by Kira Blakely
“Love you,” he noted casually, pulling away, his boots thudding on the carpet as he moved.
“No, you don’t,” I called after him lightly.
“Do too.” The door swung shut behind him and I flipped onto my back, smiling with my eyes closed, stretching long and languid.
No matter what happened with Andrew—even if he got back with Lola tomorrow—I was ecstatic to be with him today. He was such a man. I couldn’t fight it anymore. I needed him in my system.
Last night, when he followed me to my bathroom, I didn’t even have my sundress all the way off when he swept me up onto the sink. We crashed against the mirror and our clothes came away like dead skins, tossed to the floor, crumpled and useless, disgusting. We grinded against each other, my hands on his sex, his hands on mine, like we just needed to get each other off. It didn’t matter if we didn’t have sex. It didn’t matter if we were hungry or tired or filthy dirty. All that mattered was pumping him until he came, and he touched me like he felt the exact same way.
Underneath the blankets in my bed, my hands skated over my white silk slip and down between my legs, ready to tousle with Andrew again in my imagination. My middle finger swept over my folds, collecting the wet nectar there, and spread it over my clitoris. I vibrated to life instantly beneath my own hands and I was wide awake, even if my eyes were still shut. My back arched and I groaned behind my own closed lips. I kicked the blankets off; too hot. My finger worked and orgasm danced in my center, waiting for the perfect opportunity to sink its sweet stinger into my pussy.
I gasped and contorted, exposing myself widely to the empty bedroom walls, tits trembling as my hands worked frantically on myself. I remembered how Andrew and I had dumped into the bathtub and wrenched the shower on, pummeling our bodies with a stream of hot, steamy water. He slid into me harder and wider and longer than he’d ever been before—or so it’d seemed, anyway. I came so deeply over his cock that I saw stars for a second. Andrew pumped into me with flawless rhythm and roared when he spurted. I felt his member pounding with the flow.
Every part of Andrew Bogart was so fucking hot. I peeled the straps on my slip down and my fingers went to my nipples, furiously pinching as I thought about his cum, so sweet and pure. I’d lap it up out of my own pussy if I could. I sank two fingers into my twat and grinded my hips into the air. I’d always been terrified of anal, but with Andrew, it might not be so bad. It might be fucking hot to fill every hole in my body... every night...
My sex-crazed imagination gave up a fantasy of Andrew plunging into my ass from behind, quivering, stretching me and filling me. Then there was another Andrew in front of me, driven into my loving cunt, up to the hilt. He was on top of me, too, with his dick in my mouth and his hands in my hair. I wanted Andrew on every inch of my body. I would never stop coming for him... shuddering and leaking juices helplessly for the rest of my beautiful life....
Orgasm moved through my body like a bolt of white-hot lightning and I came with a shriek, squirting all over the mattress, my eyes squeezed shut, my tits high in the air, my hands clawing desperately over my every erogenous zone.
“Jesus Christ,” a familiar Texan male voice penetrated my masturbation and I shrieked again, scrambling into a ball up at the headboard. My eyes were wide open now.
Chet Browntooth stood in my bedroom doorway, twirling a toothpick with his tongue, grinning at me with impossibly bright eyes. I scrambled off the mattress, sensing my role as prey, and he bolted toward me as I reached the dresser. I slammed against the wooden drawers and pulled at the handle, but Chet pressed into me from behind, both hands planted firmly over the drawer. I rattled it and gasped for breath, my heart thundering in my chest. My hands trembled.
Andrew tried to warn me, and there was no way I could alert him that I was in danger.
“What are you doing, Chet?” I asked in my most measured and calm voice. I sounded like I was freezing to death, my voice shook so hard.
“I saw your front door hanging open and I thought I might check,” he breathed against the back of my head. I could feel his rock hard little dick nestling in the crevasse of my ass cheeks through the silk slip.
“That’s not true,” I told him. I swallowed hard. What do I do? What do I do? “That door wasn’t open.”
“The door was wide open, Michelle.” Chet’s breath burned against my ear and he subtly grinded his erection against me. “You were making so much noise in here, I knew you were trying to get some attention, darling.”
