Welcome Home, Captain Cuba
Carol Storm
Special to Phaze Books
Also by Carol Storm
Hialeah Heat
Hunted Witness
This is an explicit and erotic novel
intended for the enjoyment
of adult readers. Please keep
out of the hands of children.
www.Phaze.com
Welcome Home,
Captain Cuba
CAROL STORM
Welcome Home, Captain Cuba © 2009 Carol Storm
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Phaze Production
Phaze Books
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Cover art by Kathryn Lively
Published November, 2009
Printed in the United States of America
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“Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Marigold.”
“Mm.” As she came awake slowly to warm, open-mouthed kisses that stirred her senses and long, slick fingers that slid unerringly between her parted thighs, Kathleen Marigold tried to remember the last time her husband had made the usual morning quickie into something special. Kenny was always in such a hurry, either rushing off to his new Miami trading conglomerate to make high-pressure deals and rake in huge South American profits, or else going back to the old neighborhood to dedicate a new playground or just shoot an hour or two of baskets with his crew. Her hunky Cuban husband was changing, and there was a lot she didn’t know about his feelings.
“Remember when I wore a mask?” Kenny entered her with a long, slow slide, his heat filling her and soothing her even as it made Kathleen wrap her legs around him and gasp with excitement.
“Yes, master.” The old memories were so delicious. Kathleen closed her eyes, shuddering. She rode the waves of pleasure back to a time when her name had been Kick and Kenny had been Master. At first it had all been very careful and discreet. She hadn’t meant to fall for the man she met in secret while running her father’s failing political campaign. But before long the decadent sexual fantasy became a dangerous compulsion that endangered both her father’s career and her life. Kenny had overcome his own personal demons in time to save her, and she had worked to make him happy, even if his promising political career had been ruined by their sudden marriage.
“That’s it, baby. Let me be the bad guy for a change.”
“What do you mean, for a change?” Kathleen opened one eye, and saw her husband grinning at her. She loved looking up at him while he covered her body with his, keeping her safe in their own bed. He was tall and bronzed and muscular, the kind of dark hunk a shy Irish schoolgirl fantasized about whenever the nuns weren’t looking. He was working her slowly, lazily, letting the pull and slide gradually build up inside of her. His eyes were black, glittering with mischief. Kenny knew how to make it good, how to be slow and mean and draw out her release until she begged for it. He was in the mood, and it was obvious that thinking of the past on their second wedding anniversary was part of it. Just thinking about the old days turned both of them back into reckless kids.
Kathleen closed her eyes again, and let the slow, easy rhythm take her back in time. Those were the days when she sneaked out of campaign headquarters behind her father’s back, and ditched her wide-shouldered suits and tasteful elegance for halter tops, cut-off jeans and tons of makeup. Given the icy isolation of her adolescent years, it was really no surprise that Kenny’s wicked games had made her feel truly wanted, and truly attractive, for the first time in her life. But it was no good trying to sneak away now and then. Before long sex with Kenny became a need, almost an addiction. Kathleen wanted it all the time, and in larger and larger doses. When Kenny really got down to business, he made her forget all about politics, and her career, and her strict Catholic upbringing. All Kathleen cared about was getting him inside her and making him give it to her. She wanted him, she wanted him! It couldn’t wait, not a second. It had to be now and now and now and…
“Oh, Kenny. Please give to me now. I want it now, please. Now! Now! NOW!!!”
Kathleen had no idea she’d been asking for it out loud. She’d been whimpering for it, begging for it, just like she was the old, crazy Kick and not the sane, sensible, stately Mrs. Marigold. But oh, what a relief it was when Kenny finally tipped her over the edge at last. He used all the dirty tricks, making his thrusts go slower, and slower, and so impossibly slow, and then when the need built up he seemed to go faster and faster and work her and work her and then at the very height of absolute joy he actually bit her on the neck!
Kathleen shrieked like a frantic little slave girl, the Kick inside her now thoroughly satisfied. Then she fainted, slipping into a swooning blackness that brought necessary, soothing relief.
