by Evelyn Glass
Chance finishes with his gun and takes it to the bedside table, putting it in one of the drawers. He’s silent, unwilling to look at me.
“Chance! I said I need to—”
“I know what you said,” he mutters. “I heard you.”
“Then…I’ll make the call. Where’s your cell?”
The room doesn’t have a phone, I notice.
“I can’t let you make that call,” he says.
“What! Why?” I snap. “It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”
“Don’t matter. My orders are to lie low, and that’s what I plan on doing, not callin’ out to let the whole damned world know where we are.”
“It’s not the whole damned world,” I say. “It’s my dad.”
“Your dad who sold your ass to Julian, your dad who clearly ain’t got the best judgment. Nah, I ain’t trusting him with my life.”
I shake my head bitterly. “So am I a prisoner all over again, then, only this time I’m your prisoner?”
Chance shrugs, unaffected. “If you wanna think about it like that, you can think of it like that. Makes no difference to me. My main concern is keepin’ us safe.”
“Us? You want to keep us safe? I don’t believe that. I think this is all about you, Chance. I think you only care about saving your own skin.”
“Believe what you want,” he says, in that infuriatingly calm tone. “All I’m sayin’ is, you ain’t makin’ that call and that’s final.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” I say, completely aware that I sound like a whiny little kid.
“For now, I am,” he counters. “Who knows what happened in the warehouse, and you wanna call out and tell someone where the fuck we are? Alright, maybe you just wanna say, Daddy, I’m safe…you know it ain’t a ridiculous idea that your dad’s workin’ with someone who can trace cell calls, right? Don’t look at me like that.” I’m gazing at him in disbelief, like the idea definitely is ridiculous despite what he says. “I’ve traced calls myself. It ain’t as hard as you’d think.”
“My dad wouldn’t betray me like that.”
“Your dad sold you,” Chance says. “Of course he fuckin’ would.”
I stand up and go to the corner, to the pallet of blankets.
“I was thinkin’ you could share the bed,” Chance says.
“I don’t want to share the bed,” I reply, sitting on the floor. “Why would I want to share a bed with my jailor?”
“So goddamn dramatic, you fuckin’ women,” Chance says. “We gotta lie low, is all. Stop makin’ everything into a fuckin’ dramatic performance. Anyway, you don’t need to sleep on the floor. I got an inflatable mattress when I was gettin’ breakfast. Ask me nicely and I’ll pump it up.”
I don’t answer, so Chance goes to the pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the room and picks up a bag I didn’t see before. He takes a wooden box from it and flaps out the mattress, and then uses a motor to start inflating the thing. For a few awkward, tense minutes, the only sound in the room is that motor as I sit here, angry with him for treating me like a prisoner. I think back to the cell and how this is similar in all but violence. And maybe Chance would restrain me if I tried to walk out the front door; I bet he would, and tell me he was doing it for my own good.
The mattress grows larger until it is lying at the foot of the ruined bed, horizontally across the room. “There you go,” he says, waving a hand at it. “Go nuts.”
I lie down on it, secretly grateful not to have to sleep on the floor again. But still angry. Still mad. “Why don’t you just handcuff me, then?” I hiss at him, my words sour. “That way you’ll make sure I’ll never run, asshole!”
I want him to snap back at me, swear, something. But he just calmly goes to the pile of clothes, picks out the hoodie he was wearing that night, and reaches into a hidden inside pocket. Out of it, he takes handcuffs. When I see them, I feel my nipples go hard. They get even harder when he turns around to stare at them through the thin, almost-transparent fabric of the tank top.
“I picked the right fuckin’ outfit for you,” he says, kneeling down next to me. “You wanna be handcuffed, do you? You really wanna be handcuffed when you’re dressed like that? I don’t think you can trust me to behave.”
I swallow, nervous and horny all at once, throat raw, pussy aching, and yet…
“Fine,” I say, pouting, but the anger is leaving me now, at least for the moment. “I’m your prisoner, aren’t I? Just do it, then!”
