Page 190 of Dirty Discipline, Vol. 1

He battles my tongue with his, sucks on my lips, devours my mouth. Tears stream down my cheeks. I sob. I’m so overwhelmed with emotion. It was… insane. Painful and good at the same time.

Pushing away, releasing me, he licks at my tears, then moves down between my legs. His tongue on my tender flesh, a finger or two in my aching channel, he eats me as if I’m the first meal of a starving caveman.

It doesn’t take long before I come apart again. This time in raw, unabashed pleasure.

I scream uncontrollably. I think I scream his name.

I want him to be mine forever. I want to keep and be kept. I want this simple life. I will never need anything else.

Chapter Five

Stephan

The more time I spend with her, the less I’m able to let go. The summer is drawing to an end. The days get shorter and cooler, and I’m nowhere near leaving.

She shows me her forest. I take her on rides.

We sit in comfortable silence and read.

And we fuck like animals.

When we’re not together, I stalk my bunny. I can’t follow her in the woods. She moves in silence, delicate as a shy deer. I’m as gentle as a grizzly. She would notice me in an instant.

In town however, I move like one with the shadows.

Shaded is what I am now, looking down at a particularly grisly and dank little backyard, the vision representing everything I’m running from. I’ve been running my whole life.

Running and lately, thinking about what got me here.

I have one answer.

Parents.

I never had any. The woman who gave birth to the screaming, frightened infant that was me, lived on Valium, Xanax, you name it. I was born with substances coursing through my bloodstream. They fucked me up for life. I have never been able to settle down, always looking for the next kick, and the next. I’ve used and abused, but found it limiting rather than freeing, so eventually I got rid of the dependence and the money drain. Now it’s me, my bike, the road, and no ties. It’s been me. Now I’m not so sure it’s the only thing I need anymore.

Mother was there, but never quite there.

I can’t blame her. I barely remember her.

The man who donated his sperm, whose hands so often found the belt and beat the living daylight out of me, pummeled her to death when I was five.

He still lives, as far as I know. Put away for life. I’ve never visited, never answered any of his letters, not even when they got pathetic and pleading for forgiveness.

I have none to give.

Wrangled through the foster system, I learned one thing. I like to be in control. Absolute control. Being dependent is lethal.

I had more brain than I ever let anyone know. School was a breeze. I had a bunch of friends and life was almost good for a little while.

Until I got Savannah Wilder shot.

Murdered by my last foster dad. The circle closed. I’m doomed to bring death and misery.

Parents.

At the moment, one parent in particular.

I take in the sight of the scrawny forty-year-old woman, a scarf wrapped around a mess of hay-blonde hair, a wide peasant blouse, and a long purple skirt. She has a bucket by her feet and hangs white laundry in the backyard of the apartment building where they live. A rental. I could see that as living free, able to hit the road any time, which has been their life. But it’s limiting, too, and I’ve begun to feel it. If that woman down there had any sense, she’d have given Summer a stable upbringing and not let her roam and immerse in the wayward existence she has now. The slight breeze brings with it fragmented tunes from something she’s singing.

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