Stealing Simone Page 5

  The tall, hook nosed Karkhov was anything but a friend. He was a blood sucking leech who, along with his muscle bound, steroid sucking brother Gregor, was going to own the company his family had worked so hard for over the years. That is, unless Simone Leary put her ass on the line. Literally.

  Mick figured he owed her some kind of warning at least. This was more than she'd signed on for. Hell, she should have the chance to run to the hills if she wanted, even if it meant a sure bullet to the back of his own head and a new name on the side of all the delivery trucks.

  "You wanted me, Mick?” Simone was in the doorway, her curvaceous body displayed to fine advantage in a red dress, cut to mid thigh. The V-neckline was modest, with a white trim. A double row of gold buttons graced the front of it. Had she picked this out special for tonight?

  "Yea. Come in, Sim. Have a seat on the couch."

  "The couch?” She raised an eyebrow. “This must be serious."

  He smiled thinly, not up for their usual banter. “Close the door behind you, would you?"

  Mick waited till she was comfortable, then moved to the front of the desk, half sitting half leaning. It was true, when he made her sit like this, it was all business. “It's like this, Sim,” he leaned down. “Tonight ... it's not exactly what I thought at first."

  "Oh?” She crossed her long legs playfully, showing as yet no sign of anxiety. “Don't tell me there are going to be farm animals involved?"

  Mick swallowed a chuckle. “Um, not exactly."

  "Korean midgets, then? Wrestling in whipped cream? Come on, Mick, I've used up my twenty questions, give me a hint."

  "It's whips, Simone. These guys are into whips and chains."

  Sim had no witty comeback for this. On the other hand she hadn't gotten up to slap him in the face yet either.

  "I swear to god, kiddo. I had no idea."

  She crossed her hands in her lap. “So are they sadists?” She asked softly. “Do they like to hurt women?"

  "Not pain so much as domination,” he said, turning salesman. “No blood, nothing like that."

  "But they will whip me,” she confirmed.

  Mick sighed. “Yes. That's the plan."

  When she looked up again there was a light in her eyes. One he'd never seen before. “Tell me, Mick. Tell me that I have to do this because you're my boss and you're making me."

  He cocked his head, trying to figure out where she was coming from. “That's the thing, Sim. I ... I can't make you. It's not right."

  "Yes,” she countered. “You can. You can tell me what to do ... and I have to do it."

  "Simone, have you been drinking?"

  She smiled, cat-like. “I don't need to, not to know what I want in life."

  Mick didn't know where this was going, but it was time to put on the brakes. “Look, I know you're just trying to be brave here, but—"

  Simone was on her feet. “Hush,” she put her finger to his lips. “You don't have to apologize anymore. This is fate, I'm sure of it. I'm supposed to be your servant. I'm supposed to do this for you."

  He sat paralyzed as she pulled the dress over her head. How many times had he seen this woman's body, and yet it was different now. “Oh, baby,” he breathed, unable to help himself, getting a load of her in matching red silk underwear, “you're too damned beautiful."

  "Beautiful enough to fuck,” she murmured. “Not to marry. That's what mama always said."

  Mick's radar went back up. He didn't like all this half crazy talk. It was like she was in some kind of trance. “Simone, you're scaring me. Talk to me, girl. Let me know you're in there."

  She just laughed as he gripped her upper arms. “Of course I'm in here. I'm yours. All yours. You do love me, don't you?"

  "Simone, this isn't the time to talk about—” His intended obfuscation was rendered moot by a kiss.

  Her lips were soft and nibbling, giving and needy. There was no denying what the young woman wanted, and no refusing it, either.

  "Take me,” Simone whispered.

  Mick flipped them around, so it was her on the edge of the desk. Without a word, he pulled down her panties over her hips. She was warm to the touch, almost burning, her pink lips swollen with desire.

  "Oh, god,” she cried throatily, kicking the fallen underwear from her ankles. “Do it to me. Brand me, Mick. Tell me what I have to do for you tonight."

  Mick was feverishly tearing at his pants. “You have to fuck,” he said, getting totally caught up in her verbal power play. “You have to fuck a roomful of gangsters."

