Another Templar story:
“Thanks for coming in Beans! We’ve never given a termination assignment to a kid but this is very important! Here! Study this.”
The photograph landed in front of Beans.
He bent over it dutifully.
For perhaps one second, he really did study the woman as an assignment.
Then his eyes dropped to her chest and stayed there.
The photograph had TERMINATE written boldly across it, but the woman herself looked considerably more suited to a dirty pinup than an execution file. She was a mature blonde bombshell with a great fluffy helmet of pale hair, full lips parted in a self-assured little smile, long legs, a narrow waist, broad hips—and a pair of tits so extravagantly huge that they practically swallowed the rest of the photograph.
They were crammed under a tight little cropped shirt with WORLD DOMINATION stretched over the front. The lettering bowed and warped across the immense curves, as if world domination itself was having trouble getting over those breasts. The shirt ended high, leaving a broad strip of bare stomach beneath them before her skimpy bottoms took over. One leg was raised, emphasizing the sweep of hip and thigh.
In the corner was the handwritten identification:
Photo 377 — Ample Assassin.
Beans’ mouth opened.
His professional assessment came quickly.
“Wow! Huge! You got any more of these?”
His superior did not even pretend to misunderstand.
“Take a Kodak with you and snap some before we shove ’em in a plastic body bag.”
Beans glanced up.
Then immediately back at Angela.
That answer was considerably darker than the question. The boss was already imagining the gorgeous blonde in the photograph as a corpse: those same enormous tits motionless, that long body waiting to be folded into plastic, with enough time between killing and disposal for Beans to point a Kodak at her and make himself a few souvenir pictures.
Apparently Photo 377 did not have to be the last photograph of Angela.
“So who is she?”
“She is SPECTER’s most effective assassin! Devastatingly beautiful, deadly and phenomenally wealthy! Her hits include Senator Bryce’s son so we were called in!”
Beans kept looking at the photograph while the résumé accumulated around it.
Most effective assassin.
Deadly.
Rich.
Beautiful.
The last one scarcely needed briefing.
“Why not just arrest her?”
“We’ve tried. She’s smart and rich with a platoon of lawyers at the end of her speed dialer… Besides — Bryce wants her tits up and he heads the committee evaluating our department.”
Beans looked at those tits again.
Tits up.
It was an especially crude way of saying dead, and with Angela’s chest occupying half the photograph, it produced an unusually concrete picture.
These tits, currently stretching WORLD DOMINATION almost beyond legibility, were the tits Senator Bryce wanted pointed at the ceiling.
Beans shifted in his chair.
“Which brings me to… why me?”
He looked honestly distressed now.
“I couldn’t kill her! Heck I’d freeze asking her out!”
That was probably the most truthful thing he had said during the briefing.
Angela in a photograph was already enough to make him gape like an idiot. He was supposed to walk up to that woman in person and somehow maintain the presence of mind to kill her?
His superior continued.
“Angela has some sadistic tastes! I suppose you would have to be a cold blooded killer! Anyway she has a penchant for boys. She’ll try to get you to her place. She’ll model lingerie, serve you beer and wine. You try to touch her — she’ll use you then laugh and toss you out — naked if possible.”
Beans stared.
The briefing was supposed to be warning him.
Unfortunately, every additional fact sounded less like a warning and more like advertising.
A huge-titted mature blonde assassin.
Rich.
Beautiful.
Sadistic.
She liked picking up younger-looking adult men, taking them home, parading around in lingerie for them, getting them drunk and horny, using them for her amusement and then humiliating them afterward.
Beans’ expression suggested that somebody had just described the worst assignment in the world and his dream date simultaneously.
Then the poison appeared.
A small container.
DANGER.
“Infiltrate. And execute her! Pour this in her beer while she is changing and make sure she drinks all of it — a partial dose will only make her sick.”
That simplified things, at least on paper.
Beans did not have to overpower SPECTER’s most effective assassin. He did not have to win a gunfight with her. He did not even have to convince her he was dangerous.
Quite the opposite.
He needed Angela to look at him and see exactly what she apparently liked seeing: a cute, harmless, horny young man who could be brought home and played with.
Then she would supply the opportunity herself.
Later, Beans saw her.
From behind first.
Angela was carrying her groceries home. For this mundane task, she chose the kind of outfit most girls would wear for the wildest night of the week - a very short dress, her back almost completely exposed. The garment clung around her hips and ass, following every generous curve downward before stopping high on her long bare thighs. Her waist pulled tightly inward above that full ass, giving her body the same spectacular hourglass proportions promised by the photograph.
But a photograph had not moved.
Angela did.
Her hips shifted when she stepped. Her ass rolled softly under the dress. Her shoulders moved under bare skin. The whole body had weight and life that Photo 377 could not communicate.
Beans stared at her back.
Then her waist.
Then her ass.
Then down those legs.
His thought arrived with complete sincerity:
Wow! She’s even better looking in person!
Angela had not even turned around yet.
“Ma’am, may I help you?”
She turned sharply.
“Who?”
For an instant, Beans saw the other Angela.
Not the smiling pinup.
Not the woman in the WORLD DOMINATION shirt.
Her brows drew together. Her large eyes narrowed. Her full mouth tightened. She looked alert, suspicious, assessing.
This was SPECTER’s most effective assassin checking the person behind her.
Then she actually looked at Beans.
The suspicion evaporated.
Her eyes widened.
Her mouth softened.
Then it curled into a delighted grin.
“Sure! Thanks kid!”
The grin broadened as her gaze travelled over him, clearly expressing “I think I just found the evening’s entertainment!”
Beans should have been terrified by that gleeful, hungry expression.
Instead, he looked as if somebody had just informed him he had won first prize.
The agency briefing was right.
Angela had seen him and immediately decided what category he belonged in.
Not enemy.
Not agent.
Not assassin.
Toy.
And Angela, apparently pleased with her selection, took him home.
Once inside, Beans found himself waiting while she got ready.
The mission was finally entering the dangerous part.
Not because Angela was reaching for a gun.
Because Angela was changing clothes.
Beans could hear movement nearby: drawers opening, fabric shifting, the little domestic noises of a woman taking off one outfit and putting on another while the man waiting for her knew perfectly well why she was doing it.
He looked toward the room where she had disappeared.
Then down toward the poison he had been given.
Well she’s getting ready! Will I have the guts to poison that incredible body?
That was the problem.
The poison was easy.
The body was becoming increasingly difficult.
Then Angela returned carrying two drinks.
Beans stared.
His brain ceased performing useful government work.
Angela had exchanged the dress for lingerie, and the change was devastating.
The outfit was technically clothing in roughly the same sense that a ribbon around a birthday present was packaging. Thin straps ran over her shoulders. Lace framed an enormous plunge down the center of her torso. Her tits bulged heavily on either side, great rounded masses of flesh pushed forward and inward until the cleavage between them seemed deep enough to lose equipment in.
The lingerie emphasized rather than concealed them. The cups and trim merely provided borders around two huge soft globes that looked almost comically oversized compared with her tiny waist.
And there was a lot more Angela beneath them.
A smooth torso.
Broad hips.
Thick thighs.
A voluptuous mature body that seemed to expand dramatically above and below that cinched middle.
She stood in front of him holding two cans, shoulders relaxed, chest proudly forward, smiling the smile of a woman who knew precisely why the young man on the couch had suddenly gone glassy-eyed.
“I thought you might be thirsty.”
Beans was.
Angela let his eyes sit on her tits.
“I hope this little thing I threw on doesn’t offend you…”
There was nothing sincere about the concern.
She had not “thrown on” that lingerie by accident. She had dressed for effect and was now standing still long enough to admire the damage.
