Deceit - Part 2

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humiliation Sex  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Featured Review on this writing by Spyguy

A fatal hit-and-run accident. A husband with a guilty secret. A widow craving intimacy. A cripple seeking revenge. In a sensuous web of deceit. Sometimes deceit costs lives. It's DARK outside. Deceit LIVE! FREE! H J Furl. Introducing amazing actor Nikki Delgado.


Angie sat on the loo, her indigo dress hitched as high as her breasts, her beige satin knickers rolled down to her knees, thinking to herself,

What am I doing here? What’s got into me all of a sudden? I should be ashamed of myself. For what I am about to do.

She let go of her dress, shut her eyes, and clasped her hands in her lap, as if in silent prayer,

For what I am about to receive may somebody up there, someone who loves me, make me truly thankful.

Prayer over, Angie sighed a long, deep sigh of relief. The luxury braided Palisades toilet roll hung off a brass ring on her left. She pulled off a thick wad wiping herself, enjoying the softness of the tissue against her cleft, the imaginary softness of Michael’s fingers rubbing her tenderly, rhythmically, caressing her in the way she used to love being caressed.

Michael used to caress her the way she loved most. Michael made sweet passionate love to her on the sun lounger, the veranda, in the half-light of dawn, at her favourite time of day. Once.

Angie dropped the wad into the lavatory pan, twisted her supple body at the waist, and reached for the tube. She removed the cap, squeezing an ample blob onto her fingertips, and rubbed it in,

‘Forgive me Michael,’ she said to herself, opening her eyes, imagining his rugged face smiling at her from inside the vanity mirror, ‘It’s been five long years. I have to move on now, darling.’

He was waiting for her next door, through the bedroom wall. Martin. Waiting to make love to her. One last, lingering moment of doubt,

‘I’m not sure I can do this.’

‘Of course, you can,’ she told herself, ‘You deserve it. After all you went through, caring for Michael.’

Angie shook herself, pulled up her briefs, flushed the toilet, threw the used tube into a bin under the wash hand basin, washed her hands, fluffed her ginger hair, and opened the bathroom door.

She cast her eyes to the right, seeing the brass latch and chain drawn across, securing her inside.

No sign of a Do Not Disturb notice. Must be hanging on the doorknob.

Angie would hate to be found out. How would she explain to her friends at the Bridge Club, Aquarobics, Swimming, Zumba, Pilates, Tennis Club for that matter? How could she explain?

I can never tell them. Not in a thousand years. My friends wouldn’t understand. Think of all the gossip, the scandal in our village.

Angie permitted herself a wry smile,

He’s gone so far as to stick a blob of blue tack over the spyhole! Martin certainly isn’t taking any chances, taking any chances with me. I wonder how many other women he’s had, here, in this bedroom. Wonder if he’ll be kind, gentle, and tender with me. I wonder if he’ll hurt me.

The nerves returned to haunt her. She found herself trembling, shuddering, at the idea of him, his lips kissing hers, his hands caressing her, his body interlocked with hers. Blinking her insidious fears aside, she stepped into the bedroom. Facing her was a full-length, glass-fronted wardrobe with its doors closed. Next to that, a polished wooden shelf filled with notepads, the hotel guide, two menus, a full tray of cups and saucers, selected fine teas, coffees, shortbread, a kettle. At the far end of the shelf, next to some flutes and Slim Jims, stood an ice bucket filled with bottles of mineral water, a bottle of champagne, sparkling wine, some miniatures of claret? Angie couldn’t tell from where she was standing. There was a narrow mirror over the shelf, a telephone for room service, a wireless internet connection. And, lying beside the ice bucket, a bunch of blood red roses. She thought of the five hundred pounds tucked inside her overnight bag. He’d left it on the chair for her, considerately, unopened,

How much has this cost? she asked herself, the champagne, wine, flowers, the room, the bed?

The bed itself was sheer unadulterated luxury, a layered wedding cake of a bed: an eiderdown, indigo bedspread, fluffy cream pillows. All cosy and snug! Her heart warmed, she felt herself relax,

Indigo. Cream. My favourite colours.