He claps one end of the cuffs around my wrist and the other around the frame of the bed, so that if I wanted to move, I’d have to drag the frame with me. Then, staring deeply into my eyes, he places his hand on my bare thigh and moves it up, up toward my pussy. “You were my little slut in there, weren’t you?”
“Your slut,” I find myself saying. “But not a slut.”
“Course not.” He grins. “No fuckin’ way. My little slut.”
His hand pushes my flesh, rubbing it, dragging along it, until he is at my pussy, moving aside my shorts. He didn’t give me underwear, either. Maybe he was planning this, the dirty prick, but right now I don’t have time to be outraged. He slides his finger inside of me, eyes locked on my breasts as I arch my back in pleasure, pushing them out. His finger slides deep inside, right up to that warm spot that was pounded repeatedly when we fucked. He toys with it now, softly, moving his finger in small circles until I’m moaning and reaching for him, my hand rubbing up and down the front of his pants, his cock trying to break free of the denim. When I unbutton him—awkward with one hand—his cock springs up, huge and venous and engorged.
“You’re always so hard,” I whisper.
“Just for you,” he says, that growl in his voice. “Just for my bitch.”
I gasp as he pushes another finger inside of me. I have his cock in my hand now, stroking from base to tip, watching as his face becomes deadly, that irresistible combination of deadly and horny that just drives me wild. He massages the inside of my hole with his fingers for a few minutes, until I feel an orgasm mounting, until I’m pulling against the handcuffs in pleasure. Then, teasingly, he slides his fingers out of me, leaving me to gasp in frustration.
“If you wanna come,” he says, standing up and kicking his jeans off, “you can come on my fuckin’ cock.”
He yanks down my shorts quickly, savagely, tosses them to the floor, and then climbs onto the inflatable mattress. We shift from side to side as his weight depresses the mattress, but then we level out and he’s leaning over me, hard cock poised close to my pussy. I’m throbbing with lust, unfamiliar lust. Before, I didn’t know what it would feel like. Confusion and fear played as much of a role as desire. Now, I know the feeling, and I want it again, want that huge pole sliding deep inside of me. I lift my legs, beckoning him, hungry for the orgasm he so cruelly took away at the last second.
With one hand, he grabs my breast, squeezing it in his hand so that my nipple bursts pink. With the other, he guides himself inside of me. Oh. Fuck. Because he was touching me before, I’m already close to orgasm, so close that as his cock splits my lips apart and widens my hole, a thousand nerves start buzzing around my pussy, my head becoming foggy at once. Deeper, deeper—and then he touches my sweet spot and I’m gasping as the orgasm suddenly strikes me. I writhe so much that my hand bends in an uncomfortable angle in the cuffs, but I barely notice it. All I notice is the feeling of my pussy going tight around his cock, of my hole burning and releasing and soaking his prick, of the warmth in my belly, the fogged sensation of my head. I tilt my hips here and there, angling his cock, which he just holds inside of me, not thrusting, just holds firmly against my sensitive spot. I’m coming hard now, spilling down the length of his cock, onto the mattress, onto his balls. I gasp, over and over, unable to catch my breath. The mattress makes a squeaking noise as my bare ass cheeks rub up and down it in my writhing. The wooden frame of the bed makes a scratch-scratch noise as I tug on the cuffs. And I moan, loudly, as the last energy of the orgasm g
ushes out of me, one final release that feels like letting out a long breath after holding it for too long underwater.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I cry, and then I realize that Chance, too, after only thrusting into me once, is coming at the same time. We ride our mutual orgasm until both of us are spent, Chance hunched over me, coming hard inside of me, hands bunched up in my hair.
“Fuck,” he says, once we’re both done, leaning up and looking down on me. “Fuck, Becky, You’re so fuckin’ hot. The hottest piece of ass I’ve seen in my whole goddamn life.”
As he speaks, he grabs the key to the cuffs from his hoodie on the floor and unlocks me.
