March 2013
“WHAT’S WRONG?”
“Hmm? Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You don’t…I don’t know. Something doesn’t seem…right?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem disengaged. Like you’re somewhere else.”
“I don’t mean to be. Do you want me to stop?”
“No. God, no. I just want to make sure I have your attention.”
“Yes. Of course. You have it.” He nodded. “You do.”
“No. Something’s wrong. Is something bothering you?”
She had caught him drifting off, daydreaming, suddenly not quite in the same room with her, again: there was something. He did it a lot, and she had never said anything about it, but it was time, even if it wasn’t the best of all possible times to pick to do this; can’t have him not being attentive to what they were doing.
His issue that kept poking at him was not in her or with her or about her—although he had a backroom wish he didn’t want to acknowledge, not even to himself. It was in him, with him, part of his issue-set. Especially when it came to her and what he understood to be what she wanted and didn’t. It always had been that way. And it bothered him; at times, he didn’t particularly like who he was, and wrestled with what they did together as they danced around the lines, the edges of right and wrong, propriety, acceptability, and he wished that what plagued him at night was more normal. Quieter. Vanilla, even.
“No.”
“Liar. Motherfucking liar. Tell me.”
“I…I don’t know that I know how to tell you; I don’t understand it myself.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you a liar. Motherfucker, yes. Liar no.”
“Yer funny. That’s why I like you. Keep you around.” He took one hand up off the bed and pushed her hair up and out of her face.
“Oh. You only keep me around because I am hi-fucking-larious.” She wrapped her legs around him, pulled her ankles against his ass and started slowly rhythmically baiting him against her. She looked directly into his eyes. C’mere, big boy.
“Uh, yeah. That’d be about right.” He responded, putting his hand back on the bed, following her motion, cooperating.
“Now you really are a motherfucking liar.” She rolled her eyes back up above her across the headboard once, and set about refocusing her and her attentions energies as she adjusted her breathing to a way he had liked in years gone by. Months gone by. Weeks gone by. Days gone by. Hell, just this morning. Right here. The same way, even. Well, almost.
“C’mon, you set that up: how could I resist?” He smiled.
“Seriously. What’s troubling you?” She reached up to try to give him a peck before going back to her procedures.
“Nothing.”
She tipped her head and drew one side of her lips back. She stopped doing what she was doing. Well, not completely. Just some of the more obvious things.
“I don’t think ‘troubling’ is the right word. Maybe I’m just thinking about something.”
“That’s what I said. Distracted. What is it?”
The semantic precision of the word she used or didn’t use didn’t matter; not this time. “I don’t think I should tell you.”
“No, come on. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell? What’s the worst it can be?”
He exhaled and looked onto her, relaxing his own face. She looked inviting. Why couldn’t he be satisfied with just making love to her? It was supposed to be enough. She even let him do this to her, this “extra”, not to mention the, uh, others. He reached up and put his hand into hers. She accepted it and squeezed it. She wasn’t going to let him smile his way out of this, was she.
“I—uh—it’s a photograph.”
“You want to take a picture of me? God, not like this, please.”
“No. I want to recreate one.”
“Do we get to go to Hawaii? Is it on the beach?”
“Sorry, not this year. Someday.”
“Boo fucking hoo. Oh, I know. It’s one of the Japanese Bondage girls, right? You want to truss me up even more like a chicken in some impossible suspension and meditate on me, right?”
They both laughed.
“No?” she asked quizzically.
“That’s not a bad idea”
“Oh, fuck. You know I’m not one of those lithe little things they are, don’t you? You’d need a winch. A crane. Maybe a couple. And it would terrify me, to leave earth like that. It looks hard.”
“No more than…never mind.” He had practiced a lot of knots on her. Had practiced cutting them off, too, when he couldn’t get them untied.
“Asshole. So tell me about it.”
Fine. Pennies, pounds, half-assed, full-assed, just put it out there, get it over with, be done with it, move on. She’ll say no, like she does about so much of what he thinks about when they aren’t in here, doing this. Which she should do, because some of it scared even him. “There’s a story.”
“How did I not know? Do tell.” She twisted, arching this or that, opening herself up a bit more, making sure he had a clear path to her, into her, come on baby. Come to mama. Er, cum in mama. Lord, she was such a perv; there was screwing to do and why was that not enough?
“There were four of them.”
“Four pictures?”
“No. Four girls.”
“Oh my god. You want to put me in with three other girls?”
“No, let me finish.”
“Sorry.”
