Infernal Miranda

This story has interactions between male-bodied people and penises. If that bothers you, please move along and enjoy most of my other stories. There is also more violence in this story than most of mine.

It was foolish, the sort of thing one would do if one had a death wish, but I had done it anyway, and here I was. The bastard had killed my father, John Grant - not directly, of course, but his goons had - and as his only daughter, I couldn't let it lie. I had the cell phone he always insisted I have on me in case of trouble, but trouble would catch up to me before I could get any help from 911.

The guys chasing me weren't Hutton's goons, just a couple of horny thugs strung out on something or other. That, in a way, was the artistic touch.

I ran down the alley. I was making good time, and I thought I had a chance. The two men, barely more than kids really, were a lot larger than me but not particularly fast. With luck I'd out distance them or find help.

But my luck ran out. The alley was a dead end. At the end of it, lounging against the brick wall that loomed so unfortunately, was a man incongruously dressed in outdated formal wear, complete with tails and a cravat. He didn't belong in an alley, and I wasn't sure he belonged in this century, but there he was, looking like he was in a swanky hotel with chandeliers, looking over the debutantes of some other era.

I hadn't gotten close enough to Hutton's operation to make him mad without taking chances when I found them. Maybe he was on my side. Maybe he had a gun. From the look of him it would probably be some antique breechloader, or at best a Colt Peacemaker. Nothing more modern would fit with the outfit. It was a ridiculous thought, one that I didn't have time for, but I was scared out of my wits. I'd love to tell you that I was calm, cool and collected while I was running from jerks twice my size, but I'd be lying. And I only do that on days that end in y.

I kept running toward him because it was the only way to run. "Please! Help me!" If that sounded pathetic and less than heroic, so be it. I could hope he wanted to help a cute girl, assuming he thought I was a cute girl. I'd used my charms to get me in and out of trouble before.

As I got closer I saw that the man had a markedly triangular face and an intense sunburn. The shape of his face was accentuated by a Van Dyke beard. He paired the beard with a waxed mustache that twirled around on each side of his nose.

He couldn't help. He was a fop, someone misplaced from a costume party, and I more likely had placed him in danger than he was to get me out of it. Heavy footsteps pounded behind me, and I was almost to the fop and the wall. I'd have to try to climb it, and I didn't like my chances.

"Help?" The man said calmly, as if we were talking about whether tricorn hats were making a comeback or if the top hat was there to stay. "Would you accept my help, whatever form it might take?"

I didn't have time to go over all the possibilities. "Yeah," I said, on the one in a thousand chance it would pay off. Meanwhile I tried my other long shot. I tried to run up the wall, hoping my bare feet - I'd kicked off the heels blocks ago - could find purchase in between the red bricks and my hands could find handholds, but I got a few feet up and fell. I landed on my feet, at least, although I scraped my forearm in the attempt to climb. My dignity was intact, but I'd sell my dignity in a heartbeat for a way out. I glanced over my shoulder, and saw the two creeps enter the alley. I had less than ten seconds.

The fop touched my arm. "Here," he said. "Have a piece of my soul. And have an interesting life."

That was a curse, in some cultures. "Do you have a gun?" It would be more useful.

"No. Advice. Give into your anger. Good luck."

I blinked and he was gone. I looked around for his escape route, thinking I'd take it too. But I didn't see a door, a trap door, or even a hiding place, just a few kitchen-sized bags of trash.

My pursuers slowed down and sauntered toward me. They knew and I knew I was trapped.

The one I'd labeled Baldy spoke. "C'mon pretty pretty. We just want to have some fun with you. Don't you want to have some fun?"

Scarface had a knife out, which managed to reflect what little moonlight filtered down between three story buildings. He was just a punk, and didn't deserve Al Capone's nickname but it was all I could think of right then.

"All out of fun," I said. "Sorry." I didn't think I could talk my way out of it, but I wasn't going to just panic. Give into your anger.

They were going to have their way with me, regardless. And when they were done, they'd probably think they were safer with me dead than alive. Probably they hadn't thought it out that far, but I had seen their faces and could pick them out of a lineup. Whatever they intended now, and I had a pretty good idea of what it was, when they were done and had no more use for me, they'd kill me. They wouldn't have to dump the body anywhere; the alley was already the perfect spot.

If I got angry, and got them angry, maybe they'd kill me first, before the other thing. If that was all the fop had meant, it was crappy advice, but I still took it. "You bunch of cocksuckers couldn't get it up to save your lives. What are you even bothering for, you assholes? Can't get laid any other way? You're such losers."

