Becky
After I’ve showered, Chance brings in a change of clothes for me, some short, leg-flashing shorts and a tank top without a bra. He gives me that glint of a grin when he hands me the clothes. I know exactly what he’s doing. I think about asking for some clothes which cover myself up more, but decide against it. The truth is, I like the way his eyes move over me, hungry, animalistic. Even with my throat still sore from the face-fucking, I like it. I get dressed and join him in the bedroom.
He’s sitting in a wooden chair in the corner, his gun on his knee, some of its parts lying on the dresser drawers, a rag of cloth in his hand as he cleans each piece and inspects it. He’s wearing his jeans but nothing else, his scarred torso on display. I sit on the mattress, stretching my legs out, and watch him for a while. The radiator hums from the corner, filling the room with heat, the windows covered in condensation and the wind whistling its endless tune. There’s something hypnotizing about watching Chance clean his pistol, about the way he takes it apart as though he has been doing it his entire life, about the way he easily puts it back together, the care he takes over the task. I struggle to believe that the man who just face-fucked me and this careful, conscientious man are the same.
After a while, I say, “Chance, I need to call my dad, to let him know where I am.”
I need to do this even if Dad was the one who sold me to Julian. He’s still my dad and I bet he’s worrying like crazy after learning that I’ve gone missing. Despite how he sometimes behaves toward me, shouting and getting angry, I know that deep down he’s a good man, and that deep down he loves me. I don’t like the idea of him getting frantic, pacing the apartment, going down to the gambling shop and blowing all his money in stress.
Chance finishes with his gun and takes it to the bedside table, putting it in one of the drawers. He’s silent, unwilling to look at me.
“Chance! I said I need to—”
“I know what you said,” he mutters. “I heard you.”
“Then…I’ll make the call. Where’s your cell?”
The room doesn’t have a phone, I notice.
“I can’t let you make that call,” he says.
“What! Why?” I snap. “It’ll only take a couple of minutes.”
“Don’t matter. My orders are to lie low, and that’s what I plan on doing, not callin’ out to let the whole damned world know where we are.”
“It’s not the whole damned world,” I say. “It’s my dad.”
“Your dad who sold your ass to Julian, your dad who clearly ain’t got the best judgment. Nah, I ain’t trusting him with my life.”
I shake my head bitterly. “So am I a prisoner all over again, then, only this time I’m your prisoner?”
Chance shrugs, unaffected. “If you wanna think about it like that, you can think of it like that. Makes no difference to me. My main concern is keepin’ us safe.”
“Us? You want to keep us safe? I don’t believe that. I think this is all about you, Chance. I think you only care about saving your own skin.”
“Believe what you want,” he says, in that infuriatingly calm tone. “All I’m sayin’ is, you ain’t makin’ that call and that’s final.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” I say, completely aware that I sound like a whiny little kid.
“For now, I am,” he counters. “Who knows what happened in the warehouse, and you wanna call out and tell someone where the fuck we are? Alright, maybe you just wanna say, Daddy, I’m safe…you know it ain’t a ridiculous idea that your dad’s workin’ with someone who can trace cell calls, right? Don’t look at me like that.” I’m gazing at him in disbelief, like the idea definitely is ridiculous despite what he says. “I’ve traced calls myself. It ain’t as hard as you’d think.”
“My dad wouldn’t betray me like that.”
“Your dad sold you,” Chance says. “Of course he fuckin’ would.”
I stand up and go to the corner, to the pallet of blankets.
“I was thinkin’ you could share the bed,” Chance says.
“I don’t want to share the bed,” I reply, sitting on the floor. “Why would I want to share a bed with my jailor?”
“So goddamn dramatic, you fuckin’ women,” Chance says. “We gotta lie low, is all. Stop makin’ everything into a fuckin’ dramatic performance. Anyway, you don’t need to sleep on the floor. I got an inflatable mattress when I was gettin’ breakfast. Ask me nicely and I’ll pump it up.”
I don’t answer, so Chance goes to the pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the room and picks up a bag I didn’t see before. He takes a wooden box from it and flaps out the mattress, and then uses a motor to start inflating the thing. For a few awkward, tense minutes, the only sound in the room is that motor as I sit here, angry with him for treating me like a prisoner. I think back to the cell and how this is similar in all but violence. And maybe Chance would restrain me if I tried to walk out the front door; I bet he would, and tell me he was doing it for my own good.
The mattress grows larger until it is lying at the foot of the ruined bed, horizontally across the room. “There you go,” he says, waving a hand at it. “Go nuts.”
I lie down on it, secretly grateful not to have to sleep on the floor again. But still angry. Still mad. “Why don’t you just handcuff me, then?” I hiss at him, my words sour. “That way you’ll make sure I’ll never run, asshole!”
