Bass-Ackwards Read online

  No!

  Why was it wrong? Why was it wrong if she enjoyed some of it?

  Because it’s Bill, and Bill is a prick.

  Finger replaced thumb, spit-slick and assertive. Her mouth came open when the tip of it pushed inside her ass. A whine came out when it burrowed further, rasping past all kinds of nerves and confusion.

  The pattern of his thrusts evened out now; it seemed like he couldn’t maintain the same kind of focus while his hand had an agenda of its own. And that agenda was fingering her ass while he fucked her.

  Asshole Bill is fingering your asshole, Christina Lee!

  She gave up a choking sound as her throat and tongue couldn’t figure out if they wanted to laugh or cry.

  The digit plumbed in and out, roughly in time with the movement of his cock, and the entire business was utterly wrong. Wrong and … something else. He’d better be watching her ass and not seeing her face turning red.

  What had been bizarre, though simple enough, became more difficult. There was a new tightness. What was he—

  A second finger.

  Christina gave up and let the noises come. This could be her secret shame, that she was letting this happen. There was no possible way this could have repercussions after today. Nope. Nosiree.

  She had no control over what was coming and going in and out of her holes. Nothing should be coming in or out of that tight little pucker between her cheeks in front of another person, and especially not the man who handed her a paycheck every two weeks. But here it was happening anyway.

  And here was her pussy, sucking him down, making embarrassing wet noises around his girth. Here was her back, trying to arch like it had no clue what an indication like that might mean to the man behind her.

  He was rotating the fingers, corkscrewing in and out. Scissoring them, stretching her. Her nails scraped over the table, eyes shut tight.

  But shut tight because it felt … good.

  ‘Double Penetrated in the Back of the Haul Ash’ is the worst porno title ever. Congratulations, Dodd.

  Everything stopped.

  Motion. Sound. Breathing.

  Her pussy and ass were full of Bill Marshall. All her private places were exposed and tacky with her own juice and probably some of his spit. The moment was competing with a scant few others for the most powerless she’d ever felt in her life. Then, he spoke.

  “You want the rest of today off, too?”

  She swallowed, wetting her throat. “What?” Christina hadn’t considered having to sit around here all evening after this crazy shit had gone down. It wasn’t like she’d planned it.

  The two fingers shifted. “You let me have this ass, you can go home. I’ll stay the rest of your shift.”

  Huh?

  Bill was going to disrupt his precious schedule for anal?

  There was a lot to inventory in an extremely short span of time. Letting him fuck her at all was bad enough. There was that. And there was the fact that his two fingers were one finger more than she’d ever had in her ass. He hadn’t been a monster with her pussy, but this was anal. But did she want to stay here? Talking to customers? Printing invoices? Cleaning the office? There was nowhere to really clean herself up but the decrepit little bathroom. Was she going to finish her shift with her boss leaking down the backs of her—

  “Okay,” she blurted. “Yeah.”

  “ ‘Yeah’ what?”

  “Yeah, I want to leave.” She closed her eyes again and thought of the promise of her shower, waiting at home. “You can … you can have it.”

  “All right,” he said, pulling out of both her holes at once. “Good.”

  All right? Good? What a weird fucking thing to say.

  But then what could he say at this point that wouldn’t be weird?

  And now there was a spongy cock head pushing between her cheeks.

  Relax. You gotta relax or this shit is gonna hurt.

  It didn’t, though.

  He was wet from her pussy—that backstabbing little muffin!—and all his earlier fingering had her ass relaxed and slick. Strategic motherfucker. She thought the ring would fight him, but it didn’t, at least not very much. He teased the tip in and out and, though the humiliating wrongness was off the charts, it cost her no more than a dull ache at this point.

  But that was only an opening act. Bill held her cheeks apart with his hands and worked his cock further, further. At each new push, too, he made sure to pull out and remind her disoriented hole with a new entry that it ought to be good and stay open wide for him.

  There was only so far he could go. When she felt the open sides of his fly brushing her upturned cheeks, the bristle of male hair nestling in between, something just behind her breastbone gave a little shudder. Bill Marshall was balls deep in her ass. And now he was going to fuck it.

  She didn’t wait long. Callused thumbs still keeping her palmed open, probably for him to leer at what he’d gotten his only female employee to give up, he began to have what he wanted.

  These were short thrusts now, not the total withdrawals and plunges he’d inflicted on her pussy. Enough for some friction, enough so he might add some speed. Out of the very corner of her eye, she saw his hands leave her hips and come down onto the table. He was leaning over her now, the bell of his untucked shirt brushing the small of her back.

  The wood banging on the wall was percussive and quick. Christina lay there in a stupor, knees locked, legs making a fork, at the apex of which, her tender hole was stretching around her boss’s cock.

  He made no sound, save the very occasional and restrained grunt. The girth was relentless: there was no avoiding it, no becoming immune. She could only gape for him, wide like her mouth in some eternally startled ‘O’. And her clit! The poor thing was swollen, humming for relief. The sensations were … doing … something, but nothing that could get her—

  You are not thinking about how you’re going to come right now! Not here! Not with him.

