Author's Notes: Now see, something about this man... Anyway, I got an entire journal for a longer story. This was supposed to be a summary (?) or whatever the girlies are calling it nowadays. I want to go into full detail on what the actual 'tragedy' is about but:
I don't want to spoil it.
I haven't quite fleshed out all the details yet.
Warnings: all-inclusive smut. We're slutting it up. Been doing yoga lately.
The damned chess pie. No meringue—too sweet. A confession for later under a bashful small expression of a smile. You, spiced cider punch. It was of his notice that the drink was greatly favored.
“Lost again?” An annoyed disposition sat behind your throat.
Martha scurried, pulling at your collar under hushed tone, “Now what you done up and did for this white man to be hanging round like this?”
“Mercy me. What on earth can a fella do to get some service?”
The apron tightened, hands shaking, “ For weeks. Not one night missed. Ruining the place with your presence.” Slicing his usual anyway. “What you want, Remmick?”
(Money is money. And his came up good.)
“Me? Ma’am, I don’t even got it in me to harm a fly. God as my witness.” And all that faux niceties.
You, Martha, Remmick, orbiting the pull of tense silence.
The doorbell jingled, 10-second experience of electrified energy and they promptly walked out.
“I’ll pay for his too.” The shepherd’s gaze never strayed from the sheep. “So, may I please?”
Oh. Right. The dessert in question—sweetened hostage. “Sure.” Stance guarded and wide, shoulders squared, a game requires two players. You didn’t blink, slowly eating the meringue and some of the pie. Shit. Half of the pie. Slapping the plate on the counter.
“It’s still full price.”
“Got yo nose so high up, you drowning in rainwater.”
Gasping, struggling with hiccups.
“My pretty girl Ain’t got much attitude left huh?”
Choking softly on half-formed apologies—hoping, pleading on a case for common sense to return. Was there any to begin with? Letting a wild night animal coax and crawling his way under your skirt.
He spread your thighs, just a bit wider, knees gracing collar bone. Drool trickled off his tongue onto your clit.
“Now this,” kissing your labia. “Is all the sunshine I need. Just juicier than a Georgia peach.” He kissed the other.
“Remmick.”
“Damn near close to tears. Now you got manners, pretty girl?” Red pupils traveled upwards, towards that pitiful expression. “Oh, darlin’. It’ll be ok. We both sufferin’.”
You ground your teeth, head straining backward onto the bedding. “Oh, fuck you. Self-righteous piece of shit.”
The soft prick of fangs on your cunt was completely unexpected. “Hold ‘em open for me.” His dick slid against the clit to opening. A breathless chuckle, “All that sass and belly achin’ and look at ya. Pussy purring, waiting for my dick.”
You looked down, astonished. His control was slipping. Dick bobbing on its own free will, precum sloppy and ready. “You talkin’ all that shit and you ain’t trying to get your dick wet?” Hell, if it ain’t worth trying to sell this man, this beast a beach house in Idaho.
The head slowly eased its way in. “Clever girl. Don’t got to give me no snake oil get up.” His hips stilled, normal bicuspids lengthening to their true nature. “Just ask me real pretty. Pretty just like you.”
You clenched on purpose.
He pulled away.
Push and pull. Earth and the moon. As legitimate as nature itself.
The ache. That fucking ache. “Remmick. I can’t take this anymore.” You were crying this time, real honest to God—“let him save your life” type of pain. “Please. Just fuck me.”
No more preamble. No more prelude. This was what he needed. Straight from the horse’s mouth an admission of sorrow. That sweet invitation.
“Pretty, pretty, sweet girl.” The hiss of relief, harsher than a pressure cooker. “Twenty-two weeks to be exact. You are a difficult one.”
“Remmick. No more. Please.” A Mississippi flood spilling on your cheeks.
The stretch burned so good.
A wolfish whistle, “Oh, shit!” Sinking into full seat. His seat. He moved. Slowly, steady as a one-stick drum. The pace smoothed into an upbeat tempo. A soft, gentle laugh, feeling your heartbeat vibrating. Fangs and teeth just as sharp, pierced his bottom lip. “All them weeks of being such a bitch. And now look.”
He was right. He was so right. (As long as he didn’t stop.)
“Gotchu bent up and kneaded like fresh dough.”
The bed groaned. Pussy easing and gripping, gripping and easing. All that jazz. Such a beautiful manner of vulgarity. You seized, clawing at whatever on him held less important purchase. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…” nonsense all of it.
“That’s it, pretty girl. Let it all out.”
It was then that you squirted, possessed by a holy rapture. Something warm, sorghum’s sentimental, flowed down your throat.
“All you need.”
Your cunt felt warm and pleasant. He watched as his cum leaked out. Fingers playing with sensitive lips. A sticky happy little mess. Lovely wreck of a thing.
“As long as that attitude is for me. Be a bitch to me. All for me. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be all you need, pretty girl.”
