#eleonora

Eliano’s lungs burned as he ran through the darkness of the midnight streets. His boots pounded the pavement to the sound of his heaving breaths, heavy and exhausted from his desperate flight. The sound of his footsteps echoed across the filthy canals and boarded up storefronts as he ran towards the harbor. It made the streets seem somehow unnatural and frightening. During the day these avenues were alive with people. Canal boats, laughter, music, children darting underfoot with their mother’s shouting from the windows above. All of the messy, beautiful sounds of life in Venezia. Tonight, the street was dead silent as if crouching back in fear. It just wasn’t natural. His lung’s burning, Eliano ran all the harder knowing in his heart that he was already lost.

Nearly to the safety of his anchored ship, his legs suddenly gave out beneath him sending him tumbling to his hands and knees. He stopped for a brief moment to catch his panting breath, crawling into the darkness between two ancient buildings. His throat felt dry and his heart raced frantically in his chest. Cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck, mixing with the blood oozing from a dozen wounds that tore at his naked back. The cool autumn air would have felt pleasant if his head wasn’t swimming with dizziness. Taking a deep breath, he struggled to his feet and continued to stagger on towards the docks. Every step was a fresh agony as he fought against the weakness that weighed him down. Turning down a dark alley he narrowly avoiding running head-first into a trash pile, scattering a colony of skittering rats. His foot hit a glass bottle which went clattering across the stone street to burst against a lamplight as he fell. In that moment, the pain of his broken ankle flaring through his tortured mind, Eliano knew that he was dead.

He had fucked up. He’d fucked up badly. A pretty girl shows up in his life with a bright smile and near perfect tits, and he decides to end his rather successful streak of staying well away from women. Especially women found in the low taverns he was forced to frequent by his light pockets and the miserliness of his master. Instead, dazzled by that bright smile, he got himself all hopeful and when she asked him over to her place, he found himself face to face with the very pits of hell.

Eliano was not a coward, he had served in the army, stormed ramparts, braved the storm-wracked seas, and run with waterside gangs most of his young life. Yet when the shadow fell over him, he sobbed like a child and his lips gave birth to a litany of profanity laden prayers. Even that died off when the woman stepped out of the shadows. No. Not a woman. Whatever it was had given up that guise long ago. Her clothing was fit for a gothic coven. She wore a black leather skirt slit at the sides to reveal netted stockings, a black lace corset laced with blood red straps, and tall black stiletto boots to match. Her black lipstick matched her dark clothing and stood in stark contrast to the milky complexion of her sharp-edged face. But he was not looking at her clothes. His gaze was captivated by her face, hellishly beautiful and terrible at once. Her eyes were black soulless pits, devoid of any hint of life or the grace of Heaven. So enthralled was he that he barely noticed that her well-manicured nails had shifted into long, boney claws. Leathery wings unfolded behind her back killing whatever light dared approach them. A long, pointed tail swayed through the air behind her as she looked down at him with fanged smile. She stood over him, a black shadow in the moonlight as she stepped forward. The sound of childish whispers followed her, making her predator’s smile even more terrifying.

“W-What are you?” he begged. There was no profanity now, no confidence, no prayers left to say only the small terrified voice of a man confronted with his childhood terrors.

Fatalia’s clawed hand shot out. Eliano’s jaw shattered instantly with a sickening crack as her hand sliced through his cheek and extended out the back of his throat. She watched in pleasant fascination as her fingers closed into a fist around the bloody bundle of flesh at the back of this throat. Nerves tore and bones shattered as she pulled the man’s spine through his mouth. A horrifying mixture of blood, saliva and spinal fluid spilled onto the street at her feet. She pulled her hand back, whip-like and took his head with it. It hung loosely at her side, dripping onto the floor, as what remained of the man slumped to the ground little more than a fleshy sack of meat.

A shocked murmur, half-prayer and half curse, alerted her to the two vagrants that lay in the shadows, now awakened from their drunken slumber. They stared wide-eyed at the blood-soaked goddess in front of them frantically making the sign of the cross as they stared in wide-eyed horror at the nightmare before them. The pair were filthy, wasted with hunger and disease. Hardly suitable for her lustful needs and yet they were all she had. She had never been this terribly weak before. Her entire body was screaming with need, searing with the agony of simply keeping her corporal form. She had only herself to blame, having starved herself for weeks hoping to make the next kill all the more enjoyable. The gore-streaked sailor that lay at her feet was supposed to have broken her fast. He was young and strong, virile and full of life when she had lured him from that seedy tavern. The perfect prey to fuel her starved spirit with the blessed power of his life’s force. Fatalia smiled. He had put up a fight, this one. She enjoyed the ones that fought, their desperate fear only adding to the sweet taste of their destruction. But she had misjudged her own weakness and his panicked strength. In the throes of heady passion, she had let her guard slip and her prey had escaped, fleeing out the door and into the night. As if he had the slightest chance of escaping her.

Cursing under her breath, Fatalia considered the motley feast before her. The two were repulsive. Both wasted away by the poverty of the streets and ridden with the pox. Whatever thin seed remained in their shriveled balls would hardly satisfy her gnawing hunger, but she had little choice now. Her cunt was still dripping from her victim’s last manly thrusts and the taste of his lust still burned in her belly. She was starving and there was no way she would have the strength to seek out new quarry with what little she had left. As disgusting as the thought was, the two beggars would have to do. A curl of revulsion twisted her lips as she approached them, watching them cower, crawling shivering with fear into the shadows at her approach. She was lust and hate, fear and glory personified. Terror of man since before the Fall. A queen among her kind. Terror about to feast. Fire trailed in her footsteps and the air itself burned where she dared tread. Her prey, enthralled by the command in her hell-lit eyes, rose obediently and dropped their pants, stroking their pathetic manhood to hardness as they prepared for their demise. Fatalia spread her wings shrouding them in her darkness. She could feel the fluttering excitement in her belly as her cunt readied for its orgasmic feast. Her clawed hands reached out, drawing them to her scornful lips. Ever so briefly they would taste the eternal passion of Hell before their souls were devoured, their fleeting human lust consumed in the fires of one who had strode this pathetic world since Creation itself.

An explosion of hot blood splattered across her face as both their head were shorn from their necks. The sudden eruption drover Fatlaia back, spitting gore as the lifeless bodies tumbled to the ground. Sputtering in anger she wiped her blood-blinded eyes with the backs of her hands and bared her daggerlike fangs to the foolish intruder who had stolen her meal. An intruder that would soon taste death at the claws of a queen of Hell. Face and fangs dripping with the blood of her stolen meal, she bared her fangs in a hissing scream, her terrible anger ready to be unleashed.

Lillinaria stood her ground before her sister. Unlike the raging – and horribly exposed – demoness that stood furious before her, she herself was calm, composed, and more than a little amused. Unlike her sister, she stood in completely human form. Her shining blonde hair draped in perfect bangs over a face almost, but not quite, too beautiful for a mortal woman to possess. She wore green eyes today. Men always loved her green eyes; so bright and lovely, comparing them to emeralds or tropical tree lines as they lay their souls down at the flick of her smile. Her buttery dress was made of the finest China silk fashioned with a host of tiny white pearls that shone even in the shadow of her sister’s dark wings. Her coat was the purest and most expensive ermine, a gift from a pet that she had kept at bay for weeks before playfully devouring him in a night of flawless passion. Her flesh was creamy white, her bosom rising proudly but not whorishly from the front of her dress offering the perfect amount of cleavage to lure in even the most chaste of lovers. She had crafted herself as a vision, alluring and sensual, innocent and dangerous, a delicate courtier welcome in all the best houses and beds of Europe. In fact, the only thing marring her feminine perfection was the dull shine of the blades in her delicate hands which dripped crimson with the blood of her recent victims.

“You fucking bitch!” Fatlaia screeched as she stepped through the gore-soaked remains in a fury. Lillinaria had been a thorn in her side for time beyond reason, one of a dozen dark sisters that served the throne and a pathetic rival to her own glory. Always the lesser, she had rarely come into open conflict, rather sniping from between the safety of their master’s legs. Never a true threat yet always and ever a pain in her ass.

Lillinaria stood her ground under the weight of the other’s hate. To an outside the scene would look ridiculous. A slight and genteel girl clad in silk and ermine standing blithely before a fiend out of nightmare, only the bloody daggers in her delicate hands giving testimony to her own hellish nature.  

“Enough with the roaring. I do believe the neighbors have had enough noise and spectacle for the evening.” she remarked, letting the blades fall from her grip. The ringing sound of steel on stone echoed through the alley as she stepped back, making a show of protecting the hem of her dress from the filth and mess around her. “You always did love the slums and refuse, didn’t you? I never could understand the attraction. Of course, as they say… you are what you devour.”

Lillinaria’s flippant manner in the shadow of her rage only angered Fatlaia more and for the briefest of moments she felt herself slipping, the urge to tear the blonde’s body apart in a slaughter of human flesh nearly too potentially satisfying to ignore. At the last she held back, the fear of something far greater and more terrible still checking her thirst. Hate as they must, the anger of the Throne was never to be dared. Instead she let her form slip down, her bestial form disappearing once more into the no less dangerous form of the dazzling brunette she had used to lure her prey.

“What the fuck are you doing here, sister? Shouldn’t you be at some foppish party surrounded by pasty-faced weaklings?”

“Oh, well dear me. The very idea of preferring men who are clean, bathed, mannered rather than the boorish thugs that fill your bed each night must seem far too alien for you. The very thought that my own sister would even consider men such as these… ugh, disgusting.”

“Spare me! The last thing I want to hear from you is a critique on how I spend me nights. Especially from you!” Fatlaia responded, her anger over her lost and much needed feast seething hotly. With the loss of not one but two opportunities, she was faced with returning to her lesser haunts and taking whatever was available. Her plans for a post-fast orgy were dashed and she could not go another hour without feeling the tensing hips of a suddenly horrified male between her thighs as he gave up his immortal soul one gush of bursting ball-seed after another. “The stories of you and the Lemure are legendary and far more disgusting.”

“Well, eternity is a long time after all and a girl does need her little kinks.” Lillinaria teased, the hem of her dress sailing over the filthy stone as she slid by her engaged sibling, her eyes coolly laughing at her sister’s obvious distress. Her sister had obviously had enough of their chat and was headed towards the mouth of the ally in an obvious rush to get on with her night. “The truth of the matter is, you’ve not only gottenpitiful in your choice of prey but sloppy as well. Chasing the last through the streets like that, so that any might see. Killing with claw and fang. It is a threat to us all. And don’t think it has not gone unnoticed.”

Fatlaia stopped in her tracks. Normally the whore’s prattling meant little enough to her but for some reason her lilting tone implied a threat she could not lightly ignore. She turned dangerously, her voice held low, “What do you mean?”

“What I mean dear sister is that it’s been decided you be taught a lesson. And that I teach it to you.”

Sliding into a defensive crouch, Fatlaia eyed her sister warily. There was a threat in those words, and it made her uneasy. Lillinaria was a vile bitch but overt threats were not her style. Erven given her own infernal strength the slut was no match for her on her best day. Of course, this was far from being her own best day. Fatlaia was weak from her self-imposed privation and the chase and transformation had taken more out of her than she wanted to admit. As pathetic as Lillinaria was, the bitch was practically seething with devoured souls, her own strength bolstered by a recent feast of strong male lusts. Fatlaia was still certain that she would win a battle between them even now, but to transform back into her other, truer form now would drain precious radiance that she could not well afford to lose unless the situation was indeed desperate. She had to take control again, remind the wretched whore who was the stronger power here.

Fatlaia stood up tall in her human form, her spine straight and darkness filling her ancient eyes. Darkness and more than a hint of danger. When she spoke her voice reflected that danger, rising from her black lips in a low growl that would cow any mortal before it, “And just what would you intend to teach me… sister? Speak carefully. You know who I am.”

Fatlaia’s head cracked into the stone pavement with a sickening ‘thunk’, her life’s blood joining those of those victims who had already added their ghosts to the Hell-shadowed alley. The blade had come from behind, swift and silent as the murderous thought that preceded it. The shining blade, forged out of a metal and imbued with a power never dreamed of by human minds, had sliced true and clean through her neck with nary the slightest splatter of blood. Fatlaia’s body fell soon after, hesitating a single moment as if it was still trying to determine why it no longer had a head. An easy smile still adorning her moon-pale face, Lillinaria bent knelt to consider her unlucky sister’s head, careful as always not to stain her favorite dress in the gore of the alley. With gentle fingers she reached out, stopping the head’s rolling spin. At the mouth of the alley she noted the sound of a blade being returned carefully to its scabbard. She knelt there for a long minute unnaturally still not even needing to take the simplest breath, her physical body having died long before.

“Ynisynora. Is there some reason you are still here?”

Blonde dreadlocks hung back from the woman’s strong yet sad face. Piercing hazel eyes set buried in deep sockets watched silently as Lillinaria stretched forth her tapering fingers to shut the eyes of the lifeless head. Fire had left a terrible scar upon her face, stretching from the bottom of her neck in ragged flesh, running up along her cheekbone and carving through her left eye; leaving a stinging burden that had followed her through millennia. A second scar lay unnoticed beneath her shirt, a jagged and ugly scar where once stood her firm breasts. Despite her tender flesh and pained, expressive eyes there was nothing in the woman’s presence that would draw a look, her spirit seeking little more than obscurity despite her nearly seven-foot-tall frame.

“I wanted to thank you.” the giantess replied in a pained and raspy voice, “It felt… good. Good to finally take my vengeance of the proud bitch.”

Lillinaria stood, stepping from the alley as if she had completely forgotten the horror behind her. It was still early in the evening and if she were lucky, she might still catch the late theater crowd as it made its way to one wine-soaked orgy or another. She did not bother to look at her sister. No one did anymore anyway, her ugliness bearable only to the most decadent of demons.

“You are quite welcome, dear Ynisynora. It must have felt wonderful to finally get your revenge after what… well, after what she did to you.”

Ynisynora reached up to her scar, unthinking of her action, then tore her fingers away from her ruined face blushing red with embarrassment. She had been condemned to these horrible, ugly scars. Scars which followed her from body to body, from form to form, casting her ugliness upon her for all of eternity. Once she had been a beauty to rival the brightest of angels. Not anymore. With her beauty fell her allure and with that her radiance. Unable to inspire lust, unable to feed on its glorious sin, she had languished for centuries, saving up every ounce of strength for one promised moment of revenge. That moment had passed.

“What… what happens now? To her? To me?” she asked in a fearful whisper.

Lillinaria dd not bother turning to face her sister. Honestly the thing was far to gruesome to look upon and not partially because it was a fate that might curse any of them, including herself. Instead she lifted up one dainty white-gloved hand to signal her coachman who sat dutifully waiting for her at the end of the street. Faithful, silent, and discreet Giorgio was an absolute and rare treasure. he had served her faithfully for years beyond his mere mortal span, just as he would do eternally if she had her way.

“What happens? Well, for yourself, my dear sister? Well, without even the thought of your revenge to keep you going and with… well… after all, looking like that… I suppose you will just end up fading away into the ether. Sad really but its not like you have any use beyond this moment.” Lillinaria trilled casually,  secretly relishing the thought of one less sister to consider in her future plans.

By now the coach had arrived, the hooves of the matching cream-colored horses ending their slow trot at her feet. The coachman sailed from his seat with a professional grace to offer her his hand as she mounted the first step. “And for her brilliant carelessness, our beloved sister will be condemned to existence at the feet of the Throne serving our master’s disapproval of her sloppiness. After all, leaving bloody corpses all over the place isn’t exactly very smart now is it? She will be condemned to stay there until a mortal host accepts her willingly. As if that would ever happen!”

With that she climbed into the carriage and took a quick leave, the horses more than willing to speed their way from the bloody scene. In the morning the local police would be called to a horrible scene, one found by a horrified fisherman who would have nightmares eternally about what he had found in that gruesome alley. Without any further work the detective assigned simply wrote the whole thing up as a murder-suicide and ordered the bodies – belonging to no one of note – be buried in Potter’s field with all the other vagrants and vagabonds. On each grave was written the same name, Unknown, and each bore simply the date of death, the Year of Our Lord 1820.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

Eleonora crawled out of their bed, her body aching from a morning of sex with her lover. Not that Berto was a passionate lover, or even a skilled one, but the man was heavy. She could still feel his thick gut crushing the air out of her lungs as he lay atop her. His very sweat stunk of garlic as he heaved his pathetic manhood int and out of her, breathing with effort as she held her legs wide for his meaty hips. Luckily, he hadn’t lasted long – he never did. A short half-hearted blowjob was enough to get his cock hard enough to fuck. It was always the same with him crawling between her thighs, heaving with the effort. She still hissed and moaned as he entered her, telling him how good his thin shaft felt as it pierced the first few inches of her starving pussy. She moaned as he thrust into her, urging him on, grunting and wailing under him as she begged to be filled with his hot, manly seed. Saying and doing anything to get him to blow his pathetic little load so that she could get on with her day.

Normally he was happy enough to cum across her breasts or ass, cumming even faster when she offered to swallow his sour-tasting cum. But lately he had been insisting on fucking his load deep into her hungry cunt. As deep as his less than heroic cock would go in any case. His sister had announced that she was pregnant with her third child now and Berto had it in his head to become a father. He mentioned it one night, just as they had gone to bed, pulling her into the gentle embrace of his hairy arms. As he whispered in the dark, telling her of his dream of having a family and children of his own he could not see how Eleonora had buried her head into her pillows, sobbing quietly as he unfurled his heart to her. She had heard these words before.

They were Franco’s words. Those soft pleas in the night showing her the world he had hoped to build with her. A family. Children. Grandchildren. Sitting on a porch holding hands as the evening wore on with the sound of their offspring lighting the house behind them with music and laughter. She remembered with shame how she had refused him. Thinking far too much of her own life, her own selfish wants and needs, she had lied to him. She had betrayed him, her own sweet and loving Franco. Even as he took her into his arms each evening, each evening for three long years, making love to her and filling her nights with glorious sex, she had secretly been taking the pill. Eleonora cringed with shame remembering his heroic efforts to get her with child, fucking rivers of hot, potent cum deep into her secretly infertile womb. Now she sobbed as he thought of how callously she dismissed the man’s sad eyes each morning when the tests came back negative; cruelly ignoring his obvious pain. All for what? She had lost everything. Her own selfish needs, a cheap fantasy, had cost her he husband, her happiness, her very life.

 And now she was going to do it all over again to poor Berto.

She climbed into the shower as he slept, washing the stink of his sweat off her body. A thin trail of his watery seed disappeared in the spray and along with it whatever hope or fear she had about becoming with child. Berto was a good man, loyal and loving, steady and caring. But, try as she might, Eleonora could feel nothing for him but a sad pity. Greasy and rotund, uncouth in his manner, Berto had never had a woman steadily in his bed. She needed him. His apartment. His support. His protection. But that was all. Try as she might she could not bring herself to love him and there were times, times when he looked at her over the dinner table with that forlorn look in his eyes, that she sensed that he knew it. She fought back a tear as she thought of Franco once more. Of Franco and Pamela and their coming child. The child she should have borne him. She turned the knob on as far as it would go, burying her sobs under a blast of scalding hot water until her back was searing red with deserved pain.

Eleonora stepped out of the shower and dried herself off, making an effort not to glance in the mirror. What lay there frightened her; a traitorous bitch about to destroy the hopes and dreams of yet another good man. For a moment she thought of reaching down to the back of the vanity, to that hidden spot under a mad pile of feminine hair products that hid her special toy. She had not used it, not bothering to subject herself to the disappointment, for over a month now. Each time was the same, one attempt after another to desperate attempt to bring herself to orgasm. Ever since she had found herself in Berto’s bed – No. Even before that. Ever since Franco had cast her from his life, she could find no pleasure in sex. Neither the biggest, hardest, roughest cocks she could find nor her own hand could bring her past the edge and bless her with the release she so badly needed. Each time had been a tearful nightmare, begging her own body for mercy, while having sex with Berto had become a bothersome chore. The closest she had ever gotten was when she let her imagination drift to Franco once more; imagining that it was his body pressed hard along her own, his lips at her neck, his seed blasting between her shivering thighs intent on sparking life within her cold, traitorous womb. But that brought with it even more tears and more torturous regrets.

As she dressed, she listened to him snoring. He sounded like a boar snorting in the woods and, come to think of it, he reminded her of one in more ways than just his snore. Morning had risen and the sounds of an early Saturday were beginning to drift through the open windows. Berto would want breakfast after his sexual efforts. He would want to wake to the scent of coffee and a smiling woman still captivated by his prowess, alight with his fevered lust. Perhaps it was only her guilty heart speaking and not any sense of love, but she would provide him with both. She would even make pancakes for him! She still had some of the mix left from the American market by the Rialto. When he woke Eleonora would dot on him, watch his eyes come to life as she poured the maple syrup across his plate and called him her stud. It would make him happy and she owed him that at least.

Afterwards she would take a jog down to the shore, perhaps take a few pictures and enjoy the few hours of good weather before the promised rainstorm that was rolling in on the horizon. It would be good to clear her head, to get away from the humid stench of the canals and feel the sea breeze on her face. Perhaps she might even forget her troubles for an hour or two, pretending to be alone and free as she found her way though the markets. It might be the last chance she would have she thought as she poured the buttery pancake batter into the sizzling pan and watched the coffee steam on the stove. Eleonora had already come to a decision. Running her hand gently over her belly she imagined how it would feel. How her life might be. How it might have been with Franco’s child growing inside of her instead of Berto’s. But that as a regret she would have to somehow live with. Behind her she heard him grunting as he made his way from the bed, the scent of breakfast putting a serene smile on his otherwise homely face as he slid a bathrobe over his thick, hairy body. She turned to him, gifting him with her best and most grateful smile as she set the table before him, yielding herself gently as he brought her into his arms for a morning kiss. Yes, she thought, tonight she would do away with the pills and give herself over to his desire. There were far worse fates than motherhood after all. After breakfast she would take him back to bed for one last, and sadly brief, fuck before heading out and finding what the morning light held in store for her. 

Repercussions - Part Thirteen - Finale

(A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

A crowd had gathered along the shore that morning. Each set of prying eyes eager and hungry for the latest gossip, the newest shock to talk about in conspired whispers over coffee or whispered furtively at the markets when no one might overhear. Men lined the railing overlooking the rocks smoking their cigars and cigarettes, all of them trying to sound hardened, accustomed to the sight and stench of death. Women, curious themselves as they peered between the men’s shoulders, made sure to hide the eyes of their children from the ghastly sight; protecting them from reality as all good mothers would do. The rains had just ended for the small coastal town and the waves of the Adriatic had receded back to Neptune’s eternal throne.  For once the shoreline lay bleak and there lay a slight strip of sandy beach between the jagged rocks and the sea. Just enough for the people here to enjoy for the space of a few hours before the tides decided to roll back in with the afternoon sun. They had started arriving in the early light of day, barely after the rising of the dawn. Men and women, lovers alone or parents dragging excited toddlers behind them.  All carrying their blankets and sunscreen, bottles of water and tiny sandwiches hurriedly made as one or the other complained about how their bathing suits had somehow shrunk over the course of the winter. None, however, expected to find the fright waiting for them on that lonely stretch of rocky coastline.

Several police vehicles had blocked off the street giving the medical services personnel room to work. Not that there was much that could be done. The single ambulance, a red and white relic from three decades past, sat empty with its doors wide open waiting patiently to receive a victim who was far past any need for its service. The body had been found early that morning by Senor Marscapone who had snuck out of the house early, careful not to wake his absolute fucking bitch of a wife, to get an early start on the day’s fishing. The day before he had come home with a bucket filled with fat sea bass and he was eager to see if his luck still held. Instead as he trundled over the rocky path to his favorite spot, his tongue pressed between his lips as he managed the way with his folding chair under one arm and everything else under the other, he was greeted by what at first seemed to him a very large and very white beached baby whale washed up onto the shore. His chubby face crumpled in curiosity, he had slowly put down all he was carrying and made his way timidly over to see if the thing was still alive. By the time he had realized what he was seeing, his heart was pounding so hard that he had to sit himself down for a few minutes to get his shuddering back under control. So it was that the call to the local police came in at 6:32 that morning waking a half-awake local police operator from a pleasant daydream involving his neighbor’s busty wife and a garden hose.

The victim had been identified, his relatives called, and the body loaded onto the ambulance, but the crowds still gathered around the spot. Each had their own theory, their own bit of gossip to add, each nodding their head with somber wisdom as one notion followed the next. The body had been found stripped to the waist and shoeless, his pale waterlogged flesh torn across the back and stomach where someone had taken use of a rough length of rope. Other matters concerning the state of the body were not so easily seen and not spoken of except in the barest whispers by the detectives called to the scene. Other matters that would never be discussed, mentioned, or broadcast in the local papers. Official statements would ignore those telling slashes across the victim’s skin as well as any other matters which would alarm the general peace of the town. It was an unfortunate accident they would broadly announce. A foolish morning swimmer who had misjudged the morning tides and ended up washed out by the current to drown and be returned by that same unforgiving sea.

As the crowd listlessly dissolved, little else to be seen or heard since the last lonely crunch of the police vehicles as they wore their way across the gravel beach, a lone figure stood by.  He was a tall man, his muscled frame hidden by a long coat which flagged in the breeze. He had stood alone and apart, speaking to no one, acknowledging no one, keeping whatever thoughts he had unspoken and unshared.

His only gesture of farewell to the memory of his… friend? No. Never that. His acquaintance perhaps… was to raise his hand through his dark hair and smirk a final farewell at a pig that had finally gotten his share of karma. He had not lived a noble life, that was for certain. His final eulogy would read of selfishness, greed, and a degree of cruelty. He had played a dangerous game and now paid the ultimate price. He had made too many bets, angered too many people, blackmailed and tortured whatever friends and neighbors he might have had. One fallen love and ruined marriage at a time.

Johnny could not dismiss his own share of the blame, of course. He was Simone’s greatest weapon in his little war against marital bliss was he not? How many women, how many happy little wives, would still be chastely wed to their uncaring, brutal husbands if not for his own sport? How many had he seduced, lured, fucked, freed from their lives of bored servitude? How many would still remain married now that the threat of Simone’s little business of blackmail was gone? His cellphone already buzzed with the calls of three. Luckily none of which he had callously bedded and bred. Their husbands might well divorce one or the other for not being the pure virgins they pretended to be, but none would announce to the world his wife’s belly being filled with another man’s child. From that, thankfully, he was safe. Still the women would seek him out if not the men. With dark, thoughtful eyes Johnny looked one last time across the clouded skies of his Adriatic home. He had sensed it coming. This end of one life and the start of another. This place, this town, this region had become too small. Too comfortable. Too tedious. It was time for a fresh start someplace new, the start of new and glorious adventures. After all there was an entire world out there just waiting for him. A world filled with ripe women and warm inviting pussy. Who was he to deny them all, he thought as a wry smile crossed his face?

With a last sigh he bid his goodbye to his world, his life, and too poor little Simone for whom the world had gotten far too small far too quickly.

……….. End Johnny, for now ……..

The gentleman that stepped out of the taxi was dressed the part. His gleaming black Oxfords matched the seriousness of his classic double-breasted suit, both tailor-made with his quiet tastes in mind. With one manicured hand he brushed his Canali tie under his suit jacket and gazed up at the overhanging sign as if to be sure he had been driven to the right spot. Once satisfied he slid the twenty euros to the driver and allowed the fellow to take his leave, but only then. The man that was left stood tall, shoulders back and squared, his frame neatly poised, hands neatly at his sides, face front, and back aching. His friends, who had finally convinced him to come here, had insisted that despite his best efforts there was no way he was going to live out the rest of his years if he did not do the unthinkable and just fucking relax. Thinking back on his entire life, relaxation was not a word he used much. From the stench of the worst poverty to the deprivations and dangers of an active-service army career, to the even more dangerous halls of his current law career… relaxation was never high on his to-do list. Yet here he was at the tender age of thirty-four with his shoulders and back a source of constant agony and his mind clouded where sharpness was a deadly requirement. To put it gently, he was a mess.

The scents of honeysuckle and jasmine greeted him as he stepped through the spa doors. Thankfully there was no annoying tinned music or television news channel blaring away to upset the blessed quiet of the entryway. Nor were there any of those damned bells most business used on their doors to alert their staff to stop fucking around and get back to work. Instead at a front counter adorned with ferns, a rather thin young woman sat ready to greet him. She asked sweetly for his identification and handed him a clipboard with a friendly and efficient smile. He had heard tales of this place before the new owners took over and was more than pleased to see that his friends were not just sending him here to screw with him. The clipboard had the usual questions. Name, age, preferences, medical conditions. Of course, he had questions for her too. Who wouldn’t after all? The young woman was happy to answer what she could. Yet as it turned out that the girl had just been hired and, rather than answer some of his inquiries herself, she was happy to call her manager to the front.

He only had to wait a few minutes. It was a quiet Monday morning after all and most people were either at work or still tucked in their beds, so the spa was no very busy, just as he had planned. He heard her coming before he turned, her heels making the softest noise on the carpeting as she approached. When he spun to face her with his hand extended, he could feel the tension dropping suddenly from those aching shoulders, to be replaced by a startled gasp as his body and mind froze mid-hello to stunned silence.

“Good morning, Mr. Camden. My name is Chiara. I hear you have a few questions for us?”

For once in his life, Joseph Camden found himself at a loss for words. The woman, Chiara she said, stood by the receptionist both wearing the same soft cream blazer that marked their employment. But that was as far as any sane comparison would go. The other girl was…well a girl, thin and gangly with legs like a young foal. Chiara was a woman in every sense of the word.  Lustrous dark hair flowed along her face, showing off the gentle curve of her cheeks as the locks traveled down across her shoulders. Her eyes, in all his life he had never seen such eyes, soft grey and smoldering with sensuality. Smiling at him with a knowing intelligence. Only accentuated by the thin sheen of her prescription glasses. Though she was fully and professionally dressed, his mind’s eye could not help but place her by his pool wearing barely enough to hide her most intimate secrets as those soft lips of hers… those soft lips…

“My name is Camden, Joseph Camden.” he managed to announce, perhaps a bit too forcefully than he had meant.

“Yes, I know, Mr. Camden.” his dream replied with the voice of an angel, “You have an appointment with me… I mean with us this morning. It seems you aren’t feeling well?”

Perhaps he was imagining it, a hopeful trick of his mind perhaps, but the woman, Chiara she said, seemed to be genuinely concerned. Perhaps standing a bit closer than politely necessary? No. it was simply a hopeful trick of his imagination, he decided, “Well, it’s my back you see. They tell me I have to relax more. My friends that is. Told me I would like… well, that coming here would make me feel better. It seems working 24 hours a day and playing soccer the other 24 isn’t without its costs I suppose.”

“Wow. I don’t meet many men with 48 hours in their day. I wonder what you do on your days off. Your girlfriend must be very lonely, umm… If there is, of course?”

