Slash: A Slay Series Novella

by Laurelin Paige

  Edward did the best that he could, I know. I did the best that I could too, and, unfortunately, while he had his own issues to work through, he fared much better than I did.

  It’s part of the reason I’ve kept that secret hope of a sibling for Freddie in my heart. It would be another chance at the relationship Edward and I were robbed of when our parents died.

  Thankfully, Edward was always a patient man, particularly when it comes to what he believes in, and he believed in me. Yes, he admonished me for the outburst, but he also bought me another, this time allowing me to choose the camera for myself.

  Instead of going for a fancy digital model, I selected a Nikon 35mm. I was drawn to the process of developing film. Truly, that was the only thing that excited me about the idea of photography—the hours I’d get to spend tucked away in the dark.

  It was quite a surprise when I discovered the real joy was behind the camera, with one eye pressed to the viewfinder, the other closed tightly so that my whole world narrowed into what was in front of me. And that world was completely shaped by me. No one else.

  It was life-changing. I was able to take the emotions I had bottled up inside and place them outside of myself. I could look at them from a different angle. I could detach.

  I’m not sure if it achieved the goal that my therapist had intended since I soon moved on to another. But even through the long string of specialists that followed, I clung to my photography. It was an art that became a fast friend. An only friend sometimes. In the darkest days with Frank, taking pictures was most often my only form of escape. No matter how much he bruised and mangled my body, he had no power over what I chose to express. He didn’t get to be the author of the stories I told.

  I learned to tell those stories in other ways over the years, more destructive ways. Sex has become another favorite method of expression as long as I am the initiator, because though it involves a participant, I get to choose it. After all the men in my life that chose what happened to my body for me, fucking at my whim is a powerful reminder that I’m the one who has control now.

  It’s a false reminder, though. I might be able to direct how and when and what happens physically during the act, but I still can’t control the things that happen inside me. It’s the same across all forms of expression, whether it be with my pussy or my camera or a knife, I can only control the external, and not even much of that.

  The reality is I am still powerless.

  I am still subject to my emotions.

  I am still shaped by the actions of people outside of me.

  I am still very much human.

  * * * *

  It only takes a quick trip to the restroom to pull myself together. I’m still flushed with humiliation when I walk in the door, partly because I didn’t take my key and had to knock to be let in, but it’s not so bad I can’t show my face.

  Dr. Joseph would count that as growth.

  I’m more reluctant to name it so until I discover what I do in the future. The important reactions aren’t always immediate, I’ve found, but rather what happens later, usually in the dark, when I’m alone and free to really express myself.

  For now, I’m composed enough to be attentive to the students, mentoring them through the rest of the day’s activity.

  Not all the students, of course. I stay clear of Hendrix, unable or unwilling to even glance at him. I’m not sure if I’m too angry or too embarrassed or if I’m simply too scared to see how he might look at me now. To see if the reflection of me he wears in his expression has changed.

  It’s a tension that I carry throughout the rest of the class, as I count down the time remaining before this exhausting session is through. Half an hour. A quarter of an hour. Ten minutes. Now five.

  Finally, I give this week’s assignment and dismiss them.

  I turn my back to them immediately, not watching as they leave. There is much to clean up today since we worked in the studio. Lights that need to be unplugged, backdrops that need to be rolled and stowed. I’ll get to all of it soon enough. Right now all I can do is lean my palms on one of the work tables and try not to think. Try to breathe. Try not to wonder if Hendrix will be there when I turn around.

  I tell myself that if he is or if he isn’t, that will be my answer.

  Not entirely sure what the question is. Maybe having the answer will help me figure it out.

  I wait until I hear the door click. It’s shut now. If he’s on the other side of the door, he’s not coming back without me letting him in. I slowly count to ten. The room is silent. Too quiet for company. I’m certain I’m alone by the time I’m brave enough to pivot.

  I’m relieved to find my “certainty” is flawed. He’s here, hands shoved in his pockets, camera bag hanging from his shoulders.

  And God, his eyes. The way they look at me. What he sees hasn’t changed at all.

  “Camilla…” I can’t blame him for not knowing what to say. He tries again. “I didn’t mean to—”

  I don’t give him a chance to finish before I’m advancing across the room, my palms itching until they’re wrapped in his collar, jerking his face toward mine.

  His mouth is tentative against mine at first. Questioning. No man has ever shown me I’m the one with the power like this before. It’s intoxicating, even though we’re almost barely doing this. He tries to pull away once, but it’s a halfhearted attempt, and when he gives in, he gives in entirely. His lips part, inviting in my tongue. He drops his bag on the floor—gently enough to do no damage, but not nearly as gentle as I’m sure he normally handles his camera—and his arms wrap around my waist. I’m tugged flush to him so I feel the whole of him against me. I feel his heat merge with mine. Feel the hardening bulge at my abdomen.

  I’ve never kissed someone so urgently. Never clawed at a man’s trousers like they hid my only source of survival. Never got out of my own pants so quickly that I tripped during their removal.