“I really need to relax tonight!”
Beans stared.
Wow!
Angela’s huge tits rose immediately in front of him, nearly naked inside the scraps of lingerie. His eyes moved helplessly over the cleavage, the swollen upper curves, the thin fabric trying valiantly to contain them.
Angela watched him watching.
Beans tried to answer her.
“No-no not tit all… I mean… shit!”
His mouth shut.
Too late.
Angela’s tits had actually invaded and conquered his basic vocabulary, starting at at.
Beans’ face registered the horror of a man who had just heard himself say exactly what his brain was thinking.
Angela looked delighted.
Beans looked at Angela again.
Those immense breasts.
That smugly pretty face above them.
The luscious hips beneath.
And the terrible assignment attached to all of it.
He turned his head slightly and lowered his voice toward the radio link connecting him to Number 2.
“Damn it, Number 2, I can’t execute those tits!”
Number 2 came back quietly through the radio.
“We’re counting on you, Beans! Waste her!”
Beans grimaced.
So much for sympathy from headquarters.
His eyes drifted right back to Angela’s chest.
Waste her?
Waste those?
Angela was still standing there in that absurd scrap of lingerie, gloriously alive and thoroughly pleased with herself, those gigantic tits rising heavily above the fabric while she watched Beans struggle to assemble coherent sentences. Number 2 could say waste her easily enough from the other end of a radio. Number 2 was not sitting ten feet from the Ample Assassin while she deliberately pushed half her tits out for his benefit.
Beans was.
And that was rapidly becoming the entire problem.
Angela turned partly away from him, showing off the back of the outfit and the dramatic curve of her ass as she moved.
Beans found his voice again.
“Wow, Angela! Incredible!”
Angela glanced back over one shoulder, pleased rather than surprised.
“Thanks, Beans! Complaints?”
Beans’ gaze travelled over her again with greedy thoroughness.
Those enormous tits were more than satisfactory.
The ass was magnificent.
The long legs were doing nothing to improve his concentration.
But the outfit still concealed part of her stomach.
“No — except when do I get to see that sculpted abdomen?”
Angela’s expression said she was amused by his nerve.
She had already come back wearing lingerie that made him accidentally say tit, and now the little bastard was requesting a second costume change because he wanted a better look at another part of her body.
“Well I hate to keep a man in suspense!”
Beans watched her turn away.
Her waist tapered inward, then flared into that generous ass. The fabric hugged her as she crossed the room, each step producing another distracting shift of hip and thigh.
A normal man might have felt he was asking too much.
Beans was apparently conducting a full inspection.
Angela headed toward the other room.
“Be back in a minute!”
She set her beer down.
“Watch my beer, okay?”
Beans looked at it.
Then at Angela.
Then at the doorway waiting to swallow that enormous, voluptuous body for another costume change.
“Your beer’s as safe as your body.”
Angela’s eyes brightened.
She heard flirtation: a cute little promise that he was looking after her drink and, perhaps more importantly, appreciating the body attached to it.
“Ooooooh.”
The response was pleased, almost purring.
She disappeared into the other room with that pleased little sound hanging behind her, evidently satisfied that the young man on her couch was finally learning how to flirt.
Angela had just given him the exact opening he needed.
And she had done it while using a phrase that, under ordinary circumstances, meant almost the opposite.
Watch my beer.
Keep an eye on it. Make sure nobody touches it. Make sure some creep does not slip anything into it while I am away.
Protect my drink.
Angela could say it casually because she believed there was only one sexual predator in the apartment.
Angela.
She had selected Beans herself. She had brought him home. She was controlling the drinks, the clothes, the teasing, the amount of flesh shown and when it was shown. She apparently expected to get him panting after her, use him for whatever entertainment she wanted, and dispose of him on her own schedule.
Beans was the harmless one.
Look at him.
He could hardly speak around her tits. He had begged to see her stomach. He looked ready to follow those hips anywhere she led them.
Angela had every reason to think he was completely under control.
Beans waited until she was out of sight.
For a second he did nothing.
He could hear her moving around behind the wall, rummaging through clothes. Fabric whispered against skin. Something soft dropped onto the floor. A drawer slid open and shut.
Angela was taking off the first lingerie outfit because Beans had been greedy enough to ask for a better look at her sculpted abdomen.
And she had actually agreed.
The thought nearly derailed him again.
His imagination supplied the rest with enthusiasm: her enormous tits coming free of the flimsy cups, all that weight settling naturally once the lingerie stopped trying to hold it up; the sharp inward sweep of her waist beneath them; the bare stomach he had been promised; the broad hips and thick thighs underneath.
Her hands selecting something even skimpier.
Then he remembered what was sitting in front of him.
Angela’s beer.
The poison.
For a moment he simply stared at both.
The assignment reasserted itself.
This was the entire reason he had been sent. No gunfight. No trying to overpower SPECTER’s best assassin. No heroic wrestling match with a woman who looked capable of smothering him between tits the size of throw pillows.
Just poison the beer.
Let Angela do the rest herself.
Beans glanced toward the doorway.
Still clear.
He reached for the container.
His fingers worked while his libido screamed treason.
The room suddenly felt very quiet. Somewhere nearby Angela was still changing, completely confident that the harmless, horny young man she had brought home was dutifully guarding her drink.
He uncapped the dose carefully.
Tipped it into the beer.
A little stream disappeared inside.
That was it.
Nothing flashed.
Nothing smoked.
The beer did not suddenly acquire a skull and crossbones.
It remained a perfectly ordinary drink waiting for an extraordinarily voluptuous woman to come back and swallow it.
Beans put the poison away and stared at what he had done.
The boss’s instruction came back in its ugly simplicity:
Make sure she drinks all of it.
A partial dose would only make her sick.
So there was no room for nerves now. Angela had to finish the beer.
Beans put everything back and sat down.
Then he heard her coming.
The first thing to reappear was one long leg.
Then the other.
Then Angela herself stepped back into the room wearing black.
Beans’ jaw nearly dropped all over again.
If the first lingerie had been designed to show off her tits, this one looked as though Angela had decided the previous outfit had been positively conservative.
Black fabric cupped the lower halves of her breasts while leaving huge rounded swells exposed above it. The contrast made her pale flesh look even fuller, the breasts almost obscenely heavy against the narrow band attempting to support them.
And now Beans finally got the abdomen he had requested.
There it was beneath those tits: smooth, tight, bare, tapering inward to a narrow waist, the navel sitting neatly in the middle of the flat expanse like a little punctuation mark between that enormous chest and the lush hips below.
Angela had apparently taken **“show me your sculpted abdomen”** as a challenge.
She had won.
The black bottoms sat low on her hips. Her thighs were full and shapely. Stockings climbed her legs, adding another layer of deliberate bedroom theater to a body that hardly needed help being sexual.
She posed beside the furniture, one hip pushed out, chest forward, utterly comfortable being inspected.
“Better? Damn Spike!”
He stared.
The black lingerie made Angela look even more like the femme-fatale version of herself: glamorous, filthy, expensive, dangerous.
And, given what was now in her beer, morbidly appropriate.
“A-mazing and black too, how appropriate!”
Angela probably heard that as another compliment.
Beans knew exactly why black seemed appropriate.
He was looking at a woman dressed for sex while knowing he had just prepared her funeral.
And yet his gaze kept crawling back over her.
The tits first, naturally.
They were impossible not to look at. Huge, fleshy, pushed together by the black bra until the cleavage looked almost violent. Every shift of Angela’s shoulders made their weight settle differently. Every step produced a little movement through all that soft mass.
Then the bare stomach.
Finally exposed exactly as Beans had requested.
Smooth.
Taut.