Did angels play with their hair as they spoke? Did their soothing eyes look at you like that? With that odd combination of fearful hope? For the life of him, Camden could not work that out past the view of her soft rose-petal lips as she spoke the words, “What? Oh! No. No woman in my life yet, I’m afraid. Those 48-hour days wear you down, you know. I suppose I’ll have to cut down a bit. Make some time for…”  

“For…?”the angel said, with a playful tilt to her head, smiling as only an angel would smile with those soft doe-grey eyes. The scent of her like the brightest of Spring days.

“For… well…”, he managed to stutter.

“Well… well, what say we get you in a room and out of these clothes…. OH! I mean ready for your massage… I mean…” Chiara stuttered, her angel eyes wide with the sudden heat of schoolgirl’s embarrassment. “I mean… well.”

“I know what you mean.” Camden replied, a flush of warmth creeping up his own neck, “Umm, would you mind showing me the way. I’m a bit new at this.”

They stood there looking at each other for a while. Unnoticed the receptionist had decided to take a break, secreting herself in the spa’s tiny pantry until nature had taken its obvious course. She had not known Chiara very long and not well even at that. The woman was her boss not her friend after all. But even she could see that little nervous quiver as the woman stood there. The way they had both stood there. The looks. The hidden words. The way Chiara was stretching herself up in her heels to bring her lips that much closer to his own. Hell, it was obvious. All the two of them needed was a room and a locked door. She had the urge to call out into the hall for the two of them to get a room, then snorted out a guarded laugh when she realized that it was exactly what they were doing.

Without looking away, Chiara replied, “Don’t worry, I’ll show you the way”. She reached down to take his hand but was surprised to realize that she had been holding it the entire time. Ever since he had reached out to shake her hand the moment they met. Stifling a giggle, she led him down the hall to massage room four, all the way in the back of the spa, neither one of them able to turn away from the other’s eyes.

………………. End Chiara, for now …………….

Night had fallen along the Via S. Pio. Outside the window a soft breeze carried with it the sound of a passing car making its way slowly along the lonely avenue. The sky was overcast with rolling grey clouds and the threat of rain had kept most people inside. In the apartment upstairs a couple had fallen asleep on their couch, their children snoring softly on their laps as their television screen bathed them in shimmering light. In the apartment below a grandmother had long since bid her children and grandchildren goodbye and settled to bed, her refrigerator now adorned with several more badly crayoned pictures of blue puppies and orange kittens. All across Venice people, most people, were asleep in their beds dreaming peacefully, enjoying the sweet scent of a Spring evening drifting gently through curtained windows. All except her own.

Eleonora sat up in her bed, her head still dizzy, her cheeks still wet with quiet tears. She had tried. She had really and truly tried this time. Tried and once again failed miserably. Oh, she had pretended. She had moaned and writhed and shook herself as Berto heaved his belly between her thighs with his sweaty face bloated a ridiculous shade of crimson. She had yelped appreciatively as he came, spurting thick droplets of spunk across her belly as he grunted out her name. For a moment she was afraid he would collapse on top of her, his large belly pressing heavily into her as he leaned in awkwardly for a final kiss. His lips were thick, drooling with spit. His scent was rancid sweat from his day hauling garbage around the city. A sickly-sweet scent that even the hottest showers and the strongest soap could not wash fully away. It wasn’t his fault, she thought as she wiped a tear from her cheek with the edge of their bedsheet. He was a good man. Really. He was sweet and kind to her, offering her everything a good woman would appreciate in a man. He had taken her in when she was destitute. He had given her a roof over her head and a full belly when she could not afford to sleep in the filthiest beds on her pathetic waitress’ salary. All when the world had been crashing down upon her mercilessly. He had treated her so well, like a queen. His beautiful Eleonora who shared his bed and did the cooking and took care of his laundry as a good woman will. The same woman who took him so eagerly between her thighs and made all the right sounds as he did his very best to be the man she had always dreamed of. His smell and sweaty, rotund body doing little to make up for his less than impressive skills as a lover.

Still, she had dutifully spread her legs as he lumbered his body into position, cooing her terrible need for her earthly Apollo. Tonight, just like each night before, she had tried. Oh, God in his Heaven how she had tried. She had closed her eyes, allowing her imagination to run free and wild, as he slid in and out of her each thrust accompanied by a grunt or heroic puff of breath. She had slid her hand down between her thighs, assaulting her clit savagely, tearing at her breasts with her nails, as she locked her ankles around his hips and grinding up into him like a madwoman, like the cheapest of whores. It did not matter. It was over too soon. As much as she thrust and rubbed and fingered herself until her wrist was aching and her arm ready to fall off, she could never reach that blessed height. Berto begged to come inside of her, begged to fill her with his seed and get her fat with his babies. Tomorrow she had pleaded. Next month. Next year. When their house and finances were in order. When they were ready. But secretly she suspected that he knew the real reason. Instead she made the greatest show of sucking his stubby cock dry, of rubbing his spunk into her belly and breasts as if was the most erotic sensation in the world. Even though in her thoughts she could never shake the memory of another man and a time when the act was for her truly the most erotic and wonderful sensation in the world. If only she had realized it.

Carefully, quietly Eleonora slipped out of the bed. Just as she did on many nights since she had started sharing Berto’s bed. There was no real need. The man slept like a bear in winter. He slept through alarm clocks, ringing phones, knocking doors and once a car crash that had happened just outside their window. Especially after sex. A stick of dynamite would not wake him once he had shot his load and curled up into the blankets to sleep, let alone the cautious footfalls of his Eleonora making her way to their bathroom on bare feet. Only after closing the door and turning the tiny lock with the most timid of clicks did she dare turn on the light. She stood there naked, trying desperately not to see her own face in the vanity mirror. Always afraid to look herself in the eye, the accusations and bitter looks coming far too painfully from the vengeful bitch who lived in her mirror. Holding her breasts to her chest with one hand she knelt in front of the vanity and rummaged through the back, pushing aside the pads and other feminine products Berto would never dare disturb. There she found it, the flowered pink cosmetics purse that held her most valuable possession.

She strained her ears towards the door to make sure Berto had not stirred. Not that she had to. The man was dead to the world by now and nothing short of a nuclear blast would wake him. Comforted by the silence, she slid her friend from the purse and stroked it gently in her hand. It was a soft pale lavender, its 8” length feeling like warm silk in her hand. It stood straight and proud, its sizeable girth ridged and veined to please the most jaded of pussies. A set of massive balls sat at its base, each silky smooth and heavy with the perfect angle to slam into a horny pussy. She could just imagine the insane gush of cum that would rise from them if they were real. The head was big and bulbous, and she had to bite down on her lip hard to stifle her gasp, the memory of the last time she took a cock this big past her dripping lips to lodge itself firmly inside of her completely stretched pussy walls.

Only two buttons; an on/off switch and a function selector adorned its side along with a compartment to hold the DD batteries that powered it. The angry beast was the biggest and meanest looking she had found at the local shop. The saleswoman had said she had tried it herself and that the combination of the cunt-stuffing size and the vibrations ripping through your womb sent her eyes rolling into the back of her head, leaving her squirming helpless on the bed until her husband had come to her rescue a world of orgasmic aftershocks later. The bastard was so tuned on by the sight that he had immediately fucked the shit out of her, not even giving her a chance to recover. The incredible, hard-cocked heaven-blessed bastard!

Eleonora knelt there for a long moment sliding the thing in and out of her grip. “For vaginal use only,“ the box had said. Right, like she was going to try and swallow it or something! Suddenly a small packet fell out of the box. "Personal Lubricant” it read. As she knelt there looking at the vibrator and packet of lube in front of her, she started wondering if this was such a good idea. But she was desperate, and this damned thing was her only hope. Of course, the fucking batteries had to be sealed in a childproof piece of thick plastic. What fucking child is going to buy this in the fucking first place she cursed to herself as she rummaged through the cabinet for her best scissors. Eleonora felt ridiculous standing there naked in the toilet, fighting with the heavy plastic to get at the damned batteries in the middle of the night just to power up a fake cock. As she tried to force the thin metal through the packaging the scissor slipped, and she nearly cut her fingers open as the scissors sliced across her palm. The batteries, now freed, decided to fly straight into the toilet water and sink straight into the pipes. Eleonora quickly fell to her knees and shoved her hand straight down to the elbow not even thinking about what possible excuse she could give the damned plumber if the damned things had sunk down too far. Thankfully she was able to grab both, drying them in a towel by the sink before daring to go on. As she did she tried to ignore the way her breasts hung from her chest, showing a bit more sag to them in the past few months of utter misery that she was used to, as if in imitation to the same sagging hopes she felt deep in her heart.

She screwed up her courage and carefully inserted the batteries into the shaft and then sat herself solidly at the edge of the bathtub. After tearing open the packet of lube she applied the clear slick fluid to her trembling lips. Eleonora had never needed a vibrator before, Franco had always been more than willing to volunteer his own cock in place of some indelicate piece of plastic. Even so, the feel of the cold jelly on her sensitive parts made her gasp. For a while she lay back against the shower tile gently spreading the lube all over her lips and clit, enjoying the pleasurable sensations. Clearly, she’d been missing out on quite a lot in her life. She let her thoughts drift off, but each memory. Each thought of Franco or Johnny or the other men she had taken to her bed simply filled her with regret rather than arousal.

“Still, it feels that good with my fingers. What must it be like with the vibrator?” she wondered. Bravely, still biting her lip softly between her teeth, she picked it up and turn it on. She had no idea what to expect. According to the woman at the shop she expected it to tear her arm off. Instead the thing sat in her hand inert, unmoving, without the slightest sign of life. She played with the buttons, loading and reloading the batteries, searching the box for some sort of instruction. The fucking thing would not surge to life. Dead. Broken. Maybe the batteries were old or just generic shit made in China. Frustrated, Eleonora banged the thing on her hip, in her palm, on the side of the sink. Anything to get the damned thing working. The fucking thing had a date to keep with her cunt for shit sake! Finally beaten, Eleonora fought back the urge to weep, sadly joking to herself that she wasn’t woman enough anymore to turn on a piece of fucking damned plastic.

But what to do now? It was still a big, thick dildo and it wasn’t like a real one came with an ‘off/on’ switch. Although that would be damned useful. The packaging didn’t give much advice apart from the obvious piece on where to use it. “Come on, it can’t be that difficult! Thousands of women use these!“ she scolded herself. Maybe she was just too eager to get going. She had to just relax and try to savor the moment. She slid the massive head down along her along her clit. Fuck! It felt so damned good! Hell, she knew it wasn’t real, but it was amazing having even a fake one pressing down, threatening her lubed up slit with its confident bitch-taming size and weight. The lube was starting to warm up now, magically going from cold and impersonal to comforting and even erotic. She could feel her breath growing heavy as she ran the head up and down, up and down. She poured more lube on her fingers and alternated between sliding the dildo over the tip of her clit and pressing down on it and rubbing in circles. Occasionally she would touch on her inner lips and tentatively finger herself.

She had just gotten started. Just started reveling in that lovely feeling as her petals finally began to bloom, when her imagination betrayed her. Her mind had drifted back to the last time she had felt this way. To Franco’s loving kisses as he pressed himself between her thighs. Fuck but he was like iron that night, kissing her, holding her, making those lovely little grunts, his breath hot on her face as he filled her belly with his warmth… No. No, she could not think of that. She could already feel the regretful tears running down her face, her lips quivering on the edge of a sob as that image turned to the sight of Pamela sitting on his lap. Kissing him. Laughing at her. Bearing Franco’s child in her hateful, backstabbing womb.

Eleonora stopped. Her pussy felt numb. That had never happened before. Reaching over to the sink she turned the faucet for the cold water. Taking a gulp, she tasted her juices on her fingers combined with the warmed lube. It was strange and sweet, like cherries. She started imagining a tongue, a man’s tongue lapping at it, enjoying the sweet taste between her thighs. Settling back, she shook the thought of Franco and his bitch from her mind. Accidentally she glanced at the small clock which sat on the sink. It was 2:12 in the morning. She had been at this for nearly an hour. How? Fuck! The thought of her broken marriage still stung but she closed her eyes and returned to work. Trying to get things jump-started again, she began slapping her pussy with the dildo’s hard shaft feeling her clit jumping excitedly with each sudden sting. But that lovely anticipation, the flow of her juices was still missing. The romance of it all absent. 

"Wake up,” She muttered to herself as she slapped harder. Still nothing, then harder. She filled her head with every hard cock she had ever seen, or felt, sucked or fucked. Every hard-bodied stud that forced scream after orgasmic scream out of her as they fucked her straight into the mattress, their powerful thighs flexing, their primal needs so utterly demanding. Balancing herself on the edge of the bathtub Eleonora slid down on the rude thing, feeling every ride and curve as it violated her most intimate depths. Her jaw dropped, her eyes shut tight, as she let out a long breathless wail. She had not felt anything this big for a long time and the arrogant thing was spreading her painfully wide. It was perhaps halfway in when she had to stop and rest, letting her guts get used to its massive invader. Her thoughts flew back to Johnny and Wil, and a dozen other formidable shafts that had challenged her. Each thinking that they were too much for her to handle, learning otherwise as she battled them deeper and deeper into her starved body. The looks on their faces as they found themselves hilt-deep and gasping at her tightness. This lavender bastard would be just the same, she swore. Eleonora had taken gods between her thighs! She was not going to lose this war to a piece of fucking rubber! Clenching her teeth, she dug her nails into her thighs and bore down, taking the thing another inch, maybe two. Her thoughts turned again to Johnny’s proud smirk and she squeezed down on the thing with all her might. Eleonora bit down hard on her lip, groaning with the effort, the vision of Johnny’s face, of his powerful cock throbbing hot inside her filling her thoughts. The dildo was not impressed in the least.

Quickly let memories of other studs, other young bulls that had torn into her, fucking her screaming from one mad orgasm straight into the next. She remembered their stamina, fucking her for hours on end until she was nothing more than a dripping, quivering mess at their feet. Heated, lusty voices reminding her who she was. Their goddess, their sex toy, their hot bitch, their slut. She drove herself down another inch - almost there! - and started riding it up and down. Gently at first then slowly picking up speed. The thing was doing it! Fucking her hard and deep just like she needed! It felt so fucking good! Goddess, sex toy, hot bitch, slut! Goddess, sex toy, hot bitch, slut! She repeated their words in her head like an erotic mantra. She remembered their faces, hot and lusty, gazing at her… laughing at her. God, they had laughed at her. All of them. Surrounding her in that club, her dress ruined, her hair, her face ruined with tears. They had stood by and laughed at her. Their slut! Never a goddess. Never with them. Their slut, ever and only and always their slut. And Chiara… Chiara… standing there… laughing. Smiling. Will’s hands all over her. Their echoing laugh as she stumbled away. Fleeing. Fleeing back to Franco… Franco…Franco…

Eleonora had fallen into the bathtub, her meaty hips slapping against the side painfully as her sobs overtook her. The vibrator had slid out of her, rejecting her, laughing at her ridiculous attempt to recapture a feeling that no mere piece of rubber could offer. Her cunt was on fire, suddenly empty and still aching for what it could not have. What it might never have again. She attempted to rise but her hip complained, a large purplish bruise beginning to rise from her pale flesh. She could hear the vibrator laughing at her, sitting there in the tub, still glistening with the foul smell of the factory-scented lube. In a fit of unthinking rage, she grabbed it and threw it against the far wall with all of her might. The think hit the tile with a solid ‘Thunck’ and rebounded toward the open window, flying out into the night. Escaping into freedom to wreak its havoc somewhere else. For a brief moment Eleonora felt a sense of justice. The fucking thing was gone. Fine. To hell with it!

That’s when she heard the abrupt crash of glass and the blaring sound of a car alarm just outside the window. Her eyes went wide in fear and she scrambled out of the tub, smashing her hand against the light switch and yanking open the door. Naked, exhausted, her cheeks still wet with tears, she ran across the room and dived under the covers praying that Berto would simply stay asleep. She buried her head in the pillows and shut her eyes, struggling to control her breath as she felt his fleshy bulk begin to shift restlessly, the blaring of the alarm rising so loud and near as to wake even him.  Go back to sleep, she would tell him. It was no matter. Just some neighbor’s problem. It would stop in a minute or two. Come back to bed, she would say. There was no reason for you to rise cursing from my side, to slide your pants on, to look for your keys.

Then Eleonora started to wonder with horror just where Berto had parked his car.

…….. The End… For now…… 

(I would like to thank my good friend, Kira-New-World, for inspiring this story. He always inspires the most amazing scenes and ideas. This story, as so many others I have written are his far more than they are mine. All I do is write them. He inspires them. I would also like to take this time to thank his lovely and very sexy wife for being his inspiration as well as his love. I happen to know that he adores her, and I thank her for making him such a happy man. I hope she also appreciates this story. I would love to write one for her, using her thoughts, her inspirations, her fantasies. It would be an honor and a privilege. Again, thank you both, may God bless you, and may you turn and give each other the sweetest of kisses as this story ends.)

Repercussions - Part Twelve

(A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

…..

It had been nearly a week since the fiasco at the apartment. Eleonora had since moved out, for once in her life afraid of Franco and of just what he might do if he found her still there. She had heard the stories rolling about the town.This was a small community and every ear was at everyone else’s wall, every eye upon you as you walked down the street, whispered lips moving constantly as you passed bye. She had heard of Franco’s treatment of poor Simone. Although few if any had anything nice at all to say about her wounded and now suddenly homeless cousin. Most people had commented that he had finally gotten what was coming to him. Eleonora was honestly in shock to discover some of the things they said but none of it seemed to surprise her in the least. The man was always a selfish leech and part of her was proud that Franco had tossed him down that fucking staircase. She swore out a curse as she hurled the last of the cardboard boxes into the corner of the storage unit. Franco had told her to get all of her things out of the apartment. All of them. Whatever was left would be tossed into the trash. He had come to the apartment once during the week, not to talk or to make any attempt to repair their shattered marriage, but simply to see how far she had come in packing up her things. He had arranged everything. A courtesy, he had said. Boxes, a moving van, a storage unit in the next town, along with two large and strong men to help her with the work. Men he was sure she would enjoy, he had said, an angry sneer in his voice which she had never before heard. One that she found slightly terrifying when she had heard it. And somehow exciting.

She had never seen Franco as cruel or callous. Never seen him as anything but mild and loving… and, yes, a bit conservative. Yet now she heard those back-handed whispers of him and Pamela. Of midnight shouts to wake the neighbors, of the two of them getting caught fucking like animals behind the basilica, of her bouncing head beneath his blanket at the beach as she swallowed his load with the brightest of smiles. Eleonora sat down on one of the larger boxes, biting her lips softly, wondering to herself where that man had been while their marriage was alive. Why was he, for Pamela, this wonderfully crude and hungry beast while with her… with her was he this way as well? Only needing her own eager appreciation to bring it out, her own honesty of what she truly desired him to be? Against her will, she thought of the two of them together. That terrible sight of them fucking in their bed. Of the way Pamela’s naked body had shuddered and collapsed into him so very erotically as Franco drove his bare cock into her, driving his seed up into her body with each grunting thrust. She had held him tight, called his name. Given herself to him so completely. When was the last time she herself had given him that? Had taken his seed and his lust and called out his name, thinking of him and no other. Not having desire for other men with other names in her thoughts as Franco had flooded her with his sex. When was the last time she had told him she adored him above all others? That all the hard cocks in the world meant nothing to her without him to come home to? Heaven help her, she was not quite sure.

She sat there in that lonely storage bin for nearly an hour, not wanting to leave. Not wanting to go back into the street with all its prying, judgmental eyes and gossiping mouths. She had nowhere to go in any case. No where except back to the apartment of her cousins who were kind enough to take her in. They had an extra bedroom for her since their son had left to go to college in Milan. It was a small room and the sheets and pillows still smelled of him. That first night when she had discovered that manly scent, she had buried her face into the pillow to breathe it in. She missed having Franco lying next to her. missed the comforting feel of his presence. His hairy arm across her thigh. The scent of him as she lay across his chest or drew his pillow to herself on those rare weekends she slept in while he was jogging or biking up and down the coast. That first night she had drawn her nephew’s pillow to her longingly, had thought of Franco, had thought of his hand pulling her in close with words of lustful need on his lips. Words she had not heeded in far too long it seemed. If only she had listened, she thought. If only she had seen the sad look on his face. His needs and desires. The terrible pain he had endured for her. Always for her.

With a fatal finality, she brought down the gate and placed the padlock onto the bin door. There were security cameras installed everywhere guarding each lane and corridor leading towards the elevator. The better to discourage the thieves and rapists that seemed to be everywhere these days. It was one of the better facilities in the area and Franco had assured her three free months of its use. A small concession for leaving her without a home, without a bed, and without the scent of his sweat to greet her each morning for the rest of her life. She pictured them together once again, unable to shake the image from her head. Pamela was hugging him tight as he lay resting between her arms, breathing him in as she planted small kisses along his neck. Smiling as she claimed him, captured him forever in her bed… between her legs. Possibly forever. 

Eleonora could not even go to work. The spa had been shut down by the police on Monday morning. All the girls working there had been arrested for prostitution or drug use. She still remembered hiding herself in the crowds, her scarf around her face, as she watched the girls being pulled out one by one screaming and crying. Oh, how badly she wanted to see Pamela and Chiara being dragged out as well but neither one of them was there. Still, the place was locked down tight and in the next few days an ‘Under New Ownership’ sigh had appeared on its doors. Eleonora had called up Giovanni immediately, frantically, wondering what would happen to her job of so many years. Or worse, if the police were looking for herself as well. She kept the books after all. Played with the figures, paid the girls, set up their disgusting clients. She hammered the numbers on the phone again only to get busy signals time after time. It was only that evening, sitting alone cross-legged on her cousin’s bed and holding that pillow tight to her chest, did she finally get through on the line. When the phone at the end picked up and she heard Giovanni’s tired voice it was like a weight had been lifted.

The news that he had to tell her did nothing to help Eleonora’s situation though. Giovanni was through in this town. Under several court investigations he had been forced to sell off all of his properties and businesses in the area and was on his way to start fresh in Venice where he still owned a few smaller spas. New owners had taken over the spa, ones that had promised both he police and the neighborhood a cleaner and more decent place to liven the area. Fuck them all. She could hear Giovanni muttering curses under his breath, cursing at the traffic as he made his way up the Adriatic coast and across to the west coast through the night. Eleonora hung up quietly. Whatever lay in store for her now, Giovanni was not going to be part of it. The man would be lucky to survive until morning the way the madman drove.

A soft rapping at her door announced that supper was ready, although she was in no mood to eat. Eleonora sat at the table avoiding the eyes of her cousins, hoping neither would ask anything further of her day. Maybe, she hoped, they would be good enough to stay quiet and to let her finish picking at her plate. Good enough to allow her the grace to disappear behind the door of her small borrowed room. What she needed most now was a good night’s sleep and a fresh look on tomorrow. What she did not need were prying questions asked by caring relatives that would rip the scars off her open wounds. Unfortunately, that was exactly what she received.

“Eleonora, look…I…” Cousin Lisa was not the most direct nor bravest of people and had to find the strength to go on with a worried and noticeable glance at her husband. Alberto had married into the family when he wed Cousin Lisa and had spent the last few years quietly in the background sitting back nursing his wine while their family discussed their business around him. He never interfered nor offered advice. Instead he simply pushed Lisa to say what was necessary and sat back quietly sipping his wine. Just like he was doing now. “I… I know its none of my… our business what happened with you and Franco. These things happen all the time, right? But you must pull yourself together. Now, does this Giovanni person owe you any back pay or anything?”

“Forget Giovanni.” Eleonora replied softly. Although she never looked up from her plate, the words were directed more towards Alberto than to Lisa. These were his words after all, despite coming out of Lisa’s mouth, “There will be no money coming from him. If the police catch up to him, he will be spending all of his money on lawyers… or a plane ticket to Egypt.”

Lisa seemed lost at first, casting another long glance at her husband before continuing. She was never the most forceful nor the most decisive person in the family and had come to lean hard on her Alberto’s opinions. In a way Eleonora envied them. Whatever they needed to say to each other could be said through tiny gestures and glancing looks. It was a form of married telepathy that few others had ever mastered. So, when Lisa did speak, everyone knew it was with the full understanding of her husband’s wishes, “Oh, I see. But that does not mean anything for you does it? It’s not like the police are…”

“I don’t know really.” Eleonora replied calmly, still staring into her cold zucchini, “Maybe. It all depends I guess.”

“Oh. Well, you know what I was thinking?” Lisa chirped, another glance at her husband later, “That new owner. Well he or she doesn’t know you, do they? I mean, you practically ran the place from all you’ve told me. Maybe they will let you stay on. You’ve always said you dreamed of the day that place was run like a real spa and not a… a… well, you know. Maybe this is your chance to be a part of something that you will enjoy for a change. It’s worth a shot isn’t it?”

“Maybe. I suppose so.”

Encouraged by her small victory, Lisa droned on happily, “Yes. I think you should do just that. Get a job that suits you, rebuild your confidence, get an apartment for yourself. Alberto and I will be happy to help, won’t we mi’amore?”

Eleonora smiled weakly, easily seeing through to Lisa’s thinly hidden meaning. Alberto wanted his extra room back. Their three children were finally out of the fucking house and he wanted to build a bar in there or a jacuzzi or whatever the hell he was into. He had little patience for her intrusion into his happy little home and wanted her out as soon as possible. It had been nearly a week now and the last thing he wanted in his home was some penniless, jobless in-law underfoot. Especially one stained by a ruined marriage and the possibility of the police knocking at his door. It could have been worse, of course. Much worse.

In the end, Eleonora nodded her head in agreement and finished off the last of her plate. The evening went on with her helping Lisa with the dishes as Alberto retired to the living room to watch his beloved Milan, cursing at the TV set as he folded and re-folded his torn newspaper. Lisa was a talker. She talked about the neighbors, the family, the way the streets had practically flooded with last week’s rain, the price of milk rising in the market, how her three children were doing in college. Everything but what she really wanted to know. Things that Eleonora was never ever going to share. As they finished up the kitchen, she could see the frustration in her cousin’s eyes. She had been here for a week, sleeping in their home, eating their food and not one morsel of gossip to share with the rest of the family. How damned fucking rude of her!

So it was that the next morning found Eleonora dressed in her smartest pant-suit, hastily typed resume in hand, walking through the downtown streets of the town trying to feel confident about her future. Perhaps Lisa, or rather Alberto, was right. Perhaps the new owners would see her as a professional with years of experience running a spa under the worst of all circumstances. Maybe, just maybe, they would give her a chance at redeeming herself. Her bad luck had to end somewhere after all. The worst she had to face was a simple ‘No, thank you’. That and the judging eyes of every bitch in the town as they watched her walk by, each one of them burning to share their cruel thoughts with an equally cruel bitch of a neighbor. Despite it all, and the fact that she had perhaps enough cash left to buy a coffee and a magazine, Eleonora turned the corner towards the spa with a hopeful air.

The spa’s new owners, whoever they were, had certainly gone to work when they bought the place. Although the new sign had yet to be revealed, the entire front of the place had been white-washed and painted. Huge ferns flanked both sides of the doors and even the street itself had been power-washed clean. The entire facade just screamed that it was under new ownership, which made the large red and white ‘Under New Ownership’ sign hanging at the front look a bit superfluous. The inside of the building had been practically gutted too. Newer, thicker walls had been installed and the greeting area had been redesigned to be welcoming and stylish, not the greasy looking foyer with the plastic chairs and tinny music it had been previously. On a whim, Eleonora stuck her head into one of the massage rooms. Three workers were busily painting the walls a calming cream color while the room had been enlarged and filled with soft natural light coming from deco-modern overhanging fixtures. The men gave her a polite smile as she stepped out, confident that these rooms would be used for the purpose advertised and not for the shit that had gone on before. For the first time in a week she had her hopes up.

She had made an appointment on the hour and didn’t think that arriving a few minutes early would hurt. She took a moment to straighten out her jacket and smooth her hair back over her shoulders before giving the office door, her office door, a light but confident knock. Bid to enter, she opened the door with a quiet and hopeful little prayer… only to be greeted by the sight of Pamela sitting on Franco’s lap, their lips pressed together in the heat of passion.

Pamela’s legs were spread across Franco’s hips, hers was no coquettish scene of casually sitting across his knees sharing a quiet little peck on the cheek. Her fingers dug into his hair as her body pressed along his own, her tongue playing between his lips. Her skirt was hiked up along her thighs and Eleonora could not help from noticing the rolling back and forth movements of her hips as she rode Franco’s crotch. Franco was no innocent in this game either. His hands gripped like iron along Pamela’s waist, urging her on as she swirled and ground herself along his hardness. Eleonora practically collapsed onto the floor when she heard their lustful moans, their mouths sealed in the most intimate of kisses. Pamela suddenly pushed away from him, her hands gripping the shoulders of his jacket like eagle’s claws. The woman was breathing heavily, her eyes pressed closed, shivering as she fought to get her racing heart under control. Franco looked up into her face with hunger, with need, gritting his teeth as he struggled against himself. One hot moment away from slamming her onto the desk and fucking her goddamned brains out, turning her at once into the moaning slut that now commanded his lusts.

It was clearly a struggle, but Pamela managed to disengage herself from his grasp and rise to her feet. Though her knees still trembled under her. Gripping the back of Franco’s leather chair for support she opened her eyes and finally acknowledged Eleonora’s presence in the doorway. The fact that Eleonora was stunned by what she had seen did occur to the other woman as she casually flattened the front of her bunched-up skirt acting if this was all normal for their afternoon. When she was finally satisfied with her work, Pamela looked up at her once-best friend. The look in her eyes shocked Eleonora to the bones. Where once she had found warmth and companionship, there was instead the callous sneer of arrogant contempt.Where once stood her gentle friend now stood a woman heartless in her terrible betrayal. Desperately Eleonora tore her eyes away, instead letting the flitting changes in the office run through her shattered mind. Gone were their tiny aluminum desks, their pathetic little half-dead plants, the dirty second-hand PCs, and scratchy ten-Euro radio. The place had been turned into a regular office with one large desk and new… well, everything. From the fresh coat of coral-pink paint to the Nespresso machine that sat proudly on a small corner table smelling sweetly of fresh grinds.

At the center of it all sat Franco. He sat in a new leather office chair, his large hands gripping the armrests lightly as he gazed on her with the most terrifying, uncaring eyes. As if she was some stranger come knocking at his door instead of his own wife of so many years. Eleonora wanted to run, to flee, to hide, to bolt from the doorway and just disappear. As it were, she stood there, bolted to the spot, her hand still gripping the doorknob tight. Then a shock of lightning struck her. She had called ahead. She had made an appointment to be here. Now. At this very moment. They had known. They had waited for her, planning this scene out for her as they waited for her arrival. But why? For heaven’s sake…

“Why?”

It was Pamela that answered. Her hands slid across Franco’s shoulders as she passed behind him. Gone was the usual heavy, ugly, shapeless sweaters and formless skirts that hid her curves from the world. Gone as well was the sexless scrunchie that bound her long golden hair back along her neck. Now she stood proudly, spine straight, as she leaned her soft breasts into the back of Franco’s head, exposed as they were by the low-cut floral dress that brought out the cold brightness of her blue eyes. She smiled as she spoke, her full red-painted lips forming each word slowly, carefully, allowing each to strike their mark. Each of her words an arrow aimed unerringly towards Eleonora’s pounding heart.

