I eat her ass like a ten-course meal.
This is an act I never considered doing before. It would have disgusted me.
But nothing about Mara disgusts me. The dirtier our sex, the more it arouses me.
With Mara, I see it, I want it, I crave it.
I give in to my impulses. I lose myself in the frenzy.
I’m a wild animal, utterly unhinged.
This is the closest I get to the feeling of killing, only a thousand times better, because I’m not alone in it. Mara is right here with me, equally as wild, equally as feral. She’s choking on my cock, trying to swallow it whole, while I fuck her pussy and ass with my tongue, one after the other, back and forth.
She gives in to me completely, and that’s the greatest rush of all, that moment of submission, when I know she’s lost in pleasure, she can’t think or fight anymore. She can only moan and beg for more.
I go back to her clit, her hips clamped between my hands, using all my strength to force her to ride on my tongue.
She starts to cum, moaning around my cock, and then screaming as the orgasm rips through her, the hardest I’ve seen her have from oral alone. Her whole body shakes, and her teeth scrape my cock, so sharp that I’m worried she might bite it off.
Then she goes limp, rolling over on the bed, hands flopping overhead, nipples pointing up to the ceiling.
“Holy shiiiiiiit,” she groans.
“I told you not to tease me.”
I scoop her up in my arms, rearranging her on the pillows so her head is at the top of the bed, her feet down.
Her limbs are warm and heavy, her pupils dilated until I can hardly see the thin ring of silver around the black.
“You feeling that yet?” I ask her.
“Yeah, I’m feeling it,” she says, her voice soft and dreamy. “Eat my pussy, Daddy … send me into outer space …”
She’s never called me that before. I don’t know if it’s because she’s high, or if it’s something she’s wanted to say for a while.
I go down between her thighs, gently licking her pussy with my tongue. Slow and languorous, with soft, melting pleasure.
Looking up at her, I say, “Why am I your daddy?”
She sighs, her head turning slowly from side to side like the bed is a boat rocking her across the water.
“Because …” she says softly. “Because you take care of me. You protect me. You do everything for me …”
“Yes, I do.”
“You always know what to do … you always know what’s best.”
I suck gently on her clit, smiling to myself.
“Keep that in mind,” I say.
Mara doesn’t respond. She’s already drifting away.
In the dark hotel room, I make my preparations for the night ahead.
The Ambien was for me, not for her. I need to know she’s safely locked away in this room so I can focus on the task at hand.
I close the drapes and hang the Do Not Disturb sign over the doorknob, taking the only key with me when I leave.
Exiting through the lobby, I hail a cab to the airport.
The cabbie drops me off at the sky bridge. Instead of walking over to the check-in desks, I turn the other way, heading toward long-term parking. This is the best place to steal a car. Unless I’m very unlucky, no one will notice that their 2018 Camry is taking a little adventure tonight.
It only takes me a minute to break into the car, and three more to bring the engine to life.
I pay the attendant with cash on the way out of the lot. He doesn’t even look up, mumbling, “Have a good night,” as I drive through.
I could have taken my Tesla, but California has too many toll roads with cameras.
I drive to La Crescenta, to the edge of town bordering the mountains.
The Black Dog pub is situated in the shabbiest neighborhood I’ve driven through on my journey, with tiny salt-box houses situated on bald patches of grass between chain-link fences. I’m sure these little shacks still sell in the high six-figures, because this is California, where a one-bed one-bath can easily run a million dollars. This winter notwithstanding, it’s still the most temperate climate on the globe. People will endure any level of traffic or taxation to live here.
I wait in the parking lot for Randall to arrive. I’m an hour early, wanting to be there first so I can see which car he drives, and so I can ensure that he’s alone.
Randall must have had the same idea. He pulls in a half-hour early himself, driving a beat-up Ford truck with paint so worn it looks like mange.
Mara told me that her mother and Randall eventually divorced, partly because their fights had turned so violent the neighbors called the cops every weekend, with Randall spending the night in jail at least twice. He was running out of money, which meant Tori Eldritch was no longer interested.
Looks like he’s yet to make his fortune again. I found him through tax returns for the construction company for which he currently works. The address on record was the empty office space. I still don’t know where Randall lives.
Now that he’s here, I make my way inside and pick up a beer at the bar. Selecting a booth in the darkest and most distant corner of the pub, I text Randall:
I’m here whenever you are.
Then I wait, hoping he’s not going to back out.
Ten minutes later, Randall shuffles into the pub. He’s well past sixty, but you can tell he was once a man with shoulders to rival Shaw. Now those shoulders droop and a hard, round belly causes his jeans to sag. His scarred hands testify to years of labor. The broken blood vessels on his bulbous nose and the yellow tinge to his eyes tell another story.
Randall walks to the bar to get his own beer. I watch his interaction with the bartender, checking to see if they know each other, if they’re friends. The interaction is brief and impersonal. The bartender keeps his focus on the football game playing on the TV hung over the opposite corner of the bar. I doubt he’ll look our way.
Just in case, I’m wearing a baseball cap, glasses, and the sort of plaid button-up that Randall should perceive as a slightly more stylish version of his own buffalo shirt.
I ordered a Budweiser, the same bottle Randall sets down on the table.
He sinks heavily into the booth, knocking the tabletop askew with his belly.
“They make these things so fuckin’ tight,” he grouses.
“Nothing’s made for tall men,” I agree.
It’s Randall’s bulk, not his height, causing the problem. But commiseration is the first step to friendship.
“Didn’t even know if I was gonna come tonight,” Randall grumbles. “Haven’t seen that bitch in years.”
“Mara?”
“Tori.”
I knew Tori Eldritch would be the hook. Once a woman has her claws in a man, he never quite gets free of it. Randall divorced her and moved across the state, but if Tori showed up on his doorstep in a tight dress, he’d make the same mistakes all over again.
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Nine years ago.”
“Mara would have been sixteen?”
“Fifteen.”
“She was your stepdaughter?”
Randall makes a dismissive, snorting sound. “I guess.”
She lived in his house for almost a decade, but he’s behaving as if he hardly knows her.