Repercussions : Part Six  (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)“In Vino Veritas&rdquo

Repercussions : Part Six  (A continuation of ‘The Bet’)“In Vino Veritas”The prophetic words were written on a small wooden sign Franco had found in the rubbish box after the weekly faire had closed up for the night. The wood was scratched badly as if it had somehow offended some rabid cat. The polish was faded as well, and the writing was slightly darkened by too many years nailed over some stove. Someone had either bought it and discarded it or found it too difficult to sell and simply tossed it away. Franco had come across it while wandering the midnight streets with a bottle of Jack Daniels as his only companion. He found he shadows comforting. The tiniest noises coming sharp to his senses. Little things. The shutting of a window. The low hum of an air conditioner. The passing of a car. Somewhere down the dark and lonely street a man coughed. Somewhere music played. Tiny, insignificant sounds echoing through the night that would be lost in the harsh hours of daylight. Daylight with its desperate haste and confusion as a billion people rose from their beds to hurriedly dress and join in the battle against time to achieve what little of their lives that they could before their time was done. Before night fell. Before they fell  exhausted to their beds. The graveyards were filled with them. Billions of lost, exhausted souls who had desperately tried and failed to achieve whatever it was they believed life held for them. Wealth. Reputation. Love.Franco sat cross-legged upon the white gravel that covered the silent grave of one such. His uncle Salvatore. A small picture of the man was built into the marble headstone. In the picture he stood grey and aged yet still prideful, his black suit hanging on his withered frame. But that was not the man. Not really. What could photographs actually show you after all? Some fake and sterile shell that could not ever bring out the life of the person within. Only a true portrait could do that, Franco thought. Only the hand of an artist could bring that slight yet telling smile to a person’s face. The wicked twinkle to the eye. The intensity of the fingers. The sternness of the posture. Franco took another long slug of whiskey from the near empty bottle. Smokey amber warmth made its way into his belly, firing his memories. Wicked. Intense. Stern. Yes, that was his Uncle Salvatore. Not the old and half-dead man staring back at him feebly from the tiny picture by the wane light of a tiny ever-burning electric light. Franco fell back on his elbows, suddenly grown tired. He closed his eyes and listened, just listened, to the world around him. The slight rush of the breeze. The odd crash and whisper of the town which lay crowded onto itself some half-mile down the road. Memories flittered past his mind. He remembered the first time he had met Uncle Salvatore. It was never just ‘Salvatore’, mind you. And absolutely never simply ‘Sal’. It was Uncle Salvatore and more times than not a very meaningful ‘Sir’.  The man had respect. No. More than respect. Presence. No matter where he stood in the room, that was its center. Franco remembered taking him a message from his Aunt Alyssa, Uncle Salvatore’s wife, once. The club room was smoky with expensive cigars. It took a few moments for then twelve-year-old Franco to find the man. He sat playing cards at a table filled with rough looking men tossing chips into a growing pot in the center of the table. Franco stood there in the doorway simply watching him. A small black cigar moving between his lips as he spoke, his tie knotted all the way to his throat despite the stifling heat of the day, his sleeves rolled up powerful forearms which bore knife-scars that Franco had never had the courage to ask about. He had stood a respectful distance from his uncle, in the man’s view but quietly waiting to be summoned over. The man did not have to move or raise his chin. His look told you if you had his permission to approach. Franco’s father had once told him that Uncle Salvatore was a true and unrepentant bastard. He had made his life and his reputation by beating his competition into the fucking ground without the slightest care for mercy or the promises of Heaven. He describes priests as cowardly fags and held respect for only a handful of people, treating the rest as sheep bleating around him to be sheared whenever necessary. He married Aunt Alyssa not because she was simply good looking or had a nice ass, but because she was the toughest and strongest bitch he had ever met. The two of them were a perfect match and they had eight children together. Each one was a hard bastard just like Uncle Salvatore, boys and girls both. Franco stood in awe of the man. Hell, he still did. Franco had lost track of that clan when his family had moved south. There was work to be found in a local steel plant and his dad needed the job. His father was gone now. So was the steel plant. All that remained of his family was himself. Himself and the empty bottle of Jack Daniels that lay by his side. He chuckled to