Repercussions :Part Seven  (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)Simone lay back on his

Repercussions :

Part Seven  (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

Simone lay back on his bed, gently cradling the phone against his ear. Gazing out of the open patio window, he watched the shimmering waters of the Adriatic crash in with the evening tide. The sky had been a clear cerulean blue since morning and along the shore hundreds of people lay upon the beach, taking full advantage as the chariot of Apollo made its way across the heavens. It had been a good day for him altogether, which meant that he had not once needed to stir from his apartment into the bothersome world below. An apartment he lived in rent free due to his recent triumph over his cousin’s misplaced faith in his wife’s faulty devotion. Most of the good fortune in his life was based off the failures of others. Of their foolish assumptions of loyalty and commitment. How many had he seen fall to the lusts between their legs or the careless kiss of a stranger’s lips. Simone had known since his earliest days that love was a conditional thing. That a man’s yearnings or a woman’s carefully hidden lusts were never ruled by simple feelings of affection to one lover or to one spouse. Ture love was a lie he always said, raised up to truth by poets, artists, and jewelry stores. He had learned that lesson well in high school as he watched one couple after the other break up in angry spectacles as the truth of their infidelities came inevitably to light. Some of them driven into the light by himself as he looked on in near giddy delight at love’s ignoble fall.

He remembered the first time he had truly profited on his amusement, sacrificing his professor’s marriage vows for a passing grade as one teen-aged stud after the other took her on her own desk with her screaming in whorish ecstasy. True, it had led to an unwanted pregnancy, a quick divorce, and the ruin of her teaching career. But it had also guaranteed him a passing “A+” in her physics class. A grade he would never have been able to attain on his own without a good deal of work. And, as he always said between self-satisfied puffs of his expensive British cigarettes, work was for fools and idiots - not for Simone.

He was quietly smoking one of those prized cigarettes when the phone had rung. Johnny, one of his most precious weapons in his war on unnecessary labor, was returning his call from the morning. The young man shared his love of matrimonial destruction and was eager for his next lovely target. Simone only provided the best. No fat sluts or sloppy housewives for him. Only those quietly disenchanted and under-sexed lovers and wives whose long legs and tight bodies would give rise to Johnny’s near-insatiable lusts. All of them so very beautiful and all so very devoted to their naïve and far-too-trusting men. Johnny had just returned from a short trip to Piedmont and his libido was eager for another warm and willing victim. Luckily it just so happened that Simone was in dire need of a new auto and he knew the perfect little wife for Johnny to seduce. She was a hot little brunette, all curves and supple ass-cheeks, suffering hours at the gym to maintain her appeal to an indifferent husband. A husband who cared more for his Fiat dealership than to his wife’s unmet womanly needs. A few pictures, a word dropped here and there, and Simone would find himself cruising the coast in his new auto within the week. A red one perhaps. He always looked good in red. It was almost too easy, he thought, smiling to himself as his body convulsed under a short coughing laugh.

Simone kicked off his loafers as he filled Johnny in on the details. They ‘thunked’ to the floor, one then the other as he read the details carefully from a small black notebook which he usually kept locked securely in his desk drawer. The young wife in question happened to frequent a particular gym at a particular hour. She enjoyed shopping at a particular shop. She enjoyed particular compliments. He could almost hear Johnny taking mental notes as he went on, planning various strategies of conquest even as he listened. Johnny could already feel the woman in his arms, eagerly surrendering herself and her wifely virtue to his will and begging in pleading tones to feel his dangerous seed flooding her belly… as they all did.

“I will meet her tomorrow, Simone.At her gym.” Johnny said confidently, “By tomorrow night she will be in my bed. By the end of the week she will be with my child. After that…”

“Ahhhhh, Johnny! Please, eh? After that you can do whatever you like.” Simone replied with lewd amusement in his voice, “Fuck her, keep her, toss her away, marry her and have a hundred babies… I care not. You do what makes you happy, eh? That is all life allows us in any case. Just work your magic on this one as you do, and both of us will benefit nicely.”

