Hollow Point Love
1 in stock
Hollow Point Love by Jane Brooke
Author of Death Orchid and Vegas Savages returns with more mind-bending erotic fiction. This deadly love story is scorching hot!
Within a singular moment of rebirth, she will become a genius savant, an intruder bringing death within an ever-revolving typhoon of madness, and she will leave trails of red blood behind her every step, and it will be the blood of men.
A stunning Mensa brilliant blond hit-woman takes down an English crime boss/ mobster outside of London. Days later, she steals another mobster’s money and, then flees. A year later in London, alone and contemplating suicide with her first cup of coffee every morning, she meets a mysterious African woman and her even more mysterious lifelong friend, the most dangerous man on the planet. Both are killers, and the three bond. She has sex with both of them. In an ending that is nothing as it seems, we find out why she is there, who she is, and has fate stepped in, or not, and how these three remarkable people change their life course.
Erotica/FF, bisexuality, from madness to banality, with graphic, mind-melting sex, and illusion.
Cover Art © Provided by Author
London, night, SoHo, in Little Italy, D’Angelo’s, a jewel of an Italian eatery, the diamond beveled into the center strand of pearls of other bars and eateries was shimmering; it was notoriously chic, even for Gumba Ville. The lads loved it, Made or otherwise. The spaghetti La Daviola was primo, the lasagna thick, house wine rich, great for the pallet and the veal white and never overdone.
It was midnight, another hour to go and the crowds we’re sparse, few suits finishing up, weapons checked at the door, lots of laughter still. The teak and leather bar glistened from racked crystal on the racks above it, Sambuca, Grey Goose, Anisette, the usual suspects, tantalizing liquors glowing from a blue back lit neon. The rest of the place was sparkling, mahogany colored leather booths, white table clothes, real silver, English bone-white china, world class stuff. Mario D’Angelo, an English Wop had spared no dimes tricking the haunt out.
Mr. D’Angelo, he was 50ish, 6ft 2, slender, black shock of hair, graying at the temples, hawk nose, delicate chin, blue eyes that forever sparkled, the mandatory tan, black suit, white shirt, red tie was a class act, as far as a fucked up SoHo went. He ran whores, numbers, hits when called for it, extortion whenever it showed. He was a Made Man, no one ever fucked with him, ever.
Sitting at his usual slot at the end of the bar, he glanced at Mikey, his Mick barkeep, then at his maître d, William, tuxed out, grey hair, sophisticated, standing at the door, talking up some wop pug, who had thieved enough to afford a meal at his bistro.
Off at a booth, two slabs of sausage, massive man, Mario’s blokes, English thugs, linguine set right before them, chests like kegs of beer, sat, eating, chatting, eyes never far from Mario, he being the soul reason for the continuation of their breathing on the planet.
Mario smoked, sipped at a Sambuca, thought of a trailer filled worth of slag furs his crew had hijacked the night before. His girlfriend, Ginger, blond, aerobics to death, bought tits, Putney Town idiot, could suck the tiles off a one of Mario’s johns if ya asked her, was lofted up in a slick condo he owned in Chelsea. Mario knew she would love one of the furry delights, as would his wife, who was just leaving for Rome for a couple of weeks of family, with his daughter, both which he adored.
All that changed of course when SHE walked through the fucking door. Gasping, Mario’s blues flicked, blinked, he wasn’t really quite sure his stunned eyes were seeing what he thought they were seeing.
She was smiling, white teeth, tall, unbelievably elegant, thin blond, super short hair, tiny nose, sharp jaw, heart break legs, blink, blink, that’s how white her skin was. She owned green eyes, seemed almost invisible they were so clear cut. She was poured into a slit at the side white skirt, white blazer, white silk camisole, white Manolo stilettos, which must have made her 6ft 1, at least, was smiling and chatting up William at the door.
Mario stuffed his Galois out in an ashtray, adjusted his tie, fiddled at his diamond pinkie ring, watched as William, bowing, scraping, led the spindle blond across the room to the end of the bar. Once there, she sat, crossed bare legs, which a stealth bomber could have landed on they were so thin and long. Peeling off her white silk jacket, she laid it off to William, who did more bowing, scraping and, then backed off, saying hosannas as he did.
