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Actors & Actresses / Sydney Sweeney Fin-Doms A Drug Lord's Son
« Last post by HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS on Today at 12:53:25 AM »Sydney Sweeney Fin-Doms A Drug Lord’s Son
tags: financial domination, orgasm denial, big tits, big ass, mf, oral, anal, titfuck, femdom, feet
Raised on the street, Leon thinks he’s tough. But can he survive being the paypig…er, boyfriend of materialistic, shopping-obsessed Sydney Sweeney?
“Come to me.”
She is cruelly, darkly beautiful. Poison moonlight. Predator. Punisher. Destroyer. Huge breasts buoy the front of her dress—cryogenic flesh with the blue chill of glaciers. Her waist and hips curve in and out; fierce racetack swerves that he rides with his eyes, lost in their flexures.
She waits for him across the room, patient and poised, her basilisk stare dissembled in shadow. Her hair spills in soft, flat-ironed waves, twisting like layers of mesomorphic rock. Hair that wants to be tugged and pulled and used as handles. Her eyelashes divide the light, casting banded shadows across her cheekbones. Prison bars. Is he looking out or looking in?
Things glitter and sparkle on her—jewellery, most of it bought by him. There’s something terrible inside her. He wonders what he’ll have to do to see it; possess it. What he’ll have to give up. What he’ll have to lose. Nothing about this woman is cheap.
He walks to her. Submissively lowers his eyes. Awaits orders.
“I don’t actually want anything,” Sydney Sweeney says. “I only wanted to see if you’d obey.”
Chapter One
One month earlier.
It was dawn in Los Angeles.
A truck with fake plates pulled up in front of a concrete duplex. It braked in a gray breath of exhaust. Two men clambered down from the cabin and stalked toward the gate. Their black balaclavas made them seem like headless corpses, floating upon the still water of the night.
They drew machine pistols from their jackets, in eerily mirrored movements—MAC-11s, modified for single-fire action.
The guard at the gate saw them approaching, and tried to draw his own weapon. Automatic gunfire bounced him against the wall. He fell to the grass, jerking and rattling. The killers stepped over his body. Neither looked down.
The duplex belonged to the Ley Orgánica syndicate. It was a drop site; narco-money was stockpiled and counted here, before being freighted across the San Ysidro border to Tijuana and Mexicalli. When a big-time cacique or capo from the Mexican cartels paid a visit, the place became a fortress. The front gate would have been defended by a half-dozen guards, each packing enough heat to char-grill a brontosaurs.
But when a spy had betrayed the drop site’s location to one of the syndicate’s many enemies, he’d disclosed the schedule of the guards—at four in the morning, there’s only one man. Which had very recently become zero men.
The front door was sealed with an electronic lock and a red sensor light.
Unhappily for the Ley Orgánica syndicate, the traitor in their ranks had also given their enemies the passcode.
The sensor beeped. The light became green. They were in.
* * *
Jose Baltasar Garcia’s balaclava hid the crossed sword tattoo under his right eye. He was forty years old, and a falcon in the Los Angeles gang known as the Espardes de Muerta—The Death-Swords.
He swept the building, gun up, kicking open doors, hunting like a bull-shark crazed on blood. Where’s the money? Millions of dollars were stashed here, or so their inside guy had claimed. So where in the cocksucking FUCK is it?
He booted the kitchen door open and stepped through. A woman’s scream cut from his left. He spun, ready to shoot, but it was nothing—a couple of empleados domésticos in cleaning whites, their hands clasped as if in prayer.
“Sal de aquí!” Jose sprayed a burst of MAC-11 fire into the ceiling, the muzzleflash coruscating over a thousand pieces of stainless steel cookware. The kitchen maids fled. He jammed a fresh magazine into the stock, already back on the move.
At the end of the kitchen, he found a stairway. It led him down into the dark. In a slab-floored concrete basement underpinning the duplex, he found what he was looking for.
A safe with a combination lock, gleaming like a chrome tombstone.
There was a man cowering behind it—one who was chubby and pale and all but pissing his pants in fear.
Jose dragged him out of hiding, and put the gun on him. “Dígame la combinación, senor.”
The man whimpered but did not answer. Jose wondered who this was—he didn’t have the manner of a falcon or a capo. A contador, maybe? The syndicate’s money-man? He’d either been instructed to protect the safe, or had thought that staying behind would ingratiate him with Ley Orgánica’s boss, Don Toño Ojeda Aguilar. Dumb.
Jose hip-checked him, threw him to the ground, and stomped a boot into the back of his hand. Bones broke like twigs popping in a fire.
“¡Dígame la combinación de la caja fuerte!” Jose shouted over the anguished howls. Yes, they could boost the safe and drill out the lock at the Death-Swords’ casa—but what if it then proved to be empty? Better to know now. Better to see.