A bed in which to curl up with her lover.

He lay on top of the bed at the centre. He was naked, well-tanned, with an incredibly muscled physique: barrel chest, taut abs, extremely well hung. Angie could barely bring herself to look at him. She stood at the far end of the bed, turned away, facing their mirror,

‘Martin, can you help me unzip my dress, please?’


He didn’t respond, didn’t answer her. Instead, Martin lay spreadeagled on the king-size bed, studying her. Truth be told, he’d never encountered a woman so beautiful, fragile as a porcelain doll, so vulnerable, in his life. He found himself intrigued, beguiled by her, the sadness in those big, tired, grey eyes. He desperately wanted to help her.

Neither of them spoke.

Angie glanced up at the hideous plasma screen tv hanging off the wall to her left. There was a slideshow playing shifting images of Palisades: the restaurant, lounge, cocktail bar, a bedroom featuring a luxurious four-poster bed, a table setting for afternoon tea, the rooftop garden, palm tree, indoor heated swimming pool, underground car parking facilities. She found it distracting. Her brief encounter, her fleeting romance, she hoped, with him, her craved-for reawakening, would be testing enough for her without the distraction of an advertorial. Angie picked up the remote and switched it off.

Martin closed his eyes and pictured Sian asleep in bed, her magnificent breasts cushioned by their duvet, kissing her soft lips before his illicit meeting with Angie. Sian, forever demanding, challenging, insistent that he make love to her until they created her new life, her baby. They’d been trying so long. He questioned whether she was infertile. How would their lives change if Sian’s dreams of motherhood ever came true? Did he want a child at all? How would he cope as the baby’s father - with his terrible shame? His mind returned to the fragile, porcelain doll.

Was she a mother?

The wall between the bedroom and bathroom was covered in floor-to-ceiling mirror, a hallmark of the lover’s suites at Palisades. Angie set down the remote. She suddenly realized they might be being watched. The floor-to-ceiling glass pane looked out over a square, a green space dotted with elm, oaks, a few wrought iron benches clustered round a stone water fountain, a statue of a cherub with a harp, spouting water into a basin. A tramp stretched out over one of the benches enjoying the warm afternoon sunshine. A plump elderly woman with her hair tied in a bun fed a flock of pigeons, titbits, crumbs of stale bread from a paper bag. Angie thought,

That will be me one day.

She drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness. He was afraid of the dark. The shock of the dark brought back vivid memories of the horrid day when Martin and Sian, yes Sian was there, mowed down a young mother and her child, killing her baby instantly, the force of the collision hurling the buggy against a stone wall, her bloodied baby hanging off the straps of the buggy, the poor woman lying, bent, twisted underneath the wheels of their 4x4. How Sian pleaded with him to leave the scene. The maimed woman, screaming in agony under their wheels. How Sian forced him to reverse off her mangled body. How Sian insisted they leave her, driving off. Their collective guilt: manslaughter.

Miraculously the woman survived, returning to stalk and terrorize them, endlessly haunting them for their sins.

Angie broke the silence, ‘Turn on the lights for me.’

Relieved, his nightmare was over, for now, Martin fumbled for the dimmer light switch.

The main bedroom light came on. Angie moved to the other side of the bed, more confident, ready now, for him. She stood facing the full-length mirror, watching him slide across the bed to be with her. He stood behind her, pressing his body against her smart indigo dress, her back. Offering him no resistance, she explained, her classy, articulated voice reduced to a whisper,

‘My husband died five years ago, Martin. He was my steadfast pillar of support, my best friend, my lover. I talk to him every morning when I wake and pray for him each night before I go to bed. I think of him every minute of the day. My life is empty, pointless, without him.’

‘I’m sorry. How long were you married for?’

‘Thirty years.’

Martin felt an overbearing sense of remorse, a compassion for her. Felt sorry for her. He wanted to love her, care for her, make up somehow for the loss that she’d endured, her loneliness, to do something good in his life for once.

Thirty years? She must be fifty, maybe as old as sixty, and yet she doesn’t look a day over thirty.

‘That must be really hard for you, Angie.’

