Take Me With You

by Nina G. Jones

  “I changed my mind,” I say. “I don't need this stuff.”

  He ignores my words. “I gave you a choice and you made it. Just like your boyfriend did that night when he told me to fuck you instead of saving you himself.”

  Like a cold rush of water, that memory comes back. I didn't believe that it was true. That Carter would tell an intruder to fuck me instead of taking the hits himself. But I don't know anything anymore. I am weak, weaker than I think. Those chips have already disintegrated in my stomach, and the gnawing hunger returns. A cynicism and mistrust I've never had for anyone overtakes me. Maybe Carter betrayed me that night. Maybe I put my body and life on the line for him and he hadn't done the same for me. And if he didn't fight for me, then why should I feel guilt over this?

  I bite my lip as tears roll down my cheeks. Fuck, Vesper, keep it together. But keeping it together requires energy I have to conserve. The man watches me cry. He licks a tear, like my sadness sustains him. “I'm gonna fuck you with my mouth. I'm gonna make you cry, but not like this. I'm gonna make you cry for me.”

  He lowers himself along my trembling body, grazing his teeth against my skin, alert to his touch. His skin and mouth is warm and forgiving compared to the harsh concrete. He sucks on my breasts and my hips swivel. I tell myself it's resistance, but it's also like he's pulling some sort of trigger that I can't control.

  I open my mouth to object, but instead, short, tense breaths escape. I shake my head no, but he doesn't see; he is entirely fixated on the rest of me—my body, my skin, my taste, my breasts. I am entirely coveted. I realize he's starving too, consumed by hunger so deep that he can't control himself. A hunger he will do anything to sate. He's been watching me. Craving me. The hunger intensifying so that it's all he can think about. Just like starvation, until you've felt it, you can't understand the things you'd do just to get a taste.

  He bites my stomach, hard enough for me to flinch. I hold in my whimpers. I don't want to give him a reaction.

  “I know so much about you, Vesp,” he breathes into my pelvis as he works his way down. “So many things. But watching you was never enough. Now I'm finally going to be able to taste the flavor of your pussy when you come on my mouth.” His perverse words burn through me like shrapnel.

  I reach down to push him away just as his hot mouth hones in on my pussy, but my hand claws on the top of the mask.

  “Don't even fucking try it,” he says, pinning my hand down to the side.

  I wasn't.

  He makes gentle strokes with his tongue, his masked head weaving as he makes good on his promise to taste me.

  I writhe around him, fighting the swelling sensation his mouth brings. My mind resisting what my body wishes to grant: Pleasure. Relief. Comfort.

  I am still Vesper.

  My squirming only makes him work harder, finding my clit with his tongue, massaging it, his lips suctioning softly. It only takes seconds before I am gasping for air, my body contracting every muscle in anticipation for a release. But he stops just seconds before, leaving me breathless and enraged. I had accepted the deal, I had prepared myself for what was to come, and now he was pulling away, leaving me wanting. I am not supposed to want this.

  “Tell me you want me to make you come.”

  “No,” I protest through clenched teeth.

  “Your pussy is flushed and open. I can smell it. Taste it.”

  “Fuck you,” I say.

  “You want to be a stubborn little bitch, fine by me,” he says, pulling away and kneeling in front of me. “Get up and suck my cock.”

  I give him a snarl befitting the animal I have become.

  “Sounds like you don't want to eat,” he adds sardonically.

  I've come too far in this whole twisted deal to be left empty handed. I know what is to come, but I protest with stillness. He grabs me by my hair, pulling from the roots, onto all fours.

  “Earn your fucking meal, Vesp.” He says it like he knows me. He thinks he fucking knows me. But he's nothing more than a twisted voyeur. He sees what he wants when he watches, not what really is.

  His cock awaits at attention inches from my face. I could bite it. But that's just a fleeting thought. I want to survive this, not get my head bashed in by this freakishly strong psycho.

  “Take it in your mouth.”

