Irving St. John’s penthouse apartment in downtown Miami was ultra swanky. Fine art, fine architecture, fine everything. Even the buxom babes he was cavorting with were fine, although at this particular moment, he wasn’t able to tell, for he was engaged in his favorite past time.
“Jerth schtik ert ifn,” Irving mumbled through the leather gimp mask that covered his face. He was lying face down in bed, with his naked butt sticking straight up in the air.
“Are you sure about this?” asked Heather, a high priced escort, as she stared at a twelve inch dildo that was riddled with bumps. Heather had the looks of a storybook princess, combined with the slutty demeanor of a late night cable TV show character.
Irving unzipped the mouth hole of his mask. “Just stick it in already, baby!”
“No lube?” Heather asked.
“No!” Irving said. “I’ve done this hundreds of times. It’s not a problem…just….YOWZA! That’s the ticket…”
Heather had complied with Irving’s request without warning. Also without warning, several members of a SWAT team, the same one that had apprehended Freddie Milton, broke down Irving’s door and surrounded the agent with guns drawn.
“Irving St. John?” the SWAT team captain asked.
“Who’s asking?” Irving asked with his head buried in a pillow.
“Police,” the captain said. “Put on some pants and take that thing out. You’re going for a ride.”
“What’s this about?” Irving asked.
“Shut up and zip up your mask, freak,” the captain said.
“Umm,” Heather said. “I haven’t been paid yet.”
“Sucks for you, ma’am,” the captain said. “Always get cash up front.”