Sloth

by Ella James

  “Does it feel as good as I do?” He shifts his hips, and I notice the huge hose of his dick straining against his pants.

  He rubs his big palm up and down it. “You want this, don’t you, Cleo?” He wraps his hand around his head and with his other hand, he pulls the dildo out of me.

  My clit throbs so hard my legs fall open. I lift my hips and Kellan blurs.

  He strokes my hair. “You want me to push inside your cunt. To fill you with my cock, give you every inch of me. Am I right, my little slut?”

  My throat stings. “Yes...”

  He leans down over me, and the ropes around my ankles tug as he adjusts the bar to spread my legs wider.

  I watch him take his pants off. His dick is so huge, it has to curve to stay inside his charcoal boxer-briefs. My mouth waters as he frees it from the fabric. It springs up against his smooth, tanned six-pack. The girth makes me moan. The head of him is pearled with pre-cum.

  “I can stuff you full of cock. My cock would love to stretch you open. I can see this cunt is hungry for me.”

  He leans down and runs his fingers through my sopping slit. My hips come off the bed.

  I’m dying as I watch him roll another condom on, too slow. He spreads my lips. He edges closer to me, as if my pussy and his dick are connected by an invisible fuck string. Then he takes his monster cock in hand and rubs the swollen head against my core.

  I scream.

  “What a filthy little whore.” His eyes burn mine. “Just aching for my cock, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, please. Please!”

  He rubs his thumb over my clit.

  “Oh God!”

  He feeds his cock into me inch by slow, sweet inch. I look down and watch myself impaled. I’m stuffed so tight my hips feel compelled to move.

  I shift my ass. He grits his teeth.

  “Yes! Yes...”

  With one smooth stroke, he punches in. I moan.

  “Cleo.” He thrusts. I groan. He presses my thighs apart, and it’s like he knows—I’ll have to spread more if I want to take him all.

  “You’re full already,” he rasps. “I can feel you stretched around my cock. But that’s not all of me, Cleo. Are you ready for me again?”

  With his eyes on mine, he pushes deeper, stretching me exquisitely. Each shift of his huge cock sends a sweet ache surging through me.

  My legs sag open. My eyelids drift to half-mast as I lift my hips to feel him move within me. “Fuck...”

  “I’m not even moving yet.”

  “Please do,” I pant.

  “What do you need to say?”

  “Please, Master. Please fuck me.”

  And he does. He fucks me twice in that position. When I’m sure my heart will burst—that I will die here, from another crashing orgasm—he repositions me. I’m on my stomach with my arms over my head. My nose and mouth press into the mattress. By the time he unbinds my wrists, the sun is setting.

  OH, SHIT.

  I’m in the windowed room’s en suite shower, and that’s seriously all my brain can muster.

  Shit.

  I’ve washed every inch of my body with the thick bar of French lavender soap I found in its bow-tied, burlap wrapping, but I can’t seem to turn the water off. I watch it slosh around my toes like mini rapids. Watch it all slide down the drain—until the steam starts fading. The water runs lukewarm, then cold.

  I’m a card-carrying member of the Scorching Shower Lovers Club, so I turn the lever and grab my towel from the small tile bench built into the back of the shower.

  I dry myself, then wrap my hair. I step over to a granite countertop and grab another fluffy towel for my body.

  When I’m dry enough to touch my phone, I check for word from Kellan, but there’s no text or missed call. After he untied me, I remember him cleaning me off with a warm, damp cloth and rubbing some oil on my shoulders. I guess I must have drifted off to sleep, because when I awoke, my cell phone was beside me on the pillow, and on the screen was a text he’d sent: I’m 1 in your phone now. Call if you need. Gone to sort out some shit. Back later tonight. Food in the oven. Make yourself at home.

  That was around 6:30. It’s 8:50 now. I consider texting him—but why? To be sure he’s okay? Really?

  Instead I unpack my toiletries, brush my teeth, smooth some olive oil lotion all over my body, and put on my favorite ragged gray sweatpants with a hot pink Greek Sing t-shirt. I drift around the windowed room, first averting my eyes from the bed, then staring at it from the safety of the balcony.