  "The whip,” she reminded, pushing herself against him as he plunged his dick home. “Tell me about the whip."

  "Yes ... the whip. They'll lash your soft skin. They'll mark you like ... like some kind of animal."

  Simone cried out, wrapping her legs tight around his waist. “An animal ... oh ... yes..."

  In the back of his mind, and hell, even in the front of it, he knew this wasn't right. He was taking advantage of her in yet another way. Apparently the young woman had some fantasies in this masochistic direction and she was using them to prepare herself for tonight.

  He couldn't fault her. She was going to have to find some way to survive. Unless he could somehow find the strength to call it off. Could he do that, summon the will for one decent, moral act, for once in his life?

  "Sim, sweetheart, no.” Mick pulled back, disengaging. “I'm sorry, I can't let this happen. I can't let any of it happen."

  Simone looked at him, moist eyed, lost. “Can't let any of what happen?"

  "The thing at the hotel. It's off. I don't want you going anywhere near the place."

  "But Mick, your debt."

  Mick felt the various emotions welling up in him, too many to deal with effectively at the moment. “I said it's off, Sim,” he employed a tone designed to put her off quickly. “Do you not understand English?"

  "I understand if just fine,” she shot back. “But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

  "Well it's not your call, Simone. It's mine. And if you question me again, you'll be looking for another job. Is that clear?"

  The jab hit behind her eyes, definite pain which she moved quickly to conceal.

  "Clear as day, sir,” she replied, picking up her underwear and smoothing down her dress. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

  "Yes, Simone. You're dismissed. But I better not hear about you causing me any more trouble, do you here? Don't look at me like that, the word is all over the place how you're back talking me."

  He might as well have stabbed her in the heart with his engraved desk pen this time. It was a preposterous thing to say, groundless, but under the circumstances, he hoped it would be just the nail he needed to finish sealing the coffin on this woman's dangerous fantasy life where he was concerned. He was probably running her out of his real life, too, but that would be just fine if it saved hers.

  Mick heard her softly sobbing as she disappeared down the wall. He felt like the world's biggest scumbag, even though it had all been designed to set her free from the insanity that had become his existence.

  She'll thank me, he thought. If not now, then at his funeral, which was bound to be any day now.

  "I'm sorry, pops,” he whispered to the portrait of the old man behind his desk. “I fucked up, I know I did."

  His scowling father offered no reply, confirming what Mick already knew. He was on his own, morally as well as financially. There was really only one way out now, one last chance to save his family any further disgrace. The question was did he have the courage to act on it.

  * * * *

  Martin pumped his leg up and down, his hands rubbing his denim clad thighs. They were in Charlie's den, the whole group of them watching the surveillance tape. He didn't feel this was necessary, not at all. He and Charlie had already screened it, verifying that the camera had captured the required images. Simone Leary engaged in sexual intercourse with her married employer over his desk. Her panties off, her legs jackknifed, his stubby c
ock like a piston. It was the real deal, just what they needed for blackmail, as well as the perfect entrée to capture and use the girl without fear of repercussion.

  So why show it to the others? That was Martin's argument. Why did they need to see the evidence, too? Didn't they trust Charlie and him?

  "Lighten up, buddy,” Charlie had slapped his hand on Martin's shoulder an hour ago. “They're gonna be porking her for real come tomorrow, so what difference does it make if they watch her in action ahead of time? Gives them incentive, if you think about it."

  It was logical; Martin had to concede that. “I Guess I just don't want to share good jerk off material,” he grinned, trying to cover the real reason, which was that Simone was the love of his life and he couldn't bare for anyone to see her this way.

  "She hot enough for you, boys?” Charlie grinned now, hitting the rewind to get another look. Time number three to be precise. “You hear how she loves talking about the rough stuff? Hell, all I'll have to do is blow her a little kiss, shake my whip and she'll come running."

