I’ve been with more men than I’d care to admit. Maybe one was too many. Fuck free love. Love had nothing to do with the games I was forced to play. I said forced but it’s not like anyone put a gun to my head, at first. I said games because like they say, people play games but it’s not like any of us were playing the same one. 

The step ladder and fluorescent bulbs kept each other company in the dark, dusty corner, awaiting the opportunity for legs to be spread and fragile rods to be inserted. I sat in the opposite corner with my legs crossed where it wasn’t as dark because I had my own light, dim as it was. 

I was a social worker. Mostly, I helped young mothers and “brides,” the kinds of girls who thought “love it or leave it” meant their boyfriends’ dicks. She’d love it and he’d leave her with a lovely parting gift. “Sorry, you lose, but here’s a rug rat, a dozen diapers, and a year’s supply of Rice-A-Roni!” That meant I had to deal with the same kinds of men that streetwalkers do but at half the pay and less respect. But that’s what you’d expect from a respectable job. 

The difference between them and me was that I wasn’t afraid of the pharmacist giving me the old “wink-wink nudge-nudge” when I picked up my Pills. It was bad enough that society told me I had to find a man. I sure as hell didn’t want some newborn to pick one for me. 

There were three upright people at the office besides me so I didn’t have to save the world one black eye at a time all by myself. The supervisor, as stenciled on his frosted glass door, was Mr. Lester Balls—honest. I had more fun with that name than was ladylike. 

Mary was the other chick there. She was paid as well as any professional and earned every inch of it. You had to give some head to get ahead. In her case, Les was more. 

Matt wasn’t bad as lazy chauvinists go. He had a system. People would come in, he’d hand them a form, and then send them to Mary or (mostly) me.  

My life got interesting the day this guy in a suit and loose tie came in. I knew he was looking for me when he asked for the cunt who couldn’t mind her own business. Apparently, he wasn’t pleased that I had an enlightening conversation with his wife. Matt didn’t bother to look up from his newspaper; he just jerked his thumb in my direction. 

Loose-tie-guy expressed his concerns to me in a loud yet incoherent fashion. I asked him his name so I could get the file but oh-ho-ho-no, he was too smart to fall for that old trick. He grabbed my wrist and yanked me out of my chair. I used the handset of what was probably the last rotary phone in the building to loosen a couple of his teeth. 

Matt rushed to help me, then Les rushed to help Matt. They tossed him out before Mary could chip a nail. Les told me, “That’s what happens when you piss these guys off, BJ.” 

Matt giggled. 

“Right, thanks, Lester. Could you not call me that?” The name on my license was “Rebecca Jane Howard.” My mom called me Becca Jane. My friends and Mary called me Becca. These two sophomoric assholes… 

