Message-ID: <45258asstr$1068455408@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: WalterS825@aol.com
Reply-To: WalterS825@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} [Blanket-Party] 'Morgan: Killer Queen: The Tangled Web' (MF, FF, violence) by Walter S
Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 04:10:08 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


Story codes : MF, FF, violence

The following story was inspired by:

"Killer Queen" by Freddy Mercury and Queen,

The drawing "Morgan" which can be seen at

http://www.jonathonart.com/fay.html

The ErosComix Series "Ramba"


MORGAN: KILLER QUEEN

A TANGLED WEB.

BY 

Walter S 

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/ASSHoF/www/

Morgan Le Fay shivered against the chill of the evening 
and peered once again over the ledge to scan the street 
below. Although the night was misty she could clearly see 
the front of the union hall across the street. She glanced at 
her watch. The mark was running late tonight, and she had 
a date. Irritation rose within her and was just as quickly 
discarded. Emotions have no place in this business, she 
reminded herself.

One more time she checked her weapon, a sleek, specially 
modified bolt-action rifle fitted with a scope and a silencer. 
She made sure that the mist hadn't fogged up her scope, 
sweeping slowly back and forth across the target area. Once 
again she calculated the shot. The distance was about one 
hundred meters, the area brightly illuminated thanks to two 
large flood lamps on the front of the building and a nearby 
street light. There was a slight breeze from the north, but 
she determined it would have no effect on her shot.

She reached into her coat and took out the photo of her 
mark. He was an up and coming union leader, a so-called 
reformer. Morgan was not current on union politics, but the 
size of the advance she had already deposited told her that 
her mark had royally pissed off some powerful people to 
the point that they wanted him removed. 

Morgan glanced at the photo again. The mark was middle 
aged, balding and slightly pudgy. While conducting her 
research on him, she had learned that the mark habitually 
wore a white suit to these union meetings as a sort of  
trademark symbolizing his status as a "reformer," the 
"good guy." She chuckled. People were such creatures of 
habit, she thought. They made her job so much easier.

Her attention was drawn once again to the front of the 
union hall. Two men had emerged and were standing near 
the curb. One was talking on a cell phone. They were 
obviously bodyguards and their presence told Morgan that 
her mark's arrival was imminent. She put the photo back 
inside her coat and raised the rifle. She had had the stock 
custom fit so that it conformed precisely to her shoulder, 
the trigger grip to her right hand. 

In these moments the rifle became, literally, an extension of 
her body. She could smell the gun oil, feel the grain of the 
wooden stock against her cheek, see the target area 
highlighted in the cross hairs of the scope. She shivered 
again, but this time not from the cold. She shivered from 
the almost sexual thrill that coursed through her every time 
she was about to pull off a hit. She could feel herself get 
wet, her nipples harden. She smiled to herself, hoping that 
her date had a big cock and was as horny as she was.

Morgan focused the crosshairs between the two 
bodyguards, guessing that the mark's car would pull up 
there. The bodyguards complicated things. She assumed 
that they were armed which meant that she would only get 
one shot. If she needed more than one they would probably 
figure out where she was, silencer or no, and start shooting 
back. She preferred not to be shot at.

The man who had been talking on the cell phone put the 
device into his pocket and both men looked up the street as 
a pair of headlights approached. A Mercedes. Morgan 
chuckled again. Creatures of habit, she thought. Gotta love 
em. The mark always rode in the back of a Mercedes.

The car pulled to the curb, coming to an abrupt stop 
between the two bodyguards, as she had guessed it would. 
Doors flew open and the mark emerged, middle aged, 
balding, pudgy and wearing a white suit. Time was critical 
now. Morgan knew she had but a few seconds before he 
disappeared into the building.

Calmly, refusing to hurry, she focused the crosshairs on the 
mark's head, aiming just above the left eye. The mark was 
talking to the man who had been on the cell phone. Good, 
Morgan thought. Gives me another couple of seconds.

Morgan's finger tensed on the trigger. A marksman never 
"pulled" the trigger. Such jerking motion inevitably spoiled 
the aim. No, an experienced shooter gently squeezed the 
trigger, the rifle seeming to fire when it wanted to. Morgan 
squeezed.

The rifle fired, bucking slightly in her hands as if to assert 
itself. The recoil was negligible. The silencer on the end of 
the barrel reduced the sound to a swoosh as the .30 caliber 
hollow point bullet was sent on its way.

Through her scope Morgan saw the mark's head explode in 
a crimson spray of blood and bone as the bullet found its 
target. Morgan quickly ducked back behind the ledge and 
scampered across the roof of the building to the fire escape 
on the other side as pandemonium broke out on the street 
below. She deftly broke the rifle down into four pieces, 
stock, barrel, silencer and scope, sliding each piece into a 
specially fitted sleeve inside her greatcoat, and then 
climbed down the ladder to the alley below. She strode 
purposefully, but without running, to the end of the alley 
where her car was parked, got in, and calmly drove away as 
a siren wailed in the distance.


