Fuensalida

This story was created from the dark minds of Selena "Solly" Luna and TheSupremeForce and penned by Solly.
Thanks fans old and new!

Chapter 1

She stepped into her home, a butterfly in her stomach making himself known. It was as hard to enter into the condo as it was to enter most mansions. There were keypads and keys and more keypads and keys once on the inside. A person had to unlock and enter, then close the door and lock again. If this was not all done in a certain amount of time alarms would set off a cacophony of sound in a police station nearby, declaring that these people needed rescue. The police, who had been timed before, could sometimes be to the building in less than a minute, up the stairs in another half of a minute. In two minutes time a lot of damage could be done, and she had already taken that amount of time assessing, even while locking up codes and bolts.

The reason for the butterfly, the little one in the deepest pit, trying to awaken all of the others, was the very simple misplaced newspaper. It was on the coffee table immediately in front of her. She never would have left the condo with the paper spread out in such disarray. Her home was perfect, immaculate. She worked hard to keep it that way at all times. They would not hire a cleaning person for fear of leaking out even one simple code, she took care of the home, of her daughter, while her husband, Frederick Lieberman, went to the law office and worked all day, worked half of the night, and brought home enough money that they lived more than comfortably.

Had he come home early? It was hardly likely. Was Celeste home early from school? Also hardly likely, and less likely she would have been carousing the newspaper. She preferred her computer up in her room or the many books she had lining her shelves. If she wanted to read an article she would have found it online.

Cassandra Lieberman walked through the family room and turned the corner to the right, passing the bathroom that was under the staircase. She kept moving towards the stairs and began her trek upwards, eyes alert to any movement. She moved slowly, her heeled saddle shoes not making a sound as she let the wide heels hang over the edge of each step, her hand tight on the railing. If she was a smarter woman she would be calling the police for even suspecting someone was in her condo, even she knew that as she took the long trek up the first small flight of stairs. The police were there to protect her.

She stopped on the landing of the stairs, pushing at the open door of her daughter’s bedroom. Celeste’s room was the opposite of the rest of Cassandra’s home. It seemed to always be chaotic and in disarray, however the sixteen-year-old promised that she could find everything. Books lay across the floor, open on her desk, dresser, nightstand, floor, papers from her homework were scattered in various locations. She had the odd poster taped on her wall, but they were always simple things, like a kitten with an ancient saying, or just a bunny with wide eyes. Where were the pictures of boys and where were the constant change of clothes? Her clothes were hanging in her closet or neatly put away, instead keeping her time dedicated to reading and writing and various other means of not communicating verbally.

Cassie would not have been able to tell if her daughter’s room had been touched or not, she would have walked right past it, except for there was something out on her dresser. Cassie stepped into the room and looked down at the small jeweler’s box, where she kept a bracelet every night. Every day she wore it to school, something simple that never left her wrist except to sleep. Cassie was sure the bracelet was Celeste’s form of rebellion though the girl did not even know what she was rebelling against.

The box was always put away among the other boxes for her jewelry. Only brought out to place the bracelet in, or take the bracelet out. Cassie shivered, her heart starting to pound just a bit faster. The butterflies were all fully awake and fluttering, forcing her legs to move. This time she let the panic absorb her, or was she really absorbing her panic? She moved out of the room, quickly, stomping down the stairs, now not caring if she was heard. She knew it was too late, even as she ran towards the door. She knew who was in her home as she bounded across the floor, slamming herself into the door and starting to press the alarm code. The blow to her stomach had her falling, sprawling out across the hallway floor in pain as she placed her hands across her stomach, trying to fight off another blow. She was not sure if it had been his fist or his foot, but there he stood before her, looking vicious.

Christopher Fuensalida, ex-partner in the law offices of her husband. He was young, even three years ago when he had become partner. Cassie had joked many times with the heady lawyer that he had only received the position because his father was stepping down and it made sense to give it to Christopher Fuensalida III. Chris often took offense to such things, he took what he did, what he was, very seriously.

