by Gabby Grace
Vito lifts my dress over my head, his hands sliding up my side, my breasts escaping free of their constraints. Just when I think he’ll embrace me, he barks out an order instead.
“On your stomach.” His voice is firm but seductive, and I do as he says. Once on my belly, the soft flannel tickling my nipples and my moist pussy forming a wet spot, he comes up to my side, scoops one of his arms under my stomach, and pulls my hips up.
He positions himself directly behind me, and I can feel the heat of his member against my ass, fully ready for what comes next.
42
Vito
My cock, fully engorged and ready for action, bounces as I move into position just behind Bella’s perfect ass, so smooth and firm. I can’t help but run my hand across it to touch it for myself.
I grab my cock at the base, smack it onto her ass a few times just so she knows what’s coming next, all part of the build-up for what’s to come.
Reaching with my fingers, I locate her wet entrance. She quivers at my touch, sucking in a deep breath. I enter her slowly at first, finding my rhythm with a hand on her ass and another wrapped around her waist, pulling and pushing her, my cock filling her deep.
Her pussy, like an expensive silk glove, milks and clenches around me, spitting me out and pulling me back in with each thrust. It feels so fucking good, and she’s so tight I can hardly believe it.
Pumping into her, her ass pushing back to meet my every thrust, I angle up to hit her special spot, and her throaty gasp tells me all I need to know. Being a good lover is all about paying attention to what your woman needs, and giving it to her at just the right moment, sometimes with a little twist she may not be expecting.
It’s so easy with Bella, our minds and bodies are in perfect sync, a silent communication requiring no words, only mutual connection. I quicken my pace, her urgent moans bringing me deeper into the experience, my cock feeling satisfied with every movement.
I can see her head tilted to one side, resting on her bent elbows, her opposite cheek meeting the blanket, her mouth open. I want to kiss her but not as much as I want to fuck her as hard as I can.
I’m full-out railing into her from behind, the smacking sound of my balls hitting her ass, the smell of the ocean, and the way I feel about her all coming to form that perfect moment when we both meet in orgasm, my cum filling her pussy full and her muscles squeezing and milking me for all that I’m worth. Still pumping for every last bit of enjoyment, her body racks in spasm again, every muscle stiffening for what seems like minutes, though only seconds, until we both collapse onto the flannel together, breathing hard, and smiling.
I push her hair out of her face, plastered by sweat, and spoon into her for a few minutes, catching my breath and thinking how lucky I am to be here with this amazing woman. “Wanna’ go for a dip?”
“Are you serious?”
The thought of leaving this warm blanket for what I know will be cool ocean water was not in my plans, but hey, sometimes spontaneity rules.
“Yeah… unless you’re too much of a wimp.” That did it.
She springs up, and we kiss briefly before padding through the sand, barefoot and naked, toward the rolling surf.
“I can’t see anything. What if we get separated?” Bella asks.
I pull her hand into mine and say, “Don’t worry. I’ve got a good hold of you and I’ll never let you go.”
43
Vito
Bella decided to stay at her mother’s house. I can’t blame her. She seemed to change when she was there. The best way I could describe it was she was grounded. It will be safer for her there, and we’ll figure out how to get her home another time.
I pull my Mustang up to the darkened house. She must have forgotten to leave the lights on. It’s 2 a.m., I’m fucking tired, and I just want to get inside, plop down on that bed and go to sleep. I fish the keys out of my pocket, unlock the front door and head inside. I flip on the hall light and toss the keys on the counter.
I head to the bathroom to drain my bird. I whip it out, start my stream, then sense the slightest movement just over my shoulder to my left. Senses heightened, I tell myself to play it cool. Finish up, strap it in, zip it up. I lurch into the shower curtain with both hands, feel the body behind it already struggling against my strength and the shock of my sharp attack. The curtain is half wrapped around the figure, so I go with that, further wrapping it around the assailant’s face.
I throw lefts and rights in rapid succession, hitting the assailant in the chest, neck and face area, the blood starting to stain through the white sheer curtain.
I’m not done yet, not by a fucking long shot.
I get on my feet and start throwing heels to the figure’s torso and face, using the handle on the wall for balance and extra leverage. I’m rewarded by the sickening sound of the guy’s skull hitting the bottom of the tub.
A piece pops out from under the curtain, and I grab for it with my hand, grasping it firmly in case I need to use it. The struggling body underneath the shower curtain is quieting down, running out of steam. One last kick to the face ends any movement, and this fucker’s either dead or unconscious.
I reach down under the shower curtain and find his neck. There’s a faint pulse there. My chest is heaving, my knuckles bloody and raw, but I take a second to catch my breath, dropping to the floor and leaning back against the wall, pissed that I fucked up my nicest threads that I picked up at a men’s clothing store just the other day.
I need to check the rest of the house before this guy comes to. I run from room to room, checking every closet, under every bed, and I come up empty. Lastly, I check the garage and in the few large white cabinets up against the wall that could fit a person, and I’m finally satisfied the place is clean. Before leaving the garage, I grab some twine that’s sitting on a shelf right next to the door.
