rat bastard

You don’t hear from Joel.

And it’s not like you were waiting for him to call. Not really. 

You know that’s not what this is, whatever it is. It’s not who you are. You’re not some wound of a girl, lingering by a landline, weak and waiting, writing a name over and over in the lonely pages of your diary. You don’t need, not like that, not from men — not anymore. 

At night, your sheets are soft, still a little sun-warm from the light that slips through the window. You stretch, fingertips scraping the walls, the chipped paint. Your ankles hook over the edge of the bed, a pillow bunches beneath your cheek. Sleep is easy, always there, waiting at the edges, a gentle lull. Your days are so full — of sex and laundry and learning to roll your own cigarettes, crowded around the coffee table, your roommates fingers curling over yours. 

And nothing about the nights feels lonely. You don’t miss the shape of anyone else beside you. There’s no emptiness to fill, nothing waiting for an answer. You don’t need — not him, not anyone.

But still.

You sort of thought he might call.

After that night in the hills — everything that was said on the balcony, the way he looked at you, how he touched you. It felt like some seismic shift had taken place, tectonic and sure, locking into place.

This thing between you — it lives now, it has legs. It’s going somewhere, you just don’t know where, can’t predict the plates shifting beneath you, reordering the world. It feels entirely out of your control. 

And it scares the shit out of you.

You don’t need. But you want. 

You want him. The way he makes you feel, that toe-curling electric current that runs between you, the way every touch is right, exactly where it needs to be. How your bodies fit together, slot seamlessly, like there was never meant to be any space between them.

It’s hungry, the wanting. It’s a gnawing little ache in the pit of your belly, incessant, insistent. And you’re not lingering, you don’t even look at the phone where it sits silent on the windowsill. You drink your coffee and you make your plans and you shelve any softer feelings.

But still. 

The hunger is there. 

Little teeth scraping at your stomach lining, unspooling your insides so you’re even more tangled than you were before. So that every nerve ending is a little too raw, a little too real. 

But there are other things to focus on, so you do.

Lucky is taking off — the name, the brand, the girl that lives inside you, a second self ready to step out, winking. The next run of tapes sells out, so Tess organizes the re-release of some of your other scenes to appease the demand, the desire.

And that means a lot more than a phone that doesn’t ring.

The days look the same. You go to the corner store to buy milk, scratch the ears of the tawny cat stretched across a crate of paper towels. You do your hair in the too-small bathroom and burn your neck with the curling iron, the bruise raw and shining. You drink wine on the rooftop with your roommates, watch the sun sink low on the horizon, swap stories of the places you used to call home.

But sometimes —

You’ll catch the eye of a man at the bus stop. Sense the lingering gaze of a waiter. Feel the stare of a stranger across a crowded room. A look that drags across your skin, eyes that widen when you meet them, a fizzing spark behind their gaze.

And you realize that they recognize you.

Lucky.

They see her in the curl of your lip, the long line of your legs beneath your cut-offs, the curve of your hips as you lean against a bar or reach for something on a high shelf. Even if your hair is unwashed, or you’re in the least-flattering of your laundry day clothes, some too-long t-shirt stained with coffee. She’s still there in every angle, the arch of your eyebrow and flick of your wrist.

It’s usually harmless. 

Most of the men who recognize you are too embarrassed to say anything at all. You spot them — that open hunger in their faces, that horny gape — and they shrink into themselves, like they’ve been caught with their dick in their hands on the corner of La Cienega. There’s a shameful sort of a shuffling, a squirming self-consciousness, a hasty retreat. They rarely linger long.

Sometimes it’s more overt.

A few clumsy, flustered flirtations. Clammy handshakes, breath heavy with liquor. Murmurs of —

“God, you’re even prettier in person.”

A shot you didn’t order sliding across the bar with a wink —

“Gentleman at the end said this was for Lucky.”

Business cards slipped into your hand or left at your table, phone numbers scribbled on bar napkins, still damp with a nervous sweat. Sometimes your friends will leave them in bathroom stalls, with the added scrawl: for a bad time call.

It’s so easy to deflect, to ignore, to slip away with a polite smile and say maybe another time. 

You expect it to bother you. Make you feel exposed, vulnerable, stripped down for strangers. But it doesn’t.

Sure, they've seen you naked. They know the shape of your breasts, the shade of your nipples, the pink between your legs. They know what it looks like when you come, how your mouth wraps around a sigh. They’ve heard every gasp and whimper.

But you know something about them too.

You know their slinking shame, ducking into the back room of the video store. Seeking you out, someone to keep them company. You know the dark, musty bedrooms. The sad squirt of lotion. The frantic, desperate rutting, the thick-fisted jerk and gritting teeth. The musk of loneliness, low grunting heaves, spilling into a tube sock that crusts over by morning. The tape whirring, clicking off as it ends, the fading glow of the black screen. The quiet that follows.

And all of that makes it less scary than it might be otherwise, de-claws the anxiety that something curls low in your stomach.

You are the fantasy. The untouchable thing, the object of their desperate desire.  

The girl of their fucking dreams.  

x x x x x

Sometimes paychecks get left for you at the production office in Burbank.

It’s way out of the way, a fucking hike from the west side, but the end of the month nears, rent looms, and so you stop by after a shoot.

You’re a flower,  playing the part of a daisy in some psychedelic trip, just shy of parody, a fucked up homage to Alice in Wonderland. You sort of regret taking the part, sure that the White Rabbit is going to give you nightmares. After, you stuck your head in the sink to wash the semen out of your hair, and it’s still damp, dripping around your shoulders as you step into the tiny production office.

The wallpaper is yellowed and peeling, a once-cheery pattern faded from the baking sun. The woman who works there is sweet, always stopping to chat about the weather, offering you a stale, crumbling biscuit from the tin she keeps on her desk. She shocks you sometimes by referencing a film you’ve done, slipping in a bit of filth — nice fat cock on that one, I tell you, if I was a few years younger —

It usually makes you laugh. You’ve spent long hours leaning against the counter as she tells you some of the raunchier stories she’s collected over the years.

But it’s midday, and your skin itches as you wait in the sticky warm office, the slowly rotating fan doing nothing to stir the dense air in the room. You need a real shower, need to scrub the smell of clove cigarettes from your skin, that too-sweet, cloying scent that gives you a slight headache.

She’s particularly slow today, squinting through her turquoise glasses, the beads that rattle around her neck. Shuffling between filing cabinets, searching for the folder with your name on it.

“Spell your last name again for me, hon.”

And you pray for some fucking patience as you spell it out slowly, for the dozenth time, pitch rising as you see her fingers wandering towards the wrong end of the alphabet anyways. 

The door swings open behind you, hinges creaking, bringing with it a fresh wave of shivering heat. You glance over your shoulder —

And freeze.

Somewhere in the middle of your last name, letters dangling unfinished from your lips. 

Joel stands in the doorway, still gripping the handle, filling the frame with his broad shoulders. And it looks like he has half a mind to leave, now that he sees you standing there. His dark gaze flickering over you, stuttering like the schick-click flame of a lighter, an inconstant heat.

“Oh, Joel, there you are,” the woman says behind you, “Good to see you.”

He stiffens. Forces something like a polite smile, though it looks pained as he unclenches his hand from the door handle and crosses the small space to stand beside you at the counter.

“Doris,”  he says, nodding at her and then, without looking at you, mutters your name like an afterthought.

And it stings, even if it shouldn’t. Smarts and ache, those teeth digging deeper in your stomach, the hunger biting inside of you. Want. You want.

But obviously he doesn’t.

He won’t even look at you.

You can feel the tension rolling off him, the stiffness in his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw. The heat of his body radiates, warms the air around you, and you’re already sweating. 

All you can think about is his mouth on your neck, the scrape of his hands over your skin, the roll of his hips against yours. The way he coaxed an orgasm out of you, murmuring filthy praise against your throat, looking at you like it all meant something. Walking away before you could say something that might make him stay, find the words to shape the moment into meaning.

And now — nothing.

You’re a water cooler. A desk chair. A fucking paperclip. Just another unimpressive feature of this stale office, not worth looking at, barely worth acknowledging. 

Every slow second is agonizing. 

His fingers drum against the countertop, an agitated beat. 

“Ah, here it is.”

The woman pulls an envelope from one of the folders, squinting down to double check the name before offering it out to you.

“Appreciate your patience, hon.”

You snatch it from her hand before she finishes, stuffing it into your bag, backing out of the office.

“Thanks.”

You take a final, fleeting glance at the rigid line of Joel's back. Swallow down the knot in your throat and leave, letting the door slam shut behind you, rattling on its rusted hinges.

You strip down the second you step inside your apartment, leaving a trail of clothes from the front door, naked before you even reach the bathroom. You slip into the shower before the water has a chance to heat, and you stand there shivering, letting the chill sink into your bones, hoping it will chase away whatever this feeling is. 

But later, when you’re laying in bed — a little buzzed, a little high — you feel it stir inside you. 

The hunger. The want. 

The pinch of sharp little teeth inside you.

A thing that lives, that has legs. 

That is completely out of your control.

x x x x x

There’s a heatwave at the end of the month. 

You sweat through your clothes, shower, and sweat through them again. You suffer the suffocating heat of the apartment for a few days, the four of you spread across the floor, cooling your feverish skin with cans of Coke, the drip of condensation. It doesn’t ease at night, the air dense, too thick to sleep in.

The beach is over-crowded, bodies piled on the stretch of burning sand, jostling elbows, vying for space as seagulls shriek overhead.

So you head inland. You take the bus into the nicest part of the city, neat green lawns and smooth sidewalks, sprinklers clicking, windows closed to keep the cool air in.

You climb the fence of a fancy hotel, slipping through the service entrance, the sterile air of long hallways, until you reach the pool. You spend the day there, claiming a couple of chairs, spreading out your bright towels, stripping down to your bikinis. Ordering drinks at the bar, charging them to different rooms at random.

By the time the staff catches on, one of the girls has already befriended an actual guest, a woman who swears you’ve been with her the whole time. They can’t kick you out, so you stay, soaking in the little bit of stolen luxury, the sway of palm trees overhead.

You drink frozen, sugary drinks, the dye staining your lips. Twirling the tiny umbrellas between your fingertips. Watching the pool water bead and dry on your skin, the smell of chlorine and sunscreen, damp hair curling in the heat.

You watch as a little girl paces the edge of the pool, daisies patterned on her pink swimsuit, a smear of sunscreen over her shoulders. Her father stands in the pool below, arms outstretched, waiting to catch her. It tugs something sad and distant in your stomach. An ache you sometimes forget is there.

A shadow passes over you, and you squint up to see a man standing over your lounge chair. 

“I know you.”

You frown up at him, or the shape of him, too sunblind to make out any features.

“I doubt it,” you say.

“You’re Lucky, aren’t you?”

You shield your eyes from the sun. It takes a moment, his face coming into focus as you blink away the white-bright burn. 

And you realize you know him. 

He’s an actor, his features sparking that low tug of distant recognition. That not-quite familiarity. You know his face from faded posters at the movie theater, smiling from the glossy cover of a magazine. 

He’s a little older now than his last role, his blonde hair faded, lines creasing at his eyes. But he’s handsome, his smile easy and warm as he looks down on you. 

You push yourself up on your elbows, tilting your head. 

“I might be.”

He nods. And he doesn’t look embarrassed, to have recognized you, to out himself as someone who has seen your tapes.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

He doesn't tell you his name. You wonder if he’s fallen out of the habit, assuming that everyone already knows, the familiarity of his face making the ritual of introduction obsolete.

“Are you staying here?” he asks, “You and your friends, I mean.”

He glances over to where your roommates sit at the edge of the pool. You follow his gaze and see that they’re all staring, unabashed. One of them waggles her fingers in a wave.

You shrug.

“Something like that.”

He looks bemused.

“Just stopping by, then,” he nods, “I get it.”

You feel his gaze from beneath his sunglasses, the blue of his eyes bright and burning with a joke he hasn’t told yet. Or maybe, he’s told it a hundred times, and you’ve already heard the punchline. There’s an ease about him, an informality, like you’ve already met.

“I keep a suite with some friends,” he tells you, “You should come up. Doors always open.”

He leaves it there, heads back inside. But a few minutes later a waiter comes by, tray heavy with a fresh round of drinks and a set of keys for the penthouse suite.

It’s hot, too hot to tan for long. You’ve all had a few drinks, the buzz warm in your veins. And none of you want to go home yet, back to the heavy heat of the apartment. So you take the elevator up to the top floor, bare feet on the carpeted floor, bathing suits clinging to your skin, shorts unbuttoned.

The door is open, like he said it was, music drifting out into the hallway.

The suite is a massive, sprawling space, light spilling in from a wall that’s all windows, an uninterrupted view of the sea. The air is frigid, icy against your bare skin, raising goosebumps on your arms the second you step inside.

There are people everywhere, draped across the bland, expensive furnishings, clustered in the kitchenette, sitting cross-legged on the unmade bed. You recognize some of them. The drummer who had a drug problem that was in the papers. A model you’ve seen on the cover of magazines, her eyes heavy with liner, a sleepy sort of smile as she stretches across an armchair.

Some are strangers, strange in the way that they seem so out of place among the smooth, impersonal furniture, the placid neutrality of the hotel. A man with sandy, unkempt hair who looks like he might have just wandered in from the boardwalk, his nails dirty as he rolls neat little joints, offering them out to anyone who passes. A group of hippie looking girls, their hair loose and tangled, knees knobby, a wide-eyed vacancy in their expressions. 

And then him. The actor. Stepping in from the balcony, welcoming you with wide arms.

“You’re here,” he says, with an air of finality, like he’s been waiting forever and you’ve finally arrived. 

It seems like some of them have been living here. There are untidy piles of clothing tucked under chairs, a toothbrush left by the ice bucket. Little pockets of life left among the impersonal objects of the suite, the vague artwork, a little statue of a lion, reared up on its hind legs.