“Sure, BJ, sure,” Les said as he and Mary went back into his office to file a report or fuck—probably fuck. 

~~~ 

Five o’clock couldn’t come fast enough. I didn’t go out much and when I did, I didn’t usually dress up but after the week that I had, I was ready. Maybe I’d get drunk enough to let some guy get me drunker. I even sprung for a cab for the few blocks because it wouldn’t be right to wear my little black dress without my four-inch killer stilettos (which brought me up to a whopping five-foot-seven). 

Navigating in high heels was never a problem for me. I was a natural tumbler back in gym class and these two sisters in the neighborhood I grew up in had a dance studio; Mom made me take ballroom dancing, of all things. There was nothing I couldn’t do backward in heels (wink-wink nudge-nudge). 

I think I looked cute. I’d rather look tough but with my pale skin, orange hair, and freckles, that wasn’t ever going to happen. “Becca Jane, I wish you’d grow your hair out,” my mom liked to tell me. "You won’t find a nice man if you look like a boy.”  

“Twiggy gets all the guys she wants, I’ll bet. How about Mia Farrow?” 

“Well, dear, that’s okay for them, they’re…” 

“Pretty?” 

“I was going to say ‘famous.’” 

The girl in the mirror looked famous enough, I suppose, and my tits were more famous than the two of ‘em combined, like ‘em or not. 

The badly lit sign outside said the place was a cocktail lounge. It didn’t have a name and didn’t need one. “1-Adam-12, 1-Adam-12, be advised there’s a disturbance at the bar next to the alley, you know the one.” 

I used the ladies’ room there once—once. If I had to, I peed in the alley; it was cleaner and better lit. Otherwise, I’d just cross my legs tight which was good advice even if you didn’t have to pee. 

The guy in the booth with me shifted over so I could face the crowd too. He nonchalantly massaged my thigh. Do guys really think we don’t notice? La-de-da oh my, my hand is on your twat. I ignored it and pointed at another different girl. “What about that one?” 

It’s a game that I played with the men I met, pretending we're two guys girl-watching. You learned a lot about someone that way. 

Before he could answer, this familiar girl approached our table but just as she opened her mouth, she got wrenched away by the asshole who had attacked me earlier at the office. 

“I’ll deal with you when I’m done with her,” loose-tie guy threatened us and left. I remembered her—Lisa, a brash cock-tease with fuck-me eyes and a mouth to match. I never used to think that women asked for it but, “c’mon I dare you” was her catchphrase. 

“Dammit! C’mon,” I said to my date, “This isn’t going to be good.” 

“Fuck that,” he said. “I don’t know what he was threatening me for. I never seen that chick before.” 

I rushed outside without my worthless backup just in time to not stop him from backhanding her. I hurtled toward them and hurled myself by cleverly tripping into him. I remained upright while he landed face down. 

I kicked at his head and caught my damned heel on something. It snapped off my shoe after some vigorous shaking and stomping and I quickly limped away. Lisa was staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed behind me. Turning toward a rattling noise, I saw what she saw: blood and ooze leaking from the back of the guy’s neck where my heel was wedged up into his brain. 

I was about as composed as a sixteen-year-old being caught in a dress using his big sister’s ID. The girl dragged me out of sight and held me. 

“Shh,” she said. 

“I think he's dead,” I replied between hard-thumping heart thumps. 

“Shh,” she said, holding me up against the alley wall. 

“I killed him.” 

“Shh,” she said, kissing me once on the cheek and then once on the lips. 

“We need to call someone…” 

“No. Sh.” Our lips met again, then again, and then she held the kiss. I felt calm but my heart kept thumping. “Men are horrible and he was worse than most. You know that’s true—more than most.” She kissed my ear and whispered, “He deserved to die. Let me thank you.” 

Lisa squatted and I felt something press against my panties. Her head and hands were under my dress and her thumbs were massaging the sides of my pussy while her mouth, her mouth was sucking in the middle, soaking my underwear. 

I moaned despite how wrong this was. “Yes,” I exhaled despite the lack of a question. She pulled my panties down and I stepped out of them without thinking. Her thumbs got more intrusive and I hazarded that it was her tongue that was in the middle of it all. 

“Hmm, I can tell you're a real ginger, even in this light.” 

We were in the mouth of an alley, inches away from passers-by. Most didn’t look or refused to look or pretended not to look. One raven-haired short-skirt, though, lingered before moving on. 

A brief glance confirmed that the stiff was still there, the lifeless prick. I intended to shove the girl’s face away from my crotch but oh, ho, oh GOD I felt so powerful as I claimed the biggest O that another person had ever given me. 

Lisa kissed me again after that; a passionate French kiss and I tasted what no man had tasted before. The knees of her hosiery were torn, I saw, when she stepped back and blew me a final kiss, never to be seen by me again. 

I stumbled home with two shoes and one heel in hand. Why do people keep vodka in the freezer? I do but I let it warm up before gulping it down—usually. I woke up the next morning still in my evening clothes. 

~~~ 

Despite taking a handful of aspirins, I had a big-numbered Excedrin headache all morning. I typed up my report to close their file and handed it in to Les, happy to be rid of the reminder and happy to be rid of him. Who knew killing someone would be so easy? 

He did deserve to die. My file cabinet was filled with animals like him, pigs and dogs that once put down would make for at least as many grateful women. 

