by Annie Stone
She’s not too tall, and not too short. Not as skinny as the girls I usually look at when I play with myself, but not too fat, either. Oh yes, she has curves to die for—with tits that make my mouth water and an ass I just want to smack. Fuck, yeah. I clutch my cock harder, squeezing it almost brutally as I imagine ramming into her. Again and again.
I remember leaning against the fridge as she tried to work up all her courage to tell me what to do. It was kind of cute.
I know what you’re thinking: why am I jerking off to her when, face to face, I treat her like shit? All I can say is the male brain works in weird ways. We can really hate a woman and still want to fuck her because she’s good-looking. No problem.
While my hand whizzes over my hard-on, I imagine her full, red lips tight around it as I fuck her mouth. She looks up at me with her big, round eyes, which are watering as I ram into her so hard it feels uncomfortable in her throat. My hands hold her head tight, keeping it still so I can get in the way I want.
My movement becomes hectic. I’m almost there. All it takes is imagining her little pink tongue licking the underside of my dick, and there I am. With a loud gasp, I cum across my hand and stomach. I stay where I am for a second, imagining her filled with my slime. She swallows, letting a bit of it trickle down her lips. Before I can get hard again, I walk over to the bathroom to wash off the gunk.
I hope I don’t have to keep jerking off thinking about my father’s bitch all year…
I wake up early. My mouth is dry. Pulling on my boxers, I go to the kitchen. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and greedily start gulping it down.
“Errm…” Somebody behind me quietly clears her throat. My cock gets hard as soon as I hear her voice. Good thing I’m standing behind the kitchen island. I turn around to face her.
She gives me a shy smile. “Good morning.”
She’s wearing shorts and a tank top her tits are almost spilling out of. Her hair is piled up on her head in a tousled bun, and she’s wearing black-rimmed glasses. She’d be awesome as a sexy librarian… Shit, that thought doesn’t exactly help my dick calm down.
I stare at her, not saying anything. Okay, I’m staring at her tits.
She starts getting restless, looking at the floor. “Um… Sleep well?”
Is she serious? I’m acting like an asshole, and she’s trying to make conversation? Women. It’s like they’re begging to be treated badly…
“I was just going to make breakfast.” She walks over to the fridge and rummages through its contents. “Bacon and eggs?”
The image of eggs reminds me of my balls yearning to be sucked by her lips.
“What do you like for breakfast?” she asks.
I raise an eyebrow, still not saying anything.
“I… Hunter… I’m trying, okay? I don’t want any trouble. I want to get to know you. I care about your dad. I—”
I step out from behind the kitchen island to stop her from babbling. Fuck my hard-on. I step in really close. “If you want to open your mouth in my presence, you’re welcome to suck my dick. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”
She swallows, and I see a pained expression flicker across her face. She looks at the fridge, her hands trembling. Her head nods slightly, and a tear drops from the corner of her eye. Impatiently, she wipes it away and turns her back to me.
She finds a bowl, cracks eggs into it. Drops a fork. Swears quietly before she takes out a new one to whip the eggs.
Guilt flares up in me, but I quickly punch it down. She’s a gold digger. That’s the only explanation. Why else would a hot woman like her choose to be with an old man?
I make a point of looking bored as I leave the kitchen. In the hallway, I have to take a deep breath. I feel like I’m stuck in a bad movie. Seriously… What was I thinking saying that to her? Some synapses in my brain must have short-circuited. I’ve never intentionally mistreated a woman like that. Sure, some women talk a lot of crap, but I usually just leave. I’ve never willingly hurt a woman before, and it’s making me feel sick.
“Hey, Hunt,” my father says, walking down the stairs.
I give him a brief nod as he passes. In a minute, he’s going to storm out of the kitchen, smoke coming out of his nostrils, and send me back to Miami. He knows that would be the best punishment for insolent little assholes.
“Hey, sweetie,” I hear him say. There’s a pause, probably him ramming his tongue down her throat. The mere thought of it makes bile rise up in my throat.
