Pandora Wild Child

by Sunniva Dee

  “You’re chickening out?” I ask, crawling up over her. I spread her knees and sink on top, skin against skin.

  “Leon, please. I’m so confused right now. I don’t know what I want. I… shouldn’t be doing something I’ll regret.”

  “Oh, shhh. You won’t regret—or forget for that matter.” I let my dick rub over her clit. “Do you have any idea how good you’ll feel in a minute?”

  She’s climbing with my massage. Moaning while her hips swivel with me, helping me. Fuck, she’s delicious. I want to smack her. Fill my hands with her ass and make her go rigid with pain as I squeeze.

  “Just this once?” The sweet tone I aim at never works for me. I don’t own the sweet gene. “What could it hurt, right?” I say, laughing inwardly at my pun.

  “Leon, really—I,” her mouth starts but her body’s with me, not against me.

  “Are you dating someone?” I whisper.

  “No…”

  “Okay, how about we enjoy ourselves?”

  A slight whimper I take as “yes” escapes her. Flipping her on top of me, I sit up with her on my lap. She stares, eyes dull with lust and concern, and it’s the hottest mix I’ve ever seen.

  I grab Pandora’s chin with one hand, holding her still so that she has to meet my gaze. We’re doing this now, whether she wants to or not. I’m making her want it.

  In the space between us, I roll on the condom. Then, I lift her up and sink her down over me. For a second, we sit still, getting used to the sensation.

  “Fuck,” I groan.

  “Oh no,” she whispers back.

  “Oh no what?”

  “I wasn’t going to sleep with yet another guy,” she says as I start to move her against me.

  “Are you keeping tabs?”

  “Yeah, you’re the third one.”

  I slide her up and down with more insistence, rock her into me. When she’s too slow, I hold her still instead and heave up into her. Faster, more violently, the closer I get.

  “Let’s find out if you like this,” I grunt out before I swat her ass. She squeals, outraged, but then she forgets because I’m not changing my pace or how deeply I penetrate her.

  I whack her again on the other butt cheek.

  “Stop, Leon,” she whines, her tone contradicting the words, begging me: gimme more.

  So I do. I give her more, and in the mirror by the TV, I take in her pretty tushy morphing from paper white through pink to a flashy red as I dole out slaps until my palms sting. For each swat, she wriggles as if she’s trying to move away, but she always changes her mind.

  “Leon,” she growls, frustrated as her legs begin to tremble.

  “So good isn’t it?” I breathe into her ear. “You’re a kinky girl.”

  “No… not… kinky,” she manages before she cramps around me and explodes with a guttural squeak.

  I’m used to waking up before my slumber-party guests, but I was overzealous in my mission to sober Pandora up last night. Now, the daylight sieves in, and I come to life by Pandora interrogating me as if we weren’t just sound asleep.

  “So what happened? You had a girlfriend, they say.”

  I demonstrate my displeasure by groaning loudly. My impromptu, mental notes tell me this girl should not remain too clearheaded.

  Opening one eye, I shoot her a look. She’s sitting on my bed, legs to one side and staring at me. She has one of my black V-necks pulled over her head, exposing the soft crack between her breasts. No bra obstructs the goodies pressing against the cotton. My grouchiness subsides as I hook into the V and pull down, baring more of her.

  “They can only take so much of me,” I reply, widening the neckline with a second finger. She shakes me off and leans away, almost out of reach. I like this girl.

  “Who can only take so much of you?”

  “My girlfriends.” I fork fingers through the air in quotation marks. It’s true—I don’t count hours, days, months of exclusive relationships. Some last longer than others.

  It took me years to see a pattern in the girls I prefer. Since then, my actions have become conscientious. Sadly, it’s rare to come across chicks who don’t give a flying fuck, but now that I know what turns me on, whenever I find one, I pursue her with everything I have.

  They always disappoint in the end, though. At one point or another, every girl I’m with changes. In some, the transformation occurs within days, while with others, I enjoy weeks and months of their wretched, complicated company. I’ve stopped hoping for more.

