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Lusty Lessons From Bible Camp: Part 4.

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 Lusty Lessons From Bible Camp: Part 4.
The Power of an honorable woman.

Based on a post by Lingering Afterthought, in 4 parts. Listen to the Podcast at My First Time.



By

the time Halloween rolled around, I was in a better mood. I'd gotten a
job at the Admissions Department, which was just a five-minute walk from
the Student's Cooperative where I'd found a room for less than half of
what I was paying for the dorm overflow apartment. As Suki described it
before she passed on applying for a vacancy, it was "like a bunch of
goddamn hippies took over a frat house!" I didn't mind it so much.
People were nice there and it felt more like a home than an apartment or
dorm complex did. Even better, the house had a massive kitchen.

Surprising

everyone who knew him, Kurt actually got his shit together. He got a
job as a waiter at a local French Bistro, which was perfect because
chatting up customers was effortless for him, and as long as he
delivered the right food, people loved him. He also got a phone and
enrolled in extension courses with a Fine Arts major. At the end of the
November, he was going to start renting a room at the same Co-Op where I
lived.

Quite

by accident, I'd also gotten a second job. With the low rent at the
Co-Op, I didn't really need it, but still; I loved it. Despite my tirade
and vows of celibacy, I began visiting the fraternity periodically to
see my boyfriend; which everyone assumed was Paul. Under Tyrant Tim's
watchful eye, the guys of the house always behaved respectfully, though
with a few pitying looks because they knew that Paul was quite
unfaithful to me and had a steady stream of different girls going and
coming (loudly) in his room. Kurt still dwelled like a goblin in Paul's
closet, but thanks to a rope ladder, he was able to come and go more
easily -- usually to come guilt-trip me about making him wait to have
sex with me again until he wasn't living on an air mattress in a frat
house closet. It was because of these fraternity trips that I fell
backwards into a job I loved.

I

was such a good girlfriend to Paul that I would bring over extra meals
for him, in case he didn't like what was being served on the house meal
plan that week. Conveniently enough, they were also things Paul could
microwave and bring upstairs to Kurt to eat in the room. During the trip
up the stairs, the smell of these meals wafted through the entire
house, and then the guys would go downstairs for dinner and find out,
much to their disappointment, that they didn't get to eat what they had
smelled all the way down. The week I brought over a container of
sausage-stuffed ravioli with a spinach-alfredo sauce and toasted pine
nuts scattered on top, I received an email the next day:

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Invoice Request.

Dear Ms. Palmberg,

The

container of sausage ravioli you stored in our refrigerator for Paul's
use this week was appropriated and consumed by the Sigma Phi Epsilon
house members in a dishonorable act of insurrection. As Chapter
President, you have my most profound apologies for this abominable
behavior. Please kindly provide an itemized invoice for your costs and
services and I will ensure that Sigma Phi Epsilon compensates you
accordingly.

Yours truly,

Timothy Bradbury.

Chapter President, Sigma Phi Epsilon, University of Minnesota

I

snorted and rolled my eyes. Chapter President Tim was about the only
person who would call a bunch of guys eating someone's lunch a
"dishonorable act of insurrection." While it was flattering and annoying
that I'd have to get another batch of stuff ready for Kurt to eat that
week, it wouldn't be that hard to whip something up. I just didn't want
him living off junk food or whatever he could sneak at work.

I

brought over a quick batch of stroganoff with leeks and shiitake
mushrooms over egg noodles to the SigEp house. Tim opened the door
before I rang the bell, looking down his nose into my dish of
stroganoff. "I don't eat mushrooms," he said.

"Good thing you're not an insurrectionist, then. You don't have to eat it."

Tim raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms across his chest. "Paul doesn't eat them, either," he said pointedly.

Blithely

ignoring him, I marched into the house and went down the stairs to the
kitchen, sliding the dish into the usual spot in the refrigerator. As I
closed the door to the fridge, I backed into Tim's solid frame. I
wondered if he was trying to prove something after I had body-checked
him earlier. Not letting my amusement show, I turned and looked up at
him in surprise. "Do you have an itemized invoice for me?" he asked.

"What?

Oh, no; no big deal. It's just some ravioli. Guys get hungry," I said,
walking around him and washing the empty dish that had once held the
pillaged ravioli.

