This man is my stalker, my terrorizer, my lover.
His eyes roll up as he sighs, and I feel the tightness around him become a little tighter, and then he lets out a primal groan as his cock pumps in me. “Mia...fuck, oh fuck...” he says, releasing himself inside of me.
He pulls out of me and shakes his hand through my hair, an almost friendly gesture. But I understand that in this case it’s like someone rewarding a pet for a job well done.
He stumbles over to the sink, and turns on the tap.
I watch him quietly as his mark on me slowly trails down the back of my thigh.
“Come here,” he says, not looking over to me.
I wobble towards him, sore from the invasion, uncertain of what he wants from me now. He wets a stack of paper towels and reaches down my leg, lapping up the fluids that he left behind. “Here,” he says, positioning them in front of me. I look up, the simple act triggering both gratitude and hesitation, and grab the towels from his hand to finish the job he started.
“Thank you,” I say, confused by the less than mean-spirited gesture.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, just like he always does: he puts himself back together, cracks his neck, and leaves the room like he didn’t just set off a sexual nuke in here. Like he didn’t just tear me into thousands of little pieces, like he doesn’t take a little part of my every time he leaves.
Radiohead – Karma Police
After a very long day at the office, I arrive at my house, kick off my shoes, and dump my bags on floor. Tuesdays are always exhausting. Thanks to Tax, I have an extra early wake up, and I find myself always staying later than I used to. Dewey was always the last to leave, and to me, it always spoke of his commitment to Alea, and it’s something I would like to emulate.
I knead the tense muscles in my neck, letting out a deep sigh. There is a moment of refuge when I enter my house, a moment where I don’t have to pretend my life isn’t a self-imposed mess. But after that moment of relief, intense loneliness follows.
I think about him a lot when I am alone. How I wish I could understand. How I wish he would talk to me and tell me why. Maybe then I could explain myself, tell him I can’t possibly be guilty of whatever he thinks I did. Maybe then, I hope, I would learn he’s not just a monster. I see glimmers of it. Glimmers that he might see me as an actual human being, but it’s usually followed by him being even colder as a backlash.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that I like the roughness. And it’s genuine pent-up aggression that only he can provide. But I still need more. I want the roughness to come from a place of desire, possession, not hate. I can get through this if he gives me more. And maybe he might release me, give me a choice in this whole thing if I can get to that part of him, the pain that lies behind his dark eyes. I want to believe his word is his bond, but as long as he holds the video over my head, I live in fear. What if, after the year is up, he extends it to another year, then another? I could become his to do what he wants with forever. My life would revolve around this arrangement, it would ruin any chance I could have at a relationship, marriage, family. I doubt any potential suitor would be okay with my weekly sex meetings with Mr. Draconi. Yes, this is about sex, but it’s so much more: Tax owns my life.
Despite these worries (or because of them), I have to stay focused. My only way out of this is to get through the storm that is Tax.
I only see him once a week. We have no contact outside of that conference room every Tuesday, and yet, his presence permeates every waking hour of my day.
During our time together, I sense Tax battles with himself much like I do. He wants to be unrelentingly brutal, but he’ll break and do something almost kind. He’ll lick a tear, or clean his cum from my thigh. If I embrace the tenderness, he whips it away and lashes at me, like a scared dog who bites a hand that tries to pet him.
This stranger has become the center of my world. A puzzle I have to solve. My greatest pleasure and my deepest pain.
The truth is I don’t want to date. Because in some fucked up way, I feel like I already am dating someone: The guy who I see every Tuesday morning, who hates me, or maybe he doesn’t. I don’t know.
I can’t tell if I am losing it, maybe developing some sort of Stockholm Syndrome, and I don’t have a sounding board. I am too ashamed to tell Tiff. In fact, I have avoided any substantial conversation with her since our last phone call, using my new job as an excuse. My situation has only gotten more bizarre since the Happy Kitty mixup. I don’t want to deal with her looks of pity or disappointment. Even worse, I don’t want to lose her respect. There is a space in my world where only Tax exists. And he takes up all that space, there isn’t any room for others there right now.
