Read Online A Succubus For Christmas by M.E. Hydra - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M.E. Hydra
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suck out all his life through one ecstatic orgasm after another.
He felt his body shrivel and waste in her embrace.
“Please,” he begged through dried up lips.
“Time to squeeze out the last few drops of pleasure,” she sighed.
The cushioned hoop of the opening gripped the sides of his wasted body and slowly gulped him down into the pitcher. His last sight was the perfect beauty of her face as the opening closed shut above him.
A figure could be seen weakly struggling within her closed pitcher. The walls contracted once, twice, three times. The struggles ceased. Three bulges, larger than the others, travelled up the vine.
The girl gave an unearthly sigh and closed her eyes in contentment.
* * * *
“I couldn't go through with it,” Chris said to the taxi driver as he walked towards the exit. “The other guys might be getting the fuck of their life right now, but...I don't know, it just seemed wrong.
“I mean lost souls from hell that look like girls crossed with pitcher plants. That's too fucking weird for me.
“I bet you've heard all this before. Other guys must have backed out. Right?”
Chris turned back to the taxi driver, just in time to see the man swing a thick metal pole at his head. His eyes widened in horror and then the pole connected, shattering his skull. His body fell to the floor and twitched spasmodically.
“Would have been better for you had you got in one of those pitchers,” the taxi driver muttered. “At least your last moments would have been filled with pleasure.”
He picked up the ankles and dragged the twitching body away.
His precious girls always had a need for fresh compost.
Hookah'ed
Koontz was a useless decadent fat fuck, Bachman decided as he slipped out of his room in the dark hours of the morning. How the greasy slab of lard had ever gained control over the west side was a mystery to him.
Well it wouldn't be a mystery for long, Bachman thought as he checked the corridor outside.
It was empty. Bachman wasn't surprised. Security was a joke. He hadn't seen a guard since he'd left his car and been shown into the building. At the door he'd been greeted by Koontz personally. It had taken nearly all of Bachman's composure not to laugh out loud. Koontz was short, pudgy and had the pasty complexion of someone who hadn't been on speaking terms with the sun for years. Even though it was evening he was wearing shades with glittery gold frames and nothing else other than red silk pyjamas. He looked like the bastard offspring of Hugh Heffner and Ozzy Osbourne. The image was completed by the two Penthouse Pet wannabes dangling off either arm.
This was the man that supposedly controlled the whole of the west side?
For a man in his position Koontz was either supremely confident or insanely blasé. Every person Bachman had encountered in the business had no illusions about what needed to be done to stay in the business. When you met them on their turf you could guarantee there'd be a guy round every corner with a gun tucked in their jacket. These were dangerous times, with a lot of desperate punks willing to go to extreme measures to make a name for themselves.
While other bosses had turned their homes into fortresses Koontz had turned his into the Playboy mansion. Instead of guards the place was full of ho's. Sure they looked hot, Bachman had thought as they'd brought him drinks during the lavish dinner, just like they'd stepped off a Vegas stage, but he doubted they'd be much use should any of Koontz's guests suddenly break out an uzi and start spraying.
Not that Bachman was complaining too much. It made his job a lot easier.
Carlito Estevez had hired Bachman because the boss was in a slight bit of trouble. One of his underlings had fucked up and allowed sensitive information to fall into the wrong hands. Things were about to get very hot for Estevez and the boss had decided he needed some leverage.
It was common knowledge that Koontz had dirt on just about everyone. Estevez
He felt his body shrivel and waste in her embrace.
“Please,” he begged through dried up lips.
“Time to squeeze out the last few drops of pleasure,” she sighed.
The cushioned hoop of the opening gripped the sides of his wasted body and slowly gulped him down into the pitcher. His last sight was the perfect beauty of her face as the opening closed shut above him.
A figure could be seen weakly struggling within her closed pitcher. The walls contracted once, twice, three times. The struggles ceased. Three bulges, larger than the others, travelled up the vine.
The girl gave an unearthly sigh and closed her eyes in contentment.
* * * *
“I couldn't go through with it,” Chris said to the taxi driver as he walked towards the exit. “The other guys might be getting the fuck of their life right now, but...I don't know, it just seemed wrong.
“I mean lost souls from hell that look like girls crossed with pitcher plants. That's too fucking weird for me.
“I bet you've heard all this before. Other guys must have backed out. Right?”
Chris turned back to the taxi driver, just in time to see the man swing a thick metal pole at his head. His eyes widened in horror and then the pole connected, shattering his skull. His body fell to the floor and twitched spasmodically.
“Would have been better for you had you got in one of those pitchers,” the taxi driver muttered. “At least your last moments would have been filled with pleasure.”
He picked up the ankles and dragged the twitching body away.
His precious girls always had a need for fresh compost.
Hookah'ed
Koontz was a useless decadent fat fuck, Bachman decided as he slipped out of his room in the dark hours of the morning. How the greasy slab of lard had ever gained control over the west side was a mystery to him.
Well it wouldn't be a mystery for long, Bachman thought as he checked the corridor outside.
It was empty. Bachman wasn't surprised. Security was a joke. He hadn't seen a guard since he'd left his car and been shown into the building. At the door he'd been greeted by Koontz personally. It had taken nearly all of Bachman's composure not to laugh out loud. Koontz was short, pudgy and had the pasty complexion of someone who hadn't been on speaking terms with the sun for years. Even though it was evening he was wearing shades with glittery gold frames and nothing else other than red silk pyjamas. He looked like the bastard offspring of Hugh Heffner and Ozzy Osbourne. The image was completed by the two Penthouse Pet wannabes dangling off either arm.
This was the man that supposedly controlled the whole of the west side?
For a man in his position Koontz was either supremely confident or insanely blasé. Every person Bachman had encountered in the business had no illusions about what needed to be done to stay in the business. When you met them on their turf you could guarantee there'd be a guy round every corner with a gun tucked in their jacket. These were dangerous times, with a lot of desperate punks willing to go to extreme measures to make a name for themselves.
While other bosses had turned their homes into fortresses Koontz had turned his into the Playboy mansion. Instead of guards the place was full of ho's. Sure they looked hot, Bachman had thought as they'd brought him drinks during the lavish dinner, just like they'd stepped off a Vegas stage, but he doubted they'd be much use should any of Koontz's guests suddenly break out an uzi and start spraying.
Not that Bachman was complaining too much. It made his job a lot easier.
Carlito Estevez had hired Bachman because the boss was in a slight bit of trouble. One of his underlings had fucked up and allowed sensitive information to fall into the wrong hands. Things were about to get very hot for Estevez and the boss had decided he needed some leverage.
It was common knowledge that Koontz had dirt on just about everyone. Estevez
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