I shatter. If it weren’t for Cash’s grip on me, I would collapse.
This orgasm doesn’t stop though, it keeps coming in ripples of throbbing euphoria, both soothing and overwhelming. My mind spins as my body tries to contain the pleasure ripping through me.
“Louder,a chuisle. Scream for me, baby,” Cash hisses with a strangled breath, his pumps becoming jolty and desperate. I moan louder and louder as each wave threatens to knock me off my feet. “Fuck, such a dirty little whore. Letting me take you like this. Coming for me again and again like a needy little slut. Being such a good fucking girl for daddy.” He curses as his orgasm rips through him and his hot seed paints my back.
He rests his hips on me and reaches around to take the wand from me. Then he slowly grinds against me as he smears his cum over my back with the flat of his hand. “Such a pretty sight. My little whore covered with daddy’s cum.” I moan and wiggle my ass back into him, loving the idea of being marked by him. Used like a whore, worshipped like a goddess.
“Come here,” he murmurs, taking my hands from the shelf and guiding me under the water stream. He holds me close, whispering his praise into my hair. My ear is pressed to his chest, listening to his slowing heart rate.
He spins me around and begins to clean me with a washcloth and gentle strokes, tender and sweet. When he turns me back around, I look up at him. “Teach me how to use a gun.”
2“The most important thing is that you can pull the trigger without moving your sight off your target,” Cash says after showing me three times how to load and unload the handgun safely. The shooting range is emptied out—no doubt due to Cash. Either he owns the whole place or just bought it out for our privacy.
We’re in a shooting stall with a human-silhouette target hanging down range. Neon earmuffs hang on a hook next to us, along with a pair of safety glasses. “Should I put these on?”
“Yeah, sure.” I reach for them while he continues to speak, “I’m sure Doug will wait to kill you until you have time to put on your earmuffs.”
I set them back on their hook and eye him. “Is it safer for practice? Yes. But I want to get you comfortable around a gun as soon as possible, and knowing how loud it is matters. If we spend all day shooting with earmuffs on and you go out there and fire, get startled by the true volume, flinch, and miss…you’re dead.”
I gulp, the seriousness of the situation continuing to seep in. “I’d much rather your ears ring for the rest of the night than you take a bullet,a chuisle.I’m not teaching you how to shoot. I’m teaching you how to survive.”
“I understand.”
He flicks my chin with his thumb. “I know you do. You’re smart. Alright, now get in your stance.”
I look at him questioningly, then try to imitate stances I learned during childhood sports, legs staggered, knees slightly bent, hips forward. “Like this?”
“Remember what I just said: All that matters is you can pull the trigger without moving the muzzle off target. So any way you can stand that provides both balance so you’re not topping over and stability for the sight, you’re good.”
I take a breath and try to settle into a stance that doesn’t feel too rigid or unnatural, and that I don’t have to think too hard about. He hands me the empty gun, after showing me once more the magazine and chamber are empty. His hands wrap around mine as he adjusts my grip and I try not to think about his touch more than the deadly weapon in my hand.
“Get used to the feel of the trigger. There’s slack, a wall, and then you break the shot.” He covers my trigger finger with his and slowly pulls through each stage. Like the slack of the gas pedal before the slight resistance that precedes actual acceleration.
“Take a few dry fire rounds. Aim for the center of the body.” He lets go of my hands and steps back.
“Shouldn’t I aim for the shoulder or leg or something a little less fatal?”
He rips the gun from my hands and slams it on the stall ledge. “You point a gun at someone, you better be prepared to kill them. Hesitation, second-guessing, debating the fucking morals of it, is when they put a bullet in your head because I guarantee they won’t be aiming for your goddamn pinky toe. What do you think this is, Harlow? Boy scouts? There’s no honor out there.” I recoil at his sneer, but quickly right myself and grab the gun back.
Without a word, I take aim, breathe in, and break the shot at the bottom of my exhale. Let the trigger reset and then break it again and again and again. Because he’s right. I’m not learning to protect myself from bullies on the playground. I’m not training for a worst-case scenario. I’m preparing for a fucking serial killer who has already set his sights on me.
“Good. Work on isolating your trigger finger a little more. You’re not squeezing the whole gun, just that one finger, ’kay?” I nod, and he replaces the empty magazine with a loaded one.
The brass ammo is sharp and bright against the black of the gun. My heart picks up, and I let out a shaky breath.
“Scared?” He sets the loaded gun back into my palm.
“A little.”
“Good. You should be. This isn’t a game, and this sure as shit isn’t a toy.” I tense, and he stands behind me and places both hands firmly on my hips. “Just breathe, baby. Think of firing as a continuation of your breath.”
I look down the artificially lit range, the concrete walls and floor bleak and silent.
Just breathe.
The recoil of the shot makes me jump, the sound much louder than I expected.
“Again.” Cash doesn’t coddle or pander to me, which I appreciate.