by Gwen Masters
(09/22/04)
Perhaps this is my own little kind of confessional, my own whispering
into
the ear of the priest of anonymity. I will likely throw these words
away
one day, lest someone find them, someone who just wouldn't understand.
It had been too long...too long, being ignored and taken for granted.
Too
long of living on his timetable and being last on his list. Too long
of his
touches that were nothing but mercy fucks; I could tell because
everything
in him was into the act except for the light in his eyes. His eyes
were
dead, but I was not, and so there was Jason.
I can still feel his body. His strength. His hard cock inside me. My
whole body aches with the memory of those four times in one short night. I
can
feel his hands, see the little bruises, feel the tingle inside that
reminds
me he was there, only last night, he was inside me.
"For me," he whispered. "For me." And I did come for him, so hard, so
hard
I forgot about mercy fucks and lightless eyes and everything else but
the
feeling of his fingers so deep inside me. Then I sucked them, one by
one,
drinking my own juices from his hand. He groaned and the surge of
power was
so delightful I wanted to cry with the weakness of it.
His eyes were blue and his hair was brown and his cock was harder than
any I
had ever had. I spent an hour with my lips wrapped around him, just
because
he liked it and just because I could. He came in my mouth, something he
said
he had never done for a woman before, and we both knew it wasn't true
but I
let myself believe him anyway. He tasted bitter, and afterward he asked
me
if he needed to eat more pineapple and I said no, he needed to give up
smoking instead and we laughed about that. The bed shook with the
laughter.
Then I remembered what I was doing and whom I wasn't doing it with. I
had
to go to the bathroom to stop the shaking before Jason asked me what
was
wrong.
I can still smell him on the sheets. I have to change them soon but
right
now it makes me feel so wanton that I cannot imagine ever getting up
out of
this bed. My hands slipped on the sheen of sweat that covered his
back. He
spread my legs and I suddenly remembered those philosophical
discussions
women have when they have nothing better to do, and I wondered again
when
the line was drawn, when cheating became more than just playing and
became
real, honest-to-God, going-to-hell-and-he-just-might-leave-you-too kind
of
cheating.
Then it didn't matter anymore because Jason impaled me with his cock
and if
that wasn't enough, I came when he did it. If the act of his cock in
my
pussy wasn't unfaithful enough then the orgasm just sealed the whole
fucking
deal.
He took me for a while that way, so he could watch my face. I
memorized
his. I wanted to remember it when I was lying next to the man who
didn't
really want me like Jason did. Then he rolled with me and I was the
one on
top. I rode with the skill of three tequila shooters blended with one
shot
of desperation, but he loved it. He fucking loved it. He screamed when
he
came and I had the sudden thought that men don't scream, do they? But
he
did. Right here. In this bed. Right. Here.
He took me one more time before he left. He bent me over the bed and
slipped into me from behind. He said he was sore but he didn't seem to
care
much, especially when he hit that ohsoperfect spot and I couldn't
breathe.
For the first time in that long night of everything I wanted him to do,
he
fucked me. It was an honest and raw fuck and there was no mercy
anywhere in
sight. Oh, no. Not with Jason. He grabbed my hips and slammed me
hard and
I tried to tell him I was going to come, but he already knew. He
already
knew, and when I did the world went into shades of grey, and he laughed
while
I cried out. Then he was the one coming, so deep and so hard. He
pushed me
down into the bed with all his weight. The corner of the sheet came
off the
mattress. The old rails creaked. I had never heard the bed creak like
that
before.
I had never been fucked like that before.
Jason is gone, but his scent lingers in the sheets. His bruises linger
on my
thighs and my hips and my neck. It might actually be his phone number
on
that little piece of paper he left beside the bed but I will never find
out.
In a week the bruises will be gone and my boyfriend will be back.
But the
next time he gives me a mercy fuck it will be him getting fucked,
because I
have a secret he will never figure out, mostly because he just doesn't
pay
enough attention.
And that is his own fault, isn't it?
