Own This Body

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Own This Body

  by Reese Gabriel

  ISBN: 978-1-937831-45-5

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2005 Reese Gabriel

  All rights reserved

  Chapter One

  Eavesdropping is never a good thing to do. Especially if you let it distract you while you’re supposed to be running for your life. The pair I was eyeing ahead of me in line at the LAX security check was a young couple arguing in French. I knew the language well, both textbook and gutter versions. The boy, who was around twenty, was trying to convince the girl to give him oral sex in one of the men’s room stalls on the other side of the gate. She was a pretty little thing, in her late teens with one of those bodies that make men drool: high, peaked breasts, healthy legs and calves, and a smooth, flat belly, all displayed to best advantage in a short, clingy dress.

  “You’re a sex fiend,” she was telling him, thrusting out her chest defiantly. The posture brought out the buds of her nipples all too clearly. If she’d had a bra on, it would have been wasted. Older girls, over-the-hill-cows past the bloom of youth like me, hate females like this. They don’t have to wear underwear and can throw a dress over their head and a slip on a couple of flip-flops and look gorgeous.

  “I won’t do it,” she stamped a sandaled foot, the nails turquoise on her perfect toes. The girl’s cheeks were flush and she was tossing back her braids—a pair of sand- colored pigtails that made her look like the lead part in one of those classic farmer’s daughter jokes. “Do you hear me? I’m tired of this shit,” she told him.

  Merde for shit. A good description of my entire world, as it so happened.

  The young Frenchman was just looking at her now, a slanted grin on his boyishly rugged face. He was a handsome devil, in a bad boy sort of way. Thick biceps peeked from under a black T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was wearing tight belted jeans and a pair of motorcycle boots. The tattoo on his arm spelled out “Hell Catcher” in French.

  His silence—he was just standing there, arrogant and sexy, like a tiger or some other big cat—seemed to discomfit the girl as much as it did me.

  “I’ve had enough,” she decided at last, turning away.

  The Hell Catcher moved like a bolt of lightning. Gripping her upper arm, he spun her back around. Before she had a chance to react to this, he was on her, reaching around to her backside with his other hand.

  Heavy and ham-like came the smack across the girl’s tight, pert ass cheeks.

  I gasped in sympathy, gulping air in a quick reverse hiccup. My body tense as a cable, I waited for her next move. Would she slap him, run away, or scream? Others had seen it, too, but no one dared to react.

  The hand was still there, insolent, possessive. He wasn’t relenting, wasn’t backing down. A moment later, the farmer’s daughter blinked. When the pretty blue eyes reopened, they were moist, liquid.

  “Rene,” she purred, pressing herself to his chest. “Forgive me.”

  Rene took both of her pigtails in his hand and used them as a handy means to yank her head smartly for his kiss that was obviously hard and punishing. She made no complaint, allowing him full access to her ruby lips along with anything else he might desire. Both his hands were on her sides now, running down the length of her like she was some piece of merchandise he was checking over.

  When he finally released her, she was moaning softly, craving more.

  “Later,” he promised, pressing his index finger between her lips where his tongue had been a moment ago. “After the belt.”

  The girl shuddered head to toe. I looked at the thick leather at his waist strung through the denim loops. Did he intend to beat her?

  “Mmm,” she purred, her eyes surrendering to his piercing gaze as he let her suckle at his finger for a while.

  “In the toilet,” he told her, his voice barely audible. “You will suck for money.”

  Now it was my turn to shudder. He was talking about prostitution. This sweet, innocent little girl was going to be forced to fellate strangers for cash. In the men’s room of an airport. On her knees on the cold tile.

  I wanted to protest, but nothing was coming out of my mouth. The fact that between my legs, underneath my jeans I was now wet, and ready myself wasn’t helping my case any.

  “Please empty your pockets, sir,” said the TSA officer to Rene.

  He pulled a wallet from his jeans and turned to me, a big fat grin on his face. Had he read my mind—sensed my indignance, my secret need?

