Dangerously In Love (18 page)

J
ust before they reached the bed, Marc stopped unexpectedly and turned to Chanelle. Cupping her face with both hands, he kissed her passionately. She returned the kiss and embraced him in a python-tight hold. Marc was everything she desired. He was the type of man she could easily love.

Suddenly, Marc pulled his lips away from her mouth. Chanelle uttered a small cry of protest but, unwilling to appear weak in the midst of battle, she reluctantly dropped her arms and summoned the strength to meet his gaze with a self-assured smile.

“Sensation,” Marc said softly, stroking the side of her face. “I dig you, you’re something special, ya know. But I gotta tell you something…” He paused, allowing the effect of unspoken words to sink in.

Chanelle swallowed hard. “Is something wrong?”

The hand that had caressed her face was now pointing at her. “Do I look like a cunt?” he exploded. Anger sparked in his eye so his furious expression wasn’t a pretty sight.

“No!” she exclaimed, confused.

“So why ya treatin’ me like I’m a fuckin’ cunt?” he demanded, gesturing wildly while his head moved furiously from side to side.

She felt the blood drain away from her face. Marc’s sudden and terribly frightening rant was completely out of the blue. In a matter of minutes he’d gone from hot and horny to an out-of-control beast.

“What?” she finally squeaked out. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead, betraying her fear.

“You callin’ the shots around here?”

Chanelle was completely thrown. What had happened to the prince of a man who’d kissed her hand a few minutes ago? Too stunned to speak, Chanelle could only shake her head. Marc was starting to remind her of the crazy nephew on
The Sopranos
—the one who had his own fiancée gunned down like a dog. She’d been so attracted to Marc’s good looks and wealth, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might be a bloodthirsty member of the mob.

“I wear the fuckin’ pants and—.”

A rush of hysteria forced Chanelle to mentally cut off Marc’s verbal rampage; she could not listen to another word. Frantically, she began to bargain with a higher power:
Dear Lord, if I get out of this alive, I’ll never turn another trick; I’ll go back to school and get my GED, I’ll get a regular job, I’ll—

She halted her internal rambling when Marc draped an arm around her shoulders and concluded his tirade. “Understand?” It was more a command than a question.

Chanelle had no idea what she should understand, but was so relieved that his mood had shifted from murderous to mellow that she lowered her head in contrition and murmured, “Yes.”

Satisfied, Marc put both arms around her and kissed her forehead.

All was forgiven. He wasn’t in the Mafia after all! He was high strung and had a bad temper—that’s all. Now back to the important matter at hand…his money and becoming his wife. If she wanted to reap the benefits of his long paper on a permanent basis, she’d have to pussy whip him into saying, “I do.”

She was going to have to stay on top of her game and make sure she didn’t push any more buttons that made him behave like Tony Montana in
Scarface
at the height of his rage.

He took her hand and pressed it against his erection. “See what you do to me?” he accused.

“Sorry,” she replied.

“Well, get your ass over there.” He shook his thumb like a hitchhiker and pointed her in the direction of the king-sized bed.

It was an insulting gesture. Disrespectful as hell. But, pleased to have another shot at the good life, Chanelle shrugged it off and pondered the best way to deliver the goods. Marc didn’t like sexually aggressive women; he’d made that abundantly clear. And realizing that there was just a scarce few rich, handsome, albeit hot-tempered and possibly unstable single men left in her playing field, it was best to go along with his…hmmm…the only word that came to mind was
fetish
. Yeah, she’d have to start clicking off emotional switches in order to cope with his weird sex demands.

She stripped off the lingerie, tossing each piece into a fluffy red pile, and flitted over to the bed. With her entire financial future resting on her performance, she obediently stretched her shapely naked body on top of the shimmering 600-thread-count European duvet cover. Her body had never touched bed linen as luxurious as this. It was a pity her state of duress prevented her from fully enjoying its sumptuous pleasure.

Marc crossed the room and stood beside the bed. He gazed down at Chanelle, his face serious as he studied her position. With eyes filled with recrimination, he unexpectedly smacked the side of Chanelle’s ass. “Spread your fuckin’ legs,” he ordered.

Chanelle winced, though not from pain. Marc was treating her like a common whore and she was deeply offended. The heat of indignation scorched her cheeks, but she was obligated—there was money on the line. So she indulged his crude request and ever so slightly parted her thighs.

Marc climbed on the bed to mount her. “Damn,” he complained when he discovered her legs were not completely open. Using a knee, he forced her legs wide apart and muttered, “Open ’em, you fuckin’ bitch.”

Bitch!
she shouted incredulously in her mind. Astounded by his audacity, she lay motionless wondering how she should respond to such extreme verbal abuse. And then she felt it—a warm stickiness accumulating between her legs.

With Marc’s Gestapo-brand of foreplay, she should have been as dry as a desert, but instead, she was inexplicably turned on. Her pussy had betrayed her; it was sopping wet.
What the fuck was happening here?

Squeezing her eyes closed tight while biting her lip, Chanelle tried to control the waves of pleasure that coursed though her when Marc used his thick undulating middle finger to probe her syrupy slit. “Mmm,” she whimpered in defeat.

With his free hand, he grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her ear to his lips. “Are you ready for the smackdown?” He spoke in a rough whispery voice.

“No! I’m not into that freak shit. I’m not into pain,” she shouted, horrified. She’d let this lunatic go too far and now she was about to get her ass whipped. Chanelle instantly raised up on her elbows; Marc’s finger slipped out.

“Oh, you don’t want the smackdown?” He asked slyly, as if she might miss out on a wonderful surprise.

“No, I don’t!” She shrank back and wrapped her arms around herself protectively.

He examined his sticky finger. “Your wet cunt is telling me a different story.” Then he looked her in the eye. “Your cunt is beggin’ for the smackdown.” His voice was low and sexy, diminishing some of her initial fear.

“I…uh, don’t think I wanna be smacked around,” she stammered, shaking her head emphatically.

Marc laughed hard, then suddenly grabbed her ankles and yanked her into a prone position, pulling her closer to him. Chanelle’s eyes became huge circles of fear; she let out a small cry.

With the crook of his arms, he cradled the back of her kneecaps and forcibly spread her thighs. Sitting on his haunches, he positioned himself inside the open space between them.

“You’re gonna love the smackdown,” he boasted as he slowly slid the tip of his growing thickness into her secret place.

It felt so good, Chanelle ceased to breathe for a moment, and then, yearning for more, she arched her back and rotated her pelvis.

“Want some more?” His voice was hypnotic as he eased in another inch. Chanelle grimaced and writhed; her pussy screamed for more.

“You want the smackdown…don’t cha, bitch?”

Both insulted and aroused by his offensive language, she heard herself shouting, “Yes!” She didn’t know what to expect and no longer cared. Marc had awakened a different kind of passion and she had lost all semblance of self-respect.

At that moment, she was no longer Chanelle Lawson, a coherent, clear-thinking young woman with a personality, goals, and dreams. She had slipped into a state of consciousness where she was pure pussy—pulsating, throbbing, and ravenous.

As he drove deep inside her, Chanelle could hear her vagina making hungry slurping sounds, opening and closing at his command.

He pulled out slightly.

“Oh God, don’t stop,” she cried. “Feed my pussy…feed it!” she screamed and reached out to grab him—to pull him back. She wanted him buried deep inside her; she wanted the perspiration from their bodies to glue them together groin-to-groin.

Marc, however, had other plans. Changing her position, he pulled her to her hands and knees and then situated himself to mount her doggy-style. Chanelle felt like crying: her pussy had been abandoned and she wanted the dick to return.

On all fours, she thrust her butt upward, clenched her teeth and braced herself for the hard internal thrust her body craved. She felt his hands grip her shoulders; her pulse racing in anticipation. Then the head of his penis touched her slippery entrance, teasing it, and Chanelle pleaded in a hoarse voice, “Fuck me!”

In circular motions, he rubbed the head against her clit, taunting her, teasing her, making her beg. Unable to endure another second of this delicious pain, Chanelle pushed back hard and worked her vaginal muscles to capture and tightly hold the dick. A long sigh of satisfaction rushed past her lips as she clenched her muscles even tighter as if to squeeze out the very essence of his soul.

Greedy for deeper penetration, she released her hold for a nanosecond and Marc promptly wrenched himself free. Weakened from unrequited passion, Chanelle felt wobbly, but remained on her hands and knees, waiting determinedly to be pleasured from behind.

An unexpected stinging sensation took her completely off guard, causing her head to bang into the headboard. She gave him a stunned look and silently rubbed her tingling butt cheek.

“You like it rough?” Marc growled contemptuously.

Chanelle’s response, a head nod and an orgasmic moan, was all she could manage as she pondered the possibility that she had absolutely lost her mind.

“Yeah, I thought so,” he replied snidely. “Well, guess what? I’m gonna give it to you rough.”

Burrowing her knees into the expensive bed cover, she steadied herself, preparing herself for the next blow. Marc smacked her ass hard. Chanelle jerked forward. He smacked her again. And again. She grabbed a pillow, buried her face in it to muffle her cries of passion.

Then the smacking suddenly stopped. Marc placed both hands upon her burning butt and lovingly caressed her cheeks. “Are you my good girl, Sensation?” he asked, changing his tone from gruff to sweet.

She wanted to assure him that she was indeed whatever he wanted her to be, but her voice caught; she couldn’t speak.

Marc reached beneath her and cupped her firm breasts, squeezed them as he suddenly plunged into her pulsating pit of dripping hot lava. He drove hard and fast with wild abandon, knocking Chanelle off her knees.

He fucked her until she lay exhausted. Flat on her stomach, panting, arms and legs splayed, smacked down.

And through the haze of post-sexual rapture, she realized the slaps to her ass were merely love pats. His rock-hard dick had given her the real smackdown.

F
ate was on his side, and the occurrences of the past few days couldn’t have turned out better if he’d written the script himself. Puffed up with pride after successfully overthrowing his tyrannical wife, a breakfast fit for a king was in order: pancakes, fried potatoes, eggs, bacon, grits, and buttered toast.

The sun shone brightly through the thin frilly curtains at the kitchen window as Reed rubbed his growling stomach and took inventory of the food on hand. There was so much diet shit in the refrigerator and in the cabinets; he hoped he didn’t have to make a quick run to the grocery store. Delightfully surprised, he found every single item required for his feast.

Whistling as he whipped pancake batter, Reed couldn’t recall ever feeling as light and free as he did today. Dayna’s presence, he now realized, had been a persistent dark cloud hanging over him—suffocating him.

Stupid bitch
, he thought bitterly. Dayna, with all that education, didn’t have a bit of common sense.
“Reed, I want a divorce; I’ll buy out your share of the property. If we handle this like mature adults, we can have this whole thing
resolved in ninety days and with your share of the money from the house, I’m sure you can find a really nice place,”
she’d announced, calm and self-assured as if it were perfectly reasonable to suggest a man just up and move from his own home. But her little stunt backfired—she was out and he was in!

He shook his head, amused by the uncharacteristic violent nature his wife had displayed the other night. It wouldn’t take much to get her rattled again. If he jumped out of a corner and yelled
boo
, that jittery bitch was liable to start slinging knives at him. He hoped she didn’t miss because the next time she spilled a drop of his blood, her prissy ass had better be prepared to do some hard time.

But he’d cross that bridge when she returned from her thirty-day exile.

He picked up the last forkful of scrambled eggs, chewed quickly, and gulped them down. His stomach was full, but he felt a sudden gnawing irritation brought on by another kind of hunger—a hunger so ravenous it refused to be denied. However, undigested food made him feel sluggish; he didn’t feel like leaving his new bachelor pad to hunt down some pussy. Not yet; maybe later.

Scooting his chair away from the table, Reed sprang up to go get a stack of pornographic DVDs that were tucked away secretly in his car—an emergency stash he relied upon when times were hard. Like now.

He came back inside the house and shuffled through the freakish images on the DVD covers, but nothing suited his mood. Then he came across a DVD case that featured a fresh-faced young jogger, abducted and mis-treated by a group of crazed sex-freaks. The sweet-faced young woman was kept on all fours and locked up in a chicken coop. Though he’d seen the film countless times, he vividly imagined the rough sex and torture scenes, which shocked and aroused him anew.

Disregarding his head injury, Reed sprinted up the stairs to grab a tube of lubricant. Smiling when he returned to the living room, he popped in the DVD, unzipped his pants, and curved his fingers into position to pacify the stiffening that had already begun.

With the remote in his other hand, Reed settled in for a few hours of undisturbed pleasure.

By two that afternoon, Reed needed a quick fix. No more self-administered manual relief. Blasting music in his Lexus while cool air pumped from the vents, he cruised around the city, getting out of his car only occasionally to check out a strip club here and there.

But as expected, the pickings were slim on this sweltering June afternoon. Only burned-out druggies and skeezers of the worst type were traipsing about in strip joints at this hour of the day.

There was no sense in trying to seduce a regular woman. The kind who earned a regular paycheck was still at work trying to get away with doing as little as possible until she could grab her purse and jet at five o’clock on the dot.

It didn’t matter because with the exception of Dayna, Reed didn’t have any use for regular working women. His casual affiliations with the women on his job didn’t amount to much, being that he didn’t have the patience to try to persuade them to do the kinky things he liked.

Having sex with his wife had been bad enough. In fact, it became an unbearable chore.
Prissy Dayna
, he thought grimly as he shook his head. His wife couldn’t fuck worth shit. He’d only married her because she seemed so eager to give him a ticket to the good life. Hell if he was going to turn down a free ride.

After their marriage, however, she’d started trying to change him, turning up her nose at everything. She no longer liked his car—an old but reliable ’94 Honda. She didn’t seem to mind it when they’d first met, but she didn’t think the Honda looked like the type of vehicle that should be parked in the driveway of their impressive new home. So, he just sat back and let her think she was handling things. She seemed so self-satisfied and smug when she co-signed for his Lexus, like she expected him to kiss her ass for the next couple of decades. Fuck that! He didn’t owe her anything. All she wanted was to use him as a sperm donor.

Fuck that stuck-up bitch
, he thought with a sneer as he turned onto Delancy Street. He figured Buttercup was probably still asleep.
Too bad; she’s just gonna have to wake the fuck up
. He pushed his firm penis in a more comfortable position and got out of the car.

There was a deadly look in Reed’s eyes as he approached the front door. He gave the old wooden door several hard, defiant raps. He hadn’t forgotten nor did he appreciate what Buttercup’s great-grandmother had made him do the last time he was there. If she knew what was good for her and if the nasty old crone liked living, she’d better stay the hell out of his face today.

He knocked and knocked but no one answered, so he kicked the old wooden door. Still, no one responded. This baffled him because he could hear the TV blaring in the living room, a clear indication that someone was home.

Confused and frustrated, Reed stepped back onto the pavement, cupped his mouth, and shouted toward an open upstairs window, “Buttercup, I mean, um…Darlene!” He alternated calling both names loud enough to awaken Buttercup, but careful to keep his voice at a volume that wouldn’t alarm neighbors nearby.

Then it came to him—the idea to try the side basement door. Break the lock and sneak in. Maybe he’d creep upstairs and reenact one of the rape scenes from one of the movies he’d viewed earlier that day. It would serve her lazy ass right for sleeping the day away.