“FUCK,” Mario whispered, as his eyes bulged out of his head.
Now the princess was in a sleeveless, white silk body shirt, small breasts, wide shoulders, collar bones like carved white ivory pressing through her sheer skin, so thin Mario could see each and every one of her ribs silhouetted against the white shirt. Simply said, he had never seen anything so exotic and beautiful in his life.
Instantly, Mikey the barkeep flicked eyes at Mario, he nodded, messed with the shirt cuffs, watched as his Mikey walked over, smiled, began the chit chat with the doll. She was friendly, a gorgeous twist, smiled a smile that could of lit the Twin Towers, that is if those fucking terrorists hadn’t knocked the fucking things down, Mario thought.
Lips no bitch should ever have, no lipstick, the color of wheat, full and pouting, Mario felt dazed. Then the erection, he was a stud, the girl, seemingly very down to earth, chatted up Mikey, went back and forth, then decided on a Grey Goose martini, like Bond, shaken not stirred. Mario was a goner.
Like Achilles, beauty was his weakness, so as Mikey lit her cigarette, no filter, Galois like Mario, man’s smoke as the haze pearled out from those casaba lips. Mario zeroed in, a U-boat, torpedoes armed, ready to blitz the blond.
Sidling down the bar, hellos, introductions, I am Mimi, no attitude, invites fluttered from her lips, Mario accepted the sit down. Mario slotted a bar stool and, then she spoke perfect Italian, fucked up Mario’s mind. He answered in dago, she smiled, laughed, Mario was a dead man, he was in love. Fucking Italians, go figure.
Time flapped away like her blond eyes lashes, one Grey Goose, two, three is better. Yes, they both loved London, yet, to have the true European experience, Paris was a must for food, fashion, Milan a close second, Cannes for play, though in winter nothing could surpass Gastaad for skiing.
Yes, she was just stalling out, the limo outside, Heathrow at dawn, Zurich, then Neuchatel, skiing, had heard of D’Angelo’s, more laughs, it was as elegant as her driver had said. Touches on Mario’s arm, more smoke like a guillotine flowing past her white teeth and yes, one must live in Italy, for it was the complete package of ambiance. They agreed, no passion, no life without Italy, they both adored her, as the martinis flowed like platinum dreams.
Mario was hypnotized, fucking mesmerized, maybe lobotomized, she, down to earth, slit at the side, bare legs getting more naked by the moment, more touches, smiles could melt stainless steel. Let’s make a deal. He suggested his country manor outside of London, just for drinks, you know, a nice place, kick back, chill a little, just until her jet whacked off from Heathrow in the morning.
No problem, she was open, a dazzler, she seemed to adore everything about him, erection super ceding his mind, a few lies, why not. No need for her to know, wife gone, just left, Rome and then on to Naples, real Gumba stuff, old women moaning in black, Guapa, just like the movies, let’s do it, and they did.
Fluffing of his muscle, two guys with no necks, handguns bulging against barrel chests, agreements were bartered, absolutely, her limo was fine. They could hardly wait to mate and out the door they went.
STANDING naked, the white strand of ribbon stood, Mediterranean sea green eyes, almost translucent she was so ocular. Mario, nude, engorged cock, eyes dazed, laid on the down, big bed, massive room, rare art on the walls, happy, unable to break the mark.
The fucking queen in white from tip to tiny toes looked like a virgin princess, painfully thin, no form to her body, no fake tits, like a snow blind memory. Mario couldn’t break the gaze, she smiled, more white, she moved to the bed, ticked a look at his penis, pouted, twisted a small smile, she looked happy. Her tiny tummy was swelling, Mario blushed. He felt like a fucking kid again, testosterone unlimited, could fuck until his eyes bled out.
Slinking over, slow, seductive, like some kind of albino constrictor, she sat on the bed, reached fingers so elegant out, wrapped the tendrils around his penis, squeezed, smiled and swallowed. Mario wanted to bitch weep he was so happy. Increased breathing, Mario, blood jerking off in his brain, crazed, and thinking about a divorce lawyer, one his gangster friends had used to jettison his own wife. His brain begun to leak madness like some kinda kid with a new pop gun staring at a bird on the front lawn, he felt like that kid again.
