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Robbing the Cradle

By Carolanne Patton

Cougar. She wonders who came up with the term. Not that she doesn't like the term. It suits her just fine. She is in her space. Her getting ready space. Soft candle-light flickers on the curve of her calf as she pulls on her thigh high stockings. These are hot, she thinks as she sees herself in the mirror. I'm hot. She stands up in front of the full length mirror and fastens her garters to the stockings. She is wearing only a black lacy push up bra and the stockings with garters. She admires her reflection. Her smooth skin, her firm breasts, her taut stomach, the neatly trimmed landing strip between her thighs. She swishes her long, jet black, luxurious hair over her shoulders. Not bad for 150 some years old, she thinks. She glances at the clock on her vanity. I'd better get a move on.

She moves to the vanity and sits down.
Hair looks good. Time for makeup. Hands with long red nails pick out the various jars and tubes that are required. A few minutes later red lipstick is applied as the final touch. Her green smoky eyes stare back at her as she checks out her handiwork. Not bad.

She walks to the bed where she has laid out her clothes for the evening. Black leather mini-skirt. Black sequined blouse.
Red fuck-me shoes. She chuckles. She picks up her handbag and checks to make sure the capsules are still there. Yes, still have plenty. One final touch, she thinks as her hand alights on a cut crystal perfume bottle. She applies perfume to the usual spots. Throat. Wrists. Between her breasts. She takes one last look at her ensemble before heading downstairs to the kitchen to make other preparations.

In the kitchen she opens the refrigerator, makes sure she has a good selection of wine chilling, and looks over the bowl of grapes and berries she prepared earlier.
Looks good. From the rack she pulls down two wine glasses and leaves them on the counter for later.

She heads for the back door. Outside, she unlocks her car with the remote. She admires the car as she walks toward it.
Red Mercedes, everyone should have a red Mercedes. She climbs behind the wheel and starts it. The engine roars to life with a low growl. She smiles at the sound. She clicks on the radio. Rock music. She turns up the volume. She backs out of her driveway and quickly accelerates down the road. Next stop, the hunting grounds.

She pulls into the drive in front of the club. The neon sign over the entrance spells out "The Red Velvet." She steps out of her car and hands her keys to the valet with a wink. He smiles and watches her ass as she walks away.

The gatekeeper at the entrance waves her in, she is a regular here. Inside, the decor mirrors the name of the club. The walls are lined in red velvet. So is the seating.
It's like being in a womb. She scopes out the crowd. She sees an open seat at the bar and she heads in that direction. She leans over the bar before sitting down, catching the eye of the bartender.

"Start me a tab," she says as she slides her credit card across the bar. "And make me a Manhattan please."

He nods. "Will do."

She settles into the comfortably padded chair and surveys the room. The music is loud and the bass is like the beating of a heart. Bodies gyrate on the dance floor. The air smells of sweat and pheromones. The bartender taps her on the shoulder. She turns her head. He slides her credit card across the bar back to her along with her freshly made Manhattan. She smiles at him and mouths the word "Thanks".

So who's the lucky man-boy tonight? she thinks as she looks for likely candidates. Hmm, that one might work. She sees a dark-eyed beauty across the room: tall, lithe, a shock of thick hair falls over his brow. Nice guns. The muscles ripple under his smooth skin as he raises a drink to his sensuous mouth. I bet he has a great ass too. She waits for the opportunity to catch his eye. There it is. He sees her. She winks suggestively. His eyes take her in. He takes another drink, empties the glass and leaves it on the table. Good, he's coming over. She makes no effort to hide that she is checking out his package as he walks toward her. She takes a drink and licks her lips. He stands before her.

"Would you dance with me?" he asks, holding out his hand.

"Love to," she answers, placing her warm hand in his strong one.

She looks at his face carefully as she stands up.
No sign of wrinkles. Good. The song that is playing now has a slow beat. As they reach the dance floor, he puts his hands at her waist. She places hers on his shoulders. She breathes in the scent of him; clean, musky.

He leans down, his lips close to her ear. "So what's your name?" he asks.

