by Sansa Rayne
“Sibel,” I finally whisper into her ear. “You can come.”
“Oh god,” she moans happily.
I turn her head to the side so I can kiss the side of her lips, then grab her waist with both hands and thrust her against me. Pounding her like a machine, I feel buffeted by intense waves of ecstasy. She screams, crying joyfully and uncontrollably, awash in a stream of orgasms.
When she’s nearly thrashed and quaked to the point of exhaustion, I lift my pace one last time, ramming into her hard and fast, as if powered by an engine. I don’t stop until I come, my release so powerful I feel it throughout my body.
Holding Sibel in my arms, I take a few seconds to breathe, then get to work: I throw out the used condom first, then begin releasing Sibel from the stockade. I free her feet first, then her neck, and finally her wrists, making sure I’m there to catch her if she falls.
Leaning against me, she feels that I’ve got her, and allows herself to go limp. Cradling her in my arms, I carry her to the bed nearby and set her down gently. Moaning, she turns over, exposing her bruised backside to the cool air.
“Sibel?” I say, stroking back her hair.
“Yeah?”
I lie down next to her and kiss her on the cheek. “Did you have a nice time?”
She laughs, throwing out her arm to give my shoulder a weak punch. “Fuck yeah.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I am never fucking ever letting you go.”
I’m not really sure what’s wrong with me, because Pierce said he’s not letting me go, and I’m not arguing. I could blame the warmth and glow I’ve got wrapped around me like a favorite blanket, but I’ve never been one to lie to myself: everything about what we just did felt right.
Does Pierce really think binding me and leaving me alone for a while scares me? Is every minute supposed to creep by like an eternity? It can’t be much more than half an hour and it flies by. Does he have any idea how much I like to watch my own performances? This has been just like that, only better — I got to be both the subject, the director and the spectator all at once. I’d love to watch the recording, only this time I doubt it will compare to actually being there. The only part that sucks is staying true to my word and not making myself come, and even that’s fun in a teasing, challenging way — plus, it makes the orgasms that follow so much more intense.
And even now that the session is over, and we’re just laying together and enjoying a moment of quiet rest, I feel his desire for me still. No, this isn’t just about getting laid — the effort he went to to get me here proved that much; but now I can really feel it. He strokes my hair with tenderness and contentment. I could let him keep going for hours; for a while, I do.
The sound of his breathing reminds me of the ocean, steady and unending. Though this empty warehouse usually smells musty and foreboding, our collective musk has taken over; when I inhale, it gives me comfort. When he caresses my hip, I can’t believe how good I feel. Even the ache in my rear from all the bruises has taken on a pleasant aspect, the way one’s tongue gets after recovering from a spicy dish.
I’d like to tell myself it’s just the sex — the bondage, the pain, the exhibition — but it’s also Pierce. Isn’t it?
“Sibel?” he says at last.
“Yeah.” I turn over so I can face him, ignoring the twinge of discomfort I receive as my sore skin rubs against the sheets.
“You didn’t grow up wanting to be an erotic artist, I’m assuming. So, what did you want to be when you were a kid?”
At first, I’m not sure what to say. I wasn’t expecting him to ask me anything like that, but more importantly, it’s not a question I’m often asked, even though I participate in several interviews a year.
“An actress,” I reply, smiling. “I used to make up these little plays and then perform for my parents, the neighbors — anybody that would agree to watch.”
Pierce grins. “That’s adorable.”
I laugh. “In hindsight, I realize I just liked it because my parents would always get out the camcorder, and I liked the attention.”
“That doesn’t sound like you at all,” he teases, sitting up.
“Blow me,” I snort, smacking him with my pillow. He shifts his way off the bed and heads for his table full of supplies. I groan at first, wondering what wicked idea has possessed him now, but when he comes back, it’s with bottled waters in one hand and a box of chocolates.
“Open your mouth,” he commands, opening the box.