“Why?” She began, “Because, my dear Ellie, because we just wanted you to know. Not simply that you have been replaced, but that my dear Franco has found someone new, someone who lives for him and not for her herself alone. You needed to see it for yourself. Know it. And know that there is no room for you in our lives, in this place. That perhaps it is time to start your life anew… perhaps someplace… else…”

Eleonora was caught in a mad swirling haze of disbelief. This was not Pamela in front of her. Pamela was so sweet and quiet, caring and… and her closest friend. The woman standing before her now was none of these. She stood stern and cruel, heartless and superior. She gripped Franco’s shoulders in her hands, an unmistakable gesture of her possession. Further proof that she had now taken everything from her. Franco sat calmly as Pamela spoke. As if speaking to his own wife was somehow beneath him, unnecessary. Allowing his… his woman… to speak for him. But although she spoke his words, Pamela was not some quiet milksop like Lisa. These were her own words as well, spoken not to an old friend but to a defeated victim whose life she had just stripped bare and taken for her own. Eleonora was stunned, parroting the woman’s words rather than speaking her own mind.

“Someplace else? Where?”  she sputtered, “what do you mean?  Where shall I go? Why…?”

“Because the sight of you, the thought of you, makes me sick!” Pamela barked as she strode from behind the desk, confronting Eleonora face to face without anything between the two women but her own rabid disgust. Eleonora found herself stepping back, afraid of a fateful collision with the woman confronting her. The two of them were the same size, the same height, weight, build, even the same hair color… but in this moment Pamela looked so much more. So much more confident and strong, her presence so much more commanding. Eleonora found herself shrinking back under the woman’s deadly glare.

“Do you know what you’ve become?  What you’ve done? Can you even begin to conceive of what a selfish fucking bitch you are? Have you thought one fucking moment about anyone but yourself? I’ve watched you for years. Always putting down the women that work here as if cooking the books for a fucking pimp was so much more honorable than the girls that have to yank cocks just to pay their fucking rent? Hell, you could have quit any fucking time! Gotten a real job in a real office instead of coming in every fucking day holier-than-thou just to work for a greasy cunt like Giovanni and run his whores. Like that makes you any better than any of them. Better than me.”

Eleonora found herself pressed back into the door frame now, her eyes open wide in fear, her mouth hanging open in shock as she withered under Pamela’s assault.  “I never… I never thought I was better than you…”

“You had a husband! Someone to go home to, to support you while you told this shit-hole goodbye, while you found a real place to work. Me? I had nothing. Just like those girls out there. All I had was typing 80 words a minute and a measly high school degree to keep me from being one of them. And you didn’t… hell, you didn’t even appreciate that! Oh, Eleonora. I would have given the world for what you had.”

“You took all I had!” Eleonora screamed, tears rolling down her red-blushed face, finally finding her own voice, “You took my fucking life, you dammed bitch!”

“Like you wanted it? Like you even appreciated it, you spoiled cunt!”

By now the two women were standing nose to nose, both their faces red with anger as they bared their teeth with hard fists clenched at their sides. Hate-filled glares burned between them as their chests heaved with effort, both ready and more than willing to make the first move yet holding back, wanting the other to give them the slightest justification. Lips curled back over exposed teeth as they shot hot curses back and forth, each wanting to push the other over the edge,

“He was happy with me!” Eleonora shouted into her face, “We would have made things right if you hadn’t spread your legs for him you back-stabbing whore!”

“You should talk, you stupid tramp! You’ve spread your legs for half the cocks in Apulia by now!”, Pamela replied hotly.

“At least I’d never fuck a friend’s husband behind her back!”

“But you’d fuck anything with a cock on it otherwise, wouldn’t you?”

“Treacherous whore!”

“Promiscuous slut!”

No one knew which one struck first. The women’s furious eyes had locked, both breathing heavily as each tried to find some new and more hurtful remark to cast at the other. Then, as if in response to some silent signal, both leaped together, their hands formed into claws, tearing at each other with all their boiling anger.
Pain exploded across their cheeks as hard slaps landed and their bodies came together, sending a rush of heat surging through their bodies. They grabbed each other by the hair, pulling and tearing savagely as they spat and cursed, driving each other to the floor with a painful hiss.

Until this moment, Franco had been content to simply watch. To let the women sort things out civilly, just as Pamela had asked him to do.But the brutal cat-fight which had exploded in their small office was hardly civil and he was suddenly concerned that the women would actually kill each other in a screaming orgy of blood and flying blonde hair in front of him. He sprung up from the office chair bounding over the desk scattering paper and loose office supplies across the room. He grabbed both of them by the arm, grunting a bestial curse through his teeth as he lifted hard, pulling them apart like scratching, biting cats. Eleonora went flying into the wall by the door, shattering a glass picture frame of his own beloved Napoli as she steadied herself. Pamela remained gripped in his right hand, leaning on him to stay upright as she frantically adjusted a stray heel that had nearly flown off during their struggle.

“Enough! Both of you!” he commanded, hoping that they would both listen before he had at least one murder on his hands. “Eleonora. I‘m going to tell you now to leave. Not only the spa, but I suggest the town. Sooner or later the rumors will come to you. There are too many people that know our story. Too many open mouths. Heaven knows I shall remain quiet about it, but it will not be good for you here. Not for long.”

Eleonora pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, not believing what she was hearing as she leaned back into the wall. Her words flowed out amid sobs as her breath abandoned her, “Where do I go? My life… my whole life is here.”

“Not anymore.” Franco said quietly. “Not anymore. Your life here will… will hound you. It will destroy you.”

By now Eleonora’s voice had been reduced to a soft trickle of words breathed between sobbing tears, “But what… Franco, what will I do… without you…”

“The same as you have always done,” Pamela spat out violently as she adjusted herself sitting on the edge of the paper-tossed desk. Finding her purse amid the clutter, she was currently straightening her tossed hair in the view of her tiny cosmetics mirror. She had wanted to finish their fight, to pay Eleonora back for the pain she had so callously caused Franco as well as for reasons of her own,  “You will find some other man to pay your way as you take ten more between your slutty thighs. Maybe you will get lucky and one of them will fuck a baby into your body, as Franco has mine.”

What was left of Eleonora’s mind shattered at those words. She looked up at Pamela, seeing again and for the first time the look of complete victory on the woman’s face, half smile and half sneer. She had been beaten, ruined in every way a woman could be. Her home, her husband, her very life, and now even her man’s child was buried deep inside Pamela’s belly. After years of trying, of taking her Franco to bed how many times… and yet Pamela after only so short a time? It couldn’t be! But looking up into those cold blue eyes she knew that it was the truth. Picking herself off the floor, she ran out the doorway pulling her arm from Franco’s grip, her vision clouded with heavy tears. Stumbling down the hallway towards the open doors that led out to the morning streets, she accidentally slammed into the shoulder of a woman busily assigning several construction workers to their tasks. She excused herself, her small voice trembling with all attempts at restraint forgotten.

As her eyes adjusted, she found herself looking up into familiar eyes, smiling eyes, laughing eyes… Chiara’s eyes. The woman was dressed neatly for once, not as the whore she always appeared as while working here. This morning she was dressed stylishly, professionally, her curves displayed modestly in her crisp green uniform jacket. Eleonora had not seen her since that nightmarish evening at the club a week past and a sudden terror gripped her heart as that hateful smile loomed over her once again. She stumbled away, fleeing the sound of Chiara’s cruel laugh, blessedly making it out the door and into the bright streets outside. Despite all she had been through that morning, it was that last haughty smile that stuck with her, that last sight of the small plastic tab that was pinned to Chiara’s blazer that truly destroyed her. A simple white tab with a gleaming gold border that read simply: “Spa Tesora, Chiara, manager.”

Once they were alone, Franco turned to Pamela, a look of frustration in his eyes. They had planned to use this time to simply speak with Eleonora. To simply tell her that Franco was done with her, that their lives as husband and wife was now over and a new day had begun for them all. Pamela’s kiss, her sudden passion just before Eleonora entered the room had been a surprise to say the least. A pleasant and passionate surprise, but a surprise, nonetheless. As for the rest; the confrontation between the two women, the rather forceful and arrogant tone of Pamela’s voice, and the shameful hair-pulling battle between the two women at the end? Yes, a surprise to say the least. As he stood there, arms crossed at his chest, he looked down on her with a wry smile. Not one to let a mess survive in her presence, Pamela was already down on the floor on her hands and knees gathering up the pens, pencil, and wayward sheets of paper that had flown from the desk during her Franco’s gallant leap to the rescue. Whether ashamed of her part in the morning’s play or simply hiding a self-satisfied grin, Franco could not tell. Although he could take a guess.

“Would you mind telling me what just happened?” he chided, “I thought we were planning on discussing all this like adults? Or wasn’t that the plan?”

Pamela gathered an armful of papers and heaved herself up, dropping the whole mess onto the desk to sort out. Among the fliers, work schedules, contacts and construction receipts there was also a coupon for butter at the local market that she had no intention of losing. As her hands busied themselves with the work of sorting through it all she noticeably avoided Franco’s gaze. Partially because she was honestly surprised at her own rather crude behavior but also because she knew well that one look at his stern and disapproving face and she would completely crack up in giggling laughter. Instead she decided to answer him in a way that a man might understand, the reasoning of women being far beyond his uncomplicated manly grasp of the world.

“I simply had to make a point.” She replied coolly, as if those few short words explained the workings of her mind.

“A point? Such as… we aren’t too old to drag each other out to the schoolyard at recess like children?”

Pamela smiled, picturing the scene in her mind, the same argument, the same fight but held by the park swings in her pigtails, “Noooo. More like, its over and don’t bother coming back.”

“I thought we were all going to sit down like adults and make that sternly clear.” Franco replied, “without resorting to eye gouging and hair pulling. Or did I miss that part of the conversation last night?”

Pamela sighed, running her fingertips along his jacket lapels and pressing her body close along his own. The man was several inches taller than her, even in her best heels, and she found it rather arousing having to look up into his stern but confused eyes, “M’amore, if we had had a simple talk with her, hair-pulling or not, she would never have left us. There would still have been that small part of her that would constantly have hope that she could tempt you back. And that was not an option for us. Eleonora had to be shown, and shown hard, that her presence in our lives was not acceptable.”

Franco stood statue still and statue somber, letting her words roll over his limited grip on female reasoning, “Shown hard? That’s what you call all that shouting and clawing? More like assault and battery. The police are already watching this place. The last thing we need is a murder before we even open the doors.”

“Oh, please! I would have stopped well short of killing her. Although perhaps, a little maiming might have been in order…” she chuckled, although maybe only half-jokingly, “but the point was made by you, not me.”

“By me you say. And how did I happen to make any kind of a point with you two clawing at each other like cats?”

“Franco, my darling. Maybe you did not notice but, trust me, she did and so did I.” Pamela continued, her fingertips tracing his silk tie down to his hard stomach, losing her eyes as they traveled down his familiar body, mentally licking her lips at what was hidden below the thin cotton of his dress shirt, “When you broke us up at the end, you tossed her away from you, yet you placed your self in front of me, protecting me. Protecting me, not her. Taking my side, telling her to leave. Not me. It makes a point.”

Franco tried remembering that moment, losing himself momentarily in the thought, “Hmmm. I did do that I suppose.”

“Yes, you did.” She laughed, “And so gallantly. My own hero jumping tall desks in a single bound to save me from the terrible claws of evil witches. A hero that brave deserves a reward, of course.”

Franco smiled, Pamela’s amused smile spreading to his lips. He pulled her into his arms gently, his kiss turning her laughter into a soft moan. She shivered as she felt his hands descend along her back, her man, her soon to be husband, the father of her first child. His hands cupped her ass, squeezing gently, a sign of not only his ardor but of his possession. It was what she had craved her entire life, that wonderful feeling of belonging. Of being not only loved and adored but claimed completely, body and soul. A fact that Franco had made very clear to her over the past week. As she had made very clear to him. Franco gripped her ass tight in his hands, pressing her into him as their tongues found each other once more. She could feel his excitement, his masculine desire pressing along her thigh. A desire that she would never deny. Pamela eased her head back, offering her pale neck to his hungry mouth as she gasped, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

“What… oh, my God…” - Fuck his teeth so fucking sharp on her skin - “what would my brave knight like as… as your reward?’

Franco pulled away from her, easing his fingertips into her golden hair, petting her softly as he smiled into her waiting eyes. “You know what I want, my sweet little girl. On your knees for your Franco.”

And as Pamela, the love and mistress of his life, slid down before him to fulfill his wanton desire, Chiara smiled and quietly closed the office door behind them. It was a new day and a new life for all of them, her own as well. With pride she straightened the name tag on her left breast and went back to work, passing among the sweating laborers. She was no longer Chiara the whore, she was Chiara the spa manager and she was determined to make the spa’s name mean something wonderful. Her beloved ‘Tesora’.

Repercussions - Part Eleven

(A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

Franco rested his spinning head against the roof of the Fiat. The steel felt cool in the evening air and he closed his tired eyes taking a brief moment to enjoy the silence. The day had been a whirlwind. First waking up next to Pamela, his new … lover? Wife? He did not know for sure. All he did know is that with her he was happy. With her he felt somehow complete. They had woken up in each other’s arms, making love gently, softly, naturally but with a passion and a confidence he had not known in a long time. Their pace was easy and unhurried. There was none of the desperate, insane fucking that he experienced whenever he was with Eleonora. With her it always felt like a mad race to make her cum, to drive her latest lover out of her mind before his balls gave out. Each time hoping and praying that it was his name and his cock on her mind and not some memory of the last young, hard bull that had abused her body for his own selfish pleasure. It had gotten to the point where he was certain that Eleonora did not even want to make love with him. All she wanted, all she lived for, was that feeling of complete helplessness as some nameless bastard was beating her body raw, the thrill of simply being fucked and abused, screaming as collapsed under the hot spray of some heartless and selfish stranger. Something he could never give her despite all the love he bore for her. All he could do was to hope and pray that each time she had consented to his lusts, that he could somehow compete with all the men who had taken her deeper, rougher, and harder than he ever could. That his wife and his love would cum, singing out his name in heated moans as she did theirs.

There had never been with Eleonora the mornings and hours he had spent with Pamela. Lovely mornings of smiling, laughing, passionate lovemaking. Of quiet breakfasts sharing kisses as they watched the television from the bed, their legs entwined. The animated conversations of their future. Of a place in the country away from everyone where they could simply escape from the world, having just themselves for company. They had talked about her job, his fledgling business, their hopes and dreams. Of all those things they would love to see and do and experience. Places where they might make love and the silly lover’s games they might play. Of a house with so many rooms and such a view. Of soccer games and meaningless things. And more seriously and in quieter words, their mutual desire for children. Both were only-children, and both had always dreamed of large families. At least five, they had agreed; three boys, two girls. Each one the apple of their eye. Of Christmases and Easters. Of having that crowd of people around the table to love and to laugh with in their old age. Having their children and grandchildren to laugh and tease as they kissed passionately as if they were still young lovers eager to start their lives.

They had fallen into each other so easily. Their lips meeting as if the two of them were drawn together by more than simple want or need. It was just so easy with Pamela. So light. As if all the troubles and cares in this world somehow fell away when he was in her presence. He found himself walking with confidence again. With pride and more importantly with direction. With Pamela he felt a certainty about the future. Even now they had embarked on a great step. It was a daring plan to be sure, but the pieces had seemed to fall into place well enough. Just days ago, before they had found each other, he would not have dared hope for any of it. He would still be the frightened little Franco, that pathetic mouse who could not please his wife. A small, weak, and desperately uncertain shell of a man who woke up each day divided against himself fearing for the next time another man’s name passed his wife’s lips. He reached down and jiggled the belt around his trousers. He had lost weight certainly. Unable to eat or sleep or tend to his business without a flash of anguish eager to burn across his mind, the thought of his wife’s insatiable need and his own broken dreams playing like dull razors across his heart.

The horn from a passing truck broke him from his reverie. Ever since this last fucking plague the streets had been nearly deserted and the lack of street traffic had left the quiet little town a place of ghosts where once it was filled with late night shoppers and couples making their way to and from the piazza. All day long he had heard the complaints of vendors and merchants, their stores and their pockets empty. Most it as a disaster, as another end of the world. Yet, to a daring man, the end of the world could be an opportunity to rise with the one that took its place. Pamela had said those words to him just that morning as they shared a cappuccino in bed. Just before that lovely wicked smile returned to her face as she settled herself between his legs and ordered him to grab the head board tight. He was her Franco now, she had mumbled as she sent his pulse racing with her tongue, and it was time again to remind him of that fact. He had done as he was told, closing his eyes in anticipation, not objecting to her words in the least as she bathed his balls with her fiery tongue. 

Smiling at that memory, he tapped the key-ring and locked the car doors with a high-pitched chirp and turned to make his way to the front door of his apartment building. It would not be his for long, he thought, as he and Pamela had already mentioned putting it and her apartment up for rent, finding a place of their own where their children could play and neither of them had to worry about where to park their fucking cars. Once again, he thought of his friend in America and his insanely large house. They lived in mansions these fucking Americans! There was a picture on his cell phone. His friend sitting on his porch with his wife and family, eating a slice of pizza of all things, smiling and happy. The words “Waiting for your stupid Wop ass!” texted across the bottom. That was something else he and Pamela had talked about and something Eleonora never would.

The keys jingled in his hand for a moment. As always, he fumbled through them trying to find the right one to fit in the first of five locks that kept the outside world at bay. For the last few nights, he and Pamela had slept together. That first night here at his apartment, the next two at hers as his own was filled with too many bitter memories. They had made plans for him to move into hers for the time being. After he had made his peace with his wife, that was. He had not seen Eleonora since the last Thursday. It had been the better part of the week and they had yet to speak, yet to straighten out the utter mess their marriage had become. He had promised himself to be strong. Not to involve himself in fruitless conversations. If there would be a conversation at all. The last he had heard of her she was on her quest for her dark prince. The tall, strutting black who had very nearly fucked her to her death the week before. Franco still remembered his own flowing tears as he had entered that shattered room and beheld his wife still trembling, covered in a lake of the bastard’s spunk. The bull’s laughter still ringing in his ears as he carried his beloved Eleonora to the shower, bathed her, cared for her… only to hear another man’s name rise from her muttering lips.

He had made up his mind then and there. He was not capable of being the husband she needed. Of bearing with a smile the shame and humiliation that accompanied her sexual desires. He would end it, he had decided. Somehow. Someway. And in the best way to make such a decision, he had gotten drunk. Drunk and mad and crazy enough to toss Simone down a flight of stairs and to make love to a woman who might quite literally be the soulmate he had always dreamed of. Hell, if he were lucky Eleonora was still getting her rocks off laying at the bastard’s feet like some sort of paperback novel’s white slave girl. He had not bothered with the elevator. The thing was too slow, and he was amazingly too full of energy to wait for the damned thing. He took the third floor in so many seconds and jingled the correct key into his hand as he approached the door.

He should have known from the grayish light coming from beneath the door that someone was home. Yet lost in his reverie he had barely noticed the gentle glow coming from the bedroom, or the fact that two of the living room lights had been switched on, dimly illuminating the small apartment with a soft radiance that was engineered for one purpose.

Franco looked up sharply, his eyes dancing across the erotic vision which had appeared in front of him from the darkness of the adjoining bedroom. He sucked in a shallow breath as he regarded her. She was stunning. Golden locks that fell like cascading water over her shoulders, smoothing over her body like liquid fire. It shimmered as she moved towards him, a feline grin stretching her crimson lips to reveal her pearly white teeth. She was sex and beauty and desire incarnate. He let out a strained cough into his hands, trying to pull himself together in front of the goddess that decided to grace him with her presence. She moved towards him, her red dress hugging every luscious curve of her hips and breasts sending this thoughts reeling dangerously in his head.

Eleonora grinned easily as Franco tried to put himself back together the best that he could, his mouth still hanging open at the sight of her. It was not so easy when she was so very close, her apple blossom perfume drifting around him, enchanting him. She laughed a soft tinkling sound that pulled him in and made him sigh. How was she doing this to him? Casting her spell so effortlessly? She reached out a delicate hand, her nails a deep scarlet that matched her lipstick. It took him a moment before he realized her intentions as she pressed her hand into his own, his large fingers engulfing hers.

Franco found her smile dazzling, forcing him to shiver slightly as he felt her hand upon his, moving him effortlessly back to the bedroom. He wanted to reach out to her, feeling a strange need to hold her close to him as if she would disappear in a puff of smoke if he did not. Every move she made was a distraction. The sway of her hips, the flashing of her smooth white legs, that way her hair swept back across her bare shoulders. He had meant to talk to her, to tell her their life together was over. He had promised himself to stay strong and to… to…  how was he going to get through this, he wondered?

“In her arms.” a little voice whispered into his ear, making him shiver a little as she led him by the hand. Eleonora laughed at his discomfort, her sun-kissed tresses bouncing as she did. A tiny spark of something dangerously disarming danced in her eyes as she glanced back at him. She grinned at him, delighted when she saw his eyes traveling up and down her body just as they used to do when they were young lovers. Franco’s heavy breaths and stuttering words were music to her ears, his obvious lust for her feeding her feminine pride. God, how he wanted her still, she thought happily, all of her and they hadn’t even spoken to each other yet.

Franco let out a small moan, mesmerized by the way those bright green eyes trailed over him, drinking him in. He had worn his classic suit to work that day, a light charcoal-grey with a red tie to match, his nod to the coming spring season. Helplessly, he allowed her to pull him into the bedroom, to slide his tie from his neck and is jacket from his shoulders. Still utterly stunned, he let her push him back on the bed climbing up along his hips to straddle him, to slowly unbuckle his belt as she looked into his eyes with that smoldering glare.

She leaned a little closer, breathing him in. She had caught his scent when she straddled his waist, but now she was absolutely reveling in it. Rich and smoky, so different and so familiar, it made her knees weak. ’Fuck me right now’ she wanted to whisper while he was shuddering nervously under her, while she was breathing in his delicious scent.

“Eleonora… I… I… we need to talk.” Franco finally managed to weakly stutter as she pulled his belt slowly from his trousers, casting it away like a snake to a dark corner of the bedroom.

Franco cleared his throat, trying to shake off the storm bursting inside his head. ‘Focus!’ he wanted to scream at himself, but how could he focus when the very woman he had loved and desired all of his life was sitting on his lap, her pink tongue licking at her bottom lip so enticingly; her perfume cruelly claiming his senses? She was intoxicating, and he was already drunk on her.

“Not now, my Franco. Later. Perhaps.” She finished slowly, her voice dropping with sultry notes. She licked her lips, her heart stuttering at the husky change in her tone. She wanted to eat him alive. She looked around slowly before lowering her eyelashes and leaning a little closer to her man. He instinctively leaned up towards her, following her lead like a charmed snake. “Perhaps not at all. Since when have you and I ever needed words, my Franco? Mmmm. Don’t look now, but I think your cock is getting hard for me. So hard and so eager. Whatever should I do about that I wonder?“

Eleonora smirked when he immediately looked down at his crotch, his alarm coloring his face red. He breathed out slowly, closing his eyes, trying to hide his obvious arousal. He had not yet recovered his composure when he felt her lips pressing softly along his own.

She let out a small moan, a beautiful sound that made his hard cock twitch in his trousers. He loved that sound. He lived for that sound. She leaned a little closer, her fingertips reaching out to graze across his cheek, spreading a wave of heat across his face. His body rose at her touch and he shifted under her, pressing his hardness up between her thighs to press against her soft mound. Eleonora sucked in her breath at the feeling, loving the way he had responded to her so perfectly, and loving the way her own body reacted, the warmth of her juices spreading her swelling pussy-lips at his touch.

"Mmmm, yes… I think I know what my Franco would like.” She whispered, crawling up on the bed and removing her heels one then the other, exposing her feet to him. Slowly, luxuriously, she slid back on the bed catlike, running her legs together sensuously as she played her toes up along his thighs.

“Eleonora…”, Franco whispered, watching her eyes flicker as she ran her toes along his hips, teasing his throbbing cock as she ran her feet up and down along its length. She nodded, a wicked grin playing along her knowing smirk, making him shudder at the pure heat she radiated. Franco groaned as h felt her toes playing at the head of his cock, forcing it to grow even harder, straining against the front of his trousers. Even now he could feel the first drops of cum emerging in thick white  droplets from the straining head. Franco leaned his head back into the coverlets, groaning at the intense feelings radiating from his crotch. He was enraptured, he was enamored, he was in love.

Every nerve in his body was on fire, crying out to touch her, to claim her, to fuck his cum into her warmth. He was in physical agony as she worked him. Daring to touch her, his greedy hands roamed along her bare legs. He moaned in blissful agony when he felt her panty-less as he slid his hand up between her thighs. He imagined himself touching her, squeezing, tasting, thrusting deep, his heavy balls slapping her ass. He was already as hard as a rock, his cock practically begging for her as she increased the torture, reaching down to free his aching shaft from the confines of his trousers.

Eleonora moaned, more than excited that she thought she could be, feeling her husband’s fingers stroking gently along her exposed pussy lips, feeling the heat radiating from his throbbing cock overruling her senses, maddening her. She fumbled at his buttons and zipper even as she twisted herself in half to increase the pressure of her feet as she stroked his hardness with more fervor. Unable to cope with his trouser buttons, she growled in frustration, wanting, no, needing him inside her, now. His own groan mirrored hers, feeling the wave of pleasure and need gripping every nerve in his body.

“Eleonora… please”, he begged.

“Yes, Franco. Yes. Fuck but I need your cock.” She mewled, as she tore down his zipper and thrust her hand inside to pull out his hardened shaft. It was bigger than she had remembered. Thicker too, and with those perfect, bulging little veins made purposely to tease and pleasure the depths of her pussy. All she could think about was mounting that beautiful pole, of feeling it plunging into her, hearing him moan in ecstasy as she gripped him tight and drew him in deep.

Suddenly he was on top of her, pulling her dress up over her hips furiously as he positioned himself between her legs. She almost squealed as she felt him drive into her, feeling him touch that little spot so deep within her that even the biggest cocks she had so far fucked had yet to find. He was so big, so strong, so fucking animal tonight! They fucked in rhythm. She scratched at his back, hearing the satisfying sound of her manicured nails tearing his shirt. He grunted as he drove into her over and over again, her own hips meeting every fevered thrust, driving him ever harder. He was lost in her, lost in the sensation of her tight little cunt gripping at his shaft, so overwhelmingly hot and hungry. He was her madman, and she was his loving bitch. They belonged together. How could they not? Each time he thrust into her pussy she could swear that she touched heaven. They fit. They were perfect.

She was almost hysterical now as she cried fiercely into his shoulder, biting down hard, muffling her screams in the cloth of his ruined shirt. She came hard and long, her cries like a siren’s song that called to his own bursting release. He pumped into her, frenzied, desperate to hold on just a little longer, to feel this just a little longer. To make her cry out just one more time. He pounded brutally into her even as she shuddered in his arms, screaming breathlessly in his ear as she came along his thrusting cock. Franco let out a loud groan as his own orgasm exploded through him, her quivering body milking him for everything he had to give. They both moaned in unison as his heat flooded into her, Franco slamming into her with a last few weak thrusts before holding himself there, his sated cock twitching deep inside her soaked pussy. When they finally caught their breath, Eleonora grinned up at him, her eyes tired but shining brightly.

“It will be different, Franco,” she panted, “I promise you. I know I have not appreciated you.”

“Different, yes.” Franco kissed her, long and deep, “We have so much to talk about. Us, our, lives, our marriage, our… everything.”

Eleonora smiled, one delicate finger tracing down along his jaw. “Yes, my Franco. Everything. Everything will be different now, I promise. I understand what I’ve done wrong. Hurting you so. Ignoring you. Taking you for granted. That will all change now. I am going to make you so much happier.”

Franco’s mind was swirling. He could feel his cock twitching, still pressed between her soft pussy lips. The feeling of her lovely feet stroking up and down his hips and back filling him with renewed desire, leaving him breathless as he felt her petal lips teasing at his throat. “You have no idea how happy that makes me, my Eleonora. But… but Pamela…”

Eleonora laughed, slapping at his shoulder playfully even as she lifted her mouth to his, “Oh, my Franco. It is alright. I understand perfectly. I have taken men. It is only natural for you to want other women as well. It is my own fault for neglecting your needs, my own fault. If you feel like taking some other strumpet from time to time, who am I to object? We can make it part of our game from now on.”

Shaking his head, pulling back from her kiss, Franco had a look of confusion on his face as he took in her words. His mind was still reeling from their sex, still lost in the sensations of her warm body pressed tightly to his own. Eleonora leaned back into the bed as she pressed her hips up, forcing a soft moan from him as she flattened her feet on his ass and pulled him deeper into her utterly soaked pussy-mound. It took whatever sense he had left to utter the simple word,

“Game?’

“Mmmmm, yes. Our game.” She replied, smiling brightly as she gazed up into his eyes, “But now we shall truly play it together. I don’t want to just have you sitting there like a bystander as I have my fun. You can direct me, tell me what you would like, even pick and choose my lovers if you would like. And when we are done, I will be so good to you, my Franco. Not simply a bag of potatoes for you to carry home. How utterly stupid and selfish I was. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you? You mean… you mean you want to continue finding… finding other men?”, he said, aghast at the words coming from her perfect petal-soft lips.

“Well, of course.” she laughed, “But now I understand what I’ve done to you. How I have hurt you. Ignored you. Ignored the needs of my man, my husband, my greedy lover. It is you I should have bragged about, not them. You I should have regarded my true lover not those stupid strangers.”

Franco rose from her embrace, kneeling upright between her thighs as he cupped his face into his hands, unbelieving of what he was hearing. As he did, the head of his cock popped from her folds, spraying a bit of cum across her belly as it fond release. Eleonora could only laugh as she drew the bit of white goo from her belly and licked it lovingly from her fingers. Franco saw none of it, his mind still reeling from the truth, “No. no. no…  what about… I mean… oh, I am so confused now.”

Eleonora giggled, raking her fingernails across his belly, playing her fingers through the soft manly fur. Until now she had not realized, or not fully appreciated, the long hours Franco had spent at the gym and on his bicycle. Faced with such competition he had risen to the challenge, sculpting his body into an athletic mass of muscle and delicious hardness. She found herself biting her lip as she traced his defined abs, her eyes drawn to the bulging muscle of his arms and legs, shivering as she thought again on how his thrusting strokes had grown more and more powerful over the last few months. All things she had shamefully failed to notice as she was seeking out new and bigger cocks to fuck.

“There I no need to be confused, my Franco. You are my husband. My hero. The man I care for and adore. The man who owns me. Wholly and completely. I had confused those other men as lovers. Only you are my lover. They were, they should have been, simply objects for our play. Fleeting and meaningless. I will not make that mistake again; I promise you.”

