Chapter Text
It all starts with the dreams.
Or maybe not, because in the first dream they’re in the Glade, yanking at invasive plants just like they had been that afternoon in reality, on their hands and knees with the sun beating down on the backs of their necks.
At first she can’t see him. She knows he’s there, nearby, but his presence isn’t even what she thinks of first when she grips the slimy stalk of a weed and it retracts into a puddle of mud that sucks her hand down, too, wrist-deep. Something down there, or maybe the mud itself, holds her tightly and drags her forward, and when she uses her other hand to try to pry her wrist out it gets tugged into the mud puddle and stuck just as fast.
She grits her teeth and attempts to brace her feet so she can get enough traction to free her hands from this evil quicksand, but she’s not strong enough and whatever’s down there is trying to pull her in deeper and mostly succeeding. Sweat soaks down the back of her neck, her heels scramble uselessly against the ground, and her heart starts slamming as panic overtakes her.
“Help!” she cries, though asking for that isn’t easy for her, even when she’s being attacked by a mud monster that’s trying to eat her alive. She’s thinking of her animal buddies, how they could overcome anything nature throws at her, but they don’t understand her when she’s speaking this language. It’s quiet in the Glade, no birdsong or insect buzz to assure her somebody will spot her in distress and come flying down to save her.
“Mabel?”
It’s Jerry who comes, throwing himself down around her as if having both of her arms rapidly being swallowed up by a sucking mud monster needs no explanation. He grabs her forearms and grunts with effort as he tries to free her, crouched behind her for maximum traction.
“Harder!” Mabel says, meaning he should really put his back into it. Jerry growls with frustration against the shell of her ear, his muddy hands sliding up her arms as he makes a little progress only to feel Mabel get tugged back down. She doesn’t care that he’s all up in her space and then some, roughly hugging her from behind, half-collapsed onto her back. She’s glad, grateful, because he’s really trying. She can feel his sweat and the heat of him through the thin undershirt he strips down to whenever he pitches in here.
“Oh god,” he says, panting. “Hang on. I’ve got you. Almost there.”
Mabel makes a desperate noise, half sob and half laugh, because he’s made no real progress at all and also because she can feel his huge boner rubbing against her ass.
“What the hell?” she says, laughing crazily at the sound of her own astonished words. “Jerry, is that-- Your dick? Holy shit, dude, it is, you fucking--”
She’s gonna call him a pervert for somehow managing to get off on this, but the word gets choked off in her throat when he shifts his stance behind her, spreading his knees and snapping his hips forward so that his big, tented dick rubs against her crotch.
Then she’s moaning, arching her back and tilting her ass up so she can feel it more. It’s so hot and hard against her, making her almost forget the predicament she’s otherwise in, and she’s getting wet for that pressure rubbing warm and just right against her, right where she apparently really fucking needs it, her hands still buried in the mud and curling into fists with a combination of rage and arousal.
“God,” Jerry says, moaning this against her ear, his breath coming in heavy huffs as he keeps tugging, or maybe he’s just humping her now, she can’t even tell and doesn’t especially care. “I, ah, god, how-- Embarrassing, nngh, sorry--”
Mabel giggles or moans, some kind of dumb-sounding combo that’s more of a gurgle than anything. She lets her head fall forward so that her fringe is in the mud, which holds her hands steady while she grinds back against Jerry’s dick like this is what’s going to fix the situation: an orgasm, sure, why not? She can feel it building, can’t stop chasing it, and he’s just as lost to his own arousal, thrusting against her like he wants to be in her, fucking her. She’s so wet she’s soaked through her underwear and the front of her track pants, groaning continuously and low in her chest like some rutting animal, getting closer.
And it’s not just the pressure of his straining dick against her frantically friction-seeking clit that feels good: it’s all of him, wrapped around her, his hands gripping her arms like it’s him that’s holding her down now, like he planned this, and he probably did, the fucking asshole!
She doesn’t even care, isn’t even mad, because he’s trembling behind her like he’s going to come, too.
“Take it out,” Mabel says, barely recognizing her own lust-clogged voice, deeper than usual and shameless.
“I--I’m trying,” he says. He sounds weak and a little scared even while he feels huge and strong leaning onto her, heavy in a way that she doesn’t want to disconnect from.
“Not my hands,” Mabel says, almost sobbing at his typical inability to understand what she wants. “Your dick, your cock, take it out, pull my-- Pants down, put it in, puh, please, please, do it, fast, go, hurry.”
She feels like she’s going to die, not just if she doesn’t come but if she doesn’t come with him inside her, jammed in deep. She’s never been this wet before, it’s a goddamn emergency down there, nothing will fix her except what’s stupidly still trapped in his pants and making her crazy with clumsy friction that’s not enough.
“Don’t be crass,” he says, and for an infuriating second she thinks he’s serious. “Dirty girl,” he says, low and teasing, right into her ear, and she shudders all over but it’s not quite an orgasm.
“Yeah, I’m dirty, okay, good, go ahead, show me, do it!”
She would bite him if there was any part of him she could reach with her mouth, and she’s ready to kiss him instead when he actually does what she needs him to, shoving her pants and underwear down to her thighs and then scrambling at the fly of his mud-ruined trousers, his breath coming hot and ragged against her cheek as he does all of this without letting her go, his other arm still snug across her chest.
Good boy, she thinks, shivering and spreading her knees a little wider, arching deeper, letting him see where she needs him.
“Oh god,” he says, reaching down to rub his dirty knuckles against the throbbing mess of her. “You’re soo wet, fuck.”
“Fuck you, do what I said!”
She’s crying now, sort of, writhing, hating that he’s in control even though that’s also why she’s about to blow her load for the first hot bump of his naked cock against her desperate cunt, almost there, enough to get her flexing back and keening, trying to clench around him even though he’s not really in yet, not enough, just nearly there where she’s wet and ready, almost. He leans down onto her back again with a satisfied sigh while she strains and whines, begging for him in some scary, guttural language she’s pretty sure isn’t human.
There’s a twitch of his hips and he exhales with another, softer sigh, starting to press inside, too slow, just barely, the width of him pushing in where she opens wider for him, drooling for it.
Then she wakes up, alone in bed and no less soaking wet for all that than she was in the dream. Maybe more.
There’s no time to rummage in her bedside drawer for her vibrator. She rolls onto her back with a grunt and shoves her hand into her underwear, eyes closed and lip bitten as she rubs herself off. She was too close to coming by the time she touched herself, already starting to throb through it, and the result is a subpar orgasm that makes her grit her teeth and punch the mattress in frustration as it surges through her, a poor substitute for what she wanted--
In that dream--
From fucking--
Jerry.
She opens her eyes and removes her hand from her crotch in a disbelieving trance, wiping it on the sheets and struggling to orient herself. There is no reality where she should even be dreaming about anything resembling sex with Jerry. But it happened. She’s still all breathless and flushed, still on edge, like she’s waiting for something as her orgasm tapers to a dull thud of not-quite satisfaction.
It’s funny, she decides, but she can’t make herself laugh about it. Sex dreams of any kind are rare for her. Around puberty they had been more of a thing, a muddled confusion of urges that she couldn’t entirely translate to acts. She hasn’t even had sex in almost two years, and maybe that’s the problem. It must be. She sits up and moans, rubbing her clean hand over her face before sliding out of bed to wash her hands and splash water on her face. She can’t meet her own eyes in the mirror over the bathroom sink, embarrassed in the presence of her actual self.
Well, but, hey: who cares. Dreams don’t have to make sense. They don’t necessarily mean anything. She’s just horny, and Jerry is just the person she most recently spent time with. He’s the person she spends most of her time with, actually, away from school and class. Maybe they’ve been on their hands and knees too often in each other’s presence recently, working in the Glade, pulling up invasives, sweating together in the sun. She should tell him to stop coming, take a break, give it a rest, come to terms with his goddamn guilt already. It’s been almost a year since the fire. But she’d have a hard time refusing his help, because now that all the initial community fervor to restore the Glade has died down, Jerry is the only one who still reliably shows up. He’s there at least twice a week, four times if he’s not busy with mayor shit.