When she came up for air, it seemed like quite a lot of time had passed. Kenny had showered and shaved and now he was standing just a few feet way, carefully tying his tie in front of the mirror. He had the radio going, too, an early morning rock station that played a lot of twanging surf guitar.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Kenny! Do you have to wake a girl up with sex and rock music?”
Kenny looked over his shoulder at her, his dark eyes quite serious. “I can turn off the radio. But you don’t have any off switch, Kick. All I know how to do is turn you on.”
“Hmph. Yes, you’ve always been damned good at that.” Kathleen rolled over on the pillow, closing her eyes. “Please turn the radio off, darling. You can listen to your teenage music at work!”
“Done.” Kenny snapped the radio off, and the bedroom was silent. Kathleen expected another wisecrack, since Kenny loved to tease and joke after sex. She even half-expected he might come over to the bed and try to press his luck. She knew from experience that he was very capable of going twice in one morning, though lately he was too focused on getting to work on time. But instead he just finished what he was doing and left the room, closing the bedroom door very softly behind him. On any other morning he would have kissed her good-bye. Of course Kenny was a man, and he probably thought a good hard screw was good enough. Kathleen didn’t think so. She was hurt. She fell asleep replaying the sex in her head, comparing her uninhibited enjoyment during the act with Kenny’s unusual coldness afterwards.
* * * *
“Baby, did it ever occur to you that Kenny’s not so crazy about having a wife who stays at home and sleeps in every day while he goes off to work?”
“I work,” Kathleen said defensively. She was having lunch with her father at Quinn’s, the best seafood restaurant in Miami. Joe Sullivan had been remarkably healthy since his heart attack two years ago, but he still had to be careful about avoiding things like fatty desserts and red meat.
“I don’t mean the volunteer stuff,” Joe said dismissively. “It’s wonderful the way you’ve adopted those old folks down at the Cuban Community Center. Now they’ve got health care, counseling, arts and crafts, the whole nine yards. They can paint pretty watercolors of Cuba and enjoy their golden years. But you’re not an old lady, Kick. You’re a fighter, just like your old man.”
“You don’t know anything about it, dad,” Kathleen said, sharply. “The people I’ve helped are not the ones who’ve benefited from the new programs. I have. Painting helps me heal.”
“Sorry,” Joe said, giving his daughter a hurt look. He had the sort of round face and big blue eyes that made it hard to stay angry with him for long. “Sometimes I forget how much you’ve changed in the last couple of years, honey. How much you’ve been through. I guess politics makes me see everything from a selfish angle. But you’ve moved beyond that now, baby. Good for you.”
“We’ve all changed, daddy.” Kathleen patted Joe’s hand, and poured herself some white wine to go with her Caribbean snapper. It was funny how life turned out. Her father’s heart attack had not ended his political career. He was still active on the Miami City Council. And he wanted her back on his team. But Kathleen was no longer the driven career woman. All she wanted was her charities, a quiet life of luxury, and fabulous sex with the exotic Cuban hunk who happened to be her husband.
That was all she wanted, wasn’t it?
So why was Kenny being such a jerk on their second anniversary?
“Hello, earth to Kathleen. Come in, Kathleen!”
“Sorry.” Kathleen sipped her wine, a dry white Californian that went perfectly with fish.
“Were you hatching a plan for getting even with your husband?” Joe’s blue eyes were twinkling. “Your mother always used to hide my golf clubs.”
Kathleen laughed, and put down her wine glass. “Actually, I was thinking that I better not drink too much if I want to cook this afternoon. Kenny and I are having dinner at home tonight. I’ve had chicken marinating ever since last night. Kenny will be thrilled when he sees what I’m cooking. Oven Roasted Mojito Chicken. It’s very Cuban, you know, spicy and authentic. Just like Kenny!”
“Jesus, you’re really hooked on this guy, aren’t you?” Joe’s mild exclamation drew several curious looks from nearby tables. The wealthy, privileged South Beach crowd knew Joe Sullivan from way back, however, and no-one seemed very shocked. Only one woman lifted her Dior sunglasses and continued to stare, and she was a stylish older woman in a peach blouse and skirt, with platinum-tinted hair and a generous figure. Her keen gray eyes were amused, and interested.
