by Evelyn Glass
“Tony,” I say, answerin’.
“Chance,” Tony says.
I can just see him sittin’ in his office. Tony is about the most typical Family man I’ve ever met, all gold chains and hairy chest and white vest and fatter’n any man has a right to be and still be able to move. An office right next to Giovanni’s. I stay silent, waitin’ for him to speak. After a round of coughing and a puff on a cigarette—he puffs loud—he says, “I’m gonna need you to lay low for a while at the motel. Ask the manager to move you around the rooms, so that if the police get ideas about buggin’, it’ll be harder for ’em.”
“Bugging?” I snap. “What the fuck? What’s happened?”
“Relax your tone, boy,” Tony says, in his fat, throaty, old-man’s voice. “The police’ve found one of their own at the warehouse. What the hell, Chance? Why’re the police finding an undercover at the warehouse?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know!” I’m gettin’ angry now. It all feels too convenient. I’m sent after Julian, but instead I find four goons in possession of the girl promised to Julian, a slaughter, and a dead cop. None of it makes any goddamn sense. But I can’t let my anger show to Tony. In the Family, if you start showin’ signs that you might be unsure, they’ll make quick work of you.
“I won’t tell you again,” Tony says. “Remember who you’re speakin’ to.”
I sigh, repress a growl, and then say, “Alright.”
I can almost hear his shit-eating I’m-in-control grin. “The police are tearing the warehouse apart. The word on the pig-line is that they’re branding it a shootout gone bad, so whatever you did down there is workin’ for now, but the last thing we need is you out and about where the police can see you. So just stay where you are, keep yourself quiet.”
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s sittin’ around waiting for other men to decide on what’s goin’ to happen to me. But again, I can’t talk shit to the Capo Bascone. A thought which has been formin’ ever since I stepped into the warehouse comes to the front of my mind now. I think about when I was a kid, how everybody in every Family I worked in seemed scared of me, maybe ’cause I was deadlier’n half of the men at half their age or maybe ’cause I didn’t hang around with them, smokin’ and talkin’ shit all day. I start wonderin’ if maybe one of these scared bastards has decided that they don’t want me around ’cause I’m too strange, an outsider, an orphan with no real ties to the Family. Just a killer, a lone killer, someone maybe they see as a threat. But who’s they? My bet’d be Julian, since he’s the reason I was there. I realize that Tony hasn’t asked about the girl, which’d be down to Julian, too. He’s the one who was promised her.
I decide to ask about it, as subtly as I can.
“Alright, I’ll do that…” I trail off, like this is the end of the conversation. Then I add, like it’s just occurred to me, “Oh, yeah, Tony. The fuck’s happening with Julian, then? I went in there to find him, and I find all that instead. The fuck does that happen? Somebody fucked up, I’m guessin’.” I’m guessin’ that Julian purposefully led me into a situation which could only end in me gettin’ killed—by the bastards who had Becky, the bastards I didn’t know were there—or arrested, on account of the undercover. “We got any idea who?”
“Don’t ask about that,” Tony says at once, voice weirdly hostile. “If you know what’s good for you, Chance, you’ll do like I say and lie low. That’s all you can do. Change rooms, lie low, don’t do anything that’ll draw attention to yourself.”
“You know lying low drives me fuckin’ crazy,” I mutter. “You know lying low drives every hitter crazy.”
“Well, get a bit crazy then, but don’t ask me another fuckin’ goddamn question.”
Tony slams the phone down. I drop the phone to the floor and begin pacing up and down the room, tryin’ to get some of this anger outta me. Tony’s a bastard, but he usually treats me with the respect I deserve. I’ve killed for this Family for years, and usually they speak to me like a man who ought’a be feared, respected. Not fuckin’ bossed around. The fuckin’ asshole.
