by Selena Kitt
“Well, yesterday it was garbage day.”
Conrad waited, then grunted angrily. “What day was it on the school cycle?”
Ovide smiled. “So, when Teldov went out, I casually dug through the garbage bins in the back lane and found an empty box of tampons and a bag full of used diapers.”
Conrad snorted. “Maybe there’s an old broad in there with retarded menopause and a weak bladder.”
“Or, maybe your girlfriend isn’t staying there, and in fact there is a woman and a baby inside - being the ones we are looking for.”
Conrad frowned. He stared out the windshield at the faded, yellow bungalow. The blinds were drawn tightly shut in every window, including the basement ones. Most people didn’t even have blinds on their basement windows. A dog barked lazily somewhere down the street.
“How’s the pucker, by the way?”
Ovide smiled sarcastically. “Very funny. You could do stand-up – if they let you sit down. For your information, my session with Svetlana didn’t go any further than some hand-slapping and an exchange of home phone numbers. Yours, by the by.”
Conrad set fire to a cigarette, took a sip from a styrofoam cup filled with cold coffee. “Teldov not around right now?”
“His car’s not in the driveway or the back lane.”
“Where does he usually park?”
“Driveway.”
“What does he drive?”
“Volkswagon Jetta.”
Conrad squinted. “Okay, Mom P.I., enough babysitting. We can sit here on our frightfully sore asses until we get a visit from the welcome wagon, or we can do something?”
Ovide nodded grimly. “Let’s roll.”
The two men climbed out of the van and walked normal-speed to the back of the house. Ovide was about to knock on the door, when Conrad grabbed his arm. “Why don’t you blow reveille on my skin-bugle while you’re at it,” he whispered fiercely. “Don’t tarnish your knuckles and let her know you’re coming.”
Conrad pulled a leather pouch out of his jacket pocket and went to work on the door.
Ovide groaned. “Oh, great,” he said. “Now we can get busted for b&e.”
“No one who’s got something to hide is going to complain about a little thing like forcible entry. They’re going to expect it.”
Conrad had the back door open in an L.A. minute. The two men cautiously stepped across the threshold.
It was hot as a furnace inside the starter house. They walked softly through the tiny kitchen and into the living room. The house was spotlessly clean for a Russian bachelor pad. The furniture was nondescript, but new. A half-empty baby bottle was partially buried under a cushion on the couch. Ovide stealthily opened a couple of closet doors, peered inside, then jiggled the knob of a door that was locked. He motioned to Conrad.
Conrad nodded. He padded over, like an elephant tiptoeing through the Mouseketeer family cemetery, pulled his leather pouch out again, and popped the door open. They heard a woman’s voice coming from down below, speaking softly in a foreign language. The way she exaggerated certain words made it sound like she was reading something to a baby, or a smoke-engorged member of the Marijuana Party.
“Mrs. Zoledowski!” Conrad called down the stairs.
The woman’s voice stopped instantly. The only sound was the ticking of a clock in the kitchen, and a car driving down the back lane. Then a baby began to cry. It sounded hungry.
Conrad shoved Ovide down the stairs first. He held the baby bottle out in front of him like a live grenade.
* * *
“We’ll have to tell your husband where you are, Roxanne,” Ovide stated matter-of-factly. The baby grabbed his finger, squeezed it, and giggled.
Roxanne and Lydia were sitting on the couch. Ovide was sitting in a chair next to the couch. Conrad was standing by the front window, cracking the blinds every now and then to check the street.
“Why you have to tell Dwight?” Roxanne asked, her eyes brimming with liquid sadness. “I no want him involved!”
Conrad chuckled.
Ovide ignored him and said: “He has to be involved, Roxanne. Lydia is as much his daughter as yours.” Lydia giggled again and smiled at Ovide, saliva bubbles popping out of her little mouth. “If you’re worried that he’s going to hurt you or the baby, then you should talk to the police. You should have done that in the first-”
“Dwight will no hurt me! He never hurt me!” she yelled indignantly. “Dwight is good husband and father!”
Conrad grunted. He turned around and looked at Roxanne. “How about that domestic abuse beef six-twelfths ago? Dwight served fifteen days in the county rest home for the privilege of flushing your head down the crapper.”
Roxanne angrily met Conrad’s eyes. “He did nothing! I make up complaint because I am mad at him. I take back complaint when I calm down, but your justice system put him in jail anyway! Remind me of days of Andropov!”
“Vaht a country!” Ovide remarked, tickling the baby.
Conrad frowned and lit a cigarette.
“No smoking in front of baby!” Roxanne objected.
“I do it all the time – he doesn’t mind,” Conrad replied. “Oh, your baby.” He ground the coffin nail out on the hardwood floor. “So what are you doing here, Mrs. Zoledowski?”
She sighed. “Yuri Teldov make me come here. He want to sell me as foreign bride again.”
“Again?”