"Yes,

they do. Our current vendor provides meals that cause many of the
members to prefer hunger. If your dishes were more wholesome, I'd
consider engaging your services to provide the house meals on a more
lawful basis," he said dryly, taking the clean dish from me and wiping
it with a towel nearby.

"Wholesome? Like what?"

Tim

looked at me as if sizing me up, and then gave me an order for two
dinners in the next week for all 20 guys. They had to be nutritionally
balanced, accommodate the allergies he sent me on a list, be hot and
ready at their dinner time, and there could be only few leftovers. Oh --
and I had to stay within the budget Tim gave me and give him an
itemized invoice when it was all done.

The

cooking part was easy. I'd been feeding large groups of people ever
since I was in middle school -- potluck dinners at the local churches
were a major draw where I grew up. The dinners came and went precisely
on time and I took home empty dishes each night, along with a list of
things the guys asked me to make for them in the future. What's more, I
easily came in far under the budgets I was given. The only thing was,
predictably, Chapter President Tim was a major ball buster about the
invoices.

From: timbradbury@ UMN.EDU

To: melaniepalmberg@ UMN.EDU

Subject: Invoice Request.

Dear Ms. Palmberg,

Your

most recent submission for the Pad Mee Kow was a most delightful piece
of literary non-fiction. It was not, however, an itemized invoice.
Please see me at your earliest convenience.

Yours truly,

Timothy Bradbury. Chapter President, Sigma Phi Epsilon, University of Minnesota

Wondering

what kind of college guy used a business signature on his emails, I
trudged over there to get my money. Tim answered the door in an almost
chipper mood. "Ah, Welcome to Sigma Phi Epsilon. I am Tim Bradbury,
Chapter President. Whom have you come to see? Your; boyfriend?" he asked
wearing his version of a smirk. I was beginning to suspect Tim and his
wall-sharing bedroom knew the truth about my relationship with Paul.

"No, I want my money, Pad Mee Now," I said, rolling my eyes at him.

"I,

somehow, have trouble believing that. If you really wanted the money, I
would think you would have submitted an itemized invoice by now," he
said with an imperious raised eyebrow. Then, he turned and walked into
the living room, leading me to his study sofa where he had half a dozen
documents spread out on the coffee table that looked like they would
probably annoy me. I was right. "This," he said, picking up one of the
documents and handing it to me "is an itemized invoice. Note, how it
lists individually the costs and amounts of the items being charged for
therein?"

"What?"

I said, scanning the anal-retentive document, "You want me to tell you
how many cans of tomatoes, how many cloves of garlic and; "

"Yes;

at first. Once I am confident you are maintaining an appropriate
knowledge of your inventory and costs, I will rely on your
representations of the food costs in one item. Also, your submission to
me included neither your non-food costs such as your omnipresent Ziplock
containers, nor your travel and labor fees. You cannot expect to run a
business without paying yourself."

I

groaned and buried my face in my hands. "I; I am not running a
business! I'm just feeding some guys, Tim! Why do I have to do all this
stuff?" I asked through my fingers.

"Because,

your customer has requested that you provide him with an itemized
invoice prior to payment," he said, smiling proudly at the documents
spread in front of him like they were his children. "Here is a table
that shows how you should decide on how much to pay yourself; and here
is a primer on the amortization of your business capital investments;
and ah; let's see; taxes;" he murmured, looking up at me and then his
eyes widened at my apparently murderous expression. "Perhaps, we'll do
taxes later;" he said, actually grinning now.

"Tim;" I moaned, slumping back into the sofa.

Tim

spoke loftily to the documents as he tidied them before placing them
into a crisp manila folder labeled with my name, "Whether you realize it
or not, you are running a business. These are things you will need to
learn, in order to run it successfully," he said, handing me the folder.

I

took it, wondering what in the hell I had gotten myself into. "Why are
you doing this?" I asked him, dumbfounded. Most of the things he was
telling me about would only raise the price on the meals I provided to
the house. Money-wise, it made no sense.

He

paused for a moment, then spoke softly to the notes he was arranging on
the coffee table as he put them away, "It is what I can do; and it is
the right thing to do," he said, then turned his head to look at me,
"and at any rate, the last time you were not properly taken care of, I
was surprised to find myself briefly airborne before hitting a wall. I
thought this option would better preserve the fraternity's historically
significant building." He looked at me for a few seconds, nodded once,
then turned back to the table and opened his textbook, "Please get your
revised invoice to me within the week," he said.

