Sierra

I hit the canteen with a swagger. “All clean, boys!” Jagger whoops and high fives one of the twins.

“You guys were gone a long time,” Mason says.

“If you’re hoping I have some horrific disease, you’re not in luck. The doc just spent extra time examining the horns on my head.” I smile sweetly. The twins guffaw. Mason shakes his head and looks away.

“Come here, baby.” Jagger pulls me into his lap. I slide my white hands over his tattoo sleeves and grind down on him. “How are we doing this?” His cock lies heavy under his jeans. I let my fingers brush it as I pretend to think about the schedule Lincoln and I decided on. The pecking order. The pecker order. Heh.

“How about I put on a show for you tonight?”

“You up for that?”

“Oh yeah,” I purr, leaning forward to whisper in his ear as I spear Mason with my eyes. “I’m all over it.”

My mouth is dry as I step into the large room. Chairs scrape as the big guys turn. With the light in my face, I can’t see their expressions, but I can imagine each one. The twins’ mouths falling open in sync. Jagger hooting—his catcall splits the air. Roy and Tommy are in the kitchen cleaning up, but I bet they pause and peek out to see the show. Lincoln and Saint will control their expressions even as lust fills their eyes. Mason will sneer, but watch me the whole time.

I strut on my makeshift stage, balancing on four-inch heels—the highest I could find. I’m glad I had the forethought to get Lincoln to stop at a larger general store before the doctor’s appointment. A white basque hugs my breasts and waist, ending just above the garter belt slung around my hips. The garter straps frame my pussy and almost nonexistent thong, holding up sheer white stockings. I look like a bride on her wedding night, sweet and virginal, dressed in white from hair clip to heels.

The music starts. Like a Virgin by Madonna. Jagger has a sense of humor and well-stocked iPod. He promised to let me put together some dance playlists later. Maybe tonight, after I fuck him.

I lick my lips as I sway, tasting lipstick. The only spot of color on me: my red, red lips. Red as the apple that tempted Eve.

Half blind from the spotlight, I dance around the table. Chairs creak as the guys twist to watch. Hands reach for me. Out of the corner of my eye, Mason glowers. I twirl away, an angel, a vision, a wet dream. The rooms grows hot, scented with sweat and sawdust.

The song changes. Born to Fuck, my hips chant, and they don’t lie. I sidle up to Saint and take his hand, balancing as I use his chair to step onto the table. I crawl toward Lincoln sitting at the head. Hands run over my body, help me to my feet. I twerk and mouth the words to Benassi’s Satisfaction. Hands drift up my legs and I guide them to slip my thong down my legs. I clamber down and give lap dances to whoever’s willing. Roy and Tommy wave me on, and Mason refuses to uncross his arms. I spend extra time waving my ass in his face, just to get a reaction.

The set ends with me straddling Jagger.

“Your room?” I whisper and he lifts me without hesitation. We hit the door to his room and collapse, giggling, onto the bed.

“Sierra, alone at a last.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m cool with Jagger, his outrageous statements and clichéd jokes. He’s the perfect choice for tonight’s lay. For one thing, he’s too busy showing off to look at me closely, to peer under my plastic smile. I’m acting hard tonight, with an ingénue outfit and femme fatale lipstick, and Jagger is the perfect audience.

He grabs his iPod and puts on Closer by Nine Inch Nails. “Come ‘ere.”

I whore-crawl across the bed and kneel between his legs, my fingers busy with his jeans zipper.

“You’re hot as fuck,” he tells me as I grip his cock and play with it, wrapping my hand around it and stroking it. He moans and sinks back against the pillows lining the headboard. I grab a condom and sheath him quickly so I can pop him into my mouth. I bob my head in time to the music. Breath hisses between Jagger’s teeth and his lower half tenses. When his eyes close, I smirk to myself. Tonight's gonna be easy. Good thing, too, because I’m wrung out like a used sponge, my chest tight with unshed tears. Maybe Jagger will cum and fall right to sleep so I can cry my eyes out in the shower.

I hollow my cheeks, sucking like my life depends on drinking Jagger’s sperm. He clutches the sheets and groans, his body tense like he’s being crucified.

