by Mia Moore
After I shower and change into decent clothes—jeans that don’t have the knees out, a dress shirt and navy blue pea-jacket—I step out in the hallway. The old lady, Mrs. French is just coming out of the utility room, shaking dust off her hands.
“Mrs. French, you should have called me. I would have brought your garbage down, especially with the elevator being tied up.” I lock my door and turn to face her again.
“That’s okay, Mike. I thought you’d be busy with the new tenant. I baked some chocolate chip cookies for you.” She peers up at me through glasses thick as coke bottles, which make her eyes huge. She reminds me of an owl, standing all of five foot nothing.
“Aw Mrs. French, you spoil me. You know I love your cookies. I’ll have to drop by for them later. Right now I have to go to the grocery store. Do you need me to pick up anything for you?” I’ve got my arm around her bony shoulders walking her to the elevator. I take out the special key that takes the elevator off service for move-ins. They can take a break from the moving for a bit. There’s no way I’m letting her climb the stairs, even to the first floor where she lives.
“If you’d pick me up a loaf of bread and quart of milk, that’d be nice.” She blinks a couple of times and smiles before squeezing my hand. “And maybe a bottle of bourbon? It’s good for my joints and helps me sleep.”
The little fox. All this time when she’s watching TV, with a cup in her hand, I thought she was drinking tea. I chuckle and escort her into the elevator that’s just arrived. “You got it.”
Five minutes later, I’m striding up the street, head down, grateful that it’s still early and there’re not many people out yet. The sky is overcast with the threat of rain—even better. After picking up Mrs. French’s bourbon at a liquor store, I skulk into the grocery store and grab a shopping basket, trying my best to ignore the four year old pointing her finger at me being shushed by her Mommy. Kids are honest. I have to admire that.
Just like Karen was when she ended our marriage. She told me she hadn’t signed up for a life with someone who looks like a freak. We’d planned to have kids, buy a house in the ‘burbs after my last deployment but the incident changed all that. There was no way she’d subject any child to a life with a father who looked like I did. It would be too cruel. There’d been tears the day she told me, but I had to agree with her in the end.
I scoop up the items I need and stand behind a guy in a sweatshirt and pj pants, paying for his things at the cash.
“Hey Mike. No delivery today?” It’s Herb, the manager of the small food market, smiling at me from behind the check-out counter. He was a vet like me, except that the war had only taken part of his leg, leaving him with a limp.
“Hi. Not today. I need to get some special cat food. Is there a pet store close by?” I gave a quick smile pushing the groceries along the counter.
“Hey, the pension’s not that bad is it?” He chortles and scans the milk.
“Very funny, smart ass. I need it for my cat, not me.” Everyone’s a comedian.
“The stuff I sell’s not good enough for him? What is he, Garfield or something?” He glances at me and snorts.
“It’s a her and she’s got kittens. She needs lots of protein and vitamins for her babies. Do you know of a place or not?” I’d had enough, seeing a few people wander in to shop.
“Two blocks over on Bronson—Pet Divine. They’ll have what you need and charge you an arm and a leg for it. Good thing I’m not shopping there, since I’m down to one leg!” Again, with the big cheesy grin.
This time I do laugh. Herb’s a good guy even if he considers himself Gerry Seinfeld’s replacement. “Thanks bro.”
I grab the plastic bags filled with the groceries and sidle past an elderly couple entering the store.
It had started to spit rain, so I pull the collar of my jacket up, almost jogging to reach the pet store, before the deluge hits. I stay close to storefronts and buildings, as much for the shelter as for privacy, keeping the right side of my face turned slightly. It’s been six years since the incident and I’ve learned a few tricks to make excursions bearable; well almost.
I almost miss the store, but from the corner of my eye, I catch sight of paw print decals strewn across a plate glass window. There’s a bull dog lounging on a blue overstuffed pet bed on a ledge in the window space. A bell hanging from the handle of the door jangles as I enter and a plumpish young woman stocking shelves looks up.
