Derrick put his hand on my ass and smiled. He wasn’t a bad looking kid, but not at all my type, with long skinny arms and big square glasses. I levered his hand away and sighed.
Things were not going well.
At 10 PM, when the college kids and the local drunks were normally fighting for my attention, shouting over the bar—Hey miss! Hey hot girl with the drinks, yeah you! Ay yo blondie, over here, babe!—when I needed four other people just to keep up, there was nothing. Nothing but a skinny drunk kid with his big sweaty hands.
I poured myself a Coke and looked around.
My bar was the last business in the whole neighborhood. Everyone else had just… rolled over and let a rich guy fuck them. Gas stations, restaurants, groceries, that car wash where I got my first job, at sixteen, washing cars in a bikini. The theater where I’d given my English teacher a blow job while everyone else watched the movie version of The Producers.
My whole life.
Some billionaire industrialist wrote them a check and they just… cashed out of their home town.
Everyone except me.
And now the bar was pitiful, basically deserted, as clean and bright as a bakery at three in the afternoon, with a handful of pathetic, shit-tipping customers, and nothing to look forward to but feeding Derrick his own teeth if he didn’t lay off.
For the first time in five years, I considered closing early.
“Tori,” Derrick said, and I turned away so his breath wouldn’t get me drunk. “I’m a regular. I deserve a tab.” He boxed me in with his legs. They were skinny, but they ended in huge orangutan feet. His hands wrapped around my hips.
It was Wednesday, so I was wearing a crop top and jeans, my curved little waist doing its best to keep the drunks screwed to their barstools—no one else goes out on a Wednesday—except there weren’t any. Just Derrick and a couple sober draughts scattered around the pool table.
His fingers were sticky and his erection was pressed hard up against the pocket my phone was in.
And really? In the mood I was in, I’d have taken him back behind that bar and proven to his wide twenty-something eyes that I was a natural blonde if the kid had anything worth having.
So neither did I.
I hula-ed out of his grip and gave him my Rules-Are-Rules shrug. “We don’t get what we deserve, hon,” I said, pushing his drink down the bar with my fingertips, “we get what we pay for. Are you planning to pay me?”
Derrick’s smile became a leer. He reached down and adjusted himself.
Behind my back, I made a private, ready fist.
“I can give you what you need, Tori, definitely.”
“Really?” I asked. “You can give me a check for ten grand and the severed head of S. Joseph Anthony?” Anthony was the guy writing the checks. I faked a moan and pushed the dangling edge of my shirt all the way up, exposing an eight dollar cotton Walmart bra—fuck it, he wouldn’t know the difference—and the kind of stomach you only get from ten years of hardcore Cheerleading, dancing for two hours every night on nothing but Gatorade and half a melted KitKat. I pinched my nipple through the bra.
Ooh, I thought, annoyed. That felt a little too good.
I’d be spending the morning with my vibrator, it looked like.
It had been a while.
I slipped my hand back down into my pants and smirked.
Derrick’s eyes filled up his oversized lenses like the shutters of a camera.
A lifelong tease—hey, I work seven days a week, I need some kind of hobby—I knew that look. Poor little Derrick would be cumming to that memory in his late fifties.
I let go of the fist behind my back and smiled like a porn star. In a week, I doubted I would remember more than his drink order.
“Can you give me that, hun?” I asked him.
Speechless, he rapidly shook his head.
I shrugged, vaulted the bartop, and poured his beer down the drain. He panted in my wake like a dog.
“Well then I guess you’re going home, big D.”
I pointed to the door. Derrick stood up and shuffled out, pupils still massive, like quarters.
“Bitch,” he muttered to himself, as the door digested him with a swing.
I gave his memory the finger, and tossed his empty bottle into the trash. The bottle shattered and I nodded.
Another waste of time gone from my life.
Another guy who thought having a dick was the same as having a manhood, and thought I would care about either.
Another customer I would never have to deal with.
Another customer who would never give me another dime.