  My pussy throbs, begging for the fulfillment it was promised as I trepidatiously purse my lips around his wide shaft. “Take it all the way, Vesp,” he rasps, pushing his hips so that he hits the back of my throat. I gag, which prompts his acerbic chuckle. He pulls back and then in again. Out and in. Out and in. Fucking my mouth.

  “I bet Carter never fucked you like this,” he mocks. “That little bitch.”

  Tears leak from my eyes, but at this point, I can't tell if it's from choking or despair.

  “Your ass from this angle…fuck, Vesp.” Underneath his intensely throaty voice is the soft hum of relaxed pleasure.

  I peer up, remaining on all fours, like an obedient pet, as he takes my mouth for his pleasure.

  “One day I'm going to fuck that ass and watch my cum drip out of it. And you'll be begging for it.”

  I want to clamp down so badly, especially as my jaw tires. But I battle through. I need the spoils of my efforts.

  He's all rippled muscles, and sweat, and filth. Eyes that reveal no soul or depth, clear as a demon's. His round lips framed by black fabric. So many times I imagined a version of this as Carter was inside of me, never thinking it could be a reality. Thinking I was safe from my own twisted fantasies.

  He groans, extending his neck and hips, increasing the pace of his thrusts.

  “Your fucking mouth,” he grunts, pulling out and gripping his cock in his calloused hand, pulling my hair to angle me upwards. He jerks faster and lets out a deep groan as he comes on my face, neck and breasts.

  I don't fight him, it's far too late for that now. He cleansed me, and now he's dirtying me with his cum.

  “You look fucking beautiful,” he moans. It's not sarcastic or mocking, he says it the way a man would after his girl has made herself up. “Lick your lips, Vesp,” he orders, still holding his cock and my hair.

  “Lick,” he repeats, rubbing the still-hard erection against my nipple dripping with his cum.

  I dart out my tongue, tasting a little of the saltiness.

  “More.”

  I do it again, this time taking a little more.

  He looks down on me with pure lust. Eyes that see only me. A woman he selected and painted with his cum. His art. I ache below, my pussy still waiting for her turn. But I also ache at the fact that at this moment I could feel a smidgen of anything but total and utter rage.

  I wish he would relieve me. I don't like him. Oh no—I hate him. But just like food, I'll take his mouth right now, just to make the pulsing stop. Just to have the touch of another for a few moments longer before I am alone again for hours or days. Of course, I can't say those words. I won't.

  He stands up, his normally grounded stance a bit wobbly, walking to the wash bucket. His ass is firm, like that of someone who doesn't shy away from lifting heavy things. He grabs the towel, dipping a portion of it in the soapy water. He wipes my face, breasts and neck of his semen.

  He puts his pants back on and grabs a brown paper bag and a jug of water, dropping them in front of me. Despite starvation, my nerves are too taut to eat. All I can think of is the feeling between my legs that won't go away.

  He collects everything, so that he can make it in one trip and without saying a word, he walks up the stairs, leaving me to enjoy my earnings.

  But I can't. Not until I make the sensation of being on the precipice disappear.

  She's stubborn. Sometimes when a mare kicks too hard you have to pull back. Sometimes pushing too much only promotes resistance. I left her alone so she could realize how badly she wanted me to finish her off. Next time, she'll know better.

  I wanted to wait a little longer before getting myself off. My tongue in her pussy
would have given me enough fodder for a day's worth of orgasms. Problem is, this woman is like an antidote to my plans. She wanted to make a deal. She's learning faster than I anticipated. I just couldn't help upping the ante.

  Fuck was it worth it, seeing her smooth, unmarred skin covered in my cum. Rubbing my scent on her body. I didn't shower on purpose. I want to come back later and smell myself on her. A reminder she's mine and I marked her.

  She didn't charge the bag of food like I expected. I think I know why. So when I get upstairs, I decide to prowl my own house, trench crawling to one of the small basement windows, peeking in just enough so that she won't see me.

  She's already fingering herself when I get there. Lying back on the blanket, her shapely legs spread open, her eyes closed. She's thinking of me. She's letting herself cave into what she wants. She's obstinate so she won't give me the satisfaction. I'll take it anyway.