I haven’t got time for the niceties, trying to make her feel comfortable, so I walk right up. “I need some good quality cat food for a cat nursing kittens.” A few droplets of water fall from my jacket leaving marks on a polished wood floor.
“We’ve got what you need. How many?” She lumbers to her feet, grasping the edge of the shelf for support.
“I don’t know. Is it in bags or cans?” How am I supposed to know? The last time I had a pet was when I was in grade school.
Her laugh is light and musical. “No. I mean kittens. How many did she have?”
“Oh. Sorry, I thought you… She had five, why?” She’s already walking to an aisle with a cardboard kitty sign hanging overhead, and I trail after her.
“No reason, just curious. I have three cats and I’m a cat person. Here’s a really good brand that’s made in the U.S.” She plucks a can off the shelf and hands it to me. “See? The first ingredients listed are meat, and then it gets down to the fillers. This is what she needs. What kind of cat is she?”
I read the label and then look at the price sticker. A dollar ten! For this little can? Herb was wrong about retirees eating this stuff. “A stray, that’s going to bankrupt me from the looks of it.” It was a mumble but she heard it.
“Aw, but she’s worth it. I bet she adores you.” The girl’s eyes are small, encased in folds of flesh, but they sparkle and she has a warm smile.
A cat person. Is that what I’ve become?
I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face. “Yeah, she’s okay. I’ll take a case of this.” I watch her reach to the back of the shelf before I stop her. “Here, let me. My arms are longer.”
I set the grocery bags down and haul out a box of the canned cat food.
“You might want to try the kibble as well. It’s actually better for them and their teeth. Plus it’s lighter if you’re carrying it any distance.” She steps father down the aisle and grabs a five pound bag.
“I’ll take both--see what Sarge likes best.” I wedge the box under my arm and pick up the groceries, waiting for her to go by me.
“Sarge is a lucky cat! If you need help finding homes, let me know. I can post a sign here.” She puts the bag of kibble on the counter and walks around to the cash register.
Finding homes? That part of it hasn’t occurred to me. I’m their home and speaking of which, I’m gonna’ need to grab a cab with all this stuff. “Thanks, I’ll get back to you on that.”
***
Back in my apartment with items delivered to the old lady and Sarge fed to bursting, I munch on a cookie and scan the monitors. Amanda is just getting up after what looks like a wild night judging by the clothes strewn about the room. She holds her hand to her head and stumbles naked as a jaybird, to the door of her bedroom. A brown arm untangles a mound of sheets and blankets and the face of last night’s pick-up appears. Hmm…the first time I’ve seen her do a black guy.
I go full screen and turn the volume up, just in time to hear the flushing of a toilet before she once more appears in the bedroom. In her hand is a glass of water that she offers her guest. Jonah? I think that’s what she called him. He drinks it in one gulp it seems and hands the glass back, before pulling her down onto the bed next to him. The glass thuds onto the floor, but she doesn’t notice.
They’re kissing, her ivory arms clutching a hard body dark and thick as a tree trunk. His hand completely covers one of her breasts, rolls it in his palm before his leg slides between hers, rising to spread her open. A glimpse of her pussy before his hand slides down her s
tomach to cup it in his fingers. His head covers half of her chest, alternating pale, pink nipples taking them into his mouth, while his fingers probe and disappear inside her.
He’s really hitting the right spots from the way she moans, rolling her hips against his hand. Jonah shifts on the bed, holding a cock that’s almost ten inches long, pressing it into her furrow, rubbing it quickly over her clit.
“Oh God, just fuck me, will you!” She’s almost screaming.
I glance at the monitor of the new tenant who lives above. Ms. Jones stands next to her bed, hands filled with clothes taken from an open suitcase laying there. From the way her head is angled she heard it.
Jonah is doing what he’s told. His ass and back obliterates every inch of her body, except for her feet pressing into his ass cheeks and fingers clutching the smooth mahogany of his back. He’s pumping into her with a slow motion, seeming to savor every thrust but probably more because of his size.
He rolls over holding her close and now, she’s on top. I touch the mouse to change the angle of the camera. When she pulls her legs up and raises to a sitting position, her perky tits, red hair falling over them, the slight mound of her stomach is visible.