Mabel is there every day. She’s tired in the morning, not having really gotten back to sleep after that dream and sort of haunted by how solid and imposing it continues to feel, but she still hits the Glade before her classes start, wanting to get to work before it gets hot. Summer has just begun and they’re already facing a heatwave, meaning that the best times to get labor-intensive work done are super early or late. This works with Jerry’s schedule, most days. Mabel tells herself she’s relieved when she gets through another hour of scouring for invasives and pulling them up and he doesn’t show. It’s not unusual. After that dream it’s a fucking relief not to see his face, actually. She needs more time for it to fade into true irrelevance. But she’s still a little irritated as she heads to class, having worked the whole morning alone. He’d told her yesterday that he understood the urgency of clearing all the invasive plants before the full scorch of summer, which will be hard on the newer, native plants that need to thrive. The invasive ones are hardier and can easily take over in less than ideal conditions like a heatwave.
She can’t concentrate in her lecture courses. That’s not unusual, but she’s peeved by her inability to focus when her thoughts keep sliding back to the dream and to sex generally, and how long it’s been since she even tried to flirt with someone. She’s only ever had sex twice: with a girl in high school and a boy at the start of college. These experiences were worth it in an experimental sense but more awkward than enjoyable, leaving her wanting to avoid both people in the aftermath. She’s better off alone, anyway. She’s got matters of real consequence on her mind and finds personal drama tedious. That instinctual moment when she smashed the insect queen with her little beaver hands wasn’t out of character; she’s always approached interpersonal conflict with a cold pragmatism that can leave mushier individuals squished.
When she’s distracted enough during her afternoon lab that she drops a flask that shatters on the floor and draws the attention of everyone in the room, she’s approaching real fury that she can only steer in Jerry’s direction, as if the dream is his fault. Normally lab is the time when she locks in, fully present and unbothered by the concerns of the rest of her life.
She blows off a meeting with her advisor, sending an email claiming that she’s feeling sick, which is partly true. Hoping to clear her head, she heads for the Glade, though working there in the morning didn’t put a dent in her distraction. It’s hours from sunset and still hot, quiet at this time of day with the animals hiding in shadier spaces in the adjoining woods.
She’s there through sundown, mosquitos swarming and owls beginning to call to each other in the distance. She doesn’t like using bug spray; maybe the thing with the insect queen did traumatize her a little. Feeling chewed up, sweat-soaked and also more diffusely frustrated by the progress of something she can’t put her finger on, she’s in a bad mood by the time she digs out her phone and sees a text from Jerry.
Swamped with emergency meetings today, won’t make it out. Maybe tomorrow
Mabel grits her teeth at this presumptuousness: as if she was waiting for him? As if they had this scheduled on a calendar? He shows up or he doesn’t, and sometimes she gets texts like this, sometimes she gets nothing. At the moment his characteristically vain belief that she was waiting to hear from him makes her hope he’ll stop showing up altogether. She shoves her phone in her pocket without responding and heads for the tree she propped her skateboard against, giving up on the Glade soothing her bad mood away. It’s just too damn hot out to find relief here, a mugginess hanging over everything even after the sun has gone down.
The concrete and streetlight landscape that comprises her trip home makes the haze of humidity feel even heavier. As she heads into her dark, empty house her stomach growls with righteous indignation and she realizes she hasn’t had a real meal all day, just handfuls of trail mix from her backpack and a banana for breakfast. She goes to the fridge and groans at the lack of options. She can’t afford to keep ordering delivery, but she’s too worn down to skate to the grocery store, and that shit’s expensive, too. She has a questionably edible half of a leftover cucumber, rice, frozen veggie burgers but no buns. She decides she can work with this, slices up the cucumber and leaves it to marinate in oil and vinegar, starts the rice cooker and gets into the shower.
The shower feels good after a long day: maybe too good, because she’s thinking about rubbing one out, something she normally only does in bed, mostly to help her get to sleep. The impulse annoys her, so she avoids it, and steps out of the shower feeling stirred up by the beating pressure of the water and the pleasure of her rubbing her freshly cleaned skin dry, which is not a thing she normally notices. She’s hungrier than she is horny, anyway, and the rice cooker is beeping with completion in the kitchen.
She drains the cucumbers and dumps them onto the rice while it’s still hot, too hungry to bother microwaving one of the veggie burgers to crumble on top. There’s a stale box of Girl Scout cookies in the freezer if she’s still hungry after this. She eats greedily at the kitchen table, trying to ignore the chasm of loneliness that eating here without her grandmother always opens within her. Usually she eats on the couch with the TV for company, but she had no time to waste flipping through various flavors of inanity until she found something palatable enough for dinnertime, needed to eat fast.
Later she finishes the box of cookies in bed while browsing on her laptop, her sense of irritable craving for something else persisting. In the morning she’ll swim at the Glade; that usually helps. In the meantime she finds herself grinding her thighs together and heating up under her t-shirt, overly conscious of the way the shirt’s soft cotton brushes over her nipples, which are obnoxiously stiff. She’s got her air conditioning turned down to the lowest temperature she can afford to combat the weather, which is not very low. She gives up on the internet and opens an old folder of dirty fan art saved years ago, video game characters fucking each other in ways she used to find shamefully erotic. Now it mostly seems childish and dumb, but she gets wet anyway and shoves the laptop away before she can reach down into her underwear while looking at this shit.
Instead, she turns out the lights, kicks her underwear off entirely and puts a pillow between her legs, smearing her arousal onto it for a while before reaching down to get herself off. She thinks about-- Nothing. Not that dream. Not the comically overlarge dicks in that old fan art. Not about dicks at all, just-- Okay, yes, dicks, cocks, getting fucked, bending over for it. She’s never tried that in real life, has never remotely trusted someone enough to let them mount up behind her and shove inside. She doesn’t typically fantasize about herself or anyone she knows in real life. She’s not doing that now-- The dream wasn’t real life. When she comes, groaning, there’s mud on her arms in the mental image that gets her over the edge, but whatever. That could mean anything, and now she’s done, sexual health maintained, goodnight.
For all its distressing qualities, the sex dream was at least a welcome relief from the nightmares she's had regularly since the fire. She mentioned them to Jerry a few months back in a moment of dumb vulnerability, after they found a dead bird in the Glade and she took whatever had happened to it, some normal circumstance of nature, too personally.
“I still have bad dreams, too,” Jerry said, otherwise politely ignoring that she was almost choked up over the bird. “About that day.”
Mabel was turned away from him, trying to hold it together and weirdly glad that he’d confessed this, though she knew he was only trying to make her feel better.
“I don’t need therapy or anything,” she blurted, as if he’d suggested it. “My mom forced me into that crap when I was little. To ‘address my anger issues.’ It didn’t change anything.”
“I know,” Jerry said, as if he’d reviewed this information in some permanent citizen record of hers. He flinched when she turned to glare at him suspiciously. “I mean. I feel the same, about therapy. Big waste of time and money.”
“Yeah,” Mabel said, still studying him skeptically. She didn’t ask him to elaborate, and he didn’t offer any further details about why he felt this way, but she’s seen him a little differently since that day, and maybe that needs to stop, because she certainly doesn't see him as a viable sex partner, whatever her traitorous subconscious is up to now.
She tosses and turns for a while, edging around the boundaries of mental images that exist somewhere between nightmare and memory, and when she’s finally asleep there’s a long stretch of dreamless peace.
Then she’s in the Glade, in the dream. She vaguely recognizes it from within the cocoon of subconscious half-awareness, and her confused reaction is primarily excitement. Good, yes, goddamn: finally! This is where she needs to be. She’s pulling up weeds, huffing and hot, hunched over a muddy bog near the edge of the pond.