As I pace, I listen to the blasting shower in the rest room, and my mind starts wanderin’ to the flesh the shower is blastin’ over, how tight and sexy it is, and how it’s the sort of flesh that might make a man forget about his anger for a little while. I walk into the bathroom. Becky’s got the shower door closed, but her body is outlined against the glass, bending over as she rubs the shampoo from her hair.
I clear my throat, and she says, her voice all high-pitched and surprised. “Yeah?”
Chapter Eleven
Becky
“Press your fuckin’ tits against the glass.”
There’s anger in his voice, making it shake. I feel fear prick me, but beneath the fear there is lust. I keep wondering how that can be, how I can be terrified and attracted to a man at the same time. But I don’t think about saying no. I want to put on a show for him. I want to make him horny. So I lean forward, water trickling down me, and push my breasts against the glass so that they flatten and spread out, fleshy.
Through the murky glass, I see him undressing, so that in a matter of seconds he’s completely naked, hand stroking up and down his cock. “I wanna see your slut ass cheeks against that glass, too,” he growls.
When he calls me a slut, I know he doesn’t mean it; I know he’s just horny and losing control. And yet I like it. I like being called a slut, as long as I’m his slut. Again, this confuses the hell out of me. And again, I find myself doing exactly as he says, turning around, bending forward, and pressing my ass cheeks against the glass.
“More,” he says. “Bend over more.”
I bend over all the way, so that my forehead is touching the opposite wall of the shower, my pussy bared for him.
“Now reach back and spread your fuckin’ ass cheeks,” he says. There’s that growl in his voice again, as though he wants to take out his rage and lust on me. I shiver, despite the warmth of the shower.
Reaching back, I pull my ass cheeks apart. I hear him jerking his cock fast now, a fleshy flapping sound as he strokes it up and down. Craning my neck, I manage to half-watch him as he touches himself.
Then, struck with sudden confidence, I call over my shoulder, “If you’re going to boss me around, why don’t you come in here?”
He laughs, a dark sort of laugh, and then walks across the bathroom and opens the shower door. I turn around and face him. He’s naked, rock-hard, his dark blue-flecked eyes staring at me. For a few seconds I’m not sure what to do with myself. I think about kissing him, but somehow that doesn’t seem appropriate. He doesn’t seem to be in a kissing mood. Then I think about touching him tenderly on the cock, but I don’t think that would do it. Maybe, I decide, a blowjob might release the tension which has suddenly appeared in him. And, anyway, he did the same for me earlier today. I’d just be returning the favor.
So I drop to my knees and bring my hands to his hips, bracing myself. Looking up, I see an animal glint in his eyes, a glint of approval. I lean forward, opening my mouth as wide as it will go, and take him into me. He’s huge, so huge that my jaw begins to ache as soon as he enters me. I push my mouth down, sucking, not entirely sure what I’m going. I manage to take about a quarter of him inside of my mouth before he edges toward my throat. I make to pull out, meaning to suck to this point and back again until he comes, but then he reaches down and with both his hands grabs the back of my head, hands in my wet hair.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, thrusting his cock deeper inside of me, way past the point of gagging, until my eyes are bulging and I’m coughing spit and pre-come around the corners of my lips. “Oh, fuck, Becky. Fuck, fuck.”
He grips my head hard and starts fucking my face. He goes slow at first, some part of him maybe knowing that I can’t take his whole cock. But then he loses control and starts to brutally drill into my face, his cock sliding all the way down to the bottom of my throat, choking me so that I have to concentrate hard to breathe through my nose, oth
erwise I’d run out of air. I manage to look up through my bleary, watery eyes and see that he’s staring down at me with wide, frantic eyes, his whole body tensed, his hips moving like a piston back and forth. I choke, gag, try and gasp, as he fucks my mouth with all his strength. I have to dig my fingernails into his hips to stop from being pushed backward into the wall. I gag every time he slides into me, but he doesn’t stop. It hurts, it’s uncomfortable, and yet when I hear his groans of pleasure, I find myself taking a twisted kind of pleasure in it, too.
