The noise, the time of night, the attending drama, are so typical of her — of both of them!
It takes a special kind of nerve to barge in on someone’s dream, and at such an hour.
Dreams are escape. Dreams need time to play out. In mine, I hold him tightly, so tightly that neither the bracing wind against my face nor the icy cold of the starry night’s all-consuming blackness diverts me from where I am going—and with whom.
Deep sleep and dreamy-dream notwithstanding, there is no question about the identity of the woman whose steps just now beat against the still of the stairwell leading to my apartment door.
Unmistakably hers, their violence jolts me awake, rudely interrupting my carefully scripted fantasy, the one my mind treats me to whenever loneliness stalks me in the night’s quiet hours.
Like so many dreams, mine repeats. In it, I am who I am, just a girl holding onto Luca’s waist as his rumbling Harley streaks the streets of small-town-USA, the happy ending of a road trip to the annual riders’ paradise, the grand assembly of the big bikes at Sturgis, South Dakota.
For a long moment, I resist giving in to the hostile clamor outside my door. “Put her out of your head,” my brain insists! “She’s a bad girl! Make her go away!”
Despite my determination, the fantasy fades, replaced by the unwelcome and menacing reality of her imminent arrival. I hope against hope, I am wrong, that the high-heeled commotion shattering the stairwell’s otherwise hushed silence might portend the arrival of the devil himself, anyone except her.
Sitting up and listening more, I prepare for the worst. It is her! The ruckus is a dead giveaway.
Unlike ordinary humans, Veena Shea does not climb stairs, she lashes them, stabs them, each step pounding out a statement, echoing a message into the surrounding hollowness. Their declaration, “Beware!”
Of course, even if her parade up the risers were not afoot, the Harley’s growl from out in the street would prompt me to jump from my bed, to pray as I do, “Please God, let it be him!”
Is it him? Is it the trademark rumble of Luca Jaxon, my once and future hottie?
I pass up the light switch for fear he might see me gawking down at him, and instead, running my fingers the length of the desk, I braille my way through the darkness to the window and happening upon a stray pencil, I slip its tip into the Venetian blind. Carefully parting the slats, I gaze down.
Sure enough, and despite the limited glim, I recognize his ruddy features, his too-long beard, his burly form. Luca, parked under the streetlight, leisurely smokes his smoke as though rattling half the neighborhood in the middle of the night, is normal behavior.
Coolly astride his bike, and in that way such men seat themselves, his casualness has the effect of transforming steel and chrome into a machine-driven appendage, complete with smoke, noise—attitude. Glancing more, I watch as Luca noisily repositions his chopper, which he guns a final time before shutting down the scowling beast.
Getting hold of myself, and setting his rudeness aside, I know why Luca is here. I know his middle of the night ambush is meant to catch me unawares and at my worst! In this, he has succeeded.
Outdoors, New York—the place that never really sleeps—suddenly turns silent. As it does, Luca looks straight up at my window, and even as I back away, I almost think he cuts me a half-smile, an unexpected pleasantry, given what is about to happen.
I steel myself and prepare to deal with the more immediate problem, the source of the sinister footsteps whose trademark clatter announces the approach of the most despised woman on my lengthy list of detested floozies.
“If he’s brought her here,” I whisper to myself, “neither the shitty hour nor my souring temper means a thing. I need to man-up. It is game time!”
Veena is a she-devil, and I am not in the mood for her fussy brand of arrogance. The rapidly unfolding scene pisses me off. Middle of the night? Dream violation? Veena? With him? I should strangle someone—her!
A deep breath later, I calm, thinking, get ready for her grand entrance. Veena does not arrive; she lands! Like a private jet with ‘High-Handedness Airlines’ scrawled across its fuselage, she swoops in on the unsuspecting like a pouncing pterodactyl back in dinosaur days.
“Bitch,” I grumble. Then, I remind myself that Veena does not oversee the game—Luca does. Neither of us wants what will happen next, and I need to comply with his rules. If I refuse, he won’t take me to Sturgis.
Veena is at the landing. Her slackening steps betray her fatigue. In a moment, she will barge in giving orders. Honestly. What’s a girl supposed to do? Luca is Luca!
Knock, knock, knock—KNOCK!
Veena’s rings rap hard against the door. Reluctantly cracking it and with my lids half-closed for effect, I not only pretend surprise but even manage to snap a few sleepy words as I peek out. “Veena? Oh, you’re loaded. How illegal bahis delightful. What…what time is it?”
The comment elicits a telling leer and the first of what will become a succession of unpleasant remarks.
