Chapter Five
The Park Hyatt Session
I went back again for more, in the same fucking amber-beige dress. The Park Hyatt this time, across from Carnegie Hall, because I needed the money and W tipped twice as much as my other dates.
It was fine, I told myself. I could use this as an exercise to be hard and unreachable. I wouldn’t let him get in my head or my heart this time. I would use him for money, turn the trick, and get out. I didn’t even mind strapping on the damned black leather eye mask because I didn’t want to know what he looked like. I didn’t care anymore. Who fucking cared?
I knocked on the door and let him pull me inside. I held my bag against my chest as he kissed me, remembering his betrayal of trust last time. I hadn’t brought anything this time, just extra clothes and some emergency money, and my phone, which was now locked with a passcode. He tugged it away from me in order to zip-tie my hands behind my back.
I let him bind me once again, because that was what he liked to do, and I was the prostitute he’d hired. I smelled his familiar smell, the cologne I knew by heart. If not for that smell, it could be anyone kissing me. I hardened my lips and my body. He could kiss me, but I wasn’t kissing him back.
As soon as I stopped responding to him, he stopped pawing me and led me across the room. He turned me around and sat me on the bed.
“How did you like the poem?” he asked.
“What poem? The two lines you wrote last week?”
“You didn’t plug them into a search engine?” he said acidly.
“I didn’t have to, Mr. Cumming,” I replied just as acidly. “Although I have to admit, it’s the first time a client’s ever written poetry for me.”
“I’ve made it my mission to bring a little poetry back to the world.” I flinched as his hand touched my cheek. “Back to your world anyway.”
“Whatever floats your boat. I don’t have much use for poetry in my line of work.”
“Oh, you loved it. You memorized it by the second day. Repeat them, the words I wrote for you.”
I wasn’t in the mood for games. “You didn’t write them for me,” I said. “E.E. Cummings wrote them for some chorus girl he liked, and poetry memorization isn’t one of the services I offer.”
He opened my legs. I felt him stand between them, right against my front. “You’ll do whatever I tell you to do, you fucking whore.” He stuck his thumbs in my mouth, pried it open. “Speak.”
I jerked my head away. “Fuck you. I’d rather suck you off.”
“I don’t want you to suck me off. I want you to repeat the words I wrote for you.”
“I can’t. I don’t remember,” I lied. “I didn’t memorize them.”
“Yes, you did. You still have the piece of paper under your pillow, or in some fucking scrapbook, don’t you? You read it every day.”
I hated his hubris, and the fact that he was right. I had looked at that piece of paper daily. “I only know the words because I knew that poem. I knew it before.”
“No, you didn’t. It’s obscure, one of his earliest works.”
I knew the whole damn poem by heart, and to irritate him, I recited it, word for word, up until the last two lines he’d written out for me. I wished I could have seen his face. Was he smiling? Did he find it funny? Was he irritated? Angry?
“That poem means something to you,” he finally said.
I didn’t answer. I refused to even acknowledge his speculative musing. If he wouldn’t give me his name, he wasn’t getting my story about that poem. Some hurts were best kept locked up in your heart.
“So, I’m pissed today,” he went on, when my response wasn’t forthcoming. “I wanted to see you two days ago, but you had an appointment with some other asshole.”
“You’re not the only client I see. Sorry.”
He grasped my shoulders and shoved me back on the bed. He pulled off one of my shoes, then the other, and pushed up my skirt. I’d put on an old fashioned garter belt and beige stockings to match his classy beige dress. He ran his hands up the back seams.
“Trying to seduce me?” he asked.
I wasn’t. It was only that I needed the power of feeling pretty. I needed to feel sleek and sexy like Miss Kitty.
So much for that. He had the clasps popped in a heartbeat, and the stockings down over my feet. Once he had them off, he knotted one around my ankle. I kicked at him, but not hard enough. He tied my ankle to the bottom of the hotel bed frame, and no matter how hard I pulled, I couldn’t break away. I rolled across the bed, but he only grabbed my other ankle, knotted it with the other stocking, and bound it too. I flailed helplessly, and then I stopped because I figured I was only turning him on.
I stared into nothingness. It was utterly black behind my eye mask. For a while he didn’t move and he didn’t touch me. He could have been taking video. He could have left the room. I didn’t know.
