“Now then, shall we make a deal, Maxwell?” the man asked, reaching out gnarled fingers to move an onyx pawn one square forward across the chessboard. The man looked up from the game, lips forming a slanted, unnatural smile.

I jolted awake in a sticky cold sweat at one in the morning to a clock flashing neon light and a whistling, icy draft. The scratch of my antique record player coming to life only added to the absurd horror story cliché of waking up to find a young woman downstairs, tapping the glass of Phineas’ fish tank with a small black switchblade.

Fat, October globs of rain clicked against the windows in staccato drumbeats, offsetting the smooth jazz notes of Miles Davis’ ‘Stella by Starlight’ echoing through the house. Clumps of brown, wet leaves were plastered to the entryway, the front door thrown wide to a cacophony of stormy skies and blurred orange streetlight.

Samantha Ross didn’t look up.

She kept tapping the glass as Phineas swarm in quick, frenzied circles.

Eights years and I still knew that face by heart.

The last of the baby fat had melted away and she looked like what she might have, had she made it to twenty-four like the rest of us. That awkward, coltish sixteen-year-old had been replaced with the smooth, toned curves of a young woman. Her once pale, vibrant gray eyes had faded to cloudy dark coals.

Unsettling.

That was the word for it. The things she had wanted to do once she grew up were there. Her once flame colored hair now slipped through a spectrum of red, from strawberry blonde to deep crimson, mingling with lines of black. A small emerald stud in her nose flashed a sickly green glow in the near-darkness.

I shivered at the bottom of the staircase, bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only a pair of baggy Michigan State sweatpants.

Samantha was oblivious, bouncing her head along to the music and the tapping of her pocketknife against the fish tank.

She wore a black top I’d not seen in years, the material straining from the growth into a firm C-Cup. In large white lettering it read “Chicks Dig Big Black Pianos” and I had to stifle the laugh that bubbled its way up my belly. Her shoes squished, heavy with water, as she shifted her weight.

Phineas had finally stopped his spasms and began to float to the top, yet another dead beta fish in a long line of siblings that never saw two years.

Samantha’s butterfly lips moved, but no sound came out. She bobbed her head once more to the music, and then shook it, shrugging to herself as if in deep conversation or thinking up lyrics to the song that had none.

I’d been around a few unstable people in my life, especially during a short juvie stint. You saw kids crumble all the time. They couldn’t handle the mistakes they made. They could never understand the why of it. I was the same, I guess. I just hid it better. I never got packed off to the psychiatric ward and the twisted monsters than ran that wing of the center. I still remember the screams of Bobby Ackerman as they dragged him away.

“I like your scars,” she said, never looking up. “They’re pretty.”

I stiffened. Her voice was smooth and clear, the southern drawl barely perceptible now. Just like she said it would be, given enough time. My skin pebbled, the hair on my arms lifting. I looked down at my chest, crisscrossed with thin lines of silvery scars and punctures. I never thought of them as pretty. Or believed, as Keanu Reeves had once said, “chicks dig scars.” I deserved them though.

“I think I used to live here,” she added a few minutes later, breaking the silence.

I nodded.

That had been about eight years ago. I still remember the looks on her parent’s faces: confusion, anger, and the distraught sadness that takes hold when a daughter disappears entirely. They hadn’t stayed long after that. A couple months with no leads and a ‘For Sale’ sign appeared in the front lawn. Since then, the place had exchanged hands multiple times before I finally moved back and bought it for cheap during the recession.

Samantha finally looked up from Phineas’ tank, a curious expression on her face. The switchblade was still clenched her in her tiny first, the knuckles turning white.

“I feel I should know you.” She went to scratch at her temple with the knife, thought better of it, and lowered her arm, pointing the knife at me instead. “I’m sure I’ve seen you before. Why can’t I remember?” The curiosity that lit her eyes just moments before had given way to frustration.

“It’s Max. Max Townes,” I answered. Her eyes narrowed, annoyed that I hadn’t let her figure it out herself.

The icy draft swept through the house again. I went into the laundry room and grabbed a T-shirt out of the dryer and put it on, then went to the electric fireplace in the living room and flipped the switch. The fire puffed to life, bathing the room in a muted orange glow, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

Samantha had moved away from the fish tank, knife now gone from her hand. Miles Davis continued to pump softly in time with the rain and Samantha swayed and spun to the music, rocking her hips, waterlogged shoes sloshing along.

I looked back toward the fire and images sparked to life, rapidly at first, before slowing down into easily discernible memories.

