You Hear The Bullet

They say you never hear the bullet with your name on it. Allow me to dispel that myth.

Not only did I hear the bullet, I felt it. And as I lay bleeding out on the one thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, I even had the time to contemplate just how I'd come to wind up on the receiving end of it.

My day had started normally enough: a house call to fix a simple leaky pipe.

It wasn't my fault that the woman who greeted me at the residence was an absolute knockout, or dressed to show off every attribute. And I'd managed to remain completely professional despite her flirtations and overt attempts to flash me her wares; bending over to move something out of the way and allowing her huge, braless breasts to hang free and visible from her low cut top, or squatting down next to me as I lay under her kitchen sink, legs open more than enough to reveal that she wore no panties under her tight booty shorts.

Hell, I even declined her invitation of sex the first time she offered it, with a line so cheesy it could have come straight from a porn video: "Since you did such a good job fixing my pipe, how about you let me fix yours?"

Yes, I politely turned her down, despite the fact that she'd rested her hand on my crotch as she spoke, and despite the fact that my cock was already throbbing under her touch.

But I'm only human, and a horny male one at that. So when she gave me a sad little pout with her full red lips, batted her dark brown eyes at me, then pulled her top off to free her huge, natural, creamy skinned breasts, my willpower crumbled, and in moments she was in my arms.

I could taste the expensive wine she'd been drinking on her lips, and feel her urgency as she pulled my shirt over my head, throwing it aside with casual abandon, then pressing her body against mine, stiff nipples like, well, bullets against my chest.

I suppose I did in fact see her wedding ring, but perhaps the reason I didn't register it for what it was is that I didn't really notice it until she was already undoing my pants. And any thoughts about the potential problem of it quickly dissipated once her ruby red lips engulfed my swollen member and swallowed it to the back of her throat.

She worked my cock like she was trying to suck a golf ball through a garden hose, gagging and choking with an almost frightening regularity.

I finally had to grab a handful of her soft, chestnut brown locks and pull her off of me before I lost control.

I pulled her up by her hair and kissed her roughly, then grabbed her shorts to yank them down.

"Not here," she stopped me. "Bedroom."

Taking my hand, she led me up the stairs, her curvy bottom swaying on each step.

Peeling off her shorts, she climbed on the bed, thrusting her ass upwards. I needed no further invitation.

Her cunt was a hot, slick vice, but my cock was as hard as the pipes I'd been working on, opening her flower with a powerful thrust that made her gasp for breath.

It had been far too long since I'd gotten laid, so you'll understand when I say that I was much too focused on giving this banshee the hard fuck she was desperately begging me for to have noticed the wedding portrait on the wall, or the men's shoes by the closet.

And her cries of lust and pleasure had also blocked out the sounds of footsteps on the stairs.

The bullet ripped through me just as I was ejaculating, my hot spunk filling her cunt as my hot blood splattered across her back.

I pitched forward on top of her, then rolled off and onto my back.

I found myself looking up and into the steely eyes of her angry husband, the barrel of the gun in his hand still smoking.

I'd heard the gunshot of course, and her subsequent screams of terror.

But now I could only just hear the faint sound of his voice, echoing as if from a great distance. "I hope it hurts, you son of a bitch."

I'd heard the bullet, yes, and felt it.

But as the world went black, I felt no pain at all.