Then I felt the bed dip and felt his hands on my face. He put something into my mouth, a hard ball gag that depressed my tongue. I shook my head, making urgent, muffled noises that went unheeded. He hurt my hair when he fastened it behind my head. I didn’t know what was worse, my hair pinched in the buckle, or my inability to shriek the way I wanted to.
“Sorry for the gag. Like I said, I’m feeling pissed today.”
I couldn’t respond to that statement even if I wanted to. He left and came back, and I heard the scissors, snip, snip, snip. The amber-beige dress was no more, cut to shreds, and I felt satisfied by that, because he’d bought it. The garter belt was snipped away too, though he could have easily unhooked it. But whatever. I had a drawer full of them. I didn’t even like this one that much.
Then he started playing with my nipples, and I thought, oh no. The clamps. I mewled behind the gag, like that might help. My legs jerked, trying to break free, but the pain came anyway, the piercing, terrifying bite of his satanic nipple clamps. I pictured them, black and evil looking, my tender pink nipples smashed within their grip. When I struggled, the clamps hurt worse, so I lay still, panting. I shook my head in silent protest. No, no, why are you doing this?
I heard the clink of a buckle and the whisper of his belt being pulled from his pant loops. A second later, I felt the hot pain of leather, heard the whap of impact along my inner thigh. I jumped, the clamps jingled and tugged, my nipples screamed. I screamed. I gnawed on the gag and tried to pull my legs together, but the stockings bound me tight. I wasn’t afraid of being killed anymore. He wasn’t a killer, he was a sadist. I was afraid of being hurt, and hurt, and hurt, and not being able to stop him, or scream loud enough for anyone to hear.
“I have a proposition for you,” he said, and then he whapped me on my other thigh. It wasn’t unbearable pain, but it still felt awful. My nipples throbbed, my thighs burned. He placed the belt between my tied-open thighs, over my exposed and vulnerable pussy. “I know you can’t talk right at this moment, but I want you to think about it. I want to pay you a weekly rate, and for that rate, I want you to stop seeing your other clients.”
I shook my head. He brought the belt down against my pussy lips. Whap. I jerked my legs and surged up on the bed, only to be pressed back down again.
“You’re not thinking about it,” he said. “You’re just thinking about the pain, which is okay. It’s what I want you to think about right now.”
He slapped my pussy with the belt again, the leather licking my sensitive lips. Then he moved back to my thighs, punishing me with the belt up and down the sensitive inner skin. When I was screaming behind the gag, when my legs trembled uncontrollably from the pain and heat, he moved back to slapping my pussy. It probably didn’t sound that loud in the room. You probably couldn’t have heard the impact from the hallway, but each blow made my whole body shake. The belt must have been worn, supple. It seemed to mold itself against my skin to hurt me more.
“Are you thinking about what I said?” he asked.
What had he said? A weekly rate. Ah, God, my pussy was so wet. Why was I wet? I was scared and suffering, in a world of pain.
“I don’t want to see you every day,” he said, continuing his earlier conversation. “That’s not the point. But when I want you, I want you to fucking be available.”
Whap.
“None of your other jackass clients know how to satisfy you. How to work you over.”
Whap.
“But I do.”
Whap.
What? He thought he was satisfying me right now? If I wasn’t bound and gagged, I’d probably be calling the police.
He stopped. “Look at you,” he said. “Look at you struggling, hurting. Are you pretending that gag is my cock in your mouth? You want me inside you?”
I shook my head, even though it made the clamps hurt worse. I shook my head hard, denying, protesting.
Lying.
He slapped my pussy again, this time with his hand. He shoved his fingers inside me and I could actually hear how wet I’d become.
“You’re so juicy from having your pussy whipped, it’s dripping onto the bed. You’re making a fucking mess, you little pain slut. Next time, I’m going to bring harder clamps. You need it harder. You want it harder.”
I shook my head again. Harder clamps would kill me, but part of me remembered how wet I’d gotten the moment he put them on. Maybe harder ones would only make me wetter.
Damn it, I hated myself. I hated being a liar. I wanted to come so bad. I wanted to come while he was flailing away at my pussy with his horrible, punishing belt. I wanted him to free my hands so I could open myself up, so he could bring the leather right down on my swollen clit.
“Please,” I moaned behind the gag. “Please let me go. Please take off the clamps.”