‘It is hard. Michael and I were inseparable. We played together, shared the same interests: golf, tennis, swimming, keeping ourselves fit. Even worked together: we set up a successful cleaning company.’

Martin looked surprised, ‘Cleaning company?! I thought you might work as a beauty therapist.’

The slightest hint of a smile appeared on Angie’s thin, cherry red lips, ‘Why do think that?’

‘Because you have such a beautiful face.’

She blushed, ‘You’re very kind.

‘Not at all. You’re a very attractive woman.’

‘I try to stay young.’

He changed the subject, ‘Do you have any children?’

‘No, I couldn’t have children.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Please, don’t be. Michael and I were perfectly happy without children. We led very busy lives.’

She paused for thought,

And you, Martin. Are you married? Do you have children waiting for you at home? Are there women, passing strangers, in your life, rearing your unwanted bastards? Tell me your secrets.

She decided against. The thought of discussing his marriage, surely he wasn’t married? – she found distracting, his illegitimate children,

Do I really need to know?

She ran out of small talk. He talked silently, exploring her with his fingertips, his puckered lips.

Angie sighed as her gigolo gently unclasped the hook on her indigo dress, drawing its zip down as far as her bra strap, fluffing her red hair, kissing her earlobes, the tell-tale gingery-red hairs on the nape of her neck, pressing his lips into the soft tanned skin, kissing her tattoos, the hairy down on her upper back. She felt the goosebumps rise on her exposed skin. Felt him pull the zip as far as the small of her back, licking a trace down her spine, savouring her skin, she felt him lick her body, felt a fresh, tingling sensation in her body, one that she hadn’t felt for years,

God, it’s started!

‘Martin,’ she murmured.

He eased the dress off her shoulders. She slipped her dress down her arms, pulling it down as far as her hips, exposing her shoulders, her slender back, her midriff, waist, for him to hold to kiss. His lips pressed into the small of her back. He held her by the hips. The dress fell in a crumpled heap round her ankles. She stepped out of her dress showing off her beige underwired bra, her satin briefs. Angie’s body was magnificent, perfectly proportioned, well cared for, she had a blemish-free tanned complexion, her skin was well nourished. He leaned into her. His lips brushed her golden skin. Addicted to her intimate body scent, he couldn’t stop kissing her divine flesh,


‘Be Michael for me.’


There wasn’t a moment to lose if Helen was to save her best friend’s life. Still wet from her sexy swim, she tousled her damp brown hair with her gym towel, wondering what to do. Should she call 999, ask for emergency services? Ask for who? On what grounds? On the basis of a snatched conversation? Or should she get herself over to Sian’s flat as soon as possible?

She procrastinated, unfamiliar with emergencies. Procrastination led to indecision. Indecision led to panic. Her panic brought her out in a thick daub of sweat. She inhaled, sharply, restoring her inner calm. Helen recovered. She wished Bryn were here. He’d know what to do. But Bryn was working in Leeds, attending to his moulded fittings conference, phone switched off, not to be disturbed. She dried herself, threw on her tracksuit, some soft running shoes, grabbed her phone, and made a beeline for the house.

The imposing Georgian manse overlooked a pink gravel drive. Standing on the forecourt were two muddy quad bikes and a post box red Mini Hatch Classic. The keys were still in the ignition from when dreamy Helen forgot to take them out. She threw open the door, threw her sports socks, towel, and phone on the passenger seat, jumped in, belted up, revved the engine, and shot off down her private driveway, weaving between the opening security gates, out, onto the forest road.

Sian’s apartment was three miles away in the suburbs, a ten-minute drive at the best of times, thirty when the schools came out. Helen checked her gold wristwatch: ten-past-two. She sighed with relief. The narrow winding lane took her past the golf and country club, a chain of less-than-well-appointed abodes, to a sharp bend. She glanced at the mirror, applied clutch, selected third, glided round the bend, then had to brake. The queue of traffic stretched into the distance, as far as her eyes could see. There was a bright red sign at the side of the road with faded white lettering:

Road Works

Cars streamed towards her in the opposite direction. Unable to turn round, filled with road rage fuelled by frustration, Helen thumped her fist angrily on the steering wheel, sounding the horn. Just as she was about to pick up the phone and dial 999, the car in front of her edged forward.