His hands left the wooden dresser and brushed upward over my torso, skirting around my tits. He didn’t grab them. He just let them hover beneath his hands. He just felt them scrape his palms every time I breathed. “I was thinking about someone else,” I insisted. “Stop. Get out of here, or I’m calling the police.”
Chet laughed. “I am the police,” he hissed into my ear as his hands smoothed down over the sides of my slip. His prick pressed into my buttocks again, his hips against my hips, and both hands smoothed all the way down to the hem of my short slip. He pressed his palms where the hem ended, pressing his hands and my slip up against my pussy, still soaked from my reverie of Andrew.
“You’re so wet,” Chet sighed. “I had no idea you wanted this so bad.”
“I’m with Andrew,” I told him. “He’ll kill you.”
“Shh,” Chet hissed. “No one can hear us, Michelle. You don’t have to pretend. I won’t tell.”
He’s going to rape me. He’s going to rape me, and there’s nothing within reach to stop him. Nothing.
“Okay,” I forced myself to say, even though his hands were still binding my slip against my sex, even though the thought of his disgusting little dick inside my body made me want to vomit and cry. “But we have to use protection because I—I have herpes.”
“Who doesn’t?” Chet whispered back.
“And I don’t want to have a baby,” I tried again.
“You can get an abortion,” Chet replied. He curled his fingers and began to lift my skirt over my ass.
“And you should go get your uniform!” I yelped, clawing at the hem of my skirt and twisting to push at him. “It’s my fantasy!” Chet had his dick halfway out of his pants already. Tears stung my eyes. “I want to put on some thigh-high boots and you put me against the wall and say ‘Spread em’ and frisk me!”
Chet bit down on his lower lip. “That’s hot, baby. You’re dirty.”
“But you have to be wearing the uniform,” I reminded him. “And get your handcuffs, too. And your hat and your badge.” I wanted to load him up with as many errands as possible between his house and mine. I only had a few minutes to get help.
Chet’s eyes roved over my body, considering. A normal rapist would never go for it because they’d understand the opportunity for escape that I would have. But Chet was no ordinary rapist. He was so blindly narcissistic, he couldn’t even fathom that I meant “no” when I said it. He thought I was just denying myself the only thing I truly wanted: him.
“All right,” Chet murmured, reaching out and grasping my breast with sudden, surprising force. I yelped and went ramrod straight as he massaged its flesh, grinding one thumb over the flat nipple, then dropped away again. “Stay warm for me, girl. Deputy Browntooth will be right back.”
I stood in shock, trembling, until I heard his boots thump across the porch and disappear down the stairs. Heart rattling at a million miles per hour in my chest, I bolted for the front door and slammed it, twisting the lock. It was my first instinct. I couldn’t think straight. My mind was everywhere. My thoughts were spilled out on the floor. I was in a complete panic.
Shit! Shit! He already had a key made! And Andrew... he never had the chance to finish what he was doing when I got home from my meeting. We slipped to the bathroom and fell asleep and he was going to come back at lunch to finish rekeying the lock.
In two hours.
Two and a half hours.
Shit.
I marched to the alarm and set it, sending
up a silent prayer that the police station would get this alert. What next? What could I do? How many minutes did I have? Should I just run out of the house in my slip? He might be able to see me from his windows, running, and catch me; the nearest house was close, but what if no one was home? My stupid car still wasn’t working. Should I call Andrew? No, it would take too long for him to get here. Should I call the police directly? 9-1-1?
That sounded good. I sprinted back to my bedroom and snatched my phone off the bedside table, dialing 9-1-1 and waiting. It rang several times before there was an answer, and the dispatch picked up.
“9-1-1,” she announced, sounding bored. “What is your emergency?”
I heard a hard, loud knock at the door, making it tremble in its frame, and I gasped. My entire system shuddered and racked.
“There’s an intruder in my house,” I whispered intensely. “He’s going to rape me.”
