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THE STRANGER
TRACY PRICE-THOMPSON
His eyes, hooded and sleeted with rage, slithered around the room in search of prey. Beyond the doorway, Paris stood terrified, tiny chill bumps rippling like Braille on her thin arms. An angry pulse marched up and down William’s right temple as he stormed into the kitchen, blotting out the light and forcing the air from the room. Bowing her head, Paris snagged her lip between her teeth as he stabbed two thick fingers into the steaming mug of liquid sitting on the table before them.
“Tea ain’t hot.”
She snatched the oversized cup, ignoring the scalding liquid that sloshed over her fingers and spilled onto the blue and white speckled tablecloth that was embroidered with tiny angels, harps in hand. Wincing under his glare, Paris placed the mug into the microwave and turned the dial up high. She grabbed a dishrag from a nearby drawer and made busy wiping at the spill as William yanked his high-backed chair away from the head of the table and plopped himself down.
“What in the fuck is this?” He stared at the yellow fluff of his breakfast. “You know goddamn well I can’t stand no eggs runnin’ all over my plate.”
Paris moved automatically, her hourglass figure clad in a thin robe, her long brown hair brushing her shoulders. She took the plate from the table and slid it into the microwave beside the bubbling tea, turning the timer up high again and awaiting his next command.
Wasn’t shit wrong with the eggs or the tea, she reassured herself. William was just mad because his horse had come in last again, giving him reason to find fault in anything she did. Especially since what she was going to do today didn’t involve him. Thank God he’d be leaving soon on a two-week haul. The last time he’d stayed gone that long he’d brought home a kilo of coke, ten gold bangles, and a bad case of the clap. She turned off the microwave, set his breakfast on the table and waited.
“Yum,” William said, but his eyes weren’t on his plate. They had crawled over her cleavage and were dropping lower. Paris glanced down and saw that her robe had slipped open revealing her shapely thighs and sister-girl hips. Her fingers fumbled as she redid her buttons, praying they would stay. But it was too late. William was looking at her “that way” again and she swallowed hard, fighting the urge to gag.
He’d already taken her. Taken her roughly and in several different positions; each one more painful and humiliating than the last. Twice around midnight, and then again as she tried to slip out of bed at 6 a.m. Sore between the legs and repulsed by the memory, she tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear and reached for the toaster just as funnels of dark smoke began to shoot from its mouth.
“Dizzy bitch! What in the hell is wrong with you?” William pushed away from the table and stood up. He cast an angry shadow over her. “Can’t a working man get a decent meal in his own goddamned house?”
Expecting a blow, Paris ducked and cringed, then grabbed at the charred slices of toast, juggling the hot bread as it seared her fingers. Bitch, Slut, Parrot, Ho. Born in Mississippi and named for the most beautiful city in the world, it was a shame she’d never made it any further than this asshole and the Bronx.
“Dumb ass!” William cursed, then seized the back of her neck and bent her over, shoving her down until her cheek was pressed to the countertop. Paris didn’t resist. The jagged scar near the base of her right ear began to tingle and, instinctively, her eyes flew to the wooden knife rack sitting near the window. It was empty. All the knives were under the sink in a shoebox. Taped closed and double wrapped in plastic bags.
And then his hands were on her, lifting her robe and rubbing the thick mounds of her ass. Paris closed her eyes and prayed. Not again. Please, not again. Outside the kitchen window sheets of rain pounded the pavement as he spread her cheeks and entered her, ramming her so hard she slid forward on the counter and felt the toaster’s heat on her face.
Just hold on, Paris pleaded with herself as he brutalized her from behind. William liked it raw. She was so torn and sore down there until, no matter where he chose to enter her, it all hurt the same. He moaned in her ear, clutching her hips as he moved in and out of her anus without lubrication. Paris bit her lip as her breasts brushed rhythmically against the countertop. This would make what, three, no, four times? In less than eight hours? How much more could he have in him?
“Turn around,” William commanded, withdrawing from her abruptly.
Paris stood shakily. She could smell herself as she turned to face her husband. His erect dick rose from his fly, its shaft wet and angry. William sat down in his chair.
“C’mere.”
Hell no, Paris thought, even as she moved toward him. Hell fucking no. He must be crazy. I ain’t doing that no more. Fuck him. I ain’t doing that shit. But today was Tuesday, and that meant William could mess everything up. Sometimes you just had to do what you had to do.
Seconds later her nose was buried in his pubic hair as she sucked and licked him with long, broad strokes. The stench coming off of him was overpowering and Paris choked as her head bobbed up and down in his lap, his fingers yanking at her hair as he fucked up into her mouth.
“Damn, Girl,” William panted, ready to burst. “You ain’t… worth much,” he managed, moaning between words, “but you can suck a… mean dick!”
Paris wanted to bite him. Just clench her jaws and bite his foul dick off and take whatever punishment came. Instead she squeezed around the base of it and sucked hard enough to collapse her cheeks as his seed spurted from him and filled her mouth. She braced herself. You can do it, Paris, she told herself, panic rising and tears stinging her eyes. You can do it. This was the worst part but she had to fake it or his fists would be flying around her head, blackening her eyes and cracking her jaw. Clenching her hands, she braced herself and swallowed. Deep long gulps, pretending hard to like it.
“Yeah.” William sighed above her. “Do that shit, Parrot girl. Get it all. You’re the best.”
Sex was only a diversion.
He used his dick to degrade her. He used it as a prelude to the beatings.
William held the cold slices of charred toast in his hands. “Make me some more toast.”
“There isn’t any more. We’re all out of bread.”
“There isn’t any more,” he mimicked. “We’re all out of bread. Bitch still covered in Mississippi mud and trying to sound all proper. Like some damn white girl.”
Paris picked up the bread and began scraping the black away with the back of a teaspoon. She fingered the scar near her ear. Even a butter knife could be deadly in William’s hands.
“Hur’ up, Stupid,” he rasped, then leaned forward and shoveled the ha
