“Not yet,” he says.
I grab my purse and scurry out of the house like a rabbit just barely escaping the jaws of a very large wolf.
I’m sure I hear him whisper, “Hurry back,” as I step through the door. I jog all the way to the store, eager to put a few miles between me and the wolf who may or may not want to eat me.
My pulse flutters like moths’ wings. As unnerved as Art makes me feel, I can’t deny the adrenaline coursing through my veins, or the way my pussy tightens just thinking about the way he looks at me.
A part of me likes his attention very much. It’s the rest of me that has no idea what to do about it.
I pick up tomatoes and bread for dinner, and peanut butter ice cream for dessert. When I get back to the house, I’m relieved to hear the shower running, and find the living room empty. I chop the tomatoes and get started on the sauce, then fill up a big stockpot for the pasta.
After about half an hour, I find myself needing to urinate.
Nancy’s house is cute, but it only has one bathroom. I try and hold it as long as I can, but eventually nature wins out, and I have to knock on the door.
“Hey, Art,” I call through the slab, hoping he can hear me over the whirring fan. “How much longer do you think you’re going to be?”
He doesn’t respond. I knock again.
“I really have to go—”
The door swings open, and there stands Art, towering over me.
Completely naked.
“If you have to go,” he says, “then go.”
My mind can’t form words; he’s even more impressive without clothes on. The thing between his legs is enormous, thick and veiny. Not sticking up like the ones I’ve seen online, but not pointing straight down either.
“Well?” he says, his smirk an unmistakable challenge.
I swallow hard. “Can I just have the bathroom for two minutes?”
“I have to shave.” He turns to the sink and squirts a glob of shaving cream into his palm. “You can go now or wait until I’m done.”
My bladder pangs. The way he’s bullying me is neither fair nor right, and once again I feel like a small creature caught in a trap. But I desperately need to pee, and regardless of where the tension between my thighs originates, I can’t deny that seeing him naked makes me horny.
Careful not to brush against him, I make my way to the toilet. As modestly as possible, I slide my shorts down and settle onto the seat with my legs clamped shut.
I hug my stomach and keep my gaze pointed down. Seconds pass. My body refuses to relax enough to go.
“I thought you had to pee,” he says.
I chance a glance at him. He’s already shaved half his face.
“It’s hard with you standing there,” I mumble.
He chuckles, a cruel sound. “A week in prison’ll cure you of any and all shyness.”
I close my eyes and try to concentrate. Still, my bladder won’t budge.
An eternity later, I hear the faucet run and crack my left eye to watch a freshly shaven Art splash the excess shaving cream from his face. I exhale with relief, figuring he must be done.
“Spread your legs,” he says.
My eyes go wide. “What?”
He comes to stand in front of me, his cock mere inches from my chin.