Pretty navel directly in the center.
Then the hips.
The ass.
The stockings.
Angela had gone away for one minute and somehow returned even more fuckable.
Beans was beginning to suspect that this woman could change clothes indefinitely and every outfit would somehow make his job harder.
Angela reclaimed her beer.
The beer Beans had promised was **“as safe as your body.”**
She had no idea what a cruel little truth that had been.
Beer and body were equally safe.
Not at all.
Angela settled comfortably near him with the drink in her hand, still radiating the supreme confidence of somebody who believed she had complete ownership of the evening.
She was the hunter.
Beans was the toy.
She was going to drink, tease him, probably get him unbearably hard, have whatever fun she wanted, laugh at him when she was finished, and perhaps throw him out half-dressed or naked just because humiliating horny men amused her.
That was Angela’s version of tonight.
Beans stared at the beer.
His version had a body bag at the end of it.
Angela lifted her glass.
“Well bottoms up!”
Beans looked at the beer.
Then at Angela.
Then, inevitably, at the vast pair of breasts swelling over the black lingerie.
*Tits up actually…*
The words from the briefing came back with horrible visual clarity.
Bryce wanted Angela **tits up**.
And now Beans knew exactly what those words meant.
Not some abstract enemy operative.
Not Photo 377.
**These tits.**
These enormous living breasts, warm and heavy and moving every time Angela breathed.
Tits that were presently packed into black lingerie while their owner sat there horny, amused, and fully expecting a night of fun.
If she drank that beer, Beans was supposed to turn all of that into the boss’s Kodak joke.
Angela alive:
blonde hair, wicked smile, soft skin, enormous tits, teasing voice, long legs, that sculpted abdomen she had uncovered because he asked.
Angela afterward:
tits up.
Corpse.
Plastic bag.
Maybe a few souvenir photographs first.
Beans felt the victory curdle in his stomach.
He had done it.
The poison was in the beer.
Angela was holding it.
Angela was thirsty.
He had won.
And suddenly winning seemed like the stupidest thing he could possibly allow to happen.
*Damn it I’ll never have a chance like this again… damn.*
Because look at her.
This was not some generic hot woman.
This was Angela.
This gigantic, filthy, voluptuous mature assassin had personally decided she wanted Beans as tonight’s entertainment. She had brought him home. She had already changed lingerie twice for him. She was sitting there with her tits practically spilling into the room, her bare stomach exposed because he had requested it, plainly intending to do something wonderfully indecent to him before the night was over.
And Beans had just put a deadline on the whole experience.
One beer.
That was all the Angela he had left.
Once she drank it, there would be no finding out exactly what “use you then laugh and toss you out” meant in practice.
No getting those enormous tits against him.
No getting his hands on that body.
No letting this sadistic bombshell demonstrate personally what she liked doing to the men she brought home.
No quickie.
No second chance.
Angela brought the drink toward her mouth.
Beans cracked.
“Wait! (Damn) How about a q-q-quickie before you go—”
Angela stopped.
Her eyes sharpened.
“Go?”
Beans froze.
Fuck.
As far as Angela knew, she was not going anywhere.
This was her home.
She had brought **him** here.
She was dressed for an evening’s entertainment.
Why had Beans just spoken as though she were about to leave?
Because somewhere inside his panicking head, *go* had meant something considerably more permanent.
Before you go.
Before you die.
Before you turn tits-up.
Before they stuff you into the bag.
Beans’ brain desperately grabbed the unfinished sentence and wrestled it toward innocence.
“G-go drink your beer.”
Awful.
Just awful.
But technically it worked.
*Before you go drink your beer.*
Beans gave her what he hoped was a horny, nervous smile rather than the expression of a government assassin who had just nearly announced that she was scheduled to die.
Then Number 2’s voice came through the radio.
“What the hell are you doing Beans!? You’re playing into her hands!”
Beans tightened his jaw.
Number 2 was not here.
Number 2 was not looking at Angela in black lingerie.
Number 2 did not have those tits sitting several feet away.
Number 2 had not just been offered the implied prospect of being personally abused by one of the hottest, dirtiest women Beans had ever seen.
“Shut up!”
Angela looked at him, apparently taking the strange little aside as just one more symptom of Beans being hopelessly flustered.
And why wouldn’t she?
Everything Beans had done so far confirmed her opinion of him.
He stared.
He stammered.
He accidentally said **tit** instead of **at**.
He requested extra lingerie.
He begged for a quickie.
Angela had him.
At least, that was what Angela thought.
She shifted, black-clad breasts moving heavily with her, the poisoned drink still in hand.
“Okay, we don’t have to talk—sure… but I am very thirsty.”
Beans stared at the beer.
Then at Angela.
Then at the beer again.
Of course she was thirsty.
He had poisoned the drink.
He needed her to drink the drink.
He had just told her to drink the drink.
And now the single thing he most desperately wanted was for this gorgeous woman **not to drink the fucking drink yet**.
Because Beans had finally managed to get himself exactly where the agency wanted him.
Alone with Angela.
Her trust secured.
Her beer poisoned.
Her body exposed.
Mission almost complete.
And all Beans could think was that he wanted just a little more time with those tits before he had to turn them up.
Angela lifted the beer again.
Beans watched the rim come toward her mouth.
This was what he had been sent here for. No gunfight. No wrestling match with SPECTER’s most effective assassin. No need to somehow overpower all that mature, voluptuous confidence with his bare hands. Just let her drink.
Angela tilted the glass.
Beans stared at her lips touching the rim.
Then at the black lingerie.
Then at the smooth stretch of her exposed stomach.
Then, inevitably, at those enormous tits.
She took a swallow.
Beans’ stomach tightened.
Another.
The level in the glass dropped.
He had spent the entire evening trying to get to precisely this moment, and now every mouthful felt like somebody was erasing Angela in front of him.
She lowered the beer briefly and licked a trace of foam from her lip.
Beans nearly lost his nerve on the spot.
Angela smiled at him over the rim.
She was alive, flushed, amused, horny, and completely certain that she had dragged home a harmless little toy.
Beans looked at the beer.
Then at Angela.
Then back at the beer.
His hand shot out.
“Oops!”
The glass went over.
Beer splashed across the table and ran in a foamy sheet toward the floor.
Angela jumped back.
“What the hell?”
Beans immediately began fumbling for napkins with such exaggerated incompetence that he looked almost convincing.
“Sorry! Sorry! I knocked it over!”
Angela stared down at the spreading puddle.
Then at Beans.
Her eyes narrowed just enough to make him sweat.
For one very unpleasant second, SPECTER’s most effective assassin was back in the room.
Then she looked at his face.
Cute.
Mortified.
Desperate.
And, from her point of view, far too busy staring at her tits to have any coherent ulterior motive.
Angela sighed.
“You are a mess.”
Beans laughed weakly.
She had drunk some.
Not all.
Enough to matter.
Not enough to kill her.
His superior’s warning echoed in his head with fresh urgency: a partial dose would only make her sick.
Beans had just deliberately converted a clean assassination into a future problem.
All because he wanted more time with Angela.
Angela, blissfully unaware that Beans had just saved her from one version of death in order to continue being horny about her, settled back into the evening.
And then she made him regret the decision immediately.
Because Angela liked control.
Beans had asked for a quickie.
Angela had heard the request.
Angela had no intention of giving him anything that easily.
She moved closer.
Not close enough.
That was the trick.
She let Beans see exactly what he wanted while making sure he understood that seeing and having were two very different things.
She shifted her weight slowly, letting the black lingerie tighten across her hips. She rolled one shoulder, then the other, making her enormous tits sway heavily in their cups.
Beans stared.