“Kenny is my husband, daddy. I’m not ‘hooked’ on him, I love him. The way you loved mom, remember?”
“Huh?” Joe was watching the woman at the next table, who had just crossed her long legs. Kathleen could already guess the type – newly divorced, terribly wealthy, very much on the prowl. Joe Sullivan was sure to be an easy catch – he had that dazed look already. But when he turned around, his cheerful, round face was caring, and concerned. “Baby, you don’t have to cook the perfect meal to tell your husband you love him. All you have to do is tell him how you feel. Don’t rush off just to slave over a hot stove all afternoon. Stay here and have another drink with me.”
“Maybe next time.” Kick smiled, and waved to the woman at the next table. She laughed, and waved back. Kick winked at her father, already knowing his next move. “Invite her over, daddy.”
Some things never changed.
* * * *
“Don’t you like the chicken, Kenny?”
“The chicken is fine, Kathleen. I’m just a little tired.”
“I suppose you’d like some music to listen to.” Kathleen wasn’t being sarcastic. She remembered the romantic Cuban music she’d fallen in love with while dating Kenny two years ago.
“Huh?” Kenny really did look tired. Yet there was a frown line between his slim, jet-black brows that suggested he was annoyed with her for trying to start up a conversation. “Oh, that. I’m sorry I woke you up this morning. I was in a hurry to get to work.”
“Lately you’re always in a hurry.” Kathleen was dressed in a green and white Ungaro dress that matched her eyes. While the carefully marinated chicken was roasting in the oven, she had taken the time to put on Kenny’s favorite perfume and the shade of dark red lipstick he liked the best. Everything in the room was just the way he liked it, including her. And this was the thanks she got.
“Come on, Kathleen, let’s not start that again. I work hard because I want to make a good life for me and you. Someday you’ll go back to work and then we’ll both have schedules to juggle.”
“I do work,” Kathleen reminded him. “And what kind of good life do you want us to have? Lately it seems like you’ve become just another vanilla corporate guy. Eating steak and wearing Brooks Brothers and listening to white-bread rock and roll on the radio. You’re changing, Kenny.”
Kenny laughed. “What, I’m supposed to go to work dressed in leather so my wife can get off on what I look like when I come home at night? All that crazy stuff we used to do is in the past.”
“That’s just the point!” Kathleen exclaimed. “Lately I feel like the exciting side of life is all locked up with our past. You know, when we used to meet in secret. And I feel like you want it that way. You’re making all these changes just to prove you’re not that guy any more.”
“You’re crazy, Kick.” Kenny gave her a steady look. “This morning wasn’t all that long ago.”
“I know.” Kathleen blushed, and sighed. “But we were both thinking of two years back.”
“You were, apparently.” Kenny shoved his half-empty plate away. “I love Mojito Chicken. But you don’t have to make Cuban food just to remind me I grew up in Hialeah.”
“I was reminding you that I still know how to please my Cuban master,” Kathleen said softly.
“I’m half-Cuban,” Kenny pointed out. “My old man was a wise guy from New Jersey. The guys I play ball with are mostly black. Most of the guys I work with are Jewish. I like sirloin steak, and I like bagels and cream cheese. Do I have to be Cuban to turn you on, Kick?”
Kathleen blushed. Her empathy for Kenny burned right through the haze of sexual desire. “No, of course not! I just find it exciting to be dominated by someone who’s different – exotic – not like the people I grew up with.”
“You mean, the fantasy only works for you when the master is dark-skinned. That’s what makes him dangerous.” Kenny’s dark eyes drilled deep into her soul.
“Well, you don’t have to over-analyze everything, and put me on trial,” Kathleen huffed. “I know I was raised by repressive, bigoted, Irish-Catholic nuns, and from your enlightened perspective my sexual desires are all twisted. Well, so what! I just want things to be like they were before.”
“So do I.” Kenny refilled their wine glasses. “What turns me on in bed isn’t your character. It’s your milk-white skin, your big green eyes, and your freckles.”
