Double-cross – 2
“Your stinking fuck-brat.”
The husband stood grim and resentful.
“Not mine. I’ve not touched the whore in months.”
He knew that. She’d told him. Did she care? Did she hell! Plenty of likely males only too willing to do the job. All the better for him, too .. or so it had seemed. “On duty” nightly .. for weeks, months now. No wonder really she was carrying. At some point something would stick. She couldn’t get enough, hungry as hell. He just hadn’t given it a thought.
Things looked different now. Her husband stood before the cross. Glaring indignant at his rival hopelessly stretched out. Powerful, muscled. For that reason the husband had hired the hunk for the job. But he’d overstepped the mark.
“Can’t stand the bitch …..”
Maybe not. But a husband’s vanity was offended. No one else was supposed to do the job …..
He’d hired some hunk to keep her free from male advances? Yet didn’t touch her himself. What the ….? Where did this arsehole keep his brains? Up his arse, not in his dick. Did he not once think she’d get turned on by her well-built guard? Hired with the purpose of sticking close to her. Not wonder she might take an interest in getting a peek at what he kept under his britches? What a stupid prick!
What did this husband have for a head? Exposing her to a stud who looked every bit the man her husband was not? Manly, muscled. Virile. That was what had got her. Virile.
That first time .. when she’d lured him into her privacy .. he had hesitated. But not for long. The others had had her, he’d been told .. had them often enough. What the hell!
And what did this prick of a husband think a stud like him kept in his britches? He bred from his stallions, didn’t he? Never think a muscle-hunk of a guard might have hot blood in his veins? What did he think, this arsehole? He owned her, he thought. He bought his guards, his property too .. he thought. Their dicks as well?
Gripped suddenly by a rush of anger at the futility of his position, again he tugged madly at his wrists. Yanking at the fetters that pinned him to this cross. Nothing gave. Just a searing burn from flesh sore from his efforts .. from tugging at the shackles on his arms. In frustration he gave out a massive roar. Flooding the cellar with his rage. Furious that there was no escape. That he’d got himself caught like this. Captive of a husband riven with jealousy and hate. At the hunk he had hired .. for daring to fuck his wife. A man who feared the world would know .. laughing .. his wife had gone with her bodyguard. YES. HE was fucked alright.
The stupidity of the husband .. the hypocrisy of his mates .. his spirit inflamed into a rage so strong that it seemed the pressure in his head could actually boil. Burning with anger .. at himself .. furious at getting caught out .. his head shot back. Defiant he roared his fury at the gloomy ceiling overhead.
“DO YOUR WORST!”
With seething rage he splattered the air with his rage.
“Who gives a fuck?”
HE did, of course, the husband did. Fearful of the titters behind his back. Seeing himself held up for a cuckolded fool. Cheated by the hunk he himself had hired to stay close to his wife. He roared out in fiery frustration.
Laughter greeted his outrage. Breathing hard, his broad chest heaving with the passion of his rage, defiant, beyond himself, he fixed the jealous husband with his anger.
He felt the eyes scour over him. Down from the manacles hopelessly trapping his muscular arms. Glorying in the anger in his sweat-drenched armpits. Scraping over the solid breadth of his broad chest. Furious he heard the husband chuckle. Something he had not expected.
The husband’s eyes were full of mockery.
“Who gives a fuck? Who cares?” he repeated the retort.
He heard the man chortle, eerily.
“I do,” he answered.
He saw the husband’s faced change to a mock smile. On his features was a look of pretend-amusement. Covering a sadistic glower. Cruel eyes running down over the hard-prominent boulders in his belly. And .. having made sure his gaze was being followed .. he saw the husband’s look slide further down.
“NO ONE can know. No one will know.”
The husband nodded to one of the guards.
“Cut away this garb. Let’s get a look at that deadly weapon. The thing he used.”
It was one of his drinking mates who came forward with a knife. Slicing away his remaining covering. One of his fellow body-guards. Who himself had boasted about “sticking it to the bitch”. Ironically now eagerly doing his master’s bidding. Hanging on to his job. Throwing the last shreds of his clothes to the side.
The guard turned his head. At the sound of his master snapping his fingers. Indicating impatiently with his hand. Ordering to be given the blade.
“Do my worst? Eh?”
The husband was twirling the knife in his hand. His gaze had dropped down the body on the cross. To the point where the frame spread open the legs. To the limp member lying snug in its nest of crinkly hair.
Their eyes met again. A sadistic smirk lit the husband’s face. A quick look down again. A twirl on the knife-handle in the husband’s hand.
“I intend to do my best.”