Page 37 of Killer Bones

I croak out a confession while wriggling into his hand, “If you do that again, I’m going to come, I think.”

He whispers, next to my ear. “And if you come before I say to, I will ass-fuck you with something you’ll regret.”

Even that is stupidly riveting. I’m tempted to say please but don’t quite dare.

“Maybe not Red Dead? I was never into that one.”

“No?” He pushes a finger inside me then his thumb circles my asshole. “Then I’ll read you one of your stories and you can play with yourself. First, though, you tell me about you. I gave you some of my history.”

He spits on my asshole and worms the thumb into me.

“Go.”

I’m lying over him, gaping, stunned by the sensations from those rude invading fingers and thumb, and he wants history?

“I guess…” I clear my throat.

14

Izzy

He wants to hear my life in a nutshell, like a PowerPoint presentation.

“Let’s see. Born in Australia, I got a degree in journalism in Australia, at Sydney University, migrated to the US, and hit the tail-end of the good times before I was laid off. After that, substitute teacher jobs, other small jobs, the pits, really.”

“Mmm.”

He’s taken to stroking my back through the dress, caressing me here and there, my hips, my hair, the small of my back. He rests his palm on my ass where it’s heated and throbbing from the spanking. His hand weighs me down in the best, calming way. The erotic haze is still there but as a blissful undertone. Lying over him and talking about the past is letting me lift myself above the bad shit that’s been happening. Is it because I’ve chosen to trust him? Maybe.

I might be stupid to trust him but, if so, it won’t be a choice I will regret for long…

I tell him about some of my adventures and mishaps trying to stay financially afloat, and he seems curious, asks questions in places. This is like a massage, and a meditational state sneaks in like a hush on the ocean.

The boat under us rocks but has never showed signs of being in big seas. This is all so very transcendent…

I keep talking, my voice a sleepy murmur, “Then I tried online stirrer as an occupation, fell into some influencer promotional stuff, and it took off from there.”

“Stirrer?”

“Aussie term? Means, umm, a troublemaker. I post about world problems that bug me. Politics, crime, cartels, social matters, oppression of socio-economic classes, religious fucked-uppery. That’s partly why I hated on Montez. I’m like that Greta Swedish-person but with less on-the-ground involvement and more swear words. Then an uncle died, and I ended up with an unexpected lump of money. I was swimming in the cream, so to speak.” Until now.

It’s why I could afford to trek into the wrong country and get myself into deep doo-doo. Yay me. Go hands-on like Greta and die.

“I noticed some of those posts with the cursing,” Adelmo murmurs. “You need chastising for that.”

I snort, and he gives my ass a tap.

“Ready for more games?”

I shift, twist at the waist, and turn over half-way. “Not Red Dead.”

“Not that. I’ll read some of your stalker story and you…” He studies me. “I’ll let you off the hook, and you can stay there while I tell you what’s wrong.”

“Hmph! You are my editor?”

“I will critique. Right word?”

I nod.