by Ashley Love
"That got me thinking," he continued. "I had seen the clothes in your closet, your new jewelry box. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I started looking. And I found..." He reached under the sheets beside him and produced a little notebook. My notebook, which I used as a sort of journal for my dates.
He flipped it open, glanced through some of the pages. "Thomas Dunson," he said. "Robert Avery. Mykel Johnson. Alejandro Ruiz." He slapped the little book closed and glared at me. "You've been busy."
"S-Sean—" I began.
"You. Fucking. WHORE!"
I fell to my knees on the floor, the tears flowing down my face.
"I told you I loved you!" he shouted angrily, lurching to his feet. "And now I find out...I knew what you were before, Allie. That's how we met, I know that. But I never thought...I was so wrong about you."
I convulsed, looking up at him through the watery film of my tears. "P-please," I managed to say.
He seethed as he glared down on me. "Save the begging for when your next client is shoving his dick in your face," he spat, then stomped past me.
"Sean!" I cried, reaching for him. I wanted to chase after him, but I didn't have the strength. "Sean!"
The door slammed shut behind him, making the walls rattle. I collapsed on the ground, beating my fists impotently against the carpet.
"Sean...I love you..."
I didn't answer the phone for days. I knew it wasn't Sean calling. I didn't go out. I turned on the TV and flipped through the channels blankly. I didn't shower or bathe. I smoked cigarette after cigarette, drank every beer and bottle I had, which was quite a bit, and ordered pizza because I didn't want to leave my apartment.
The delivery boy who brought my order stared at me like he was looking at a hag. I suppose I did look like something out of a nightmare, with my runny makeup smeared across my face and the reek of cigarettes and alcohol on my breath. Even flashing my smelly, stubbly pussy didn't have the effect it had had before.
I remember sitting on my couch, surrounded by empty beer cans and bottles of liquor, the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, holding a kitchen knife poised over my left wrist. The bracelet Sean gave me glittered dimly in the light. I swayed drunkenly, waiting for the courage to make that decisive cut that would end it all. I was only vaguely aware of the pounding on my door.
"Jus' a minit," I mumbled, and closed my eyes, settling the blade against my skin.
The door burst open. I cried out, startled, jerking my hand away.
"Oh my God!" gasped Mya, staring at me. Behind her stood Cleo. Troy leaned against the door, having smashed his way in. Their eyes were wide with worry and fear.
I looked down at my wrist, saw the thick red line of blood as it trickled down my arm. I looked up at them, at my friends, my vision blurry. "Oops."
Then the world went black.
5
I stared at the gauze wrapped around my wrist as I sat in the hospital bed. All day long, I had been imposed upon by doctors, nurses, and social care workers. Their questions had become tiresome and repetitive.
"I was drunk and depressed!" I finally shouted at one of the latter, a pudgy little Hispanic woman who shrank back from my verbal assault. "Jesus Christ! Haven't you ever felt like shit before?"
They had stopped coming after that. It was a small comfort.
I glared at the TV suspended from the wall. All it showed was the standard, non-cable channels and a bunch of crap in Spanish.
Knock, knock.
I looked at the door as Mya popped her head in. She had a cautionary smile on her face. "Hey."
I gave her a sour look, turned back to the TV. "Go away."
"...Okay."
I glanced at the door after a moment. She wasn't there. "Hey!" I cried desperately.
Her head popped around the door again. "Yeah?"
Emotions overwhelmed me, and my eyes became blurry. "I'm sorry," I blubbered.
Mya smiled and stepped into the room. "It's gonna be okay," she said, her round cheeks dripping with tears as well.
I held out my arms, like a little girl seeking absolution in the arms of a forgiving parent. Mya laughed softly, then rushed to my side and hugged me close. I smothered my face against her pillowy breasts and squeezed her with all my might.
"I'll never do it again," I sputtered. "I promise. I'll never do it again."
Mya stroked my stringy, greasy hair. "You better not," she said, her voice choked. "Cause you're the best friend I got and I'm not gonna fucking lose you."
