"Death Wish" Daniel

Have you ever noticed? Most Mafia kingpins really do talk like Marlon Brando in The Godfather. It's true. It came to me as I was lying in bed one morning, recalling the conversation I'd had the day before with Tony 'Mad Dog' Mancini, who rules Chicago's South Side with an iron hand.

"Daniel, I tell ya," he mumbled, "nuthin's more important to a made man than his family. And it starts with a virtuous wife. Take my Carolina. A real peach, y'know, but a true lady. Lives to please her man. As faithful as the day is long, that's Carolina. You should have such a wife, my boy."

The fact is, I did have her. Twice last night and once this morning. Even as I lay there pondering Mad Dog's words of wisdom, his wife Carolina was on her knees between my legs, slowly taking my cock into her mouth. There went the head. Now the shaft. Deeper and deeper, finally into her throat. Soon her lips, still glistening with Hot Pink lipstick, came to rest against my pubic mound. The lady held me; then, released me and began to bob up and down on my manhood like a ping-pong ball.

So I filled Carolina's mouth with semen, she gave me a satisfied smile, and I hot-footed it out of Mad Dog's thirty-room mansion. However, Carolina, bless her heart, soon came down with a case of guilty conscience. It happens to the best of us.

She tearfully confessed all to Mad Dog. His thugs hunted me down. Roughed me up quite a bit, and then took me out on River Road just after midnight. My brain pan had a date with a .32 slug. But just in the nick of time, my cousin's uncle, Chief of Police you know, caught wind of it. A gunfight between the coppers and the goons ensued, with bullets flying, bodies dropping left and right. I took some lead in my shoulder and leg. But all things considered, any time you can limp away after a gun battle you're ahead of the curve.

They put me up in Cook County General, with a cop guarding my room. So I'm lying there the next night, thinking about how Mad Dog has put out six contracts on my life and vowed to slice me into little pieces and feed me to the fishes.

There's gratitude for you. After all, wasn't it I, his landscape gardener, who put in a tomato garden for him and grew the very same tomatoes they have back in Sicily? Mad Dog gobbled down those tomatoes like a pig, beamed with joy, patted me on the back. And now, just because I rode his wife like a pony, pounded her like a jackhammer, he's vowed that my passing will be violent and will be soon.

So anyway, who strolls into my hospital room but Carolina? Dressed like a queen, her raven hair done up, her eye shadow emerald green. It was way past visiting hours, but she'd slipped the head nurse a benjamin. The cop guarding my room was sound asleep anyway. We had a tearful reunion, kissed like teenagers. Next thing I know she's thrown back the covers and is giving me mouth-to-cock resuscitation.

It didn't even matter to Carolina that I was in a semi-private room. My roommate, a bookkeeper named Randall, was in for heart surgery. His eyes bugged out when he saw a woman who can suck the chrome off an Olds 88 making love to my cock with her mouth. I pointed out to Carolina that there was another jughead besides me in the room. She said she didn't mind if he didn't mind.

Randall didn't mind. So Carolina drains me, and does that woman love cock. She moves over to suck Randall too, in the spirit of fairness to all. I'm grinning as Randall lies there gasping for breath while Carolina swallows him whole.

"Aah jeez," he sighs. "Ooh, this is pure heaven. Who is this angel? And look at that rock on her finger! She's someone's wife, isn't she?"

"Yep," I reply with a smile. "She's married to Tony 'Mad Dog' Mancini. Ever heard of him?"

Realizing that a Mafia don's wife is giving him a blowjob sends the poor schlemiel into cardiac arrest. I buzz the nurse and she brings in the doctor who pronounces Randall dead as a doornail. Which put the quietus on any more lovemaking until they wheeled out the body.

But as soon as things settled down, Carolina came back for an encore. She'd been outside smoking Tareytons, and couldn't resist covering me with wet kisses. Given the choice between kissing a woman who's been puffing on cancer sticks and kissing a raccoon's patoot, I'll take the raccoon. But it was forgive and forget when Carolina dropped her drawers, climbed up onto my bed, and slowly wiggled herself down onto my stiff cock, murmuring all sorts of lewd words in Italian as she did so.

So I snaked my hands up under her dress and grabbed hold of Carolina's lovely fat ass. I held on for dear life through her two boisterous orgasms. Take it from me, guys. If your sex life needs spicing up, just seduce a Mafia don's wife and you've got the world on a string. For a while at least.

Afterwards Carolina collapses on me like a beached whale. We discuss my future, which is bleak. Your only hope, says Carolina, is to move to France and have a sex change operation. The idea has its appeal. I love chocolate croissants and the idea of wearing sexy lingerie. But still and all, I'd hate to give up 'Big Dan', which is what Carolina calls my cock in between sucking it and urging me to fill her up with it one more time. I'd become attached to 'Big Dan', you might say.

My partner in landscape gardening, Alphonso, was from Colombia and had taught me Spanish. So the upshot of it all is that I disguised myself as an Evangelical Christian missionary and boarded the red-eye special for Colombia. During the flight I convinced Bob, one of my fellow passengers, to accept Jesus Christ as his personal savior and also found time to induct his wife Margaret into the Mile-High Club just before our plane touched down in Medellin.

So I go to work as a landscape gardener with Alphonso's cousin Esteban. Our main client is a Medellin businessman who for some reason everyone calls El Diablo. When he's not attending funerals, he's on his cell phone arranging big shipments. A real wheeler-dealer.

