gliuccioni and the river god (2001: published in Aqua Ertoica)

In the beginning, you were simply good at what you did, and better than most.

No one cared, aside of the occasional whistle, slight of hand under slide of ass, and when you delivered the goods -- quicker, faster, cleaner than any of the mongrels who tried to best you -- no one dared insist you were anything but the best. Even if you were a dame; even while they cheated you for your due.

But he noticed, and from the start, you knew that when that happened, it was only going to go one way or another: either he'd respect what you did, and be too busy with every other broad dangled by a rent payment or a new fur, or he wouldn't, and you'd have to make some choices. Someone good can run the docks, but you’d have to be a fucking fountain in Sicily to beat the river god on his turf.


"Arethusa Gliuccioni," he announced. You'd turned quickly, hand too fast to the piece. The adrenaline from the job was still rushing through sinew and muscle; you were jumpy as a rookie.

"Mr. Alpheus," you'd said, seeing him, taking in a few quick breaths to calm yourself, sliding the weapon back in your boot. "Beg pardon, sir, this time of night, on the docks, I didn't -- "

He waved you off. "No need," and grinned like the cat who'd eaten more than one canary in his day. And he had. "You finished?"

You wiped your brow, shook the water from your hands. "Yeah, he's done. Sank like a stone. You want this now, or -- ", you shook the grocery bag in his direction, heartbeat in your throat from the fear and the rush.

"No, no, " he spoke with a smile. "You keep it this time. That's not so easy for a dame to do, no?"

"It's easy enough for me, and probably for him, in the long run. Faster anyway, less painful. I'll get paid for the job in time, this is yours."

He shook his head again. "Not this time. You keep it all. I'll tell the boys we're all settled up. You hungry?"


You should have seen it coming then, and maybe you did. Maybe you didn't, but went to dinner anyway, sopped up green olive oil with bread where you sat alone in the back of the restaurant, and listened instead of talking. You had to listen, there was no way around it, it was how the game was played if you wanted to win.

You had to say yes when he asked if you'd like to go to your place. You had to go with it when he curled his finger under your chin and brought your lips up to his, breath thick with wine and cigar smoke, and you had to kiss him like you meant it, like your life depended on it. And it did.

The story didn't have to go this way, though, you could say goodnight and let it go at that and keep on with your job, except that you were too good at it, and had close to a hundred grand lined up in neat little rows right under the mattress you sat on with him and another batch still to go back and get from tonight's job, lips on his, and you had to wonder if what you smelled was wine or suspicion.

You can’t be too careful when you’re this slippery, so instead of saying goodnight, you got to your knees and ran your fingernails over that perfectly ironed white silk shirt, making his dark nipples rise up as you undid his belt with your teeth and let him unbutton and unzip himself so you didn't seem too bossy. You knew you might be okay then, and so you let him hold his cock to your mouth and run the slick tip of it in circles over your lips, and you slid your hot tongue back and forth and back again underneath it, fingertips slipping around his balls, stroking their fur like the head of a cat.

Once you heard him start to groan and call your name, you knew you were home free. You got off on a blow job, just knowing you were sucking the boss right on top of every dollar you deserved for your work but never got and so you stole, until tonight. And Isn't that ironic, considering the fucking bag was empty, and that irony, and the feeling of getting away with it, and that goddamn smell of money and sweat got you wet. It was a damn good thing your mouth was full, it kept you from laughing your head off. You pulled your mouth up and down over his purpling dick, and his hands pulled at your ears hungry and needy as you sucked it hard against the roof of your mouth, milking the fleshy cow. It spat out praise in a bitter, milky shot that you slammed down your throat with an audible sigh and you smiled, wiped your lips on the back of your hand.

He looked at you after, not warmly, but with a little special-what-the-hell-is-it-for-chrissakes-something you couldn't place.

"Arethusa Gliuccioni, " he said, pulling a handful of bills from under the mattress. "You belong to me."