With the MAC-11’s barrel cutting the soft flesh behind his temple, the man recited numbers. “Dos. Ocho. Cero. Cuatro. Uno. Nueve. Siete. Cuatro…”
28041974—Jose got the joke.Jajaja. He smiled a little as he rolled numbers into the lock’s steel maw.…nine…seven…four…
Click. The safe door swung out on its hinges, and he peered inside.
Well, fuck.
Inside were rolls of hundred dollar bills, wrapped up in rubber bands, looking like snug little empanadas. The edges were rough and creased from the street. He tried to count; gave up. No time. Millions upon millions of dollars.
“Gracias.” Jose shot the man twice in the head.
Blam! Blam! Twin starbursts of blood and brains fanned across the concrete.
Diego Morales de la Salcedo, Jose’s point man on the raid, heard the shooting and came running. When he saw the man lying dead on the basement floor, he reacted with a casual what-can-ya-do shrug. Probably no different to how Don Toño would have dealt with the guy after discovering his money gone. Nice of Jose to save him a bullet.
Jose and Diego loaded the safe onto a wheeled trolley, and hauled it out of the basement and then out the front door, into a black and moonless night. They whistled as they worked. Aside from the dead man lying in a pool of his own blood, they could have been los transportistas, helping Ley Orgánica move home. Grunting and swearing, they muscled the safe up a disability ramp and through the truck’s open back. The heavy-duty suspension springs groaned beneath its weight.
In the driver’s seat, a terrified-looking teen called gripped the wheel with sweaty hands.
Leon was eighteen. This was the first time he had worked with his father.
Jose closed the rear doors, and waved an impatient hand at his son. Drive! Go! The kid stomped on the gas, flaying the tires bald.
As they tore away down the street, Jose checked his watch. Nineteen minutes past four.
* * *
Leon felt sick. Like he wanted to hurl over his prep school loafers. Nausea rolled through him like gale-force winds.
He wondered if you always felt this way after you boosted something. Like your body knew you were guilty and was punishing you because the law couldn’t. I should ask dad about that later.
They—and, more importantly, the safe—were now safely esconced at the Espardes de Muerta headquarters on Alameda Street. Diego counted the cash, and Leon hunkered by the truck, listening to his father’s whispered conversation with El Zapatero, the boss of the Death-Swords.
Any trouble, Jose? No, boss. They weren’t ready for us. Kill anyone? Two low-level sacks of shit. Nobody Don Toño will start a twenty-year blood feud over. Gracias. I hate those. No losses among the Swords? Nobody even took a shot at us, boss. Any witnesses? Some kitchen maids. I let them live. I will overlook your error of judgment, but next time, kill them too.
El Zapatero was tall and terrifying: an elongated shadow who seemed to fill every room he was in, no matter how high the ceiling. Nobody knew his real name, or where he’d come from, or where he’d gotten that horrifying ice-white slash that carved apart his face. He could have been forty or sixty or any of the eighteen ages between.
“Is there anything else I should know?” When El Zapatero spoke, the two halves of his cheek seemed to grind against each other like tectonic plates.
Jose smirked. “The combination of the safe was 28041974.”
“So what?”
“Penelope Cruz’s birthday. I thought that was funny.”
El Zapatero chuckled with half his face. “What? You expected Don Toño to be a Selena fan?”
Diego finished counting the money. “There’s three point five two mil here, boss.”
El Zapatero’s smile showed teeth that was like his skin: the mushroom-white of something that had died many weeks ago in a river. “Good. Come and share.”
He began dealing out cash from the safe to his falcons.
Diego received his roll, murmured thanks, and then disappeared into the night. The dull glints of his stacked Cuban heels were the last to go. Next, El Zapatero waved Jose and Leon forward. The towering figure placed ten thousand dollars in Jose’s hand, and turned to face Leon.
“…And who is this boy, with no Sword tattoo on his face?”
Jose threw a protective arm around the kid. “This is my son. Leon. He’s not in the Espardes de Muerta, but he’s trustworthy. He drove the car.”
Los Zapeteros seemed charmed by this little detail.
“Ah!” A shudder coiled through Leon as the crime lord clapped a hand on his shoulder. It had the joie de vivre of a blob of cold wax. “Los chofer! A noble profession! I was a driver once—for Pablo Escobar, a long time ago. A fine place for a young man to begin his rise in any organization.”
Jose’s voice gained an edge of frost. “Boss, if I may…I have decided my son’s future, and it lies outside Espardes de Muerta. He will be someone straight. An accountant.”
Leon cringed. Trust your dad to embarrass you.
Los Zapetero appeared surprised, but then nodded. “Nonetheless, the workman is worthy of his hire. Take it with my thanks, young Leon—driver of today, accountant of tomorrow!”
The ten thousand dollars seemed to weigh a literal ton as it landed in Leon’s sweaty palm. He gaped at the cash. I’m rich!
