Last Kiss

by Jessica Clare

  “She’s eager,” Emile comments as I tug at Vasily’s boxers and release his cock to open air.

  My hands wrap around his length and my mouth goes to the crown, hiding it from the gaze of the others. I feel Vasily’s thighs tense under me, and that small motion tells me that I have his attention. A moment later, his hand returns to my hair, stroking it. “She is.”

  “And you don’t share?” Emile asks again as my tongue licks at Vasily’s cock. The crown of him is dripping with a thick, warm liquid that’s slightly salty against my mouth. I should be revolted by this. I don’t like other people’s bodily fluids. But feeling those little shivers moving through Vasily that he’s fighting so hard to hide? Those encourage me and I continue to lick him. The taste is strong but not unpleasant.

  “No hand but mine,” Not-Vasily says casually, but I hear the steel behind his words. “I did not come here to talk about my slave, though. I came to discuss art.”

  “Ah. Right.” I hear someone slurp a drink. Then, the sound of another buckle. “Come, Bella. Learn from Karen. Take me in your mouth.”

  “Yes, master.”

  A pause. Then a grunt. “Good girl. So, Dmitri. Any period in particular catch your eye? Are you a fan of sculpture? Pottery? What sorts of things are you looking to acquire?”

  “Paintings.”

  There is a hint of strain in his voice, just soft enough that I catch it. I nuzzle against his cock. It feels huge and hard in my hands, and throbbing with heat and life. I wonder if I can take all of him into my mouth, and I open my mouth wider and rub him along my tongue, sliding him toward the back of my throat. I moan when his hand presses lightly against the back of my head, encouraging me. Am I supposed to love this? Because I do. I know he’s clean here—Vasily showers twice a day and he always smells of soap. Even now, my nose can pick out notes of the lavender-scented soap on his skin, and I suck harder, then swirl my tongue around the head of his cock. I have no guide but his hand on my hair, his thighs pressing against my breasts to tell me if I’m doing things right or not. I’ve never practiced fellating a man. It’s not a skill I thought I needed to brush up on. But as I do this, I realize I want to learn the best way to proceed.

  It’s clear I need to research for our next time so I can improve things.

  His hand tightens on my hair and I feel another little shudder move through him. God, I love that. I’m rubbing my breasts against his legs as I lick and suck at his cock, and I’m hopelessly turned on. I know there are two other people in the room—maybe more—but I don’t care. Vasily’s the only one in my blinder-covered bubble, and he’s the only one I mean to please. Karen doesn’t care if anyone else is watching. She only wants to please her master.

  I have to admit, I’m enjoying pretending to be Karen.

  The men are talking business again as I work my mouth on Vasily. He’s able to hold a conversation with Emile and they discuss works of art. Emile has a Cézanne in residence if Vasily is interested. I nuzzle at a thick vein on the underside of Vasily’s cock, and my fingers brush against the soft skin of his sac. The hair here is crisp, like on his legs, and for some reason, it makes me want to put my hand in my panties again. I know I’m impossibly wet; I can feel my flesh sliding against itself when I press my thighs together, but I don’t want to be told no again.

  So I concentrate on making Vasily come. I twirl my tongue around the head of his cock as he speaks, and I feel the deep notes of his voice in his skin. No, he tells Emile. He’s not interested in Cézanne. He’s looking for something more classical. More Renaissance. Does he have any pieces like that?

  Emile asks if Dmitri has a favorite. The head of his cock butts against the back of my throat and I moan, because realizing how deep he is in my mouth is making me wet all over again. I release the suction on his cock and lick him for a bit, and he takes one of my curled hands and guides it, showing me how to stroke him. I’m a fast learner, and soon I’m pumping him with one hand and sucking on the head of his cock with the other.

  Dmitri is a fan of the masters, he tells Emile. Raphael. Da Vinci. Van Eyck. Caravaggio. Big names. He’s willing to pay big for these, too.

  Emile hasn’t had one of those come through in a while, he says in an almost musing voice. A Caravaggio last spring but he sold it to a private collector. Someone in Venice.