One day after I'd pruned the gardenias, El Diablo invites me up to his patio for a pisco sour. Out from his mansion walks a vision, an angel here on earth. His daughter Gabriella. Deep brown eyes the size of silver dollars, breasts like honeydew melons, legs that go on forever.

"Daniel," says El Diablo in Spanish as he pats Gabriella's butt, "the greatest pleasure in a man's life is his family, especially a virtuous daughter. Take Gabriella here - sweet, shy, and virginal. She's my pride and joy as a father. You should have such a daughter as Gabriella."

Something about this conversation seemed familiar. It was déjà vu all over again. But I went ahead and had his daughter anyway. She invited me to climb the rose trellis up into her bedroom at midnight. By two o'clock I'd taken her virginity, given her a bath, and licked her pussy clean. By then the darling girl was ravenous. She dined on my cock.

About that time her mother Juliana hears her daughter moaning and sighing. Walks into the bedroom and passes out cold. You can't blame her, considering shy virtuous Gabriella was on her knees buck naked and swallowing a man's cock. We bring the old girl to, after which Gabriella whispers into Mom's ear words in Spanish I can't quite follow. Something about "orgasmo fantastico," "éxtasis puro," and "un pene muy grande y delicioso."

Whatever she said, it piqued Juliana's interest. To the point where it wasn't long before 'la madre' lay back on the bed, raised her nightgown, and drew my head between her legs. Like an explorer I burrowed through the thickest, blackest bush I've ever seen to the treasure beneath. The woman's clitoris was soft and juicy, as big as a marble. I licked and sucked on it until Juliana cried "Ave Maria!" and a lot more stuff I couldn't understand. After that she just had to know if my cock could please her as did my tongue. She hit upon a simple way to find out. The answer was yes.

But okay, I admit it. Enjoying a threesome with a Colombian drug lord's wife and daughter, well, that's just asking for trouble. Especially when, being good Catholic girls, they went at once to confessional and told all to Father Augustino. Who then picked up the phone and called El Diablo.

But to be fair, I don't blame Father Augustino. If given the choice of incurring the wrath of the Lord or that of a Colombian drug lord, which would you choose? Right. So no hard feelings, padre.

At any rate, next thing I know I'm fleeing for my life in a stolen Peugeot. Hurtling down the deserted streets of Medellin at five in the morning, all the while spitting out some of El Diablo's wife's pubic hair that was still lodged between my teeth.

And who's in hot pursuit? The Medellin police, that's who. El Diablo ordered them to find me and gun me down like a dog. A sad commentary on law enforcement in Colombia, if you ask me.

Somehow I made it safely to Bogota. But I was in a jam; a pickle; up to my knees in the bisque. If I stayed in Colombia, my life wouldn't be worth a plugged peso. And I couldn't go back to the states because Mad Dog Mancini was waiting to pounce on me. So I sat down and took stock of my life.

I decided then and there I'd been tempting fate, skating on thin ice, walking a tightrope too long. Time to settle into a safe easy life. I ended up in Saudi Arabia as the chauffeur for Sheik Ahmed al-Omar. He was also known as the Scorpion because anyone who ruffled his feathers ended up out in the Arabian Desert and was never heard from again.

But the old geezer was pushing eighty. So I figure it's a safe gig. On my third day I'm having a cup of rose petal tea with the Scorpion in the courtyard of his palace. Out from the palace comes a woman who he introduces as his wife Yasmine. Well slap my ass and call me Judy. She's still in her womanly prime, not a day over forty. No doubt as firm and juicy as a ripe pomegranate under all those black veils.

It gets worse. Beside her are daughters Laila and Ameera. Their eyes are even bigger and darker than Gabriella's. All three women are looking me over like cats eyeing a mouse.

"Daniel," says the old Scorpion, "the greatest pleasure in an Arab sheik's life is his family. And in our culture, a man knows that his wife will always be ... what's the word I'm looking for?"

"Virtuous? As faithful as the day is long?"

"Exactly! Yasmine lives only to please me, her husband. And look at my daughters Laila and Ameera - two desert flowers, are they not? Beautiful and yet ... "

"Shy? Virginal? A father's pride and joy?"

"Yes! I can see you already understand these things. My last chauffeur, unfortunately, did not. I caught him winking at Laila. They later found his bleached bones out in the desert, picked clean by the vultures. A pity. But you, Daniel, I sense are trustworthy, a man of principles and honor. Which is why I want you to escort my wife and daughters on a shopping trip to Paris. I can rest easy knowing you'll watch over them. Nothing could possibly happen that would make me angry or upset."

Well, maybe so and maybe not. Anyway, I'm now sitting here in my room at the Hotel Ritz, not far from the River Seine. On the coffee table in front of me are two packages just delivered by the bellhop. In one of them is the keycard to Yasmine's room. Wrapped in her panties. In the other is the keycard to Laila and Ameera's room. Wrapped in two pairs of panties.

So you see my dilemma. I cannot ignore these summons to sexual debauchery, because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all that. A sensible man might just make a mad dash for the front door of the hotel and run like hell down Place Vendome. But if I abandon the Scorpion's wife and daughters to the evils of Paris, leave them high and dry so to speak, it will anger him. His bodyguards will hunt me down. Years from now my bleached bones will be found out in the Arabian Desert.

But if I throw caution to the wind and take a helping of this and a helping of that from the sexual buffet eagerly awaiting me, my fate will be the same. Again, bleached bones in the desert.

Oh, what the heck. No one lives forever. Let's see now, who do I want first?