The Claiming of Sadie Graves Read online

  The Claiming of Sadie Graves

  _________________

  By Angela Price

  Copyright@2013 Angela Price

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brand names and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, designers, brands, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-0-615-75936-4

  Cover design by Lacey O’Connor

  www.laceyoconnor.com

  Cover image @ Thinkstock

  For Charles: giver of a thousand belly laughs;

  my best friend, confidant and better half.

  I’m glad you decided to keep me.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “Just a Girl”

  No Doubt, Tragic Kingdom

  Dusty Kennon slipped into my room for the first time when I was thirteen. He is husband number two to my mom; younger and handsome. I’d followed my mom from D.C. to Oklahoma the previous summer for their wedding; leaving behind my dad and everything I knew.

  There’s something about Dusty that makes me want to stay out of his way, and I’ve kept a low profile since our move. He has short, medium brown hair and vivid blue eyes. His cattle ranch outside of Norman is huge, and employs a lot of men, but he’s always the boss. He’s the boss of my mom, too; she’s not anything like she was with my dad. I find myself resenting him. How can he make my mother so…shadowy? I didn't find out about his taste for innocence until later.

  And later just happens to be tonight.

  I’m sound asleep on my double bed when he appears, as soundless as the night air. It’s the middle of May, and already hot outside. I always sleep on my right side, and he positions himself behind me before I can react. I don’t even have the presence of mind to know I should. He lies down, cuddles my back, and strokes my shoulders and rib cage with a tenderness that wakes me up, unalarmed. “Wha?” I ask, barely out of dream state. “Shhhh”, he says softly. “Just relax. I’m going to rub your back.”

  I almost fall back asleep, but there’s something in my subconscious that knows my stepdad shouldn’t be in my room at two in the morning. Dusty’s fingers rub my shoulders, and slowly he drags my baby tee from my hips to my armpits. With that move, his body language goes from in control and relaxed to radiating pure excitement. I can feel him tense behind me, in more ways than one. He flexes his hips forward, and I feel his erection surge against my backside. I have never been this close to a grown man, and surely I’ve never been this close to Dusty.

  I shift, even in my sleepy state knowing…something is wrong. Dusty pushes my tee shirt deep into my armpits and rolls me toward him. His face is right on level with my pubescent nipples, all baby pink and soft swell. He moans softly, and shifts my body to his lips, taking my right nipple in his mouth greedily. He sucks it, rolling the tip with his tongue, springing it to life. I open my eyes, confused. I can see the delight on his face from the glow of the bedside clock. “Oh, wait”, I whisper, scared all at once.

  But it’s like he never even hears me. His thick fingers find my left nipple, rolling it between this thumb and index finger, a quarter-turn at a time, while sucking my other breast. I’m immediately coated in a sheen of light sweat.

  This is wrong. Why is it happening? I move to get away, but he subdues me.

  He holds me down, covering my legs with his own. He’s wearing only boxers, and I feel the hair of his legs against me, the warmth of his crotch against my leg. He’s sucking my nipple deep into his mouth, moving to the second one, and letting his hand dip to my stomach and below. He stops, pulling away from me to stare into my face.

  “If you tell your mother I was here, I’m going to tell her how much you like this. And, you’re going to love it, Sadie. In a week, you’re going to be begging me for it.” He smiles, wags his eyebrows, and rubs his stubbly face gently down my torso. He moves back up, pushes my breasts together, wraps his tongue around both nipples in turn, and heads south. I struggle with him; he’s moved his hands down by now to grip both my wrists. He’s strong.

  He stops, irritated and angry.

  “Sadie.” He hisses. “Do. Not. Fight. Me.” and I pause – knowing how cruel he can be to the horses, to the help, and to my mother. I’m afraid. I’ve never trusted him, and now he’s on top of me in my remote bedroom. I’m fully awake now.

