by April Hill
"It used to work when I was a kid," I ventured, since the fireplace seemed to be the only thing of mine in which he was interested at the moment. "I threw one of Mom’s rubber girdles in there, once, just to see what would happen."
"What happened?"
"It melted and stank up the whole house with black smoke, and we had to repaint the living room."
Hank laughed. "You were a brat."
"I thought I was a scientist, but Mom made me clean all the woodwork with a bucket of ‘Mr. Clean’ and a big sponge. Anson—he was hubbie number two—stood there swatting me with a plastic fly swatter until I got all the nooks and crannies cleaned."
Maybe it was the delightful image of me being spanked with a fly swatter, but Hank suddenly decided to take the time to ravish me, standing up against the wall. (Interesting, but highly uncomfortable, and brief, since he had to get back to work.) But the fireplace was apparently still on his mind.
"Maybe I’ll drop by after work and see if I can get the thing working," he yelled to me from the shower. "It’s a shame not to have the use of it. If I can’t fix it, I’ll get a fireplace guy up here."
"A chimney sweep?" I asked, with absolutely no interest, trying instead to get in the shower stall with him. "Do they still have those?"
"Yeah. That’s the word. A chimney sweep. I’ll get my sister to give me the name of hers." He gave my ass a quick swat with a towel, and pushed me out of the shower stall.
Jared Farrell, "Chimney Sweep to the Stars," according to his glitzy, holographic business card, called me the next day. We made an appointment for the following Thursday, to have my chimney dredged or swabbed, or reamed or whatever it’s called. Jared evidently felt that it was part of his job description to flirt with his lady customers, because we exchanged perhaps ten minutes of adorably clever "double-entendre" before the appointment time was finally nailed down. Sometimes, it’s exhausting being a man-magnet.
I waited until six o’clock on Thursday, but Jared the Oversexed Chimney Sweep didn’t show for our one p.m. meeting, nor did he answer his phone. Either my come-hither chit-chat had not impressed him, or I was not a big-enough star. What the hell. I needed a fireplace like I needed a case of the flue. That’s a kind of chimney sweep joke. Ha, ha! Later, when Hank asked about it, I told him Mom was taking care of it, and he let it go, but I certainly was not going to recommend Mr. Farrell to my many friends in the film industry.
On Sunday morning, the L.A.Times ran a small article about an unidentified body being found behind a gay bar in West Hollywood. I didn’t see the story, nor its follow-up a few days thereafter, in which the victim was listed as Jerome Fromkin. In what is apparently regarded as journalistic euphemism, it was explained that the unfortunate victim had been "sexually mutilated." Mr. Fromkin, the story continued, conducted a "home maintenance business" under the name Jared Farrell.
* * *
For all of the privacy I got being back in my own house, I may as well have been living in a department store window. Hank had these two guys who looked like Mafia hit-men "staked-out" in a gray van right in front of the house, night and day. As far as I could tell, they never even left to go to the bathroom, but several times a day, another equally unwholesome-looking creature arrived to deliver bags of food from different fast food joints. Finally, I get curious enough and annoyed enough to wander down to the van to investigate, and tell them that they were welcome to use the bathroom in the house.
Guy number one, who looked like TV’s "The Hulk," or a really unlucky ex-prize fighter, was a good six-foot seven, with a much-broken nose and a drooping left eye under dark shaggy eye-brows. Before I could reach the car, he climbed out of the driver’s seat and held up one hammy palm to stop me.
"Hank said you’d do somethin’ like this, lady, so he give us a message for you. We’re supposed to tell you to haul your goddamned ass back in the house. Sorry about the bad language, but that’s what Hank said I was to tell you. He give me this note for you."
I opened the note, hoping for a tender message, and read the following:
"The big guy’s name is Demetrius Starides. (Sergeant, LAPD, retired.) The good Sergeant weighs about 310, and if you so much as open that front door again, he’s under orders to carry you back inside and tie you to a chair, after which he will call me, so I can come over and paddle your stubborn butt you won’t sit down for a week. I’m going to let Sergeant Starides watch while I do this, and I may even ask him to help, and no, this is not an idle threat. Go back in the house, lock the door, and stay there."
So, I went back into the house. I already had cause to know that Hank didn't make idle threats. About two hours later, when he arrived, Hank was carrying two large pizzas, a grocery sack and a lovely bottle of red wine. The Mafioso accepted one of the pizzas and drove away, and were replaced a minute or two later with a fresh carload of thugs, after which Hank came in the house with the other pizza, kissed me, and went into the kitchen looking for dishes.
"Where do you keep your wine glasses?" he called, and I explained to him, yet again, how poor I was, and disadvantaged. No wine glasses, but plenty of only slightly-used Styrofoam cups.
Hank arranged the feast neatly on the coffee table, and while the wine was breathing, he came into the living room with a wooden spoon. He put one foot up on the small hearth, dragged me across his raised thigh and lowered my shorts to my knees. I started babbling a defense, but all that happened was he began spanking even harder, concentrating his efforts on the absolutely most tender area of my already glowing ass—that nicely rounded underswell of each cheek that he knew hurt like blazes.
