Page 3 of Sticky Fingers
Let me ask you this. If I was such an asshole, would I call myself the King of New York City?
Because that’s my name.
I’m laughing out loud now, and Debra looks up at me quizzically before I pound into her again, fucking her like only the King of NYC could.
Think I’m bragging? Yeah, fuck, maybe I am. But my name isn’t a hollow one—I have the story to back it up.
Curious, huh? Figured you’d be.
It began when I was twelve and started shaking down my neighborhood kids for their lunch money. At the time, I didn’t really know any better. I was approached to start sharing a cut with some other hoodlums, and I never batted an eyelash.
That was how my crime operation started, but I’ve come a long way from shaking kids down for their lunch money. And that’s because I never looked back.
I saw the opportunity right away.
That’s another thing that I’m really great at, spotting the right opportunities. Whether it’s a willing piece of ass or a business opportunity, I take what I want.
I began building my crime empire by stealing and laundering money. After a few years, it developed into a more sophisticated ring of high-end escorts and gambling. It’s the perfect recipe for me.
Because when it comes right down to it, the only person you have to live with is yourself.
That has been my motto and the reason why I’ve never been involved in moving drugs or guns or contract killing. There was just too much of that in the first twelve years of my life.
At the end of the day, I’m the fucking shit…and I know it.
And that’s why I never think too much about what others are saying or thinking about me. I’m the one who has to live with myself. So, I’m the only person I really need to make happy.
And with the amount of money and pussy I get, I sure am one happy motherfucker.
I feel the tip of my dick hit deep inside Debra’s pussy and my balls tighten in anticipation.
Her hands are starting to claw at the wall, and her panting has reached hyperventilation levels.
She’s close.
“Fuck me harder, Malcolm.”
I’m almost slamming her head into the painting now, but it’s giving me that little bit more stimulation, too, and I can feel her pussy tighten.
Movement from the corner of my eye has my head swinging to the left. I watch in awe as a slender, lithe figure, clad completely in tight black clothing, steps out from between the curtains.
What the fuck?
Not missing a beat, I keep pounding my rod into Debra, who has her eyes closed and is none the wiser. Her head is thrown back to keep it from slamming into the painting, and she doesn’t notice a fucking thing.
But I’m no longer focused on Debra. No, right now my eyes are focused on the newcomer. I watch closely as her small form disengages from the shadows and comes nearer.
She’s fucking mesmerizing.
As more light hits her, I see that she’s wearing a mask, and the only thing exposed are her large, soulful eyes. I can’t tell the color in this light, but they’re beautiful.
Expressive.
She’s as graceful as a cat as she tip-toes across the floor towards me, Debra, and the painting.
Her tight, dark clothing doesn’t hide the curves she’s sporting in all the right places. Even the dark mask over her head can’t detract from her beauty.
It must be something on a more fundamental level that my body is responding to, because I can feel my cock harden even more, ready to fucking explode.