It sounded like nothing, a bunch of desperate whining. He slid the belt over my nipples, joggling the clamps, then trailed it down my trembling stomach and over my pussy. Then he slid it beneath me and pulled it up from the front and the back so I could feel the leather all along my slit. My pussy ached to be fucked. He moved the belt back and forth, and my hips bucked for more of the contact.
He chuckled. So humiliating. I felt his body close to mine, his bare skin. He must have undressed at some point. I felt the brush of his warm shoulder and his hard, muscular chest.
“When you’re mine, only mine, we can do this all the time,” he said. “I can gag you and hurt you and make you come and come and come until you can’t stand it. We can fluid bond, and go bareback, and I’ll come in you over and over, until my cum’s dripping out of you like a fucking waterfall. I’d like that, Chere. You suit me perfectly, and I hate to share. I’ll pay not to share you.”
I shook my head, but clearly, at this point, I was only amusing him with my frantic, fake denials. He took off the clamps and I sucked air through the gag as my nipples flared in protest. His hands yanked my hips closer to the edge of the bed and his cock poked against my ass.
“When I’m pissed, I don’t use as much lube,” he said. “Good thing your pussy’s so messy and drippy.”
As if to demonstrate, he jammed his fingers in my pussy and gathered the copious wetness. I almost came right then, with his fingers rough inside me and his cock against my hole. Then he started pushing forward into my ass, and it hurt too much to come.
Oh, shit, it hurt. I fought him, but I couldn’t really fight him. I couldn’t draw away, or deny him, only squirm and toss on the bed. When he was fully seated inside me, he leaned his weight on me, and I wished I could see what he looked like, looming over me with his cock hard and deep in my ass.
I pictured dark eyes, a lover’s gaze, even though he was brutal to me. He started to ride me with harsh, steady thrusts. I groaned behind the gag, hating this and loving it. When he drove especially deep, his pelvis ground against my clit and I ached for climax. Anal hurt, but it was a thrilling, hot kind of pain. I didn’t want him to stop. My pussy clenched, still flowing with everything I felt for him.
He wanted me to himself.
He didn’t want to share me with anyone else.
He pinched my still-tender nipples while he fucked my ass. I arched my back, and he made a pleased sound, a nonverbal cue, like a trainer rewarding a dumb animal. I was that dumb animal, blind, mute, strapped down, my asshole stuffed to the hilt, my nipples sore and sensitive. I tugged at my stocking bondage, but he obviously knew his knots, and nylon was impossible to break. Drool leaked from the corners of my gagged mouth as his pace quickened, along with his force. He hurt my nipples and toyed with my clit in equal measure, so the depth of my pain and degradation was matched by the height of my pleasure. The two of them got mixed up, these two powerful feelings, dread and bliss.
“You know why you like it in the ass?” he said. “Because that’s what you deserve.”
I did deserve it. I was a whore, a slut, an animal who couldn’t stop myself from enjoying the perverted things he did. So much for being hard and unreachable. The only one hard and unreachable in our current scenario was him.
“You have one minute to come,” he said as I endured his quickening thrusts. “One minute to come with my cock buried in your whore ass. You should have come already.”
He fucked me harder, twisting my nipples. I panted behind the gag and spread my legs as far as I could, arching toward his pain and his pleasure, eager to take both of them to get what I wanted, which was relief. Or release. Maybe they were the same thing.
When I finally let go, I came hard, my ass clenching around his shaft in rhythmic pulsations. I vaguely remembered one of my fellow call girls bragging about anal orgasms, that her ass could come just like her pussy, and I remember thinking bullshit. But my ass was coming like hell, along with my pussy, and my clit, and my sore, aching nipples, all of it at once. I didn’t make a sound. There was no energy left for sound, except maybe a rasping outlet of breath.
As for W, he made a sound like the one he’d made earlier, another animal-trainer cue, only more intense. He held my shoulders as he came, then his hands crept up to my neck and gripped me there. It made me clench him harder, everywhere, all over. I moaned, choking. Don’t hurt me anymore. I can’t take anymore.
He was gone in a flash. His hands gone from my neck, his cock gone from my ass. I was afraid he’d deserted me completely, but then I felt his weight dip the bed beside me. A moment later, his fingers ruffled my hair, touching, teasing. I fought the urge to turn my body toward him for more contact. I didn’t want to need him. He was too rough, too cruel. I absolutely wasn’t going to see him again.