I do as he says, and stick out my tongue. He gives me a chocolate, and I let it dissolve slowly; it’s a caramel, wonderfully sweet and creamy.
He takes a drink of water, and after a bit, I do too. I spy his hand on the box of chocolates, as if he’s guarding it. Perhaps he wants me to earn them? The idea makes me think of some kind of trained animal, but then I have been letting him call me “pet.”
“So, what happened? Did you ever get serious about acting?”
I sigh, lying back down. This question I’m happy not to hear all that much. “I did. I was. High school plays, community theater… and then I went to art school, but it didn’t go so well.”
“How so?”
No matter how many years go by since then, my heart still begins to race; the anger hasn’t subsided, and I’m not sure it ever will. “They didn’t take me seriously. Like they thought I didn’t really have talent.”
“I doubt that,” Pierce says, and there’s an edge in his voice that makes me think he’s getting pissed too, on my behalf.
“It’s sweet of you, and maybe they were wrong, but it’s not how they acted. They never came out and said it, but I think they saw my looks and figured I’d be fine — that I wouldn’t have to be a good actress, I’d get the jobs regardless.”
“You think they resented you?” he asks, lying back down after finishing his water.
“Could be. I’d like to think they felt threatened by me.”
Pierce smiles. “You can be very threatening.”
“Thanks.” I swipe the chocolates away from him and take one, a milk chocolate with strawberry filling. “Some of them totally wanted to use me for my looks; more than one of the teachers creeped out on me. But most of them just treated me like an impostor. As if I’d slept with some rich donor and that’s why I got in.”
“That’s fucked up. So, what did you do?”
I turn back to Pierce, for some reason overwhelmed with the urge to tell him everything. For a long time, I’ve needed someone to know…
All the nights on the streets.
The worst kinds of men, every night.
The confusion and shame…
He’d understand, wouldn’t he?
Probably, yes, but I’m not ready.
“Well, I acted out… sexually… provocatively,” I say, offering a piece of the whole truth. “I took the source of my issue, and used it.”
“Oh boy.”
“Yeah. I got all the attention I could handle. It was great. I got naked for one wannabe avant-garde short film — it was black and white, three minutes long and derivative as fuck. Didn’t matter — suddenly everyone either loved me or hated me. Either way, they took notice.”
“You still have this movie?” he asks, licking his lips.
“You want to see it?” I scoff.
“Of course. I mean, you’re not doing anything gross in it? I’ve seen Pink Flamingos…”
I laugh. “Eww, no. Just sorta stumbling around like I’m on drugs when I’d just had sex. Because it was my drug, you know?”
Pierce nods. “Sounds like that part was real at least.”
I slap his shoulder, though there’s a smile on my face. “Guess that means it’s bad for me,” I recite. “That’s what I said in the movie, over and over. It was the title.”
“Oh yeah. Super subtle,” Pierce says, though the humor’s dropped from his voice.
Considering where it led… It wasn’t wrong, was it?
“The response was… really disheartening
. I thought it was going to be my breakthrough, but it turned into a punchline. I couldn’t take it, so I left.”
Pierce rubs my shoulder. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I’m over it,” I say, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “I like where I’m at now, really.”
“Good. Does that mean you’re done with acting, or would you ever go back?”
I sip my water and rub my eyes, forcing back my memories. “I’d go back, maybe. But not for like TV or movies. The only way I’d want to do it is if it was for my art. I’m not in it for the money. No offense.”
He nods slowly, something working behind his eyes. “None taken. Trust me, I know how it is.”
“Really?” I say, sitting up, gathering the sheets over my chest. “Do you?”
“Sure.” He sighs deeply. “Frankly, I don’t care about the money.”
Oh, come on. Not this shit.
“Please. Aren’t you making a killing?”
Pierce gets up too, but slides his way to the edge of the bed. “My company is doing well, yes, but…”
“So what is it? The sex?”