Several hours later, following a delicious gourmet meal at 
"Pierre's," an upscale restaurant on Chicago's north side, 
relaxed conversation with her date, Ray, who, she learned, 
was a high priced business manager for some prestigious 
companies, and after-dinner drinks at a private club of 
which Ray was a member, Morgan was on her hands and 
knees on Ray's large bed, gasping with pleasure as Ray slid 
his cock into her from behind. She made a mental note to 
thank her friend Maryanne who had set up the date. It had 
been a long time since she had had sex, and Morgan's body 
responded enthusiastically to Ray's strokes and caresses, 
pushing from her mind, at least temporarily, the earlier 
events of the evening.

After departing her "job site," Morgan had taken a 
circuitous route to the restaurant, just in case, and had 
stopped to use a pay phone to call her contact, a man she 
knew as "Cal," to tell him the job had been done. She never 
used her own phone to contact him. When contacting her, 
Cal would likewise use a pay phone, or slip a note under 
her apartment door. 

Morgan wasn't exactly sure who Cal worked with, or for. 
She guessed it was the mob, but was smart enough not to 
ask questions. Cal paid her well, never gave her any work 
she couldn't handle, and protected her identity, which, in 
turn protected both him and whomever was contracting 
him.

Upon arriving at "Pierre's" Morgan got out of her car,  
opened the trunk then removed her coat and placed it, with 
the rifle pieces, inside. She took off her running shoes and 
tossed them into the trunk as well. Then she put on a pair of 
red open toed evening shoes with three inch heels, 
smoothed her slinky red dress, checked herself once more 
in the mirror of her compact, shut the trunk and headed into 
the restaurant.

Morgan entered the restaurant and immediately felt eyes on 
her. The heels made her nearly six feet tall, the dress 
hugged and accentuated her curves, its bright red color 
contrasting slightly with her shoulder length, auburn hair 
and her green eyes. 

Pierre himself had been maitre d' tonight. He was a short, 
fat Frenchman with thinning grey hair. Always smiling, 
always jovial, Pierre ran a first class establishment, knew 
his customers and treated them like royalty. His eyes lit up 
as he saw Morgan approach.

"Ah! Miss Le Fay!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "It is so 
wonderful to see you again." He held his arms open wide to 
give Morgan a hug, a maneuver that put him at eye level 
with her cleavage. The hug lasted a bit longer than usual.

"Hello, Pierre," Morgan had replied as she disengaged from 
the Frenchman's bear hug.  "I am running a bit late and was 
supposed to meet a gentleman here. A Mister Garrison. Is 
he here?"

"Oui! Oui!" Pierre bleated and, motioning Morgan to 
follow him turned and led the way into the main dining 
room.

As Ray thrust his cock deeper into her, Morgan recalled a 
sudden shortness of breath when she first met him. He was 
attractive without being obvious. Tall, but not towering, 
well built, but not muscle bound, Ray had gorgeous blonde 
hair and the deepest blue eyes Morgan had ever seen. One 
could get lost in those eyes, she remembered thinking, and, 
for the night at least, she did.

Ray leaned over her and cupped her breasts in his hands as 
he steadily fucked her from behind. Morgan gasped with 
pleasure, her juices coating his cock and running down her 
thighs. Her auburn red hair splayed out over the bedcovers 
as she rested her head on her arms, raising her ass up even 
higher, opening herself completely.

Ray pinched her nipples; quick, sharp tugs that sent waves 
of pleasure coursing through her. She contracted around 
him, feeling every inch of him. She immersed herself in the 
raw sensation of pure sex, of fucking for the sake of 
fucking. Fucking with no other meaning than the pleasures 
of the moment. She thrust back hard against Ray, feeling 
him fully penetrate her.

The intensity of Morgan's orgasm took her completely by 
surprise, the pleasure within her expanding so rapidly and 
so completely that it engulfed her in a tidal wave of feeling 
and emotion the likes of which she had not felt in such a 
long time as to make it an almost completely new 
experience. She slammed back against Ray yet again, 
feeling his cock surge within her as it pulsed, shooting hot 
cum again and again, filling her, overflowing her pussy, 
showering her with his lust. Morgan collapsed onto the bed, 
feeling Ray's weight atop her.


Morgan awoke with a start, unaware, for the moment, of 
her surroundings. Someone who always kept herself in 
complete control of her situation, the sensation frightened 
her before it passed, almost as quickly as it had come, with 
the realization that she was in Ray's bed. Alone in Ray's 
bed. 

