Hummingbird
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Abduction Under The Sign Of The Hummingbird free porn video
ABDUCTION UNDER THE SIGN OF THE HUMMINGBIRD
It seems such a shame, she says, to outright kill him, as she signs the
contract for them to do just that, or whatever might be its moral
equivalent. She signs it in his own blood, extracted by black-clad "ninja
nurses" who crept into his bedroom and drew it from his sleeping body
just the night before. Though surely weird, it isn't as surprising as it
initially seems; this business entails so much superstitious bullshit.
The agent, if that is what you call him, carefully examines the nine
sheets of paper she has so far signed, or done her best to sign. Her
signature is shaky; her hand is trembling slightly.
"These look okay," he says in his pale voice. "Everything in order. More
or less. Enough that is, to get us started."
"So when do you..." Kathy made a gesture, which, once she realized what it
looked like, she aborted, horrified. "...you know..."
She signed instead the last three sheets.
"Soon," the man says, somewhat enigmatically, gathering up the dozen
pages.
He stands up, or is going to. First, he packs up everything in his
briefcase and snaps it shut with authority. The briefcase bears a logo,
or perhaps it is a crest, that at least looks official in that vaguely
governmental way that such crests have. The man himself has, overall, the
"faded" appearance typical of spooks, governmental and otherwise. He's
made a lifetime habit of taking parts in conversations just like this
one, where one gets one's point across without saying anything, or as
close to that as possible. Even looking at him now, Kathy has no idea,
really, what he looks like.
"Okay then," she says, smoothing, unnecessarily, her navy-blue skirt, "I
guess that's..." She thinks about having a cigarette but doesn't. "That."
* * *
Morgan is watching him, from the sedan, through a pair of high-powered
opera glasses, while his partner, Talbot, sketches something, maybe that
elm tree by the playground, or is it a linden?
"That's him," he says, and adds reluctantly, "I think..."
Talbot looks up from his sketchbook, almost disinterested, and gazes
vaguely off in the direction of the basketball court at which Morgan
half-heartedly directs his attention. "Which one?" he asks, reluctantly,
as if prompted by someone not in the sedan.
"The blonde."
"Which one?"
"The one in the red shorts."
Talbot looks confused, somehow, still. So Morgan adds, "He's the one who
can't seem, for the life of him, to go left."
"Ah..." Talbot says, but without conviction, or maybe not paying enough
attention, once again bent intently, even more intently than before, over
his sketchbook, trying to render a fence-post, or, perhaps, it's supposed
to be a fire hydrant. Let's face it, he's earnest enough, but just not
very good at rendering reality.
* * *
"Did I do the right thing," Kathy asks, sipping a chilled white wine at
an outdoor caf? in the town's leafy, sun-dappled central square. She has
ordered a cold chicken wrap and waits for it, thinking, maybe, that she
should have ordered something else. Alyssa, who sits across from her,
although Kathy keeps momentarily mistaking her, with her hair done like
that, for the red-headed Beth, is still picking, against all odds, at her
arugula salad.
"Hmm?" she says, smiling, pretending she's still chewing. "The right
thing about what, exactly?"
"About Kenny...you know."
"Oh yes...oh Kenny..." Alyssa, formerly Beth, waved her fork, momentarily
empty, in a little circle in the air, "...he'll get used to it...I guess."
It was possible, Kathy mused, sipping her white wine again, that her
friend had no idea what they were talking about. Sometimes, she thinks,
I'm not sure I do either. Maybe, just maybe, it's true that all her more
or less happy friends, like Alyssa, are right when they tell her: it's
much better that way.
* * *
"It's all for the best," that's what they always say, and that's what
she is saying now. Kenny is crying, shaking, his slender blonde body,
naked, golden, in the last light of an autumn afternoon. This is supposed
to be a doctor's appointment, a routine exam for life insurance,
something like that, and instead he is here, in a room at an inn by the
sea, having what might be an affair, but sure doesn't feel like one.
Mary Pat is holding him, stroking his limp penis, comforting him, telling
him it's okay to make a mess, they will have to strip the bed anyway. In
all likelihood, they'll probably roll him right up in the sheet when
they're finished, to get rid of, as she, rather matter-of-factly, puts
it, "what remains of the evidence."
"She'll find out...she knows...she...?"
"Its okay," Mary Pat says, and Kenny notes the tone of her voice:
tenderly amused. It's meant to be reassuring and it really does calm him,
momentarily. "Its okay" she repeats herself, and, surprisingly, it really
does seem okay until he decides to ask the next question.
"When...will they..."
"Oh darling..."
