Chapter 15
Bridger
I open the front door of The Wicked Horse, the loud music washing over me. Cal and Macy follow me in. Turning to them both, I lean in and speak loudly. “This is the main club area. We have a full-time DJ but a live band on the weekends. Full-service kitchen over there.”
“It’s amazing,” Cal says back with an appreciative smile as his eyes roam.
“Maybe we can try to two-step later, honey.” Macy laughs as she snuggles into him.
I’m not sure if that was a serious offer by Macy or that’s a euphemism for fucking, because they’re not here for the nightclub. No, they flew from New York City to see the kinky grandeur of The Silo. We’d just arrived from having dinner in Jackson with Logan and Auralie, and while I invited them to the club with us tonight, they both declined. Again, no surprise. All my best Fantasy Makers falling to that crazy little thing called love, and while I don’t think any of them are necessarily adverse to what goes on here, I think they’re just so far up each other’s asses right now with the newness of their relationships that The Silo has no appeal for them.
Not so with Cal and Macy apparently. While I get the impression they don’t do this often, they still keep their sex life spicy by doing things like this. I lead them through the throng of nightclub patrons, down the back hallway, and out the rear door. We navigate the stone slate path aglow with landscape lighting to The Silo that sits a few dozen yards behind.
The Silo is exactly what it sounds like. A tall, round building done in white concrete staves with an authentic grain elevator running up the outside. Inside is a little different though.
I check my security fob, punch in the random key code it assigns, and pull the door open for Cal and Macy. They enter, walk down the short hallway to the interior, and Cal gives a low whistle of appreciation as they look around. It’s a far cry from the sex club where we met in New York, which was a huge mansion filled with elegantly decorated, private rooms. The Silo is a bit more open and transparent. A huge, circular space with glassed rooms around the perimeter so everyone can watch the action inside.
Macy’s head turns to the left, taking in the closest set of glassed-in rooms. It’s still fairly early at ten PM, so the crowd is a bit light, but the rooms are already sporting some major action. The first room to her left is occupied by a couple fucking on a mattress with black silk sheets. It’s a spotlight display room and only meant for a twosome or threesome who want to keep the group intimate but still be seen. The next room houses the stockade I’d built for Cat when she was an active participant here, and I’m surprised to see Jared Crossgrave in there. He’s shackled tight in the stockade. One of the patrons is fucking his ass while another one has his dick shoved down Jared’s throat. Again, not interested in guys, but there’s no denying it’s a hot setup. Macy must agree because she reaches back to squeeze Cal’s hand when her eyes land on the scene.
Finally, she cranes her neck and takes in the next room, which is the Orgy Room. There are probably ten or so people in there, all naked and engaged in various stages of fucking.
“You two want a drink?” I ask, but Macy shakes her head without taking her gaze off the orgy room.
“I think my girl found the room she wants,” Cal says with a husky voice. “We’ll join you for a drink… after.”
I laugh and clap Cal on the back, then turn toward the circular bar in the center of the room. Finding an empty stool near the Orgy Room so I can watch, I sit down and order a beer from one of the bartenders. When she sets it in front of me, I throw a ten-dollar bill down and tell her to keep the change. I may own the place, but I pay for everything here, just so my staff knows nothing is free.
After taking a sip, I swivel the stool and look toward the Orgy Room. Cal and Macy are already inside, but they are doing nothing more than reclining on a double-wide lounge chaise and making out. They don’t look to be in a hurry to do anything, and I watch them with interest.
I learned a lot more about them personally at dinner tonight. Cal’s best friend and law partner, McKayla Connover, is also Macy’s best friend. Apparently, Cal and Macy used to hate each other, and then became passionate secret lovers before falling in love. Macy was an heiress turned practically penniless when her father was convicted of so many white-collar crimes that he’s spending the rest of his life in prison. But you’d never know it from looking at her or talking to her. The statuesque redhead is sweet, humble, and works full time for a non-profit outreach program. Cal, of course, is a distinguished attorney, and now the two of them are getting ready to get their freak on in front of a crowd of strangers.
It’s titillating, no doubt, the things that go on inside this club. But I rarely feel anything as I watch the action. It’s business to me. So I can look with a somewhat dispassionate eye as I watch Macy roll over on top of her husband, her red silk dress riding high up a pair of spectacular legs.
