by Jake Irons
“I am.”
Smack. “You like this don’t you?”
“Yes.”
I give her a hard smack, and she squeals.
“You like it when I smack your ass.”
“Yeah.”
“You deserve it, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes Papa Bear.”
“I am not calling you that.”
“Yes you are.” I give her another smack.
“No.”
I smack her harder. “Say it.”
“I’m not gonna say it.” She leans her ass off the couch and smashes it against my aching dick. She wiggles all over me and fuuuuck.
“I want your pants off now,” I say, and I reach around her waist and unbutton her jeans. I slide the zipper down, then slide her jeans to her knees. No underwear, and fuck her ass is perfect. Round and meaty. I give it a few slaps then help her peel her pants the rest of the way off. She settles with her legs together, but I push them apart, then trace her fat pussy lips with my finger. “This pussy is so good.”
She rubs herself against my hand. “This pussy wants to be fucked.”
“Does it?” I lick my finger and ease it into her.
“Mmmm.” Chelsea pushes back so my finger sinks in to the knuckle. She’s so wet she’s dripping. I run my thumb down to her clit, and she moans loudly.
“I need you,” she pants.
She’ll get me, but not yet. I add a second finger, and her moans get even louder. I love how loud she is. I love how tight her pussy is. She’ll be coming in a minute.
I take my thumb off her clit and still my fingers inside of her.
She moans a protest. “Why’d you stop?”
I push my fingers deep, but slowly. Once I’m all the way inside I curl them down.
She groans. “Oh God!”
I give her ass a slap. “Call me Papa Bear.”
“Eli!”
“Call me Papa Bear.” Chelsea tries to fuck herself, but I’ve got her hooked. I move my fingers in slow circles inside of her. “Do you want to come?”
“Yes,” she groans.
“Then it’s Papa Bear. Or master.”
“Master!” she gasps.
I straighten my fingers, and she immediately begins fucking them. I put my thumb back on her clit, and in a few seconds she’s coming all over my hand.
“That was a dirty trick,” she complains.
I give her ass another slap, then strip off my pants. She reaches back to grab my dick, and I let her stroke it while I finger her pussy.
“Such a big dick.”
“Such a wet pussy.” It’s still dripping.
I grab my dick and thump her a few times on the ass, then I rub her entrance. “You want it?”
“You know I do.”
I punch into her, and we both gasp. Fuck, this pussy is so tight, and so wet, and so warm; you could heat my whole house from Chelsea’s cunt.
I grab two handfuls of ass and slam into her. She moans loudly and I slam into her again and again. I grab a handful of her hair and pull. She gasps and I fuck her even harder.
“Oh God,” she moans.
I reach around her leg and find her cunt, swollen and slick. I rub her clit and she screams. She’s so loud; it’s so hot.
I grab her waist again and pound her, and she matches me thrust for thrust. She’s moaning, grunting, gasping.
I pull out, flip her over, so she’s laying half on, half off the couch. I hook my arms around her legs and smash into her, and she cries out so loud I almost come right there. I fuck her hard and fast. She rubs her clit and groans.
“Who owns this pussy?”
She moans.
“Who owns this pussy?”
“You do,” she gasps.
“Louder.”
“You do!”
“Fuckin’ right I do.”
“Oh God I’m gonna come.”
“Me too.”
“Inside me.”
I explode inside her, and she comes all over me.
Chapter 11
Tara
The fire is almost burned out. A few small, orange flames flicker on the last log, offering a bit of light in this shadowy room.
Eli turned off the gas not too long after we had sex. He grabbed a blanket from one of the cabinets by the fire, and we stayed up as the flames died, talking. About…a lot of things and nothing at all. We both avoided our families. We both avoided anything to do with why we’re here. Instead, we talked about childhood friends, favorite bands, travel, donuts, celebrity gossip, and eventually, this being 2017, politics. It was the most fun I’ve had just talking in a long time.
Somehow we fell asleep. I woke up a minute ago, tucked under his arm, my head resting on his bare chest.
The snow is still falling outside, but not as thick as before. I see it lazily drifting past the windows. I wonder how cold it is out there. I’m warm here, and that’s one of the reasons I don’t want to get up, even though I’ve gotta pee like crazy.
The other is because when I get up from this couch, and out of Eli’s warm embrace, and go into the bathroom, I’ll check my phone. I don’t even know what time it is, or if Frankie will still be up. But I know I’ll have a bunch of texts to remind me of why I’m here.
I don’t want to remember. I want to pretend like this is my life. This moment of calm, when the quiet feels like a friend. Except now that I’ve thought about why I’m here, it’s all I can think about. The moment is ruined.
Carefully, I lift Eli’s arm and wiggle off the couch. He reaches for me, so I hand him the pillow that was covering my feet. I pull my shirt over my head, then collect the rest of my clothes from the floor and tiptoe into the bathroom.
I check my reflection in the mirror. Major sex hair.
With a knot forming in my chest, I check my phone.
12:11 a.m.
I have only one text from Frankie, which I received an hour ago:
Honey Boo-Boo child, if I stayed in AND up all night for nothing I’m gonna be so pissed
I smile. After about half a year of knowing her, I made the mistake of telling Frankie that my mom made me do the local pageant circuit when I was seven.
