by BL Mute
Most of the time, I can keep the memories of my mom tucked away in the darkest corner of my mind because there is no point in reminiscing. She’s gone because of my dad, and there is nothing I can do about it. Sure, I miss her. I miss my brother too—what I can remember about him anyway—but there is no bringing them back.
I got so angry when Lydia brought them up yesterday. I was practically fuming, but it isn’t her fault. She doesn’t know how shit really went down. Hell, no one does but me.
Mom was already having some issues with my dad for a few months before she actually did anything. I think she really did love him—if it’s even possible to love a monster. So, when she found out about his weekly trips to the club, she demanded it stopped. I can’t say I blame her either, because looking at shit now, a scandal attached to your name in Bexley Falls is career and social suicide. Especially what he was doing.
He fancies the kinkier things in life, which is fine, but when you’re married and have a family, that is shit you don’t want aired to the public, and it was as if he wasn’t even trying to hide it. My mom had already been through so much growing up with the shitty parents she had that it took a lot for people to even take her seriously when she finally got away.
It was such a chore for people to see her as an equal. They couldn’t get the image of the poor girl out of their mind, which is why she chose to help run the club as an employee rather than a boss. And everyone loved her for that. She always listened and understood because she was in the slums with everyone else. The bottom of the food chain. But one thing she had that no one else did was a connection to the top, a say in how shit went. She was married to the partial owner.
So, you could imagine how upset she was when she found out her husband was out, having affairs, indulging in shit she didn’t want to give him. If someone found out and tarnished Mac’s name, my mom would go down with him, and the bottom wasn’t a place she wanted to be again.
When she confronted him and tried to bring her concerns to light, he wrote her off and beat her to a point she thought death was a better option than staying and fighting for him or her kids.
Cyrus was the one who found her. He was sixteen and had an idea of why shit happened the way it did. After the cops, paramedics, and coroner cleared the house, he brought it up to my dad and made sure to tell him exactly how he felt. For a sixteen-year-old, he had really big emotions. But my dad being the man he was, he tried to put the blame on us.
He never took responsibility for his part of my mom’s death. The excuse was always “You were bad children… You were too loud… You didn’t listen enough…” and that… that is why he hates me. Cyrus got the brunt of it though. Because he expressed himself and all those emotions we were taught to keep swallowed down, Mac sent him away. I’m not sure where—all I know is he’s gone, we’ve had no contact, and I can’t say shit about it. And I have no fucking doubt if I fuck anything up for Mac right now, like the shit with Claire, he will kill me.
Once I make it to the bottom of the stairs, I creep up them slowly and quietly. All the lights are out once I top the stairs, and each door is closed. I breathe a sigh of relief knowing I’ve made it another day without having Mac pounding into me.
I push open my door and step in, then close it softly behind me. I peel my jacket off, then take off my shirt and jeans. Once I’m down to my underwear, I walk to my closet to grab fresh clothes before I head into the bathroom.
No light shines under the door, so I know Lydia isn’t in there. Before I turn on the light, I make sure her door is closed. When I flip it on, the floors start to warm under my feet, and it makes me feel a little less on edge. I turn the knobs to the shower on manually and make it as hot as my body will stand it. I don’t like hooking up with random girls, but I act like I do to conceal the truth.
I don’t have many friends because it’s never easy to try and explain why the fuck I need to stay away from my house. Why it’s just less of a problem to stay away. So, I normally take random hookups over hanging with a friend. Friends I don’t feel I can even trust enough to tell the truth. It may seem a little fucked-up to use girls and their bodies for my own personal gain. But at least I’m nice about it.
Most people think I’m a tool, but in reality, I’m not. I’m a decent dude with morals and knowledge of consent. Mac didn’t teach me much other than how to hate and how to be a “real man,” but he did teach me the importance of consent. I take that shit seriously.
I just wish there were a different way to go about shit. A way I could stay away without questions being brought up, but there isn’t. Everyone always wants to know why you are the way you are and why you do shit the way you do, but if my dick is down some girl’s throat, she doesn’t ask questions which is how I like it. Total bonus it’s helped me hone my skills in the sack.
I scrub the lipstick off my neck and dick before moving around the rest of my body. Once every speck of glitter, lipstick, and the smell of the girl I hooked up with is gone, I step out and dry myself off. I throw my clothes on, then step back into my room. I groan as I sit on the edge of my bed and towel dry my hair a bit more.
I stop moving when I hear my door open. The low creak is never loud, but because I know what’s coming, it reaches a new crescendo. My body immediately tightens with anticipation as I move the towel from my head. Mac is standing in my doorway.
He’s still in his suit from this morning, but his tie is loosened, and his sleeves are cuffed. His hair is tousled and not slicked into place like normal, which is one of the signs I’ve learned over time that means he’s drunk.
But honestly, I don’t even know if he’s drunk. I just know in these moments he’s definitely not in the right state of mind. I just don’t know what else to call it.
But the thing with Mac is he’s a great actor. He hides his devilish tendencies well along with shit he does. There is always an explanation or write-off for his bullshit, and everyone but me feeds into it. How Claire hasn’t noticed yet, I don’t even know. You would think someone who resembled my mom so much in morals and thoughts would see right through it, but she hasn’t. It’s probably because he hasn’t hit her yet.