“I thought I’d make some breakfast,” she says, and her voice sounds completely normal. “What do the guys like to eat?”
What’s wrong with her? Is she still trying to suck up to us?
It makes me wonder what it would be like if she talked to me in her normal voice. Without fear or insecurity. Like I’m the man she trusts, the one she doesn’t need to pretend for. She obviously feels that way with my dad. Me, on the other hand… I’m the asshole constantly throwing shade at her and scaring the shit out of her.
Suddenly, I remember how my mom flipped one day from being a great mother to being a horrible one, all because my dad left her. Now she’s in Miami, constantly drunk, spreading her legs for one man after another, while Dad’s here in San Diego with his new babe. I know it’s not Mackenzie’s fault, but I can’t be mad at Dad. So it’s her I have to blame.
I run upstairs, put on sweatpants and a T-shirt, and tie my Nikes. Searching for my running playlist on my phone, I stick the earbuds in. What a shitty start to the day. I wish my dad had never met that woman.
3
Mackenzie
I lean against Carter, still upset from my encounter with Hunter. I don’t know why I can’t be the confident woman I usually am around Carter’s sons. I stopped taking shit from other people a long time ago, but with them… I want them to like me. What future could my relationship with Carter have if his kids can’t stand me? When push comes to shove, he’ll always choose them over me.
But I love him. And I don’t want to lose him. He’s a great man, and he loves me, too.
“Mmm, you’re such a snuggle bug this morning,” he whispers, pulling me closer. I turn my face toward him, getting up on my tiptoes a little. He smiles lovingly, pressing his lips against mine.
When we break away, he brushes my cheek. “What are you making?”
“I was thinking bacon and eggs, pancakes, and fruit salad. Sound all right?”
“Oh, yes. But you do know this is going to make them expect this every day, right?” He lightly smacks my behind and goes to get a mug out of the cupboard. He pours himself some coffee and proceeds to watch me make pancakes and eggs. I put the bacon in the microwave so it gets crispy without producing a greasy mess.
A few minutes later, Carey comes downstairs. “Hey, son,” Carter greets him brightly.
“Hey, Dad,” he says before giving me a slightly sour look and mumbling, “Hey, Mackenzie.”
“Good morning,” I say happily. “What would you like to drink? Coffee? Orange juice?”
He gives me an irritated look. “Coffee.”
I get a mug from the cupboard and pour him some coffee. “Milk? Sugar?”
He shakes his head, mumbling a thank you—or at least that’s what I make of it.
He sits down beside Carter on one of the stools at the kitchen island and quietly sips his coffee. You can literally see him slowly waking up.
“You were back before midnight. I’m impressed,” Carter says, tousling his son’s hair.
“Dad, my hair!” Carey shakes him off. Though I don’t think his blond hair has even seen a brush today.
“Oh, excuse me!” Carter says mockingly. “What are your plans for today? And where’d Hunter go?”
“He’s out running. We’re going to the beach with Fisher and some of the others.”
“The beach. Sounds good.” Carter looks at me. “What do you think, sweetie?” Carey looks at him in shock, and Carter adds, “Oh, don’t you worry, son, we’ll
go to a different spot.”
Relief spreads across Carey’s face, and I quickly turn away so they can’t see my smile. Retrieving some dishes from the cupboard, I set the table on the outside porch and take the food out there.
Carey and Carter sit and start digging in.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Hunter?” I ask.
The two of them shake their heads. “He could be gone for hours,” Carey says, his mouth full of chewed-up pancake.
Okay, so it’s no manners today then, I think, piling my own plate with eggs and fruit salad. And a strip of bacon. Okay, maybe five…
“Did you talk to Mom?” Carey asks his dad. He wants to look cool, but at the moment, he looks just like the boy he really is.
Carter swallows his food before he revealing, “I did. She agreed on one condition… She wants more alimony.”
I frown. That doesn’t make sense. Why should she get more money if their sons are no longer going to live with her?
