Getaway

"Well...he had a gun, he wasn't a cop or a security guard. It rains, you fuckin' get wet."

"You really love Heat, don't you?"

"I mean, Out of Sight's pretty cool too." He stretched himself out. "Also? Huge racist. Not advocating murder, just saying, if you had to murder a guy, Texas Hitler's not exactly the worst call."

She chuckled to herself. "Yeah, that's the thing. He was still breathing when we left, and I don't think I got him in the heart. He could've survived. What's it say about me that I never followed up?"

He shrugged. "Well, I'd say something philosophical about death at this point, but I'd probably just be quoting Ed O'Neil's character from Wayne's World."

"I wouldn't complain," she said, standing up, stretching, laughing. "Wayne's World is one of the best movies ever made." Her shirt hiked up her smooth caramel belly a little.

"Well, yeah," he said, trying to keep his eyes on hers. "That's just fuckin' facts, man."

She smiled. "You know, you've been a hell of a good sport about this."

"Shit," he said, "this is way more interesting than anything going on back home."

She nodded. "Either way," she said, "I really appreciate it. Thanks."

He smiled, goofy and endearing. "No prob," he said. If she didn't know any better, she'd have thought he volunteered to help.

She clapped her hands to snap herself away from the moment that was building. "All right," she said. "I'm gonna grab a shower, we'll watch TV, get some shut-eye, then we'll Greyhound you home. Cool?"

"Cool," he said. She grabbed her gun off the nightstand and a knapsack she bought with her and took them into the bathroom. He packed another hit into his bat and took a deep breath, considering all the vague things he still wanted to learn about this girl, and the likelihood that he'd ever get to know them.

"Cool cool cool," he muttered to himself.

* * * * *

Her shirt was off—she never bothered with bras—and her pants and panties were just about down to her knees when she realized that the bathroom door was cracked open. This didn't trouble her; actually, her first instinct was to laugh to herself over the free show her hostage might be getting.

She reflected on this in the shower, not that there was much to figure out. While he was astonishingly cooperative, to the point where it barely made sense to even call him a hostage, he was still here against his will, held in place not by rope but by a few gentle-yet-credible threats and a delicate, if preternatural amount of mutual trust. Still, she really did hate having to resort to kidnapping because her fucking driver chose a needle over 15% of a half-million payday, and she was super grateful to luck into a guy who chose to do the polar opposite of fighting this. Between that and, frankly, how cute he was, it wasn't hard to figure out where her "screw it, let him look" attitude came from.

That said, now she wanted to see him naked. Fair was fair, after all.

What would he look like naked, anyway? If she was being honest she'd probably describe him as a bit of a twerp; tall, but reedy, like you could knock him over by hurting his feelings. So he probably didn't have much in the way of muscles; she pictured smooth, lean, creamy flesh running across his body, unbroken, undefined. She usually preferred her partners to have some muscle on them; she liked to be taken, she liked to feel safe, she liked to cut loose, and she liked to look at someone who seemed built to handle that. Yet the build she was picturing for him fit the easygoing, conversational character that so thoroughly intrigued her. He couldn't protect her, but it seemed like it'd be fun to watch him keep up out of loyalty.

Don't forget his cock, she thought, but the thought was fleeting. She had hopes for what it might look like, but these things were impossible to prognosticate, and she didn't really care anyway, at least not any farther than wanting to visualize him jerking off while watching her.

What if I finished showering before he could finish himself? she thought, picturing herself walking out of the bathroom and him trying desperately to conceal his boner.

Ooh, what if I finished showering AFTER he finished himself, but before he could clean up?

What if I just walked out in a towel and changed in front of him?

What if I just walked out naked and pretended everything was normal, and then went to bed naked? She laughed to herself. Man, that would fuck him up.

And then, quite seriously, she wondered, I wonder if he'd have the balls to make a move on me.

She was no stranger to pot; smoking it had made her horny in the past, but it somewhat dampened her resolve to do anything about it. She pictured him the same way, just hanging out with a raging erection, maybe idly playing with it but never really jerking off. No, she concluded, he probably wouldn't make the first move...

...but what if I did?