“Get on that bed,” he says. “If we’re gonna be here for a while, we might as well enjoy it. And I ain’t lettin’ you get away that quick this time.”
I was angry with him, but my pussy is hungry for more, aching for his prick, which, I see, is already getting hard again. I climb from the inflatable and drop onto the bed, lying on my back, waiting for him.
Chapter Thirteen
Becky
Over the next month and a half, Chance and I live in the motel, but switch rooms and names every few days so that anybody following us will have a tougher time. The motel is Family-owned, but even so it’s better to be safe. I’m still caught up in a world of lust and recurring nightmares for the first couple of weeks. Some nights I’ll wake up screaming, sweating, sure that the bald tattooed man and his friends have their paws on me. Other nights I’ll wake up with my hands between my legs, rubbing myself, and then reach down and grab Chance’s cock. I love his cock. It always gets hard for me the second I grab it, like a resting snake which is always ready to rear up. I find that fucking Chance takes away the fear and the nightmares for a little while, so that I can fall back to sleep soundly.
Winter comes, a snow blanketing New York, and still we keep up this routine. Chance gets our food from a nearby grocery store and takeout place, or calls to the front desk for supplies to be brought to us. I ask him if I can call Dad again, and again he refuses. I find myself, as winter deepens, enjoying Chance’s company for more than just the sex. It’s not that we talk about anything in particular. I tell him that I’ve been painting since I was a kid and have always wanted to go to college to learn to be an illustrator, or just to have a few years to improve my craft. He talks about how he enjoys fishing, but rarely gets time to go; he tells me, “I like to sit on the water and just stare and it and forget everything.” It’s the closest he gets to having a heart that I can see, but it’s there. He’s not just a dead-hearted killer like he tries to make everyone believe.
Most of all, we have sex: frantic, raw, wet, hot sex. We fuck at least twice a day. I’m fascinated with him, with how one second he’ll be talking about fishing and the next that dark look will come into his eyes and he’ll be drilling into me, finger up my ass, and I’m fascinated with myself by how much I love it.
Some nights, he gets a call from someone in the Family and has to go out for work. When I ask him if this is safe, he just shrugs and tells me, “I’m the best they’ve got. Guess they can’t stop business on account of me being in hidin’. Anyway, I go at night. These’re hushed jobs. Nothin’ to link back to you as long as I’m careful.”
He usually comes back with a couple of cuts but nothing serious.
One night, as I’m lying in bed reading a novel, he walks through the door and I scream. The scream is reflexive, something I can’t control, because he looks like something out of a horror movie. He left the room dressed all in black, as he usually does, but now he’s dressed all in crimson: crimson-haired, crimson-faced, crimson clothes and crimson boots. Head to toe, blood drips down him, soaked into his clothes. I jump to my feet, feeling guilty about the scream. But Chance doesn’t even seem to have heard me. Wordlessly, like a wraith, he walks to the bathroom, not even closing the door behind him. I close the door, bolt it, and then join him in the bathroom, where he’s just sitting on the edge of the toilet seat, staining the porcelain red.
I go to him, kneeling down, not sure where to put my hands.
“Chance?” I say.
His eyes flit to me like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Becky,” he whispers.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
He looks down at his hands as though only just noticing the blood. “Oh, yeah.” He tries to laugh, but it sounds forced. “Yeah. Fine. It’s just, fuckin’ weird…it was a normal job, a normal fuckin’ job, and then you got into my head, and I started thinkin’ about how I’d rather be here with you than out there, covered in…in this, and then, I dunno, it was like what I was doin’, I couldn’t…I was there ’cause I wanted to be here…” He shakes his head. “Fuck, I need to get washed.” He makes to stand, but then slumps onto the toilet. “My fuckin’ head is throbbin’.”
My heart is breaking for him as he sits there, more vulnerable than I ever expected he was capable of being.
“Let me help you,” I say. “Let’s get those clothes off and get you clean, yeah?”
Usually if I talked to him in this babying voice, he’d snap at me and say something like, “I don’t need coddling.” But now he just nods shortly and allows me to help him.
