who is passing through. What do you do?” She swivels her stool my way and crosses her legs, pushing her glasses up on her nose cutely.
I shrug, “Stunt man. I get the stuffing beaten out of me for a living. So you own this casino? Nice digs, the jester’s gotta go though.”
Angeline giggles cutely, “I agree, but no, I don’t own her. I just keep her humming while I’m on the clock.”
We chat awhile and, as the night wears on, we get increasingly drunk and flirty. Though I’m not quite as drunk as I let on, call it force of habit. I’m just about to call it a night when she leans over conspiratorially and whispers in my ear, “Let me take you up to my office Mr. Masters. I can promise you a hell of a view.” She’s probably breaking any number of her company regulations and, if I were detained, my identity wouldn’t really hold up to scrutiny… but what the hell, the heart wants what it wants. I slide my hand around her waist to steady her and we set off to the offices. As we make it to the ominous ‘employees only’ door Angeline pushes me playfully against the wall, sliding her hands under my suit jacket.
“We can’t have you bringing anything in there, I could get in trouble… I’m not going to find anything bad am I…?” she purrs, running her hands along me shamelessly.
“I’m simply happy to see you ma’am. I left my nickel-plated .45 back at my hotel room,” I grin. Luckily she takes it as a joke, though it’s completely true. Inwardly I sigh with relief as she fails to find the flash drive in my coat pocket.
She giggles, “That’s good, okay, lets go.” She gives a gizmo on the door her retinal scan, but has to try the voice print twice on account of a slight slur. We travel through a long, spotless hallway that’s probably filled with hidden detection equipment. Luckily I’m not carrying any concealed weaponry at the moment, I’ve seen roving teams of relatively unobtrusive but heavily armed guards. We pass some of the late night skeleton crew of security guards as we make our way up to Angeline’s penthouse office. Even at this late hour the door is covered by a big security guard, and there’s a tired receptionist sitting at her desk in a small lobby area. Angeline smiles at her, “Shirley, you still here? Hit the road! Get some sleep.”
Shirley smiles wearily, “Things to do Miss Dupris, don’t mind me,” and then adds slyly, “I won’t tell…”
Angeline nods solemnly, “Owe you one.”
We enter her spacious office and she kicks the door closed, drawing me in for a deep kiss. We cross the office awkwardly and I grab her ass, hefting her giggling up onto her desk. I caress her neck with my tongue, muttering, “I suppose it would be bad form to sweep all this stuff off your desk?”
She cranes her neck, sighing rapturously and wrapping her legs around my waist before replying, “Yeah, please don’t-- I keep it all organized--”
“Even in a fit of passion…?”
“You better not--”
“No problem…” I ease her dress up, revealing more of her creamy white thighs as she grinds against me. With one hand she reaches to remove her chopstick, letting her fragrant auburn hair cascade around her shoulders.
Neither of us hear anything amiss as we enjoy one another and my first cue that we are in trouble comes in the form of a crash as the door is kicked open. Angeline gasps and squeezes my hips in her thighs as I twist around to see the offenders (as far as I can without dumping poor Angeline off the desk). First through the door are the security guard, badly beaten, and Shirley the receptionist. Then come the Nazis.
Heading the group is a six foot skin-headed bitch in a janitor’s uniform, brandishing a gun. She reminds me immediately of my old departed foe, Janet, but the resemblance is only fleeting. This woman is covered in muscle and solid as a wall, practically sculpted from marble – and, rather than a lily complexion born of gray London skies, her skin bears a golden tan. She has a steely glint in her gray eyes and she handles her gun like a pro. She’s got me dead to rights and I reflect that I could be experiencing my last moments. Well, worse ways to go than attached at the hip to a beautiful woman, many possible ‘last moments‘ have been a lot less interesting. She levels her gun straight at me and keeps it there - smart girl.
Behind her, in addition to an identically-dressed tiny little blonde girl, are a couple of imposing-looking women in black leather Axis business suits -- a simmering platinum-haired Italian dye-job and an ice-cold German girl in her mid-twenties. They move immediately to a comfy-looking leather couch (that apparently exists in case Angeline has a midday nap-attack) and park their leather cases, popping them open.
As the skinhead shifts her gaze momentarily to the security guard (who is putting up a token fuss) I grab Angeline’s chopstick, which tapers to a sharp point on one end, and slide it up my sleeve. The skinhead pulls the hammer back on her gun and for a moment I think I’m done for, but she didn’t spot my play. Instead she barks, "Don't anybody move until I tell you. Marie - use some zip-ties on rent-a-cop and the bimbo. You, the one with your legs around this bozo, you the GM?"