I polished the bar carefully with a rag. Refilled a Dollar Draught and pocketed the quarter he tipped me.
Waxed my reflection into the solid brass service rails that my dad bought just before he died.
Because he believed in my business.
I managed to keep working for almost ten minutes before I had to duck into the store room and cry.
“Do you know this guy?” someone asked.
I reached up with a rag and almost wiped Brasso into my eyes before I remembered and dug at the tears with my wrists.
There was a tall man in a sharp suit holding Derrick up by the back of his pants. Derrick was crying harder than I was, twisting like a little boy, and kicking in an attempt to free himself.
“Yeah,” I said, sniffing a bubble of snot away with, I hoped, some measure of dignity. “He’s an idiot.”
Derrick snarled and kicked in my direction. Before I could tell him to watch it, the guy in the suit punched Derrick in the neck, and dropped him onto the floor.
He spilled to the ground in a quiet, agonized pile, gasping for air.
“You okay?” the suit asked.
I just nodded. I reached up again with my rag, then cursed and tossed it at a nearby box of laundry.
The Suit wordlessly handed me a silk pocket square.
When I could see again, I looked up to say thanks and was—woah.
Unlike Derrick, this guy definitely was my type, Daddy Issues and all: older, movie-star jaw, clean sharp eyes, and a twelve-hour stubble. Glossy dark hair just long enough to grab during sex, and a wide, red mouth. A long pink tongue. He filled his suit out like a cop with a Bowflex in his basement.
He was tall enough to duck under the lights and rude enough to look straight down my blouse.
I squirmed, suddenly very ashamed of the gray smudges on my thin, discount bra. Ashamed of the matching cotton thong, the way you could see it on my hip bones when I stretched, ashamed of my cheap jeans and my old shoes.
And when I’m ashamed, it really pisses me off. So I tossed back the silk and bitched up my expression.
“Can we get to the part where you’re ordering and explaining and little Derrick here is crawling home in his rubber plastic Saturn?”
Derrick actually owned a rebuilt Pontiac Sunfire covered in moldering gray primer, but that just didn’t sound right.
The Suit smirked, then shrugged and stood Derrick up on his feet. The poor guy’s face was grenadine red and he stared at the floor between his feet.
The Suit shoved him and he stilted to the door and left, this time without the insult.
Everyone else was already gone. Every other customer.
At 10:43 PM.
I’d made ten dollars all night.
“Fuck,” I breathed.
“What’s your name?” the guy asked. He took his jacket off, and his shirt clung to his body like a high school girlfriend.
“I’m Tori,” I said. “And yeah, it is kind of a stripper name. And you’re… Dalton. Or Bradley? Or Nathaniel—never Nate or even Nathan—or a Sean, maybe. With an ‘e-a-n.’ And you’re here on behalf of SJ Anthony and Associates to tell me all about the exciting money I can ‘earn’ by selling my father’s bar and helping my hometown disappear into some corporate construction thing, right?”
This was not the first time a well-dressed guy had sat in my empty bar and condescended in my direction. Pearl buttons. Silver cufflinks. Shoes like black mirrors.
They ordered club soda or mineral water or nothing, paid with a platinum credit card and asked for their receipt. They tipped fifteen percent to the penny and used their own pen.
I was broke, but not broke enough for the prospect of fifty cents profit to be worth the humiliation.
I screwed the cap off a Poland Spring and dumped about half of it over ice. Twisted a lime without asking. Set it in front of him.
On the house, my face said.
“Not bad,” he laughed. “My name is Sean. With an ‘e-a-n.’ And I am from SJ Anthony and Associates. But you got a couple things wrong.”
I grit my teeth. I was doing my best to hide my bare waist and my cheap thong behind the counter, which required bending at the knees and walking a little like a cowboy.
“Oh yeah?” I asked.
He nodded. His shoulders slid up and down when he moved his neck, like the smooth joints of a machine. My mind leapt ahead to the thought of my vibrator, which I used standing up in the shower, and I breathed a little faster. His pulse ticked in his neck like a slow, steady metronome.
