I call the hospital the minute the alarm goes off.
No change.
I have to do something so I cook breakfast. For Thomas’ son, asleep on my couch. He must be exhausted. I'm not sure where he came from to get here or how. A man only has one father and he lost so much time already. I can't bear to see him lose anymore.
He stirs a little. He's on his back. Chest exposed, just a fine line of hair over his pectorals. He has left the jeans on. And a fresh hard-on.
Damn, you forget what men in their twenties are like.
I sure got an eyeful last night. Watching him play with himself, my own fingers half buried in my pussy. I'd give anything to know what he was really imagining. I think he must have been imagining himself fucking the blonde when push came to shove. I sure would if I were a man. Who would pick a woman in her thirties, gravity assaulted, used goods, over a fresh little piece with bright eyes and a totally tight and screwable body? Me, I feel like I need a couple of screws drilled into me to hold me together.
It's funny, but I'm not thinking of the implications of our little exchange last night. I'm just cooking bacon, barefoot in my kitchen, in the oversized t-shirt and elastic shorts I put on in place of the pajamas. No, it's definitely not about Brian and me. It's about Thomas, I owe him everything. I exist to help him. And so does Brian. The whole fucking world revolves around him if you ask me.
Condition unchanged. Stable.
Whatever that means. He's made it through another night. That's another hurdle. Just a million more to go. The heart has to heal. He has to breathe on his own. There could be brain damage. He had a stroke; we don't know what that means. Blood was cut off to his spine, no guarantee he'll ever walk again.
I have already tried to call Monica; she's got her phone on voice mail.
Still trying to get over this whole there's-a-man-in-my-apartment thing. I would be naked now otherwise. Hell, I wouldn't be cooking. I would be eating cereal from a box, hunting for donuts at the convenience store.
I'm not a morning person. I need diet soda and space. Even with Thomas I can count the number of times on one hand we woke up in the same bed. And that was for logistical reasons more than anything. Can't explain why this is just not a part of us, not a part of me. I've never been married, never even come that close. Did as much as I could to keep men away, including the alcohol. Lots of sex, not much commitment. Forever in the wrong beds, nowhere relationships, pining after married men, preferring to believe their absurd promises of a future together than to risk anything real.
The proverbial rock bottom for me happened thirteen months ago and eight days. It wasn't as dramatic as you might think. Ironically, I woke up feeling fine, as I always do from a drunk. Never once blessed with a hangover I couldn't cure with a little caffeine. Fit as a fiddle, I went to run in the park on a Sunday morning. Up north, air exhaling in smoky rings.
Thirty-four years old, not a scratch on me.
Five miles, never flinched. I was almost disappointed. Then it hit me. I'm trying to kill myself here and it isn't even working.
I'm a fucking failure at slow suicide.
Or was I a mess inside?
I went to a doctor, told him flat out I've taken shitty care of myself for twenty years. I drink like a fish and the only green things I ate are the snacks on St. Patrick's Bar at Donovan's Tavern.
He couldn't find anything wrong with me either.
Good news, he called it.
I quit my job, headed south to Orlando with everyone else in the known universe. Wandered around the amusement parks for a couple of weeks until the cash ran low then decided what to do next. Came down to a coin toss. A bar on one side of the street, a church on the other, with a meeting. It came up heads for the meeting. I went for three out of five and five out of seven. Fuck it, still heads.
I gave up fighting the little dwarves in the sky or whoever it is run the universe. Off I went, trotting my ass down the stairs to the faded linoleum basement.
A half hour later I met Thomas and my life changed forever.
"Hey.” Brian's standing behind me. That chest is still bare and it's closer than ever. He's lean, he's yummy … he's … in my space and I'm not even pissed off.
I blush. “Hey,” I say back, using the same lips that wanted to taste that cock, the same lips that wanted to worship-correction, still want to worship.
"Something smells good."
"I hope you like it,” I blurt. “Eggs, bacon, toast?"
"My favorites. Can I help with anything?"
"No. Sit.” I let him have the head of the table, such as it is. “You take your coffee with cream and sugar, right?"
"Good memory."
I set the cup down. My hand trembles a little.
"Caroline?"
My throat is bone dry. “Yes?"
Oh, god, if he asks for my body, if he says anything at all…
"I really appreciate you letting me crash here."
"It was nothing."
"No. It was a lot."
I can smell him. He smells like a man. A little sweat, a little left over cologne. A lot of testosterone.
"If you say so…"
"I do. Why are you so nervous?” He asks.
"I'm not."