Feeling

dismissed, I shrugged, shook my head, took my manila folder and left.
Tim was an odd duck, no doubt, and he had just given me a hell of a lot
of crappy paperwork to do. Still, as I walked back to the Co-Op, I
couldn't really put a finger on how I was feeling; but I liked it.

"I

need you to help me with my homework," Kurt appeared behind me from out
of nowhere as I was hovering over a pot of minestrone. His hand rubbed
the knotted muscles in the center of my back, and I found myself
pressing back against him, melting.

"Which class?" I asked suspiciously, having fallen for this particular trick of Kurt's before.

"It's like you don't even trust me at all," he said, a smile in his voice. "Drawing, of course."

"Okay;

but I get to see it when you're done; I don't want anything
recognizable of mine to show up on display in the student union."

"Oh,

ye of little faith;" he said, pulling me away from the stove after I
turned the heat down and put a lid on the pot. "I thought we'd go for a
change of scenery, this time," he said, pulling me away from the stairs
where I was going up towards my room where I had modeled for him before.
He led me to a door to a room I'd never seen anyone use. Opening it, a
dusty dark space filled with large industrial-looking equipment was
revealed with a familiar air mattress laid out on the floor. "I wanted
something a little more moody this time. Your room is so; well; you," he
said, smiling as he bent down to nuzzle my neck.

I

sneezed. Then I looked up at him to see if he was joking. Yeah, no, he
wasn't. I sighed and began taking off my clothes. At least, the room was
warm, I thought, as I padded naked to the air mattress. "How do you
want me?" I whispered, wondering if we could be overheard from the hall
outside.

"On

your stomach, calves bent up at the knees, ankles crossed, up on your
elbows and looking over your shoulder at me," he said, his eyes greedily
taking me in. Choosing a place to sketch from, he paused to move some
of my long blonde hair to my back, trailing his hand down to caress my
bottom. "Perfect," he whispered, beginning to sketch quickly.

I

loved it when he sketched me. His eyes moved over me, full of warmth
and ideas fueled by the enjoyment of what he saw. "So; are you making
bread for them, too? These other men of yours?" he asked in mock
jealously, his eyes twinkling.

"Well

yeah, I have to. Minestrone isn't filling enough without it, and bread
is cheap. Besides, there's trouble when I try to make it heartier with
extra beans;" I said, shaking my head remembering Tim's raised eyebrow
when we heard an "ungentlemanly" contest erupt in the TV room upstairs,
as he helped me dry the dishes for the baked beans and sausages that I'd
brought.

"Don't

move," he said, putting my hair back where he had placed it before.
"That's not all they talk about, you know," he said, tilting his head
and letting his eyes roam down my back, settling on my bottom. A flush
of warmth went through me. "They seem to think you deserve better;" he
said.

"Better

than Paul?" I asked, squeezing my thighs together surreptitiously,
trying to relieve the need I felt building inside me. "Well,
fortunately, I agree with them," I said, giggling.

With

a growl, Kurt closed his sketchpad and lay down beside me on his back,
"You belong on a chaise lounge in the Palace of Versailles and without a
word of complaint, you pose for me in a boiler room; you're beyond
worth. You deserve a king," he said, smiling up at me.

"And

fortunately, my king; I agree with you, too " I whispered, leaning down
to kiss him, running my fingers through his soft hair. I shivered,
feeling his hands run lightly up my sides, coming to rest on my tits. I
felt his mouth begin sucking on my hard nipple and I moaned, my head
dropping back onto my shoulders. Before long, I was panting, squirming
for relief from the throbbing heat building inside me. "Kurt; did you
get the; the non-latex, you know; condoms?" I breathed, deciding that
our mutual punishment had gone on long enough.

Kurt

released my nipple with a pop and groaned, "No, fuck; I forgot. I've
been too busy thinking about making love to you again. The student union
only has the latex kind. I've got an idea, though. Lie on your back,"
he said, bounding up, eyes alight with inspiration again. Obeying, I
turned onto my back, but instead of taking off his clothes or going down
between my knees, he stood there looking at me. "Okay; left hand by
your head, loosely near your eyes; just like that," he said positioning
my arm.