This time the tall reeds near the water turn evil and slither up her arms, wrapping around them and yanking her forward. She whines in distress, because this is different, scary, and it feels like she’s alone here this time. Distantly, she remembers Jerry texting her to say he couldn’t make it today.
The reeds are meaner than the mud was, cutting cruelly into her skin and tugging her forward, threatening to drown her. Her knees slide in the muck, and she tries to dig her toes into the soft mud for traction, but it’s no use. She’s being consumed. Again, the surroundings are so still, as if the animals never came back.
“Help!” she finally screams, still petulantly disliking that she has to ask. “Somebody! Hey!”
A hot wind blows through the reeds, producing a hissing sound that’s like laughter, mocking her panic as she’s dragged forward. She cries out in wordless horror and tries as hard as she can to break free, getting nowhere.
“Jerry!” she tries, frightened enough now to summon him specifically. “Help me, please!”
“Mabel!”
He answers like a bird who had to hear a particular mating call to comprehend that his counterpart was in the area. Even in distress, this annoys her.
Jerry crashes through the tall grass behind her, breathless and skittering to a clumsy stop in the mud, falling down onto her and grabbing for the reeds that are wound around her arms.
“I got you,” he says, though he doesn’t: the reeds aren’t breaking, even though his hands are big and strong-looking and should be enough to snap them easily. He grunts and tries again, pulling harder and slumping forward in the process, pressing even heavier against her back.
Mabel almost doesn’t care that he can’t seem to break the reeds, because she can breathe now: he’s here, behind her, closed around her like a shell. The reeds still have her, but they don’t hurt anymore.
“Ah, god,” he says, pausing in his struggle to free her to pant into her ear. “Don’t worry,” he says, low and rough, and she can feel his lips on her ear, the rumble of his deep voice moving through her like medicine. “I won’t let you go.”
Mabel makes a pitiful noise of acknowledgement, already knowing what she’s going to do next. She knows, this time, that a boner might be involved. She’s canting her hips back, spreading her knees, pinching her eyes shut in humiliation, wanting to feel it against her.
“What are you doing?” Jerry asks. He’s still speaking directly into her ear: softly now, mocking a little. “Oh. I see. Mhm.”
“You don’t see shit!” she says, teeth grit.
“Hmm. Okay. Pretty sure I understand perfectly.”
“Shut up, you--”
Then she feels it, finally, bestowed up on her like a mercy: his tented dick, hard and hot even through his thick trousers, rubbing up against her where she needs it.
“Oh god,” she says, gasping the words out and bucking back against him, already trying to get more.
“Careful,” he says, his breath hot on her cheek. “Steady. Shh, relax. Let me help you.”
She doesn’t obey, only wriggles more frantically in his grip, trying to achieve as much satisfaction as possible in this compromised position. She’s grunting and defiant, animalistic, resenting him even as she tries to his use body to get herself off.
It’s not just that, though: she likes that he’s hard for her. She wants to believe he’s just as desperate as she is, though unrestrained.
“Hey,” he says, sharply enough to get her to go still with surprise. “What do you think you’re doing? Better ask for what you want, if you want anything at all.”
She seems to have a choice, by the nonsensical logic of the dream: ask for him to break the reeds and free her or ask him to yank her pants down and fuck her.
Unable to decide which she wants more, she whimpers in defeat. She’s so wet, way overdue for more than what he’s giving her. She feels like she’s been waiting for days, weeks, years. An amount of time so massive it’s undefinable.
“Here,” Jerry says, making his voice soft in a way that she knows is deceptive. “This will help.”
He reaches up under her billowing t-shirt and cups her tits, weighing them reverently in his hands. His hands feel big on her, and rougher than she would have imagined for a politician prick’s. The heat of his bare skin against hers makes her moan even before he finds her stiff nipples with his thumbs and circles them roughly.
“No bra,” he says, chuckling. He drags his hips forward slowly, making her go slack with pleasure as he pinches her nipples and rubs his erection up against her crotch at the same time. “Do you even wear panties, you wild little beast?”
Being called little makes her growl and buck. Jerry just laughs low in his chest and keeps toying with her, making this flash of defiance evaporate into moaning submission again.
“That’s right,” he says when she just drifts in his grip, mouth open and eyes shut, needing more but enjoying this in the meantime, letting herself have it. “Good, there you go. Now ask for what you want.”
“Fuck me,” she says, weakly, hating that her voice breaks with the sincerity of this command. “You fucking fuck. Do it. Fuck you, do it.”
“I’m hearing conflicting messaging here, Mabel. Fuck me? Fuck you? Which is it?”
“You know which it is, you smug shithead!”
“Yeah, I do. I really do.”
She shivers with relief when he pulls her pants down to her knees with one hand, his other hand still up under her shirt, possessively gripping her left breast. Somehow she’s not wearing underwear, just like he predicted, though she usually does. She usually wears a snug sports bra, too, but now she remembers that she went to bed in just her t-shirt, so it makes sense that she’s bare, nothing between them now except his trousers, which he’s finally working open so he can pull that big cock out and put it where she needs it.
“You’re shaking,” he says, nudging his nose against the back of her neck. “Maybe you’re not ready.”
“I am, I am--”
“I should protect you, really. Get you out of this.”
“Nuh, no, not yet, not yet, don’t go--”
“All right, shh. I’m right here.”
He spreads his legs, which are braced just inside hers so that they pry hers open wider, too. The tension is already easing from between her shoulders for the first bump of his cock against her, easing into place but not inside her, not enough, still just a tease of penetration.
“Yeah,” she says, the word cracking in half at the back of her throat. She’s floating, ready, then twitching back just a little, getting impatient again, because he’s still not in her.
“Mabel,” he says, so heavy on her back, and he sounds a little broken-up, too, finally.
“Put it in,” she whines, tucking her trembling arms under her chest and pressing back against him. She’s not sure when the reeds freed her arms. It doesn’t matter. She’s where she wants to be, waiting.
“Mabel,” he says again, too sweetly, brushing his thumb across her nipple and just nudging at her with his cock, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt her or that they can’t come back from this.
“Please,” she says, helplessly lost for what the hell more he needs from her. Then she remembers: his name like a bird call, the way he came running. “Jerry,” she says, feeling pathetic, begging, arching back to get him closer.
He exhales against her ear with something like victory, like that was indeed what he needed to hear, and then he’s pushing in, parting the hot folds of her where she’s so wet, so ready.
She wakes up feeling empty, drenched in sweat, slick between her thighs, infuriated.
She’s not mad enough about having the dream again not to get herself off on the sticky remnants of it that seem to slide across her skin, and this time it’s better, sharper, her fingers moving almost meanly against her clit. She dips one shallowly inside herself and comes, brilliantly for just half a second, throbbing through the rest of it with a reassembling frustration that pushes a dry sob from the back of her throat.
Her gaze refocuses on the ceiling of her bedroom, which is illuminated only by the streetlight glow that bleeds in from around the edges of her cheap blinds. She’s still empty, still alone. Which is good! Certainly. What a relief to wake from that and not have to deal with any of it here in the real world. Fantastic, tremendous, phew.
She rolls over and punches a pillow before dragging it against her face and huffing into it. The pillow doesn’t feel cool enough against her overheated body. Nothing feels like enough, suddenly.
She tries to sleep but she’s wide awake, itchy. It’s not her skin that itches, exactly, and she doesn’t want to bring herself off again. After an hour of angry tossing and turning on her sheets, which smell too much like her own arousal for her to stomach for another second, she jerks up from the bed and decides she needs to get some air. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning, but so what. She doesn’t have any classes until the afternoon. She can nap after the sun comes up, after she clears her head.