Getting back to the bathroom and realizing he’s still out cold, I run through my options of what to do with this guy.
_____
It takes almost an hour before he comes to, and it’s only after I throw cold water on his battered and bruised face. He was probably a good-looking guy before he came here, but now his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.
“Hey, look, Sleeping Beauty’s up.”
I lashed him to the toilet bowl in a seated position, his hands bound together with twine strung around the base of the bowl, his feet tied the same way. Because he was slumping forward when unconscious and it was pulling him off the bowl, I tied the cord from the hair dryer around a towel rack behind and above the toilet. I strapped the other end around his face, just under his nose in such a way to keep his head up. I have mad MacGyver skills when I need them.
Anyhow, the fuck is awake, so I should really get to it.
“So, you were sent here to kill me. Or was it my lady friend Bella you were after?”
Nothing.
He’s just blinking his eyes, breathing a little funny, and his nose probably looks a little more crooked to the right than it was this morning. Poor son of a bitch. You picked the wrong dude to fuck with.
“Why didn’t you shoot me while I was taking a leak, huh? You know what they used to tell me back in my football days? Hesitation kills.”
“Just kill me, asshole.”
“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry about that. Question is, how much am I going to have to torture you before you talk?”
Silence. He just eyes me up and down, as if sizing me up for something.
I pick up the blow dryer that is dangling near his right arm and hung up on the knot tied to keep his head up. I turn it on right in front of his face.
“You see this blow dryer. It’s a common household item used primarily to dry people’s hair like this.”
I aim it as his hair, blowing it around a bit to demonstrate my point.
“Unfortunately for you, I’m a very creative person. I like to take normal household items and turn them into torture dev
ices. It’s just a hobby of mine, you know, just to pass the time.”
“Take this blow dryer, for example. Seems harmless, right? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Then I said to myself, what would this feel like if I shoved it down someone’s throat and turned it on? You know, I’m a curious guy, too. And when I get curious about something, I just need to try it out.”
He shifts uncomfortably on top of the toilet seat, trying to remain calm when I see he’s panicking.
“Let’s try it?”
Without warning, I give him a hard straight right, and when he opens his mouth, I jam it in and turn it on full blast, all 1250 watts. He struggles against it trying to pull his head away, but I grab onto the back of his head with my left hand and push forward with my right until I’m confident it won’t go in any further.
He struggles mightily against me, but it’s no use. The heat from the dryer is burning the shit out of his throat, and I can tell he can barely breathe. Just above the din of the dryer motor, I can hear him screaming into the end of it, his veins popping out of the side of his head, the sweat soaking his face and flying in every direction his head moves.
Then I turn it off but keep it lodged in his throat, and for fear he’ll suffocate before he can give me some answers, I finally pull it out.
“Hhhhhu…uhhhh.” He gasps for air, choking, and I can only imagine what it feels like to have your throat tissue burned. The tears are flowing from his eyes now, leaving streams down his hamburger meat cheeks, and he’s still coughing and trying to catch his breath.
I hold the hair dryer in my hand, almost like I’d hold a piece, and gesture with it nonchalantly as I speak. It’s all part of the psychological game.
“So, that was different. You want a glass of water? Yeah, I bet you do. All you need to do is nod. I can imagine how tough it must be for you to speak right now.”
Nodding and still coughing.
“Sure thing, coming right up.” I take a clear glass off the sink, one that Bella must use for rinsing, turn on the cold water and fill it almost all the way up. “You mind if I have a drink first? Kicking your ass made me mighty thirsty.” I slug the glass right in front of him, then hold the empty glass in front of him for full effect. “Ahhhh… that hit the spot.”
He looks at me pleadingly, so I give in, filling up the glass again.
“Here you go.” I slowly extend the glass toward his lips, then he tilts his head back and I give him a little taste. “How was that? You want some more?” Not waiting for him to nod, he tilts his head back again and this time I pour a ton in there, pinch his nostrils with one hand and drop the glass onto the throw rug, while jamming my other hand over his mouth.
He kicks and strains, trying to stop the madness, but unable to breathe or spit out the water, he’s slowly drowning and there’s not a fucking thing he can do about it. I hold him that way for maybe fifteen to twenty seconds before releasing him, his head and torso lunging forward, the contents in his mouth spraying all over the opposite floor and wall.
His coughing fit lasts two or more minutes, bile and vomit coming up from his guts and splattering all over the bathroom floor.
“Hmmmm. This is not going to work for my girl. She keeps a tidy house and here you are messing up her bathroom.”
I grab a crop of his dirty blonde hair in my left fist, pull him toward my face, his neck and shoulder straining away from me. My eyes are daggers and I give him that ‘this can get a lot worse’ look. “Who sent you and why?”
Nothing.
I rifle through the cabinet just above his head over the toilet and pick up a pair of small, sharp scissors.
