That lovely money
by Gail (gem225@hotmail.com)
A Perfect Murder
Steven Taylor/David Shaw
Rating: adult
Steven doesn't leave David alone.
Sequel to Knee-deep in bohemian cachet
Disclaimer: I don't see why David Shaw and Steven Taylor can't belong to me; they killed them off in the movie, but all right, whatever, they belong to Warner Bros and Kopelson Entertainment and Patrick Smith Kelly, the wonderful scriptwriter, not me. Phooey.
Please do not archive this story without asking me first. It's more than likely that I'll agree, but I want to know where my stories are.
For Tinnean on her birthday (1/7/03), since she wanted a sequel, and my Perfect Murder slashes got us talking.
*****
I'm waiting, and I hate doing that. This is all Steve's fault. Why the hell can't he just let me off the hook? But he won't do that. At least this time he isn't insisting on meeting me in the bar. I don't know what the fuck amuses him so much about that.
The elevator's groaning as it climbs. It's him. Nobody else comes here. I go to art galleries, go to clients, always trying to claw my way in and up. Here I'm alone, except when he decides he wants to play with me. I'd tell him to go to hell, but there's the fucking money, and I need that.
"Hello, Winston." He's bright eyes and pressed suit and briefcase. That might mean serious money. He comes over to me. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
I don't have to give him conversation. "What do you want?" I'm pretty damned sure I know what he wants, but he's going to have to say it.
He laughs. "So eager. Not even a question about Emily?"
I shake my head. I don't give a shit about Emily. She did just what he said, wanted nothing more to do with me after he told her his side of our encounter. I got one choked phone call, then nothing. I see her picture in the paper sometimes. I know she's still with him. I wonder if he thinks of me when he's fucking her, or maybe she thinks of me when she's got his cock in her. I hope so.
"Nice to know I'm the one you're thinking about." His eyes are even brighter now, and he's coming over toward me. "Need anything, Winston?"
If I say 'no' right now, he'll either leave or laugh and call me a liar. I can't take the chance Steve will leave with that lovely money. I need money. If I could just get enough together, I could get out of this town, find another woman with more money than she needs, start a new con. But I never get enough.
"Sure."
"You know what to do to get it."
Yeah, I know. Strip, do what he says, and don't complain. I'm used to it by now. I should be. This is just another prison cell; he's just another guy. But he's not. He won't stand for just obedience. He makes sure I'm involved. I tried just performing, and he saw right through me, made me stop, then got me hot and made me wait to come until I was sobbing with need, sobbing for him. I've never made that mistake again.
I reach for my t-shirt and pull it over my head. He pinches my nipples and laughs when I groan. He lets go, and I finish taking off the shirt, then undo my jeans and pull them down.
He watches every move I make, and I find myself licking my lips. I stop, but not soon enough.
"If you need something to fill that mouth of yours, I've got it." He beckons me, and I come to him. "It's been too long for you, hasn't it? Too long since I've come to you."
I want to tell him that it hasn't been long enough, but I get on my knees instead. I'd be lying, and he'd get angry.
I hate how much it matters that he not be angry with me.
He undoes his zipper and pulls out his cock, hard and ready, and I open my mouth, take it in, lick, suck, let him fuck my face, anything he wants, until he pulls it out.
"Nice, Winston," he murmurs and strokes my cheek with his hand, and I'm grateful, for god's sake. "Get on the bed so I can fuck you."
I do what he says and wait. He doesn't take long this time, gets me lubed and pushes into my ass, but it doesn't matter - I'm ready.
I hate how easy I am with him. I wasn't this easy in prison.
He gives me a hard fucking, but almost from the beginning he's got his hand on my cock, and I'm groaning and pushing into him, and it's so good, so goddamned good and right that I'm begging for more. He gives it to me, and I know that I should wonder why he's doing that, but I'm too happy and hot, and what does it matter anyway? Steve does what he wants, and my job is to take it.
With that thought I come and slump down on the bed, and he pulls out. I stay there. If Steve wants anything more, he'll make sure I know it.
My ass is still throbbing when he says, "Get up," and rests his hand on my tattoo. He always does that.
I roll over when he lifts his hand, then ease myself off the bed and on my feet. He's back in his suit, of course. Steve never stays longer than he needs to.
He takes out his wallet and puts some bills down on the table. "Here. For services rendered."
I know it's only a couple of hundred or so, know I could earn more selling my ass, but fuck, I'm an artist. That's what I want to be. Cons are fun, are money, but painting gives me more. When the hell did that happen?
"Ever think of setting me up in a place of my own, Steve?" That came out of nowhere, but it's too late to take back.
He chuckles. "I like you here." He gets his tie done just right. "Starting a con on me, Winston?"
I'm not, but he won't believe me whatever I say.
"Don't bother. I've got you, and I'm going to keep you until I get tired of you."
I wonder when that'll be. Steve likes having me here whenever he snaps his fingers, but that can't last forever.
"And you like it, don't you, Winston?"
He's staring, with that smile that always gets to me.
"Don't you?"
I don't want to answer. "Yeah."
He touches my cheek again. "Of course you do." He takes his hand away and heads to the elevator. "Be good until I come back."
Good? He doesn't care about that. All he cares about is that I'll be here when he comes back. And goddammit, I will be.
The End
Posted 1/7/03
Followed by Free (gen) and A Perfectly Good Dream (slash), companion pieces to each other.
