Page 2 of Trigger Happy Ending

I sleep well at night (I think?) knowing the targets I’m assigned to seduce and eliminate almost always deserve to die (right?). I prefer to think of them as vermin, needing to be exterminated. And Mr. Texas? Well, I certainly don’t think about what his life is like, or who he might be.

I don’t want to know if he’s a husband. A father. A friend.

Someone’s little league coach, a tough boss, or a friendly neighbor.

And even if he is some or all of those things, he is also this: a demented human trafficker. Which makes him a dead man.

Texas, the clueless idiot, hasn’t noticed the suppressor hidden amongst the sex toys. Nor the firearm strapped to the underneath of the silver tray. He’s too busy eye-fucking my tits, his capillaries nearly bursting as he drowns in my cleavage. I’m not a huge fan of wearing corsets (unholy rib-crushers), but tits are such a useful distraction.

And my distractions are big.

Texas pants through his gag, squirming like a pig on a spit. Sick bastard is loving every second.

My fingers find the leather whip, twirling it lazily as I inhale. Leather is an intoxicating smell, isn’t it? There are a few scents that tickle my brain. Leather (obviously), rain on warm pavement, freshly brewed coffee, and popcorn (extra butter). I inhale deeply, allowing my lungs to expand as much as the corset will allow (which isn’t much).

Texas makes an impatient sound, chains rattling as he strains against them. It really is a dumb idea to attempt to talk when you have a gag ball stuffed in your mouth.

“Patience,” I purr, with a lazy tilt of my head, because, hello, Catwoman.

My nails click softly as I drag out the anticipation, skimming the selection of vibrators, clit stimulators, nipple clamps, anal plugs, gag balls alternating in sizes, hot wax … choices, choices, choices.

I heard Mr. Rich Sick Fuck likes to make his victims cry.

Let’s see how he likes it, shall we?

Nipple clamps it is. There’s something satisfying about the thought of those little serrated teeth munching down on this revolting man’s hairy nipples. Texas groans as I attach them, sweat streaking across his brow as pleasure and pain collide. Unfortunately for me, pleasure seems to override the pain.

I know this because of what I see rising in front of me. The sight of his erection straining against his underwear does two things:

Makes me retch, because ew. Everything about him is unimpressive, including the size of his dick. My goddamn heels are bigger.

Offers comfort. If he’s aroused, it means he doesn’t suspect a motherfucking thing.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what I love about men. They are fucking stupid.

Especially when it comes to pussy.

I don’t need to do this (the nipple clamps), but I like to think of my life as a movie (it’s not), and I’m the star (of course). I need to view my life as a performance because the reality is too harsh, too depressing, too tragic.

“Breathe through it, bitch boy,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

Texas nods his head and sucks fast breaths in through his nose. I remove the lace thong I stuffed down my cleavage earlier and dangle the sliver of fabric just out of his reach. He strains for it, drooling like a rabid dog.

Sicko.

Dropping it to the floor, I kick it away, turning back to the tray of instruments. Beneath it, hidden in plain sight, is the real star of the show. My hand slides underneath the cart to feel the cold, solid shape of my pistol.

It’s time.

Placing my hand on my hip, I twist my spine and let my eyes narrow in on him. “Ready for your surprise?”

He nods enthusiastically, like a toddler desperate for a sweet treat.

A vicious grin lights up my face. I palm the Glock and turn to face him. “This”—I lift the weapon to my lips—“is to die for.”

I run my tongue slowly upwards along the barrel, then suck the muzzle into my mouth. Gun fellatio is a first. Maybe it’s because of the outfit. Or maybe it’s because I’m a psycho. Probably a bit of both.

A soft pop echoes as I pull away.