I remember when I first met Sam back in the eighth grade, when I still bounced around from one mistake to the next, making trouble to keep my overactive imagination pacified. I didn’t get into fights by any means, but obeying authority figures was never my style. I tore down a neighbor’s fence when I was seven to make a fort and act out scenes I’d read in books or seen in movies. I can still remember the screams of my mother to “put that goddamn fence back together! Now!”

Sam was different. She hadn’t been a golden child by any means. Not perfect. Like many girls, I suppose, she got into her own fair share of trouble in defiance of her mother: a pierced navel at sixteen and a phase where she dyed her red-gold locks all the colors of the rainbow and wore miniskirts.

Artistic expression, she had called it.

Unladylike, her mother told her.

One thing you could always say, however, was that everyone loved Sam.

But they loved her piano playing more.

I caught her playing Elton John’s “Benny and the Jets” in the music room one day after class when we were fifteen. We were friends at the point, just getting to know each other. She was swaying back and forth on the piano bench, fingers dancing across the keys; her face was flushed a deep red, matching her hair.

I fell for her like a skydiver leaping from a plane.

The sound of ripping clothing jolted me back to the real world.

The naked switchblade was back in Sam’s hands, cutting her tank top to shreds, revealing an expanse of lightly tanned, freckled skin.

“It’s too hot,” she said. “Why is it so hot?” Her eyes are gray storm clouds, butterfly lips pressed into a thin line. Her knife work was clumsy, drawing a thin red line across her skin.

I was stunned for a moment, then launched into a tirade of curses as I strode forward and caught her wrist. She struggled a moment, eyes filled with…I wasn't quite sure, but it wasn’t anything kind.

Then the fighting just stopped.

It was only then that I realized how cold her skin was. Not the coldness of death or what you’d imagine vampires to feel like. It was cold like she’d been outside in a blizzard.

What followed always began the same way, everything coalesced into vivid imagery. Her memories from that day were mostly abstractions though. Emotions.

Hate.

Fear.

Confusion.

Love.

A thousand different conflicting feelings were compressed together into a torrential hurricane.

She wiggled a cold hand between our bodies, pushing hard on my chest. For a split second I saw her, the real Sam. Then it was gone, replaced by something sinister and erotic—her, yet at the same time, most certainly not her.

I saw nothing but red, transported back to the day everything went fucking sideways.

I had had everything planned that day. The location, the words, everything, down to the moment I’d flip the stereo on and play her favorite song. Every cheesy thing boys that age thought girls that age liked. It was foolproof. I might even be able to steal third base with her on that park bench, a hand straying between her legs.

I was sixteen. I couldn’t have known any better.

Another flash of red.

And there we were. She was sitting on the park bench beside me, the Academy’s lake serving as the quintessential, clichéd backdrop. The wind coming off the lake was chilly; the October sun doing little to warm us. Sam wore a pair of tight black yoga pants, a pink Red Hot Chili Peppers jersey that clashed horribly with her hair, and a knowing smirk on her lips. I think she knew how over the top it all was, but she had decided to humor me. I fumbled through my “speech” for a good five minutes before she took mercy on me and shut me up with a finger to my lips. Her button nose crinkled as the laughter reached her eyes. Then she kissed me, pink tongue slipping into my mouth and I thought I just might get to 3 rd base after all when she pulled away, gray eyes sparkling with lust. Then she froze, like she was part of a photograph stuck in time.

That was when he appeared on the dirt path that led down to the lake.

The man shambled along, a little like Jude Law in Sherlock Holmes with a cane in his right hand. I caught a glimpse of amber and my thoughts turned to Jurassic Park. I might have laughed at the rapid-fire connections, but this was no John Hammond with grandfatherly cheerfulness, pudgy cheeks, and a twinkle in his eye. This man was rail thin with a bowler hat and a black leather satchel slung over his bony shoulders.

“Maxwell Townes?” he asked as he approached. “Of course you are, it says right here.” He pointed to the pair of old wire-frame glasses he wore and let out a raspy laugh.

His skin was mottled and worn, yellowed like parchment and coated with dark purple splotches like spilled ink. He wheezed heavily and I figured he was the type who smoked a pipe throughout the day and never regretted it.

My arm was still slung half around Sam in an embrace that should have gone on longer, palms turning into a swampy mess. I looked back to her fearfully, words on my tongue. They never made it past my molars. She was stiff as a board, eyes glassy. I turned back around.

His bushy gray eyebrows rose, before realizing the question that didn’t need to be asked.

“Ah, yes, the little firecracker. Never mind that, son. Never mind that at all. She’s just fine. She’s just a bit frozen. No harm, no foul. I’m here for you.”

“Me?” I asked.