Immediately, Jose was on him, hectoring and lecturing. “Don’t spend it, son. Invest it. It’s time you learned how a man manages money.”
Leon nodded, thinking blah blah blah. “Sure, dad, right on. I’ll invest it…”
Then he ran outside, feeling like he was levitating. By the light of a gas station, he counted his money six times. Then he fist-punched the air; screaming until he had no voice left.
* * *
Leon went clubbing the next day, the cash stuffed in his pocket.
Time to party.
Don’t spend the money. Invest it. Yeah, but surely dad would be okay if he spent a little of the money, right? He’d earned it.
He waited in line at the marbled entrance of Smoking Skull: LA’s biggest, tackiest nightclub: a fortress of glitter and glass and steel. The red-carpeted doorway gushed twin rivers of criminal celebs and celeb criminals, one coming, the other going. Music emanated from the mouth of the club like sonic vomit.
A bouncer barred his path at the door. “Sir, your shoes…”
“What about them?” Leon held up his arm for the wristband.
The man waved at Leon’s torn and mud-splattered Nikes. “We have a dress code.”
“Don’t be a problem, tio,” Leon clicked fingers imperiously before the bouncer’s face. “I’ve been out here twenty minutes. Let me in.”
The bouncer didn’t reply. He just clipped a wristband to Leon’s wrist, eyes downcast. Leon smirked at this little victoy as he strode through the club doors.
The Death-Swords were frequent clientele at Smoking Skull. The bouncer knew who Leon was—and, more pointedly, who Leon’s father was.
He swaggered through the reception with exaggerated thrusts of his hips, accentuating the wad of bills. The ten thousand dollars were shoved into his pocket sideways, so that it distended his jeans unnaturally.
Leon wanted everyone to see his sudden fortune. Everyone.
Occasionally, people glanced his way, and then glanced somewhere else with a quickness. What’s wrong, guys? Scared? Leon grinned, a wolf on the prowl. They all heard about the raid. And the shootings. Word travels fast. Not hard to figure out who was behind it. Only Espardes de Muerta were strong enough to hit Ley Orgánica on their home turf. And for that kind of job, El Zapatero would send someone high-ranking. Someone like Jose Baltasar Garcia. Who had a son, who was surely a man’s age, and ready for a man’s duties…
Yeah, yeah, I didn’t do shit. I drove a fucking car. But these dumbdick gringos don’t know that. For all they know, I chilled those two dudes myself.
He drew a phantom gun, and went pow-pow with his mouth. A ludicrous parody of a Wild West gunslinger. Who cared. He was young, he was rich, and tonight was the night to be tacky. Embarassing. The worst version of yourself. And when you were Jose’s son, that was pretty damn bad.
Leon strutted and peacocked across the dancefloor, buoyed by confidence. The DJ beatmatched a Pitbull song into a deep house remix of Luis Fonsi.
Then he saw Her.
The actress.
* * *
Sydney Sweeney was texting on her phone, flanked by bodyguards. Blades of light speared and cut around her, making her dress transparent, revealing hints of abundant youthful flesh underneath.
Her long platinum hair was worn up, and twintailed, and pinned to her scalp by several brightly-colored headbands. Green, red, and blue. These sparkled radiantly along her scalp.
She wore a pleated skirt, fastened at one shoulder and hanging salaciously off the other, revealing the strap of a sports bra. Her taut, muscular midriff was also exposed—a navel piercing flashed in a glitter-dark hollow of her belly. Her thick gymnast legs were wrapped up in white knee-high socks, which wove beneath black strapped gladiator sandals.
Huge pumpkin-sized breasts bulged from the sports bra, jiggling with the little movements her hands made on the touchscreen. Leon’s mouth watered—she was dumb busty. All he could think about was burying his face between those massive baby feeders, and making them slosh from side to side with his mouth.
He decided to make a pass. Those tits were calling to him.
On another night, he would have held back, like he always did with big-breasted girls at school.
But tonight, he felt he could do anything. With the money in his pocket, he breathed fire, was ten feet tall, and was made of bulletproof steel. With the money in his pocket, he could outbench the Hulk and make the Flash eat dust. With the money in his pocket, he was the coolest fucking kid in the whole damn club, and hell yeah, of course Sydney Sweeney was gonna want to talk to him. Look at how bored she obviously was! Texting on her phone, at LA’s best nightclub! It was time to entertain the living fuck out of her!
The ten grand in his pocket burned away all fear.
* * *
Leon slid across the dancefloor—a predator so confident in his kill that he’s already thinking about the next one.
Sydney’s eyes flicked up from her phone, and saw him approaching. Just for second, the millionaire actress looked afraid of the smirking Latino street kid. Leon let his snarl of a grin open wider, let it become a wall of terror and teeth. He wanted to inspire fear, if he could. Fearing a thing is not much different to being obsessed by it. You can’t look away, or think about anything else.