Letting out a deep sigh, I flick on the lights in my living room. The tall figure just feet away startles me as I jump and holler. I’m not sure if I should be scared or not. Unlike our Tuesday visits, Tax is not wearing a suit, but a fitted heather grey t-shirt, and a pair of jeans that hug his athletic physique.
He’s facing my bookshelf, full of books and knick knacks. I don’t understand what he’s doing here. He’s not in his space; I think he’s beginning to grow too large for the space he has already stolen.
I wait in silence, I expect him to turn and grab me, throw me to the floor, do whatever he feels. Maybe taking my ass wasn’t enough this morning. Sometimes I feel whatever I give just isn’t enough.
“Backstreet Boys?” he asks, without turning, looking at the case that’s on the top of the small pile of cds I’ve had since high school. It’s also the same cd and player I have had since then.
Keep reaching. He’s seeing you.
“What? You didn’t have enough time to snoop through my stuff when you broke in?” I ask, shocking myself with my cavalier tone. What the hell is going on?
“As a matter of fact, I did not,” he says, turning to face me with a smirk. My heart flutters with attraction and a new type of excitement. He’s...talking to me.
I try not to overreact by interrogating him, afraid he might push back like he always does. Like dealing with a scared dog, one waits patiently, for it to know you are not one of those people who will hurt it, and in time it will come and nuzzle against you. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I am starving,” I say, heading towards my open kitchen. “I am going to put a pizza in the oven. You are welcome to have some.”
He nods.
Suddenly, music plays. And instantly, I recognize it as one of my cds from high school, a song called Karma Police by Radiohead.
“I don’t know if you know this Tax,” I say, ripping open the pizza box. “But gentleman callers usually call, or ring a doorbell.”
“Gentlemen callers? I’d hardly call myself a gentleman.”
I can’t believe we are having a conversation that has nothing to do with sex or coercion.
“I suppose I was being polite.”
He laughs softly to himself. It’s such a rare sight, to see that smile that lights up his darkness.
Why is he here?
He picks up a picture from my bookshelf.
“Who’s this?” he asks.
“I thought you knew everything about me.”
“I do. But I want to hear it from your mouth like it’s the first time.”
His words spark a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
“That’s my dad. He died a little over a year ago,” I say, trying not to let my emotions come to the surface.
“Were you close?”
“Very. My mother died when I was in high school and I am an only child. So we spent a lot of time together. He was a really good dad,” I say, feeling a frog in my throat.
“I bet,” he says.
“What about you?” I ask, taking a huge risk that he’ll snap at me.
He puts the picture back in its spot. “They’re both dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s better that way,” he says. But when I look at his eyes, the ones he
has trained me so well to look into when he takes me, I see something is not better. Something aches. And he’s here because he wants more. I don’t know what, but more.
“Tax...” but I stop myself. I am on the verge of asking too much, pulling him too far out of his comfort zone too fast. He guards his words ferociously, but with his body, he is more generous. I think he would give that before giving me his words.
So, I walk over to him softly. Maybe it’s the fact that we are in my home and its warmth and security gives me confidence, but I want to feel him.
Keep reaching...
I approach him in my shadowy living room. I want him. And this isn’t about him forcing me, or an expectation to give because I owe him some debt I don’t even understand. Or even the excitement of him ravaging me as I wallow in a mixture of lust and loathing. I just want him.
“Tax...” I whisper, as I step in the narrow space between him and my bookshelf. “Can I...?”
I gently raise my hand to touch him, expecting him to swat me away, to grab my wrists and violently rage-fuck me. But he doesn’t say anything, he just stands there in silence. I reach up to his terrifyingly elaborate and beautiful neck tattoo, and I softly run my fingers over the tangle of snakes. I have so wanted to do that since he first took me on this floor.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.
