by Paula Cox
He pushes right up to his balls. The tip of his cock slams into my hot spot.
It’s warm and fucking unbearable. I reach up and grab his back and dig my fingernails into his skin. I feel my nails prick skin, but he doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even grunt. I know all he can feel is the pleasure, just like me. He stares down at my breasts, and then glances at my face, holding still inside of me.
“Tell me you can fuckin’ take it hard,” he moans.
“I can—”
As soon as I say the words, he starts pounding into me, his cock like a jackhammer. I am so ready for him that I fall into the rhythm at once. We fuck like we know each other’s bodies, our rhythms matching straightaway, the biker’s massive thick cock pounding into my pussy at the exact right angle to smash into my sweet spot, to send fiery pleasure spreading through me in tendrils which reach every part of me. I keep thinking to myself: This is the leader of a bike gang. This is a tough fucking man. This is a man who could beat up anybody. This is a fierce, tough, scary man. It drives me wild. I dig my fingernails harder into his back and sit on his cock, over and over, sweat soaking into the sheets.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I scream, not caring if the whole world hears.
He buries his face in my neck, biting my skin, his breath as hot as his cock, everything hot, too-hot, hotter than I’ve ever felt. He pounds into me for five, ten, twenty minutes. Time warps and I have no clue. I bounce on his cock, up and down, up and down, taking every inch of it. Each time the tip strikes that perfect spot, I feel an orgasm getting closer, closer.
“I’m going to—I’m almost—oh, fuck.”
He pounds into me like a machine, teeth biting my neck, hands next to my head, every muscle in his body tight and honed.
“I can’t—I can’t—Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
I’m being fucked by a biker. A biker who stood up to men in a bar when he was outnumbered. A biker who rescued me from Chester. A biker with muscles and a huge cock and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. I repeat these words to myself, over and over, his cock jackhammering into me. And then my pussy goes tight around his cock, so tight he has to grunt and push hard to get inside of me, and then—
There is a fire deep inside of me, a blazing fire. Not that it feels like a fire. No, as I lie here, Kade’s huge cock drilling into me, I feel a flickering fire deep in my pussy, a fire whose flames spit out throughout my body, a fire which causes me to squeeze my hands so tight I draw blood from the skin on his back, a fire which makes my pussy go the tightest it has ever been. I wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze tight, pulling him into me, as the orgasm’s flames send ecstasy spitting through me. I shift my hips, desperate to have his cock linger on my hot spot, and drive down with all the force I can muster. His cock pushes through my tightening pussy and hits the spot. I moan: “Hold it—there—baby.” Kade drives in deeper, and then holds it. Crashing, spitting pleasure captures me. I am sitting atop a blazing fire and nothing will put it out. I feel my pussy get even tighter around his cock, and then, oh fuck, and then everything just releases, my come spilling down his cock.
I lay back, panting, and Kade grunts. Grunts again. Louder. Comes inside of me and rolls aside.
“Fuck,” he says.
“Fuck,” I agree.
Both of us lie there for a long time, drawing in ragged breaths. His come pools around my pussy, on my thigh, but I’m too tired to move.
“Fuck,” he repeats.
“Fuck,” I agree again.
“Come here, you fuckin’ nympho,” he says, pulling me into him.
I rest my head on his chest, and no sooner do I close my eyes than I fall asleep.
Chapter Five
Kade
Duster peers through the window at me as Dad rants and raves, waving the loaded gun with one hand and his bottle of whisky with the other. Whisky pulls over the rim onto the carpet and Dad hawks and spits and Duster, blond hair framing his oddly feminine face, smashes his hands on the window. “Get out of there!” he screams, and I know Duster isn’t here, not really. I know my mind is playing tricks on me. I know Duster is in his trailer, with problems of his own. But Duster and the trailer park and this moment are all tied up in my mind.
Dad doesn’t mean to do it. He’s just drunk, and clumsy, and stupid. And waving a loaded weapon around a trailer.
“He’s going to hurt himself, or you,” Duster says. “He’s going to hurt somebody.”
“I know,” I hear myself say. “Somebody always gets hurt. I know.”
“Look—look!”
Dad doesn’t mean to do it, but that doesn’t stop it happening.
He trips on one of his old, unwashed shirts, dances to the other end of the trailer trying to get his footing, trips again, and then tips his head forward and pulls the trigger of the revolver. The bullets cuts through his forehead, and now he’s supposed to fall, brain dripping out of him, life dripping out of him, but instead he turns to me and grins sideways. “This is your fault, you stupid asshole,” he says cheerily.
Duster, no longer at the window but standing next to the old dying drunk, says, “It is, you know.”
They walk toward me, hand in hand, specters of my past at the trailer park, all the fighting and pain, the accidental suicide of my father, the only friend I’ve ever had. They walk toward me and I know they mean to drag me down with them, make me dead, too, make me as twisted as them. Duster is my friend; Duster is not here. But this is not Duster. Dad is dead. He is moving. Dad is dead and he is moving and I can’t—
I wake up, coated in sweat, with morning sunlight shafting through the window.
