Chapter 2
The next day rolled over Leon like a cloud of poison gas. He sleepwalked away the hours, wondering if Los Angeles had always been this gray, this drab…
…this fucking miserable and pointless.
He hung out at the Espardes de Muerta pad, throwing his Members Only jacket over the ash-stained couch like a cat pissing his territory. He played FIFA with Diego. He ran errands. He masturbated to a swirl of pain-pleasure memories. Basilisk stare, cruelly-amused smile, hot metal digging into his pulsating shaft, gold-ringed hand flying up and down, pulling him into sweet oblivion, moans as thick as coagulated blood, ring going ching as it bounced into a drain’s sucking mouth.
Don’t look so sad, Leon. On our next date, you can buy me a better one.
With what money, though? He had precisely—tapping his phone to check—a thousand and seventeen dollars and sixteen cents in his checking account. With what money, por favor, would he buy her a better one?
He waited with some dread for Sydney’s phone call. Waited and waited, until waiting hurt—until the hours seemed like boulders crushing him. Is she ever gonna call me? He thought, staring at his phone lying silent on his bed amidst mountains of sperm-splattered tissues. He felt so distant from her now. A dreamlike mist already lay over the events of last night. Like recalling shit you’d done while stoned, while running a hundred-degree fever. He tried to extract the most pleasure he could from the memories, because they already didn’t seem real.
* * *
Leon hoped that dad would forget about the ten thousand dollars. He did not.
“Qué tal, kiddo…” Hairy knuckles rapped him on the shoulder one morning while he was playing videogames. “Where’s that ten grand? We need to invest it.”
His father jabbed an expectant hand forward. Leon’s brain whited out with horror.
“I spent the morning researching index funds and blue-chip stocks,” Jose said, waving some sheets of paper. “We’ll find one that suits your risk appetite. Work a spread. But first we need to launder the cash. You know La Rata? Creepy fuckin’ guy with no front teeth who’s handled the Swords’ money shit since forever? He’ll take his five percent, usual-usual, but after that, your money’s clean. Beats losing a hundred percent to the DEA. Now give me the cash.”
Leon stared at his dad’s open palm. Oh, fuck. I should have prepared a story. Then his brain came back online, and he remembered that he actually had.
“I’ve already invested the money, Dad.”
“With whom?” Jose looked crestfallen.
“A financial advisory.” Leon smirked, picking back up his Nintendo Switch. “Remember Drew? That preppy white kid who used to do my homework in exchange for bags of chopped parsley? He works for a brokerage firm now. I dialed, and they took care of everything.”
Biggest load of manure ever shoveled. God bless—his dad opened wide and swallowed it.
“Wow, um…I wish you’d spoken to me first. What’s the name of the brokerage firm?”
Leon thought fast. “Sweeney Financial Services.”
“Never heard of them. Are they big?”
Tits. Huge fucking tits. Oversized, heavy, slam-banging, bra-bursting goddamn knockers, rising out of her plunging neckline like gleaming white warheads. Always in motion, because SHE’S always in motion—they jiggle and fly and cannonball and clap as she bounces like a puppy. She claps her hands. They billow out between her arms. Suckable, gropable, fuckable orbs, catching the dark, pouring a fulgent river down her cleavage like a waterfall, drenching her midriff in honey-thick shadow. Perfect toys for a needy boy, wobbling obscenely as his penis pummels a slippery trench straight through them…
“Oh, they’re big, Dad. Very, very big.”
* * *
Another week slid down the drain.
No call or text from Sydney.
Leon began to panic. She said we were boyfriend and girlfriend. Had that been that bullshit? If so, what else about that night had been bullshit? All of it?
He wasn’t the only one who was stressed at the casa. Through the wall, he heard long conversations between the boss and his dad, which mainly consisted of Los Zapateros screaming at his subordinate.
“You fucked us, you incompetent pendejo! FUCKED us!”
Jose was in deep shit. As it turned out, the unassuming fat man he’d capped at the Ley Orgánica hideout hadn’t been a random nobody but a son-in-law to Don Toño Ojeda Aguilar, kingpin of the entire syndicate.
Whoops.
Don Toño was known for many things. Forgiveness and equanimity were not high on the list. He had immediately escalated the simmering feud between Ley Orgánica and Espardes de Muerta into a full-scale gang war.
The first retaliatory strike had landed on the night Leon had gone clubbing. A drug deal had been in progress at Union Station—deep inside Death-Swords’ territory—when a van had squealed to a stop, its tinted windows had rolled down, and the street had been peppered in 9mm fire. Three people went straight to the emergency ward at Ronald Reagan UCLA—a Death-Sword street vendor, his customer, and a bystander who’d caught a stray bullet in the shoulder. The matter was swiftly referred to the LAPD’s Narcotics Divison, who opened a case file on LA’s latest gang war. A case file which mentioned Jose Baltasar Garcia by name three times the first paragraph as possible suspect.
Maybe that’s why I’m getting the cold shoulder from Sydney. Leon jerked off in his bedroom, teeth gritted, pants around his ankles. She got spooked by how quickly bodies are piling up, and noped the fuck out. Decided I’m not worth. He was a fling, and now he’d been flung.
The Death-Swords were caught like balogna in a sandwich—feds on one side, Don Toño’s troops on the other. A dangerous game, and one where she could easily become the next Sharon Tate.
Already, she was involved deeper than she knew.
It wasn’t quite true that she’d tossed ten thousand of Leon’s dollars down the drain, was it?
The money had belonged to Ley Orgánica.
Maybe she’s ditched me. Fair’s fair. But don’t I get a goodbye? Maybe I should call her…
He convulsed with a sharp, keening cry, squirting another load into a handful of tissues. No. He wasn’t gonna call her. Fuck that simp shit. He was embarrassed enough by how he’d behaved, to tell you the truth. It had started well. Hadn’t ended well. She’d walked all over him. Had detected that the tough guy exterior was just a coat of paint, and a scared little boy remained beneath it. Calling her would be throwing the last of his dignity in the trash. A whipped dog, crawling back to the hand that had beaten it.
