by K. Webster
When she reaches me, instead of doing the usual and stepping away from her, I let her hug me. She smells nice, like cherry popsicles. I wonder if her tits taste as good as she smells. As soon as her arms wrap around my middle, I let my palm stray to her round ass.
“How many guys have you fucked?” I blurt out, giving her ass a hard squeeze that makes her squawk like a baby bird.
“Geez, Aut,” she grumbles but can’t hide the smile in her voice, “right to the point with you, huh?”
I roll my eyes and have the urge to push her away from me. If it weren’t for the dire need to get my dick wet while I dream about Mrs. Macmillan, I’d have already told Little Miss Coy to go the fuck home. “It’s a simple question which requires a simple answer. I like to know what sort of history a girl has before I sink my cock into her.”
She squirms at my words and lifts her chin up to look at me. The girl practically has hearts in her goddamned eyes. “Just one and it only happened a couple of times. He didn’t really—”
I cut her off by slamming my mouth to hers. She tastes like she’s recently consumed apple juice, and I want to see what other parts of her taste sweet. The fact that she’s not a virgin is enough to make the decision to fuck her an easy one.
When I break away from her, her lips are swollen and bright red, the scruff of my five o’ clock shadow scratching her soft skin raw. I want to mark the rest of her up just for the hell of it. Grabbing her shoulders, I turn her and give her a small shove toward the house. “Get up to my room and get naked.”
She gives me a small smile over her shoulder before doing as she’s told. Good girl. Sauntering after her, I attempt to avoid Mom as I chase after my eager fuck. Of course, I don’t get off that easy. Literally.
“Well, hello to you too, Author,” Mom says with a slight slur from the darkened living room. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
With a sigh, I stride over to her and plant a kiss on top of her head. “To tutor Aubrey.” Not a lie. The girl could learn a few tricks. “How was your day?”
She sets her now empty tumbler down on the side table and looks up at me with tired eyes. “Just like every day. Lonely without my boy.”
Guilt infects me and I suppress a groan. “I’ll be gone this summer. Four years, Mom. What will you do without me for four long years?”
A sigh leaves her and she shrugs. “Find a job maybe? I don’t know.”
The despondency in her voice has me dropping my bag to the floor and sitting beside her on the sofa. My mother is a shell. I can imagine her being beautiful, at one time, and educated and worthy. But after almost two decades of taking care of a son all on her own—her bastard child—she’s empty. All hollowed out and used.
“You know you don’t have to stay under that asshole’s thumb any longer. You’ve achieved what you wanted to achieve. We live in a big house, drive cool cars, and I go to the best school in the state. Dartmouth is all me, not that fucker. He can’t take an education away that I worked my ass off to earn. Those scholarships are mine. So, get out there and date, Mom. Get a job or a fucking hobby. Anything rather than sitting around doing jack shit, just so he’ll keep paying your bills.”
She frowns and a tear streaks down her cheek. “I’m so sorry I did you this way, Author. Your father drew me in with his magnetic presence, and I fell for him. Little did I know he’d just push me away the moment I got pregnant with you. I thought he loved me.”
I tense at her words but don’t say anything. We never talk about my father. She never brings it up, and after so many unanswered questions about him growing up, I eventually stopped asking.
“I suppose I should tell you. You’re right,” she says softly. “You’re an adult now, and I owe you the truth. What’s he going to do, anyway? Have me killed?” At this she cackles, and I worry about her sanity.
“Mom…” I urge.
She pats my knee and smiles. “Devon Macmillan. The great New Hampshire Senator.”
Macmillan.
“You look like my husband.”
I’m on my feet in an instant. Mom calls after me, but I take two stairs at a time to get to my room. The door is closed, and Aubrey lets out a shriek from my bed when I barrel into the room on my mission. When I get to my desk, I wiggle my mouse to awaken my computer. Five seconds later and I’ve typed in his name.
Pictures upon pictures.
Devon Macmillan.