As he approached, Sydney’s bodyguards moved to intercept him. When she waved them down, a depraved thrill surged through him. Oh yeah, I’m ALL THE WAY in.
“Saw you looking, Chica.” He stopped in front of her: hands in his pockets, projecting machismo, torso twisted to reveal the cut of his shirt. “Rude.”
Sydney chewed her lip, appraised him like a car on a scalper’s lot.
She no longer looked afraid. Her expression was difficult to decode beneath ten thousand watts of stage lights, but she seemed calm now. At ease. In her zone. Perhaps even a little unimpressed.
“Hm.” She said. “You’re young.”
“Guess my age, chica.” Leon whispered, leaning in. “You might be surprised.”
“Why would I be surprised?”
“Everyone says I’m older than I look.” Leon remembered his dad’s advice on difficult women. Don’t play their games. Make them play yours. “Go ahead and guess my brithday. And because I like you, you get three tries. Go.”
There. Back in control.
But Sydney abruptly seemed to lose all interest in him.
“Nah.” She went back to texting. “I’m good.”
That knocked him for a loop. “Um. Don’t you want to know how old—”
She waved a dismissive hand. “And I’m done talking, by the way. Enjoy your night.”
Enjoy your night. The brush-off felt like a slap. Anger blew out circuits in him.
He wanted to reach across, and smack the phone out of Sydney Sweeney’s fucking hand. Only the prospect of having his dick stomped to single-micron flatness by her bodyguards stopped him. Being a crime lord’s son would only protect you from so much.
He stepped forward, into her space. Hoping to make her flinch. She didn’t even look up.
“…Don’t you know who I am, chica?” Acidic rage bit into his calmness. “Do you have any idea at all?”
“No. Who are you?” Sounding utterly bored by the very concept of him.
“Hear about that shit in south LA? Two dead guys? That was me.”
Her thumbs firing out texts. “Actually, I heard something about that. Two broke street gangs killing each other. Hopefully you’re lying. It’d be pretty sad if you were part of that.”
Broke street gangs? Oh, this fat-racked white bitch was something!
“We’re the Death-Swords!” Leon shrieked, thumping his chest. “We rule the fucking streets! Alameda to Long Beach! Those Ley Orgánica pussies didn’t know what hit them! We took them for three million dollars and they’re not gonna do jack shit about it! Show some respect!”
His dad would pound his ass if he heard him discussing street busines so openly. Who knew what wires the DEA had where? But anger was just pulling him forward like a hundred mustangs.
Sydney crossed her arms. Boobs ballooned beneath that cross. “Three million? Nice. That would almost pay for a new wing on my Bel Air mansion. Wanna know how much I was paid for my last movie, asshole? Anyway, it’s not your money. You’re just a kid. You didn’t do shit, and you don’t have shit. Now leave me alone.”
Sydney glanced at her bodyguards, and they began moving forward again. They were the size and shape of refrigerators. Leon didn’t even care—he shuddered with rage, eyes locked on the woman who had torn wounds in him. His chest heaved.
He didn’t know what he wanted from her anymore. No longer just sex. Vengeance? Satisfaction? Vindication? Or maybe he just wanted her to fucking look his way. He hated feeling like a cockroach. Like he didn’t matter.
And then—because fuck it—he started lying. “I’m twenty-five years old and I’m a falcon in the Death-Swords. You better believe I’ve ‘got shit’.”
“Oh? How much proverbial shit do you proverbially have?”
He whipped out his gangsta roll, like a cop on a TV show flashing his badge.
“Oh wow, you’re ten-k rich.” She did a jerk-off gesture with her hand.
Leon carefully tucked the money back in his pocket. “Oh, this is nothing. This is my fun money. I’m worth a lot more. You’ll have to go back to my casa to see it, though.”
She lifted a finger to her mouth, and put a thoughtful dimple against her left lip. She rocked back and forth on her gladiator sandals, deep in thought.
“Well, then…” she murmured. “Since you put it that way…”
Then she smiled, and swung around to face him. Her posture and demeanor opened up.
Leon sucked in a breath, and didn’t let it go. He was physically overwhelmed by capital-B Body, by the swing of her hips, by the way her skirt swished and contoured around flesh, the way her breasts flew audaciously, sailing high in the cut in her dress. He tunnel visioned on her dark cleavage, like it was an event horizon.. The dancefloor and its lights blurred, becoming nonsense, next to the celestial shine of the diamond fixed in her navel.
Sydney giggled like a lewd flirt, and slung hands over his shoulders. Her nails were like chips of ice. Huge boobs jostled and swung beneath her armpits, like the speedbags at dad’s boxing gym.
As fingers laced behind his neck, lust buckled Leon’s knees. Her curvy, buxom body was so close. It felt like a medal hanging from his neck. He wanted to be inside this huge-titted white girl so bad. He imagined the hot young body beneath the flowing chiffon, and how it must look when naked.
