The following chapter contains mature subject matter that some readers may find unsettling: depictions of sexuality, nudity, vulgarity and various other obscenities. Thus, reader discretion is advised.
This writing is fiction. Names, characters, settings and events are either used fictitiously or are products of the writers' imaginations. Any resemblance to real events, settings or people, dead or alive, is coincidental unless stated otherwise.
(Dysphemism says: And I retract that statement I made about my ex-girlfriend inspiring Josh!)
I'll Give You It All Right!
Now, it was my own words that echoed in my mind, and my grin faded. I had uttered those words many times before, and it never ended well. And, I had given it, marvelously, many times before. And it never ended well.
As I entered her, she looked me in the eye, tossed her head back, and let out a soft, exaggerated moan. I cringed, arms as stiff as my-- When was she a faker? However, I was more upset with what I knew the sound might make me do.
"Oooarrh," she moaned again, lacking in authenticity. I tried not to flinch. Whore!
However, my legs betrayed my thoughts. I kept fucking that whore, thrust after thrust. I knew I was being shallow, and I did not care. I just wanted to... give you it all right!
"Oh, baby, give it to me!" she screamed, as I leaned over her, pushing her back against the pillows, thrusting harder than usual for a brief moment. Fast. Rough. The way the old woman had wanted it done.
Harder, bad boy! A croaking, ancient voice. The old woman. And there she was, behind us. Behind us, I could not see her. Yet, I felt her warm breathe upon my cold, exposed and sweaty back. It smelled stale amidst the Chanel perfume. And, several thrusts later, when I thought she was gone, I was sure I was about to--
Fwwwiiicchh! A whip snapped against my back.
"Aaaah!" I screamed.
The woman beneath me smiled at my cry, reminding me of the old woman's granddaughter.
No, this is not real! Not real! I assured myself, as I felt the old scar burn like a fresh wound. However, I knew this was real! I was fucking her hard, harder than I ever remember fucking a woman. For, I was a God among men. And a bad one at that.
"Harder, bad boy!" The old woman crowed, loud in my ear. Her voice was different now, lucid. I was hornier. It was lucid. The whip grazed my tender back, "Harder, Josh. 'Cause you're bad boy, Joshua Grey! A bad boy!"
Beneath me, the woman moaned again, softly. She was taking it calmly. In and out, I went. Fast. Hard. Like a bad boy, Josh! And she lay there, smiling. She did nothing. She was like a corpse. No, don't think that! You've overcome those dark thoughts! I told myself, This old woman isn't here, Josh! She isn't real. She isn't there. She isn't real!
She cackled, as I continued to tell myself that she -- And then, she was not there. The scar, running diagonally, across my back, stopped burning.
Under my supported weight, she shifted her position, licking her lips. And she wrapped her arms around my broad shoulders, holding my neck.
I beamed. I had fought off the old woman. She was gone. Her breath was gone. And all I could smell was... burning. Burning denim? And I was fucking, hard. For the first time, in a long time. For the first time, since the escape from the psych ward. For the first time, since the last time.
"Whisper my name, Josh," she said. Whore. "Whisper sweet nothings in my ear."
What is it? For long moment; a long, hard, thrusting moment; I struggled to think of her name. However, when it did not come to me, I grinned, mischievously.
Waiting, she grazed her hands along my upper ribcage. Over the burn mark, from the brothel. Over every sweaty groove and every muscle. Around to my upper back, over the scar and--
"Whore." That's her name! And it was, because she froze as I said it.
"I'm your whore, am I?" she asked, blushing more as if it were a term of endearment, "Well, I saw what you've got in the drawer. Quite a fan of studded leather, aren't we, Josh?"
I grinned. Oh, that drawer. She was not afraid of my dark side, and for a brief moment, I began to think that it might be more than a one-night-stand. It had been a long time since I had considered anyone to be a permanent fixture in my life, let alone a lover.
She held herself tenderly against me, as I slowed, and the raised her hands over my back. Over my shoulder blades, across the scar once more, to rest upon my shoulders. I reckoned I would arrive, any moment. And thus I slowed down, so we would reach a climax in unison. Even if she might be just another pair of open legs.