A new song comes on—Marilyn Manson’s cover of Personal Jesus. I bob my head double time.

“Whoa, whoa.” Jagger grabs my shoulders. “Not so fast.”

I slow but he lifts me off, pulling me to him. I let him maneuver me into switching spots with him. On his knees before me, he whips off his shirt and tosses it. The ladder of his abs stretch and flex, dazzling me. The side of his mouth hitches up as he comes close again, blond locks falling around his stubbled, narrow face. His eyelashes are blond and long as a girl’s. I blink away my stupor as he settles between my legs.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I ask.

Jagger’s busy fiddling with the straps on my garters. “You’re clean, right? I’m gonna taste you.”

“This… this…”

“Shhh.” He squeezes my ass. “Just relax.”

“Okay, sure. Fine.” I close my eyes and my problems loom. I’m broke, I’m homeless, my boyfriend is dead and I’m on the run, I’m soon to be a single mom. Yeah okay, Jagger, I’ll just relax.

Jagger’s tongue hits a spot with a deep inner itch.

He breathes into my pussy and I jerk back so hard my head hits the headboard. Fuck. Jagger’s new nickname is ‘Giraffe’ because, man, he has an amazing tongue.

“What about you?” I pant, and push up to straddle his face. I sixty-nine him, fighting my way to get his dick in my mouth. He thrust shallowly, moaning into my pussy. His fingers dig into my hip, soldering to my skin, holding me still as he laps at me.

“Oooh, Jagger.” I take my mouth off him long enough to make meaningless sounds. His tongue does unspeakable things and suddenly I’m speaking a made up language.

“Shhhh.” He nuzzles me. I babble some more.

His dirty blond head dips, his tongue stroking along a needy part of me. It’s my turn to hiss and grip the sheet. His tongue feels bigger, digging deep, swiping the side of my inner wall, turning the swirling sensation there into a maelstrom threatening to wreck me.

“Jagger, I… fuck.” I twist in his grip. He pins me down and keeps lapping. A deep moan vibrates against my pussy; he’s enjoying this as much as I am. Maybe more.

He’s the client. I remind myself. Lie back and think of baseball. No, not that, don’t delay your orgasm. That’d be rude. Think of Mason—imagine him—no, not Mason, not him.

My limbs writhe, straining for something just out of reach. Jagger’s tongue flicks my clit and my legs start shaking. I can’t think of anything. The long thin string of pleasure vibrates faster, spreading through me entirely. It snaps. I convulse hard, my legs snapping around Jagger’s head so hard I almost take it off. He laughs straight into my opening. Fuck. I force myself to go loose and flop to my side.

He rises up wiping his chin, pushes apart my knees, and enters me.

My muscles clench around him, tightening and releasing as waves of my climax roll through me. He plants his tanned arm by my head, pulls my leg over his shoulder and slaps his hips into mine. I grit my teeth and hang on, riding through the end of my orgasm and straight into another.

Jagger pulls out, flips me onto hands and knees and pounds me from behind. I squawk, arms flailing. I overbalance and fall to my face. Still Jagger keeps pounding. My entire lower half is sensitive. My toes curl, my backside and backs of my thighs grow warm from him slamming into me. Another climax catches me by surprise and I shatter.

“Fuck, Sierra, fuck,” Jagger gasps. He roots deep within me with a final groan. I glance around the messy room, marveling that the building is still standing. Each orgasm shook my world apart.

Jagger’s sigh echoes through me.

“That was…” My tongue feels too large for my mouth. “Amazing.”

“I took a pill,” Jagger mumbles, drooling onto the pillow, halfway passed out.

“Fuck,” I tell him, and he laughs like Lincoln did the first time he and I fucked: with surprise and delight.

I wake to the sound of pouring rain, a waterfall rushing past the window.

I raise my head. I must have passed out like a dude. Not surprising, given the day I had.

Jagger is asleep next to me, his tanned limbs loose on the bed. In the shadows his face is flawless, framed with angelic locks. He looks sweet and cuddle-worthy, but I can’t wait to get out of bed. I’m not here to cuddle. I’m here to fuck. As I leave the room, I think, one down, seven to go.