"Big talk," said Scarface. "Why don't you take that pretty blouse off and show us your titties, and maybe we'll be nice. Otherwise I'll have to cut it off, and I might nick you."

Fuck no. I clenched my fists, and glowered. "Try your worst," I said. "I'll pound your face in." It was ludicrous. He had six inches and a hundred pounds on me, probably more. They both did.

"I'll hold her," said Baldy. "You can cut her clothes off. It's okay if she bleeds a little bit."

Give into your anger. It would have been harder to hold it back. I just had to let go, so I did. I looked forward to adding a few scars to their faces for them to remember me by when I was gone.

Then something ripped. There was a sudden breeze on my chest, but the knife hadn't moved yet, and Baldy was still circling around. I felt stronger, and thought for a moment of mothers who, powered by adrenalin, could push cars off their children. I hoped that wasn't an urban legend, and that it was happening to me.

I grabbed Baldy by the arm and yanked him. He wasn't moving toward me with any great momentum, so I wasn't in the ideal position for a judo throw, and anyway I'd only taken four classes and quit. I didn't expect much. But he ended up flying through the air and colliding with his buddy with significant force.

"You mother fuckers," I said. They hadn't fallen, but they were staggering. I had a chance now to run out of the alley, but I'd lost my temper, and I didn't fucking feel like running. I wanted to teach them a lesson. Scarface was lunging toward me with the knife, and the moment for escape had passed. I grabbed his wrist and squeezed.

Something bent and broke, and a girlish shriek pierced the night, but it wasn't me doing the yelling. Who knew Scarface could hit that note? The knife clattered to the asphalt.

"She's one of them!" yelled Baldy.

"One of who?" I threw a punch at him and busted his nose. His face gushed blood as he staggered back. I didn't just feel stronger, I felt bigger. My license said I was five-six, and I was staring at these six-foot thugs directly in the eye.

Scarface pointed at me with his remaining good hand. At my crotch, the same part of me that they'd been most interested in when I started running. But now he looked horrified rather than predatory.

The idea that either of these two represented a threat to me seemed ridiculous now. They were both stepping back, not bothering to pick up the knife, and I got the feeling the only reason they weren't in headlong retreat is that they didn't have the courage to turn their back to me.

I glanced down.

I was bigger. My chest was bigger, for one thing, which was why my blouse had ripped and my bra had popped open, but the rest of me had grown, too. I was taller. The extra height had made my already short skirt shorter, and I could feel a breeze on my ass. My skin was a reddish hue, like the fop's skin, and a very large cock jutted out from under the skirt.

I didn't have the wits to wonder if I was dreaming. "So," I growled, "You wanted to fuck, did you? Bend over, boys."

They turned and ran. I had no doubt I could catch up. I'd been faster than them before, and I was almost certainly faster as well as stronger now. I could grab them and show them what it was like to be prey, to have no choice as to what a stranger did with your body. I started to run toward them, and then stopped after three steps.

I'm better than that.

They ran out of sight. I took several deep breaths, calmed a little, and then looked myself over again.

Yeah, I still had huge red tits and a big red cock. It was softening a little, not jutting out quite so hard. I fastened my blouse as well as I could, using the one button remaining, and managed to make it so my broken bra would mostly stay in place. After that I managed to pull my skirt down so that it covered my new, uh, appendage, although that meant having the waist stretch around my hips. I was probably showing some reverse cleavage, but I was sort of decent.

None of this made sense. Who was the man with the silly beard and the crazy mustache? And where was he? I took a deep breath. "Hey, you can come out now."

No reply. Well, I suppose him vanishing made as much sense as anything else. I was glad to be alive.

My car was eight blocks away. If I kept my skirt tugged down and one arm crossed over my chest, I could maybe make it there without getting arrested, and not drawing much more unwanted attention - nothing more than a catcall or two. I couldn't do anything about my skin condition, but that wasn't illegal, even if it was inexplicable. I started walking out of the alley, not knowing what else to do. There was no place for that guy to have gone, so I didn't have the faintest idea where to search for him to get an explanation.

A woman came wandering down the alley toward me. For an alley with no exit, it sure did see a lot of traffic. And the woman, in her own way, was nearly as striking as the man with the Van Dyke beard had been. The same sunburned skin, nearly as red as my own, spilled over a tight leather bustier, was flaunted on a taut stomach, and another flash of it was visible between a leather mini and thigh-high leather boots.

"Hello there," I said, all witty and everything. "Are you, um, with that guy?"

"Az? Yeah, I clean up after his messes. Did he tell you anything?"

