HIS VIRGIN VESSEL: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (War Cry MC)

by Nicole Fox

  But, mostly, I thought about the first time we’d made love. I was a virgin then. I’d often daydreamed of losing it earlier––as young as high school, even––but I was way too well-behaved for that. No, I was a good girl. I’d waited for the committed relationship. I’d waited for Brian.

  And yes, I think it was worth it.

  It didn’t hurt. That was what I had been most afraid of. Women go on and on about how much it hurts the first time. But Brian was gentle. I was also afraid of wearing out, that Brian would get bored of me quickly and want to move on. But that didn’t happen either. He seemed perfectly content to have sex when I wanted, and did not seem put off if I wasn’t into it or enjoying myself. Many women like me––smart, career girls, never that interested in sex––would be extremely lucky to have a man like him, who was okay with those sorts of things.

  He really was the perfect guy.

  These thoughts cheered me as I drove home. It was a long, arduous commute, but I was able to tackle it that night with good humor. Brian would be home first (we’d moved closer to his job because of its career prospects) and I looked forward to a warm meal, then a bit of cuddling with him, my perfect man.

  Therefore, when I pulled into the driveway and saw that all the lights were out, I was surprised. Scowling, I double-checked my phone to see if he had texted me, saying he’d be working late. Nothing. Still feeling content from my reminiscing, I did not think much more about it. Instead, I clicked the button that would open the garage and slid the car inside.

  There was Brian’s, parked in its usual spot, the engine still warm. Now that was strange. I wondered what he could be doing, all alone in the house in the dark. “Perhaps, he is already in bed,” I thought. “Ready for me to snuggle up to him.”

  That is how naïve I was.

  Juggling my keys lightly, I unlocked the door and entered the place.

  It was a rental, and looked like it. The furniture was solid and comfortable, but Brian had always been against adorning a rental place much more than beyond the basics. He seemed to think it was a waste. Personally, I often found it to be rather cold, but tonight, after such a terrible day at work, the sterile-looking living room and kitchen were warm and welcoming.

  “Brian?” I called, walking inside. No answer. Idly, I tossed my keys into the dish and kicked my comfortable, low-heeled shoes off and shoved them into the pile. Humming to myself, I approached the kettle and flicked it on. Yes, a cup of tea would be nice, I thought.

  It was then that I noticed the pair of high-heels, thrown carelessly by the door. I bent to examine them, but they were not familiar.

  “Huh,” I murmured aloud. “Brian must have bought me a new pair of shoes.”

  Which did not account for the scuff marks on their soles. Even with that glaring clue in my face, I was still stupid enough not to realize what was going on. But soon, that would no longer matter.

  Feeling concerned, but for no reason I could have articulated, I walked quietly up the stairs. Something about the atmosphere––just as when one is in a library––encouraged silence.

  I checked Brian’s office. He was not there. I checked the bathroom, my office. Nothing.

  Finally, I came to the bedroom. The door was closed, which was unusual, but not strikingly so. During the colder months, we often kept it shut to keep it nice and warm.

  It was September.

  A ringing filled my ears. For a moment, I thought it was from the tea kettle in the kitchen, but no. It was in my own mind.

  I placed my hand on the knob, took a deep breath, and turned.

  The cry that escaped me was a savage cry, like that of an animal, feeling and yet not understanding the crushing weight of emotions. Grief. Rage. Fear. Confusion. All at once, they swept over me, like a flood. Like a hurricane of floods.

  For there, his back to me, his legs and body naked—save for the red scratches that lined his shoulder blades— was Brian. He grunted and groaned. His muscles flexed and thrust. And all the while, a slapping sound:

  The sound of his balls slapping the ass of the woman bent over before him. From the shade of her hair and that tiny little waist, I could tell that it was his secretary––the woman, he’d assured me, he’d hired based on skill alone.

  Yeah, her fucking skill.

  They appeared not to have heard me, so I was able to gape in horror and watch as they continued to fuck. His voice––so familiar when caressing me!––now seemed brutal. “You gonna cum, you slut?” He demanded, pounding her harder. She moaned and writhed, putting on a display that I would have never dared to make.

  “Yes!” She cried. “Yes!”

  “No. No,” I moaned. In the corner, I notice his briefcase discarded on the floor. The richly bound, leather case, embroidered with his initials, had been a Christmas present from me the year before. And now, it lay on the carpet, draped with a pair of fucking panties. That briefcase, which he’d brought home night after night of working late. I found myself wondering: “working late, huh? Or going balls deep in your goddamn secretary.”

  A great rage filled me at the sight of that case. A thrumming, burning anger rose up from my gut, threatening to overwhelm my senses. Without being fully aware of what I was doing, I crept behind the fucking couple, seized the heavy, brass-lined thing by the handle, and swung.

  Through the air it flew, a good twenty pounds of force, lifting up until it was parallel to the floor, its leather straps straining and—

  WHAP!

  It collided with the side of Brian’s head.

  “Argh!” He cried, dropping his grip on his secretary’s hips, popping out of her with the sound of a wine bottle being uncorked. He whirled, eyes screwed up with anger and confusion, ready to pounce.