“Jesus. There were four girls. Four legendary slavegirls. I never saw a picture of any of them together.”
“Legendary? Legendary slaves? Good grief; give me a fucking break.” She had to work to not laugh at him. After all, they had agreed: there’s no such thing as a legendary slave. They are simply not the stuff of legend.
“No, really. The pictures are what made them famous, and there were hundreds of them. Back in the day. Pictures of what they would do and what they did for their master.”
“Okay. I don’t know what that means.”
He leaned back up off her, pulling away, taking himself out—making her moan the moan of complaint, getting her to reach up, trying to follow him, having to fall back, thwarted, shit—propping up on an arm beside her, and started tracing circles on her belly. She accepted that just fine. There was no way he could talk about this while they were…in the throes.
“They were French. One of them didn’t amount to much of anything; there were only one or two pictures of her, and I think she bolted. One would hands-down stop traffic—she was intimidating with how stunningly beautiful she was—but she was never engaged, she almost looked blasé, dulled, stoic, like she was modeling. One was the most famous of all: there wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do, and she was totally into it, happy to oblige, very pretty, positively enthusiastic for the all paces he put her through. Exhibitionism was nothing to her, she’d take her clothes off anywhere; she would put anything and everything into her, uh, pussy and and her bottom: hands, phones, vegetables, shoes, pop cans; and she would screw anything and anyone and everything, you name it.”
Her voice came out low, “God, is that what you want to do? Public fist fucking? Oh, shit. Wait, that’s only three.”
He nodded. “The last one, who was actually first—she was the real girlfriend in all these—is the one that I think about. She was not the prettiest, there were things she hated to do and it showed. But there was one picture that did something for me that none of the other ones ever did, even though two of the others did the same sort of thing. This one was different; it has haunted me ever since.”
It flashed though his head that she might have taken the reference to the girl in the photo not being that pretty personally. It wasn’t about her not being pretty; he constantly reminded her that she was. And she constantly reminded him that she wasn’t. Well, she used to. Until the day that he called her on it, and yelled—actually yelled—at her for questioning his taste. How dare she poke at him for how stupid he must be, for feeling the way he did about her, and point out how little respect she must have for him for loving her and her body and wanting to make love to her and is that what you want me to believe about how you feel about me? No, god no, please, I’m sorry. Don’t say it again. Not to me. I won’t. I’m promise. It opened some doors for them, once that was off the table.
She didn’t make it about her: “Go on.”
“The picture was grainy. She was standing, with her hands tied above her in a doorway. She was naked.”
“This much I like. We could do that easy. We’ve done worse.” She wiggled and waved her hands and pursed her lips.
“The story that went with the picture in question was that it was the first time they had tried what they were doing.” He paused. Crap. Here goes. “She was screaming, with full bore panic crossing her face. It looked like she was being overwhelmed completely by what was happening to her. The thing of it is that she wasn’t straining and she wasn’t struggling. She was simply standing there—there was slack in the ropes—and despite having something truly deplorable happening to her, something she couldn’t hide how she felt about it or what was happening or anything, it was the idea that it was because it was…from him, that got my attention here.”
His mouth went dry. As often as he went over this in his mind, he had never actually articulated it all to the air, not even in the car to himself on the way to work. And it didn’t sound quite right. “You could see it in her eyes: she accepted it. And that last part is what matters to me. You know that. This wasn’t about anything else that was so obviously happening, terrible as it was. It was about love. I know, I know, you love me and I believe that completely. That’s the only reason I even bring it up. I’m not comparing you to her or any of the other women on the Internet or in the rest of the world. But this was different, and in it, I saw something I need.” He stopped talking: he felt like he was rambling, blathering, not making any sense.
Her eyes went wide as she listened, putting a grasp on what he was saying. “You left something out. Something important.”
His heart-rate sped up. “Yes. There were needles in her nipples. A lot of them. Big ones; she was really being hurt. Considerably. Ever so hard. There was no question about that whatsoever. Her face was contorted into a scream. Not a good one.”
“Fuck. You w-want me to to to let you hurt me like that.”
“No. Well, yes. But what I want isn’t about that. True, I want you to let that happen as it does; what I want is for you to endure being hurt like that. For me. By…me. Welcome me, accept that it’s me doing that to you and that it’s alright. It’s more than overlooking something or condoning what is happening because er, despite the idea that it is awful—because it is just awful—and it isn’t even about forgiveness. It’s a much taller order. It’s hard to explain. It has to do with how I know you feel about me, and I want to see that. In a way I haven’t. Does this make any sense?”
