by Amarie Avant
Now, I realize that MMA has a special place in his heart no matter the promises he made to get the hell out of dodge when a match wasn’t going too well. I had forced him into a corner when Vassili was putting a hurting on every man he stepped into the cage with. Yesterday, I learned that just like in our marriage, there will be ups and downs—on that damn canvass—and I have to ride it with him no matter what.
I cannot believe how easily Vassili has forgiven me my faults. Since he won the match last night and I apologized for running out of the convention center, we are magnetized to each other like we’ve always been in the past. His body, cut and ripped with muscles and dipped in gold and tattoos is the most beautiful sight. Second only to his cock. Minutes ago, as he bounced me in the air, and that thick, long, shaft smashed into my pussy, I grew hypnotized. Vassili, now is kneeled before me. I’m at the edge of the bed. My second set of lips are pulsating with the Hulk Smash he just performed. Now, Doctor Jekyll has become Mr. Hyde as Vassili seductively bestows butterfly kisses against the pulse at my neck.
“I hate you, Vassili,” I grumble, attempting to grab at the long wavy hair of his mohawk, while he kisses a trail down my chest. His response is to nip harder at my nipple. Shit, it hurts, but the pain has nothing on the way he just screwed me. It felt good, soaring through the air, and slamming down onto his cock.
A warm, wet trail glides down to my belly button. I tug at his hair again, but he just pushes my hand away and continues toward his goal.
When his lips meet my clit, the aggression, the anger, the feign in me dies instantly. A humming sound vibrates my tonsils. That gorgeous chocolate brown wavy hair of his rises. “Fuck, that sound makes me want to slide down your throat.”
I’m torn.
His cock in my mouth.
Or his lips against my clit.
I grip the sheets, unable to determine which. “69!” The thought pops into my head, like those old dreams I had of being a mute, naked, and about to commence my closing remarks in a courtroom. I’d finally shout something inaudible. But apparently, Vassili can read me, or I’m not so far gone that my words didn’t penetrate.
Like we’re on the canvass, Vassili’s hard body clambers over mine. He positions his cock against my face. And before I can even begin to taste, he’s devouring my pussy!
Damn, this is hilarious. I’m speaking in tongues; his crown is spearing the side of my cheek and he’s eating me like an animal.
Vassili growls against my inner thigh.
Oh, yeah! He acquiesces to my begging. I grab his microphone with one hand and gobble it into my mouth. But Vassili works my goodies like an all you can eat Las Vegas buffet. Once again, I’m humming and grinning in ultimate delight.
“Zar!” His voice is testy.
I’m a little too greedy for this reciprocation stuff, and he’s doing it too damn well.
I slide my tongue along the hard, smooth steel ridges of him and recall just how much I love his dick.
***
Our one week-shy of a year old, Natasha’s fat little paws slap at the coffee table as she gains leverage. Her chunky legs are locked straight. She’s taken a few steps before, but she’s too damn eager to get around.
“She’s making room,” my mom speaks up, right behind Natasha.
I purse my lips. “Um hmm.”
“Making room?” Vassili’s eyebrows come together. “Walk, sweetheart,” he tells her as she shuffled to the side.
“For a new baby,” mom says.
“Humph, that’s a pain I still haven’t forgotten yet. I don’t know how anyone goes through it and…” I start laughing at Natasha’s movements. She’s using the table to dance now. “Okay, maybe I understand how mothers endure labor more than once.”
Mom is right there as Natasha starts to fall. Usually, she cries for Vassili in frustration, but my mom refuses to let her hit the floor.
“Mom, she has all that diaper back there—”
“Girl, this is a hotel. I don’t care how luxurious of a room we’re in, Natasha isn’t falling on the floor.”
Vassili takes Natasha in his arms. He sits on the low seated chair. “Daddy was beating some ass last night.”
“Daddy be… be… ass!”
“Vassili,” I chide as my mother laughs. I swear I recall a day when she had no sense of humor. My father hardly allowed her to be comfortable in her own shoes. I can’t be mad at her, so my reprimand comes with a smile. “How do you allow this baby to cuss?”