  Believe me, it is not my intention to ruin them. I’m not in the business of messing with my girls’ lives. I love them because they’ve completed the task themselves, and it’s when they start caring—caring about me, caring about their own lives because they care about me—that their appeal collapses.

  I’m typically up front about what attracts me to my women, and yet they’re oddly surprised when I send them packing. With the last one, I lasted longer than usual. The sex was good, and she obeyed my every command in and out of bed. Yeah, Iris was special. For months, she showed no sign of wanting to straighten out her life. Once she did, I took weeks to catch on to how she did it all for me.

  Last night’s fuck hasn’t made Pandora plunge head over heels into the dreaded abyss of a crush. The way she looks at me is part disgust, part fascination. Right now, she’s wondering why the hell she came here with me—did this with me, and I’m stirring—my cock’s stirring—at the purity of her attitude.

  She’s so beautifully messed up.

  “You’re so special, aren’t you—too much for your girlfriends,” she mocks, a contemptuous edge to her voice as she shifts uncomfortably on the mattress.

  I laugh softly. “You could say that. How’s your tushy, sugar? Is it bothering you?” I drag her toward me, causing her to tip over into my lap. I lift the shirt covering her ass and get an exquisite eyeful of her still-pink skin. So pretty.

  “You’re fucking crazy, Leon,” she mumbles, but she lets me caress her there.

  “I know. And you’re on the kinky side yourself,” I remind her. She huffs out a “no way,” as I slide my fingers into her crack, relishing in her warmth.

  Pandora struggles up onto her knees before I can explore her further. She throws her long, just-fucked mane over a shoulder and narrows her stare at me.

  “Yeah, I’m outta here. Thanks for the sleepover, Leon,” she quips.

  “Breakfast?” I smirk, my gut feeling telling me she’ll be back. I can count on one hand the ladies I’ve sent off screaming, never to return for seconds.

  “Mm.” She rolls her eyes upward, making a show of considering my offer. “Mm-no. I’m thinking you’ve served up more than enough of your specialties, Leon. You know, we chicks can only take so much of you.”

  Then she spins on the floor, wrings my shirt off with her back to me, giving me a full view of her gorgeous ass in the process. She bends over and picks up her clothes, her shoes, unconsciously flashing rosy lips and the entrance to heaven my way. Then, she stomps out of my bedroom, gets dressed in thirty seconds flat, and slams the front door when she storms off.

  Holy. Shit.

  I just might be in love.

  Leon didn’t even offer me a ride home. Not that I would’ve accepted, but—wow. Plus he’s crazy. For me, though, the bigger issue is my own level of crazy and freaking depravity!

  What the heck did I agree to last night? I let him spank me. Hard, even. If only it had been just that, me letting him hurt me, but his rough handling launched me into a squealing orgasm too. I feel so dirty, I might as well have committed to pole-dancing my way through college.

  Taking a cab back to the apartment doesn’t sound right at the moment. I need to walk off this energy. Get rid of some self-loathing before I face the girls.

  I’m not in a panic. Not yet. I’m just in shock over how low I’ve sunk. If I’m this bad a few months shy of twenty years old, what the hell kind of person will I be in a decade? Will I earn my living as a brothel ma
dam? Be the proud owner of an S&M club? Ha!

  I stare down my own body as I scamper on in my too-high heels, and I groan out loud: the walk of shame. This is it, right here. Never has anyone done a bigger walk of shame. At least I remembered my purse. What about my phone?

  Okay, okay—it’s in my jacket.

  The remainder of this Saturday morning stroll could take another fifteen minutes. I want to wear my happy-face and not be thrown another pity party once I’m at home. I’m up for a scolding fest, though, which Shannon will launch right into if she’s not too busy with Christian. The pressure in my chest lightens at the thought; I deserve a good scolding. Just like I…

  …deserved the spanking last night.

  My heart hiccups as I think of Dominic. When I turn my phone on, it speeds up at what I might find. I scroll past Mom’s messages and find his easily. I knew they’d be there, waiting.

  He explains last night’s call to me, that the girl I heard was his ex-girlfriend from high school. How they hadn’t seen each other in ages, and how she’d been his hope for assistance with his grandma while he was gone.

