Alpha Male Laborer Of Lust!

by Stella Graffen

  Alpha Male Laborer of Lust!

  By Stella Graffen with Joe Brewster

  Copyright 2013 Stella Graffen

  Smashwords, License Notes

  This is an extensively re-edited revised edition (May 2013).

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. If you enjoyed this purchase, please return to discover other works by the author(s). Thank you for your support.

  Cover photo purchased from Stockfresh.com

  This is a work of fiction. All persons, places and things depicted herein are fictions and any resemblance to actual people, places or things in real life is purely coincidental. All characters, organizations, and events described in this story are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.

  OooOooO

  Rilke Soren had a knockout body. She ought to. She’d worked her ass off to get it. Consequently, Rilke looked sharp in anything she wore. Today she needed to look especially amazing. A critical sales appointment awaited her. If she made this sale it would revive her finances and jump-start her fledgling career as a realtor.

  Rilke ransacked her entire closet and rummaged through every bit of clothing she owned to assemble the perfect outfit. Madly inspecting dozens of skirts and tops and shoes and jackets.

  She stood fixated, eyeing her reflection in her bedroom mirror. She quirked her pretty face into the perfect cartoon image of concentration as she inspected the killer outfit she wore; taking pains to insure her choice was the perfect eye-popping ensemble.

  She chose the shortest skirt she owned. Along with her hottest—highest—stiletto heels, and her most cleavage-baring top. She completed her enticing ensemble with an elegantly tailored jacket so, technically, it qualified as a business suit—but she wasn’t fooling anybody. Rilke sizzled like an all-out feminine firestorm.

  She tempered her outfit with a subdued hairstyle and unobtrusive make-up. Her chestnut auburn hair molded simply around her sharp facial features. On Rilke it looked ‘Classic’ rather than common.

  The overall effect was that of a sharply elegant businesswoman who effortlessly exuded sexuality without half trying.

  Being forced to switch careers in her late 20s had been a rough patch for Rilke to get through. It was crazier than she could have ever imagined. Today, if luck went her way, she’d thrust herself into a higher echelon of agents and break through to the next big sales level. Today Rilke was showing her first million-dollar property.

  Rilke’s cell phone buzzed. It was her best friend Stella. “Sorry, girl, I won’t be able to make it today,” Stella told her.

  “But you promised,” Rilke said.

  “Relax,” Stella said, “you’ve got me on speed dial. If things get dicey I can be there in a flash. I’m sure you’ll do fine. Knock ‘em dead.”

  “Laters, Babe,” Rilke said. She slumped dejectedly into a chair and assessed her options.

  Stella had agreed to be Rilke’s sidekick and provide security while she showed the property. Now she’d begged off.

  Ordinarily that would not be a problem. But today was not ordinary.

  Rilke would be traveling solo through the Gangland war-zone of one of America’s most violent ghettos. The prospective buyer was infamous for his murderous gangsta lifestyle. He was the property owner’s main Hip-Hop rival. He’d grown up in the same ghetto. He was probably the only person alive that could conceivable want to live in this area and be willing to shell out the asking price for a gangsta-crib mini-mansion nestled right in the heart of the ghetto.

  Rilke stood up and took a few deep breaths.

  The whole thing was just too dangerous. Female realtors in that area had been known to be gang-raped.

  The image of being horribly violated for the sexual gratification of a brutal group of men made Rilke’s panties damp. God she was a pathetic mess! She needed to put a stop to the random perverted sex scenes flashing in her woefully sex-deprived mind. Either that or masturbate before meeting with the handsome client at the walk-through.

  Her bitter divorce had soured Rilke on men forever. Her Ex had been built like a Greek god and fucked with the passion of a madman. Rilke was deliriously in love. But in the end he stole everything she owned and ran off with her best friend.

  She hadn’t had sex for so long she dreaded even thinking about it. She was so sexually pent-up that a good hard gangbang sounded like the perfect prescription to cure her ailing sex life.

  Rilke had recruited Stella to provide protection because Stella taught karate as a tenth-degree Black Belt. Now Rilke wondered if the true reason she’d recruited Stella was to protect Rilke from herself—to keep her own ‘Inner Slut’ from breaking free and wreaking sexual havoc by starting a free-for-all orgy. God, that sounded so exciting!

