Sex and Murder

by Douglas Allen Rhodes

  We left the bus behind in a town called Marysville and checked into a nearby Ramada, a nice enough hotel, clean and spacious. We were both more than glad to have a place to settle in and relax.

  After we’d showered and I’d ordered some pizza, we turned on the tube and sat back to catch a little of the local flavor. Channel 6, the NBC affiliate, ran a story about a strip club in town that had caused a bit of an uproar in a local chapter of the Religious Right, causing their preacher to go on the warpath. We watched for a few minutes until the Little Caesar’s sausage and cheese arrived and we got down to some serious eating, flipping the channel to HBO.

  After a while, we set the remains of the pizza on the table and propped ourselves up against the headboard of the bed, using our pillows for support. Natural Born Killers was the movie of the night, so we settled in to watch it.

  We watched it up until the scene where Mickey and Mallory exchange marriage vows on the bridge. They traded rings, and Rachel turned to me.

  “You know, we need some new rings now.”

  She was right. Of course, we’d left our originals behind on the hands of our body doubles in order to increase the realism.

  “We’ll go shopping for some tomorrow,” I said.

  “How?” she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm “We don’t have but a little over a grand left, and I ain’t wearing some zirconium bullshit.”

  I smiled at that, because she’d nailed it again—our funds were rather limited.

  “What do you propose we do for some more cash?”

  “Well,” she smiled her impish smile again, “I was thinking that we could pay a house call on that preacher from the news.”

  “Kill a preacher?” It seemed like the last thing she’d propose.

  “Oh, come on. I’m not even going to mention how much of an oxymoron you are. We’re not talking about some selfless man of God here. This is the local rabble-rouser trading off people’s faith and fear to gain money and power.”

  “Ok, ok, so he’s not what he claims. Still, I don’t like the idea of killing a preacher. There’s something unholy about it.”

  “Well,” she said, “how’s this: what if we turn it into a statement? Y’know, really give it a visible meaning.”

  From there, she went on to detail a plan so beautiful, so inspired, it left me breathless. I couldn’t wait for her to finish telling me her plan so that I could agree to it and get her naked. It seemed I waited forever, but, after she finished, the result was worth the wait.

  The next day, we got up around ten and called a cab to take us to the local mall. We shopped for a couple of hours. Rachel bought several new outfits and at least as many pairs of shoes, as well as a garment bag. For my part, I bought two pairs of cords and three shirts. Also a new hat. For one of her outfits, Rachel picked up a carefully chosen ensemble, put together especially for the night’s work we’d planned. Just seeing her pick it out made me horny.

  We caught a movie (Fight Club), ate some Chinese food for lunch, and headed back to the hotel room.

  I’d taken a moment during our shopping to grab some comic books. While Rachel got ready for the evening, I read through them, the best being a JLA (no surprise there), an issue from the Day of Judgment storyline (where Hal Jordan becomes the Spectre). It was beautiful, pure DeMatteis perfection.

  By the time I’d finished them, Rachel had showered, perfumed, and dressed. She walked out of the bathroom wearing the special outfit she’d picked up earlier—a tight, pleated, plaid mini-skirt and a girl’s white dress shirt. She’d put her hair up into pigtails. Knee-high white stockings covered her legs, and new saddle shoes graced her feet.

  The smell of Eternity filled the room and, combined with the sight of her, knocked my breath from me like a Mike Tyson punch.

  “Do you like?” she cooed.

  I closed my gaping jaw and nodded in appreciation. “That’ll do the trick,” I said, my voice hoarse.

  “Ya think so?” she asked, sauntering towards me.

  I nodded again as she reached me. She pushed gently on my chest to lean me back and undid my pants, pulling them down to my knees. Taking me in her hand, she kneeled and placed my cock in her mouth. I moaned, let my head loll back on my shoulders, and closed my eyes.

  Visions of death overran my mind while my excitement reached a fevered pitch. I thought of what the night held for us and of the blessed slaughter to come. I liked the thought of it, liked the way it punctuated each of Rachel’s movements with the promise of blood and murder.