himself, realizing that the bottle was the only thing he could truly rely on these days and now it was gone as well. He slid the cigarette case from his jacket pocket. His cream-colored suit was wrinkled and stained from sitting in the cold gravel of the gravesite, but such was the least of his cares. This morning he had left his Eleonora sleeping in their bed. She had been out all night, fucked unconscious by the black brute that had passed Franco in the motel hallway. The man was huge, his movements lithe and powerful as a beast’s, his smile wide and blazing white as their eyes met. Franco was sitting, crumpled in the hall. Discarded and forgotten by his own wife. His wife that this young and powerful bull had been fucking how and as much as he would for the past few hours. Hours that Franco had spent beating himself with his own fists, hot tears of agony running in rivers down his cheeks as he listened to his Eleonora’s lust-filled screams. The son-of-a-bitch even had the nerve to smile down at him in pity, somehow knowing exactly who and what he was. The pathetic little cuck, the half-a-man that allowed his wife to be taken and fucked rotten by a hundred strangers, her cunt bursting with another man’s seed. It had taken everything he had left in him to rise up off that floor, the cheap hotel carpeting like rough sandpaper under his hands as he knelt there with his head exploding in anguish. He moved mechanically. His emotions turned off as he walked into the room. The place was rank with the stench of sweat and sex. Normally the scent of sex, of lovemaking, came warm and sweet to him. Here it was repulsive and brutal. Eleonora lay stretched across the bed, her pale white skin covered in purplish bruises, worse than he had ever seen. He ass and thighs had been beaten so badly that sickly white welts rose from her reddened flesh. And that was not even to mention the glistening sheen of white spunk that covered her from legs to hair. Franco had never seen so much of it. So thick and white running down from her ass, bubbling lewdly from her gasping lips, draining slowly in a thick stream from her gaping womanhood. For once he did not feel the slightest emotion from the sight. Not lust or excitement, nor love or disgust or care. He simply lifted her ragged form in his arms and took her to the shower, washing and bathing her reflexively. Just like all the times before. Drying her with the hotel towels uncaring of her sex or the groans rising from her beaten body. She moaned his name once, followed by a half-understood word of thanks. It meant nothing to him. Her clothes had been ripped or ruined beyond repair. He gathered it all up and tossed it into the wastebasket in one sloppy-wet mess. Draping his wife in one of the motel dressing robes he led her downstairs towards the Audi. The old man at the front desk did not say a word. Instead he simply watched as Franco piled his half-dead wife into the rear of the car and shut the door with a ‘thud’ that could be heard across the dark parking lot, echoing into the distance.Franco returned to the desk to pay the man what was owed on the room, plus an extra fifty euro for his continued silence. The old man. Franco had never asked his name and appreciated the fact that he was never questioned when he wrote “Mr. & Mrs. Russo” down on the register without being asked for any form of identification. When he was done, Franco leaned against the hood of the car smoking a cigarette and tried to push his mind as far away as he could before driving the thirty or so minutes through the black streets towards what he once considered his home. Something had to break, he thought to himself. Something had to be done about the terrible hollowness he felt inside of him. A hollowness that was only growing, expanding, eating up what was left of him until nothing would be left of the man he once thought he was. “Hey! You can’t be here! Get your ass out of here before I call the police, you fuck! I have a pistol! I’ll use it!” Emil’s voice boomed across the gravestones loud enough to wake the dead. Or at least loud enough to shock Franco out of his half-drunken reverie. He crawled up onto his fists, his knees burning across the hard, white gravel that covered his uncle’s grave. For some reason the world was spinning around him. It was a slightly sickening feeling and for a brief moment Franco feared he might vomit the contents of his empty stomach across the gravestone. Near to his left hand the empty bottle rattles across the uneven ground. He reaches out for it, but the damned thing scattered away from his clumsy hand followed along by a whispered curse from his lips.“Fuck me. Franco… is that you?”“Yes.” came his sickened reply. Franco had made it up to his hands and knees now, the nausea relenting slowly as he did.“You look like complete shit.”Franco had known Emil since his grandmother had died so many years back. It was Emil’s gnarled hands that had sealed the grave. The old man had been greying then, now he was near bald and only a few wisps of wiry white hair and a withered face marked what was once a proud soldier of the Old Guard. Franco fought himself up to his knees and looked up at him, wondering if the old bastard would be around to seal his own grave in the days to come.