Mature (18+) Audiences. Contains bad words and sex-y scenarios.
Mosvar leaned back, licked his lips, and returned, head first, into the pussy splayed before him like a dinner platter. Rejection felt, for lack of a better term, odd. He was rich, good-looking, and well-connected, so it never occurred to him a woman could say no.
It was possible that rejection was what had him tongue and face deep in this particular pussy.
This girl reminded him of the one from today with the dragon tattoo and piercings. Both this girl and her friend, who was currently on her knees with his cock down her throat, had the same complexion as the woman from earlier. It reminded him of that fancy drink his brother ordered every morning from the chef downstairs, a mocha frappe or something and the other. He didn’t think they tasted as sweet or had as good a handle on his cock as that woman would, but they would do for now.
The girl whose clit he was currently sucking writhed. Her fingers grated his scalp and she pulled him closer, rocking her hips into his mouth. Her stomach indented nearly to her ribs with each passionate exhale. He loved women. They were soft, lithe, beautiful, and their faces when they came was enough to make him want to release his load before he was ready.
But there was no fun in that.
“Oh…oh, baby.” She gasped. Her legs twitched. “Oh, yes. Please don’t stop.”
He dragged his tongue over her clit, sucked, and went back to long strokes with the tip in a firm point. His middle and ring finger stroked her from the inside.
“Mosvar!” The door burst in. “Jesus Christ, you piece of shit. Get some clothes on.”
He didn’t turn around to face his brother, not just yet. Not before—
The woman’s climactic cry broke through some of the tension now slowly gathering in the air. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to let the rest of the scene play out the way he’d hoped, he came down the friend’s throat, and she swallowed like the good girl he was paying her to be.
Something hit him in the back.
It felt like a piece of clothing.
“I said put some damn clothes on,” his brother growled, impatient. “I’m not here to see your cock.”
He pulled himself away from the first woman’s quivering pussy and tapped his cock against the friend’s open mouth to make sure she finished every last drop. When he was finished, he had them leave and slipped into the boxer briefs his brother had tossed at him.
“And how can I help you?” he asked, leaning against the bed, arms folded.
Argun’s brows narrowed, his lips pinched in a tight line. “What happened today?”
“You have to be more specific, brother.”
“Don’t fuck around with me, Mos.”
“I took Yaya to the party, like you asked,” Mosvar explained, “and then I came home.”
Argun walked to the door, reached just outside into the corridor, and dragged in Khassan, one of the guards who’d escorted Yaya to the party. He knew the man would run back and tell Argun what he’d ordered him to do. All of them, it was like they worshipped Argun’s cock more than his own wife.
Both he and Argun were the last remaining sons of the Sarayev tiep, one of the oldest clans of their republic. His grandfather had worked next to mafiya figureheads like Suleimanov and Noukhayev, their names carrying the same weight. More, in some areas. Violence, crime…they were in his blood just as much as they were in Argun’s. Yet, he didn’t receive the same respect or acknowledgment. Instead, they treated him like a fucking babysitter for their overweight, seven-year-old brat.
“Khassan, tell him what you told me,” Argun ordered.
Khassan nodded. “Sir, I told him about what you had me do. To the woman.”
Mosvar let his attention slip back to his older brother. “What is with all of this showmanship? Tell me what you’re here to tell me.”
Argun snapped his fingers, and Khassan left the room.
Mosvar rolled his eyes.
“We don’t dabble in civilian shit,” Argun said. “A woman turns you down so you want her face scarred? Are you really my twenty-eight-year-old brother or a sixteen-year-old cunt? Khassan and the rest of my men didn’t take an oath to fulfill your petulant, dirty deeds.”
Mosvar shrugged. “Our men.”
“You’re too childish to command an army, Mos. These are my men. Mine and Father’s.”
He’d gotten the hand at pretending, over the years, that neither Argun nor his father’s shallow views of him mattered, but that wasn’t exactly the case. He’d been trying to please them, show them he deserved the Sarayev surname, since he was a little boy. Whenever it seemed like he was getting one step closer, they moved the line.
“The woman kicked Khassan in the ball sack.” He pushed up off the bed, standing to his full height, eye to eye with his brother. “That’s the end of the story. Unless you’d like to hear how I came back here to get my fill of American pussy.”
Argun smirked. “To satisfy what this woman couldn’t give you, no doubt. Like I said, you are a fucking child.”
“Don’t call me a child!”
“Are you going to have a tantrum? Did you, at least, get this woman’s name?”
He shook his head. It wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d always wanted a black girl like that. She looked like she could dance in a music video, star in a porno. She wouldn’t be the first black girl he’d ever fucked, but she was the one he wanted. The one he felt like he’d been looking forward to ever since he was just another horny teenager. He could see her sweet brown ass swallowing his pale cock, him squirting his semen all over her exotic face.
He cleared his throat. “I couldn’t make out her name. It didn’t sound like a traditional American one.”
“Did she,” Argun ran his fingers through his hair, the same blond as his but cut above his ears, “have blond hair?”
“She was a black, brother.”
“There are some blacks with blond hair, Mos.”
“Like Beyonce?” He sucked air through his teeth. “That’s not real.”
“Answer the question.”
The lines eased from his brother’s face. His shoulders relaxed some.
“At the very least, we should be able to sleep tonight,” Argun said. “Then again, I’m not so sure I shouldn’t kill you myself. My Yaya told me she didn’t have a good time.”
