BREAK - A Bad Boy Romance (71 page)

"If the police are after me,” I began, “and you thought that I was responsible for the lives of those men and for the current whereabouts of those women and that child, then why did you let me live?"

My hands were folded on the table, and I made direct eye contact with him. I had to know where he stood on the matter before moving forward in any capacity.

"Let's just say I don't always agree with the story that's provided to me by the police. Besides, if I wanted you in prison, all I had to do was inform the police of your whereabouts, which wouldn't have been too much of a problem. Even if you had killed me, the chances of you getting off this island without police awareness are slim to none."

The man laughed.

I figured that he was some kind of manic conspiracy theorist, but then I thought about the situation more thoroughly. It seemed likely that his intuition was correct. He hadn’t turned me in, and had I killed him, I would have been an amnesiac in a lot of trouble. I woke up at no idea where I was at, or what was going on in the world around me. I could've figured it out. I'm sure my training would have kicked in eventually. However in the larger scheme of things, having no money, no passport, no weapon, no identification, and a warrant for my arrest — what a fucking challenge that would have been.

The man sat there, rolling his stubbed out cigarette in his hand. He had a pensive look on his face, and the room smelled like ash. The fisherman nodded to himself, as though he were forming a conclusion in his mind.

"I know what you need, and I know how you're going to get it, but it's not going to be easy."

"I agree with you," I said. "I don't think anything here on out is going to be easy, not until I get stateside, and even then, I’ll have to answer for a flopped mission and collateral damage.”

"I don't expect you to tell me everything,” the man said, “but I would at least like to know if you're innocent."

He was staring at me from across the table, and I could tell that there was more to be had in our conversation, but he wanted to get something clear first. I couldn't turn him down. I understood why he would want to have that kind of clarity.

When you stick your neck out for someone, you want them to be able to respond to you. You want them to be able to justify why your behaviors were in alignment with a greater good. I knew that responding to this man's questions were just as relevant to the safety of the public as they were to his own ethical navigation.

I shook my head.

"I didn't kill any hostages. At the very least, I can tell you that with certainty. My team and I--”

"So there are more of you," he asked, raising his eyebrows in alarm.

“Not anymore. Seeing my weapon and the dog tags jogged my memory. If my mind can be trusted, I think I was the only one that made it out.“

The man nodded grimly.

“Then, you're aware that the police sustained injuries as well.”

"Of course," I replied, thinking about the final attack on the terrorist who had approached our team from behind the stairs.

If I hadn't taken the initiative to shoot that person, it's likely that they would have shot us both or the very least they would've shot my friend. The police might have interpreted the last terrorist and me as being on the same side. With those kinds of assumptions in effect, the terrorist might have even shot at the police, causing a firefight and presenting my escape. I could've been dead, instead of sitting here at this table with a grizzled fisherman.

"I can't be certain about it,” I continued, “but it seems to me like the whole thing was a setup. Our goal was to assassinate the leader of a dangerous terrorist organization, and instead, we found ourselves in a hostage scenario, fighting untrained gunmen."

"What makes you think they are untrained," he asked, twirling his cigarette in his hand nervously.

"I've spent enough time in training to know what a battle ready soldier looks like, and what a new recruit looks like when they fight. Any battle ready soldier wouldn't have made the same mistakes that the soldiers made. They went down too easily, they also didn't have any effective organization. They didn't respond well to the element of chaos present in the scenario. In retrospect, it seems to me like they were nothing more than fodder."

"Fodder?"

He stroked his beard pensively, while staring me hard in the eyes. I could tell that he wanted to break through to the source of this thing. I could tell he was a critical man, a man who didn't take things at face value.

"There was something wrong with that entire experience," I said, brooding over what details I could bring to my mind. "We were supposed to assassinate the leader, and instead, we found entrapped hostages and incompetent militia.”

"I agree," the man said. "It doesn't add up.”

I sat in silence for a moment and allowed myself some time to reflect. I was relieved that the man believed me, but that didn't mean that the entirety of my predicament was going to be alleviated anytime soon. My mind was spinning, attempting to secure a single place where I could start; some way that I might be up to gain ground.