He touches my hand. I feel the heat, instant, paralyzing. This isn't right. Am I just responding to him because of Thomas? Is it all vicarious? Not that my flesh could tell the difference at the moment.
Come on, Caroline, speak up, and tell him to let go.
"Sure you are, you're shaking like a leaf."
"Too much caffeine,” I quip as he caresses my fingers.
My toes curl in reply. Bare toes. Oh, hell, I do not have enough clothes on. This is why I don't like men here…
"Don't make a joke,” he says sternly. “Tell me what you're really feeling."
"I am attracted to you,” I say, “and it scares the hell out of me."
Fuck, where did that come from? I am not attracted right now, I'm worried about Thomas. Period.
"There, was that so hard?"
"Yes it was."
"You're not really scared though, are you? I think you feel guilty."
"I refuse to be analyzed,” I declare, “By men who are younger than the sweaters I have hanging in my closet."
"Analysis isn't what I'm interested in.” He stands up, body to body. “And I really don't care about your sweaters. In fact, I'm not too keen on any clothes at all for you."
He's tugging up my t-shirt.
"Brian, no. What happened last night … it was the heat of the moment. We were both upset. We have to know our places. Thomas, your father, needs us, you can't betray that."
"I'm not betraying anything, Caroline, I'm following my feelings. Tell me you don't have the same?"
"I don't."
"Is that the truth?"
My shirt is off; he tosses it onto the floor. I cover my breasts. “It is,” I insist.
"I think you're lying.” He cups my ass cheeks through my shorts. “I wonder if a spanking would change your story?"
"No one does that to me,” I squirm.
"Except for him, I know.” Brian kisses me. There's big trouble here; this won't end well.
"Let go of me. This is just some game to you, isn't it? Competing with the old man? Well I'm not a prize."
He doesn't let go. “I am not doing anything but living in the moment. I have to have you, I wanted you the second I saw you, Caroline, you're so beautiful."
"Stop saying that. You think you're being clever, you're just immature."
I punch at his chest, he does back off, but by then I start to cry. Oh, shit, I don't want to do this in front of him.
He holds me, not at all awkward. “I'm sorry,” he whispers. “I push too hard. I always do that."
"No,” I don't want him to bear anymore guilt than he might already. “It's obvious, we are connecting. I just, I just can't right now."
"I know.” He kisses my neck. “I'll stop."
He doesn't stop. His hand slips inside my shorts and into my pussy. I sigh against him, I encourage, I move, I writhe.
"Yes,” his voice is husky, I feel his confidence grow, like his hard on. “It is right. You do need it."
I come for him, just like that, a hot and helpless little slut, climaxing at the wrong time, the wrong place with the wrong man, and then before you know it we are into it too deep, me over the kitchen table, my breasts squashed, face down, the juices dripping down my leg wanton and blatant.
It all happens so fast; he strips his clothes off. He tells me my body is talking to him, I need to let him do this to me, to show me what can happen between us. I ask if he has protection, at least? Yes, there's a condom in the pocket of his jeans, he swears it's a coincidence, and I guess it is, he only met me last night.
I'm still spasming from before as he enters me, his cock just as hard as I imagined it would be, watching him pleasure himself.
"Oh, god … yes … no…” I am so fucked up.
He puts a hand on my back to steady me and I want to rebel-this is too intimate for my liking, much more so than fucking.
This is relationship stuff, communicating needs and trying to gauge mine.
This … will … not … end … well.
I push my ass up in protest. He takes my hips and takes control. His cock retracts half way and then fills me again. My muscles conspire; they turn complete traitors, contracting, cooperatively, greedily around him.
My whole body is tensing and releasing, a billion times a second, it's happening, I'm going to climax again.
His cock is moving like lightning. I hear the grunts of pure animal joy, pure male.
I make one final effort to hold back, silly little woman that I am. He senses the resistance and slaps my ass. Just one time, just hard enough to open the floodgates and I explode all over him, all around him, all through him.
Brian releases his own pent up orgasm simultaneously, filling the tip of the condom. He is hot like fire, he pulses and I catch myself wishing I could just take his come inside me … letting him brand me and mark me … that would make things interesting wouldn't it?
I push him off me as quickly as I can. I still feel him in me; my ass tingles and is warm where he laid his hand. I am so in over my head. “This can't happen again, is that clear?"
"Not unless you want it, too."
"I don't want it to,” I insist. “And wipe that look off your face."
"What look?"
"That ‘I just fucked an older woman and I can do it again any time I like,’ look."
"Not unless you want me to,” he repeats.
"I don't,” I say right back. “Not ever."
