This story jumped up on me. It’s not what I was planning to write next, but it’s what came out. This is the second entry in my series In Media Res. While both stories are standalones, we’re dropping in on the narrator of “Juxtapositions” 10-15 years down the track.
If you dive in, expect an intense scene of public group sex with multiple anonymous partners, partner sharing, knife play, heavy impact play, some verbal degradation, and piss play.
It’s also sad, and at times emotionally intense. These are two broken people who don’t belong together, and don’t end up together. There’s a description of intense arguments, and extreme/abusive behaviours during those arguments. There’s also a brief mention of childhood trauma. If you want a purely happy story, please skip this one.
Thanks so much to Bramblethorn, Erozetta, and JuanaSalsa for being generous with their time and feedback. I’m lucky to have three of my favourite writers on Lit as readers for this one. You should definitely check out their work. Go on, I can wait.
All characters are 18+.
xxx
The smell always hits first, as eyes adjust to the darkness and ears get assaulted by the porn slapping and moaning sounds. Industrial-strength cleaning chemicals, semen, bodies. It’s unpleasant on the surface, but such a turn on in context. For a deviant like me, the overpowering, offensive scents of an adult cinema may as well be the sweet taste of Proust’s madeleine.
We walked through the thick black curtains. It was a decent crowd for a Saturday night. Maybe twenty men spread across the fifty or so seats. The back row and the side two-seat sections were intermittently occupied by guys in pairs jerking or sucking each other. We moved to the third row, middle section, which was unoccupied. Right in the center of the room. The front rows were all men on their own, separated by a seat or two, observing the unspoken etiquette of places like this. There were a few in the row behind us as well. I could feel the eyes on us as we walked in front of the screen and up the side aisle. Some looks were subtle, others were anything but.
I put our coats and Jen’s handbag in the seat next to me. We were overdressed, having just been out to a nice dinner with friends. I had dressed up my jeans with a button-down and a suit jacket. Jen was wearing a wrap dress in a dark print of reds, purples, and blacks, with bare legs and ankle boots. Her honey brown hair had been down all night, but she had pulled it up into a messy pile on top of her head as we’d climbed the stairs up from the alleyway.
She could feel the eyes on her, I could tell. Her breath was coming a bit quicker, and her eyes looked glazed in the harsh light from the screen, where a bottle blonde was getting vigorously fucked from behind, fake tits bouncing. The porn barely registered for me, or her, or increasingly for the men around us. They wanted to see what we would do. What she would do.
None of them were men that Jen would have given a second look under other circumstances. At least half were too old, others too scruffy for her tastes, a couple of meek, nerdy-looking guys who were likely students. But here, it didn’t matter. She was soaking up the attention and desire like a black hole sucks in light.
She always looked the most beautiful when she knew she was wanted.
xxx
The first time we played properly was the second time we met. It was midweek, she had the afternoon off work, and her housemate was on shift until 7. Freelance life wasn’t always the easiest, but days like this, I appreciated the flexibility.
I had warned her not to wear anything that she didn’t want ruined. She answered the door in a slightly garish party dress that didn’t fit quite right. Later she’d say that she’d gotten it at an op shop for a fancy dress costume. The loose bodice didn’t do much to disguise a black satin bra.
When we first met, her hair fell straight down just past her chin, styled to frame her face. Her round, pale cheeks flushed pink, blue-grey eyes glistened, framed by lashes thick and dark with mascara. As loose as the dress was, the curve of her hips and ass were still noticeable.
Going on appearances, she was the girl next door incarnate, and I’ll admit, I got pulled in. Call it an early onset midlife crisis – I was 30, she was 22 – call it making up for lost time after I’d spent the second half of my 20s married to someone older, call it a lizard brain desire to ruin one of the pretty, popular girls who were so far outside of my orbit when I was younger. Whatever the reasons, I was there at her door and I was hooked.
To be fair, it wasn’t just about looks. We’d been messaging for weeks, during which we’d already met once and fucked first in a bar bathroom, then in an alleyway. She was absolutely, positively filthy, and relatively new to kink, but taking it seriously – reading, asking the right questions – and eager to learn. She was bright, curious, and could keep up with rapid-fire banter, giving as good as she got. This wasn’t about corrupting her, because I was years too late for that. This was about showing her how much more there was to fucking than random vanilla hookups and letting guys use her indiscriminately.
