Chapter 2: Begging for it
The image wouldn’t leave her. It followed her home, into the sterile, air-conditioned silence of her own bedroom. It hovered behind her eyelids when she tried to sleep—the shocking, veined weight of it, the absurd, dangling reality. The five boys from the party were ghosts, insubstantial whispers next to that fleshy monument. Her punishment had become an obsession.
The next afternoon, she arrived at Jeb’s house not as a chastised girl, but as a statement.
Her hair was in twin, high pigtails, woven with cheap pink extensions. Her makeup was a mask of aggression: glittery blue shadow thick to her eyebrows, lashes like tarantula legs, lips glossed a wet, sticky purple. She wore a neon green crop top that ended just below her negligible breasts, and denim shorts so frayed and cut-up that the pockets hung below the hem, framing the full, round curves of her ass with every step. She smelled of synthetic candy and coconut oil.
She didn’t knock. She pushed the door open, the stench of the house—now familiar, a mix of old man, stale beer, and something deeper, musky, like forgotten sex—washing over her like a foul welcome.
Jeb was in his throne, the massive armchair. He was dressed in his overalls, but the bib was unbuttoned, hanging loose. One hand rested on the chair’s arm. The other was tucked casually in his lap. And there, resting on his thigh like a sleeping python, was his cock. It was limp, a massive, veined thing of purplish-pink flesh, the thick helmet half-covered by a wrinkled fold of skin. His balls, heavy and low, crowded the worn fabric of the chair seat.
He didn’t look up from the grimy window he was staring out of. “You’re late.”
Tiffany’s heart hammered against her ribs. She’d planned for this, rehearsed it. She put one hand on her hip, making her back arch slightly. “Traffic,” she lied, her voice aiming for breezy but hitting a nervous squeak.
She grabbed the same greasy rag from yesterday and set to work on the windowsill with exaggerated motions. Each time she leaned forward, she made sure her ass pointed directly at him, jiggling it slightly as she scrubbed. She bent at the waist, knowing the shorts would ride up, knowing the view was unmistakable. She let out little sighs, breaths meant to sound weary and sensual.
Jeb took a slow sip from a mason jar of clear liquid. He didn’t speak.
Frustration began to prickle under her skin. She switched tactics. Crawling onto the floor to gather empty bottles, she made sure to be on all fours directly in his line of sight, her ass high in the air, the denim straining. She glanced back over her shoulder, letting her purple lips part.
He scratched his stomach, his fingernails dragging through gray chest hair. His other hand hadn’t moved.
“You gonna pick them bottles up or just pose with ‘em?” he grunted.
Humiliation burned her ears. She stood up, the bottles clinking in her hands. She walked to the trash bag, putting an extra switch in her step. “It’s just so hot in here,” she said, fanning herself with a hand, pulling her crop top away from her skin for a second.
“Then open a window,” he said. “You’re supposed to be cleanin’ ‘em, ain’t you?”
The bratty defiance she’d spent a lifetime cultivating finally boiled over, mixed with a raw, hungry need she didn’t fully understand. She dropped the bottles into the bag with a crash and turned to face him. The act was gone. Her face was flushed, her breath coming fast.
“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded, her voice shaking.
Now he looked at her. Those yellow eyes traveled slowly from her ridiculous pigtails, down the flat plane of her stomach, to the tight shorts, and back up. There was no lust in his gaze. Only a profound, weary amusement. “More’n you could count, girl.”
“I’m not a girl,” she snapped, taking a step closer. The smell of him—liniment, whiskey, that underlying animal musk—filled her nostrils. “I see you. Just… sitting there with it out. You want me to see.”
“I’m an old man. I sit how I’m comfortable. Your gawkin’ is your own business.”
“Stop it!” she shrieked, the sound tearing through the stagnant air. Her composure shattered. She gestured wildly at his lap. “That! Just… fuck me with it! You know you want to! I’ll… I’ll do anything!”
She was begging. The realization made her feel dizzy. She dropped to her knees on the filthy floor in front of his chair, not caring about the grit. She put her hands on his bony knees, her glossed lips trembling. “Look,” she whispered, turning her head to present the line of her throat. “I’ve got a good throat. They all say so.” She then shuffled on her knees, turning to present her ass to him, peering back over her shoulder. “You like this, right? You’ve been staring. Just take it. Fuck this ass. It’s what you want. It’s what I need.”
She was crying now, hot, angry tears cutting through the glitter on her cheeks. The need was a physical ache, a void carved out by the monstrous image of him that had haunted her for a day. She needed it to be real, to be filled by it, to conquer the shock by submitting to it.
Jeb looked down at her, at the spectacular, offered curve of her posterior, at the desperate tears on her face. He took another long, slow drink. He set the jar down with a definitive clink.
Then he leaned forward slightly. The weight of his cock shifted against his leg.
Tiffany held her breath, a terrible hope swelling in her chest.
His voice, when it came, was a dry, quiet rasp, devoid of any emotion at all. “You think that’s what this is about?”
He leaned back again. The moment stretched, brittle and sharp.
Tiffany’s hope curdled into pure, undiluted rage. She spun around on her knees, her face a mess of tears and smeared makeup. She slammed her fists onto his thighs, not even flinching at the feel of his bare, papery skin.
“JUST FUCK ME YOU OLD FUCK!” she screamed, the words raw and ragged, echoing off the piles of junk. “STOP PRETENDING! JUST SHOVE THAT DISGUSTING THING IN ME AND GET IT OVER WITH!”
The silence after her scream was absolute. The fly had stopped buzzing.
Jeb studied her. He looked at the heaving of her small chest, the frantic pulse in her throat, the absolute, ruined need in her eyes. A long, slow breath escaped his nose.
Finally, he moved.
Not towards her. He reached down with one gnarled hand and took his own cock, giving it a few rough, practiced tugs. The flesh began to swell, thickening and lengthening in his grip, rising from his thigh in a slow, terrifying arc. Veins bulged. The skin darkened. It was a brutal, utilitarian act, devoid of passion. In moments, it was fully erect, a monstrous, rigid pillar of flesh aimed at the ceiling, the head glistening slightly.
He kept his hand at the base, holding it there like a weapon he was presenting for inspection.
“You want this filthy old thing?” he asked, his voice still calm, almost conversational. “This thing that’s pissed through seventy-eight years of nothin’? That’s buried one wife and bored a hundred whores? You think it’s gonna fix whatever’s broke in that empty little head of yours?”
Tiffany couldn’t speak. She just stared, mesmerized and horrified, at the sheer vertical reality of it. It was so much worse, so much more, than yesterday.
Jeb nodded, as if her silence was answer enough. “Alright then, Jezebel. Get up. Stop your bawlin’. You wanna earn that dick?” He tilted his head toward the hallway, toward the deeper darkness of the house. “The bathroom tub’s got a ring a corpse would be proud of. You scrub it ‘til the porcelain shines. You do that, and then we’ll talk.”
He released his grip. The massive shaft bobbed, then settled, a permanent, obscene accusation in the stifling air.
“Now get,” he said, and picked up his mason jar again. “You’re wastin’ daylight.”