  She ought not to be thinking about it, but there was nothing stopping Bill.

  His prick hardened. Expanded. His pistoning slowed by half. She could feel him hunching behind her, swearing under his breath.

  You insane bitch, you didn’t even make him get a cond—

  The pulse came.

  And then the second. The third. Hot cum jetted down deep in her ass, coating the twitching cock embedded there. He scrubbed her insides with it, lubricating her, spreading her shame, as her pussy clamored to get just a little piece.

  You’re getting Friday. And the rest of today. That’s what you asked for, that’s what you get.

  When he pulled out, she felt the leak, warm and incriminating as it oozed from her fluttering hole. After two deep breaths where she was sure he was done and gone, Christina began to right herself.

  “No,” he said. “Stay where you are.”

  She twisted her body. Turned her head, “What?”

  “I said, stay right there. Back down how you were.”

  This nightmare wasn’t over?

  If it’s a nightmare, you agreed to it.

  She leaned back down and sighed. The air from the vent overhead was cooling the fluids between her legs. One of her socks had slipped down inside her boot.

  There were rummaging sounds, perhaps in a drawer, and then footsteps. A hand was back on her ass. Then not.

  A tug on her panties. He was pulling them taut. Then she heard metal shearing through cloth.

  “Bill!”

  “Hold still.”

  Another snip and the tension was gone from her thighs. He’d cut off her goddamned underwear!

  “Now you’re good.”

  She popped up this time, spinning to cover her backside with the dress, and eyed him in shock. His right hand was already pulling up out of his front pocket, and what was left of her panties was down in there somewhere, irretrievable.

  His Adam’s apple moved under a fine stubble. He wet his lips, and seemed about to say something. She could have grabbed the sil
ence in the room and throttled it. His eyes cut to the door to go outside and then back to her, and he jerked a stiff nod.

  “All right,” he said. “See you Monday.”

  William James Marshall was flat-out, stupid in love with Christina Lee Dodd. And not just because she’d let him have a piece on the table in the back half of the office. No, this had been going on for a while.

  The clock above the front door told him he could shut the place down in ten minutes. Really, he could do it at any time. It was his business. But that wasn’t the way he ran things.

  He pulled her panties out of his pocket for about the twentieth time that night and ran his thumb over the ruined fabric. Had she known yellow was his favorite color? No. He’d seen the shock on her face at the ridiculous offer he’d made. There was no way she’d thought that far ahead.

  And there was no way you could have called her response.

  Oh, she’d been trying, that was for sure. The sky was the deep blue of early evening outside, and he thought it might have been as dark as her dress. She never wore dresses. Never wore all that hair down. Didn’t need to either, but damn.

  You cut her fucking panties off, you maniac.

  Sheeit. That was the least he’d done. His perfect little Christina had let him bury his dick way down in her perfect little ass and fill her full of cum. And just a little bit … just a little, he could tell she’d enjoyed it.

  He made a fist around the slip of yellow cloth and swore, stuffing it back into his jeans.

  Ten minutes. He stood up and made his way outside, his steps crunching over gravel toward the shop to start locking everything down.

  It was out of sheer impotent frustration he’d blurted out an offer like that at all. She was so … so goddamn everything. He’d hired her because she was the only applicant who knew anything about the new scheduling software, but after being around her day after day for all that time, she was just too good to be real.

  She was sweet—well, except maybe for first thing in the mornings—and even-keeled. Almost nothing riled her, even the nastiest customers with their tired demands, or Jonah and Travis with their jokes men ought not to tell in front of women. She was quick as lightning and kind, even to him, and he knew damn well what everyone called him behind his back. She was even funny, in her own, dry way. Hell, she was usually even on time.

  She was miles and miles out of his league, not to mention way too young. What was she, twenty-four? Or maybe that was wrong. She was just fine. His ass was too old; that’s what it was.

  It was at some point, maybe around this last Christmas, when she’d come in with that stupid Santa hat and white teeth grinning out from behind some rare red lipstick, and put a little package of gingerbread men right by his arm on the counter that he’d figured it out.

  Aw, hell. You’re fucked, Marshall.

  He batted a swarm of moths away from the light hanging outside the shop door and ducked his head inside to make sure everything was turned off before he closed the place up for the night. Nothing was out of place, and his keys jangled as he locked and bolted the door. The roll-ups were already done.

  Inside again, he locked the door to the back half. Made sure the light wasn’t on in the bathroom. The mini fridge door was shut tight—didn’t need to ruin a bunch of people’s lunches again. The air conditioning was off.

  He could feel those goddamned underwear taking up space, right next to his wallet. The urge to take them out and stare at them again had him setting his jaw.

  You can make it up by bending that pretty little ass over this table for me.

  As soon as it had come out of his mouth, he’d wanted to swallow it up, to take it back. But when she’d agreed … there was no other way to say it: it had sort of pissed him off.

  A flaw had shown up in the way he’d been idealizing her. His perfect Christina was not so perfect. Not if she was willing to let her prick of a boss take down her panties for one lousy day off.

  Well. A day and a half.

