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Cannonball Kisses	By : Nightspore Category: 1 through F > Charlie's Angels (All) > Charlie's Angels (All) Views: 4558 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Charlies Angels, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Cannonball Kisses
- 1
a man's - its basal temperature was a scorching 101.2 degrees Fahrenheit. When
it came, its semen filled him like molten lead, and the ruptured skin burned as
he was bathed in it.
Even after it went limp, the
Loner continued pounding its hips into him for a few minutes, running on
automatic pilot. Finally it took a deep
breath and pulled out. The tip of its cock caught in him for a moment, and it
yanked loose with an irritated snarl.
It let Adrdropdrop to the floor
like a banana peel, useless, discarded, and turned its attention to itself.
He was hollowed out, he was
free. The relief was like the change in air pressure after a summer
thunderstorm finally breaks.
Adrian rolled over, his hands
automatically moving down to cover himself. He kept his eyes screwed tightly
shut. Hot, creamy fluid was slowly leaking out of him, gumming his skin, making
it stick together, stick to the floor. He put his hand down there to wipe it
away, but it was like touching a raw nerve. rossrossed his arms, tucking his
hands into his armpits to stop himself from doing it again. His nostrils were
clogged, but he could still taste the pungently metallic smell of blood and
human sweat, the chemical, yolky smell of semen, the Loners own ginger-sharp
scent thick in the room.
There were tiny hisses of cloth
rustling, gentle lapping sounds, tongue on flesh. A whispering, humming noise
the Loner only made when it was very content.
Mayhew cracked one eye open. The
Loner was on all fours, an armengtength away. It had cleaned itself off and was
buttoned up as tightly as before, another lesson John had pounded into it. It
let out a gusty sigh and looked up at him.
Slowly, as he watched, the Loner
dropped one shoulder to the floor and half-rolled, so it was staring at him
upside down. For a moment he did not recognize the gesture performed by this
grave, neatly dressed man. It had been such a long time . . . not since the
Loner was very small. After it had finished eating, or after a bath, it would
ask to play like this, crawling up to him, twisting its torso around and
looking at him upside down, its lithe little body expressing emotion its face
could not. It had never done this after John started training it. After the
beatings began, it would refuse to play, drawing back with a sullen snarl when
he tried to start a game of tag, turning its head away imperiously when he
would roll a ball across the floor for it to chase.
Adrian understood. Now that it
had finished with him, it wanted to play.
He closed his eyes, unable to
bear it. The Loner was ignorant of what it had done. It was an animal, purely
concerned with its own selfish pleasure, unable to comprehend why he wouldn't
be happily satisfied, too. After a moment, he felt a light tapping on his
cheek. The Loner was stretched out on its side, batting at his face with
uncharacteristic gentleness, trying to provoke him into some kind of reaction.
As soon as it saw him open his eyes again, it rolled back onto all fours and
crawled up close, cuddling alongside him. It lay its head on his, cheek to
cheek, and rubbed its face against his. It skin was cool to the touch, very
soft, nace ace of stubble. Still a child, really.
He began to weep then, and the
Loner drew back at the first touch of wetness.
He felt its hands rub along his
thigh and let out a small, wordless cry, drawing away. But the Loner gripped
his knees and pried his legs apart like it was making a wish. Its sandpapery
tongue rasped along the inside of his thighs, busily scouring off the dried
blood and semen. Then it tugged his pants up, zipped them closed, and patted
him. There was nothing it could do about the belt. It had broken the buckle
beyond repair.
It crouched over top of him
again, hands braced on his chest to hold him still, and groomed his face clean,
lingering swipes of that ground-glass tongue leaving clean but painfully raw
skin behind. The long fingers raked through his hair, teasing it off his face.
He opened his eyes once it stopped. It had picked his glasses off the floor and
was looking at them consideringly. Apparently it was human enough to feel the
same urge any other perfectly sighted person felt when confronted with glasses.
It slipped them on.
In that instant, with its dark
hair stilshevsheveled and blinking its pale eyes behind the thick lens, it
could have been his mirror image. Then it scowled and took them off and the
half-snarl, baring its sharp teeth, was pure Loner.
It took him by the shoulders and
despite his complete limpness easily hauled him up into a sitting position. It
fussed with him for a moment more, straightening his shirt and buttoning it
closed, putting his glasses back on, arranging his arms and legs into a natural
pose, exhaling a short, blood-scented breath in his face to blow the long bangs
out of his eyes. Mayhew lay unresisting as a rag doll. He didn't care anymore.
It licked away his tears,
watched with obvious vexation as more spilled out, blotted them with its cuff,
then huffed in irritation when it became clear he could not stop them.
Then its fingers twined and
tangled in his hair. With a sharp tug it tore a lock free. Adrian didn't even
twitch. One more little pain was nothing. He watched dully as the Loner held
the trophy up to its parted lips and inhaled. It drew the hair over its k
ak
and exhaled in a deep, satisfied sigh. Then it tucked the lock of Adrian's hair
into thsideside pocket of its suit jacket.
The Loner stood and picked its
cane off the floor. It looked dapper, dignified, utterly human.
