Chapter 8: The Rusty Nail's Persistent Suitor
The whiskey burned going down, a familiar heat that spread through her chest and settled somewhere behind her sternum. Morph kept her eyes on the bar, on the rings of condensation her glass had left on the scarred wood, on the neon sign flickering behind the liquor bottles. She was counting her breaths. Four in.Four out. The way she'd learned in training, back when her body was her own and her mind was a fortress.
The Rusty Nail was half-empty tonight. A couple of old-timers shooting pool in the back. A cluster of warehouse workers nursing beers in a corner booth. Nobody looked twice at the curvy blonde in the pink hoodie, which was both a relief and an insult. She'd spent years commanding attention. Now she was invisible in the worst possible way.
She finished the whiskey. Ordered a third.
"You sure, sweetheart?" The bartender's brow furrowed. "You been hitting it pretty hard."
"I'm sure."
He poured. She drank. The fog in her head thickened, but it wasn't the warm blur of alcohol. It was something else. Something that had been planted in her skull like a seed, waiting for water.
Beautiful babe.
Even thinking the words made her twitch. She pressed her thighs together under the bar, feeling the denim of the too-tight jeans bite into her skin. The ache between her legs had faded to a dull throb, but it was still there, a constant reminder of what Hypnotica had done. What she'd made Morph do.
She'd screamed. She'd begged. She'd come so hard she'd seen stars, and the worst part—the absolute worst fucking part—was that some fractured piece of her had enjoyed it.
Morph drained the glass and signaled for another.
The stool beside her scraped against the floor.
She didn't look up. Didn't need to. The smell hit her first: cheap cologne, leather, and the sour tang of beer sweat. A big presence, taking up too much space, leaning into her orbit like he belonged there.
"Well, hello there, beautiful babe."
The words hit her like a physical blow.
Her spine snapped straight. Her fingers tightened around the empty glass. A giggle rose in her throat—high, tinkling, wrong—and she clamped her jaw shut so hard her teeth ached. For a long, horrible second, she felt her lips try to curve into a smile, felt her head start to tilt, felt her body begin to turn toward the voice.
No. No, no, no.
She forced her eyes to stay forward. Forced her shoulders to stay square. The trigger was a ripple in a pond, but she was still the water. She could contain it. She could—
"You hear me, sweetheart?"
She turned her head. Slowly. Deliberately. The man on the stool beside her was stocky, maybe forty, with a thick neck and a leather jacket that had seen better decades. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, and his eyes—dark brown, slightly bloodshot—were crawling over her body like they owned it.
"Fuck off," Morph said.
Her voice came out steady. Good.
The man laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound, like gravel in a blender. He signaled the bartender for two shots of Jack.
"That's cute," he said. "Real cute. You got a mouth on you."
"I said fuck off."
"Beautiful babe."
The second hit was worse.
Morph felt her jaw go slack. Felt her tongue press against her teeth like it was trying to form words she hadn't authorized. A breathy little sound escaped her lips—something between a sigh and a giggle—and she felt her hips shift on the stool, a tiny sway that she couldn't quite stop.
"I'm, like—" She caught herself. Bit down on her tongue. The pain was sharp, grounding. "I'm not interested. Okay? Leave me alone."
But the words came out wrong. Too soft. Too high. The edge was gone, like someone had sanded it down while she wasn't looking.
The man's grin widened. He slid one of the shots toward her.
"Come on, now. Don't be like that. A pretty thing like you, sitting all alone in a place like this? Seems to me you're looking for company."
"I'm not."
"You sure?" He leaned closer. His breath was hot and sour against her cheek. "Because you've been sitting here for an hour, drinking yourself stupid. That don't look like someone who wants to be alone."
Morph's heart was pounding. She could feel the bimbo stirring again, stretching in the dark corners of her mind. The jeans were too tight. The hoodie was too short. Her tits were heavy and aching, and her nipples had gone hard against the pink cotton, and she hated—hated—the way her body was reacting to his proximity.
"Beautiful babe."
The third hit was a wave.
