Page 10 of Crow

I’m not so bold that I picture what his cock would look or feel like. I can’t even imagine him fully naked at this point. In my head, he’s dressed entirely in black and I’m the one naked. His whole attention would be on me. He’d look at me the way no man has looked at me. He’d be my first, and that would awe him. He’d treat me gently, but unravel me at the same time. He’d be far more experienced, but he’d like teaching me.

If there’s any day I might be going to hell for, it’s probably this one, but I can’t stop myself. I detach the showerhead from the wall. It’s the same one that’s been there since I was a kid. It’s an ugly thing, but when I slip it between my legs, that doesn’t matter.

I let out a whimper that I smother by biting down hard on my bottom lip. I thrust my hand out against the pale blue plastic tub surround and throw my head back.

It’s not hard to pretend that the warm water is Crow’s tongue. His hot, wet mouth.

It’s such a sinful thing, to taste someone else down there, but he’d like it. He’d beg to get on his knees and be able to lick me. He’d use dirty words, and they’d make me so, so hot. So hot and wet. His tongue would lap up every drop of me. He’d tell me I taste like heaven, and even though that’s also blasphemous, it would be beautiful because I know how sincere he’d be.

I’ve never put my fingers inside myself. I’m only tempted now because I’m aching so badly that I want to be filled. The thought is too intimidating. What if I don’t like it? What if I hurt myself? How could I explain to my parents that I’ve messed up my insides by trying to masturbate?

I shove that thought out of my mind and ride the showerhead instead. I grind down on it, moving the spray so it’s centered right on my clit. I move it back and forth, slowing myself down and then speeding up until finally the orgasm spirals into a hot burst of pleasure that rips through me. I pant through it, perfectly silent.

I rip the showerhead away the second I’m finished coming. I can never bear it for long, far too sensitive to keep going. I only ever allow myself one orgasm. One to take the edgeoff. One, because I’m twenty-four fucking years old and I have fuckingneedslike every other person on this planet and that isnothingto be ashamed of.

I replace it back into the hook on the wall with trembling hands.

I’ve never imagined anyone else touching me before. I’ve never wanted anyone to have access to my body that I’ve ever met. Sure, I’ve thought about men, but they’ve always been nameless and faceless. I never allowed myself to even have so much as a crush. I knew how futile and pointless that would be, and I had enough torture going on in my life without adding to my pain.

I soap my hair, every movement sending phantom tingles arrowing down between my legs. I know my face is on fire. At least, I can pass it off when I get out of here as the heat of the shower and the anger from the argument at breakfast.

My mom won’t ask.

She doesn’t care what I want or how I feel. My dad’s word is law and as far as she’s concerned, that’s the end of it.

Is this going to be my life forever?

This time, it’s not my own voice I hear in my head, but a deeper, darker one, a velvet soft rasp, but hard and sure of itself without being condescending.It will be if you don’t stop living in fear. You’ll never be free if you don’t learn how to stand up for yourself.

Somewhere between washing out the shampoo and applying conditioner, I formulate the early stages of a plan, but once it’s there, it’s like the dark swirling black ink that covers Crow’s skin.

Utterly, irrevocably permanent.

Chapter 4

Crow

Patterson’s is packed and rowdy. It’s a regular Friday night, complete with enough debauchery to make even a hardened sinner blush, but it’s nothing compared to the parties at the clubhouse. At least no one is over in a corner getting a blowjob or sitting at one of the booths having some not so discreet sex.

I don’t know why I notice things tonight that I never have before. Alright. I’ve noticed, but nothing has ever bothered me.

The barely dressed club whores, their ass cheeks hanging out of short shorts and miniskirts, breasts pushed up and on full display. Barb is hanging all over both twins tonight and I can actually see the tips of her dusky nipples peeking out of the t-shirt that she’s cut up and refashioned into something that’s split down her breasts and ends above her naval.

The twins are thrilled with her double D demonstrative DIY. I wouldn’t put it past them to take her back to the clubhouse later, where they’ll share her.

It’s nearly one in the morning. I just walked in the door ten minutes ago and noted immediately that the level of rowdy drunk correlates to the late hour.

I spot Tarynn rushing around the place, carrying trays that look too heavy for her. She’s all easy smiles, but they’re never flirty. Just friendly. She’s a big girl and I know she can take care of herself, but I experience a low level secondhandembarrassment that she has to try and serve people who, at this point, would be better off finding a room and taking it private.

At least no one has tried to get handsy with her. The guys from the club wouldn’t dare, but I wouldn’t put it past the few civilian assholes in here. There’s a guy with a backwards baseball cap and a cocky swagger that drew my attention when I first walked in and made me want to instantly smash his face into the side of the pool table.

Oof, and you’re not even the personality that’s drawn towards violence. I give your plan two hearty thumbs up, except that it would be so much more pleasing to finish up by breaking a bottle in his face first and tossing him out the window last. Maximum damage or nothing at all. I can give you a few pointers for creative ways to use a pool ball that would make a dentist weep…

It’s another five minutes before Tarynn even makes her way towards this side of the bar. I’m in my usual place near the door, not far from the pinball machines. They’re blinking and flashing even though most of the crowd here was too drunk an hour ago to hammer away at them.

I have my arms crossed, my pose rigid.

Despite my usual glower that drives people away, Tarynn walks right up. She’s dressed the same as last week, with her Patterson’s black tank that hugs her curves and outlines her breasts. Her skirt is different thought. It’s denim, but straight, knee length. She’s the only woman in this place brave enough to wear cowboy boots, not once, but repeatedly. I like that she doesn’t need to fit in. She’s here to work, not to offer herself up on the meat market.

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