He pulls me back by the hair and looks me in the eye. “What car did you drive here, you fucking slut?”

A Skylark. A 1970 Buick Skylark. But I’m not even close to answering that question correctly, because this is the only way.

“Is she alive?” I ask defiantly.

He slaps my ass so hard it echoes with the throb of the blood in my veins.

“What do you say?” He slaps me again. “When I give you what you need, what do you say?”

“Thank you.”

He slaps me on the other side. It burns, but not as hot as where he’s inside me.

“This feels so fucking good.”

“No. It doesn’t.” I flail, twisting and punching behind me, but he holds me still.

“Didn’t ask your opinion. Stay still and take my cock.”

“No!” I cry when I want to say yes. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“Didn’t ask for that either.”

“It hurts.” I try not to coo or groan.

“Doesn’t it, though.” He’s cruel and careless, going deeper with each thrust. “Show me how a Colonia bitch takes it.” With that, he buries himself to the root, gripping the flesh of my hips tightly enough to rhythmically force me into him and away as if I’m the one doing the fucking.

“Where is she?” I ask as I lose control of my thoughts.

“When I fuck you like this, you remember why you even exist.”

All I do is grunt in answer. I am built for him to grab. I am clay, molded into the shape of his hands. I am his wetness. My insides are molded to fit his cock.

“Show them how you come.” He slaps my ass again. “Show them who you belong to.”

The orgasm has the speed of a slap in the face and the power of a freight train. It’s my toes, my scalp, and everything in between. I pulse around his dick as if my body is trying to swallow it.

“Good,” he murmurs, breaking character. “Good girl.”

He lets go of my hips and bends at the waist, putting his hands on top of mine, pushing so deep I can feel him empty into me. With his lips at my shoulder, his breaths come in the rhythm of his pleasure.

With the curtain of desire whipped away, the question I came with floods in like sunlight.

“Is it her? Is it my mother?”

“Yes.”

But his finger taps on the back of mine.

668437

In silence, I picture the back of my hand as a keypad, and he taps it again.

668437

NOT HER

I choke out a sob of relief. There has to be more to it, but this is enough. I believe him. I shouldn’t. He has too many reasons to lie to me, but he’s telling the truth.