Ten thousand for a goddamn handjob. Ridiculous. He was desperate for another crack at her.
It’s not happening again, Sydney. He vowed, psyching himself up in the mirror, rehearsing lines, working angles. You threw me off my game. Good for you. Next time we meet, chica, I’m gonna be calling the shots. You might be a bitch, but I promise you, I’m not.
Then he stared at the phone, and waited for it to ring. His dick slowly returned to hardness, nagging at him like a dog until he began stroking it.
* * *
He broke down a few days later. Swallowed his pride, and called her. If this made him a simp, he no longer cared.
As he dialed, he realized that it might have been fake number all along. Something even more terrifying happened instead: the number was real.
“M, ’yallo?” The voice was unmistakable. Smoldering hot, bored to death, too-cool-for-you.
It’s her. Say something, you klutz. His mind froze.
“…Hi Sydney, it’s me. Leon.”
“Who’s Leon?” No recognition.
He sweated, dangling over the abyss by a strand of platinum hair.
“Leon from the club. Remember?”
Her tone was brusque. “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number. Goodbye.”
“SYDNEY!” he squealed, his voice riding a full octave into terror. “It’s Leon! The gang kid! We met at Smoking Skull and did some stuff and then you took me to Rodeo Drive and I bought you a diamond ring and then you threw it down the drain because the stone had a flaw and you said we’d be together forever and PLEASEDON’THANGUP!”
He got all of that out in one pathetic lungful of air and then panted like a snowplow. An awful silence seemed to rush out of the iPhone’s speakers, before—after seemingly hours—she giggled.
“Relax, Leon. I know who you are. Just fucking with you.”
“Okay.”
“It was a joke. Lighten up. You sound like you’re shitting yourself. My god!”
Sure. Just a joke. Ha ha. The phone at his ear felt like a bomb primed to explode. He tried to remember one of the cool lines he’d practiced in front of the mirror. None came.
“I was actually wondering when you’d call…” Her voice was breathy, giggly, and as cold as a steel beam. “Starting to feel like you’d forgotten me. I’m free tonight. Why don’t you come over to my place? She read out an address. It had an expensive Westwood postcode. “I’ll tell security to buzz you through the gate. Six sharp. See ya!”
She hung up. Leon collapsed across his bed, feeling like he’d survived a firing squad.
Or hadn’t survived.
* * *
She was so hot. Holy fuck. Kill me. Kill me. Killmekillmekillme.
He stood in her bedroom, feeling like a wrong thing. A human stain. A cockroach flailing and slowly drowning in a vat of gold leaf; dying a death too good for it.
Her floor was tiled with calacatta marble, cut and fitted in icy tesseracts. A throw-carpet—seemingly bigger than his high school’s basketball court—flowed across the tiles in an ocean of faux fur. The walls glowed with gold and brass inlays, twisting in art-deco motifs. Chandeliers hung above their heads, trees leafed with light.
Los Zapateros didn’t have a pad like this. Pablo Escobar’s casa had been humbler. Leon didn’t think the Sun King of France had held court in such splendor.
Sydney had draped herself lengthways across an ornate rococo couch, facing him. Pampered. Spoiled. Exalted. A woman who literally never heard the word no, unless followed by that won’t be a problem, ma’am.
“You took your time calling,” Sydney swung her legs around the face him, and steepled her fingers severely. “Why?”
She wore a white terrycloth bathrobe, belt-cinched at the waist. Her hair was shower-wet and towel-tousled; her face moisturized. The bathrobe ended at the thigh, exposing shaved legs, one laid on top of the other, jutting sideways off the chair. A foot twitched rhythmically, like a metronome. He tracked her pedicure with his. He tracked her pedicure with his eyes.
She stood from the chair, surging up with the graceful muscularity of a snake breaking from its coils. She approached, her shadow riding ahead of her. He flinched as it touched his feet. He hadn’t said a word, and was already coming to pieces.
Grow some balls, man! Leon thought as sweat knifed a trail down his back. You’re a Death-Sword’s son and she’s a pampered mayonnaise bitch.
“Yo, I’m a busy man, chica.” He crossed his arms, affecting a cool-dude lean. “Sometimes you gotta wait in line for a player…”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t actually.”
“Ha. We’ll see about—” Her hand brushed his cheek, and his next words froze, becoming shards of ice caught in his throat. She brushed past him, into the bathroom. He heard a faucet turn; heard water cough and then run.
“Like all women,” Sydney explained as she brushed her teeth, “I have a system. If a man takes a certain number of days to respond, he’s not interested. Then he’s on the express train to Dumpsville. Doesn’t matter what he does or says after that. Relationship DOA.”
“…and how many days is that?” He tried to count his. Seven? Eight? Oh God, I didn’t know I was supposed to call…I was waiting for her to make the first move! Like you always do with women!
Sydney declined to answer. Her bare feet retraced steps. Out of the bathroom, then back in front of him. The terrycloth bathrobe swished, whispering around the bulk of her scissoring thighs. Like the skirt in the club, it concealed its mistress’s flesh yet exposed it.
Then he was fixed by those deadly, riverstone-cold eyes. The toothbrush remained inside her mouth, jutting like the stem on a question mark.
“You took a lot of days, Leon.” She sighed and shook her platinum hair, as though severely regretting some necessary action. “Oh my God, so many days. I’m getting pissed off right now, thinking about it. I do not appreciate being left on read.”
Her mouth came closer. Leon’s heart drove against his chest.
“I’ll be honest, Leon… After waiting that long, I’m not sure if we’re even still a thing. I don’t need a guy who doesn’t call or text. How serious are you?”
Sydney pulled out the toothbrush and swirled water inside her mouth. One cheek expanded, the other contracted. Swish swish.
“Maybe a kiss will make me less mad.” She beckoned with her finger.
Yes. A kiss. Spellbound, Leon moved his head forward. Invaded her space. Sharp notes of Dior perfume and aftershave crashed against his olfactory nerves. He felt the heat of her busty body as he coiled an arm around her back.
