Black Puma Cat s ClawChapter 2 A Ton of Bricks
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Black Puma - Cat's ClawChapter 3: There’ll Be Hell To Pay free porn video
Three o’clock in the morning, the fires still burned in the collapsed structures on one dismal block in Shabby Heights. The flames climbed into the night sky, lighting up the clouds hanging over The City. The big black SUV slipped silently through the ratty neighborhood. Running without lights, the vehicle sped toward the fires dancing skyward in the dark. Two black Lincoln Town Cars followed. Likewise, they drove with headlights extinguished. There was no way to see inside, with the window tinting obscuring the occupants from prying eyes. Without warning, one of the Town Cars pulled around the SUV and led the way. Finding their destination, a T intersection where the walls came tumbling down, the cars and SUV stopped in front of massive piles of bricks. The glow from the fires west of them cast eerie shadows while patches of light danced on the vehicles and piles of rubble from the destroyed buildings.
Four burly men jumped from the two cars, setting straight to work, digging down in one of the piles of bricks. The men wore clothing made from the same material that covered Puma’s body. Covered head to toe, each man hoped the protective gear was an unnecessary precaution, but each felt more secure with it on. It took time, but soon they were removing each brick cautiously, being careful not to step on those bricks which covered the Cat. Rising, one of the men stopped the digging, then raised his hand toward the SUV, motioning to the men.
The driver, a short, thin man exited the car and ran to the quartet of diggers. He looked down at the figure, while one of the men knelt beside her in the rubble, his hand under the tattered costume at her neck. Turning his head upward he stared at Steven, then pulled his mask up to reveal his smile plastered face.
“The Cat breathes,” he exclaimed.
“Cover your face,” Steven told him, while his heart hammered with relief in his chest. “Bring her to the van. Careful now, don’t make her condition worse.”
“Wait,” a voice from near the car said, “use this.” He brought a spinal board. “Strap her down tight when you get her on it. As soon we get her there, I’ll have to get her out of that suit.”
“I’ll do that, and I’ll cover her face with a different mask,” Denton said.
“Steven,” the Doctor started to speak.
“Doctor ... do not look under that hood. These conditions are not negotiable.”
“I may need to use a respirator, might need...”
“You’ll be able to, but the mask stays on,” Steven Denton told him. Denton had surmised Puma’s identity only brief hours before, when her crazed young lover called him. Once he knew Lacey Barton’s name, all the pieces fell into place. They had been photographed together several times. He hoped she could be saved, while guilt nagged at him for not making the suit better, more protective. Shaking off the guilt, his mind began to work on the mystery of how to make her gear more durable and still light weight. It was not an option that she would not survive.
Steven Denton’s mind never ceased from its labors. It wasn’t uncommon for him to go bed with a problem and wake with the solution. He could sure use a few hours of sleep, but that wasn’t going to happen for some time yet. As the group of men moved Black Puma, she barely clung to life, yet with slashes all over the suit, it surprised him how little blood there was. As the men carried her past him, Steven Denton heard a loud wheeze and gasp as Puma breathed with hard, deep rasp. Her eyes opened, and her head turned to him. A weak smile crossed her face.
“I fucked up, little man,” she said, “these guys my cubbies?” She didn’t hear the answer, as she fell back into an unconscious state. With care, the four men slid the board and Puma into the back of the SUV. The doctor jumped inside and began to look at the injured woman.
“Do not look under the cowl,” Denton warned him again.
Bright lights blinked in shades of blue, red, and green, bouncing off the spinning ball hanging from the ceiling. The shards of light cast a bright shimmering radiance of vibrant colors on the merry makers on the dancefloor, bathing them in a festive glow. Bodies rolled and twisted as they bounced to the rhythm of the music. Several of the women held their arms high spinning their bodies as the Ecstasy moved through their veins.
The revelry broke out minutes after the fire department and police fled the battle with their tails tucked between their legs. The news spread like wildfire among the mob’s crew of Shabby Heights. The Cat was buried under a massive pile of rubble from a fallen building. The Black Puma was dead. Let the debauchery begin.