“Police,” Chet boomed from the porch. “Someone made a complaint about lots of moaning coming from in here.” His knock thundered thrice more, and then I heard the lock click and turn. The door creaked open.
“His name is Chet Browntooth, he’s a deputy and my neighbor,” I hissed. “Come now. Please.” I hung up the phone before he reached the bedroom, afraid of what he might do if he saw me calling for help. He probably brought those handcuffs. Damnit. Damnit! What was I going to do now? Could the police be here soon enough to save me?
I backed up and braced myself for anything. Overhead, a tiny green light poised over my bedroom door flickered red. My alarm system was silent, and it was going off. I could only pray that the police would answer it once and for all.
Chet crossed the threshold of my bedroom, fully dressed in his uniform and leering at me appreciatively.
“I want to be clear, Chet,” I told him. My back was pressed flush against the opposing wall and I wished I wasn’t still in this sheer, short slip, even though I didn’t think it really mattered. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t find you attractive. I am not giving consent. Keep your dick away from me.”
“And I already told you that you don’t have to worry,” Chet cooed. I heard the tinkle of the handcuffs against his belt. What weapons were there? Did he have his gun? There was a lamp on the bedside table... but that was on the other side of the bed. “I’m not going to tell anyone our dirty little secret.”
“The alarm is going off,” I shrilled.
“The only person getting those alerts is you,” Chet informed me smilingly. “No one is going to disturb us, darling.”
He crept closer and closer, grinning. He brought up two bare hands and licked one of his thumbs like he was about to turn a page in a book. “Now spread ‘em,” he leered.
Chapter Thirteen
Andrew
I was up to my elbows in a corroded carburetor when my cell phone chimed distantly. It was a ring I couldn’t remember ever hearing before, a kind of blip sound, and I almost ignored it in favor of focusing on the task at hand--but then I remembered. The security app. The home invasion alert.
Michelle.
I clumsily pulled my massive arms out of the engine and bolted for the phone, rubbing my hands over my shirt and smearing oily fingerprints down either side. I panned its smudged screen up toward my face. The screen blinked red. Front door open. No code entered.
“Shit,” I hissed, storming out of the garage. “Couldn’t wait just two more hours, could it?” I fumbled with the keys as I locked the garage behind me, cursing myself.
This was my fault. I should’ve finished rekeying the lock last night, instead of being so weak and mortal whenever I had to watch Michelle traipse toward that bathroom, picturing her getting naked and slippery in the bubbles. I climbed into my truck, turned the engine, and revved out onto the street. Don’t wreck this car. “Not until Chet’s in my headlights, anyway,” I muttered.
It was regularly a six-minute drive from my garage to Withers Community, but I took the back roads at double the speed limit and was there in less than three.
The front door was closed. Michelle’s Volvo was in the driveway, but I couldn’t be sure if she was there. If she was, then she would turn off her own alarm. Wouldn’t she?
I marched heavily toward the house, and even though there was a clear, restrained violence to my gait, I still didn’t quite believe it. My mind harbored the illusion that truly terrible things don’t happen to sweet, gentle women like Michelle. It had to have been some sort of accident; there had to have been a logical explanation for this that wasn’t a home invasion occurring while Michelle was still inside the damn house. That had never—
I crossed the porch and grasped the front door, twisting the knob and swinging it slowly, quietly open, just in case I did have the chance to interrupt something nefarious.
I poked my head into the house. For a few seconds, I didn’t hear anything, and my blood pressure ratcheted down a notch. I could see the little red light flickering over the door. The alarm was going off. But I didn’t hear anything.
“You have the right to remain... soaking wet,” Chet’s voice leaked down the hall and I had another of those moments where I lost time. Everything went white and I was aware only of movement; maybe I broke the sound barrier. Maybe that was why I felt suddenly blind.
I forgot about being subtle or being quiet. It would’ve been cunning, but I’m not cunning. I’m a simple man. I see a threat and I bash it. Little guys can be cunning and quiet. My plan—“fists”—has always worked for me. I threw the bedroom door open but not so hard that it would crack against the opposing wall, and my heart felt like a fist, punching my chest, trying to get out.
