Pieces Of One, Part 2 (The Dark Life Collection)

by Ricketts, SVC

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t work like that. I can’t just call her out.”

  The words might as well have just been an ice bath on Bryson as he extinguishes his pyromance. Pushing me to my feet, he gets up from the table and begins to pace. I have to move fast or risk falling on my ass. With his bulk, he looks like a caged lion waiting to be fed. The lady-boner I’m sprouting hurts like a bitch, so I sit and cross my legs tightly. After a few passes across the room, he stops dead in his tracks and turns to me. There is a gleam in his eyes as he looks me over. The once-over is unwelcomingly familiar, making me squirm in my seat. My aversion to it contradicts the thrill swirling between my legs. With breaths low and shallow, I cautiously watch him step toward me. He stops behind me and his hands rest on my shoulders massaging them.

  Although I flinch, Bryson’s strong hands hold me in place.

  “You can’t call her out, but I think I can bring her out.”

  Not seeing where he is going with his comment, I’m not quick enough to act. He grabs me by the hair and forces me up.

  “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” I scream, reaching up trying to free my hair from his steel grip.

  “I can only assume you were the one that took the abuse so Trista didn’t have to. But circumstances must have changed and now you just come out to play and be promiscuous. I wonder what would happen, which one of you would come out, if you were in real trouble. Valeria? Mercy? Who protects you, Marvy? Or does Mercy just let you take it? Let’s find out.”

  Oh God, no! He can’t mean…

  Bryson hauls me up and forces me to bend over the table. I can’t fight him in this position with my arms, so I attempt with all my might to kick him any which way I can. The tension eases from my scalp, but then my arms are pinned above my head. He is too strong for me to get away and a pain sears from my shoulders to my wrists.

  Fear bursts from my eyes in the form of hot tears and flow down my cheeks. “Bryson, please don’t do this! It doesn’t work like this!” I screech.

  Pushing a shoulder into the table with his forearm, I hear his belt ting against itself and the sound of leather being ripped from their loops. Even though I shouldn’t, I thrash to angle myself to see what he’s doing, but again, I am being held down firmly by his arm.

  My heart is a painful melee of thundering beats, equal in sound with my shrieks for him to stop. He doesn’t and drops my undone shorts with my already soaked panties to my ankles.

  “You’ve always had such a fine ass, Marvy. It must be all the running Trista does,” he admires as he strokes my right ass cheek. When he gives it a hard slap, my body reacts and I feel my pussy getting wetter.

  He dips a finger between my folds and chortles, “Oh you like that, do you? Is that what they used to do to you? Does the filthy whore want to fuck?”

  I can’t stop my body from betraying my mind. Dirty talk has always been one of my triggers. The lips of my pussy slip with my juices when he slides the finger deeper inside me.

  “Your cunt likes it rough, Marvy.”

  There should be no pleasure coursing through my body with the rough tempo of his finger fucking my slit, but the rawness of it is all-consuming. I wither and squirm to match his speed.

  “Don’t fucking move. You don’t get to enjoy what I do,” he says with antipathy. Bryson retracts his finger and lays another heavy handed slap across my ass. He sooths the sting by smearing my own wetness across the tingling spot.

  A downward zipping sound follows and before I can yell another objection, he rams the head of his dick into my pussy.

  “That’s it baby, take it all. Soak my dick so I can fuck your ass like you like it,” he crows pushing in with no precaution till I feel his balls against my thighs.

  His words make my pussy clench and I swear to God, I can practically feel his engorged dick pushing the limits of my lower abdomen. The thought of how big he must be makes me wetter and my cunt hugs his entire girth. I can feel his legs shaking against my ass, so I’m not sure why he’s stilled. I obviously can take all of him.

  Leaning over me with his cock balls-deep, he whispers in my ear, “Get ready for a fast, hard ride and then I’m going to fuck the shit out of your ass.” He laughs and then says, “I’m going to fuck Mercy out of you.”

  His last words aren’t heard because they are lost in a frenzy of soggy balls-to-ass slapping jabs into my pussy. Each pump is a bittersweet pleasure—I loathe myself for loving it.

