Page 8 of Cold Bastard
This is wrong.
The thought, sharp and unwelcome, cut through the haze of arousal.
But the hunger, the raw, animal need, drowned it out.
“Please,” she whimpered. “Let me finish. I want your cum.”
Greedy little slut. The label was a shield, a justification.She’s asking for it. She wants this. But even as I told myself that, a deeper part of me recoiled. This wasn’t the rough, consensual play I sometimes indulged in. This was... transactional. And the desperation in her eyes pricked at a buried sense of decency I usually kept well-guarded.
I shoved her back down, and she opened her mouth eagerly, taking me deep again. This time I didn’t hold back. I gripped her hair with both hands and fucked her throat hard and fast, using her like she was nothing more than a hole. She gagged and choked, but she didn’t pull away. Just took it, her hands braced on my thighs, her body trembling.
Was it pleasure? Or pure, unadulterated fear?
I couldn’t tell, and the uncertainty gnawed at me.
The pressure in my balls was unbearable now. I could feel my orgasm building, coiling tight in my gut, ready to explode.Just get it over with.But the urgency wasn’t just physical; it was a desperate desire to escape the growing unease, the creeping guilt.
“Swallow it. Every fucking drop.”
The whore moaned, and the vibration pushed me over the edge. I buried myself deep in her throat and came hard, my cock pulsing as I emptied myself into her. She gagged, her throat working to swallow, but there was too much. Cum leaked out of the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin and onto her tits.
I held her there until I was finished, until every drop was drained, then finally let go of her hair, pushing her away from me. She fell back onto the floor, gasping and coughing, cum andspit dripping from her lips. She looked up at me with a dazed, satisfied smile.
“Now get the fuck away from me,” I said, my tone flat and detached as I tucked my cock back into my jeans and zipped up with practiced efficiency. The act felt like closing a door on something ugly. I picked up my beer from where it sat sweating on the bar and took a long, deliberate drink, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Like I hadn’t just faced-fucked a woman in the middle of a crowded clubhouse. The cool liquid did little to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth.
She stayed on the floor for a long moment, catching her breath, her chest heaving as she tried to compose herself. Then she slowly, shakily stood. Her legs were unsteady beneath her, trembling like a newborn foal, and she had to grab onto the edge of the bar to keep from collapsing. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, but it only succeeded in smearing the mess of spit and cum even more across her flushed cheeks.
The sight of her shame, of her brokenness, was a mirror reflecting my own failings.
“Fucking cold bastard,” she seethed, breathless, almost disbelieving anyone could treat her like the trash she was. A sharp pang of regret, potent and unwelcome, pierced through my forced indifference. I had done more than just use her; I had actively reinforced her worst fears about herself. And in that moment, I hated myself for it.
I didn’t respond. Just turned back to the bar and stared down at my beer, watching the condensation slide down the glass in slow rivulets. Each drop felt like a tear, a silent acknowledgment of a line I had crossed, a line I never wanted to cross, and now, would forever regret.
She lingered for a moment longer, hovering just behind me as if she were waiting for something—an apology, maybe. Some sign that what had just happened meant something more thanit did. A flicker of guilt, a pang of something akin to regret, threatened to surface, a traitorous whisper in the carefully constructed fortress of my indifference. But I shoved it down, burying it beneath the familiar weight of my armor. When I didn’t give her either, when I didn’t even glance in her direction, she finally got the hint.
“Fuck you,” she snapped as she stormed off.
Her words, sharp and laced with a pain I knew I’d inflicted, stung more than I’d expected. I watched her disappear into the crowd, her hips swaying with exaggerated confidence as she melted back into the sea of bodies, leather, and noise. The sight twisted something inside me, a brief, unwelcome recognition of the damage I’d wrought.
Was this what it was all for? This carefully curated detachment, this cold efficiency, built on the ashes of every connection I’d ever allowed myself to make? Then I turned my attention back to the chaos swirling around me: the music, the laughter, the clinking of bottles, and the low rumble of conversation. It was a familiar comfort, a loud, insistent shield against the unsettling echo of her parting curse.
Wanderer caught my eye from across the bar and grinned wide, shaking his head in amusement. “Damn, Nano. You trying to give everyone else performance anxiety?”
I raised my beer in silent acknowledgment but said nothing. Didn’t need to. The compliment, if it was one, landed hollow. It was just another notch on the belt, another confirmation of the persona I’d so painstakingly crafted.This is who you are,the deeper, more dangerous part of me whispered.This keeps you safe.
Just another night at the Brotherhood of Bastards.
Just another blowjob.
The words felt like grit on my tongue.Another?They were more than just physical acts. Each one was a deliberate act ofsevering, a severing I told myself I needed. Yet, a phantom ache lingered, a ghost of warmth I tried to obliterate with the bitter burn of alcohol. Just another moment in a life I’d built on secrets and silence, a life that felt increasingly like a gilded cage.
I drained the rest of my beer, tipping the bottle back until the last bitter drops hit my tongue, a familiar bitterness that felt like a betrayal of something I didn’t even know I possessed. I signaled the prospect, Xzibit, behind the bar for another. The kid was quick. He had a fresh bottle cracked open and sliding across the scarred wooden bar top before I even set the empty one down. The night was still young, barely past midnight, and the party was just getting started. Music thumped through the clubhouse speakers, jockeying with the roar of conversation and laughter. Brothers were getting loose, whores were dancing, and the smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air.
But me? I was already thinking about the job Morpheus had lined up for tomorrow. My mind drifted back to business, the way it always did, a desperate attempt to drown out the unsettling stillness that had settled within me. Some asshole in Rapid City had stolen the club’s money. A lot of money, and thought he could get away with it. Thought he was clever, thought he was untouchable.
He was about to learn differently.
The prospect should have brought a surge of satisfaction, of power. Instead, it felt like a grim inevitability, another step further into the darkness.
