Chapter 10
Cook
What was she doing in front of me?
Of course I could see plain as day what she was doing, but who the fuck woulda thunk? My eyes were wide, and my jaw hung open as I watched Maddie trace her slit. Her forearm muscles flexed, and she dipped her middle finger into her cunt. The redness crept up her face, and she threw her head back into the pillow. Her eyes were closed as she lost herself, apparently not caring that I stood there like a perv and watched.
“That’s what you meant?” I asked on a low growl, pulling her out of her trance.
Her eyes flashed open, pupils narrowing on me.
My cock swelled, chaffing against my jeans. Fuck. I gawked at her as she rubbed herself. She was fucking masturbating in front of me without a care in the world. I couldn’t wrap my head around the complete absence of shyness. Was this what she wanted from me earlier when she kissed me?
I couldn’t do this—shouldn’t do this.
Shouldn’t be standing here watching her like a preteen watching his first porn video.
“I thought...” Maddie’s lip quivered. The look of betrayal cut her face away from pleasure. “You said I could—”
“You can,” I said.
She started to touch herself again, and my cock jerked to attention. I fled her bedroom, closing the door behind me. Rocking back on my heels, I listened. Only the sheets rustled and the bed creaked. I couldn’t hear her.
I wanted to hear a moan fall from her lips. Fuck me, I wanted to be the one to make her moan. To draw her into a screaming orgasm. Her fingers weren’t necessary. She could have my fingers. My mouth. My cock.
If I stood here long enough, she would have to make a sound, but I’d also come in my jeans, and I didn’t need that mess to clean up.
Walking to the bathroom beside Maddie’s bedroom, I turned the shower to cold. Maybe that would send my balls into hibernation inside of me. I needed to forget about Maddie and shock my system back into reality. Maddie was broken after being held for what? Fifteen years? Sixteen? She’d been used in every wrong way, and I wasn’t going to take advantage of her like that. But as I shed my clothing, my cock sprang free, and I stepped into the shower, everything I could do to her body and that pretty pussy came back to me.
I would take her in the kitchen, pushing her up on the counter and opening her legs. I would kneel in front of her and press my lips to her pussy. I would lick her, suck her clit, and thrust my tongue inside of her until she came hard on my beard.
Oh, all the places I would have her. In my Bronco, on my bike, hell, wherever the mood struck. How I wanted to drive my fingers into her cunt, palm her clit, and send her spiraling into bliss.
It sounded like a goddamn Dr. Seuss book. Oh, the Places I Would Fuck My Nizhóní.
My beauty.
And I wanted to write every single line with her.
I would lay her down and place her legs on my shoulders, pistoning my cock deep inside her. I would watch my cock raise the small of her belly. I would shove deeper and harder inside of her. I would feel her clench around me and listen to her beg for more. I would move exactly as she wanted.
Do whatever she wanted.
My mouth. My fingers. My cock. I would give my body to her to hear her moan and then scream my name.
My cock was already dripping with precum. The cold water brought goose bumps to my skin and shrank my balls, but it couldn’t hold back the blood rushing to my cock. The head was fucking purple, as if I had been holding myself back. I was, but I couldn’t do it any longer.
Turning the water to warm, I stroked my hand down my cock, imagining it was Maddie’s small hands. She would gather me up and rub me up and down. I closed my eyes, remembering her edges as she changed. Her skin was milky white from the lack of sunlight, but we’d change that. Scars told her story, a palimpsest of Maddie. Her bones protruded from her skin, too sharp. She could cut me so easily, and I would give all my blood to her. I would spill myself for her. With a few more strokes, I spilled myself all over the walls of the shower. My cum thudded to the shower floor.
“Fuck,” I groaned. My knees quaked as if I had been deep inside of Maddie, feeling her clench around me. In my mind’s eye, I had. Just the thought of her was making me weak.
What else was she going to do to me? She was already molding me into what she wanted: a Dominant to her submissive. After everything that happened to her, she—of course—was submissive. She needed someone to help her.
With the cold water washing over me, I pressed my head to the cold shower tile. My cum dripped down the shower wall, and I traced a finger through it. Disgust curled in my lower belly. My semi-limp cock swayed between my legs as the reality of my sick nature set in. I shouldn’t have jacked off to thoughts of Maddie. A fucking victim. I should’ve been stronger. Less like everyone in her life who had used her.
“Fuck,” I snapped at myself for my stupidity.
My daddy would’ve backhanded me, and I would have deserved it.
Maddie needed a companion, not another fucking creep. What had the Warden said? I would be helping her. That was laughable. How was fucking myself while imaging her hands on my cock going to help her?
I was weak.
Stupid.
She needed someone better than me.
“Fuck you,” I growled to myself.
