Chapter 6 #2
He came on my tongue and then hauled me up onto my feet, holding me securely when my knees threatened to give out while he licked my mouth clean.
It should have been weird and gross, but I loved how we both tasted like him.
It just sucks that now, I feel like my jaw’s been dislocated. I’m aching all over.
“Shhh,” John whispers, his voice a purr against my back.
I don’t remember falling asleep spooning, but I kind of want to stay here forever with his body wrapped around me.
I play at independence, but most days, I feel like I’m barely hanging on.
Emerson and I, whatever it is, works because it’s a lie.
My friendships work because they don’t know the whole story of me, only the bits I’ve shared.
My sister knows the dirty truth, and we don’t talk.
My father thinks it’s still 2007 most days, lazy Sundays at the old house in Cleveland, him mowing our postage stamp of a yard, Mom doing her best to braid our hair even though she never got the hang of it, Cam and me swapping turns at hopscotch.
It’s hard to put an exact point on the moment I stopped existing as my authentic self, if I ever really did. How could that family have been real when we ended up scattered to the wind?
John and I have created an alternate reality here for a truth that’s fiction, but it’s authentic within its universe. In this hotel room, he’s John and I’m Trixie and he’s bought me for the night, only to block the windows to keep the sun at bay.
His fingertip digs into my clit, finding a spot that has me grinding my ass into him. “You’re going to take me one more time, Trixie. I’ve got one more load for you, and your pussy wants it, doesn’t she? Your pussy’s hungry.”
“John!” I whimper as I melt into him, letting everything of myself drift away.
Yes, I’m sore. Yes, I ache. Yes, I’m rubbed raw in places that really shouldn’t be raw.
But I’m also in a haze, and every one of his touches lights me up.
It’s slick between us, a furnace we’ve built there, and with his body as bereft of hair as mine is — although he’s definitely been waxed, no chemo death of hair follicle cells there — we slide against each other.
His cock prods at me every time I push back into his lap.
“Fucking starving,” he growls, his voice hoarse from hours of rough play.
He grabs my thigh and easily props it up on his, spreading me for him, but I don’t need any encouragement as I take hold of his cock and push it into me.
He feels like he’s custom-built for me, still pushing at the walls of my well-used pussy, still filling me inch by incredible inch, still scraping along at all the most sensitive spots.
My clit is nearly numb, but inside, I’m swollen and raw. The head of his cock has me clenching my jaw to hold back my moans, but I find myself kicking mindlessly at him.
John is undaunted. He is making the most of his $87, making sure he owns me thoroughly for the time he has me.
Despite my unbidden, uncontrolled, reflexive protests, he rolls us both so he’s on top of me.
He pins me down as he ruts into me hard.
His quick, jerky movements get me howling uncontrollably.
“Take it, whore,” he seethes through gritted teeth. “Take it all. Take every fucking ounce of me.”
“More!” I scream. “Give me more.”
For the first time all night, I don’t think John holds himself back.
He’s brutal, fucking me like a toy, like I’m nothing, pushing down between my shoulder blades to force my head to stay down, buried in the pillows.
I can barely breathe. I come so hard I see stars, and I’m only vaguely aware when John finishes and rolls off of me.
I have no idea when he leaves.
I only wish he’d stayed.
I wish I had asked him to. Stay the night, stay the weekend.
Stay. I know almost nothing about him, but he’s protected me, he’s been sweet with me, he’s been rough and possessive, and despite the fact that he hasn’t told me anything about his life, I feel like he’s shown me who he truly is. He’s shown me what matters.
It’s not until Monday morning, when I’m packing everything up and getting ready for check-out, that I get the call from the front desk informing me that there’s an envelope waiting for me.
When I pick it up, I discover that inside is a note scrawled in what I can only describe as serial killer handwriting.
Trixy,
U are incerdible. I want u too feel as baeutiful as u are. Plz use this howevr gets u their.
John
I give myself the time to appreciate it and laugh at John’s horrific spelling and handwriting. He’s successful. I could tell. And not that highly successful people need to be good spellers, but I’m kind of wondering if he’s dyslexic.
What’s in the envelope doesn’t matter, not really, although money gets tighter and life gets more suffocating with every medical bill. I’ll be happy regardless of what’s in here simply because John wrote this.
When I do look in the envelope, I nearly choke at the stack of $100 bills. When I count them out, they add up to $9,800.