  I scowled at him as convincingly as possible. He just chuckled, winking as the guard waved him through the metal detector. The girl, curious, looked over her shoulder. Seeing it was another woman, she made cat’s eyes at me.

  Keep away, the eyes said. I’m the only whore he needs.

  How pathetic. Blowing strands of unruly, coal-black hair from my face, I tossed my purse onto the conveyor belt. Whether it was my attitude or just the fact that I had on my tightest jeans, I was promptly selected for hand search.

  “Please step over here, ma’am, and take off your shoes.”

  I slipped off the sneakers, baring both my feet to the little bald man with the wand. Before he asked, I put out my arms. I’m not afraid of men—never have been. My Daddy called me Raven not just because of my hair, but because of my sharp claws and piercing green eyes. Single minded and predatory, as he liked to put it in his inimitable way.

  Well, I didn’t feel so predatory now. Two years into my venture capital enterprise in the commodities market and I was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, several mil in the red, with a list of creditors that included by way of third party proxy (and herein lay the main reason for my quick getaway from Chicago to New York) one Silvio Galentano, head of the Galentano crime family.

  “They’re real,” I pushed out my D cups, noticing how his eyes kept focusing on the payoff part of my torso. "If you want to check.”

  Fighting back the pink from his cheeks, he made the obligatory wave of the wand. Up and down, giving wide berth to my crotch and ass. If there were a heat meter on the thing, it would be going off right now. Which surprised me, because while I like kink, I never thought of myself as much of a BDSM girl.

  BDSM, as in little French dolls whose boyfriends spank their ass in public and tell them that they are going to be enjoying a little preflight snack in the lavatory—of the high protein sort.

  Not that we didn’t play games in college—Shari and Lori and me and the other sorority sisters, especially Jennifer, whom I was on my way to see in New York. Jenn-Jenn was the ring leader, and if it weren’t for her, I’d have had no idea what it felt like to be a tied up as a poker prize for a night or made to crawl around a cemetery at half past two under a full moon wearing nothing but a Doberman collar and a metal leash.

  The good old days.

  Lately, the only sex I was getting was quickies on CEO desktops or in the back seats of padded limos, my head propped up against the fully stocked wet bar while some slick-haired Trump Junior prods me with his portfolio.

  The white uniformed troll man waved his wand at me, indicating my safe passage into the Emerald City of departures. “You’re clean,” he said, already moving on to his next victim.

  Clean. Now there was a laugh. What I was at this point was screwed, in every way except the one way I really needed.

  “Ma’am please step over here and open your purse, for us, please.”

  TSA officers began to swarm round me at t
he table. My bag had been deemed suspicious and was now being plunked down in front of me, evidence of my impending guilt.

  “I want you to know,” I cleared my throat. “I really appreciate the work you all do to protect us citizens.”

  I was stalling because I was pretty sure what they’d found on their little X-ray screen was my vibrator. Red-faced, I pulled out items one at a time till only the long battery-operated cylinder remained, silver, with a fleshy, orange tip.

  “And this would be…” the matron began as I reluctantly set the object on the artificial wood grain tabletop.

  “A device. It’s a…device.”

  A supervisor had arrived and was frowning. “This isn’t allowed.”

  “What is it?” asked a freckle-faced junior officer, looking hopeful that they’d nabbed a real terrorist.

  There were snickers, quickly suppressed by the senior man.

  “That’s enough. Ma’am, you’ll have to check this with your baggage.”

  I picked the vibrator up numbly, a million eyes on me. Head hung, hiding as much of me as I could behind my jet-black locks, I took the dreaded thing and skulked out of sight looking for the first available trash can. If they thought I was going to have a vibrator put into my suitcase at this stage of the game, they were crazier than the fools who’d actually trusted me with their money to play the stock market.