I

whimpered, getting myself ready for another torture session of seeing
his eyes devouring me without actually making me come. Much to my relief
and chagrin, I was wrong. "Now the other;" he said, as he separated my
knees, and then placed my other hand between my legs. Then, he picked up
his sketchpad again and looked up at me expectantly.

"You want me to;" I squeaked, turning bright red.

"Well, I know that you know how; I taught you," he said, eyes eager, grinning wickedly.

"Yeah, but; it was dark; and you were behind me; you weren't watching; and; "

"Oh,

I was watching," he assured me, "I had it on a loop replay in my head
all night. I could draw how you looked that night perfectly from memory,
right now;"

I

squeezed my eyes shut and groaned. Peeking out of one eye and seeing
him still watching me like a dog waiting for a treat, I closed it again
and began to move my fingers around my clit. Though I was aroused,
painfully so, I just couldn't get my head into what I was doing enough
to bring myself anywhere close to a peak. "Kurt, it's just not working; "
I said, opening my eyes to see him staring at me transfixed with his
mouth slightly open," I whispered, feeling a hook catch somewhere inside
me, sending me speeding toward my peak. It was him. I needed to see
him, how I affected him, how much he wanted me. It was what drove me,
what pulled me. I could have been across a crowded auditorium and seeing
his unabashed look of pure lust for me would have dragged me fully
clothed toward an impossible orgasm.

"Kurt!" I gasped, my back arching against my will and I began panting, frantically driving myself towards release.

"Stop!"

he said, standing suddenly. I obeyed without thinking, without wanting
to, squeezing my thighs together and keening in desperate
disappointment. He walked over and his long legs straddled mine, still
standing. Opening his pants and taking his erection out, he began
stroking it over me. "Start again; slowly," he said, running his hand
back and forth, caressing himself.

Jumping

at the first contact of my fingers, I began rubbing around my clit
again, almost crying in relief. "Slide two of them inside yourself, now.
Show me how wet you are," he ordered, his voice now commanding in his
need. Dipping deeply with a breathy moan, I pulled out and wiggled my
slippery fingers at him. I loved having him tell me what to do. I loved
waiting for his directions, watching his organ grow larger and more
turgid.

"Now,

put them inside yourself again; no, not there;" he said, his voice
curling with excitement as I began to slide them back inside my dripping
pussy. I blinked. "You know where I want them; show me, just go slowly
and relax. You'll be okay," he said, rubbing himself faster, breathing
harder.

I

closed my eyes and reached lower, pressing my slippery fingers against
my anus. When Kurt had done this to me before, I'd been frightened and
tense. It hurt worse than anything I'd ever known I could feel; until I
relaxed and pushed against him. Making myself relax, I pushed my fingers
inside a little. My eyes opened at the flash of pain, making me bite my
lips to stay silent. Tears welled in my eyes, but I kept the fingers
inside. "Use your other hand on your clit; keep going; God, you're so
beautiful;" he panted.

Pushing

against my fingers, I felt myself open wider and I pushed deeper crying
out in surprise at the sensation. Kurt moaned, his eyes fixed on what I
was doing. Remembering my clit, I was surprised to find how close I was
and felt the sensations I was giving myself mix together and become an
overwhelming force. I began stroking my fingers in and out of my ass and
the raw feeling drove me over the edge and I arched under him, crying
out. As my body clenched and trembled, I felt warm spurts of Kurt's
semen fall first on my tummy, then my neck and tits, finally in a burst
onto my upper thighs and pubic hair.

Kurt

stood over me shaking, still holding himself, and leaning against the
wall with the other hand. His eyes roamed over me in abject adoration.
"Now, don't move;" he breathed, tucking himself back in and sitting down
again with his sketchbook.

I

lay there spent on the boiler room floor, languishing in the swirling
delight of my orgasm, my face surely the picture of satisfaction and
contentment as his pencil flew over page after page of his sketchbook
until I protested that I had to put the bread in to bake for that
night's fraternity dinner. He sighed reluctantly and threw my clothes to
me, still watching and sketching as I dressed.

When

I finished dressing, he put his arms around me and kissed me, smiling
as he did. As I looked into his face, wondering about his smile, I felt
him begin silently laughing. On a hunch, I grabbed his sketchbook to
make sure I would be able to show my face at the student union in the
future, paging through what he had been working on. As always, his
sketches were beautiful, practically alive. They virtually leapt off the
page, making you forget that they were only pencil drawings. I was,
again, amazed at his talent. Kurt was softly laughing out loud, now,
watching my reaction with immense enjoyment.

