Perverts 'R' Us

Assassination and Lillies

By 7stone ( M/f, rom, oral )

Please address all questions and comments to the author to 7stonefeedback@gmail.com

The sun was slowly setting over the public gardens as the groundskeeper ushered everyone toward the exits. Vines weaved over handrails as I climbed the steps, one by one, slowly leaving this slice of paradise. The vines seemed to guide me, showing me the way to fate. There she was, all of seventeen and angelic. Her auburn hair tied up neatly in a ponytail, her pale skin of ivory… She was mesmerizing. Her blouse draped her breasts, both concealing their shape and heightening their sensuality.

Despite being lost in her body, it was her laugh drew me from my reverie. It was boisterous, loud, yet feminine and alluring. Her escort, a man of forty or so, was also laughing, at what I had no clue. All that mattered in that moment was for her laugh to continue. I could die a happy man were that the last song I to hear.

Luck has never been a reliable companion. It comes and goes with the wind, often leaving me to fend for myself in the most inopportune of moments. To her credit, Lady Luck was with me that day, producing a strong breeze that bore her companion's hat straight from his head, down the hill, and into the pond. Her companion excused himself and went rushing after his hat, and in that moment, her eyes found mine.

The courage of gods would not have helped me in that moment. My legs were as toothpicks, unsteady and weak. My mind was blank as a cloudless sky. Her eyes were grey and piercing, searching my being to its core…

We stood, eyes locked, for near a minute. Finally, I moved toward her, my fear and inaction being replaced by a will not my own. I forced myself to tear my eyes from hers, settling instead on the flowers she stood by. At a loss for words, I searched frantically for something to say, for some common ground on which to meet. There, in the dirt, lay my salvation. Quickly searching the plaque, I settled on the name of the flower.

"Lilium speciosum, eh? 'The Japanese Lily.'"

"Yes, they've only begun cultivating them in these gardens."

Each word spread like music through the air, dancing through the molecules on its way to nothingness.

"These flowers are beautiful. The colors stand out from all the drab roses the groundskeeper insists on."

Clare always reminded me of Lilium speciosum, reds, and whites meeting in a six-petal ballet of evolution and form. The red of her hair offset the pale skin and white shirt she wore. The virginal color wrapped her in an aura indescribable, and her eyes drank in all the energy I could spare.

"I am sorry, I haven't yet introduced myself. My name is Jonathan Booth. Please call me John."

"Pleased to meet you, I am Clare Healy."

By this point, her companion had retrieved his hat and was making his way back towards us. When he drew near, he drew himself fully upright and in a rather confrontational manner made my acquaintance.

Later in the month I attended a lawn party hosted by the distinguished Dr. Alain Lormand, purveyor of arts podiatric. Though not the most engaging of hosts, Lormand knew how to cater to guests. A party on Lormand's dollar was never to be missed.

When I arrived, my habitual punctuality placed me in a rather uncomfortable situation: I was the first of the guests to arrive. The problem? Lormand is a terrible boor. A discussion with him will always contain two things, podiatry, and hints of pederasty. Lormand is a Parisian expatriate with a penchant for youth. His last "mademoiselle" was rumored to be the young daughter of one H. Humbert, encountered on some frivolous cross-country romp.

This particular discussion was mercifully short, for before he could mention the shapely insole of his last patient, his doorman announced the arrival of the Dr. and Ms. Richard Emmental. Soon after, other guests began arriving, and soon the mingling was going strong. One hallmark of Lormand's lawn parties is conflict among the guests. The nouvelle riche put on airs, alienating themselves from the old money among the group. There was a palpable dislike between many of the guests, yet through it I made my way blindly, an outsider and voyeur.

Lormand's estate lay by a lake, but the guests invariably stayed away from the shore; though the water would melt them for their wicked ways. Accordingly, this was my retreat. While I sat examining the stars in the lake, I felt someone move up next to me.

"You know, it's bad form to mope all alone when there's a party going on."

It was Clare.

"I should like to think I am not 'moping.' I'm merely escaping a stifling atmosphere of pomp and arrogance."

"I understand… Lormand isn't what one would call a modest man."

"Speaking of Lormand, how do you know him?"

"We were introduced today, though his reputation precedes him… I'd rather not gossip about our host. How did you meet the good Doctor?"

I turned to address her, but in that moment our eyes met again, and I felt my blood surge. Her full lips sat slightly open, as though she would suck in my soul when I began to speak. The moon reflected from her eyes and shone as a beacon, guiding me to her. I leaned in toward her; our lips met, the energy of creation coursing through us.

Lormand's home was a grand affair, with guest bedrooms to spare. Up the stairs and into one Clare and I stole, our breath racing as our hearts. Again we kissed, deeply and I could tell she was not the chaste girl I thought her to be, but as we shed clothing I also shed my expectations of her, enjoying her bare spirit and body. Her nipples were small, capping her breasts in small pinpoints; fitting, because her breasts themselves were not much larger than a small apple. Her shoulders were dusted with a light coat of freckles, setting off the quiet hue of her skin, smooth and fine. Small hairs caught the light and gave her an ethereal quality, the only thing convincing me she wasn't a ghost was her warmth… and warm she was. Her legs straddled mine, and as we kissed she pressed herself onto my thigh, grinding. My mouth drifted down in small kisses until I settled onto her left nipple.

A sharp intake of breath punctuated each time I rolled her nipple with my tongue. My teeth brushed against her gently, nursing as though I were a child. In her arms, I felt helpless as a newborn, as I was laid bare for her, stripped of myself. Her hands pressed me back onto a tall four-post bed, its canopy of burgundy forming a void as I stared upwards. The noises outside faded away as her soft breath pulsed down my chest. I felt her unhook my belt and slide my slacks down.

