Spice Box: Sixteen Steamy Stories

by Raine Miller

  He had dropped the pretense of returning me to Faustino. And he was right, no one loved me. I was alone in the world. Enrique left me. Lia wanted me dead. Arana and Faustino would simply use me up and spit me out, if they let me live. What reason did I have to live for? I couldn’t think of a reason, but I wanted to live. I didn’t want to die! I wanted to live!

  I persisted with the lie, hoping for a miracle. “No … that’s not true! He loves me, and he’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars cash to get me back. I swear it on my mother’s grave!”

  “Hmmm …. who is he? Do I know him?”

  “No … you don’t know him, he’s from Spain.”

  Arana stared me down. The wheels started turning in his head. We rode the rest of the way in silence while he thought about it seriously. He had a hard time imagining how I could fit into a world of wealthy high-class people as anything other than a whore. In his opinion, you can take the girl out of Colombia, but you can’t take Colombia out of the girl. Then he recalled the expensive cocktail dress I had been wearing last night and how glamorous I looked. He’d never have recognized me if Lia hadn’t pointed me out. He began to wonder if maybe I was banging some wrinkly old man, giving him the time of his life, a sugar daddy. That seemed a plausible scenario given the fact I actually did have all that money. He remembered the twenty-four carat gold bracelet he removed from me last night. Someone cared enough to buy me expensive clothes and gifts. Maybe it wasn’t all a lie.

  As we headed into the towers from the taxi, I caught a glimpse of someone, a ray of light in my darkness. Conchita walked down the sidewalk not thirty yards away. Our eyes met for a moment. I gave her a direct look. Recognize me. See me. Please see me! She did a double take, and altered her course, heading in our direction. I peeked a glance at Arana. His attention drifted in a different direction, preoccupied with thoughts of what to do with me. I gave the cutoff sign to Conchita, swiping my hand across my neck to warn her off. It was enough she knew I was here with Arana. I didn’t want to put her in danger.

  She seemed to understand. She took off walking away from us as we entered the building, a single glance back at me over her shoulder. I had to work hard to keep from smiling. It was such a small thing, but it brightened my world with hope to know a friend was out there, aware of my situation. Though I feared him, I hoped that she would contact Faustino, bring him knocking on our door. The lesser of two evils. I’d love to see Arana’s face, caught with his pants down, abusing Faustino’s personal property – me. I’d have a better chance of explaining things to Faustino. At least he’d be willing to collect the ransom and let me walk. Faustino had a head for business.

  Though in high spirits after seeing Conchita, my luck had run out. Behind closed doors with Arana, I read his intent a split second before he clocked me with that badass right hook. It didn’t knock me out, but it sure knocked me down, and it hurt like hell. He had me dazed, seeing stars. My newly broken nose exploded in agony, obliterating all senses. He had to have broken it again, it bled everywhere. Then I was up, being carried back into his bedroom, my pants and sweater savagely ripped off. He threw me down on the bed and I went off kicking, screaming, and clawing at him. I caught him in the nuts and he backed off.

  “You gonna regret that shit!” he hissed, his teeth gritted in pain. I’d nailed him a good one.

  I scrambled backwards to put distance between us and fell off the bed onto my back. Still dazed, my vision blurred from tears. When your nose is broken you cry. It’s not a girly thing, it’s a reaction to the trauma. I caught his thoughts just before he struck. He leapt over the bed on top of me, knocking the wind out of me. He was mad enough to kill. His hands wrapped around my throat, choking me off. I understood his plan as I passed out. If I stuck to my story while he played with me for the next few hours, he might consider trying to ransom me off. If I survived.

  I awoke to pain, my hands and feet bound to the bed posts. Naked, of course. It’s the most terrifying thing in the world to be stripped and bound, hands above my head, legs wide open.

  It began again, rape, beatings, and more rape. This time he didn’t care about how I might look after the fact. He didn’t really expect me to survive. He re-broke my nose for sure. If not with the first punch, definitely the second, third, fourth, or fifth. I think he broke my jaw too. And ribs – several – he hit me in the exact same places as before, right where I was already bruised and tender. I was meat to be pulverized and tenderized so he could chew me up and spit me out. That song from the taxicab came to mind again, probably the last music I’d ever hear. I bleed it out digging deeper just to throw it away.