Hearing those words was all it took to break down the last of my barriers. I cried uncontrollably, sobbing and choking like a baby against her, finally pouring out all my pain and grief. And like the true friend that she was, Mya let me, holding me close and giving me the warmth and support I needed.
Mya, Cleo and Troy stood in my hospital room as I signed the release papers. I had declined the option to seek psychiatric help, despite my doctors' and nurses' urgings to do so. With my complete sobriety had come a sense of acceptance over what had happened. I had let Sean back into my life, only to push him away again once he had discovered what I had become. In a moment of drunken depression, I had almost given in to weakness.
I vowed that I would never be that weak again.
They took me home, sat with me in my living room for a while. We all tried to be flippant about the whole thing, and even I tried joking about it. But it wasn't convincing.
Cleo left first, giving me a kiss on the cheek. She had a date to meet. I smiled after her as she stepped through the door. Then Mya went, a couple of hours later, leaving me with a curiously lingering kiss on my lips. She told me to call her, "later," after glancing suspiciously at Troy, who sat beside me on the couch.
"Are you all right?" he asked me after Mya had left. I rolled forward on the couch, tapping my tenth or so cigarette over my ashtray. Mya had cleaned up my apartment while I was in the hospital. The clean aroma of Pine Sol and other cleaners filled the air.
I shrugged. "I will be," I said.
"He really meant something to you, didn't he?"
I sighed heavily, staring out. "I really don't want to talk about him, Troy."
He fell quiet. We watched TV for a while. I was aware of the grimy feel of my skin. Between my self-loathing and my stay in the hospital, I hadn't washed our showered in a week. I wondered how Troy put up with the smell.
I pushed up from the couch and headed to the bathroom, peeling off my clothes. "I'm gonna take a shower," I announced.
Troy didn't say anything. He just watched me go.
I scrubbed my skin nearly raw, turning the water dial to make it as hot as I could stand it. I washed my hair, shaved my legs and vagina of the stubble that had formed. Finally feeling human, I switched off the spray and toweled dry. I had forgotten about Troy in the living room. I just wanted to go to bed.
I looked in the mirror, saw a more familiar me. The bags were gone, as well as the redness from my eyes. I was once more a teenage Catholic school girl. For a moment, I thought I had stepped back in time to before it all started, before that day in the mall with Carlos and Brian...
But I hadn't. The joys and mistakes of my life remained. I had no choice but to go on. I touched the raised welt of the cut on my wrist. It was itchy, but I refrained from scratching it. I hoped, in time, that the scar would fade.
I flipped off the light switch, stepped into my bedroom. I stopped, looking at Troy laying in my bed. He had pulled up the indigo silk sheets to his waist. His muscular chest was bare, rising and falling as he breathed slowly. His head was tilted toward me on the pillow, eyes open, watching me.
For a moment, I thought about covering up. I thought about telling him to leave. But those thoughts faded quickly, like morning mist under the sun. Instead, I padded across the carpet to the bed and drew down the covers.
He was hard, his dick hovering stiff and long above his toned abdomen. Yet there was no sense of immediate desire co
ming from him. I looked at his face, saw the stoic look. He was letting me make the decision.
I didn't say a word. I just slipped my leg over him and moved up until I straddled his face. I wasn't wet, but that changed quickly as his tongue slipped between my puffy lips and into the hot center of my sex. I closed my eyes, letting my passion simmer and grow. I rolled my hips in slow circles, gently grinding against his mouth. He brought up his hands and gripped my firm cheeks, my hips.
"Uhn...ahhh..." I moaned softly, pushing down firmly against Troy's mouth. I hadn't been with him in months, and my desire was telling. His tongue probed more insistently into my pussy, starting the trickling flow of fluid that dripped into his mouth. He sucked my lips and smacked his own, and I moaned with ever-increasing pleasure.
I reached down and gripped handfuls of his silver hair, pulling his head deeper between my thighs as I rode his face. I rubbed my clit against his upper lip and nose, making the lower half of his face shine with my juices. I pumped my pussy down against his mouth, and Troy stiffened his tongue to make it like a small dick that thrust up inside me. I fucked his face with hard, short motions of my hips, wanting him...using him...
