BABY WITH THE BEAST

by Naomi West

  “So what choice to do I have?” He leaps to his feet, hands in his hair, pacing. “He saved my goddamn life!” He stumbles into the kitchen and returns with the bottle of wine. “I burn, Willa. I burn and I burn and I fucking burn.” He takes a long swig from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his leather. “And I burn and I burn and I …” He drops onto the couch.

  He’s admitted it, I tell myself. It’s out in the open now. I can’t lie to myself. He’s done it and I need to get out of here. I can’t be with a man who burns down buildings. I can’t. So why am I resting my head on his shoulder, and why is my hand straying to his knee, and why is my clit aching and my body screaming? My head is groggy. Logical thinking is difficult. All I can think about is Diesel, younger then and not named Diesel, being beaten by a fully-grown man.

  I turn my face and see him looking down at me.

  “Tell me your name,” I say. “Tell me your name. Tell me your name, tell me your name, tell me your name.” I leap onto his lap, splitting my legs so that our crotches press together, his cock hard despite how drunk he is. I giggle as I writhe, grinding up and down on him. It feels good. That’s all I can think about right now. “Tell me your name or I’ll stop. I promise I’ll stop.”

  “Don’t you fucking stop.” He reaches around and grabs my ass, his hands firm.

  I slam them away. “Your name or nothing, mister. I mean that.”

  “My name is Diesel.”

  “Okay, fine. If you want to be pedantic. What did your name used to be?”

  “Why do you want to know so badly?”

  He keeps trying to touch my ass and I keep slapping him away.

  “Because if I’m going to make love to you, I want to know what name to scream.”

  I twist my hips. The denim is hard, rough. I wish it away. I want what’s underneath.

  He looks into my face, his dark green eyes full of life even if they are full of whisky as well. I’m drunk, too. There’s no denying that now. “My name was Damon Holmes,” he says, “but my father beat that name out of me. I was called Damon when these scars were being made. I was called Damon when I was picking my baby teeth off the kitchen floor. I was called Damon when my head was bouncing down the stairs. If you’re gonna scream for me, scream Diesel. It’s the only name I’ve ever wanted.”

  I know it’s wrong. I know I should run. I know—

  I bring my lips to his, unable to stop myself, kissing hard , moving my hands down his body to the front of his jeans, feeling his rock-hard cock, rubbing it and making it harder.

  When the kiss breaks off, I moan, “Diesel, Diesel, Diesel …”

  Chapter Eleven

  Willa

  He grips me under the armpits and lifts me up, carrying me into the bathroom. “What are you doing, you madman?” I cry out. I’m too drunk now to care about anything else apart from the strength in his body, how easily he can hold me. My clit feels engorged, aching, like there’s too much blood rushing too it. My lips are swollen and desperate to feel him. My hole tingles with the desire to be opened up by him. My whole body is alive with a thousand sensations all pointing to Diesel.

  “We’re both sweaty and dirty,” he says. “We need to clean up.”

  He stumbles as he carries me, but only a little. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist, jostling up and down, my pussy grinding against the leather of his jacket. He puts me down in the bathroom and steps back, watching me.

  “Take off your clothes,” he says, his dark green eyes more animalistic than I’ve ever seen them.

  This is the point where I usually say no … No, I can’t do this. No, this is wrong. You smell of smoke and I’m not that sort of woman. But wine has beaten back those words. If I regret it in the morning, fine, but the morning is a long, long time away. It can sort itself out. I love the way he looks at me, like any moment he could jump forward and attack me, attack me with his hands and his tongue and his cock, which I can see outlined in his jeans.

  I remove my top, pulling it over my head, and then reach around and unclip my bra. I’ve never been much of the striptease type, and I don’t think I can start while I’m this drunk, so I just strip off quickly. Diesel doesn’t mind. He begins to unzip his jacket. I wriggle out of my tights and then pull down my skirt, so that I’m standing there just in my underwear. It’s the first time Diesel has ever laid eyes on my bare breasts. He pauses unzipping for a moment, staring with wide eyes.

  “Fuck, Willa,” he says. “Fuck.”

  I’m a tiny bit nervous despite the wine. I’ve never been the confident sort who can get naked and think nothing of it. In college if I ever stumbled home with a man, I would always prefer the light to be turned off. But for some reason I feel like I have to be brave now. If I have bared myself to this man emotionally, I have to do it physically, too. I pull down my panties, kicking them off when they reach my ankles. My pussy has a small tuft of clipped blonde hair—I’ve never been huge into shaving—which draws Diesel’s eyes immediately.

  “Fuck,” he says again, voice raspy. “I need you.”

  I skip over to him, giggling, feeling playful. Wine and lust rush to my head in equal measure. “Then take your clothes off,” I say.

  I help him along, throwing his jacket into the corner and then unbuttoning his shirt so, quickly, two buttons fly away. His scarred torso reminds me of what his father did to him, all the horrible stories he hasn’t told me about and will probably never tell me about. I need to make him feel better, and in doing so make myself feel better. Soon we’re both naked, standing opposite each other. His cock is massive, at least ten inches, so hard it looks like he could burst any second. He walks past me, cock brushing my belly, and switches on the shower.