She leaves her skateboard behind, not trusting herself to maintain any kind of balance in her current state. It’s irritatingly warm outside even now, but the quiet in her neighborhood is nice, nobody on the road, no lights on in the houses she passes. She keeps walking, heading toward the part of town where wealthier people live. She’s only moving in this direction for the sake of safety, she thinks, trying to ignore the fact that she’s navigating toward a specific destination.
By the time she’s standing in front of Jerry’s house she’s been walking for almost an hour. There’s a fine sheen of sweat laced over every part of her, and she feels insane, standing on the street and staring up at his front porch and the dark windows on the second floor. She’ll turn around and go home, of course. She just needs to see something. She’ll leave once she figures out what that is.
Walking up the front steps, she feels as if she’s in a trance, being drawn forward by some powerful hypnotism. Maybe this is just another dream; maybe she’s half-sleepwalking. It’s a comforting thought, because what the hell is she going to say if he even answers the door? Her knock is noncommittal, something she’s not sure she wants him to hear. He’s old. He’s probably been asleep since ten.
The curtains over the front windows are pulled shut, and she startles when there’s movement behind them: a flash of light, the glow from a television screen as the image on it shifts to something brighter. Then there are footsteps approaching the door, and a deadbolt being unlocked.
Jerry opens the door looking mildly disheveled, a single escaped strand of his usually slicked-back hair hanging over his forehead as he studies her with an expression that moves quickly from surprise to annoyance to concern. She’s seen his perfect hair come undone in the Glade before, and has seen him there wearing the same type of tight white undershirt he’s got on now, but she’s never seen him in sweatpants and socks, and the sight is disarming enough to make her stumble backward a little, as if she’s been caught spying on him in a private moment.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, stepping toward her. “You okay?”
He looks up and down the street behind her as if he might spot the criminal who chased her to his doorstep. When he meets her eyes again she feels herself shrinking with guilt and embarrassment. Her presence here is inexplicable, inexcusable. All of this is.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, as if she’s mildly surprised to run into him here, at his home, in the middle of the night. “I, uh. Never mind. Gotta go.”
“Wait a minute, hang on!”
He reaches for her when she tries to bolt, gripping her arm to keep her from dashing away.
“What’s going on?” he asks. He’s still holding her forearm when she turns back to gape up at him, his fingers curled lightly into the flesh just under the sleeve of her t-shirt, and the skin to skin contact is enough to make her knees start to buckle a little in the fucked-up state she’s in. “Mabel. What the hell? Come in, it’s okay.”
He lets go of her arm and she follows him inside, not sure what else she could do in this situation and unable to speak. There’s a scent hovering around him that’s familiar and also new, his sweat and a faint whiff of the usual aftershave, both a little different at this hour: warmer, closer, more secret. The house smells like him, too, and his eyes are somewhat spinny when he stands looking down at her in the dark foyer, the TV playing on mute in the living room to their left.
“What happened?” he asks. He’s close enough now that she can smell whiskey on his breath, and when she glances into the living room again she spots a TV tray by the leather recliner that faces the television. On the tray there’s a crystal glass with a swallow or two of booze left in it and a bowl with a spoon and a puddle of milk. “I had a long day,” he says defensively when she looks back up at him, as if she’s judging his post-midnight self-soothing routine.
“Sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t-- be here. Bothering you.”
“Yeah, well, why are you? Something’s wrong, obviously. You don’t have to tell me, just. What do you need from me?”
She hesitates, studying his face and trying to untangle the inevitable impatience and confusion from the sympathy and concern in his eyes.
“It’s okay,” he says, more softly. He sounds a little drunk, or looks it, his eyelids heavy. He was probably dozing in that chair when she knocked. “Whatever you need help with, I’m glad you came. Don’t be sorry.”
“Whatever I need help with,” she repeats dully, trying to figure that out herself. She can hear him breathing, exhaling a little quickly because she’s startled him by showing up like this.
“Did you have a nightmare?” he asks, and it’s condescending enough to make her glower at him briefly.
“Sort of.” She eyes the staircase behind him, which leads up to the dark second floor of the house. “Is, uh. Your mom around?”
“She’s asleep in her room.” He frowns. “Why?”
“‘Cause, I-- There’s something I need, from you, yeah, just-- Can we get some privacy, uh. Like in your bedroom maybe?”
His eyebrows lift slightly, but he quickly composes himself.
“I have a home office,” he says, pointing to a hallway that leads to other rooms downstairs.
Mabel shakes her head sharply. The smell of him, or this place, or both, is getting to her. She’s not going to leave without getting something good.
“Bedroom’s better,” she says, already heading up the stairs.
“Shh!” he says, following. “Don’t stomp so loudly. My room’s on the left, end of the hall.”
The second floor of the house smells even more like him in a private, appealing way, and she’s childishly thrilled by a sense of infiltrating his lair, where he hides from the demands of the public, from her, even from his mother, she supposes, as she pushes the door of his bedroom open with the flat of her palm.
There are no lights on the room, and he shuts the door behind them softly without putting any on. Mabel stands near the bed and surveys the place, which is what she expected: neat and tidy, boring whitish walls adorned with a few tasteful landscape paintings, huge bed where the sheets are tucked around the corners with military precision. She wonders if he makes this bed himself or employs a maid. Hopefully his elderly mother isn’t doing any housekeeping for him.
“Mabel,” he says, pronouncing her name like a warning that she’d better start making sense.
She takes her shirt off and turns toward him. She’s not wearing a bra, and has no underwear on beneath her sagging track pants, but she leaves those on for now and lets him gape wide-eyed at her bare chest. He keeps his house cold, and her nipples have already tightened into points.
“Can we have sex?” she asks, moving backward toward his bed. She toes her boots off one at a time, then sits on the edge of his mattress and removes her socks, aware that this isn’t the most flattering presentation of her naked tits or belly. It doesn’t have to be like that, anyway: she doesn’t need him to think she’s beautiful or whatever, as long as he gets a boner, and it’s already apparent through the fabric of his sweatpants that he likes the sight of her stripping out of her clothes for him.
“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” she says, scooting back onto the bed and spreading her legs when she’s wearing only her pants, knees bent. His sheets feel nice against her bare feet, expensive and silky. “C’mere. It’s okay. I’m not high and I’m not having a manic episode, I swear. I just want you to fuck me is all.”
Jerry remains frozen, open-mouthed. His dick is tenting his pants more dramatically with every passing second, and Mabel has to swallow a pitying laugh when he drags his gaze from her chest up to her eyes. He looks scared.
“Hey, it’s all right,” she says, reaching out a hand toward him. “I know it’s weird, but in another way, it’s not, right?”
She’s glad she was able to take control right away, but she also needs him to, like, do something. Something other than getting hard, which is admittedly a good start. She needs to get this checked off like an item on her to do list, that’s all. Her head won’t be clear until she sates the curiosity that the dream saddled her with, about what it’s like to have sex with him. It won’t be as good as the dreams, couldn’t be, so experiencing it in reality will break the spell, and her increasingly awkward rituals with Jerry at the Glade will either break along with it or not. She can go it alone without him if this spoils things for him.
“Dude,” she says, to admonish him when he continues to hesitate. She realizes quickly what she needs to do to unstick him from his astonishment, and slides her pants down, letting him see that she came over here without underwear on. He might also be able to see how wet she still is after the last dream, because she’s glistening with it in a way that may be obvious even in the low light of the room. His bedroom window faces the front yard, and the bottom half of it is covered by a curtain, the triangular portion that extends toward the room’s soaring ceiling left exposed to the sky and allowing moonlight to spill in. Mabel turns onto her hands and knees in the middle of his tightly made bed, putting her whole damn ass on display. She glances back over her shoulder, still waiting for him to move. “Hurry,” she snaps. “It’s fucking cold in here.”
“I, uh.” He looks back over his shoulder helplessly, as if checking to make sure he actually shut the door. “I could adjust the thermostat,” he says, sounding lost.