“Ha! You are a pig, Simone! Truly and happily!” Johnny laughed at the other end of the phone line, “and that is why we get alone so famously. You know I care nothing for your ‘benefits’ and you care nothing for mine.”

Simone laughed, coughing around his cigarette in loud barks of amusement. The thought of him pursuing the same amusements as Johnny made him almost burst. Johnny was a man who could not seem to think past acquiring a steady stream of sexually deprived and horny women to feed to his young, lusty cock. To go about gleefully breeding other men’s wives at his leisure. He himself would have none of that. Simone well knew his limitations as a man. Short of stature, given to softness, possessing neither the equipment nor the will to work that hard, Simone left that sort of thing to those who might enjoy them. Once per week or so he might call a former ‘victim’ up to his room. Her compliance in his bed enough to keep her life from falling to pieces with the drop of a quiet word. Otherwise he would make himself a fool for no one. Especially a woman, false as they were.

“Yes, Johnny my friend. We have the perfect relationship do we not? As the Americans say, I set them up and you, what? Knock them up?”

Johnny broke out in laughter as he bid his goodbyes. He had his work to attend to, having opened up a small car garage just a few weeks past, and now had a campaign to plan out. Simone hung up the phone, easing it carefully onto its cradle with two plump fingers, smiling in sure confidence that the woman was already conquered… and the new red Fiat already his.

He lay back onto the bed to take a quick nap to while away what was left of the afternoon and was just drifting off to sleep when there came a knock at his door. The knock was sudden and insistent. Annoyed, he tried to ignore it at first. But on the tenth or twelfth heavy-fisted knock, Simone knew there was no way he was going to be able to settle himself in for his afternoon nap. He rose from the bed clumsily donning his wayward shoes as the hammering at the door grew harder and louder. Instantly a flash of fear tore through him. Perhaps it was no normal visitor, he thought. Perhaps it was not simply a friendly neighbor or some delivery-boy bearing a package. Heaven k new he had made his share of enemies. Most were kept well in check by the secrets he kept. But what if…?

The knocking on the door rose even higher as Simone fumbled through his nightstand, pulling out the small .32 revolver that fit neatly into his pudgy grasp. It was useless calling the police. Even if they arrived within the hour, whatever transpired would be public record, and he avoided such attentions strenuously. Finding comfort in the pistol’s weight, Simone moved quietly towards the door, timidly, as if it would burst open if he moved too fast or an inch too close. Screwing up his courage, he reached for the doorknob.

The door exploded inwards just as Simone’s fingers brushed the doorknob. The little man was cast back onto the floor in a heap, the pistol sliding from his grasp, in a storm of shattered wood. He landed badly, searching out with one hand blinded in agony as his left arm twisted painfully under his belly. A short, woman-like hiss escaped his lips as the heel of a boot slammed down upon his hand, smashing several bones as it did. The boot continued crunching down, sending stabs of agony through Simone’s brain as his fingers fractured and cracked under its weight. His squeals of pain were cut short as that same boot drove into his teeth, splattering his blood across the carpet as his lips split and burst. The hand came next, a hard fist gripping him by his hair, pulling him roughly up to his knees. It was followed by a thunderous slap across his face, one that shook his teeth loose in his gums and forced his eyes open wide.

Franco stood above him, the man’s clothes stained and wrinkled from lack of sleep. Hie eyes were hard gray stones[JG1] [JG2] [JG3]  bearing down through narrow slits. Simone watched in mute horror as his hand rose up once more, crashing down with painful force, nearly blinding him in the left eye as it blasted across his face. Franco did not say a word after that. He simply stood over Simone’s ragged body taking in deep, labored breaths. Blood raced through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest, vision clear and bright; exhausted but at the same time exhilarated. He had been walking all night and most of the day, his mind seething through clouds of self-pity and hate. His body trembling between the effects of a night filled with whiskey and a day filled with ups of the darkest espresso. Lost in a fog, he had somehow ended up here, at Simone’s very doorstep. At the home of the man, the pig, the fucking bastard that had ruined his life. The rest… walking the three flights up to the apartment, knocking at the door, smashing at the door in tear-stained madness… it all came to him as if in a dream. A nightmare. A nightmare that was very near its end.