“Lift your eyes.” Soft and inexorable. “Look into mine.”
How could she purr words and have them heard over the pounding bass?
He stared into her smokey eyes. A distant fire alarm screamed within him. Danger. Danger. There’s something going on. Sydney had the eyes of a kid who’s unwrapped a present and found a wonderful toy. One she can play with, not just on Christmas day, but again and again and again until it broke. But the alarm rang unheeded. He was lost in her eyes.
Her eyes slitted, her chin tilted town adorably—wickedly—and the smile repeated, this time in the shadow of her platinum tresses.
“Come, rich boy. We’re going somewhere more private.”
* * *
Slam. The bathroom door banged shut behind them. Leon stared at his surroundings, amazed by how nice the bottle service bathroom was. Did people really piss and shit here? He doubted it.
Sydney skipped ahead of him on her raised platforms. A dozen mirrors reflected her beautiful, stacked body. Leon gaped as twenty-four breasts wobbled ponderously in twelve overloaded sports bras. An army of tits leaped up almost to her chin, flung and cast upward by audacious bounces of her thick legs and ass. She swirled like an illusion in the gleaming chrome faucets—present and then vanishing.
He did not speak to her. Wasn’t sure what to say. Every time he spoke, he seemed to fuck up. Maybe he was overtalking. Yeah, that was it. Be a dark, silent stranger. Force her to lean in. And then keep leaning, until her body was twisted around his hips.
Sydney turned to a mirror. Her dress swirled and swished, illustrating the curves of her figure the way a painter would have done with chiaroscuro. As she leaned forward, she stuck her ass back out as a counterbalance, like a kangaroo’s tail.
Staring up her dress, he felt the same dizziness that had swallowed him yesterday, after the safe had been loaded into the truck.
The harsh halogen lights shined through her dress, turning the fabric as translucent as a dragonfly’s wings. He saw her flesh inside it, smooth and ripe and refulgent. Two panty-swelling orbs, heart-stoppingly big and thick. He saw how her underwear had actually ridden up into her ass crack. As if sensing his attention, she reached behind herself, dug around in her crack, and pulled the strap from inside her ass. The elastic went snap as she released it, and her butt rippled.
“My bodyguards will wait outside,” she told him, inspecting her lipstick in the mirror. “And stop anyone else from coming in. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Leon.”
Sydney stared deeper at her reflection, like she was about to tongue-fuck her own face. “Ugh. You’d think this shit wouldn’t dry out after two hours…”
She yawned, unscrewed a tube of fleshtone gloss, began applying it in careless strokes.
“You can start doing it at any time, by the way.”
“What do you want me to do?” Leon swayed, his brain cooked slow and runny by the tits and ass exploding out her dress. His cock surged forward, tenting out his jeans. It felt like a dowsing rod that had found water in hell.
“Impress me.” She threw the lip gloss back in her handbag. “You’re not doing a very good job so far.”
Oh.
In a flash of skin and chiffon, she spun and laid hands on him. One set of fingers touched his shoulder. The other brushed his cheek. The hand that was just inside her asscrack. His heart plunged and swooped like a gunshot pheasant. His boner got even harder.
“And for what it’s worth, I still think you’re lying,” she said, inches from his face. “You didn’t shoot anyone yesterday. And you’re definitely not rich.”
He swatted her hand away. “What does a white gringo bitch know about me and my life?” he sulked, hands in his pockets. Every time she spoke, she pecked another wound in him. They seemed to bleed. Being poor. Being the brown kid in class. Being from the barrio. She knew exactly how to hurt with words.
“What do I know?” She adopted a mock-quizzical cheesecake pose, tapping a painted nail under her chin. “You were at the crime scene yesterday. That part, I believe. You were the lookout, and drove the getaway vehicle.”
His jaw fell. Someone leaked. Oh, God. I have to tell dad… “How do you…?”
Eye-roll. “I know you drove the getaway, because, duh, you’re like a fetus. And you don’t have any tattoos on your face, so you can’t be anyone important. Two and two. It’s the only job you could have realistically done.”
“I did more than that,” he snarled. “I did…I…well…”
She sighed. “Leon, I’m getting bored by you. Was it a waste of time to even bring you here? Are you anything aside from a bullshitter?”
“No, I’m…”
“Talk, talk, talk!” She made a yappy-mouth gesture with her hand. “All you do is talk. Are you gonna back any of it up?” She pressed her sexy midriff against his body. She slunk up close to him. He smelled the perfume she’d dabbed into her armpits, and the curve of her neck. “Can you back any of it up?”
The hand slid low, teasing against the fly on his jeans. A hot little leaf, fluttering against his enormous bulge.
“Because if you can, I am looking for a new man…”
She found the zipper, and began pulling it down. The hand reached inside, found his cock, and began pumping it.