She giggled. Actually giggled. A high, stupid, tinkling sound that made her want to crawl out of her own skin. Her hand fluttered up to her hair, twirling a strand around her finger, and she felt her lips part in a smile she couldn't control.
"I'm, like, totally not interested, okay?" The words tumbled out before she could stop them. Breathier than they should be. Dumber. "You're, like, not really my type."
What the fuck. What the fuck was she saying.
The man just laughed again. He pushed the shot glass closer.
"One drink. That's all I'm asking. You don't gotta marry me."
"I—" She tried to summon the old steel. The old growl. But it wasn't there. "I don't think—"
"Beautiful babe."
Fourth hit.
Morph felt her spine arch. Felt her ass shift on the stool, a subtle grind that made the denim drag against her slick cunt. She was wet. She was so fucking wet, and she didn't know when that had happened, and she couldn't stop it.
Her mouth opened.
"You're, like, so sweet," she heard herself say. "To notice me."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Morph stared at herself from somewhere deep inside her skull, watching in horror as her body leaned toward the stranger. Her hand was still in her hair. Her lips were still curved in that stupid, empty smile. And her hips—her hips were swaying, a slow, rhythmic roll that made the stool squeak beneath her.
The man's eyes dropped to her tits. Lingered there. She should have slapped him. She should have punched him in his thick neck. Instead, she felt her cheeks flush pink, felt a little thrill run down her spine at the attention.
"That's more like it," he said. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"I'm—" She paused. Her name. Her real name. It was right there, on the tip of her tongue. But another name was pushing it aside, rising up like a bubble in champagne. "I'm Candy."
The word tasted like bubblegum. Like lip gloss and bad decisions.
"Candy." He rolled it around in his mouth like he was savoring it. "That's a good name. A real good name."
Morph wanted to scream. Wanted to grab the shot glass and smash it against the bar. Wanted to run out into the cold night air and never look back. But her body wasn't listening anymore. Her body was warm and loose and tingling, and the ache between her legs had turned into a throb, a pulse, a steady beat that matched the rhythm of her hips.
"You know what I think?" The man finished his shot, set the glass down with a clunk. "I think you're putting on a show for me. I think you want me to watch."
No. No, that wasn't—
"Beautiful babe."
Fifth hit.
The last walls came down.
Morph felt it happen—felt the bimbo persona bleed through the cracks, filling her up like water filling a glass. Her thoughts went soft and syrupy. Her worries dissolved like cotton candy in the rain. And suddenly, everything was simple. Everything was easy.
She was Candy. She was pretty. And this nice man wanted to look at her.
"You're right," she said, and her voice was pure honey now, sweet and slow and stupid. "I am putting on a show."
She slid off the stool.
The platform sneakers made her wobble, but she caught herself on the bar, giggling. The man was watching her with dark, hungry eyes. She liked that. She liked the way he looked at her like she was something delicious.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
Candy smiled. The smile felt natural now. It felt right.
"I'm gonna give you something, like, way better than a drink."
She turned around. Slowly. Let him look at her ass in the painted-on jeans. Let him see the way the denim cupped her curves, the way her waist dipped in before flaring out again. She heard him exhale—a rough, ragged sound—and it sent a shiver of pleasure up her spine.
Then she turned back. Stepped close. Close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, close enough to feel the heat coming off his body.
And she climbed onto his lap.
He grunted in surprise, hands coming up to grip her hips. She straddled him on the stool, her knees pressing into the worn leather, her crotch hovering just above the growing bulge in his jeans. The position was awkward—the stool wasn't made for this—but Candy didn't care. Candy didn't care about anything except the way his fingers felt digging into her hips and the way his eyes had gone wide and hungry.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"That's the idea," she said, and giggled at her own joke.
The bartender said something. Probably a protest. But Candy wasn't listening. She was rolling her hips, a slow, circular grind that pressed her cunt against his erection through two layers of denim. It felt good. It felt amazing. The seam of her jeans was rubbing against her clit, and she was so wet she could feel it soaking through the fabric, leaving a dark spot on his pants.
"You like that?" she asked.
"Yeah." His voice was hoarse. "Yeah, I like that."
