Prologue

I never imagined waking up naked in the back seat of a 2006 Mercedes CL 500, but I knew if hell felt like that, I was going to say my prayers every night if I made it home. I couldn't tell if tears or blood trickled from the corners of my eyes—the familiar taste of iron teasing the tip of my tongue quickly answered that question.  Slowly, I gained consciousness. The harsh, fluorescent glare of an overhead light peeked beneath my blindfold. My wrists and ankles were bound, and the twine was a python biting into my flesh. I shifted my right hip to lie on my side, giving my leather-burned dick some relief. Funny that at that very moment, I pictured Constance wrapping her thick lips around it to cool me off—she was the same bitch who had landed me in the back seat. The searing gashes in the back of my head began to throb again, and I blacked out.

Connie stood in front of me. The room we were in was seemingly one big shadow. A spotlight shone down upon her from someplace I couldn't detect. Her entire body was laden with metallic green scales—she resembled a snake with full breasts, hips, and lips. Connie flicked her forked tongue out at me, and I winced. I was still bound by ropes, but to a chair this time.A cool draft caressed my groin, and I realized I wore nothing from the waist down. My dick hung limply but began to harden as the light pursued her naked body down to the black marble floor. She slithered towards me, and before I could blink, she was in between my legs.  Connie hissed and her jaws snapped open, revealing two very long and sharp fangs. I closed my eyes, sensing that she was going to clamp her lips around my dick—I knew it would be the most immense pain I could ever fathom. 

It turned out to be the complete opposite. When I opened my eyes again, this beautiful, bronze goddess appeared before me with tendrils that twisted down her back like vines. She was on her knees with her legs spread apart, pleasuring herself with nimble fingers. Greedily, her tongue lathered the shaft of my dick. I looked down in search of a thick coating of saliva, but only golden syrup dripped from her lips. It made me want her more. I noticed the same ambrosia running down either of her legs, pooling on the floor. She took note of my interest, stood up, and walked behind me. 

 Her breasts rested on my back as she leaned down to untie me. I rubbed my sore wrists, and my mouth watered in anticipation as she lay down on the floor in front of me. Her secretions became a golden river that ran the length of the marble floor. It rushed over her entire body, and every now and then, I caught a glimpse of her dark, taut nipples below the currents. She opened her legs for me, and the river split apart—now, it ran on both sides of her. Her body quivered, openly vulnerable. I knelt down between her thighs and inserted two fingers inside of her molten pussy. Her moans sounded like keys on a piano. 

I wanted to hear more—I wanted to hear an entire song. I took my other hand and thumbed her clit. Her ass lifted all the way off the floor until it seemed like she was floating. She rode my hand. I quickly removed my fingers from her throbbing pussy, and she whimpered for the return of my languid touch. I plunged my hand into my mouth and savored the rich taste of molasses. Before she had the chance to exhale, I hungered for it again. I ran the tip of my tongue from the bottom to the top of one of her pussy lips. I did the same to the other and teased her clit with my tongue in a rapid, circular motion. 

Her body jerked when I wrapped my lips around the firm nub and sucked. I blew on her damp vulva and gave it a French kiss. Connie began to twitch uncontrollably.

She came in my mouth until my teeth ached from the sweetness, and I dribbled down my chin. I gave her tiny pecks all the way up her body. I nibbled on one of her nipples while I massaged the other with my thumb and forefinger. I continued the trail with my lips until I found hers and slowly slipped my tongue inside her mouth. She kissed me back with fervor and explored every curve of my lips, loving the taste that belonged to her. I gripped her hair with one hand while I guided my dick inside of her with the other.  

I moaned when I felt the wet heat at the beginning of her canal. One inch. Two inches. Her pussy tightened around my dick as I filled her gently and deliberately. Connie's moans found a subtle harmony with my own. She opened her legs wider until she was doing a full split on her back. That drove me wild. I slipped my hands underneath her ass and did away with being gentle. I began to pound her pussy until my balls slapped against her ass cheeks. Connie's screams brought me to another place.

