adrenaline amped up, he felt he would orgasm at any time, launching his seed into the air. Then a soft, yet noticeable blast of warm air fanned down the tip of his head, the heat around it intensified, and then the moistness of Angel’s mouth gloved it. She leaned into it, and sucked slowly, moving down his shaft at least five inches before slurping upwards again.
“OHHHHHHHH, my God! Yes!” he exhaled. “Oh, YES! Angel!” Her rhythm was smooth and focused as she filled her throat with him, increasing the tempo. All the while, her other hand massaged his aching scrotum, rubbing and squeezing each palm-sized testicle gently. Becks pulled at his own hair on his head, unable to take much more. “OOOOOHHH! Angel! OOOOHHH, ANGEL!” She sucked down as deep as she could go, lubricating him almost to the base, and held it for a few excruciating moments, suckling and purring to his carnal delight.
It didn’t take long as he took in a deep breath of air. “AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” he bellowed, caring not who was within earshot. Angel felt his body tense up as he arched his back. She felt the eruption begin, and released her lips, sliding up the shaft, and off at the exact moment Becks launched. He roared like a victorious warrior, and held the roar as he watched thick ropes of semen soar upward. As she used her hand like a piston, the sperm kept coming, cascading on her hair and back. As if to drain out every ounce of it, she squeezed his balls harder, forcing more of the liquid to blast out. Then the fountain finally was reduced to a dribble. Becks collapsed backwards, soaked in sweat and panting while Angel remained still; her left hand still holding the iron-rigid organ.
“Oh, Angel,” he whispered while trying to regain his composure. “Fuck, that was great! And look!” He pointed to his penis. “We’re just getting started!” Angel looked darkly amused. “Looks like everyone’s gonna be happy!” His chest heaved slower than before as he felt his second wind coming to him.
“Your stepchildren are going to be very happy.”
“Yeah, when I go, they’re suddenly millionaires!” he chuckled, trying hard not to replay the scenes leading up to him signing the will. “Yes, indeed. They will be paid.”
“They will be paid tomorrow.” Angel's statement hung in the air for a confusing moment for Becks.
“What?” He tried to recall if one of the clauses mentioned a pre-death settlement or some kind of signing bonus. “Are they going to get some money now? Like a small percentage, then the rest at my death? Honey, I didn’t read all the clauses, naturally.” He laughed and thought she would share the joke, but she didn’t even smirk.
“They will be paid in full tomorrow,” she repeated hauntingly.
“But how? I mean-” With a swift movement of her right arm the combat knife gleamed horridly in his eyes again.
“You killed your wife who gave you everything you wanted. You took her money; you took her dignity by beating her; and you took her life. Do you know why she was shooting Botox, Mr. Becks? She wanted to be more attractive for you.” Becks began to whimper again, his arms wrapped around himself as he quaked. “She was a mother with three children who loved them dearly.”
“No! Please!”
“You have to answer for Karen, Mr. Becks. And for that, you must pay a higher price.”
In a blur, Angel twirled the knife to the appropriate grip and swept it horizontally, lopping off the penis two inches from the base. Becks was so paralyzed by what he had just seen, that the pain had not yet registered. His eyes bulging, and his mouth held open in a wide sputtering maw, he choked on air as a fountain of blood gurgled out of his penal stump. As he watched in horror, Snyder stood up again, twirled the knife with her fingers into the stabbing grip and arced it down like a sledge hammer through his chest.
The last thing he heard was her soft whisper: “Sooner or later, Mr. Becks, everyone must pay the Piper.” Becks eyes stared lifelessly as Cherry Snyder raised herself up. She reached into her bag and pulled out her smart phone. She tapped the keypad. It rang only once.
“Hello, Temujin? This is Angel. The Piper’s been paid.”
Prologue 2
Trust National Bank, Branch 47
30th floor
Rochester, New York
Twenty-five-year-old Croatian fashion designer Diana Noel, couldn’t believe what the loan officer had just said to her.
“Excuse me?” She kept a tentative smile, but her eyes flashed with confusion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite get that.” Sheldon Rosenbaum, bank president, executive loan officer, securities officer, and senior board member of New York’s Small and Medium Entrepreneur Administration, sat back in his chair behind his massive mahogany desk.
Diana sat on the other side of his desk. He regarded the attractive young woman with a confident smirk, tilting his head back and pursing his lips. His thoughts, salacious and insidious, were working from the moment she stepped through the door. He repeated what he had said seconds before.
“Take off your clothes.” Diana swallowed nervously, her eyes looking at the documents she presented to him just to avoid his lustful stare. She’d never heard such a statement in the short period she had been in business in the fashion industry. This could never happen in Croatia where she managed six NOEL stores in the beautiful capital city of Zagreb. Her being so far away from her country was no accident. She had a plan for coming to New York.
Croatian labor costs were rising, and the economy was still stagnant despite the country’s European Union status. With 4.5 million people, and over 20 percent unemployment, Croatia was too small for Diana’s dreams. NOEL was a successful business, specializing in top quality women's fashions, lingerie, and shoes. But because of the quality of her products, the prices were a bit steep. Not Dolce and Gabbana steep, but perhaps a little too steep for the average Croatian citizen.
Special orders by European celebrities and the elite were what kept her business above water. However, it wasn’t the elite she wanted to market to, but the mainstream community. Other chains importing cheap materials and using Third World sweatshops to make their products like H&M, Mango, La Senza, and The United Colors of Bennington threatened to close her business down. She couldn’t compete with the crap imported from China, Bangladesh, Malaysia, India, Pakistan, and Turkey. And if that wasn’t enough, Zagreb itself was hurting her. The rental buildings, delivery costs, utilities, imported materials, advertising, her employees, and taxes were sucking down her profits. She was at the crossroads, drowning in a mud hole of a bad economy and escalating production costs.
Her personal life was a disaster. Designing the clothes herself, shopping for the materials, and most of the time sewing them together, rendered her social life non-existent. Stress was constant; sleep was sacrificed, and chasing the dollar, or as they say in Croatia, chasing the kuna, was a closed loop. In fact, the only activity that she did, and remained committed to, was her once-per-week English classes.
English was essential for living in the Euro zone, but mandatory in the fashion world. Those hours of conversation and vocabulary lessons were her periods of relaxation. She was able to socialize freely with her classmates, be a real person. But it was also an opportunity to prepare for the media and her plans to expand beyond the Adriatic. Despite the strain on her life, her clothes were, in fact, making a name for themselves among those in that media world.
She was invited to show her collections in Croatian and EU fashion shows, and appeared on talk shows, and magazines promoting the business dreams