  He has left several voicemails I won’t be listening to as well. Dominic must not have relied on me checking them either, because he’s typed out the rest of his dissertation over four long texts. Some bull about this Melissa being vindictive over the way he broke up with her.

  Stop texting me, I write and hit “send.”

  It’s early, very early on the West coast, but he replies immediately.

  Pandora, give me a ring.

  I halt and lean against a wall as I reply: no.

  Dominic instantly calls me. I don’t pick up even though my heart shivers in my chest. I wish he’d let this go. I listen to him call, hang up, call again, and I realize that until I turned the phone on, I was doing well. As insane as the last twenty-four hours have been, at least I didn’t obsess over Dominic; I was too busy with myself for that. With Leon. With the bizarre, new memories I was creating.

  I straighten my back at the thought. I can do this. I can let go of my friendship with Dominic and our string of one-night stands. From what I sense from Leon, he’ll have no qualms with filling the void of any weak moment I might experience… What if I impulse-text Leon for company instead?

  My stomach suddenly hurts.

  Pandora, tell me you’re okay at least.

  I grab my stomach with both hands. Push inward to calm it. Then, I type out, Yes, I am OK. Now stop.

  Scheuermann?

  I downplay the pain. At least I did no backflips last night. I tell Dominic my back burns from the dancing at Smother, but that it’s under control. He sends me a phone number.

  She’s a student friend if you don’t want Geraldine to work your back while I’m gone. You need your 3 times a week!

  His exclamation point gets to me. I choke up.

  K, fine.

  I messed up with Melissa, my ex. She’s not going to hang with Grandma now. Need to start from scratch on a solution.

  That makes me choke up more. Crap, I really want everything good in the world for him. Dominic has never treated me with anything but concern and respect.

  So you’re staying? I ask.

  Yeah. Until I have a solution. Can we talk?

  In my mind I hear his voice asking that question, and I want to cry. Here I am, unable to offer him even my friendship.

  Busy today. Later. Xoxo, I text back.

  Okay, babe, he replies. Don’t give up. You can do this. And I know he refers to school. Life. Getting my shit together.

  I drop the phone in my purse and cover my mouth with my hand, quelling a small sob. I squeeze my eyes shut at how considerate he is. With all of his problems, Dominic has room to care about me too.

  My dream has a soundtrack. Feet shuffling over floorboards in Grandma’s slippers. It doesn’t match the action movie I’ve got going in my dream, in which I’m chasing Leon down a narrow alleyway with a loaded M16.

  When I open my mouth to scream insults at him, my voice is not my own but the creaking of our front door. Even from within my sleep-haze, I know this makes no sense.

  I fight my way free, emerging from the inane storyline, and drag in a sharp breath as I grasp on to reality.

  That was our front door creaking. And the slippers were my grandmother’s. I shoot out of bed, tug my jeans on, and whip a sweater out of the closet. In the hallway¸ the crisp nighttime breeze from the outdoors reaches me through the den.

  “Shit,” I mutter. To be sure that I’m right, I peer into Grandma’s bedroom. Her sheets are in disarray and the room empty. The en-suite light shines white under the door, giving me hope, until all I find is the nightgown she wore when she said goodnight.

  What surprises me is the scent of perfume. Its tendrils leave a reeking trail from the bathroom through the entire house. I feel my face crinkle into a frown while I debate whether to call my uncle or not. A swift glance at my watch reveals that it’s four a.m.

  In case I need assistance, I shove my phone in my pocket. I stride out the wide-open door and survey the quiet street we live on without finding any sign of life. No cars, no neighbors, no Grandma. I clamp onto my neck with one hand, thinking. How far can an old woman in slippers get?

  I inhale the air around me, absently wondering if I can go by the perfume stench. I can’t.

  My guess is as good as any as to where she’s heading, so I’ll go with my first instinct—downtown and the Shell station. I could take the car, but what good would come of driving when she’s on foot? She could be taking one of the walkways. I launch into a fast jog in an attempt to catch up with her.

