Blank, Sex & Murder

By E. G. Saunders

E.G. Saunders took the thriller genre, blindfolded it, bent it over, and f*ck*d it hard. It's the same feeling his main character got when he was enticed—or was it threatened?—by a dominant, seemingly crazed beauty into a story that will have you clutching your privates. And whether that's out of fear or pleasure is up to you.

Warning: This story is an explicit erotic thriller. It contains strong lead female characters, BDSM, semi-non-consentual sex between adults, murder, and a storyline that makes you wonder "Where the heck has E. G. Saunders been all my life?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365275517

Book preview

dead.

1

As if I hated it…

She was being fucked to the hilt. There were no two ways about it. And she did seem to like it, which was unusual for this line of work. Watching, I felt more uncomfortable than usual. A lot of guys think this is the dream job. They would be wrong. There are lights. It's hot. People sweat—even I was sweating—and not all people smell good when they sweat.

And then there are body fluids. And gasses. People let those out right along with their semen and vaginal releases. It didn't matter. They were two pretty people. It wouldn’t matter to the greater audience that would see yet not smell them.

So I stood watching her getting fucked by a guy who probably had been fucking since he could walk, all the while trying to not put my shirt over my nose. They were into it, their minds turned off to the less pleasant aspects of my current life. We were all being paid, so what the hell was I complaining about, right?

Oh, God!

Here she goes. I've seen her work. She arches her pelvis and slaps back against her vaginal assailant just before she-

Gail. Lights.

I reached up and pushed the back of the Kino downward and to the left. The director, Rod Sterling, wanted her face lit, and I was behind. He would get on my ass a little about that later. I didn't care. He was one of those creatives who always felt the rest of the world didn't understand them, and it was their job to educate us lesser beings.

It didn't matter in the end. Art was for those people who couldn't dig ditches or light sweaty fucking people. No matter what he would say, I did my job well, and he knew it. I slipped occasionally. Three hours sleep will do that to you.

A scream pierced the air, and I knew Candy Lipps had made it home. I kid you not. Candy Lipps. Directed by Rod Sterling, a man who rose up in the ranks from porn star actor to director because his creativity couldn't be denied. Oh, and the man providing the pistoning was a large Italian stallion named Leon-hardo Dahvi. Really. Personally, I believe he had someone pick that out for him. As much as I don't like putting people down, Leon wasn't the sharpest hammer in the drawer, just the longest and thickest.

Hammer-boy, sorry—Leon—looked over at the director for when he should apply the final moments of his sperm’s life. This meant he looked right at the camera, because the shooter also happened to be Rod the director. It was a low-budget scraper—just scraping by—so that wasn’t unusual. Looking at the camera though…well, I always cringed at that.

In most of the film industry that would have been a no-no: you simply don't look at the camera or the man holding it. I’ve been on multi-million dollar gigs, and the pros know how to read a script…well, they actually have a script with words. I think Leon got the picture-book version. They all got the picture-book version.

Ah, fuck it. Why was I complaining? I was getting paid.

But it did grate on me. I won’t deny that. The whole thing just kept reminding me of how low I had gone in life. And poor Leon grated on me because I detested a lack of intelligence. I never in my life want to become like him and, somehow, holding the lights for his base efforts made me feel…made me feel stupid.

But I couldn’t say anything. I brought it on myself.

Rod got almost as excited as Leon and pointed five fingers in the air with a little waving motion. Leon was confused a moment, and then he understood: cum on her back in five seconds.

It was at moments like this I wished I was at home in my chair, drink in hand, watching reruns of The Munsters. Now that was a good show. Fred Gwynne could laugh with a childish honesty and innocence that no one—no one—has been able to imitate since. And Fred never had to ask where or when to shoot his load.

I sighed and watched and listened to Leon’s grunts and then the final explosion that had him growling and gasping as if he just passed a watermelon through his colon.

It sickened me just a little bit. I looked at the floor, my stomach grumbling for a drink in a bad way. I glanced up long enough to make sure the lights were on him and Candy’s glistening, wondrous face.

Yeah.

Candy…

I think I’ll ask her out.

2

…Who?

Iknow what you’re thinking—was it all an act?

No. Not by a long shot.

And that surprised me.

Candy slammed back on me with a gusto that nearly broke my hip. Some of my rum and coke shot out of my mouth onto her back.

Oh! Candy said, squirming on me. I think she thought that…hell, I hadn’t the slightest idea what was going through her head.

And I didn’t care.

I was just enjoying myself. A bit too much perhaps, but that’s for my shrink to worry about. My shrink being my old friend, Brian. The one who introduced me to my first drink and started me on this fucked-up slush.

Candy reached back and cupped my balls and immediately took my mind off of Brian.

For a while.

That’s it, you fuckin’ whore, pull me into you, I said, resisting the urge to set my bottle on her back. I don’t normally go for that whore stuff, but apparently Candy can’t do without it. Setting the bottle on her back…yeah, I could get into that were it not for the chance it could spill. I might be a cheap date, but this shit was precious after the day I had.