Holding them right up to his face so he can see them, I say, “Do you think these are sharp enough to lop off your balls? There’s only one way to find out.”
His eyes go to the scissors, then back to mine, as beads of sweat roll from his hairline down his forehead and temples, glistening down his swollen cheeks before disappearing under his jawline.
Sobbing now at having been effectively broken, having to give up his associates, and ultimately knowing that he will die at my hands, he spits out the information I’ve been waiting for. “I was sent by Tom… Tommy… Di… Dibullo.”
“Why?”
“To take the girl… to take her back.”
“To who? To Tommy?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Who does Tommy work for?”
“I can’t…” He screams this part out and I can tell he’s had it.
I reach for his fly, the scissors still in my hand, and finally he sings like a canary on its last legs.
“Don Sirico!”
____
I strangled the fuck with the dryer cord so as not to make a mess of Bella’s bathroom, and he went pretty quick considering I’d already half killed him and broken his spirit.
Then I cut his ties and fireman-carried him outside, all wrapped up in the shower curtain. When I reached the Mustang, I lowered him down and propped him up against it as I unlocked the trunk. I tossed him in and slammed down the trunk. This car would never be the same after being used to dump a body, so maybe it’s time to return it to the rental place. After a good detailing, of course.
I went back in to clean the bathroom. I want that shit spotless when Bella comes back. She never needs to know what happened in there. And I certainly don’t want her to see any evidence. She’s haunted enough by what’s she’s experienced, and anything extra might throw her over the edge.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m southeast of Miami at a place called Virginia Key. It’s attached to Miami by a single bridge, and I figure we’re far enough out where I don’t have to worry about a body washing up on shore, at least for the next few days. I slide the body out of the trunk, the head hitting the bumper on its way out, then crashing with a thud onto the ground. He can’t feel anything now, so what do I need to be careful for?
I roll him down a small hill and into the Atlantic at the northernmost tip, hoping the Gulf Stream will take him on a current ride far out to sea.
I took no pleasure in what just happened. A fly on the wall would have thought I enjoyed that shit. I’ve been tortured before, and trust me, there’s nothing good about making another human being suffer. If it was up to me, I would have offed him right away. Truth is, I needed that information to end this.
And what I learned is more valuable than anything right now. Bella will never be safe until I take Don Sirico out for good. He wants to use her to get at me, full well knowing she’s a much easier target than me.
Somehow, he knows we’re an item, but how? That’s the way this business works. Just when you think you’re closer to figuring stuff out, more questions crop up.
44
Bella
Waking up in my mama’s home made me feel like a little girl again. She let me sleep in until the smell of eggs done over-easy and fresh cooked bacon filled the air with an aroma I still connect with my childhood.
For me to walk into the kitchen and see my mama cooking over the stove, her long, dark brown braid running down the length of her back, is as natural as drawing a deep breath.
I come up behind her and pull her into a hug. “Good morning, Mama.”
She smiles. The early morning sun is shining in through a small window on her right, illuminating her body, still strong and fit for a women her age. “Good morning, Bella. You hungry?”
“For your cooking? You know I am.”
I walk to the drying rack and grab some festive plates from last night. I set two places with the plates, silverware, and napkins.
My mom finishes cooking the eggs and bacon, turns off the burners, spins around, and scoops the food onto our plates, while I finish buttering the toast with a special butter knife. The knife has a carved wooden handle that I first used as a small child.
We sit and smile at each other. She puts her hand over my wrist and gives me her warmest maternal smile, the small wrinkles f
orming at the corners of her eyes the only thing betraying her age. She’s so beautiful.
“I miss you, Bella. Your work… I understand. It’s important to you.”
“I know, Mama. Coming here last night with Vito, and just seeing everyone and laughing… I just… miss it, too.
She starts digging into her eggs lest they get cold. “What are your plans?”
I take a bite of my whole wheat toast. “Plans?”
“Yes. Will you stay with me for a while?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“You don’t have work?”
“I do. I’m just taking a break.”
“Is everything good with you? I mean, you’ve been all about your work these last few years.”
I test my bacon by grabbing a piece with my fingers, and then licking the grease off. It’s disgusting, I know, but so good. “Things have changed, I guess.”
“What with? Vito?”
“Well, yeah there’s that.”
She tosses down her green patterned napkin on the table she had used to wipe her lips. “What’s really going on, Bella? You seem happy to be here, but at the same time troubled.”
“Mama, I…”
While waving her finger at me, she cuts me off full well knowing I’m going to deny what she said. “Shush. I know you like only a mom can know her daughter.”
Blowing out a deep breath, I say, “Mama, do you remember that boy I dated when I was younger?”
“The boy who did the graffiti?” She has always been able to talk and eat at the same time, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Yes. I was thinking about him recently. Vito reminds me of him.”
“Has Vito done something wrong?”
“Well, not exactly. Not to me.”
“If you remember, you did not take my advice.”
“I didn’t.” My eyes go down, as a tinge of regret washes over me.
“Do you remember what became of that boy?”