by Mia Asher
Hardness against softness.
Purgatory of my soul. Heaven of my flesh.
“Put your cock in me,” I moan, tilting my head back as Lawrence begins to shower my neck with deep kisses that feel like small heartbeats on my skin, reviving my body with his mouth. Urgently, I take his dick out of his underwear while he pulls the scrap of lace covering my wet pussy to the side and sinks into me in one smooth and deep thrust. I gasp. He groans. And then we get lost in the cursed and prohibited pagan dance of our bodies.
Lawrence closes his eyes and lowers his head against my chest, moving his hips furiously. The harder he thrusts, the easier it is to forget him. The easier it is to pretend that this is what I want.
This is need.
This is cruelty.
This is hunger.
This is total obliteration.
Matching him thrust for thrust, I feel an earthquake of sensation about to shake my body from the inside out. My ears ringing and my core vibrating, I don’t think I can hold on much longer.
“Oh shit, Lawrence … I-I’m … oh fuck,” I groan.
“Touch yourself. Rub your pussy for me,” he whispers, looking down to where we’re joined.
Intoxicated with lust, I lean back on my elbow, offering myself to him as I slip my hand between us. And while I watch the intoxicating visual of his glistening cock pumping in and out of me, I spread my lips open with two of my fingers and begin to rub my clit in circles. I moan as the tempo of my touch grows faster … furious … merciless … making me even wetter than I already am.
“Fuck … Blaire,” he breathes, increasing the speed of his thrusts. His cock becomes a blur as it leaves and enters me over and over and over again, bringing me closer to the skies.
Our bodies soar in ecstasy with the power of our orgasm, climaxing together. We stare at each other, his eyes a bright bonfire as the frenzy of our hearts slows down and our labored breathing goes back to normal. With his hardness still pulsing inside of me, Lawrence brushes the hair stuck to my cheek. “You make hell feel like heaven, Blaire.”
For a brief moment, a veil is removed from Lawrence’s eyes and I’m able to see a sliver of his soul—beautiful yet so full of naked yearning and pain that it takes my breath away. It shakes me to the core.
Before I have a chance to reply, he pulls out and takes a step back, his soul hidden behind a cool and calculating gaze once more.
He extends his hand, offering me help. “Let’s go upstairs and get clean.”
I stand, look down, and notice the sorry state of my dress. “My poor Versace,” I say, meeting his gaze and smiling. “At least it died a good death.”
As I watch him walking next to me, my body trembling from satisfaction and my mind confused by our exchange, I realize that he never answered my question regarding Ronan.
Tonight I let a man fuck my brains out so he could eradicate a different man from my heart. I’ve done it before but, this time, it didn’t work. Ronan was everywhere. In every kiss and every touch. He still is.
Why did Ronan have to come back into my life and screw everything up? He was supposed to be a thing of the past. He wasn’t supposed to make me doubt myself. I thought I had moved on, but seeing him again shattered all my idiotic illusions that I had conquered my feelings for him. If anything, it proved how deep he engraved himself within me.
Why?
Why?
Naked, I’m sitting up on the bed with my back against the headboard. I’m cold to the bone but I don’t bother putting my underwear back on. What’s the point? Clothes are a waste of time when I’m here because I’m getting paid to fuck and to be fucked. Besides, the cold feels good. It numbs everything.
I look down and stare at the unsuspecting man sleeping next to me as I try to convince myself that this is what makes me happy. But as I watch the night shadows dancing on his beautiful back, I know it’s all a lie.
As I continue to stare at Lawrence, I wish for another man’s kisses, my senses drunk with memories of a man who isn’t here.
Suddenly an idea comes over me, making my heart beat hard and fast.
I don’t know …
Trying not to think of what I’m about to do, I take one last look at Lawrence and get out of bed.
Ronan
Earlier that night …
DONE WITH WORK FOR THE DAY, I walk to my usual subway station and begin the commute back to my empty apartment. I nod at Joe, the ticket seller sitting in the booth at the foot of the stairs, as I take my wallet out of my back pocket and grab my MetroCard. I swipe it through the turnstile in one swift move and try to walk through, but it seems that today isn’t my fucking day. Instead of the usual “Go” appearing on the screen, it says, “Please swipe again.” I swipe my card angrily; one, two, three more times.
Please swipe again.
Please swipe again.
Please swipe again.
This is just fucking great. It seems that my day is going from bad to shit-tastic. For a short moment, I wonder if the universe is conspiring against me, or having a laugh at my expense. Probably both. What better time to kick a man than when he’s down.
Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair and realize that I’m taking out my anger on the wrong subject. I take a deep breath and, calmer, try swiping the card again. This time, the word “Go” lights up the screen and I’m able to walk through the turnstile.
A creature of habit, I go to my spot by the torn poster of a Broadway show and wait for my train to arrive. In this urban underground world where the air is humid and everyone wishes to be anywhere but here, I observe the people standing on the platform and wonder what kind of monsters they are battling. I wonder if they see me and realize that they are staring at the leftovers of the man I used to be. I doubt it, though. Who the fuck gives a shit?