I

sighed, shaking my head, still staring at his artwork. "Kurt. You
fucker. These are all landscapes," I said, my lips pressed tightly
together in the vain hope that I could keep myself from laughing.

"Well, yes; but you really helped!" he insisted, wiping the tears of hilarity onto his sleeve. "Yes?"

"I

didn't say anything;" I said, quickly. In truth, I had been practicing
how to get through the coming conversation with Tim, but no actual words
had come out of my mouth.

"You

were hovering. You typically do not hover unless you want to ask for
something you think I will decline," he said, turning a page in his
textbook.

"Oh,

well, I took care of that problem. I just do it anyway and then charge
it as something healthy on my invoice," I said, flumping down into a
nearby sofa.

Tim

looked over and raised an eyebrow at me as I smirked. "Thank you for
admitting to your petty fraud. Is that why I am paying for so many
"lentils" on your invoices?"

"What?

No! Those are legit. I should actually charge more than I do for
lentils, since they get cooked twice," I said. "I boil them and then
spread out the meat in things with ground beef and stuff like that. You
cook it right and they just disappear into the other flavors. Makes it
seem like they're eating more meat than they are, plus it's just more;
wholesome," I said, stressing the last word to tease him for introducing
it into my world.

"Hmm; Scandinavians; despite appearances, you are sneaky," he said, smiling at his textbook.

"Not

sneaky, just poor. You grow up without a lot of money, you learn stuff
like that," I said, shrugging. "So, I actually did have something I
wanted to ask you for," I said, feeling like I'd softened Tim up as much
as he was able to be softened.

"'I actually have something for which I wanted to ask you,'" Tim corrected, "One does not end a sentence in a preposition."

Yeah,

maybe Tim just didn't get softened up. "Right; cuz people talk like
that," I said, hiding my sarcasm in an innocent Scandinavian tone.

Tim

smiled as if I'd thanked him and nodded once. Keeping myself from
laughing, I plowed ahead, "So, I agree that to run a successful
business, it's a very good idea to keep an eye personally on things when
you're catering for an event," I started out, repeating his advice to
me. Tim grunted thoughtfully at this good advice and highlighted a
passage in his textbook. "And this Christmas banquet you want is
certainly something that would need my monitoring. You were definitely
right about that." Tim nodded sagely, agreeing with himself again. "It's
just that, um; I was hoping that I could have someone in the kitchen
with me, since it's the only time we can really spend an evening
together before Christmas;"

Tim's eyes flickered up to me from his textbook, "Yes?" he asked.

"And;

well, it's someone you banned from the house. Kurt Sorenson. Would it
be okay if he helped me in the kitchen that night? I swear, he will be
on his best behavior," I promised.

Tim

sighed, folded his hands, resting his face against them as he spoke.
"Do you know why I banned him from the house?" he asked. Not waiting for
an answer, he continued, "That he, upon discovering that his actions
had caused someone to be admitted to the hospital, left them there and
set about becoming intoxicated on a variety of illegal substances here.
Am I to assume that the person in the hospital was you?"

Uncomfortable,

I nodded. "It; it wasn't really his fault. I had an allergic reaction
to; something. He had no way of knowing," I said, feeling strangely
ashamed of myself as I defended Kurt to him. I knew I wasn't addressing
the real problem of what had happened, and what probably bothered Tim
most -- that Kurt chose to get high instead of making sure I was okay.
That he felt no sense of responsibility or duty toward me, even after
what we had shared.

"It

is not my place to convince you of your value or others of their
privilege. Bring him, if that is all you think of yourself," he said,
getting up quickly and leaving the room.

That

Friday, I watched the guys enjoying the Christmas feast that I'd made
for them through a crack in the door of their dining room. I sent out
more drinks when glasses were half full, more bread as the baskets were
emptied. After Tim gave a Chapter President speech and various year-end
announcements, he sat down at the head of the table and filled his
plate, frowning occasionally at a small bowl I'd left beside his place.

Kurt

said he would be at the house before dinner, but he still hadn't shown
up. I figured he must have needed to work late at the bistro, but it
would be nice to know for sure. I checked my phone again, but there were
no messages from him.