Angela noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She gave him a tiny smile that said she could keep this up all night.
Beans’ hands twitched.
Angela saw that too.
She stepped just out of reach.
“Uh-uh.”
Beans groaned.
Angela laughed.
The briefing had warned him.
She liked to get men worked up.
She liked to make them think they were about to get what they wanted.
Then she liked to take it away.
And Beans, having heard all of this in advance, had still walked directly into it because Angela was simply too fucking hot for him to care.
She turned slowly in front of him.
The black lingerie framed every part of her he had been leering at all evening: those absurdly huge tits, the narrow waist, the bare sculpted stomach, the deep little navel, the broad hips and full ass beneath.
Angela gave him the whole display.
Then nothing else.
Beans reached.
Angela slapped his hand away.
Not angrily.
Playfully.
Cruelly.
Exactly as advertised.
“Oh no.”
Beans looked personally betrayed.
Angela smiled.
That smile was getting meaner.
She bent forward just enough to make the cleavage deepen until Beans’ eyes nearly crossed.
Then she straightened before he could touch anything.
He was beginning to understand what “evening’s entertainment” meant.
Angela was having a wonderful time.
Beans was becoming the evening’s entertainment by the minute.
She let him think she was moving closer.
Then shifted away.
Let him think she was going to sit in his lap.
Then stopped with one knee beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body without actually getting what he wanted.
Let those huge tits hover right there in front of him.
Then pulled back again.
Beans made a noise somewhere between frustration and prayer.
Angela laughed.
“You really thought I was going to make it that easy?”
Beans looked at her.
“You brought me home!”
“Yes.”
“You changed twice!”
“Yes.”
“You—”
“Yes.”
Angela was enjoying this far too much.
Beans looked at her body.
Then at her face.
Then back at her body.
Somewhere deep inside him, the tiny remaining professional part of his brain was screaming that this was exactly what Number 2 had warned him about.
Angela would use him.
Laugh at him.
Toss him out.
Naked if possible.
Beans had been told the entire playbook.
He had still managed to become offended when Angela actually followed it.
Angela moved again, slow and deliberate, letting one hip brush close to him.
Beans stiffened.
She pulled away.
He groaned.
Angela laughed harder.
And then she paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Her smile faded.
One hand drifted toward her stomach.
Beans noticed.
Angela ignored it.
She straightened.
Tried to resume the performance.
Shifted her hips again.
Then stopped.
Her fingers pressed lightly against her abdomen.
Beans watched the first flicker of confusion cross her face.
“What?”
Angela looked down at herself.
A little crease formed between her brows.
Her stomach tightened under her hand.
She inhaled slowly.
Then more sharply.
Beans’ expression changed.
He knew exactly what this was.
Angela did not.
Not yet.
She tried to shrug it off.
Probably the beer.
Probably something she ate.
Probably nothing.
Then another wave hit.
Angela’s hand pressed harder into her bare abdomen.
Her body folded slightly at the waist.
“Shit.”
Beans said nothing.
Angela looked up.
The amusement in her face had vanished.
Her breathing had changed.
Shorter now.
More careful.
She straightened again out of sheer stubbornness.
For a few seconds she managed it.
Then the muscles in her stomach seized.
Angela bent forward.
One hand braced against the furniture.
The other stayed clamped over her belly.
Beans swallowed.
The partial dose.
Not enough to kill her.
Enough to make her sick.
Angela looked at him.
Really looked at him.
The confusion was turning into suspicion.
“Beans.”
He tried to make his face innocent.
Angela’s eyes moved toward the spilled beer.
Then toward him.
Then back to the beer.
Her expression hardened.
The room changed.
The horny mature bombshell vanished behind the assassin.
“What did you do?”
Beans’ mouth opened.
Angela stood upright despite the pain.
“What did you do to my drink?”
Beans backed away.
“Angela—”
She moved toward him.
Fast.
Much faster than somebody that sick had any business moving.
Beans stumbled backward.
Angela grabbed him.
All the playful touching from earlier was gone.
Her fingers closed hard.
Her face was twisted with anger now, breath coming through clenched teeth.
“You little bastard.”
Beans tried to pull free.
Angela shoved him backward.
The difference between seduction and violence was suddenly very clear.
SPECTER’s most effective assassin had not disappeared just because she had spent the evening in lingerie.
She was sick.
She was furious.
And she intended to kill him.
Beans scrambled away.
Angela came after him.
Another cramp hit her halfway across the room.
She staggered.
Caught herself.
Kept coming.
Beans looked around wildly for anything useful.
No gun.
No convenient sword.
No miraculous weapon.
Just the usual junk scattered around somebody’s home.
Angela advanced.
Beans’ hand found something narrow and hard.
A pencil.
A beer-covered pencil that nearly slipped out of his hand.
Beans stared at the tiny improvised weapon.
Then at Angela.
Then at the smooth exposed stomach she had obligingly uncovered for him earlier.
Angela lunged.
Beans panicked.
He shut his eyes.
Thrust forward.
Angela stopped.
Silence.
Beans opened one eye.
The pencil was lodged into her exposed navel.
Not deeply enough to look spectacular.
Not dramatically enough to stop somebody like Angela through injury alone.
If anything, it looked almost ridiculous.
Angela stared down.
Then looked at Beans.
For one stunned second she seemed unable to believe this was his attack.
Then she laughed.
Actually laughed.
“That’s it?”
Beans was still holding the end.
Angela looked at him with pure contempt.
“You think a pencil in my belly button is going to kill me?”
Beans swallowed.
“It’s poisoned.”
Angela stopped laughing.
The expression on her face changed instantly.
Her eyes dropped toward the object.
Then toward the remains of the spilled beer.
Then back to Beans.
The arithmetic completed itself.
Partial dose.
A bit more poison on the pencil now piercing through her bellybutton and supplying another dose right into the depths of her toned belly.
Enough.
Angela grabbed for him.
Her hand caught his shirt.
She tried to pull him closer.
Her strength was still frightening.
But not what it had been.
Beans could feel the weakness beginning to win.
Angela tried to strike him.
The movement came slower than she intended.
She missed.
Tried again.
Her knees buckled.
She cursed and fought to stay upright.
Beans backed into the couch.
Angela stumbled after him.
For one last moment sheer rage kept her moving.
Then her legs gave out.
Angela fell forward.
Beans disappeared beneath a considerable amount of blonde assassin.
“Oof!”
Her weight drove him backward into the cushions.
One arm ended up trapped beneath her.
The other stuck awkwardly at his side.
Angela tried to push herself back up.
Couldn’t.
Her muscles shook with the effort.
She shifted again.
Failed again.
Then collapsed more heavily across him.
Beans lay there, stunned.
Angela’s head had fallen near his shoulder.
Her breathing was ragged.
Her body was still fighting for control even as the poison took it away.
The woman who had spent the evening deciding exactly when Beans could look, when he could approach, when he could touch, and when he had to stay back could no longer even decide whether she stayed upright.
Her fingers tightened weakly in the fabric of his shirt.
Then loosened.
Beans said her name.
Angela tried to answer.
Nothing coherent came out.
She shifted once more, as if some stubborn part of her still intended to get up and finish him.
Her strength failed.
The movement stopped.
Beans stayed pinned beneath her for several long seconds, barely breathing.
Then the radio crackled.
Number 2.
“Beans?”
Beans stared at the ceiling.
“Beans, are you okay?”
He looked down at Angela.
The evening’s entertainment was over.
Number 2 continued.
“Can we send in the corpse disposal?”
Beans exhaled.
“Yeah.”
He paused.
Looked down at himself.
Then added, with exhausted disgust at the entire evening:
“And a new pair of pants, please.”
