by Huss, JA
She thinks about this for a moment. I know it hurts too much. She will not be able to sit today. But I want to see what she decides.
She nods. Then props herself up and I help her turn over and position her ass so it’s hanging off the edge of my legs and not pressing too hard against the couch.
“When we’re done here I’ll go see if there’s any ointment I can rub on those welts.”
She makes a face at me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Lyssa. I don’t get off on hurting people. So if that’s been your experience in the past, forget about it when you’re with me. I did it because it was expected. And you were being belligerent.”
She sighs.
“But forget about that now,” I say, sliding my fingers right between her legs. She’s very wet and ready for what I promised her. “Just relax and let me make you feel good.”
When I push a single finger inside her she opens her legs a little, granting me permission and access at the same time.
“I want you to fu—” But she stops herself, just in time.
So proud of her.
“You want what?” I ask.
“I want you inside me,” she says.
“I am inside you,” I say, pumping her with my finger.
“Not like that.”
“Then like what?”
She sighs. “I want your… penis inside me.”
I laugh, I can’t help it.
“What?” She laughs too. “I wasn’t sure I was allowed to say c-o-c-k.”
“Wild Thing,” I say. “I definitely like you.”
“Anyway…” She sighs.
“You were saying? You wanted my penis inside you?”
“Yes. I’m very turned on right now.”
“Good. You’re supposed to be. And don’t worry, I’m gonna make sure you come.”
“But—”
“Shhhh,” I say, placing a fingertip over her lips. “Just enjoy it.”
She sighs again. Only this time she relaxes even more. The weight of her body falls into me. I play with her breasts a little, appreciating their fullness, their roundness, and her large, pink nipples.
I lean down and take one in my mouth as I slide a second finger up inside her.
She moans, one hand going to my head and grabbing my hair.
I like that. And the truth is, I want to fuck her. I’m so hard right now. Maybe more turned on than she is. But I can’t. Not yet.
I let go of her nipple and straighten up again. Sliding yet another finger inside her. She moans at that. Three fingers is her sweet spot, I realize. Take notes for next time. I’ll start with three.
“You know what?” I say.
“What?” she mumbles, moving her hips a little, helping my fingers fuck her better.
“If you’re very good I’ll let you suck my cock after I’m done with you.”
“Will you?” She laughs.
“Yes. Sucking my cock is a gift, Lyssa. I hope you appreciate that. But if you don’t want to, then that’s cool too.”
“I want to,” she says. “I do.”
“Perfect. Then we both get what we want, don’t we? Isn’t that kinda nice how it works out that way when you’re a good girl?”
“Mmm-hmmm,” she says, grimacing when I push all three fingers deep inside her and wiggle them.
I want to make her squirt like she did last night. But I don’t want to be rough with her and doing it like this would require me being rough. There’s another way, though. One I can try out when I do finally fuck her.
Tomorrow maybe. Or the next day. Or hell, maybe I’ll wait until the last day and use that as her reward.
Her hips start moving with the motion of my fingers and I know she’s getting close. Her mouth is open now, breathing heavier and faster. Ragged and not at all rhythmic.
I grab her breast and squeeze it hard. Kneading it with my whole palm until she starts to moan. My fingers pressing up inside her as my thumb begins to play with her clit.
“Oh, God,” she moans.
Yeah, that’s it. Come for me.
I want to flip her around, spread her legs open, and tease her clit with my tongue as she comes on my fingers.
But I can’t. She’s too sore to be that rough.
So I lean down and kiss her mouth instead. I whisper, “Do you want to suck my cock right now, Lyssa?”
“Mmmm,” she moans back as we kiss.
I stop playing with her breast and slide a finger up to her lips. She opens her mouth immediately, wrapping her lips around it.
“Show me,” I whisper. “Show me how you’ll suck my cock.”
She starts bobbing her head up and down, and oh, man. I want to fucking come right now too.
I slip all my fingers out of her pussy, wet and glistening, then place them up to her lips as I take the other one away. She licks them. Hungrily. Eagerly. I take them away and she moans out a protest. But when I slip all four fingers into her pussy and press my thumb up against her clit, flicking back and forth across her sweet spot, she forgets about where they were and only cares about where they are now.
Her mouth opens wide, and her back bucks, and when I begin to pump my fingers inside her as my thumb continues to massage her clit, she lets out a long, slow moan as she comes.
I don’t even give her a second to enjoy it, I just sit her up and turn her around with one hand as the other unbuttons and unzips my pants. I pull my cock out and then aim her mouth over my tip.
She sucks me off as I finger her ass. Her head bobbing up and down furiously. Her lips sealed up tight against my shaft. Her tongue flat and wide, pressing along the whole length of me as she takes me deep, then pulls back.
I fist her hair, force her down until her face is pressed up against my stomach, and come in her throat with a long, low, growly moan.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Never in my life has a blow job ever felt so good.
She pulls away, spitting out semen as she sits up.
I smile at her, pet her disheveled mess of blonde hair, and then kiss her on the lips.