Their lips connected. Voltage rushed. Her lips parted, sweeping open: a wound that inflicted more wounds. He pressed into Sydney’s heat, desperate for more and deeper contact with her cruel heat.
hawk-PHLOGG! She spat her mouthful of liquid into his mouth, like he was a baby bird.
The taste of peppermint toothpaste and Sydney’s spit detonated through him. RDX and C4, wired together, and then wired to explode. Blechhh! Disgust gripped him; almost tearing him in half as he coughed out her bodily fluids. Her saliva was in his mouth! I can’t believe she just did that! That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had happen to me! His cock surged tight against his jeans, drooling precum into denim. He felt like he’d raced ninety percent of the way to cumming in five seconds. Fuck her! Fuck her! Oh God, I’m not enjoying this…I’m NOT…
He spluttered, clenched his heaving stomach, and glared down at the ground. Past his spasming erection.
Sydney’s hand slid beneath his chin. Caught it. Lifted. She pulled his eyeline into conjunction with hers—a line that seemed to run right through them. Bullet holes. He knew which way the gun was pointing.
“Where was my call, Leon?” Her eyes glistened—suddenly moist and vulnerable, as though she was about to fucking cry. “Where was my text? I know you’re not busy. I know you had nothing else to do. So when are you going to show me that you’re sorry?”
He sighed. “Sydney, I’m sorry—”
She clicked her fingers and pointed at the carpet.
“Kneel.”
“I wasn’t lying,” he lied. “I’ve got a lot of stuff happening. Shit’s all fucked. My dad might be going to jail, and—”
“I didn’t ask and I don’t care.” Lots of Invisalign in her smile. Zero heart. “Kneel on the carpet.”
He was babbling now. “S…Sydney, please…”
What the hell is happening to you? Don’t let her push you around! Be a man!
He straightened his back.
“—NO! I’m Leon and my gang rules the street and I kneel for nobody!” he roared. “Fuck you, BITCH!”
Rage swept over her face. The smile ripped and reformed into a terrifying snarl. Light slid over bared teeth, which suddenly seemed like alligator fangs. Her sinuous muscles seemed to tense and tighten under the gown, as though she was restraining herself from lunging at his throat.
She jerked forward. He jerked back.
“Yap yap yap,” she said. “Yappy little loser. Always running your mouth, always pretending. Running around in your dad’s too-big pants. I don’t care about your fake tough-guy life, Leon. It’s all bullshit. Lies now and lies yesterday and lies tomorrow. Get on your knees, or it’s over. I’ll call security and have you thrown out.”
He was caught at a breaking point. Two roads to take. Two wolves to feed. Either die on your feet or live on your knees. His lips coiled and curved, ready to spit back invective. But then he was struck by the realization that his lower body…
…it had made a decision already.
His knees were unhinging without his volition. His legs were bending in a kneel. Mirth twitched the corner of her mouth as he fell. What an obedient little doggy. His downward descent continued. He couldn’t stop it. Why? He moaned in horror, his insides a mystery. How? Is she a witch? Is this some fucking brujeria spell she’s cast over me.
He whined, knees digging into the plush carpet. Sweat seemed to boil on his brow. Oh my God, she called me a loser. She called me pathetic…
…and he had proven her right.
Sydney smiled and stood over him. She leaned forward, mouth releasing a barely audible hiss.
She was not wearing a bra.
As her body tipped forward, the front of her bathrobe bulged. Inflated, like someone was pumping up two balloons inside the terrycloth. The surface of the robe expanded as an ocean of unseen flesh slid forward, compelled by gravity. The neckline opened slightly. He saw cleavage. Cleavage and cleavage and more cleavage. Pendulous white-bitch tits wobbling fat and heavy for him. The bathrobe gaped like a mouth—several pounds of voluptuous, moisturized breastflesh hung poised inside, ready to spill out into his face like a waterfall. Leon gaped, struck brainless by lust. Oh God. To see her naked again…he would do anything…anything…
…he would even stop being a man…
Then she straightened the torture-blade of her body. Her spine went ramrod-straight—the breasts sloshed, then settled, hidden once again. She did not smile, exactly. But the edge of her pink-painted lips arched.
“Put your face into the carpet.” She pointed, like he was a dog.
Chastened, broken, death-crucified on his coagulated fear and lust, he pressed his down at her feet. It’s over, he thought. She smiled over him, ruthless and beautiful as Athena. Him on the floor. Her staring down. The right place for him. The right place for her.
“Good boy.”
Then her slim, milk-white foot lifted off the floor, and planted its weight on top of Leon’s head. Slap.
Her arch slid across him like the cowl of a penitent monk, burying him in musky darkness.
“Just a shitty little brat,” she murmured, eyes shadowed. After standing on hard Calacatta marble, her foot was bitterly cold on his scalp. The wrinkles of her heel, arches, and metatarsals were lines of frost, engraved like curses onto his shivering skin. They were runes wrought into the chill metal of a Viking warhammer. She pressed lightly, but this lightness felt illusory—the second he displeased Sydney Sweeney, her cold foot would cave in his skull.
He gulped beneath her foot, his mouth dry and throat flexing. His penis throbbed.
“You keep telling lies, and pretending-tending-tending…” Sydney whispered. “I give you chance after chance, Leon, and you KEEP DOING IT! As though I can’t tell. As though any person couldn’t clock that you’re a little boy at a hundred paces. I hate having to do this to you, Leon. I hate having to find the truth by…demonstrating on you..”
He opened his eye. Stole a glance at the underside of the leg resting on his head.
Sydney Sweeney’s thick-as-fuck gymbunny thigh was poised ramrod straight aginst his head. Her bulked-up quadriceps had contracted, pulling her tibia and femur into a straight line that began at her ripe, fleshy hip and ended with her foot on top of his skull. He gazed at her hamstring’s shadowy underside. It gleamed with a lust-frost of sweat. She was panting. He was panting. But not for the same reasons.