  The torture wasn’t all fun for Arana. I puked again, blood and bile. I hadn’t eaten in over forty hours. He didn’t like being puked on, but he liked being pissed on even less. It’s one of those things that happens in moments of pain and suffering. He was so angry when I peed on him. He got me good for that one. He nailed me right between the legs with an evil right-handed punch. Though I don’t have balls, that’s still the most sensitive part of my body, and it hurt really bad.

  I passed out several times throughout the afternoon and evening. I’d wake up as he smacked me – sending waves of agony crashing over my broken face. No amount of begging or bargaining made any bit of difference. If anything it angered him more to listen to me plead. The only thing he wanted to hear were sounds of pain, an aphrodisiac for him. Every grunt, squeal, cry, and whimper, helped keep him going. That and Viagra. He made sure he stayed hard for my punishment, and he enjoyed it thoroughly.

  Sometime later he lost stamina. His knuckles were raw and his cock hurt. He left me tied down to go clean himself up and get some rest. I was so exhausted. I fell into deep sleep immediately. I’d been on a nocturnal schedule for three months, but he had me awake all damn day. Torture is hard work, especially when you’re on the receiving end of it.

  In my comatose sleep I dreamed of Enrique. I needed him so badly, more than I’ve ever needed anything. In my dream he sat on a plush leather airline seat, one of those really deluxe private Jets. A luxurious interior paneled with gleaming hardwood grains, and cream-colored leather cushions. He had a Forbes magazine in front of him, reading, ignoring my presence. He’d be touching down in New York soon. I missed him so much, I needed him. How wonderful to be together again, in his arms, feeling his teeth sink into my neck, breasts, thighs. Then she was there, that psycho Asian, sitting across from Enrique in her conservative skirt and blouse. She spoke to Enrique. “Hope has left us. She’s gone. We’ll never see her again.”

  Enrique nodded his head, frowning. I screamed. “No! I’m right here! I need you!”

  He looked up and saw me for the first time, and I was there on the plane with him. Me as I was at that very moment, bruised, broken, bleeding, naked. I was in so much pain, I needed him so badly. “You left me with that cunt! You left me to be tortured and raped! You left me to die alone in pain! You don’t care! You don’t love me!”

  He spoke with that infuriating calm assurance. “Querida, I’ll be there soon, and all will be as it once was.” How could he be so calm when I was dying, without him, in agony?

  Arana entered into my dreams to beat me and bent me over the airline seats. He raped me and pummeled the back of my head. My skull throbbed, waves of pain. My whole body ached, throbbed. Enrique just sat there holding his magazine, ignoring me. Lia winked at me twirling her fingers in a cute little wave, bye-bye.

  At some point in the pain and degradation a woman’s voice filtered in, “Levantate, Esperanza! Tenemos que irnos! Vamos!” Get up Hope! We have to go! Let’s go!

  I awoke to a nonstop tirade in Spanish. Someone was cursing, shaking my shoulder. I wanted to sleep, rest, die. I didn’t want to wake up, ever. I wanted to sleep until death could no longer tell the difference, and carried me off to an oblivion without pain and suffering.

  She wouldn’t let me be. I awoke yelling, “Conchita, let me sleep dammit!”

  ***

  C
HAPTER 21

  Conchita babbled in Spanish, saying ‘oh my God’ over and over interspersed with ‘hurry up’, and ‘let’s go’. The words Arana viene ahorita, vamos! had the most effect on me. Arana was coming, I had to get up. It started to register in my sluggish brain that I’d been untied. My prayers answered.

  I read it in her mind. She had called Arana from her cell phone claiming she had a problem with a date. She gave him an address in New Jersey. He would be gone for an hour or two at most, and she had risked much. He’d know she lied. My very stupid, very brave, friend had put her life in jeopardy.

  Conchita had a key to his apartment. Since he moved in at the Towers she visited him regularly. He always did prefer the more voluptuous curvy women, and she did his dishes too. He never made a secret of the fact he liked Conchita.

