Degradation

by Stylo Fantome

  Stupid, normal girl. Bet she could just go out and have normal, boring sex. Bet no one calls her a dumb cunt – and if they did, bet she wouldn’t be such a weirdo that she’d like it.

  Jameson lightened up over the food, actually laughing and talking with some of the guys next to him. It made Tate feel a little better, up until he took her glass of wine away. Didn’t even look at her, just reached out and grabbed it, moving it to the other side of his plate. Apparently, she was done drinking.

  Asshole.

  She helped clean up, and while she and Rachel washed dishes, everyone gathered in the living room. Ang was telling one of his “a day in the life of a wannabe porn star” stories, and everyone was laughing. When she peeked her head out, even Jameson had a smile on his face. She smiled and ducked back in to the kitchen. At least he was pretending to have a good time. Maybe that would gentle the blow that would come later.

  “Hey, Rach,” Tate said, pressing her wrist to her forehead. “Do you have any aspirin or anything? I have a killer headache.”

  “In my bedroom, I have some tylenol in the bathroom – maybe some stronger stuff, I don’t know what’s all in there. Help yourself. Go lay down, if you want,” Rachel offered, rubbing her back. Tate smiled and wandered down the hall.

  Rachel’s room was small, but she had an en suite, which Tate would kill for in her own apartment – even a half bath. She found the tylenol, but on another shelf in the medicine cabinet, she found some vicodin. Thank god. She took one pill and washed it down with the glass of wine she had snuck out of the kitchen.

  She had pushed the bedroom door mostly closed behind her, left all the lights off, but she didn’t lay down. She wandered around Rachel’s room, not prying, but peeking through the stuff that was out. Standard pajamas, no lace or leather. Her closest didn’t show a hint of kink. There was a dresser along one wall, with a bunch of jewelry on top of it. Tate picked through it, holding up earrings and moving to a mirror that was on the wall at the foot of the dresser, looking herself over.

  Tatum O’Shea, nice, normal girl. Pshaw, right.

  The door creaked and opened, light from the hall spilling inside. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Jameson walk towards her. She didn’t say anything, just grabbed a necklace off the dresser and moved back to the mirror. She struggled with the clasp and he walked up behind her, taking the necklace from her fingers.

  “Too cheap,” he commented. Tate stared at his reflection while he clasped the necklace.

  “You think?” she asked, pressing her hand against the jewelry. It was several strands of pearls, of varying lengths, all connected as one at the ends.

  “Yes. They’re fake. I remember you wearing another set of fake pearls, once. You need real ones,” he told her. She smiled.

  “I’ll put that on my to-do list. Rent, utilities, pearls,” she joked, reaching back and unhooking the necklace. As soon as she removed it, his hands took its place, his thumbs hooked around the back of her neck and his fingers splaying down to her collar bone.

  “I hurt you,” Jameson repeated his statement from the car. She threw the necklace onto the dresser.

  “A little bit. I’m mostly over it,” she replied.

  “I don’t think you’re stupid, Tate,” he started, and she held her breath, her eyes locked on his in the mirror. Jameson, apologizing? No way. “I think the way you live is stupid. Maybe I hide a little, but you’re running away, too. You are better than all of this, smarter than all of them, and you know it.”

  “Those are my friends,” her voice was soft.

  “Can you honestly tell me that sometimes you don’t want something different?” he asked.

  “Who doesn’t?” she responded. “It’s knowing the worth of what you have. Fake pearls are just as good as real pearls, if they’re given with good intentions and love. If Ang gave me the gaudiest, ugliest, tackiest, strand of fake pearls ever, I would love them more than any set of real pearls my parents ever gave me. Ang loves me. So good or bad, stupid or smart, those people care about me. I care about them. I could go back to Harvard tomorrow, and I would still be friends with these people, Jameson.”

  He stared at her for a while, his grip getting harder. Almost like he was pushing down on her shoulders. He looked a little angry, and she wondered if maybe honest candor could get to Jameson more than childish games.

