Dirty Words - [6]

"Che cosa?"

"I said, pull yer pants down!" Henry bellowed.

Bobby just shook his head, never taking his eyes off of his boss. Without another word, he stood and unbuckled his belt. Taking their cues off of Bobby, the other two followed suit.

He stands behind her at the bottom of her bed. She is face down, naked. Even in the dim light, every outline, every aspect of her body is in sharp contrast. The curves of her hips arch under the contours of her ass, the skin as smooth as dunes of white sand. The handcuffs cinching her wrists rattle on the metal bedposts. Her ankles are also chained to opposite posts at the foot of the large bed. She moans through the gag. She's completely helpless.

"Underwear too." DeMarco cinched his baby-blue bathrobe tight. In the past couple of months, the old boss hadn't bothered to dress himself properly, walking around the neighborhood in his worn robe and slippers. Questions arose about the quality of the man's sanity. The conversation they were currently having did nothing to assuage the doubts his own crew were having of late.

The three men stood side by side. Bobby in his boxers, Pete in his decades-old looking tighty whities. Unfortunately for them all, Gino still wore his Italian man-thong, his fashion sense apparently acclimating itself to Americana about as fast as his language skills.

Gino looked confused, but not as embarrassed as the other two. He looked to Bobby for another translation.

"Biancheria intima, pure." Bobby's expression was still blank.

Gino's face blanched. His Italian rattled off his tongue too fast for Bobby to translate. "E' uno sherzo? Per quale motivo? In nome di Dio, che succede qui?"

DeMarco's face reddened in rage. He couldn't understand Gino even when he wasn't going a mile a minute. What he did understand was his tone. "Bobby, you tell that fucking greenhorn to shut his yap and just do what I say. Lose the banana hammock."

Bobby nodded. "Calmati, fai. Quello che dice, dopo vediamo."

"Madre de dio," Gino muttered.

Pete looked like he wanted to cry. "Henry, please…"

"Pete, I swear to God…"

Bobby recognized the edge in his boss' voice. Whatever the fuck was bouncing around inside Henry DeMarco's head at that moment was deadly serious. At least to DeMarco. "Just do it, Pete," Bobby said in a calm voice he normally reserved for big dogs that have stopped wagging their tails. Bobby hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband of his drawers and dropped trou.

Just like his boss ordered.

He's watching her writhe in the cuffs. Her long red hair flows between her straining shoulders like a waterfall of blood. She knows what's going to happen next.

He pulls his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. Then he slowly unbuttons his pants. He's ready. In a minute, she will be, too.

He can't believe it's come to this, what he has to do on this night. He can't believe it, but he knows he has to.

A bead of sweat rolls down the side of her leg.

Henry chuckled at chicken-legged Pete, his bony ankles shaking in his Fruit of the Looms. "What the fuck is that, Petey? You smuggling pecans?"

"C'mon, Henry. It's cold in here," Pete whined.

"Pull your pants back up, Needledick Bugfucker."

Pete scrambled to pull his underwear and chinos back over what was left of his dignity. "That ain't right, Henry. Why you gotta make fun?"

DeMarco moved down to Gino and shook his head in disbelief. "Whaaat the fuck? How old is this guy?"

Che cosa sta chiedendo? Gino asked.

Vuole sapere la vostra eta'.

Gino smiled, finally able to answer a question in English all on his own. "I'm-a tirty-a-two." He grinned ear to ear, proud of himself despite the fact that he was standing with his tackle in the wind.

"Then why the fuck don't he have no pubes?"

"Che?"

"Mai mente." Bobby nearly cracked a smile despite himself. Bobby didn't know if was a European thing or not, but Gino apparently walked with his own code of international grooming as well.

"Jesus fuck," said DeMarco. "Tell Bald Eagle to beat it."

"Potete andare," Bobby said.

"Non dovete dirmelo due volte." With that, Gino quickly hustled his own pants back up to a respectable level and high-tailed out the door right behind Pete.

Bobby would have to thank them both later for leaving him alone with his nutbag boss and his nutbag out.

DeMarco stared at Bobby's crotch in silence for a long uncomfortable moment. Well, long and uncomfortable for Bobby, at least.

"Uhhhhh…Boss?"

DeMarco then clapped his hands and laughed heartily, like his grandkids had just run into the room on Christmas morning. "Hey, hey, Bob-BEE. Now that's what I'm talkin' about."

He kneels on the bed behind her and smells her hair-Chanel. Nice. She tenses when he places his hands on her hips. A quick mewl escapes from the gag. His heart thuds in excitement. He takes himself in his hand, positioning…

Bobby Russo knew he had a big dick from when he was thirteen and compared himself to the dudes on his Pop's porno videos. He didn't know exactly how much bigger until he started playing sports and had to shower with the other boys.