Hell In High Heels --- A Jane Delacroix erotic novel: Sex, Sin, and Slaughter in Southern California Read online

  Now came the betrayal.

  The back door opened and the thick set bodyguard and driver stood to one side. He was built like a brick shithouse, square and low to the ground with a neck so thick and squat it seemed to set squarely on his shoulders. He had the dull black eyes of a Mako shark, and Jane was afraid of him.

  Her information said he'd been trained by U.S. Army Special Forces, working as advisers for the CIA in the Southeast Asian country. Taking out the general would be one thing; taking out his chief torturer and primary hit man would be another matter entirely.

  As she slid out of the limo Hun Sen let his hand slide off the curve of her behind and down between her legs. She forced herself to accept the invasion as she found her balance in high heels on the driveway. She pretended to laugh and could feel the bodyguard's cold disdain as she pretended to stumble.

  She was drunk. There was no way to fake it under the general's watchful eye. An hour ago, when he'd finally excused himself to the bathroom of the China Town restaurant, she'd taken a Benzedrine to keep her sharp and slipped a dose of powdered Nembutal into the warlord's glass.

  If Mother's Little Helper was good enough for the Rolling Stones it was good enough for General Hun Sen, CIA asset against the communist forces in Cambodia, and opium kingpin. She was just praying that the glass marble gleam in his beady black eyes was a signal that he was close to Never Never Land.

  He came out of the car right behind her. She started stepping forward and climb the wide stone steps leading up to the rented mansion's doors. His arm, wiry thin and surprisingly strong, slipped around her waist like a Sheppard’s hook. He pulled her close until the hard shaft of his erection was pushed hard against the globe of her butt cheek.

  Jesus, that was fast, she thought. He’s ready to go quicker than a teenager.

  His face brushed her shoulder and he whispered hoarsely into her back, his spittle blotting the green silk of her dress.

  "I think I'll take you like I do the village boys," he drooled and she took heart in how vicious his slur was. "I like a snug fit and your American ass just begs for it."

  Adrenaline flushed through her amphetamine jacked system and she almost fed him the sharp point of her elbow right then, but she fought the urge and forced the energy out in a tight, high pitched giggle. She was close to the end, she could make it.

  Taking a few quick steps forward, she rolled her hips in the skin tight dress, staying just out of Hun Sen's reach. The sick son of a bitch had Fu Manchu beat hands down for quote, “Yellow Peril,” unquote, and the naked lust on his face made him look like a hyena drooling over a lion kill.

  The sneer on the bodyguard's face was so scornful it practically bled disdain. It didn't matter, her heart was pounding hard in her chest as she let the warlord chase her up the stairs. Her eyes went to the walls running around the compound. She knew her backup was out there, but realized that if things went really wrong in the next ten minutes that Detective David Sten would never reach her in time.

  She opened the door and stopped cold. Snarling dogs greeted her. The Doberman Pinchers barked, showing wicked teeth. For a second the three beasts were so tightly packed they looked like a single animal with three growling heads, a black and tan Cerberus guarding the gates to hell.

  A single Cambodian held all three leashes, on either side of the dog handler two mercenaries armed with Swedish K sub-machine guns stood at attention. It's a trap! she thought and shrank back. Hun Sen came through the door and ran his hands up onto her big breasts. There was no way she could have worn a brassier under a dress that tight and his fingers easily found her nipples, pinching them hard.

  He snapped something in Cambodian at the men and they retreated out of the entrance way. "I can't wait," he said from behind her. "Get on your knees, now!"

  She turned to him, fear giving her creativity, desperation forcing her to play any hand she could think of. "No, please. I, I...I want to see the girl."

  The request seemed odd and as slow and stupid as the man was he paused, suddenly suspicious. She had to be brilliant and she had to be convincing and she had to do it quickly; he was a man used to having enemies who were brutal killers and his paranoia was hard earned.

  "Why?" he snapped. His eyes came even with the twin missile heads of her tits.

  On second thought, she told herself, it doesn't have to be that brilliant.