“Of course, of course. All in here.” He tapped those glasses again, thick lenses enhancing warm brown eyes.

“I don’t understand.”

“Ah, my fault. According to my calculations, which are never wrong I’ll have you know, you’re a bit late for death.”

“Death?” My mouth went to cotton.

“Quite right. Now, if you’ll remove your arm from the little red thing, we can move along.”

“No,” I said.

“No?”

My mouth tasted of bile and I fought to get the words out. I remembered a story I read when I was smaller about a boy meeting a troll under a bridge and talking his way out of being eaten. Was it Gaiman?

“I don’t want to die. I’m not ready. I haven’t experienced things yet. Read enough books. Had sex.” The words weren’t original, probably from that Neil Gaiman short, but at the time, nothing else mattered.

The man smiled, cracked teeth leading the way. “I thought you’d say that. Why don’t we make a deal then?” He dropped the satchel from his shoulder and pulled out a thick black box. The lid came off and I recognized neatly carved chess pieces sitting in velvet-lined squares.

I lost in five moves.

Then, sniveling like a pathetic piece of shit, I bet the life of the first girl I’d ever loved to get another shot at gambling for my life.

I lasted ten moves.

Ten moves for a life.

That’s all it took. Ten moves to trade her life for mine. It was a good deal, a bargain even, the man in the bowler hat said before packing up the chess pieces again.



I remember asking if he was from Hell. My mother had been a good Christian all her life, something I could never share.

I never believed.

I was considering it now. The shambling man wheezed a laugh of sandpaper and whiskey.

“You children,” he said. “You always think in black and white extremes. Heaven to make yourselves feel better about the good deeds you’ve done in life, and Hell to make you feel better about all the evil.”

There was no condescension in his voice, only brutal truth.

Then he looked me square in the eye.

“It’s all just a game played by beings that look like men in suits, having a bit of fun to pass the time. Just think of us as those Wall Street risk takers you poor all abhor. Only, we’re far more successful at our games.” Then he winked, doffed his hat, and tapped Sam on the forehead with his cane and she disappeared for the next several years.

My eyes flashed red again and I was back in my home. Her home. The jazz musician she grew up idolizing playing in the background. They say you never forget your first love. The fuckers don’t know the half of it.

We’re caught in a dance of wills, the knife still clenched in her fist, her eyes smoldering with hate. Then her first opens and the knife drops to the ground with a thud and her mouth is on mine. Her skin was still cold, but her mouth was a spicy furnace. I tried to pull away, to bring some order to the sudden reversal of actions, but she was having none of it. One arm snaked around my waist, the other going up, fingers tangling in my hair, wrenching my head back down to her hot mouth. I gave resistance one last try before giving in, letting our tongues slip and slide against each other in heated passion. Then SHE pulled away, biting my lower lip, drawing blood and a surge of energy to my rapidly hardening cock.

“I remember now,” she taunted, gray eyes clouded with something primal. Frightening. The personality change was sudden, like a mask dropping. The differences were subtle in some places, vast in others. Instead of confusion and anger, lust and power were painted on her face, those butterfly lips upturned into a sardonic smirk. The light reds and oranges of her hair were perceptively darker. She was the same, yet not at all.

I hated it.

This wasn’t Sam, not as I remembered.

That cruel smile deepened as she caught the emotions flickering through my eyes. Then she stepped close again, pressing her naked breasts against my chest. Her icy hands slid under my shirt and I shivered as she kissed a line up my neck, humming softly. When she got to my ear, she speared her tongue inside, rolling it around before whispering, “I know you want to fuck me.”

I looked down sharply into those slate gray eyes, my hands gripping her toned shoulders.

Her teeth flash white.

“I knew it the day you asked me to be your girlfriend. You were a nervous little wreck.” Her fingers reached up farther along my chest, pinching a nipple. I groaned with both pain and pleasure.

“It was cute,” she continued. Her voice had changed, the southern drawl returning, thickening, and I felt myself harden even more. “I’d have let you, you know. Fuck me. Probably on that bench.” She moved to my other ear, wet tongue tracing up the ridges before burrowing inside again.

“You could have used me like your little whore,” she whispered again, her spiced breath offsetting the coldness of her cheek. I could feel her smile again and I shuddered.

This wasn’t her I tried to tell myself. It was a mean spirited caricature built from anger, misunderstanding, hate, and a good dose of untapped lust. I tried repeating the mantra over and over again in my head. It didn’t do a damned bit of good. Underneath it all, she was still the same fiery redhead that my body responded to like clockwork.