A sharp pain stung her arms, waist, hips, and legs. Darkness engulfed her. A foggy darkness with even darker shadows moved around her. People wavered in and out of focus, while whispers off in the distance called to her. Familiar voices speaking in hushed tones, warning her of dangers—there be monsters here.
Other voices celebrated her achievements. Her parents. I’m proud of you girl, her father’s voice praised her. She could hear an announcer speaking in hurried, excited voice, Yet another grand slam win. And what a victory it was! She wanted to scream at him, it’s only a game. But try as she might, no words came from her mouth.
Then other voices broke in, and Puma’s eyes fluttered open to a blinding bright light, painfully stinging her eyes with its brilliance. Attempting to lift her hand to cover her eyes, it didn’t respond. A mask descended toward her, mercifully blocking the light momentarily while hands raised her head. Fabric was slipped over her head, covering her face from nose to crown.
“Remember this one?” Steven asked.
“The one I made,” she whispered. Steven’s soft hand touched her cheeks gently as he stroked her face. In his other hand, he held her new but damaged mask.
“Sorry, I didn’t design the suit well enough,” he told her quietly, tossing the mask to the side.
“Bullshit,” she croaked out, “Saved my life.”
“Doctor,” Steven called.
The doctor came in and stood over her. “Little stick,” he said.
Shawanda felt a light prick on her arm just below the bend of the elbow on the inside, “Can you count backward from 100 for me?”
“Yeah, sure...” she said, “Hundred, ninety ... ninety-nine ... ah ... ninety ... ninety-eight ... ninety ... ninety-something,” Shawanda went under, her head again swimming in darkness.
“Okay,” the doctor said, “we have seven wounds in her flesh. I removed five pieces of metal already. Those were relatively shallow, but these two are deeper. One in her left leg the other ... well that one is problematic.”
“How so?” Denton asked.
“It’s almost touching the heart,” the doctor explained, pointing to x-rays on a computer monitor. “It didn’t penetrate the pericardial sac, however, I’m not at all confident in my ability. I’m afraid I’d do more damage if I extracted it. So, I propose we call in another surgeon.”
“Is the wound track straight?”
“Yes, it’s just the proximity to the-”
“Doctor,” Steven broke in, “it’s metal, right? What about an electromagnet? Could it pull it out without doing more damage?”
“I don’t have an electromagnet,” the doctor told him.
“I do.”
The jarring music faded as the pair made their way down the corridor. Through a hidden door, they passed into another set of hallways, making their way to an elevator. The man put a card in a slot and doors sprang open. The woman moved into the elevator rolling her hips in rhythm to the distant music. The man followed, like a wolf on the prowl.
Jason Griggs reached out and pushed LL10. The elevator gave that little dip letting the pair know it had begun its decent. As the elevator dropped to the lower levels, Griggs stared at the woman. Being a whore, his gaze shouldn’t have bothered her. She blushed and felt nervous. Griggs position as the Boss of Bosses intimidated her.
His handsome appearance and sinister smirk unnerved her. Fidgeting with her purse, she stopped looking at him. The palm of his hand slashed across her face, a powerful reminder he was the boss.
“Look at me bitch,” he ordered, hitting the stop button. As the car lurched to a stop, the girl stumbled, grabbing the handrail to steady herself.
“Sorry,” she said, in a soft, weak voice. The back of Griggs’s hand stung across the other cheek, knocking her to the floor of the elevator.
“That’s a right, good place for you,” he said. She wiped a small trickle of blood from under her nose. “Look at me, whore.” Her eyes rolled up to him.
“Why are you here with me?” he demanded.
“You want to fuck me,” she said. Grabbing her face, Jason squeezed, pushing her lips out of their natural shape.
“Not till you get me hard. So, get over here and suck me, bitch. Get me hard.”
She positioned herself in front of him, on her knees. Unzipping his pants, the woman fished his pecker from inside his trousers. It hung limp inches from her lips, and the woman went to work kissing, stroking, and licking it to awaken the monster.