  She leaned down low, until the pillows of her breasts were inches from the alcohol stink of his breath and she dropped her voice low, down into a throaty whisper, a whisper designed to make men think about the sound of her grunts and moans during sex.

  "Because I like to be watched when a man does me," she purred. "I like to look over and see another girl seeing me get it good. Nothing turns me on more and I'll do anything when I'm being watched."

  Hun Sen swallowed so hard his Adam's Apple bobbed with an audible click. His eyes never left the jutting shelf of her chest as he barked out his orders in a voice suddenly, painfully hoarse.

  "Go! Go now!" He snapped at his men. "Outside. Boupha!" he yelled at his chief bodyguard, "get Chau up to my room, at once." His eyes gleamed wetly as the bottom of a gin glass. He staggered and she was forced to catch him.

  Jane prayed he'd make it to the bedroom. "Baby, I'm ready," she urged him.

  The entry way was French, Louis the XIV influenced with twin, curving banister staircases running up the outside of the marble tiled room above a grand pillared walkway leading deeper into the downstairs.

  At the top both staircases merged into a single balcony hall with numerous doors.

  As Hun Sen and Jane climbed the staircase Boupha emerged from one of the doors and led a slight, willow wisp of a girl toward the only pair of double doors on the landing. Even from twenty yards away Jane could see the girl was stoned out of her mind, eyes more glassy and gait more unsteady than those of the now drugged warlord.

  Pretending to laugh Jane hurried up the steps just a little bit faster. The rug was a thick cream and burgundy, late European Renaissance, with gold brocade. As she reached the landing the sickly sweet scent of opium smoke hung in a thick miasma despite the open space.

  The smoke was so thick it made her momentarily light headed. She again almost stumbled in surprise at the sudden, perfumed intoxication and pulled herself straight. Behind her Hun Sen tripped into a wall, almost knocking a minor Monet from its golden frame. The spring meadow scene complete with slightly out of focus maiden in a sun bonnet and demure dress rocked slightly, as if it too were high

  Boupha held open a bedroom door and Jane pulled Hun Sen in after her. She stopped, disbelieving. The wisp of a girl, raven hair hanging down to her waist, body marred by bruises and teeth marks, was already naked, holding an extravagant water pipe in childlike hands. Her breasts were nubs with big, dark nipples and her skin a deep bronze yellow, like soft Asian gold.

  She was stunningly out of place in the French Renaissance room. Heavy velvet curtains covered windows on either side of an ornate fireplace. A four poster bed with dripping canopy spread out over about a half an acre of floor space. On the wall next to the double doors ran a wet bar made of onyx and teak with gaudy gold leaf trim.

  Sun Hen was behind her, pushing her toward the big, high bed. The bodyguard took one last look in the room and shut the door. She grinned as she heard the lock being turned over. She let herself be shoved toward the turned down sheets of Egyptian cotton.

  She put her hands out like a gymnast, caught the mattress as she was propelled forward and spun easily. Her thighs, long and smooth and strong opened like the cover of a book and her tight dress ripped loudly along the seams. Now she could move.

  Her panties, red satin and cut as French as the Louis XIV chair next to the divan lounge in front of the ostentatious fireplace, winked out as she lay back on the bed. Beneath the thin material her soft, downy pubic hair was as pale blonde as the hair on her head.

  Hun Sen staggered, caught himself then clumsily undid his pants. His erection
stuck out, red and purple under the deep yellow of his skin and he staggered toward her. She spread her legs wider, making an inviting target.

  The girl drew deeply on the water pipe, inhaling smooth smoke like a furnace bellows. The size of her hit, given the fragility of her ribcage, was truly prodigious. Her own public hair was a black thatch at the junction of her skinny thighs. If Jane hadn't know she was nineteen years old she might have thought the girl years younger than her actual age.

  The sickness of the situation left greasy stains in Jane's stomach as adrenaline bled into her already ramped up system. She narrowed her focus to Hun Sen as he came forward, his cock leading the way. The Phenobarbital was really kicking in now and the warlord could barely stand.

