by Nicole Fox
I make an urging noise, nudging him with my knee. He ignores me and keeps up his cruel teasing, his tongue brushing just near my clit, brushing it slightly, and then moving away, leaving me hornier than ever. He does this for a minute or so, but it feels like a decade. I nudge him more than once and he just goes on ignoring me.
“Baby,” I moan. “Oh, baby, please.”
He gives me what I want, pressing his mouth against my clit, not just kissing it but making out with it, pulling on it with his lips and then sucking it, and finally licking it so fast, it’s like he’s turned snake-tongued. He grab his head, grabbing onto his short hair and tWolfing my hips against his mouth, the pleasure exploding from being withheld for so long and in such a teasing way. I close my eyes and moan, a singsong moan that fills the room.
Then Fink pulls away, looking up between my legs with that wicked smirk on his face. “So, do you wanna be fucked?” He gives my thigh a squeeze.
“Yes,” I moan, pussy yelling at me now: “Get me a fucking cock or a fucking tongue or I’ll kill you!”
He stands up and then reaches down and flips me over so I’m on my hands and knees. A thrill runs through me. This is exactly the way for us to fuck. We’ve become animals, consumed with each other. I grab the sheets in bunches and stick my ass out, baring my pussy for him, waiting for that ten-inch polearm to press against me, and then slide inside of me.
He places his hands on my ass cheeks, sending tingles around my hips and to my pussy, and then brings his cock to my pussy. He brushes it against my clit at first, moving it up and down, near my hole, away from my hole. But my pussy is too wet for him. He slides it up, and his cock slides inside of me.
“Fuck. Oh, fuck.”
His thick cock splits me apart. I don’t know if what I’m feeling is pleasure or pain for the first half-minute as he slides his massive cock deeper and deeper inside of me, finally touching my sweet spot where his enlarged head pushes hard. I push back, grasping for pleasure, and finally the pain drifts away as my pussy loosens, flooding with warmth. I relax into the feeling and then push back again, bucking on him.
“You’ll take it hard, Nancy,” he says. And again, it’s not a question.
I moan in agreement.
I do. I take it hard.
Grabbing onto my ass cheeks so that I’ll know there’ll be red handprints there later, he slides his cock deep inside of me and then out, deep inside and out, getting harder with each thrust, like the momentum of a bull charging downhill. His cock slams into my sweet spot with the force of an oil derrick, the regularity of a machine capable of cracking the earth. His hips are powerful, so powerful that each time he slams into me, I’m thrown forward onto the bed, once or twice getting a mouthful of sheet. I keep thinking: this is Fink, the oil-flecked biker, the oil-flecked biker is buried balls-deep inside of me.
I buck harder, sliding up and down the length of him, both of us meeting in the middle as though we’ve fucked dozens of times before. We find a rhythm like good musicians find a rhythm, feeling out the music, exploring it, and then settling into it and losing ourselves in the tune. He grunts and growls and I moan and scream, screaming louder as he fucks me harder.
“Grab my hair,” I moan, something I’ve never asked for before.
He doesn’t hesitate, grabbing my hair in a bunch in his fist and yanking on it as he drills me. He tugs on my scalp, yanking my head back, and that’s what does it more than anything: that, and his impressive girth, stretching me open. A thousand tingles attack my pussy, my nipples, my scalp, a thousand triggers, any of which could lead to an explosion. When the explosion hits, I’m not ready. It takes me by complete surprise,
I collapse forward on the bed, face buried in the sheers, my screams stifled. My pussy goes tight for a split second and then the pleasure erupts, loosening me, the orgasm punching me in the gut with the violence of a fist. I reach back for Fink; he grabs my wrists, pulling me toward his cock, fucking me all the harder as the orgasm roils through me, consuming every single inch of me. I come over and over, time warping, releasing a quickfire of explosive pleasure onto his ramming cock. I twist my hips, adjusting my pussy on him, and he hits the exact right spot at the exact right time, and another orgasm explodes. I ride the wave of pleasure, barely aware of my moaning anymore, barely aware of anything but for the pleasure deep inside of me.
When the orgasm passes, I hear him, my Fink, my animal, moaning loudly and clawing at my ass cheeks as though falling.
“Yes, yes,” I moan, grinding up and down. “Yes, baby. Oh, yes.”
He comes inside of me, letting out an animal roar and collapsing onto my back, his torso laid flat against me, his mouth near my ear, panting. We stay like that for a time, his cock wilting inside of me, his come spilling down my thighs onto the bed, both of us breathing slower and slower as we recover from the mad fucking.
Then we lie down on the bed, too spent to do much else, my head resting on his chest. I don’t mean to fall asleep. It’s still early. We could have sex again, or talk, or anything. But I feel too contented and I can’t stop myself. No sooner has the prospect of sleep appeared than the reality has replaced it.
I sleep, dreaming of clawing hands and rhythmic thrusting.