Morgan let her eyes adjust to the dim light provided by the 
rays of the early morning sun which shone dully through a 
window.  She shook her head to clear it and, at once, her 
olfactory sense was inundated with the smells of 
percolating coffee and frying bacon. She noticed that at the 
foot of the bed was a neatly folded blue robe. She smiled to 
herself and slipped into the robe, tightening the sash about 
her trim waist.

Morgan hadn't noticed much about Ray's apartment the 
night before, so lost was she in the moment. She cursed 
herself for the lapse. The living room was well appointed 
with plush couches, glass coffee tables, and a large 
fireplace over the mantle of which were several intriguing 
sketches. All were of women in various stages of dress and 
undress, some with blankets, including one of a near naked 
woman riding in a snow drift.

Morgan grinned and found her way to the kitchen, the lure 
of fresh coffee stronger now than her curiosity.

"Good morning," said Ray cheerfully as he flipped a slab 
of bacon over in a skillet. He was wearing gym shorts and a 
tight fitting T shirt which showed off his muscular 
physique. "Sleep well?"

He smiled, his teeth seemingly perfectly arranged, his eyes 
twinkling.

"Oh yes, very much so," Morgan replied, slipping onto a 
stool in front of the breakfast nook. She accepted the 
offered cup of coffee gratefully, inhaled the delicious 
aroma and took a sip. She glanced at the morning paper 
which was lying on the counter. Its headline blared the 
news of the shooting of the labor leader. "Police have no 
clues," was the heading of the lead paragraph. Morgan 
smiled to herself. Of course there were no clues, not even a 
spent shell casing.

"So. you work with Maryanne?" Ray asked, turning back 
to the stove to attend to the bacon which was now sizzling 
and popping in the pan. "I know her brother." His words 
startled her from her reverie.

"Oh, yes," she replied hesitantly, gathering her thoughts. "I 
help out at her photo studio, work on layouts. That sort of 
thing." She smiled at his back, her eyes running over his 
form.

"Doesn't sound like it pays too much," he said as he took 
the bacon out of the pan, dabbed the grease with a napkin 
and put several pieces on a plate which he slid in front of 
her with a bright smile.

"Well," she said, smiling coyly over the rim of her coffee 
cup, "I do get outside work."

Ray nodded, putting some bacon on a plate for himself and 
depositing the pan in the sink. He took a seat next to her at 
the counter, his bare leg brushing hers as he did so, sending 
an unexpected burst of pleasure through her. Morgan felt 
her nipples hardening again and she squirmed slightly on 
the stool. She quickly shoved some bacon into her mouth, 
sacrificing momentarily some of her dignity in an effort to 
regain her composure. Ray seemed unaware of the effect he 
had had on her. 

Morgan chewed on the bacon for a moment, washing it 
down with another sip of coffee. She smiled at him, then, 
nodding her head toward the living room, asked "I saw 
your interesting collection of artwork in there."

Ray chuckled. "Ohhhh... You like them?"

Morgan nodded. "Very much so. Where did you get them?"

"I drew them," Ray replied.

Morgan's eyes widened in surprise. "Wow, a successful 
financial manager and an artist! How in the world are you 
still single?"

Ray laughed. "Believe it or not, I was an art major in 
college."

"I can believe it," Morgan replied, grinning. "You certainly 
have an artist's hands."

"Thanks," he said, sipping his coffee. "I figured out pretty 
quickly that being an art major doesn't do much for paying 
the bills, so I went back and got an MBA and a CPA 
license. Now I handle rich people's money."

He turned toward her. "What about you?"

"English Lit," she said around another mouthful of bacon. 
"I was an English Lit major. You know, the mousy girl 
with tons of books."

"You? Mousy?" Ray exclaimed. "I can't believe that you 
were ever 'mousy.'"

"Yep," she said finishing the bacon. "I found out pretty 
quickly also that it didn't pay the bills."

"So, did you go to photography school or something?"

"Not exactly, she said turning on her stool so that they were 
knee to knee facing each other. "I did a stint in the Army."

Ray reacted with surprise. "The Army? Really?"

She nodded smiling. "Yes, really. Photo reconnaissance, 
analysis, computers. All that kind of stuff." She neglected, 
of course, to mention that she also went through the 
Army's sniper school and had received thorough 
demolitions training.

Always uncomfortable talking about herself for fear of 
revealing too much, she smiled again at him. "Do you get 
much time to draw?"

"Some," he said, his eyes roaming over her. "Maybe I'll 
draw one of you."

She laughed nervously, feeling a need rising within her. 
She fought to repress it. "I am sure I am not as interesting 
as your other subjects are."

"Oh, but you are," he said brightly, his eyes twinkling. 
"And I have the photo of you that Maryanne gave me to 
convince me to date you." He winked. "I was hooked right 
away."

Morgan chuckled. "I'll get her for that." She paused and a 
silence fell between them as they looked into each other's 
eyes. The need rose again. She broke eye contact and 
glanced at the clock over the sink.

