admit she has terrific knockers, even back in Cleveland they said so. The Richard with the dark hair is now
sticking his fingers inside her, searching for her clit, good luck, mister, the condition you’re in. He’s very hard. She has
his cock in her hand and she is stroking it pretty fiercely, hoping she can bring him off this way, get this thing over with,
go home to bed. But he’s spreading her legs now, and trying to climb into her, they’re all so fuckin stoned nobody knows how
to do diddly, except the preppie who’s licking her nipple like it’s his own mother’s.
He
knows
just
what he’s doing, and he seems to be having a nice time doing it, maybe he can come this way, she certainly hopes so, kill
two birds with one stone here.
So it must be the blond Richard who pulls the plastic freezer bag over her head.
She knows at once that she is going to die.
She knows this is going to be her worst nightmare realized.
She is going to suffocate inside a plastic freezer bag, one of those sturdy things you stuff a leg of lamb in, not the kind
of thin plastic that clings to your face, they warn you to keep away from children. No, she’s not going to die with plastic
clinging to her nostrils and her lips. Instead, she’s going to exhaust all the oxygen inside the bag, she’s going to die that
way, there’ll be no more oxygen left to breathe inside the bag, she is going to die …
“No, cunt,” he says, and takes the bag from her head and sticks his cock in her mouth.
She is actually grateful for the cock. She will accept a cock any day of the week over a freezer bag on her head, accept the
one in her mouth and the one in her hand and the one in her vagina—she always thinks of it as her vagina, it is her
vagina
, thank you, same as the vagina on a lady in London. So happy is she that the freezer bag isn’t on her head anymore, she will
even accept black Richard’s big shlong again, if he would like to bring it over right this minute. But no, black Richard seems
content to be lying there in the corner all huddled up, watching television. She wonders if she should yell over to him that
this preppie son of a bitch tried to scare her a minute ago by putting a freezer bag over her head.
“Cocksucker,” the preppie says.
And pulls the bag over her head again.
Steaming cardboard containers of coffee in their hands, the detectives climbed the six stories to the roof of Santiago’s building,
opened the fire door, and stepped outside. The city almost caught them by surprise. They almost found it beautiful. They stood
by the parapet, sipping their coffees, staring down at the lights spread below them like a nest of jewels. Darkness was fading
fast. On the far side of the roof, they could hear the gentle cooing of Santiago’s pigeons. They walked over to the coop.
The perching pigeons were hunkered down inside their gray and white overcoats.
The floor of the coop was covered with feathers and shit. Santiago was nowhere in sight.
The time was 6:53.
In three minutes, Yolande would be dead.
The preppie whose cock was in her hand a minute ago now has her by the right wrist, and the one who was fucking her has hold
of her left wrist, and now they all join in the fun, the three Richards, two of them keeping her pinned down, the third one
making sure the bag is in place over her head and tight around her neck. She is going to die, she knows she is going to die.
She knows that in a minute, in thirty seconds, in two seconds, she will run out of breath and …
“No, bitch.”
And yanks off the bag, and sticks his cock in her mouth again.
This is a game for them, she thinks. She hopes. Only a game. Put the bag on, take the bag off. They have read someplace that
depriving a person of oxygen heightens the sexual pleasure. She hopes. But then why are they calling her cunt and bitch and
cocksucker and shitface, why is one of them pushing …
“No!” she screams, but it is too
sticking his fingers inside her, searching for her clit, good luck, mister, the condition you’re in. He’s very hard. She has
his cock in her hand and she is stroking it pretty fiercely, hoping she can bring him off this way, get this thing over with,
go home to bed. But he’s spreading her legs now, and trying to climb into her, they’re all so fuckin stoned nobody knows how
to do diddly, except the preppie who’s licking her nipple like it’s his own mother’s.
He
knows
just
what he’s doing, and he seems to be having a nice time doing it, maybe he can come this way, she certainly hopes so, kill
two birds with one stone here.
So it must be the blond Richard who pulls the plastic freezer bag over her head.
She knows at once that she is going to die.
She knows this is going to be her worst nightmare realized.
She is going to suffocate inside a plastic freezer bag, one of those sturdy things you stuff a leg of lamb in, not the kind
of thin plastic that clings to your face, they warn you to keep away from children. No, she’s not going to die with plastic
clinging to her nostrils and her lips. Instead, she’s going to exhaust all the oxygen inside the bag, she’s going to die that
way, there’ll be no more oxygen left to breathe inside the bag, she is going to die …
“No, cunt,” he says, and takes the bag from her head and sticks his cock in her mouth.
She is actually grateful for the cock. She will accept a cock any day of the week over a freezer bag on her head, accept the
one in her mouth and the one in her hand and the one in her vagina—she always thinks of it as her vagina, it is her
vagina
, thank you, same as the vagina on a lady in London. So happy is she that the freezer bag isn’t on her head anymore, she will
even accept black Richard’s big shlong again, if he would like to bring it over right this minute. But no, black Richard seems
content to be lying there in the corner all huddled up, watching television. She wonders if she should yell over to him that
this preppie son of a bitch tried to scare her a minute ago by putting a freezer bag over her head.
“Cocksucker,” the preppie says.
And pulls the bag over her head again.
Steaming cardboard containers of coffee in their hands, the detectives climbed the six stories to the roof of Santiago’s building,
opened the fire door, and stepped outside. The city almost caught them by surprise. They almost found it beautiful. They stood
by the parapet, sipping their coffees, staring down at the lights spread below them like a nest of jewels. Darkness was fading
fast. On the far side of the roof, they could hear the gentle cooing of Santiago’s pigeons. They walked over to the coop.
The perching pigeons were hunkered down inside their gray and white overcoats.
The floor of the coop was covered with feathers and shit. Santiago was nowhere in sight.
The time was 6:53.
In three minutes, Yolande would be dead.
The preppie whose cock was in her hand a minute ago now has her by the right wrist, and the one who was fucking her has hold
of her left wrist, and now they all join in the fun, the three Richards, two of them keeping her pinned down, the third one
making sure the bag is in place over her head and tight around her neck. She is going to die, she knows she is going to die.
She knows that in a minute, in thirty seconds, in two seconds, she will run out of breath and …
“No, bitch.”
And yanks off the bag, and sticks his cock in her mouth again.
This is a game for them, she thinks. She hopes. Only a game. Put the bag on, take the bag off. They have read someplace that
depriving a person of oxygen heightens the sexual pleasure. She hopes. But then why are they calling her cunt and bitch and
cocksucker and shitface, why is one of them pushing …
“No!” she screams, but it is too
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