Not as spectacular as Maggie’s but still… not a hardship to look at.
I don’t even chastise myself for thinking of Maggie because I’ve just accepted that’s the way things are. I can’t go five minutes without seeing her face, remembering how fucking fantastic her pussy feels, or the way she carried a sleeping Belle into the house last night with the look of such pure completeness on her face. It made me a little jealous I’m not the cause of that look.
So I’ve given up trying to banish her, and I’ve decided to accept things for right now. She’s in my house. She’s in my life. She has said unequivocally that she accepts what I can offer her—which isn’t much in my opinion—but she seems to think it’s enough for her. Selfish bastard that I am, I’m going to take her at face value. I’m going to continue basking in the goodness of Maggie while I can. I know she’s not a permanent fixture, and I know I can’t offer her a happily ever after, but I can give both of us a happily for right now kind of existence.
Memories of last night wash over me as I keep my gaze pinned on Cal and Macy. She’s now pulling her dress over her head, dropping it to the floor, and Cal’s hands go to his wife’s breasts. She throws her head back and I can imagine the moan he’s provoking. I’d done the same to Mags last night, although most of her sounds were muffled by the panties I’d stuffed in her mouth.
Last night, Maggie made me feel things that were horrible and wonderful all at the same time. Once I’d pulled the plug out of her ass, I marveled at what I believe to be the strongest orgasm I’ve ever seen a woman have at my hands. For a moment after I shoved my cock back inside of her, I wanted to experience it all. For a brief but insane moment, I thought to myself that perhaps my demons weren’t worth fighting. As Maggie dug her fingernails into my ass in a silent plea to stay inside of her, I resolved that I was going to do it. I was going to say to hell with my past, my bitter memories, and most of all my shame, and I was going to come deep inside that beautiful pussy. I held strong and true and I slammed into her hard when I felt my orgasm starting to break free.
But then I saw something in Maggie’s eyes. It was probably nothing more than sweet happiness that I’d give her the intimacy she was craving, but my twisted mind chose to see it as triumph. And then I was seeing nothing but her face giving me that evil look of victory. In that suspended moment between amazing pleasure and all-consuming release from orgasm, I became terrified that if I came inside of Maggie and then experienced the disgust and shame I had felt all those times my stepmother made me come inside of her, that I’d transfer those feelings to Mags.
I wasn’t afraid of Maggie falling for me if I gave her that intimacy.
I was afraid I would hate her for it.
So I pulled out, humped her like a horny twelve-year-old boy, and came within the confines of the latex condom while Maggie whispered to me that it was okay.
My stepmother wasn’t always evil. When my dad started dating her just over a year after my mom died, she was actually quite nice to me. She didn’t try to be a replacement, but she took great efforts to show me I could rely on her. From the ages of seven to nine, we had a decent relationship.
Then my father died and she was appointed as my guardian, which were my father’s wishes according to his will.
Her change from suitable stepmother to abusing monster was gradual, although in my heart of hearts, I think she was always a monster. I even believe had my dad lived, she was going to abuse me no matter what. She’d just do a better job of hiding it.
When my father died, she became cold and distant. The only interaction that came from her was when she yelled at me for the smallest of infractions. By the time I was ten, she was beating me regularly, usually for no reason at all. These beatings were always followed up by ostentatious shows of apology from her, usually in the form of hugs, kisses, and bribery gifts.
She first started touching me inappropriately around the time I was twelve, using her affection after a beating as an excuse to put her hands on me in a different way. Likewise, she encouraged me to reciprocate. I was old enough to know it wasn’t quite right what she was doing, but I was also scared enough of her and too young to question.
I remember having my first wet dream when I was thirteen, and my stepmom having a gleam in her eye when she saw the sheets. By this time, she was regularly using drugs, which was sometimes fine by me. When she was so out of her mind on heroin, she’d ignore me for days at a time, and that was when I was happiest. But when she was in between fixes, she came on to me stronger than ever. In fact, I think she considered me a “fix”. One night, after a particularly vicious beating, she gave me my first blow job and I learned to equate the pain of punishment with a pleasurable reward. I still knew it wasn’t quite right, but I also took the good feeling to try to compensate for how bad it was at all other times.
