Mr. Lucky #2 Wild Black Cat
Millie Dynamite
Mr. Lucky: Wild Black Cat
If he can’t make her purr, she’ll make him bleed!
Millie Dynamite
© Copyright 2022/23 by Millie Dynamite
This is a work of fiction and not intended to promote a lifestyle. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental.
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Mr. Lucky 2: Wild Black Cat
In the mountain valley, dawn is a tricky thing to pin down. Why Lucky rose before dawn and watched the sunrise, escaped him. After all, he didn’t leave the theater until 1:00 am. And he took a leisurely stroll, retracing his trek from the same as a month before, on a similar foggy night.
The air turned cooler now as summer neared its end. His shoulder throbbed from the coolness. He sat on the back porch of his small cabin, sipping coffee in the frigid morning air with deep anticipation. He pulled the small scrap of paper from his pocket.
Lucky,
You worthless Cracker, I hope this message finds you healing and ready for more pain.
All my love, which you so richly don’t merit.
Dark Angel
P.S. Your safe word, my useless little maggot, is pink.
The note appeared under his door the day before when he left for work and returned. As soon as he saw ‘Luck and Dark Angel,’ he realized she still loved him, albeit with the oddest, most fantastic kind of love which existed. How his Dark Angel found him, he hadn’t a clue. Nor did he care. However, he was curious.
He remembered the first note she left him, finding it inside his pants pocket when he dressed to check out of the hospital.
‘True love is when she shoves her gun up your ass.’
Lucky laminated the note, tapping the term of her endearment on his shaving mirror. Before and after shaving each morning, Lucky kissed his fingers and pressed them to the message. As he did this, he prayed thanks to whatever God there was for the woman’s love. Before Angel, Luck never kissed a girl, held a young lady’s hand, or made love to a woman.
Lucky had never asked a girl or woman for a date, and not one woman or girl had asked him either.
Rubbing his shoulder, Lucky realized the only downside of being shot, besides the pain, was being in the psych ward for 72 hours. She made it appear he shot himself.
Each time he read her delightful second note, his pulse raced, and his shoulder throbbed, remembering all her exquisite torture. The woman’s elegant, cursive writing was remarkably readable and appeared to be from calligraphic training.
For her diminutive size, pound for pound, she possessed incredible strength and could overpower him with the ease of a lion taking a gazelle. He marveled at the memory of her tiny body, rippled with muscles, how she rode him, under the bridge, in the hospital, and hopefully today or tonight. The ache in his shoulder matched the longing in his cock for her rough, consuming touch.
For a moment, Lucky considered running to the liquor store and getting another bottle of wine. He only had white; she might like red, salmon, pink, or rosé. Unable to push her from his mind, Lucky lived in constant agitation, longing to be in her presence. Unable to concentrate, for any amount of time, without her invading his mind, his mind, if not his body, was in a continual state of horniness.
Standing, Lucky strode to the railing, flinging the tepid, insignificant last mouthful of coffee into the grassy patch behind his deck. A white, old, panel van, with the word RapidDel on its side, showed that Delmar Ransard was undoubtedly delivering something to one home on the outskirts of town.