The First Three Episodes of Copper
Want to read the first three episodes of Copper on Kindle Vella? (Together, they’re chapter 1 of what will be the book.)
You can read the rest of the story here as I drop episodes. If you’re new to Vella, you can grab 200 free coins up in the righthand corner of your Vella screen.
As a reminder, this is darker than my usual romcom.
Happy reading!
Warning: Explicit and violent content!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Do not proceed if you are under 18 or don’t like filth!!!!!!
Ok… One more. This is your last effing warning before reading this!
Lucy
“And then what happened?” I ask, leisurely taking Aaron’s cock out of my mouth and running my tongue up the bottom of it. I look up at him with wide eyes and hope he’ll finish the rest of his story. At least I’m entertained when I suck him off.
Aaron runs his hands through my long, auburn hair and gathers it together at the top, holding it and thrusting a little into my face. He inhales and tilts his head back on the couch. He really shouldn’t do that. No telling how many greasy, bald heads have been on that upholstery tonight and sweating all over it as they get their balls licked.
“That’s the end of the story, Lucy,” he whispers. The sound is husky, a cross between a moan and a sigh. “The guy was dead. Throat slit. No forced entry. No motive. Ex-wife is across the country with an alibi. No friends he owed money to. No wives he slept with that we can find.” He swirls his hips and looks back down, his eyebrows furrowed. “Where’s that mouth I’m paying for?”
I smile up at him and bat my eyelashes as I flick my tongue over the head of his cock. “Do you know why I love sucking your dick, Aaron?”
“It’s your comfort dick since you’ve been sucking on it for close to fifteen years?”
“Funny,” I say, taking a long, slow bob down his cock and pulling off again with a popping noise. “There were several years when your dick was nowhere near my mouth or any other part of my body.”
He’s not wrong about the on-and-off dick sucking. Aaron Dwyer was my high school boyfriend. We broke up when we went to separate colleges. He met his wife. I met my dirtbag ex-husband. I moved to nearby Chicago, and Aaron stayed in our large suburb and had two kids with his wife. He had the perfect house with the picket fence, kids, and even the golden retriever.
Perfect until his wife died of a congenital heart issue three years ago, that is.
Me? I had other things happen. Things that weren’t so perfect – a push down the stairs or a black eye when dinner wasn’t on the table when Beck got home. There was no use explaining to him that he didn’t let me know when he was coming home. How could I possibly know, down to the minute, when he would walk through the door? I’d get a slap across the face if I made a wrong joke at a party, and I’d get a kick to the ribs if I didn’t have the dutiful housewife smile on my face at all times.
I learned to fight back, but the YMCA self-defense course only went so far. I left when I could, hiding with friends until I needed to go home for something I owned. That was back when I still had friends and before he scared them too. Then, there he was – waiting for me with a glare and punch or a kick. When I fought back, blocking his punches like they taught us, it only angered him more and made it worse. A broken arm once. Six stitches where he ran a knife down my ribcage. I soon learned it was better if I played possum and stayed on the floor after the initial hit. I learned that if I was compliant and took my beating, he’d leave me alone faster. I switched up my workout routine to increase my core strength so I was better conditioned to survive a swift kick to a body part. How fucked up is that? Most women work out to maintain a certain weight or even feel comfortable in their own skin. I worked out to condition my body to have its ass kicked.
I eventually started tracking his phone without him knowing and was able to whip something up for dinner if I saw him leave the office. I knew when he was looking for me if he was driving around my friends’ neighborhoods. I knew he followed me to the grocery store, probably worried that a produce guy or cashier would hit on me.
Unfortunately, I also saw him go over to Ellen Quarry’s house after work more than once. He was fucking her. It was obvious. I couldn’t ask the produce manager about banana prices, but he could shag his coworker’s wife.
“Speaking of your other body parts, get the tits out. Or does that cost extra?”
“You’re a fucking pig, Aaron,” I say, taking his cock into my mouth again and sucking on it like it’s lifeblood. I guess it is since I’m broke as a fucking joke. So broke that I had to work for my scuzzy cousin, Peter the Pecker, and strip for the first time in my life.
A stripper can’t be too choosy, and there are worse dicks to suck in this joint if my mouth wasn’t spoken for by the dick I’m more than familiar with. Sure, I don’t have to suck dick. I could just work the pole. The difference between the two jobs in this joint is that one gets ones stuffed in the G-string. The other gets hundred-dollar bills stuck to your face with cum afterward.
Truth be told, I sigh with relief when Aaron walks into the joint. It’s not just the fact that he keeps me from having to blow or dance for other men. I miss his hands on me. His mouth. He’s the only client I ever kiss on rare occasions when we can get away with it. It’s hilarious that the club lets me suck a dick for extra cash if we’re in the VIP room, but I can’t give a guy a goodnight kiss at the front door.
“If it’s any consolation, sweetheart, you’re the only woman who really knows how to suck me off,” he moans, leaning forward a little and stroking the hair he was just fisting. He could be leaning to speak to me so Sheri, if that’s her real name, won’t hear our business as she blows another customer in the next cubicle. More than likely, he’s just reaching for my tits.
I huff and pull my halter tank top down, letting him palm my breasts while I suck him. “You want a tit jack?”
He laughs and a bit of spit lands on my cheek. I used to kiss this man every moment I could, so it doesn’t bother me the way it would if another man’s spit landed on my face. “Why would I want to fuck your tits when I paid for a blow job? Blow jobs are better.”