I remember feeling time go elastic. The walk from the train to her nondescript row of brick units down a side street went by in a blur. The door opening seemed to take hours, then in a flash I had pushed her inside and up against the wall, dropping my bag, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pressing my mouth onto hers, kicking the door closed behind us. My next memory was of cuffing her to the rail in her wardrobe, though I know that I’d quickly scoped out other options — a kitchen chair would have been better, but there was no space to bring one into her tiny bedroom, and we didn’t want to be out in a common space, just in case her roommate came home early.
Using the biggest knife from the block in her kitchen wasn’t the most practical choice, but I wanted to make an impression. I started with the flowing skirt of the floral print dress, which came down just past her knees. Long, vertical slashes all the way around, through the fabric and lining, gradually exposing glimpses of her soft, milky thighs. Occasionally, I’d press the flat of the blade against a new patch of bare skin and drag it across, keeping the blade safely angled away, but nevertheless drawing gasps and shudders.
Once I’d worked my way around the skirt I tore open the bottom hem, leaving the remnant strips to hang free, tattered edges tickling her thighs, knees, and calves every time she squirmed. I stood, pressed the knife to her cheek, watching her eyes go wide, then press shut. I pulled the tip across her throat, gentle as a whisper, then brought it up to her lips, ordered her to kiss and lick the length of the blade. She held my gaze as her tongue flicked over the steel, not giving an inch. If there was any real fear in her, she was doing her damndest not to let me see it.
I’ve always loved playing this game, especially early in a relationship with a new partner. You get a flow of pure sensory data with each move. Breath. Vocalisation. Physical response. Body language. Facial expression. It’s like picking up a guitar you’ve never played before, giving it a strum, tuning it, learning its unique quirks and specificities. And if I was already infatuated with her before we started, I only got in deeper once we were in the middle of this dance, as I absorbed her tension, adrenaline, and need, and poured it back into her, feeling us coming together like synching waveforms.
After I cut out a panel of fabric covering her stomach, I used the knife tip to write four letters in shallow scratches, barely marking the skin. S L U T. I angled her towards the mirror on her wardrobe door so she could see. Her sex was thick in my nose by now. She whimpered as she looked at the tiny red filament scratches across her tummy. I kneeled again, cutting away several of the skirt strips at the front, exposing her black bikini briefs. Perhaps I could have drawn this bit out too, but I needed them, so it was two quick slashes at her hips, and then they were free. They were soaked — fragrant, sharp alkaline notes surrounded by musk.
I balled them up and shoved them into her mouth.
I freed her tits next, first ripping the bodice to shreds with my hands, then cutting the straps of her bra, using the knife tip to tear at the lace around the sides, and finally slicing straight through the little bow between the cups. Fuck, they were glorious. Full, high, and proud, topped by tawny, eraser-sized nipples. She arched her back, pushed them up and forward, watching my reaction with a clarity and focus that belied the fact she was hanging from a clothes bar with a mouth full of panties and her clothing cut to shreds. It was the first time I felt the pure heat of her need for attention, admiration, focused lust.
I teased her tits with the knife. Small prods, steel caresses, little flicks. Finally, I reached between her legs and plunged two fingers into her while I smacked her left nipple with the flat of the blade, hard. Even muffled, her cry was loud. She desperately wanted to squirm as I hooked my fingers and took her hard and fast, but she did her best to plant her feet and hold her chin up, eyes to mine, as I abused her tits and pushed her roughly to the brink.
Just before she could come I pulled my fingers out, and she screamed into the fabric in her mouth. I unbuckled her from the leather cuffs and dragged her towards the bed by her hair, ordering her to strip away the remnants of her outfit before pulling her over my knee. I brought my hand down hard, once, then twice, pausing to pull the makeshift gag from her mouth and check the intensity of the blows on a 1-10 scale. She answered 6 without hesitation. I gagged her again and rained down with the same force, one side, then the other, and back again. Her ass moved quickly from pink to red. I didn’t ease off until my hand started to sting and I could see flecks of purple coming through the crimson.