She grins at him, still pointing her ass in his direction and arching to look back at him from over her shoulder. Something about the inanity of that statement eases her fears that he won’t go through with it. He’s already decided.
“Don’t bother,” she says. “I know you can warm me up yourself. Come do it.”
He stumbles toward the bed as if he’s forgotten how to walk with a hardon. Once there, he crawls toward her with a determined huff and moves more confidently, taking hold of her hips and trying to flip her around to face him.
“Nuh, I want it like this,” she says, twisting in his grip so that she’s got her back to him again, propped up on her hands and knees. “Trust me,” she says, shivering a little when he runs one hand up her spine and toward the back of her neck, touching her with uncertain reverence. “I know what I like.”
“Do you.”
He sounds like he’s still a little underwater, struggling to believe this is real. She’s okay with that: she’s right there with him, but giddily so. This is fun, already. He’s clearly in the palm of her hand, ready to do as she asks, and she’s dripping wet just for the clean scent of his bedsheets and the way he moves his hands from her hips down to her thighs so lightly, exploring this new territory with caution, as if she’s a wild animal who might be spooked. His hands are rougher than she might have guessed, just like in the dreams, and she wonders if this is a recent development brought on by all the work he’s done in the Glade: work he’s done for her, really. She realizes that now, and in the absurdity of this moment it strikes her as a little too real. She has to put that epiphany away for later consideration, which is easy enough when he reaches between her legs with one shaky hand to feel how wet she is for him.
Mabel gasps, impressed and relieved that he just went right for it. Jerry moans and keeps his hand steady for her needy bucking, letting her drive herself down into his touch. She drops her head down between her arms and moves as if she’s back in one of her dreams, grinding against his hand with shameless need.
“Jesus,” he whispers. “You needed-- This, yeah? This is what you came for?”
“More than that,” she says, needing him to just know, the way he does in the dream, though she supposes she does have to beg for it there, too, at first. “Jerry,” she says, lifting her head to peek back at him again. His eyes look crazy, wild with desire and disbelief. She likes it. “Fuck me, go. Do it.”
“Ask nicely.”
She’s surprised by that, and he must be able to tell, because he smirks and moves his hand away.
“No,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I didn’t come here to be nice to you.”
“That’s too bad. Because if you were, I’d be so nice to you.”
He moves back to push his pants and boxers down, kicks them away and leaves his shirt on. She’s not sure what sort of expression she’s got on her face when she swivels around to get a better look at his dick, tucking her knees against her side. She would guess that she looks hungry, above all, because her mouth gets wet. His dick is big and thick the way she thought it would be, twitching for the heat of her gaze when it lingers there.
“This what you need?” he asks, stroking himself while she stares. She forces herself to look up into his face, only feigning defiance because: yes, exactly that, there it is. He lifts one shoulder cooly. “Just say so and it’s all yours.”
“I did already! God.”
“Shh! Keep your voice down.”
“I-- Sorry--” She’s dizzy, looking down at his dick, up at his face, feeling the edges of herself fuzzing away and wanting to dissolve them even further.
“Do I need to gag you?” he asks, swooning down onto the bed to bring his face close to hers, eyes locked on hers and seemingly serious. “Or can you keep quiet?”
“Quiet-- I’ll be quiet.”
She can taste his heady whiskey breath before he presses his mouth to hers, which is already opening for him. She hadn’t planned on letting him kiss her; somehow she hadn’t expected that he’d try to. She opens wider for the heat of his pushy tongue, lets him press inside and nudge her tongue into sluggish action. Then it’s not so sluggish, sliding eagerly against his because the taste and heat of his mouth are getting her off in a way that kissing never has before. At some point she allowed her eyes to sink shut, and she forces them open when he presses her down onto the bed, onto her back, still kissing her hotly while he looms over her on his knees and elbows, bracketing her in beneath him.
“No, like this,” she says, though that felt really good, too good: too intense, too close, too much. She squirms over onto her belly with determination, wanting to hump the mattress because she’s so lit up all over, needing friction everywhere. Instead she pushes up onto her hands and knees and gasps under her breath when she feels him press down against her back just like she wanted him to, just like the dreams.
“God,” he says, leaning in to breathe against the side of her neck. His mouth is still wet from their kissing, and when he starts lapping and nipping at her throat she pushes into both sensations greedily, shivering under the heat of his body and feeling like she’s actually masterful at sex after all, despite those previous experiences that left her feeling losery and the past two years of not even trying, because who wants to be close to anybody after you find out what loss is like.
“Yeah,” she says, breathing the word out without meaning to when he finally reaches for her chest, squeezing her tits and digging his thumbnails in against her nipples. She yelps a little, and laughs when he covers her mouth with one big hand.
“Too much?” he asks, muttering this against her ear like a dare.
“Hell no,” she says, the words muffled against his palm.
She laughs again, sloppily and with her eyes closed, when he pushes his thumb into her mouth. Sucking on it makes her sigh in satisfaction, which makes no sense, but she stopped caring which way is up when she stepped through his front door. As long as he’s got her like this, held tight and floating with relief that’s edged just right with wanting more, she’ll suck on any part of him he sticks in there.
“Need me here?” he asks, dragging the shaft of his cock against her clit and through her folds, igniting the whole dripping mess of her with the promise of pushing inside. She gurgles a reply around his thumb, nodding. “Fuck,” he whispers, moving his hips a little more urgently. “Your mouth’s all wet, too.”
“Put it in,” she says, turning her head so that his thumb drags free from her lips, hoping her words are intelligible and not just coming out like animalistic grunts. It’s hard to say: she feels feral and only wants to get wilder, wishes she could roar with approval for every new touch he gives her.
“Will you ever ask nicely?” he asks, pinching a nipple and already covering her mouth with his other hand, anticipating her high-pitched squeak.
“Please,” she whispers, right into his hand, panting against it. “Please, Jerry, you-- fuckhead phony. You said-- Whatever I need help with. You’d do it. You said.”
Maybe it was the ‘fuckhead phony’ insult, which has a sting of truth to it, at least from their previous understanding of each other as bitter enemies. Jerry grunts into her ear like a warning that she’s about to get what she asked for and then he’s pushing into her, not quite brutal but not slow, like he can’t wait any longer either.
Mabel moans into his hand, and it’s good that he’s helping her conceal the noises that finally having him seated deep inside her push from the depths of her lungs, because these are noises of pure, humiliating gratitude. At least he can’t hear them in their most unguarded form, unless he feels them more than hears them, shuddering through both of them as he makes an answering noise against her ear. It’s just a long, choppy sigh of pleasure, but there’s real power in it that she feels seeping into her bones, glowing from within her ribcage like stolen treasure, because she pulled that sound of him and it belongs to her.
“God you feel so good,” he says, already moving in testing stutters of his hips, the hand that isn’t pressed over her mouth snaking down to stroke her trembling belly.
She nods all dumb and slow, eyes closed, because those are her thoughts exactly.
She’s never needed something this much and actually gotten it. Except, well: she needed the Glade back and she got it, with his help. She lets herself slacken in his grip as the clenching feeling of approaching release already starts to tighten low within her, where he’s pressing in so right, dragging raw noises from her throat that she keeps as quiet as she can. It doesn’t matter if she keeps herself in check or not: he’s got it under control, he’s handling it, her, everything.
Almost as soon as he reaches down to rub her clit she starts to come, held on edge for days by the dreams and the heatwave, and by knowing he was out there in the world and accessible while her mind teased her relentlessly with the idea of having this. He’s still fucking into her, snapping his hips and huffing his breath, and she knows he feels her coming because he sucks his breath in like he’s impressed or overwhelmed by the feeling of her rippling around him, undone.