  I reach downtown quickly, a picturesque area, conserved the way it was in the olden days. The two-story wooden houses used to be where people lived. Now, most have been converted into shops, many with the owners living upstairs.

  Fifteen minutes later I’ve detoured through park paths and side alleys without as much as a glimpse of my grandmother, and I’m approaching the southern part of town by the time Alan calls.

  “Son. You awake?” His voice is gruff with sleep. He must have received some sort of news, and I pray the hospital didn’t call him. Fuck, why didn’t I check with them first? Frustrated, I rake a hand through my hair.

  “Yeah, I’m out searching for Grandma—she took off. I got up a minute too late.” I press two fingers over the bridge of my nose. “Someone called you, huh? The gas station owner?” I ask, because I don’t want to assume it’s the ER.

  “No. Vicky Kramer. Remember her from the theater? She owns a business herself now. 51, that clothing store.”

  “Okay—and?” Yes, Vicky worked the ticket booth. I don’t catch the connection, though, with her being closer to Alan’s age than my grandmother’s.

  “Mom was born in that house,” Alan says, “and Vicky woke up to her banging on the front door. Where are you now?”

  With my uncle on the phone, I run down Churchill Street, then take a left onto Greenville. 51 is five stores down, the night clear enough for me to detect any movement around me. “I’m here, but I see no one else,” I inform him.

  My uncle’s blue Volvo whirrs quietly toward me from the opposite end of the street and comes to a halt by the little lady’s childhood home.

  “Because Vicky took Mom upstairs. She’s still confused, so Vicky made her tea to keep her busy while they wait for us.”

  I fill my lungs with air in an effort to calm myself as Alan gets out of the car. A single light greets us from the upstairs apartment.

  We find Grandma in the kitchen. She wears a puzzled smile above the rim of the teacup, and it’s clear that she doesn’t recognize us.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Alan whispers. His voice cracks with emotion, mirroring my own feelings. I swallow as Grandma’s gaze floats through her son and stills on Vicky.

  “Can I go to bed, Mom? I’m tired.”

  As far as I can tell, Vicky’s only similarity to old pictures of my great-grandmother is the short, curly hair.
Vicky’s mouth opens and closes, unable to decide on an answer.

  “How about we take a drive first,” Alan answers for her, and I notice how he avoids calling his mother “Mom.”

  “I don’t want to,” Grandma whines, her voice that of a little girl’s.

  My uncle shows no surprise.

  “Pearl, listen, okay?” Alan is the adult speaking to a small child. Her chin trembles, and I instinctively want to stop him from forcing the issue. I don’t, though, because I understand what he’s doing. He’s been in this situation before and knows what works. And here I’ve given him an “F” in human interaction.

  By the time we’ve returned to the house, Grandma’s five-year-old self is retreating. She rubs her hands, staring from one to the other, knees pressed together in her seat on the couch. She speaks with her own voice again when she asks “Why are we awake? Are we waiting for someone?”

  “No, Little Lady,” I say. “We went for a walk, but you’re right—we should get some shuteye now.”

  She blinks, mystified. Her lips part around a question she ends up suppressing, maybe because she guesses the truth—how she took that stroll on her own accord and we chased her down.

  Alan and I relax at the kitchen table after she retreats to her bedroom. It’s a quiet sort of companionship we don’t share often. He takes a sip of the coffee he just warmed up, and I shudder a little; reheated caffeine isn’t one of my vices.

  “She’s gone to 51 before, huh?” I inquire.

  “Couple of times.” He nods. His gaze rises from the spoon he swirls in the cup, and I meet it, trying to remember if the bags he sports under his eyes are new.

  “Believe me. I’d rather not ‘put her away’ either, Dominic, but she’s not safe at home anymore. I’m not saying we need to move her into the old folk’s home, but there’s an assisted living facility—”

  “Shit, Alan,” I say, raising my voice, “I just want to get done with my studies, and I’ll be back for good. We need a temporary solution since I can’t trust you with her. We’ve never relied on you for anything anyway. While you were out on that boat, sailing the Seven Seas, living the life, I used to wonder what took you so long, and then who the hell starts on a college degree—too far away from their family to be of any support—at thirty-five?”