By this time her eyes had fallen the distance from Franco’s chest and stomach down to his half-hard shaft. Though not as big and brutal as the ones she had found with all of those fucking pigs at the club, it was still of a good size and beautiful to look upon. Finding herself suddenly with the need to feel her husband growing hard between her lips, hearing his fevered moans, Eleonora twisted herself upon the bed to bring her mouth to it, reaching out in sensual eagerness with the tip of her tongue. She moaned as she felt his hand in her hair, swooning to the thought of his newfound masculinity.

But that turned to confusion as, instead of drawing her closer, Franco yanked her back sharply pulling her away from her intended occupation. Instead Franco rose from the bed, standing bewildered as he pushed her away from him repeating, “What have I done? God, what have I done?” as he drew away from her in his embarrassment.

“Franco! Whatever is wrong? Come back to bed!”, Eleonora pleaded, a look of fright wiping away her smile as she watched him scutter about the room madly, searching for his lost tie and nearly tripping over his discarded suit-jacket.

“I thought you said… I thought you meant it would be different.” He pleaded, caught halfway putting his tie around his neck, staring at her as she looked up at him from the bed, her once lovely dress gathered under her breasts, ruined with dark stains. In mere moments his dreams had been shattered once more, “I do not want to play these games with you. I do not want other men and other women in our lives, Eleonora. I want a home in the country. To get out of this fucking town. I want to build a life, I want to work up my business, have children. I thought we both wanted to start a family together. Don’t you want children, Eleonora? A life?”

Eleonora knelt on the bed her face growing red with anger at Franco’s continued stupidity. “Children? What, so I can grow fat and ugly with my tits hanging down and stretch marks across my belly? It that what you want of me? Franco, we are young and alive and there is so much to do and to experience. Let us live while we can, my Franco. Life is a game to be played and enjoyed, don’t you see?”

His hands shaking, Franco slid up his zipper and fastened his belt once again, each movement punctuated by shuddering sobs. How could he have been so utterly blind? So utterly taken away by her? Was he that weak?  That faithless to himself?  Now as he looked on her he could no longer see his dream, his love, his life. All he saw was the failure of his marriage, of having fooled himself with dreams of a life he could never have. At least not with her.

“I am leaving, Eleonora. Pamela is…”

“Pamela! That whore!” she spat back at him, red rage coloring her face, “You I can forgive. You needed a cunt to fuck. She knew who you are, she was supposed to be my friend, and yet she fucks my husband the lying tramp! Oh, do not worry, my Franco, I have my plans for her!”

Franco turned disgusted at what he was seeing now. He slid on his suit-jacket and slid his hand through his hair as he made for the bedroom door. As he left, he felt the need to make things as clear as possible with his wife… while she was still his wife, “I am leaving now, Eleonora. I am leaving and will be filing for divorce in the morning. The apartment is under my name, so I want you and your fucking things out by the end of the week. If there is anything of yours left I will toss it onto the street.”

Her eyes filled with the terror of his words, Eleonora crawled to the edge of the bed, her words stuttering through her shock, “Franco, you cannot mean…? I won’t let you…”

“You will not contest it. Unless of course you want me to drag a dozen of your lovers in front of the judge?” Franco surprised himself, his voice grown low, his feelings which a moment ago were hot with passion had faded off into cold contempt. “I will be starting a new life, Eleonora. The life I should have had. One with a family and a wife devoted to me and to me alone. No more games. I hope you find what you are looking for, Eleonora. But it will not be with me.”

He left her there, not turning back, afraid to show the tears running down his face as he reached for the front door. Behind him he heard her sobbing, her head in her hands, wondering what had gone wrong. Wondering  what was left of her life without him. Until this very moment, Eleonora realized, her life was built on one solid truth; that Franco loved her and that he would always and ever be there to support her in all of her efforts and desires, always giving and never taking. Now he was gone and perhaps for good, driven away by her own unthinking selfishness. 

She placed her hand upon her belly, still feeling his warmth within. She wanted to move, to crawl off the bed and somehow put herself back together, but for the life of her she had no idea what to do now. She could not stay here. Even with Franco’s heartless decree the place held too many memories for her to bear. She had few friends to turn to and her family would ask far too many questions for her comfort. If the truth of it all were ever revealed her reputation and her life here would be utterly ruined. With nothing else to do and nowhere for her to go she fell into the pillows and wept, wondering for the first time in her life what hell would take her now.

Repercussions : Part Five (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

‘God, stop thinking!’ she told herself, with nothing but the sound of the radio humming softly in the living room to break her thoughts. She turned off the water, stepped out of the shower and dried herself briefly in a sinfully soft towel that she had stolen from a hotel in St. Thomas. ‘What do you really know about him? Yes, he’s good looking and sweet. His soul hurting like one of those lost sad-eyed puppies you can never ignore. Yes, he’s treated you decently. A true gentleman aside from the constant cigarette smoking. But for all you know he could be a terrible person. Like the rest of the men who have paraded through your life. All smiles and good manners until they’ve gotten whatever they wanted from you. Plus, he’s married you stupid idiot! And to your best friend as well!’

‘But I know he’s hurting. That he is loving and gentle and kind. I know it.’  She wrapped herself in a thick white robe and tied the belt, fanning her wet blonde curls across the back to dry in the air. ‘All this shit Eleonora is doing. She tells me he enjoys it but… how could the bitch be so damned blind?”

She read for a little while, sitting back in her bed among the cloud-soft pillows and losing herself in a book that she wasn’t particularly interested in. Eventually the exhaustion of the evening began to tell on her. When she caught her head drooping for the third or fourth time, she draped the bathrobe across the headboard, turned off the light and slid under the cool, crisp sheets of the bed. The feel of the clean cloth on her naked skin re-awakened her long-frustrated desires, seeding her thoughts. She turned over onto her stomach, one hand pressed against her breasts, the other stealing down her body to the junction of her thighs. She gasped, biting her lip softly as she discovered how slick and wet she had already become.

‘Oh shit! There! Right there!’ Her fingers parted her swelling lips and found the bud of her clit. As she softly stroked the pulsing nub with gentle fingers, she slowly ground her hips down into the bed, forcing her seeping warmth into the heel of her palm. She closed her eyes, fantasizing. In her mind’s eye, she peeled his suit away, revealing a glorious dream of a body. The two of them moved together as one, guided by instinct and need. Two sets of hands roamed and explored, knowing without asking how to bring the other to soaring heights of pleasure. Moving together almost weightlessly as he feasted on her quivering breasts while she held tight to the rock-solid globes of his ass.

Her orgasm came upon her like a freight train, thundering through her senses. She turned her head into the pillows to muffle a mad orgasmic scream as her body shuddered; convulsively filling her hand with a spray of hot cunt juices. Her thighs clamped around her hand, trapping it in the moist valley between her thighs. With a groan of pure release, she lay on her back spreading her legs wide as her head sank between the thick pillows. She parted her pussy lips with her fingers, freeing her scent. The fingers of her other hand slid along her slippery lips stroking her still-quivering clit in small gentle circles. She stroked it softly, knowing that she would not be able to stop until her imagination was fully sated. Until she had imagined every last way he might please her. Pamela let out a breathless moan as she felt the tears running down along her cheeks, her hips rising up to press into her stroking fingertips. She whispered his name into the darkness of her lonely bedroom and felt the orgasm rising again in her belly.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Eleonora slumped painfully into her chair, angling her aching head to avoid the morning light seeping through the office window. The spa opened an hour later on Saturday mornings, which gave her the blessing of an extra hour’s sleep but despite the perfect summer day that leered at her from the tiny window, she was still finding it impossible to keep her eyes open. It had taken every ounce of energy she had to rise from bed. Her entire body ached, beaten mercilessly inside and out by William’s callous hands and brutal, inhuman lust. She still shuddered helplessly as she remembered his powerful sculpted body looming over her, his deep voice and bestial grunts, as he took her. Hour after hour, seemingly without end, he continued fucking the life out of her with that massive slab of meat rising between his powerful thighs. It was if he was fighting to find eternal life by beating every ounce of hate and aggression he had deep into her ruined body. For the life of her she could not remember how she had survived it. Her last memory was of her Franco lifting her broken body from the bed, whispering something unheard but soothing as he carried her gently from the motel room.

A breathless gasp escaped her lips as her body twinged in sweet agony as it remembered William’s last hard thrusts. She had screamed in pure anguish, her body and mind transported to another plane of unworldly pleasure as his massive shaft found yet another orgasm buried deep in the depths of her ass… or was it her cunt? She was so mindlessly fucked by that time he could have been fucking both holes at once for all she knew. When she woke up this morning, crawling into an ice-cold shower to gain her bearings, her body was still throbbing with what the man had done to her. She had cupped her aching mound gingerly in one palm to find it still gaping open and slavishly eager for his next violent, gut-busting thrust. All memory of the pain and violence of the night might have passed her, lost along with whatever part of her brain William had pounded out of her, but she still remembered her last thoughts before her world was crushed black. More.

The thunderous sound of a cup of hot coffee landing near to her head shocked her awake. She opened her eyes a crack, allowing a painful burst of light to send sparks of agony through her tired brain only to see Pamela standing above her with a smirk of pure amusement on her face.

Pamela tried to hide the slight snicker in her voice, failing miserably but still too amused by her friend’s enfeebled condition to care, “Late night?”

“Go to hell.” Elenora mumbled in a feeble response, even as she gingerly took the coffee to her lips. It was still warm, fresh from the tiny coffeemaker that took up an entire corner of their small office.

“I’m glad you decided to join us. For a while there I did not think you were going to make it in.” Pamela chided, “Its nearly ten. You used to come in early on Saturdays and share breakfast with me at the corner bistro. You’ve been coming in later and later these past few months and half dead at that. That’s not a good thing and you know it.”

Eleonora shook the cobwebs from her pounding head, letting the coffee do its work as the caffeine slammed into her system. The absolute last thing she needed right now was a nanny speech from the woman that left her high and dry last night. One moment Pamela was right beside her, dancing with some young man who looked so deliciously handsome and more than interested in Pamela’s oh-so-sexy little ass. The next moment Pamela was gone, run home like a scared virgin, and taking Franco with her as her personal chauffer. Eleonora could just imagine if William had taken them both to the motel! Between the two of them they might have been a match for the stud’s formidable libido. On the other hand, Eleonora was not quite sure she wanted to share William and his rock-hard pussy-slayer with anyone. Even Pamela.

“Let’s just say you should have been there.” Eleonora groaned as she lay back, pressing her head against the file cabinet which sat a bit too close behind her chair. Her head was still pounding and her body ached, but the warmth of the coffee began to take hold of her, easing both just enough for her to continue the conversation. “Where the hell did you get to anyhow? Poor Lorenzo was so disappointed that you left.”

Pamela’s face squished up in that cute, odd way when confusion reigned, “Ummm… Lorenzo?”

“Lorenzo.” Eleonora said with a sigh of remembrance. Images of the last time that particular stud had shared her bed flit through her mind fondly, “That rather good-looking young man who was dancing with you. Or don’t you remember?”

“Ah! You mean the rather good-looking young man with his hands all over my ass.” Pamela said as understanding lit up her face in a knowing smirk, “Not to mention my tits and everything else he could get his hands on. Sorry, Ellie, if I ever want to get groped by a child, I’ll let you know.”

“Child! Come on, Pam, its not like your gray and old. You are barely approaching your thirties!” Eleonora protested, unbelieving of her friend’s complete lack of adventure, or perhaps complete lack of desire. It was a thought that made her feel uneasy somehow. As if there was something very wrong with her friend… or with her, “Perhaps there is ten years of difference at most. Besides, it’s not like its meant to be something serious. Don’t you ever just feel the need to just…well… let go?”

Pamela wanted to come back with something sharp and witty, but the truth was, she was confused herself. She might have told Ellie how she had ‘Let go’ just last night but just the thought of it, and the subject of her foolish thoughts, made it impossible. Instead she slipped behind her desk, primly sliding her glasses over her nose and quietly opened the first file from her ‘In’ box. Still, she would not let her friend continue thinking of her as if she was some sexless prude straight from the nunnery.

“Ellie… I feel… the need, just like anyone else. It’s just that I’m more particular of who I share that need with. Alright? And Lorenzo and his ‘traveling hands’ just didn’t do it for me. I am assuming they did it for you though last night. Or am I wrong?”

Eleonora could not resist smiling as she thought back on her friend’s words. She had fully intended to keep her new bull and his incredible… talents… a close secret.  Bad enough it was all she could think about since she awoke this morning, but sharing it? Letting that living fantasy play out again on her lips? Fill her wanton imagination once more? She could already feel the warmth growing in her cheeks, her thighs quivering, her still-aching womanhood pulsing with need as she began forming the words on her lips. She gripped the coffee mug tight, thinking back to the first moment she had taken him in her hands, his ridiculous girth filing her hands with masculine heat. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back into the cold steel of the file cabinet as the wickedest of smiles crossed her face.

“Mmmmm…. Oh better, Pamela. So much better than sweet little Lorenzo. Last night I met a god. Big and broad and so very forceful. And so much different than the boys I am used to. I can still feel him, Pam, feel his weight and his strength; the way his arms and legs felt like corded steel in my hands. And his burning hunger! Oh Fuck, his fiery need! Burning me up from the inside out! It is a wonder how I ever could have survived it!”

Pamela watched as her friend spoke, stretching her limbs catlike, her chest rising and falling with the very excitement of the memory. Despite herself, she found her own face turning red, her own pulse racing as Eleonora described in detail his dark skin, his perfect physique, not to mention the callous manner in which he had reduced her to a shuddering, boneless wretch screaming breathlessly through endless agonizing orgasms. Without excusing herself she headed for the office bathroom, slamming the finger-thick door behind her. She cast her eyes towards the mirror which hung precariously over the sink. The gaze that she met in that mirror was glassy and wide, frightened yet alive. Reflexively she slid her sweater off over her head, heedlessly letting it drop to the floor. Her breasts were full, held painfully still by her bra, red lines digging into her flesh. They shone with sweat, yearning to be set free. Yearning for strong hands to tear them free. With a quiet gasp of horror, she felt that familiar moistness gathering between her thighs. She found herself thinking of Eleonora’s words. Of a man’s hands, a man’s arms, a man’s lust driving all those endless orgasms from her body. The only difference was the shape of the man in question.

“I tell you, Pam,” Eleonora continued, her eyes still closed as her hands pressed tight around the warmth of her coffee mug. If she had noticed her friend leave the room, it was not at all evident in her fluttering breath and words half-moaned rising from her lips, “I plan to find him again. Perhaps tonight if I can. All I can think about is how I failed to satisfy his worst instincts. My body not giving him what he so desired. Its just… Its just I’ve never been taken like that before. So brutally. So primally. So very savagely. Far beyond what I’ve ever felt. I am going to do it, though. I’m going to see him again. Let him take me. Give him… everything. Be perfect for him! So very perfect!”

Without even realizing it, Eleonora’s hand had fallen between her thighs, softly caressing herself even as she spoke to the empty room. She knew deep inside that there was something wrong with her. Her body shivering a bit too much, her panties already soaked as she ran her fingers up along her pulsing mound, her thoughts a bit too vivid as she took her lip between her teeth and remembered with bliss the absolute agony of his last grunting thrusts.

“I’m going to find him again. Be what he wants. Not fail him again.” She stuttered through panting breaths, her pounding heart racing in her chest, “Get Franco to take me. Find him again. Feel him again. Giving him this time, what my weak, stupid body did not give him before. Oh, Pam if only you might have seen him…. Pam?  Pam? Where did you go?”

Pamela had stopped listening to her friend long ago as she slapped cold water onto her face as fast as she could in the little sink. Taking in heavy breaths she felt the cool water dribble down her neck and between her breasts to run ever southward, pooling finally along her belly button. The feeling was cooling although painfully erotic. She cast her eyes down at her fallen sweater, knowing for certain she could not put it back on. Her skin was already far too warm, and she would burn herself alive if she tried. She closed her eyes tight, willing her thoughts to leave her alone. Knowing it was far too late. Instead they grew and coalesced, one leading into another sinfully without effort. She could hear Ellie calling for her now, suddenly confused by her absence.

She looked one last time in the mirror, seeing her own eyes again, now clear and with a hint of brightness. She had to help Ellie. For her own sake as well as her friend’s. Her own cure lay hand in hand with Eleonora’s and she would have to act for both of their sakes, least of all her own. Like a fresh breeze clearing away the haze she remembered that she kept a light shirt in one of the cabinets, there in case of an accidental coffee-spill or toner-emergency. Taking a minute to compose herself, she pictured herself walking out of the bathroom blaming an accidental coffee spill for her nakedness. She would casually slide on the Depeche Mode t-shirt, which she ruefully remembered Ellie buying for her, and quietly get back to work. Then she would figure out just how best to help her best friend with this madness. Before she left the toilet, Pamela slid the straps of the bra down from her shoulders. As supportive as the damned thing was, it was growing to be quite too painful to wear all day long. She would have to go shopping later. She needed something lighter. Perhaps something prettier as well.

As Pamela slid back behind her desk, Dave Gahan’s face squarely placed across her chest, Eleonora fell into her own duties for the office day. However, she did not stop reminding Pamela of her lost chances with Lorenzo and her own desire to get her young godling back into bed once again. Pamela smiled, giggling and blushing on queue but not paying a bit of attention to her friend’s sermon on the joys of carnal sin. As a matter of fact, she tuned herself out as best as possible, hardly bothering to listen as she allowed her own half-thought plans to dance and clash back and forth in her head.

The person who was listening however, was standing out in the hallway just beyond the paper-thin walls of the tiny office. She also felt her body growing warm at her touch, a wide and wicked smile passing over her face as Eleonora went on about the hard-cocked bull that had filled her with such whorish thoughts. Chiara knew that club, and the type of men that frequented it. Which is why she always stayed away from meat-markets like that. Places filled with blaring noise that pretended to be music and lust-dominated boys that pretended to be men. She spent her mis-spent youth frequenting those places. She still remembered her and her girlfriends competing for the hottest, roughest, horniest men. Bragging about their nightly conquests even as they saw one then the other of their number fall to pregnancy or disease… or worse. Chiara always counted it as her most blessed day, when she said ‘no’ and let her so-called friends go on without her. Seeing them finally as what they were; sluts to be used, addicted to the abuse as each rushed headlong over the dark-shrouded cliffs of ruined bodies and reputations until no man worth the name would bother looking at them.

Chiara had saved herself from that life. But it was more than obvious that the fat-assed bitch in the office was buried head long in it. Her mind skittered over different ways to use this new information, to leverage it into a tool of hot vengeance that would destroy the bitch forever. She entered the grungy massage room to greet her first appointment of the day. Paolo was a middle-aged man just starting to show gray around the temples and a small gut that disguised the hard muscles of his stomach. She had seen him around the neighborhood working on his sanitation truck for the city. He always waved to her when he saw her. A nice enough man although he always had the underlying sickly-sweet scent of garbage about him even after the hottest of showers. Chiara slid off her robe, revealing her perfect fuck-doll body and oiled up her hands. She always loved the way men looked at her, a sinful little indulgence she thought. The middle-aged men especially. Most, like Paolo, were married to wives who had already given up on their bodies; their stomachs falling like pale dough over their pussies and their asses spreading by the day. It was why men like Paolo came here to her. To see what their lusts were made for and to cast their eyes again on their youthful dreams. In some ways it was what kept them young.

“You seem distracted today, Chiara. Your hands not sure as they normally are.” Paolo commented, trying to think beyond the pleasant hardness growing along his thigh. It was a relief to him that he could still get hard after a week away. A week spent with his sexless wife and her equally sexless sisters.

“I’m sorry Paolo-dear.” she said with a true apology. Paolo was one of the better ones. Unlike most of the others, he actually came in for a massage and cast only a few shyly discreet looks at her heart-shaped ass and smooth firm legs. Despite his smell he was funny as well and a good listener with actual wisdom to his years. “It’s just that I have a lot on my mind right now, I suppose. Long story. I don’t want to bore you.”

“Bore me! Please!” he responded with a chuckle in his voice. “As long as it is not about the price of fish at the market or how the door still creaks after I’ve oiled it a dozen times.”

Feeling somehow free with Paolo, his eyes a fatherly brown and actually meeting her own rather than falling between her tits, Chiara felt weirdly free to tell her tale. Paolo lay on his side, looking almost comical with a single towel covering his middle, listening intently and nodding in quiet understanding. At the end he gave her a bit of advice which the two of them reshaped into an idea and then into a plan, working out the details as she sat on the massage table child-like with her legs crossed beneath her.

When they were done, Paolo invited her to meet her for coffee later on to discuss the details of her plan. Chiara smiled, knowing that with Paolo coffee meant coffee! He had given her a kernel of an idea, one that would be perhaps a bit difficult to work out but would lead to her enemy’s utter destruction if they could pull it off. In gratitude she gave the man a small kiss on the lips, watching him turn beet red as a small embarrassed smile appeared on his rough face. Then for what remined of their scheduled time together she determined to give the man the best massage of his fucking life.

Unsure of what was happening, frozen in place, Paolo watched her siding up onto the massage bed to straddle his stomach. His cock strained hard against the cheap fabric of the towel as she bent down over his legs, giving him a heart-stopping view of her tight, juicy ass.

“Relax,” Chiara whispered, as she ran her hands up and down his legs as if simply continuing the massage. Paolo shivered with anticipation, his body shuddering under her touch. Her hands ran soft circles around is thighs, slowly inching up with each teasing circle as she lifted the towel further and further up his hips. She pulled her body back, her ass pressing firmly into his stomach. He could feel the hardness of her cheeks settle on him and his hands shook fiercely with a terrible need to grab her.

Paolo groaned aloud as Chiara slid her left hand along the outline of his fully erect cock, stroking it up and down so very slowly. Her right hand moved beneath to grasp his balls, circling around them to massage them in the palm of her small but incredibly warm hand.

“Doesn’t that feel good?” she asked. She pulled the towel completely off of him, giving her full access to his throbbing meat. Chiara mewled pleasantly, feeling how heavy his balls were. The man had obviously not shot a load in a very long time. Nervous and not believing what was happening, Paolo wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. He started to slide them up and down along her hips and waist nearly afraid to touch her lest she disappear into mist.

“Don’t worry, my Paolo-dear,” she offered, “Just enjoy this.”

Her hand started to move up and down from the base of his shaft all the way to the tip, with just enough pressure so that he could feel each movement as his cock danced in her hand. She bent over lithely and gave the tip a fleeting kiss that sent a shot of pleasure slicing through him. He let out a deep moan from his chest and Chiara smiled, working his cock slowly to give him maximum pleasure.

“That’s right, it feels good. It feels so good,” she said softly as her hand trailed up slowly from the base to the tip, twisting gently as it rose and fell. Paolo could feel his balls tighten. His hips started to thrust a bit as he came closer and closer to orgasm.

“Oh fuck, I’m going to cum soon,” he warned her, moaning again under her expert fingers.

“That’s right, you’re going to cum for me. I’m going to make you cum,“ she whispered, her lips bare inches from the tip of his purplish cock-head. Her hand moved faster and faster along his cock as he felt his balls tighten. ”Cum for me, Paolo. Cum for me now.”

Lightning throbbed out of the head of his cock, growing and growing towards a shattering crescendo. “Ah… ahh… ah fuck, I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum, ah, fuck, ahh… AHHH!”

Chiara kept stroking as his orgasm burst, flooding his body with pleasure. She had to laugh, amazed at the powerful load that shot, and kept on shooting, into the towel before finally slowing down to dribble out onto her hand.

“My God, Paolo! That’s a good boy,” Chiara smiled as she dutifully used a spare towel to wipe his cock and her own hands clean of spunk. Paolo lay amazed under her, his own face a happy mix of wonder and delight that made her smile with pride. With that she slid from his body and gave him a small and innocent peck on his cheek, “Now it’s time for my next appointment. I will see you later tonight. Although maybe you should shower first?”

Repercussions : Part Four (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

The line to the club still stretched far along the gleaming wet streets as Franco stepped out of the Audi. By some miracle he had actually found a parking space nearby barely large enough for the small auto and he cheerfully ignored the half dozen car horns blaring angrily behind him as he slid gently into the tiny space. The weather had turned on the way back from Pamela’s apartment. A fine mist of rain now covered the slick roads. It was that light, refreshing rain that Franco always loved. It carried with it the scents of the sea and was just cold enough to invigorate his spirits without soaking his clothes or prevent him from lighting yet another precious American cigarette taken from the little silver case in his jacket. The walk and the rain also gave him a few minutes to himself. Enough time to think and to try to sort out the dozens of emotions that were tearing at his soul; like a dozen savage, shrieking demon fighting to see which of them would bring him weeping to his knees first.

Franco cursed himself for his problems. No one else. He would not stoop so low as to say this was anyone’s fault than his own. He was raised better than that. It was not Simone’s fault. Although Franco still wanted to throw the little fuck out of his apartment window, an apartment he was staying in free of rent due to their ill-fated and hell-spawned bet. He could not blame Johnny for being so young and strong, nor for using his sexual power to dominate and to seed any woman of his choosing. Johnny was a young bull and that’s what all young bulls did. It was his very nature. Just as one could not blame the sun from setting or the winds from blowing. He could and would never blame his beloved Eleonora. She was who she was, wanted what she wanted, and for the longest time he had both known it and stupidly enough forced himself to ignore the truth and believe otherwise. To believe she could put aside all she craved and desired for his sake. Franco took a long drag on his cigarette, cursing himself again for a fool.

It was his own fault. He had accepted that long ago. His own weakness. His own blindness. His own dream of having something that fate would forever deny him. The only problem was what to do now. A lifetime spent as he had spent the past few months was unthinkable. It would break him in the end. He knew that. He would end up in the madhouse or prison or both. Alone in any case. Yet a life without his Eleonora would prove far colder and far more miserable. A life lived with his head bent low in the cold rain, hiding his tears in the torrent. He was doomed in either case. Lost and alone in his thoughts forever at the mercy of those cruel demons that resided in his broken heart.

Franco walked past the line of people waiting to get into the club. Most were either eager to get in out of the chill or nervously discussing the possibility that the bouncers would never let them in. Just as all the better dance clubs worked you had to be on the ‘cool’ list, a hot and barely legal female, or ready to pay the bouncers the appropriate amount of euro to get through the door. Otherwise you would face a few hours of standing outside in the freezing rain biting back the anguish in your 5” stilettos and sluttiest mini-dress. Franco did not bother with the line. For good or ill, he and his wife were favorites here and for reasons known and obvious to all.

Every club wants the young men to come in. Young men spent money. And the only reason for a young man to frequent a club was the thought of easy pussy. As he passed through the doors, Franco could not help but to notice the stares. Jealous looks from those who would be stuck waiting on the line, none cool or sexy enough to enter. And those looks from the bouncers at the door. Looks accompanied by knowing smirks of derision, followed by not-so quiet whispers shared of the pathetic cuck whose wife had banged every cock in this hole and twice as he paid the check. Franco hung his head, his ears burning red as he passed through those doors, eager to lose himself in the teeming crowd and the pounding base rising from the club’s speakers. He crushed what was left of his cigarette in his hand and tossed it on the floor in disgust, a tiny act of defiance and revenge. His table was still empty. His forgotten drink still there and covered by a fresh coaster. The waitress must have known he would be back eventually and took the care to make sure no one else took his spot. He was quite frankly amazed. The thought of that doughy faced and seemingly calloused girl even noticing that he had left surprised the hell out of him.

He slipped the coaster from the top of the glass and knocked back the bourbon in one gulp. The ice had already melted but it still ran cold and the sensation as the alcohol hit his system was utterly priceless. Along with the effects of the tobacco; calming and focusing while sharpening his senses at the same time. He cast searching eyes across the dance floor, across the long and crowded bar, looking for his wife. Searching for the small knot of young bulls that would be gathered around her. Searching for the waitress as his glass lay once again empty in his hand. He squinted his eyes, scanning the club again and again, his worry growing as the sight of his wife continued to elude him. She must be here he thought. Maybe she had gone to the women’s lounge? Or maybe he just hadn’t yet looked hard enough into the thrashing, bobbing mass of people overcrowding the shadowed dance floor.

“She left about a half an hour ago.”

Franco nearly jumped out of his skin as the waitress suddenly appeared behind him. He turned to look straight into her tired brown eyes. She was pushed close to him by the movement of the passing crowds, her soft breasts pressing along his shoulder, her pale face bare inches away from his own. For once noticing the small metallic stud that pierced her small pink lips and the way her white skin practically shone in the dark shadows of her surroundings. For just a fleeting moment he found himself wondering what her lips might feel like or how it might be if her young, soft body were pressed even closer. But then the weight of her words shocked him back to reality.

“Wait. Wait!”, Franco said fighting down the frightened wonder evident in his voice, “What do you mean she left? She left the club?  Without… ? I mean…”

For a moment, Franco could swear that he saw life spark in the girl’s eternally dead eyes. Life and a sense of humanity, although to his utter shame it revealed itself more akin to pity. The girl’s own voice was barely heard over the noise that surrounded them but each one stabbed deep into Franco’s heart. “Yeah. She left with this guy. He’s new here. Never seen him before. Big black fella with a thick Caribbean accent. I think he just joined to soccer club since he hangs out with that crowd. She kinda looked for you for a minute but he led her out. They were practically… well… it looked like they were heading somewhere.”

The demons playing in Franco’s chest let out a long wail of laughter that brought a roaring burst of pain crashing through his mind. Frantically he checked his cell phone for messages. Nothing. She had never… she had… Eleonora had never left like this! Not without telling him. Having him with her. That she had simply left without even knowing where he had gone, or if he would be back? She had left with some new bull. Some big black bull who would most likely be with her right now… on top of her… inside of her. Having her. Fucking her. Without him there. Not waiting. Not calling him. Not caring.

“Are you gonna be alright?”, Franco felt the waitress’ gentle fingers brushing his shoulder. Her eyes softened, showing not just the expected pity that he not only feared but expected, but actual concern. A concern that showed not only in the way she looked at him but in the way her fingers lay softly upon his arm, and in the gentle tenor of her voice. The club was loud and confused and her pink lips had to move very near to his in order to be heard. “You look… you look really worried. Would you like another drink? My shift is nearly over; would you like a drink someplace else, maybe?”

Franco felt confused even more by her question. His head was already spinning with his wife’s actions and his eyebrows grew close as he tried to adjust to this new wonder.

“You want to have a drink with me? Someplace else?”, he marveled, “Why?”

The waitress, whose name turned out to be Dora, bit her lip, casting her eyes across the room in an effort to hide whatever was in her eyes. “Look. I see you here, okay? You don’t want to be here. You’re miserable here. And your wife… well, she’s busy having the time of her fucking life not seeing what a blind bitch could see a mile away. The place is filled with whores just waiting to be picked up and you haven’t even looked at any of them. You’ve just stayed here at this table night after night looking miserable. I’m an actress, you know? I can sense these things. I watch people. I know they have stories and… and I’m interested in yours. I know it’s purely selfish on my part but maybe we can share some stories together. Maybe even make some stories.”