The hot water ran cold and splattered icy water across me until my teeth chattered. The hot water heater here was shit, but still, how long had I been in here? My body ached with the cold. Rightly so.
I deserved the pain.
Maddie
Lying in bed, I stilled my hands over my pussy, the languid sensation of the orgasm’s remnants rushing through my blood.
Another moan echoed somewhere in the house. I craned my neck off the pillow, listening. I already knew the rumble of Cook’s voice, how it rattled from his chest. The old pipes pumped under the house, rattling the floorboards, and water spat out in the shower. The walls were thin, the floors old and needing to be replaced, so I heard every sound. Including how Cook fucked himself because of me.
I was anything but na?ve; Signora made damn sure of that. But I’d learned that allowing myself to come made pain disappear. For years, I fought against any pleasure, feeling guilty for finding release in something so violent. I’d never enjoyed the clients, but I’d definitely learned how to read the clients and what to do to cope.
Coming was coping in many cases, and I suspected my “responsiveness” was the reason Signora kept me around for so long.
Even if Cook pulled away from our kiss and acted like he didn’t want me to call him Daddy, I knew he wanted me, or at least my body.
I wanted him too. My one sharp orgasm while picturing his face proved that, and I wanted more. I started to touch myself again.
Spreading my thighs apart, I pressed my fingers to my swollen clit. A primal instinct had taken over me when I first touched myself after kissing Cook. What an idiot. I shouldn’t have done that, but he made me feel protected. Warm. Even loved. I waited for him to speak to me day and night—waited for him to look at me. I had never handed myself over to a person like I wanted to hand myself over to Cook. Many men had touched me and used me without my consent, but I would give my consent to Cook.
I trusted him. I wanted him.
I needed him.
I was sure my life would never make sense without him.
What I did to myself now—what I did moments before—I had never touched myself like that. Sometimes Tommy G. or another John would ask me to touch myself. Those orgasms were practiced, fake, me fumbling over myself while watching their response, trying to move how they liked.
But this pleasure was mine.
Free from the past and only focused on me. What I wanted.
Cook must’ve liked it too if he had to take care of himself. My strokes had grown more frantic to the rhythm of his moans, and I waited until it sounded like he was close before I flicked the little bundle harder and drove myself to oblivion. Now, the moans had faded, but I could close my eyes and imagine him thrusting into me. I rubbed my clit and then spread my folds, slipping two fingers deep inside.
I wanted more.
I wanted him.
How would he feel? Thick and hard inside me. How would he touch me? Gentle or demanding? How would he sound right in my ear with his weight pressing down on me? How would I move to his rhythm, and him to mine?
With a gasp, I came again, shuddering from head to toe. The bed creaked with me. The pleasure wound around my throat, and I moaned. Pleasure overtook me until I was writhing like a palm tree caught in a hurricane.
I slumped back in bed. Each ragged breath burned the back of my throat. My pussy yawned and wept, hungry to be filled. I wanted Cook inside me, twisting my orgasms and sucking the breath from my lungs.
A roar of a motorcycle sprung up outside. Rolling out of bed, I stumbled over my jelly-like legs. The motorcycle growl grew louder, and I threw open my bedroom door to run across the living room. Cook was leaving, tearing away from the house.
“Cook!” I screamed, but the house kept my bellow within the walls.
Where was he was going? Why didn’t he take me with him?
Grabbing the camera he gave me earlier, I lifted it to my eye and took a quick picture as his motorcycle pulled away from the house. He disappeared into the desert, only orange dust left in his wake. I lowered the camera, waiting for a picture to spit out like the one my mom had when I was a kid, but it didn’t.
I needed him to show me how to develop the film. He said he would. Tomorrow.
Why would he leave?
What had I done wrong?
The thoughts bubbled in my head. I had fucked up. I shouldn’t have touched myself. I shouldn’t have made him horny.
“Fuck!” I pressed my palms into my eye sockets, trying to block the sight of him leaving.
Gone.
The loneliness of an unfamiliar house stifled me.
And when I only had my own thoughts, the memories thrashed inside my mind. Tommy G. angry. Signora hitting me. Every client who used me until I was bloodied and bruised, laying on the floor and whimpering for them not to hurt me anymore.
I wasn’t that girl any longer. I was a woman. I wouldn’t let my past take over my future.
Dropping my hands and reining in my tears, I walked over to the earbuds I had been listening to earlier and ripped them out of the charging case. I played the music on high, letting it drown out any thoughts. Then I spun around the living room. Cook wouldn’t just leave me here—he had important business to do, right?—so I had important business to do too.
The house needed mending. Cleaning. Cared for. Grabbing the mop and broom and the vacuum from the closet, I set to work.