"I have a favor to ask of you," the man said.

His hand reached out onto the table and came to rest on the backpack which his daughter had deposited earlier that afternoon.

"My daughter is in a position where she might need some additional protection. Someone of your caliber, who is able to successfully defend against Venice's finest, likely has the capacity to provide the type of protection that she will need.”

I regarded him with curiosity.

"Is this something that I'm doing for you as a thank you?"

"You could call it a thank you, though I think that you might find some benefit for yourself as well. You can start by taking this bag back to her. I'll give you her address if you're interested."

I took a moment to stare at the man, and my arms stretched high, over my back. I thought about asking what was inside the bag, but I realized that it might be better if I didn't know.

"Okay," I nodded. "I can do that for you. Thanks for everything.”

"No,” he replied, “thank
you
. I worry about my daughter’s health more than is healthy for a man of my age. She has my fighting spirit, but I’m afraid that bitterness has corrupted her intentions, and is contributing to a more confused state of awareness. It would be a great relief if you would go and share some of your experience with her. I think she fetishizes the idea of militant force, without truly understanding the ramifications of their consequence.“

“Playing mentor wasn’t exactly what I had cut out for myself,” I said, “but it couldn’t hurt. I’ll stop by tonight. Is there anything you can do to help me get overseas?”

“My daughter can help you. Go to her.”

My father, Nosa, had a man with him today when I went to visit.  Most of the time when I visit my father, he is alone. The man is a conspiracy theorist and a world-weary philosopher. He spends most of his time out on the water trolling for fish. The rest of the time he spends at home smoking his awful cigarettes.

Dad has been practically useless since mom died.

In spite of the fact that he says he goes out to fish every day, he never comes back with more than enough to eat and barely scrape by. It's a good thing my father was never in debt because it allows him to maintain his minimalist lifestyle.

Of course, by minimalism I mean never trying hard enough to accomplish anything except scraping by. If you asked him, he would tell you that he is simply taking only what he needs. I would be inclined to believe that if the drastic change between his success when mom was alive and his current form of minimalism wasn't so apparent.

Last year, he actually had an accident and didn't have enough money to pay the medical bills. Fortunately, I was coming into some new work at that time that was more lucrative, and I was able to help him out. Ever since that moment, he stopped being so directly critical of my choices and moved to a more passive form of criticism.

The good thing about having a conspiracy theorist for father is that his natural level of distrust for organizational operations makes it easier to rely on him for help in matters which require some discretion.

While my father was a hard-working man, once upon a time ago, he encouraged me to be hard-working as well. I guess the problem that my father had with my current lifestyle is that he didn’t quite agree with the cause that I was working for. I tried to tell him that the cause was one that was similar to the values he held so strongly to, but there was no way to reach the man.

Better to simply let him stay out of the way.

Unfortunately, I was handling some sensitive materials, and I needed to have a temporary safe house. My father was supposed to hold onto those materials for me. I knew he wasn’t exactly going to be pleased about it, but I also knew that he wasn’t going to turn me away. As a matter of fact, he did not choose to turn me away, but for one reason or another, he had someone else do the work for him.

I was a bit surprised when my father's "friend" showed up in my apartment later on that evening.

But first, to paint a complete picture, let me share a bit with you about my ‘decompression’ time. What I was doing to treat myself right before this fucker interrupted me.

I wasn’t doing much more than laying on my bed, checking my email at the time. Nothing terribly important going through my mind, and especially since I had just made the only drop-off that was necessary for the day.

I sang to myself a little song and smiled.

Generally, I was feeling like I needed to take a break and please myself for a while.

My position on the bed caused my breasts to spill out in front of me. I only get a chance to feel sexed when I’m far too stressed for my own good, or when I’ve taken a break from everything that has been going on in my life.

People used to call me a whore when I was younger, but I stopped paying attention to that a long time ago.

“I’m a woman,” I continued to tell myself, until eventually, I stopped giving a shit what other people thought altogether.