Her curvaceous leg extended out of the slit in the white bathrobe. And through the slit, he saw glimmers in darkness. Oh my God, is that her…?
“Eyes. Down.” She growled. Her foot pressed. Harder. This is making her wet, he thought, and was strangely glad to be of some use. “Just tell the truth, Leon. Tell it to me, and tell it to yourself. You’re not tough. You might have money, but not because you earned it…”
The foot gained weight, forcing his head deeper into the carpet.
“You’re this, Leon. This is who you are. Accept it.”
He whimpered, pinned under her foot. His penis surged hotly, spewing a strand of precum into his soaked jeans.
“Don’t worry,” a dulcet voice whispered from heaven, high above the hell of her foot. “Even if I decide you’re not my boyfriend, there are lots of useful things you can be to me.”
Sydney’s foot slowly slid down—a cold leathery slug creeping from his scalp onto his midface. Rough skin dragged like sandpaper. His nostrils dilated, sucking in her musky stink. The foot kept moving with glacial slowness. Dry skin whispered as it slid. Her medial longitudinal arch and lateral longitudinal arch tugged against his orbits, dragging his eyelids down and his eyes open. Sight hit him, as if for the first time—like he’d hatched from an egg. With her toes resting on his cheekbones, Leon stared at the face of a goddess.
“For example…”
A smile flashed. A black crescent moon, vaulting across a pale sky.
“…My floor.”
Whip-fast, Sydney spun her leg in a semicircle around his face. Precise and technical, like a ballerina hitting second arabesque. Now, her foot was beneath his chin, gently levering it off the carpet and into the air.
“Will you be my floor, Leon?” she asked, with toes pressed like bullets against his throat.
He mumbled dull words. “Yes.”
The toes tightening into single line—a blade against his pulse. “Say it.”
“I…I will be your floor, Sydney.”
“That’s fucking lit.” Using her foot, she manipulated him like a doll. She lifted him back upright, into a sitting position. Then she pushed him back, until he tipped over, landing on his back.
Leon stared, watching her mansion roof swing in dizzying circles. His cock was tearing a hole through his pants. He fervently wished for permission to touch himself. It had not been granted.
A shadow fell over his supine body. Her shadow. Sydney Sweeney suddenly seemed ten thousand feet tall. Towering and terrible; a blonde as gigantic as a giantess from Norse myth.
Feet flashed forward. Thighs gleamed in surgical scissoring movements. And then the busty giantess elegantly stepped from the carpet onto his body.
She walked up his ankles with silky precision, then up his legs, then perched atop his hipbones. Pain. Leon wanted to scream. A hundred and thirty-five pounds, distributed across two small points on his bony hips. Her feet felt like pincers.
She smirked, allowing her feet to brush his bulge, and strutted further up his body. Her stride loosened up and became a performance. Hips swaying side by side—a gymnast doing a balance-beam act. Her derriere wriggled, delicately stabbing left then right, centering her gravity. Beneath her diabolic Cupid face, heavy wobbling fuck-globes bulged and seesawed from her chest, testing the limits of the terrycloth. He wasn’t a floor anymore. He was a stage. Not looking down, not breaking stride, Sydney Sweeney unzipped his pants with the toes of her back foot. Leon was in disbelief. How does she know how to do that? The obvious answer came to him. She’d had practice. When you were Sydney Sweeney, most of the world was your floor.
The zipper slid over his bulge, and his suffering cock exploded out of his pants, whiplashing out like a missile made of meat. It glistened, webbed up in oozing strands of gooey pre-cum.
Sydney ignored his cock. Her feet marched past it, up his tensed stomach, and then stopped on his chest. With a condign smile—lips soundlessly whispered poor little loser—she yanked the belt out of her dressing gown.
Thlup! The bathrobe went sliding down her shoulders, catching on the enormous slopes of her breasts.
Then Sydney aggressively spun around, volte-face, like the room was Milan, his torso her catwalk. Mid-pirouette, she flung the belt aside like a stripper with a feather boa. With both hands, she yanked the bathrobe wide open, and cast it off her body with an arrogant backthrust of her shoulder-blades.
It fell. There was nothing underneath. There was everything underneath. Naked flesh. Her. A weight too heavy for the eye to hold. Bare sweat-curtained skin, gleaming and terrible like burnished armored plate. A rippling continent of golds and tans and pinks for a lucky man or boy to explore.
Eyes bulging, he watched the bathrobe slide down over her peach-shaped ass, fluttering to the floor. God, her ass was beautiful. Painfully so. Curvy and thick, rippling imposingly with muscle, fibers scything and hewing as she sauntered from his chest back down to his waist, giving him a full inspection of her ripe, fuckable ass. Her engorged cuntal lips silhouetted darkly in the fork of her crotch. A drop of moisture glinted against the light of the chandelier. It dribbled down one thigh, onto his jeans.
Leon tried to sit up.
The heel of her foot knifed backward, slamming into his chest. Flung back down against the floor, breath burst from Leon’s lungs. “OOF!”
“Don’t sit up.” A voice warped from around blonde tresses. “You. Are. My. Floor.”
Sydney stopped; hit a pose above his bulging cock. Hipshotted her thigh sideways, cupping her bare ass with her hands. She ran her grasp up her curvy hourglass figure, tracing herself out for him. Scooping and tugging palmfuls of doughy assflesh. The backs of her thighs flexed like steel cables. Her calves bulged obscenely. She raised her arms above her head. As she did, her tits swelled in pendulous half-moons, distending past the sides of her ribs. He followed their wobble with lust-sicken eyes.
Leon drank her in. Drank, and overflowed. She was too much. He felt like the ocean was being funneled into him. He drank of Sydney Sweeney, and felt her gushing back out through his nose and eye sockets.
Sydney tossed her head—a peroxide steel flash. With pantheress grace she sliced her leg back like a knife, and stomped her bare foot onto his cock.
“FUCK! SYDNEY! NO!” He expected agony as her foot crushed his cock. Instead, he felt an uncomfortable but painless constriction, pressed upon his penis. He dared to look—his erection had slid in a slippery tube between her Hallux and index toe, and was poking up between them, spasming lustily and belching rivers of pre-cum.
