The War on Drugs: Business Before Pleasure: Chapter Five (Explicit Ending)

Note: this Chapter of "Business Before Pleasure" contains explicit sexual material and is for mature audiences only.

Chapter Five

October 25th, 7:00 PM

Erin spun around the room, her ponytail whipping through the air, her arms flailing from her sides.  Loud noises surrounded her, and she brought her own voice up into the din, shouting out loud, trying to hear herself.  She stepped with bare feet onto one of her recently removed boots, tripped over it, fell into a table, but prevented herself from falling to the ground by placing wobbling, blurry hands on the back of a chair.

She laughed.  She was drunk.  And she was dancing.

The music was so loud that it completely masked the first knock at her door.  The second knock was louder, but still well within the background, and Erin only turned her head slightly, thinking it was coming from across the hallway.  The harsh series of rat-tat-tats that followed cleared up the confusion, and Erin pushed on the touchscreen of her tablet to turn off the music.

"I'm a popular girl tonight," she giggled, stepping toward the front door.  She leaned her face down toward the crack.  "Who is it?" she said, in a high-pitched voice.

There was no answer.

"Anyone there?" she asked, peering through the peephole.  The hallway was empty.  Or so it seemed.

Erin set her ear against the door, trying to listen to the other side.  She heard no voices; just a small scraping sound.

"Too drunk for this shit," she muttered, opening the door slightly and sticking her head out the door.  "You can come out now!" she yelled.

She felt cold steel against her left temple.  The night's euphoria immediately withered away as she  heard a familiar voice.

"Back into your apartment, Miss Steele."

Erin wandered backward slowly, pulling her head back through her front door, and raising her arms as she settled into her apartment.  Following her, a pistol aiming at her chest, was Brent Hammerson.

"You again, huh?  Didn't you learn your lesson?" Erin said, vaguely slurring her words.

"I never learn," Hammerson smiled.  "Now don't fucking move."  He shut Erin's front door behind him and, with the gun still pointed at her chest, quickly turned the lock.

That was the time, Erin thought a second later.  His back was turned.  She could've-- should've-- been on him right then.  But the red wine had slowed her reaction time and apparently clouded her judgment.  "Shit," she thought.  "This could be bad."

Hammerson gestured with the gun.  "Into the main room," he said.  "Slowly."

Erin did what she was told, her arms bent at right angles, her hands in the air.  She faced Hammerson, glared at him, trying to think of what to say next.  Her thoughts kept going astray.  She was feeling now the coldness of the wood floor on her bare feet.  She was seeing now the overhead light, how it seemed to swing in a wavy, hazy pattern.

"Hammerson, leave," she said.  And then she decided to admit it: "I'm drunk."

Hammerson grinned.  "Yes, I can see that, Miss Steele.  Normally I don't like taking advantage of drunk girls.  But in your case, I'll make an exception."

Erin frowned.  "Taking advantage?"

Hammerson nodded, and made a show of cocking the pistol.  "Now strip."

Erin was afraid it was going to go this way.  "No," she said.

Hammerson sighed.  He took a hand of the pistol and ran its fingers through his slicked-back hair.  "Come on, babe," he said.  "I don't want to kill you.  But I'll do it.  I've done it before to girls who haven't given me what I've wanted."

Erin didn't know whether to believe him.  On one hand, he was a ruthless drug lord; Erin had seen the drug houses, the goons he hired, the cruelty of the whole enterprise.  On the other, he was kind of shrimpy-- he didn't seem capable of murder, not with his own hands.  He was too attractive to be a killer, anyway...

"Don't think that," thought Erin.  "Stop thinking about him that way."

"Just consider it a second date," Hammerson said, smiling.  "Now.  Strip."

Erin stared at him.  She drew in a deep breath and exhaled.  

Red wine.  A stranger in her apartment.  A gun trained on her chest.  Had she been on a mission as the Blue Lynx, this would have all added up to disaster.  But she was not the Blue Lynx now.  She was Erin Steele, a young woman looking for good times on a lonely evening.  There was no reason why this couldn't all be... Fun.  Right?

"No," she told herself.  "How can you think that?"  Hammerson wasn't here for "good times."  He was here to force her into sex.  He was here with a gun pointed at her, and who cares how hot he is, she thought: he's a scoundrel, a villain, your arch-nemesis.