Someone pours you a glass of orange wine, and you sip it by the window, watching the way the coast stretches and flexes until it disappears somewhere in the haze of Malibu. 

The other girls settle in easily, like they always do. Filling a space that’s already full, brightening a room that’s already bright. Giddy smiles, warm laughter. The slide of a record from its case, changing the music, shifting the vibe.  A shot of adrenaline, everywhere they go. 

You settle on a chaise, tucking your legs up under you to make room for the actor to sit beside you. He rests his hand on your knee, and you find you don’t mind it. It’s a little soft, his palm smooth. Uncalloused.

“Is it corny to say that you’re even more beautiful in person?” he asks, tone light, teasing.

You smirk.

“It is.”

“Damn,” he shakes his head, “That was my best line, too.”

“Bet it helps when you have people write them for you.”

He nods, “You have no idea.”

You lean back, watching as the girls tilt and sway to the music. 

“At risk of it sounding like another line,” he says, “I've seen all of your films, and you’re really something else.”

You blush and take a sip of your drink. There’s something in the casual way he says it, like seeing you naked is the most natural thing in the world. 

He nudges your shoulder.

“Feel free to say something about one of my movies now.”

“I would,” you tell him, “But I haven’t seen any.”

He throws his head back and laughs, loud enough that the model rouses in her chair. She gives a sleepy little yawn, then settles back down.

“I guess I deserve that,” he says.

He looks at you with interest. And it’s not sexual — at least, it’s not only sexual. It's appraising. Intrigued. Like you’re something he’s trying to figure out. 

“Do you like it?”

You tilt your head, “Like what?”

“Making dirty movies.”

You think about the hazy glow, the grainy light. The tapes with your name on them, the name you gave yourself. The slide of skin against skin, cameras catching a smile, a sigh. Men at the bus stop, at the corner, being wanted in ways you’re only just beginning to understand.

“I do.”

He nods, like he was expecting that answer.

“I could tell. I think that’s what makes it sort of special,” he says thoughtfully, “It’s not for us. It’s for you.”

His thumb strokes over your skin, an easy touch, there’s no pressure to it.

“Do you like it?” you ask.

“Like what?”

“Making regular movies.”

“Sometimes,” he shrugs, “I used to like it more. Feels sort of phony now. What you do is a lot more real.”

One of the long-haired girls floats over, her eyes wide and unfocused, a syrupy sort of smile on her face, melty and warm. She has something curled in the palm of her hand.

“Hungry?” she asks the actor.

He tips his head back obediently and opens his mouth. She lays a small tab on his tongue, then brushes a sweaty, affectionate kiss against his cheek. It seems like a kind of ritual, something they’ve done a thousand times before, unthinking and easy.

She turns to you, her eyes so wide they seem to fill her face, giving her a moony, ethereal sort of softness.

“Want one?”

You hesitate, just for a second, before opening your mouth. You feel the press of her fingertip against your tongue, a little scrape of nail, and then the tab’s bitter dissolve.

You think of communion wafers and consecration. Your knees pressed into an unforgiving bench, fingers folded together, searching for a sin you might be willing to confess. Your mother’s hand curling at the back of your neck, nails digging into your skin. Louder — she’d hiss — God can’t hear you.

The afternoon tips and spills. Hours pass, glacial and strange, a haze of slow, slippery seconds.

One of your friends is fast asleep, curled up in the middle of the unmade bed, snoring softly. Another disappeared with the drummer some hours ago, tangling her hand with his, looking back with a guilty, giggling secrecy. The other has been ensconced in the group of untidy girls, her head laid on their laps as they braid her hair endlessly. Someone ordered room service, a dozen orders of only truffle fries.

You lay on a patch of sunny carpet, stretched out like a cat. It smells like weed and spilled wine, the faint tinge of disinfectant. You feel watery, waves crashing through you, swept up in the tidal pull of your own breath. You think you had legs at some point, but you can’t feel them anymore. You don’t mind. You like it here.

The actor appears over you, his hair glowing gold with sunlight, his pupils blown wide, edging out the blue of his eyes. You think he looks even younger like this, his smile easy, unbothered. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks gently.

You consider it. You’re feeling so much it’s hard to find one answer, pull a single word from the twisting, shimmering haze. Finally you say —

“I'm in space.”

He chuckles. “And how is it?”

“Warm,” you tell him, because it is. It’s warm and it’s good, and sometimes if you look too long at something it starts to move, but not in a bad way.

You pull him down on the carpet beside you, resting your shoulder against his, his sandy leg hair brushing against your bare stretch of calf. You want him to see the patterns on the ceiling, how it glitters and swirls, the kaleidoscopic spin of light and color, like there are stars stuck up in the plaster. 

But he keeps looking at you instead. 

You grab his jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing his gaze up. 

“Alright,” he laughs, “I see it, Lucky. I swear I see it.”

You relax, satisfied. Stretching out, the carpet warm beneath you. Feeling every inch of your skin, so alive, your blood humming in your veins. You turn your head to look at him, the actor, his face so familiar and not at the same time. A stranger you’ve known almost all your life.

“You never told me your name,” you tell him.

He smiles at you.

“You know my name.”

x x x x x

The come down is not nice.

The heat finally breaks the next morning, a fog rolling in from the water, and you sit shivering on the sofa. Blinking against the light. Everything is a little too sharp, grating against raw nerves. You wince when the phone rings. One of your roommates throws her shoe at it.

It’s Tess. 

“Why is someone trying to send you a fruit basket?”

“Fuck,” you groan, “Please whisper.”

She snorts, amused, but her voice is a little less sharp when she speaks again. Not soft, you’d never call Tess soft. But still.

“Someone from William Morris called asking for your address. Who did you fuck?”

“No one,” you tell her.

Which is true.

You did not fuck the actor.

You laid on the carpet for what felt like half a century, the minutes slow and sticky, made of molasses. Shadows slipped across the room and the sun set behind the hills. Your one roommate returned, the drummer slinking in behind her, clothes slightly askew, a satisfied flush on her cheeks. And eventually there wasn’t much reason to stay, so you didn’t. 

He had the front desk call a car to take you home — kissed your cheek on the way out and thanked you for showing him the stars on the ceiling. You were still high when you went to sleep.

“Alright,” Tess relents, “Who didn’t you fuck?”

So you tell her his name, the one you know she knows.

And she makes a sound that’s hard to decode. You think she might be impressed.

“Well then I guess I’ll give him your address.”

The fruit basket arrives that afternoon, but it’s more wine than fruit. All expensive vintages, embossed labels in swirling script, some fancy chocolates. There's a neat little envelope with his name and phone number.

You call him the next day.

Because what would it hurt, really. If you let him kiss you. Let him take your clothes off, roll around in those expensive sheets. Maybe make you come, maybe not, it doesn’t really matter. It’s a hell of a story either way.

You’re young and you’re pretty and sometimes men on the street want to sleep with you. You have sex almost every day, you fuck in front of cameras, and the one person you want to look at you won’t. There are so many contradictions, and you don’t want to waste your time unriddling them. 

The actor is fun. Easy. Uncomplicated, free of contradiction. A question that answers itself.

He asks to take you to dinner and you agree, slipping into the sleek black car when it pulls up to the curb. The restaurant is all low-lighting and smooth leather booths, a live band playing in the corner, jazz drifting over to your private table. It’s all a little much — the fluttering, eager attention of the waiter, champagne poured before you’ve even looked at the menu, the owner coming out to shake his hand. 

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Is it always like this for you?”

He looks up, smiling, letting you in on the joke. The answer is obvious. Yes. It is always like this.

He calls you Lucky, and you don’t mind. You are Lucky. Her flashing smiles, her fluttering lashes. 

He's easy to be around, and the world is easy around him. Rules bend, doors open. There is always a table ready, always a car waiting. A ceaseless tide of good times.

When he takes you to bed, it’s nice. Easy. His hand is warm and smooth over your skin, gentle with you, affectionate. He laughs when you take him into your mouth, his hand stroking over your hair. Lucky, he calls you. He has to stroke himself back to stiffness a few times, but when he pushes inside it feels good. Your bodies slide together, his eyes bright and blue, looking at you like he’s always known you. When you come — and you do — it’s a little, tripping thing. Light, easy. A laugh cut off by a kiss.

You don’t think about the thing that isn’t there. 

Heavier hands, the scrape of stubble against your skin. A low, rasping voice, one that knows all the right things to say. The want, the hunger, low in your belly, that burns and burns and burns.

You don’t think about that at all.

x x x x x

August melts into September but there’s no change of seasons here; your shoulders stay bare. 

It’s late afternoon on a Friday. The other girls are gone — at work or an audition, or in the back of the tour bus with that drummer. You’re eating dry cereal. Someone forgot to buy milk, and the little bit you have left is spoiled.

The phone rings. And you think it might be the actor, because he calls sometimes just to tell you about his day. Or play a record he thinks you might like. Or invite you over to read through a scene with him, some new script his agent sent over, because he hates acting against nothing.

You wedge the phone under your ear, balancing the bowl of cereal in your hand.

“Hello?”

It's Tess.

“How fast can you get to the Valley?”

There’s an edge to her voice, and you hear it immediately. You frown, setting your bowl down on a stack of books.

“Why?”

There’s a scuffling sound on the other end, a door snapping shut. It sounds like she’s moving away from people, muffled conversations growing distant.

“Had a girl show up trashed, we can’t use her,” she says, “We’re going to lose the whole day. Bleeding fucking money over here.”

You almost agree, your instinct to say yes to her kicking in. But then you hesitate.

“Whose shoot?”

There’s a pause. And you get the sense she was hoping that you wouldn't ask. 

“It’s Joel’s.”

Because of course it fucking is. Tess wouldn’t waste a favor on just anyone. 

“And he’s okay with me coming?” you ask, wary.

“It was his idea.”

You bite your lip, worrying it between your teeth.

Because it’s not a good idea, not really. You can already feel that thing rising up, the hunger waking, those fucking teeth digging in again.

“I can be ready in ten,” you tell her.

And you can hear her exhale, that sharp relief.

“Great, I'll send a car.”

You’re already waiting at the curb when the car pulls up, hair still damp from a hasty shower, legs stinging from a mostly dry shave. You ask to roll the windows down, dabbing at a few cuts beading little drops of blood around your kneecaps. 

It takes thirty minutes to get there, and you try not to think too hard.

Not about the last time you saw him, the nerve ticking in his jaw. Or the time before that, the not-quite fucking in the hallway, how it burns white-hot in your memory.

The car pulls into the mostly empty parking lot of a bar called Frank’s, and your stomach swoops a little when you spot the familiar truck parked by the entrance.

There’s a hastily written sign taped to the door, warning customers that it’s closed for the day.

A bell digs when you push open the door, dust swirling in the air. It’s a true dive, bordering on a shithole, made more apparent by the midday sunlight streaking in through the dirty windows. The stale smell of beer hangs in the air, sticky with it. A bison head is mounted on the wall, all glassy eyes and flaking taxidermy. 

The crew is already set up, the camera standing to the left of the bar, cables snaking between the stools.

There are a few extras milling around the pool table, looking a little bored, a little lost. It’s a thankless task, to be a spare body in a dirty movie. Most of them were likely lured in by the promise of free booze.

Tess spots you and steps away from an irritated looking camera man.

“Thank god for you,” she mutters, taking your arm and leading you down a narrow hallway.

She pushes open the door to reveal a grimy single-stall bathroom, a garment bag hanging over the mirror. Graffiti is scrawled across most of the walls, and the air is damp with the acrid smell of urine. It’s pretty bleak.

“We’re on a shoestring here,” she says apologetically, “They’re really fucking us.”

You squeeze her arm.

“It's fine. I'll be ready in five.”

She gives you a grateful look, then steps away, pulling the door shut behind her. The script lays open across the sink, and you flip through it quickly, scanning the pages. 

But you’re good at this. You don’t need much, just a few words to set the scene. The rest just happens, spills out of you, this thing you think maybe you were born to do.

You unzip the garment bag. Inside is a slip of a dress that’s almost sheer in the light. When you pull it over your head, you can see your nipples through the fabric. You leave your panties on, the black line of them barely visible, a suggestive hint.

You swipe glitter over your eyelids, dab gloss on your lips. And you’re ready.

You step out of the bathroom just as the door at the end of the hallway is opening.

Joel fills the doorframe. Dressed simply, a dark t-shirt and jeans. The boots he always wears, that heavy tread that’s so familiar, every solid, steady step.

He stops short when he sees you.

Surprise flickers across his face, and then his expression shutters. Goes stony, unreadable. You can see the slight flare of his nostrils, a furious inhale, and then he steps back inside, snapping the door shut.

Shit.

You stand there.

Staring at the closed door. 

Muffled voices rise on the other side. The unmistakable bitter taint of an argument, his low, growling anger.

Something uneasy settles in your stomach. The feeling that you are not supposed to be here right now, that he doesn’t want you here.

Doesn’t want you at all.

The door swings open again and you tense, but it’s Tess that steps out, muttering under her breath.

“Fucking idiot.”

She pauses when she sees you waiting there, something like guilt passing over her expression. She clears her throat.

“We’re uh, not gonna need you, actually,” she says, not quite meeting your eye, “Sorry, kid. I'll still pay you the day rate.”

“What happened?”

Her expression twists, and she shakes her head.

“I didn't realize how far he’s got his head shoved up his own ass.”

A bitter taste rises in the back of your throat.

“He didn't tell you to call me.” 

And it’s not a question, not really.

Tess sighs, “Not in so many words.”

“Jesus, Tess.”

“Look, it’s my problem, not yours. I'll handle it.”

But it is your problem — your problem with him, his problem with you. The knotted tangle of your time together, this stupid fucking stand off, this dance you’re really sick of doing.

You push past her, storming down the dingy hallway, shoving open the door at the end. 

Inside is a small office. Receipts spiraling out over the desk, a sagging sofa in the corner. Another piece of crumbling taxidermy, a watery-eyed weasel, hunched high on a shelf, its tiny teeth bared.