“…but that’s the key variable in this equation. He needs to be a man. Not a boy. Which of the two are you? Here, let me motivate you, while you think about your next play.”
Leon’s mouth was dry. He seemed to be spinning through space—a vacuum lacking any familiar referent. He felt his knees shake. His cock throbbed hotly inside her encircling hand, which felt like a diamond python, choking it in its coils.
She unbuttoned his jeans, and then pulled them down with both hands.
Leon’s cock slid free, riding a path of pre-cum into the open air.
Big and fat and engorged, it sprung out into the open: a convulsing snake made out of meat. Big and fat and obscene, it hung heavily under its own weight. A spiderweb of blue veins crisscrossed the bulging tumescent prick. The shaft curved opportunistically, capped by a spongy glans, drooling as if consciously seeking a cunt to pillage.
Leon jerked, feeling cold air wash over his privates. His balls shriveled with lust. His cock jumped. A squirt of wet prostatic fluid splattered on the tiles.
Vacillating between bored amusement and amused boredom, Sydney handjobbed him for few seconds. Her hand squished wetly on his cock.
“Ooh, I know what you want from me. The same thing all guys want from me.”
She jutted out her chest, throwing the swell of her gigantic breasts toward him. Each of her tits bulged tight against the dress, pulling the fabric sheer. You could almost detect blue veins running under the skin through the fabric.
She hefted her tits in the black racerback sports bra. She smooshed them together, making them explode forward. His eyes drank the huge wobbling mountains of tit-meat—drank, and drank some more. Her cleavage was just endless.
Then she peeled off her dress, and began unhooking the bra. It was a performance that was damn near Oscar worthy.
Leon gurgled pathetically as she finally pulled the bulging cups down from her gigantic knockers, exposing her nipples and areolae to the air. The two erect nubs jutted like eraser tips from the huge mountains of flesh, sagging from her golden-skinned chest.
“Ready?” Sydney shook her shoulders, making her tits bobble. Then she scooped them up, and squeezed them into a chasm of cleavage. Numb with lust, he watched her pressed out handfuls of her bulging breasts, creating obscene boobsplosions between her fingers. She kneeled, so that her cleavage was at the same height as his penis.
“Sure,” Leon gulped, waddling forward.
He sunk cock-first into the warm and squishy valley between her big breasts. His shaft vanished, then curved up toward her chin as it hit her breastbone at the darkest point. With his hands, he played with her breasts, marveling at how big and fat and warm they were. He made them slosh and bounce as they clapped together around his cock. They were far more substantial than he’d thought. Her thick nipples hardened to diamondine points that dragged against his sweaty palms.
Her breasts wobbled and jerked and oscillated around his plunging prick. The pleasure was unendurable. Excruciating.
Squish Squick Plop!
Sydney smiled enterprisingly as she pumped and kneaded her tits like bread dough. Flesh pooled and jiggled wetly, twisting slippery trails over his shaft. His angry red penile glans kept vanishing and reappearing in her depths, always in a slightly different location.
Leon gasped in pleasure as he humped and fucked her slippery tit-trench. Sydey’s tits rolled up and down her chest as he made them bounce with the power of his fuck-slams. Her mass of cleavage devoured the antiseptic bathroom light. It shined, steadily lubricating with a mixture of sweat, pre-cum, and spit. The sound of titfucking deepened, becoming rougher as he pounded her boobs harder.
His knees shuddered. Sweat broke out on his thighs as her hefty udders ballooned against them.
Still thumping his cock between her cleavage, he felt his sperm rising.
So close…just a few more humps…
But he was suddenly humping only air. The breasts had left, replaced by cold air.
“Now, now. I didn’t say you could cum.” Sydney drew back, and stood up. Her beautiful bare breasts wobbled, covered in pre-cum and spit, frothed to the texture of lace. A glistening strand hung from her nipple, unspooling like a spiderweb.
His cock lurched, and he hissed in frustration as she refastened the racerback.
“Sydney…” he pleaded, as his penis bucked desperately. Just one more stroke would have gotten him off…he was sure of it! “Don’t do this…”
She was pulling up her dress. “Want me to finish that titfuck? Then you’ve got to back up your talk, kid.”
Huh. Her divinely massive fuckjugs had dropped his IQ by thirty points. What talk? What had he said?
She leaned in, eyes full of fire. Her gaze smote a hard line straight down the middle of him. The force of her stare was visceral.
“Ever since we met,” she snarled. “I’ve heard you talk and talk and talk about how rich you are. Real rich people don’t do that, Leon. They let their actions speak for them. You say you’re loaded? Prove it. Not tomorrow. Right now.”
She wiped her sticky hands on his jacket.
“Otherwise, you will never see me again.”
She turned to go. Again, her bubble-ass filled his vision, and his mind, waggling in a way that overcame resistance.