  Velvet sighs reflect my sexual gluttony and are in sync with his exertions. The vocal gratification noises I am making must frustrate him. He grabs a fistful of hair and the other hand braces my shoulder to manipulate my body for pain. What he doesn’t realize is that my body reacts opposite and I moan a louder show of appreciation. I raise myself up on my toes and tilt my ass to feel more of him. My nipples are probably doing permanent damage to the kitchen table, as they sinfully elevate my pleasure massaging the hardened points.

  My head swims with sickly bliss and I move my hand to rub my clit to climax. The coil tightening is almost too much to bear.

  With a fistful of hair, Bryson yanks my head back. “Don’t you dare make yourself cum, Marvy,” he growls, and pins my arm before I can get to my swollen bundle.

  To incite him, I spit back, “Then fuck me faster! I’ve gotten off riding carousel horses quicker than you for Christ’s sake!”

  The jackhammering of his ins and outs into my soppy wet cunt that ensues is a beautiful Neverland. No one has ever done me with this kind of inhuman speed and stamina. Between the table-tit massage and the supersonic happenings behind me, I slap my hands to the table and rear my head back with a scream.

  My entire body shakes and ripples as explosion after explosion wrack my body. My creamy orgasm coats his cock and overflows down my leg.

  “God damn it! I told you not to cum, you bitch!”

  Bryson rips out of my still oozing vag and enters me two inches higher. I love anal, but I’ve never had someone so big take me in my other hole. By the way, he spitefully does not take his time impaling my ass, he is pissed.

  The sensation is so intense, I have to blink back a tear. “Bryson! Slowly!”

  “Fuck that shit! This is what happens when little girls don’t listen,” he gnarls. “Besides, my dick is slicked up from your pussy juice, you should be able to take it just fine.” He rams his dick all the way in and exhales satisfaction. “Fucking A, you’re so god damn tight! Rush must have a small dick if he’s at your backdoor all the time.”

  Inch by inch, he pulls out slowly, giving me some relief from the fullness of him. But when I feel the head almost out, he slams back through the puckered membrane.

  “BRYSON!” I scream. “STOP!”

  “That’s it baby, scream my name! You’re not going to be able to walk for a few days after I’m done.”

  I thought the way he rode my pussy was fast, but now he’s pounding into my ass at a painfully unimaginable speed. Repeatedly, the edge of the table smashes my hips, cutting and breaking skin. There is nothing I can do, but brace myself against the flat surface as much as I can.

  “I told you,” he grunts with a thrust, “I’m going to hammer Mercy out of you!” He continues his attack against my ass and with each ripping insertion, my body and mind detach from each other.

  Laying my cheek against the cool surface, a tear escapes and rolls across the bridge of my nose, then falls to the table. My eyes slide to the shiny circular prison glistening on my ring finger.

  “I told you it doesn’t work that way,” I whisper.

  The red balloon floating in front of me dances its cares away with the gentle ocean breeze pulling it taught against the ribbon. I let my mind do the same.

  “Von ninty-nine luftballons. Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont”

  No, no, the English version, Star.

  “But the German version so much prettier.”

  Please? From the beginning.

  “Okay, Marvy. Remember, close your eyes and by the
time the song is done, it will be all over.” Star sings like he always did when Guy came to visit. He sung like an angel during those days and nights of torment long ago. I had actually forgotten he could carry a tune at all till that night at Supak’s. The old decade plus coping technique never quite forgotten—how could it?

  His voice is comforting and melodic. Star sings the song slower than the original, but in tune and with a reverence to the artist.

  “You and I in a little toy shop

  Buy a bag of balloons with the money we've got

  Set them free at the break of dawn

  'Til one by one they were gone

  Back at base bugs in the software

  Flash the message "Something's out there!"