“Yes. Dwight is third husband for me. Yuri sets things up, collects money, I marry, then I leave, go back to Kazakhstan, and Yuri re-sell me all over again. Different name, different hair color, different eye color – it good scam. Make me and Yuri lots of money. Good money – American dollars. Former husbands too embarrassed to do anything. They think I just get fed up with them and return home. No money-back guarantee, you know?”
“But this time you didn’t want to leave, did you, Roxanne?” Ovide asked sympathetically.
Conrad made a face at him.
Roxanne nodded, squeezed Ovide’s hand. “You are very nice man,” she said. “Your friend have personality of constipated Brezhnev, but you are nice man. Yes, you are right. I am happy with Dwight and baby.” She kissed the back of Lydia’s head. “Yuri very upset I have baby. Lowers property value, he say.” She thrust out her chest. “Frontage still good, but-”
“So what are you doing here, Mrs. Zoledowski?” Conrad reiterated.
She looked up at him. “Yuri threaten to hurt baby unless I go with him! He take me and lock me inside this house! What can I do? My English is not so good and-”
“You stupid, loud-mouthed bitch!”
A man had snuck in the back door. He had a Glock 9 mm. hanging loose in his right hand, and anger and frustration boiled out all over his fat, greasy face. “You stupid, loud-mouthed bitch slut!” he screamed.
“Yuri!” Roxanne cried. “No!”
Teldov brought the gun up and three explosions rocked the small house. Stuffing was blasted out of the couch and into the air.
Right away, another gun ferociously answered back. Teldov’s body jerked around a couple of times, slammed back against the wall, then slowly sunk to the floor like the Soviet empire. His chest was thick with blood.
Conrad advanced, the .38 rigid in front of him. He kicked the smoking gun out of Teldov’s pasty, limp hand.
Ovide cradled the stunned baby in his arms. The silence was thunderous after the gun play. Roxanne lay sprawled backwards on the couch, a ragged, red hole leaking blood on the left side of her forehead.
“Domestics,” Conrad muttered to himself disgustedly.
The End
About the Author
Visit Landon Dixon’s Amazon Author Page
Want the HOTTEST reads around?
Just ADD SPICE!
GET FIVE (5) FREE READS JUST FOR JOINING!
Your Wife - Nicole Ducane
Your Wife - Nicole Ducane
The Opening
She’s a beautiful woman, your wife. Hair that shines. It
isn’t too long, just long enough to fall over her shoulders. I can imagine holding it in my hand, pulling her head back. Her throat. Her blouse is open at the top. She is not wearing a bra. The soft cloth drops slightly against her left breast. Beneath it there is a dark contour. A nipple.
You ask if I’m interested. Yes. My mouth is dry. Arousal swells my tissues. I look at the picture, at her eyes so full of knowledge and curiosity. She’s wondering what will follow, where this photograph will lead. Her right leg is slightly bent at the knee. The skirt falls against her thigh. Her legs are bare. My cock is firm against my thigh.
“What happens now?”
“That depends,” I say. “On her. Is she ready for this?”
“Yes. I think so.”
I look at you and see excitement in your face. “Okay. Tell me what makes her really really wet?”
You hesitate.
“When you’re fucking her. What turns her on more than anything else?”
“It’s not a physical thing,” you say. “She gets turned on by ideas. Thoughts.”
“Give me an example.”
Your voice is nervous as you speak. You tell me that the two of you were walking past a store and there was a picture of a woman spread across a bed with two men kneeling over her. A poster for a movie or a play. When you got home that evening you asked her what she thought of the picture and she didn’t say but when your hand slipped between her legs and opened over her pussy you found her wetter than she had been for a long time.
“What turned her on? The two men or the being spread?”
“Both.”
“Who were the men?”
You hesitate again. “One of them was black,” you say. “He was naked from the waist up. He had trousers on.”
“So you couldn’t see his dick?”
“No.”
“What did your wife think? Do you think she thought his cock was erect?”
“Yes. She wanted it to be erect.”
And that’s enough of the preliminaries. “Okay,” I say. “Here’s what I want you to do.”
I give you my instructions: You will ask her to dress as she is dressed in the picture I have just seen. No bra. A soft blouse unbuttoned at the top. A skirt that swirls slightly round her thighs. Panties, her choice. I wonder about stockings. I love a woman’s legs cased in stockings but from the picture you have sent me her skin is beautiful and firm and I like to look at her legs naked. I imagine my mouth on that pearl skin. My tongue. “No stockings,” I tell you.
“Okay,” you say. “But, you know, she likes the feel of her legs in stockings.”
“Do what I say.”
The next step is for you to book a hotel room. I give you the name and address of a hotel overlooking the Bay. “You will go into the room and there’ll be a window overlooking the street. You get her to stand at the window and wait with her feet twelve inches apart and her hands hanging by her sides. You tell her that she must stay still, that she should tilt her head back slightly so that her hair is hanging at the back. Tell her to open her mouth, just a little. Apart from that I do not want her to move.”
