[The Turning 01.0] Taking Turns

by JA Huss

  “You fucking whore,” I say, letting go of her hair so she falls face-first back into the pillow. “You let Bric fuck you like this, Rochelle? You like the way he slaps you around? Hmm?”

  Hell, I like the way Bric slaps her around. And as soon as that thought enters my head I laugh.

  “Maybe we’ll do it rough next weekend. You want that? You want us to fuck you hard? Stick our dicks inside you at the same time?”

  Another unfamiliar moan.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, still kinda laughing. But then I let it go and just… fuck her. I grab onto her ass and do it hard. Pounding her with so much force, her head is inching closer and closer to the headboard of the bed.

  I don’t stop when it finally makes it there. I just keep thrusting until the pounding is compounded by the headboard crashing into the wall.

  She’s moaning. Close. So fucking close to coming. I reach underneath her body and strum her clit to the rhythm we’re making. She goes wild. Wild like I’ve never seen her before. Writhing, and moaning, and gasping for air.

  I draw back, grab her hips, and flip her over, one hand pushing her head aside so her cheek is pressing into the pillow, the other one still playing with her pussy. I watch my dick as it slips in and out, just barely able to make it out in the dim, filtered light from outside.

  I grab her hair, so fucking ready to come, and yank her head so she has to look at me. Her eyes are closed, but I don’t care. I press my hand over her mouth and close my eyes too. And then I spill inside her. Throwing my head back to let out a groan of relief.

  Her legs are trembling from the exertion. Little spasms as she gasps for breath. I laugh a little as I roll off to the side and wrap my arms around her. “What’s wrong, baby? Too much for you tonight?”

  No answer.

  I bury my head into her neck and smell her hair.

  “Did you get a new shampoo?” I ask. “You smell so different.”

  No answer.

  “You want a date with Bric on Sunday? Hmm? We can skip Smith if you want.” I kiss her neck and then pull back and open my eyes. Trying to get an idea if she’s up for this kind of fun. It’s been a while so I—

  I blink my eyes. Three times, fast.

  “Rochelle—”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry—”

  But I’m up and out of the bed, fisting her hair and pulling her with me. She drops to the floor, whimpering.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I ask. “Where the fuck is Rochelle?”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re gonna be sorry all right,” I say, letting go of her hair so I can open the drawer in the bedside table. I take out the ball gag and strap it on.

  She doesn’t even try to get away. Just lets me do it.

  I pull her to her feet and reach for the rope, yanking her hands behind her back and wrapping the rope around her wrists. Tight.

  And then I shove her into my closet and close the door.

  I pace up and down the hallway, trying my best to figure what the fuck just happened. And then I’m on the phone, calling Bric. It goes to voicemail.

  “Fuck!” I yell. “Fuck!”

  I find Bric’s message stream in my phone and text, Come upstairs. Now. Emergency!!!!!

  I do the same for Smith.

  Five minutes later they both come bursting through the door of Rochelle’s apartment.

  I’m sitting on the couch, half naked. I had to open the closet door to get pants and I just grabbed at the first hanger. I think they’re actually Bric’s pants.

  I place my elbows on my knees and hold my head, rubbing my eyes, still trying to figure out what’s happening.

  “What the fuck is going on up here?” Bric says. He looks panicked, his eyes wild as they search the room for the emergency. “Where’s Rochelle?”

  I look up, find Bric’s face. Then Smith’s. “She’s gone.”

  “Gone?” they both say together.

  “Did you kill her?” Smith asks. “Choke her to death while you were fucking her?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “No, I didn’t fucking kill her, you asshole. She’s fucking gone! Like, left!”

  “Then why are you half naked?” Bric asks, calming down.

  I take a deep, deep breath. Hold it for the count of three. And then let it out. “I fucked—” But I have to stop and shake my head because it makes no sense. “She left someone in her place,” I finally say. “I fucked her. I fucked her before I knew it wasn’t Rochelle.”