  Of course they weren't going to just blow her a kiss or play sex games, were they? They were going to grab her in the parking garage, put her in the back of a temporarily ‘liberated’ van, drug her with chloroform and take her to Charlie's basement underneath their very feet, where she would be tied to a bed, have her clothes cut from her body and serve as a virtual sex slave for an entire weekend.

  If Charlie had been expecting a laugh for his weak joke, he had the wrong crowd. The diminutive janitor Lucien had his eyes glued to the screen, glazed over like some kind of demented elf at Christmas. His cock was poking at the fly of his uniform jump suit, which he was still wearing three hours after quitting time.

  The Russian, Uchenko, was the freakiest of all. Every minute or so, he would get up and leave the room and then come back. It would seem as if he weren't paying attention at all, and then he would mutter something under his breath in Russian. By the third screening, he stopped reacting at all. He just stood against the wall, leaning, hands in his pockets.

  As far as Martin was concerned, Uchenko and Lucien were both certifiable. And so was Charlie for coming up with a plan like this. Just watching this tape felt wrong, criminal, even. How would he ever confront Simone Leary in person? Having her photos, or playing Sim-sim with her was different-this was an out and out violation of her person they were contemplating.

  What a fine person it was, though, her body everything he'd dreamed of and more, so passionate and expressive, so alive. It was clear she would give her all to that one man she loved, and Martin was more and more determined that man would be him.

  These others were in this for quick sex. They'd have nothing to show for it when it was all over. Except maybe a nice collection of rape charges. He, on the other hand, intended to woo her into his loving arms. It was clear fate had provided him this opportunity to be with her, and he would not squander it. Even if that meant dealing with these absurd, barbaric men along the way.

  Even Jenkins, whom he thought he knew so well, now seemed nothing but a bully, intent on forcing himself on Simone, albeit under the guise of being a ‘slave master.’ Which, judging by the man's wife, meant nothing more than the fear and intimidation of a young woman by a much older one.

  He himself was just eight months fifteen days older than Simone, which made them a perfect match. They had other things in common, too, and he'd compiled quite a lot of statistics on that, using his abilities to search identities. He knew things about her she probably didn't know herself. Which was fine, because he had the rest of his life to share it all.

  One day, after they'd been married twenty or thirty years, they would be able to share a g rated version of this story of how they came together with their grandkids. The best damned love story of all time-or at least one of the most unusual.

  "Chips, master?” It was dara, the naked hostess, with a bowl of tostadas and warm, gooey cheese. She was leaning forward, naked, her cow-like breasts dangling nearly to the surface of the steaming cheese.

  "No, thank you,” he said, fighting back an image of her nipple dipped in cheese and him sucking on it. “I'm not hungry."

  Charlie's nineteen-year old wife was sexy, that was for sure. And well trained in the sack, too, according to her husband and self proclaimed owner. The first time he'd met her, Charlie had had the girl squat and show him how well she could clench her pussy muscles. His friend had offered dara to Martin many times since, for a quickie or even overnight. He'd refused each time because of Simone, though he never gave that as his reason.

  "I'm not gay,” was all that Martin would say, and Charlie would always reply that he believed him.

  "Dara,” Charlie ordered the girl. “Go and suck Master Lucien's cock."

  "Yes, master.” The girl put the tray down on the coffee table. Though she was trained to call all men master, it was clear to whom her real allegiances lay and to whom her supple young flesh belonged.

  Wearing nothing but her collar and a pair of gold hoop earrings, dara got down on her knees in front of the janitor. He sat absolutely still, letting her unzip his coveralls. He wore a colored t-shirt beneath it, black, under which she ran her hands. To the best of Martin's knowledge, she had never laid eyes on this man before, but she would serve him with perfection and total passion simply because Jenkins had told her to do so.

  He did not know what limits if any the girl had. Martin had once asked what would happen if she really did put up a fuss about something. Would he force her?

  "Nope,” Jenkins had said matter-of-factly. “I would just put her ass out on the street. Plain and simple."

  And what an ass it was. Full and voluptuous, Ruebenesque, like the rest of her, not all skin and bones like most girls today. She'd been some kind of runaway, from out of some abuse situation. There was supposedly rape in her childhood, too. Martin supposed that Jenkins, for all his power trips, was probably the best man she'd ever had in her short life.