“You’ve been drinking. You seriously look like complete shit.” Emil repeated as he leaned his thin frame against a gleaming marble column etched with the fiery wings of St. Michael. With a trembling hand he reached into the back of his trousers to fetch a pack of cheap cigarettes. They tasted and smelled of shit, but it was all he could afford on his groundskeeper’s salary. “You mentioned that already. Thank you.” Franco muttered as he struggled unsteadily to his feet.Emil struck a match against St. Michael’s ass, bringing a flickering orange light to the shadowed darkness, “Which one is it?”His feet achieved, Franco slid his hands under his coat to confront the ache in his back, an ache more from wear than from age. Was his body betraying him as well, he thought bitterly? No just everyone else around him, but were his aching back and weakening knees joining in their contempt for him? “Which one… what?”“Job, money. or women? Got to be one of the three. No other reason to get all fucked up like you are.”Franco did not bother to answer, instead looking around in groggy confusion for… something. What was it? He was wearing his stained white suit jacket. That wasn’t it. His wallet? His keys? He did not wear glasses. Where was it, he wondered?“Just cut it out. Like a cancer. Quick and easy. Just cut it out.”, Emil coughed out between puffs of rancid smoke.“What?” Franco had nearly given up his search now, his hands rifling through his pockets for whatever he was supposed to be searching for. What was it, again? “Cut what out? Emil you are making less sense than usual.”“Whatever it is. Worries. Job. Money. Fucking women. Have to cut it out of you. Like a cancer. Else it’s going to eat you up. Hollow you out. Empty you. Leave nothing but a sad, miserable shell. Half the people in this yard died miserable. That’s why you’re here isn’t it? At this grave. Salvatore? He lived and died a fucking son-of-a-bitch. No one in this town a bigger fuck than he was. But he died alright. Know why?’“Because he was a son-of-a-bitch?”, Franco groaned, twisting his back against the pain that suddenly flared up along his spine. “No. Well, that too. But because he cut shit out. Something fucked with him, someone fucked with him, he didn’t let it get to him. Ran up on it. Confronted it. Pissed on it. Shat on it. Cut it out of his life. Same as you should be doing.”“Simple as that, eh?” Franco quipped.“Sometimes. Sometimes hard as fuck. But you have to make up your mind yourself, don’t you? Either spend what time God gives you getting chewed up from the inside out or…”“Let me guess. Be a son-of-a-bitch?” Emil let out a long drag of sickly white smoke and smiled through a row of broken yellowed teeth. For a moment he was back in his day, seeing his friends around him. Friends that had been buried six feet deep in the fields he now guarded night and day in their remembrance. Each one had had this moment, break or rise, just as Franco did now. And each one had faced that same decision. “No, Franco. Not just a son-of-a-bitch, a fucking hard-ass son-of-a-bitch. Take care of your shit. Deal with your shit. But never take any shit. Fuck now. Get home. I’m too fucking old to stand around all night talking to drunks.”Franco watched the old man walk away to get lost amid the moonlit mausoleums. A breeze was blowing in from the Adriatic, fresh and somewhat cold for the season. ‘Cut it out’, Emil had said. Just like Uncle Salvatore. Cut it all out. But what did Emil – Emil with his stinking cigarettes and his broken teeth know about anything, eh? What the fuck did he know?The walk home took over an hour. An hour walking through empty streets alive with the creaks and scattered clatterings of an aging city. Without thinking he slid his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling the cold surety of his cigarette case and the sweet promises that lay within. Just as thoughtlessly he slid his hand away from it settling for the cold breath of the Adriatic instead. An hour to go and he would be home, he thought bitterly. If it were still his home. He walked through the streets wondering if it still was, with only the sound of his shuffling footsteps to keep him company. ………………………………………………………………………….Eleonora had been looking forward to this moment for a long while. She had known that given enough time the lazy bitch would slip up, screw up, and give her one of a hundred reasons to call her out. She had waited purposely for the end of the day. The clients had all gone home by now, having gotten their disgusting fill of the wretched skanks that Giovanni employed at the spa. The girls were all in the locker room changing into respectable clothing before heading home. All were perfectly within hearing distance of the spot Eleonora had chosen to confront the slut. Chiara always walked… no, strode… around the place like she was so much better than anyone else. As if she was somehow more accomplished or lady-like than the rest of the cheap whores