The Tin Man

by Nina Mason

  As their tongues entangled, he felt her body move against his, felt her fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. He moved the hand in her hair to her breast and began to tease the pert nipple through the layers of knit and lace. The tempting picture from this morning came into his mind unbidden: two scoops of mocha ice cream spilling out of black-lace cups. The image, coupled with the feel of her teasing tongue, sent a sizzling bolt of lust charging southward. His erection, to his great relief, rekindled within seconds.

  She’d opened his shirt and was now stroking his chest hair and playing with his nipples, which tingled appreciatively. His cock was tingling, too—most agreeably.

  He slipped his hand under her sweater, eager for the tactile experience of the picture in his mind. He ran his fingers over one supple, bra-encased mound, rubbing the nipple through the lace. She shivered against him, shooting another searing arrow of lust to his crotch. Her fingers worked their way down with a slow sensuality that sent thrilling shivers spiraling through him. The fingers moved between his legs and proceeded to probe his highly innervated engorgement.

  As she lowered his zipper, she broke out of the kiss. “Boxers or briefs, Buchanan?”

  “Neither, at the moment,” he replied with a wheezing chuckle.

  Reaching inside his trousers, she wrapped her fingers around his pulsing organ. Shuddering with pleasure, he swept his own hand to the hem of her skirt and began to inch it up. Her thighs were velvet, the sheer swath between them deliciously humid. His fingers slipped inside her knickers, feeling wiry hair and luscious flesh. He proceeded to explore her topography. Her clitoris was firm and pronounced, her vagina lush and tight, her labial folds swollen and juicy.

  “This is the feminine equivalent of the head of a man’s penis,” he said, docking his fingertip against her sweet spot. “Did you know that?”

  “I did, actually,” she said, teasing the comparable part of his anatomy in a way that made his eyelids flutter.

  “Use my cock,” he said huskily, “to show me what you like.”

  “You got it.”

  To his surprise, she slid down his body, burrowed between his legs, and unbuckled his belt. The next thing he knew, she was flicking her tongue against the underside of his glans. His breath hitched as pleasure swept across his body like a wildfire.

  “Oh, aye,” he whispered raggedly. “I like that, too.”

  She proceeded to fellate him like a champion, provoking a bittersweet mixture of feelings. Pleasure, oh, aye. Extreme pleasure, but undercut by a powerful, almost painful, feeling of frustrated ownership. How many other pricks had she similarly pleasured with that beautiful mouth of hers? The thought of it was at once unbearable and bewildering. He had no interest in younger women or, God forbid, virgins, so what the devil was his problem? Did he expect Thea to have burst full-grown and fully experienced from a giant seashell or something?

  He pushed the childish notion away, telling himself jealousy was for hotheads and romantics—two things he was not.

  He strove to shut out everything but the pleasure she was administering with that masterful mouth and those fingers caressing his bollocks and taint with such finesse. If she kept on like this much longer, she would bring him to orgasm and, given his limitations, an encore performance was extremely unlikely.

  Setting his hands on either side of her head, he tugged, urging her to desist. “Thea,” he rasped, “let me reciprocate for a bit, eh?”

  She didn’t argue. Instead, she crawled over him and brought her mouth down on his in a lingering, tongue-tussling kiss that made his cock yearn for her absent orifice. The minute she dropped beside him, he set upon her with lips and tongue until she was begging him to take her.

  Happy to oblige, he pushed up on all fours and moved over her. His gaze swept across her beckoning body before meeting a gaze as hungry as his own. He stilled himself and looked into her eyes deeply, reverently. “You take my breath away,” he whispered, meaning it from the bottom of the heart he didn’t know he had a few days ago. “You are my paper ballerina, Thea.” A wry smile quirked as he added, “Fate brought us together, eh? Let’s just hope it ends better than the story.”

  “It will,” she assured him. “It has to.”

