Invading the Indoctrination House
Setting the Scene:
Drake Martin, in Yorkie form, is trapped in a brothel run by the Russian mob.
The scene unfolds:
Women may not arouse me when I’m in canine form, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate an attractive one. Sitting on a plush stool, she slipped on a pair of fishnet stockings as if putting on a show for a lover. “This, my sweet,” she announced, for my benefit, I guess, “is what the men fight over.”
First one then the other long, cream-colored leg languidly stretched full-length to receive its sheath of black webbing pulled tight. Wrapping a black garter belt around her waist, she attached the stocking tops to the fasteners dangling from the end of lace strips. Fitting on stiletto heels matching the outfit, she picked a scarlet riding crop from a collection hanging on one wall.
“Be good while Mama’s gone and I’ll bring you a treat,” she said, smiling and crouching down. Long, red enameled fingernails scratched under my chin. Within two seconds my diminutive being immersed in the bliss of the slow scraping. Every speck of concern in the Universe took back seat to maintaining the point of exquisite contact between my chin and her well-manicured nails. She’d unknowingly uncovered my Achilles heel. The tactile ecstasy abruptly ended with her standing.
While waiting until the stiletto clicks faded down the hall, I reviewed the situation. Patience not being a shifter’s strong point, I had to get rolling before the crew waiting outside did something rash. Success boiled down to disabling the entrance guards and throwing the door open. Everyone else was unarmed and naked.
At seeing me trotting confidently down the hall toward them, the guards chuckled and muttered to each other in Russian. One waved a sidearm in my direction. For a terrible second, I thought he might have figured me out, until a smile crossed his face followed by a deep laugh that gave way to a gasp as Drake sprang up before their unbelieving eyes.
A single loud crack filled the hallway as their heads collided at freeway speed. Eyes rolled up in heads while the bodies slid to the floor. Blood and brain oozed through the fissures of the ruptured skulls, swelling and darkening under the skin. Seconds later harsh yellow light angled into the street from the open door and a dozen forms ran to it.
“Finish them,” Jonathan ordered in passing, indicating the prostrate guards.
Setting the Scene:
Drake Martin, in Yorkie form, is trapped in a brothel run by the Russian mob.
The scene unfolds:
Women may not arouse me when I’m in canine form, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate an attractive one. Sitting on a plush stool, she slipped on a pair of fishnet stockings as if putting on a show for a lover. “This, my sweet,” she announced, for my benefit, I guess, “is what the men fight over.”
First one then the other long, cream-colored leg languidly stretched full-length to receive its sheath of black webbing pulled tight. Wrapping a black garter belt around her waist, she attached the stocking tops to the fasteners dangling from the end of lace strips. Fitting on stiletto heels matching the outfit, she picked a scarlet riding crop from a collection hanging on one wall.
“Be good while Mama’s gone and I’ll bring you a treat,” she said, smiling and crouching down. Long, red enameled fingernails scratched under my chin. Within two seconds my diminutive being immersed in the bliss of the slow scraping. Every speck of concern in the Universe took back seat to maintaining the point of exquisite contact between my chin and her well-manicured nails. She’d unknowingly uncovered my Achilles heel. The tactile ecstasy abruptly ended with her standing.
While waiting until the stiletto clicks faded down the hall, I reviewed the situation. Patience not being a shifter’s strong point, I had to get rolling before the crew waiting outside did something rash. Success boiled down to disabling the entrance guards and throwing the door open. Everyone else was unarmed and naked.
At seeing me trotting confidently down the hall toward them, the guards chuckled and muttered to each other in Russian. One waved a sidearm in my direction. For a terrible second, I thought he might have figured me out, until a smile crossed his face followed by a deep laugh that gave way to a gasp as Drake sprang up before their unbelieving eyes.
A single loud crack filled the hallway as their heads collided at freeway speed. Eyes rolled up in heads while the bodies slid to the floor. Blood and brain oozed through the fissures of the ruptured skulls, swelling and darkening under the skin. Seconds later harsh yellow light angled into the street from the open door and a dozen forms ran to it.
“Finish them,” Jonathan ordered in passing, indicating the prostrate guards.
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