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Jazzed (Jo-Anne Wiley)


Jazzed by Jo-Anne Wiley

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Dance, deceit and destruction... pure Wiley!

The Russians go berserk.

The dancers of the 'American Dance Demon' have breasts. The Russians only know The Bolshoi where the girls look painfully like little boys.

The identical dancers of the Demon are the prime of Broadway's best. Each is a perfect thirty-six ‘C’...not that there’s a bra to be found anywhere on stage. Each girl is a sultry, green-eyed brunette, same age, six-foot, identical build.

When General Chenkov starts cheering, the enthusiasm is contagious. The dancers faltered mid-step. They shyly came forward, so the men in the first rows are treated to a naughty peek under short hemlines. Excited nipples protrude through silk. The dancer's don’t know it yet, but their European tour has just been sidelined. Chenkov has their passports and he wants these women – which becomes evident during the very next performance.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Pink Flamingo Publications    Published: 12 / 2017

No. words: 104229

Style: Adult Suspense/Thrillers

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Excerpt

Chapter One

Tzivia Azaria was soaking wet.
It was a cold, unrelenting rain that fell steadily from the night sky; had been for hours. And the thin spandex, full-body leotard she wore offered no protection. Her leather high-heeled boots were sodden. Taz hated high-heels; thought they were frivolous and impractical. But tonight they were necessary. She stood five-foot ten and the heels took her over the lofty six-foot mark. Yes, tonight the heels would be necessary.
Even though the rain was chilling, Taz felt nothing. She was immune to discomfort. The Israeli Army had cured her of that: The training, the beatings, the starvation. The harsh living conditions in the desert had taken a toll on her psyche; leaving her emotionally void, bereft of the natural need for love and nurturing. Taz flicked her head, propelling rainwater from her eyes, and refocused on the doorway across the street.
It was brightly lit. Inside it would be cheery and warm and she heard the sounds of laughter, the clink of glassware and she hoped he was having a nice time; enjoying the wine and pasta. There was a twinge in her bladder, then a sharp pain. She had been holding it for hours. Taz massaged her lower abdomen and it helped. A minor distraction. She studied the doorway again and put her need to urinate outside the realm of conscious thought.
He was some sort of fancy attorney; big money and lots of political clout. What he couldn’t coerce out of powerful friends, he bought outright; cash on the line. Taz knew that extended to a string of pretty wives: Five at last count, before he gave up on the institution of matrimony. Hookers were less trouble and infinity cheaper in the long run. And they didn’t complain if you hit them.
He had sent his wives off to their attorneys with split lips and broken noses and a variety of cuts and bruises. The assault charges never materialized; his bank account having suffered the brunt of the punishment. Well, best to be rid of them, he had smugly rationalized. They, the wives, had slunk away, richer by far, and feeling lucky to have survived his fists.
And then there had been the brutal sexual assaults.
He loved to take a woman against her will. Their shock and horror was like a hit from a powerful drug.
The last had been the teacher, barely twenty; a sweet little thing. She had been lured to the deserted farmhouse by a young girl who said she was desperate to attend classes; but complained that her parents wouldn’t allow it. The teacher, dedicated to a fault, went to plead the young girl’s case: That she be allowed to enjoy the benefits of an education. But at the lonely farmhouse the teacher found only the slobbering attorney; his belly and shoulders matted with hair.
The teacher had been set up. The girl’s mother had been well paid and the little girl had proved to be very convincing, in return for a brand new bicycle. When the teacher walked through the door of the farmhouse, she had been grabbed from behind. He was a sixty-three year old slob with a flabby gut. He had rubbery lips and she had watched in horror as he removed his dentures before forcing his mouth on hers. He had a dick the size of a ball bat.
The attorney had cut the clothes from her body and forced her into an upstairs bedroom where she was bound to the bed. The young teacher lived face down in her own filth for three long days and was repeatedly sodomized. He could hardly contain the hunger he had for her.

