The Traitor’s Baby: Reaper’s Hearts MC

by Nicole Fox

  Sucking his dick as he licks me heightens the pleasure, his cock filling my mouth as his tongue consumes my clit, choking and moaning at the same time, moaning for the pleasure of his flickering tongue and the size of his cock. I choke and gag and then start screaming as the pleasure becomes hotter, more consuming, touching parts of me no other man has even come close to. I rock back and forth on his face, grinding my pussy against his mouth. He eats me, completely eats me, making out with my lips and my hole and my clit as I force my mouth down further and further on his ten-inch cock.

  The pleasure increases, getting more intense, both of our bodies slick with sweat and moisture from the blasting shower, the steam making his balls warm in my hand and his tongue warm on my clit. I close my eyes and fuck his cock with my face, not caring when he chokes me, not caring when it hurts a little because the pleasure has taken me now, gripped me in its invisible hands and squeezed so tight that every point of potential euphoria within me is on full-alert mode, ready to unleash. He licks, faster, hotter, firmer, and the pressure of the orgasm mounts just behind my sweet spot, ready to spill out onto his face. It feels like a withheld sneeze, only my entire body wants to sneeze, my entire being.

  He spanks me, and I come.

  I come so hard that my whole body gyrates, my muscles acting without me, throwing me about the place like a ragdoll. I ride his face, no longer able to suck with the pleasure moving through me; I’m afraid I’ll bite by accident. I grab onto his cock with one hand and his hard belly with the other, grinding his face like it’s a cock as he spanks me and turns my skin red with his strong hands. I squirt onto his face, gasping in pleasure, gasping in shock at the intimacy of this moment. When the orgasm passes I’m hungry for more. Starving for more. Desperate for more.

  He grabs my ass and pushes, forcing me to my feet, and then jumps to his and leads me into the shower. He has that wild look again, that animal look, though I get the sense that more of him is present than last time. Fink isn’t completely gone; he’s just horny as fuck.

  The water rains down on me, powerful and hot, drenching us both as we stand in the shower staring into each other’s eyes. He kisses me, our lips slick, both of us having to focus on the kiss so that we don’t slip and hurt our teeth, both of us giving our attention unequivocally to this moment.

  “I need you,” he says, breaking off the kiss. “I need your pussy. Goddamn, Nancy, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  He grabs me by the armpits and lifts as though I weigh nothing. I follow his lead and wrap my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his hips, latched onto him like a tortoise’s shell, my pussy tingling like crazy as he lowers me toward his crotch. His cock brushes my pussy, but we’re both soaked and I’m even wetter, and it slides away, grinding against my thighs. I groan and Fink growls, and we try again. This time his cock slides directly up between my legs, finding my hole as though it was made for it, and pushing deep inside of me, all my body weight pressing my down until his cock is pushed up against my sweet spot, my ass cheeks against his balls.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, eyes on my face. “Fuck, you look so fuckin’ sexy when you’re getting fucked.”

  “Fuck me, then,” I whisper, kissing his neck, feeling closer to him than I have to any man. “Fuck me, Fink. Fuck me.”

  He thrusts up, almost slipping from the power of the thrust, his cock slamming inside of me, pressing even harder against my sweet spot. Then he slides out slowly, making me feel every inch of him, getting hungrier and hungrier for him as he slides away, and then he slams into me again, completely filling me, his girth stretching my hole so wide it’s all I can feel, just this moment, this size, this perfect unity.

  We fuck quicker after that, me bouncing up and down on him as he holds me up, thrusting up inside of me, both of us pressing closer together each moment.

  “Oh, fuck!” I scream, his cock like a jackhammer, slamming repeatedly, triggering pleasurable moment after pleasurable moment deep inside of me. We’re both so wet, so slick, hot and steamy and closer than I ever thought I’d be to this man when I saw him shirtless in the garage. I think of him how he was then, dirty, and look at him now, sweaty and slick, and the two images come together. All of a sudden, I’m bouncing up and down on that oil-slicked mechanic just as he looked when I didn’t know his name.

