ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories)

by Hawke, Jessa

  Not everyone aspires to be a celebrity, but in the presence of the Rufinos, I could see the appeal. I could see Valentina suddenly stop her incessant leg shaking and look at me, but vaguely, as if I was not particularly present in the room. She uncrossed her legs, and with her smooth white hands, she gripped the seat of her chair, which extended her elbows fully and gave her the appearance of arching her back, ever so slightly. She squints those black eyes in a gesture of adolescent petulance and sensuality, and her breasts peek up at me. There is suddenly nobody else in the room, or Santiago is off the side, smoking a fat brown cigar, gazing at the window and releasing plumes of smoke from his sour man’s mouth. And I, I behind him, am pushing Valentina’s round bottom with those natural dimples in it, onto my desk. With one long, fluid gesture of my arm, I am releasing that tempting little red belt and hearing the buckle clatter to the floor. There is a sea of rust=colored fabric before me, covering a soft body, and I run my hands down the sides of her thighs, to those still-slender calves, fruiting like soon-dead blossoms, and I am savagely yanking that skirt up past her knees, exposing her creamy skin. Slick nylon covers her still, and her black gaze shows me she feels powerful—she does not know, has no way of knowing, that women alone do not drive me wild—as she rolls the stockings down and they pool in nude-colored heaps on the floor. She has dirtied my perfectly neat office, and I grasp each plump white thigh in my hands and push her legs apart, revealing a thatch of curly black hair there, covering a split mound that Valentina does not know whether to show or hide. She squirms, but I know she likes it. I can almost taste raw earth on her mouth as I lean my face in and breathe in her yeasty, warm smell, the patch of hair softer even than that on her head. The curls brush against my upper lip, and my tongue darts out to make contact with her split.

  Valentina moans, and I know that it is more the idea of me between her thighs than the actual sensation. She is of the old world, where men do not place their mouths on the more hairy parts of women, only delight in the soft bobbing of their smooth, clean breasts. I know better. I have licked and sucked and fucked enough to know that mouths on places such as these provide great pleasure. But now I am as impatient as she, who does not understand these things. So I hook my forearms beneath her plump thighs and spread her legs, flesh puddling just a little, and thrust into her, her lusty Italian cries staining the air with their foreignness as we finally do the kind of coupling she understands. I drive into the smooth-rough insides of her, feel her soft muscles clench around my cock, and I am glad she is a woman in the most classic sense of the word, a woman who has not been taught to hide her sexual greed or disguise it under something else, a woman who can fuck as a man does, stripped of her oohs and ahhs, and believing in the fact that at the end of it, we are little more than animals after all.

  I sat there that first evening, throbbing hard at the workings of my own imagination as I calmly discussed numbers with the Rufinos. Valentina did not know about my mental machinations at all, and idly spread her fingers before her to check if the red polish on them was chipping. What took me by surprise a little bit later, though, was that she could actually voice displeasure. Santiago ordered four hundred bottles of some alcohol or other—who can remember after all these years?—and a noisy protest filled the air around her as Valentina cried that nobody needed to get that drunk at a one year old’s birthday party. So she had opinions. I was to learn so much more about them in the time to come.

  Santiago was more than a match for his young, yet unfamiliar bride, however. In the long stretch of time before they began working together as a unit, he would often silence her, as he did in that moment, with a simple wave of his hand.

  Do not distress me, woman, it said. I will deal with you at home if you do.

  Santiago. Brutal, luscious Santiago. I wondered, as I did with unsurprising ease, what he was like when the heavy weight of burdensome responsibility was taken off his shoulders. What pleasure did he truly find between the young Valentina’s thighs? He struck me as a man whose conventional tastes were dictated by the strict macho lifestyle that was the only one accepted in the family. I knew something about the macho lifestyle. And I knew what passions could simmer not too far beneath it, the veneer grinding down to a perceptible falseness with the passing of the years.