  Her agreement had made him turn some corner. She was gonna give it up just like that? For a long weekend? Fine. Then he could stop beating off on his couch at one in the morning and just have it. He was never going to be with her in any other real sort of way, so he could take this and fill up his spank bank forever.

  Bill shut down the front office computer. Flipped the plastic open sign over and cut the overhead lights. Set the alarm. The front door lock twisted closed with his key, and he headed on around to the side where he’d parked his truck.

  And, oh, she’d been so good. Sweet Jesus.

  Those long legs coming up out of those boots. Little panties pulled down. Pussy so fucking tight.

  And wet! He bit off a growl. Stepped up into his truck. He still couldn’t believe she’d let him have her ass. Really? Really?

  You’re goddam lucky she’s not gonna be here tomorrow. How you gonna walk around the shop, hard as trigonometry all day? Fuck.

  The engine rumbled to life on his ‘02 Ram. He put an arm on the back of the seats and twisted to watch where he was backing up. Never trusted mirrors.

  He wasn’t two miles down the highway, high-beams skimming the asphalt, before her panties were in his hand again. There was one thing about this. One thing, though ...

  If Christina would pay with that sweet little body for a day off, there might be other things she needed. He squeezed the soft handful in his lap. There were things Bill needed, that was for sure.

  And if he couldn’t have what he really wanted, maybe he could get the next best thing.

  Maybe.

  ✪

  “You have one more week, Miss Dodd.”

  “I understand, Your Honor.”

  Christina kept her answers short and subdued before the county judge, her eyes on the honey-colored wood of the bench rather than meeting the nearly colorless blue of his.

  What was it about courtrooms that was so daunting? Was it the windowless, fluorescent chamber, all right angles, that oppressed the air? Was is that no external sounds filtered in, no twittering birds or airplanes far overhead? Everything about the space amounted to one big stop sign.

  Everything said, “No, no, and no.”

  “If the County Inspector shows up next Friday and he doesn’t see enough progress, we’re going to have to reinstate the proceedings on the property. This is the last extension I’m giving you.”

  The statement squeezed at something beneath her ribs.

  “I understand, Your Honor.”

  “I hope you do. Dismissed.”

  She didn’t even see the courtroom as she collected her manila envelope and made her exit. Past the other people still waiting for appointments, out through the heavy door, out through the hallways of the county courthouse, and outside into the sunshine.

  When she hit concrete steps and blue sky, Christina took a deep breath. There. Her lungs could work again.

  She’d bought just a little more time. Just a little more. And now she could get back to work. Furious, furious work that would also take infinite delicate patience on her part. She shook her head on the way out to the Bronco, pulling her keys out of her purse as she went.

  It was already half-past three, and she still had to drive twenty-two miles back to Ashland. Today was more or less shot, but she still had all day Saturday and Sunday. Today had been the crucial day, however. If she hadn’t been able to show up for that court appointment … she didn’t want to think about it.

  The Bronco rumbled its way out of town and carried her down the highway. Road noise was not enough of a distraction from her problems. Not from the shitshow tomorrow was going to be, and not from the means by which she’d procured today off to start dealing with tomorrow.

  I have got to get this radio fixed. Too much time in my own fucking head.

  By the time she got home, she was wishing she bothered keeping alcohol in the house.

  The name Ashland Estates evoked rolling green lawns and manicured country club vistas, but that was
the way of things, wasn’t it? The most prestigiously named properties were invariably the shittiest. The Royal Golden Paradise Hotel would be a combination meth-lab and cockroach resort, while Two Brown Sticks would be where the rich people went on summer weekends and got spa treatments worth more than her truck.

  Well. Probably a lot of things were worth more than her truck. A lot of things were worth more than her singlewide in its northwest corner lot of the Ashland Estates, but it was what she had, and there was no time to loaf around worrying about what she didn’t have.

  She pulled the Bronco in under the awning that served as a carport. The familiar steps, the familiar screen door that stuck, the familiar yellow light filtering in through the windows at that time of day all greeted her as she made her way into the house.

  Purse and shoes discarded, she flopped down on her little green loveseat and stared at the ceiling. Got up and fussed with some of the dishes in the sink. She paused to lean in the doorway between her bedroom and the living room, waiting for the problems to, pretty please, solve themselves.

  She gave up and headed for the shower, which made for an exercise in futility, and not just because she would only get filthy again tomorrow and the day after that.

  You were filthy yesterday, too, weren’t you?

  There. That was the other problem with showers. They cut loose the reins on her mind and now she was all over the place again.

  She was scrubbing shampoo through her hair and trying to dodge flashes of memory. Her body tilting for his entry, the breathy noises that had escaped around her shame when those fingers …

  Rrrgh! Stop!

  She was rubbing a washcloth over her face and debating his motivations. Did he have some interest in her to begin with? More likely, Bill was just the sort of prick who’d want to bend her over and humiliate her. One big power trip for him.

  Who gives a fuck about why, Christina? It’s over. It’s done.

  She was dragging a razor along the front of her shin and trying to figure out how she was going to walk around the Haul Ash like nothing had happened. Would he lord it over her now? Would he brag to the guys?