“Just relax.” She squeezed his penis with her toes, jerking him off with them. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
Her head was turned, and he only saw the blonde rear of her head, but he heard the smile.
“What good’s a floor, with no furniture? What I really need, Leon, is a chair.”
She bent her knees, canting her meaty hips. Let her thighs splay out on each side of her.
Then she squatted straight down—
—her ass fell on his head like a guillotine.
Oh fuck! The globes descended. Leon’s mouth fell open beneath their shadow.
As her big meaty ass engulfed his entire head, Sydney gripped an asscheek in each hand, spreading them apart like curtains. Her crack was still moist from the shower. Her asshole gleamed, the way a bullet shines inside the muzzle of a loaded revolver.
Only at the last instant did he realize that maybe he should take a breath.
Her butt whammed down on him, massive and fleshy and ridiculously heavy. Utterly overwhelming with its substance, its total denial of his worthless life. Thick doughy assflesh seemed to splash across his stunned features—Sydney poured and flowed like molten metal, every dimple of her bulging rump contouring to his face.
“MMFFFFF!!!” he cried out. Her buttocks sculpted themselves around him, musky and hot, A-lister assflesh draped over him like a funeral shroud.
“Come again?” She rolled her hips, a storm-tossed ship, chewing at his face with her thick gripping asscheeks.
“MMMFFFFFFFFFGUHHH!”
“You’ll have to speak up, Leon. I can’t hear a word you’re saying down there.” Sydney torqued herself around his body using her magnus adductor, gracilis, and obturator externus. Further down, her thigh muscles cut like steel cords.
Then she arched her back for leverage and ground her butt directly against his face, like a dog scratching an itch on a fencepost. The puckered ring of her asshole gaped, dragging back and forth across his head. Her balloon knot pulled open wide, caught on the obstructions of his nose, cheekbones, and lips. Her cuntal flaps opened against his chin like meaty, musky curtains.
“You make a good place to sit, Leon.” Sydney hissed like a swan, her cunt and shit-chute lustily throbbing. She tittered and zigzagged her butt, sucking him even deeper up her hot asscrack. “We’ve finally found something you’re good at! You’re not much of a gangster. But you’re stone-cold slaying it as a chair!”
He grunted under her weight. Sydney laughed. He felt that giggle reverberate through the thick strata of her ass, like a seismograph. In that laugh was hatred and hell, love and life. She swerved her butt around in lewd semicircles, pumping it into his face like obscene pillows, burying him even deeper in the dank, steaming chasm of her crack. Not even a human chair. Just a chair.
Leon’s head was buried, but his hips were free and emoted for him. They bucked and jerked. He felt his cock jabbing rhythmically between her toes. as though trying to fuck the air. He shrieked incomprehensible declarations of love into the smothering endlessness of Sydney’s big meaty ass. I’m gonna cum…I’m gonna cum…just five more seconds…
Sydney lifted her toes off his cock just before he spewed. No! No! NOOO!!! He humped air miserably. Half of him wanted to kill her. Half of him simply wanted to die.
“Do I own you, Leon?” she asked conversationally. He felt her clamshell pussy pulse like a blood-filled heart. Rivulets of vaginal fluid oozed from her aroused slit, streaming down his chin.
Yes…yes… he thought from inside the deepest and hottest part of her ass.
“And your millions of dollars? Do I own that, too?”
Yes…all of it… His mouth whispered into her asshole, like it was an ear. There was no way she was hearing his assents from under her body, but he gave them anyway. Her body was a meat confessional.
“We’re going out on a date after this, by the way. I’ll let you be my paypiggy. Mommy needs a new pair of shoes, and all that. But first, I’m getting you off.”
Manicured fingers flicked his cock. “Your cock smells disgusting.” She murmured. The first sneer that he’d ever felt. “What a piece of work you are, Leon.”
She leaned forward until her nose brushed his genitals. Blind and asslocked, he felt the shift of posture—her iliacus, psoas, pectineus, and sartorius pulled tight across his face and neck like cables in a Hong Kong wire film. Her warm breath touched his penis. It thrashed wildly, going crazy for any kind of genital stimulation. When she cupped her heavy, pendulous breasts and smushed them against his cock like wrecking balls, he almost died.
Clap! Her tits poured out sideways, rolling laterally out over his thighs like bowling balls, and then she slapped them inward again, drowning his penis inside an ocean of moist, sweat-kissed titflesh. A noisy clapping sound insisted. Subsisted. She titfucked him fast and hard, falling into a driving, ruthless rhythm that matched his heartbeat, then outsped it. Cruelly wrenching a load from his balls with the same abstracted sadism she’d shown while handjobbing him. Getting him off. That was what she’d said, and that was what she was doing. No love. Soulless biomechanics. No more emotion than turning off a dripping garden hose so it doesn’t stain your decking. If he derived any pleasure from the breasts pumping and billowing around his shaft, then that was a lucky accident. One he should not count on ever occurring again—he was not a particularly lucky person.
A drop of sweat rolled down her back, then down her asscrack, then down his face. Two all-consuming moons that had eclipsed him, blackening the sky, and now they were weeping in pity. He could only guess at what was happening in his crotch. Breasts, more liquid than solid, streaming down upon him, pooling and puddling in the shadows of his legs and knees and hips, pumping like bellows. Brutally. Cruelly. Simply sledgehammering him to orgasm. Sydney half-whistled a Billie Eilish song as her shapely ass balanced upon his nose. Her pussy lips throbbed maddeningly upon the lower half of his face, her cunt sopping and squirting. Half of his body was in hell. The other half in heaven.
The thing was, he wasn’t sure which half was where…
Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. Consciousness itself breaking down. No air. No air. Sucking. Straining. Gasping. Hunting out shallow gulps of air from gaps and concavities of her face-swallowing butt. Asphyxiation channeled back into his arousal, amplifying both. Feedback loops. Positive spirals leading to a negative outcomes, diagnosis terminal. Running towards the light. Running towards the dark. Just running.