By the time I was fourteen, my stepmom didn’t need me to fuck up to give me a beating. She had regularly started making it a part of foreplay for me, using ropes to tie me up with the promise that I’d have a bit of pain before my sweet reward. Her favorite tool was the belt—which is an implement I never use in my work—and she spared no part of my body from its fury. I became so conditioned that this was my way of life, I didn’t question it anymore. None of my friends at school would ever believe the horrors that happened in my house, and I was too ashamed to admit I’d reached the point where my stepmom didn’t even have to tie me down. That there were many times I’d get on the bed just from her command, letting her whip the shit out of me before she fucked me.
Throughout every single loathsome encounter with her, she tormented me by having complete control over my body. And her sick, twisted games included telling me how much she loved having my cum inside of her. She’d ride my dick, taunting me, knowing I’d give it up to her, and then she’d shame me with it afterward.
“Look, Bridger… look at your cum dripping out of me. Isn’t it beautiful?”
If Maggie knew all that shit, she’d understand why it’s taboo to me to share that with a woman. Why there’s nothing beautiful about it to me. Why instead, I get a little bit of vindication by denying that to a woman, and in turn, perhaps giving her a little humiliation by marking her with my semen when I come. God, fuck me in the ass as I deserve, but yeah… even with Maggie. I come on her in part so she knows I don’t respect her enough to do otherwise.
I’m a shameful, heartless fuck, no doubt, but I’m also selfish as I mentioned. As long as Maggie wants me, I’m going to give it to her in the only way I know how, and the reason I’m doing it is because I’ve never had pleasure the way I experience it with Maggie. My orgasms are strong and vibrant and transport me to a place I’ve never been before. I crave that with her so the one thing I vow to myself and to her, although she’ll never know it, is that I’ll kill myself to make it pleasurable for her in return. I’ll go to the ends of the earth to at least make her feel the best she’s ever felt. To make her orgasms forever be unrivaled.
It’s the very least I can do for her for the amazing pleasure I’m receiving.
I watch with interest as Macy scoots down Cal’s body, her hands deftly working at the belt to his pants. She gives him smoldering glances as she frees his cock and takes it in hand. He says something to her. She tilts her head back and laughs, and I can’t help but envy their easygoing yet incredibly trusting relationship. What I wouldn’t give to purge every bit of doubt and shame out of me and have the ability to laugh with Maggie like that.
Macy bends over her husband and takes the length of him in her mouth. Her long hair is pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, so I have an unobstructed view of her cheeks hollowing as she sucks Cal’s cock. She’s a natural and takes it deep with no gag reflex. Very impressive.
Cal lifts up on one elbow to better watch her, reaches a hand out, and touches her cheek. It’s sensuous and intimate even as it’s filthy kinky because they’re doing it in front of strangers. I half expect them to start fucking—perhaps even Cal suggests it as he says something to her—but she gives her head a shake before starting to bob over him faster and faster. Cal’s eyes blaze with lust as he gives himself over to the pleasure of his wife’s oral skills, his mouth moving in what I bet are whispers of encouragement.
Macy sucks and jacks him, every once in a while peeking up at her husband with pure devotion burning in her eyes. It’s their communication between each other that I find sexy, and my cock starts to perk up a bit.
Odd. I’ve seen a thousand blow jobs and they haven’t motivated me. But watching Cal touching his wife’s cheek while she gobbles up his cock with that look in her eyes like he’s the only man on this earth touches me in some way. It makes me wonder if Maggie would ever look at me like that, and what I would give her if she did.
Staring at them, I contemplate all these unknowns. I don’t move my gaze once, watching Macy’s cheeks hollow and Cal’s head fall back as he starts to lose himself. I watch his hips punch upward as he shouts in abandon, and I watch Macy’s throat move up and down as she swallows her husband’s gift to her.
Fuck, I want to have that.
I know I can’t… afraid it will feel awful, all evidence to the contrary, as I watch Cal coat Macy’s tongue with his cum and the pure pleasure etched on his face as it happens. I suppose that occurs because they have trust between them.
Trust is not something I give to anyone save for Woolf and maybe Father Adrian.
I’ve known Maggie less than two weeks, and I certainly don’t trust her. I don’t know her, really.
Except, she’s never given me any reason to doubt her. She’s shown herself to be an amazingly resilient woman, a devoted mother, and a caring individual who doesn’t hold my deficiencies against me.
Those things aren’t enough to warrant trust, but maybe they’re enough to warrant me giving a little more of myself and seeing what happens with her.