Standing before her, looking dashing and frightening, he was taking it just as seriously. She had time to assess him, to notice that his chocolate brown locks were longer, almost to his shoulders. He had grown a mustache and a small goatee that was perfectly trimmed, she had never seen him with facial hair. He was more rugged looking, his jaw harder, his body more muscular, his gray eyes losing the hint of humor they held and now nothing but a piercing silver. If she could have laughed, if she had dared breathe, she would have found irony in his wearing a suit, minus the tie. She did not laugh, she only looked up at him, breathless, trying not to show her pain.

In the few breaths it had taken her to assess him he was doing the same of her, even as he stood above her, gun drawn and pointed down at her. She remained sprawled across the floor with those same amazing blue eyes turned up to him, though there were a few more lines around them than he remembered. In three years she had aged a bit, but she was still the perfectly beautiful wife of Frederick Lieberman. Before he had rammed his fist into her gut from a bad angle and forced her to the ground, her deep brown hair, almost black except for the streaks that looked to have had a lighter caramel poured through them, was still that odd curl women killed for, not the perm type but the beautiful tendrils that she pulls back and only leaves a few to frame her heart-shaped face. Her lips were pink that day, an innocent color on the pale ivory skin.

He couldn’t help taking in her body as well. She wore a white blouse that peeked open just a bit along her cleavage, something she was always proud of showing but was about smaller than average size, moving down to thicker hips and an ass that went out further than was in fashion. Her light blue bra was obvious underneath the white blouse, her blue pants the same color as the bra. He appreciated the beauty of this woman, a forty-two-year-old who knew what she was doing.

He moved the gun up and pointed it at her forehead. “Hello Cassie,” his smooth lawyer’s voice spoke.

“Hello Chris…” she trailed, not knowing what else to say with a gun pointed at her head. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Oh?” He chuckled, smirking just a bit, the smirk almost ugly on his handsome face. “You didn’t know I was in… town.”

Her nerves were shot. They were nothing but electric wires running up and down her system, alerting her to the danger she was in while causing her brain to short circuit. She could not think of anything acceptable to say. All words felt empty without saying the truth. While a gun was pointed at her head the truth also felt like an awful option.

“You are lucky you came home when you did,” he went on speaking. He knew she was lying, that those pretty little words coming from that pretty little mouth were nothing but lies. He needed to be patient, he had to fight the growing urge to smack her, to hurt her, to make her cry out. “Any later and I am sure Celeste would have been home.”

“Don’t hurt her!” It was a knee-jerk reaction. A mother hen must protect her chick, and would Celeste know that he was danger? Would she have seen it in his eyes?

“Then let’s go,” he said flatly, the gun still leveled on her.

“Where are we going?” she asked, pushing herself slowly up, keeping her eyes on the barrel. She was shaking on the inside, the butterflies dying, making her sicker. She was calm, collected on the outside; how long would it last?

“I am sure you already know the answer to that,” he told her, his lips pressed firmly together, pursed as he watched her stand. He reached out and grabbed her purse from her, something she had never even considered to use as a weapon and was cursing herself for. He dumped the contents on the floor and sifted through them with his foot.

“She will know to call the police if you leave everything there.” She regretted the words when they slipped out. She should have let him leave them there. Her daughter would call the police and they would come to her rescue, or at least know she was in trouble somewhere. Maybe they would not rescue her in time…

His smirk never left his handsome face, the ugly smirk that showed the dark shadows of what had happened to him. She tried not to take the involuntary step back; her feet reacted of their own accord. He reached out, gripped her arm, and nearly threw her to her knees in front of her things. “Pick it all up,” he told her. “And if you miss anything to alert her, I won’t regret pulling the trigger.”

Cassie ignored the pain aching in her knees, hitting the hardwood floor harder than she would have suspected. His grip was bruising, she felt it aching threw her whole arm as she reached out and slowly gathered keys, pills, lipstick, Kleenex. None of it would be of any use against him, the stranger in a familiar man’s body. This is what three years had done to him. Three years of what? She did not know the answer, she only knew the answer would have fingers pointing at her for blame.

Cassie quickly gathered the scattered items, throwing them quickly back in her purse. He gripped her arm as she finished, pulling her back onto her feet. Even in her heels she barely came up to his chin.

“Where are we going?” she dared to ask for a second time, even as he put in the codes and brought out the keys to lock and unlock the condo. Her question should have been how did he manage to pull that small feat off; instead she asked him a question that seemed to be pressing on his already taught anger.