His prick shuddered, thickened, and grew. The girl put her tongue in the way to block him putting it in very far. Grabbing the back of the whore’s head, he bucked into her mouth hard. The cock head lunged into the back of her mouth. Inches remained, and twisting her hair, Griggs yanked her head closer to him, simultaneously thrusting his hips to drive his prick into her throat. Copious amounts of slobber leaked around his fat prick, running down her chin, before trickling to the hard tiles.
He bucked into her mouth hard, yanking her head closer as he drove inside her throat. With a violent rage, he fucked her face. Her open hands slapped at his legs in desperation. His aggression stunned and hurt her. She needed him to stop.
“Stop that,” he yelled at her, then fucked her mouth even harder. Pinching her nose, he forced his dick further into her mouth, until his balls rested on her chin. He resumed fucking her face hard, belittling her cock sucking skills. He stopped, pulling his pecker from her throat and back into her mouth, and held it there.
“Jack me bitch,” he ordered.
The young woman reached up and started pumping furiously. “Going to blow in your mouth and you’re going to eat every drop. If you don’t want to lick it off my clothes and the floor you better not lose a drop.”
The girl wanted to pull it out of her mouth. Cum disgusted her, but she knew it would be suicide for her to resist. The velocity of the spray caught her off guard. The first thick spew hit the back of her mouth, sloshing into her throat. Another, and another. Her mouth filled. She couldn’t suck it down fast enough.
There was too much, and it oozed out from around his cock, leaking down on his shoes, her knees, and the floor. Coughing and spluttering when he pulled out, she dipped her head, the thick globs on the floor and his feet clearly visible. Yet without question, the whore dropped to the floor and ate it up, then licked his shoes and her own knees clean.
Rising, she saw it - stiff and still annoyed - and realized this wasn’t over. Not yet. In response, her mind went to a faraway place where the man she loved made tender love to her. Reaching for the figure in her mind, her body reacted as if he were truly there. That’s how she always got through her work, pretending it wasn’t her work. Pretending she wasn’t a prostitute. It was almost enough, but not quite. She was still a whore.
He grabbed her, dragging her to her feet hard and fast. Her mind swam in a sea of confusion. She had thought it was over, but it wasn’t. Throwing her against the back wall of the elevator, he pinned her against the wall, holding her there with the weight of his body. He hurt her, poking, and prodding her body with brutal abandon. Pressing his lips to hers, he shoved his tongue into her mouth as he mashed her breasts.
The young woman wanted to kick and punch him. But wanting wasn’t sufficient. She was helpless. He was stronger than she, fighting off his intention would be foolish. She was the whore and he was the boss. As his brutal lust exploded, he bit her lip, twisting it cruelly in his mouth. One hand mangled a tit while the other ravaged her pussy. His firm grip dug into the tender flesh, sending pain and shame mixed with pleasure.
It was too much. She had to get away. For a brief moment, she struggled in vain, attempting to pull her face away. He bit harder, then stopped, with a steely glare. He clutched her shoulders and bashed her against the wall. Her head stuck the wall, sending flashes of color through her sight, but it was the brute force he had used that frightened her more. His hate filled eyes glowered at her.
“You’re a fucking whore.”
“Yes,” she whimpered, resigned to what he would do to her.
“This,” he said, grabbing her pussy, squeezing her with his vice-like hands, “belongs to me. Not you, bitch.”
Letting out a shrill screech, she gasped for breath. Her eyes locked on his face, as Jason Griggs hateful glare made her tremble. Whatever he wanted, he was going to take. He could do anything.
Grabbing the girl’s shoulders, he lifted the young woman, slamming her against the back wall of the car. Bringing her legs up, he wrapped them around his waist, pulling her short skirt over her ample hips to reveal her bare crotch to him. In a quick, fluid motion he stabbed his cock inside her snatch. With a hard-deep thrust, he pounded himself into her. The girl ran her hands over his body, whispering encouragement as he savaged her.