"Raven," she answers. "How about you?"

"Eric Garcia. That's really your name? You're not shittin' me?"

That's really my name," she says. "No shit. Raven Kincaid"

"It suits you," he says. "Raven hair." He caresses her hair with his hand.

She looks at him. "So you're here alone?"

"Yes, but not anymore." He smiles.

The song is coming to an end. "Would you like to join me at my place?" she asks.

"A forward woman. Nice," he says. "I'd love to. Your car or mine?"

"Mine," she says.

He nods. "Lead the way, fair lady."

She takes his hand and leads him outside. A quick stop at the valet and they are on their way.

She pulls back into her driveway and puts the car in park. They get out. He looks up at her house and then back at her.

"What is this, a mansion?" he asks.

"Nah, former funeral home," she answers. "I got it for a steal."

"Creepy," he says.

"Doesn't bother me, does it bother you?" she asks.

"You can protect me." He winks.

She smiles. "Come on." She takes his hand and leads him to the back door.

They enter the back door to the kitchen. She leads him to the refrigerator and opens it.

"Pick out a bottle of wine," she says, removing the bowl of berries and grapes and placing it on the counter.

"Hmm, fancy," he says. He looks over the selection, and decides on a Merlot. He takes it out and hands it to her.

"Nice choice," she says. She points to the doorway. "Go on in there and make yourself at home. I'll open this and be right in." She hands him the bowl of fruit to take with him.

"Okay," he says as he accepts the bowl. He walks into the living room and seats himself on a burgundy sofa of soft supple leather. He places the bowl on the table in front of him and waits.

In the kitchen, she waits for his exit, then takes a capsule out of her handbag and breaks it open into one of the glasses. She then uncorks the wine and pours it.
I'll have to work fast, she thinks. I want to send this boy out with a smile.

She takes the glass with the capsule in it in her left hand and the undoctored glass in her right, and enters the living room. She places the doctored glass on the table in front of him, takes a sip of hers and puts it down at the other end.

"Do you like grapes?" she asks.

"Yes, actually, these red ones are really good," he answers. "I've been eating some while I was waiting for you."

"Good, I'm glad you like them."

She sits close to him and takes a grape to feed to him. She follows the grape with her own lips, tasting his sensuous mouth. He responds hungrily. She gets on her knees over his lap and directs his hand to her thigh under her skirt, where he can feel the top of her stockings. When he realizes what he is feeling his eyes widen in pleasure at this unexpected gift. He moves both hands under her skirt and lifts it up so he can see. He soon realizes she is not wearing panties and feels an urgent throbbing in his groin. She kisses him sensually while she unbuttons his shirt, revealing a smooth hairless chest. She runs her long red fingernails over his nipples. He moans in pleasure. She reaches down to unbutton and unzip his pants, discovering that he is not wearing underwear either.
Nice, she thinks as she cups her hand around his throbbing hard member.

She gets down on the floor between his legs. "I want to taste you," she says as she slides her lips over his shaft.

He throws his head back, savoring the sensation. She takes her time, enjoying the taste and velvety smoothness of him. When she can take it no more, she stops and climbs back on top of him, sliding his shaft into the wet hungry core of her. Her mouth finds his again as she slides up and down on him. He moans in pleasure and raises his hips to meet her thrusts. He opens her blouse and frees her breasts so that he can suckle at them. She moans as this throws her over the edge and her climax ripples through her.

His follows closely behind as he mutters "OH, FUCK YEAH!" His body convulses with the waves of pleasure that overtake him.

They collapse together, both of them breathing hard. They remain like this for a moment, then she pulls back and sighs.

"I'm thirsty now," she says. "How about you?" She slides off of him and retrieves her wine.

"Yeah," he says, "I could use some of that right about now."

She hands him his glass of wine, then sits down next to him, curled up against his shoulder as she drinks hers.

He takes a sip. "This is a really good Merlot," he says. He puts his arm around her and drinks some more.

When he is finished she takes his glass and sets both of them down on the table. She cuddles back up to him and puts her arms around him.
Sleep tight sweet boy, she thinks with a slight twinge of sadness at what she has to do.