“Are you going to give it to her?” Carey asks, sounding insecure.
Carter puts a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Of course. I’m not forcing you to stay in Miami if you don’t want to be there.”
Carey looks relieved. He starts to say something, then looks over at me. I understand. He doesn’t want to say it in front of me. “I’m going to get more coffee. Anybody else want more?” They both nod, and I go back to the kitchen, where I dawdle, bustling around for a few minutes. When I can’t pretend any longer, I go back out, coffee pot in hand.
They’re on a new subject now. Video games? Cars? I can’t tell, but they’re engrossed in their discussion. “Mac plays too, sometimes,” Carter says. I give him a questioning look. “Video games.”
I wave it off. “Just Super Mario.”
“That’s so old,” Carey comments.
I nod. “When I was your age, it was cutting-edge stuff.”
“When was that?” Carey asks. “Yesterday?”
I smile. A joke. It’s a good start, right? Maybe there’s still hope with him.
“A little longer than that,” I say.
Carter adds, “Yeah. She’s not that young.”
Carey gives us a cheeky smile. “So when are you buying that Porsche, Dad?”
His dad looks irritated. “What? Why would I buy a Porsche?”
“No reason,” Carey says nonchalantly, but he throws me a look that makes all my hopes crumble to dust. He still hates me. And probably always will.
I swallow, trying not to show how much it hurts, and at that precise moment, Hunter barges through the gate into the backyard, all sweaty.
“Any breakfast left?” he asks, sitting down in the free seat.
“Err”—I look around at the demolished plates—“yep. Pancakes.” I hand him the lone plate with food still on it.
“Any bacon and eggs?” he asks.
I stare at the two empty plates. “There’s some left inside.” I jump up. Carter tries to hold me back, but for some reason I’m not ready to interrupt my masochistic journey for the boys’ affection just yet.
In the kitchen, I crack some more eggs in the pan and put more bacon in the microwave. When it’s done, I pile everything on a plate, pour him a glass of orange juice, and go back outside.
Carter looks at me accusingly. “Did you just make him more eggs?”
All three of them look up at me—Carter incredulously, Carey condescendingly, and Hunter… I have no idea how to read his expression. He knows how to completely erase human emotion from his features, putting in its place a blank mask. Silent, I put the plate and glass down in front of him. He mumbles a thank you and inhales the food.
Carter grabs my hand, stroking my knuckles. “He’s capable of making his own breakfast, you know.”
“No problem.” I wave it off, suddenly very interested in the fabric of my shorts.
Inside, the phone rings, and Carter gets up. Once he’s inside, Carey gives me an icy look. “No use trying to suck up to us, beast.”
“Carey,” Hunter says warningly.
I wonder why he’s suddenly defending me. What caused the sudden change of heart? Carey seems to be wondering the same thing. “What?” he asks his brother.
Hunter leans back and downs his orange juice, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. “That tactic doesn’t work on someone like her.”
An evil grin spreads on Carey’s face. “Then what do you suggest?”
I don’t like where this conversation is heading. And, once again, I don’t stand up for myself. Everything inside me wants to show them that they can’t keep pushing me around, but a knot in my throat prevents the words from forming and my lips are glued together, refusing to move.
Instead, I get up, clear the table, and escape to the kitchen, leaving their mean words behind me. They just love seeing me weak…
Angry tears rise up inside me, but I shake my head. I’m not going to let them get to me. That’s not me. I’ve left that behind. The feeling of not being good enough. The idea that it’s all my fault. The knowledge that I couldn’t protect my sister.
Dumping the dishes in the sink, I run up to the bedroom to get my gym clothes. On the way out, I open the door to Carter’s office and tell him I’m off to the gym. He nods before returning to his call. I head out front and hop into my car. It’s pink and makes me happy. Just not right now.
Turning up the music—Linkin Park—I whizz over to the gym.
“Hey, Mac,” Shane calls as I enter the building. “I didn’t know you were coming in today.”
“I wasn’t going to, but I need to let off some steam.”