  When he returns to me, he grips my shoulders and pushes down, not hard, but not soft, either. I fall to my knees and take his cock in my mouth, opening my mouth as wide as I can and forcing my lips down. I can get down only to half of it, but I work the base with my hand, rubbing and listening to him moan. He growls low, pleasure making whatever words he’s saying difficult to understand. I suck him for a few minutes, feeling the tip of his rock-hard cock hit the back of my throat, gagging and choking and then sucking some more. And then he’s pulling me to my feet and his eyes are locked on my body.

  He reaches down and slides two fingers into my pussy, eyes locked on me the whole time. “I finally get to touch your perfect fucking cunt,” he says. “You’re so fuckin’ tight.”

  I barely hear him. His fingers brush up against my super-sensitive lips and deep into my pussy, pressing into the spot of warmth inside of me. He slides his fingers in and out to the rhythm of the shower, pushing me into it so that warm water cascades down my body and clings to my nipples.

  “You’re gonna come for me,” he says, stepping in after me, “and then I’m gonna fuck you harder than you’ve ever been fucked.”

  I gasp as his two fingers move in small circles around my sweet spot. I’m afraid I’ll fall, so I lean against his muscled body, propping myself up by gripping onto his scarred pectoral muscles. His fingers work tirelessly, circles moving fast until there’s a whirlwind of heat inside of me, caressing my hot spot, making it hotter. Fire, fire … but I forget about the fires as the orgasm approaches. My toes curl; my fingernails scratch down his torso; my pussy gets tighter, and my head gets even foggier than it already was. I bite down on his chest as the pleasure mounts deep within my pussy, as though a powerful tidal wave is smashing against a dam, over and over, and soon it’ll break …

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I moan into his chest as the orgasm breaks inside of me. The pleasure travels through my entire body, making my nipples sore and my clit throb, my hole so tight I feel it squeezing around his fingers. I don’t know if it’s my come or the warm shower water dripping down my thighs, and I don’t care. I tilt my hips, riding the orgasm, sitting down so that his knuckles crush my clit and one last wave of pleasure moves through me.

  When it’
s done I throw my head back and let out a moan, panting with the intensity of it.

  “I need to be inside you,” he says. “I fuckin’ need it.”

  He grabs my shoulders and turns me around so that I’m facing the shower tiles, and then pushes my upper back. I follow his lead, bending forward, pushing my ass out and looking over my shoulder to see his face. It’s twisted in pleasure, locked onto my ass cheeks. I push my ass out even more, loving that look on his face, like I’m the only woman alive who could ever really satisfy him. I’m almost at a ninety degree angle as I push my ass out further. He moves his hands over my ass cheeks.

  “You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he says, as the tip of his cock rubs up and down my clit, so close to my hole I want to scream. “You’re so goddamn fuckin’ sexy. Tell me you want to be fucked.”

  “I need to be fucked!” I moan. And right now that’s how it feels. My body is roaring out for him. My body needs his cock.

  When he slides into me, there are a few moments of pain. He’s huge. He’s so big it’s like I can feel him splitting me in half. His massive cock drives into my tight pussy, opening me up, his tip widening a path for the rest of him. I close my eyes and breathe slowly, wondering if he’ll be too big for me. But then my pussy releases for him, and the pain is replaced with hot, wet pleasure. I open my eyes and push back, my ass pressing into his abs, and then I’m moaning and he’s fucking me hard. He doesn’t start slow. He drills into me, and I’m so horny that I don’t want him to start slow. I’m soaking wet and I want him hard right away.

  He grips my ass cheeks and pumps his hips, his cock slamming into my sweet spot, his balls slapping against my clit, fucking me deep and hard. I grip the tiles with my fingernails, two of them snapping and not feeling it at all, only feeling his cock inside of me. I don’t feel the ache in my legs or my arms or anything, except distantly. My world becomes my pussy and his cock, the tearing friction, the brutal pleasure. His fingers dig into the flesh of my ass cheeks as he groans and growls, taking me like an animal. I feel like an animal. It feels fucking great.

  “Come on my fucking cock!” he shouts over the roar of the shower. “Fucking come for me, Willa. Come hard.”

  “I’m nearly …”

  I can’t speak. My tongue feels heavy. My lips tingle—on my face and in between my legs. Everything tingles. And then it’s like all the fires Diesel has set, all the fires which were the reason I stayed away from him, are burning deep inside my pussy. All of them, concentrated in that one boiling spot. I should get away from him. I know it’s wrong. I shouldn’t be riding those fires. This is not okay. This is unacceptable, and yet those fires feel so good, their flames kissing the tingly walls of my cunt, the fire hissing through my whole body. And then my pussy is getting tighter and tighter, and the flames are getting hotter and hotter. Diesel slides his cock out slow, lingers for a moment, and then pounds into me quickly, teasing.