He rose a moment later and went into the bathroom. I heard water. Not a shower, a bathtub. I drowsed to the sound of the bubbling water until he touched one of my ankles. Snip, snip through the stockings. Him and his damned scissors. The gag came off next. I opened and closed my mouth, waggled my tongue. My chin was coated with drool.
“Let’s go take a bath,” he said. “You’re a fucking mess.”
I let him lead me into the bathroom, not sure if he intended to bathe me or drown me.
“My arms ache,” I said, my mouth still stiff and awkward. “Please unbind my wrists. I’m afraid to be in the water with my hands bound behind my back.” No response. “I won’t try to take off the blindfold, I promise. I don’t care what you look like.” Huge lie, but I really was scared.
I guess he heard enough fear in my voice—not the sexy kind of fear—to take pity on me. He cut off the zip ties but kept hold of one of my wrists. He guided me to the tub and helped me get in. Oh, God, it felt so warm, perfect temperature. He climbed in too, settling me in his lap. I leaned my head against his shoulder and thought I could fall asleep right here, cradled against his body with his muscles sliding under my skin. I was too tired to even care that I was blindfolded. My eyes closed behind the leather mask, and my body relaxed against his.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he said, and I perked up again. “We need to talk, remember?”
“Talk about what?”
He started washing me, using the Park Hyatt’s fragrant soap, and a soft washcloth to sponge the drool from my chin and neck. “About an exclusive arrangement,” he said.
“Why? Why do you want me to stop seeing other people?”
“So I can see you whenever I want. And because I want to fluid bond with you. Bareback.”
“I’m not allowed to do that.”
“Says who?”
“My boss.”
“When you’re with me, I’m your boss.”
I shook my head. “I can’t. I need to work at least four appointments a week.”
“For what? For money? I’m offering you money.” He named an amount that was four appointments worth of cash, plus extra. A lot of extra. It scared me. What would he demand for that kind of money?
“The thing is, I have a life,” I said. “A home. A boyfriend. I can’t be at your beck and call, no matter how much you pay me.”
“I don’t want you at my beck and call. I’d be reasonable. I just don’t want you seeing other guys.”
“Why?”
He ran a hand down between my breasts. “Because I don’t like to share.” He laughed softly. “Your fucking boyfriend. He puts up with your job?”
I wasn’t going to talk to him about Simon, or my personal life. It was bad enough he was asking me to be exclusive. “I can’t bareback with you, ever,” I said.
“Okay, but you can stop seeing other people.”
“Did you talk to Henry about this?”
“Yes, I’ve talked to Henry. He said it was up to you.”
W was washing me so gently. I didn’t think he was even washing me anymore, just stroking me. Don’t do this, Chere. Don’t be swayed by how good he makes you feel. By this body, his scent, the rumble of his voice…
“The thing is, you’re not my only regular client,” I said. “Those johns will move on when I’m not available. When you’re finished with me, when you’re finished doing…whatever this is we’re doing together, I’ll need to build up my client list all over again.”
“You’ll have enough money to coast for a while. And I don’t think you’d have a whole lot of trouble finding new clients. You’re a good lay.”
His fingers delved between my legs. He stroked me until I couldn’t hold back the noises, the need. His cock was hard, jutting up between us, and next thing I knew, I was sliding along the length of it, sloshing water back and forth in the tub.
“Are you on the pill?” he asked, stilling me with the tip of his cock against my entrance.
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, you can’t.” I reached down to block him. I was on the pill, but he wasn’t coming inside me without a rubber. No.
“I’m clean, Chere. I’m a very responsible person.”
“How do you know I’m responsible?”
That laugh again. “Because you’re too much of a bitch to be careless. I bet you don’t even let the boyfriend in without a condom. If you really have a boyfriend.”
There was a shift and a splash, and the sound of a condom wrapper, and then he was back again. I checked with my fingers and yes, he was sheathed. Yes, I was a bitch when it came to protection. Yes, since the drugs, I hadn’t let Simon near me without a condom, although the truth was, we hadn’t had sex for months.
“Be mine, Chere, just for a while.” He surged into me. I was primed, even in the water. He teased my still-hurting breasts and filled me oh, so perfectly. “Be exclusive with me. It won’t be that long. Just a few months. I’ll probably get bored of you by then.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I never said I wasn’t.”
“I can hardly get up the motivation to see you from week to week, much less be exclusive with you,” I said. “You’re cruel and full of yourself. There’s nothing about you I like.”