Thankfully, my day was filled with food stamp applications and AA referrals. My colleagues cared enough to point out to me that I looked like shit but not enough to do their jobs for a change. We were about to lock up for the evening when a repeat customer came in hoping for a place to spend the night away from her boyfriend. 

Wendy was a Negro, a head taller than me with an Afro that made her a head taller than that. Her boyfriend was taller still. I couldn’t remember if he was filed under “dogs” or “pigs” but he was in there. 

“You need to get away from him, Wendy.” 

“It ain’t that easy; you know it ain’t that easy.” 

I knew. I made some calls and a thought came to me while I was on hold: he deserved it too. 

There were a couple of open spots for Wendy but before she left, I asked her a question. “What would you do to get him out of your life—for good, I mean?” 

“Lord, I’d do anything.” 

Anything. People say that and don’t mean it. I told her my price—the same reward, the same payment I got last night: her mouth on my pussy. 

“I’m not one of those. I wouldn’t have thought you were.” 

“Oh, I’m no lesbian either,” I assured her. “This is serious business and I need to know that you’re serious, really serious. That’s all. You’d have to be serious to do something like that.” 

Wendy declined, not politely, and I expected that I’d never see her again. She was at the office door before I was the next morning, though—a black girl blanched. She didn’t even come inside. 

“I’ll do it.” 

~~~ 

“Excuse me. You look like you have good eyesight. Can you help me find my other shoe?” I dangled one for him from the shadows of the alley, a four-inch stiletto whose heel-less twin was in my closet. 

“What do I get if I find it?” His wolfish grin reminded me that I had him filed under ‘dog.’ 

“Do you like surprises?” 

He did. He surprised me by grabbing me so quickly. That was okay; I held onto his neck and vaulted a knee into his special place. Once he doubled over, I swung my shoe over my head with both hands and sunk its heel into that sweet spot. He hit the ground faster than knees in the Oval Office. 

After calling Wendy from a payphone to let her know where to meet me, I admired my handiwork with a single thought: I need more shoes. 

The hotel that I chose wasn’t five-star but it wasn’t a one, either. We wouldn’t be there long anyway and they wouldn’t even have to make the bed when we left. 

“What do I do first?” Wendy asked. “Do we kiss?” 

“No. I told you, I’m not a lez.” I removed my underwear and sat on the edge of the bed. “You have a pussy and I have a pussy. You know what to do.” 

“The hell, I do,” she replied, but she figured it out. 

Her soft, full lips tentatively kissed my mound. I didn’t know and didn’t care what she was feeling but my heart was racing. I was very encouraging and told her to use her fingers too. My lips parted with hers as I moaned through the first swipe of her tongue. I moaned even louder through the second. 

Wendy wasn’t as enthusiastic as Lisa was but I was, enough for the two of us, flicking my clit with one hand while weaving my fingers into her ‘fro with the other. I shut my eyes, there was no reason to watch any of this and saw the dead man’s locked, shocked expression in my head. I did that. 

Swinging a leg over Wendy’s shoulder, I threatened her not to stop until I said so. Before long, I threw myself onto the bed, releasing her to watch me jam my own fingers up my cunt, prolonging my climax. I didn’t see her split and didn’t care. I heard her mutter, “We’re done,” and the door slam. 

~~~ 

Everyone at work the next day assumed that I got laid last night which made me laugh to myself about how far from the truth they were. Like before, I made quick work on Wendy’s file and brought it to Les’ office. 

“BJ, I have a question about the file you gave me the other day—the one with the guy with the high heel stuck in his head.” 

I wondered what the question might have been. My work was impeccable. “Sure, what’s up?” 

“You closed and submitted it before the police reported him as dead.” 

Shit! “Couldn’t have. Are you sure about the times?” 

“Yeah, I’m real sure.” 

I didn’t like the way he was looking so I asked to see the file. “Oh, sure, I remember now. Lisa. She left town.” 

“Do you think she might have done it—killed him, I mean?” 

“No, no I don’t think so. She was gone long before then. Besides, I think if she had it in her, she’d have done it a long time ago.” 