  He hovered over her for a moment, skin to skin, as she reached out, groping for her purse. He heard the snap of the clasp and the rustle of contents. She tore the wrapper in her teeth, freeing the condom. She fumbled with it for a few moments, trying to slip it on.

  “Let me,” he said, taking over.

  When he was ready, he moved on top of her and kissed her savagely. She opened her legs, wrapping them around his hips. He took her with an ardent thrust, quivering as he sank into slippery heat.

  “Jesus wept, you feel good.”

  “You feel pretty good yourself,” she whispered, rearing up to deepen his penetration.

  He began to move his hips, in, out, and around. Under him, she moved like the ocean, rising and falling in great, rolling swells. He dove into her warm wetness again and again, feeling uncommonly fulfilled. Each time, she rose up to meet him, squeezing, swallowing, pulling him down, hips slapping against him like surf on wet sand. He clung to her as if drowning, relishing every moment as though it were his last. Under him, she was open, soft, and beseeching. His orgasm was building like deepening pools swirling through every cell, dissolving him until nothing remained but a whirlpool of pure sensation. The precipice was near. He held back, feeling the need to say something.

  “Thea,” he croaked. “I—”

  He felt too choked to get the words out. Choked and bitter and pathetic. All at once, he despised himself and his inadequacies. Why, if his heart was open should his mind still be closed? Closed and cowering. He was still inside her, still potent, but felt a sudden impulse to withdraw, to escape. Resisting the urge with everything he had, he resumed the act and finished quickly before rolling off.

  He lay still, receding into silence, feeling lost and far away. His mind stood apart, but his heart yearned to feel again the connection he’d known only moments before. Even so, he just lay there on his back, looking up at the moon through the battered eaves of the barn, saying nothing, feeling like a stone on the shore, left behind by the waves.

  She got up on one elbow, set her hand on his chest, and endeavored to meet his eyes. “Is something the matter?”

  “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  He licked his lips, which felt chapped all of a sudden. “I’ve come to care for you.” He strained to expel the words. “More than I thought possible.”

  “I care for you, too,” she said, kissing his cheek. “So, what’s the problem?”

  He met her gaze with a lump in his throat. “Why can’t I seem to say it?”

  She ran her fingers along his jaw with a tenderness that made him ache. “Alex,” she whispered, kissing him softly, “you just did.”

  Chapter 21

  Thursday

  Somewhere in rural Pennsylvania

  Thea awoke in the dawning light from one of those dreams in which she was searching and searching for a toilet, but all the ones she found malfunctioned in some bizarre way. She knew all too well what the dream meant. Her bladder was full. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. Buchanan wasn’t beside her. Panic reared. Looking around, she realized that the headlamps were no longer on. Had he gone down to shut them off?

  “Alex?”

  Silence.

  Worry growing alongside her need to pee, she threw off the blanket and slid off the haystack. It was freezing inside the barn. Shivering, she squinted into the darkness. His clothes weren’t there. Neither was his gun. Prickling with alarm, she quickly pulled on her clothes and boots. She caught a faint whiff of smoke. Of course, she thought, feeling foolish. He’d just gone outside to have a cigarette.

  Now desperate for relief, she made her way to the stairs, listening for him. There was fluttering in the rafters, which startled her a little. She loo
ked up, but couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Probably just bats or an owl, she figured, praying nothing would swoop down on her.

  As she climbed down the stairs, the smell of smoke intensified. She took a deep whiff. Funny, it didn’t smell like cigarettes. Was he burning something? She stumbled through the dark toward the car. She heard a crackling sound, saw something in the corner. A flickering orange glow.

  Oh dear God.

  “Alex!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Where the hell are you? The barn’s on fire!”

  She stood there for a minute, wondering if she should try to put it out, but abandoned the idea when she saw how rapidly it was spreading. A scuffling sound behind her made her turn, expecting to see Buchanan. There was no one there. Now spooked, she hurried toward the open door, stumbling over debris.

