good tweet, bad tweet

“Daddy?”

Your voice carries through the nearly empty apartment. Jeryd has just moved in and hasn’t had the time to furnish it yet. Being a Congressman takes up so much of his time.

He appears at the kitchen doorway. “Yes, baby?”

The sound of his voice sends immediate shivers down your body. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“Can I go out with my friends tonight?” you ask.

You’re making him a sandwich, ham and mustard on rye. The sharp odor of mustard wafts up to your nose as you slather it on. The kind he uses is imported from Europe. You’ve never seen it at your grocery store, so it must be fancy.

He raises an eyebrow. “Tonight?”

“I’m sorry. I know I should’ve asked earlier,” you say. “But I only just got a text.”

He leans up against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Will there be drinking?”

“Maybe,” you say.

“You know the rules.”

You look at him with your best impression of innocence. “I know the rules, daddy.”

“Are you going to behave?” he asks.

“Yes, daddy. Can I go?”

”Did you do your homework?”

You nod. “I did the dishes, too.”

“Good girl,” he says, pleased. “I have something for you.”

You follow him into his bedroom, where he hands you a small, pink box as you two sit at the edge of the bed together. Lifting up the lid, you reveal a small, dainty necklace that matches the jewelry you usually wear. The pendant is shaped like a little bird. It looks real, like it came from a jeweler and not Claire’s. Eyes wide, you look at it in awe.

“Thank you, daddy,” you say.

He takes it from your hands and places it around your neck, careful not to get your hair tangled in it. The soft touch of his rough hands sends a cold shiver down your spine.

You twirl the little bird between your fingers. “I love it.”

Then you straddle him between your legs, kissing him all over his cheeks, his stubble scratching at your delicate skin, and hug him excitedly, pushing your breast against his face because you know he likes that.

Then you pull away as you feel something touching your leg.

“Daddy?” you ask.

“Yes, baby?” he replies.

“You’re hard.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I help you with that? Please?”

“You’ve been a good girl. You should be rewarded.”

“Playtime with daddy?”

He nods.

You begin by unbuckling his belt. He leans back on the bed against his elbows, watching you with his mouth a little open.

His thick cock is harder than a rock. Slowly, you work the shaft with your hands, looking at it like it’s the biggest you’ve ever seen—and it is, in fact, the only one you’ve seen—because you’ve noticed he likes it when you admire it. He licks his lips, already grunting.

You scoot down to the floor, down to your knees, and gather as much saliva in your mouth as you can before taking him in.

“Good girl,” he groans. “Take it all for daddy.”

You giggle against his cock. He thrusts against your mouth. You’ve learned to expect that and you take his moans as gratitude.

“You’ll learn to like it,” he had said the first few times after you’d gagged and coughed your way through and nearly choked on his cum, and you had doubted him silently in your head.

But he had been right. As always.

You drool all over him, licking up and down the shaft, bobbing your head up and down until he’s close and grasping onto the duvet cover like a lifeline.

Then you stop. You get up. Take off your panties.

And you climb back on top of him, your breath catching in your throat in anticipation. Sometimes, if he was feeling like he wanted to prove a point, he’d stop you at this point and push your head back down.

You’re not quite sure if you want him to stop you or not.

This time, he lets you part your legs and push yourself down on his thick cock.

“You like that, daddy?” you ask.

This time, he is too far gone to give you a verbal answer beyond incoherent grunting.

As you grind him into completion, and his cum spills inside of you, you catch sight of your birth control pills on the nightstand.

Usually you carry them in your makeup bag, but you haven’t been able to find them for three days and Jeryd has been away on important congressional business so you haven’t come by.

Surely they’ll work just fine if you just triple your dose today.

You stop by at home to change your clothes and pick out your favorite skirt, the one that shows off your legs and a little too much of everything else if you bend over, and a sheer, long sleeved top that brings out the color of your eyes, revealing the strapless bra underneath.