Desperate to either cum or die, Leon began fucking up against her tits. Involuntary. Reflexive. Short, pathetic humps. All he had left. His pelvis ignited as an orgasm raced across it, turning flesh to fire. Short, sharp hip-blasts punched against the weighty ballast of her hips, making them wobble but not yield. It was like her massive breasts were hot ice, and his cock was an icepick. Hack, slash, cut.
His hairy buttocks contracted with a jerk. Cum bubbled up in his balls. Pleasure rose like a scream. Climbing. Crescendoing. His crotch felt like a can of soft drink, shaken until it’s a hand grenade. Then…
“MMMMMMMMFFFFFFFFF!”
…he arched his hips, planted his cock as far as possible in Sydney’s cleavage, and shrieked down the hot yawning tunnel of her asshole.
Cumshots sprayed skyward like missiles. Splurt…splurt…splurt…
Trapped in a hot dark that was like a dream, he hosed out cum like a busted fire hydrant. Streams of semen looped out between her tits, splattering against the opulent walls of her bedroom. She lifted up her ass just far enough so he could hear them go splat.
Thupp…splotch…thlapp…dribble…
He gasped, bones rattling as he vomited out pent-up lust. The orgasm was crushing. Obliterating. A Santoku chef’s knife gored right fucking through him. Hallucinating through lack of oxygen, pleasure attacked his sanity until it broke. Cum streamed from his balls, and so did the last of his willpower. Everything that made him a man was shooting out uselessly into the golden narthex of her bathroom, going thud on the wall like pudding thrown by a petulant toddler. There was power. There was manhood. There was dignity. Then…there was this.
He chose this.
“There! Isn’t that better?” whispered Sydney as he slid down from the peak of his climax, a broken man tumbling out of heaven. A final trickle of sperm dribbled onto his thighs by way of her breasts.
Sydney lifted her cannonball-sized tits from his shrivelling penis. It dribbled like a busted faucet.
As she did so, she rocked her hips forward, reversing her dump truck ass off his face.
As the moist, musky weight of her ass tugged off his face, he breathed. Air. Cold, clean air. Goddamn. Like the lifting of a funeral shroud from a man buried slightly too early. He gasped, thunder roaring through his system.
Then Sydney stood up, legs straddling his body. Her pussy lips were fat and distended. Vaginal fluid oozed out, silver spiderwebs catching light on her thighs.
Humming tonelessly, she sauntered naked to the bathroom. Heavy balloonlike tits wobbled from her chest. He saw pearly-white cum streaming in runny lumps between them.
“Wheels up in ten, loverboy.” A delicate but butcher-brutal hand ripped a towel off the rack. Thupp! “I wanna beat the traffic.”
“Where are we going?” he said, still panting. The room was swaying dangerously.
“On our date.” She towelled herself off.
“Umm…what’s a date?” He felt like he’d ejaculated half his brain cells across her rich bitch bedroom, but she reacted as if this was a normal question to ask.
“It’s dinner,” she scrubbed her cleavage with a handful of soap, then washed her hands. “Then shopping. That’s a date.”
He struggled to his feet. His knees wobbled. His penis flopped like a weed. He fumbled with his zipper, which kept escaping his shaking hands. He didn’t feel like he’d done anything for her.
“But…Sydney…I didn’t make you cum.”
She turned, clasped her hands, did her eyelash-fluttering trick. She pecked him on the lips: it felt like a shovel slammed into his gut.
“Here’s how to make me cum. With money.”
* * *
They painted the town red.
Sydney Sweeney booked a limousine. When it arrived at the curb it seemed to take up half the street. They took their seats, with the driver offering her a breath mint, and then offering him one. Called him sir. Acted like they were equals.
This is a most lovely dream, Leon thought, holding Sydney’s hand as LA’s lights swept overhead through the skylight.. A shame none it is real.
It was the most surreal, incredible night. He saw life through Sydney Sweeney’s eyes—or from beside her shoulder, at least. A star burning at a blue-hot temperature that perhaps only a dozen other people in Hollywood could claim. Sydney didn’t just live the high life, she was practically on the moon.
Everywhere, doors flew open for her. Fans thronged the sidewalk, phones out. He stared with deerlike terror into the blast zone of flashing lights, assailed by screams and ohmygods and chaos from every corner.. There could be an actual terrorist attack, Leon thought. And this woman would be the last to know.
They went out for dinner at an upmarket restaurant at The Grove. Avant-garde Catalonian-fusion-Basque-plus-something-else-pretentious restaurant.
They had no reservation. They just showed up. Why not? If you’re a restaurateur and Sydney Fucking Sweeney walks in off the street, you’re busy finding some poor schmuck to bump.
Sydney introduced him as her boyfriend. He glowed with pleasure. He hardly noticed that the maître d was regarding this pronouncement with something that was close to interest and closer still to doubt.
Once they were seated, he looked at the menu. This place was mind-bogglingly expensive. Mignardises that cost $200. A wine list that started at $120.
Sydney munched her way through an $800 dinner. The waiter brought the bill, only for Sydney to smile and shove it in front of him.
“For general information,” she told Leon. “At a place like this, you tip twenty percent.”
* * *
After dinner, Sydney made him hand over his debit card.
“It’s faster this way.” The little rectangle of plastic disappeared into her handbag.
Then they went shopping. She limo’d in a circuit around the Rodeo Drive retail district. Following the triangle of Wilshire, Garden Park, and the Waldorf Astoria. When a sign or a display or even a queue of people winding out a door caught her eye, she tapped the driver on the shoulder. The limo propped on a dime while she got out and bought something.
Which meant he bought something.
A sky-blue quinceañera dress with ruffles. A Jacquard bodycon skirt with a pegged waist. A beetle-black Louis Vitton Amarante Vernis shoulderslung bag. Mauve-transparent D’Orsay slingback heel shoes.
Spending. Spending. Spending.