"I need to go soon," she said quietly. "I have to be at the 
studio this morning."

Ray nodded. "I have a busy day as well." Another pause. 
He reached out and, cupping her chin in his hand, turned 
her face toward his again.

"I would like to see you again, Morgan," he said softly. He 
leaned forward and gently kissed her lips. The effect was so 
sudden and so electric that it startled her. She sat back, 
catching her breath as the need began rising, surging 
through her. 

She stepped off the bar stool, pushing it away from her. She 
sank to her knees before him and, wordlessly, her eyes 
never leaving his, pulled his gym shorts off his hips and 
down over his ankles, flinging them away. His cock was 
stirring, coming to life before her. She stared at it for a 
moment, her hands running up and down along the insides 
of his thighs.  Ray's cock was hard, throbbing, erect, 
pulsating with a life of its own. Morgan leaned forward and 
took it into her mouth, sliding her lips down along the rigid 
shaft as the need overwhelmed her, rising within her in a 
crescendo that drowned out, for the moment, the alarm 
bells that were going off in the back of her mind.


"Sooooo.." Maryanne asked the moment Morgan entered 
the studio. "How was your date with Ray Garrison?" 
Maryanne strode directly over to her friend and looked her 
over, stopping at her eyes.

"You look terrible," Maryanne said with a smile. "It must 
have been great."

Morgan laughed. "It was OK."

"Just OK?" Maryanne replied in mock indignation, her 
hands on her ample hips. "A date with Ray Garrison just 
OK? I should have that kind of OK."

Maryanne Davis was several years older than Morgan, 
shorter, plumper, with large, heavy breasts that flopped 
beneath her sweaters because she refused to wear a bra. Her 
frizzy black hair resembled a tumbleweed and her glasses, 
which were constantly sliding down her nose, gave her face 
an owlish look.  In stark contrast to her appearance 
Maryanne's photo studio was a model of neatness and 
order, everything in its proper place.

Morgan went into the back to begin setting up for the day's 
photo shoots. She got out her cameras, lenses and film. 
Maryanne was not to be put off and followed her.

"Enquiring minds want to know, you know," she said.

Morgan focused on cleaning a lens. "He was very nice, if 
you must know. A gentleman."

"Skip the gentleman part," Maryanne said. "Did you sleep 
with him? Was he good?"

Morgan didn't respond, but kept on cleaning the lens, 
which was quite clean to begin with. She was 
uncomfortable with the feelings that had come over her and 
didn't like being reminded of them.

Maryanne took her silence as an affirmation. "You fucked 
him, didn't you?" she asked, giggling gleefully. 

Morgan put the lens down. "Yes, Maryanne. If you must 
know, I fucked him." 

Maryanne clapped. "See? I knew if I could get you two 
together you'd hit it off."

Morgan sighed and went over to a cupboard and began 
restacking packs of photo paper.

"I already did that," Maryanne said, still giggling. Then she 
abruptly stopped giggling, her eyes grew wide, and her 
hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, my God!"

Morgan turned around. "What now?" she asked irritated.

"He got to you!" Maryanne exclaimed, and started giggling 
again. "This is the first time since I have known you that a 
man has gotten to you."

"Oh, brother!" Morgan exclaimed and slammed a pack of 
paper back into the cupboard. She pushed past Maryanne, 
grabbed her camera and strode into the main studio. 
Maryanne's giggles followed her.


Miami was hot and humid, as usual, but it was a welcome 
relief from winter in Chicago. Morgan sat up in her lounge 
chair and looked once again through her binoculars at the 
gated compound she had been watching for three days.

Cal had sent her down here to "take care of" a man named 
Raul Estevez, whom Cal had described as "uncooperative." 
Morgan took that to mean that Estevez was probably a drug 
trafficker who refused to share. Not only was Estevez the 
target, Cal had told her, but his partners wanted the entire 
organization decimated. This was a tall order and presented 
Morgan with a challenge. In order to accomplish this she 
had to take them out all at once. Sniping at them one at a 
time would take too long and would expose her to far too 
much risk. She grimaced at the memory of Cal lecturing 
her about seeing Ray so frequently.

"Be careful, Morgan," he had told her. "This guy may not 
be what he seems. Besides, you know it's too risky to get 
involved." Morgan had slammed the phone in his ear.

Estevez's estate was located on the waterfront just south of 
the city. The main house was a huge ponderous structure 
that looked to Morgan like a heap of bricks and mortar that 
had been topped by a Spanish tile roof for aesthetics. There 
were several smaller buildings scattered about the estate. 

Security, Morgan had noticed and reconfirmed with this 
most recent scan, was very tight. The estate was ringed 
with two walls, an outer wall which was a ten foot high 
chain linked fence topped with razor wire and a taller inner 
wall which was built of brick. It too was topped with razor 
wire. Security guards with dogs frequently patrolled the 
perimeter and thoroughly scrutinized all visitors. 

