funnilingus
"I know a secret," Izabella's voice was high, sing-songish; sprightly. It irritated Theo to his core. She raised her shoulders gleefully, "I'm not supposed to tell you, and you wouldn't want to know."
"Then why you even mention it, Izzie dearest?"
"Because I know it drives you mad." It did. "And you know that I would tell you." She would.
Theo sighed hard. "No, better not, Iz. If it's about my examinations, Mademoiselle Ambroise would have kittens if she knew I was told."
A wry grin lit up Izabella's face. "Ambroise doesn't have to find out. Unless you're scared," she chuckled.
"Scared, nothing. It's called self-preservation; the woman would have my head," Theo said, slightly flustered. She adjusted his cravat and tugged at his sleeves, smoothing them.
"You do so want me to tell you, Theodore. You're positively brimming with anticipation. It's most disengaging of you," Izabella said as she took Theo's gloved hand in hers. She did so like to make the young gentleman squirm.
"Well, if you're so intent on telling me, then would you please tell me the secret?"
"Oh, now Theodore, my dear, that would be disloyal to the Academy!" She feigned some great wound, a hand on her brooch, her green eyes open wide with dramatic shock.
Theo sighed and grinned, defeated, and said, "have it your way, Izabella, my dear. Drive me mad, while you're at it."
Dom stood in the candlelight with his back to Mr Jansen.
Jansen had an air of irrepressible satisfied triumph. He stood with a hand outstretched, his thumb holding a white envelope thick with the paper inside.
"It's yours if you want it," Jansen said calmly, a broad grin on his old, waxen face. "You give me what I want, you give me your brother's whereabouts, how to find him, and I'll make sure you get more than your fare share- more even than this," he shook his right hand, indicating the envelope.
"And if I decline?" Dom was shaking, his fists were clenched and his palms were sweating. The hairs on his back and neck stood up, adding to his discomfort.
"If you decline, it will be," Jensen paused to find the right word, his pleasantness was unnerving, "unfortunate, but I don't think you'll decline. I have what you need, and I have what your poor, dear sister needs," he mocked theatrically, each word more gloating than the last. "You would be foolish not to accept."
Dom turned to the old man, saw the small flames dancing in his eyes, a gleeful malice about his face. He would not succumb to that. He had read of Judas in old world scriptures. He was no Judas.
"Well if it's all the same to you, then I decline," said Dom coolly. For a moment he had actually weighed the options. He was not angry anymore, his choice was clear and made.
Mr Jansen's face did not change.
"Oh, you sweet, noble idiot," Jansen's voice betrayed his demeanor. "I had taken you for the wise brother, not the dead one," he laughed to himself, "well I suppose you'll both be the dead one soon enough; you just get a head start."
Everything about the place was ornate, garish, and brighter than any place had any right to be.
Casinos in Henderson were not a new thing, but the individual joints themselves came and went faster than anyone, save a few residents, had even cared to notice. Oftentimes they wouldn't bother laying off their staff; the buildings changed owners and names and carpets alone.
One week's BANDITO CORRAL was the next week's GOLD RUSH PARADISE, which was this week's SIN PALACE.
Always the owner would buy the casino with the hopes of making a name they could sell to the next sucker who rolled into town, looking to cut his teeth in the business before tackling Vegas. The buyer would content himself in learning the ropes- a training ground of sorts, before courting his next victim and seizing his chance to ascend the ranks.
Just as the dazzling neon lights would draw in passers-by, tourists, and gamblers, so too did the scent of money and power attract the next would-be mogul, tantalizing like so many sharks to a drop of blood. An irresistible busted flush.
With specific instructions like “do not, whatever you do, open this box,” the act of not opening the box was becoming increasingly more difficult as Cedric drove past the midnight hour. He hit the quiet interstate.
It was small, about the size of a bread box, or so Cedric imagined. He wasn’t quite sure how big a bread box was; he’d never even seen a bread box.
It looked like an ornate little treasure chest with a small latch and keyhole. It sat there, on the passenger seat, looking as tempting and irresistible as it could possibly will itself to, and Cedric passed a glance at it every so often.
