Hell In High Heels --- A Jane Delacroix erotic novel: Sex, Sin, and Slaughter in Southern California

by Wade, Vixen

  “Ugh, ugh, ugh” she grunted, head snapping back and forth.

  She had never felt more alive, more totally submersed in a moment, so free of every other worry. Everything that was not that thick cock fucking her ass faded away. Cold and hot bursts of sensation resonated in palpating waves from her rectum. Her pussy pressed into the table, rubbing back and forth against the unyielding surface, and pressure continued mounting there as well. The faster and harder he ploughed her ass, the faster and harder her clit rubbed against the table.

  She realized with something like stunned rapture, that she had two separate orgasms, on clitoral and one anal, her cunt and ass, building at the same time. Boupha’s strong fingers grasped her aching ass cheeks up near her hips and bit in hard.

  Centered, he slammed into her harder. He pulled his dick out, let her ass close, then slammed it in again. His cock was an iron bar in a velvet sleeve. Each stroke hurt, but the hurt was the engine driving the rushing cyclone of her dual orgasms.

  The building pleasure wave erupted from deep inside, shooting out in tingling currents that engaged the soft lining of the tight canal of her ass. She began bucking against her restraints, and her dripping pussy exploded for a second time in an avalanche of fluid and gratification.

  Boupha snorted and suddenly tensed. She felt him trembling, pressed against her, and then his cum spurted out, splashing inside her. He fell across her stinging back, spent, and lay across her. Beneath him she trembled as the last vestiges of her orgasm dribbled slowly from her body in sweet release.

  Boupha let his dick, going soft, slip out of her ass and then pushed himself to his feet. She felt his sperm dribble out of her ass and heard him buckling his pants.

  "Now, Miss Delacroix," the General said. "I'm going to ask you some questions." He cupped her chin with a sweat slimed hand, forcing her to look up at him. With his other hand he slammed the point of his switchblade into the table next to her face, causing her to flinch.

  Her makeup ran across her face, leaving streaks of black mascara like Zebra stripes on her face. Clear snot ran down over the ball gag from her crying, and drool hung in delicate strings from her lips.

  "You've never looked more beautiful," Hun Sen smiled. "That could be a problem for you just now, Miss Delacroix. My other men are also curious about big breasted blondes, and you're the biggest breasted blonde any of them have ever seen. They've served me well and I'm inclined to indulge them, unless you can give me a reason not to." He pattered her face in a condescending, paternalistic way. "Do you understand?"

  Eyes earnest, Jane nodded.

  "What? I can't understand you?"

  Terrified, Jane began making croaking sounds, bobbing her head up and down. Hun Sen laughed cruelly at her fear and desperation. His men, on cue, stepped forward and began hooting with mirth. In the weird echo of the wine cellar, it sounded like a troop of monkeys.

  Hun Sen pointed at one of his gunmen. "Take off her gag," he snapped. "Now!"

  One of the men, his mouthful of gold teeth scintillating weirdly in the hard yellow light, jumped forward, Swedish K dangling from a strap over his shoulder. Moving quickly, he undid the Sadomasochistic accoutrement from the blonde call girl.

  Jane turned her head and threw up on the floor, convulsing with the effort to vomit. Her stomach was empty accept for champagne and bile and the mess was clear other than for the blood. It pooled up on the floor of the cellar and splashed onto the warlord's shoes.

  Hun Sen leaned forward, pulling Jane's head up by the hair. "I want to know who sent you and for what? I am protected by your government. I want to know who you are working for!"

  Jane's mouth worked, no sound came out. She closed her eyes and swallowed against the tight rawness in her throat. Her lips moved but no sound came out, she started to whisper but then was overcome by a spasm of coughing.

  She tried to speak again but her voice was faint. Impatient, Hun Sen jerked her head back harder and leaned in closer.

  "What? Tell me!"

  Her voice cracked, too faint to understand. Hun Sen leaned in closer.

  "Who sent you?"

  His ear was so close to her mouth he could feel her breath against his skin.

  "I said," Jane whispered. "Go to hell!"