The living area is dark. I hover in the hall and listen for signs of life, but it’s late and these men worked a full day. They’ll all be asleep. I need to wash the cum and sweat and memory away and crawl into bed, alone. Lincoln would welcome me again, but I can’t, not tonight. Not with all these secrets beating in my chest.

Something makes me detour past the table where I perform nightly, past the kitchen and out the door. Beyond the building overhang, mud puddles grow to lakes. Beyond the yard, the forest shivers with rain. I stand between the building and sheet of water falling over the eaves, and suck in clean lungfuls of air.

I don’t know what the future holds. I do know if I survive this, finish the gig and have the baby, I’m never having sex again. I’m swearing off men forever. Lynny was right—they’re trouble. Unlike Lynny, I’m not gonna hold out hope I’ll find a good one. My mom wasted too many years going from guy to guy, looking for the one who would save us. Support us, treat her right. It never happened. She died thirteen months ago, and I followed in her failed footsteps—ran to Jack, thinking he’d take care of me.

Now I’m in the lumberjacks’ barracks, surrounded by men. I’ve got a few months to earn some money and hide from the Hell Riders until I can escape them forever. But after this: no more. I’m never trusting or touching a guy again. I’ll break the cycle before my baby is born.

A bright fleck breaks the darkness, glows in the corner of my eye. A burning eye—the end of a cigarette. As I startle back against the building, Mason emerges from the shadows. He sees me and stops in his tracks. For a second he looks uncertain.

I turn away from him and wipe my eyes, rearranging my hair. He might think my face got wet from the rain. Or not. I don’t really care.

He starts forward and I hold up a hand. I don’t want pity from him.

He offers the cigarette. I shake my head and turn away, walking to the opposite edge of the building. I feel his eyes on me as he takes his time finishing his smoke. Eventually he heads inside, leaving me alone, outside, in the rain.

“So how are we doing this?” I ask Elon and Oren. They stand between me and the door, redheaded monoliths with similar excited, but uncertain expressions. A few minutes ago, I was dancing on a table for everyone. I grabbed one of the twin’s hands and pulled him toward his room. I didn’t know the other would follow. “This is your room, right?” The space is neat but haphazard, with furniture awkwardly placed around two twin beds pushed together in the center of the room. “Is this your bed?”

“We share a bed,” they say at the same time.

“You… okay.” I feel like a tiny woodland creature scurrying at the feet of two red oaks, so I stop looking up at them. Tonight’s strip tease starred a black bra and thong under one of Lincoln’s work shirts. From the wood rising under the dining table, my LumberJane outfit was a hit. I lost the shirt and bra during my act, but not the thong. I hook my fingers into the straps now, ready to draw it down.

“No, let me do that.” One of the twins goes to one knee in front of me. I suck in a breath as he pinches the fabric between large thumbs and forefingers, and peels the scrap of cloth away. The powerful man performing such a delicate movement opens my own personal floodgates, and when he raises his head to fix his blue eyes on mine, I can’t speak.

“Sierra? What do you want us to do?”

I know exactly what I want, though I can barely find my voice. “Strip.”

The two mirror images get busy obeying, unbuttoning jeans, peeling back sleeves to show tautly muscled forearms, drawing off undershirts while the shadows ripple over the insane perfection of their abs and chests. My mouth goes dry as all available moisture pools down below.

Finally, they stand naked before me, a mirror image of ragged red beards and excited blue eyes. Their hands hovering awkwardly in the air. Oren’s dick tilts to the left, Elon’s to the right.

I giggle like Jagger.

“Okay. All right. Condoms.” As the guys fumble with protection, I back up until my thighs hit the bed, and sit down, careful of the crack in the center of this makeshift king. I point at random.

“You get me first while he watches. Then we switch.”

Then you jack off facing each other and I’ll watch, I add silently. Might as well cross all the things off my bucket list before I swear off sex forever.

The guys nod and I sink to my knees before them. “But first,” I whisper, and close my hands around their cocks. One jerks slightly as my fingers touch it, a reaction repeated in the second, on delay. A dick in the hand is worth two in the bush. Or something.

I dart my head to the left, then to the right, sucking lightly on the two heads as their owners suck in their breaths overhead. Two heads are better than one. I snicker and the left tilted dick jumps, pulsing a little. Oren takes a step back.