Joel stands with his back to the door, smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand, leaning against the desk chair. The set of his shoulders tense, strained. 

He straightens at the sound of the door, turning as you slam it shut behind you. You see the way his gaze skates over the barely-there fabric of your dress, the near-nakedness of you.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap.

He frowns. Stubs out his cigarette.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

His eyes flash.

“Watch it.”

He says it low, threatening. Takes a step forward so he’s towering over you, this hulking mass of a man, all dark eyes and thick arms and endless frustration.

You hold your ground. Glaring up at him.

“You’re just gonna have Tess send me home?”

“I didn't ask for you to be here.”

And it stings, even if it shouldn’t. Even if you already knew that. Even if you shouldn’t want to be wanted, not by him.

“Well, I'm here,” you snap, “And you don’t have to like me, but I'm the best you’ve got.”

His dark eyes flicker over your face. And there’s something there, just the shadow of it. You can’t name it, don’t know what it means. But it’s there.

Some of the fury ebbs from his expression. His shoulders drop, and he shakes his head.

“Jus’ ain’t a good idea.”

“Why not?” you press.

But then there’s a little sliver of doubt, a curl of anxiety, souring in your stomach.

“Is it — am I not good enough?” you ask.

He shakes his head, a rough jerking motion.

“That ain’t the reason.”

And — okay. Great. That’s better than the alternative. But it’s still not an answer.

You fold your arms over your chest. Hold his gaze.

“Then give me a better one.”

He glares down at you, jaw working, hands flexing at his side.

“Fine,” he says finally, teeth grit. 

He shoulders past you, striding back into the hallway. You hear the heavy him say something to Tess, a gruff exchange of words, and then she’s calling out for places, people.

You suck in a steadying breath. You sort of hadn’t expected him to fold, and you don’t know what it means. But you’re here now, you’re doing this. So you smooth down your dress, set your shoulders, and walk out of the office.

The set is quieting down. The overheads have been switched off, leaving behind the moody pools of light from table lamps and neon signs, the few running lights set up at the edge. A red glow spills over the shelves, illuminating the good stuff left untouched. The wet mouths of house bottles shine along the counter, catching the light.

Joel slopes behind the bar, his movements jerky, restless. There’s an edge of frustration in the way he paces — not looking at you, looking anywhere but. 

Tess gives you a searching look. Checking in. 

You nod and take your seat at the bar, where a glass of something is already waiting for you. You take a sip, swallow down the burn, try to let the scene sink into your skin. 

The smell of whiskey. Salt. A lime muddled under a heavy booth, ripe and rotting against the uneven floorboards. The low thrum of music, vibrating the bar beneath your fingertips. 

You’re on your last drink. A little drunk, fizzing with a tipsy kind of confidence. The bartender is hot. He’s been watching you all night. He wants you here. 

“Action.”

Joel stands at the counter, wiping down glasses with a rag.

You watch him. The steady drag down the glass, the sort of phallic twist to it. The way his muscles move with the motion.

He eyes you from across the bar.

“Your friends run out on you?” he asks.

You raise one shoulder in a little shrug.

“Guess they can’t handle their liquor.”

He cocks his head, considering you. Dark eyes dipping to the low neck of your dress.

“So what are you still doing here?”

“Wanted to settle up,” you say, letting your voice lilt, lacing the words with suggestion.

You prop your elbows against the sticky tack of the counter, ringed with watermarks. You pull the cherry from your glass, licking the drip of alcohol that clings to it. You linger there, pressing your lips to the tender, sweet skin, teasing it with your tongue. Teasing him.

Joel’s eyes linger on your lips, the wet shine of them. 

“Reckon we can figure something out,” he says, voice low, rough.

He sets down the glass. Flicks the rag over his shoulder. Crosses to the wall and tosses the light switch twice, the overheads flickering on and off, drawing the attention of the remaining stragglers. 

“Don’t have to go home,” he calls out, “but you can’t stay here.”

There’s a shuffling, a scrape of chairs, that whining drag. The bar begins to empty as the last few patrons file out, swallowing down the final dregs of their drinks, the swill at the bottom of the glass.

You stay on your stool. Waiting. Watching the door. A little zip of anticipating sparking through you, a low coil of arousal gathering in your core. The want. That almost aching hunger.

The bell dings as the door closes behind the last person. And then you’re alone. Just you and the bartender. 

You and Joel.

He comes around the counter, crowding up against your stool. Bracing his arms on either side of you. Not touching, not yet. But close enough that you can feel the heat of him, that you have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“Pretty girl like you couldn’t find someone to take you home?” he asks.

You smile up at him, almost sweetly. Almost.

“I don't need to go home.”

You spread your knees apart, spreading them over the stool. An open invitation, the come-on of all come-ons. Your dress inches up your thighs, and you see the way his gaze drops, how it darkens. His knuckles are white where they wrap around the edge of the bar.

You press your hand against his chest. Feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your palm, the way his breath hitches when he meets your eye.

“I'm just fine right here,” you murmur.

And then he’s on you.

He ducks his head, scraping his teeth over your throat, the fragile tendon there, straining against his touch. Then dragging down, mouth hot against your skin, tasting your tripping pulse.

His hands drop to your thighs and he tugs you forward, stepping between your legs. He drags his palms over your skin, slowly, inching up towards your core.

You laugh, breathless, and it slips out of you before you can stop it —

“Really oughta buy me a drink first.”

Joel pulls back. Looks down at you. And you swear you see a smile at the corner of his mouth, an almost smirk. 

He leans over you, chest flush against your, and reaches across the counter. His stubble scrapes against your cheek as he snatches a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar.

He straightens. Unscrews the lid. Slides his other hand up your neck, cupping your jaw between his thick fingers, forcing your head back. The glint of a challenge in his gaze.

“Open.”

You do, parting your lips, offering out your tongue. He tilts the bottle, and whiskey pours down your throat, a smoky, sizzling burn. 

He pulls back when you’ve had enough, giving you a second to swallow. Some of it escapes from the corner of your mouth, drips down your neck toward the valley of your breasts.

His mouth is there, chasing it with his tongue, dragging down your sternum, burying his face between your breasts. A low growl leaves his chest, a hungry, desperate sound that makes you ache.

You can already feel the sticky thread of arousal between your legs, the heat that sparks and burns every time he touches you.

He slips a strap off your shoulder, baring more skin to his teeth and tongue. Scrapes his mouth along your collarbones, then dips down, sealing his mouth over your nipple. A jagged little edge of pleasure shoots through you, straight to your core. 

You arch into the wet drag of his mouth as he kisses across your chest, teeth digging into the sensitive skin of your other breast. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pressing him closer, a whine leaving your lips. 

“Yeah?” he mutters, the words muffled in your skin, “That feel good?”

He bites at your jaw, titling his head to nose against your neck, startling another needy whine from your throat.

“Shit - yes.”

His hands slide beneath the thin fabric of your dress, pushing it up over your hips, leaving everything else exposed. He pulls away to look at you, the mess he’s made of your neck and chest, little red marks from his mouth.

You drop back against the bar, breathing hard. His eyes rake over you, and the heat of his attention makes you tremble slightly.

“Fuck, honey,” he mutters, “Look at you.”

And it does something to you, the low gravel of his voice, the raw want in it.

He nudges your knees further apart, gaze fixed on the apex of your thighs. His thumb drags up the inside of your leg, teasing along the line of your panties, so close to the aching, pulsing heat at your center.

“Bet you’ve been wet since you walked in here.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he hooks his thumb through them and pulls, dragging the wet scrap of fabric down your legs. Exposing the wet splay of your pretty pink sex.

He steps back so the camera can see the shine of your slick on the leather seat. He shakes his head, a teasing note to his voice.

“Fucking dripping for me.”

Joel kneels between your legs, lifting them over his shoulders, keeping you spread open. He licks a line up your inner thigh, catching some of the slick smeared across your skin. You feel the scrape of his beard, the burn of it, his breath hot against your core.

And then he’s eating you, mouth hard and hungry as it moves over your soaked skin. His tongue curves against your clit, a hot, flickering pressure that makes you moan. Your hips buck against his mouth.

You feel the press of his thick fingers at your entrance, and then he’s sliding them into you.

“So tight, baby,” he groans.

You dig your fingers into his shoulder, the flexing tendon there, twisting the fabric of his shirt. You’re making ragged, desperate little sounds, whining for him. You’re getting close, the heat licking up your spine, the hunger a writhing, roaring thing inside of you.

“Think you can take one more?” he asks, twisting his fingers, making you whimper.

You nod, unable to form words, digging your nails a little deeper as you feel a third finger stroking at your soaking hole.

“Gotta stretch this cunt,” he grunts, “Get you ready f’me.”

And then there’s a stretch, a slight burn as his third finger presses inside. He crooks them, stroking upwards, and you gasp, jerking against him. You feel him smile between your legs.

“Right there, huh?”

He presses the same spot, driving even deeper, twisting and pressing. Dark eyes fixed on your face. Your back bows, a ragged breath caught in your lungs, a silent cry. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Let me feel you.”

His thumb swipes over your clit, and you’re coming, clenching around his fingers, pleasure coursing through you. 

Your legs close around Joel’s head, but he doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, a low growl of satisfaction rumbling in his chest, making you twitch and whine in his grip.

You untangle your fingers from his shirt, ease off enough that he can slide your legs from his shoulders and stand. Your gaze flickers up to his and he looks —

Fuck.

He looks wrecked. Chest heaving with ragged breaths. Eyes so dark that they’re almost black, a feral kind of hunger in his face, his beard shining with your slick.

He steps between your spread legs, sliding his hands up to your hips. He taps your thigh, twice, and you get the hint, wrapping your shaking legs around his waist. There’s an urgency in his touch, a tension rippling beneath his muscles when you wind your arms around his neck.

Joel lifts you easily, holding you tight to his chest as he carries you across the bar and sits you at the edge of the pool table. He stays between your legs, keeps a hand tight on your thigh, like he’s afraid you might go somewhere. 

“Need to fuck you,” he mutters. 

His other hand fumbles with the button of his jeans, ripping down the zipper, pulling his heavy cock free from the press of denim. He’s hard, an almost painful stiffness, the head of him smeared wet with pre-come. 

And then he’s there, pressing up against your entrance, his eyes flicking to yours as he fills you in one, slow thrust.

You moan, and hear his own, ruined sound in a response. A groan that seems to rip through him, his fingers digging even into the flesh of your thighs. 

“Perfect fucking cunt.”

Joel’s voice is hoarse, an unfamiliar roughness, almost anger. His head tips back, face twisted in something like pain, something like pleasure.

He begins to move, grinding his hips against yours, cock sawing in and out of your wet heat. You whine at the way he fills you, the steady drag of him inside you, and wrap your hand around the back of his neck. Holding tight as he fucks you deeper, harder, faces only inches apart.

His gaze flickers up to yours.

And he groans, hips stuttering against you as he spills inside, filling you with a warm flood of come.

Shit.

You feel his hands tense on your hips. 

“Shit,” he mutters.

You look up at him. And there’s something almost vulnerable in his expression as he stares back at you, eyes wide, hands still tight on your hips. For a second, neither of you move.

Then his expression shutters, and he’s pulling away, pulling out of you. Stepping away and tucking himself back into his jeans.

“I, uh —” he clears his throat, “I need a minute.”

He walks off set. 

Leaving you dripping, legs still spread, somehow full and so achingly empty at the same time.

You feel eyes on you. Wary, uncertain. Even Tess looks like she doesn’t know what the fuck to do.

You pull your dress straps over your shoulders and slip down from the pool table, the hem falling down to cover you. You feel his come dripping down your thighs. 

This has happened before. Other sets, other scenes. 

It’s never a big deal. It might make a shoot run long, but it’s usually something you could laugh about, sometimes twist into a compliment — just couldn’t help myself, sweetheart.

But that’s not Joel.

He’s not really a laugh it off kind of guy. He’s more of a go into the woods like a dying dog kind of guy. 

You hesitate for half a second, then go after him.

He’s back in the small office, the door left slightly ajar. You approach it slowly, cautiously. Peering through the sliver of light to look inside.

He’s braced against the desk, shoulders bunched by his ears, head low. Every line of him tense, taught.

He looks over his shoulder when he hears your soft steps, the creak of the door as you push it open just enough to slip inside. His face contorts when he sees you.

“Goddamn it.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you say gently, easing the door shut behind you. 

He turns, almost wary. Arms folded over his chest.

“Look — it happens,” you tell him.

He shakes his head. Scoffs. 

“I’m too old to be coming like a fucking teenager.”

You shrug, biting back a smile. 

“At least you made it out of your jeans.”

“This is why —” he stops himself, shaking his head. He makes a frustrated sound, jaw working.

And you just — you want to make him feel good, as good as he always makes you feel when you fuck. You sort of doubt he’ll ever agree to shoot with you again, and you don’t want the last time to be tainted like this. 

“Can I help?”

You take a slow step closer to him. He doesn’t quite meet your eye.

“M’fine,” he mutters.

But you move even closer, coming to stand just in front of him. Looking up at him, waiting until his gaze meets yours. 

“Let me help,” you say softly, coaxing.

Joel stares down at you. And he looks uneasy, almost skittish. But he doesn’t stop you when you take the last step, closing the distance, and your hand cups him through his jeans.

He exhales sharply through his nose. And he’s tense, rigid beneath your gentle touch. He shakes his head jerkily.

“You don’t gotta —“

“I want to.”

You rub him slowly through the denim, feeling the half-hard shape of him. 

His eyes flutter, and his hand twitches towards your wrist. But he doesn’t stop you. He lets you touch.

“Fuck. That’s — that’s nice.”

His eyes fall shut, and you see some of the tension ease from his shoulders. 

You undo the zipper and slip your hand inside, sliding over the soft skin of his cock. The dark curl of his hair is damp with your slick, some of his release. You wrap your hand around him and he hisses, still sensitive.

