by Sable Jordan
Sake Bomb
Sake Bomb
Midpoint
Fresh Whet INK Publishing
SAKE BOMB copyright July 2013 by Sable Jordan
ISBN: 978-0-9838946-3-6
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This book is intended for Adult Audiences. It features graphic language, sexual encounters and situational violence that may be considered offensive. Please keep your files in a location inaccessible to minors.
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Cover design copyright 2013 Sable Jordan
First Edition July 2013
A SMASHWORDS EDITION
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SAKE BOMB
By SABLE JORDAN
“I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.”
~ Carl Jung
“Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”
~ J. Robert Oppenheimer
July 22nd
Shimoda, Japan
Technically, this was a ménage à trois. Three bodies—one male, two female—one of them warm and sitting upright in a dining chair, a pair of bamboo chopsticks in hand; the other two locked in a libidinous embrace atop the dining room table…cooling.
Perhaps, then—since she was being technical—this was more voyeuristic in nature.
Her, a voyeur? She blinked, cocked her head to one side as though some truth had just been revealed. The greatest pleasure came from being in a scene—and god did she miss that—but she had to admit a thrill arced through her watching the man slide between the warrior’s legs an hour before.
Plastic wrap still clinging to the woman’s slim body….hamachi and unagi and futomaki undisturbed…guests barely gone…his pants just clear of his knees. Not a romantic coming together. Just sex, raw and rough. His hand had tightened around the warrior’s throat, squeezed and held as he thrust mercilessly into her hot cunt; relaxed just before she passed out, his hips still bucking.
The smack of his palm against her face; grunts and moans. The warrior’s silence.
Chills skated over the voyeur’s skin at the memory, and she knew her panties were soaked. The hottest scene she’d seen in a while—dominance and pain.
She would give anything to have been included. She focused on the bodies. Well, maybe not anything…
Reaching over dirty plates and glasses, she pushed the tips of the chopsticks into his pale neck and then drew back quickly. It felt… She didn’t expect it to feel like that. Stiff and elastic at the same time.
He stared back with sightless brown eyes, unfazed by her prodding. Wasabi paste stained the shoulder of his white dress shirt green, and flecks of rice dotted his silver-threaded black hair. Saliva had stopped its slow drip from his open mouth, accumulating in a small, tranquil pool right over one of the table’s many cherry blossom inlays.
The entire house was an homage to the sakura: the table, the dishes, the chairs. A mural of the tree covered an entire wall, the thin brown branches infested with tiny puffs of white and pale pink. Pretty little flowers. So very delicate and useless…
Gloved hands braced on the table’s edge, the voyeur pushed to her feet, scraping the chair legs on the hardwood floor. She touched the tapered ends of the chopsticks to the tabletop and then dragged the utensils along the surface, marring the slab of wood with a chalky white line that trailed between the many dishes holding the remnants of the feast; around the glasses rimmed red with lipstick from guests who laughed a bit too hard at their host’s jokes; around the stray slices of ginger that went flying when everyone banged a fist against the table, plunging shot glasses on shaky platforms into the tumblers below.
A good night.
Coming to the other side of the table, she stopped.
The warrior lay there, still as earth. The small body was naked save the man atop it and the occasional sashimi or nori roll now smashed against the once-peach skin. Beneath blunt cut bangs, the eyes were wide, panic-frozen orbs.
A smile curled the voyeur’s lips, and she glanced out the wall of windows across the room. Night painted the treetops black, the darkness melding seamlessly into the ocean half a mile beyond. The view would be wonderful in the light of day. She should stay a few nights. Hot baths. Warm bed. Food. Her gaze shifted to the back of the silver head. How long before someone came looking for him?
More importantly, how long before the stench became too much?
The voyeur pulled a length of yarn from her pocket and winced. She’d have to touch the body to place it. Knowing it must be done didn’t mean she was ready for it.
“What is the meaning of rope…?”
A distant memory, quickly tucked away. Squaring her shoulders, she drew the scents of ginger and seaweed deep into her lungs and then plunged the cord into the space between the table and the neck. The skin against her hand was cool, the texture not much different than a freshly gutted fish, and that thought helped her get through securing the yarn around the warrior’s slim neck. Knot tied, she centered it at the hollow in the throat and then cocked her head. That knot should have been enough, but the warrior’s empty eyes demanded more.
Something significant to honor the death of a shinsei.
Using the chopsticks, the voyeur forced the warrior’s stiffening lids down as best she could. With the mindfulness and exactitude of performing the tea ceremony, she took up the pitcher of beer and poured until a nearby glass was half full.
“Ichi.” The chopsticks went parallel over the tumbler’s mouth. One rolled off and she recovered it, placed it again. “Ni.”
Finding the carafe, she brimmed a shot glass with saké; carefully settled the drink atop the wooden utensils. It wobbled—she sucked in a quick breath—but held. Sure it was steady, she pulled away and chirped, “San.”
