8. Stetson
EIGHT
STETSON
March 29th, 2024
I’m supposed to be looking for more vaccines, but I can’t focus on a single label. The buzz from the small feed store’s fluorescent lights mix with the words from that last text message over and over in my mind—the combination making me numb. The nine little words answer one question and create a hundred more.
I didn’t have the nerve to tell Dale about it, and now it feels impossible. There’s no question Dale will freak out, and I can understand why—truly. But I don’t want her to. I don’t want her to, because then I will have to either give up this thrilling, dangerous, mystery man, or I will have to face just how fucked up not wanting to give him up makes me feel. It is a disturbing chain of messages—it doesn’t take a serial analyst to know that—from the dominating and threatening context, to the references, to flowers and bruises, all but confirming my two creeps are one. One very deranged, very dominating, very resourceful creep who makes me wet.
So, yeah, I’m not willing to look at that too closely. I’m not willing to expose that part of myself to the light, even if that puts me in danger. Even if it feels so morally wrong that I hate myself more for it.
The truth is, the words do nothing but turn me on, and I want to see where this dark path takes me. And Dale doesn’t need to see this side of me.
Even if it’s a creepy old man on the internet, I can’t help but fantasize about the masked monster that I encountered years ago. Can’t help but wish that it is him , after all these years—my monster finally come back to claim me.
I know it’s crazy—anonymous sex with a masked stranger always is. He promised me that night it would only be once, and that the punishment for my sins would be to always crave him, wish for him—scream for the faceless, nameless, shameless monster in the night who fed my needs in a way I didn’t even know I needed. I hate that he was right. I hate that I had willingly paid the price then, and every day since; even if it had been the best sex of my life.
Last night, I had succumbed to my dark desires, too turned on to ignore their screams in my head.
Even though I was terrified, I was so horny I couldn’t find peace, which is how I found myself on the bathroom floor, the two warring parts of my brain, the devil and the angel, edging me to explode. I had needed release after reading the messages, my skin crawling with both disgust and desire, regardless of how much it would make me hate myself later.
When Dale was fully asleep, my knees spread as wide as my plush hips would allow, I swiped a finger through my creamy center. I knew I’d be wet. I had felt it slicken my thighs long before I was brave enough to get out of bed.
I swiped again, my middle finger pushing harder and deeper than the rest as I pulled up and over my clit. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out; I couldn’t risk waking Dale. She couldn’t know, which made me feel that much more dirty. And pushed me that much closer to the edge of release.
I plunged two fingers into my aching pussy, the walls clamping down hungrily on the intrusion. My walls pulled and milked at my fingers, and I silently cursed myself for not grabbing my vibrator from the drawer by my bed. It would have helped fill me, helped push me over quicker. I was desperate and picked up pace, sloppily pushing my fingers in and out. Slurping noises filled the small bathroom, and I gripped the edge of the sink to keep from collapsing completely.
I plunged my fingers into the wet heat, my eyes closed, picturing different hands, different fingers using my body. I pictured dark, glittering eyes and a smirk that had cream leaking around my already sloppy fingers. I pictured a man in all black, a dark mask slashing across his face as he whispered filthy words in my ear, as he took my pussy over and over, leaving me more full, and yet more empty, than I had ever felt. I pictured his bite on my flesh, his cock in my dripping pussy, his fingers in my ass.
And then I came, so violently, liquid spurted from me, making a pool around my ass on the floor. Stars danced behind my eyes and copper filled my mouth as I bit on my tongue to keep from screaming. Wave after wave of release crashed through me, my legs trembling with the force of it.
As quickly as the waves of release crested, they washed away, leaving me filled with disgust and disappointment. I opened my eyes to an empty bathroom and an even emptier life. I had made a mess in more ways than one, and I hated myself for it. I hated that I wanted what I couldn’t have. I hated that “normal” would never be enough for me.
The shame and disappointment war within me, even now.
Why do I have to be different—want what is different? I have grown to like many things about myself: my work ethic and drive, my bravery, my compassion and willingness to help others, my loyalty, my passion. But my sexual preferences?
I fucking hate that about myself. Not because I think it’s wrong—but because I have to keep it a secret. I have to hide it from the world.
And what’s really fucked up, is I don’t know how it happened— why do I get turned on by the things that used to scare me the most?