“What do you want, Dad?” I ask through my teeth.
He steps further in and closes my door behind him. “I want to know how Lydia is doing at work.”
I tip my head. “She’s fine, from what I can tell. I’ve been staying away from her, you know, how you fucking asked.”
I know I shouldn’t have cursed at him, but I can’t help it sometimes. Pissing him off almost makes the beatings he delivers seem worth it. Or at least gives him a reason to hit me.
He bolts forward until he’s right in front of me. The back of his hand snakes out quickly and slaps across my face. I keep my head low and to the side after the impact because I know if I look at him, he will do it again.
“You won’t speak to me that way, do you understand?”
I nod.
“I asked you to train her for a reason, Carter. I need to test her.”
I close my eyes and inhale a sharp breath through my nose. “Test her for what?”
Another hit, but this time it’s to my stomach with a fist. I slump over and grip my stomach and grind my teeth. I can’t let him know he’s hurting me.
“It’s none of your business. Just do your part, and do it right. Keep everything professional. No comments about her ass or wanting to fuck her. Got it?”
I nod again while I stare at his shoes.
“And I swear to God if you run her or Claire off like you did your mother, I will make your life a living hell.”
Every time he comes into my room, the conversation always leads to this. Poor old Mac can’t bear to think he was the reason my mom killed herself. He has too much of a god complex for that. Too much pride. He needs to blame someone else. Although Cyrus got most of that by being sent away, he’s lucky he’s gone. I’m sure if he were here, he would be dealing with this shit too, but he isn’t. I’m left to h
andle my dad on my own.
“I didn’t run her off, Mac. She slit her fucking wrists to escape you!” I spit back. “It’s been ten years and you still think I’ll believe everything you say? I’m not a fucking child anymore. You can hate me all you want, but I know the fucking truth, so stop trying to use her as some sort of way to make me feel bad. You’re the one who destroyed her. Not me.”
I stand and square my shoulders, getting ready for the beating I know is coming. It always comes when I talk back. But I can’t just stand by and let him tarnish her name in a way to fit his own version of the truth. I fucking refuse.
He lets out a dark chuckle as he leans his head back. “What are you going to do, boy? Hit me?” When I don’t answer, he continues. “Go ahead. Do it.”
My chest heaves with adrenaline. I debate if it will be worth it, but I already know it isn’t. I may be able to hold my own, but Mac is bigger and stronger. He knows every last weakness I have and will use it. I plop back on my bed instead and chastise myself in my mind.
How the fuck are you going to try and stand up for her but not finish what you start? Maybe Dad is right. You’re nothing but a—
“Fucking pussy,” Mac mumbles, cutting my thoughts off.
His big hand grabs the back of my head and throws me to the side of my bed. “Next time, grow some balls and act like a fucking man. Back your shit up if you’re so set on saying it.”
He steps away from me and walks to my bookshelf. He takes one look at the awful vase I made in second grade, one for my mom, and knocks it to the floor. It shatters, small pieces of clay scattering in every direction. He looks to me with a grin, then kicks the big pieces around for no reason.
“Oops.” He laughs and steps over the crumbled vase, going back to the door. “Clean that shit up and go to bed.”
He exits without another word. I squeeze my eyes shut and move to the head of my bed. When I hear another door open, I throw a pillow over my head and try to push all the bad thoughts away. The ones he always seems to place without even trying.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MALCOLM
I glance at the gold Rolex on my wrist. She’s late. I lean onto my desk and pinch the bridge of my nose. I don’t like tardiness, and even more so when it’s something I’ve been waiting on. Ever since Lydia has been back, she’s the only one who consumes my mind. She’s the only one I want. Claire should be that, but she isn’t. She isn’t the greatest lay. She’s predictable, stiff, boring. All the things her daughter isn’t.
I push off my desk and stalk to the door, but I pause when I hear voices on the other side. “What happened last night, Carter?” Lydia sounds concerned, and it pisses me off.
I told her to stay away from Carter. I’ll be damned if he tries to steal something I’ve considered mine for so long. I grip the doorknob hard and throw open the door. Both sets of eyes shoot to me. I give Carter a look he knows well. One that tells him to move the fuck along before I snap, and he obeys.
“Fuck off, Lydia,” he snaps before scurrying off to whatever fucking hole he likes to hide in.
Her eyes follow him until he disappears around the corner. She glances back to me but then shoots her stare to the ground. She knows she messed up. “Get inside.”
She does as I say, stepping inside tentatively with her hands clasped together in front of her as I follow. She stops in the center of the room as I close the door behind us, then reaches up and undoes the locket around her neck before placing it into her pocket. I flip the door’s lock in place, then prowl up behind her. Her golden hair moves slightly as my breath hits it when I get close.
I grab a few strands between my fingers and push them over the front of her shoulder. “Only a few days and already breaking rules. This isn’t a good start, Lydia.” She shudders with my words but remains quiet. At least one thing has stuck with her.
