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The world's most expensive baby's dummy

Bartholomew Jones III had enjoyed a charmed existence. Born into money, he had received the finest private education available and had owned his first Boxster at just 19 tender years. Now in his late twenty-somethings, he had worked his way through the ranks of a high-flying corporate law firm to Vice President and was pulling in a bloated five figured paycheck every month. He resided in a spacious upmarket condo overlooking the Empire State building and used the den of iniquity to slam whichever high-class hooker he necessitated each evening.

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Jones had a thing for redheads, always had, and stipulated this each time he ordered out. If the quality dipped then the offering would be sent packing and he would spend the evening watching old Hitchcock movies on his king-sized four-poster bedstead. He wasn’t mercenary by any means, focused but not of a mean disposition. No respect for the Washingtons, he thought nothing of racking up a $600 room service bill in one day alone. In addition to this, he had a rather costly coke habit and wouldn’t think twice about ploughing a gram or two each night into his nostrils. As a direct result, his septum was dangerously close to collapse.

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Another late night in the office crunching figures had led to him making the journey home far later than intended. Never one to be fearful of a day’s graft, Jones regularly caught the late night train and thought nothing of it. He’d already planned his evening, Rear Window and a bottle of Cuban white rum awaited him back at his domicile, but his itinerary didn’t include what was about to transpire next. As he waited on the platform, reading his kindle as he did each night, something happened which changed the entire outlook of his evening.

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He clocked her from the very moment he discerned the reverberations of her footsteps alongside him and, feigning nonchalance, he give cursory glances her way at every given opportunity. A redhead, with ringlets of rogue traipsed down her spine, she was a vision of breathtaking beauty. Clad in a three quarter-length leather overcoat and matching knee-high boots, this raven-haired seraph stood out like a Crimson butterfly and he couldn’t resist that second take…third…

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Meeting new people outside of his day job was an endeavor Jones struggled with, aside from calling for a bi-daily brass to swallow his desire, he was actually shy and reserved. Only two long-term relationships since high school attested to this lack of swagger and, should chance arise, he would invariably end up tongue-tied. It seemed different entirely making conversation when his American Express card had not acted as go-between and his approach in such situations was more than a touch off-kilter. But he’d be damned if he was going to let this Crimson Butterfly flutter through his fingers and a quick line of snow prepped him for action.

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He could be sure that her gaze was meant for him, two…maybe three times he caught her ogling and he began to concoct a plan of attack. Jut as he was gathering the cahones to advance on this red fox, the sound of his approaching train jolted him back into reality. Had the moment passed? It had happened numerous times before as plucking up courage was a drawn-out affair at the best of times…regardless, this blood-haired vixen had him transfixed from the get go and a successful stint at work had him buoyed.

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As the tube ground to a halt, he made damned sure he positioned himself correctly so as to access the same carriage as the object of his uncontrollable sexual fervor. Taking a seat a few yards from her coordinates, she chose to stand as though fully aware of his ocular advances and desiring to show him the full length of her exquisite beauty. His powers of deduction had him arriving at the conclusion that she had to be 5″9 at least without the heels. Sporting them, she actually towered over him as a distinct lack of roughage in his diet had led to him never realizing his full growth potential.

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How to traverse the silence? There had to be some way, some irreverent manner in which he could make his move before arriving at his destination. He recalled disastrous dates at the old movie-houses of the eighties where he spent the entirety of his stay slowly draping his arm around the back of whatever cardinal delight he had managed to snag that night. He’d hardly catch a frame as he negotiated with stuttering confidence which invariably led to him missing his chance and leaving the auditorium ruffled and no better off. This opportunity wasn’t going to pass and there were unmistakable signs that this vermilion vixen was ‘all up in his shit’ so the pressure was off considerably.

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‘Fuck it…’ he thought to himself…’she wants the cock for sure’. Her come hither eyes attested to this being a shoe-in, thus he rose from his perch and began making an in-road to her coordinates. The carriage’s motion provided a stern test and he almost lost his footing a couple of times as he advanced on her position. Uncooperative, she kept her peepers fixed on him the whole time and he felt as though attempting to walk through a quagmire in ten-inch platforms.