“Miss, can I help you?” I’m violently ripped from my thoughts and reminded of just where I am. An older man, probably in his sixties, if I had to guess, with a slightly hunched over back and weathered tan skin, stands expectantly next to me. His sandy hair is cut short, and hidden beneath a “Farmer” hat, his blue eyes sparkle at me. I smile shyly at him—he looks genuinely nice, and I’m not used to that in this town.
“Uh, no. But thank you.” I reach forward, grabbing the vaccine I have been looking at for twenty minutes now. “Just picking up some more vaccines for tomorrow.”
He tilts his head, his brown suspenders pulling tight on the opposite shoulder. A small smile spreads across his face, and he nods at the vaccine. “Who do you work for?” He turns around, ambling toward the glass countertop at the front.
“Oh, I—my mom owns the Spurrin’ L Ranch. Well, I guess, I do now. It’s out on?—”
“Yes, I know the one.” His words come out gruffly, his smile melting into a frown of distaste. My chest instantly deflates, and I have to blink rapidly to keep the sudden tears from cresting my eyelids.
These fucking old men!
I want to spit on him for his ignorant hatred of me, for no other reason than being a landowner who is learning , instead of just knowing . Damn me for leaving when I had to in order to escape dying .
How fucking dare I?
I pull my lips into a sickly sweet smile, one I know borders on unhinged, and open my mouth to tell him off. Before I have the chance, though, I hear shuffling behind me and a gruff sigh. I whirl around to tell the nosy newcomer off first, only to halt.
“Do you have any work on your ranch?” The unfamiliar voice is hoarse and deep like a well, making me shiver. It’s borderline pornographic—full of husky tones and heavy drawls. Momentarily, I think of all the filthy books I love so much and wonder what his voice would sound like playing one of my many male characters. Panty melting worthy, I’m sure.
I stand there, mouth hanging embarrassingly open, and stare at the man with the porn-like voice. Fuck, he is hot.
The man, middle-aged—maybe thirty—leans casually against the door frame of the small shop, his arms folded across his broad chest. He’s not much taller than me, a few inches maybe, but I feel small and weak next to him all the same. He exudes dominance, power, and something darker— angrier . His tanned face is covered in a thick layer of black scruff, bordering an angular jaw and dusting over his pale, full lips. His eyes, a deep shade of brown with streaks of black, rest under dark eyebrows drawn into a deep-v, and sparkle with irritation. Black curly hair clings to the nape of his neck and forehead, a boyish feature on an otherwise full-man facade.
Staring at him, I get the overwhelming sense of familiarity, like déjà vu.
Regardless of his put-on casual stance, leaning in the entryway, he looks anything but casual. His muscles, lithe but firm, bunch and ripple beneath the dark fabric of his dirty button-up and along the contours of his tanned arms. His trim hips, cocked to support his ‘don’t give a shit lean’ , are covered in ripped jeans, and lead toward a very rounded ass that I can’t keep from staring at in the glass door behind him. He’s definitely trying to come off as if he doesn’t give two fucks, but is instead delivering more ‘caged animal ready to pounce’ .
Everything about him is dark and dangerous. He looks like trouble, and Lord knows how I am about trouble. My body is a traitor—a stupid, horny bitch—and I bow to its need. Every. Single. Time. I’m a weak woman, a desperate, weak woman.
Between his dangerously good looks and that nagging string of familiarity tugging at the back of my brain, all words evade me. Where do I know him from? Surely I would remember him. Lord, how could I possibly forget him? I blink rapidly, trying to dispel the thick fog from my brain.
“You wanting to catch some flies with that trap?” he snaps, his head bobbing toward my still unhinged jaw. I snap it closed, my teeth making an audible clanking noise. Heat crawls up my neck, and I know without question I’m blushing embarrassingly pink. There’s no point in arguing with him, he already knows. But does he have to be such a dick about it? And fuck, why does him being a dick make me even hornier ?
I need to be checked into a mental hospital.
I straighten my back, trying to eye him from a professional viewpoint. He looks fucking yummy, which could be both a perk and a danger when working with someone. Not that I have much experience—I’ve never worked with someone this hot. Not to mention, I’ve never had anyone work for me , period. And regardless of how devastatingly good-looking he is, he’s also been really pissy and unnecessarily rude just in the two minutes I’ve known him. I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life, even if it makes me a little sad.
No, I can appreciate him from afar, but no way can I hire him.