  She had to face the facts, in her present state of mind, Rilke didn’t need protection against male predators, she needed to be protected from sexually attacking anything wearing pants.

  Rilke told herself to get a grip. She needed to calm-the-fuck-down. She walked into the kitchen and microwaved a cup of instant herbal tea for herself. As she looked out of her glass door-wall into her backyard Rilke fashioned a ‘Plan B’ regarding a substitute bodyguard.

  There, in the late-morning summer sun, a shirtless workman, in a cowboy hat, and tight, tattered jeans, labored at digging a shallow trench. His sweaty muscles glistened and bulged enticingly as he effortlessly worked a long-handled shovel and expertly hefted the dirt into neat piles.

  Rilke dreamily sipped her tea as the tall, broad-shouldered hunk, heaved-to with the easy masculine grace of a man who seemed to glory in the macho-feel of his own virile animal physicality.

  He paused a moment to lean on his shovel. He leisurely pulled a bandana from under his hat and languidly used it to wipe his brow. This simple act made his muscles ripple slightly—and Rilke’s insides flutter wildly.

  The shovel-jockey hardbody suddenly noticed Rilke possessing him with her eyes. He threw his head back and laughed as every taut mound of his well-muscled abs highlighted a tight six-pack pattern that contracted in time with his sinister chuckle.

  Rilke burned with embarrassed indignation. A menial is obliged to keep his mind on his work at all times. If a professional-class female, such as Rilke, wants to treat her hired man as eye-candy, that’s her right. He should keep his nose to the grindstone and let her enjoy the show.

  His brazen contempt made her smolder with resentment—until he caught her eye. His soul-piercing laser-blue stare took the measure of Rilke. Her anger backed off. Her haughty attitude subsided. The sweaty devil may have been a lowly day laborer but he was 100% pure American Male. The kind of man who kicked-ass and took names. He was ‘The Boss’ of every situation he faced.

  He stood tall and roguishly returned Rilke’s gaze. The rush of his manly power infected Rilke’s fragile sex-starved psyche. She longed to be swept up in his powerful arms. She closed her eyes in a vain attempt to keep his phenomenal physical image from overwhelming her senses. The menacing onslaught of his astonishing body hit her like a sexual blunt-force trauma. God, he is so fucking hot, she thought.

  It felt right that he should hold reign over her. His incredible sun-bronzed chest seemed to swell with savage intent. She ached to be conquered by this invincible workingman stud.

  Rilke felt herself slipping desperately under siege to his fierce, masculine spell—but she had to snap out of it. This was no time to come unglued over some random hottie hardbody. No matter how sinfully gorgeous he was. She had business to transact. Sex could wait.

  Rilke collected herself and went out on the patio deck to address the rugged he-man.

  “You there,” she called out. “Come here a moment.”

 
He straightened his chiseled physique and threw his shovel to the ground. “Show some respect,” he said, firmly.

  “Excuse me?” Rilke was slightly taken aback by his command. His tone stirred feelings deep inside her.

  “I’ve got work to do,” he scowled. “If you’ve got something to say to me, my name is Brock. Brock Bently. But you can call me Sir.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Bentley.”

  “Just ‘Sir’,” Brock told her. “Is that simple enough for you, Sweetheart?”

  Rilke felt a visceral erotic glow rustle in her belly somewhere just south of her navel.

  “Sure,” she answered, accepting his insolence.

  Brock stood silently. Waiting.

  Rilke realized her error and corrected herself, “I mean, ‘Sure, Sir.” She was practically standing at attention without meaning to.

  Brock sneered and said, “That’s better, Doll.” He approached Rilke with a slow swagger as he put on a sleeveless flannel shirt that he left unbuttoned. He kept his head down until he’d reached the deck and was standing in front of her. He seemed to tower over Rilke’s 5’10” frame, even though, in her five-inch heels, she was only a few inches shorter than the man—beefcake notwithstanding.

  He looked Rilke up and down, inspecting every inch of her sexy body. “There is no way an uppity bitch like you wants to make small-talk with me,” he said. “I sweat for a living. We’ve got nothing in common.

