by Sabrina York
He nodded, agitated, antsy, wanting to get the hell out of there, but needing to stay, needing something…He sat up, disgusted with himself.
Somebody put a flogger in her outstretched palm. Grinning, she gave it to him and his body revved up again, ragingly painful erection and all.
“Give it to her,” Amber whispered in his ear, her arms draped around his neck from behind. She pointed to the girl who knelt at the foot of the bed, her eyes cast down. “She wants you to. Show me, Brody.” She pinched both his nipples so hard he groaned.
Getting to his feet, he pointed to the bed without a word. The nameless, naked girl bent over it, and he smacked the sweet flesh of her ass until she moaned and writhed. He smelled her ripe, raw, and lusty desire.
“Fuck her, Brody,” Amber yelled from her new position in front of him, fingers already down between her own legs again. Another naked girl had fallen into their mix. She went down on Amber—Jesus, am I dating a lesbian?—and he blinked. He’d never met a girl who liked getting head as much as Amber did.
He dropped the flogger and pounded into the girl, again and again, letting the orgasm take control, continuing to smack her hips and ass. Finally, she gripped his cock hard, cried out, and pulled him right over the edge. His hips bucked, he released his load into her then pulled out nearly immediately, done with this scene until next time.
Brody’s skin tingled and his spine relaxed under the hot shower in a way he only got after a monster orgasm. His head had that odd, annoying, echoing feeling he’d been experiencing more and more lately. The scalding hot water hit his face and he pressed his thumbs to his eyes, hard. The parade of images had begun again, and he was powerless against them. He groaned and propped his hands on the tiled wall, but the memories invaded despite his willing them away.
A large woman, with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, laughed at him, a throaty, raspy noise that made his heart beat fast with anxiety. She pointed at him, while a fat, sloppy-looking boy stood at her shoulder, smirking. Shame flooded his nerve endings that he had no reason to feel. His knees shook. He slid down the wall, helpless against the onslaught.
The next one showed up right on cue, like it had pretty much every night for the last two weeks or so. A girl, a pretty one, stared right at him. She wore a long, formal gown and tugged at him until they were in a dark room, fumbling around, kissing like the amateurs they were. His dick hardened under the shower water. The sensation of impending disaster crept into his brain, lodged there, at the memory of kissing the girl’s lips, groping her small, exposed breasts, and then, a telltale tingling in his spine and….
“Oh…unh….” He grunted, and her face fell. She gathered up her dress and flounced out, leaving him a smelly mess, the trousers he hadn’t even taken off dark in the crotch from his spunk.
“Jesus.” Brody gave up and flopped to his butt, while the images bombarded him, reminders of moments he would swear happened to someone else but were inexorable in their ramp-up. Every day he got a new one to add to the rest. His heart pounded, chest tightened with anxiety when a drop-dead sexy woman appeared at the front of what appeared to be a classroom. She had long red hair piled up on her head. Her curves were emphasized by the clingy dress and heels she wore, but made teacher-appropriate somehow by the square glasses she peered through. At him.
He shoved that image away, his whole body convulsing with the effort. “Fucking leave me alone!” he shouted, twice, into the empty shower room. “Fucking bitch!” He scrambled to his feet, got out, and dried off.
Fury blinded him. The sort of anger dangerous to anyone nearby crowded every corner of his aching skull. The fits of poisonous and painful rage hit him more and more lately. Sucking in a deep breath and counting to ten, twenty, then fifty helped a little. At least he managed to get dressed. Requiring fresh air, he barreled through the sex room, heading for the door.
Confusion, hurt, anger, fear, and a small lick of dread rolled around in a sick, breathless stew. He walked out and started for his motorcycle. God, he loved that thing. A long ride would clear his head.
“Brody!” A female voice hit his ear. He turned, not recognizing her for a second. Then sighed.
“Oh, uh, hey, Amber. I gotta go. Can you get a ride…home?” He gulped. The bitch actually lived with him now he realized with a sinking feeling.
