Crush Me

by Black, Stasia

“Now pull out your right tit,” he says in that deep, growling voice of his, so low it’s almost like it’s mesmerizing me. That’s what it is. I’m not doing this entirely consciously. It’s some kind of spell he’s got me under.

  “That’s riiiiiight,” he says slowly. “Pull out that pretty tittie, and then roll the nipple in your fingers. Grab both your breasts and rub them. Grab them like you do when you’re touching yourself.”

  This is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my life. But I do it. I grab my breasts in both hands as he watches.

  “That’s right, twist it.” He speaks through his teeth. “Like that, that’s right my pretty girl. Massage them. Gently at first. Eyes on me.”

  I swallow even though my mouth is the driest it’s ever been in my life. He slowly moves from the desk. I see it but I don’t pull back. He’s closer. Just a step away.

  “Now I want you to pull a little rougher. Squeeze your nipple between your thumb and forefinger.”

  I do it.

  He’s so close I can smell him now. Cologne, aftershave, I don’t fucking know what it is or how to describe it. But it smells manly and I can feel the warmth radiating from his hard chest. I pant even harder. Oh God, am I really panting now? There’s that telltale heat that’s started in my stomach. It shoots to the place between my thighs and my panties. My cheap cotton Walmart panties are wet. I can’t— How can—?

  He leans in and I think he’s going to touch me. But even though he’s so close my hands holding my breasts are near enough to brush his chest, he only runs his nose along my cheek, never actually making contact. Like he’s scenting me.

  “Are you wet, pretty girl?”

  Oh my God. I can feel the heat in my cheeks. He can’t smell that from all the way up here, can he? My hands freeze on my breasts. Everything freezes. What the hell am I doing? How did I get myself into this situation?

  But Bryce Gentry doesn’t freeze. He moves again, this time moving around behind me. His breath is hot in my ear as he reaches around me from behind. His hands cover mine over my breasts. “Yes, you’re perfect. A perfect little slut, just for me to take out when I want to play.”

  At the word slut, he pushes my hands gently away and squeezes my nipples.

  What the fuck? Slut?

  The haze of everything starts to clear. This is fucked up. I came here for an interview. An interview for Christ’s sake. What the hell is he talking about? He’s calling me a slut and talking about me like a toy. And what, is he thinking he’s hiring me, as like his personal sex assistant or something—

  But shit, that feels good. He’s started nibbling with teasing bites at my ear while he’s still massaging my breasts. God, how long has it been since I’ve felt this? I haven’t been touched in so long. I can’t even remember the last time.

  It’s not just hot between my legs, it’s fucking pulsing down there. I need— I mean, God, I need—holy shit—can I come from just this alone? Someone playing with my breasts? But he’s not just playing. I mean, every guy I’ve known has just been a mauler. They get all excited about my big boobs and just start yanking on them. But this guy is like a virtuoso. I bet sex with him would be insane. Because that’s what he wants, right? That’s where this is leading? He wants a Personal Assistant he can fuck when he wants?

  He’ll just keep me up here in his office, push a button, and I’ll come in and blow him or he’ll fuck me or something? I’d said I’d never get this low, never degrade myself… but if it could feel like this?

  I can’t help the high-pitched whine that comes out of my throat. Fuck. I’m almost there. And it’s been so long. So long…

  I can’t think. Oh God, if he would just touch me there. Maybe I could touch me there. He’d find that hot, right? And that’s what this is about? Sex? What would it feel like if he was sucking on my nipple instead of just playing with his fingers? His face is so smooth-shaven, but even the thought of his tongue—

  Another whine comes out of me, and he suck and bites at the back of my neck.

  Holy shit, that’s hot.

  I’m so close. So fucking close. He’s gotta know. But he’s not doing anything about it. Fuck it. I put my hand down the front of my pants. A girl’s gotta get it done sometimes.

  “That’s right, my dirty girl,” he hisses in my ear. “Make yourself a little whore for me.”

  His words should disgust me. They should not be turning me on even more as my fingers find my clit.