“Oh, my God,” she whispers into the kiss.
But I just kiss her harder. Wrapping that delicious, unruly mess of hair up in my fist.
She climbs in my lap, hips slightly elevated because of her welts.
And it would be so easy—so fucking easy—to just let her sink down on my cock.
But I don’t let her do that.
Not yet, Mason. Not yet.
I control myself and push my cock out of the way, opening my legs wide enough so she can rest the inside of her thighs against mine and relax, and not have to worry about rubbing her welts against my jeans.
She places her head on my shoulder and I wrap my arms around her waist.
Just hold her tight.
Wild Thing, I think in my head. You’re gonna make me love you if you keep acting like this.
And that’s a very bad idea.
I sigh, because that’s just the truth.
This girl and me? We have no future together. This was just one of her lessons and nothing more.
Still, I let her cling to me. I let myself cling to her.
And then I go one step further. I hold her tight, lean over, giving her time to reposition her legs, then lie back and pull her on top of me.
She relaxes even more. I didn’t think it was possible, but there you have it.
I hold her like that. Her head on my chest. My head pressed against the couch cushions. And I don’t ever remember being so relaxed myself.
Her breathing evens out before mine does, letting me know I won. She’s relaxed, and calm, and satisfied too.
This is such a mistake. I know better. I might not be very experienced in this whole wild-thing-taming profession, but I know better. Damaged people are easy to hurt. You just give them attention. Show them kindness. Be understanding.
That’s all they want. That�
�s all they crave.
And it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong.
I just don’t care at the moment.
I close my eyes and fall asleep with her.
Dreaming about what my life would look like with Lyssa Baylor in it.
CHAPTER TWLEVE - LYSSA
When I wake up I’m alone on the couch. There’s a blanket over me and I’m warm.
“Lyssa,” Mason says.
I realize he said my name a few times and that’s what woke me.
“Hmmm?” I mumble.
“I found some ointment.”
“Mmmm,” I grumble, too tired and too relaxed to move.
He pulls the blanket off me, takes a seat on the couch, and begins to rub the welt.
“Ow!” I say.
“Sorry.”
“You should be. You left marks.”
“We already talked about this,” he says. “Should we talk about it again?”
“No,” I mumble. “I don’t want to talk.” Mostly because the ointment feels kinda good. And his hand, and his attention, and the way he’s careful… all of that feels good too.
“We’re not gonna make it to the mall today.”
“No?” I ask. “But you don’t have clothes.”
“I can make do. I was looking forward to grabbing some food. I’m fucking hungry. But then I realized your stepfather said the kitchen was stocked. And I have another lesson to teach you.”
“What lesson?” I ask, turning my head so I can look at him. Jesus Christ. He’s so fucking handsome, I never want to look away. He’s not as put together as he was last night in the club. Shirt untucked, a few unbuttoned buttons so his chest is partly visible. Lips that beg to be kissed and eyes that transfix. This man. How is it that he ended up here with me? What does he do, really? Is this just another typical job for him? Does he tame other girls for money? I have so many questions.
“Cooking,” he says. “Do you cook?”
“What?” I say, annoyed that he’s thinking about food when I’m thinking about him.
“Good wives cook, Lyssa. So you’re gonna make me dinner tonight.”
“Are you fuc—” I stop and take a deep breath. “Are you serious?”
“Very,” he says. “You must be able to make something, right?”
“Ummm… no. I’ve always had a live-in chef.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes. I did.”
“At your apartment right now. Wherever you’re living. You have a live-in chef?”
“Yeah,” I lie. But only a little lie. I have had a personal chef most of my life. I’m just tired of admitting I’m wrong here. I’m not wrong. I’m right about everything and no one cares. So why not lie about something stupid? Why not make him squirm and deal the way I have to?
“Oh, well.” He shakes his head. “That’s gotta stop.”
“Why? Believe me, Dickerson the Third won’t be asking me to cook.”
“Doesn’t matter. Cooking is something you’ll learn before the wedding. So what would you like to cook?”
Before the wedding. Ugh. God, I want to barf. I hold up a finger and say, “Just so we’re clear, I’m not marrying that man. I’ll hang out here with you until the wedding planners show up, but after that I’m done.”
“Lyssa.”
“Mason?”
“You have to be here for the wedding.”
“No, I don’t. And I won’t be. Believe me. If I really wanted to leave right now, I could find a way.”
He rubs the side of his finger across his forehead and sighs. “How is it that you’re engaged to this man?”
“I’m not, I told you that. I never said yes. Do you see a ring on my finger? My stepfather is making this all up.”
“Why do you think he’s doing that?”
“Why?” I ask.
“Yes, why?”
“I mean, there’s a million reasons,” I say.
“So give me one.”
“Well, he hates that I’m a free spirit.”
“Is that what you call it? Because everybody else is calling it Wild Thing.”
“It’s kind of a cool name though, right? Makes you sing that song in your head, doesn’t it?”
He smiles at me. “Explain why he hates that you’re a free spirit.”