Mary Pat's own penis, shall we say it, is still inside Kenny's ass right
now, and she is moving her hips ever so slowly, letting Kenny feel it
inside him, filling him, as she kindly strokes Kenny's indecisive little
member, which harden and softens, hardens and softens, endlessly, as if
he has an entire lifetime to cum, but he doesn't.
* * *
"This boy, pleases me," said the man in the armchair, via computer, as
he typed out the words with his thumb on the abbreviated hand-held
keyboard concealed in his left fist. "He pleases me, do I dare to even
say it in italics...greatly."
Across from him, his visitor nodded, politely, accepting the compliment.
J. Loft had a reputation as a man who could please men who were difficult
to please. Unlike some men with a similar reputation, J. Loft also had
the talent to back it up, which was fortunate because such men were often
irascible, unreasonable, and dangerously negative. The man who sat
opposite him was such a man. He had lost his voice, and much of
everything else, to what it is easiest to simply call "cancer" and leave
it at that. But it's much more complicated than that. He has been kept
alive, marginally, with certain experimental medicaments. The ingredients
to these not-quite-miracle drugs, although not exactly uncommon or even
expensive, were, how can we put this as delicately, as diplomatically as
possible?
Let's just say they are "inconvenient."
"What is extra pleasing," continued the man in the armchair (let's call
him R.), "is the symmetry of the entire operation. There is an aesthetic
circularity to it all that is rare to find these days. In evil, I mean.
Do you understand?"
J. Loft did not understand, not really, but he nodded, like a fellow
adept at these matters, instead of a businessman, a provider of special
services to those who could pay handsomely for the provision of special
services. He found it a pleasure, really, after so many years in covert
work, not to be pestered with a thousand-and-one unnecessary questions
from above: did you cover your tracks, leave any witnesses, clues, hints,
loose ends, etc. and to work instead, sans supervision, under the
assumption that he was competent enough to do the job he'd been hired to
do, to be treated, in other words, like the professional he was.
"I am a man who enjoys being a man," his employer continued, "even in
my...somewhat...erm... diminished...capacity. Perhaps..." and he gazed outside,
fondly, towards the pool, where three turquoise dolphins were playing,
"all the more so for my diminution."
J. Loft didn't speak; he wasn't paid to speak, so he was fairly stingy
with his words. He wasn't paid to listen, either, but, of the two, the
latter was by far the more appropriate, closer, in any event, to what he
was getting paid to do. Using his time economically, he thought of his
next job as the man spoke, making a mental checklist: silencers, curare,
a pear-shaped vibrator, a chastity belt, and plenty of pink electrical
tape. Tools of the trade.
"It's not exactly as if the boy will be separated from anything he'll
really miss," the man in the armchair was saying. His voice, naturally
not his own, had been programmed and remixed from old movies. It was a
mash-up of the voices of Cary Grant, Robert Mitchum, and, of all people,
Marlene Dietrich. "Well..." he started, but could not go further. He was
doubled over, guffawing uncontrollably, the tears streaming down his
face. Apparently, he'd accidentally pressed the button that activated a
laugh track.
J. Loft supplied what should have been the punchline. "Not anything
except, perhaps, his life."
* * *
The man in the black suit looks at a small pastel-colored business card
in the palm of his hand and says: "Are you Mr. Gregory Tanner?"
"No," Kenny says, but the encounter has him, admittedly, unnerved. He
has been getting phone calls for the last three weeks, every day, the
anonymous voice on the other end asking the same disembodied question.
"No," he repeats, but without much conviction. As if he knows
instinctively it is pointless: he can't convince anyone of anything. "I'm
not this man."
"That's funny," the man in the black suit says, checking the business
card again. "It seems quite impossible from the information that we've
gathered that you aren't Greg Tanner. Are you quite certain?"
"Why...yes. I'm sure. I don't even know any Gregory Tanners."
"How can you be so certain that you aren't Mr. Tanner then? If you don't
even know who he is?"
They are in a supermarket where Kenny has gone to pick up some milk and
bread and a few other items Kathy has asked him to bring home. They are
standing, for no good reason, in front of the frozen food section, where
they have the Indian dishes, various sorts of masala and makhani and saag
paneers and whatnot.
"Sir...I really should go..."
"Yes you should."
But the man in the black suit, his name, what he claims his name is,
anyway--Talbot, wasn't it?--doesn't move and it's clear that he doesn't
intend to let Kenny pass either, not yet. Instead he lifts his left hand
to Kenny's face, and lays it almost paternally against Kenny's right
cheek. What Talbot says next, he says in a very soft voice, "You are
warm, sweetheart..."
