by Zoey Parker
“Mortar,” I interject. “What about a condom?”
“You accepted the deal, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Then there’s no sense in waiting. I want what we agreed to.”
I don’t know what to say. This is all happening too fast, too suddenly. My old life is already gone, and this new version of things is zooming into place without stopping to ask if I’m comfortable with the pace.
It wouldn’t be impossible to tell him to stop. I even think he’d listen, despite the devil may care attitude he embodies. But the truth is I don’t want him to stop. I want to feel him inside me with nothing between us, to feel his bare cock against the dripping wet walls of my cunt. I’m every bit as hungry for it as he is.
“I’m going to fuck my baby right into you,” he says, eyes fiery with desire and determination.
Shouldn’t I slap him for saying something like that? For reducing me to a vessel for his seed? I should, right?
But I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want to. I want to be full of him and his cum. I want to feel him explode inside me and know that he’s taking root in me on every level imaginable.
It’s a scary thought. But as I lean back and feel him press his hard length inch by agonizing inch into me, I know that it is the right one.
The sense of complete surrender is like a drug. I’ve never done this before. I always insisted on a condom, even with Grady. To let this stranger inside of me without even that as protection is the ultimate sign that I’m his in every way. I don’t have a choice, but there’s a demented part of me that wants things to be that way.
It feels right to belong to him.
The sex oscillates between painful and perfect as we increase the pace. Mortar slams into me, prying cries from somewhere deep in my chest as his cock penetrates to my very core. He’s almost too big for me to handle. I can feel my body stretching, yearning to accommodate him. Every slight change of angle takes a few painful strokes before I can ease into it and enjoy the sensations pulsating from inside me. I rub frantically at my clit, coaxing a train of small almost-orgasms to offset the rough fucking.
Our sweat mingles as Mortar wraps his hands behind my head and pulls me close to him. I’m straddling his lap and bouncing up and down with all my strength, pulling him into me and out of me at the fastest speed we can muster.
“Mortar,” I moan, “be gentle.” I don’t even know why I say that. It’s almost a test, in a way. I don’t want gentle; I don’t want soft. This needs to be hard and brutal. We need to seal the agreement with an animal fucking that makes my muscles sore and my jaw tired from screaming.
He drops my torso and slings my legs over his shoulders. I wince as my pussy adjusts to the new angle, but as soon as the motion is smooth, Mortar starts to pound fully into me, reaching a new depth. I can feel my climax building. I keep rubbing my clit.
“Yeah, baby. Come for me,” Mortar commands. His hands are like pincers on my hips, bruising where he has seized me and refuses to let go. The harsh slap of skin on skin beats out a staccato rhythm as I climb and climb before exploding into an orgasm that short-circuits my jaw. I open and close my mouth, desperate to suck in breath, as clenching racks my body from head to toe. I squeeze around his iron length inside me, and as I do, I can feel Mortar nearing his own completion. His pace reaches a peak and his face wrenches into an almost pained expression.
“Come in me,” I beg him. “Fill me.” Where do these words come from? I don’t have time to consider their source. I just opened my mouth and they came out.
The bareness of his manhood inside me becomes too much to bear, and he lets loose with a feral grunt. I can even feel the ropes of lava cum unraveling inside me, bathing my cunt in his seed. Mortar pants as he rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed. His hands loosen and fall from where he had held me pinned to the mattress.
As the atmosphere slackens, the real world sets back in. It brings with it a creeping doubt. I wonder if I’ve made a horrible mistake. It doesn’t matter, it’s too late to undo things. Mortar’s cum is sliding down my thighs, and in my body, things have already begun to race towards their natural conclusion. There’s no going back.
Sooner or later, I’m going to have his baby.
After we finish, Mortar is dozing in and out. I’m restless. I climb out of bed and go to the bathroom to clean up. When I’m done, I walk over to the window, peeking through the blinds. The sun has just set, so the ocean is a murky purple beneath the cloud-covered sky. I watch seagulls wing their way back to the nests, carrying scraps of food for their families.
Family, what a concept. I press a hand against my abdomen and wonder if Mortar has already done what he set out to do. There’s no way to tell, not yet, but the thought isn’t quite as off-putting as I might once have imagined. Being held, being protected—it’s not all that scary. It’s different with Mortar. When I was with Grady, being “his” meant I was the same as property. Just another shiny bauble to play with when he wanted and throw around whenever I didn’t work to his liking.
But to Mortar, I feel like I’m something central, something essential to him and the way he thinks about himself and his world. It’s a weird thought, deeper and more foreign than I’m ready to confront just yet.
I hear a noise behind me. Mortar is propped up on his elbow, watching me as I stand between the curtains. “You look beautiful right there,” he says. “Don’t ever move.”