She lay silent until she had to take a breath.
“You want me to allow for this, what you want t-to do to me, which scares the hell out of me. You want me to submit. D-do I have to like it?”
“What, the being hurt? No, absolutely not. I can’t ask you to change that about yourself. Besides, that’s not what’s important.” He swallowed. “That didn’t come out right. You know how careful I try to be with you. In some ways, that you don’t like being hurt makes it mean more. I just don’t know how else to get what I need. I’m open to suggestions. I know it’s kinda stupid, and it makes me sound insecure. But you asked.”
“I see.” She swallowed. “I don’t think it’s stupid, and I know you’re not insecure. I don’t suppose you just so happen to have some. You know. Thingies.”
The blood left his face as he nodded.
The heartbeats in the room dared not make a noise.
It took another moment for her to close her eyes, nod back and breathe again, and yet another for him to untie her from the headboard.
###
AS HE was laying her back down onto the bed, having had to carry her there, she wept.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I am so sorry,” was not how she pronounced it, but it was what he understood her to be trying to say, underneath the other sounds she was making.
“No. No, don’t be sorry, it is entirely alright.”
It was all altogether too much, too fast, too big, too hard. Too loud. It took her a while to calm down to be able to actually enunciate English again. “Please, please forgive me.”
“Don’t be silly. I should be begging your forgiveness.”
“God damn it.” Her face crumpled. “I so hate disappointing you.” The translation routines still had some work to do; that also wasn’t quite how it came out, but that didn’t matter. Her meaning was clear.
“No, don’t say that. You didn’t. The fact that you stood up at all counts for more than I can say.”
“But it wasn’t enough.”
“It’s fine. Let me do something for you. That would make me happy, to make you happy. Please.”
She palpitated around her conflicts, and it was obvious, tough as she was, that she couldn’t resist his offer of even a small comfort. “Would can will you—would you fuck me? Please?”
She should have been asking for painkillers, that’s what would have made sense. But he wasn’t about to argue with anything she asked at this point. Maybe endorphins would do it. It occurred to him that it was still important she be of some gosh darn use to him; he, in fact, had catered to her for so long. It made no sense, but then again, maybe it did. In a way, it was the only thing that seemed appropriate, despite everything else she must have wanted, she wanted this, over everything he would do right here, right now, which—considering what he was willing to do for her right now—amounted to pretty much anything.
This was…well…amazing. Unexpected. Better than he dreamed. Better than he deserved. Something he needed to live up to.
“Of course. You’re so brave.”
“No; no, I’m not. I am such a fucking coward.”
She put her hands up to his face and wracked herself with sobs as he knelt between her legs, and began to lick her pussy.
He had to. The utter failure of his erection at the doorway baffled him—he was so sure, he had fantasized about this so much and he never had the slightest doubt as to what it would do for him—and he needed to rewire some things another way to get to where he could do as she asked. He had failed to provide her what she needed for her courage, to let her see that he was excited, which he was, even if his penis didn’t think so.
He rolled his tongue along her labia, up one side, then down the other. The one thing she wasn’t was aroused—apparently, it was catchy—and he endeavored to fix at least half of them, at least half of that.
That was the worst of it: that he didn’t even get an erection through the scene at the door. That and that whole unjustifiable excruciation thing. It wouldn’t stop playing through his mind.
He had his own pride to put down—this was embarrassing, to say the least, to not get, of all things, a hard-on during the the the thing he has asked her to be part of—he had his own sense of panic to lay aside that he had taken things too far, that he had pushed her in a way she couldn’t sustain, that it was a sudden surprise demand that was way on beyond anything they had ever done, oh, god, they didn’t negotiate it properly, this was a disaster, and he would have to make it up to her. That he had talked her into doing something she didn’t like, that wasn’t even erotic to him. That he was just a cruel man, torturing the woman he loved for the worthless reasons of, dear, god, what was that?
He owed her.
Holy cow, he owed her. Houses, boats, jewels, trips to Hawaii. This foolishness was going to cost him. Dearly.
He licked her pussy, and suckled on where her clit should be. She was hiding, and didn’t want anybody to know where she was, because this was awful. He knew it was awful, and it was too god damn much to god damn ask. He swirled his tongue around the spot, trying to coax her out.