“Thanks for coming in Beans! We’ve never given a termination assignment to a kid but this is very important! Here! Study this.”
The photograph landed in front of Beans.
He bent over it dutifully.
For perhaps one second, he really did study the woman as an assignment.
Then his eyes dropped to her chest and stayed there.
The photograph had TERMINATE written boldly across it, but the woman herself looked considerably more suited to a dirty pinup than an execution file. She was a mature blonde bombshell with a great fluffy helmet of pale hair, full lips parted in a self-assured little smile, long legs, a narrow waist, broad hips—and a pair of tits so extravagantly huge that they practically swallowed the rest of the photograph.
They were crammed under a tight little cropped shirt with WORLD DOMINATION stretched over the front. The lettering bowed and warped across the immense curves, as if world domination itself was having trouble getting over those breasts. The shirt ended high, leaving a broad strip of bare stomach beneath them before her skimpy bottoms took over. One leg was raised, emphasizing the sweep of hip and thigh.
In the corner was the handwritten identification:
Photo 377 — Ample Assassin.
Beans’ mouth opened.
His professional assessment came quickly.
“Wow! Huge! You got any more of these?”
His superior did not even pretend to misunderstand.
“Take a Kodak with you and snap some before we shove ’em in a plastic body bag.”
Beans glanced up.
Then immediately back at Angela.
That answer was considerably darker than the question. The boss was already imagining the gorgeous blonde in the photograph as a corpse: those same enormous tits motionless, that long body waiting to be folded into plastic, with enough time between killing and disposal for Beans to point a Kodak at her and make himself a few souvenir pictures.
Apparently Photo 377 did not have to be the last photograph of Angela.
“So who is she?”
“She is SPECTER’s most effective assassin! Devastatingly beautiful, deadly and phenomenally wealthy! Her hits include Senator Bryce’s son so we were called in!”
Beans kept looking at the photograph while the résumé accumulated around it.
Most effective assassin.
Deadly.
Rich.
Beautiful.
The last one scarcely needed briefing.
“Why not just arrest her?”
“We’ve tried. She’s smart and rich with a platoon of lawyers at the end of her speed dialer… Besides — Bryce wants her tits up and he heads the committee evaluating our department.”
Beans looked at those tits again.
Tits up.
It was an especially crude way of saying dead, and with Angela’s chest occupying half the photograph, it produced an unusually concrete picture.
These tits, currently stretching WORLD DOMINATION almost beyond legibility, were the tits Senator Bryce wanted pointed at the ceiling.
Beans shifted in his chair.
“Which brings me to… why me?”
He looked honestly distressed now.
“I couldn’t kill her! Heck I’d freeze asking her out!”
That was probably the most truthful thing he had said during the briefing.
Angela in a photograph was already enough to make him gape like an idiot. He was supposed to walk up to that woman in person and somehow maintain the presence of mind to kill her?
His superior continued.
“Angela has some sadistic tastes! I suppose you would have to be a cold blooded killer! Anyway she has a penchant for boys. She’ll try to get you to her place. She’ll model lingerie, serve you beer and wine. You try to touch her — she’ll use you then laugh and toss you out — naked if possible.”
Beans stared.
The briefing was supposed to be warning him.
Unfortunately, every additional fact sounded less like a warning and more like advertising.
A huge-titted mature blonde assassin.
Rich.
Beautiful.
Sadistic.
She liked picking up younger-looking adult men, taking them home, parading around in lingerie for them, getting them drunk and horny, using them for her amusement and then humiliating them afterward.
Beans’ expression suggested that somebody had just described the worst assignment in the world and his dream date simultaneously.
Then the poison appeared.
A small container.
DANGER.
“Infiltrate. And execute her! Pour this in her beer while she is changing and make sure she drinks all of it — a partial dose will only make her sick.”
That simplified things, at least on paper.
Beans did not have to overpower SPECTER’s most effective assassin. He did not have to win a gunfight with her. He did not even have to convince her he was dangerous.
Quite the opposite.
He needed Angela to look at him and see exactly what she apparently liked seeing: a cute, harmless, horny young man who could be brought home and played with.
Then she would supply the opportunity herself.
Later, Beans saw her.
From behind first.
Angela was carrying her groceries home. For this mundane task, she chose the kind of outfit most girls would wear for the wildest night of the week - a very short dress, her back almost completely exposed. The garment clung around her hips and ass, following every generous curve downward before stopping high on her long bare thighs. Her waist pulled tightly inward above that full ass, giving her body the same spectacular hourglass proportions promised by the photograph.
But a photograph had not moved.
Angela did.
Her hips shifted when she stepped. Her ass rolled softly under the dress. Her shoulders moved under bare skin. The whole body had weight and life that Photo 377 could not communicate.
Beans stared at her back.
Then her waist.
Then her ass.
Then down those legs.
His thought arrived with complete sincerity:
Wow! She’s even better looking in person!
Angela had not even turned around yet.
“Ma’am, may I help you?”
She turned sharply.
“Who?”
For an instant, Beans saw the other Angela.
Not the smiling pinup.
Not the woman in the WORLD DOMINATION shirt.
Her brows drew together. Her large eyes narrowed. Her full mouth tightened. She looked alert, suspicious, assessing.
This was SPECTER’s most effective assassin checking the person behind her.
Then she actually looked at Beans.
The suspicion evaporated.
Her eyes widened.
Her mouth softened.
Then it curled into a delighted grin.
“Sure! Thanks kid!”
The grin broadened as her gaze travelled over him, clearly expressing “I think I just found the evening’s entertainment!”
Beans should have been terrified by that gleeful, hungry expression.
Instead, he looked as if somebody had just informed him he had won first prize.
The agency briefing was right.
Angela had seen him and immediately decided what category he belonged in.
Not enemy.
Not agent.
Not assassin.
Toy.
And Angela, apparently pleased with her selection, took him home.
Once inside, Beans found himself waiting while she got ready.
The mission was finally entering the dangerous part.
Not because Angela was reaching for a gun.
Because Angela was changing clothes.
Beans could hear movement nearby: drawers opening, fabric shifting, the little domestic noises of a woman taking off one outfit and putting on another while the man waiting for her knew perfectly well why she was doing it.
He looked toward the room where she had disappeared.
Then down toward the poison he had been given.
Well she’s getting ready! Will I have the guts to poison that incredible body?
That was the problem.
The poison was easy.
The body was becoming increasingly difficult.
Then Angela returned carrying two drinks.
Beans stared.
His brain ceased performing useful government work.
Angela had exchanged the dress for lingerie, and the change was devastating.
The outfit was technically clothing in roughly the same sense that a ribbon around a birthday present was packaging. Thin straps ran over her shoulders. Lace framed an enormous plunge down the center of her torso. Her tits bulged heavily on either side, great rounded masses of flesh pushed forward and inward until the cleavage between them seemed deep enough to lose equipment in.
The lingerie emphasized rather than concealed them. The cups and trim merely provided borders around two huge soft globes that looked almost comically oversized compared with her tiny waist.
And there was a lot more Angela beneath them.
A smooth torso.
Broad hips.
Thick thighs.
A voluptuous mature body that seemed to expand dramatically above and below that cinched middle.
She stood in front of him holding two cans, shoulders relaxed, chest proudly forward, smiling the smile of a woman who knew precisely why the young man on the couch had suddenly gone glassy-eyed.
“I thought you might be thirsty.”
Beans was.
Angela let his eyes sit on her tits.
“I hope this little thing I threw on doesn’t offend you…”
There was nothing sincere about the concern.
She had not “thrown on” that lingerie by accident. She had dressed for effect and was now standing still long enough to admire the damage.
“I really need to relax tonight!”