He nods. He knows what I mean, because he knows the demons living inside me that I keep wrestling down.
I moved to San Diego when I was eighteen. With a scholarship to the university, I was ecstatic to get out of my tiny town in Iowa. A place that held no good memories. I was so angry with everything—the people, my life, my story. I used to freak out for absolutely no reason—just because life was so unfair. In San Diego, I longed for company, but whenever somebody was interested in me, I pushed them away. Even after I started my awesome new life in California, I was just as lonely as I’d been in the middle of nowhere.
One afternoon, I’d passed by Shane’s gym. From the outside, I couldn’t tell what it was. The sign above the door read: Free at Last. The words reverberated somewhere deep inside me. This was exactly what I wanted. Freedom. I wanted to leave behind all the shit I had been through and start living for real. I wanted to stop being my own shadow, an empty shell, and start being a normal eighteen-year-old.
So I rang the doorbell, and Shane answered. He smiled at me, invited me in, and told me the story behind the sign. This was a gym, but not for the usual muscle bros checking themselves out in the mirror as they swing around way-too-heavy dumbbells. This was a women’s gym. It wasn’t just about fitness but also empowerment, about giving a new life to women who’d been through hell. Giving new life through exercise and therapy. They employed both trainers and therapists.
This was a huge opportunity for me. I learned to channel my aggression through boxing and, for the first time, talked about everything that had happened. It took a while, but eventually, all the anger inside me disappeared. The dust settled. I finally understood that it was not my fault, that I had not done anything to deserve what happened to me.
After a year of studying and frequenting the gym, I decided to change my major. That’s what led me to where I am today.
Today, I’m a therapist at this gym. I want to help other women. I want to give something back. I want to pass on what Shane did for me. Without him, I don’t know where I’d be.
Like usual, I get changed and enter the big main room.
“Jean is about to start his kick-boxing class if you’re interested,” Shane says behind me.
“Do I get to kick his ass?” I joke.
“Knock yourself out.” Shane laughs quietly. “But if you break your wrist because you hit a man made of steel, it’s no
t considered a work-related accident!”
Grinning, I look over at Jean, who’s headed over to us. He hugs me hello, having to bend down in order to do so. He’s six-foot-seven and weighs 265 pounds. In other words: he’s a mountain of a man. And a former MMA fighter. In the beginning, I was a bit scared of him, but he’s a real sweetheart. Like all coaches and therapists, he believes in what he’s doing here. His own wife was at a bar with friends one day when someone roofied her drink and raped her. The rapists were never caught. When Jean realized he couldn’t help her get over it, he tried to find something that could. And that’s how he met Shane.
Jean brought Sheila here, and after the program helped her, he offered to give classes himself. Today, he’s a full-time coach, and Sheila works reception. They’re just one of the success stories Free at Last has written over the years. And I really mean both of them, because Jean was a wreck, too. He kept blaming himself for not protecting his wife, for not being able to avenge her rapists, for not being able to help her get better. That’s what finally made me realize one important thing: rape affects more people than the victims. It affects all those who love them, too. Especially the husbands, fiancés, and boyfriends.
In our society, men are told it is their responsibility to protect their women. If they don’t, they’re losers. Sometimes it’s difficult for them to accept that there’s nothing they can do. But how can you protect someone if you’re not even there? And what’s the solution? Round-the-clock security? I don’t know, but I do know Jean and Sheila are a success story. Sheila found a way not to let the experience define who she is, and Jean learned that it wasn’t his fault.
“Are you joining my class?” he asks me now.
“My chance to kick your ass?” I joke. “How could I say no?”
He laughs. “I’m not sure you can get your leg up that high, shortie.”
“Hey,” I say, playfully hitting his shoulder. “I’m not that short.”
Sheila laughs behind me. “No, sweetheart, it’s not you. This man is just ridiculously tall.”
She snuggles up to his side, and he puts his beefy arm around her. They’re a picture-perfect couple. When I say, “Awwww,” Jean’s grin turns feral.