The neighbors had locked their doors at the noise, not wanting or downright fearful to become involved in the scene beyond their doorsteps. Only the bravest, or those in need of the latest gossip, dared look out of their peepholes. Those that did bore witness to their neighbor, that quiet neighbor from upstairs with the polite manners and friendly smile getting dragged down the marble staircase. They would have witnessed some disheveled madman gripping the fellow by the collar and tossing brutally, ending up in a moaning clump at the bottom of each staircase. The madman showed no concern as Simone (yes, that was his name!) complained with a whining voice of how his wrist or ankle had broken or that his spine was bursting in fiery agony when he landed badly across several steps. Simone’s blood was splattered across the landing as the madmen cursed and spit in some unknown rage, kicking and slapping the smaller man towards and out the front door of the building. Simone ran and kept on running, staggering through the evening streets on unsure legs, blood staining his shirt, crying out pitifully for help. And though there were people on the streets, plenty of people - friends and neighbors and curious bystanders – none moved to help him, none truly cared. They simply stood, watching as the odd curiosity passed them by into the distance, and then turned and went their way.

Franco walked heavily back up to the apartment, closing what was left of the apartment door behind him as he found his breath. Discarded on the floor lay a small pistol. Without thinking, for he was beyond thought at this moment, he reached down and picked it up to slide it into his coat pocket. He had no idea why. Looking down at his clothing he realized for the first time that day what an utter mess he was. His cream-colored suit was stained with grime and blood as, as he ran his hand along his chin, he felt only raw stubble which scratched at his palm. Franco made his way to the bathroom. He needed a shave… and a shower as well. And sleep. Yes, he desperately needed sleep. His hands shook dangerously as he lifted a small razor from the medicine cabinet. It was impossible. Sleep was what he needed now. Eleonora as still at work and would be for a few more hours. He had time, he thought. A quick nap. A quick shower. And then the next step to consider. He had removed one cancer from his belly. It was time to cut out another.

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Eleonora rushed into the apartment, her purse still hanging open from her arm after paying the taxicab downstairs. She was confused, worried, and so terribly late. It was nearly nine and Franco had not answered his phone nor picked her up from work as he usually did each evening after work. She had left a half-dozen messages, called several of his useless friends, even thought to call the police. There was no trace of him. She had not seen him since last night in fact. He had left early for work, probably needing to show some stupid house hours away in the morning traffic. Eleonora was growing frantic. The sun was nearly down over their small town and she needed to be ready for tonight. Somewhere out there her tall black godling was waiting for her. Waiting for her while surrounded by a horde of undeserving sluts who could never satisfy him like she could. She tore through her closet, cursing at the clock and her wayward husband, looking for the perfect thing to wear for him. Something ladylike, yes, but with a powerful overtone of sexuality. Something that would draw his attentions instantly.

She chose a tight blue pencil-dress which would hug her curves nicely, a gleaming black leather belt, and finally the perfect heels to go with them. Franco had always loved this dress on her. She remembered the first time she had worn it. He had turned instantly into an aroused animal as she sat and crossed her legs, showing off a few inches more of bare thigh as it crept up her legs. She bit her lip with a little smile, remembering Franco grabbing her from behind, puling the skirt up her ass as he pressed her down across their bed, ripping her panties down her legs and fucking her like a crazed beast. He had come so hard that night, shaking as his cock lay throbbing within her while she milked his balls for every last drop of his seed. She shuddered happily, praying it would have the same effect on William.