Her mind was in a quandary:

Should I stay or should I go?

Helen went. Three red lights, twenty minutes later, she arrived outside Sian’s apartment block. She clapped her sticky mitt over her forehead, staring in disbelief. The block had a common entrance, secured door, entry phone. Helen Carswell-Jones stamped her foot on the accelerator pedal, stalling the engine.

Why didn’t I remember that?

Unless her luck changed very quickly, she would have to call Sian to enter the building.

Assuming Sian was even conscious.

Helen climbed out of the Mini, slammed the door, and rushed up to the entry phones, selecting:

Flat 5 - Braker

She held the button down for a full five minutes.

Sian didn’t answer.


Roleplay. Martin had engaged in roleplay for clients before as part of their erotic fantasies. But this was the first time that he’d ever performed the role of a woman’s dead husband. He found the prospect strangely daunting, detecting a change in Angie who had shaken off her pre-sex jitters, becoming more strident, more dominant. Martin suspected she had a plan, a screenplay, for him, her performing sealion, her captive puppet-on-a-string, to act out. He wasn’t far wrong,

‘How would you like me to act, talk to you, Angie?’ he asked, gently massaging her shoulders.

She smiled for the first time. The smile lit up her face, ‘I’ll help you, Michael. Listen to me, carefully. Listen to what I say, what I tell you to do. Pretend you have just come home late after a long, hard day at the office. You find me waiting for you in our bedroom, getting undressed for bed. You love to watch me undress. You love me to wear satin for you. I dress in my silky satin slip for you. Pretend for me! Please? Then you can let your imagination run wild. Is that any help?’

Martin swallowed hard, ‘I think so.’

Angie reached behind her back, unclipping her bra, ‘One more thing. Call me Angela, Michael. My husband always used to call me Angela when we made love.’

Made love. Such an old-fashioned expression. We’re about to fuck, and she wants me to make love to her as her dead husband, he mused.

He remembered her £500 payment, the cost of hiring the lover’s suite for the night, the cost of Moet & Chandon, his train tickets. Sian, awaiting his return, none the wiser. What would she do to him, to herself, if she found out? The consequences of his infidelity, his fake life, didn’t bear thinking about. Martin re-focussed, checking his watch. If he got his skates on, he might just catch the 16:43 back to Paddington. He could be home with Sian by eight, pretending he’d had another tiresome day, selling financial investment proposals to recently bereaved widows. He heard Angie’s refined voice, articulating in the background. She hadn’t paid yet,

‘Shall we make a start?’

She had his full, undivided attention. He held her slender waist, ‘Yes, where do we begin?’

His client was sweating profusely. She commenced, ‘You’re home late tonight, darling.’

‘I had a hard day at the office, Angie.’

‘No, not Angie,’ she chided, ‘Angela.’

Martin removed his hands from her midriff, realizing, he shouldn’t be touching her there yet,

‘Sorry, I meant Angela.’

She unclipped her bra, ‘There’s no need to apologize. Being so in love means never having to say sorry to each other, doesn’t it?’

He nodded his understanding, as the truth finally dawned on him,

This fantasy, this roleplay of hers, isn’t just make-believe. This is for real! She thinks I’m him!

He watched dry-mouthed in the mirror as she casually slipped the bra straps over her shoulders, letting the straps hang off her elbows, easing the cups off her breasts. She let her bra fall on the carpet, reaching for him, wanting him to touch her. He gasped at the sight of her buoyant, busty, buxom, breasts, her round cherry red nipples, speckled with sweat. She craned her head, they kissed, deeply, pausing for breath. She spoke, her voice was hushed,

‘You can rub my breasts, if you like, Michael. Would you like to rub my breasts?’

He cupped her breasts in his hands, loving the feeling of the soft undersides, her sore bra weals, kneading her rounded, doughy breasts, flicking, rubbing her nipples, until her teats stood erect,

‘Love that, don’t you? Love it when you rub my breasts. I love you, Michael. Do you love me?’