He referred to her clitoris as a “she” because she did. It sounded less impersonal when she said it—and had a kind of respect, or rather a demand for respect—but introduced a different kind of distancing; it felt moronic in his mouth to refer to it, er, her that way, and it was like he was trying to please two women, and not just one, geeze, was he being unfaithful to one when he played to the other? He had frightened both of them, in more than one way tonight. If he had two women, would that be four “she’s” he’d have to please? How the heck did that guy do it with four? Let’s see, that’d be four women, four clits, crap, breasts are “she’s”, too, that’s holy smokes sixteen…
Like that’ll ever happen. Especially now.
He couldn’t think fast enough to get his thoughts to settle down. He was deathly afraid he had damaged their relationship and more importantly, that he had ruined her.
Oh, he had had enough needles driven into him by the medical profession to at least know what they were about: considerably less complex than women. The tiny bits of metal with the pointy ends, finding their way in between cellular structures, breaking a few walls and membranes along the way, getting them to vent cytoplasm, being met with blood, and having the invasion conveying distressing information along axons and glials through filials, back to the top, to the head, the entirety of the nervous system reacts: this hurts.
It did the first time he had ever had one that he could remember, and it hurt the last time, and every other time in between. Which were numerous. Not the worst pain in the world, but one he could manage and he had convinced himself—as he dreamt of doing this, of getting something out of it, being guided by what he had seen in a ridiculous piece of amateur pornography—that she could, too.
The physicians all lie; it isn’t just a pinch. The best pediatric phlebotomists there are through all the student candy-stripers practicing on people when they should be practicing on oranges through the tough old hags at the hospital who had done this every day for decades were all liars.
He had grown accustomed to the lies and the action, the process of inserting refined metal into humans, and could even do it to himself nowadays. The slight flinch he had when he put the needle into himself was nothing any more. He could disconnect himself from it, observe it, even if his head still shook as he did it. Despite the pretty nurses who used to admonish him to please, don’t get used to this, don’t like it, so many people eventually did and it just fucked them up, please don’t, he eventually fell in line and did it anyway. Got used to it, anyhow. The pretty nurses seemed to not retain any respect for that nor for him once it had happened—we’re just doing our damn jobs and here you are, practically getting off on it, you fucking loser, we warned you, didn’t we warn you? God—and the old cantankerous ones just thought it was funny and would snicker when they thought they were out of sight and out of hearing range when he reacted the way he did to their actions.
Try as he might to pre-build the disconnect before it happened, the one he had engineered to try to not get involved with it, no, not today, please, not with this nurse who doesn’t want him to have the reaction he’s going to have when she does this, the small explosion in his arm or his butt or wherever when the needle came in still got his body to tremble the same way it did when he had an orgasm, a really good one, which usually involved her, the one woman he wanted to share this sort of thing with, and it wasn’t like when he did that to himself in the bathroom at work or when he would sneak out of bed at night because he didn’t want to wake her, no, it was when he was inside her—anywhere inside her, really—and he couldn’t hold back any longer and his head would throw up so far he couldn’t keep his mouth closed and his eyes would squinch shut and the race was on, up his spine, over the top of his head and whoever he was with would see it, he couldn’t hide it, it affected him, he couldn’t stop that from happening, thinking about baseball or mom or math problems couldn’t stop it it was going to happen it was going to happen it was going to happen and the world would collapse and he would make a noise he would make the same groan and his head would fall forward in either room, the bedroom or the hospital room, and one other person in the room would either ignore him or laugh at him try to hide a sneer, or she would put her hand up on his face and smile at him and kiss him, and it would be alright, are you sure, god, yes, and she would put her arms around him and pull him toward her and he would feel like he was being loved.
If anything happens enough, humans eventually get around to sexualizing it.
Except he had just proven beyond the shadow of a doubt at the doorway to their bedroom that it maybe wasn’t so for her. She obviously despised the petty little lines, they were heinous, and of all things, he felt it garnered no respect for him, for any of it. No love. Not now. She had to hate him. She just had to. Damn—yes, damn—it; he had gambled with this and with her and lost.
They should have talked about it. Talked about it lots, not just jumped up and jumped in, no, that wasn’t the way this worked, not how it was supposed to work, running in blind was was was…wrong. What was he thinking? What was she thinking?
After he had secured her, upright, her arms up, making a square “Y” of her, he fondled her here and there, getting her to giggle when he tickled her, and when he had rolled her nipple, to get it to poke out—it was getting to serious time here—he licked her areole, nibbled a little on the pretty little nipple, and pinched her and got her a little excited. She quivered the way he wanted her to. A lullaby, as it were, something she always liked, pretty much no matter what, even during her period when she would complain about how sore her breasts were.
