Want You

by Jen Frederick

  Her tits are small but juicy. Big enough to fill a man’s palm—my palm. She probably has dusky nipples, darker than her golden skin.

  My cock turns rock hard.

  Yeah. There’s only one female that turns me on and it’s the one I can’t have. Not just because she’s young, but because I raised her. I took her in. I cared for her when she was sick. I held her tiny hand while we watched cartoons and ate cereal out of the box. I bought bunny slippers for her and tied her shoes for her and fuck. It is wrong. This lust I have toward Bitsy is just so fucking wrong.

  I order my legs to move, but my ass is glued to the floor. I’ve tried to erase the desire, ice out the heat, shut down my heart. It was easier when she was gone, but now that she’s here, telling me that she wants me, it’s too hard to shove these wicked feelings into a concrete box in the back of my head.

  Maybe if I…if I just this once…I reach between my legs. My shaft is thick and hot. I close my eyes and rest my head against the wall. I force the image of the two brunettes up. They had big boobs and long, slender legs. Their waists nipped in, emphasizing two bubble butts. One was shorter than the other, her breasts tucking under the ones of the taller girl. They played a game where the short girl was rough with the taller one. She’d grabbed the girl’s hair in her hand and yanked her head back so hard I thought I heard a bone crack. Snow choked on his tongue and soiled his pants at that scene.

  It left me cold.

  I pump my hand along my shaft and the two girls disappear, replaced by a dressing room.

  Take off all your clothes.

  All of them?

  Yes.

  The image shifts again and now she’s in the kitchen, lowering herself onto the table. Her shirt rides up, revealing a thin patch of skin. Her fingernails scrape along the edge of the hem. The lace of her panties peeks above her tight black leggings.

  My throat is thick. Lust lies heavy on my tongue, like a thick cream. I shift on the floor, but I can’t get comfortable. The floor’s too hard. Her wiry, curled hair rings her face. A nervous hand comes to rest between two small, juicy tits.

  A groan escapes from me. My breathing grows ragged and fast.

  Her hand drifts lower. As I watch, her fingers work their way under the waistband. Her knuckles move against the fabric as her fingers find a rhythm.

  Come seeps out the top of my cock. I spread it around and jack myself a little faster, a little rougher.

  Her lips part and her eyes drop from mine to catch at my waist. My balls tighten in excitement. I wish those delicate fingers were wrapped around my dick. This is wrong, some part of the back of my head screams at me.

  It’s not real, the devil whispers.

  But it feels real. It feels as if she’s here just steps away, lying with her hand between her splayed legs, her tongue flicking out to touch the corner of her mouth wondering what I taste like.

  She’d be soft. Everywhere. And she’d taste like…I lick my lips. She’d taste like heavy cream, rich and sinful.

  I sit at that table, spread her legs wider and tongue her cherry until she is screaming my name. When she’s done coming all over my tongue, I slide right into that hot, slick sheath. I don’t last long. Three thrusts. Maybe four. It’s a blur of heat, slick skin, and friction.

  The come spurts out of my cock. Seed smears on my stomach and trickles down the inside of my thigh. I’m a mess.

  My sticky hand drops to my side. In my head, I’ve balanced my soul’s ledger by reminding myself that for all the corrupt wrong I’ve committed, at least I saved Bitsy. If I touch her, even once, even if she’s begging me, I’ll have betrayed the sole purpose of my life—to protect this one precious being.

  Would I have taken her in, all those years ago, if I’d known that the greatest danger in her life would be me?

  I look down at my already hardening cock with a miserable realization. Yes. I would’ve made the same choice fourteen years ago because my life is worthless without her in it.

  My chin drops to my chest. Somewhere inside of me, I must find enough self-control to send her away—even if it destroys me.

  31

  Bitsy

  When I first wake and hear the pained sound outside my door, I think he was injured. It’s always been my biggest fear.

  I fly to the door. Hand on the doorknob, I stop when I hear my name. I crack the door open and see him sitting on the floor. His knees re slightly bent, but it is obvious what he is doing. His face is tilted back and his eyes are closed. His lips are slightly parted and the expression he wears is half pain, half ecstasy. I drop to my knees when I hear the first guttural sound.

  He never once looks in my direction. I close the door so he doesn’t stop, but with the door shut, I find that the walls are both too thin and too thick. Thin enough that I can hear him groan but too thick to hear the slap of skin against skin as he sits outside my bedroom door and touches himself.

  My imagination runs wild. Time and place warp as if I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole into some decadent fairy tale where Leka sits in front of me, hand curled around his massive dick.

  His attention is pinned on me. A hungry, needy, anticipatory look is stretched across his face. I crawl over to him and brush his hand away. I use both hands to grip the shaft. It pulses in my grip. His hand comes down to tangle in my hair as I rub my cheek along the hard, throbbing length.

  “Open up, girl,” he commands.

  I part my lips and let the knob of his penis slip inside. I lay my tongue flat and let the whole length glide down the back of my throat. His hand comes up to palm the back of my head and hold me in place as he works the long, hot length in and out of my willing mouth. My own sex clenches in need. I drop my hand between my legs because tasting him, sucking him, fucking him make me instantly wet.