As the train approaches, an image of Blaire’s black hair blowing across her face as she laughed at something I said while a different train sped by flashes through my eyes. Rubbing my chest, where my heart should be, I enjoy the numbness there. It makes it easier to breathe.
I find an empty seat. Maybe my luck is turning, after all. Loosening my tie, I recline my head back against the glass and let the familiar vibration of the moving cart relax me. And as tired as I am, part of me doesn’t want to go home. On a normal day, my apartment reminds me of her, but tonight, after seeing her for the first time in weeks, it will be a fucking nightmare. I can’t be there. I remember my friend Edgar mentioning that he had an upcoming exhibit of his paintings when I saw him the other day. I grab my messenger bag, pull out my phone, and send him a text as soon as I have reception again.
Me: Dude. Is tonight your exhibit?
As I wait for his reply, I look up and notice that a pretty redhead is watching me. When our eyes connect, she smiles at me sweetly as a faint blush covers her cheeks, looking all sorts of lovely. Nothing like the smile of a pretty girl to raise one’s spirit. I smile back and feel my phone vibrate.
Edgar: It’s tonight, bro. And your pretty mug better be there. Alicia is bringing her friend, that model from Victoria’s you banged last summer. Do you remember her? Apparently, she hasn’t forgotten about you.
Of course I remember her. It would be close to impossible to forget the things that woman could do with her mouth. However, the memory does nothing for me. My fingers hovering on the screen, I’m about to tell him to forget about it when I realize that Blaire is probably going to fuck Lawrence at some point tonight, if she isn’t already. Gripping my phone tighter, my knuckles turn white as the thought of Blaire and Lawrence together fills my entire being with pure hatred. My mind swirls with memories of us and fabricated images of them as one. I can picture her on her knees riding his cock, moaning like a bitch in heat, her long black hair touching his thighs. She throws her head back, lost in sensation, but not before her traitorous eyes lure him to believe that he’s the one—the only one. And I know this because I was once fool enough to fall under that same spell.
But not anymore—not anymore.
Me: Send me the details. I’ll be there.
I stand outside the gallery, smoking a cigarette, and watch a group of women and men in their early thirties opening the door and going in. Laughter and the buzz of chatter momentarily fill my ears as they walk past me, their expensive perfume lingering in the air after they’ve gone inside. Burying a hand inside my front pocket, I observe them getting swallowed by a sea of people standing on the other side of the floor to ceiling glass windows.
They’re all gathered there with their deep pockets, ready to shell out over a million dollars per painting to celebrate the success of my friend Edgar Juarez—the man of the moment and the new darling of the art scene in New York City. The true American dream. According to a profile written about him in an acclaimed art magazine, he was born in Port Chester, New York, to a single mother, a Mexican immigrant, calling his home the four walls of the one bedroom he shared with her. His mother spent her days cleaning the houses of the rich so she could provide food and shelter for her son, and her nights, her body exhausted and full of calluses, dreaming that he would grow up to be a man with a chance for a bright future.
One day, she had to bring him to work. Edgar went with her, happy for the rare chance to spend more time with his mother. In the living room, he was sketching on a notepad when the lady of the house walked in and saw him and his drawing. A lover of art, she immediately recognized his raw talent, and the rest is history. Now, he makes more money than he ever dreamed of and, most importantly, he makes enough so that his mother doesn’t have to work another day in her life.
I wonder how many of them are here tonight because they truly appreciate his work or because owning an Edgar Juarez is the in thing at the moment in our ever-changing, fickle society. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t change the fact that my friend has arrived and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
I’m happy for him, but feel like an intruder. And maybe a small part of me, a part whose voice keeps getting louder and louder, wishes that those people were there for me. That it was my name being celebrated and not his. Maybe if I’d had his success …
I tilt my head back as I blow smoke out of my mouth and stare at the black sky. The moon, serene queen of the night, burns brightly with its white fire that illuminates the dark cottony clouds around her. She’s lovely ruling in her desolate throne yet I can’t help but feel sadness when I stare at her. She’s up there: always a spectator, never a participant. An outsider looking in.
Like I was.
Like I am.
Like I will be.
It seems that all my life, I’ve been looking in from the outside. It never used to bother me. I never wanted more. I was happy, content,
But maybe I’m not being completely honest with myself. I’m changing, and the man I used to be is becoming more of a memory with each day that passes by.
I remember waiting by the car for Lawrence to come out of the Met when I first saw her. She was wrapped in the arms of another man, a man who looked at her as though she was a thing to be owned, to be possessed. I wondered what it would be like to have someone like her in my arms—what it would feel like.
At first sight, I knew she didn’t belong in my world. That women like her belonged in the arms of men like the blond man in the tuxedo. Powerful men with bank accounts big enough to buy small countries. I knew then that she was out of my league; that falling for a woman like her would only lead to my destruction. Even so, I couldn’t stop myself from momentarily thinking what if. It was the first time I’d wanted something that I couldn’t have—something unreachable. The first time I’d felt a stirring of something sinister in my chest, something that eats away at people, killing everything good inside of us.