She leaned forward. Pressed her tits against his chest. The hoodie was so short that her bare midriff was rubbing against the leather of his jacket, and the friction made her nipples ache. She wanted him to touch them. She wanted him to rip the hoodie off and suck on them until she screamed.
"You want more?"
"Fuck yes."
She grinned. It was a dirty grin, a knowing grin. She reached down between them, found the button of his jeans, and popped it open with one hand. The zipper came down easy. His cock was straining against his boxers—thick and hard and eager—and she wrapped her fingers around it through the cotton.
"Jesus," he muttered.
Candy pulled his cock out. It was hot and heavy in her hand, the head slick with pre-cum, the shaft veined and thick. She gave it a few slow strokes, watching his face contort, watching his jaw clench and his eyes roll back.
"You want me to suck it?"
"God, yes."
She shook her head. Still smiling. Still grinding her hips against his thigh.
"Not yet. First, I'm gonna give you a dance."
She pushed herself up off his lap. His hands tried to hold her, but she swatted them away with a playful little smack. Then she turned around, facing away from him, and lowered herself back down.
Her ass pressed against his cock. The denim was damp where she'd been grinding, and she felt his shaft slide between her cheeks, nestling in the crease. He groaned. She laughed.
"Like that?"
"Fuck. Yes."
She started to move. Slow at first, a lazy figure-eight that rolled her hips and slid her ass along his length. The stool creaked beneath them, threatening to tip, but she didn't care. She braced her hands on his knees and arched her back, pushing her ass out, giving him a show.
The neon lights from the bar sign painted them in shades of red and blue. In the mirror behind the liquor bottles, she could see herself: a blonde bimbo with smeared lipstick and hungry eyes, grinding her ass against a stranger's cock in a dive bar. She looked like a whore. She looked like she loved it.
She did love it.
"Beautiful babe," the man muttered.
The words hit her again, but this time they didn't hurt. This time they just felt... true.
Candy reached back and pulled the hem of her hoodie up, exposing her bare ass. The jeans were so low-rise that they barely covered anything, and she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and tugged them down, just an inch, just enough to let her cheeks spill out.
The man made a strangled sound. His hands found her hips again, gripping hard.
"You're fucking incredible," he said.
"I know," she said, and meant it.
She kept grinding, faster now, the friction building between her legs. She could feel her own wetness soaking through her jeans, could feel the slick slide of his cock against her bare skin. She wanted him inside her. She wanted him to bend her over the bar and fuck her until she forgot her own name.
But not yet.
First, she was going to make him beg.
She turned around again. Faced him. Straddled his lap, her knees on the stool, her hands on his shoulders. His cock was trapped between them, pressed against her stomach, leaving a smear of pre-cum on the pink hoodie.
"You want to fuck me?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Say please."
"Please."
She smiled. Leaned down. Kissed him, deep and messy, her tongue sliding against his. He tasted like whiskey and cigarettes and bad decisions. She loved it.
Then she pulled back.
"Not here," she said. "Take me somewhere."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He didn't need to be told twice.
He was up off the stool before she could blink, one hand already digging into the pocket of his leather jacket for a wallet. He threw a crumpled twenty onto the bar—didn't wait for change, didn't look back at the bartender's sour expression—and grabbed Candy by the wrist. His grip was rough, almost careless, like she was a thing he'd won at a carnival and couldn't wait to unwrap.
The night air hit her like a cold slap when they pushed through the door. It cleared her head for a split second, just long enough for Morph to surface, screaming inside the prison of her own skull. She could feel the rough pavement through the thin soles of her sneakers, could feel the bite of the wind against her bare midriff. She was outside. She was walking. She was following a stranger to God knew where.
And her hips were still swaying.
Candy didn't care. Candy was humming a little tune under her breath, something meaningless and poppy, and her hand felt right in his. Her tits bounced with every step, the pink hoodie stretched so tight that the fabric had ridden up, exposing the underboob she hadn't even noticed. She liked the way the cold made her nipples hard.
"Where we going?" she asked, and her voice was all breath and bubblegum.
"My place. Couple blocks."
