Mine to Have: A Claimed Story (4 page)

I
can’t get enough
of my wife. It isn’t right or maybe even healthy, but all I want to do is be with her, or more accurately, inside of her.

On all fours, Lacy wiggles her ass at me and shoots me that sexy grin, the one with the shimmer in her striking eyes. The shimmer that is even brighter than that from the huge-ass diamond on her left hand.

How can I resist her, in the middle of our bed, her thighs still slick from our first round? This time she doesn’t want me in her pussy and I’m happy to oblige. Since we found out that she’s carrying our baby, her sexual appetite has been ravenous. Almost as insatiable as her desire for food.

The first thing every morning, we go at it. Sometimes, if she wakes before me, I wake to the sensation of her straddling my hips and guiding my morning erection home. It’s not that I’m complaining.

I’m not.

There’s nothing better than waking to a warm, wet cunt strangling your cock and full, growing-by-the-day tits swinging in your face. It’s better than any fucking alarm clock out there.

This isn’t morning, and as I take her cum and lubricate my cock, it isn’t her warm pussy I’m about to have. I’d told her from the beginning that I wanted all of her, every hole, but I never imagined how in tune she’d be with the whole idea.

From the first time I took her in the ass and she came harder than she’d ever cum, my Lace can’t get enough. Whether it’s taking her pussy, her ass, or between her lips, my cock is always ready for the workout, always ready to elicit the moans and whimpers, the copious amounts of cum that tell me she’s eager, she’s enjoying herself, and she’s satisfied.

I’m sure our lives will change when our little one arrives. That’s alright. I’m not worried. Since I took what is mine—my Lace—since we made it legal with the whole big extravagant wedding, and now with a little Bishop on the way, I know having Lace beside me, under me, or around my cock, is where she belongs.

Lace is mine to have and for the rest of our lives that’s what I plan to do.

P
eople try
to keep their information secret, but they don’t succeed.

She didn’t.

She’s in the public eye, available to everyone with the flip of a switch. Turn on the TV and there she is—Erika fucking Ellis. She should have known better, have been more careful. She should have taken precautions.

She didn’t.

Her carelessness pisses me off, infuriates me. Yet without it, where would we be?

She let down her guard and spoke without thinking.

Obtaining bits and pieces of her life story takes time, but as my cock aches for her pussy, I know the patience will be worth the reward. The process isn’t difficult. It’s as simple as standing near her in the coffee shop line.

“Name for the order?” the barista asks.

Suddenly her name is not only announced, but written across her cup.

“Telephone number?” the man at the dry cleaner’s asks.

There it is.

Seven digits that open a wealth of information.

The rest is easy. An Internet search, not even one as comprehensive as done by law enforcement, and much of her information is at my fingertips, just like her hard nipples will soon be.

I dig more.

“Ma’am, can you confirm your date of birth?” With a slight change to my voice, I become a telemarketer in need of confirming her account.

Simple questions that in her preoccupied world she answers without thought. Her recklessness is her downfall, and while I appreciate it, I plan to punish her for it. If I could learn all of this, so could anyone—someone, another man. That thought fills me with rage propelling my blood downward, away from rational thought, and straight to my dick. It’s painfully hard with the need to take her, mark her, and make her mine. After all, she is. She always has been. I just need to make her accept it.

My cock stays perpetually hard as I patiently plan—day after day, week after week—following, listening, and paying attention. Most of the time she doesn’t even notice me. The way she often ignores me, as if I’m not her future, present, and past, pushes my desire. I hang on every word, every opportunity. Sometimes she walks past me as if I’m not there but other times, she smiles and even says a word or two. I live for those moments, knowing there will be so many more in our future.

There isn’t any question in my mind. With every fiber of my body, I know she wants me too. When our eyes meet or we touch as she brushes past me in a crowded diner, I feel her desire. The connection, no matter how small, is like lightning, radiating off of her like heat from the sun, filling the air and causing my dick to swell.

In one such encounter, we stand face to face and her pink tongue darts to her lips. I understand what her words can’t say. It’s her silent acceptance of what will be. Soon, that tongue will dance with mine. Soon, it will lick my cum as she kneels at my feet.

I know her wants and needs. I’ve seen her accounts—the books she reads and the videos she watches on her Tumblr account. No wonder she sometimes seems aloof. She has desires and fantasies that have gone unfulfilled.

Her loneliness is about to end. But like everything in our future, the timing is up to me. I’m the only man for the job.

She’s a public figure, and it fucking pisses me off that she stars in other men’s wet dreams. It’s her perceived availability. But that’s all it is—a perception. She doesn’t belong to them, not to any of them. It’ll be my cum she showers in, and my cock that pounds into her tight, wet pussy. I’ll be the one to bind her and control her. No one else will take my woman to ecstasy. No one else will bring her desires to life—no one but me.

The first day she looked my way and spoke to me, the day our connection forged, I knew we were meant to be together. I’ve worked my way into her predictable world and yet she has no idea of my plans. Her combination of ignorance and arrogance fuels my desire. Erika thinks she has control, she thinks she calls the shots, but it’s an illusion. My cock threatens to explode as I envision what is in her future—in
our
future.