  Another snap. She spun around, but saw nothing. She swallowed hard and took a breath, trying to calm her pounding heart and racing pulse. She spun in circles, glancing around. She sensed a presence, but couldn’t see anything. Was Buchanan playing tricks on her, trying to scare her?

  If so, it was working. Her hands were shaking and heart was hammering so hard she could barely breathe. She almost wet her pants when a beam of light flicked past her.

  “Alex!”

  Her scream pierced the silence. The beam found her. Keeping low, she started belly crawling toward the back door. She heard a loud crack. Something struck the boards just above her head, showering her with splinters. Panic flared. Another crack. She could hear shuffling in the straw, getting closer. Shite, was it the twins? And where the hell was Alex?

  Crack.

  The bullet grazed her shoulder. Springing to her feet, she made a run for the back door. Making it outside, she tore across the field, racing toward a black line of trees. She glanced back over her shoulder. She couldn’t see much, but she could hear them giving chase. She pushed herself harder. The tree line was still a few yards away and she was already breathing hard. Her legs felt like lead. She drove herself with everything she had.

  As she neared the woods, the ground got steeper. Her heart felt like a locomotive. Her side was starting to stitch. She pressed her fist against the pain as she pushed on. Looking back again, she tripped and lost her balance, but only for a second before righting herself again. If she fell, they could be on her in a flash. She didn’t want to think about what those two freaks might do to her then.

  She kept on running, the pain in her side getting worse. She looked to the woods, now only a short distance ahead. There was a steep rise between her and the thicket of trees. She tore up the hill, arms pumping, legs trembling with exertion. Her breath was coming in hot gasps. The cramp in her side was now so bad, she was lumbering along half-stooped like one of those awful flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz.

  And then, another shot cracked the silence. She heard something whizzing toward her. It hit her in the buttocks, a sharp prick, making her yelp. She missed a step, but kept going. She made it to the trees. Ducking behind one, she stopped to catch her breath. The bullet in her ass smarted like mad. She moved her hand around to assess the damage, surprised to find something sticking out. She winced against the pain as she withdrew it, then brought it around to see what it was. A dart, dipped no doubt in some kind of sedative. Shite. In another few minutes, she was going to drop like a scarecrow.

  * * * *

  Buchanan was smoking out among the trees when he heard the gunshots. Turning toward the barn, he saw flames leaping from the roof. Dropping his cigarette, he charged from the underbrush like a bull, thinking only of Thea. Another shot shattered the darkness. He drew his Glock as he trundled across the field. The fire was spreading fast. He reached the barn, choking as he raced inside. The whole place was filled with white smoke.

  “Thea!” he screamed, coughing violently. “Thea!”

  He raced toward the stairs, grabbed the rail, hoisting himself up two rungs at a time. He frantically searched the loft, but found only her purse. Taking it with him, he stumbled back down.

  “Thea! Thea! Where are you?”

  The smoke was so thick he couldn’t see a thing. He heard another crack. Outside. Shite, the assassins had found them. But where were they now? And where was she?

  He groped his way through the cloud, gasping, choking, eyes stinging, until he found the car. Feeling his way around, he located the driver’s door, got in, and started the engine. He hit the gas. The Toyota lurched forward. He couldn’t see a fucking thing through the smoke. The car crashed through wood, jolting him. The air began to clear as he bounced across the field. The black sedan came into view, speeding toward the road. He eased off the gas, falling back to avoid being seen.

  Fucking hell. He’d cocked up everything. Now they had Thea, which was killing him. Anything he could do to save her would endanger her life. Assuming, of course, she was still alive. The possibility she might not be kicked him in the chest, but he reasoned it away. She had to be alive. It only made sense. If she was dead, why take her? He felt better, but not for long. If she was alive, there was a reason. And the only reason he could think of made his stomach turn.

  * * * *

  Zeus was a boy again, running through the farmhouse he was raised in by his mother, heart hammering with terror. He had a piss erection, which bobbed painfully as he ran, slowing him down. The bathroom door, as usual, was locked. Inside, he could hear a child sobbing. He didn’t know who the child was or what he was doing there, he only knew he had to protect the kid. He shuddered when he heard his mother, somewhere in the house, singing that awful nursery rhyme.

  Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,

  Up stairs and down stairs in his night-gown,

  Tapping at the window, crying at the lock,

  Are the children in their bed, for it's past ten o'clock?

  Racing for the front door, he grabbed the knob, shaking it violently. It wouldn’t turn. With rising panic, he sprinted toward the kitchen. He tried the back door, but it, too, was locked. On the verge of hysteria, he ran to the sink and fumbled frantically with the window latch. It wouldn’t open. The singing, that terrible singing, was getting closer.

  Hey, Willie Winkie—the child's in a creel!

  Wriggling from everyone's knee like an eel,

  Tugging at the cat's ear, and confusing all her thrums

  Hey, Willie Winkie—see, there he comes!

  His chest grew tight. His knees began to shake. His bladder was ready to burst. He seized his cock and aimed. Going in the sink was wrong. It would make her even angrier. But he had to go so badly he didn’t know what else to do. He pushed hard, but nothing came out. In desperation, he started thumping his engorgement against the ledge. Anything to relieve the unbearable throbbing.

  Weary is the mother, who has a dusty child,

  A small, short little child, who can’t run on his own,

  Who always has a battle with sleep before he'll close an eye

  But a kiss from his rosy lips gives strength anew to me.

  She was right behind him now. He could hear her breathing, could feel the heat of her body on his back. He tried to scream when he saw the cleaver, but no sound would come out. The blade came down with a whack. His penis tumbled into the sink, bouncing once before shattering like glass. Urine and blood jetted from the wound. He felt no pain, only enormous relief.

  He awoke with a jolt to find, as always, he’d wet the bed.

  * * * *

  Lapdog cringed as he thought back on the demoralizing conversation he’d had earlier that morning with Natalie Coole, the newly appointed assistant attorney general for the Antitrust Division. Natalie, a staunch conservative, ascribed wholeheartedly to President Freeman’s philosophy that, left to themselves, markets would self-correct (despite all evidence to the contrary).

  Blond, blue-eyed, and statuesque, Natalie had earned the nickname “The Ice Queen” in less than a week on the job. Right after he got to the office, she’d summoned him to discuss the proposed
merger between Titan and Golden Age. No sooner was he seated in front of her massive and obsessively tidy desk than she announced, “We’re going to let this one slide.”

  He should have seen this coming, but he didn’t. “What!”

  “I have orders from the top,” she said, staring him down with those frosty eyes of hers.

  He furrowed his brow. “Who? The Attorney General? The President?”

  Her fingers, pressed together in a pyramid, moved in and out like a bellows. “If you want to keep your job, you’ll do as you’re told and not make any noise about it. Do I make myself clear?”

  As clear as an aquarium full of piranha. He just sat there, stupefied. It was probably just as well, since anything he felt like saying would end up costing him his job.

  What he saw happening inside the department made him physically ill, but could he do short of handing in his resignation? And what good would that do in the grand scheme of things? Sure, it might spare him a little personal grief, but he could hardly do any real good standing on the outside looking in. Better, he reasoned, to suck it up and keep trying to fix things from where he now stood, despite the rising water.

  That was the reason he’d gotten Buchanan and Thea involved—to expose the truth, thereby forcing the Attorney General’s hand. Once the story broke, there was no way the DOJ could go on ignoring these kinds of gross violations of the anti-monopoly laws. He swallowed hard. That was the plan, anyway.

  Chapter 22

  A red glow broke through the enveloping darkness. Thea felt the car began to slow, heard the soft squeal of brakes under her ear. They hit a bump—a sledgehammer to her brain. She bit down hard on the rubber ball wedged between her teeth. The glow became brighter, turning from red to amber and began to throb. Inertia pulled on her body. She grunted as the handcuffs dug into the flesh and bone of her wrists. As the car straightened out, her terror returned, stealing her breath.