"There isn't a problem then,” he pads off to the bathroom.
"I'm serious,” I call out, shaking and twitching all over.
"What the fuck is that?” I demand as he comes back out with something in his hand.
My body gives way. I know exactly what it is … one of my washcloths … damp and warm … and, oh, god I am seeing Thomas. That's what he does. He's the kind of man who will always get the towel, you see, the kind of Daddy who will sit next to baby girl and gently wipe her clean with warm, soapy water after every encounter asking her questions, how does she feel and did she come enough times because that's his rule, baby girl comes first and often.
I back up, right against the sink. “What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing, girl?"
A hot knife sears my stomach. “I'm not your girl."
"I didn't say you were.” He kneels at my feet, orders me to stop squirming. “Just kind of came out, you know, the word was on the tip of my tongue, like a song lyric."
I gasp as he touches me.
I am so afraid I will flash back to Thomas and have a major freak out session, but it isn't remotely like that.
Brian's hands, it seems, have a life all their own.
I'm not soothed or centered like with Daddy, I'm pushed all sideways, edgy, squirmy, aroused all over again, against my will, but not against my will. “Don't … Brian…"
Pretty much that's all I seem to say lately, isn't it? Don't Brian. Not sure if he's a man or a puppy. A little of both, I guess.
"Don't be so uptight.” He dabs here and there then changes tactics. The cloth is replaced with his tongue. “It's okay,” he tells me as he licks my pussy. “To be my girl for a little while, when I'm inside you. If it's what I feel."
"It's not about your feelings,” I protest, not ready to deal with my own. “You can't be that selfish, Brian."
His ministrations make a mockery of my statement. What is selfish about a man giving oral sex to a girl-a woman, I mean?
I orgasm for him, just how he wants, quaking waves, two in one, rivulets of liquid pleasure from reserves I don't even know I have, but I'm shaking my head no the whole time because I'm torn, torn nearly in two … it's not fair … I want to be baby girl, I want to be having this with Daddy…
I start to cry.
There isn't any comforting me or reasoning with me and Brian respects this, to his credit. He heeds me as I tell him to just go, please, just don't be here anymore, don't touch me, or remind me or try to be nice to me. He pulls his clothes back on and walks out the door, with a remarkable grace under the circumstances. He moves, quiet as a cat, I think he doesn't want to do anything to make me feel worse, but he couldn't possibly understand how low I've sunk.
I curl naked on the tile.
I just fucked the father's son. Am I mistress to both of them now? I never even ask if Brian was attached to anyone. It's not like Thomas and I were exclusive, I mean he was married and since Thomas I have had a few dates, but right now, I should be keeping myself for him. Shouldn't I?
God, I haven't changed at all. Daddy, I don't see it, all that you saw in me. I'm a whore and a slut. The same eighteen-year-old girl who spread her virgin legs for beers at Jimmy Campo's trailer, who let herself be his piece on the side when his wife wasn't looking, until Frankie came along, gung ho to be my first real boyfriend, with his motorcycle and his temper. I did what he told me so I wouldn't get hit and then I did what his cousin told me and his cousin's brother.
Sometimes all three of them told me at once what to do and they were big men, not very sensitive men, who didn't care how sore a girl got taking cocks up inside her pussy or between her jaws hour after hour. I didn't mind; I wanted to be good, wanted to be drunk and high and right. Things went good for a year or so; I made a super little poker game prize until the night they got a little too wasted and started fighting over me.
A broken jaw landed me in the hospital and from there back home with my parents which was a hundred fucking times worse, so it was off to a one year business school in Albany and then work with the state, which you'd think would put me in a whole lot better milieu but I managed to find mother fuckers there, too, just a higher pay grade. Franklin liked to dress me up in gunny sax dresses that he said I didn't deserve, the little snot. Wish he would have had the balls to hit me, the mama's boy, instead of taking down my self-esteem, one petty insult at a time.
Some of the others along the way were more dramatic, bodies passed out on my floor at all hours of the day and night, heads I had to hold up over the toilet while they puked up their love for me, and a couple of fist holes in my cardboard box apartment.
A thrill a fucking minute. I finally learned to switch to married men, who were easier on my furniture. Left the state, went to work for private industry, found some decent bosses, one or two of them would buy me flowers and even go more than five minutes fucking me so I could have a chance to come, too.
I actually lived to my thirtieth birthday, surprise, surprise and by then I was pretty hard-cynical, a lost cause. No one got inside me anymore. I lived alone, mentally and physically and I liked it.