He set his jaw. “I’ll do it.” Not even knowing what it entailed.
She sprang back to his side. Her tits volleyballed inside the sports bra, still wet with his cock fluid. “Good! Come with me. You’re buying me some jewellery, loverboy.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, they were at a jewellery store in Rodeo Drive.
Sydney’s hands flapped excitedly as she hovered over display cases. “…Ooh, jade, that’s my birthstone…it’s so pretty…oh, but I also like this ring!”
Leon stood and sweated. He tried not to look at any of the prices. They had stunning numbers of zeroes. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and she’ll want something cheap.
Then Sydney pounced on another case, squealing in rapture. “Oh my god oh my god OHMYGOD! This ring, though! THIS GODDAMN RING!”
“Excellent choice,” the sales lady said with robotic sycophancy. “It’s twenty-four carat. An occasion piece. The stone has a small flaw in it, but…”
“Nevermind that. How much is it?” Sydney’s eyes were goo-goo radiant with love.
“Ten thousand.”
His stomach fell at Mach-10. Every. Last. Cent.
“Perfect!” Sydney spun around, her vast breasts flying inside her dress and all but flooding out of the cut into Leon’s face. Was my cock really between those? “Leon, you’ll pay for it, won’t you?”
He couldn’t think or form an answer. His eyes were sucked into the chasm of cleavage trembling in front of him. His lips moved, but speech didn’t quite emerge. “Um…er…”
Dad wants me to invest that money! If he finds out what I’ve done, he’ll kill my ass… He wanted the cash more than anything. Yet he also wanted Sydney more than anything. Quite the paradox. His cock wasn’t helping. In his horny state, it was as unmanageale as six rabid pitbulls. It throbbed and churned like a snowplough in his pants, inside a bed of frothy pre-cum. The idea of her finishing her divine titfuck turned him into an idiot.
“Leon?” Sydney’s eyes narrowed a bit.
Ten thousand dollars that my dad risked his life to get. Heck, that I risked my life to get it! For all we knew, the spy was lying, and Ley Orgánica had ten guys one block away. If they came back, the first thing they’d have seen was me in the getaway car! No. Absolutely not. There has to be some other way…
“Yes.” Leon’s stomach flip-flopped queasily as he reached into his pocket. “I’ll pay for it.”
The sales lady frowned at Leon—seeing young, seeing shitty clothes, seeing brown. “Well, um…payment plans are available.”
He squared up to the sour-faced white chica behind the counter. “I don’t need a payment plan,” he snarled. “I’m paying up-front. In cash.”
He threw the stack of ten thousand dollars, thinking choke on it, bitch.
Sydney giggled, and did a little golf-clap.
“Wow,” the sales lady seemed startled. “This is…unusual. We don’t normally accept cash for jewellery. Sydney, we’ll need to do a background check on your…friend, as a precautionary measure…”
“What? No!” Sydney sidled up to her. “His money’s good. I will personally vouch that it doesn’t come from, like, crime or whatever.”
“Please be reasonable. This is very unusual and we have fiduciary procedures to follow.”
“Yeah, he’s Latino so he can’t possibly afford a ten k ring. I bet you voted for Trump. Why is this so difficult? Just take the money…”
The two women argued back and forth, with Leon in the middle, praying that the lady would reject the sale. Then he’d get to keep his father’s ten thousand. And maybe Sydney would still rock with him. After all, he’d tried to pay for it, hadn’t he? Not his fault this racist mayonnaise-faced bitch had no-sold him. Maybe she’d even complete her titfuck…
The thought caused a pulse of pre-cum to trickle down his thigh.
* * *
Fortunately—or unfortunately—Sydney won the argument.
They walked out of the store five minutes later. Leon with empty pockets, Sydney with a drop of golden fire on her finger.
“Oh, Leon! I was wrong about you!” She sighed dreamily, her gaze lost in the ring. “You are serious. You are prepared to treat me like I deserve!”
“Glad you like it,” he said, feeling himself blush. It felt good to make a girl happy. Even if she was staring at her new present instead of at you.
“No, I’m serious.” Sydney grinned, and punched him in the shoulder. “What you did back there? That was king shit!”
Leon was shaky and wobbly. The punch had no force. It almost put him on the pavement anyway. That was king shit. If he was king, this was 1793 France. The moment the money had left his pocket, his strength and confidence had evaporated. He felt like that guy in the Bible—Samsung, or whoever the fuck—who lost his strength when he was shorn of hair.
It was as though he was…powerless without it.
At least I made Sydney happy… he thought. They skipped down side streets together, dodging paparazzi, holding hands. Traffic was uncharacteristically quiet. Leon felt hollow inside. Like the wind could blow him away. He stared at her curvy figure, watching her tight asscheeks move and grind under her dress as she walked.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Leon?” Sydney asked softly.
