Threads: A Thriller

by T. R. Ultra

  I tried to turn around and faced him in the darkness, but his hands held me still. He forced his hard cock against my jeans and pushed me forward. My abdomen against the dinner table, I bent slightly over it.

  “Let me turn around,” I said.

  Renato chuckled on the back of my neck.

  “Not your mouth, Emily,” he murmured. “I’m tasting your bucetinha.”

  He used a Portuguese word to refer to my pussy, and that heated me up even more. His words, his warm breath, created a turbulence of tingles all along my back, neck, and shoulders. My nipples tightened under his strong voice, and I surely would not resist his orders. He was the commander-in-chief now.

  Renato groped around to unbutton my skinny jeans. He pushed them down, brought my panties to my knees.

  Then he got back up.

  “I’m still deciding if you deserve to have my cock. You better be a good girl,” he murmured again, his hands clutched my skin under my bra.

  Renato didn’t take his pants off. Getting his cock out of his trunks was not an issue, but I resented being the only naked person in the room.

  Renato’s hands followed downward across my torso and stopped by my groin. He didn’t go any further toward my flower.

  “How wet are you?” he asked.

  I didn’t reply.

  He chuckled again, but didn’t touch me.

  His hands scurried over my body to cup my butt. He clutched both cheeks and gripped tightly. I groaned.

  “Bend over,” he demanded.

  I didn’t know what to expect from him, but I did as he ordered, pushed aside everything on the table, and leaned over. The pizza box fell to the ground.

  “Leave it. Now you’ll bend more. Drop your body over the table and raise your ass on tip-toes.”

  “Why, it’s good like this,” I said.

  “Do as I say.”

  I bent my body forward and laid it over the table, its coldness shocked the uncovered parts of my skin. Renato kept his hand clasped on my but cheek, his fingers pressing firmly around it, as his hard cock pressed against my thighs.

  I could barely sustain from screaming in full anticipation of sex. I wanted him to push forward slowly, increasing the rhythm of his hips by small and progressive amounts. I wanted him sliding inside my body, filling me up with bliss.

  I tried moving my outstretched hand on the table to under my hips. Renato grasped my arm and pinned it down.

  “Bad girl,” he said.

  “God, I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Be patient. Just trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes I do.”

  He was most definitely sure of what he was doing. I was drowned in dizziness. I wanted sex, but wasn’t getting it. At least, not the kind that I had been used to when married to Marlon, that minute-long, frantic thrusting, and shallow pleasure thing.

  Renato grabbed the hem of my shirt and exposed my lower back. He kissed my skin, his hands clasped to my butt, his tongue drawing strokes all along my spine.

  I groaned. The warmth of his mouth brought an unknown passion to my frigid body

  “This may be our last moment together. I promise, I’ll make it worth it,” he said, his lips rubbing my skin.

  It might be the last, but at least I was sure it would be special, especially after I felt his head trailing down my lower back, his tongue licking the higher parts of my butt.

  Renato squeezed my flesh with coarse, steel fingers even stronger. I released a muffled cry under his strength, he responded by softening his touch and pushing my ass aside to expose my inner lips. I was now wide-opened, entirely unguarded, vulnerable to the twisted plan he had for me.

  Renato stopped. Like he had frozen in contemplation, he took long breathes and assessed my value. His warm breath brushed against my skin—he was so close from tasting me.

  He was doing what no man had ever done.

  When he went down on me, he came without warning, delivering all of his heat to my delight. I jerked my body forward, startled, when his tongue skillfully found my clit in the darkness on the first try. His mouth, wide open, engulfed the whole of my sex. His hands gripped my ass and pulled me back over his face, then he motioned his jaws as though he was feasting on my pussy.

  He clearly was passionate for what he was doing.

  “What the hell is this?” I said, almost passing out.

  “I want you all,” he babbled.

