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Quinton had just had the best fuck of his life. After he came, he slapped Marisela on the ass and she collapsed onto the bed. He followed suit and collapsed on top of her, careful not to put the full weight of his body on hers. Damn, she was so tight. He loved fucking her. Although she was a virgin when they first met, she was a quick learner with very few inhibitions. He liked being the first and only one inside of her. Her pussy was molded for his dick. When he gained enough energy, he moved off her. He spooned Marisela’s back into his front. Quinton watched the slow rise and fall of Marisela’s chest. Her light snoring sounds were the ultimate compliment to his already large male ego. He smiled.
Quinton thought he heard a whimper. He got up, careful not to wake Marisela. He padded naked across the room. Marisela had company, but he didn’t care. He opened the bedroom door and saw Francine on the floor. Her hand was down her panties. She leaned her head against the wall. Seductive eyes looked up at him and she smirked. She smelled of sex. His member rose and he responded with a devilish grin. He bent down to her level, helped her up, and escorted her out of the hall.
Marisela awoke alone in the bed. She heard the shower running. Immediately she knew Quinton was in there. Already her body craved him again. She decided she would join him. She picked up his discarded polo shirt off the floor. She put it on and walked to the bathroom. When Marisela opened the door, she was torn between vomiting and committing acts of extreme violence.
The shower muffled the sounds of Francine and Quinton’s panting. Francine’s long slender leg was hitched on top of the sink, the other planted firmly on the floor for support. She was slightly hunched over, hands bracing the wall. Quinton’s hand was wrapped around her waist. He was bent over her, his chest pressed into her back. As he moved in and out of her, he licked and nibbled her neck. Only moments before, he had made love to Marisela. Now he made love to Francine with the same intensity.
“What the fuck is going on?” Marisela’s voice trembled.
Quinton quickly withdrew and moved away, causing Francine to lose her balance. She stumbled.
Marisela looked down at the used razor on the shelf. She grabbed it and lunged toward them.
Quinton caught her arm. “Stop!”
Tears streamed down Marisela’s face. She had just experienced the ultimate betrayal. “Get out of my house now, or I’m calling the police.”
They clothed and left the house. Marisela, hurt and betrayed, swore vengeance.
Seven years later, present day
Though on the surface it appeared that Marisela had moved on with her life, she had not. Marisela had followed Francine’s life for the past seven years, waiting for the perfect opportunity to collect on her vow of retaliation. Outside of close family Quinton and Francine were the only two people she had trusted. She had shut them out of her life and hardened her heart. How could one trust again, after an incident like that?
Getting vengeance on Quinton had been easy. A couple of years ago, she had discovered his penchant for laundering money. One tip to the FBI and his freedom was lost. As for Francine, the opportunity had yet to present itself.
In the interim, Marisela had devoted her time to her private inv
estigation agency, Broken Hearts. She had managed to make a very good living off the lies and infidelity of men. The elite of Dallas society made up her clientele. Ninety percent of her business came from referrals. Marisela picked up a folder off of her mahogany desk. She read through the latest information on Francine.
Apparently, Francine had also become rich off the lies and infidelity of men. Francine would marry older rich men and sign a prenuptial agreement. However, in the agreement there would be an “out clause” that awarded her ten million dollars upfront and one hundred thousand dollars a month in alimony payments if the husband was found having an affair. If she cheated first, she was entitled to nothing, not even communal property or money earned during the marriage. She would leave with the clothes on her back.
Two marriages and two infidelities later, Francine was a very rich woman. Marisela wondered why the men would agree to such a deal if they knew that they were cheating. Also, Marisela mused, is it possible that all the men were set up by Francine so she could take their money? The biggest piece of the puzzle lay in front of her—a small society page announcing Francine’s third marriage. She’d had a very un-Francine-like, small ceremony. She had married a Panamanian professor, Javier Dominguez. They met while she was vacationing in Panama. A year later they married.
