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Collected by Djian
ENDING A
Despite the fact that he had spent many of his recent years in the
Bureau, behind a desk, Special Agent Lance Hender was still able to break
open the locked door with a single shove of his shoulder. Pistol in hand,
he lead three of his men into the silent waiting room of Dr. Astor's
office. He gestured two of the men through a door into what looked like an
examination room and led the other one along a hallway into the doctor's
office. He was familiar with the layout from Nikki's reports.
Nikki!
He hated it when one of his people went missing. Particularly when it
was a promising new agent like Nikki Crawford. Particularly on this kind
of assignment.
The rooms were empty. The paraphernalia of the medical practice had
been left behind, but all records, all evidence of who had been there and
what had happened had been wiped clean.
Or had it?
"Hender." He looked over. Bateman was holding up a manila envelope. It
had Hender's name scrawled on the front. "Take a look." The man looked
like he was going to throw up.
What the hell?
Hender took the envelope and looked inside. Pictures. He slid them
onto the desk and took a close look.
Oh god. Nikki!
...this kind of assignment.
He stared for a few moments, for an eternity, before slowly replacing
the pictures in the envelope. He was proud of the fact that his hands
trembled only slightly. His men gathered around, waiting for orders.
Hender looked up.
"Make a full search. Fingerprints... the works." He knew they wouldn't
find anything, but they had to try. Hender briefly allowed his mind to
skirt over the images on the pictures, just for a moment, before filing
them away in the compartment of his mind reserved for dealing with
situations where his agents went down in the field.
As usual, he would deal with it later on, by himself. At night. With
the aid of rather a considerable amount of whisky.
...this kind of assignment...
EPILOGUE
The bartender gazed sadly at the long row of glasses that needed wiping.
Sighing to himself, he picked up a grimy towel and set to work.
Really, though, he didn't know why he bothered.
People, customers... gringos... whatever, they didn't come to the
El-Maceia for the cleanliness or for the decor. The only thing that saved
the club from looking like a complete pest hole was the fact that the
lighting was usually kept low enough to shroud the general shabbiness of
the place in a forgiving darkness. Likewise, they didn't come for the
booze. Sure, they served all kinds of alcohol at the El-Maceia, but so did
lot's of other places. And, if you didn't mind cheap Mexican beer, most
other places were less expensive too. No, they came for one reason and one
reason only, sex. Not only did the El-Maceia boast an infamous whorehouse,
with, incidentally a large number of white skinned Americano girls from up
north, but it also ran the raunchiest live sex show in all of Mexico.
Or so said the rep.
On the well lit stage, the club's newest act, a mother and daughter
team, performed the first of their three shows for the evening. Only a
week into their run, they were already a big hit, particularly the
daughter, with her curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes.
Well... not so bright anymore.
The current part of the act featured the mother fucking her daughter's
ass with a large dildo. A man, their 'keeper', stood behind her,
whispering gringo words that most of the customers didn't understand,
"bitch... whore... slut." Whatever the words, they seemed to drive the
woman wild. (But, then, it was always like that with the doctor's
merchandise.) She groaned and panted with lust as she drove the gigantic
cock deep into her daughter's ass hole. The girl was obviously in a lot of
pain, unlike the mother, she wasn't being sexually aroused, but she had
been trained not to show it. She almost succeeded too, with her large,
fake smile and hoarse panting. The second show involved caning and a
display of lesbian action culminating in a long, hot 'sixty-nine'.
It was the last act, however, the one with the dogs that really got the
customers going. The keeper figured that these two had a good six months
in them, before they would have to be 'retired' to a mining camp, somewhere
in the interior. Six months of packed houses and satisfied customers.
The bartender, who also owned the club, smiled at the thought.
Meanwhile, his new waitress was kneeling under a table, sucking hungrily
at a customer's cock. She was also quite new, having arrived in the same
shipment as the performers. It was her job to prance about, naked except
for high heels and two shiny, silver badges marked 'FBI' stuck permanently
through her nipples (She had arrived like that. No one believed that she
was really a member of the FBI, but everyone agreed that the badges looked
good, despite covering her nipples), from table to table, taking orders
and, when requested, sliding under the table to relieve the customer's
sexual excitement.
Unlike the two on stage, this one had put up a bit of a struggle. It
wasn't until after a couple of sessions with the cane and one memorable
night with the tailor's donkey, that her spirit finally broke. Now, with
her shiny bright badges glittering on her chest and vacant please-fuck-me
bimbo smile on her face, she was a huge hit with the customers, usually
servicing a score of them nightly.
The bartender kept her chained naked at the foot of his bed at night.
On stage, the act reached it's climax, the mother screaming out in
uncontrollable ecstasy, as her keeper said the magic word. The club,
packed as usual, erupted into a cacophony of applause and catcalls, and the
stage was showered with money. Still on her knees, the waitress crossed to
another table and started work on another cock.
Another good night at the El-Maceia.
The bartender smiled again. And there were still two shows to go...
THE END
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