“In other words, if you have to do naughty things to a woman, and make her into a slave, it helps if she’s an Irish slave.” Kathleen took a drink. “Sure, we’re all slaves to the likes of you.”
“No, you’re all masters to the likes of me.” Kenny’s dark face was grave. “I get a kick out of putting you underneath me, Kick, because in my own head you’re far above me. I know it’s wrong, but I’m not as self-confident as I appear to be when I put on my suit and blend in with all the other corporate guys. There’s a part of me that wants to pull a real Michael Jackson, and turn white.”
“And part of you really is white,” Kathleen reminded him. “Part of you is an Italian wise guy, and part of you likes bagels, and part of you is genuinely proud to be all the different things you are.”
Kenny shook his head. “What’s the matter with you? I tell you I get off on making you a slave because I feel inferior deep down, and you tell me I have all kinds of pride and goodness I don’t even know about. Sometimes I think you must really be a saint.”
“An Irish saint,” Kathleen chirped. “With freckles.” She was going to add that a real saint wouldn’t get off on having sex with her husband all the time, but that was between her and the nuns.
“Is it okay if I say I’m getting really turned on here?” Kenny asked, almost shyly. “You’re okay with anything I do in bed, but sometimes I think I do you for the wrong reasons. I think I’m a little scared of the fact that after two years of marriage you’ve gotten to know me. You’ve become a friend, and I don’t always know if I can handle that. So I just stick to what I do best.”
Kathleen frowned. “But if you want to stick to being Master, why have you gotten all respectable and gone corporate on me? This morning you said, ‘let me be the bad guy for a change.’ When have I ever wanted you to be anything else?”
“When you say bad guy, you mean a dark-skinned man who’s gotten out of his place. When I say bad guy, I mean a light-skinned man who’s found his place.” Kenny paused. “My fantasies are as decadent as yours. We both want to experience slavery from the opposite historical perspective.”
“You’re the master,” Kathleen shrugged. “And there was a time, my friend, when the Irish were really and truly slaves. The Vikings built Dublin as a slave pen so they could march us down to the sea and sell us off. Perhaps you’d like to think about that the next time you make love to me.”
* * * *
In books and movies about relationships, Kathleen thought, a quiet dinner and an intimate heart-to-heart talk always led right away to fabulous sex. But the real world didn’t work that way. Kenny had put in a tough day at the office, and when they climbed into bed he soon fell fast asleep.
Maybe he really is corporate leadership material. Kathleen chuckled softly to herself as she slipped quietly out of bed, careful not to wake her sleeping husband. Lately when she couldn’t sleep she had gotten into the habit of going down the hall to the little spare bedroom they jokingly called the nursery. This was a sort of storage area, where Kenny kept sporting gear and whatever naughty odds and ends he wanted to use for their nightly sex play. In the old days the nursery had mainly been used for wild, creative sex. But lately they’d both gotten into other things.
What Kathleen was really into now was her painting. She’d kept up with the therapeutic work she’d done after that awful near-death experience she’d had two years ago. She took classes at the Cuban Community Center in Hialeah, and she had her own easel and supplies tucked in a corner of the nursery. Late at night she often came here alone to paint.
It was funny, she thought, settling down under the white light of a single overhead bulb. Men thought women took naturally to the submissive role in sex, and that because they liked the submissive role in bed they had to be docile and tranquil and totally peace-loving everywhere else.
That was totally untrue, at least where she was concerned. Lately Kathleen had found that the more she painted, the more she opened up inside. And instead of painting the soft, pastel landscapes her father joked about, very often she felt like flooding the canvas with strange and violent images.
The rage she felt in the morning, when Kenny played his music too loud, was what pushed her to paint tonight. Kathleen threw herself into her work, and before long the red swirls of fire she slapped onto the canvas engulfed not only the smiling face of her husband but the moaning woman on the bed and even the crow-black stick-figure nuns walking stiffly in the background. They were marching towards a black hole at the far corner of the picture, and inside the hole –
“Wow! That looks like a horror movie.” Kenny’s deep voice made her jump out of her skin.