I ask her as Vassili’s voice lowers. He’s having a sidebar conversation with Natasha as he often does. When they talk matches, I know he cusses a storm. And Natasha giggles in response. The shirt he’s wearing clings to his buff biceps as he does a jab into the air with her in his other arm.
Her head tosses back, she gives a wide-toothed grin, or shall I say gums. Three teeth up top and two at the bottom.
I glance at myself in the mirror, and then I look at my mom’s reflection. Hell, it should be me in “mommy” sweats. My mom needs a new love. And well, last night, Vassili and I disappeared early, leaving her with Natasha. It’s almost dark again.
“Mama, are you sure you don’t want to have a night out? We’re on vacation in a new place.”
“Nope. I have Natasha. Everything I want to do is at a respectable hour.” She glances back and forth from me and Vassili and adds, “Tsk, my version of respectable. Y’all two have blurred the line.”
“Dang!” I sound like the teenager she used to know me as. My cheeks warm. No matter how old I get, I can’t let my mother know of the freak Vassili has made me into. He winks as I pick up Natasha and burrow my face in the fat rolls of her neck.
“No! No! Nooooo!” She argues as I kiss her caramel skin. I smack kisses on her neck and start to blow, causing my baby to cackle with laughter. It’s the sweetest sound, and I swear it makes this bulky husband of mine soft for a fraction of a second.
“I don’t mind y’all disappearing at all hours of the day and night. Long as Natasha becomes a big sister soon,” Mom says, still on the topic I attempted to skirt around.
I dance around that question with, “Hmmm, we have to get you a man.”
“I have one, thank you very much. Now go enjoy—”
“Who? Since when?” I ask. Natasha tugs on my shirt for attention, but I stare my mother down waiting on her answer.
“It’s... new. I won’t ruin it by chatting. Go out, drink, and try to have a good time. Because the two of you mix like oil and water. Have fun before being forced into returning to reality...”
“Well, damn, mama, tell me something I don’t know.”
She catches my gaze. “Honey, as long as you keep God first in your marriage, you two can continue clashing and loving. In fact, contrary to the example myself and your father provided, a little rebellion makes love stronger if Jesus is in the mix.”
***
“This is the treatment we get when your man wins against one of the local legends,” Taryn, my half Asian and black best friend, grumbles. We are virtually invisible to the bartender, who has an imaginary ‘Team Tiago’ stamp on his forehead. Damn, the match was outstanding. The guy put up a fight and lost, and now we lose out on good drinks.
I sigh, waving at the Brazilian. He catches my eye and continues to flirt with a young woman. “Yeah, I’m surprised the bartender doesn’t add a little something extra to our drinks by way of bodily fluid, and I wouldn't have even seen the ending of the fight if you hadn't dragged me back into the stadium.”
“You can pay me back in Valentino.” Taryn drums her hands on the scuffed wood counter.
I scoff. “Your ass needs a job, Taryn, a j-o-b.”
“Ugh!” She shakes her long hair. “Gainful employment isn't in my vocabulary.”
“Is love?” I play it cool, still waving for the bartender’s attention. “Hello…”
“Is what?” Taryn no longer bats her eyes and attempts to get the servers attention by leaning across the counter with her ti
ny tits. “Zar, what?”
We step away from the bar, and a crowd of other people engulf the spot we just had. The bartender comes over to them. I look her in the eye, and ask, “Love? You, Yuri.”
She glances back at the high-stool table where our guys sit. There’s no denying the sparkle in her eye. Yuri gestures for us to come back over with the cock of his beer.
Whereas Vassili is all muscle, in jeans and a shirt, Yuri is every bit as thick in the arms with a gut that slims down well beneath a custom-made suit.
“Girls, I need some fucking water here, my tongue is hard as sandpaper.” Yuri corners Taryn into his space. She's so much tinier than him. A pretty roasted almond color to his paleness, Yuri isn't a lover of working out nor is he much a fan of the sun.
“Oh, you want water, do you?” Her voice is dripping in sex. “Their vodka isn't as good as your family's. I've got something better for you…”
They proceed to caress each other’s tongues in the middle of the bar.