"Anything about what? He just asked if I wanted help, I said yes, and... then he vanished. Is he responsible for... this?" I gestured at myself.

"Your state of en deshabille?" The woman said. "Not directly. He told you how to change? Or you lost your temper?"

"I like to think of it as righteous anger."

"Oh. No. We don't do righteous. Anyway, welcome to the family. I'm Lilith, but you can call me Lily. I'm a minor infernal, in charge of onboarding. You are?"

"Miranda."

"Right. Miranda. So, short form. You now have an infernal soul. When you want to, or when you get angry, you can shift from your normal, human form into the lovely creature of darkness you are now. Nice horns, by the way."

"Horns?" I reached up to my head, where something had felt not quite right, but so little was right this evening it hadn't felt worth investigating. Sure enough, I had some very hard horns sprouting from her head, and from the feel of them they were about nine inches long, and spiraled once or twice. "Shift? I can shift into this form?" My mind was still catching up with reality but I managed to follow that to its logical conclusion. "Does that mean I can shift back?"

"Yep. Just take a few deep, centering breaths. Focus on what it means to be whatever you were before. Let the anger fall from you like - fuck, I'm not good at this stuff, I'm better at riling people up." Lily pulled a phone out of her cleavage. "Here. You Tube has meditations. Soon you'll be able to do it without this, but..."

She pressed play, and a hypnotic voice told me to focus on nothing but my breath and let distractions go.

I rolled my eyes at the new age crap, but went with it. Eventually, I felt myself get smaller. More human. Weaker. Dickless. I wasn't sure it was an improvement, but I felt myself again.

I felt my head. No horns. A glance at my chest told me I wouldn't be literally busting out of what was left of my clothes.

"It'll be second nature eventually," Lily said.

"What happened to me? What am I? What, for that matter, are you?"

"I'm an infernal, or a demon if you want to be crass about it. We're one of two great forces in the extra planar world, the other being the celestials. Angels. But let me tell you right now, some of them are not very angelic. Anyway, they cut a deal with us, and we're allowed to share our souls with a finite number of humans. Lots of them, if you want to look at it that way, or a very small percentage. Goodness knows you've been fruitful and multiplied in the last few thousand years. I remember when if a town had forty thousand people it was considered a metropolis! I - okay, I got sidetracked."

"Okay, so you're - a demon. Infernal. Whatever. But what did you do to me?"

"Me? Nada. Blame Az. Asmodeous. He shared a part of his soul with you, and you let him. You must have agreed to something or other."

"I suppose I did. I was under duress, though."

"You could get a lawyer, and sue."

"Where would I sue, and how?"

"Well, you'd have to take it up with an infernal court. And you'd be fighting our lawyers. We have the best lawyers." She smiled. "They just come our way. I don't know how that happens."

"Right."

"Anyway, you're now one of us, sort of. Half and half, really. A human part, and an infernal part. You can change back and forth, or stay one or the other, and you'll live a long time, so it's mostly a good thing, at least as far as you're concerned. Anytime you shift, you'll be cleansed of any diseases or organisms that might be growing in you, other than your normal gut bacteria and so forth."

"Organisms growing in me?"

"I think you call them children. You can't get pregnant, or stay pregnant, anyway, if you shift into demon form. I didn't make the rules, but see, you don't have a womb when you're big and red. It'd be complicated. If you want to have kids, much better that you use that dick of yours to knock up some human woman."

Kids weren't on my immediate agenda, but maybe, someday. "But where does the mass come from? I was bigger, heavier. And where does it go?" And Mr. Boswick thought I wasn't paying attention in his class my senior year.

Lily shook her head. "Magic. Don't worry about it. Anyway, there you have it. That's all you need to know. Az is out sharing his soul with all sorts of people tonight, so I need to keep following him around and giving people the essentials, but don't worry, I'll check in on you in a while. Well, sometime, anyway. Practice shifting, and keep a low profile for a bit maybe. Oh! Forgot! Big thing. Most people, anyway, will sense what you are. It's instinctive. They won't have a name for it, unless they see you all big and red, but they'll sense your power, and your inherent - how do I put it?"

I shrugged. "You tell me."

"Evil! That's it. Not that you have to behave any way you don't want to. But people will sense you're a bad girl, even when in human form. Some will be attracted, most will be scared. Your mileage may vary, but even in human form, you'll have a certain magnetism. And in demon form? Well, I'll let you explore. Good luck! Here. Have these." She handed something to me and I took it without thinking. It was cold and metallic.

"Wait, I have..."

But she was gone, just as completely and mysteriously as the other one, Az, had gone. "... more questions." I said to no one. I opened my palm, expecting to find some demonic talisman, but it contained only a couple of safety pins.

