Soul Custody

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

I unusually enjoy about two days of emotional freedom after a session with Jeremiah. Then the nagging agitation returns. I recognize it first as a tickle in my stomach, something pleasant that soon festers into a disturbance I can’t ignore.

Until that time, my body rests easier, and the impatient ache I often feel seems to have eased. I can always hope. I do my work like a pro, smiling easily, while the world around me reflects back a light-hearted friendliness. Obviously, nothing has changed but my own attitude.

Since getting my degree in finance, I’ve had dozens of jobs from stockbroker—which is what I’m trained for—to library assistant, legal secretary and cocktail waitress. Currently, I manage a Retro Furniture Warehouse. It is a dumpy, dusty, scrambled mess of cast-off junk, now back in fashion as an affectionate flashback to the mid-20th century. Some look at my life as a downward spiral since Danny Mulray. It only made sense that my career as a stockbroker would be short-lived without his family portfolio and a long list of his friends as clients. In some senses, my detractors are correct, but more to the point, without Danny Mulray, the world of high finance and stock trades is just money, greed and anxiety, all of which I can do without. As my career descended the scale of good-paying jobs to where I’ve landed now, I considered the trip one well-worth taking. I have enough to keep me on edge without making my life’s work a major stress. Here at the Good Times Furniture Emporium, I’m happy among these worn out treasures. Since Arthur’s finds have turned into designer gems, I like to think I’ve turned the rundown place into something chic. I keep the stock dusted, the floor swept and the items cataloged as best I can for condition, year and maker. Local designers have come to rely on my growing expertise in this new arena of stylish design. I connect my customers with local upholsterers, cabinetmakers and furniture refinishers who turn these rough finds into valuable pieces worth ten times their original value.

I still get the riffraff and bargain-hunters looking in my shop for a few cheap finds to furnish a rundown apartment. Within hours, my treasures will turn back into junk. However, I treat these customers with same respect I give my more well heeled clients. After all, I’ve walked in their shoes more days than I’d like to recall.

I met my friend Rocco while he was in the shop looking for a lamp for his back porch. I sold him a ceramic gold-stripped 60’s table lamp that was nearly as tall as the 5’2” mechanic was. I hadn’t yet cleaned it up for the showroom. When Rocco wandered into my back room and spotted the lamp, it put such a smile on his face that I couldn’t have been happier if I’d sold it to someone else for twice the price. That smile so warmed me that I found my panties getting wet; there was something behind it more than simple gratitude. I thought my throbbing crotch would fall right out of me, leaving the embarrassing evidence of my arousal right there on the floor. Thankfully, my panties held.

“I like watching you, Hayley Lyndon,” he said, with a wisecracking kind of smirk on his face. He moved on me with his rhythmic hips leading him forward, while the charismatic glint in his eyes had me mesmerized. When he was just inches away, he reached out to my face and ran his stubby grease-stained fingers through my blonde curls. “Your skin,” he shook his head in amazement. “White…like magnolia petals.”

I shivered in stunned confusion. “How do you know my name?”

“Your business card.” He stepped back and flipped my card from his pocket.

“Of course. You’ve been here before.” I smile.

He looked around and nodded. “Yeah, I browse.”

I never would have paid attention to a man like Rocco if he hadn’t paid such close attention to me. Lust seemed to drip from his pores, oozing out over me and drawing me in. I can’t fathom love at first sight, but s****l chemistry in seconds, that made perfect sense with Rocco standing so close and putting all my erotic sensors on high alert. He’d caught me unawares, vulnerably open, when I least expected to have my loins shocked by the seismic activity. Daylight. My place of business. Customers strolling in off the street, and suddenly I was frantic to wrap my legs around Rocco’s hips and ram my p***y with his erection.

We did it the basement stairwell after I closed the place for an early lunch. Rocco banged me against the stairwell wall while I clung to his ripe, sweaty body. I adored his full-throated groans and consuming kisses, the urgent vitality of his blistering passion, and the way he worked a finger in my ass, while he thrust a mean erection toward my cervix. He remained dressed, while I was half-naked by the time he finished. My breasts were flailing about as madly as my hair, with their soft texture marred by huge hickeys just above each n****e.

“We do this again,” he said, while zipping his pants and watching me attempt a recovery of my shaky limbs.

“Sure, okay,” I managed to smile.

He stared around the stairwell. “You like it here…”

I looked back at him, puzzled.

“The stairwell, I mean.”

“Sure.” I stared too. “Kind of trampy and sleazy.” I smiled.

He nodded and made another affectionate gesture with his rough palm against my face.

Ever since that day, about once a week, Rocco and I explode on each other. Usually we’re doing it in a stairwell, often in compromising locations. The more the risk, the greater the high—like drugs, only better. He’ll come to the shop at lunch or closing time and we’ll take off down the street looking for empty alleys and open opportunities to f**k freely. Some days, when I’m not yet needing Jeremiah’s whips, I find Rocco at the auto shop where he works. To steal a moment of passion, I’ll drag him out of the place while he’s still wiping his hands of the grime. I think he probably has at least one real girlfriend somewhere, but we don’t talk about our lives.