I look at Angeline and she looks back at me, utterly stunned. She's still got her legs clamped around me, at this point it's probably for dear life. She breaks her gaze with me to regard the skinhead pleadingly, "Ah, yes-- what--?"
"Good," baldy smirks. "Okay, you can let him go now - it's you we want to talk too." The grey eyes flick back to me. "Step away and keep your hands where I can see them..." I notice that the gun is still pointing at me, not at Angeline ... I really must practice not looking so dangerous, but then again somehow we always manage to smell our own. Angeline's eyes flash with angry desperation as I try to wiggle away from her legs with my hands up, "Lady, Jesus Christ, she's gonna shoot me--" Finally with a petulant little squeak, Angeline relinquishes her hold and her already-fair skin pales noticeably as the only barrier between her and the Nazi disappears. She tugs self-consciously at her dress, which we've ridden up quite a bit together, and squeezes her knees together modestly, "... okay, alright, whatever you want I'm sure we can talk it out --" she puts on what she probably hopes is a business face.
"Okay, mister ... very slowly and carefully, with your left hand, undo your belt then drop your pants around your ankles..."
I raise my eyebrows in genuine surprise, "Me? I got nothing to do with this lady. She brought me up here on a booty call." I can't help but feel immeasurable relief nonetheless that I'd chosen to stow the chopstick up my right sleeve.
"Yes you, bozo! If that's what you came up here for, then why not show the lady what she's missing? Besides, if you're not a good boy, I may be forced to inflict a little pain..." For the first time, there's a little glint in those previously dead eyes ... something tells me that this one would enjoy carrying out her threat.
Oh, you bitch. I make a mental note to get her back, if and when at all possible – but, as an old pro, I manage to quell any acidic stares I might be tempted to deliver. Instead I gulp loudly, "Alright, alright, Christ --" Keeping the rest of my body stock still I slowly move my hand to my belt, unbuckling it and letting my pants fall. To my chagrin, everyone in the room now has a clear view of my excitement level through my (designer black silk) boxers. If you catch my drift. And I think you do. I continue my 'aw shucks' routine, "Okay, it's done --"
Baldy doesn't seem all that interested in my boxers or what they contain (she probably swings the other way, you read things about Axis chicks) and her gun doesn't waver ... neither do her eyes as she called out to the blonde, "Marie, you finished with them two?"
"Yeah, boss, all done."
"Okay, zip this one up good and tight too ... be careful, I don't trust him ... his eyes are too close together for my taste."
The hell is that supposed to mean? Grinning, the short one moves towards me, I have a low chance of jumping her before Baldy drills me. Not to mention the two women in glossy leather Axis skirt suits, I haven’t got a handle on them yet. Not to mention the fact that none of them look like the type that would hesitate for a second to shoot through one of their own. So I keep up my act and allowed blondie to pull my arms behind my back before she locks them together with a zip tie round my wrists. "Hey, not so tight!" I yelped which only caused the two Axis women to snigger a little.
I lean a little into Marie's ear and hiss conspiratorially, "Hey Marie -- would you mind pulling my pants up? The AC is killing me here."
"Not a chance," she replies, sliding a hand between my legs from the rear and giving me a playful squeeze.
"Stop fooling about and search him!" baldy snaps before she turns to the other two who have, so far, not said a word since they had entered the room. "Noncombatants secured, Ma'am," she snaps out towards the one with two pips on her collar and thus, I guess, the more senior of the pair.
"Thank you Miss Von Brun. We'll take it from here," the oddly-statuesque blonde interrogator replies. I can't do much but watch as the two leather-clad torturers cross the room to meet a quivering Angeline. Sorry Angeline. Marie was meanwhile getting unsettlingly gropey. She gives each of my wrists a quick squeeze, but I guess the small metal cylinder was lost in the folds of the coat -- sometimes in a frisk you get a lucky break. Her hands, however, are working their way up.
"W...w...what do you want?" a now decidedly scared looking Angeline asks, her eye flitting from one of the approaching women to the other. Baldy titters as she watches while, behind me, I can sense that Tiny is taking a quick peek round my side ... as she does this, her hands move slightly as they work their way up my arms ... then they’re past my little hidden weapon before she starts to pay attention once more.