  I sat up and the room reeled and spun. I struggled to focus my eyes. My head pounded, my body had a thousand aches and pains stabbing at me like little knives in all directions. I needed a drink of water so bad. Beneath it all was the ever present craving for the bite. The words of my dream floated to the surface of my mind. Enrique had said, “Querida, I’ll be there soon and all will be as it once was.”

  Then it hit me, a need so sharp, so acute, it wiped away all other consideration. Nothing mattered beyond my need for Enrique. I knew with the certainty of walk-on-water religious faith Enrique was here, in New York. He left LaGuardia International at this very moment, on his way home. I had to get to him.

  Above all else I had to get to Enrique now!

  My need overrode the pain. My need overwhelmed my aching, broken body’s demands for food, water, and rest. I jumped up staggering. Conchita blabbered in a hiss-whisper as if Arana stood in the other room. She helped my shaking hands put on the sweater and jeans I’d worn earlier.

  I headed for the door. Enrique awaited me. I couldn’t keep him waiting. I needed him right now! Nothing else mattered. No shoes, no purse, no jacket, no money, I was a complete mess of caked blood and bruises. It didn’t matter. Conchita had enough wits about her to grab my purse that had been discarded in the melee. She followed as I limped–jogged out the door and down the hallway to the elevator.

  I stabbed the goddamn elevator button over and over and over. “Come on, come on, come on motherfucker!”

  I bounced on the balls of my feet, ready to bolt, shaking with adrenaline singing through me, an explosion of nervous energy.

  One idea burned in my mind blotting out all else. Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go now now now. I clearly saw in my mind’s eye the grid work of streets leading to the Park Avenue penthouse. The most direct route would be the 4/5 Express from 125th Street to 86th Street on the subway. I didn’t have a card – I needed one. Now!

  “Give me your MetroCard!”

  Conchita flinched away. I must’ve been quite a sight. She actually feared me, thought I’d lost my mind. And she was probably right. I didn’t give a shit what she thought as long as I got that card. I advanced on her.

  “Daime tu pinche MetroCard!” I growled like an animal gone feral. She dug through her pockets frantically, shoving the plastic swipe card in my hand along with my purse.

  I’d been so focused on her I failed to notice the thought patterns of the person ascending in the elevator. The door popped open with a click and I turned to find myself face-to-face with Arana. Surprise.

  “Aye que cabron!” he exclaimed.

  Stupid, stupid Conchita had turned off her cell phone. When he tried to call her, she didn’t answer, and he became suspicious. He had sharp instincts, the main reason he made it this far in life. Had she left her cell on, she could have kept him chasing off in New Jersey for another hour.

  It was so unfair. I was so close! Enrique awaited me! I screamed in anguish and launched at him. I had gone off the deep end, a stark raving lunatic. I set on him with desperation and hatred. I clawed, kicked, spit, cussed, screamed, tore at him like an alley cat gone rabid. He couldn’t get a grip on me. I buried my nails in his face, clawing away strips of flesh. He tagged me several times, knocking me down.

  I was back up in the blink of an eye, raking at his face and arms viciously. I had him against the wall of the elevator. I clawed, bit and screamed. I kneed him in the nuts one-two-three times. I’d gone insane, and I was so strong and fast. He crumpled down to the floor groaning in agony. I dug into his face with my claws. He tried to block me, so I kneed him in the nuts again and again. That mother-fucker was never gonna hurt me again with his little five inch cock. He could forget about children.

  It was his turn to puke on himself. I put every ounce of strength I had into a wicked barrage of knees in his nuts, alternating with rakes to his face. He seemed a helpless child beneath me. Where was the powerful rapist-torturer who made my life hell for two days? On the floor puking and crying as I fucked his whole world up.

  I tore into his face and eyes with a vengeance born of madness. I sat on top of him, straddling his torso as I clawed his face off mercilessly. My nails broke off in his face. I kept on going, tearing his eyes to shreds, screaming all the while.

  He squealed and grunted, flailing at me, but there was no containing my madness. I had him down, beat, blinded, defeated. I owned his ass.

  Conchita had disappeared somewhere back in the hallway. Good for her. I continued to rake on his face till the elevator door clicked open on the ground floor. The click sound was my gunshot to start the hundred yard dash. I was up and out the door shoving past the Latinos waiting for the elevator. They fell out the way as I blasted through them. Those who saw me coming shied away.