At the rear of the property was a pier which jutted out into 
the bay. This morning Morgan had watched as a large yacht 
pulled into the bay and tied up at the pier. She estimated it 
was at least fifty meters long. The yacht's white paint job 
with blue trim gleamed in the Florida sun as it majestically 
approached the pier. Numerous communication antennas 
stuck out giving the vessel an almost porcupine like 
appearance. She could see the flat radar antenna spinning 
slowly. Through her glasses she could see that the boat was 
well maintained. The brass work was polished, there was 
no running rust anywhere, and the crew appeared well 
dressed and professional.

Shortly after the yacht docked, several vans with a catering 
service's name on them entered the compound and drove 
directly to the pier. For several hours now a group of 
people in catering uniforms had been unloading the vans, 
taking trays and bottles and what looked like cases of booze 
aboard the yacht, and putting them away.

Morgan smiled. Someone's having a party. A plan began to 
form in the back of her mind as she alternated between 
watching the yacht and lying in the sun like just another 
tourist. Although the sun was close to setting she could still 
feel its warmth and slathered more sun screen over body, 
which was barely covered by a small bikini, aware of the 
stares of several men, and a couple of women, who were 
still on the beach. 

Two of the catering vans departed, leaving just one still on 
the pier. A woman wearing a catering uniform finished 
putting something on the yacht, then wheeled a large cart 
off the vessel, down the gangplank and up into the back of 
the van. She then climbed into the cab, alone, and started 
driving off.

Morgan folded her chair, and took that and her other 
belongings to her car, which she had driven down from 
Chicago so as to avoid going through airport security. 
Keeping the van in sight she gunned the engine and peeled 
out of the parking lot to the highway just as the van left the 
compound and headed north toward the city. Morgan 
followed, maintaining a discreet distance.

Morgan threaded her way through the early evening traffic 
until she saw the van turn off the highway into the parking 
lot of a bar called "Jay's Place." Morgan watched from 
across the street as the woman, still in her caterer's 
uniform, left the van and went inside. Morgan pulled into 
the parking lot and parked next to the van. She waited for 
about ten minutes, then threw a bright orange tank top on 
over her bikini and went inside. 

Morgan blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the 
bar's interior. She shivered as the building's air conditioner 
enveloped her scantily clad body with cool, dry air, a relief 
from the heat and humidity outside. She looked around, 
noting that there were but a few patrons scattered about at 
various tables. The walls were decorated with chrome 
bumpers, a hoola hoop, and photos of Elvis and Buddy 
Holly. In the center, over what was apparently the dance 
floor, hung a disco type light ball.  The seats at the bar were 
empty save one which was occupied by the woman in the 
caterer's jacket.

Morgan walked over to the stool next to the woman and 
said, "This seat taken?"

The woman looked up from her beer glass, her eyes 
moving from Morgan to the other empty barstools. She 
took a drag from her cigarette.

"Suit yourself," she said. She blew the smoke through her 
nostrils and turned back to her beer glass. 

"Thanks," Morgan said cheerfully as she dropped her purse 
heavily onto the bar and then climbed onto the barstool. 
She began fanning herself with her hand.

"Whew," she said. "It feels nice in here. I didn't realize that 
Miami was so humid this time of year."

The woman chuckled and turned to look at her. "I take it 
you're not from around here?"

Morgan giggled as the bartender approached. He was a 
muscular youthful looking Cuban with a bushy moustache 
and long black hair tied in a ponytail. Too bad I am here on 
business, she thought as she smiled at him and ordered a 
beer.

"Am I that obviously a tourist?" she asked giggling again.

The woman smiled, "I'm afraid so."

"OK, I am," Morgan said smiling brightly as she paid for 
the beer and took a sip. It was frosty cold and tasted great 
after a day lying in the sun watching a boat.

"Where are you from?" the woman asked. "If you don't 
mind my asking." She ground out her cigarette and sipped 
her beer.

"Not at all," Morgan said. "I'm down here from Chicago. 
Now, don't get me wrong, I love Chicago, but, you know, 
sometimes all that damn snow just depresses me." She 
smiled and extended her hand. "By the way, my name is 
Morgan."

The woman chuckled and shook Morgan's hand. "I'm 
Shari. Nice to meet you."

Morgan smiled and drank more of her beer. Shari was a bit 
shorter than Morgan, but with a slightly more voluptuous 
figure. She had large breasts which pushed out against her 
uniform jacket, a narrow waist and broad hips. She had 
short legs and a long torso which gave her the appearance, 
when sitting, of being taller than she actually was. She had 
stringy blonde hair which flowed over shoulders. Her skin 
was a dark olive color, but Morgan couldn't tell if that was 
natural or from living in Miami. 

