Page 12 of Unethical

No one questions me as I carry it beneath my arm and head inside. Just a friendly nod from a neighbor as I walk by. I probably look like I’m on a health kick, finally getting my life on track. Or they think I’m half nutty with a fruit friend. Either way, I don’t give a fuck. Caring about the thoughts of others hasn’t stopped me before, and it won’t stop me now.

I bring the cantaloupe to my bed, take my knife from beneath the mattress, and stab the blade through the thick rind. I dig and spin and cut until I’ve crafted a perfect hole. My dick twitches as my fingers graze the same ridges that felt the doctor’s grazing touch. I reach down, unzip my pants, and free myself.

With a bite of my lip, I lean back and turn the fruit over, lowering the hole onto my cock. The orange flesh strains around my girth. I moan and touch the melon’s rough exterior as if I’m feeling her as I fuck myself with her body.

“Fuck, doc,” I groan as the meat of the fruit squelches and moves away from the intrusion.

I fuck myself harder and faster, and juice drips onto the front of my pants. I catch some in my hand and bring it to my mouth. My fingers slip past my lips as I imagine the sweetness is hers.

Using my other hand, I continue to fuck myself with the fruit. It takes my whole palm to guide it. My muscles flex and tighten as I feel like I’m about to push through the rind on the other side. This is how hard I’d fuck her if I had her in front of me. How I’d tear her in two if I had the opportunity.

No, not if.

When.

There’s only so much more control I have left when even the sight of her fingers on a hunk of fruit makes me need to fuck it.

I grip the cantaloupe with both hands and slow my thrusts. My body heat has warmed the soft flesh inside. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine it’s something human. I can pretend it’s her pretty little pussy as I come inside it.

And just like that, the thought of filling her sends a bolt of pleasure riding up my spine. A thick groan leaves my lips as I unload, spreading creamy white within the orange flesh.

I pull my cock from the fruit, and my skin gleams with the warm wetness. I lift the cantaloupe, turn it upside down, and hold it over my waiting mouth. Beads of come drip onto my tongue, with a soft, sweet, fruity flavor following it.

“Soon, doc. Soon you’ll be the one filled, and not this fucking fruit.”

This isn’t an empty threat. It’s a promise, and I plan to keep it.

Chapter Twelve

Sarah

He’s late again, by almost thirty minutes this time. I scheduled this appointment at the end of my day so that his presence doesn’t interfere with my time with the clients who are unfortunate enough to come in after him. Now? Now I’m about three seconds away from closing up and documenting him as delinquent.

I tap my pen on the computer desk, giving him exactly five more minutes to come to hismandatoryappointment. The bitterness inside me subsides as I stare at the screen. Maxim is an ex-con. He could have gotten into a fight with someone at the halfway house. He could have overdosed on an illegal substance. Hell, he could be dead for all I know.

Should I call the police instead of his probation officer? Should I have them do a welfare check instead of sending him back to prison?

I stop flicking the pen on the table. If he were in fact dead, that would be a blessing for me. So why does italmostbother me when I realize that I may never see him again?

I think it’s because I haven’t gotten through to him yet. Maybe it’s a fear that I was unable to help him. But I also fear there’s something more I’m rationalizing away.

“Hey, doc,” he says from the doorway.

I didn’t even hear him come in. I probably looked like I was off in la-la land, which I was. Thinking about his demise, mostly.

“Maxim, you’re...” I look at the clock. I’ve spent ten minutes lost in my thoughts. “Forty minutes late.”

“I had car problems,” he says. His calm demeanor irritates me to no end.

“You have my work phone number. You could have called to let me know you were running behind.”

He shrugs, sits on the couch, and crosses one leg over his thigh. A Tupperware container rests on his lap.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“This?” He lifts it off his lap, and something pale and orange rattles inside. He pulls off the lid and displays the cut-up pieces of fruit. “It’s cantaloupe. I brought some for you. It’s one of my favorites.”

Mine too.

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