And a loving and faithful wife, that too she was. Much better than the one I‘ve become.
I don’t know why I think of her, when I’m here, alone. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about her, when I’m waiting. I don’t know much at all anymore.
An hour ago, I was waiting, on my elbows and knees, here on the carpet in this motel room, the door unlocked. I was thinking how, it’s not such a bad motel, really; but then, I left the door unlocked, andstill, it's justa motel. And though I couldn’t smell anything so awful, I started to think how, yes, this carpet’s probably been peed on before. It’s probably soaked up piss sometime.
So yes, it is a bad motel, a bad place, bad things happen here, and here am I, waiting--
An hour ago, the door opened. That was her alright, she comes to get me ready. She closed the door behind her gently. She strode over to me, me on my knees and elbows, between the bed and the windows. She cups her hand against my bald pubes, as she always does. The familiar greeting, it comforts me a little. Softly possessive. Appraising and assuring.
She gets me ready. She opens the blinds. She dresses me in a black thong, white stockings and black garters. She pinches my feet into tottering heels, black and shiny, five inch skyscrapers. My breasts are tackled into a black demibra with white, French maid-like trimming. I am uncomplaining, breathing deeply, compliant, a dumb doll for her.
Obedient because, that’s the way it is now.
She positions me in a chair, spread legged and facing the back, like a surly teenager sits. Like she would sit. I never sat like that when I was a teen. I’m twenty-nine now, and my deportment is good as ever, under normal circumstances. But under her care, I’m seated like a heedless wanton, knees poking awkwardly, my feet too high off the ground, my ass bare against the rough cheap upholstery. I feel too alert, tired and anxious both. Hot hours before I can get home, wash the chlorine from the children’s hair.
She does my makeup, fixing my face to please her fancy of what I should look like, who I should be. My eyebrows are darkened into storm clouds, thick with the smudge of broken promises. My lashes become black and gloopy, heavy to lift beneath a sooty burden of sin. My lips are colored pink and glassy, a vision of delicately debauched innocence; my cheeks are daubed pink too, too bright for smarts. She’s always hated my smarts. Even my proffered breasts get brushed, tinglingly, with a dusting of glittery powder. The embarrassing ring of steel, jewel-capped, glints in my bellybutton tooinvitingly.
That piercing was a painfulhumiliation, one that took some explaining, too. How I could ever manage to explain any more, I don’t know. But I worry--
She left me, almost a half hour ago, my hair fretted into a messy chignon, and now I wait on the bed, the sheets a tangle beneath me. I’ve been tossing, anxious. It doesn’t matter if I make things a mess. No one minds. The blinds are still open, the sun’s heat lighting my skin, easing me into my role. I am indelicately delicate, porcelain broken, chipped, stained, ready for daily use.
I’ve been told to remember, many times now, I’m just a common slut. If I believe it, she says, it’ll come true. If I am that way, then I’ll believe. I don’t understand, but I’m not supposed to, any longer. Things aren’t for me to decide, anymore.
The couple arrive, footsteps clattering outside. The man and the woman, they let themselves in. The woman waits at the door for too many casual seconds, with it open behind her. She wears dark sunglasses and a leather biker jacket. They both are sun kissed. He’s in dark denim, his stubble dark too, like the bruised asphalt of a battered desert highway. Like road movie outlaws, the two of them; fuckable, like models. And just as arrogant and needy.
They speak lightly to each other, little chortles of fun. I make out nothing. Nothing is said to me directly, and of course I have nothing to say. The girl gets out her camera. She turns to the opposite wall and takes a picture, as if she were artfully composing a snap of some sophisticated urban interior. The man just comes over to me. He unzips his jeans and rummages his cock out. It’s beginning to swell, angular and purposive, not fully erect.
“Lick,” he says. I cross over towards it, resting my weight on my elbow, opening my mouth, hovering open around the dome, wetting my bottom lip with my tongue, but it’s almost too dry. I swallow, anxiety like a heave of dusty wind inside me, blowing down from my mouth into the pit of my stomach, a dead well. I swoop my tongue around the head, sweeping the dome. Quickly I swallow again, and everything turns to liquid peace. I open my mouth and accept him, suckling the whole head sweetly.
“Smile,” she says brightly, her chin dark and freckly, her camera at the ready. My eyes twist to hers, behind the shades. I can’t really smile with my lips but I try to with my eyes.
He backs away, his cock smacking sadly from my suckling lips. She gets onto the bottom of the bed. She handles my legs, drawing my knees up, my high heels clicking against each other like matched rapiers, my legs bending open, the gusset of my thong exposed. Her camera clicks. I’m holding my torso half-up, abs crunching, my head to the side as though averting my gaze. I know she likes the coyness of this. Then I rest my back, my chin up, the length of me exposed to her camera’s gaze, my bethonged crotch, my pierced bellybutton, my tits scooped skyward, the thrust of my chin all one mysterious line of desire, promising everything like a glamorous anonymous whore. Click click, click click.
I hear the thud of a belt on the carpet, shoes kicked loose. His jeans hang around his knees, his muscled thighs, dark and wiry, bearing up his proud erection toward my face again. I look at the camera, the girl attentive and inviting, her dark hair, her dark glasses, the whitened glare of her teeth beckoning behind her amused lips. I know what’s expected, but I act befuddled, as though awaiting permission, as I edge myself reluctantly to face his member.
I move my hand to his cock, softly encircling it by the base, its weight solid and strong beneath my curling fingers. Gently I pulse it, soft rhythmic squeezes while my pink harlot’s mouth widens in a mime of incredulity. I nudge the ball sack with my other hand, appraising the dangling fruit of his manhood, then possessively clasp his hip while I open my lips to receive his cock.
This time I only give the purple dome a few introductory suckles before I release him from my hand and take him as deeply as I can, straining his cock at an angle, feeling it nudge the back of my throat. My consciousness soars off into the darkness, into a black velvet bed of stars, constellations viewed from an alien sea bed, while the clothed girl snuggles her way behind my legs, her breath hot against the tops of my thighs.
I arch myself up, knees wobbling on the tired mattress, heels poking out into space, my rear an exposed dock waiting for whatever she decides to rest there. Her fingers dig into my waist, purposive, as if testing for something. Pecks on my neck, cooing. My demibra is unhooked by her soft fingers, and his, hard and calloused, tug at the straps at my shoulders.
Soft little pecks fall on my shoulder blades, turning to a wet rain as she works her way down, down the riverbed of my spine, licking at my tailbone. His hand is at the nape of my neck, keeping me on task, his cock leisurely fucking its way in and out of my mouth.
I hear somewhere her glasses landing on a bedside stand, then her mouth is kissing my bare ass cheeks, her teeth nibbling gently into the flesh. I arch my back, his dick sliding out for a moment against my chin, a tiny tear of precum just kissing my slick lips, and then I plunge my mouth back down upon him as her own hand cups my mons through the thong, as though to renew my faith in what I’m doing. Then she releases me and I hear the camera again, inches from my neck, my wicked head probably filling most of the frame. She moves to my side, my eyeballs rolling in her direction, fervent to show the camera what a good cocksucker I am, how glad I am to be here, to be doing this, to be recorded by the camera.
I feel so wet, so good and wet, and she returns her hand to me, snugging inside against my bare pussy lips, her thumb knowing and nudging, entering me while her firm little hand grinds itself against my button, massaging my bare pubes that used to bear a forest.
Like my pierced navel, a renovation that required some explaining.