  “Oh, fuck!”

  I bounce quicker, grinding up and down his cock, feeling every inch of him inside of me, feeling every crucial moment of ecstasy. I bring my face to his neck, bite and lick and moan as the two of us writhe in our endless dance of pleasure. He grabs my ass cheeks, holding me up by digging his fingers into my skin, holding all the tighter for the slickness of the water. Then I lean back, looking into his eyes, and he stares back into mine. Wide, animal-crazed, but more there than he was before, more present. He’s hasn’t completely left me. He hasn’t completely fled. He’s here, with me. I sense that that’s unusual for him, that normally he’d glaze over like men often do, abscond his body and distance himself.

  He kisses me. Fireworks cascade inside of me. Our lips rub together, our tongues pressing close, tangling and then coming apart. And all the while, I’m bouncing, harder and harder each moment, and he’s pushing up inside of me. I close my eyes, and then force them open and look directly into his blazing greens. He stares at me, too, both of us with our eyes open as we kiss, locked on each other.

  It’s his eyes and the kiss as much as the frantic slapping of his cock that brings the orgasm from the world of dreams to the world of reality. I focus on the kiss, the millions upon millions of nerves tingling between us, the millions upon millions of pleasure-touched sensations that captivate our mouths. We kiss violently, teeth clicking together, blood from a bitten lip mixing with our saliva, and we don’t even know who bit who. My sweet spot gets warm, and then blazing hot, and then it’s like the showerhead is buried inside of me, blasting right onto my spot, but it’s Fink, Fink with his shower-hot cock, pounding, pounding . . .

  “Oh, oh, oh.”

  “Yes.” Fink growls, grabbing my ass cheeks all the harder. “That’s it. Fuck, yes, yes. Come, baby. Come.”

  I squeeze my legs together, which in turn squeezes my hole tighter around his cock so that both of us have to move with more power to meet in that beautiful middle spot of connection. The showerhead blasts furiously inside of me now, punishing my deep spot. It takes the beat, absorbs it, growing larger and larger until my entire lower half is my sweet spot, and then my belly, and my breasts, and my neck: a hot flush creeping over it all. All I feel is the tingle of the water outside of me and the tingle of the scalding pleasure within.

  “Fuck—”

  Everything releases, my entire body—every spot of pleasure—letting go at the same time. I sag in Fink’s grip, trembling as the euphoria works its way through me like the rumbling of a car engine. My legs almost slide from his hips, but Fink holds me up even as I sag, fucking me all the harder as I loll in his grip. The orgasm evolves, getting deeper, warmer, more penetrative. It isn’t just an orgasm of the body anymore; it’s one of the mind, the heart. I press close to Fink and feel his heart beating inside my chest, and even if I know that that makes no sense, that’s how it feels. His heart beating inside of me, powering the orgasm, my toes curling and fists clenched with each following beat.

  And then Fink lets out an animal roar and thrusts inside of me one final time, making a growling noise and biting on my shoulder as he spills his come inside of me.

  I slide to the floor and look up at him. I can’t stop smiling. I try, but my cheeks ache until my lips twist up into a smile again.

  “I thought showers were supposed to keep you clean,” he says, smiling just as much as me.

  I giggle, grabbing the body wash. “I guess we’ll have to see to that, then.”

  We wash each other and dry off, laughing like teenagers all the while, and then go to bed together. I rest my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat, feeling content, f
eeling at home, feeling love, even if love doesn’t make much sense.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fink

  “You think your father ever loved me?” Mom says, grinning like a jackal. I remember this moment. She wasn’t grinning. And she hadn’t lost all her hair yet. But now she sits in stained pajamas in the bathtub, a tub full of rust-colored water, knees drawn to her chest and head completely bald except for a few squirming maggots wriggling on her scalp. I try to run, but my legs are fused to the bathroom tiles. “A man can’t love a woman. That’s my prognosis. My expert opinion. I’ve spent enough time in the hospital. I ought to know how to give an expert opinion.”