  The word had come down to the LAPD from the CIA through the State Department; the good General Hun Sen was to be accorded every privilege of diplomacy, including immunity from investigation and prosecution. His army kept the Viet Cong out of his region and strengthened the royal family's hold over the imploding nation.

  The communists had to be stopped and if a little Golden Triangle heroin had to make its way into the west coast to do that, then so be it. If teenage girls were used up and then thrown away, then so be that too. There was a bigger picture, a larger stage where the drama was being played out.

  But Jane Delacroix was used to small stages and small stakes. When you weren't fighting global battles then people could still matter. Little girls strung out on opium while being turned into the abused playthings of sick and twisted villains, could still matter in life, even if the monolithic shadow of the Soviet Union still loomed in the background.

  Hun Sen was on her. Despite his heavy intoxication and their recent encounter, the skin of his penis shaft stretched painfully tight. The light from a Currey and Company period piece chandelier gleamed off the head of his cock as it came toward her like a battering ram.

  Sometimes, she thought, undercover work is a bitch. Time to be a pro.

  She reached out and took hold of the hard-on. The girl came up behind Sen and pressed herself against, running her hands across his body in open admiration. Jane’s stomach did a slow roll, confused by the situation. The girl’s actions didn’t appear to be the kind normally associated with a victim.

  She needed time to figure the situation out. Reaching down, Sen ripped her panties out of the way, and began rubbing his cock on her pussy. Behind him, the girl dropped to her knees and began rimming his ass.

  The sight was stunning, and arousing. She felt herself growing wetter and in her moment of hesitation, Sen slammed his blunt instrument home. She gasped as pushed into her to the hilt, balls slapping her ass. Her thighs remained sticky from his first load and he was going for round two.

  His hands came down and found the soft mounds of her breasts and squeezed. She moaned at the intensity of his fever touch, amazed at the warlord’s stamina. Her back arced up into his touch as he moved inside her.

  Behind him, the girls fingers grabbed his waist from behind and Jane watched her shoving her face fully in between the muscular globes of his ass cheeks. Sen had come up through the ranks humping heavy rucksacks uphill through the jungle, and it showed in his lean, muscular body.

  His fingers formed claws and squeezed her tits hard. The twin sensations met somewhere at the base of her spine and set her body on fire. They made wet sounds as they fucked, the girl eagerly licking her way through the rim job, Jane’s well lubricated pussy taking the pounding Sen dished out.

  She propped herself up on her elbows and looked down as Sen roughly handled her breasts. She saw his cock sliding in and out of her, heard the girl slurping behind his back. It was a kinky scene, and, truth was, Jane Delacroix liked kinky scenes; they were her stock and trade.

  Nothing wrong about taking an orgasm where you can get, she told herself.

  On Sen’s next thrust, she lifted her hips up to meet him, allowing him fuller access to her cunt. She grabbed her legs behind the knees and pulled them back until they stuck straight up in the air.

  She let soft exclamations escape with each breath as he hammer his cock home. She saw his eyes glazing and began fucking him back harder. She had to get off before he passed out or she’d be out of sorts until she came.

  “Come on, general,” she urged. “Hurt that pussy, fuck that American pussy.”

  His hands slid off her tits and found the covers where they knotted into fists around the fabric. He leaned forward, eyes closed, and clearly dizzy. But the warlord was a machine, and his cock kept drilling into her.

  A paralyzing tingle swept through her body, riding the currents of adrenaline from the danger of the situation. She suddenly felt light headed, and her vision went blurry. In the next moment an intense feeling of lightness erupted through her, as if she would simply float off the bed and away. Between her thighs her clitoris throbbed with amazing intensity and she put her head back and screamed out her pleasure.

  Inside her, Sen broke out his second orgasm, gushing into her like a broken hydrant on the street. Copious amounts of ejaculate flooded her pussy and the muscles inside her contracted hard.

  Perks of the job, she thought.

  Between her legs, Sen, now clearly inebriated, backed away. He wobbled as if unsteady and pushed the girl away.

  “Hey, general,” Jane said.

  He looked at her.

  Her leg lashed out once, quickly, like a snake striking.

