by Naomi West
“I’m your fucking whore, Dante,” I moan. “I’m your horny little slut and I want your cock deep inside of me. I want to feel your hard cock deep in my cunt. I want to feel it so deep it hurts. I want you to fucking pound me and use me. Use me, baby. Use me.”
His breathing is fast now, the breathing of a man whose blood is up and can’t stop. “I need that fucking pussy.”
He slides his cock inside of me. At first I feel like my pussy is going to tear apart. He’s so big, by far the biggest cock I’ve ever felt inside of me. It’s an experience I’ve never had. I panic, but then my pussy opens up for him, warmth and a buzzing sensation rushing to my hole. I loosen even more and then the pain is replaced with intense pleasure. His cock is so big, it bulges against the walls of my pussy, every inch of me completely filled, every inch of his cock sending heat all around my body. I feel lightheaded. I curl my toes. Then he goes even deeper and hits my sweet spot, his cock pressing hard against it.
“You’re going to take it like a good whore,” he growls.
“I’m going to—”
I can’t talk anymore. He rams into me so hard that the bed squeaks. He does it again, again, harder and harder until all I can do is shift with what little movement the ropes allow me. I push my ass back as he drives into my pussy. It’s that moment we meet—when his cock slams into me and his abs into my ass cheeks—that pushes us on. We writhe and thrust for that moment, meeting and coming apart to do it all over again. It’s that moment which builds the pressure inside of me, the unstoppable pleasure of an incoming orgasm.
I close my eyes and let him take me, losing myself in pleasure unlike anything I have ever felt. I think of inferno, but not the safe word. I’ll never say the safe word. I think of an actual inferno and how I’m at the center of it, whirring in a world of heat as my pussy burns hottest of all. The friction of his cock against my pussy is like the friction of fire-making equipment, rubbing together until—a spark—and a spark comes. But not one. Hundreds, thousands, millions of sparks tsking over and over inside of me.
“I’m going to come—come—come—”
I’m not sure if I moan aloud or in my head or into the mattress. I’m not sure if my cries of pleasure can be heard for miles around or only under my breath. All I’m sure of is that the orgasm hits me with the force of a speeding train.
I’m thrown about, twisting in the ropes, my wrists and ankles aching where they dig into me. The orgasm starts at the tip of his cock and then empties out of my pussy, wave after wave of intense pleasure evacuating me. I tremble like a madwoman, fists clenched and toes curled, squirming and giving myself over to the euphoria. I squirm like this for a few seconds or several minutes. I’m not sure. Time bends, and I just ride the pleasure. And then I realize that Dante has almost finished as well. I buck like crazy, grinding up and down his cock, hungry for us to finish at the same time.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I moan. “Come in me, baby. Fucking come in me!”
He grunts one final time and drops down, his chest pressed against my back, both of us lying there in a tangle of limbs for a few minutes.
And then he climbs off and unties me.
We go into the living room, half-dressed, and sit on the couch. The TV plays, but neither of us watches it. We’re both too stunned by what we just did.
“That was incredible,” I mutter.
“That’s the word for it, ma’am,” he says. “Incredible.” He turns to me. “Why’nt you tell me something about yourself?”
“Something about myself?” Suddenly I’m uncomfortable. “I’d rather not.”
“See that there bearded fella.” He points to his brother in the photograph. “He’s—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “This is about sex and making a baby. Nothing else.”
He drops his finger. “So no emotions, eh?”
“No emotions,” I agree, thinking about Clint and where emotions lead. Clint was an emotional man, and those emotions were what fueled his fists. Emotional men can become dangerous men at the drop of a hat. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun while you try and get me pregnant, does it …” I trail my hand up his leg.
He darts his hand to my thigh. “No,” he says, voice dark. “It doesn’t.”
Chapter Five
Selena
I wake up with a groggy head, but not groggy from vodka. The alcohol wore off before midnight, but Dante and I didn’t go to sleep until four in the morning. I check the time on my phone. It’s half past seven o’clock. Luckily, I don’t start work today until ten o’clock, but that still means I have to get back to my apartment, wash and chang, and then get to work in a couple of hours. I will myself to get up but then lie in bed for another ten minutes, watching Dante.
He sleeps on his side, arm tucked under his head, snoring softly. He looks nothing like the super-aggressive, dominating man from last night. He looks too peaceful. As I watch him, an odd feeling comes over me. It’s as if I’m outside my body watching myself watch Dante, just like I was outside my body when Clint would turn violent. I watch the girl and wonder what she’s doing. Did she really meet a strange man and ask him to impregnate her? Is this curvy blonde woman really that wild?
I sink back into my body, standing up and gathering my clothes. My body aches all over, various tattoos of our pleasure marking my skin. I get dressed and go into the living room, wondering if I should wake Dante up. But if I wake him up I might not be able to stop myself from doing other things with him. I go to the bedroom door and watch him for another two minutes, debating. In the end I decide to leave him a note instead. I’m getting hot just looking at the form of his muscles, the way they press together like they’re made of metal or wood, no fat on him at all.