There’s a party at some random dorks house. Normally you wouldn’t bother even going, but with the school year coming to an end, it will be nice to see everyone for what might be the last party before prom. Somebody brings a keg, and you roll your eyes as the senior boys pour themselves cups full of foam. The rest of the food and drink options are equally terrible: chips and dips, peppermint liqueur and chocolate milk. You’ve sometimes flipped through the menu options for parties and events Jeryd has hosted. Shrimp cocktails, deviled eggs, figs and cheeses—classic, sophisticated, adult choices.

You’ve asked if someday you could attend the parties, too.

“Of course, baby,” he has said. “Someday.”

“Do you need a place to crash tonight?” your friend Anna asks, snapping you out of thought. You realize you’ve been staring at the chip bowl with a blank expression. Anna hands you a peppermint chocolate milk in a red cup.

“No, I’m good,” you say, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as you smile wide.

“You’re not going home, are you?” she asks. You shake your head.

“Oh, God. You’re still letting that old guy fuck you?” Beth, your other friend, asks, horrified.

You laugh and roll your eyes. “Okay, virgin.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m just saying, you haven’t really lived until you’ve fucked an older man who knows what he’s doing,” you say. You look around the room. “I am so over these boys.”

You take a sip of your drink. It’s surprisingly good. Sweet. Jeryd doesn’t like sweet things, but sometimes he makes exceptions for you. He says your pussy tastes like a tootsie pop.

“Where do your parents think you are when you’re with him?” Anna asks.

“Like, places. With you guys or, uh—” You stop to giggle. “History club.”

“Jesus Christ,” she says, her voice full of contempt.

“What?”

“They don’t question that? You’re not exactly a history buff.”

“He’s teaching me,” you say. “Like, there’s all this stuff that happened in, like, World War Two, that our history books don’t even cover or they’re just plain wrong about.”

Your friends share a look.

“You guys are just jealous,” you say, fiddling with the necklace.

They don’t get it, the straight-up sex appeal that he exudes, the raw power that he holds.

The first time you met him, he came to speak at your school and you could not tear your eyes off of him. There he stood at the front of your civics class and talked about government and other boring shit like that, except he made it not boring. He made it sound like a fight to the death; a political display of blood, sex and tears. You were enthralled from the start, and his handsome features drew you in further. There was something devilish about him, something naughty.

You lingered after class was over, slowly putting your books and pens in your bag and taking them out again to put them back in, while your teacher thanked Congressman Jeryd Mencken for his time. You could see him throwing quick, subtle glances your way, amused by your stalling. As your teacher left the classroom, Jeryd followed, much to your disappointment. When you went out to the hallway, he was still there, waiting.

“Do you have all your books now?” he teased.

“Yes, sir,” you said. Suddenly you felt self conscious because he was talking to you, and you didn’t know how to talk to a man like him.

“You’re a senior, correct?” he asked. You nodded. “You’re eighteen?”

“Yes,” you said. Your heart started pounding in your chest.

“Off to college soon, right?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah, really soon.”

“You must be excited.”

You shifted awkwardly in place.

He quirked an eyebrow. “No?”

“I don’t know. I’m not—” You paused. “It’s nothing. You don’t care.”

“Try me.”

You looked down at your feet, suddenly embarrassed that you’d said anything at all. He would not understand the troubles of girlhood or the fear of growing up while simultaneously wishing for nothing more than growing up.

“I just don’t know if I’m ready,” you said, finally.

“To leave home?”

You shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s more than that.”

“Ah.”

You shifted in place again.

“You’ll do great,” he said, and for a moment he sounded like a politician—full of empty promises hidden behind a smile.

But something about his face seemed sincere.

“I guess,” you said with a nervous laugh.

“Say it.” 

“I’ll do great.”

“Good girl.”

The tone of his voice sent shivers down your spine—or perhaps it was his choice of words. It was innocent, you told yourself, and watched him walk away.

That night, he somehow found your Snapchat and snapped you a picture of himself enjoying a glass of whiskey on his rooftop terrace, the glimmering lights of your hometown blurred in the background.

And you were flattered that he had gone through all that trouble.