  Floating in the summer sky

  Ninety-nine red balloons go by

  Ninety-nine red balloons

  Floating in the summer sky

  Panic bells, its red alert

  There's something here from somewhere else

  The war machine springs to life

  Opens up one eager eye

  Focusing it on the sky

  Where ninety-nine red balloons go by

  Ninety-nine decision street

  Ninety-nine ministers meet

  To worry, worry, super scurry

  Call the troops out in a hurry

  This is what we've waited for

  This is it, boys, this is war

  The president is on the line

  As ninety-nine red balloons go by

  Ninety-nine knights of the air

  Ride super high-tech jet fighters

  Everyone's a super hero

  Everyone's a captain Kirk

  With orders to identify

  To clarify and classify

  Scramble in the summer sky

  Ninety-nine red balloons go by

  As ninety-nine red balloons go by

  Ninety-nine dreams I have had

  In every one a red balloon

  It's all over and I'm standing pretty

  In this dust that was a city

  If I could find a souvenir

  Just to prove the world was here

  And here is a red balloon

  I think of you, and let it go…”

  Sad song. Is it about war?

  “Kind of. It’s about a girl releasing ninety-nine red balloons to represent the dreams of the German people after World War II, but they showed up on military radar and provoked a counter attack to a perceived nuclear attack.”

  Is that a true story?

  “No, silly. A Nena band member wrote it after watching balloons released at a concert in West Berlin.”

  Oh.

  The silence goads my thoughts back to the kitchen. Pushing up, my arms quiver from fatigue. A pool of tears drips off my cheek since I was still face down on the table. I am alone. Abandoned and discarded as usual after the deed. The ooze between my ass cheeks drips down my legs and is gross. Using a paper towel, I clean myself up before getting dressed. Numbly, I take a hand cloth from the cupboard and wipe down the table. As I had done years ago, I rearrange the area placing everything back in its appropriate place like nothing happened here. When done, I throw away the hand cloth. My after ritual is almost complete. Once I clean myself up, I’ll redress, and deal with whatever comes next. I’m absolutely sure Bryson is livid that Mercy didn’t come out.

  DAMN, I’M HUNGRY!

  The first thought of food motivates me to get off the bed. The second is a body-slam of sheer pain—ass first. It feels like I’ve scooted my butt along carpet made from shards of glass

  Ow, ow, ow, ow! Holy shit, my lower half feels shredded! Oh cripes, my legs burn!

  There used to be mornings where I would wake up sore and I knew Marvy was out getting her rocks off, but I’ve never woken up crippled. Like ever. I guess she was always careful or at least Valeria made sure of it. This pain is unreal, I can barely sit up.

  Lifting my shirt, I lay my hands gently on the deep red linear sore areas below my hips. The evidentiary angry skin is still raw and induces a hiss of agony.

  What the fuck happened while I was “away”? Did Bryson have sex with Marvy thinking she was me? I’m in a world of trouble if this is what he really prefers.

  Without trying to move my hips, or really anything below it, I awkwardly maneuver myself off the bed. Standing without wobbling is a challenge since my legs are refuting motion. I don’t know which is worse, trying to take a step or the sizzle of muscles when I falter. Using anything and everything that will help stabilize me, I finally make it out to the kitchen.

  Stopping dead in my tracks, my lips part in a silent gasp. Based on the position of the shadows from the setting sun, I’m guessing it’s about six-thirty, maybe seven. It’s too early for dessert, so the cake on the table is curious. But that’s not what makes my eyes bug out as I take in the festively decorated room. The expanded 18 paper center piece and the script on the cake leave me speechless.

  Is that today? Have I been here that long?

  “How are you doing?” Bryson’s voice says from behind me.

  His ninja skills for such a big man are on par and scare the shit out of me. I jump at the sound of it.

  “Ow! Mother truckin’, craptacullar, ka-ka poo! Ow, ow, ow, frickin’ fudge farts, ow!”

  Bryson rushes toward me and catches me before I make an even bigger ass of myself. He swoops me up in his arms since I am basically holding myself up using him as a crutch. “Easy there. We may have over-done ourselves. I’m kind of sore myself.”

  The jocularity in his tone mirrors the one in his eyes as he waits for a response from me. It starts to dim when I say nothing. “I’m sorry to have scared you, Trista,” he says, a tinge of disappointment replacing his playful tone. “I didn’t expect to see you for the rest of the evening.”

  Huh.

