Марк Смит - Moist

Bob was trembling. He was surprised that he hadn’t freaked out. He’d wanted to. A part of his brain had urged him to run off screaming down the street. But then, that wouldn’t be very smart. They’d come after him and kill him. Bob didn’t want that. So here he was, trembling in the backyard, wearing a plastic poncho under a clear night sky, helping chop some dead guy’s arm off.

He felt sorry for the guy. No one really wanted to kill him. But the guy had tried to escape and, well, he shouldn’t have. It was really too bad.

Bob had developed an affection for him. He didn’t know why. They hadn’t even spoken a word to each other, Larga being beaten, drugged, or just unconscious the whole time, but Bob had been his caretaker, his guardian, and he felt some disappointment.

Bob watched as Norberto took the chain saw over to the neighbor’s house. His arm was getting tired of holding the arm out. You wouldn’t think that someone’s arm would weigh so much.

As the chain saw roared from next door, Esteban came over and looked at the arm.

“You okay?”

Bob nodded. Esteban patted him on the shoulder and gave him a smile.

“The first time I did something like this it made me puke.”

“I’m okay.”

Esteban mussed Bob’s hair. It was an affectionate, paternal gesture.

“Bueno, Roberto. Qué bueno.”

Martin was making a pot of coffee. He knew that they’d have a long night ahead of them. What with having to dispose of a body and a car. Of course, the car was easy. The chop shop was already sending a tow truck to pick it up. It’d be in pieces and on the way to Costa Rica by sunrise. But the body was now a big messy blob dripping forensic evidence everywhere they dragged it.

Martin considered making it a two-fer. Killing Bob and dumping his scrawny ass in with the blob. Just dig one big hole in the desert and call it a day. But he realized they needed Bob. Bob had to deliver the arm. Then he could die.

Martin carefully poured the coffee into a thermos. He turned and saw Bob and Esteban looking at the two arms side by side on the table. The arms were laid out on newspaper like two freshly caught walleyed pike. The whole scene reminded Martin of fishing trips he’d taken with his father and grandfather. Men standing around admiring their catch, the smell of fresh blood and fresh coffee hanging in the air, maybe they’d play a couple hands of pinochle before bed.

Amado entered and looked at the arms on the table. He couldn’t tell which one was his. He guessed that it was the slightly grayer one. The other looked fairly fresh and still pinkish. It made him sad. He missed his arm and felt phantom pangs and sensations. As if his fingers were touching something soft, like fur, sometimes something rough, like his beard. But there weren’t any fingers to touch anything. It just felt like it.

Amado looked at Esteban. Esteban gave him a nod.

“Roberto, vamos. ”

Bob turned around.

“Felicia?”

“Sí. She’s waiting.”

Amado watched as Bob looked at Esteban for approval. Esteban nodded and Bob smiled.

“Thanks, man. I owe you.”

Amado watched as Esteban mussed Bob’s hair again.

“Enjoy yourself, Roberto. You have earned it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Amado caught Martin glaring at Bob. It was a look that Amado had seen before. The evil eye. El ojo diabólico. A look ripe with jealousy and murder. Amado had gotten that look from men who hated him because of the women he had. Men who were jealous of his power, his connections. Carlos Vila had that look and had tried to rip off Amado. That’s why Carlos Vila was dead. Amado realized that he’d have to watch out for Martin. If he made a move to kill Bob, it could only cause more trouble.

Any qualms, scruples, or doubts Don may have had about getting involved with someone he was investigating were flushed from his mind the instant her hot, probing tongue had entered his mouth. He knew it wasn’t smart, but it’d been a long time since he’d last gotten laid and he wasn’t going to let a little thing like ethics get in his way. Besides, it’s not like it’s against the law.

Don reached around behind Maura’s back and unfastened her bra with a deft snap of the fingers. He’d always had this talent, not that he’d had much opportunity to practice it in the last few years. His former girlfriend, a rough-and-tumble assistant district attorney, had small, squishy little breasts and never wore a bra. But somehow his fingers remembered.

As soon as Maura’s tits became unmoored, she pulled her shirt off over her head and pushed Don onto his back. Don couldn’t believe how hot she was. Her skin against his skin. Her body and his body creating humidity. She unbuckled his pants and tugged them off. He reached for her crotch but she caught his hand and pushed it up to her breasts. Don was happy to stroke her nipples and watch her back arch in pleasure.

For the briefest possible nanosecond Don thought he should put a condom on. He thought he should say something about the importance of safe sex. This thought crossed his mind. But Maura had taken a firm grip on his cock and was now guiding it inside her.

As Maura began to ride him in urgent animal spasms, Don felt that his entire soul, his inner being, was slowly being pulled into her by the rhythm. He saw her face contorting in pleasure, her breasts swinging to the motion yet reaching for him. His body responded. Automatic and enthusiastic. Thoughts only got in the way.

What happened next was new for both of them. It was like being in a hot, sweaty sauna when someone suddenly pours a bucket of water on the white-hot lava rocks. There was an explosion of heat, sensation, fluids. Maura spoke in half-syllables, the contractions in her body and the endorphin surge in her brain short-circuiting her speech. Don felt a sharp quiver deep in his spine. And then it snowballed, building until his entire body was ringing like a tuning fork, the energy becoming unbearably intense until it rocketed out of him in a series of eye-popping seizures. For a brief moment they were transported to a world that was unbearably delicious, sensual and tranquil, comforting and releasing.

It was moist.

Amado drove the car with one hand. Bob sat next to him. He was impressed with Amado. Amazed at how quickly he’d adapted to living life with one less arm. Could Bob have done that? Or would Bob be in some outpatient physical-therapy clinic whining about how he couldn’t wipe his ass anymore? Amado didn’t do that. He just got on with it.

Bob smiled to himself. He was beginning to learn the difference between boys and men. He was a boy. Amado was a man.

It didn’t take long before the thought, a dark and withering fear, entered his consciousness. Bob suddenly feared that Felicia wouldn’t want a boy, that she’d want a man like Amado, a man she’d been with before. Bob was suddenly filled with crippling performance anxiety.

“What’s she like?”

“Felicia?”

“Yeah.”

Bob watched a smile sprout across Amado’s face.

“You’ll see.”

“What if she doesn’t like me?”

Amado turned and looked at him.

“Don’t be nervous.”

“I can’t help it.”

“These things are natural, cabrón . Don’t worry.”

The more Bob tried not to worry, the more worried he became. He began to have doubts. Maybe joining up with hardened criminals, kidnapping and dismembering innocent bystanders, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe these people weren’t his friends after all. He tried to push those thoughts from his mind. He was here. He was in a car. He was on his way to make love to a beautiful, sensual woman. He just needed to relax. Relax and get a hard-on. One big erection and everything would be okay.