  “Judging by how you fondled me with your eyes, shamelessly checking me out, I might guess you want to lay my body down and have your way with me,” Brock sneered, derisively. “I’d be happy to oblige. You and me could get together all right. But let’s get one thing straight right from the get-go: I’d be the one having my way with you, Sweet-Cheeks. Not the other way around.” He paused to let that sink in.

  And it did.

  The image of Brock’s fantastic body working its nasty magic on Rilke seeped into every tiny crevice of her sex-starved brain. Every sensitive nerve in her fine shapely body sprang into action with this tantalizing sexual fantasy. An all-consuming warmth spread itself throughout her body. She savored the thrill it evoked. Her insides were swimming in eroticism.

  It didn’t hurt that Brock’s gritty sweat gave off the scent of brutal caveman arrogance. An incredibly invigorating, sexually primitive, ‘call of the wild’. Its feral nature enveloped her sophisticated feminine presence. Her ‘Inner Slut’ was itching to breakout. She fought an incredibly overwhelming impulse to drop all social pretensions, fall on her knees before him, and beg this outrageously powerful man to fuck her senseless.

  “It’s obvious,” Brock continued, “from how you’re all dressed up, that you’ve got someplace to go. So I reckon getting together is not what you’ve got in mind right now. But time’s a-wasting, and I’m a busy man, so whatever you’ve got on your mind, spit it out.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Rilke answered, without the slightest glimmer of sarcasm. She went on to explain about her appointment and asked Brock (she called him Sir again, of course) if he would be willing to accompany her as she showed the ghetto estate. She offered to pay him $50.00 for his time.

  “I’ll go,” he said. “But what I’ll take as payment…” He paused to look her right in the eye before issuing his demand, “is your sweet ass on a silver platter.”

  Rilke felt surreal. This entire encounter provoked a dreamlike whirl of conflicting emotions. His condescending body language both irked and aroused her. The way he demanded to be called ‘Sir’, while extremely over-the-top, lent an air of perverted reality to their exchange. She found it incredibly erotic. He forced her to silently acknowledge his Alpha-Male status—which Rilke implicitly abided.

  Let’s face it. He caught her at a weak moment. He slammed her pent-up sex-drive into high gear and floored the accelerator. But re-framing her proposal as a quid pro quo transaction—with sex in lieu of $50 cash—was too much like open prostitution. Rilke couldn’t go for that. Her self-esteem as an independent woman screamed bloody-murder in protest.

  “Listen, Brock,” she said. “I’d honestly love to fuck you. For whatever reason you wanted—or no reason at all. But I will not fuck you for 50 dollars like a common whore. So why don’t you just go fuck yourself!”

  Rilke turned to leave but Brock grabbed her by her wrist.

  “Let me go!” Rilke shouted.

  “Hold still before I slap you down,” Brock commanded, anchoring her with his powerful grip. “You’ve got me all wrong. I’m not talkin’ sex here. Where I come from ‘your ass on a platter’ doesn’t necessarily mean sex.” Brock seemed to look at her with grudging respect. He seemed to admire Rilke’s sense of ethics. “But it’s nice to know you’d honestly love to fuck me.” He grinned at her with genuine warmth, it seemed.

  He let go of her arm.

  Rilke absent-mindedly rubbed where he’d grabbed her wrist, “If not sex, what did you have in mind?” She asked warily, as she continued massaging her wrist. “I’ve only got a few minutes or I’m going to be late.”

  “Get going then,” Brock told her, abruptly. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

  Rilke glared at him, then turned quickly away, walking off in a huff. She couldn’t fathom his thinking at all. She’d been certain he wanted sex. Now—suddenly—he sent her off. She’d been dismissed like a little child. That annoyed the hell out of her.

  Rilke had half a mind to turn back and confront Brock for being such an asshole. “Why is it the only guys that really turn me on always turn out to be such frustrating assholes? She wondered. But she didn’t have time to dwell on it now. She had to get to the real estate showing.