Smiling smugly for the camera with his beautiful wife clutching on to his elbow. I do look just like him. Tall, broad shouldered, jet black hair, though his has a few streaks of grey at his temples. His piercing green eyes are exactly like mine. We even have the same dusting of facial hair that never goes away despite my shaving each day.
She knew.
Mrs. Macmillan fucking knew.
How could she not have? Hell, she even voiced it. What kind of bitch was she? Knowing I was his son—a son he only paid for but refused to see or speak to—and failing to inform me she was my goddamned what? Stepmother?
Rage consumes me and my shoulders quake with fury. I want to punch something—punch him in his perfect white teeth. Drag Mrs. Macmillan around by her hair and laugh as she screams to get away.
She made me feels sorry for her.
I want to waltz into their house, announce myself in a grand fucking way, and bend over his wife at his table so he can watch me fuck her. Watch his son fuck his wife. Unbelieveable.
I can’t believe I fell for her bullshit.
She betrayed me.
“Everything okay?” Aubrey questions from the bed, reminding me of something I can fuck right now.
I swallow down my anger and snap my head over to her. Her reddish brown hair hangs in front of her perky tits, and she gives me that lovesick puppy dog look she’s mastered.
Instead of answering her, I stand to shed my uniform blazer. Once I yank off my tie and button-up shirt, I pin her with a heated glare. She licks her plump lips—lips I’ve had around my cock a few times—and reaches between her thighs to touch herself. I unhook my belt and yank it from the loops with a swoosh that makes her flinch.
Her flinch reminds me of Mrs. Macmillan.
Mrs. Liar.
Mrs. I’m Going to Fuck Her Just to Fuck My Dad Over.
“Get on your knees in front of the bed,” I order with a growl. “Bad girls deserve spankings.”
“But I haven’t been bad—”
“If you want to get fucked, then do as I say,” I snap.
The needy girl scrambles to obey, and soon I’m admiring her sexy white ass. I’m going to fuck her up so bad. I lock my bedroom door before turning my stereo on and cranking it up loud. Chevelle screams from the speakers as I undress completely. Once I make my way back over to Aubrey, I tease her flesh with my belt.
“Tell me you’re a bad girl.”
She whines but whispers, “I’m bad.”
“Louder,” I bark and run the leather between her legs.
This time, she moans with need. “I’m a bad girl!”
Thwap!
Her scream is loud but the stereo is louder.
“Tell me you’re a whore…” Mrs. Macmillan.
“I’m a whore!”
Thwap!
“Tell me you’re nothing but a cum dumpster…” Mrs. Macmillan.
“Wh-what?”
Thwap!
“SAY IT!”
“I’m a cum dumpster!”
“Beg me to hurt you. Tell me you deserve it…” Mrs. Macmillan.
Aubrey starts to cry, which makes my dick soften. I’m about to tell her to get the fuck out when she surprises me with her wobbly words. “Hurt me. I deserve it.”
Thwap!
Her ass is quivering and several bright red lashes mar her smooth skin. This is just practice. I’m going to have Mrs. Macmillan bent over like this soon, and I’m not going to be as nice. I’m going to fuck her ass up so badly that she won’t be able to sit down. She can have fun explaining that one to her deadbea
t husband.
I yank a condom from my desk drawer and catch a glimpse of Mrs. Macmillan’s honey-colored eyes looking oh-so-innocent and sad on the computer. I’ll show the bitch sad. I want to make her husband pay for the fact he doesn’t give two shits about his son, and she’ll no doubt be collateral damage of that plan. I sheath my dick in the rubber, but my eyes are locked on the honey ones as I slip the tip of my cock down along the crack of Aubrey’s ass. She whimpers, and hell, she may even still be crying, but the moment I drive all the way into her wet cunt without warning, a desperate moan rings through the air.
Latching on to her hair, I yank her head back as I fuck her hard and fast. Aubrey has a tight pussy and feels good as hell, but she’ll never satisfy me. No, I’ll only be satisfied when I’m coming all inside of that bitch married to my dad. My goddamned substitute teacher. The filthy, nasty whore.