Well, that was useful.

I pinned my blouse closed and walked to my car warily. Earlier that day, I'd received a call to tell me to meet a man who would give me information. He'd said he'd just wanted to see me in a short skirt, and he'd tell me about more about Hutton. I knew now I'd been set up for a couple of hopheads, and I'd walked into a trap. Hutton knew about me, and he wouldn't be content to just take the loss and move on. He'd try again, this time with professionals.

I doubted he'd believe my two assailants if they told what happened. They wouldn't be reporting straight to him, anyway. Or probably not even to one of his lieutenants. It would be someone lower down, maybe their dealer. Hutton had his fingers in lots of rackets, I knew that, and he bought judges and cops when he needed a blind eye turned.

I had walked straight into a trap.

Nobody bothered me on my way to my car, though. A couple of tough looking men, older than the two who'd attacked me, took a look at me and moved the other way, as if afraid of me. It made me wonder what I looked like, so when I got into the driver's seat, and made sure the doors were locked, I angled the rear-view mirror so that I could have a better look.

Short, honey-blonde hair, a nose that had too much upturn for my tastes, and red painted lips greeted me. My own face. Normal, everyday Miranda Grant. I put the car in gear and drove home.

#

In my quixotic quest to bring Hutton to justice, I hadn't been paying much attention to the news. Demons dominated the headlines and the airwaves, and apparently had for days. They had popped up everywhere, transformed from ordinary humans. That was what Baldy had meant by "one of them." The addict had been better informed than I was.

Most demons refused to talk about the experience. But a few said they had been accosted by a man who sounded quite a bit like Az. They had appeared all over the world, though, and no one could travel that fast.

Then again, a lot of things were happening that couldn't happen. For all I know he vanished from that alley and went straight to Timbuktu in a matter of seconds.

I didn't do much for the next twenty-four hours. I read everything I could find on the internet about the demons. I figured out how to transform, and back again. I did what any red-blooded American girl would do, and played with my new toy.

It was bigger than that of any man I'd ever been with, and it felt pretty damn good to stroke it. I almost jumped out of my seat when I came, and I must have shot my cum like six-feet.

Holy fuck!

Or unholy fuck, as the case might be.

I was still sitting in my chair, staring at my body, running my hands over my huge but somehow perky breasts, lazily stroking my cock back to hardness, running my tail up and down my long red legs - did I mention I had a tail? I didn't notice it at first. There had been a lot going on. Anyway, I was still sitting there when someone pounded on my door.

I got up and thought about seeing who was there, but I had an idea I knew. I'd let the problem with Hutton slip into the background. Of course, I could look through the peephole.

Something told me that was a bad plan. Instead, I grabbed a poker from the fireplace, which didn't work because the apartment manager never cleaned the flue, and moved to the side of the door. I was still naked, but in my demonic body that didn't equate to vulnerable. With my cock swinging between my legs, I had an idea of where some guys got their swagger.

I extended the poker so that it covered the peep hole. Anyone on the other side would think I was looking out to see who it was. If it was someone innocent, that wouldn't bother them.

Four bullets ripped through my door, fired in rapid succession. One of them even hit the poker, ripping it out of my hand. It clattered on the floor, which was probably good fortune. The guy on the other shooting end of the gun was probably listening for something to fall. Just in case, I did, because a body doesn't sound like a poker.

I popped right back up again. I noticed that one of the shots had hit the door knob, and he wouldn't have done that just to make sure I was one-handed when I died. I knew the killer was going to check to make sure I was dead.

He opened the door and walked right in like he owned the place. I chopped him on the back of the head. I'd only lasted through two sessions of karate, but I'd seen the move on TV.

He fell and was out like a light. I dragged his body into the room, closed my well-punctured door and then ran through his pockets. I got a name and an address, but nothing like a matchbook with the name of one of Hutton's nightclubs that would furnish an obscure but vital clue.

I checked for a pulse, but maybe I was doing it wrong, because I didn't feel anything.

Then again, maybe I was doing it right. His gun was still in his hand, and he had a death-like grip on it. I hadn't meant to kill him, but I couldn't get all broken up about it either.

I could hear sirens. My apartment wasn't in the best of neighborhoods, but I guess even so one couldn't fire four shots through a door with a cannon like a.45 without someone calling 911.

I stuck around, and hoped the cops that came weren't bought and paid for. It wasn't as if I had a series of safehouses and a plethora of fake IDs and disguises. They'd find me eventually, and it was my apartment.