  Vasily’s entire body tenses. I think something is wrong, but then he pushes on my head, hard, and his cock goes to the back of my throat. I eagerly take him and suck, wanting to please him, and something hot spurts against the back of my throat. He’s so far in I can’t taste anything. Fascinating! My throat works reflexively, and I’m swallowing his semen before I can even think to ask if I should.

  He’s entirely silent as this happens, but I feel the tremble in his thigh muscles that tells me that he’s not unaffected. I’m rather pleased that I’ve made him come, and I lick him over and over, still pleased with myself. I wonder if I can get him to come again if I keep licking. I’m pretty sure I orgasmed more than once on the plane and maybe Vasily can, too—

  “Enough, Karen,” he tells me in a low voice. His fingers caress my cheek and then he begins to fasten his pants.

  I resist the urge to pout, and slowly pull away from him, resuming my spot at his feet. I feel hollow between my legs, like I need something there. I’m aching and wet and unfulfilled, and for a moment, I feel sad and neglected. I lick my lips and taste him on my mouth, and then I lick them again to keep tasting him.

  I’m still licking my mouth and thinking about making him come again when his voice cuts through my thoughts. “So, Emile, I need the name of the man you sold the Caravaggio to.”

  “My clients are utterly confidential,” he says. “I’m offended that you would ask.”

  “You may be offended,” Vasily says. “And you should know that I am prepared to remove each finger from your hands, one at a time, until I get my answer.” He pauses and then adds, “With pliers.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  VASILY

  Emile laughs, believing my threat to be a poor attempt at humor, but at my continued impassive stare, his laughter turns to a small cough and then silence.

  “Dmitri, this is not how I do business. My type of service relies on discretion, and obviously you know this or you wouldn’t be here. What is it that you want? I can procure anything . . . and not just art.” He dips his head toward Naomi, who’s leaning softly against my leg.

  “Tell me,” I command. Naomi’s hands are gripping my thigh. She needs attention and I’m anxious to conclude my business. Individuals like Emile are parasites. They do nothing but siphon money off unsavory deals. They take no risk and expect only reward. He does not even appreciate his good fortune.

  As his pet works him with her mouth, he could not be more unaffected. Ennui is set in the lines of his face, the ones that have had the temerity to creep in after his latest round of plastic surgery. The only real interest he showed was when Naomi’s head moved in my lap even though it was doubtful he could see much.

  “Boys, girls. Anything really. I’m starting to develop a nice stable of bacha bazi. I could get you a toy you’d both enjoy. I find the small, delicate ones nice although there are those who like the strapping young men. It’s amusing, I suppose, to see them wear the female dress and kohl their eyes. It’s not my preference.” Emile’s eyes light up with remembered pleasure.

  So careless he is with his words as if he is untouchable. As if kidnapping and pederasty is so commonplace that he can speak of it as if it is no different from ordering espresso at the coffee bars.

  “Chai boys? A woman for children, a boy for pleasure.” I repeat the grotesque expression that the depraved use so casually. I’m careful, so very careful, that my voice does not display my rage at his mention of the chai boys.

  The light in his eyes touches his lips as they curve upward in true delight. No wonder the girl in his lap does not move him. “Yes, exactly.” He moves forward, brushing the girl to the side. “Th
e rise of the Afghan lords and the fall of the Taliban have made it easier to commoditize the bacha bazi trade, and it is far more lucrative than girls. Everyone has girls these days, but trained pleasure boys are rare. So many of the villages still have their boys, and they are careless with them, realizing too late how valuable they are.”

  Carefully I inhale. I cannot kill Emile yet. Not until he divulges the identity of the buyer. But I can hurt him. Reaching down, past Naomi’s plush, warm body, I pull out my knife.

  “I’m sorry, Karen, but I need your mask for a moment.” Standing to my full height, I order her into the chair. And then I drag Emile by the back out of his. “I do not like the way you conduct business.”

