The grin of the reaper 2 (Patreon)

He went back downstairs. Clocked out, went to his locker, took his backpack out with his weed inside. Then he went to the loading dock, and the little niche where he and some of the guys had a bong hidden to fuck around with on long breaks.

He went back up, expecting to be stopped at any moment by someone, anyone. But nothing happened. He reached the penthouse and knocked on the door again.

“It’s still open.”

When he went inside, Tiffany had changed. Taken off her business-like dress and put on a housecoat over a silk negligee. He could only think Jesus. Jesus.

Yet he kept looking at her face. The slashes of her black-black eyebrows like clouds over a full moon. The slightly Asian cast to her features, giving her narrow eyes, a round face, a China-doll perfection to her features. And when he looked away, there was the fullness of her figure, curves that looked just as good as they had with that body-mod leather dress strangling her body. The heavy bloom of her bust accentuated the way her waist sucked in before exploding out into hips as round as a prize-winning pumpkin. Then her legs, made long and luscious by the high heels that enhanced them… something kinky in how she wore such uncomfortably tall heels in such a state of dishabille. Like a woman in flowing lingerie with handcuffs snapping her wrists together. But it was her sulky, pout-curved face that put the final touch on her lavish body. Like her voice, it added just the right amount of class. She was more than just those three exuberant measurements. That voice and that face and that look in her eyes said that she was pure woman, and everything that her body promised, her wicked little mind could back up.

Curtis put the bong on top of a magazine on the coffee table. He filled the bowl and lit it with his lighter. Then he took two puffs, hoping Tiffany wouldn’t mind him using some of her new product as a demonstration, and left the bong alone. He took the bills and shuffled them into his pocket.

“I suppose you’ll be needing this apparatus back.”

“If you want one, I can get you something much better.”

“You’ve already made six hundred off me. Be content with that for now.”

“You get up here by being content with anything?”

Tiffany looked at him with half-mast eyes. Then she stood, smoothed the cloth that covered her legs, and came over to him. With a little touch, she had him sitting down on the couch beside her, his leg touching hers. A never-ending thrill came from where her skin brushed against his. He couldn’t feel her through his pantleg, but he knew the warmth was nothing like what he would experience if she was wearing anything the slightest bit substantial.

Curtis offered the mouthpiece to her and lit the bowl again. She inhaled. It made her nose wrinkle. He stared at her sultry lips, waiting for the smoke to emerge again, but it didn’t. He wondered if she’d somehow managed to ingest the stuff—looked her in the eyes. She was sloe-eyed, her gaze soft but not unobtrusive. She was like one of those detectives in an old book, who could figure out the whole mystery just by reading a newspaper and then let their sidekick jump through hoops until their plan was played out.

Then she let out a huge gout of smoke, capped by a little cough that seemed utterly inconsistent with the fogbank that hung in the air. “Did I do it right?”

“Yeah. That was great.”

“And is something supposed to happen?”

“Do it again,” Curtis told her, and flicked his lighter into new life.

She had another puff and then laid back against the sofa cushions, her shoulder touching Curtis’s. He knew that both the housecoat and his uniform jacket were in the way of their bare skin. He took the jacket off. Tiffany let out a giggle.

“That’s not funny… why am I laughing?”

“Because you haven’t got anything serious to make things not funny.”

Tiffany nodded, still looking very serious. But he could tell she was drifting. Curtis knew he was too. Even as he sat on the couch, there was a river taking him downstream. He wanted to hold Tiffany’s hand. He turned his palm upward on the sofa, but she didn’t give him her fingers.

“It’s good of you to stay with me,” Tiffany said, from out of the vast but unthreatening darkness that Curtis saw when his eyes closed.

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“I don’t like being alone,” she said from somewhere closer in all that blackness.

“Well, it’s not like you have roommates.”

It took a small eternity before there was any sign of Lady Tiffany in the darkness. It was comfortable there, but lonely. He felt good when something brushed against his cheek—he could only assume it was her. “What are you up to, Curtis?”

“You know my name?”

“I told you. I’m very aware of the personnel at Delacroix Tower. Only I didn’t figure you to be so… aggressive.”

Curtis forced his eyes open. It made little difference. Everything was blurry; gray instead of black. He looked at Tiffany anyway. The smudge of her reminded him of how excellent his memory of her was.

“I’m aggressive?”

“You’ve sold me weed. It’s very good salesmanship. Now tell me what you’re up to.”

“I’m not up to anything,” Curtis protested.

“Oh? Then you want to fold sheets until you’ve put enough into social security to start getting something back?”

A thrill of fear went through him. No. That wasn’t him. Even unspooled by all the hashish in his bloodstream, that would never be him.

“I want to buy a motel,” Curtis said. “Something that gets a lot of business, like on an interstate way between the cities, so the owners get real cheap because they know people don’t really have a choice. Only I’ve learned all kinds of ways to save money at this place, while still giving people the four-star experience. That’s what I’m going to do. For the same price as some… roach motel, I’ll give people hot showers, fresh sheets, room service. All that stuff that makes people drive instead of fly. And once word gets out that there’s this one motel that’s better than anything else for five counties, they’ll be knocking down my doors to get in. I’ll raise the prices a little, just enough to turn a tidy profit, and I’ll put that into more locations, laundromats, restaurant franchises. Make a nice little tourist trap of some town. Real food, clean streets… a good place to live. Or even just to pass through. Not like in the city. Where you have to pay people to treat you like you’re at home…”

“Curtis Poole, real estate tycoon.”

Tiffany moved to scratch herself. Her hand between her legs. But she must’ve remembered she wasn’t alone, because her hand fell to the side and she squeezed her thighs together instead. That didn’t seem to help. She breathed hard, making her chest heave.

“I really wish we were lovers,” Tiffany said idly, like she was just making some innocuous observation to fill the silence. “Then when I got horny as hell, like I am now, I could just take you to the bedroom and fuck your brains out.”

She rubbed her thighs together. Wiggling her ass against where she sat. “I’m not wearing any pantyhose,” she said aloud. “It feels really good to touch yourself when you don’t have any hose on. But not as good as it feels to be touched by a hose.” She giggled.

Curtis’s prick was hugely erect. He rubbed it slyly. Tiffany faced him, her eyelids so low he couldn’t tell if she was seeing anything.

“You must be tired.” Her voice was husky now. Deeper than before. “I’ve kept you very late. Why don’t you lie down?”

Without any thought behind the motion, Tiffany opened up her housecoat. Under it, her nightgown was barely there. Just this diaphanous layer of nothing-in-particular over her naked body, like a haze of smoke in the air. She reached inside the neckline and cupped her breast.

“Nnh!” she squeaked, with a little surprise. “So warm. Soft too. Except for my nipple. That’s really gotten hard. Would that disappoint you? That my big soft tit has a part that’s really, really hard?”

“No,” Curtis assured her.

“Good. Because I like when it’s hard. It feels really good when it’s hard…” Tiffany shuddered, ripples of pleasure clearly going through her as she rubbed her stiff nipple. “I know I shouldn’t play with myself, but you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Curtis would’ve told her no, but he couldn’t speak. He could only shake his head.