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From: "E.Z. Riter" <ezriter@pdq.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} {EZ}VW -The Sunset (see note) 
Date: Thu, 14 Mar 2002 00:10:12 -0500
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This is fiction intended for legal adults readers. If it is not legal, DO
NOT read.  This is a copyrighted work.  Reposting or any other use strictly
prohibited without the express, written permission of the copyright holder,
except may be posted as part of a review or posted to my pre-approved
archives.

Copyright 2001, 2002 by E.Z. Riter

E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com

Please!        Give me your comments!

The works of E.Z. Riter are archived at www.storiesonline.net and at
www.asstr-mirror.org (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/E.Z.Riter)

The works of E.Z Riter writing as Ezra Zane are archived at
www.ruthiesclub.com which is a fully illustrated pay website.

Dear Reader,

Since June, 2001, I have been writing stories under the name Ezra Zane for
Ruthie's Club (www.ruthiesclub.com). Michael D, DrSpin, Al Steiner, Mat
Twassel, Shon Richards, and other writers also have stories appearing
exclusively in Ruthie's Club. A cadre of professional artists beautifully
illustrates each story.

Part of my writing has been VINNIE'S WORLD, a series about Vinnie Costello,
his friends, his women, and his world. This story - The Sunset - is the
first in the Vinnie's World Series and appeared in Ruthie's Club in August,
2001.

Story Codes for Vinnie's World are M+F+ Cons Non-Cons BDSM Rom Viol and
probably most other codes, including Slut Wife, depending on the episode.
The intent was to create stories with sex in them, not sexual (or stroke)
stories.

I hope you enjoy these stories. As always, I do appreciate any feedback from
any reader.

Good reading and best wishes,

E.Z. Riter a/k/a Ezra Zane



VINNIE'S WORLD

THE SUNSET

By Ezra Zane
Edited by Ruthie

The Sunset's my home.

It's not like your home. There's no picket fence on a nice quiet street, no
neighbor kids playing next door, and no dogs barking in the back yard. But
my world isn't like your world. My family isn't like your family. If it
were, I'd know your family and you'd know me.

I'm Vincent Costello. Call me Vinnie.

I grew up in an Italian neighborhood on the crowded and dirty streets of the
city. Street ball. Street toughs. The parish church and school two blocks
away. Neighborhood grocery store on the corner. Bookie next door to the
grocery.

My mother loved and cared for me, teaching me right from wrong, giving me
standards, religion, and solace when I needed it. My father loved me, too.
Even when he was away, his presence was always there. He taught me right
from left and how the streets worked. He gave me different standards - the
ones I'd need in my world. They were good parents to my three brothers, my
three sisters, and me.

My father's job wasn't like your father's job. He didn't go to a factory or
office every day. His job was eliminating problems for his employers. Call
him a troubleshooter because that's what he did. Shoot trouble. And trouble
comes from people.

My mother's dead now. She went early from the ravages of disease. She saw me
graduate from college, but she didn't see me get my law degree and she never
saw my world. I like to think she would've been proud.

My father's never seen my world either, but he's heard about it. He lives
inside the four gray walls of a state facility upstate built for people the
state feels have earned it. Maybe he did, but he earned a lot of other
things, too. He earned the respect of his peers and his kids. He earned the
money to support us all, paying for our home and education.

My education began at parochial grade school in the parish church and ended
at the best high school in the city, public or private. It's Our Lady
Catholic High School, run by The Order of Mary Our Lady. Those nuns, devoted
to education and service to the church hierarchy, demanded of me and taught
me a lot. They're still in my life and the order's my favorite charity.

College was at Loyola University, another good Catholic school. I graduated
magna cum laude. I attended law school at Notre Dame. I earned a
scholarship, but my father made me give it up. He said some poor kid might
need it and that he'd pay my way.

After law school, I started my own firm. Vincent Costello and Associates I
called it.

