Page 21 of Sweet SIN Slaughterhouse

“You two stop bickering. I’ll wait in here until you’re done doing whatever it is we are doing here,” Rogers interjects. He’s a good man.

Tapping my chin with my finger, I question, “Wait, does my dad know about you two?” I had always suspected, but this is the first time I’ve been able to confirm their secret romance.

“The man is blind to anything sitting right in front of him. Doesn’t suspect shit. And we will keep it that way,” Greta barks. She isn’t wrong, Dad is kind of oblivious to things like this. Her words are also a threat; she loves me, but she will have no issue punishing me if this secret romance gets out.

“Now that the lecture is over, can we go in, please? I need to play.”

Popping the trunk, Rogers signals that it’s go time. Sitting up, I escape the stars on the ceiling of his Rolls and welcome the sight of The Ranch. He grabs Greta’s blinged-out walker from the trunk then opens her door, placing it before her. What a man, taking care of his lady.

Following her up the stairs and through the doors, white marble floors and a grand staircase greet us alongwith crisp white paint and walls decorated elegantly with art.

Faintly you can hear the soft sound of music playing, but audible moans overpower it from upstairs, carrying throughout the house. The corner of my mouth rises, that will be me as well in a few minutes when my pussy is being devoured.

Two hostesses come to welcome us wearing black dresses and matching black heels with red soles. Greta waves them off, but before we get too far, one speaks up. “Excuse me, miss, I think you’re bleeding.” Confused, we both look back and my footprints are clear in crimson across the floor, shards of glass still embedded.

“Shit. I’m so sorry,” I apologize. Greta’s face screams irritated. Oops.

“Fuck me, child. We will be in the living room. Have the nurse come to us,” she barks at the sweet lady. The Ranch always has a nurse practitioner on-site, just in case, for precaution and to perform wellness exams or write prescriptions as needed, birth control being the primary one.

Greta mutters to herself as I continue to follow behind, embarrassed and immediately sobered. Guilt does that to a person and I no longer want to be here. How disappointing.

It’s why I don’t get high or drink. Impulsive thoughts always win and the regret and shame encompass me once I wake the next morning.

A bar is off to the side as we take a seat on the largeplush cream couch. I place my feet on the coffee table and the pain begins to make its way through my body, which is no longer numb. Looking over to Greta, I go to speak, but she stops me. “Don’t say it. I don’t need to hear it. I’m glad we came so we can get your fucking feet handled.”

She always has had a way with words.

The nurse walks in with her medical bag, wearing blue scrubs, smiling. “It’s too bad I don’t have a foot fetish, Ms. Sinclair.” I laugh at her corny joke. It’s nice not having someone be so formal in your presence, refreshing.

Pulling up a footstool she takes a seat and examines my wounds. No words are spoken, no lecture given. Instead she grabs her tools and begins working.

Tweezers slowly pull out each broken fragment, followed by a cursed sting as she applies disinfectant. As one foot is finished, she wraps it in white gauze and medical tape, then moves on to the next. We sit in silence as I watch her delicately work on me. Some pieces are larger than the others, making my body cringe in discomfort. For a small frame, it sure did shatter nicely.

“I’ll send you home with extra supplies. Clean it with warm water and soap twice a day, apply this ointment for the first three days only, and replace your bandages after every clean. I only want to see you again if they start oozing pus or the affected areas become red and painful. If you feel feverish, call me. All of these are signs of infection. Understood?”

I like a woman who is firm with me, so I smile, nodding, not wanting to disobey her. “Understood.”

“Good. Now, go home and rest. I think you deserve some downtime.” And she is taking care of me. Am I in love?

Greta slaps my arm, clearly aware of my inner monologue taking over.

“Thank you,” I say graciously as the nurse rises, collecting her things and sliding the medical waste into its own baggy.

We follow her lead, rising as my feet throb in pain, but it’s my fucking fault. I allow Greta to lead the way out to the main entrance. Before we are able to leave, instinct tells me to look up. And when I do, a familiar flushed face with hooded eyes looks back at me. And I am immediately obsessed with this new situation I have fallen into.

Lucy.

And she is doing the walk of shame. Yes, girl.

The moment she sees us, her hands cover her embarrassed face.

“Own it, Lucy. Nothing to be ashamed of,” I holler at her playfully. Lucky bitch.

She giggles. “I’m not ashamed, I just didn’t think I would have an audience afterward.” Her face shifts from playful, to one of worry once she sees my bandages. But that doesn’t change the reaction I have at seeing her. “Ice Cream” by Blackpink and Selena Gomez begins playing in my head, her movements slow and her dark hair mixed with pieces of blonde from her money shot fallaround her delicate yet deceiving face, blowing perfectly in the wind I have created. Daintily, Lucy’s feet go down each step, hand gently resting on the handrail with now narrowed eyes piercing into my soul.

A strong, powerful warrior princess is what she is, making my knees weak and my heart race even faster. Reaching the last step, Lucy walks toward me, asking, “Are you okay?”

Fuck, and she has compassion. My body wants to melt at her feet.

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