I want you out of here, I thought. And I want to go home and hatefuck my showerhead thinking about your hands.
His hands were folded on the bar in front of him. His fingers were long and powerful. His nails were flawless. And they left no prints in the polish.
Or maybe his lips? He had Mick Jagger lips and the right kind of face for them. Teeth the color of baking soda toothpaste.
I wanted to scream until he went away. Instead, I crossed my arms over my chest.
“First,” he said, “I’d like a Scotch. Whatever you’ve been saving, on the rocks.”
I blinked in surprise. A good shot of Scotch could cost up to $20. More if I fucked him.
And I was going to fuck him.
I unlocked a cabinet and pulled out a bottle full of buttery caramel liquid.
“Glenmorangie?” I asked.
I snorted. The 1990 was $500 a bottle.
“Signet,” I said.
“Ugh.” He made a face. “Isn’t that one made from chocolate malt?”
He waited to see if I was kidding, then nodded. “Fine.”
I poured four ounces over a single, massive ice cube.
“Forty dollars,” I said, before sliding the glass in his direction.
He pealed a hundred off a fold of bills in his pocket and pinned it to the bar with a finger.
“That’s too much,” I said.
He shrugged and put a second hundred on top the first.
“Here,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes. “Perhaps you’re unacquainted with the nature of human money? But $200 is even more ridiculous than—”
“For the bottle.”
I blinked. “Oh.”
Strictly speaking, that was less than it was worth, shot-by-shot, but still more than I paid for it. A profit for both of us. Clever. The bottle was a symbol of everything to come.
Next he’d be showing me a bullshit artist’s conception of my very property in ten years’ time, with helmeted dogs and jet pack children flying past a utopian skyline with the SJ Anthony logo on every building.
I gripped the bottle so tight it hurt my hand.
“So… can I have it or not?” he asked.
I looked down at the money. At the bottle.
Set it down next to his drink.
“Thanks,” he said.
He sipped. Gave a Pleasantly Surprised Look at his glass, then shoved all of it aside and stared at me over the counter.
“You want another bottle?” I asked, “Or are you searching my tits for a better metaphor?”
He chuckled. Sean had a rich—haha—masculine voice. Easy to obey. Deep without sounding like a wrestler.
He leaned over the bar and I realized just how big he was—he was sitting as tall as most people stand.
“I don’t need a reason to stare at your tits, Tori,” he said.
Normally, that’s when I make a fist. But there was nothing leering, nothing dangerous in his voice. He wasn’t begging or drooling or insisting, just looking.
I forced myself not to shrink away. Not to put something between us.
“Stop it,” Sean snapped.
“Coiling up like that. Fading back.” His face hardened. “Like I might hurt you.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Closed it.
“For fuck’s sake, I just gave you two hundred bucks and stopped an asshole from robbing you.”
He ground his teeth together and it sounded like a walnut being crushed by a shoe.
“Your friend was lifting bottles out of the ice,” he said. He pointed to where half my beers were missing.
Guess I’d be remembering him after all.
“Thank you,” I said.
We stared at one another. My eyes are what an ex-boyfriend called ‘cornflower blue,’ while his were more like…like old highland Scotch. Like brown butter toffee. Amber and syrup-thick.
We held one other’s eyes for the better part of a minute.
When it was over, I felt like he knew everything about me.
All I knew about him was that staring into his eyes gave me a tense feeling all over like he was touching me.
Sliding around under my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking away.
I shuddered and held myself as though it were freezing.
He reached over my shoulder and took a glass off my shelf. Found my ice. Poured another Scotch.
“Here,” Sean said.
I swallowed. He smiled.
“So what was the other thing?” I asked.
He raised an eyebrow.
“You said there were a ‘couple’ things I got wrong. You wanted Scotch and…”
He nodded. “Oh, right. I was referring to the fact I’m not giving you a dime for this dilapidated shithole.”
I choked on my Scotch.
“Sorry,” he said, “But you should have let me buy you when you were worth something. Now you’re going to beg me to take this building off your hands.”