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As he mawkishly maneuvered toward the back of the carriage he caught fleeting glimpse of black PVC glinting through a small gape in her overcoat. She appeared to be clad in a rubberized corset, scaffolding connected to black laced suspenders and those elongated tramplers of desire. Now he had the beginnings of an erection to wrestle with and, with one hand in pocket, he realigned his pants so as not to exhibit so freely his aroused state. Down boy…thoughts of his Great Aunt Veronica, the one with the coarse mustache, quickly put paid to any rise in his slacks and he sauntered towards his prey intent on procuring himself a slew of digits.

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Once standing very much in her personal space, a move which appeared not to ruffle his chosen subject, she slid open to garment to reveal a little more of her lustworthy pelt. Fair-skinned and inked, her bared shoulder blades were nibbleable in the extreme and the gush of cherry fragrance which circumnavigated her shell hit Jones straight in the polyps. Ordinarily, he would have devised some sleaze ball line about her coat looking good draped over his bedpost or something similarly inane but he was aware that this situation didn’t call for such shenanigans.

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Her pouting green eyes spoke muted volumes and he made no attempt to conceal the fact that her body ached for his desecration. That slender score of barbiturates supplied all the encouragement Jones needed and he lurched towards her, relieved that she reciprocated his advances. They kissed hungrily, like passionate prairie dogs, for a few seconds and, as the doors opened at the next stop, her coat was discarded, falling in a heap to the carriage floor.

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Pulling back for precious air, he cast his petulant orbs over her rubberized bondage attire. ‘Is she not cold?’ ran through his mind although voicing such concerns would invariably dampen the mood somewhat so he continued with the leering. “Your name?” seemed something of an afterthought, considering they had already exchanged saliva but she replied instantaneously. “Ruby…and it’s very nice to make your acquaintance” Her accent was English, which sent shivers through his core as he just loved the British dialect.

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She followed this up by tugging at his bottom lip and sliding her nails down to his slacks and giving his Monster a gentle squeeze. For all his intent and purpose, Jones couldn’t shake his mild nagging neurosis as he rued not slapping his lance around a little before making his move. Thankfully the cocaine coursing through his ventricles had enabled him to tune into his outrageous turn of fortunes and his modest T-Bone had become succulent Prime Rib in her juggling hands. “Nice cock” she blurted ever-so frankly, to which he resisted the urge to follow with “thanks, it came with the bollocks” and offered “you ain’t too shabby either” to the melting pot.

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‘Pillock!’ he tutted internally at his goofy rejoinder but it mattered not a solitary jot as she was on her knees before he could make a further mutton-head of himself and delving inside his zipper with the intent of deep-throating his now-stiffened brave. He spared a cursory glance around, just to ensure Mrs. Widdleton and her pet chihuahua Candice hadn’t boarded. Not a soul…it was as though public transport had been boycotted this night and he breathed a measured sigh of relief. It was followed by a throaty gulp as she took the entirety of his cutlet in her mouth, right up to the root and began to tease it.

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Jones was attempting not to vocalize his thoughts as ‘masticate my plank you filthy harlot’ is a dicey endeavor when an unknown is chomping at your bit. After all, look at what happened to poor hapless Garp! Instead he closed his lids and let the feeling wash over him. By the time the train was back in motion he could take not a minute more and blew his magnolia stash straight into her gasping airwaves. This just spurred her on more and she coaxed the pallid fluid from his throbbing sex. Once the entire shipment had been rehoused she guzzled, allowing a slender stream to trickle down her chin. One last lick of her dark Crimson lips and she returned to his apex and looked him square in the eyes. “Thank you for the treat” she whispered softly.

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All of a sudden the mood shifted ominously as fangs became bared and were plunged straight into the soft throat of the quarry. Punctuating the flesh, the incisors of this revealed night-crawler commenced to extract a glugging rapid of crimson from the fresh piercings. Blood jettisoned freely from the gaping cavity, coating all and sundry with its tacky warm slick and running in rivulets along the carriage floor. Feeding time was extensive, to the point where pale milked pelt was all that remains and the lifeless cadaver of our victim slumped to the floor, primed for the eternal slumber granted.

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The feeding was complete and, leaving a pallid shell twitching in its ultimate death, Bartholomew Jones III stepped away, smearing the crimson drink from around his oral cavity and stepping off the carriage at his stop. Nonchalantly, he strode away from the scene, leaving Ruby’s ironically washed out corpse behind.

Sinners aren’t always who you’d expect them to be,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

First Knight of TOK
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor #ThePiper
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014



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