“I already told you that you know where we are going,” he snapped back at her. He would have rolled his eyes if he had not felt it would have been a pointless, and childish, move. He tried hard not to shake her as he never let go of her arm.

How do you know where he is? How did you get into our condo? Why are you back? Many questions were racing through her mind as he dragged her away from the condo, down the stairs and towards the parking garage. She was afraid to ask any more of those questions, his fingers bruising the delicate skin on her arm.

He slipped into the passenger side of her car, a nondescript black car she used for moving about town. Her body and her clothing already screamed out who she was, she did not need everyone knowing it as she drove her car. At least, this is what her husband often told her. She would have much preferred a hot little red car so as she drove up to the grocery store everyone stopped and stared while she stepped out, the mom with a still smoking body, despite having a sixteen-year-old daughter and a husband who liked to live lavishly and large.

Instead she was driven around in the hot little red car by her husband. The man who had been overeating in the past three years with the stress and guilt. While she berated him, he was the one who ate more. He was the one ordering hot fudge sundaes while his two girls watched him swallow it down. He was growing bigger by the day. She hated to let him touch her, to feel his hands wandering her body after he had eaten a twenty ounce steak, mashed potatoes with too much gravy, half of Celeste’s steak she always looks like she wants and never finishes, and then dessert.

He was not disgusting, even with the weight he had gained he was still a handsome desirable man. He still worked out, kept up appearances, she was just ashamed by him. She blamed his eating, his over indulgences, his lack of attention to her, while she knew what the truth was, the real reason.

The point of the gun pressed into her temple. “Stop daydreaming of rescue and move.”

She started the car with fingers that fumbled with the keys for just a moment too long and then began her drive out of the parking garage, the man beside her hiding the gun for the man at the gate and the cameras. She just kept smiling, her inner shaking moving outward, starting at her toes on the gas pedal. She blamed it on the vibration of the car, even if as they moved further along she began to feel it in her calves.

“You haven’t asked me any of the questions I know you want to,” he said, his voice still flat, and yet as sensual as ever. If he had emotion in his voice most women would have moaned at just the sound. Instead she was privy to a man who was barely containing his temper.

“The question you most want to ask me,” he continued, “is why, if I knew where he was, did I bother coming into your home for you. The answer to that dull question is simple: I blame you both.”

“I wasn’t there,” she defended quickly and found herself wishing she had kept her mouth snapped shut, the shaking moving further up her body.

His barking laugh had her wincing. “You don’t have to be there to be an accomplice,” he snapped harshly. She liked it better when his voice had been flat. “You say stupid things for being the wife of such a smart man. Of course, even your daughter is smarter than you are.”

That was hitting low. Her eyes watered. While she had been telling the young Chris he had only been given a position because of his father, he had often told her she was only married to Frederick Lieberman to be a trophy wife. Even at thirty-nine, when he had last seen her, or had she still been thirty-eight, she had been smoking hot. She was the time of woman that made you appreciate women as opposed to girls. She may have been out of proportion for what was considered to be at the top; men never missed Cassandra Lieberman. Twenty-year-olds would swoon as she walked by, fluttering dark long lashes their way. If Fred thought he was going to have a bad day in court, Mrs. Lieberman, with her low riding tops and skin tight clothing, would sit there and smile, looking lovingly at her husband. Not only had he stayed with his wife for over twenty-years, through high school, and college, they were still in love. It showed when they looked at one another.

These were not the eyes anymore of a woman in love, but they were still the eyes of a woman meant to seduce. He wondered how much trouble she had ever been in for the looks she had given men and looked forward to showing her what her haughty attitude would gain her. For now he would only have to ride out the car drive with her, listening to her prattle and wince. A weak woman caught in a stronger woman’s body.

He almost wished he felt bad for hurting her, it was written all over her face. The pain etched there that this person she had once respected could say something so horrible of him. It was almost laughable. Four years ago, despite their teasing, he would have thought they respected, even liked each other companionably. Now he was not sure how either of them were sitting in the same car, besides the gun that lay unforgotten under his leg, safety on.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, driving nearly an hour outside of town to a motel that could be described as cheap and sleazy if the owners were not in ear shot. It had the look of a motel that looked like it had once tried to be a fancier, classier hotel and had failed somewhere along the way. He knew for a fact that the rooms were spacious even if a person only paid around forty or fifty dollars a night. Spaciousness however did not make up for the lackluster interior and the sub-par cleaning.