Franco’s breath caught in his throat as he felt her fingertips slide down his shirt, brushing along his tie, to rest along his crotch. Dora smirked triumphantly as she felt the stirring of his cock under her feather touch, confirming how right she was about him. She had indeed watched him for months now. Watched as the man practically died each night, his wife acting like a whore on the dance floor while he tried to hide his own need. She had watched him on those nights, his cock growing hard along his thigh, his eyes growing hot, coming so very close to shattering his glass in a shaking hand. She smiled, her teeth white along her lips, biting the tip of her tongue sensually between them, loving the sensuous feel of their sharpness against her own tender flesh. She had him, she thought, all his stories and delicious desires so very close to be added to her inventory of people and experiences. Any one of which might earn her acclaim on stage one day.  An actress is nothing without her experiences after all. Seeing Franco’s eyes opened wide with surprise, seemingly helpless before her, she ran her fingertips down to the tip of his expanding cock. Not the biggest she’d have, Dora thought with a smile. Yet with the right motivation, the right blend of anger and righteous rage, here was a man who needed to fuck some willing and lucky cunt straight into the fucking wall.

But to her surprise, Franco simply stood up, this body tense as he moved away from her. He still had that look of frightened confusion in his eyes, though. In the most gentlemanly of fashions he took her hand, the one that was until a moment ago was so happily stroking his growing cock and kissed her fingers sweetly. It was a gesture that sent an instant rush of warmth down between her legs, as it would for any woman, if men were ever smart enough to realize it. Dora actually felt a pang of disappointment as he stepped away, thanking her again and again for - well, for everything – and headed to the door like a bullet. She noticed, although maybe he didn’t, the eyes that followed him, and the cruel laughter, as the rest of the young men (assholes every one of them) watched him bolt for the club’s entrance. Dora sighed. There was one more story she might never know heading out into the night and she was a feeling it might have been a good one. With a casual resignation she cleaned off the table and headed back into the crowd to hawk for the night’s tips.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Eleonora lay across the motel bed, her body gloriously naked after treating Wil to her best strip tease, deliberately taking her time to expose one inch of horny female flesh to him after another as he sat in the chair smiling like a devil. She had treated that monster growing between his thighs to every touch of her warm  breasts and ass, licking its length sensuously through his straining trousers and stroking it off rhythmically to the music coming from the tiny motel radio. The bastard remained unaffected, smiling that delightfully terrifying smile as his cock grew and grew down his pant-leg like it would never ever stop. She lay there trying to control her nervous breathing, her legs opened invitingly, watching as he peeled off his shirt.

Dear fucking shit, the man was ripped. Not in that steroid body builder sort of way but that strong tapered male body with obviously well exercised muscles. The man was completely devoid of any fat. His sleek, dark body shining with health. As he dropped his pants, the sight was even more impressive. Eleonora was not sure what they were called, but there was one of those pronounced muscular creases that ran in a ‘V’ down his stomach to disappear down into the waistband of his overstretched boxer-briefs. She could not resist peeking down at that massive bulge hidden between his legs. And fuck if there wasn’t a lot to want to peek down at. The briefs were so tight that they looked as if they were spray painted on; really low waisted and really tight fitting which showed, let’s say, a lot of detail. And it was an enormous bulge; much bigger than anything Eleonora had ever seen before now, starting just under the tightly stretched waistband and finishing with the deep hang of his ball sack which seemed to challenge the elastic of the seams to keep it contained.

He stood there smiling proudly, his hands on his hips, just looking so damned sexy and so powerfully masculine. Then in the deepest, sexist and most pussy-churning voice he ordered Eleonora to face the headboard, her ass high in the air, legs wide to present him with what was now his. Biting her lip, shivering with need, Eleonora had no choice but to obey. She buried her head in the pillows, reaching back to spread herself wide, putting herself in the position that all of her young bulls preferred. Fuck, she could already feel her pussy throbbing, dripping wetly as she heard him approach the bed, one heavy step at a time.

Eleonora’s brain blew up. She writhed on the bed, unable to believe that such incredible pleasure was possible. William’s cock had stuffed her to the breaking point, splitting her open, tearing her in half with each driving thrust as he tired to get every last inch of his monstrous cock buried deep inside of her. She found herself screaming through hot tears, beating at the pillows wildly to the sound of his laughter. Despite all the young men she had known, all the hot rock-solid cocks she had felt spreading her pussy-walls to their limits, she had never felt anything that came close to the complete sexual agony he was inflicting on her struggling cunt. Each brutal stroke tore past her cervix, invading her womb. The pain was so sharp and deep she barely felt the hard slaps of his hands as he proceeded to turn her thick white ass a dozen colors of crimson. Laughing, all the while laughing, he continued to murder her pussy one stabbing thrust at a time without the slightest thought for her agonized screams. 

In a flash of pure terror, Eleonora realized that the brute was not even wearing a condom. The very thought of his beastly load finally bursting within her cunt was absolutely terrifying and sent her spiraling helplessly into a blinding orgasm as William proceeded to fuck her eyes into the back of her head. Her hands flailed back, slapping at his legs and hips as she struggled to find a spare breath to beg for mercy between grief-stricken wails. William laughed all the harder, grabbing both of her wrists in one meaty hand and pinning them behind her back. She felt his heavy, cum-filled balls slapping against her pussy lips, beating them raw with each heartless assault. She prayed that he would finish. That that savage beast of a cock would finally release its load and that he would leave her broken and trembling on that bed to seek fresher prey.

Eleonora got her wish, an eternity of pain later, as she felt his cock finally still within her, his muscled body shaking in that wonderful sexy way just before a man gave up his load. Just as she feared, the bull had no intention of pulling out. Instead she found herself screaming, cumming again in mind-twisting ecstasy as William flooded her body to overflowing with a gallon of his pudding-thick sperm. She felt his beast throbbing within her as heavy flows of spunk dripped along her sex-beaten clit. Somehow, she was laying on her back, long streams of his cum blasting across her body, her face, her breasts. Her rolling eyes offered her slim glances up at this laughing godling. His smile shone wide as he continued to stroke thick ropes of his thick cum across her trembling body in a never ending cumshot, slathering her in hot spunk as he joyfully emptied his balls across his latest conquest.

As she came down from her orgasm, a lifetime later, Eleonora simply lay there waiting for her trembling to subside and thanking heaven that her ordeal was done. No more, she promised, no more, no more, no more… But William had other ideas. In a shock, she found herself on her face again, her ass pulled high into the air, her wrists pinned once again behind her back. She felt him, his cock sliding still iron-hard between her ass-cheeks.

“No….no more…please no more.” she begged piteously, her voice quivering through her tears.Another fuck would finish her.Franco would find her spread across this bed, her trembling body cold, dead, and plastered in cum, “My pussy can’t take it. Please. Oh holy fuck, pleeeease…!”

The godling laughed deeply, his skin shining with sweat, each muscle defined in its glory as he set his feet wide and prepared for his new assault. William took a deep breath, steadying Eleonora on the very edge of the bed. When he spoke, his voice was deep and strong, thick with his Island accent, amused more than aroused. It’s power Impossible to refuse or to ignore. Eleonora found herself on the cusp of another orgasm just hearing his words, feeling the tip of his massive cock sliding down along her asshole.

“No. No my little bitch. Not your pussy. Wil has had that.” He said, his voice punctuated by a low chuckle, “Ruined that but good. Buried his babies deep in that place so you will grow fat for him. Now Wil wants something else indeed. Something tighter to please him.”

Eleonora wailed screaming to shake the very walls as she felt the head of his massive cock pierce her asshole. He was tearing her apart, grunting heavily to drive in one more inch. He was going in raw and dry, more than simply enjoying the hellish pain that he was inflicting upon her thrashing body. William’s strong fingers sank deep into her thighs, pinning her in place as he drove white-hot lances of agony straight up her spine.

“Nooooo! Please! Fuucckkkkkkk!” Eleonora screamed at the top of her strained  lungs, her fingers clawing savage rents in the bedding as William forced himself deeper and deeper into her burning ass. “I…  I can’t take it! STOP! Its too much! It hurts! Oh, fuck it hurts! I can’t take it there! I can’t take it!”

“You will take everything Wil chooses to give you, bitch! Your ass will be mine same as your cunt! Scream all you want but you will be taking my cock and my load deep in your ass by the time we are done. I… will… not… be…DENIED!”

William grunted hard through clenched teeth as he fought to jam more of his thick cock-meat up her pain-stricken asshole. The woman was impossibly tight, screaming and clawing the bedsheets as inch after inch of his massive shaft was jammed in deep. He could feel a trickle of sweat slipping down along his temple as he buried his fingers into the slut’s lush hips, straining as hard as he ever did to conquer this whore’s ass as he had done so many others before her. No slut young or old had ever refused him his desires, and none ever would. Ignoring her pleas and cries for mercy, William instead slammed her down into the bed and went to work, pounding in ever harder to the sound of her breathless wails.

………………………………………………………………………………………..

Just outside the door of the motel room, Franco sat on the floor, his back to the opposite wall. He held his face in his hands, gnashing his teeth around a quiet scream as he listened to his wife’s wails of agony just beyond the motel door. Part of him wanted to burst in, to find some kind of weapon to beat the man off. To save his wife from the terrible agony she was suffering as he forced his cock deeper and deeper into her ass. He could hear her begging pleas through the door. Hell, so could everyone in the damned motel. None of them would come out to investigate, he knew. Each one of them was here in this sleazy fucking motel for the same reasons after all. Some to cheat on their spouses, to get away from prying eyes, to give in to their most carnal sins hidden from the view of God and man. Instead he sat there, pounding his shaking fists frantically into his forehead, ignoring the pain as he shook in impotent anger. This is what she had wanted after all. A big, Alpha-cocked bull to fuck her without mercy. To ruin her with each savage thrust of his hips. Isn’t that what Eleonora always said? Dreamed about? Panted between sensual moans each time he tried and failed to give her the fucking she wanted with his own less-then-impressive cock?

He heard Eleonora scream again, responding helplessly as he dragged his nails across his scalp in heart-rent anguish. His own pain matched her own, exceeded it even, as the demons in his chest laughed and played, tearing bloody slices out of his soul. Throughout it all, through each scream-filled moment of his wife’s destruction, he realized he could do nothing to stop it. Nothing but wait and pick up the pieces afterwards. As he had done time after time before. But he could not help but feel that things were somewhat different this time. Gone was any feeling of arousal on his own part, any sense of wonder. Now there was only the heart-breaking pain that sliced through him with each throaty grunt of the young stranger’s mad thrusts and each wail of agony from his wife’s torn throat. As he ground the balls of his palms into his tearing eyes, Franco knew that this strange madness had to end. It had to. One way or the other.

Repercussions : Part Three (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

Franco pulled the Audi up in front of the restaurant as the sound of the gravel crunched slowly under the tires. He took a brief moment to breathe, looking at his tired eyes staring back at him in the rear-view mirror. It had been a long day. Several houses shown and two apartments inspected, all in different towns, all that had failed to impress either his cash-strapped clients or himself. Half of them had been well into the country, private communities built around ancient churches. Each quaint village ruined by ugly steel security fences built to keep away gypsies and nosy neighbors whose peering eyes cast instantly damning judgement on any newcomers who dared to look at one of the many empty villas that surrounded them.

The rear of the car was filled with the chatter of the women. Eleonora, his wife, and her work-friend Pamela had been talking excitedly since they had picked up the woman at her apartment. Eleonora had barely introduced him before they both squeezed into the back seat of the little car. He had thought about turning on the radio to drown out their non-stop yapping, but he would have to turn the volume up to maximum and they would be sure to notice. Instead of this, he lit a cigarette and kept his eyes on the road, praying that the night would end quickly. It was a useless prayer. He knew how the night would end. And he wondered for the tenth time how he was going to handle watching not just his wife but both of them seduce some more-than-willing young bull into their bed. Eleonora had even suggested that he might have the chance to fuck Pamela as well when it was all over. Suggesting it as she was on her knees sucking his cock and balls to a long, drawn out orgasm that had left his head spinning and with only the word ‘yes’ left in his lust-hazed brain. He used the mirror to take another look into the Audi’s backseat. Her friend was pretty enough, and her shape was nice, hugged closely as it was by her tight black pantsuit. With her blonde hair and smooth white skin, the two of them could be sisters. Most men would jump at the chance. But the last thing Franco wanted was another cum-fucked slut to fuck at the end of the evening. He rarely even fucked his wife afterwards now. Although, God-damn him, he still found the sight and smells and sounds so damned erotic, assuring not only his hard-on but his own need to shoot his seed all over his slut wife’s sex-bruised body or face. But that had become less about her and more… more about what, he wondered?

The valet opened the car door and took his keys with a smile and a light bow. He was a young man in his early twenties with a full head of hair and that dark look that Eleonora loved so much. Franco cut the man off as he reached for the back door, blocking his view as much as possible as Eleonora slid her bare legs from the back seat. His wife had gone beyond herself tonight. A new hairstyle swept her curly blonde hair across her shoulders and her short mini-dress, shimmering metallic gold, brought out her smiling eyes like bright stars over her smiling red lips. There was a time when he would just have turned the car around, taken her home, and torn her clothes off; taking her like the animal he thought she loved. But that decision was not his anymore and the animal he was paled meekly in comparison to the animal she dreamed of. She did not even bother to kiss his cheek as she exited the car, her eyes far too busy exploring the scene; taking in the sights of the new restaurant and the young waiters waiting eagerly to cater to their desires. He saw them looking at her, how could he not? Yet once again he kept his mouth closed and made to take her arm possessively. Only for a brief moment forgetting to extend that same arm to Pamela as she herself exited the back seat of the Audi. Unlike his wife she paused to thank him, looking at his face with a question in her eyes as he closed the door behind her.

The restaurant itself was beautiful, brightly lit with pure white walls and blue trim in the Greek style. Waiters and staff slid deftly between tables and groups of people just sitting down or just about to leave. The wide windows were open to the Adriatic breeze which somehow made the dining room larger than it was and far more livelier. Franco had already spotted the table he had requested freshly prepared and waiting for them patiently in a far corner by one of the broader windows. The maître-de was friendly and efficient, bringing them over to the table with a professional sharpness that Franco more than appreciated. The wine-steward as well knew his business and soon enough was pouring out a Spanish white that eased Franco into his seat and took his mind off the furtive stares his wife’s legs and loud pleasant laughter were attracting from the men around the room, especially from the younger ones whose eyes were always searching for the next set of legs to slide between.

The night began as it always did; with Eleonora casually flaunting her body for all to see as she sipped at her wine and picked at her meal. Yet this time her conversation was not directed at himself. In fact, for all he was involved with the table, he might have well been left outside taking a nap in the Audi which, to be completely truthful, he would have well preferred. Instead what conversation there was remained between Eleonora and Pamela. At first, Franco had tried to keep up with it all but then gave up completely for lack of interest. They talked about work, about their boss at work, about the workers at work, this bitch or that bitch at work. They talked about movies they’d like to see and the handsome men in those movies. They talked about stores and clothes and hairdressers; which ones were more or less expensive, and which had the bitchiest, ugliest saleswomen. They talked about their favorite reality shows and which wife of which city had their breasts or ass or lips fixed. Throughout it all, Franco just started out the open window at the boats sailing off into the darkness of the bay. He tapped a cigarette out of its box, sighing as he took that first long drag of sweetly addictive poison. As he sat there dreaming of a new life for himself an Eleonora – out there someplace across the sea - a few words of their laughing conversation began to interest him.

“Okay then.” Eleonora urged, “How about the one standing over the table over there talking to the little boy? He seems sweet enough. And look at his ass! Wouldn’t you want to feel an ass like that pressing between your thighs?”

Pamela could not help but to laugh, quickly hiding her smile behind her napkin rather than losing a mouthful of Alaskan salmon. This was not the first young man her friend had pointed out, although her tastes had gotten a bit more spot on. The young man in question seemed well-mannered and kind as he spoke with the child, making the youngster and his parents laugh with some odd joke. His dark hair was cut sharply and, unlike most of the wait-staff, his eyes weren’t constantly seeking out the nearest set of cleavage as he worked his tables. But still, he was a boy, probably still in university by the looks of him. Hardly come into his beard; and, oh, how she loved a beard on a man. There was something about the way a man’s stubble scratched across her cheek that made her shiver all over. Even now, just thinking of it, she felt a pleasant tingling up and down her arms. But Eleonora liked them a bit younger, going on about how the young man in the crisp waiter’s uniform would be just the thing to put a smile on her face.

“Really, Ellie. Alright, I admit that he’s cute.” Pamela admitted. “But he could hardly be over twenty or so. Not to mention that he is most likely not making enough income as a waiter to be good boyfriend material. He probably still lives with his mother for pity’s sake!”

Eleonora scoffed at her friend’s naive innocence, trying once again to force the idea into her thick head. “Pam, who is saying anything about having him as a ‘boyfriend’? We are not looking for your ‘one true love’ tonight. Just something to loosen you up a bit while your dream man decides to finally appear.”

“I’m loose enough thank you. And I don’t plan to get any looser.” Pamela replied, somewhat distracted by the cigarette smoke now making its way across the table. Normally she detested the scent. Especially at dinner. But Franco’s filthy habit at least provided some distraction from Eleonora’s constant boy-watching. “Besides, you might be satisfied with a young man with a … you know… that can make you happy for a night, but I just want a grown man who can just keep me… well, happy. Is that so hard to understand?”

Isabelle just laughed, waiving her friend away as she accepted another glass of wine from the porter. The night went on and at last dinner was cleared from the table. Franco was on his second cigarette as the deserts came. Pamela and Eleonora split something impossibly chocolate and impossibly decadent while Franco knocked back a triple espresso and a glass of Sambuca. The entire time, Eleonora had not stopped watching the young men pass by, stretching out her bare legs for them to see, smiling like a girl as she noticed them looking her way. At the beginning of the night it seemed simply silly flirtation. Now hours later, it was frankly embarrassing. Pamela kept glancing towards Franco, watching each time he turned away to look over the dark waters of the bay. His eyes seemed… sad. His demeanor more irritated than encouraging. She thought back to all that Eleonora had told her of their relationship. Of the way Franco had just adored watching her with other men. Had even inspired her to do so. Now, watching the man chew through his cigarette, she wondered if it was all true. Or if Eleonora was simply failing to see. Perhaps not wanting to see.

They left the restaurant soon after but, and to her chagrin, they did not drive directly home but to a small club that Eleonora insisted they visit first. Once again Franco sat up front, sliding the Audi towards the waiting valet, and once again helped both women from the car. Pamela could not hear herself speak with the sound of the heavy base being blasted through the club’s doors as they opened wide for them. One little hour, Eleonora said, and if she was not happily dancing up a storm then they would leave and forget the entire idea completely. Pamela let herself be pulled in by her friend, both hands held in hers, unable to stop herself from laughing along with Eleonora as the silliness of the situation grabbed hold of her.

The ended up at the bar and somehow Pamela had wound up with a drink in her hand. Something vodka. Something very, very vodka. They had also ended up surrounded by young men. All of whom somehow knew ‘Tina’ very well and all of whom were very interested in her new friend. It was not very long at all until both of them were surrounded, buried behind a wall of leering smiles, lean powerful muscles, and hardening cocks. Welcome to heaven, Eleonora joked, as she leaned back glowing in their attentions and made a game of deciding which of the young men she would dance with first. Eleonora gave them her name as ‘Aria’ and was soon pulling her onto the packed dance floor, pressing her into the arms of one of them. The finest bull in the place, Eleonora half-whispered, half-yelled into her ear. And Pamela could see just what she meant. The young man was ridiculously handsome and had a body of solid muscle; a blonde and virile Adonis whose very smile was deadly. And his eyes! Dark and dangerous and insanely sexy. Unable to resist Pamela let him take her into his steel-cabled arms and she very nearly swooned as she felt his insanely massive cock press hard along her inner thigh.

Franco sat in his usual corner, ordering his usual drink from the usual waitress. Her face was blank and uncaring, a fleshy ball of raw dough that had seen and heard too much to care about most anything. Franco liked her. Liked those eyes too dead to care or to pass judgement. She brought him his drink, watered down whiskey, and then went on her way not saying a word. He slid into his usual seat as the two girls headed over to the bar. He knew what would happen. The crowd of young men. Each eager not only to find his wife again but to discover who the new woman was. Predators scenting fresh prey. He stared into his glass and waited patiently. Sometimes it was just a few minutes. Other times it was hours. Soon enough his wife would call to him and he would go outside to get the car from the valet. To do the dance again. To play the fool, the cuckold, the pathetic ass with the hot wife who needed so much more than he could ever give. This time it would be worse though. Worse with two of them. He found himself calling for another drink far too quickly, trying desperately to forget what lay before him. The waitress laid another lonely drink before him. He watched a moment as the cold drops of water slid down the sides of the amber filled glass, mesmerized for a second by that simple motion. Then, letting out an ugly curse, Franco grabbed the glass intending to knock the thing back in one shot and call for yet another, and another, and another until his mind was too fucking numb to think more.

Her hand stopped him. He looked up to see Pamela’s face in front of him. She was here, nervous and distraught. Perhaps more than a little frightened.

“Franco. I…  look I know you are here with your wife but… would you just mind driving me to the nearest bus?” she asked, her voice quivering and on the edge of tears, “I just want to leave. If it’s too much of an imposition I will just call for a cab, but from here to home… the bus will be fine. Please, if it’s not too much trouble? I’m sorry to bother you.”

Franco was confused, “But I thought you and Eleonora were both having fun? Dancing and… all?”

“Please Franco, please? Just too the bus? I won’t bother you after that.” Pamela replied with a pleading look in her eyes, “You can come back. Its only a few minutes drive. Please? I know its an imposition.”

“No. No. It’s not an imposition.” he responded, still somewhat taken with shock. He reached for the glass of whiskey reflexively thinking to drain it down but then, upon seeing Pamela’s tearing eyes, thought better of it and left the glass to linger where it sat, “Let’s go. I’ll summon the valet.”

Franco did not drive her to the bus but slid the Audi onto the highway and drove her all the way to her front door. He would never leave a woman alone at night to wait for a bus that might never come knowing the system as he did. It would be a crime. He could imagine his parents rising from the very grave to strike at him for such a brutish and unmannered thing. Such things just were not done by a gentleman, after all! So instead he silently made the decision to drive the thirty or so minutes in order to satisfy his own sense of chivalry and to set his sainted parents peacefully at their rest. The fact that it would also drag him away from the club for a good hour was also in his mind. An hour where he could keep his mind centered on the road instead of the way his wife looked, smiling gaily as a half-dozen horny strangers gathered in about her. Each with only one thing on his disgusting mind. Each one…

“You should really stop smoking, you know.”

“What?”Franco mumbled, suddenly broken from his thoughts.

“Smoking.”Pamela replied from the light-streaked shadows of the passenger seat, “It’s bad for your lungs. For your body. Its unhealthy. And it makes your breath stink.”

“I’ve been smoking all my life!”, Franco shot back, a bit too much anger in his voice. Anger he instantly regretted showing. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been smoking all my life. Since I was a kid.”

“And all your life it’s been bad for you.” Pamela answered slowly. “You shouldn’t do things that are bad for you. That make you sick. You’ll end up killing yourself. And then where will you be?”

Franco stared at her, noticing through the streaking overhead highways lights that the woman was actually smirking at him. And then where would he be? For the first time in too long he laughed, and even if it was just for those few silly moments, he felt normal again. As the minutes dragged by he felt himself getting serious again though.

“Tell me. Why did you want to leave the club? I thought you and… and Eleonora were having a good time.”

Pamela started out the window of the car as the buildings and streets passed by in far too much of a rush. Her words were a whisper, half stolen by the wind, “Ellie was. Me? I don’t know. All those men. So young and… may I say, shallow in their intentions? The one I was dancing with…. his hands were all over me. I wasn’t ready for that yet. Not with…  Oh, I don’t know. Maybe Ellie’s right and I’m just a prudish frump.”

“I don’t think you are a frump.” Franco replied, his own voice nearly too quiet to hear. “This is your place isn’t it?.”

Pamela got out of the car saying a quick but truthfully meant ‘Thank you’ and headed up her front path. Franco sat in the car watching her walk up to her door, watched as she fished her keys out of her purse and disappeared through her front door with a final wave and a grateful smile. He stood there a moment, the engine of the car still running as the car trembled beneath him. By his habit he fished his cigarette pack from his jacket, his other hand fumbling in his side pocket for the lighter. The night was quiet and by some miracle there was not another car on the road. He would have to go back he knew.  Back to that club. Back to his wife. Back to whatever nightmare the night held for him. With a last doomed sigh, he slid the pack of cigarettes unopened into his jacket pocket and slid the car back onto the highway unwilling but resigned to his fate.

Eleonora had never been so alive. The music was pumping hard, the vodka and soda were coursing happily through her veins, and the hands and attentions of so many young men had taken her, touched her, whispered their hot thoughts into her ear as she reached down to stroke their powerful hard-ons through their pants. The flickering lights and confusion of the packed dance floor hid well her grasping hands and flushed cheeks even as it hid the many hands gripping her ass and fondling her breasts. She could have any of them, she thought, all of them! She saw their faces, so strong and hungry, imagining one then the other staring down inches from her face as he pounded her in half with the savage aggression of a lover. Throughout the night she felt the warmth build between her thighs. She bit her lip playfully, as she felt them pressing along her trembling body. The time for dancing was through, she thought. It was now time to choose. Pamela had already disappeared. She was probably already being fucked blind and stupid by one of these amorous godlings. She could picture it. Sweet, and so proper Pamela being driven to heaven and back with each thrust of a hungry cock. Eleonora could feel the first trickle of moistness grow along her thigh. It was time to join her.

His hands gripped her shoulders hard as he pulled her back into him. Her initial wide-eyed shock grew into an even wider smile as she felt his shaft pressing against her ass and its hardened tip reaching up towards her spine. She looked back to find him smiling down at her with his shining black face split wide by the whitest of smiles. Like a lion so very sure of his prey. He began thrusting up and down between her ass-cheeks, making her gasp in lust-filled surprise at his impossible length. It was like someone was sliding a hot iron bar up and down her ass and he knew before she did that she was his. All the other men slid away from them now, each realizing what was going on as Eleonora began moving her ass up and down along his slowly thrusting shaft. With his hands firmly set on her shoulders they were moving to the music, the steady bass of the beat clouding her head with only the thought of what he was doing to her with his monster still trapped helplessly in his trousers. She had to let that monster out, she thought. She had to feel it feed.

“What’s your name?” she pleaded in a small whisper, trying to control her panting breaths.

“My name is William.” He replied, his thick island accent only making his voice, a rich baritone, even sexier as he wrapped his long, powerful arms around her heaving chest. “You can call me Will… and you will come with me tonight. Won’t you, my little girl?”

“Yes. Yes. Will… I will… Yes.” she stumbled in her response, his words as well as his perfectly chiseled body far too commanding to ignore. For a moment she thought of calling Franco, of telling him to get the car, of the motel where he tipped the man fifty euro, of Franco’s hot eyes as he watched. But then William descended on her with those dark, smiling eyes and those heavy lips, his tongue sliding along her own… and whatever was left of her could think of nothing else.

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.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

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.

Repercussions : Part Six  (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

“In Vino Veritas”

The prophetic words were written on a small wooden sign Franco had found in the rubbish box after the weekly faire had closed up for the night. The wood was scratched badly as if it had somehow offended some rabid cat. The polish was faded as well, and the writing was slightly darkened by too many years nailed over some stove. Someone had either bought it and discarded it or found it too difficult to sell and simply tossed it away. Franco had come across it while wandering the midnight streets with a bottle of Jack Daniels as his only companion. He found he shadows comforting. The tiniest noises coming sharp to his senses. Little things. The shutting of a window. The low hum of an air conditioner. The passing of a car. Somewhere down the dark and lonely street a man coughed. Somewhere music played. Tiny, insignificant sounds echoing through the night that would be lost in the harsh hours of daylight. Daylight with its desperate haste and confusion as a billion people rose from their beds to hurriedly dress and join in the battle against time to achieve what little of their lives that they could before their time was done. Before night fell. Before they fell  exhausted to their beds. The graveyards were filled with them. Billions of lost, exhausted souls who had desperately tried and failed to achieve whatever it was they believed life held for them. Wealth. Reputation. Love.

Franco sat cross-legged upon the white gravel that covered the silent grave of one such. His uncle Salvatore. A small picture of the man was built into the marble headstone. In the picture he stood grey and aged yet still prideful, his black suit hanging on his withered frame. But that was not the man. Not really. What could photographs actually show you after all? Some fake and sterile shell that could not ever bring out the life of the person within. Only a true portrait could do that, Franco thought. Only the hand of an artist could bring that slight yet telling smile to a person’s face. The wicked twinkle to the eye. The intensity of the fingers. The sternness of the posture. Franco took another long slug of whiskey from the near empty bottle. Smokey amber warmth made its way into his belly, firing his memories. Wicked. Intense. Stern. Yes, that was his Uncle Salvatore. Not the old and half-dead man staring back at him feebly from the tiny picture by the wane light of a tiny ever-burning electric light.

Franco fell back on his elbows, suddenly grown tired. He closed his eyes and listened, just listened, to the world around him. The slight rush of the breeze. The odd crash and whisper of the town which lay crowded onto itself some half-mile down the road. Memories flittered past his mind. He remembered the first time he had met Uncle Salvatore. It was never just ‘Salvatore’, mind you. And absolutely never simply ‘Sal’. It was Uncle Salvatore and more times than not a very meaningful ‘Sir’.  The man had respect. No. More than respect. Presence. No matter where he stood in the room, that was its center. Franco remembered taking him a message from his Aunt Alyssa, Uncle Salvatore’s wife, once. The club room was smoky with expensive cigars. It took a few moments for then twelve-year-old Franco to find the man. He sat playing cards at a table filled with rough looking men tossing chips into a growing pot in the center of the table. Franco stood there in the doorway simply watching him. A small black cigar moving between his lips as he spoke, his tie knotted all the way to his throat despite the stifling heat of the day, his sleeves rolled up powerful forearms which bore knife-scars that Franco had never had the courage to ask about. He had stood a respectful distance from his uncle, in the man’s view but quietly waiting to be summoned over. The man did not have to move or raise his chin. His look told you if you had his permission to approach.

Franco’s father had once told him that Uncle Salvatore was a true and unrepentant bastard. He had made his life and his reputation by beating his competition into the fucking ground without the slightest care for mercy or the promises of Heaven. He describes priests as cowardly fags and held respect for only a handful of people, treating the rest as sheep bleating around him to be sheared whenever necessary. He married Aunt Alyssa not because she was simply good looking or had a nice ass, but because she was the toughest and strongest bitch he had ever met. The two of them were a perfect match and they had eight children together. Each one was a hard bastard just like Uncle Salvatore, boys and girls both. Franco stood in awe of the man. Hell, he still did.

Franco had lost track of that clan when his family had moved south. There was work to be found in a local steel plant and his dad needed the job. His father was gone now. So was the steel plant. All that remained of his family was himself. Himself and the empty bottle of Jack Daniels that lay by his side. He chuckled to himself, realizing that the bottle was the only thing he could truly rely on these days and now it was gone as well. He slid the cigarette case from his jacket pocket. His cream-colored suit was wrinkled and stained from sitting in the cold gravel of the gravesite, but such was the least of his cares.