So, you snapped him back.

It was innocent at first. He asked what college you had picked and why you had landed on that choice; he asked about your grades and your life outside of school. You never told anyone, knowing what people would say, but in the comfort of your room you giggled as you typed message after message. Teasing him was fun, unlike anything you’d ever experienced before.

It was never supposed to go anywhere; you knew it was wrong. You’d heard the stories and warnings of sad little middle-aged men and their quests to conquer the untouched land of tight teenage pussy; you’d been warned of predators enough for the word to lose all meaning. After three days of snapping back and forth, you sent him a video of yourself grinding against a pillow on your bed. An hour later he picked you up in a huge, black SUV.

What followed was far from innocent—as if it had ever been to begin with.

Beth points to the necklace. “Did he give you that?”

“Yeah. Pretty, right?” you reply, smiling.

“It looks cheap,” Anna says. “Excuse me.”

She bumps into your shoulder as she leaves the room.

“She’s literally so jealous,” you scoff.

“Jealous of what, exactly? You’re not special because some old guy wants to fuck you,” Beth says. “You’re just stupid enough to fall for it.”

You roll your eyes.

Eventually Anna comes back. She says her brother is coming to pick her up and asks if you need a ride.

“No, thank you,” you say, disgusted at the thought of having to sit in the stench of Axe body spray in the backseat of her mom’s minivan. “I have a ride.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Anna says. “See you around.”

Your friends leave. You look around to see one of the boys crouched down in the corner, throwing up in a house plant.

Luckily, your phone vibrates with a snap.

Jeryd parks his car at the end of the street. You walk over. He’s turned off the lights inside the car, but you can make out his features in the dim street light; there’s a crease between his brows.

He looks in every direction before opening the door for you. You climb into the front seat.

“What are you wearing?” he asks, almost spitting the words in your face.

You shrug.

“This isn’t how good girls dress.”

You laugh. “Who cares?”

“I care. You go out dressed like that? Like a common whore?” he asks. His hand grips your thigh, his fingers burying themselves into the flesh. “You know better than that.”

“Lighten up.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Oh, nooo.”

“You know the rules.”

“Fuck your rules.”

You throw him a sadistic little smirk and watch him fight to keep his composure while you know he’s already bursting out of his trousers.

“Daddy has to punish you now,” he says, his eyes dark.

“Oh, no, I’ll be good. I promise.” You pout, pushing your tits together with your arms, and bat your eyelashes up at him. “Please don’t spank me.”

“This is for your own good.”

He yanks you forward by your wrist, pulling you over his lap. The gear-stick jams into your ribs. He pulls your skirt up, the fabric bunching at the waist, and you steady yourself, hands braced on the dashboard.

His hand smooths down your ass, rubbing over the fabric in slow, almost gentle circles, until suddenly—

A hard slap. The sound of flesh on flesh is amplified in the small space, loud like a sudden gunshot, and you jerk forward.

He lands another blow. Instant. Harder. Faster.

And another.

The sting of his palm leaves a lingering throb, and you almost feel the outline of his fingers like it’s permanently engraved on your skin now.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek. Breathe out through your nose.

When he finally pauses, his hand slides down your thigh and under your skirt. Under your panties. He presses his hand between your legs, not wasting any time as he slides it under the thin fabric. A gasp leaves your mouth as his thumb meets your clit.

His other hand presses against the small of your back, pinning you in place.

“We’ve talked about this, baby,” he says. “You can’t dress like that. You can’t act like that.”

“I know,” you grunt through gritted teeth.

Each pass of his fingers, each slow and precise circle ripples up your spine and radiates through your skin in waves of heat. You try to keep still, to not let yourself grind against him, but it’s a losing fight. Your hips rock and press, chasing the friction.

“I can’t take you anywhere if you’re like this,” he whispers.

He spreads your legs wider, wedging his hand between your thighs and angling the heel of his palm just right.

You hear a whimper and it takes you a second to realize the sound is coming from inside the car, from inside your mouth, and not some neglected animal off the street.

