Big Chicago

Big Chicago Part 33...by Samayel


Muscles like iron that grind lean and hard against you. Clean, but calloused hands that caress at all the right times and just the right ways. Respect mingled with desire. A wonderful stiffness, a sword of flesh, plunging deep and fast, making the heart pound and the breath quicken with unspoken need.

A boy could get used to this.

Someone perhaps a little more circumspect than I might say that I’ve been just the slightest bit whorish of late…and that Harry hasn’t been much better. That someone would probably be right…but fuck ‘em…we’re happy.

When you think about it, it becomes a little clearer. Harry restrained himself for years, unwilling to settle for sex without meaning. I spent seven years hating myself for who I was, what I’d done, and where it had gotten me. If anyone has the nerve to gainsay our right to this, they should be sentenced to death by a thousand tiny cuts…then shoved into a pool of lemon juice. Our dues have been paid! In grief and gall and loneliness, in waiting for some small moment of solace. Starving in a desert of the real, parched for just the smallest droplet of love, the real water of life. We’ve earned this…and that we enjoy it so often and so freely is just luxury piled onto luxury…and we’re not one fucking bit ashamed of being happy about it!

“Come on, love. Hermione has the cameras offline for a complete system upgrade and test. We’ve got half an hour. Only the exterior perimeter defenses are operational. Total privacy upstairs in the warehouse…and just try to tell me you hate the idea when you know you wore that outfit to drive me crazy. Go on…try.”

Okay…he’s got me. Not just because when he grins like that and his eyes are sparkling with hunger I can’t possibly say no because my stomach just turned to water and my head gets cloudy while all the available blood in my body rushes straight to my groin. He’s got me because he’s right. I never feel completely comfortable in boy clothes, and since we had just a little time off…we went shopping…twice. I could lie and say this outfit was just a random choice, but it shows my shoulders and neck off so well. He knows that show is for him. My Harry is no one’s fool.

But the feel of his breath on the back of my neck makes me glad I tucked carefully before leaving the house…or everyone here today would see me leaving with a very undignified bump in the front of this tight little, red one-piece number I’m wearing.

Lunch breaks were a stranger to my vocabulary until just a few weeks ago…but you won’t hear me complaining.

The past week has seen so many little events, some mundane and dull, and some special only because they were ours to enjoy together. Doc Snape took me off the pills officially, and gave me most of my dietary favorites back. While the basic planning for the strike against the Urban Revitalization project took Harry’s involvement, the rest is in Hermione’s hands. The worksite for the development is under observation, and the trucks and wrecking balls and bulldozers are arriving steadily and moving into position. When the time is right, Harry will strike, but the time hasn’t come yet, and my visit to my father will be executed beforehand, mostly to keep it seemingly unrelated to events at the worksite. A simple bug will be dropped in Congressman Malfoy’s office, wherever I see fit, and then I can chat with him as long as he’ll allow and just go.

In the meantime, work has ebbed just a little, and the free time has been glorious. The people here know me. I’ve started dressing as I like, but always tastefully…never gaudy or clubby at work. I had to get permission to re-pierce my ears, but it was worth it. They frown on identifying marks that can be recognized from one identity to another, but because of my unique ability to be either gender, which is held to be of value, I was able to have the healed scars of old piercings from years ago reopened. The first posts will come out soon and I’ll wear what I like when I like it, but for now I have a set of steel posts in each ear, as well as the hoops hanging from the current holes.

My tongue was another matter…and only Harry knows about that yet…I’ve just been conspicuously quiet around the others lately. What they don’t know won’t make them snicker about my insatiable desire to make Harry’s eyes roll back in his head.

We’ve been cautious, using Harry’s new ID and mine when required, but we’ve been able to dine out and shop and just make the best of life a few times before things gets complicated again. Soon enough, duty will call, and my visit to my father and Harry’s midnight visit to the worksite will make us too busy for this kind of play. Better to savor it now while we can.

“Are you sure this will be okay? No one can…oooh…oh God….Haa…Harry…mmm.”

He’s on me like ants on a picnic, hands on all the places I love…the curve of the hips, the small of my back. His touch is so electric for me, because I’ve never felt him touch me this way with anything but naked and honest desire. He knows it pleases me, and that’s exactly why he does it. Not just for himself, but for me. Can anyone hate that?

