Page 84 of Wanting What’s Wrong

Two

Jenna

T he bell over the door jingles as we step inside the gun shop, the smell of oil and wood cleaner curling around my senses.

I blink, adjusting to the dimness from the bright summer light outside.

“Well, you didn’t lie.” A woman’s sharp, playful voice grabs my ears as I get just inside the glass door.

I swivel my head in the direction of her voice, taking her in as she points a crooked finger my way, nodding at Cal.

“She is a tiny thing, ain’t she? You could carry that girl around on your hip like a baby. ”

She’s leaning a locked arm on the glass-front case filled with black metal, stainless steel and boxes of what I assume are bullets.

The shop is about the size of my mother’s rental house, but neat as a pin, well lit, manufacturers’ colorful logos painted on the walls with leather and canvas holsters, backpacks and what look like fancy fanny packs hanging in neat rows on stainless steel hooks.

I offer a little wave, adjusting the straps of my backpack on my shoulders, praying the pads in my bra hold out for another minute before I can make an excuse and find someplace to relieve the building pressure in my boobs.

Her white hair is twisted up in a no-nonsense knot, her face a patchwork of wrinkles and mischief. Her eyes cut straight to me, sharp and assessing. Then down. To my chest. Then back up again.

“Well damn,” she drawls, just leaving it hanging there, making my chest tighten as Cal eases me forward with a hand on the back of my head like you would a toddler.

My cheeks ignite. The throbbing in my cheek and under my eye is replaced by a stronger throbbing between my legs. A clearer calling than when Cal first came to live with us for those few months.

“Jenna,” he says, voice firm, “this is Granny. Granny, Jenna.”

“Good ta finally meet you. You look decent enough. Your mother’s a right cunt, though.”

“ Jesus , Granny, give the girl a minute.” Cal’s voice hardens but there’s a undercurrent of restraint and respect as well.

Granny shrugs as a wince of shame stabs my belly button, remembering how Mom concocted the whole story about how Cal was hitting her daily.

Showing off bruises I know she put there herself or got when she fell down the stairs after five hours in her little attic hiding place smoking God knows what and chasing it with chugs straight out of her bottle of Coconut rum.

She always said it made her feel like she was on vacation. She was on something, that’s for sure.

“She’s gonna stay like I told you. For a while.”

“Mmhmm.” Granny squints. “Good. Glad she’s away from that—”

“Enough.” Cal cuts her off with a wave. “I’m gonna show her around. Your polite tank is running on empty, Granny. Better get a fill up. Jenna doesn’t need you pointing out the obvious.”

Granny clicks her tongue as Cal adjusts his hand on the top of my head, turning my face toward a set of swinging wooden slatted doors that lead into a back room.

I laugh nervously as we walk away. “Nice to meet you,” I manage.

Even with this older woman’s sharp tongue, I bet she’s the Pitbull you’d want to have in your corner when it’s fighting time.

She grins, eyes gleaming as the bells on the door jingle. Her attention shifts to a new customer, and I’m out of the limelight at least for the moment.

“You’ll get used to her. She’s leather tough but inside if she likes you, she’d swallow spittoon spit to save your life.”

“Jesus.” I squint, revulsion making me shiver. “You know how to paint a picture.”

Cal coughs on a low chuckle as he walks me through the door, swinging and squeaking on their hinges as we move to the other side.

“Granny’s been handling too much.” His voice softens as we move into the back room, filled with shelves and boxes and locked cabinets. “My grandfather did most of the work when he was alive. We keep it going ‘cause it’s all we got left of him. And because Granny’s scary when she’s bored.”

I chuckle. “She’s kinda scary in general.”

Cal concedes the truth of that with a tip of his head, his hand easing warm and heavy down my back as I soak in his nearness.

The sheer size of him makes me feel like I did that first time he sat down at the breakfast table with me.

Sliding a plate of two perfectly-cooked sunny side up eggs in front of me, with a link of sausage cut in half, in an inverted ‘V’ shape, and a curling piece of sizzling bacon at the bottom of the plate.

