Distraction Action

Stay there, she mouthed. I'll distract him, get the gun. Johnny nodded and mimed something at her, then mouthed back once more—a single word: cushion

Alt understood. Single cushion on the couch, and he'd left it under there while they were doing what they did best. She gulped, then turned to the huscle and gave him a little proposal. He liked the sound of it and, with his gun still trained on Silverhand and his eyes rooted on that gorgeous thing she dragged behind her, watched as she slowly walked across the room to the couch. Alt climbed onto the couch, hoisting herself up into a kneeling position. At the end of it her ass was pushed out, tight round cheeks resting lightly on the backs of her calves, squashed inwards a little at the bottom where skin met naked skin. Such a fuckin' gonk move, she thought. So goddamn humiliating, sitting here half-naked while some brainless huscle drank up every inch of her with his eyes; she looked at him over her shoulder, saw that look in his eyes—pure fuckin' bliss, probably felt like he'd never been luckier in his life. That look made another patch of red creep up over her face, warmth spreading like wildfire wherever the blush roamed. She touched a hand to her face, raking her 'ganic fingertips over a cheek, the warmth pulsing against the pad. Jesus, no hiding it... Redder than a virgin on prom night, and getting redder every time she looked at him. "H-hey..." she brushed a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, giving him a nervous smile—the nervousness came easier than the smile—and reached down with her chrome hand to stroke her tush, right around the spot he'd spanked her, where a small spot of red remained. Soft hands on softer curves. Red up top, red down back, Alt cringed. Johnny's never gonna let me live this one down... "Maybe we can...come to some kind of arrangement, whaddya say, choom?"

The huscle grinned and took his chance, he made only a token effort to keep aiming at Silverhand as he crossed the room, then let the thing dangle at his side by its strap while he went ahead and started grabbing fistfuls of tail, rubbing and pawing, administering light slaps to join the one he'd already given her. Alt gasped, 'ooh'ing and 'aah'ing in time with his touching; half-faked and half-real, born from the embarrassment of being caught half-naked and helpless like this. He was loving it. After a half minute or so he spoke again, "Turn over, baby girl." Alt thought about refusing, but knew she didn't yet have the leverage. With more than a little ****, Alt turned so her front was facing the huscle. He grinned, took a step closer, but not before looking briefly back at Silverhand, who, still comitting to the ruse, raised a hand in submission, silently promising not to move a muscle. The huscle took that as ironclad, too gonk and too horny to think straight. While he was looking away, Alt moved her hand a little more. Almost there.

Alt turned and looked up at him, eyes wide and fearful. Just a little more... she reminded herself, fingers inching across the sofa toward the cushion. "Spread 'em for me, baby." He grunted. Alt still didn't have the gun, and if she refused him now he might catch on, she'd have to...to...

Her forehead flushed, a single bead of sweat running down it and along the bridge of her nose. She looked over at Johnny behind him, then, with painstaking slowness, parted her legs, thighs peeling away from one another to reveal her pussy, then, without knowing why, drew her legs up to her knees; it made her look more innocent than she had been in as long as she could remember. Alt stole a glance down to at her own crotch, following the huscle's gaze and settling on the dark strip of hair, the cultivated field of matching stubble and the enticing, smooth lips beneath it. Eye-fucked by a low-rent merc, what a shitshow, was her first thought. It somehow made the shame sting a little sharper. Fucker had hunger in his eyes, so Alt took her chances and slipped her hand under the cushion, fingers closing round the butt of Johnny's Malorian. The huscle was raising a hand, moving it toward her pussy to do who-knew-what; without wasting a second, Alt withdrew the gun out from under the cushion and brought it to rest just over her stomach, wrapping both hands around it and pointing it square at the man's chest in the time it took him to move half-an-inch. He looked surprised. He hadn't expected it. Good.

Alt scrunched up her mouth and fired, the Malorian bucking like an artillery cannon in her grip. The huscle's eyes went wide, then he staggered back, feet seeming to fall out from under him and a trail of smoke issuing from the ragged hole where his heart had just been. He fell backwards, flat on his back, gurgled something incoherent—eyes rolling back into his head—then died. Alt lay there for a few seconds, breathing hard and deep. Johnny came over, turned the dead man's head with the point of his boot, then nodded silently; his eyes then travelled up to Alt, still bottomless and laying on the couch. He went up to her, touched his silver hand to the barrel, applying gentle pressure to make her lower it. He felt her grip slacken, tool that as his opening to take it out of her hands, then finally holstered it. Alt didn't notice any of it, the last thing she remembered was making a man into a corpse, next thing she knew Silverhand had picked her up. Her legs wrapped around him, and she felt her pussy pressing into his midsection. His silver hand was on her ass and he was rubbing it, but not like the huscle had. It felt good, so good she wanted to stay there a while and feel him feel her, making quiet, appreciative noises as he pressed those cool chrome fingertips into her skin.