White headlights pierced the velvet night cloaking the Dixie’s shadowed parking lot, our hidden enclave for the untouchable elite. The Mustang’s sleek silhouette loomed, its supple leather interior whispering promises of power and indulgence. Lights winked seductively, like a courtesan in a penthouse suite. I helped Polly rise, her throat clearing the last sticky remnants of my seed, warm and viscous like forbidden caviar on her tongue. She advanced toward Billy, that voyeur perched behind the wheel, glutted on our display.
At his window, he thumbed the trunk. Jason had arrived. Time to end the girls’ show. I extracted three pistols and a Benelli shotgun, loading shells with precision, the oiled metal cool against my skin like a lover’s silk cufflinks. Tossed two Glocks to Polly, gripped the Benelli’s walnut stock, holstered mine. She double-holstered, bare-assed in platform boots, face glazed in my fresh cum. We slipped through the back door into the Dixie’s opulent haze—mahogany bar glowing under crystal pendants, air thick with aged bourbon and primal heat.
The Privilege
Polly’s heels clicked marbled tiles down the restroom corridor, bursting into the main hall. In her pornstar tee and boots, nude below, cum-smeared, she blended into the spectacle: Sal and Kelly-Ann entangled on the velvet-draped billiard table, moans syncing with Kurt Cobain’s ragged riffs blasting from gold-plated speakers. Elite decadence reigned—watchful eyes from shadowed booths, crystal glasses clinking.
Polly drew both Glocks, targeted the stereo. Bang. Bang. Sparks erupted, rock silenced, gasps rippled. Lesbians froze, heads snapping our way. We owned the room now, her obscene dominance—tits straining wet fabric, pussy exposed—drawing bovine stares from the privileged scum. Tension hummed like a private jet’s engines.
‘No takers to lick me clean, you soft-cocked elite?’ Polly taunted, guns sweeping. I tossed the Benelli and Glock to the girls. They disentangled, adjusted lace bras and garters, now armed—Sal with shotgun, Kelly-Ann pistol-whipping air. They pinned Jason, the bloated heir in frayed tux, porcine nose quivering, almost passable among desert spawn.
The Excess
He lumbered over, wheezing, arms raised, terror in pinprick eyes. I lit a Cuban, eyed the bartender’s hidden drawer. Polly squatted before a tattooed Texan in polished Lucchese boots, tee hiked over pert breasts. ‘How to clean this cum, handsome?’ Urine threat hung. He smirked. ‘Piss on your face, bitch.’ She offered her face. I pressed Glock to his temple. He faltered, dribbled weakly. She lapped it like champagne foam. ‘Only my man pisses on me.’ I aimed. His plea choked.
Bang. Tattoo man’s nuque exploded, body twisting in crimson spray. Angel-faced killer in cream suit, rose boutonniere, Desert Eagle smoking. Beside him, ’70s pimp in orange shirt, Ray-Bans, Uzi ready. Professionals, like us. Standoff. Polly fired first, shattering glass storm. Rafale reaped clients. Chaos erupted—tables flipped, my cover amid flying lead, leather scorching hot.
Polly stood defiant in compensated heels, bullets whizzing. She staggered, fell. Rage ignited. Emptied Glock into Uzi man’s chest—seven thuds propelling him into glass shards. Seized his Colt, vaulted bar, sprayed Angel-Face blind. He slumped silent. Rushed to Polly, pulse thumping. Alive. Tears mixed with her blood-smeared kiss.
Scooped her up, Kelly-Ann covering, nose bloody from my grief-struck swing. Corridor slick with gore, walls arterial art. Outside, air crisp. Sal’s corpse in pool of blood, chest ravaged, avenger’s ax in killer’s back—Billy’s late gift. Kelly kissed her farewell. Into Mustang’s plush leather, Jason bruised unconscious rear. Tires screamed, sirens wailed afar. Night swallowed us, secrets sealed in luxury’s veil.