  She lunged forward and clamped her teeth down hard on the skin and cartilage of the General's ear. Sharp, white teeth caught hold and bit down hard, splitting skin until blood, hot and salty, rushed out and spread like a lake over Hun Sen's jaw and neck. Blood poured over Jane's lips and chin.

  Hun Sen screamed in surprise and pain. He tried to jerk free but Jane just bit harder. His cries where high pitched whoops like air raid sirens and his men remained frozen in shock. Jane snatched her head to the side like a lioness yanking meat off a bone.

  The top of the Cambodian's ear came away in a long, tearing avulsion that left blood smeared across his face. Blood splashed into Jane's platinum blonde hair, turning it strawberry. The fat slug of flesh that had been the top of Hun Sen's ear stuck out of the private investigator's mouth like a piece of escargot at a French restaurant.

  Grinning like a demoness, Jane turned her head to the side and spat. The flesh struck a wine rack and clung to the porous wood like sputum. She grinned, blood smeared across her teeth like lipstick.

  "What was the question again?"

  Hun Sen looked at his ear, stuck like a booger on the wood, his face all incredulous horror. His hands clamped hard to the side of his head but blood spurted freely from between his fingers despite the effort. He staggered back and forth like a drunk, screaming in agony.

  Boupha moved toward him, confusion on his simian face. He reached out his hands toward the General who slapped them away. Jane, slightly unhinged from her torture was laughing, cackling even as the General, staggering, tripped over his own feet and went down hard.

  Boupha went to help Hun Sen up but the man couldn't seem to get himself under control. Not sure of what to do next, he backhanded Jane. The blow snapped her head to the side and split her lip. After the caning the strike was a pittance and she just giggled.

  "Kill her!" Hun Sen finally managed to stutter from the floor.

  Dutifully Boupha took a half step back, pivoted from the waist and snapped back the bolt on his sub-machine gun. He swung the blunt, industrial looking muzzle around and centered it on Jane's high, broad forehead.

  Her eyes shone defiantly in discs of cobalt blue, "go ahead."

  Boupha tightened his finger on the stamped metal curve of the trigger. His knuckle whitened as he took up the slack. Boupha liked killing people, he wasn't really interested in any information Jane might or might not have had, pulling the trigger and sending a cavalcade of 9mm slugs to ruin her face would have made his day. He was grinning as he squeezed.

  Javacovitch stepped forward out of the shadows. Boupha spun, surprised by the sudden movement. The ex-Green Beret kicked the bodyguard in the shin, using the pain to short circuit the man's reactions. He knocked the barrel of the sub-machine gun away from Jane's direction and slammed the heel of his palm upward into the Cambodian's nose.

  The movement was not the instantaneous execution some martial artist claimed, but the pain and shock instantaneously blinded the killer, the excruciating pain sending him staggering.

  "Enough!" Javacovitch snarled, David Sten's modified .45 appearing in one fist and a Walter PPK in the other.

  Using the converted M1911A1 to cover the bodyguard cadre, the American DIA agent used the smaller 9mm pistol to pin Hun Sen in place.

  "I have never seen a more grotesque example of amateur hour in my fucking life, and I was in the goddamn Congo in 1960. You people are pathetic and seriously about to piss me off. General, you better calm your boys the fuck down or I will kill everyone, burn this house to the goddamn ground and start over in Cambodia from fucking scratch!"

  He turned and glared at the stunned warlord. "Don't believe me?" The General, still holding his bloody ear, just whimpered. "Tell them!" Javacovitch sna
pped.

  Hun Sen muttered something in Cambodian. Scowling, Boupha slowly backed up. The chief bodyguard nodded at his two men and they lowered their weapons.

  Javacovitch lowered the PPK then slid it into his shoulder holster. He lowered the fully automatic Colt but let it stay down by his side. He turned toward Hun Sen.

  "I know, I know. Everyone loves a great torture and gang rape, especially after their pride has been hurt. But let me remind you that with a single phone call I can get B-52's rolling straight over your opium fields. This close to harvest? Guess what 20 tons of jellied gasoline would do to your poppies. Go ahead, picture it."

  Javacovitch walked over to Boupha. The Cambodian glared out at him from under a beetled brow. Javacovitch smiled. The man looked confused. Javacovitch laid the heavy barrel of the .45 upside the Cambodian's temple with a single, whip like crack.