She raised her fist, thought better of it, and then withdrew a bit from the table to observe the scene: The disarray of dishes; the half-drawn outline of the two bodies; the red yarn at the warrior’s neck; the drink.
A glance down gave her a bird’s-eye view of the composed beverage: two concentric circles, one inside of the other. Ever so carefully, she nudged the shot glass along the chopsticks until, looking from the top, the inner circle and outer circle shared a tangent. Another precarious wobble from the smaller glass, but it once again stayed put.
Better.
One tiny move would send it toppling but like this it was perfect. Balanced.
And that was it, a fitting tribute to a great warrior and a promise fulfilled. The first of them was restored.
Soon, they would all be.
She pressed a gentle kiss to the warrior’s cold lips and then quietly left the scene.
Hours later, the voyeur gone and the bodies frozen on the table, the sake fell.
ICHI…
July 24th
Belém do Pará, Brazil
Kizzie’s back hit the wall with a thud that knocked
the wind from her lungs. Her head followed, the jolt splashing light behind her eyes. She tilted her chin up to gulp down air but he was on her in a heartbeat, lifting her until his solid chest crushed her breasts. Large hands squeezed her ass beneath the short skirt, groping and kneading frantically. Her arms snaked over his shoulders, legs wrapped tightly at his waist, leaving his stiff bulge snug against her center. He’d gone commando beneath the slacks, a detail she picked up on while dancing with him earlier. Right now, all that separated her kitty from his cock were three thin layers of material: one cotton, one baby pink lace, and his graphite-colored polyester.
He licked a path up her neck with broad sweeps of his tongue. Lids at half mast, Kizzie swept her gaze around the dark apartment. Couldn’t make out a thing. Sweat and cologne flooded her senses, the smell so strong she tasted the cheap fragrance in her mouth. There had to be a light switch somewhere nearby…
She reached out to feel along the wall but he captured her hand and brought it back around his head.
“I’m gonna,” he sucked on her neck, released it, “fuck you,” took another mouthful of skin a little higher up, “so hard, gostosa.”
Lips crushed to hers, he shoved his tongue into her mouth fast and wild, corking her snarky response and making it sound like a moan. The last thing Kizzie needed was promises. Or plans. She had one of those, and it didn’t involve speaking. Talking was for people who were going to see each other again.
That wasn’t this.
This was just sex.
Having no barometer for anything else, it was always just sex. Even with men she knew a tad longer than the one now licking the roof of her mouth like a snow cone. No commitments, no feelings, which meant no thinking about it. She didn’t want to. Kizzie had exhaustive training in detachment long before becoming a CIA agent—knew how to shut off her brain and go to a hollow place, a safe place, where the body kept moving but thought gave way to emptiness. It’d gotten her through tougher situations than this.
Without warning, a pair of intense chocolate eyes took center stage in her head, the nuisance occurring frequently since leaving Oman. She never quite got used to it, or the buzz it brought, hovering just beneath her skin… The echo of his voice in her head….
You afraid of me, Princess?
That “feeling” crap she so detested seeped in too fast to contain it, and for the first time in Kizzie’s life having this random guy pawing all over her felt…wrong. Her heart stuttered.
Shit.
Why the hell had she gone to Helsinki?
Why the hell had she come back to Belém?
Yes, Kizzie Baldwin had set foot on this stretch of land long ago. Highly trained, beautiful and impatient—time added nothing but age and experience. But the difference in years couldn’t erase what had happened here.
The last visit flashed through her mind and her breathing hitched. A different man then—tall, dark hair, fair skin nodding at a Latin ancestry somewhere closer to the trunk of the family tree. He’d made her laugh and laugh the first time since leaving The Point. And he was one of many memories she wished her lucky knife was sharp enough to whittle away. Combined, West Point and The Farm had stripped out 99% of Kizzie’s trust in humanity. He—and Belém—handily eradicated the rest.
Forget it. None of that mattered right now.
Damndest thing about forgetting: the more Kizzie tried to, the more she couldn’t. All she could do was make better memories this go-round.
Belém owed her, and she’d come to collect.
A quick head from ass extraction, Kizzie focused on the man in front of her, tried to settle into the pace of the kiss. The task was harder than his cock between her legs. Thick, slick flesh went round her mouth, rough and messy. Stroking her tongue. Lapping the inside of her cheek. All over the place and way off beat. Nothing like the slow, sensual way he moved at the club.
He’d coaxed her into dancing, dripping Portuguese in her ear like liquid fire, saying all manner of freaky things he wanted to do to her. Instead of laughing outright, she’d made a face to indicate she couldn’t hurdle the language barrier. He took her hand and, in a very no-nonsense way, guided her through the disco; spent the previous three hours rolling his hips against hers in a rhythm so hot Kizzie simply had to write her name and number in his palm when he’d asked for it.
