Degradation

by Stylo Fantome

  His hands were on her knees, forcing her legs apart. Her own hands were at her breasts, at his command. He told her where, and how, to touch herself. Called her filthy names. Told her that this was all she was good for, and that was why he had found her again. Because even if this was the only thing she was good for, she was so good, he was the only one worthy of sharing it with her.

  For once, she didn’t argue with him.

  “C’mon, Tate,” he growled, peeling his t-shirt off over his head. “I would’ve thought you’d be done by now, crying like a girl, coming all over my dick.” She pushed herself upright, hooked an arm around his back to anchor herself in place.

  “You’ll find …, it’s a little harder …, to make me cry now,” she told him, running her tongue up the center of his chest. His hands slid down her legs, moved around to grip onto her ass, forcing her even harder against his thrusts. She shrieked, letting her head fall back.

  “Hmmm, we’ll have to try for it another day,” Jameson groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder. She felt his teeth against her skin, fangs to her jugular, claws to her heart. He bit down, once. Twice. A third time, so hard, she thought he was going to take out a piece of her.

  He already did that, a long time ago, baby girl.

  She came, hard. She clenched her thighs against his waist, pressed her face to his chest, her hand to his jaw. Her fingers dug in to his cheek. He held completely still while she shook and moaned, his heart beat the only thing keeping her grounded to earth. She felt like she had just been shot out of a cannon.

  “So easy,” he murmured.

  He shoved her away and Tate collapsed against the desk, taking deep breaths. He started pounding away again, lifting her legs high, resting her calves on his shoulders. Then his hands were on her breasts, covering them, pressing down on them. She completely let go, relaxed every muscle, just let him do whatever he wanted to her. The desk began to jolt around and move forward; she couldn’t even imagine how much the oak monstrosity weighed, that’s how hard he was pushing in to her.

  Jameson came so hard, she could feel it. Felt his shaft tighten, swell. Felt the muscles in his shoulders strain and cord up underneath her calves. She let her legs fall to the side and he collapsed on top of her. All of his weight. He obviously wasn’t worried about crushing her.

  Just like last time.

  Tate wondered what else would be like last time. She loved her some dirty, rough, sex – but getting kicked out of bed was never a fun experience. She didn’t even mind if a guy hustled her out, but that was really the only part of her experience with Jameson that she didn’t recall with pleasure. The way he had treated her afterwards. Not so much his words, but his indifference. Like she hadn’t just rocked his world off its axis, the way he had done to hers.

  “Scared, baby girl?” he suddenly breathed against her chest. She laughed.

  “Not the word I would use,” she replied, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead.

  “And what word would Tatum O’Shea use?”

  “Fucked.”

  Jameson laughed and pushed himself off of her. She waited for it, the indifference, but it didn’t come. He pulled his pants up, left them undone, and then grabbed her arm, pulling her so she was sitting upright. She felt like her body was made of jell-o. He cocked up an eyebrow and fixed her bra for her, then slid her dress back over her arms. He looked at her for a second, traced his finger along her jaw, and then wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her off the desk.

  “No tears,” he mumbled, looking down in to her eyes. She laughed.

  “Nope.”

  He turned her around and zipped up her dress. While she slipped her underwear back on, he grabbed her forgotten drink and refilled it. She chugged it down in a couple gulps and he made her another. She did the same thing to it, watching him over the rim of the glass.

  “If that’s how you fuck sober, it’ll be very interesting to see what you’re like drunk,” Jameson laughed, pulling his shirt back on.

  “You couldn’t handle it.”

  “I can handle anything you’ve got.”

  Tate thought maybe he would tell her to go home, order up a cab, or a car, or something. But he didn’t. He made her another drink and then grabbed her hand, pulling her behind him. She followed him out of the library and in to the entry way. A light was on in the sitting room. There hadn’t been any on when she’d come in to the house.

  “Is somebody here?” she asked. He glanced back at the room as he led her up the stairs.

  “Sanders. He works late in there sometimes,” he explained. She laughed.