I stared, feeling the rage steam its way up from my stomach.
“What the fuck are you talking abo—”
He threw the remaining hundred dollars of scotch at the shelves behind my head. The Scotch bottle smashed and the mirror behind me split with a crack.
Twenty bottles of top-shelf liquor crashed to the floor, splashing glass and alcohol all over me.
He pitched his glass at the remaining bottles, then mine.
Bottles fell and glassware shattered. It was deafening, like the sound of an iceberg snapping into pieces.
Unsure of what to do, I covered my ears and screamed.
He reached over the bar and lifted me up like a child, setting me down on his side of the bar.
“Hey,” he said. “Hey. It’s okay.”
I couldn’t fucking believe it.
That he smashed up my bar without even frowning, or that he expected me to calm down after he did.
I reacted without thinking. I’m not the best student in my kickboxing class, but I am the fastest.
I jumped back and snapped out a front kick hard enough to castrate a donkey.
My foot—and the twenty dollar sneakers surrounding them—sailed over his stool in a graceful, textbook curve…
…that left me on my ass, on the floor, with a bang.
I was stunned. Hitting the floor knocked the breath out of my lungs, and all I could do was stare upward and wait for my body to start working again.
I swept the tables with my eyes, and counted the dots on the ceiling.
I really need a steam cleaner, I decided, when Sean’s infuriating face reappeared.
I made a lame attempt at punching up at him and he twisted my arm behind me without apparent effort. His chest was like a wall against my breasts, and my nipples tightened into fat, painful fingertips that sent electric waves of pain straight down through my body when he ground up against them.
“I’m doing you a favor,” he breathed, directly into my ear. “You were just going to keep this place open until there was nothing left. Weren’t you?” He put pressure on my arm and I almost screamed. “Weren’t you?”
I hooked my foot around the base of a bar stool and pulled my hips from under his body. Sliding against him, I thought I felt something like a snake between our bodies, and that warm, tense feeling put its hands between my legs and—
No, that was him. He was lifting me in a fireman’s carry.
I scissored my legs and turned around, coiling up against him the way you do before a box toss in Cheer. My hand slipped out of his grip and I grabbed dad’s solid brass service rails. I lifted myself away like someone climbing backwards out of a pool.
He smirked, his face caught between disbelief and amusement, when I kicked his jaw and jumped in the same motion leaping over his back and landing awkwardly on the floor behind him.
He jerked away from my foot, but I caught him in the neck when I landed, jabbing hard between his shoulders and head.
He grunted and lurched forward, his head cracking against the freshly polished brass.
I saw myself in the broken feathers of mirror, repeated a thousand times, taking a kickboxing pose.
He laughed as he hit the floor and his eyes went blank.
It wasn’t until he was switched off and empty that I realized who he was.
“You’re sure you don’t want to press charges,” the cop said.
Sean shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
“And you don’t want us to take the girl down to the station?” The cop scratched his chin with a pen. He’d pulled a gun on me when he found me standing over Sean and wiping glass out his hair.
Sean Joseph Anthony, the guy who owned SJ Anthony and Associates.
The guy who was buying my whole neighborhood.
I tugged again on my cuffs. They were real. It was all real.
It was all really happening.
“Just leave her with me,” he said. “I’ll take care of her.”
There wasn’t a trace of a leer in his voice, and I was listening.
The cop, a kid about Derrick’s age with an SJ Anthony tattoo and a vague look of worship, nodded and came back to get me. He unlocked me from the steel U in the cop car’s door and was about to take my cuffs off when Sean—Mr. Anthony—called over to us.
“That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t need to do all that.”
Stunned, I looked back at him in horror.
“Lock her arms behind her back. Leave the keys with me.”
The kid just looked at him. After a moment, he grinned. “Yes sir,” he said.
“You can’t…” panic slid up my arms and neck. “You can’t just leave me locked up. Am I under arrest?”
