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 glare 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.