  Boupha went down. His legs folded up underneath him in an unnatural angle and his thick jaw hung open like a door with a broken hinge. Javacovitch looked down at him like a sewer inspector regarding a leaking pool of waste.

  "Hun. Or Sen. Whatever, I still get confused by which is the family name," Javacovitch sighed. "I've read this bimbo's file--"

  "Fuck you and the horse you road in on," Jane told him.

  The DIA agent continued as if she hadn't spoken. "And she's just a Hollywood escort. I'd say she was almost a private dick, but that's just ridiculous given her jugs. Hugh Hefner thought he had something with Monroe? Shit, this girl makes Jayne Mansfield look flat chested."

  "Dream all you want, asshole." Jane sneered.

  "The point is," Javacovitch continued "don't you think it's just a little bit above her typical operational status to be helping in an investigation of you? She should be following movie stars around, sucking cock and snapping blackmail pictures. She's being used as a stalking horse, Sen. Someone in my government has stumbled onto our op, and I have to know who it is in order to quash it."

  Boupha got to his feet, eying the DIA man murderously. The other two bodyguards came forward to help him up, but he waved them impatiently away. It was an unintentional parody of his attempts to help his own boss earlier.

  He glowered at Javacovitch, the side of his head swelling from the blow he'd taken.

  "You feeling froggy, boy?" the ex-Green Beret asked. "Leap."

  Boupha looked away. Javacovitch looked at him in disgust. He however decided not to turn his back on the man anytime soon. He looked toward the General who got slowly to his feet.

  "General, we need to talk for a moment. I really don't want Miss Delacroix here, your opium whore, or anyone of the three Stooges there, overhearing what I have to say."

  Hun Sen turned toward his men and nodded. Scowling, the unit left the wine cellar, standing on the landing at the bottom of the stairs and pulling cigarettes out. Javacovitch shut the wine cellar door in their face.

  The American turned toward Jane, her head was held funny, all of her blonde hair hanging thickly to one side. It seemed slightly out of place, but the DIA agent didn't have time to figure out what was wrong. The clock was ticking and if he was going to salvage anything from the Hun Sen asset operation then he'd have to hurry.

  Before that he needed to give the warlord very specific instructions. Turning his back on the bound and naked Jane, he waved Hun Sen toward the secundum at the back of the wine cellar. He hadn't made up his mind if he need to kill the whore or not. If she were an FBI proxy it might be his only course. If she was operating under the auspices of the CIA however, he might be able to extract himself from this mess, and prosecution, by turning the whole Cambodian mess over to The Company.

  Just that quickly Jane found herself suddenly alone. She wasted little time.

  Turning her head to the side, her hair fell back and revealed Hun Sen's switchblade. Slowly, carefully, she grasped the pear handled stiletto in her white, even teeth and lifted her head to the side. Stubbornly, slowly at first, the tip of the knife pulled clear from the wood.

  She paused, knife in her mouth like a pirate, and considered her situation. She was nimble, she was agile. Compared to a man she was weak, but her flexibility was a strong point. She grinned, David Sten certainly thought so. The ribald humor helped settle her nerves. She needed to be on, dialed in, because she wasn't getting a second chance.

  Her hands were bound at the wrist to the leg of the writing desk. The legs of the little table were short, her limbs lovely and long. The fingers of her hands could reach the floor. The problem was they were growing more numb with each passing second.

  However, one of the things on her side was that General Hun Sen could afford the best. The stiletto was no cheap throwaway knife used by street punks. It was a weapon designed for killing, for style and durability. It's weight was balanced perfectly.

  Stretching her neck out she tried to touch her right ear to her shoulder. Blood was caked on the bake of her thighs and the spidery-touch memory of Hun Sen's grotesque fingers still burned her flesh. She opened her mouth. The pearl handle bore her lipstick kiss.

  It fell like a dart straight down into the old packed earth of the cellar floor. The point drove into the dirt like the proverbial knife through hot butter until half its long blade stuck. The handle didn't even quiver as it came to a stop.

  She had been perfect.

  She reached out with strong, clever fingers tipped by nails painted red as her lipstick, as red as her flowing blood, and grasped the switchblade. Deftly, she turned it like a surgeon holding a scalpel and began working on the ropes pinning her right wrist.