First, I strip off his clothes, which are heavy with blood, soaked all the way through. I thought I’d gag at all this blood, or pass out like I did a couple of months ago at the warehouse, but I know that I have to be strong now, for Chance, so I just toss the bloodied clothes into the trash bin. Then I help him to his feet, just like he did that first night when I was in shock, and into the shower. I turn on the water and let it run down him, washing the blood away, but in places it’s scabbed to his skin so I lather shower gel over his scarred muscles, working out the blood until he’s standing in a puddle of blood-water.
“Get in here with me,” he says, some of the old Chance coming into his voice. “It’ll help you clean me better.”
His eyes are like I’ve never seen them before. Normally, with Chance, his eyes are hard, shielded, like he wants to hide from me. But now he just looks plainly at me, with emotion in there, even if it isn’t gushing and dramatic. It’s there. I undress, all the while staring at him, all the while watery droplets of blood dripping down his face. When I’m naked, I look at his cock, which is hard, wet.
“Clean you?” I say, a small smile on my face.
A grin almost touches his lips. He gestures to me with his hand. I jump into the shower, the warm water sliding over my nipples, and then he reaches around and grabs my back, pressing us together. I expect him to fall upon me like an animal now, as he has done this past month and a half. He never kisses, so I don’t even look up at him.
But then, with his other hand—all the while his hard cock pushed against my belly—he touches my chin and directs my gaze to his. He leans down, seeming like a nervous boy for a few moments, and finds my lips. After fucking so many times, kissing is a surprisingly titillating sensation. My lips buzz all over with his coarse, rough lips pressed against them. I push my body into his, my breasts pushing against his hard chest, his cock rubbing up and down my belly. He opens his mouth, his tongue sliding into me, and I push my own tongue against it, the tips massaging the other, a million tingles swirling around our shared mouth, our teeth clicking together in our untethered lust. I reach down and grab his cock, and feel his growl in my mouth, vibrating my lips, quiet over the sound of the blasting shower. His cock is slick, wet, and I jerk it as fast as I can, wanting him to come on my belly, finding the idea of it sexy as fuck.
But then Chance grabs my ass cheeks, both of them in handfuls, and lifts me off my feet. I wrap legs around him as he falls backward, into the wall, holding both of us up. We don’t stop kissing, not once, even when he lowers me down onto his cock. I’m so suddenly horny and his cock is so wet with water and pre-come that he slides right into me, deep, all the way into what feels like my belly. He always fucks me deep, but this time is different because he’s never been inside of me while kissing before.
Apart from that first time I came onto him, we haven’t kissed. But now our passion takes over and we kiss frantically as he lifts and lowers me to his balls, burying deep and then lifting until he is no longer inside of me. I hear myself moaning through the kiss, hear his animal growling. We fuck harder, no longer kissing so much as breathing into each other’s mouth, teeth scraping together, biting each other’s lip.
I push down with my hips, driving my ass cheeks to his balls, riding the pleasure, wet, slick, so little friction that we have to fuck as hard as we ever have to really feel it. That’s what we do, with Chance thrusting upwards as I force myself downwards, both of us meeting in the middle for repeated, euphoric impact, his cock slamming into my sweet spot. Over and over, and I keep thinking about how amazing it is for my lips to be on his as an orgasm surges up inside of me. Over and over, I think: We’re kissing. He’s biting my lip. We’re close. Closer than ever before. These thoughts, combined with the crazed pleasure of it, drives me toward orgasm, until I’m screaming into his mouth, screaming loudly and bouncing and not sure if it’s water or my squirting come which is dripping down his legs, onto our feet. It feels like I’m floating, floating here in the burning heat of the shower with the burning heat of his cock buried balls-deep inside of me and the burning heat of his mouth against mine. I scream louder, and then gush one final time over his rock-hard cock. And then he starts coming, too, almost falling to the floor as his whole body thrums with passion, groaning into my mouth, both of us captivated by the pleasure.