The only associate was Lorena. She was short and stacked, with big black
eyes. She's one of those women who played the fool, but I didn't learn that
until she'd been with me a while. What I learned first was that she could
suck the brass off a doorknob, and she liked giving head as much as she
liked fucking. Lorena's still there. She runs the firm, but she's smart
enough to let the partners think they do it.

Some of my father's friends recommended me to their friends and families.
They recommended me to their friends and so on. The firm grew. It's
Costello, Rao, Schwartz, and Moreno now. I'm still the lead partner and I go
there if they need me.

I built The Sunset along a busy highway leading from the city to the suburbs
on a large parcel of vacant land. I sold the land I didn't use for a
shopping center and an HDFM property. That's high-density, multi-family, or
apartments, as they're normally called. The profit from that sale paid for
The Sunset.

The Sunset's a bar, restaurant, and motel. My living quarters were attached
to the motel and my office was above the bar. Home and office. The center of
my world.

There were more expensive bars in the city than The Sunset Bar. Bars where
the yuppies rub elbows with the corporate executives and their expense
accounts. Bars where the golden folks went to be seen.

The bar had dark, cool booths along three walls and the bar itself on the
fourth. The stools were packed closely together. In the center was the dance
floor. The music was live. The lighting was right to be seen or unseen.

The Sunset Bar was where the players went, where the action was. The yuppies
and preppies went there, too, when they wanted to play. They came to play or
to deal, to dance and have a good time, to make new acquaintances for a
night or a lifetime. Often, the yuppies and preppies came to rub elbows with
the elite from the shadowy other world that folks with white picket fences
don't meet in their world.

The Sunset Motel adjoined it. Three stories tall and clean with prominent
highway frontage, the Motel was a place a tourist and his family could stop
for a good night's rest. It was a safe place for those needing a place safe
from this trouble or that. And it was the place the players went to fuck.

The Sunset Restaurant was wedged between the bar and motel. The main dining
room was five star, with food as good as anywhere in the city. The coffee
shop, open twenty-four hours a day, was nicer than any Denny's or IHOP. In
addition to the main dining room, there were large private dining rooms for
wedding receptions and some small ones for a private meal or meeting.

Besides The Sunset, there are other operations in my world. Things I own.
Things like Costello Construction and Harley's Mansion.

Most of the people in my world are like the people in your world. There are
waiters and cooks, bartenders and cocktail waitresses, managers and maids,
and the patrons. God bless the patrons. These were good people. Honest
people. And there are not-nice people in my world, just like in yours.

There are some in my world you don't see in your world. Some of them work
for me. More don't. The ones who work for me know Vinnie Costello and they
know my word is as good as gold. They know I'm behind them and with them and
for them.

Loyalty. Fidelity. The importance of friendship. That's something they all
taught me. My mother, my father, and the nuns. The people who know me know I
live by that. There's another side to that coin. People know if they're
against my friends, they're against me, too. Those people know if they cross
me, they'd better find a deep hole to hide.

Let me tell you about two of my people because they're the two closest to
me - Mica and Bigun. My bodyguards and companions. My men. My friends.

In my second year of law practice, I was at the jail bailing out a client.
As we walked past the holding cages, a fight broke out behind the bars. Two
big ugly black guys against one little one. The little guy danced back and
his fists flew. He reminded me of Sugar Ray. He was about the same size and
build. He had the same quick hands and feet, the same beauty in his
movements. In seconds, one big guy was holding a broken nose as his blood
poured down his arm. The other was sitting on the floor groaning and holding
his balls.

The little guy walked to the corner cot and sat down. He didn't strut or
preen. He walked, like a workman who's done the job he needed to do, and now
he's going to rest until the next job comes along. He looked at us
impassively but with intelligence.

After we did the paperwork and my client hightailed it for home, I went back
to the desk and asked to see the kid who'd won the fight. They gave me an
interview room and brought him in.

"Vincent Costello, Attorney-at-law," I said. "Call me Vinnie."

I handed him a business card. He didn't say anything.

"I enjoyed the fight. You move well. Are you a boxer?"

He shook his head.

