by W Winters
“You make me want to do bad things to you,” I murmur. Peeking up through her thick lashes, her doe eyes go wide with lust, proving her to be the vixen she is. Even her cheeks heat nearly instantly.
“You like it, don’t you?” I ask her and she doesn’t even give me a chance to add, how much you get to me.
She answers, “I love it” before I can finish. “I love everything you do to me.” With her hands behind her, her shoulders back and her head tilted up to look at me, she’s vulnerable and waiting.
I want her to remember this night. I want every moment to be different, every touch to be more than what she can imagine on her own.
I glance to my left and the brown glass of the empty beer bottle glints. Turning back to her, I tell her, “I’m going to play with you, and take my time with you.”
She doesn’t protest, although I can hear my name and the way she says it likes it’s a warning lingering on the tip of her tongue. She swallows it and any argument she has that she’s tired. I know she is. She’ll do what I want though, because she knows I’ll make it good for her.
“Strip down.” I give her the command and she obeys. She doesn’t try to make a show of it although she teases me by biting down on her lower lip when she drops her bra to the floor.
I wasn’t going to touch her, but the pale pink of her nipples begs me to caress them. Her head tips back, her hair cascading behind her. Correcting myself, and ignoring the desire that has all the blood in my body stiffening my cock, I pull away from her.
Without her clothes, goosebumps play along her body and after she lies down like I tell her to, I blow. That’s all I do, teasing her, going from a warm breath along her neck that makes her shiver, to a steady stream down her belly and lower, to her sex.
She tries to reach for me, to grab my arm or my shoulder, but I catch her wrist. “No touching.” My command sobers her, and I know in an instant she doesn’t like it.
“No. Touching,” I repeat firmly, licking my lower lip and loving how her gaze darts to the movement.
Nodding, but still holding doubt in her expression, she lowers her hands to the cushion, gripping it and closing her eyes with a soft moan as I blow against her clit again.
“You’re going to make me cum from just breathing on me?” she questions, her eyes alight with mischief and the sexy grin proves she’s thinking she’ll need more than that.
“No,” I answer her, reaching behind me for the beer bottle. I lick the top of it where the cap was twisted on and test out its ridges.
The sound of her nails scratching against the fabric, combined with her chest rising and falling quickly, let me know exactly how she’s feeling. “You scared, Babygirl?”
“Will it feel good?”
“Does it ever not?” I question her and the doubt and fear vanish from her eyes. Her thighs part, her heels digging into the cushion as she bends her knees and bares herself to me.
Arousal makes her pussy glisten, and when I press the cold glass to her clit, I watch her cunt clench around nothing. Letting out a short chuckle, I position myself between her legs, careful not to touch her. My greedy girl lifts her heel, and I know she’s going to move her leg around me, pulling me in and showing me just how much she loves it.
“No touching,” I remind her, staring up her gorgeous body. She looks down at me, puzzled until I add, “Keep your legs still.”
She only nods, her skin flushed and her breathing still not even. Just the idea of using a bottle to play with her has her so worked up. I drag the glass down her clit and through her lips, watching how her hips subtly rise and listening to the pleasure that lingers in her soft moan. It’s barely audible, nearly a murmur of satisfaction.
The sweet smell of her, the sound of her moans, the heat of her flesh… fuck, it’s torture not to touch her, not to lean forward and suck on her clit until she comes apart for me. I focus on getting the one thing I want… her desire to become so much that she disobeys.
I want her so wrapped up in pleasure from this touch that she forgets the rules. I’ll let her cum and then I’ll flip her ass over and ravage her. Letting my head fall, I close my eyes, groaning from the thought and feeling my hard cock twitch with need.
Soon.
The sooner the better. Laura’s eyes are closed and she swallows thickly, waiting for me to touch her again. Instead I blow against her sex, noting how her stomach clenches and her body sways from the sensitivity. I want the pressure to build slowly, giving her a higher high than she’ll recognize, and then I want to watch her come apart at the seams.
Starting at her clit, I press the bottle against her, slipping lower and parting her lips with the mouth of it. Pressing the bottle inside of her, her breath hitches and her eyes open. She’s staring at the ceiling, her mouth in a perfect O when I pull the bottle forward, brushing it against the front wall of her pussy. I don’t pull it out; instead I move it back inside of her slowly, all the while pressing against her front wall. The pink in her cheeks darkens and floods into her chest when the neck of the bottle is fully inside of her. Rocking it back and forth, I wait for the moment when her head thrashes and her breathing quickens.
“I can get you off with anything,” I tell her and I’m cocky, arrogant… and I feel like a damn king. Her king, her ruler, her everything.
I don’t stop until she cums. The first time, she doesn’t break the rules. She holds on to the cushion like a good submissive when I fuck her to orgasm with the bottle. The second time, she screams out my name, her hands on her face, covering her mouth and she cums hard and fast. I’m relentless though. I never stop fucking her, slow and steady with the neck of the bottle, only picking up my pace when I know she’s close to falling again. The third time, her back bows and tears fall from the corners of her eyes as her body rocks and her toes curl. She grabs my arm then, desperate to hold on to anything while she’s falling.