The words registered somewhere in the back of her mind. A warning bell. A red flag. But Morph couldn't reach it. The walls were too thick, and Candy was too warm, and the ache between her legs had become a living thing, a pulse that beat in time with her heart.
"Okay," she said.
His apartment was on the third floor of a building that had seen better decades. The hallway smelled like cat piss and fried onions, and the carpet was worn thin in the middle where a thousand feet had trod. He unlocked the door with one hand, still holding her wrist with the other, like he was afraid she might bolt.
She didn't bolt. She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her.
The place was a mess. Clothes on the floor, dishes in the sink, a TV mounted on the wall that had probably been stolen. The bedroom was visible through a half-open door—unmade sheets, more clothes, a single lamp with a busted shade. It wasn't the penthouse. It wasn't silk and chrome and mirrored ceilings.
It was real. It was dirty. And Candy didn't care.
"Nice place," she said.
He laughed. It was the same gravelly laugh from the bar, but there was an edge to it now. Something hungry. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair, then turned to face her.
"You want that drink now?"
Candy shook her head. She stepped closer, her platform sneakers making her almost his height. Her hands found his chest, felt the solid muscle beneath his t-shirt.
"No," she said. "I want to give you that dance you asked for."
His eyes darkened. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She pushed him back, gently but firm, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch. He sat. The cushions wheezed under his weight. She stood in front of him, framed by the flickering light of a streetlamp outside the window, and let him look.
The pink hoodie was a lost cause. She peeled it off over her head, moving slow, letting her tits swing free. No bra. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin, made her nipples pucker into tight, aching points. She heard his breath catch and felt a surge of power that was almost better than the whiskey.
"Fuck," he whispered.
She dropped the hoodie. Hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the jeans. They were so tight that she had to shimmy to get them down, wiggling her hips like she was doing exactly the kind of dance he'd paid for with the price of a shot. The denim slid over her thighs, over her knees, and pooled around her ankles.
She stepped out of them. Stood there in nothing but the platform sneakers and a pair of sheer lip gloss.
The sticky spot between her thighs was visible. A glistening trail of her own wetness catching the dim light. She didn't try to hide it. She wanted him to see.
"You gonna stand there all night?" he asked.
"Patient," she said, and wagged a finger at him. "You said you wanted a show."
She turned to the TV. It was off, the screen dark. She could see her reflection there—a curvy silhouette with dilated eyes and a knowing smile. Behind her, the man leaned back, his hands braced on his knees, his cock visible through the worn denim of his jeans.
She found a playlist on her phone. Something slow, something dirty. The kind of bass that thrummed in your chest and made your hips move on their own. She set the phone on the arm of the couch and straightened up.
Then she closed her eyes and let the music take her.
The first move was a simple sway. Just her hips, rolling side to side like a pendulum. Her tits swayed with the motion, heavy and hypnotic. She heard him shift on the couch, heard his breathing go rough, but she didn't look at him. Not yet.
The second move was a bend. She folded forward at the waist, her ass tilted up, her hair spilling over her face. The position opened her up, showed him the slick folds of her cunt from behind. She held it for a beat, then two, then straightened up slow, dragging her hair back over her shoulders.
He groaned. It was a low, animal sound.
She turned around.
Now she faced him. Now she could see how hard he was, how his knuckles had gone white where he gripped his knees, how his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. She stepped closer, one foot in front of the other, until her knees bumped against his.
Then she climbed onto the couch.
Straddling him. Her knees on either side of his hips. Her cunt hovering inches above his trapped erection. She could feel the heat through the denim. It radiated up into her, made her clench around nothing, made her pussy drool.
"Put your hands on my waist," she said.
He did. His palms were rough, calloused. They scraped against her bare skin in a way that made her shiver.
"Now don't move them."
She started to dance.
It wasn't like the bar. The bar had been public, had been a performance, had been about being seen. This was private. This was just for him. Just for her. The music was inside her now, a rhythm in her blood, and she moved with it—slow grinds that pressed her cunt against the hard line of his cock, arches that pushed her tits into his face, circles that made her ass bounce and her thighs clench.
