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“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”
– Dr. Seuss
Max
Friday morning, 10:00 A.M. and I’m tinkering with a 1967 Ford Mustang in my home workshop. I can’t recall a time I’ve ever felt more content. I’m not a different person, I’ve just become who I was always meant to be. Murderous rage gone? Check. Loving and loved within a stable relationship? Check. Truly happy? Check. Financial problems long gone? Check.
I paid Walton back in full, including interest. That got his dad off his back. Turns out my new business partner is rich.
Extremely rich.
Out of the ballpark, silly money, stupid rich. I’m not complaining at all.
Today is the 20th of January. One whole year since I smoked my last cigarette, but more importantly, it’s Tina’s birthday. Do I ever have a birthday surprise planned for her! I never imagined someone like her. We’ve been married for six months now, and remembering how much of a circus our wedding was makes me laugh.
One headline read “Famous model marries younger, unknown mechanic.” Yes, I’m three years younger, so what? Then the story went on to discuss my forearm tattoos. Someone found a photo of me as a soldier, another of me wearing blue overalls, tearing the insides of a bus apart. My highly successful company barely made one line. Seems the rags to riches boy from the other side of the track narrative played better, giving the whole world something to gossip about. The “Under 30 Tours” staff particularly enjoyed the joke. It was right up their alley.
Another headline read: “Modern day hero marries famous actress.” Playing up to my YouTube “take down the bad guys” fame, these stories made the love match of “famous stars” the theme. Frank Chavez, owner of News Nightly, was doubtless behind it. His daughter Charlotte, the young woman accosted by thugs, and Sky have become best friends.
Tina’s foster father, Joel, was her maid of honor, while Annabelle, Big Mama and Sky were her bridesmaids. Walton was my best man. Martin, Dave, and Harley were my groomsmen. We had a PR firm guiding the event to prevent nasty BS.
Just before Tina slid my wedding ring on, she got me one more time, teasing tormenter that she is. Her words, “I Tina Kirkner, take thee, Max Fauntleroy O’Neal, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”
The minister hadn’t said my middle name, he didn’t know it. Only my parents did, and they’ve been out of my life for a long time. So thanks to Tina, the whole world knows it. The guys at the office enjoy rubbing it in.
I engraved her wedding ring with: "No Tengo Mas Que Darte" which is Spanish for "I Have Nothing More to Give You." I got the idea after reading a National Geographic article years ago. It mentioned a ring found from a 16th century Spanish Galleon that went down off the coast of Ireland. The inscription seemed romantic and apropos. Tina loves it.
Tina had resolved my greatest concerns by paying a visit to the girl I raped. Sure, I tried to talk her out of it. Unfortunately, not even the strongest dominant could change Tina’s mind once it’s set in stone. Our conversation went something like this:
“What? Christ, no way! You can’t meet with Brenda!”
“Why not?”
“For a start, what will you say to her?”
“Whatever I want to say.” Raising her eyebrows, she’d given me that stubborn stare she sometimes gets. “Brenda’s already agreed to meet today for coffee.”
“All right,” I agreed, responding like someone who had been married twenty years, and knows when an argument with his wife is futile.
After Tina returned from their meeting, she was all smiles. According to Tina, Brenda Fernsby was now Mrs. Brenda Carreno. My first girlfriend while shocked to get an invitation for coffee from a famous model, accepted out of curiosity. Tina told her she planned to marry me, but I’d confessed what I had done. She asked if Brenda thought people deserved second chances, and if so, did she think it was possible for a reformed rapist to make a good husband?
Tina has a way of getting people to talk to her—I’m an example of that. By the end of their lengthy female tête-à-tête, Brenda agreed that I would likely make a good husband. Life experience and therapy had helped her. At age fifteen, we were very young, and emotionally immature.
As a boyfriend, Brenda acknowledged I had been both caring and loving. The decision to make love together had started well, but had taken an inexplicable turn. I’d been remorseful, apologizing monthly via snail mail while in juvie. In each handwritten letter I spoke of confusion, shame, and that I never meant to hurt her. While it didn’t excuse what I’d done, I asked for her forgiveness.
Twelve years later, after therapy from André, he suggested I send another letter of apology to Brenda. Surprisingly, this time I received an answer. He won’t admit it, but I suspect the Frenchman was behind her change of heart. Unsigned, her letter had simply said, “I forgive you.”
As powerful as “I love you,” those three little words had transformed my life.