Kenny imagines, wildly, that this anomalous gesture is some kind of
signal to hidden cohorts. That he is about to be arrested, thrown against
the freezer doors, cuffed, driven away to an undisclosed location.
"I want...to buy...wildflowers..." he says, desperately, and gestures, feebly,
towards the front of the store, where the exit is, and the floral
bouquets, both of which are impossible to see from where they are now
standing.
"Yes, naturally, but they must be red carnations," Talbot says and allows
Kenny to think that he's finished with this unsavory encounter by the
frozen foods for some blessed seconds before he adds, "no, white. The red
will show wonderfully against your alabaster skin. "
* * *
"This tastes so scrumptious," Kathy murmurs, her face between Pam's legs,
licking--short stroke, long, short, short, long etc.--a hashish chocolate
mousse that Pam had her Peruvian housekeeper whip up in the kitchen some
hours before. Kathy pauses, replacing her tongue with a gentle finger,
and says, licking her lips, "Are you sure your mom won't be home any time
soon?"
Pam is looking at her right nipple, squeezing it between the thumb and
forefinger of her right hand, examining it, as if seeing it for the first
time, wondering what it was doing there or, as if she weren't really
seeing it at all and trying to convince herself of its presence.
"Sweetie?" Kathy prompts.
Pam looks up, pouting, automatically, and for some reason Kathy thinks of
her husband, standing in front of a full-length mirror, on painted
tiptoes, following with his similarly feminized hand the delicate curve
of his arched spine and pantied tush. The photograph, taken, supposedly,
at an oceanside hotel resort, did not seem to be of Kenny at all, but
when she questioned the man who slid it, along with others, across the
glass-topped table in the atrium of the downtown Marriott, she remembered
him saying, "Oh, but it will be."
"Huh?" Pam says, looking, with her new haircut, remarkably like Alyssa,
who looked like red-headed Beth, only with her hair pinned up and blonde;
Beth, who was, of course, her mother. "Did you say something?"
"Yes...no...never mind...your mom, she's in Bucharest, isn't she? She told me
last Tuesday."
"No, I think its Gdansk."
"Hmm," Kathy hums. "Well, anyway, I guess I should be getting..." and she
notices just how spacey the hashish, or the champagne, or the sex, or all
three are making her feel and sound. "...Somewhere."
"I haven't come yet," Pam says, sounding unashamedly spoiled, petulant,
childish. She picks up a joint, already lit, from somewhere, from a small
change pocket in the side of her neck is what it seemed like, but, of
course, couldn't be. Her eyes look, somehow, inverted.
Kathy absently strokes the girl's soft white belly, just below the navel,
pierced, as expected, and the intention, clearly, is to return to licking
her moist, very lightly furred pussy, now oozing chocolate chiffon, but
that's not what's in the cards, so to speak.
"Lick my toes," Pam says urgently. "That will get me off quick."
Kathy, who knows this kid's body as well as her own, never suspected this
about Pam, but the idea excites her, and she immediately thinks of
placing halved strawberries between the girl's notoriously perfect white
toes, the image reminding her, effectively, of strawberry shortcake.
"Could you please," Kathy says, thus inspired, her breath hitching a
little, "ring the kitchen?"
* * *
In an over air-conditioned hotel room, Kenny stands, hugging himself, in
a pastel-colored bra and panties set. His work clothes are hanging in the
closet, and a small overnight bag, containing white platform sandals, a
white teddy, and white thigh-high stockings is on the bed behind him. He
is waiting for someone, probably Mary Pat, who is late, or not coming at
all. It's also possible that he has checked in here alone, content to
simply look at himself in a full length mirror, stand on painted tiptoes,
admire the line of his paper-thin profile, from shoulder-blades to well-
turned ankle.
He is aware, of course, that he may have been followed, or that the room
itself, as improbable as it might seem, is being monitored, and, how
improbable is that really, nowadays? Is Kathy having him watched? Does
she suspect something? Is she preparing papers for divorce?
He slips his hand over his soft tummy to the front of his panties, silk,
impossibly cool, under his trembling fingertips. He isn't hard at all,
which makes perfect sense; it comes as no surprise. He's been taking
those pills that come in the mail, sent, by god knows who, to his office.
The packages come on the sixth, ninth, fifteenth, and twenty-seventh day
of each and every month since he can't even remember when.
* * *
"I don't like having to do this," Mary Pat says, tossing back his blonde
hair, a cigarette between his fingers, in the process of being lit by a
man calling himself (once again) Talbot. "I want you to know that. I want
it noted in the record. I don't like it at all."