This morning he had left his Eleonora sleeping in their bed. She had been out all night, fucked unconscious by the black brute that had passed Franco in the motel hallway. The man was huge, his movements lithe and powerful as a beast’s, his smile wide and blazing white as their eyes met. Franco was sitting, crumpled in the hall. Discarded and forgotten by his own wife. His wife that this young and powerful bull had been fucking how and as much as he would for the past few hours. Hours that Franco had spent beating himself with his own fists, hot tears of agony running in rivers down his cheeks as he listened to his Eleonora’s lust-filled screams. The son-of-a-bitch even had the nerve to smile down at him in pity, somehow knowing exactly who and what he was. The pathetic little cuck, the half-a-man that allowed his wife to be taken and fucked rotten by a hundred strangers, her cunt bursting with another man’s seed.

It had taken everything he had left in him to rise up off that floor, the cheap hotel carpeting like rough sandpaper under his hands as he knelt there with his head exploding in anguish. He moved mechanically. His emotions turned off as he walked into the room. The place was rank with the stench of sweat and sex. Normally the scent of sex, of lovemaking, came warm and sweet to him. Here it was repulsive and brutal. Eleonora lay stretched across the bed, her pale white skin covered in purplish bruises, worse than he had ever seen. He ass and thighs had been beaten so badly that sickly white welts rose from her reddened flesh. And that was not even to mention the glistening sheen of white spunk that covered her from legs to hair. Franco had never seen so much of it. So thick and white running down from her ass, bubbling lewdly from her gasping lips, draining slowly in a thick stream from her gaping womanhood.

For once he did not feel the slightest emotion from the sight. Not lust or excitement, nor love or disgust or care. He simply lifted her ragged form in his arms and took her to the shower, washing and bathing her reflexively. Just like all the times before. Drying her with the hotel towels uncaring of her sex or the groans rising from her beaten body. She moaned his name once, followed by a half-understood word of thanks. It meant nothing to him. Her clothes had been ripped or ruined beyond repair. He gathered it all up and tossed it into the wastebasket in one sloppy-wet mess. Draping his wife in one of the motel dressing robes he led her downstairs towards the Audi. The old man at the front desk did not say a word. Instead he simply watched as Franco piled his half-dead wife into the rear of the car and shut the door with a ‘thud’ that could be heard across the dark parking lot, echoing into the distance.

Franco returned to the desk to pay the man what was owed on the room, plus an extra fifty euro for his continued silence. The old man. Franco had never asked his name and appreciated the fact that he was never questioned when he wrote “Mr. & Mrs. Russo” down on the register without being asked for any form of identification. When he was done, Franco leaned against the hood of the car smoking a cigarette and tried to push his mind as far away as he could before driving the thirty or so minutes through the black streets towards what he once considered his home. Something had to break, he thought to himself. Something had to be done about the terrible hollowness he felt inside of him. A hollowness that was only growing, expanding, eating up what was left of him until nothing would be left of the man he once thought he was.

“Hey! You can’t be here! Get your ass out of here before I call the police, you fuck! I have a pistol! I’ll use it!”

Emil’s voice boomed across the gravestones loud enough to wake the dead. Or at least loud enough to shock Franco out of his half-drunken reverie. He crawled up onto his fists, his knees burning across the hard, white gravel that covered his uncle’s grave. For some reason the world was spinning around him. It was a slightly sickening feeling and for a brief moment Franco feared he might vomit the contents of his empty stomach across the gravestone. Near to his left hand the empty bottle rattles across the uneven ground. He reaches out for it, but the damned thing scattered away from his clumsy hand followed along by a whispered curse from his lips.

“Fuck me. Franco… is that you?”

“Yes.” came his sickened reply. Franco had made it up to his hands and knees now, the nausea relenting slowly as he did.

“You look like complete shit.”

Franco had known Emil since his grandmother had died so many years back. It was Emil’s gnarled hands that had sealed the grave. The old man had been greying then, now he was near bald and only a few wisps of wiry white hair and a withered face marked what was once a proud soldier of the Old Guard. Franco fought himself up to his knees and looked up at him, wondering if the old bastard would be around to seal his own grave in the days to come.

“You’ve been drinking. You seriously look like complete shit.” Emil repeated as he leaned his thin frame against a gleaming marble column etched with the fiery wings of St. Michael. With a trembling hand he reached into the back of his trousers to fetch a pack of cheap cigarettes. They tasted and smelled of shit, but it was all he could afford on his groundskeeper’s salary.

“You mentioned that already. Thank you.” Franco muttered as he struggled unsteadily to his feet.

Emil struck a match against St. Michael’s ass, bringing a flickering orange light to the shadowed darkness, “Which one is it?”

His feet achieved, Franco slid his hands under his coat to confront the ache in his back, an ache more from wear than from age. Was his body betraying him as well, he thought bitterly? No just everyone else around him, but were his aching back and weakening knees joining in their contempt for him? “Which one… what?”

“Job, money. or women? Got to be one of the three. No other reason to get all fucked up like you are.”

Franco did not bother to answer, instead looking around in groggy confusion for… something. What was it? He was wearing his stained white suit jacket. That wasn’t it. His wallet? His keys? He did not wear glasses. Where was it, he wondered?

“Just cut it out. Like a cancer. Quick and easy. Just cut it out.”, Emil coughed out between puffs of rancid smoke.

“What?”Franco had nearly given up his search now, his hands rifling through his pockets for whatever he was supposed to be searching for. What was it, again? “Cut what out? Emil you are making less sense than usual.”

“Whatever it is. Worries. Job. Money. Fucking women. Have to cut it out of you. Like a cancer. Else it’s going to eat you up. Hollow you out. Empty you. Leave nothing but a sad, miserable shell. Half the people in this yard died miserable. That’s why you’re here isn’t it? At this grave. Salvatore? He lived and died a fucking son-of-a-bitch. No one in this town a bigger fuck than he was. But he died alright. Know why?’

“Because he was a son-of-a-bitch?”, Franco groaned, twisting his back against the pain that suddenly flared up along his spine.

“No. Well, that too. But because he cut shit out. Something fucked with him, someone fucked with him, he didn’t let it get to him. Ran up on it. Confronted it. Pissed on it. Shat on it. Cut it out of his life. Same as you should be doing.”

“Simple as that, eh?” Franco quipped.

“Sometimes. Sometimes hard as fuck. But you have to make up your mind yourself, don’t you? Either spend what time God gives you getting chewed up from the inside out or…”

“Let me guess. Be a son-of-a-bitch?”

Emil let out a long drag of sickly white smoke and smiled through a row of broken yellowed teeth. For a moment he was back in his day, seeing his friends around him. Friends that had been buried six feet deep in the fields he now guarded night and day in their remembrance. Each one had had this moment, break or rise, just as Franco did now. And each one had faced that same decision. “No, Franco. Not justa son-of-a-bitch, a fucking hard-ass son-of-a-bitch. Take care of your shit. Deal with your shit. But never take any shit. Fuck now. Get home. I’m too fucking old to stand around all night talking to drunks.”

Franco watched the old man walk away to get lost amid the moonlit mausoleums. A breeze was blowing in from the Adriatic, fresh and somewhat cold for the season. ‘Cut it out’, Emil had said. Just like Uncle Salvatore. Cut it all out. But what did Emil – Emil with his stinking cigarettes and his broken teeth know about anything, eh? What the fuck did he know?

The walk home took over an hour. An hour walking through empty streets alive with the creaks and scattered clatterings of an aging city. Without thinking he slid his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling the cold surety of his cigarette case and the sweet promises that lay within. Just as thoughtlessly he slid his hand away from it settling for the cold breath of the Adriatic instead. An hour to go and he would be home, he thought bitterly. If it were still his home. He walked through the streets wondering if it still was, with only the sound of his shuffling footsteps to keep him company.

 ………………………………………………………………………….

Eleonora had been looking forward to this moment for a long while. She had known that given enough time the lazy bitch would slip up, screw up, and give her one of a hundred reasons to call her out. She had waited purposely for the end of the day. The clients had all gone home by now, having gotten their disgusting fill of the wretched skanks that Giovanni employed at the spa. The girls were all in the locker room changing into respectable clothing before heading home. All were perfectly within hearing distance of the spot Eleonora had chosen to confront the slut. Chiara always walked… no, strode… around the place like she was so much better than anyone else. As if she was somehow more accomplished or lady-like than the rest of the cheap whores employed here, each one ending the day with the cum of a half-dozen perverts staining their scanty little outfits.

Eleonora could feel herself actually quivering with excitement, just thinking of the confrontation ahead. If everything went as planned, she would be rid of Chiara forever by the end of their encounter. Just push a bit here and there, get her to dance just in the right direction, say what needed to be said… and it might be the last time she would have to see that scrawny ass of hers walk out the door. She prepared herself, leaning back against the wall of the dingy hall that led to the girl’s changing room, trying not to let her smirk become too wide before the time was right. She cursed softly under her breath, still annoyed that Pamela would not agree to help her in this. It would have been so much easier with Pam beside her, but it would not matter. Once this was done, this small victory attained, she could run home and prepare herself for what came next. She closed her eyes, biting her lip softly as she felt her nipples pressing gently against the flimsy material of her lace bra thinking of what might lay ahead.

She could hear the noises of the lockers clanging open and shut, the voices of the girls as they said their goodbyes as each completed their transformations and made for the door. She could tell Chiara would be next and could feel herself tense up as the door slid open before her. The woman had changed into street clothes; faded jeans that looked as if they had been painted on to her slim hips and legs, delicate white tennis shoes, and a tight white blouse that showed the perfect curves of her firm C-cup breasts. The blouse’s low-cut top afforded a pleasing eyeful of deep cleavage and it was more than evident that she was not wearing a bra. Her dark hair flowed in a long wave down her slim back and for a moment Eleonora experienced a pang of jealousy as she watched the girl’s young, toned body move so effortlessly down the corridor.

She settled down, letting her dislike for the little bitch disappear under a face which clearly spoke of seriousness. A quick twist to the left and she was standing cleanly in Chiara’s path, blocking the hall completely with her arms crossed businesslike across her chest. The younger girl stepped back in surprise, stumbling over her footing for a moment and grabbing at the wall for support before being knocked over onto her ass. Her eyes narrowed in confusion; Chiara’s lips were on the verge of a questioning ‘fuck’ but Eleonora beat her to it.

“We have to talk. I can no longer go on dealing with your mistakes.”, she scolded openly, “If you cannot take this job seriously, then just tell me now.”

Chiara was more than used to Eleonora’s daily bullshit and could not help rolling her eyes in contempt. The woman had given her nothing but grief since she had arrived at the spa nearly a year ago, harping on whatever she could find. Just as if this was some respectable place to work and not the utter bottom of the shit-barrel that she had been forced into by bitchy old cunts just like Eleonora. Chiara folded her arms, standing in mocking imitation of Eleonora’s stance, waiting to see what utter stupidity the slut had on her tiny little jealous mind today. “What is it now, Ellie-dear? Someone leave the toilet up again and you dropped your fat ass into it?”

“Always with the foul mouth and the bad attitude, Tesoro?” Eleonora smirked, having the little bitch right where she wanted her, “We’ve about had it with both. And your sloppy work.”

“Please, there is no ‘We’. Just you.” Chiara responded, matching Eleonora’s haughty smirk with her own, “You and your constant line of shit. No one else here has a problem with me and you know it. Now, what can I do for you this time? I’ve got someplace to go, and I don’t need to be late on account of you.”

“You think much of yourself, don’t you? Far too much.” Eleonora replied calmly. She stood several inched taller than Chiara and moved in closer, emphasizing that fact. By now several of the other girls had entered the hallway, each eager to hear more, each hovering like vultures slavering over some morsel to gossip about later on. Eleonora planned to use that against the little bitch as well.  “As it is, today I have received more than one complaint against you. Once again you failed to place your used towels in the bins. The maintenance people are sick of dealing with your sloppiness and so am I. Not to mention the fact that you left the facial machine running again. You know the policy of turning off your equipment when you leave the room”

“The maintenance people? Seriously?” Chiara mocked. She was not phased at all as Eleonora moved up on her. She always seemed to be the smaller woman. Mostly because those who got in her face were always older, fatter cows like Eleonora. She had no time for this. She had a ‘date’ for coffee with Paolo and did not care to be late. Instead of backing off, she moved in, her hands on her hips. Even though she was a bit shorter, her breasts were firmer and higher and pressed into Eleonora’s own softer pair with a primal challenge. “You must mean the three illegals Giovanni has cleaning the floors with dirty mops when we leave. The ones that smell of garbage ad sweat from living off the streets all fucking day. Those assholes are complaining about a mess? The only reason they’re upset is that they’re being paid shit by you and your greedy-ass fucking boss who takes half our fucking tips.”

The girls behind Chiara began to mutter in agreement, each already pissed about the loss of so much of their income to Giovanni’s avarice. Eleonora wasn’t prepared to have a conversation about that tonight, but she did have one last weapon to use, one that would strip Chiara of the girl’s support. “Be that as it may, you still refused to see to the last customer. You had the time free, but I still had to add Mr. Talvortelli to Yasmine’s schedule, and she was due to leave early today. You cannot keep loading the other girls with extra work at your convenience.”

“Mr. Talvortelli is a pig and I refuse to deal with him. You should not even allow him in the place. The fucking asshole literally drools over us. It’s disgusting.”

“Be that as it may…”

By this time, Chiara had grown tired of their conversation. It was time to end this now, and with a victory, in front of every skank in the fucking place. Eleonora had ruled the roost for too long and it was finally time to put the bitch away. She pressed forward, smiling in triumph as she felt Eleonora’s breasts give way before her own firmer, stronger pair, “I don’t know about you, but every one of us is tired of having to deal with the fat smelly perverts that come in here with their fucking cocks dripping. Why don’t you take a turn at it, bitch? You aren’t scared of taking care of some stranger’s hard-on, are you? Hell, from what I’ve heard you practically live for it.”

Eleonora was taken aback, wondering at and somewhat frightened of what Chiara could have meant. There was no wat the little tramp could know anything about that. Could she?  “I… I don’t… know what you could mean. Stay on the subject.”

Chiara moved in for the kill, sensing Eleonora’s fear. She pressed in, her firmer body and viscous smile pressing the other woman back a step. She had been saving what would come next as a surprise, her plans still only half formed in her mind, but she could tell there was an opening here. An opening for a crippling blow that she could not let pass. Letting her voice drop to a bare whisper, one that only she and Eleonora could hear, she stared straight up into her rival’s eyes, noting the confusion and fear that had suddenly appeared there. It would push her time schedule up dramatically, but this was far too delicious an opportunity.

“You know exactly what I mean, slut. You talk about us but you and I both know who the true whore here is, don’t we?” Chiara purred, a Cheshire smile growing across her cruel face, “But don’t worry, soon enough you and your slut cunt are going to be done. You’ve messed with me for the last fucking time and going to find out the hard way which one of us is the hardest bitch… Tesora.”

Eleonora stood in shock as Chiara pushed past her. She had somehow lost control of the encounter and now stood there numbly watching the other woman’s ass swaying off down the hall towards the front door. She could feel her body burning, her breasts still tingling from their confrontation with Chiara’s own, as her mind reeled back in shock and fear. There was no way the little slut could know! She had been far too careful. Far too discreet. Hadn’t she? And even so. Even if the little whore did know, what could she possibly do about it? Expose her? Eleonora would just dismiss it as lies. Viscous rumors and lies! Lies from a spiteful little whore! She would go to Giovanni tomorrow. Tell him of the cunt’s attitude. By this time tomorrow, she would be free of her!

Eleonora could feel her face flushing red in anger. She had to calm down. The other girls were still congregating at the rend of the hall, watching her, murmuring behind open palms. It would not do to appear weak or worried in front of them. Extending her spine to gain her full height, shoulders back, Eleonora turned to them sharply offering a look of pure fire. The pathetic little sluts scattered under that stare like startled rabbits and for that moment Eleonora felt somewhat better about herself. Yet still a feeling of uneasiness gripped her.

She returned her gaze to the front door. Chiara was gone by now, headed off to whatever dark pit she came from. First things first she thought. First to find William again. To prove to him, and to herself, that she was more than woman enough for even such as savage monster as he. Eleonora gave a slight shudder as her body remembered him, as her pussy throbbed suddenly to life at the very remembrance of his driving thrusts filling her, demanding her, challenging her, nearly ripping her in two! She squeezed her thighs gently together, biting her lip as she felt the moist heat already gathering there. Yes, first William. There would be time to deal with Chiara tomorrow. One simple phone call and the bitch would be gone.

Repercussions : Part Ten  (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

Eleonora collapsed through the door. It was with the last of her fading strength that she turned and locked it behind her, at last home and safe from a world that had so suddenly and viciously turned against her. It was nearing three in the morning and all she could think of through her exhaustion was to crawl into her bed and sleep, waking to find this nightmare over, the morning sun bringing with it the comfortable sanity of her normal life. She tossed her purse and shoes absentmindedly to the corner of the small foyer. Every step brought along with it a new burst of fiery agony, her designer heels never meant for actually walking, let alone walking the midnight streets alone, clicking along the dark pavement shouting her lonely vulnerability to any filthy gypsy or thief who cared to take her. Even the people on the bus, which had finally come after nearly an hour sitting alone on that hateful bench, had stared at her with their curious glances. She remembered with shame turning her head into the window, losing herself in the passing street lights, trying to shrink herself into the seat and away from their cruel judgement.

Eleonora staggered with that first step. Reaching out she lurched towards the small table which stood under the foyer mirror, nearly toppling the porcelain vase to the floor and spilling the small bouquet of daisies across the rug. They were her favorite flower. Franco, her husband and her dearest love, had kept that little vase filled with a spray of the bright yellow blossoms ever since the day they had brought it home from their honeymoon in Venice. The vase shone brightly white, its cerulean flowers hand-painted along the sides, lending even more beauty to the daisies which splashed forth full of life and happy cheer. Franco had kept that little vase full and fresh ever since then, a silent symbol of the love he bore for her. She ran her fingertips through the blossoms, feeling their delicate touch along her trembling fingertips. She thought of Franco as she did. Of his eternal and thoughtless love, his undying dedication to her happiness. The way he had always held her through the worst of times, held her tight in his unwavering arms and whispered softly that everything would be alright. That he was here with her. That they were together always. That everything she worried about would pass, whatever trouble or fears, and that they would be together to face the bright dawn that would always follow. She needed that now. Fuck, she needed that more than anything. His arms, his love, those confident whispered words. The security that came with it. The feeling of being so utterly sure and safe. As if the world and all its evils could somehow be banished, screaming into the corners, simply by his embrace.

She looked up into the gold-flecked mirror, staggered by the absolute horror that gazed back. Her golden hair, just hours ago tossed back proudly glowing with radiant life, was a snarled mess; in some places matted flat in others torn and wild in unruly strands. Her face looked a deranged nightmare of smeared lipstick and dark mascara that had dripped down her pale cheeks along with steams of hot tears. Across her jaw was an angry red bruise that led to a small cut on her quivering chin. How it got there she had no idea. Nor did she have any idea how her dress, her favorite blue dress, had gotten so stained and filthy, looking as if she had gotten it from some trashcan instead of from one of the most elegant of shops found in Bari. It was an anniversary present from her husband after their third year of marital bliss. She closed her eyes, remembering the first time she had tried it on for him. The look in his eyes. Of being told, once they were home, to put it on for him again. The way he had looked at her. The way he had torn the skirt up her thighs and taken her madly across the bed, turning her ass red as he had filled her spasming body with his lust. Her knees nearly gave out under her as she staggered away from the mirror, unable to bear the tired, beaten stare the Gorgon in the mirror was giving her.

The small kitchen was rank with the smell of burnt coffee. The espresso pot had overflowed, its dark liquor dried into the gleaming surface of the stove. Normally this would have her cursing silently under her breath as she reached for the nearest sponge, damning the insensible carelessness that it showed. Tonight though, tonight, she leaned into the stove-top with fresh tears rolling down from her eyes, stinging her cheeks. He was home. Franco was home. He was home and he burnt the coffee and he was sleeping in the bedroom, here and alive and waiting to take her in his arms and make everything go away. All the pain and the misery of her night, of her life, banished into so much mist just waiting for her in the next room. Eleonora leaned her head down, grasping the stove with both hands, tearful sobs wracking her body as her tangled hair pasted like tendrils across her wet cheeks.

Wiping her tears away with the dishtowel, Eleonora sniffed back her runny nose, replacing towel carefully on its rack as she composed herself. She clicked her tongue as she noticed that the white/orange cloth was stained with her ruined make-up, sliding the towel back off the rack and hesitating for a moment as she fought with the decision of whether to toss it in with the laundry or to just chuck it in to the trash. That silly indecision brought a smile to her face, the first one she had had all night. Franco had always told her that if it came to decisions like this, just say ‘fuck it’ and move the hell on. For once listening to his voice in her head, Eleonora lifted the lid on the garbage can, rolled the cloth into a tight ball, and fitfully tossed it in to join the week’s collection of trash. As the lid slid down, she put her shoulders back, oddly proud of herself. Shutting off the kitchen light, she walked softly into the main room heading towards the bathroom to clean up. She did not bother turning on any other lights. She knew the lay of their apartment from memory and even at this late hour the light of the streetlamps outside cast their gray beams across the floor. Along the way she slid off her ruined dress and tossed it across the sink, a complete disaster which would also find its way into the trash. She grinned as she tossed her head into the sink, splashing the freezing-cold water across her face, washing it through her hair, letting the soap do its lathered best to wipe the last few hellish hours from her memory. She scrubbed her face raw using Franco’s towel, which felt rough as sandpaper on her skin compared with her own. Satisfied, her face clean, her blonde hair lying flat but healthy along her shoulders, whatever bruises and marks faded to near invisibility she cleaned up the sink and shut the light. Along the way to their  bedroom she slipped out of her bra and panties, letting out an audible sigh as her breasts swung free of the fiery straps that held them trapped against her chest. Franco had always encouraged her to go bra-less, but that had less to do with her own comfort than with his own pleasure of watching her tits swinging free under her blouse; her naughty little rascal. Quietly she resolved for him to have his wish come morning. She would keep him at home, spending a lazy weekend with him, running about the house dressed in her tiniest little panties and no bra under her tightest t-shirt. It would be a special little treat for Franco despite his having abandoned her this evening. A special treat for herself as well as she allowed him to touch her, adore her, and to worship her as he drained his average-sized but forever lusty hardness into her needy little pussy. She opened the bedroom door naked, her pink nipples already budding as she wondered if she would dare waking him up from sleep for a quick romp.

Eleonora gasped, wide eyed in shock as they switched positions, unable to take it anymore as his cock battered her pussy from behind; needing more closeness. Without breaking contact for a single second, Franco lifted himself into a sitting position, allowing her to straddle him as she swung her knee over his hip - her body still shaking from their breathless fuck. In a tight, almost romantic embrace, they kissed. Deep passionate French kisses, their eager tongues dancing to the rhythm of their soft moans. His cock slid up inside of her deeply as they began slowly grinding into each other. The sensations traveled up their spines like fire. Her breasts pressed into his chest, her pussy pulsing soft around his hardened cock, her wet tongue playing inside his mouth… Franco felt as if he was being consumed by divine fire. When she broke the kiss, she let the arousal contained within out with a prolonged “Oooooohhh”. Eleonora watched in utter horror as the woman’s face was caught by a stray beam of light, her golden sex-mussed hair shining brightly. Pamela smiled; a beaming, happy smile; a perfect smile borne of a supreme and a very personal triumph. This all felt like lovemaking should feel. Franco was loving and gentle and incredibly passionate. She had been his slut tonight, or had she been his good little girl? Or did she genuinely happen across a man who could bring out both her loving goddess and her filthy whore in one? A romantic gentleman with a brutal need for cunt? Until tonight she had thought these men existed only in fairy-tales, and yet…

Their eyes met and suddenly they both knew what should happen next. Franco lifted her up and put down on her back down on the bed making sure her head was comfortable amid the pillows. His cock slipped out for a few seconds leaving her empty and mewling with need. Pulling each other into a simple missionary position, Franco quickly pressed back in between her burning cunt-walls where he belonged. Kissing her neck at first, he began. Pamela raised and spread her legs, gripping his upper arms tight in preparation, and he began thrusting. She was incredibly wet by now; wet, slippery, and welcoming every thrust as Franco pounded deep inside. He kept kissing her neck as she breathed hot moans into his ear. Pamela’s velvet-like pussy just kept giving, driving him on and on. His initial thrusts had now turned rhythmical, insistent, and unrelenting. She raised herself up and leaning on her elbows gave him an even better angle to hammer her breathless. Pamela was trapped under his full weight now, just enjoying the sensations, watching him with expressive, sultry eyes. But only for a while, after which she closed them softly, giving in to the serene pleasure they shared.

They were both entering the next and final stage now, swiftly moving past simple lovemaking towards a very serious fucking. Franco felt ferocious, animistic and she was his willing partner, his hot bitch matching his desperate ferocity with her own. His cock was slamming in and out of her gushing pussy easily now, each thrust accompanied by her grunts and squeals as they bounced together on the bed, the mattress groaning beneath them. Franco pushed her legs up over his shoulders, getting perfect access to her silky pussy into which he was ramming deeply; opening up her gaping cunt with each hard thrust of his hips. They both watched spellbound, the view was incredible, seeing his cock disappear inside her again and again. They shared their grunts and loving curses. The bed was squeaking beneath them as if it shared the sensations of their sex.

Pamela spread her legs as wide as she could, locking her knees behind her elbows, giving Franco the deepest penetration possible. He groaned as he hit bottom buried to the absolute hilt. The feeling was fucking hot beyond anything he’d experienced before. A new surge of blazing fire reached his balls. As much as he wanted to cum inside her, on her tits, or across her face - wherever! - even now he knew he needed to keep it in control. He wanted her to do it.

He pulled her up slightly and knelt in front of her, wrapping her legs around his waist. Then he led one of her hands to her clit and began massaging slowly. ‘Oh yes, little slut. You know what to do.’ To the sounds of his cock’s heavy thrusts and his balls slapping into her ass, Pamela was pleasuring herself running her fingers urgently fast up and down her clit in circular motion as she mewled and wailed, her orgasm building like a fire raging in her belly. Pamela added on her second hand just for good measure, screaming out Franco’s name as her mind cracked under the orgasm rising through her like an inferno. Franco was fucking up inside of her with rhythmical, hard, forceful shoves gritting his teeth as he lifted her up off the bed with each thrust. Pamela was biting her lips and writhing, but not trying to escape. Eleonora crouched in the doorway, watching in horror as her best friend in the world threw her head back and screamed, tears of love flowing down her cheeks as she held tight to Franco and let herself float away.

Pamela’s body went into spasms. Completely out of control, she grabbed her tits hard, nearly tearing the sensitive flesh with her nails, first just gasping out “yes, yes, yes!” several times in rapid gasps before blindly going back to rub at her squirting clit. The release came in a guttural, nearly inhuman, “Fuck, Yessss!” followed quickly by hoarse and throaty, "OH, MY FUCKING GOD, FRANCO! OH, MY FUCKING GOD!!” She grabbed at his shoulders, holding on for dear life. Her entire body shook. Franco grabbed her firmly by her hips, holding her in place as well as he could as a wave of shivers washed over her body. In that instant his balls let loose, releasing everything he had in one mighty explosion that filled her shuddering belly to bursting.

Eleonora fled, grasping at her stained dress as she ran. She did not want to watch anymore. She did not want to watch as Franco pulled her best friend into his arms and held her there against his chest in that soft loving afterglow, as they rested content in each other’s arms waiting in their sweaty, lover’s embrace for his cock to once more rise hot and hungry between her cum-sticky thighs.

Instead she slipped herself into her soiled dress and bent to pick up her shoes and purse by the door, nearly falling, nearly slamming into the front door as she tripped sightless behind eyes filled with hot tears. She lay there in the hall, cold marble under her bare feet, pressing herself into a corner. Thoughts of silence amid the echoing staircase of the building had been forgotten as she bawled out the shame and utter betrayal she felt, her face and arms rising with crimson as she sputtered and coughed out her soul’s agony. Other than her sobs, the cold hallway was silent, with only her thoughts screaming wildly at her as she lay there, crumpled into a tiny shuddering ball. Franco had betrayed her. The vision of him, of him and Pamela… together. Their sounds, their scents, the shared urgency of their sex made her feel filthy and torn open, her faith upended and ripped in half. The sight of her riding him, fucking him, shuddering in his arms, milking him hot and hard remained burned into her shattered mind.

She pulled her knees in tight to her chest, hugging them as she rocked back and forth on the cold floor alone under the dim florescent lights of the hall. Within her broken mind she imagined her Franco as he should be, taking her into his arms, pulling her in so close, and eager to claim her. To re-claim her as her body still quivered under the bestial assault of some over-sized and laughing stud. Her tears burst again with her silent wail, remembering the way they had treated her. The way they had laughed at her, her lusty and devoted young bulls, her tall black god. Once again, she saw Chiara’s face, her laugh, her cruel smile. She imagined the girl leading her William away, fucking him with her tight body and taking his seed deep in her ass as they both laughed at her embarrassment and agony. Laughed as she crawled beaten and alone from the club with only her shredded pride for company. This night was supposed to be so different. Filled with her own sense of righteous victory as she took his hot beast between her thighs, proving herself the perfect match for his all-conquering lust. And with Franco… Franco…

Franco was supposed to be there. Loving and devoted. Be there to pick up the pieces. Adore her. Nurse her broken body back to health. Remind her of how beautiful she was, how desirable, how needed. Remind her of how long her smooth legs looked when she wore those ridiculous heels; of how round and tempting her ass looked as it filled out her tightest dresses; of how it felt, warm and heavenly, as she wrapped him in her arms and moaned in quivering orgasm as they made love afterwards. Didn’t he say how much he loved watching her at play, watching as she seduced other men into her arms? Watching as he stroked his hardened cock as he let some strange young stud pound her senseless with his larger, rougher, stronger cock? Didn’t he say…? Didn’t he?

A rush of emotions tore through her. It did not matter, she thought. It did not matter. It was supposed to be different. His love, his lust, his devotion, his cock belonged to her and her alone. What matter was it how many… how many men there had been? They weren’t loves. They were hard cocks and muscled thighs. They were rough hands and uncaring fists. They were savage fucks and mind-bending orgasms. They were gallons of hot spunk launched across her ass and face, pumped deep inside of her cunt as Franco watched ready to collect what was left of her and bring her home to her bed. To his adoring arms. Damn it all, he was supposed to be hers, hers alone, hers to count on through thick and thin, to be proud of her and give her… fuck,everything they couldn’t! When had it all  changed? When had she lost him? When had she suddenly become not enough for him? When had he sought out Pamela, that fucking traitorous bitch, to give him whatever she… didn’t…? No, no, no! That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be! No, not at all! Franco belonged to her. Him and his love and his cock, hers! And she was supposed… suppose to…

The buzzing of her cell phone broke her out of her mindless screams. Scaring the living hell out of her as the insistent buzzing shook the Gucci leather in her trembling hands. Timidly, her fingers still shaking, she unclasped the purse and led her hand inside to grasp the annoying little piece of shit. The bright face of it glowed a insolent blueish light in the shadowed hall. She spat out a curse as she read Simone’s name flashing across the screen. Carelessly she flipped it left, abruptly ending the call but within seconds the phone buzzed again, and again and again as she spat soft curses attempting to ignore his unrelenting assault on her already fragile nerves. With her patience finally exhausted she flipped the screen right and hissed savagely into the phone,

“What do you want, Simone? Its not a good fucking time…”

“Ellie! Ellie, oh thank God you’re there!”, Simone’s voice rang through the empty hall, “It’s your husband, its Franco, he…”

“Franco? What about Franco?”