He waited to feel the steel
slice through his flesh. The Loner regarded him silently, the blue of its eyes
luminous beneath half-closed lids.
He hesitated, the fingers of his
uninjured hand hovering over the speed dial button.
How could he possibly explain
this? What exactly did he expect John to do?
He punished the Loner terribly
for the smallest failings. Mayhew couldn't imagine what he would do to it for
something like this. He didn't want to imagine.
After all, he told himself, it's
not really the Loner's fault. Even ordinary human men had problems controlling
their sexual urges sometimes. And the Loner's brain was only half-human.
Although the more highly developed areas were human, they sat atop instincts
and drives derived from its inhuman ancestry. And it couldn't even be said to
have had an upbringing that would have taught it to control those urges. John
was not exactly a role model in that sense. Most of its mannerisms were
mimicry, compiled from the old movies Mayhew piped into its cell. He had wanted
to show it restrained, gentlemanly behavior. But now that he thought about it,
how many of his beloved old movies concluded with the hero taking the heroine
into a reluctant, forceful embrace?
No - it was truly not the Loners
fault. It did not have the capacity or education to control itself. He should
have foreseen what adolescence would do to it. It didn't deserve to be
punished.
Worse was the possibility John
might laugh.
His fingers curled, his hand
dropping away, his whole arm wilting with reluctance.
John's sense of humor was odd
and often cruel. He might very well get great amusement out of the idea Adrian
had been beaten and raped - and played with - by his own creation.
He nodded, making up his mind,
and immediately wished he hadn't. It made the contusion on his head throb with
agony.
Although he only wanted to soak
in a warm tub and then crawl into bed, he tapped in 911 and waited for the
dispatcher to pick up. Already his shrewd intelligence had kicked back online,
the gears whirring away in some frosty, untouchable crevasse in his brain,
concocting a story. He'd been beaten by an intruder. That was no problem. They
would perhaps ask to use a rape kit. He would refuse. If the cops cared enough
to try and pursue the case, which he sincerely doubted, the DNA evidence they
would find would be entirely confusing. There would be his own, of course, and
perhaps John's, and that of several species, mostly Panthera pardus. Nothing surprising, considering these were animals
used in Mayhew's work, and nothing helpful. Nothing that would allow the Loner
to be traced.
As he set down the phone on the
cradle, another possibility occurred to him. What if John really did send it to
kill him?
Adrian cringed, his head rolling
to one side in a habitual nervous gesture. He rubbed his sweaty palms together,
then wiped them off on his ruined trousers.
What if?
Then he should be thankful it
was in such a good mood afterwards that it decided to spare him.
Undoubtedly, McCadden would
punish it fot dot doing its job. But Mayhew didn't think he would be bothered
enough to send the Loner or any other assassin after him. He knew he was a very
small cog in the machine of John McCadden's revenge.
Adrian moved slowly down the hallway. He walked stiff and sore, like a
very old man. He'd told the ambulance not to hurry. Even at their fastest, it
would be a good forty minutes before they reached him. He opened the front door
and was surprised to see the sun was starting to come up, cloaking the yard in
a filmy golden light. Apparently he'd lain there longer than he thought. The
air was cold, autumnally sweet as a fresh-picked crispin apple, and dew
sparkled on the grass. He could hear the neighbor's young children already awake
and playing next door, their cries filtered into unintelligibly by distance and
the pine trees. Much clearer was the sound of bird song and the rustle of the
dry leaves on the willow tree by his door. He shuffled over to the porch swing
and sat down to await the ambulance, his mouth tightening into a thin line as
he bent over. There was a paperback book on the swing. He'd forgotten it
outside and the cheap pulp of its pages was swollen and discolored. It was Watership Down, one of his favorites
since childhood. He'd even tried reading it aloud to the Loner when it was a
neonate. He always found the story thrilling and comforting, but now he let it
lay unopened on his lap, resting his lacerated hand on the cover. He couldn't
focus on it.
He was overcome by an abrupt
thrill of anticipation, as if something amazing were about to happen to him.
The pain, the fear, the
humiliation . . . none of it mattered, suddenly. All he wanted to do was sit in
stillness and experience the inexplicable bliss suffusing him at that moment.
Eric Knox's kidnapping and
rescue had been all over the news for the past few days. It would only be a
short time more before McCadden maneuvered the agents he'd hired into linking
him in with Corwin's communications system. He would find Charles Townsend and
the Loner would fulfill the purpose it was created for - to slowly rip Townsend
to shreds while John enjoyed the show. No doubt he would reserve the killing
blow for himself.
Mayhew smiled. If he had seen
his own reflection at that moment he likely would have screamed. His
tooth-baring, feral grin was pure Loner.
And then it will all be over, he told himself.
And then John would finally be
free of the hatred that had poisoned him most of his life.
And he, Adrian Mayhew, would be
here waiting for him with open, ng ang arms.

I thought I heard somebody
cry - Somebody might be lost
I thought I heard somebody
cry - I thought I'd go and see
I thought I heard somebody
cry - Somebody might be me
- 1
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Cannonball Kisses