Lana murmurs something in her sleep and rolls over.
I go into the bathroom and splash water in my face. Then I get dressed. I’m about to leave—I’ve got a meet in Portland with some gun dealers stupid enough to try and short me—when I look down at Lana, looking sweet and tired and beautiful, like a baby deer, a woman in the wrong profession. I look down at her and I feel something. Then I stamp the feeling out. Feeling means pain, and pain is a distraction. I write a quick note and leave it on the bedside table, along with a couple of twenties: Money for a cab. Don’t worry about checking out. Maybe we’ll see each other around.
And maybe I’m an asshole for not waiting for her to wake up. Maybe I’m an asshole for not making sure she gets back okay. Maybe I’m an asshole for not at least saying goodbye.
I stand at the motel room door, thinking for a second that I might lie down and wait for her, maybe spend the day with her, Portland be damned. But that’d lead to feelings, to pain, and all that bad shit.
So maybe I’m an asshole for leaving the room and going into the main office and calling a cab.
But I never claimed to be anything other than an asshole.
Chapter Six
Lana
I suppose it is naïve of me to expect Kade to be kneeling next to the bed, flowers in hand, waiting to greet me with a wide smile and a, ‘Hey, shall we get breakfast?’ After all, this isn’t a romantic comedy and he made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t that sort of guy. That sort of guy wouldn’t have twisted the neo-Nazi’s arm around and that sort of guy wouldn’t leave guns in motel rooms. Yes, it is naïve of me, but when I turn over, squinting against the morning sunlight, I am still disappointed when I realize Kade has gone.
I lean up in bed and look around the room, as though I am going to see him lurking in the bathroom or hiding under the bed. I laugh at myself. Of course Kade wasn’t going to stick around. Of course he was going to leave after our night of explosive passion. Explosive passion. Yes, that’s the phrase. As I swivel my legs, stand up, and walk to the bathroom, I feel my thighs roaring at me, my pussy aching dully. A nice ache, though, the sort of ache which will remind me for the next few days of what we have done.
I splash water in my face and look into the reflection, muttering: “The girl didn’t know how she felt about the man fucking her and then leaving. The girl didn’t know whether to be exci
ted or annoyed. Maybe this had something to do with her time at the Twin Peaks, where she felt the same, simultaneously excited and annoyed.” I grin to myself, and then splash more water. Creative Writing third year here I come!
I leave the motel, use the cash Kade left me to get a cab, and then go into my bedroom at home and lie on the bed. Mom mutters hello, but she’s too out of it to even really notice I’m there.
I need to get out of here. I really do. I can’t stand listening the glug-glug of Mom’s hipflask or the way I’m always on-edge waiting for her next drunken rage. That’s the thing with Mom. She’ll be quiet for a few months and then, one day, she’ll knock on my door and ask me what the hell I think I’m doing leaving the dishes in such a state. When I try and remind her that those are her dishes, she goes crazy and starts throwing things, breaking things, even once slapping me. I’m not a fan of Pity Parties and I don’t want to admit that I might have had a difficult childhood, but I definitely want to get out of here pronto.
Which means I have to be ready to go back to work at the Twin Peaks tomorrow.
I can’t let the incident with Chester cost me my job.
And, anyway, Kade might drive through again.
At that thought, I feel butterflies doing backflips in my belly.
Kade. Kade. Kade.
I sing his name out in my mind. I want to see him again as soon as possible, if only because the sex was one-hundred times better than any sex I’ve ever had before, one-thousand, even. One-million. How can you go back to mediocre sex after you’ve experienced really mind-blowing, toe-curling sex?
I don’t think it’s even possible.
Chapter Seven
Lana
“She’s taking everything,” David says, leaning against a crate of coffee granules and massaging his forehead. It’s a few minutes before my shift starts and David, as he often does, is complaining about his situation with his latest wife. I’ve only worked here at the Twin Peaks for around nine months and yet I’ve seen David go through two divorces, one he was finalizing as I joined, and now this one.
I want to say to him: “Then you should stop getting married so quickly.” But I’m going to request something from him today, and I can’t risk annoying him. No, better to wait and let him blow off some steam about this latest botched marriage.
He talks for around twenty minutes as I lean against a cardboard cutout of a giant coffee mug and wait for him to finish. He complains that he truly thought he loved this woman and that she loved him, that he doesn’t understand why women are always divorcing him, and how he can’t comprehend why it’s so difficult to find true love. I nod and make all the right noises, the uh-huhs and yeahs and I knows. David tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his oversized, baggy pants, tugging at his oversized shirt. David is a tall, thin, skeletal man with dented cheeks and hollow-looking eyes, the sort of eyes that always look bruised.
