The Hitman

No sex in this one. Far more sex in the next.

The man checks his weapons before stepping out of the low-slung black sedan. During the day he would normally use a white Corolla, The Toyota Corolla being the most widely used car, and white being the most common shade. It was Unobtrusive, and therefore invisible. Just another middle class worker trying to get home. Throw on a shirt and tie and you could kill someone in cold blood and walk straight out of the cubicle in which they'd been working. His preferred method, for his chosen career.

This latest job however, was difficult. It was specific, it was frankly strange, and to top it off he'd charged far less than for a standard job, even though he should have asked for far more, considering the visibility. The man gave a small shrug. He'd given a quote, and as a businessman it was his obligation to follow through. His equipment reflected this perfectly. A black car, normally suspicious, but in a specific alley with the clock approaching midnight, virtually invisible. California plates, obviously not his. He was wearing all black- not for stealth, as black may be a concealing color, but a man in black rings all sorts of alarm bells, but for intimidation alone. For this task he'd picked a black turtleneck, a balaclava with a Kevlar faceguard, black Kevlar jeans and large black combat boots. Normally he would wear shoes slightly more appropriate, however unobtrusive was not his goal tonight, fear was. Hence his weapon, A Sig-Sauer P220, silenced. Normally chambered for nine-millimetre Parabellums, currently holding none. Zero in the chamber, Zero in the magazine. Intimidating and virtually harmless, unless he was crazy enough to use it as a blunt instrument.

He takes another look around the alley before pushing away from the door, a small black briefcase dangling from his left hand, balaclava and faceguard balled in his right. Suspicious, but no reason to start calling phones. He steps up to the rear fire-exit of his target's apartment. Like all small places with terrible security, the staircase was external, a metal skeleton clinging to the side of the brick complex. Like most, the security was held in the ladder, normally kept far out of reach, which would slide down when a panicking resident used it to escape from the namesake fire it was designed for, and the incredibly loud noise it made when attempting to climb it. The first issue was dealt with by a rope the man had tied to it that afternoon- the second was rendered moot only by a decade of experience using them for his grisly profession.

A swift tug on the rope was all that was needed for the ladder to begin obeying the laws of gravity, rolling downwards towards him before he cleanly fields it with his left, briefcase leaning against his leg. He slowly continues pulling the ladder downwards before trapping it with a raised leg, swiftly puts on the rest of his costume, picks up the briefcase and starts upwards.

He only needs to climb two stories on the rickety stairs before arriving at his destination. However, a stroke of luck hits. The window, normally one of the toughest parts of his job is sitting ajar, letting a stiff breeze wend its way through the house. Taking a quick look at the hinges, he places the briefcase upon the ground and removes a small bottle of lubricant. No need to take chances, even though he'd usually take a spray-can for jobs like this. A few drops into the hinges and the window acquiesces silently to his gentle pressure, easing open further and allowing him to drop into the room, the bottle back with his other tools in the briefcase.

A quick look around tells him he's in the dining and lounge room. Through an open doorway he can see a kitchen, with a pass-through in the wall next to it. Anywhere else, he'd consider a student or shift-worker would live here. In a town this cramped it was just as likely they were a full-time worker, or even a teacher. Three doors headed outwards from the room. One was instantly ruled out because of the peep-hole in the centre, normally a godsend to a man in the profession of killing, but this time all it served to tell him was that the only thing on the other side of the door was the hallway. So, two doors. One bathroom, one bedroom. He wanted to slow down and check them over thoroughly, but this wasn't the time for taking small steps. He was in another person's house while they slept, with a gun. Loaded or un-loaded, it wouldn't do for the target to alert the building to his presence. Suddenly he spies it. A small grey shape underneath one of the doors. He looks across the the kitchen to confirm it, and there it is. A small grey slider which both hides and heralds the shift in flooring from the carpeted lounge to the tiled kitchen -- and hopefully the tiled bathroom. Process of elimination. Stepping to the last available door, he crouches down, creating a lower profile, quietly turns the knob and steps in.

