The Broken & The Punisher

Chapter 4. Home Alone

#Explicit content (18+)

"He is late. Why is he late?” Mary sighed.

Mary sat on the sofa and bunched her dress in her hands. A wooziness came over her, and she convinced herself that it was her blood sugar. “Just blood sugar. I'll be fine.”

“George Washington. John Adams. Thomas Jefferson—”

The doorbell rang twice, interrupting her chant.

‘Finally.’

She stood and wiped her sweaty palms on her dress before going to answer the door. She knew it was Ricky because of the two rings, spaced two seconds apart. He was three minutes late for their daily twelve o’clock visit, but she pushed the irritation down. ‘He was a good kid, he wouldn’t have done that on purpose.’

She knocked on the door four times before turning to face away from it. It was his cue that it was okay to come in. She clenched her eyes shut as he opened the door and sounds from the outside world entered. A car drove by, a bird chirped, and a breeze kissed her exposed calves.

‘George Washington. John Adams. Thomas Jefferson—’ She chanted like some spell.

“Hey, beautiful.” He shut the door behind him, and she was able to suck in the air again. She took deep inhales from her mouth and blew out through her nose until the nerves calmed.

Ricky knew not to touch her yet, so he waited patiently at her back.

“You’re late,” She gritted. She hadn’t planned on chastising him, but She couldn’t let it go.

“I know, baby.” He guided her hair over one shoulder. “But I got you meatloaf.” He reached around her and held up the paper bag as if it were a peace offering.

“Put it on the table,” She snapped before storming to the sofa. She sat and crossed one leg over the other while she waited for Ricky. Her temper wasn’t called for, and she knew it, but she was angry anyway. He was the only person she trusted, and she couldn’t count on him.

“Traffic was insane.” He cautiously sat next to her and rested one arm over her shoulder. “I really am sorry, babe. It’s not going to happen again.”

“Don’t call me that,” she whispered, staring off into space.

“Mary,” he corrected, placing his other hand on her knee. “It won’t happen again.”

She rested her head on the back of the sofa and allowed Ricky to part her legs. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

She wondered if the other college-aged boys thought they had to talk like that. It was sort of cute, and she pretended for a moment that she was his age, and this wasn’t her dead husband’s couch they were about to screw on… and that she wasn’t paying him for it.

Ricky kissed her neck and clumsily shifted his hand underneath her panties. He prodded at her opening and pushed in as if he were stuffing a chicken. He still hadn’t figured out the whole ‘c******s’ concept.

“You like that?” His hot breath pelted her in the ear.

“Yes,” She whispered in a heady voice that she had perfected faking. Perhaps it wasn’t the best s*x, but it was what she had available. She was too afraid of hiring a male escort.

He pulled his hand from beneath Mary’s dress and ripped the collared shirt over his head.

She realized she had never seen him in anything but his delivery uniform. She admired his twenty-one-year-old physique as he hurriedly stripped for her. He knew she preferred to keep her dress on, so he wouldn’t bother with it.

He pumped his d*ck a few times, peering at a spot on the couch just beside her. She found it to pique her curiosity that he didn’t seem to enjoy eye contact. ‘Did he have a girlfriend? Did she know how he paid for her fancy dinners or bouquet of roses?’

‘Rose…’ Ugh,’ She hated that name and everything that reminded her of that name or the time when she was called by that.

“You ready?” He had slipped on a condom and was lined up at her entrance.

She blinked as she cleared her thoughts and nodded.

“Uhh,” She moaned as he thrust inside her. He bunched her dress further up to her waist and moved his hips in erratic jerks. His panting warmed her ears, and she pulled him closer, raking her nails over his back.

Ricky hissed. “Easy, baby.” He gently guided her hands to the couch.

“Harder.”

His eyes widened at the coldness in her voice, and she gave him a small smile to put him at ease. It didn’t seem to work. His brows furrowed in confusion, but still, he thrust into her with more force. She guessed ‘That’s the beauty of paying for s*x, they feel obligated to meet your demands’.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on his smell, the sounds of his shallow pants, and the way his co*k felt as it rutted into her. To say it was ecstasy would’ve been a drastic overstatement. It was just… something. She didn’t want his conversation or his friendship. She had plenty of that online. This was the physical part of being human that if she didn’t have, she felt lacking. She wouldn’t feel full when it was over, but she also wouldn’t feel empty.

He lowered his hand and rubbed her where he must’ve thought her c******s was located. She positioned his hand to the right spot and threw her head back in pleasure when he finally added the right amount of friction.

“Oh, Ricky,” she said, in her mastered seductive voice to encourage him. It worked. He picked up the pace and thrust with more force. He continued rubbing the cl*t, but the poor guy’s face appeared so pained from holding back that she arched her back and faked an orgasm.

He stilled and his face contorted as he came. She watched him in the aftermath of his release, mesmerized by it. She didn’t realize she had been staring so intently until he met her eyes and climbed off of her, discomfort reeked in his vibe.

“That was nice.” she sat up and pulled her panties back on.

He nodded before making his way to the bathroom to dispose of the c*m-filled rubber.

When he returned, she had already laid the hundred-dollar bill on the table for him. He ignored it as he dressed as if he thought acknowledging the money would spoil the moment.

‘He is so sweet. I think I like him,’ she thought, even if he hadn’t quite figured out how to please a woman. ‘He’d make a very nice husband for someone one day.’ She was smiling.

Finally, he met her gaze. “You gonna be okay?”

She smiled and tilted her head. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He gave a nervous shrug and bent down to peck her on the forehead. “I’ll see you tomorrow. And hey, don’t let the meatloaf get cold,” he called as he backed his way to the door. He winked before stepping outside, and a rush of anxiety came and left as the door closed.

She hated the outdoors. Or maybe she didn’t hate it, but she hated what it did to her. It had been six years since she had left the property and three since she had stepped foot outside. In the last year of her marriage to Richard, she didn’t know what happened. She just stopped having the urge to smell the fresh air, and then one day a fear seemed to emerge from nowhere.

Her heart rate would quicken, and her lungs would shrink. Friends she had met on the internet claimed the episodes of what felt like near-death to be panic attacks, and she, apparently, was agoraphobic. Whatever, she didn’t get any joy from putting labels on it. To her, it was just a part of who she was. She made a life for herself in her dead husband’s home, and she didn’t see any point in fretting over it.

She walked to stand by the window and peered at it as if she could see what was on the other side. She had them tinted a year ago to where it reflected back at her. As far as she was aware, people could see in if they wanted to, but she doubted they did and wouldn’t have cared if they had. It was the kind of tint you see at storefronts where customers could see outside but passersby couldn’t see in. Only, she supposed it was reversed. She would have to have vanity lights installed above each window for it to get that effect. The window-tinting people thought she was insane, but she imagined most people did.

With a sigh, she strolled over to the broken record player and glided her fingers over the dented surface. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the music it used to play. She had taken a baseball bat to it out of anger the first week she had the house all to herself, but it didn’t take long for her to regret that decision. It had been a beautiful piece of equipment, and though even broken, she had left it in the living room as a reminder of that night.

She didn’t need music anyway.

Closing her eyes, she lifted one foot and spun exactly 360 degrees. It had taken years to figure out the proper torque to exert on a carpet as opposed to a ballet studio, but she had plenty of time.

She had plenty of time for everything.

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