I took some deep calming breaths, changed back, and then gave the police a call myself to tell them what happened - leaving out the part of me being big red and scary. I didn't want a SWAT team surrounding my building, like I figured it would be if they thought they were running into a live shooter. I destroyed the evidence - no, not anything to do with the body or the bullets, but the cum shot that had gone way past my hand to land on the floor. Then I worked on getting dressed. I got as far as underwear when I heard a knock on the door. "Open up, Police!"

I pulled on a robe, and did the trick with the poker again.

No gunfire.

I opened the door. The man who came in had a uniform. It didn't put me at ease, but I still figured most cops were honest. The second guy wore a suit, and he gave his name as Inspector Timmons. The uniformed man looked at the body while the Inspector talked to me.

"Miranda," I said. "Miranda Grant."

"He's dead," said his friend.

"Fine," said the Inspector. "Call the M. E."

"Gotcha."

So I'd killed a hitman. Was I supposed to feel bad? And, was I supposed to pretend to feel bad?

The Inspector pulled out a notebook. "So, Ms. Grant. Tell me what happened, from the beginning."

"I went to answer a knock at my door. I wasn't very quick about it, because I wasn't wearing anything when the guy knocked. I managed to get my underwear on, and threw on a robe, and was about to answer the door that way when I turned and decided I'd rather have on real clothes. I guess they guy thought I was on the other side of the door, and shot."

"Why would someone want to kill you, Ms. Grant?"

I shook my head. The cop could be in Hutton's pay. "I have no idea. Must be they were after someone else, and had the wrong address."

"Does anyone else live here?"

"No."

"Anyone visit often, so that they'd be here first thing in the morning?"

I smiled at the Inspector. He didn't seem scared of me, like Lilith had suggested. So maybe he was one of the ones that was attracted. "That's a rather personal question, Inspector."

"I have to ask it, ma'am. In case this guy was gunning for them."

"I won't tell you that a man has never stayed over. But lately? No."

Timmons nodded. "Alright. We'll circle back to the why later. So what happened next?"

"I grabbed the poker."

"Quick thinking."

"Thank you."

"And then?"

"I waited until he came through the door. I knew he would - you see how he shot out the lock. So he must have been planning to come in."

Timmons nodded again, impressed as he should be. "And then?"

"He came in, and I hit him with the poker. I didn't get him with the end, more the shaft. But I must have gotten him just right, because he was out like a light."

"He wasn't just out like a light, Ms. Grant. He was dead. Unless you hit him again."

"No."

"You hit pretty hard."

I nodded. "I took some martial arts classes once. Strike through, they said."

"Yeah." He glanced at the door again. Then the body, taking in the big automatic in the man's hand. Then at me. He smiled. "You were very brave, Ms. Grant."

I smiled my best smile. "Thank you, Inspector. And please. Miranda."

He hesitated. "Jason."

I let the robe fall open just a little. I'd put on a nice matching black bra and panties for the occasion, with lots of lace. "Should I offer you a drink, Jason?"

"Not while I'm on duty," Jason said. He jerked his eyes back up to my face. "Do you want to get dressed?"

"Well," I said. "I understood that the police would want everything just as it was. That's why I'm still holding the poker. Of course I had to put it down to call. And I didn't change my clothes, or move the body, or anything."

He smiled. "You can get dressed," he said. "Seems like a pretty clear-cut case of self-defense."

I smiled. "Thank you, Inspector. Jason." I walked to the bedroom, and let the robe fall from my shoulders just a moment before the door was all the way closed.

I returned wearing a blouse and a skirt. The blouse was white so you could tell I was wearing a black bra, but was otherwise demure, and my skirt nearly covered my knees. My heels were modest. I didn't want to seem like too much of a vamp, but I didn't want to have no sex appeal at all, either. I was happy with the balance I'd struck. I walked back out.

And then we went through the whole thing over again. I told the same story. I insisted I had no idea, no idea at all, why someone would want to kill me.

Soon, there were cops all over the place. The ME said the man died instantly from a heavy blow to the back of the neck that broke his spine, probably with a hand or a fist. Heavier than I could deliver, he said. Told about the poker, he admitted it was possible, it just wouldn't have been his first guess. Still, he was willing to conform his analysis to fit the obvious facts.

A supervisor came, looked in, and left.

"We're going to have to occupy the place for the better part of a day, Ms. Grant."

"Miranda."

"Miranda. And if someone is gunning for you, you might be safer somewhere else."

I shrugged. "Where would I go?"

"A hotel."

"Ah."

"And you'll let us know where you're staying."