As anyone who has ever been in that position can tell you, there is simply no graceful way to get out of a pair of pants. I flopped around not unlike a newly landed fish before she pulled my slacks and underwear off. As soon as they were though, I felt her breath pulsing on my cock. Warm, moist breath turned into a warm, moist mouth, and I felt her stroke the shaft, though I was losing myself in the burgundy void again. She worked her mouth down the shaft, taking it in, swallowing as my cock head reached her throat.

Clare backed herself off my cock, gently blowing onto the head, making me shiver. I looked down and we locked eyes, Clare giggling as she tossed her hair off the side of her face. Drawing it over one shoulder, she took the tip of my penis into her mouth and started working it like a straw. The short intense pulses coupled with the sucking motion in her cheeks threw me over the edge. I groaned as I came, but the sucking never stopped. She held me in her mouth for nearly a minute after I came; my cock was burning with sensation, pleasure, and pain mixing in a manner I had never experienced. She finally let up off my cock, and I moved to kiss her. In that same moment she stood and walked over to the window. She drew the heavy curtains and leaned into the alcove. The lights from the party played off her skin, tattooing her in an animalistic pattern.

In that moment, my erection returned and I pressed myself against her. I hadn't entered her, but she seemed to purr with anticipation. I looked out over the lawn, our fellow partygoers too absorbed in their lives to notice us. I brought myself to bear between Clare's labia, slowly entering her. With each thrust I could feel her pushing herself back onto me, clamping down onto my cock. We started off slow, but as my hands wandered up to her breasts and down her spine to her waist, each thrust became faster. She reached up and braced herself against the window frame, quick breath frosting the glass. Her first words since our first kiss fell from her lips at this moment.

"Les caprices du destin sont cruels. I can see my fiancée now, looking for me. Instead I'm here with you."

My focus moved past the glass, and straight into the eyes of the man I had seen her with earlier. To this day, I don't know if he saw us, but as the illicit nature of our tryst struck me, I came. My cum shot out in volumes unprecedented, and as I felt my semen jet out of me, her pussy start pulsing in orgasm.

I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her upright, kissing her neck deeply. As though I completed a circuit, another orgasm rocked through her and I was trapped.

Simultaneously basking in afterglow and lights from below, we kissed again, as though to put a bookend on the moment we had shared. In talking while we dressed each other, I discovered her fiancée to be a high-ranking politico, and their marriage was to be nothing more than a marriage to secure filial loyalty among the clans. She had grown up knowing the man as a kindly uncle figure, not as a potential husband, which made it all the more difficult for her to love him. Besides being over twice her age, he was perpetually campaigning, and as such was rarely even in the state. Compounding the strange set of circumstances was the fact that Clare was being married off in secret, as her fiancée already had a wife. Apparently secret polygamy amongst the upper classes was more prevalent than I had realized.

We agreed to take different paths back to the lawn, but when I arrived Clare was nowhere to be seen. To say I was wealthy would be far from the truth. I am not privileged, but I was born into a stable home and given all the help I would need to succeed. I was a successful actor and had money to do with what I wished. Despite this, Lormand's guests treated me as though I were a lowly manservant. They could not deign to lower themselves to answer me in any meaningful manner, thus I searched for Clare alone. When my search proved fruitless, I took my leave of Lormand and the whole stodgy affair.

The question "What if…" holds a dangerous power, as I discovered when the weeks after the party brought with them a fundamental shift in my humor. I found myself in deep melancholic fits, interspersed between periods of intense vigor. During these near-manic states I searched unendingly for Clare. Inquiries around town went unanswered, and despite my growing obsession, etiquette prevented me from seeking her out at the Healy home.

The gardens provided little solace, for the groundskeeper had planted many new lilies, and each one reminded me of Clare. It was as though God was taunting me, holding before me the only thing I ever truly wanted, only to secret it away and leave me yearning. I lost hours thinking of her; I lost days when I dreamed. The morning could not come soon enough for my restless mind. When morning did come, it witnessed me pacing on the balcony, sleepless and distracted. Morning after morning, the sun would pull me from deep rumination, only to remind me of Clare's soft skin, seemingly unkissed by the light of day.

Were you to follow the Fates' homespun, you would find yourself drawn inexorably to 8th September. It was on this date that I decided to abandon decorum and call upon the Healy home.

The day was new, but my thoughts had been lived a thousand times before. Clad in the finest I could afford, I slowly made my way to the door. The stones underfoot felt like old friends, and offered me a sense of security… I knew that no matter the outcome, they would forever stand ready to bear me back to Clare.

Pulled from my musings by soft laughter, my hand fell from the doorbell, unsounded, and I made my way to the nearest window. Clare lay in the arms of her fiancée, their hands entwined. His lips met hers, gently searching, timidity falling away as his boldness grew. With every kiss, I knew Clare was falling further away from me… further from the one who truly loved her. It was in that moment watching my love slowly fade that I knew what I was meant to do. With the fury of Helios I set about my new task. My forge saw many sleepless nights as I formed my plans.

Her fiancée enjoyed opera, a pursuit Clare did not share. On the odd night that he was not immediately in her arms or on the campaign trail, my nemesis would don his finest and make his way to the theatre. As a friend of many local actors, he attended rehearsals and always occupied the same private box on opening night. With his ways established, I made my move.

Faust opened on 14th April, and my quarry played his part admirably. His private box was lined with cross-stitched velvet, the door obscured by curtain. In this voluminous curtain, I waited. As Mephistopheles bargained for souls on stage, I could feel my own being sold away, heavy and full of sin. The orchestra swelled as the climax neared, and I knew my move was to be made. Closing behind him and raising my pistol, the timpani were aided by the deus ex machina I held, the climax soaring on drum roll as the hammer fell.