Was it jealousy?
Envy?
Bitterness?
Yes. No. Maybe all of the above. Maybe none of the above. But what I do know is that it was the first time I resented my lot in life.
And it was all because of her.
But that’s the power that women yield on poor unsuspecting bastards. We go through life sort of numb, sort of alive, sort of content, sort of unhappy. Living life as only half humans until one day we meet a woman who completes us, who gives meaning to our pathetic existence and makes it worthwhile, enriching it with her laugh, with her smell, and the taste of her body. Days and nights spent with her become a string of moments embedded in our memory, never to be forgotten. She’s the air you breathe, the blood running in your veins. She is you as much as you are her, for she not only owns your body but she owns your soul. Until the day when she wakes up and realizes that you aren’t enough, that she wants something that you can’t offer her. So she leaves you, taking away not only your heart but your soul, too. And all you’re left with is the bitter taste of heartache.
I shake my head, smiling ruefully. Nothing like having a woman break one’s fucking heart to bring out the sad, pathetic poet inside all of us. I take one last drag of my cigarette and watch its tip blaze intensely before tossing it to the floor and stepping on it. Enough about Blaire and her witchcraft. Tonight, I plan to enjoy myself.
As I close the gap between the glass doors and me, there’s a tall woman with long blonde hair dressed in a tight black dress heading in my direction. We both stop a foot away from the metal handle bar. This close to her, it’s impossible not to admire the way her small tits outline the expensive silky material of her dress. When I lift my eyes to have a better look at her face, three things become obvious.
One: She’s hot as fuck.
Two: She’s watching me blatantly admire her without blinking an eye. But how could I not? It would be a crime not to. I lift a hand, running my fingers through my hair, and grin shamelessly.
And three: She’s older than me and in the prime of her life.
“Going in?” I ask.
Without saying a word, our gazes lock for a second or two before she looks away, dismissing me like an unwanted thought, and reaches for the door. I see her white, slender and perfectly manicured fingers wrap around the metal handle bar. Instinctively, I close my hand over hers and say, “No, please, allow me.”
She stares straight ahead and doesn’t move her hand. “I don’t need a man to open the door for me,” she says coolly, turning her head until her eyes meet mine. “I can do it myself.”
Ah. Even her voice is sophisticated like the rest of her. I’m not sure what comes over me, but I let go of the bar and reach for her hand, slowly peeling her fingers away one by one. Perhaps I just want to flirt with an attractive woman. Or perhaps she’s a challenge that I want to win.
Or perhaps I’m annoyed that I was so easily dismissed and I want to put her in her place by seducing her.
Turning her hand so her palm is facing upward, I lower my eyes and begin tracing a blue vein in her wrist, noticing how pale and soft her skin is there. “No doubt. But my father taught me good manners, you see, and old habits die hard.”
“What if I say no?” she asks, raising her chin as if she’s challenging me to change her mind.
I lift her wrist to my mouth. “I’d do it anyway.” I kiss the spot on her wrist where life flows through her veins and wait for a slap on the cheek that never comes. Instead, I feel a tremor run through her and it makes the bastard in me smile. Not so cool now, huh?
She stares at me for a moment and I take pleasure in the fact that she doesn’t remove her hand from mine. And then she smiles. A small smile that barely lifts the corners of her mouth.
“Go ahead, then, even though I should slap you for your forwardness.”
“You won’t, though, because deep down you know you love it.” I smile cheekily. Releasing her hand, I grab the door handle and open it. “After you, unless …”
We hear the buzz of people talking inside, beckoning us to go in. A man excuses himself when he walks past us, but neither of us seem to care what’s happening around us. Eyes on each other, we war silently.
The world stops spinni
ng.
Time comes to a halt.
Tension crowds the air we breathe.
I watch the small bump in her throat move ever so slightly as she swallows unsaid words. Then, she licks her coral colored lips, and images of her mouth wrapped around my cock flash in my mind.
“Unless what?”
“We don’t go inside and go somewhere else.”
“Where would that somewhere else be?”
I lift a hand and pull her hair to the side, revealing her porcelain-white shoulder, and caress it with the back of my hand. “My apartment.”
“And what would we do there?”
I lean down and kiss her shoulder. “Take a guess.”
Short of breath, her chest rises and falls rapidly. “I’m not in the mood to play games.”
“Yet I can practically smell you getting wet.” I close the space between us until I can feel her soft and supple body grazing mine, hardening my cock, and whisper in her ear, “But if you want me to spell it out for you, beautiful, so be it. If you leave with me now, we’re going back to my place to fuck. And it won’t be nice. And it won’t be pretty, but you’ll love every second of it.”
She takes a step back, putting some space between us. Placing my hands in the front pockets of my jeans, I watch her run her palms down her dress, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. It allows me to admire how graceful her movements are. With her icy beauty, she reminds me of a Russian ballerina, from the curve of her pale neck to the elegant curves of her body hidden behind black silk. Briefly, the thought crosses my mind that I’m asking a complete stranger to go back to my place to fuck, but I came here to forget and that’s exactly what I plan to do. With her or with someone else.