And, then, she screamed. A long, high shriek. I was startled, and time seemed to stand still as she let it all out in horror. Her arms fell, and she drew away from me.
Before me, she sat with blood upon her hands. With a worried expression, she looked at me, "You're bleeding, Josh."
The blood on her hands, dripped onto her thighs that lay folded between us. I looked over her perfect hands, and knew that the blood must be mine. The big scar! It's stigmata... I was sure of it, and I was sure it had bled before, when the memories invaded.
I took a gamble, "It's nothing, you little whore!"
And I pushed her down, forcefully. She screamed in amusement, for I was a God among men. Then, she turned to the side and pulled my loose tie from where my shirt lay on the edge of the bed.
"Tell me, Josh. Are you fond of this tie?" The tie was casual, displaying the picture of an inferno. A burning building.
I knew she was up to something, so I considered the question seriously. Looking up, at the stucco ceiling, I frowned. Are you a bad boy, Josh? The old woman's granddaughter had greeted me that way at the door. No! I had told her, No!
The Chanel perfume was more intoxicating, though still obnoxious, as she smiled. And, while I'd been looking up, the noose of the tie now dangled loosely around my loins. Shit, this whore paid close attention to the contents of my drawer!
And, as she tightened it firmly around my stiff member, behind my nuts, I gasped. It was a deep, stunned, gasp. It was accompanied by the sense of burning denim. And I fell, into memory. Her sighing, maybe even dying, words, "Now I have something to pull..." were rendered almost inaudible as I lost control. I blanked out. _____________________________________________________
My mind came to, with an invasive sense of nostalgia. It took me a moment to realize where I was. In a room. On a bed. In a woman. Blond. Young. Beautiful. And then, I remembered the urge. To finish the job. It was something close to priapism. An urgency, that would not arrive. And a pain, worse than any scar.
Fwwch! Lightly, the whip struck the woman's leg. And I could smell the obnoxious Chanel-brand perfume.
The old woman croaked, "Harder, Josh. You're a bad boy, and bad boys fuck hard!"
And that was how it went. The old hag kept a pace, tapping with her feet. And I was exhausted, and in pain. However, I kept going. And whenever I slowed, or tired, for more than half a minute...
The memories, haunting me, left a traumatic scar on my mind. And the whipping, flogging me, often left a scar upon my flesh. And, with that final strike...
... Memory faded again. Or, rather, it was a fading memory of memory fading. Wait, no. Perhaps a fading memory of… just a mere dream. I was never sure if the old woman, and her beautiful blonde granddaughter, were real people. Nevertheless, it haunted me. _____________________________________________________
He looked Freudian. No, not priapic. Not phallic. I mean, he looked like a young Doctor Sigmund Freud. And he stroked his beard, after hearing my story. However, he was not my respective psychoanalyst. If anything, I was my own. What made it funny, to me, was that on his nametag, in the large space below ‘HELLO! MY NAME IS…’ he had written ‘IAN’. However, because he was here, he was also mentally eccentric. He had written it at the right side. Just enough. Just enough room to write ‘FREUD’ in front of it. Well, Freud-Ian was just another member in the group. So was I. I was just another member of the group. The doctor was a woman. And a whore, at that. I was pretty sure of it. The telltale signs. The way she looked at us perverts. Adoringly.
"You've been describing that dream in great detail, Joshua." Her voice was calm, and cold. Analytical. Impersonal. "Is it really that vivid, when it occurs, or are you imagining things just to tell us a good story?"
The psychotherapist's meeting room smelled faintly like familiar perfume... and burning denim. She sat on an overly cushioned armchair. And, in a semicircle around her, a half dozen degenerates on hard, cold, plastic chairs.
I shrugged. I was proud of what I'd done. Of who I'd done. What can I say? I shrugged.
Freud laughed, snorting, next to me. Ian too.
"And what do you think the characters in your recurring dream represent, Joshua?"
Something tightened around my groin, like a fabric noose. I looked down at my denim jeans, frowning. And, in the corner of my eye, I saw a burn mark around the zipper. However, I focused on her question.
She folded leg over knee, gray pantyhose beneath a high, dull, business skirt.