He took his time, ignoring the wine and the cooling pizza, and smacked my trembling rear with the spoon until it was the approximate color of the wine, and until I was begging him to stop, which as a matter of pride, I rarely did.
When he put me down, I made a dramatic show of massaging my butt, hoping for a little sympathy. No luck. Finally, I reached around him carefully, and grabbed a slice of pizza, then sat down—carefully. It was obvious that normal "sitting" was not going to be an option, tonight. I began to wish that the fireplace worked, so I could burn the damned spoon—maybe every wooden spoon in the house, and the little wooden breadboard, as well.
"I see you talked to your spies," I growled, perching uncomfortably on the edge of the couch.
He nodded. "Yeah. It cost me a large pepperoni, a six- pack and two orders of garlic breadsticks, but it was worth every penny. Consider it a warning. Go outside again and I’ll let Demetrius wallop you, himself. He’s in better condition. Works out every morning at that gym in Hollywood where Schwarzennegger used to go."
"Don’t worry about it," I murmured. "You’ll do. What do you have out there, a stable of hit men working for you?"
"Retired cops. Friends."
"They look like thugs."
"Okay, friendly, retired thugs."
"Well, I hope you’re happy," I said sullenly. "My rear end still stings."
"Glad to hear it," Hank replied, a fountain of sympathy, as always. "That was the idea."
"Do you really expect to sleep with me after that?" I demanded
He grinned. "You can be on top, if that’ll help."
"Well, if I can force myself to forgive you, can you spend the night?" I asked, grumbling. So far, Hank had only enjoyed my favors once in my own house. He's never done it, or even slept in the bed I made fresh every day in the hope that he'd stick around long enough to see what a fine laundress I could be, given proper incentive. Yes, I was still pissed at him, and my butt still stung like blazes, but by this time, I had other things on my mind. One can’t bear a grudge, you know. It’s not emotionally healthy.
"I brought my tooth brush," he said, smiling. "And a change of clothes."
In token of my forgiveness, and in simple gratitude for bringing home such an excellent pizza—with pepperoni— I pushed him back on the couch, unzipped his pants as slowly and seductively as I could manage on the world’s most unco
mfortable sofa, and took him in my mouth deep, slow, and long, making it last until he groaned, and came. Hank reciprocated by finding a novel use for my beloved teddy bear chair. After draping my legs comfortably over Teddy’s plump arms, he knelt between my knees and repaid the favor with his tongue and mouth until I was delirious, and begging him to make love to me right there in Teddy’s adorably, fuzzy lap. It seemed a bit irreverent, and both our backs hurt the next morning, but I think we’d both agree that it was worth it. Something about Teddy’s curves and contours, I suppose. I decided then and there that when Hank and I got married, Teddy would always have a place of honor in our home.
* * *
CHAPTER FIVE
By the time I crawled out of bed the following morning, my personal bodyguard had already left for work, dragging himself from my boudoir only minutes after delivering the greatest pre-breakfast orgasm of all time. I languished guiltily in the warm bed for more than an hour after he was gone, and was about to give him a call at work to murmur a lascivious "thank you," when I heard what sounded like someone moving around in the living room. Sleepy, and still basking in a pleasantly mellow afterglow, I naturally assumed that Hank had thought better of wasting his day working, and that he had returned for an encore performance. I slithered into the living room naked, with a witty remark on my lips, but when I didn’t find Hank there, I started back to the bathroom to shower. I was disappointed, but philosophical. Some people do have to work for a living.
I had almost reached the bathroom door when someone grabbed me from behind, and a second afterward, the same or maybe another someone crammed a dishtowel in my mouth. I tried to scream, but managed only a few muffled gargling noises before the towel was lodged firmly between my teeth and strapped into place with what felt like duct tape.
I don’t think I had enough time to actually register fear, because for several moments, my struggling and kicking were more reflex than an intelligent attempt at escape. I was dragged back down the hallway to the living room, where the unseen assailant shoved me face-down on the leatherette couch, pulled my arms forward, and began to tie my wrists. I remember trying to twist my head around to try to see his face, just before my own face was shoved into a sofa pillow, and before something heavy struck me very hard across the side of my head.
When I woke again, I was dizzy and my vision was blurred, but I could see that my arms were stretched out in front of me, my wrists tied with the same twine I use to bind the newspapers for recycling. When I tried to move my feet, I realized that they were tied, as well. Oh, and one other thing… I was very, very scared.
What I wanted to do, though, more than anything else besides get away, was to throw up. All that adrenaline that’s supposed to help you flee in the face of danger had settled on my stomach like the world’s most indigestible meat loaf, and I knew for a fact that I was going to vomit, and probably suffocate long before I was raped, sodomized, and had my throat cut from ear to ear.
