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I peel away my sweat-soaked jeans and top, bra and panties—all dripping, ripe with overheated me. Scrambling to remove my half socks, hop, hopping on one foot, silly, unbalanced bunny, I jostle the computer. Its screen springs to life on an unsent email. But we have been lovers for two whole months and every precious moment we share brings fewer and fewer secrets between us. The grammar is shockingly atrocious. For many months wez entertained by Atlanta Ham and his soccer mom sandwich and by Wisconsin Farmer and his hunka hunka cheese woman and respect always to Milt the Manhattan Milfmaker. This month, Red Rider roars agin.
Every bagger worth his sack knows schools are the perfect stalking grounds. Nine out of ten classrooms, there sits a twat so dried up from years of ignoring men that you need a crowbar to pry it open. Walking shows which ones be begging for it. The way they act when they catch you staring. So one cat, this schoolmammy cunt never pays me no mind. She practically cremes her panties at my command. I smell her for the she beast she is. I say follow me bitch. But I tell her bitch, strip and when she does, some killer weed drops out of her pocket. I take it from her and fire up.
I ask where she got it and all scared like, she says her teenage daughter. We smoke and mellow out and I whip up a bubble bath. I lathered that shit good while she handjobs me. Cock throbbing, I dragged her ass out of the tub into my bedroom and go right down on that withered puss. I need to delay my raging 10 inch tubular manhood from rocket spunking her face right then and there. The Red Rider always cums inside his coug. We all know that the more sexually demanding they get, the lower their standards fall. Right before I kicked her to the curb, I said she could have it again, every Tuesday and Thursday. She left knowing that now, her only purpose in life is to be my biweekly cum sponge.
Brother Baggers, you gotta know I already got little Missy cougarette the daughter in my sights. Feel me on this my bros? Tonight a big surprise. Camera loaded for cougar, yo. Anyone wanna see pictures? Of course you do, you filthy fucks. Grrrowlya baby, Red Rider My lower lip quivers uncontrollably as the link I click takes me to sites where rough-looking tattooed men with horse cocks perform unspeakable acts in the stretched and degraded bottoms of naked women. The women, all middle-aged or older, have bags or sacks of some sort covering their heads. On the desk, a cheap digital camera sits atop a recycled grocery sack.
I sweep them both to the floor as hot spikes pierce my heart and sickness pours into my stomach.
I click over to the cougarbaggers. I want to Erktica or scream, but I do neither. Rraders everything I have left in me, I reaxers off the edge, naked and terrible, with the hot taste of blood in my mouth. He is rising from the tub and reaching when I strike, not so terribly hard I think, though this smirking moon face is clearly not used to being hit. Staggered, he loses footing on the oil-slicked bottom, accelerating backwards. Rezders see this Eroica clearly now as I did then, fist connecting, bearded chin twisting, feet failing, water flying, arms flailing, the crown of his head Erorica off the towel rack which I always thought Erotica readers mounted in such an awkward place, the reders displacing reaers bathwater, his head ringing off the lip of the iron tub, the unmusical snapping sound, the surprise in his eyes fading to dullness as water rises above them as underneath a bright red rose brews like hibiscus tea.
When the last bubbles surface, I stand and leave. What could I do? Honestly, there is little in the way of help I can offer or amends I care to make, for am I not the wronged party in all this? God surely knows not a single tap on the chin that even his scruffy, pathetic little beard will cover any sign of? I force myself back to the bedroom to sit at the laptop. I delete the filthy email. Even in his own pathetic loser universe, he was a runt. Before I close his browser, I delete the bookmarks for www. I erase all cookies and history. I empty his recycle bin and briefly consider reformatting the entire hard drive, but stop myself in time.
That would just arouse suspicion. I dress and nursing my tender knuckles, I wait patiently at the livingroom window for nightfall. In what is easily a half hour, the sun goes low and I assure myself that there is no foot traffic outside. My tummy lurches as I enter the street, but I close the door behind me and step free of the house and with each step, I blend further into the empty street and I never, ever look back. My car waits beside a sycamore on a side street that opens on a square where anonymous people walk their anonymous dogs under the trees. By the time I start the engine, my nausea has faded entirely.
The expected announcement comes quietly, two days later.
I flee to the bathroom, lock myself in the stall, sobbing. I tear off the ruined panties that have begun to dampen my skirt. They reek of concentrated fear. I compel myself to stop crying, to breathe deeply and allow my bladder to empty without straining. The panties I toss deep into the trash. I have no a replacement for them. I splash a bit of water down there, spritz with cologne and dab myself roughly with a large wad of paper towels.
Submit to bweoftheyear gmail. Red-faced, red-eyed and short, he forums and descriptions me urgently from the tub. Issue may not be held or jealous in whole or part without written college from the lower.
I blot the dark skirt readera which my wet, naked sex is barely concealed. Upstairs in the office of Principal Jones, my worst fears are confirmed as she opens the door and behind her two seated men with bulldog features turn in unison to face geaders. Damita Jones introduces them, her face trembling Eroitca she explains that Erotica readers homicide detectives have horrible news that rreaders need to discuss with me. The older of the two men rises and takes my hand, holding it with decorum, but much longer than necessary to merely make my acquaintance. Looking at you and through you from a sad place, far, far away. I think of my trembling sex, naked beneath my thin skirt.
I wonder if he smells me from traces on my hand which he still claws in his overly familiar grip. Burke, he repeats, there is some terrible news … He drops this statement and seems to let dangle for my reaction. I have no idea how to react or if my face betrays a reaction. He clears his throat loudly, and proceeds to ask if fourteen-year-old Neeshaan Martin from Drury Lane is currently in my classroom. After a point, all I can do is nod mutely. Finally releasing my hand, Mrs. I know the way her mind works.
Neeshaan is far and away, my best student. Unlike the rest of the smug, self-affected suburban monsters, she is hard-working and cheerful, an excellent writer with perfect diction and manners. Things are seldom what they seem on the surface. The younger of the two detectives thanks me and Damita Jones thanks me with no small relief in her eyes. The young detective is inappropriately flirty as he escorts me back to my class. I tell him his partner has an unsettling way of talking and looking at people. I say I imagine it must take a terrible toll.
I show him the wedding ring I never took off. Then, I think he winked at me. Poor Neeshaan, my little sweet pea, comes right out when I call her. I escort her to her locker, walk her downstairs and we hug goodbye in the front lobby. You might feel a little prick. I smile foolishly at the DA hovering over me. The doctor bends into my field of vision with the first needle which he jabs in relentlessly. I howl as he violates my inflamed gums. The second needle slides in, easy as sex. The dentist asks if my fingers tingle.