  Chapter Two - Smith

  Well, this is an interesting twist. I have to say, of all the things I imagined happening tonight, a missing Rochelle was never on that list.

  And yet—

  “Where did she go?” Quin is right up in my face. We are the same height—to the half centimeter—so we are eye to eye.

  “How should I know?” I reply, running a hand through my hair. “I haven’t fucking seen her in months.”

  “Months?” Bric asks.

  I shrug. “You don’t think she was getting boring?”

  “Where. The fuck. Did she go?” Quin spits.

  “I just told you. I have no clue. Whatever she’s doing, it has absolutely nothing to do with me.”

  “I don’t believe him,” Quin snaps, turning to Bric. Elias Bricman, or Bric for short, doesn’t seem to care as much as Quin. He is, at least, calm. “Not thirty fucking minutes ago he was downstairs bitching about how tired he was of her. He sent her away, Bric. He sent her away.”

  “Calm down, Quin,” Bric says. “If she left, she left. I’m more worried about the new girl. Where is she?”

  Quin is pacing now. Back and forth in front of the large window. He’s got no shirt on, no shoes, and his pants are hanging off his hips. In fact… I don’t think those are his pants. No belt, not even buttoned up. But the capitol building outside the window is pretty tonight. It’s snowing, so the gold dome is muted with dropping flakes. “She’s in the closet.”

  Bric and I exchange a glance.

  “I gagged her. I didn’t fucking know what to do. I just—Goddammit. I just grabbed the ball gag from the drawer, hooked it on her, tied her hands behind her back, and threw her in our closet.”

  “OK,” I say, walking down to the hallway to stare at the open bedroom door. “I think we have a problem.”

  “You didn’t get her name?” Bric asks, ever the practical one.

  “Her name?” Quin yells. “No, I didn’t get her fucking name! No one cares what her goddamned name is!”

  Bric looks at me. Takes a deep breath. “You wanna take care of this?”

  “Me?” I laugh. It’s a real laugh. “I don’t think you want me to take care of this.”

  “Rochelle.” Quin is on his phone. “Rochelle, call me back. Where the fuck are you? What the hell is going on? You’re breaking the deal. You’re not getting—”

  Bric grabs the phone from Quin and ends the call. “That’s enough of that,” he says. “You know the rules, Quin. If she left, then she left. You’re not allowed to contact her again.”

  “Fuck you!” Quin is losing it. “The fuck I’m not! I was in a three-year fucking relationship with her. I’m not letting her walk out. Not without… without… an… explanation.”

  He starts out loud and strong. But he knows what he’s saying is all wrong and his resolve falters at the end.

  “You’re not,” Bric says in that low monotone he has, “going to contact her, Quin. You’re not going to look for her. You’re not going to ask people about her. You’re not going to do anything but leave her. The fuck. Alone. Do you understand me?” Bric stops to see if Quin will reply, but he doesn’t. “Because if you do contact her,” Bric continues, “I will drag your ass to court so fast. And I will rip your goddamned balls off when we get there. I’m not kidding, brother. I like you. And I don’t want to fuck up your life. But losing is part of
the game, you understand? Our secrets are law, Quin. And you won’t fuck up Smith’s business by getting us caught.”

  It sinks in. Quin strides over to the front door in four long paces, and walks out.

  “He’ll be back,” I say. “He forgot his clothes.”

  Bric looks at me and says, “I’ll handle him. You handle her.”

  And then he walks out too.

  I sigh and go into the kitchen, looking for a drink. Rochelle drinks wine. And there are plenty of bottles to choose from. But I haven’t been up here to see her in so long, there is no trace of my brand of whiskey. I grab a bottle of brandy—Bric’s go-to, high-and-mighty motherfucker that he is—and pour three fingers into a snifter I get from the top shelf of a cupboard.

  The chair I like is still in front of the window. Facing it, so I can look out. I take a seat and think this through.

  Do I have feelings about it?

  Maybe.

  I think a little longer. Take a few sips of the brandy. Admire the view and the snow. Then decide… not many.