  Shit.

  That’s still all I have.

  Shit, that was amazing. Shit, that was crazy. Shit, that was intense. Shit, that Kellan Walsh. Just... fucking shit.

  What am I doing?

  That wasn’t sex, I think as I descend the stairs. It was... ritual. Some kind of pleasure-pain ritual that blurred all my lines and took me somewhere new. Somewhere I can’t walk without a bite of pain between my legs.

  As I step into the swanky living room, I imagine my old Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Elvira, with her short, gray hair and baby doll-round hazel eyes.

  “Sex should be for husband and a wife.”

  I know I don’t agree with that, but I’ve always thought before now that it should at least be mutually satisfying.

  But I am satisfied, I argue as I sit on his white couch. I’m so satisfied, I’m almost floating. Because Kellan Walsh tied me up and did everything short of smacking me in the face with his dick.

  Do I like to be degraded?

  I liked being bound.

  I’m weird.

  Is it weird?

  It’s a little weird.

  I bite my lip and look down at the pale suede couch. A few inches away from me, there’s a small black ink stain. I rub it with my fingertip. I’m satisfied, okay? Alarmingly so. But is that incidental? Did he care if I was? He told me that, though, didn’t he? That he wanted to please me, but he was going to keep going until he got tired.

  Is he some kind of sex addict?

  I ponder this in the safety of his high-gloss kitchen. I’m pleased to find what’s in the oven is some kind of ham, potato, and pineapple casserole. I have no idea who made it, but it’s delicious. I pour myself a glass of lemonade and settle on the couch.

  Should I call Lora? No. Calling Lora reminds me too much of yapping about Brennan. This thing with Kellan is... I don’t know what, but for now, it’s mine.

  I find two remotes beside a stack of post cards on an end table. I tinker with them as I stuff my face.

  “Damnit...” I’m a mess with technology. I manage to get the TV on, but it’s got a mysterious blue screen. I screw around with the remote as I nom nom. Then I drag my sore self up and walk to the enormous TV.

  Fucked and chucked... a little voice whispers.

  Is that what he did? It’s true he’s gone now—but isn’t that a coincidence? He had to go, to deal with something. I inhale deeply, and I can smell the faintest whiff of the vanilla-ish oil he rubbed into my shoulders.

  I don’t need to bother wondering what other people would think. The only thing I didn’t like about the crazy sex we had was how overwhelmed I felt. But isn’t that also what I did like? I feel like we rolled off a cliff together. Started falling. Maybe we don’t have an emotional relationship to serve as a kind of safety net, but if it’s only physical, do we even need one?

  I bite my lip and turn on the DVD player. The screen remains blue. Because the DVD player is already on. Well okay, that explains things.

  As I stare at the settings on the DVD player, something pops into my head: a memory from before I went into my post-sex sleep-haze thing.

  “This body is mine. No one else’s. I’m gonna fuck you hard and use you up—and afterward, you’re gonna tell me why you want me so much you’ve got tears coming out of your eyes.”

  He’s right. I want him so much it scares me. The worst part, I think as run my finger over the buttons: I know deep down that I don’t want him for his money, o
r because he’s hot, or because, in all his duality, he seems dangerous. There’s no clear reason I want Kellan Walsh enough to let him lick my asshole.

  No reason at all.

  I ponder this as I turn the DVD player off and look down at the TV. Now the screen is black. I turn the DVD player on again: blue screen.

  “Ugh.”

  Maybe I don’t even care about watching TV. Maybe I’ll call Lora after all.

  I put my hands on my hips and let my eyes drift around the room. It’s the first time I’ve really looked since I’ve been here, and I’m impressed by its opulence.

  The rear wall, facing the river, is pretty much just windows, with a few giant potted plants in front of them. There are windows in the ceiling, too, strips of glass between exposed beams. The hardwood floor is beautiful and glossy, the walls a mint so soft it’s almost white. But what really makes the room is the décor.