He humphed, flipped through the report and flopped it on his desk. “Is that for me?” he asked, nodding at the folder in my hand. 

“No. I had a question but I figured it out.” 

At least, I thought I had. I reorganized my files into yes, no, and maybe. My job requires patience and over the years I had built up a big ol’ callous of patience. I should have been happy that there was a downtick in the number of wife beatings but instead, I went looking for trouble in the “yes” pile. 

Mary took a break from whatever she did that needed breaking and looked at the name of the ‘yes’ on my desk. “Weird about the guy stabbed in the head, huh?” 

“Yeah, weird.” I put away the file that she saw. He’d have to wait for another day. 

“Wasn't he slapping around one of your clients?” 

She knew that he was. “Why?” 

“No reason. Did you hear they found another? Wendy Johnson’s boyfriend.” 

“Huh. Well, we live in a weird city.” 

She let it go at that, thankfully. I remembered a prayer, “Nothing will drive us to our knees quicker than trouble.” Whose knees, I wondered, and for what? Couldn't one chick’s trouble be another one's opportunity, even her deserved recompense? 

The third opportunity went without trouble but not the way that I deserved. She was a no-show at the hotel and laughed at me as I cursed her out from a payphone. I cursed at the people walking by as well, whether they were looking at me or not. “Good luck when you need an alibi, bitch!” 

Even Matt knew better than to talk to me the next morning, or to let anyone bother me. The welcome silence was broken by a low and long whistle. Matt was standing between me and the object of his affection who insisted on seeing Miss Howard. Exasperated, I told him to let her through. 

He reluctantly stepped aside, unveiling a woman who put the triple-X in “foxy.” A whisp from her jet-black sweeping bangs fell across demanding ice-blue eyes, the color of a frosted soul. I coveted her deadly, open-toed very high pumps which she obviously wore for effect and not height. 

In between were the daisies—a printed high-waisted knee-length sheath skirt and matching round-neck crop top, showing off appreciable skin. In a world full of emaciated stick-figure models, the only gaunt part of this chick was her waist. I mean, her cleavage was taller than I was. 

And I wanted five minutes alone with her Bank Americard. 

She took the chair by my desk and crossed those smooth, hosiery-free legs. The slit of her skirt went all the way to the hip bone, immodestly concealing no underwear.  

“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Howard. My name is Pamela Ross. My friends call me Rose.” 

As if God wasn’t already unfair enough, this woman’s voice resonated from girly soprano appeals to seductive alto promises. 

“We’re here to help, of course. Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t strike me as a woman who would need our services, Miss Ross.” Something about her was familiar but I couldn’t place her—I couldn’t see us ever moving in the same circles. 

“Rose—please call me Rose. That’s mostly true. I’m having domestic problems for which I believe you have a unique solution. You see, my husband is a very bad man.” 

I asked her the usual questions but all of her answers suggested more of a need for a divorce lawyer than a social worker. I didn’t see one bruise on her. 

“I saw you in an alley a few weeks ago,” she casually mentioned. 

That rattled my memory. Pamela Rose Ross was the skirt who was staring at me after my first—during my first. 

“Have you heard about those murders, the ones with the men stabbed in their heads?” Rose uncrossed and crossed her legs. Legs like those are why God created high heels. “Killing men like them makes a girl feel safe, somehow, don’t you agree?” 

I swallowed hard. I couldn’t figure out her angle. She was too rich to blackmail me. “Yes, I’ve heard about them.” 

Rose stood and leaned over my desk with her gravity-defying tits that refused to fall out of her top. “I thought you might have.” She sauntered around and perched on the corner of my desk. Two slits—her skirt had two long slits. “About your special services—I believe that I would rather enjoy paying your fee.” 

“Rose. Miss Ross. Unless you need help filing out an abuse report, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” 

That was the only time her confidence faltered. “You realize that I’m flirting with you, don’t you?” 

“Here’s my card.” 

“What is it that you like most about women? I know what I like about you. So hard to choose, right?” 

“I suggest you need a private investigator more than you need me.” 