When he’s done, he says, “I’ve kept you from your shift. What’s the matter with me?” He waves a hand. “Go, go, don’t let me keep you. You’d think the owner would have more sense.”
“I wanted to talk to you, actually, to ask you something.”
It’s strange, but since that night with Kade a couple of days ago, my mindset has started to shift. Subtly, sure, but shift all the same. I’ve started to think of our night together as empowering, as something I chose to do, as something I willingly participated in: just the sex, just the passion. And I’ve started to think that the fact that he left might not be such a bad thing after all. We had the best sex of our lives and that’s that. We enjoyed each other’s bodies. Maybe I’ll see him again; maybe not. But it’s more than that. Feeling empowered about Kade has made me feel empowered about other things, too, like my safety here at the Twin Peaks. If I can choose to be with a man—if I can make that decision for myself—then I ought to be able to choose to be safe here at the Twin Peaks. That’s the thing, I think. Control. I want control. I want to control how my life plays out.
“Yes?” David arches an eyebrow.
“I would like you to either hire another waitress for the early morning shift or reschedule one of the waitresses so that I’m not working alone. Look,” I say quickly, when I see that he’s about to interrupt. “It’s not safe for me to be here alone this early. Anything could happen.” I give him a quick rundown of what happened with Chester. “I realize that you need to make money, David, but you should also care about the safety of your baristas.”
I make sure to keep my voice soft and free from accusation; the last thing that will win over a perpetually-divorced man like David is accusation from a woman, I reason.
He pauses for a long time.
I say: “Plus, sometimes two cars come at the same time and I’m forced to make one of them wait, which is poor customer service. The people driving through here come for two things: quick service and a peek at some boobs. We don’t want them telling their friends: ‘The women are the Twin Peaks are fine, but the service isn’t.’”
This seems to get through to him. His pitted eyes glance up at me, and I know I’ve got him. David is a nice enough guy, but even a nice enough guy cares more about his business than his employees when he’s dealing with multiple alimonies.
“I’ll hire one more, just for your early morning shift,” he says. “I actually have a girl who’s applied a couple of times now. Expect her tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, David.”
“Yeah, yeah,” David mutters, shaking his head. I know what he’s thinking just from the way he stuffs his hands in his pockets, like a cowed kid: Women. It’s never enough. Or maybe that’s just the creative writer in me.
Smiling to myself, happy that I am finally taking control of my life, I take off my overcoat, put on my heels, and get ready to be gawked at, winked at, blushed at, and, hopefully, tipped.
Chapter Eight
Lana
Kelly Wolfe is the most sexual woman I have ever laid my eyes on. She’s voluptuous, filling out her bikini bottom and bra with ease, big without seeming large; she fills space without overfilling it. She’s taller than me by about three inches and her hair is a rich brown which falls in loose waves down past her shoulders. She wears a silver shark-tooth-shaped pendant and heels which raise her almost to six feet. She oozes sexuality; she’s the only person I’ve ever met in real life where that phrase actually makes sense. Over the next month, we work together in the morning shift, and if we have to split tips, I still make almost as much just from how skilled Kelly is at the job.
During the lengthy quiet periods, we sit in the middle of the booth, opposite each other at a little foldout table, and she draws and I write.
It turns out Kelly is a freelance illustrator. When I ask her what she freelances for, she barks, “Whatever they pay me for, honey. Tattoos, book covers, whatever they pay me for. But as you can tell, I ain’t no runaway success, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here with my tits almost out and my ass squeezed into this stringy horrible bikini.”
I giggle, and she tilts her head at me over the top of her pencil. “You find my suffering funny?”
“No,” I say. “I can sympathize.” I tell her about my creative writing course.
“Well, shit,” she says. She leans back in her chair and studies me for a few moments. Her face is round and gorgeous. Finally, she pushes her notepad across the table to me. “See if you can think of something for this charming fellow to say.” Then she leaves to serve a customer.
I laugh when I see what she’s drawn: a caricature of one of our regulars, a banker. The man has a deep dimple in his chin, but Kelly has given him a big ass for a chin instead. The man has bushy eyebrows which have become skunks resting above his eyes. I tap the pencil against my teeth, something which brings me back to my college course: tapping my pencil against my teeth and hoping the click-click-click will get the creative writing gears turning. Then I draw a speech bubble and write: I’ll pay for sex. Then I scratch it out and write: Can I borrow your b
ra, baby? . . . I’ve lost my suitcase and I need something to hold my money!
I shrug, and then go and serve a customer.
It would have seemed crazy to me before Kelly started, but I’ve actually come to enjoy working over the next month. I enjoyed it before, in its way. I still can’t deny there’s a certain thrill sitting in the booth with men looking up at me with obvious attraction. But now I really enjoy it, look-forward-to-getting-here enjoy it, just so I can see Kelly and we can mess around between customers. I learn that Kelly is fierce as well as womanly, fierce like an older sister, the older sister I never had.