0 comments/ 62904 views/ 5 favorites A Satyr In Full By: Marxist Satyr n.: 1) hairy one. Mentioned in Greek mythology as a demigod composed of a man and a goat. 2) A man whose licentious behavior mostly resembles that of the Sylvan deity (see Tim Crane Jr.). * * * * * At the divorce hearing my future ex-wife Maria said through her Zsa Zsa Gabor accent and thick blood red lips, "heez built like a cardboard box on veelz." And she was right. I am short from pygmy genetics, square from an attempt at division three college football, and brown because my White momma liked Black men. My ex also didn't fail to tell the judge that I possess the hypersexuality of Don Juan tweeking on Viagra and yohimbe milkshakes in a Bangkok bordello. And though she couldn't give me what I needed, she thought it wasn't quite right that I "fuck Ana (her twin sister), Teresa (the older sister with the mastectomy), Katerina (I loved mom), and Rosaria (the plump Mexican housekeeper) like common whorz." She took everything including my job as a junior partner in her father's law firm. I wasn't bitter, but I was 31, newly poor, homeless, and Mercedes-less. I was now exiled from the cabal of downtown lawyers. All that could change had to change. Especially the car part, Timothy Julius Crane Jr. does not travel by bus. But I had to that Friday when I went to Royal Chevrolet-Cadillac to pick out a new ride. I wanted a new Corvette, but I got a used Cavalier. It's all I could get with the cash I wrestled from my ex-wife in the agreement. It was a convertible though, so the world could see what a block shaped loser I am. In the waiting room of the finance office my eyes caught hold of a young blonde, 20 at most, with short shorts and a yellow Hello Kitty top. I wanted her. I could imagine taking her in the backseat of my new / used Cavalier. Making her suck my cock until I blew so much effluence in her shiny strawberry hair that she'd swear it was shampoo. That is...until her husband or uncle Chester or whatever sat down real close in the next scoop fiberglass seat and whispered something that tickled in her ear. She smiled and clinched her tiny Powerpuff Girls backpack-purse. I shrank into my seat. Other than Britney and Chester the waiting room was empty until a large woman dressed in a long-sleeve black crinkle velvet dress walked in. Her black bunned Victorian countenance darkened the room. Her antique dress fastened tight at the neck, spread smoothly over an ample bosom, cinched at the waist and nearly dusted the floor over the tops of her spiked lace-up boots. She was big and tall, maybe fifty, matronly attractive--like Jane Seymour as a size 16; milky alabaster skinned, and rich. The ridiculous ring on her right hand gave away her status. "Colombian emerald, five carats, marquis cut, white gold setting," I said. She looked at me in a way I haven't seen since I was 13 and caught masturbating to a padded bra ad in a Sears catalog. She pursed her lips to say something but declined. The gray polyester clad finance guy interrupted, "Ms. Morgan, we got you all ready, come on in." Ms. Morgan stood and strode majestically toward the finance office. I hadn't noticed it before she sat down, but her ass was enormous! I imagined her harboring a nest of blue birds in the bush between her cheeks and never knowing that they were there. Before she entered the office I caught her sharply beaming over her shoulder, countering my obvious stare, establishing what I would later come to understand as her dominance. Britney and uncle Chester were pissed. How could the old lady have gone ahead of them? It didn't matter for long because no sooner had she entered than she left, finance manager in tow. He was begging her to have a seat, that he'd lose the warranty or change the rate or some other shit. Ms. Morgan wasn't having any of it. She shouted the magical words that forever engendered my servitude: "You'll see my lawyer!" I settled the dispute for her. Right then, right there, with the efficiency and decorum that normally had alluded me in my short law career. Alexandra Morgan, distant, distant descendant of 19th century robber baron J. Pierpont Morgan and queen of retail dry cleaning in the tri-state area, made me her lieutenant. But life was not easy as the assistant to someone with the power and suspicions and appetites of Alexandra Morgan. I moved into the guest floor of her suite atop the Morgan Commons Hotel on the third day. The first week consisted of simple matters like drawing up eviction notices for the slack dwellers of her rental properties. All of the tenants paid up or moved out but one, this trio of chemistry students I dubbed the Gorgon Girls. They refused to answer the door yet always pressed their faces against the glass of the far bedroom window. As I backed out of the driveway their distorted faces and unkempt hair reminded me of the sisters of Medusa. In the end, I staked out their cars, following them to