Leon swiped his card over and over, the movement becoming dull and robotic. Just a flick of his wrist. Just financial ruin. It’s only money, he told himself, hearing polyphonic blips and bleeps merrily taking a hatchet to his savings. He’d managed to raise another thousand by selling stuff and leaning on friends in the past few days, but now even that was going fast. There was a sticky, itchy deliciousness in his gut as it happened. He didn’t dare look at what he was buying. Didn’t dare look at his dwindling balance. When you’re falling from the top story of a building, you look anywhere but the ground rising up. It shouldn’t have been fun. It shouldn’t have been enjoyable. He wondered if anyone in human history had been as fucked up as he was right now.
Finally, when Sydney’s arms were overloaded with merchandise and shopping bags, she professed to feeling tired. He swiftly checked his bank account.
$98.20 left. Okay. Narrow escape.
But as they were driving back to her mansion—with her haul of shoes and dresses and accessories and unnameable rubbish ditched in the trunk, rattling around bends like the bodies of murder victims—she spotted a ready-to-wear boutique outlet, and screamed until the windows rattled.
“STOP! STOP!”
He cringed as she ran through the gold-and-glass throat of the store, her arms alarmingly empty.
She found a faux-fur sideslit coat with embroidered tulle hems that she had to have, which she followed up with an embroidered gabardine short jumpsuit, which she followed up with something unpronounceable made of mohair.
Soon, she was hauling an immense pile of things. So many items were draped over her arms that they became indistinguishable as clothing and just looked like rags and scraps. He saw a price tag trailing from an item of clothing. It had three zeroes. He felt sick and faint.
“This is alright, isn’t it Leon?” She said this in a tone that implied that if it wasn’t, it would be his problem, not hers. He glanced at the mountain of ready-to-wear, sweating bullets.
I can’t afford all of this. Or, hell, ANY of this. She’s gonna charge it to my card, and it will decline. She’ll want to know why, considering I’m supposedly a rich gangster with millions of dollars. She’ll cross her arms over her chest, and demand an explanation. Make me writhe and crawl. I will get a second chance. Maybe I have a second credit card I can give her. But I will not get a third chance. Count on it.
“It’s…” he wanted to vomit. “Fine.”
“You’re a dream, Leon! I’m having such a wonderful time with you!”
His pleasure at hearing this vanished when he saw her trotting toward the checkout line, one arm hauling a mountain of expensive clothes, the other hand holding his card. His time was almost up. There were five people ahead of Sydney at the checkout line. Then four. Then three.
Shit. He swallowed, nauseous.
There was only one move left to make. He excused himself. Said he had to take a piss.
* * *
In the bathroom, he called his dad until the old man picked up.
“Yo, Leon. What’s up?”
He babbled a story, improvising wildly. He felt like he was assembling a plane from scrap metal while falling through the air. “Hey, dad. I’m at a club with Drew. He’s found an…um…investment opportunity. Once in a lifetime. Gonna make us both rich. But I need to jump, like, now…”
“Um…” Jose said. “I’m a little busy…can this wait?”
“It can’t wait,” he babbled. “Drew wants to lock me in ASAP. It’s, like, some insider trading tip he picked up on the floor. If I wait even half an hour, it’ll be too late. I need cash, dad. Fast.”
“How much cash…?”
“Ten thousand.” Pulling a number out of his ass.
“Ten thousand?!”
“Dad, please! It’s…it’s a great investment!” He felt like a mountain of bugs skittering inside a trench coat. Energetic but unstable. His eyes swiveled. His mind pinwheeled. He imagined the checkout line moving, moving, moving. “Look, how about five thousand? Is five thousand okay? Please!”
Dad groaned. “Kid, I don’t know your friend and I aint sending shit. Not unless I know exactly what you’re doing with my money.”
Leon sensed that the old man’s resistance was buckling, and persevered. He screwed up his face, somehow remembered that dad had briefly been obsessed with cryptocurrency once, and hung his hopes on that.
“…It’s Bitcoin! There’s gonna be another run! Drew heard it from a friend, but soon every asshole on the street will know! We’ve only got, like minutes!”
Dad fell silent. Then spoke in a voice that wasn’t much more than silence.
“Bitcoin…hmmm…are you sure your amigocho’s **tip is legit?”*
“Yes, dad! Hurry!” He was gripping the phone almost hard enough to crack the screen.
“No promises. I’ll see what I can do…” Click.
He and his dad banked at the same place. JPMorgan Chase. The transfer of funds would be nearly instant when it happened.
If it happened.
* * *
He staggered out of the bathroom just as the salesgirl rang up Sydney’s last item.
“Leon!” Her blonde head flipped around, and she waved with a smile. “I was wondering where you’d gone!”
He shrugged. Not daring to look at the total on the checkout screen. It’s gonna be more than five k, isn’t it? Holy fuck, this is a nightmare.
Sydney handed over his debit card. The girl swiped. The machine needed his PIN. He entered it. It took him three tries, because his fingers were shaking so goddamn hard. Christ. They left imprints of sweat on the merchant terminal buttons. Then Leon tapped ENTER, squeezed his eyes shut, and braced for Armageddon—
Beep.
A good beep? A bad beep?
Leon opened his eyes. A friendly green light glowed on the checkout screen. THANK YOU! COME AGAIN! The transaction had cleared. He was handed his card, and nearly dropped down dead on the floor.
“What a great guy…” the salesgirl cooed, staring at Leon in awe.
“Isn’t he just!” Sydney squealed.
And Leon just grinned. Widely. Brainlessly. The world’s happiest skull.
* * *
They left the store together. Her body was laden with stuff she could carry, his body was laden with stuff she couldn’t.
Then, at the darkest part of this dark, eternal night, Sydney decided she wanted sex. She was drunk. Swaying and reeling on her mule heels beneath her cargo-catch of high-end couture. She piled it into the backseat of the limousine and then shoved him down a side alley.
“I love this place!” she giggled, staring at the filth and graffiti lining the alley. Broken needles jutted like shrapnel from filth-matted plastic bags. A rat sped into a drain like a corner pocket ball. She slung an arm over his shoulder. “It’s so romantic!”
