“Fucking starving,” he growls, his voice hoarse from hours of rough play. He grabs my thigh and easily props it up on his, spreading me for him, but I don’t need any encouragement as I take hold of his cock and push it into me. He feels like he’s custom-built for me, still pushing at the walls of my well-used pussy, still filling me inch by incredible inch, still scraping along at all the most sensitive spots.
My clit is nearly numb, but inside, I’m swollen and raw. The head of his cock has me clenching my jaw to hold back my moans, but I find myself kicking mindlessly at him.
John is undaunted. He is making the most of his $87, making sure he owns me thoroughly for the time he has me. Despite my unbidden, uncontrolled, reflexive protests, he rolls us both so he’s on top of me. He pins me down as he ruts into me hard. His quick, jerky movements get me howling uncontrollably.
“Take it, whore,” he seethes through gritted teeth. “Take it all. Take every fucking ounce of me.”
“More!” I scream. “Give me more.”
For the first time all night, I don’t think John holds himself back. He’s brutal, fucking me like a toy, like I’m nothing, pushing down between my shoulder blades to force my head to stay down, buried in the pillows. I can barely breathe. I come so hard I see stars, and I’m only vaguely aware when John finishes and rolls off of me.
I have no idea when he leaves.
I only wish he’d stayed.
I wish I had asked him to. Stay the night, stay the weekend. Stay. I know almost nothing about him, but he’s protected me, he’s been sweet with me, he’s been rough and possessive, and despite the fact that he hasn’t told me anything about his life, I feel like he’s shown me who he truly is. He’s shown me what matters.
It’s not until Monday morning, when I’m packing everything up and getting ready for check-out, that I get the call from the front desk informing me that there’s an envelope waiting for me. When I pick it up, I discover that inside is a note scrawled in what I can only describe as serial killer handwriting.
Trixy,
U are incerdible. I want u too feel as baeutiful as u are. Plz use this howevr gets u their.
John
I give myself the time to appreciate it and laugh at John’s horrific spelling and handwriting. He’s successful. I could tell. And not that highly successful people need to be good spellers, but I’m kind of wondering if he’s dyslexic.
What’s in the envelope doesn’t matter, not really, although money gets tighter and life gets more suffocatingwith every medical bill. I’ll be happy regardless of what’s in here simply because John wrote this.
When I do look in the envelope, I nearly choke at the stack of $100 bills. When I count them out, they addup to $9,800.
Chapter 7
Blaise
“A round of shots for everyone!” I scream across the crowded bar, which has fallen silent with the realization that their quarterback — their quarterback who just won the first game of the season, officially making this their winningest season yet because this is only the second year and we lost the first game last year, thank you very much — is standing on the bar.
Misty and Frank, the bartenders stationed at opposite ends, both glare at me, but come on. This is Camden Pizza Company. It’s the sleepy suburban town square pizza joint that usually has all of two regulars at the bar on a Sunday night after the family crowd heads home to get ready for school tomorrow. They’re lucky Merrick Briggs bought a giant house a couple miles away and six of the Jugs live there, so this is the perfect spot for us to celebrate our wins. They’relucky wetoldthem this time that they’d need to schedule for it.
I bribed Misty with season tickets last year after a crowd of fifty destroyed her grocery shopping/social media doomscrolling shift on our first winning home game. Gabe Shaunessy also tipped her an extra thousand on top of whatever she raked in, but it was bad. I think Kai Bodley, whose family owns a restaurant, helped clean once we got the bar cleared out two hours after she was scheduled to close.
So we do our best to give them fair warning, and even though we don’t come in for losses, so the crowd is a lot thinner on those nights, I make sure to stop by during the week and slip them both a couple hundred so they still get paid whether the crowd shows or not.
My parents made good money off of successful investments when I was little and sent Gammy a huge monthly support check to pawn me off on her once they fucked off to Eurafricasiastralia or wherever the hell they went. I had all the best toys and newest game consoles and trendiest sneakers. Gammy moved us two hours away before I started high school so I could be in the best football program in the region. Getting first-string quarterback sophomore year and going all-state junior and senior years guaranteed my full ride to Iowa, and then I was swimming in sponsorship gifts that meant that I didn’tneedto get paid. What I didn’t have, I got by selling off swag I didn’t want.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t sympathize with people in these service gigs, not knowing how much they’ll be getting day to day. I stress about it for myself even though I have a bank account I could live off forever and a whole-ass portfolio I pay someone to figure out for me because I don’t really get any of that. I mean, yeah, some quarterbacks make it to 40,but the fact that my backup, Dom Morales, has two Super Bowl wins but is in the twilight of his career at 34 isn’t unusual. If I get injured badly enough in my next game, my career could be over at 27. They won’t immediately cut me off, but it won’t be long before I’m out and hopefully on LOD — Line of Duty Disability, the one for the guys who have career-ending injuries but aren’t disabled by government standards — which is decent but will still radically change my finances.
But I’m not here to stress about that. I’m here to do shots with fifty of my closest friends, minus Gabe, who’s off on a date with his new girl.
Everyone cheers for shots. Shots make everyone happy. But I’m feeling a certain kind of way, so I make a cutting gesture with my hand, silencing them again. With that kind of power, I scan the crowd, pick out a random guy. I’ve never seen him before. There’s nothing special about him. I don’t get any sort of vibe from him. Just a guy in an Adidas shirt, a brand I have no beef with but hasn’t ever sponsored me. Which means I don’t have to worry about getting into legal trouble when I point at him and say, “Except you. No shot for you.”
The man looks absolutely devastated. Like I have crushed his world with that declaration. His friends are already ribbing him; everyone’s looking at him to see what he could have possibly done.
I did that. I am a god. Gods test the loyalty of their zealots, and every single person in this bar is a zealot.
I point at a woman who’s close enough that, from my ridiculous height, I can see right down her tiny retro bandana top. Her eyes meet mine. There’s a smokiness to them, to her gaze, that tells me I could go fuck her in the bathroom stall if I asked, not even nicely.
I’m not going to. Part of the whole be-a-good-boy thing is not fucking random women. I haven’t been in the mood lately, either. The last mask party was a total bust. Nothing caught my attention. I haven’t had to jerk off this much since . . . probably ever, but my hand’s been more appealing than anyone I’ve seen recently.