work just to speak with one. I caught up with the chubby, Goth Korean girl, Natalie, at an S&M club where she worked as a bartender. Natalie cited state law chapter and verse that 'a written notice of eviction must be served at the tenant's home in person.' She stated that she didn't care who the evil witch sent, they'd pay when they were goddamn ready. I retreated, figuring that she and her friends must be veteran rent squatters. After work I normally swam or lifted weights then ate dinner with Alexandra and her regional managers in the hotel restaurant at night. These were middle-aged men who feared their master's shadow. I shared no such dread. I, Tim Crane Jr., had successfully bounded from rich bitch to even richer bitch without touching ground. I did not sense the reason for their fear, although I did find it strange she wore a version of that full-length black dress everyday. I asked around the hotel about the dress and roots of Alexandra Morgan. I got conflicting stories from everyone it seemed. The Guatemalan gardeners said she was an ex-communicated monja, a nun, who had left the order for a man who died and left her a rich widow. The Puerto Rican laundress swore Alexandra had never married but was raised in a New Orleans convent run by the strict Ursuline order. She claimed that the money initially came from the inheritance of a rich uncle but had flowered into an empire built upon the sweat of immigrant labor. I got the whole truth from a private investigator who owed me a favor: Alexandra Taylor Morgan was sent to live with the Ursuline order at the tender age of 13 after awarding blowjobs to her father's board of directors like handshakes. She later attended college at Loyola of New Orleans but was expelled for running an escort service specializing in discipline. Alexandra Morgan finally took a degree in business from down the street at Tulane. A sizable portion of her estate was inherited ten years later after a plane crash killed both her parents. She had worn black ever since. On the second day of the second week Alexandra invited me to her office in the hotel basement. She asked if I was enjoying my new job. "Yeah," I said. "It's a little slow compared to my regular corporate practice but I'm sure you have more in mind." "I do. But I noticed you didn't take care of my house in Oak Village with the college girls. I know it may seem minor but I suspect they sell drugs. Do you happen to know the seizure laws regarding property engaged in the illicit sale of drugs? I expect complete accounting for the pretty sum I'm paying you. Is that clear?" Before I could answer she ordered me to strip. "I think maybe it's this stuffy suit that is holding you back from your complete potential. You look big and strong but not tough. Just because you're a Negro, do you have to dress like a monkey?" she asked facetiously. I noticed a wink of her left eye. Wink or not I was incensed. I wanted to slap the bitch down a flight of razor edged stairs. Besides, my ex-wife had paid a lot of good money for the Brooks Brothers suit that I wore. It was lightweight wool, tailored to make me look (hopefully) taller. I wasn't taking it off and if this woman wanted to fuck, well, she could forget it. I was a professional and had decided the days of fuck lust ruining my career were over forever. Alexandra corrected me. "Darling, I retain a team of lawyers for my business concerns," she said. "What I need is someone who can help with the delicate details of my existence and lawyer-client privilege to back it up." I had no idea what she meant. She gave me the stupid Timmy face and said, "Mr. Crane I need a cock to fill me, someone to hold my checkbook while I sign, a bodyguard when I travel among the needy, and a procurer of young pussy. I think you'll do. I had you checked out, you need money and no one will hire you. You like to fuck your wife's relatives, tree stumps, cows, small sheep, the occasional knot hole...now strip Timothy Crane Jr. before I change my mind." I got down to my boxers and socks, pride be damned. She smiled, motioning with a long French manicured nail to take off the rest. I complied. My cock stood out like a sagging tree limb. I was vaguely turned on by her tough cunt manners and the fact that her cloaked black form hinted at the kind of White woman my libido always hungered. But I was still in possession of an ounce of self-respect that prevented a hard-core hard-on. That is until she said, "I need you to jerk it...it's a small one...yeah...jerk it just until you're about to cum...I want to see how big it will get...Or...maybe we can't be friends?" I think I detected another wink. I stroked it slowly but it stayed a little droopy. "Look," I said. "I appreciate what you're doing for me but I need to have something to think about. Take off that mourning dress, give me something to work with." It took her three minutes but she undressed. Under her regulation heavy black smock