The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5 (62 page)

That was how I thought of the way to take his shortened breath away – permanently.

I didn’t show the following week. I let Freddie simmer.

Exactly one week after I didn’t show, I dolled up in a pink mini-dress, white thigh-high stockings, a white French lace bra with matching panties and white spiked heels. I curled my hair and made-up my face like the girl at Sak’s in New Orleans taught me.

My husband didn’t even see me leave.

Freddie sat waiting atop the levee. As soon as he spotted my car, he stood and brushed off his pants. I stopped and opened the passenger door for him. He ran down.

Leaning in the open door, he gasped, “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Will you do something for me?”

Freddie looked at my legs. His gaze rose up my outfit back to my face and pouty lips.

“Sure,” He said.

“Climb in.”

Freddie jumped in and quickly fastened his seat belt. Today he wore a nice polo shirt and dressy tan jeans.

I pulled away and it took Freddie several minutes before asking where we were going.

“To my house. I want to make love to you on my bed.”

Freddie looked around again, as if making sure we weren’t seen.

“You sure you won’t get caught?”

I didn’t answer. My heart raced as I turned the Lexus around to head home. My husband was there, sleeping in his wheelchair in front of the TV. Whatever happened next, I told myself, I was in a no lose situation.

He could divorce me, kick me out.

So?

We had no pre-nuptial agreement. I’d get half, eventually.

Maybe, just maybe, it’ll shock him to death. He’ll hear us, wheel in and see this big black man banging his virginal white wife. The walls of his sick heart will cave in and I’ll be free. It was a no-lose situation.

Secretly, more than anything, I wanted him to die.

I parked in the garage.

Freddie hesitated getting out.

“You sure we won’t get caught?”

“My husband’s in a wheelchair. He’s a gentle as a kitten.”

Freddie climbed out. “A wheelchair?”

I nodded.

“He some kinda war veteran?”

I walked around and right up to Freddie’s face. “Car wreck.”

I brushed Freddie’s lips with mine.

“He have a gun?”

I laughed. “He’s afraid of guns. Always has been.”

Freddie’s nostrils flared as he took in my perfume. I turned and led the way into the house, through the kitchen and down the hall to the master bedroom. Along the way, I glanced over and saw my husband parked in front of his TV, in front of another inane talk show.

I left the bedroom door open.

Facing Freddie, I started to unbutton my dress.

He stepped up and took over.

With trembling fingers, he removed my dress. Running his hands over my breasts, he kissed my neck. His fingers moved around and unsnapped my bra. Freeing my breasts, he sucked them, nibbling on each nipple, sending shivers through me.

He kissed his way down to my belly. On his knees, he tucked his fingers into my panties and worked them down. He French-kissed my bush, his tongue probing me as he pulled off my heels.

He left my thigh-high stockings on as he sat me on the bed and started taking off his clothes. I lay back and peeked around him, but we hadn’t awakened my husband. For a moment I wondered – what if we didn’t?

Standing between my open knees, Freddie rubbed the tip of his stiff cock against my pussy lips. I was wet enough for him to slowly, ever so slowly, impale me. I curled my back and took every thick, delicious inch.

Holding my hips, Freddie began fucking me in long smooth strokes.

I cried out and he paused and I pulled him down on me, my lips searching for his. Freddie rode me, dug his dick into me, banged me good. I cried out again.

“Come on,” I gasped. “Fuck me!”

“Jesus! You are so beautiful.”

Freddie got down to business, sending me through a deep climax as he worked his cock in me. God, he fucked the hell out of me, banging me good and I gasped and cried out again and again as we bounced around my bed.

I held on to his ass as he pounded me, letting out a cry with each stroke.

I almost came again, when I suddenly caught a glimpse of my husband sitting in the doorway. I blinked and looked again and he was there. His skinny eyes were ovaled and his mouth open.

I bucked back with Freddie and felt him about to explode. I reached for the pleasure, my muscles grabbing his dick. Freddie cried out and came and his first hot spurt sent me over the top. We came together in one steamy, gushing, wet fuck.

Freddie collapsed on me and it took a while for us to catch our breaths.