"What's your name?"

"Tyrone Washington," he said with a hint of pride.

"What are you in for?" He didn't answer. I said, "I'm an attorney. Anything
you tell me can't be used against you in a court of law."

"Armed robbery."

"Did you do it?"

"Yes."

"Why?" I asked.

We talked for an hour. He was eighteen and in trouble, but I liked him. I
paid his bail and took him home to a slum that should have been condemned
years ago. We walked up three flights to a dark and dirty hall lit by a
single bulb. As we walked down it, we heard a scream.

He exploded down the hall and I was right behind him. We burst through an
apartment door. A beautiful young woman, with skin the color of dark
chocolate and eyes that were huge and black, was standing on a small bed
screaming at a rat the size of a dachshund, which was devouring a piece of
bread on the floor.

Tyrone leaped, caught the rat, and broke its neck. In your world, there
probably aren't rats. Not four-legged ones anyway. But they're a real part
of his world. If you'd been around rats, you'd know how quick they are. You,
like I, would've been amazed at Tyrone's speed in catching it.

The young woman was Leekeysha, his wife. She was eight months pregnant and
hungry. He'd done the robbery to buy food for her and the baby inside her.
It was his first felony offense.

When he held and comforted her, he was gentle with her. The scene with her
sitting on his lap, one of his arms supporting her, the other stroking her
cheek, his soothing words bathing away her fears, was touching.

As I watched him in the harsh light of the dangling overhead bulb, his skin,
deep black and smooth as glass, was tight over his high cheekbones and the
flat of his forehead. His skin glowed with a metallic sheen, like a mineral
in a rock formation that attracts the eye with its hard glitter.

Like mica. That's what I called him.

He carried Leekeysha to my car. I took them to HoJo's to fill their bellies.
She was sweet and shy and desperately in love with him. He was proud and
worried and equally in love with her. I couldn't afford an assistant like
Mica then, but I knew I could one day and men like Mica don't come along
very often. They moved into my townhouse that night and lived with me until
the baby was four months old. Then I could afford to pay him enough to get
his own place. He's been with me ever since.

Mica and Bigun are like night and day. Mica's smallish and dark black; Bigun
is huge and pale white, with light brown hair and limpid blue eyes. Mica is
taciturn; Bigun is loquacious. Mica has one woman and is faithful to her;
Bigun is promiscuous.

Yet they're alike because they're best friends and both are my friends.
Intensely loyal friends. The kind that would take a bullet for me. Or for
each other.

Bigun's name is Johann Schmidt, and he came to this country from Germany. We
met because he had some legal problems at home and in the states. I ironed
them out for him.

His nickname, which I gave him, is a contraction of "big gun."

Bigun and I had only been together a few weeks when these two big-titted
cowgirls from Texas twitched into the bar we frequented in the city. In
minutes, the four of us left for the apartment on Third Avenue that I keep
for my purposes. When we closed the door behind us, I started stripping one
of them. He pushed the other to her knees. The slut fished out his cock.

"Oh, my God," she exclaimed, drawling out the last word. She looked up at
his face and licked her lips. "Cowboy, ya'll pack a big gun. I've never seen
one this big."

Bigun's cock is big. The biggest I've seen or heard of. Bigun and his cock
have starred in several porn films. That's a fact he uses to his advantage.
His seduction routine is often limited to telling a woman he's a porn star
and offering to let her enjoy the star attraction of his films. I've seen
woman so turned by the thought of fucking a cock that large that they walk
like a corncob is stuck up their cunts and they can't get their legs
together.

I've got other friends, too. I've got a lot of friends and not as many
enemies as you might imagine. But I was telling you about The Sunset and me.

Most of what happens at The Sunset is happy and fun for the patrons and for
the people who work there. That makes it happy and fun - and profitable -
for me. But sometimes things happen that aren't fun. I have to deal with
those problems when they arise.

I had to deal with Sonya and it was eating me up.

I called Lorena about five in the evening.

"Hi, Vinnie," she'd said softly into the phone.