I shuddered and moaned loudly when I finally came, gushing my fluid onto his tongue. Troy moaned, tasting me, sucking me. I let the warm rush flow through my body, and groped my breasts as I mashed my sopping pussy against his face. I ran my hands through my damp hair, pulled on wet strands as I hissed with my much-needed release.
Then, abruptly, I pulled off him and slid down in the bed, turning away.
My pussy quivered with aftershocks. Troy didn't move for several moments. I nibbled my thumb, waiting for him. When he finally spooned up against me, his hard dick pressed against my cheeks, I sighed deeply. I grabbed his hand, settled it upon my left breast. My nipple throbbed against his palm. He kissed my shoulder, my neck and settled comfortably beside me.
And finally, I fell asleep.
6
It was another week before I called Cleo. Troy had left the morning after our little tryst, and had not been back. Honestly, I wasn't disappointed. The dynamic of our relationship was precarious; the more time Troy spent with me, the more he lost control of me, and he knew it. So, to expect him to remain would be asking him to give up his influence, and that, Troy would not allow.
"Hi, Cleo."
"Hey, honey," she said warmly. "How are you feeling?"
I laughed softly. "Honestly?"
"Of course."
"Horny."
Cleo chuckled, a breathy, warm sound. "Allie, you don't have to come back. Not yet, or not ever."
I frowned. "Am I kicked out?"
She laughed again. "I think you misunderstood me, baby," she said affectionately. "You're always welcome to come back, but you're not expected to."
"I wanna come back."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Well...there are a couple of men we can set you up with. They'll be gentle, I know. I've been with both of them—"
"Cleo."
"Yes, dear?"
"Give me a special client. Someone who just wants to fuck."
"...Allie, I don't think—"
"I do," I said firmly. "I want it raw. I don't wanna hear any sob stories. I wanna fuck and I wanna get fucked, as much as possible. Set it up or I walk away."
She sighed again. "Be ready by nine."
I wasn't given any special instructions although I had been told I was going to an exclusive dance club. So I dressed in my little black dress and matching fishnet stockings. I strapped on my 'ultimate' come-fuck-me shoes—black heels with gleaming silver spikes—and applied blood-red lipstick and severe mascara. I covered the scar on my wrist with a spiked leather band. Staring at myself in the mirror, I decided I looked like a Gothic slut queen. My hair fell loose about my face, brushing back and forth over my green eyes. I felt like a predator preparing for the hunt.
Logan dropped me off before the front door of an exclusive rave, one of those places where you stand in line while the bouncer decides who's hot enough to get in. I strode past the line of a hundred and more would-be partiers, only peripherally hearing their denouncements and jibes. The overly muscular bouncer gave me an appraising look as I stepped up before him.
"Look, you're hot, baby," he began. "But get in line like—"
"Yvette," I said, cutting him off and glaring at him through my bangs. "For Mr. Garza. Raul Garza."
The bouncer regarded me a moment, then looked down at the small clipboard he held. He nodded, then smirked. "Welcome to Club Zero," he said.
The music was pounding and primal, infusing me with raw, sexual energy. The club was dark and smoky, with flashing lasers and glittering strobes. I made my way through the crowd, having been told at the front door, by a raven-haired girl with a pierced eyebrow, that Raul Garza was to be found by the 'western DJ booth.' I would recognize him by his thick, shaggy hair and red silk shirt.
Men leered at me as I passed them, calling out and even reaching for me. I ignored them, shrugging them off. I was looking for one man in particular.
Raul Garza was easy to make out in the crowd. He was a tall Hispanic man, lanky, athletic, good-looking. His crimson shirt was halfway unbuttoned, providing glimpses of his hairy chest as he moved. The loose cuffs of his sleeves graced his hands. A thick gold necklace hung around his neck; a Rolex graced his left wrist. He wore expensive leather pants, the creases of which caught the strobe lights of the club.
