Page 36 of Lonely
I’d never asked for permission before. But I wanted him towantme in his mouth. I needed him to give me my power back.
A smirk flickered across his lips. There, then gone.
He shook his head and looked out the window.
“No.”
“I can make you.” I glanced at the medicine cart.
He scoffed lightly, relaxing back into the chair.
“You won’t.”
He sounded so sure.
I hated him.
After I pulled my pants up, I gathered the stuff from the floor and reached for a pen, making a few notes in his file. “I’m upping your medication.” I signed my name, capped the pen, and tossed it back onto the table. “Let’s see how well you fight next time.”
A muscle ticked in his chiseled jaw, but he stayed silent, watching me with thinned eyes. I hated his silence more than his fight.
Because I wanted him to react. Needed him to make my insides buzz. To come alive. And finally make me feel.
Back home, I stared at the body on my bed for hours, or it could be minutes, but it felt like hours. Rigor mortis had kicked in, and he was icy cold to the touch.
How did I ever come inside this . . . thisthingwhile thinking of Carter?
My rectum hurt every time I shifted, and my cheek was still sore from being held against the desk.
I felt sick.
Carter would never have lain still and quiet like Andersen. He fought back, and I liked it. If I ever wanted him silent, I’d have to end him. Just like I’d done Andersen. Then he would finally be quiet and still and want my cock in his mouth.
Sliding open the bedside drawer, I rooted through it until I located the nail scissors. A car drove past outside, blaring hip-hop music. The heavy ‘thump,’ ‘thump’ bass disturbed the air for a moment as I carefully removed the butterfly stitches.
It was too late to have his mouth now unless I pried it open, but it wouldn’t be warm like Carter’s.
I could just as well screw the fridge. Usually, a cold hole wouldn’t bother me, quite the opposite. But the heat of Carter’s cursed mouth still haunted me.
Meanwhile, Andersen’s rectum had the same chill as the morgue slab I sometimes ground on during my lunch breaks.
Why did Carter have to say no? His denial itched, and I couldn’t scratch my wounded pride. Why did he hold so much power? His life was in my hands, so why did I feel powerless?
Earlier, when I tied my scarf around my neck on my way out of the office, I heard the commotion in his room because he’d refused his medication.
As if he had a choice.
I’d signed off on the paperwork, so for the next week, he wouldn’t know his name. Carter would be a drooling, spaced-out nobody, and I got hard knowing it was all my work.
He was mine.
His body and mind—even his thoughts, if I allowed them—belonged to me.
When the final stitches were gone, I placed the scissors on the bedside table and dragged his dead weight off the bed.
His body crashed to the floor. The plastic sheeting crinkled beneath my shoes.
I stood over him, staring at his mottled ass. Andersen had kept himself in good shape.