And then she had to stop herself because she felt herself getting wet from something other than the shower, and while she was happy to clean herself with the door cracked open, deadass rubbing herself in front of him was not a signal she wanted to send.

Out of the shower, dried off, digging into her knapsack, she realized that her sleep clothes, scant as they were to compensate for the hot, arid climate, were not something she'd normally wear in front of a typical hostage.

But as she reminded herself, this wasn't a typical hostage.

* * * * *

He always thought she looked good; her looks just took a distant second to the circumstances surrounding their meeting and impromptu road trip. Once she stepped out of the bathroom, her body rocketed to the very top of the list of things he liked about her.

It was around 9:00 and the TV had settled on American Ninja Warrior, as best as it could, anyway; antenna TV was the pits in this place. It occurred to him that the stuttering and breakup of the TV show was somehow more troubling than the thought that he had been dragged to this strange place hours from home by a bank robber. It was at that exact moment she emerged from her shower, gun in hand, in a black tank top and a red pair of runner's shorts, as if to wordlessly tell him why that might have been.

She was still a little damp; water beaded at the front of her scalp and shined on her shoulders. Her hair, unbound from her ponytail, hung wet and heavy down her back. The tank was tight on her body, revealing the bell shape of her small, pert breasts and the thick protrusion of her nipples, and the hem of her shorts barely covered the cheeks of her tight, heart-shaped ass.

"Enjoy the show?" she asked, slipping the gun under her pillow.

"Uh, w-wh-what show?" He hadn't even noticed that the door was cracked open. As far as he was concerned, this was the show.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said, dropping herself onto the bed and grabbing some chips, watching American Ninja Warrior as best as she could.

That last bit mattered. The commentary, the interviews, the athleticism on display, the inane commercials, they only seemed to be half focused on it. For his part it was because he was stoned but he could also swear that she kept looking at him, and it was giving him ideas.

He'd been adept at handling paranoia from the very start of his pothead days, and now he had it down to a system: First, no more packing the bat. Being afraid of "them" was the pothead version of a drinker stumbling around the room and complimenting his sister's tits; if he hit that point, then he knew he had more than his fill. Second, remind himself he was high and this was an occasional part of the ride. Don't fight the fear; embrace it. Everything was only temporary.

"Fuck it," he heard her say. "Can I get some of that weed?"

He looked at her. Slowly. It was hard to tell whether or not she was—

"Yes, I'm serious. It's hot, I'm bored, I'm a little anxious, and I'm 100% sure we're in the clear."

"If you're sure we're in the clear...why are you anxious?"

She took what seemed like forever to give him a non-answer. "Look, I'll buy the rest of your weed from you. I've got—"

"Nah, nah, look," he said, "I'm a hostage, right? And you're pretty good at this hostage shit. So, you know, what's mine is yours, right? It's all good." He reached over to her bed, dugout box in hand.

"Wow, you really said 'it's all good.'"

"...cause it's all good."

She smiled, took the dugout box from his hand.

"You know how to pack it and shit?"

She nodded. "It's been a while, but not too long," she said, dipping the bat into the little compartment full of ground bud while he tossed his lighter. She pulled out the bat, eyed the tip—sufficiently packed full of bright sticky green—then took the bat into her mouth and lit it up, sucking in an impressive breath before expelling the thick smoke with a loud series of coughs.

"Virgin lung," he giggled.

"Fuck you," she sputtered out, her wits failing her between coughs.

I wish, he thought to himself, wordlessly pulling out the trash can between them, giving her a place to blow out her ash.

Her coughing calmed down, and he watched her slowly sink into the bed as the kush took hold. Before he could dwell on what the literal version of that would look like, she started cleaning out the bat, setting up another hit for herself.

In the golden light of the hotel room, under the time-distorting effects of the weed, every move she made seemed graceful and sexual. The way she handled the bat between her fingers, the way she relished the cylinder between her lips. The way she reclined on the bed, back against the pillow, sitting upwards at a 30-degree angle, eyes lidded and relaxed. The way her chest expanded when she took her hit, emphasizing the stiff pebbles of her nipples. The bright white cloud that she casually blew over her bronze body with only a few small coughs, her lungs slowly remembering how to absorb everything.

So cool. So hot.

This went on for a couple of more hits over God-knew-how-long, until she looked over to him and her eyes bulged. "Really?"

