The Devil's Pact - S01 E226

Story 6 days ago

The Devil's Pact - S01 E226

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 226

I was panting hard as she pulled her dress over her head, exposing her lithe, coal-black body. She took her fingers, slid them between her black breasts, down to her black bush and shoved them up inside her, coating them with her juices.

"See how wet I am for you," she moaned. "Fuck me!"

I didn't need to be told twice and I pinned her against the side of the stall, her legs wrapping about my waist as I plunged into her Black pussy. She moaned as I fucked her hard, pounding away at her cunt. I needed this. I needed to forget my problems. All that mattered right now was how amazing her cunt felt on my cock as I fucked her tight, wet depths.

"Fuck your tight, slut," moaned. Any girl as easy as her, badge bunny or not, was a slut. "Love how you feel on me."

"Umm, your cock is stirring me up," she moaned. "Umm, spear me, stud! Ohh, I love having a nice shaft spearing inside me!"

Her hips were fucking me back, matching the furious rhythm. I needed to curn so bad. I didn't care if she came, I just needed to feel that sweet release as spilled inside her. She was so tight, my cock felt like it was in a vice, trying to squeeze out my cum. I was getting closer and closer to cumming inside her.

"Yes, yes, oh God I'm gonna cum!" I moaned. Her legs were wrapped so tightly about me I couldn't pull out if I wanted to. I slammed once more into her and felt that shuddering release as my cum spilled into her.

Her finger was on my forehead, drawing with her sticky finger as she whispered, "Shama," into my ear and everything went still. I stared blankly at the woman and she smiled in satisfaction. All that mattered to me was doing exactly what this woman told me too.

"Good," she muttered, pushing me back, my cock pulling out of her. "I am Sister Agnes." I nodded my head as she gave me my instructions.

The Drunken Pugilist may be the emptiest bar I had ever seen at happy hour. One old man sipped a pint at the bar while a board barkeep was watching the Mariners play the Angels. A fond smile crossed my face as I remembered Sean, my ex-husband, getting so excited during their '95 season and how crushed he had been when the Mariners lost to the Indians and ended the Mariners World Series hopes. Mary was only one, then, and Missy wasn't even a thought, yet.

Focus, Theodora, I told myself. Kurt stole your family from you, πο use dwelling on that, now. You need to stop this Mark from destroying other families.

Sister Isabella followed me in. We let Providence guide us. Each of us opened the phone book, to the listing of bars, figuring guys as in trouble as these SWAT officer were would be drowning their sorrows. So we closed our eyes and jabbed our fingers down on the page. Isabella and both got the Drunken Pugilist and Sister Agnes chose the Lucky Cowgirl.

I scanned the bar, the only other people were the two men sitting at a booth in the back, almost hidden in the shadows. I could see their auras, blacker than the shadows, the aura of a Thrall enslaved by a Warlock. It was clear that Mark had given the men an order that must have rewritten parts of their personality. Well, they were cops and I could imagine the sort of orders Mark must have given. "Let me commit crimes," he probably ordered, or, "I can't do anything wrong."

Both guys looked miserable as we approached, a pitcher of beer sat between then and a few empty shot glasses. Both were fit, broad shoulder man. A swarthy Mexican with a thick mustache that ruined an otherwise handsome face, and a squashed-face white guy with a crew cut.

"Hi, boys," Isabella purred with her sexy, Latina accent

The Mexican's eyes lit up when he saw us. "Hello, ladies," he said with a smile, and motioned to the booth. "Care to cheer up a pair of cops having a bad day?"

"Christ, Riz, do you have to flirt with every chick?" the White guy asked.

"Hey man, why should I deprive my charm from any beautiful woman, Riz protested. "Ignore him, he's married and forgotten how to treat such heavenly creatures as yourselves."

"Riz?" I asked, and then Isabella sat down next to him, leaving me with the White guy.

"Because his real name is pretty stupid," the White guy said and a grin momentarily crossed his lips before his pain returned.

"Oroitz is a perfectly manly name," Riz joked. "Besides, what kind of name is Duncan?"

"A Highlander," said with a smile. Everyone gave me a blank look. "Um, you know, 'There can be only one.' The Highlander?"

"Yeah," Duncan muttered and took a swill of his beer, "The TV show, right. Not the movie."

"Yeah," I nodded.

"So, what has you guys so down?" Isabella asked. "Women, right?" Both men grunted and Isabella smiled wickedly, leaning closer to Riz, reaching out to place her hand on his. "I hope not the same woman.

"No, chiquita, not the same woman," Riz admitted. "We're both in the doghouse because of work. My giri broke up with me and Duncan's wife kicked him out."

"Oh that's terrible," I cooed, scooting up against Duncan. His eyes glanced at my cleavage and then a guilty flush suffused his face.

Across the table, Isabella was snuggling up to Riz, who put his arm around her. "Yeah, it's terrible. Me and Alicia had been dating for weeks."

"Well, maybe I can make you feel better," Isabella sald with a naughty smile. From how her arm was moving, she must be rubbing Riz's leg. Or maybe even his crotch based on that the big grin filling Riz's face. And then the two were talking in rapid Spanish. In my few weeks living in LA I picked up a smattering of Spanish, but I could not begin to follow their conversation.

Duncan just set like a log next to me, staring down into his beer. "What's the problem," purred. "You might feel better if you tell me about it."

A look of self-loathing crossed his face. "Sure," he bitterly snorted, his voice a little slurred with drink. "Why the fuck not." He down the rest of his beer. "You heard about the whole SWAT scandal?"

I nodded my head. That is why Providence led me to you. Mark had foolishly made a bunch of highly skilled men his Thralls and didn't bother to protect them. "There are subtle signs," Ramiel told me in my dreams, "to tell if the Bond of Zimmah chains a Thrall to the Warlock. The black aura will have the tiniest, barely perceptible, fringe of red about it. So minute, you have to know to look for it."