“Kenny! I just thought – you were sleeping and – this is not something I want to share with you right now!” Kathleen looked over her shoulder at her husband’s bare-chested figure. She smiled, but her green eyes were afraid and angry. Her paintbrush was still dripping blood-red paint.
Her husband laughed, putting his powerful hands on her slim shoulders. “That’s all right, Kick. I own your body, not your soul. And by the way, scary pictures don’t freak me out. Much.”
“I don’t care what you think of my art,” Kathleen said tartly. “It isn’t meant to amuse you, Master. It isn’t even meant to arouse. It’s just the naked truth, me being me when no-one’s looking.”
“Well, you’ve uncovered enough naked truth for one night.” Kenny began to work on her sore muscles, letting his hands tighten and loosen with an easy, soothing rhythm. “Close your eyes.”
“Yes, master.” Kathleen put down her paint brush, and did what Kenny commanded. It was very relaxing to have someone loosen her tight muscles when she had been painting for so long. Sometimes she got so carried away that she lost all track of time. Kenny was right, really. Painting was a part of her life that he could never control. The fact that he didn’t want to control her spirit made it all the more satisfying to turn her body over to him willingly, without even feeble resistance.
“That’s better.” Kenny’s hands were strong and firm, but also sensitive and deeply knowing. In just a few minutes his probing fingers and deep voice could bring about a pleasurable sensual stupor, an almost mindless state really, where prim, prickly Kathleen felt ripe for total submission.
“My whole body feels like gelatin in a mold,” she moaned. “Only there’s no mold.”
“That’s because you’re a hard-working little slave,” Kenny replied, laughing in a way that sent shivers chasing down her spine. “You’ve been sweet and good all day long, and that’s tiring for a naughty little girl like you. Now put away your paints, carefully, and come join me in bed.”
Kathleen did exactly what she was told. She put away her paints, wondering if Kenny was serious or joking about the naughty business. He didn’t feel hurt because she kept her painting a secret, did he? She trembled with meek, slave-girl uncertainty as she climbed naked into bed.
“Are you mad at me, honey?” she asked. “I didn’t mean to sneak off on you like that. You were sleeping, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You wanted to escape,” he growled. “We’re on a tropical island, and I’m a pirate holding you for ransom.” Kenny pulled her into an embrace, his lips warm and firm. Under the cool sheets, his hot body felt like a furnace. Kathleen kissed back, letting sensation overpower her. It was like being pulled into jungle heat, her breasts crushed against chest his while his tongue plundered her mouth. Kathleen whimpered, melting in waves of desire that consumed her pale, trembling body.
“This must be the tropics,” she panted. “I’m really hot all of a sudden.”
“You’re always hot,” Kenny told her gravely, pressing his burning lips against her throat. “Lady Kathleen Fitzwilliam, bored with the talk of the greedy, paunchy merchants gathered around the captain’s table, goes up on deck alone, to escape the lies and the bragging and the cigar smoke. You can’t imagine marrying any of these wealthy men, and you crave a breath of the cool night air.”
“And what I get instead is a pirate,” Kathleen giggled. Her lips felt bruised, yet she couldn’t help rejoicing when Kenny crushed them again, obliterating reality. For a moment their tongues met, and clashed. His was probing and hers was yielding, yet she slyly stoked his need for total control. “Take me to Tortuga, Captain Cuba,” she gasped, reeling from the fiery force of his pirate kiss.
“Okay, now you’re cracking me up,” Kenny chuckled, looming over her on the bed. His shoulders looked a mile wide, his body felt warm and strong and very male. “Captain Cuba?”
Kathleen pursed her lips, daring him to meet her again on that lost, primitive tropical island. “At least you’re not a Viking named Sven! Kiss me again and I’ll think of a better name, Captain.”
“Done,” he agreed, sealing her lips again. This time the kiss did not end with talk, but with penetration. When his big hard cock slid smoothly into hot lush wetness, Kenny lost all self-control. He loved sliding into his wife’s nakedness, which enflamed him even more than the game they played. Kathleen had been shy when they first married, but he had taught her to enjoy her slim body. She had shyly dropped her nightgown before crawling into bed, knowing now that her small, freckled breasts and pale slenderness truly excited him.