she wore a red silk ribbon corset and black stockings held up by garters that left rings around her thighs. That's it. No panties. She was everything that a man with my hypersensitivity was afraid of seeing. Alexandra was all woman in every direction. Broad shoulders and ponderous breasts with upright brown-red nipples gave way to a tiny stomach paunch and wide hips. I stroked my cock slowly with my left hand and it hardened like steel rebar. She knelt, sucking in the length of my eight inch cock to the balls, which she held in her right hand while cupping my ass with her left. I saw what she meant by too small. Alexandra could swallow a fire hose right up to the truck. After her eighth trip down my shaft I was on the verge of steaming her bowels with jism. Abruptly she stood, gathered our clothes and left the room. She came back with a large box that she placed on the desk. It contained everything I would need for my new life. Alexandra put her hands on her hips in the doorway and said, "Nice cock, now get dressed we've got work to do." With that move she had me. Alexandra Morgan was made of whipcord stuff and she had knew it. She could cling to the edge of the cliff, maybe hang off by her jewel encrusted fingers, but never venture over unless it was to her benefit, her plan. I would gain the upper hand someday somehow. Will might have been the talent I lacked, but I promised in the future to master. Among the items in the box I found: black slacks (three pairs, pleated), five black silk polos (monogrammed with the corporate logo), thin black socks, shiny black Kenneth Cole shoes, shackle style handcuffs (2 pair with key), a Glock 9mm (with ammo), a red ball gag, a brown calf skinned wallet filled with an assortment of credit cards and various licenses (including my new business card stating nothing but my name and a number), a tiny Nokia cell phone, a leather strap with tassels, a digital camera, batteries, a pack of condoms, and lastly but most ominously a 12 inch black vibrator still in its package. She told me to make a kit out of the nonclothes items and to have it on hand at all times. I was also to wear only the clothes provided. No underwear ever. To make sure she staged midnight inspections from time to time. The punishment for wearing non-approved gear, like my workout clothes, was an evening spent eating out her thick black beaver while she read the Times. She never returned the favor on my blue balls. Alexandra knew my predicament and took full advantage. I was being made over in her fantasy image. Like a leather Boy Scout I always came prepared for a day of action. I kept my gear in a folding doctor's bag in the trunk of the car. To the kit I added my videocam (another steal from the days of ex-wife Maria). Some days I drove her around the city in her new Cadillac DeVille. We visited all of her cleaners in the tri-state at least once a week. This woman, who had so much money, thought nothing of being hands on. And now that she had a lawyer with her 24-7 she didn't need to weakly declare 'You'll see my lawyer', instead it became a questioned threat 'You see my lawyer?' and a stroke of the crease in my pants. After that initial encounter I did regained some moral strength. I settled into a regimented program of celibacy. I even threw away my collection of homemade porno and Polaroids (I did keep the pictures of my ex for sentimental reasons). I only masturbated once a week, Sundays, to stave off the desire that had previously wrecked my marriage and career. My favorite fantasy centered on Alexandra finishing her blowjob and frosting that unmercifully tight bun of black hair. One day near Oak Village, the wrecked suburb lost in time to the less fortunate, Alexandra asked me to pull into the driveway of the dilapidated yellow tract house rented by the Gorgons. Alexandra informed me that she would show me how to take care of these girls. I knocked on the door. No one answered, but not surprisingly I saw the curtains in the window move. "Open the door," Alexandra said sternly. I looked at her quizzically. The girls had recently installed a series of dead bolts for which I had no key. "Kick in the goddamn door fuckhead!" she said. I responded by throwing my 250 pounds of steely tallow against the hinges. The cheap pine door splintered, sending the three coeds sprawling backwards into the doobie smoke black living room. The girls recovered and took off in the direction of the bedrooms. Like a linebacker I pursued, knowing somehow that this is what Ms. Morgan would want. I tackled the first one, a tall brunette and handcuffed her to the second one, a short gawky blonde creature. Over my shoulder I witnessed Alexandra's monster thighs straddling the back and pulling the red streaked hair of Natalie, the Korean. After I unhandcuffed the girls, a not too calm discussion followed about the girls' inability to pay rent for two months straight. The girls were terrified. The