  “That poor man, I probably scared him,” she snickered. She had been screaming like it was a competition, cursing a blue streak. Oops.

  “Please. He’s walked in on a lot of scenes like that, I doubt he even notices it any more,” Jameson snorted as they reached the second floor. He dragged her down a hall, past a bunch of doors.

  “Fuck a lot of women in your library?” Tate asked. Jameson looked over his shoulder at her.

  “Jealous?”

  She laughed.

  “No. You fuck women in libraries. I fuck men in odd, semi-public locations. Po-TATE-o, po-TOT-o,” she replied. He laughed and finally stopped them in front of a large door at the end of the hallway.

  “Well, I feel left out. A desk and a bed seem kinda boring in comparison,” he chuckled, pushing open the door.

  “I didn’t want to say anything,” she said with a straight face, and he laughed again before leading her in to his bedroom.

  It. Was. Huge. She dropped his hand and walked foward, taking it all in, while he kicked the door shut behind him. He had a huge king size bed. Walk in closet. Expensive, heirloom looking furniture. She walked over to a side table, running her fingers across expensive looking cuff links and watches. Everything was dark, every inch of the room screaming with masculinity. With him.

  Tate downed the rest of her drink and slowly turned around to face him. He was still in front of the doorway, his arms crossed, watching her. She sat her glass down on the table and slipped the top of her dress back off her arms. Peeled it over hips. Dropped it to the floor and kicked it aside. Stood in front of him, a hand on her hip.

  “So. Fuck a lot of women in here?”

  6

  Tate yawned and stretched, unable to help the wince that followed. She felt sore just about everywhere. It was delicious. She opened her eyes, focused on high ceilings with ornate crown molding. She turned her head to the right – day light was streaming in a window next to her. She turned her head to the left – Jameson was on the other side of the king sized bed, sleeping on his stomach. She smiled and sat up.

  It had been a pretty amazing night. She hadn’t really known what to expect. Maybe rougher sex and less talking. The way it had all gone was better, though. Like he had said, they were getting reacquainted. Best not to get in to the crazy shit the first time they slept together. He had been almost gentle with her in his bedroom, and she could tell he was holding back for her. Prepping her. His words still had bite, though; a promise of what was to come.

  Tate rubbed at her neck, working the kinks out with her fingers. She let her fingertips dance along the tops of her shoulders, and on the right side, she could feel a raised welt. She let her fingers play over it for a minute, trying to figure out exactly what it was, when she remembered him biting her.

  Glancing at him, she slid out of the bed and scampered across the room, in to the bathroom. She closed the door and looked at herself in a full length mirror. Her eye makeup was everywhere, she looked like a panda. Or really, with the combination crazy bed head, a punk rocker that had escaped from the ‘80’s.

  She leaned in close, examining the bite mark. He hadn’t broken the skin, but it looked ugly. It made her feel warm. She turned around, looking over her shoulder, trying to see her butt. There was no bruising, but one side was distinctly redder than the other. Her back also had red marks going down its length. Jameson had
sharp claws. When she turned to the front again, she could see bruise lines forming at the tops of her thighs – she had known those would show up. She then got right up against the mirror, looking over her jaw. She had smacked the desk pretty good, but no marks. That was good. She liked it rough, but she didn’t like walking around with a black eye. People asked too many questions.

  She tip toed back in to the bedroom, and saw that Jameson was still asleep. She watched him for a moment. His hair was rumpled and cute, his arms akimbo to his head, hands clasped under a cheek. His position made the muscles in his broad shoulders bunch and come together, and she chewed on her bottom lip, tempted to scratch him awake.

  She didn’t, opting to find her underwear instead. She found her bra hanging from the side of a mirror and quickly slipped it on; she decided her underwear was a lost cause and threw them away. She was shimmying back in to her dress when she heard the covers rustle around.

  “Sneaking out, baby girl?” Jameson spoke, his voice scratchy with sleep. Tate chuckled.