I don’t let Aubrey come. I just fuck her until she’s raw. She can touch her clit all she wants when she’s at home dreaming about the way I took her like a fucking dog. Now is all for me. My balls seize up with pleasure, and once again I look at Mrs. Macmillan. A groan slices through me as I release my furious orgasm. Aubrey cries out, a fake fucking orgasm, and I laugh. With one quick pull, I jerk out of her and slap her ass.
“Go the fuck home, Aubrey. Nobody likes an easy girl. Your husband one day is going to hate that you gave it up to anyone who gives you attention.”
She twists around and glares at me, her nostrils flaring with fury. “You’re an asshole, Aut. The biggest asshole I know.” While she angrily snatches up her clothes and dresses, I deposit the condom into the trash and pull on a pair of shorts. Ignoring her bitch fit, I sit down at my desk and stare at Mr. and Mrs. Macmillan. Two entitled, twisted individuals.
“See you tomorrow when you’re hungry for my cock,” I say over my shoulder a second before the door slams.
Once I’m finally alone, I let out a sigh and lean back in my chair.
Time to teach the Macmillans a lesson.
I take a deep breath and fortify myself. Just a few months until I can leave him. I’ll have enough of a nest egg to disappear forever. I won’t have to divorce him because as far as he knows, I’ll be dead. Lost. Nowhere to be found.
Pushing the button to the garage door opener, I pray he’s not home. With him working in Concord, he typically doesn’t get home until after seven. That gives me a little under three hours to make plans. I’m so caught up in my thoughts that it isn’t until I see his white Land Rover sitting in the garage that I completely freeze in horror.
Only a few more months, Maise.
My thoughts gladly flee back to this afternoon. What a disaster. The class I’ve been subbing for was difficult, as usual, but that wasn’t what had me all frazzled. It was him.
Arthur Banks.
He looks so much like Devon, it’s terrifying. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was Devon’s son. But I do know better. I’ve been married to Devon for years, and he’s never once mentioned a son or any children for that matter. It clearly was my mind playing tricks on me. Punishing me. Taunting me. Reminding me that no matter where I go, Devon is always there with his clout and money and disregard to anyone but himself.
It was a bizarre week, especially today, having Arthur say those things to me. The guy just spouts off whatever is on his mind with a dirty tongue and harsh attitude. But he also exudes confidence and sexuality. I’d been ensnared by him from the moment we locked eyes on Monday. After so many years with Devon belittling me at every chance, I’d felt that unusual fluttering in my belly at having gained the interest of someone much younger and much hotter than myself. I’d let it get out of hand when I should have stopped it right away. Each day letting him get a little more under my skin. He schooled me, the teacher.
And tomorrow, I’m going to have to do what I can to bring order to the mess I created the moment I let my guard down and treated him like a friend rather than a student. It was unprofessional and disgusting.
Grabbing my purse and my bag I picked up when Devon took me to Cabo last summer, I exit my car and hurry into the house. I’m ready to get it over with. To see what kind of mood he’s in this afternoon.
The house is quiet when I walk in, which means he’s probably in the office working. I drop my stuff into a chair. Quickly, I pull off my heels and silently make my way to our bedroom with them in my hand. I pad barefoot into the closet and peel off my cardigan. My shoes get tossed into the corner and then my skirt is next to go. I’m about to hunt for something comfortable when a deep voice clears his throat behind me.
Jerking at the sound, I twist and look at my husband. His bulky arms are folded over his chiseled chest, and his lips are pressed into a firm, uninterested line. A white towel hangs loosely around his narrow hips, making his olive skin seem darker than usual. He stares at me as if I’m a pesky fly buzzing around his soup.
“Hey,” I croak. My attempt at sounding casual and brave falls flat as fear washes through me. “How was work?”
He doesn’t answer right away, so I pretend to look through the hangers for a shirt even though I’m standing in front of all my sweaters. The hairs on my neck spark to life and point at the man approaching me. Every cell in my body is aware of his proximity. I don’t want to poke the bear, so I remain still.
