Nothing But Mistakes

✦ Patrick has never been the type to feel threatened by sex toys. If anything, he enjoys them. He likes researching new models, ordering the latest ones, and being the first to try them on you. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching a package arrive and knowing he gets to see exactly how you’ll react to whatever’s inside. He’s imagined it more times than he’d admit—the way your body would tense, the sounds you’d make, how wet and overwhelmed you’d get.

✦ He finds it pathetic when men online complain that toys will replace them. If a toy can replace you in bed, Patrick thinks, then you were never that good to begin with.

✦ But it wasn’t always easy for him.

✦ For a long time, Patrick was quietly insecure about toys. Not that he would’ve ever said it out loud. That changed the first time he let you use one on him.

✦ He still remembers how it felt—the slow press of the butt plug against him, the way his breath caught the second it started to push inside. The stretch. The fullness. It knocked something loose in him. He came harder than he expected, and the feeling stayed with him for days. Sometimes, when he’s alone, he still thinks about it. Still wants it again.

✦ He tested it further after that. One night he tried a vibrating egg, just to see. He came three times without touching his cock once. His ass ached for days afterward, but he didn’t regret it. If anything, it only made him want more.

✦ With you, his interest shifted into something more deliberate. He became obsessed with remote-controlled toys. He bought nearly every new Satisfyer model the second it dropped, downloaded every app, and tested them all. When you once asked why he kept buying new ones when the others still worked, he simply said:

“I need to know I have the right one for you.”

✦ He treats the collection like everything else in his life—with quiet, meticulous care. At first he organized them by brand. Then by size. Eventually he gave up and sorted them by color after you kept putting them back in the wrong places. It was easier that way.

✦ When he’s away on business trips, video calls become routine. He’ll sit in whatever overpriced hotel suite he’s staying in, blinds drawn, laptop open on the desk. Half-undressed, cock already hard and visible through his boxers, he’ll start first—letting you watch while he touches himself. Only after he’s satisfied does he tell you what to do.

✦ Show him your tits. Spread your legs. Finger yourself until you’re ready. Suck on the toy he picked for you that night. Sometimes it’s a simple vibrator. Sometimes it’s something much larger. He likes watching you struggle with it. He likes setting a timer too, just to see how long you can hold out before you break.

✦ And he always makes sure not to make a mess on his laptop. Most of the time, anyway.

Summer 1970

I knew they were coming because Mother said so three times.

That meant they mattered.

When people mattered, I had to come downstairs and be polite and not embarrass anyone, which usually meant standing still and pretending to listen. I stayed at the top of the stairs instead. It was easier to see from there.

The boy was loud immediately. Kicking things. Talking too much. Not interesting.

The girl stayed close to her mother. She kept looking around like she thought she might get lost.

Then she looked up at me.

“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “My name is Becca.”

She hiccupped.

I leaned over the railing a little. She went smaller when I looked at her. Her hands disappeared behind her back.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

She already knew. They always did. Adults repeat names like it makes things better.

I didn’t answer.

She asked again.

I clicked my tongue.

“You already know it,” I grumbled. “Don't waste it.”

She blinked like I’d said something complicated.

“Waste what?”

“My time.”

That wasn’t complicated.

I started down the stairs. Slowly. The marble made a good sound when you stepped on it right.

She watched the whole way down.

When I got close, I stopped in front of her and looked at her properly.

"You're small," I remarked, smirking with feigned mockery.

Her face went red right away.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

She looked away.

She smelled like soap and something sweet. Her tights looked uncomfortable. She kept shifting her feet like she didn’t know where to stand.

“I’m Becca,” she said again, quieter.

“I heard you.”

She didn’t leave.

That was strange.

Most people leave if you don’t give them anything. She didn’t.

“What are we supposed to do now?” she asked.

“I don’t care.”

“Play?”

“No.”

Her brother was yelling somewhere and running. I could hear something fall over.

“Your brother is so loud,” I complained, shaking my head.

Then I turned and left.

If she wanted to follow, she would.

I went down the long hallway with all the doors. People always got turned around there.

Her footsteps came after a second.

“Patrick! Wait!”

I didn’t.

I turned the corner and stood behind the big plant and waited.

“Patrick?” she called out.

Her voice was smaller now.

I stepped out.