“Your Yaya is a brat,” Mosvar spat. “And I’m not a fucking babysitter.”
“You need duty and discipline. Father was the one who suggested I send you along with her. ‘It’s the one thing he can’t fuck up,’ he’d said, but now, I’m not convinced.”
“Yaya didn’t have a good time because she expected it to be her party.” He’d almost given her a thrashing in the car for punching him in the face. Spoiled little shit. “She wanted the little girl’s presents.”
“And you didn’t buy her presents on the way back here?”
Mosvar walked to his dresser on the other side of the large bedroom suite and pulled out a shirt. He was done with this conversation, this interrogation like he was some kind of invalid. The woman was lucky Khassan was such a pussy and he hadn’t taken the knife to her face himself. She wouldn’t be walking away with a scarred palm, if the flesh wound Khassan had delivered even scarred at all. She’d be walking away with a lifelong reminder of him. An almost guarantee that she would no longer be seen as universally beautiful in anyone’s eyes, man, woman, or beast.
“Answer me, Mos.”
He slipped on the shirt and grabbed for a pair of jeans. Argun didn’t leave, and he didn’t address his brother.
There was nothing more he had to say.
He fastened the button on his jeans, pulled up the zipper, and lifted his head just in time to see something flash across the window.
“What was that?” He ran to the large pane and drew the curtain fully aside.
“What was what?” Argun asked.
“I saw something.”
Now, the only thing that stared back at him through the window was the lights of the city. It was a moonless night. Back home, moonless nights made for good sleep. Here, in America, it was one shit-fest after another.
One day, he would return home, and it would be after his father saw what he was capable of. He could run their part of the organization back in Grozny, with one arm if need be. He didn’t have to be here, breathing this corrupted air. He had to admit, however, that the women were very tasty in this country.
“Did you see it? Argun?” He turned to his brother. “Ar—”
Blood spilled between the fingers his brother had plastered to a slit in his neck. Argun fell to his knees, sputtering.
“Argun.” He ran over to his brother. “Khassan? Khassan!”
Khassan didn’t come.
Something moved in the corner of his eyes. When he turned, there was still nothing. Someone was in the room. He could feel it, but feeling it wasn’t going to help him see it.
The second-floor maid came running. “You called, si…oh my God!”
He started to tell her to call an ambulance. He started to tell her to find something he could press against his brother’s neck to stint the bleeding and possibly save his life.
But, he didn’t.
“I’ll go get help, sir.”
The maid scurried off, but no one she could find now would be able to help.
Argun was on his way out.
He was on his way in.
Mosvar knelt over his brother, looked him in eyes. “Did you see your end coming like this, Argun?”
Argun’s eyes widened, focus shifting. Mosvar moved at the last moment, missing a blade to the neck so narrowly, the metal edge sliced a hole in his designer T-shirt.
Finally, he came face to face with the man he was going to kill but who he also wanted to thank for doing the work he’d delayed doing for so long himself. He couldn’t see the man’s face; all but his eyes were covered by a mask. He was dressed in black from head to toe, and the darker stains from where Argun’s blood had scattered stood out, shiny. Almost jewel-like.
It was just like his brother to have pretty blood.
All he saw were the man’s eyes, but they were all he needed to see.
It can’t be.
The man wiped Argun’s blood from his blade and charged forward. Just as he was going to strike, bullets pierced the walls. An army of their men stormed into the room in camouflage gear, the green, red, and white of their nation’s flag patched on their shoulders.
When the bullets stopped, Mosvar looked up. Nearly everything in the room was destroyed, and there were holes in the windows, but there was no one. The window he’d been looking through was open, the breeze from outside tossing the curtains high.
Their father pushed through the soldiers, entering the room as quickly as his elderly body could carry him.
“Argun!” He knelt and cradled Argun’s head. “Oh, my son! My boy!”
Mosvar crawled over to them. Argun’s eyes were blank with the stare of impending death, but his mouth still moved.
Ramszyn Sarayev knelt close. “What are you saying to me, my boy?”
The word stretched with Argun’s last breath, and the muscles in his neck released.
His brother was dead.
“He was saying your name and the word beast.” Ramszyn set accusatory eyes on Mosvar. “What happened in here?”
Mosvar looked back toward the window. The assortment of men from the party today, he’d recognized one of them. He was a man known in Russia as Zver’ and in Germany as Biest, but that wasn’t who’d come through the window. That wasn’t who’d killed his brother and almost ended his life. However, to be sitting so cavalierly with a man like that, one had to be nearly as deadly himself.
“He thinks we were attacked by the man they call beast,” Mosvar explained.
Ramszyn’s eyes grew big.
“But I don’t think that’s who did this.” Mosvar walked to the window, shut it, and stared out into the blackness of the night. “The beast didn’t do this. Whoever did this, they moved like a ghost. A demon. Father, whoever killed Argun wasn’t a man. He was a shadow.”
In her head it was automatic, counting down how long it had been since he slipped into bed. Timing when it should be okay to reach out to him. His body tipped the edge of the mattress and, from the outside looking in, it was like they were having an argument. For her, it was like he was afraid even accidentally brushing her skin would dirty her somehow.
“Are you okay, babe?”
He searched her face, blinking slowly. “I don’t know anymore.”
“You didn’t have to—“
“I had no other choice.”