Aaron tweaks my nipples, and I yelp with the exquisite pleasure of it. Fuck this man and his memories of just what I like. He knows exactly what to do to drive me insane. My body hums under his hands, and I suck harder on his cock, using my tongue on the spot just under the head I know he likes.
“Fuck, Lucy,” he grunts. He grips my face along my jawline and humps into my face. “That’s my good little whore.”
You’d think that would make me take his dick out of my mouth and spit in his face. You’d be wrong, though. Him calling me his whore brings back memories of him pulling my hair and gripping my neck while pushing into my cunt from behind. Sure, I was holding onto the metal supports under the bleachers at our senior homecoming football game, but he fucked me like the state champion he was.
Happy memories.
I move to his balls, pulling the left one in my mouth and humming around it as I look up at him, watching his expression. I will always love his expressions right before he comes. He’s a lip chewer. He gnaws at his lips and moves his mouth in a circle when he’s close. He throws his head back again as his chest heaves. He’s still wearing his work uniform, but the three bottom buttons are undone, revealing a happy trail I’d idly lick if he wasn’t paying me to focus on his dick and balls.
He slouches down in the seat and pulls down his pants that were only pulled down to his thighs. When they reach his ankle, his eyes flick to the door as he kicks one shoe off and pulls the pants off his right foot. “Anyone going to come in?”
“No. Even if they did, is anyone going to cause a ruckus with the sheriff if I’m not putting up a ruckus?”
He laughs, and I’ve missed the sound of his chuckle. It’s low. It reminds me of the way he used to growl when I did something really naughty or when he’d chase me and throw me onto the bed before kissing every inch of me.
But I know what he wants now.
“I charge extra for a rim job, Aaron.”
“It’s me! You’d charge me extra?”
I push his thighs further apart and tongue the head of his dick. “Tell me how the victim was murdered while I lick your asshole, and we’ll call it even.”
“You’re a ghoul. You know that, right?”
I bite my lip and wink before lifting his legs and sucking his left ball again. He reaches for his knees and pulls them to his chest into an unholy position a pillar of the community would never want to be caught in, especially inside The Pineapple Men’s Club. That’s a headline from hell.
“Indulge me, Aaron,” I drawl. “I’m curious. Besides, it’s not like anyone in the press will talk to a stripper.”
It only takes one flick of my tongue over his asshole before my ex-boyfriend sings like a canary.
George Cannon. Age fifty-two. Divorced. No kids. His dog was well-fed and even given fresh water by the attacker. Aaron thinks that’s odd. After all, why would a murderer give the dog water? Cannon was tortured before his throat was slit. Rope burns were found on the man’s wrists, indicating forced restraint while the attacker carved his arms and torso apart. There were no signs of forced entry, so he knew the attacker.
All talking stops when my lips cover Aaron’s asshole and I suck on it like I do for the lonely housewife clits I service on Tuesday afternoons. You’d be surprised how many women need a little pick me up during the day and surprised how women come to the club during off hours. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this job, it’s that women go nuts and throw money at me if I suck on their clits the way Aaron taught me to suck on his asshole a long time ago.
“Right fucking there,” he moans. His thighs tremble on either side of my head, and he adjusts his grip on his knees. He pulls himself wider and allows a whine to come from his throat with little concern for an audience.
“I know, sweetheart,” I coo into the center of him.
My hand comes to his cock, and it takes two jerks before a warm spray of cum coats the webbing between my thumb and index finger. “Mmm,” I purr, licking his asshole one more time before dragging my tongue up his balls and over my hand. Opening my mouth, I show him what I just picked up off my hand and swallow it with a smile.
He bites his lip and looks down at me, still panting from his orgasm. He laughs a little and bends to situate his pants into a decent position as I stand and pull my halter top down. I watch him dress while I take a swig of water from a bottle on a nearby table and marvel that this is probably the millionth time I’ve seen this man pull up his pants. It’s hard not to admire the sculpted biceps and the wide shoulders I used to wrap my legs around. They’re wider now. He lifts more than he did when we dated.
“Same time next week?” he asks when his pants are buckled. The static from his police radio crackles through the low beat of the music being played for whatever girl is on the pole downstairs. “I’ll bring more gruesome info.”
I swallow the water and push a lock of hair back from my face. “Of course. But I’ll charge you double for the rim job next time. Don’t make me tell Peter.”
Aaron’s already paid me and tipped me an extra fifty bucks, but he throws down an extra twenty-dollar bill on the chair cushion he just vacated like he’s tipping the chair. “Thanks, Lucy. Always a pleasure.”
I don’t take it right away. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me lurch for money from my high school boyfriend like a starving person served the first meal they’ve seen in weeks. I need every nickel I can get to fight Beck in court if my lawyer can find him to serve papers. I also have to pay off his fucked-up debts before I have to pay for it with my body. But I won’t dare grab that twenty while Aaron watches. I’d rather die than show him my desperation.
I adjust my clothes, such as they are, into some semblance of modesty. “And don’t call me that here. I don’t call you Sheriff Dwyer when I suck your dick.”
“To be fair, you didn’t call me Sheriff Dwyer when you sucked my dick a long time ago.”
“Well, you weren’t the county sheriff then, were you?”
He smiles and reaches out his index finger, tilting my chin up so I can’t look away. “What should I call you when I come to pay my respects to this sweet mouth I have such fond memories of?”
“You need to call me by my stage name, especially if you ask for me. Pete will know, but the other girls won’t know me by my real name.”
“What’s your stage name?” he asks.
“Copper. You need to call me Copper here.”