“Are you following me now?” I almost laughed at her expression. "Like a lost kitty."

She started to talk, then stopped.

I took a step closer.

“This is my house,” I said, my voice full of authority. “You don't get to follow me.”

Her face changed.

Not scared.

Mad.

That was better.

She picked up the ball and threw it at me before I could say anything.

It hit my chest hard.

I didn't expect that.

For a second, I just stood there.

Then it started to hurt.

“You little—"

“Patrick Bateman!"

Mother!

Of course.

She came in like she always does, already annoyed.

I pointed at the girl.

“She threw a ball at me.”

“He started it,” the girl said. Fast. “He called me a lost kitty and ran away on purpose.”

My mother sighed as if we were both an inconvenience.

“Patrick, be nice to our guest. Her name is Rebecca Rice. Rebecca Rice.”

Rebecca.

She said it like I was supposed to remember it.

She put her hands on both of us and pushed us closer together.

“Why don't the two of you go outside and play properly? The gardens are lovely. Patrick, show Rebecca the boathouse. Make her feel welcome.”

I looked at Rebecca.

She didn’t look away.

Still.

“Yes, Mother,” I said.

An hour later we were at the boathouse.

Mother had made us go. “Fresh air,” she said, like that solved anything.

It was hot on the dock. The wood burned through the soles of my shoes if I stood still too long. The water smelled like salt and something rotting underneath it.

She kept talking at first. Questions. Suggestions. Trying to decide what we were supposed to do. I showed her the boats so she would stop asking.

She sat on one of the coiled ropes and watched everything like it mattered.

That was still strange.

Most people got bored.

She didn’t.

She found the old wooden box near the wall and started pulling at the lid. It stuck. She pulled harder.

Then she made a noise.

“Ouch!”

I looked over.

There was blood immediately. Bright. Too bright. It welled up along her finger and then spilled over, dripping onto the floorboards.

She started crying right away.

Loud.

Her shoulders shook. Her face went red. It was messy and sudden and completely uncontrolled.

I didn’t move for a second.

It didn’t look like much. Just a cut. But there was more blood than there should have been.

“It hurts… it really hurts…”

I stepped closer.

“Stop crying,” I urged, quieter than before. “It's just a cut.”

She didn’t stop.

I took the handkerchief out of my pocket.

It was folded exactly the way it was supposed to be. Father had given it to me last year. I wasn’t supposed to ruin it.

I hesitated for a second.

Then I took her hand.

She let me.

Her skin was warm and damp. She didn’t pull away, even though she was still crying.

I pressed the handkerchief against the cut.

The blood soaked into it almost immediately, spreading through the white fabric in a slow, uneven bloom.

That was… interesting.

I wrapped it around her finger twice and tied it the way I’d seen it done before.

“There,” I said. “It’s fine.”

I kept holding her hand.

Her crying slowed. She was watching me now instead of the blood.

That was better.

Her eyes were wet and wide, but focused. On me.

“Thank you, Patty,” she murmured, smiling wearily.

I looked at her.

“It’s Patrick,” I said.

She nodded quickly.

I didn’t let go right away.

The blood was still seeping through the cloth, darker now. The initials were almost covered.

I pressed my thumb lightly against the knot, checking it.

She made a small sound—not pain this time. Something else.

“You’ll live,” I said briefly, keeping my eyes on her.

She sniffed. “It still stings.”

“Then don’t touch things that aren’t yours,” I warned, my voice calm. “Rice.”

I let go of her hand.

The handkerchief stayed where it was.

I didn’t ask for it back.

We sat there for a while without talking.

The water moved against the dock in slow, quiet sounds.

She kept looking at her finger.

Then at me.

Then back at her finger.

She looked different now.

Quieter.

Paying attention.

That was better.

Later, the storm started without warning.

The windows rattled first. Then the sky went dark all at once, like someone had pulled a curtain across it. Thunder followed a few seconds later—loud enough to shake the glass.

Mother said we should stay inside until it passed.

We ended up in the sitting room off the main hall. It was quieter there. The kind of room no one really used unless there were guests.

The lights were on, but they felt dim compared to the flashes outside.

She sat on the edge of one of the sofas, her legs tucked under her, still wearing the handkerchief around her finger. 

She kept looking at the windows.

Another crack of thunder.