I am NOT nor was I ever Honey Boo-Boo Child!
I hit “send” and glance back at the time. It’s 2:11 a.m. in New York. Frankie’s probably not awake. That’s good.
Through the mirror I look at the tub, and the showerhead. It’s still hanging down into the shower. I put it back on its hook.
I turn back to the mirror. I look unhappy. I feel unhappy.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to write the story; it honestly makes me feel like the worst person in the world to even think about doing it.
But I have to. Journalism jobs aren’t easy to find, much less good ones. I can’t afford to feel sorry for Eli.
His story is newsworthy. And it’s my story, now, too. Mine to tell. And since I’m the one telling it, I can tell it the right way. I won’t be specific. I won’t tell people where he lives. I won’t write anything that compromises his day-to-day privacy.
So what if his fans know that their hero is living a solitary life with his loyal dog and a mountain lion named Herman? How does it hurt him to reveal that he’s taught himself to cook and that he grows kale? That he still loves donuts?
My phone buzzes.
She’s alive! Hurry, tell me everything before you change your mind!
Frankie’s awake. Damn it.
Wouldn’t you like to read it on The Watcher’s site?
SKANK! I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR HOURS!
Now who’s yelling?
Just tell me!
Okay, but only enough so you don’t murder me. I want to get to writing while he’s asleep and everything is fresh on my mind so don’t ask any questions
And I tell her. Enough. Not where Eli lives, exactly, or much of what’s he’s said, exactly, or much about what we did, exactly. I want to keep the meat of my story
(pun intended) for my story. So to make up for the lack of juicy details, I give her lots of details about things that don’t matter. My ride with Chris, the panic I felt when I realized it was snowing, the deliciousness of Eli’s meal.
I can’t wait to read it!
I slip my phone into my pocket, ignoring the cricket singing in my head. This is the sort of maneuver that helped Eli put The Watcher on the map.
It’s all part of the game.
I’m committed.
I have to do it.
I tip-toe out of the bathroom, find my bag, and turn back to the—OH SHIT I nearly yelled just now. Acer is sitting just at the top of the stairs, and for a second, with his white hair and pointed ears, I thought he was a wolf.
“Hey Ace,” I murmur, as I reach to pet his head. He lets me pet him, but his expression says he’s enduring it more than enjoying it. “What’s wrong?”
Acer makes a noise that sounds kind of like a disappointed sneeze, then steps out from under my hand and pads over to the couch. He turns to look at me, then settles onto the floor.
Great. The dog’s onto me.
Well, Acer doesn’t understand the ethical complexities of my quandary. And the truth is, part of me thinks Eli should thank me for doing this. He can’t be happy, sitting up here in his house with little or no human contact. “You can’t be happy all alone up here either, can you?”
Acer turns to look at me but doesn’t say anything.
“What the hell am I doing?” I’m talking to a dog. Acer has no idea what’s going on. He’s a dog. “Okay. I’m…going to go to the bathroom now.”
I sit on the toilet, open my laptop, and stare at the page.
One more thing Eli was known for at The Watcher: headlines that incorporated Star Wars puns.
With steady fingers I type my own headline: Return of the Eli.
No. Backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace backspace.
I can come up with something better than that.
Chapter 12
In a dark bedroom in the Brooklyn neighborhood of Greenpoint, or Little Poland—a bedroom too dark to make out the occupants of the large canopied bed—a faint blue light appears on a bedside table, followed an instant later by the third movement from Paderewski’s “Violin Sonata in A minor.” The music fills the room.
“Michal,” a woman groans.
The man beside her doesn’t rouse. The cell phone keeps playing. The woman rolls onto her side and gives Michal a shove.
“Wha? What?”
“Your phone.”
“I hear it.”
He fumbles for the phone, knocks it onto the floor. Cursing, he leans over, grabs it, accepts the call, and brings it to his ear.
“Who is this?” he growls. “You better have a good reason for calling so late.”
“It’s me,” the caller, a young woman, says. She sounds nervous. “You—ah, you said to call any time. If I—you know.”
It takes Michal a moment to recognize her voice. When he does, he sits up in bed. “You found him?”
“Yes.”
Michal smiles.
Chapter 13
Tara
“Oh my God, you are such boy.”
A wide grin blooms under Eli’s thick beard. “So’s he.”
The carrot was supposed to be a nose on Mr. Snowman’s face. Instead, Eli gave Mr. Snowman a carrot dick. “You know what he needs?”
“A nose?” I ask.
Eli shakes his head. Then he nods. “Sure, but also: Truck Nutz .”
“Truck Nutz ?”
“Yep,” he says.
“Those fake nuts people hang from the back of their trucks?” I ask.
“I got a pair in the shop.”
I laugh. “Why do you have Truck Nutz ?”
“I bought them when I bought my truck.”
“Why?”
Eli shrugs. “It felt like the right thing to do.”