"I want you. When can you be here?" I said.

"Where's Sonya?" she asked.

"In a safe place." Lorena knew better than to ask any more questions.

"How about eight? That'll let me get the kids settled and Phil's dinner
cooked. Should I plan to spend the night?"

"Yes."

"I'll be there, Vinnie."

When Lorena arrived, I was in my quarters. Mica escorted her from the front
desk and through the steel security doors. We hugged like old friends, which
we were. Lorena used the bathroom before coming back to my bedroom where she
began to undress.

"How are the kids?" I asked.

"Great. Teresa's blossoming. She got the lead in the school play and it's
done wonders for her. The only problem is the boys. All of a sudden she
looks like a woman and they're thick as flies around her."

"Should I speak to Sister Mary Katherine?" I asked.

"No, thanks. I talked to her. Sister knows Teresa's yours and she's thrown a
protective net around her."

"Should I speak to the boys?"

Lorena frowned. "No, Vinnie. She's growing up normally. Let her explore on
her own. I'll call you if she needs you."

"How's Carlotta?" I asked.

"Doing well. So's Phil Jr."

She was naked now. She blushed slightly as she slipped on the bed beside me.
Her breasts, normally a DD, were swollen. They sagged a bit from the ravages
of age and nursing three children, but they were still beautiful. I stroked
her right breast before I caressed the fullness of her stomach. I kissed the
eagle tattooed on her lower belly.

"When's this one due?" I asked.

"Two more months. We had an ultrasound and it's a boy. We're going to name
him Harry after my father."

I put my ear to her pregnant belly, but I heard nothing. Maybe I wasn't
listening.

"This is the last one, Vinnie. I'm going to have my tubes tied."

"That's too bad. You're beautiful pregnant and you have beautiful children.
When are we going to tell Teresa that her Uncle Vinnie is really her
 father?"

"Phil and I talked about that. We don't think we should ever tell her."

That was the problem with other men's wives having my children. I was Uncle
Vinnie to two of my kids. The others didn't know me at all. I guess I was
getting old. Sometimes I wanted to have little rugrats calling me daddy.

"You need to start your own family, Vinnie," Lorena said softly.

"Some day."

"I was hoping Sonya would be the one for you."

"Yeah. Me, too."

"Do you want to talk?"

"Later. Right now, I want you to work your magic."

She gave me her wonderful slutty smile. "Lay back and close your eyes," she
said, as her fingers wrapped around my cock. "I'm going to suck your
troubles away."

Lorena was five months pregnant with Teresa when she told me she wanted to
marry Phil. He and I talked. He's a small guy, but feisty. The important
thing was he was crazy about her and would take good care of her and all her
children. We three made an arrangement. Lorena would come to me anytime I
called, but the first child would be the only one I fathered. Except for me,
she'd be faithful and he'd be faithful to her.

"That's one of the big differences between you and Phil, Vinnie," Lorena
said when we talked all those years ago. "You're always going to fuck any
woman you want. Phil will be faithful to me."

Lorena's talented mouth had me hard, and thoughts of yesterday went away.

"Do you want to cum in my mouth?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied.

I've never had a woman who didn't suck my cock, but none can deepthroat me.
My cock's too big. Lorena comes the closest. Maybe, it's because she loves
sucking cock so much. People do well at those things they love. When she
felt the throbs indicating my cum was on the way, she swallowed it without
spilling a drop, and let me soften in the tantalizing warmth of her mouth.

She curled up against me with her leg over mine and her big belly resting
against me. We talked. We dozed. We fucked in a tee with her legs over mine
and my hands caressing her breasts. We talked and dozed some more. Donnie
took her home in the morning. I finally got to sleep about six a.m.

When I awakened, it was mid afternoon. The weather was cold and crisp that
autumn day. The weatherman promised the first snow of winter was still weeks
away.

I left my quarters about three and stopped at the motel desk to talk to the
manager before going to the coffee shop. I had ham and eggs with dry toast
and an endless pot of coffee. Raoul, the restaurant manager, sat with me and
we talked business.