  Over and over I ran through the night’s plans, sometimes stopping to fawn over some certain piece of it, until the blood lust overwhelmed me and I came.

  She continued massaging me after I’d come, capturing the final moments of our sexual encounter. Finished, she rose and smiled in that seductive manner that a woman is only able to achieve after giving head, and struck her best Daddy’s Little Girl pose.

  “Babydoll,” I panted, “you are amazing.”

  “I’m glad you like.”

  “This is gonna go over without a hitch. No one’ll ever be able to resist you in that.”

  She giggled and spun a half turn, lifting her skirt to reveal her white thong panties.

  “You better stop,” I joked, “or we’ll never leave this room.”

  “Oh, no.” She turned serious. “We’ve got to go through with tonight. It’s too perfect a plan to waste.”

  “Well, then, let’s call a cab and get moving.”

  Dropping her skirt and giving me a pouty little look, Rachel strolled over to the phone and dialed up a cab.

  She called the cab at around five, but it wasn’t until close to six that it finally arrived. During the wait, we rehashed our strategy a few more times, finessing each individual detail until we were sure we had it perfect.

  It was a hell of self-denial to sit on the bed next to her while she looked like she did and discuss the orgiastic death scenes we’d envisioned. I sifted through the phone book for a while to take my mind off of her and changed into the clothes that I wanted to wear that evening.

  By the time the cab’s horn sounded, we’d grown far past restless and I had my face buried deep between her thighs.

  * * * * *

  We parted ways, each going to our own mission.

  In Catholic schoolgirl regalia and wet panties, Rachel climbed into her cab and rode off to the Midnight Cabaret. I had other work to do that night, so the only account I can give of her adventure is the one that she gave me over the following few days.

  She arrived at the strip club around six-thirty. Things were just picking up steam. She paid the five-dollar cover charge and walked to the bar for a drink.

  Stares and glares followed her every movement. Most people probably assumed she was a dancer, just getting to work. A few regulars noted the addition of a new girl. No one appeared to suspect she was a customer, let alone her reason for being there.

  Reaching the bar, Rachel seated herself between two businessmen and ordered a Screwdriver. Some of the patrons’ gazes stayed on her, but most of the men turned their attention back to their immediate surroundings. All over the club, young women in various states of undress maneuvered their way through the crowd, hawking lap dances, trips to the Champagne room, T-shirts, calendars, and more.

  The desk jockey on Rachel’s right stared in open amazement, obviously realizing she wasn’t a dancer. He went to pay for her drink, but the suit on her left beat him to it. He paid the bartender without asking Rachel’s permission and introduced himself as Craig.

  Rachel smiled at him, ran the tip of her tongue across her lips, inserted her drink’s straw into her mouth, and let her smile travel up to her eyes as she drank.

  “Why, thank you, Craig,” she purred, finishing her sip. “I just love a man who knows how to take charge.”

  By this time, every man in the club—and most of the dancers—had noticed (or had it pointed out to them by a friend) that Rachel wasn’t any sort of an employee. Th
at made the men happy, but the dancers glared at her intrusion, resenting anyone who would come into their club and give away what they were working so hard to sell.

  The music grew louder, signaling the start of the next routine. An unseen DJ urged, “Give it up for…the finest southern belle to ever grace a hayloft…Tiffany!”

  Tiffany strutted out on stage. Rachel disengaged herself from the bar and her recent benefactor and moved toward a seat at the front of the stage. Eyes that should have been fastened on Tiffany turned instead to see just what Rachel, this fantasy come to life, would do next. Tiffany took it all in stride. Never missing a beat, she teased off her red-and-white polka dot shirt, revealing the matching bra and beautiful breasts beneath.

  Rachel sat at the front of the stage in an empty area and watched the show in open appreciation. Soon after she settled in, every chair around her filled. Still, her gaze remained on Tiffany, even while the questions and invitations started coming in.

