Captain Save a Hoe

by iiKane

  But Skye couldn’t look, even if she wanted to. Her eyes were rolled up in the back of her head as Georgie hit that spot that made her oblivious to everything but the fire between her legs.

  “Say my name,” he bassed.

  “Gi – Giorgio,” she whispered, barely audible.

  Smack! Her ass quivered and reddened from the smack.

  “Say my goddamn name!”

  “Giorgio!” she squealed.

  Smack! The sensation of pain brought out everything animalistic in her, and she pushed back hard, knocking him off balance. He tripped over his own pants and fell into a rack of clothes that looked like something RuPaul may have left behind. He was bedded on a rainbow of silks, satins and feathered bras.

  And Skye came tumbling after. She squatted down on his dick, keeping her feet flat on the floor and her nails dug into his chest for balance.

  “Oh!” he cried out.

  “Don’t you holla,” she hissed lustfully, loving the agonized expression on his face. “Don’t…you…god… damn…holla!”

  She worked her hips, fast then slow, her pussy muscles making her pussy feel so good his toes curled in his shoes.

  “Say my name,” she demanded.

  His pride cried out, Nigga you better not! But when she leaned back and put one boot on his chest, her spiked heel like a dagger aimed at his heart and then squeezed his dick with her slippery wet pussy, he blurted out, “Skye!”

  “Sssssssss.” She sucked in air, her whole body trembling from the sensation of hearing him call out her name.

  “Say it again,” she gasped.

  “Skyyyye,” he groaned.

  The word became flesh and shot through her, making her body shake like the train was coming, but when Georgie’s back arched, pushing him even deeper in her and she felt his hot cum fill her up, her pussy came so hard, she saw stars.

  Her arms gave out from under her and she laid on her back, satisfied. She felt like her whole body was smiling. Neither said anything for a moment, lying on their backs in opposite directions, staring at the ceiling and trying to catch their breath.

  “This…” Skye began, huffing and puffing, “is not gonna end well.”

  Georgie replied, “But,” huff, huff, “it’s damn sure gonna be worth the trip!”

  And it was, especially once cocaine entered the picture.

  Georgie had always had a try-anything-once mentality, because he loved to live in the moment. But with cocaine, once was too much and a million times was never enough. As soon as the rush hit him and angel harps started strumming in his head, he felt like he had been holding his breath his whole life, and had finally exhaled. He had sniffed it off of Skye’s naked body, inhaling the drug and her scent, and not knowing which was more addictive.

  “Look in the sky,” she purred, laying back on the bed, spreading her legs. “Can you see heaven?”

  He entered her pearly gates over and over. He already had sexual stamina, but cocaine made him feel sexually invincible, and he did to Skye’s body what the Devil does to an idle mind. Totally corrupted it.

  Even though their connection revolved around sex, neither wanted to admit that it had quickly morphed into something much more. He even broke his own mantra, telling her “It’s nothing; we’re only fuckin’” but he couldn’t even convince himself of that.

  But it wasn’t only Skye that he was feeling; it was the whole lifestyle that came with it. She was a rising star in the greatest city in the world, which in many ways is better than being a big star in the vast celebrity universe. Everything was fresh, new and exciting: the possibilities endless.

  Every show that Skye did, Georgie was right there doing what he did best—being Georgie. Besides, he had his own nascent stardom to cultivate.

  “Do you really do Skye’s hair,” the sexy Latina in a red dress asked him as they stood at the bar of the Palladium.

  He licked his lips, looked her up and down slowly, then replied, “I do…a lot of things and I’d love to do…your hair.”

  She giggled like a schoolgirl.

  “Lo siento, but I don’t think my boyfriend would like that.”

  He leaned in, close to her ear so that she could feel his voice as well as hear it when he said, “Tell me you don’t want to cum all over this dick, while your man thinks you’re a good girl!”

  He knew that he had her when her lip trembled.

  “I – I have to go.”

