Snippet #2032569

The Catcher and the Hound – Rough Days Are Rollin'

She'd seen her fair share of brothels, dingy little love shacks, and grossly overpriced prostitute stations. The smell of incense was thick and heavy in the air – to hide the musky smell of sweaty bodies, sickly odours and heavy-petting activities. Inside, a husky servant mutely offered takes their coats and hats, proffered hands sweeping outward, until nothing dropped into his fingers. Mutual stares of aggression sent him backtracking behind the wooden desk like a scuttling crab. A dozen screens displayed a variety of girls: blondes, redheads, brunettes, with skin of almost every hue. Some were nude; others had cheaply made oriental costumes. Most of them were alone, quietly, silently, obediently waiting. Some sat demurely; others display themselves in poses that made the Iron Mistress screw up her eyes in consternation. Breasts bared and thighs jiggling with slow, methodical movements.

“Tweak some nipples and see what happens, boys – let's get in, get the fuck out, and enjoy ourselves. It's not every day I catch one of my own being naughty.”

The Iron Mistress nodded, gesturing idly, before stepping aside so that Solo could take the lead. Even she could admit that she wasn't familiar with this place – didn't know the ins or outs of the hallways or where, exactly, that little slime bag would be squatting. Invincible, untouchable. She felt an electrifying thrum pulsing down her forearms, thick as syrup in her veins. She was raw. She was explosive. She worked on gut instinct, winding together like well-oiled cogs: decisively cruel. As a child – it was what she lived for. Climbing trees and breaking bones, riding bikes into poles and grazing knees. She liked action, liked adrenaline rushes. The bubble-popping receptionist only curried her renewed aggression, callow and coarse. Her thoughtfully allocated steps brought her in front of the desk. Instead of resorting to passive conversation like Solo had, the Iron Mistress slapped the bronze key from the lady's manicured fingers and grabbed her chin, pulling forward, hard. The woman's eyes bulged hotly: half from surprise, half from the stripling fear that she'd be forced to carry out the command while her face was captive: “Best swallow that gum, tits.”

The wrinkled woman swallowed thickly. The Iron Mistress smiled, leaning across the chipped wooden desk, artfully decorated with pen scrapings and heart-encircled names, until she finally released her with a final cheek-pat. She snatched up the fallen key, pinching it between her fingertips as if she were dangling a bone in front of a dog. This was going to be a beautiful, sweaty, messy prize. She tipped her head forward, ushering them to fall in behind her. Graceful, as always. Even if she wasn't particularly known for her precautions, she didn't feel like throwing it all in the wind and getting caught with her panties down. Her steps, while calculatingly slow, seemed to avoid the creaking planks and possible rotting areas – and her blood, her blood sang the closer they came. It was in the twist of her lips. It was the way she unconsciously cradled the hilts of her throwing daggers, strapped disconcertingly across her upper thigh. There it was: his door. Was he waiting? Was he blubbering in the corner?

He would kneel.