  Then: “Erica?” He gasped, stumbling backward and landing on his ass on the bed. His cock, now half-erect, pointed accusatorily at me like a question mark. Meanwhile, the dumb bitch behind him squealed and scurried beneath the covers of the bed for shelter.

  I glared at them, too enraged to speak.

  “Erica,” he said again, soothingly, like one would talk to a skittish horse. “Erica, you weren’t supposed to be home for an hour.”

  “Get out,” I hissed. The words were like a poison, spit out upon the floor.

  “What?” He said. “Come on, baby. You know I’m sorry.”

  It was the “baby” that rankled me. How dare he?

  “Get out!” I repeated, raising the briefcase again. He winced, his hand going to the lump on the side of his head. “You fucking coward,” I thought.

  “Come on, Brian,” his secretary said shakily, touching his shoulder. “She’s crazy.”

  “Oh, I’m crazy, you slut?” I demanded, reeling on her. “You’re the one––” Boom! The briefcase slammed down on the bed beside her. “Sleeping with––” Boom! “An engaged man!” Slap!

  This time, it came down on her naked skin. She cried out, then darted behind Brian, who readied his arms in self-defense.

  “Get out!” I cried again. Now, at the sight of him giving her protection, of caring about her, I felt the tears beginning to fall. “Get out of here, now!”

  And with that, I dropped the briefcase and fled.

  Chapter Three

  Erica

  I locked myself in my office to wait for them to dress and leave. Once, Brian knocked on the door and attempted to talk to me, but I ignored him. Distantly, I could hear the secretary complaining that Brian had said they were safe, and how embarrassed she was, and how she should have known better than to get involved with a committed man.

  “Good,” I thought savagely. “I’m glad you’re suffering, too.”

  A buzz from my pocket reminded me that I had my cell phone with me. Suddenly comforted, I whipped it from my pocket, flipped it open, and began to call…who? Who would I call with this news? My friends, who liked Brian ever–so-much? I could imagine their words: “Oh, sweetie, we’re so sorry. What a jerk! I can’t believe he cheated on you, and with
that slut secretary to boot!” They just repeated what I already know, and all the while thinking to themselves, “Hehe, glad it wasn’t me.”

  Then, I imagined calling my mother, but she would be even worse: “My darling Erica, you poor baby! Brian was just the nicest guy! Are you sure there wasn’t something you did, or said, to upset him? Because, really dear, keeping a man is hard work. Look at your father…”

  No, I definitely was not calling her. I would tell them all later, but tonight, I needed to cope.

  Finally, after about a half an hour of shuffling and the sounds of the two of them swearing at each other, there was only silence in the house. To be safe, I waited another thirty minutes, and then, with tears dried to my cheeks, I emerged.

  Brian had obviously taken some time to pack. His suitcase, along with a bunch of his clothes, was gone, as well as his now-battered briefcase. There wasn’t much else there for him to take. He had never been very big on trying to make this place look like a home.

  “Probably because he never felt like it was a home,” I realized bitterly. With trembling fingers, I reached out and picked up one of the few mementos that had actually managed to become a decoration here: a photo of the two of us, in the park by his office, smiling as if we were as happy as could be. It had been taken moments after our engagement. In the picture, the ring glinted merrily in the evening sun.

  I glanced at my hand. The ring was still there, but it has lost all of its happy sheen. Disgustedly, I took it off and hurled it to the ground. Next, I flung the frame. Its glass shattered against the far wall. My heart pounding, I marched forward, seized the loosed picture from the broken glass, and tore into a dozen tiny, crumbled bits.

  “Damn you, Brian!” I cried as I did so, my tears falling freely once again. “You and your perfect life!” Rip! “Great job!” Rip! “Great house!” Rip! “Great wedding!”

  I screamed, and kicked the debris away. I was done. Done with being the good girl. Done with always doing what she was told, with marrying the “right” guy, with pleasing my parents, with bending over backward to let my boss humiliate me day and night.

  “No, Erica Carter,” I grunted aloud. “You are done.”

  And that meant that tonight, I was going on a mission.

  I, Erica Carter, perfect student, perfect fiancé, perfect woman, was going to pick up a man––and not just any man. A bad boy, as different as possible from the clean-cut, crisp-collared man that Brian was.

  My first stop was the shower. Not only was I going to shave my legs, as usual, but I was going to shave everything, if you catch my drift. I used to, but when Brian and I had stopped having sex regularly, I figured, “Why bother?”

  Tonight, there was a reason to bother.

  When I was done with that, I soaped my hair, washing away the pain and humiliation of the day. The tears from my cheeks. The stench of lowly office buildings that seeps into your skin. No, tonight I was going to smell wonderful. Finally finished and pink from scrubbing, I emerged from the shower feeling like a new woman. I liked it. This new person could (I hoped) be a confident one.

  My next step was my wardrobe. At first, I appraised it with a sad sigh. Just hanger after hanger of boring, beige suit jackets, knee-length skirts, and low-slung black pumps.

  “No,” I thought. “Those won’t do at all.”

