Portmanteau: More Than a Feeling: Part 2Diamonds Are Forever. Journeys and choices.

Based on a post by Wendy Trilby, in 4 parts. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.

Well, that was fucked, the

dark-haired woman thought as she ran through the doors of Christie's

Auction House on Boston's fashionable Newbury Street. No sooner had she

exited the building when alarms sounded. So fucked.

Wearing

a black Dolce and Gabbana double-breasted trench coat, which matched

her jet-black hair, she walked fast with purpose toward a parked Tesla,

clicking the remote. The car started, and the gullwing driver's door

automatically opened.

Stick to the plan, she thought.

Moments

earlier, the 3-minute countdown began when her gun came out. Clockwork.

The guards walked the Red Scarlet to the auction room down an empty

hallway; a quick and silent zap with the stun gun. The jolt was a lot,

but they needed to stay down.

The

box was grabbed, opened, the necklace removed, slipped between her

tits, and secured by her bra. Quick and easy. One minute to go.

A brisk walk to the exit. Too easy. Alarms blared. Shit, they found the guards.

The

lobby was chaos as security guards tried to lock the doors. Blending in

with the crowd of auction attendees, she needed to get to the doors

before they secured. She needed a distraction. Pulling the trigger on

the tiny Baretta secluded in her right hand, she fired into the floor.

The loud report of the gun sent people running and screaming.

"They've

shot the guards," she screamed. The room became chaos, and she slyly

joined the surge of the auction house patrons as they pushed through the

doors and outside.

Three minutes over budget, but since she was about to get in the car, the extra time was a moot point.

It was not.

From

around the corner, several police cars streamed onto the scene, blue

lights flashing. The thief walked past the Tesla and headed for the

subway station half a block ahead.

She was just 100 yards from the subway entrance when a squad car blocked the entry.

Stay coo l, she repeated in her head. Panic kills.

She

looked around at the trendy shops in the area and then noticed a chic

hair salon, Hannah and Her Scissor Sisters, at the basement level of the

fancy brownstone shops. Heading down the stairs away from the action,

she entered the salon, locking the door behind her.

Kaylin

McCardle was swiping left on a dating app, cringing at each personality

she found when she saw the woman hurry into the salon and lock the door

behind her.

"I'm Sorry," Kaylin said. We don't take walk-ins, so you'll need to call or go online to make an appointment."

"Close this place for the rest of the day. I'll pay you $1,000 to close it," the woman said.

"I can't ...$1,000? You'll pay me $1,000 to close?" Kaylin asked, unsure if she heard right.

The negotiation ended when the woman pulled out a handgun and held it to Kaylin.

"Ok, yeah, sure, we're closed," Kaylin stated.

"Move

away from the door and windows," the woman said, guiding Kaylin to the

back of the salon out of view of the front of the shop.

In

the light, Kaylin noticed her striking features. Sculpted cheekbones

and dark glasses set against alabaster skin contrasted with her long

jet-black hair.

As

the woman headed to the back, Kaylin noticed the blue strobe lights of

squad cars through the window that looked up to the sidewalk.

"Something going on out there?" Kaylin asked.

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"And here you are with a gun, and I'll stop talking now," Kaylin replied.

"Wise idea. I have no problem with you. I need to lie low, and then I'll go. Get me a garbage bag."

Kaylin

grabbed a garbage bag from the shelf. Then she turned back to see the

dangerous stranger had taken off her black leather trench coat revealing

a skintight Furstenberg mini long sleeved cross over ribbed top with a

cold shoulder that descended to a V below her cleavage, offering an

eye-popping view of the curvature of her large round tits