Meat-Locker – ebook



Meat-Locker: Two “sex-thrillers’ by Jo-Anne Wiley

The cops at the 14th Precinct call it the Meat-Locker. For the nurses at Rosedale, it’s the refrigerated compartments downstairs. Either way, it’s best avoided by a pretty girl who knows too much…and tells. And yes, avoid your last trip to the icebox…at any cost. Eight-Inch Girls. That’s what they call Dr. McAllister’s nurses who attract the wealthy in a scheme to expand the hospital. She employs a leggy Scandinavian who is very persuasive with rich patients: One look at that blonde hair, that mouth, and they can’t wait to bequeath large sums. The fact they have to die before the women get the money is a minor wrinkle. It’s a hospital, after all! But a young nurse is eyeing McAllister’s job and she’s gone straight to the CEO. Spying on the girl as she seduces the old fuddy-duddy, Dr. McAllister reaches for the cardiac syringe; the one with a three-inch needle. “You’ll like me…I’m better than my daughter.” Molly’s gone. The curly-headed poppet was on the way to the track and never made the bus. Her mother’s frantic. They want two-million. In desperation, Molly turns to a female friend: Tommy Vencenzi, who seeks out one of her father’s cronies for help. The mafia kingpin arranges a trade: mother for daughter. But the kidnappers have no interest in honoring the bargain. After all, what better fantasy than a mother and her daughter? These two stories includes: Edgy content, sexual conniving, non-consensual, humiliation, blackmail and revenge.

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Cover Art Image Jay Kayl

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Mr. Stirling awoke from a deep, child-like sleep, in his new luxurious hospital suite on the third floor. Dr. McAllister had arranged for him to have an injection the night before and the nurse had come in carrying her tray.

Pauline was a sweet Irish gal: A mass of red hair and freckles under her trim white cap. She flipped the sheet aside and gaily told him bedtime stories of the Irish countryside, describing the green hillsides of Derry, where she had grown up.

She called him “dear” and “love” and made all the right, delightful girlie noises, and all the time, she was holding his penis lightly in her hand, playing with it like it was her first dolly. Under the soothing stroke of her thumb, he had quickly hardened and when she felt he was ready, she had bent over him, swabbed him and slipped the needle in. She pricked the vein that ran along the top of his penis and squeezed the plunger.

It was a loving, caring moment and he had felt himself swoon. The slight prick, the motherly squeeze after, and the drug drifting though his veins. His eyes drooped to half-mast and the last thing he remembered was Pauline leaning in to place a goodnight kiss on the head of his cock.


He blinked. His eyes fluttered in the early morning sunshine that streamed through his window. He gawked, struggled to rise up on his elbows, and he rubbed the gummyness from his eyes. A tall woman stood with the curtain held back in one hand, her eyes surveying the view of the common that lay beyond his balcony. She was extraordinary!

She had to stand six-foot in her heels, and her white-blonde hair was combed straight back off her handsome, angular face; hanging down her back to where it had been hacked off as blunt as a ruler. She looked deadly in a navy blue business suit and nude nylons, though he figured she would be just as attractive in a knotted flannel shirt, turned-up denim shorts, woolen socks and hiking boots. She looked as if she climbed vertical cliffs on the weekends; just for the fun of it. She felt his eyes on her body and turned. She smiled. She had a wicked mouth.

“Who the fuck are you?” He was wide awake now.

“Mr. Stirling. I am very pleased to finally meet you. My name is Stella Zettel.”

Sounds Scandinavian, one of those countries where all the broads look like they’ve been spawned from an Olympic ski team, he thought. Hence the brilliant hair. She let the window curtain drop and covered the length of the sizable hospital bedroom in three purposeful strides. “I am the Director of Philanthropy here at Rosedale.”

Uh-boy… she’d want money. But just look at the bitch! He wondered what man could possibly refuse to open his wallet to such a gorgeous cow? He eyed the file folder she carried in her right hand.

“You have operated a very successful law firm for many years so I think you will appreciate my direct approach,” Stella said from where she towered over his bedside. “I am hoping to convince you to set aside a bursary, in your last will and testament, bequeathing a little something for our hospital.”

“You’re presuming I’m going to die.” he chuckled.

“Eventually.” She twisted her lips into that sinful smile.

“And when I die, you want something set aside… for the hospital. And just how much is this little something going to cost me?”

“I’m a blonde, Mr. Stirling,” she spun her well rehearsed lines. “I like to think in simple, round numbers. I think five-million would be sufficient… to show your generosity.”

“Five fuckin’ million? Dollars?” he spluttered, his eyes lighting up in astonishment. “And what do I get for this five fuckin’ million? A bronze plaque?”

“Oh my dear Mr. Stirling…” She graced him with the wicked smile again. “Oh no, dear.” Stella leaned forward to place a hand on his arm. “You get to fuck me. In my mouth.”


The room went quiet. The buzz of the overhead florescent fixtures filled his head like hungry bees. Or was that the blood pulsing through his ears. She had unsettled him. Virgin territory. He had never been unsettled by anyone; and certainly not by a woman. He turned his eyes away and pushed himself up into a sitting position against the pillow. It was an obvious buy for time and the fact that he had to resort to it, to stoop to a diversion, was an embarrassment. He took a breath to settle himself and wished he could reach for the bottle of scotch on the lower shelf of the side cabinet.

She smiled knowingly and settled onto the side of his bed; she opened the file folder.

He gathered himself. “What if I want to fuck you somewhere’s else? A couple of places come to mind.”

She looked up, flashed icy green eyes. “I usually reserve those two places for my husband,” she said.

Husband! He loved to work a married women.

Usually? That implies some latitude for negotiation.” He eyed the rock on her ring finger; large enough to skate on.

“Yes, well…”

He was back in the game. “Okay. Here’s the deal, sis…” He was not about to make the same mistake he had made with Dr. McAllister. “Two hundred grand. Check made out to you, personally. You stay the night and I have full privileges.”

He noticed her eyes widen slightly. “Fine,” she said without hesitation, “but first you sign off on these papers for the hospital. Five million. And you make a call to your attorney. Agreed?”

“You got it,” he laughed, thinking himself the luckiest ass in the friggin’ world. After all, you can’t take it with you.

“And while you’re at it, is there anything else I can sell you?” Stella asked, feeling she might stretch her victory.

He thought for a second, then smiled. “You want another quarter of a million, right to your hand, without waiting for me to croak?”

“I’m listening,” she said.


Stella walked into Dr. McAllister’s office, plopped down in one of the guest chairs and pried off her heels. “You got your five mil,” she announced, and stretched her legs out; wiggled her toes. “That’s when he dies, of course, which shouldn’t take long.” Stella checked her watch.

“My God,” Dr. McAllister said. “You are amazing. He contacted his lawyer?”

“All signed, sealed and faxed!”


“Yeah, but that’s not all of it. You want another quarter of a million? He’s made us an offer.”

“Another quarter million?” Dr. McAllister took a moment, then sat back. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is, he wants to fuck little Stacy!”


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