We Prick You

"Duke’s what you’d call an older man. I’m what you’d call under-age, only he doesn’t know. He thinks I’m 17."

A cautionary tale about a young runaway and the evils of older men.


6. Pinch

It’s dark when he gets back. I can hear him, stomping around the house, opening doors, slamming them shut.

    Like a bairn, I bury myself under the quilts, ready to surprise him. Under the quilts, there’s no getting away from the sick smell coming from my vest. Fuck! No time to shower now. I quickly peel off the sticky vest and toss it under the bed.

    Then I lie still and wait.

    He thunders upstairs, like a beast, tears into the bedroom and rips the quilt from the bed.

    “Surprise?” I say, popping up like a jack-in-the-box. With tits and slightly whiffy knickers.

    His face is a picture. Pale, frantic, he leaps back at first. Then his eyes start to wander.

    “I thought you’d gone,” he says, coming towards me.

    “Never,” I say, pulling him closer, holding him, feeling his skin against mine. “You’re cold. Let me warm you up.”

    This is it! His kisses come hard and fierce, his hands are all over me, everywhere they shouldn’t be. I close my eyes while he makes me his own. 

    Then I feel the pinch. Just a little nip on the neck. He’s wrapped around me, groaning. I can feel how hard he is, so I try not to spoil it, but the pinch comes again, harder. I try to groan, like him, but a squeal comes out instead. 

    “Louder,” he grunts, his face buried in my neck, his fingers buried down there. 

    So I scream for him.

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