"Nice to meet you, too, Shari," Morgan said, smiling into 
her eyes and holding it for a beat longer than necessary for 
a mere greeting. 

Morgan turned to the bartender. "I'd like another beer, 
please. And one for my new friend here." She took out her 
wallet and tossed a couple of twenties onto the bar.

"Thanks," Shari said as the bartender slid a fresh glass of 
beer to her.

"Oh, you're quite welcome," Morgan said, sipping her new 
beer. "So, what do you do?"

Shari quizzically raised an eyebrow then looked down at 
her uniform. Morgan giggled.

"Sorry. sorry," she said and giggled again. "You work for 
a catering service?"

Shari nodded and lit another cigarette. "Yep. Just got off 
work, in fact."

"Long day?"

"Yeah, and a longer tomorrow." Shari exhaled a lungful of 
smoke and took a deep drink from her beer.

"Oh? That's too bad. Some kind of party or something?" 
Morgan's voice oozed sympathy. Or, at least she hoped it 
did. She sipped her beer.

"Yeah. Some rich Cuban dude is throwing a party on his 
boat, so we spent all day setting up for it. We have to finish 
in the morning before the boat leaves."

"I like boats," Morgan said. "I've seen a lot of big ones 
here."

Shari laughed. "Don't they have boats in Chicago? On 
Lake Michigan?"

"Of course we do, silly," Morgan said and playfully 
slapped Shari's knee. "It's just that the boats here seem a 
lot bigger."

"They are big," Shari said, nodding. "The one we were on 
today was huge."

"And you have to go back tomorrow?" Morgan asked 
incredulously. "Seems like a lot of work."

"Well, this is a big fucking party," Shari said. "This Cuban 
guy, Raul, is having a bunch of his business pals onboard 
for some celebration or other. They say he tips well. We 
spent all day stocking the boat. We have to finish in the 
morning before the boat leaves at nine."

"What else do you have to do?" Morgan asked, looking 
into her beer glass. A plan was formulating in her mind.

"Not much. I have to wheel these carts I have in my van 
onboard, set them up, take the food out of the reefers on the 
boat. That kind of stuff. A pain in the ass, but nothing real 
difficult." Shari drained her beer. "At least I don't have to 
drive across town tonight."

"Huh?" Morgan said. "Drive across town?"

Shari nodded as the bartender, taking Morgan's twenty 
dollar bill, slid another round of beers to the two women. 

"The catering service is across town, but I live only a mile 
or so from here. So, I'm just keeping the van overnight and 
will drive it back to the boat tomorrow morning."

Morgan nodded. "I have to go back to Chicago tomorrow."

Shari merely said "Oh," and continued to stare at her beer 
glass. Morgan thought she detected a note of 
disappointment, but couldn't be certain. If her plan was to 
succeed, however, she needed to move things along.

Morgan reached out and ran a finger over the back of 
Shari's hand. "I don't have any plans for this evening," she 
said. She felt Shari stiffen slightly at her touch. She held 
her breath, hoping that she hadn't gone too far.

Shari turned her head to look at Morgan. Her eyes roamed 
up and down Morgan's body. "I'm not gay, you know," she 
said quietly.

Morgan laughed and patted Shari's hand. "That's OK. 
Neither am I."

Shari laughed a soft guttural laugh. She lifted her full glass 
of beer to her lips and drained it in one long noisy gulp. She 
slammed the glass on the bar and looked at Morgan again. 
"So, you want to follow me to my place?" 

Morgan smiled and finished her own beer. "I'd like that 
very much," she said. She stuffed a twenty into the bar 
tender's tip jar and followed Shari out into the humid night.

Shari's apartment was a small, sparse affair on the second 
floor of a multi level apartment block. Morgan gasped and 
arched her back, lying on Shari's large bed; legs spread as 
Shari moved between her thighs and parted her pussy lips 
with her tongue.

Morgan writhed on the bed as Shari used the very tip of her 
tongue to lick at Morgan's wet slit. Morgan appreciated the 
finesse but she wanted more. She braced her feet on the bed 
and pushed her pussy into Shari's face, grinding Shari's 
lips into her cunt. 

Shari responded, wanting Morgan's cunt as much as 
Morgan wanted to be eaten. Her tongue slid past the fleshy 
outer lips of Morgan's pussy to lick and suck the tender 
flesh inside.

Morgan moaned loudly. "Fuck me, Shari," she groaned and 
pinched her own hard nipples. Her hips bucked back and 
forth against Shari's mouth.

Shari's tongue danced over Morgan's clit as she slid two 
fingers into her sopping pussy, fucking her cunt hard and 
fast with her hand, her knuckles disappearing into 
Morgan's hole, juices flowing over her hand.

