Page 55 of Little Puppet

I’ve never felt so powerful and so wanted.

It’s fucked up that a psychopath is the very man who makes me feel as if there’s someone for me. My specific brand of lover.

Maybe it’s how safe I feel with him.

Which is ignorant.

But if he’s the worst thing out in the world, and he covets me, I’m the safest I’ll ever be.

His fist, tight in my hair, works my lips free of his, and he tries to regain control of himself as he looks deep into my eyes, his breathing frantic.

“Hold that thought, darling. We have to get this done. Then, I’m all yours.”

I look down at his jeans, where his cock is still hard, and pre-cum has wet his jeans. “What about that?”

He smirks. “What about it?”

“You’re going to go in there like that?”

A laugh bubbles out of him, and it sounds like the madness within has leaked out momentarily. “Puppet, I’m a killer. A little cum on my pants doesn’t bother me.” He leans in, hovering and retaking control of my breathing. “Nor do I mind anyone seeing how much you affect me.”

Fuck, that’s hot.

I swallow audibly.

His hand moves down, clamping over my throbbing center, thumb rubbing back and forth over my pants. “Besides, I’m not the only one with wet pants, now am I?”

He’s not wrong.

I wiggle against his hand.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever get enough of you.”

With that, he lets me go and opens his door, hopping out into the windy cold.

I take the moment it takes him to round the truck to open my door to center myself, adjusting my aching, greedy pussy in my pants before turning toward the door as he opens it.

Hand in hand, we enter what looks to be a residential home, but the front is a shop.

Four men are working on computers, and papers and boxes are everywhere. The faint stench of weed permeates the room, tangoing with cigarette smoke and the faint smell of day-old pizza.

“Mr. Moldova, we’ve been expecting you.” One of themen turns in his chair, standing and wiping his plump hand on his pants.

He looks like he’s in his mid-thirties, balding and heavyset. Cain looks down his nose at the hand offered and decides against shaking it.

The man pushes up his glasses, shrugging as he walks to a filing cabinet, opening it with a key.

“Do you have what I asked for?” Cain asks, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

As I watched him unlock the iPhone in his hand, I realized I didn’t miss my connection to the outside world. The thought worried me, so I stowed it.

“I do. Grace Moldova. I have everything in order here for you, and the fee is…”

“Paid,” Cain says as his phone rings right before the stocky man’s phone goes off in his pocket.

“Prompt, per usual. Good doing business with you again, Mr. Moldova.”

Per usual?

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