  The white and brown suede chairs and sofas; the stained glass, Tiffany’s-style lamps; the enormous Oriental rug that’s dominated by brown and blue and beige, with the occasional dash of red. There’s a long, intricately carved cuckoo clock along that wall that leads to the kitchen. Adorning most of the space to the left of the clock is a huge... a reproduction of a famous Rousseau painting I happen to love. It’s called Negro Attacked by Jaguar.

  If I remember correctly from my art classes, this was one Rousseau painted near the end of his life. It’s mostly jungle, with an orange-red sun, and in the center of the image is a shadow being pounced on by a tiger, which is standing on its hind legs, so it almost looks like it’s dancing with the man. It’s kind of hard to explain exactly what’s so great about it, but I think it’s all in the dimensions.

  I wander over to it, because I want to see if I’m correct—that it’s an actual painting. I walk around a claw-footed end table, and behind the couch, bare feet smacking against the hardwood floor—and yeah. It’s definitely some kind of high-quality reprod.

  I pick a spot at the edge of the painting and touch my finger to it. Then I stretch my arms out. The painting is at least three feet wider than my arm span. I tip my head up, because I just noticed a wall-mounted lamp above it—like the ones they have in museums—and as I do, the boom of a man’s voice makes me jump.

  I whirl toward the TV.

  “What the...” Okay. I blow my breath out, laughing. Holy shit, that scared me, but it’s just the TV coming on. Finally.

  Football, I realize as I turn fully around.

  The first thing I notice is, it’s grainy. As if the film is from a while back, before filming things in high-def was the norm.

  The second thing I notice: Kellan.

  My eyes snap to him as he raises his arm to throw the ball. I’m mesmerized as I walk around the TV. Trojans... I walk closer to it. Holy fucking shit, that’s USC? Kellan played for USC? He played football?

  He turns as he completes the throw, and I blink at his number: 14. God, I can’t believe that’s Kellan. It is Kellan, playing fucking quarterback. So why is the name stretched across his shoulders DRAKE?

  I walk closer to the TV. I figure out how to get the player open and I look at the DVD. I start to open drawers in the entertainment center, looking for the DVD’s case. And then I find it: TROJANS: VAULT—2012.

  I sit on the couch for twenty more minutes, watching Kellan move around the field. Soaking in every detail. I listen to the announcer talk about Kellan Drake, and I know as soon as I turn the DVD player off, I’m going to search my phone for Kellan Drake, USC student.

  Questions whirl through my mind—like how a USC quarterback could blend into the fabric of our student body here at CC without attracting anyone’s notice. Is it possible that I’m the only one who doesn’t know about his past?

  I watch as he jogs to the bench. He takes his helmet off. His hair is black. My pulse thuds in my throat. His hair is black, but that’s his face. What the hell is going on? I pull my phone out and open up my browser window.

  I DRIVE IN CIRCLES, blind to everything. My hands on the handles, the tilt of my body as the road curves—I move on memory. My mind is reeling, even as my body feels so good and satiated.

  I didn’t know.

  I should have known.

  I didn’t know, and when I did, I let her stay.

  It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to let her near me.

  She won’t find out, I want to scream—but if she did.

  I don’t care... can’t care. And that’s how I know I’m truly sick.

  I shouldn’t need anyone the way I need to string her up. It just confirms what a monster I’ve become.

  “I’m Nessa.”

  “Kellan,” I say teasingly.

  “You deal weed, don’t you?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  She smiles. Her lips are blood red. Her skin is white.

  I touch her auburn hair. “Is this stuff real?”

  “My hair?” She laughs.

  “It looks like a wig.”

  “No, it’s mine.” She smiles again.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why are you here? I’ve seen you before, at—”

  “I want to help you with the... special cases. Someone told me what you do.”

  I look into her brown eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I like to break the rules. And because I like to make a difference, you know?”

  “Make a difference?”

  “Don’t judge.” She smirks. “You don’t know me. There’s no type for Nessa.”

  “You’re brave, to come to me like this.”

  She shrugs. “I trust you. We’re not so different.”

  “If you want to deal for me, you’ll have to live with me first.”

  I’m only teasing, so I’m surprised when she nods.

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not much bothers me, Kellan. What is it they say? It’s all small stuff.”

  I blink. “Except the big stuff.”