“Oh, Kenny, please. Keep doing what you’re doing!” Kathleen was embarrassed at the way her imagination failed her. But Kenny’s naked body was a marvelous fantasy in itself, all fire and velvet, with stone-hard strength in every surface she stroked and savored with her slim fingers. The way he moved inside her, filling and then withdrawing, made her ache and arch with growing desire.
After two years of marriage, Kathleen could hold her own in bed. Kenny had taught her how to arch her hips, how to wrap her long legs around him, how to caress him with her silken surfaces. She could feel his cock and love the slick slide of it, but she just couldn’t think straight while she was making love to him. Yet she adored the way his words carried her off to adventure and romance.
“Talk to me,” she moaned. “Tell me what you’re doing to me!”
“I’m not doing anything, Lady Kathleen,” he purred. “I’m just sliding deeper and deeper into your wet pussy, making you cry out with pleasure every time I move. You can hardly bear it, but I can go on for hours. I’m a deliciously wicked pirate, my lady. How can you ever escape from me?”
“Oh, I can’t. I can’t!” Kathleen couldn’t add to the story of Lady Kathleen, not in words, but she could feel it all and see it all like it was really happening to her. She closed her eyes, losing herself in images while Kenny’s hard cock pounded away inside her. There she was standing on the dock in England, looking pure and cool and fresh, a virgin in a starched white gown and petticoats. And there she was on the ship, bored with her companions and yearning for a taste of freedom. Kenny captured her when she was strolling up on deck, carrying her off easily despite her struggles.
And now here she was, a prisoner in his secret hiding place, and they were making love.
“Oh! No, please!” Kathleen could see herself writhing in the pirate’s splendid canopy bed. Kenny read her responses, quickening the pace as she sighed and bit her lip and moaned with pleasure. He pinned her wrists to the pillows.
“No escape,” he grunted. “No escape from my pirate ways, or your own unladylike desire!”
Kathleen knew how to answer. “Unhand me, villain!” Her green eyes flashed with defiance.
“Aye, my lady. After you’ve had enough, perhaps. I’m no fat merchant to be toyed with, luv.” Kenny’s thrusts became harder, more insistent, lighting an unquenchable fire inside them both. Kathleen knew that this moment was true and real. Her own desire kindled even higher as the pirate of her dreams took her quickly, with savage pleasure. Her body knifed in a shuddering release that left her drained and breathless, hardly aware of Kenny’s hoarse cry of satisfaction just moments later.
“Now that’s what I call an anniversary present,” she purred, drowsing in Kenny’s muscular arms as the sun came up over modern-day Miami. “Welcome home, Captain Cuba.”
“Thanks,” Kenny chuckled. He kissed her forehead. “But I’m just a corporate pirate.”
“You still rake in gold.” Kathleen lifted her head, looked closely at her husband. “You made a big deal about that girl being tired of greedy, paunchy merchants. Are you afraid that’s really you?”
“Should I be?” Kenny stroked a clinging wisp of her long black hair away from her face.
Kathleen touched his lips with hers. “You’re a good man, Kenny. You don’t have to justify your choices to me. But you don’t have to play the radio extra loud in the morning, either.”
Kenny nodded. “You’re right. I changed careers for my own benefit, not for you. You’re not really a slave girl, Mrs. Marigold. You don’t need a man to take care of you.”
Kathleen sighed, resting her head on his wide, bare chest. “I ruined your political career.”
“And gave up your own. But you’ll find your way, Kick. It’s just like those paintings. I don’t have to like them, or even understand them. I just have to love the woman who made them.”
“And they both lived happily ever after.” Kathleen still didn’t know everything about her husband. She just knew how to love him. So she slid her arms around his neck, and kissed him with all the passion of an Irish slave in bed with her Viking master.
About the Author
Carol Storm is the author of Hialeah Heat and Hunted Witness, also with Phaze Books. Please visit Carol at www.myspace.com/carolstorm.