Page 16 of Lonely
“Doctor?”
I blinked away the bad memories.
“Can you drive me home?”
“Sure.”
I walked in a daze to my car, a squabble breaking out behind us as the crows fought over the carcass.
Anna smiled at me over the Beetle’s roof, and my hands shook as I inserted the key. It took me a few tries, but it finally turned, and I escaped into the vehicle.
Anna strapped herself in, rubbing her cold hands and blowing on them. She smelled of vanilla, fresh rain, and crisp autumn air, and I couldn’t breathe when she fiddled with the radio.
“Buddy Holly,” she said, a wet lock of hair slipping from behind her ear. “Classic rock for a classic car.”
I believed there was wit behind her words, but I’d never been good with social interactions, so I turned the ignition and reversed onto the road.
Anna talked about the weather and her Siamese cat named Little Mikey, from a Quaker Oats commercial that had been popular in the seventies. Seemed like an odd choice when she was barely in her mid-twenties, but I didn’t question it.
I didn’t really want to make conversation with Anna. She was annoying and loud, and every time she shifted, her nurse’s dress climbed higher up her thighs. She didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
At the lights, she laughed at one of her own jokes and put her hand on my arm, high up near the shoulder. She was too invested in her story to notice I’d gone stiffer than Mr. Carson’s corpse in the mortuary.
We finally pulled up outside her small cottage, which had green window shutters and Christmas decorations on the porch. Christmas was months away.
“Do you want to come inside?”
My thoughts came to an abrupt halt, like a scratched vinyl, and I whipped my head toward her.
She exited the car, letting cold air rush into the toasty vehicle, then dipped her head back inside.
“I bought a new coffee maker.” A smile tipped her lips. “I promise I won’t bite.”
But bite was exactly what she did. Somewhere between me entering her cluttered living room, almost slipping on a catnip toy, and startling Little Mikey—who hissed at me and scurried off—she shoved me onto the couch and straddled my lap.
Now her dress was on the floor, and her tits were swaying in my face. Her areolas weren’t big, but they weren’t small either. I had nothing to compare them to, but I didn’t think I’d pay her to rub them against my windshield.
She was terrifyingly efficient at undoing belts. My sore ass had barely squished the latest issue of a country house magazine on the couch before she unbuckled my belt and undid my fly.
Now she was bouncing on my cock like I was a young, purebred stallion—like Carter—and I barely remembered how I got here.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned, squishing her tits in my face and clawing at my scalp with her crimson nails. “Oh, Doctor, I knew you’d feel good. Fuck yes!”
My glasses were askew, and I was pretty sure she was strangling my dick with the boa constrictor between her legs. Was this normal?
Admittedly, it felt good. And I could already picture the brutal whipping I would get at Mother’s hands if she ever found out.
The Devil had sunk his claws into it’s son, and now the woman was bouncing and grinding on my cock while making all sorts of inhuman sounds. One could almost think I was killing her.
And I had killed people.
“Oh God, oh yes! That’s the spot.”
She smashed her lips to mine, smearing blood-red lipstick all over my chin and knocking my glasses off my nose.
Little Mikey was back, watching from the kitchen doorway, flicking his tail and giving me a judgmental stare to rival Mother’s.
“Fuck, your cock feels so good. I’m going to come hard. So fucking hard!”
