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“You can’t mean it.” I hear her fear, as she trembles against me.
“I do. Now tell me that you agree. I’m not much for consent but my brothers claim it helps prevent lawsuits.”
“You have this problem often?”
“Never. I can’t stand sensitivity training, so I mind the rules.” It’s true. One day of lectures on sexual harassment in the workplace, and I knew I wouldn’t bother, because that shit made me want to tear my hair out.
“S-sensitivity training?” She’s looking at me like I’m completely insane. It’s a look I’m used to, but I kind of thought discussing workplace training made me sort of…normal.
“So. Are you going to let me cum all over your ass or not?”
“If I don’t, you take my money?”
“My money. I got rid of your habitual thief, remember?”
She freezes again, like the scared little prey she is. She licks her lips. “You…you promise that you won’t put any p-parts of you inside of me?”
“Promise.” I’m not a guy people should ask for promises but that’s her problem. I just want to see her ass naked, and I need to cum like yesterday.
“Fine. I consent.”
I reach into another pocket and pull out her keys.
This is going to be fun.
CHAPTERTHREE
Chloe
What is happening?What is actually happening right now?
There is a part of me, the scared little girl who still lives inside me, who wants to beg.Please don’t do this. Please.
But I agreed, that’s the messed-up part. I told him he could do this.
I’ve learned the hard way that begging only makes it more fun for the man and worse for me. So, I remain silent.
I need that money.
Mentally, I replay what he just said. He wants me to take off my clothes and then he wants to masturbate. He won’t touch me.
How can I trust that? I can’t.
But what choice do I have? I try to tell myself that it’s a lot like letting those customers grab my ass. I’m not selling myself, I’m just not calling them out on their bullshit so I get the tips I need to live.
Psycho steps into my shitty place that I share with three girls. I’m lucky because I get my own room, even if it is the size of a closet. But it does have a window with a fire escape. I go out there some nights and then I don’t feel so trapped.
He stops in the dark living room, barely big enough for a loveseat, which is connected to a tiny kitchenette. He glances down the hall. “Which room?”
“Second on the right,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice from trembling. I draw in a ragged breath and remind myself to think. I know this man is completely insane, but I’ve got more experience than most with deranged lunatics. “I don’t know your name.”
But I feel him tense rather than relax. “Killian. But my family calls me Kill.”
Jesus. They actually call him Kill? Do they understand he’s a soulless monster? Probably. I’m shaking despite my best efforts to remain calm. “I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I’ve never done this before.”