Preppy: The Life & Death of Samuel Clearwater, Part One
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Preppy stared straight at the wall. “I hate him. I hate her. I hate them so fucking much.”
“I do too,” I said, not realizing that I’d started to cry along with him. “I do too,” I repeated, because I truly meant it. “I hate that man and what he did to you. If he were still alive I’d kill the fucker myself and if I were here when she came I wouldn’t have stopped you if you tried to kill her.”
Preppy stood up abruptly, knocking me back onto my ass. He slammed his open palms against the wall, and dropped his forehead against it, the blood from his eyebrow splattering on the light blue paint. I jumped to my feet and again hopped up onto the coffee table, needing the height in order to put myself at his level. I grabbed his face again and when he tried to rip it away I dug my fingers into his cheeks and pulled harder, until he had no choice but to look at me.
“Go away, I’m just going to hurt you,” he said, his eyes bulging from his head.
“Then hurt me.” Preppy was staring right at me, but he was looking right through me. “Hurt me. Let me make this better for you.”
I pulled him closer and felt his cock hardening against my thigh.
“I…” he started, wrestling with his words and feelings, and unable to communicate to me what he needed, but thankfully I already knew.
“It’s okay,” I assured him, tugging him back. “You need me?”
“Yes,” he choked out. “I need you. So much.”
“Then use me,” I said, putting every ounce of determination I have into my voice. “I WANT you to use me.” I took a step back and lifted my shirt over my head. I unclasped my bra and tossed it to the floor.
I stepped down from the table and stood in the middle of the room, my breasts exposed to him. I unbuttoned my shorts and Preppy’s eyes roamed down my body. Up on the table he looked very much like an evil demon, a gargoyle high up on a castle wall. The moonlight from the window behind him casting him in an eerie shadow.
Preppy jumped down and stalked over to me like a crazed animal. He grabbed my hips and spun me around, pushing me roughly against the wall, my cheek landing with a painful thud as it connected. He pulled down my shorts and panties, and then he was on me. His chest against my back. One hand grabbing my breast and the other between my legs.
This wasn’t about me or my pleasure. This wasn’t sex. This was a motherfucking exorcism. But the second his finger swiped over my folds I became wet. So wet, I knew Preppy’s fingers had to be soaked. He growled, thrusting his cock against my lower back.
Kicking my legs apart he lined up his shaft with my pussy. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked so hard I felt some hairs tear from my scalp. Wrapping his other hand around my throat he surged inside me, pushing into me like he was pushing into his salvation, forcing himself past my tightness, groaning and growling until he was seated inside of me as far as my body would let him. He squeezed my throat, and although I could still breathe, I started to see stars as he began to pull out of me slowly, pushing back into me like he was punishing me.
There was no foreplay. No sweetness. There was nothing but us in that room. Preppy was haunted and I was willing to let him fuck me to death, if it meant he’d be free from the demon within.
It hurt. But with the pain came a pleasure I never expected, a jarring bolt of lightning that had my pussy squeezing his cock tighter and tighter as he fucked me harder and harder. Furiously, he pounded into me, slamming my head against the wall, squeezing my throat tighter. My pleasure escalated as he slammed into me one final time and I came and came and came as Preppy pulled out. And as he released, he screamed and cried, “Fuck him. Fuck all of them Fuuuuuuucccckkkk!” He spread my ass cheeks apart, shooting hot spurts all over my freshly fucked pussy while he continued to squeeze my windpipe tighter, until everything started to fade.
“Doc?” Preppy’s voice sounded a million miles away. “Doc!” he shouted, and suddenly the blackness faded away and the blue wall again came into focus. He spun me around and grabbed me by the shoulders. He stared down at me as if he were just realizing I was there. His pupils were still dilated, a shit ton of coke will do that to a person, but now they were focused. Intense even. “Doc?” he asked again, lifting me into his arms. He carried me over to his bed and laid me down, climbing onto the mattress beside me and pulling me against his chest.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, still catching my breath.
He lowered himself down onto the mattress, resting his cheek against my stomach, smearing the blood on his eyebrow onto my skin. “Are you?”
She shook his head against me. “I don’t think I’ve ever been okay,” he admitted. His shoulders rose and fell. His inhales were erratic, and that’s when I realized he was quietly sobbing against me. He wrapped his hands tightly around my thighs as if he were holding on for dear life. “He made me this monster. I’m sick and I’m twisted, and it’s because he couldn’t keep his fucking hands to himself!”
“He’s gone now, he’s dead,” I reassured him, smoothing back his hair from his face.
“He’s dead, but he’s not gone,” he pointed to his head. “In here, that fucker is very much alive.”
I pressed my hand over his heart which was beating a thousand miles a minute. “He’s not here, though, and that’s a start.”
Preppy slowly looked up with red rimmed eyes, white powder caked in his nostrils. “No room for him in there,” he said, resting his chin on my stomach. “Because you’re in there, and for a tiny thing you take up a fuck of a lot of space.”
My heart warmed at his admission, but it could have been his pain talking. Either way, it gave me a flash of hope that he could climb out from the depths and overcome his demons.
“I need to take care of that,” I pointed to his forehead, where the blood had stopped oozing from the wound but still needed to be cleaned and covered. I made a move to get up to go get a washcloth and a bandaid, but he stopped me.
“No, don’t go,” he pleaded, grabbing my hand and pressing my palm to his cheek. He then pressed his own palm to the center of my chest between my breasts. “Am I here?” he asked.
There was no denying that Preppy was there. Not anymore. Not after this. “You are.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and coming from the man who didn’t apologize, it meant everything.