He looked up and asked her one last time if it was alright, and it was, and he set about his business.
The first needle rested on her flesh lightly and she suppressed a gasp; his long standing experience with the damn things informed him that if he squeezed her as it went in, and did it quickly, it wouldn’t be so bad, and he was right. On that first one.
“That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
She jumped a little, of course. “N-no.”
Which wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted it to scream, he wanted her to scream, and then go about fulfilling him with her promises of what she could do, what she would do for him: the obscure peculiar easy-hard thing that was so hard to describe, so hard to see, it had taken him years of staring at the photo to understand what he was seeing and what it was that got his dick to harden when he looked at it, because it wasn’t the way her mouth gaped or the sound the picture couldn’t transmit but could certainly convey, and he wished it wasn’t the idea that he wanted this agony to be the only way to get what he wanted—he still had parts of himself that really didn’t want it to hurt so damn…there’s that word again…bad, not for her, she was his wife for Pete’s sakes, the woman he had sworn to protect from harm and this, what was this—but he couldn’t see it any other way in all the endless thoughts and feelings he had and thousands of pictures and movies he had seen and descriptions and accounts and stories he had read to make it come about and if he could find another way to do it, he would.
It was this, or give up on a part of himself that would simply not go away. Which hasn’t worked so far.
He got two of those things that he wanted to happen. And maybe some part of him really did want it to hurt her, to have her be able to sustain it for him. Sure. That much was obvious. It demonstrated stuff there wasn’t any other way to get. He had second-guessed himself for so long he didn’t know what he wanted any more and that was part of the point here, to love her, and to want to hurt her, and to have that somehow be alright. It went against everything he had ever been taught.
But she’s here. It’s happening. This was happening tonight, come hell or high water. Go with it. Come on. It’s inevitable. We’re committed.
He pushed the second needle in slowly, taking his time, and she responded appropriately. First with a sigh, then a groan, and then she began swearing, doing everything she could to hold still, and and and she just couldn’t.
She shook, harder and harder, becoming less and less coherent as the needle gored its way through her flesh, the tender flesh she had erotic feelings in behind there not just a moment ago, maybe we’re going too fast, or not fast enough, get it over with, Christ, this was the place he could go to get her started getting worked up with the warm wet of his mouth, and here, no, ouch, this hurt, and it hurt in no uncertain way, that’s not what this patch of pretty flesh is for, please dear god, stop, no, I’m begging you, and she groaned louder and louder until the sharp bit poked through, godmotherfuckingdamnitalltofuckinghell that hurt.
Not there yet. They’d gone further than this before in other ways; this was the warmups.
Her head shook as he put his hand to her other breast and she began murmuring to him, escalating to please stop as he see-sawed the next one in, pumping it in, this wasn’t what she thought it would be, no, god damn it, and the invasion began again on the other side of her chest, on his favorite breast, how can you do that to me, please, god damn it, starting it in, pulling it back out just a little, going in at a slightly different angle, increasing the damage, and she babbled on and on, panting, pleading with him to untie her and take her back to bed, please, and she begged and she offered him oral sex, she offered to lick his ass, she offered to drink his piss if he would please only please stop, and she thrashed and did everything she could to back far enough away from him in the door frame, it hurt, and her arms kept her there, stretched, her “Y” now angular, the ropes to the corners made it so she couldn’t get away not far enough away god damn it and she cried she actually cried real tears, god god god god god.
She looked up in his eyes and saw his expectant look, what was it he wanted to happen here, shit, and she stilled and tipped her head and without her say-so, without her command, without her god damn permission, she felt her head nod, and it fucking began again.
God, this was good. This time, she screamed at the top of her lungs. Her sentence structure lost cohesion. She bled.
By the time the fifth needle was half-way through, she tried, god she was trying and it was so hard, how many did he god damn have, somewhere from what must have been the mush that was left in her brain, it hurt so god damn bad—it had to—and he could see it before the memory bubbled up that she remembered the word, the word she hated, the one she had prided herself on never saying out loud except when he would ask her if she remembered what it was, and she called it. She called it and she called it and she god damn called it. He frosted over, he paled, he quit breathing. The step too far wasn’t a step, it wasn’t a mile, it wasn’t a league: it was a displacement of magnitude. How could you to this to me, why can’t you see what’s happening here you bastard. Fuck this. Fuck you. Fuck fuck fuck me.
