DIRTY DADDY

by Evelyn Glass

  I’m close now, so close I can feel it building like a wave inside of me. A wave of pleasure which crashes again and again against a dam, the dam close to bursting. The wave builds and builds, higher and fiercer, as the heat turns to a fierce inferno.

  Then I open my mouth, try to scream, but can’t. I scream silently instead, a hollow non-sound, as the dam bursts and the wave crashes inside of me, over and over. My body pulses as the orgasms moves through me, my legs trembling and my belly tightening and my head falling into his lap, his cock resting against my lips. The orgasm lasts longer than any I’ve had before, it seems to last forever.

  Then, finally, it passes, and I open my eyes and look up at Samson. He glances down at me and then back into the air.

  “Jesus Christ, Anna,” he says. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in my life, the sexiest woman I can even imagine.”

  I lean up, panting. My body is flushed, exhausted.

  After a half-minute, I get my breath back and look down at his cock. It’s still rock-hard, so hard I can see veins standing out on his skin.

  I lean down again, taking it in my mouth. I massage his balls and suck him up and down, up and down, as if I’m bobbing for apples. I suck him as deeply and as quickly as I can, the tip of his cock hitting the back of my throat. I want him to come so fucking badly. I’ve never enjoyed giving blowjobs with any other man—I’ve met few women who have—but with Samson it’s different. His moans in my ears make me think, that’s me. I’m making him moan like that. I’m his woman and I’m giving him that pleasure.

  “I’m close,” he breathes. “Fuck, fuck, I’m close.”

  He doesn’t need to tell me. I’m sure I can feel it in his cock. It gets even bigger in my mouth, as though it’s about to burst. I suck and suck and suck, lost in the act of it, lost like I’ve never been lost before, taking my own pleasure from the act of giving him pleasure. I push my mouth down until I feel his balls against my lips, until my eyes bulge and I’m choking.

  “Oh—fuck.”

  All at once, his come releases, a quick shot of it, and then a steady stream shoots into the back of my throat. Just as I’ve never enjoyed blowjobs before, I’ve never really been comfortable swallowing the aftermath of one. But just like with everything, it’s different with Samson. I swallow it eagerly, thinking about the pleasure I’ve just given him, thinking about my man having the best orgasm of his life. It’s salty, but I don’t care. I swallow it all and when he’s done I lean back in my chair, tired and satisfied. Not even the ache in my jaw causes me any discomfort.

  “Fucking hell,” Samson sighs, glancing at me and then back to the sky. “You’re . . . incredible. Where did that come from?”

  “I couldn’t help myself,” I answer honestly. “I just couldn’t.”

  “Well, anytime you can’t help yourself, go ahead,” he laughs.

  It’s a carefree laugh, the laugh of a person who’s just lost themselves in pleasure, and soon I join in on the laugh.

  “Are we still on course?” I ask once the laughter has passed.

  “Miraculously, yes,” he says. “Though I have no idea how. I swear, I should get a reward for that.”

  “What—the mutual masturbation piloting award?”

  He laughs again, loud and comforting in my ears, and I giggle along with him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Samson

  I set us down on a landing pad in the middle of the woods, a stone’s throw from a small log cabin I’ve kept as a safe house for a few years now. That was something Uncle Richard and Dad never realized. They assumed they were invincible, that they’d never need anywhere where they could hideout. Or maybe it was just that they weren’t rich enough. The cold truth is I’ve been far more successful than either of them ever was.

  I’m groggy and tired from Anna’s wild blowjob. I hadn’t expected it. She was like a firework, exploding without warning and stunning me. She is amazing, sensational, the best woman I’ve ever known. As I land, I look over at her. She smiles at me, a smile which brightens her face, and all over again I feel close to her, closer to her than I had felt to any woman, closer than I have any right to. She’s mine, now; I know that as a fact, immutable, something deep-set inside of me. If anyone tried to harm her, they’d pay.

  ‘And yet you let River go,’ Richard chuckles. ‘You want to protect her and yet you let the one person who wants to do her harm go free. How does that work, eh?’

  I ignore the voice. It’s too honest, too stark.

  I climb from the helicopter, walk around to Anna’s side, and help her down.

  She hops onto the landing pad and stretches her neck from side to side, stretches out her arms and legs. “Where are we?” she asks, looking around. Trees stretch all around us for miles, trees which stand close together and throw deep shadows into the underbrush. Birds sit perched on branches and as we watch, a squirrel darts through a pile of brown fallen leaves. Far away, something barks into the air.

  “We’re safe,” I tell her. “There’s no way anybody will find us.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter where we are.” She smiles. “Just the two of us, out here. I hope this isn’t all some elaborate ploy to get me out here alone, undefended.”

  “I just want to get you inside, naked,” I say, hearing the growl in my voice.

  Anna walks right up to me, her face flushed bright red, and grabs the front of my pants. My cock goes immediately hard, though I came just a few minutes ago. I try to think of circumstances in which Anna wouldn’t be able to make me hard, and I draw a blank. She’s too sexy, too full of life; it’s like her body speaks to mine. When we’re this close, I can feel energy between us, almost physical. She touches me and it takes all my effort not to spin her around, bend her over, and take her right here.