She flinched.

I noticed that.

“You’re not supposed to jump every time,” I said this with a hint of irritation. “It’s just noise.”

“I know,” she replied quickly. “I just don’t like it.”

Lightning flashed again, brighter this time. It lit the whole room for a second—sharp and white—and then everything dropped back into shadow.

She shifted closer on the sofa.

Not all the way. Just enough that I could see it without looking directly at her.

I didn’t say anything.

The rain got heavier. It hit the windows in uneven bursts, like someone throwing handfuls of pebbles.

She was very still now.

Another flash.

Then thunder, closer.

She reached for my hand.

It was quick, like she thought I might move away.

I didn’t.

Her fingers were warm. Slightly damp. She held on tighter than she needed to.

I looked down at our hands.

The handkerchief I’d tied earlier was pressed between us, the cloth darker where the blood had soaked through.

She didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes on the window, like the storm might come inside if she stopped watching it.

“You’re scared, I can feel it.” I commented, but I didn't mean to jab her.

“I’m not,” she shot back, too fast.

I let that go.

The thunder rolled again, longer this time.

She squeezed my hand.

I didn't pull away. It didn't hurt. It didn't do anything.

Her shoulders settled. Her breathing slowed.

I watched her for a minute. Then I looked back at our hands.

She didn't let go.

I didn't make her.

Another flash of lightning filled the room. She leaned a little closer, her sleeve brushing against mine.

Still holding on.

I stayed where I was.

Then she put her head on my shoulder.

I went completely still.

I should have said something. I had something ready—the right word, the kind that makes people move away quickly. It was right there.

I didn't say it.

I turned my head slightly instead. Her eyelashes were moving. Then they weren't. Her breathing changed—slower, deeper. Her weight settled against me like she'd decided something.

She had fallen asleep.

I didn't understand that. I kept looking at her, waiting for it to make sense.

She sniffled once, quietly, against my shoulder.

Something happened in my chest that I didn't have a name for. I started counting to try to get rid of it. I got to ten, then kept going. The number got very high.

I don't know when I stopped counting.

I don't know when the room went dark.

The storm was still outside when I stopped being there. She wasn't there either. We were somewhere else—nowhere I recognized, nowhere anyone else was. The voices that were usually there were quieter.

I didn't want to leave.

...

The apartment feels too clean with you in it.

I invited you here after almost a week. Seven days of silence on my end because I told myself I could stop. I couldn’t. The need had been building like pressure behind my eyes until I finally called you from the office phone, voice low so no one would hear. You didn’t sound surprised. You never do.

Now you’re here, standing in the middle of my living room like you belong, and everything I own suddenly feels like evidence against me. The perfect white couch. The glass and chrome coffee table. The halogen lights that make everything sharp and almost lifeless. My place is a temple to control and you’re walking through it barefoot, wearing a simple black dress. You know what you want. That fact alone already irritates me.

I hate how much I want you here anyway.

I go to the safe in the bedroom and come back with cash. Crisp hundreds. I hold the stack out without ceremony.

You look at it, then at me. Your expression doesn’t change.

“I don’t want your money tonight,” you say.

The words land strangely. I feel off-balance. The transaction is how I keep this manageable. How I remind myself what this is. Without it, the need feels too raw.

You step closer. Close enough that I can smell your skin under the faint trace of whatever soap you use.

“I want your mouth,” you say simply. “That’s all.”

Something tightens in my chest. I don’t argue. I never do when you use that tone.

We end up in the bedroom. My bedroom. The bed is huge, the sheets are spotless and white, and they cost more than most people could ever hope to earn. You undress without performance. The black dress pools on the floor. No bra. Just the black underwear you slide down your legs. I watch you. I should be repulsed. I am repulsed. And yet my cock is already hard, pressing against the front of my trousers like it has a mind of its own.

I undress too. My suit folded neatly over the chair because even now I can’t stop the habit. When I’m naked you look at me for a long moment, then climb onto the bed.

“On your back,” you say.

I obey.

You move over me in one fluid motion, turning so your knees are on either side of my head. 69. The position is deliberate. You’re in control even like this. I can feel the heat of your cunt hovering above my face as you settle. Your hand wraps around my cock at the same time, slow and firm.

Then your mouth is on me.