Beans stared.
Wow!
Angela’s huge tits rose immediately in front of him, nearly naked inside the scraps of lingerie. His eyes moved helplessly over the cleavage, the swollen upper curves, the thin fabric trying valiantly to contain them.
Angela watched him watching.
Beans tried to answer her.
“No-no not tit all… I mean… shit!”
His mouth shut.
Too late.
Angela’s tits had actually invaded and conquered his basic vocabulary, starting at at.
Beans’ face registered the horror of a man who had just heard himself say exactly what his brain was thinking.
Angela looked delighted.
Beans looked at Angela again.
Those immense breasts.
That smugly pretty face above them.
The luscious hips beneath.
And the terrible assignment attached to all of it.
He turned his head slightly and lowered his voice toward the radio link connecting him to Number 2.
“Damn it, Number 2, I can’t execute those tits!”
Number 2 came back quietly through the radio.
“We’re counting on you, Beans! Waste her!”
Beans grimaced.
So much for sympathy from headquarters.
His eyes drifted right back to Angela’s chest.
Waste her?
Waste those?
Angela was still standing there in that absurd scrap of lingerie, gloriously alive and thoroughly pleased with herself, those gigantic tits rising heavily above the fabric while she watched Beans struggle to assemble coherent sentences. Number 2 could say waste her easily enough from the other end of a radio. Number 2 was not sitting ten feet from the Ample Assassin while she deliberately pushed half her tits out for his benefit.
Beans was.
And that was rapidly becoming the entire problem.
Angela turned partly away from him, showing off the back of the outfit and the dramatic curve of her ass as she moved.
Beans found his voice again.
“Wow, Angela! Incredible!”
Angela glanced back over one shoulder, pleased rather than surprised.
“Thanks, Beans! Complaints?”
Beans’ gaze travelled over her again with greedy thoroughness.
Those enormous tits were more than satisfactory.
The ass was magnificent.
The long legs were doing nothing to improve his concentration.
But the outfit still concealed part of her stomach.
“No — except when do I get to see that sculpted abdomen?”
Angela’s expression said she was amused by his nerve.
She had already come back wearing lingerie that made him accidentally say tit, and now the little bastard was requesting a second costume change because he wanted a better look at another part of her body.
“Well I hate to keep a man in suspense!”
Beans watched her turn away.
Her waist tapered inward, then flared into that generous ass. The fabric hugged her as she crossed the room, each step producing another distracting shift of hip and thigh.
A normal man might have felt he was asking too much.
Beans was apparently conducting a full inspection.
Angela headed toward the other room.
“Be back in a minute!”
She set her beer down.
“Watch my beer, okay?”
Beans looked at it.
Then at Angela.
Then at the doorway waiting to swallow that enormous, voluptuous body for another costume change.
“Your beer’s as safe as your body.”
Angela’s eyes brightened.
She heard flirtation: a cute little promise that he was looking after her drink and, perhaps more importantly, appreciating the body attached to it.
“Ooooooh.”
The response was pleased, almost purring.
She disappeared into the other room with that pleased little sound hanging behind her, evidently satisfied that the young man on her couch was finally learning how to flirt.
Angela had just given him the exact opening he needed.
And she had done it while using a phrase that, under ordinary circumstances, meant almost the opposite.
Watch my beer.
Keep an eye on it. Make sure nobody touches it. Make sure some creep does not slip anything into it while I am away.
Protect my drink.
Angela could say it casually because she believed there was only one sexual predator in the apartment.
Angela.
She had selected Beans herself. She had brought him home. She was controlling the drinks, the clothes, the teasing, the amount of flesh shown and when it was shown. She apparently expected to get him panting after her, use him for whatever entertainment she wanted, and dispose of him on her own schedule.
Beans was the harmless one.
Look at him.
He could hardly speak around her tits. He had begged to see her stomach. He looked ready to follow those hips anywhere she led them.
Angela had every reason to think he was completely under control.
Beans waited until she was out of sight.
For a second he did nothing.
He could hear her moving around behind the wall, rummaging through clothes. Fabric whispered against skin. Something soft dropped onto the floor. A drawer slid open and shut.
Angela was taking off the first lingerie outfit because Beans had been greedy enough to ask for a better look at her sculpted abdomen.
And she had actually agreed.
The thought nearly derailed him again.
His imagination supplied the rest with enthusiasm: her enormous tits coming free of the flimsy cups, all that weight settling naturally once the lingerie stopped trying to hold it up; the sharp inward sweep of her waist beneath them; the bare stomach he had been promised; the broad hips and thick thighs underneath.
Her hands selecting something even skimpier.
Then he remembered what was sitting in front of him.
Angela’s beer.
The poison.
For a moment he simply stared at both.
The assignment reasserted itself.
This was the entire reason he had been sent. No gunfight. No trying to overpower SPECTER’s best assassin. No heroic wrestling match with a woman who looked capable of smothering him between tits the size of throw pillows.
Just poison the beer.
Let Angela do the rest herself.
Beans glanced toward the doorway.
Still clear.
He reached for the container.
His fingers worked while his libido screamed treason.
The room suddenly felt very quiet. Somewhere nearby Angela was still changing, completely confident that the harmless, horny young man she had brought home was dutifully guarding her drink.
He uncapped the dose carefully.
Tipped it into the beer.
A little stream disappeared inside.
That was it.
Nothing flashed.
Nothing smoked.
The beer did not suddenly acquire a skull and crossbones.
It remained a perfectly ordinary drink waiting for an extraordinarily voluptuous woman to come back and swallow it.
Beans put the poison away and stared at what he had done.
The boss’s instruction came back in its ugly simplicity:
Make sure she drinks all of it.
A partial dose would only make her sick.
So there was no room for nerves now. Angela had to finish the beer.
Beans put everything back and sat down.
Then he heard her coming.
The first thing to reappear was one long leg.
Then the other.
Then Angela herself stepped back into the room wearing black.
Beans’ jaw nearly dropped all over again.
If the first lingerie had been designed to show off her tits, this one looked as though Angela had decided the previous outfit had been positively conservative.
Black fabric cupped the lower halves of her breasts while leaving huge rounded swells exposed above it. The contrast made her pale flesh look even fuller, the breasts almost obscenely heavy against the narrow band attempting to support them.
And now Beans finally got the abdomen he had requested.
There it was beneath those tits: smooth, tight, bare, tapering inward to a narrow waist, the navel sitting neatly in the middle of the flat expanse like a little punctuation mark between that enormous chest and the lush hips below.
Angela had apparently taken **“show me your sculpted abdomen”** as a challenge.
She had won.
The black bottoms sat low on her hips. Her thighs were full and shapely. Stockings climbed her legs, adding another layer of deliberate bedroom theater to a body that hardly needed help being sexual.
She posed beside the furniture, one hip pushed out, chest forward, utterly comfortable being inspected.
“Better? Damn Spike!”
He stared.
The black lingerie made Angela look even more like the femme-fatale version of herself: glamorous, filthy, expensive, dangerous.
And, given what was now in her beer, morbidly appropriate.
“A-mazing and black too, how appropriate!”
Angela probably heard that as another compliment.
Beans knew exactly why black seemed appropriate.
He was looking at a woman dressed for sex while knowing he had just prepared her funeral.
And yet his gaze kept crawling back over her.
The tits first, naturally.
They were impossible not to look at. Huge, fleshy, pushed together by the black bra until the cleavage looked almost violent. Every shift of Angela’s shoulders made their weight settle differently. Every step produced a little movement through all that soft mass.
Then the bare stomach.
Finally exposed exactly as Beans had requested.
Smooth.
Taut.
Pretty navel directly in the center.
