I Count His Dollars

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Another drink! Gin and tonic, don’t mind if I do. And yes, I’ll have a hit of that shit, too. Or three. It helps to ease the pain. See, I like it best when I am numb. He likes it best when I am dumb–pliable. All of his women are manageable. I’m his favorite one.

A menthol ciggie is placed between my booze wet lips, tickled by his rough, yellow fingertips. Now a match ignites. I lean toward the flame and drag a kiss–I hear the red hiss, and loll in my chair. Translucent blue tendrils envelope my head and cling to my hair. I blow smoke rings as he begins things; so eager he is tonight. I was hoping to be number and dumber. Because I don’t want to remember.

He tugs at my panties; I lift my ass, straighten my back, and let him pull the dirty white cotton down to my knees, no sass. His women don’t sass him–not if they want the dollars.

I’m settled back into my chair by the force of his mouth–rock tongue. I moan on cue, as I’m supposed to do. I wrap my dancer legs around his neck. I squeeze–a tease of suffocation, just like he likes. Yes, my thighs are his favorite thighs. Lack of oxygen gives him the highs. So I’m squeezing. And he’s wheezing; I realize now how much I hate his boyish face, his cowboy hands, and his tough guy cock. I’m his favorite, and I’m bruised, and I can’t take it tonight.

His face is turning shades.

I laugh inside as his life fades…fades…gone.

And I count his dollars.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

 

2 thoughts on “I Count His Dollars

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