“You’re my fucking slut,” he groans, pounding into my mouth, my jaw aching so bad now it feels like it’s going to dislocate. “You’re my fuckin’ whore, just my little tight fuckin’ whore. Aren’t you?”
Through the brutal face-fucking, I manage to make a mmm-mmm sound. Chance, for the first time since I met him, offers me what looks like a real smile. Then the smile fades as he fucks my face even harder than he was before, harder than I thought was possible. My eyelids suddenly feel heavy, breathing through my nose becoming more difficult, and yet he keeps drilling into me, his cock sliding past my tonsils, down deep, further than it should be going. Then, right at the end, he pinches my nose, cutting off my air-flow, and thrusts all the way down my throat—it feels like he’s in my chest—and stares down at me as he comes directly into me, my mouth and throat filling with come. As he finishes, my eye-lids close and I feel like I’m going to pass out. But at the last minute, he pulls out, leaving me to gasp and cough until I’ve gotten my breath back.
I kneel in the shower with him standing over me for some time, and then he leans down and pats me on the head. “You’re my good little cocksucker,” he says. “My good little cock-sucking whore.”
Suddenly, I’m horny all over again.
Chapter Twelve
Becky
After I’ve showered, Chance brings in a change of clothes for me, some short, leg-flashing shorts and a tank top without a bra. He gives me that glint of a grin when he hands me the clothes. I know exactly what he’s doing. I think about asking for some clothes which cover myself up more, but decide against it. The truth is, I like the way his eyes move over me, hungry, animalistic. Even with my throat still sore from the face-fucking, I like it. I get dressed and join him in the bedroom.
He’s sitting in a wooden chair in the corner, his gun on his knee, some of its parts lying on the dresser drawers, a rag of cloth in his hand as he cleans each piece and inspects it. He’s wearing his jeans but nothing else, his scarred torso on display. I sit on the mattress, stretching my legs out, and watch him for a while. The radiator hums from the corner, filling the room with heat, the windows covered in condensation and the wind whistling its endless tune. There’s something hypnotizing about watching Chance clean his pistol, about the way he takes it apart as though he has been doing it his entire life, about the way he easily puts it back together, the care he takes over the task. I struggle to believe that the man who just face-fucked me and this careful, conscientious man are the same.
After a while, I say, “Chance, I need to call my dad, to let him know where I am.”
I need to do this even if Dad was the one who sold me to Julian. He’s still my dad and I bet he’s worrying like crazy after learning that I’ve gone missing. Despite how he sometimes behaves toward me, shouting and getting angry, I know that deep down he’s a good man, and that deep down he loves me. I don’t like the idea of him getting frantic, pacing the apartment, going down to the gambling shop and blowing all his money in stress.
Chance finishes with his gun and takes it to the bedside table, putting it in one of the drawers. He’s silent, unwilling to look at me.
“Chance! I said I need to—”
“I know what you said,” he mutters. “I heard you.”
“Then…I’ll make the call. Where’s your cell?”
The room doesn’t have a phone, I notice.
“I can’t let you make that call,” he says.
“What! Why?” I snap. “It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”
“Don’t matter. My orders are to lie low, and that’s what I plan on doing, not callin’ out to let the whole damned world know where we are.”
“It’s not the whole damned world,” I say. “It’s my dad.”
“Your dad who sold your ass to Julian, your dad who clearly ain’t got the best judgment. Nah, I ain’t trusting him with my life.”
I shake my head bitterly. “So am I a prisoner all over again, then, only this time I’m your prisoner?”
Chance shrugs, unaffected. “If you wanna think about it like that, you can think of it like that. Makes no difference to me. My main concern is keepin’ us safe.”
“Us? You want to keep us safe? I don’t believe that. I think this is all about you, Chance. I think you only care about saving your own skin.”