  All the muscles in my body tensioned and tightened when Renato slid his tongue inside me. Still on tip-toes, I pushed myself upward, willing to find the perfect angle for his face to fit in my ass. But his lips, his tongue, made me shake and shiver and scream inside. I brought my hips up and down and back and forth while he painted my openings with his tongue.

  It was as if I was fighting a battle against him. At every suck he gave I reacted with a jolt, a jerk or a wiggle proper of a fencer dodging a sword lunge. He held me still with both hands, teasing my clit.

  It was when my breathing reached the peak of my lungs, cramps in my calves, that wave of pure passion, a turmoil of tightening and loosening in my joints, seized up my body. Right in Renato’s face.

  “Oh . . . shit . . . what have you done?” I grunted, feeling a power, a release of tension, a blast of bliss.

  I slacked my legs and let my body sprawl on the table. I gathered my remaining strength and tried to retake control of my body.

  Renato pulled his head away.

  “Porra . . .” he said, his hands still squeezing my sore ass.

  Ignoring my wobbly knees, I pushed myself up straight and turned around, barely able to breathe and struggling on the edge of the table to sustain my weight on my feet. This time, Renato’s hands allowed me to move. It was my turn to make him come with the same intensity, the same rawness, that he had given me.

  Before I could act, I found him knelt down on the floor, one of his hands clasped at the border of the table to help with his balance, the other one stroking his cock. His face tilted upward, eyes shut, he groaned and moaned in a wave of pleasure.

  “Have you—”

  “Fuck yes,” he said, “along with you.”

  “But . . . how’s that even possible?”

  “Your taste, Emily. Your fucking beautiful taste,” he said, stroking his cock, willing to push out one more drop of his essence.

  Chapter 14

  To someone who had spent last night in one of the most expensive rooms in Rio de Janeiro, Grandma Norma’s sofa turned out to be a graceful piece of foam that was nothing like Praia Palace’s bedrooms. No marvelous tapestry, no exquisite scents, no flattering from clerks and no free Caipirinha—which I was yet to taste—but I had Renato’s touch all over me inside that cement building. His touch surpassed even the Angel’s Touch bedsheets.

  Before opening my eyes, I noticed the bright early morning sun coming through the window. Renato had laid down on the sofa beside me, but I knew he was already gone. I didn’t feel his legs curled around mine anymore.

  Strange noises woke me up. The smell of freshly prepared coffee and the sunny sky, composed the picture of a great day about to start. I felt my body renewed, my mind cleared. But when Renato tugged at my shoulders, his strong hands lacking the caresses of last night, and pulled me up, I saw hell in his eyes.

  “Come on, we gotta go!” He said.

  A muffled chatter came from outside, the sound of doors slamming shut, of motorcycle engines speeding up, and fireworks exploding. A chaotic combination of noises which might have resembled a festive day—if not for the terrifying shouts of men, women, and kids.

  Then I heard gunshots.

  “What is going on?” I asked.

  Renato was putting on his shoes. I had slept in my panties after taking a shower inside a shower stall where I couldn’t turn around lest being wrapped in its plastic curtains, but I had slept clean.

  “A police force is coming. We gotta leave now,” Renato said .

  “How do you know they�
��re coming?”

  “Fireworks. Slum sentries set them off whenever the police begin pushing uphill. There are some minor drug dealers living in Gloria Santa, but I believe the police are here for another reason.”

  I put on my jeans, my head still drowsy after being jerked awake. I tried to absorb all of the details around me.

  “Are they coming here because of me?” I asked. I hoped my situation was improving after last night.

  Renato got up, fully dressed, and rummaged for something inside a kitchen drawer. Grandma Norma had her belly against the kitchen sink and a hand on the crutch. She had just finished filtering a bottle of coffee.

  “There is a chance they are here for you.”

  Renato reassured me that we were safe inside his grandma’s house. But whenever I thought of my safety, images of the distrustful stares and unfriendly eyes I received when entering the slum flashed through my mind.

  Maybe someone had reported me to Paulo Pinto and Roberto Rôla. Maybe that’s how they had assembled a force to arrest me.

