by Jade West
Until she’s done.
Until she’s mine.
Fucking mine.
I hear the wetness of my dick in my hand. It’s slick. Hard.
Dangerous.
My cock is a fucking weapon. Mariana made it so – begged for it to be so.
But it’s not Mariana I want tonight. It’s Abigail.
Two weeks and her skin will feel every inch of mine. Two weeks until she’ll whimper and beg and scream for me. She can fight me with everything she’s got, but it won’t matter.
She’ll suffer for her salvation, just as I’ll suffer for mine, cursed with needs I can’t ignore. Needs no man should have. Mariana jacked me up and got me hooked, an addict to her filthy fetishes, damned to hunt like a beast in the darkness.
My hand tightens around my cock. The piercings ripple under my skin. I grip so hard it hurts, just like Abigail will.
Scared pussy always hurts so fucking bad.
Scared pussy always fights.
And scared pussy always tastes the best.
Forcing my way inside her will be fucking divine. Leaving marks on her pale skin will be divine.
Breaking her open will be my divine fucking pleasure.
And then, when she’s nothing but tatters on the floor, her face a mess of soil and tears, her pussy used and gaping. Raw. Exposed. Maybe then she’ll be broken enough to pick up the pieces.
And maybe I’ll be broken enough to pick up mine.
The catharsis is addictive. My breaths rough and shoulders braced as I stare into the black world outside.
The twinkling lights disappear as I slip into the abyss.
My cock is throbbing, the barbells hurting so fucking good.
I love the way my ridges feel against my fingers.
I love the way they’ll feel inside her cunt. I love the way they’ll hurt before they feel good.
I’ll make her come regardless, even if she doesn’t think she can. Even if her pussy cries in protest. Even if she hates how dirty it makes her feel.
I’ll make her feel so fucking dirty.
One night.
One wild night. Crazy night. Desperate night.
I tip my head back, stifling my grunts with Serena so close next door. My fist is frantic, brutal as I shunt my hips toward the glass.
Gonna leave my handprints over her pretty pale tits.
Gonna lick the tears from her cheeks.
Gonna make her beg me to stop.
Gonna hurt her so bad she won’t stop coming.
I grunt as my cock jerks. The first stream of cum jets onto the window glass.
And another, and another as I swear under my breath.
Gonna make her realise that beasts come after bait.
Gonna make her realise that meeting some stranger online was a stupid fucking mistake.
For both of us.
Abigail
I wake up late.
I sit upright as I fathom the unthinkable.
I slept through.
My breath is even. My pillows are dry.
My pussy…is…. not.
I’m soaking through my knickers. My thighs are clammy.
My clit tingles.
Fuck.
I reach for my phone. My email notifications show twenty-five unread messages. I scroll through them all, not giving a shit about any of them.
I scroll all the way until I see his picture, just to check he’s really real.
Phoenix Burning.
There it is. I breathe in relief.
His username suits him. He looks like he could set the world on fire.
Set me on fire.
My smile feels goofy and fucked up but I don’t care.
It’s one glimmer of hope in the darkness. One tiny glimpse at authenticity.
My soul soars from the ashes.
Phoenix.
The bird from the fire. The bird who rises from the flames.
My heart still feels like lead, but it’s beating.
And I want it to. For once, I want it to.
Two weeks.
I scroll back through our messages, my mind whirring at the sight of my confession in the cold light of day.
He asked and I told him. I told him my secrets and he answered right back.
I zoom in as much as I can on his profile image. I try raising my phone screen brightness, and that helps a little.
His features really are dark, but there’s more. His skin looks inked. A hint of shapes on his neck. So many shapes.
Maybe I’m imagining it.
Maybe.
I force myself to stop before I see too much. I shouldn’t see anything.
He’s just a monster in the darkness. He’s just a hand around my throat. Muscle against my back.
He’s a long, thick cock forcing its way inside me.
He’s filthy words in my ear as he makes me take him.
I put a hand on my belly, but there is no ache there today. I pull my knees to my chest and the stupid gesture doesn’t make me sob.
Two weeks.
Two weeks to prove I really want this.
Him.
A monster.
My monster.
I call up a fresh message on my laptop. The circle next to his profile picture is grey. Offline.
My fingers move so easily. My words are at odds with the summer sunlight beaming through the blinds.
It used to be a monster. Fur and fangs and claws. I never saw him, but he was big. He’d chase me through my dreams until I’d wake up screaming. Every night.
I tried everything to get rid of it. Early bed times. No TV. No stupid horror stories.
It didn’t make any difference.
Panic and excitement are two sides of the same coin, so they say. I don’t know when I started getting confused between the two. Puberty, I guess.
Have you seen Bram Stoker’s Dracula? That film with Gary Oldman where he turns into a big wolf creature and fucks the girl in red on a gravestone?