  And I’ve been frantic to fuck before. Hendrix and I were frenzied that first time in France, but this feeling is even more fraught. There’s an added desperation that I can’t quite name. I’m not secretly praying that he’ll know what he’s doing or for a decent-sized cock like I was back then. I already know that he does and that makes these seconds of anticipation all the more intense.

  He’s just as manic as I, fumbling for a condom, tossing his wallet behind him before ripping the package open with his teeth. I’m more hindrance when I attempt to help him roll it on, but I can’t help myself. I need to touch his cock. I need to be part of the action required to get him inside of me.

  Finally it’s on, and with a grunt, Hendrix hoists me up. I hook my ankles around his waist while he notches his cock at my entrance. It proves difficult in this position, and instead of trying to work it out where we stand, the man is smart enough to carry me to the worktable. My bare ass meets the wood, and with my legs still around him, the angle is just right for him to push inside.

  I cry out on the first thrust. It’s always a delicious sort of torment, as my body stretches to accommodate girth, as the empty place inside me is filled. There’s an added satisfaction of discovering that the memories of my night with Hendrix were not a trick of the mind. We really do fit perfectly. The happy hum, under everything. He really does make me momentarily feel whole.

  I’m tempted to make him slow down so I can draw out the ecstasy, though I’m unsure either of us could hold back right now. The tempo seems to be driving us rather than the other way around, as though the force that compels us toward each other is in charge here. As though our fucking has been orchestrated by a higher power.

  It’s nearly unbearable being this out-of-control.

  And it’s euphoric all at the same time.

  I cling to him, not just with my legs, but my arms too, wrapped tight around his neck, holding on to him like an anchor. When that’s not enough, I press my forehead against his. Together we peer down between us where his cock disappears repeatedly inside my pussy, and without
looking at his eyes, I’m sure he’s as mesmerized by the erotic sight.

  It looks like being chased, the way his cock returns again and again to nest inside me. I’m wrecked with pleasure and absent of much coherent thought, but I wonder fleetingly if being caught by him for real would feel as good as it does when he’s buried to the hilt.

  It’s so terrifyingly thrilling of an idea that it sends me into orgasm, and the thought is lost in the whirlwind of bliss that spins me, unwrapping me until every good thing inside is unleashed at once. I’m dizzy from the ecstasy, limp and spent and dazed.

  His release follows right after, his accompanying moan ragged and relieved, as though he’d been waiting for me and the wait had been hard. The head start to recovery should be to my benefit, but I’m still having trouble with my breath when he grips my chin and places his mouth over my own.

  Has kissing always been this monumental? Was there always so much communicated between lips and tongues moving together like ours are now?

  I’m not sure I have the strength for what’s being said.

  I break away first, letting it happen in stages. A slowing of my tongue. The closing of my lips. The arching away of my spine.

  He’s not ready to let me go. I can tell with the way he pulls me back to place a kiss on my cheek, then on my eyebrow. Now on my hair.

  I set my hands on my thighs and note the contrast of the bare skin against my sleeve-covered arms. It’s as much as I can give. I cannot give any more.

  “I shouldn’t have assumed,” he says, his cheek pressed against my forehead. “I know you aren’t at all like the creatures I shoot in the field, but I’m not used to considering consent.”

  I shake my head against him. I gave consent, albeit silently. For my body. It’s my heart I’m protecting now. “You did nothing wrong. It’s me.”

  It’s always me.

  I nudge him away and jump down from the table. I keep my back to him until I’m put back together, which goes smoother than the undressing. When I’ve turned around again, the condom’s been taken care of, and his cock’s put away, and now it’s time to put us away as well.

  “This is the end of this,” I tell him. “It’s out of our system, and it can’t happen again.”

  I think I hope that he’ll leave now. Or maybe I hope that he’ll stay, which he does.

  “Why?” he asks, and it’s not like he’s angry, he just wants to know.

  What a complicated question, though. With complicated answers.

  Or perhaps they’re really simple.

  “I’m your teacher,” I say, which is the truth and also a lie.

  “That’s not why. What’s the real why?”

  “It’s as much why as I need to give you.” I fold my arms over my chest, like I’m closing a door.

  He studies me for long seconds. “When the class is over, what then?”

  Fuck, I didn’t bloody think this through.

  And now I’m worried I might cry.

  “Is it really what you want, Camilla? For this to never happen again?”

  I swallow hard. Yes, I mean to say. Instead what comes out is, “No.”

  Before he can take that admission and run with it, I say more. “But also yes. It’s what I need. And that’s more important than what I want right now.”

  He studies me some more. He considers. He swears under his breath. “I shouldn’t have let this happen. I knew that sex needed to stay out of this because you would find a way to make that an ending. I knew this was a bad idea.”

  He’s right, and yet I’m hurt. “It’s my fault then. If you were so all-knowing, why didn’t you try harder to push me away?”

  “Because I fucking want you, Camilla.” It’s the sharpest he’s ever been with me, and it’s still softer than Frank ever was. How can I let this in, knowing there’s any possibility of it ending? “Because I want your skin and your mouth and your brain. And your pain.”