The first slow slide of your lips down my length makes my hips jerk. You take me deep on the second stroke, no hesitation, and I have to bite back a sound. Your tongue works the underside while you suck, steady and unhurried. One of your hands rests on my thigh. The other slides lower.

I feel your finger press against my asshole before I can prepare for it.

My entire body goes rigid.

You don’t push in right away. You circle the tight ring of muscle with a slick finger—you must have used your own spit or something from your mouth—while you keep sucking me. The dual sensation is overwhelming. I can’t think. I can only feel the wet heat of your mouth around my cock and the insistent pressure at my entrance.

When you finally push the finger inside, slow but unrelenting, I make a sound I’ve never heard from myself before. Half groan, half something closer to a whimper. The stretch burns. It feels wrong. Invasive. Humiliating. My body tries to clench around the intrusion and you make a pleased sound around my cock, like you enjoy the resistance.

You start to move the finger in and out in time with your mouth. Shallow at first. Then deeper. Crooking it just enough to drag against something inside me that makes my vision blur.

You pull off my cock just long enough to speak, voice low and calm.

“Do you love it?”

The question is quiet. Almost gentle. It cuts straight through me.

I don’t answer. I can’t. My hands are fisted in the pristine white sheets. My expensive bed. My perfect apartment. And you have a finger in my ass while you suck my cock like you own it. I hate you. I hate how sure you are of what you want. I hate that you know exactly how to take me apart like this. I hate that you refused the money. I hate that this feels more intimate because of it.

You push your finger deeper and suck harder at the same time.

“Answer me, Patrick.”

The use of my name while you’re knuckle-deep inside me makes something crack.

“Yes,” I grind out. The word tastes like defeat. “I love it.”

You hum around my cock like you’re satisfied and reward me by taking me all the way to the back of your throat. Your finger keeps moving—steady, deliberate, fucking into me while your mouth works me with obscene wet sounds. I can feel myself getting close embarrassingly fast. The combination is too much. The finger inside me, the way you control every movement, the knowledge that this is happening in my own bed where everything is supposed to be clean and ordered.

I try to focus on your body above me instead. Your cunt is right there, glistening. I could lift my head and put my mouth on you but you haven’t told me to. So I don’t. I just lie there and take what you give me while you finger my ass and suck me like you’re trying to pull every last bit of control out of me through my cock.

You add a second finger without warning.

The stretch burns hotter. My hips buck involuntarily and you pin one thigh down with your free hand, holding me still while you work both fingers deeper. The pressure against that spot inside me is relentless. I see white. My breathing turns ragged.

You pull off my cock again, lips shiny, and look back at me over your shoulder.

“Say it again,” you say. “Tell me you love having my fingers in your ass.”

I want to refuse. I want to flip you over and fuck you until you stop talking. The violent urge rises fast and sharp. But my cock is throbbing and my body is clenching around your fingers and I’m already too far gone.

“I love it,” I say, voice hoarse. “I love your fingers in my ass.”

You smile—small, satisfied—and take me back into your mouth.

This time you don’t stop. You suck harder, fingers moving faster, and I come with a broken sound that echoes off the clean white walls of my bedroom. It hits me hard, pulses thick and helpless down your throat while you keep working me through it, fingers still buried inside me, drawing it out until I’m shaking and oversensitive and can’t do anything but lie there beneath you.

When you finally pull your fingers free and let my cock slip from your mouth, I feel empty in more ways than one.

You shift off me and turn around, settling beside me on the bed like you belong there. Your hand rests lightly on my chest, right over my racing heart.

I stare at the ceiling. My expensive sheets are damp. My perfect apartment smells like sex and you. I feel wrecked. Used. And I already know I’ll let you do it again.

The aftershocks are still rolling through me when you move.

I should tell you to get dressed and leave. I should shower until my skin feels like mine again.

Instead I watch you reach for your bag on the floor.

You pull out a black leather harness and a silicone cock already attached to it. Not huge. Not small either. Realistic. You hold it up like you’re showing me a new watch.

“I brought this,” you say simply. “I want to fuck you with it.”

The words hit me like ice water.

My body goes still. For a second I can’t even process it. Pegging. In my bed. In my apartment. The place I keep spotless and controlled. You want to put that thing inside me while I’m still shaking from the last orgasm you pulled out of me with your fingers and mouth. You came here already knowing exactly what you wanted to do to me.