Daddy has this theory, none of this is my fault, I'm not a bad person, it all goes back to childhood, that big block of life with V for Victim stamped on my forehead that I try to block out.
It's not a “V” I want. It's the scarlet letter “A". That's right, I want some men to come in here right now and stand in a circle around me and pray with hypocritical bitter scorn, just like Grandpa used to pray over his children, one of whom grew up to be my devil of a biological daddy, who lost the right to that title a long, long time ago.
Yes, I want them to pray for me, spit on me and call me slut. I want them to make me roll on my back and lift my pussy up to them. I want them to have black robes, like judges, I want them to make me crawl underneath, naked, and suck off their cocks. I want them to force me to make them hard so they can fuck me on the floor on all fours, like a little bitch.
I want each of them to shove my mouth over them and force me to slurp them into erections and then I want them to pull me off their cocks by the hair and slap me in the face and tell me to stop being such a fucking little whore and move on to the next cock. I want to say thank you, I enjoy it and will you put a collar on me, please, with the word cunt stenciled on it?
Damn it, how did I get here? I never felt this kind of guilt, because no one I've ever been involved has been better than me. Thomas didn't deserve this. The stress … of an affair … the stress of me.
I take a spatula from the drawer, I'm in some kind of trance, I whack my ass as best I can, a double jointed self, standing outside myself … I can't do it, can't bring myself down like I need.
I've never craved the pain so much, never gone to the edge like this. My dark dreams on the verge of reality. I stuff my hand in my pussy; I come hard, teeth gritted on the floor. I fuck my entire hand's worth of fingers, up to the knuckle. I tug on my nipple, twisting it, nothing nice or sweet.
Good god, am I turning into a masochist?
It's an orgasm between breaths … feels like an invasion, coming from outside me … I'm alone but not alone. No way to describe it, no way to measure the time, to identify the interval. I only know I'm different afterwards. Something's shaken free and I don't know how to put it back in place.
I need to take a shower; I need to think about work. There are things to be done. For Thomas’ company. Our company, he likes to call it, though I don't have a nickel put into it. He corrects me if I tell people I work for him.
"You work with me, Caroline."
"Actually my best work is underneath you,” I tease, naming his favorite position, with me as his special toy, to maneuver up and down, my tits free for him to suckle, my body totally in his control as he orders me to look him in the eye.
"Come, baby girl. Now."
I'm numb as I head for the shower. Ordinarily by this time I would have talked to Thomas on the phone, maybe e-mailed him. We'd have talked about all sorts of things, from account transfers to what we're each going to wear to what we should do for lunch, assuming it's an office day for him and not a meeting day.
Office days are the best because we can play. Fridays are cool because they are jean days. We are like little children, counting off on the calendar all week. Other days are nice, too, because I wear my skirts.
I might just be standing on our back balcony, looking out over the stucco wall and he will come along, while I'm smoking and put his hand on my ass. He will feel to see if I have panties on.
If I do that he is liable to tell me to take them off. That's embarrassing if I'm denied permission to go and do it in the bathroom. Nothing like pulling down your underwear outside and handing it to your boss, stucco wall or no.
At one point I thought I would outsmart him by wearing none. As ‘punishment’ he laid his hands on my bare ass and discretely masturbated me, right there on the spot. I had to look straight down to the sidewalk, acting like nothing was happening even while he was making me come.
Time disappears on me as the water sluices down over my terribly overstimulated body. I just want to escape; I don't even want to feel sexy, just calm. The trouble is, it's like Brian is still here, crowding me. His hands are palpable shadows, touching me. I slap them away. I am not very effective. I keep seeing that look. So frigging cute, in an exasperating way.
I've had you and I will again anytime I want.
Well you won't, buster, because you won't be seeing me. At least not alone.
The shadow hands take my breasts from behind … or is he making me touch myself?
"Want to bet?” I hear him whisper.
Brian, stop.
My mantra…
A hand goes to my pussy, his, mine, who gives a fuck?
Speaking of fucking … here goes the soap. Over my clit, down to my slit.
Fuck yourself with it, Caroline, show me what a pathetic slut you really are…
I slide to the floor of the tub … and go at it for real.
The clock shows forty minutes have passed when I finally get out of the shower. My fingers look like prunes.
Monica calls me while I'm driving over to the office, twenty minutes after that. I answer in a panic that catches her off guard.
"What is it? Is there a change?"
"Thomas is fine, I'm just checking to see if you've been to the bank yet."
The bank … yes … I need to go first thing … I'd nearly forgotten…
I'm supposed to transfer the money, so the mortgage can be paid on the office building in Atlanta. “I'm on my way now."