I saw that before I should. Not at my house, but at a friend’s. It was dark enough that I could hide my blushes. Dark enough that I could hide the way I was rocking in my seat and couldn’t stop.
I was lucky, because I don’t think I could have stopped if I’d wanted to.
That was the first thing I ever came over. Biting into a pillow with my heart racing, feeling so fucking disgusting at the thought of being taken by some evil half-beast.
Maybe that was the beginning of this whole thing, I dunno. Those years were pretty confusing.
I felt so guilty after that, that I’d make sure I screamed louder when I woke up, just to convince myself I still hated them. But I didn’t.
I don’t know when the monster stopped having fur and fangs and claws. I don’t know when I first knew he was a man.
I don’t know exactly when I started waking up in the morning with wet knickers and my fingers on my clit, but when it started it didn’t stop.
I’ve thought so much about what the man will do to me when he catches me, but in my dreams it’s never happened. Not yet.
I’m sick of fighting what I want. I’m sick of pretending I don’t crave the things I crave.
When these dreams came back a few months ago it was the greatest relief of my life. But they aren’t enough.
Not anymore.
I need this for real.
Even if it’s just once.
I take a breath. My insides feel exposed. Awkward.
Uncomfortable.
But I like it.
Please, I type and my belly flips.
Please give me what I need.
I sign out before I can obsess about him coming back online.
And then, for the first time in weeks, I call my mum.
Phoenix
When the alarm wakes me up on Saturday morning, I’m not sure what I’m most afraid of – whether she’ll message or whether she won’t.
Maybe she’ll come to her senses and bail on the reckless idea. Maybe it would be
for the best if she did.
It’s only when I’m lying there pondering the outcome that I realise the sky is blue outside my window.
I don’t usually notice the sky is blue.
It’s a strange observation.
My dick is hard enough that it aches. I’ve wrapped my fingers around it without a second thought, and that’s a strange observation too.
A run.
I need a run.
My chest doesn’t feel constricted as I lace up my running boots. My strides don’t feel pained as I spring out from the porch and skirt the side of the pool. Today I even look at it on my way past.
Today I wonder what it would be like to get it serviced again for Cameron and me.
I hate the pool. It usually seems so… soulless. Just another painful reminder.
But not today.
For the first time in months I take my time at the top of the Malverns. I pause a little bit longer, breathe that little bit deeper. I watch a car weave its way through town below and out the other side. My eyes follow it all the way.
I nod at a couple on the footpath. I point a man in the direction of his runaway dog as he races on up to the Beacon.
And then I send off a message to my dispatch manager to tell him I won’t be in for the Saturday morning shift today.
I’d chide myself for recklessness if I wasn’t well aware of the truth – I normally convince myself I’m needed there, but it’s bullshit. It’s been bullshit for months.
There’s less of an anti-climax when I head back down the hill track for home this morning. Cameron is already up when I get in, sitting in his high chair as Serena pours his cereal.
“He was an early riser today,” she tells me, and she isn’t kidding. I figure he’s at least an hour early until I check the clock.
No. Forty minutes of that is down to me.
My boy looks happy with himself, scrolling through the channels on the TV remote even though his favourite is on channel one. I normally do it for him. Seemingly that was an error on my part.
I watch him pressing the buttons, more than capable of navigating the menu.
Choices.
He’s making active choices.
Baby-steps outside the norm.
And why wouldn’t he? He’s perfectly capable of making his own TV choices.
If only I’d let him.
“Hey, champ. Daddy’s staying home today,” I tell him. “We can go feed the ducks. Maybe grab an ice-cream. You’d like that, right?”
His smile is bright and easy. His dimples take my breath.
My equilibrium wobbles but holds.
“Not going in?” Serena asks, and I shake my head.
“It’s a nice day. They can cover it.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Are you feeling okay?”
It surprises me to find that I am.
Or I am until she flashes me a guilty expression.
“What’s up?” I ask on instinct.
She doesn’t answer, just flicks through the pages of her Saturday newspaper on the worktop. Like that shit’s gonna cut it.
“What’s that look for?” I prompt, and she sighs.
She fishes her phone from her dressing gown pocket and hands it over. My mood shrivels to nothing as I see the message icon flashing.
“You didn’t? Just tell me that you didn’t.”
But she won’t. Of course she won’t.
She can’t.
I click to read her messages, and sure enough there’s a string from Jake.
Ash.
He calls himself Ash now, for the sake of my prolonged misery as much as his own.
“He had a right to know about the offer,” she insists, but I shake my head.
“He has no right to anything,” I snap. “Nothing, Serena. Not one goddamn thing.”
I keep my tone in check for Cam’s sake, gritting my teeth behind him as he remains oblivious.
“He wants to talk,” she hisses, like I’m the one who’s fucking unreasonable here.
Maybe I am.