Then the hips.
The ass.
The stockings.
Angela had gone away for one minute and somehow returned even more fuckable.
Beans was beginning to suspect that this woman could change clothes indefinitely and every outfit would somehow make his job harder.
Angela reclaimed her beer.
The beer Beans had promised was **“as safe as your body.”**
She had no idea what a cruel little truth that had been.
Beer and body were equally safe.
Not at all.
Angela settled comfortably near him with the drink in her hand, still radiating the supreme confidence of somebody who believed she had complete ownership of the evening.
She was the hunter.
Beans was the toy.
She was going to drink, tease him, probably get him unbearably hard, have whatever fun she wanted, laugh at him when she was finished, and perhaps throw him out half-dressed or naked just because humiliating horny men amused her.
That was Angela’s version of tonight.
Beans stared at the beer.
His version had a body bag at the end of it.
Angela lifted her glass.
“Well bottoms up!”
Beans looked at the beer.
Then at Angela.
Then, inevitably, at the vast pair of breasts swelling over the black lingerie.
*Tits up actually…*
The words from the briefing came back with horrible visual clarity.
Bryce wanted Angela **tits up**.
And now Beans knew exactly what those words meant.
Not some abstract enemy operative.
Not Photo 377.
**These tits.**
These enormous living breasts, warm and heavy and moving every time Angela breathed.
Tits that were presently packed into black lingerie while their owner sat there horny, amused, and fully expecting a night of fun.
If she drank that beer, Beans was supposed to turn all of that into the boss’s Kodak joke.
Angela alive:
blonde hair, wicked smile, soft skin, enormous tits, teasing voice, long legs, that sculpted abdomen she had uncovered because he asked.
Angela afterward:
tits up.
Corpse.
Plastic bag.
Maybe a few souvenir photographs first.
Beans felt the victory curdle in his stomach.
He had done it.
The poison was in the beer.
Angela was holding it.
Angela was thirsty.
He had won.
And suddenly winning seemed like the stupidest thing he could possibly allow to happen.
*Damn it I’ll never have a chance like this again… damn.*
Because look at her.
This was not some generic hot woman.
This was Angela.
This gigantic, filthy, voluptuous mature assassin had personally decided she wanted Beans as tonight’s entertainment. She had brought him home. She had already changed lingerie twice for him. She was sitting there with her tits practically spilling into the room, her bare stomach exposed because he had requested it, plainly intending to do something wonderfully indecent to him before the night was over.
And Beans had just put a deadline on the whole experience.
One beer.
That was all the Angela he had left.
Once she drank it, there would be no finding out exactly what “use you then laugh and toss you out” meant in practice.
No getting those enormous tits against him.
No getting his hands on that body.
No letting this sadistic bombshell demonstrate personally what she liked doing to the men she brought home.
No quickie.
No second chance.
Angela brought the drink toward her mouth.
Beans cracked.
“Wait! (Damn) How about a q-q-quickie before you go—”
Angela stopped.
Her eyes sharpened.
“Go?”
Beans froze.
Fuck.
As far as Angela knew, she was not going anywhere.
This was her home.
She had brought **him** here.
She was dressed for an evening’s entertainment.
Why had Beans just spoken as though she were about to leave?
Because somewhere inside his panicking head, *go* had meant something considerably more permanent.
Before you go.
Before you die.
Before you turn tits-up.
Before they stuff you into the bag.
Beans’ brain desperately grabbed the unfinished sentence and wrestled it toward innocence.
“G-go drink your beer.”
Awful.
Just awful.
But technically it worked.
*Before you go drink your beer.*
Beans gave her what he hoped was a horny, nervous smile rather than the expression of a government assassin who had just nearly announced that she was scheduled to die.
Then Number 2’s voice came through the radio.
“What the hell are you doing Beans!? You’re playing into her hands!”
Beans tightened his jaw.
Number 2 was not here.
Number 2 was not looking at Angela in black lingerie.
Number 2 did not have those tits sitting several feet away.
Number 2 had not just been offered the implied prospect of being personally abused by one of the hottest, dirtiest women Beans had ever seen.
“Shut up!”
Angela looked at him, apparently taking the strange little aside as just one more symptom of Beans being hopelessly flustered.
And why wouldn’t she?
Everything Beans had done so far confirmed her opinion of him.
He stared.
He stammered.
He accidentally said **tit** instead of **at**.
He requested extra lingerie.
He begged for a quickie.
Angela had him.
At least, that was what Angela thought.
She shifted, black-clad breasts moving heavily with her, the poisoned drink still in hand.
“Okay, we don’t have to talk—sure… but I am very thirsty.”
Beans stared at the beer.
Then at Angela.
Then at the beer again.
Of course she was thirsty.
He had poisoned the drink.
He needed her to drink the drink.
He had just told her to drink the drink.
And now the single thing he most desperately wanted was for this gorgeous woman **not to drink the fucking drink yet**.
Because Beans had finally managed to get himself exactly where the agency wanted him.
Alone with Angela.
Her trust secured.
Her beer poisoned.
Her body exposed.
Mission almost complete.
And all Beans could think was that he wanted just a little more time with those tits before he had to turn them up.
Angela lifted the beer again.
Beans watched the rim come toward her mouth.
This was what he had been sent here for. No gunfight. No wrestling match with SPECTER’s most effective assassin. No need to somehow overpower all that mature, voluptuous confidence with his bare hands. Just let her drink.
Angela tilted the glass.
Beans stared at her lips touching the rim.
Then at the black lingerie.
Then at the smooth stretch of her exposed stomach.
Then, inevitably, at those enormous tits.
She took a swallow.
Beans’ stomach tightened.
Another.
The level in the glass dropped.
He had spent the entire evening trying to get to precisely this moment, and now every mouthful felt like somebody was erasing Angela in front of him.
She lowered the beer briefly and licked a trace of foam from her lip.
Beans nearly lost his nerve on the spot.
Angela smiled at him over the rim.
She was alive, flushed, amused, horny, and completely certain that she had dragged home a harmless little toy.
Beans looked at the beer.
Then at Angela.
Then back at the beer.
His hand shot out.
“Oops!”
The glass went over.
Beer splashed across the table and ran in a foamy sheet toward the floor.
Angela jumped back.
“What the hell?”
Beans immediately began fumbling for napkins with such exaggerated incompetence that he looked almost convincing.
“Sorry! Sorry! I knocked it over!”
Angela stared down at the spreading puddle.
Then at Beans.
Her eyes narrowed just enough to make him sweat.
For one very unpleasant second, SPECTER’s most effective assassin was back in the room.
Then she looked at his face.
Cute.
Mortified.
Desperate.
And, from her point of view, far too busy staring at her tits to have any coherent ulterior motive.
Angela sighed.
“You are a mess.”
Beans laughed weakly.
She had drunk some.
Not all.
Enough to matter.
Not enough to kill her.
His superior’s warning echoed in his head with fresh urgency: a partial dose would only make her sick.
Beans had just deliberately converted a clean assassination into a future problem.
All because he wanted more time with Angela.
Angela, blissfully unaware that Beans had just saved her from one version of death in order to continue being horny about her, settled back into the evening.
And then she made him regret the decision immediately.
Because Angela liked control.
Beans had asked for a quickie.
Angela had heard the request.
Angela had no intention of giving him anything that easily.
She moved closer.
Not close enough.
That was the trick.
She let Beans see exactly what he wanted while making sure he understood that seeing and having were two very different things.
She shifted her weight slowly, letting the black lingerie tighten across her hips. She rolled one shoulder, then the other, making her enormous tits sway heavily in their cups.
Beans stared.
Angela noticed.
Of course she noticed.
