Eighteen Year Old Pussy Fucked And Sucked

This Town -- 5

Ashes on the Asphalt

She was eighteen. I was forty.

She said the town didn't show up on maps.

Said it was a place people found when they weren't looking--when they were too drunk, too horny, too broken to steer clear.

Guess I qualified.

The rain started just as we rolled past the rusted sign. Said Welcome, but the letters peeled off like old skin. Lena had her bare feet up on the dash, toenails black, eyes half-lidded like sin was her natural state of being. I was trying not to look. Trying real hard.

"I used to live here," she said.

"You're too young to have lived anywhere," I muttered.

She smiled and unwrapped a lollipop. Her tongue swirled slow over the candy, like it had secrets it wasn't ready to share.

***

The motel was called The Drift. One bulb flickering. One bed. One key that felt warm in my palm, like someone had just used it to fuck a ghost.

The key twisted, but the door didn't budge--just rattled like something was on the other side, holding it shut. I gritted my teeth, gave it another turn. Nothing. Rain slid down the back of my neck, soaking my collar and pissing me off more than I already was. Lena stood close, quiet now, eyes on me like she wasn't sure what I'd do next.

I didn't say a word. Just stepped back and drove my boot into the frame. The door burst open with a cracked splinter and a groan that sounded almost human.

I stepped inside like I owned the place--and maybe, for tonight, I did.

"Welcome home," I muttered, an unlit cigarette clenched between my teeth, water dripping from my brow. "Fucking cozy."

Inside, it smelled like smoke, sweat, and wet velvet. Lena threw her hoodie on the floor, stretched like a cat across the sheets, and I lit the cigarette just to buy myself a minute.

"You gonna tell me what this place really is?" I asked.

She turned her head toward me, tank top riding up to show that soft curve of her hip.

"You'll know," she said, "once you can't stop..." Her voice trailed off.

***

I slept with the gun under the pillow.

Didn't sleep much.

Not with the sound of her moaning in her dreams.

Not with the walls breathing.

Not with the mirror whispering my name like a lover who'd already seen me naked.

The rain hadn't stopped. It just softened, steady like breath, tapping the window in time with the ceiling fan's slow churn. I was awake before I knew it--habit, or instinct, or maybe the feeling that something beautiful was inches away and I'd regret not looking.

Lena lay facedown on the bed, blanket kicked off sometime in the night, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties that clung to her like they were painted on. Her ass--plump, perfect, the kind you could rest a drink on if you weren't busy squeezing it--rose and fell with each slow breath.

The curve of her side caught what little light there was, a faint glow on her ribs, her waist... and just under her arm, the swell of one perfect breast, half-crushed against the mattress. Side-boob, subtle and sinful. Enough to make me stare like a goddamn animal.

I should've looked away.

I didn't.

She shifted in her sleep, hair spilling over her shoulders, one leg bent just enough to make my pulse throb.

I felt compelled to touch her. Like if I didn't, I'd lose something important. Opportunity, I guess.

And maybe, just maybe--I wanted to. Needed to.

I lit a cigarette just to have something to do with my hands--then gave up and reached for her instead. Ran my fingers slow down the ridge of her spine, from her shoulders to the small of her back. Her skin was warm, soft, marked by the faintest goosebumps as I traced her like a map only I knew how to read. She didn't stir. Just breathed slow and steady while I memorized her--inch by inch.

She looked peaceful. Breakable.

Like if I touched her too hard, she'd vanish--like smoke from a match blown out too fast, or a dream you wake from and scramble to hold on to. There was something fragile about her in that moment, all curves and heat and sleep-heavy breath, but underneath it was this flicker of something not quite real. Like the town had conjured her just for me, and one wrong move would break the spell. So I touched her soft. Worshipful. Like maybe I could keep her in this world if I was careful enough.

My fingers found the waistband, and I slipped them down just enough to bare the curve of her ass. I told myself it was just a touch. That if she stirred, I'd stop. That I wasn't the monster this moment might make me.

I told myself it wasn't what it looked like. That I was just tracing the shape of something I already wanted too much. But my body didn't care about excuses. My fingers itched. And in that still motel room--soft with rain and sin and the heat of her so close--I couldn't lie to myself anymore. I didn't want permission. I wanted her. And I wanted to see if her body wanted me back.

