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“Nah, I can deliver a fold with one hand tied behind my back,” I said with a tired sigh. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly five o’clock. I’d been at it since 3 A.M. dealing with a horse on the Tremont place that had splintered a leg. Now, I was headed off to deliver a fold thirty miles out of town. I’d be lucky to be home by midnight. I couldn’t complain, though. I knew what I was getting myself into when I bought old Doc Anderson’s practice a year ago. I’d worked under him since graduating vet school three years ago. When you were the only vet in a tiny Texas town where nearly everyone owned at least one dog and one cat, and some people had multiple cows and horses, you didn’t get much down time—and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I loved my work. It kept me busy. It kept my mind off other things, like dwelling on just how shitty my personal life was.
I was married to Bradley Bates for less than a year. It was ten months and twelve days, to be exact, from the time I walked down the aisle as a blushing bride with his ring on my finger to the time I ran from our house with his handprints on my face.
Amazing how in ten short months I went from being a happy bride who couldn’t wait to set up house with the man she loved to an abused wife escaping with her life in the middle of the night.
Bradley would have chased me down and beaten the shit out of me and dragged me back home if I hadn’t made it to my daddy’s house. My daddy never liked Bradley and would have gladly filled his face with buckshot if we hadn’t stopped him. He had his shotgun in hand and was headed to the front porch when me and mama literally jumped on his back and made him stay inside.
I could not bear the thought of my beloved daddy spending the rest of his life in prison for killing my abusive husband. Plus, Bradley’s daddy was the president of the Gulf Breeze Savings & Loan that held the mortgage on my daddy’s place. He could make things very difficult for the Lees. And I could not let that happen.
Bradley came back a few times all apologetic and begging me for forgiveness. Honestly, I didn’t understand why he wanted me to come home. With us divorced he could do all the drinking and whoring he wanted to without worrying about me finding out about it. I mean, he had been fucking that whore Juju Wheeler the entire time we were married. Being married to me just got in his way most days. Then it hit me. It wasn’t about Bradley’s freedom. It was about mine. He wanted me under his thumb where he could control me, use and abuse me, do whatever he wanted, and come home drunk to fuck me until I was sore. It was when I realized it was all about control that I decided to take charge of things myself.
It took some convincing, but Bradley finally agreed to the divorce when I said I’d give him everything: the big house his parents had bought us, my new Lexus and his new truck, all the furniture and fixtures, all the money in the bank we had jointly saved, everything we had ever bought together. I agreed to walk away without a dime. I got to keep my clothes and my practice. Everything else was his with good riddance.
It was a price I gladly paid. My practice barely netted enough to pay my way, but I’d make due somehow. Hell, I’d rather sleep on the concrete floor of the dog kennels than lie next to Bradley in our five-thousand-dollar bed.
I was never gonna get rich being the only veterinarian in Gulf Breeze, but I had a roof over my head (I
lived in the small apartment above my practice), food in my belly, and lots of patients that needed my help. I drove my daddy’s old pickup truck and was glad to have it. Life was good. Or as good as it could be. At least I wasn’t covered in bruises. Or having to cover them up with makeup.
I went out of my way to avoid Bradley on a daily basis. I hated to admit it, but I was still afraid of him. He’d come around drunk several times, beating on my door in the middle of the night, yelling one minute, apologizing the next. He only stopped when I threatened to shoot him with the .38 my daddy made me keep in my bedside table.
Could I really shoot Bradley, a man I once thought hung the moon? If he was coming at me with his fists out you bet your sweet ass I could. I’d shoot him dead and drink a beer over his carcass until the sheriff arrived. I even dreamt about it some nights. Sad, I know, but that was the life of Annabel Lee.
3
Shane
“Mmm…”
I had my eyes closed… breathing in deep… blowing it out slowly… listening to Pope humming with her lips wrapped around the head of my cock. She was holding the base steady with one hand and running her lips and tongue around the head like she was licking an ice cream cone. As cocksuckers went, Pope was a fucking artist, a master at her craft. I told her all the time that she could teach a fucking class on the art of cocksucking and she readily agreed. Lord knows I would have given her a glowing review.
Pope was Corporal April Pope, USMC, hailing from St. Louis by way of Chicago. She was a twenty-three-year-old communications specialist who worked on the base in Kandahar where I was on temporary assignment, cleaning up the details of our last mission for the higher ups. The rest of my team was in Mosul and I’d head back there in a few days.
Stop thinking about work, you fucking moron.
Focus on making this blowjob last.
Fucking Pope…
Just amazing, what she could do with her mouth…
“That feel good, Captain?” she asked with the hum in her voice.
I opened my eyes and glanced down at her. She was smiling at me with my cock resting against her bottom lip. She slathered her tongue around the head and I felt little bolts of lightning shoot from my balls and out my toes.
“I keep telling you,” I said, huffing out the breath. “You are a bona fide cocksucking savant, Corporal Pope.” I held out my arms and wiggled my fingers at her. “Come on, climb onboard.”
“With pleasure,” she sighed. She gave the tip of my cock one more good lubing with her tongue, then climbed on top of me, straddling my hips, digging her fingernails into my chest. I reached down between us and guided my cock to her pussy. She lifted herself up, then slowly lowered her cunt onto me, taking in as much of my long cock as she could stand. She began moving her hips back and forth, sliding her tight, juicy pussy along the length of my cock.
The image of Annabel riding me the first time flashed through my mind. I blinked it away and tried to concentrate on the moment, not the past.
“Fuck…” she moaned, eyes closed, hips moving in perfect rhythm. “Your cock feels… so fucking good inside me.”
“You’re so tight…” I said, the words breathing out of me. “So, fucking… tight…”
I held onto her hips and let her set the pace. I was happy to just lie there and let her do all the work. Pope was a beautiful girl, far too pretty to be in the fucking military in goddamn Kandahar. She should have been stationed in Hawaii or Guam, some place where the beaches weren’t mined and the water didn’t run red with blood. I could picture her in a string bikini, running in slow motion along the shoreline, the warm breeze blowing gently across her face. She had short sandy hair, green eyes, pouty lips, and a fucking body to die for. Big titties, narrow waist, round hips, and a shaved pussy that was tight as a drum. She and I had been fucking for a while now, hooking up whenever we ended up in the same place. This time, I had been in Kandahar for two weeks and inside of Pope for… shit… I forgot to count the hours…
“Fuck, baby, I’m…. getting… close…” she said, her voice a tense whisper. The motion of her hips sped up. She dug her fingernails into my chest until I thought she was going to draw blood. She started bouncing up and down on my cock, like a Texas oil derrick, rising and falling—slamming down hard then back up again. I curled my toes and hung on for the ride. I was ready to cum anytime she was.
