K. Bromberg - Bend

He begins a slow rub of each cheek, kneading my supple muscles and occasionally passing over the backside of my pussy. He kneels down and begins to lick again, his fingers joining in until I’m primed and ready once more. I’m sore from all the attention, but then he removes his fingers and probes at the little bud of my ass.

He slips a finger inside and I gasp. “Oh, that’s painful,” I say as he removes it.

“Relax,” he whispers into my neck. “I’m too tired to go slow right now. I’d like it hard and fast this time. So we’ll try new things next time.” And then he bites my shoulder and thrusts inside my pussy. I struggle under him, the pain ripping through me this time. He was not lying, it’s not gentle and it’s not slow. But his hands caress up and down my thigh as he whispers sweet things. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “You drive me wild,” he moans as he pulls back and then thrusts again. This time the pain is less, and each time after, the pleasure overtakes it.

When he’s confident I’m OK, he stands back up, his hands on my hips.

And then he fucks me. Hard. Like a man fucks a woman and not the way a man fucks a girl. He makes me a woman. And even though it hurts, it feels so good. It feels so fucking good I can’t imagine not wanting him to take me like this over and over again.

He pulls out and turns me around, thrusting me to my knees in front of him, and then he comes all over my chest. I watch his face this time. He throws back his head and opens his mouth in a groan of pleasure.

And I see it.

I feel it.

The power I have over him is as real as the power he has over me.

He leads me over to the bed and lays me down. “Be right back. Stay still and I’ll clean you up.” And then he strides into the bathroom and closes the door. At the same time his phone vibrates on the floor and I look down. It must’ve fallen out of his pants earlier.

I don’t mean to spy, but it’s lit up on the floor, staring at me. I squint to see the words. It’s an address. I read it to myself and then commit it to memory. Another text comes in, making the phone vibrate again. All set , this one says.

The bathroom doorknob jiggles and I turn over quickly, grabbing the pillow and covering my face to feign sleep. If he’s bothered by the lit-up message on the floor, it’s not apparent to me. Because his step never falters as he makes his way over to the bed. “Harper,” he says as he pulls on my shoulder to turn me back over. I open my eyes slightly, smile, and then close them again as he wipes the warm washcloth up and down my breasts.

A few minutes later he climbs into bed with me and pulls me into his chest again. He kisses me on the head and leans in. “You’re mine now, Harp. You’re mine now. No matter what happens, you’re mine.”

When I wake he’s gone.

There’s a note on the counter and a shitload of cash. I count out the bills as I stand there naked. Seven hundred and forty-two dollars. He carries a lot of money on him. The note says— Go grocery shopping. You’re too skinny. Be back soon.

That’s it.

Be back soon.

But tomorrow comes and goes. And more and more tomorrows come and go. And still James does not come back. I stare at my phone, willing him to call me. Why didn’t I get his stupid phone number when I was spying on his useless text messages?

I stand in the little mechanical room looking down at my stash of cash. I have fifteen hundred dollars now. And an address committed to memory. My backpack is stuffed with clothes and necessities as I leave my key and take my money.

Maybe I’m coming back, maybe I’m not. But I’m leaving nothing behind. I’m tired of waiting around for the people I care about to come collect me. I’m tired of wondering if Nick is dead or alive. And even though it’s only been a few days, I’m tired of wondering about James as well.

I’m tired of being invisible.

I’m tired of being quiet, and patient, and following directions.

But most of all, I’m tired of the endless pause my life has become. I’m going to find the men who took the one person in this world I can trust.

I’m gonna get back the brother I lost or I’m gonna die trying.

This novella is the prequel to the new Dirty, Dark, and Dangerous romantic suspense duet that I’m writing. The next full-length book is due to be released the end of June and the second and final book is due in late September.

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RED

Dear Grandma,

I’ve never written you before, so this is weird.

Dear Gertrude,

I know you don’t know me, but I know you. Aaaaand I sound like a stalker.

Dear Gertrude,

Hi, it’s me. Your granddaughter. The one you’ve never met. I know it’s been a long time. My whole life, in fact, but

Dear Gertrude,

My name is Red. I am your granddaughter. I’d like to meet you. I know you and my mom were estranged. She told me you didn’t want to see us when I was younger, but it would be nice if you would give me a chance. I’m a writer, like you. Okay, not like you per se. That would be something of a stretch. I haven’t won a Pulitzer, and I’m not a poet, but I worked for the Boston Journal until recently, when I was laid off. I was a courts reporter, then an art critic.

I don’t have any family except you. I need money. Or a friend. Or both. But I’ll get nothing, because I’m too proud to send this e-mail.

My rent is late. Like…really late. I’m eating ice cream by the gallon and over-using Mr. Happy, my huge, purple, LELO rabbit vibrator. That’s because my boyfriend left me…for a dude. Yeah, I know. It’s fucking weird. It sucks.

I wonder why the hell you and my mom were estranged. She didn’t like to talk about it. I can’t believe you didn’t come to her funeral. Or did you? I’m not even sure what you look like. I think your Wiki picture is about sixty years outdated. Maybe you could visit me in Boston and take a new one.

Wonder if I’ll ever really write you. I doubt it. I bet I get my pride from you, you old coot.

~Red

I slam my Macbook shut and race for the bathroom. The bathroom I’ve been using as seldom as possible, because I’m running out of toilet paper.

I leap over a pile of dirty clothes beside my tan recliner, dash past a three-foot tall stack of paperbacks in the hallway, and narrowly avoid tripping on a pair of ice skates before I punch through the bathroom door.

Pink. This small room looks like the inside of a Bubble Yum bubble. I drop down on the pale pink toilet, let out a sigh, and blink at my reflection. Me: naked in front of an oyster-shell sink, surrounded by pink tile. I look thinner. More like I did in college. And it’s not just the leanness. A few weeks ago, shortly after I lost my job, I hacked myself some brand new bangs. I’m wearing them longish, almost in my eyes, the way I did my senior year at Northwestern. The rest of my bright red hair is long like college, too. Past my shoulders, hanging just over the swell of my breasts.