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Authors: By Rick R. Reed
Tags: Fiction
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overly excited. That way, you get rid of them sooner. You learn to welcome the “afterglow”: his remorse and desire to get away. She pats the bed beside her.
“What about light? Surely, you have some candles around.” Terence stands above her, and suddenly fear grips Elise. The dark shape of him, the smell of the leather, the chain around his neck, the thicker one around his waist. She has put herself in this submissive position carelessly, and now she wonders how vulnerable she is and what will happen to her. It would be so easy—he is, after all, a big man—for him to just reach down and hit her, pummel her face, strangle her. She shivers. Such scenes happen all over the place—every night. She should never have brought him here. She will become—she just knows it—another grim statistic.
Her lackadaisical attitude about life crumbles as her heartbeat picks up, thudding. A line of sweat forms at her hairline and her muscles flex, taut.
“We don’t need any light.” Her voice comes out, hoarse from fear, a croak. She thinks for a moment and then mumbles, unconvincingly, “The electricity’s out.”
“I think we do. And I’m paying. I call the shots.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I think you’re lying about the electricity being out.”
Elise tenses. “This is my place. I…” Before she has a chance to say anything further, he is moving toward the door, where the switch for the overhead light is.
“No!” Elise shrieks and runs toward him. “No.” She takes his arm and pulls it back. “I’ve got to have the darkness. Please.”
He reaches out, and Elise tries not to flinch at the coldness when he caresses her face, long fingernails sliding across her cheek like the tender touch of a switchblade applied lovingly. She continues to meet his gaze, supplicant and pleading. She doesn’t want him to see her art. It would be more of a violation than if he fucked her up the ass.
“All right. If it’s so important to you.”
When Terence reaches into his pocket, Elise expects a gun or knife, but all he has withdrawn is a small wooden pipe. It’s burled walnut and black, a skull carved into the bowl. It’s kind of beautiful, really, and, for just a moment, Elise forgets her trepidation, forgets what’s taking place here. The craftsmanship and the old wood, burnished to a dull glow, fascinate her artist’s eye. She then notices there’s a bud in its bowl. She breathes in, taking in the aroma of the resin.
It’s been years since she’s gotten high, partying days left behind long ago. College, art school, memories of another life. But the idea doesn’t seem so bad…perhaps the smoke will obscure the experience, cloud and befuddle her brain, allow her to get through this, anesthetized.
“Go ahead.” Terence hands her the pipe and silver lighter.
Elise fires up the bowl. In the flame, the hunger in Terence’s eyes is startling: more than lust, it encompasses and embodies him. Elise draws the smoke into her lungs quickly, holding it as she returns the pipe.
What has it been? Minutes? Hours? Elise has no idea. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. She is supposed to save all of her feelings for her art. These men are just a means to an end. She shouldn’t be feeling any kind of pleasure—or any emotion, really—with her tricks, they who are nothing more than commerce.
Yet her legs feel weighted, glued to the floor as the chill of his lips and tongue move up and down her thighs, exposing and caressing. Somehow, she has let go and buried her hands in his thick blond hair as he kneels before her, supplicant and instrument of a pleasure so intense Elise cannot consciously describe it. Her head lolls back and, for the first time, she hears herself sighing and whimpering. It’s almost as if she has stepped outside herself and these cries of pleasure—so intense—are coming from someone else.
His tongue moves up and inside her and for now, nothing else exists.
“What about light? Surely, you have some candles around.” Terence stands above her, and suddenly fear grips Elise. The dark shape of him, the smell of the leather, the chain around his neck, the thicker one around his waist. She has put herself in this submissive position carelessly, and now she wonders how vulnerable she is and what will happen to her. It would be so easy—he is, after all, a big man—for him to just reach down and hit her, pummel her face, strangle her. She shivers. Such scenes happen all over the place—every night. She should never have brought him here. She will become—she just knows it—another grim statistic.
Her lackadaisical attitude about life crumbles as her heartbeat picks up, thudding. A line of sweat forms at her hairline and her muscles flex, taut.
“We don’t need any light.” Her voice comes out, hoarse from fear, a croak. She thinks for a moment and then mumbles, unconvincingly, “The electricity’s out.”
“I think we do. And I’m paying. I call the shots.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I think you’re lying about the electricity being out.”
Elise tenses. “This is my place. I…” Before she has a chance to say anything further, he is moving toward the door, where the switch for the overhead light is.
“No!” Elise shrieks and runs toward him. “No.” She takes his arm and pulls it back. “I’ve got to have the darkness. Please.”
He reaches out, and Elise tries not to flinch at the coldness when he caresses her face, long fingernails sliding across her cheek like the tender touch of a switchblade applied lovingly. She continues to meet his gaze, supplicant and pleading. She doesn’t want him to see her art. It would be more of a violation than if he fucked her up the ass.
“All right. If it’s so important to you.”
When Terence reaches into his pocket, Elise expects a gun or knife, but all he has withdrawn is a small wooden pipe. It’s burled walnut and black, a skull carved into the bowl. It’s kind of beautiful, really, and, for just a moment, Elise forgets her trepidation, forgets what’s taking place here. The craftsmanship and the old wood, burnished to a dull glow, fascinate her artist’s eye. She then notices there’s a bud in its bowl. She breathes in, taking in the aroma of the resin.
It’s been years since she’s gotten high, partying days left behind long ago. College, art school, memories of another life. But the idea doesn’t seem so bad…perhaps the smoke will obscure the experience, cloud and befuddle her brain, allow her to get through this, anesthetized.
“Go ahead.” Terence hands her the pipe and silver lighter.
Elise fires up the bowl. In the flame, the hunger in Terence’s eyes is startling: more than lust, it encompasses and embodies him. Elise draws the smoke into her lungs quickly, holding it as she returns the pipe.
What has it been? Minutes? Hours? Elise has no idea. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. She is supposed to save all of her feelings for her art. These men are just a means to an end. She shouldn’t be feeling any kind of pleasure—or any emotion, really—with her tricks, they who are nothing more than commerce.
Yet her legs feel weighted, glued to the floor as the chill of his lips and tongue move up and down her thighs, exposing and caressing. Somehow, she has let go and buried her hands in his thick blond hair as he kneels before her, supplicant and instrument of a pleasure so intense Elise cannot consciously describe it. Her head lolls back and, for the first time, she hears herself sighing and whimpering. It’s almost as if she has stepped outside herself and these cries of pleasure—so intense—are coming from someone else.
His tongue moves up and inside her and for now, nothing else exists.
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