  I could imagine Santiago leaning across my table and grabbing me by the collar and tie as if he was mad at me. Angry, cigar breath exhaling into my face, as if I had done something wrong, but in truth just wanting to feel my painfully thin chest close to him, under his palms. He could not be gentle with me, nor did I want him to. I liked it when his aquamarine eyes were lit up in fury, like a giant suppressing his rage.

  I tell him he cannot have the money and he stands. He is quiet at first, but then one powerful arm sweeps everything destructively off my desk. He is not even sweating with exertion, and he crosses over to where I am. He stands taller than me, Santiago does, and he towers over me, the heated musk of him bubbling so close to the surface I can taste him through the tension in the air between us. He strips himself of the gray jacket and pushes white sleeves up past his elbows, revealing hairy forearms. Mercy. I want none of it. When he frames my face in both of his large hands and savagely crushes it with his mouth, I groan aloud. I want this. I want the helplessly hard feel of his cock against my hands as they fumble below his waist. I want to be his prisoner as he reaches down and squeezes my ass so hard it almost hurts. I relish this pain, Santiago.

  It is here that I am gentle, it is here that there is room for that. I sink to my knees and unzip him as he looks away. If he looks down, he acknowledges that this is real, and the dreams of me will haunt him through the nights spent in the bed of Valentina. I feel almost undeserving as his cock springs free from a mat of coarse brown hair; I have felt this way before. He is ruddy-tipped, almost purple, and engorged. The foolish cock, bobbing in the air for all it’s worth, but I want it all the same. I open my mouth and pull him into me, and his loud groan fills my ears with its sweet sound. The heir apparent to the mafia with his most manly flesh in my man’s mouth.

  I love the rubbery feel of him against my cheeks, the tread tire wrapped in velvet. He tastes like clean flesh with the faintest hint of urine, and I relish it all. I open wider and tilt my head back, feeling the full length of him invade my throat like the most long-awaited conquistador in all of history. There is so much wetness here that we are slipping and sliding to a rhythm matched by hips and heads, and I grab his butt cheeks to hang on. I am surprised he lets me touch him like this, and enjoy the feeling of those firm muscles in my hands before he can take them away. Finally, a wrenching groan, male and hearty is heard, and he grabs a palm full of my hair as the hot, salty liquid of him spurts in bursts into my mouth. I swallow every last drop and lick my lips. Sitting back onto my heels, I look up at Santiago, mob prince in waiting. And he gifts me with a desperate glance from those unbelievably smoldering eyes. The eyes that say he is satisfied. As long as no one knows.

  Familiar? Always familiar to me. Always reminds me of another pair of eyes, chocolate brown, but colored by the same anguish, the same kind of angry despair that needs to blame someone else for a set of circumstances. Helplessness against circumstances is, after all, the ultimate cage; and the bars do not break. What’s that they say about birds in gilded cages? Pretty to look at, but branded forever?

  I heard their yells in my sleep.

  “Faggot, faggot!”

  The poetry of hate.

  Their hoots and yells, like so many unwashed, uneducated animals as they split my skin with their kicks. The boys rounded up on me until I could not do anything such as call them human anymore. Blood lust washed over them like a pack of animals, and they canted my orientation at me over and over again as they pummeled my body on the ground.

  I did not, to say the least, grow up in a forgiving neighborhood.

  Perhaps I always knew that I felt something pink and unusual towards boys, or perhaps it was Tony Fiuconelli that fina
lly did me in. Tony, with his huge brown nose and pugilistic nose. Tony with that pack of sixes on his stomach and biceps that rounded out the sleeves of all his shirts. Tony, with that soft brown hair that stood up from his scalp as if he had been electrocuted.

  Tony, who dragged me out of the ice cream shop to the awaiting savage crowd of pubescent boys.

  “What kind of faggot eats strawberry ice cream anyway?” he hissed in my ear as he furiously grabbed my collar and punched me in the gut. The ice cream melted in drips onto the floor, leaving behind a slimy pink smear, all the way outside.