  She walked away on rubbery legs and Georgie followed her with his eyes. She looked back once to see if he was watching. He blew her a kiss; she blushed. He followed her through the crowd until she reached a Spanish dude, no more than five feet even, wearing something that John Travolta might have worn in Saturday Night Fever: butterfly collar, hairy chest and more gold than Mr. T. The combination of cocaine and Smirnoff made Georgie bold, but seeing the Latina’s man made him feel down right disrespectful.

  He stalked her like a tiger would stalk a gazelle, biding his time, making eye contact, mouthing obscenities. She finally broke when he mouthed the word, “bathroom.” She glanced over at her boyfriend. He seemed to be engrossed in conversation and laughter with three Latino guys. She leaned over, whispered something in his ear then slid out of the booth, pulling her tight dress back down from the hike of being seated.

  Georgie instantly got hard, anticipating the conquest. He watched the jiggle in her ass and could tell that she wasn’t wearing any panties. His dick leaped in his pants.

  She went into the ladies’ bathroom and Georgie was right behind her, ignoring the shocked look of the two women at the mirror. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into an empty stall, pressing her against the wall.

  “Ohhh, I’m sooo wet,” she cooed, as Georgie pulled her dress up over her hips. Nothing but ass and thighs fell out.

  She cocked one leg on the toilet, pulling at Georgie’s zipper.

  “Come on, baby, I can’t be gone long or my boyfriend will be mad,” she whined.

  “Fuck that little muhfucka,” Georgie gruffed, sliding two fingers into her pussy.

  “Noooo, Papi, you don’t understand,” she replied, melting all over his finger play.

  When he saw how fast she came on his fingers, he couldn’t wait to get his dick in her! He began fumbling with his belt, zipper, then—just as he was about to pull his dick out—he felt two hands the size of large oven mitts grab him by the collar and snatch him out of the stall.

  “Ai-eeee!” she squealed, her dress over her belly button, looking into the beet red face of her maniac man. “Miguel! Oh my God, baby! He wouldn’t stop! I told him “no” but he wouldn’t stopppp!”

  He knew that she was lying. He had long peeped the interaction between the two of them, but he just wanted to see how far it would go. As soon as she went to the bathroom, and he saw Georgie fall in behind her, he and his two bodyguards got up and followed them. But since he loved her, love implied that he be blind to her treachery.

  But Georgie wasn’t so lucky.

  When they snatched Georgie out of the stall, he threw a wild, drunken haymaker that missed, but the answer didn’t. It hit his stomach like a sledgehammer, bending him double over and knocking the fight out of him.

  The two bodyguards were the size of small trucks and every blow felt like he got hit by one.

  Crack!

  The bone in his nose audibly broke as one of the bodyguards hit him with a crushing hook.

  “Take him outside!” Miguel commanded.

  They drug him out the bathroom door. Seeing all the blood, women shrieked and men jumped out of the way. Georgie tried to shove off and scramble away, but a swift kick that bruised his ribs quenched the attempt. They dragged him out of the fire exit into the alley behind the club.

  Skye had just finished her set when she saw everyone backstage huddled around the exit door, gawking.

  “Oh my God!”

  “They’re gonna kill him!”

  Skye was used to brawls at the clubs, so she starte
d to pay it no mind. But when a chill passed through her and her hair stood up on the back of her neck, she knew something wasn’t right. She hurried down the hall, pushed through the crowd, stepped into the cool night air and lost the ability to breathe.

  She saw Georgie…mangled. One bodyguard was holding him up and the other was using him for a punching bag. She was horrified. Both of his eyes were swollen, dried blood coated his face, causing the fresher flowing blood to clump. Watching the Hulk of a man punch Georgie in his face, the scene slowed in her eyes giving her a vivid view of the punches crunching Georgie’s unconscious face. Blood flew from his mouth, so thick that it hit the wall two feet away, with a slap.

  She snapped.

  She snatched off one of her heels and leapt on the punching bodyguard’s back, beating him all over the head and neck with the spiked heel.