“I have one. Apparently, I need a better one.” Rose shoved Matt aside on her way out. “This is all new to you, isn't it?” 

“What's new?” Matt asked. “BJ, what did she mean by that?” 

~~~ 

I had been reckless. Mary suspected something and I’m sure Les put her up to it. Rose, a person of considerable affluence had been onto me from day one. My stories had to be straight for the inevitable visit from the man. I constructed alibis and rotated hotels. 

At no time did I think that I should quit. Everyone deserved what they got. 

A black catsuit with gloves and knee-high boots (with spiked heels, of course) helped me meld into the shadows and a leather mask concealed my identity. I found an old black leather newsboy cap and wore it with the brim in the back with faux black hair hanging from behind. Unless they caught me, no one would ever again know who I was. 

My sharpened killer stilettos dangled from chains at my waist. I could have found other ways to dispose of my targets but I felt special using them as if my first kill was a calling. 

“What are you, some kind of Batgirl?” 

I had grown to love it when they got chauvinistic and condescending. “Do you like it? I got dressed to kill, just for you!” 

I wondered what he thought of my overstuffed bra as I swung my hips toward him. I wondered what he thought when I got close enough for him to see me lick my lip and tear a shoe from my hip. I wondered what he thought when I kneed him and I wondered what his last thought was. 

The hotel was easy to run to and still keep in the shadows. There was a scream in the distance just as I hung up after calling his widow. My plan was to get out of my get-up and throw on a dress but she knocked while I was naked. I dared myself to open the door as I was. 

“Oh!” She scanned me up and down, lingering at the dampening orange thatch between my legs. “Okay.” She took her clothes off as well and I didn’t stop her. As arousing as it was displaying myself, watching her strip was more so. “He’s really dead?” she asked. 

I nodded as she unbuttoned her blouse. 

“Like the others?” 

“Just like the others.” 

“I mean, with the shoe heel?” 

“The heal got the heel.” 

She giggled at my wordplay as she pulled her panties and jeans down together. “Cute. Just like you.” 

I lay back. She made me tell her all about it while she ate me out and fingered herself. She liked it more than I should have. 

“Were his eyes open or closed?” 

“Wide open.” 

She hummed into my cunt when I said that. “Did it hurt him?” 

How the hell was I supposed to know? “Yes. A lot.” 

“So, he suffered…” 

Oh, yeah… “Oh, yeah, he suffered. He twitched around like crazy.” Then I twitched like crazy. She sat on the floor to let me watch and after a few seconds with both hands, she twitched like crazy. Two out of three of us were satisfied with the night’s twitches. Batting six hundred is good, right? 

~~~ 

My good mood at work was spoiled when I heard Mary and Les shouting at each other again; they hadn’t been as lovey-dovey as they used to be. I couldn’t make out what they were arguing about but he got louder and she got quieter until there was a shattering silence. 

Mary stormed out of his office and left. I think she was crying. I couldn’t believe that I was concerned about her.  

Les came out and snapped at Matt to do some work and told me to go after Mary. I did, gladly, and found her in the nearby park, staring into space. 

Now, Mary was already established at work when I got hired. We were getting along fine until Les made a pass at me, the first of many. I shot him down every time but after that, she treated me like I was some bitch going after her bone. 

I sat on the bench next to her. “Les sent me for you.” 

“Les can go fuck himself.” 

Good. We had common ground for a constructive conversation. I noticed then that her wrist was bruised. “When did that happen?” 

She covered it with her hand. “It’s nothing.” 

“Sure. It's nothing. We've both seen worse. Probably never happen again.” I saw that her blouse was buttoned to the neck. “New fashion statement? I didn't think you knew there were buttons that high up.” 

Mary faced away from me and casually opened her top, showed me the black and blue above her bust, and closed herself off again. “Maybe I should see you and file a report,” she weakly chuckled. “Who knows, maybe he’d end up with a shoe in his neck?” 

