by JA Huss
I burst out laughing. “Are you now?”
“Yes,” she says. “If you want details then I’ll tell you what I was so excited about in that video. I’m gonna start with today and work backwards.” She reaches around behind her back and unclasps her bra, letting it fall down her arms and join the sweater on the floor.
I stand there, struck by her natural beauty. She has no scarf on, so her scar is clearly visible. It heats me up, and not in the way her hand on my cock does. It enrages me to look at that scar.
Kat knows this. She grabs hold of my hand and places it on her breasts. Rubs it around her nipple.
She has always been erotic, even back when she was still seventeen. She said no a lot that first night. But she said yes a lot too. And by the time the next morning rolled around, it was like we’d known each other our whole lives.
“Tonight I need sex, Oliver. And I need to keep my secrets for another day.”
“Why?” I ask. It’s irritating me. I expected her to be more forthcoming. I didn’t expect I’d have to negotiate my way through this deal again. “Tonight, tomorrow, what’s the difference?”
“Because I want to be happy. Just this once. And if you want promises about when I’ll be willing to tell you everything, then I’ll agree. Because I love you. But it will taint my night. If I have to make promises to you right now, then I’ll worry about it. This night will turn into something stressful instead of the relief I really need. So choose carefully, Mr. Shrike. Do you want happy or do you want satisfied? I’ll give you anything you want, including the name you’re desperate for. But it comes at a cost.”
I scrub my hands down my face and say, “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, Katya. I’m just trying to know you better, that’s all. I want all our secrets on the table. I want them to pour out of us. Like a dam breaking. Water spilling over riverbanks, crashing into trees, and washing things away.”
She sighs. “God, you always did have a way with words.”
“And now you do too,” I say, meaning her art. The art I inspired. The career I gave her so that she could leave the idea of sex work behind her.
Katya leans into my chest again, her face right under my chin as she tips her head back to look me in the eyes. “You have always wanted what’s best for me, Oliver. That has always been your weakness. Because I’m going to use it against you right now.” She kicks off her clogs, unbuttons her jeans and shimmies out of them. She pulls her socks off and flings them in the puddle of clothes. “Do you want me happy? Or do you want my secrets?”
“Bitch,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re such a bitch.”
“A dirty bitch, Oliver. Your dirty bitch. So why not just—” She slips my leather jacket down my arms and lets it drop to the floor with a heavy whoosh of air. Then pulls my shirt up over my head until I help her take it off me. “Why not just go along and pretend with me? Pretend everything is great.”
“It is great,” I say, gently swiping a piece of hair away from her eyes. “I don’t need to pretend. In fact, it’s better than great. It’s perfect. We are the perfect match.”
Chapter Sixteen - KATYA
I need to pretend. This is the part he’s not understanding at the moment. But I’m winning. I’m naked, he’s almost naked, so I take his hand and start walking towards the stairs.
“Hey.” Oliver stops, making me look over my shoulder at him. “Who the fuck put you in charge?”
I don’t hide my smile when he lets go of my hand. “Well, there he is,” I say. “That bossy asshole I’ve come to love. It’s about time you showed up.”
Oliver stares at me, his whole demeanor changed. His fingers begin unbuckling his belt and my heart speeds up with anticipation. He pulls it through the loops of his jeans and reaches for my hands, binding the leather around my wrists and cinching it tight.
“I’m not the one who left, Katya.” His blue-gray eyes burn into mine. They are like a thunderstorm. I see all the anger he keeps locked behind those turbulent clouds and then, in the span of a moment, it disappears.
“Do whatever you want,” I say. “I’m fine. I’m up for it.” I bring my bound hands up to his chest, flattening my palms against his skin.
“But you’re not,” he says. One last lingering look. And then he pushes me away, walks towards the couch, tugging me along by the tether, and bends me over the back of it.
A hard slap makes my bottom burn. I take a moment to breathe through the hot pain and imagine the mark he just left on my skin.
It makes me moan.
Another slap on the other cheek has me gasping.
But then there’s the soothing sensation of his fingers playing with the soft folds of skin between my legs. The pool of wetness shows up, right on cue.
“How should I fuck you tonight, Katya? Bent over like this?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Now.” He has no idea how much I need sex right now.
Oliver grabs my long hair and pulls my head up, but at the same time he leans over my body, pressing his chest into my shoulder blades. His hips grind against the back of my legs, letting me know that his dick is hard. His breath tickles my ear. “In the ass?”
“Please,” I say. “I’m not too proud to beg.”
He pushes my head down and stands up. The heat we were creating is immediately gone. He walks around the couch and stands in front of me.
“Shove my cock down your throat? Make you choke on my balls?”
“Oliver.” I laugh. “What part of ‘whatever you want’ don’t you get?”
“Katya,” he says, mimicking my tone. “What part of ‘I like a little fight’ don’t you get?”
“Can we please fight later?” I shoot back.
He smiles. But drops it just as quick. “Maybe you’re just not into me?”