  Crazier even than myself, who’d trusted the whole damned bundle to one Jeremy Rich, a lousy lay and an even lousier friend. Right now the bastard was on some island, sucking down the blue Curacao while I was having my life dissected before my eyes.

  Forty minutes later, mercifully, I was sitting on the plane, my buttocks gloriously ensconced in a first class seat on Flight 1550 to JFK, the high rent berth being the result of some frequent flyer miles that no one had figured out yet how to cheat, impound or freeze on me as of yet.

  Closing my eyes, I began to count the sky perks that would soon be mine. Champagne, hot towels, oysters Rockefeller and a flight attendant that had actually learned my name by takeoff and offered to fluff my pillows.

  It was then I heard a man speaking French. A raspy bass I’d become all too familiar with. Gripping the seat, I took the plunge, opening my eyes and turning my head. Sure enough, there they were sitting directly across from me—the poster couple for Bondage Bride magazine, or was it Spanker’s Quarterly?

  So one of them had money. There were no rings, hence no marriage. A rich daddy was in the works somewhere. The girl was sitting by the aisle, flip flops off, bare painted toes already dug into the plush. Rene was busying himself his hand on her knee, looking like he was going to slide it higher, much higher.

  It was then she turned to me, the little dribble at the corner of her mouth. It was thick and white. Semen, unmistakably. Heavy lidded, like a sated cat, she beheld me now, dabbing at the substance with her tongue, pulling it back behind her lips and teeth.

  I gripped the armrest until my knuckles were white. How many men had she devoured? And how much money had Rene collected off his slinky little girlfriend, with her wholesome cheeks and eminently spankable ass?

  Later, he’d promised, they’d have sex. . . after the belt.

  Leaning across now, Rene saw that I was watching them. He seemed pleased, though his face bore little expression. Wordlessly, he took the girl’s face for a kiss. He used his tongue this time, prying open her soft, small mouth. Denying him nothing, she arched her back and parted her legs in anticipation, almost as if Rene’s tongue were capable of flicking like a lizard’s at her breasts, or snaking down even lower between those other lips.

  She was clearly ready for him. With her neck stalked and her palms turned up in her lap, there was little doubt she would take Rene’s cock to the hilt at a stroke—right here on the plane if he wished it. The pair continued necking, all the way through the boarding and flight instructions. Rene was taking his time, savoring her. We were in the air with the seatbelt light off when he finally reached home plate. I had to clench my own thighs together, because I knew he had found a wet, hot home. Round and round moved his probing fingers, priming her, forcing from her that most elemental of female impulses: the desire to succumb to the male. Looking around, I searched for an attendant, someone in uniform. Surely someone would put a stop to this?

  My nose ostensibly in a flight magazine, I tried to block out the unfolding scene. It was outrageous. Her mouth still imprisoned, the young French beauty was being molested, raped by Rene’s digits, made to humiliate herself with moans and sighs in a setting and time not of her own choosing.

  “Sir, please!” cried one of the flight attendants at long last, a pert, formerly perky blonde now stricken with corporate, not to mention moral, alarm.

  Rene looked up at her with non-comprehending eyes. “No speak English,” he shrugged helplessly, though I’d heard him conversing fluently with the security officers only a short while earlier.

  The attendant’s mouth dropped a notch lower as Rene flipped up his girlfriend’s dress, revealing the bare, shaved pussy he’d been heretofore fondling under cover.

  The girl was squirming under all this exposure, not to mention the imposed masturbation, but she made no move to resist as he pushed the button on the arm of her seat, reclining her sweetly tormented body. The motion seemed to increase the friction of Rene’s finger over her clitoris, thereby causing her eyes to glaze over.

  “Lover,” she crooned, looking up at him with the awe I’d hitherto associated only with ancient gods and their subjects. “I am yours.”

  “Does anyone here speak French?” the stewardess was calling out now, no doubt feeling as foolish as she sounded. “Because unless this stops, we are going to have to turn this plane around.”