I dipped into them from the rear, slow and deliberate. My knuckles brushed warm skin, then slick heat--she was already wet, even in her sleep. Or maybe because of it. My touch made her shift, just a little. A soft sound escaped her throat--half sigh, half whimper--but she didn't wake. I kept going. Fingers sliding between her folds, teasing, exploring, pushing deeper like I had all the time in the world to learn her body by feel. The motel was silent except for the rain and her breath, rising with each stroke like her body knew me even when her mind was dreaming. I leaned in, kissed the base of her spine, and kept my hand exactly where it was--buried in her heat, owning her even in sleep.

She moaned softly when my fingers slid deeper, her hips giving the slightest roll--like her body was chasing it. And for a second, I let myself get lost in it. The feel of her. The heat. The way she opened up for me without even waking. Like she trusted me. Or maybe didn't know better.

That's when it hit me.

The guilt. The shame. The sick twist in my gut that said stop.

What the fuck was I doing?

I pulled my hand from her panties like it burned, fingers slick with proof of everything I wasn't supposed to want. I lay back on my pillow, then pulled myself out of bed.

The storm outside picked up--thunder cracked hard enough to rattle the window, rain hammering the glass like it wanted in. Like it was daring me to keep going.

I didn't.

I stood, wiped my hand on my jeans, and puffed the cigarette with shaking fingers.

She shifted in her sleep again, unaware of the war I'd just fought and barely won.

I stared out into the storm.

And as always, it felt like it was staring back.

***

The storm came fast--like the town had been waiting for us to stop moving.

Thunder cracked and the neon outside flickered. The Drift shivered on its foundation like it knew it was about to be fucked six ways to Sunday. Rain pelted the roof so hard it sounded like bones rattling in a bag.

I stood at the window, cigarette barely lit, watching the parking lot vanish in sheets of water. Somewhere, a power line sparked blue and went dark.

Behind me, she was quiet. Too quiet.

I turned.

Lena sat cross-legged on the bed, hoodie off, hair damp from the mist that'd followed us inside. One of her boots dangled from her foot. She looked at me like she had a secret, and like she was one.

"Storm's not letting up," I said.

She tilted her head. "Guess we're stuck here."

I exhaled smoke. "Could be worse."

She smirked, leaned back on her hands. "You afraid of a little thunder, Rafe?"

The name's Dennis, but that never stuck. So my last name it is, and always was.

I turned back to the window. The glass was fogged now.

"Afraid of what happens when things get dark."

***

I sat in the armchair by the bed. She shifted, pulled up her legs, letting the hem of her shirt slide higher--just enough to tease. Just enough to tempt. The rain played percussion on the tin roof, steady and wild. Somewhere under it, I swore I heard moaning.

"This town..." she whispered, "it does something to you."

I watched her, jaw tight. "Like what?"

Her eyes glinted in the dark. "Like makes you want things you shouldn't. Touch things you'd normally keep buried."

She crawled across the bed toward me, slow. Real slow. Her hand brushed my knee.

I didn't stop her. The storm had already taken care of the world outside.

Now the only danger left was inside these four walls.

The blanket slipped from her shoulders when she moved, and I saw her--really saw her--for the first time in the kind of silence that only comes right before lightning splits the sky.

She was beautiful in that raw, unfair way. The kind that didn't come from makeup or effort. Just youth. Untouched, mostly. Untamed, entirely.

Eighteen, she'd said, with a little smirk, like it was both a confession and a dare.

I believed it. Every inch of her was bursting with that electric, dangerous kind of life. The kind that made older men feel young again--and afraid of what they'd do with that feeling.

Her skin was sun-kissed, but pale under the motel's dull yellow light, like soft cream poured over fire. Her legs--long, lean, drawn up under her--were smooth as sin and just as slippery to think about. Bare thighs peeking out from beneath a tank top that clung to her like it had been made just for her curves. Her nipples pressed against the fabric--hard from the cold, or maybe from the way I was looking at her. Either way, they were perfect.

And her face--fuck. It wasn't just pretty. It was alive.

Eyes that sparked mischief and mystery in equal measure. Lashes long enough to flutter against my chest if she got close. Lips parted just slightly, soft and pink and glistening, like she'd just licked them--or someone else had. Hair damp and tangled around her neck, a halo for a fallen angel.

She looked at me like I was the only man who'd ever mattered.

And me? I sat there frozen, every warning bell screaming in my chest.

Because beauty like that wasn't meant to last. It was meant to burn you.