“Oh, Ellie! The man has gone mad!” her cousin whined, his words coming nearly too fast for her to understand. Behind him, wherever he was, a truck went by, its noise nearly drowning him out, “He’s beaten me, hit me, beaten me with his fists, kicked me, broken my nose, my fingers! He’s gone mad I tell you! He’s tossed me out of my home!”

“Kicked you…? Simone, you are making no sense.” Eleonora replied, wiping her tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand as she fought back her sobs, “Why would … why would Franco kick you out of your home? You’ve paid your rent to him, haven’t you? What reason would he have to hurt you? Make sense.”

Silence fell on the other end of the line as Simone tried to find some excuse, some reason that would not immediately cast him as the villain in her eyes. No, of course he did not pay rent to Franco. It was all part of the bet after all. ‘What bet?’, she would say. The bet, the reason for his anger? He fumbled through his tired mind for some other excuse, some other reason to explain his wounds, some other reason to explain his desperation.

“Simone? Simone!?”, Eleonora hissed into the phone, “Talk to me. What possible reason would he do this? Its… its …not the man he… is… he is.…”

Eleonora broke into sobs. Franco would never what? Would never beat Simone whom he hated, who always managed to say the wrong thing, the filthy little pervert who she herself would have cast off long ago if not for the promise he had sworn to his dying mother. Fuck, there were times she had wanted to beat the smarmy bastard herself and a part of her was glad Franco broke his fucking nose or whatever. She only wished she could have been there to witness it. But Franco would not? Not Franco? Never. Just as Franco would never fuck another woman? And Pamela? Her best and truest bitch of a friend? That fucking cunt of a lying bitch! That fraud! That Jezebel! That fucking God-damned slut!

It was her fault! Yes, it must be! The damned cunt seduced him! Who knew how long Pamela had worked behind her back, pretending innocence while planning to stab her in the back? She should go in there right now and… No. No, not now. Not looking like this. Like a piece of ragged filth off the street. She had to think. She had to plan her revenge. Franco was simply confused. It was her own fault, she realized as shame crept into her heart. She had taken him for granted, not telling him what he meant to her even as he was sweet and kind enough to allow her way. She would correct that, she promised herself. Things would go back to how they should be. They would find another place. Another club perhaps. But this time she would do things the right way. Perhaps involving him in her trysts. This time she would make sure he knew how she adored him, how she needed him. This time she would be so much better for him. Quietly and yet with a new sense of resolve, Eleonora picked herself up off the floor and headed out into the street to find a night’s bed with her cousin, Rita. It would take one hell of a story – car trouble, perhaps a robbery, her cell phone broken – but she would arise fresh and new in the morning, borrow some clothes, and then she would get her Franco back.

Simone heard his cousin’s soft sobs burst to life over the phone, heard the phone fall from her ear as she began to weep. The fucking bitch was useless, he thought. Disgusted, he hung up on her and slid his phone back into his pant’s pocket. He stood under a lamp post near to the edge of the town, at the corner of the park he had been sitting in for the last several hours nursing his wounds. He was in trouble. Trouble with precious little hope of explaining. He slid his hands into his pockets, feeling the spare change jingling at his fingertips. All told he had his wallet and exactly fifty-two euro to his name. He stood alone, the night’s cold seeping into his bones, a round little man standing on the street corner without even his jacket to offer him warmth. Everything he owned was locked in his apartment, its door and lock replaced just this afternoon and himself without the key. Franco had left him homeless, nearly penniless, and – without the many little black books and his little box of hidden secrets – terribly exposed to his enemies. He had no friends to call. No relatives that would help him. Or cared to. Eleonora was his last fucking hope and now she was busy having some stupid cry. Probably got herself fucked too hard by her latest cock, he though with a cruel smirk on his lips. Alone, he walked the streets his mind whirling as he rubbed his arms for warmth. Cut off from his apartment, he was left with nothing and no hope of surviving the week once his victims learned how defenseless he truly was. There was only one place left to turn. One person that might, if her were lucky, help him through this. Simone glanced at his watch. Morning was hours off. Bitterly he returned to the quiet of the park, sat down, and – fighting off the chill - tried to find some sleep.

Repercussions : Part Nine  (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

The sudden glare of the high-beams slicing by brought her out of her daydream. She had been sitting there behind the wheel of her borrowed Fiat for hours now waiting. Just waiting. Her hands gripped the wheel, her fingers trembling if not for the white-knuckled grip she had on it. For no reason she checked her face once again in the rear-view mirror. Feathery blonde hair cascaded across her shoulders, framing a face that might have graced the cover of Vogue with her bright green eyes and glowing complexion. She ran the tip of her tongue over her pink lips, feeling their velvet softness, closing her eyes as she lost herself with thoughts of his eager, lustful mouth pressing down upon them.

It had been so long. Oh God, so very long.

Pamela fondly remembering the last time she had felt a man waking beside her, slowly sliding his arms around her waist, pulling her in close. To wake up with a man’s breath at her neck, his rough hands gently cupping her breasts, quivering as his deep baritone voice broke the morning silence, his hard body sliding up along her own, the tickle of his chest hair on her back, the erotic scratching of his beard along her cheek, his thick strong cock easing between her spreading thighs… fuck!

She turned her head again to the street. Night had fallen early and the road was quiet except for the passing of a speeding car heading towards the highway or the slow shuffling of someone tiredly making their way home after work. Pools of pale light lit the street under the glaring streetlamps that led off into the center of town. The clock softly glowing on the dashboard read eleven now. She had been sitting here for two hours now dressed to kill in her sexiest clothes feeling utterly ridiculous, feeling like a fucking stalker, feeling desperate and terrified. Feeling like a complete and utter bitch.

Eleanora was long gone. She had watched the woman get into a cab an hour ago, speeding off to find and fuck her latest in a long line of goddamned boy-toys. The woman had been talking about it all damned week. Her strong, tall, powerful black bull and his tree-trunk thick cock. The man she just had to have pounding his way into her guts if it took everything that she had… including her marriage. Unbelievably ignoring Pamela’s not-so-gentle comments that her dear husband Franco might not actually share her apparent love of getting her stupid cunt stuffed with strange black dicks each week. She had seen Franco. She had seen his tired, strained face as he watched Ellie at play. As Eleonora flit about vainly seducing the young men around her, flaunting her irrepressible sex for the benefit of some stranger’s eyes while her own husband sat right there so clearly suffering. Seething. Gnashing his teeth around countless stinking cigarettes, his strong hands gripping the table they sat at as if ready to tear it to bits. Pamela remembered watching him as he drove her home from the club that night. His face a dark silhouette against the night, his hands steady on the wheel, his warm body pressed along her own in the tiny car. The way he addressed her, opened the door for her, offering his hand. His sweet yet manly scent as he sat beside her hiding his obvious pain behind meaningless conversation. The way the man moved. The way he spoke. The way he tipped the waiter. Held out her chair. Slid her sweater over her shivering shoulders as he escorted her from the club and out into the cold night air. All those tiny, little things that men did not ever realize were so erotically moving to a woman. At least to her.

The woman in the mirror gazed back at her accusingly. ‘Yes, damn you!’, she thought. The idea of spending another evening with Franco turned her on. She imagined his sure strong hands cupping her face, then tracing slowly down her curves to grab her ass, pulling her slowly into his kiss. Waking next to him in the morning with his arms pulling her towards him, his voice at her ear making her tremble. He was her friend’s husband… yes, fucking yes. Society would probably expect her to feel shameful at least, but instead she felt only her own yearning needs. Franco was a handsome man, his needs completely abandoned, and betrayed by a wife that knew only her own enjoyment thinking nothing of his obvious misery. Men like Franco were not easily found. Sure. Steady. Caring. Gentle. Just the type of man that Pamela herself had always wanted and could never find. Hell, Eleonora was fucking around all she wanted, offering herself wantonly to whichever young stud showed her the slightest interest. Leaving Franco to pick up the pieces. All Pamela wanted was one man. One particular man. Throughout Eleonora’s rattling praise of this young man or that, not once did she ever complain that Franco was less than amorous or less than able to perform in their bed. Actually, quite the opposite. How many times had her friend sat there complaining that her husband could not wait to have her, that he would not take his hands or his lips off of her, that his nearly constant sexual advances actually annoyed her as she was seeking out the rude sex of a stranger? Fuck it all, the woman had a loving, dependable man in the house who was consistently hard for her and she actually left the fucking house? Fuck, seriously, fuck!

Pamela began to fantasize about what it might be like feeling his hands and his lips each day, each night. His amorous thoughts only for her. Would Franco be gentle at first? Would he vent every ounce of his pent-up hate and frustration on her willing body? Call her his angel… or his slut, perhaps his hot fucking bitch? Shit, maybe all three at once! Maybe all those nights watching his wife fuck cock after cock had introduced him to the kinky side? Hell, if Eleonora didn’t want it, didn’t appreciate what she had at home…  Well, why the fuck shouldn’t they?

Suddenly, Pamela realized her hand was between her legs, slowly circling her warm mound through the thin protection of her lace panties. Shit, she had not even realized that her hand had moved there. When she did, though…she lifted a leg onto the armrest and leaned her head back against the seat lilting her head to one side to maintain her view of the street. With her tender, smooth pussy-lips pressed firmly between her two fingers, she began softly pleasuring herself with thoughts of what just might happen if her terrible plan came to fruition. Pamela became quickly aroused as she thought of those first moments. As she thought of his hand sliding under her lace bra, cupping her breast as his mouth found that heavenly spot along her neck that inevitably had her panties hit the ground in seconds. As she lay back, continuing her gentle attentions, more than a few ideas of what she was going to do with Franco passed through her fevered imagination. Soon the side window of the Fiat was blurred with her breathing.

Her fingers jerked away as her hazy vision spotted a car coming slowly up the road, coming to a stop in front of Franco’s building. Yes, it was him. There could be no mistake. The same squared shoulders and proud eyes scanning the street as he locked the car door. At the sight of him, Pamela shifted in her seat, her eyes popping open with a sudden sense of fear. She watched as he slid out of the car, slamming the door solidly behind him. The man’s cream-colored suit looked haggard and dirty and he moved as if each step brought him new agony. Quickly, Pamela dived down biting her lip hard, praying he did not see her.

Franco tossed the keys in his hand on the way to the front door of the apartment building, the slight ‘ching’ echoing along the street. Pamela watched, her eyes barely over the car door like some thief as he walked through the door, checking the mailbox out of habit, and then opened the foyer’s inner door with a handful of envelopes before disappearing from her view. ‘Well. It’s now or never, bitch’, she thought. She checked her face in the mirror again and then once more, cursing under her breath at a stray strand of blonde hair that staunchly refused to obey orders. Finally defeated she stepped out of the car, her heels ‘clacking’ loudly on the empty midnight road. Her hands shook as she smoothed her skirt out along her legs and she forced herself to take a few moments before daring to cross the street. Halfway there she realized she had forgotten to lock the car door, and to grab her purse. She ran back across the street feeling ridiculous, nearly catching the strap of her purse in the car door as it slammed behind her. She was forced to take another moment to compose herself and check her breathing. The last thing Franco needed to see was a flustered, red-faced, insane fucking wreck of a woman standing at his door at twelve in the morning. No, she thought. Instead he was going to find a sexy, confident, and composed… insane fucking wreck. Without any other excuses left to make, she shoved herself across the street and into her destiny.

The keys fumbled in her hands as she opened the front doors. Another thing to feel guilty about, she mused. She had quietly stolen the keys from Eleonora’s purse nearly a week ago. Poor Ellie was going crazy looking for the; fretting, wondering if she had lost them at the market or on the way to work. She was finally forced to have another set made while Pamela shamefully secreted her stolen set at the bottom of her purse wrapped in a sad wad of old tissues. She passed through the front doors, her hands still shivering as she reached out to press the elevator button for the fourth floor. In her fevered mind she thought of her favorites. Sophia Loren. Ludivine Sagnier. Meryl Streep. She pictured herself as all three. Poised. Sexy. Never shaking at the simple thought of a man nor at a loss for words. She pictured them in her mind as she walked towards the door. As she raised her hand to knock. Courageous. Poised. Terrified.

His surprised glance scanned her up and down, only stopping for a brief moment as they lit along her bared cleavage before focusing on her eyes. Her heart was in her throat, and the butterflies in her stomach were storming about madly. She froze, unable to move or to talk as Franco stood in the doorway.

Franco had just gotten home barely fifteen minutes ago. He had stood in the doorway of the apartment, his tired eyes adjusting to the darkness beyond the threshold. Adjusting to the terrible emptiness. No one was home. Eleanora, his wife and his love, was not home. He knew where she was, of course, and his soul shriveled with the thought of it. Staggering forward he slid his jacket off his shoulders, hanging the worn and sweat-stained coat neatly by the door as was his habit. He turned on the light, not truly needing to as he moved towards the lonely kitchen, eyes tight with pain. More than anything he needed a shower. He needed sleep. But his aching body could think of neither right now. Going slowly through the motions, he set the espresso pot on the stove inhaling its life-giving aroma as it simmered on the fire. A slow groan of pain escaped him as he slid his hopelessly wrinkled shirt from his shoulders, tossing it carelessly across the bed as he headed towards the bathroom to brush the stench of whiskey and cheap cafe coffee from his breath.

The face that stared back at him in the mirror frightened him. It was tired and haggard with two days’ worth of scraggly beard shadowing his jaw. His eyes drooped with a puffiness that drew even more attention to his dull and lifeless gaze. Displaying plainly to the world the terrible anguish that was devouring his soul. He reached towards his toothpaste with a trembling hand, the silence of the empty apartment crushing down on him. Eleonora was not home. She was out. She was there. His voice-mail was filled with her calls, her desperate and insistent pleas for him to come home. No, not because she wanted him home. Not because she loved him or was concerned about him, or - heaven-forbid - missed him. This was an important night for her they each repeated. Didn’t he know what an important night it was for her? Her night to find and fuck her latest bull. Her powerful big, black bull with his inhuman cock and deep loveless laugh. Her night to find with him something that Franco’s own love and devotion could never give her. He spat out the paste, washing it out of the sink as he splashed handfuls of ice-cold water across his face hoping to break his thoughts. Then he buried his face in a towel, hiding within its quiet darkness for a long moment as he took in deep, long breaths to steady his nerves. He began to laugh.

It was all done in an angry moment of blind passion. Suddenly Franco had found himself walking down that street, standing before that apartment building and… something inside of him just snapped. Without even thinking about what he was doing he was banging on the door, smashing it open, his mind a fog of tear-filled rage. The look on Simone’s face had been priceless. His shock and fear almost comical as the pathetic slug of a man fell to the floor and curled up into a sad, pathetic ball begging for his mercy through broken teeth. It could not have been himself, Franco thought. He had always been averse to violence. Rather settling things in conversation over a cup of espresso than with kicks and punches. He had known men who always went to their fists first and he had always despised them. But, he had to admit finally to himself, the feeling of tossing that fucking bastard down one staircase then another, seeing him crawling away with blood pouring from his broken nose, begging, screaming, wailing for help… Heaven help him, it had felt so fucking good after all he had been through.

The smell of burning coffee shook him out of his reverie and he dashed towards the kitchen nearly tripping over his own feet as he dived for the dials. The pot of espresso was already overflowing as he got there, boiling out its rich darkness across the white stove-top. Franco muttered a whispered curse as he reached for a towel to clean the mess, the scent of the burnt espresso waking him.  

The sudden knock at the apartment door startled him, causing him to nearly dump what was left of the coffee across the stove. Fearful visions ran through his head. It was after midnight. Who could be calling at his door so late, except  perhaps the police. Had Simone gone to them? Reported him for his attack? Had they come to drag him to jail? Worse yet, had something happened to his wife? Had they come to tell him of some horrible accident? An accident which his presence might well have avoided? Or was it just one of his some damned nosy neighbors come to find out what all the noise was about as he cursed and clattered in his kitchen at such a late hour? It couldn’t be the police he thought as he walked to the door. Though the knock was firm it was hardly forceful. He slid his hands through his hair as he reached for the doorknob, taking a last look at himself in the hallway mirror. Whoever it was knocking had hardly come at a good time. He looked like shit and he felt worse. Franco managed to share a dubious smirk with his reflection. He felt sorry for whoever was knocking.

Franco stood there stunned as he beheld Pamela standing in the doorway, her fist raised high for another try at the door. The woman looked positively dazzling, her golden hair cascading across her bare shoulders as her eyes shone bright  above her full, petal-soft lips. She took in a gasp, startled and looking a bit afraid as he opened the door wide. Slowly he let his eyes drift down her long body. The woman was dressed like a movie star. Her deep cleavage pointing downwards towards a trim waist, the curve of her hips feminine and inviting. Long, tanned legs stretched down from her skirt, which barely covered her smooth, sensuous thighs. Her heels only accentuated her firmly muscled legs, which his tired eyes lingered on perhaps a bit too long for just a polite glance. More, as he took the occasion to release the breath that he had no idea he was holding, he took in her scent. Lavender and wildflowers, sweet and rich and exciting.

Suddenly realizing that she still held her hand frozen in midair, Pamela quickly withdrew it to grab hold of the purse that she held at her side, gripping it like it was the last piece of driftwood saving her from a raging sea. Whatever she had planned to say, all those cool and elegant lines that she had run over endlessly in her head on the way up the elevator, had now drifted away in the breeze the moment Franco opened the door. She had forgotten how tall he was. Even in her best heels she was looking up at him, if only slightly. The man had obviously not slept in days. His hair was a tangle, brushed roughly over his scalp and his face bore lines of weariness that melted her heart with the pain that must have been their cause. Franco had stripped down to his undershirt in the time it took her to get to the door. Though not as well-defined as the young studs Eleonora was constantly chasing, Pamela could see the muscles lying barely disguised under soft, warm, and manly skin. Without thinking about it her eyes settled on his hands, strong and erotic, her mind drifting off to see them pinning her hips down to the bed or holding her face still as his lips took hers. A familiar warmth rose in her belly and she almost stumbled in place as her legs turned to so much jelly beneath her. She saved herself, snapping back to reality just in time before collapsing at his feet.

“Pamela.” Franco began, his voice coming out with a silent rasp as he forced his eyes from her body to lose themselves in the brightness of her gaze, “What are you… I mean what brings you here? Its past midnight. Eleonora isn’t here so…”

“Yes. Yes, I know but…. May I come in?”, she managed to reply, her own voice rising a shaky whisper as she tried not to feed the echo in the quiet hallway.

Franco stood aside, watching her as she glided through the tiny foyer. As she passed, he stole a breath of her, letting the sweet scent fill his lungs. He let his eyes glide down her slim back in admiration of her perfectly rounded ass and long smooth legs. The sudden twitch in his trousers alarmed him, his hardness growing at the sight of her, at the feminine sound of her heels lightly clicking across the marble floor. He cursed himself silently, closing his eyes, shaking the thoughts from his head as he shut the door behind him. She had walked into the kitchen, the center of the mess, the small room filled with the heavy scent of his burned espresso. She stood there staring at the stove-top, looking like she was considering whether to grab the nearest sponge and start cleaning up before the coffee dried hopelessly in.

“I’m sorry. I did not expect company at this hour. I’m afraid I let the coffee burn while I was… doing other things.” Franco explained whileholding a chair out for her “Please sit. I’ll make another pot. I promise not to ruin it this time.”

Pamela took the offered chair, tucking her legs under the seat and crossing her ankles demurely just as her mother had taught her, “Thank you. I think I might need one. I’m sorry for calling so late but I knew… I mean… “

Franco noticed the redness in her cheeks as she looked down at the table, her voice flustered with embarrassment. He moved about from the sink to the stove, cleaning up and going through the familiar motions of putting on a second pot of espresso. The match flared brightly between his fingertips as he lit the stove, setting the coffeepot to simmer. All very sane, mechanical, familiar movements that made the silence between them somewhat less… awkward. He heard the clink of flatware behind him, turning to see Pamela setting out cups and saucers on the small table, checking the sugar bowl, placing the tiny spoons just so as she unapologetically raided the cupboard. She caught him staring, averting her eyes from her own as she dropped a spoonful of sugar into his cup.

“I’m sorry. I can never sit still.” she said, “I never feel comfortable unless I am doing something, even setting a table. Please don’t think me rude. Its just that… it makes this fell less… well…”

“Awkward.”

“Yes. That.” She replied, suddenly able to look him in the eyes now that they had the table firmly between them. Her hands fidgeted and her nervousness grew, butterflies storming about in her stomach as she found herself helpless under his gaze once more, “Oh. Lemon. You take lemon, don’t you? Or do you want the Sambuca? I don’t know where that is but…”

“Pamela. What are you doing here tonight?” Franco asked, “You know that Eleonora is out, don’t you?”

“Yes. I know. I came for you not her. To talk with you I mean. About, well about Eleonora. About you.” Pamela whispered under her breath, easing herself slowly back into the kitchen chair to look up at Franco once more. “You are not happy, Franco.” She said, her voice quiet, her eyes wide with fearful anticipation of his reaction. Whether he would agree to talk or just throw her out on her ass.

Franco turned away, bracing his hands on the kitchen counter, fixing his eyes on the blue and white mosaic tiles that lines the wall below the glass cabinets. His eyes searched for the tiny repairs he had made over the years. The replacement tile that was not of the perfect color. The small scratch in the counter-top he had managed to sand out into near invisibility, the panes of glass he had replaced due to one mishap or another. Little prideful things that had filled his life with such joy even as his wife had praised him and told him that she loved him. A marriage filled with small, imperceptive victories and large, well-hidden lies. The cabinet glass was dusty. Eleonora had once kept them pristine, priding herself on how the apartment shone with light and cleanliness. She had not cared for the house in weeks, leaving whatever household chores for him to take care of. To be honest with himself he was not very good at it. There was laundry to be done, things to clean and dust, a near empty refrigerator to fill. It was like he had lived here alone for months. Alone and lonely as his Eleonora flit about planning some new and wonderful way to pierce his heart. He caught himself staring back in the cabinet glass. His eyes were weary and, yes, sad. It was late and he was tired, his day filled with deep sorrow and glorious elation. Yet he could not argue with the woman. Happiness was a long-forgotten idea, driven from him at the point of a bayonet. The choice before him, a choice he had already decided on, promising to bring even more pain along with it.

Pamela’s fingers slid along his shoulder, noting the terrible tension twisting his muscles beneath his tanned skin. She ran her hands down his arms, her senses thrilled by the manly layer of light hair that ran through her fingertips. His pain was palpable. His posture that of a man torn and defeated, yet somehow still bearing his pride. Gently she took him in. Noting each scar and imperfection. The way his ear curved slightly outward at the base of his earlobe. His dreadful need for a proper haircut. Without planning or thinking why, she leaned in and planted a soft kiss on his bare shoulder.

 “Eleonora wants whatever it is she wants, Franco. Many men. Young men. Brutal men. Something makes me believe she does not truly know what she wants. But I do. And I think so do you.”

Franco turned; the kitchen counter pressed to the small of his back. An amused smirk had appeared on his face as he looked down on her. Pamela’s angelic face and sensuous pink lips were so close, so beautiful under the soft yellow light of the chandelier which shone above them. He could feel her lithe body along his own, perhaps a breath away, so soft and pliable. Her scent, her wide fretful eyes, her warmth attracting him on so many different levels. The answer to so many secret prayers.

“Tell me what you want, Pamela.”, he sighed.

The feeling of his hand warm along her thigh took her off guard. More than that, it made her heart jump out of her chest and into her throat. Just a little more, and it would have probably flown. She could feel the subtle mirth of Franco’s eyes as she searched her mind for an answer. She could feel her face flushing red, her lips trembling in silent murmurs as her swirling mind sparked into a confused maelstrom of useless words and fleeting bits of thought. This was her chance and she was blowing it, all her stupid rehearsals and reasonings disappearing  like frightened soldiers fleeing the battle when it might be so very easily won. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“About what?” she asked meekly.

“About everything. Don’t think. Just talk.”

Her skirt had ridden up a bit, leaving her knee and the lower part of her thigh bare. His hand was there, his tanned skin almost dark against her pale flesh. He didn’t stroke or squeeze; he just held it there. His palm was warm and dry, his fingers strong but gentle. Pamela could not even describe his touch as sexual. It was more like a gesture of affection and friendship but nothing else. And yet, it was enough to send a delightful shiver down her spine.

“A husband. To be a wife. To do things for him. Cook. Clean. Care for him. Be his. His to love and find pride in. To make him happy. To fight by his side and bear his children. To make sure he lacks for nothing that I can give. To worship and adore him. Satisfy his every desire. Give him a home. All the things we both yearn for but cannot seem to find with anyone else.”

“Pamela… I…”

“These are things you can find with me, Franco. All the things you long for but cannot find. Things so easy to dream of but so hard to find. A life that cannot simply be wished for but must be reached out for and taken. That is why I am here, Franco. To reach out and take what I dream of.”

She was looking straight into his eyes. Amazed. Bottomless. She felt his breath on her face. Then he leaned in even closer, and she closed her eyes.

Her lips were already parted when he pressed against them. They met, soft and moist, and she felt herself being pressed against his body as he wrapped her in his arms. Her breasts squeezed against his chest, sending electrifying tingles coursing throughout her body. Franco’s tongue slipped between her lips, and she received it gratefully with her own. Her hands ran up his arms, feeling the muscles rise at her touch. Then upward, along his neck until her fingers locked around it. Her nails rasped through his unruly hair. His musky scent – of sweat and deodorant and something so much more – filled her senses.

Their bodies pressed together tighter as he pulled her closer along his own. Her back arched backwards as his kiss grew more passionate and for second, she thought that she would lose her balance. But Franco’s right hand shifted from her waist and settled between her shoulder blades, giving her support as she returned his passion with her own. Her hair had fallen across her eyes again, as annoying as ever. Pamela took his breath into her lungs as their lips sealed and their bodies writhed, legs and arms and hands sliding up and down, desperately needing to touch and feel every part of each other. She pulled her lips from his, reluctantly taking a breath. In that tiny pause between kisses she looked up at him, her heart pounding hard through her ribs. The look in his gaze was of pure, needful heat. She didn’t have a mirror, of course; but if there is an expression of pure, unadulterated lust, then in that moment, it must have been plastered all over her face.

"Yes?” she breathed.

“You’re so beautiful.” He murmured, twisting her around and pressing her into the wall, odds and ends crashing to the floor around them unheard and unseen. They kissed for a long while. All of the long denial and frustration disappearing between thoughtless words and shared moans. Pamela was amazed at how well he knew her. Somehow, magically, Franco knew just how she liked to be kissed and he gave her what she liked with lustful enthusiasm as she slid her calves up along his thighs, returning his need with her own.

His cock grew full and heavy between them yet he made no move to take them further. Granted, his kisses grew more intense, but his hips stayed still. Panting, reeling from the touch of his kisses trailing along her neck, Pamela felt her body responding to his.

"Can I touch you?” she asked finally, not sure what she actually meant.

”yesss…” he breathed. 

She reached between them and grasped his erection. It pulsed in response to her touch and she smiled. Franco gave her a deep kiss as she started stroking and squeezing his shaft.

“Do you want me, Franco?” she asked breathlessly.

In answer he slipped his fingers down between her legs, pressing along her moist pussy mound, rubbing her slit through the thin material of her now soaked panties. He moaned at the feeling of her warmth sliding along his fingertips. She must have felt it too as she jumped in his arms, a sudden and brief intake of breath marking her pleasure. Franco slid his fingers lower, gripping the bottom of her ass-cheeks and squeezing tight, forcing yet another groan from her as she lifted herself in his grasp. He continued caressing her ass cheeks, occasionally slipping his fingers into her softness, stroking along her darkly swollen slit.

“So, what should we do about this?” Franco asked as he continued exploring her folds. She moaned in reply, placing her head along his shoulder as she stroked his hard cock firmly in her hand. Franco slid a finger gently into her pussy. The woman was soaked, and his finger found the way slick and easy with barely no resistance at all aside from her incredible tightness pressing along his fingers. So much different than his wife’s as it responded with leaping shudders to his gentlest touch.

“Ughhhhmmm…” was all she seemed to be able to reply.

He inserted a second finger into her pussy, continuing the pressure with his thumb brushing back and forth across her budding clit. She braced herself, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders and locking one leg around his hip. Her voice was a series of quick grunts and moans as she panted out her vocal approval of whatever the fuck he was doing between her quivering thighs. Matching his movements, Pamela raised and lowered herself on his thrusting fingers, her legs shuddering madly as her eyes were forced deeper and deeper back into her skull.

"Perhaps I should take you to bed right now,” he grunted out, “fuck you bent over the bed, pounding my cock into that tight fucking cunt!”

He could feel her pussy tensing more frequently. She was approaching the edge and quickly, burying her face in his neck as her body thrust harder and harder down onto his cunt-soaked fingers.

”Better yet, maybe I should just fuck you right here.” Franco roared,” Against the wall. On the table. On the fucking floor. Fuck the hell out of you. Cum deep in your tight fucking pussy! What do you think of that?“

"Fuuuuuck! You’re making me Cuummm!!” she screamed, gushing all over his thrusting hand. Her body stiffened, her cunt walls squeezing down hard as he ground his fingers in deep. “Fuuuuckkk!” she repeated as her body jerked and spasmed, gushing wetness along his fingers, eventually after long moments calming down and releasing his fingers. Her panting slowed as he caressed her trembling ass cheeks holding her close to her chest to help steady her breathing. Franco lay his head down across her shoulder and rested, closing his eyes for just a moment.

Groaning, still groggy from her orgasm, Pamela started to move in his arms once again. Franco opened his eyes to meet her glazed eyes, her quivering lips. It took him a few moments to realize that they had actually drifted off. Smiling, he set her down on her feet, wrapping her in his arms as she steadied herself on her heels. Without a word spoken between them, he led her to the bedroom.

Repercussions : Part Eight  (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)

Eleonora hissed as she again looked down at her fading cell phone. The passing streetlights cast their glaring light into the backseat of the taxi in sudden bursts that left her softly cursing in the total blackness between them. Once again there was no reply from her missing husband despite a dozen pleading texts and his phone still went straight to voicemail each time she called. Neither the police nor the hospital nor his useless fucking friends had any word of him. At first, she had thought he was simply working late, perhaps in some back-woods area what had terrible phone service, but it was nearly ten. He should have called her by now if only to let her know he was alive. Franco knew what an important night this was for her. William, the bull of her dreams, was waiting for her at the club. Even now he was probably being surrounded by a dozen young whores, each fawning over him with their tight fresh bodies. None of which could handle him the way she could. Give him what only her body could give him. Need him as she did. She closed her eyes, taking in a breath, as she remembered having him between her thighs. She had never orgasmed so hard, screamed so loud, been driven so far towards the absolute bliss of complete sensual ruination. 