Her hand slipped inside my sweats, grasping my cock. The cold touch on my overheated skin was almost painful, my muscles twitching. Samantha giggled like a little girl, unsettling me further. She rubbed the pad of her thumb over my pulsing head, smearing slippery pre-cum around in circles before giving me two quick pumps. Then she dropped to her knees, taking my pants with her.

My cock peaked over the band of my boxers, hard, slick, and angry.

“I think,” she said, “this little guy is for me,” as she yanked my boxers down.

“Fuck,” I groaned as her hot mouth quickly surrounded my prick, taking me all the way inside, gagging slightly. Her eyes screamed triumph. She bobbed a few times before pulling back, suckling the head like a blow pop. Then she slowly rose to her feet, wet tongue leaving a trail of saliva as she traced her way along the length of my shaft, up to and into my bellybutton, pushing up my shirt as she went.

I didn’t see the knife again until it was too late. She grabbed a first full of my shirt, cutting away the cloth with a quick downward jab, luckily or skillfully avoiding any flesh. She squared her feet, taught legs encased in a pair of transparent white capris, the outline of a purple and black thong clearly visible. Another smile formed before she placed a hand on my chest and pushed.

Samantha was a tiny thing at 5’4, a compact redhead with the toned physique of a gymnast, while I stood at 6 flat. That mattered little. I lost the battle for balance, tripping over the sweatpants and boxers pooled at my feet to land unceremoniously into the cold leather of my black La-Z-Boy couch. She was immediately back on her knees before I could right myself, her eyes shifting back to those gray slabs that burned cold fire. She took my throbbing shaft back into her hands, blowing on it, lips hovering, but not touching. Her body shifted backward and she alternated kisses and bites, starting at my knees. Cold hands cupped my balls before full lips and a hot tongue replaced them.

I surrendered to her work, the last of my denials collapsing like a Jenga set. There was no point fighting it anymore. So what if this wasn’t the woman I wanted? My cock was hard and her pliant mouth was sparking sensations in my body no other woman had been able to before. Lightning bolts of pleasure rode along the nerve endings in my fingers and all the way down to my toes. All that mattered was dirty, hedonistic pleasure. Untamed. Wild. All the things I had never done before.

Her sharp nails dug painfully into my thighs. She had swallowed my hard cock back into mouth, taking me deep. She hummed all the way down to improvised jazz numbers, the music of Miles Davis long forgotten.

“Cum,” she commanded, letting my dick fall out of her mouth on an upstroke. Her cool hand stroked quickly. The sensation of wet, hot mouth and smooth cold hand was incredible, the extreme temperature variations causing my prick to spasm.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Her pace quickened, and then shifted again, a hand slipping into her pants. She pulled her mouth off and furiously jacked my cock, her saliva creating a slippery mess. My eyes saw nothing but red as she raced me toward the end. She shifted again when my hips lifted off the couch to bury my cock back into the back of her throat. And then all of a sudden, I felt a small slick finger swirl around my asshole before worming inside.

“Fuck!” I bellowed, muscles knotting up. I jerked once before firing volcanic streams of cum, painting her tonsils. She tried swallowing it all, but didn’t expect the copious amounts of fluid filling her mouth. A river of cum started to leak out as her nostrils flared, eyes watering. Then it was over as I pumped one last, weak burst into her stomach. She backed off my shaft until only the head remained, sucking slowly before rocking back on her heels.

The next thing I knew, her mouth was open, flashing the pearly white liquid, rolling her tongue around before swallowing it down to join the rest. Her shiny pink lips curved upwards.

By her estimation, the game was over.

She had won.

Samantha started to rise before I grabbed her elbows and yanked her down on top of me, my mouth seeking hers. A sharp squeak escaped her throat, a sound I never expected from the sexual monster dancing in the skin of my first love. I could taste the remnants of my cum on her lips, even smell it on her breath. In another place, a different time, another girl, I might have been disgusted. That wasn’t now. I snaked my tongue inside, my hands squeezing the taught muscles of her covered ass.

Then she was beneath me, her tanned face flushed red with arousal, obscuring the dusting of freckles across her nose. Pressed into the couch as she was, she appeared even smaller. Vulnerable, yet at the same time confidant in her control of the situation.

Her small beasts heaved in time with her heartbeat, her dark pink nipples erect and hard as diamond. More freckles were dusted across her chest, little islands of shape in the expanse of smooth skin. An emerald gem sat in her bellybutton, matching the one in her nose.

I noticed a tattoo running the length of her left side, a set of black and white piano keys. The exact tattoo she had dreamed of getting when she turned eighteen. My fingers danced along it.

There was a curiosity in her eyes now as I met her gaze. There was something else as well, a calmness that rattled me even more than the hate.

