The Assassin’s Game - Sex Stories

The Assassin’s Game

A fog hovered low over the ground that evening as the air hung heavy, saturated in humidity of the southern waterfront. “Damn this street,” she muttered to herself while cautiously making her way across the dimly lit colonial cobblestone street in a pair of high heels. Stepping onto the brick sidewalk, she sighed with relief and walked toward the bright neon ‘Open’ sign at the corner. Dead silence greeted her steps until the loud low boom of a merchant ship’s horn startled her. “I hate those things,” she whispered under her breath. She stepped into the portico and pushed hard against the heavy door, nearly stumbling as she stepped inside. The bar was almost as dark as it had been outside. A few neon beer signs from behind the bar provided much of the light. Thick cigarette smoke muted what light there was. Several heads turned to see who had entered. She realized nearly everyone there was watching her as she slid her raincoat off and hung it on the wooden coat rack just inside the door. Her long tan legs and short business skirt caught their attention. Flipping her long blonde locks, she entertained the few gawking men with her sensual twisty walk until she sat upon one of the tall barstools. “Hi Max.” She pulled a cigarette pack from her purse. Striking a match, the bartender leaned over the bar and offered her a light. Deeply inhaling the freshly lit cigarette, she exhaled a long plume of smoke and straightened up as she sat on the stool. “Thanks, Max,” she said, “you’re ...

... such a gentleman.” “Not really, Eva, but you’re welcome.” “Could you make me a Pretty In Pink?” “Sure, Eva.” “All I’ve had for weeks is bourbon or rum,” Eva declared, “I need something girlie.” Eva flipped her hair back, inhaled her cigarette and blew out a smoke ring. ‘That will entertain those longshoremen sitting in the booth,’ she thought to herself. With her peripheral vision she knew they all had their heads turned toward her. Max slid the Pretty In Pink across the bar to her. Eva picked it up and discreetly sniffed, enjoying the pineapple fragrance. She took a long sip and sat the glass back on the bar before carefully scanning the room. Seconds later she heard the distinct sound of a Triumph motorcycle approaching, loud and masculine, but not as deep as a Harley. Through the front plate glass window, the headlight beam bounced as it lit up the ancient brick building across the street. The motorcycle pulled off the cobblestone street onto the sidewalk in front of the bar and the engine noise died. Eva could see him in his black leather jacket as he got off the bike. She had not seen him in several months. Mason Pierson took his black helmet off and hung it around the handlebars. He only rode Triumph motorcycles and fancied himself to be like Steve McQueen. Actually, he looked a lot like Steve McQueen. Mason stepped into the pub and immediately noticed Eva sitting at the bar. His charming grin said hello as it always had. Before coming over to join her though, he went ...