His hands stayed on her waist. But his mouth found her nipple. He sucked it in through the thin slick of sweat, tongue swirling, teeth grazing, and she gasped—a high, broken sound that was pure Candy.
"You like that?" she asked.
"Fuck yeah."
She ground harder. The denim of his jeans was rough against her clit, a friction that was almost enough, almost, but not quite. She needed skin. She needed him inside her. But she wasn't done playing yet.
She pushed him back, flat against the couch cushions. Bent forward, her tits dragging across his chest, until her lips were at his ear.
"You want to fuck me now?"
"Yes."
"Say it again."
"Fuck yes."
She sat back. Reached down. Popped the button of his jeans with one practiced flick. The zipper came down. She reached inside, fingers closing around his cock, and pulled it out.
It was thick. Not porn-star huge, but substantial, the kind of cock that stretched you and filled you and made you feel it. The head was dark, slick with pre-cum, and the shaft was veined and hot in her palm.
She stroked it once.Twice. Watched his eyes roll back.
Then she lifted up. Positioned herself over him. Let the head of his cock press against her entrance.
"You want it?" she asked.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
She smiled. And then she sank down.
The stretch was instant. Sharp. Perfect.
He filled her in one slow, agonizing slide, his cock splitting her open, hitting something deep inside that made her gasp and shudder. She braced her hands on his chest and started to ride.
The first few strokes were slow. Deliberate. She wanted to feel every inch, every vein, every throb. Her walls clenched around him, milking him, urging him deeper. His hands had moved from her waist now—she didn't care—and they were on her tits, squeezing, kneading, pulling at her nipples until she whimpered.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, you feel good."
"You're so tight," he grunted. "So fucking wet."
She rode him harder. The couch creaked beneath them, a rhythmic protest that matched the slap of her ass against his thighs. She leaned back, changing the angle, and he hit a spot that made her see stars. Her mouth fell open. A moan spilled out—loud, shameless, the kind of sound that would have embarrassed Morph but only made Candy hotter.
"Right there," she said. "Right fucking there."
He grabbed her ass. Held her steady. Started thrusting up into her, hard and fast, meeting her downward strokes with a force that made her whole body jolt. The couch was groaning now, the fabric tearing, but neither of them noticed. They were just heat and friction and the wet slap of flesh on flesh.
"Beautiful babe," he grunted.
The trigger hit.
She came. Not because of the words, not entirely, but because the words pushed her over—the last little shove that sent her tumbling into the void. Her cunt clenched around him like a fist, rippling, squeezing, pulling him deeper. She threw her head back and screamed—no words, just a raw, animal cry that echoed off the thin walls.
He came a second later. She felt it—the sudden swelling, the hot pulse of his release flooding inside her. He grunted, arching up, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise.
They stayed like that for a long moment. Panting. Trembling. Sweat cooling on their skin.
Then Candy leaned down and kissed him. Soft. Slow. Like they'd been lovers for years instead of strangers for an hour. When she pulled back, she was still smiling.
"That was fun," she said.
He stared up at her, dazed. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."
She climbed off him. His cum trickled down her thigh, a thick trail of evidence. She didn't wipe it away. She picked up her clothes and started to dress, moving slow, feeling his eyes on her the whole time.
"You gonna be here when I get back from the shower?" he asked.
She looked at him over her shoulder. The bimbo smile was still on her lips, but something else flickered behind her eyes. Something darker. Something that wasn't Candy at all.
"I don't think so," she said.
She walked out the door.
The hallway was cold. The night air outside was colder. She stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, the pink hoodie back on, the too-tight jeans back in place, the taste of a stranger still on her tongue. She could feel his cum soaking through the denim, could feel the familiar ache of a good hard fuck still radiating through her muscles.
Somewhere deep inside, Morph was screaming. She could hear it, faint and distant, like a voice at the bottom of a well.
But it was getting harder to remember why.
She started walking. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't care. The trigger was still working its slow poison, and the bimbo was still wearing her like a coat, and somewhere miles away, in a penthouse of black velvet and chrome, Hypnotica was watching her city and smiling.
Because the game was going exactly as she'd planned.
And it was only the beginning.