He makes a beeline for his “shop”—the large shed where he parks all of his toys. I turn my face to the blue sky, close my eyes and sigh. It’s late Friday morning. I’m not sure what time, but probably close to 11 o’clock. The sun is out, warming the air and my face. There’s hardly a cloud in the sky. If I weren’t standing in more than a foot of snow outside Eli’s home, I wouldn’t believe there had been a storm last night.
This morning has been a lot of fun. Eli made eggs benedict and bacon, and then we took a ride on his four-wheeler while Acer chased us, barking. The mountains, trees, fields, driveways, rooftops, mailboxes—everything was sparkling white under the morning sun. It was literally the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in real life.
I stayed warm in Eli’s clothes—a green thermal long-sleeve t-shirt, which probably fits deliciously tight on him but is baggy on me; a puffy, black Mountain Hardwear jacket; and gray snow boots that come halfway up my calves. The boots only stay on because I’m wearing three pairs of Eli’s wool socks. I’m also wearing my jeans, which are wet everywhere the snow’s gotten on them. The rest of me is warm, though.
We started a snowperson when we got back to Eli’s house—although now it’s a snowman.
I bend over and collect snow, packing it together until I have a ball the size of a cantaloupe. Mr. Snowman needs a Snowwoman. I plop my ball into the snow on the ground and roll it around, collecting more.
Eli hasn’t mentioned when he’s going to take me back into town. I haven’t asked. He has to do something to his truck, which he hasn’t done yet. I don’t know if that something will take him one hour or three. I haven’t wanted to broach the subject and ruin our fun, but the higher the sun rises in the sky, the more antsy I get.
I haven’t told Eli who I really am yet.
Also, I didn’t write the story.
I stared at the document for two hours. Literally two hours. Then I closed my computer and snuggled back up with Eli on the couch.
Fuck The Watcher and angry-fuck Sean. I’ll figure something out. And who knows, maybe I’ll get a story anyway. Whenever Eli takes me back to reality, I’m gonna tell him who I am, promise I won’t write a word about our time together unless he gives me permission, and beg him to give me permission.
If he agrees to give me an interview, that’s a more awesome ending to my trip than I can hope for. If he tells me to go fuck myself, he tells me to go fuck myself. I’m hoping that he’ll fuck me one last time, too, but if he doesn’t…well, I guess I will fuck myself.
The object of my lust returns with a stick and a big, brass-colored pair of Truck Nutz. He places the stick in Mr. Snowman’s face, where the carrot nose should be, then removes the carrot penis, packs the Truck Nutz into the snow and puts the carrot through the ring at the top.
“Those are some big nuts.”
Eli nods. “Truck-sized.”
“Wanna help me build Mrs. Snowman?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He bends over and starts packing snow. “You do the head. I’ll do the upper body.”
“You’re going to give her snow boobs aren’t you?”
He nods. “She’s gonna be a snow-ho.”
I laugh, and—
“Oh shit, my birth control.” With all the snowy fun, I completely forgot about it. I should have already taken it. I take it like clockwork at 9 a.m. in New York. I’ve been taking it at 8 a.m. here, like clockwork, until today. Now I’m at least three hours late. I shouldn’t be fertile anyway, but I do not want to tempt fate.
Neither does Eli.
“Damn it woman!” He’s already dashing to the door. “Where is it?” he calls.
“In my backpack. The top outside pocket.”
Eli is gone in a flash, and I finish Mrs. Snowman’s head. Then I finish her upper body, which I place on the large, bottom ball I had already made. I stack her head next, and Eli still isn’t back, so I trudge through the snow, up the stairs, and into the house to find him.
Which I do
the moment I walk in. He’s at the kitchen table, sleek black laptop open before him. His eyes are narrowed at the screen. His nostrils are flared. He looks furious. My eyes move from his face to the table. My backpack is on it. So is my wallet.
I realize what’s happened a moment before Eli slings my press pass at me. It spins through the air and bounces off my stomach, landing on the floor.
“You work for The Watcher,” he seethes. His eyes are slits beneath a bent brow. His lips are twisted and angry. “You’re name is Tara Daniels and you work for The Watcher!”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
“Did you come to Colorado to find me?”
I do my best fish impression. “No, I—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he snaps. “Of course you did.”
“I—I’m sorry, I—”
“Did you come to write a story?”
I nod miserably.
Eli stands so suddenly I almost fall backwards. “I’ll fucking sue your ass to the poor house you fucking—”
“I’m not gonna write it!”
“What?” he snarls.
“I was going to write it last night—”
“Last night?”
“Yeah, but, uh, but I stared at the document for like half an hour and didn’t write even a word. I promise. I decided I didn’t want to. You know, that it wasn’t okay. I was gonna tell you who I was and ask you for an interview and if you didn’t give me one then I was just gonna go back to New York and—”
“Bullshit.”
“I promise!”
His eyes are smoldering. “You sat down to write it last night? When?”
“I woke up at about midnight and went to the bathroom. I was gonna write it in there. But I didn’t.”
“So you woke up last night,” he repeats, slowly. “You went to the bathroom to write an article about me. An article you were only going to be able to write because you lied to me about your identity. An article you had every reason to think I wouldn’t want you to write. And you go to my bathroom, to write it. And after this you got back on the couch with me and, like, snuggled up to me and stuff?”