AllFreeNovel
Share Us
That night, I learned I was definitely, unapologetically, bisexual. I also got confirmation of something I learned my night with Cora. I’m a sub. I always thought I was dominant. I’m usually the first to step up and take control of a sexual situation. But then, no one’s ever been bossy with me before Cora and Rev. My petal and my…fuck…my what? I’m not calling him Dad, like Scrap does. That shit doesn’t feel right. I just think of him as Rev.
Short for the Reverend.
My dick twitches behind my zipper. Apparently, that does it for me. Reverend. That’s what I’ll call him. Unless the other night was a one-time thing. If the three of us aren’t going to play again, I guess I won’t be calling Rev anything.
We initially started our little playtime get-together so I could work on control of my Gift. Pantsing Scrap without meaning to—with just a thought—was a wakeup call. I can’t be pulling that kind of shit with Cora. No way, no how. Thanks to Rev’s patience that night, and Scrap’s willingness to be a guinea pig, I could think about wanting his cock without my horny Gift yanking down his pants.
But that wasonenight. Rev helped me work ononescenario. I could hurt Cora a million ways with this new, mental extension of my Gift. This telekinesis. As if being super strong wasn’t enough of a challenge! I need a hell of a lot more control if I’m ever going to spend time with her again.
What if Rev and Scrap aren’t interested in adding a third to their playtime? What if I never get control of my Gift?
I sip from my tumbler, feeling empty at the thought of a life without my petal. A life of watching my brothers enjoy her while I lurk on the perimeter. Caged by my impulsiveness and my strength.
Technically, she should be immune to my Gift. She’s immune to everyone else’s, and it’s a good thing, too, or she would have dropped dead the second she gave Grim mouth-to-mouth when he and Jud found her in the woods and Grim got struck by lightning. But my strength is different.
Maybe my Gift-strength can’t act directly on her, but it could affect her indirectly. What if I get horny and mentally rip her clothes off? Her clothes aren’ther.They’re separate from her. In ripping them, I could hurt her or, at the very least, embarrass her. What if I can’t control myself and thrust inside her, not with a careless finger or my randy dick, but with a thought? Who’s to say where the boundary is? Who’s to say there’s a boundary at all? What if my Giftcanaffect her directly?
I don’t want to take any chances with her. She’s precious. The thought of hurting her in any way makes me want to turn my Gift on myself and pummel my own face.
I drink and let the burn of the Scotch transport me to a time in my life when everything was perfect. Melissa and I were newlyweds. We were hopelessly in love. We fucked like teenagers whose parents were out of town for the weekend. We had all the same kinks. We liked it rough together, and because Melissa was six feet tall and had an athlete’s strong body, I didn’t worry about hurting her. Sometimes, we liked it public. Sex clubs provided an outlet for our joint exhibitionism. Life was one sexual high after another, and neither of us could get enough.
Then we learned she was pregnant. We weren’t trying, but we were happy. At least, we were happy about the baby. What we weren’t happy about was the way the pregnancy affected our sex life. I stopped being rough with her, and she hated that. She wanted her Big Ben, all of him, but I wouldn’t give him to her. I wouldn’t risk hurting the baby, or my baby mama.
“Things have to be different now,” I told her. “No more clubs, no more leaving bruises, no more acting like kids. We’re going to be parents.”
I drain my glass and snort as I pour my next shot. I should have taken my own advice.
Melissa and I fought, and like the impulsive idiot I am, I headed to my favorite watering hole to obliterate my feelings. When I recovered from my drunken bender, I was in a jail cell, booked for beating the shit out of a guy who might never walk again because of me. Because of my size and strength.
I barely remember him challenging me. I have zero memory of losing my shit the way the video camera outside the bar showed. Zero memory of kicking him in the spine with my size eighteen boot.
What I do remember is the jury’s unanimous conviction of guilty, and the ten-year sentence they handed down. I remember pacing my cell when I knew Melissa was in labor, pulling at my hair because I couldn’t be there while she gave birth. I remember hours of no news and then my mother telling me through the visitation window that I had a healthy baby girl. With a watery smile, she held her phone up to the glass to show me pictures. Charity. Melissa and I had agreed if it was a girl, we’d name her Charity.
Most of all, though, I remember the crack of my knees on the floor when I fell out of my chair at the news that followed. Mom told me Melissa had died on the C-Section table after hours of pushing with no success. All that pushing had caused her to rupture a major vessel. She bled out. Because of me. Because I’d put a twelve-pound, ten-ounce baby inside her, and her body, as big and healthy as it was, couldn’t handle it.
I drain my glass again and reach for the bottle, but Rev beats me to it.
“Getting drunk won’t help anyone,” he says, and he twists the cap, sealing me off from my succor.
“It’ll helpme,” I grumble.
“No, it won’t, son.”
I scowl at him. Something in me bristles at being calledson.Something else in me tightens in a way that makes my dick wake up.
He goes on. “It won’t help you, and it won’t help Jud.”
“Or Cora,” Scrap says quietly.
Rev and I both turn to him. He’s sprawled on the porch swing, one leg crooked up irreverently, one sneakered foot on the plank floor, pushing him along in a slow rhythm. The soldiers must oil those hinges, because the swing doesn’t make a sound.
Rev and Scrap share a look like they’ve come to some kind of agreement beforehand. But agreement about what?
“Come on,” Rev says. He rises from his bench and holds out a hand to me.
I’m more interested in the contents of his other hand. “Give me the bottle.”
He chuckles and sets the bottle down out of my reach. “I’ll give you something, alright, but it ain’t gonna be more drink.”