  Rilke tried to keep her mind on business. She hopped in her Lexus. The heat of the car’s interior stung the back of her thighs through her shear stockings. Any hotter and her stockings probably would have melted. The dark leather upholstery seemed intent on roasting her shapely ass as she sunk deeply into its molten buttery softness. Rilke quickly set the air-conditioning on high and got the frosty air blasting but it would take awhile before the upholstery cooled off.

  The searing heat soaking into her lovely rump made Rilke recall Brock’s words. If he hadn’t meant sex then the only thing that came to mind was… an old fashion spanking. The kind where he puts you over his knee and blisters your bottom.

  Yes, Sir. Brock was exactly the kind of guy who’d enjoy delivering a choice spanking. Or so Rilke imagined… She liked the idea of getting spanked—especially by him. She liked the idea a lot.

  She liked it so much she couldn’t stop fantasizing about it. She loved the idea of being draped across his lap like a naughty girl and getting her ass slapped smartly—and it caused her to have an accident in the very worst part of town.

  Rilke was so engrossed in her fantasy that she hadn’t noticed anything around her as she drove. Not the homeless drunks shouting obscenities at passing cars outside the discount liquor stores. Not the drug dealers openly hawking their wares on street corners. Not even the drugged-out crack whores freely roaming the street eagerly plying their trade.

  Rilke didn’t notice a thing until she rear-ended the vehicle ahead of her. That snapped her out of her sexy daydream.

  The vehicle ahead of her was an old pickup truck with a flatbed trailer attached. A guy who owned a lawn service drove it. He had a worker in the passenger seat next to him and two more workers riding in the truck bed.

  The truck and Rilke pulled over to the curb, out of traffic, to assess the damage and exchange insurance information. The four young black men were out of the truck and shaking their heads as they examined the trailer. They made a menacing picture. All appeared to be in their mid-twenties and all appeared to be in excellent physical condition and all appeared to be very unhappy with Rilke.

  Rilke thumbed her cell phone ready to punch Stella’s number before she got out of her car. Then she decided not to bother Stella. If there was going to be trouble Stella would never get there in time.

  One of the men looke
d over at Rilke and muttered, menacingly, “Dumb, fucking, white bitch.” The guy in charge told him to keep his mouth shut and went over to Rilke and opened her car door and asked politely, “Are you all right, Miss?”

  Rilke stepped out of her car and assured him she was fine. In her high heels, mini-skirt, and hot top, the other men agreed with that assessment. Loud-talking among themselves they cackled ‘That bitch sure is fine! I’d tap that white ass!’ as they leered and cut-up. Rilke ignored them but their boss didn’t. He told them to stop acting foolish and he apologized to Rilke on their behalf.

  Damone was the boss’s name. He owned the lawn service. He was a tall brown-skinned man with a slim yet muscular build, very handsome and well mannered. Rilke appreciated that he acted like a real gentleman around her.

  Damone’s trailer was a homemade steel-frame contraption he’d welded together in his driveway. It had no bumper. Nevertheless it hadn’t sustained any real damage. On the other hand, Rilke’s Lexus had its grill bashed in where the thin flatbed frame passed over her bumper and punctured her radiator. Coolant poured out onto the pavement. Her car was undrivable.

  Rilke was just glad she hadn’t hurt anyone by driving while distracted. The accident was totally her fault and she felt terrible about it.

  Damone told her not to worry. No one was hurt. His trailer was no worse for the wear. Rilke’s car was the only thing damaged. That was punishment enough, he figured. There was no need to call the police and have them give her a ticket.

  Damone called a nearby towing company to haul Rilke’s car to her dealer. He offered to wait around for the tow truck to show up. Rilke thanked him profusely. She kissed him on the cheek and he hugged her in a comforting way to let her know everything was all right. The guys in the lawn crew grumbled. They hated that she wasted their time by causing a delay in their work schedule. One guy, in particular, mumbled that the least she could do was give them all head, in the alley, while they waited for the tow truck to show up.

  Damone told his crew to shut up or he’d fire the whole bunch of them.

  Rilke snuggled up to the authoritative black man and whispered, “You’re sweet.” Just before planting another kiss on his cheek. Rilke could swear she saw Damone’s face blush darker. “You’d better cut that out now,” he told her, shyly. “I’m spoken for. I’m practically a married man.”