Friday, October 23, 2009


     sorry dears. if you were following the delicious hit on harry, and how i was about to dispose of that disgusting Drasco, i'm taking another week's breather.
     but i doubt you'll be upset.
     i know by the fact that you're reading this, you are all sick toddies.
     but so am i...and so much more than you all. so i know, fer sure fer sure (don't hate me because i'm sucha Val!) you will eat this up.

     happened several years ago. and it's just been kicking around. dying to come out...if you get my drift.

misty decided to go clubbing...where anything can happen 

     rather than explain, let's...well, get on with it...

     when in lalaland, do as the la's, i always say.
     and i'm there quite a bit. i sooo love vapidity.
     anywho, i was spending an evening looking smashing...prada leather skirt, sans panties. chanel silk blouse. gray velvet bottega veneta boots. to die for. so to speak.
     i was slumming at this overly chic club where last names, bank accounts and looks were the unspoken membership criteria. something caught my very perceptive and beautiful eye.
     a stunner of a doll so intent on a male she was chatting it up with...that it didn't quite make sense.
     unless you were misty, that is.

     "Dance?" a blonde voice from behind oozed as a superbly manicured finger traced itself up my inner back thigh from behind. i turned to see the woman of any woman's dreams coked out, staring me up and down. waiting to be had.
     i fucked her with my eyes and declined.
     "bitch," she cooed, making me want her nasty ass that much more. then she floated away.
     i could fuck and suck dreamy dolls any time. i quickly turned back to watch the girl and her guy.
     something was going on there. i had to know if misty's instincts were instincting true. however, the two were nowhere to be seen.

the blonde was a sexy, nasty piece of work. i didn't have
time to do her, so i f'd her with my eyes

     "fuck!" i whispered to myself, taking off through the crowd.
     after a few moments of brushing against young, beautiful sweaty bodies, out the door i went.
     they were there.
     enough coked out, beautiful people were outside sucking marlboros and american spirits, i wasn't noticed by the girl and the guy. i bummed a winston from some idiot who didn't have a clue. if you're going to get cancer, do it with the right brand asshole!
     so i stood in the midsummer night's eros, so thick you could eat it with a fork and spoon. ignoring the pools of hormones dripping from the couples around me. i peered undetected at "girl" and her dude.
     i knew the way she was looking at him. i knew it too well.

     after twenty minutes of pretending to smoke a winston that had burned out fifteen minutes earlier, i watched as they got going. i sauntered to my open ragtop porsche...i do so love a fine car when in lalaland...threw a scarf on, and waited across the street as they walked up the block to her wheels.

     before putting him in the car, she stared into the eyes of the barely 21 year old boy toy.
     it was the gaze of a cobra snake at feeding time.

      she turned the ignition on her new mustang and they were off.
      i followed a smart distance back. they worked their way from the west side onto sunset headed west. they were going fast. i kept up. hoping cops had something better to do than give misty a ticket.

i took off after them in my porsche speedster ragtop

      fuck. she was doing seventy towards the beach. he was licking her neck like it was a grape tootsie pop. they finally slowed it into chautauqua canyon, but blasted off again taking a right on pch. up we went, into 'the' malibu, as the over-botoxed pretentious nouveau riche bleach jobs refer to it.

     my couple nearly clipped a nitesurfer's longboard at 65 mph as he crossed pch at jack in the box across from the pier. assmunch surfboy flipped me off as i sped by next. i didn't have time to stop and kick his ass.
     finally, past zuma, she hit a hard left onto a frontage road of eight to ten million dollar beach houses, and i kept whizzing by. for 100 yards.
     then i whipped a 180, flew by the turnoff, and pulled up on the side of pch. i woulda headed down the road with lights off, but misty didn't need to.
     pch looked out over the frontage road below, so i could shut my lights off, perch there, and see where sugar and her dude pulled into. if they went into the house i might have to go down there and become a peeping misty.
     i watched as they sat in her car for a makeout session. oooey goooey stuff. fogged windows. la dee dah. etceterahhh...etceteraaahhh.
     hmmm. it went on for quite the while. the jazz channel was on coming in from long beach. i heard most of 'on green dolphin street' before they finally got out of the mustang.
     they went into the house.