It was four thirty when I walked into the bar. Eddie, the bouncer, greeted
me and I gave him instructions. He called J.D. on the walkie talkie.

"Boss wants you upstairs," he said.

I went up the back stairs to my office and left the door open. The alarm
signaling someone was on the stairs buzzed before I heard his footsteps.

"Hey, Vinny," J.D. said. J.D. looked sharp as he always did and his black
eyes were calm.

"Hi, J.D. We've got an assignment. Do you remember the little redhead who
calls herself Candy?"

 "Sure. Big tits filled with jelly. Loves to fuck. Doesn't like to suck or
swallow as I remember."

"Yeah. That's the woman. Her husband knows she plays around and he doesn't
care if she keeps him happy at home, but she's being a bitch with him. Since
he bought her those tits, she's using them and what's between her legs as a
weapon rather than as his pleasure toy."

"Common problem with big titted women," J.D. said with a grin.

"He wants us to bring her down a few pegs and he'd like for us to teach her
to be a good little cocksucker."

"We can do that."

"She's hot for Donnie. I've talked to him and he knows his part. He'll take
her to 203. Then here's what I want to do."

J.D. listened intently as I explained the plan to him.

"I'll set it up," he said with a laugh.

"She'll be here about eight."

"Great, but why are we filming?" he asked.

"Her husband wants to watch her getting fucked. How's everything else?"

"Rolling fine. Bar take's three per cent over the same day last week. The
restaurant's up a point."

"How's the band?"

"Good. The people like them."

"Any problems?"

"Not really," he said.

We both knew there was a problem by the way he said it. J.D. wasn't lying.
He was telling me it wasn't big and giving me the option of asking about it.
I had things on my mind so I let it pass.

"You're doing well, J.D. Keep it up."

"Thanks, Vinnie. I'll buzz you when Candy gets here."

When he left, I locked the door behind him. There was a small bedroom off
the office. In the back of the bedroom closet was a hidden door. I went
through that door into the maze above the complex. From those rooms, I could
hear, see, and record everything that went on in the bar, including the
rooms in back. Some interesting things go on in those rooms.

The maze went over part of the motel, allowing observation of two rooms, 201
and 203. Rooms 202 and 204 contained recording equipment. I could film
action in 201 or 203 from the sides and from above. I'd shot film of some
great pornographic action in those rooms. Nobody saw those movies but me and
a few choice people who either joyed or despaired when they discovered the
film existed.

After checking everything out, I returned to the office, made a drink, and
sat at my desk with my feet up. When I looked at the clock again, an hour
had passed. I buried myself in the latest financials, using them to drive
Sonya from my mind. I burned an hour and a half that way, but it didn't
work.

I walked downstairs to the bar. The action there was already hot and heavy.
I mingled with the crowd. Some were regulars. Some were new. None of the
unattached women appealed to me.

I knew I was killing time, procrastinating so I wouldn't have to deal with
Sonya. I hate that. I told Mica to bring the limo around. Bigun nodded when
it was ready, and I joined him.

When we reached the limo, Bigun opened the back door for me. "Where to,
Boss?" he asked.

"The warehouse," I said, sitting back in my seat and fastening the seat
belt.

Don't think the limo's pretentious. It's armored, and Mica and Bigun carry.
It's good insurance.

For those of you white picket fence types that don't know my world, when I
say they "carry," it means they carry guns. For Mica, it's a nine millimeter
Glock automatic with a fourteen round magazine in a shoulder holster under
his left arm. For Bigun, it's a .38 revolver with a two-inch barrel in a
belt holster in the small of his back and a .32 automatic in a holster
attached to his right ankle. I've only seen Bigun draw the revolver once.
His physically imposing size is usually enough.

I don't carry unless I'm expecting trouble. A gun in a holster ruins the cut
of my thousand dollar suits.