Flipping her over onto her back, I used my left hand to maul and smack her tits, tug at her nipples, and drag my fingernails across her tender skin. With my right hand, I open-hand spanked her cunt, palm coming down over her clit, fingers landing on her lips. More muffled screams, thrashing, hands balled into fists, legs going stiff, feet extending and pointing out. Then the shudders as she started coming, three times in succession before her body reflexively pulled into a ball and rolled onto the bed beside me.
After she caught her breath, she pushed me onto my back, pulled off my boots, jeans, and boxers, hastily wrapped my cock in a condom, then rode me hard. There was no art or tease to it, no seductive display of technique, just bucking and grinding while I abused her tits some more and wrapped a hand around her throat, not tight enough to do anything, just to give the odd gentle squeeze and make her gasp. She jerked and thrashed through another two crashing orgasms before I came like a freight train, chest heaving, sweat-blind, pulling her down onto my chest. We hadn’t even bothered to take off my shirt.
xxx
Her head tilted back against the plastic seat. My right hand was over her shoulder and down the top of her dress, idly stroking a hardening nipple. She loosened the tie on her dress and pulled the top open, exposing her lacy, cream-coloured bra. I reached over and felt her up with both hands now, before pulling the dress open wider, tugging the straps of her bra down her shoulders, then pushing the cups down. The air in the room felt charged. A new arrival came and sat in the same row with us, just a seat away from Jen. A couple of the guys behind us leaned forward to get a better look at her tits, and the one sitting directly in front of her turned around.
I continued to grope her with my right hand, and slipped my left up under her dress. She spread her knees, and I could feel that she had already saturated her thong. I pushed it aside and two fingers slipped straight in like a hot knife through butter. She moaned and cursed under her breath, just loud enough to be heard over the blonde getting railed on screen. At this point I don’t think anyone was watching the porn. A couple of guys had moved closer. There were three in the row in front of her, one to her side, and a couple behind us now, all turned towards her.
She untangled the tie on her dress completely and let it fall open, lifting her hips to slide her thong down past her knees. I plunged my fingers into her a few more times before bringing them to her mouth so she could lick them clean. If we were putting on a show, I’d make sure it was a good one.
I could hear the telltale wet slapping sound of guys jerking off from all sides. So could Jen; she raised her head to look around and take in her audience. The fiftysomething, white suburban dad-looking guy in front of her caught her eye and reached out slowly towards her leg, eyes moving between the two of us. I looked to Jen, and she nodded. From the second she let one of them touch her, it was like blood in the water.
He groaned something about how good her pussy felt as his fingers entered her. The guy next to her reached over to join my hands on her tits. He slid into the seat next to her, pants around his ankles, and she reached out to start stroking his cock, replacing his own hand. He was South Asian, early twenties, with a bit of scraggly facial hair and a student vibe. The look on his face was like you’d just told him that he’d won the lottery. The guys behind us were whispering to each other. I hadn’t noticed before, but they seemed to be together. Mid-late twenties as well, around her age. The closer one had a shock of dark, curly hair. More scruffy facial hair. The other one was a bit of a twink. He was slight, with bleached hair, and a tight pink t-shirt. Jen turned to look at them as well when she sensed movement. With an affirmative nod from Twink, Scruffy stood up, stroking his condom-sheathed cock inches away from her face. She twisted her head a bit further to the side and opened her lips. He slid into her mouth while Twink watched on and stroked himself. It was a shame; Twink was cute (they both were), and I would have hopped over the seat and kept him company, but there was no way I was leaving Jen on her own in the middle of all this.
It was a tangle of limbs. Her legs were spread wide now, feet on the row of seats in front of us, Suburban Dad plunging three fingers in and out of her while I stroked her clit. Amazed Student’s hands were all over her tits; his grunts and moans suggested that he wasn’t going to last long with her fist wrapped around his cock. Two other guys to either side of Suburban Dad were stroking her legs, and themselves, waiting for a turn. Some others had moved closer as well, standing to get a better view over the bodies hunched around her.
She pulled her mouth from around Scruffy’s cock to tell Amazed Student to come on her tits, pulling him up to his feet by his hard on. He barely got in place before he shot ropes all over her chest. Between the pounding in her cunt and the circles I was rubbing around her clit, the hot thickness hitting her skin sent her over the edge, and she screamed out, bucking and shuddering. She finally had to push Suburban Dad’s fingers away; he’d been completely oblivious to the change in her movements and reactions.
