Page 57 of Oliver

It’s why, eventually I finally stooped to my peers’ level and did what I do best. I chased her around the damn playground calling her playpen with a sneer until she finally got the hint and went the fuck away.

I guess that was the first example of how easy it is to make people believe what you want them to. Penny never looked back after that, but I couldn’t help my need to look for her which burned in my chest for years.

Maybe that’s why I fucked her. I hoped to finally get the image of the little girl with bright eyes out of my head. The problem is, she wasn’t a thought I could make go away. She was, no she is a burr in my world that won’t fucking leave.

Now, she’s sitting on the bed, staring at me with her dark eyes and it takes everything in me not to give in. Her soul is clean, while I feel dirty just being in her presence. I want to cleanse myself in her but to what end? A temporary fix?

No.

“Did you like it?” I ask, smiling humorlessly at her confusion.

“What?”

Smiling although there’s nothing amusing about this situation, I say, “Fucking my father…”

A dull flush suffuses her cheeks. I know I’m a bastard but, in my defense, if I don’t lead her off course, she’ll be my queen in fucking hell.

The notion burns though. Which is weird because I’ve never fucking cared about sharing before although in truth, I also never considered my dad to be competition.

Did she compare dick sizes? Was he rough or gentle? Did he bring her to climax?

I zero in on her mouth when she licks her lips, my dick jumping in my pants. It’s a strange thing to know that her having been with my damn dad doesn’t change the need I feel for her. Actually, I think it makes it burn that much brighter.

“Why?” she asks, raising her chin and I admire the pretty pink hue cascading down her neck, as I approach. My dick twitches once more when her eyes widen and idly, I wonder if her heaving titties are covered in her embarrassment too.

Leaning in until I can feel her strained breaths puff against my lips, I rasp, “Did. You. Like. It?”

Her mouth drops open, and I lean that much closer, strangely desperate to steal her air. Maybe then this fucking need will go away.

“Well,” I whisper when she doesn’t answer, flicking my tongue against her bottom lip.

“I—“ she breathes but I don’t give her the chance to speak. That might break me and the only person leaving this fucking room broken is her. If that’s what it takes to make her go the fuck away…so be it.

“Did he feel your warmth on his tongue?” I rasp, tracing my finger over the globes of her breasts, straining her shirt. “Did he touch these pretty tits with his dirty fingers?”

“Oliver,” she moans, and I step back, admiring the tight peaks of her nipples.

A strange expression crosses her features before she dips her head and looks up at me through her lashes. I’m two seconds away from palming my dick when she says, “Does it matter?”

Does it? Averting my gaze, I look out the window.

“Maybe not,” I say and stride toward the door.

She doesn’t speak as I exit which is just as well because I have the aching need to show her that she’ll never find a man who will fuck her like I will.

Penny

It’s late. After Oliver left, I agonized over what he was thinking before convincing myself that it doesn’t matter. He fucked me anyway knowing this shit, but I can’t deny that I suspect it was disgust he couldn’t hide before he walked away.

His questions created a panic so deep and wide that I didn’t know how to explain what I felt back then. Mr. Goodlow was my second lover. He was rough and impatient and downright scary. He was not someone that I craved when all was said and done. That was Oliver, who I should have avoided way back when.

The two never compared and until he asked, I never even went there in my head. Apparently, Oliver has though, which is bullshit because aside from potentially ruining his family, what I did was none of his fucking business. Does he hate me under that carefully constructed facade of indifference? Or does he truly not care?

Now, I’m wandering through the home that used to be my safe place. Images of Dixie running through the hall with her beautiful wide grin assault me as I turn and imagine Mom’s tired smile.Slow down,she would say before going back to the dishes in the sink.

When did our lives change? I suppose it began the day my dad died. Caught in a rainstorm, after stopping for milk at the grocery store, he never made it home.

When the cops showed up at our door, I stood behind Mom and watched the life crumple from her face as grief and emptiness took their place. We were never truly the same after that. Was that the beginning of the end? Was Dixie’s obsession with death formed out of her grief?

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