Bahamian Arms

She started slowly, bobbing her head up and down at a leisurely pace, not using her hands at all to assist her. It was tender and she was talented, using her tongue liberally and to great effect, and glorious sensations pulsed up and down the length of his column.

And then the rhythm increased and her fingers came into play, tickling his balls with the nails of his left hand as her right wrapped around the base of his shaft and stroked it gently. She was humming now, the vibrating tremors an exquisite form of complementary pleasure, and bobbing her head nearly from tip to base, a deep up and down motion that worked her hot mouth in perfect concert with the pumping of her hand.

He was a man known well for his control, but this woman was bringing him swiftly near the brink, which was not a line he was yet prepared to cross, which is why when her tongue swirled around the crown of his penis, palm squeezing, nails tickling, mouth humming, and lips sucking, he realized he would have to intercede before the tension growing in his testicles exploded.

He placed a finger beneath her chin and drew her mouth up and off his cock. "Come," he told her quietly, but firmly, beckoning her with his eyes.

She wiped the spittle from her lips and chin, and smiled as she crawled up his length to meet his lips once more. His hands skimmed over her shoulders and down her back to where the ties of her bikini bottoms hugged her hips, and tugged at the strings. She sighed into his mouth as the cloth fell away from her body, baring her.

He clutched at the rounded cheeks of her bottom, kneading the firm flesh, relishing the sweet feel of such a well-sculpted rump. But massage was not his intention and the next instant the hands palming her backside were pulling that backside forward, bringing her further up his body. She realized what he wanted, of course, and giggled with delight as she straddled his head, hovering her nether regions just above his face.

He stared up at the pretty pink folds before him, glistening with juice that looked nearly ready to dribble down onto him, swollen with need and begging for attention. He lifted his head and extended his tongue, and burrowed the muscle into her folds to draw a languorous line from the bottom of her pussy to the top, all the way up to her hardened clitoris.

The woman whimpered and threw her head back, then outright moaned as he wasted no further time savoring her sacred recesses, using every technique at his disposal to lick, caress, suckle, tease, and titillate her in every possible way. He was determined to bring her swiftly and mercilessly to the heights of pleasure.

It worked. Her hips began grinding in tight little circles, working against the ministrations of his mouth and yet somehow granting her even greater joy. Every minute her folds dropped further down into his face; soon, he knew, he would not be able to breathe easily.

He speared his tongue into her hole and swirled it around, and the woman shrieked and rubbed her pussy harder against his face, bucking her hips, smearing him with juice, letting gravity do much of the work. His hands cupped the cheeks of her ass and fondled them, while his nose did much of the work on her clitoris.

And then she began to tremble and lost control completely, shrieking out loud how close she was, and all of a sudden her entire body stopped its motion and went fiercely rigid.

He could hear her trying to speak, trying to breathe, but both attempts were unsuccessful, until suddenly she was moaning and quivering, and whimpering, and the strength left her legs and her pussy mashed down into his face, cutting off his air. He did not, however, stop suckling her; he actually increased the speed of his attack, wanting to squeeze every ounce of exquisite pleasure he could out of her.

And then she collapsed in a heap next to him, falling softly and silently to the mattress, eyes closed, limbs trembling, pink folds twitching, a light sheen of sweat coating her flesh.

He took the opportunity of her recovery to untie the strings of her bikini top and remove it from her body. She was on her back now and he could see that her breasts were bigger than he had estimated earlier, more ample and fully formed. They were exquisite, her breasts, and he could not help cupping one in his hand.

She stirred and opened her eyes, and smiled, then closed her eyes and sighed. This body is yours, her movements told him, and he intended to take advantage. He lowered his head and sucked her shriveled nipple into his mouth, suckling it with gentle lips. He used his teeth with restraint, nibbling only enough to pleasure, not to pain. It amazed him how breasts could have such fantastic shape, and also be incredibly firm, but also soft at the same time.

It was long minutes that he worshipped her breasts, long minutes spent exploring to his heart's content, but the moment of her full recovery from the heights of her orgasm was crystal clear: her hands grabbed his head and pulled his face close to hers, and the wild look was back in brilliant blue eyes.