“Oh shit,” he says, stiffening with what feels like alarm while she continues to pant through her orgasm, lost in it. “Shit, ah, fuck-- Hang on wait, stop. I gotta puh, pull out, I’ll come--”
“Just come in me,” she mutters, her chest collapsing against the mattress while she keeps her ass lifted, every part of her still throbbing in the best, best way.
“No, um, unless-- You’re on, ah, like, birth control, or--”
She shakes her head, asking him not to pull out as much as she’s conveying that she has no protection from what he could pump into her. She’s not thinking, all animal and no girl, so it’s good that he’s still got his wits enough to ignore her whining and pull out carefully, hissing and slapping her flank when she clenches as he slides free from her.
“Stuh, stop that, are you crazy? Fuck, well. What am I saying, clearly you are.”
He stumbles away from the bed and she flops down fully onto her front, half ready to sleep and half ready to fight him, for calling her crazy and for pulling out of her before filling her up. Probably not a terrific idea, admittedly, but in her stupor of satisfaction it was what she really wanted, for a few seconds there.
Jerry turns her onto her back when he returns to the bed. He’s rolling a condom onto his dick with his other hand, still looking crazed. Mabel feels victorious and queenly; she laughs a little at the look on his face, and throws her head back with a lung-clearing gasp when he spreads her thighs and settles back into her. Jerry hums in satisfaction as he lowers down onto her, letting his weight press her more deeply into the mattress. She can’t even see straight for how good it feels to have him back, doesn’t need to come again, just wants to keep feeling full and pinned, like she’s melted something essential at the core of him so she gets to have this. She wraps her arms around his neck, legs around his back, and holds on tight while he plows into her, the slight scent of his sweat and grooming products that she kept catching on the air now surrounding her like a full body caress, lifting the shaky, fucked-out wreck of her and rocking her on waves of all five senses that just keep coming, crashing into her.
He makes a helpless noise against her ear when he comes, grinding his hips mindlessly against her spread open thighs. She’s still holding on to him like she’ll drop into a fathomless ocean if she lets go. He noses at her jaw with a few noisy huffs, animal-like himself, then pulls back to look at her blearily.
“Now I’m hot,” she mumbles, pushing at his chest. It’s too much when he looks at her like that, like she needs to take his hand and lead him out of this dream she yanked him into.
“Sorry-- Here.”
He detaches from her with a wince, like all that effort hurt his back or something, and considering his age, it may have. He’s forty-something. It doesn’t matter. She crawls into the center of his bed and unearths one of four long, firm pillows from beneath the pulled-tight bedsheets. The pillow smells like him but cleaner, softer, and it’s perfectly cool against her sweltering body when she hugs herself around it.
She’s asleep like someone flipped a switch, like she got what she came for, because she did.
The sleep she sinks into at the center of Jerry’s bed envelops her completely, cloud-like. She doesn’t stir and doesn’t dream, just drifts weightless in a feeling of unbothered safety. When she wakes up she’s not surprised to find herself in a room filled with bright sunshine, where everything around her is soft and comfortable, her naked body artfully enclosed in the right combination of cool air and warm bedsheets. Then she remembers where she is, what she did, and sits up with a sharp intake of breath like a shot has been fired.
She’s in Jerry’s house. In his room, his bed. Okay, that clocks, things happened, she doesn’t need to freak out, except she’s doing it anyway, rapidly. It doesn’t help that he’s nowhere in sight, could be anywhere, waiting to pounce on her with whatever happens next, which she can’t even imagine. His bedroom door is closed. There’s no sound from downstairs, only the shrill beeping of a garbage truck on the road outside. She must have been out of her mind. Him, too. How did they possibly align into mutual action with such madness? She sits in the middle of his bed, stunned and still stripped down to nothing, holding his silky blankets against her chest and trying to work out the mystery.
By the time Jerry appears with a mug of what smells like coffee, she thinks she may have figured it out. He halts in his steps when he sees the look on her face, then closes the door softly behind him.
“Good morning,” he says, speaking quietly. “Are you--”
“I know what you did,” she says, spitting the words out to try to harness some real conviction behind them. “What you’re doing.”
“Huh?”
“In the Glade. You installed new speakers, didn’t you? Broadcasting some fucked-up subliminal shit? Something that makes me sex crazed? For you? You might as well just admit it. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Jerry rolls his eyes and sets the coffee mug on a tall dresser by the door. He’s dressed for work, polished to perfection, a white collar shirt tucked into grey slacks that look too hot for the weather, dark blue tie, shiny loafers, his hair carefully slicked back. He walks toward the bed but stops a few feet shy of it, crossing his arms over his chest and regarding Mabel’s petulant glare without a hint of indulgence.
“Right,” he says. “You know the machines wired to those speakers were developed by actual scientists, right? For the use of construction companies all over the world? But sure, it’s just as likely that I found some evil scientists to design a Mabel-seducing machine. That sounds more plausible than the alternative explanation.”
Mabel doesn’t want to hear his alternative explanation. She tries to cling to her theory, to develop a case against him that absolves her of the way she behaved beneath him the night before. She can’t quite form words when he looks down at her like that, like she’s the lucky benefactor of noble feats performed by his incredible dick, or whatever he’s thinking. She turns her snarl in the direction of the room’s attached bathroom, which is fragrant with the lingering scents from the shower he took before putting on his prick mayor costume.
“I’ll figure it out,” she says, teeth gritted. “Whatever you did to me. Because it was definitely something.”
“Okay,” he says, slowly. He seems to consider how to continue, probably doing some political calculations involving risk and reputation. “I came up here half ready to ask you what kind of blackmail scheme this is, but I guess you’ve got your own insecurities to work through.”
“Don’t fucking talk about my insecurities. What-- I mean, my god, man! What did you think you were doing? Huh? Letting me bully you into your bedroom for-- That?”
“You caught me in a moment of weakness.”
He looks a little queasy after saying so. Mabel scrutinizes him with a blistering stare until she can see the subtle signs of his hangover: a little puffiness under his eyes, a lack of color in his cheeks. He still looks pretty good, considering they unstitched each other’s seams the night before, and she resents that, too, wondering what she looks like slouched in the middle of his bed, shooting daggers at him.
“I’m gonna use your shower,” she says. And then, just to prove that she’s not afraid of him, she throws the blankets away to brazenly reveal her nakedness. “I assume it’s through there?” she says, pointing in the direction of the bathroom while he surveys her with his lips parted around some protest that died on his tongue.
“Uh, sure, yes.” He looks away, wheeling about until he finds something he can focus on: the coffee mug. “I brought this for you,” he says, reaching for it and then letting his arms flop against his sides without picking it up. “It’s still hot, so. Careful.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” she says, though she does, sometimes, if she can afford the good stuff. She walks into the bathroom as casually as she can, letting him watch.
Under the blast of the water, she closes her eyes and tries to recalibrate. She can’t really make herself believe he installed some nefarious fuck-hypnotism machines around the Glade to entice her into his bed, but there’s something at work within her that rearranged her brain without her permission. It’s probably to do with having stayed in a simulated animal body for longer than was scientifically advisable. That was almost a year ago, but maybe there are heat cycles involved, phases of the moon, seasons set side for mating. She slaps her hands over her eyes hard when she remembers telling him he could come in her without a condom. At least he didn’t, but she envies the fact that he was the more level-headed one, and that he’s calmer this morning, too. He shouldn’t be, speaking of blackmail. She’s a penniless college student, radical activist, pariah. He’s the one with plenty to lose.
She tries to cling to this as reassurance when she emerges from the bathroom rubbing a towel through her hair and letting him take in her freshly scrubbed skin. He’s sitting in a big armchair to the right of the huge picture window. The curtains are still shut over the lower half, but the top portion lets in plenty of brilliant sunlight.
“Where’s my--” she asks, spotting her folded t-shirt and track pants on the end of the bed before she can finish. She crosses the room and pulls on the t-shirt, turning back to Jerry without putting on her pants. His eyes scan her bare legs, and he swallows hard when he looks up into her still-angry face.