Amazed Student shuffled off, and another guy quickly took his place, waving his half hard cock towards her. I didn’t get a good look. Some kind of sports jersey and a baseball cap, tracksuit pants around his knees, maybe a bit chubby. Probably Greek or Italian. She grabbed him and started stroking. Scruffy’s hips were moving faster now. I grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her forward, pulled her back, fucking him with her face. I leaned down to whisper to her about how she was a greedy, cock-hungry slut, how she was surrounded by strangers who wanted to use her.
Suburban Dad whispered over to me, asking if he could fuck her. I told him only if he had a condom, and he looked crestfallen. If anyone else had one, they weren’t volunteering to share. Scruffy and Sports Jersey were both grunting and swearing. Soon a second load landed on her tits, and then Scruffy pulled out of her mouth, ripped off the condom, and stroked himself off all over her face.
As the bodies shuffled around her, Jen took a moment to catch her breath. Her smile was beatific. The dark clouds that usually lived in her eyes were gone, the crease in her brow smooth. She was flushed pink, panting, stretching her limbs like a cat. I brushed some hair away from her forehead.
A fit-looking Middle Eastern guy wearing way too much cologne approached her other side once Sports Fan had shuffled out of the row. He was stroking a nice looking cock, and holding a condom. Jen gave him a nod and pulled her legs down from the seats, shrugged her dress off her shoulders, and turned and kneeled on the seat where she’d just been sitting, grabbing the seat back in both hands. Cologne Guy shuffled in behind her and took her from behind.
With her back exposed, I unhooked her bra and helped her pull her arms free from the straps. She was now completely naked apart from her black ankle boots. Cologne Guy was taking her hard and fast and she was squealing, gripping the seat harder to push back against him. Another older white guy had shuffled in front of her, holding his half-hard, condom-wrapped cock to her face. She dove on it greedily, easily getting her nose all the way to the black-gray hair around his base. He maybe lasted thirty seconds and I don’t think he got fully hard before grunting and pulling away, holding onto the loose rubber. Not long after he pulled out, Jen started coming again, letting out a long, high wail. Cologne Guy was jackhammering into her, his slim hips slamming into her soft, round ass with cracking slaps that bounced off the walls.
The next guy who moved in front of her didn’t have a condom, so he stroked himself until he came on her face and in her hair. Cologne Guy bashed her through a second orgasm before coming himself with a loud shout. It coincided with the harsh, white house lights coming on, and a voice from beyond the curtain announcing closing time in 5 minutes. I did the maths and realised that we had been there for over an hour, even though it felt much, much shorter.
Jen slumped forward, panting, spasms still working through her, making her ass and tits jiggle deliciously. She was covered in a sheen of sweat. The radiant smile shone even brighter. I looked around. There were four or five guys still close to us, and another two in the back row who had obviously been playing with each other. There was also a couple standing close to the entrance, both tall and slim with dark hair, a bit goth looking. She was wearing a long black coat buttoned up to her neck and a guilty smile as she looked over to Jen’s naked, fuck-drunk form. I briefly thought about how much differently the night could have gone if they had arrived earlier.
Someone produced some tissues, which Jen gratefully accepted. She dabbed at her face. There was no getting around the ruined makeup, but at least she could get the worst of the come streaks. She stood on shaky feet like a baby deer and pulled her dress on, tying it closed. Her bra and thong went straight into her handbag, and she pulled out a hairbrush, once again, doing what she could in a short amount of time to make herself look more presentable. I put her coat over her shoulders and we headed for the exit. Nearly everyone else was gone by the time we left, except for Suburban Dad, who must have been hanging around waiting. He tried to chat us up, said he had a hotel, asked if we wanted to come with him, asked if he could have Jen’s number. I moved so that I was between him and her and we rushed through the entrance, past the desk, and down the stairs towards the street, not looking back or even acknowledging his pleading. Jen had a self-satisfied smirk on her face as his voice echoed down the stairwell.
xxx
Going back to these moments, writing this all down, has fucked with my head. Jen showed up in a dream a couple of days after I started this story. Then at one point, towards the end of drafting the second section, it was like I’d pulled a slot-machine lever in my brain and watched as the three symbols all came up the same. Flashing lights. Loud sounds. A flood of memories like coins, but reordered and recontextualised.