I put my arm around her. “Who knows?” 

~~~ 

Rose showed up again a few days later, carrying a shopping bag and wearing a paisley micro-mini and white stockings. Without a word, she dragged the ladder from the corner and climbed up with two fluorescent bulbs. Underneath her dress were a white garter belt and a black bush. She lit my corner up and chased my kindly shadows away. 

“You’re too pretty to waste.” 

“What do you want, Rose?” 

“You were right, we’ll never be in your files and I'll never call the police. If I did, I'd be ruined while he buys his way free.” 

The brown craft envelope looked special in her long, perfectly manicured fingers. Inside were several crime scene photos of a badly beaten woman. 

“Her name was Sarah. She was a call girl; high-priced, God knows. She wouldn’t be in your files either but she ended up in the morgue.” 

“A friend of yours?” 

“Not at first. My husband, Neil, wanted to sleep with two women at the same time. He made it clear that he would do it with or without me so I agreed. I was embarrassed to share him with another woman, you know, to fight for his attention. 

“Sarah was sweet and made sure that I was never left out. He fucked her first and she moaned like she was auditioning for a stag film. She held my hand and once when he wasn't looking, she winked at me. We worked together, blowing him hard again. I tasted her on him and didn't mind it. 

“Neil climbed on top of me and I was surprised at how easy he slid in; he’s not a small man. He fucked me like I was his favorite and he was good, so fucking good. Sarah intertwined our fingers again and then she took my tit in her mouth.” 

“Go on.” Rose was quite the storyteller. 

“The sensation of her tits pressing against me and her soft lips and tongue on my nipple, paired with that thrusting thick cock was almost too much.” Rose sighed and giggled. “I auditioned for my own movie then, I suppose. 

“Sarah fucked my ear with her tongue and with hardly more than a whisper, told me how special I was. She told me about things she wanted to do to me that no woman should do to another. I came hard and my husband acted like he did it. I suppose he helped, but so did Sarah’s finger on my clit. 

“I was relieved when he rolled off me and confused when Sarah rolled on. She pinned my hands over my head and kissed me while our cunts hunted for the best places to hump.” 

“He killed his whore for humping you?” I was confused. 

“Yes and no. Remember when I said she was high-priced? I knew because I paid for her, later, a bunch of times. My dear darling husband told me to stop and I didn't; we didn't. So, he put a stop to it, for good. 

“Do you have anything to drink here? You know, a drink? No? Anyway, he made me watch.” 

She handed me the shopping bag which held a pair of very expensive stilettos in my size. 

I told her I’d think about it. There was something wrong with being solicited—there's a difference between sitting in the driver's seat and being taken for a ride. Rose seemed satisfied but didn't leave right away. To my surprise, and his, she chatted with Matt for a bit before making her exit. 

Plastic Roses don’t have real thorns—the kinds of thorns that you forgive when they make you bleed. And yet this perfectly forged forgery of a flower tricked me with a prick—almost. 

I showed the pictures to some cops I knew. They said they’d look into them and I said that I would wait. “Wait” is the universal intergovernmental agency code for, “ceaselessly pester and count out loud how many drinks you had at lunch.” 

The woman wasn't murdered; she died in a car accident. She wasn't even a hooker. I was all set to call Mrs. Ross out if she came back. 

~~~ 

I had enough work to keep me busy. Rose had been a distraction, or worse, and I was mostly glad to be rid of her. She never came back but she didn’t leave me alone. 

Matt meandered to my desk with a creepy grin. “Hey, BJ, wanna go to a party with me?” 

“I don’t think so, Matt; I haven’t had my shots. And my name is Becca.” 

“Sure. You sure? It’s at your girlfriend’s.” 

“My what?” I was worried about what he meant by that. Did one of my clients squeal? 

“Mr. and Mrs. Neil and Pamela Ross. Your Rosie is throwing a party. She invited me and said I could bring a friend.” 

“A friend.” 

“Okay, she told me not to bother showing up unless I brought you. C’mon, they’re fucking rich as hell! Maybe I could get a real job or hook up with some bored house frau.” 

I was intrigued but played hard to get. “What’s my name?” 

“Okay. Becca would you please go to the party with me?” 

