Take Me With You(25)

“Lick,” he repeats, rubbing the still-hard erection against my nipple dripping with his cum.

I dart out my tongue, tasting a little of the saltiness.

“More.”

I do it again, this time taking a little more.

He looks down on me with pure lust. Eyes that see only me. A woman he selected and painted with his cum. His art. I ache below, my pussy still waiting for her turn. But I also ache at the fact that at this moment I could feel a smidgen of anything but total and utter rage.

I wish he would relieve me. I don't like him. Oh no—I hate him. But just like food, I'll take his mouth right now, just to make the pulsing stop. Just to have the touch of another for a few moments longer before I am alone again for hours or days. Of course, I can't say those words. I won't.

He stands up, his normally grounded stance a bit wobbly, walking to the wash bucket. His ass is firm, like that of someone who doesn't shy away from lifting heavy things. He grabs the towel, dipping a portion of it in the soapy water. He wipes my face, breasts and neck of his semen.

He puts his pants back on and grabs a brown paper bag and a jug of water, dropping them in front of me. Despite starvation, my nerves are too taut to eat. All I can think of is the feeling between my legs that won't go away.

He collects everything, so that he can make it in one trip and without saying a word, he walks up the stairs, leaving me to enjoy my earnings.

But I can't. Not until I make the sensation of being on the precipice disappear.





She's stubborn. Sometimes when a mare kicks too hard you have to pull back. Sometimes pushing too much only promotes resistance. I left her alone so she could realize how badly she wanted me to finish her off. Next time, she'll know better.

I wanted to wait a little longer before getting myself off. My tongue in her pussy would have given me enough fodder for a day's worth of orgasms. Problem is, this woman is like an antidote to my plans. She wanted to make a deal. She's learning faster than I anticipated. I just couldn't help upping the ante.

Fuck was it worth it, seeing her smooth, unmarred skin covered in my cum. Rubbing my scent on her body. I didn't shower on purpose. I want to come back later and smell myself on her. A reminder she's mine and I marked her.

She didn't charge the bag of food like I expected. I think I know why. So when I get upstairs, I decide to prowl my own house, trench crawling to one of the small basement windows, peeking in just enough so that she won't see me.

She's already fingering herself when I get there. Lying back on the blanket, her shapely legs spread open, her eyes closed. She's thinking of me. She's letting herself cave into what she wants. She's obstinate so she won't give me the satisfaction. I'll take it anyway.

I watch her truth. That's why I like looking through windows. When they don't know you're looking, that's when you see who they really are.

Watching her play with herself to thoughts of me gives me a fresh hard on. My sexual appetite is strong, usually requiring three orgasms a day just to pacify the urges. My cock is as rock hard as it was when she was sucking on it with those full lips minutes ago. I reach down, and jerk myself off in unison with her.

I time it so that when she's bucking under the touch of her gentle fingers, I'm coming to the sight of it.

She thinks she can keep secrets from me. That her act is convincing. That whole charade is for her, not me.

I see through windows. And I see who she really is.





I've decided I'll be taking fewer jobs from now on. I won't drop off the face of the earth. No, that would be too suspicious. But I have money. Family money. Work was never something I needed to do, but a strong work ethic was instilled in me and Scoot by our father. I can't just sit around. But now I have someone under my watch, someone who distracts my thoughts all day while at work. Today, when I nearly hammered a nail through my finger thinking about the sight of Vesper finger-fucking herself, and the taste of her wet cunt, I realized I can't keep burning the candle on both ends. My freedom is the most important thing, and keeping it requires precision.

I finally finish Ms. Dawkins’ new porch and head back to the farm. On my way back, I cruise along the block adjacent to Vesper’s house. There are no signs of what happened weeks ago. The crime scene tape is down. There are no patrol cars stationed outside. I make sure not to drive directly along her block, in case detectives are observing the scene in unmarked vehicles. Vesp’s still on the news, there’s still a search. But I am already seeing the signs of what people think they know: she’s dead. I don’t think they have a single clue about who took her or where to find her.

I gave Vesper enough food for a day. I've been re-feeding her. She got too thin and lost that apricot hue to her cheeks. She's been obedient. I'll give her just enough to keep her a little hungry so she stays that way.

Besides, I have a new idea of something I can give her.

I grab a cold beer from the fridge as soon as I enter the ranch and kick my feet up on the coffee table. I'm giving myself a few minutes of rest before I take care of my other responsibility. I'm always thinking about her. Always. It never stops. Even right now I want to go in there. Ever since I brought her here, it's a constant battle against immediate gratification. One I feel myself losing.

I watch my feet twitch atop the coffee table, anxious to get going on her next gift. The sugar to my salt. But I'm also dreading what I have to do to make it. It's like pulling off duct tape from someone's mouth. You can go slow, pulling every minuscule hair off their face, tugging at the skin, prolonging the suffering. Or you can do it in one harsh yank, causing a brief blaze of pain. So I go with the yank, slamming the glass bottle down on the coffee table, ringed with decades of bottle stains, and head upstairs to the room I haven't entered since my mother died.