Page 14 of Lovers Fate

“You’re going to go home and divorce your wife.” When I run my finger over the tip of his cock, he trembles, about to shoot his load. “You’re not going to come back here until you do. Then you can fuck whoever you want for whatever price you want to pay. Hard... and fast.”

He whimpers.

“If not”—I lean closer to his ear—“I’ll go visit your wife and crawl in your bed, and I’ll fuck her so good, she’ll divorce you anyway. In the end, you’ll be alone, and I’ll tell them not to let you in, and I’ll tell the school how you help your students after school.”

“Please, don’t,” he begs.

I pinch my fingers.

His eyes go wide.

I lick my lips. “Do it, Randy. I know you want to.”

“I do, but I want...”

I pinch his cock harder. “What do you want?”

“I want to fuck her.” He licks the sweat from the top of his lip. “I want to fuck you and her.”

He wants me and the bartender. What a stud.

“Wow,” I say brightly, glancing at the bartender hanging on every word. I turn back to Randy. “You have goals, but here’s some advice for you, Randy. Your students will never learn if you fuck them.” I squeeze the head of his cock hard. He emits a guttural groan. “Don’t come back until the divorce is final.” He nods, out of breath like he’d just finished a marathon and crossed the finish line.

Sweat drips down his forehead. He looks down at his crotch, then at me as I pick up the money.

I raise my brow as I roll up the two hundred-dollar bills. “You see, Randy”—I smile—“you can finish.”

He stares straight ahead as I slide off the barstool, done for the night, and head toward the changing room.

SEVEN

The sky isa dark canvas with a few stars, only the razor-sharp moon serving as a guiding light. The cool air outside bites my arms and ankles as I walk back three miles to the motel, blisters burning my feet.

The trees are thick on both sides of the two-way street. I can hardly see the flickering motel sign ahead. At least they built a sidewalk.

I sniff my shirt and scrunch up my nose at the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap perfume stuck to my clothes. I sniff a piece of my long blond hair. It smells like Randy, and I want to barf. I need a shower, fresh clothes, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, a blow-dryer, and new shoes that fit.

After about a mile, a car pulls up beside me, but I ignore it. A sense of déjà vu washes over me, but I shake it off and keep walking.

“Hey, you need a ride?”

I stop and turn my head, hearing a familiar voice. I bend over to get a favorable look at the driver. It’s the bartender.

“That depends on whether you’re headed in the same direction.”

“Where to?” she asks.

“Motel, two miles down this road.”

“I know it. Get in.” As I approach the car, I glance at the door handle, only to find it flush against the vehicle. I stare at it, trying to figure out how to pull it open. “Push the corner,” she says. I do as she says, and voilà, the passenger door pops open.

I slide in.

“Not into electric cars?” she asks.

“Never been in one,” I say honestly.

“I despise them, but it’s affordable. Anything gas these days is expensive or a classic.”

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