When he could no longer stand the smell, he allowed her some bathroom time, not thinking she would be stupid enough to jump from the second story. He underestimated the teacher’s will to live.
She jumped.
The moment the door was closed, the teacher dropped naked from the windowsill. She ran out onto the roadway where she was able to flag down a startled delivery truck driver.
The ensuing courtroom drama had been arduous. Her assailant sat at the defense table and leered at her all through her testimony. He joked openly with his defense council and smiled knowingly at the judge.
The jury clearly didn’t like the man and was inclined to dismiss his claim that the teacher had sought him out; that she was aching to be abused. That she had encouraged him to use her like an animal. The lady prosecutor was starting to feel confident that she would win a verdict that would lock the bastard up for twenty years. And it couldn’t come none too soon. She was getting tired of him mentally assessing her bottom and thighs every time she stood to address the jury.
He in turn, had enjoyed the lusty ass as it roamed beneath her skirt. He had gone to the trouble of learning all about the lady prosecutor: Where she lived, worked, shopped. What her husband did for a living. Oh yes, the comely lady prosecutor would be next. A brief stop by her home one evening, when her husband was away on business... He thought of firm buttocks and his penis moved.
The trial was in its final days, the business of wrapping things up well under way. The teacher had gone shopping, looking for a new wardrobe to help distract her from the painful despair she shared with her husband. She had stopped for a soft drink and woke up in a motel room with five naked men. It was after midnight and all her tender parts, just now starting to recover from her previous ordeal, were torn and bleeding.
She’d hardly had the chance to scream when the two vice-cops threw back the door. They had a warrant and, unbelievably, she was arrested, then charged with prostitution.
Her court case had been thrown into a shambles and the comely prosecutor was lucky to escape with no more that a humiliating newspaper article. She vowed never again to prosecute an abuse case. He, on the other hand, waved to the press and laughed all the way to his waiting taxi. He was still laughing when he plumped down in his study and took a hard gulp of scotch. It had been so easy.
To rub their noses in it had almost been as much fun as stretching the teacher’s asshole. And now he felt hungry; for the comely prosecutor, for sure, but first: A taste of pasta.