She parked the car and waited for him to signal her out of the car. He waited, his eyes moving directly to the hotel room that her husband was currently staying in. “How many mistresses do you think he has?”

“That is not why he’s here.” She bit the words off like a tough meat and would have spit them out for the dryness of it.

He chuckled, that dark chuckle that blended in with his shadows. In broad daylight he pushed his way out of the passenger door and held up the gun, making sure to keep the barrel aimed on her, even if his eyes were looking elsewhere. She slide out of the car and they both slammed their doors, wary, watching one another while out of the corner of her eye she was looking, hoping, for some help. No one came. He knew no one would come.

He kept the gun trained on her while she walked from one side of the car to the other. He followed her towards the door , behind the thick wood of 10H where her husband was hidden behind it, possibly with a mistress, possibly alone. He had avoided work this week when the strange phone calls had started. He had run like a rabbit, leaving his wife in the shadows and his daughter completely in the dark. He had tried to be a good father, and husband, by running from them. Running like a coward from them to keep himself safe?

“If you don’t pull this off, I will just kill you both where you stand,” he threatened, and she knew it was not an idle threat. This was a threat he had every intention of keeping. Was she saving either of them, any of them, by pushing her way into his hotel room?

She heard him ticking away the time, his tongue clucking against the roof of his mouth. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, costing herself possible precious seconds, then lifted her fist and banged hard on the door. At first she was only answered by silence. She moved closer to the door, pressing her ear against it. She heard small movements, quiet movements, someone trying not to be heard. She glanced back at the nondescript brown car he had taken to the motel so as not to be noticed, the red car anywhere but in her hands.

She pounded her fist against the door again. “Open up! It’s me! It’s cold as Hell out here!” She kicked the door slightly with some aggression she had not known she was harboring and waited. This time the sound from inside was more obvious and coming towards the door.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” he asked, fumbling with bolts on the other side.

“You know, we have enough money you could have afforded a better room,” she snapped, afraid her answer to his question would give her away. She did not want to die on the sidewalk outside of her husband’s motel room where he was possibly inside with his mistress.

His door creaked open a crack, just enough he could look out at her. She was assessing him, seeing how much of his clothes he was wearing. She was almost elated to see him in a white dress shirt and black pants, albeit casual with it untucked, but could he have dressed that quickly? With her stomach flipping and flopping she pushed at the door and the rest of the way into the room, Chris hiding around the small corner, waiting.

Her eyes moved over the room, reviewing all items. If he had had a woman in the room she did not have enough time to ask. Chris’s gun was at the back of her husband’s head as he had turned to ask her what she was doing and why she was here. She turned towards her husband, looking at his wide green eyes, the shock written in them. She stepped forward, almost apologetically, her eyes watering with remorse.

“Over into that chair,” Chris’s hard voice demanded. The flatness was gone, quickly replaced by anger that was not misplaced. He walked behind Fred, his gun kept to the back of his head, the door kicked closed quickly behind him as he moved.

Fred reached the chair on legs that obviously were trying to refuse to keep him erect. Chris gripped him and turned him roughly and shoved him down into the chair. Fred sat obediently and it was not long before Chris was finding the clothing that Fred was too lazy to put away and using it to tie Fred to the chair with. “How are you alive?” was the inane question that came from Fred’s lips. This question gave Chris pause and he took a step back.

Ice cold eyes looked over Fred, that horrid smirk pulling up his lips. Even Fred wanted to cower at the sight of a young man turned vicious. “And that is the million dollar question, isn’t it? Not why am I in town? Not something stupid about just being surprised to see me. Why would you ask me, Mr. Lieberman, how I am alive?” Chris stepped forward and pushed the barrel of the gun hard into Fred’s right shoulder. “Bang.”

Fred winced, waiting for the pain. He tried to remember everything he had learned, and seen, about a person being shot. He knew that the first shot could sear through a person and they could keep moving. Adrenaline pumping, they may never feel the first shot, nor hear it. It’s through the body, or buried inside of it, before a person even reacts to the sound of a gun being fired.