“Slow, baby.”

And so you go slow, a careful caress, your little fingers tucked into the front of his jeans. 

You lean in and lick the line of sweat on his throat. His head falls back as he groans, fingers flexing at his sides.

“Goddamn it.”

And it’s much softer than when he said it before, warm and rough. So you keep licking and sucking, small scrapes of teeth at his neck as you stroke him. You feel him start to stiffen in your hand, the blood pooling beneath your palm like a bruise.

You give him a few more strokes and then his hand closes around your wrist. 

“Shit. That's — yeah, that’s good. I'm good.”

His eyes open, and he looks down at you. Hand lingering around your wrist. His thumb swipes over your pulse. His chest shifts, expands. A slow inhale, a heavy exhale.

Then he drops his gaze. Clears his throat. 

“We oughta get back.”

And you should go back. You know that Tess and the rest of the crew are waiting, just a few thin walls away. You know you’re burning daylight, you’ve lost enough time as it is, and you still have most of the scene to finish.

Except —

“I can’t go back out there like this.”

He frowns down at you. 

You take his hand in yours, slipping your fingers around his wrist. You drag it under your skirt, between your legs, so he can feel where his come is leaking out of you.

You look up at him, the hint of a smile on your lips.

“You made a mess.”

His eyes go dark.

“Christ.”

His fingers move against you, slipping through your folds, dragging his release across your damp skin.

“Can’t have a —” you cut off with a gasp as his fingers graze your clit, “Continuity error.”

Joel chuckles.

“Can’t have that.”

He eases himself onto his knees beneath you. You lift the hem of your skirt, exposing yourself to his hungry eyes, the heat that still burns there. 

He gently pries your thighs apart, staring at the spread of your sex, the sticky drip of his semen inside of you. His thumb strokes along the tender crease of your thigh. 

“Fucking full of me, ain’t ya,” he murmurs.

And then he leans forward, swiping his tongue through the mess of your release and his. 

You moan. Tangling your hand in his hair, legs trembling as he licks through you, into you.

He eats at you slowly, languidly. Cleaning his come from your folds, your still dripping hole. He’s careful about it, coaxing, the delicate slide of his tongue inside you. 

His thumbs pull you apart, and you feel more of his come slip out into his waiting mouth. 

And it’s filthy, fucking debauched, but you can’t help the twitch of your hips, the heat that builds as he dips his tongue into you, tasting you together. 

He’s not trying to make you come, not really, but the occasional nudge of his nose against your clit is enough. The coil tightening, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

You’re almost there when he pulls back, apparently satisfied. He lets your dress slip back down, smoothing the fabric over your thighs before he stands. 

Joel’s eyes flicker over you, taking in the flush on your cheeks, the breath that shivers through you. 

He tilts his head. Gives you a knowing look.

“You close?”

You feel the blush burn a little brighter.

“Maybe.”

He pulls the door open. Nods his head towards the set.

“I’ll take care of you.”

There’s heat in the promise, and you feel a tug low in your navel, the thing that lives there digging its teeth in a little deeper.

You slip out of the office and he follows. You can feel the shape of him behind you, the floorboards shifting beneath his step. That steady, heavy tread.

The crew is waiting at the edge of set, a sleepy sort of lull to them. Breathing their smoke through a cracked window. Rolling a pool ball beneath a heavy palm. Flicking through song titles on the jukebox. 

There’s a shift when you step back into the set, a snapping to attention. Their eyes find Tess. 

She flicks away her cigarette. Gives you a once over, gaze sharp, cutting between you and Joel. 

“We good?”

“Fine,” Joel nods, “Where do you want us?”

And for a second, Tess looks like she might say something else, but seems to think better of it. 

“Take it from your cross,” she says, “Walk closer to camera this time, we’ll find somewhere to hide the cut.”

He gives a low grunt of acknowledgement. 

There's a tug at your waist, and then Joel's arm is around you, lifting you up. A surprised laugh punches out of your lungs, and you grip his shoulders, wrapping your legs around his hips.

He looks at you, dark eyes skimming the blush on your cheeks, down your neck, to your breasts beneath your dress. 

He looks back up, eyebrow raised. 

“Continuity,” he mutters. 

And, oh — right.

You reach up and slip your straps from your shoulders, letting the dress drop down to your waist, like it was when he first carried you across the bar.

You don’t miss the way his eyes linger on your breasts, the skin still flushed and sensitive from his mouth, little red marks around your nipples. 

“Alright,” Tess calls out, “Let’s get back into it.” 

Joel's arms tense around you. Holding you a little tighter. And you have a single, breathless second to collect your thoughts, find your place in the scene before — 

“Action.”

For a moment, the world is a spinning, shifting blur. And then you’re back on the pool table. The warm wood against your legs, the green scratch of felt on your fingertips as you lean back to look up at Joel. 

And fuck — he looks good. Skin sweat-damp and fever-warm, heat rolling off him in waves. The heavy press of his dick against the denim of his jeans.

His dark eyes drag over you, and he ducks down to nip at your jaw.

“Gonna fucking ruin you, sweetheart.”

A little gasp slips from between your lips. He pulls back, straightening to his full height, towering over you. He reaches over his head and tugs his shirt off, exposing the broad stretch of his chest, the trail of dark hair down his stomach.

He undoes the button of his jeans and tugs down his zipper. His cock is thick and full when he pulls it out, a rigid line between your bodies.

He brushes your hair off your shoulders, gathers it at the back of your neck. Tilts your head down so you’re staring at his cock.

“Spit on it.”

You shiver, the words surging like heat through your veins, gathering in the slick between your thighs. 

You let saliva pool in your mouth and drip from your lips, a sticky strand dribbling down onto him. He grunts, satisfied, when his cock shines with your spit. He strokes along his length, coating himself in it before he drags the tip over your entrance.

You whine a little, restless, aching to be filled. Leaning back on the pool table, looking up at him. A melty little mess, waiting for him to make good on his promise. 

He huffs out a laugh.

“So fucking needy.”

He slides his spit-slick cock between your folds, catching on your clit and you twitch, already sensitive, already so close to coming. 

You catch the hint of a smirk on his lips as he slides in. 

There’s the stretch, the burn, the slow drag of him against your sensitive walls. You clench around him, feeling every ridge, the heavy weight of him inside you. 

And it’s there — right there, the sparking edge of your release, the heat that’s threatening to overtake you. Your hips rise, chasing friction, fucking yourself deeper, a desperate little whimper slipping from your lips. 

His hands stroke over the soft swell of your stomach, an almost tender touch, his fingertips dragging down between your legs. 

“It’s alright, baby. I got you.”

It doesn’t take much. The roll of your swollen clit beneath his thumb, a slow, dragging thrust and you’re gone.

“Oh, fuck —”

You arch into it, your cunt clenching around him as he grinds his hips into yours, fucks you through it. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, “There you go.”

It flows through you, your muscles fluttering around him, the coil unraveling. It fills you with a kind of hazy heat, satiating some of the hunger — but not all of it.

You blink up at him. Bite your lip. Watch as his dark eyes drag over you, see a want in them you recognize. 

Joel tucks his hands beneath your knees, pulling them up and pressing them against your chest. Spreading you, exposing the place where your bodies connect, the stretch of your sex around him. 

He groans. 

“Sweet little cunt.”

He begins to fuck you harder, hips shoving against yours, so you feel the burning scratch of the table at your back. Every long, steady stroke forces a little whimper from your lips, a keening, desperate sound.

He leans forward, bracing his hands by your head. His sweaty chest presses against your calves, folding you under him, forcing you into a small, fuckable shape. Your faces inches apart, every grunting breath hot against your open mouth.

And the angle allows him to drive that much deeper, the thick heat of his cock stretching inside of you, scraping against something new. A secret hollow, a hidden place that’s white-hot and wet.

Your legs start to tremble, stomach tensing. 

“Wait — fuck, I think— ”

Your vision goes white, body arching, head tilting back as a low moan is pulled from somewhere deep inside you — that empty, aching place. 

And then it spills out of you, a hot, slick rush of release. 

Joel groans, low and almost painful, fucking through the wet mess of you. His hands pressing your thighs even further apart, watching as your hole flutters around him. A sticky-slick pulse, a sudden gush. Soaking the length of his cock, the dark hair at the base of him.

“Fuck, honey.”

He pulls out, his cock shining with your release, dripping with it. 

You stare up at him. Jaw slack, eyes wide. Legs still shaking in his hands as he holds you open, keeps you spread.

And that’s — new. 

When his eyes flick up to meet yours, his expression is intense. He looks like he wants to rip you open, to eat you raw. 

“You’re gonna do that again.”

And you whine. You’re already so sensitive, stripped down to your shivering core. Little tremors wrack through you, and you writhe in Joel’s grasp.

But he doesn’t let go.

He nudges your knees further apart. Drags his fingers through your sore, swollen folds, the aching mess between your legs.

“Didn’t tell me this pretty cunt could come like that.”

And you want to tell him you didn’t know, you’ve never done that before. 

But then he slides two thick fingers into your stretched, sensitive hole. Pressing deep, curling up. Stroking that spot inside you. Your hips jerk, twitching against him, but he holds you steady. 

“There it is.”

He flattens his other hand against your stomach, the tense fluttering muscles. He presses down, feeling his own fingers deep inside of you. And you can’t think, can’t form words. Can only feel him, that pressure, the burning heat that builds.

He fucks into you with his fingers. Fast, hard.

“Show me,” he grunts, “Soak my fucking fingers.”

It’s so much, almost too much. The slick shove of him into your hole, the sticky-wet heat. There’s a whining, desperate panic and you feel something inside you about to snap.

And then it does.

A gush of slick pours out of you. Soaking his hand, coating his fingers in a sweet, syrupy release. 

“Good girl.”

He doesn’t stop. Filling you again and again with his fingers. His palm digging deeper into your stomach, arm flexing as he fucks you with what feels like his whole hand. 

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulder. Pulling him closer, pushing him away.

He grunts, pressing down, fucking deeper. 

“Know you have more for me.”

And somehow, you do.

Your eyes roll back and your mind goes white-hot, scorching. It sears through you, a burning wave of arousal, a tight pressure between your hips. Your back arches off the table as another surge of release rips through you, spills over his hand, drips down onto the dirty bar floor.

“Fuck. There you go.”

It leaves you boneless, a shaking body beneath his hands, a soft bundle of shivering limbs.

You feel the drag of his tongue along your inner thigh, collecting the drops of your release, the wet that still drips out of you. He licks a broad stroke through your soaked folds and you whine, way too sensitive, but he doesn’t linger long. 

Joel stands between your knees, gently tugging your legs down so they dangle from the edge of the table, around his hips.

You blink up at him. A wobbly, soaking wet mess. Tears clinging to your eyelashes, a bloom of blotchy-red blush across your cheeks and chest.

His hand comes up to your jaw, coaxing it open, thumb swiping over your bottom lip. You let your mouth hang open, wet and waiting. 

He leans over you and spits your own release in your mouth.

“Swallow it.”

You do, your own taste sliding over your tongue.

He stands over you and strokes his cock over your damp, shivering stomach. You can hear the soft schlick of your own wetness on his skin. His eyes are dark, fixed on yours as he fucks into his hand.

All you can do is tremble, legs twitching around him, a faint please slipping from your lips.

And then he’s coming, spilling onto your stomach and chest. The damp spray of semen over your skin, coating the marks left by his mouth. 

You stay like that for a moment, looking up at him. 

The only sound is the thunder of your pulse in your ears. The low hum of the radiator. Your quiet little gasps, his ragged breathing. Filling the damp, sticky air.

“Alright, let’s cut there.”

And it’s over. 

You come back to yourself. To the bar and the set, the stale air and sweaty press of the table beneath you. Tess standing a few feet away. The camera and crew. The sun hanging low in the sky behind a dirty window pane. 

Joel looks down at you. Something unreadable in his expression.

You force yourself to sit up. Still sensitive, sore in a way you’ve never felt before. 

He steps away, and there’s an ache, a twinge —

But he doesn’t go far. 

He takes the robe from Tess and brings it back to you. He wraps it around your shoulders, brushes your hair back from your damp, sweaty face. Your body is still soft and boneless in his hands, melting into him, a drip of a girl.

“You good?” he asks.

You blink up at him. Feel the realization settling in you, the slow spread of a smile across your lips. 

“I didn't know I could do that.”

It’s a giddy, tripping thing inside you. Something new, something secret he found in you.

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches. An almost smile.

“Hate to be a buzzkill,” Tess says from behind you, “But we’ve gotta start striking the set. Bill will kill us if we keep him closed after five.”

Joel steps away, tugging his jeans up over his hips.

You slide down from the table, knees still weak. Your steps are a little shaky, and you feel coltish and feeble as you slip down the hallway, away from the set. Feeling Joel’s eyes on you as you make your way back to the bathroom.

Inside, you strip the sweaty mess of a dress from your skin. Splash water onto your feverish face, wipe the sticky mess of semen from your stomach. Settle back into yourself. 

You feel — strange. A little aching, a little raw. Ripped open in a way that you rarely are after other scenes. You’ve never needed much aftercare, never really asked for it. But now, you think maybe it might be nice. 

To have a quiet moment. To be touched in a way that wasn’t just sexual. To be held.

But that’s not what this is. 

And you know that, even if the thing in your stomach doesn’t. Even if its sharp little teeth are still scraping against you. The want satisfied, the hunger satiated. But something else left waiting. 

Wanting more.

You step back into the hallway, still doing up the buttons on your cut-offs. And Joel is standing there, scrubbing a towel along the back of his neck, drying the sweat from his skin.

You look up at him. Wary, uncertain. Not sure where you stand.

His gaze holds yours for a moment. Unreadable, unreachable. Then he jerks his head towards the door.