The ranking Axis torturer regards Angeline with eyes easily as cold and grey as Von Brun's. She flexes her tight and stylish leather gloves, speaking in a husky, German accented voice, "Miss Dupris, I simply want the answers to--" Her eyes flash with anger as she's cut off by Marie's triumphant cry, "AHA! Uh, sorry Scilla -- Miss Necis--" she hastily adds at the Axis interrogator's withering glare, "-- but look what I found--" My jaw clenches as she pulls the flash drive out of my coat pocket.
"That's not yours," I offer lamely.
"It is now!" Marie gloats.
"It's a flash drive," the bald one cuts in. "So what? It's probably got his collection of porn jpegs on it..."
"It might be something interesting … I'm going to check it out!" Marie retorts eagerly.
Von Brun rolls her eyes and stepped forward before adding, "Then I'll finish frisking him for weapons, shall I?"
"That would be nice,” grins the vertically challenged one impishly as she heads towards Angeline's PC.
I see my bank-account zeroes strutting away and as much as it pains me to admit it, I crack a little and show my hand, "Come BACK here with that--" I bark. Angeline looks immeasurably relieved at the momentary reprieve and Scilla's annoyance is building by the second into what's sure to be an impressive crescendo. Skinhead's balled fist slams hard into my belly as she snarls angrily, "Shut the fuck up!" Then another voice, much calmer and colder enters the conversation as Scilla hisses, "Ladies, we are trying to work here and your infernal prattling on is most disturbing. Do not make me repeat this request for silence..." Von Brun could probably fold Necis in half, but there’s a sudden change in the attitude of her and Marie, who now take on the look of a pair of chastised school-children.
"Jawohl, Frau Necis," they snap in unison.
I don't have to sell the blow much, Von Brun has an iron fist. But a little oversell never hurt. I topple over backwards into a plush leather chair, coughing and gagging, making a show of catching my breath. Angeline and Scilla turn to face each other, the former swallowing and trying to keep her voice from cracking as she makes her play, "Look miss -- I dunno what you're planning on doing -- but I'm sure we can work something out and you don't have to, uh... take drastic measures..."
"I'm hopeful that we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement, yes." the interrogator says, clasping her gloved hands together primly. "All we want is for you to open up a certain chamber in the vaults. Will you be sensible and do that for us?"
Angeline sees a light at the end of the tunnel and callously runs over her subordinate to get to it. Not that I of all people am judging, mind you, "I would, yes … but vault security is handled by Jim Norton. He's on the first floor."
"We know exactly where he is … and he told us that only you could open the chamber we wanted. Now, one of you is lying ... it would be such a shame if it turned about to be you, Angeline. You have such a pretty face ... at the moment."
A cold sweat begins to form on Angeline's brow, she gulps and her big brown eyes get almost too wide for her cute little librarian glasses, "I -- I don't know what he told you -- but our resource manager Jim Norton handles the vaults-- please, I wouldn't lie--"
Scilla nods to her white-haired Italian accomplice who circles around behind the receptionist, regarding the quivering hireling with a predatory gaze. Shirley makes a little terrified noise as the Italian woman slides one gloved hand down the girl’s blouse, tracing the nape of the helpless employee’s neck with her fingers.
"I don't suppose you are closely attached to your staff," Scilla says flatly. "So this isn't a threat ... think of it as a demonstration. Paola?"
“I thought you’d never ask,” the Italian coos and, seemingly from nowhere, a syringe gun is in her hand. The cylinder in the gun contains some sort of ominous red fluid. Paola pulls Shirley up viciously by her ponytail and presses the gun to her neck. Shirley squeals in alarm and paws at Paola’s long brown thigh awkwardly with her bound hands to steady herself, but is otherwise still and obedient. Paola pauses for a moment while every eye in the room (with the exception of the secretary’s whose are fixed on the syringe) looks over at the manager of the casino to see what she’ll do.
Angeline's lower lip quivers as she locks eyes with Shirley, "I'm telling you the truth, Shirley barely makes more than minimum wage, please don't hurt her--" Shirley begins to mewl in dread.
At a nod from Scilla, Paola sighs ecstatically and pulls the trigger, the injection forced into Shirley’s bloodstream with a hydraulic hiss. She lets the receptionist fall back into her chair and straightens her tie while, for a second nothing seems to happen. But then Shirley's face twists in pain and her body begins to thrash about … well, as much as it can considering that she's bound with zip-ties -- and then she starts to scream. "You see," Scilla says to Angeline, "this is what you can avoid by cooperating. Do you really want to suffer like your friend?"
Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I notice the tiny blonde suddenly give a little start and then to beckon Von Brun over to her. I can't hear what was being said but I can guess -- shortie has discovered that the information on the memory stick was encrypted which means, one way or another, it’s valuable.
My train of thought is broken as Angeline shrieks, "What did you do to her! Jesus Christ! You're killing her, stop it!"
“Shirley you jest.” Marie chortles almost to herself as she stares at Angeline‘s monitor.
Scilla parts her lips and widens her eyes as if to convey shock at the very thought that she would prolong Shirley‘s misery, "We have the antidote ready Miss Dupris. Tell us what we want to know and her pain with end."
Angeline squeezes her eyes shut, "Okay, okay! If you're talking about the bio-containment chamber, I can unlock it -- but you need to take me with you -- stop what you're doing to her, please..."
"Once we have what we require, we will. Miss Von Brun and her colleague will escort you to the vault where you will do as they ask. Once we have what we need, Miss Von Brun will radio the fact to us and your secretary will receive the antidote. Now, please, go with my colleagues ... and make sure you don't try to be a hero. Heroes end up dead..."
Angeline nods dutifully, sparing a concerned glance at her writhing receptionist before hopping off the desk and smoothing her dress. At about that moment Marie calls out, "Wait a minute! There's STUFF on this drive--"
Scilla tilts her head quizzically, uttering the word as if it were strange and foreign, "'Stuff'?"
"Yeah ... like, encrypted stuff. No one takes this much trouble to hide a shopping list. This data's worth something to someone..." Marie shoots back, her eyes never leaving the monitor as her dexterous fingers fly over the keyboard.
"I KNEW there was something about him," Von Brun added with a knowing grin. "I said his eyes were too close together to trust him...."
What is all this crap about my eyes being close together? I'm starting to take it personal. Like she’s some sort of goddamn Teutonic prize… well she’s gorgeous, but that’s beside the point. I keep my mouth shut, exuding an air of bewilderment. Angeline doesn't know quite what to think yet, shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot.
"It seems there might be more to our friend than meets the eye," Paola mused to her superior, whose grey eyes gleamed inquisitively.
"Did you find any identification on him, Miss von Brun?" Scilla turned to the skinhead.
"Just a driver's license in the name of Bob Masters, Ma'am."
"Hmmm, I'm beginning to think that our man here is rather more than he pretends. What did you really come here for, Mr. Masters?"
"Wh--? I already told you … this lady just brought me here so I could bang her-- I've never met her before!"
"The latter might be true ... the former I doubt..." Before the German beauty can continue, the Italian bitch coughs politely and meaningfully taps her watch, "Ah, yes, indeed," Scilla continues, "Time waits for no one and we are on a schedule. So, Angelina, pray enlighten us - just how do we get this chamber open?"
Angeline clears her throat lightly, clearly itching to get moving, unhappy that attention has moved back to her, "I, uh, I have to go down there, it's biometric."
"Biome ... bio what?" asks Von Brun, clearly out of her depth.
"She means it's got something to do with her body, Jan." Marie chirps smoothly. "Fingerprints, voice print, retina scan, that sort of thing."
"Oh -- I mean, of course. I knew what she meant, I simply misheard her." The skinhead clears her throat and glances around furtively, as if daring anybody to contradict her. It sure ain’t gonna be me.
"So, what exact principle does your lock work on, Miss Dupris?" the torturer, Necis, presses calmly.
Angeline swallows, "I'm telling you I'll have to go down there, it's the whole package -- voice print, retinal scan, fingerprint--"
Scilla doesn’t reply, she simply snaps her fingers and, instantly, the little one is by her side, offering what looked like a briefcase. As she snaps the lid open, I’m hardly surprised to see that it was stuffed full of fancy electronic gizmos including a digital sound recorder, a compact retinal scanner and a fingerprint pad. I'd heard of these things before but never seen one ... rumor had it that only the CIA and MI6 had access to them but, somehow, these little Nazi wannabe's had managed to pick a sample up. I’d always known Axis was a dangerous organization, prone to doing horrible things in third-world countries where might made right, but I had no idea they went around with hit squads equipped to shame many intelligence agencies right here in the States. Just then I have a funny feeling that if I make it out, I’ll be getting more jobs that cross them in the future. But more immediately relevant is the fact that, since they have all this, they don’t need Angeline.
Angeline looks at the attaché case with dread, glancing over at her writhing secretary, "But -- but if I let you take my biometrics what's stopping you from just killing me...?"