His chest rises and falls more deeply in response to my touch. I run my fingers down his muscular chest, the firmness of his abs, and I reach my fingers under the hem of his shirt. I begin to lift it.
“No,” he says, grabbing my wrist. This time it’s not painful.
“Why do you keep hiding?” I ask. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to see you.”
I just want you to want me back, Tax.
I look into his eyes, and they express a myriad of emotions: anger, appreciation, desire, mistrust, pain.
“I know you want more Tax, that’s why you’re here. You don’t have to say it. But I can’t give it if you won’t let me,” I plead. “And I can’t keep giving if you don’t give anything back. I won’t have anything left in me.”
His grip on my wrist disappears, and without warning, he pulls his shirt up overhead. His tattoo works its way down his neck and over his shoulder. It’s even more gorgeous than I anticipated. His body is as sculpted and muscular as I thought it would be; the beauty of masculinity personified.
As my eyes admire his torso, they come upon the physical manifestation of severe pain he must have endured long ago. His torso is covered in scars, lashes of some sort, some big, some small. They are peppered throughout, forced memories of a trauma he won’t be allowed to forget. I trail my fingers gently over the network of scars, and I walk around to his back, which is covered in them too.
I rest my cheek against the warm, smooth skin of his back, and I kiss each scar, one my one. His body tenses underneath my lips. “It’s okay,” I whisper.
He turns and grabs my shoulders, stopping me. His eyes are filled with confusion and frustration. “It’s okay,” I say softly. “Please Tax, just let me have more.” I say, reaching my hands up toward his face. “I’m begging you.” And I rise on my tip toes to kiss him, closing my eyes, hoping he’ll meet me halfway.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. Every week it gets a little worse. I think about her, about her soft lips, and what they would taste like if I just let her really kiss me.
Every Tuesday, I walk out the door after fucking her, and I want to turn around and have her again, or just...stay. And each time I find myself cracking, having a moment of weakness, I collect myself again. I remind her that she is worthless, that she is a slave, that she owes me. I am starting to think I do it to remind myself.
Tonight, I find myself in her living room, shirtless, with her lips pressing softly against my back. I watched her today, like I always do whenever my schedule allows. But this time, I crossed that invisible wall. I’m so sick of fucking watching. I don’t just want her Tuesday mornings. I want her all the time. There’s no reason I shouldn’t have her whenever I motherfucking want.
Mia’s lips graze against the aftermath of her handiwork. I promised myself I would never give her the satisfaction of seeing these scars. The sting of each kiss against each one brings flashes of belt buckles trashing, boots kicking, bottles breaking, the taste of blood, screams, laughter. I flinch under each gentle touch of her lips.
How can she kiss them like some sort of healer, like she wants to make it better? She’s the reason for these scars, she is the creator of my pain. She took the gift of life away from Jude, and so, we have to take it away from her.
“It’s okay,” she says softly. But I can’t take this. It makes me feel. I hate feeling. I thought I was over that shit. The only feeling I allow is wrath, because it fuels me, because it makes me stronger than everyone in my path. Having nothing but wrath makes me invincible.
So I turn and I grab her, to stop the pain, the fear, the sick feeling rising from the deepest pit in my stomach and up to the surface.
“It’s okay. Please Tax, just let me have more. I’m begging you.”
She’s begging me. There’s something about when she begs that makes it so hard to resist her. It’s the look in her eyes, she just wants me to give something back. How can this be the same person who destroyed me?
Her brown eyes gaze up at me; she is vulnerable, exposed. It’s a trap, if she was a bitch, this would be so easy, but her openness, her ability to be so fearless with her emotions draws out deeply buried emotions I haven’t felt in 14 years. I know the safety is an illusion, but the heart is the biggest fool, all it takes a little kindness to trick the heart. I should know, I’ve done it to others.
But no one has ever done it to me since Mia, and she’s doing it again. Every time I dig deeper, looking to find that black spot on her heart, I only find more tenderness. Every time I dig deeper, I find it harder to crawl back out.
