Something similarly rising existed between James’ legs, but he couldn’t very well see it now. All he could see instead was the back of Rochelle’s pretty head going up and down. James’ slacks were opened, and Rochelle was sucking his cock as fastidiously as the mouth of a devil ray sucking a five-pound conch out of its shell. James had brought his little “spy” along because…well, in his current state of occupational stress, he needed comfort. And Rochelle, cute little pipsqueak that she was, had recently grown quite accustomed to the eccentric nature of James’ needs.
His foot pressed down on the gas as his heart raced. He pressed Rochelle’s tender mouth all the way down on his cock and then held it there. (A little gagging was good for a girl), and then his hips clenched in the mahogany suede-leather seat as he spent himself right down into her gullet. Even after he’d come, he held her head down, listening to the hoarse sucks of her gags.
It was good for her. Showed her the proper ways of the world, where men were dominant and women provided the wastecans of men’s pleasure.
Eventually he decelerated back down to seventy, and let her up for air.
Rochelle wheezed, a smidgen of semen dangling from her chin. Her mouth opened to rebel but then she thought better of it.
“That was…nice,” James said in a slow breath.
Rochelle kept silent, wiped her mouth off. She sat beside James in the Lincoln’s spacious front seat, dressed quite prettily in white sneakers, white shorts, and a bright white top. Such a prize, delicate and delectable as a vanilla-cream torte. Sweet as confectioner’s sugar. But—
Taking her on this trip? It was proof of his appreciation, wasn’t it?
“Yes, yes,” he exhaled. “You’ll manage my restaurant some day. This I promise…”
“Thank you,” Rochelle peeped.
Sometimes, James actually felt bad about his raging abuse of her… Sometimes. It wasn’t really his fault, though, he deemed.
It was Ashton Morrone’s.
James gripped the Lincoln’s leather-gloved wheel harder as he muttered out his stress: “Best chef in the city… Best restaurant in the city… Five-star reviews in Gourmet and the Michelin guide…”
“Stop it,” Rochelle softly bid.
“Multiple James Beard Awards!”
“Mr. James. Don’t give yourself an ulcer!”
James broke like a piece of dry egg noodle. “I already have an ulcer because of that corpulent faggot! I trained in Paris, goddamn it! At Trievan! That fat shit can’t microwave a Hot Pocket but I’ve cooked delicacies for kings! Why does he get all the great reviews? Why is his restaurant the talk of the town?” James punched the Lincoln’s center console, peeling his knuckles and cracking the Nakamichi CD player. Veins pulsed at his temples.
“What about me!” he shouted. “What about me!”
Rochelle stroked his arm, tried to console him. “Mr. James, don’t get so worked up. Everybody knows your restaurant’s better.”
James glared at her. “Everybody? Who? Not the Times, not the Post-Intelligencer! I’ve never even been mentioned in Bon Appetite! I cook Swedish Meringue Cakes and Jamaican Escolar for my diners every night! If someone comes to my restaurant and orders Spiny Lobster Cassolet with Saffron Fouille, I prepare it personally! Why? Because I am in love with the art of cooking! But that fat bastard hires hack cooks to work his kitchen so he can primp his fucking beard on his GODDAMN tv show! And now, the only victory I’ve ever scored against the pompous cocksucker—he’s trying to take that away from me too! Only I can cook the Crackjaw eel to perfection! And now Morrone’s found it!”
“Mr. James, calm down!” Rochelle implored.
“How can I calm down while that-that-that…walrus tries to cash in on my expertise?” His glare froze, flaming with hatred. Without really thinking he—
SMACK!
—landed the back of his fist right across Rochelle’s face. “Ooow!” the girl whined high and loud, pressing her face into her hands.
James gulped, drove in silence for a while. Rochelle sobbed beside him.
“My dear girl,” he attempted. “I’m so terribly sorry. It’s just that Morrone’s got me so upset that I’m not in my right mind.” He consolingly touched her shoulder. “Please forgive me…”
Rochelle’s sobs hitched down. “I think you broke my nose!”
“There, there, let’s see.” James urged her hands away from her face. He quickly bit his lip, stifling an abrupt laugh. Rochelle’s nose had swollen to three times its normal size. “It looks fine,” he promised. “I feel awful about hitting you. I really am sorry.”
Rochelle wiped tears from her eyes, gently touched her nose with a finger. “It hurts! And it feels…really big.”
“Trust me,” James lied. “Your nose is fine. As beautiful as always, just like the rest of you. And, again, I’m very, very sorry.” James kept driving, and casting alternating glances at Rochelle. “I’ve been bad,” he said. “And I need to be punished. You know…”
Rochelle rolled her eyes, muttered “Jesus” under her breath, then hitched her little butt up in the seat and slipped off the smart white shorts.
“I’ve been bad,” James repeated, “real bad. I should never have hit Mommie.” He pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped the big Lincoln. He reached under the seat, then sheepishly handed Rochelle an 16-ounce Pyrex mixing cup.
“I think I’m actually going to enjoy it this time,” Rochelle sniped. Still lifting her ass above the leather seat, she brought the Pyrex cup between her legs and began to pee in it. The tinkle was almost musical, not quite Handel’s Water Music, but musical nonetheless. Rochelle filled it up more than halfway—impressive for a girl—and then she actually grinned.
“Jamesey’s been a bad, bad boy!” she yelled, huge-nosed. “Jamesey hit Mommy, and that’s bad!”
“Yes, yes,” James blubbered from his seat. “I’m bad! I’m bad!”
“So Jamesey’s going to be punished! Jamesey’s gonna drink Mommy’s piss!” and with that, Rochelle leaned up and began to empty the amber cup into James’ mouth. Eyes shut, he gulped and gulped and gulped, urine overflowing from his mouth. Gulp, gulp, gulp—recompense for a bad boy. Soon James’ belly was full of heat, and his black-satin St. Moritz shirt was drenched.
“God, that was fun,” Rochelle muttered under her breath.
Ahhhh, James thought, slack and sated now behind the wheel. Rochelle pulled her shorts back on, then continued to inspect her bulbous nose with a finger.
Who knows? James thought. I may very well marry her someday.
But such a venture existed only in the future. James had, first, to deal with the present. He had to deal with—
Ashton FUCKING Morrone, he thought.
That fat, mincing queer has FUCKED with me long enough!
I’m going to overturn his cart!
I’m going to paint his wagon!
James’ teeth slowly ground back and forth in the delicious vision.
I’m going to KILL that limp-wristed behemoth homo…