She didn’t quite wait until he shook his head before continuing. “I’ll be your girlfriend. How about it? Sound good?”
“Uhh…” he felt like a bolt-gun rod had just been installed in his brain, No Country for Old Men style.
“Then it’s done,” she giggled, tucking a hand around his shoulder and drawing him in. “We’re an item. Sydney and Leon…together forever!”
Me? Her boyfriend? He couldn’t tell if he was being fucked with or not. He babbled noise that didn’t even make sense in his own ears, because oh God, he was so horny. His cock felt demonically possessed. He’d do anything to even be allowed to touch himself…
She got out her phone. “If I’m going to be your girlfriend, Leon, we’d better exchange numbers.”
He gave her his number. She gave him hers. Things twisted inside him. Relief and regret, on a triple beam. He’d given her his entire fortune…and was this all he got? A phone number? One she might not even answer?
He writhed uncomfortably, his cock plastered against a spreading wet patch on his jeans. She saw his misery, and giggled. “Oh, right. I forgot about that.”
She tossed her blonde hair over one shoulder, and pointed at a shadow weeping out across the street. An alley.
“Follow me.”
* * *
It was surprising, how easily she found places they could be alone. They were now in derelict alley, with the gutter glutted with gray water from a recent storm. The water raced past their feet at diamond-polishing speed, crashing into a storm drain.
She lifted the ring before his face. It caught the last of the setting sun, and broke it like a prism. Points of shattered light sprayed over her fey face, like a disco ball. The mouth behind the shining formed a smile. And just for a moment, this gray and dirty place seemed like paradise.
Her hand unzipped his pants again. His cock burst out, thrashing and raging. The coolness of the moonlit air caused his balls to shrivel.
“So eager…” she grasped it with her cool palm, making him gasp. Not entirely from pleasure. Her diamond ring cut into his frenulum.
“I bet…” she murmured as his pre-cum glistening prick jutted from her curled fingers. “…I could make you cum from just my hand.”
She jerked once. A hard, painful twist of the diamond.
He exploded.
Leon screamed. A hot gust of orgasm tore through him like a knife. The nerves around his crotch hips buzzed out, becoming white hot as muscles spasmed slackly. His hips heaved with a lurch that was almost like vomiting. He twisted and around it the blooming sensation, gasping.
He heard his knees loudly knocking together as his cock jerked and pulsed. Cum leaped messily out of her hand, splattering out six or seven streams. His vision fuzzed out, then fuzzed back in, then he watched his thick white load trailed away into the water, and was sucked into the storm drain.
He collapsed, feeling his brains melt to the same consistency as the load he’d spunked across the green-flecked concrete.
He shuddered with aftershocks, his breath ragged and his heart driving an adante tempo. It had been so sudden it was almost…joyless. But at least he could say he’d gotten a handjob. How many people could say that?
Probably a lot of people… He tried to kick his brain into silence for having that thought.
She giggled, flicking the limp penis hanging out of his pants. His sperm glistened on his hand. She stared at it, and suddenly frowned.
“Ugh. That flaw really ruins the ring, actually. I should have looked closer.”
He sucked in air, tucking his dick back into his pants.
He watched in shock as Sydney Sweeney went through the routine she’d pulled with him. From rapturous love to complete dismissal, in ten seconds.
She tugged the jizz-glistening ring off her finger, and regarded it with dislike.
“This sucks.”
Then she shrugged—
—and flung the ring down the drain!
A knifeblade seemed to stick in his windpipe as the ring flew in an arc. It hit the concrete, bounced once, and shot down the storm drain. He heard a muted plop as it landed in the catch basin, beneath their feet.
A thudding pain crashed into his skull. She’d just thrown ten thousand dollars down the drain!
His ten thousand dollars!
She giggled at his horrorstruck expression. “Is something wrong, Leon?”
Is something wrong? “Are you crazy?” His voice went from a splutter to something almost like a scream. “Are you completely insane? WHY DID YOU DO THAT?*
She pouted, arms crossed. “Hello? Like I said, the diamond had a flaw in it. I should have gone with the bracelet.”
“That ring cost ten thousand dollars, Sydney!” he blubbered, his face tightening like a wall against tears threatening to break free.
The cruel just toying with you smirk returned. “You’re rich. Ten thousand dollars is nothing to you. That’s what you said, right?”
He panted, chest rising and falling, unable to cope. Then he sighed, and gathered himself.
“Right.”
The word emerged somewhere from the depths of him. Something beaten and broken spoke it—not him. He stared at the drain, as though his money would magically reappear. That didn’t happen. The drain sucked and sucked, a hungry mouth. Hungry, just like she was.
She smirked one final time. Her fingers waved goodbye, then she spun around. He followed her tight ass with his feet and eyes, as it ticktocked from side to side.
“Don’t look sad, Leon. On our next date, you can buy me a better one.”
TO BE CONTINUED