I want him to snap back at me, swear, something. But he just calmly goes to the pile of clothes, picks out the hoodie he was wearing that night, and reaches into a hidden inside pocket. Out of it, he takes handcuffs. When I see them, I feel my nipples go hard. They get even harder when he turns around to stare at them through the thin, almost-transparent fabric of the tank top.
“I picked the right fuckin’ outfit for you,” he says, kneeling down next to me. “You wanna be handcuffed, do you? You really wanna be handcuffed when you’re dressed like that? I don’t think you can trust me to behave.”
I swallow, nervous and horny all at once, throat raw, pussy aching, and yet…
“Fine,” I say, pouting, but the anger is leaving me now, at least for the moment. “I’m your prisoner, aren’t I? Just do it, then!”
He claps one end of the cuffs around my wrist and the other around the frame of the bed, so that if I wanted to move, I’d have to drag the frame with me. Then, staring deeply into my eyes, he places his hand on my bare thigh and moves it up, up toward my pussy. “You were my little slut in there, weren’t you?”
“Your slut,” I find myself saying. “But not a slut.”
“Course not.” He grins. “No fuckin’ way. My little slut.”
His hand pushes my flesh, rubbing it, dragging along it, until he is at my pussy, moving aside my shorts. He didn’t give me underwear, either. Maybe he was planning this, the dirty prick, but right now I don’t have time to be outraged. He slides his finger inside of me, eyes locked on my breasts as I arch my back in pleasure, pushing them out. His finger slides deep inside, right up to that warm spot that was pounded repeatedly when we fucked. He toys with it now, softly, moving his finger in small circles until I’m moaning and reaching for him, my hand rubbing up and down the front of his pants, his cock trying to break free of the denim. When I unbutton him—awkward with one hand—his cock springs up, huge and venous and engorged.
“You’re always so hard,” I whisper.
“Just for you,” he says, that growl in his voice. “Just for my bitch.”
I gasp as he pushes another finger inside of me. I have his cock in my hand now, stroking from base to tip, watching as his face becomes deadly, that irresistible combination of deadly and horny that just drives me wild. He massages the inside of my hole with his fingers for a few minutes, until I feel an orgasm mounting, until I’m pulling against the handcuffs in pleasure. Then, teasingly, he slides his fingers out of me, leaving me to gasp in frustration.
“If you wanna come,” he says, standing up and kicking his jeans off, “you can come on my fuckin’ cock.”
He yanks down my shorts quickly, savagely, tosses them to the floor, and then climbs onto the inflatable mattress. We shift from side to side as his weight depresses the mattress, but then we level out and he’s leaning over me, hard cock poised close to my pussy. I’m throbbing with lust, unfamiliar lust. Before, I didn’t know what it would feel like. Confusion and fear played as much of a role as desire. Now, I know the feeling, and I want it again, want that huge pole sliding deep inside of me. I lift my legs, beckoning him, hungry for the orgasm he so cruelly took away at the last second.
With one hand, he grabs my breast, squeezing it in his hand so that my nipple bursts pink. With the other, he guides himself inside of me. Oh. Fuck. Because he was touching me before, I’m already close to orgasm, so close that as his cock splits my lips apart and widens my hole, a thousand nerves start buzzing around my pussy, my head becoming foggy at once. Deeper, deeper—and then he touches my sweet spot and I’m gasping as the orgasm suddenly strikes me. I writhe so much that my hand bends in an uncomfortable angle in the cuffs, but I barely notice it. All I notice is the feeling of my pussy going tight around his cock, of my hole burning and releasing and soaking his prick, of the warmth in my belly, the fogged sensation of my head. I tilt my hips here and there, angling his cock, which he just holds inside of me, not thrusting, just holds firmly against my sensitive spot. I’m coming hard now, spilling down the length of his cock, onto the mattress, onto his balls. I gasp, over and over, unable to catch my breath. The mattress makes a squeaking noise as my bare ass cheeks rub up and down it in my writhing. The wooden frame of the bed makes a scratch-scratch noise as I tug on the cuffs. And I moan, loudly, as the last energy of the orgasm gushes out of me, one final release that feels like letting out a long breath after holding it for too long underwater.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I cry, and then I realize that Chance, too, after only thrusting into me once, is coming at the same time. We ride our mutual orgasm until both of us are spent, Chance hunched over me, coming hard inside of me, hands bunched up in my hair.
“Fuck,” he says, once we’re both done, leaning up and looking down on me. “Fuck, Becky, You’re so fuckin’ hot. The hottest piece of ass I’ve seen in my whole goddamn life.”
As he speaks, he grabs the key to the cuffs from his hoodie on the floor and unlocks me.
“Get on that bed,” he says. “If we’re gonna be here for a while, we might as well enjoy it. And I ain’t lettin’ you get away that quick this time.”
I was angry with him, but my pussy is hungry for more, aching for his prick, which, I see, is already getting hard again. I climb from the inflatable and drop onto the bed, lying on my back, waiting for him.