"Fuck me," she whispered fiercely, and so he did.

He moved, flipping her onto her back with deft precision as his strong hands snatched her legs at the ankles, forcing her body to bend inward on itself as he took his position before it. When her knees reached her shoulders, legs spread, the puffy pink folds of her labia gaping wide and open, he guided his mushroom tip to the entrance and aimed it dead center the hole.

"Beg," he ordered.

"Fuck me," she breathed.

"Louder," he demanded.

"Fuck me!" she cried.

"Louder!" he growled.

"FUCK ME!" she screamed, and as her voice hit its highest pitch he thrust forward to bury himself to the hilt in one ferocious thrust. Her scream melted into a wail. "AAAAAHHHHHH!"

He hammered her as hard as he could, furiously, mercilessly, driving his hips downward again and again as he pounded his cock through to the back of her womb. Her eyes fluttered shut and her breathing grew ragged, and less than a minute later those eyes flew open.

"OH MY GOD . . . I'M . . . I'M . . . I'M. . . I'M CUUUMMMMMIIIINNNNGGG!!!"

The muscles of her pussy clenched and contracted, milking his cock as the throes of climax overwhelmed her completely. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the mattress, her body tensed viciously, the pleasure nearly turned to pain.

He did not stop fucking, however, maintaining his speed and rhythm as the beautiful woman creamed his cock. Her shrieks began to rise, spiraling upward almost crescendo-like, before all the breath seemingly left her body at once and left her gasping for air. Her mouth was open, jaw slack in a silent scream, moisture filling her eyes.

Still, he wanted to sample as much of her as he could, and when she paused to catch her breath in the aftermath of her tumultuous orgasm, he pounced on the opportunity, clutching her hips and flipping her onto her stomach. With a swiftness borne of vast experience, parted the supple thighs of the woman and positioned himself once again, and before she had time to think about what was happening, he was shoved full inside her pussy once again.

The woman groaned. "Sooo bbbiiiiiggg," she whimpered.

His crotch rested snug up against the rounded flesh of the woman's bottom, and he relished the look and feel of it for a long moment before he went to work again. It was an exquisite ass, apple-shaped and lovely with curved hips flared perfectly around a pair of shapely cheeks. Her skin was tanned and smooth and flawless. He reached down and spread the cheeks with his thumbs to gaze upon the wrinkled little hole set between them, light pink and pursed tightly shut.

And then he went to work again. He did not start slow; he went past first and second gear and right on into third, his cock pistoning in and out of her oven-hot, vice-tight recesses. He was fucking her relentlessly, brutally, but skillfully, and her whimpers and moans and shrieks were enough to let him know she was loving every minute of it.

She climaxed twice in the span of time it took him to reach his first, which was his purpose, but when her body began to tremble for a third time and she whimpered a deeply pleasured, almost pained, "Oh my god . . . no more . . . oh please god . . . I'm cuuuuummmmmmiiinnnggggg," he knew it was time to finish the job.

And so he let himself go.

His testicles tightened and his body readied itself, and he thrust forward one final time before pulling back and off and out of the woman's sumptuous pussy, the barest instant before his cock exploded.

It had been some time since he last felt the sweet release of orgasm, and the result was more fluid than he could remember in quite some time. It erupted from his cock like a geyser, wave after thick ropy wave of white hot syrup, spraying out over the quivering flesh of her bottom and lower back, and even higher in some spots despite the distance.

And then it was finished, his balls drained and his body spent.

The woman was a shivering heap on the bed, her backside coated with cum, her saturated folds twitching uncontrollably from the lasting touch of four orgasms. She tried to raise her head, but had not the strength, and so she groaned instead.

Recovered, he stepped forward and scooped her into his arms, not caring where the cum upon her fell, and cradled her against his chest. She was an easy carry, light and luscious, and he did not mind the labor.

"Let's clean you up," he whispered. Her brilliant blue eyes were wide and wondrous, and he could not help leaning in to kiss the glistening skin of her forehead.

