Stricken Resolve (15 page)

That’s right my kinky whore I am going to
wring you out, I’m going to fuck you so damn hard that you won’t
walk straight tomorrow.

“Are you going to like that? Do you want me
to tear you apart with my thickness?” I bait her to see how she
responds and as if on cue her body shutters and she licks her
lips.

“Yes, I love everything you do to me.”

Fuckin’ right she does! Last night I had her
on the bathroom counter pounding her so hard I had to ball gag her
sweet mouth so the intense ecstasy laden screams she was unleashing
were muffled. The last thing I needed to happen was Emily or her
parents to hear us going at it. Since Emily has been home I’ve been
exceptionally turned on. I don’t know if it’s the breastfeeding
that I’m still not adjusting to. Well, okay, I’m adjusting but my
anaconda isn’t. He’s at full attention when I think about her
breast or when I look at it. She’s bewitched me since the first
time I met her. And now Cammy is feeling the brunt of my insatiable
need, because I can’t put it to Emily like I want to.

Twice yesterday, four times the day before,
I’ve fucked Cammy. I get it where I can. Once was in the laundry
room, another time was in the garage when I went up to do some work
in the upstairs studio. It’s always rough. And we both love it that
way. Cammy, believe it or not has pulled my hair before to make me
fuck her harder. She said I wasn’t—as she put it. ‘Givin’ it to her
hard enough.’ So when you think I’m degrading her or treating her
like trash, I’m not. The whore and bitch words are words she’s
brought into the bedroom before I did. Calling herself my kinky
bitch or dirty whore. Her words originally, not mine. See, I’m not
such a horrible person. Well only partially. And thanks to her
amazing sexual appetite for me and her kink at the level I crave, I
have no reason to seek satiation elsewhere. Plus, I love her and I
wouldn’t do that to her anyhow. Except with Emily if she’d let me,
of course. Which hasn’t happened yet. I’ve been a one woman show
for quite some time now and even though the idea of it sounds
strange, I’m more than happy. I have a lot on my plate and adding a
bimbo groupie whore into my bed for a night just doesn’t seem worth
the trouble. Maybe I am seeing the light at the end of the tunnel,
after all.

Finishing up eating my sandwich standing in
the kitchen, Cammy already left and I’m not sure what to do next.
The tour starts in a little less than two weeks. We expedited that
shit. And I already ordered another bus which does have baby beds
for the twins and a strict no alcohol or smoking policy aboard. I
don’t want my kids exposed. I used to smoke, a lot. But I stopped
when I went to rehab. I had full intentions of cleaning not only my
body of heavy drugs but the other ones that tainted me as well.
Except alcohol of course. I love the hell outa’ some beers.

This week Emily’s dad and I shot a few back,
as we played some pool in the garage. Her dad is huge. I’m right
around six-five and her dad is about the same height and pretty
bulky as well. And Emily’s mom, who I’ve met before, is very tall
for a woman and thin. I don’t have a clue where Em gets her looks
or her height from. She’s so tiny, pocket sized kind of tiny.
Five-two at best, unless she has heels on. Her body is also thin,
but not overly so. Her mom has brown hair and she’s a fiery redhead
to the core. It’s really hard to see the family resemblance. The
only thing I’ve heard this week is that, Em’s her dad’s mom’s
doppelganger. Same eyes, hair, body, and apparently even fingers.
Which is strange, but whatever.

“Hey,” Emily greets me, walking in from the
beach side of the house, wearing a flowy white dress, hair loose
and bare feet, toe nails adored with pretty pale pink polish.
Completely mesmerizing. Her parents, Dylan and the twins are all
sitting on the warm California sand right out front of our house.
It’s surprisingly warm today for it being so early in the year.
Normally it’s in the fifties at this time. But today it’s in the
seventies. Maybe it’s some el’nino or el’nina or nor’easter
bullshit. I have no idea and I can’t keep up with the weather. It
rarely rains here and never snows; that’s all that I give a shit
about.

“Hey… Baby,” I smile and she returns the same
warming gesture and my heart instantly thuds. Damn, I love this
woman.

“What cha’ need?”

“Dylan needs something to drink and I’m a bit
parched myself.”

Say no more, my goddess. I turn into the
kitchen and head straight for the stainless fridge.

