Chapter 25: Fucking torture

Evidently Janelle was enjoying her evening art classes. Twice a week she'd be away for two or three hours, arriving mid-evening after Doug had already been home and rattling around in the silent apartment for what seemed to him like ages.

Not that he could really grumble because he'd always been a bit of a loner, who liked having time to potter about in peace or watch obscure sports on TV without let or hindrance.

But these days it wasn't quite the same. He preferred having her around, even if they were each doing their own thing at opposite ends of the house. He wanted to be on hand. Ready for any chance to prove himself, or improve himself, in ways measurable in terms of her own satisfaction.

The quality of her sketches was steadily rising. He'd take time to leaf through the jumble of discards laying around on her workspace. She was getting technically quite proficient now that she knew about perspective and stuff like that, thought the subject matter was often weirdly fantasti-magorical.

Then she'd burst into the apartment again, a dark petite dynamo with difficult-to-contain chest, wearing trendy gear and bearing a large brown-cardboard folio under one arm, ready to tell him all about her evening.

Possessing as she did such deep and ill-concealed cleavage, he wondered about the amount of individual attention she might be getting from the instructor. He'd bet his bottom dollar she was a lot more popular with the men of the class than the women!

"So, wotcher do tonight?" he greeted her.

"We're onto the history of art right now. It's good. Some of it's stuff I've come across before, but never really paid attention to."

"Like what?"

"Like how the Egyptians always drew people from the side, but the eyes'd be, like, lookin' right at you..."

"Yeah? Why?"

"Fenton says it's because they didn't know any different. They were still figuring out how to draw."

Doug knew this already. It just so happened he'd taken some art history in his college days. He'd done so because there was a girl in the class who he really liked. As it turned out, this stratagem was a waste of time because she ignored him totally all semester. He'd completed the course feeling chastened, but culturally enriched.

Not one to spoil Janelle's moment by showing off his own knowledge, he nevertheless got to his feet and went out to the bookcase - the one they'd relocated to the hallway. Must still have the textbooks from that class here someplace. He never threw out anything like that.

Sure enough, there was still an introductory art-history text reposing among the macro- and micro-economics. He extracted it, and took it across to her.

"That's it!" she exclaimed, the pages falling open at so-called "Primitive art" (Africa and Oceania) and flipping on to the Egyptians with their funny stilted poses.

"That's what we were talkin' about tonight" she enthused, her finger indicating some bas relief tomb friezes.

"Though Fenton has a problem with African art being described as "primitive"" she continued. "He says there were great civilizations in Africa when these white-boy authors' ancestors were still living in caves and painting themselves blue!"

"You go, girl!" he dead-panned, "You tell 'em!"

"You gotta admit, Doug, this book is pretty Euro-centric. For another thing, it hardly covers Asia at all!"

"What's a Euro-centric? Sounds like a type of vibrator!"

"Don't mock me, Doug. Fenton and I reckon this kind of thing is pretty unbalanced, as histories go."

"It's the winners who get to write history," he murmured, the libertarian in him coming to the fore.

"Plus that book's about twenty years old now. Anyway, who in the hell is this Fenton?"

She hesitated slightly before answering.

"He's in the class. We get along okay, I guess."

"I guess."

From that time on, Fenton-isms cropped up quite frequently in Janelle's conversation. It emerged bit-by-bit from her various remarks that he was black, radical in terms of politics, very talented as an amateur artist, and had an athletic, powerfully-muscled physique.

Probably well-hung too, Doug reflected sourly.

She brought him home one evening after class, to show him her "studio" set-up.

Doug was watching a cable sport channel at the time. Brad was out, as usual. Doug got to his feet in surprise at this unexpected visitor, though guessed straightaway who it was.

"Honey, can I introduce you to Fenton?" said Janelle. "I just want to show him what kind of materials I got here to work with. Fenton, this is Doug."

Janelle did not offer Fenton any words of explanation as to who Doug was. Presumably this had already been covered.

"Pleased to meet you, Doug" said Fenton, extending a hand. Doug shook it, and winced at the powerful grip.

The rest of Fenton was equally powerful, and handsome too. He was shorter than Doug but broader, with the barrel chest and sloping shoulders of a body-builder. He also had an irritating air of seeming to already know everything about Doug, which made Doug wonder what exactly Janelle had been saying to him.

The two of them spent twenty minutes or so in Janelle's "studio" (actually, half of Doug's study) before emerging again.

"Coffee?" Janelle asked, but mercifully Fenton was no dummy and declined on the basis that it was getting late.

"Nice to make your acquaintance, Doug" was his parting shot as he left.

"So, that's the famous Fenton" Doug remarked.

Janelle put her hands on the hips of her cut-off shorts and regarded him in silence for a few moments.

"You got a problem with the "famous" Fenton?" she asked quietly.

"No" he lied.

"Don't bullshit me, Doug. It's in your contract. You gotta come clean to me on all your innermost feelings."

Oh shit, here we go. Coming clean on feelings had never come naturally. The first hint of emotion from anybody was always guaranteed to make him withdraw into his shell. It used to drive his ex-wife bananas.

He took a deep breath.

"Everything these days is Fenton this, Fenton that."

He subsided into silence again.

"You don't like him?"

"What's not to like? I only just met him."

"But he bothers you?"

