Six Smutty Stories: You Know You Should be a Better Person (But You’re Not) 2/3

He parks in front of a grim apartment building with dead grass and broken toys in front of it. He uncuffs you and drags you across the driver’s seat to get out of the car, which he does not lock because everyone knows this is Thad G’s car and dying for fucking with it would be painful, pointless and humiliating. Anyone with any brains would steal a newer car from someone less lethal than Thad G.

Going into the building, you notice what you think is his name on the buzzer panel: Thaddeus Gorski. Even this name that might be his name intimidates you, but you’re not sure why. You are shoved up three flights of broken, filthy stairs to his apartment. It has the most boring furniture you have ever seen and looks like no one lives there.

“Find shit to clean this place with,” he says, throwing himself on the couch where he can see you rummaging under the sink and in the bathroom until you find a broom, rags and Comet powder.

You get to work. You’re glad he doesn’t have a dog. You hate cleaning up after dogs. You wash a lot of dishes without breaking any and have to really scrub the stove, twice. The bathroom is something you hope you can forget very soon. After you sweep the floors, you dilute some vinegar in hot water to wash them with because there isn’t any ammonia or bleach in the place. There’s a laundry basket full of bunched-up sheets and towels in the bedroom. Thad tells you to make the bed, which only has some naked pillows and tangled blankets up on it. You find lube and used condoms in the bed. You also find one very high heeled shoe there. You never find the other one. But you’re good at making beds, hospital corners and all, so it looks nice when you’re done.

Thad comes into the bedroom. He looks at the bed, the high heel on the window sill, and then at you. He tells you to wash your hands. Then he takes you down to the car again. Maybe he’s going to kill you now that he has a clean apartment. Maybe you shouldn’t have done such a good job.

He takes you to the grocery store and makes you push the basket while he throws food in it. Ham, eggs, bacon, rice, cheese, milk, beer, more beer, wheat bread, instant coffee, whole milk, potato chips, mushrooms, an onion, celery, kielbasa, regular butter, and peanut butter. He also buys ammonia, toilet paper, paper towels, liquid soap, shampoo, a toothbrush, lube and condoms. He took all the money you had on you, which wasn’t much, when he grabbed you. You assume that’s partly what he used to pay for the groceries and stuff.

Back in his apartment, he tells you to wash your hands and start cooking.

“What? Cook what?” you whine like the pathetic jerk you are.

“Figure it out,” he says. He takes a warm beer and pops the bottle cap off with his bare hands. Flopping back onto the couch, he looks as mean as ever. Possibly he looks meaner because he looks hungry, too.

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