“Are you fucking (hiccup) serious, Jitka?” she asks. “You know goddamned well what time it is! And for that matter, you know why I’m (hiccup), here.”
“Oh? And why is that, exactly?” I probe, innocently.
Not waiting for an answer, I attempt to close the door, but Veena jams the toe of her leather boot against it.
Then, rolling her big green eyes, she barks at me. “Damn it, cunt! LET ME IN! Don’t you get it? HE’S OUTSIDE—WAITING? It’s seeping…I’m seeping! SO FUCK YOU! AND UNCHAIN THIS FUCKING DOOR!”
With her breath diffusing an all-too-familiar mix of alcohol, marijuana, and sperm, I purposely yawn, then pretend to glance over my shoulder at the wall clock. “It’s…it’s the middle of the night, Veena! I—”
“You what!” she demands, blinking excitedly.
Standing my ground, I blink right back at her, to which, she persists, snarling, “It’s time, bitch! We’ve…that is, him and me…we’ve been fucking for hours! He came three—no, five times! You’re in, right? I mean, you’ll play the game, right? I did not answer, and, again, she shouted, “Jitka, unchain this mother fucking door!”
“It’s the middle of the night, Veena!” I calmly remind her. “So fuck you. You’re not coming in!”
“And! And! And!” she replies, dismissively. “Get over it, Jitka! And, and, and, you’d better get IT over with! Think I…think I want to play the game? Think I want to-to-to play it with you? Think I’m some kind of slut?”
Defensively crossing my arms, and intending to emphasize both calm and annoyance, I lean my head to one side—something I do whenever Veena parades that superior attitude—after which, I give her my standard bewildered look.
Still not inside my apartment, which, to start the game, is where she needs to be, Veena switches her approach, conveniently turning victim. A tactic she elevates to an art form; she gives me her best, ‘I’m an abused martyr’ face.
I lean my head the opposite way and smile, all the while thinking, this slut does not even have a Green Card! She is here illegally, is evading ICE, and has slithered her way into Luca’s gang, where, in exchange for meting out the requisite number of blowjobs, she gets shielded from the Feds and deportation back to Ireland!
Veena does not know it, but I called the ICE hotline on her. Of course, they didn’t do shit! To make matters worse, the cold-hearted biker just then waiting outside under the streetlight—my personal sweetheart until two short weeks ago—brought her here, and I happen to know why!
I am in a bind. What is a girl supposed to do? The game is the game!
Curling a slender finger around the locking chain, Veena screeches, “Jitka Van Dam, open the goddamned mother-fucking door, or I swear, I…I’ll call him right now (hiccup) and-and-and…I will tell on you!”
As calmly as can be, she steps back, pulls out her iPhone, and with a spiteful, lazy smile, she purrs, saying, “You know how he is. He’ll fucking drive off! He’ll fucking leave me here! You’ll be fucking stuck with me! And Jitka, trust me! I’ll (hiccup) fucking blame everything on you!”
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GIRLS DOING UP THERE? People are trying to sleep! I’m calling 911!” It was Mr. Goodis, warning us from apartment two. He is usually nice to me, so I have to give in. Gently pushing the door closed, I draw the chain aside and reopen it.
Veena, carrying a half-empty magnum of Ace of Spades Brut Rose and a lead crystal glass held upside down, bounds past. With her long black hair fixed in barely-there waves, she is wearing black thigh-high, leather boots, and her newly acquired club jacket. With nothing on underneath, her big boobs, take a sensuous hop as she sails by.
Such nerve, I think to myself, as the would-be biker mama heads for the bedroom.
Eying her, I consider ripping the jacket from her narrow shoulders. It belongs to me! What about American girls? Don’t we count for anything?
Actually, she looks hot in black leather—something I neglect to tell her.
It is Veena’s second game day. What’s more, it is about to become my second as well; it is how this sicko thing works.
Initially, I agreed to take part after learning Irene played. Yes! Can you believe it? Even the prim Irene Jansen! Some girls are Miss Perfect, and the rest of us follow their lead, no matter how stupid they act!
Irene stands out. Unlike, well, some of us, she is a perfect lady. It is why I have trouble picturing her batting cleanup.
Like me, Irene covets Luca’s club jacket. Like me, she had no choice. Irene’s involvement matters because it suggests to the rest of us that the reprehensible game is an OK thing.
I often think beyond Irene, me—and now Veena—there might be other girls involved. If so, how many? Everybody wants to hang onto the arm illegal bahis siteleri of a club officer. Luca has swagger. He exudes danger—women like danger.