The only pain that came was that of his clothes being used as ropes to hold him down. He watched as Chris pulled the gun away from his shoulder and stepped back. “Shooting you now, too easy. What are the chances you could live through the same wounds I did? Especially without the freezing cold water to seal them.”

Chris pulled at his coat while Cassie stood there dumbly. She was afraid to move too fast, or at all. If he shot them, who would look after Celeste? She did not want her husband to die, she most certainly did not want to die, but she needed at least one of them to live… for their daughter’s sake. She hated herself for hoping she would be the one.

He dropped his coat to the floor, revealing the round metal of handcuffs under the waist of his trousers. He reached down and gripped them. “You didn’t think I would only use your clothes to keep you restrained, did you?”

“Chris, I know you hate me, and I respect that,” Chris scoffed at what Fred was trying to say, “but you need to leave my wife and daughter out of this.”

“I don’t see your daughter here,” Chris spat, almost insulted that Fred would suggest such a thing. “And your wife is hardly innocent. Because of you two I was left for dead and could not go home, so… the least I can do is make sure you suffer even a fraction of that.”

“We can settle this outside of violence,” Fred promised. “I can give you everything I have, money, cars, a new identity. You will never have to work again.”

Chris took the handcuffs and swung, the hard metal striking Fred in the temple. Blood quickly ran out and down the side of his face, staining the white collar on his shirt. Chris, snarling, stepping forward, the metal dripping with spots of Fred’s blood as the older man fought to focus his eyes again. Chris gripped the front of Fred’s shirt and shook him. “Do not insult me with bribery!” His voice raised, higher with the anger of his every word. Cassie looked around the room for a weapon; her eyes were too slow. Chris moved away from Fred and gripped Cassie, throwing her to the bed, letting her sprawl once more. While she oriented herself the handcuffs clicked securely to the radiator in the cheap motel room. “I should turn the heat up just to burn you, to watch you-

“Where do you think you are going?” Chris was fast. Cassie had tried to roll, to slide off of the bed, to head for the door, but his body moved like a jaguar after his prey. He gripped her hair and nearly dragged her back to the bed. “No, Cassie, you don’t get to play hero now.” He threw her back onto the bed and followed her onto it. She looked up at him, almost horrified as Fred hissed and spat words of violence. Chris, almost amused by the man’s defenseless body and angered words, smiles a bit as he pushed Cassie down onto the bed, looking over that body she had used to entice many but never to relieve.

“Chris… don’t do this,” she protested, straining against his tight hands that held her wrists over her head. He looked down at her with a snarl, a snarl that was quickly becoming familiar. He pushed himself against her leg, letting her feel the very hard erection that was pressed against her. She knew enough about rape situations to know that rape was not about lust, it was about power. Right now he was riding high on the power of having them both at his will.

He pulled the hand with the gun up and ran the gun against her. She trembled, worried about that finger jerking just enough to pull the trigger. Or worse, pulling it because of the hatred roiling around inside of him.

He sat up, releasing her arms, watching her carefully, ignoring the spewing words that leaked from her husband’s mouth as he grabbed his shirt and tugged, pulling it up and over his head and tossing it to the side, leaving him in the white under shirt that showed off much of the muscle he had gained in those few years. Her eyes trailed what of his skin she could, taking him in while cursing herself. Then the undershirt came loose, away from his body, and bare tanned skin was shown and she hissed in a breath.

On his right shoulder, where he had pressed the barrel of the gun to her husband, was a horrid wound that had not gone to a better color in the last three years. Instead it was still an angry purple and pink wound that had barely seemed to heal over. There were other scars and marks on his body; those she was not interested in. Her eyes were only for the angry scar on his shoulder.

“It didn’t hurt,” he assured her, or was remembering. Either way it dragged her eyes away from it and up to his. His eyes still showed no emotion, not even the tiniest inflection of interest.

“Turn around,” he growled at her when she made no move, said nothing. He was frustrated and her face was not helping him.

She did not move fast enough. He reached down to her and gripped her sides, flipping her onto her stomach quickly. His hands moved over her almost unceremoniously as he tugged at her pants, pulling them down hard, scraping the rough material across her skin as she slid away and to her ankles.