  “I agree with you,” I say, trying to free my feet.

  “You agree with me, do you? How lucky I am. I ought to sing to the high heavens! I ought to hop from one foot to the other. I ought to praise the Lord Almighty that Fink the Failure agrees with me.”

  “Don’t call me a failure, Mom.”

  “Oh, poor baby,” Mom mocks. She takes one of the maggots from her head and pops it into her mouth, crunching it in her teeth. I try and turn away, sick to my goddamn stomach, and terrified, too; I ain’t too proud to admit that. But I can’t turn. My face is fixed on hers. “Do you remember, dear? This was how you found me. Poor dead Mommy lying in the tub. I didn’t mean to die in the tub. I was running a bath and, oh, poor baby, I fell in and—What do you want me to say? It must have really messed you up, up here.” She taps the side of her head. “Your father never loved me because men like him—and you, because you are him, Fink the Failure—they can’t love. You can’t love. You just hurt people. If you stick around this lawyer girl, you’ll hurt her, too. Does she deserve that?”

  “Mom . . .”

  “Don’t interrupt me!” Mom roars, the maggots on her head multiplying, wriggling in rage. Water spills over the side of the tub. “Men like you can’t love, Fink. So why don’t you do this girl a favor and leave, or better yet, just kill yourself? That would do the world a big favor. The world doesn’t need you. The world has never needed you. You’re not—let me try and find a polite way to say this. You’re not necessary to anybody. Sal can do without you. You have no real friends at the club. And this lawyer girl just has a crush on you, nothing more. Leave her be and she’ll forget you ever existed.”

  “Mom . . .”

  “Goodbye, dear.”

  Mom spits a maggot at me. It strikes me in the chest, too hard, harder than a maggot has any right to hit. I fall backward, the bathroom tiles releasing me, and land with a heavy thump in Nancy’s bed.

  I sit up, panting, covered in sweat, sweat drenching the sheets. “Goddamn,” I whisper. Nancy’s still asleep, snoring softly, looking so peaceful it makes me jealous. I can’t remember the last time I was that peaceful, if I ever was.

  “Is everything okay?” she mumbles sleepily.

  “Fine,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Am sleeping.” She rolls over.

  I get up and go into the bathroom. I need to take a leak and I need to stand under the flat yellow light for a couple of minutes, stand under the light where the maggot-headed woman can’t get to me. The dream is already fading except for the maggots, which always fade last. I remember what Mom said, but not the exact words. I’m just like Dad. I cause pain. I hurt people. I’m a failure. I’ve never accomplished a thing in my life. I finish pissing and look around the bathroom. It’s absurd, a man like me standing in a place like this, with flowery bath tiles and a plush pink rug in the corner.

  I’m washing my hands when something falls off the cabinet. I turn quick, outlaw’s instincts making me wary, and then kneel down and pick up the plastic stick. At first, I don’t know what I’m looking at, but then it hits me. A pregnancy test. It’s a goddamn pregnancy test! The little face smiles up at me, but I don’t know what a smiley face means, if that means pregnant or not pregnant. I go into the trashcan and find the box the test came in, read the back of it: smiley means positive, which means that Nancy is pregnant.

  I lock the door and sit on the toilet seat, staring down at the test, my hands shaking more than they do after I’ve killed a man, my stomach twisting more than it does when I’m getting rid of a corpse. Nancy is pregnant with my child. My child . . . I try and convince myself that it isn’t mine, that it some other man’s, and yet I know that that isn’t true. I know in the same way I knew that I couldn’t go with any other woman over these past few weeks.

  “The kid is mine,” I whisper, panic seizing me. “The kid is mine. Holy fucking shit.”