  “If Angier gave you pearls, huh. And what if I gave you pearls? What would they mean to you?” he asked. She scrunched up her nose. The metaphor was starting to get awfully convoluted.

  “Depends.”

  “Oh what?”

  “On how much they cost. You don’t love me, so to be impressed, that price tag better be huge,” she halfway joked. He smirked at her.

  “So, if I got you a $50,000 strand of pearls, and Angier got you some shitty fake ones, his would mean more to you, because he ‘loves’ you?” Jameson clarified.

  “There are pearl necklaces that cost $50,000!?” Tate almost shouted her response.

  “There are ones that cost a lot more than that. At least I know I can aim a little lower if I want to impress you,” he smirked. She swatted at his leg.

  “Shut up. And don’t be jealous of Ang, he just likes to play with me,” she told him.

  “I’m not jealous. And it looks more like you like to play with him.”

  “It’s a mutual kind of thing.”

  “So I played your game. I came downtown. I came to your dinner. I watched you kiss two guys. Do I win?” Jameson asked, his fingers massaging her skin. She sighed.

  “Do you ever lose?” she replied.

  “I keep trying to tell you that, I never lose,” he said.

  “We’ll see about that, I still have some -,”

  “Do you trust me, Tate?” he interrupted.

  “Yes,” she answered without hesitation. He looked a little surprised.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You’ve never done something to me I didn’t ask for, or didn’t want. As far as I can tell, you’ve never lied to me. You have been upfront about everything and anything. Sometimes I don’t like you very much; sometimes, I think you’re the biggest dick I’ve ever met. You’re rude, and mean, and spiteful half the time. But you never said you weren’t – you’ve always claimed to be those things. So yes, I trust you,” she explained. He laughed.

  “The things you say, Tate. Sometimes it’s like talking to a man. I wonder if that’s why you’re so easy to talk to,” Jameson wondered out loud. She raised her eyebrows.

  “I’m easy to talk to because I’m like a man?” she asked. He nodded.

  “A little bit,” he told her.

  “I have awfully nice tits for a dude,” she laughed, putting her hands over her breasts. He leaned close, his mouth against her ear.

  “Stop talking. I came to dinner. I win. I get to extract payment,” he said.

  With an abrupt shove, he pushed her to the side. She fell against the dresser, catching herself with her hands before she could face plant on the wood. She went to push herself up, but his hand pressed down on the center of her back, holding her in place.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Whatever I want. You said you trust me,” he pointed out, and she felt his other hand brush against the fabric of her skirt.

  “I do, but I don’t want to have sex in my friend’s bedroom,” Tate told him with a laugh.

  “Why not? And what makes you think we’re going to fuck?”

  “Um, I was in a similar position last week, and you fucked the hell out of me, that makes me think we’re going to fuck. And I don’t want to be disrespectful. This is her house, her party; she thinks I’m laying down with a migraine. The door is open, anyone can see us,” she told him.

  “You’re shy, Tate?” Jameson laughed. She snorted.

  “No, but as I’ve been saying, these are my friends. I don’t want to -,” she stopped talking as he lifted her skirt up. It was long and flowy, went to just past her knees.
He draped the material over her back.

  “I’m not going to fuck you. That would be giving you a treat. You’ve been very bad. I’m going to do whatever I want,” he informed her, and she could feel her underwear sliding off of her butt.

  Her argument caught in her throat. Lifting her head up off the dresser, she was facing the door – she could see down the hall. The living room was just to the right, and she could see the edges of a couple peoples backs. It was dark in the bedroom, and she and Jameson were towards the back of it. If anyone turned around, they probably wouldn’t be able to see anything. But if anyone came down the hallway …, not good. She took a deep breath.

  “Jameson, I don’t think we should do this,” she started, but then ended in a gasp as two of his fingers slid inside of her.

  She wasn’t sure how this wasn’t giving her a treat. He wasn’t getting anything out of it, he was standing just enough back from her that she couldn’t even reach him. She swallowed a groan and bit in to a table runner that covered the length of the dresser. He hooked his fingers a little, almost massaging her insides.