What if there are nine girls involved? What if, like ballplayers, we are moved around to different positions in Luca’s ballpark?
For weeks, my obsessive mind stubbornly mulled the prospect, and questions burned past me like fastballs: “How many girls? What are their names? Are they skinny? Do they complain to Luca, but still play?” The thing is mind-boggling!
Everybody knows about Irene’s time ‘at-bat.’ “Only once, Jitka,” she somberly revealed. “I only did it…once.” Her nuanced hesitation left me suspicious. She must have done it more than once.
I felt terrible for her. Afterward, after finishing the game, Luca blistered her, making it clear he was not happy with her performance. In front of the other guys, he drunkenly barked, “Ya forgot one detail, bitch!”
It was true. Irene left something out. An otherwise minor omission, it triggered Luca’s fury, and the unlucky girl never made it to first base.
“I done told ya, woman!” He crabbed. “I need ya…when ya plays the game, ya need to be topless, ya stupid bitch!”
Later on, the downcast Irene whispered to me, saying, “I was so horrified at what he made me do…I didn’t take my blouse off. I was nervous and forgot. Does that make me a bad girl?”
I lied to her, insisting he was an asshole, but deep down, I knew, to Luca, her neglect raised questions about her devotion. To him, every detail has to be “just so.”
For the unlucky Irene, it meant striking out with the game on the line. Even though she did everything else, even batting cleanup, he never took her back. I felt bad for her, but what I did not admit was that it was all my fault. I snitched!
That night, I made the big biker fuck me and in the morning—when his heavy lids had only just fluttered—I whispered in his ear, “Luca, baby doll, it’s…um…it’s about Irene. Well…somebody said when she did the game; she didn’t take her top off the way you wanted.”
That is all it took. He sent her packing back to the minor leagues! Getting rid of her was so easy. I was elated.
That, however, was then, a whole month ago. Now, this trespassing slut…this blip, this hot-blooded, black-haired tramp screeches across Luca’s radar like one of Little Rocket Man’s menacing launches, and her sudden presence in Luca’s lineup makes me wonder about my place in the game’s rotation.
I want to be a starter, not the weekend’s entertainment at raucous parties where being groped by drunken Sixty-Niners makes me a slutty loser. I need to win! Like that famous football coach whose name I can’t remember, said: “Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing!”
It is time to make the brazen Veena disappear!
Luca does things intentionally. He romances a girl, ditches her, and then—with as near tenderness as his big hairy self can muster—he suckers her back. After that, she’s shoved into the arena. There, she has to decide: Am I a team player—or not?
The red-haired and usually submissive Bethany threw Luca a curveball. She flatly refused to play his game. For lack of effort, she got benched, and Irene was called up from the minors as her stand-in.
Beth’s was a classic second chance, and as luck would have it, the other day, I spotted her—leather miniskirt and all—standing at the library’s information desk.
Bravely, I walked right up to her. “Beth,” I said, “tell me something. Why didn’t you play hardball in Luca’s off-Broadway adaptation of musical cunts?”
Her answer startled me. “You’re right about musical cunts,” she shamefacedly conceded. “If a girl doesn’t do what he wants—if she’s left standing when he orders the music stopped—well, it’s game over, and she’s off to the showers, out of his orbit, a benchwarmer.”
I took her seriously, especially after Luca made me the odd girl out!
Glancing over at the pickled Veena, who, like an accomplished stripper, had removed her boots and was pulling off her black leather Capri pants, I disdainfully exhaled. Wearing white cotton panties, noticeably soaked from the evening’s humping, she had flounced a little too comfortably onto my bed.
Even stumblingly sloshed, she was a sight. Sluts to the core, Irish girls manage a garden-fresh virginal look, the kind men crave. I want to tear her hair out!
Even as I savor that little fantasy, Veena still has the wherewithal to get the game moving. “Fill ‘er up,” she commanded. Sitting up, she pointed to the champagne bottle and its accompanying empty glass resting on the nightstand. Eying her, I poured.
Veena, mumbling nothings, eyed me back. “Jit…ka…you kn…kn…don’t act like you don’t know the fucking rules!”
With her eyes rolling back in her head and reaching up with both hands, she bunched her hair into a makeshift pillow, then dropped onto her back.
Lifting her broad hips, she slipped the panties down over canlı bahis siteleri hatefully statuesque legs, and smirking, she held her pelvis high in the air, and asked, “Want (hiccup) a sniff?”
Businesslike, and snootily, I put her off, saying, “Think I’ll pass, Veena.”