Shari sucked Morgan's clit hard, and then licked again, her 
tongue dancing over Morgan's pussy. Morgan groaned as 
she felt the tremors begin deep in her pussy, radiating out 
into her belly and shooting through her entire body. She 
cried out in short bursts as she came. Shari never missed a 
beat, her fingers and tongue continuing to hammer away at 
Morgan's cunt until she nearly passed out from the 
pleasure.


Morgan's internal alarm clock woke her before dawn. She 
slowly disentangled herself from Shari, being careful not to 
wake her. She picked up her clothes and carried them into 
the living room where she dressed herself. She left the 
apartment and went downstairs to where her car was parked 
alongside Shari's van. She got her flashlight and then 
opened the trunk. The plastic explosives she'd brought 
were in the trunk, along with the detonators and the 
electronic remote control device. She opened the rear door 
to the van, which was left unlocked, and carried the plastics 
inside, shutting the door behind her.

Morgan propped the flashlight to shine on the underside of 
one of the large wheeled trays and went to work. She duct 
taped the charge to the lower level of the tray, making sure 
that there were no visible bulges or traces of tape. If  
Estevez's people did find it, well, that would be too bad for 
Shari, but there would be nothing to lead them to her. 
Unless, of course, Shari told them of their night together, in 
which case Estevez might be able to connect the dots. He 
no doubt had extensive connections. The chances of that, 
Morgan thought, were slim. If her plan worked, they'd be 
zero.

When the charge was in place she attached the detonator. 
The detonator was designed to be activated electronically. 
Morgan checked the handheld remote and made sure that 
the codes were compatible. She dry-fired the detonator 
twice before hooking it up and activating it.

Morgan turned off the flashlight and crept out of the van, 
being sure to close the door tightly. She got a can of orange 
spray paint from her trunk and spray painted a small orange 
dot the size of a half dollar on the front and back bumpers 
to help her spot the van should there be several of them on 
the pier. The Miami sun was rising as she got into her car 
and drove off to her hotel to check out.

Morgan was back at the beach shortly after eight. The sun 
was well up into the sky, bright, hot and humid. The beach 
was almost empty at this hour as she stretched out on her 
lounge chair and checked the yacht through her binoculars. 
The crew was up and about, obviously readying the craft 
for sea. One of them was fuelling the craft. She recognized 
Shari's van in the parking lot and glimpsed several 
uniformed catering workers moving about on the yacht. A 
man in an expensive looking suit appeared to be yelling and 
giving orders to the crew and the caterers. From the photos 
she had, Morgan guessed it was Estevez himself. She 
smiled and set the binoculars down and poured herself a 
cup of coffee from a thermos she had with her. 

She sipped her coffee as she watched several limos enter 
the compound and drive to the pier. The man she guessed 
was Estevez greeted the new arrivals as they poured out of 
the limos and filed onto the yacht. Estevez shook hands 
with and hugged several of the men. Each of the men, all of 
whom were well dressed and, to Morgan's eye, obviously 
armed, exited his limo accompanied by several scantily 
clad women. Morgan determined that they were call girls 
brought along for the party. Suddenly the coffee tasted very 
bitter, so she dumped it onto the sand and continued 
watching the activity on the yacht. Emotions have no place 
in this business, she kept telling herself.

The sun got hotter and beads of sweat rolled down her 
chest between her breasts as she observed the crew finish 
the refueling and begin to cast off lines. The yacht was 
getting underway.  Morgan reached into her bag and felt for 
the remote actuator. She knew that it had a limited range, 
maybe  two miles or so, so she'd have to act quickly.

The partygoers on the yacht were already starting to dance 
and cavort about the decks. The yacht cleared the pier and 
headed out into the bay. Morgan held her breath and waited 
as the yacht approached the center of the bay, about a mile 
away, and turned toward the open sea. She gritted her teeth 
and pressed the button.

The yacht exploded in a huge orange ball of fire, lifting the 
craft out of the water, spewing flame and debris and body 
parts hundreds of feet in the air. The sound was deafening, 
even at that distance. The shock wave rolled across the 
water and nearly knocked Morgan off her lounge. The 
fireball roiled skyward, a large gurgling mass of orange and 
black flame and smoke. What was left of the vessel 
slammed back into the water and sank. Morgan watched as 
pieces of the boat, and pieces of people, floated down out 
of their skyward trajectory and splashed onto the water. 

Morgan was aware of people running, running past her 
toward the water, their feet kicking up sand as they passed 
her. A small crowd began to gather at the water's edge, 
people shouting and pointing at the conflagration. In the 
distance she could see a harbor patrol craft, blue lights 
flashing, siren wailing, speeding toward the wreckage. The 
fuel in the yacht's tanks had ignited and was burning on the 
water. Morgan scanned the scene with her binoculars one 
last time. There was no movement, no signs of life, no 
intimation that anyone on that yacht had survived the 
explosion and inferno she had inflicted on them.