  “No, I would’ve woken you up to say goodbye,” she replied, struggling with the zipper on her back. Once she had it all the way up, she looked at him. He had pulled himself in to a sitting position against the headboard, hands behind his head. His piercing blue eyes were traveling over every inch of her.

  “Ah, but who told you that you could leave?” he asked. She laughed and walked over to the bed.

  “I didn’t realize I needed permission,” she responded, kneeling on the mattress and making her way to his side.

  “You need to ask permission for everything.”

  “Probably not gonna happen, Jameson,” she laughed, sitting back on her heels. He sighed and dropped his hands.

  “Well at least we broke you of one bad habit. I swear, your mouth must get you in to so much trouble. Very defiant, baby girl. If I had to hear you say ‘Kane’ one more time,” he didn’t finish the thought, just sucked air through his teeth.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is – pretty much everyone else calls you Kane,” she pointed out. He leaned forward.

  “You’re not ‘everyone else’, you’re different. You get to see the real me,” he told her.

  Her heart leapt in her chest. She was different to him, she got to see the real him. Too much info. She didn’t know whether to jump for joy, or head for the hills. Ang had told her to be careful, and she had laughed at him. She should have heeded his warning a little better.

  “Well, I’ll have to see the ‘real you’ later – I have to go,” Tate laughed. Jameson narrowed his eyes.

  “Why?”

  “Because, it’s almost eleven o’clock. I have to go home, run some errands, shower, get ready for work. I work at the bar Thursday through Saturday,” she explained. He nodded and yawned, rubbing a hand over his face.

  “Right, right, the shit hole. I’ll be in Manhattan this weekend, but I’ll be back Sunday. I’ll call you,” he told her.

  “Ooohhh, Manhattan weekend. Lifestyles of the rich and the famous,” she teased. He rolled his eyes.

  “There’s that mouth. Hold on, I’ll have Sanders get the car,” he said, leaning over and grabbing a phone that was next to the bed.

  While Jameson barked orders at poor Sanders, Tate did her best to wipe away the makeup that was under her eyes. She could go in to the bathroom and wet a towel, but it was too much effort. She didn’t want to move away from him until she had to go. She swept her hair up in to a ponytail just as he was hanging up the phone.

  “Poor Sanders, I don’t think you’re very nice to him,” she commented, pouting out her bottom lip. Jameson reached out and pinched it.

  “It works for us,” he replied, running the edge of his thumb along her bottom teeth.

  “Where did you find him?” she asked, when he let his fingers trace over her lip and down the side of her jaw.

  “London,” he answered, his fingers moving down to her throat.

  “Is that the accent he has? Didn’t seem British,” she commented. Jameson nodded, his fingers moving around the edge of his bite mark, which was just barely peeking out the side of her collar.

  “It’s not originally where he’s from, but it’s where I found him. He was trying to steal from me,” he continued, pushing the material to the side and leaning close so he could examine the wound.

  “Steal from you!?”

  “Yeah. He was thirteen, a pickpocket. A bad one. Probably about a week away from collapsing. I admired his tenacity. He’s been with me ever since,” Jameson finished the story, smoothing her dress back in to place.

  “How old is he now?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Wow. That’s crazy, I thought he -,”

  “Tate,” Jameson interrupted, his hand going to her neck and cupping the back of it. “You’re obsessed with other people, I swear.”

  “Says the man who stalked me to get me here,” she countered. He snorted.

  “I didn’t hear you complaining last night.”

  “You wouldn’t have listened, even if I did.”

  “You’re okay with all this? You’re not running away to hide from me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. Tate laughed.

  “Jameson. If you knew some of my stories. One time Ang and I got kicked out of a fancy restaurant because he crawled under the table and went down on me during the whole first course – last night was nothing scary to a girl like me. I can handle anything you can dish out,” she assured him.

  “There is a big difference between me going down on you, and me calling you the ‘dumbest cunt I’ve ever fucked’. It has been my experience that most women will say they’re okay with something, and after the fact not be okay with it at all,” he said, his fingers massaging her skin. A shiver ran through her body at his words.