brunette cried an ugly streak. They used every excuse known including the near truth ("we smoked our rent"). Alexandra shut up the blathering girls when she said the debt could be forgiven if they just followed her instructions. Relief came over the girls. I sensed something kinky was about to go down. I was ordered to go to the car, bring back my kit and set up shop in the first bedroom. By the time I came back the girls were eerie calm, naked, sitting on the unmade bed. They weren't as bad looking as I had first thought; it was the feral nature of their hair that had led me to pronounce them ugly. The two white girls were skinny with medium sized tits. Natalie was exotic and built like a miniature version of Alexandra; she stood five feet at most. I tried to deny what I saw, remove myself from the context of the situation; not give in to that devil within. Alexandra had wasted no time in preparing herself; she stood there with her hulking juggs hanging out over her corset not bothering to take off her boots. I brought in the kit. Alexandra reached in and took out the leather strap, a ball gag, the rubber vibrator (I didn't remember taking it out of its package), the blindfold, and both sets of shackles. She told me to take the rest and leave. "Close the door and get rid of that smelly tobacco!" she screamed. I understood that Alexandra was a power freak but this was even more than I could fathom. I had the full range of emotions flowing: Revenge told me to go get the videocam to catch my mistress getting her rocks off with three young girls; lust told me to go in there and demand those young bitches do me too; fear told me to go back to work and do what I was told. I decided to do all three. I'd get the camera, tape a minute or two of Alexandra the social climbing dominatrix in action (for blackmail and to jerk off to later), and clean house so my master would be pleased. After I got the camera out of the car, I went to work cleaning up the drug paraphernalia and junior chemical lab from around the house. It took an hour and a visit to the dump. These girls were disgusting. Chicken bones and bong water and Valium and some other kind of pills littered the floor; the place reminded me of a hash gallery from a Dutch painting or maybe the den of a lesbian Manson family. When I returned to the house I heard a scream. I didn't flinch. If Alexandra was going to make a mess of those bitches, I wasn't going to stop her. I sat back on the couch and smoked a righteous joint I had rolled from a private stash I found in the girls' freezer. It smelled funny but I could tell it was going to make for an immediate high. But then I recognized the yelp as Ms. Morgan. I grabbed up the camera and tried to crack open the door. It was locked but with the use of my new American Express card I gained entrance. To my surprise the coeds had seized control of the situation. The prim Ms. Alexandra Taylor Morgan was handcuffed and on her knees with her arms behind her back, her super thick ass high in the air. She reminded me of an overplump ostrich being raped. Instead of a hole to hide her head in however, the girls had substituted the fat Asian pussy of Natalie. No one seemed to notice that I was in the room recording. The other two girls stood on either side of the bed. They looked at me with a glassy-eyed stare, then went back to work. The big black vibrator was on high and the brunette kneaded it in and out of Alexandra's reddened pussy. Meanwhile, the blonde was beating Ms. Morgan relentlessly with the leather strap. I set the camera down on a pile of dirty clothes and chemistry books, making sure the bed stayed in frame. "You wanna join?" said the brunette. "Don't mind if I do," I said. The words stirred the black helmet of hair on the other end of the bed. "Tim, Tim is that you? Thank God! Get these girls off of me! They're on some kind of drugs, who knows what the fuck they're going to do?" she screamed. I could tell she was on the verge of terror. This was good. Maybe I could give her the push. "Sounds like fun Alexandra, mind if I join in?" With that I unleashed the fury. First, I placed the ball gag in Alexandra's battered fat mouth. I didn't want to hear her berate me for not being gentle. I removed the clips that held her giant coiffure in place. Her gorgeous mane, once unfurled, extended to the crack of her ass. I then shackled the tallest match for Alexandra, the brunette, in a 69 with my employer on top. The blonde was of no use. Whatever they had toked had made her as violent as it had made the others horny. I suspected she was the one who had begun the revolt. I sent her into the hallway where she commenced to diddle herself in the floor length mirror while making faces. I closed the door and stationed Natalie on the other side of her friend, at the face of Alexandra, with that big black vibrator. She immediately set to punishing the brunette's pussy while Alexandra looked on in a mixture