I sat up on the bed and straightened my spine. My breasts hung low on either side of my body, and I held them in my hands, pressing them together, and massaging my nipples. I would give them an occasional squeeze and then straighten my hair. My body swayed from side to side as I touched myself.

When you don’t have much of anyone around to fuck you on a regular basis, your mind tends to be free of a lot of the emotional drama that is so often associated with relationships.

I had nothing more to do with my time than take care of some business, and then find some time to relax and enjoy myself at the end of the day. So what if today, that ‘end of the day’ time came a bit earlier than usual?

“You should enjoy yourself, right?” I said out loud, rubbing my breasts together once more.

My nipples were growing red, and erect, as they usually did.

I had big nipples. They looked like cartoon-esque saucers of pink in my own eyes. Sometimes, I looked at them, and they looked like the breasts of a beautiful woman. Other times, I just thought they looked like pornographic cartoons. I suppose that is the internalized misogyny of our culture coming up to bite me more than it is an accurate interpretation of reality.

My breasts were hanging a bit lower than usual, though I think that had more to do with posture than anything else. I had been dealing with a lot of stress lately. Trying to relax, I playfully lifted and bounced them up and down, while bringing my fingers around toward the tips of my nipples. Feeling a bit more kinetic after the bounce on my breast, I spread my body out on the bed, bringing myself up onto my knees.

I still wore a cute pair of pink panties, but my breasts were free, and I felt good about their position. I lay down on the bed, holding one knee to my chest, and extending the other leg forward. My right hand itched to take off my panties and fuck myself for a while, but I knew better than that. When you’re in a position like this, and you want to treat yourself, the last thing you should be doing is rushing the only time you’re really treating yourself.

I laid back and let my hands rub along the insides of my thighs and along the bottom of my rib cage. I looked up at the ceiling and thought about how the day had progressed.

Got my shipment dropped off
, I thought.
Maurice is not going to hassle me any longer, and there was that cute guy at my dad’s place — that was a neat little visual treat.

I stripped my panties off from my body and began a long stretching session, combined with ecstatic forms of touching. My hands were soft on my body. I had to be, otherwise, I’d just fuck myself silly.

Forcing myself to go slower brought my attention to every single inch of my skin. I figured I had all of these nerves, just waiting to be enjoyed, so I might as well use them.

My cunt was already hot. More than anything else, I knew how to work myself up into a state of arousal. Oh, believe me, I have other skills, but I’d been practicing this one for a long time, and I was quite fond of the erotic.

I leaned back against a series of pillows, holding one hand up to my chest, and letting the other trace down my breasts, and toward my clit. I didn’t want to touch myself quite yet, but with each pass, I found it more and more difficult to restrain myself. My hand moved slowly, almost unconsciously down the center of my sternum, and up once more toward my neck. During each pass, I found my breasts and gave them a little more attention than the last time. My nipples remained hardened, and this time, when I looked at them, in a more aroused state, I was less critical of myself.

You’re beautiful
, I allowed myself to think, and the positivity gave me even more appreciation for the intimacy that I was sharing with myself in that moment.

Both hands began working together now, joining in concert as my hips worked in unison with the movements.

I reached under a cushion and found my favorite purple vibrator, as well as a bottle of lubricant. Relishing the feeling of the sex toy in my hands, I dripped the lube all over the surface of the silicone wand and stroked its surface with my hand. Without wasting any more time, I brought the tip of the vibrator into my cunt and began a shallow pumping motion with my wrist.

A smile came to my lips as I began to relax and fuck myself.

The motions were slow at first, steady, and only about an inch or so inside. My other hand moved instinctively to my clit so that my middle finger rested on the surface of my clit. Just the pressure there was enough for the moment. My ring and index fingers spread my labia, and then I pushed in deeper with the dildo.

A slight vibration was whirring along the lips of my clit, and inside of my body. The vibration increased the intensity of my already aware nervous system, and I felt a wave of pleasure spreading out from between my legs. My head was already rolling back on the stack of pillows, and a mixture between a smile and the type of lip curl that only the dirtiest girls know how to do was on my lips. My shoulders were tense, and my breasts moved along with the pumping motion of my right hand.

