Sydney Sweeney Fin-Doms A Drug Lord's Son

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

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

[John Connors]

It's rare to see a story with this type of theme written, and written as well as you have. I loved it, from the setup to the conclusion. The characterization of Leon as the "tough" guy, ultimately being schooled by a real hustler, was well executed, too.

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

Sydney Sweeney Fin-Doms A Drug Lord’s Son



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 painful-pleasure memories. Basilisk stare, cruelly-amused smile, finger-hot metal digging into his pulsating erection, ten thousand dollars flying up and down on his prick, grinding and pulling him into sweet oblivion, dragging moans as thick as blood out of him, finally going ching as it bounced into the sucking mouth of a storm drain.

That ring was probably halfway to the Pacific Garbage Patch by now. He kinda wanted to join it there.

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? He thought, his phone lying silent amidst the mountains of sperm-splattered tissues on his bed. He felt so distant from her now. Already, a dreamlike mist lay over last night’s escapades. Remembering it felt like recalling shit you’d done while stoned, or while running a hundred-degree fever. He tried to extract all the pleasure he could from what had happened, because already it 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, but dad—God bless him—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 oscillate and clap together as she emotes like a reality TV contestant. When she laughs, they wobble. When she bounces, they yo-yo up and down. Suckable, gropable, fuckable orbs, catching the dark, pouring a fulgent waterfall of it down her cleavage, drenching her midriff in shadow. Perfect toys for a needy boy. Billowing inside his hands, wobbling while 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 from Sydney. No 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 in ’graf one as a possible suspect.

Again, whoops.

The Death-Swords were now trapped like balogna in a sandwich—feds on one side, Don Toño’s troops on the other.

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’d taken a closer look at the situation, hadn’t liked how quickly bodies were piling up, and had noped out. Her forbidden Latino lover wasn’t worth it. He was a fling, and now he’d been flung.

This was a dangerous game, and she had no desire to be the next Sharon Tate.

Already, she was in deeper than she probably realized. After all, it wasn’t really true that she’d tossed ten thousand dollars of Leon’s cash down the drain, was it? That diamond ring had been bought by 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, waiting for it to ring. His dick became hard again, nagging like a dog until he masturbated once more.

* * *

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 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 eyes. Tick. Tock.

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, hungry for her.

hawk-PHLOGG! She spat a mouthful of dirty toothbrush water into his mouth, like he was a baby bird.

Peppermint toothpaste and Sydney’s spit detonated on his tongue. Blechhh! Disgust roiled his stomach as he coughed and spluttered. 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…

Leon spluttered, steadied his heaving stomach, and glared at the floor 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. Pointed at the carpet.

“Kneel.”

“I was busy!” 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 seemed to break apart her perfect face like a shattered plate. The smile ripped and reformed into a terrifying snarl. Light slid over bared teeth. 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. Wearing your daddy’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 unhinged. His legs bent. As he knelt before her, mirth twitched the corners of her mouth. What an obedient little doggy.

His downward descent continued, until his knees were digging into the plush carpet. He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t reverse it, once it had happened. What am I doing? Leon moaned, his insides a mystery. How is this happening? Is she a witch? Is this some fucking brujeria spell of hers? Sweat seemed to boil on his brow. Oh my God, she called me a loser. She called me pathetic…

…and goddamn it if he hadn’t proven her right.

Sydney smiled and stood over him. She leaned forward, mouth releasing a barely audible hiss.

He noticed that 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 face into the shag. 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.” Sydney said.

And 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, after all…” 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 a dull yes.

The toes tightening into single line—a blade against his pulse. “Say it properly, you bitchmade little rat.”

“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-sickened eyes.

Leon drank her in. Drank and overflowed. She was too much. He felt like the ocean was being poured 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.

“Hmm…what good’s a floor with no furniture? You know what I really need right now, Leon? A chair.”

She bent her knees, canting her meaty hips. Her big thighs splayed out on each side of her.

Then she squatted straight down on him—

—her ass was falling fast, descending on his head like a guillotine!

Oh fuck! The globes wobbled as they plunged. 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 when you’re about to shoot yourself.

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 in sharp suffocation 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?” Sydney rolled her hips ruthlessly, chewing at his face with her tight-gripping ass muscles.

“MMMFFFFFFFFFGUHHH!”

“You’ll really 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 asshole 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, her hot cunt and shit-chute pulsating on his face like leeches. She zigzagged her hefty butt, slurping him even deeper up her pungent 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 they emoted for him. He bucked and jerked at the waist. 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 cruelly 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 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 concavities of her face-swallowing butt. Asphyxiation channeled back into his arousal, amplifying both. Feedback loops. Positive spirals leading to a negative outcomes, the 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 jugs, 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.

Splurt…splurt…splurt…

Cumshots sprayed skyward like missiles.

Trapped in her hot dark stink, 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’d chosen 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, life 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 in his vision.

“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.

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 get 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.

Spending for Goddess Sweeney.

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. It shouldn’t have made him want to masturbate out of shame, shame, delicious shame.

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 around the shop. 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 beg 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. Once she discovers I’m lying, it’s over.

“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, a hot 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 before the rush starts!”

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, smiling as she waved. “I was wondering where you’d gone!”

He shrugged. Not daring to look at the total on the checkout screen. If it’s more than five k, then what will I do? Holy fuck, this is a nightmare.

Sydney handed over his debit card. The girl swiped. The large purchased required manual PIN entry. 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, AND PLEASE 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 endless-seeming 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.

“Check out 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!”

“Um…” 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 stars lived on the ground. Where they tortured normal people with their nearness. With their insufferable heat and brightness. 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.

His cock hanging out of his pants, throbbing and unsatisfied, 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-ass fusion restaurant, the card would have declined, and his relationship with her would be over!

But it’s basically over now anyway, right. 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 a lot of money in it. How much had Diego said? Three point five million dollars?

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 unusual transactions on an account ending in 8242.” She read them out, and his stomach steadily plummeting beneath the sidewalk. There were so many. And for each one, she had a question. “Did you authorize these transactions?”

He said yes, over and over. Yes, he recognized this purchase. Yes, he had authorized the transaction.

As Nicole from JPMorgan’s Fraud Dept interrogated him, he began to masturbate to her voice. She became unprofessional to the point of being bitchy. Wandered off her script, and demanded stridently to know why he’d spent so much. There was shock in her voice. Disgust. Horror. Did his parents’ know about his spending spree? He was an eighteen-year-old with a few thousand bucks stashed away from birthdays and allowances. 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. An utterly bugfuck lunatic.

Leon jerked his cock harder and harder, listening to the sweet sound of his financial destruction, finally splattered his load over the nearest fence. This was the worst night of my life.

I will do whatever it takes to make it happen again.







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[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

It's rare to see a story with this type of theme written, and written as well as you have. I loved it, from the setup to the conclusion. The characterization of Leon as the "tough" guy, ultimately being schooled by a real hustler, was well executed, too.

Thanks John. Appreciated. Leon is based on a kid I knew a long time ago. Every Friday evening he went to Troppo in Sydney, paid a ridiculous cover, then stood alone beside the dancefloor, counting down the seconds until 10pm, after which time he went home to play videogames (staying just long enough that he could reasonably claim "I went clubbing"). Trying to live a certain lifestyle, when he wasn't really that person under the skin.

Maybe there's some AJ from The Sopranos in him too.