  “Show me how bad you want this job. Make yourself come.” His voice lowers, but the words are intense. His grip on my breasts continues the same massaging pressure, but he’s twisted my body slightly sideways so he can see my face. We’re looking eye to eye and all traces of the nice guy fall away as he sneers, “Dirty bitch, I want to see your cum face, you trashy fucking bimbo whore.”

  The breath is knocked out of me at the nastiness of his words. And in the same instance, I come harder than I ever have before in my life.

  CHAPTER 2

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at 8:30 sharp.”

  Those were his parting words to me as I stumbled out of his office half an hour ago. My mind still feels like it’s in a haze as I ride the light rail back to my apartment south of San Jose.

  Did that just all really happen? Maybe I fell asleep in the lobby and had some crazy sex dream?

  Or not. Because when I reach in my pocket, the short-term security pass I was issued is still there.

  Which means… holy shit. All that really just happened. I exposed myself in front of Bryce Gentry, CEO and billionaire, and he just hired me on to be his—what? Am I just there for sex or will I actually be doing any work? Fuck, did I just accept a job as a sex worker? As a prostitute? Because isn’t that what accepting money for sex is? Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

  It’s getting close to five o’ clock and the train is packed. I’m holding onto one of the poles and sweating through my cheap suit. I feel sick. This is what I’ve fought against my whole life. To be thought of as an object to be used by men. To be thought of as their whore. I remember his words right at the end. Dirty bitch. Trashy fucking bimbo whore.

  It makes other words echo in my ears: Tell anyone and you’ll be sorry. No one will believe a whore like you, and I’ll get your daddy fired from the bank. Besides, you’re just a little slut like always, begging for it.

  I squeeze my eyes shut in fury at the humiliation and degradation of those words. I always swore I’d never be what Mr. McIntyre claimed all those times when he came into my room. My parents invited dad’s boss over twice a month for dinner where they got as drunk as skunks and never noticed Mr. McIntyre didn’t leave as soon as they stumbled up to their room. I hated him. Hated what he did to me.

  So how could I come after Gentry said such similar things?

  I swallow hard even as tears bite at my eyes. Shit. I’m almost at my stop. I press angry palms at my eyes for a second to get myself under control. Okay. No fucking way am I breaking my record of not crying for a year and a half, not over this.

  Then I push my way through the bodies toward the doors as the train rocks to a stop and the bell sounds. I’m almost to the doors when someone grabs my ass and squeezes hard.

  “Who the fuck just did that?” I turn around and yell. “Who just grabbed my ass?”

  There are so many people pushing past me—men in business suits and guys in beanie caps, guys with dreadlocks and a few that look like college kids. People pushing in and out. Then the doors are closing.

  I jump off the train at the last second. “Damn it!” I yell, stomping my foot like a five-year-old.

  But what the hell? What is it about my body that says: ‘feel free to grab here?’

  That’s it. I’m fucking done.

  I will not be anyone’s whore. I’m NOT going back to that office tomorrow.

  I speed walk the six blocks home. It’s light out, so I’m safe, but I still keep my eyes peeled. The neighborhood where I live is in the transition area
between the good part of San Jose and the bad. On nights I work at the bar and can’t catch a ride home, I sleep on the couch in the office and walk home the following morning. Which only works because my sister, Shannon, lives with Charlie and me. Not that Shannon ever believes I’m actually ever just sleeping on a couch at the bar the nights I don’t come home. My older sister’s favorite pastime has always been judging me.

  Of course, getting knocked up by my married—even though I thought he was divorced!—philosophy professor my first year away from home didn’t help my case. Yeah, ever lived a cliché and not realized it until afterwards? That was me.

  I sigh. Shannon is a Godsend, really. I should be more grateful. When I showed up preggers, my parents cut me off and made it more than clear that I was not welcome on their doorstep. But Shannon stuck by me. She moved in to help with the baby and rent. She works from home doing graphic design work and takes care of Charlie at night while I work. She’s great with him. She’s super smart and is kind of the definition of a good person…

  I really should be more grateful.