She leaned forward, stomach muscles rippling with strength. Her tongue darted out, touching the corner of my mouth, sliding up and into my ear.

“I see it in your eyes, Maxy. You want to fuck me,” she whispered. Then she reclined back on the couch, leather squeaking. The sardonic smirk was back. She trailed a hand down her belly and inside her pants, stroking herself before bringing it back out, giving her finger a lazy lick.

My eyes narrowed, eyebrows knifing together. I was sick and tired of the games and that unnatural smile plastered across her lips. The slate gray eyes were the worst of it. They should have been vibrant, warm. I told her as much. She only shrugged in response.

“I’m not that person anymore,” she said. There wasn’t a hint of denial or pain in her voice, only cold, naked truth. “That doesn’t mean you can’t fuck me like a little slut though,” she teased.

I closed my eyes, kneeling in front of her, my knuckles whitening as I gripped the edges of the couch. Two deals. Two failures. One high school love taken and turned into something else. All I knew was that once a year she appeared. Always like this, in this sultry body she should have grown into. Each time I failed to give her what she wanted.

A hand appeared on my head, ruffling my hair.

Like I was a fucking child.

“It just isn’t in you, Max.” That southern drawl was syrupy sweet and tinged with disappointment.

I picked my head up and she stared down at me. Was it pity? Indifference?

She made to stand and it all happened in a blur.

I was over her again, pressing my weight and her small body back into the couch. I attacked her nipples, rolling the nubs between my teeth as she let out hitched moans. My hand snaked down to the catch on her pants. I gave it hard yank and it came away in pieces. Moments later, the white capris were launched across the room, and Samantha’s compact body was spinning around, landing on all fours, her knees drawn together, her pretty ass standing proud and ready. I cupped her pert cheeks, feeling the silky texture of that purple thong beneath my fingers. Then the material was gone, pulled down to her knees, baring her soaked pussy.

Her lower lips were flared open, oozing honey sliding down her legs. It was pungent, earthy, and smelled faintly of coconut. My limp cock began to fill with aching need. As I leaned closer, I caught sight of a red tuft of hair, a small landing strip running above her bright pink lips. Then my tongue was sliding up her pussy, collecting as many of her juices as I could. She was sweet, salty, and in that moment, she was the greatest of flavors.

Samantha’s shoulders slumped further as she buried her head into the couch, raising her ass up even further, granted me greater access. I slipped a long finger into her juicing slit, seeking out her g-spot. Seconds later, she let out hiccupping grunts muffled by the leather. Her ass twitched back and forth as she came and I went at it all the harder, slurping the endless supply of clear honey, licking her from one orgasm to the next. Then I pulled back, blowing cool air over her volcanic heat. She whimpered, wriggling her ass back and forth.

Begging.

Who was I to deny? I leaned forward again, my chin wet, but thought better of it. I considered her drum tight ass before grasping both of her cheeks, pulling them apart. Her coiled little knot of flesh was a dark dusky pink. Anal play had never been apart of my sex life before. Alexa had never been into it. Dana loved it, but I could never go through with it.

But with Sam?

Her tight pink star was sending jolts of electricity through my nerve endings, blood pumping into my thick cock, lengthening it.

Without another thought, I swirled my thumb inside her cunt, collecting a bit of her slippery fluids before returning to that tight pink knot. I smeared it around in circles and without further pomp and circumstance, speared my tongue inside.

My ears were filled with banshee screams, drowning out the rolling thunder outside and the steadily increasing rain. Her ass surged forward in complete surprise, then thrust backward immediately, seeking out my tongue.

“Lick it again you dirty little bastard,” she screeched.

Finally, for the first time that night, I smiled. The calm, cold, often cruel redheaded monster had disappeared, her control snapped. In her place was a limp bundle of flesh, desperate for pleasure. All it took was a tongue burrowing inside her hot little ass.

In that moment, everything disappeared. The memories. The dreams of that day eight years ago, all the pain, the hate, and the self-loathing fell away. Those feelings tumbled out, scattering across the floor like pennies from a shattered piggy bank. All that was left was raw sexual need. It was the only truth left between me and whatever it was that undulated on top of the couch in front of me.

My tongue speared back inside her dusky pink ring, drawing out yelps and groans when first one finger, then two, thrust inside her pussy. Then, like a puppet on strings, I took her pleasure away. My fingers slipped out of her squelching slit, followed by my tongue.

“No,” she whimpered. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Her ass twitched, muscles shaking, her reddened lips flaring open even farther, pulsing along with her heartbeat.

“Don’t stop.”

