The Panda (20s Harlem underground, Mafia, shooting, blowjob)
A pretty black waitress in the criminal underground of Roaring '20s Harlem makes a mistake and receives a visit from a cartel killer.
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The Panda
The bell hanging on the door of Norma Jean’s Harlem diner tinkled, and a big man in a black and white suit walked into her diner, the only customer there at 4:00 PM. With no wasted motion, he locked the door behind him and flipped the sign to closed.
“Hello, Norma.”
Norma Jean felt the skin at the back of her neck prickle and tense.
“Hi, Mr. Norry.”
They called him the Panda. With his imposing bulk, the fancy suits he liked to wear, the vitiligo marking his face. He had thought it was funny when he heard of it, and had taken to wearing a black and silver panda stick pin.
“I’ll have a coffee and a slice of that apple pie, Norma.”
He settled in at the bar.
Norma swallowed. “Cream, no sugar, Mr. Norry?”
He nodded, glancing around – eyes tracking exits. She felt suddenly self-conscious of the amount of cleavage showing in her little blue-and-white checkered dress, of her chocolatey thighs peeking out between her white stockings and the scandalously high hem of the dress.
Norma’s heart hammered as she served him. The Panda never actually ate at her diner, he only stopped in for coffee or to have quiet little conversations with other members of the Johnson racket.
If what she had heard about him was right, he never ate in public at all, unless…
There was a rushing sound in her ears as she served him his coffee and pie. The pie plate clattered on the counter as she set it down.
“Nervous, Norma?” he asked calmly as he lifted a forkful of pie to his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, smacked his lips with relish.
“This is mighty fine pie,” he said.
“Y-yes sir, thank you. I made it myself.”
“I hear you closed up shop early last Friday.”
Norma swallowed. “It was a private party, Mr. Norry. Just business.”
“A private party for Lucky Luciano’s boys in Harlem, Norma? In our territory? You should have known better.”
He glanced up at her, saw the uncharacteristic pallor on her rich, dark skin.
“Please,” she said. “They would have killed me.”
Norma felt a twitching in her cheek. It’s true. What they say about him. Oh my God.
He pulled a slick nickel-finish snubnose revolver with black wood grips from his coat pocket.
“Why don’t you get on your knees and show me how sorry you are?”
Norma’s breath hitched as she hiked up her blue-and-white checked dress and crouched down on her low heels.
“That’s a good girl. This is, if I may say, some marvelously good pie.”
She crawled to him, seeing the bulge of his erection in his expensive trousers. He rumbled appreciatively as she unbuttoned him, then laughed at her gasp as his throbbing length popped out in her face.
Closing her eyes, trying not to think of what might be coming next, Norma opened her mouth, moistened her red lips with her tongue, and leaned in.
The Panda’s fat cockhead slid over her tongue, leaking just a droplet of precum. The bittersweet saltiness of it spread through her mouth, and against her will Norma felt a tingle in her belly.
There had always been something paradoxically attractive about the strange-looking enforcer, about his easy confidence and the sense of controlled violence in his demeanor. About the way other men deferred to him, how women fawned on him.
And now, the magnificent cock filling her mouth up, the scent of him in her nostrils, the fear itself filling her up, were doing something obscene to Norma’s nether regions. She moaned around his hardness, and he gave a rough sigh of pleasure as she worked her tongue and lips to pleasure him.
She heard the sip and click of him drinking coffee, the clink of his fork on the plate as he ate her pie. He reached down and filled his hand with her dark curls, pulling her deeper in, and she almost gagged as his cockhead slid down her throat.
He held her there for a moment, her eyes watering as she struggled to breathe. Then he began moving her head back and forth with a brutal speed, careless of her comfort, jacking himself off with her hot mouth and tight throat.
Gagging and spluttery wet sounds rose from under the counter as he abused Norma’s throat. Her red lipstick left marks on his balls as he abused her.
It was cruel, hard facefucking. The physical strain and the difficulty breathing made Norma shudder, her body twisting under the counter, but she couldn’t get away from his grip on her curly hair.
Her lungs screamed at her, her limbs shaking and hitting stools or the bar as she tried… what? She wasn’t trying to get away, that was futile, she’d only be shot in the back or hunted down.