  “Don’t hear any arguing now,” Jameson’s voice was dark behind her. Tate shook her head.

  “We shouldn’t …, do this,” she whispered, though her words had no conviction.

  “You want this. Say stop, and I’ll stop.”

  She pressed her lips together and hummed softly. Bit her tongue. Anything to keep from crying out. His other hand grabbed onto her hip and pulled her back a couple inches, enough so he could work his arm between her and the dresser. She made a high pitched squeaking noise when that hand reached her front. Dipped in to wetness. Spun her in to outer space.

  “Jameson,” she whispered his name, almost a moan.

  “You’re awfully ready to play for someone who says she doesn’t want to do this,” he pointed out, and she laughed.

  “You started it, in the car. Mean man,” she joked, and then really did moan. She flicked her eyes to the door. No one seemed to have heard her.

  “Always mean. Remember that. Jesus, Tate, how are you still so tight? All these years, and you’re still the tightest pussy I’ve ever had,” he groaned, working his fingers faster.

  “Kegels. Every day,” she replied, and then had to bite down on the runner again. She clawed her nails down Rachel’s dresser.

  “God, talk about being disrespectul. What about you is respectful, Tate? Your slutty mouth? Or your wide open legs? I’d only been back in your life for two days, and you fucked me. Easy fucking girl. Did Angier get it that easy?” Jameson asked. She knew he wasn’t, but he sounded like a jealous lover. It drove her wild.

  “Easier,” she lied. His fingers were working on her so fast, she felt like she was being cut in half. Two Tatums. Which one would he want? She was pushing back against him, pushing for the edge, for the orgasm. It was very close.

  “Fucking bitch,” he swore.

  “You shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “What am I going to do with you? Fucking slut. Fucked him while I was gone. Couldn’t last three days. How much does it take to satisfy you?” Jameson demanded.

  Maybe he is jealous …

  “Maybe more than you’ve got,” she taunted in a breathy voice, gasping for air.

  He pulled away and yanked her back from the dresser. She waited for the swearing, the crushing fingers, the angry mouth. But none of that happened. He backed her up, pressed her butt against the dresser and her front to his chest. She looked up at him, breathing heavy, rubbing her thighs together.

  “If you are very good, when we get home, I will let you finish this,” he told her, smoothing his hands over her hair.

  “Huh?” she asked, dumbfounded. He smirked down at her.

  “That’s all you get, baby girl. You’ll learn not to push me,” he whispered, before leaning down and kissing her.

  Tate moaned and wrapped her arms around his waist, held him to her. She loved the way Jameson kissed. For an aggressive guy, sometimes he could be very gentle with his mouth. His lips moved over hers, his tongue against hers, quiet and soft. It made her heart flutter. She sighed and ran her hands down to his pants, ran her fingers along his belt, began pulling at the buckle. But then he pulled away, so fast she actually stumbled. He patted her cheek and then strode out of the room.

  What. The. Fuck.

  She was so close to coming, it was uncomfortable to walk. Her underwear was still around her knees. She thought she might have spontaneously developed asthma, it was so difficult to breathe right, and her heart was pounding out of her chest. Worst of all, she still had a room full of friends to get through before she could leave. She probably had her “well fucked whore” look on her face; Ang would take one look at her and know exactly what had happened. Fuck.

  Well played, Mr. Kane. Well played.

  She went in to Rachel’s bathroom and cleaned herself up. Patted her cheeks with cold water to calm down the serious flush she had going on. Seriously considered just getting herself off right then and there. But Jameson’s words came back to her, about letting her finish at home, and she was never one to spoil her appetite.

  She finished up, humming to herself as she left the bedroom. Weston was so far away, she wondered if she could convince him to disrespect Sanders enough to get it on in the car. She didn’t know why, but she loved trying to make Sanders uncomfortable – mostly because she was pretty sure it wasn’t possible. She walked down the hall, smoothing her hands down her skirt, thinking of some other possibilities, when someone hissed at her.