“Work was the same,” he tells me lowly, his hot breath tickling the back of my neck as his palm circles around me to grip my breast. “Question is, how’s your job going this week?” he sneers. “You seem awfully damn cheery to go each day.”
I try not to flinch at his tone or his touch. The first time Devon hit me, he’d had too much whiskey after a boy’s night out. He’d apologized the next day. Bought me roses. Made sweet love to me. I’d stupidly accepted his romantic gestures and apologies.
It was the time after that and that and that and that and so on that I have no excuse for. We fell into a routine where he became the cat, and I became the mouse. Where we were no longer equals, but instead two players in a sick game I never had a chance of winning.
After years of dealing with his on-again-off-again abuse, I’d decided it was time to move on and live my life. One of those steps toward a better life was getting a job and spending more time away from him. At first, he was less than pleased about my decision. On my first day, he behaved like a petulant child by spending the better part of the day giving me crap about it via text.
Devon: You’re not educated, baby. They’re just going to laugh at you. We don’t want that.
Devon: Women like you were meant for looking pretty and cooking meals, not breaking a nail trying to bring home the bacon. Newsflash, baby, I bring home the bacon.
Devon: I give it a week. Remember when you wanted to take photography lessons? The camera ended up broken three days into the classes. You belong at home.
I want to vomit just thinking about those texts. Devon’s no fool. His messages are cruel and demeaning because I know how he is. To any outsider, they’d seem funny or cute. With him being a US Senator for the state of New Hampshire, he can’t go around sending his wife hateful texts about how he’s going to ruin her asshole for forgetting to buy more of his favorite gin or how he’ll bite her tits until they bleed because she doesn’t know how to keep dust off of every surface in the house. He’s cruel and volatile. And I’m so ready to leave him.
“Baby,” he grumbles and clutches my stomach so painfully, I’m afraid he’ll rip the skin right from my bones. “I asked you how your week was.”
My words feel sticky in my throat. “I-It’s been fine. AP English. We are discussing The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne.”
He chuckles and thankfully releases my belly. “Have you ever even read that book?”
I shake my head and frown. “Not all of it, but I plan to finish tonight. I’ll need to be prepared for tomorrow.”
His thumbs find the waistband of my panties, and he pushes them down my hips. My heart catches in my throat as he removes my
bra, too. We hardly have sex anymore. Last time was months ago. Mostly, he makes me suck his cock when he’s feeling horny, which thankfully isn’t too often.
“Get on your knees,” he breathes, his fingers digging into my shoulders as he pushes me to the carpet.
His cock is still flaccid, so I stare up at him in confusion. “What do you want me to do with it?”
He grabs on to his limp dick with one hand and a handful of my hair with the other. “I want you to suck it back to life. You can barely keep its interest anymore.”
I run my lips over his soft cock and try to keep the tears at bay. His cock won’t get hard for me anymore because he’s too busy fucking his young interns at the office. I’ve smelled pussy on him before. I’ve seen the lipstick smears on his collar, boxers, and lips. I’m not stupid. But truth is, I don’t care. I just want to leave.
“That’s it…” he growls, his dick firming up with each swirl of my tongue. “Suck it good and maybe I’ll tell you all about that whore Hester and her scarlet letter she wore. Nowadays, they’d call her Denise. And Denise wouldn’t have a little girl like Hester. No, she’d have a boy. A bastard son. And the bitch would bleed the boy’s father dry for eighteen goddamned years.”
The sudden anger in his voice alarms me. His cock is at full attention now, and he fucks my throat with abandon. Tears stream down my cheeks, but I take it because as soon as he comes, he’ll retreat into his office and sip his whiskey until it’s time for bed. I’ll be free to do whatever I want, including finishing The Scarlet Letter without his perusal.
When his dick thickens in my mouth, indicating he’s about to come, he shocks me by pulling out and coming all over my face. The heat burns my eye. I swipe it away with the back of my hand to send him a glare.
He simply smirks and kicks the towel at his ankles at me. By the time I’ve cleaned his semen from me, he’s dressed and gone.
I’m going to have to find a way to siphon more money out of our account without him knowing because I can’t stay here another second.
