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

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