Authors: S. W. Frank
Tags: #Drama, #American, #African American
“I will have dinner prepared and perhaps you will sit and get to know Bruno. He really is a wonderful man, hijo.”
Alfonzo’s foot jerked, coño, was she capable of refraining from using that motherfucker’s name every other sentence, he wondered? “Mama, can you please stop talking to me about that guy. Before it was religion and now it’s some rich fart consuming the conversation.” He sighed. “Mama I don’t want you to get hurt.”
My eyes are open hijo. For too long I’ve suffered shame within myself, hungered for absolution of sin, striving to do right in God’s eyes. I am happy at the moment, pardon your madre, my Heavenly Father knows my heart. If I am wrong to love this man, then it is to the Creator I will answer. Do not intervene in an effort to shield me from pain; it is an inevitable malady of life.”
Alfonzo abandoned trying to talk sense to her. They were Diaz’, stubborn and passionate when they loved. “Okay, mama, nice talking to you, I’ll see you soon.”
“Buenos noche Alfonzo, give the children a kiss from Nana and tell your wife hello.”
“Um-hum, adios.” He slapped the screen, opened the top drawer on the nightstand and swept the phone inside and closed the damn thing. His mother was tripping. “He’s trying to buy you…c’mon ma damn. I should kill his ass, have him get into a fatal accident or inject rat poison in his beer…”
He turned over and saw his wife standing there in this shiny black string type get-up. She looked sexy-naughty. Her outfit was missing material at the nipples and he smirked, certainly the crotch area had the same strategic defect. What caught his attention and narrowing of the eyes in contemplation were the straps in her hands. His eyebrow rose in skepticism to question to her interest in BDSM. The role-playing on the honeymoon was fun, lightweight kinkiness and not a lifestyle change. Her smile as she approached held an innocence which he found enduring and conflicted with a subculture she knew little about.
Alfonzo slid up when she neared the bed. “Are those for me?”
The sweet smile and a, “Yes," followed.
“Reading books again?”
“Always,” she answered as airy as the interior wind.
He watched her eyes. They were uncertain, a novice and he became perturbed. “Babe,” he said flexing forward and taking her hand to stop her before she began whatever experimentation she’d planned and guided her to sit. “Look at me.”
She did and the confusion concerning his reluctance was evident. “What, you’re not interested?”
The pause was the answer before she said the truth. “I thought
might like it.”
“So you’re doing this for
and not out of
curiosity or a sexual fantasy?”
“Well, I’m not into this stuff, but I heard so much about it.”
He chuckled and shook his head in relief. “Esposa, if you’re not in to something don’t go against who you are and fuck what your heard. I don’t need to be bound, hog-tied or any of that shit to get sexually stimulated…c’mon…I look at you in jeans and my dick sprouts wings. My fetish is you.”
She tossed the straps on the floor. “I just wanted to keep you happy and sexually…”
He finished the sentence. “Fulfilled, is that what you were going to say?”
Geez, he was flattered that she’d step outside her comfort zone to please him. He was also somewhat saddened she didn’t know he loved her without gimmicks or the requirement of kinky sex to become aroused. She obviously had no idea about the hardcore side of BDSM. The term incorporated the crossover communities of Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, Sadism and Masochism. She hadn’t experienced the depths of any of these practices which at times got fucking deep. He’d seen enough to know, whatever she read in a book or researched on-line was an introductory course to pique the interest of likeminded individuals. It’s also a subculture where the unskilled or unenlightened could easily misconstrue passion for aggression and someone could get seriously hurt. Yes, trust in a partner is necessary, however, there exists people whose perversions are not evident until they switch and take on a Dominant role. Who knows the truth of what lies in any person’s mind? Making love shouldn’t be risky or dangerous, shit, he had enough of that outside of his home and didn’t need it in his bedroom.
He took her hand and placed it on his muscularly carved and tatted chest, the side where his heart pounded and pressed her palm inward for her to feel the timbre. She stared in his eyes and his words were clarification of what sparked his desire.
Alfonzo leaned close, his breath a mixture of heat and aged wine. The tone of his voice was deep and forceful, not to seduce, but to hammer home, their relationship wasn’t defined by what others did. Their relationship consisted of mutual respect, in and out of the bedroom. They were not BDSM people whose sexual enjoyment stemmed from perversions, nor did they need to imitate anyone else. There’s nothing shameful in admitting they had a belief system and it was simply to make love. “No toe cuffs, cords or any of that is needed to get me fired up. I’ll never subject you to anything which takes you out of your comfort zone. You’re my wife and I’ll always worship your mind and body. I won’t misuse any part of you babe because you’re my rib and it’ll be comparable to degrading me. I deal with viciousness outside these walls, and the whole BDSM isn’t for me. We shouldn’t need
words when making love, comprende?”
His hands slipped down her wrist and moved to the nipple peering at him from the opening of the flimsy garment slightly larger than suspenders. His finger circled the tip point and it instantly hardened. Her lips parted when he lowered his head to suckle the place he’d touched. She said his name when his hand spread her thighs to explore whether his suspicions were correct about the garment’s crotch –it was confirmed the moment his fingers touched her wet lips and pushed inside.
“Um,” she moaned, unaware his desire peeked the second she emerged in the outfit.
He pressed her to the bed, loving the way she gripped his head trying to pull him closer but he wasn’t finished with the exploratory expedition and stroked her clitoris several times for effect to display the useless requirement of props. His fingers were removed and he spread her legs open to orally taste the honey oozing from her open hive. His tongue lathed the corners of her lips, titillating and teasing with the tip. When his mouth connected with her feminine flesh, he made a seal to give her an oral French kiss.
“Ummmm,” she whined, flowing and thrusting to his mouth.
