Exploits (6 page)

Three times he humiliated me.

Three times is payback.

So I initiate joyride number three. I'm getting my own
fix. Two weeks without the explosion of a new galaxy is a lifetime when you've been having two or three a day for years. I'm now as sick as Gary. He has made his needs my needs. I cannot change who he's conditioned me to be.

I've never heard Gary yell like that ever. When I let him have the release, it looked like it could almost have been painful.  I stay on him, smiling.

Game, set and match.

Respect won, he smiles back. The smile that conveys openly,’ I love you, bitch’.

Feeling secure, I undo his hands and free him. My head lurches as he grabs me and pins me underneath him. He's angry and has to work off that energy. He's nailing me hard. (And I'm loving it.) Since that first time I have never had a vocal climax again. The only way to shut up, is to hold my breath. He knows I'm cumming when I stop breathing. A long groan breaks the never-ending slapping of skin on skin. Not from me. He drops heavily against me. A tear of relief and satisfaction escapes out of the corner of my eye. He leans away and grips my face. His explorative kiss feels like rape. I savagely kiss him back, returning the mingling of lips and tongues. I'm hungry. I've been craving this sustenance. His hand tightens around my neck and squeezes. Kissing and asphyxiating me.

My vision starts blurring again. Fear hammers my heart. Would he really kill me? Is this a power trip? I'm too breathless to scream. You never beg with Gary. You never ask. If you do, he'll show you the door. So I watch through tearing eyes as his head pulls away from mine.

(Thanks to Gary I can hold my breath for an indeterminate amount of time.)

He lets my throat go and laughs happily. A gentle kiss is placed on my swollen lips. Swollen from kissing. The soul-soothing voice speaks in my ear as he pinches my nipple, "Fuck, I love you." The first words of the night.

I can't tell you a time when I have felt this happy. My heart is blowing evanescent bubbles of joy as I walk naked to make us dinner. That night he engaged with my body repeatedly. And I felt loved. This was love. (Or so I thought.)  I lost count of the orgasms we had between us. After dinner he put in Miss Magic Boobs and doggie'd me in the dark, watching her writhing. I'm addicted to his smell, it turns me inside out. I never object to his overwhelming appetite for my lips on his cue. I crave his hands all over my body. I adore him inside me. In short, I worship him.

(In retrospect I think he had turned me into a sex addict who missed her calling as a porn star.)

I knew I'd won him back when we went out together for drinks with the goofy gang on Friday night to the V&A Waterfront. Cindy is short, really short: four-foot-two or something ridiculous like that. And she can drink an alcoholic into surrender. Her joy at our being reunited is palpable, and she intends to rejoice with shooters. Shoving money into my hand she grabs the other and pulls me off my bar stool, "Come!"

She pushes me through throngs of men to the bar. I know the routine. She can't see over the bar so someone else has to get the drinks for her.

"What are we having?"

She grins and flicks back wildly curly, long blonde hair, "Two Slippery Nipples."

I laugh, and feel my cheeks heat up as every man around us is suddenly giving our nipples their undivided attention.
Shit. They are reacting to the attention! Great. Thanks nipples!

The tall, dark-haired beefcake behind the bar smiles and asks, "What can I give you?"

I order, "Two Slippery Nipples, please." His eyes move to my nipples, he grins, "Sure thing." The suggestion is obvious.

As he walks away Cindy pulls on my arm and yells, "And a Blow Job!"

I raise my eyebrows because now we're becoming the object of commentary and scrutiny. She laughs and, too loud, says, "I'm craving one."

I'm not. I had a lifetime's supply just yesterday. Sleep is becoming an indulgence of luxurious proportions.

The bar-tender returns with the shooters and quirks an eyebrow, "Anything else?"

I blush for real, "A Blow Job too, please."

His smile causes sunlight to break through the night and he unzips his jeans, "With pleasure."

I clarify, "The shooter."

He gives me a wink, his mischievous glance said very clearly, ‘It is the shooter, angel,’ but he pulls it back up. His throaty laugh causes my cheeks to burn with fervour. (This is my give-away. It reveals that no matter what happens between Gary and me behind closed doors, I'm still naive and easily embarrassed around strangers. Especially men.)

Laughs erupt from the baritones and muscles surrounding us. A huge scary looking guy leers at me, "I'll give you one."

This isn't going well. If Gary sees other men talking to me, I'm in endless shit. And I've only just been allowed out to play again. My flushed cheeks drain as his wide shoulders push through them and he stands towering behind Cindy. His look of displeasure sends fluttering panic through my loins. Cindy fears no repercussion and is encouraging the lewd behaviour. Gary scowls at the men, puts his arm around my waist and slides his hand into the back of my jeans.

"Woman, is there a problem?"

I shake my head as the bartender returns to me with a Blow Job. I pay him, my eyes pleading silently for him not to joke any further. As he hands me the change, Gary knifes him with two cold, hard, blue eyes and orders, "Two Castle's!"

Gary is used to ordering people around. You can tell. He never says please. Gary moves his arm to around my shoulders and blatantly cups my right breast. Angry eyes seem insulted as they watch him. I feel shamed and carefully pick up the drinks, handing Cindy her Blow Job, avoiding all eye contact with the audience around us, at any cost. She downs it and I put the empty glass back on the bar. I hand her the Slippery Nipple and get ready to walk back to our table with mine.

As I move through our audience, one man says to me, "What are you doing with a loser like that, sister?"

I freeze, dizzy with fear. I keep my eyes riveted to the floor and force myself to start moving as Gary's voice confronts him, "Fuck you!"