  Another burst of gunshots popped in the sky. Then, a new round of fireworks fired off from the highest grounds of the Gloria Santa slum.

  The chaotic din of feet scurrying up steps, and windows sliding shut over rusty wheels echoed, giving way to a new set of sounds that loomed in the distance. The organized march of a band that hammered their batons against shields and shouted police chants to bolster their confidence.

  Renato kissed his grandma, I waved goodbye, we trudged down the steps to the ground floor. He opened the iron door, craned his neck, looked at both sides of the street, and pulled me out.

  I was prepared to go down the steps and back to the gas station at the foot of the hill, but instead, Renato went the opposite direction, climbing to the highest parts of the slum.

  I followed behind, our hands clasped together, despite sensing strangers’ eyes darting on me, the passages and alleyways we went through were deserted.

  “Why are we going up?” I said, panting.

  “They usually block all exits to the lower parts of the slum. Our only chance is to go the other way.”

  I didn’t know what time it was, but it was early, already hot, and dangerous. And that distant mistrust returned crawling over my spine. Why could Renato be so sure of the police’s intentions? How could he know they haven’t come to offer protection?

  A new set of gunshots fired. Holes appeared on the wall next to me, debris of cement and brick splashed over my skin while a cloud of dust came out from the wall. Renato bellowed. At the top of the staircase, someone responded with a cry and a waving hand.

  A teenager stood up there. Shirtless, he had a radio intercom attached to a cord around his neck. Metallic voices garbled. He carried an old AR-15 rifle, with a 25-round magazine and an extra set strapped together upside-down.

  That was an army restricted rifle, yet a teenager carried it in daylight through the community.

  “That was close,” Renato said, “he shot at us.”

  “What! Why?” I asked, terrified.

  “They’re shooting anything that moves, that’s why everyone is inside their homes. But we had no other option.”

  Renato’s daring almost killed us. I didn’t know the usual procedures in a conflict zone like this, but Renato knew, and still he chose to threaten my life by going outside.

  That was unforgivable, unless staying inside Norma’s house was an even worse alternative. Was it?

  We kept climbing, followed by the bumps and chants of the march coming behind us. Gunshots increased in frequency and length. I tried to ignore the aching in my thighs. Same with the grime on the ground when we crouched for protection during intense crossfire.

  We crossed more drug soldiers on our way up. Most of them were heavily armed teenagers who had abandoned school to pull the trigger. They perched on roof edges of poorly constructed houses, or hid behind street poles with tangles of wires that looked like beehives.

  The police shot back, their bullets flying uphill to catch any wall, window or life along the way. I could tell the distant ones by the sound of the gunshots. They were muffled and echoed twice on their way up. These were the ones that came from the police.

  Yet, even though the war was pretty damn real, I was skeptical.

  “Stop, Renato!” I said, jerking my hand apart from his.

  “No, we must keep going.”

  He grabbed my forearm and tugged me forward, but I resisted, despite his strength.

  “Can’t you see there’s a shooting going on?” Renato said, after my jerking me back.

  “Yes, but why are the police coming to capture me? Why haven’t these armed drug dealers seized your grandma’s house and caught me already—if everyone knows where I am?”

  “This is no place to have a conversation.”

  We were between two bare walls covered in mold, on a narrow street with a sewage water ditch and scurrying rats.

  “I’m not moving.”

  “Fuck!” he said. He pondered before continuing. “There are many drug dealers in the Rio slums. They usually fight among themselves for territory and control. Officers Pinto and Rôla belong to a different faction than the one that controls Gloria Santa. Drug lords here are happy with Flávio Beirario imprisonment. That’s why I brought you here. There are traitors and spies everywhere, and they have given away our hideout.”

  “How do you know this?” I said. His arguments were consistent—I didn’t know if the facts were right—but I still had doubts remaining. “How can you ever know the police haven’t come to help me, Renato? How?”

  “I don’t know. It’s that . . . I just can’t risk losing you to them.”