I took another swig as Candy came on my dick.

Yeah, sometimes the fucked up slush world wasn’t so bad, after all.

---

I woke with a sharp pain in my left cheek.

What the fuck? I asked.

It was Candy. Candy’s well-manicured finger, to be exact. I pulled away and she kept with me, poking that finger in my skin like it was meant to be there.

Damn, woman, I said. What’re you doing?

You didn’t cum, Candy said. There was a resolute sternness to her voice and lowered brows.

Wha? For a second I couldn’t put together what the hell she was talking about, when it hit me. Well, that, and the fact that she held up my used condom with her other hand.

I checked.

Well, good for you, I said. I was being smart. I get that way with a sharp finger in my cheek and a sour stomach. I needed a drink.

That doesn’t happen, Candy said.

She meant it.

I was at the point of thinking what the fuck this crazy woman might do to me now. I tried to create a little more space and got up on an elbow. I winced and took her accusing finger in my hand and put it to my lips.

That happens with me sometimes, I said. Her finger tasted like her pussy, and I wasn’t complaining. It took my mind off my stomach for a second. Nothing you did. I’m okay with it, really.

Not with me, it doesn’t, Candy said. And it isn’t okay, either.

She threw the condom to the side and flung off the covers that were partially hiding her body. Yeah, even in the dim light, she cast an impressive figure. She was tight. Muscles lightly accenting her fleshy swells. God, I could even smell her now. She had been working herself while I was asleep.

Before I could say a thing, Candy pushed my face to the side and slid over my upper chest. In one swift motion, she had my arms pinned down under her legs. She let my head go only to grab it forcefully in both her hands. She then slid her supreme wetness directly over my lips and pulled my head into her.

Now, Candy said, using one of her hands to reach behind her to grab my cock. Hard.

Mmmffhh! I said, struggling. Well, maybe not struggling. And maybe not exactly saying. I couldn’t pronounce words any better than if I had been punched in the lips for an hour by Mike Tyson. Only this was sooo much better.

And Candy got off on that. Just the thought of me struggling, that was what did it for her. I could see it in the gleam in her eyes, feel it in the pressure on my mouth as she pulled me in closer and squeezed her legs.

I found my fingers completely useless. Along with my arms, my legs, my brain. They were all under her ministrations, and I was a willing patient. Stomach? I didn’t even know I had a stomach at that point. My cock was active, though. She had so expertly cupped its length and was stroking it…the only thing I could see was everything she was doing to it.

Now, Candy said, deadly serious. I don’t get off until you do. Am I understood?

I didn’t know who the hell this was. Not the slightest fucking clue. Earlier, she was everything willing and submissive and…hell, even a pleading victim for me to fuck her senseless.

But that woman was not here now. She wasn’t even in the same country.

And…

I didn’t exactly hate that. At that moment, I think I would have paid good money to keep her out.

I stopped thinking after that. Candy ground herself expertly into my mouth, over my nose and then back again—all the while never releasing my cock or breaking her stroking or pressure.

I couldn’t think even if I had wanted. I came—fuck did I cum! And there’s never any thinking when that happens.

3

Stiletto

My mouth was dry and full of the taste of Candy’s pussy. I wanted two things at that moment, and the other one was a coke and rum.

All the air that came into me had Candy on it. My lips, face, the inside of my nose and mouth were covered in Candy.

I shook my head and opened my eyes. I couldn’t help but chuckle at what I had just gone through. Yes, I would have to get myself checked for the normal blood and dick critters, but damn I think it was worth it even if I came up positive.

The shower was running.

I honestly didn’t think she’d still be here. And then quickly I had to check my memory to make sure I was in my place and still with that same woman. Sometimes I get so fucked up…

No. My place. Spartan. A little dusty and dirty in the small dark corners of the room—nothing anyone I would invite back would notice or mention.

I looked up and winked at my signed photo of Clint, cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth, hat blocking out only enough sun that he still had to squint.

It was an actual film plate from The Good, The Bad and the Ugly—don’t anyone think they can tell me any character was a good person in that film. I scored it from an editor I knew back in the day. Back when the drink hadn’t taken hold of me yet, and I was worth a fuck lot more than now.

Singing.

Damn, Candy actually has…she’s got a beautiful voice. And not many hours ago that mouth was around my dick in almost as beautiful a way.

No. That wasn’t true.

Her singing was better.

I’m not knocking her skills with the flesh flute, but God…her voice. I almost felt a little ashamed for what I had put in that same space.

I got up and immediately had to hold onto the bed. Dehydrated. Balance precarious. Yes, I can actually use words like that. Surprise myself what comes out of me sometimes.

Speaking of my mouth, it was still dry, and it wasn’t any wetter. I looked at my little fridge against the wall, close to the bed. I was pretty sure I was out of rum. Probably had some coke left, but…

Her voice.

Aw, hell.