"I wonder what he is to you, that's all."

A hesitation on her part. Then — "He's a friend."

"That's all? Just a friend?"

"Yeah. Just a friend."

"A close friend?"

"I... I been finding he's someone I can open up to. We got a lot in common."

This was not making Doug feel any better.

It's not that he was a jealous type, unable to have anyone even glance at Janelle. Quite the reverse - he got a real kick out of others ogling her, seeing them getting off on visual promises that she'd never fill.

But he felt it ought to be him she was close to. The one she'd come home to. The one she'd confide in.

How could he get this across to her, without sounding petulant and juvenile?

"Have you told him about us? The kind of stuff we do?"

"Nah!"

"Are you attracted to him?"

"To be honest, Doug, I could fuck him in a New York minute. What a body! If I were into straight sex, I'd drop my draws for him the instant he said the word."

Finding it difficult to conceal his irritation at this, Doug snapped "So why don't you then?"

"He hasn't said the word. Besides, you know me. I could only do it if he were trussed up like a turkey with a gag in his mouth, and I think he's too much of a bull to be into that".

There she goes again. Not at all the answer he was looking for. She spoke as though the option of fucking Fenton were foreclosed only by circumstances beyond her control. If not for that, it wouldn't be ruled out. She always stopped short of ruling this kind of thing out.

"Anyway, what gives you the right to say who my friends are gonna be?" she demanded defensively.

"Sounds like it's gonna be a lot more than "friends"!" he shot back.

"And what of it? What's it to you anyway?"

Her anger was now beginning to build at being challenged like this.

He wanted to say "It's everything to me! You're everything to me!" But he couldn't get out the words.

This void in the conversation left her with nothing to focus on except her own anger.

"I been horny all day! I wuz lookin' forward to some action with you tonight, and now you've made me mad! Fuck you, Doug!"

"Fuck me? Promises, promises..."

She paused to glare at him, dark face tight with fury, big eyes glinting.

"I can fuck you all right. I can fuck you in ways you'll never forget! But I'm so mad right now, that first I'm gonna have to fight you!"

"Yeah? How, exactly?"

He was smug about this. Like, did she really think...

POW!

Her bunched fist drove out from her side, straight and sure and with the power of a coiled steel spring, right into his solar plexus.

If pugilism like this were featured on one of his sports channels, he'd have said it was beautiful to watch. She was not at all a big person, but her stance was perfect. In martial arts terms, rock-solid. Low and squat, an excellent platform from which to focus every ounce of strength into that straight-driving fore-arm. Her hips whirled round in an arc, extending her follow-through to give it all she got. Sure, she wasn't very big, but she could hurt.

He doubled over and went down onto the carpet like a rag-doll. The urge to vomit was almost overwhelming.

Then she was upon him, grabbing, wrestling, manipulating him onto his back and getting astride. He tried to resist but she was too quick for him. She scooted up onto his chest and next his arms were pinned back by her knees, her hands encircling his wrists and pressing them to the carpet above his head. He was panting from the exertion of trying to free himself, wriggling and rolling his shoulders against the floor in an effort to buck her off.

Her response was to slide further up, to keep those shoulders pinned but let the rest of him flail uselessly behind her, unable to get at her.

He tried to use his head to lever those dark smooth thighs apart, and became suddenly aware of the very close proximity of the crutch of her denim cut-offs.

In fact, it was chiefly her crutch that now kept him prisoner. The point of his chin was digging in to her pubic mound as she used it to apply pressure, to keep his head still and force it backwards, upwards.

Very stimulating! To her, that is. The feel of his crisp business shirt against her bare thighs. The look of dawning helplessness on his face. The nudging and pressing of his chin against the furrow of her denim-clad sex, by now feeling all tingly inside as it gathered heat. The hunger that had been nagging at her all day was now reaching its height.

He gave up, and lay there limply. A dull ache radiated out from his midriff. He could strongly smell her pussy through the denim jammed up against his jaw.

"Give up?" she demanded.

"I give up."

"I'm not finished with you. I wanna tie your hands."

"Should you be using that stuff on me in anger? I mean, is it advisable?"

"I ain't so mad at you, now that we're even. Now that I got you right where I want you."

"If I do allow you to tie me, I don't wanna be hurt anymore."

"I won't hurt you. Promise."

She released him diffidently. He remained passive, so she quickly took the opportunity to whisk her tank-top off and use it to bind his wrists.

This left her black-enlaced bust bulging and wobbling in fairly close proximity to his hungry gaze. God, she's got fabulous tits!

"I want to get off you for a moment. Can you promise not to move?"

"Okay."

She stood and bent down to undo his belt and fly. He watched her swinging, swaying bra-clad boobs in awe and fascination while she ooched off his trousers and briefs. The sight of her deep dark cleavage was always instant hard-on material.

Quickly she slid out of her own cut-offs and panties, then got back astride his be-shirted chest to pin him down once more.

"Bad news, Doug. I AM still a teensy bit mad at you. You're gonna have to really suffer 'til you beg before I'll be satisfied this time."

"You said you wouldn't hurt me!"

"I ain't gonna hurt you. But you'll come to find that it'd probably be the softer option."

"Huh?"

"I'm gonna do a cock torture on you."

He looked up past her luscious bust into the pretty, sweet, ever-so-slightly malicious face above him.