To give her hands something to do, she shoved them between her thighs, pulling her dress up and cupping her juicy pussy, grinding against her own fingers as the Panda raped her throat.
He swallowed the last bite of pie, swigged the dregs from his coffee cup, and leaned forward on the bar as his balls tightened against Norma’s chin and he shot a thick, steamy load of cum straight down her esophagus and into her stomach.
“Ahhh, that’s the stuff,” he said, slowly pulling her half-conscious head off his dick, careful not to get any of his sperm or her throat slime onto his pants. Reaching down with his right hand, he tore her apron away and used it to wipe himself off.
After a few moments recovering, he stood up and dragged Norma out from under the bar counter by the hair, thrusting her down to sit on her ass leaning back against a booth. She stared up at him, glassy-eyed, makeup ruined by his hard mouthfucking.
Her legs spread, revealing her naked, wet pussy.
He nodded, smiled. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed about that if I was you,” he said. “That seems to be the result with most women.”
He cocked his revolver, put it to her forehead, and she whimpered.
“You said sorry pretty well, kitten. Tell you what, why don’t you finish yourself off first?”
Finish myself off, Norma thought. Oh, fuck.
Her fingers were circling her clit, and almost involuntarily she pressed in harder, her left hand groping her heavy breasts.
“You’re gonna shoot me for nothing, Mr. Norry,” she said, her face suddenly scrunching up as she got closer. “Oh, Jesus, please, it was just a party.”
“Stop begging, it’s unseemly.”
His voice was deep and cold. She felt the chill of the revolver barrel against her forehead, then tracing down over the tear-trails on her cheeks, then…
She threw her head back and groaned as he pushed the gun barrel into her right breast, hardness contrasting with the delicious softness of her body.
“Sounds like you’re almost there, little lady,” he said.
“No, please, I’m n-not…”
Stop it, stop it! Norma screamed internally, pleading with her own traitor fingers to stop pressing in, to stop rubbing, to stop…
Her fingers slid inside her, her left hand squeezed her breast hard, and her mouth dropped open, then clamped tightly shut as her thighs shook with her orgasm.
“A fine last display, Norma,” he said, shaking his head. “Shame we never stepped out together, I would have enjoyed that wet little oyster of yours.”
Their gazes locked momentarily – her eyes wet and straining, filled with fear and a weird, overpowering lust; his cool and relaxed.
Then he pulled the trigger, and an explosion of sound filled the diner, the thump of the bullet tearing into her breast and through her lung inaudible over the blast.
But Norma felt it. She even thought she heard it, heard that lump of metal ripping through tissue and plunging deep into the wood of the booth.
She felt a sudden need to cough, and blood splattered from her mouth when she did.
He cocked the revolver again, pointed it at her left breast.
“Fine set you’ve got there,” he said conversationally. She looked down at where the tip of the gun barrel pointed right at the roundness of her tit, just an inch from the straining flesh, and part of her wondered dimly if she should have shown less of her bust, maybe a longer skirt and less creamy brown thigh, if that would have taken away just enough attention to keep all of this from happening.
There was another gunshot, ringing in her ears, and she screamed with the terror of the knowledge of death as blood began to pump from a second bullet hole.
She was hyperventilating, the motion sending agony through her body from her two perforated tits and her torn lungs, and she felt blood pooling deep within her. It was gushing from her breasts, spilling from her lips and down her body, bright red to contrast with her black skin and the blue-and-white of her dress.
Coldness filled her limbs, coldness and weakness, and she felt her fearful twitching slow and cease. All she could do was look up at him, feeling her heartbeat carelessly pumping blood out of her body, into her lungs.
“Such a shame,” he said, and fired his last four bullets into her chest, double-action. The sound of the shots merged into one, the little jerks of her body at the impacts making her wounded chest jiggle.
Whistling softly to himself as Norma slumped over on her side to bleed out on the floor, the Panda reloaded his pistol and pocketed it. It was a good life. He always liked when the target was a woman, they were so enjoyable to kill. He shook his head, smiling as he walked out of the diner and into the afternoon street.
Everyone knew what they said about him, and now Norma Jean knew it was true. The Panda eats, shoots, and leaves.
Posted Oct 19, 2024, 7:52 PM UTC