I circumnavigated her, this thing I didn’t want to touch with cock.

All tied and waiting. My restraint was limited not limitless.

“The suppleness of muscle, of form and flexibility.”

I circled her and let my hand trail around her in a spiral.

Her muscles moved.

“A broken normal?

“There is poetry.

“Is she made of sounds or thoughts or fucking?

“I want to see...Vitor. I want to goddamned see.

“What a broken human is made of when we get her to spill herself on the floor.

“Fuck with the sticks,

“Fill her holes.”

“Yes, sir.” Vitor approached, efficient and solid, retrieving two sticks off the sofa as he passed the pile. Prepared, we assembled prepared. Never knew what might strike a man as fun.

“Good, man.”

Her eyes were wild, darting about, until she braved me and stared.

“Why are you talking like that?”

“How...am I talking?” I smiled.

“All...broken.”

“Because.” I cupped and crushed her jaw in my hand. Her lips smooshed in. A girl made of soft dough. “I’m the monster and I’m a poet. He hasn’t sated me. He’s left me dry too long. Sometimes I swan about and leave him gathering dust.”

I did a skip, a twirl, a plié.

And ended before her. Bowed.

“Like a ballerina. I am contrite that I confused you, but...

“You’re still getting stuffed.

“I’m going to make you come and come, while they do too.” I waved, wrist circling in the direction of the currently fucked girls.

Vitor wedged a stick beneath her and I picked her up and let her slide down onto it. In pussy, I thought, from her expression. From her gaping and choking, from her litany of no, no, no, from her squirming.

“Lucky for you...” I leaned in, nipped her nose, her mouth. “These ones are rounded. One day I might use points. Wait, Vitor. Tsk. The man is eager to use the next bit of torture.” I stripped off my clothes, kicked them aside. “Now. Do her ass.” I held her again, while she panted and wriggled and squealed, while he wiggled in the stick. “You scream good. For a girl.”

“You don’t fucking scare me.”

But she said it quietly. “But I do.” I knew she was lying. “Close your eyes unless I let you open them.”

Nothing was novel about tonight. Except that I held her almost sacrosanct. I touched her and made her writhe. Ran my hands down her slippery breasts, in her sucking mouth, played with the sweat on her butt, and I went to my knees...

I sucked on her, let Vitor fuck her ass after all. The others, hyped on Viagra, happily fucked the girls together in mouth and ass and cunt. They spewed their cum on Red and on the others. Messing the rug and the girls. I made her come until she sweated and drooled, dripped her own cunt juice as well as saliva and sweat and semen. Until some of her was white, some of her pink, some red. I let a few fuck her ass. Made her cry with orgasms until her legs wobbled then collapsed.

Fun.

But I didn’t touch her with my cock. The twist of will from my other half held me in its bonds. We had our tacit agreement which never had been spoken or written because it couldn’t be, and it held. For now.

Disgusted at my restraint, I violently fucked the girlfriend of the mayor’s daughter. My newest collectible. Her pretty chestnut hair swished like a medusa’s. Her tits bobbed up and down as her cunt gobbled my cock. Another brain-dead girl. No spite, no vivacity.

Red, though, my perfect Red, the last drip, the last spurt was hers.

This dreg of a fucked girl opened her eyes to me jacking off over her.

She resembled her old picture now.

I kneeled over her entangled body, where we’d wrapped the other girls around her for one last en-masse fuck. I squeezed my fist down the huge erection I still carried. One mistake and I’d be justified.

Broken girl?

Not broken enough.

What if I could keep her sane and aware forever? What if I kept her...

Or, better. What if I had an unending source of new Reds?

She was my key.

One mistake and I’d be out there, free.

I rose to my full height and stretched to the ceiling, knees popping, muscles strong, fingers finding a dangling rope.

I would be bad for the world.

I knew it.

He chose then to merge into me, and we both knew the same thing, and how I was sorry for what I’d done, to her.

Sort of.

Nothing was ever clear. We wiffle-waffled. Was I him or he me? Were we one or two?

Damn, the world was complicated.

I walked outside, down the steps, and into the sea, the black sea, let it froth all cold and remorseless around my thighs. Let it wash me clean. If I killed myself it would be moot, this struggle.

The sky threw down rain upon me, tapping on my upturned face.

As I trudged up the beach, crabs scuttled away, waving pincers, and I chose not to step on any. Small, guiltless creatures. I plucked a flower from the dunes. Purple, from memory. The night rendered it colorless. An owl hooted, drifted past the moon. Naked, I pulled myself up onto the hood of one of the cars and surveyed the distant horizon where it crashed and burned with white lightning. I swept away the sodden strands of hair where they fell against my cheeks.

The car metal drummed with hard rain.

Killing myself...

Where would be the fun in that?

I could still remember the last drop of my cum splattering her face and how she bucked against my tongue as she came and came, as Vitor screwed her deep.

I twirled the flower between finger and thumb. Such a soft, pretty creation.

Some things were meant to be.

One mistake was all I needed...I couldn’t see the indentations of the key in her head, but one mistake...surely that would do it.

I mustn’t. Must I? I was selling her.

Oh what a messy web we weave.