What was her motive? Marisela deliberated. Javier was not a rich Columbian hombre de negocios (businessman), or an upper-class American from the Canal Zone. He was not famous, nor was he part of high society. He did not fit the mold. Like a thunderous boom hitting on a stormy night, the answer suddenly came to Marisela. Love! She had actually married for love.
The time had finally come for vengeance. According to her sources, Francine had moved to Panama City, Panama. Francine also had a trip planned to visit her family in New York that upcoming fall. That gave Marisela three months to brush up on her Spanish, and contact her favorite prima, Carmen. Her cousin Carmen also taught at the University of Panama. Hopefully, Carmen would help her figure out a way to get close to Javier.
Marisela flipped through the file on Javier. It was important to study all of her subjects. She examined his pictures, stopping at the one taken on a beach. He was beyond handsome and very photogenic. Standing on the shores of a white pristine beach, in blue swim trunks that clung to the contours of his body, he reminded Marisela of a Hershey’s chocolate Adonis. Chocolate was Marisela’s favorite flavor. She wondered what kind of treat lay underneath his blue swim briefs. She couldn’t wait to taste it. The photograph froze the tiny droplets of water that outlined his lean muscular physique.
His almost bald head made him sexier. From his stats, she knew he stood an even six feet. His large pecan-brown eyes captivated her. He appeared to be looking directly at her. She felt the temperature in the room rise, especially in between her legs. His face was perfectly angular with a neatly trimmed goatee.
Scrumptious. Marisela’s erect nipples strained against the satin fabric of her bra as she stared at Javier’s picture. She grew wet as her mind filled with images of revenge. Her instant sexual attraction to his picture was alarming. She was being silly, it was only a picture. Her palpitating pussy told another story. However, she convinced herself that she would not lose focus. She would lick him, suck him, and fuck Javier’s brains out. Then she would make sure Francine knew about it.
She gave Javier’s picture another glance. She debated on pulling out her emergency office “toy” to douse the flames that burned between her legs. She knew that she shouldn’t. She had business to handle and a seduction to arrange.
Fuck it! She reached for her key chain and unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a pink vibrator. She turned it on and propped her left leg on her desk, exposing her nether regions to the cool office air. She stared at Javier’s picture and put the pink pleasure pole in her panties and massaged her throbbing nub. The pulsing sensations on her clit caused shivers to run up her spine. Her head rolled back and her eyelids drifted shut. Gently, she directed the vibrator in between her slick folds and nudged it inside. She imagined it was El Profesor inside of her. The pulsing beat of the pink intrusion matched the pulsing of her sex. Her liquid seeped out and she gasped for air. She came quick, shuddering and shaking in her leather chair.
She took a moment to collect herself before returning Javier’s picture to his file. She wiped her pink pleasurer, placed it back in the drawer, and locked it. She picked up her office phone and began making calls.
“A man can only take so much temptation before he says to hell with it and succumbs.” The excuse that Quinton had given for sleeping with Francine echoed in her mind. She would make sure that was the same excuse Javier gave to Francine.
Three months later
Marisela sat in the oversized seat afforded to the first-class passengers, drafting a fake résumé on her laptop. The final step before arriving in Panama was to have a résumé with a list of references. Thanks to Carmen she had found a way to not only get close to Javier, but live with him while Francine was in New York. As it turned out, he needed a live-in cook. Francine had fired the old one before she left. Marisela, coincidentally, enjoyed gourmet cooking as a hobby. With a lovely recommendation from Javier’s colleague—Carmen—she was set to start work in a week.
Marisela arrived at the massive electric, black iron gates that surrounded the Dominguez estate. After speaking to the silver intercom box located outside the perimeter, the gates opened. She drove up the cobblestone driveway and let out a low whistle as she admired the large, five-story, yellow stucco mansion. Javier stood outside on the veranda, watching her slow approach.
He appeared taller and more defined than he did in his picture. His pictures were an insult. He was downright gorgeous in person. He wore a white linen outfit. Too bad he wore boxer briefs underneath. Marisela really wanted to know what she would later be working with…not that it mattered, of course. Vengeance was vengeance. Big or small, he was hers.