There are six warehouses in a row in an old industrial area near the
wharves. When containerized shipping became popular, they were surplus and
abandoned. I bought them for a song. Costello Construction Co, which I
control with my brother, Constantine, as the minority owner and manager,
refurbished them. They're used for record storage. We provide climate
control and twenty-four-hour security. They're full enough to be nicely
profitable.

In one of them, I built a suite for my purposes. That suite is a
self-contained building inside one of the larger buildings. There's a master
bedroom suite identical to mine at The Sunset, and two other nice bedrooms,
each with its own bath. Both those bedrooms have large mirrors that are
two-way glass. I can watch and record whatever goes on in them.

There's a large conference room, a full kitchen, and a dining room with
seating for twelve. There's a TV room and a living room with comfortable
couches and chairs.

There are three other rooms. One is the lounge. It houses all the electronic
video and audio surveillance equipment. It also has a card table and some
comfortable furniture because it serves as a lounge for the guards.

One I call the cage room because it contains a steel cage three by four by
three. The room is small and completely soundproofed. There is an intercom
if I want to listen in.

The cage itself is very special. All four sides can be moved hydraulically
until they touch in the middle. Someone could be squeezed to death in that
cage, although I've never used it for that. And the cage is electrified with
the intensity and frequency of the shocks controlled by computer. I have
used that feature.

The other room I call the interview room. It's soundproof, too, but
considerably larger. I call it the interview room because it has tools and
devices to encourage people to talk. If I were a dominator, I would've
called it a dungeon. I suspect you know what's in it.

It's a forty minute drive from The Sunset to the warehouse. Sonya filled my
thoughts every second of it.

When we arrived, the security guard admitted us into the outer warehouse.
Mica drove to the inner door and pushed the remote control unit. That opened
the garage type door and activated the alarm in the suite. After the car
stopped, Bigun opened my door. The three of us rode in the elevator to the
upper floor where my suite was located.

Prissy greeted us. "Hi, Vinnie. Hi, boys."

Prissy is another of my security force. Mica and Bigun are always with me,
but Prissy, Donnie, and the others are there when I need them.

Prissy's real name is Priscilla, a name given to a darling little girl with
black curls. That little girl grew up to look like a middle linebacker with
tits. The name Prissy didn't fit any more, but she was stuck with it.

"Hi, Prissy. Where's Sonya?" I asked.

"In the cage," she replied.

"Put her in the interview room. Suspend her in an x and hood her. Is there
anything to eat around here?"

"Plenty. The fridge is full. Do you want her feet off the ground?"

"No. Let them touch, because I may be a while. Have you eaten?"

"Sure. It's late, Vinnie."

Mica made the three of us Caesar salads and Bigun poured some white wine. I
watched on the video monitor as Prissy led Sonya into the interview room
using a chain locked around her neck as a leash.

Sonya's hands were cuffed behind her and she looked wrung out. She'd been
crying and, from what Prissy had told me, hadn't slept well. Sleeping in a
cage with your hands bound is probably difficult. I've never tried it.

Sonya had another reason to be wrung out. The guy she fucked turned her on
with cocaine. It was an old addiction for her and one she'd kicked a couple
of years ago. Since she'd been in the warehouse, she'd dried out again.

Prissy slipped the hood over Sonya's head. Those big, sky blue eyes I adored
disappeared behind a sack of cloth. Sonya didn't resist when Prissy attached
the restraints to her wrists and ankles, and she was spread and bound.

Sonya's body looked good, but it always looked good. I felt a stirring in my
loins as I watched her on the monitor.

"Salad, Boss?" Bigun asked.

I turned off the monitor and had a light dinner with my people. I wasn't
very good company because Sonya was on my mind.

When dinner was over, I told them not to turn on the monitors for the
interview room. I removed my coat and tie, and Prissy took them to hang up.
I was quiet as a mouse when I eased into the interview room, but Sonya heard
me. She froze in place with her head up.

I'd only taken a few steps when she said, "I love you, Vinnie." I didn't
reply. "I know it's you. I do love you. You know that. I'm sorry for what
happened. Please believe me. Please forgive me."

