— Posted in Becky is Better, Vampire Noir, WIP - WASP in Peril

Becky is Better [Episode #071]

“When you decide to attack, keep calm and dash in quickly, forestalling the enemy … attack with a feeling of constantly crushing the enemy, from first to last.”—Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy

Margaret’s clothes that are people are back in the closet. The OB sets atop an Anwar table, mutely. She is once more alone with her own thoughts and in total control of her mind.

The call girl locks the wardrobe and turns around upon hearing the front door buzzer. It must be her three-o’clock, Maurice Biagini, a bourgeois businessmen she got on referral from a French couple, Betty and Victor.

The two roosters are itinerate con artists, operating out of a small RV, crisscrossing the country, hopping from convention to convention scamming well-heeled conventioneers out of petty sums of money—petty by Margaret’s standards, although none of the take from any single scam numbers at least a handful of Benjamins [five hundred dollars].

By Margaret’s way of thinking, anything less than a deuce of figure-fours [a couple of grand] is just not worth the trouble. Irrespective of that, the Frenches make enough from their “petty” takes to maintain a comfortable, albeit elusive, lifestyle.

Why are Frenches called roosters? Shouldn’t they just be called cowards?

Rooster, which in French is “coq”, is the national symbol of the France. The Latin word for “rooster” is “Gallus”, and the “Gaulle”, the ancestor of France, was “Gallia” in Latin.

Traditionally, the French are called this [roosters], actually roostres, because they have a bad, unfair reputation of sitting on the fence, the sidelines … watching other people go to war … giving the French, branding them as cowards. They are cautious, not cowards, as anyone who has the misfortune of crossing swords with them will attest.

Margaret slips on a silk nightie and answers the door. The Frenches thought Maurice [the money man for a multinational corporation] to be out of their league, hence the referral.

He’s waiting with baited breath, that metal suitcase [Betty and Victor told her about] is chained to his wrist. There is a bulge in his pants, evidence of his anticipation of what is to ensue. The door to the bedroom has been left open, affording a straight line of sight to the OB—something Margaret did subconsciously.

She ushers him in and shuts the door, throwing the deadbolt.

He leans against the now closed, locked front door. Frenchmen are not used to fucking around when it comes to fucking around. It’s straight, no chaser. Why fuck in the bedroom when the living room will do just fine?

She grabs his crotch and massages his swollen clicker [i.e. his swollen cock and balls] through his pants.

He moans. His briefcase drops to the floor, easily forgotten for now.

She drops to her knees, unzips his pants, and shoves his penis into her large maw, her educated tongue dancing across the glans of his fleshy lollipop. While she deep [throats] him, she’s milking his testicles like a cow’s udder. Got milk?!

He grabs the back of her head and shoves her wanton face ever deeper into his game nethers. Nothing romantic whatever about any of this.

This is all about whore for hire with none of that pretense or foreplay that Americans are known for. The French know how to use a whore.

He ejaculates into her mouth, and she sucks even harder, never missing a beat or losing a drop of his precious salty, white nectar—semen that’s salty and warm, and smelling slightly sweet as well—not bitter in taste—not tasting like thick Clorox or what he ate twelve hours before either.

For the briefest moment, it [the OB] wears her. It’s a spur of the moment thing that it’s done many time before. It likes to flitter her when she’s giving head. She gives monster head.

Maurice’s instructions to her beforehand were quite explicit. He only wants head, ace ducey head, nothing more, and nothing else. And, he will pay quite handsomely, in cash [fat stacks] for the use of her mouth for the oral perversion of Linda Lovelace known as fellatio deep [Deep Throat]. The figure agreed upon was four-thousand dollars.

Four grand is a tidy sum indeed. But the always greedy Margaret thinks that much more can be had in his briefcase. She’s betting his life that there is. Fuck now. Kill later. The ROOM will again prove indispensable in the discreet disposal of a dead body.

In-between fucking him and killing him, Margaret thinks that she’ll wear the Froggy for kicks. Maybe she’ll have him off himself while she’s still wearing him. There’s always a nice orgasm to be had from that. It’s how she got off when she offed the hotel detective.

Frog for French? Another derogatory term for the French in Margaret’s lexicon?

The French have described the English as a nation of shopkeepers and the English have described the French as a nation of frog-eaters. So, boil it down over the years and “frog-eaters” becomes frogs or froggies. N’est pas?