Dan Webster - Forced into damnation

"Foxy?" she asked quietly, using the name which Lionel had given her on the phone. But the stocky man didn't, answer. When he had gotten to within a couple of feet from her, he stopped and held out the candle, letting his eyes roam up and down her body. He stared silently at her, enjoying the way that her tight black denim jeans hugged the fullness of her hips and ass. He licked his lips suggestively as he examined the round swell of her tits filling the tight white sweater that she was wearing.

"Understand you're interested in some weight," he said, his voice gruff and raspy.

Connie looked at him in the flickering candlelight. His skin was pale and yellowish looking and his hair slivery gray and cropped close to his head. He looked like a specter of evil, lurking in the streets by night and haunting abandoned warehouses. He was dressed in a stained leather vest and dirty leather pants that were tied in front with a rawhide thong. His clothes looked as though he had been wearing them for months. Connie could smell the pungent odor of his body as he stood next to her.

"That's right," she said. "Half an ounce. Can you do it?" She was glad that he had been direct, coming straight to the point. She didn't relish making conversation with a man such as him.

The repulsive man laughed at her question. "I can do it, all right," he said. "It'll cost you seven-fifty. It's high, but it's pure."

Connie tried to look like she was thinking it over. "It's high, all right," she said, willing to take Foxy's word for it, "But if it's good stuff, I'm willing to pay the price. I'll need a sample, of course. Do you have any with you?"

Foxy laughed again – a cold, mirthless, bestial sound. Then he looked at her coldly. "What do I look like?" he asked, contemptuously. "Do you think I'd go to meet some broad I've never seen before with a bag of junk in my pocket? How do I know you're not a cop?"

Connie felt her blood run cold at the question. Could it be that he suspected her? But no, that was impossible. He was just being cautious. "I'll be happy to show you my identification," she said, glad that Lieutenant Blumenthal had provided her with a Connecticut driver's license before sending her out on the assignment.

"Eye-Dees mean nothing," Foxy said, his eyes traveling freely over her curvaceous body. "I got a million credit cards, all with different names on 'em. And, anyway, cops don't always carry badges."

Connie was flustered. "Well, how can I show you that I'm not, a cop, then?" she asked, unwilling to let this minor detail frustrate her now that she was so close to accomplishing her mission.

"If you're a cop you'll have a gun," Foxy said. "Got one?"

"No," she answered, glad that she had taken the lieutenant's advice about not carrying her gun on this assignment. "I assure you that I don't have a gun. Wouldn't know what to do with one if I did. Here, I'll show you my purse." She started to open her purse for him to look inside, but he knocked it out of her hand with a brutal sweep of his arm.

"How do I know you haven't got it on you?" he said. "I better check." He put the candle down on top of a packing crate and moved toward her.

"Now, wait a minute," she said. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going to have to frisk you to see if you're packing," he said. "Don't move."

Connie began to tremble as the foul-smelling man approached her. "Turn around," he said, "and put your palms flat on the top of this crate."

"Keep your hands off me," she said, backing away from him. "I don't want the junk that badly," The evil glint in his beady eyes terrified her, and she wanted to put as much distance between herself and him as possible, even if it meant ruining her chances of completing the assignment. It had already cost her too much and she had resolved not to take any further chances.

But Foxy sprang in front of her, his movements remarkably catlike for so muscular a man. A folded pearl-handled switchblade knife glinted in his hand. Then she heard a click as his finger found the button and a long ugly blade sprang out of the handle. "If you want to get out of here alive," he said, "you'd better prove that you're not a cop."

"Why don't we just forget the whole thing?" Connie stammered, desperate to be away from this gorilla. "You can forget you ever saw me and I'll forget I saw you?"

"But you have seen me," Foxy said. "It's too late for forgetting. Now prove you're not a cop. Put your hands flat on the crate, like I told you." He waved his blade menacingly under her nose, the threat clear.

Trying to control the shaking of her knees as she turned to comply with his command, Connie spread her feet apart on the floor and leaned forward, resting her weight on the palms of her hands atop the packing crate. At the Police Academy she had been taught to make prisoners assume this position for frisk. She knew that it effectively exposed all parts of the body to the exploring hands of a searching officer. She tried not to think about it as Foxy stepped up behind her.

Reaching around her with his right hand, he continued to hold the knife in front of her face. Then he began to run his left hand expertly over her back and shoulders, going through the motions of looking for a concealed weapon. As his fingers examined her body through the luxuriously soft material of her white sweater, Foxy felt his long thick cock beginning to stir.

Then, reaching around in front of her, he ran his hamlike hand roughly across the swell of her tits, giving each of them a little squeeze. Connie felt a lump of disgust rising to the back of her throat as she felt the hand of this foul-smelling little man on her tits. The nipples began to pucker as his fingers kneaded the mounds of soft flesh and she cursed herself for the involuntary reaction, hoping that he wouldn't notice. But Foxy's fingers felt the stiffening of her nipples and transmitted the message to his burgeoning cock, causing it to jump inside the confinement of his tight leather pants. He ran his hand down across her belly, stroking the taut expanse of soft skin as he worked his way around to her back. Lowering his hand slowly, he stroked the round hills of her buttocks, pinching them gently and pressing his fingers against the denim which drew tightly across the crevice which separated her firmly rounded asscheeks.

Connie hoped that he wouldn't rub her cunt the way that he was rubbing her ass. It was already beginning to moisten, making her very uncomfortable. She felt the muscles of her ass clench and unclench in response to his rough exploration. And Foxy felt it, too. He squeezed back each time her ass jumped in his hand.

Then he ran his hand down the back of her left thigh, moving it slowly across the denim covered column until he reached her ankle. Slipping his hand around to the inside of her long shapely leg, be brought it up again, moving it sensuously from side to side as he moved higher and higher, not stopping until his fingers nudged at her groin, jabbing through the thick material at the tender pouting lips of her tight young pussy.

Moving his hand quickly to the other leg, he repeated this procedure, again bringing his hand high enough to prod gently at her cunt. She could feel the thick puffy lips flowering open as he searched her body shamelessly. She bit her lip to avoid shouting at him, demanding that he stop. He'll be finished in a moment, she thought. And then, when I've passed his inspection, I'll get the sample of heroin.

Since he had told her that he could sell her the half ounce, she knew that getting the sample from him would complete her assignment. As soon as she would have brought the dope to Lieutenant Blumenthal, the assignment would be finished. He would get his warrant and this slimy little dope pusher would go to jail. Then she would ask the lieutenant for a few days off to recover from the horrible series of indignities that she had suffered.