  I turn my keys and push open the door. All I want to do is grab a bottle of wine and forget everything that happened today, much less what I’m going to do tomorrow. Or where I’m going to get the money to pay for a lawyer better than the shitty one I hired the first time. Let alone rent. God, the next hearing is in a month, and I still owe eight-hundred dollars in back fees to the first crappy lawyer. What the fuck am I going to do? Maybe let’s skip the wine and go straight to vodka.

  Charlie’s high-pitched wailing greets my ears when I step inside. The sound makes my stomach clench. I want to hold him to make him feel better at the same time as I wish there was someone else to deal with him so I could sit down for five minutes to decompress from the day. Shame immediately hits as I close the door. Am I that shitty of a mom?

  “Where have you been?” Shannon shouts to be heard over Charlie, a hand on her forehead. She looks exhausted and beyond stressed out. I drop my bag by the front door and hurry over to where Charlie sits in his high chair by the kitchen table. Food is smeared all over his face and he keeps shaking his head back and forth when Shannon tries to spoon in another mouthful. I can tell by his overall demeanor that he’s overtired.

  “Aw, baby, baby,” I croon to him. I go to give him a kiss on the head, but then think better of it when I see how goopy he is.

  “Did he not get his afternoon nap?” I ask Shannon as I rinse a washcloth in warm water.

  Shannon stares daggers at me as Charlie keeps up his wailing.

  “I’m the one who actually knows his schedule.” Her shrill voice cuts over Charlie’s cries. “I don’t just pop in and out of his day whenever I want to.”

  What the hell? I just walked in the door and she’s gonna give me this shit?

  I stop and take a deep breath. She’s a Godsend, Callie. You and Charlie really rely on her. Just keep your cool.

  I wipe his face and then the tray free of the baby cereal-chicken combo that Shannon was trying to feed him. This is just an initial wipe down. There’s still some in his hair and on his neck. He’s going to need a bath, but that’s part of the nighttime ritual anyway.

  Shannon keeps on going. “Charlie’s exhausted. He woke up early from his nap because somebody kept ringing the doorbell when I didn’t get there fast enough. You know how he hates the doorbell.” She flings it like an accusation.

  I lift my shoulders, exasperated. “How is that my fault? I wasn’t even here! I didn’t do anything.”

  “You didn’t do anything,” she scoffs under her breath. “That’s right. You never do.”

  My shoulders stiffen and it takes every ounce of my limited energy to bite my tongue. Keep your fucking cool.

  Shannon leaves Charlie wailing in his high chair and grabs a manila envelope from the kitchen table.

  Oh shit. My heart sinks to my stomach. I’ve seen an envelope like this before. Twice. First when Charlie’s father requested the paternity test and then six months ago when I got the first notice of an initial child custody hearing.

  “You didn’t make Charlie’s father sign away any claim he had on his child when you told him you were pregnant,” Shannon says, “That’s what you didn’t do. You didn’t manage to get a good enough lawyer to keep such a so-called ‘father’ from getting joint custody even though he told you to,” she leans in and whispers the next word, “abort our precious baby, but suddenly two and a half years later decides he wants him. And now there’s another custody hearing in two months when he’s going to try to take our little boy away from us for good.” Tears rim her eyes. “What’s your excuse going to be then, huh?”

  She spins and heads out of the room toward her home office. “I have work to do. Why don’t you do something out of the ordinary for once and be a mother?”

  My hands curl so tightly into fists that my nails cut my palm. It’s only Charlie’s continued cries that make me force myself to take a deep breath.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  I can’t let my sister’s bitchiness or even that envelope on the table affect my time with my son. I knew it was just a matter of time before this stupid notice arrived.

  I couldn’t understand it at first, when David’s lawyer first contacted me requesting a paternity test. A really fucking foolish part of me hoped it meant David wanted us back. That he’d realized what a huge mistake he’d made. That his family was here waiting for him. Maybe he’d left his wife for real this time.