The cop kid twisted me into position and locked me with his foot on the small of my back. Then kicked me to the ground.
I managed to steady myself with a foot before breaking my nose against the concrete.
The two of them—cop kid and Anthony—exchanged a few words before the kid drove away, his silent black car slipping into the night so quickly I was surprised there wasn’t a splash.
The white-gold-silver of Anthony’s corporate logo disappeared a moment later, the illuminated coils of it burning through the night like a torch.
“Oh, fuck me,” I whispered.
Not for the last time that night.
“You can’t do this,” I said.
Sean—Mr. Anthony—raised an eyebrow. He waited, crossing his enormous forearms over his chest like a superhero.
Anthony had marched me back into the bar, shoving me up the stairs and pulling me by my cuffs when I stumbled. My arms were locked behind my back, an awkward military position that shoved my breasts forward and put an arch in my back.
I was sweating, terrified, and out of breath.
“Really?” he asked. “Why not?”
“This is… this is kidnapping.”
He smirked. “Tori, you’re in your own place at exactly the hour you normally are. And anyway, the cops locked you up.”
“He left me with you!”
“Because I’m an officer of the court. I’m your lawyer, in fact. And you’re really going to need one, Tori. You’ve been a very bad girl.”
I almost laughed. Bad girl? Was he kidding?
“What’s the matter,” I asked, “you upset that I didn’t share my Legos with you or something?”
He gave me a humorless smile. “You don’t think adult women can be bad?”
While he was speaking, he slowly undid his belt. It was an oily brown leather, with a small magnetic buckle. He clicked it open with one colossal finger, wound the belt around it, and carefully pulled it free of his perfect charcoal slacks.
It made a sound like a tongue gliding over skin as he slipped out of his pants.
When I failed to respond, he cracked the belt so hard I nearly tripped onto a sheet of broken mirror. The jagged teeth of my reflection pressed up against my ankles. Blood darkened the material. My legs tensed as pain sparked all the way up to my thighs. I shuffled out of the mirror, but Anthony stepped into my space and pushed me back against the bar. A brass nut stabbed into my back, leaving a dull hexagram bruise in one of the dimples over my ass.
He repeated himself. “You don’t think adult women can be bad, Tori?”
I shook my head. “We can be bad.”
He moved in close enough for me to smell Connecticut tobacco on his Glenmorangie breath.
“By delaying construction,” he said, and his lips brushed warm against my ear, “you’ve cost me more money than someone like you will make in your entire life. More than it would cost to have you drowned and sold as animal feed.”
His voice dropped so low that it was little more than a breath against my neck.
“Do you know what I do for a living, Tori?” he asked.
I shook my head, tears beginning to come.
“You’re a lawyer? A developer?”
“Wrong,” he said.
The heat from his body made me sweat. I wondered how he could stand it.
“An investor?” I guessed.
He shook his head, and gently pulled my hair back. Carefully, he wound my ponytail around his fist.
Then he snapped my head back with a jerk. Pain and shock screamed down my neck, and I bent over backwards, tiptoeing as he led me like a dog in a choke chain. He used it to force my body to climb the bar behind me and dangle from the edge in my cheap little shoes. When he let go, his cheeks were a dark, wine-stain red. He was grinning.
The guy was getting off on it.
Before I could speak, he took a deep breath and his cheeks paled. He shook his head as though disappointed.
“What I do, you lower class cunt—” he said this so viciously that I gasped—“is take things with no apparent value, like this shithole neighborhood, or a dying company, or an uneducated female bartender with better tits than the brain in her pretty blonde skull, and I find a way to extract value from it.”
He put his arms around me and I whimpered, preparing to scream. Empty neighborhood or not, I would scream, and I would thrash, and he would not enjoy a second of what he did to me. He—
There was a click.
He stepped back and sat on the edge of a table. For the first time, I noticed a…fullness…under his zipper. Shadows that made me want to blush and look away.
“You have a lot to make up for, Tori. You have nothing to give me.”
There was a pause as he painted my body with a long, slow look of lust.