"Caroline, are you okay?"
Of course I'm not fucking okay.
"I'll be fine. It's just … hard."
"I know, the girls in the Atlanta office are pretty shook up, too."
I bristle at being lumped in with the hired help, but, damn it, I am hired help, too. I can't take this out on her.
"What about you? How are you holding up?"
"I'm staying busy. Doing what I can without leaving his room."
I feel a stab of jealousy. I want to be in his room, I want to be the one who's allowed to worry officially.
I could do it better, damn it, I hate to say that. I would wait on him, I would talk to him, I'd talk non-stop, and I would bring him out of it. I could. I fucking could.
"And the girls, how are they coping?"
"Oh, you know those two. They are driving me crazy and each other, but they're strong. I couldn't do it without them."
Great, weigh them down like you did your husband.
"I'll be by after,” I try to make it casual.
"Just don't forget the bank. Oh, and do you think you could call my hairdresser? I have to cancel, obviously. I don't have the number on my cell, Denise should do this, I know, but she's sick today."
"Sure, no problem.” I try not to sound curt or resentful. It's killing me.
Sooner or later, I figure, Monica will find out. Jeezus, I don't want to fuck with Thomas’ life. I feel in the way. I don't fucking like that feeling. I despise it. It's worse than anything I ever felt when I was drinking. It might even be what started me drinking in the first place.
I decide I am not going to the hospital today.
Should I be getting a new sponsor-at least for the interim?
I go to the bank.
After that I'm stuck. How am I going to face the office? Everything there is him. He bought that building, rented out most of it, saved us a little piece, the one two room suite to make his dream come true. He picked out all the furniture, with my help. We decorated it, our newlywed pad we called it. He spoiled me rotten, let me pick out the nicest chair to sit in, the best mahogany desk.
Sometimes he will come up to me when I least expect it and give me a massage while I'm sitting in my leather throne. He will make me tingle all over, only to return afterward to his little office next to mine in our intimate suite, never saying a word as he leaves me peaceful and spent, bare toes luxuriating in the brand new carpeting on which I've been fucked so many times I've lost count.
Other times he will come with very different hands, demanding hands, while I work on the computer, his fingers slipping down inside my blouse and under my bra.
I will not resist. This surrender gives me the biggest thrill, yielding up my body for Thomas’ pleasure, being the perfect instrument, letting him use and enjoy at will.
"Whose breasts?” he will growl in that special tone that makes me swoon as I answer, “Yours, Daddy."
With the hugest smile I lean back giving him free reign to unbutton me.
The armchair in Thomas’ office, the one facing his desk, by contrast is designed to give me a different kind of experience. If he ever calls me in and tells me somberly, lock the door, I know, he is going to call the shots.
The phones are not going to be answered for a while; business will just have to wait.
If I still have panties on by some minor miracle, they must come off.
Gingerly, I set them on the edge of his desk. He might glance at them, pick them up with a pencil for examination, or, most delicious of all, make direct inquiries.
I hear his voice echoing as I drive. I rub my thighs together, insatiable.
"Are they wet, Caroline?"
"They are damp, Sir,” I reply.
"Is that the same as wet?"
"No, Sir.” He won't make eye contact at this early stage, which really turns me on because he'll be making like he's busy with something else, something more important. I get hotter and hotter, the more he puts me in my place, just a girl, who's there for sex, whatever he wants, when he wants it.
"What is your chief responsibility around this office, Caroline?"
"I'm to be wet and ready, to submit at any time, Sir."
He finally looks at me. My knees buckle. We're going to play that game. “And what is our agreement, Caroline, should you fail to meet your responsibility?"
"If I'm a bad girl,” I whisper. “I must be punished."
"Punished how?” prompts the trim-bearded ex military man, one in a million with hands that caress like velvet.
"With a spanking,” I say, the word running through me like electricity. “On my bare ass."
He nods. “Take off your skirt."
I'm not permitted to look down or away. I must face him, unclasp the garment and push it over my hips.
It falls to my feet; I step out, one high heel at a time.
"Turn around for me, Caroline."
I flip my hair and move in a circle, feminine, graceful. I'm always that way with him, because I know that's how he sees me.
"You have a beautiful ass."
"Thank you, Sir."
"After your punishment, I think I might let you kneel down and pleasure my cock. Would you like that?"
"Oh, Yes, Sir,” I sigh. The way he can shift back and forth, from crisp and professional to down and dirty never fails to bring me to the brink. I wonder if today will be one of the times he requires me to come during my spanking, my crotch helplessly humping his thigh, or if I will be forced to hold it in for later.