The man in the black suit is standing against the railing of the
boardwalk, his back to the colorless ocean, which lies flat and dull
behind him, like a razor blade used too many times. He puts the cigarette
case back into the breast pocket of his black suit, returns the light to
the pocket of his black pants, and folds his arms, looking down at Mary
Pat with a false benevolence.
"We understand," he says, as if speaking for the majority of people in
the world. "You might even say it is the very reason that we chose you."
"He is my friend, goddammit..." Mary Pat dragged nervously on the
cigarette, which tasted, surprisingly, normal. He shifted his weight on
his long legs, his short skirt riding upward, almost over the tops of his
stockings. His white blouse, partially unbuttoned, showed a pink bra, and
not as much in it as he would have liked, but that was a situation he was
in the process of correcting, even as he spoke. "It's just not fair...what
you are doing...to me, to us..."
Talbot, or whoever it was, nodded. "Duly noted."
* * *
"Sometimes you have to get past the superficial differences between
people," R. says, talking to himself, yet all the while imagining that
he's talking into a tape recorder. "But, in the end, they are all
basically the same, as most couples are revealed to be, after a little
surgery, which proves, as if it needs proving," and he pauses for a
wracking series of coughs that sounds like a wet fish being slapped on a
sidewalk.
When he resumes speaking his voice might be coming from a different
person altogether. In fact, it is. His head, immobilized for his own
safety, doesn't move, but his eyes flick left-right, right-left, left-
right, right-left, etc. to the two photographs pinned side by side on the
light-box. Kenny-Kathy, Kathy-Kenny, Kenny-Kathy, Kathy-Kenny, etc.
"...which confirms," and he struggles to form the words out of the
poisonous phlegm thickening his windpipe, "that we only love ourselves."
* * *
On a canvas lounge chair, on the porch, Kenny lies, his thin, tanned,
well-toned body barely dressed, he can't help but notice, in a royal-blue
bikini, very skimpy, and a needle stick in the back of his left hand, an
IV dripping into him, slowly. What is dripping into him, however, is a
mystery, and although he could theoretically ask one of the nurses, or
whatever they are, who come by occasionally to change the bag on the
metal pole, he is, in practice, either asleep when they come, or somehow,
he forgets to ask.
"Don't I need to get back...to something?" he asks someone, maybe it's Mary
Pat, who sits beside him, reading an old fat novel.
It's not the sort of book anyone really reads, although it's creased and
worn as if a thousand hands have flipped its pages. Something she must
have found in the day room, something by someone named...oh, he can't see
the name, what's the difference anyway?
Mary Pat, if it's her, lowers the book. Her eyes are hidden behind very
dark glasses. She smiles.
"There's no hurry," she says.
The way she says it brings tears to Kenny's eyes.
"I'm very tan," he says irrelevantly.
Just for the hell of it, he tries to remember when the last time he ate
might have been, but he can't think back that far. "And very thin. I
guess..." and his eyes fall level on the ocean, swollen and blue, over the
porch railing. Suddenly he has a thought: "...will they drown me, then?"
Mary Pat pretends not to hear, or maybe she really doesn't, but some time
later, in response to some other dreamy half-sentence that Kenny utters
almost without knowing it, she chuckles affectionately, and says, "You're
so silly."
* * *
She reads about it in an online edition of an out-of-state paper, in the
news of the weird section, or something like that, and even though she
sits on the deck in a yellow string bikini in the 93 degree heat of a
central Florida afternoon, she feels as if a cold shadow passes over her.
That woman in the photo looks so much like me, she thinks, it's a good
thing they found the body in a motel room where...?
She checks the article again.
In Minnesota.
The glass door slides open and Kenny stands there with two tall frosted
glasses of lime-slush and gin. He's wearing a tiny bikini bottom and a
pink pair of her rubber thong platform sandals. His oiled body is smooth
and slender and tan all over. Looking up at him, she knows the news story
of the murdered woman is all wrong, full of misstated facts, faulty
deduction, and wrongly arrived at conclusions, but that doesn't make it
any less eerie.
"Mojitos, sort of," he shrugs and smiles with the forced cheer of someone
with a gun at his back.
Then, mirroring Kathy's troubled expression his demeanor suddenly changes
to something slightly less faux, "...is something...wrong? You look..." but
he's waiting for Kathy to fill in the blank, which she never quite gets
around to doing. Or maybe she can't, and she's waiting for him to...what?
Whatever it is it remains unspoken, a blank space, but underscored,
highlighted, set off in parenthesis, to remind them always that
something, some crucial something, will always be missing.
* * * * *
For more of my writings, drawings, erotica, and photos please visit my
blog Bad Pussy
sissyforlife(dot)blogspot(dot)com.
Miracle
- 24.07.2022
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