  They had found me. The boys at school, from their traditional lives with their traditional values and their traditional families. Their traditional mothers made traditional marinara sauce from fresh-peeled tomatoes, and nobody once thought of updating anything in those days. Because who would ever give all of the money up? The fathers would come home from another hit job, never talk to their children except for the hard-fisted discipline that would break tables and bust kneecaps with equal ease, and the bank accounts would never be legally filled. Instead, there was always a silence about how the bacon was brought home, never mind the pig that just got slaughtered for it.

  Before I was the banker, before the slim ties and slicked-back strands of hair, I was fresh meat for slaughter. Before the white button-down shirt, I was painfully skinny and equally painfully shy. I talked to no one and dressed in the kind of clothes that would let me blend into the gray walls of our high school if only the school would let me.

  Who ever knows how these things get started? Was it a look I had on my face one day, or was it simply that I was a tiny, knobby-kneed boy whose entire appearance was enough to elicit jeers and remarks? All I know is that it began with the girls, as it often does. Nowadays, they call it relational aggression, this thing that the womenfolk do. Women fight and kick and slap almost more viciously than men do, but there’s this other side to them that’s far more dangerous than anything physical that could ever come out of a man’s body. They talk about you. And the words can often seal your death sentence.

  All it took was for Serafina Pielli to start whispering about my clothes one day. And then the rumors started.

  I hear he whacks off to boys in his room.

  I’ll bet he wears rainbow shorts and roller skates around the West Side, where all the fags live.

  You think he has a poster of Babe Ruth and kisses it at night? Makes believe he’s his boyfriend?

  And often, in response to that last one,

  Ew, who’d ever want to be HIS boyfriend?

  That was all it took. A few words. A few side sneers and giggles with no founding base for any of it. To say that the words hurt would be untrue. I was only conscious of what damage they could lead to, but not even that prepared me for the day I stood at my school locker and Tony Fiuconelli suddenly appeared behind me and slammed my head into the door.

  I hear you like boys, he said. And we don’t appreciate your kind around here.

  And from then on, they’d hunt me. Tony always led the gang, emulating the forced machismo of their fathers, beaten from the beatings themselves, desperate to take out their aggression on anybody who was different. What was the crime, really? Not being good at baseball—I never did join in with the other boys during their street matches—not knowing myself who or what I was attracted to? The biggest question of all, of course, was how the other people at school seemed to know the answer to that one when I myself had the fuzzy gray feelings of the start of adolescence.

  The sickness of it started the day I caught sight of Tony Fiuconelli’s face as he lead the hunt for me. As I lay on the ground, blood trickling from and stinging my nose, I found myself overtaken by the look in his huge brown eyes. They were framed in thick lashes like a girl’s, and the anger I saw in them was strangely enough not directed towards me. It was a living thing, my tormentor’s anger, and it was bubbling inside of him as surely as if he were a witches’ cauldron built especially for the purpose of containing it. It was the way his muscles bunched underneath the worn cotton of his shirts, the tattoo on his upper bicep that would have broken his mother’s heart if she had known about it. When he unleashed his anger onto me, I felt as if I wanted to take it all from him, absorb all that pain, all those kicks that mixed in me with a sense of self-loathing that was fast becoming a permanent companion.

  The hair on Tony Fiuconelli’s chest curled heftily, and I wondered what it would be like to taste the sweat in it after he got home from baseball practice, just before he popped into the shower. To taste the mismatched ribs of him underneath this bumpy tongue of mine, to hold one of those surely brown nipples in my mouth until it popped out, fully erect. There he was, stepping just into the shower, and we only had moments before one of his six sisters started banging on the door, and with that same anger in his eyes that always came upon him when he told his boys to get me, he slapped me, rammed me up against the shower tiles and took my cock in his hand, wrenching it almost to the point of pain, but not quite.

  Not quite.

  And our wet bodies would slap together as we almost grappled, but everything was so wet and good underneath the water spilling from the shower head that I almost couldn’t take it…

  And my mother would start banging on my bedroom door.

