the doctor says it’s okay, then you will, and we won’t be waiting. I’ll be pumping my cum into your pussy three times a day.”
It’s not as if I didn’t expect her to walk out after that. I did.
What I didn’t expect was a text immediately after.
3:01 p.m. – How about you do you, and I’ll do me?
3:01 p.m. – Perfect, and when we’re not doing ourselves, then we can do each other.
3:02 p.m. – OMG! When will you stop objectifying women?
3:03 p.m. – We both know how far past objectification this has gone.
And I certainly didn’t expect her to come back through the door.
“Fine, okay, you want to know what hurts the most? Knowing you can do so much better. You could be loved by someone who isn’t all broken. I mean, most of the time, that’s how I feel. But not when you send texts like that and not when you buy the one thing that I was really looking forward to.”
“Shut up, Sutton.” I walk toward her. “Just shut the fuck up.” I grab the back of her head and drop my lips on hers. Then I wrap an arm around her waist, lift her up, and carry her toward my bedroom. Against her lips, I tell her what’s up.
“You’re done running. I don’t care if you have three tits or none. The shit you think is gonna happen to you, because you seriously still don’t see how fucking worth it you are, may not. But if it does, we’ll pick a set out together from the Titties “R” Us catalog. Or, better yet, we’ll mold yours and put them in fucking storage in case we need them. At some point, I’m sure”—I drop her on the bed—“you’ll be pissed at me over something fucking ridiculous and make me go without, so they’ll come in handy. I’ll press them together and fuck ’em to get myself off.”
I pull my shirt off and toss it aside. “We’re gonna fuck. And I’m gonna come inside you. From what I understand”—I pull my leg out of my sweats, and then the other—“the chances of you getting knocked up once a month are about the same as you getting cancer, because you have ‘the gene’. Newsflash: my grandmother doesn’t have the gene and she has cancer.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers as I pull her up, tug her shirt off, and get annoyed as fuck that she’s wearing a bra as I unsnap it, and then push her back gently.
When she opens her mouth, I bend over and thrust my tongue inside it to shut her up … and because I want to see if she still tastes so fucking good.
She does.
I pull back, breaking our kiss. “I’m so fucking hard right now that I’m a little nervous that, when I do come inside your pussy, my barbell will end up permanently lodged in your throat, but it will get better as time goes on.”
I yank her pants down. “You want me to stop”—I stroke myself—“say it now.”
She says not a word.
“Perfect. Now, I’m gonna fuck you hard, fuck you fast, and fuck you raw, because, Sutton, I love you.”
“I love you,” she whispers.
“I fucking know that,” I hiss as I run my crown up and down her soaked seam before thrusting inside her fully.
“Whose pussy is this?”
“Yours.”
“Whose heart is this?”
“Yours.”
“Whose lifetime is this?”
“Ours.”
“Fuck yes, it is.”
We fucked and fought for four days straight. We didn’t leave the apartment for anything. I missed classes, she missed classes—she’s only enrolled in two because she planned to cut her tits off and thought she would wait until she healed to go full-time, at Harvard.
I dropped my classes knowing I was going to be too busy dealing with what I now had in front of me—Grandma Patrick, the apartment building, and school to keep me busy. Now with the ceramic shop and her, I don’t need to keep busy to fill empty space. She’s already consuming it all.
She admitted to following me on social media. I was pissed I didn’t know she had accounts so that I could do the same, so I had a fucking clue where her head was at, so I didn’t think I was alone and crazy because I couldn’t get over her.
Day four was the worst.
She started demanding I tell her everyone I had slept with. When I admitted I really wasn’t sure, she flipped her shit some more, then locked herself in my room for five hours … with