Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
But I couldn’t, so I showed up at the Gansevoort seething with frustration. I’d called her a bitch and a whore, and lied and told her, All I care about is what’s between your legs. I mocked and belittled her, fucked her in the ass just to hurt her. I told her she wasn’t allowed to come, and then I beat the shit out of her when she did. I used an orchid stake to do it. It must have hurt like hell, that piece of bamboo, but she never stopped fighting. She was amazing like that. I could hurt her and hurt her and hurt her, and she was still there, fighting back at me, tipping up her stubborn chin.
It was hard to remember that now. She deserved someone better, and I deserved to be alone. I deserved to be taunted by memories of her closeness and her scent, and that blazing rebellion in her eyes. I lay back on my bed, opened my hand and let the phone fall from my fingertips. I had work to do, buildings and bridges to design. A life to stumble through without her.
Closure. Fuck.
Chere
It was the last Saturday night before the end of the semester, and I was alone. I felt Andrew’s loss keenly, not that I’d really lost him. We were still technically “friends,” but we weren’t friends like we were before, because I didn’t trust him as much as I used to. He’d decided to go into escorting even after my warnings. Henry had just called him.
Andrew was going on his first date.
He wanted me to be happy for him. I think he actually wanted me to come over and help him get ready, and dish with him about escorting, and watch him shave and manscape. He sent a flurry of texts, five or six for every one of mine. I felt guilty, like maybe I should have been over there helping him primp, but I couldn’t do it.
Henry told Andrew he’d set him up with a Dominant client, one who had not yet found his perfect combination of servile and sexy. Maybe he would find it in Andrew, but probably not. Andrew seemed a mere baby in escort terms, with his mop of hair, his twink body and little-boy grin. I was so worried for him I cried, not that I told him that. Andrew would need his fluttery excitement and overconfidence to get through this first date.
As for me, I had no plans for the evening, no dates to go on, paid or otherwise. I didn’t know how to get rid of my restlessness and guilt at being a bad friend. I debated whether to go out to one of the BDSM clubs in my current mood. I wanted to get beaten on. I wanted to feel something, but I hadn’t played at any of the clubs before, and tonight probably wasn’t the best night to dip my toe in.
Also, if I went to the clubs, I would think about W the whole time like I always did, about his roughness and cruel brutality. About his kindness. His kisses. His poetry. Mine also, little painted poem of God.
Ugh. Not anymore.
It was snowing, and bitterly cold, but in the end, I made the decision to go out. I painted my lips a deep red and painted my nails to match, and put on a fitted black dress, tights, and boots. The dress was some off-the-rack thing, and I’d found the boots in a thrift store. I used to wear designer everything, but my current scholarship didn’t allow for that kind of extravagance, and I didn’t want to touch my escort savings until I was out of school. This dress was fine for dark clubs where I didn’t plan to play anyway.
Why are you going if you’re not going to play? Why do you do this to yourself?
I silenced the voice in my brain, or maybe the cold, sharp air silenced it for me. I put my head down and crunched over the snow to the subway entrance across from the school. I rode to the Meatpacking District, to the biggest, noisiest, busiest fetish club in Manhattan: Evolution City. The bouncers welcomed me with big smiles. Single female patrons were always admitted with no cover charge, but Evolution was too smothering, too loud for my mood today.
I was back out on the sidewalk fifteen minutes later. I stood by the curb and blew condensation into the cold air, then turned and headed for Studio Valiant instead. It was smaller and less in-your-face, a casual, kinky hideaway with painted concrete walls. Instead of pounding club music, Valiant played an erratic mix of classical music, torch songs, and decades-old Top 40. The music lightened the mood and kept the club from feeling too full of itself. The equipment wasn’t as luxe as Evolution’s top-tier spread, but a dedicated pervert could find plenty of workable racks, tables, and spanking benches distributed throughout the dungeon floor.