“I guess. You okay, baby doll?” she cooed, starting toward him across the giant lawn of the house where they went to fuck other people, sometimes each other while other people got off watching them. He winced when another image hit his poor, ragged brain. Another woman. Her—the legal lady, with her long brown hair, huge blue eyes, her determined face…and that ass…he clenched his fists and glared at Amber.
“No. I’m not, but I will be after a long ride,” he ground out, gripping his keys and praying she didn’t come any closer. He honestly didn’t know what he’d do to her at that point, the rage in him at such a fever pitch.
She drew a large robe around her thin frame. “All right,” she said. “Hey, did you talk to the BJ’s owner yet?”
“Not now, Amber. I need some space. See you…later…I guess…at home.”
Sophie’s words flashed through him: pushy cunt…and no matter how high your opinion of yourself…we aren’t ready to let you go.
Thing was, he didn’t want to leave the BJs as they’d started referring to themselves. The Black Jacks were the only thing resembling consistency and family that he had now. He knew full well that Amber, his agent/girlfriend/swinger pal, had determined to get him away from them for some reason. To line her own pockets he figured, but she must have another motive. He’d picked up on her time to settle down together and not in this shithole called Detroit vibe one too many times already.
He shook his head, climbed on the bike, and smiled at the throaty rumble vibration underneath him. His heartbeat slowed. His head stopped aching. And he rode, finally bringing some peace.
Chapter Three
Sophie juggled the grocery bags, her laptop case, and a giant bag of cat food into the house, barely making it to the kitchen counter before dropping everything all over the floor. Sighing, she leaned over the jumble of bags, owning up to how exhausted she’d been these last few days. Player trade season sucked every year, but this year had been especially awful, given that several of their key players, including Brody, were being heavily courted away by bigger, more famous teams. She winced at her own weak urge to think about him.
She had the food tucked into pantry and fridge within a few minutes and a chicken casserole into the oven a half hour later. Glancing at the clock, she acknowledged she’d been measuring her life in ten and twenty-minute increments for almost three years, and that it seemed, to her anyway, part and parcel of motherhood.
Ten more minutes of sleep while the newborn snuffled around, pre-waking and demanding food. Twenty stolen while napping together before having to get up to do some work. And yet ten more over coffee, before the rambunctious boy rose for the day, feet hitting the floor at a dead run. Of course, the twenty before he got home from his afternoon play date, driven there by the young girl who cared for him during the day, allowing Sophie a single glass of wine while dinner bubbled away in the oven. She caught her reflection in the dining room window. She, Sophie Harrison, had a nurturing gene that included breastfeeding and gazing at her baby’s face for hours on end. And now, making healthy meals every night? Shocking.
“Mommy!” The voice shattered the illusion of peace, bringing the chaos of her life back into focus. “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!”
Sam always greeted her that way, like a worried puppy, convinced it must be dumb luck that he got to see her again, as if she would disappear forever unless he acted ecstatic at every greeting. Incredible, really, the sheer power of her child’s love for her—and as intimidating as hell. Every day he amazed her all over again, terrifying her and charming her by his existence.
She welcomed the full force of his wiry body into her arms. Her son would gra
b on for dear life for a few minutes, his sweet-smelling face tucked into her neck until she peeled him off, usually so she could move on to whatever next step their busy held. Sometimes, she honestly believed he would stay, wrapped around her if she would let him.
The progression of obsession with her child could be measured not only in ten-minute increments, but also by how he felt in her arms. The newborn, terrifying and small, helpless, like a baby bird. The six-month-old baby who would draw stares from strangers everywhere they went. Everyone always wanted to touch his chubby, angelic face in the grocery store and at the pool, which made her want to smack their grubby hands away from him.
The early toddler, a full-on walker by ten months, running by a year, steady and focused and…athletic. Now a child on the verge of actual little-boyhood who currently held her so tight she had a hard time breathing. She smiled at his sitter and disentangled his arms from her neck hating to do it because soon enough she’d be begging him for hugs.
Funny how the super-independent, former law firm partner, in-control Dominatrix, attorney for one of the most popular new pro sports teams in the region might be reduced to near tears by the feel of her son’s arms around her.