The realization of what was happening hit him at once; his hand was over his still-clothed but still-very-obvious erection. There was a fleeting, muted moment of embarrassment, followed up by a reckless (in hindsight) confidence that she would understand what was happening. "Oh shit, no," he said, "I didn't mean that, this weed tends to give me a boner every now and then, especially when there're hot chicks in skimpy clothes around."

"Oh, so it's my fault for dressing up like this?"

"No, no, I mean on the TV. It's American Ninja Warrior, chicks always dress skimpy on this show because it's athletic and shit." Unfortunately at that moment, a burly dude was making his way through the obstacle course.

"Yeah, whatever you say, Louis C.K." She turned her head back up to the TV.

"I wasn't even jerking off," he muttered, crossing his legs, "just adjusting myself, damn."

"You know," she said, "the weed's making me wet too, but you don't see me touching myself because that's fucking rude." She turned back to him, her fingers pushing up the hem of her tank top, brushing the waistband of her shorts. "Seriously," she said. "Wouldn't that weird you out if I suddenly started touching myself in front of you?"

"Uhm...I guess?"

"Or would it turn you on?" she asked. The tank top was now casually pushed above her navel, her fingers now breaching her waistband, teasing the top of her pubic area in small, circular motions. "Maybe you see me like that, you think I'm thinking about you, right?"

"...are you?" Weed wasn't ever supposed to make someone hallucinate this wildly, but this had to be some kind of a hallucination.

"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe I'm just thinking about that guy." She motioned to the TV, to the strong, gritty athlete whose quest to be the American Ninja Warrior still wasn't over. "Maybe I'm thinking about him fucking the shit out of me, in a way your skinny ass never could." Her other hand started sliding up her body, pushing her shirt up further and exposing more of her slim midriff. "The smell of his sweat..." she moaned. "The thickness of his cock...the taste of his cum..."

"What the fuck...?"

"Exactly," she said, stopping herself. "Now you know how I feel. Confused. Nervous. Horny." With that, she reached under her pillow and pulled out her gun. "You owe me an apology."

The sudden change of mood hit fast and hard. "Hey, whoa. Whoa!"

"Shut the fuck up and get over here."

"Okay! Okay! Just...chill!" He moved slowly. The absurdity of everything brought on an urge to laugh, which he didn't dare give into.

She patted the lower half of the bed with her foot. "On your knees, here," she said. "You owe me an apology," she repeated.

"I'm sorry," he said, climbing onto her bed.

"You owe me a different kind of apology," she clarified. "You see this gun?"

"I do! I see the gun!"

"...Do you see it?" But this time the barrel wasn't pointed towards him. It was tilted to the side, her finger subtly pointing...somewhere. Her hand reeled him in closer, inviting him to look up close for himself.

The safety was on.

He looked at her. She mouthed the word "Empty." She winked.

She had unloaded her gun outside and put the bullets in her knapsack before coming in with their dinner; an additional precaution on the off-chance he got any dangerous ideas while she was asleep. She hadn't the faintest notion to use it in some admittedly fucked up roleplay—even now, part of her wondered if it was still too rapey, despite doing almost everything she could to assure him he wasn't in any danger.

But he had gotten the message, his breath returning to normal, his face visibly relaxed though he tried to keep up with her theatrics. "Yeah," he said. "I see it."

"I got this gun," she said with a wan smile, "I make the rules. Okay?"

Her voice was calm but smoldering, and he somehow felt threatened and reassured in the same breath. "Okay," he said.

"Take off my shorts," she said.

He moved down her tight body and took hold of her shorts. She lifted her hips, and the material slid off her skin easily. She casually spread her legs, feet planted on the mattress; she was sopping, her brown lips inflamed with arousal, waxed clean save for a pretty tuft of dark hair just above. With two fingers she spread herself open to reveal her luscious pink center, guiding his gaze towards it with the barrel of her gun.

She said, "Apologize."

He crawled forward, his head sinking between her legs until the pungent scent of her sex enveloped him, and he took his first licks of the firm skin outside her labia. Her body twitched on contact, and she inhaled sharply, relishing his service. Before long his tongue crossed to her labia proper, flicking the loose skin in one direction or another while her hips started to subtly grind into him.