Thank fuck she grabs me. Thank God she breaks the rules right then and there.
I barely have any control left and I need to touch her. I need to be inside of her, falling with her.
Laura
Three days in a row with twelve-hour shifts isn’t that difficult. It’s not my first time and it sure as hell won’t be my last. So that doesn’t explain why I feel so utterly and completely drained. Bethany called out, something about her sister. I asked if everything was all right but she couldn’t say.
The shift is harder today since I’m picking up some of her workload. The temporary hire to cover Bethany being out for so long, is a bitch who doesn’t know how to do a damn thing. So I’m basically pulling the weight of two people today. Why? Because I care about Bethany’s patients, unlike Cindy Lou Who-gives-a-fuck and who even knows where she is right now.
Looking to my left, toward the nurses’ station where Cindy better be performing the checklist so we can leave on time, the hall is empty as I quietly shut E.J.’s door.
I rest my head against the wall and just breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. That’s all I have to do.
My grandma used to say, “You don’t have to do a damn thing. Just breathe. And pay taxes. Even if you’re dead they’ll get those taxes.”
The memory of her in the chair in the corner of the living room, pointing her finger at me while she said it makes me smile and it’s the first time I’ve smiled all shift. Damn does it make me miss her though.
I never realized how alone I truly am until recently. No family at all. I only have one friend here, really. Bethany. I’m chummy with Mel and Aiden, but they don’t know me like Bethany does. Now she’s busy, off with Jase.
I have Seth now. Only Seth.
Fuck, I don’t like that. I don’t like having to rely on him. Especially since all we’re doing is fucking. I’m not blind to the fact that when we do talk to one another, it’s like walking on eggshells. I don’t like it. I don’t know how to change it though.
Maybe with time.
Breathing out, just breathe, I stare down at the tray in my hand a
nd the last cup of pills. Three colorful ones for Melody.
Maybe some people are just loners. There’s nothing wrong with that.
Besides, I have my patients and there aren’t a lot of people who get that.
I shake out my shoulders, feeling stiff from not sleeping well and bending over the tray all day. It was my turn to do the pill sorting, well, Bethany’s, but I didn’t trust Cindy to take on that task.
Before I can take a step forward, across the hall to Melody, I hear a bang behind me. At least I think I do. The noise wraps itself around my gut, squeezing. Something’s wrong.
I drop the tray like a fool, turning as fast as I can to get to E.J.
There’s nothing wrong with her, though. Not a damn thing is out of place. I swear I heard a bang, like something heavy had dropped.
E.J.’s in the same position she always is, on her side, her knees bent, her hands under her head. I washed her hair today though, marveling at how soft and silky it was. She struggled to tell me months ago, before it happened—although she didn’t say what “it” was—she’d gotten a treatment on her hair.
There’s no doubt in my mind she’s from money. Big money, given the strings they’ve pulled.
“Are you all right?” I ask E.J. when her heavy eyes open and she stares back at me. Her slow reactions are partly from the medication to help her sleep without dreams, and partly from her crippling depression.
She nods her head slowly and just like in the shower today, she places her slender fingers at her throat and I know that means she wants to talk.
“They told me not to give you my name. Didn’t they?” Her voice is scratchy and I can tell it hurts her from the way she winces.
She must be out of it. There’s no way I’d know what anyone told her. I don’t even know who “they” are.
The end of my ponytail brushes against my shoulder as I shrug and say, “I don’t know what they told you. I just know it’s not in your files.”
My answer brings tears to her eyes; tears I think were coming regardless. Her face doesn’t crumple or contort though and when the tears fall from her chin, down the pillow, she pulls back and then reaches to her cheek before staring at the moisture on her fingertips. Like she didn’t even know she was crying.
“I lost everything… I can’t lose my name.”
“There’s always more, you didn’t lose everything.” I’m quick to console her and I slowly, cautiously, pull out the corner chair to sit in it.
“Do you know what it’s like to lose everyone you love? To watch—” Her head falls back as her silent tears turn to wracking sobs. “I have court on the third. For my own custody. For them to take that too.” She moves as quickly as she can to brush away the tears, accepting the tissue I offer her. It’s a good sign. It’s a good sign that she’s talking, that she’s aware of her pain.
“None of that is in our files.”
“Please,” she says. Her voice turns hoarse and she lies on her back, calming herself down, just breathing. “Call me Ella… please.”
“I’ll call you Ella. It’s nice to meet you, formally.” My quietly spoken joke comes with a warm smile and she gives me one in return before turning her back to me.
“Good night, Ella.”
“Good night, Laura.”
Just breathe. It’s all I can think to keep from losing it when I leave her. Her pain is palpable and it wreaks havoc on my heart.
Some patients leave and they never return. Their trip here is only a blip in their life. The one time they hit so low that they needed help. That’s all this will be for them. I’m grateful we’re able to give them that and that their life goes on.
Then there are other people. Patients who are admitted against their will. Patients who are a harm to themselves. Whether they want to die, or just get off on the pain, sometimes they just want to hurt outside like they do inside.