“Believe what you want,” he says, in that infuriatingly calm tone. “All I’m sayin’ is, you ain’t makin’ that call and that’s final.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” I say, completely aware that I sound like a whiny little kid.
“For now, I am,” he counters. “Who knows what happened in the warehouse, and you wanna call out and tell someone where the fuck we are? Alright, maybe you just wanna say, Daddy, I’m safe…you know it ain’t a ridiculous idea that your dad’s workin’ with someone who can trace cell calls, right? Don’t look at me like that.” I’m gazing at him in disbelief, like the idea definitely is ridiculous despite what he says. “I’ve traced calls myself. It ain’t as hard as you’d think.”
“My dad wouldn’t betray me like that.”
“Your dad sold you,” Chance says. “Of course he fuckin’ would.”
I stand up and go to the corner, to the pallet of blankets.
“I was thinkin’ you could share the bed,” Chance says.
“I don’t want to share the bed,” I reply, sitting on the floor. “Why would I want to share a bed with my jailor?”
“So goddamn dramatic, you fuckin’ women,” Chance says. “We gotta lie low, is all. Stop makin’ everything into a fuckin’ dramatic performance. Anyway, you don’t need to sleep on the floor. I got an inflatable mattress when I was gettin’ breakfast. Ask me nicely and I’ll pump it up.”
I don’t answer, so Chance goes to the pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the room and picks up a bag I didn’t see before. He takes a wooden box from it and flaps out the mattress, and then uses a motor to start inflating the thing. For a few awkward, tense minutes, the only sound in the room is that motor as I sit here, angry with him for treating me like a prisoner. I think back to the cell and how this is similar in all but violence. And maybe Chance would restrain me if I tried to walk out the front door; I bet he would, and tell me he was doing it for my own good.
The mattress grows larger until it is lying at the foot of the ruined bed, horizontally across the room. “There you go,” he says, waving a hand at it. “Go nuts.”
I lie down on it, secretly grateful not to have to sleep on the floor again. But still angry. Still mad. “Why don’t you just handcuff me, then?” I hiss at him, my words sour. “That way you’ll make sure I’ll never run, asshole!”
I want him to snap back at me, swear, something. But he just calmly goes to the pile of clothes, picks out the hoodie he was wearing that night, and reaches into a hidden inside pocket. Out of it, he takes handcuffs. When I see them, I feel my nipples go hard. They get even harder when he turns around to stare at them through the thin, almost-transparent fabric of the tank top.
“I picked the right fuckin’ outfit for you,” he says, kneeling down next to me. “You wanna be handcuffed, do you? You really wanna be handcuffed when you’re dressed like that? I don’t think you can trust me to behave.”
I swallow, nervous and horny all at once, throat raw, pussy aching, and yet…
“Fine,” I say, pouting, but the anger is leaving me now, at least for the moment. “I’m your prisoner, aren’t I? Just do it, then!”
>
He claps one end of the cuffs around my wrist and the other around the frame of the bed, so that if I wanted to move, I’d have to drag the frame with me. Then, staring deeply into my eyes, he places his hand on my bare thigh and moves it up, up toward my pussy. “You were my little slut in there, weren’t you?”
“Your slut,” I find myself saying. “But not a slut.”
“Course not.” He grins. “No fuckin’ way. My little slut.”
His hand pushes my flesh, rubbing it, dragging along it, until he is at my pussy, moving aside my shorts. He didn’t give me underwear, either. Maybe he was planning this, the dirty prick, but right now I don’t have time to be outraged. He slides his finger inside of me, eyes locked on my breasts as I arch my back in pleasure, pushing them out. His finger slides deep inside, right up to that warm spot that was pounded repeatedly when we fucked. He toys with it now, softly, moving his finger in small circles until I’m moaning and reaching for him, my hand rubbing up and down the front of his pants, his cock trying to break free of the denim. When I unbutton him—awkward with one hand—his cock springs up, huge and venous and engorged.