I find a pen and paper in the kitchen drawer and write: Had a nice night. Hope we can do it again. Selena. I scribble my cell number and then leave the note on the couch and head for the door. I need to get to work, and then I need to go and visit Mom, but maybe after that …I place my hand on my belly as I walk down the stairs, wondering: both wondering if I’m pregnant and wondering at the emotions dancing inside of me. I would love to be pregnant, I realize. Despite the baby books, it shocks me. I never knew I felt so strongly about it until the prospect became real.
My world is changed forever when I step into the blaring Texan sun. The man lies on his back, although it takes me a moment to realize that it’s a man and not a dead animal. His face is almost completely eradicated, in its place a mess of blood and gore, his body looking disjointed lying there without a head. I stand, frozen, staring at the image. I can’t look away. It’s too disgusting, too horrifying, too fascinating.
When the spell breaks, I turn back to the apartment building. I need to get Dante. This is …I need help. I can’t handle this alone. I feel numb and dreamlike. I’m floating. A dead man, right behind me, a dead gory man, a mess, a corpse …I fight back vomit, swallowing hard. I’m about to push the door open when something lands on my shoulder.
“I wouldn’t do that,” a voice says, grizzled and gruff. “That really ain’t a good idea. Let me explain. If you open that door or make any noise or do anything that ain’t exactly what I want you to do, you’re going to end up like Dante’s man there on the floor. Do you want that, lady? Do you wanna turn into roadkill?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Then turn around slowly and follow me. Oh, wait a sec.” Something cold and metal presses into my back, shifting my shirt aside. “That’s a handgun. Do you believe me, or would you like me to prove it?”
“I believe you.” I can’t hear my own voice for my too-fast beating heart.
“Then I want you to turn around slowly,” he says. “We need to have a conversation.”
I don’t see that I have any other choice, so I turn slowly. I barely get a glimpse of the man—shortish, mean mouth—before he smacks me across the face with the metal flashlight. Darkness shrouds me. And then a speck of light. But when I see the light, I wish fo
r the darkness again.
He was kissing my neck and moaning at me that I liked it, moaning at me that I could pretend all I wanted but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t truly want to be. That was one of Clint’s best psychological tricks. He would tell me that I had a choice and since I didn’t choose to leave I really loved him. He always ignored the part where he hit me and abused me, and never made the connection that, just maybe, that was why I didn’t choose to leave. He reached around to try and grab my ass.
It was too much. My eye felt like fire and the idea that now, soon after he’d committed such horrible violence against me, I had to let him touch me made me sick. And not only let him touch me but pout and moan and behave as if all I wanted was for him to touch me. I had to be the good girl, the actress. I was tired of being the actress. I don’t think I’ll ever know where I got the courage. All I know is that before his hand could grab my ass, I pushed him as hard as I could in the chest and screamed.
“Mom! Call the police! Mom, please! Call the police!”
He looked at me like I was mad. Maybe I was. “What’s gotten into you?” he said. “Have you completely lost your …” He trailed off, peering over my shoulder at the phone. “This better be a joke!” he snapped, marching past me to the phone. He picked it up. “No, no, Jasmin. No, that won’t be necessary. The police? Are you joking? Let me explain to you what’s happened. Well, maybe it’d help if you had all the information before you did something drastic! Your daughter came home drunk out of her mind, stumbling and falling and generally making a nuisance of herself. So I told her it might be a good idea to have some coffee and take a shower, and she went berserk, breaking dishes and mugs and my armchair.”
A minute passed as Clint listened to Mom on the phone, and then he handed it to me. “She wants to speak to you,” he said, his voice heavy with meaning. As if his burning eyes weren’t clear enough he covered the receiver with his hand and said to me, “I’m serious, Selena.”
I nodded timidly. It was always best to be timid around Clint. Let him think he was in charge. “Dear?” Mom said, voice taut. “Are you okay? Are you really drunk?”
Clint had his ear pressed against the other side of the phone, listening to every word. “Yes, Mom,” I said, cursing myself as a coward. “I had five beers and I feel a little tipsy. I think I was throwing things.” This wasn’t my voice. That fake woman wasn’t me. That scared little mouse wasn’t me. I felt distant and disconnected.
“Oh.” Mom hesitated. “I thought he was lying.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Because you screamed for me to call the police …”
“Oh, did I?” Stop it, I told myself. Stop this performance! “I don’t remember doing that.”
“You ought to be careful how much you drink, dear.”
“I only had five beers.” I put emphasis in my words. Maybe that’s all it would take. Mom knew five beers wouldn’t make me drunk. She’d seen me drink eight or nine without getting wasted. She said I had my father’s belly for drink, and he could put away two six packs and still function.
There was a pause, and then Mom’s voice was full of barely withheld anger. “I see,” she said. “Then I guess I better leave you to it, then. Good night, Selena. Stay safe.”