I tried to pull away but my wrists wouldn’t move. Frantic twisting did nothing.
He’d attached my cuffs to the bar, somehow.
I was trapped.
I closed my eyes, to panicked to take anything else in.
“I can think of a few things to take, though.”
Oh, God, I thought.
Was he going to harvest my organs and sell them? Chop me up like an old car?
Was he going to kill me and collect some insurance my parents still had?
A hot, clenching fear ignited in my chest.
“What are you going to do to me?” I asked.
The muscles of his body all moved with the gesture, under the silk of his shirt, like the slow movement of water. He sat like a dancer after stretching… or a tiger under a tree. He was so relaxed, so controlled that it almost numbed my dread.
I was ashamed to realize it, but under any other circumstances, I’d probably have gone home with him.
And then, as if he’d heard me, he said: “What I’m going to do is strip you, spank you, and fuck your bitchy little brains out.”
And as he said it, the shape under his zipper began to thicken and fill.
He knelt down and gently pulled off my heels. He took my ankles in his massive hands and twisted my shoes off like odd red fruit, tossing them at the pool table on the other side of the bar.
This left my bare feet to crunch around in broken glass if I fought to unhook myself from the bar.
I kicked at him, but he used my legs against me, pulling me up and tugging my jeans off. He grinned at how hard it was to get the waist down over my ass. Constant bending for cheap drinks and citrus were as good as squats for keeping my already-sizable butt in good shape.
But I did the squats anyway, at home, with enough weight to sandbag a racehorse.
The result was a lower body even I was proud of, smooth and hard without being small, with the kind of legs you see wrapped around a warrior king on the cover of a romance novel. Or slicing into the waters of Cancun under the words “ONE WEIRD TRICK = SPRING BREAK THICK.”
He sucked air through his teeth and shook his head.
“You’re wasted on this town,” he said. “Like Toro at a fish fry.”
Fingers rolled down his pricy Italian shirtfront and the fabric spread like the smirk on his face. A window opened on his body.
His chest was defined, but in an old Hollywood, Marlboro Man kind of way—hard but not swollen, with a light dusting of soft, masculine hair. He slipped his shirt off and hung it on the back of a chair.
I felt a strong impulse to touch him, the way I did with suede and microfiber blankets at the store. A desire from beneath my conscious mind, like wiping off a table or petting a sleepy dog.
I shivered, my breath shaking, and his smirk erupted in a laugh.
“Thanks,” he said. “I like my body too.”
Humiliation licked its way up my chest. I made an ugly face. “It’s cold in here, you rapist prick. Don’t flatter yourself. You just took my fucking clothes off.”
I spit at his gorgeous face. He didn’t move. Spit disappeared into his chest.
“Must be freezing,” he said, “judging from the way your fat, pink nipples got so hard. And the skin around your pussy is blushing really, really hard.”
Embarrassed, I looked down at myself. My cheap bra and a flimsy shirt did nothing to hide the puckered tips of my breasts, my nipples as thick as the tip of a little finger.
But between my legs, it was true that my inner thighs were betraying me. They were reddening, and the humiliation just made it worse.
The color darkened as it closed around my groin, disappearing under the floss of my thong and the light blonde fur around my womanhood.
“Here,” he said, dropping to his knees. “Let me warm you up.”
I recoiled, but he didn’t touch me. He was too smart for that.
He knelt between my legs, his knees crushing the glass at our feet, and positioned his head a centimeter over my skin.
His body heat radiated into me, penetrating my skin.
It was like a violation—but it wasn’t.
“Is this better?” he asked. His breath, wet air, warm, spread over my skin like a flame. Instant gooseflesh gave immediate way to a trickle of sweat from between my quivering legs.
“Stop!” I demanded. Please.
He grinned, his face just as red as my thighs, the dark wine-colored excitement spreading down over his chest and down his broad, hairless back.
God, he’s really turned on, I thought. I’m not even naked.
His heat moved up, closing in on the exposed hair and rapidly dampening fabric of my thong.