  “What the…”

  “Get off of him! Get off of him!” Skye screamed like a crazed Banshee, her arm a piston of constant punishment.

  The other bodyguard let Georgie’s limp body slump to the ground and tried to get Skye off his partner’s back.

  “Man, get this bitch,” he barked, his arms too buff to reach back and get a grip on Skye. Each blow felt like an angry bee that was dotting his face with stinging red welts.

  His partner snatched her off him and tossed her on the pile of garbage bags lining the alley. She scrambled over to Georgie and laid her body on his.

  “Hit me, you piece of shit! Beat me, if you’re such a bad muhfucka!” she taunted.

  Without hesitation, he drew back to deliver a ham fisted blow.

  “Enough!”

  His hand froze mid swing. He stepped back. When he did, Skye was able to see the short man and the woman in the red dress.

  He stepped forward and looked down at her, studying her terrified—but defiant—expression.

  “Do you know who I am!” he asked.

  She nodded. Everyone did. He was one of the biggest cocaine dealers in New York.

  “Miguelito,” Skye replied.

  “This man disrespected me with my mujer and you intervene?” Miguelito questioned his expression hard and unyielding.

  It was at that moment that she found out what Georgie had done. It was at that moment that she realized that she had to either get up, walk away and not look back or stay no matter what it cost her. It was that moment that she knew she loved him.

  Skye looked at Miguelito, and a single tear that rolled down her cheek was her resolute reply.

  Miguelito followed the tear on its trek and it seemed to soften him.

  “I know who you are, too… I like your music,” he smiled, wiping the tear from her chin with his thumb, then added, “Love is blind, who am I to judge?” he said, turning to give his mujer a withering look. He stopped, pondered then looked at his bodyguards.

  “Let’s go.”

  As the four of them began to walk away, Miguelito looked at Georgie’s broken body like a hungry lion that had been pulled off of a dying carcass.

  “Tu tienes suerte, maricon,” he spat.

  As soon as they had left, Skye began screaming, “Please! Somebody, help me! Get an ambulance! Please help!”

  Re-emerging into consciousness felt almost aquatic for Georgie. All the sounds around him—the hum and the beeps of the monitors, the footsteps and closing doors—all sounded muffled and garbled as if he was under water. He was also so heavily medicated that it altered his reality but did almost nothing for the pain. His whole body throbbed and made him will himself back under. As he sank, a face appeared above the shimmering water.

  “Anya,” he said, like Citizen Kane’s Rosebud, “you came back,” he smiled.

  And then…he faded…

  A few days later, his eyes popped open and he was fully aware. The pain was still sharp and pervaded his body, but he now embraced consciousness and tried to sit up.

  “Aarrggh!” he bellowed.

  Bad idea.

  His cry awoke Skye from her sleep. She uncurled her legs from the chair and walked over to him on bare feet. She smiled down on him sweetly, moved his hair from his face and the first thing that she said to him was, “You look like shit.”

  He wanted to laugh, but something told him that it would hurt too much. He settled for a default, “Fuck you.”

  She smiled, cocked her head to the side like a curious bird.

  “I like your nose, though. It’s like…crooked, makes you look tough.”

  This time he did laugh, then sucked in his breath with a wince.

  “So I got my ass tore out the frame and it makes me tough, huh?”

  “I said look tough; you still a little punk,” she joked, leaning over and kissing him, finally exhaling her anxiety. A tremble ran through her. She put her forehead on his.

  “I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to do that again,” she whispered, slightly choked up.

  “Ma, come here.”

  “I’m here.”

  “No. Here,” he repeated, taking her hand and pulling her up on the bed.

  Skye got up and straddled him. It was then that he noticed that she had on the same thing that she had on that night at the club.

  Georgie frowned.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Five days.”

  “And you’ve been here ever since?”

  She nodded.

  He paused.

  “I bet that coochie stiiiink!” he teased.

  She hit him, playfully.