The next morning you go home.

“Did you have fun at your sleepover?” your mother asks.

“I did,” you say. “Anna made chocolate milk.”

“Just like when you were kids.”

“Yeah. Just like that.”

And you close the door to your room behind you, sliding off the pants you’d packed to pass parental inspection, and look at your ass in the mirror.

You grab your phone and send him a snap.

Look what you did, daddy.

He responds a minute later with a picture of his hand resting over his knee. Suit trousers beneath it, cuff and visible.

That’s my good girl. Send me another when it gets darker.

You giggle into your sleeve.

Then you reach into your bag to grab the book he’s given you to read as part of your history education. You wonder if your history teacher knows he’s been brainwashed by propaganda.

You make a mental note to ask him during your next class.

Jeryd sends you another snap.

His cock.

Dripping with cum.

Look what you did, pretty girl.

You almost gasp.

Then you scream into a pillow.

For a moment you consider screenshotting it. Sending it to your friends, the pathetic virgins.

But you know better. He’s taught you better.

It’s kind of the last thing you expected.

This week was supposed to be about soup and board games and helping your aunt clear out her garage. It was supposed to be about sourdough starters and running errands.

It was not supposed to be about open mic nights at bars and hot strangers with guitars.

And voices that tickle your spine until you have goosebumps all over.

And blue eyes you could sink into and drown like you never learned how to swim.

It was not supposed to be about one night stands.

But, alas.

The blue eyes are closed. He’s still sleeping.

Cameron.

That’s his name.

Cameron.

You can still remember last night in flashes. His voice through the microphone. The scrape of his thumb over guitar strings.

The way he looked at you across the crowded bar like he already knew how the night would end.

And maybe you did too.

You remember his hands around your waist in the kitchen while you laughed into his shoulder. Remember him kissing you slow enough to make you yearn for more.

Yearn.

For a man you’d met less than three hours ago.

You remember thinking: oh, this is trouble.

Now he sleeps beside you completely unaware of the damage he’s done.

Mouth slightly open.

Hair a mess.

One hand curled loosely against your waist.

You should leave now, probably. Before you turn this into something it isn’t.

Instead you stay exactly where you are.

Cameron shifts in his sleep. Closer. His arm against you tightens.

Half-asleep, he murmurs against your neck, “Morning.”

“Good morning,” you whisper, trying to sound like you haven’t been awake for the better part of an hour just staring at his face. You gather the sheet over yourself, suddenly very aware of your own naked body.

He opens his eyes, barely, looking at you like somehow he didn’t expect you to reply. Like he wasn’t sure you weren’t just a dream.

His voice is rough with sleep. “You’re very pretty.”

You snort with laughter.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Is that your go-to?”

“My go-to?” he repeats, visibly offended.

“Yeah. Your morning-after line.”

“You say that like I have a system.”

“You don’t?”

He shakes his head. “This doesn’t happen to me often.”

“Uh-huh,” you say. “I bet I can predict your next move, though.”

“There are no moves.”

“Right. So you’re not going to get me a cinnamon roll for breakfast?”

“No, I’m not—” He pauses abruptly. “Wait, what? How did you—”

“Last night, I told you I’m new to town and you said…”

Your voice trails off. That’s enough to spark his memory.

“That you should try the cinnamon rolls from the bakery,” he concludes.

“And you specifically said they make a great breakfast.”

His face shifts. Like he’s just now putting two and two together.

“But that’s not a move,” he says.

“No?”

“That’s just—”

“Yes?”

“Information that could improve your quality of life.”

“It’s that good?”

He nods.

You consider him for a moment. He seems sincere, and even if it is a move, like some sort of thank you for the sex, have a cinnamon roll and don’t be mad if I never call you scheme, what is really the worst thing that could happen?

That you leave here with two orgasms and a sugar high?

There are worse fates.

“Then I guess we’re having cinnamon rolls,” you say.

“Give me thirty minutes.”