He manipulated my clit, just to prove me a liar. My hips bucked, rebelling, arching for more. “Nothing you like, huh?” he said in that bemused tone of his.
“And I don’t know anything about you. You act like your personal information is some holy grail that no mere mortal can look upon.”
“You know my name.”
“Your fake name.”
A pause, just long enough for me to realize how cranky and pathetic I sounded.
“You like me that much, huh?” he said, pressing me down on his cock. “You’re crazy about me.”
“No.”
“You are. You want to know all about me. It’s killing you that you don’t know my name, my favorite color, my birthday—”
“I don’t want to know anything about you.” Jesus, if only he wasn’t such a good fuck, even now, in a bathtub, when I was pissed at him for being a jerk. “You know, if you want to build up an exclusive arrangement with an escort, zip ties and blindfolds aren’t the way to go about it. Or hard anal, tied to a bed.”
“You love hard anal, tied to a bed.”
“I don’t.”
“Admit that you do, or I will take you back, tie you down again, and prove you wrong.”
I was silent a moment. He said, “Okay,” and started to get up, cock inside me and everything.
I grabbed his shoulders in a panic. “No. Please. Okay, I admit it.” I couldn’t go through that again.
“You fucking idiot,” he said. That was his only answer to my capitulation. That, and renewed bathtub intercourse. He hit my G-spot like magic. I hated him for it. I hated him for making me feel good when he was such an asshole.
“I hate you,” I said.
“You don’t, but I don’t mind if you pretend.”
“I’m not pretending,” I said with more fire.
“I like design, Chere. I like chocolate cake. What do you like?”
I committed these small and pointless details about him to memory, and hated myself for it. “You’re giving me tidbits of information about you, what, as some form of apology for being an asshole?”
He ignored my vitriol. “What do you like, Chere?” he asked in a tone that demanded an answer.
“Seeing people who are fucking me.” That was my answer, and I felt like crying, and I still hated myself. “I like seeing the person whose cock is inside me. I know that sounds crazy and unreasonable.”
His fingers tightened on my arms. I waited for him to drown me, or throw me out of the tub, but he did neither. Instead he said, “If you want to date me without the blindfold, you have to be mine. Exclusive.”
Fuck. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to throw him out of the tub, but he felt so good inside me. He reached down to massage my clit.
“You can see me, starshine. You can see all of me. Just agree not to see anyone else for a while.”
Oh God, the temptation. I really wanted to know what he looked like. I couldn’t bear to never know, to never see him. “Fine,” I said in a huff. “I’ll be exclusive with you for a few months. Will you take off the blindfold now?” I wanted to see him so badly.
He gripped my wrists. “No, next time. Next date.”
“Why next date? Why not now?”
“Because I said so. When I set up our next date, Henry will tell you which hotel, and what time to be in the lobby. If you recognize me when I come in, we’ll have our date. If you don’t recognize me, too bad. No date, no money, no tip. No seeing what I look like.”
“How am I supposed to recognize you? Magic?”
He took my wrists and pulled my hands up, and flattened them against his cheeks. “Feel me. Learn me. You’ll be able to recognize me.”
Oh, God, I was touching his face. It felt so sudden, so intimate. I tried to think how he looked from the contours I felt. His cock was still inside me—I knew his cock. I knew it well. But everything else, I was feeling for the first time. He moved inside me, fucking me as I raped his face with my sense of touch.
Stubble. I knew there would be stubble. Soft eyebrows, taut cheekbones, a masculine nose, not too pointy, not too prominent. At least I didn’t think so.
I traced his lips next. They felt firm and rough, and warm under my fingers. He opened his mouth and bit me, just above the knuckle. I laughed and felt his cock buck inside me. I’d never recognize him, but this was wonderful. I reached up to explore his scalp, and the texture of his hair. It was short, a little prickly. Cropped close on the sides, but a little longer on top. Much longer near the front.
“What color is your hair?” I whispered.
“That’s cheating,” he whispered back. “Are you going to come or not? The water’s getting cold.”
He made me come about thirty seconds later, because he knew how to do that, and the whole time I groped his face, trying to picture him.
“Talk to Henry,” he said as he drained the water from the tub. “Tell him you agree to be exclusive. And find me next time we meet. You know enough by now to pick me out of a crowd.”
