“Can I come in?” he asked.
His tone sounded more like an order than a request. The darkness outside the car louder than the
absence of her answer. He pulled her shy
hand to the hardness of his dick. It
made her remember the night they drank half a bottle of pisco and danced
flamenco in her living room. The way he
forced her legs open with one hand, his mouth clamped onto her breast making
her cum with her dress still on. Her
drunken struggles had been futile. She had
tried closing her legs, but he always found a way to pry them open. Her every “no” and the sad struggle in her
eyes were dutifully ignored. She was
trapped in that forbidden place between sweetness and poison and the sound of
Taiwanese love songs stifling her sighs.
A surgeon, his job was to save people’s lives, but somewhere latent
under that boyish smile and friendly chuckle, was something callous that made
her wet and unloved.
He was a mystery; a suspicious youth embalmed his soft flesh,
and the slant of his eyes fell so suddenly you could almost see wickedness
seeping out of the corners. But for the
most part, his face sat motionless and so it was impossible to tell if he had
feelings, including the slightly deviant ones harboured in his hands. For this is what made her close her legs not
as tightly as she could have, and to never pronounce the word “no” too decisively. She wanted to fuck everything that could not
be easily deciphered, and linger there in that purgatory of desire and
disinterest.
“Can I come in?” his whisper a deafening blow between her
legs.
She feared being simple.
She wished she could be just as enigmatic in retaliation. But she had long succumbed to his aloofness, which
made her dumb and compliant.
As they crossed the street towards her building, he walked
several steps ahead, a surreal way of racing towards a future that is already
there. From behind, she watched the
hunger in his pace and rejoiced at the fact that he wanted her pussy. Only that.
Remembering that dogs can only be unleashed by their owners,
she kept her heels on inside. The metal
straps digging into her painful ankles were reminiscent of the foot-binding
China she often fantasized about. With him, there was no need nor use to make
decisions or to even have desires. She
became vacant, yet full of flesh and wet pussy.
She slipped into his arms with an eagerness that made her
slightly embarrassed. His lips were plump and excruciating in taste, a bed of
warm flesh of an unfathomable perfection not unlike the whiskey he sedated her
with. She could hang from his mouth all
night, swaying in the corrupt texture of his biblical lips, while his vicious
hands reached far into her thighs, deciphering secret slopes that promised
passage to her clit. Like candle wax
before a fire, her ass poured into his hands, making his grip full and heavy
with her want. She was compliant to
everything, a slave to that dick that fucked her mouth as she sat with naked
breasts, in a short skirt and black high heels with straps so tight they tore
into her skin. She had no memory of who
she was, her sole purpose in life was to suck his dick and keep her legs open
for his eyes.
He turned her over and placed a condom on the wooden ironing
board before her. But so simple she was
not.
“I don’t want to have sex,” she said. And then walked into her room.
He followed her in, in
defiant silence. His eyes tight and
impartial as always. For a second, it is
possible that he felt uneasy. He perhaps
saw that he was trapped on her bed, the only place where she could safely
corner men into her pussy - a remarkably tight space that made it hard to
breathe, except for when she swallowed.
His pants off, she could see the sweet thickness of his
thighs, and somewhere between would sit the warm scent of his anus. He undid the straps of her shoes but never
once attempted to remove her skirt. His
skin, warm and dry, washed into her, and his lips cradled into safety all of her
dreams and fermented thoughts. Their
bodies twisted and rubbed in a murderous exchange of unchaste flesh and distance. She wanted to spend the rest of her life
there with him on his back and her head between his legs, savouring all the
moisture that lived from his asshole to his cock. She stayed there for a long time, her tongue
wandering drunkenly, unable to purge itself of its vice.
“I’m going to fuck
you,” he said with that dictatorial softness that made her so disturbingly
tame.
A somber wave crashed inside. She had nightmares of the sort that Catholic
girls have, and she only masturbated under the bed covers to make sure God
wouldn’t see her. But he appeared to know nothing about God. Or perhaps he could smell the longing
emanating from her pussy every time his dick came close. And so in that invasive melancholy that
choked her words, he lay her on her side and filled her pussy with his dick, deaf
to all the no’s that escaped her breath. An
agonizing sadness mixed with pleasure and addiction spread through her body. The air felt thick and dry, and the warmth of
his cock soothed her insides making her pussy sour and supple like raw fish
under lemon.
Not long had passed until he must have seen the distress in
her eyes. “I’m going to stop,” he
threatened. But it was already too late
and impossible to amend her broken prayers.
He got off her pussy with the same ease he used to come in and
propped on his elbow facing her calmly as she gasped for air. An impish smile sat placidly on his face, and
all he did was lie there watching her pant and struggle from the
withdrawal. It made him proud to see
that he had fucked her well, that even if it had made her sad, she had liked
it.
“I told you I didn’t want to do that,” she said trying to
sound playful.
He didn’t move. He
didn’t care. “I already stopped,” was
his only reply.
“But I didn’t want to do it.” She struggled with
herself.
“It was just a little bit, so you could see what it’s
like.” His wicked grin still towering
over her, his drooping eyes still motionless. “It was good, wasn’t it?”
She nodded slowly, still searching for her breath.
