Author's note: this is a prequel and companion series to the ongoing Mallory series by laurelindoriath, an author I began as a fan of and am now proud to be collaborating with. While Mallory is very much a BE story from the get-go, the tale of her wicked cousin Madison is less so, although rest assured that Madison has plenty of growth coming her way in good time.
First and foremost, this is a boob story for boob lovers, and I hope it's as much fun to read as it's been to write.
Madison: The Painted Jezebel of Elk County
==================
Chapter 1
"Ugh."
It was morning, probably; and with the singular malevolence she'd come to expect from the universe, the sun was angling through the Venetian blinds at the mathematically precise angle necessary to hit Madison squarely in the eye in a way that was impossible to ignore. She groaned softly and shifted a little. However tired she was, however her head pounded, sleep was officially out of the question.
But her pique was up now, so she screwed her eyes shut, wedged her head between the pillows, and spent the next twenty minutes trying to catch a few extra elusive z's anyway. It wasn't like she could spite
the sun
somehow, but it was the principle of the thing, wasn't it? She wasn't used to being told what to do and she wasn't about to start now.
But the peaceful, somewhat phlegmy breathing from behind her changed cadence, and the covers shifted, and a new weight settled on her side; a pudgy arm, she knew from beneath her pillow, covered in fine blond hair, wrist snapped into an Apple Watch, and the big hand at the end of that arm sleepily settling onto the fabric of her borrowed, oversized t-shirt and kneading the oversized, entirely-her-own breast within.
Fuck.
She frowned from inside her pillow sandwich. This was a problem.
It wasn't that she minded the touch, exactly; she liked the warm breath of a stranger on the back of her neck, and the way her nerves lit up softly as an aimlessly-clutching finger rubbed across the fabric over her nipple. Honestly, men were probably best this way: faces innocent and content instead of ugly with anger or greed, hands guilelessly burrowing towards warmth and comfort with the kind of childish gratitude none of them would ever admit to when awake.
And sometimes, when they were hard against your ass or thigh, thick and hot with blood, you could take one for the road without the bother of having to actually engage or listen to their bullshit.
Though that wasn't going to be happening with - Darren? Derek? Fuck, who cared? Right now Madison just wanted to make her exit and get a Lyft home. In retrospect, she really should have known better. He'd stood out, at the county line dive bar, for his clean shave and neat hair and pressed shirt and fancy watch. He wasn't hot, he didn't have a lean rangy build and a soulful cowboy's gaze, but he had two rows of clean straight white teeth and wasn't paying attention to the game on TV and didn't smell like Skoal and that sounded like what she needed right then.
He was also happy to make conversation, and even managed to drag his gaze up from her eight fat inches of cleavage for actual eye contact now and again, but she should have excused herself when he started referring to himself as a "high-value male" who was fit for the attentions of a high-value female like herself. People who called girls "females" were always weirdos, but she'd wanted to believe that it meant what it sounded like, and she liked the look of the canary-yellow Mercedes SUV he'd rolled up in, enough to climb into it and take a deep breath of that new car smell (a better aphrodisiac than any cologne) and let him take her back to his place.
She half-listened to his conversation as they drove, enough to tell he was neck-deep in internet hustle-culture bullshit, which she couldn't care less about...but if that stuff could pay for this ride, well, we all made sacrifices, right? She smiled slightly to herself and let the hand on her thigh move upward as he blew past the usual turn on the county line road and instead angled for the upscale bedroom community thirty miles beyond, a land of gated neighborhoods with names like Oakwood Farms and Windsor Place. The kind of place she knew she belonged.
But it wasn't to be. He never slowed to turn into one of those wrought-iron gates with statues of lions on either side, just buzzed past one after the other until they'd almost come out the other side of town, and only slowed when they reached one of those rangy, secluded, out-of-the-way apartment complexes meant to cheaply house the recent high school graduates and migrant families who staffed the retail jobs and landscaping companies that served the actual high-value households here.