employed here, each one ending the day with the cum of a half-dozen perverts staining their scanty little outfits.Eleonora could feel herself actually quivering with excitement, just thinking of the confrontation ahead. If everything went as planned, she would be rid of Chiara forever by the end of their encounter. Just push a bit here and there, get her to dance just in the right direction, say what needed to be said… and it might be the last time she would have to see that scrawny ass of hers walk out the door. She prepared herself, leaning back against the wall of the dingy hall that led to the girl’s changing room, trying not to let her smirk become too wide before the time was right. She cursed softly under her breath, still annoyed that Pamela would not agree to help her in this. It would have been so much easier with Pam beside her, but it would not matter. Once this was done, this small victory attained, she could run home and prepare herself for what came next. She closed her eyes, biting her lip softly as she felt her nipples pressing gently against the flimsy material of her lace bra thinking of what might lay ahead.She could hear the noises of the lockers clanging open and shut, the voices of the girls as they said their goodbyes as each completed their transformations and made for the door. She could tell Chiara would be next and could feel herself tense up as the door slid open before her. The woman had changed into street clothes; faded jeans that looked as if they had been painted on to her slim hips and legs, delicate white tennis shoes, and a tight white blouse that showed the perfect curves of her firm C-cup breasts. The blouse’s low-cut top afforded a pleasing eyeful of deep cleavage and it was more than evident that she was not wearing a bra. Her dark hair flowed in a long wave down her slim back and for a moment Eleonora experienced a pang of jealousy as she watched the girl’s young, toned body move so effortlessly down the corridor.She settled down, letting her dislike for the little bitch disappear under a face which clearly spoke of seriousness. A quick twist to the left and she was standing cleanly in Chiara’s path, blocking the hall completely with her arms crossed businesslike across her chest. The younger girl stepped back in surprise, stumbling over her footing for a moment and grabbing at the wall for support before being knocked over onto her ass. Her eyes narrowed in confusion; Chiara’s lips were on the verge of a questioning ‘fuck’ but Eleonora beat her to it.“We have to talk. I can no longer go on dealing with your mistakes.”, she scolded openly, “If you cannot take this job seriously, then just tell me now.”Chiara was more than used to Eleonora’s daily bullshit and could not help rolling her eyes in contempt. The woman had given her nothing but grief since she had arrived at the spa nearly a year ago, harping on whatever she could find. Just as if this was some respectable place to work and not the utter bottom of the shit-barrel that she had been forced into by bitchy old cunts just like Eleonora. Chiara folded her arms, standing in mocking imitation of Eleonora’s stance, waiting to see what utter stupidity the slut had on her tiny little jealous mind today. “What is it now, Ellie-dear? Someone leave the toilet up again and you dropped your fat ass into it?”“Always with the foul mouth and the bad attitude, Tesoro?” Eleonora smirked, having the little bitch right where she wanted her, “We’ve about had it with both. And your sloppy work.” “Please, there is no ‘We’. Just you.” Chiara responded, matching Eleonora’s haughty smirk with her own, “You and your constant line of shit. No one else here has a problem with me and you know it. Now, what can I do for you this time? I’ve got someplace to go, and I don’t need to be late on account of you.”“You think much of yourself, don’t you? Far too much.” Eleonora replied calmly. She stood several inched taller than Chiara and moved in closer, emphasizing that fact. By now several of the other girls had entered the hallway, each eager to hear more, each hovering like vultures slavering over some morsel to gossip about later on. Eleonora planned to use that against the little bitch as well.  “As it is, today I have received more than one complaint against you. Once again you failed to place your used towels in the bins. The maintenance people are sick of dealing with your sloppiness and so am I. Not to mention the fact that you left the facial machine running again. You know the policy of turning off your equipment when you leave the room”“The maintenance people? Seriously?” Chiara mocked. She was not phased at all as Eleonora moved up on her. She always seemed to be the smaller woman. Mostly because those who got in her face were always older, fatter cows like Eleonora. She had no time for this. She had a ‘date’ for coffee with Paolo and did not care to be late. Instead of backing off, she moved in, her hands on her hips. Even though she was a bit shorter, her breasts were firmer and higher and pressed into Eleonora’s own softer pair with a primal challenge. “You must mean the three