  Up on stage, Tiffany slid out of her Daisy-Dukes using the seductive skill of a professional. She kicked them behind her as the second song of her set began. Much of the audience’s attention focused on Rachel, but Tiffany didn’t seem fazed. Maybe she knew that even though Rachel had distracted the customers, there were still plenty of her own admirers in the crowd, ready to make her routine worthwhile. One of those fans held up a dollar. Tiffany danced to where he sat and kneeled in front of him. She leaned away, presenting her body for inspection while she thrust her hips forward in time to the beat of the song. Her admirer lingered, lustfully treasuring his dollar’s worth of attention. Having gotten all he would, he slipped the bill into the side strap of her G-string.

  Tiffany worked on the removal of her bra. Drunken fists raised skyward, dollars in hand, the men hoping to purchase their instant of affection and control. Finally, having reached the point where only her long-promised exposure would bring any more tips, Tiffany unhooked her bra and slid it off, allowing her breasts to spring forth from their confinement.

  Howls and hoots ripped through the crowd, and a fresh offering of dollars appeared in the air, the occasional five-spot flagging down Tiffany’s attention. Moving to the nearest of the Lincolns, she rubbed her hands over her breasts, mashed them together, and twisted her nipples. One hand ran down to trace between her legs.

  Rachel reached into her shirt and pulled a fold of bills from her bra. She extracted a ten from the roll and held it up high, waving it at Tiffany and eliciting cheers of approval from the crowd around her.

  The noise of Rachel’s crowd drew Tiffany’s attention, then she caught sight of the ten. On her back, her long, shapely legs spread wide and her ankles above her head, Tiffany rolled forward and crawled, cat-like, to where Rachel waited, Alexander Hamilton in hand. She reached the edge of the stage, kneeled in front of Rachel and her cronies, and snaked her body back and forth, massaging her breasts.

  Rachel looked straight at her face and locked eyes with her like a lover.

  Tiffany blushed and, pouting her lips, stared back at Rachel. She placed the tip of her finger into her mouth, and, withdrawing it, traced it down her neck to her breasts, and farther down to her navel, until finally plunging it inside her G-string. It seemed she didn’t want to be outdone at her own game.

  Men roared in excitement, yelling commands, pleadings, and the occasional witless joke.

  Driven on by the cheers to push the envelope even further, Tiffany withdrew her hand and brought it forward, offering her finger to Rachel. Without a second’s hesitation, without letting her gaze leave Tiffany’s, Rachel smiled and parted her lips. Her tongue slipped out to greet Tiffany’s finger and lead it back between her lips and into her mouth.

  The bar exploded. Applause and cheers erupted from everywhere. Rachel extended the money in her hand and ran it along the length of the stripper’s body. She brushed the bill across Tiffany’s breasts and stomach, finally tucking it into the front of her G-string.

  Tiffany’s gaze, full of shock, defeat, and something more, stayed fixed on Rachel, unable to break free from the dominating hold of her stare, until, without warning, Rachel turned from her, unceremoniously presenting her back to the dancer as the final notes of her second song ended.

  “Would somebody like to get me another Screwdriver?” she asked, fixing her gaze on the men around her.

  On every side of Rachel, men screamed over each other and raised their hands like schoolboys, each fighting for the privilege of buying her next drink. She smiled and looked from face to face.

  “Hmmm now,” she teased. “How about…you?”

  Her gaze rested on a handsome young guy, and she raised her hand to point him out. He smiled a broad, practiced smile and jabbed a thumb into his chest. Rachel nodded and playfully shoved him towards the bar, turning back after he’d left to face the stage again.

  For the next few hours she played her game again and again, drinking for free, and being generous with her tips. Several different times she paid for lap dances—much to the enjoyment of the men she strung along—and she fast won the women over too.

  Much later, Tiffany returned to the stage, sauntering from behind the curtain in leather and chains. Rachel decided to make her move. She clapped in excitement and sat forward to show interest in the routine. Tiffany strolled up to her. Their gazes locked. Tiffany bent down to Rachel and extended her hand in an open invitation for Rachel to come up on stage.

  Rachel’s smile widened, and she accepted the challenge. She held onto Tiffany’s hand, even after she climbed onstage. With a sudden jerk, she pulled the stripper close and ran her free hand down Tiffany’s back and ass. Rachel flicked her tongue out to tease across the other girl’s lips.

