Dirty Work: Part 2

“Oh shit! Please don’t stop . . . oh God . . . oh God!”

Maserati Meek was the kind of man that liked to keep his woman on edge. He kept her aroused and horny, begging for more. With a glazed look in her eyes, she wanted to be fucked by him ASAP.

Maserati Meek positioned himself between her legs and thrust inside of her. Her legs wrapped around him and she pulled him closer to her by grabbing his hips. The pain no longer registered in Meek’s body. Pussy and alcohol made any pain suddenly go numb. He crowded her pussy with his dick, as Cindy gasped and felt waves of pleasure consume her. Missionary, he pushed her legs back to her chest and drove his dick deeper into her. Cindy was as flexible as a rubber band. He fucked her deep, slow, and then hard. He could feel her pussy grabbing his dick tightly and the sensation of her wetness enveloping him.

“I’m gonna come!” she announced.

Their heated sex continued with them changing positions. She climbed on top of him and crashed her pussy down on his hard dick. She never knew a Middle Eastern man could fuck her like this. It felt like he was on something—was it Viagra, cocaine?—whatever it was, she didn’t want him to come down from it anytime soon. Every moment he was inside of her was absolute bliss. She screamed out and rode him like a champion. He reached up and squeezed her tits, and again, pinched her nipples.

“Fuck me!” she cried out. “Fuck me! Fuck me!”

He looked up at her and for a split second he saw Jessica’s face looking back down at him. It freaked him out for a minute, but he shook it off. Was it guilt? No, it was just a flashing moment. The thought was immediately eradicated from his mind.

“I’m gonna come,” Cindy cried out again.

She milked his dick. She feverishly rocked her hips back and forth while on top of him and his dick pulled in and out of her with her pussy throbbing. Soon, they both reached the point of no return—exploding together.

She wasn’t in any rush to leave. Maserati Meek welcomed her company. His goons were boring him and his wounds were barbing his skin. Sex with her also made him forget for the moment about the two million dollars he lost.

They lingered on the king size bed. The TV was on, and like regular, Maserati Meek watched the news. The update on the bombings became habitual. While watching TV, Cindy toyed with his nipples while nuzzled against his chest. Her body was completely satisfied. Meek turned from one news channel to another. There wasn’t much news at first. But then breaking news—the girl the FBI had been desperately searching for was found dead in New Jersey.

“The FBI search for Jessica Hernandez has ended. She was found dead in a New Jersey park early Tuesday morning. A passing jogger discovered her body with a gunshot wound to her head. So far, the authorities have no suspects in custody, but the search continues for the people responsible for two city bombings in the past week,” the anchorwoman proclaimed.

Maserati Meek was completely taken aback by the news. Jessica was dead? He removed himself from Cindy’s tender grasp, sitting upright, and fixed his attention on the television. He turned up the volume. He listened intently to every word out of the anchorwoman’s mouth.

Who shot her? Who had gotten to her? And what did this mean?

Meek was troubled by the news. He felt the man responsible for Jessica’s murder was Panamanian Pete. What other enemies did he have out there? He believed Kid and his crew to be dead, killed in the club explosion.

Then a thought briefly crossed his mind. If she was dead, then it wasn’t possible that she was snitching or avoiding him. He’d overreacted and killed her family along with dozens of people over nothing. He sat there in a minor trance.

Cindy noticed the change in his demeanor. “Did you know her?”

He didn’t look at her, but kept staring at the TV and nonchalantly responded, “No. She was no one special.”

He couldn’t dwell on it. What was done was done. But it wouldn’t be finally done until he tortured and murdered Panamanian Pete. And then it would be done.

26

The Kid moved his rook on the chessboard and hollered, “Checkmate!” He then smiled.

His opponent was shocked. He didn’t see the move coming. He lost. How did he lose?

“Are you kidding me?”

“Hey, it was a good game,” Kid said.

The old head stared at the move made by The Kid and scratched his head. Mr. Cots was one of the best players at the YMCA in New Rochelle, but Kid took him out like a gladiator in the arena, swords swinging, blood gushing, and heads being decapitated—no mercy. The Kid had applied the box mate move, having the side with the king and rook box in the bare king to the corner or edge of the board. It was a move The Kid knew well.

“You wanna play again?” The Kid asked.

“I don’t know how you beat me.”

“You leave your left side too open,” said Kid.

“Now you gonna teach me how to play chess?”

“I’m just saying, a pro like me saw your moves coming a mile away.”