As more and more people assembled on the beach, pointing 
and shouting and wondering what had just happened, 
Morgan folded up her lounge chair, collected her things and 
walked to her car to begin the drive back to Chicago.


"So how was Miami?" Ray asked as he opened the door to 
his apartment. Morgan stepped inside, brushing a few 
flecks of snow off of her heavy coat.

"A lot warmer," she said. She took off the coat and handed 
it to Ray, who put it away. She moved to the fireplace and 
warmed herself. She gratefully accepted a glass of brandy 
from Ray as he emerged, smiling, from the kitchen. 

She sipped the brandy, grateful for the warmth that spread 
through her.

Ray smiled and sat next to her on the fireplace, their backs 
to the fire. He ran a hand over her leg. "The shoot was 
successful?"

Morgan sniffed the brandy, inhaling its aroma. "Oh, yes," 
she said quietly. "Very successful. Maryanne loved the 
pictures I brought back."

Ray leaned over and kissed her, a light, feathery kiss on her 
lips. The touch, slight though it was, sent shivers through 
her.

"I did miss you," he said.

"Sure you did," Morgan replied, smiling wryly. "You had 
girlfriends all over the place while I was gone." She 
grinned and kissed him back, wanting to feel the shiver run 
through her again.

Ray laughed and raised his hand in mock protestation. "I 
thought only of you."

Morgan's raised eyebrow conveyed that she was not 
convinced. She grinned at him over her brandy glass.

Ray put his hand over his heart. "You doubt my sincerity?" 
he said, his eyes twinkling. More shivers ran through her as 
Morgan realized she was getting wet just being near him.

He extended his hand, "Come. Let me show you where my 
thoughts were while you were away." She took his hand 
and he led her from the living room, past the drawings she 
had admired previously and into a small room that 
appeared to be a study. There was a desk, some computer 
equipment and, in the corner, what looked to be an easel 
that was covered with a cloth.

"What's that?" Morgan asked, reluctantly breaking contact 
with his hand. She sipped her brandy and pointed at the 
enshrouded easel.

Ray's smile beamed in the dim light of the room. "That, my 
dear, is you."

"What?" Morgan exclaimed, nearly choking on her brandy. 
"You drew a picture of me?" Her heart pounded in her 
chest. Part of her was moved and flattered that this man 
would so honor her. At the same time, however, part of her 
was questioning his motives, wondering if this could 
somehow be used against her in the future.

"Morgan," he said and stepped close to kiss her again. "I 
told you I was going to draw you."

She felt her knees go weak. "I know you did.. I'm just 
flattered is all."

"Would you like to see it?" Ray asked and turned up the 
lighting.

Morgan found a chair and sat down. "If you're ready to 
show it, yes, I would."

Ray moved to the easel and, with a dramatic motion, pulled 
the drop cloth away.

Morgan's eyes widened as she gazed at the drawing. She 
was stunned by how much the woman in the drawing 
looked like her. The drawing was done in a brown hue.  
Morgan was viewed in profile, her back slightly arched, 
breasts jutting forward, her arms reaching behind her head 
as if to tame her wild hair. A large cape flowed about her, 
and she was clad in a dress that was slit up the sides, the 
two halves of which were held together with a couple of 
buttons. The woman in the drawing exuded confidence and 
sexuality, but there was also a hint of vulnerability in the 
eyes, as if there was an uncertainty there.

"Do you like it?" Ray asked, his voice interrupting her 
thoughts.

"My god, Ray," Morgan replied, genuinely taken aback. "It 
is beautiful."

Ray smiled, beaming at her. "I titled it, simply, "Morgan." 
Would you like to have it?"

Morgan stared at the drawing, slightly unnerved by the 
uncanny resemblance to her, uncomfortable with its bold 
display of her raw sexuality. Morgan prided herself in 
always being in absolute control of everything. The woman 
in this drawing wasn't.

Morgan set her glass down and walked over to Ray. She 
threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, thrusting 
her tongue into his mouth, grinding her hips against him, 
feeling his cock and her need rise.

"I would very much like to have that drawing," she said in 
a whisper. 

Ray said nothing, his eyes smoldering with lust. He 
grabbed Morgan and spun her about, then pushed her down 
over the armchair. Wordlessly he lifted her dress and pulled 
her panties down, tossing them aside. Morgan gasped as 
her pussy and ass were exposed.

Ray unzipped his pants and gripped Morgan's hips. 
Without warning he placed the tip of his cock against her 
anus and shoved. Morgan groaned with a combination of 
pain and pleasure as Ray's cock shoved deep into her ass.

Morgan was nearly overwhelmed by the sensation. She bit 
the chair's cushion so as not to cry out as Ray pounded his 
cock into her ass. She thrust back against him, her eyes 
never leaving the drawing, the alarm bells ringing louder in 
her ears. 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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