Author's Corner: This is my first fic with Orton as the love interest of my OC. I'm not an Orton fan, in my opinion he looks like a six foot four inch elf. But, he seems to be a hot commodity here so I guess for the sake of popularity I'll use him here…Doesn't mean I have to like it!!! BTW this fic was encouraged by Carrie Underwood's' "Before he Cheats".
Torque
Not a single size seven shoe. Not one. She wore a perfect size seven, no width, no girth, nothing that would be difficult to find. And yet, as she continued to pull out the Nike, Reebok, Marc Jacob and Steve Madden boxes it was clear that these were women's shoes.
-
"Not going home to the wifey tonight?" Samantha asked looking across the table.
"Don't worry about that, I'm here now." Randy answered her.
"Ooh, a might touchy this evening, aren't we? Something I can do?"
"Not unless it involves your lips around my cock." Samantha just looked at him; he knew it would be no problem getting Sam's beautiful little lips around his stiff member but there was no need to be a complete asshole tonight. "Just eat your food." Randy said quietly.
"Just one more question Randy," Sam said quietly as she pushed around her blacked salmon.
"Go ahead,"
"Why are you still with her if she makes you so unhappy?"
Randy Orton never had to raise his voice. He very rarely indeed spoke over his monotone bass pitch. It was his commanding presence that always got him the panties but at that moment Samantha was pleading to have her neck broken. There were certain subjects that were off limits with him and his fiancée was at the top of that list.
He met Anaya dancing at a club one night. One look into those beautiful chocolate orbs of hers and he was a dead man walking. He moved her into his mansion so quickly it would've made someone's head do a full three sixty, Anaya was his baby. But Randy was a man of needs; ugly, degrading, gutter butt needs that he wouldn't dare ask a woman as decent as Anaya to fill and that's where these little whores came in.
"And you got the idea I'm unhappy where?" Randy asked.
Sam pushed around her vegetables, "Well because you're here with me and not at home with her."
Randy smiled; she had to be kidding him. Just because he allowed her to suck his dick a few times she got the grand notion that he was unhappy with his woman.
"No," Randy stroked her cheek gently, "I'm here with you because I would never ask her to do the sluttish shit that you do." He smiled, "That's why she's going to be my wife."
-
She had pulled out every box there was to pull out and not a single size seven. Not one. She lifted one pox to inspect the size.
So the little tramp wears a nine. Big foot bitch.
She stared down at her engagement ring. A five karat pear shape solitaire flanked by blue diamonds. He did that as a tribute to his eyes and how much she swore to love them. He wanted to remind her of how much she would come to love those eyes as they were married.
Cocky bastard. How could this motherfucker claim to want to marry me when he's buying designer shoes and shit for his bitches?
And what's worse, he's hiding them in their house, their home. So he was hiding the shit he was buying for his whores in the room that was supposed to be for their baby when they had one; which she was on her way to tell him that the stick had turned pink.
This room was supposed to be sacred. Sacred, cherished and pure and he tainted it with his infidelity, how fucking dare he?
She walked back into their bedroom to watch him lying on his bed. She had to admit, he was a specimen. His dark brown hair was gelled finely and spiked atop his head. His lean and tanned body was sprawled about on their four post bed. Only a thin sheet covered his body about his waist, his long muscular thighs peeked out ending in sinewy calves. He lay with one of his arms over his face and from where she stood she could see the decorous letters spelling out her name. Immediately her hand flew to her right hip, where peeking out of her jammies in sexy red ink read three letters, RKO.
-
"Randall Keith Orton, if you come in here with so much as one more mark that the Good Lord didn't provide you with I'm going to skin your hide." Elizabeth Orton cried out as she hugged her baby boy as he struggled to walk through the door.
"I'm sorry mommy," he bent down to kiss her cheek, "But she made me."
Anaya opened her mouth in shock, "I did not." She looked to Elizabeth, "That one he did all his own."
Randy feigned innocence, "I would never do this sort of thing without provocation."
"I'm going to tell your daddy that you are sitting here lying to your mother," Anaya said with a smile threatening the corners of her lips. "He'll really skin your hide."
"Well," Robert Orton came around the corner, "let me get look at it before I condemn to whippin' the boy." Randy showed his father his forearm which bore one simple word, Anaya. Bob then looked around his son to the petite brunette behind him, she was all of five feet five inches tall with blonde highlighted brown hair, her chocolate brown eyes and honey toned skin made Bob nod his approval. "This one is okay," meaning both the tattoo and the woman.
"Thanks pop," Randy smiled.
Randy's parents adored her. Randy adored her. She was truly the kind of woman that could handle being in his world and he was in a high priced world. As one of the most successful sports attorneys in the world he needed a woman that would look good on his arm and in his life. Anaya Duncan was that woman.
-
The more she looked at him the more pissed off she became. How many women? How many times? Had they been in her house? In her bed? How many women will there be? She hated the idea of having to share her man. Whether it was his time, his attention, his money or his cock Anaya Yvonne Duncan never had to share a man. And this was not the time she was going to start.