"Good point," Paola chuckles from her place to one side, popping a long black cigarette into her mouth and lighting it up with a smooth flick of her wrist. "Alternatively, we could just cut off your hand, decapitate you then use the samples we've already captured of your voice and hope for the best." Her cigarette bobs lazily up and down in her mouth as she speaks, “Would you rather we did that, little girl?” Angeline looks like she’s about to faint.
"Besides," adds Scilla with the faintest trace of a smile (I can tell these two enjoy working together), "how much more do you think your girl Shirley can take of this pain?"
Angeline's between a rock and a hard place. Her small breasts swell as she takes in a deep breath, "Alright -- you win... the code-phrase is 'where man fears to tread'..." She then submits dutifully to a rubber molding of her fingertips and a scanning of her retina, "Okay, you have everything you want, just tie me up and go..."
Again, such is the German's authority that she doesn't need to say anything. Little and Large gather up their equipment (including, I notice with interest, my memory stick) then, with a salute to their superior, they turn and head out at a swift jog. "Now we wait," Scilla explained, "once we get word that the vault is open, we'll deal with your secretary and then depart, leaving you folk to get on with your boring, meaningless, everyday little lives."
Shirley doesn't look long for this world, spasming and gurgling, her eyes glassy and unseeing. I very much doubt there's any antidote at all and, even if there is, I completely doubt Scilla is willing to dole it out to some random wage slave. Angeline seems momentarily pacified by the empty promise though, shuffling back to her perch on the desk. She shoots me an angry little glance -- I guess for not saving the day. Sorry kid.
Everything lapses into silence for a short time then there's a faint, half heard electronic-audio mumble ... Scilla presses her left hand up to her ear and, in German, asks for confirmation. Judging by the smile that lights up her face, she then gets it. She looks toward her white hair companion and nods ... Paola produces a small caliber pistol to which a silencer has already been attached. With an expressionless face, she coolly and calmly takes aim at Shirley's head then puts a bullet between the girl’s eyes. At last the woman stops screaming then, with a thump, slips off her chair and down to the floor. Just for a moment, there's total silence then Angeline's grief-stricken voice snaps out, "But you promised! You promised she'd be alright!"
At the same time, the guard starts to mutter, "Oh, god ... oh, god..." over and over again. I spare the poor schmuck a quick glance -- there's a dark patch in the front of his pants that's quickly getting bigger. Yep, looks like he's got the message. These Nazis don't intend to leave any witnesses laying about to testify against them. Even a sham trial costs money and is bad PR.
I slowly begin to slide the chopstick out of my sleeve as Angeline starts to weep, "Please, I got a lot of money, just lemme go and it's yours--"
"Please don't insult us, Angeline," replies Scilla. "We have far higher loyalties than that. A woman in my position has very little shelf life if she cannot be trusted by her employer, you understand."
Then there's a footfall to one side and I turn my head a little to discover that the Italian has closed the gap between us. She’s looking at the front of my black silk boxers with an expression I'm not sure I like, all things considered. Then again, I’m not sure I don’t, and of course my view ain't so bad either. From my vantage point I can see the entirety of her silky brown legs, all the way up past her short leather skirt. She's wearing cute little pink panties. Focus, Mark, focus. Her skin smells like coconut oil. FOCUS. She takes a slow drag on her cigarette, blowing a smoke ring over my head.
Behind me I hear a plaintive, “No, NOO!” followed by a telltale hydraulic hiss. As I turn I'm just in time to see Angeline spasming on her perch, clawing at her slender throat as Scilla withdraws a syringe gun from my almost-lover‘s neck. I had sort of been entertaining the daydream that I could time it just right to save us both. But, in the end, my line of work isn’t very supportive of flights of fancy. I snap, “You bitch --” before I can stop myself.
Scilla raises her eyebrow, holding a dying Angeline in place by the gripping her cheeks with one hand. She turns to gaze at me coolly with the ghost of a smile on her lips, "I've been called worse, generally by men who are about to die.” She lets go of Angeline, who spills face-first to the carpet, still spasming like a landed fish.
“Guh-- uh--” Angeline spits up little flecks of spittle onto her carpet, quivering a bit more before lying still, her skin now clammy and pale, her tongue hanging from her mouth. Scilla slips the toe of her boot under Angeline’s black dress, sliding it up her thighs with a dim, disinterested gaze, “You do have good taste, I will grant you that. But I cannot believe in light of these revelations that you are simply here to ‘fool around’ with this woman … and so, we will find the truth…”
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....Great to see the old gang back: