STEVE'S MONKEY'S PAW by Neale Sourna Page 5

  “Young Ms. Gaines is a brat. Brushed against me and believed my growing hard-on was for her; said she could . . . ‘take care’ of it for me. So, I suggested a little taste test.”

  Goddamnit. I want, no, need this dick . . . and this fucking penishead’s got Chief Gaines’ daughter on her spoiled, bony ass knees sucking his cock. He smiled like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

  “Weak technique, weak tongue, no throat or gag control, no fucking skill whatsoever. Didn’t even know what to do with her hands. Wasn’t worth the time it took to slip on the rubber, and tire out her jaws . . . not with you in serious heat out here.

  “Artemis, you seen the type, always pushing up on a man, like she knows what to do with him. And doesn’t. Figured a man-sized cock stuffed down her immature gullet would shut her the fuck up. Give her something to tell her Spelman sorority sisters, once the sore throat’s gone and her voice returns.”

  I was getting impatient about getting hold of his “man-sized cock” and was still standing above him on the wall, when I let him touch me, with one hand. If a man can’t get you going with the minimum: a look, a word, one hand, or tongue, then he won’t be able to deliver the rest.

  Guy chose well, and directly. His hand slid up between my knees and turned to stroke both hot, smooth thighs, until he found my “silken-haired”—Stosh’s phrase.—pantyless crotch. I was already breathing a little too deeply, and sopping wet, had been all night, knowing he and his brother were circling, doggedly pursuing me.

  I was definitely feelin’ it.

  His fingers knew what they were doing, as my snatch ached sharply and I closed my legs tightly around his gently rude digits, which he thrust up, deep into me . . . thumb pressing increasingly, mercilessly on my swollen clit.

  Simple things; but, soooo many get it wrong.

  Exceptional. I so wanted more than a few long phalanges, and abruptly pushed him out of me. I could see his digits glistening in the night, covered with my wet, which he took his time smelling, as if committing my scent to memory, before sucking the taste of me off them.

  He purposefully, teasingly walked away, as I jumped down, in pursuit, and unzipped him. He watched as I reached in, and pulled out a weighty, well-heated, swelling . . . and lengthening, prime alpha boner, that my eager, little hand immediately—.

  The bastard snatched it from me, pushing me against the brick wall, up onto the little step—which has I’m not sure what practical purpose other than equalizing our heights nicely. Those eyes. Medium brown. Root beer or . . . . God, what ingenious shade(s) is that? They darkened with lust and scrutinized every centimeter of my face, then trailed down, before dawdling with his information gathering palms at my breasts. In his pleasant preoccupation, I’d slipped my hand back around that exposed, upright beauty of his, and its two extraordinary, sweating and ready for sport companions. His hands dropped to hold onto my waist, as his eyes half closed while I stroked.

  Damn. You could dance by the strong, pulsing beat throbbing in that motherfucker.

  He suddenly looked at me, before yanking up the front of my dress. His nose flared, filling with my aroused scent, as he audibly sighed, appreciatively, and so did I when his fingertips lightly stroked my humid bush. I simply don’t believe in little sculptured pubic patches or childlike, hairless cunts. I’m not a goddamn Italian gardener . . . or a damn child.

  If you want a woman, who looks like one . . . and fucks like one, you come to me. And this motherfucker was stalling.

  “You said you wanted to fuck me. So . . . fuck . . . me.”

  For an LT, most of whom couldn’t find their own soft, inward-drawn, tiny dicks on bright, sunny days, he took orders well. He clasped hard onto me, as he took literal physical possession of my bare ass and dove; plunging up into the deep end, deliciously smashing me back into his custom-made jacket, snagging it against the prickly, biting bricks.

  God, I love the cologned scent of this man, and . . .

  . . . I love the way a man’s cock, no matter what size to near bursting outside of a cunt, swells even more upon contact with Grade A pussy. I’d been more than right about Lieutenant Guy Fellowes, a true prince of purple royalty and positively Olympic gold. Excellent, because I really was in no mood for coy, gentile, intramural soft . . . ball.

  When I’m like this, and I’m more often like this than I care to say, it’s Big Show hardball or nothing.

  And, that was certainly not “nothing” I had hard and alive and feverishly buried deep between my hungry thighs, his pants rubbing against the soft skin inside them. He paused a while, my sweet cunny having a damn good grip on him, as he pulled up one of my legs ever so high, to deliciously slowly push even deeper into me. I’d . . . I’d never felt any man throb so hard . . . like that . . . inside me . . . .

  Breathtaking.

  [story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]

  Let’s just say I was feeling very mean.

  She’d stood out pale and still and very out of place on the active dance floor, in that diversely colorful crowd and the same could be said when Cassie followed me to my roof. Well, Gina’s roof. My temperature was already running too hot on a chilly night, my pink leather jacket cast aside, as I lay on my precarious, cold, stone ledge, nearly exactly where Guy’d come to me that first night.

  I was feeling the driving beats from the dance floor below coursing through me, and I startled her when I asked what she wanted. Not what the Hell she wanted, merely what she wanted.

  “Ren.” Wow, she’s so very much come to the wrong person.

  “Well, Cass, since he and Guy both cut my name from their dance cards, simultaneously, I suppose even you could arrange that.”

  She seemed really odd, more so than usual. Normally, she was sort of annoyingly, cloyingly perky, tonight she was solemn and . . . driven. As if she’d come hunting. A predator Miss Cassie is not. Yet, she’d stepped deep out of her comfortable, private country club zone, deep into “ethnic”, “urban” territory looking for me, in this place, where it was painfully obvious she was unfamiliar with the terrain and terrified of the locals, yet had known exactly where to find me.

  Someone was tickling her keys and getting her to play a tune she didn’t know, or couldn’t play correctly.

  I almost felt for her.

  “He’d said he’d sent you packing—.”

  “‘He said . . . ’? Ren told you that?”

  “Oh, yes, that and lots more . . . whore. (Ouch.) The things you’ve made him do. Pulling him down to your level. No wonder that . . . that last time with me, he was so—. Why won’t you leave him alone?”

  I didn’t answer that, angry people, especially ones feeling righteous, never shut up, so you might as well preserve your energy, until the opportunity when they wind down or worse.

  “He . . . he actually cried, he came to me for solace and forgiveness and . . . .”

  ‘Solace and forgiveness’ . . . and tears?, from the hardass king himself? Pun intended. Someone must’ve gotten laid very “tender” and the like.

  I didn’t have to ask, I knew. Ren’d gone to her, wound her spring ever so well and gently, as she likes and craves, then sicced her on me. Goddamn that Guy. This was some of his shit, instructing Ren to use Cassie to fuck with me; and Ren, no doubt, having a fine time of playacting sweetness and gentility.

  I am so not having this.

  Fuck that innocent dupe crap, fuck them, and fuck her for being so fuckin’ stupid not to know that silver spoon up her tight ass sphincter had evidently been stolen from someone truly innocent, by her hardworking, underhanded moms.

  God! She’s still talking, I wished she’d shut the fuck up!

  I jumped down.

  That scared her.

  I was gonna hit her, but freaking her out seemed instinctively a more fun thing to do, which is what happened when I grabbed her by the back of the neck and kissed her, hard. Tongue and all. It wasn’t great. Not because she’s a woman but because she’s Cassie.

/>   She shrieked from the back of her throat, as well as she could manage, since my tongue was deep in her maw, as I also fondled her. It took her a while to think of it, and even longer to get up the nerve to do it; but, she finally shoved and I let her push me off her.

  Interestingly, she didn’t wipe her lips, or spit. Isn’t that what most people do when something wrong gets in their mouths?

  “Ren was so right about you, he said you weren’t my friend.”

  “I always said I ‘weren’t’ your friend.”

  “You want him for yourself. You’re in love with him.” I am not being nice to her anymore.

  “I suck his cock, the way he likes it sucked . . . unlike with you, Cassie, who doesn’t know what to do with one. Then, he fucks me, unrestrained, down my throat, in my cunt, and up my ass, until his cum shoots out my nostrils.”

  A visual exaggeration, but she got the picture.

  “That’s our ‘love’ making. We ‘love’ what we do with each other and to each other, and Guy watches us, then Ren watches me do Guy with whatever nasty little things Guy and I ‘love’ to do. Same bed, at the same time and sometimes, many times, most times, both are in me at the same time.

  “There is no . . . ’love’. And, you, silly bitch, are the furthest thing from Ren’s mind when I’m riding his brother’s impressive cock, and his own long, thick dick is shoved, like he loves to shove it, to the hilt up my ass.”

  She punched me.

  Well, at me, missed my face, and hit my shoulder. It wasn’t a Ren punch, or as powerful as any number of other punches I’ve received from loving admirers while stalking that so thin and nearly invisible line between Crime and the Law; but, I wasn’t feeling very Law-like, was tired of her not getting the point, and just really sick of stoppering, redirecting . . . the energy—.

  I hit her.

  She went down in a gush of blood, and I went down on her. Well, I jumped her ass to beat the shit out of her.

  Someone . . . someone(s) were screaming my name, as if I were doing something outrageously wrong. Come on. A rich, former private school bitch like this needs to get a trouncing at least once in her—.

  Che forcefully yanked me off her and flung me aside, as Rummel checked to see if Cassie were too damaged. I never noticed how badly off she might’ve been since, when I landed, I noticed instead, several yards away—Guy standing before a stooped down, near mirror image of Keanu Reeves, Ren. Both tall, handsome predators coldly surveilling the carnage. If dearest Che had charged a roof admission, he’d’ve cleaned up.

  Guy tossed one of his fine, Irish linen handkerchiefs to me. —Oh. Red on my wet, hard knuckles.

  Rummel called on her cell phone for an ambulance and asked Che to carry the bloody princess away, then she asked me to come with her. I turned to her to answer but . . . felt Guy and his heat move closer behind me. I did manage to answer.

  “No, Jilli.”

  “Artemis . . . Arie , come with me.” She grabbed me.

  “No!” I shoved her away. Hard. Which scared both of us.

  “This isn’t like you, Artemis.” Take note, she glanced up at Guy with great hatred. “You’re falling too far, Arie, and when this woman presses charges—.”

  Guy cleared his throat, he was laughing but almost attempting to hide it from Rummel, before speaking.

  “She won’t press charges.”

  “And, how may I ask, Lieutenant, sir, do you know that?” Jillian Thelma Rummel can be real imperiously snotty sometimes. I like that in her.

  “Cassie’s pride won’t let her, and her mom won’t either.” He and Ren both snickered. I smiled a teensy bit. Jilli was not pleased with any of it.

  “No, really, Detective Sergeant Rummel, there will be no charges pressed, I can assure you of that, and thank you for seeing to Cassie. God or the Devil only knows what got inside her and possessed her to come way down here in the first place. It’s really good to know you’re on the ball. However, we have private matters to discuss with Detective Belladonna, now. You’re dismissed.”

  Insubordination or not, she plainly wasn’t going to blindly let him give her orders.

  “Artemis? Are you coming?” A loaded question that, and . . .

  . . . I backed away, only stopping when I felt Guy’s fingertips brush slightly down the bare skin of my back, then across my ass; an extremely sensitive part of me, as you well know. That was all. I couldn’t leave. Jilli saw my face change and her voice changed in urgency to match.

  “A-Arie?!”

  “Detective Belladonna, come to me, please?” That’s Ren.

  I felt a rush of heat across my face, as I managed a glance at her, before turning my back to go to him, still kneeling a few yards back. I think she said she never wanted to see me again, then left; but, I’m not absolutely certain. Not with both Fellowes Brothers inside my head. Ren softly laughed.

  “Our Cassie’s not too bright, is she? And, I think, finally, she’ll not want to ever see either of us anywhere near her again. Gosh darn.”

  He looked up at me and softly stroked my crotch, which ached terribly to have him, as I felt it cramp and wet its starving palate.

  “Arte, I told you before how you should come to me.”

  I got down on my knees. No hesitation, no thought in the matter. Ren stood to his full six foot one height over me.

  “Now, tell us. Who owns you?”

  Since childhood, through job interviews, whenever I’ve been asked to describe myself, to say what is most important to me, as if I were dissolved like a chemistry project down to one element, the strongest answer has ALWAYS been one word—independent. My answer now was very . . . weak.

  “No one—.”

  “Stop being a child, Arte!”

  The pitch dark vehemence in Ren’s frustrated, impatient voice should’ve, would’ve frightened anyone else; it made me remember his delicious impatience and force whenever he wants me, when he’s inside me.

  God. No wonder Jilli looked at me that way.

  But, I didn’t flush with hot shame this time when I thought of her. There can be a lot of power in . . . no shame and no pride.

  Oh, yeah. Here’s where I piss away my independence, as well.

  “I’m yours.” He was reaching for my face when Guy spoke . . . his tone a warning and his eyes relentlessly on me . . . .

  “Ren?” Ren ran that same hand over his hair, instead.

  “She said it, Guy.”

  “She didn’t say the proper words.”

  “‘Proper’?

  “It matter—.”

  “You and your . . . . I really want to fuck her, Guy! Now.”

  “Like Tsianina?”

  After the mention of Ren’s homicidally deceased wife, the rest was evidently a chastisement in a pidgin mix of Cantonese, Portuguese, and French, which is what they speak, when something’s extremely critical. And private.

  I gotta get into Berlitz®, Living Language®, or something.

  Ren stepped aside, taking my power over him away from me and giving it to Guy, who waited, still as death, while his brother paced, barely contained.

  “You . . . own . . . me.” I knew before I said it, that it wouldn’t please the number one guy in my life.

  “Who owns you?”

  Guy knew I knew he had me. That he was breaking me first. If for no other reason than he’s far more patient than I am.

  “René and Guy Fellowes own me.”

  The “Prince” nodded slightly.

  Ren snatched me to my feet to stare at me as though to kiss me, but ripped away my bra’s leather lacings freeing my breasts, which he hotly devoured. I held his overheated head to me, as I watched Guy watching us. Finally, Ren kissed my mouth, as he undid my pants, then stood back just enough to watch me wiggle them and my panties down my thighs. He stroked my bush, as he advanced on me, forcing me to the wall, as he unzipped and we both pulled his thick, rigid tool out.

  He flipped me around, soft cheek to prickly brick, his one hand still
laced through my pubes, and knowing I’d be ready and wet enough for him, as I bent to receive him, he pushed his cod to the hilt in me, forcing a throaty sigh out of me.

  It was a peculiarly soft gesture for Ren, then he felt my vagina contract tightly around him and he moaned deeply. He loves to assfuck but when he’s out of his mind for me, he prefers pussy. I used the coarse brick wall for leverage as he seized my hips and we pounded each other, as something caught my eye.

  Che was walking up behind Guy . . . .

  [story break—Not for sale/Authorized Bootleg]

  I awoke again, alone, when the late alarm went off, and found a tiny choker on my finger; a large blue white diamond on a brushed gold and platinum band. Guy’d slipped it on while I slept. It was lovely. I was pissed, to say the least. It was always, always understood between us that we were together for the sex . . . not for . . . love. And, most certainly not marriage. Now, he gives me this?

  A note he’d left said I shouldn’t take it off, or there would be “hell to pay”. Seriously. “Hell”.

  Well, to Lucifer’s Daughter, Hell is home.

  I left the expensive bauble back over at his place, where he’d find it. He called later to ask to discuss it in person.

  Remembering that I was dealing with Guy triggered alarms off inside me; but, I’m used to playing rough, and I’m used to knowing when to skedaddle. Normally. However, I hadn’t yet realized I have absolutely no sense of decent parameters with either Fellowes brother. I bet you didn’t think I even knew the word “decent”, did you?

  In what was getting to be a long stretch of uncharacteristic stupidity on my part, after my early shift (yet still undercover at the strip club), I met him at Ren’s apartment.

  Mistake number . . . pick a number. I couldn’t get out of Ren’s, and I’ve gotten myself and others out of crackhouse riots in the middle of rival gangbanger wars. Guy’d sat there quietly on the sofa, his long arms spread wide across the back of it, with the ring perched on the tip of his pinky finger. Ren stood across the room, behind me.

  I eloquently put my foot down. Explained that whatever had come before me, with Tsia, I couldn’t do anything about it, and they knew it. No problem. However, I certainly wasn’t getting married in any way, shape, or form. We were about sex, sensation. No love. No ring around the finger.