I grasped her hips, gently turning her over, her legs falling limply apart as she recovered from a massive orgasm. Her cunt was leaking fluids all over the couch. Ten minutes ago, I may have cared. Body fluids and leather don’t mix. But all I could do was grin. Her entire body was flushed red, though outside of her steaming lower lips and ass, her skin was still unnaturally cool. I picked myself off the floor, wincing as my knees creaked, towering over her.

“Please,” she begged. I bent down and picked her up by her armpits and brought her close. Her legs scissored around my waist. Our mouths melded together in another hungry battle of passion.

I spun us around, falling back onto the couch, her legs slipping from around my waist to straddle my thighs. Her eyelids flicked back open, sparking with renewed energy. Nothing was said. She merely lifted her hips and grasped my throbbing erection, centering it on her pussy.

She rubbed my cock head back and forth through her slick folds, gathering lubrication, and dropped her weight down on my lap. My prick burrowed inside, sliding through her sopping wet tunnel with ease.

“Fuck,” I hissed. Her pussy was so tight it was almost painful. My hands moved up and down her sides, tweaking the hard nubs of her breasts.

“So full,” she purred, corkscrewing her hips, building up speed.

I cupped her ass, reveling in its tightness. Her smooth, chilled skin combined with the swampy furnace of her pussy, had me seeing stars.

Then nothing was left as the room filled with the sounds of wet flesh slapping together as Samantha fucked me like a Tasmanian Devil, vaulting up and down the full length of my shaft, grunting and shaking her flame colored hair. If not for the copious amount of honey leaking out of her, I may have worried about friction burn.

She stared down at me, gray eyes a swirling storm, forehead soaked with sweat, and her hair a tangled mess. She captured my mouth again, hot and clumsy, the intensity of her lightning quick movements throwing off any coordination. Teeth clicked together and drew blood, filling our mouths with a metallic tang, which only served to heighten frenetic pace she set.

“Fuck yea,” I grunted, lifting my hips off the couch to bury myself further into her creaming snatch. “Fuck me you crazy bitch.” My fingers tightened on her ass, digging in as I felt my balls start to tighten.

Her mouth fell open in a tiny O, butterfly lips quivering. “I’m going to cuuuuum,” she whimpered.

I couldn’t last much longer, my cock throbbing painfully inside her tight tunnel.

I couldn’t wait. I trailed a finger between our bodies, collecting a bit of her juices before swirling it around her tight star.

She body tensed all at once, nostrils flaring, mouth gaping open in a silent scream when a finger lanced through her tight ass.

Everything froze.

Then her muscles uncoiled and clenched like a vice and I bellowed into her shoulder, nipping at her skin as I shot load after hot load of cum into her boiling pussy.

“Yessss,” Sam hissed, her juices rushing out from around my cock, coating my lap in sweet smelling honey. Her shoulders slumped, sweaty hands slipping from my shoulders as her head came to rest on my heaving chest.

My heart hammered in my ears and my vision grew spotty as I fought the exhaustion. Then I felt a tiny quake go through Sam’s body, hot tears splashing down.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Max.” She repeated it over and over again, the southern drawl gone, replaced by crystal clear words.

Sorry for what, I wondered? I didn’t know anymore. I’m not sure I cared. I just let her cry, my cock still twitching away inside her saturated cunt.

***

She woke sometime later, pawing at my chest, sucking and biting one of my nipples.

“Mmmmm,” she purred. “That was fucking fantastic.”

My cock had slipped free in the aftermath and she slid her soaked body back and forth, trying to revive me. The drawl was back and when I yanked her back up, that sardonic smile formed.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” she smirked, blowing strands of hair from her eyes.

“Me either,” I whispered.

It was true. I’d always been rather…unadventurous in bed.

“But you know,” she said as she slip her way down to take my cock back into her mouth, relishing the mixture of our combined juices. “You haven’t made me your dirty little whore yet.”

Before I could respond, she took me deep into her throat, fondling my balls with her cool hands.

The harsh personality was back. There was a biting taunt in her words, as if she didn’t think I could. This new Samantha didn’t believe I could sully the image of my first teenage love. The girl I spotted at a piano in eighth grade, playing Elton John. That was true. That Sam was gone. Years gone. This wasn’t her. Not really.

I let my cock reach full mast before yanking her head off, bringing her body back up.

She let out a keening, excited laugh.

“Finally,” she said, her eyes clouding again.

She bent to kiss me, but I denied her. I picked her up, bending her over the arm of the couch, her toes barely reaching the floor. Then I noticed it, an intricate base clef tattoo adorning each shoulder, forming a set of musical wings. It was one of the most erotic things I’d ever seen.

