Good Pet

“Good,” I say, surprised and afraid of the honesty I feel bubbling up in me, “because I don’t know how much of the stress and anxiety I can take, Tommy.” I grip the handle of my purse. “I threw up because of it.”

“Well, so did I,” says Tommy, like we are having some kind of pissing match.

I whiten hearing this. That’s exactly what I didn’t want to hear. And what I didn’t want my poor, sweet boyfriend to have to put himself through. And all for a noble cause with unsure results or pay off.

“I’ll get her, love,” he says. “I’m her big, fat walking karma.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

Tommy

Over the last few days, some things have gone the way I predicted, others did not. What went as predicted was Vanacore’s improved mood. Her being even-keel enough to not need to find any and every opportunity to escalate our sexual contact, the way she had been doing in the weeks prior.

What I did not expect and what ended up happening, however was the fact that Vanacore wanted (and got) three more oral sex acts for me. While I had anticipated that the one given to her on Monday would satiate her for a good part of the week, I was wrong. I ended up giving her one on Tuesday, one on Wednesday, and one on Thursday.

With each licking I gave her, I tried to get as much evidence as I could: audio, some video. The video came about on Wednesday, when, after convincing her that I was a dirty, kinky boy, and liked to have a video of my sexual acts, she let me record her. On my phone, of course, only after I convinced her that I wanted to watch it over and over again at home. I further explained that I would be willing to bury the evidence for her if need be.

She agreed, confirming my suspicions that she was and has been a predator for a very long time. Vanacore seemed happy at my volunteering to cover for her. To keep this mess out of her hands directly. From there, I obediently and silently made her cum, being sure to capture as much juicy detail as I could.

During each of those days, Melissa and I kept our routine. Riding into work with her as early as possible, going home with her outside of the view of Vanacore. Usually trying to wait until Vanacore goes home to meet up in the parking lot and go back to Melissa’s condo.

On each day into work, and each night home, Melissa seems more and more unsure of my plan. More and more stressed out by it, even though I assure her everything’s going fine. I’m getting good evidence. I’m keeping a meticulous record of everything. But none of this seems to impress or relax Melissa. If anything, it seems to drain her. This definitely seems true today out of all the days I’ve ridden to and from work with her.

Now it’s Friday. Morning, to be exact. And I’ve just arrived in the parking lot with Melissa at the wheel. Not even in the parking space for more than two seconds, she already looks like she’s slumping. Out of energy or will to move.

“Please make this Friday good, Tommy. Please be done with things today. Go to HR with your evidence, so we can get on with the rest of our lives together, starting this weekend. Please?” She doesn’t bother to look at me through most of these words, but she does on that last one. It’s a pitiful, weathered look.

I hate to see that look on her face. That’s not how I want my girlfriend to look at me. Especially not when I’m taking the risks that I am. I get out of the car, answering her question. “Yes. It’ll be over by this afternoon, Melissa. I promise you.” Unlike the days before this one, I don’t feel the need to be as cautious. I don’t feel the need to look up toward the windows and make sure Vanacore’s not looking for me.

Melissa gets out of her side of the car, directly after me and says, “Good. Because I want to enjoy my weekend, Tommy. I don’t want to keep worrying about you. Or her.” She pauses, looking angry and heartbroken. “I want to leave work at the end of the day, thinking about all the ways I’m going to have fun with you. Not all the ways you could be in danger.”

I turn away from her, feeling a bout of anxiety. It’s stronger than anything I’ve felt this entire week. It’s mixed in with anxiety and dread. The feeling is like I’m about to walk into something I may not get out of.

“I understand,” I say. “I want that too, but it’s not the end of the day. Not yet.” With those words, I head toward the office building.