I blush. I’m half-embarrassed to be the focus of such direct attention, especially since I’m still naked. But the other half of me loves it. I’m soaking it in, reveling in it. I like making him happy.
“I got you some things,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Clothes, toiletries, a few things you’ll need since you’re staying here. Something to wear tonight, too.”
“I’ve got plenty of stuff at Grady’s. I need to go get that.”
Mortar shakes his head. “You can’t get that stuff. You might as well forget about it. All that’s gone. We’ll get you new things.”
“Forget about it? My whole life is there! I’m supposed to leave behind everything I own?”
He nods his head.
“That’s impossible!”
“It’s what has to happen. You can’t go back.”
I realize that he’s right, but I still don’t like it. I think about the things I’m abandoning, but as I go through the list in my head, I realize that none of it really matters. I don’t have anything important outside the studio. Aside from my art, the rest of my stuff is just that—stuff. Trivial and easily replaced.
I remember the other part of what Mortar has just said. “What’s tonight?”
He grins. “The fun.”
A few moments later, I’m standing in the closet of his guest bedroom, holding a hanger in my hands. Dangling from it is the smallest, tightest black dress I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Try it on,” he urges.
I look at him. “You’ve got to be out of your mind.”
“Just try it.”
Flashing him a glare, I step into the walk-in closet and shut the door behind me. The dress slides up my body like a glove. It fits perfectly, as good as if it were tailored to my shape exactly. I look down. The fabric slides tight along every curve, accentuating each gentle swell of my frame. If I bend over even an inch, the whole world will see that I’m not wearing any underwear. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and walk out.
Mortar’s face tells me everything I need to know, even before I can see a mirror. His eyes light up, big and round, and he gives a low whistle as I cross the distance between us.
“Kendra, you look incredible,” he says. I can’t help the embarrassed smile that steals across my face. He holds me between his hands and gives me another up and down. “Seriously, out of this world.”
I pivot on one heel. “Zip me?” I ask. He obliges, tugging up the zipper with an easy hand. I pace over to the full-length m
irror on one side of the room.
There’s no denying that I look good. The black dress looks fabulous against my smoky skin, and the long, straight wave of my hair dances perfectly in the low lighting. I do a slow spin, noticing how good my ass looks. The whole thing is ludicrously tight. This is a “fuck me” outfit if I’ve ever seen one.
I turn back to Mortar. “What about shoes?” I ask him. “I don’t have anything for that.”
He points to the bed. “Sit.”
Wondering what he’s up to, I walk over and sit on the edge of the bed, crossing my legs. Mortar disappears into the closet and re-emerges with a shoe box. He comes to kneel in front of me.
“Give me your feet,” he says. I extend one foot in his direction. He wraps his fingers around the base of my heel with one hand and, with the other, withdraws a midnight black stiletto that matches the dress perfectly. He places it gently on my foot. Just like the dress, the fit is perfect. I wonder how he knew what sizes to get, but I decide it’s better to just accept it.
He does the same with the other shoe, sliding it on and securing it in place with tender fingers. If this were any other man, it would be an almost submissive thing to do. But with Mortar, the whole process is just another form of his dominance. I like that he wants me to look good for him and for the world.
Although, I do have to wonder what he’s up to. As someone who’s just run away from a very public wedding, the last thing I want to do is go out in public and draw undue attention. This dress is the opposite of low-key. But no matter how many times I pry, he won’t tell me what we’re doing. Maybe it’s because he knows I would not have been happy about it.
Five minutes after stepping into the most conspicuous, popular nightclub in Galveston, it feels like the entire club has taken a turn to gaze at me. Every eye is roaming over my dress, leaving nothing unseen.
The second we walked up to the front door, the bouncer ushered us past the long line and to a table rising on a dais in the very middle of the building. I feel like an animal at the zoo. Liquor bottles stand shimmering in buckets of ice, while waitresses swirl around every five minutes, asking us if we would like anything else to eat or drink. The rafters are pulsing with lights and music, and bodies mill around on all sides, dancing and flirting.
Next to me on the velvet couch, Mortar is leaning back, his arm over my shoulders, with an easy smile on his face. He looks as comfortable here as he would in his own living room. I’m nervous.
“Is this a good idea?” I ask him over and over again. Each time, he tells me that everything is fine, that we’re just enjoying ourselves. I shift back and forth in my seat, uneasy no matter how I’m positioned. I sigh and ease back into Mortar’s arm. I trust him. If he is calm, then I need to be calm, too.
I am calm—until I see it. On the far side of the dance floor, a new ripple breaks out in the sea of people. I see a head storming through, pushing its way through the crowd. Angry cries careen over the music, and I see a few more people trailing in the man’s wake, shouting his name. When they get close enough for me to understand what they’re saying, my heart freezes.
“Grady.”