  I was about to turn away, about to give up, when a flash of red caught my eye: there, buried in the back of my designer closet! A wine-red trunk. The one I had taken to college, in which all of my college outfits were stored.

  “You’re too old and fat for that,” I heard Brian’s voice say in my head. For a moment, I almost listened. Then, the image of his secretary, bent over before him, filled my mind, and all doubt was blown away. With a snarl, I pressed myself into the back of the closet, seized the handle to the trunk, and heaved it onto the bed.

  Looking through its contents was like looking at the mementos of another person. High-heeled boots. Fringed flapper dresses. Skin-tight pencil skirts, to show off voluptuous hips. Makeup. And, Jesus Christ, not the kind of makeup I had in my bathroom now, full of dull shades of brown. No, this was RED! PURPLE! LIME GREEN! An assortment of colors so crazy I could not help but laugh. Smiling, I tossed aside the gaudy ones, then held onto my favorite: the bright red lipstick, and a soft, shimmery eye shadow.

  I placed them atop my vanity for later use. First, I needed to pick the outfit.

  Though I was unbelieving at first, I was very pleased to find that most of the outfits fit me. They were far too young-looking, of course, but still, that my waist remained the size it was in college filled me with enormous satisfaction. “Looks like eating right and working out paid off, Brian,” I snapped at the air, at the same time reminding myself not to go too crazy. Eventually, I found the perfect look: a cherry-red cocktail dress that hugged my hips and booty, had a wonderfully textured front to hide my little bit of tummy, and a low, flowing neckline to emphasize what I had to offer. I decided to pair it with glossy leather boots, and I was set.

  Underneath it, I wore my laciest bra and a thong. Generally, I think thongs are silly, but if ever there was a night for one, it was tonight.

  Next, I went for my hair. My hairdryer beneath the sink was so unused it was dusty, but, after a little bit of practice (and some trial and error) I was able to fashion my hair into a curly, wild look that flew away from my face like a runway model’s––at least, that’s how I hoped it looked. The dark and scared part of me insisted I looked like I had grabbed onto an electric wire.

  “Shush, you,” I told myself. “You look great.”

  Makeup. Shoes. A little clutch purse I hadn’t used since my cousin’s wedding. In it, I threw my I.D., some money, and a couple of condoms. I was on the pill, thank Christ, but it could never hurt to be safe.

  All ready to go, I took a final pause in front of the mirror. What I saw almost made my cry.

  “What are you doing, Erica?” I cried aloud. “You look ridiculous! Dressed like a teenager! Makeup like a vaudeville actress! My God, what were you thinking?”

  I thought about that. What was I thinking? What was I doing? And it was then that I realized: stop. Stop thinking. Stop worrying. You have been doing that your entire life, and look where it has gotten you! A shattered engagement, a job you hate, and a cold and empty rental house.

  “Don’t think,” I told myself. “Just do.”

  I took a deep breath, and then, staggering slightly in my heels––which I hadn’t worn in years––I made my way to the kitchen of my apartment. And then, I did something I also hadn’t done in years:

  I ordered a taxi. Beforehand, Brian would have given me no end of trouble for wasting the money. Money that would be better off going to his new fancy car, or that designer suit he loved so much. But now––finally––I did not have to worry about him. All I had to worry about was me. And “me” wanted a goddamn taxi.

  While I waited, I fished out a bottle of rum from the back of the freezer that Brian had left there ages ago and sipped it, feeling rebellious. By the time the car arrived, I was pleasantly tipsy and warm, but, even more appropriately, I felt courageous.

  “Okay, man-world,” I said, tottering to my feet. “Erica Carter is coming.”

  I got into the taxi, told the guy to take me to the most exciting bar he knew, and set off.

  Chapter Four

  Dominic

  I swear to God, when she walked in, the whole place went silent. Everyone––the people bustling for an order at the bar, the guffawing Crooked Jaws, the drunk dancers gyrating in the corner. There was a rustle. The music kept thumping, but somehow the volume had been turned down for all our ears. She shifted, seemingly uncomfortable. I would have been, too, with all those eyes on me. I could tell in that instant she had had no idea what she’d walked into. She was…too classy. Too suave. That red dress was way too expensive of a material to touch the ash-stained seats of the bar chairs, still sticky with beer.

  She walked. Her hips
and her ass undulated back and forth like the pistons of a smooth, well-oiled machine. Her cleavage in the bar light was the color of milk, and her lips so red and vibrant they could have been blood. Silently, everybody watched her. The tapering flow of her waist, down to her navel, visible through the sheer crimson fabric. Her thighs, unlike her tiny center, were huge, soft and muscular. Exactly the sort of thighs to fasten around your neck.

  With the tiniest of smiles, revealing white teeth, she settled down on the stool next to me at the bar. Her buttocks nestled perfectly into the seat, and her tits pooled against the bar’s polished surface so deliciously that even that damned robot of a bartender had to look her way. Once she sat, the bar resumed its talking, but I continued to stare.

  “That’s it,” I declared inwardly. “Forget the mission. I’m taking her home tonight.”