“I know that was wrong of me,” he says, turning up his hands like he’s on camera, taking accountability for some political screw up. “I should have been-- The voice of reason. For the sake of our, you know. Partnership in the eyes of the community. I’m also struggling with, um. How that happened, exactly.”
“My brain’s probably a little fried,” Mabel says, lifting one shoulder like she’s over it already. “Yours, too. We went through that whole thing-- Together. Sort of. I don’t know. I’m sorry, too. For, like. Using your body when you were impaired and shit.”
He cocks his head and frowns, adjusts his tie.
“Impaired?”
“You’d clearly been hitting the bottle when I showed up. I took advantage of you, really.”
He snorts.
“I was fine,” he says. “Maybe a little tired. Taken off guard. I’m sure this is news to you, but men my age can’t perform the way I did if they’re drunk.”
“Perform?”
Mabel guffaws. She still hasn’t put on her pants. The hot shower got her kind of worked up again, or maybe it’s the sight of him in that chair with his legs spread in her direction like he dares her to get closer to him and not end up begging to be fucked again.
“You seemed pretty satisfied with my performance last night,” he says, smoothing the tie down over his chest.
“You’re getting hard,” she says, ignoring that comment and nodding to his lap, where a boner is increasingly visible against the right inseam of his trousers. “So that’s interesting.”
“I think you know how attractive you are,” he says, and then the missing color comes back to his face in a rush. She sees him swallow again, his throat bobbing behind his white collar and the knot of that tie. “You could finish getting dressed, if you don’t want me to-- Respond.”
Mabel looks down at her scrawny legs and the baggy t-shirt that hangs over the rest of her. She’s not sure she knows she’s attractive. It’s not something she particularly worries about, but she’s always thought of herself as too jagged in places, too elfin in others.
“Take it out,” she says when she looks up at him again, just to see what she can get away with in the light of day, her heart pounding for the excitement of controlling him, not because she’s starting to want him again, like, urgently.
“You take it out,” he says without missing a beat, his knees falling open a bit wider. He’s way too good at appearing calm despite anything she throws at him, certainly practiced at this skill due to his slimy chosen career, but his face is still flushed and his dick is really straining against his fly now, betraying his excitement.
She wants to leave a wet spot on his slacks, screw up his hair, see his dick pulsing in her merciless fist in the light of day. It makes her knees shake and her vision blur a little. All the rage she’d tried to summon slithers away.
“I’m gonna be late,” he says when she takes a tentative step toward him, then another. He doesn’t look upset about this. He’s suppressing a satisfied smile already.
She wants to slap that look off his face as much as she wants all that other stuff. When he reaches for her she feints away from his hands and sinks to her knees between his spread legs, drinking in the spark of shock this sets off in his eyes as they widen, fixed on hers because she held his gaze all the way down.
“Oh, wow,” she says with fake astonishment as she reaches up to rub his trapped erection. “You’re all worked up. Can’t go into the office like this, can ya?”
Jerry sighs and reclines slowly back against the chair, his eyelids fluttering as he keeps watching her face while her hand strokes over him, teasing.
“Your fault,” he says, his words already a little slurry, like his mouth just flooded with excess spit. “Mmph. Yeah. Take care of that for me. Be a good girl, for once. Make me feel good.”
Then it’s her mouth that’s flooding, even as her nose twitches because she’s pretty sure that was corny as crap. Her pussy must like corny bullshit because she’s already dripping just for hearing him say that, and for rubbing him while he looks down at her like this, his hands gripped tightly around the arms of the chair like he’s barely holding himself back from grabbing her and yanking her up onto his dick.
“No,” he says when she opens her mouth and lowers it just over the bulge of his cock. She looks up at him, surprised. He’s stone-faced, pushing her forehead back gently with two fingers. “No slobber on the slacks, please. I just had these dry cleaned. Take it out if you want to play with it.”
She snorts and rears back with a look of disgust because that was beyond corny. He lifts his lip to mirror her reaction, then grins stupidly, like they are playing some kind of game, doesn’t she know yet?
The grin is just charming enough to get her reaching for his zipper as requested. To most other people he’s extremely charming: she forgets that, or assumes those people are braindead zombies who are easily tricked by a handsome face and empty promises. That may be true, and she’s always considered herself immune to the town-wide disease of his appeal, but there is something about him: like this, spilled back in the chair and waiting to see what she’ll do to him next, trying to keep his breathing under control like he’s such a cool guy even while his dick threatens to split his precious dry-cleaned slacks open along the seams. He’s okay, like this. In a limited way. Until he says the next wrong-ass, old man thing.
She’s never given a blow job before, but taking his bare dick in her hand doesn’t intimidate her the way she may have thought. With the previous guy she had sex with, this wasn’t even remotely on the table, but her mouth goes to the fat head of Jerry’s dick easily, and it feels pretty good, just watching him start to lose it and leak against her lips while she messily makes out with his cock.
Bet you didn’t think I had it in me, she thinks, fighting a grin while he watches her from under heavy eyelids, never taking his eyes off hers. His knuckles are white as he continues to grip both arms of the chair, and his cheeks have gone from pinkish to reddish.
“Okay, enough,” he says, lifting one of his previously clawed-tight hands to beckon her with a curled finger. “Get up here, get on me, right now.”
She scoffs as if she objects while already flinging herself into his lap. She’s sweating under her t-shirt just for how much she wants him in her again, but she leaves the shirt on, not wanting to shed her armor while he’s wearing all of his. The fancy clothes and perfected hair don’t seem to help him hold it together while she sinks down onto him, and this time she has to press her hand over his mouth when he groans loud enough to be heard from the other side of the door.
“Shh,” she says, sharply. “Isn’t-- Your mom?”
“She left for senior summer camp,” he says, the words muffled against her palm and absurd enough to make her quake with laughter, which also causes her to clench up tight around him. They both groan for the feeling.
Mabel arches into the sensation of fullness, slightly different in this position and so good that she loses focus on Jerry entirely for a while, throwing her head back and riding him like he belongs to her, letting herself get loud while he watches. At one point he pushes her t-shirt off; she doesn’t care anymore, lets it fall to the floor and lets him watch her tits bounce while she slams herself down onto him, pretty sure those slacks of his are going to get a little fucked up after all.
“Hang on,” he says, grabbing her hips. “Shit, fuck-- I forgot.”
He eases her up and off of him, and she expects to be carried to the bed, but he’s just digging his wallet out from the back pocket of his pants and retrieving a foil-wrapped condom.
“Shit.” Mabel puts her hand over her mouth, feels herself getting hot with shame. She’s smarter than this. Wasn’t thinking. Again.
“I’m out of practice with these-- Practicalities,” Jerry says, rolling the condom down onto his dick while she leans back, still breathless, watching. “Okay, c’mon-- C’mere, continue.”
She snorts at the phrasing but does as he asked, sinking back onto him with a sigh. When she grabs his tie to tug him forward, she’s not sure if she was planning to kiss him or if she just wanted to jerk him around a little, to regain a sense of control after being reminded by that condomless interlude that she’s way, way out of it.
“Careful,” he says, grabbing her hand to unwind her fingers from the tie. “Shit, you’re-- Look, you’re wrecking it, it’s wrinkled.”
“Who cares,” she says, still moving on him, getting close. “Good.”
“If you’re gonna be a jerk,” he says, yanking at the knot on the tie until it falls open. “I’ll have to reign you in.”
She sputters a laugh but lets him pull her wrists together and wrap the unfastened tie around them. It’s soft and silky and he’s a dork, watching her face while he binds her hands.
“There,” he says, giving her ass a little clap before he drives his hips up, making her gasp. “How’s that, for you? Hope you’re getting close, ‘cause I’m running out of time.”