Erin had to get at his gun.  But at this point, she realized, that would mean playing along.

She pulled her purple V-neck sweater out from her pants.  "Fine," she muttered.

"Stop!" Hammerson yelled.

Erin dropped her hands from her top's lower edge.  "What?"

"Do your ponytail first."

"What?"

"Do it!"

Erin sighed.  She reached her hands up behind her head, pulled out the hair tie, and shook her long black locks loose.  Her hair fell in silky waves along her face and neck.

"That's better," Hammerson said.  "Now your pants."

Erin eyed him, scowling.  His arm seemed to grow more rigid as it pointed toward her lower half.  She undid the button on her black jeans and pulled the flaps open so that the zipper came down.  She eased her pants off of her butt and tugged them down her thighs, pushing them to her ankles.  She stepped out of one pant leg and then shook off the other.

She looked back up at Hammerson.  His jaw had slackened, his eyes had one thing in mind.  The purple sweater came down far, but it didn't hide the crotch of her black panties.

"Now the sweater," Hammerson said, agog.

Erin brought her hands back to the lower edge of her purple V-neck and started to pull it up.  She knew that Hammerson was looking every step of the way, that he saw the lacy, wispy wings of her panties wrapped tight around her hips, saw the little pink bow on the front of the panties, saw her perfect stomach with its delicate bellybutton, her bra that matched her panties in color and style, her well-formed breasts laying in wait behind that small strip of wire and fabric...

She knew that she was hypnotizing him.  It was time to make a move.

She pushed her sweater up past her head, felt the neck-hole brush her hair up against her face.  She gathered the purple fabric into a soft bundle, stretching her arms up and over her head.  And then, with a small wink and a grin, Erin hurled the sweater at Hammerson.

It hit him in the face, but it obviously didn't hurt him.  What did hurt was Erin's elbow suddenly striking him in chest.  It sent him spinning around, the gun turning with him but not firing.

"ARGH!" Hammerson yelled, throwing the sweater from his face.  Erin kicked him in the ankle and he dropped to one knee.  Erin threw her hands at Hammerson's body, shoving him to the floor near her couch and coffee table.

He still had the gun.  She had to get the gun!

Erin jumped on top of Hammerson, pushing his hands away from her face, reaching for his gun arm, trying to pin it to the ground.  "Give me that!" she said.  She could feel the roughness of his wool suit against her bare thighs and bare stomach.  She caught the hand that held the gun, tried twisting in around.  Hammerson roared, stretched his arms and legs, seemed to be looking for something.  Erin focused on the gun.  She could see Hammerson's fingers seem to loosen their grip.

And then she heard a crash and, simultaneously, felt a crack on her neck.  The wine glass exploded against her skin, leaving just a sharpened stem in Hammerson's fingers.  "Oooh," Erin moaned, her arms suddenly weakening.  She felt lightheaded, and then, a second later, fell face first onto Hammerson's body.  She was unconscious.

****

She had a headache.  That was the first thing she knew.  Something about drinking.  Something about fighting.  Something about being struck at the base of her skull by... A wine glass?

"Ooh," she muttered.

She was cold.  Not freezing, but chilled.  She could look down and see her body, naked except for her bra and panties.  She could see a faint glimmer near her feet, metallic rings that made her feel even colder around her ankles and wrists.

"Oh shit," she thought.

Erin laid on top of her queen-sized bed.  It was still made, and the soft plush touch of her burgundy comforter (she had a thing for burgundy) caressed her bare back and legs.  Her head rested on a matching pillow, her thick black locks of hair spread out around her.  The light in the room, her bedroom, was dim, with just a single standing lamp in the corner providing a view of the scene.  It all would have been comfortable except for the metal handcuffs that shackled her wrists and ankles to the bedposts, rendering her spreadeagle.

Erin shook at the cuffs.  The chains rattled, but the shackles seemed sturdy.  She brought her body up from the mattress and pulled.  "Ungh!" she cried, forcing her body away from the bedposts.  She thought she heard a creak, the bedpost starting to splinter, but she couldn't turn her head around to see if anything was happening.  Her head began to pound with her effort, and she eventually fell back into the comforter, sighing.

"Shoot," she thought.  "This is bad."