He gets dressed like he’s already late for something—and for a moment you think he’s freaking out that you might not be here if it takes him a minute longer than he’s promised. You shrug off that thought as quickly as it comes.

Before he’s out the door, you realize that while last night has left you happy and satisfied and relaxed beyond measure, it has also left you icky. Dried sweat. Remnants of perfume. Whatever is left of your makeup.

“Uh, Cameron?”

He turns quickly. “Yeah?”

“Can I take a shower?”

“Sure. Through there,” he says, pointing to a door in the hallway. “Extra towels in the cabinet.”

You nod.

He leaves.

Thirty minutes doesn’t leave you with a lot of snooping time—not that you would, anyway, but you do glance around as you head to the shower, making a few accidentally-on-purpose stops along your way. The house is nice, well built, with a lot of wood and knickknacks that don’t really scream Cameron, but you just met the guy so what do you know? Maybe the little horses have a story behind them. Maybe the framed cross-stitch pieces were passed down to him. Maybe he got the place furnished and hasn’t had time to redecorate anything besides his room.

Maybe—

Maybe it’s been fifteen minutes and you still haven’t gotten to the shower.

The water pressure is bad. Like, really bad. And he doesn’t have nice products, but other than that it’s a fairly uneventful shower until—

The front door slams shut.

And just before you have a chance to call out his name, someone else does it for you.

“Cameron?”

It’s a woman’s voice.

A chill runs through your body.

You don’t reply.

You run through the possibilities in your head. This isn’t his house. He’s house sitting. Or he’s a burglar. A scammer. A real estate agent with boundary issues.

Or—

He’s married.

You don’t like any of the options.

Not because of him—God, no. If he’s a liar or cheater or whatever, good riddance. You do not care.

But simply because now you’re complicit. And naked. In a stranger’s house.

That’s the kind of thing that gets people shot.

“Your car isn’t out front,” the woman calls out.

The voice sounds frail, a little hesitant too. And it’s getting closer.

You turn off the shower. She knocks on the door. Your heart jumps and your eyes flick to the handle.

Locked. Thank God you had some sense.

“Cameron, are you in there? Is everything okay?” the woman asks. 

“No, sorry, wrong person,” you blurt out, because you have to say something.

There’s a long pause.

“Who’s in my shower?”

“Funny story. I thought this was Cameron’s shower and not, um—I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m his grandmother.”

He lives with his grandmother?

Weird.

And sweet.

And—

Oh, for fucks sake. Get out of the bathroom.

You look around frantically only to discover that your clothes are exactly where you left them.

On Cameron’s floor.

The only thing you have is panties. Skanky panties.

That’s what your aunt had called them when you were unpacking. Then she’d laughed and said you would not be needing such things in Sowell Bay.

Joke’s on her.

You toss them on and reach for a towel, starting to wrap it around your chest before it hits you.

Modesty, maybe.

Or just the possibility of getting shot, which is still very real, and if that happens you do not want to be wearing skanky panties and a towel and end up the star of the most unfortunate crime scene photos.

Because the woman outside the door may very well be Cameron’s grandmother and she may be sweet and understanding to naked strangers and not shoot you—but what if the man you met isn’t Cameron at all? 

What if the real Cameron is dead and stuffed in a closet somewhere and you were just a bit of entertainment for Scameron while he waited for grandma to come back so he could finish what he—

Oh, God. You have to stop listening to true crime podcasts.

And you can not go out there in a freaking towel.

There’s another knock at the door.

“Whoever you are, will you please come out?”

A quick glance around the bathroom proves most unhelpful to your current predicament—until you spot something hanging from a hook on the back of the door. A shapeless lump of dark fabric.

A sweatshirt.

Cameron’s, most likely. Unless his grandma is secretly an oversized sweatshirt kind of baddie.

You snatch the sweatshirt off the hook. It’s soft, probably from years of washing. Still warm, somehow, from the shower steam.

And before you can stop yourself, you bring it up to your face.

Big mistake.

It smells like him.

Not gross, sweaty boy smell. Just—him. Faint detergent, subtle woodsy cologne and skin.