  “What are you doing!?”

  She turned to see Ang standing in a bedroom doorway. She smiled and opened her mouth to respond, when he suddenly grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to him. She was wearing a pair of absurdly tall cork wedges – she was practically as tall as Jameson – and she stumbled in them, falling in to Ang’s chest. She tried to push herself away, but he had a death grip on her arm.

  “What’s going on? I told you, no more hanky panky for a while,” Tate laughed, but when she looked up, he wasn’t smiling.

  “What is wrong with you? One second, you’re all over me, the next, you’re letting him talk to you like you’re some sort of insect while he violates you,” Ang growled. She winced.

  “Oh god. You saw?” she groaned. He nodded.

  “Yeah, I fucking saw. He had his hand so far up inside of you, I thought he was checking your tonsils. What the fuck, Tate? You’re at a dinner party with your friends, and you didn’t even have the goddamn decency to close the fucking door?” Ang snapped at her. She was a little blown away.

  “Um, forgive me, but half an hour ago, didn’t you grab my breasts and proclaim to everyone within hearing that I had the best tits you’ve ever seen?” she pointed out.

  “It was a fucking joke, Tate, with people who know us and know how we are. If I’d known how okay you are with really being a slut, I wouldn’t have bothered with your tits; I would’ve just fucked you on the dining room table,” he spat out. She gasped.

  “Ang! What is wrong with you!?” she demanded.

  “What’s the big deal? You let him do it. When is it my turn?” he asked.

  “What the fuck! Where is this coming from!? You have never had a problem with me sleeping with other guys,” she pointed out, yanking her arm free from him. He ran a hand through his hair.

  “Because. You let some guy you’ve only known for like two weeks give you a pap smear at your friend’s dinner party, in an open room, with an open door. You don’t even really know him,” Ang told her. She shook her head.

  “I knew him for two years, and everything else is none of your goddamn business,” she hissed.

  “Maybe if I treat you like a piece of shit, just fuck you whenever and wherever I want, you’d fucking listen to me once in a while,” he hissed back. She slapped him.

  “Enough.”

  They both whipped their heads to the side. Jameson was standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, that perfect, bore
d, detached expression on his face. Tate was embarrassed to be caught fighting about him. Ang didn’t look embarrassed – he looked pissed. When Jameson started to walk in to the room, Ang surged forward. Tate was quick to get between them.

  “He’s right, enough! Just stop!” she said loudly, hoping no one in the living room would hear. How embarrassing.

  And this is why we don’t engage in sexual activity at our friends’ polite social gatherings.

  “You know,” Jameson started, clearing his throat. “It seems that you really have something to say to me. I’ve been here, waiting all night for this – I knew it was coming. But instead, you took it out on the person that you knew wouldn’t really fight back.”

  She watched the anger roll over Ang’s face. Watched his whole body tense up, a flush creeping up his neck. Her reaction was automatic, she lifted a hand and pressed it to his chest, rubbing gently. It never failed to calm him down. Both men cut their eyes to her, and she winced.

  “No one is fighting. Ang, you’re being a dick. If you want to talk, we can talk, later. If you want to keep being a dick, well, then we can talk about that later, too. But for now, this is over,” she stated. He looked down at her for a long while, and then nodded, taking a step back. Jameson laughed.

  “It may be over with her, but not with me. If you ever treat her like that again, you and I will be having a talk. Understood?” Jameson demanded, his eyes like ice cycles as he stared at Ang.

  “Are you fucking kidding me!?” Ang all but yelled. Tate put her hands on Jameson’s chest and began pushing him out of the room.

  “We’re leaving,” she growled, forcing him in to the hallway.

  To her surprise, he didn’t fight her. He grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him, making a beeline for the door. As they gathered their coats, Tate managed to smile and act halfway normal. Jameson didn’t say a word, just walked out the door. Tate said goodbye, made up some excuse about him having a work emergency. As she stepped out onto the stoop, she saw Ang emerge from the bedroom. She glared at him and then turned away, hurrying down the steps.