The bedroom door opened, and Hammerson strolled in, smiling in a way that Erin had never seen before.

"Hammerson!" Erin cried.  "Let me go!"

Hammerson shook his head and sat down on the bed near Erin's ankles.  He drummed his fingers along Erin's lower leg, his smile locked in place.  He hadn't made a sound since he walked into the room.

"Hammerson!" Erin said.  "What's the meaning of this?"

Hammerson's gaze left Erin's legs and fell on her face.  He placed his hands on Erin's thighs and began rubbing them, up and down, massaging in slow and steady motion.  Erin squirmed as his hands moved closer to her panties with each repetition.

Erin scowled.  "Hammerson, don't."

Still silent, and still grinning, Hammerson rested a single soft hand on Erin's crotch.  Erin inhaled sharply.  Her body tensed up.  Thoughts ran wild in her sore, still drunk head.  And then, Hammerson spoke.

"I got you."

Erin's breathing rate had increased.  She felt the tips of Hammerson's fingers resting near the pink bow of her panties.  They weren't churning or rubbing or moving at all.  They were just waiting.  She stared at his hand, and then at Hammerson's face, which seemed to be on the edge of laughing hysterically.  His eyes were shining in the dim room, glittering with some sort of cruel understanding.  "Why?" she thought.  "Why is he acting so strange?"

And then it hit her, struck her harder than an exploding wine glass.  She knew.  She knew that he knew.  And she knew what was coming next.  She closed her eyes as if preparing from impact.

"I got you... BLUE LYNX."

Erin shuddered.  Hammerson laughed.

Her immediate reaction was to hide her face.  She flung her head around, trying to kick locks of hair up and over her eyes.  But nothing stuck, and Erin finally plopped her head deep into the pillow, staring at the wall, a look of desperation forming in her eyes.

"Don't cry, my little pussy," Hammerson giggled, his hand still curiously still atop her crotch.  "You had to know this was going to happen someday."

Erin turned her eyes back on Hammerson.  "You have... No proof," she stammered.

Hammerson sighed.  "So that blue leotard hanging in your closet, the one I found while I was looking for something sexier to slip you into?  That's just, for what, cosplay?"

Erin shook her head.  "I..."

"And those boots," Hammerson said, "And that utility belt on the floor near the leotard.  That belt with all those weapons in it.  Those weapons are just fake... That's what your saying?"

Erin couldn't speak, couldn't move.  So Hammerson smiled and continued.

"And this," he said, removing Blue Lynx's mask from his pocket, and setting it delicately on Erin's face.  "That's just another coincidence, I guess."

Erin tried to shake the mask from her face, but the blue fabric seemed to cling like velcro to her flushed, clammy skin.  It was hopeless, and she knew it.  There was no coming back from this.  Hammerson knew who Erin Steele was, and knew who the Blue Lynx was: and now he knew that the two were one in the same.

Hammerson admired Erin, clad only in her underwear and Blue Lynx's mask.  He hadn't stopped smiling, and his free hand remained motionless on her crotch.

"Face it, Erin Steele," he said, "I know your secret.  Your life of fighting crime is over.  You'll be lucky if I don't put you in jail over this."

He was right.  It was all so horribly true.  She was putty in his hands now.  The Blue Lynx had been domesticated, been reduced to a lapcat.  She could go to jail.  They would believe Hammerson, he had power...

But why wouldn't they believe her?  "I'm Mayor Steele's daughter," Erin thought.  "I'm not done yet."

She smiled at Hammerson.  "Alright, you've got me," she said, a cheeky tone entering her voice.  "But I've got you, too."

Hammerson's smile twitched, and Erin felt a tap on her crotch.

"You know who I am, sure," Erin said.  "But I know that you're a drug lord.  You're the cause of all of the city's drug problems.  I have photographic proof.  And I now also have a story of you cuffing the mayor's daughter to her bed."

Hammerson removed his hand, brought his fingers nervously through his hair.  "What?" he said.

"You want to blackmail me, fine," Erin said.  "Just remember, playing nice isn't my style, either."

Hammerson placed his hands on the bedspread.  He looked away from Erin.  His smile was now a frown, and his once-arrogant silence was now the hush of a man in panic.

"How about this," Erin said.  "You keep my secret, and I'll keep yours."