Your stomach flips immediately.

“Oh, you are pathetic,” you whisper to yourself.

Cameron’s grandma clears her throat outside the door.

You pull the sweatshirt on quickly and then, carefully, crack the bathroom door open.

The woman waiting outside is about five feet tall with silver hair, a cozy cardigan and practical shoes. Her eyes glaze over you—bare legs, Cameron’s sweatshirt, wet hair—and for a moment you expect a scolding.

But then, she simply tilts her head to the side and mutters, “Oh, dear.”

“I’m sorry, I—” you stammer, but the rest of the words fail to materialize.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not even supposed to be back yet.”

She starts walking down the hall, gesturing for you to follow. You do.

“I’m Tova,” she says.

You reach the kitchen. Tova starts putting on a pot of coffee.

You stand there awkwardly.

“And you, dear?” she asks. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m—”

The front door opens. Both of you turn to look.

Cameron walks in carrying a stack of two white bakery boxes.

He’s smiling. Actually smiling. Hair damp from the rain, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Okay,” he starts, “I was just gonna get cinnamon, but they were doing something new with pistachios, so I—”

He freezes.

You and Tova stare at him from the kitchen.

He walks over, eyes peeled on you and your bare legs and the whole situation at hand, and sets down what he’s brought on the counter.

“Uh, so, uh—”

“Relax, Cameron, we’re all adults here,” Tova says and begins unpacking the contents of the bakery boxes onto a decorative plate.

He rubs the back of his neck. “You said you wouldn’t be back until tonight.”

“Margaret’s husband developed chest pain, so we all came back early.”

“Oh.”

“He’s fine.”

“Great. Awesome. Fantastic for him.”

Tova walks over to the cupboard to grab coffee mugs.

Cameron leans into your ear and whispers, “Why aren’t you wearing pants?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper back, “why didn’t you tell me your roommate is eighty?”

“Fair point.”

“I haven’t seen you around Sowell Bay before,” Tova says, gesturing for both of you to sit down, and you feel obligated to obey.

“I’m just visiting.”

“Mm,” she says, pouring coffee into three mismatched mugs. “Sowell Bay has a habit of keeping people who need keeping.”

Cameron looks at her like she’s practically arranging a marriage.

You laugh.

“I’m going to take my coffee outside,” Tova says. “You two can pretend I’m not even here.”

“It’s raining,” Cameron tries to argue.

“There’s a roof over the deck,” Tova replies. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

And then, wearing another cardigan on top of the other one, she goes out into the cold misty air where rain is still falling and disappears from view.

Cameron nudges the plate of baked goods closer to you. You grab a cinnamon roll and take a big bite. It is exactly as good as he has described it to be.

He watches you and the way your lips can’t help but curl into a smile. You wash the bite down with coffee.

“She seems really nice,” you say, nodding your head towards the window. “Did you grow up here?”

He shakes his head. “We only met about six months ago.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

“You do?”

“I mean, my aunt is expecting me to go list all her Beanie Babies on Facebook Marketplace,” you say, unable to hide the hint of amused disdain in your voice. “But I think that can wait.”

“Alright.”

“Unless you’re scared, of course,” you add quickly.

He looks into your eyes from over the rim of his coffee mug. “Scared of what, exactly?”

“I don’t know. The longer I spend here, the more I like it,” you say. Then, you bite your lip. “I might fall in love with Sowell Bay and never leave.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Good cinnamon rolls.”

“Can’t argue.”

“Nice scenery.”

He shrugs. “When you can see it through the fog.”

“Friendly people,” you say.

Your cheeks are burning. He can see it, you know he can. He’s staring, now, and you don’t know if you’re supposed to break the silence or—

He clears his throat.

“Friendly octopuses, too,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Like I said,” he says. “It’s a long story.”

“Well?” you ask.

“Well what?”

“Go on, then.”

Cameron smiles.

This week was not supposed to be about cinnamon rolls, grandmothers and blue-eyed boys with stories to tell.

But, alas.