***

The storm broke just before dawn. Not clean--more like it bled out. Rain thinned to mist, wind to occasional groans through the gutter. The parking lot steamed, reflecting the last flickers of dying neon.

I had my hand on the ignition. Tried it again.

Click. Click. Silence.

"Fuck me," I muttered.

"Is that an offer?" Lena murmured, pulling her boots back on.

I didn't smile. Didn't even look at her. Just stared at the steering wheel like it owed me something. The car was dead. So was the road, far as I could tell.

She climbed into the passenger seat, legs folded up tight, hoodie back over her tank but no less tempting. She looked like someone built for heat and meant to survive the cold anyway.

"Battery's gone. Starter maybe," I said, like naming the problem would fix it.

"Or the town killed it," she said softly.

I glanced at her. "You keep saying shit like that. The town this. The town that."

She rested her head against the window, fog blooming from her breath. "Because it's true. You just haven't seen enough yet."

I lit a cigarette, hands shaking just a little. "Then enlighten me, Lena. Because I'm getting real sick of the bullshit. The flirting. The town talk. You keep going down this road, little girl, you might not come back."

"Jesus," she whispered. That one landed. Her eyes shifted--uncertain now, like she hadn't expected me to grow fangs.

She shrugged, eyes locked on the pale morning creeping in through the cloud cover. "People don't live here. Not really. Not anymore."

"You mean it's abandoned."

She looked at me now, really looked. "No, I mean it's empty. Like something sucked the soul out and left the skin. People pass through. Some stay. Most vanish."

I blew smoke out the cracked window, let the silence stretch.

"Where the fuck were we even headed?"

She smiled faintly. "Rolling Hills."

I blinked. "You serious?"

"Dead serious."

"That place is--"

"An old asylum. Yeah. But there's someone there. Someone I know. He's got a van. Runs sometimes. If we're lucky."

I leaned back in the seat, cigarette between my teeth. "And if we're not?"

She looked out at the road. "Then we're stuck here. Just like the rest."

***

They'd walked a couple miles, feet sore, clothes damp, silence stretching between them like old chewing gum. By the time they hit Wilson Avenue, the sky cracked open again, cold rain slicing down like it had unfinished business. They ducked into the lot of a liquor store and found cover inside a long-abandoned Lincoln--one of those big old boats with split leather seats and cigarette burns in the dash.

The doors creaked like coffins. The car sat crooked, tires half-flat, but it was dry. And in this town, that was enough.

The liquor store looked like it hadn't been stocked since the '90s. Fluorescent lights buzzed inside, casting Rafe in a pale yellow as he disappeared through the door, shoulders tense, hand on his wallet like he expected a fight, which made Lena giggle as she watched.

Lena had stayed in the passenger seat. Said she didn't want anything.

That was a lie.

The moment he was gone, she exhaled hard. Her breath fogged the window in front of her. Her thighs pressed together. Tight.

It was the town. It had to be the town. The air itself was thick with it--like lust clung to oxygen. Like it wanted inside her. It wasn't just arousal--it was invasion. The way this place made you want. Made you need.

She slid her hand into her hoodie, then lower. Fingers brushed bare skin. No panties. She hadn't worn them since last night, when things got too wet, too quick, and she never bothered to replace them.

Her hips shifted just a little. Just enough. Her fingers dipped, soft and slow, and her breath caught in her throat.

She bit her lip. Closed her eyes.

She pictured him--Rafe. The way he looked at her sometimes, like he wanted to ruin her but was afraid he'd like it too much. The way he lit his cigarette, jaw tight, eyes cold. The way his hands looked like they were made to grip her throat. Or her hips. Or both.

The door dinged behind her.

She yanked her hand out just in time, heart racing, cheeks hot. Rafe stepped out into the lot, paper bag in one hand, cigarette already dangling from his lips. She ripped her panties from her hoodie's pocket and quickly worked them back on.

He didn't say a word when he got in. Didn't look at her.

But she swore he smelled it--her.

And the way his jaw clenched? Maybe he wanted to taste it, too. A girl can dream.

***

The gates creaked behind us, but not from rust--just age. Like even the metal had a memory. We stood at the edge of the lot, staring up at the massive brick building rising out of the morning fog.

Rolling Hills Insane Asylum.

Should've been a ruin. Should've been gutted, graffitied, full of broken glass and raccoons humping in the corners.

But it wasn't.