Cinnamon palomino flugelhorn whisky foliage apples bananas quail red red red red red red motherfucking motherfucker red.
The needles hurt—surprisingly a lot—on their way out of her, too, and he had problems releasing her from the door frame. He had to cut her down. She was dead weight.
###
SHE SEEMED to be swooning to his ministrations—god, how the fuck how, the room spun hard to the left, then hard to the right, stupid ceiling stupid bed stupid floor stupid walls won’t stay still, and god damn if her boobs must hurt, but damn if he wasn’t doing something right—what he would do to her when he was in trouble, it’d be better if you did the dishes instead of this sometimes, but this is okay, too, screw the dishes, and she pulled him up toward her, please, let me put my arms around you, come to me, please.
His erection had managed a weak standing; pleasing her sex always did something for him, when she would moan the way she would when she liked something, liked this, and how she would reposition herself, to make herself more available, yes, this he still liked, too, and and it was all an asinine idea, I’m sorry honey, I won’t ask that of you again, and as he was crawling up toward her, his face was drenched with her and she couldn’t see his own tears in the wet, and her hands stopped him right above her breasts, right above where he had laid waste to her, and she she she pulled him down toward them, toward the good one, to the one she always gave him first, and she repositioned him and herself, yes, kiss me, kiss me there, put your mouth on my tit, and she pulled him onto herself and she pulled gently but without question—how much more obvious can she make it?—as to what she wanted him to do.
Really? I don’t know that I can.
Yes. Really. Yes, you can.
Reluctantly, he closed his mouth around her wounds, and she flinched and he tried to pull away and she wouldn’t let him: she pulled him toward her her oh my god her h-heart.
“Suck me.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it was the right whisper, not the one when she was genuinely scared like during those horrible horror movies he made her watch so she would clutch him—the bastard—and they would end up giggling, it was the sound she made when she was genuinely in love, in lust, in need.
How the fuck how.
Who the fuck cares.
He drew her nipple into his mouth and tentatively licked and applied the gentlest pressure he could.
The forces of pain and need arched her underneath him, forcing her breast further into his mouth, as she forcibly held his head in place.
“Hard—oh god—harder.”
He applied the same amount of pressure, and she writhed beneath him.
“More, you fucking bastard; more!”
The world drew up around him, around his face, and all there was on earth was her flesh in his mouth, and he attacked her, pulling her nipple in and applying as much suction as he could: his face hurt, his jaw hurt, his tongue hurt down to the root from all the pressure he was pulling on her with. His head shook from the exertion and he did not let her go.
She screamed, much louder than she had when she was upright, standing, helpless, pierced, defeated, and he sucked hard, like he was trying to rip her tit off her chest.
And she pulled him down onto her so he could do just that.
The rod between his legs insisted he make another motion, and when he got there, when he got his cock into her cunt, when he got home, the feel of his hardon was what she was needing and it was there for her and her mouth fell open for another reason and she was dripping, sopping, soaked, and he took her, and she drew him in and she coaxed him on, wrapping her legs around him back to where they had started this evening and she didn’t have her hands available to hold him then but she did now or was it this morning god and she cried throughout the affair as he fucked her and she squirmed and he fucked her like a whore and she fucked him back and he fucked her like he had to and he fucked her like he hadn’t fucked her since either one of them could remember when, as if they hadn’t made love in a year or three, even if it was just this morning, and he tormented her breasts and she screamed and she bellowed and she wailed and she cried and he cried, too, it had happened, god bless you, he got what he needed, what can I do for you, tell me, I love you, and she wouldn’t pull away and she wouldn’t push him away and she wouldn’t recriminate him and she shouted how much she loved him and she gave herself over to him and she took all that he dished out onto her and she swore how she would do this again for him god damn me all to fucking hell yes and how he would do this again for her yes I love you yes yes yes because because because of what she was—fuck me—what she finally showed him at the doorway, no, not the doorway, here, here where it mattered, in bed, in bed with him, and she was his, she was h-his slut, and in that, they were agreed.
“My bitch.”
“Your bitch. My master.”
Oh, how the world should know the fuck of this.
###
Notes.
ADMIRATIONS AND acknowledgements are due to the amazing and fabulous Slaves of Aldonze, known to the world as My Bitch B, My Bitch E, My Bitch C, and, of course, My Bitch A, whose early hard needling images—particularly the one where she was in the doorway—are part of what inspired this story.
Inoxydable: the French word for stainless steel.
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