I accepted only because my interest was piqued. Rose wasn’t finished telling her stories. I made Matt pay for my new dress and shoes. 

The Ross house was even bigger than I expected. Rose pretended to be surprised when we showed up and invited us to help ourselves and mingle. 

Matt ditched me for the shortest skirt in the room. I wandered but never too far from the jumbo shrimp; I should have brought a bigger purse. They had a bartender who made a show of squeezing the lime into my club soda. I politely sidestepped a few married men and turned down a few who had good reasons for being single. 

A conservatively dressed blonde, somewhat bland but could have been pretty, approached me with a drink in each hand. “White Russian?” I declined and she guzzled one of them right down. It wasn’t her night’s first. She extended a hand while sipping from the second glass. 

“I’m Sarah.” 

You could have knocked me over with a cobweb. I suspected there were more webs being woven. “I’m Becca.” 

“I know. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” I said. “I wonder what parts were true.” 

My new friend wrapped her arm in mine and we walked and talked. Sarah was Neil’s personal secretary and Rose’s story was mostly true if you left out the whoring and bumping-off parts. The bumping of parts happened alright. Neil didn't like it when he got left out. 

“He said it was unnatural,” she told me. “I might have agreed at one time.” Sarah’s vodka-sodden lips got uncomfortably close to mine. “Did Rose ever kiss you? She said that she hadn't.” 

Rose and Sarah were discreet but, apparently, not enough. “Neil and I were having an affair before then. Did Rose tell you? Imagine how pissed he was that both of his women were cheating on him and then multiply that by a hundred. He didn't end things, though. No… 

“We never all shared a bed again but there were a bunch of times he’d fuck me in their bed and make Rose watch from across the room. I was embarrassed about that but mostly embarrassed for Rose. I kind of liked it, getting fucked hard, angry fucking, ‘cause he chose me and not her. He never made me watch. 

“Don't look at me like that. It doesn't mean I don't love her.” 

I didn't think that I was looking at her anyway at all. “What lies did Rose tell you about me?” 

Sarah shrugged. “I don't know. She said that you'd help us but then you wouldn't. She said that you weren't all that queer after all. Then she was happy that you came tonight and maybe things would work out anyway.” 

I told Sarah what I originally told Rose. “I can’t help you.” 

“Pity…” she pouted. “Who would I have to kill to get a taste of you?” 

I walked away before I got nasty. I mean, were all the women around here blood-thirsty lesbians except me? 

The soiree was winding down and the hosts were saying goodnight to the stragglers. Matt was nowhere to be found and I was worried that I'd have to spring for a cab until he showed up with Sarah leading him. “Hey, there you are,” he said. “Mister and Missus Ross wanted to show us something.” 

“What?” 

“How am I supposed to know? Does it matter? C’mon, it’s upstairs.” 

I told him it was late and wanted to go home.  He sighed and showed us a gun. If the things that I’d heard about Matt were true, Sarah and I were in imminent danger of premature detonation. “Get your finger off the trigger, tiger. We’ll come quietly.” Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. I knew that Rose and Matt had gotten chummy. 

We climbed up to the third floor to what I guessed was the master bedroom. “Okay, BJ, I need you to strip.” 

“Fuck you, asshole,” I told him. “I don’t know what you have planned but I sure as hell aren’t going to make it easy for you.” 

“Take it easy, Honey,” Sarah said. “It’s not anything like that.” 

“Sarah?” She was obviously sober. This whole night was throwing me for a loop. 

“Just down to your undies, Honey.” Sarah pointed at my catsuit and mask dumped onto a settee. “I’ll need you to put that on for me later.” She brushed her soft knuckles across my cheek. “If you’d like, I’ll take your dress off for you.” 

I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction and pulled it over my head, glad that I wasn’t wearing my “fuck me” underwear. 

“Hmm, leave the stockings and shoes on for now. Have a seat. Matt, tie her up.” 

Matt handed Sarah the gun and tied my hands behind my back. I had seen how to position your hands on a rerun of “Honey West” and it worked. Matt thought he had me tied tight but as soon as I relaxed, I had enough wiggle room to get loose when I had the chance. 