But with his tongue’s indelicate probing of the space between her gums and lips, Kizzie now knew the joys of being licked clean by an inebriated llama. How could someone so good looking, so fancy with footwork, have zero finesse in the kissing department? This really should have ended in the elevator.
Smoothing her palm up the back of his head brought her watch high enough to see the glowing digits. 30 minutes and 38 seconds since leaving the club. She grunted thoughtfully. His hips pumped—bang, bang—and he dragged his tongue down her throat, wet and sloppy. Kizzie moaned, snagged another glance at her watch: 31 minutes, 2 seconds.
“Bedroom,” she purred, nipping his ear.
“No.” Pelvis flush with hers, he ground tiny circles against her middle. “Right here. Up against this wall like the dirty little girl you are.” He dug his fingers into her flesh and she grit her teeth. “You want it right here, don’t you, you filthy whore?”
The hold on his neck tightened a fraction. “Zio…” A warning.
“Mmm,” he hummed, clearly misunderstanding. “Love the way you say my name, namorada. And I plan,”—hip thrust—“to hear you say it,”—hip thrust—“all”—hip—“night”—thrust—“long.” The grind-and-jab became a steady bang between her legs and he went back to asphyxiating her with his tongue.
A girl had to do what a girl had to do, but this might have been a huge mistake.
His head plunged down her shirt and Kizzie clenched her abs, tipping her face up to get her mouth as far from his as possible. A pinpoint of cold touched each shoulder. The earrings. Maybe he needed a drink. Or another one. He’d downed enough cachaça earlier to drown a large island. His teeth sank into her flesh and her mouth went wide in a silent scream.
Scrub that, she needed a drink. Strong. Straight. Double. She’d have to be hammered to get nailed.
They shifted toward the door, and Kizzie prayed they were heading to the bedroom. No such luck. Clammy palms groped her ass, bunching the skirt’s material. Something solid dug into the back of her upper thigh, bringing the saliva paint job to a blessed halt.
He pulled back, tone relaying the confusion she assumed was on his face. “What’s this?”
“Beading…in the skirt.” She dragged his mouth back to hers.
He drew down the zipper of her sleeveless hoodie, and cool rushed over the tank top stuck to her skin by sweat and Belém’s humidity. Then a loud riiiiiip as he tore her tank down the center.
She really needed that drink.
“I’m gonna make you scream, Janet.” His fingers crawled up her belly and crushed her breasts with bruising force and she grit her teeth.
A loud shrill sounded from someplace in the darkness and she jumped. That ringing ended, and another noise, much closer, started up. Then a small blue square illuminated near Zio’s ear. “Alô?”
Kizzie blinked. Really? Right in the middle of things? Thank the heavens or be offended?
Arms still around his neck, Kizzie dragged a lungful of funky cologne in through her nose, checked her watch. 39 minutes, 5 seconds. This had to be a foreplay record. They should be in the bedroom already!
Zio nipped her skin between snatches of clipped, vague Portuguese. Kizzie leaned closer, giving him her neck and straining to hear the low voice on the other end of the line: “Meninos.”
Boys.
She squirmed and he shifted to keep her on the wall. Her hip brushed the switch, and light flooded the room. Squinting, she blinked a few times to get her peepers to adjust. Then her eyes bulged.
Clowns.
Everywhere.
Artwork. Pictures. Figurines. Some happy, some looking downright sadistic. Red nose
s, polka dot onesies, and floppy shoes wall-to-wall, like being in a carnival funhouse minus the fun. They lounged on the couch, lined the bookshelf, crowded the entertainment center.
All with their creepy little clown eyes fixed on her.
A chill slithered down her spine. If this was the living room….
A discreet turn of her head: Framed clowns lined the walls leading to the kitchen. She swiveled the other direction to find more going toward the bedroom. Gaudy red runners covered polished wooden floors. The door at the end of the hall was ajar, the room it led to dark. A statue stood guard just outside of it, about knee high, dressed in a suit jacket with a yellow flower in the breast pocket and a large green tie over a white shirt. Fire engine red shoes jutted from beneath brown pants, heels touching, toes pointing away. Curly orange hair, white face paint, and a big blue smile surrounded the maniacal look in its eyes. An empty serving tray rested in its upturned hand.
A clown butler.
Oookaaaay…
Since getting a teeny taste of BDSM, Kizzie tried not to judge people on their inclinations, particularly since she might lean a bit herself. But clowns? Everywhere? Too weird. If the man had clown sheets on his bed, she’d have to kill him on principle.
Slurred words pulled Kizzie’s thoughts from that poor kid in Poltergeist and his possessed toy clown. Her shoulders flattened against the wall, a firm weight shoved into her breastbone. As though each inhale was a chore and each exhale a miracle, Zio swayed left, overcorrected to the right. The phone slipped from his hand and clattered on the floor.
Grunting, he peeled away from the wall. His hold loosened and Kizzie dropped her feet, pivoted so her back was to the clown at the end of the hall.
