Willing Victim: Remastered

by Cara McKenna

  “Hold still, bitch.” He flinched as Pam spat at him and Laurel saw his eyes narrow as though they were mere inches above hers. “You’ll fucking pay for that.”

  Pam gasped and jerked and Laurel imagined his intrusion between her own legs, mean and merciless.

  “Yeah, that’s what you get.” He found a rhythm, graceless now, working against her thrashing body. “Harder you struggle, the harder I fuck you,” he warned. “Open your mouth.”

  She bucked and spat again.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” Flynn said. He yanked at her wrist, making her back arch, making Laurel’s ache alongside it. “Do what I say or I’m gonna get mean.”

  She twisted under his hold and he yanked again and this time her body quieted.

  “Better,” he said. “Now open that mouth.”

  Both women parted their lips as Flynn lowered to kiss Pam, violent, hips still pounding. For a moment Laurel could feel his firm, wet tongue taking her mouth, then he jerked away with a gruff noise, released her wrist to touch his fingers to his lip.

  “Fucking bitch.”

  Laurel watched Pam slap uselessly at his slick chest and stomach as he wiped the blood from his bitten lip. Flynn squinted down at his victim, hips going still, his face full of hatred so cold it made Laurel shiver from ten feet away.

  Without warning, he jammed his blood-streaked fingers into Pam’s mouth before moving them to her throat, pushing her head against the floor. Her assaulting hand froze between them.

  Laurel froze too, body so tight with arousal and adrenaline she felt faint. She tasted copper in her mouth and her throat closed up.

  Flynn’s next words came slow and dark and dangerous. “Now you’re going to do what I say. You understand?”

  Pam made a noise, strained but coherent enough to tell Laurel she could breathe just fine, that Flynn wasn’t actually choking her.

  “Right. Now you be a good girl and reach that hand down and touch yourself.” When she didn’t respond he seemed to tighten his hold on her neck. “Now.”

  She obeyed, snaking her hand between their bodies to finger her clit. Laurel ached to do the same, her pussy begging for it. She held back, reminded herself of her role and made her obedience into an unspoken order from Flynn.

  “Good.” He moved his choking hand to the floor by Pam’s shoulder. “Now you make yourself come, bitch. And I’ll know if you’re faking. You make that cunt clench around my cock or I swear to God you’ll regret it.”

  Words gave way to moans and grunts as both bodies turned frantic. Laurel smelled the heady mix of sweat and sex and latex, felt the heat peeling off them against her own dampening skin. Her eyes drank in every shape of Flynn’s powerful body as it twitched and tightened, his thrusts looking punishing, the brutality real. Her cunt was screaming to experience him, throbbing deep and hot with impatience.

  Pam came apart. Her breathy grunts matched Flynn’s harsh ones and her legs came up, knees hugging his waist, inviting him deeper. He let her pinned hand go and she moved it to her chest to palm her breasts and tweak her nipples. Laurel’s fingers twitched, dying to do the same.

  They fucked like nothing she’d ever seen in porn—technically missionary, seemingly vanilla, but the intensity between them was incredible, palpable, crackling with electricity.

  All at once that energy was rerouted, shot straight across the room between Flynn’s eyes and Laurel’s and she felt him, all the aggression and strength of his body pummeling hers.

  Pam groaned beneath him, head turning to the side as the hand stroking her breasts grew frantic.

  “Good girl. Come all over that hard cock.” He froze, pushed deep inside.

  Pam cried out, raked his back as she climaxed. Laurel’s mind swam for a second, lost in the details of Flynn—his sweat-damp hair, muscles gleaming in the city’s ambient glow. She breathed in his smell, feasted on his body. She wanted him more violently than anything she could recall, as though the need in her were blinding pain and the only thing that could take it away was Flynn.

  “That’s right,” he whispered, hips giving a few gentle pumps as Pam calmed. “That’s right. Good girl.” He leaned in, kissed her forehead. The gesture sent an odd ripple through Laurel, seeming twice as graphic and raw as any other intimate contact she’d witnessed in the last ten minutes.