My husband plows through the crowd and up to our table. He tries to mount the stairs, but the bouncers at the bottom intervene and push him back. He screams at them. They don’t budge. Realizing that he needs to keep his cool, he smooths his hair back. The sadistic calm that settles over his face is frighteningly familiar. I’ve seen it before—right before he hits me.
Shooting his cuffs, Grady pulls out his police badge and gestures at where we are sitting above. I notice Mortar hasn’t moved, though he is watching the entire proceeding with a thin smile. The bouncers eventually relent and stand aside to let him come up to us.
He climbs coolly, fixing his jacket as he goes. My heart is pounding so hard I’m honestly worried that I’m going to crack a rib. Mortar still hasn’t budged. It’s like he was expecting this.
Of course he was. This whole thing was a ploy to get Grady’s attention, wasn’t it? He knew that Grady had eyes at this club, that the second we showed our faces, he would know about it. That’s why he wanted me to look good. That’s why he got this table.
To bring Grady here. To gloat.
I’m dizzy, not sure whether from the music or the lights or the situation unfolding in front of me. Before I can decide what to do, Grady is here.
“Let’s go,” he says to me, extending a hand.
“Don’t move,” Mortar shoots back. “Major Freeman, what a pleasure. Can I help you with something?” His voice is glacier cold.
“You can start by fucking yourself, asswipe,” Grady snarls. “And then by giving back my girl. My wife, actually.”
“I don’t think that Kendra will be going anywhere with you, Officer.” He’s being infuriatingly polite. I see all the tell-tale signs in Grady’s face; an eruption is imminent. I don’t want to be anywhere near him when that happens.
“Do you have a death wish?” Grady screams. His anger breaks through the calm façade, rendering his face ugly and blotchy. “I will fucking murder you!”
“That is very unbecoming of an officer of the law,” Mortar replies. I would laugh if fear wasn’t coursing through the pit of my stomach and spreading to every extremity.
Grady is at a loss for words. Curses splutter through his lips as his face gets redder and redder. Below, I see more commotion. I recognize two of his fellow officers at the bottom of the raised stage we are on, arguing with the bouncers and pointing up to where Grady is screaming at Mortar and me.
“I fucking own her!” he roars. “I own this bitch! You have no fucking right!” His voice crackles with rage. He’s nearly choking on his own venom. If he keeps screaming, I feel like a vein in his forehead will pop.
As for me, I’m finding it harder and harder to breathe. My throat feels like it’s closing in on itself, swelling to shut off all air. My lungs are wheezing, trying to draw in oxygen, but nothing is getting through. The lights in front of me are getting hazy.
I hear Mortar tell Grady, “You need to leave,” just as the other cops come up to pull him away.
“C’mon, Grady, you can’t be doing this here,” they urge him. “This just looks bad. Save it for another time.” They tug at him. He goes begrudgingly, spitting at Mortar the whole time about how he is going to murder him, crack his skull open, throw him in jail to rot forever. Mortar’s smiling face doesn’t change.
I feel like I’m about to pass out. I see Mortar’s face—blurry now, dissolving into particles—look over at me. The smile is replaced by concern. “Kendra, Kendra,” he yells, but it sounds like his voice is at the top of a well that I’m falling down. I feel him pick me up. I can’t breathe. The lights are fading…
* * *
I wake up to a gentle pat on the face. “Kendra, wake up,” Mortar says. His face swims into focus in my field of vision. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I swivel my head around, trying to figure out where I am. “Wha…what happened?” I murmur, fighting off a nasty headache.
“You had a panic attack and passed out,” he tells me. “I brought you to the bathroom. Here, drink this.” He hands me a cup of water. I sip at it. The coolness down my throat is life-saving. I suck in a big breath, grateful for the air in my lungs.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
“Yeah, I think so,” I reply. Then it hits me—Grady, face purple and mottled, fists curled, him screaming, “I own this bitch!”—and I feel the pressure sit down on my chest again. My throat starts to close back up. Air is in short supply; the blood in my forehead is pounding.
“Kendra, Kendra!” Mortar is yelling. “Stay with me! Kendra! Breathe!”
I’m fighting to listen to him. Just breathe, I tell myself, all you have to do is breathe. But I can’t. Grady is large in my mind’s eye, screaming and threatening, swinging a fist at me.
“Kendra! Listen to me right now. Breathe. Inhale. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” For
whatever reason, this time Mortar’s voice breaks through. Grady’s image dissipates into a vapor of colored dots. I open my eyes, focusing on Mortar’s voice and face. A huge inhale swirls in my nostrils and down my throat, filling my lungs, fueling my starving blood.
“Stay here. Keep breathing.” My hands are scrabbling on Mortar’s chest, holding onto fistfuls of his jacket. I’m trying hard to listen and do what he says. “I’m here with you,” Mortar says. “He can’t hurt you. I’m here. I’m protecting you. You’re with me.”