"Tell me what happened?" I said.

"I've told you."

"Tell me again," I commanded, cold and dead. I started undressing.

"He was my high school history teacher. We had an affair, a long affair. He
knew I did coke. When he saw me the other day, he gave me some. I told you
what it does to me."

"You didn't have to take it."

"I know. Oh, God, how I know. But I took it. Then he fucked me. Once. That's
all. Just once. It was mechanical. He didn't fulfill me like you do."

"He filled you with his cock."

"Please forget about that, Vinnie. Remember the good times. Remember how
happy we were together and how much I love you."

I pulled the hood from her head. She blinked from the light and tried to
focus on me. When she did, I saw regret in her face. And sorrow. And
honesty. But I saw him, too. In my mind, I saw him fucking her. I saw the
joy she had when I fucked her, but she was fucking him.

I turned away to stumble to the cabinet. I opened it and fumbled through the
pain-causing toys. Riding crop. Horse whip. Flogger. Straps. Butt plugs.
Clamps and rings and restraints. Piercing equipment. Miles of chain and
rope.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked.

"Whip you."

"Good. Whip me until your arm falls off. Whip me until I bleed. Get your
anger out of your system and then take me back."

"I can't trust you."

"Keep me locked up. . . like, like in the cage. Get a cage for The Sunset.
Keep it in our room and lock me in it unless you want to use me. But,
Vinnie, you can't leave me. You can't. I love you."

I'd whipped men and women. Whipped them for different reasons and with
different results. All the men had been for punishment. Some of the women
had been for punishment, but some had been because it brought them, and me,
sexual satisfaction. I'd used these tools. I knew what they'd do.

I'd whipped Sonya once. It was early in our relationship and she was playing
the bitch with me. I caged her for a few hours before stretching her in an
"x" as she was now. She'd never felt the bite of a whip. She'd never
screamed as stripes appeared on the soft flesh of her belly and the rounded
fullness of her ass. But she did that day. Sonya isn't a pain lover. She
didn't like it, but that's why it's called punishment.

I'd never whipped her again. She'd been spanked several times. That had been
with my hand or the soft leather paddle I kept in The Sunset. She liked it
and so did I. But this was to be like the first time. I wanted to hurt her.
I wanted to hurt her like she'd hurt me.

I picked the riding crop. Short, thick, and made of hard leather, it would
bruise, cut, and provide pain I didn't think she could take. I took the crop
from its holder and swished it through the air.

"That's it, Vinnie. Whip me and then love me," Sonya said, but her skin was
pale and her eyes terrified.

As I walked toward her, she flicked her head. Her long blonde hair settled
like cornsilk around her. In that instant when her head was up and her
throat exposed, I saw it. The locking necklace with the diamond V pendant
that marked her as mine.

God, I wanted her. I wanted to hold her and fuck her and sleep with my head
on her breasts. The bitch! The fucking, goddammed, slutty, bitch! Why did
she have to cheat? Why?

"Go on, Vinnie. Do it. Whip me. Whip me, damn you. I deserve it," she
shouted at me.

I dropped the whip and staggered toward the door.

"Come back, Vinnie. Come back. I love you," she screeched.

They were waiting for me in the lounge. They looked shocked and puzzled when
I walked in, but I didn't make a habit of walking around naked and I'm sure
my face was out of control.

"Boss, are you all right?" Bigun said as he stood.

"I'm going to my bedroom. You can use her however you like. When you're
finished, put her back in the cage."

I got a bottle of Makers' Mark and stumbled down the hall. I didn't need a
glass. I'd have a hell of a headache tomorrow, but, hopefully, tonight I'd
forget about Sonya.

To be concluded

Please!  Give me your comments!

E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com

The works of E.Z. Riter are archived at www.storiesonline.net and at
www.asstr-mirror.org (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/E.Z.Riter)

The works of E.Z Riter writing as Ezra Zane are archived at
www.ruthiesclub.com which is a fully illustrated pay website.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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