  “We have to get inside first,” I say. “We’re safe, but why risk it?”

  She giggles cutely. “Sir, yes, sir!”

  I lean into her, kiss her on the cheek, and then turn and make my way toward the cabin, the sounds of the forest all around us.

  ###

  The cabin is smaller than the one at Point Lookout and doesn’t have a secret bunker. There’s no need, not way out there. It’s one-bedroom, with a shared kitchen-living area. A log fire sits in protective stone fireplace, a bearskin rug sitting before the fire. The furniture is plush, comfortable, and the walls are pinned with art, as all my safe houses are. I see her looking at the rug. “It’s not really bearskin,” I tell her quickly. “It’s, what do you call it—”

  “Faux-fur?”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  She nods. “Good.”

  We go into the bedroom and Anna lays out her things on the bed, her clothes, her jewelry, the things she took from her apartment.

  “Nobody will find us here,” I say. “Not even my driver.”

  It’s true. I trust Jack, but I haven’t told even him where we’re going. Nobody knows. Hell, Anna doesn’t know precisely where we are. I walk up behind her and wrap my hands around her belly, resting my chin on her shoulder. It’s an act I do without thinking now, but one I would never have performed with the women before Anna. It’s too intimate, too close, but with Anna that doesn’t seem to matter. The more intimate, the closer, the better.

  “We have to stay here for a few days,” I say. “Three, I think. We have to wait long enough for River to get desperate, angry. We have to wait long enough until she goes mad with the desire to find us.”

  “And then what?” Anna asks.

  “I have a plan—the beginning of a plan, at least. But we don’t need to discuss it now. Let’s just relax, be together.”

  She swivels in my embrace and looks up at me. “A few days ago, I was studying,” she says, as though she can’t believe it. “Is your life always this hectic?”

  “Hell, no,” I say. “Lately I’ve been taking less and less work, only jobs I want to do, and they’re normally clean, without any complications. I haven’t used these safe hou
ses for years. I haven’t had to run for years. In fact, lately, I’ve been thinking about getting out of the business. But before you there was no point, no one I could spend my life—”

  I cut short, realizing how much I’m sharing. I’m suddenly uneasy. I step away. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to unload like that.”

  She closes the gap between us, looks up at me with a stern expression. “You never have to apologize to me for telling me how you feel,” she says. “I want to know.”

  “It’s strange for me,” I say. “What’s stranger is that I find myself sharing with you without even realizing it. I don’t know—it’s like you’ve . . .”

  I stop, running out of words.

  “Opened up something inside of you?” she says.

  “Yes.” That’s the perfect way of putting it; that’s exactly how I feel. “How did you know?”

  “Because, silly man, I feel the same.”

  She takes me by the hand and leads to me to the bathroom.

  “We need to see to your head. Really, Samson, flying a helicopter with a wounded head . . .”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Anna

  I push my ass out, naked, on my knees on the faux-fur rug, the roaring fire bathing my face with heat. Samson kneels behind me, his hands massaging my ass cheeks. I turn my head and I just see his eyes, staring down intently at my naked body. And then he slides inside of me and we are lost to the world for a time . . .

  When it’s over and we are cleaned and changed, we sit on the couch in front of the fire, sharing a glass of wine. The safe house is fully stocked with canned goods and wine, and we indulge ourselves in a meal of canned hotdogs and beans, heated up on the gas kitchen top in the kitchen. “We’re truly living like kings now.” I grin, scooping up the last of my beans.

  Samson laughs, and looks at me with an expression loving and horny, an expression like he can’t decide if he wants to pounce on me or hold me close to him. I know how he feels; half the time, I can’t decide, either. Every so often, Samson walks to the windows, pulls back the curtains, and looks out into the night. I don’t know how he can see anything out there. It’s pitch-black, the kind of darkness you rarely experience living in New York, with the glow of neighbors’ apartments and the streetlamps and the myriad other lights which seem to spring from the city as though from nowhere. This darkness is all-consuming. I went to the window earlier and looked up. I gasped when I saw the sky. Free from light pollution, cloudless, the stars were brilliant, a million of them shining down like diamonds glinting in a sea of black.

  He returns from the window, nodding to himself. He’s watchful, but he tells me we’re safe and I believe him.

  Then his face changes. It’s no longer horny or loving, but preoccupied, as though his mind is somewhere else. I ask him if he wants to go to bed, but he doesn’t respond, just stares into the flickering fireplace, his eyes glazed over.

  “Samson,” I say, prodding him in the arm.

  “Yeah?” he says, facing me. “Sorry, I was thinking . . .” He rubs at his jaws, sighs, rubs at his jaws again, drops his hands and rubs them together, moves his finger over his knuckles, fidgets.

  “What is it?” I say. “Something’s getting at you.”

  “I have to tell you something,” he says.

  My chest is gripped with an icy hand, compressing my ribcage and my heart. “Tell me,” I say.