  Flynn pulled out and got to his feet as Pam made it unsteadily to her knees. She reached out to unroll the condom from his cock, set it aside and stroked his flesh. Laurel imagined him in her palm. His balls looked tight and high, telling her how close he must be. He took over after a minute, jerking fast and rough, and Laurel felt each bump of his head against Pam’s lips. She felt his skin under her nails as Pam dug her fingers into his thighs, saw his need as her eyes stared up at his face.

  “Here I come, sweetheart. Open up wide for me.”

  Laurel ached to see him come but Pam’s mouth closed over his head, keeping the moment private, forcing her out of all this borrowed intimacy. She had to be satisfied watching his clenching ass and his tight fist as his hand slowed, had to settle for his rumbling moan as he released. She saw Pam swallow what he gave her, felt her heart stop when his gaze jumped to her face for the briefest moment.

  “C’mon.” He put a hand out and helped Pam to standing. “Go get cleaned up.”

  Pam disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door to block out the light and the whir of the fan. A moment later the shower hissed on.

  Laurel’s stomach dropped and she wondered if she was supposed to go now. She bit her lip, watching Flynn tug on his jeans and buckle his belt. He turned to her, still barefoot and stripped to the waist and looking just as dangerous as he did in the ring.

  “Still here, huh?”

  She tried to keep her eyes on his face, off his gleaming stomach, tried to keep her awareness on the words and off her pleading cunt. “Looks like it.”

  He nodded and pulled on his shirt as the water shut off. He flipped the lights on and gathered Pam’s clothes, knocked on the bathroom door. A hand emerged to accept them with a thank-you.

  Laurel got up, stepping to the windows to peer at the empty street five stories down.

  “You dawdling?” Flynn asked. When she turned to try to come up with a pithy answer she found him smiling at her, thumbs tucked into his pockets.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You probably got some questions. Run away if you want though.”

  She opened her mouth to speak just as Pam opened the bathroom door, flipping off the light and fan to emerge fully dressed. She looked different with her hair wet, bangs off her face, eyeliner and dark lipstick gone—vulnerable and heartbreakingly human. She turned to Laurel, her voice softer than it had been all evening.

  “Did you like it?”

  Laurel pursed her lips a moment and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for inviting me.” She turned to Flynn and held his eyes to tell him the thanks were meant for both of them.

  “Walk you to your car?” he asked Pam.

  “No, I’m just across the way.”

  “I’ll watch from the window,” he said. “Go on, it’s late.”

  Oh, right. She’s got a husband at home. Weird.

  Pam turned to Laurel. “You need a ride anywhere?”

  “No, I live close,” she lied. “Thanks though.”

  “Sure. Nice meeting you, Laurel.” She headed for the exit, Flynn right behind her.

  “Take care,” he said, and closed the door. He braced a hand on the wood and leaned into it as if he were thinking, then walked to the windows. He stared down into the street for a minute, raised a hand in a small wave as a car started up outside.

  He turned to approach Laurel, crossing his arms over his chest. “So.”

  “You’re bleeding,” she said, eyes on the fresh blood shining along the gash on his lip.

  He wiped his mouth, smearing red. “You traumatized now or anything?”

  She ignored his patronizing tone. “Do you have peroxide?”

  He blin
ked at her a couple times then headed to the bathroom. She loitered at the open door while he crouched at the cupboard below the sink. He stood, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in hand, and Laurel edged past him to root through his medicine cabinet, finding antiseptic ointment and bandages. No cotton balls, but she popped the toilet paper roll off its spool and headed back into the main room. She heard Flynn behind her as she walked to his bed and sat on its edge. He looked down at her, semi-silhouetted. She patted the mattress and he surprised her by sitting.

  Laurel angled his head and inspected the cut. He didn’t flinch as she brushed her fingertips over it.

  “You a nurse or something?”

  “No, I’m a waitress.”

  “Aren’t you too old to be a waitress?” he asked, the tease stinging. She hoped the alcohol just might return the favor.