He made me a breakfast smiley face. And something inside me cracked. He was too good to be true. I’d never known a man that didn’t want something or had some ulterior motive.

I wasn’t buying what he was selling but he didn’t even react when I went to the cabinet, pulled out my box of off-brand Cheerios, poured them in a coffee mug and dumped the last of the milk on top.

I stuck my tongue out at him, then proceeded to eat the bland, stale cardboard flavored wheat loops while ignoring him and his smiling perfect breakfast.

He steps away, messing with something on the top of a wooden desk to my left as I blow out a breath, trying to keep from crying from the burning pain in my rock-hard boobs.

Just as I exhale, he turns.

“You hurting?”

I blink. “What?”

He tilts his head. “Your chest. Something wrong?”

Oh, God. I look down and realize I’m pressing my arm across my breasts, trying to hide the damp spots blooming beneath the fabric.

“I—” I clutch myself tighter. “Is there a bathroom?”

He points to a white door on the back wall as Granny’s voice comes through from the front of the store.

“Cal! Need you to take out that Desert Eagle for Mr. Martin. Again .”

Cal grunts. “I’ll be back. I’ll show you some of the inventory.

Figure as long as you’ll be staying with me, you’ll be earning your keep.

You can work here when I’m here, then have time off when I’m working the ranch to figure things out for yourself.

I’ll pay you well. You deserve to have something of your own.

But, for now, you never go anywhere on your own, clear? ”

He brushes his knuckles softly on my cheek as his eyes turn to nighttime black, jaw muscles standing out as he drops his hand, shaking his head, and stomps back through the doors to the front of the store .

I practically run toward the restroom door, hand on the cool brass knob, reading a hand-written sign taped to the wood.

“Employees and Customer Facilities. Knock first. The lock is broke.”

Shit, no way.

I can’t pump in here.

Panic closes around my windpipe. My panties are soaked and so is my bra and shirt. I need a place, somewhere a customer isn’t going to come knocking.

I shuffle down the short back hall, my fake Birkies sliding on my feet. There are doors on both sides, and when I desperately try the first one, it doesn’t budge.

Fuck. I swing around, both hands clasping the metal knob of the one across from it, twisting.

Click.

Thank the cowboy Gods . It opens. I shoulder my way inside, feeling for a switch, flicking it with my fingers. A single dim bulb snaps to life in the back corner of the jail cell sized room.

There’s boxes and inventory. Clearly not bullets or firearms, that’s probably why the room across the hall was locked. This one is supplies and more backpacks and packs of paper targets.

But, oh hells yah, a chair. Not pretty, but it’s like an old cushioned office chair, and on the floor next to it, I see a vintage Playgirl magazine and a pint of Jack Daniels, half full.

Granny.

Right? No way Cal is reading a 70’s Playgirl, and he doesn’t drink, so yeah, okay, Granny’s got some vices.

I settle into the chair, fumbling with the pump, tugging a couple boxes next to me to set it up.

I wince and hiss as I pull the fabric of my cami to the sides. My bra is soaked as I unsnap the hooks at the top of my nursing bra and let my boobs free.

They are like chest boulders, so heavy and full that as soon as I pull them free, milk starts to spray into the air, landing in drizzly stripes on the brown cardboard boxes, falling onto my thighs as I thank my lucky stars the pump runs off a/c or batteries, because finding an outlet in this room is not on my agenda right now.

My hands tremble as I unzip my bag and pull out the pump I bought at the thrift store after I realized I was this crazy milk super producer and Morgan’s nursing wasn’t going to be sufficient, but then I pause.

It’s too much. The heat. The pressure. I manage to get the cups in place, holding one on with my hand, the other with my forearm, and push the pump button.

The suction makes me groan.

Relief. Bliss. Shame. Arousal.

That hissing piiiisssst, piiiiisssst, piiiiissst sound of the pump, is like hearing your favorite song when it comes on the radio.

I close my eyes, letting my head fall back, gritting my teeth with each painful but relieving draw of the machine.