  Sure, he kept her in a cage and fed her from a dish on the floor, but she seemed to like it well enough. Martin could see how aroused she got from the domination. Charlie was trying to say that Simone was this way, too, and the tape was the proof. Was Martin going to have to be her master to win her love, then? It was a strange idea, one he would have to get used to.

  Strange, but not impossible. Even now, looking at dara as she licked obediently around the Haitian's shaft, he could see an appeal, a certain advantage to owning one's mate. Perhaps that was what he'd been waiting for, with his Simone screen saver and the Sim-sim. Could it be he wanted her for his collared pet, under his total control, like Charlie Jenkins owned dara?

  If so, he would find out soon enough.

  "May I?” asked the Haitian politely of Charlie, indicating he would like to pinch the slave's nipples.

  "Of course,” said Charlie. “My property is yours. That goes for everyone in this room."

  Dara whimpered, her mouth shoved full of cock.

  "I thank you,” said the genteel but hungry-eyed janitor, his voice reflecting the lilt of his French Creole accent.

  "Not at all. If she fails to please you, she knows she will be beaten."

  Lucien made a sighing sound, like a man shooting up with heroin. His fingers were anything but slack, though, as they pinched shut on the girl's tiny nubs.

  "Faster, girl,” crooned the man, urging her on as he brought her to a level of what Martin could only assume was excruciating pain.

  Dara slipped her hands behind her head and moved into full slave mode. Lucien fucked her face, grimacing very slightly at the effort he was making. A couple more grunts followed and then his orgasm. Dara took down mouthful after mouthful of his sperm, like the man had been storing it up since he'd got off the boat.

  "Yes,” the man exhaled at last. “Fine. Very fine."

  Martin suppressed an amused snort. It was like he'd just sampled some fine wine or something.

  "Uchenko,” said Jenkins, who seemed as concer
ned as Martin about the Russian's agitation level. “Why don't you let dara give you a little attention, too? Ease some of that stress."

  Which was a joke, because the only stress Uchenko could ever have in the mailroom might be opening some package of anthrax once in a blue moon. Given the look of this guy, though, anthrax was probably something he sprinkled on his breakfast cereal every day.

  "Nyet,” said Uchenko, in a tone that brooked no arguments.

  "No problem,” soothed Charlie. “Dara, get us some beers."

  "Nyet,” repeated the man, rising to his full, muscular six-foot two-inch height.

  Martin looked at Charlie who seemed as flipped out and clueless as he was.

  "It's all right,” said Jenkins. “She's not going to touch you. I was only making a suggestion."

  Uchenko's eyes were a gray version of Lucien's brown ones. Wild, impassioned, lit by some light very far away and not of this humdrum suburban world. He was pointing to himself, obviously trying to communicate something. “Uchenko...” he pronounced his name as though it contained the key to his entire character and behavior. “Not want slave's mouth."

  Yes ... this much was clear. But what did he want?

  "Uchenko ... take ass."

  Even Lucien's attention was attracted by that remark. If Uchenko's neck and wrist size were any indication, there was no way Charlie's sweetly hipped, barely five foot tall wife could handle his fully extended manhood.

  "Ahh,” said Jenkins, pleased to have cleared up the communication gap. “Well why didn't you say so? She's all yours, my friend."

  Uchenko seized hold of her roughly. It was the first time he'd ever heard dara scream.

  "Slap her,” Jenkins told the Russian. “It will quiet her down."

  Uchenko did so, promptly putting her over the edge of the couch. Lucien, not missing a beat, slid over so he could put her head in his lap again.

  I feel like I'm on some kind of perverted situation comedy, Martin laughed to himself. And the scary part is, the real action hasn't even begun yet.

  * * * *

  Simone was determined not to call the man. No matter how low she felt, she was not going to stoop to begging Randy for his half-baked attentions anymore. On the other hand, she was not going to hang around her apartment in flannel pajamas eating ice cream and hosting a one-woman pity party, either.