  “Wh-what are you doing?” he shrieks, and then cries out in pain as I slam him against the wall. The knife slides over the bone of his shoulder to pierce the layers of expensive fabric and pin him to the wall. His shock renders him immobile, and I use the moment of surprise to shove the mask inside his mouth. The girl begins to weep. I’m going to need to muffle her, as I know the sounds will bother Naomi. Ripping the tablecloth off the table, I use my other knife to tear the cloth into strips.

  “I’m sorry, but we cannot have you making noise for us,” I tell the girl as I wrap the gag around her mouth. Setting her out in the middle of the room where I can keep an eye on her, I bind her feet to her hands. It’s a less restrictive pose than she’s likely ever done for Emile. Satisfied, I look at Naomi. “Would you like to go to the restroom?”

  She shakes her head. “No, why would I?”

  Allora as the Italians would say. Turning back to Emile, I pull out my gun. The silver blade is wet with his blood and creating an ever-widening dark stain on his suit. Soon the blood will seep onto his shirt. For someone soft like Emile, the cut through tendon and bone must seem excruciating. He can’t stop moaning around the fabric.

  “Enough,” I say. Raising the gun, I shoot the fleshy part of his thigh. The gun’s suppressor muffles the sound, but we all hear the bullet making contact with his flesh as well as his high-pitched keening that escapes even the gag I’ve stuffed in his mouth.

  “I will continue to shoot you in various places until you tell me what I want. I will shoot your other thigh and your kneecaps. I will shoot your penis and your balls along with your eyes. This gun has twelve more bullets. How many more would you like in your body before I release you?”

  He is crying now. Snot and spit are bubbling around his face in a disgusting fashion. While I am not germophobic or mysophobic as Naomi would say, even I find his appearance off-putting. A glance at Naomi reveals that she is revolted by this.

  “I might have been able to find the buyer,” she said with a frown. “But that other guy’s records aren’t kept on a computer. He must have them written down. If they were digitized, I’d have found them.”

  “It is a good reason to go paperless, Emile. You would not have ever met Karen and me, and this unhappy little tête-à-tête would not need to have occurred. Now, you fucking pederast, I want to know who has my Caravaggio.” I slap him hard to dislodge the spit-soaked mask, and then push the rest of it out with the barrel of my suppressor. He pisses his pants as the gun barrel enters his mouth.

  “This is really disgusting,” Naomi says. “Like the most disgusting thing ever. Can you bleach the gun? Also the bottom of your shoes? I think those soles are leather and it will soak up his urine. You should throw those away, Vasily.” She claps her hands over her mouth realizing she has called me by my true name.

  Emile closes his eyes as if accepting his demise. He will not leave here alive. “You have two options. You die a slow and painful death.” I pull out a syringe. “This is curare. It leaves you paralyzed. I will shoot you in the gut and then inject you with the drug. It will take hours for you to bleed out and all the while you will not be able to call out for assistance. It is not unlike what you use on the boys you steal and sell. Instead of curare, you use fear, possibly punishment, to keep them silent and subservient. They have no voice. You have taken it. And they bleed to death internally from the heart and soul wound. So your true death should be in this fashion. Only you do not suffer years of torment as they. Only hours. Even in death you get a better bargain. But if you tell me the name of the buyer, then I will shoot you between the eyes and the suffering will be over. You can then face judgment from the higher powers. What will it be?”

  “It is in Venice,” he cries. “I know not the identity of the buyer. There was another intermediary. His name is Marco Cassano. He owns a mask shop along the Dorsoduro. Please, there must be something you want that I can give you. You do not know all of the information I hold or all the things I can procure for you. I am skilled. I promise. I will help you find the owner. I will. I know Marco very well. You cannot get to him without an introduction. I can provide that.”

  “I do not want the help of a rapist of boys. Cover your ears, Naomi.” I shoot him then. A bullet right between the eyes. It does not feel satisfactory at all, so I shoot him again in the penis, wishing I had done that first. Riffling through his pockets, I find his wallet and a small leather-bound book. Inside there are transaction records, coded with the use of initials. No doubt Naomi could crack the code from the time it takes us to leave this place until we return to the Hassler. Turning back to the young girl, I unbind her.