“Chris, don’t do this!” she screamed out, gripping the sheets below her. She would rather die than have this indignity thrust upon her, literally.

“Christopher, you let go of my wife!” Fred’s voice was angry, angrier now than it had been when he had found out it was possible he would die for this rat’s mistake. The handcuffs rattled against the radiator, the sound of metal on metal clanging and filling the room. It was a harsh sound to go with many harsh acts.

Chris gripped her panties, the white cotton that was almost laughably beneath skin tight clothing. He tugged them down and moved them as well to where her boots kept her clothing from moving any further as she squirmed. Chris was forced to grip her hip with one hand and squeeze tightly. “Do not make this rougher on yourself than it needs to be.”

She tried not to let out the sob that caught itself in her throat. Her head leaned against the pillow, her body trembled. She heard him moving his pants aside.

“Stop this! Now!” It was too late. The hard thrust had Cassie bucking back as Chris’s cock pushed straight into her slit. She screamed out, surprised by the feel of a foreign thickness throbbing inside of her. Her husband was the only man she had ever known intimately. This foreign cock was hard, throbbing, and larger than she was used to. It made her wince when he started pounding through her, the head of his cock moving against her cervix and then grinding into it. She whimpered and shuddered, all the things a raped woman should do, all while denying that the small bits of pain made her wetter, giving him the ease to move inside of her.

He panted over her, the gun still tight in his hand, waiting for either of them to make the wrong move. Fred screamed and yelled while Cassie moaned into the pillow, the sound nearly silenced by the other noises around her. Chris just moved hard, relieving the pressure that had been building by letting her slick walls slide along his cock. He pushed and pumped inside of her, letting her pant and writhe, enjoying it without ever admitting she was. It made him smile, it made him all the more triumphant.

He slaked that triumph and power in passionless, mindless sex. Pulling her tighter again him, pushing in and pulling out of her tight body. He felt her writhe, the jerk that meant an orgasm, and he slowed, not wanting her to feel that release. This was for him, not for her. He pushed deep and hard, taking his time inside of her, throbbing inside of her. He looked down at her ass and gripped it hard with his free hand, leaving a mark where his hand gripped her.

He felt his balls tighten, his body growing tense, and with a few quick strokes inside of her, at a fast dizzying pace, he found himself jerk, make a small noise in the back of his throat as he emptied inside of her. She cried out louder, aching from his movements, from his holding her back, from the curse words that Fred still continued to spew Chris’s way. Chris pulled out of her, her body slumped hard to the bed. He moved his hand over himself, rearranging his clothes as he stood, a self-satisfied smile teasing those cruel lips.

He fixed his pants and stepped over to the man who had once been his mentor. He looked down at him, pulling the gun up again, once more pressing it to his right shoulder, pressing hard, forcing the man lower, falling out of his chair. His arm, however, could only go so far. Chris could almost see the moment the muscles began to overstretch themselves written all over the man’s face. He kept the barrel of the gun hard against his shoulder.

“No!” Cassie was screaming, fixing herself, trying to pull her pants up and over her hips and finding her fingers not cooperating. None of her body parts seemed to be doing what the nerve endings were telling them to do. She had to go to her husband. He was a blur in the distance across the room, her eyes watering with unshed tears. She was trying to remain strong, even as she wanted to fall apart.

Nothing clever could be said next. The whole world rotated in a different revolution. The knock on the door had all three of them freezing. Fred with thoughts of a mistress coming too soon, Cassie with thoughts of being caught by anyone with her pants around her knees as she struggled to pull them up, and Chris with thoughts of being caught before he could finish this.

The small, quiet knock came again and Chris’s nerves calmed. It had to be the help, he would just send them away. He stepped to the door, his gun never leaving the line of sight of the male Lieberman. He would not let them escape before he was through.

He moved to the door slowly, quietly, leaning up to look through the peephole and huffed a bit when he only saw the top of a head. He kept looking as the head leaned up and knocked on the door again and he took an almost staggering step back. “Son of a bitch.”

Chris turned back to the Liebermans, gun up, hand almost shaking for a moment, then he calmed, visibly. The wicked smile twisted his lips and he looked directly at the half-dressed Cassie. “It’s your daughter.”