She should hate me, she should want to stab me in the back, not kiss it. But, that’s what I once thought of her: a girl who looked at a skinny, piece of trash loner and saw more. And that all turned out to be a lie. So maybe she’s playing me again, and I won’t allow myself to be played a second time.
I’ll give into her begging, I’ll let myself feel, but this is for me. This is to let her think I care, so when I pull it all back, when I finally look into her eyes while ending her existence, she will feel the depths of betrayal that I felt.
She leans up to kiss me, and I wrap my arms around her fragile frame. She feels so small, so harmless. Mia’s arms wrap around my neck, and she rakes her fingers through my hair. Her kiss is full of passion and pent-up desire. She’s been working towards this since the first night I fucked her. She sucks on my lips, sliding her tongue against mine. And she tastes even better than I ever dreamed she could.
My dick pulses with desire, and flinches in pleasure every time it rubs against her stomach. And for now, here in this living room, I forget about the vendetta, and I just let us be: Tax and Mia.
I grab the soft, firm flesh of her ass, and lift her off the ground as she wraps her legs around me. She clenches me, like she doesn’t ever want me to let go, like I might never return if she releases me.
I carry her over to the kitchen counter. She’s wearing a skirt, like she always does for me on Tuesdays. I already took her once this morning, her asshole felt so incredibly tight. In fact, I think that’s what brought me here. This morning, having her in that way, felt so fucking amazing, that it left me wanting more.
I push up her skirt, shoving her panties to the side. In between gasps, she reaches down and frantically unbuttons my jeans, shoving them down just enough to access me. She reaches into my boxer briefs and grips her small hand around my cock and I grunt with pleasure. She tugs, back and forth, moaning into my neck as she slips my head up and down the opening of her soaking wet pussy.
Fuck that feels good.
It throbs, it aches to feel the warm tightness of Mia arou
nd me. And so I push, her little gasp as I enter her makes me even harder.
“Tax,” she whispers in my ear, swallowing air as I thrust deep inside of her.
Her pussy is so wet, so ready for me, that I groan and grunt, unable to pretend that this isn’t the most incredible feeling on the fucking planet. Her soft, flowery scent, the one that clings to my clothes every Tuesday, fills my nose.
She moans and moans, whispering my name against my lips with each thrust.
She runs her fingers along the ridges of my flexed muscles, and along the welts and scars that I have carried on my body for fourteen years.
Her touch singes those spots. Boots. Buckles. Shards of glass.
I close my eyes and bury my face in her neck, I just want my thoughts to go dark. I don’t want to remember. I wish she would stop making me remember.
I bite her neck, so she can feel the pain I feel now. The pain she has made me feel all these years. But instead of recoiling, she dips her head back, receiving my angry bites with a guttural moan.
I run my hand up the soft flesh of her breast, squeezing so that her tanned nipple perks up, and I run the tip of my tongue along the puffy flesh. Her tits are so supple, round and pure, I just want to make them dirty with my bites or cum.
Mia chokes out gasps from the back of her throat and my cock grows tighter, tenser, getting ready to explode.
The warm flesh of her cunt hugs my cock, and her breathing becomes shallower and faster. “Tax!” She digs her nails into my back, pressing her lips against mine as she swerves her hips against my thrust, becoming an active participant in her orgasm.
“Oh god!” she calls out. “God!” she cries, as her thighs squeeze my hips, and every muscle on her helpless frame tenses and then relaxes as she trembles, murmuring my name over and over again.
As her tight pussy contracts, I thrust and thrust as the pressure builds in my cock, my own breathing becomes heavy and the sensations of her slick pussy around me hit their apex.
“Fuck...” I breathe into Mia’s lips as an eruption of pleasure pulsates out of my cock. “Mia...fuck...” I sigh as all the tension melts out of my body. I pump my cum inside of her, claiming her again. We both collapse in each other’s arms out of exhaustion.
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