  God, I don’t know how I’d had any naïveté left in me at that point, but seeing David and his lovely wife at the first custody hearing quickly remedied me of any lingering romanticism left in my soul.

  They were vicious. They skewered my character, lied and said I’d never told David about the baby and made it clear that while their initial motion was for joint custody since he’d never had any contact with his son before, their intention was to push for full. Their lawyer was polished, well-spoken, presented point after point with utmost precision and made what were several very apparent inside jokes with the judge.

  And mine? He had a mustard stain on his shirt, had prepared me all wrong for the hearing, and only cared about getting the money in back child support—out of which his fees would come. David was only happy to pay (money I’d later find came from his wife’s trust fund). Two and a half years in back-child support should have been a Godsend. Except that the hospital bills for my C-Section and Charlie’s two day NICU stay ate up almost all of it. I had just enough left to mostly pay off the lawyer and that was that.

  I look at my poor baby with his red face and the fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “Oh sweet baby,” I coo, my heart breaking. “What a mess.” I don’t just mean the food that’s all over his face and covering the tray in front of him.

  God, Shannon doesn’t even know about the back-rent that’s due. She’d kill me if she knew I hadn’t been keeping up on my half of the payments. The little extra I did have I’d been giving Mr. Jenks-a-lot to bribe him not to tell Shannon about it. But he made it clear he won’t let me float another month. Shit. It’s not like it would make a difference if Shannon had known all along—she doesn’t have the money either.

  “It’s gonna be okay, baby,” I whisper to Charlie, hugging him close. “You need to eat a little more, but it’s been a rough day on both of us. How about some applesauce?”

  “App-sas,” he repeats, his whimpering calming down slightly. “App-sas, app-sas.”

  Some Mama-attention and sweet treats are always good for the soul. It’s a good thing he doesn’t know about chocolate yet.

  Charlie does well with the applesauce. Bath turns into play time like always and, though there’s more whining than usual when he gets out, he falls asleep quickly and without much fuss. That’s always been my saving grace with Charlie—he’s a great sleeper.

  When I close the door behind me and head to the kitchen, I’m less than thrilled to see my sister there making herself a sandwich. I head stra
ight for the wine. I’ll be a little classier than straight vodka tonight. Besides, wine and chocolate together is like, a thing, right? In Europe or something? Well, it’s gonna be a thing in my kitchen tonight.

  I reach up on top of the refrigerator where I keep my chocolate bars. I frown when I pull down just half of a Hershey’s. I know for a fact there were two full bars there yesterday. I turn and look accusingly at Shannon. “Did you eat my chocolate?”

  She shrugs and turns her back as she spreads mayo on a slice of bread. “It was in the kitchen, I figure it’s fair game,” is her only response.

  “But you know I buy it especially for when I have cravings.”

  She shrugs again.

  I bite my cheek and huff out a breath. It’s not worth getting into a fight over. It’s not worth getting into a fight over. If I repeat it enough times, I’ll start to believe it, right?

  I unwrap what’s left of the bar and take a giant bite. The chocolate on my tongue makes me feel slightly better. At least until I reach for the bottle of wine. And see that it’s only half full.

  “What the fuck, Shannon?” I all but explode.

  She finally turns around to look at me. “What?” She crosses her arms over her chest.

  “Stop eating my chocolate and drinking my wine.”

  “They didn’t have your name on them.”

  It’s such a fucking childish thing to say.

  “What are we, nine-year-olds?”

  Her jaw locks. “Apparently some of us live as if we were.” She nods toward the manila envelope on the table behind me that so far I’ve managed to avoid thinking about. “You live like a child, as if you don’t have any responsibilities.”

  I step up to her, forefinger pointed at her chest. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I all but growl.

  She smacks my finger away. “Don’t I? I’m the one who’s here, living with you and helping you raise your son because you’re the naïve idiot who got knocked up by her married professor. You actually thought he’d leave his wife for you?” She shakes her head.