  “Remove your clothes,” I instruct. Turning to Naomi, I say, “Take off the robe, shoes, and pearls. You will need to exchange with her. Put my jacket on; there are slip-ons for you in the pocket.”

  She does so without protest. Anything that can touch her skin is from my body or new. I’m beginning to know her quirks, and it is easy enough to accommodate them. After all, where will I find another who will not flinch when I torture and then kill another in front of her? I did not joke earlier when I said she was the woman for me. I cannot tear my eyes away as she pulls off the diaphanous robe, leaving her standing there with the boned corset forming a tiny waist and pushing her lush breasts high on her chest. She looks like a very naughty bride.

  My blood is burning again, but it is not from anger or rage, but adrenaline and thick, hot desire. Some would label me as sick for being aroused after killing a man, but I know Naomi would not. She would understand that the hormones released in my body would spike and fuel a passionate response.

  I may not be able to trust her, but I want her. I may even need her.

  “Come,” I say thickly, holding out my hand. “We must go.”

  “Are we still in danger?”

  “No, we are not, but you are.”

  Her eyes widen and someone, maybe her or maybe the girl, sucks in her breath. The girl shrugs on Naomi’s expensive things. I gesture for her to rise and come to me so I can fasten the pearls. She looks nothing like Naomi, but in the dark light and the smoky environs of the club, only the clothes will be remembered. The clothes and the pearls. “Take what you want of his. There are nearly two thousand euros in his wallet. All is yours but remember, if there is a whisper of this night that seeps out into the wind, I will know it is from you and I will hunt you down and make a night with Emile seem like a paradise. Do you understand me?”

  She nods. Holding my hand out for Naomi, I dip my head. “Then go and enjoy your freedom.”

  Naomi tucks her hand in mine, and we exit out of the room and then wind our way through the club, up the stairs, and onto the street. The scene we leave replays in my mind. Naomi’s actions and my welcoming of her touch puzzle me. I cannot decipher my own feelings, but Naomi has no compunction sharing hers if asked.

  “Why is it that you touched me in the club?”

  “I wanted to,” she says simply. “Didn’t you like it?”

  Like it? Such an American word. Russians would say it was pleasant, but her mouth on my cock was more than merely pleasing, it was . . . exhilarating. I set it aside for now, unwilling to examine the event further, for it evokes strange emotions inside.

  “We will walk for a while, and then I wil
l find a cab and we will return to the hotel,” I tell her. She keeps her hand tucked in mine as we maneuver down the short cobblestone alleyways, skirting the main roads as we move north toward the Hassler. The air cools my body and eases the fierce ache in my loins.

  “What is a chai boy? Your leg stiffened when he mentioned it.”

  I stiffen now. “It is not uncommon in some central and southern Asian countries, although the practice has spread beyond those regions, to take young boys—very young boys—and train them in the arts of . . . sexual servitude. They are stripped of their masculinity. Some are made to dress in girls’ clothing. They are like dolls to be dressed up and used according to the whims of their owners. They are called chai boys or tea boys. Sometimes dancing boys.”

  “Always boys, though?” she asks.

  “Yes. Always boys.”

  “What was that about the Taliban? What did they have to do with it?”

  “Was there no sex trade at the Emperor’s Palace?” She seems surprisingly naïve about these matters—the secretive and unsavory nature seemed ideally suited for the deep web marketplace she developed and ran at the behest of her now-dead captor Hudson.

  “No, I wouldn’t do it. I’d delete those requests and ban the accounts. I never told Hudson and he didn’t notice because all of the other money we were making.”

  I nod, thinking of her days spent in the basement of Hudson’s, trying to protect who she could with simple strikes of her fingers against the keys. She was far more brave than she realizes or can even admit. “The Taliban frowned on the practice of pedophilia. They were many things, but apparently rapists of boys was not one of them.”