I wake to an empty bed, sunlight shining on my face. I walk around my apartment, calling Fink’s name like he might be hiding under the couch. I don’t find him. He’s gone. He woke up in the middle of the night and snuck out on me. I want to be angry, but more than anything I’m confused. Confused by this enigmatic man, the type of man who’ll say he wants to lie low for a few days and then leave after . . . after what? After he’s gotten what he wanted? I hope that’s not true, but I can’t deny that it’s possible. It wouldn’t be the first time I misread somebody.
I sit on the couch, drinking coffee, watching morning TV, wondering if I’ll ever be able to pin Fink Foster down.
Chapter Eleven
Nancy
The park outside my window has turned brown. From up here in my stuffy office, it looks like a world of brown, interspersed here and there with patches of green. Kids play in the fallen leaves, kicking them into the air so that they settle like oversized dust. I watch them as I always watch them, wishing I had kids of my own and hating the idea at the same time. Kids bring happiness; kids bring out the worst in people. Kids bring joy; kids turn sheriffs into raging, violent assholes.
It’s three o’clock and work is dragging. Everything has been dragging lately. Dad is getting even worse, sometimes calling me at ten in the morning so blasted out of his head I can barely understand him. Mom has called me perhaps fifty times, begging me to come to California. And Fink has disappeared out of my life. It’s been a month and he hasn’t tried to contact me. I won’t go to The Mermaid looking for him again. I’ve put myself out there once. And Michaels might be there, waiting.
The only positive I can salvage from this past month is that the vandalism and violence between the bikers and the police seems to have stopped, at least its public side. At least I can tell myself when I lie awake at night, thinking of Fink, that I’m not thinking of a dead man.
I try and get on with my work, put my head down and comb over the document, wanting to find the person who invented legal jargon and string him up by his hands. Latin and over-complicated sentence structure and blah-blah-blah until I want to scream to bring some life into this stuffy office. Five past three, ten past three, fifteen past three. I look at the clock so often it’s like time is hardly moving at all. I just want to go home and take a bath and maybe touch myself even though I’ll feel rotten about it afterwards.
I click onto the calendar on my computer, idly, just for something to do which will bring me that much closer to home time. But something strange happens as I study it. A warning signal flashes in my mind, the same kind of warning signal that flashes when I’ve left the water running or the stove on, rushing back up to my apartment to prevent a flood or a fire . . .
“Shit,” I mutter, wonde
ring how I could be so doughy-headed. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Shit?” Janine says, leaning over my desk, looking annoyingly cool and chic and in, and to make it worse, she doesn’t even seem to realize how cool and chic and in she looks.
“I’m busy,” I say.
“Excuse me.” She holds her hands up, walking away.
I stand up and make for the exit, head pounding, belly aching, toes curling, world burning. I’m the biggest idiot in the goddamn world. I’m the biggest fool who ever lived.
“Hey!”
I turn. It’s my boss, Mr. Smithson. He’s a big-bellied big-voiced big-thumbed man, his big thumbs always hooked through his belt loops like he’s a rancher. “I need that Peterson proof by five. Where are you going?”
I ask myself: do I want to lose my job over this? The answer is, I don’t know, but at the same time, the idea of sitting up there for another hour without knowing . . . but my job . . . I curse myself. My whole life, sitting on the fence, my whole life, unable to make a decision, my whole life, seeing the best in people. My whole life, given over to commitment as though commitment is the Holy Grail, and I have to stay committed to everything forever even if I don’t enjoy it, even if it does me harm.
“I have an emergency,” I say, walking away before Mr. Smithson and his big voice can stop me.
I pace across the parking lot, aware that I might have just cost myself my job and not all that bothered about it, and climb into my car. I drive away from the building and the park to the nearest convenience store, tongue feeling too big in my mouth, so big and unwieldy that it’s difficult to make small talk with the cashier. I wonder if the kind-faced old lady will judge me for buying a pregnancy test, but she just scans it through with my toilet paper, chocolate, and cereal (purchased for camouflage).
I return to the car. I need to get back to my apartment and pee on this blasted stick. I curse myself again for being so flighty. That’s not me, but then, it’s not me to barge out of work, either, and it’s definitely not me to do it so brazenly. For the first time in years, I wonder if I really enjoy that job at all, or if I didn’t just take it because it was the only job I could find in Salem and I wanted to stay close to Dad, to try to help the old sneering drunk when really I don’t owe him a thing.
I’m halfway to my apartment when the old sneering drunk calls me. I pull to the side of the road and answer.
“Hello, is this Nancy?”
“Miss . . . I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” It’s Dad’s neighbor; I recognize her voice.
“Miss Stamper,” the woman says. “It’s your father. He’s waving a gun around in the hallway of the building and they . . . well, the police have come and gone and haven’t done a thing. He said he’d stop, but he just keeps doing it, and . . .”
I sigh, but not one of defeat. It’s a sigh of rage. “I’ll be right there, Miss Stamper.”
Maybe it’s confidently striding away from my boss, or maybe it’s the pregnancy test sitting under a packet of toilet paper, but I’m pissed off. I’m so pissed off my knuckles turn bone-white as I grip the steering wheel. I’m pissed off at Dad for putting people’s lives in danger and I’m pissed off at his cop buddies for not giving a damn. I come to a screeching halt outside Dad’s apartment building. A few families are gathered outside like the building is a crime scene, which it very well might become.