Hammerson looked at her.  His expression was blank.

Erin waited for a response.  "I have him," she thought.  "He's thinking about it."  Hammerson really did have more to lose than she did.  She was, after all, the mayor's daughter.  It wouldn't be hard for the press to weave a story about a lost, lonely young woman pushed to insanity during troubled times.  The Blue Lynx would go away, yes.  But Erin Steele would be back.  Whereas Hammerson could have no such recourse.  He wasn't exactly a beloved figure in the community.  And his crimes were terrible, extensive, unforgivable.

"Yes," Erin said.  "This might just work."

And then Hammerson smiled.

"You look positively stunning in that mask," he said, leaning toward Erin.

Erin grimaced.  "Wait, Hammerson," she said.  "Don't you get it?"

Hammerson began removing his suit jacket and unbuttoning his shirt.  He was laughing.

"Oh no," Erin thought, watching Hammerson unbuckle his belt and drop his pants.  She yanked on the handcuffs, bounced her body on the mattress, searching desperately for a weakness in the bed frame.  "Why can't I break free?" she wondered.  She felt the wine in her head, the aches in her neck and body.  And she looked at Hammerson again, who was now looming over her in just his navy boxer briefs, his chiseled body outlined in the shadows of the dim room.  Her body went rigid with fear.

"I don't care," Hammerson said, quietly.  "I don't care what happens to me."

In a flash, Hammerson was back on the bed, crouched on top of Erin, his hands clutching her biceps, his legs straddling her legs, his hot breath wafting into Erin's nose.  He spoke softly and slowly between heavy breaths.

"I only want... To fuck you."

And then he was on her, kissing her neck and upper body, dipping his groin toward her lower body.  Erin gasped as she felt his hot lips on her bare skin.  And then, almost instantly, she felt her muscles slacken, felt her fear dissipate.

She knew it was powerless to resist.  And she realized that she didn't want to resist.

"Yes," she muttered, shutting her eyes and pushing her chest up into Hammerson's face.  Hammerson clawed at her bra, fingered beneath it, eventually moved his hands behind it.  Erin arched her back so that Hammerson could reach her bra clasp.  He fumbled with it, but after a few seconds, Erin felt the release, felt the fabric fall away from her spine.  And she soon felt Hammerson's hands on her breasts, soft hands pushing the bra up and away from her chest.

"Can't get it off," Hammerson said.

Erin placed her lips near Hammerson's ear.  "Uncuff me," she whispered.

"Not yet," Hammerson said softly, shaking his head.  He moved down Erin's body, dragging his fingers along her sides, until his hands rested on the waistband of her panties.  Erin sat up from the pillow to watch him, his head lowered into her crotch, his fingers bunching up the sides of her underwear.  She kept watching as Hammerson tugged the panties down Erin's hips, gliding them down her thighs, and finally letting them stretch across her spread-out knees.

"Uncuff me," Erin pleaded again.

"No," Hammerson said.  He was staring at her pussy, cocking his head slightly.  And then his head was down, stuffed between her thighs, so that Erin could only see the top of his slicked back hair.

And then, Erin felt it.  His tongue.

"Ohhhh," she moaned.

Hammerson was hot and wet against her.  With calm hands, he shoved Erin's panties further down her legs, then moved to embrace her bare buttocks.  He cupped Erin's ass gently and plunged his tongue into her again and again.  She could feel his breath against her sex, hear his low groans as he explored her.  And she was getting so wet.

"Ohhhhh," she moaned.  "Ohhhh... Brent... Brent..."

Hammerson was too occupied to respond.  His tongue was working Erin from the inside, making her body shiver and shake.  Erin pressed her thighs to his ears, held his head firmly between her knees, tried to let him get deeper.  And he did.

The rush of pleasure was almost too much.  Warm waves flowed through Erin's legs and lower body.  "Ohhh," she moaned.  "Ohhh."  She felt herself nearing climax.  "No," she whispered.  "Please, Brent, uncuff me."

Hammerson lifted his head from her pussy, licking his lips.  He set his hands on either side of Erin's legs.  "Alright," he said.  "Just promise me you'll be a good girl."

"I'll be a good girl," Erin whispered.  Her face had turned bright red.  Sweat had plastered locks of hair to her face and neck.