  “In fact, baby, I’m about to show you something wonderful” he sighs. “No one’s going to know I’ve touched you. I’ll never leave a mark. But I’m going to enjoy you. Oh, shit. I sure am.” He moves between my legs, and pushes my flimsy underwear down to my thighs. When they are near my knees, he positions himself between my legs and pushes them up, so my lower body is wholly exposed to him. The tops of my thighs are resting on my torso, my feet slung over Dusty’s shoulders. “Mmmm. Sweetheart. Your pussy is sooo sweet. I’ve been thinking about it.” His eyes halfway closed, he looks at the petals of my sex, emerging from between my labia. And then he presses forward, his tongue exploring between the folds.

  I can sense his triumph. He licks and sucks, soft sounds emanating from his throat. I squirm, now sweating with fear. He gains ground, pushing my thighs further apart. He is patient, oh my God; he doesn’t stop for long minutes. He’s tuned to my breathing, and in no time I’m panting.

  Finally, he finds that spot between my legs that’s nothing but nerves. He makes an audible noise; almost as if he knows he has me now. I get very still. He lets go of my hands, and busies his fingers between my legs. I can barely breathe. He pushes one finger into me and rubs, but relentlessly licks and sucks that spot. His rough tongue teases, sucking me deep into his mouth three, four, five times. He stops, only to command. “Pinch your nipples. I want to watch you.”

  As much as I hate him at this moment, I feel a wet rush of heat between my legs. Moaning softly, I obey, swallowing thickly. His mouth and fingers…oh.

  Dusty’s saliva has trailed down my backside, and he rubs a knowing finger against the pucker of my anus. I tense under his tongue, fingers and body – loathing him to the core of my soul. He sucks my clit relentlessly. I look at him, disembodied, as he skillfully builds me to pleasure. I realize I’m whining softly. My body jerks with an orgasm that’s long and deep. He extends it with slow licks and pulls, never releasing my clit from his lips.

  Finally he stops, and pushes himself toward me – his penis fully erect and ready.

  “There’s no way I’m doing time for you, Sadie. Don’t you make a sound, now. I mean it. I know you liked that, baby – now it’s time for you to please me.” He gets up on his knees, yanking down his boxers. I close my eyes. I feel sick. I open them to see him rub his erection and spit in his hand. He eases
me forward on the bed toward him, pressing my legs further apart. And then he pushes his erection up vertically against me, without entering me. He pulls on my labia, wrapping the lips of my sex partially around his erection. He uses his fingers to hold them in place. He rubs, and in the dim light of the clock I see the head of his arousal surge, cresting again and again against my little patch of pubic hair. He presses his shaft up and down until he is close to release. He never opens his eyes.

  It doesn’t take long.

  He holds his penis out, rigid, and a long rope of semen squirts out of its end, onto my belly and breasts. His eyes roll back into his head, and he strokes himself with abandon.

  A minute later, he shoves a box of tissues towards me and tells me to clean myself up and flush them when I’m done. There’s an unspoken threat; I’m not to tell anyone he’s been here. He expects me to be dead quiet. He leaves silently, like he came.

  And that’s when I have a sickening realization; he’s going to be coming back to my room over and over. Forever.

  And he does. Of course, he does.

  Seven months later, I board the plane to D.C. for the Christmas holidays. After two tearful phone calls, my dad has insisted. He can’t quite figure out my upset, but he says he can’t wait to see me. I have a small checked bag and a carry on backpack. I sit down in my window seat and lean into the plastic of the plane’s interior. Two silent tears leak down my cheeks, but no one looks at me. I’m never, in a million years, getting on the scheduled return flight to Oklahoma.

  I figure we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.

  I make a silent promise to myself; that I’ll never let another man touch me like that – like I don’t matter at all. That I’ll wipe my memory clean of what’s happened, and that I won’t ever discuss it. I wonder if I can pretend that I’m the same, to everyone. He’s shown me every dirty thing that can be done without intercourse. I’m spoiled now.