She craned her head back, eyes blazing, and wiggled her ass.

“Come oooooon,” she purred. “Make me your slutty little bitch.”

“With pleasure,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

I dropped to my knees and spread her cheeks apart, once more admiring that dusky pink knot of flesh. I trailed my tongue through her cleft, collecting our mingled cum as I went before spearing my tongue back through her tight ring.

“Fuuuuuck,” she moaned, shoulders slumping forward.

I didn’t linger long. A few lazy licks before my cock was hard as steel. I shifted her ass up a bit and shoved myself inside her sopping wet pussy, all the way to the hilt. I held myself inside her for a moment, enjoying the pulsating heat. Then I moved slowly, my cock squelching in and out.

“Fuck my tight little pussy,” she begged.

I grunted and pumped a few more times before withdrawing completely, sweat beading on my forehead.

Her hips shook from the sudden emptiness and she let out a keening whine.

“Don’t stop.”

I ignored her pleas to be filled again. I rested my cock on her drum tight ass, backing away when she tried to shift forward and back suddenly in an attempt to impale herself on me again.

“Fuck me.”

I didn’t answer. My brain and body were sexually charged like they had never been before and I wanted ALL the power at the finish line.

I wanted to wipe that smirk off her face for good.

“Fuck me dammit.” Her voice grew an octave. Her feline neck turned, her eyes gray pits of smoke. “Fuck me, you damn bastard!” she spat.

I grabbed hold of her hips and prepared to fuck her senseless. I slotted my cock at her drooling slit, her purr of delight already beginning. Then I changed direction, moving up, pressing my fat cock head against her dusky pink star.

She squeaked, head twisting to the side to look at me. Her eyes flashed with taught nerves, telling me plainly she’d never taken anything bigger than a tongue up her ass.

“You wanted me to make you my whore,” I told her. “Well, I’m going to grant you that wish.” I ran a finger down to her pussy again, collecting juices to smear around her tight hole.

“Wait,” she cried one final time before I plunged a long finger into her ass. Samantha’s body tensed, her dark tunnel clenching at the sudden intrusion.

I slipped another finger inside, her grunts growing louder.

“You are a dirty little slut now. My dirty little slut.” My fingers were gliding through now, the slick juices from her wet pussy lubing her up nicely.

Then the fingers were gone and I was notching my fat cock to her dusky ass.

“Wait. Wait,” she begged. “I don’t think I can…” but before she could say more, I pushed forward, sinking inside inch by inch, “… Take it all,” she moaned.

Holy fuck. If I thought her pussy was tight, this was something else entirely. Her asshole clenched tightly, spasming in quick undulations. It was unlike anything I had ever felt before. The heat was far more intense. The nasty taboo of it all sent a jolt of sensation through my rock hard cock. This was pure, raw, sexual power.

It was incredible.

“Oh god, I feel so full,” she purred wantonly.

I slid forward another inch.

“You like that,” I ground out. “You like my cock in your ass?”

“Fuuuuuuck yes,” she sobbed. The muscles in her ass were twitching like crazy. I knew I wouldn’t last long. “Fuck me you selfish little bastard! You dirty fucker.”

I cut her off, speeding up my strokes. I roared deeply, shrugging the chains off the sexual demon trapped inside. Never before had I let myself become no unrestrained. It felt fucking amazing. I lifted her ass up higher over the arm of the couch, fucking her with wild abandon.

“Fuck my slutty little asshole. Make me a dirty little whore, YOUR dirty little whore. Take me! Fuck, me. FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!” she howled. I could feel the honey leaking out of her, sliding down her legs in hot rivulets.

My heart was hammering so quickly I thought it might tear itself free.

“God, I love your ass,” I moaned, palming her cheeks. Her scorching hot ass was heavenly, tight muscles rippling along my shaft as I pumped harder, faster.

It was true. I’d always been captivated by it ever since swim class. Only now I was up close and personal. Literally.

“So good, Samantha. Your tiny little ass is incredible,” I huffed breathlessly. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum! I’m going to paint that hot, slutty ass with sperm! Fuuuuuuck!”

Her head trashed from side to side, wild hair a dark red inferno. Then I was firing away, spitting out scalding hot wad after scalding hot wad of cum.

“Yesssssss,” she hissed. “Cream my nasty little hole! Shoot your sperm deep inside my slutty little ass!”

My ab muscles screamed in exhaustion as I fired way. Semen boiled out in waves, my cock jumping inside her hot, dry heat. Then I squeezed out one more load before slumping over atop her ass. I pulled myself from her steaming depths, my mind fogging, her tight asshole stretched lewdly open, pearly white liquid already leaking out. Before I lost myself completely, I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her up and turning her around, the hardened tips of her breasts pressing against my chest.