“Yes,” you say.
“We’re doing this for you,” I say.
“I know.”
“Will she do what you tell her?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Sunday afternoon. When you arrive at the hotel you send me a text message, yes? Then you do everything I have told you. And you wait.”
“Yes.”
I’m satisfied. I put the phone down and look again at the photograph. She’s lovely, not innocent but she isn’t knowing, there’s no self-consciousness in her sexiness.
I make a couple of phone calls. I think, this wife is about to cross her own boundaries. You, her husband, do not know what you’re letting go of, what this might lead to. I do. It’s what I love about it.
The Room
You send me a text message on Sunday, late afternoon. You’ve checked in and you’re ready. I walk up the stairs, the anticipation like an extra heartbeat.
I knock on the door, softly. When you open I look closely at your face. You are torn, I can see. Desire, fear, impatience. They’re all there in your eyes. I glance down at your trousers and wonder whether the desire has found its way into your balls. Sometimes it sits in the head and waits.
I look over your shoulder. Your wife is standing there as I instructed, her back to me. Light from the window passes through her clothes. I am aware, not just visually, of her body no more than ten feet away. The sight arouses me. I ask you to tell me her name.
“Isobel,” you say.
“Isobel.” It’s a beautiful name. I swirl it round my mouth.
I tell you to go and sit on the bed.
I start to walk toward Isobel. Slowly. There’s tension in her beautiful body. Her hands are hanging but the middle finger of her right hand curls up hard. I stand behind her. Then I take a red silk cloth from my pocket and gently place it over her eyes. I tie it at the back of her head. I’m tempted to pull it back, to watch the tautness in her neck. But not yet. For now, I put my lips to her lovely ear.
“Walk forward three paces,” I say to her.
She walks forward and I walk behind her. The gap between her feet has closed. I put my foot between hers and push, first left and then right. She lifts her right leg and moves it a few inches. I make her do the same with my left foot. I can see through the window the movement of traffic and beyond it the Bay. I also see her reflection and I see the defiance on her mouth. Is she always defiant? Is that part of her sexual landscape?
I put my hand on her left thigh. There’s a tremor in the muscle. I lean my chest against her left shoulder. My lips move close to her ear. “You want this,” I say. It’s not a question. You want this so much.
Her lips open a little further, her head moves an inch or so back. I reach up and gather her hair into a rope and twist it round my right fist. I pull slightly, not enough to startle her but enough that she can feel the potential.
With the other hand I reach down to her thigh and move the back of my hand so that the skirt rides up her skin. I can feel heat.
“Spread your legs,” I say to her, loud enough for you to hear. I look at you, your mouth open, hand on your crotch.
I leave my hand where it is. I kiss the side of your wife’s throat, Isobel’s throat. She's hot. I lean forward, my lips against her ear. I bring my other hand to her throat and the fingers open on her, feeling the pulse in her neck. My hand between her legs slides up to her mound, opening over her panties, the moist cloth, feeling the heat. She doesn’t mean to do so, but she slides her left foot a few inches and her pussy is wide open to my hand.
I turn around and look at you. You’re still sitting at the edge of the bed. You don't quite know what to do with yourself. Your hand is clasped over the cock inside your trousers. I wonder what is going through your head. You probably couldn’t say. This is Isobel, your wife. She’s about to be spread beneath a man’s urgent body, ready to become the tool of someone else’s pleasure. Not just one man. She will be fully taken and consumed.
I turn back, standing behind her. I take her wrists in my hands. I lift them, her arms out as though she were a cross. There’s a hollow now at the back of her neck. I lean down and kiss her there, her skin warm, soft firm and smooth.
“Lean forward,” I say to her. “Until your hands are on the window ledge.”
She does as I say, leans forward and places her palms on the narrow ledge. Her face is closer to the glass. I step around her and toward the window. People are walking in the street, cars passing. There will be someone, I know, who can see into the window. She knows this too. I can tell by the tension in her arms. I stroke her hand and then her wrist, trailing my fingertips up along her arms until they reach her shoulders and then I work them down until the palm slides over her left breast, feeling the nipple long and hard as a bullet beneath the cloth.
“You like this,” I say softly. “It excites you.”<
br />
With my fingers I undo two more buttons of her shirt. I reach up and pull the flaps away so that her breasts are exposed, the nipples dark, the dark skin around them puffed, swollen. I can see as well as feel her desire. I can smell it in her skin.
From behind I lean against her back. I wish for a moment that I were the one who, in just a few minutes, will be sliding his cock into this woman. I take her wrists again and pull her arms toward me so that her breasts are visible to anyone on the other side of the glass. I pull her back so she’s against me, my firm chest and the cock that cannot stay neutral as it presses against her ass. I slide my hands around her body and cup her lovely breasts.
