No Mercy General – Installment 7

One unbearable night I took my vibrator in hand, and fantasized I was sandwiched between two rivals competing for the right to mate. Both males were proud, had traveled far, and endured many hardships for a chance to assert their claim.

Testosterones spiked and biceps flexed, as would be conquerors assumed battle stances. Unwilling to yield, each stood his ground, and took in the measure of the other.

I trembled uncontrollably with anticipation, as my heart raced and breath stilled. The intensity in each warrior’s glare nearly buckled my knees, much as it were with Ryland and Scotch.  And goodness knew if I cried out it wouldn’t be due to the double-A batteries.

Their battlefield of choice bode well for gilled shifters, for land bound combatants, not so much. An Olympic sized pool, as in ancient Greece, spanned at least thirty feet from one end of the room to the other.

The layout and design were as I expected for a place that healed through aquatics. The main focus was the pool, surrounded by marble and concrete, which encompassed ninety percent of the usable space.  Four surface top whirlpools tucked into each corner, ran with jets switched to full throttle.  Next to each tub mounted on the walls were chrome racks loaded with therapeutic devices.

A Caribbean seascape in rich blues, corals, and alabaster adorned the ceiling and walls. Froth capped waves lapped sandy beaches, as small fishing boats set off from the shore. Much thought and care had gone into the hand painted mural; it flowed from the pigments into your very soul.   The only blemish of its splendor the visible outline of another exit carved into the opposite wall.

As in the corridor, I spotted the mirrored balls, anchored to the ceiling in similar fashion.  Once more I felt that sense of wrongness I tried to ditch creep a little closer.

Scotched seemed the most eager for confrontation, his welterweight build thrummed with the tension.  So much primal energy danced across his skin that my fingertips began to tingle. His clean shaven head and Zambian features glowed with the promise of spilled blood.  Beneath the florescent lights his second nature peaked through, and no amount of pretense could disguise it.

Under different circumstances his chestnut hue and noble presence would command my not so clinical examination. But circumstances were what they were, and one look into the near onyx of his gaze revealed a deep shame hidden behind his grief.

“He was our dawg, Ryland, our brother. No way he should’ve gone down like this. Especially after the matter was supposed to be squashed.”

“Dogs don’t eat where they shit, Scotch. If I were going to take Eric out, you’d never have found a body.”

“I gave Eric’s remains a once over, Ryland. No marks, no bruises, nothing.  Bet if we get him under the knife there’ll be a lot of ruptured organs.”

“Don’t mistake me for some whipped bastard, Scotch. I’ve never had a piece of ass worth killing over. And definitely none worth the life of a friend.”

“Damn it, Ryland.  His mate!   Liz was his life mate.”

“Not in my bed, she wasn’t.”

A sudden shift of his chest followed by a brief snort of indignation was all the warning that came. With a sharp thrust of his shoulder, Scotch shot his right arm over me in a slight arc aimed at Ryland’s jaw.

To be contiued…..

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