  “I’m only twenty-nine.”

  “Yeah, but you can wait tables in Providence. Nobody moves to Boston to become a waitress. Where’d you drop out from?”

  “Nowhere. I graduated from Wentworth.” He remembered where I’m from. That’s something, right? She wet a wad of toilet paper and pressed it to his lip. He didn’t bat an eye. “I didn’t like my field all that much once I got into it.”

  “Waste of thousands of dollars.”

  She frowned. “I had a scholarship, not that it’s your business. Is there a humongous chip on your shoulder I should be disinfecting?”

  “Sorry,” he said, not sounding it.

  “What do you care, anyway?”

  “I like to know who I’m playing with, and you seem like you might be sticking around.” He watched her smear her fingers with ointment before dabbing at his cut.

  “Well, I’m a failed engineer who waits tables at a tourist trap in Quincy Market,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

  “And you don’t live around here, do you?”

  “No. I live in the North End.”

  “Roommates?”

  She nodded. “I’m pushing thirty and my career’s in the shitter and I wait tables and have two roommates. And my longest relationship lasted less than your current fuckbuddy arrangement. Happy?”

  Flynn laughed genuinely for the first time and it changed him. It deepened the lines beside his eyes and mouth, revealed his imperfect but white teeth. It also reopened the cut and she glared at him.

  “What else have you got?” Laurel touched her fingers to a nasty bruise just above his collar. He peeled up his tee and she grimaced at the array of black and blues—way more now that she was close up. An ugly scrape traced his collarbone but nothing else appeared to be bleeding. Laurel swabbed the scrape and smeared it with Bactine, smoothed a bandage in place.

  “Why do you do that?” she asked. “The fights?”

  “Same reason I do the other shit you saw tonight.”

  “Which is?” She crumpled the bandage wrapper in her fist and held his stare.

  “Dunno. Just need to.”

  “Does it make you feel alive or something?”

  “Why’d you come here tonight?”

  She nodded. “Touché.”

  “You done fussing over me?”

  She screwed the cap back on the ointment and nodded again.

  “You drive here?”

  She shook her head. “Bus.”

  “Buses ain’t running this late. You want a ride?”

  “I can call a cab.”

  “Or I can give you a ride. Come on.” He stood and tugged his shirt back on and she followed, setting the first-aid supplies on his counter. She grabbed her purse from the table as Flynn pulled on his shoes and clipped his keys to his belt.

  “Flynn isn’t your first name, is it?” Laurel asked.

  “No. It’s Michael.”

  “Oh.” She’d been expecting a little more evasion or possibly a stranger name than Michael. “Well, my last name’s White.”

  “Right. Laurel White, I’m Michael Flynn.” He shook her hand curtly. “You’ve watched me fuck and we know each other’s full names. That enough for your first night?”

  She offered a snide little smile. “Sure.” They left the apartment and he locked up behind them. They shared a silent elevator ride and walked half a block to a rust-pocked white station wagon. Flynn unlocked the driver’s side, slid in and leaned over to pull the lock for Laurel’s door. She sat down and glanced at him, then around the car.

  He started the engine, grinning. “What’d you expect?”

  “Not a station wagon.”

  “I’m the only non-drinker in a bar full of fighters. Some nights I wish I had a minivan for haulin’ people’s drunk, limping asses home.” He pulled them onto the silent street and Laurel rolled down her window, breathing in that ripened summer city smell.

  Flynn flipped on a classic rock station and lowered the volume.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For letting me tag along.”

  He shrugged and they didn’t speak for a couple minutes as he took them over a bridge and through the Seaport District. Dirty Water came on, as though they’d just driven into a parody of themselves.

  “Think you’re interested in what I do?” Flynn asked, turning to her. “If you are, all you have to do is tell me what night.”

  “Are you interested in inviting me?” she asked.

  “Pretty sure I just did.”

  She shifted in her seat and clutched her purse tighter. “I’m interested. I’m not sure how I’ll feel tomorrow though.”