  The last word closes me up tighter. “I don’t know what you’re inferring. I’m fine.”

  Isn’t that what people say when they’re exactly the opposite of fine?

  He takes a step toward me. “You can tell me. I’ll listen. I’m not going to judge.”

  I’m trembling with rage. Or fear. It’s all muddled up. All I know is that he needs to stop. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I turn toward the equipment that needs to be put away, an excuse to be done with this conversation.

  “I felt you, Camilla,” he says to my back. “I felt your body that night. I felt your skin.”

  A bolt of terror strikes like lightning through me. “Don’t.”

  “Did someone do it to you?” He pauses. “Or did you do it to yourself?”

  Pins and needles spike every inch of my skin. I whirl around to face him. “You need to leave.”

  “Camilla…”

  “Leave! Now!”

  He knows he’s crossed the line. He’s been around enough wild animals to know when they’ve turned dangerous.

  He picks up his camera bag on his way out and opens the door before he pauses with a sigh. His head turns toward me. “Leave forever? Or just leave for today?”

  Forever.

  Or not at all.

  The bubble floats between us.

  What answer should I give?

  I give him the truth. “I don’t know.”

  Chapter Ten

  Background: The area of an artwork that appears farthest away from the viewer; also, the area against which a figure or scene is placed. - MoMA Glossary of Art Terms

  After class, I’m too distracted to spend my free day as I usually do. There’s a new exhibit at The Gallery and a farmer’s market I’d meant to visit.

  I come home, instead. With Sylvia here to nanny, I can tuck myself away in my room, pull the covers over my head and sleep through the rest of the day if I want to. I do want to.

  But my mind’s too buzzy for sleep.

  I find myself lying on the floor in the playroom with Freddie while Sylvia fixes him lunch. Silly if I thought this would help. It’s often a difficult task to be completely in the moment with a six-year-old, especially when there are pressing items to give attention to. The work to do sitting in my inbox. The discrepancy in the electric bill that needs to be sorted. The manicure that’s well past due. The opportunities that could be taken with my camera and the late afternoon light.

  Typically, I can lose myself in the simple pleasures of watching my son. He’ll never know the childhood I had. His occasional loneliness will never touch how alone I felt. Typically, knowing that is enough to make me happy enough too.

  This is not a typical day.

  Luckily, he seems preoccupied with his latest Lego creation. The kid is truly an artist, absurdist with his concepts, perhaps, but he definitely has a point of view.

  I should tell him as much. I should extol his work and encourage his thirst for experimentation, but I’m feeling self-centered and self-loathing and all I can do is stare at the ceiling and think, not enough not enough not enough.

  It’s like a woodpecker tapping at my brain. Incessant and maddening. My groan of frustration comes involuntarily like a yawn, starting small and growing as it takes over.

  “Mummy?” Fred’s concern is etched in his brows as he peers over at me, his sticky fingers clutching a Lego in midair.

  I might appreciate this aspect of motherhood the most. It’s impossible to truly lose myself in self-pity with my child there to remind me the world does not revolve around my heartache. That for one soul, I am enough. Even when I feel the opposite.

  “Sorry,” I say, rolling to my side and propping my head up with my forearm. “I’m fine.”

  He’s not convinced. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  I shake my head, but I remember my commitment to parenting with transparency. There is something Fred might learn here, even if it’s just that adults are not immune to complicated feelings.

  I think about the simplest way to fr
ame my current emotional state, a way he’ll understand. “I’m obsessing,” I tell him eventually. “I can’t stop thinking about something I want very badly. It’s making me feel a little insane.”

  His face relaxes. He can understand that. There is more than one tantrum that has occurred because of something he had to have Right This Minute. But there’s still a question in his expression. “You’re a grown-up. Can’t you just get the thing you want?”

  I open my mouth and shut it again, replaying his words in my head. Yes, Camilla, can’t you just get the thing you want? Who told you that you weren’t allowed to be happy? The only one who ever did is gone now. Can’t you get it for yourself now?

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  * * * *

  It’s easier said than done, of course. But once the decision is made, it does seem less hard than I imagined to choose what to wear, to know where to go, to not worry about what I’ll say. I simply remember the feeling and chase the effervescent trail it’s left between me and the man who showed me how to find it.

  It still takes a while to get ready. I primp in every manner of the word. It’s been ages since I’ve taken this much care in my appearance, painting my toenails, plucking my brows, shaving every last blade of unwanted hair.

  It isn’t until I’m standing outside Nightsky that I have my first flutter of uncertainty, and it’s not doubt about what I have planned, but that there’s a possibility I won’t get the opportunity to carry it out. It doesn’t scare me as much as it should, because I’m finally starting to recognize that as much as I find my happiness in him, it’s because that spark inside me has been lit. It’s not a stranger to me anymore, this feeling. I might, someday, be able to chance this sprout growing into a vine of my own. But first, I want to see if this man who adored my child and looks at me like art would like to keep watering it with me.