He shakes his head, now getting out of bed to pace around. “No. Sibel, my life is a little complicated, okay? I have reasons for the choices I’ve made, but they’re hard to explain.”
Throwing off the covers, I get out of bed and stand before him. We’re both naked, hair messy and surrounded by the darkness of the broken down warehouse, but we’re here, together. “Tell me,” I say. “I want to understand.”
He reaches for my hand. His thumb traces a circle across my skin, and then he pulls us both back onto the bed. “What’s your family like?” he asks.
“Pierce, we’re talking about-”
“I know,” he cuts in. “Just go with me. Your family?”
I shrug. “My parents are fine. They’re not always comfortable with my work, but they try to be supportive. I know that they really just want me to be happy.”
“That’s good,” he says, nodding, looking away. “Do you have siblings?”
“No. I’m an only child.”
“Ahh.”
“You?”
“Yeah,” he says, flattening his hands on his knees. “Four brothers. All of them older.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. I can’t even imagine that. “You told me your family sucked. Was it that bad?”
“Yeah, it was. They were all born long before me, and barely a year apart from one another. They were half-grown by the time I came along; I was a tiny little child surrounded by a pack of dogs. They bullied me relentlessly. They made sure I knew… that I was a mistake. And I believed them, no matter how much my folks denied it.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, blinking away a tear. “What about your parents? They didn’t help?”
“My mother did. She’s wonderful, but when I was young she had to work, and couldn’t be around all the time. My dad… meant well, but was depressed. He kept losing jobs, and when he was unemployed he’d go get shitfaced most of the time.”
I sling an arm around his shoulder and kiss his cheek. “You were dealt a shitty hand, Pierce. You’ve done well for yourself, considering.”
“Thanks,” he says.
“But I don’t get what you said before, about the choices you’ve made. How did you end up making porn?”
Pierce nods. “When I was a young man, and people knew me as Justin, I met my friend Chase. He gave me a job and helped me escape my family. To this day, he’s my only real friend. I’d do almost anything for him.”
“What was the job?” I ask, shivering. Despite the reverence in his tone, I didn’t hear much in the way of pride.
“He was a pimp,” Pierce replies. “I was his enforcer. I protected the girls, beat up johns who went too far or refused to pay.”
A pimp. And he worked with prostitutes.
I should have seen this coming, shouldn’t I? Is that why he was drawn to me?
Does he know?
No. He couldn’t.
Unless he was one of my johns. But wouldn’t I recognize him? It wasn’t that many men, and I haven’t forgotten their faces, though I’ve tried.
There’s no way. It has to be a coincidence.
“That’s…”
“I know, it was a fucked up thing to do. But Chase isn’t a bad person, not at heart. He didn’t mistreat the girls, or me. And when the time came, he sacrificed a lot for me. I’m trying to repay that debt to this day.”
I nod, forcing myself to reserve judgment. “Tell me everything, okay? Start from the beginning.”
“Okay. Sure.” Pierce lies down and takes a deep breath before continuing. “I met Chase on my eighteenth birthday…”
I wake up thinking about that day, when I got into my first fight defending a prostitute’s honor and ended up meeting Chase. Somehow, it feels more recent than the night at the hotel with his father, even though that happened later. Maybe that’s because the latter still doesn’t feel real, even after a decade.
Still shaking off a sleepy haze, I stumble out of bed, drawn by the harsh buzzing of my phone against the dresser.
“Pierce Williams Productions,” I answer, picking up before it can go to voicemail. Clearing my throat with a cough, I look at my phone’s display and cringe. “Shit. Sorry. Hi, Mom.”
I need to get a separate business line already.
“Hi honey,” she says, her voice so full and energetic, it’s easy to forget she’s sixty-two. “You free to talk a minute?”
“Sure,” I reply, turning on the speakerphone so I can talk and dress at the same time. “What’s up?”