“I don’t,” I tell her. “I made my decision. I told them I’m not selling, and I’m not. End of story. Job done.”
“And what if Jake has other ideas?”
I shrug. “Not my problem. I’m the main signatory.”
Serena’s eyes are dark brown oceans of fuck you when she folds her newspaper up. She props her weight on one hip and flashes me the lip curl.
“You two need your heads banging together,” she tells me and then she sighs. “Please, Leo. Please just speak to him.”
I shake my head. “It’s Phoenix,” I point out, but she closes her eyes.
“Leo, please. Please. Just speak to him. We can’t go on like this. None of us can. Not you, not me, not Jake, either. Or Cam.”
I flinch as she says my boy’s name.
“We’re good,” I snap, even though it’s a lie.
Cameron finally decides on a channel. It’s not the one I was expecting. Monkeys run up a tree. Some documentary thing.
Hell, the world has jumped an inch on its axis somewhere.
“We need to start living again,” Serena continues, oblivious. “Please, Leo. Please let us start living again.”
The pain is back in my gut at the thought.
The flames are back under my skin as our eyes meet across the room.
Determined meets furious, but this time I bite my tongue. This time I stay exactly where I am, with Cameron’s documentary playing in the background, and the sun still shining in through the kitchen window.
Let us start living again.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. My heart jumps in my chest.
“Leo?” Serena prompts again. “Will you talk to him?”
I call up my notifications and sure enough there is a little number 1 next to my hook-up message inbox.
Let us start living again.
Serena’s eyes are pleading. Desperate.
Cameron turns up the volume on his documentary.
And I stop. Think.
Living again.
Maybe she’s right.
I call up my contact list before I can think better of it.
Six
Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.
Norman Cousins
Abigail
I’ve been in my apartment three months already without so much as waving to a neighbour, but today feels different. I’ve seen her in the communal hallway before – an older woman with short blonde hair. Up until now I’ve always hung back and kept my distance.
She’s fishing her keys from her handbag with her shopping on the floor when I step outside and pull my door closed behind me. She looks my way and smiles, and I smile back.
And then I say it.
“Hi.”
“Hello,” she says. She pushes her key in the lock. “I’m Sarah.”
“Abigail,” I tell her.
She smiles. And then she’s gone.
It’s strange how the tiniest little actions can feel so significant. There’s a strange tickle in my chest as I head downstairs and step out onto Church Street.
Sarah. A neighbour. A neighbour with a name.
And with that my fate feels sealed – I really do live here.
I take a deep breath as I head into High Town, walking with purpose. Walking like I belong here.
Maybe for now I do.
Today the world looks a little bit different. I feel a tiny shift in the universe. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. A sliver of life amongst the numbness.
A ribbon of excitement.
I’d almost forgotten what excitement felt like.
There is one thing to be said for having no life but misery for months on end. My bank balance is healthy, even on a massive pay cut. My apartment is smaller than the one I left behind. My diet here has been minimal and basic, without the added cost of social dining racking up over the weeks.
Strangely enough
, if I’m honest with myself, there is something to be said for a minimal existence. I miss so much, but I don’t miss things. I don’t miss my overflowing wardrobe, or the entire rainbow collection of nail varnishes displayed on a rack. I don’t miss the drawers full of old paperwork and junk mail and odds and ends. I don’t even miss the scatter cushions I’d compulsively update every season.
I arrived here with nothing but the bare bones for starting over. Right now that seems okay.
Bare bones can surely be the building blocks for something new.
I find myself walking past the homewares stores I’d have squealed over once upon a time. I skirt by a stationery shop that would have been an Aladdin’s Cave to me back in Hampshire. I don’t know where I’m going, or what I’m looking for, but I keep on walking, keep on heading somewhere.
Anywhere.
And for the first time in an age I notice the people. Walking, talking, checking their phones, oblivious to the world around them, just as I was.
I notice the smell of fresh bread drifting from the bakery on the corner.
I notice the way the sun breaks through a lazy streak of clouds.
The way the cobbles turn to tarmac under my heels as I take a left at the end of the street.
The sound of the pedestrian crossing bleeping up ahead.
The way it feels to breathe.
And I smile.
I smile because a stranger asked a simple question, and then he heard me.
I smile because someone found me in the darkness and didn’t try to switch the light on.
I smile because a man who calls himself Phoenix Burning offered me something I’ve never had.
And then my smile is all gone.
I guess it’s the way the guy’s hair blows from his eyes. The way his nose is Roman and his eyes are blue. The way he moves, so familiar. So much like Stephen.
I guess it’s the way he’s looking at her – the girl at his side. Looking at her the way I thought Stephen looked at me.
I guess it’s the pushchair – the one I’d picked out for myself.
Their baby is wearing white knitted booties. His eyes are tight shut. His fingers so small.
They pass by so closely I can smell her perfume.
It smells like everything I ever wanted.