Like hell I would. I thought I liked Inspector Timmons. I might even be inclined to trust him. But have my new address in police files? It'd be like setting myself up for hitman number two. "Of course," I said with a smile. I phoned, made a reservation, told him the name of the hotel. Then, watched by another cop, I packed a few things in a small suitcase.

"Mind escorting me to my car?" I asked Inspector Timmons. "I'm sure no one has it in for me, but all your talk has me nervous."

"Sorry about that, Ms. - Miranda. Of course I'll escort you. And I'll watch to make sure you aren't followed. Sure you don't want a lift in a cruiser? I can have one of the men -"

"No," she said. "I'll want my car with me."

"Of course."

He walked me to my car, and trying to make it look like the spontaneous, impetuous action of a frightened young woman, I kissed him just before I got in, leaving him looking dazed.

I started my car and watched to see if I was tailed. As far as I could tell, I wasn't. I drove a few loops, just in case, and then went straight to the hotel where I'd said I'd be, got a room number, and called Jason to tell him the number.

Then I left out a side door and went to a completely different hotel. From there, I did a little prep. I'd just been so busy trying to gather evidence that I could hope to take to an honest cop and then find an honest judge, that I'd foregone the direct approach. Now that I could get big, red, and strong, that was going to change.

#

Hutton liked to present a benign façade. He may have made his money selling drugs and taking a cut from pimps, but he was also a political fixer with some legitimate businesses through which he laundered his money. You wouldn't find all that in the press, of course, but none of it was a big secret. Those who knew either didn't care, were scared, or just didn't know how to take him down.

He lived on an estate in the 'burbs with a six foot fence all around it. I had no doubt the fence was alarmed. I'd scouted the place out before, with the idea of going in with a gun, and gave it up. I'd never even bought the gun, and it would have been a suicide mission. I was willing to trade my life for his, but not for one of his hired guns.

This time would be different.

The estate backed up against a public park, and I was violating the law by being in the park after dusk. It wasn't the only law I intended to break, and if I got caught I was willing to bet that they'd overlook that misdemeanor entirely. I then violated some decency statutes by taking off my clothes and putting them in my backpack.

I would have to find some things that fit my new body eventually, but not now.

Knowing the height of the fence, I'd done some testing in a different park. Now, I took a running start at it with confidence and vaulted it cleanly. No touching, no alarm.

I changed back and put my clothes back on. It seemed like the right thing to do. I also donned a blonde wig. Then I walked through the woods that shielded the big mansion from public view.

There was a big pool in the back, and it looked like a party was going on. I got out a pair of binoculars and confirmed my guess.

Five guys, mostly middle aged. Eight women, mostly about twenty, but one older. That was Hutton's wife. I spotted Hutton, too. He was a short guy, five-eight maybe tops, and pudgy, and he did not look good in a Speedo. Two of the guys looked like hired muscle. One was a politician. One I'd seen earlier, when Jason was interviewing me. He was a cop, and he was Jason's boss.

He was also getting a poolside blowjob from a topless hottie half his age, so he wasn't looking around too much.

In fact, most of the younger women had their tops off. As I watched, one of them took her bottoms off and climbed on top of Hutton. He pulled his swimsuit down and they started fucking while his wife watched, sipping at her peach-colored drink and looking bored.

I hoped the girl fucking Hutton was getting paid well.

I circled around and got close. Then I took my clothes off again. It would be more convenient anyway. I left my clothes in my backpack and hid it behind a tree, but I kept the wig. Then I waited for an opportune moment and slipped, naked, into the pool.

I blended right in. I was probably a few years older than the average age of the hired entertainment, if that's what they were, but I was within the range. My tits were a little smaller than most, but again, nothing that stood out - no, I didn't mean it that way, they aren't that small, I just meant there was one girl with smaller boobs than me.

No one paid much attention to one more underdressed girl frolicking in the pool.

I watched, and when one of the girls got up and went into the house, I figured I could, too. So after a moment, I followed.

"Hey. You!" yelled someone behind me. "New girl!"

I turned to look. Would Hutton know me by my face? I didn't think so. He was a big cheese. I was just the daughter of someone he had murdered, casually, just as part of doing business.

"Yeah, you! Come over here, I haven't fucked you yet," Hutton said. He gave the girl who was riding him a push, and she got the message and climbed off.

"But I was almost there!" she said.

"Get yourself off," Hutton told her.

I somehow doubted the woman was almost there. I suspect that she was glad for the reprieve. But who knows, it takes all kinds.

"Mind if I go to the bathroom first?" I asked. "I'm just about to explode."