There was almost no sound in the room, now, but I could feel the guy moving around, as though he was arranging the furniture or something, and I tried holding my breath to listen. The kitchen door opened with its familiar little squeak, and I panicked. With every frantic ounce of energy I could dredge up, I began to squirm like mad to try to loosen the twine on my wrists, because I knew then, as clearly as I’ve ever known anything in my life, that the intruder was looking for a knife. I began to pray out loud that darling, silly, wonderfully overcautious Hank would drop by, unannounced, to yell at me again.
Like an idiot, I started to cry. Sorry for being such a wimp, but I always cry when I’m about to be butchered. Some kind of reflex, I think.
And then, I sensed that the guy was in the room with me again, and I quit crying, just like that. I swear to God, I could feel the air move in soft eddies as he came closer, and a moment later, I knew that he was standing directly over me. I closed my eyes and clenched them really tight, acting on a personal theory of mine that closing your eyes while you’re being slaughtered will make the experience somehow less obtrusive.
I was busy thinking about this light-hearted concept when the guy... (I was assuming it was a man, because I had taken a course in self-defense three ears ago, at the Y, and absolutely refused to believe that I could have been so easily overpowered by another female.) The guy said something I couldn’t make out, and I saw a man’s hand touch my wrist and then move very slowly down my left arm. His arms were smooth, almost hairless, and for a wild moment, I began to think my attacker really might be a woman. The fingers were smooth and cold, and when they touched my naked butt, I gagged, and threw up—massively.
The attacker made a small sound that could have been surprise, or more likely, disgust. But oddly, the voice sounded, and I swear this is the truth...concerned! A moment or so later, the hairless hand pulled the gag from my mouth and I gasped, took a couple of desperately deep breaths of air, and used them to try another scream. The scream was cut short when he/she stuffed what I recognized as my black and white cow potholder between my lips and then secured it with tape. I had evidently pushed my luck too far.
The voice, when it spoke, was low and hoarse. Very throaty, as though he/she had been shouting at a football game or something. At first, I couldn’t even be sure it was the voice that I heard, since I was breathing so hard and so fast. He spoke again, unquestionably male this time, and every word perfectly clear.
"I’m going to hurt you now, Karen—very badly, I'm afraid, but please try to remember that you’ve made me do it."
I retched, but nothing came up, and as I twisted desperately to one side, I felt his hand on my back holding me down. A second later, something slashed across my butt, burning the skin like hot coals, and I nearly rose off the couch. This guy was serious!
And then, the real beating began. In a desperate attempt to escape the pain, I tried twisting to one side and bucking, thrashing my bound legs up and down, with the result that several of his blows slashed across my back and shoulder blades. This hurt about as bad as anything I’d ever felt before in my whole life, and made the guy furious. With a grunt of anger, he shoved a knee roughly into the small of my back, struck me across the side of my head again, then gripped the back of my neck with one incredibly strong hand, forcing my face deep into the sofa cushion. It seemed I was now going to suffocate before I got bludgeoned or stabbed to death. When he began to beat me again, I writhed and twisted uselessly, shrieking into my gag and imagining in excruciating detail what was going to happen when he finished the beating. Rape, sodomy, strangulation? The possibilities were endless, and none of them especially attractive.
But that didn’t happen. After maybe thirty blows, most of them expressly on what might be politely described as my lower regions, the beating simply stopped. Just like that. As I lay there whimpering, something soft was drawn up over my legs, then further up over my back. After that, total, terrifying silence. For what might have been an hour, the only sound in the room was my own ragged breathing. He was gone. Or maybe just waiting for me to try to move.
Finally, more out of discomfort than courage, I summoned the strength to roll off the couch and onto the floor, and when I didn’t see anyone in the room with me, I rubbed my face against the carpeting until I got the gag off. After worming myself into a more or less seated position, I worked at twisting the twine back and forth until I could wiggle one wrist free, taking off a fair amount of skin in the process. When my other wrist was loose, I removed the gag, untied my feet, and grabbed for the phone. Without a thought in the world about the two hairy night watchmen right outside my front door, I called Hank, and not 911. When he answered, I left out most (okay, all) of the details, and just sobbed like a blithering imbecile that I’d been hurt, could he please come over when he got a free moment.
Then I sat on the living room floor naked and shaking, and threw up again.
It was the seventh of the month, and I hadn’t yet paid the rent. Through my confusion, I began to wonder vaguely if
I’d still have to pay. Mom’s cheap, but even she just might consider this as a pretty good reason to break a lease.
No more than ten seconds before I heard Starides smashing through the front door, I noticed a small yellow "post it" note taped to the edge of the coffee table, and crawled across the room to pick it up. It read simply:
"There must be no more men."
Seconds later, naked and sobbing like a lost little kid, I fell into the wonderfully strong, sheltering arms of Sergeant Starides. Hank had called him, of course. On top of everything else, now I felt really stupid.
Ten minutes later, Hank arrived, his car screeching to a halt in the gravel driveway. He came into the hallway, where I was sitting next to the comforting hulk of Demetrius, who had wrapped me in a bedspread. The other man, who had turned out to be retired Sergeant Hector Avila, was on the phone.