Sierra, slow down.

“Get on the bed. Here.” I leap up and push the two beds apart so the guys can sit facing each other. I direct them into place and kneel again, keeping them within hand’s reach while I suck one and then the other. “Relax,” I say as Elon’s thighs tighten. Their legs and chests are dusted with red hair and freckles. “Do you like that?” I loll his cock around in my mouth. His mouth falls open but he can’t answer. Their balls draw up tight. This isn’t going to last long.

I snap up, straddle Oren’s lap backwards, and drive down. At the same time, I guide Elon’s flagpole into my mouth. The instant their dicks enter the hot, wet parts of me, they erupt. I hum around Elon’s cock, reveling in his choked curses and wild thrashing on the bed. Oren sags over me, mumbling into my hair. I sit up slowly, lick my lips and smile. “Again?”

Three nights in, and my life falls into a rhythm, an easy back and forth to a soundtrack of men’s voices and heavy machinery. I sleep all day and emerge for dinner, laughing and talking and entertaining the guys until it’s time for them to clear the table for my dance.

Jagger and I make elaborate playlists with everything Nicki Minaj to 80s power ballads. I figure out the guy’s preferred music styles, and on their night, I dance to their favorite songs. Or I chose songs that make me think of them. Booty Shorts by Gucci Mane and Lady Marmalade for Saint. The Man by the Killers, Girl Money by the Kix and Yankin by Lady for Lincoln.

Elon and Oren: Identical Twins by Crumbächer and Who Can It Be Now? by Men at Work.

Attention by Charlie Puth for Jagger. You Can’t Always Get What You Want by the Rolling Stones. And, of course, Moves Like Jagger by Maroon 5. He got up and danced with me during the last one.

Lincoln was right about Roy and Tommy—they both are perfectly polite, but decline a night with me and wave away any lap dances. Two less guys to fuck and I’m so grateful, I dedicate a performance to them and go with a food theme: Cherry Pie by Warrant, Cookie by R. Kelly Cookie and Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard.

But for Mason… ah, Mason. I find a song by Cruel Youth called Hate Fuck for him. And Undisclosed Desires by Muse. Although the last song might have more to do with how I feel about him. His gaze cuts me so hard during the set I have to force myself not to retreat behind Lincoln or Jagger. Even Saint’s carefully blank mask would be easier to face than Mason’s smoldering hatred.

“Well, Mason?” I ask when the last chord fades. Roy and Tommy have already disappeared, along with the twins. I’ll bet Elon and Oren went to jack off and pass out on their Franken-bed. Last night I danced and stroked and did everything I could to get them upright so I could fuck them a second, then a third time. Gotta love their youthful stamina. We fucked so much I have rug burn on my boobs and back from their rusty chest hair.

Mason stares carefully at the wall.

“Mason,” I singsong. He can’t ignore me forever. We are not twelve. “It’s your night. I don’t usually sleep with guys prettier than me, but it’s part of the gig—”

“No.”

“C’mon man, it’s been awhile. You obviously need a good lay.” Jagger spasms with laughter.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mason mutters in his work mate’s direction. “I don’t need pity pussy.”

“Then I suggest Prozac,” I say sweetly. Mason knifes up, ready with some insult, but before he can stab me, Lincoln stands up between us.

“Come on, Sierra.”

I let the crew chief pull me into his room. After he shuts the door, I breathe easy. The tightness in my chest from the day I learned I was pregnant hasn’t gone away.

“How you doin’?” Lincoln asks. He stands between me and the door, a solid obstacle to anyone or anything that would come to get me. Safe, his broad body whispers to mine in the dim light. His dark eyes invite me to break.

“How do you think I’m doing?” I ask.

His sigh washes through me, settling into my bones as I melt onto the bed. “I hoped Mason would come around.”

I shrug. “I didn’t do anything to him.”

“I know. Give him time.”

I gnaw my lip. Should I keep offering to fuck him? “I don’t want to be annoying. Like a little sister.”

“Trust me, Sierra,” Lincoln stretches out next to me on the bed, and my whole body starts to tingle. “No one here thinks of you as a sister.”