"Remove your blouse."
"Yes…"
I stand there a moment, in nothing but my bra. I feel more naked than if I were completely bare. My nipples are pebbles, straining at the silk material, my breasts want out, they want to be seen, and they want to be played with.
"Come to me, baby girl.” He slides his chair out and turns it.
There are rules for this next part. I can't touch him anywhere except his lap. I have to lay myself over it; my palms and heels must be on the floor.
There is no description for the intensity, the thrilling intimacy of this mutually agreed upon inequality. He dominates, I submit, he sentences, I give over my ass. Most importantly, he is clothed, I am not, there is no protection, my slit, my lips impress upon his muscular thigh, I feel his cock rise and press erect into my belly.
That cock is going to own me. It already does. It's going in my ass again, just because he says and I want it because I want to be owned, I want to belong to this beautiful man in all the ways I can. I hate that there are limits; that he goes home to a wife every day, in spirit at least. I hate my aloneness … sometimes. But then again, I know that is part of what makes it so special between us. It's a respite from everything the world demands, from all that normal life requires. No escape, the good with the bad. Always dues to pay.
At this stage of proximity, we move into our other roles, perhaps our truest ones.
"Have you been bad, baby girl?” he pats my bottom.
"Yes, Daddy,” I squirm.
"Tell Daddy about it."
"I should have been wetter for Daddy."
As if that were truly possible…
"Do you know why Daddy has that rule?"
"So baby girl and Daddy can play together?"
"That's right, and Daddy needs baby girl to be cooperative, doesn't he?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"You see I have to punish you?” his finger moves over my clit.
Oh, fuck yes.
"Will it hurt, Daddy?"
"A little, but we have to go through it."
"Yes … oh I love you, Daddy."
His hand lands on top of me, a perfect first spank. He always knows just how to cup his hand, just how to aim for the sweet spot. He makes me sting and burn, but never hurts me.
We count together, up to ten. I am moaning, “Daddy, Daddy please, I need to suck you…"
"Is baby girl sorry? Does she want to be a good girl?"
"Yes, oh, yes, Daddy.” I am the best most grateful girl in the world as he lets me down between his legs. He opens his pants, I take his cock out.
"I love you, Daddy, I love you so much."
"I love you, Sweetheart."
I kiss his cock, I smother it with kisses, my eyes water up because I have waited my whole life for someone I could love unconditionally, nothing dirty, everything pure and right, it all fits together.
I proudly swallow his member, thick and pulsing. I love to hear him make those little noises in the back of his throat; I know he's enjoying it so much, enjoying me. I drink down his come, greedily, I know he'd like to hold back a little longer, maybe fuck me even but there are times I put my foot down-or my tongue.
Baby girl has needs … and that doesn't always mean orgasms. Sometimes it is simply to be the object of Daddy's pleasure.
I want to go home, but I remember I need to check the mail at the office. We're expecting an insurance settlement check for damage to the roof last hurricane season.
Thomas went right up top with the adjustor, god, I was so scared for him. He called me mother hen. Not really, you just have a tendency to look out for people who turn your life around.
I was so close the night I met him to heading for a drink and I'm not sure if I started again whether I would have been able to ever stop. I was so close to the edge. It's no wonder that introduction is burned into my memory.
The world Before Thomas and After Thomas.
The first thing I saw was his loafers, oh, he loves his shiny shoes. I had the shakes, I felt like something off the bottom of those shoes. I was at the edge of my metal folding chair, poised to split. The last thing I wanted was to engage another human in conversation. That's when he gave me that line about being in dirt and I told him I was in shit … up to my eyeballs.
He smiled wryly, like he'd been there himself. “You got a sponsor yet?"
"Haven't decided to stick around."
"We can go get some real coffee if you like."
I sized him up. He wasn't bad looking. Maybe fifty-five, but he could pass for younger. He was trim, with a neat, close beard. He'd lost some of his dark hair, but the bare scalp in its place was tanned, healthy and kind of sexy. His eyes were blue, intense but not overpowering. He had dark slacks and a button down shirt. He was confident and poised with capable hands.
"I don't even know you,” I pointed out.
One thing was clear. He had a ring on his left hand.
"That will have to change,” he said matter of factly. “Now that I'm your sponsor."
"I told you, I haven't decided."
"You can decide over coffee."
The next thing I know I am leaving the basement of First Methodist heading for the nearest Starbrew's Coffee Shop in the company of a handsome older man.
A married older man.
"So do you do this often?” I ask as he buys me an extra large latte with a shot of espresso.