“Man,” Freddie finally said. “You were wild.” He kissed my lips and I kissed him back.

When he rolled off, I looked at my husband, who hadn’t moved. He sat stone-faced in the doorway, his hands gripping the handles of his wheelchair.

Freddie gasped when he saw my husband.

“Damn,” he said as he climbed out of bed. “Look man . . . I . . . uh.”

It took a minute for him to realize my husband wasn’t moving.

“What’s the matter with him?”

I shrugged and lay there, spread eagle, Freddie’s cum oozing out of my pussy.

Freddie scooped up his clothes and started dressing. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Man scared the shit outta me, staring like that.”

My husband’s eyes were fixed widely at us.

Half-dressed, Freddie asked if there was any other way out.

“Through the bathroom,” I said.

He bolted.

I called out. “Same time, next week?”

Freddie didn’t answer.

A few seconds later, I heard the front door slam.

I lay there and watched.

When my husband blinked, I knew he wasn’t dead. Not yet.

I could see his breathing was extra shallow.

I sat up, my legs still open. Reaching down, I wiped my pussy lips and came up with Freddie’s gummy semen.

“Nice African come,” I told my husband. “He really put it to me.

My husband made a gurgling sound.

I licked my fingers.

My husband started shaking.

I crawled over and told him what it felt like, being fucked by a real man.

“His cock was so hard and hot and he fucked me good. He fucked my lily white pussy. And it wasn’t the first time.”

My husband tried to say something, but nothing came out.

I climbed off the bed and checked his pulse. His arm was cold and his pulse shallow, but steady.

I let go of his arm and sat on the edge of the bed.

“He’s bringing a couple friends next time. I feel like being gangbanged.”

A sound came out of my husband’s mouth.

“What is it? Come on, you can talk.”

“Mmm . . . Mmm.”

I folded my arms.

He tried again. “Mmm . . . Mmm.”

“Mmm . . . Mmm,” I mimicked him. “What’s that? You turned idiot on me?”

“More!” he said clearly.

“What?”

“I want . . . to see . . . more.”

He raised his right hand and pointed to the bed. His eyes alight, my husband said it again, “I want to see more!”

I hate islands.

I cannot understand their allure, the way people marry the words
Island
and
paradise.
Paradise, my ass. An island is a trap, a prison, a fucking Alcatraz, a place that reminds you every day you wake up on it, there’s no place else to go.

Pirates understood that. When they really wanted to fuck with someone, they didn’t kill him, or even torture him. They marooned him on a goddamned island. And that’s what I was – marooned, courtesy of Wang Fu Chu.

That crazy Chinaman – he was affectionately called Fuck You by his nearest and dearest, of which I was one. Nobody understood how he made his money, but that didn’t stop the greedy hordes from rushing to jump in behind his flashy parade. Always grinning, he could charm the pig right out of the python’s belly.

A few weeks ago, he had more cash on hand than half the world’s countries. He sent me to Chaukunamaug Island on a buying mission. He already owned a piece of the island, with a modest ramshackle house, but he wanted more – as much as he could get. I was supposed to charm the locals into giving up their piece.

The problem was, Old Money had set roots down deep in the bedrock there centuries ago and wasn’t moving. It had become an exclusive rock, a place from where trust fund brats could sail their boats to the Vineyard, party in Edgartown, then bid “ta” to their envious peers. Social climbers went to the Vineyard to be seen, but pined for an invitation to picnic on Chaukunamaug.

The only other way on and off the island was a little rust bucket of a ferry that made irregular runs from Woods Hole, but never in choppy seas. It could carry a single car in a pinch, but mostly it ferried supplies and a guy from one of the Cape banks to stuff the ATM at the dock every so often.

I spent my first two weeks being wined and dined by the swells, who enjoyed my company the way they would an exotic animal. It was all very casual, of course: khaki pants and skirts, polo shirts and shorts. A sweater, sleeves tied around the neck when out of doors, was standard uniform. For the most part they were a boring but amiable bunch who had no intention of selling a single clod to Wang. They just liked being asked – it amused them.