He sat in his favorite restaurant, just down the street from his brownstone and treated himself to a celebratory meal, stuffing forkfuls of fettuccine alfredo between his wobbly jowls. Melted butter and cheese dribbled down his chin. The heat of the food, the closeness of the room, and the humidity from the rain, had the sweat rolling down his bloated cheeks and he worked at the wine bottle in an effort to relieve his discomfort. He wiped his face with a linen napkin and ordered a second bottle.
And outside the door, across the glistening pavement, Taz watched and waited.
The attorney had been on her list for the past year. She had studied the man, read all the trial transcripts, read the newspaper articles, talked with his victims. She had even followed the man on occasion, familiarizing herself with his movements, his favorite haunts: The bars, the restaurants, the strip clubs, the massage rooms, the whorehouses. And now she stood in the teaming rain while he enjoyed his last cup of espresso.
The door of the restaurant swung back and he moved into the slab of light. Taz bristled. She couldn’t see detail against the glare, but it was him. She would have recognized that bloated belly at a Weight Watchers convention.
He paused a moment, under the awning, to consider the rain. He popped an umbrella and took a step toward the curb, scouting up and down the street for a cruising cabby. Taz watched as he hesitated to mull it over. He could go back into the restaurant and make a call, or could risk the wet sidewalks. Taz knew he didn’t have far to go; a bit more than a quick block and he would be standing on the steps of his three-story brownstone. But it was an awful night to be out.
Taz wondered if he would make the effort. She decided to sway his decision and stepped out from the mouth of the alleyway and into the circle of overhead light cast from a streetlamp.
From where he stood, watching the rain coming down, he saw a tall lanky woman pause for a moment, posing in the light, before stepping out across the street in his direction. She seemed to be mostly legs and moved as if there was soft music in her head; each sensual stride was liquid motion, reflected in both her body and her arms. He thought she may be headed into the restaurant and held his ground, waiting for her to come closer; waiting for a chance to study her face and breasts.
But then he caught sight of her outfit. It wasn’t what he would have considered appropriate for an evening meal out in public. Not that he would have been offended. She was dressed in some sort of stretchy sleek, elastic body-sock. Like the girls wore at the gym. And with the laced-up black leather boots, his thoughts drifted to a dominatrix he had once patronized. The bitch had trussed him up to a wooden cross, stroked his back with a wispy whip that had all the fortitude of a feather duster, rammed a dido up his butt and milked him. The episode had seemed contrived, was less than satisfying, and he’d never been back.
He wondered if this girl might own a real whip.
She came straight toward him disregarding the puddles, marching straight through and stepped up onto the curb not six feet away. She came into the light reflected from the restaurant windows and stood a moment. Gave him a chance to leer. That’s when he noticed she was drenched through and through. Wringing wet.
He gasped. The soaked spandex clung like skin and he could see that her breasts were like metal instruments, hardened points, and the size and shape of her nipples were raised in sharp relief. And lower down the sopping fabric was clenched, tucked up between the twin rolls of her sex. If she had been stark naked, she couldn’t have been any more seductive.
He glanced up to study her features and was momentarily disappointed. He had hoped for classic facial-beauty to go along with the hot body. But still, there was something about her. Her face was angular with high cheekbones and a solid chin with the hint of a cleft. Her narrow eyes, almost beady, were positioned a little too close together. Her nose was long and it looked to have been broken and never set quite right.
The mousy brown hair was tied back with long bangs hanging down in front; hanging in her eyes. And her thin hair was made to look worse, sodden as it was, and clinging to her scalp. If she had any one redeeming quality, it was a tight mouth with a sexy pout that protruded her lower lip. And if there had ever been any makeup, the rain had washed it away long ago. But looking at her he got the impression that this girl didn’t waste much time trying to be glamorous. Even so, she had something. A certain look that worked for her. And for him. An animalistic appeal that revved his pulse and made his cock ache.
She mounted the curbstone, paused, gave him a non-committal glance and twisted away on a spiky heel. She moved quickly along the sidewalk; and she was going his way. He forgot all about a cab-ride and fell in step behind. She was leggy and he raced to keep up with her purposeful strides, if for no other reason than wanting a close-up look at her ass. And it was worth the effort. He marveled at the roll of the matching globes accentuated by the wet elastic of her bodysuit that was tucked tightly into the crack.
The woman was a mystery. Why was she out on such a miserable night? Why was she wandering the streets alone? After dark? And looking like something outta a Batman flick? And where the hell was her fuckin’ underwear?
“Share an umbrella, Miss?” he called out to her.
She tossed her chin back, momentarily glancing over a glistening shoulder, but kept walking. Maybe even picking up the pace a little. That was not unexpected; a lone woman at night, and it was a questionable neighborhood. And he didn’t exactly come across as Sir Galahad, with good reason. He couldn’t help wonder what might happen if he could corral her in a deserted alleyway. He trembled at the thought of stripping the bodysuit down, off her hips and thighs.
But that wasn’t about to happen. His brownstone was in view; he could see the light shining dimly above the doorway through the deluge. He would mount the stairs and watch her move along the sidewalk; flooded with relief knowing he was gone. He would go up the staircase to his study where he kept the brandy and think about what might have been: Her naked body, down, broken in the rain.
She quickened her step again, maybe thinking he was stalking her. That made him chuckle and once again he matched her stride; watching the grip and release of her bottom. And then she did the most amazing thing. He could hardly believe it.
She did a quick sidestep into the alleyway that ran down alongside his building. A blind alley.
She had unwittingly played into his hands; placed herself in danger.
He quickly looked around behind, and seeing no one, followed after her. The pulse was pounding at his temples and he trembled with the anticipation of feeling her body under his hands. Twenty paces in and she saw her mistake. The alley was blocked off by a dumpster. She was trapped. The girl turned then, caught the blood-lust in his eyes. He could see her features in the dim light from the cheap overhead fixture bolted to the wall: The look of disbelief on her face as she took a step back against the brickwork.
“Please,” she strained. “Please don’t.”
The sound of her voice was like a siren’s call. He quivered uncontrollably. He loved it when they pleaded. And they always did. “Just be still, now,” he whispered. “Don’t make a sound and I’ll be quick. If you struggle, I’ll have to hurt you.” He took a step closer. “Not a sound. Understand?”
She nodded weakly. “Yes.”
He reached out and cupping his fingers around a pointy breast, he cruelly burnished the nipple under his thumb. She leaned back against the bricks; seemed to slowly disintegrate with the realization that she was about to be raped. As he squeezed her nipple, her hand came up to brush the unruly bangs from her eyes; she reached back, running her fingers through sodden hair. It seemed a simple, submissive gesture that had him fumbling for the zipper at the front of his suit-trousers. He would start with her mouth. And after he was good and hard, he’d strip her and bend her over. Do her against the wall. Do her in the ass. But he faltered. Something had changed; was different. Something about her eyes.
And then he realized: The panic was gone.
Where he had seen fear a moment ago, he now saw a belligerent loathsome yellow light; like looking into the eyes of a wolfish predator. It caused him a moment of distress. But a moment was all he had.
When she pulled her hand free from the back of her neck, he saw something between her fingers. At first he stupidly thought she was going to ask him for his phone number.