“Hey, Sam. How was the park?”
“Hot,” he declared, frowning down at his eternally dirty fingernails. “Mommy.” He put both hands on her cheeks about to impart one of his classic Serious Sam Observations. “Some dogs were being funny. I saw them. I thought they were dancing. Jen told me they were doing some mommy-daddy things,” His sober gaze never flinched or appeared amused in any way. She had a hard time keeping the laughter from escaping her lips.
Jen shrugged behind him, set his backpack and water bottle on the table, and grabbed her purse. A twenty-one year-old college student on the outs with her parents and taking some time off classes to find herself, she represented savior-hood to Sophie. She’d found her through a friend, and her references as babysitter had been impeccable, so she became a part of the family and had been for nearly a year.
“Sorry,” she mouthed behind Sam’s back, miming with her fingers what the dogs had actually been doing.
“Okay then,” Sophie said, wanting to set Sam down so she could pay Jen for the week. The boy gripped her face, his eyes narrowing. She sat still, waiting for him to finish his thought.
“Where is my daddy?” he asked, surprising her. This had never come up before, no matter how many other kids’ daddies crossed his path.
“Um….” She wracked her brain, unwilling and unready for that particular conversation.
“I told you, Samster,” Jen said, tugging him off his mother’s lap and swinging him around in a circle, one of his favorite pastimes. “Your daddy just figured your mommy could handle things on her own, and you guys didn’t need him around.”
The boy’s delighted squeals hurt Sophie’s ears. She realized that this did not represent the last of the questions. Sam would fixate on it, worry it like a dog with a bone, and come back to her demanding more. But for now, she went with the babysitter’s view: that all she required, the one perfect thing left to her now, was the small boy with dark hair and a smile that lit up any room he entered.
After dinner, bath, an hour of Lego wars and a few puzzles, Sam nestled into her side while she read his favorite book, Love you Forever, with its tales of toddler, childhood, and teenager woes and then the aging mother, who for always and ever my baby you’ll be. Able to recite the thing in her sleep, Sophie still let it get to her.
She listened to him breathe—her son, Samuel Robert Harrison. The living, breathing, walking, running, talking miniature of his father. He shifted, his ever-active mind not settled, as usual. The kid required little sleep and hadn’t from the start. Usually she used a routine to get him to wind down: warm dinner, thirty minutes of cartoons or a video, bubble bath with requisite singing, an hour of play—his choice—then a story or two.
“Mommy,” he said, his voice sounding small and far away. “I’m sorry.”
She kissed his hair, sucking in a huge breath of her son’s familiar scent. “For what? You should never apologize for no reason, you know.”
“Okay. But….” He sat up and pinned her with a dark stare. The compulsion to weep, to gnash her teeth, to call Brody, make him come help her parent this beautiful, serious child, held her in its brief, unreasonable grip. She shoved it away as she’d been doing pretty much every day since Sam emerged into her world.
“I don’t want a daddy. Daddies are dumb.” A tear wobbled on the edge of his thick lashes.
“Oh, baby, no they’re not. But in this house it’s you and me. We’re the home team, okay?” She touched his nose, then hers, and he giggled, sniffled, and wiped the lone tear away.
“Like the Black Jacks?” He brightened, his newfound obsession with the real-life soccer players peopling his small world forcing thoughts of absent daddies out of his head.
She smiled and stood, covering him up with the blanket emblazoned with the logos of all the expansion league teams. His pillowcase and sheet boasted the ubiquitous black and red balls, his rug was like a green soccer pitch, with the Black Jacks’ logo in the middle. She sighed. Whoever said biology didn’t count for much had shit for brains.
Sure he’d been immersed in her life as lead attorney for a major league soccer team, had been in his baby seat during matches or when she worked in her office, players and coaches and marketing people coming and going, talking nothing but soccer.
“Yeah, Sam, like the Black Jacks.”