I’ve known for a long time, intellectually at least, that Jen was selfish. Even when we were together, I knew. But I never faulted her for it, not really. Her life hadn’t been easy. She’d had a shitty childhood, surrounded by adults who didn’t live up to their responsibilities, not to mention a hateful little despot of a stepfather. And of course, there was religion, the kind that warps your head and fucks you up long after you escape. She never gave me all of the details, but I knew her scars as well as anyone could. So yeah, she was needy, she didn’t know how to do relationships at all (not that I was any kind of expert), she needed to feel wanted, to feel centred in any interaction, the prettiest girl in the room, the object of desire, the superstar of the orgy.
And when she wasn’t? Things would break down. Threesomes, foursomes, parties, they were fantastic when everyone was in her orbit, but she was quick to anger, or quick to panic, the moment that it wasn’t. After these moments, when we were alone, were the times when she’d scream, ball her fists and pound my chest, hyperventilate, throw plates or glasses or whatever was at hand. She’d unleash a hundred obscenities and call me shitty and selfish for expressing any needs or wants that didn’t expressly revolve around her, regardless of the dozens upon dozens of times we’d played and the focus was on her alone.
Our kink dynamic grew out from that first scene, building into a range of different iterations of scorchingly intense hyperfocus directed at her. I think that pain or pleasure was almost beside the point. She loved submitting to me because she loved having someone obsess over her body, her every sensation, each utterance, reading and reacting, weaving sensory experience around her every twitch and whisper. It was a blinding spotlight that burned away the demons in her head, at least for a while.
xxx
“Here. On your knees.”
“Make me.”
I grabbed her by the hair and forced her down. Her coat and dress were open. She’d spent the whole cab ride home playing with herself, making sure that the driver had a front row seat. I’m not sure how we’d made it back given how little his eyes had actually been on the road.
“Stay here. Or you’ll get it even worse.”
I went to the bedroom, pulled out the toy bag. Clover clamps, leather paddle, suede flogger, looped cane carpet beater, her favourite vibe. I carried my haul back out to the lounge and watched her eyes as I laid out my selections on the couch. She had stayed kneeling next to the coffee table.
“Stand. Strip.”
“Yes, Sir.”
She rose to her feet, shrugged off her open coat and open dress in one movement. Even after we’d arrived, she hadn’t bothered to cover herself to make the walk from the street to the front door.
“Up. Kneel.”
She climbed onto the coffee table, knees set wide, hands behind her head, fingers laced, elbows out. Silent but defiant, looking up at me, waiting. I circled her, shedding my coat and jacket, unbuttoning my shirt, stripping to the waist. I didn’t want to have any restrictions on my movement.
“You’re such a filthy fucking slut.”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m a filthy fucking slut!”
“More. Tell me.”
“I’m a cum-soaked whore. I let strangers use me. I fucking need it.”
“Good girl.”
I picked up the clamps and twirled them around my finger by the connecting chain. She looked up at me, fierce, fire in her eyes. I smacked her face, first one cheek, then the other. Not hard enough to mark or even sting, but hard enough to make her gasp.
“Stay still, cunt.”
She fucking hated these clamps. She would have preferred the tweezers with the tightening ring, the vice claps with the screw, even clothespegs. Anything but the clovers. I tugged impatiently at one nipple, then the other, smacking them a bit to awaken her skin and bring them to life, then attached them efficiently, without ceremony. Her mutters made my cock twitch against my jeans.
Sharp breaths, then even. She straightened, then arched, her back, pushing her tits forward proudly. It would take more than clamps to break her. She flexed her arms behind her head. Her stare was a challenge. In the indirect lamp light, I could see the dried jizz all over her chest, and the streaks across the ruined makeup on her face. I felt her eyes follow me as I paced back to the collection of toys on the couch. She wanted to see what I was grabbing, but not enough to break her pose and posture. I picked up the suede flogger. It had a wooden handle. Lightweight, good balance. I slapped the strips against my palm and circled her again. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Her breathing quickened. She knew what was coming, but not when or how or where. I did a full circuit smacking the flogger against my palm until I was standing in front of her.