  “Just pick a night. You can always stand me up.”

  “You must work early. So weeknights would be—”

  “Quit stalling. Just pick a day.”

  “Okay. Wednesday. I’m off work at four.”

  He nodded. “Fine. Come over around eight. Or don’t. But I’ll make sure and be home then.”

  She nodded and exhaled, feeling all at once relieved. “Is there a…shallow end? You know, to the rough stuff.”

  He grinned at her. “You need training wheels?”

  “Well—”

  “Just fuckin’ with you. Of course there’s a shallow end. You’ve seen how I like to screw. But it’s a preference, not a fetish. I don’t have to be a prick to get hard.” He turned the car onto Atlantic Avenue, downtown looking as empty as Laurel had ever seen it.

  “Regular sex is like jerking off to me,” he went on. “It feels good, it gets the job done. But I’d rather be doing somethin’ else, you know?”

  “Are you part of the BDSM scene or whatever?”

  He made an exasperated noise. “I can’t stand that shit. They make everything so fucking complicated. You might as well be one of those Civil-fucking-War…” He twirled his hand, searching for the word.

  “Reenactors?”

  He snapped his fingers at her. “Three points. Anyhow, I just like stuff a lot of women don’t, so I have to make sure I find the ones who do. Like, really do. Do you have a man someplace?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “Pam does.”

  “I know, and I won’t lie, it bugs me.”

  “She said he knows about you guys.”

  “Yeah, and I believe her. But it’d be simpler if she was single. I like my women simple,” he added, smirking.

  Laurel rolled her eyes. “Your women? Exactly how big is this harem you’re inviting me to join?”

  “It’s only been Pam, these past few months.”

  “Oh.” Her dander settled, and good thing. It was ridiculous to already feel a twinge of jealousy over this man, but it was also an undeniable relief to know she wasn’t going to be just one in an endless stable.

  “So what about it gets you off, do you think?”

  Flynn shrugged, eyes on the road. “Power, I guess.”

  “Same with the fighting? You like—”

  “I’m not real interested in being psychoanalyzed, kiddo. Dissect my rotten soul all you want but keep it to yourself.”

  “Sorry. I have an engineer’s brain.”

  He si
de-eyed her. “What’s that mean?”

  “I like understanding how things work.”

  “Well, draw yourself a pretty little blueprint and do me a favor and don’t ever show it to me. I like fighting, and I like fucking. I don’t care much for thinking.”

  “Okay.”

  He took a right on Hanover into Laurel’s neighborhood. “Tell me where to turn,” he said.

  “Left on North Bennet.”

  He drove to her building and put the car in neutral, double-parking on the narrow one-way street. She caught the wink of headlights in the rearview mirror and unstrapped her seat belt. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “No problem. You got your phone? I’ll give you my number, case you need it.”

  Laurel fished out her cell and he entered his info.

  ”I never hear it ring, so just leave a message. I’ll see you Wednesday at eight,” he said, handing her phone back. “If you find the balls.”

  “I—”

  An SUV pulled up behind them and honked. Laurel flung her door open but Flynn grasped her wrist.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, just makin’ that prick wait. I can’t fucking stand impatient people.”

  The horn blared again.

  Flynn leaned out his window. “What’s the rush at three a.m. on this gorgeous summer evening?” His grip was too tight for Laurel to break.

  A series of honks, and Flynn propped his elbow out the window, presumably flipping the driver the bird. Laurel felt her face color. She hated being part of a scene.

  “I can wait all night, douchebag,” Flynn sang once the horn quieted.

  Laurel’s heart beat in her throat. A greedy, primitive part of her relished the thought of the pissed-off driver confronting Flynn, only to get loomed over by a tower of black-eyed, split-lipped muscle. Instead they gave a last honk and reversed, fast, turning down a side street with a petulant squeal of tires. Flynn let her hand go and the blood trickled back into her fingertips. She tried to imagine him holding her wrists in another context and blushed deeper, glad it was dark.