Her jasmine flavored skin and the fingers massaging his scalp were sensory overload. Damn, he couldn’t hold his need much longer and with one hand yanked down his shorts. He kicked them off in haste, sucked her hard before detaching his mouth and climbed upon the bed, and then palmed her knees with enough pressure to render her still to penetrate the crotchless garment, taking pleasure in the grunts stemming from her throat.
Every flaming stroke of his dick was a testament to his want of her. Each ripple and quake in response was of a woman in receipt of her husband’s love. He did not restrain her when she raised her torso, using his solid shoulders as an anchor. Nor, did he censure her mouth as she sucked hard on his neck in a passionate response. His palms were on the bed as she held on, pivoting and
rolling her hips just as eagerly in carnal hunger. They fed one another, give and take, unleashed, unbound and unrestrained.
Selange was his fetish, her skin his stimulant, her pussy
Dom and his heart
submissive. The arduous kisses which seared his neck transferred to his mouth. Alfonzo’s mouth was wider, his tongue longer, his possession unrelenting and this is the power of a man when his love is so strong he needs nothing but the object of his desire to turn it on.
Inside of his babe, touching loving skin, experiencing ecstasy when the world outside was dark is what gave him light. He needed tenderness more than ever before to balance the harshness of his violent life. His mouth became suction, pulling her soft perfumed skin, going outward to her cheek to lick her face, her neck as his body bent her back to the bed and her hair spread around her gorgeous face. Strong hands separated the tight fitting garment which partially bound her breasts and as he separated the material from skin it broke. A man enraptured by one woman’s flesh, whether loving or trusting when taken to a euphoric place beyond the mind can inadvertently cause harm.
Alfonzo was aware of his intense obsession. The feel of her pussy gripping his pulsing staff, keeping it warm with sticky honey as he thrust in and out with his mouth attached to her breast was an all-consuming fire. Any instruments to bind, whip or chain could easily unleash a closeted demon fueled by rage, therefore, he took no chances with his love because Selange took him outside of his head and his passion could become crimson.
He loved her intensely until the blackness dissolved. His release erupted within his honey in a tsunami of cum.
During the drowsy hours of night, they lay cuddled and he caught a sudden chill. His eyes flew open to see her asleep with a smile. Her breathing was undetectable, he looked to her breasts to ensure their rise and fall. Lou’s final words haunted him. His demons were the nightmares of a man with a conscience. There were so many deaths attributed to his name and the count increased each enemy, each friend. The rapid ice freezing him over was worse than anything he’d ever felt. He said a silent prayer in the dark. "
Forgive me father for every sin. What must I do, must I bleed; is love the purgatory, am I destined to cry tears of red on a battlefield and call it living?"
Selange snuggled closer; perhaps, she too had a premonition. Through a hazel colored gaze, she whispered. “Honey are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think you might’ve elbowed me or something.” He lied.
She gave a weary smile and returned to comfort’s slumber. He put an arm around her waist, tucked his chin to her hair as he shared her pillow. He kissed the top of her beautiful ebony locks. Selange was innocent, whether she knew it or not. Despite the tragedies she’d endured, she didn’t possess a decadent or perverse soul. Clutched to his body, was life and hope.
He wanted the doom to pass; sleep was no longer peace. When the sandman finally came, it was dawn.
Giuseppe stood in his mother’s kitchen, which was not an unusual place for him to be. He made no qualms about loving her cooking. Shanda was in the home, too, outdoors on the patio with Carlo talking to a very pregnant Ari. Giuseppe fingered one of the rolls set out on the counter, squeezed to test its freshness before placing the pastry in his mouth. He took another and received no reprimand from his mother as she and the cook busied themselves.
He would have eaten every delicacy had she not sauntered over after placing the lasagna in the oven to where he leaned with his elbows on the counter.
Sophie rubbed his shoulder as she went to the opposite of the marble island to face her son. “You cannot use children as weapons Giuseppe. I do not like what you have done.”
Giuseppe’s mouth tugged low. Shanda had spoken to his mother seeking an ally. He did not care. The woman deserved
harsh treatment after making him worry. She should be grateful he had not carried out the threat and spoke to her about family instead. She agreed to his terms for the bodyguards, which is the only importance. Gossip among women was for the bored with nothing substantive in their lives. This morning he dropped Shanda to his mother’s home on his way to work where he spent hours assuaging sour men’s fears about Timpico’s spiral out of control. The man had not spoken to the press since receiving the warning about mafia doings, yet Giuseppe’s gut told him, such a man would not remain silent long when emboldened.
Hungry and angry at the prima donna who hijacked his life, he glanced toward the patio door as the object of his derision entered carrying their son. She was pretty, extremely sexy in her short dress and heels. She smiled at the baby as she held his head gently to the cloth on her shoulder and addressed Giuseppe. “He’s tired. I’d like to take him home.”
“You are not staying for dinner?” Sophie asked.
“No thank you Mrs. Dichenzo, I’m tired and I think I need a nap, too.”
Giuseppe pushed from the counter, worry creasing his brow. He’d forgotten what the doctor advised. He wondered if she’d taken her vitamins as instructed. “Sí, I will take you home donna.”
Sophie spoke rapidly to the cook, instructing her to put plenty of food in containers for his son and Shanda. She could not let them leave empty-handed. When this was done and she exchanged farewells with her son, she went to the patio to sit with Nico’s woman.
“It’s beautiful here. I can sit for hours looking at your garden,” Ari said to her hostess.
Sophie nodded. “Yes, I love to see the flowers bloom as I eat. My husband and I spent many mornings here together.”
Ari noticed the wistful way in which Sophie spoke. To cheer her spirit she smiled. “Nico’s told me you are his surrogate mother. He says my cooking lack’s Sophie’s magic.”