He kicks his shoes off and loosens his tie as he rounds the corner to the kitchen to find you standing in front of the stove, tending to what he assumes is some chicken in a pan. The exhaust fan on the range hood and the ceiling fan are working overtime, pushing the smoke out of the kitchen and through the open window. 

“Hi, bebita” Javi says as he enters the smokey kitchen. You don’t say anything in response, just give him a quick sideways glance before turning back to the stove. 

He crosses the room and moves to stand behind you. Maybe if he had seen the frown on your face, or the way your eyebrows are deeply creased in frustration, he would’ve said something very different. 

But he didn’t see. 

“Dinner smells delicious” he teases, squeezing your hips. He’s expecting a little chuckle from you, or at least an annoyed eye roll with a hidden smile. 

So he’s caught very off guard when you slam the spatula down on the counter with a loud, frustrated sigh.

“Well I’m sorry that I tried to make a nice meal. Guess I’m fuckin’ useless at that too.” 

You try to push yourself out of his grasp, but his grip only tightens. 

“Hey okay okay, easy.” Javi soothes, turning you around so you’re facing him. “What’s wrong, bebita?” he asks, his tone immediately switching from teasing to soft and tener.You puff out a heavy sigh, refusing to look up at him and staring at his white shirt stretched across his chest instead. 

All the thoughts about your horrid day at work that you’ve been trying to block out break the damn and come flooding back into your head; your boss telling you that you fucked up two different major tasks and refusing to tell you how to do them correctly, catching your coworkers gossiping about you in the breakroom, your computer dying right before you could save any of the work you had done for the day, and how you tried to come home and cook as a distraction but you clearly forgot about the chicken sitting on the stove and almost caught the house on fire. 

You hadn’t even noticed the tears welling up in your eyes until Javi is wiping away the ones that have brimmed over and slid down your cheeks. 

“Cariño…” Javi whispers, his tone drenched with concern. That’s all it takes. You instantly break down, falling forward into Javi’s chest as your whole body shakes as you sob, your tears wetting the crisp fabric of his shirt. 

You tell him everything in between wet gasps and uneven breaths, unloading everything at once. He just holds you through it, nodding along and giving you an occasional understanding hum while running his palms up and down your back until you finish talking. 

“Your boss is an asshole” is the first thing Javi says. “Your coworkers too” 

You respond with a pathetic sniffle. “I really fucked up though. And now everyone thinks I can’t do my job” 

"Bebita,” Javi starts, continuing to rub soothing circles on your back. “Everyone has tough days at work. It doesn't define your abilities or your worth. You're so much more than a single bad day."

You sniffle again, still leaning heavily against him for support. 

"It's just... I'm tired of feeling like I'm constantly failing."

Javi clicks his tongue and moves one hand to use two fingers to gently tilt your chin up, making you meet his easy gaze. 

"You're not failing, mi amor. Sometimes things don’t go as planned and that’s okay. You're learning and growing."

You wish he wasn’t so right all the time. Sometimes talking back to the false narrative that runs rampant in your head 24/7 is too much work. 

"I know”  you sigh, wiping away tears with the back of your hand. “It’s just hard not to let it get to me."

Javi's thumb brushes against your cheek, his touch gentle and comforting. 

"I understand. Just remember you're not alone in this. I’ll always be here for you, my sweet girl” 

You manage a weak smile, feeling a bit of warmth starting to seep back into your heavy heart. 

“Thank you” you whisper.

Javi smiles warmly, his eyes full of admiration and unwavering support. 

“Of course, baby. I’m here for you always. No matter what.” 

You let your head fall back to his chest and you take a deep breath. He keeps rubbing your back, physically feeling the tension leaving your body as you melt against him. Without your brain in overdrive, you finally register the smell of his faded cologne and his cigarettes sticking to his shirt, the scent immediately washing away more of the tension in your muscles. The warm feeling in your chest starts to spread all the way down to your toes, your whole body feeling 10 times lighter than it did 5 minutes ago as his embrace brings you a sense of solace you hadn’t experienced all day. 

After another silent minute or two, he places a kiss to your hairline before leaning in close, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. 

“You know, there’s another way to forget about it for a little while.”

His low voice alone already has the base of your spine tingling. You pick your head up to meet his gaze, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. 

“Yeah?” you ask, a weak smile slowly spreading across your face.

“Mhmm” he hums, his hands sliding down to your waist and slipping under the hem of your shirt, his warm fingers splaying over your skin. 

"You've had a tough day," Javi continues, his voice a sensual murmur. "And I think you deserve something to take your mind off all that stress."

His words, laden with suggestion, push all the worries out of your body, replacing it with a thrill that courses through your veins. He leans in until his face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Let me take care of you, bebita."

All you can do is nod dumbly. Javi grins as he pulls you in closer. His lips capture yours in a slow, tantalizing kiss, his lips soft and warm against yours, the taste of him flooding your senses. His hands slide up from your waist to your rib cage, rucking up your shirt in the process. Every touch sends a jolt of electricity through you, drawing you impossibly closer to him. He pulls away just long enough to pull it over your head before his lips capture yours again. 

He wraps one arm around you, keeping you close as his other hand cups your jaw, his fingers curling around the back of your neck as his thumb mindlessly brushes your cheek. Your hands find their way to his back, fingers tracing the lines of his muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. 

He swipes his tongue across your bottom lip and you part your lips with a soft sigh, his tongue immediately sliding against yours. It’s a dance of desire and vulnerability, an unspoken promise that he’s here to take away all of your worries. The rest of the world quickly fades into a distant blur, leaving just the two of you in this electric connection.

 His lips eventually leave your mouth, his breathless chuckle fanning across your jaw at the sound of your quiet whimper. He trails wet kisses along your jaw, down to the side of your neck, each one accompanied by a soft exhale that causes goosebumps to erupt over every inch of your skin. The sensation is exquisite and maddeningly arousing, and you find yourself tilting your head back, giving him better access. 

His teeth gently graze over your pulse point, sending shiver coursing through your entire body. Your heart races as he finds a spot just below your collarbone, nipping and sucking before soothing the dark spot with his tongue. His hands roam your torso, big, warm palms exploring every inch of exposed skin. You can feel the bulge in his jeans rapidly grow against your hip and your core throbs with a dull ache in response. Everything that happened earlier is miles away as you feel yourself relaxing deeper into his embrace, losing yourself in him. 

He pulls away when you whine quietly and looks down at you, his pupils already blown with lust and desire. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear then ducks down to place a chaste kiss to your lips before whispering “Bedroom. Now.” 

You nod and turn to head out of the kitchen, letting out a small giggle when he lands a quick slap to your ass. His eyes are glued to your backside as he follows you to the bedroom, his fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt along the way

You flop down on the edge of the bed with Javi just a few steps behind you. He tosses his shirt to the corner of the room and starts working on his belt as he stalks towards you. You smirk and reach behind you, undoing the clasp of your bra and letting it slide off your arms. Javi licks his lips at the sight of you sitting there in only your soft cotton shorts, looking like he’s about to pounce on his prey. 

He crosses the room until he’s standing inches in front of you, then slips his belt out of the loops and tosses it aside. You reach out, intent on undoing the button and zipper of his jeans but he stops you by wrapping a large hand around your wrist before you can touch him. 

“Nuh uh, baby. I’m takin’ care of you tonight”  

His words send a strong pulse of excitement down your spine and your heart pounds in your chest. He lets go of your wrist and you let it fall limply back to your side as you stare at him through your lashes. 

“Take off your shorts.” 

You immediately follow his command, quickly standing and moving to slide your shorts and panties down your legs so fast that you stumble a bit when they get caught around your feet. Javi reaches out and grabs your arm to steady you as you step out of your shorts and kick them to the side. 

“Good girl” he chuckles, dropping his hand from your arm. You watch with wide eyes, saliva gathering in your mouth as he shuffles out his jeans, his hardened cock gently slapping against his lower abdomen. He catches your gaze and gives you a knowing wink before making his way onto the bed. You stand in place, patiently waiting for your next set of instructions as he props himself up against the headboard. 

“C’mere” he says softly, patting his thigh. You positively beam as you climb on the bed towards him. You face him and you’re about to straddle his lap, but he stops you with a hand on your hip. 

“Turn around, cariño.”

You listen and immediately turn around and sit down between his spread legs, pressing your back into his chest. His cock presses firmly into the small of your back, a warm and welcome presence. With a contented sigh, you lean back and rest your head on his shoulder. 

“You listen so well, baby” Javi rasps, his voice rough with arousal. You only hum in response, your lips curving into a grin as you glow under his praise. He presses a kiss to your temple and his hands find your torso once again, slowly sliding up and down your sides. But he can only resist temptation for so long. 

He uses both hands to cup your breasts and you both let out soft sighs in unison. 

“Tan bonita, princesa” he whispers, his fingers finding both of your nipples. A small noise escapes from your parted lips as he feathers the pads of his fingers over the sensitive buds, teasing you until they’re stiffened peaks. He then pinches both, gently rolling them between his thumb and fingers. 

“That feel good?” he asks softly, his lips moving against your temple. 

You nod, letting out an uneven breath as you involuntarily push your chest forward into his touch. He pinches a little harder, pulling a delicate gasp from you. His cock twitches against you in response. 

“Want you to use your words, bebita.” 

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself before responding. 

“F-feels good, Javi.” 

He clicks his tongue and squeezes a little harder again. 

“And what do you call me when I’m makin’ you feel good, princesa?” he asks, his voice dangerously low in your ear. 

Your mouth goes dry and your heart skips a beat in your chest. 

Fuck. 

The stress of your day was already far in the back of your mind, but Javi was intent on erasing it completely. And he knows exactly how to do so. 

“Daddy” you correct yourself, the simple word placing you on precipice of submission “Feels really good, daddy” 

“That’s right, bebita” Javi groans softly, his cock twitching in approval. “Such a good girl for me.” 

He then hooks his chin over your shoulder while you exhale a long, shaky breath as one of his hands leaves your breast and slides down your stomach. You clit pulses in anticipation, but he avoids where you want him most and instead smooths his hand over the top of your thigh. Your chest heaves with every breath as he teases you with gentle touches, getting you all worked up just the way you both like it. 

“You want me to touch you, princessa?” Javi asks, his fingertips dancing delicately on the inside of your thigh. It tickles and you reflexively try to close your legs, but he brings his foot to the inside of your calf and pushes it to the side before placing his foot flat on the bed, keeping your leg firmly in place. “Answer me.” 

“Yes, daddy, please” you whine, your voice coming out a lot more desperate than you intended. 

“Where, baby? Tell me where you want daddy’s fingers.” 

He’s teasing you, but it serves as an excellent distraction –  the events from earlier today are the least of your concerns right now. 

“You want them here?” he asks, his fingers now just barely tracing your dripping seam. “Want me to touch your pretty little pussy? Rub that pretty little clit?” 

You nod fervently and buck your hips up without thinking, your body betraying your patience and chasing after his touch. Javi chuckles darkly and harshly pinches your nipple with his other hand, making you jump in surprise. 

“Tell me, baby. Be a good girl and tell me.” 

You whimper, a hot flush spreading across your chest and creeping up your neck. You’ve been here a thousand times with him, been in far more desperate situations too. But the butterflies still tickle your tummy and the tips of your ears burn with embarrassment. 

“Want…want you to touch my pretty little pussy, daddy.” you murmur, the last of your sentence barely audible. 

He immediately rewards you by dipping two fingers into your slippery folds, groaning softly in your ear when he feels how wet you are for him. “Mmm that’s my good girl. Always fuckin’ soaked for me, huh?” he asks, dipping the tips of his fingers into your hole, gathering your slick and dragging it up to your clit. You nod lazily, your eyes fixed on his hand between your legs. 

He starts with slow, languid circles, his cock pulsing against your back with every small noise that bubbles up out of your throat. His other hand is still occupied with pinching and rolling your nipple. Hot arousal flows through your veins, every nerve ending on fire just from his easy touches. You want it faster, you need more. But you know he won’t give it to you unless you ask. 

“Pl-please, daddy. Faster please” you huff, squirming in his lap as you try to suppress the urge to buck your hips up again. 

“Look at you, princesa. Being such a good girl asking’ nicely like that” Javi whispers, instantly picking up the pace of his fingers and adding more pressure. You let out a long, low moan, the sound of it filling the bedroom. “Sound so pretty too” he adds, pressing his lips to your temple. 

His other hand leaves your nipple and he shushes you softly when you whine at the loss. He doesn’t tease you this time, his hand immediately joining the other between your legs. He keeps his two fingers on your clit, rubbing firm circles just like you asked while his other hand finds your leaking entrance. 

He doesn’t make you ask again before he slides his middle finger inside of you, probably more out of his own desperation to feel you clenching around him. You’re absolutely soaked, you juices freely flowing out of you, down his finger and into his palm like warm honey. He wants to draw it out, slowly work you up until you’re about to snap, but he’s not feeling very patient anymore. 

He slides his finger in and out of you a few more times before adding a second, curling his fingertips. He finds the spot inside of you instantly and you reward him with a loud gasp, your whole body trembling as you relax against his chest. 

“That’s it, baby. Just relax for me” Javi coos, his voice tight and strained as he tries to contain his own excitement. He pumps his fingers inside you, his fingertips nudging against the spot that has your whole body jolting with every pass. Every inch of your skin feels on fire as he works you, lewd sounds filling the room as he plays with your slick pussy. You feel wetness on your back and quickly realize that it’s his precum leaking from his warm tip, smearing against your skin as you squirm around. 

“Mierda, princesa” Javi groans as you clench tightly around his two fingers. “You close, baby?” he asks, already knowing the answer. You answer with a high-pitched whine, throwing your head back on his shoulder. 

“Cum for me, baby” Javi grunts, moving his fingers faster, bringing you to the edge. “Cum all over my fingers and then I’ll fuck you, nice and deep just how you like it” 

His fingers are relentless, rubbing dizzying circles on your clit and punching up into your g-spot. You can’t hold back anymore, rocking your hips and grinding down on his fingers. Your chest burns with every breath you manage to suck in, the hot coil in your tummy wound tightly, threatening to burst at any moment. You open your mouth and try to tell him that you’re about to cum, but every time you try to speak, the only sounds that come out are loud gasps in-between broken moans. 