Vassili kisses my neck and grabs his beer. Sometimes I swear, he is a super fan of public displays of affection, like the first time we screwed in a car. Though there’s no way in hell I’ll fuck him with an audience, those token times he devours my mouth outside of the bedroom are rare. I live for those. His dark eyes sparkle. He wants to eat me. I swear even after being married for almost three years he still treats me like a virgin in front of others at times. If you don't count the ass pawing. Every few minutes he squeezes one of my ass cheeks like his life depends on it.
Like right now, my pussy is screaming for attention when he does it. Then he leans back in his chair.
“You could kiss me like that.”
“Nyet—no. Not here.”
“Why not?” My eyebrow rises.
He grunts.
Sometimes I want him to grab me in front of a crowd of people. Set aside my education and the entitlement my father instilled in me. Set aside his tattooed, yet, gentleman qualities. There's no denying that I belong to him. Yet, I realize that in those occasions where he is too respectable he is thinking of something. Perhaps how his father, Anatoly, treated his mom. Yeah, that must have something to do with his level of pause. I hope…
Vassili
How the fuck do I respond to her? Zariah turns her head away from me. She takes my lack of willingness to fuck faces as if I’m dismissing her. I went from slamming my cock into a different pussy a day, sometimes more, but my wife satisfied me in ways I cannot begin to explain. I can’t just slobber her face down today. Shit, I didn’t even know I was starving until Zariah became mine. But with my parents on my mind, I am in the wrong headspace for PDA. Because I’m amped up on adrenaline, and maybe because I’m paranoid like my fucking father about a few things.
Zariah starts to sway to the music. She snaps her fingers, closes her eyes. All the restraint in the world is holding me back from her right now. No need for ass shaking, my girl is too fucking beautiful just being herself. She doesn’t even know that it’s the little things that send my cock to a heavy rise and my heart drumming in my chest.
“Dance with me?” Zariah asks out of the blue.
Fuck, can’t say I don’t dance because Natasha jiggled around even as she crawled to music. I do dance, but in the few years that Zariah and I have been back together, we’ve only attended the VIP section in clubs. And I would bash a man’s skull in for looking at her at The Red Door. There’s never been a time we were dancing in the lounge when it’s been open to the public.
My eyes keep zipping around. Really, have I gone paranoid, obsessively anxious like Anatoly? Someone is here…
Zariah glowers, expecting an answer. She doesn’t know that I’m scanning the room with my peripheral vision because that would lead to more questions. Like the truth. So I take the dick way out…an excuse. “You don't know the words to the song. We don't know the words. Why dance?”
There. In the side, left corner, a man who resembles one of my many brothers sits, nursing a shot glass. My muscles tense.
Zariah rubs my bicep. “Vassili, baby, dance with me.”
My eyes lock onto hers. “I don't fucking dance.” My voice is hard as ever, iced over due to hate from a past life. And dammit, I need to see what this guy wants. “Okay, love?” My mouth tips at the edge to soften the blow.
Yet Zariah cuts her eyes, and glances away from me.
Yuri slaps a hand on the table. “tchyo za ga`lima, kazen!” What the fuck, he asks in Russian.
“Po'shyol 'na hu.” My middle finger goes to the air as I toss back my beer.
As if on key, my cell phone vibrates in my jean pocket. I pull it out.
“Is that my mom?” Zariah asks. She'd left her phone with her mom and Natasha, since her mother’s cell won't hold much juice.
“It's…” I glance at the screen. Anatoly. “Nobody.”
“Nobody,” she breathes the word.
“Hey, Zar,” Taryn cuts in and saves the day. My wife’s mouth was set for a comeback. She says, “There’s a new bartender, let’s see if we can get a good old’ fashion Cosmo? Beer is not my fancy.” Taryn lifts up her empty glass. The girls rise and head toward the bar.
“That your pop?” Yuri asks.
“Dah—yes!”