  And he does.

  ###

  Maybe I should be angry with Samson, but I’m not. I don’t even think about getting angry with him. It’s not his fault, is it, that my father is a scumbag who thinks he can rule my life? It’s not his fault he’s always beaten me down, told me I can’t take care of myself, told me I’m a slut and a whore and thousand other cruel words meant to crush me into the dirt. And though I know my anger is muddled—Eric was going to kill me, after all—it’s not diluted for that.

  I pace up and down in front of the fireplace. Samson talks to me but I barely hear his words. They move around me; I push through them and continue pacing. Dad, Dad . . . with his judgmental eyes and his whisky-soaked breath and his slurred insults and his constant put-downs. Dad, I think, clenching my fists. Dad, why? Why did you blame me for her death? It was cancer, I was a child. There was nothing I could’ve done. Why did you take it out on me? Why couldn’t you be strong? Why couldn’t you support me? Why couldn’t you be the man I needed?

  My mind is thrown back to the day I told Dad I was engaged to Eric. It was a rainy day and I met Dad in a café, the windows clear glass, the rain pattering against it like a thousand thrown stones. Dad sat opposite me, face stern, and I pretended not to see when he opened his hipflask and poured whisky into his cup of coffee. He drank it down in one gulp, not caring about the heat, just gulping it down more for the whisky than for the coffee. When he let out a long sigh, his breath reeked.

  “You’re too young to get married,” he said. “You barely know yourself yet. Why on earth would you get married? Why on earth would you rush into it? Why on earth would you do that to yourself? You’re too young, Anna, too young and too naïve. How well do you even know this Eric character? I have to ask you about him, don’t I, because I certainly have never met him! Did he ask my permission? Did he even try and do this in the proper way? What is it, Anna? Are you pregnant? Because there are ways to deal with that without marriage, you know.”

  I realize now that a big part of my determination to marry Eric was Dad’s doubt, Dad’s insults, Dad’s desire for me to kill the idea stone-dead. I didn’t know what he wanted from me, never understood. If I dated, I was a whore. If I wanted to settle down, I was a fool. Perhaps he wanted me to become a nun.

  “He’s a good man,” I said, and god help me, I believed it then, truly believed that Eric was a decent human being. “And he loves me. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Not even close!” Dad barked, and the few patrons of the café turned at the noise. “What is his job? Does he have a career or is it just a job? Does he know that I’m wealthy? Is that why he wants you?”

  Dad was immune to embarrassment. I’d lost count of the number of times he screamed at me in public, in front of other people. At a parents’ evening once, he leapt from the chair and roared at me because I’d gotten a C instead of an A or a B; the teacher had tried to calm him down but he’d just kept on shouting. And it was always me who had to clean up the mess, who had to explain to the teacher that he was just passionate about my education, who had to tell the councilor that no, he’d never hit me. In the café, I turned and smiled apologetically to everybody, and then turned back to Dad.

  He was watching me with such fury in his eyes, it took all my self-restraint not to flinch away, to cower in fear. Dad’s gaze was intimidating at the best of times, but now, as anger took hold of him, it was something inhuman, a vicious creature unleashed. I could’ve given up then, cast Eric away and told him that he was right. But he didn’t know, had no way to know because he’d never asked me, that his cruelty was the driving force behind my decision to go on with the marriage. Who did he think he was, telling me who I could and could not marry? Who did he think he was, demanding that I do things his way, and his way alone?

  “He wants me because we’re in love,” I said calmly, holding my hands upon the table. “He wants me because we’ve fallen in love and that is all.”

  “Shit!” Dad roared, smacking the table with his fist.

  Again, the entire café faced us, and though it wasn’t busy I felt like a hundred eyes were burning into me. I slumped lower in my chair, a reflexive response, just as at school a student will slump when the teacher berates them for forgetting their homework. Dad went on, shouting, but I barely heard the words.

  Then, suddenly, the shouting died and he lurched across the table, took hold of my folded hands. “Listen,” he said. His voice was shaky and I could tell he was trying to restrain himself, trying to force some sense of sanity into his voice. Maybe some part of this drunken old boar understood
that the more he shouted, the farther away I would run. Maybe, but I didn’t think so. More likely was that he was trying to control me in a more insidious way.

  “Listen,” he sighed, and his hand was heavy and damp upon mine. “Why don’t you move back in with me? I know you’re young, you haven’t found your place in the world yet. I know this marriage may seem like a good idea now, but you must know, it’s not. Marriage at your age is never a good idea. Never! Think, Anna. You’re a smart girl, much smarter than you’re behaving right now. There’s no reason for this kind of foolishness. Move back in with me and you can spend some time searching, really searching, for your goal in life. Okay?”

  The way he said okay infuriated me. It was as if the deal was done and dusted and the word okay was just a formality, as though he had already persuaded me and he wanted to get the boring business of uttering the words out of the way. He had half-risen in his seat as he spoke, ready to stand up, escort me to the car, cart me back to the home in which Mom had died and he had berated me every chance he got.