She giggled. “Suit…suit yer…self, bitch. Now take it off!”
Not so much as looking, she pointed her willowy index finger straight at my pajama top. “Luca,” she falteringly said, “you know…he wants you to…you know…to be top…you know…top naked…I mean, naked on top.”
Placing her arm over her forehead, she opened her legs, flexed her tummy muscles, and like a woman in labor, she groaned.
A heavy dribble of thick, gooey cum flushed from her yawning pussy, and suddenly, Veena’s out-of-place, middle-of-the-night appearance; her grand march up the stairs; her embarrassing-as-hell condition; Luca relaxing under the streetlight—it meant it was my chance to level the field of play, to get him back—to snatch away that longed for jacket!
Speedily pulling my pajama top over my head and dropping to my knees between Veena’s widely splayed thighs; I stuck out my tongue and prepared to lap as much sperm as I could before it melted into the sheets.
Luca made his demands clear two weeks ago. They were preposterous, and I indignantly snapped at him, shouting, “NO WAY!” Firm in my resolve, I stormed off.
“You’ll be back,” he bitingly grated. “You hear? You hear me, cunt? You’ll be back!”
When a man makes a girl do smutty things—at first anyway—she needs to make a statement, so I stomped out on principle.
The next day, after I returned, he toned it down, explaining, “It won’t hurt, baby…just try it. I promise ya! Tell you what…I’ll use a ton a lube…you won’t even feel my hand pushing in there. Shit girl,” he added, smiling, “women drop babies bigger than this.”
Holding up a meaty, ham-hock fist, he illustrated its modest size. Then, with an unconvincing grin, he added, “And them women having babies don’t never complain, neither!”
In self-defense, I snarled back at him. “Luca! Stop! I said, no! Your games are sick! I…I won’t play.”
He hugged me affectionately. Regretful, I gave in and let him fist me, only to find the fucker was lying! It hurt! A lot! Both times!
That was then. Now, it’s time to deal with Veena and the predicament I find myself face-to-cunt with, because with her shopworn pussy only inches away and with the bouquet of gushing sperm flooding my unenthusiastic nostrils—it is decision time.
A girl has options, in this case, two. Yes, under the rules, I am supposed to lap her weeping sex. On the other hand, I can stand up for myself and put a stop to this madness!
My mind shot back to Luca’s orders. “Listen up, woman. When ya do it, don’t wear no top! Get my meanin’? If ya truly loves me, you’ll get yerself out-a your top! And another thing; be on yer knees. And don’t fuck with Veena!” he ordered. “You two can be bitches, and I needs ya to be nice to each other for a change.”
Sweetly nodding agreement, I pretended to approve.
“She’ll lay right back for ya, Jitka,” he went on. “You lick things up when it oozes out. And, well, ya know the rest, right?” Just then, he paused, and looking down, awaited my response.
Already having decided to go along with it, and busily working his balls, I made him wait for his answer. With my lips wrapped tightly around his super-sized erection, he ejaculated and took my bright-eyed upward glance as agreement.
Slowly backing him out of my aching mouth—and with the slender thread of my principles long gone—I leaned my head back, gargled his sperm, and mumbled almost inaudibly, “I wiow…I wiow do it swweeh-harrrr…I wiow…I pwomise.”
Smiling triumphantly, he sat back, taking in the lingering moments of my little charade while I carefully lapped leftover droplets of cum from around the base of his cock’s matted pubic hair.
“Do what I tells ya, hon, and I predict…no, correct that, I surmise even, come August, I’ll take YOU—not them other bitches—to Sturgis. You’d want that, don’t ya?”
I did want it. Irene got to go last year, and it was my turn!
“I loves ya, girl,” he added with a pacifying smile.
I happily swallowed.
The following afternoon, I worked at the library, and Veena dropped by. In that insistent tone of hers, she stormed up to me and hissed, “Jitka, he wants it done—now!”
It is all she said. It is all she had needed to say.
I handled it perfectly and did not make excuses. A quick glance about the quiet place told me the head librarian was busy in the stacks, so I motioned to Veena to follow me into the storage room—just like Luca wanted. There, after pulling off her blouse, she dropped to her knees and lifted my skirt. Leaning back against the copier, I let her do it.
It was mission accomplished! Veena followed instructions, so Luca had no reason to bitch.
Like now, he stayed outside, and like some beefy bull kicking his hooves against the stable gate, he gunned his engine. The resultant racket, a vivid contrast to the soundlessly glaring library readers, paralleled his present disruption of my near-silent neighborhood.