She closed her eyes and nestled her head against his strong chest, content to be carried. "Thank you," she whispered, and it was clear she meant for many things.

Part Two: Business

On the twenty-fourth floor of the Royal Towers at the Atlantis Resort in the Bahamas, the man known as Kayyed situated himself in his lavish suite and reflected upon the coming day. It had been long, the hours of travel, and the entire time he had been forced to speak in the terribly dull language of his current companions, which they did not know was not his native tongue.

To look at Kayyed as he currently appeared was to believe him of purest middle eastern descent, although he was not. Come across him in Paris, however, and in speaking with him one would believe him a bona fide Frenchmen, right down to the heavily romanticized accent. In Spain, he is readily considered a tried-and-true Spaniard by those who know him.

Indeed, few knew the real history of the man named Kayyed, which was exactly the way Kayyed himself wished it. His life was a tangled web of rumors, lies, deceptions, and secrets, which is precisely the kind of atmosphere a black market arms dealer with ties to myriad competing countries prefers. Often in the wars of the world, the men fighting and shooting each other from opposite sides had their weapons and munitions supplied by Kayyed the Chameleon, whom few knew and fewer still would ever want to know.

The coming day would see the culmination of eight months of planning and negotiations. Emissaries of two radical extremist groups and a tyrannical government in the middle east were coming to bid upon his next load of weapons, as yet unattained but guaranteed (by knowledge of his track record) to be exceptional in quantity and quality. He was not one of the top illicit arms dealers in the world for nothing.

He would take bids on the merchandise after outlining the specs of what he expected would be his latest haul. No one but Kayyed himself had seen the specs; currently they were being carried in the password-encrypted briefcase attached to the arm of his courier.

No one knew he was actually in the Bahamas; Kayyed never telegraphed his movements and rarely allowed information to break free of his inner circle, which was small. The emissaries all believed their meetings would be taking place on a boat bound for Nassau later in the week. They were notified to arrive Friday and wait for arrival of the boat sometime Saturday, but he would intercept them almost the moment they stepped foot on the island.

It was all part of his business plan: confuse and disorient the buyers, overwhelm them with information, and then play the take-away game. His plan had been successful to the tune of several hundred million dollars over the past decade, and he was still growing.

But the coming day would top them all: four hundred million for one job.

And Kayyed the Chameleon, born in the United States as Eli Grouper, the son of honorable and affluent parents of mixed European ancestry and educated at Harvard University, who had taken his heritage, looks, and intellect and exploited them to the detriment of the world, smiled.

* * *

Carter Donovan opened his eyes.

Darkness blanketed the room. The heavy curtains were drawn and the lights and candles were out, and the only source of illumination was the weak red glow of the clock on the nightstand, which read twenty minutes past two o'clock in the morning.

Another round of lovemaking had followed that furious first, and it had been equally fantastic: in addition to being beautiful, the woman in his bed was talented and uninhibited, and enthusiastic. It had proven one of his more memorable romps.

The woman lay on her side facing away from him in the darkness. It was difficult to see her very well (the room was exceedingly dark) but a shaft of wispy red light from that clock caught her flesh just where the sheet contacted it at the small of her back.

Carter considered touching her, but she was sleeping soundly after a long stretch of hard sex and was in the perfect position to allow execution of this newest phase of his plan. He slipped from the bed, taking great care not to make noise or shake the mattress, and went immediately to the thick black case lying on the desk. He moved easily through the dark, his eyes well accustomed to shadows.

The case was secured with a state-of-the-art electronic keypad requiring a fifteen-digit alpha-numeric pin. Carter typed in the access code (3-5-E-C-A-L-P-R-E-D-L-I-W-6-4) and with a whir and a click, the case unlocked.

He reached inside and pulled out a miniature syringe and small vial of liquid, and went back towards the bed as he prepared the instrument. This was a necessary part of the plan to ensure the woman would not wake up while he was gone.

Gently he tugged the silk sheet down from her body until the whole of her luscious rump was exposed. She was wonderfully curvy and he had enjoyed those curves greatly, and hoped to have further opportunity with them in the future, but for now, he stuck the needle into the flesh of her bottom and released the liquid.