And then you finally snap. Javi groans as you clamp down around his fingers, so tight that he can hardly keep moving them. He then quickly pulls them out, his eyes wide with amazement as your juices gush out of you, drops of it landing on his leg, most of it soaking the blankets underneath you. 

 “There’s my good girl” he hisses between clenched teeth. He watches intently as you thrash around, the sight of you squirting and the sweet sounds of your moans going straight to his cock as he works you through your orgasm. He doesn’t let up until you come down, whimpering and jolting at his touch. 

You collapse backwards against his chest, your head on his shoulder as you pant and try to catch your breath. He goes back to tracing your seam, his touch featherlight once again. You let out a sigh, your limbs heavy and head fuzzy with pure ecstasy.

He eventually moves his hands away, placing them on your thighs and letting out a low whistle. 

“Did so well, princesa. Look how much you came for me” Javi rasps, nosing at the column of your neck.

You pick your head up, looking down at the aftermath of your orgasm. You laugh breathlessly at the dark spot underneath you and the liquid on Javi’s calf shining in the dim glow of the lamp on the bedside table. Javi’s chest rumbles with his own chuckle as he presses sweet kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck. 

He doesn’t give you much time to recover before he taps your thighs and gives you your next command. “Hands and knees, princesa.” 

You’ve barely had time to catch your breath, but your pussy still aches in anticipation of his earlier promise. You take a deep breath and find enough strength to sit up straight. Your limbs are weak and noodly as you crawl over to a dry spot on the bed and get into position, your ass in the air with your face pressed against the soft blankets. 

You crane your neck to watch Javi who flashes you a devilish grin as he assumes his position on his knees behind you. You give him a sweet smile back and wiggle your ass. And he takes the bait, groping your cheeks with both hands before he spreads you open, putting everything on display just for him. 

“Fuckin’ gorgeous, baby.” he growls before leaning over to spit. You gasp and moan softly at the feeling of the warm liquid landing on your asshole and sliding down to pool at your swollen clit. He then brings his thumb up, using the pad to gently rub his saliva against your puckered hole. “So fuckin’ gorgeous” 

“Daddyyyy” you whine pitifully, pushing your hips back into his touch. He chuckles breathlessly and wraps a hand around the base of his cock and lining himself up. 

“You’re so good, baby.” Javi starts as he slides his cock in the mess between your cheeks. “My strong, beautiful, intelligent, good girl.”

Your face heats up at the praise, the words stirring up the butterflies in your stomach yet again. 

“Thank you, daddy” you murmur, the sound muffled by the blankets. Javi just hums and continues to glide his cock through the wetness, addicted to the way whimper every time his cockhead brushes against your swollen clit and your aching entrance. You whimper and wiggle your hips again, trying to get what you want. 

“Repeat it.” Javi commands simply. “Wanna hear you say it” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and whimper again. He’s completely taken over your headspace now, forcing you into a place of submission where there’s no room to think about anything other than him and what he asks of you. This is how he takes care of you, how he can turn every bad day on its head and take away every single one of your worries until you’re a blissed out mess underneath him. And he’s really fucking good at it. 

“I’m your strong, beautiful, intelligent, girl” you choke out, a fresh wave of slick gushing out of you and onto his rock hard cock at the forced admission.

“Forgot one” he breathes, his thumb still rubbing at your tight little hole. You wrack your brain, thoughts moving slower than syrup in your head as you try to remember what he said not even 10 seconds ago. 

“Good.” you say, as soon as you remember. I’m you’re good girl, daddy.” 

“Yes you are, baby” Javi says, notching his tip at your entrance. “So fucking good for your daddy.” 

He pushes all the way in, burying himself to balls deep in your aching cunt in one smooth movement. The sounds you make are obscene as you twist your fists in the blanket underneath him. He’s so deep, you swear you can feel him somewhere near your lungs. Just like he promised. He moans roughly behind you, the feeling on your warm walls squeezing rhythmically around his neglected cock overwhelming all of his senses.

But you don’t let him catch a break. You barely give yourself time to adjust before you take matters into your own hands and start rocking your hips, fucking yourself on his cock. Javi inhales sharply, both hands finding your hips and trying to hold you in place, but you’re not having it. 

“Daddy please–oh shit– please fuck me, need it so bad” you whine as you continue to rock your hips despite Javi’s best efforts to stop you. 

Javi just growls in response, his fingertips digging into your hips as he slides out until just his tip rests inside before slamming back into you. The loud moan that he pulls from you travels as a shiver down his spine and fuels his fire. He quickly finds a steady pace, brutally slamming into you like he’s fucking the stress out right out of your body. You let all the moans and whines and whimpers float freely out of your mouth as you take what he gives you, as he fills you up and stuffs you full over and over and over again. 

“You're so good for me” Javi grunts, gripping your hips and moving them backwards to meet his every thrust. “Feel so fucking good squeezing me like that, this tight little pussy was fucking made for me” 

Your eyes roll back into your head, his words once again turning your brain into mush as he fucks you into another plane of existence. You’re already teetering on the edge of another release, your lower abdomen burning with it, your swollen, neglected clit pulsing and desperate for attention.

And Javi feels it too.

“Already gonna cum again?” Javi asks breathlessly before landing a smack to your ass. You yelp in shock and there’s another wave of your juices leaking out onto his cock. 

“Ohh you like that, don’t you baby?” Javi coos before spanking you again, this time a bit harsher. Your face scrunches in pleasure and words have completely eluded you so you just cry out against the mattress, hoping that and your clenching pussy gets the point across. 

Thankfully Javi doesn’t ask you to answer him. Instead he keeps fucking into you, delivering firmm hits to your ass, completely mesmerized with the way it jiggles as he spanks and fucks into you. He’s just as close as you are, never lasts very long if he’s inside without cumming at least once beforehand. 

He moves one hand from your hip to between your legs, his fingers tracing where you’re stretched out so nicely around his thick cock before they land on your clit once again. You sob as he starts immediately rubbing fast, harsh circles that send you speeding towards the finish line. 

“Oh fuck, daddy! Gonna cum m’gonna cum pleasssee let me cum” 

Javi sucks in a harsh breath, his eyebrows furrowing together as his cock lurches inside of you. 

“Yeah, fuck yeah, baby. Cum on this cock like a good girl” Javi grits out, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he clenches his teeth together, trying to hold himself together. Your hands scramble against the blankets as he slams into you with newfound vigor, pushing you up the bed with each thrust and making you scream in ecstasy.

“Cum and then I’ll fill you up” he grunts. “I’ll fill you up and fuck it so deep that it’ll be leaking out of you for days, just reminding you of how good you are for me. Always so fucking good baby jesus christ” 

His filthy promises send you flying over the edge. You bury your face in the blankets and scream, your legs giving out from the force of it, your hips dropping to the bed and leaving you in a prone position. And Javi doesn’t miss a beat. He presses his chest against your back, using his freehand to support the bulk of his weight as he keeps working his fingers on your clit the best he can, not letting his pace falter even once. 

The new position shoves his cock even deeper inside of you, punching against your cervix with each thrust as he rearranges your guts. Your only option is to lie there let him drag out your release for as long as possible. 

“That’s it” Javi rasps, his voice sounding absolutely wrecked now. “Sweet little pussy is fuckin’ milking my cock, cariño. You want my cum? Want me to stuff you fuckin’ full?” 

You’re too far gone to respond, reduced to nothing but putty in his hands, your trembling body limp and pliant just for him to use. He can only hold it together for a few more thrusts before he buries himself all the way inside of you, spilling his hot seed deep inside of you.

Staying true to his promise, he fucks you through it, shallowly moving his hips and pushing his cum as deep as possible. You can feel his cock throbbing inside of you, the sensation of it all pushing you over the edge once again, though you’re not sure if you ever came back from the last one. Javi watches in amazement as you cum again, your voice breaking on desperate sobs while you squeeze around him, truly milking him for all he’s worth.

He moves his hand from your clit once your moans start to die down and then collapses on top of you, carefully though as not to completely crush you. You welcome the weight, a comforting pressure that makes you feel so warm and safe and secure. 

He stays buried inside of you as you both come down. You can feel his heart pounding from where his chest is pressed against you, his warm breath fanning across your neck as you both try to catch your breath. The two of you stay there for a while, basking in the post coitus glow. His cock softens inside of you and he only moves when his cum starts to dribble out of you. 

You whine softly as he moves to sit up, his now soft cock slipping out of you and leaving you feeling empty. But the feeling doesn’t last too long. 

He scoots back so he’s kneeling between your legs, both hands on your cheeks and spreading you open again. You feel his eyes burning holes into your skin as he watches his cum slowly leaking out of you. He doesn’t let it fall too far though, using a finger to scoop up all that’s dribbled out and pushing it back inside. You moan softly at the sensation and it takes everything in him not to fuck you with his fingers once again. 

“Think we need to get you in a nice hot shower” he says, his tone sweet and soft once again as he removes his fingers. 

You turn your head to look at him through hooded eyes, a dopey smile plastered to your face, looking completely fucked out.

“And we’re ordering take out too” he announces, leaning over to place a sweet kiss on your cheek. Images of the burnt chicken sitting on the stove float through your head, along with fuzzy memories of the events from earlier today. But you don’t give a single fuck anymore. Javi thoroughly wiped every ounce of stress from your brain. And now anything that isn’t directly related to you and Javi at this moment, on your shared bed in the dim light of the evening sun filtering through the curtain is far, far away. 

“We’re not getting fucking chicken” is all you say and the sound of yours and Javi’s laughter rings pleasantly through the room and in your ears as content seeps deep into your bones.

When you wake up, your mouth is a desert.  Cigarettes, whiskey, and the faint taste of someone who wasn’t your husband coats your tongue.  Head pounding, there are parts of your body you didn’t realise could even get dry.  Your eyes aren’t open yet, as if you need the world to calibrate with you before you adjust to it, and when you do – you know where you are immediately.

Guilt hits you like a thousand stones to your chest.

“Fuck,” you sit up all to fast, it dizzies you, only adding to your heart palpitations.  “Fuck,” you choke a sob.  Fearful, panicked.  What the fuck have you done?

Javi– Peña wasn’t in his bed.  You weren’t sure where he was, and you didn’t want to find out.  Not a single part of you could bring yourself to look at him.  The two of you held a secret that shouldn’t have seen the light of day– or, the light of neon.  You get flashbacks of the bar, of his hands on you.  It’s all too much, rebelling up your throat as your eyes dart around in a dire need for the bathroom.

You make your way out of bed enough to hit your knees in front of the toilet bowl, the rest of your regret becoming a tangible entity residing with you in Javier's bathroom.  Couldn’t get any worse.  At least that’s what you think, until you come to the sinking realisation that Julian doesn’t know where you are.  You place your forehead over your forearm and cry into the toilet: vomit, snot, and tears taking over your face.  The prettiest sight.  A hangover’s dream.

You give yourself time to be here.  You knew if your husband would wait on you this long, he’d continue to be patient until you got yourself together.  This truth makes your howling worse, shaking from how royally messed up your life has become within a matter of hours.  It takes about five more minutes for you to regulate your nervous system enough to stand up, but everything equally feels like it’s spinning and that makes things difficult.

You groan on your way upright, letting out a heavy sigh before rising to your feet and flushing.  You wash your mouth out, wash your face, try to cleanse yourself from the night before.  You redirect any thought that may suggest otherwise.  It wasn’t meant to happen, and Javier would know that soon.

It doesn’t take you too much longer to feel suitable in exiting the bathroom when you realise just how naked you are – completely, even.  And he was right, you had a limp you couldn’t ignore.  That truth, you couldn’t help but bite a grin back at.  He was everywhere if you focused: you could still feel him inside you, your hips sore all the way to the apex of your thighs and down.  He was everywhere.  God, you were fucked up for finding it sexy.

A shirt you never really saw him in was on the bed… did he leave that for you?  You slip the larger t-shirt over your frame and ignore the way it smelled innately like Javi.  Peña, you remind yourself.

After the worn fabric touches your skin, you’re brave enough to tiptoe out into his living room.  Your eyes scan the kitchen where he ate you out.  Where he made you squirt.  It all looks cleaned now, as if nothing happened.  A part of you hopes it’s true, and it fights with the other side of you begging for a round two.  All of the quiet giving signs of one truth: Javier is not at home.  No note, no instructions if you should lock up.  Just gone.

Maybe it was better that way.  Loneliness didn’t creep around you in the way it would if Julian did this to you.  It didn’t cause any disruption in your day, or alter it dramatically.  If anything, you felt relieved you didn’t have to talk to him.  To excavate an already awkward and dead situation.  You took what you wanted, that was all.

You decide to utilise his shower, going back to the hellscape that was where you threw up and undressed again.  You turn the dials to a steamy, hot shower – he wouldn’t mind right?  You’d send him a bill.  When it’s time, the water feels like a blessing as your sinuses open.  Your head, less bogged down, yet a cloud of shame resides in the shower with you.  You were careful not to use his products, not to smell like him if you could help it and definitely remove the scent of cigarettes from your skin… if it were possible.  Regardless, you stay in the shower a little longer before it’s time to remove yourself.

Being in Peña’s space when he wasn’t here was nice.  Although, it looks new… because it was.  Furniture littering the living room when you’re dried and dressed.  He was back from Colombia, and that’s really as much as he was willing to share.  He didn’t know for how long, and it was tinged with rushed embarrassment about the issue.

But, most of his work was like that, from what you could tell.  A lot of secrecy, inability to talk about his work out in the open.

He knew how to keep a secret.

No, don’t go there.

The skirt’s zipper is popped open from last night and when you try to pull it up, you resign to tie your jacket around the fabric.  It’s not long before you’re out.