they went into her daddy's $8 million beach house
after sucking on each other in the car for way too long

     i didn't want to drive down there if i didn't have to. the beach house was a normal size home that most people would live in. except 'the' malibu crowd. these were weekenders by the look of it. or doll's crashpad.
     it had those beachy huge windows all over the stinkin' place. with bamboo slats for blinds. it looked like trader vics with all that beach crap motif. luckily, bamboo slat blinds are easy to see through. if you're moi.
     misty doesn't go anywhere without some equipment. i had a nice pair of leica geovids under the passenger seat. always prepared. the infrared binocs let me follow luvbirds into the beach house even though they kept the lights ultra low.     the only glow was from a candle she lit after he flopped into pillows on a bamboo couch with pacific island totem poles for the legs. whoever designed this place had their taste in their wallet.
     daddy was probably a tv producer. aaron spelling syndrome.
     she kept the light low. neighbors couldn't see in. but one candle was enough for my spiffy leica infrareds. the interior looked like a few tiki bars i'd thrown up in back in the day.
     i was such the voyeur. which doesn't bother misty.
     but straight sex was not topsy on my list of things i sit in my speedster, on a cliff, at the beach, watching through nite ops binox.
     howevah, something was in the air. call it hitwoman's intuition.

     still...watching pretty miss give disco date a blow job was wearing thin.
     don't ask me what i'd expected...i couldn't even say. but it was looking like misty had wasted a drive to the beach.
     maybe i'd whiz back by malibu pier and see if i could nail hodad with his surboard, coming back across pch from his surfin' safari.
     i yawned. decided to, if nothing else, pick up a jack shake on the return drive. if there were no nite surfers to run down.

duke pearson's gaslight came on the blaupunkt
as i watched her suck him off down in the beach house below
     duke pearson's 'gaslight' came on the blaupunkt. as soon as it was over, i was turning to heavy metal and blowin' the tiki bar.
     at six minutes my song was over. i took one more peak over the cliffs to see how my honey bees were doing...whaddya know. things had changed.

     disco dan was shaking like his volcano had erupted.
     sweety was walking away as boy toy laid there with the quivers.
     she was naked as a stripper. meaning all she had on were stilettos.
     she was wiping her mouth like a vampire.
     so, she was a drinker. as far as misty was concerned, swallows were meant to go back to capistrano. not down the throat.
     i'll make exceptions if i need to ice a guy. if relaxing him with misty's mouth is the only option before punching his ticket.
     i resisted the temptation to vomit watching her lip smacking, and again readied myself to go.

     but...i was still getting a strange vibe from the tiki lounge.
     hot chic was now into a drawer, pulling out something. putting on gloves. standing behind her boy.
     he was lost in swoonland. eyes closed.

she was behind the kid, nude except for stilettos,
cute black leather gloves, and a garotte to wrap around his neck

     nude hottie was still in her stilettos. posing in the mirror with black gloves on. holding what looked oh so familiar to misty.
     she must have given him the suck job of his young life as johnny wadshot remained quivering like margarita jello shots on the tiki couch.
     as i watched through my leica infrareds, chet baker's 'i'm getting sentimental over you' crooned on the blaupunkt. nice song to watch what happened next by.
     sweetie stood behind her doll as he still lay shivering. she ohhh sooo lovingly wrapped what she was holding around his slender neck. the music continued as i watched.
     i always lovvved chet baker's melancholy horn. but his singing creeped me out. that was, however, in my misguided bisexual days. when i thought men were an option.
     once i dropped that delusion, chet's voice sounded oh sooo rite! i could always appreciate frank...'da way yoo look tttooonite'. but a guy with the soft touch of a chic?
     as he crooned started.
     doll below tightened her device around the kid's pretty neck.
     all of a sudden he wasn't so very relaxed. but if she knew what she was doing, and doll looked like she did...honey boy would be very relaxed. very soon...

i loved chet baker. he sang 'sentimental over you' on
my radio as she strangled her date to death, below

      even with the leica, it was hard to see what she had around honey's neck. it looked like a standard issue garotte.
     the g-string, as i like to call it. was my own fave device.
     i'm quite the inventress, having devised a handle to mine. allows very slow incremental turning with the slightest of wrist motion.
     let's one thoroughly enjoy the kill. no wasted energy.
     and misty does so love to conserve. very politically correct.
     howeverrr, a regular issue g-machine, like doll was using, was totally good for a little arm workout. and burning off excess hormones that a good kill brings out in a girl.
     back to doll, she had done this before. had technique.
     she'd pulled boy toy up a bit, resting the back of his neck against her naked tummy. locking her elbows to the sides of her well shaped ribcage, she easily pivoted, and was quite nicely strangling her sweety.
     technically, i wasn't sure this was anything but hot, sexy generation-y asphyxia play. but even in the candlelight, she had a look in what i could make out of her eyes.
     that's what had drawn me to doll and her disco date to begin with. i had spotted that 'misty' look.