He ushers me toward a small, secluded table in the back. “What's that?"
"Pick up pathetic women at alcoholic meetings."
"You don't seem pathetic to me."
"Give it time."
"I intend to."
His voice had this little rasp to it, made me wet my panties. He was so sure, not cocky, just determined.
"You're lucky this is only coffee, Mister, or I would be sorely tempted to seduce you."
"I can't say it would break my heart."
"Might break your wife's though."
"What about you? Do you have anyone special?"
"I'm between special someones at the moment. My last one wanted to consummate in the back seat of my car. Unfortunately he threw up in my hair while I was performing a little warm up fellatio. I think his name was Kevin."
"We should find his car and return the favor,” he quipped. “Maybe eat a dozen hot dogs and ride a tilt a whirl for an hour or so first."
I laughed so damn hard I nearly peed myself. “Oh, fuck, I needed that."
"You should do that more often."
"What's that? Blow people I don't know?"
"No, laugh. It lights your whole face up."
Shit. A compliment. Now there was a novelty. “Careful, I might get addicted to hearing nice things. I'll start following you around like a puppy dog."
"I see you more as a kitten."
"Helpless and annoying, you mean?"
"Fierce, cute as hell and ready to take on the world,” he corrects. “Smart, too."
"You really do have a comeback for everything, don't you?"
"Just where you're concerned, it seems."
He had me speechless. Falling back on bar etiquette I said, “So do we screw now?"
"No."
"A married man with ethics. Now there's something you don't see every day."
"I'm not that ethical,” he retorted, knocking my socks off. “I'm going to fuck your brains out, but not until you get your self well."
Talk about incentive.
Never was there a more eager meeting attendant. Never did a person stick so close to a sponsor.
There were times I wanted to know how he coped, who did he lean on? He wouldn't answer, except through jokes. And oh, could he make me laugh.
These were the only times, though, when my laughter held something else underneath. I suppose I saw this coming. And not just for the past two weeks.
I arrive at our building, a two-story white stucco under the cypress trees on one of the best streets in Winter Park. The other vehicles in the miniature lot are all sixty thousand apiece. One is the lawyer's who rents downstairs. There's also the investment broker's SUV and the psychologist's imported sedan. Monday I had to go around and tell them about Thomas. They were all as stunned as me at the news.
Thomas is just one of those people, a force of nature, really, that you take for granted in life. Like the sun rising. Or the gentle breeze on your Sunday afternoon stroll.
I walk past the psychologist's Jaguar, making a note to have the parking lines freshly painted. The car is crooked, an inch into the next spot belonging to the broker's assistant. I will hear about this as de facto building manager. Trust me; a kindergarten class displays incredible maturity in comparison to a group of spoiled professional adults.
Thomas loves to roll his eyes at them and call them choice names, for my ears only, and never with any real venom. He's such a gentleman; he puts up with it all, their petty complaints, perpetual late rent.
I have to stand on tiptoes to reach the row of mailboxes. It really needs to be lowered, but Thomas claims he likes the view. My ass stretched to the max.
"I already got it."
Shit. It's him.
"Brian,” I wheel around. “What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"Well you found me. What do you want?"
"A fresh start?"
"A start? Seems like we're long finished, don't you think?"
"I can still taste your lips, your breasts. You know how good I felt inside you,” he presses.
I look around, my heart pittering like a little white bunny. “Someone could hear you."
"I have nothing to hide."
"I do."
He nods. “You're right. I apologize. We'll go inside the office."
"I am not going in there with you."
With Daddy I feel like a princess, with Junior I'm just … prey.
"In that case, I'll go in and wait for you,” he says.
"The door is locked."
My own heart nearly ruptures as he shows me the keys.
"How did you get those?"
"From Monica. It's time I showed an interest in the family business, don't you think?"
I stand there, in shock.
He walks away, turns the corner. He's going in the private entrance, our special back stairs.
I race after him. “This isn't your family business. You have nothing invested."
Wow, Caroline. You just described yourself.
I want to pull his hand away as he unlocks the door, but I'm loath to make a scene. The best I can do is follow him in, still protesting.
"We looked at my father's will,” he closes the door behind us. “I stand to inherit half of this."
"That's insane. Thomas would never give this to you."
He eyes me. “What did you think, you were going to get it?"
My reaction is hard and fast. He catches my wrist in mid air before I can connect with a slap.
"Let go of me, you fucking asshole!"
"Submissives don't touch dominants,” he says simply.
"You're not a dominant and I'm sure as hell not submissive,” I say.
He pushes me back, releasing me before I can kick him in the nuts.
