The Murdered World 7 (Patreon)

The tapped phone call was as hard on Frank as on the head guard of Angel’s estate. They both had to wait through cheesy holding music and shameless advertising until an operator was available. Frank heard the guard’s annoyed breathing as the wait stretched on and on.

He himself tried to keep busy. Applying a wig over his close-cropped hair. Contact lenses to change the color of his eyes. A fake beard and a nose appliance, all changing the shape of his face until he could be a distant relative of Frank Castle’s. Lucy watched the transformation.

“I liked your old nose better,” she said.

“I’ll be going back to it.”

“What about how shredded you are?”

He looked at her curiously.

“You look like a Navy SEAL in a recruitment commercial,” Lucy continued. “They’re supposed to think you’re a schlub, right?”

“I have a fatsuit to put on.”

“Jesus,” Lucy muttered. “You really do think of everything.”

“If I haven’t, I’ll find out fast.”

“You’re not going to put it on yet, are you?” Lucy asked, her eyes on Frank’s open shirt, heating his cobblestone abs with her admiration.

The operator finally picked up. She and the guard dickered over getting a technician sent out to restore service.

It amused Frank to think that the Mafia was much like any bureaucracy. The leadership might come and go, but there was an underclass, a servitor class, that remained constant. No matter who was let into the organization and managed to ascend, they would always find themselves relying on the core of La Cosa Nostra. Sicilians. He listened in on the Italian accent of the guard, a man who’d no doubt been dispatched from the head of the snake in Europe to ensure Angel’s operation ran smoothly. He might be following orders, but he was also insurance that Angel would always give the right ones.

Finally, the guard hung up, able to do no more than extract an assurance that the next available technician would show up between 9 and 6, weekdays, and to be sure any large dogs were brought inside or placed on a leash at the time of his arrival.

“Now what?” Lucy asked over the dial tone.

Frank shut off the tap. “Now we give it a minute.”

The silence didn’t last long. It was like Lucy had been itching to have him to herself, his attention all hers…

“Did I ever get to thank you?” Lucy asked.

“I heard how grateful you were on the news.”

“I wanted to thank you personally.” Lucy chuckled, almost to herself. “I wasn’t in much of a state to be grateful when you saved me.”

“Few would be.”

“I always thought I had some inner strength, some… rage inside me that would come out at a time like that. I’d defend myself, you know. Like a momma bear. A woman should be able to defend herself as much as a child, shouldn’t they? But I didn’t do anything.”

“Managing to pick yourself up after what happened, that’s something. A lot of people never managed it.”

“And am I?”

“You’re here. Putting yourself in danger.”

“So maybe I haven’t learned my lesson.”

Lucy casually scratched the crotch of her bikini. It fit her tightly, pulling Frank’s eyes to the lush swell of her womanhood, framed by her thighs and toned belly. He felt the beginnings of an erection, a heat in his eyes that wanted only to drink in her abundant femininity. A heat pooling in his groin…

“You defended me when I couldn’t defend myself,” she said. “So maybe there’s something I can do for you that you can’t do for yourself.”

“You’re already doing something for me.”

“Sunning myself out on the deck so that Scarface and his buddies don’t think you’re a crazed loner?”

“That’s something,” Frank assured her. “I am a crazed loner.”

The boat rolled with the tide. Lucy’s long hair swayed as the boat pitched this way and that. It reached for Frank before being pulled away.

“That’s enough waiting,” Frank said.

Lucy’s eyes lit up.

“Keep quiet. I’m making a call.”

He dialed Angel Mercader’s estate—the hack in their cell phone tower spoofing the caller ID of their internet provider. His voice he pitched into the high register of an inoffensive service industry drone, just trying to get through the day.

“Hello, is this Angel Mercader? I’m calling from Time Warner Cable—”

“Nah, this is Guido. But I’m supposed to be taking care of this internet shit for Angel.”

“Alright, Mr. Guido, we have a service technician in your area who’s had a canceled call. He could attend to your issue, if you’re at the domicile currently and able to receive a visit.”

“Yeah, yeah, send him over.”

“Thank you, sir, I’ll have him right over. You may receive a text later asking you to rate this interaction—”

Guido hung up. Frank set the phone aside.

“Now we wait long enough for it to look convincing.”

“And is there anything you want to do as we wait?” Lucy asked, taking hold of her top and pulling it down. Her full breasts emerged; Lucy pinched the tight nipples between her thumbs and forefingers.

Frank only stared at her. Waiting for her to reconsider. Waiting for her to think better of it. Because once he started with a luscious package like her, he wouldn’t be stopping. Not for anything.

Lucy pulled on her nipples, stretching them until she winced with pain. Her eyes were hooded and excited. “What are you waiting for, Frank? Aren’t you going to see how thankful I am?”

A look of sheer lust came over Frank’s eyes. Though he was stony-faced as ever, Lucy felt the desire he had for her. He threw himself against her, capturing her in his arms and kissing her full on the lips. His tongue stabbed into her mouth, pressing deep, claiming all of what he tasted and touched.

“MMMM!” Lucy moaned.

Frank’s hands explored her back, caressing the soft, warm skin and working down to the edge of her bottoms. He practically ripped through them, shoving his hand in and grabbing a supple handful of her ass.

Lucy had barely recovered from her surprise at Frank’s sudden passion, but she was already responding to it. Her hands went to work at his belt and zipper, fumbling their way to the hot erection throbbing under his fly. She fumbled at its thickness, impatient to free it.

“Get your ass up,” Frank told her brusquely, pulling her to her feet, then skinning her bottoms down the curve of her hips. Revealing her shaven pussy, a landing strip above her slit all that remained of her thatch.

Frank reached around her to palm her thick buttocks. He drove his face into her scented pubic hair.

“Ooohh!” Lucy gasped, feeling the heat of his breath on her pouting lips. His hands greedily grasped the flesh of her ass, her white, untanned buttocks dimpling between his squeezing fingers as he pulled her juicy cunt against his mouth.

“No—” Lucy choked. “Your cock—I want your cock—please—”

Frank let go of her ass. He thrust her down onto the sofa and placed himself between her parted knees. Her bottoms were hanging from one ankle, but she didn’t think to kick them away. And she knew she met with his approval—he stared at her like a pin-up, naked except for the bikini top pulled down around her waist.

“I was just getting you ready for this,” Frank said, reaching into his open fly to bringing his erection out through the flap in his boxers. It waved in front of her face, pointing between her eyes with all its throbbing heft.

“Oh my God,” Lucy sighed. She was stunned, not scared, though by all rights she should be. He was a monster. She’d never seen a cock so long, so thick, so hardened. The purplish cockhead was as round as a lime.

She jumped up and embraced him, trilling when she felt his stiffness against her slender thigh.

“I’m ready for it,” she told him, her arms pulling him close. Her bare breasts, swollen with desire, crushed against his muscular cheat, letting him feel the quiver of her spiky nipples.

Frank reached around her, once more gripping the succulent flesh of her ass within tightening hands. Lucy shuddered—he had hands like trash compactors—big, diesel things that felt like they could rend her into marshmallow fluff. But she only felt good in their viselike grip.

He ran a finger between her soft buttocks to her taint, then against her slot.

“Hhnn!” Lucy cooed gently, feeling him part her wet folds and enter her.

“Ready as you’ll ever be,” Frank said, almost a quip, and Lucy knew it was the truth. The question wasn’t whether she’d stretch, it was how much. How it would hurt. She thought she could take it. She needed to take it.