She marched back into the room that his trinket gifts. She opened one box of Steve Madden stilettos, wasn't this the pair that she passed up in order to get him to buy her the more expensive Prada mules. Give me a break, she could see the look on the little girl's face now when Randy presented her with such expensive shoes. Please little girl, you are getting my sloppy seconds.
She continued to dump shoes out of their boxes and while the shoes bore designer names these shoes was hopelessly out of date. She had to admit, that part made her smile, at least the whores weren't getting the good shit. That was still reserved for her. But it didn't make the pain go away. It didn't help the aching in her chest that made her want to set that fucking bed on fire with him in it. It didn't stop her from making her want to teach him that she was not the girl he wanted to cheat on.
She continued to stare at the shoes; the rage built inside of her shook her to the core of her being. How dare he? How fucking dare he? She was a one man woman and if they were to get married, he needed to be a one woman man. But he was not so he would have to learn the lesson that all men that fucked on her learned.
Oh motherfucker, on doesn't even begin to describe what it's getting ready to be in here.
-
Samantha shook her head at the hopeless attempts from her boyfriend. Some men just weren't meant to buy women's shoes. She took that back, straight men just weren't meant to buy women's shoes. This thick soled pump with this insanely tacky bow was ugly beyond her wildest imaginings, she only took because the bottom said Marc Jacob and of course because it was from Randy.
She didn't understand his little girlfriend. In fact the little bitch was down right baffling if one chose to ask her but of course no one did. Here she had this great guy, who had her in a mansion, had her pushing a beautiful E class Mercedes and for the love of God she picked out her own damned shoes, which by the looks of things were always the crème de la crème. The bitch was stupid not to keep him happy. But she would. She would make sure she never had to send him home to that tramp again.
Samantha picked up her cell phone. She would get rid of that bitch if it killed her.
-
No way could the trick be this bold. No fucking way.
But way, the bitch was on herphone telling her how good her fiancé's dick tasted on her tongue. The bitch was actually bold enough to tell how she and Randy fucked in his car, in his office, in public places and though she was glad the nasty bitch had never seen the confines of her house she still couldn't bring herself to breathe any sigh of relief. The fact was tat not only was her fiancé cheating, this bitch was bold enough to call.
"Is there a point to your call?" Anaya asked rubbing her temples. "Because all you have done is reminded why it is I need to go back there and fuck the shit out of my fiancé." Samantha was silent on the other end, "What? Oh, did you think you were special? We have the same man honey, all the little places you've been, we've been there twice. All the little trinkets he shakes out of the Cracker Jack box of you are the types of gifts that I buy for the hired help. You are his whore honey, nothing more."
Samantha saw red before her eyelids, "Oh does he buy all his little whores Marc Jacob and Steve Madden shoes?"
Samantha didn't care what she had to do; this woman would see that Randy was not going to marry her. Samantha was the right woman for him and he needed to see that, but before he could see her through clear eyes she had to rid him of this woman who was so obviously crowding his judgment.
"Ooh, shoes. What size do you wear?" Anaya let out a maniacal laugh, "No, let me guess, you're a size 9." Samantha gasped. Anaya smiled at the other end of the phone, "Oh, so you're the big foot trick that he's buying all the shoes that I don't buy? Wow. How do you like those shoes that I pick up but don't buy?"
"Look--,"
"Now you look," Anaya said taking control of the conversation. "The next time you have a mouth full of Randy, the next time you kiss those full lips of his, the next time you're sucking on his fingers, I want you to remember that taste because that taste my dear is me." And with a satisfied smirk Anaya hung up her phone.
Even though she had gotten the final say Anaya couldn't help the rage burning in the pit of her stomach. She was with child, with child. There was a living, breathing human being in her body and he or she didn't deserve to be brought into this debacle.
This shit would end, this shit had to stop.
Picking up every pair of shoes in that room she stormed outside throwing them into Randy's black Porche Carrera. Yeah she knew the base price on the little sucker was 484,000 but that was nothing compared to the price of peace of mind. She was going to show Randy that his actions had repercussions just like everyone else and despite how he was built he was not a God.
Once all the cheap shoes where in the car she doused them in lighter fluid and in a move that was straight Angela Bassett from Waiting to Exhale she set the sumbitches on fire. She stood there and watched the fire explode into to bursts of orange and blue and in her rage she thought it might be in her best interest to tell her soon to be husband that his 500,000 dollar car was on fire.
Ripping the door open she was met with her fiancé's outraged face, "What the fuck happened here Anaya?" he asked.
"A lesson," she said simply.
"In what, insanity?" he looked as his dream car went up in smoke.
"In thinking and responsibility," she continued calmly.
Randy wanted to curse, scream and most of all shake the life out of her but something prevented him, he wanted to know the source of her calmness, "What?"
"You have to be held responsible for your little whore calling me to tell me about your extracurricular activities." Anaya smiled sadistically, "You need to be responsible for how you want to handle visitation once our child is born." She started to walk inside, she turned sliding her engagement ring off her finger and sent it sailing through the air into the burning vehicle. "And maybe, just maybe next time you'll think before you cheat."