Humiliation burns hot behind my ribs. I open my mouth to refuse, to tell you this is too far, that you’re in my space now and you don’t get to decide this. But you speak first.

“I’ll be gentle,” you say. Your voice is calm. Almost kind. “I know it’s your first time. I’ll go slow. I promise.”

The promise shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t be enough to stop the protest on my tongue. But I’m still floating from the last orgasm and my cock is already twitching again at the thought of you taking even more from me. I hate how weak it makes me feel. I hate that part of me wants to know what it will feel like.

I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. I just lie there while you strap the harness on with practiced movements, the black leather looking obscene against your skin. You slick the toy with lube from a small bottle you also pull from the bag. Everything about this is planned. You came here tonight already intending to do this to me.

You lie down behind me and pull me back against your chest. Spooning. One of your arms slides under my neck. The other reaches down between my legs. Your hand wraps around my cock, still sensitive, and strokes me slowly back to full hardness while the slick head of the strap-on presses against my ass.

“Breathe,” you murmur against the back of my neck. Your tongue traces a slow line up to my ear. “Relax for me.”

I try. I fail. The first push is more pressure than pain, but it’s still too much. Too intimate. Too wrong. I feel myself stretch around the head of the toy and a low, broken sound escapes my throat before I can stop it. You don’t stop. You keep stroking my cock with one hand and rock your hips forward with steady patience until the toy sinks deeper.

The fullness is overwhelming. I can feel every inch. My body keeps trying to clench and push it out, but you’re patient. Gentle, just like you promised. One slow inch at a time until your hips are flush against my ass and I’m shaking in your arms.

“Good,” you whisper. Your tongue licks the side of my neck again, warm and wet. “You’re taking it so well.”

You start to move.

Slow, shallow thrusts at first. The drag of the toy inside me lights up nerves I didn’t know existed. Every time you push in you stroke my cock at the same pace. The dual sensation is too much. I can’t think. I can only feel your body curled around mine from behind, the way you hold me steady while you take what you want. Everything about the way you move, the way you know exactly what you’re doing, irks me. It should disgust me. It does disgust me. And I’m still rocking back onto the toy like I need it.

You fuck me like that for what feels like forever. Steady. Controlled. Your hand never stops moving on my cock. Your tongue keeps tracing patterns on my neck between soft bites. I’m moaning. I can hear myself. Low, helpless sounds I’ve never made before. At one point the noise gets too loud—a broken, desperate groan when you angle the toy just right—and you reach up, turn my face toward you, and kiss me hard. Swallow the sound. Your tongue slides into my mouth while you keep fucking me from behind and stroking my cock.

The kiss is almost tender. That makes it worse.

I come again with your tongue in my mouth and the toy buried deep in my ass. It hits harder than the first one. My whole body locks up. I spill over your fist in thick pulses while you keep moving inside me, drawing it out until I’m twitching and oversensitive and can’t do anything but sag back against you.

You don’t pull out right away. You hold me through the aftershocks, hand still wrapped loosely around my softening cock, lips brushing the side of my neck.

When you finally slide the toy free I feel empty in a way that makes my face burn.

You roll me onto my back like I weigh nothing. Before I can catch my breath you’re straddling my chest, then moving higher until your knees are on either side of my head. You lower yourself onto my face without asking.

“Clean me up,” you say. “And get me ready for the next round.”

Your cunt is wet against my mouth. I can taste myself on you from earlier and the sharp, clean taste of your arousal. I open my mouth and lick because I don’t have the strength to refuse. My jaw aches. My ass still feels stretched and used. I’m lying naked on my pristine white sheets while you sit on my face, riding my tongue as though it's the most natural thing in the world.

And I let you.

Because you promised to be gentle.

Because I invited you here.

Because even now, with your thighs framing my head and your slick pussy grinding against my mouth, I can already feel my cock trying to stir again.

You rock against my face slowly, one hand braced on the wall behind me, the other stroking through my hair like you’re praising a pet. I can hear your breathing change. I can feel you getting wetter on my tongue. I keep licking. I keep swallowing everything you give me. Because right now it’s the only thing I’m allowed to do.

And because some sick, humiliated part of me already wants to know what you’re going to do to me next.