  Spoiled forever. Sure, I escaped with my virginity. Isn’t that what matters?

  Honestly, I’m not so sure.

  The plane speeds up and my stomach drops; we’re airborne. We lift away from Oklahoma, miles of flat land visible from the plane’s small window. I’m hurtling toward safety, and away from the one person who can hurt me.

  Chapter One

  “I Will Not Be Broken”

  Bonnie Raitt, Souls Alike

  Tuesday dawns cold and sunny, and I’m not ready to wake up – as usual. But Tuesday is ‘trash day’ in my neighborhood, and the backup warning on the waste truck jars me out of a pretty sound sleep. My bedroom is on the third floor, but it’s unreal how the sound carries upward. I might as well be standing on the sidewalk. That’s New York for you.

  I figure I’d better get moving, and the first thing on my mind is the promise of a big glass of iced tea. I like mine with extra ice, a quarter of a lemon, and three Splendas. I wish I liked coffee, like the rest of America. But I guess all taste buds aren’t created equal, right? My morning routine is pretty simple, since I’m single and childless. Boy, am I ever.

  Get ready. Take the subway to work. Have a little fun with customers. Lather, rinse and repeat. That’s my life in a nutshell.

  I’m Sadie Graves, fashion designer.

  Well, actually right now I’m fabric expert, errand girl, advice-giver and tailoring guru at the house of Anna Rosenstein. It’s the job of my dreams, if you want to know the truth. I’ve worked my way up from “flunky”, and it’s taken me three years.

  I guess Anna thinks I do a good enough job, and I love the clothes, the challenges and even the demanding clientele. Her atelier is on Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan, sandwiched between boutiques with names over the door like Jean Paul Gautier and Stella McCartney. It’s a long, narrow building with whitewashed brick walls and old wooden floors, high ceilings and pendant lighting. Oh, and there are racks and racks of couture and ready-to-wear ensembles, just waiting for the right woman to slither into them.

  The walls are dotted with warm wood cabinets full of sweaters, scarves, belts and other accessories, and there’s one whole section of lingerie that would make any woman look at her undies and grimace. In my second year of employment, Anna agreed to review – and eventually to produce – about fifteen of my lingerie designs. They have their own section, but we haven’t made the leap of advertising them yet. Our ready-to-wear line is the biggest income producer, so it gets the lion’s share of our attention. With good reason, I know. But I’m absurdly proud of my bras and panties, and just looking at them hanging up on those little hangers makes me smile.

  Every wall is covered with fashion week posters and enlargements of Anna’s original designs, things that might as well be splashed with the disclaimer: ‘Anna Rosenstein has arrived’. Insert exclamation point here.

  Anna, the lady herself, is in her late fifties, tall, leggy and well-preserved. Lottie, the other designer/helper, says all those good looks are due to a certain plastic surgeon on Broadway, but I don’t begrudge our boss whatever it takes to keep looking the way she does. Fashion is a harsh business. And keeping current is part of the trade-off for success. Anna wears her hair in a polished chignon, and favors leggings, boots and flowing tunics. But her designs are far from flowing, and they specialize in showing off a woman’s “finer points”, shall we say. I’m lucky to work for her, and I know it. Handing out my business card is one of the most fun things I do. People are instantly impressed, and imagine that I lead a glamorous life…which could not be further from the truth. Fashion designers make a decent wage, but the cost of living in New York is huge, and I live very modestly.

  I share an apartment with another fashion victim. You might call us ‘industry professionals’, but we know what we call ourselves! Her name is Jenny Whitson, and she’s OCD on cleanliness. Which is a good thing; our apartment always looks picked-up. Jenny’s out of town on business until Thursday night, and I find myself looking forward to her return. Days are long without her companionship, and I love her easy, happy personality. I mentally jog myself: I need to pick up breakfast items and milk for her return. She’ll get back into the airport late.