  The wooden floor scrapes against my knees. My breasts hang heavy between us. My mouth is full because he’s big, so very big. It’s difficult to take all of him in, but I try. Leka palms my face with one hand and holds the back of my neck with the other. He’s groaning, whispering things like how hot I look, how he’s not going to last long because he’s wanted this forever. He dreams about it, he says, and every time he wakes up before he comes, but not this time. Not this time.

  And then he can’t talk anymore because he’s too intent on shafting my mouth. I open wider, taking him all the way in, until I feel him in the back of my throat. The pressure is intense, incredible and it’s building on my tongue, between my legs, in my head until it explodes with a wet splash.

  I jerk to attention. It takes me a moment to recognize my surroundings. I’m on the floor of my bedroom with my ear pressed against the wall and my fingers between my legs. The shower has turned on for the second time tonight. And I am alone.

  That he’d rather masturbate outside my door and then wash away the traces of his lust does me in. His displeasure sends me spiraling back to that night he woke me up and took me out of my home to abandon me hundreds of miles away in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people. I cried myself to sleep every night for six months straight after he left me in Boone. I ignored all his messages, refused all his calls, and returned all his gifts.

  I finally got tired of being mad at him. My anger turned to pent-up longing. I read the messages, all of which professed his sorrow at leaving me, along with his assurance that it was all done to keep me safe. I clung to that, believing that when I was an adult and strong enough to fight for myself, I could prove that we would belong together.

  I didn’t think it would happen immediately. I wanted it to, but realistically we hadn’t seen each other in four years. There were bound to be adjustment pains. I didn’t expect him to be so resistant, so put off by his own desires.

  He’s so far from coming around that I think we might as well be in different countries even as we live in the same apartment. He’s Russia, cold and foreign, while I’m…some small country that is trying to lap up any scrap of attention he’s willing to give me.

 
; Is this where I give up? No. That’s what he wants. He’s driving me away because he’s afraid. His disgust isn’t toward me…I don’t think. It’s self-loathing. He doesn’t believe he has the right to want me.

  I run a shaky hand through my hair. The positive is that he doesn’t see me as a child anymore. I can work with that. I just need to tear down the barrier between his heart part that love and want me and his head part that says our coupling is wrong.

  Easy, right? I give a sour, silent laugh. It’s going to be very hard, but the prize at the end is worth it.

  Commence Operation Seduction.

  * * *

  “Leka, do you know where my black lace teddy is? I just bought it the other day and now I can’t find it anywhere!” It is, in fact, draped over the back of the living room sofa where I left it last night.

  After a few moments of silence, I creep out of my bedroom to see if Leka is even in the kitchen. I thought I heard his footsteps pass by me a moment ago. Sure enough, he’s sitting at the kitchen table bent over coffee.

  “Um, Leka, did you hear me?”

  “It’s gone,” he says abruptly without looking in my direction.

  “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

  “I threw it away.”

  “You what?” I rush over to the garbage can. That piece of lingerie cost me $80 and I didn’t even wear it once. I cut the tags off and tossed it in the living room. It landed on the sofa back where it could be easily seen by anyone coming in from the entry.

  Inside the garage can I find the teddy, crumpled into a ball. I pull it out and hold it up by the straps. It’s torn through the midsection with only a few pieces of lace and thread keeping it in one piece on the left side. “Um, what happened?”

  “It got caught on something,” Leka replies, still bent over the coffee.

  Something like his fist. Is this a good sign?

  “It’s your money anyway,” I reply. “I haven’t received my first pay check yet, so I used the credit card to buy it. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “You don’t need shit like that,” he says. He rises fast. The chair legs scrape loudly against the tiled floor. “Wear regular…stuff that doesn’t get torn easily.”

  He can’t even bring himself to use the word “panties” around me. I dip my head to hide a smile. “This is comfortable. Besides, it makes me feel sexy.” I peek under my eyelashes in Leka’s direction.

  His hands tighten around the back of his chair. “You’re working in a meat processing shop cleaning up shit. There’s no need to feel…stuff there.”

  Ha! He can’t say “sexy” either.

  “The morbid surroundings are exactly why I need things like this. I have to remind myself I’m still a woman.” I open the sink cabinet to toss the damaged undergarment away.

  “You didn’t even wear it,” he snaps.

  I pause, my hand half inside the trash can. “How do you know?” I ask in surprise.

  There’s a long, pregnant pause followed by heavy footsteps carrying Leka into his bedroom. The minute that his door slams shut, I let loose the smile that I had been hiding.

  There’s only one way to know that I didn’t wear this and that’s to give it the smell test. An erotic shiver shakes me as the image of Leka standing in the living room sniffing my underwear dances through my head.

  This is progress, I tell myself. Time to turn up the heat.

  * * *

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Leka thunders.

  Bent over at the waist with my booty high in the air, my upside-down view of Leka is framed between my two legs. Even from here, I can see his frustration. It fills me with a sad sort of happiness. I’m glad I can get a reaction out of him but dejected that all he’s done in the past two weeks is to tell me to cover up, stop leaving my stuff around, and to go to sleep.