I was back in my room in my parent's New Jersey apartment. The muffled noises had awakened me. I was a nine-year-old kid in blue pajamas with little footballs covering them. I wiped the crust out of my eyes and climbed out of bed—I had peed through my sheets again, and my dad was going to be mad. I quietly tiptoed down the hall as the noises grew louder. My parent's door was slightly ajar, and I could see my mother on all fours while my dad hovered over her backside. They were both naked. I had overheard some of the kids at school talking about "doing it," but that was the only time I had caught my parents. My mother was crying, and I wasn't sure if he was supposed to be hurting her.

"You can't fuck no more either?" he snarled, and pushed her aside. The room reeked of alcohol. My mom fell on her face, and her sobs deepened.

"I'm trying, Tommy—it s . . . seems like I can't do anything to . . . to please you!"

"Are you saying this is my fault? Well, it's not my fault you can't fuck, you fucking prude! All you wanna do is lie on your back like a dead body! Do I need to find another broad that'll let me stick it up her ass?"

"You bastard!" she shouted, and began to pound on his chest. My dad shoved her back down and slapped her across the face. He held her down on the bed by the neck and slapped her relentlessly until I thought her head would fly off. My feet were glued to the carpet. 

"Don't you ever fucking touch me, bitch!" He began to shake her instead. "I'm gonna teach you to respect me!" He pulled her off the bed by her hair, and her body slammed against the floor with a nauseating thud. Dad rummaged through one of his drawers like a mad man and threw inanimate objects across the room. When he found the belt he was looking for, he snapped it tautly between his hands and turned to face her. 

 The belt buckle glinted in the light that came through the blinds. He looped the belt, held it above his head, and brought it down across her naked shins. Ma screamed and dragged herself across the coarse carpet to escape him. He moved towards her and struck her again. He continued to hit her until welts formed along her legs, and they began to bleed. Dad threw the belt down on the floor and grabbed a wine bottle off the nightstand. He poured the alcohol into her bloody sores, and she squealed like she was dying. I covered my ears and backed away from the door.

Tears ran down my face as I cowered in the hallway. I brought my knees to my chin and prayed to God that he would stop. The screams continued until I went deaf, and my ears began to ring.

The screams were suddenly my own. I was conscious again, all thanks to my brief nightmare. I waited for the men to come back and kill me . . .

                                                                                   Chapter 1

I met Connie about a year ago. She didn't call herself Connie though, at least not in her trade of entertaining men. I was traveling down from Staten Island, New York, itching to open another restaurant that served fine Italian cuisine.

Business was booming at Balducci's, but I couldn't pass up the prospect of earning more money in Virginia Beach—the Southern resort area was a virtual goldmine. Who knew that when I got down there, I would not only be putting money into a second restaurant, but a woman's thong as well?

As I cruised the interstate, I was remembering that morning I was scheduled to leave, because I had been fucking Sylvia—she was like a cold fish beneath me, and it was the first time I had ever slapped the shit out of my wife. 

It wasn't that we weren't attracted to each other, because we both took special pains to look exactly the way we did eight years ago when I was twenty-eight and she was twenty-six—we did everything from exercising to receiving facials together. Sylvia's tummy was still as flat as any teenager's, and women would kill for her ample breasts and rounded ass. Not to mention the onyx hair that cascaded down her back for days. 

My Mediterranean looks complemented her own—in the past, she could never keep her hands out of my shoulder-length, brownish hair or snatch herself away from my hazel eyes which had captivated her in the first place. I refused to look like the typical, spiky-haired, young punks on Staten Island.

 I had become a successful restaurateur when I made the transition from chef to owner—I took away most of the loyal patrons at the popular venue up the block I had sliced and diced for when those customers realized my cooking was going elsewhere.

Eventually, the place went out of business and the owner, Larry Pantone, went so far as to harass me at my then new establishment and make threatening phone calls to my home. The chaos ended not to long after that when the police escorted him out of Balducci's. I had never liked the greedy asshole anyway.  

But getting back to my dry, Saharan dick—I estimated two years of sexual tension, because the warmth in Sylvia's feline eyes disappeared shortly after the birth of Balducci's. She thought she wasn't number one anymore. The arguments had followed and then the short-lived, listless sex. I made the decision to name my second restaurant Venice, the city of my wedding proposal. I thought it would please her, but it didn't. She continued to stifle the intimacy I craved to punish me for my supposed lack of attention.