Not a single shattered window. Not a hint of graffiti. The lawn was overgrown but trimmed in that wild, intentional way--like a rich widow's garden. The columns out front looked freshly scrubbed. The letters etched above the entrance were faded, but still legible.

It was like we'd stepped backward in time.

I pushed open the door and the heavy weight of it gave me a weird chill--like it wanted to stay shut. Inside, the air was cool, still, and faintly scented like old wood and antiseptic. Everything was immaculate. Dustless tile. Clean chairs. Paint that hadn't peeled. The lights buzzed low, casting soft gold across the hallway.

No graffiti. No rot. No rats scurrying underfoot.

I didn't like it.

Lena stepped in beside me, her hoodie pulled tighter. She was quiet. Respectful, almost. Or maybe just haunted.

"You sure your friend's here?" I asked, my voice low, too loud in the silence.

She didn't answer. Just walked a little ahead, her boots clicking softly against the tile. Like she knew the place. Or remembered it.

I looked around again. The whole building was too well-kept, too tended to.

It didn't feel abandoned.

But it sure as hell didn't feel alive, either.

That's when I started to wonder if she'd lied. Or worse--if she believed what she said... and we were already too deep to turn back.

"I didn't see the van outside," I said, giving her a look like I already knew she was full of shit.

Lena stopped in the middle of the hallway, her back still to me. One hand on her hip, the other hanging loose by her side.

"You sure he's here?" I pressed.

She didn't turn. Just stood there, staring down the long corridor like something was waiting at the end of it. Or maybe just avoiding me.

I took a step closer. "Lena."

She sighed, finally turning to face me. Her eyes didn't have that usual spark. No smirk. No lollipop. Just tired.

"I knew a guy," she said. "We stayed here once. Weeks ago."

"Let me guess--he's not exactly reliable."

She shook her head. "He's probably not here. I knew that. I just... hoped."

I stared at her, jaw tight. "Why lie about it?"

She hesitated.

"Seriously," I pushed. "You dragged me to a goddamn asylum in the middle of nowhere based on what--vibes?"

"No," she said quietly. "Because there's medicine here."

That stopped me.

"What kind of medicine?"

She finally looked me in the eye. "Klonopin. Or something like it. Whatever I can find. I have seizures sometimes. I didn't think you'd come if I told you the real reason."

I didn't say anything at first. Just let it settle between us--the echo of her words in a place that felt like it should swallow sound whole. She didn't trust me.

And there it was. The first real truth from her lips. Not teasing. Not laced with sex or games. Just real, raw survival.

"You should've told me," I said.

She gave a sad shrug. "Maybe. But we're here now."

I looked around. The place was beautiful. Pristine. But now it felt different. Not a mystery. Not a trap.

Just a chance to keep her breathing.

I looked at her--really looked--and something twisted in my chest. The anger drained out, slow and quiet, leaving something worse behind: guilt. She wasn't just some wild-eyed tease with a knack for trouble. She was sick. Scared. And somewhere along the line, life had taught her that the only way to get help was to lie for it. That hit harder than anything she'd said. I wasn't mad. Not anymore. I just felt... sorry. For her. For me. For whatever fucked-up road brought her here thinking this was her only shot. She needed help, and now that I knew, I wasn't about to let her slip through the cracks like everyone else probably had. Not in this town. Not on my watch.

She wasn't just some girl anymore. She was mine, in a way I didn't ask for but felt down to the fucking bone. I didn't care if it was the town, the storm, the way she looked when she was sleeping--half-naked and vulnerable as hell--or the way her voice cracked when she finally told the truth. I cared. That was the fucked-up part. I cared. Ol' Dennis Rafe finally gave a shit. I wanted to keep her close. Wrap her in my jacket. Light her cigarettes. Hold her down if the shaking started. I'd be the one she reached for in the dark. Her anchor. Her hero. Maybe even... Daddy. And I'd be god damned if anyone else in this fucking town was going to put their hands on her. She was mine now.

I reached out and grabbed her hand, held it and pulled her along. "Let's find your fucking medicine, Baby."

***

The door was locked. Of course it was. Heavy steel, paint chipped around the edges, a faded placard that read Medical Storage.

I didn't waste time.

One step back. Boot forward.

CRACK. The frame split and the door slammed open with a jolt that echoed down the hallway like a gunshot.

Lena flinched behind me, but I didn't look back. Just stood there a second, letting the dust settle, letting the town know I wasn't here to fuck around.