“FUCK!”
With a flick of my wrist, I hit one clamped nipple with the ends of the suede strips. Then the other. Back and forth, back and forth, three times each side. She lurched forward for a moment, struggling to keep her posture, struggling to keep her hands locked behind her head. After a moment, she caught her breath and straightened up again.
“Thank you.”
I walked around behind her and started swinging in earnest. Slow, steady, even strikes across her back and ass, warming her up. Pink stripes, barely the beginnings of welts, rose up against her pale skin in increasingly complex crosshatch patterns. Intermittently, I punctuated the long, full strokes with quick flicks to sting already stimulated skin.
Her breathing slowed to an even, relaxed pace, even through the sharper strikes. I paused, leaning in to whisper. “Is this what you need?” She nodded and mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Yes, I need it.”
“Good girl.”
The flogger came down again, harder across her back, and I watched as her muscles tightened. She held her breath for a moment before exhaling. Circling back to her front, I tossed the flogger onto the couch, and kneeled so I was eye level with her. I gave each of her nipples a flick, then tugged at the chain. She clenched her jaw, and her face and neck reddened.
“Relax. Breathe.” I eased off until she started drawing in a breath, then I tugged again. But she worked through it this time. I continued to torture and tease her nipples while I reached between her legs with my free hand. She was dripping, and my fingers slid in with zero resistance. I tugged the chain and stroked her g-spot in an alternating rhythm, easing off only when I noticed her breath hitch, or her body straining to move, only starting in again once she settled. Her eyes were on me but so far away.
Jen whimpered when I stood and withdrew my fingers. “Lean forward. On your hands and knees.” She shifted back a bit from the centre of the table and pressed her palms against the wooden surface, arms straight. I picked up the paddle from the couch and moved back behind her. The soft pink on her ass from her warmup was already fading slightly. I didn’t start gently with the paddle, and the two swift cracks of leather against skin sounded like gunshots. She cried out, and her arms wobbled. Her head dropped, so I grabbed a handful of hair and jerked back until she was facing forward again.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-SMACK. One side. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-SMACK. The other side. Then back again, working up a steady rhythm, and she settled into it, with even breath and steady posture. I started mixing in a hard thwack across both cheeks at different intervals, and the first couple sent a jolt through her, but she adjusted again.
She was sinking down deep.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-SMACK. SMACK. Pause. Featherlight stroke with a fingertip along her slit, eliciting a shiver. Rhythms building and breaking, keeping her down without letting her trance completely. The steadily deepening colour on her ass was coming apart now, with darker splotches emerging where skin was on the edge of breaking. I set the paddle aside, plunged three fingers in this time, and started working her to the brink again while reaching over to grab the carpet beater.
“No! Nononononono please–” The oblong cane loop stung like a motherfucker, leaving the most delicious welts. For now, I was just gently running it up and down her spine, letting her know what was coming. She was still pleading with me when she could form words, but as she got closer to the brink she became less coherent. At the last moment, I pulled away, wiped my wet fingers across her red hot ass cheeks, and straightened again. I walked back over to the couch, picked up her vibe, and moved back in front of her.
“How many loads did you take tonight?”
“Um…”
“Come on Jen, how many?”
“Fi-five. No, wait. Six.”
“That’s right. Six. So that’s six strokes with the cane.”
“Fuckshitfuck. Okay.”
I held out the vibe for her. “Come after the last stroke. Not before, or that’s six more.” She took it, hunched forward on a forearm, and rested her head there, arching her back and sticking her ass out further. There was a buzz as she turned on the vibe and pressed it between her legs. I walked back around slowly, caressing her back with the cane again as I moved, then letting it slide over her inflamed cheeks. I pulled it away suddenly and she flinched in anticipation, but when I brought it back down, it was only another light stroke. She sighed and groaned and muttered a curse.
As soon as I saw her release some of the anticipatory tension from her limbs and back, I struck hard, forcing a scream out of her.
“JESUSFUCKOne!”
I came down on the other side, the loop contouring perfectly around the curve of her ass. The welts were instant, angry purple against dark red.