Around him, girls and women flocked like naïve moths to a flame. He flirted and casually reached for them; they giggled and flirted back, but lacked the confidence to follow through. I didn't.
I boldly intruded, stepping between Raul and a couple of stupid girls who giggled and posed the way they were expected to. I barely heard their insulted protests over the music as I met Raul's eyes directly.
He seemed to recognize me right away. Not me, as a person, but me as the woman he had sent for. I took him to be the type with too much money and not enough brains to use it wisely. Probably some rich entrepreneur's son. A playboy with an inflated view of himself.
"Hello, Raul," I said.
He smirked, impressed with himself as he assessed me with draconian eyes. "Oh, I so hope you are Yvette," he said.
I grinned. "That's me, big boy," I said. "Come on."
I dragged him to the dance floor and proceeded to put on a show. All sense of etiquette fled from my mind, not that Raul would have appreciated it. This wasn't the place for a dainty lady of the evening. Raul wanted a carnal, sluttish, dance-floor queen, and that's what I gave him.
The crowd thinned out around me as I whirled and danced, tossing my hair about and running my hands up and down my body. Sweat oozed from my pores as I really got into it. I tugged on my dress top, making my tits pop out once in a while, my polished puffies catching the light from the strobes. I hiked up the hem of my skirt, splayed my legs and squatted down, leaning back with my hips gyrating and humping the air, letting anyone who cared to gaze upon my trimmed snatch. And many looked.
Applause erupted from the crowd, encouraging me. Men and girls alike surrounded me, groping, touching, fondling. I reveled in the attention, and pulled random, anonymous faces to my breasts, feeling their tongues and lips upon my nipples. I reached for hands and guided them between my legs. I groaned as I felt fingers digging deep inside me, pumping hard and fast in tempo to the music. Someone got behind me—male or female, I didn't know and didn't care—and thrust their wet tongue past my anus.
Other hands roamed over my body, and I sucked on fingers that came close to my mouth. I tasted sweat, nicotine, alcohol, and occasionally, the tart, sweet flavor of pussy. Whether or not it was mine I didn't care. The attention intensified my hedonistic rush. I loved being the slut on display, even as I hated what I was making myself do.
A girl got on her knees and shoved her face between my thighs, devouring my needy cunt. I gripped a ha
ndful of her dark hair and shoved my clit into her mouth, riding her face as hundreds of eyes watched, making her suck the cum out of my pussy when I came.
I bent over, keeping the girl's head between my legs, and a man stepped up, pulling his dick out and slipping it into my mouth. I sucked him hard and deep, taking his length all the way into my throat, and accepted every sticky, runny drop of semen he gushed into my mouth. I straightened, still dancing, caressing my body, and let some of the cum in my mouth dribble out and down my chin to my naked breasts. I made an exaggerated display of swallowing the rest and licking my glazed lips. There was more cheering.
Then, somehow, Raul was before me, grinning and holding me close. I grinded against him, telling him without words that I wanted—needed—to fuck. My top remained down and my skirt stayed up. Cum glistened on my chest. I didn't bother to wipe my chin. I rolled my hips, grinding my naked pussy against Raul's leather-covered cock. His hands squeezed my tits roughly. I grabbed his head and forced it down, pushing one of my puffies into his mouth. He sucked hard and bit down, sinking his teeth into my tender flesh. I cried out and nearly came again.
I hadn't had a single cocktail, but I felt drunk nonetheless. My dress was little more than a black band of cloth around my waist as Raul pulled me through the club. Hands from the crowd graced my naked hips, ass, breasts, and pussy. A girl jumped out and latched onto me for a moment, fastening her mouth to one of my tits and groping my tight box.
"I just love your videos!" she cried, sucking her slick fingers as Raul pulled me away.
"Stupid cunt," he muttered derisively once we reached a relatively quiet alcove. He looked me over. "She thinks you're a porn star."
"I am, tonight," I said, running my own fingers between my legs and licking my sweet juices from them.
"Oh?" asked Raul, fishing out a set of keys from his pocket. "Are you? Are you ready, Yvette?"
"Yes," I hissed.