She reclined her arms above her head and closed her eyes, continuing to luxuriate in his faux-nervous ministrations, breathing evenly through through every delectable slip of his tongue. Eventually he burrowed into her, gently, leisurely, drawing a soft moan from her lips.

"Yeah, good," she said, "just like that."

He was ashamed to admit that he didn't really like eating pussy; he was kind of a boy when it came to sex, someone who liked to get right to the point. This, however, was fun. Even knowing (or more accurately, trusting) that there was no real danger, the idea of being forced to slow down and take care of her was a wild turn-on. Combined with the weed doing what weed does, he found himself just enjoying the sharp tang of her juices, the gentle roughness of her down against his nose, and the little twitches and grinds her pelvis made with each of his little licks.

Carefully, he moved his hands upward, sliding his fingertips up the firm skin of her waist. She lifted her hips, and his grip moved downward, squeezing her ass while his thumbs stroked the soft "V" of her pelvis in rhythm with his tongue.

"Ay, guero," she exclaimed, laughing. "You're really good at this!"

He murmured an affirmation and started going a little faster, egged on by her switch to Spanish, something he found unbearably hot. Hoping to take her by surprise and hear more compliments in her native tongue, he moved his hands off her ass, slipping one hand up her shirt and over her tummy while the other moved to her pussy, his thumb now slipping dangerously close to the tiny pearl atop her entrance.

"Ay!" she gasped, her leg shaking, yet he held off on frigging her clit. Even lacking hands-on experience, he had enough book smarts to know the value of playing things cool. (Hell, playing things cool got him here to begin with.) Instead he focused on the hand under her shirt, stroking up and down her belly, creeping closer and closer to her chest.

"Ay sí!" she moaned. "Sí! Sí qué rico..."

Her hips bucked again when his hand cupped her small, soft breast, picking up the faint thumping of her heartbeat. He flicked the stiff nipple with his thumb, alternating as best as he could with the strokes near her clit.

"Ay! Faster! Make me come!"

He pushed himself, pinching her nipple instead of flicking it, flicking her clit instead of rubbing nearby, doubling his tongue speed even though it cost him depth. It seemed to be working; her breathing shallowed, her voice went up a register, yet she seemed to stall there after a minute, until she took the gun and pressed its barrel against his skull.

"Vaya más rápido!" she ordered. "Fuckin' get me there, guero, I'm so close!"

The gun to his head, empty as it was, gave him a thrill in his gut and pushed him forward. His other hand moved up to massage her unattended breast. His tongue moved up to her clit, capturing it between his lips, licking it up down left right diagonal, his beard tickling her slit while he squeezed and pulled at both her nipples, and then she spasmed against him and screamed in victory, moaning and twitching through the waves of her orgasm, gun falling to her side as she sank into the mattress, briefly and wholly content.

She watched him look up to her through her lidded eyes, watched her juices drip sensuously off his chin. "You like it when I speak Spanish, huh?" she asked.

"That a problem?" he asked, genuinely.

"Nah," she said.

He picked up the gun, modeled it in his hand. It felt lighter than he expected; he remembered hearing that guns tended to feel light when they don't have ammo in them, not that he knew the difference. Still, he kept his finger off the trigger. "Is this a problem?" he asked.

"Maybe," she said, "but that would be my own fault, wouldn't it?"

He grinned an evil grin and ominously crawled off the bed. "Turn around," he said, patting the edge of the bed. "Put your head here."

She had a sense of what he was up to and she was into it. "You've got some balls, guero," she said, following his direction.

"Yeah," he said, "and you're about to see them." He pulled his pants down, his erection springing free, bobbing right in front of her upside-down face.

"Nice!" she said. His cock was average length and above-average girth, smooth, cylindrical, drooling, causing her to involuntarily lick her lips in anticipation. It was framed by a not-too-thick thatch of healthy dark hair and—indeed—a large, healthy set of balls in a tight, clean sack. "You're gonna make this real easy for me," she said.

"Oh, you sure about that?" He pointed the gun at her head.

"Try me," she challenged. She had been referring to the lack of hair on his junk but if he wanted to prove his so-called manhood, she wasn't going to stop him.