I got Sarah talking during all this. Damned if she wasn’t a hooker after all, but not for Neil Ross. It was his wife alone who had engaged her services. “I’ve got a lot of customers like her,” Sarah explained. “They claim to love their husbands but call me anyway. Most of ‘em have lots of money and they’re willing to pay well.” 

“I don’t get it. Why kill her husband?” 

“Look around. These two have a lot of money. I told her if we got rid of him, we could be together. She couldn’t bring herself to kill him and the cops would probably figure it out if I did it. We needed a hitman.” 

“I’m no killer!” 

“Yeah, and you ain’t no…” 

Just then Neil and Rose walked in. “Who are you people?” He never got his answer. Matt hit him on the back of his head. Neil stumbled but didn’t fall, so Matt hit him again. Rose went to Neil but Sarah yanked her away. 

“Tie him up too.” 

Matt did as he was told and said, “This is as far as I go. I don’t want to be here for any killing. Just give me my money.” He checked the fat envelope that Sarah handed him. “Sorry, BJ, nothing personal.” 

“Oh, Matt,” Sarah called. “Matt, Matt, Matt… You didn’t say, ‘please.’” She popped him twice in the chest. “Nothing personal.” 

Rose screamed and I worked at my ropes. 

“Sarah, don’t! We don’t need to do this! Let’s just run away, you and me. I have enough money for us!” 

“You stupid bitch,” Sarah replied calmly. “I don’t want enough money; I want all the money. Why do you think I had you change your will? Once I make it look like your vigilante here killed you and your wimpy husband, this will be my house and I’ll have it all.” 

Sarah took one of my shoes off, tickled my foot, and approached the prone Neil. “This is the right angle, isn’t it, to kill him?” 

My ropes dropped away and I lunged toward the killer whore. I had never punched another person before and after I took a swing, I still hadn’t. I pulled her away by the hair and we wrestled around the room while Rose helped by screaming hysterically. 

We broke through the doors to the balcony and I shoved hard. Sarah dropped the shoe at my feet as she flipped over the railing. She caught herself one-handed and then swung her second one up to barely hang on. “Becca, Honey, help me up. We can work something out. Rose, don’t let me fall! I love you, I swear!” 

Rose walked to us slowly, her mascara showing her torment. She squatted to pick up my stiletto and lifted it over her head with both hands. 

“I love you, too,” she said between sobs and swung down. I heard the familiar, satisfying crunch. I saw the familiar, satisfying, forever look of surprise. She snapped the shoe loose from its heel but Sarah didn’t fall. Her hands had locked into a death grip and she hung there staring into the bedroom, a lifeless voyeur. 

“Oh, God…” I said. 

“Oh, God…” she said. Rose took my face and kissed me and kept kissing me and I kissed back because she had been through a lot and really needed it. I kicked off my other shoe, and Rose squatted and pushed my panties aside to put her mouth on my pussy, which I let her do as well. 

She was quite accomplished at what she was doing and I watched Sarah unblinkingly watch Rose as she ate me. I orgasmed no matter how hard I tried not to and pushed her away. She landed on her ass with her knees splayed, getting herself off with my other stiletto. 

Neil was okay, considering.  We put a story together while we waited for the cops and ambulance. Sarah was a thief who killed Matt when he heroically tried to stop her. She would have killed us all if this six-foot woman dressed in black hadn’t saved us before getting off into the night. 

~~~ 

The Rosses are still together. She tried to tell me about their arrangements, particularly how I would fit in, but I wasn’t interested. She buys me shoes, lots of shoes, which is good considering my salary as a civil servant. 

The cops bought our story. They also bought that Mary and I were clueless when Les disappeared. 

I didn't make Mary pay my fee, thinking it would be awkward since we worked together. Neither of us got Les’ job, natch. The new supervisor seemed a little light in the loafers, if you catch my drift, but he was a good egg. 

As for me, I came to terms with something that I had been denying for a long time: I liked killing those bastards, every one of them. If I had to expose my pussy to grateful women’s mouths, then it was a price I’d have to pay.