She stirred and whimpered just a bit in her sleep, and likely would have woken from the prick of the needle if the sleep agent was not so swift to act. In moments, however, the deep breathing returned and the woman was again sleeping soundly.

Carter looked at the clock: two twenty-three. The schedule was clear: he would prep himself, wait thirty minutes, and then initiate the plan as previously concocted. If successful as imagined, he would need another thirty minutes to allow full completion, which would put him back in the hotel room just before half-past-three. The drugs would wear-off sometime after four, which gave forty-five minutes of cushion to account for any adjustments.

The timing was perfect, he thought.

* * *

The guard stationed in the stairwell had specific instructions to monitor the elevator hall, which is why he was occupied with peering out a small window set in the center of the door separating the stairs from that place. There had been little activity of note on this, the twenty-fourth floor, but that did not stop the guard from remaining vigilant; it was an essential aspect of bodyguard work for a man as powerful as Kayyed.

His vigilance proved to be very one-sided, however; the guard was so intent upon tracking the goings-on in the hall that he did not notice the man slipping silently down the stairs behind him and had no time to register the pain of being struck in the back of the head before blackness took him.

His discovery some time later by one of the maids on the morning shift would go down as a particularly unpleasant moment in his life, what with the wickedly bad headache he would have, not to mention the knowledge that the initial breach was made at his post.

* * *

The man with the briefcase was already a nervous sort of man in general, which meant that at the current time his anxiety was off the charts. It was one thing to be involved in black market arms dealings with powerful men with low morals and experience with murder and mayhem, but it was quite another to be the one connected to the case carrying much of the vital information necessary to complete said arms dealings.

The man wondered, and not for the first time, just how in the hell he got connected to Kayyed in the first place. Which was silly, really, because he already knew the answer: Kayyed paid extraordinarily well.

The man with the briefcase was alone in his suite, happy to know about the guards outside and nearby. There were four guards in total, two brought by Kayyed himself and two posted by a private security force on the island. The two guards brought by Kayyed were stationed outside in the hall with excellent visibility in both directions.

In other words, he was well-protected.

Which is why the dark figure that swept from the shadows of the balcony (twenty-four floors up) and pressed a gun to his temple at once stunned and terrified him.

"The case," the masked figure said in a calm voice.

"They will kill me if I let you have it," the man with the briefcase whispered. He was petrified by the strength of the man, the speed of his attack, and the knowledge of how their encounter would likely end, and it showed easily in his voice, which cracked and warbled.

There was a momentary silence before the man said, "Very well."

And it was then that the man with the briefcase felt the sharp pain across the back of his head and the sensation of falling, and the last thing he remembered before waking up to find himself in a strange hospital room bed was the sight of the ground rushing up to meet him.

* * *

It was said in the circles of the black market that Kayyed the Chameleon did not sleep. It was said men of his power had no time for sleep, nor the inclination for it. While these rumors were, of course, patently ridiculous and untrue, on this particular night, the night of his arrival in the Bahamas, the night of his death, the man at the heart of the rumor was not sleeping despite the lateness of the hour.

There had been time for sleeping enough on the plane flight from Qatar; it was time now to hone his presentation and compile his thoughts for the negotiations the coming day.

It was the fluttering of the curtains by the doors to the balcony that alerted him to the fact that something was not right; Kayyed had not yet ventured out onto the balcony and the doors had been closed when he arrived.

"Who are you?" the arms dealer called quietly.

A figure emerged from the darkness, swathed in black. The figure was not wearing a mask and Kayyed could see it was an attractive man with very dark eyes, focused intently on his own. It was the fact that the man was not wearing a mask that told Kayyed, more than anything else, that the end was coming.

"I have many names, but I have been called the Shade in some places," the man replied.

Kayyed closed his eyes and took a deep breath: the Shade was one of the most successful assassins working in the world at the current time. There would be little he could do at this point.

"And why have you come?" he asked, resigned to the fate at hand.