Then everything changed. The cell phone stopped working, and so did my ATM card. It didn’t take long to find out what happened; it was all over CNN. Wang had split for parts unknown. The SEC and a dozen other alphabet soup federal agencies were two steps behind him but hot on his trail.

It seems Wang had been running one of the biggest, multinational ponzi schemes in history. He’d taken all the big names for millions, maybe billions. And those big names were pissed for being made to look like chumps.

I had to admire the crazy bastard. Yeah, crazy like a fox. But he left me stranded in suddenly hostile territory. Invitations to dinner ceased, just when I needed to look out for my next meal. Walks through that collection of fish shanties that passed for a village drew cold stares.

I had to go there to use the public phone, even though I had run out of the kind of goodwill that accepts a collect call. I ran in to Walker there. The little prick sneered contemptuously, but didn’t say a word. This was the same guy who just days before asked me to fuck his cute little air-headed wife while he recorded us with a camcorder.

Dodie was a screamer who liked to be called dirty names while she was fucked. I was doing her doggie style and brought her right to the edge when I called her “cocksucker.” Damn, she came so hard I thought she was having a seizure. She squirted too, even left a puddle on the floor.

Dodie walked a couple of steps behind Walker. Our eyes met and she smiled a little before ducking into Bones Tavern with him.

I made my calls and came up empty. I was shut off. I couldn’t expect any money, and had no way to get off the island. None of these sons of bitches would sail me off, even though I must have offended their sensibilities by sticking around, like a big smelly turd under their stuck-up noses.

All the cash I had was in my wallet, a couple of hundred bucks. I figured it would last until the ferry pulled in, or until the feds bothered to come out there to get me. Meanwhile, I had a roof over my head, and the power was still on.

I decided to have a drink.

Bones’ place was all raw, unfinished wood, even the bar. Bones was too – raw, that is. He looked even more out-of-place on that hunk of rock than I did. The swells used to whisper about him, about how he’d once been an enforcer for some racketeer – one of the “big ones.”

He was compactly built, and gave the appearance of a bullet, amplified by his hairless pate. His eyes were cold, liquid blue. He looked like a man who kept secrets well, especially his own. But he was one more friendly face on the rock.

He smiled and nodded when I sat at the bar.

“Jack D, straight,” I said.

He poured a shot and followed it with a glass of water. He leaned toward me as if he were about to communicate some secret intelligence, but glanced to my left and retreated.

Dodie sat on the stool next to mine. I scanned the room but didn’t see Walker. I figured he was in the head – that’s what they called the john around there.

“Hi, Rick.”

“Mrs Walker,” I nodded. She frowned.

“I – I’m sorry about – well, I mean, it’s not your fault that.”

“What?”

“I know people are being horrid to you. I just wanted you to know that – I still like you.” She placed her hand on my thigh – my dick twitched.

She was pretty, not exactly a raving beauty, but petite and curvy. Her short brown hair and brown doe eyes gave the appearance of a shy, sheltered girl that contradicted the writhing harlot I’d fucked on Laurence Endicott Walker’s high-polished living room floor.

I glanced toward the men’s room, then closed my hand over her knee.

“Thanks,” I said, and let it slide up her bare thigh and under her shorts until my finger tips touched the edge of her panties. She slowly sucked in air and closed her eyes. Her cheeks reddened.

I leaned to whisper in her ear. “I have a soft spot for bad girls like you. Do you have a soft, wet spot for me?”

She gasped and bit her lip.

“Do you?”

She nodded furiously, but didn’t open her eyes.

“Is your pussy dripping for me?”

“Please!” she hissed.

“My cock misses your tight little cunt.” I slid a finger inside her panties and twirled the downy hairs it encountered.

“Rick, oh my God.”

“Can you sneak out?”

“Please, Rick – I mustn’t.”

“Tonight, after he’s drunk himself to sleep. Come by – I want you to be my slut again.”

“Oh, but . . .”

“You want to be my slut, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want to be your – slut. Oh, please, Rick. Make me do dirty things.”

“Tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Dodie!” It was Walker.

She jumped off the stool and hurried to join him at a table. If looks could kill, she would have dissolved under his glare, but he said nothing to her, or to me.