“FUCKTwo”
The next two were straight across the fullness of her ass, first from the left, then flipped to the right.
“THREE! FOUR!”
She was panting, holding back a sob. A sheen of sweat covered her back. Two-thirds of the way through I thought she’d probably just want to get it over with, so of course I gave her a moment to catch her breath.
“Why are you getting these six cane strokes?”
“Because– because I deserve it?”
“Why?”
“I’m a filthy little cumslut!”
“Oh, you are?”
“Fuck yes. I’m a needy fucktoy! I need all of my holes filled!”
“That’s right. You are, and you do.”
“And I need, I need… I need to be reminded. I need to feel it for days.” She turned up the intensity on the vibrator.
CRACK
“SHITSHITFive!”
The final stroke mirrored the second almost perfectly, coming down on the right side in a long arc and a final flick of the wrist. It broke the skin, and she finally let go of the sob.
“SIX!”
I threw the cane to the side and returned my fingers to her cunt. With the vibe on her clit, she was over the edge in seconds, screaming, choking on tears. I reached down with my other hand and held her hand and the vibe in place, not letting her pull it away, finger fucking her roughly through two more orgasms before she finally begged me to stop.
xxx
Jen came again, one last time, furiously fingering herself on her knees in the shower as I stood over her. She begged me to piss on her, over her face and tits, to wash away the last of the strangers’ semen from earlier. Her face was desperate, pleading, and then finally ecstatic as she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sensation when the first stream hit, then sobbed again as she came, shuddering and spent. I turned on the water and gently pulled her to her feet, holding her close and whispering in her ear that she was beautiful, that I was here, that she was such a good girl. I told her how amazing she had been at the theatre, how incredible she was, and told her all about the looks on the faces of the men as they used her, the hunger and desire, the amazement, the awe.
I told her that she was loved and whole and perfect, just how she was. And then I washed her, from head to toe.
When we got to bed, I fucked her slowly, gently, and when she told me that she needed me to fill her up, I did. I waited until she was sleeping deeply before I slid out of bed and padded through the house to the back door, grabbing a beer on the way, then settling on the steps down to the courtyard and lighting a cigarette. We hadn’t played like that in months. We’d grown distant. The fights were getting worse. I loved her, and insofar as she could, I think she loved me as well. But I wasn’t sure if we liked each other anymore. I smoked in silence, pondered, and tried to commit the night to memory.
The adrenaline and endorphins were fading, and I was starting to drop, and get into my own head. I couldn’t remember the last time Jen had looked at me the way she did when she was on her knees in the shower, outside of a scene. Maybe she never had. I thought about her cool, superior manner when it came to anyone else I was dating, the deafening silence of her judgement, her unspoken assertion that I could never get someone else as beautiful as she was. We knew we were both slipping away. I was spending more time with women who had tattoos and neon hair. Her new boyfriend wore suits, and she’d go out with him wearing the pearls and twinsets that I thought made her look like a suburban snob. We’d always been an odd pairing, but the uneasy truces and compromises that we’d cobbled together were unravelling.
I finished my beer, then had another, and a few more cigarettes, trying not to think about that place inside me that worried I was only ever wanted when I could give something, provide something, be useful. The escort, ringleader, and protector on our adventures. The instrument of punishment. The healer. The mechanic, taking someone apart and putting them back together again, just a bit less defective than they had been before. For all of my bluster, the sadism, getting off on the tears and the bruises and broken skin, getting lost in the moments when a pliant body was my canvas, this was my deep, dark secret, that a huge part of why I did these things was to prove my value and my worth. Without them, who was I? Why would I be wanted?
The 3 AM quiet didn’t hold any answers. The more I asked myself these questions in regards to my relationship with Jen, the more distant I became, pulling back, shutting her out, putting up walls. I don’t know if she wanted to fix us or not, but I’m not sure I would have given her the chance.
That night was the last time we played, and our last scene. We stumbled on for a few more months, spent less and less time together and more nights with other partners, and finally came apart in the aftermath of one last epic argument that left little space for goodwill on either side. But sometimes, even years later, I’ll sit and smoke late at night and see a flash of how her face looked when she was basking in lust and need and attention, how her eyes were bright and cloudless, and her voice went soft, when she’d been dismantled and, at least for a short time, made whole.