illegals Giovanni has cleaning the floors with dirty mops when we leave. The ones that smell of garbage ad sweat from living off the streets all fucking day. Those assholes are complaining about a mess? The only reason they’re upset is that they’re being paid shit by you and your greedy-ass fucking boss who takes half our fucking tips.”The girls behind Chiara began to mutter in agreement, each already pissed about the loss of so much of their income to Giovanni’s avarice. Eleonora wasn’t prepared to have a conversation about that tonight, but she did have one last weapon to use, one that would strip Chiara of the girl’s support. “Be that as it may, you still refused to see to the last customer. You had the time free, but I still had to add Mr. Talvortelli to Yasmine’s schedule, and she was due to leave early today. You cannot keep loading the other girls with extra work at your convenience.” “Mr. Talvortelli is a pig and I refuse to deal with him. You should not even allow him in the place. The fucking asshole literally drools over us. It’s disgusting.” “Be that as it may…”By this time, Chiara had grown tired of their conversation. It was time to end this now, and with a victory, in front of every skank in the fucking place. Eleonora had ruled the roost for too long and it was finally time to put the bitch away. She pressed forward, smiling in triumph as she felt Eleonora’s breasts give way before her own firmer, stronger pair, “I don’t know about you, but every one of us is tired of having to deal with the fat smelly perverts that come in here with their fucking cocks dripping. Why don’t you take a turn at it, bitch? You aren’t scared of taking care of some stranger’s hard-on, are you? Hell, from what I’ve heard you practically live for it.”Eleonora was taken aback, wondering at and somewhat frightened of what Chiara could have meant. There was no wat the little tramp could know anything about that. Could she?  “I… I don’t… know what you could mean. Stay on the subject.”Chiara moved in for the kill, sensing Eleonora’s fear. She pressed in, her firmer body and viscous smile pressing the other woman back a step. She had been saving what would come next as a surprise, her plans still only half formed in her mind, but she could tell there was an opening here. An opening for a crippling blow that she could not let pass. Letting her voice drop to a bare whisper, one that only she and Eleonora could hear, she stared straight up into her rival’s eyes, noting the confusion and fear that had suddenly appeared there. It would push her time schedule up dramatically, but this was far too delicious an opportunity.“You know exactly what I mean, slut. You talk about us but you and I both know who the true whore here is, don’t we?” Chiara purred, a Cheshire smile growing across her cruel face, “But don’t worry, soon enough you and your slut cunt are going to be done. You’ve messed with me for the last fucking time and going to find out the hard way which one of us is the hardest bitch… Tesora.”Eleonora stood in shock as Chiara pushed past her. She had somehow lost control of the encounter and now stood there numbly watching the other woman’s ass swaying off down the hall towards the front door. She could feel her body burning, her breasts still tingling from their confrontation with Chiara’s own, as her mind reeled back in shock and fear. There was no way the little slut could know! She had been far too careful. Far too discreet. Hadn’t she? And even so. Even if the little whore did know, what could she possibly do about it? Expose her? Eleonora would just dismiss it as lies. Viscous rumors and lies! Lies from a spiteful little whore! She would go to Giovanni tomorrow. Tell him of the cunt’s attitude. By this time tomorrow, she would be free of her!Eleonora could feel her face flushing red in anger. She had to calm down. The other girls were still congregating at the rend of the hall, watching her, murmuring behind open palms. It would not do to appear weak or worried in front of them. Extending her spine to gain her full height, shoulders back, Eleonora turned to them sharply offering a look of pure fire. The pathetic little sluts scattered under that stare like startled rabbits and for that moment Eleonora felt somewhat better about herself. Yet still a feeling of uneasiness gripped her. She returned her gaze to the front door. Chiara was gone by now, headed off to whatever dark pit she came from. First things first she thought. First to find William again. To prove to him, and to herself, that she was more than woman enough for even such as savage monster as he. Eleonora gave a slight shudder as her body remembered him, as her pussy throbbed suddenly to life at the very remembrance of his driving thrusts filling her, demanding her, challenging her, nearly ripping her in two! She squeezed her thighs gently together, biting her lip as she felt the moist heat already gathering there. Yes, first William. There would be time to deal with Chiara tomorrow. One simple phone call and the bitch would be gone. -- source link

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