  If she got half a chance she was going to unleash hell on these bastards and the FBI could worry about its own goddamn investigation.

  The ocelot was a perfect design of nature.

  A little over three feet long, the predator feline weight 40lbs of compact muscle. Its night vision was phenomenal, so far beyond human capability it was very nearly machine-like in its perception. Vision wasn't the only way it hunted, however.

  From the tip of Texas, down through the jungles of Central and South America into the northern ranges of Argentina, the cat hunted by exploiting the odor trails of its prey. While not a bloodhound, the cat's olfactory abilities were considerable.

  This ocelot's name was Marty and his owner was Jane Delacroix.

  Uncannily intelligent, even for a species touted for its startling mental acuity, the wild cat barely tolerated Detective David Sten. Despite their uneasy truce revolving around Jane, the LAPD detective knew he could count on the feline for what he needed.

  At the foot of the estate's wall, he set the Ocelot down.

  He'd driven like a madman to Jane's place where he'd taken a change of clothes, a painter's step ladder she used to change her light bulbs, and Marty.

  Wherever Jane was, the cat wanted to be. If the woman was within a mile of the animal it would unerringly move to be by her side. The bond they shared had always struck Sten as odd, preternatural somehow, or even psychically empathetic. It seemed like a lot less beloved pet and a lot more witch's familiar (he was careful to never share this insight with Jane).

  He didn't understand it, he'd never seen anything like it, but he trusted it.

  "Look, Kitty," he muttered. They were crouched in the bushes at the back of the big house. "You need to go to Jane. Find your girl, buddy."

  The Ocelot looked at him with the huge saucer eyes designed for nocturnal hunting. It purred low down in its chest with a fierce rumble. It yawned and its jaw seemed to almost unhinge, revealing formidable fangs that Jane kept ivory white by brushing them just like a baby's. Its tongue was long, pink and rough as sandpaper.

  "Come on," Sten urged. "Don't make a monkey out of me, goddamn it."

  The feline regarded him. Its look was haughty as a nonplussed Jane Delacroix. Sten closed his eyes tightly against his mounting frustration.

  "Please," he gritted out.

  He opened his eyes, prepared for disappointment. It had been an ass stupid idea anyway. Who'd
he think he was, a circus act? Lorene Green, maybe?”

  The ocelot was gone. Startled, Sten looked around. The cat looked down at him from the top of the estate wall.

  "Now we're cooking with gas!"

  The cat lazily turned its head toward the big house then disappeared in a single, fluid leap.

  "Christ! Wait for me!" Sten hissed.

  Quickly, he threw the step ladder against the wall and scrambled up.

  He prayed he was in time.

  The last ropes came away with a snik and Jane sagged against the table for a moment in relief. Her considerable chest heaved with the pounding of her heart, unintentionally provocative by the sheer, raw, sexuality of her form.

  Her soft flesh was covered with bruises, blood painted her thighs making the white down of her pubic hair seemed framed in the scarlet. The makeup on her face was smeared and her hair was wild. She gathered her will and stood straight. Naked as Eve in the Garden, she looked like a mythological warrior woman holding the wicked blade of the spring-loaded stiletto.

  She looked around quickly. Time was not on her side. All bad humor to the side, running and scrambling without a bra was not an easy task; she would never out run the ultra-lean Cambodians or a man as fit as that sonofabitch, Javacovitch

  Her legs were good, Hollywood perfect, but it was her brain that was going to get her out of this. Looking around she spotted only two doors out of the underground chamber. Behind one, she heard Boupha and his men talking. It was an obvious no go. It was also the only way to the stairs. The other door was where Javacovitch had taken Hun Sen. There were no windows.

  Growing more frantic, she cast about. She saw rack upon rack of dusty wine bottles. The table she'd been tied to, and the coils of rope used to tie her down. A single powerful light hung from the ceiling.

  The ceiling.

  She craned her head and looked up. Old World rafters, arched over the cool, stone walls. The style had been fashionable when Mexico controlled California, used almost exclusively by the Catholic friars in building their monasteries. The worn wooden supports ran thick with shadows and cobwebs.