  Because I was never in that shower with Tony Fiuconelli. Of course I wasn’t. Back then, I could only imagine it and stifle my groans with my pillow as the bedsprings creaked furiously. My mother would pound on my door, over and over, shouting that I would go blind if I continued doing what I was doing. I thought it might be good if that happened. Because then I wouldn’t have to go to school anymore, and the boys wouldn’t find me. And I wouldn’t imagine Tony Fiuconelli with his hands all over me, making it hurt until it felt good again. Twice around the bend, so to speak.

  In my sophomore year, I took to sitting underneath the school bleachers, smoking cigarettes, hiding from the world. It was never during a game; I found other places to hide then. I’d sit in the dark, plumes of smoke rising from my mouth, and count stars to not think about fluffy brown hair and whether or not Tony’s penis curved left or right, like mine did. And it was quiet, for long stretches of time, and I could blank out the thoughts I had about Tony and the breasts of young girls in my class, because of course, it was all a jumble of everything, and I could not separate one erotic thought from another. But back then, it could be silent, if only for a brief while until I emerged back in the world again.

  And then the night came when I wasn’t alone there anymore.

  When it all ended, I would go to confession and not be able to tell the listening priest one damn thing. I assumed nobody in the family would ever be able to understand and I’d just be worse off than when I started. Eventually, one of my father’s brothers would notice me wandering aimlessly through life, and train me to become a banker. A no-nonsense job and demeanor that would finally let the neighborhood take me seriously, as if the beatings had never happened. The beatings were, after all, a normal part of life in our particular family.

  But what happened that night surely wasn’t.

  My shoulder was grasped, and I turned around, mouth dropping my hissing cigarette onto the ground. Tony Fiuconelli had found me, and the look on his face was indistinguishable in the dark. All I knew was that there was a dry, meaty mouth on the side of my face suddenly, and I realized that he was trying to find my mouth, a sort of pleasure hole that would receive him in a way that he had tried not to be received before. We fumbled blindly in the dark, banging our shins and legs and arms into the aluminum bleachers, gasping at the sensation of hot hands against flesh in the crisp, chill air of the night. Was this Tony Fiuconelli touching me? Kneeling down, kissing the flat nothingness, no abs or muscles on my hairy stomach, and finally reaching my cock? I waited with baited breath, not knowing what he was going to do next. There is so much danger, I realize now, in a person that unpredictable, in a simmering pot whose lid is always kept on.

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sp; When the hard press of his mouth finally encircled my penis, I gasped out loud. The air was wet with the condensation clouds of our breath, and I felt my lower stomach heave in response to Tony’s then unskilled workings on me. Still, I bucked my hips against his mouth, afraid to touch his head and guide him, afraid to do any single thing in the world that would stop him from taking me into his mouth, unsure of what to do with the scrape of his teeth and all. And when I came, as I eventually did, more from the excitement of the venture alone than anything else, I slid down the aluminum siding until I was on my heels, helpless and weak and sated. We did not say anything, because what could we say? There were no words for our particular situation, and only psychologists can classify it now.

  It did not surprise me the next day to find myself on the ground by the corner store, getting the living shit kicked out of me by Tony and his friends. Although could he really call them his friends when I was the only one who knew his secret? The circumstance did not surprise me because what could Tony do to explain his behavior from the previous night? Nothing. He could do nothing but assert his dominance over me in front of his friends, the desperate sadness in his eyes as he cracked my ribs with the steel-tips of his shoes filling me with loathing and simultaneous arousal. People who have felt it will tell you that they are not far from each other, hate, pain, and sex, and that a mixture of those three compadres will screw with your head and you may never understand it.

  As the sour spittle from his mouth landed on my face and Tony and his boys—oh the irony of that turn of phrase!—sauntered off, leaving me coughing up great gobs of blood onto the city’s cement, I knew something very keenly. I knew that I would always want pain with my sex, that the rumors about me were indeed true, if only to an extent, and that I would like it when men hurt me and I would never want to know any other way.