Again, I shrugged. Again, Freud laughed. Ian did not.
"You see," she began, "I think, this old woman represents the expectations of--" She paused, licking her red lips.
Suddenly, she was naked, standing up from her armchair, and onto me in a flash. She slid it in, unrealistically. I did not even know I was naked, or erect. However, I was. That undefinable Chanel scent, alluring and obnoxious, washed over me, and I knew. And the other five patients looked on, calmly, without sharing an opinion, as the therapist began to straddle me.
Freud, however, raised an eyebrow quizzically. Ian did not.
And then, the room faded to another. I was back in control. I was back in my bungalow. I was back in my bedroom. I was lying in my bed, a woman straddling me. My arms were in places I had not put them, around her throat. I released them, and she gasped for air. Erotic asphyxiation?
And she looked at me, struggling to smile as she choked for air, “You speak lovely French. That was amazing…”
I’ve never spoken French in my life. It had happened before, speaking in tongues. And earlier, when she had been snooping in my drawer, that was what I had been on the phone about -- with an exorcist. Well, my reverend. I may not act Christian, much, but church is the one place at which I know I will not hear the old woman cackle. Where I will not feel the lashing of her whip. I have not learned French. Never. Not ever.
“I have.” The voice was throaty. The old woman, again, far more lucid than ever. And the gasping woman before me was making me hornier than ever.
I looked around the whore’s curvaceous frame, and saw her, at the end of my bed.
The old woman, with her beaklike nose, was sitting in a brown, leather arm chair. The therapist’s chair. How did that get there? And she smiled, licking her lips. The same red tone the therapist wore. And she folded her wrinkly legs, one over the other, in the same gray pantyhose.
“What is it? C’mon, don’t lost it on me now!”
Whore, I ain’t nowhere close to losing it. In fact, it ached. I blinked, and the woman was gone. Again, and the chair was gone. I frowned.
She twisted her body to look, at the foot of the bed. And there, upon the cabinet, was the lamp. Upon the lamp, were my denim jeans? I had thrown them there, earlier, the second time I took them off for her. And, around the fly, they had singed to black against the bare, curving bulb of the fixture. My lucky jeans! They had endured many a one-night stand and, now, they caught on fire. They burst up in radiant flames, and gradually fell to the cabinet top in cinders and shreds. It had burned, right through the groin.
It ached, from being up for too long, without release. And, staring at the fire, I assumed it was just a hallucination. Pushed her over, against the end of the bed, and picked up the pace. All the while, I started at the calming rhythm of the flames as they danced upon the cabinet, burning the remnants of my lucky jeans and what few loose objects on the top of the dresser; and leaving a dark, black, blotchy mark upon the cabinet’s fine finish.
She was surprised, not sure why I was ignoring the fire. Must have thought I had some weird fetish. However, it kept me from hearing the old woman. I am a God. And, in the back of my mind, I remembered a trivial piece of knowledge. Back from some class, in college. Greek mythology. Priapis, born of Aphrodyte, cursed with a useless erection while still in the womb, by a jealous Hera. I am a God, that’s what she’ll tell her friends tomorrow night. And, when I finally arrived, late into the early morning, we were both exhausted. She was hoarse from screaming. Screaming with pleasure. And, for the rest of that whole evening, I never heard the old woman. Nor her beautiful, shapely granddaughter. Nor the therapist. Nor Freud. Nor Ian.
However, when we finally fell asleep, I could hear the old woman in my head, Once again, my dear boy. Once again, Josh. You've proven it, each moment and each moment again. Time, and again. You're a bad boy, Josh! I rolled over, the woman's tender body against mine. Don't pretend you cannot hear me! Don't you dare shut me out! Do not! Softly, I caressed the side of her left breast, tracing my hand down her side. She smiled, eyes closed. And, for a moment, her face contorted. Nose bent, features drooped and sagged. Hair frayed and grayed. Wrinkles, like whispers of death. You have been a very, very bad boy, Joshua Grey. And finally, I drifted off to sleep. And the voice, it chanted. She kept crowing with glee the same two words, Kill her! Kill her! C'mon, bad boy, kill her! Kill her like you killed my daughter...