“He wants me to shut my little mouth and do what he says. This isn’t rocket science.”
“He seems to care about you.”
“You would think that,” I say. “My stepfather is a complete jerk. And my mother was going to divorce him before she died. They had lawyers and everything. So if she had done that before she died, I wouldn’t be forced to bend to his will.”
“How so?”
“He took my money, Mason. He made me use my trust fund for college.”
“Poor you,” he says.
Which just pisses me off. Because everyone says that. “Poor Lyssa had to pay her own way through college,” I moan. “Yeah, I get it. Sounds ridiculous and doesn’t garner much sympathy, but five years of private college pretty much ate up that trust fund. It wasn’t meant to be used for college. There was other money for college but he stole it from me. That was my security blanket money and now it’s all gone. He stole from me then he stopped giving me anything when I moved into my apartment. Oh, he sends money still. But I know what that money is. I don’t spend it on me. I do other things with it. Things he would hate,” I spit.
“Things like drugs, and drinking, and clubbing?”
“Why does everyone assume that?”
“Maybe because that’s the image you’re presenting?”
“Well, you know what? Other people’s presumptions aren’t my problem.”
“You’re trying to make me feel sorry for you, Lyssa. And it’s pretty hard to sympathize with your situation. Why don’t you just get a job? Isn’t that what most college graduates do? And why didn’t you just go to a cheaper school? And why did it take you five years to graduate in the first place?”
This is why I don’t talk about myself to people. This is why I can’t form close bonds with friends. These are the questions they ask me. And you know what? It would take a whole lifetime to explain why all this shit matters and why I’m so pissed off about it.
I’m fucked up. That’s the short answer to all those questions. But I’m not going to tell him that. I’m not going to tell anyone that. They can never get past my privilege. They refuse to believe that money, and a country estate, and a well-bred husband won’t make all the bad shit disappear
And I stayed in college for five years because I knew what was coming afterward. Marriage. Forced marriage. I knew my mother—the only person who ever loved me—was going to leave this world very soon and then I’d be all alone. And maybe—just maybe… once she was gone he’d leave me alone.
College felt normal and safe. It made me stronger. And when she died shortly before I graduated I felt ready to break free of my insane stepfather for the first time in my life.
She left me an apartment. So I moved in. Money too. But he stole that because it was in a trust he controlled.
He took it all away. And then he sent me checks every month. Anonymous checks, but come on. I knew who they were from. And I knew the price I’d have to pay if I used that money.
Still, I cashed them, didn’t I?
And then I spent them on something that would make my stepfather burst with rage if he ever found out.
So I do have a job. That’s my job. Cash those checks and use them to show my rage and hate.
But Mason would never believe any of this. He says he’s on my side, but he’s not. He’s on Mason Macintyre’s side, not mine. He thinks I’m this wild thing. He thinks I do these things to rebel because I’m spoiled and unappreciative.
So fuck it. I just don’t say anything to anyone anymore. And trying to explain myself to Mason was a mistake.
“Are you going to answer me?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m not. Because you don’t
know me and so you can’t understand me.”
“I’m trying to understand you,” he says.
“Well, you’re doing a shitty job.” He raises an eyebrow at me. But before he can complain about my cussing I say, “Try spanking me with that belt again, Mason Macintyre, and I’ll hit you back.”
He rubs his jaw, moving it back and forth, then says, “I guess we’re even now.”
“Hmmm,” I grumble.
“You didn’t answer my other question.”
“What other question?”
“What do you know how to cook?”
“I don’t wanna cook,” I snap. “I don’t want to do any of this shit. And I certainly don’t want to get married.”
He sighs, then stands up. “Then go to your room.”
“Go to my room?” I laugh. “What are you? My stand-in father?”
“Well, you’re certainly acting like a stand-in teenage daughter.”
I fume at that. But I have practiced fuming privately for a very long time so I hold it in. He doesn’t deserve to see my anger. He doesn’t deserve to know me.
I get up, straighten out my wrinkled dress, and say, “Fine.”
And then I walk over to the stairs and go up.
I’m just about to turn down the hall to find a new bedroom to occupy when he says, “No. If you want to act like a child, I’ll treat you like a child. Go mope in that princess room.”
The anger I feel flushes my face with prickling heat. But I don’t even look over my shoulder at him. I don’t even put up a fight. I’ve done this routine enough that I know the easiest way out is to go along.
I know what’s waiting for me in that room. I know what’s coming. And if I’m locked in here for ten days then I’ll just have to play the game better than he does, that’s all.
But once those ten days are up I’m gone. I will find a way. I will not get lost in the past. I’m strong now. I’m different now. I’m better now.
So I walk down the hallway to the double doors, go upstairs, and flop down in the bean bag chair.
I hate this room. So much. My stepfather put all this crap furniture in here to piss me off. But… maybe… I walk over to the desk and open the top drawer. Oh, yeah. There’s one of my old journals. I flip through the pages, but it’s empty. I always had a journal when I was a kid. Mostly because my father hated that I kept all my secrets in there. He threw them out every time he found one.