of terror and foreboding for her own cunt. A Satyr In Full Ch. 2 Part 2 is actually a prequel to part 1 and is narrated by Det. Kevin Brown, not Tim Crane. My career enforcement began after a short stint in the Marine Corps as an MP and embassy guard. When I left the Corps, I advanced up the ranks of the local police force quickly, rising to vice squad detective within three years of graduation from the academy. I wasn't eager to move up, the Marines had taught me patience, but I had always maintained a greater sense of vision in chaos that lent itself to police work. The rhythms at play in vice are those of lower human behavior. Sex and drugs tend to flow along a matrix: If you bust a crackhead you might solve a robbery; if you roll up a prostitution ring there's a good chance you'll catch the pimp engaged in a variety of pimp mischief including, but not limited to, money laundering, even murder. Not that my job was always so serious. In fact my favorite pastime was keeping tabs on the one-man crime wave known as Tim Crane Jr. Tim was a verbose Black attorney in corporate practice at his father's law firm Gaynor, Medved, and Mitchell. He wore a Trotsky beard and silly Prada suits and had the build of a fireplug, but he had charm for miles. I first met him in my days of walking the beat around the Octagon, an eight street party district near downtown. In a one year period the squad caught Tim with no less than six different women (none of them his wife) engaged in some variety of coitus in public. In light of his goatee and sexual proclivities the guys on the squad took to calling him The Goat. We usually let him go when we caught him, none of the girls were known prostitutes, but the last time I detained Tim I found him drunk behind the wheel of his Mercedes coupe with a naked coed in the passenger seat. He never struck me as really Black, let alone soul brother number one, but for credibility's sake he addressed us in the appropriate street patois, "You White cops kill me. What's this? A misdemeanor?" "If it's your first time. Is this your first time Timmy?" "But the car wasn't even moving, man" "Doesn't matter, they changed the law. If the keys are in the switch and you're behind the wheel that's good enough. For a lawyer you sure don't you know shit Tim." He developed a nervous sheen of sweat. "You don't think I'll get it thrown out?" "I'm sure your father's firm would love the attention. I'll give him a call, maybe he can post bail?" This broke his spirit. He tried a new attack. "Now peep this… I let you in on the inner circle of something major…maybe we'll just forget about this…transgression." I didn't really buy what he was selling but was intrigued. It turned out Tim was for real. With a lot of effort I worked up his inside information to the bust of my career and made my promotion to vice full time. His tip concerned a group of executives for a paper company hiding dozens of stinky crystal methamphetamine labs among the remote acres of their pulp forest. It was a brilliant idea that would have never been uncovered without Tim's assistance. I couldn't think of a way to thank him though, the paper company had been a client of his firm, and any public acknowledgment would have been career poison. I thought the least I could do for him was to invite him and his wife over to the house for steak and lobster. I figured that his wife, a Pole adopted by a rich American family when she was a teen and my wife, Irena, a Russian beauty, might have something in common. I told Tim it was supposed to be a casual affair, but he didn't get the memo. It was early autumn so I wore jeans and a black T-shirt while Irena wore a red cable knit sweater and ankle length black plaid skirt. I had to convince Irena that she looked beautiful. Her new haircut and color was supposed to make her a pixie, Jane Wiedlin as a blonde, but there really is no way to diminish the stature of a buxom six-foot, 160-pound straw headed Slav. The Cranes came dressed for a cocktail party. Tim wore a dark linen suit with a short collared electric blue silk shirt. He looked like this year's model of a South Florida Romeo, with a bull neck of course. Tim Crane's wife, Maria, was an angel of a woman. She wore little makeup and a sheer coral silk dress the color of her skin; her hard puckered nipples proved she wore no bra. Maria was as tall as Irena, but thin and naturally flaxen blonde. In a word, refined, like she had grown up in a castle instead of the streets of Gdansk. I wondered how she had fallen for a rascal like Tim, but as the evening wore on I guessed that whatever hold he had on her was slipping. Dinner was nice if a little drunken. Tim had brought three spectacular bottles of wine from his own cellar. Between the four of us we finished them all and moved on to champagne cocktails with dessert. After dinner we flipped for KP and I found myself alone on the glassed-in patio with Maria while Irena and Tim put