Slowly his eyes get heavier and his breathing slows until he is in a deep sleep. She sits up and looks at him pensively. She lifts up his arm and drops it. No reaction.

"Eric?" she whispers in his ear. Nothing. She purses her lips and caresses his face and lets out a sigh.
Better get to work, she thinks.

She stands up, pulls down her skirt and buttons her blouse. She kicks off her shoes. She maneuvers him around so that she can grab him under the arms and drag him off of the couch toward the basement door. When she gets there she kicks a spot on the paneling next to the door and a secret panel pops open. Behind that is a metal slide winding into the darkness. She maneuvers him feet first into the opening and pushes him until he starts sliding down. One last shove and he disappears. She closes the door in the paneling and brushes her hair out of her face. She opens the basement door and starts down the steps.
Wonder what the dude thought when I had that installed, she thinks to herself and chuckles. I paid him enough not to think about it too much.

She reaches the bottom of the stairs and enters a room. The comatose form of Eric is now resting askew on a raised platform. She straightens him out lovingly. She strips naked, grabs a red silk robe that hangs on a nearby hook, and puts it on.

On a table next to the platform is a trocar, a long tubular metal instrument with a sharp tip and flexible tubing attached to the other end. She picks this up and holds it up to the light, the gleaming metal surface reflecting in her eyes. She leans down and flips a switch on the side of the platform and the low hum of a pump roars to life. The trocar makes a hissing noise as air rushes through it. She sighs and smoothes Eric's hair back from his face. She kisses him on the cheek. With her left hand she feels his neck for a pulse.
There it is, still strong. She winces at the sound of tearing flesh as she jabs the trocar into the side of his neck. The tubing suddenly fills with bright red blood as the hiss of the trocar turns to a wet sucking sound. Once she is certain the trocar is stable and blood is flowing readily, she holds Eric's hand while his life drains through the tubing. She watches the crimson liquid as it moves up the tubing to a reservoir which is positioned over an open shower. Slowly the reservoir fills, and slowly she can feel Eric's pulse slow to a stop as she holds his wrist. The trocar starts making the sound of a straw in an almost empty glass as air bubbles start to appear in the tubing. She quickly turns off the switch and the sound comes to a stop. For a moment she looks over her handiwork with sadness.

Melancholy turns to excitement as she anticipates the warm rush of the shower. She walks over to it, shedding her robe on the way. She steps in and eyes the knobs on the marble tile wall. One knob is red and is positioned above the other two, which are marked "H" and "C". She turns this knob. A red tide rains from the shower head above her. She breathes in the acrid metallic smell of blood as it rushes over her. Blood runs over her hair, face, and body in thick rivulets. She parts her lips slightly for a salty taste. She stands there for a moment, waiting for something that doesn't come. Frown lines appear between her eyes.
Where's the rush? she thinks to herself. Why isn't there a rush? Now she feels cold and weak. Her eyes open wide in alarm. Something is wrong.

In a panic, she runs over to Eric's still body, leaving a trail of blood across the floor. She searches his pockets and finds his wallet. She looks through it, pulling out items and examining them.
A credit card. Coupon for a waxing. Business card for a plastic surgeon! A shiver runs down her spine. She searches frantically for his driver's license. She finds it. The picture is his. Eric Garcia. Age 50! How could I be so deceived? Frantically she examines his face, leaving smears of blood everywhere she touches.. She folds his ear forward and looks behind it. There it is, the telltale scar of a face lift. She looks closely at his hair line. Hair plugs! She starts to shake. What is happening to me?

She looks down at the back of her hands. Her skin is looking ashen and papery. Wrinkles appear before her eyes. She puts her hands up to feel her face.
No! She runs across the room where there is a mirror on the wall. She pulls her hands away from her face to see her skin is sagging off her skull. Her hair has turned white. She feels something in her mouth, pushes it out with her tongue. It is a tooth. The skin on her fingers starts to crack and fall off of her bones. "No!" is the last sound she will ever make as her body collapses in a pile of bloody dust on the cold tile floor.


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