in front of us. A trustee wearing orange steps out, and the ignition cuts off, as if by magic.
I feel his hand pressed against the small of my back for just a breath of time. “Get out of here. A car will come for you tomorrow.”
I swear, as I get into my seat and he lords over me, I hear him say “Eighteen.”
*
This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me. Hands down. I never thought I’d be raising a child at my age, so that’s weird, too. But this is weirder.
All night, I dream of Beast. The dreams are strange. He’s shirtless, lying on the desk in Holt’s office with his big, hard , pretty dick out. I can see his hand stroke up and down it. I can feel my pussy getting wet.
Every muscle on his shoulders, ches t, and abs stands out: pure male perfection. I’m standing above him, and he’s reaching up, stroking my neck. Stroking my hair. Pulling me on top of him and kissing my breasts. He’s banging his fingers into my cunt. He’s whispering my name. His fingers plunge in. Slide out. His hand, on my shoulder, is caressing me.
And then he pushes me off of him. My feet hit the floor with a gentle smack, and his eyes harden as he tells me to go.
I t’s not because he doesn’t want me. It’s because he cares for me.
That’ s how, when I’m tangled in my covers, drifting somewhere in between my dreamland and the pre-dawn light, I know I’m only dreaming.
*
I check my bank account after I shower, and it’s still dismal. We’re down to eleven hundred dollars, which is pretty much five dollars when you have the medical bills we do. I spend the morning in a state of flux, wondering what I’ll do if this doesn’t come through. Maybe I should give in and file for unemployment. What other options do I have?
One of my friends from UCLA keeps joking about how I should sell my used panties on some pervy web site. How many pairs of panties would it take to pay the bills?
I set my phone down on the bathroom counter. Lean toward the mirror and press my palms against my tight curls. So I’m broke. This is a problem I understand well enough. If the car never comes, I’ll figure out something. I always do.
But what if he does put some money into my account? What if a car really does arrive, as promised?
I haven’t called Holt, even to check on him, and I guess it’s because, deep down, I don’t want to know what’s going on. I don’t want to know how probable it is that this is happening. That my spending three hours per day with Cal—with Beast —is the only thing keeping Holt from being killed for his embezzling.
Aside from the general insanity of Beast’s proposal, I’m also having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that I encountered him again at all. And in such a way…
I rub balm over my lips and try to shut my brain off for a few minutes, but it’s not happening. I see his face on the cover of the magazines I used to hide under my covers. I hear his voice in Holt’s office.
“I am no one that you know. I will hurt you for my pleasure. I will make you pay. Every day you fuck me, I will make you pay.”
Does he mean that?
Yesterday, it didn’t take him very long to come. I came just a second or so later. Which shocked me.
He pulled out and spilled on the floor, and wiped it up with tissues from Holt’s desk. And I felt shame. And elation. And, more than anything else, confusion.
How does someone change that much?
I keep feeling like yesterday wasn’t real—but it was. If the car shows up, what will I really do?
Would he really hurt Holt if I refuse him?
He said three hours a day, but he didn’t say three hours of sex per day. What would we do if we didn’t have sex? And if we did… I feel warm between my legs and shift my stance a little.
I re-tuck the towel that’s sliding down my still-damp breasts and dab some moisturizer underneath my eyes and on my throat.
I must be even more messed up than I thought. That I didn’ t refuse him
I feel his hand pressed against the small of my back for just a breath of time. “Get out of here. A car will come for you tomorrow.”
I swear, as I get into my seat and he lords over me, I hear him say “Eighteen.”
*
This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me. Hands down. I never thought I’d be raising a child at my age, so that’s weird, too. But this is weirder.
All night, I dream of Beast. The dreams are strange. He’s shirtless, lying on the desk in Holt’s office with his big, hard , pretty dick out. I can see his hand stroke up and down it. I can feel my pussy getting wet.
Every muscle on his shoulders, ches t, and abs stands out: pure male perfection. I’m standing above him, and he’s reaching up, stroking my neck. Stroking my hair. Pulling me on top of him and kissing my breasts. He’s banging his fingers into my cunt. He’s whispering my name. His fingers plunge in. Slide out. His hand, on my shoulder, is caressing me.
And then he pushes me off of him. My feet hit the floor with a gentle smack, and his eyes harden as he tells me to go.
I t’s not because he doesn’t want me. It’s because he cares for me.
That’ s how, when I’m tangled in my covers, drifting somewhere in between my dreamland and the pre-dawn light, I know I’m only dreaming.
*
I check my bank account after I shower, and it’s still dismal. We’re down to eleven hundred dollars, which is pretty much five dollars when you have the medical bills we do. I spend the morning in a state of flux, wondering what I’ll do if this doesn’t come through. Maybe I should give in and file for unemployment. What other options do I have?
One of my friends from UCLA keeps joking about how I should sell my used panties on some pervy web site. How many pairs of panties would it take to pay the bills?
I set my phone down on the bathroom counter. Lean toward the mirror and press my palms against my tight curls. So I’m broke. This is a problem I understand well enough. If the car never comes, I’ll figure out something. I always do.
But what if he does put some money into my account? What if a car really does arrive, as promised?
I haven’t called Holt, even to check on him, and I guess it’s because, deep down, I don’t want to know what’s going on. I don’t want to know how probable it is that this is happening. That my spending three hours per day with Cal—with Beast —is the only thing keeping Holt from being killed for his embezzling.
Aside from the general insanity of Beast’s proposal, I’m also having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that I encountered him again at all. And in such a way…
I rub balm over my lips and try to shut my brain off for a few minutes, but it’s not happening. I see his face on the cover of the magazines I used to hide under my covers. I hear his voice in Holt’s office.
“I am no one that you know. I will hurt you for my pleasure. I will make you pay. Every day you fuck me, I will make you pay.”
Does he mean that?
Yesterday, it didn’t take him very long to come. I came just a second or so later. Which shocked me.
He pulled out and spilled on the floor, and wiped it up with tissues from Holt’s desk. And I felt shame. And elation. And, more than anything else, confusion.
How does someone change that much?
I keep feeling like yesterday wasn’t real—but it was. If the car shows up, what will I really do?
Would he really hurt Holt if I refuse him?
He said three hours a day, but he didn’t say three hours of sex per day. What would we do if we didn’t have sex? And if we did… I feel warm between my legs and shift my stance a little.
I re-tuck the towel that’s sliding down my still-damp breasts and dab some moisturizer underneath my eyes and on my throat.
I must be even more messed up than I thought. That I didn’ t refuse him
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