I got up and went into the kitchen. I don’t know what Candy was singing, but it had just a little church choir flavor to it. Couldn’t drink to that. Something sacrilegious about it. I didn’t really believe in God—no matter how often I used His name—but I also liked to play favorable odds whenever I could. I feel I pretty much got the saved thing going on for me from my Catholic inculcation, that confirmation and baptism stuff, but I didn’t want to test the hot waters in the face of that beautiful sound. Was like God coming through her.

I immediately struck the thoughts that flew into my head at that. She had enough coming in her these last couple of days without my adding God’s juice to the mix.

Fuck it.

I’ll drink the water from the shower head.

I started on my trek to hellish oblivion and thoughts of interrupting Candy’s choir when I noticed her satchel.

That was the thing about Candy; she carried a fine leather satchel. Wait…it was actually—a shoulder bag, that’s it. Okay, so satchel wasn’t the word. Fucking forgive my lack of accurate description when I’ve got pussy and God on my mind.

So, a fine leather shoulder bag. And it opened at the top. Tugging on its strings pulled the top closed. Only, it wasn’t closed now. I could see something sharp and shiny in there. It looked like a blade. A stiletto.

I had worked on some good films in my time. One of them starred this Japanese guy…I can’t remember his name now…but he used a stiletto. I was familiar with stilettos.

He got pissed off at me once because I kept talking with his girl, Erin, I think, between takes. I didn’t know she was his girl, she wasn’t Japanese, so I didn’t make an obvious connection. I just thought she was his personal assistant. Fine woman, she. Not in Candy’s league, but she had her own gifts. Fine arching brows so well plucked you almost couldn’t tell they weren’t birthright. She had a sweet smile—and I mean sweet. She played it over me in a way that said she was free and not at all like she was with stiletto boy.

But…Tony! That’s his name, Tony Li. Yeah, original, I know. Everybody has fucking Bruce Lee variations in the martial art gigs. At any rate, little ol’ Tony Li made an obvious point of sharpening his stiletto—who the fuck sharpens a stiletto?—in front of me as he asked me flat out why I was talking with his girl.

You could’ve kicked me in the nuts right then and there and gotten same look I must’ve given him. What a waste. And Erin and I, or whatever her name was, were having such a meaningful time.

So, yeah. I know stilettos.

Candy was packing a stiletto.

It fit, I suppose. I mean, with her body and face, her choice of profession, I imagine she needed something like that to fend off the wolves she didn’t want to fuck.

Made sense.

I stared at it. I reached out and moved her bag just a little. Yep. It made sense.

And it scared the hell out of me.

I couldn’t put a finger on why, but there was something…used about it. And I don’t mean she slid it up her fleshy sheath. I mean…well, damn it, it looked used. Dirty somehow. Nasty.

It wasn’t…clean.

I nudged the bag open a little more and touched the fine blade. Goddamn everything about Candy was fine. Shit. Yep. I wiped my fingers off on my leg. There was something unclean about it, and I wanted to wash my hands off in another building far away.

And then I froze.

Candy was standing three feet from me.

She didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t angry or sad. It was a fine poker face. Just fine.

That scared me even more.

Uh… I said. Brilliant me. Two letters that meant nothing when put together as you stand nude in front of a beautiful woman who was also nude. Her nudity put mine to shame, though. My lack of vocabulary in that moment did the same.

Before I could think how she had gotten so close to me without my noticing, she was in front of me with the stiletto in hand. She made a simple, swift movement and brought the fine blade up to my chest, right where I imagine my chicken-beating heart was.

I don’t know why, but my dick was in my hand before I realized I had moved to protect it. It was a stupid fucking thing to do. Save my dick? Really?

4

Take the edge off...

Okay , I get it. I was coming off a buzz. I was tired, I was dehydrated, and I was distracted by a memory about a similar sharp and pointy thing which was now pressing against the soft flesh between a couple of my ribs.

And I still had my dick in my hand. God, I felt stupid.

I was also still scared enough to not let my hand release my dick for even one second.

You’ve got your cock, Candy said, with a glance down between us. She then twisted her stiletto a fraction of a painful inch. And I have mine. Never touch another woman’s cock.

I choked, trying to respond. As I said, I was dehydrated.

Candy’s eyes narrowed. I got the feeling she was still deciding what to do about my particular violation. I wasn’t one to let other people decide my life. I swallowed and then coughed just a little.

Candy, I said, keeping my eyes on her and doing my best not to look down at her blade. I didn’t want her thinking about that blade at all.

Not. At. All.

I-if you would forgive my transgression, I promise never to touch anything of yours again.

See? I told you I sometimes surprise myself with what comes out of my mouth.

I didn’t for one second think that I sounded confident or controlled. I was a full, man-sized chickenshit, and I didn’t care that she knew it.

I did let go of my dick, though. A little. It was no longer quite in the death grip I had put on it earlier. Blood flowed back to the head, and my fingers ached less.

Candy didn’t say anything yet. She kept looking at me with that poker face. But now I could see something else in her eyes—now that I was looking at them. It was almost as if she were trying to decide if I were trustworthy.

I blinked. My eyes hurt. I had been staring.

I didn’t know