"Be quick about it," Hutton growled. I guess he didn't want to get peed on.

I walked in. My original idea had been to go in and search the place for evidence that no one could deny, but now I was expected back and I needed a new plan. I walked through a little lounge with a bar, found the bathroom, and wondered how many drugs had to be sold to gold-plate a faucet.

Then I went to the lounge and waited. I sat on the couch and crossed my legs demurely. I didn't want to take a chance on the cop finding me and recognizing me in spite of my wig, but I doubted Hutton would just forget.

Sure enough, a few minutes later Hutton came charging in. He hadn't bothered to pull on his swim suit, and his five-inch dick was hard and swaying beneath his pudge. "I told you to come right back!" he said. "Don't you bitches understand anything?"

I smiled my best coquettish smile at him and tried to cover up the fact that I was throwing up in my mouth right then. "Sorry. I figured you'd rather do it someplace more private."

"I don't fucking pay you to think," he said.

I got up, and walked toward him, my hips swaying. I intended to see if I could get information from him, no matter what I had to do to get it. It revolted me, but I wasn't as revolted as I was angry that he should sit here in luxury, snapping his fingers at women and expecting their legs to open just like that, while my father was dead.

I started to change. I tried not to, but I couldn't hold my emotions anymore. From looking slightly up at him, I grew until I was looking down.

He stopped, and stared. He looked at my chest. He looked at my cock. He panted, and I couldn't tell whether he was about to run away or try to cop a feel.

"You like what you see?" I asked. "I was told you wanted something different." It was a stab in the dark, but it seemed like the sort of thing someone would say if they were asking for a bunch of female entertainment without a lot of boundaries.

He nodded. "I -"

He looked at my tits again, but he positively stared at my cock.

"Go ahead," I said. "Suck it. You know you want to."

He went to his knees and did exactly that.

I put my hand on his balding head and pushed him to take more. I hardened in his mouth, in spite of my dislike for the man. I didn't want to make love with him, but fucking his throat? Yeah, that I could do.

There was a sound at the door from the pool, and he tried to yank himself away. I didn't let him. If I'd held his head any tighter I thought it might pop like a grape. He was choking on my cock. I could break his neck if I wanted to.

The man who walked in was the politician.

"Hutton's a little bitch cocksucker," I told him. "Is he blackmailing you?"

The politician nodded, slowly.

"Take some pictures, then."

"It looks like you're forcing him."

So I was. We couldn't have that, now could we? "Hutton, if you don't suck my cock enthusiastically, I'm going to break your neck, do you understand?"

Hutton looked up at me, and nodded, his eyes wide.

I don't know why he did it, but he followed directions while the politician, whose name I'm leaving out of this, took pictures. Maybe Hutton's enthusiasm wasn't faked.

The politician walked out. If he got the bodyguards, I might be in trouble. Or I might have to use Hutton as a shield.

But no. The cop came in, and he took pictures of Hutton blowing me. The wife came in, and she took pictures.

"Little faggot," she said.

Hutton looked angry, but he kept sucking. And then I started cumming. He tried to swallow like a good boy, but it overflowed his mouth and then dribbled off his chin. Some of it landed on his very, very hard cock, which had leaked a lot of precum to the floor.

He spurted onto my feet. Yuck.

"Lick it off," I told him angrily, and he knelt down and licked his cum off my feet.

His wife got it all on video.

One of the bodyguards came in to take a look. I grinned at him. He looked at Hutton, looked at me, and turned around and walked away. There was disgust in his eyes, but something else, like fear.

"And posted," said Hutton's wife. "See you in divorce court." She walked out.

He kept licking my feet. Despite cumming, despite the humiliation of it all, he was still hard.

I remembered what Lily had said about people being drawn to me. I hoped they weren't all like Hutton, but I had to admit I was getting off on the power.

He mumbled something.

"What? Speak up?"

"Thank you Mistress. Would you fuck me, Mistress?"

"Bend over the couch," I told him.

He did.

"Spread your cheeks," I told him.

He did.

"The answer to your question is hell no. You're a disgusting piece of shit, and you killed --"

He swallowed.

I had been about to say my father, of course. It felt very Princess Bride. It would also give him a clue as to who I was, and my demonic form was the perfect disguise, way better than the blonde wig - which was still on. "--lots of people."

"Please? I'll do anything."

"Anything, huh? Show me your safe."

"You want money?"

"Sure."

He got up and led me through the house. In an office furnished with more money than taste upstairs, behind a painting that might very well have been a genuine Renoir, was a state of the art safe. I knew there had to be a safe somewhere.