     was this just another way to get him off?
     she was enjoying it too much for that.
     to get them both off?
     no doubt he'd come again during this little fun...but whether he'd still be alive when it was over was the question. misty was betting on black.
     as she tightened, and honey boy arched his back in futile desperation, chet crooned over the radio in my little speedster..."never thought i'd fall...but now i hear love call"...
     she was hearing love call alright. a dark, delicious, love.
     the kind of love only sick twisted killer girls like misty could appreciate.
     chet ooozed on..."i thought i was happy...i could live without love..."
     doll's date was calming down now.
     the intoxicating delight of strangulation by a hottie was kicking in.
     he was relaxing. or his body was as blood flow to the brain was squeezed by doll's skillful use of her wire. she was the definition of a natural...
     chet sang on. his melancholia sooo apt for what was happening below in the tiki lounge. chet, you are good for any occasion.
     " i must is all i'm thinking of..." was all doll was thinking of.
     nasty, deadly, terminal love. where one famished partner takes all that is, and all that could ever be, from her other.
     clubber boy was now ultimately relaxed. except for one part of his anatomy.
     doll stood behind him, straight and erect as a ship's masthead, while her boy lay relaxed, asphyxiating into a dreamy forever sleep.
     except for his own masthead. which was about to blow.
     chet finished his doll finished...hers...
     " gentle with me..." chet purrred.
     doll boy on the tiki couch was very gentle. gently asphyxiating.
     she was arching her own back now, pivoting her arms. her simply adorable black gloves gripped tight. i wondered, were they chanel?
     my instincts had been right. unless she had an e r nurse hidden behind the bamboo curtain, he was not returning from this trip to treasure island. kind of a mixed metaphor. bad misty!

after watching the kill, i rested in my speedster
the sun would be rising soon, and i'd be on my misty way

     my own cunt was now wet as doll's must have been.
     i'm not a fan of serial killing. dammit jim, i'm a hitwoman, not a serial killer.
     i'm a pro. serial murder, delish as it might be at times, declasse.
     still, if she did him right then and there, my leather speedster recaro buckets were going to need some cleaning.
     juice was running down my shaved pussy into my ass, like the owens valley aqueduct into l.a.
     "...because i'm gentle over yooo..." chet oh so sweetly murmured. as doll so sweetly killed...killed her boy.

     now at the end, his lean boyish body stretched in equipoise between eternal sleep and a final release.
     both about to occur as doll jerked one last time...
     his body wracked with a seismic shiver. his gear shift blew.
     even in candlelight i could see his stream.
     my gearbox was about to blow. i was ready to shiver my timbers...

     "...i'm gentle over yooo..."
     chet would be shocked to be singing to this. sick. tawdry. a kid scrumptiously murdered, his kill chic naked in stilettos behind him. and those black gloves. ferragomo? prada? i had to know!
     as chet finished his last "yooo", doll finished the last of her boy.
     his body...twitching in the afterglow of death. his cock only now softening...
     as he fluttered, shuddered, trembled, palpitated so lusciously in expiration, she, finally, erupted herself.
     one coool customer. one chilly chic.
     she didn't break form. perfect body perfectly posed. in the classic nasty silhouette of la femme qui étrangle.
     she was beautiful.
     as he twitched in death...she now shook in several paroxysms of sickeningly horrifying pleasure. yummm!
     then...slowly becoming still. still as her murdered boy toy.
     i snapped the radio off.
     lowered my leicas. grabbed my sides...
     and doubled over as if misty had been punched.
     i had.
     my thighs quivered. stomach knotted.
     it was a hard, rough, visceral orgasm i'd not expected.
     i'd been dripping since she'd started the kill. my own scorecard was over thirty. i'd watched kills before.
     but this was

     i didn't know why it hit me so hard.
     so good.
     i let the shivers tremble away.
     leaned back in my recaro. sitting in a sticky pool of my own come.
     it was four in the morning.
     the sun wouldn't be up for two hours.
     i rolled up my window. locked the doors. checked my piece under my seat...and closed my eyes.
     i needed a rest...mmmmm

[too delicious not to be continued...]

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