The plastic on the old metal desk crackles behind me and my mouth is firmly planted on his neck, mostly because it feels just a little strange to be doing it here, in abandoned silence, surrounded by dusty old machinery and plastic coated old furniture. The desk (or maybe it was a work table) was probably only left behind because it weighed a ton and no one could steal it. The other reason I’m keeping my mouth busy is to prevent my getting noisy…which I sometimes do when Harry is involved. Who am I kidding? ESPECIALLY when Harry is involved!

The moment he parts just enough to slip that mouth down to just below the lobe of my ear I slither a hand into the front of his pants. Yeah…I’m brazen…we’re a couple…so what? It’s his turn to groan against my neck while I give a gentle tug inside his slacks, and when he pulls away for a gasped breath, I’m slipping downwards, fumbling for only a moment with the zipper and revealing what I’ve hungered for since he first whispered in my ear. Long, thick, warm and scrupulously clean…the faintest hint of pre-come glinting at the tip of the head. Stiffened and slightly reddened with aching need for what I can give…and I give.

As if I’d ever deny the both of us this pleasure. Hah! Ridiculous. But I am an artful tease. Fingertips that barely caress but neatly steady the length in front of me. I let my lips just ghost across the warm skin along the side, flick my tongue against it with the whisper-soft gentleness of a snake. I love that he’s patient and understands that this is my pleasure as well as his. It isn’t to be completely rushed, even though we only have a little time between us.

I brush the head of it across my cheek, and I love the fiery feel of sensitive and heated flesh against my own. When my lips part and wrap their way around just the head, suckling gently, the groan from above is the reward I crave before going further. He knows relief is at the edge of reality, waiting to manifest with the help of a willing and eager mouth and a little well placed surgical steel.

There are so many intimate things in human sexuality. So many levels of closeness. You hear about people who would never even consider the idea of oral sex…they even recoil and show disgust when it’s mentioned. How sad. Can I describe what it means to take a lover’s most sensitive part into my mouth? To savor every small sound he makes while I lavish him with every pleasure I can offer? People speak of dominance and submission, and in the eyes of the immature what I do is considered an act of submission…but we know better, don‘t we?

At this moment, I am the center of his universe. I can make this last for seconds, minutes or hours, and Harry is utterly at my mercy. I have the whole of his being thrumming with need and waiting at my beck and call…and they call me submissive? This is power. More intoxicating than any drug or alcoholic beverage…pure and unadulterated control of another…and I love it. When he can’t take another second of it, and I can feel the muscles in his body ever so faintly tensing with the first signs of immanent orgasm...then I tear myself away. Now it’s time for my needs to be fulfilled, and he’s more than ready.

I’m up right in a flash, back turned and one-piece pulled up to show off the little black thong that runs only the barest string along the back. Legs spread and back turned, one finger pulling that conveniently small string out of his way. I don’t even want the clothes off or care about the effort of standing this way with heels, I just let the desk give me the support I need and show him where I want him…now…and he’ll know to do the rest.

Gentle at the first, careful to let me work my own way back, easing onto the flesh I only just soaked with saliva seconds ago. He waits, teeth gritted with the tension of a lover teased to the brink, until he’s sure I can handle it all, speared on the spit-slick length of his cock and grinding slowly. His hand is warm on the small of my back, pushing the one-piece higher, another hand steady on my hip while he draws back slowly, then pushes forward with a speed that flirts with cruelty because he knows I want it, and when I hiss with pleasure and arch my back he knows I can take whatever he dishes out.

Hard slaps, the sound of thighs, damp with my spit, striking one another. He can‘t see my face like this, but he has to know that my eyes are rolling back in my head while I treasure every last inch tunneling through me. He won‘t last long like this, but it doesn‘t matter. I already lost control who knows how long ago, and I‘m barely conscious of the trickle of come inside my thong, too lost in the haze of pleasure that comes over me when he‘s inside me, powerful enough to hurt, skillful enough to always please.

And yet he surprises me at times. Pulling from me when I know he‘s so close, flopping me across the desk on my back, heels dangling and ankles held up and safe in his hands.

“I want to kiss you when I come.” And I‘m pinned in that embrace for those final thrusts, each against the place inside me that lights my skull on fire and makes me shudder even when I’m spent. I can feel it when he comes, every flex and pulse, aware that his seed is filling me even while my lips work hungrily against his. Paradise. Lazy and spent in the seconds afterwards, sweating and yet at rest, still in the position of our climax.