The team dubbed him their official mascot, and he’d been allowed to watch and sometimes run alongside them as they prepared for practice. Nicco in particular had warmed to him and for some reason, her son had taken to the guy. Brody hardly gave Sam a second glance. He’d been so caught up in his own selfish world since the radical, emergency surgery he’d undergone in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure of his swelling brain, and that suited Sophie just fine. Mostly.
She kissed both cheeks and his nose, their usual good-night, and flipped off his lamp.
“Hey, Mommy,” he said, his small voice nervous again.
Turning in the doorway, she tried not to let her irritation sound in her voice. She had another several hours’ worth of work to do for her other job still. “What is it, baby?”
“When I laid on my bed after my bath, my penis stuck right up in the air! And it kinda felt funny, like a tickle right on the end, even after I kept touching it.”
“Oh,” she said, her face heating up. “Well, that’s normal.” Making a mental note to consult her How to Raise a Boy to a Man and Not Lose Your Mind, or whatever title of the latest son-raising manual. “That’s okay.”
“I know. I was just telling you. G’night.”
“Good night.” She stumbled out the room laughing until tears ran down her face. When the laughter became sobbing, she let it take her. Can’t keep all that inside, after all. Then she poured a glass of wine and pulled out her laptop to read the latest reports form Lance and the girls—Katrina’s was the name of her new company, a high-end, secret, and exclusive service for subs of all genders. She had the men and the women to provide them what they wanted.
Between her and Lance, they’d made nearly a million dollars profit the year before. She sipped and studied the numbers for the quarter, her tears drying. After a couple of hours of budgeting, working on schedules for the following two weeks based on the high demand for her employees’ services, she rubbed her face and leaned back.
The dark, purple evening deepened into full night, as it always did. A new day would dawn soon. Like usual. Her life, the one she had hastily constructed for herself and her son out of the ashes of yet another huge relationship disaster, advanced inexorably. She remained a tenant among homeowners on her quiet, tree-lined street, but she didn’t care. The family-centric vibe of the street soothed her. But at quiet moments like this, memories of Brody came at her, incessant and relentless. She gave in to them and cried a bit more bef
ore crawling under the covers, no need to set a mechanical alarm because, despite the fact the next day was Saturday, her own little boy-shaped wake-up call would come at six a.m. without fail.
Chapter Four
“Harder! C’mon baby, fuck Amber like you mean it….”
Brody watched his cock, slick, wet, pounding in and out of the girl’s body. He liked this moment, the almost money shot. It fueled a fresh shot of lusty adrenaline down his spine, just when boredom threatened. Amber must have sensed it and ramped up the nasty talk on purpose. His fingers dug into the spare flesh of her hips.
“Spank Amber’s ass, Brody. What are you waiting for? Act like a man! I’ve been very bad!” She whipped her head around, glared up at him as if he were failing.
That pissed him the fuck off. He observed, as if watching someone else, as his hand rose. He felt the stinging smack against his palm, again and again…he owned the brief moment of power it allowed him as Amber shrieked and arched her back giving him an ever deeper angle inside her.
He reached up and grabbed her hair, tugged, using it as reins, and rode the bitch, no longer hearing her or feeling much of anything. The air whooshed over his vocal cords and his mouth opened wide. Blinded momentarily, he shivered, let go of her hair, and stepped away from her.
She’d declared his habit of disconnecting within seconds of orgasm as weird, but cute. He viewed it more like a necessity, a survival mechanism. He had to get away from her, from any woman he’d fucked, or the nearly overwhelming urge he always got to hold them close, kiss them, beg them like a little kid to never leave him alone—because that sort of neediness made him feel weird. He fought it by pulling his sometimes still-climaxing dick out of whatever pussy he’d been fucking, Amber’s, or one of her skinny, accommodating friends, standing still until that part of his anatomy finished.
He stumbled backward, suddenly dizzy. Amber’s ass shone beet red. His hand stung. A sudden rush of shame punched an iron fist into his gut. “S-s-s-sorry,” he stuttered, fascinated as her still-visible sex continued to pulse, slick and wet, and at that moment the last thing he wanted to look at.