  Rochelle was never my type. She’s flighty. A musician. That was her dream. She is long straight dirty-blonde hair and loose gauzy blouses. She wears knee-high boots—and not the sexy kind, either. Not the fuck-me kind I like. They are all distressed from being bought in the second-hand shops. And she likes fringe. On jackets and purses. Which isn’t that uncommon for Denver, but so not my type.

  The only time I attempted to take her somewhere nice she wore a long, strapless dress that had no shape at all. And sandals.

  I have to take a sip of brandy just to get through the memory of sitting in a five-star restaurant, cringing the entire time because she was sitting across from me and I had to look at her.

  She was stale. Old. Not her age. She was only—hell, I have no idea how old she was. Not yet thirty, for sure. Maybe twenty-seven. But everything about her had grown old.

  It was OK in the beginning, I guess. I like things the way I like them and she was fine with that. So it was fun. But if it wasn’t for Bric and Quin, no way would I have ever looked at that girl twice. Ever.

  I actually shudder just thinking about it. Take another sip.

  And then I get up.

  Set my glass down on a nearby table and walk to the hallway.

  Stare down it for a few seconds, trying to decide what to do.

  Whoever is in that closet isn’t making a peep of noise.

  I have to agree with Quin on one aspect of this whole mystery. Where did Rochelle go? Not that I care, because I don’t. But clearly she set this up. She brought us a replacement.

  And Quin—that dumbass—already fucked her.

  I’m intrigued at how that happened. What was this girl thinking? Why did she come here? Did Rochelle lie to her? If so, why didn’t she scream? Or fight when Quin got in bed with her? I’m guessing it was dark, so I can’t blame Quin too much. He looked like he had a few drinks tonight. He was expecting Rochelle to be in bed, as she probably is every Sunday night when he comes by for his time with her. He came to fuck her. So he did.

  But why didn’t this new girl stop him?

  I admit I don’t get curious often… but…

  I walk down the hallway to the bedroom. The lights are off and when I glance at the closet I share with Bric and Quin, there’s no light peeking from under the louvered double doors. The bed sheets are rumpled and there’s an unfamiliar smell in the room. Not the earthy perfume Rochelle used to wear, but something sweeter like citrus and flowers. Orange blossoms or gardenias.

  I flick the light on and take it in. She’s moved some of the furniture since the last time I was in here—which was a triple date about a year ago. My chair near the window is gone.

  Where the fuck did that go? Did she sell it?

  It bugs me and I make a mental note to ask Quin the next time I see him.

  There’s a settee in front of the window now. A long light-gray bench with chesterfield tufting on the seat back. It looks old. Like Rochelle got it from an antique store.

  There is no way I’d ever sit on that thing.

  Maybe that’s why she put it there?

  That makes me laugh, because her passive-aggressive gesture went unnoticed by me and now she’s gone and doesn’t even get to appreciate my reaction.

  Gone.

  I smile at the thought.

  I like that she’s gone.

  In fact, I’m far more interested in the girl tied up in the closet than I am Rochelle.

  I hear a faint whimper and whirl around. She must’ve heard me laugh. It must’ve spooked her. Had to have.

  Will she scream?

  I wait for it. I wait for some muffled attempts at yelling through her ball gag. Or a well-placed kick at the door. Quin didn’t say he tied her legs up, right? So why is she still in there? The door doesn’t even lock. It’s a closet, for fuck’s sake.

  Nothing but silence.

  “OK, then,” I say out loud. “Might as well get this over with.” I walk over to the closet and pull the doors wide open. I have to squint for a second to make out her shape, but yeah, there’s definitely a girl on the floor.

  I flick the light on and she closes her eyes, hiding her face to shield herself from the sudden brightness.

  She’s… pretty. Dark hair, long and straight, kind of like Rochelle’s, but nothing at all like Rochelle’s at the same time. Her skin is fair, which isn’t surprising since it’s winter and the sun seems to have gone missing in Denver for the past month. Her hands are tied behind her back, so I can’t see them. And she’s sitting up, knees to chest, completely naked, and I can see her pussy.