She wanted him to finish, to end this nightmare. She had been thrilled that the Boss had shown an interest in her. Airhead that she was, she believed he liked her. In certain ways, all whores are the same. They dream of Richard Gere saving them from their life. The reality was, no one cared enough to save them.
He fucked her with a wrath, oblivious to whether she enjoyed what he did to her. Once he finished, he withdrew, stepped away from her to let her plummet to the floor. Jason Griggs returned his penis to its proper place inside his pants. Gaining her feet, the girl adjusted her own clothing as the car returned to its journey. The doors slid open, Jason Griggs stepped out and turned to the girl, shoving her out of the elevator.
“Get your ass on the streets and make me some fucking money.” The doors slid shut with a small thud behind them. The girl slumped against the wall. She wanted to cry, but didn’t dare. Not yet. Not in front of this man. Her hopes of escaping this life were dashed as the reality hit home with devastating finality. That she’s only a cheap whore.
Janice Griggs grabbed her phone as soon as it buzzed, stood, and rushed to the bathroom. As the phone continued to buzz incessantly, she checked each stall, and once satisfied she was alone, slid her finger over the screen.
“Steven,” she exhaled, “you shouldn’t be calling me right now. It isn’t safe for me.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Steven said.
“Didn’t know,” Janice said. “I swear to God. I didn’t know. Is ... Steven is she ... alright?”
“What do you think?” he answered her question with his own.
“Don’t tell me she’s dead ... this can’t be the end.”
“Who set this up? Who’s responsible for what happened to her?”
“She’s dead then, is that what you are saying,” she said, panic rising as her body trembled in fear.
“No, Puma didn’t die. She’s badly hurt and might still die, but for now she clings to life,” he said, then refocused on the question at hand. “Tell me who did this,” he ordered, the barely restrained anger evident in his tone.
“Bryson Hildegard,” she said. “He’s flying back to Empire City on an 8:00am departure in his private Centurion jet ... from the International Airport. That’s all I know.”
“I’m disappointed in you, you have let me down three times lately. That ordeal two blocks out of Shabby then the meeting with Palmer, and now this. It appears you have been out of the loop, or your allegiance has shifted back to your brother,” he spat the words at her.
She started to answer him, then realized that he had already hung up on her.
Janice Griggs was an attractive, fit woman. Walking out of the bathroom she made her way through the revelers on the dance floor, sauntering to the table where her brother’s top lieutenants sat together. They were in a good mood, congratulating themselves on how well their plan had worked. Janice stood there, staring at one of the men. At first, he was unaware of her presence, bragging that it had been his idea to call Hildegard. One by one, the gangsters realized that Janice scrutinized the group. Their attention shifted to the woman, each hoping she wanted them, but each knowing she only had eyes for one of them, her brother’s second in command, Charles Martini.
Her slender, enticing body called to them as she stood before the racketeers. Hips twisting as though she prepared to move away, still her eyes bore holes into Charles. He continued to babble away, unaware of her presence until one of the men nudged him Turning, Charles eyed Janice and stopped talking, simply staring at her. Everyone saw the look, deeper than lust. And almost reverential gaze. They knew she owned him.
“Now,” Janice said, turning, and gliding away from the group, her body slivering not unlike a snake.
“Boys,” he said standing, “gotta go.” Like a lost puppy, Martini licked his lips, adjusted his tie, and followed her. Soon it would be morning and they would all be watching for the news. But for now, it was the dead of night and in the cool of the evening, passion runs deep.
The darkness of the room surrendered under the soft glow from the candles; three small lights flickering in the darkness. Turning Janice looked at him, held the match to her lips and blew. The blaze resisted momentarily, then vanished. A small wisp of smoke hung in the air, then dissipated. Reaching behind her she tugged at the zipper. Charles heard the distorted fast clicking sound as she unzipped the dress. Pushing it from her shoulders, the black, slinky designer dress slid to the floor in a slow dance over her tight body. Charles reached for his crotch at the sight.
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