"I'm calling the police if you don't get out,” I threaten.
"I have the right to be here as his son,” he says cruelly. “And unless you want me throwing you out, you had better start showing a little respect, employee."
Something kicks in. I don't charge him, I don't run. “You said before you thought I felt guilty, but I think you do. I've been there for Thomas since the moment I met him. Where have you been?"
"Don't you worry about me. I know how to make up for lost time. I'd say I did some of that this morning."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"I had my father's mistress, what do you think it means?"
"You didn't have shit!” I want to throw something at him so badly, but I love each and every thing in this office. “You'll never touch my soul you little shit, never ever."
He pulls me into his arms. I fight him, I can't break free. “This turns you on?” He hisses. “Doesn't it?"
"No-castrating you-that would turn me on."
"Liar.” He spins me. My backside against his crotch. One hand across my shoulders he undoes my jeans, shoves a hand down my panties rudely. “What do you call that?"
"Fantasizing … about your father. A real man!"
He masturbates me. “Tell me what he does to you,” he demands.
"None of your fucking business."
"Does he spank you, is that it?"
"Go to hell.” I try not to move against his hand. It's no use.
"You really are submissive, aren't you?"
"Only for him."
"You don't get to choose. In fact that's the whole point.” He yanks down my pants and panties so hard I almost lose my balance. I get no say as he topples me over the couch.
"I'm tired of your mixed messages,” he takes out his cock and pushes it into me from behind.
"What mixed messages, you idiot?"
"You want me to be him; you don't want me to be him. You tell me I am so much like him and then you push me away. You think he was so fucking perfect? Ask him where he was my whole life?"
"He's sorry for that … he's made amends."
"In your mind,” he fucks me hard. “But who the hell are you to judge that. You're not the one he abandoned."
I moan. “He's … a good Daddy."
Brian chuckles. “So that's the game, is it? You and Thomas play Daddy and daughter. How touching."
"I hate you,” I squirm.
"But you'll come for me, like a good sub, won't you?"
I try to convey my protest even as the physical feelings take charge. “It's … my body … not my soul you're taking."
"No fucking difference,” he growls.
Daddy I'm so sorry, I shouldn't climax like this … shouldn't surrender to this … shouldn't be aroused at all…
"Oh, god…"
He pulls my hair, balls it up in his fist, he forces the pleasure from me, makes me ride the rail of desire, an electric line through my cunt, up and down my spine, he gives me no quarter, he sops me wet and rings me dry. But he doesn't come himself.
I've never been fucked like that in my entire life.
He's still rock hard, his cock dripping my juices. He pulls me up off the sofa, using my hair as a handle, my eyes water, but my pussy is still twitching … I'm not even done coming.
"Where do you belong, sub?"
My cheeks are flush, too late to deny, he reads it in my eyes.
I belong on my fucking knees getting my mouth fucked.
He lets me down, I don't say a word; I just take him inside my mouth.
My rebel, slut, traitor's mouth.
He puts his hands on the side of my head. He draws my mouth deep around him, I can barely breathe. I gag, I choke, I feel deliciously, scandalously full, I'm a bad, bad girl and I can't even help it because a bad, bad boy is doing it all. For a moment I forget everything else, my worries, my grief … myself.
His voice comes to me from somewhere, I don't know where.
"You need this, Caroline…"
Is he right?
He pulls his cock out from between my jaws and begins to stroke. He's larger than his father all right and he has more veins. How expertly his fingers move up and down, pleasuring himself. I am mesmerized.
"Should I come on your face, girl?"
I can't say yes, but I can't say no, either.
He smiles. His semen is hot and sticky. It lands in gobs on my cheeks, on my eyebrows, my lips.
"Leave it,” he says.
I sit on the floor, wasted as he zips himself up and goes to the men's room down the hall.
When he comes back it's still there, a mask of come.
This time when he smiles at me I lower my eyes to his shoes.
I could almost kiss them…
"See,” he says. “You are submissive."
"What are you going to do to me?” I whisper.
"It's what we're going to do to each other, Caroline…” He kisses me on top of the head on the way out as he hands me a handful of paper towels for my face. “See you at the hospital."
I crumple them in my hand. “I'm not going back,” I pout. “I'm in the way. And I sure won't go if you're there."
He lifts my chin. “You are going. And until I see you again no playing with that pretty pussy."
"You don't own me!” I say as he reaches the door.
I don't even merit a reply, just a little kiss, blown patronizingly off his fingertips.
"Fuck you,” I tell the back of the closed door.
For all the good it's going to do me.