Her legs wrapped weakly around me as I walked around the couch before settling back down into warmed leather.

With Sam’s tongue gently scraping the insides of my mouth, I felt my eyes roll up into my head, an inky black cloud filling my vision. I let myself go into oblivion.

*****

White.

My mind was flooded with blurred images of white and splotchy grey, changing, spinning, flickering, and then exploding in a tumultuous wave of crackling fireworks.

Then I’m yanked from the dream, the haze clearing, and feeling, albeit numb, began to pump its way back through abused nerves.

The first thing was the scent of sex. It hung heavy in the air, slightly sour. I could taste it in my mouth, bitter, yet still a bit sweet. My eyes cracked open and I brushed the sleep from them. I felt like I had been body slammed by Ted Landers, the 300-pound lineman from my high school football team, a bald pile of meat made from more fat than a body had a right to carry. I suppose it only made sense considering the hours of raw, unrestrained sex I had before passing out. There was a painful crick in my neck that I tried massaging out with little luck. It took a great deal of effort to peel myself from the sticky leather of the La-Z-Boy. It was a mess, coated with sweat and cum. It’d have to be replaced.

“You really should check the locks, Mr. Townes,” a voice called from the hallway, intermittent taps on the hardwood floor echoing from down the hall.

The bowler hat led the way, then that John Hammond cane with its polished amber top.

I pulled a blanket around my lap as he entered.

A smirk, not unlike the one Samantha had worn, twisted his features.

“Smells good in here, doesn’t it,” he said.

Give the nasty little fucker this; he had himself a sense of blunt, lame humor that barely grazed my funny bone.

“Bill,” I nod. I’m not sure what his real name is. Don’t particularly care if you really want to know, but it seemed fitting to name him after that asshole in Office Space.

He eased himself into the rocker, arranged perpendicular to the couch, crossing one spindly leg over the other. A chess set, a carbon copy of the one that had changed everything, was ready to go on the glass table in front of us. Bill reached out one of those gnarled fingers and lifted up the black queen, smiling.

“We have an office pool going you know.” His voice was oil and crushed gravel, half used car salesman, half chain-smoking punk rocker. “A last hooray for me before I retire. What do your sports figures call it? Hanging up the cleats?”

I sensed what the pool was about, but asked anyway.

“Oh, whether or not you’ll make another deal before the end.” He twirled the chess piece between his finger and thumb.

“And?”

“A gambler never tells, Max.”

I sighed, breath coming out ragged. My energy was sapped, my voice torn raw from the passion just hours ago.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“She’ll kill you, you know. One of these days, that cute little switchblade of hers will wind up in your chest at the end. Just as you grunt your release…squish!”

He jammed the black queen into his chest in mock salute, like Romeo taking his idiot life after his equally idiotic “soul mate” offed herself.

A raspy, giggling chuckle followed, his body shaking in mirth. I thought, hoped, his rail thin bones would snap from the pressure. They didn’t.

“Is that all, Bill? I’m tired and I have things to do.”

He stood, tipping that stupid fucking bowler hat as he did so.

“Just remember, Mr. Townes. Deals can always be made. My retirement party only lasts so long.” Then he was out the door, humming a jazz tune as he went.

*****

An hour later, I’ve showered and sleep is nowhere close.

I should be drunk.

Very drunk.

After Sam, after Bill, it would have been reasonable. There was a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet above the fridge, but it remains unopened. The strongest thing I’ve had is a Redbull. Make that five. The crumpled cans are littered around the plastic trashcan in the kitchen. They say free throws are all in the wrist. Not my wrist. Redbull doesn’t give you a pair of fucking wings either. All it does is fuck you up, gluing your eyes open until you start seeing things that aren’t there.

The clouds have pulled back their curtain now, revealing the flat, burnt disk of orange rising in the sky. I look down at my chest, deep scratches from Samantha’s nails joining the ones long since healed. A red line, already scabbing over and running neatly down my chest pulses a bit. Black switchblade. There are several more of them, though they’re pink and silver.

Nothing remains of Sam but the dissipating scent of sex and a fresh pair of October Scars.

I consider Bill’s deal and trudge upstairs, falling into bed.

Then I start to consider…

***The END***

Note: This story is dedicated to the ever-beautiful Ashleigh Lake (Dancing_Doll). Seriously. If not for her encouragement and subsequent editing, this story never would have seen the light of day. It’d have sat buried in my computer, rotting away. Thank her!