14

Las Vegas, United States

He can't recognize himself in the reflection. Michael Gilbert has drunk so much that his vision blurs. He inspects the mirror across the bar again, managing to focus his sight and attention for a few seconds.

His hair is tousled, his gaze vacant. His pinched lips confer him a stupefied look, and he sees himself swaying precariously from side to side on top of his stool. It's time for him to head back to his hotel.

Michael rubs his eyes, opens and closes his pasty mouth several times. He starts slapping his face lightly to wake up. It produces the desired effect, and he takes a deep breath to fully regain his senses.

He decides to try his luck and carefully descends from the stool while clinging to the bar. After ensuring he can stand, he searches his pants pocket and pulls out a handful of crumpled bills which he leaves uncounted next to his empty bourbon glass. He staggers away, nearly crashing to the ground. A saving arm provides the necessary support.

"Drank too much?"

Straightening, Michael inspects a pair of slender legs accentuated by high-ankle sparkling blue heels. Legs that seem endless. He realizes they belong to the one who just asked if he drank too much. He sobers up suddenly, trying to appear as someone who just tripped. But the movement ends up a bit too quick for his foggy brain, and he dangerously wobbles, noting along the way that the pair of legs is topped by a dress of the same blue as the heels and wonderfully short.

The unknown woman's supportive arm tightens to prevent him from falling again. Michael capitalizes on this regained stability to finish his inspection. The young woman appears about a head shorter than him. The plunging neckline wardrobe perfectly molds her athletic body. The cleavage suggests round and firm breasts. Michael discerns no artificial padding, which is rather rare.

Before he can answer the obvious question, she flashes him a wide smile, explaining that she cannot let him leave alone in this state. It doesn't occur to him for a second to contradict her. And, leaning on her with a bit more insistence than necessary, they exit the casino bar and head out onto the crowded sidewalks of the "Strip."

The Strip is the name given to a section of "Las Vegas Boulevard" along which the most famous casinos and the largest hotel complexes in the world stretch. The lights never go out there unless in tribute to legendary crooners like Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra. Over more than four miles, it's a parade of styles and colors, where pirate ships, Egyptian pyramids, fake Paris, and ancient Rome coexist with more than questionable taste. The crowd is dense, especially at night, and the incessant noise of slot machines assaults the ears around all the entrance doors. Everything appears excessive and abundant; shows, casinos, all-you-can-eat buffets, long limousines, and more or less subtle solicitation. Europeans, after the first wonders, quickly get sick of it. The Strip is to adults what Disney World is to children. And the grown-ups don't explore the city of Las Vegas itself any more than the kids visit Orlando after departing Mickey's park.

After leaving "Excalibur," the medieval-themed casino, they stroll about one mile north on the famous boulevard between Tropicana Avenue and Flamingo Road. There, they finally arrive at the "Caesar Palace" where Michael has rented a luxury suite. The little walk has partly sobered him up, and he is more able to judge the situation. No doubt that his good samaritan is none other than a professional looking for a wealthy client. Vegas is teeming with such "escorts", who, for the right price, accompany gamblers to their rooms.

A perfect opportunity for Michael. What better way to end his first day in Las Vegas? He played to his heart's content on the slot machines, splurged $500 chips at Black Jack, and drank the finest bourbons in town. Now he will head up to his suite, order the most expensive dishes, and sleep with this dream creature, ready to fulfill his every fantasy for hard cash. And money, he's not short of, he thinks as they walk through the lobby towards the large elevators.

Barely in the cab, she presses against him, her perfect body undulating against his.

"A night to remember..." she whispers in his ear.

His head spins a bit, but this time from excitement. He indeed plans to remember this night.

They exit the elevator giggling. Michael leads her to his suite's wide double doors. She slips off her shoes and continues barefoot on the thick red carpet in the hallway, holding her heels in hand.

Clumsily, Michael drops the magnetic card on the doorstep. Before he can retrieve it, she has already picked it up and flings wide open the two doors. He would like to shower and fully sober up, but she pulls him inside, slams the doors shut, and with her breasts pressed against his chest, she pushes him back to the edge of the huge bed. Michael wobbles as his calves hit the bed frame. She nudges him backward to break his balance.

He falls back, arms spread, bouncing softly on the plush mattress. He can't believe it; she's a real tigress. She's already advancing on all fours, then straightens up to straddle him. He kicks off his shoes by rubbing his feet against each other and starts wriggling to the center of the bed. She seductively follows his ascent with suggestive hip motions.

When he finally stops moving, she does the same, strategically placing her crotch at his thighs to better submit him to her will. She tilts over, undulating her body, and with an expert hand, unbuckles Michael's belt, eliciting an anticipatory groan of pleasure from him. With a sharp pull, she slides the leather strap out of its loops. Then, with a coquettish pout, she raises her eyebrows while snapping the sash in the air. The sound like a whip draws a blissful smile on Michael's face. He's indeed going to have a good time.

The call girl leans towards him, and he stretches his lips in expectancy of a passionate kiss. Everything then happens very quickly. She slightly lifts herself to relieve the pressure on her body and exerts a precise push on her partner's shoulder. Michael spins on himself. Lying on his stomach, he feels the full weight of the tigress pressing on his back as she lays down again. It's impossible for him to escape her grip. He notices a strange strain around his neck, and before Michael realizes his own belt is strangling him, he's already short of breath.

He wants to scream, but the leather strap, expertly used, crushes his larynx. So he tries to defend himself, to stir, and in a last effort, he arches his entire length. She doesn't budge, her thighs firmly clamped on his flanks, the professional now has the air of a cowgirl riding a rodeo bull. She pulls the belt one notch tighter, and Michael falls back onto the bed. Definitely deprived of oxygen, a red, then black veil drops over his eyes until he loses consciousness.

The predator maintains her grip for an additional minute. This is not an erotic game but indeed an execution. Once sure her job is done, she stands up, and starts leaving, adjusting her dress without haste.