  I watch her truth. That's why I like looking through windows. When they don't know you're looking, that's when you see who they really are.

  Watching her play with herself to thoughts of me gives me a fresh hard on. My sexual appetite is strong, usually requiring three orgasms a day just to pacify the urges. My cock is as rock hard as it was when she was sucking on it with those full lips minutes ago. I reach down, and jerk myself off in unison with her.

  I time it so that when she's bucking under the touch of her gentle fingers, I'm coming to the sight of it.

  She thinks she can keep secrets from me. That her act is convincing. That whole charade is for her, not me.

  I see through windows. And I see who she really is.

  I've decided I'll be taking fewer jobs from now on. I won't drop off the face of the earth. No, that would be too suspicious. But I have money. Family money. Work was never something I needed to do, but a strong work ethic was instilled in me and Scoot by our father. I can't just sit around. But now I have someone under my watch, someone who distracts my thoughts all day while at work. Today, when I nearly hammered a nail through my finger thinking about the sight of Vesper finger-fucking herself, and the taste of her wet cunt, I realized I can't keep burning the candle on both ends. My freedom is the most important thing, and keeping it requires precision.

  I finally finish Ms. Dawkins’ new porch and head back to the farm. On my way back, I cruise along the block adjacent to Vesper’s house. There are no signs of what happened weeks ago. The crime scene tape is down. There are no patrol cars stationed outside. I make sure not to drive directly along her block, in case detectives are observing the scene in unmarked vehicles. Vesp’s still on the news, there’s still a search. But I am already seeing the signs of what people think they know: she’s dead. I don’t think they have a single clue about who took her or where to find her.

  I gave Vesper enough food for a day. I've been re-feeding her. She got too thin and lost that apricot hue to her cheeks. She's been obedient. I'll give her just enough to keep her a little hungry so she stays that way.

  Besides, I have a new idea of something I can give her.

  I grab a cold beer from the fridge as soon as I enter the ranch and kick my feet up on the coffee table. I'm giving myself a few minutes of rest before I take care of my other responsibility. I'm always thinking about her. Always. It never stops. Even right now I want to go in there. Ever since I brought her here, it's a constant battle against immediate gratification. One I feel myself losing.

  I watch my feet twitch atop the coffee table, anxious to get going on her next gift. The sugar to my salt. But I'm also dreading what I have to do to make it. It's like pulling off duct tape from someone's mouth. You can go slow, pulling every minuscule hair off their face, tugging at the skin, prolonging the suffering. Or you can do it in one harsh yank, causing a brief blaze of pain. So I go with the yank, slamming the glass bottle down on the coffee table, ringed with decades of bottle stains, and head upstairs to the room I haven't entered since my mother died.

  I take a deep breath and turn the old brass knob. The hinges yawn as I push the door open. A draft of stale air blows past me as I enter. I know she's dead, but I still expect to see her, sitting in the corner like she so often did. I don't know this room any other way. Now it's just a memorial. The best and worst of her still lining these walls. She and I were rejected by our family. A shameful secret. Perfection was necessary when you carried the family name.

  I don't look at anything but the things I came in for. Going into the small crafts room connected to the bedroom, I pull out her trusted sewing machine. I had watched her so many times make something out of nothing with it. Because I didn't say much, I learned to watch. To study. People. Habits. Tasks. I learned how to sew from watching her. I run my fingers along the rolls of fabric, trying to find something that matches Vesper. I regret tearing up the night dress she was wearing when I took her. It was perfect—both sexy and demure. I don't find that exact white fabric, but I find something similar, a crisp cotton fabric with a thin line of lace in the palest pink. Like the color of her pussy before I make it flush with need.

  I look through patterns, hoping to find something I can work with. I find a longer dress that I can make short, just as short as the one I gagged her with. After cutting the fabric, I sit at the sewing machine, thread it, and press the pedal. That rhythmic churning fills my ears. I haven't heard it in over a year now and my thoughts drift to the past I try to forget.