Hammerson smiled and quickly dropped to the floor.  He returned with a small key and immediately began working the cuffs on Erin's ankles.  She watched as the left cuff unlocked, then the right one.  She let her feet rest on the bedspread.  Before moving to the wrist cuffs, Hammerson pulled Erin's panties down her ankles and off her feet.  He let the fabric drop to the floor, then brought his attention to Erin's wrists.

"I'm so wet," Erin cooed, watching Hammerson undo the wrist cuffs.

"I know," Hammerson said.  There was a final CLICK, and Erin's hands were free.

To do what?  Doubt raced into her mind-- fight him, fight him, get him off, get him out-- and almost immediately raced out.  She wanted this, she wanted to succumb.  She needed Hammerson to fuck her, this instant.

"Come on," Erin said, lifting her arms in the air, letting Hammerson pull off her bra.  Seconds later, Hammerson pulled off his boxers.  Erin's mouth gaped as she looked at his erect cock.

"We're naked," she whispered, looking into Hammerson's eyes.

"Not quite," he responded.  He reached up and pulled Blue Lynx's mask off Erin's face.  "You look better without this," he said, flinging the mask against the wall.

"Yes," Erin said.

She pulled Hammerson's face toward hers and kissed him on the lips.  Hammerson was back on her, holding her wrists to the burgundy comforter, his abs driving into her stomach, his hard cock pressing up on her thighs.  He pushed and pushed until she felt him penetrate, and then she was bouncing along the bedspread, letting him drive into her again and again.

"Oh!" Erin cried out.  "Oh! Oh!"

It was so good.  But it hurt, too.

"Let me... on top," Erin said, her voice catching on her breath.

In a fluid, powerful motion, Hammerson traded places with Erin.  She was now straddling him, her bare thighs seeming to shine in the room's dim light, bucking up and down on Hammerson's cock.  She leaned back to let him in further.  His hands were climbing up her torso, coming to rest on her bobbing tits.  He kneaded them together, still thrusting his cock into her, panting.

This was perfect.

Erin reached a hand down to her clit and started rubbing.  She placed one hand behind her butt for balance as she intensified the motion.  She closed her eyes, let her mouth fall open, let her hair fall down her bare back.  "Brent," she moaned.  "Brent..."

"Erin," Hammerson moaned.  "Erin..."

He had moved a hand around to her butt and was gently pinching her left buttock.  His other hand remained on her right breast, squeezing and releasing.  His cock rammed up and into Erin.  She moaned.  She increased the rate of her rubbing.  She was almost there.  Her moans grew more intense.  Hammerson's moans followed suit.  She felt it all over, all over her body, and her "Ohhs" gradually morphed into "Ahhs!," and her self-massaging had become furious, and Hammerson's cock was up in her, and pleasure had enveloped her completely, and she arched her back, and she threw her head back, and cried out, "I'M COMING! I'M COMING!"

"ERIN!"

The voice was startling.  Erin nearly leapt off of Hammerson, diving into the comforter, throwing the sheets up over their two sweaty, naked bodies.  She peered out from the bedspread.

Margot stood in the doorway of the bedroom wearing a black cocktail dress.

"Erin, what the fuck are you DOING?" she said.

Erin was silent.  Hammerson cleared his throat.

"You're Brent Hammerson!" Margot cried.  "Erin, what the fuck?  Erin!"

"Could you leave us alone?" Hammerson said.  "We're in the middle of something."

Margot blinked.  "The middle of something?"

"Listen, babe," Hammerson said.  "I know about the Blue Lynx thing.  So just chill out, okay?"

Margot stared into the bedroom.  She saw their clothes on the floor, saw too Blue Lynx's costume and mask.

"Jesus Erin.  I said 'have fun.'  And I come back here and you're fucking with the enemy."

Erin hadn't made a peep.  She stared at Margot with embarrassed eyes, hiding the lower part of her face and her body beneath the sheets.

"Why don't you get it on this?" Hammerson said.  "Come on, lighten up."

Margot sighed.  "So this is it then, Erin?  This is how the Blue Lynx ends?"

Erin shrugged.

"Fine," Margot said, dropping her dress to her ankles, revealing a skimpy purple thong and nothing else.  "Let's fuck, then."

THE END

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