Oh yes, this is what I like. My hand rubs the crotch of my pants, squeezing the head of my cock as Amanda’s leg spread and her pussy is fucked by a massive cock. Her lips are pulled almost flat every time his shaft slides into her, like she’s being turned inside out.
I unbuckle and in a flash I’m stroking my meat in time to Jonah’s thrusts. Amanda’s pussy is glistening, she’s so fucking horny for cock. I spit on my hand and slide the wetness over my shaft, my eyes taking in the nub of clit protruding from the burgundy folds of her pussy. Nice and slow as she moans for more, while her fingers pinch the button-like nipples.
Long dark fingers dig into the flesh of her hips, lifting her ass higher and faster on his cock; my hand moves faster as well. I slump deeper into my chair so that I’m almost laying horizontal, legs parted to rest against the chair arms. It’s Amanda’s legs gripping my hips, pussy fringed with flaming red hair riding my cock, begging for more.
Jonah grunts and thrusts deep inside her, causing her to squeal in pain, straining upward and away but his hands hold her down. Take it bitch. The first spurt from my cock lands almost across the room. Again, I thrust deep inside her hot hole and ecstasy flies almost as far. My hand tightens. Her flesh clamps down on my cock, gushing, creaming, filled with lust.
Oh fuck, Amanda gave me such a sweet surprise. I cup the still drizzling head of my cock in my palm as I rise to grab a tissue. Wow, I wasn’t even that horny when I came home but this was too hot to miss. I wipe myself clean and I’m about to search for the other jism to clean, when I remember the new tenant.
What the fuck? She’s laying face down on her bed, jeans bunched around the knee of one leg. The other leg, and it’s a pretty shapely leg, is naked, along with her ass. Her arms are at her side but I can’t see her hands.
My jaw drops watching her hands slide out from her crotch. She was playing with herself, just like me. Holy fuck, she must have heard Amanda and got fired up too. She’s got a nice ass for someone so skinny, although I don’t know what her face looks like. She kept looking down or away like she was…
I turn to my laptop that’s at the end of the table and type ‘Tara Jones’ into the search bar. Enough fun and games for a while—who is this woman?
Chapter 6
A row of women’s photos appears on the screen along with a link to a shitload of ‘Tara Jones’ profiles on Facebook. None of the women look familiar but then again, I didn’t get a good look at her. I’d judge her to be thirtyish, so click on a photo of a dark haired woman who looks about right.
Holy cow! Her photo and about a million other women with that name appear on the screen. This is like finding a needle in the haystack. First of all, eliminate any who aren’t Caucasian or in the right age range. Still there’re too many to choose from. I have to get a better look at her face.
I turn back to the monitor showing her apartment and zoom in on the figure, now standing, jeans pulled up. She reaches for a cardboard box at the foot of the bed and opens it, but her back is still to me. I click the mouse to adjust the angle of the camera but once more she turns and I only catch a glimpse of her face.
Maybe a call to the Management Company will shed some light on my mystery tenant, but that has to wait until Monday when they open. Should I knock on her door, see how she’s settling in? Maybe later. Right now, I’m hungry for something substantial--more than the cookies the old lady gave me.
I take some cold cuts, lettuce and mayo from the fridge and place them on the counter. A couple of slices of bread and large glass of milk and I sit down with my sandwich, eyes turned to Tara’s monitor once more. She must be finished in the bedroom because she’s not there. I click the mouse and the living room enlarges on the screen. Again, she’s bent over a box, carefully placing items she’s removing, on a shelf.
Holding a framed photo in both hands, close to her chest, she looks down at it. Well, it looks like a photo from the top of the gold plated frame. Her long brown hair falls over her shoulders blocking my vision of anything in the picture. But from the length of time she spends gazing at it, it must mean something special to her.
I don’t know why but I move the mouse and click the ‘Record’ icon. I’ve got to see that photo; it may be the first clue as to who she is. She places it on the top shelf and turns it slightly. The glass covering the photo reflects the light from the window nearby and all I see is white. Once more she resumes the unpacking, hair loose and covering the camera’s sight of her face when she moves.