"Open it," I told him. "And I'll fuck you."

"I've never met a woman like you," he said.

"And your odds of finding another one are pretty small, so you better make this one happy. You and I are going into business together." I didn't mean it, but I thought the idea that I was to be his partner would be attractive.

"Yes! For riches, wealth, and your cock, I would happily sell my soul."

It was damned anyway, so why wouldn't he?

He opened the safe, and pulled out some money. "Fifty-fifty? We can run this town. You and me."

I grabbed him by the back of his neck, and helped myself. I didn't want the money, or not much of it. What I was interested in were other things, and I found them. Documents, used for blackmail, all neatly arranged and labeled.

I took them, holding them in one hand while I held Hutton in the other. "For security. For our partnership."

I closed the safe.

His two goons came in on us that way, and maybe it didn't look good that I was holding Hutton by the neck, even though it didn't seem to quell his ardor any. Anyway, they had their guns out and they were pointing them at me.

I threw Hutton their way as the guns went off. Two slugs pounded into his body, and when the bodyguards realized they'd just shot the body they were supposed to guard, they ran.

Hutton lay bleeding on the Persian rug. "I'm hit," he sobbed.

He was hit alright. One in the arm, one in the leg. It probably hurt. The poor baby.

I took the Renoir from the wall. It was a soft canvas, so I removed it from its frame and rolled it up.

"Help me," Hutton said. "We're partners."

"Nope."

"You promised to fuck me."

"I lied. I think you'd be used to that, in your business."

I was tempted to break his neck, but I decided to let it play out just the way it was. The room we were in had a window that opened onto the woods I'd used for my approach. I opened it.

"Come back?" he asked.

"Never. You're never going to get fucked by a demon, Hutton. I'll spread the word." I was bluffing, of course. I didn't know any others, and there wasn't a network of us that I knew of. At his expression, I added, "That was your one and only taste of demon cock."

I'd killed a man earlier, and I didn't want to kill another, when I could wait and see how things played out. I was a little sad that his guards hadn't finished the job, but oh well, one couldn't have everything.

I jumped out the window, landed lightly on my feet, and ten minutes later was dressed and in the public park again. In three more, I was in my car, heading for my hotel.

#

The news the next few days was interesting. More demon sightings, of course. We were front page news, but at least I wasn't.

There were some other items of note.

A woman in a blonde wig had walked into the Museum of Art, handed a surprised security guard a rolled-up tube, and walked out. Upon investigation, the contents were shown to be a lost Renoir, believed stolen by the Nazi's in 1940 and not seen since.

Hutton had been found by his bodyguards, and apparently, he had shot himself once in the head. There was no mention of any other wounds. Maybe he'd killed himself, or maybe the guards had decided that having shot their boss, they better finish the job before they found themselves swimming with concrete shoes. Possibly they didn't want to work for him anymore, anyway, after what they'd seen, which I thought was a shame. I lamented the homophobia that meant that a man couldn't be an organized crime boss if he liked to suck a little cock, but the world was what it was.

The police had started a crackdown on narcotics and prostitution rings. According to one article, they'd been collecting information for years, waiting to make one perfect strike. They'd probably been collecting information, but as long as Hutton was alive they'd been sitting on it. The documents I'd gotten told me exactly which cops were being blackmailed, and it went all the way to the top, but I was relieved to not find the name of Jason Timmons.

I moved out of the hotel I'd been staying in, and into the one I'd told Jason about. Then I gave him a call.

"Miranda?" he cried. "I've been worried about you. I've called several times, and I even came to the hotel once, but you haven't ever been in."

"Hmm. Sorry. Bad luck. Is it okay for me to move back into my apartment?"

"As long as no one is gunning for you."

"I think I'm okay," I said.

"We think that guy was part of organized crime. And I did some searching. He may have been the one to gun down your father."

Ah, yes. He'd find out about that, wouldn't he. But really? That was the guy? What could I say. "Sweet."

"You knew," he said.

"I didn't."

"I should question you some more."

"Oh, I think I've been questioned enough."

"Maybe at eight o'clock, at Campari's, my treat?"

"Inspector Timmons! Are you asking me for a date?"

"It's Jason, and yes."

I laughed. "Sure. I'll see you there. I'll wear more than I was wearing the first time you met me."

"That's probably best."

"But not too much more," I said, and hung up on him.

I was no wilting flower, but I'd never been that brazen before. I'd changed. Maybe I had some kind of impish, demonic nature, or maybe I just wasn't afraid anymore. A few days earlier, I'd been prey. Now I was a predator.

I grinned. I couldn't pretend I didn't like that.