She smiled, just a little, parted those lips and pouted, a look like a lioness, a hungry one and, then she lowered her lips, kisses his cock tip. Mario winced, lower and lower still, fuck, no fucking way. Jilting strikes of thought, his penis was down her goddess throat, up and down, tongue playing some kind of melody. Around and around she went, don’t stop, don’t leave, test pattern thoughts, bitch had no gag reflex, throat swelling each push down. Mario now knew the face of Satan; he’s a fucking woman.
She sucked out, straightened and on her knees now, straddled him, holding his penis with awe. She was ghostly pale, blue veins leading from her stomach into her cunt, she smiled again, Mario was a child again. He was stunned, paralyzed, blood pumping his cock up. Hands now, on her tiny breasts, pink nipples, her evident ribs, the glowing tummy, her arms raised to the canister of the four poster bed, swaying, humming, dreamy like, steamy like, heat emanating from her skin.
Up a little that tiny ass, now a guide, his penis, large, prominent, a “Made Mans Dick”, inside her. Mario drugged, winced, feeling her cunt burning, nothing like it before, she was a fucking extraterrestrial, he was sure of it.
What was the name of that wop divorce guy, fuck it, later, she moved, up, down, a strider of perfection, moans, Mario and her, in unison, pressed white fingers on his lips, cunt like one of those atom smashers over at JPL, vagina shaved, everything blended like the sun. Hands, his hands, touching that skin, her no tits, no form to her body, up, down, her breathing gasping, lips tight, barred, teeth showing like that lioness again, flow and ebb, up, then down, time moved right along. She hopped up, smiled through gritted teeth and guided his cock to the entry of her anus. He couldn’t believe any of it, as she rammed his cock into her ass.
Mario gasped as she screamed, racked her head back and forth, banged his chest with her fists. She went nuts, Mario’s eyes bolted open, nothing he had ever felt had ever felt like his cock buried into her velvet ass.
Time passed, still Mario hadn’t blinked for a fucking hour and then she shrieked, body shaking, shuddering, eyes twitching, and then Mario exploded, semen filling her, matching flames for flames, as he groaned, tensed as she fell along his body.
She was shuttering, weeping, as his arms wrapped around her nothingness. Skin pressed again skin, tears mingling with sweat as she whispered through saline water drops. “IL mio amore, siete stupefacenti, allineare io adore voi.”
Broken hearted, fucked up and knowing it, holding the child in his man’s arms, Mario touched her spine, her tiny rump, felt her tears on his neck and, then whispered back. “La, La ora siete cosi bello, prego mai mi non lasci il mio amore.”
“Yes my love, I love you to, please never leave me alone, never.”
Magic moments, surreal for Mario, fucking romance made in Hollywood, maybe cement stilettos for the wife, why not, he’s done worse. Then the brave little girl finally got right, leaned up, hovered over him, and smiled, a child really, simply precious in his old world romanced mind.
Mario smiled, her fingertips to her own lips and, then pressed against his, lies shared, promises sworn to, an encore pursed from her lips, just a moment, the bathroom, giggles, girl stuff.
“Please daddy you can spank me if I’m bad, even if I’m good” more giggles.
Mario loves her, she danced away, small feet getting air, a tilt back, a purr, a smile, and air kiss sent COD. Mario grabbed it in the ozone, knew he would never let it go, Tiffany’s in the morning.
Bathroom, purse, naked, leering into the mirror, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, truly the white spirit, fiddles in the bag, finds her stuff, no pulse beat, cold skin like white Pieta Marble.
Black ice in her hand and wondering, goofing, what’s that in the mirror? Can’t look, vomit images, then finished, “click.” Her hands behind her back, soft again, warm and fuzzy, sex pot, god or goddess, more like an angel, out the door she goes.
Standing, swaying, smiling at smiles, hands behind her back, surprises, gifts, as a child, she loved them, no memory of ever being a child ever racked her brain any longer, that she was certain of.