There's a shape on the bed, single sheet rising and falling to the pace of quiet, oblivious breathing. He gathers his courage. This is the single action with the highest chance of failure.

In a fluid motion he stands, his pistol drawn and pointing, the other hand in front of his mouth, one finger up. "Stay quiet or die". Universal sign-language. He calls out:

"Jennifer".

The figure on the bed stirs. Shifts slightly as she slowly begins to wake up. He sees her turn towards the foot of the bed, see his shape and slowly start to reach for the light. Then a startled gasp. She's seen the gun. A long half-second. Her eyes agonizingly glide to her right. She sees his hand. Stay Quiet. She sits, still. Good.

A cursory inspection shows that she wears a bra to bed, and nothing else. Enjoys her freedom, but still is wary of gravity. And well she should be, as the dark lace is containing what appears to be at least D cups. Outside he stands calm and collected, inside he is thinking to himself, "Clinical. Calm. Steady". A mantra, one he had adopted when he very first began his job, and hadn't needed to use in years. "Clinical. Calm. Steady. Keep your eyes off her tits. Get your mind on the job." He forces his eyes up. She stares at his gun with her own large dark orbs. Her hair is a mousy brown- somewhere between dirty blonde and brunette.

"If you make a single peep, you will die. Nod if you understand."

A bluff. His client was very specific. Not a hair on her head harmed, other than what has been specified. But she nods, and his shoulders relax slightly, almost imperceptibly.

"Jennifer, kneel on the floor."

She starts slightly at the mention of her name, now that she's awake enough to hear it. His voice sounds muffled from behind the mask. Good. Less easily recognized. Staring at the barrel of his gun as though it was a horrific entity, she slowly slides off the bed, and kneels on the floor. He watches the fluid motions, feeling the first stirrings of blood shifting towards his cock.

"Keep your eyes on the wall in front of you."

Rigidly, like a robot, she turns to face the wall. But her eyes keep shifting back towards him. It was enough. At least it meant the intimidation works.

"Place your arms behind your back."

Again, a small hesitation, then she does what she's told. Better than being shot, and so far all he was doing was talking. He moves behind her. Slowly, like trying not to startle a gazelle. He crouches behind her, removing two cable ties from his pocket, both already with the tip caught in the teeth, and linked together. Plastic handcuffs. Slipping one over each of her wrists, he pulls them tight. She flinches at his touch as he catches the first whiffs of her scent. He likes it. Another twitch hits his loins, a clock slowly ticking off the strokes until his impending erection. "Clinical. Calm. Steady" With care, he lifts each of her feet, slipping another pair of cable ties over each of them and tightening them in turn. A third one goes between her wrist restraints and ankle restraints, and as he pulls the slack out, it in turn pulls her downwards, until she is sitting on her heels, back arched, breasts rising high on her chest as she breathes in and out. Not the slow breathing of the untroubled anymore -- panicked breathing, fuelled by adrenaline.

Meanwhile, the man has placed the briefcase behind her, out of view. He opens it and again looks at the array of tools for this job. Insane tools, for a completely crazy contract. All sorts of sex implements lay inside the briefcase, from a fat black dildo and matching plug, which from the looks of the neighbouring lube he could only assume was for her ass, a dainty chain with some delicate clamps on either end, some short loops of an itchy-looking hemp rope, and lastly, a large red ball-gag. Silently, the man retrieves the last item and quietly loops it over her head. He hears her inhale, as though about to say something, and waits for her first uttered syllable, a soft "Ah", before he uses that opening to push the gag firmly into her mouth. Looping her hair through, he pulls it tight and slowly pushes her over onto her side, supporting her weight with his arm.

He then stands, pulling an envelope from his pocket. All of the tense moments were over now, so he was free to once again re-read the crazy orders which had led him here. Opening the flap, he slides the sheet of paper outwards, revealing a blank piece of paper with a single line on one side, and a page full of specific instructions on the reverse. He reads the line, and re-reads it again, just in case he'd gone insane. But it was there, staring him in the face, while he sat behind a sexy, bound woman.