  I stare for a moment longer than I should and then I finally look at her face—a sweet face. Wide blue eyes looking up at me, the remnants of her make-up streaked down her cheeks like she’s been crying.

  But she isn’t crying now.

  Her nose is small and her plump lips are wrapped around the ball of the gag. Drool is dripping out of her mouth. One long strand hangs just above her left breast, ready to fall.

  “Well,” I say, far beyond curious at this point, “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve got to say about this.”

  I crouch down in front of her legs and catch her scent. The flowers. Or citrus, whichever it is. I inhale deeply and can’t help but take in the smell of sex.

  I look her in the eyes as I reach behind her head and unstrap the gag. It falls forward, dropping into her lap as I watch her adjust, swallow down the drool, and then take a deep breath.

  She says nothing.

  Hmmm.

  Just stares at me.

  My hand is between her legs. My finger slipping inside her pussy. She is wet. So fucking wet. She doesn’t close her eyes or moan. In fact, her eyes never leave mine. Not once.

  She likes it.

  I remove my slick fingers from her pussy and bring them to her mouth.

  She opens, sucks them.

  My God.

  Still, she stares into my eyes.

  I envision her mouth on my cock and grow hard at the thought.

  And then I close my eyes.

  But only for a moment. Barely a blink. I’m back in control. I reach for her upper arm and pull her to her feet. She complies willingly. And then I spin her around and begin untying her wrists.

  The rope is tight. Tighter than it should be. Quin knows how to tie a girl up, I’ve seen him do it enough times to be sure of that. But he was probably panicking, so I don’t judge.

  When I get the rope off there is a deep red burn ringing her wrists.

  She brings her hands in front of her to get a look at her wrists. I take them, looking closely at her wounds. “I have something for that. But first, let’s make progress on your clothes.”

  “I have clothes,” she says, her voice not weak, not small, but firm and strong. “On the chair.”

  I walk over to the chair and pick them up. Jeans. Nondescript sweater. Winter shearling boots. Some semi-nice lingerie and thick cotton socks.


  “Well, that won’t do,” I say, walking back to the closets. I open the one across the short hallway from the one I share with Bric and Quin. Rochelle’s closet.

  I don’t know what I expected, but I’m kinda taken aback that everything Rochelle owns is still in there. Her many, many, many pairs of thrift-store shoes, and skirts, and those horrible long dresses. Even her purses are still here. She never shopped for purses at the thrift stores. They are all designer. Even the fringy ones. They live in soft cloth bags that come inside the purse when you purchase it, and they are lined up on the top shelf like little surprises wrapped in velvet.

  I only know this because I bought her a few purses myself that first year. A Prada, a Gucci, and some other brand she asked for that I had never heard of, but which set me back almost three thousand dollars.

  If Rochelle ever tells someone the story of us, she better not call me cheap.

  I sigh and divert my attention to the limited number of classy, five-star-restaurant-worthy dresses hanging on the far end of a rack. I look back at the new girl for a moment, then choose a red one. To set off her hair.

  “Here,” I say, holding the hanger out to her. “Put this on, please.”

  “What?” the girl asks, taking the hanger from me.

  “I didn’t stutter. Put on the dress. I have to walk you out, obviously. You can’t walk out in jeans, for fuck’s sake. This is Turning Point Club. We have a dress code.”

  “Why can’t I go out the back?”

  I stop looking for shoes to match the dress and turn to stare at her. “Is that how you got in?”

  She nods. “The freight elevator.”

  “Figures. Fucking Rochelle hated the dress code. Well, the freight elevator isn’t going to work for me, I’m afraid. I don’t leave by way of the freight elevator. I walk in. Everybody sees me. I walk out. Everybody sees me. And since I have to walk you out, you’re going to look the part. Now put on the fucking dress.”

  I turn back to the shoes.