“Not really.” My words come out more breathless than I intend them to and I turn around, ready to walk away. I note his dark brow cocking upward, the scowl remaining firmly in place across his lips. The fucking lips that I can’t help but picture between my already wet thighs, spreading me open and devouring me, the way a caged animal would its prey.
“Not really, like you aren’t hiring? Or not really trying to catch flies?”
My cheeks flame hotter. Is this guy fucking serious? I stuff my free hand into my pocket and shake the vaccine in his face with the other.
“Gotta check out now. Super nice meeting you, though.” My previous anger comes flaming back to life, and I lean into it. I fucking hate these townspeople and their constant judgement.
And I really hate the way my body trembles with the need to instantly bow to this stranger’s domineering voice.
The mystery man pushes off the door frame and prowls toward me. He looks even more like an animal stalking its prey than before, and I move faster toward the counter, instincts blaring. He might make me nervous but I am no lamb, not really. Life has thrown me too many shit hands. I’m not about to be afraid of this man, no matter how much he makes my stomach flip.
“I need the work.” His words come out hushed, and I can hear him grinding his teeth. He doesn’t come across as the kind of man who asks for anything—just takes what he wants. Lucky me.
I don’t turn around to face him, “And I need a million dollars.”
He sighs, the action sending a small wave of warm air to blow down my neck. When did he get so fucking close? “Do I need to beg?” The words are so quiet, I can’t even be certain they’re real.
“No.” I can’t manage any more words, and if I turn around and look at him, he will surely see the lie plainly on my face. I want him to beg— God, I want to see this man beg .
“You’re a brat.”
I blink rapidly at that. Again, the rational part of my brain is telling me to get away from this stranger, who has been nothing but a douchebag. But my body refuses—I’m melted to the floor where I stand. “And you’re a stranger,” I manage to hiss, and brave a small peek over my shoulder, only to instantly regret it.
He’s standing so close that I could lean back and my ass would surely brush his legs. Or his cock. I shiver. “Not to mention, you haven’t given a single example of why I should hire you.” He remains quiet, and I’m filled with a small balloon of confidence, urging me to continue. “You’ve been a dick, harassing me. Why would I hire you?”
I feel better as the words leave my lips. But I still don’t trust myself to turn around and face the full weight of his stare.
He grumbles something unintelligible, and then says, “I’m good at the work. I’m not afraid to get dirty or do the shit jobs.” My toes curl unbidden in my boots. The way he says “dirty” makes me picture him doing said work, only naked and sweating. I can’t afford such thoughts.
“I can’t pay you.” There, that should effectively end this tortuous conversation. And my dignity, but who the fuck cares at this point?
He steps around me, standing in front of me now, and shrugs; his dark hair is wispy in the light, looking like a black halo around his head. “Pay me at the end of the year. I would like a permanent job. And a place to stay, preferably. Do you have anyone living with you?”
I know I shouldn’t answer that question. There are a lot of creeps in the world, and I seem to be attracting them by the dozen. Regardless, he doesn’t look like a creep, and I like flirting with danger.
I shake my head.
“Cool, I will start tomorrow.” He pushes past me, stealing toward the door. That’s it?
“I didn’t hire you.”
He shrugs again, the movement beginning to wear on my last fucking nerve. For someone as wound tightly as him, he sure does try to come off casual.
“One day. It can be a freebie,” he huffs, irritation bleeding into his words.
“Why?” I can’t stop myself, my control slipping. I both want this conversation to last forever, and to have never happened—I feel like I’m walking on the edge of a blade and the fear coursing through my veins when I’m around him does nothing but overwhelm me in the most suffocating way.
He stares at me, his large hand on the door handle, fingers strangling the knob. I picture that same grip wrapped around whatever weapon he is surely hiding in those sinful jeans as he pumps it toward my hungry mouth. His black eyes flame with anger, and I cringe, berating my lack of self-control.
He opens his mouth to speak but snaps it shut, obviously thinking better of it. He storms out, the small bell over the door chiming like a death knell at his exit.
What the fuck just happened?
First, the stranger at the bar making me irrationally hot, then the stalker making me question— and ignore —every moral I thought I had, and now this guy? Inviting him into my home, into my life? I’ve always been a walking beacon for fucked up men, but this is quickly becoming a new record for me.
I’m in danger; there’s no questioning that.
But why do I fucking like it?