“Bye, Mom,” I whispered, praying it was enough.
I put the phone down and walked into the living room, sitting on the couch and staring at the TV. Some action movie was playing, a guy driving at full speed down a highway. Clint lingered in the other room. I heard him disconnecting the phone and opening and closing a drawer. When he’d hidden away the phone—and cut off my voice to the outside world since he wouldn’t let me have a cell—he joined me on the couch.
For a long time we sat there in silence as the action movie played. Once, I went to grab the remote to turn up the volume. “Don’t,” he said. “Let’s just stay like this.”
After about forty minutes the action movie ended and the credits were rolling. Clint turned to me slowly. “Are you going to explain yourself?” he said.
“Explain myself?”
He backhanded me across the jaw, hitting me so hard I felt my teeth shift as though all of them were going to fall out.
The slap turns to a bump in the road. I’m jolted into the air and then slammed back down to the floor of the van. I lie on my back for a time, staring up at the grimy ceiling, covered with brown stains and chewing gum and ash marks from stubbed-out cigarettes. Light emanates from an old portable lamp in the corner. I sit up and rub my eyes, still in a half-dream state. My face aches horribly and it takes me a moment to remember the flashlight. “A gun,” he said, and I fell for it. But what else was I supposed to do, risk it?
I climb to my knees and lean up against the wall. With nothing to hold onto, all I can do is press myself up against the wall to try and stop from jostling around. We’re driving across the desert, I guess, some hidden place in the dusty stretch between Austin and the west. What is less clear is who these men are or why they’d want to kidnap me. They killed a biker, and the biker … I follow the memory, chasing it like a hound with a scent.
In the moment, all I saw was his splattered, ruined face. But there was more to it than that. I force my mind back, even if it’s gruesome and I don’t want to go there. I think about the color of the sidewalk, the type of shoes the man was wearing, and on and on until I get to the memory I need. His jacket, his leather jacket, and on the lapel of the jacket a small sigil of a biker with a halo of thorns around his head, light shining through the jagged outline. And underneath it all the words Motor Saints. My mind is reeling as the van lurches again.
Is Dante involved with some kind of biker club? It would certainly explain the gunshot wound and why he was out of the hospital so soon. And if Dante is involved with a biker club, then perhaps these men are in a rival gang. The realization hits me just as viciously as Clint used to.
“I’m being used as bait,” I whisper.
“It’s not going to work!” I exclaim, walking on my knees to the front of the van. There’s a sheet of metal blocking the driver’s section but it’s thin, and when I listen closely I can hear men grumbling and the sound of the gearstick. “We hardly know each other! He’s not going to try and rescue me, or trade for me, or anything! We only met last night!”
“I’ve gotta tell you, missy, that ain’t none of my business. I’m just the driver.”
“But the plan isn’t going to work!” I snap. “We hardly know each other.”
“If the Gentleman wants you,” the driver says, “the Gentleman gets you.”
“I don’t know who that is!” I cry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Listen, we’re coming up on the place and if the Gentleman sees you screaming and crying like that, he ain’t gonna be happy, all right? So just keep your mouth shut now.”
I fall back, feeling helpless and alone. I think of Mom in her hospital bed waiting for me. I know her. When I don’t show up, she’ll start panicking and then try and come after me. Maybe the shock of it will kill her and I’ll be robbed of holding her hand as she passes on. And absurdly, I think of the pregnancy, the pregnancy which only became a real prospect last night. I’ll never get pregnant with this kind of stress. And then I laugh, because everything has turned upside down so quickly.
I was supposed to be in my apartment reading Far From the Madding Crowd.
The van pulls to a stop and men approach it. I hear them, laughing and talking loudly.
I curl up in a ball. Even with Clint, I never felt this helpless.
Chapter Six
Dante
When I wake, Selena is gone. I reach across the bed, hoping to touch that perfect round ass, but my hand meets with blanket instead. I lean up and listen. There’s no one in the shower or in the living room or clattering around the kitchen. I stand up and get dressed, pulling on some jeans and a shirt, and then shrug on my jacket. After spraying on some deodorant and quickly shaving and brushing
my teeth, I go into the kitchen and make some coffee.
Last night is ablaze in my mind. I’ve never had sex like that. I mean, I’ve had sex like that. I’ve tied women up before. But I’ve never felt the raw animal passion I felt with Selena. It was like we knew each other or something, like we had practiced all this before, since we were thrusting to the same rhythm. And now she’s gone … I wonder how I’m going to find her again when I see her note on the couch. I punch her number into my cell, wondering if I should dial it now. But then I’ll seem like an over-eager asshole.
I laugh under my breath. She’s got me thinking on how I seem and dating etiquette and all that stuff. No woman has ever made me think about that before.
I drop my cell into my pocket and head downstairs. I need to check with the prospect who’s guarding the apartment building. He’ll know what time Selena left. And anyway, I need to check in with the boys and see where we stand with the Chosen Wraiths.