  A burst of gunshots rang from down the hill. Renato turned his back, his hand still grasping my forearm, and pulled me upward. We advanced one step, and another, and another, and a shot echoed, and one more step, and Renato tripped and fell down, and his hand released its grasp, and I tried to pull him back, but he didn’t respond. A blood stain appeared above his left shoulder and widened.

  I screamed and squatted on my heels, as I watched his breathing stutter. A drug soldier on a rooftop above us pointed his rifle down the hill and shot. I cupped my hands against my face, leaned down, and a thud came from the roof. A high-pitch rattling of steel bounced on the ground beside me. I was hit on the back of my neck, and now I laid on the ground.

  Chapter 15

  A screeching fan cast its weak air over my legs. A moan, dim but near. The nape of my neck throbbed in pain and despite the breeze of the fan, rivulets of sweat rolled down my forehead. I shook my head, motioned my arms beside my body, and felt a bedsheet stretched over my torso.

  My back ached under the pressure of wood slats running beneath the paper-thin mattress I had been laid on, my sore skin filling the gaps. I had been stricken by something heavy that knocked me unconscious. What was it?

  I racked my brain, struggling to recover recent memories, but all I remembered were fuzzy noises and a bright daylight, no distinct imagery. I knew I was hurt. I also felt guilt, as though I had neglected something out of recklessness.

  The last time I had this sense of guilt was right after breaking up with Marlon. My boss sent me to an arms fair in San Francisco, which I attended under protest. Instead of writing, I spent my days turning paper-like sheets into handkerchiefs to wipe tears. When I got home I had zero lines written.

  That was the closest I ever got to losing my job. At least until getting lost in Rio.

  I still hadn’t opened my eyes. It was daylight. The bright sun shined through shut eyelids. I kept trying to remember what I had been through before getting to look at my surroundings, it’s always easier to understand our situations when we know what to expect.

  The back of my neck throbbed, probably due to the strain of recent memories. A new moan reached my ears, a higher, longer one. Pure pain from someone else standing in the same room. I cringed and gripped the sheet over my torso as though I was the one in agony.<
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  The screeching of the fan became unbearable, air wisping over my shins and aching as if opening gashes on them. Under a stifling heat, I pushed the bedsheets aside, maneuvered over the rickety bed that felt like a disgraced bed of nails—and opened my eyes.

  Wood sticks were attached to red brick walls. On the ceiling were asbestos roof tiles painted with mold and dampness. I tilted my head to the right, towards a newborn sound, and noticed a plump woman hunching over a mat stretched on the corner of the room. Over it, a man was laying with his eyes shut.

  It was Renato on profile.

  My memories flooded back, most likely triggered by the bare brick walls that gave form to every house in the Gloria Santa slum. I remembered clambering its steps, my heart splitting in exhaustion, bullets hissing through the air, penetrating walls next to me.

  I tried to call to the woman, but my voice didn’t come out. Instead of speaking, I moaned.

  The woman faced me, her eyes gaping open as she cried something out in Portuguese, but she didn’t come toward me. She had a white cloth in her hands, soaked in water. After she rubbed the cloth on Renato’s shoulder, its white was swallowed by a dreadful red that resembled death. He was in a deep sleep.

  My neck still aching, I grabbed the edges of the bed I was on and pulled myself up due to a sudden sense of urgency. A fiery pain trailed down my spine, spreading into my legs. As I raised myself up, my ribs popped, adjusting their positions—my head weighed back down. Had I not been able to see, I would swear an anchor had been hooked to my neck.

  I felt dizzy, but endured the pain, and managed to sit by the edge of the bed. My bare feet felt the rough cement and dust on the ground. I looked at my jeans, blood stains over my thighs.

  The fat woman kept glancing at me as she dipped and tapped the cloth on Renato’s shoulder. She repeated Portuguese words. I had a sense she wanted me to lay back down.

  “How bad is he?” I asked her.

  She replied with another Portuguese word, and shouted again. It became clear that any conversation between us would be impossible.