I scowl at him. And then I stand up and start running. I slip on the polished concrete floors, almost crash into the dining table on the far side of the room, and his fingertips graze my back as I escape around one side of the massive kitchen island.
“You wanna run away?” he yells, his eyes bright with fun as he stares me down from the opposite side.
I place my bound hands on the cold, hard stone and lean forward, taunting him. “If you want it, come get it.”
He moves, I move, keeping the island between us. “What if I just order you to hold the fuck still? Will you obey?”
“Obey your bossy ass?” I snort. “Fuck, no. I’m gonna make you beg for it, Shrike.”
He smiles again and this time he doesn’t have the self-control to hide it. “I’ll make you pay for that.”
“I can’t wait.”
He makes another move, but I do too. My eyes are darting around the room. None of it is familiar. But I might be able to make a break for the stairs.
“No,” Oliver says, reading my mind. “If you run up there I’ll drag you back down by your hair. I’m gonna fuck you down here on this slab of stone. You don’t get a nice soft bed.”
Jesus. My feet are moving before I can think about it.
He comes after me. His boots thundering on the floor, getting closer and closer. I won’t make it to the stairs. He’s right behind me, but I’m not gonna blow my chances by making my move too soon. I dash for the buckeye tree, getting that between us.
Oliver plays along and we circle it, looking at each other through the young tree’s foliage. He breaks off a branch, stripping the leaves off with one swipe down the length. “I can just picture the red welts on your ass cheeks now, young lady.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “A spanking? Do you promise? I might give up right now if you promise.”
“Whore,” he says. “You dirty little whore.”
“Pervert,” I say back. “You filthy fucking pervert. Chasing young girls. Threatening to swat their bottoms red for—”
He lunges, I run, but he catches hold of my hair and yanks me back to him. Strong arms encircle me and the switch smacks against my outer thigh like a threat as he holds my hands to
my chest.
“You’re bad tonight, Kat. But I'm gonna give you one more chance to be good. Now…” he says. “Let me ask you the questions again. Would you like to choke on my balls as I fuck your throat? Or would you like me to bend you over and ram my cock into your ass?”
I want to play. I want to say both. I want to beg him to just get started already. But he likes the game and the pretense of a fight. I relax my body, which makes him relax his. And then I squirm a little until I have enough room to turn around and look him in the eyes.
He’s not smiling when I spit in his face.
And I don’t have a chance to appreciate his surprise. Because he’s dragging me over to the couch by my hair.
He bends me over and then the sting of the branch across my ass makes me howl in pain.
That mark will definitely haunt me when I try to sit down tomorrow.
“In the ass it is,” he says, spitting back at me. Only his spit runs down the crack of my ass and his fingers rub it in.
Then there’s a pause. The sound of him opening his zipper. A moan as he flicks his cock up and down, from my pussy to my ass. Rubbing his lube in deeper and dragging my wet juices into the mix.
I brace for the pain.
But he leans over me again. The way he was just a few minutes ago before I ran. And he says, “Next week I’ll be rough and hard. Next week I’ll make you scream. But tonight”— he kisses the spot of skin he owns just below my left ear—“tonight is just practice for what’s to come.”
He stands up, both hands on my hips as his cock presses into my ass.
It still hurts. It’s been way too long for it not to hurt. But he goes slow. And he’s gentle. He is patient, and good, and careful.
It makes me cry, he feels so good. The tears actually run down my face when he’s fully inside me. Hips rocking just enough to keep me wanting more. Not enough to make me come.
But then his fingers find their way between my legs and he begins to rub my clit as he pumps harder and harder with each forward thrust. He still has the branch in his other hand and he drags it up and down my back, pausing to snap it against the skin with just the right amount of force to excite me further.
The stroking becomes faster, more urgent. His hips begin to pound, our skin slapping together. A sound that carries up into the high ceilings and echoes in my head as the reality of where I am, who I’m with, and what I’m doing finally takes over. Finally wipes away the past ten years and sets me free.
I come on his fingers just as he pulls out and shoots his warm semen all over my back.
He stands behind me breathing hard and I let myself collapse into the seat back of the couch.
He steps away, returns, and then he wipes my back with his shirt. I stand up and turn to face him.
I can feel his relief like it’s my own.
His hard body glistens with sweat. Outlining the cut of his muscles like he’s a work of art. I want nothing more than to take his picture right now. But I don't have my camera and my phone is somewhere in a pile of clothes across the room.
So I memorize him instead. I bring my bound hands up and drape them behind his head, fingertips desperate to hold on. To keep him forever.
He is my god.
Oliver reaches under my knees and lifts me up. And then he carries me upstairs and into the master bathroom, setting me on the counter.
We shower. He fucks me against the tile wall. So slowly in the steam, it all becomes a dream. The water runs down us like rain. Like we are trees.
“I will kiss you here,” he says, his mouth just below my left ear. Right where the silver-white scar starts. The first cut that ruthless man made on my body all those years ago. The same spot where Oliver tried to erase it with tattooed words.
“And here,” he says, kissing my left shoulder and reading his second set of words tattooed over the much deeper cut that man made on my body.