I push the rest of her hair in front of her and lean down to level my mouth with her neck. I brush my lips over the base before running my tongue over the same spot. As I work my way to her right side, she leans her head to the left, giving me full access to her throat. I nip the sensitive skin with my teeth before using my lips to kiss the pain away.
Pain and pleasure run hand in hand. Pain can intensify the pleasure someone gives you, and that’s something I intend on teaching her. I want to see her bleed. I want to see her skin purple and yellow from my fingertips. I want to see tears well in her eyes from hurting, then finally fall with the explosion of bliss. But that all comes with time.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers as I make my way to her front.
“Sorry for what?” I reply, trailing my fingers over the column of her throat. I want to hear her admit her mistake.
“For—” She cuts herself off as my fingers crawl to the back of her neck. Her breath comes out in quick, short puffs before she speaks again. “You told me to leave him alone, and I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
I smile. “Good girl,” I praise. “Now get on your knees.”
Her eyes widen for a second, but it doesn’t take her long to sink to them like I demanded. She sits on her heels with her hands placed in her lap as I undo my belt and pants. When I release my cock, she looks up to me. “Color.”
She bites her bottom lip. “Green.”
I smile at her answer as I stroke myself. “Good. Phone.” I reach the hand that isn’t gripping my length down to her, palm side up.
She moves one hand behind her and pulls her phone from her back pocket. Once she hands it to me, I slide it into my own pocket and continue rubbing myself. “Why do you insist on being so defiant, but when you’re here—” I look around my office. “—you have no problem listening?” She shrugs. “Words, Lydia.”
“I feel when I’m in here I don’t have to worry about anything. The consequences of what we’re doing don’t hit me until I leave. I can just enjoy what you offer and leave it at that. Because I don’t have to like you in order to like what you give me, right?”
I smile. “Hating me will only make this better.”
I can see the ghost of a smile play on her lips as her blue eyes stare into mine, but she won’t let it show. It’s like she doesn’t want to admit how much she likes this more than she already did.
I tap the tip of my cock against her closed mouth and wait for her to open. When she does, I only let the tip skate across her warm, wet tongue. “Green?” I ask, abandoning our earlier conversation.
She nods, and that pushes me forward even more. I go deeper and deeper until I hit the back of her throat. She gags quietly, and her eyes start to water, but her hands stay glued to her lap. I seize the back of her head in my hand and lace my fingers into her hair. Holding her steady, I thrust a little faster.
Her hands finally move but only to clamp onto the sides of my thighs to pull me in even deeper. I let my head fall back with a hiss. “That’s it. Take all of it, baby.”
My words seem to excite her because her nails dig into my skin as she sucks me as deep as I can go, letting the tip of her tongue poke out the slightest bit to skim my balls. I shudder with the motion and do my best not to explode into her mouth. I bring my eyes back to hers and let her continue for a minute before I rip myself from her mouth and reach down.
It takes everything in me to grab her by the shoulders and stand her up. If I had no control, I would continue to drive into her mouth until my cum was running down the back of her throat, but I want today to be different. She broke a rule I gave her, and I want her to know it won’t go unpunished.
I lead her to my desk. Once we are in front of it, I turn her around to face me. “Take off your shorts,” I order, and I push my own pants and boxers down before stepping out of them.
She does as I say but hooks her panties and tries to push them down too. “No.” I interrupt her movements and hold up my hand. “Only your shorts.”
Once the khakis are pooling around her feet, I grab her by the waist and hoist her up onto the desktop. When her ass is firmly planted on th
e wood, I take a step back and start working on the buttons of my shirt. I flick the first one open slowly as I watch her watch me. “Open your legs,” I say, nudging my chin in her direction. I flick another button open when she does as I ask. “Touch yourself.”
Her eyes spark with challenge, but she doesn’t voice it. She runs one hand from her knee all the way up her thigh, then stops once her fingers brush the fabric of her panties. Slowly, she starts working her fingers in small circles at her mound. Her icy eyes stay fixed on mine the entire time, and I can tell she’s trying to hide how much she’s enjoying herself, but the increased quickness in the rise and fall of her chest gives her away.
I finish undoing the buttons on my shirt, then let it slip down my arms and to the floor. “Does it feel good?” I ask.
She bites her lip and continues moving her fingers over herself. “It does.” Her words come out in a pant.
I give her a smirk, then move one of the chairs that sit in front of my desk closer to her before sitting down. I lean back into the leather seat and admire the view she’s giving me. She’s putting on one hell of a show, and I have front-row seats.
“Slide your panties to the side.”
She follows my direction, then leans back onto my desk, spreading her knees wider. “Does it turn you on to watch me?” she asks, her head falling back.
“Not more than what I have planned,” I reply, grabbing my cock and letting her speaking out of turn slide.
I stroke myself a few times, still feeling the wetness from her mouth on me. Over and over, I work myself, squeezing a little harder when I reach the tip until I can’t take it anymore. I stand from my chair and circle my desk. Coming up behind Lydia, I wiggle my body closer to hers until her head falls to my shoulder. I reach my arms around her, keeping one around her hips and skimming the other over the elastic of her panties.