  He likes the last order a lot as if I have a bad hangover that’s causing me to act weird and if I just get in a couple naps during the day, I’ll return to the meek girl that I was when he left me four years ago.

  “I’m exercising. What does it look like I’m doing?” I swing my hips around, trying to mimic the half-dressed woman on screen. My actions are sluggish, though. I’m tired, but not because I’ve been working out for a long time. I started only minutes ago after I got the word from doorman Terry that Leka was on his way up. I’m tired because I’ve gone through steps two through twenty without one physical reaction. That lack of response kills my morale like a bus hitting a pedestrian at forty miles per hour.

  “You’re watching a porno. That’s what it looks like you’re doing.” He sounds unusually agitated.

  “Gold star for you. It is a porno, and your immediate recognition of it makes me wonder how much you watch.” The online article I’d read about seducing your man suggested watching porn with my man. I’d never be able to con Leka into that, so I combined that idea with the one about doing a sexy striptease. I thought it was a brilliant idea at the time, but, currently, faced with Leka’s dumbfounded stare, I’m reconsidering.

  He stomps over to the living room and snatches the remote off the television. “None. I don’t watch porn. This is fucking ridiculous. If you want to work out, go to a gym.”

  “But there are men at the gym,” I taunt. “What if one of them is overcome with lust and attacks me?”

  Leka presses his full lips into a thin, angry line but doesn’t have a rejoinder. There are dangers everywhere in this world and there’s only one way to avoid them—by hiding. I refuse to do that.

  32

  Leka

  “There’s still some taco meat left. Want it?” Bit leans over my shoulder, deliberately brushing her unbound tit against my arm.

  It’d be so easy to reach around and pull her down on my lap. Or even better. I could clear the table with one swipe of my arm, lift her onto the empty surface, slide down whatever pair of panties she’s wearing—if she’s wearing any—and eat her out like she’s been begging me to for the last three weeks.

  I remind myself how fucking wrong that would be, bite into my tongue until I taste copper and then shake my head. “I’m full. Thanks.”

  But I’m not full. I’m hungry. I’m reaching the state of starvation. Every time I look at her, my tongue tingles and my fingers twitch. My dick rises to half-mast and my tiny pea brain screams at me to take her. Strip her clothes off, tie her to a bed, and fuck her every dirty, naughty way that anyone has dreamed of and a hundred new ones that people haven’t even invented yet.

  Days have become a torture. Nights are pure hell. I work myself hard, but I find that I can’t be far from her. The invisible tether that has connected us since the day I found her reels me back. My body can walk and talk and function, but the heart of me sits in her little hands.

  She putters over to the sink, pulls out the trash, making sure her ass is high in the air. I catch a glimpse of apple-green lace covering one juicy cheek. A man can only take so much before he breaks. My control is whisper thin. One wrong move and it will snap.

  I drop my hands below the table and stab my palm with the fork. The pain allows the lust to recede a fraction—enough so that I don't throw the table out of the way and attack her.

  I'm tired of this. I'm tired of having to exercise self-control while she peels off her underwear in the middle of a rerun of Brooklyn Nine-Nine. I'm tired of having to pretend I don't see the outline of her figure when she stands in front of the fireplace in a white nightgown so sheer it's a miracle it doesn't fall apart when she breathes. I'm tired of going to bed each night with my dick in my hand, furtively jacking off because if I don't get some motherfucking relief, I'm going to explode.

  The hardest times are when she comes home from work at ten, tired and sore. I want to scoop her up into my lap, rub her feet and make her a midnight snack, but I can't bring myself to do anything more than give her curt nods of acknowledgment because I'm afraid that if I touch her in any way, no matter how innocent, I'm not going to be able to st
op.

  Above all else, the thing that drives me to the very edge are her eyes. They tell me everything. They're black when she's angry and lit from within when she's joyous. There's a glint at the corner when she's feeling good about herself and about to do something that will drive me wild. And then there are the times when her eyes are big and clear and all I see in them is my reflection—as if I make up her whole world.

  How in the hot hell am I supposed to turn away from all that? It's impossible.

  "When's your next shift?" I ask. It's Saturday and I'm half hopeful she has to go in so that my dick can have time to deflate, but I also hate that she works at all. I'm fucked up.

  "Not until tomorrow night. I'm going to cut up some strawberries and have some ice cream with them later. Do you want any?"

  An image of me spreading the cold, sweet treat all over her body makes me light-headed.

  "Leka? Leka? Hey, you still with me?"

  Bitsy's at the table, nudging me.

  "I'm good," I croak and escape to the bedroom, hoping my enormous hard-on isn't too visible.

  Bitsy mutters something that sounds very close to "you coward" as I run away.

  * * *

  The long line of black SUVs filling the alley behind Marjory’s gives me ample warning that I’m not going to be happy with what I find inside the restaurant. Beefer’s weepy, shivering daughter crouching under the single bulb above the back door drives home the point. This is going to be a bad night.

  I knew that Cesaro was bound to show up at some point, but I’d hoped, probably uselessly, that it would be during a time that Bitsy was out of town. I don’t much like the fact they’re sharing the same zip code at the moment.