Fuck! What time is it!?

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Ron carried the coffee cups with a steady hand. Range practice had been fun, but time with Hermione when she wasn’t overwhelmingly busy was better. The only downside of his weapon of choice was the extra kick when it fired, which could diminish accuracy if you didn’t stay well practiced. When he wasn’t repairing or maintaining the handful of vehicles that were in regular use, it was essential to keep his skills up to par. Sure, he was nowhere near Harry, but who the hell was? Some people were in a class of their own. Still, the pistol range provided an awe-inspiringly good way to excuse extra office time…with Hermione…and besides…the coffee was always the expensive foreign stuff.

Hermione glared at the screen with faint irritation. Simple equipment checks and upgrades were important, but desperately boring, since they largely involved waiting for results while handling lower priority paperwork. No real excitement, and nothing even remotely resembling a challenge. Another sixty seconds or so and the security system and cameras would be back online, with a greater sensitivity to lighting and a faster response to remote controls than before.

Ron’s steps could be heard even on the carpet. The man was no ninja, but he was put together fairly handsomely. And you couldn’t very well disapprove of a man who fetched coffee on request without so much as a wrinkled nose or grumpy look. It was nice…being waited on for once. Hermione pursed her lips, mind whirling through a thousand well trained feminist responses to the implied pedestal upon which she was placed by some man’s affections…then discarded the entire mental library of them with a smirk. Some things just felt right.

“Thanks, Ron. You’re too sweet. Or just sweet enough. Mmmm…I needed that. Security is almost up…we should have cameras back online in a few seconds, then I can take a short break before…ahhh…here we go. One…two…cam three, four and five online. Six through nine online…ten onli-…oh. Oh my.”

“FUCK! HOLY MOTHER OF GOD ALMIGHTY! MY EYES! SOMEONE GET ME A WIRE BRUSH SO I CAN SCRUB MY FREAKING BRAIN! DON’T THOSE TWO EVER TAKE A BREAK?!!”

Hermione stared wide eyed at the screen that displayed camera ten’s field of view, gulped nervously and remembered to bring her coffee to her lips while acting calm. A sip later, while Ron was brushing his own spilled coffee off of his coat and slacks, back carefully turned to avoid exposure to any more of Harry or Drake’s antics, Hermione was still staring.

She’d never seen passion before. She’d once rented a pornographic movie, wondering what it was all about, still in college and uncertain of whether sexuality held any real importance in the life of an intellectual. It had been a horrible disappointment, but slightly educational. No one in the movie had looked as if they’d found some rapture that would be unreachable in any other way. But…on camera ten…two people were utterly fused as one, completely lost to anything but the other. It was…hypnotic…beautiful…and slightly disconcerting.

“Goddammit! Man…I’m gonna hafta go back to the garage and change these. Are they done yet? Is the cam off?”

“Uh-huh.” Admittedly, the noise sounded like an affirmative answer, but Hermione was still staring at the screen in amazement and hadn’t really heard the questions at all. Ron turned around.

“AHH! God! It never ends! It never fucking ends! What the hell! Turn it off…for the love of God and Man…just turn it off already! Please!! I‘m beggin‘ ya!”

“OH! Heh…sorry…sorry. There we go…uh...so…what are you doing this weekend?”

Ron’s towering rage dissipated in a flash, replaced by total confusion…and a general sense of relief that the offending screen was blank.

“Uh…nothing that can’t be moved back. You?”

“I’ve got a date.”

“What? You do?” The crestfallen look of shock and hurt was pure and puppyish in its innocence.

“Well, yeah…with you. Or don’t I?”

Ron forgot all about the coffee, and forgot all about the less than pleasing images so recently seared into his brain…and smiled.

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The fat man was fresh in from Moscow, fringe of snowy hair curled with expensive oil, nose red from years of good liquor. The woman on his arm was the envy of many, slim and pale, long dark tresses slithering down shoulders like snowy alps, her dress as black and shiny as the crude oil that had made his fortune. The dress was on the floor now and they rolled on the bed of a five star hotel in Brussels, her kittenish giggles almost out of place coming from a woman with such a normally cultured and haughty air about her.