“So beside being a fucking `khu i—dick, is Zariah aware that the two of you are talking again? Because I’ve seen you just about pawing Zar’s pus—” he stops and gulps. Changing his phrase out of respect. “I’ve seen you two go at it, Vassili, many times. So is that why you’ve hardly touched her tonight?”
I rub the scar along my jaw with my thumb thinking about how Anatoly called me seven months ago. The first thing out of his mouth was ‘disrespect.’ That the MMA fighter, Louie the legion Gotti, disrespected me in the cage by placing me into submission and tearing my patella. I laughed at his ass until he promised that The Gotti only had seconds to live. Meaning that one of my brothers with a particular motherfucking set of skills was probably a hundred yards away from Gotti’s kitchen or living room or somewhere the fighter had to be in plain view. After calming Anatoly down and saving Gotti’s life, the piz’da and I continued to talk.
“Tell her,” Yuri warns.
I shake my head, and respond to my cousin, “Nah, she doesn't need to know.”
“He came to you with a peace offering… you declined,” Yuri says of the unnecessary ass hit on Gotti. He shrugs. “This is the longest period of time that you and Anatoly have talked to each other. He wants something.”
No shit! I’m aware of exactly what that mudak wants. “Okay, okay? What the fuck, Yuri, am I stupid now?” I bark, still keeping an eye on the guy in the corner. There’s a shadow masking much of his face, but the resemblance is all too familiar.
“First, you didn't want Zariah around me. Me. I’m more than blood, Vassili! I’m your brah! We are like brothers. Then my pops, Malich, and the family were off limits, okay, I saw that coming. Zariah loves Malich and the family now. But now Anatoly is in your ear and you’re acting… Will your morals slip with him, too?”
The man stands up. My hand comes up into the air, and Yuri stops talking. This idiot thinks I’ll up and allow Anatoly to come around my wife and kid one bright sunny ass day! Fuck that! And he’s too stupid to realize that I’m about to tear this motherfucker across the way a new one. “Do I need a lecture from you, Yuri? Nyet—no.”
I glare through Yuri. Then I start toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms where the man in jeans and a hat just went. He has to be one of my brats—brothers. Anatoly keeps popping up. If this is my blood, he’s getting the blood bashed out of him.
In the hallway, my pace slows down. There’re two guys between me and the other Russian. There are lines leading to both the men and women’s restrooms. With my hand in a fist, I bite my knuckles and glance over my shoulder. The girls are sweet talking a new bartender for some sugary ass drink. From their location, they’d be able to see me bash this mudak’s head in.
There’s a do
or reading ‘Cozinha’ which means kitchen in Portuguese, with arrows that implicate it swings open, a few yards before the crowded restrooms. When the doors swing open I cock a grin. The line shuffles forward.
“You should tell her,” Yuri says over my shoulder.
A deep breath funnels into my lungs. Shit, he followed me over here. “What?”
“You and Zariah are in good until your dad sneaks his ass into the States. He has you worried and treating Zariah like—”
In a few quick steps, I’m around the two people between the other Russian and I. My palm stiffs the side of his shoulder and he goes stumbling into the kitchen.
My left hook goes out, targeting his nose. It’s powerful enough to slide him across the room. At the last instant, I raise my elbow. My bone catches the face of the Brazilian line chef who is holding a butcher knife to the side of my face. His jaw is reset. He’s out cold, hitting the ground so swiftly that his knife hardly began to clatter to the ground.
Fuck, there are seven more where he came from, all ready for war.
“What the hell?” Yuri asks behind me as he catches an angry dishwasher with a jab to his eye.
“This guy is my—” I slam my foot into my enemy’s chest. The Russian’s eyes widen. But his gaze isn’t dark like mine—ocean blue. And come to think of it, he doesn’t look shit like me. He is no family of mine. This mudak isn’t even Russian!
The man is a serious golden color and his voice is off when he clutches his chest and says, “What the fuck, mate!”
He’s Australian. His dialect, the confusion on his face, all of it is pure comedy.
“I thought I knew you,” I tell him, as I press my arms against the shoulders of another Brazilian chef and take a knee to his junk. Fuck it, they have weapons. I’m playing dirty. The knife in his hand falls.