Those are the patients I worry about when they leave. When the doctor or judge says they can go. Sometimes they come back here, worse off than before. Other times they leave here and within a week, their obituaries are in the paper.
The cup and pills are waiting for me on the floor just outside her door. It doesn’t take long to dispose of them and gather the last cup for Melody. It takes me longer to mentally prepare more than anything.
Melody’s waiting for me, rocking but not humming, when I enter her room. All of the rooms are standard. A bed, nightstand, and dresser. A TV in the upper right corner and an attached bathroom. White sheets, white furniture and soft gray walls. The only difference is the artwork in each of the rooms. And we provide plenty and offer to change them based on patient preference. It was an idea Bethany had years ago. I backed her and we had to pressure corporate to give us the funds to purchase additional artwork. It took nearly a year, but they agreed. I think it makes all the difference.
Neither Melody nor E.J.—Ella—cared about the artwork when they first arrived. Melody decided to change hers nearly a week ago though and I’m hopeful Ella will also come around, although the third of October is right around the corner. And if she’s right about having a court date, she may be long gone sooner than I think.
“You changed your pictures again,” I remark when I come in and Melody smiles.
“I asked the new girl to do it while I was in the library. She seemed like she had the time just sitting in the back, watching us.”
Is that where she was? Hiding in the library? That little… I stuff my snide remark into the back of my head, jotting it down on the memo pad of complaints to give Aiden before my shift is up.
“I like it,” I say, nodding one by one at the row of prints.
“They’re all classics,” she tells me with plenty of pep in her tone. “The Starry Night is Van Gogh and this one,” Melody gestures as she rises off the bed, making the metal legs squeak as she does so, “Blue Nude is Picasso.”
I know she’s right, because I picked out the classics when Bethany wanted help choosing what art to order. They’re only cheap prints, but they’re still beautiful.
“I love them. Wonderful choices,” I comment and hold out the little cup for her.
Her smile fades and she gathers the covers before climbing back into bed and finally accepting the cup.
“What do you think of Officer Walsh?” she asks me and then lets out a small chuckle. “The good officer, as I like to call him.”
The small hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “What do I think of him?” I repeat her question, giving myself time to think of how to reply while she accepts the cup of water and downs the medicine.
“If you want to talk to him, you should. If you don’t, you shouldn’t.”
“That’s not quite an answer to my question, is it?” she asks as she crumples the little cup.
“The thing is, I have to tell someone. I used to have Father John,” she says and her tone turns remorseful and longing. The cold comes back, clinging to my skin. Walsh said she was the last to see him. I just can’t imagine this girl killing anyone. Conspiring to do so or otherwise.
“The priest who… passed away.” I don’t say murder. I don’t want her mind to move back to the crime and go quiet. Some piece of me has to know the truth.
Walsh’s words echo in my mind but they’re quickly silenced by Melody. “I didn’t know he’d go.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, pressing her for more as I pull the corner chair closer to her bed.
She readjusts under the sheets, lying down as I take my seat.
“I told him everything. He knew what that man did to me and my thoughts. I told him all about the others too. He knew and he never approached any of them. He never did anything but absolve me of my sins.”
“Father John?” I ask to clarify.
“Yes.” She turns to look me in the eyes as she adds, “It’s a sin to think these things, you know? When you want others to hurt… it’s a sin.
“So when I told him… I helped…” she trails off as her throat go
es tight and Melody closes her eyes. My pulse races and I can barely hear her over the pounding of my heart. Is she really confessing?
“When I told Father John in church that they were going to die, I told him where, I told him how and he asked me when.” Melody doesn’t cry. She merely stares at the ceiling, as if watching, not remembering, not a part of it. Only watching the scene unfold.
“I told him I wanted to be in the church when it happened and that it was happening now.” She turns her head to the side, her wide eyes piercing through me. “I didn’t know he’d go. I didn’t know once he left, he’d never come back. I stayed there in the confessional waiting for him. I stayed there all night.”
A numbing prickle dances over my skin. To be involved in something like that… and she’s only twenty. Watching the remorse, the confusion, the guilt, but also the anger play in her eyes is frightening. A part of me is terrified that she did go through with a plan to murder. Even if she wasn’t there. Even if they deserved it.
She heaves in a breath and the emotional pull of it all drags her down to the hells of her own mind. Her bottom lip quivers and her voice shakes. “He left me to stop it from happening. He said he had to save them.”
“It’s okay,” I console her, feeling her pain, but also my shock, my own horror.
“Why did he go?” she questions me as if I have answers. “Why would he go to them?” Her voice breaks and the tears fall fast and furiously. Unable to stop. Her elbow props her up as the small girl asks me again, “Why would he leave the church, leave me there, to go to them?”
The way she says them resonates with anger, with disgust. It’s the hint of a side to the young woman that sends a chill down my spine.
“I can’t say,” I answer her, keeping my voice even. I’m silent, she’s silent. No one speaks as the air is permeated with an influx of anger and betrayal, finally ending with sorrow when Melody’s face crumples and she lies back down on her back.