She finished showering, dressing, preparing herself… and still no word from Franco. The man had just disappeared. She could picture him hard at work somewhere doing whatever it was he actually did. Forgetting all about her. A taxi was her only option but that would cost most of her carried cash. She considered calling a friend but there was no one to call, no one she would dare trust this part of her life with… except one. Pamela had left early from work, a personal thing suddenly coming up. But maybe she was done by now and free to give her a lift? Eleonora bit her lip nervously. She had told Pamela all about her plans this morning, but she did not want to get her friend this involved. Yet she had no choice. Calling Pamela would be embarrassing… but not going? Missing her chance to prove herself. Thinking of her William with another woman, some pathetic whore from that club who could not give the lusty stud anything near what she could bring to him? Perhaps even losing him forever? Her entire body shivered at the fearsome thought. Without another moment’s hesitation she picked up the phone and started dialing.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

Pamela looked across the bed with a frown on her carefully painted face. She had just returned from the spa, a real spa and not the cesspit she worked at, and her limbs still stung from being shaved and plucked and waxed. She had spent the last hour up to her neck in a soothing bath of mud and perfumed herself ever so carefully to rid herself of the reddish blush and scent of nearly three hours of self-inflicted torture that no man could have survived. When she had arrived home to her small and depressingly empty apartment, she had stood naked in front of the mirror critically studying every cruel flaw her body would present her with. Her skin practically glowed with heath, although she might do with a bit more sun, and there was hardly an ounce of fat to be seen on her firm, round ass and no noticeable sag to her breasts, Her nipples stood rose-red, high and proud, eager to be teased and suckled by the right lover. She let her mind drift for a moment, thinking of his fingers, his lips, the slight stubble of his cheek as she slid her own fingers over her nipples. She had to reach out and quickly grab the edge of the vanity, her knees turning to rubber beneath her as her body shivered with need.

Cursing her own weakness, she sat her ass down in the chair and started running a brush through her blonde curls. She studied the woman on the cover of the fashion magazine that she kept on the table, wishing for the millionth time for those eyes, those lips, those bright teeth. Silently she counted to one hundred brush strokes. Then one hundred again on the other side. When she was done, she looked into the mirror in despair. Not even close. Still, not that bad. With a quick shake of her head and a silent curse at the one strand that refused to stay in formation, and she pronounced herself ‘good enough’. But tonight ‘good enough’ was not what she needed. Tonight, she needed ‘absolute drop-dead sexy’. If only she had another hour to prepare. Or another month!

Which bought her to the bed. She had rummaged through her entire closet. Every skirt, every dress, every outfit she owned, every bra, every set of forbidden lingerie she had never actually had the courage to wear was lying across the bed looking just… just ugly. Frumpy, off-color, too bright, not bright enough, last year’s styles, other’s that she could picture her mother wearing. It was useless. She glanced at the clock. There was no time to go shopping now. Whatever she had scattered across the bed was what she was stuck with. Sighing in defeat, she chose a daringly short skirt and a white satin blouse she had never worn before. The cloth was thin enough to be practically sheer and her breasts would press provocatively through the silk-soft material. Which was just what she wanted, wasn’t it? Lastly, she chose the lacy white underthings that she had bought on a whim just last weekend. Using her teeth in a very unladylike manner to rip open the plastic package, she was amazed at how the delicate white stockings drifted gossamer-like to the bed sheets.

One by one she slid on each item. First the perilously delicate panties and bra, then the stockings that felt so incredibly feminine sliding up along her legs. Skirt. Blouse. The barest jewelry. What was she forgetting? Shoes! She slid her feet into a pair of black heels then walked over the mirror to give herself one last chance at misery. She admired herself for a moment. Noting her flat belly and curvy figure, her firm legs that seemed to go on for miles. Okay, she thought, we’ve at least gotten past ‘good enough’. As for ‘absolute drop-dead sexy’ only time, and his reaction would tell.

On the way to the door, she grabbed her purse and clicked off the light. Her hands were shaking terribly. She could stop now, she thought. Just stop, forget about this madness, and go back to a comfortable life in her small and empty apartment. But she knew she would only have one chance at this. Eleonora, Ellie, her best friend in this world… would be out of the house the entire night. That she knew from the rather insane phone call that prompted her own mad rush. She absolutely hated lying to the woman but compared with what she was about to do…?

Lifting up her chin defiantly, she switched off the light, locked the door solidly behind her and strode down to the waiting taxi. This was her chance. Her one chance. It was time.