“Before I say anything else, I wanted to thank you for the check you sent. It’s very generous.”
“Of, course, Mom. I’m happy to help.”
I pause from searching my closet for a shirt to wear, momentarily struck by anger and grief. While I meant what I said — helping her is the least I can do — I get mad that she needs help at all. She’s still working at the clinic, not even able to dream of retiring. Dad may have found work as a night custodian, but he day drinks away most of his earnings.
“Justin, you there?”
“Yeah, I am. You don’t need to thank me, okay? Whatever you need, I want to do.”
I hear a sniff on the other end. “Justin, I… I know where the money comes from. I don’t want you to send any more.”
“What?”
She doesn’t continue right away, and when she does, her voice sounds anguished. “I understand you have to make a living, and that what you do is legal, but… I don’t want money from that.”
In fairness, I hate that she knows what I do, so I’m not mad — just deflated.
“I still want to help you,” I say. “I could make some investments, start collecting income from another source. I could use that for-”
A tone in my ear interrupts me — I’m getting another call, from an unknown number. “Mom, I have to go. We’ll talk about this more later.”
“Okay, honey,” she replies, relieved. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” I say, then disconnect her to pick up the other call. “Hello, Pierce Williams Productions.”
“I’m sorry. I’m looking for a Justin Blake. Is he in your employ?” It’s a female voice on the line, with a slight southern twang.
“Uh yeah. I’m… I can get him a message. Who is this?”
“My name’s Joanne. I’m calling from Pekarksy & Nimmons. We represent Chase Turner, who has just been granted early release. We’ve been asked to inform Mr. Blake.”
Holy shit, he’s getting out!
I never visited Chase in prison; he forbade it. As far as the court system was concerned, we’ve never met.
“When is he being released?” I ask.
“Tomorrow, scheduled for ten in the morning but expect some delays. Do you need the address?”
“Yes. Hang on, I’ll get a pen.”
It’s been almost ten years of a fifteen-year sentence for aggravate
d assault, but Chase is coming home. As soon as I finish the call, I hop in the shower. I’ve thought about this day a lot, but didn’t expect it to come yet. I only have a day to plan and prepare; it’ll have to be enough.
—
I’m wearing a suit and tie when the outer gate opens at nearly eleven. In my hand I clutch the handle of an empty briefcase. My hair is freshly cut; my stomach growls.
“Justin,” he says, waving when he sees me. He wears ill-fitting blue jeans and a blank, white t-shirt; a small, gray duffle bag is slung over his shoulder. Thankfully, I’ve got a change for him in the car.
“Chase.”
I take his hand in mine and reach around to clap his back. “You look good,” I say.
He grunts a laugh. “That’s what you do in jail — you work out.”
“I’ll bet,” I say, opening the passenger door of my Impala. “Get in, man. You hungry?”
“Fuck yeah,” he replies after I get in on my side. “I didn’t want another shitty prison breakfast, so I skipped it. Got something better in mind?”
“Oh yeah.”
For five hundred dollars, I convinced the manager of Ichabod’s Steakhouse to hold a private lunch. We stop on the way so Chase can put on the white button-down shirt, brown sports jacket and trousers I bought him.
“You must be doing pretty well for yourself,” he mutters, staring at all the framed photographs on the wall of the restaurant.
“We’re doing well, actually. Effective immediately, you’re now my business partner, and have a share in the company: Pierce Williams Productions.”
“Who the fuck is that?”
I grin. “Me. I’m Pierce now. Only my mom calls me Justin.”
“Interesting,” Chase says, setting down his menu.
The waiter — the only one here — comes by to take our order: two steaks with creamed spinach and french fry sides, as well as an Old Fashioned for Chase to drink and an iced tea for me.
“This business isn’t anything illegal, is it? I’m not going back to jail, not ever.”
I shake my head. “My operation is one-hundred percent legit. Taxes are paid, employee records are filed — there’s nothing to worry about.”