He gulped, lost for words, he’d never felt, touched, caressed, or loved a woman like this before - a mature woman like Angie. Her allure erased Sian from his mind, obliterating her completely. After several tense, silent moments, her gigolo, her puppet-on-a-string, found his voice, hissing the fatal words in her ear, his voice slurred, dreamy, happy, held in a magic trance, her trance,

‘I do, Angela, I love you so much, I worship the ground you walk on.’

The sad truth was he really meant it.


Getting the shakes. Struggling to control myself. Angry, feel angry. Frustrated. How long do I have to wait…

‘Not much longer, darlin,’ Sian’s voice reassured her, ‘Now have you remembered everythin’?’

Amber Slick steadied herself, pressing the flat of her hand, feeling the vintage mural wallpaper. She surveyed the corridor, the ornate passageway to their luxurious love-nest. Lucky them!

She felt the hatred boil up inside her, threatening to spew out of her face like hot bloody vomit. Clenching her fists, she brought her deadly rage under control. The lift lobby was empty, there was no-one coming,

Thank God! she sighed, inside her warped mind, can’t catch me, can you? Ha! Wait a minute…

One of four sets of lift lights changed, a red light moved: basement, ground floor, first floor…

Amber held her breath…

…second, third, fourth…

She sagged at the knees crouching like a leopard poised, ready to pounce on her unsuspecting prey then she checked the bucket bag wedged between her knees. Her lethal weapons were still there. Relieved, content to wait, Amber shut her eyes, swimming in an imaginary tide of blood, her black dress clinging to her body as she turned scarlet, puce, crimson, purpled with pent up rage, to Sian, for comfort,

Nearly there, darlin’, nearly there, shut your eyes, Amber, shut your eyes an’ I’ll take you there.


Helen reasoned, since the summer holidays had just begun and she knew from Sian that several of the apartments were occupied by wealthy students, there was a good chance that some of them might still be in bed, sleeping off the excess of the night before. She pressed:

Flat 6: Smart

There was no reply. She pressed:

Flat 4: Gelding

And struck it lucky. A knackered voice replied,


‘Please help me! I need to see Sian Braker in Flat 5 urgently. My name’s Helen,’ she explained, ‘I’m her best friend. Please let me in!’

The voice sounded agitated, ‘I know who Sian is. She lives next door with the weird guy. Martin, I think his name is. Not that he’s ever here. Anyway,’ he asserted, ‘how do I know you’re who you say you are? How do I know you’re not the crank?’

‘Sorry, I don’t understand. What crank?’

‘Sian’s being stalked by some mad woman. Stands in the car park most days, staring at her flat. Funny, haven’t seen her today. Must be having a day off.’

‘Stalked! By a woman?!’

‘You heard,’ the young male voice faded, ‘If you don’t mind I need to snatch some sleep.’

Helen shouted, ‘Wait! Sian told me she’s taken a bottle of sleeping tablets. She needs urgent medical assistance!’

She heard the click of the door, a sudden alarm in the young man’s speech, ‘Come to the first floor. Meet me by the lift. I have a key. To her flat.’

Helen couldn’t believe her luck had changed, ‘A key?’

‘Yeah, Sian’s always losing hers. Asked me to keep a spare. Come up.’

He was waiting for her in the lift lobby, the most beautiful young man she had ever seen. Wild staring eyes, scruff of teak hair, fat cracked strawberry lips, a long melonic face smattered with freckles, black tee-shirt, boxer shorts. A little bit old for her liking, student, eighteen, nineteen? Still, on another occasion. She shook the wicked thoughts from her mind, tried to take his hand,

‘Helen,’ she said, pleasantly.

‘Tom. Come on!’

He hurled open the lobby doors, sprinting down the corridor, closely followed by Helen. Sian’s flat was at the far end of the corridor. There was a sisal doormat outside that read:

Step Inside, Love

Helen felt sick, had no desire at all to go inside, dreading what she would find. Tom unlocked the door. They entered Sian’s flat, to find her lying sprawled on the bedroom carpet clutching an empty phial. Tom closed his eyes out of respect for her - the young woman was naked – he knelt beside her, feeling her neck, struggling to find her pulse. Helen rued her best friend. She was barely breathing.