  “I’m not most women,” she reminded him. “It’s all fun to me. A game. Sometimes, I’m the dumb cunt. Sometimes, you’ll get to be.”

  “I very much fucking doubt that,” he snorted. She started laughing.

  “I don’t have time for this, Jameson,” she managed to say. “We can play some more on Sunday, I have to go home now.”

  Tate started to move to get off the bed when he yanked her forward. Suddenly, his mouth was over hers, and she was gasping in to him. Both his hands went to the back of her head, drawing her forward. She followed, straddling his lap and pressing her own hands against his chest.

  They hadn’t kissed at all the night before – she hadn’t even realized it till after she had woken up. Their lips had been all over each others bodies, but no kissing. She hadn’t thought it a big deal at the time. Now it seemed like a very big deal.

  Tate had forgotten what kissing him was like, like he was stealing all her breath away. Sucking it right out of her lungs. She moaned, scooting as close to him as she could get, rubbing herself against his chest while she coiled her arms around his neck. She could feel her heart palpitating, and if she hadn’t been so lost in the moment, lost in the taste, and scent, and feel of him, she would’ve gotten nervous. Heart palpitations weren’t a good thing, when it was only supposed to be games between them.

  His hands dropped to her spread knees and he slid them up her thighs, under her dress. The palpitations got worse. Just as he was discovering she wasn’t wearing any underwear, the bedroom door opened behind them. Jameson pulled away a little, but didn’t take his eyes off of hers.

  “The car is ready, sir,” Sanders’ clipped voice came from the doorway. Jameson stared at her for a second longer and then flicked his eyes over her shoulder, his hands continuing their journey under her dress.

  “Twenty-minutes, Sanders,” he replied, his gaze going back to Tate’s. She smirked down at him.

  “Very good, I’ll wait downstairs.” And the door clicked shut, just before Jameson started to slide her skirt up over her butt.

  “You’re very authoritative, Mr. Kane,” Tate breathed, licking her lips.

  “You have no idea.”

  And then he w
as pinning her to the bed, forcing his tongue between her lips and his knee between her legs.

  Why did I bother getting dressed?

  *

  When Tate finally got home, she rushed around like a mad man. Stopped in at the temp agency to tell them she was off the market for a while. Called Ang and left him a voicemail that pretty much consisted of just squealing in to the phone, and then hopped in the shower.

  She had stayed much longer than twenty minutes in Jameson’s room. It was closer to a whole hour later when she finally got out of the bed. After taking a shower together, arguing over whether or not it was appropriate for her to wear his clothing instead of her just-had-sex-in-it dress, him punishing her for arguing, and then finding clothing of his that worked for her, it was actually hours later when she finally left, closer to three. Her shift at the bar started at six.

  She came out of her bathroom and walked straight in to a body. Tate screamed, slapping Ang across the face, not realizing it was him. He grabbed her arm before she could swing again.

  “Jesus, starting a little early,” he said. She yanked her hand away.

  “You scared the fuck out of me! What are you doing here!?” she demanded. Ang had a key to her apartment, but she hadn’t been expecting him. They usually didn’t see too much of each other on the weekends.

  “I’m not fluent in stupid-girl-speak, I have no idea what your voicemail was about, and I had a shitty day, so I thought I’d stop by,” he explained. She frowned up at him, her anger vanishing in an instant. He looked kind of upset, and it took a lot for something get under Ang’s skin.

  “You had a shitty day? I’m sorry,” she said, and then led him in to her room. He stretched out on her bed while she rummaged through her closet.

  “Yeah. Pedro backed out of the film, so they’re pulling the whole shoot. And then my grandma stopped by. You know how joyous that can be; ‘Angier, when are you going to become a respectable person!? You’re going to burn in hell!’ - one of my all time favorite speeches of hers,” he told her. Tate threw some clothing at the foot of the bed and then sat down next to him, rubbing her hand over his flat stomach.