  “Shut up, it does not. I’ve been washing up in the bathroom. Being serious though, Georgie, I was scared to death. I – I didn’t know what to do, who to call…” she told him, her voice rising and falling with relived emotions. She shook her head. “I called the number on your card and no one answered but your voicemail and I realized I didn’t know anything about you but your name. I couldn’t call your family to tell them where you were and if you had…” her voice trailed off into sobs.

  He pulled her to him, hugging her tightly, even though the extra weight had his cracked ribs screaming.

  “Shhh, chill Ma, we good, okay? I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he vowed.

  Skye sat up, looked him in the eyes and replied, “Promise.” It was a demand, not a question.

  “Promise,” he affirmed.

  “You’re never going to leave me?”

  “Never…even if your coochie stink,” he replied.

  They laughed. He reached up and caressed her cheek.

  “I love you,” he said, his smile tender, almost beatific.

  The words warmed her, but the smile made her wince.

  Because she had seen it before.

  The night that he had come to. She saw his stirring, saw his eyes flutter open. She rushed to his side and peered down at him.

  “Anya…you came back,” he had said, and then he smiled the same smile, one she would never forget.

  Anya.

  The way he had said it, she longed to hear him say her name that way.

  Anya.

  Her thoughts tormented her. She half expected a woman, a wife? An Anya to come through the door and reclaim her place, turn, point at Skye and say, “Who is this imposter?!”

  Skye had cried for the rest of the night. Who was she? What was she? What did she look like? Did she leave? Or die? Death would be better, but much too permanent. Like a stain you can’t get out, and even if you could, the place where it was would remain to remind you.

  Skye decided that Anya was dead, and—if she wasn’t—she would strangle the bitch herself.

  Georgie felt the wince.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She mustered a smile.

  “Nothing…I know what happened at the club.

  He looked at her.

  “Skye, I’m…”

  She put her finger to his lips.

  “Georgie, I lay with you…I know you, I know who you are. So understand when I say this, I’ll put up with the hoes, but not another woman.

  The
ir eyes shared a look of understanding that would serve to be the forbidden tree in their garden.

  “I understand.”

  Skye smiled and caressed his cheek.

  “Poor Georgie, don’t let this world love you to death, baby.”

  Georgie pulled into the parking lot of the State Correctional Institution - Smithfield, a close custody prison located in Huntingdon, Pennsylvania. His head was banging. He had been in the hospital for over three months and he constantly got headaches. He was starting to believe the doctor when he said that he would have headaches for the rest of his life. The only upside was the virtual lifetime prescription for an opioid analgesic which preceded—but had properties similar to—oxycontin. He reached into his tote bag and pulled out the bottle, took two pills then put it back. He then glanced around the parking lot and fished under the seat for his stash of coke. He took a “two on” to each nostril then returned it to the stash. He checked his nose for residue in the rearview mirror, stopping to admire his new haircut—a curly fade—at the same time. He stepped out of the car, brushing off his silk pants then chirped the alarm on his brand new, silver ’96 Infiniti Q45 with peanut butter interior, sitting on twenty-inch deep dish hammers. The car hadn’t even hit the market yet. Expensive, but he could afford it now that Skye had inked a deal with a major label.

  Her new single, “Like a Tiger,” was so hot, American Records—one of the biggest labels in the world—had bought her contract out and signed her to an album deal with a seven figure advance. Georgie was officially known as her stylist, but anybody in the know knew that he was much more.

  With the cocaine accelerating the effects of the pills, he felt laid back but wired, relaxed with pep as he Philly-bopped through the prison gates.

  Women who had come to see boyfriends, fiancés and husbands eyed him like a nice substitute for a cold, lonely night—any night actually, in many cases.

  The visitors were led through a maze of sliding doors, buzzing gates, beeping metal detectors and were all but stripped-searched before they arrived at the inner sanctum of the visitation room.

  “Daddy!” little children cried as they ran into open arms.

  “Baby!” mothers and wives and fiancés sang as they were enveloped in loving embraces.