“Johnathan, I’ve got it,” she says, coming
over and standing next to the fridge, while I pull out a 100% apple
juice box for Dylan from the door.

“No, I do. But what do you want, baby?”

“Juice, please.” Her lovely voice registers
in my soul and I feel tingly all over.

Snatching out another juice box, I shut the
door and fold them into her small waiting hands.

“Thanks.” She turns and leaves, heading back
out to the family and I watch her. At the sliding glass door, she
stops and turns around. “Do you want to come too? It’s really
pretty out today and the twins are awake.”

She wants me to come?

“Are you sure I’m not intruding?” I don’t
want to force myself into her life. Even if it may sound like
that’s what I want. I’ve learned the only way into her heart and
back into her arms is patience. Even if I suck some serious monkey
nuts in that department, I’m trying. Trying for once not to be a
complete assbag. It hasn’t worked out altogether but it’s
significantly better than not having her living in the same house
with all of our family under the same roof. Which is the most
important thing. Above all else, the twins and Emily are my life
and if she doesn’t want to be with me, then so be it. But ya can’t
blame a sadistic bastard for tryin’.

“No Johnathan you are a part of this family.
I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want you to come.”

I tighten my jaw to keep it from hitting the
ground. Hell yes she wants me to come!

“Thanks,” I shyly reply. I don’t know how
else to express how much this really does mean to me. Other than
pressing my lips to hers and I know she’d castrate me for that one.
So I won’t even try. It’s too soon.

Tailing her outside, up the deck steps and
down the others that meet up with the beach. I slow my pace and
watch as Dylan runs to her side to grab his apple juice that she’s
already stuck the straw in for him. Folding his hand into hers they
stroll, both of them drinking little juices together barefoot in
the golden sand. The sky is crystal clear and the faint breeze is
wafting the simple ankle white dress that my baby is wearing. I
love to see her like this. Happy. The bright red curls of her hair
catch in the salty sea air and she giggles, throwing her head back.
Magnificent. Absolutely magnificent. These are the moment’s
musicians write about in their songs. Or writers use to compose
some of the world’s best poetry. On the outside looking in isn’t as
bad as it seems when you get to see the woman you love playful and
smiley.

Bending down, she whispers something to Dylan
and both of them gaze my way. A nod is exchanged between them with
big smiles.

What are those two up to?

Dylan hands Emily his juice and comes
pounding across the sand my way. His little feet kicking up sand in
his wake.

“Johnathan!” He yells, running as fast as his
little legs can carry him.

Pulling up my shorts so they rest over my
knees, I kneel in the sand to get down to his level.

“Yes?” I ask, once he comes to a screeching
halt a foot in front of me.

“Do you want to come with me and Mama Bear
down the beach to see grandma and pa? Where the twins are. They
aren’t far.” He sounds so excited I couldn’t tell him no if I
wanted to.

I nod and he reaches out to grab my hand. I
accept his and stand. We meet up with Emily who smiles over to me
and takes Dylan’s free hand into hers and all three of us meander
down the beach. Silently, I soak in this moment. The softness
inside of me that I never expose is rising to the surface and
checking my baby out of the corner of my eye makes me turn to
jelly. Only she can do this to me. I feel weak around her. Exposed,
raw, open. All of those things I hate. I hate weakness, I hate
feeling exposed. It’s not me. I’ve been a hard shell of a man even
before I became a man. Your dad beating and murdering your mother
in front of your eyes does something to you. I was so small when it
happened. Then growing up in the foster care system wasn’t as
happy-happy as people make it out to be. It’s horrific and my one
foster mother not only made me fuck her disgusting pussy and ass,
she made me the sadistic bastard I am today.

