Page 35

“Take your cock out.”

“I am in a car park.”

“I know where you are. I can see the roof of your car. I can see you sitting there like you still run this place. You don’t. I do. Belt. Zipper. Hand on it. Now.”

I look at the mirrors. Empty bay. Tape at the far end. My building full of police and I am in my own seat with my pulse between my legs like a traitor.

I do it. Belt. Zipper. The cold air hits me. I am already filling out and I hate it so much my jaw aches.

“There he is,” the voice whispers. “Rich man with his dick in his fist because a stranger told him to. Stroke it. Slow. I want to hear your breathing change.”

“Where the fuck are you?”

“Do it. I want you wet at the head before I let you think about saving anyone.”

“Who?”

“Not yet. Stroke.”

I do. I keep my face flat in case a uniform walks past the glass. My hand moves. It feels wrong. It feels like Tuesday in a stairwell that only existed in a mouth. My cock thickens anyway. I give the phone one breath I cannot swallow.

“That’s it. You don’t want this. I know. Your body doesn’t care what you want. It never has with me. Spit on your palm. Make it filthy. Work the head like you are alone in that house with the towel on the floor.”

I spit. I hate the sound. I use it. The slide gets easier. Shame sits on top of the heat and does not kill it.

“I’m going to fuck you on Halloween,” the voice says, unhurried, close enough to be a mouth. “Not a game. Not a threat you can put on paper. I’m going to put you on your back in your own bed and hold your wrists down and spit in your mouth and make you take it until you forget you have a firm. I’m going to come in you and keep you there. I’m going to lick the blood off your chest while you shake. You are going to say please and you are going to hate that you mean it.”

“Stop.”

“No. Faster.”

I go faster because the other choice is a body I have not seen yet. My hips want to lift. I do not let them. I am leaking on my own hand in a car I paid for while my building is a crime scene.

“Pretty when you bleed,” it whispers. “You will be. Shirt open.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Buttons. I want your chest. I want skin. I want you looking down at yourself while you jerk off like a man who thinks he can buy his people back.”

I get the shirt open with the hand that is not wet. Cold hits my chest. I look down. Olive skin. Dark hair. The same body the mirror showed in a towel two nights ago. I do not look like a man in control. I look like a man with my cock out.

“Your keys.”

“What?”

“Take your keys out of the ignition.”

“No.”

“Yes. The sharp one. Pull it out. The one that opens your house. You are going to cut your chest. Not deep enough to die. Deep enough that I can put my mouth on it later and taste that you obeyed me. Do it and I let them breathe a little longer. Refuse and I start now.”

My hand stills on my cock.

“This is not a game,” I say.

“It never was. Cut.”

I take the key. It is only metal. It is not a knife. It is enough. I set the edge above my heart, a little left, where a shirt will hide it and a mouth will find it. My hand is shaking.