Brenda had saved all my letters of apology. Tied into a bundle, she’d presented them to Tina before they parted.
A clicking sound draws my attention. Large as a miniature pony, our silver standard poodle named Wheezer gallops inside, his big toenails tapping on the concrete floor. Laughing, Tina follows close behind our furry friend.
“Here Wheezer. Here boy.” I bring him to heel, away from car grease, then quickly clean my hands. Poodles as a breed are in the top five for IQ and as a bonus they don’t shed. During the heat of summer here, we keep him shaved.
“Comment vas-tu, mon Amour?” How are you, my love?” Tina’s smile hits me like a burst of sunlight.
“Just fine,” I reply, wiping my hands with a rag. I know what she asked as I understand a smattering of French now. Taking her into my arms, I draw her to me, running my nose up her throat. Breathing her in. As it’s her birthday, we took the day off. My sister is at a friend’s house, so we have the place to ourselves.
“I love French Fridays,” I murmur thickly, pulling away to meet her gaze. “Say something naughty.”
Her eyes glint. "Donne-moi une fessé, baise mon con, enfonce ta pine dedans à fond. Baise-moi, baise-moi, baise-moi."
“I got the fuck me parts but what else did you say?”
Tina snickers. “Spank my ass, fuck my cunt, shove your prick right up. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!”
The sound of dirty French words on her sweet tongue, combined with visions of her enjoying her birthday present, makes me instantly hard. Desire fires my blood. My fingers dig into her butt cheeks, pulling her close, rubbing my ridged shaft against her cleft.
“Mm. Fuck you, eh? I intend to do just that. But not right now, my delightful fuck toy. Later.”
“What?” Her brows draw into a frown. “Why?”
“Because it’s your birthday.”
“It is, and you are my present!” Meeting my gaze, her shit-eating grin says it all.
I take her shoulders in both hands. “Remember when you confessed every wonderful detail of your secret sexual fantasies? Each mental image you used to imagine to get yourself off? You got some of it from erotic books.”
Several emotions flash across her face: amusement, embarrassment, and potent lust. “As I recall,” she shoots me a dirty look, “you tortured every nasty fantasy out of me. You didn’t let me climax for what seemed like forever.”
“Yeah, I sure did.” With triumph in my heart, memories of her crying and begging fill my mind. The joy of that memory dampens when I envision a shit-ton of men I don’t know, getting a hard-on for my wife.
I sigh. The things you do for love.
Gripping her breasts, I rub my thumbs across her nipples. They immediately stiffen. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. Today you’re going to get your wish. We’re going to make your all dreams come true.”
“We?” she asks.
“We’re off to Las Vegas.”
“Oh, great! A birthday surprise? Is there a show we want to see?”
I smile. We saw Jerry Seinfeld perform in Vegas, so she’s thinking Cirque Du Soleil, or something. “Yes, there’s a show I definitely want to see. An erotic performance.” Sliding my hands down her arms, I circle her wrists tightly, pulling them behind her. “The surprise is, you’re the one who’s going to be on show.
“I’m putting on an erotic show?” Instantly turned on, she flushes, but still has no idea what I’m talking about.
“It’s time for you to experience your dirty fantasy, you little slut. Just you, me...” I pause, imagining the sound of a drum roll, “André...” I pause again, “along with a bunch of men you don’t know. They all want to watch you come.”
“No way!” Tina gasps. “Oh my fucking God, really? But... are you OK with this?”
The shocked, wide-eyed look on her face is priceless. Embarrassment, excitement, and nervous anticipation shine from her emerald eyes. I like that the horny little exhibitionist is worried. Like me, Tina adores André. Is she wondering how she’s going to satisfy two demanding Doms with a collection of strangers watching?
“Oh, Max! Tu sais que je t'aime, n'est-ce pas?” You know how much I love you, don't you?”
“Oui, oui,” I reply, as it’s another French phrase I understand. One hand tightly circling her throat, I kiss her softly. My other hand tightly cupping her ass, I say a sentence I’ve learned and said many times before. “Tu es l'amour de ma vie, ma belle cochonne.” You are the love of my life, my beautiful slut.
“Mon mécanicien, tu es vraiment romantique. Ne change pas,” she replies.
“What?” I ask. “What did you say?
Laughing, Tina thrusts her hand between my legs, gripping both cock and balls. “I said, ‘My mechanic, you are such a romantic. Don't ever change.’”
