Shrouded in Blackness

by Karlsson, Norma Jeanne

  Into the Blackness

  Nick Cooper’s story available Summer 2014

  Late Summer/Early Autumn 2014

  Brian O’Sullivan’s story

  Blackness Takes Over

  Blackness Awaits

  Kat

  The Domestic Crime Agency (DCA) has a certain set of criterion they utilize when recruiting new agents. Potentials must be unattached, unaffiliated, unassuming chameleons, of questionable moral fabric and above all willing and able to use deadly force without hesitation in any situation. Oh yeah…and you’re supposed to have a dick too. I met and surpassed the initial requirements easily. I’m in no control of meeting the final unstated requirement of being male. My recruiter told me upon our first interaction that I would be an ideal candidate for intelligence monitoring, in other words riding a desk. I didn’t then, nor do I now, have any inclination to ride a desk. Desks are where people like me go to die.

  That’s funny because most people would think being an active operative in a clandestine government agency housed under the umbrella of the FBI would be where people like me go do die. They’d be wrong. This is where I came to flourish, meet my full potential. The DCA is where I was brought to life, not back to life, to life. I wasn’t alive once and then looking to be reborn. I was searching for my birth, the place where I fit in the world. June 1, 2003 Katherine Russell was born at eighteen years old weighing 138 pounds and measuring five feet eight inches in length. Nothing before that date exists for me other than my training and life skills that created the woman I am today. I carry the memories of my parents and the lessons they taught me, but other than that, people, places and relationships from before that date ceased to exist, not that there was much hanging around.

  These thoughts often run through my head on mornings like this. I think they enter of their own accord to ground me and remind me that this is who I am. I take one final look in the mirror, the reflection I see today I’ll be glad to rid myself of tomorrow. Severely dyed midnight black hair stick-straight hanging three quarters of the way down my back. I look like Demi Moore in Strip Tease. My dark brown colored contacts change the entire look of my face. With the caramel tan, inky hair and chocolate button eyes I appear Mediterranean when that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  There was a little “enhancement” for this undercover operation (op). I had injectable fillers put in my lips and cheeks causing me to look younger and fuller in the face. My striking high cheekbones now have a soft curve beneath them making me look closer to twenty than my closely approaching thirty. The lips were specific for my mark, the target of my op. He enjoys women with fat lips so I now have fat lips. Thankfully, these augmentations are temporary and wear off in a matter of months. Months which I’ve spent living with my mark as the stunningly beautiful Camilla Bruno from upstate New York sadly discovered by the wealthy arms dealer Marco Bianchi working as a stripper in one of his establishments. Poor Camilla grew up in foster care and was in desperate need of a powerful man to sweep her off her feet and plant her securely on her back beneath him. My back fucking hurts.

  After five months of living and breathing Camilla doused in expensive perfumes always surrounded in a cloud of Marco’s cigar smoke, I’m ready for a cleansing deep lungful of fresh air. I saturate myself in Marco’s favorite scent and shove down the gag at the back of my throat. I pull my hair over my naked more than a handful boobs à la The Blue Lagoon and take one last glance at my heavily make-up covered face that makes me look like a porn star. Disgusting. Marco will love it.

  I stride from the marble incased bathroom into the bright light beach facing hotel bedroom. White linen everywhere with hints of local Belize mahogany, this place is truly a paradise. I’ll come back for a vacation someday…like that will ever happen.

  Marco sits up on an elbow in the king sized bed, intensely perusing my appearance. He likes what he sees so much that he hisses sharply through his fake teeth. Marco is an extremely attractive older man. He dyes his hair a chestnut color to avoid looking his age of fifty-eight and it works since his body is at least fifteen years its junior. At only six feet tall, I’ve been cautioned to be sure my heels allow him an inch over my height at all times. No skin off my back.

  His hazel-blue eyes dance over my form as I approach. He’s fallen in love with me, Camilla. It’s more for my body, the sex and the arm candy, but he’s taken the time to learn the back story that’s carefully been crafted by the DCA. Marco knows everything about Camilla and wants to own her mind, body and soul. I can sense a proposal is coming any day now. I’m glad this will be over before I have to endure that.

  “Camilla,” he purrs in his gruff voice.

  As I reach the edge of the bed I offer him a seductive smile and peer down at him with lust filled eyes.

  “I made you coffee,” I whisper back in my most submissive voice.

  Marco likes a morning fuck, but he needs his coffee first.

  “Later,” he growls pulling me onto the bed rolling me beneath him.

  I giggle in that silly girl tone that he loves.

  “I’ll have my breakfast first and then my coffee,” he announces before sweeping my hair off my boobs.

  He roughly palms one while his mouth closes around the other’s nipple. I hiss sharply as he bites harder than I like. He always bites harder than I like. Marco smiles around my nipple misperceiving my reaction. Pushing sixty and still can’t get sex right, it’s a good thing I’m putting him out of his misery.