  I wrap my arms around him, oddly happy to be in his protective arms. An unconstrained sighing smile forms when I finger my engagement ring, balancing it between my pinky and middle finger. A forming blueish bruise on my bicep squelches that bliss when it catches my eye. I keep getting lost in his gallant and gentlemanly ways and forget he’s not the man I should be with.

  “You just surprised me,” I mumble. “The house was so quiet, I didn’t think you were home.”

  Not even realizing it, we’re back in my bedroom.

  Cripes all-mighty, he can’t want to do it again!

  “Oh no, Bryson! I can’t! I’m so sore!”

  I’m deposited gingerly on the bed and he heads to my bathroom. Over the running water he says, “I know you are, mio Piccolo Tesoro. A warm bath will help, I promise.”

  His little treasure?

  The new pet name fills my heart with fuzzy butterflies. I guess Marvy did something right.

  A twist and loud grumble announce a different intention superseding a soothing bath and the butterflies. “Can we eat first? I’m starving.”

  From the bathroom he asks, “How do you feel about sitting at the table for the hour during a meal on that sore bum?”

  He comes out of the bathroom in time to see me scrunch my face up showing my disapproval.

  “Good point,” I reply.

  Chuckling at my expression, he nods. “I’ll bring something in while you soak.” As he approaches the bed, I hold my hand up in protest to stop him.

  “I can walk,” I gripe.

  Scoffing, he raises an eyebrow. “No, you can’t. Don’t be so obstinate and let me help you. Besides, you’re too slow, the water will be ice by the time you get to the tub.”

  Crap.

  I give him a mocking, sarcastic smile. “Mr. Smarty Pants.”

  Like picking up a China doll, he tenderly wedges his arms under me and lifts, taking me to the bathroom. He wraps my hair up and clips it before cautiously laying me in the tub.

  The warm water stings the wounds on my upper thighs and I do a few long inhales and exhales trying not to yelp. Taking a quick, nasally whiff, the euc
alyptus scent that curls through the steam is intense. “This smells very…um…therapeutic.”

  “It’s a mixture of salts and oils. I use it as a miracle recipe for sore muscles. Not sure if it will help, but it’s worth a try.”

  The water feels soft and I venture to taste it. “It’s very salty.”

  “Don’t drink it then.”

  “Hardy, har, har. Go get me some food, Mr. Seviride,” I say and flick some water at him. We have a lot to discuss, but for now I’m happy treating him like my hot man-candy servant.

  I DON’T KNOW how he did it in such a short time, but he brings scallops in a rich creamy garlic butter sauce, a thin pork chop in seasoned breadcrumbs, and a warm arugula, artichoke spear salad. In all actuality, he could have brought me a rat burger and I would have eaten it, I’m so hungry.

  After the first few times of fighting him wanting to feed me, I give in when he says he’s going to do the airplane coming into the hangar method. Though eating in the bathroom, let alone being fed in a salted, rosemary and eucalyptus oil bathtub has never been on my bucket list of things to-do.

  Half-way through my meal his mood disquiets. Tension suspends between us and thickens as my plate becomes sparse. We both avert our eyes when they connect making me think we both have something to tell one another. Secrets beget secrets and the lies built on those secrets vine so intricate you can no longer see the truth.

  “We need to talk,” he says as I wrap my famished lips around a scallop, pulling it off the fork.

  “Mmm hmm,” I agree with a nod while I chew. How did he know about my birthday? Does it have anything to do with why I’m so sore? Was it a birthday boink? If my birthday present was Marvy’s goading or is Bryson that kinky? When we did it, he was so tender and considerate. Thinking about him and Marvy doing “it” ruins my appetite. When Bryson offers another fork-full loaded with a piece of pork chop, I shake my head and waive him off. Though the warm water is still soaking my muscles, I turn cold. “I’m good. Think I’m done here, I’m starting to get a chill.”

  Bryson stands to put the plate on the counter and retrieves a freshly laundered towel from the linen cabinet next to the giant shower stall. He whips his head around as I suck in a loud hiss. My attempt to get out of the tub is not my most graceful moment and I’m bent forward bracing myself against the bathtub lip. Water drips off a loose strand of hair and my nipples harden with the cool air hitting the beads of water gathering at the tip.