  I mean it as a perverse allusion. She takes it differently. Her deep brown irises seem to pool. She bites her lip, and I can almost taste her sorrow.

  “I just want to feel like I can do something.”

  I nod, because I understand. I push open my front door—the one she just came through. “Come back tomorrow, Nessa. Bring your bags.”

  I fly down a busted county road that starts just south of the Chattahoochee city limits and juts northwest, curving through a ten-mile tuft of thick pine forest. The faded asphalt is spotted by moisture from a recent rain. I steer my new Ducati 899 Panigale into the pale trace worn on the dark road by cars’ tires.

  The speed limit is 55. I push the bike to 80, 85, 90 before I start to ease up on the juice.

  It’s dangerous, but then that’s how I’m feeling.

  If I lost control and wrecked, wouldn’t that be preferable to what will happen if I don’t?

  My heart is pounding hard. Making me feel sick. But that’s fitting, isn’t it? What kind of monster would I be if I didn’t feel ill?

  I pick a firm-looking shoulder to veer off and angle the bike for a quick, ten-foot descent over battered grass, into a bed of pine needles. I park at the edge of an eternity of pines and swing off the bike’s seat.

  For a second, I just stand here, testing out my legs. Nothing about this night seems real, so it’s almost surprising that I have a body—much less one that does the things I tell it to. My mind is back at home, curled up somewhere near Cleo.

  Sloth... she says it is. Dear fuck.

  I grab a freezer-sized Ziploc baggie from my pack, tuck it in the pocket of my black jacket, and step deeper into the trees. The entrance to Nessa’s neighborhood is well lit, so I’m cutting through a fourth a mile of forest, using the light from the subdivision’s welcome sign to signal my exit.

  Every heavy footstep drives her through my head.

  Sloth... Sloth... Sloth.

  What are the odds?

  What are the od
ds?

  My mind should be on Nessa but it circles her. I wonder what the chances are, in numbers. Out of all the colleges in Georgia... How many students? How many of them female? Only one of them is her. What are the chances we would meet?

  Well, you came here for her...

  It’s not entirely true. She was just a thought, a distant want. Yeah, I wrote to her—notebooks full—but that’s not all. I’ve always liked the luscious South, starting with a family trip to St. Simon’s Island the year before my mother died. Lyon and I were eight, and Barrett thirteen. We stayed for three weeks by the sea. My dad came just four days.

  She’s a dealer—Sloth is?

  I can’t reconcile it. It doesn’t fit with my picture of her. And yet, it kind of does. I imagine her swinging her arms around, all jacked up on Vyvanse; I can see that black shawl flapping around her. Cleo, kneeling, making faces at Truman. I can see a younger Cleo, getting high and eating pizza.

  Why is it so shocking? That a good person—a person whom I know to be inherently good and generous—would sell marijuana?

  I don’t want her getting caught.

  If she was doing it anyway...

  I don’t want her anywhere near me. And yet—

  And yet.

  I see the white glow of the subdivision’s sign, and step out of the woods in the shadow of two houses that I know don’t have security lights. The lots in this neighborhood are about two acres each, and there are plenty of trees and hedges to hide behind as I make my way Nessa’s quiet circle.

  Her house is a two-story dollhouse, painted deep lavender with mint green accents. It’s a new home, but it’s meant to look Victorian. Her parents bought it for her after the break she took last year.

  I’ve been here dozens of times, but lately I just haunt the yard. Nessa always leaves the curtain open, just for me.

  Tonight, I take my time among the hedges and the azaleas that encircle her house, moving from window to window on the balls of my feet. My heart pounds. I start to sweat. Tonight will shape up different from those prior nights. I haven’t done the deed yet, but I can tell I will. It’s... both strange and not. It’s natural and deplorable.

  It’s me, making good on a promise.

  I find Nessa in a little library, framed by floor-length burlap curtains. She’s wearing blue sweatpants, a giant white Auburn University sweatshirt—probably one of her father’s—and fuzzy yellow socks. She’s sitting on a sea blue couch, blaring Broken Bells from the speakers of her iPhone and moving her shoulders to the beat.