Two days after my last session with Jeremiah, I’m in the shop at closing time, when I hear the bell on the front door jingle. Rocco is winding his way through the shop, his eyes focused on me with a look of conquering in his normally gentle eyes. A lock of black hair droops across his face, and he combs it back with his hand. I see his shirt and jeans are clean; he must have showered, none of the auto shop grunge is apparent on his clothes. This would be a first.

“You got a minute?” he asks.

I can already feel the roar thundering through my crotch. Jeremiah must not have been enough to quell my s****l need.

I only have to smile.

I lock the front door, put up the sign and we slip into the alley behind the shop. He has his hand at my back, pushing me toward some unknown destination—we rarely screw in the same place twice. We hike to the street and then at least five blocks before Rocco finally shoves me into another alley behind an old warehouse. A realtor’s sign slumps askew against a beaten down chain link fence. Weeds crowd through the cement walk, while the air of neglect sweeps through the hollowed out building. This is the ambience I love.

We’ve walked in silence and say nothing, even when I begin to tear away my clothes inside the drafty metal stairwell. The cold seeps into my body, while my flushed skin remains hot. He wants me naked today; that’s why the desolate building. He’ll strip down only to his pants—this alone clarifies our positions in this relationship. He sees himself as a cut above my sorry character; I’m just a slut for now. For one half hour of my life, Rocco owns me just as he owns his tools. He’ll use me, as if I’m just another tool, expecting nothing back and giving me little in the way of gratitude when he’s finished.

I lean back against the wall and its peeling paint, while Rocco slides a hand over my naked belly and down my pubic mound. I thrust my s*x home against his hand, reveling in the sensation his touch generates. His fingers glide deeper, parting my labia until one slips across my wet c******s and into my v****a. He works the opening with gentle insistence, while I murmur in deep-throated groans. I clutch my breasts and squeeze the n*****s hard, but Rocco jerks my hands away, shaking his head, no. While his fingers still work my p***y hole, he covers one n****e with his mouth and sucks as hard as I can pinch.

“Ah, yes….” I seethe with satisfaction. I am a happy woman.

He moves on, covering the other n****e in the same way with his teeth digging in until he feels my vaginal muscles contract around his fingers.

Having decided I’m ready for the change, he abruptly stops the tease, jerks me around, and bends me over as he kneels behind my ass. He parts my cheeks, and I feel his tongue in my crack, sliding from cunt to asshole until my whole s****l cavern is a wet avenue of saliva and my pungent juices. He rims my backdoor in a merciless rhythm while I gasp, clinging to the cold metal railing to keep my balance. My insides must be a thousand degrees, while my skin shudders from the chill wind driving up the stairwell. Rocco slaps my ass at regular intervals until the cool flesh heats. Sensations collide. I’m thinking I’ll climax any second, but I can hardly read my body now for all the wild commotion I feel.

When Rocco stands, I know what comes next—I’ll get the ass f**k that Jeremiah refused me. His erection isn’t long but it’s damn thick and always takes some getting used to. Yet, he’s not a brute, just a horny insistent man who knows he’d better be gentle or I’ll scream. After a few adjustments, after he reaches in to stroke my clit and keep it roused, after he’s nestled deep and felt his way around, then he begins to bang me. I hang on tight for a pounding ride, thighs slapping thighs, my ass mauled with hard grasping strength, my body grunting out of the darkness this man brings out in me.

“Sheeeeeeeeyeeeaahhhh…” I begin to cry, doing my best to squelch the noise, but that is damn near impossible once I lose control inside the orgasm. The force takes all restraint away.

Rocco’s hands are all over me. He pulls me up against his bare chest, hangs on to my breasts and kneads them hard, then slathers my neck with a hundred kisses.

We grunt and moan for several minutes as the climax crescendos and then subsides. At last, we return to the reality of the windy stairwell and its seedy privacy, with Rocco holding me for a time once he pulls out of my ass. Then he finally turns me around and kisses my face. I assume we’re finished, but then he pushes me to my knees so I can thank him properly with mouth and tongue.

“That’s it. Get it good.” It’s the first thing he’s said in a half hour.

He’s not unkind. In fact, while I’m lapping up the remains, he tenderly runs his hand through my tangled hair. When I’m finished, he’ll help me dress.

Once we leave the abandoned warehouse, Rocco walks me to the shop, to the back alley doorway where we started.

He gives me a friendly peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you soon,” he says.

I respond with a wave as he walks away and moves quickly toward the street.

I never think about what he does when he’s not with me. It’s good enough that we don’t ask questions, or demand some sort of relationship beyond the s*x that neither one of us could handle.

I move into the shop before going home, thinking that I need to check some paperwork Rocco interrupted. After the exhilarating last hour, I have energy to burn. I’m back to work within minutes, diving whole-heartedly into a sales report for Arthur.

The private business phone rings while I’m adding up receipts. I don’t have to answer after hours, but I pick up instinctively.

“Hullo. Hayley here.”

“Miss Lyndon.”