  “Fink?” Nancy calls from the other side of the door. The door rattles in the lock. “Why have you locked yourself in?”

  I force some humor into my voice: “There are some things a lady shouldn’t see.”

  “Ew.” She laughs. “There’s air freshener above the toilet, near the window.”

  “All right. Message received.” I force out a laugh.

  I replace the pregnancy test on the cabinet and the box in the trash. I’m at the door when I remember I was supposed to be taking a dump. I flush the toilet and spray some air freshener. Then I return to the bedroom, heart thumping so hard in my chest I’m sure Nancy’ll be able to hear it. But she’s almost asleep again. I climb into bed and she latches onto me, moaning quietly. I stare up at the ceiling, trying to reason with myself.

  I can be a good man. I can be a father. I can do some good in this world. I’m not a bad person. But the reasoning is weak and I know it. How can a man like me be good? How can a man like me be a father? I can’t have a kid; I can’t have a wife; I can’t have a family. I’ve never even had any kind of long-term relationship. I close my eyes and see a picket fence and fresh-baked apple pie and it looks good, looks like something a man should savor, but then I see machine-gun fire tear through the house and cut the apple pie apart. I see Nancy bullet-riddled and blood-painted, lying on her back.

  “You’ll never be good,” Mom says, stroking the maggots on her head like they’re her pets. “You need to accept that, Fink. You will never be good.”

  I roll over and stare down at Nancy, looking so damn fine as she sleeps, so damn beautiful . . . and so damn innocent. That’s the most important part because she is innocent. She doesn’t deserve a man like me. I’ll bring her pain she doesn’t need, hasn’t earned, pain she’d be better off without.

  I ignore the screaming voice in my head as I stand up and get dressed as quietly as I can, creeping around the apartment as my inner voice begs me to stay. I stand at the bedroom door fully dressed, watching the sheets rise and fall as she breathes softly. I wonder if my father stood like this watching Mom, watching her and telling himself the same shit I’m telling myself. I want to be a better man, but I just can’t return to that bed. I don’t deserve this life, this woman, a kid, any of that shit. Maybe my old man wasn’t the asshole I’ve always thought he was. Maybe there was some logic in his cruelty.

  I leave the apartment quietly, locking the door with her key and then sliding it underneath the door, and then go down to my bike. I push it for a few streets, the world dead apart from music playing softly from one apartment and a couple arguing loudly, the screech of a cat and the bark of a dog. When I’m far from her apartment, I start the engine and ride away, feeling like dirt, feeling like a traitor, feeling like a dog. I ride until I find a bar, a place called Twister with a bunch of student-aged people smoking outside.

  I park my bike down the street and walk into the bar, ignoring the looks of a twenty-something with bleached-blonde hair and a nose ring. I go to the bar and order a bottle of whisky and a glass, and then go into the quietest corner—away from the dance floor, the giggling girls, and the pack of roaming frat boys—and I start drinking. I need to get out of my head, to distance myself from what I just did. I wonder if I can go back and sneak in before she knows I’m gone, but then I remember about the key. Fine, I can’t sneak back in, but I can knock and tell her what I’ve done, be honest, and maybe . . . And she’ll fo
rgive me, I know she will. But is that a good thing? If she forgives me, she’ll tell me about the kid, and maybe I’ll stick with her, and maybe we’ll be happy, but one day the real Fink’ll come out and I’ll ruin everything.

  Excuses, or truth? I’m not sure which is which anymore. I try to disentangle them but I can’t. They’re threaded together so tightly that telling them apart is impossible.

  I drain my fourth or fifth whisky and lean back, watching the dance floor. A bunch of wild girls, the type of girls who hang around the club and blow the boss, the type of girls who don’t think about tomorrow and are almost as sex-crazy as some men. The bleached-blonde girl with the nose ring walks over, wobbling a little on her heels which are way too high. She’s all right-looking, skinny with legs that stretch for miles, but I feel nothing looking at her. She isn’t Nancy.