A Novel Fable of Sexual Control, Compulsion, and Release

by Neale Sourna 

[more previously]

. . . I left alone for Gina Torres’ place, where torrid, gracefully energetic men can dance or at least try to, and it’s at a heart-thumping speed and decadence, so a girl can shake all her horny shit. Then, Guy [pronounced "ghee," in the French manner] was there, too. Looking like he fucking owned the place and everyone in it.

    Gina dearest would beg to differ.

    He didn’t seem at all out of place; but, then again, Gina’s is a pretty upscale place.

    Guy’s whole relaxed, still bearing stated, “I can do something for you no other man here can.”

    He’d danced quite a bit earlier, at the Chief’s birthday party, once with me and most notably without, until the haughty wives’ and girlfriends’ fawning over his gorgeous fine ass—let’s face it, he’s a fair identical twin for handsome and talented actor/­martial artist Russell Wong of “Romeo Must Die”—had got in the way of his clearly keeping tabs of me.

    Then, the Arabella disappearance.

    He wasn’t dancing here at all. When a man’s body moves as expertly as his, it’s okay if he conserves vital, potent energy for bagging his prey and I was very tired of being pawed by talentless amateurs.

    I worked my way to the club’s rooftop, knowing my favorite Cerberus, Che, would stop him on the stairs.

    The roof is off limits.

    Che is Gina’s cousin and likes me.

    I like him, too; he’s a darling teddy bear, who takes good care of his mother, his grandmothers, and helps with his sister’s boy. He’s a real sweetie . . . too much so in fact, which translates to too good for me.

    No, really. He’d let me destroy him.

    And, I would, because I could.

    Dearest Che deserves . . . better than . . . me.

    A few minutes later, Guy was on the roof. Sounds like that joke about breaking the news of a death in the family, with the brother’s dead cat and then his mama being on the roof.

    If you’re not a very hot chica, who makes Che’s job interesting, the only way to get on the roof during business hours is to pay him beyond handsomely. Nice to know Guy’s not cheap with the folding Gouda.

    Guy found me, in the chilled night, walking, dancing actually, to the pounding beats from downstairs of Lenny Kravitz’ “Fly Away”. I was walking along the roof wall’s edge. Guy spoke. He’s got a very pleasantly mellowy clear voice.

    “I’d heard, among many things, that you were fearless . . . and crazy.”

    He asked me to come down to him. Chivalrously—Or was it just an excuse to touch me?—he handed me down, then slipped his expensive suit jacket on me. Then, I jumped back up on the ledge. I’m a bit perverse in that way. I don’t like orders from people, who haven’t proved their authority, particularly an LT [lieutenant].

    I asked if he were . . . “in love” with me already, or couldn’t wait to spill out his “yearning desire” and “sweet tenderness” all over me. I’d been hearing that kind of crap all night. No. Really.

    And, some of it . . . a LOT more nauseatingly florid.

    He scrutinized me a long time with his so root beer brown?, laughing brights—judging what I wanted for an answer, most likely.

    “No. Little Girl, I just want to fuck you.”

    Good answer. A very good answer. But, no “pass go”, yet, Buddy.

    “I thought, maybe, you wanted to fuck Arabella.” He smiled, almost sheepishly . . . almost. His eyes puff and crinkle in a neat way at the outer corners.

    “Young Ms. Gaines is a brat. Brushed against me and believed my growing hard-on was for her; said she could . . . ‘take care’ of it for me. So, I suggested a little taste test.”

    Goddamnit. I want, no, need this dick . . . and this fucking penishead’s got Chief Gaines’ daughter on her spoiled, bony ass knees sucking his cock. He smiled like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

    “Weak technique, weak tongue, no throat or gag control, no fucking skill whatsoever. Didn’t even know what to do with her hands. Wasn’t worth the time it took to slip on the rubber, and tire out her jaws . . . not with you in serious heat out here.