“Shut up,” she says, not even sure which part she objects to. Just the rub of his hard stomach against her clit is getting her pretty close, and the way he’s moving his hips now, almost teasing her. She still needs his hand, and he seems to know that, or see it on her face, because he reaches down and fucking pinches her clit’s puffy hood in a way that makes her shriek, clamp around him crazily and come with a tidal wave ripple that sends her pitching forward into his arms.
“Okay, jesus, okay, fuck--”
He groans and holds her against his chest, and he must be coming, too, because as she regains a thought process she feels him shudder underneath her, shaking especially hard in his thighs.
For a while they just slump together, breathing hard and clinging to each other despite the increased heat in the room. Mabel's hands are still loosely bound together with his tie, and without meaning to she's closed her fingers around the open collar of his shirt, gripping tightly enough to wrinkle it, too. She doesn’t know how to make the next move, or who should do it, if waiting for the other person to crack means winning or not. Her cheek is on Jerry’s shoulder, and she hopes she’s leaving some kind of sweat stain on his perfect white shirt.
She feels something vibrating and for a moment is so disoriented that she doesn’t realize it’s his phone, in the pocket of his pants. He grunts and shifts her on his lap so he can reach it. He’s still inside her, softening within the condom. She huffs against his throat when he answers the goddamn phone.
“Yeah?” he barks.
“Yolanda agreed to postpone until eleven,” someone on the other line says. It’s a young-sounding man, presumably an assistant. Mabel licks Jerry’s neck to distract him.
“Great,” Jerry says. “What about-- Jesus, ow!”
Mabel sits back with a smirk and rubs her thumb fake-lovingly over the little bite mark she left just above his collar.
“Sir?” the guy on the phone says.
“Nothing, just-- Mosquitos. I’m at the-- Thing. With the girl. I’ll be there in ten.”
He hangs up and lifts her off of him with ease, placing her in the chair as he stands. His legs look a little unsteady, but only for a moment. He turns his back on her as he tucks himself into his pants and walks over to a full-length mirror to assess the damage.
Mabel wiggles her wrists until the tie falls off of them. Jerry is fixing his hair in the mirror, pretending not to be checking on her as he does.
“Don’t bite me,” he says, sounding so wounded that she laughs and throws the balled up tie in his direction.
“Put that one back on,” she says. “And don’t complain about biting if you’re going to pinch me like that.”
“You didn’t like it?” He looks worried.
She shrugs. She literally came for it, so probably shouldn’t lead him astray. Though it’s ridiculous to think they’ll do this again.
It’s more ridiculous, holding his gaze in the mirror while he looks at her with eyes that beg for approval, to think that they won’t.
“I liked it,” she mumbles. “You probably liked me biting you, too. You’re just obsessed with appearances.”
“Being obsessed with appearances is part of my job. I gotta go. What are you, uh. What’s your plan here?”
“Here?” She spreads her arms across his chair and flexes her back, displaying her nudity in an aggressive way that comes naturally. She’s never felt powerful like this. His lips are parted just slightly; she wonders if he could get it up again, if she could make him even later.
“Yeah,” he says, looking like he’s forgotten what the question was. “Are you in some kind of trouble? What is this? What’s going on?”
Mabel groans at his mood-killing paranoia, though she can’t really blame him. She’s acting properly nuts.
“I’ll depart the mayor’s residence discreetly,” she says, pulling her knees up to her chest and giving him a sarcastic salute. “Don’t worry. Go, run on to your meeting. I won’t steal your TV on the way out or anything.”
“So you’re okay?”
He holds up a hand, lifting his palm and spreading his fingers in a ‘stop’ gesture, though she’s not moving toward him. He’s managing her, making sure that he’s not leaving a raging forest fire here to burn down his life.
“I’m fine,” she says sharply, insulted. “Thanks for the fuck. I’ll be on my way in ten minutes. You can go.”
He stands there for a few blinks, studying her and looking sort of sad, then straightens his shoulders and goes to his closet for a fresh tie. The one she threw at him is discarded on the floor like a deflated balloon.
“You told that guy on the phone you’d be at the thing with the girl,” she says when he emerges from his closet, knotting a tie in a slightly different shade of blue around his neck. “Did you mean me? At the Glade?”
“My whole staff knows I spend time there. With you.” He’s flushing again, then looking at her like she’s crazy for not understanding this. “Why?”
“I’m not going to blackmail you, Jerry.”
“I know that.”
As if he knows everything about her. She’s pretty sure she just hardcore proved that he does not.
“I’ll see you later,” he says, grabbing a briefcase that was propped against the bottom of his dresser as he makes his way toward the door. He points to the mug of coffee. “That’s still there if you want it.”
“Noted. Bye.”
She maintains a casual nude-in-repose posture in the chair until he finally tears his worried gaze from hers and gets himself on the other side of the door, closing it behind him. Even after she’s heard him descend the stairs and exit through the front door, drive away, she sits there in a sunbeam that’s pouring in through the highest arc of the big bedroom window.
When she hoists herself off the chair she feels exhausted, wrung out, and really good. Which is fucked up. She’s judging herself for it, fully. She puts her t-shirt on and wanders around the peaceful quiet of Jerry’s room, noting his dweeby decor and personal effects, expensive grooming products. On the dresser beside the mug of coffee that she doesn’t want there’s a framed picture of him as a younger man, and it makes her sniff in mild disgust, because who has a picture of themselves framed and on display? He’s maybe sixteen in the picture, grinning on a beach and holding a surfboard across his tanned chest. He was pretty much gorgeous back then, the kind of silver spoon dickbag who grins with all the confidence in the world, knowing he’s going to be handed everything he wants. He’s lucky he’s aged well. Still a huge dork for having this photo out, like. What the hell.
She wonders if it was a gift from his mother, which makes her think of her grandmother. The pleasant exhaustion that was closing over her curdles toward defeat, and she hurries to put her track pants on and get out of Jerry’s lair. One of the last conversations she had with her grandmother was about believing that passion for individual people is a waste of time, a distraction. Humanity is only worth a shit collectively, Mabel said. Big picture is the only picture that matters.
Her grandmother had chortled in the way she did when Mabel said something particularly ‘youthful,’ which was her gentle term for ‘naive.’
“Believe that for as long as you can,” she said. “And don’t beat yourself up too much if you do ever find an individual who’s worth a shit. It could happen. Never know.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Mabel mumbled, regretting that she’d tried to vocalize any of this. She already had the sense that her window for discussing important things with her grandmother was closing, too fast. “I mean obviously I love you. I guess it’s the idea of romance that annoys me.”
“I had a feeling that’s what you were getting at.”
Mabel didn’t push the subject. Her grandfather had died too young, before Mabel was born. She knew her grandmother still missed him. It wasn’t like she didn’t envy people who found real meaning in relationships like that. She was just sure that would never be her.
She’s still sure, walking home after the night at Jerry’s. A summer storm is rolling in, sending the trees along the streets she traverses into a turmoil of windblown rioting. She thinks of going to the Glade, but with lightning flashing in the distance she won’t be able to swim. Going home doesn’t seem right either, and she’s sure as hell not bothering with class today. She still feels scattered and itchy, as if she’s missing something. She checks her pocket to make sure she didn’t leave her phone in Jerry’s bedroom.
It’s there where she excepted to find it, and she has a text from him that makes her stop walking and stand miserably in place, wishing she wasn’t so glad to read it.
I’ll be at the thing later for whatever
See you there.
He refuses to call it the Glade. ‘The thing’ is so insulting. She’s flushed through with renewed, vivid irritation, hating him a little. A lot! But she types a reply even while the rain starts to splatter the asphalt and crash through the leaves overhead.
ok
Two letters more than he deserves, probably. She runs for cover as the rain really starts coming down, and after a few minutes of being pelted with it she’s laughing like a dumb kid, not even sure why.
*