I leave the car with the grocery bag in my hand. I’m not sure why I pick it up. I guess it’s routine. I only realize it when I’m at the main door, and the idea of walking back across the street—with the families watching me in confusion—doesn’t appeal to me. So I walk up the stairs to Dad’s floor.
I hear him before I see him. “Think they can tell me what to do. Do they know who I am? Do they know who I am? I’m the goddamn law, missy. I’m the law, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You think you can talk down to me? Who do you think you are? Something big? Something special? I’m the goddamn law! How many bandits did this lawman lock up, huh? And they think they can just . . . Nancy?”
He pauses, gun held over his head, pointing up at the floor above.
I step forward, grocery bag held like a shield. “Dad, what are you doing? You’re scaring people.”
He squints at me with his bloodshot eyes. “Scaring people? How am I scaring people? I’m just try’na make people see.”
“See what?” I ask, inching forward, wondering why I stuck around for this man. He clearly doesn’t care about me. He clearly never has.
For the first time in years, I let myself listen to the niggling voice inside of me: he uses me so that he has someone to drive him around when he wrecks his car, to criticize when he feels like dirt. He uses me, and he always has, and he always will.
I clench my teeth as I talk, restraining my anger. “All I see is your gun, Dad. Is the safety on?”
“Of course the . . .” He squints at it, and then flips a sWolf. “Oh, it wasn’t. Okay, sorry? What do you want from me?”
“Can we talk in your apartment?”
He watches me for a moment, and then nods. “Fine, fine. That’s just fine and dandy.”
We go into his apartment, which looks like a bomb has hit it: dishes everywhere, clothes everywhere, cans and bottles everywhere. Flies buzz around the overflowing trash bag, takeout containers stacked hip-high. I ignore the filth, place my grocery bag on the one unoccupied area of counter, and face Dad.
“You need to put the gun down,” I say.
“I need—”
I fold my arms. “I mean it. Put that gun down or I’m calling Fink.”
“Fink, Fink?” Dad laughs raucously. “You mean your little biker friend?”
“He’s not so little.” I take a step forward, looking at Dad dead-serious. He’s pitiful, I reflect, sweaty and old and ugly and mean. Once this is over, I’m done, I tell myself. I won’t let this man twist me anymore. “And maybe you’ll say your cop friends will protect you, but do you really want to take that risk?”
He mumbles something, and then places the gun on the counter next to my grocery bag. But he’s drunk, of course, because he’s always drunk. He slips and knocks the grocery bag to the floor. My heart drops. For the second time today, I curse myself for being stupid; I should’ve just returned to the car.
Dad’s drunken eyes follow the pregnancy test as it spills out of the bag and falls to the floor. Before I have a chance to stop him, he darts forward, falling to his knees and scooping the test up, holding it close to his face as though struggling to comprehend what he’s seeing. When he’s finally lumbered to his feet, he turns on me with the test in one hand, the other bunched into a fist.
“What is this?” he asks.
Maybe I’d crumble on any other day, but my anger bolsters me. “It’s a pregnancy test,” I say, voice full of acid.
“Why do you have it?”
“I’m sure you can work it out. And don’t look at me like that. I’m twenty-three years old!”
“You’re not married.”
I laugh bitterly. “So suddenly you’re Mr. Family Values? Is that really the game you want to play? Don’t stand there and try and act self-righteous, Dad, because you just look stupid. You have no right to judge me for anything, especially when it comes to family.” The anger rolls on, unstoppable. Years of withheld rage escapes my lips.
“What sort of father were you?” I roar. “What sort of person were you, for that matter? You had a wife who loved you and a daughter who adored you, but all you ever cared about was the bottle. Oh, just one more drink, just one more drink . . . do you know how fucking pathetic you sound? Do you know how sad you looked day after day, that smile on your face as you sipped from your whisky bottle, the smile growing darker the more you sipped? Sad, old, fucking pathetic loser.” I spit the words, trembling with unbridled rage.
“Is that how you talk to your father?” Dad asks, tears in his eyes. “Maybe I should have beaten you after all! You and your whore mother! Look at you. First
that cunt runs off to California with a goddamn fairy, and now my only daughter is pregnant by a criminal!”
“That’s enough!” I scream, taking a step forward and raising my hand. “One more word and I’ll slap you across the face!”
“Does the truth hurt?” he sneers. Your mother’s a whore and you’re a—”
I slap him across the face so hard he drops the pregnancy test. As he reels back, recovering, I pick up the test and pick up his gun.
We stand opposite each other for a time, Dad with his hand to his cheek, tears streaming down his face. “You hit me,” he says. “All these years, I’ve never hit you. And you hit me.”
“Can you blame me?” I snarl. “Can you really blame me, Dad?”
“What, are you going to shoot me now, too?” He looks at the gun, which I hold facing the ground. “Is that your grand plan?”