“I’m not going to open you,” said Cedric, trying to convince himself more than the box. “I’m not. Now just sit tight and stop looking at me like that.”
He knew little more about his employer than he did the man in Tallahassee he was bringing the box to. It’s good money, thought Cedric, especially for a delivery job.
After another hour, he pulled off I-10 and followed the printed directions, as the box called to him, enticing him.
He ignored it with everything in him, knowing it wouldn’t be worth the risk of either the man in Tallahassee, or his employer, finding out. Idly he wondered what could be inside such an attractive unlocked box that could possibly garner such a hefty delivery fee. And why the secrecy?
With specific instructions like "do not, whatever you do, open this box," the act of not opening the box was becoming increasingly more difficult as Cedric drove past the midnight hour. He hit the quiet interstate.
It was small, about the size of a bread box, or so Cedric imagined. He wasn't quite sure how big a bread box was; he'd never even seen a bread box.
It looked like an ornate little treasure chest with a small latch and keyhole. It sat there, on the passenger seat, looking as tempting irresistible as it could possibly will itself to, and Cedric passed a glance at it every so often.
"I'm not going to open you," said Cedric, trying to convince himself more than the box. "I'm not. Now just sit tight and stop looking at me like that."
He knew little more about his employer than he did the man in Tallahassee he was bringing the box to. It's good money, thought Cedric, especially for a delivery job.
After another hour, he pulled off I-10 and followed the printed directions, as the box called to him, enticing him.
He ignored it with everything in him, knowing it wouldn't be worth the risk of either the man in Tallahassee, or his employer, finding out. Idly he wondered what could be inside such an attractive unlocked box that could possibly garner such a hefty delivery fee. And why the secrecy?
In the forest, there was a structure, old and cracked. The roof had collapsed in one place so many years ago, and the door hung from its lower hinge.
Inside was one room that might have housed a family. An iron stove in one corner, a large bed nearby, with bits of roof and debris along the rotting floorboards.
There were no bones, it was clearly abandoned. A detail that had faded from memory, like so many dead gods.
"What're y'off to, then?" Harold leaned in close. His breath stank. "Well? Y'can't jus lea'mme."
A menacing grimace had come over his reddened face, creases deepened and their highlights glistened.
Glen swallowed hard, his brow lowered. He had seen his father like this on maybe one or two occasions. He knew it was best not to reply.
"Well," Harold began, "I don'," he stammered, quite obviously beyond drunk, "I don' know what yer mother would think of you leaving here so young." Harold paused, his grimace faded, He was trying in earnest to find what he wanted Glen to know through clouds of intoxication, "an' I ain't been the best father, but I know. I know she woulda been proud of you."
Harold finished off his bottle of Smirnoff and sobbed drunkenly into his hands and slowly drifted out of consciousness. Glen went upstairs to pack his things, but not before pulling a tattered comforter over his father as he slept.
Black clouds hung above an expanse of cracked brown ad grey dirt.
Here and there a thicket of lifeless plants. Even the weeds seemed dead.
Cliffs and hills lined the horizon. The only sound was that of whistling wind and shifting dust.
Cesspools of muddy water from the last rainfall with swirling flies dwindled, barely eking out an existence in a land of death.
"Clara, what's going on?" said Michael, unable to believe his eyes. "Clara?"
She could not hear him. Her presence was strictly physical; her mind was somewhere else. This could be why she seemed unaware that she was floating just above ground, or that she seemed ignorant to the fact that she was emitting a bright light.
"Clara, please," Michael pleaded, "open your eyes!"
He tried to approach her, but the flickering light, like a brilliant, white flame, kept him back and forced him to shield his own eyes.
They lay in the desert that was once London, by the millions. Bleached from the sun, cracked and dry. Some had been trampled by scavengers, and lay in splintered ruins, others had simply become dust.
A harsh wind blew across, occasionally blowing through a ruined apartment, a wrecked car.
London, England, like human remains, was stripped of its flesh and essence. A bleached, crumbling skeleton containing bleached, crumbling skeletons.
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