I could feel the strain of the muscles in my arm as I pushed back and forth, deeper each time. The strain felt good, but I switched hands, just so I could get that steady pace going, and not have to think about anything else except for the feeling of getting fucked.

Two hands worked best, and I would alternate between the two, breathing with my mouth open the whole time. My eyes were dilated, and the colors of the room seemed to increase with vibrancy. My hands came together like I was in prayer, pushing the dildo inside of me like I was fucking myself with some sacred monument.

My left hand freed itself from the prayer and began to clutch at the inside of my thigh. My fingernails dug into my thighs, and I felt the moisture, my own lubrication, this time, dripping down the side of my ass cheeks. Both of my breasts moved from side to side, and I increased the angle and the frequency of the penetration.

“Fuck, I need more,” I said, not thinking about anything but my own desperate, self-serving needs.

I got down on the floor, so my abdomen was huddled on the side of the bed. I felt like a whore on my hands and knees like that, but that only served to turn me on even more than the times before. While I was bending over the bed, with my breasts pressed up against the sheets, and my mouth spread open wide, I allowed myself to fantasize.

Usually, when I masturbate like this, I work with whatever the first idea is that comes to my mind.

I’m often so taken by my own desire that I don’t have much control over the content of the images. They pass through my minds like flames crackling up over a fire pit. Sometimes, the pit is larger than others, and other times, I lose the context of the pit all together, and all I see is the heat from the images. The picture that was particularly strong in my head at the moment was a man bearing down on the back of me, and fucking me with his cock.

To replicate this image, I put my head down on the bed and pushed the dildo in and out of my cunt from behind. My asshole was in the air, begging for attention, though I wasn’t able to share. Only having one shaft, I had to do what I could for my vagina. She was pulling at the dildo on a regular basis. My speed had increased, and my eyes were closed. In my mind, the man flipped me on my back and shoved me down on the bed.

I moved my body so I could feel what it might be like to switch positions in accordance with my fantasies.

I grabbed my breast and fondled myself with one hand, while working the dildo with the other. Then, suddenly, as if obeying some need to be more primally connected with my own body, I set the dildo to the side and let my fingers do the work that so desperately needed to be done.

My slit was warm and wet to the touch. I felt like velvet, and for several long moments, I slowed down, and just enjoyed what it felt like to probe the inside of my cunt with both fingers. I would push and pull up toward the top, all the while thumbing my clit. The ecstasy guided my motions, and soon my whole hand was outside of my vagina, and I was massaging my clit with delicate fingers.

I closed my eyes and thought of that man once more.

Then I saw his face.

It was the man from my dad’s place. His ‘friend’.

I make a rule not to judge myself whenever I am fantasizing. I allow myself to think about whatever it is that gets me off, and I let myself know as much about my own desires that way as possible. The desire to get fucked came into my mind once more while I thought about the length of that guy’s cock. I had no idea how long it was, and in truth, it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I was soon bent over once more, imagining him fucking my body from behind.

My shoulders were down on the bed, and my wrist was strained. I would switch between fingers and dildo, letting my body decide which type of stimulation it wanted in the moment.

I became more and more verbal, letting out a moan.

The walls of my apartment complex were thin, but I could already hear the moans coming out from my subconscious body, as well as the knocking of the frame of the bed against my neighbor’s wall.

When I fuck, I tend to move. Fucking for me is not a passive activity. It is a sport, where I can thoroughly engage myself, and love every minute of it. When I fuck, I have multiple orgasms, and I make it a point to be unapologetic. I’m a whore and a nymph, and I make no claims to be anything else. We are all only human after all.

My body shook, and I squirted all over the bed, gushing out below me, and soaking the sheets beneath my body with my juices.

I gasped, and let my vagina push my dildo out from the inside of me. I was out of breath and felt incredible. Knowing that there was a peak period of time where I could possibly get off a second time, I bit my lip and made my way to the bathroom. The bath is my second favorite place to get off, and I like fucking around with more holes than just my vagina, if you know what I mean.