  That was all the incentive I needed. By now the Galentano heavies were probably infesting the entire airport, wiping out the rolling sunglass cart and sushi bar.

  “I can,” I announced, not bothering to wait for permission to proceed, rattling off in French, “Cut the shit, Rene. Take your hand out of your girlfriend’s box and try treating her like a lady, at least for the rest of the trip.”

  If he was surprised that I spoke his native tongue nearly as well as he did, he gave no indication. Removing the offending fingers, he smoothed down the girl’s dress, covering the hem of it in her own sex juices. As if to punish me, then, he pinched her nipples one by one as soon as the attendant had moved on.

  “Her name is Marie,” Rene was telling me. “Say hello, Marie.”

  Marie, who’d been on the verge of orgasm when Rene had let go of her, turned towards me, her head still reclined. “Hello,” she said softly, all the earlier fire she’d thrown my way long vanished. “Mademoiselle.”

  Marie fell asleep shortly after this, on Rene’s shoulder. Some time later, he woke her and the attendant gave her a blanket, which she used to cover her midsection. The lights had been dimmed and as she pulled her legs up onto the seat, planting her naked heels on the cool leather, it was all too clear what Rene expected of her next.

  I tried to read my book, a paperback I’d picked up at the airport. I got through exactly two pages in the next hour, while Marie got through at least five stifled orgasms.

  I burned with anger. The bastard was clearly forcing this on her, making Marie pleasure herself like a slut, a horny little bitch. The hell of it was, I was getting turned on. . . to the point where I was ready go to the bathroom and masturbate myself. Except that I was afraid Rene would figure out what I was there for, and if it was the last thing I ever did, I was determined to deny him the satisfaction of knowing he’d aroused me against my will.

  The book sucked, anyway. It was one of those trashy romances where the cookie cutter couple has cookie cutter sex under a cookie cooker sunset and everybody lives tedious cookie cutter lives ever after. I mean, come on, who can take this stuff seriously when the same man’s face is on the cover of every book?

  I was giving myself a headache, so I opted to just close my eyes.
One of the things my aroma therapist and crystal consultant always says is that you have to imagine a future before you can have it. Pulling a lavender gem inset with extract of lemon out of my purse for courage, I pinched the bridge of my nose and thought of Jennifer, perky and glowing, coming for me at the head of an army of angels ready to bail me out of my seemingly bottomless woes.

  The lemon made me sneeze. Who was I kidding? The best I could hope for—and this in itself would be a miracle—was that for once Jenn-Jenn had hooked up with a half way decent man, someone whose idea of a surprise engagement present didn’t include revelation of a criminal record or a pre-existing marriage or two in some other state. Don’t get me wrong, I love the girl like a sister, but she thinks with her plumbing and ever since college she’s been trying to live a life based on our risqué sex games.

  “Rave, take the first flight out here,” she’d bubbled on the phone. “Harold can take care of everything—everything, Rave, I mean it this time.”

  Maybe. When it came to Jenn-Jenn, you took everything with a sack of salt, at least. The really scary thing was, this was my last shot. Other than the Galentano family, the only ones who had any interest in my ass anymore would be the Feds, who any day now might be indicting me for a half dozen crimes too complicated to explain without a legal dictionary.

  “You are dreaming of me, perhaps?”

  The hair on the back of my neck prickled. It was him, next to me, entirely too close. Damn, how had he gotten all the way over here? Was I that out of it?

  I tried to look at him casually—a mixture of utter contempt and stinging indifference masking my true feelings. “Forget our seat number, did we?”

  Rene grinned, entirely too proud of having sneaked past my defenses to occupy the vacant seat beside me. “I like you,” he decided. “When we get to New York, perhaps I will take you to bed.”

  I arched a brow, thick and as dark as my hair. Ordinarily this part of my anatomy was a nuisance, requiring constant plucking, but on certain occasions, it came in handy. Like when I needed to put a cocky man in his place.