That was that.

But you can’t go home.  You lean back against Peña’s front door when the palpitations come back in full force, as if the fresh air held truths about what you did than you could even comprehend.  Fucked, you’re fucked.

Your hair is wet, you’re kind of cold even though the Texan heat surrounds you.  You feel lost and scared and disgusting.  And as if your mind maps your route for you, you walk to Gabbie’s instead of your own house.  Knuckles graze over the door, you don’t even really know what time it is, but there’s a possibility she’s at work unle– “...Are you okay?”  Gabbie looks concerned when she opens the door to find you on the other side: hungover, mascara still seemingly down your face even after the shower, your clothes reeking.  She sees you for who you are, unable to stop the floodgates from lifting.  Your face screws up in a weep you can’t stop, and she ushers you inside – looking behind her before closing the door.

“I… I…,” you hiccup, burying your face in your best friend’s shoulder, you feel it when she lets you give in to her.  A worry comes over you, would she still support you like this after she finds out the truth?  After she finds out who you really are?  Repulsion grips your throat again, unable to form it.  But Gabbie is tolerant, you always appreciated it about her.  You needed the space to think, and she was always good at giving that to you.  Something Julian was more impatient about, but it wasn’t the time to point out his shortcomings.  God, your head hurt.

“C’mon, let’s get you some tea,” she whispers, curling her nose at the scent of smoke on the fabric, “and some new clothes.”  You sniffle and nod, following her into the kitchen while she goes to grab some comfortable clothes for you to replace.

“What happened, honey?”

With your arms curled at the kitchen counter, you rest your head in them, “I fucked everything up.”  It feels like you did, feels like you couldn’t undo this if you tried – if you even wanted to.  Your voice sounds meek, whiny, you can’t believe it’s you who’s saying the words.  You could and wanted to be better than you were. 

“What do you mean?”  Gabbie pulls a couple of cups from the cupboard before turning on the kettle, your mind not registering the irony of having hot tea for where you are in the world, but her air conditioning made the experience understandable.  Really, any thought to take you out of your narrative aided in not completely fainting from the inertia of reality that stuck to the pit of your stomach.

“Julian and I,” you start.  An attempt.  A purchase.  Something to make it less bad than how you felt, anything to take the sting away.  “We-we had this big fight last night, and I-I went down to the bar and I ran into someone and…,” tears soak your face again, you choke on the sobs before you can get anything else out.  You couldn’t utter it, the guilt weaves a vice grip around your voice.  You couldn’t tell her it was Peña, and you couldn’t tell her you fucked anyone else but your husband.  Those two truths pinned your eyes down, disabling you to look up from the granite tops.

You weren’t looking for sympathy, and Gabbie knew that.  But fuck, when you look up, pity is coating her face.  She mutters your name when she walks around the side and grips you in a hug.  “You love him, honey.  You made a mistake.  What matters now is making it right.”

You’re not sure what hurt worse, the prospect of making it right or the fact that when Gabbie calls what you had with Peña a mistake, it twists a knife inside you – one you weren’t sure you could take out now.

You pull away when the kettle begins to sing and you’re able to snort a laugh at her curled nose.  The scent of cigarettes, equally from Javi– Peña and the bar, circulates you.  “Seriously.  You need a shower.” “And those clothes, could I borrow some?”

After finishing your cup – and having a long talk, you utilise your friends shower and slip on a fresh pair of clothes – and you’re grateful for the guest bathroom stocked with unused toothbrushes.  You look more presentable, and feel a little better.  Albeit, feeling more indebted than before you came through the threshold of her place.  “Listen, I can’t and won’t tell you to hold this secret for me.  It’s too much to bear, you shouldn’t be responsible for holding this.”  Your hand brushes over your face, but she’s quick to interject.

“You’re my friend.  My best friend.  You don’t owe me anything.  I’m not going to leave you or rat you out.  I don’t judge you.  Just make this right, okay?  I hate to see you like this.”

She’s a good friend.  Makes you wonder if Julian is a friend like this to Peña.  Fuck, it never ends.

You don’t know what you did to deserve Gabbie, but you hug her anyway.  Your clothes in your bag, you’re on your way.  You thank her, you kiss her cheek, and you look intently into her eyes before leaving.

You had to make this right.

Julian, I had an affair, you think.  That’s how you’ll tell him.  No.  Listen, Julian – last night I got drunk.  God, no.  It was all wrong.

You had to tell him, but one thing was for certain: you weren’t going to say who.  You just couldn’t bring yourself to split up their friendship, no matter how mutually involved Javier was.  And you couldn’t bear the thought of Julian’s borderline smug expression at how correct he was in assuming the worst of you.

How he did one thing wrong and you made a dumpster fire of it.

The pounding in your head was more from tension and stress by the time you made it to your front door.

And nervous couldn’t even begin to describe how you felt.  Nauseous, heart pounding, sweat prickles your skin.

When you unlock the door, a new sense of silence fills the air of your home.  It’s eerie, being here after doing what you did.  Like your past self is slapping you in the face as soon as you close the door behind you.  ‘How could you ruin this home?  How could you throw away every second of time and love you poured into this relationship?’.  You close your eyes, dizzy as you press the back of your head against the frame of your house – finding support, finding breath.  But not finding your husband.

“Julian?” you call out, toeing your shoes off before putting your purse away; keys in the pot.  Nothing.  No where.

You make your way to the kitchen when you find a note.

Out with Peña.  Be back soon.  I miss you.  – J

Fuck.  Holy fucking shit.  What?  What?!  Your mouth slacks open in shock.  Followed by fear, followed by rage.  Did Javier invite him out?  While you were fucking asleep?  You felt as though you were going to faint when you heard the phone ring.  Throat dry, you cling to the edge of the tabletop before taking the phone off the hook – you shakily press the receiver to your ear.  “H-hello?”

“Wow, you sound guilty,” your breath hitches and hotness washes over your skin.

“Peña, I–”

“Who’s Peña, huh?  Not necessarily what you were saying last n–”

“Stop.  Just stop.  Where’s Julian?  He left a note, said he was with you.  Did you?  God, I can’t even say it.”

You can hear the drag of a cigarette on the other line and it forms flashbacks you did your best to deny you enjoyed.  You were so logical, so level-headed before his voice filtered through the microphone – the moment you hear the slip of nectarous syllables, you want to fold.  You hated this.  Pressing your forehead to the adjacent wall, the phone hangs loosely in your fist when you listen.

“I didn’t tell him anything, querida,” tears form in your eyes from your lack of control; the pet name panging you.  It shouldn’t have, but goddammit.  Goddammit.  Your hand braces against the pillar-lengthed frame, “he’s at work now.  He came by looking for you.  I told him you were with me last night–”

“What the fuck, Javier.”

“People saw you leave with me last night,” your name fits in his mouth better than it should and you swallow hard, knowing he’s right. “He would have found out.”

“This has to stop, we have to stop,” you can hear it – the strain on your throat, the knife inside, that ever present hum of your doom.  Your clammy palm touches your jaw as you will yourself to stand up straighter.  Instantly queasy, bad idea.  You sink down the wall, sitting down as the cord of the phone follows you.

“I know,” Javier whispers now, a bit pained.

“Did it hurt seeing him?” Your own voice bruised.

“Not as much as I anticipated.  That hurt more, probably.”

It’s quiet for a long time.  Your knees curled up to your chest, hands curled until your chin.

“I know that we have to stop,” Javi– fuck, Peña, starts, “I don’t know if I can.”

“Fuck,” you whisper, “we have to.” and it’s there.  It’s right there in how you say it.  How your words draw out rather than cut sharp.  More beseeching than a strong boundary.  An obvious sign of how you bend for him like kinetic energy’s effect on tree limbs from wind.  It is all in motion, too close to stop.  Your barrier is already washing away, and you cling closely to its threads.  You must keep your wits about you.  “We have to,” you repeat, your voice soaked in tears this time.

On the other line, Javier squeezes his eyes shut.  The cigarette burns between his fingers as he presses his index and thumb where the bridge of his nose meets.  And the thing with Javi, is that he doesn’t beg, but you’ve got him so wrapped up – so enthralled in what could be, maybe the chase, that he can’t see anything else.  “What will it take?”

That is when you hear the doorknob turn.  “I have to go,” you hush, rising to your feet and wiping your face, “can I call you later?” but he’s already hung up, so you do the same.  It knocks the air out of you, but you don’t have time to dwell.

Julian turns the corner to where you are: almost hidden between the kitchen and laundry room.  And if you were crying more, you’re doubled in tears now.

“Julian,” you cry, rushing to him.  Your arms wrap around him and although he wraps back around you, you’re left with a sinking feeling: guilt, shame, a veracity that this touch you were feeling wasn’t half as electric as the one you felt last night.  “Julian, I’m so sorry.” you snivel in his shoulder, feeling his arms wrap around you tighter.  The nose against your temple doesn’t feel as strong as Javier’s, and it all stings.  It feels a new sense of wrong when you pull away, and he’s thumbing under your eyes.

“No, I’m sorry,” his voice is soft, beckoning you to be close, and you want to – you really want to.

But you don’t know if you can.

That rush of why this shatter exists in the first place comes in waves as it crashes into your skin – leaving a film of betrayal over every cell.  Because it wasn’t just his lying that led you to the bar last night, it was the repetitious behaviour.  Julian’s demanding a different treatment than what he gave.  Your arms slip from him and hang by your sides, giving yourself some space.

“I guess you know where I was last night,” you bite the corner of your lip, leaning against the wall for some stability, arms crossed.

“Yeah, I went to see Peña.  Was worried sick about you, you know.  You couldn’t have called?” you suppose you deserved that.  You nod swiftly, “I should have, I’m really sorry.  I just, I needed to clear my head.”

“Well, since you stayed at his place, I hope you realise how silly this all is.  How miniscule it all is.  Just because I slept with Veronica–”

“Excuse me?” your eyes widen, “Veronica… Veronica… The same Veronica who you told me not to worry about?” you remember the party – a holiday party with Julian’s coworkers, one of which, Veronica.  Red lipstick is easy to trace: cups, forks, your husband’s cheek.

He promised it was nothing, promised it was only a friendly kiss under the mistletoe and now, a year later, you’re in your kitchen being told that only was it something, it was something that went on for years.  “How fucking long have you known her, Julian?”

When your eyes cut to him, he looks frozen.  Like he didn’t mean for it to come out, and now he has unraveled such a can of worms he doesn’t know where to begin, but you sure do.  He doesn’t deserve to waste another second of your time today.  You felt so guilty, so wrong for every second of your day only to be lied to for who knows how long.  Your mind reels at the possibilities.  The double-dealing.

“I-I can’t have you in this house.  I need you out.  I need you out, get out.  Pack a fucking bag, I need space.”

You had no room to talk, you knew that, but after a whole day of worrying yourself to the bone, and this was how it really was?  The details he neglected to inform you for how long?  You brush past him before he can respond, and it hurts more that he doesn’t put up a fight.  Packs a bag, tells you he’s going to stay with Javier, and leaves within fifteen minutes.  Your knees buckle the second the door closes behind him, heavy wails rattling your ribcage.

---

You’re not sure your face has ever been so puffy.  You pour a glass of water, and you just barely remember to eat, but you do.  You don’t open the blinds, though.  At least you’re trying.  Keeping the house dark, it’s surprising when you don’t reach for alcohol or something to numb this, but a part of you wonders if he’ll call.

And you don’t mean Julian.

The sun sets, leaving inky blue in the sky when you get ready for bed.  It’s been such a long day that you couldn’t imagine staying up for a second longer.  After a long bath, you change into your silk pyjamas.  You’re not sure you’ve taken so many showers or baths in one day, either.  That makes the stranger of an amused grin grace your features.  You were washing away every memory you could from today.

Getting under the blankets, you look over to Julian’s side of the bed.  How empty it was, how you missed him.  You couldn’t help it.  The two of you built a life together, but one that you were coming to understand was built on more lies than one and god, you just couldn’t cry about it any more tonight.

But it was lonely like this.

You wondered what the two of them were doing.  If Peña– fuck it– Javi was listening to him, if Julian was lying to him.  Thoughts flooded you so much the sound of the phone on your nightstand is background noise until you realise it.  A gasp flutters your lungs, turning your head to it.  Shit.

Picking up the phone, you place it to your ear, but you don’t say anything immediately.  A nauseating twelve seconds.

“Cariño?” your breath hitches when you hear him.  Sinking further down in the bed, your legs brush against the sheets and your eyes slip shut.  It’s a relief where earlier in the day it was a curse.

“Javi–,” you start, tears pricking your eyes, and he’s already catching you.

“I know, baby, I know.”

And you want so bitterly to scream I’m not your baby, you don’t want anyone near you in this way after the day you had – after the deception that coated your marriage from both you and your husband lies in wait for you both to get back to.  But you don’t tell him that, you don’t contest.

Instead you sniff softly and wipe your eyes.  You focus on your inhales, you settle yourself down.

You are there for yourself more than anyone else could ever be.

“Is he there?” a part of you worries Javi won’t like what you asked, that he will feel slighted, but you’re relieved when he answers you without a passing judgment.

“He is, I think he’s asleep now.  I’m not sure what you told him, but he was a mess.  He, uh, called you crazy, though…,”

“He what?” your jaw tightens, clenching the sheets with your free hand, “He’s the fucking crazy one–”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Javi’s voice hushes you in his smooth, but matter-of-fact way, and you close your mouth. “I know.  I was there, remember?  We all went to college together.”

“Who was the other woman?  Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I’m not sure, I think she was from out of town.  And I didn’t know that you didn’t know, remember?  What happened?”  So you explain.  Tell Javi all about the way Julian assured you not to worry about her at the company party, or any time thereafter.  Peña curses under his breath, “What a fucking idiot, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” your jaw ticks, tempting to pull your tears back in.  No more tonight.

“Seriously.  You don’t deserve this.  You deserve… someone who’s honest with you.  For better or for worse.”