He came for you the next day, after you spent a day pacing and planning and fucking praying to whoever would hear for this to go right. You knew it would happen; it had to, and you didn't dare try and run out and end up less nine fingers or toes, or with half a leg or one eye to show for it, only to die later anyway.

He shook his head back and forth like a slow metronome. “Things could have been easy for you, chickie, with that pretty face, and that soft mouth, and everything else you’ve got in that nice package of yours. You were good, too. A man would be hard pressed to find another dame that could deliver like that in bed and on the dock.”

You sat in silence; mind alert like a hawk, taking it all in, measuring every detail and comparing every possibility, but somehow, you knew, even when it looked that bad, the water behind you chilly as you knew it was, air on the dock reeking of dead fish, you knew.

“You have anything to say to me, Gliuccioni?” he asked.

You knew what to say as much as you knew that water below. “I’ll give it all back, Mr. Alpheus. You know I will, and I’ll do anything for you you want. If I had known before last night -- “

“You had a good time last night?”

“You know I did.”

“That’s a shame. And you’ve done good work for me. I can’t say you haven’t, even if you’ve been skimming the whole time. And last night, “ he paused, smiling softly to himself, “You did good then too.” He sighed.

“But its too late for that, isn’t it?”

You slid your legs open slowly, as much as you could with the cuffs on them, as much as you could without him catching on, but enough for him to get where it could go; where he thought it could go.

He smiled again, cruelly. “You trying to show me what I missed? Not a whole lot we can do, you stuck to that chair like that, and I’d be a fool to put my dick in your mouth when you’re about to say goodbye, especially when I still don’t know where the money that was supposed to be in that bag last night went.”

You looked at him, with your dark eyes, full mouth and opened your legs some more, cursing your beauty for getting you into this, and fucking praying it would get you out. And it would.

He sat down on his chair across from you. “Alright, chickie. Show me, then you talk, “ he said.

And you did. There was no way he wouldn’t watch as you slipped your fingers over your cunt and slid the lips open so he could see the pink there, wet already because you felt your freedom swimming back to you in every second he stayed in that chair and the dock stayed empty. There was no way he could stop looking as you wet your fingers in that hole and pulled them out, sticky, to roll them over your clit slowly, your eyes glued to his face.

Over the smell of rotten fish, fear and power, you could smell the getaway so close it burned the back of your throat like whiskey and you rubbed yourself a little faster, a little harder, all the while pleading with him for forgiveness. The sound of the water clapping against the rotting wood sung your praises like a choir, and made murky promises you intended to hold it to.

“Show me more, baby,” he said, “And maybe we can work something out.”

Oh, we can, you thought, as you plunged wet fingers deep inside your cunt and flicked the others over your hard clit again and again. The icy air pierced your thighs, and someone's moment of weakness, and someone's advantage was so close. A balance of power hung there, still as stone as he watched you make yourself come under his gaze, chair teetering on the dock’s edge, and you moaned loudly and just as you did, saw that moment, and made it yours. And it was.

You and the chair fell back and he never saw it coming. The sandbags pulled you down slowly like you knew they would, and you heard him shout, saw his face uncertain, but cruel as you slid lower, and thanks to Charlie, your prayers were answered.

Just where you left him last night, where you’d left them all before you could get back in and get your prize, he sat in his own chair, face bloated like a pufferfish, but the suitcase was still in his hand and his piece right inside, just like they always were.

You stuffed the bills from the case best you could into your coat pockets, letting one, two, three packs float up until you heard the shout. It just takes a single bullet to split the cuffs, just like you knew it would. The story didn’t have to end this way -- but honey, was it worth it -- only one good kick up, and only one shot set him down in with you forever. You watched him fall, head light from a quick gulp of air, thighs slick with that juice from moments before, and slicker still with the sure thing of your freedom and winning the game.

You were simply good at what you did, and better than most, and you shot out and swam like a goddamn fountain in Sicily, feeling the story had ended just as you knew it would; as it should.

And it did.

 

© 2001, 2004 Heather Corinna. All rights reserved.