  A state trooper car rolls up to the park, where I have been watching a man trim grass for the past fifteen minutes. The sound is loud and repetitive. I like it. It calms me. It makes all the anger and sadness easier to forget. But when I see the car, I know I'll be paying for the little break I took. Dad walks over to me. He used to run over. But this is getting old to him.

  “Let's go,” he says sternly, curling his finger.

  I don't fight him, and instead follow him into the car, sitting in the back with the metal grate between us.

  “You keep doing this shit, Sam, they're going to kick you out of school. Whoopings don't help. Talking doesn't help. You can't keep running away from school like this!”

  I sit quietly. Most parents would like a kid who doesn't talk back, but to my dad, nothing makes him angrier.

  “Why? Tell me why! So help me god if you don't, you're gonna get a lickin' tonight. I have had it with this bull.”

  I don't like whoopings. “T-t-t-they…” I stop. I don't like talking in front of him. He makes me feel bad.

  Dad glances back in surprise and pulls over.

  “I'm not moving until you finish your thought. Why is it that you talk to your mom, but not to me?”

  Because she doesn't stare at me like I'm a disappointment. She doesn't get impatient. She doesn't hit me. She doesn't even notice the stuttering and so when it's just us, it's barely there.

  I play with my fingers and look down. I don't want to tell him. He'll think I'm a wuss. My dad is tough.

  “You're making your mom crazy because you're a bad boy. You're misbehaving, it's making her sick. You want to make her sick?”

  I shake my head.

  “So tell me.”

  “T-t-t-hey c-c-c-all me n-n-n-n-names.”

  He sighs. For the first time, it sounds like he feels sorry for me. He adjusts himself to get a better view of me in the backseat.

  “Sam, in this world, people are always gonna see you as different. You can run away, or you can figure out a way to stay. But I'm not gonna pity you. I'm not gonna coddle you like your mom. It's my job to make you tough. Turn you into a man someday. You're probably gonna hate me for it. But it's what you need.”

  He turns around and starts driving. “The school day is almost over so I'm taking you home. Mom's sick, so you go straight to your room or play out in the yard. Understand?”

  I nod.

  He drops me off in front of the house with a threat. “Don't let me find you running off from school again, Sam. So help me god.”

  I run into the house. Save for the sounds of birds ch
irping outdoors, it's dead silent inside. No snacks are waiting for me. Mom's not sitting there with that look on her face of worry she has when I run off. Sometimes she gets sick. She goes into her room and doesn't come out for a long time. Dad has to make us dinner or sometimes the Waverlys next door help out. And then sometimes mom gets what we call the jitters. Her eyes go wide, she drives up to the ranch, and she sews and sews for days without taking a bath.

  I open the fridge for a snack when I hear howling. Not like a wolf. It's lower and it goes up and down. I put my glass of milk on the counter to follow the sound upstairs to mom's room. The howling gets louder, but it's less of a howl and more like the sound of a ghost. The hairs stand on my neck. But I crack the door open anyway.

  She's in bed alone, curled in a ball. Crying. Crying like I've never seen anyone cry before. She's making all sorts of sounds like she's in pain. But I think the pain is inside. The way mine is. Her crying is loud and makes me scared. I'm not supposed to look in there. I'm not supposed to bother her when she's sick. Dad will get mad and he's already mad at me. So I go downstairs, make my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and take it upstairs with my glass of milk. I sit on the floor outside of her door and listen to her cry as I eat. I don't know why I do it, but I have a sinking feeling and I want to make sure that she's still making noise. That if she stops, it will mean something bad has happened.

  As I am eating my sandwich, the downstairs door slams. “Sam?” my father shouts. He's not supposed to be home for a while, and I get nervous and knock over my glass of milk. I panic, embarrassed of him seeing me here, but also afraid of being in trouble.

  I stand up, trying to collect my plates when the door opens behind me.

  “Sam?” my mother asks; her voice is stuffy. Her face is pink and puffy. “How long have you been out here?” I don't say anything and stare at her with worried eyes.

  “Come here,” she says, grabbing my little hand in hers and ignoring the mess. She closes the door behind me.