I

had spare dishes of all the food warming in the oven and ready to go,
in case they were needed. I was covering all of them with aluminum foil
to make sure they stayed moist when I heard Tim clear his throat behind
me.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Your

gravy," I answered without looking, tenting the foil over the dishes,
smirking. I knew he couldn't just eat some sauce labeled "Tim's Gravy"
without coming to ask me questions. I'd actually looked forward to the
conversation a bit.

"Obviously. You've already supplied the table with a tureen of gravy. Why is this particular one mine?"

"You,

unlike most of the table, don't eat mushrooms. I checked with the guys.
They love mushrooms. So, I made you that gravy without mushrooms," I
said, turning and taking off my oven mitts.

Tim

took a spoon from a drawer nearby and tasted it, a confused look on his
face. "You made this gravy specially for me?" I shrugged, feeling the
answer was obvious. "Thank you," he said, carrying the bowl out of the
kitchen, frowning. I watched through the crack in the door as Tim poured
gravy on his potatoes and tasted them carefully. His eyebrows raised,
then he added gravy to most of the other items on his plate. Then, he
leaned over to Paul's empty seat and took the bowl full of mushroom-less
gravy sitting there and switched it for his own empty one.

I

smiled to myself, watching the guys slowly lean back in their seats,
satisfied and relaxed. It felt like I'd given them a great theater show
without having the excruciating experience of being seen or heard.
Still, I got to see the glow that my food had given them. With a smile, I
began washing the dishes. Kurt still hadn't come. I told myself he'd
forgotten the time or gotten delayed at work. I felt forgotten and
forgettable again. I was grateful Tim hadn't said anything about Kurt
not showing up, especially since he had already scolded me a little
about how I let people treat me.

Lost

in thought, I jumped when a throat cleared behind me. "Whoa! Sorry,
Melanie. Didn't mean to scare you," stammered Jake. He glanced back to
the dining room and seemed nervous about something. "Um; there's
something wrong with the um; dessert? Tim wanted to see you about it in
the dining room."

I

thought frantically what could have been wrong with the pies -- or
maybe I had forgotten to put the final cocoa sprinkle across the top of
the tiramisu? Wiping my hands off on a towel, I followed Jake to the
dining room and saw something that made me nervous. Tim was smiling
broadly and all the guys were assembled at the end of the dining room
table in rows; like a choir. Tim came over and put an arm around my
shoulders as Jack ran to take his place in the back row. They were all
looking at me and a little excited. I wanted to go run and hide in the
kitchen again or at least duck under the table, but I soon found out
that Tim probably expected this and his arm kept me in place.

"Melanie,

the gentlemen of Sigma Phi wanted to express their; gratitude; for your
culinary efforts this year with Rutter's 'Banquet Fugue,'" he said, as
one of the guys blew a pitch out of a little pipe thing. Then, in
different groups they began to sing rounds of different parts
overlapping each other.

"Guzzle

guzzle guzzle, munch munch gobble gobble chomp, pass the salt and the
pepper and the mustard and vinegar and the bread. Munch munch, chomp
chomp, gobble gobble, guzzle guzzle;"

I

was dying of embarrassment at first, but slowly I forgot it because
they were really good singers! Then, Jake jumped forward, thrusting his
finger in the air, singing "There's a fly in my soup! There's a fly in
my soup!" while the other guys sang "slurp slurp slurp slurp," and then
Jake clutched his stomach "Fetch me the doctor, I'm feeling rather
strange;" Then they all went quiet and started singing the whole "guzzle
guzzle, munch munch, gobble gobble, chomp, guzzle guzzle guzzle guzzle"
thing again. It got bigger and bigger until the very end where Rory
gave and enormous belch to cap off the song. Tim, still holding me in
place, was shaking his head in mild disgust.

"They

insisted on doing the belch part;" he said leaning over and whispering
in my ear. I laughed. I could just see Rory protesting that the belch
was absolutely necessary.

Suddenly

a door slammed, and I turned quickly to see Paul looking back at the
door to the kitchen, then looking back at me in furious disapproval.
Tim's arm released my shoulders and he cleared his throat, stepping away
from me.

"What is it?" I asked, walking to Paul, suddenly nauseous with fear.

"God;

you're all the same, aren't you? If he gets fucked up and lands in the
ER again, this time it's on you, bitch," Paul growled under his breath
before leaving the kitchen and slamming the door behind him.

Based on a post by Lingering Afterthought, in 4 parts for Literotica.

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