    “Artemis, you seen the type, always pushing up on a man, like she knows what to do with him. And doesn’t. Figured a man-sized cock stuffed down her immature gullet would shut her the fuck up. Give her something to tell her Spelman sorority sisters, once the sore throat’s gone and her voice returns.”

    I was getting impatient about getting hold of his “man-sized cock” and was still standing above him on the wall, when I let him touch me, with one hand. If a man can’t get you going with the minimum: a look, a word, one hand, or tongue, then he won’t be able to deliver the rest.

    Guy chose well, and directly. His hand slid up between my knees and turned to stroke both hot, smooth thighs, until he found my “silken-haired”—Stosh’s phrase.—pantyless crotch. I was already breathing a little too deeply, and sopping wet, had been all night, knowing he and his brother were circling, doggedly pursuing me.

    I was definitely feelin’ it.

    His fingers knew what they were doing, as my snatch ached sharply and I closed my legs tightly around his gently rude digits, which he thrust up, deep into me . . . thumb pressing increasingly, mercilessly on my swollen clit.

    Simple things; but, soooo many get it wrong.

    Exceptional. I so wanted more than a few long phalanges, and abruptly pushed him out of me. I could see his digits glistening in the night, covered with my wet, which he took his time smelling, as if committing my scent to memory, before sucking the taste of me off them.

    He purposefully, teasingly walked away, as I jumped down, in pursuit, and unzipped him. He watched as I reached in, and pulled out a weighty, well-heated, swelling . . . and lengthening, prime alpha boner, that my eager, little hand immediately—.

    The bastard snatched it from me, pushing me against the brick wall, up onto the little step—which has I’m not sure what practical purpose other than equalizing our heights nicely. Those eyes. Medium brown. Root beer or . . . . God, what ingenious shade(s) is that? They darkened with lust and scrutinized every centimeter of my face, then trailed down, before dawdling with his information gathering palms at my breasts. In his pleasant preoccupation, I’d slipped my hand back around that exposed, upright beauty of his, and its two extraordinary, sweating and ready for sport companions. His hands dropped to hold onto my waist, as his eyes half closed while I stroked.

    Damn. You could dance by the strong, pulsing beat throbbing in that motherfucker.

    He suddenly looked at me, before yanking up the front of my dress. His nose flared, filling with my aroused scent, as he audibly sighed, appreciatively, and so did I when his fingertips lightly stroked my humid bush. I simply don’t believe in little sculptured pubic patches or childlike, hairless cunts. I’m not a goddamn Italian gardener . . . or a damn child.

    If you want a woman, who looks like one . . . and fucks like one, you come to me. And this motherfucker was stalling.

    “You said you wanted to fuck me. So . . . fuck . . . me.”

    For an LT, most of whom couldn’t find their own soft, inward-drawn, tiny dicks on bright, sunny days, he took orders well. He clasped hard onto me, as he took literal physical possession of my bare ass and dove; plunging up into the deep end, deliciously smashing me back into his custom-made jacket, snagging it against the prickly, biting bricks.

    God, I love the cologned scent of this man, and . . .

. . . I love the way a man’s cock, no matter what size to near bursting outside of a cunt, swells even more upon contact with Grade A pussy. I’d been more than right about Lieutenant Guy Fellowes, a true prince of purple royalty and positively Olympic gold. Excellent, because I really was in no mood for coy, gentile, intramural soft . . . ball.

    When I’m like this, and I’m more often like this than I care to say, it’s Big Show hardball or nothing.

    And, that was certainly not “nothing” I had hard and alive and feverishly buried deep between my hungry thighs, his pants rubbing against the soft skin inside them. He paused a while, my sweet cunny having a damn good grip on him, as he pulled up one of my legs ever so high, to deliciously slowly push even deeper into me. I’d . . . I’d never felt any man throb so hard . . . like that . . . inside me . . . .

    Breathtaking.

End of Excerpt