Her thighs began to spread, the moist heat between them growing impossible to contain. She bit her bottom lip hard, forcing her sudden need to subside even as her skin grew hot with the flooding memories. Eleonora groaned softly, wanting more than anything to reach down; to slide her fingers into that terrible ache and find relief in a quick self-inflicted orgasm… or two… or three! It would be so easy. Her throbbing pussy was already primed and eager. A few quick strokes were all it would take. Just a.. few… quick… flicking.. strokes….

Eleonora let loose a cleansing breath. There would be time for that later, she thought. The last thing she wanted was to deny William the chance to give her that first delicious orgasm of the evening. Besides, the back seat of a taxi with the driver as witness was nowhere near the appropriate place for such things. She might have been on her way to take on and fuck the most powerful stud she had ever dreamed of; draining him of every drop of his cum and every ounce of his sexual power, but she was still a lady after all. And ladies certainly did not play with themselves in the backseat of a taxicab, moaning and groaning for the entertainment of a stranger. Not that the driver would have minded, she smiled. She had caught the man looking several times. And why not? She had taken pains to look her best tonight. Her dark blue dress hugged every lush curve of her body, its color bringing out the brightness of her eyes. Her bright blond curls flowed across her bare shoulders, framing a face designed for seduction, red painted lips designed for kissing. 

She let the hem of her dress rise along her smooth legs as she saw the driver steal a glimpse of her in the rear-view mirror. His eyes went wide from lustful appreciation at the glimpse of her bare thighs, then disappointment as she let the hem drop once more, denying him any further view. She found that she liked playing such games with men. If only her husband Franco were here to enjoy it too, she thought, once again seething with anger at the man’s disappearance on this, what could be the most important night of her life. She would have to have a long talk with him when she got back. He would have to be punished for his lack of appreciation. Perhaps denying him the use of her body would teach him a lesson. She smiled, feeling another lovely twinge between her thighs, as she thought of Franco on his knees, begging to add his own sex to her pussy after William had finished with her. The thought of him desperately pounding his sadly average manhood into her as William’s thick seed still flowed hot and thick in her belly excited her beyond measure. Eleonora found herself digging her red nails painfully into her palms simply to resist the sudden urge to stroke herself to a screaming orgasm then and there. And to hell with the taxi driver.

Thankfully she was saved from that nearly overwhelming need as the taxi slid in towards the curb in front of the club. The place was obviously packed, with the pounding beat of the latest dance music blaring loud each time the red leather doors were opened to the street. Three large men kept guard at the front, each dressed in uniform black blazers, white Armani shirts open at the neck, and dark sunglasses to hide their eyes. Despite the darkness of the hour, the front of the club was lit brightly, casting the line of hopeful entrants in an unforgiving glare that showed each one’s desperate eagerness to be the next ones the bouncers allowed in. As always, single girls were let inside first. The shorter their skirts and deeper their cleavage the better. Any single men, let alone groups of single men, might as well have gone home. Unless they added generously to the thick rolls of euros the bouncers regularly took out of their stuffed pockets to slowly count. A reminder of how things worked here. Eleonora stepped out of the taxi, her smooth legs on display for the view of the three vary large, very muscular, and very exciting men at the door. She had always wondered about seducing them. One or all three. Feeling herself trapped helpless between them as they used her body as they wished; their hands and lips and hard cocks sending her soaring towards the sky as they each moaned her name. She made sure to give them each a perfect view of her ass as she leaned into the taxi’s front window to pay the driver. The fare came to most of what she had in her purse, but it would be worth every euro if William was inside. Snapping her purse shut, Eleonora watched as the taxi pulled slowly away, disappearing around the corner of the shadowed street. Summoning up her best smile and checking her face one last time in her mirror, she turned and strode confidently past the red velvet ropes towards the front door.

“Excuse me, miss. Where do you think you’re going?”

Eleonora was stopped dead before the massive chest of one of the three huge bouncers. The man towered over her and it had felt like walking straight into a brick wall as the man’s bulk filled her vision. He looked down upon her with an unfaltering gaze hidden by glasses so very black that they did not even gleam in the blazing lights that surrounded them. Like points of dead, empty space where his eyes should have been. She knew this one. The one that said yes or no, the one that ruled the long line of club-goers with a simple nod or uncaring glare. But never had they spoken, and never had he stood in her way. Eleonora stood back from him, confused.

“I… what do you mean? I’m going inside.”, she said quietly, somehow lost and unsure in the darkness of his eyes, “Just as I always do.”

“Where is your husband?” the dark eyes asked, the tenor of his voice like stones grating slowly along the pavement.

“I… I don’t think… he might be coming later on. I’m not sure.” Eleonora replied, her eyebrows knitting in her confusion. “What difference does it make? You’ve never stopped me from entering before.”

A nearly unnoticeable smirk appeared on the giant’s face. His lips were tight lines, barely there, marred by the slightest scar. A remembrance of a knife fight he had survived when he first started working the front door in his teens. The scar was barely detectable now, but still lent an unpleasant and sinister look to his smile to those who first saw it. As Eleonora did now.

“Your husband usually pays us the entrance fee when you show up.” He informed her, his gravely voice tinged with a slight amusement.

“What are you talking about? What entrance fee?” she bristled, “There is no entrance fee to the club!”

Turning his block-like head only slightly, the man directed her gaze to the long line of party-goers lined up past the red velvet rope. The line stretched half-way down the block. Young men and women lingered, some leaning against the cold stone of the building, others tapping out their tenth cigarette, each stretching their necks to watch and even giggle at Eleonora’s confusion.

Eleonora’s eyes grew wide. She turned away from them all, her cheeks flushing red with her growing embarrassment, “We always walk right in. I… Franco never told me about an entrance fee. I never saw him pay…”

The bouncer gave her a single barking laugh, “You’re usually dancing halfway down the corridor by the time he pays off the taxi. Of course, you never saw.”

Eleonora looked up at the bouncer’s stone face, her eyes flickering to and from the line of giggling young men and women waiting in line. She imagined each of them staring at her, laughing at her, not being able to wait until she were gone to begin talking about her among themselves. Making her the butt of their cruel jokes. She bit her lip sharply, breaking herself out of the quicksand of her thoughts, “How… how much does he usually pay?” she asked.

The bouncer, the human wall of grizzled muscle that stood in her way, gave that grunting laugh of his again, casting his eyes to the other two. When he looked down at her again his face and voice were both deathly still and deathly serious once more. Eleonora felt a bit of fear crawling along her spine as she looked up at him. Staring straight ahead her view barely touched his bull-like neck and her body seemed to shrink even further before him as the giant crossed his tree-trunk arms in consideration. She could almost see the wheels turning behind his void-dark eyes, though his thoughts remained a mystery to her. Finally, after a lifetime of nervously trembling under his gaze, she was snapped back into reality by his gravely voice.

“Hmmff. Normally he hands us a fifty when he shows.” he replied, expectantly.

“Fifty.” Eleonora whispered quietly in return. She unsnapped her purse, shame blossoming down her neck and into her cleavage as she removed nearly the last of her cash from the depths of the silken lining. For a brief moment she thought of protesting, of asking a favor, but she knew it would fall on deaf ears. And the thought of leaving, of returning home with her mission unfulfilled, or standing in line with the murmuring crowd… was unthinkable. She had to get in. To see her William. To realize her dream. Once she were with him, once his body was once again pressing heavily upon her own, all of this would be worth it. She would worry about what came later when the time came. Her heart pounding madly in her chest, Eleonora surrendered the euros to this man that held her from her fate and waited with patient dread to see if he would indeed let her pass. Her gaze fell to the man’s finely polished shoes as she stood awaiting the answer.

To her relief the velvet rope parted, the slightest ring of metal on metal easing her pulse and allowing her to release a breath she had no idea she was holding. Eleonora practically ran in through the opened doors, nearly tripping over a heel as she rushed in, desperate to escape her embarrassment and the laughing eyes of the people on the line outside.

She squinted in pain from the angry pounding noise that seemed to blast from every corner of the frantically shifting room; the newest and loudest of the day’s senseless musical tastes. A throbbing beat that roared from the club’s speakers like a runaway heartbeat, loud enough to drive any conscious thoughts from her aching head. Instead she simply concentrated on finding William. Finding him, seducing him, and spending the next few hours of the evening convincing him that she was the only woman who could possibly make him, and his beautiful body, happily her own.

The crowd was thick tonight, the place packed with people clashing back and forth a dizzying mass of shapes and colors. People were packed shoulder to shoulder on the dance floor and the neon-lit bar was four-deep with laughter as the bartenders struggled to keep up with their thirsty, half-drunk patrons. The lights overhead thrummed with the beat of the music, casting the noisy room into further confusion as darkness then light blinded her view of the crowd. Standing alone at the top of the stairs she found herself jostled back and forth, pushed and shoved by the couples coming and going, nearly knocked to the floor on several occasions as she stood up on tiptoes fighting to get a better vantage, searching for any face in the pulsing , twisting mass of humanity that was spread out before her eyes.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally spotted him. His massive frame dwarfing the men around him, his bald head shining under the light of a neon Guinness sign someone had nailed into the wall near the bar. He was smiling, laughing, the center of a knot of men and women that hung about him like an admiring flock marveling at their earthly god. She watched his mouth, imagining his roars of laughter as he threw his head back in appreciation of some unheard joke. His friends stood around him, drinking and laughing with him, some with their arms around a girl, others scanning the dance floor for a likely companion for the evening. Not that they had to look very hard. The place was packed with unattached women, each one casting their own eyes about for some handsome, well-built stud to cling to. Eleonora had never been part of that scene when she was younger, and she was not intending to be part of it now. Unlike those young and flighty whores bouncing up and down in their most scandalous mini-skirts and bra-less frocks, she knew exactly who she was after and would waste no time on any other. All she had to do now is figure out how to get herself through the packed crowd of drunken party animals to get to him without being trampled.

Digging deep to summon up her courage, Eleonora prepared herself to dive into the swelling mob. That moment came and went, however, as a slight tap on her shoulder nearly had her jumping out of her skin. She turned sharply, her startled eyes finally lighting on a doughy, pale-faced girl with far too much jewelry pinned into her face. She was not much too look upon; dead brown eyes nearly hidden under a careless mop of unruly hair, her skin looking ghost-white under the cruel lights flashing around them. She wasn’t dressed for fun, that was for sure. Her faded AC/DC fan-shirt and ripped jeans marked her as merely a waitress here, even thought Eleonora took a moment to notice the empty tray pressed under her arm, staining her worn-out shirt with spilled liquor. Yet, even though the girl might look familiar, Eleonora never gave much thought to the waitresses here,  being much more interested in the attractive men who worked behind the bar. Still, there was something about the girl’s soft round face that she vaguely remembered.

“Sorry to bother you,” the waitress yelled over the infuriating noise, “just wondering if Franco is going to be here. I’ve been keeping his table open.”

“Table? What table?”, Eleanora had to yell back.

“His table. You know. The one he always sits at as he watches you, you know? I’ve been keeping it open for him. You guys are usually here by now. He okay?”

“He’s fine.” Eleonora replied, suddenly unsure of what to say. She never did think of it much, Franco watching her as she… enjoyed herself. Sitting at a table alone. For a brief moment, Eleonora felt something in the girl’s dead eyes. If not actually a spark of life, then some kind of dark judgement. “I… I just don’t think he will be coming tonight is all. It is very nice of you to be concerned.”

The little bitch actually turned and walked away without saying a word, expertly maneuvering through the crowd as she disappeared from view. Eleonora wanted to call out to her. To say what, she had no idea. She had just gotten sick of the utter rudeness of the place, of the people here. It hadn’t been like this before. The snide looks and the constant shoving, the crippling doubt, the nervousness creeping up through her stomach. Franco had always guided her through the brutal swarm, held her hand, made her feel like a shining goddess with his very presence. She cursed under her breath, damning him once more for abandoning her so callously on such an important night.

Screwing up her courage once more, she held her head high and drove herself into the milling throng. A confused milling mass of humanity blocked her path, tossing her slim body back and forth as she fought her way through with her purse dangling comically over her head. A small knot at her left broke out in laughter, pressing her into another group that was pulling back pints of ale in a frothing spray of cheap beer that stained her dress. Someone to the left burped. Others laughed. Still more pushed past her on their way back to the crowded bar or towards the packed dance floor. Several times she lost her way, dizzy from the unending nightmare as the flashing lights and raucous noise drove her to mad screams in an effort to keep hold of her fragile sanity.

Finally, she had cut though the bulk of the insane human mass and found herself pressed into William’s small circle of friends. She knew a few of the young men standing there. She had taken each to bed at one time or another. Felt each of them cursing and thrusting like mad beasts between her thighs. Each one had adored her, worshiped her with their mouths and strong young bodies. Fabrizio with his messy blonde hair. Angelo with his wide devil’s smile. Giovanni with his scratchy growth of beard. Each one had made love to her, gifted her with nights filled with passion and the wondrous feeling of their proud sex surrendering to her own, filling her belly with their soft heat, her delirious mind spinning with the power of their virile seed. They stood there, each with a young worshipful slut under their arms. Young desperately pretty girls, none of them old enough or experienced enough to give their men the nights of passion only she herself could give them. Eleonora looked into the faces of each of these smiling young bulls, remembering fondly their strong naked bodies and delicious energy.

Each one of them would be a prize worth having, but tonight she had eyes for William and none else.

He stood there as if alone. A tall statue of shining black marble, his shirt open to the waist revealing miles of solid muscle which only whispered at the power of his sex. His Lacoste shirt was short-sleeved and stretched tight around upper arms built of corded steel. Eleonora shuddered with happy memories of those strong arms gripping her, holding her, pinning her to his powerful chest as he took her… Oh, dear God, took her and sent her spirit flying in blissful agony as he sated his endless need on her shaking body. Eleonora stepped towards him, pleased beyond measure as he returned her smile with his own. She could feel the manly heat radiating from him as she moved even closer. The heady scent of him; his sweat, his cologne, the sheer maleness of him. She had forgotten how tall he was. Looming over her like some titan out of mythology. Her tall, dark-skinned Roman god of lust. Her hand reached out to touch his chest and  her eyes closed as she bit her lip in anticipation of that first blistering touch of the divine. She took in a final nervous gasp of breath just as her fingertips brushed the smoothness of his chest.

Eleonora opened her eyes in fright as her wrist was grabbed and twisted aside, nearly pulling her to the floor in a sudden yelp of pain. Sharp red nails sliced into her flesh as she fought to pull away, nearly tripping across the sticky filth of the floor. All around her, couples burst out in laughter. Their heartless faces turned in to cruel masks, fingers pointing gleefully at her anguish. Her boys, her men, and her lovers being chief among them. Each had either doubled over in laughter or stood leaning on the young girls who laughed besides them in intimate, familiar hugs. William too was laughing – his deep Caribbean voice booming out over the rest - even more when Eleonora winced in agony once more, her pale arms twisted and bent as she was shoved back into the circle of curious onlookers that had suddenly appeared. Eleonora righted herself, spitting fury, nursing her burning wrist as she shook the hair from her eyes. Her teeth were gnashed in a fearsome snarl as she looked up to confront the unlucky bitch that had dared to touch her; to embarrass her in front of her man.

Chiara stood there, her arms crossed and with the most wickedly evil of sneers marring her otherwise lovely face. Like Eleonora, she too had come to the club dressed to kill. Her merlot-colored dress hugged every inch of her curves, gliding across her slim hips to stop short along her thighs to reveal just enough of her toned legs to attract the eye of every man she had passed. Her raven dark hair flowed across bare shoulders, neatly covering the hinted curve of her cleavage. Small, hard nipples pressed against the front of her dress, her firm young tits standing bra-lessly proudly before her like sensual weapons brought boldly to bear. Patiently waiting, she stood between Eleonora and William, her killer heels giving her enough height to easily match her reeling opponent.

Eleonora found her feet, but her head was spinning, What the hell was going on? What the fuck was Chiara doing here? And what the fuck was she doing here dressed like that and standing between her and her William? Eleonora turned left and right seeking answers, only to cringe back from the frightening laughter of the surrounding crowd. A crowd that included the men that she had, until a moment ago, thought adored her. Yet of all of them, William’s laugh was the most cruel. He laughed at her plight, caring nothing of her embarrassment or anguish, even as he slid his hand across Chiara’s flat belly, pulling her back into him as if more than proud of his new pet. Chiara slid her own hands across his covetous arm, reveling in his affections, even as she leaned back into him. She looked like a child compared to his powerful height, but she still managed to stare down at Eleonora like the hellish demon she was.

Eleonora could not find any words, her heart was caught firmly in her throat. Her skin burned in pure hatred for the bitch, yet her mind was too shocked, her pride too hurt, to clearly think. For some reason all she could see was Chiara’s hair draping across William’s bare chest. Of all the hurtful sights and sounds that surrounded her, that was what struck her the hardest. The pure intimacy of her fucking hair pressed along William’s chest as the man continued laughing. At long last, and with all her reason still fled, Eleonora managed to finally speak, although perhaps not loud enough to compete with the pack of hyenas which had surrounded them.

“What… what the fuck are you doing here, you fucking bitch!?” she cried as her face turned red with hateful rage.

“Why I thought it would be obvious even to a stupid cow like you. You wanted to take my job? Well, I’m taking your life. Piece by piece, bit by bit. Starting with your fucking shit-righteous holier-than thou goddamned pride.”, Chiara smiled, her own form cold and contained as she spoke. She leaned back, nestling in William’s one-armed embrace. She slid one slim, bare leg sensually up along William’s, loving the way it made Eleonora’s face twitch just watching her taking possession of his lustful attentions. Just to make Eleonora seethe even deeper in her anger, Chiara slid one hand behind her, gripping William’ eternally hard cock and running her ass up and down along his cum-heavy balls. She did not turn around, but by the look of consternation on Eleonora’s face, William must have been enjoying it immensely. “Fuck, I can’t wait to get this monster of his stuck deep inside me. I won’t rest until I’ve drained this beast dry. Something William here tells me your tender ass couldn’t come near to doing for him. He tells me you had to be carried off stone-dead before he was halfway near done. Poor boy even had to do all the work. Well, he won’t have that problem with me. Unlike you I can do more than just talk about making a man happy.”

For a moment, Eleonora was thinking of just rushing the bitch. Scratching her fucking face off in front of everyone. She was mad enough to do it, her heart pounding frantically in her chest.Her hands were already bared like claws and all it would take was one tiny bit of effort for her to be all over the little whore. Maybe once Chiara was on the floor begging for her fucking life that smug face of hers would be less offensive to look at. Maybe then the sound of the crowd’s laughter and the filthy looks would fade away and these fucking people would all go away… go the fuck away and leave her the fuck alone. But her William was watching. They all were watching. Laughing. Pointing. Making fun of her. Her own studs and lovers, looking at her and just… just… laughing! What the fuck was going on? How did she enter this nightmare?  And where the fuck was her Franco to pull her out of it? Fuck them all! She wasn’t some lewd spectacle! She was more than that, she decided. She was a fucking lady, more that this little cock-sucking dollar-a-yank whore ever was… and she was going to act like it!

Eleonora drew her hand back, settling on a very lady-like slap across the little bitch’s smug face. But just as she drew near, William’s hand shot out, pushing her backwards before she got within three feet of the slut. Eleonora stood there amazed, her hand still raised in the air, staring up at William’s smiling eyes. Her purse still dangled limply from her left hand as she settled back on her heels. The fucking son-of-a-bitch was protecting her, holding Chiara close while… while pushing her away! Laughing at her. After everything… after everything they had shared. All that she had done… suffered just to be here for him. To prove to him that… that…

“You fucking bitch! You… you… Fucking… Goddamned BITCH!!” she screamed, burying her face in her hands to hide her tears. “He was… they were… mine…”

“Fucking shit! Don’t you get it already? Are you really that fucking stupid? These assholes don’t like you!  You’re just some Milf slut for them to screw when their girlfriends aren’t around. You actually think that Wil-o-mine here likes you? That he sees you as anything but a convenient fuck?” Chiara had removed herself from William’s protective embrace, now standing face-to-face with Eleonora. Somehow standing over her as Eleonora winced back in her rising shame. Each of Chiara’s words were striking home. Each accusation lent an air of truth by the heartless eyes gathered around her and the harsh laughter they shared at her expense. “God! All it took for me to get the ugly bastard to fuck you over was the promise of my ass sliding down his cock! That’s all any of these jerks ever cared about! Not you and not your flabby old cunt!”

Eleonora screamed, her face turning into a mask of savage hate. She reached out with her hands, intent on strangling an apology from Chiara’s throat. Chiara fell backwards, now visibly frightened by the spiteful harpy that she herself had unleashed. She stumbled back into William’s arms even as Elenora’s fingers began to close around her neck. The crowd behind her was roaring now, shouts of “Fight! Fight!” being chanted by dozens of half-drunk patrons delighted for this night’s unexpected entertainment. Fuck them! Eleonora thought. Her blood was racing, her heart pounding wildly in her chest as hot tears ran down her face which burned red with anger. Fuck the crowd! Fuck the God-damned men and their God-damned bitches! Fuck William too for that matter! All that mattered now is killing this fucking slut! Killing her and shutting her fucking mouth forever!

She never got the chance.

Pain tore at the back of her skull as her blonde curls were nearly torn from their roots. Suddenly she was spinning around, tripping over her heels trying to stay upright as the world spun around her. In desperation she reached out, stumbling towards the bar as her attacker finally let go of her hair and sent her nearly face first into the brass railing. It was only by pure chance that she had been able to grab the thing and remain upright. Else she would have ended up a disheveled lump on the floor. She slid her hand into her hair as she turned, grateful not to have come way with her fingers covered in her blood; although the sharp pain searing through her scalp was bad enough. Once Eleonora was able to balance herself against the bar, she found herself once more surrounded. A crowd of strangers laughing at her, pointing and laughing, poking fun at the ragged tramp that had been tossed among them. As she turned, hiding her eyes from them, she managed to catch a glimpse of herself in the massive mirror that lined the wall behind the bar. What she saw made her heart drop in her chest. Her once beautiful face was flushed red and stained with mascara dragged down by her heavy tears, her proud golden hair a crow’s nest, her dress stained. She nearly cried out but could not find the air as her lungs let loose a silent scream in the shape of Franco’s name. Timidly she looked back up into the mirror to see her attacker standing close behind her, her hands balled into fists, her face twisted into a sneer of anger.

Vittoria Capaldi was indeed angry and was no stranger to a good fight. She’d kicked the asses of bitches way tougher than the skank she was looking at now and had the scars to prove it. Scars she was fucking damned proud of and made no effort to hide. Ones that her boyfriend, Lorenzo, thought were sexy as all get out as he was pounding away, hopelessly trapped between her legs. Unless of course he was busy fucking someone… something… else when she wasn’t around to keep his balls drained. When Vittoria first spotted Eleonora, or Tina… whatever, enter the club she was ready for a fight. She tied her long black hair in a short pony-tail that hung halfway down her back and she had taken off her favorite stiletto heels to switch to the flats she kept in her purse, stashing her jewelry there as well. She had handed the purse off to one of her friends, one of her many friends whose wayward boyfriends had all taken their turn fucking their cocks into this puta’s fucking hole!

“Come on, bitch! Come at me. Everyone’s fucking waiting.” Vittoria sneered out, “Let’s make this interesting.”

“Why are…? Who the hell are you?”, Eleonora gasped, her eyes burning with tears, lost in complete disbelief that this night was happening. God, what had she ever done to deserve this? Who were these people? God, why had they all turned on her? Why had Franco turned on her? Left her to this nightmare? Why, she screamed inside her feverish mind, Fucking why?

“Who am I? Let me tell you who I am”, Vittoria replied, rocking on her toes like a prize-fighter as she closed the distance between herself and her prey, “I’m one of the girl’s whose men you’ve been fucking behind our backs, that’s fucking who I am you fucking cow!”

Eleonora lifted herself up, bracing her hands on the bar rail behind her, trying to stretch herself up to her full height, trying to find something left of her shredded pride. She cast a quick and painful glance back to William and saw his arms still wrapped tight around a smiling Chiara. Heartbroken, Eleonora watched as he massaged one of her breasts with a possessive hand. One hand covering her mouth in laughter, Chiara still had her other behind her. Eleonora melted inside, crushed by the thought of Chiara stroking William’s massive cock; that insanely strong, pussy-stretching cock that she had been pining over all the week long, thinking foolishly to be her own. 

Now, alone, surrounded by enemies that up to this night she believed to be friends, she poured what dignity remaining into her reply.“Your boyfriends? Your  men? I never forced them. I never flaunted myself. They came to me.” She said proudly, “They all came to me because they wanted me. Because they wanted something you could never give them.”

“Hah! They came to you because we weren’t around, and you were an easy lay.” Vittoria shot back, her hands going to her firm curvy hips as she looked to the crowd, leading them all in a shared laugh. Eleonora’s spirit sank as she saw Lorenzo, once one of her favorite studs, come up behind Vittoria and give her ass a solid and loving spank. Smiling, Vittoria grabbed his crotch possessively to the amusement of the crowd. It was a simple and vulgar act, but it more than proved her point. “This is my cock, bitch. Get it? You were just lucky enough to keep it amused until I got back. Same for every other cock in this fucking place. You were just the lucky slut they chose to use while their women were away. Well, guess what? We’re all back now, bitch, so you can drag your fat ass home. Or you can stick around and maybe, just maybe be allowed to take our leftovers. If you beg for it nicely. Your fucking choice.”

Eleonora was struck dumb. Her whole world, her whole sense of self had been crushed and brought down around her ears in one heart-breaking moment. How could she have fooled herself? She cast her eyes around the room. The lights had all gone on. The music stopped. The whole club, everyone in it, strangers as well as those young men she had loved and foolishly thought she was loved by … they all stood around her snickering. Holding back their hateful laughter by the slimmest thread. Waiting for her to do… something. To fight. To crawl. To crack into a thousand shattered pieces before them. No. She would not give them the satisfaction. She still had that much pride left despite… despite it all. She slid her hand carefully along the bar, her entire body was shaking. The slightest misstep would be her undoing. Placing one foot slowly in front of the other she managed to get to the end of the bar. The snickering crowd parted before her; a taunting sea of ugly faces. From the bar she made her way slowly towards the stairs that led to the club’s bright crimson doors. The bouncers from before would be there. The line of curious onlookers, each destined to hear tales of this night. Of the shamed bitch that had made her way shamefully from their presence. Never to be seen again. Laughed at. Beaten. Disgraced. That foolish tramp who thought she was better than everyone else. Who staggered out with her face painted in tearful ribbons of black mascara.

Eleonora walked blindly past the front doors. She did not even see the three huge men, the line of club-hopping hopefuls that stared after her in curious wonder. When she had gotten perhaps two, perhaps three streets away she reached into her purse looking for her cell phone. She wanted to go home. She wanted a shower and sleep and her own bed. Only when she reached deep into the silk lining did she realize that she had spent almost all of her cash on the taxi ride here and the ‘fee’ to get into the club. A taxicab was out of the question now. She thought of trying Franco one last time. An idea that fell miserably from her mind as soon as she thought of it. With no other choice left to her, Eleonora walked through the night, under the uncaring light of a quarter moon, to take her seat on a lonely corner bench, and waited alone for the bus to arrive, with only her broken soul for company.

Within the club, laughter reigned for a while. The music was again blaring under the flashing club lights and the dance floor and bar were again packed thick with sweating and perfumed humanity. Chiara took in a deep breath, silently thanking her friend Paolo for his advice as she tried to come up with some simple, non-sexual way of rewarding him. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a pair of huge, manly hands circling her waist, gripping her breasts. She found herself pulled back, her ass pressing into a frighteningly large and sinfully hard slab of man-meat that could only have been William. She looked up, meeting his eyes far above her. The big black stud was smiling wide, his eyes blazing with thoughts of pure sex. She had seen those looks before. Hell, she had seen them every fucking day since she hit fifteen! But none as compelling, as powerful, as full of the promise of her own blessed destruction. For a moment she went weak in the knees, pressing her ass back long his throbbing shaft, feeling its ungodly weight as it slid between her ass-cheeks. She let out a slight gasp as she felt herself moisten as he smiled down at her, as she let herself imagine that first heavenly moment as the head of his enormous cock slid past her pussy-lips.

Chiara twisted around and pushed herself out of his grip. Firmly disgusted with herself she headed towards the front door not bothering to look left and right at the crowds of pathetic assholes and assholettes that got in her way. She got almost to the stairs and up to the front doors when he grabbed her. His hand encompassed nearly all of her upper arm, he was that big, from her shoulder nearly down to her elbow. She turned to look into those eyes of his again, this time finding his patented sexual ’smolder’ replaced by a look of anger, and no small amount of surprise.

“What gives with you, eh?” William demanded in his thick, barely understood island accent; half native-Creole and half barely-Italian, “We were going to go together. Have sex together. You said you would ride my cock dry, did you not? Now you come with me and see if you are any good for Wil, eh? Or just bullshit.”

“Fuck I’m just surrounded by idiots tonight, aren’t I?”, Chiara actually laughed in his face… well, up at his face… as she pulled her arm out of his grasping hand. “Are you fucking kidding me? You think I want to get raped by that stupid horse-cock of yours? I only told you all that bullshit to fuck that bitch over. What kind of sick slut do you think I am? If I want sex, I’ll have it with a guy who can make me cum, not make me scream for a fucking paramedic! Go find yourself a horse to fuck. I’m leaving.”

Chiara strode out of the club still grinning, leaving William standing there in complete confusion in her wake. Her quick footsteps matched the beat of the heavy rhythm thrumming behind her as she stepped through the bright leather doors and out onto the open street. Ignoring the bouncers and the crowds, she stretched her neck up on tiptoe searching for him, smiling as she spotted the old Volvo waiting patiently down along the shadowed street. Her Paolo was there, resting at the wheel, waiting for her patiently as he had been doing for hours now. Chiara waived to him wildly, rushing across the cobble-stoned street as fast as her heels would allow, singing out his name. The man woke with a start as she reached the door, planting a massive kiss on his cheek as she swung her arms around his shoulders, her face bright with a happy smile. Her smile was infectious and soon found a place on Paolo’s as well, decades of wear sliding from his face as his eyes lit bright at the sight of her own.

“I take it everything went well then, cara mio?” Paolo chuckled, noticeably not stealing a look down Chiara’s offered cleavage as she bent into the window. Chiara had such a beautiful smile, he thought, sighing inwardly. But he was far too middle-aged and fat for her. Chiara was young enough to be the daughter he never had, and he was happy enough to settle for her friendship. He opened the passenger door, unfolding a sweater to wrap around her shoulders, “Now get yourself in the car and tell me all about it. You know I love a good story.”