  The crowd went wild, screaming above the music, whistling and catcalling.

  Tiffany lifted her hand to cup Rachel’s breast, and they kissed with undiluted passion. There they lingered for a long second, each tasting the other, until Rachel pushed the girl away and danced a few steps back. She grabbed her shirt on either side and ripped it open. Buttons flew across the stage. Her white lace bra barely contained her breasts, and they strained for freedom. She threw her shirt to the stage floor.

  Tiffany followed her lead and pulled her own shirt off. Then she one-upped Rachel and ripped her leather mini-skirt away, revealing a tiny chain-mail G-string beneath.

  Rachel laughed and flipped the back of her skirt up to give the crowd a quick and teasing glimpse. She wiggled it back down and, without further wait, unzipped the skirt and let it fall to rest around her ankles. She raised her hand and motioned for Tiffany to come to her. Like a girl in a trance, the dancer moved slowly. Rachel took her once again into her hungry embrace.

  They kissed, each running their hands over the other’s body, exploring and swaying to the music. Rachel’s hands slid around Tiffany and unhooked the clasp of her bra. The stripper followed suit, sliding Rachel’s bra off. Cheers of delight rolled over them in a wave. They stood topless, lost in the heat of their kiss. Rachel eased the dancer to the stage floor and laid her down. Spreading Tiffany’s legs wide to receive her body, Rachel lay on top of her and wrapped them around her waist.

  A moan of pleasure erupted from somewhere deep inside Tiffany, launching the crowd into new, frenzied heights.

  The two beautiful women rolled over and over on top of each other, simulating sexual positions. Minutes slipped by around them until Tiffany’s second song ended, signaling the finish of her set and the girls’ impromptu romp. All over the club the cry went up for more, but the girls gathered up their clothes and ran, hand-in-hand, backstage.

  “Oh, God,” Tiffany whispered. “I wanna fuck you so bad.”

  She reached out, but Rachel held her at bay.

  “Not here,” she told her, allowing one, all too brief kiss. “When do you get off work?”

  “I can leave right now.” Tiffany beamed.

  “Do you have to check out?”

  “Fuck ‘em. Let’s go.”

  Chap
ter Nine

  Not a bad evening, huh? Hearing about it made me wish I’d been there to see it. My job, on the other hand, held nothing so exciting. I left the hotel about an hour after Rachel did, taking the Spec Plus and walking to the nearby mall.

  For about an hour, I watched and waited for just the right opportunity until, finally, my chance came in the form of an upwardly mobile young suit fumbling with his keys and an armful of bags while he tried to open the door of his Cadillac SUV.

  No one else seemed to be in the parking lot besides us. The cool winter night lay still and dark as I walked up behind him, unsheathing my knife.

  I thrust the blade upward at the base of his skull, sending its point deep into his brain. His body twitched and convulsed in its final throes. I shoved him through the door he had just opened and over into the passenger’s seat. I pulled my knife free from his head and wiped its blade clean on the front of his shirt.

  After gathering up the packages he had dropped, I loaded them into the Caddi’s back seat, climbed into the driver’s chair, and started the truck.

  It roared to life, and the CD he’d been listening to last crooned out of the speakers. I sneered at the noise and pushed the eject button, snatching the Live CD out to prevent myself from retching at the sound of their homogenized crap. Alternative pop is as good a reason as any to want to kill someone. Sure, I didn’t know my victim was a fan when I picked him, but this proved I had good instincts about people.

  Enjoying the plush leather interior and smooth ride of the Cadillac, I drove out of town and hunted for a large pond or small lake. It’s not as easy as it sounds. By the time I found one it was near to ten p.m. I’d spent the last few hours chucking pretty much all of the fifty-odd CDs my victim had out the window—all except one.

  I kept The Mighty Mighty Bosstones album, Let’s Face It—the one with Knock on Wood on it. I figured he must have bought the album just for that song. Fuck, it’s commercial enough. Don’t get me wrong, The Bosstones are the shit, but come on, they meant that song for the radio. You’d never have caught it on the likes of Ska-core, the Devil, and More, that’s all I’m saying.