Staring through the lens at the screen before me, I watch as her tits bounce and her perfect white teeth shine surrounded by those full, glossy, red lips. My teeth clench at the sound of her laughter. How am I supposed to keep the camera steady as she giggles at something her co-anchor says? The man in makeup beside her is a prick. He doesn’t deserve her laughter or her words.

It isn’t a real laugh, I reassure myself. It’s part of her act, part of her TV personality. It’s simply for the cameras, for the audience. Her real rings of laughter, moans of desire, and screams of pain are for my ears only.

My chest fills with pride. I love that I’m the only one to hear those, and the only one to love her. Let the chorus begin.

“
T
hat’s a wrap
,” Lonnie, the producer, says as his hand drops and the red lights fade from the multitude of cameras.

“Ms. Ellis, Ms. Ellis,” Jackie, Lonnie’s assistant, calls as she rushes past the cameras in my direction.

I can’t help but notice how the cameraman on camera three scowls at her as she calls my name.

“Yes, Jackie,” I answer as stagehands unclip my microphone, pull wires, and remove a small box from my waist. Sometimes it feels as if I’m bound by a million tethers as I sit appearing carefree, discussing the day’s events. If only they weren’t delicate wires, but unbreakable bindings.

I sigh. That’s not who I am.

Erika Ellis—news at five-thirty and six on channel fifty-three—that’s me. Milwaukee’s sweetheart. I can tell you about a school bus crash with the same smile upon my face as the one I wear when discussing the Future Farmers of America annual fund drive. I have a degree in broadcasting, but I sit behind the glass desk with my legs poised in heels too high to walk in, because the shoes make my calves appear sexier. That’s what the people who crunch the numbers say. Our ratings drop every time my heel length goes below four inches.

They’ve worked my skirt length to the centimeter—above my knees, but not showing too much thigh. It’s the female demographic over the age of forty that gets upset if the skirt is too short or accidently rides up. That’s what the number people tell me. In my opinion, it’s the tired moms who can’t keep their husbands happy and are jealous of my body. Keeping it in shape is part of my job.

Know the material. Stay current. Pronounce every name, even foreign dignitaries’, correctly and above all, stay in perfect ‘for TV’ shape. I’m glad there’s no pressure.

Keeping the balancing act going with each ball precisely in the air is an exhausting art and one I’m ready to set aside for a few days. Thankfully it’s Friday, and I’m not due back in front of the cameras until Monday. That doesn’t mean I can totally walk away. I have preparation for next week and the never-ending workouts. But for a few days, I can take off the plastic smile and relax.

It’s something my husband is always trying to get me to do. You’d think he’d understand the pressure it takes to be me, but he never has. Even this morning he was harping on and on. I didn’t have time or the energy to listen. We probably need some time to talk about each other’s desires. As if either of us has time for that. Nevertheless, that’s what our marriage counselor says we need to do. She encourages us to be honest with one another.

I never intended to be dishonest. What I’m starting to understand, after nearly five years of marriage, is that honesty isn’t only about telling the truth, but also about not withholding the truth.

“Ms. Ellis,” Jackie says, “I just got the call—Tamara is ill.”

Shit!
Our talk will need to wait
.

My shoulders straighten. I don’t want to stay and do the eleven o’clock news. I want to go home—not to talk, but to wash off the makeup and curl up with my Kindle. However, I know that isn’t the answer that will advance my career, that won’t get me out of Milwaukee and into a bigger market. Instead of saying what I want to say, I broaden my plastic smile. “She is? I’m sorry to hear that. Does Lonnie need me to stay?”

“Yes. He does. We all do.”

“Not a problem,” I say, as I notice the cameraman from earlier. His scowl has morphed into something deeper, something closer to anger. Lighten up, buddy. It isn’t like he has to stay, just because I am. The eleven o’clock set has its own crew. His night is free. I’m the one tied up.

D
ead on my feet
. That’s how I feel as the stage crew untangles me from my wires for the third time today. My feet ache from the shoes I have only sat in. My legs cramp from the way they are perched on the bar beneath my chair, crossed daintily at the ankle.

“Erika,” the eleven o’clock co-anchor, Shawn, calls as he is also freed from his microphone and other apparatus. “Thanks for filling in. I’ll buy you a drink.”

I shake my head. “Thanks, Shawn. I’m beat. I need to get home.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Come on, there’s a group of us. It’s Friday. We all need to unwind.”

I roll my neck to relieve a few kinks. “Rain check?”

“Well, at least let me or one of the stagehands walk you to your car. The garage is no place for you to be alone at this time of night.”

“I’m good. I parked close.” I look down at my shoes as I contemplate going back to my dressing room to change. “Quick change and I’ll be out of here. I hope Tamara is feeling better by Monday.”

In no time at all, I have my shoes stowed away with various other pairs that stay at the news studio and have my Chuck Taylors laced up. I have jeans and a top to change into, but I don’t want to take the time. As I reach for my purse, secured in the cabinet near my desk, I see the note:

Don’t leave without the red heels
.

I swallow as my pulse quickens. Slowly I look around the room. No one is supposed to come in here, not without me. Who left the note?

I shake off the feeling the note gives me, chalk it up to sleepiness, and crumple it into a ball. I reach for my purse and head out.

A short elevator ride and I’m in the parking garage.

Where’s my car?