  I hustle into the bathroom and shower. When I’m clean and wrapped in a towel, I take a good hard look at myself in the mirror. My stats are simple. Sadie Graves, aged twenty-four and three-quarters. Five foot eight in my stocking feet, I weigh about ten pounds too much (twenty, if you count the models zipping in and out of Anna’s shop) and I look so Irish I could be on a tourist postcard. I have curly, unruly hair that’s a cross between red and blondish brown. Right now, it’s wet and wrapped up in a thin towel. I have the requisite Irish green eyes and pale skin. And I have a little mole on my cheekbone, what the French ladies like to call a grain de beaute. I’m the only person in my family with one. That’s kind of strange. Yup. That’s still me – same as yesterday.

  My body is short, but my legs are long. I did okay in the chest department, and my hips are slim. That’s heredity, because I’m not doing anything to make it happen, or to prolong slimness. But I‘m grateful, anyway. It’s easy to find clothes that fit.

  Overall, I guess I’m reasonably happy with what I see. My biggest issue is the fact that I’m terminally pale, and this pains me. I’m white in the winter, spring, summer and fall. Anna keeps telling me that my avoidance of the sun will pay off later, and I believe she’s a woman of her word. So I’m fair, and resigned to it.

  I spent my high school years at Duke Ellington School of the Arts in D.C., and ended up at the New York School of Design. I graduated with an assistant fashion designer certificate, but my greatest learning achievement was being taught how to make patterns; I can whip up an outfit in two hours to any event in the world. Hey. I never do, because no one would invite me to anything that over the top, but I consider this to be a powerful skill. (One I wouldn’t know without some excellent teachers, and certainly not without financial help from my dad.)

  Just the thought of my dad brings a smile to my face.

&
nbsp; Patrick Graves is close to fifty, with red hair and blue eyes. He works out every day of his life and that’s a good thing, because his diner, Patrick’s on M, is open 24/7/365. Undoubtedly, he needs all the energy he can get. He is, first and foremost, a stellar cook. His home-style recipes keep the diner jumping at all hours.

  On most days, he’s there twelve hours – noshing with his regulars (who are now friends), and making new customers feel welcome. He oversees every single plate that comes out of the kitchen and cooks on Sundays, to give his staff a day of rest. He’s very driven, but it all revolves around relationship: introducing people to his food is his life. I’m glad I’ve been a peripheral part of it, so I can formulate my own successful business strategy. I get it: relationship is glue.

  After he and my mom broke up, he never remarried. But I’d be blind deaf and dumb if I didn't realize how many women think he’s hot. Ooh, did I just say that? He’d be a catch, if he felt like being caught, I suppose.

  Thinking about my dad makes me homesick. I visualize our two bedroom flat in Georgetown, and his unwavering commitment to give me a ‘normal’ life. In hindsight, I think he did a fabulous job. We try to get together every few weekends. I help out on Sundays at the grill, or wash dishes. It’s the best way I know to give back to the man who made my current life possible. I love him, without reservation.

  And, though I’ll never tell him, it’s my way of thanking him for taking a chance on bringing me back to D.C.

  When I got back home, I was a mess. I was in therapy for two years – not easy when you’ve promised yourself to never speak about what happened. I had to swear my school psychologist to secrecy to feel any sense of confidence. I dealt with two things: my fear of Dusty and how he took advantage of me, and how his domination of me made me sexually defenseless. Being subjugated gave me conflicting emotions. Yes, I felt guilty. My mother didn't know. She wasn’t coming to rescue me, something Dusty loved to remind me when he was in the middle of touching me. But after a few nights, when he’d figured out how to make me orgasm – and multiple-orgasm – my hatred of him became mixed with a combination of dread and sexual excitement. My therapist said the classic symptoms of abuse – nausea, nervous stomach, sexual dysfunction, lack of self-care – were normal. It would take time to get past them. Being intimate against my will was all I knew; and my teacher was both harsh and inventive.