With a pocketknife, he worked on the rusty old padlock swinging from the basement door. Perspiration poured from his scalp and soaked into the bandage. The salty sweat irritated his wound and plastered his curly hair to the exposed part of his forehead. Using the fabric of his T-shirt, he wiped the sweat from his face and persisted in twisting the knife this way and that until at last the lock popped open.

He looked up and down the quiet street and decided the entire block was taking a siesta. As he entered the dank, dark basement, knocking cobwebs out of his way, he formulated a devious plan.

He’d pounce upon Buttercup’s sleeping form and with his knife pressed against her throat, he’d silently warn her not to make a sound. Then, when she settled into complacency, he’d take her forcibly from behind. Ah, the thought of giving life to a mere fantasy was as intoxicating as quickly guzzling down a forty-ounce bottle of Old English.

Since Buttercup considered herself his girl, he knew she’d laugh with him afterward and playfully punch him for scaring her out of her wits.

Squinting in the dark as he stealthily made his way through the smelly basement, Reed startled himself when he bumped into the hot water heater. It rumbled in response. No sooner had he recovered from that little fright when he heard a rustling in a corner and a dreadful whiny sound.

Deathly afraid of rats, he groped around for a light switch, gave up, and frantically began waving his hands in the air searching for a chain or a string, anything that would shed some light on this awful situation. Finding nothing, he decided to leave.
Fuck it…I’m out!

He heard more rustling sounds and then a frightened, shrill voice called out, “Who’s that?” Suddenly realizing the voice belonged to Dottie, Reed let out a breath of relief.

Crazy old bitch
, he muttered, and then angrily moved in her direction.
I can’t believe I fucked that old bitch; it’s a wonder my dick didn’t fall off
. Perhaps he’d give her a sharp kick for scaring the shit out of him or grab a handful of wooly hair and give her head a good shaking.

“Dottie,” Reed whispered with annoyance in his tone. He could have easily ignored her and continued with the plan he had for Buttercup, but he wanted to extract some measure of revenge. Hurting Dottie, just a little, would make him feel better about what had happened between them. After messing with her, his dick felt so dirty, he cleaned it with soap and water and then showered his jawn with an entire bottle of Listerine.

Reed kicked his foot out as he inched his way toward the area where he thought she was hiding. Then he heard a wheezing cough. He drew his leg back as far as he could and then kicked out—hard. But instead of landing a blow to a bony leg or a soft stomach, he felt something hard and metallic, then heard something fall to the floor.

Whatever he kicked drew Dottie from her hiding place. It was pitch black, but his eyes had adjusted slightly to the dark and he could see the light-colored fabric of her housedress.

Muttering and cussing, she scooted across the floor in pursuit of the rolling metallic object. Unable to catch up with it, she switched to an awkward crawl and then pounced upon it. From Dottie’s unintelligible murmurs, Reed made out the words
thief
and
money
. He instantly remembered Buttercup’s claim that her great-grandmother had money hidden in a coffee can.

Dottie sat on the floor hunched over, her arms wrapped tightly around her prize. Reed crept up on the old woman and crouched down. Did he dare to hope that Dottie was actually holding on to a can filled with money?

“What do you have there, Dottie?” he asked, using a gentle tone. Then he roughly tugged at her wrist and peeled away one gnarled finger at a time.

Dottie let out a yelp and twisted away.

“Make another sound and I’m going to crush your skull. Now, give me whatever you’re trying to hide.” Reed didn’t care if he had to snap both her arms like brittle twigs—that can filled with money was his!

Overpowering the helpless old woman, Reed pried her arms apart. A short stout can tumbled out; it made a loud clatter as it again rolled across the floor. Reed stuck out a foot and stopped the rolling can. He picked it up and used it to knock Dottie upside the head hard enough to silence her annoying whimpers.