Choo Lanja
His shoulder blew apart and his head turned into a fine red mist. The other assassins sprang for cover, one shouting: “What the fuck!?”Thale pointed with his finger, stitching a line of explosive death across the floor. But one of the men had leaped behind the imperial dresser – made, like so much of Rehoboam’s old stuff, out of material denser than some planetary cores. The clave rounds impacted and burst on the surface like tiny supernovae.Thale felt his lungs burn.The assassin with the knife darted from cover and Thale snapped his finger to him, but the man leaped behind Thale. The clavegun let out a whining bleating noise as it tried to target a firing solution through his body. Thale spun and blocked the knife thrust at his throat with his forearm, knocking the assassins’ arm aside. He thrust out with his own claws, burying them in the man’s stomach. Their fiber armor gave, but he didn’t scream and Thale didn’t feel blood.The knife, again, whistled at Thale’s face. Thale jerked. He's not seeing anybody seriously. He wants me. Here I am. So What gives?I'm tired of waiting.So I'm sitting under his desk. Heh. I know. Completely unlike me, but fuck it. I want to suck him off. He wants me to suck him off. Let's get this show on the road amIrite?The anticipation is already excruciating. He'll be here in 30 seconds like the machine he is. And there they are, the sound of keys in the outer door. My heart pounds in my temples as the heels of his expensive shoes echo across the empty cavernous studio floor. I start to shiver as the office door opens, his laptop plonks on the table-top above me. His hip-hop pandora playlist streaming to the speakers. No turning back now. He fills his kettle, turns on the coffee grinder. The squeak of his ridiculously nostalgic old leather chair OMFG I'm going to faint.The sight of his blue-jeans as he sits down. My hand scrapes his instep as he scoots forward. He pauses, tilting his head down, eyebrow raised. I look up at him, my lips.
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