Xuchilpaba's Seed

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He grunts, slipping off his tie with one hand. With the other arm he pins Cole to the desk.

“Good boy.”

Already he’s breathing hard, chest tight.

“You really are insatiable, aren’t you?”

Gently he winds the silk tie round Cole’s eyes. As he releases the boy for a second, freeing his other hand, he feels Cole warm and shaking against his body; the pressure makes him groan, biting his lip.

He ties the blindfold snug.

“You’re a goddam whore, Miller.”

“Do I scare you, Miller?”

His voice hitches; Miller’s hot and yielding against his cock, through his neat slacks.

the seven deadly sins | gluttony

“Well, aren’t you just adorable?”

From the bottle of whiskey on his desk he pours a generous measure.

“All right, Soris. Make yourself comfortable.”

He smiles, tight and controlled, eyes flashing behind his glasses.

“Well, aren’t you just adorable?”

Middle-aged, silver at the temples. Smells of cigar smoke and sweat and cinnamon. Suit tailored for a slimmer man; jacket slung rakishly over his shoulder. Still handsome enough.

“Well, aren’t you just adorable?”

The salt’s still clinging to his hand.

“Going to crack your head open.”

Lightly he catches Ford’s wrist; lightly he guides him down the steps.

(If the son of a gun falls, I’ll never see that money—)

“Easy does it. You’re not drinking without me?”

Ford’s entire weight fell into Toby and his head lulled, sweat soaking through his shirt. 

He’s reminded perversely of Darlene Rutledge, of her flabby arm around his shoulder, of the choking smell of her powder.

But Ford’s a lighter burden, and he guides Ford down, thinking in a rush—

—if there’s no Hatcher fortune, no bonds, no jewels, I’m going to take his sorry ass and hurl him from the water tower.

The words come out sharer than ice crystals.

Temper that short, you’re going to get yourself in trouble.

He raises his glass. Pushes his spectacles up his nose.

“I said you were a pretty girl. I stand by it.”

The sword goes back into its sheath with a hiss of steel.

She reaches over and takes the glass from his hand with quick, nimble fingers and drains what remains, leaning back to perch on the edge of her bar stool.

The empty glass goes back on the bar.

Someone’s got a chip on her shoulder.