Taz remembered her training session in the desert all too clearly; it had remained with her, years later. Her instructors had brought out five prisoners and lined them up. They gave Taz five pencils and told her what to do. She was only seventeen years old and the men lined up before her were all much older.
The first man had suffered terribly. She hadn’t hit the pencil hard enough; or maybe she just got the angle wrong. He had wheeled away from her and dropped down on his hands and knees in the dirt, blood spilling from his nose and mouth. The guards hauled the poor wretch onto his feet and forced him back into the lineup. Taz jerked the pencil from his nose and tried again, this time in the other nostril. She had better luck on her second try and she finally killed the man.
The second prisoner had also suffered from her inexperience but the fifth had died quite quickly. Taz had mastered the technique and had learned a valuable lesson: Even a child’s pencil could be an effective weapon, given the proper knowledge and a bit of practical experience.
She was holding a pencil now. A yellow pencil with an eraser. She flicked her hand up toward the attorney’s face, a harmless sweep of her fingers, as if to shoo away a fly.
“Augh! What did you do that for?” His sinuses buzzed and his eyes watered up. He felt the trickle ooze from his nostril. “Christ!” he swore into her face and grabbed her by the wrist. But he was too slow to react to her other hand; too busy fumbling with his cock. Her opposite hand came up between them, lightening quick. He managed a surprised grunt just before the ball of her thumb met with the end of the pencil that was still hanging from his nose. She drove it home.
He felt the burn between the eyes and there was a bright flash of blinding light. From somewhere inside his skull, he heard the crack of bone. A loud buzz filled his ears and, as his vision darkened, the sound slowly lost its intensity. His last conscious sensation was one of descending, quickly dropping, like an elevator between floors.

Taz took a step to the side and let him go. With a deep sigh, he rolled onto his back and died. Taz took no joy in the fact: The execution had been planned, the outcome was predictable.
Taz reached for his collar, dragged him under the light and leaned over him. She wanted to see. A confirmed kill, yes: The pencil had all but disappeared up into his left nostril and there was a diluted trickle of blood. The whites of his eyes were black from the hemorrhaging. Taz straightened and took a fervent look up and down the alleyway. But they were still alone together. She and her corpse. And it was time to seal the pact.
Taz slipped a hand under the shoulder of her spandex leotard and forced the strap down her arm. Then she exposed the other shoulder and wiggled her arms free. She pushed the fabric down about her waist exposing two small mounds with nipples twisted against the cold and wet. Taz checked her surroundings one last time. But there was nothing. Nothing but the unrelenting rain, drumming off his overcoat like the side of a tent.
She scrunched up the spandex that was gathered about her waist and pushed it down over narrow hips and thighs. When she had it bunched about her knees she straddled his face and squatted down. With one hand she gripped his jaw and with two fingers of the opposite hand, she directed the yellow steaming flow of urine.


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