I glance back at the Good Samaritan. Gary is facing him, ready for a confrontation. I mouth "Sorry!" His eyes communicate so much. I felt genuine caring for my well-being in them. Cindy grabs Gary and pushes him, "Stop being a wanker, Gary!"

Gary knows he's outnumbered. He can withdraw with his pride intact. Glaring daggers, he allows Cindy to drag him away. When she reaches me she gives me the ‘What the hell is wrong with your man?’ look.

Charl and Alan immediately start teasing him for being highly strung, pushing smokes and alcohol at him. The instant solution to every problem.

My eyes meet his and I want to die, and cry. I'm going to pay for this.

I stare out at the luxury boats docked in the harbour. It's too late to hear the seals barking now. The lights dance ecstatically across the inky ocean, the smell strongly greasy from the tankers out of sight. I feel my exuberance drowning, like the moon sinking below the horizon. My emotional death is not that beautiful. Eventually, I drag my eyes back to watch him with ill-disguised trepidation. I smile half-heartedly at Cindy head-banging to one of our fine local bands. Cutting Jade are grinding out ‘I will fight you, every step of the way ...’

I haven't. I don't have the guts to fight him.

Later, a voice whispers at me as I enter the ladies, "You can do better."

My eyes stare nervously up into gentle brown ones. For the first time, I'm sensing that I'm a catch, and Gary's possessive behaviour not only shamed me, but made me wish I didn't have an audience to witness it. I smile, averting my gaze in case my tormentor is watching, and whisper, "Thanks."

Chapter 10

Blow Up

Okay, I'll admit that it took endless reassurances and every persuasive technique in my repertoire to convince him that I was not at fault for Friday's issue. I also had to finally submit to some bedroom antics I am still staunchly opposed to. (Keep reading, I'll dish them out later.) By Monday morning, the game was back on.

Gary played games. Constantly. Underlying every one of them was a seriousness that kept me captive. One thing I would never attempt, was the undermining of his authority. He named the game. I had to play.

Nothing prepared me for him dropping me off for work. He grabs my wrist and stalls me from exiting the leather seat. His smile disarms me.

What's going on?

"Wait."

It's a command.

I wait.             

What are you
doing
?

His hand slips into my knickers and his fingers bury in like a tortoise getting shy.

My cheeks instantly heat up as my body reacts to the stimulation. I watch the bodies thronging past the car. I'm grateful that Monday morning is a sedative. People stroll past in their own private trance. No one notices. He pulls open my blouse and pops out my nipple, his mouth covers it. I am molten. Instinct just takes over and obliterates any thought processes I was entertaining.

He pulls his hand away along with his head, laughs demonically, and smiles at me. "Get out."

"What?"

"Get out. I'm going to be late."

Hastily I try to straighten my clothing and step out of his impatient transportation capsule. He pulls off and does not look back. I draw deep breaths to try and still my arousal. My body is on fire and my legs have lost the blood flow that mobilises muscles. I stagger to the door and walk past it to the steps beyond. I flop down heavily, waiting for my cheeks to calm down. I light a smoke with shaking fingers and sit and stare blankly at traffic and strangers trickling past my view to the street.

A blond head appears at the window. Arched eyebrows convey a silent query. I smile and mouth, "I'm fine."

I finish my smoke, spritz on more perfume and force my legs to walk to the door.

The blond head opens the door for me, one hand for some reason on the gun at his hip, "Are you okay?"

I am so horny I am sure if I meet his eyes he'll see it, and know it. Embarrassed I mumble, "I'm fine."

I half meet his eyes, before nervously looking away and walking to my desk. I sit too close to him the entire day, every day. He knows my routine. This is how we became friends. Through close proximity, daily. If anyone can tell there's something different about me, it's the guy that doesn't have to answer phones and push paper. He sits down, a frown marring his peaches and cream face.

I don’t get coffee, I just immerse myself in work.

* * * * *

I have a problem. I have one of 'those' voices. Once, a few weeks ago, I phoned the radio station to enter a competition on 5fm and landed up having a debate with the DJ about me doing radio. He insisted I had just the right voice for radio. He told me it was so sexy the listeners would lap it up. Thanks, but no thanks: (like Gary would ever let that happen.)

(Okay, fine. I admit it. I asked him if I could and he said NO.)

I also have clients who are pretty blatant about it. They phone me for no other reason than to say hi and hear my voice. A few of them have told me I should be doing phone sex, and they'd be my number one caller.
Great
. I know it's meant to be a compliment, but I'm pretty uncomfortable with strangers saying things like this to me. And no, I have never told Gary.

So the
last
thing I want to do today is answer that flippin’ telephone. If they think that about me when I'm not feeling frisky, then those men will just
know
and start saying naughty things to me, and I just can't handle that today.

When Monica walks in, I tell her, "I'm not feeling well today. Can I ask you to take the calls?"

She nods, and drops her bag as she places her cute derriere into the chair at the desk pushed up against mine, "No problem. Just take it easy."

Mr Security Guard overhears and now he's staring through me as if he's trying to read my mind.

One of 'those' clients is actually on a mission to get my attention. He has come into the bank to meet me numerous times and doesn't know how to take ‘no’ for an answer. He is a tall Indian man with contrasting azure eyes. If Gary knew, he'd throw a FIT. Not just about me talking to other me
n–
full sto
p–
but to one who isn't snow white, I shudder to think of the repercussions.

Of all the days to pull a stunt on me, today is my cursed day.

Flowers arrive for me. From blue eyes: my Indian suitor who is, by the way, married and has a new-born.

I cannot function today. I don't react like someone should at receiving flowers. I do pluck up the courage to phone him and say thank you. He is adamant about taking me to lunch. Oh yes, he can sense the disease eating me
from the inside out. My answer is
no
. My excuse, "I'm not feeling well today."