  He pinches and rolls my nipple, again too hard, so I moan and arch my back like a good girl would. Descending the plane of my stomach he rips the delicate pink lace thong painfully from my body. I’m waxed within an inch of my life just like Marco likes. The only hair remaining on my body at this point is on my head and my eyebrows. Everything else is waxed regularly. I have no problem with a Brazilian and a leg wax, but my arms and the faintest peach fuzz on my knuckles is a bit outside my realm of normal.

  Marco buries his face in my pussy sucking too hard and fingering me too aggressively as I fake a few orgasms and will myself to get wet for the production. Finally, he decides he’s given me enough and sits up on his rickety knees.

  “Roll over,” he commands harshly.

  I quickly flip to my stomach and raise my hips to the appropriate height.

  “Once you have my name I’m takin’ this ass,” he informs me tracing his finger along my crack.

  I nod into the mattress, again grateful that will never happen.

  Marco spits and rubs his hands through my folds before plowing in like he’s storming and enemy fortress, violent and unyielding. I use all my strength to keep my body planted where it is as he powers into me, bruising my hips with his fingers. After a few minutes I fake another orgasm and feel that spur him toward his.

  A few stunted strokes later Marco pulls out and shoots his load on my ass and lower back. He then does his classic move of rubbing it into my skin like lotion until he’s convinced I’m good and marked. Collapsing on the bed next to me he shoves his come covered fingers in my mouth. I suck them clean and moan, just like he likes.

  “Good girl,” he breathes out, pinching my bottom lip before releasing my mouth. “Ready for my coffee now.”

  Finally.

  I climb off the bed and move into the suite where the pot of coffee is staying warm in the coffee maker. I pour him a large mug and then add my chemical concoction that will end this op once and for all. There are two guards at a post outside the room and a few more working the perimeter in various places. I’ll have to make this good.

  I saunter into the room and hand him the mug before retrieving my black silk robe from the plush white chair in the corner. Two giant gulps later I start forcing the tears to come. It’ll take a few minutes to get them good and flowing for an Oscar-worthy ugly cry.

  I sit on the end of the bed with my back to Marco as the first tear runs down my enhanced cheek.

  “Camilla,” Marco gasps through labored breaths. I lo
ve fast acting compounds that render victims speechless while causing excruciating pain. He deserves worse.

  He moans loudly thrashing around the bed as his mug hits the floor with a thud. I take this moment to stand from my perch and retrieve my torn thong from the floor. I deposit it in the small trashcan in the bathroom while continuing to work up tears at a more constant rate.

  “Please,” he pleads through a whisper when I enter the bedroom again.

  “No,” I respond coolly watching the realization and panic hit his eyes before the last few moments of life slip from his body.

  I wait for a full minute before checking him for a pulse. Of course there isn’t one, but you can never be too careful. I’m not a fan of the moment where you think the bad guy is dead and then he pops up behind you in one last effort to win the fight.

  Sucking in a giant breath I scream a blood curdling wail and dissolve into hysterics. The guards race into the room guns at the ready until they spot the scene. I continue to sob and convulse as they try dutifully to revive Marco calling for all the men to return to our suite.

  Seven more men barrel into the bedroom, barking orders at each other and attempting CPR, as I play the role of girlfriend in shock. My body is shaking so violently that the arches of my feet are beginning to cramp which causes more wailing to burst from my throat.

  The compound has done its job in creating heart attack type symptoms. If and when they do an autopsy they’ll find the drugs and I’ll be so far gone it won’t matter. It’s only this moment of my acting and his apparent heart attack that matter.

  “Camilla,” a guard named Torch soothes in my ear.

  He has this nickname because he likes to set people on fire as a form of torture when needed. He’s an animal I wish was on my hit list.

  “We’ve gotta move. Marco’s gone and we got a shipment that has to fuckin’ move outta this country before cops and shit come sniffin’ around. Get your shit together. We’re leavin’.” There’s no longer softness to his voice, now harsh and commanding.

  “I can’t leave him,” I blubber. “You go. I can get back on my own. I can’t just leave him here alone.”

  “You’re on your own here. If they arrest you for bein’ associated with him we won’t fuckin’ come for you. You get that?”

  I nod and look as lost as I can muster. Torch grunts and moves away from me quickly. As he leaves the room he casts one more look on his boss’s dead body before barking orders to the other men. They leave the suite as swiftly as they entered.

  When they land they’ll be taken in by federal agents from many different branches of the government thanks to the five months of intel I collected. Killing Marco was just a bonus.

  Once I’m certain I’m alone I move to the bathroom and wash my face, ridding myself of the horrid make-up that’s camouflaged my face for months. I pile my hair into a bun on the top of my head before pulling on a plain white sun hat that shields my entire face. Thong sandals, a pale yellow halter maxi sundress and boy shorts on…I already feel a bit more like myself.

  I move out onto the patio that leads to the beach and grab my bag before walking onto the white sand taking that long needed deep cleansing lungful of fresh air.

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