‘Cover her with the duvet,’ Tom yelled, ‘We must keep her warm. Are you trained in first aid?’

Helen shook her head, pulling the duvet off the crumpled bed, covering Sian to keep her warm,

‘I’m sorry, Tom, I’m not.’

‘Me neither,’ he mumbled, standing, remembering the phone in the hall. He left Helen to watch over her stricken friend, ‘I’m calling an ambulance. Stay with her, Helen. Stay with her.’

‘Is she going to be alright?’ she asked, out of desperation.

Tom looked away. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her the shocking truth.


He moulded his body round hers, freeing her, releasing all her pent-up inhibitions, her mournful grief. Languishing under his forceful pressure, relishing the rub of his cusps of muscle against her back, the divine sensation of his proud flesh: erect, turgid, pressed into the crevice between her fleshy buttocks, she relented, capitulating. Angie lost control, gasping as he kneaded her breasts. She reached behind her, and drew his hungry mouth to hers, kissing-him-some-more. She covered his hands with hers, sliding his palms over her tummy, pausing to explore her deep navel, her pearl charm, her neatly concealed belly button, his rough hands, caressing her belly as she slipped his fingers inside her satin briefs. She tantalised him, allowing him to fondle her soft, hairy mound,

‘Pull down my pants,’ she croaked, her voice hoarse, husky with sex.

Martin obliged her, stripping Angie’s satin briefs off as far as her knees. Mesmerized by her explicit nudity, her daring, final denouement, in the mirror, he let her go. She dropped her pants, stepped aside, reaching for her bag, breathing sharply, struggling to speak, she was so aroused,

‘Fetch the chair, Michael. Sit facing the mirror. Close your eyes. And wait.’

Angie went to the bathroom. Martin fetched the padded chair. Sat, shut his eyes, and waited…

‘You can open your eyes now.’

He opened his eyes. Angie knelt between him and the mirror, sipping a glass of red wine. She’d applied fresh lipstick, make-up, he noticed: a bold slash of blusher, primal warpaint scarred her cheeks. She downed her glass of wine, and moved in, closer. Angie reeked of statement-making sexy perfume. Martin had only smelled it once before, at an exclusive perfumery in Paris. The unmistakable fragrance of chocolates, red berries, with caramel: Angel, the 23-year-old cult fragrance by Thierry Mugler, the sexiest scent in the world. He was impressed. Her sharp aroma, her irresistible masque, her satin fetish panties, took his breath away. Overcome with pride for her, he wanted to fuck her, so hard,

Angie. Angela. Angel. My Angel. My Angela. My Angie.

‘Well, Michael?’ she asked, posing for him with one hand pinching her hip, ‘Will I do?’

She was wearing single chain diamond dangle earrings that accentuated her tired face, gilding her swan neck. She stroked the base of her throat with her wrinkly fingers. Her lips were sealed. Her eyes shone with tears. For one sacred moment, he was lost for words. His heart went out to her,

‘You look beautiful, Angie, just beautiful.’

She sat in his lap, facing him, her arms wrapped around his neck, kissing him. With just one secret left to share, she showed him her intimate tattoo, squatting on him.

He protested, ‘Angie, I’m not wearing a...’

She pressed her fingertips to his lips, ‘It’s alright. I’ve had my menopause.’

They kissed-some-more. She impaled herself on him hungrily feeding him inside her lubricious cleft, sliding up and down his slippery shaft, clenching his girth with her birth muscle. He bore her body weight, grasping her small buttocks, stimulating her naughtily with his stubby middle finger. She shuddered at his intervention, writhing in ecstasy on his glorious spear, cupping her breasts, forcing her stiff nipples between his dry lips, suckling the baby she couldn’t birth. They ascended, flashing pinpricks of light, glowing scarlet fireflies, pervading their ruptured minds. They bonded, their bodies melded, locked-together-tight, they gripped, clawed, clenched, tore, fought each other. Soaring to her splendid climax, she screamed out loud,

‘Miss you, Michael! Love you!’