I didn’t think I did, but perhaps I’d recognize him by some internal lust-meter. How could I not recognize the man who’d given me so many orgasms? I’d give it a try. At least I wouldn’t have to wear this damn eye mask anymore.
He threw a towel over my shoulder, and we dried off. Afterward, he led me back into the room. “Sit,” he said, and I sat when he forced me down, trusting a chair would be there. “Did you bring extra clothes?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Yes, Sir. Use your damn manners.”
“Yes, Sir, I brought extra clothes.” I hoped I didn’t sound too sassy. He put a hand on my back and shoved me forward in the chair. Oh, Jesus.
“Be still,” he said. “Don’t move.”
I felt a weird, tingling sensation on my back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. I finally realized he was writing on me. Too much to hope for, that it wasn’t permanent marker.
“What do you do, that you have so much money?” I asked while he scrawled across my back.
I didn’t think he’d answer, but he said, “Design.”
“What do you design?”
“None of your business.”
High fashion? Web design? What kind of designer made enough money for Park Hyatt call-girl sessions?
“I thought you might be an Ivy League English professor, with all the poetry,” I joked.
He did a flourish with the marker against my lower back. “Poetry is just another form of design.” I heard him cap it and zip his briefcase, and then begin to dress. My hands were free. I could have unbuckled the blindfold and looked at him before he could stop me. I could have finally seen what he looked like, and satisfied my curiosity. Of course, I also would have lost his trust, and possibly the ability to see him again. My whore hands stayed curled in my lap.
“There’s a pool here,” he said. I heard the whispery sound of him sliding on his shoes. “Did you bring a bathing suit?”
“No.”
“Next time, bring a bathing suit. Will you stay here tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can if you want. I won’t come back and bother you.”
It was almost sweet, how he wanted me to stay in these ritzy hotel rooms after he left me. Like he wanted to spoil me. More likely, he knew I’d think about him the entire time I was here. While I was on the bed, I’d think about him. While I was in the bathroom, I’d look at the tub and remember his skin against mine, and the smell of the soap, and the soft, scratchy loveliness of his hair. If I wasn’t so chicken, I could know the color of that hair.
I would know the color of that hair, next time. Did that mean he trusted me now? I got a sickly, nervous feeling in my stomach at the idea of him revealing himself. Mere eye contact would feel like a crazy-scary level of intimacy after the way we’d begun.
He stroked my back and tugged a handful of my hair. “Goodbye, Chere. You can get up when you hear the door close.”
“Bye,” I said.
I heard his footfalls across the room, heard the door open and close. I wondered if he still felt pissed, or if he felt better now. My feelings had run the gamut since I arrived.
I took off the blindfold and stuck it in my bag, even though I knew I wouldn’t need it again. I tried to wrestle the halves of my stockings off the bedframe, but I couldn’t undo the knot. Oh well. I was sure the staff had seen everything in this kind of hotel. I collected the pieces of my dress and garter belt—he hadn’t taken them with him this time. I tried not to read anything into that. He’s weird, don’t try to understand him.
And it was weird that it took that long to remember I had poetry on my back. I went into the bathroom and twisted around to try to read it in the mirror. No dice. I had to use my camera timer to take a photo. I swiped at the screen to enlarge the black words written on my skin.
Oh drink me up
That I may be
Within your cup
Like a mystery
I didn’t know if it was a whole poem or part of a poem, written by him or someone else. I typed the words into my phone’s search engine and got the answer: Mystery by D.H. Lawrence. I lift to you my bowl of kisses/And through the temple’s blue recesses/Cry out to you in wild caresses.
I had cried out at his wild caresses, that was for sure. Well, as much as I could cry out when he gagged me. I touched my wrists, remembering the feeling of the zip ties, and then I touched the insides of my thighs, studying the pale pink marks from his belt. Talk about mystery…why the hell was I getting hot and bothered remembering that beating? Fuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh, drink me up…
I sprawled back on the rumpled bed, masturbating and reading the words over and over, searching for meaning, or maybe the answer to a question I didn’t know how to ask. When I finished with a shuddering orgasm, I stood and crossed to the window to look out at the city. W always picked the higher floors with the best views. Beautiful, so beautiful.
Maybe I would stay here tonight and gaze out at the vibrant cluster of New York City’s lights. This room was so white and clean and bright, nothing like the loft I shared with Simon. Our loft was dark and claustrophobic, with no view at all.