away the leftovers and washed the pots and pans. Maria asked how I had come to make a Russian my wife. "It's a long story," I said. This was not a secret; just something I'd rather have let go unsaid. "Go ahead, you're among friends." She self-consciously licked her lips. "OK, I used to be a guard at the embassy in Moscow. Irena worked as a nanny for an American diplomat. We got to know each other as she passed in and out of the gate. One day some fool decided to launch a grenade into the compound. Luckily a Xerox machine took the brunt of the shrapnel, but when they turned out the guard, I was with Irena, and well, lets just say I had to make a choice…Irena or the Corps." "And you chose love?" she said. "Yep, I chose the Corps." Maria brightened. "But then Irena kept calling and showing up and the Corps told me to get out. This was only a few years after the Lonetree scandal; they didn't need the exposure. I still got an honorable discharge though." She seemed touched by my fidelity. "Kevin, how well do you know Tim?" she asked. Her life in America had not erased a very soft accent. "Pretty well. He works in the tower near headquarters. We eat lunch sometimes," I said. "I think he's fucking around on me." The wine had made her blunt. "I fuck him on demand. Do you know what that means? If he wants me now, he gets me now. Right here while you and your wife watch. But he doesn't care, it's not enough, he still needs other women. Is this what men do?" I tried to be as diplomatic as possible, "Tim might have a wild eye, but look at you, you're sexy, passionate, who would need anyone else?" She didn't seem convinced. She simply reached out and placed my hand inside her blouse over her heart. I detected the stirrings of an erection in my jeans. Trying to remain calm, I removed my hand after a cursory stroke of her small soft breast. "Listen Maria, any differences between you and Tim won't be solved by fooling around with me." I said. "Besides, Tim might not like the idea of his friend fondling his wife." "Do you mind if he fondles your Russian tramp?" she said. Maria's blue eyes peered past me in the direction of the kitchen. I turned to see Tim at the rear of Irena whispering something in her tilted ear. We couldn't see the lower halves of their bodies behind the kitchen counter but she appeared taller as if on her tiptoes, the upper half of her large breasts swelling for a touch beneath her tight red sweater. Tim's hands were locked around her hips. My wife grinned absurdly like Tim was telling her a joke that required his cock inside. After a moment they realized they were being watched, abruptly separated, and lurched quietly back towards the sofa. I turned away to see Maria's face hot with embarrassment. I looked again and noticed Tim's linen trousers bulging obscenely in front. Irena excused herself and hurried toward the bedroom. I had mixed feelings about what to do next. I was outraged at Tim for humping my wife right under my nose, yet how could I deny that I hadn't just felt the same lust for his wife? In the bedroom Irena apologized. She said she didn't know what had come over. "There's something about his voice, his scent, Kevin, I don't know. Maybe it was the wine. I'm sorry." She held her head in her hands. I told her what Maria had done to me. We agreed that this was not the kind of experience we should allow to complicate our lives. Tim was an informant in an investigation and this mixture of business and personal drama was foolish to say the least. When we returned to the living room, we looked out to see Tim and Maria on the deck. Maria sat on the broad wood railing with her dress high on her waist, legs wide apart and wrapped around Tim. His trousers were loose around his ankles as he fucked with long egocentric strokes. Maria made sounds that until that moment I had never dreamt possible. They had to be waking the neighbors. Irena held my hand and gasped as we watched. She was as excited for Maria getting dick as she's ever been about any love I'd given her. Maria's hands were on her own nipples, twisting them through the sheer silk to a monstrous size. She looked back inside at me through the glass, licked her lips then suddenly pushed Tim backwards and hopped down from the wood. Tim had his back to me but I knew when she went low on him that it was to catch his semen in her mouth. At this point Irena was rubbing her big breasts against me. I think she wanted to join in. When they finished they came back inside looking dizzy but satisfied. Maria's long yellow mane was slightly tousled but she wore a dot of Tim's jism on her cheek. I don't think she would have minded if he'd made a mask of cum on her face, she looked so drunken and happy. Their audacious fucking upset me, burned. Not just because it was rude but because I felt on some level that Maria wasn't in her right mind. It was like Tim had her in a spell. Plus I hadn't appreciated the theatrics on my own