Spent, shattered, a tarnished doll, she flopped on his slumped body, whispering softly, lovingly,

‘Do you love me, Michael? Please tell me you do.’

‘Yes, I love you, Angela, very much,’ he groaned.

Tenderly, she slipped him out of her, kissing him on the forehead, and stood,

‘You made me all sticky, darling. I think I need a shower.’

He smiled, genuinely happy, truly content, for the first time in his life, ‘I think you do!’

He shut his bleary eyes, fell asleep, dreaming of her, the craving love she just made to him.

Angie said a fond, ‘Goodbye Michael’ - under her breath.

She gathered up her clothes, grabbed her bag, spread her money over the bed, had a hot shower, dried herself, did her hair, put on some make-up, got dressed. Then, she left him, slumped on the chair.


His routine was always the same. He met his clients in the bar, went to the room, had paid sex with them, kissed them goodbye, then, exhausted, he took a rest. Later, he’d bathe, shower, and sanitize, removing all trace of their sediment from his body, dress in fresh clothes, and take the early evening train to London.

Angie, still red-faced, feeling ashamed of herself, was in a hurry to leave. Unaware of the threat posed by the crippled woman, she passed Slick in the lift lobby. Slick followed her to the dingy, oily, smelly, underground garage where she attacked her from behind. She strangled her victim gracefully, silently, drawing the garotte tightly round her neck. The woman thrashed her head from side to side. Her brittle nails tore out her assailant’s hair. Her elbows pummelled her ribs. The victim strained and stretched, kicked, and bit. But Slick clung on. Until her death. Calmed, the woman relaxed onto Amber’s flat chest. Angie fell asleep one last time dreaming of the time when a gigolo made love to her, pretending to be her dead husband. Her neck still in twine, her sad head flopped forward, her dead eyes rolling, staring into empty garage space - as she died.

Amber carefully unwound the sacrificial wire, with its carved acorn handles, from the corpse’s neck, as if she were peeling nylon sea fishing line off a reel-spool, stowing it in her bucket bag. She locked Angie’s corpse into its new 4x4 jeep casually dropping the keys down a storm drain, left the garage, and took the staff lift to the first floor.

He stirred from his slumber, thinking of her, playing out her fantasy. How she’d left him asleep, left his fee on the bed, then bolted like a frightened deer. He wasn’t surprised. No matter how promising their intentions, clients never stayed long once their sex was over. And yet, she found a kind of love with him. He felt sorry for her, more than sorrow he felt he loved her. He reflected forlornly on their brief encounter,

At least, I made her happy.

He heard a gentle knocking on the door, the charming, feminine, squeaking of a stalking bird,

‘Room Service.’

He stared at the bottle of champagne lying unopened in the wine cooler. Her empty glass, the crimson stain on the carpet. He didn’t recall ordering food. He eyed the door, recalling the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging on the doorknob outside.

‘Room Service,’ the high-pitched voice repeated, ‘Fresh supply, coffee, tea, milk, biscuits for your bedroom.’

He checked the beverage tray on the sideboard. It hadn’t been touched. Shrugged his shoulders,

‘Just a minute.’

He went to the wardrobe, took out his fluffy white gown, put it on, tied the cord at his waist … opened the door,

‘No! Please! No!’

He puts up his fists, boxer-style, in a vain bid to defend himself.

Slick was insane. Slick went berserk. Slick swung the meat cleaver at him with all her might, slicing a deep red gash in the man’s forearm. Horrified by the sight of his blood, soaking the white gown red, he recoiled, collapsing, falling to his knees, as if in prayer, praying for his life. Slick swung the cleaver, slicing into his neck, again, and again, and again. He keeled over, toppling forward.

His final act was to kiss a cripple’s feet.

Amber Slick

Submitted: October 25, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Harriet-Jacqui Furl. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:



Wow! So intense, so masterfully written, it felt like true love, then slaughter!!! How did she find out her capacity to take those lives so efficiently?

Tue, October 26th, 2021 11:19am


Glad you enjoyed Deceit, Spyguy - I have the same question in my mind about Amber Slick's killer instincts!!HJx

Tue, October 26th, 2021 3:48pm

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