I remember this one time when I was a
teenager living with her. Her name was Missy. Plump, dirty blonde
with rotten teeth and stank breath. A huge drug addict and whore. I
was coming to her for my coke fix since she had me fully addicted
by that time. In the bedroom, she was sprawled out on the dank and
dirty bed naked. Playing with her plump hairy and very smelly
pussy, she eyed me. I couldn’t hardly ever get it up unless she
made me play with her tits. She had some huge and sexy fun bags. I
remember asking her for some coke and she poured a line around her
nipple for me to snort and I did. And my dick got so hard it hurt
because I was getting my only two things I had good in my life.
Coke and her tits. The rest was terrible. I lived in a tiny trailer
bedroom with a leaky roof. My bed was a cot and I had four pairs of
clothes, one pair of old Nike shoes from the goodwill and nothing
else but a book bag for school. And I hated going to school more
than I hated Missy. The kids tormented me for being tall and fat.
They called me the Hulk. Which nowadays would be fine because the
Avengers made the Hulk a sexy icon. Not when I was a kid.

Drawing back into the present, when we reach
the twins, Dylan breaks out of mine and Emily’s hands and pummels
grandpa into the sand. And they fall into a pile of laughter, him
tickling Dylan and in turn Dylan screeching out in childish
laughter.

“Come on,” Emily sweetly smiles and waves me
over to join her on the large beach blanket that has a blue baby
sunshade on it with the twins underneath wearing gowns, with their
bare feet poking out of the bunched bottom. I’m so glad Jenna has
red hair and Eric has brown. If they looked the same, being able to
tell the difference would be impossible in these yellow
outfits.

“So how was work today?” She asks, rubbing
Eric’s belly with her hands, giving him what she calls a baby
massage. Something she read about in a few books. I’ve learned a
lot from her this week about babies. How to burp, feed from a
bottle if she pumps; which she rarely does. I’ve got the swaddling
thing down pat, along with diapering and making sure I keep my son
covered until I’ve got a fresh diaper under the dirty one because
his little dick sprays pee pretty far. We’ve also went through
umbilical care and Emily let me help her bathe the babies twice in
these tiny blue bathtubs. I helped hold their weightless bodies as
she gently scrubbed each of them with lavender scented baby wash.
All of this learning has brought us together and at the same time
I’ve absorbed a lot. Her mom has been here to help too, but Emily,
being the independent woman she is, doesn’t want much help. Not
that I can blame her. She was bedridden for months and now she’s
able to walk around and be physical again. Which she’s taking full
advantage of even if the doctor’s ordered her to ‘take it easy.' I
think keeping busy takes her mind away from the pain I know she’s
still experiencing. I’m no fool, I hear her sobbing uncontrollably
with her mom at night in her bedroom. Her crying, not her mom. Her
mom is just supporting her. Her dad is a typical man, not wanting
to get involved and he’s angry at James so I’m sure hearing her cry
fuels his fire more. I heard all about his anger the night we
played pool. Down to the maiming and murdering he wants to
accomplish. Apparently rather slowly and with kitchen knives. He’s
a pretty sick dude but he was drunk and his only child is
devastated; I kind of understand his fury.

“Work was great, Baby.”

“Care to elaborate?” She chuckles. “Sorry, I
need some adult stuff to talk about. And nothing to do with
Spongebob, babies, you know who or how I’m feeling.”

I can do that. I’ll give her whatever the
hell I can.

“No problem, baby.” I scoot a smidge closer
so my hip is touching hers and I wait to see if she pulls away. And
she looks to me, down at our touching hips, sighs and goes back to
massaging our children.
Whew
, that was close. “Not much to
elaborate on. I just got back about forty minutes or so before you
came in. We are all set to leave. Stacy is working extra hard
because we are throwing this together last minute.”
For you
.
I want to add but I keep it to myself.

“Are we still leaving next week?”

“The following Monday, but yes.”

“Cool.”

Cool? Is that all you can really give me,
baby? Cool?

“Care to elaborate on that one?” I tease and
playfully bump into her.

She renders another sigh, longer this time.
“Sorry, I’m kind of excited to go. It will be good to get away with
the twins. Keeping busy helps. I hate thinking about him. The pain
I thought might subside a little but it’s been two weeks since he’s
left and it just seems to get worse. When I stop occupying myself
my mind instantly goes back to him and how I felt with him…Oh shit,
you don’t want to be listening to me. I’m sorry, I’ve got to stop
thinking about him.”

She’s got to stop apologizing for not doing a
damn thing wrong.

“Go on… if it helps, I want to hear. I don’t
mind,” I reassure her and let my hand slide over and rest on her
knee. She’s sitting in what we called as a kid, Indian style. I’m
not sure what they call it anymore.