Okay. I stop the recording and rewind it, frame by frame as she sets it on the shelf. Bingo. One frame reveals a photo of woman wearing a glittering ball gown, shoulders bare, hair piled high around the most gorgeous face I’ve ever seen. She’s looking off, radiant smile, upturned dark eyes fringed with long lashes above high cheekbones—a classic picture of beauty.
Is that her? I move the mouse and save the image to my hard drive. Now my search on the internet will be a piece of cake. Once more I’m at my laptop but this time I’m searching Google Images for a match. Oh my God. Tara is a real life, fashion model. The screen is filled with photos of her face, fashion shoots, parties, Vogue magazine even…but wait. The last picture isn’t so pretty. Someone carved her face up pretty good.
I click on that one and links to news stories appear.
What began as a small-town girl’s dream, ended as a nightmare. Twenty-six year old Tara Jones was on track for a big time modeling career, posing for such magazines as Vogue and Cosmopolitan. It all ended the night that Steven Breton’s obsession for Tara took a sadistic turn. Breton, a restaurateur owned, among his many holdings, The Silver Spoon—which Tara frequented. After numerous crude romantic overtures he had made to Tara, which she had rejected, he arranged his revenge. When the opportunity presented itself, he grabbed her, dragged her into a dark alley-way and mutilated her face with a straight razor.
Tara Jones’ face and career was ruined that night. Hours of surgery and hundreds of expert stitches could not repair the damage. A jury convicted Breton but Tara is living the life sentence….
My jaw is almost on my chest as I glance at the monitor again. She’s not on the screen but there’s the sound of dishes clattering. She must be organizing her kitchen.
It’s no wonder that she’s secretive, insisting on her privacy. Jesus, I hope after the conviction she sued the ass off that bastard for everything he had.
I click on the mouse to return to her photos before the assault. She was beautiful. If I could get my hands on that Breton guy, it wouldn’t be just his face that I’d carve. He’d be singing soprano when I finished.
A touch on my calf and it’s Sarge, rubbing her side against me, throat rumbling steadily, before she pops up into my lap. I scratch behind her ear, hugging her close against my abdomen. The poor little thing
. She’d probably be dead if I hadn’t taken her in. New York’s got some mean streets. Just look at what happened to Tara.
Still holding Sarge I get up and go into the kitchen to feed her again. I fill one bowl with milk and pour kibble into the other.
Tara’s going to be like the old lady. I’ll check in on her once a day to make sure she’s okay but other than that, she gets her privacy. She deserves it. And if she gets off listening to Amanda and her latest flavor going at it, that’s her business. Who am I to judge or even watch? We’re kind of two peas in a pod.
Chapter 7
The raging hard-on tenting the covers above my hips wakes me up on Monday morning. Finally the big day is here—my ‘service call’ to Claire. I throw the sheets back and follow my dick into the bathroom, waiting a few minutes for it to calm down. After jerking off three times yesterday, I can’t believe it’s ready for more.
Yesterday had been a hot one. Not only Amanda and the black dude going at it like rabbits but Sam the stud in Two-B, got lucky too. Actually the girl he banged was more to my taste than Amanda could ever hope to be. A sweet, full ass like an ice cream cone, that you wanted to more than just lick, and tits so big and fluffy, you could squeeze them around your dick and fuck them. Oh God, I’d better stop thinking this way or I’ll never be able to take a leak.
Sarge is weaving through my legs, humming away in her ‘feed me’ dance. Okay, okay. Finally I’m able to finish and tread carefully around Sarge’s food frenzy into the kitchen. I look after her and grab some milk and cereal for myself, wandering into the living room to scan the monitors as I eat.
There’s only one that matters this morning. Claire’s wearing a towel turban on her head and nothing else when she enters her bedroom. She sprays a cloud of perfume and walks through it on her way to the closet, where she rifles through the clothes hanging neatly on hangers. The red dress she finally chooses is nice.