Not technically, anyway.
He took a deep, shocking breath from between my legs, longer and slower than he had over the Scotch.
“You can’t do this,” I said, panic rising up into my head. “You own the cops, the land, the city—whatever—but you can’t just rape me…”
He smiled. His face was the color of a tongue. Sexy anyway.
“I haven’t touched you,” he said, and his breath flowed again up my thighs. Slipped under my thong. Brushed my feminine privacy like a moist ocean wind.
I bit my lip so the groan wouldn’t come, and he, not waiting for a reply, moved to my other thigh and blew—blew—his hottest, wettest breath right over my thong, which was dark and sodden with a shameful, stupid excitement.
Why couldn’t I control myself? This man was destroying me, and my body wanted him inside me?
A wave of shame flipped my stomach. But at the same time, I felt a droplet of arousal slide all the way down from my womb to my female lips in a long, tickling journey of squirming and moans.
He looked up and laughed while my legs danced. The tickle—the itch—of lust needed something to touch. Something to press against. Fingers to quell it. To stamp it out.
A showerhead. A vibrator. An ice cube.
“Would you like me touch you?” he asked. His superior smirk actually improved his looks, which was just infuriating.
“No,” I snapped, but I did. I fought with my hips not to grind myself against his chin just to stop the building tickle became an active pain.
He shrugged, lowered his head… and made it worse.
His tongue touched his own chin, and the breath he poured over it spread through my soft yellow fur like warm fingers. The sensitive skin of my labia flushed like a schoolgirl and I felt myself slicken completely.
“Don’t…” I whispered. My legs burned with shame, humiliation taking me in waves.
He closed his eyes and took another long, savoring breath.
He had to know I was wet. That he’d gotten me wet without touching me. Without a finger.
But it was worse than that. By stealing that intimate breath, he knew things about me that no one had a right to: My private most scents. My soap and when I last used it. The way my shower smelled.
It was like having him inside me already, twisting me apart and inspecting me. Playing with me.
I cried out.
And he, hearing me panic, hearing me cry, he closed his teeth over the front of my thong—cotton, Walmart, five bucks and it didn’t match my bra—and ripped it off me with a ferocious snarl. The thong I had wet in my shame.
He folded it like a pocket square and smelled it like a flower, standing to slip it in the pocket of his suit.
“Your pussy is incredible,” he said. “Already.” He sat on the table and watched me kick and squirm. “Women—straight women, anyway—don’t have a taste for their own slit, Tori. The rich, velvet depth of their arousal. The explosion of signals. The animal volume of it.” He was almost poetic. His breath came shallow and quick. “In the forest, in an earlier time, the smell of a girl like you would bring dozens of men to fight and kill for a chance to penetrate that gorgeous, blond little muff of yours. And believe me, in the forest, I’d win.”
He stepped back between my legs and tore my shirt up over my head, revealing my cheap little bra.
I squealed in surprise, a shrill “No!” that came up from somewhere and ended with more tears and kicking. “Please, I’m already naked, I’m already sorry, I’m already… I’ll do whatever you want! Just leave me a little bit of something. Don’t…”
He smiled an approving smile. This was what he expected. No, it was more than that: tearing me down was exactly what he wanted.
I looked away in embarrassment. My education, my dedication, my business—meaningless. I was a toy. Something for him to play with.
Something for him to fuck.
I thought back to my showerhead and wondered if I was even that valuable to him. He probably had dozens of women, right?
I only had one shower.
He touched himself through his slacks. There was an obvious tube, fully visible through the fabric.
He was very excited. Very erect.
Which is why I was stunned when he tapped his phone up out of a pocket…
And just walked away.
I was expecting a huge, pornographic spike, half serpent, like a meat hook growing out of him–but his manhood was only a bit longer than average, circumcised and clean, with the same smooth skin and gold tan that covered the rest of him.
But that’s not to say it wasn’t BIG.
His cock was wince-inducingly thick, as wide as I’d ever seen, and so hard it didn’t even throb.
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