patio in front of my wife. They could have at least waited to go home or at least found a room with a door. Tim said it was getting late and they should probably go. "Yeah, that would probably be for the best," I said. Tim glowered back at me. We were one word from a fight. I stood six inches taller and thirty pounds lighter. He might've looked like Mike Tyson but I could've taken him easily. Maria and Irena said their good-byes with double kisses, I think I detected Irena licking Maria's cheek. They said something unintelligible in Russian. After the silver Mercedes coupe had pulled out of the driveway, I asked Irena what Maria had said. "She told me to stay away from her husband or she'd kill me," she said. I told her it sounded like sound advice. She turned away to the bedroom and slammed the door. We made angry love that night. After it was over she went to the fridge and slept on the couch. The next couple of months went by quietly without a word from Tim. Things between Irena and me however were not going well. She had become another woman since the night of the dinner party. One moment ecstatic, maudlin the next. She disappeared for three days at a time. When she came back she said she wanted a divorce. I told her that if we divorced before she received her citizenship she might be deported. Irena said she didn't care. She left, then returned the next day begging forgiveness. By the end of the year I had received promotion to detective first class and spent as much time on the job as possible. Tim resurfaced too in a very interesting way. I was heading up a community task force conducting surveillance on adult video stores in the Octagon that sold illegal tapes (amateur extreme bondage and underage stuff) and hosted a dangerous phenomenon called gloryholing. Gloryholes were large round openings drilled in the peep show booths so men could covertly stick their dicks through to someone (male or female depending on the scene) who wanted to service them anonymously on the other side. Our sweep of the video stores in the Octagon turned up dozens of prostitutes, perverts, housewives, transvestites, gay men, old men, businessmen, and a couple of off duty cops. It was my job to look through the tapes, catalog the participants (if they were stupid enough to show their face), and help make a convincing case for the ADA against the videostore. I watched most of the tapes on fast forward. I really didn't have the time or the stomach for what got these people off. Eventually I gave up my seat in the AV room to Patricia Ebaugh, one of my ace troopers and a good friend, and headed home. Almost in the garage, my cell phone rang. It was Pat. "Hey Kev, need you to doubleback ASAP. There's a tape here that you have to see. You gotta come back right now." "Pat, you're a lesbian, you're supposed to be immune from getting turned on by those tapes." "Kev, listen to me, it's about Irena, she's on a tape, you're not going to like it." I swerved to avoid crushing my riding lawn mower. "Queue the motherfucker up," I said. "I'll be there in 20." Even though it was after-hours, a crowd of vice squad pervs had gathered around the AV room monitors. I ordered everybody to get the fuck out. Pat said she was sorry but the guys had barged in. "Once they saw who it was I couldn't stop 'em Kev." She was embarrassed for me. Irena was featured in three of at least two dozen cassettes of similar length and similar content. They all featured Tim 'The Goat' Crane fucking a bevy of beauties in a multitude of positions. I recognized some of them from arrests in the Octagon. The first tape featuring Irena was shot in my house on what I came to recognize as my couch. He was hairier than I'd imagined especially his hard muscled legs and haunches. I'd always half–believed that the size of a man's penis had nothing to do with a man's height, but The Goat proved it. At five foot six, his bronze dick was a full eight inches and so wide as to not fit into my wife's mouth. She just adoringly sucked on the head, allowing him to fire a load of semen over her chubby white cheeks. He brutally slapped the glazed bell all over her neck and face and nose. I felt like the ultimate fool. I had invited the devil into my home. Shamed in front of my co-workers and God, a reservoir of anger pooled in my gut. The tape went on and on. The Goat's efforts were heroically Satanic. He eventually worked Irena up to accommodating his monster joint in her ass. This must have taken tremendous labor on both of their parts. She grunted and played with her trap to take the sting out of his hole splitting effort. Irena met his stroke with an abandon that can only be described as animal pushing hard back into Tim with strength I never knew she possessed. He came first, leaving her rectum stretched as big as her womb, sputtering a milky trail of spunk. He wiped the excess jism off on my couch cushion. Irena scrunched up in a fetal ball on her side, hands