“And here.” Oliver drops to his knees and kisses the scar across my ribs and then the two just below my left breast. I never told him how it happened. I never told him about the first cut across my neck as my parents watched. Both of them beaten purple with bruises. They were huddled on the ground and I was so afraid they’d never get up from that floor. That I’d be left alone with this man.
He used a scalpel for the first cut. It was just a threat. A light tracing of the blade starting at my left ear and sloping down across the dent in my throat, before rising again and stopping just below my right ear.
I remember the blood. And the heat of it. The smell of it. He barely cut me, but the resulting mess was profuse.
I panicked. What happened next was my fault, because I panicked. My fingers were clasping onto the man’s wrist. At first desperately trying to pry then away from my neck. But then he said, “Shh,” into my ear. “Be still. Because if you move this blade will end your life.”
So I stopped fighting and stood so still I was made of stone.
The blood was too much and I freaked out. Twisted in his arms. I was only eleven. I can’t hate myself for the way I reacted. I was just a kid. I was naked, bound, my parents looked like they were dead or dying. And they had my little sister in the next room. She was only seven at the time. They let her play with dolls. She had a fantasy tea party with her dolls in the next room while we were being tortured.
The man dropped the scalpel and I wiggled away. Not far enough away. No. That’s not what happened.
Because he had a knife too. Not as sharp and precise as a scalpel, but sharp enough to make the next three cuts in my flesh as I fought him off.
The wound in my shoulder was deep. Someone in his organization had to stitch the muscle back together before they even thought about repairing the outer layer of skin.
The slices down my ribs were just a graze. Just enough to leave pink marks on my pale body for six months.
“And here,” Oliver continues, bending down in the shower to take his kisses to my hip.
That cut scraped bone. It lingered and got infected too many times to count. It was bright red for years. Only in the last six months has it even started to fade.
Oliver covered my scars with his poetic words the night I left Fort Collins. He inked them on my skin. Carved his reassurances into me.
I will kiss you here.
And here.
And here.
And here.
You express me better than I express myself.
You shall be more to me than my poem.
Poems were always Oliver’s thing. He wrote poems for me, but he only wrote them on me. On my naked body after sex. In pen, or marker, even paint one time.
We would fuck, and he would write, and sometime I’d just sit there and enjoy how slow and silent the world became when we were together. Sometimes I would read out loud to him as he composed. Dirty stories I would snatch up for pennies in used bookstores. Victorian-era erotica filled with masters, and spankings, and sex.
I don’t know how something so fucked up could be made into something so beautiful.
But he did that.
Oliver did that for me.
After the shower we go to bed. Spent, happy, satisfied.
But I am so restless, I can’t sleep. So I just lie there, wrapped up in his arms. Barely able to understand how I got here.
I’m awake when his phone buzzes in the pocket of his jeans on the floor.
I’m awake when he turns on the TV to watch a cable news update about his friend, Nolan, in California.
I’m awake when he whispers, “I’ll go get him,” into the phone, and then ends the call.
I watch him through nearly closed eyelids as he dresses. Then kiss him back when his lips press to mine in goodbye.
“Stay here, Kat. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
But as soon as he leaves I get up and find my clothes downstairs. Because it’s starting now. This really is the beginning.
When I get home I go right to the drawer with the disposable phone in it. My fingers pre
ss the keys on the keypad, typing out the message I had memorized weeks ago.
I set the phone down on the coffee table and wait. Staring at it as my heart races with uncertainty.
It takes seven minutes and twenty-one seconds for it to ring.
I tab the call button and press it to my ear. “Yes,” I say.
“Good job,” he says. “I will assume you were busy working and forgive you for not answering my earlier calls. But if you don’t pick up next time you know what will happen. Phase two starts now.”
As soon as the disposable phone call ends, my real phone buzzes in my pocket. “Hello?” I ask, after tabbing the accept button.
“Hey,” Lily says. “I was just walking over to the Fort Collins Theater for coffee and saw your lights were on. Do you wanna meet me down there?”
I hesitate.
“Unless you’re busy?” she adds.
We don’t usually meet up this early in the day. It’s barely six AM. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“I have an early class, remember? That stupid photography one that I took to get my art requirement over with.”
“How dare you,” I huff.
“Well, any class that is two hours long and starts at seven in the morning can kiss my ass.”
“Lily,” I say, chastising her language.
“Sorry. But I’m a grown-up now. You might as well get used to the fact that I’m not as innocent as you think. I say fuck too.”
I tsk my tongue at her. “And studio classes are the best.”
“Maybe for an art fart like you,” she laughs. “But I’m pre-med, sis. I have no use for a two-hour photography class. They tell us we’ll be well-rounded. But all I really need to know about photography is that my phone has filters on it that makes me look good. Do you want to come for coffee or not?”
“Yes,” I say. “Let me throw some clothes on and I’ll be right down. Get me a latte and a muffin.”
I end the call and go look at myself in the mirror. I don’t have time for a shower, but I splash some water on my face and pull my hair back into a ponytail before changing out of yesterday’s clothes.