“Yeah…” he said. Maybe if you’ve spent the last ten years in Twin Towers, in a cell lined with assholes.
She began tugging down her skintight miniskirt. “Let’s do it. I want it, Leon! Right here and now! Under the stars!”
He glanced upward; saw no stars in the sky. LA was a place where they lived on the ground. This huge and disgusting city screamed artificial light into space, drowning and quenching the heavens. Even the moon was a thin, rotted curdle of cream. This place was bright and undying and evil. A place made for Sydney Sweeney.
She dropped her miniskirt. Unhooked her bra. Then he saw the stars.
Her pussy was smooth and inviting and wet. She bit her lip as fabric stuck to her wet folds momentarily, then tore off with a lewdly sexual squelch. Her cunt dripped. The musky scent hit his lips, and suddenly his pulse was racehorse-speeding, his mind entering a dizzy deathspiral of pure lust. It had been worth it—all of it had been worth it—purely for the fact that it had led up to this.
“I like it from behind.” Sydney piked her hips, braced against a telephone pole, and bent over forward. “What are you waiting for?”
She bounced her ass in his face. Her fleshy cuntal lips were engorged with arousal. Splayed like the petals of some divine lotus leaf, discharging dripping cunt juices down the broad thighs she’d used to crush his neck and torso. Leon wrestled with his belt, pulled down his pants, and mounted her.
He slipped inside. A shockwave of pleasure coruscated out as his cock split apart her quim. Heaven. Like fucking so-hot-it-hurts bubblegum.
He sunk to the bottom of Sydney Sweeney’s box, triggering a moist squelch and a ravenlike caw of pleasure from her throat. Her curvy butt jammed into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him as he began fucking. She giggled, corkscrewing her hips back and forth. After some stabs, he finally got a rhythm, pounding her doggystyle against the pole.
Plap! Plap! Plap!
She moaned. Saliva spilled from her slack lips. Her abundant flesh jiggled with each thrust he pumped into her thick rear. Sydney’s gasps hoarsened, roughened, deepened. Became louder and ruder and more laced with profanity. She was in her wheelhouse, getting fucked by a man who’d just taken her shopping. Leon savagely bucked and thrust, pumping rage and anger into her. It was devastatingly effective on the actress’s pampered cunt.
Sydney was rolling her hips around his cock. Cunt-juice bubbled and frothed as she became wetter and wetter. “OOOOHH!” she gasped, arching her back into a sweaty curl of moonlight and halogen as he pumped and hammered her. “That’s it! THAT’S IIIITTTT!!”
His cock tore into her with savage, sucking rhythm. Each thrust jolted her whole body forward, pushing her toward orgasm.
She screamed stridently, hoarsely, climaxing with sharp, hard pulses of her cunt muscles. Inside the pink void of her cunt, her deep transverse perineal and shallow transverse perineal slashed and coiled around him like whips.
Leon gasped, sweat flying from his forelock as struggled to stay inside her palpitating pussy and wildly boogying hips. Girlsquirt splashed and splattered onto the pavement, punctuated by throaty moans of pleasure. Her tits swung wildly, sometimes front to back, more often side to side. PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!
Just as his orgasm was about to start, hers finished. And abuptly, so did their time together. He slowed his thrusts as he realized that she was holding a phone, and sending a text.
“Thanks Leon! That was great!” She hip-bumped him backward, throwing him off, throwing him out. Pop! His messy glistening cock exploded out of her, sending a trail of squirt swirling through the air. A strand of slippery fluid connected him to her cunt. One that was severed abruptly by her panties and miniskirt, which she was tugging up over herself.
As she fumbled with her bra, she turned and smiled. “I had the best time ever. I really think we’re figuring out each other, you know?”
He blinked. “Sydney—”
Then Bridgestone tires chewed against gravel, and headlights lit up the scene.
“Bye!” her fingers flashed in the light, and then she scampered for the car.
“No! Don’t go, Sydney—!” He reached a hand toward the limousine door. It slammed in his face like a mousetrap. The mirrorlight surface slid away, as the limo backed onto the road.
“I didn’t cum…” he whispered, watching her taillights splash their fading glow up Wilshire Boulevard.
Then he checked his bank balance.
$0.32.
The sight of it nearly decked him.
He had survived the night with THIRTY-TWO CENTS in his bank account!
This wasn’t a close shave, it was an amputation. His account allowed no overdraft. If Sydney had so much as ordered an extra fucking crouton at that shitty overpriced restaurant, the card would have declined! And then his relationship with her would end.
But it’s going to end anyway. I’m broke now. I can’t take her out on another date.
Unless… He started thinking thoughts he should not have thought, ever. Thoughts that revolved around the fact that Los Zapateros had a safe with three point one million dollars in it.
His phone rang. He picked it up, heard a stressed fifty-more-calls-and-maybe-I-get-a-bathroom-break call center voice.
“This is Nicole Tanzano, calling from the fraud department of JPMorgan Chase. Is this Leon Baltasar Sanchez?”
He confirmed that it was.
“We have received a string of transactions on an account ending in 8242.” She read them out, his stomach steadily plummeting beneath the sidewalk. There were so many. And for each one, she had a question. “Did you authorize this transactions?”
He said yes, over and over. Yes, he recognized this purchase. Yes, he had authorized the transaction.
He began to jerk off, as Nicole from Fraud totaled up the damage. She became unprofessional. Ventured off her script. Demanding to know why he’d spent so much. There was shock in her voice. Disgust. Confusion. Did his parents’ know? He was an eighteen-year-old with a few thousand bucks stashed away from birthdays, allowances, and selling crap. And in one night, he’d blown it all on off-the-rack ready-to-wear…along with five thousand dollars from his father.
She was right to be incredulous. It made no sense—you’d have to be insane to do what he’d just done. Utterly bugfuck.
Leon stroked his cock as he listened to the tabulation of his financial ruin. This was the worst night of my life.
I will do whatever it takes to make it happen again.
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