between her legs, she appeared deeply injured. The Goat walked towards the camera, picked it up, and proceeded to zoom in on my wife parting the lips of her pussy, stroking the blood engorged clitoris. When she came, it was in a series of guttural affirmations as if she were speaking a language long since dead. I hurt, not only had I been betrayed, but she had never approached this level of delirium in my presence, no matter how much I tried. Near the end of the tape there was another scene. The inside of a vast, overstuffed estate with marble floors and high ceilings. The ocean could be heard through the open door of the verandah. Someone tickled a piano in the background, sounded like Joe Sample. The cameraman was drunk, unsteady, he moved through a crowd of well-dressed men and women, cocktails in hand. I thought I caught a glimpse of Maria. He climbed a long staircase upwards. A guard with an earpiece smiled and waved the cameraman through a door that led to the roof. A stained mattress and metal folding chairs were the only furniture. Near famous men gathered around in a circle in various states of undress; one guy wearing nothing more than a cummerbund sat bare assed smoking a cigar. A silver haired gentleman in tuxedo, sans trousers, a dead-wringer for the mayor of our fair city, said "Hi" to the cameraman. The cameraman didn't reply. At the center of the men's activity was my Irena on the mattress. She was upright on her knees furiously mouth testing dick after dick looking for one hard enough to be of use. Her big brown doe eyes were lacquered in pleasure. Her short blonde hair gummed with semen, Irena drunkenly demanded "Get me a cock…I wanna fuck!" The men paid her scant attention. A state senator mumbled something about capital gain appreciation relief. The cameraman passed off the camera to a bystander then came into view. It was Tim Crane. He removed his spangled tuxedo except the brocaded vest and squatted to brusquely inspect my wife's quim like a third world gynecologist. "Quick, somebody get me a towel," he said jokingly. "She's one hell of a leaky ship!" The men laughed. Tim roughly pushed Irena onto all fours and abruptly entered her from behind. A cheer went up from the gathered crowd. I shut off the tape. "Kevin…Detective Brown!" my boss Lt. North was at the door. "You gotta stop watching these tapes or you're going to go insane." It was after four in the morning. I'd seen all of the Irena tapes at least twice. "Go home, just get some rest. We'll talk about it tomorrow," he said. There was an expression on his face like he was staring down a ghost. "I'm not done here chief," I said. "I think there's one in here somewhere where she blows the Yankees." My head reeled, my body ached. Horny and repulsed. Punch drunk and numb. My thoughts turned to eating my gun. I eventually did go home, but snuck out the tapes. My emotions ceased to function. I put on my detective hat. How did these tapes reach the market? Tim was rich. He didn't need the money. Did he do it to humiliate me? No, there were more than twenty other women on the tapes besides Irena. Then it clicked. Maria might not need the money either, but maybe she'd found the tapes. This was one sure way of ruining Tim's career and making sure he didn't see a dime of her father's money when it came time for a divorce. When I reached home I tried to wake Irena. There was the remainder of a KFC bucket on the nightstand. She looked cherub like in my old high school football jersey. When she didn't respond to a kiss, I grabbed a patch of her short blonde hair and led her to the living room. I sat her fat Russian ass on the couch. She kicked and screamed until I placed a hand over her mouth and pressed play on the remote. On this tape the action started with The Goat behind Irena. The setting was a cheap hotel, the kind where even the Gideon Bible is on a chain. Her mouth formed a wailing O; it appeared he was violently cleaving her in two. I turned down the TV to hear Irena's explanation. "Oh honey…I…don't know…I couldn't…he told me that…I'm sorry…he raped me…" she couldn't gain control of her English. She seemed stunned by the abuse the girl on the screen was taking from the hairy assed Black man. I helped her out by turning up the volume again where her English was excellent. The Goat switched positions on Irena. She sat on the edge of the bed. He bent over facing the camera, his hairy buttocks against her jowls. She had both arms around his waist in a hug. The Goat ordered Irena to stick her tongue up his ass while he jerked himself off. His cock loomed in the camera's shadow like a baseball bat, he used a two-handed technique, one hand would hardly suffice. I turned up the TV so loud the neighbors could probably hear the sloppy bitch sounds she made between Tim's cheeks. "Would you do that for me?" I asked. She was openly crying now. "Why don't we pack you a bag and send you back to your mother in Moscow."