  The ball of her foot caught the inebriated fool in the side of his knee and he folded like a cheap card table. He stumbled and fell forward as Jane piston drove her hips up, her long, long legs snapping open then closing around his head like the jaws of a trap.

  Moving fast she jerked her body to the side and swept him off his feet as she cinched in the figure 4 leg lock, shutting off the flow of blood to the man's already foggy brain. The girl watched, nonplussed and slowly let smoke leak out her nostrils like dragon breath.

  At first Hun Sen was confused. He tried to turn his face toward her vagina and for a moment she could feel him trying to work his tongue against her crotch. She snarled and cranked her hips to the side. Hun Sen gasped at the pain as his head was jerked to an unnatural angle. Gradually he realized he was suffocating.

  He tried fighting back, Jane twisted her body around, all sinew and hate until she pushed him down on the thick carpet where he couldn't get any purchase. She sat above him pushing down, squeezing hard. His chin was tucked, blocking part of the effects of the Judo hold. She wound her fingers through his greasy black hair and yanked his head back, exposing more of his throat.

  Settling her hips down lower she sunk the leg lock as deep as it could get. Immediately the Cambodian's face turned purple. Jane balanced over his thrashing body like a rodeo rider. She looked to the girl. It finely seemed to be sinking in to her that this wasn't some kind of strange Western sex.

  The girl's mouth fell open. The female private detective realized with a sort of confused, horrified shock, that the girl was going to scream.

  "No!" Jane whispered in a harsh voice, speaking French. "I'm here to help you! I'm going to get you out! There are people waiting just outside the mansion to take us away!"

  The girl paused, her mouth slowly closing. She cocked her head in confusion.

  "You speak French, yes? They said you understood French. Do you understand me? I'm here to rescue you!"

  "I understand," the girl said. "I understand you are a bitch traitor to the God-King Hun Sen, regal lord of the Khmer Empire!"

  Then she began screaming in earnest.

  The girl's cries were like an air raid siren going off.

  The shrill shriek raked Jane's eardrums until she was sure they were going to bleed. There was no way anyone would confuse those for sex but she was betting Hun Sen's men were long used to hearing the sound of a woman's scream coming from their master's chambers.

  Chau sprang to her feet and began screaming a string of wild, frantic words in Cambodian and now Jane knew she had no cho
ice. Everything had been going to plan until the warlord withstood the effects of her Mickey for just a few minutes too long. Now this; his sex slave coming to his defense!

  She looked down at Hun Sen. He seemed out. The girl was on her feet now, stumbling toward the door. Jane had to make a decision and make it fast. Cursing, she released her hold on the Cambodian and lunged after the girl. The man's head thumped off the carpet like a bag of apples.

  The girl was still screaming, lunging for the door on opium-shaky legs. Jane would never make it time. She snatched up the water pipe and hurtled the piece sidearm toward the girl. The heavy apparatus spun round like a boom o rang before crashing into Chua’s legs. A glowing red ember of burning opium popped free and sailed across the room.

  The girl grunted at the impact, her feet tangling up. She went down hard, her legs splashed with bong water. The ember, smoking furiously, landed in the thick shag carpet. Jane was on her belly and scissored herself to her hands and knees. Her dress ripped more until it hung off her like some Hollywood Indian’s loincloth from a John Ford western.

  From her knees she came up to one foot as the girl tried to stand. Jane drove hard and sprang, acrobat-like after the girl. She collided, driving her bigger, all-American Girl's frame into the slighter female, knocking her down before she could reach the door.

  The Cambodian turned, a hissing Asian hellcat. Jane snapped her head back to avoid raking nails and the girl's hand caught the front of her dress, ripping it like a cyclone. Jane's breasts, big and braless fell free, creamy mounds of suddenly vulnerable flesh.

  "Bitch!" she bellowed in English. The girl would understand no matter the language.

  The opium-slave began screaming again, obviously calling for help, shrieking a warning to the bodyguards with their savage dogs and folding stock machine pistols. Jane yanked the girl's head closer to her by long raven tresses and slammed her hard little fist into the girl's exposed face.