For better, for worse.  You weren’t sure if Javi did that intentionally, but the vow makes you feel sick now on what was a beautiful wedding day.  It’s simultaneous, the remembering of it.  But you shove it down, deep.  You want to forget.

So you sigh.  Occiput at the headboard, and you close your eyes – just wanting some peace.  A distraction, maybe?  It was just so present, and it burned as strong as your desire for Javier that couldn’t be contained for a second longer.  Especially not now with yet another thing on your plate pulled you away from who you thought was the love of your life.

“Where are you?” you ask, and you think it’s unassuming enough, but the slight exhale of laughter from the other end calls you out, “I’m in bed. I assume you’re the same?”

“Shocked you wouldn’t be out all night.”

“You know, I wanted to go to this girl’s place tonight, but she’s kinda going through a lot right now.  Seemed a little too much,” he’s hushed now and the transition of his voice stirs your middle.  It shouldn’t, but it does.

Worse, it makes you smile.

“She sounds like a bore,” you swipe a thumb over your grin, but there was some truth to that.  Despite the adventurous couple days, you didn’t necessarily feel like you were an exciting person.  You had a 9-5 (lucky to be off today), you had a husband.  You did your activities, and you came home.  This was the most excitement you’ve experienced in, well, maybe since you met Julian.  There were areas you were passionate about that either got abandoned due to it not meshing with his schedule, or him not approving of it.

Was he ever good for you?

“She sounds like she needs to relax.”

“What are you suggesting?” you respond.  The tension cuts like a knife even through the phone, and you can hear his own smile form.  If you close your eyes, you can see it.

“It’s cute when you play dumb.”

“What?  Phone sex?” you question as if your words are twisting a lock of your hair, ripe for the picking.

“Is that what this is?” Javi questions, giving you the same fake-innocence that’s being thrown at him.

“Is that what you want?”

There’s a pause, contemplative and feverish.  The sound of fabric plays in the background until ultimately stillness.

“You would get off while your husband is in my apartment across the hall?” Javi’s quiet, but his words cause your legs to spread, a bitten noise in the back of your throat greets you on this hellish day on earth.  “Mierda. You’re so dirty, you know that?  Willing to do anything for me.”

“I’m not sure I should do anything you tell me,” you start with a flash of amusement, you’re unable to think about anything but the slick gathering between your legs, “but I want to.”

“You need it, bebita?  You need me to take care of you?  Because I can, but only if you tell me.”

You bite your bottom lip, slipping your head over your pillow as you get comfortable in the dark.

“Take care of me, Javi.  Make me feel good.”

And it was working already, your other hand skates over your abdomen as a shiver sends through you.

“Do you think it’s that easy?”  a growl behind his voice, you gasp quietly at the sound.  “Beg me.”

“God, after today?  Seriously, Javi?”

“Beg.”

And there’s something about the way he barks an order that makes your hole clench around nothing.  Like last night when he pulled back because you weren’t giving him what he wanted right away.  Makes you want to do as he says, and you can’t explain why.

“Javi,” clouded in arousal, your legs squeeze together to feel friction – 180° turn around from your protests, “I need you, I want to cum for you.  Want to know how good you make me feel.  Please, Javi.”

You hear Javi’s jeans unzip.  Jeans in bed, the mad man.

“We’re going slow, bebita.  Understand?  Go ahead, slip your hand down.  You'll do as I say, sí?”

Instinctively, your free hand slips down, gasping at the pool of wetness there.  More than what you thought, something comes over you.  The heat of pleasure washes over any other thought. 

“Yes – yes, Javier.  I’ll do as you say.  Tell me what to do, Javi – fuck – please!  Tell me how to get myself off,” your tongue darts out of your lips, brain swimming as the swell of your sex pulses in crashing undulations demanding to be touched.

And Javi fucking loves that.  The desperation in your voice, wrecked with desire, and you’re so sober compared to last night.  All of this is true.  Your eagerness drives him to his own cliff, abandoning any remorse he has for his friend.  The focus shifts on you and Javi alone.

“Take your index finger and ring finger.  Are you paying attention?”  you hum, focusing on those two fingers.  “Yes or no, hermosa?  Use your words.”

And you waste no time in humming again, spreading your wetness across your folds from the shift of your thighs.  “Yes, I’m paying attention,” orbs already glossy, the lost sound of you is initiative for Javi.

“Spread your lips apart with them and lightly — I mean it, cariño,” he warns briefly, “lightly press your middle finger against your clit.”

So you do as you’re told.  Your fingers are natural as they spread your lips, and you let out a heady sigh when your middle finger grazes over your clit.  “S’sensitive,” you slur, biting a sob as your head rocks to the side against the plushness of pillow.  “Javi…,”

“You feel that, babygirl?  That's good.  Keep my cunt pried open.  Roll your middle finger against your clit, harder this time.  That clit your husband neglects, but I found day one.  Bounce the pad of your finger against it, up and down just like that.  Good girl.  I bet you look like a dream, princesa.  Wish I could taste you…,” he trails off and you can hear the faint sound of his skin.  You imagine him hard while he talks to you, the cherry of his head beading with precum as he smears it down the shaft.  It sends you to whine, bouncing the pad of your middle finger – up and down, just like he instructs.  You’re being so good for him, and you know it.  Following what he says, word for word.  Your folds feel so soft like this, you wonder if he’s telling you to touch yourself this way to absorb just how good you feel.

“Jav– I,” you swallow, the sparkle of pleasure hitting you with each pass, you need more.  Need a depth to take you under more than the shallowness of this teasing.  “Please,” you whisper, and you’re not sure you could elaborate.  You’re so gone.  It doesn’t land on you, the trust you’re placing in him and how willing he is to hold it.  But it is there without putting words to it.  And Javi?  He is fully aware of the space you’re taking yourself to.  Just for him.

“Yeah?  Is that not enough?  But you’re such a depraved slut I bet you could get off just by doing that, I know you could.  I'll be kind, you’re welcome,” god he’s so cocky, and it’s still so sexy – how can he manage it? “Press your clit between your index and middle finger.  Are you doing it?”

“Mmn’doing it,” you manage, eyes slipping shut – even in the dark, you can only focus on the way his words spill – viscous and sweet – into the telephone.  “Oh, you like being called that, yeah?  Are you my slut?”  “Javi, Javi,” you whimper, pressure at your clit between your fingers you know you’re soaked now, “M’your slut!  Fuck!” you’re panting, sweat forming at the nape of your neck.

“Good girl, princesa.  Squeeze your clit – un poco, just a little.  Can you do that for papí?” and fuck, you haven’t heard him say that, either.  Two firsts in one phone call.  Your body is in overdrive, you can feel wetness slip from your hole over the crease of your ass, against your thighs, “Flick your clit between those two fingers.  Back and forth.  Do it now.  God, listen to you.  Dirty girl wants to cum with her husband snoring in the other room.  Bet that’s the first time you’ve cum in your bed in a long time.”

And you’re pathetic, whimpering like crazy as you flick your fingers back and forth around your clit.  You can feel the swell, how hard the nub of nerves feels – shocks of electricity run through you, you’re so close like this.  The fast motions taking you until–

“Hands off — now.” you gasp, panting against the ledge, not so silently begging for your release.

“I want to hear her.  Middle finger.  Don’t go all the way in.”

So you do as you’re told, your throat dry and rough.  You lean the receiver to your sopping cunt so he can hear the tapping of your hole that’s so soaked it almost hurts.  When you bring your phone back to your ear, you tighten it between your ear and shoulder and Javi is busy singing praises to her before he realises you’re back.  He sounds different.  Possessive.  Just like you wanted him to be last night.

“That fucking cunt.  That’s mine.  That's for me.  Julian called you crazy, but he ate dinner exactly where I made you cream on my fucking kitchen counter last night.  He won’t say shit about you and get away with it.”  He sounds hushed, but rough like this.  Like you can hear him snarl those words at the base of your ear while he takes you from behind.  Your heart picks up at the imagery he’s given you.  The symbolism of his protection of you, and you let the flames take you.

There is no going back.

“Touch yourself.  Two fingers in your cunt, roll that gorgeous clit.  Perfect, messy pussy,” and you can hear it now— the slapping of his skin more intentional than before.

Your two fingers tease your hole, groaning without holding back from the touch and how wet you feel.  And he was right, you were so… messy.  It spreads over your outer labia, your thighs, up to your clit.  All from the sound of his voice, all from his claim over you – how protected you felt.  Desired.  You bite your lip as you work your fingers inside, rolling your sensitive clit in lazy strokes – doing your best to keep the phone close.  Moans drip easily from your wanton mouth.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” you mewl, head spinning from the way his hand is around your throat without even being there to touch you.

“Fuck.  Got my fist around my cock, right at the base before bringing it up.  Stroking at my head.  You have it twitching, bebita.  You make me so fucking hard.  You’d love it.  That slutty mouth would lap up every bit of precum – mierda, fuck.”

Even his muttering sounds sinful, leaving your bottom lip tucked into your mouth, sucking hard at the skin.  Your hole tightens around your fingers and you work yourself to peaks, massaging your clit in deep circles that work in tandem with the repetitious tapping against that spot inside you.

“Faster,” you finally purr, unsure if you’ll find it together – but god, do you want it so bad.  You’re not even sure if it’s a plea or a demand to him, but you leave it.

And he’s secure enough to let you boss him, if only for a moment.

“Fuck.  You too.  Now.  Are you a good girl?”

“Hmmpnh,” you uselessly whimper, nodding to no one.  “I’m a good girl, I’m a good girl–” whining praises over and over, Javi’s grunts got more deliberate, more in time with your puling sounds.  You’re shaking, needing to be sent to your climax, you beg to him in the broken words between exhalations.

“That’s it, bebita – be a good little slut.  Give it up to me – mierda, got my cock throbbing for it.  Wish I was cumming in your perfect little cunt – fuck.  Let go, let me fucking hear it,” there’s a pause as he huffs into your ear, his attempt to find composure, as he grits through his teeth.

“Make my fucking pussy come, now.”

That demand, that ownership is what sends you.  Your body responding to it instantly, you moan – hips lifting off of the bed as you nod.  Nipples standing to attention as your body rolls through waves of pleasure, cunt fluttering around your fingers so tight and rhythmically the phone drops for a moment and you can hear a loud grunt on the other line – one that was dangerously foolish, your name falling from his mouth when you both knew just who was in his house.  You didn’t even care.  Not one part of you was cautious in this moment as you both fell into the throes of this affair.

Your body convulses before its inevitable release.  Your muscles, tense, now relax into a puddle.  You sigh, pulling away from your core and skillfully avoid getting the phone sticky as you put it back to your ear.

As you’re both just a pair of lungs battling breath between the phone connection, you shift in bed, rolling onto your side, the receiver slipping to your other ear.  Savouring the seconds, the feelings of connection.  You realise you lack this with Julian now.  You didn’t notice it before.  All a feeling, and not intellectualised, but it’s palpable, like a looming presence at the bottom of this ocean.

Your thoughts come and go as a yawn finally leaves Javi, and it’s kind of sweet to hear him be soft.  To hear his humanity.

“When will I see you again?” you break the silence timidly, and honestly, despite the quite literal affair happening, you’re surprised the question slips by your lips.

Who was this person Javi brought out in you?

You can recall the times the two of you shared glances in silence before this.  Not so many words were shared, and back then you thought it was due to lack of interest in each other’s lives, but now… now you’re realising it’s because of the volcano bubbling underneath the surface.  The potential you both share.

It was fucked, you’re fucked, and you’re scared.

But you still poke the bear because if you didn’t you knew you would spend the rest of your life curious about the cave it resides in.

Hibernation had to come to an end eventually.

“It can’t be soon,” this upsets him, you can tell, but he is nothing if not observant.  How odd this would look if the two of you started to hang out.  “A week or two, cariño.  We can make phone calls often.  But we have to wait.  Can you wait?”

And you want to tell him you’d wait ages for him, but you don’t.  You force the words back down your throat, and instead offer him a nod even though he cannot see it.

“I can wait, Javi.  I can wait for you.”

“That’s my good girl,” his words make your heart swell with pride, “I’ll call you.” he promises and you want to believe him so you do.

“I’ll call you, too,” fast to say it back.  And you don’t feel an ounce of desperation.  You feel renewed.  Empowered by this.  Confident.

“You should get some sleep, cariño.  Got a husband to fight with tomorrow.  He is not staying here.”

You both laugh as it simmers into comfortable silence.

“Okay…,” you’re reluctant, but you do agree to hang up.

“Goodnight, Javi.”

“Goodnight, ángel.”

You cling to the phone, and he hangs up first.  You’re left with yourself just as you were when you woke up this morning.  Surprised that you feel less guilty than you did earlier in the day, how swiftly your perception has changed of Julian, of your stance with Javier.  All of it.  You knew that you couldn’t just leave your husband at the drop of a hat, not after this much time had been put into the relationship.  But you knew nothing or no one could light you on fire the way Javier Peña did.

Finally latching the phone to the hook, you close your eyes.  The stickiness of your cunt peels your lips apart when you shift, and it’s a reminder of him.  Your skin grows hot, your fingers exploring yourself again – if only to touch, if only to bring him back to life just as he was speaking into your ear moments ago.  “Javi,” you whisper to yourself, nipples still erect from arousal.

And so you go again, with yourself, to make yourself feel good.  Not for Julian, and not for Javier.

For you.

Until your core is shaking, your spent body spreading over the bed when sleep finally takes you.

When was the last time you did that?  When was the last time you spent time on yourself rather than making sure your husband’s pleasure was prioritised?  You weren’t sure, but you didn’t have time to dwell.  Not with your eyelids getting heavy, drowned in your self-gratification.  This was the start of something new.  A new version of yourself actualised.

If anything, you were grateful for Javi’s presence.  Whether he was doing this selfishly or not, this shook you to the core.  He was waking you up.

And you had so much more to learn about yourself.

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