How many times did I have to convince her that we lived this way because of all my hard work? She didn't have to lift one damned, manicured finger. It was this thought that made me thrust into her with wild abandonment and anger to get some sort of reaction. 

Her vaginal muscles contracted and the left corner of her mouth twitched—I knew my wife's body, and there was no question in my mind that she wanted to succumb to my dick but was fighting the urge. My hair fell into my face like a psycho. I wanted to see her face twist in ecstasy, to feel the lock of her legs around my waist while she moaned my name like she used to. Yet, she pursed her lips even tighter, and when she rolled her eyes, I came inside of her from sheer frustration.

"Fuck!" I shouted.

"Wish you could," she muttered, flipping that luscious mane of silk over one shoulder. Her red talons clutched a Marlboro on the nightstand, and she lit it despite the tremors that pulsed through her fingers. She knew that a comment like that one could get her the silent treatment for a week, because that was how I dealt with my short temperament those days. I couldn't revert back to my old ways.   

When we first got together, Sylvia discovered the anger management classes I was forced to attend. After watching my drunken father beat the shit out of my mother on countless days and blacken a cashier's eye for saying "hello" to Mom the wrong way, it was no wonder my temper had been maniacal. I guess smashing a guy's Cadillac windshield, after he cut me off, with the bat in my trunk was enough for the judge to say, "You can pay a fine and go to jail, or you can take the classes." Road rage is a bitch.

Nonetheless, Sylvia, a paralegal at the time exiting the same courtroom I was sentenced in, was drawn to my chivalry and witty nature. Or at least that's the lie she told me for fear that if she admitted she simply wanted to fuck me, I would call her a slut.

I told her about my childhood. She didn't run away, like some of my ex-girlfriends, thinking I would turn out like my father. Anyway, I had never laid my hands on a woman. Okay, maybe I had shaken one or two, but I never hit them. Sylvia was a strong woman, a borderline bitch that could handle my temper, and I guess that's what made me fall in love with her.

Of course that morning I didn't really like her, so I ignored her comment and swung my legs over the side of the bed to slip on my cotton briefs. "I'm leaving for two months, and this is how you act?" I asked.

"You shouldn't be leaving at all. Not for two damned months anyway. How did you expect me to react?"

"I don't know how many times I have to explain to you that this isn't a vacation. It's a business trip that could benefit the both of us."

"Well, I'm tired of sitting in this house all day. I want to go back to work, Chris—I don't know why I let you talk me into leaving." I sighed impatiently.

"I thought we agreed that you didn't have to work anymore after my business took off."

"No, you agreed. And I'm really getting sick and tired of you trying to control me all of a sudden."

"Control you? Is it such a big deal that I don't think my wife should have to work? You should be grateful."

"Well, I can make my own decisions, thank you. I'm not your mother." My eyes turned into dangerous little slits, and I moved so close to her that I could hear her heart beating.

"What did you say?" 

"I said I'm not—" Before the last words could escape from her mouth, I knocked the spit out of it. I drew back my burning hand, and Sylvia looked at me in disbelief with a red handprint on her cheek. Even though she had pissed me off, I couldn't believe I had slapped her. I was instantly ashamed, and I turned away from her so that I could go to the bathroom where I wouldn't have to face her. 

All of a sudden, a sensational pain went up my spine. I spun around, and Sylvia was naked on her hands and knees, panting like a dog in heat on our bed.

The fury burned in her face, mirroring the cigarette that was still dangling from her pouty lips. I glanced towards the bathroom door and noticed the small, heart-shaped, fifteen-hundred dollar vase I had bought her on our third anniversary still rolling across the carpet. Sylvia gnashed her teeth, a sign that she was ready for war. 

"The next time you decide to put your motherfucking hands on me, you had better learn how to sleep with both eyes open!" She stubbed out the flimsy cigarette in her crystal ashtray. Thank God, she didn't hurl that at me. "You think I don't get a little upset that the only time you decide to fuck me is right before you make your business trips?"  She had every right to be angry with me after what I had done, but I, too, was angry with her for disrespecting my dead mother the way she had. I could see in her eyes that she might try to hit me again, but we were both seething and probably would have went at it the second time around. I walked away instead.

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