Such sweet perfume! And not merely the wisps of the pricey stuff he’d purchased for her, but rather the perfume of her body. He was a lusty fellow, even past his prime, and the scent of a woman still aroused just as fiercely as it ever had. When she clambered atop him, knees on either side of his head, and mounted his waiting mouth, he savored the feel and texture of her skin, the warmth of her aroused flesh, and let himself enjoy the treasure offered to his tongue.

The woman heaved and moaned, her accent European for certain, but hard to place. Her laughter echoed in darkness while her thighs flexed with pleasure. Though the man himself was hideous, she was aroused. She was stark naked, less than half his size, and seemingly totally unarmed. No guard, however well placed outside, could have guessed what was to pass between them.

Intimacy was a marvelous thing. She adored it, but not like most ever would or could. She adored intimacy such as this, because she was here to kill him, and they would spend these last seconds together. She would be the only witness to his most intimate moment…death. It didn’t matter who he’d offended, all that mattered was that hundreds of thousands of Euros were hers in exchange for his life, and the manner of his death had been left to her.

Along her scalp, woven through hair, was a single slim blade, more a needle than a knife. It was pulled free with an artful and practiced grace, as well as a kittenish glee. Her thighs flexed tightly for just a few seconds while steel slammed through his skull at the tender place behind the ear, and with a few shudders and gasps, each muted by her nether mouth, the fat man died beneath her. Her orgasm came in silence, eyes gleaming with pleasure while she stared into blank and lifeless eyes, pulse racing while she savored the moment of completion.

Another city, another identity, another kill, another fortune. She enjoyed them all…but the intimate kills were always the finest. The guards would find him in the morning, and they’d wonder how the woman in black had disappeared from a room on the fifth floor, and they would never know that she’d been through this very hotel four times in her life…always by a different name when she returned. These were the secrets of her trade, and the assassin kept her secrets well. Bellatrix Lestrange never rested long, not in countries she’d worked in before, but she would always come back to the places where the powerful met and reveled…because those were her hunting grounds in the game of life and death she so adored.

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He was tall, but not so tall as to stand apart among other men. He was also powerfully built, not in heavy or obvious bulk, but with quietly corded muscle that hid comfortably beneath his clothing. His hair had been a sandy blond when he was younger, but had ended up a steel gray, save for a few patches along his thick sideburns. His gaze could be cold and frightening or warm and endearing, depending on what he wanted people to think, and any trace of his native tongue had left him in the decades since he was a boy.

Northern Ireland had been a hard place in the Sixties, and he was a product of his times…and then the times had left him behind, a remnant of war that no longer needed warriors. How fortunate that his skills still had a market. Killing had been a way of life, and while he was older than some in his trade, he wasn’t the oldest, and this was his way of life still.

A bathhouse in Morocco. A visiting Turkish delegate. A few wealthy men gathered in privacy for the comforts of the old world. Their privacy had been assured so that they might speak freely, and their rendezvous hadn’t been announced or even widely known. There were guards, but they were of no consequence. The bomb had been put in place more than a day ago, less than a day after they had made their plans to meet.

He stood in the alley, thumbing the switch in his pocket. If he tripped it here, the blast would cover him in rubble from the wall. He only remained near out of a desire to know what became of his enemies. Not that it was personal, but he preferred the jobs where he could be closer to the target. He could work this way when asked to, eliminating targets in a haze of smoke and falling rubble, but it wasn’t nearly as interesting as seeing their eyes when they died. He’d never liked bombs, but the irony was that he was a skillful hand with them…and in a way, a bomb had brought him to this lifestyle.

His older brother hadn’t set the bomb, but all that mattered was that someone thought he’d been involved. He’d watched his older brother dragged from the house, to the back of an alley, where close range shots were muffled by rags and bullets smashed kneecaps into shards of jagged bone. Liam had hanged himself a few months later, sick of being a cripple and a figure of pity in a family that could barely afford to feed itself. Staring at a bloated face and bulging eyes, hung above a wheelchair, proof that Liam had wanted to die badly enough to hitch and tie the rope himself, the boy had learned what the man now knew.

Life was cheap…and there was no fairness in this world that you did not make for yourself.

He was down the street and almost out of sight of the building when he tripped the switch in his pocket and sent a handful of strangers to hell. Tomorrow he’d be in another country, pockets full of currency and Swiss account fat and full, dining on steak and stout while he waited for the next job. His sideburns would be gone, his hair would be dyed, and he’d go by another name, but the operative called Fenrir would be quietly enjoying the benefits of his trade.

TBC!!!