  “I’m nearly … nearly …”

  “Come.” He pumps into me. “On.” He drills into me. “My.” He pounds into me. “Cock.” He smashes into me so hard I almost fall to the floor. He takes one hand from my ass and reaches underneath my belly, lifting me off my feet and pulling me back and forth as he fucks me. I’m his now, completely. He has complete control over me. I bounce on his cock, over and over, and then the flames are far too hot. They scorch through me.

  The orgasm releases over his cock. I have only ever squirted one other time in my life, and that was with the help of a vibrator. That was different. Where that left mess and shame, this has Diesel’s hands on my body, his cock sliding unstoppable in and out of my pussy, my feet off the ground, feeling like I’m floating. I squirt all over his cock, my pussy getting tight and loose, tight and loose as I release all over him. I tilt my hips and wriggle from side to side, taking every last piece of pleasure from the fire as I can. When it’s over, Diesel wraps his arms around me, cupping my breasts, and drives into me a few final times, deeper and harder than before.

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Beg me to come in your fuckin’ cunt.”

  “Please,” I moan. “Please come in my cunt. Oh, please, please, please.”

  He bites my earlobe, holding his cock inside of me as his come pumps out of his cock, his cock wilting. Once he’s soft and both of us are aching with pleasure, he slides out of me.

  We stumble from the shower, smiling and laughing, drunk and happy and content. But as we walk through the fogged apartment and sit naked on the couch, I can’t help but wonder if in the sober light of day I might second guess what we just did.

  I can only hope not.

  Chapter Twelve

  Willa

  I wake up with my head feeling like it’s trapped between two rocks, my ears pushing into my skull, a band of tension all around my head. Opening and closing my eyes causes invisible jagged spikes to lance into my brain. I lean up and rub my eyes, looking around the room. Diesel snores next to me, lying on his front, half of his body almost falling from the bed. I look at him for a few moments before I remember what we did last night, the ache in my pussy bringing the memory home. We had sex, finally, at last … I look around the rest of the room. Three, no—four wine bottles lie scattered about the place, as well as a half-full bottle of vodka.

  It’s half past seven which means I need to be out of here and on my way in forty minutes. I drag myself into the shower, remembering how I bent over last night, how wildly we fucked, wondering what the hell got into me. I was drunk, I guess, drunker than drunk. But is that any excuse? And yet I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. I can’t say I would take it back, even if I wouldn’t have done it sober. As I brush my teeth, trying to get rid of the stale alcohol taste, I try not to think about fires, arson, outlaws, bikers, violence. I try to just think about me and Diesel, what we shared, the pleasure between us.

  But when I’m dressed and Diesel is still snoring in bed, I look down at him and I can’t disconnect the flames from the man, no matter how badly I want to. I remember what he told me about his childhood, and then I leave the apartment. I need to think today. I need to sort things out.

  “Willa!” Peter almost explodes out of his office door when he sees me emerge from the elevator.

  Rubbing my head, trying to look like I don’t want to lie down and never get up, I drag my hungover carcass across the office. He sits behind his desk, steepling his fingers. He nods at the chair across from him. I sit down, glad to be off my feet. My ankles throb from the position they were in yesterday with Diesel.

  “Rough night?” he asks, smiling, taking way too much enjoyment from the state I’m in. That’s my opinion of his smile, anyway.

  “No,” I lie. “I had an early night.”

  “Okay … right, fine, well. I need you to interview a family who’re coming in—” He cuts off, checking his watch. It’s new, I notice, silver. “They should be here in about twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, great.” I sit up straighter. This is good. This is better than copy. “What am I interviewing them about?”

  “They were made homeless yesterday when a laundromat caught fire. It’s a human interest piece, an emotional piece. It’s for the paper and the website, so we want as much detail as we can get.”

  He watches me closely. Maybe he’s hoping for a sign of my distress. But I keep that buried, deep inside of me, as deep as Diesel was last night. A family, made homeless, by a fire … I resist the urge to clench my fists, to groan, to close my eyes, to do anything which would give Peter an indication of what I’m feeling. If this is hell, it’s my personal hell. He has no business here.

  “I’ll go and get ready,” I say.

  He nods. “Yes, you better. Preliminary reports indicate arson, and a witness says he heard a motorcycle engine.”

  I sit in my cubicle and get my notepad and pen. I’ve done a few pieces for the sister paper before, mainly fluff pieces, and most of my mind-numbing copy is for the sister paper or the website, but this is something else. This is a story which relates t
o me directly. I try and tell myself that there’s no way of knowing if Diesel was responsible for this fire. But he came home smelling of smoke last night. It’s too much of a coincidence. And there are Peter’s final words. Arson, motorcycle.

  The African American couple comes into the station looking lost. The woman is tall and thin, with a wide smile and dark brown eyes. She wears her hair in a bunch on top of her head, some of it spilling down her back. The man is fat around the middle, wearing a faded baseball cap and holding a briefcase. “I didn’t know if I’d need our insurance papers,” he says. He looks slightly tragic as he presents the briefcase.

  “We’re just going to have a conversation today,” I say, smiling, though I want to weep and beg for their forgiveness.

  I get Kendrick and Lisa a couple of coffees and then sit with them in the conference room.

  “Our son is with my mother,” Lisa says, reading my face.