  I had one thought. Enrique – now now now! I had to get to Enrique!

  I ran. I ran like an Olympic gold medalist from Hellenic Greece, barefoot and determined to get to my destination at all costs. I ran like I have never run before. I never knew it was possible to run so damn fast. I was free – unobstructed. My need drove me like a whip at my back. I ran flat out, strength and adrenaline coursing through me as I flew to the 125th Street subway station.

  I hit the subway and ran down the stairs. Somehow I’d retained Conchita’s MetroCard in my pants pocket, but my purse was gone. My adrenaline-saturated hands shook as I tried to align the swipe card with the terminal. I cursed in three languages as I swiped the damn card over and over. My gore-covered hands left blood smears all over the swipe terminal after having swiped the card six times. It let me through.

  Inside the subway tram I was still going full blast, but nowhere to go. Adrenaline and need permeated every cell in my body. My bloodied hands clenched and shook, my whole body jittered, vibrated with the undeniable need to go, go, go, now, now, now.

  I babbled on and on about Enrique. People stared, whispered, pointed. They looked at me with disgust and fear as I paced up and down the tram cars. I went from one car to the next to hit the end, then turned around and paced back the other way, only to repeat the process again at the other end. I didn’t give a shit what people thought or said. I looked at the face in the reflection of the windows. Hope was gone. She’d been replaced with a bloody, bruised, madwoman with insane eyes. The madwoman chanted over and over, “Enrique’s home, Enrique’s home.”

  Children shied away from me to hide in their mother’s embrace. Parents gave me wary, hostile looks as I paced and chanted my little ditty over and over. From their perspective I was the walking dead, something out of a zombie movie.

  At the 86th Street station I exited the tram running flat out, shoving past everyone, careening off the walls, skidding around the corners. I hit the stairs descending two or three at a time, knocking people out of the way screaming, “Enrique’s home! Enrique’s home!”

  A NYPD officer must’ve seen me coming through the crowd exiting the subway onto the street. He was ready for me by the time I reached him. The fool tried to grab me. We both ended up in a tumble on the sidewalk. He didn’t want to let go. I’m sure I broke a couple toes and fingers in the fall, but I was oblivious to everything but my need. As w
e rolled around, the cop ended up on top trying to hold me down and call for backup on a shoulder-mounted radio mic. When his hand went to the mic releasing his grip, I nailed him in the face. His head snapped back and I exploded off the ground throwing him to the side like a blowup doll. He tumbled into a group of bystanders and I was up and off, unstoppable.

  I sprinted the mile to the Clementine building where Enrique awaited my arrival. It took me all of a few seconds to get there. I never knew I could run so damn fast. I barreled into the parking garage right past the security gatehouse, vaulted the yellow and black striped security bar and made a beeline for the residents-only elevator.

  “6627, 6627, 6627, 6627.” I chanted as I punched in the passcode on the elevator three times. My bloody busted up fingers, slick and unsteady, couldn’t get the code right until the third attempt. Third times a charm.

  The security guard from the gatehouse finally caught up to me as the elevator door opened. He was huffing and puffing so bad he could barely speak. “Stop! ... Stop! ... Right … There!”

  I couldn’t let him stop me. I was so close. Enrique awaited me at the top of the elevator. I executed a text-book perfect step-behind side-kick straight to his face as he jogged right into it. I retracted my leg just in time for the elevator door to close, sending me straight up to the penthouse. My cardio kickboxing instructor Jean Paul would’ve been proud to witness my flawless form and the wicked speed and power behind my kick. It’s amazing the things we are capable of in extreme situations.

  I vibrated, bounced, shaking with need. Oh God, he was so close. I could feel his bite in my neck, the sting of his tiny, little needle point fangs, how wonderful it would be in his arms again. All my problems would be solved, all the pain and suffering washed away. All I needed was Enrique. Nothing could keep us apart this side of death.

  ‘Ding’, the elevator chimed and I shot out onto the landing like a rocket heading into orbit. I hit the front door to the penthouse, bouncing off when I couldn’t slow down. I punched in the door code over and over until the electronic locks clicked open. I knew exactly where to find him – his office.