I’m lost in thoughts of Cal’s hands squeezing the milk from me. Spraying it on his cock and ordering me to lick it clean, then fucking my tits as milk sprays like the fountains at that big Vegas hotel all over us.

I wiggle in the chair, that tension building between my legs as I consider popping the button on my shorts and sliding one hand down inside—

Piiiiiiiissssstttt ……then, silence.

The flanges fall from my breasts, the pump stopping dead. The battery indicator light flashes red.

“No, no, nononono …”

Milk is streaming from my nipples, down my shirt, onto my legs as heat explodes over my skin.

Plug. I have to find an outlet—

I’m not even out of the chair when the door handle turns .

A beat of silence.

Then a voice, low and dark: “Jenna. Are you in here looking at Granny’s Playgirls? You better not be hittin’ that bottle.”

My head snaps up, and there he is.

Cal.

“What are you doing?” he rumbles, eyes already tracking over my shame.

“I—I—” Shit, there’s no hiding this now.

His eyes are locked on my breasts, milk spraying onto his boots as I slap my palms over the source of the rebellious white cream, but it only drips down my palms onto my shorts.

A muscle in his cheek ticks. Nostrils flare as he swings a hand behind him, flipping a couple of boxes as a makeshift barricade at the door without taking his eyes from mine.

“You’re full,” he rasps. “I fucking knew it. I fucking smelled it.”

I can’t speak. My heart is thundering. My nipples pulse harder. I know what he sees. What I’m letting him see.

Cal steps forward, slow and dangerous.

“Morgan,” I start. “Um… Babysitting. My pump…”

I’m verbally flailing in the dark as he looms over me, a foot taller than ever before, chest filling his black t-shirt, his cowboy hat casting eerie shadows down his face as he blocks out the light from the bulb.

“I’ll help you baby.” His voice vibrates down into my belly, winding around my clit like an invisible tongue.

My breath catches. The pump slips from my hand, landing with a thunk on the cardboard box.

His huge hands reach down, taking the forgotten plastic flanges from my lap, holding them in one hand as he lifts the pump by the handle, dropping it all onto the linoleum floor with a loud thud.

“You won’t be needing that anymore.” His voice fills the small room as he raises his foot from the floor, bringing the heel of his boot down with mighty force onto the pump, shattering the plastic into pieces, the metal workings of the interior falling out in a heap of bent metal.

“I—” I stare up at him, terror pulling at my insides as I look down, the purple veins in my breasts snaking under the taut skin. “I have to pump. It hurts if I don’t.”

My bottom lip and chin start to quiver as he nods, removing his hat and bending the rim absently between calloused fingers as he sets it on a tall stack of the boxes.

“I’m your new fucking pump.” He lowers to his knees, his face right there, milk seeping through my fingers as I try to hold it in.

I shouldn’t let him.

But I want it too badly.

I want him too badly.

“This is my job now.”

He plucks my fingers away, settling them on the tops of my thighs as milk spray starts to decorate his face.

I bite back a smile at the sight of my step-father being sprayed between his eyes with breast milk.

“You think that’s funny?” he grouses, rough palms coming up to hold a breast in each hand, making my breath stutter in my throat.

I shrug, the spaghetti straps of my cami digging into my shoulders. “Your sense of humor always was a little lacking,” I say as he snorts some sort of agreement, but when his lips open, and he shoves my nipple between them, and holy shnikes.

Nothing. Else. Matters.

His warm mouth seals around me and he pulls. Oh, God, he pulls .

That tingling, fevery feeling of the milk letting down, hard, fast and generous, sets off a near orgasm as he latches on one side while the palm of his other hand takes the weight of my other breast, fingers wrapping around as he slides them from the top, down, top, down, over and over, relieving the pressure in a milking motion.

The rough, callused fingers of my step-father milk me as I lean back in the chair and whimper.

The groan that rips from his throat as he suckles and swallows over and over is the filthiest thing I’ve ever heard.

And I know this is it.

We’ve crossed the line.

And there’s no going back.