She gave him a tiny smile that said she could keep this up all night.
Beans’ hands twitched.
Angela saw that too.
She stepped just out of reach.
“Uh-uh.”
Beans groaned.
Angela laughed.
The briefing had warned him.
She liked to get men worked up.
She liked to make them think they were about to get what they wanted.
Then she liked to take it away.
And Beans, having heard all of this in advance, had still walked directly into it because Angela was simply too fucking hot for him to care.
She turned slowly in front of him.
The black lingerie framed every part of her he had been leering at all evening: those absurdly huge tits, the narrow waist, the bare sculpted stomach, the deep little navel, the broad hips and full ass beneath.
Angela gave him the whole display.
Then nothing else.
Beans reached.
Angela slapped his hand away.
Not angrily.
Playfully.
Cruelly.
Exactly as advertised.
“Oh no.”
Beans looked personally betrayed.
Angela smiled.
That smile was getting meaner.
She bent forward just enough to make the cleavage deepen until Beans’ eyes nearly crossed.
Then she straightened before he could touch anything.
He was beginning to understand what “evening’s entertainment” meant.
Angela was having a wonderful time.
Beans was becoming the evening’s entertainment by the minute.
She let him think she was moving closer.
Then shifted away.
Let him think she was going to sit in his lap.
Then stopped with one knee beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body without actually getting what he wanted.
Let those huge tits hover right there in front of him.
Then pulled back again.
Beans made a noise somewhere between frustration and prayer.
Angela laughed.
“You really thought I was going to make it that easy?”
Beans looked at her.
“You brought me home!”
“Yes.”
“You changed twice!”
“Yes.”
“You—”
“Yes.”
Angela was enjoying this far too much.
Beans looked at her body.
Then at her face.
Then back at her body.
Somewhere deep inside him, the tiny remaining professional part of his brain was screaming that this was exactly what Number 2 had warned him about.
Angela would use him.
Laugh at him.
Toss him out.
Naked if possible.
Beans had been told the entire playbook.
He had still managed to become offended when Angela actually followed it.
Angela moved again, slow and deliberate, letting one hip brush close to him.
Beans stiffened.
She pulled away.
He groaned.
Angela laughed harder.
And then she paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Her smile faded.
One hand drifted toward her stomach.
Beans noticed.
Angela ignored it.
She straightened.
Tried to resume the performance.
Shifted her hips again.
Then stopped.
Her fingers pressed lightly against her abdomen.
Beans watched the first flicker of confusion cross her face.
“What?”
Angela looked down at herself.
A little crease formed between her brows.
Her stomach tightened under her hand.
She inhaled slowly.
Then more sharply.
Beans’ expression changed.
He knew exactly what this was.
Angela did not.
Not yet.
She tried to shrug it off.
Probably the beer.
Probably something she ate.
Probably nothing.
Then another wave hit.
Angela’s hand pressed harder into her bare abdomen.
Her body folded slightly at the waist.
“Shit.”
Beans said nothing.
Angela looked up.
The amusement in her face had vanished.
Her breathing had changed.
Shorter now.
More careful.
She straightened again out of sheer stubbornness.
For a few seconds she managed it.
Then the muscles in her stomach seized.
Angela bent forward.
One hand braced against the furniture.
The other stayed clamped over her belly.
Beans swallowed.
The partial dose.
Not enough to kill her.
Enough to make her sick.
Angela looked at him.
Really looked at him.
The confusion was turning into suspicion.
“Beans.”
He tried to make his face innocent.
Angela’s eyes moved toward the spilled beer.
Then toward him.
Then back to the beer.
Her expression hardened.
The room changed.
The horny mature bombshell vanished behind the assassin.
“What did you do?”
Beans’ mouth opened.
Angela stood upright despite the pain.
“What did you do to my drink?”
Beans backed away.
“Angela—”
She moved toward him.
Fast.
Much faster than somebody that sick had any business moving.
Beans stumbled backward.
Angela grabbed him.
All the playful touching from earlier was gone.
Her fingers closed hard.
Her face was twisted with anger now, breath coming through clenched teeth.
“You little bastard.”
Beans tried to pull free.
Angela shoved him backward.
The difference between seduction and violence was suddenly very clear.
SPECTER’s most effective assassin had not disappeared just because she had spent the evening in lingerie.
She was sick.
She was furious.
And she intended to kill him.
Beans scrambled away.
Angela came after him.
Another cramp hit her halfway across the room.
She staggered.
Caught herself.
Kept coming.
Beans looked around wildly for anything useful.
No gun.
No convenient sword.
No miraculous weapon.
Just the usual junk scattered around somebody’s home.
Angela advanced.
Beans’ hand found something narrow and hard.
A pencil.
A beer-covered pencil that nearly slipped out of his hand.
Beans stared at the tiny improvised weapon.
Then at Angela.
Then at the smooth exposed stomach she had obligingly uncovered for him earlier.
Angela lunged.
Beans panicked.
He shut his eyes.
Thrust forward.
Angela stopped.
Silence.
Beans opened one eye.
The pencil was lodged into her exposed navel.
Not deeply enough to look spectacular.
Not dramatically enough to stop somebody like Angela through injury alone.
If anything, it looked almost ridiculous.
Angela stared down.
Then looked at Beans.
For one stunned second she seemed unable to believe this was his attack.
Then she laughed.
Actually laughed.
“That’s it?”
Beans was still holding the end.
Angela looked at him with pure contempt.
“You think a pencil in my belly button is going to kill me?”
Beans swallowed.
“It’s poisoned.”
Angela stopped laughing.
The expression on her face changed instantly.
Her eyes dropped toward the object.
Then toward the remains of the spilled beer.
Then back to Beans.
The arithmetic completed itself.
Partial dose.
A bit more poison on the pencil now piercing through her bellybutton and supplying another dose right into the depths of her toned belly.
Enough.
Angela grabbed for him.
Her hand caught his shirt.
She tried to pull him closer.
Her strength was still frightening.
But not what it had been.
Beans could feel the weakness beginning to win.
Angela tried to strike him.
The movement came slower than she intended.
She missed.
Tried again.
Her knees buckled.
She cursed and fought to stay upright.
Beans backed into the couch.
Angela stumbled after him.
For one last moment sheer rage kept her moving.
Then her legs gave out.
Angela fell forward.
Beans disappeared beneath a considerable amount of blonde assassin.
“Oof!”
Her weight drove him backward into the cushions.
One arm ended up trapped beneath her.
The other stuck awkwardly at his side.
Angela tried to push herself back up.
Couldn’t.
Her muscles shook with the effort.
She shifted again.
Failed again.
Then collapsed more heavily across him.
Beans lay there, stunned.
Angela’s head had fallen near his shoulder.
Her breathing was ragged.
Her body was still fighting for control even as the poison took it away.
The woman who had spent the evening deciding exactly when Beans could look, when he could approach, when he could touch, and when he had to stay back could no longer even decide whether she stayed upright.
Her fingers tightened weakly in the fabric of his shirt.
Then loosened.
Beans said her name.
Angela tried to answer.
Nothing coherent came out.
She shifted once more, as if some stubborn part of her still intended to get up and finish him.
Her strength failed.
The movement stopped.
Beans stayed pinned beneath her for several long seconds, barely breathing.
Then the radio crackled.
Number 2.
“Beans?”
Beans stared at the ceiling.
“Beans, are you okay?”
He looked down at Angela.
The evening’s entertainment was over.
Number 2 continued.
“Can we send in the corpse disposal?”
Beans exhaled.
“Yeah.”
He paused.
Looked down at himself.
Then added, with exhausted disgust at the entire evening:
“And a new pair of pants, please.”