My Michelle was still dressed in the sheer little slip she wore to bed last night... but now she was twisted with her front pressed into the wall and her legs kicked apart. Chet stood behind her, bracing her hips, slithering his palms down her bare thighs. I can tell by the way his pants hang on his ass that he’d already undone them. All this rushed into my mind at once, and I didn’t process it logically. All I got was a general sense of Michelle’s sexual vulnerability—a flash of strong certainty slicing through my every cell—and I barreled across the room.
I gripped Chet by his throat and heaved him with all the strength afforded between my two arms.
Chet went airborne over Michelle’s bed and crashed into her bedside table, overturning the table and sending a million little objects into the floor, including Chet himself. He groaned plaintively and I seized Michelle from behind, twisting her so that I could look into her eyes. “Did he hurt you?” I demanded. “Did he do anything to you?”
Michelle shook her head frantically, but even as she did so, I knew it was a lie. Her eyes were filled with tears and, even as she shook her head, trying to protect this walking dead man, they spilled down her cheeks. “He didn’t—” she said, breathless and broken, uncertain of what words to use. “He didn’t—didn’t get to—”
I pressed a hard kiss against her forehead and held her with my arms extended, surveying her body for damage. “Get out of here. I don’t want you to see this.”
“Don’t—” Michelle’s eyes suddenly bulged and she reeled away from me. “Look out!”
A stinging, slicing pain arced up into my brain and everything went black and red for a second. I staggered and lost my hold on Michelle’s arms.
“Andrew,” I heard her call to me, hushed in horror.
“Go,” I said, even though I had no idea what was happening, and she listened. Her footfalls receded across the carpet and my fingers went to the back of my head. Wet. I was definitely bleeding.
I shook my head and the pain only intensified. I pushed myself to my feet and spun to glare down at Chet. He held the bottom half of a lamp in one hand. The other half of the lamp had splintered off and fallen to the carpet.
I lunged, and perhaps the pain slowed my reaction time. Chet got in a good blow. He raised the base of the wooden lamp overhead and arced it down into my shoulder, where it sank several inch
es into muscle. Still, even with this makeshift stake buried in the meat of my arm, I stayed sharp. My other hand whipped to collect the electrical wire for the lamp, and I wrapped it around Chet’s throat, twisting him in my arms. He sputtered and scratched at his throat as I hauled him from the room. My body vibrated with adrenaline as I extracted the lamp from my shoulder with a roar, then, infuriated by my own pain, sent Chet hurtling down the hallway.
“You never could get a woman on your own,” I told him. I followed him as he rolled, boneless and weak, all the way into the foyer. He hurried to unravel the wire from around his bright red throat. “You always had to pick off someone else’s and use a little pressure.” I sent a kick directly into his sternum just as he was finished freeing himself from the lamp’s cord. Chet floundered back against the front door, sweeping it shut with his body. The half of a lamp crashed to the floor.
“Wrong,” Chet rasped, rubbing his throat and glaring up at me with bleary eyes. He crossed the foyer toward the living room. I wasn’t sure about Michelle’s position right now. “I got Michelle. She wants me like the dirty little girl she is.” Chet licked his lips and his eyes gleamed.
He surprised me with a quick grab behind the wall, into the living room, popping back into his defensive stance with a standard issue police club. I realized he must’ve shirked his weapons and left them in the living room. The sick son of a bitch really did believe that he was giving Michelle Harper what she wanted.
“She wanted it bad,” Chet said, “and if you hadn’t interrupted us, we’d be making sweet love right now!”
He swung hard toward my face, but my hands felt like steel as one stretched out to catch his club in a fist. He paused, shocked by my ability to absorb pain when infuriated, and I took the opportunity to punch the stupid look off his face.
The trajectory of the punch sent him deep into the living room, sprawled on his back. I entered after him, intent on cracking a rib or two, but Chet rolled and fumbled on the carpet near Michelle’s sofa. I saw her crouched in the corner of the room, utterly silent, watching me with wide, bleak eyes. Chet hadn’t seen her.