But I wasn’t seeing any other clients. Now I understood why. It wasn’t because I was special, or because he couldn’t get enough of me. It was so he could leave all the marks he wanted on me without ruining some other man’s date.
“Stop crying,” he said. “You’re the biggest fucking baby.” He turned me to face him and looked at me a moment. I must have appeared a mess. I must have looked like I wanted to murder him, but that didn’t seem to matter. He tugged me closer and kissed each of my cheeks, slowly, lingering over the moisture of my tears.
After that, he finally reached behind me to undo his belt. He had to lean over my body to work the buckle. His cock was flaccid now, and his skin slightly damp with sweat, a post-sex man, not a monster. I had to restrain myself from seeking comfort in the curve of his neck.
“Finally,” I said, when he released me.
He ignored my irritated exhortation, pulled my hands in front of me, and inspected my wrists. They were red, but the skin wasn’t broken. He lifted them and placed my palms against his stubble-roughened cheeks.
He stared at me, and I stared back at him. What did he want? Why did he think it was okay to go from flat-out rape and torture to these post-sex gazing sessions? These gentle caresses lying beside each other on the bed?
“Something’s wrong with you.” I spread my fingers over his cheek where I’d slapped him earlier. “You’re a horrible person.”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t frown. He only covered my hands with his. “I know I’m a horrible person. Do you want those kisses now?”
Damn him. Yes, I wanted them, and I hated myself for wanting them, because he wasn’t nice. He was horrible. I know you’re all pouty and hurt because you didn’t get enough attention, because I didn’t fawn all over your pretty dress and your fucking lingerie. It was all true, and I hated that he said things like that to my face, that he called me on all my faults and insecurities. He made me feel awful.
And then he held me and kissed me like this.
His fingers eased along my neck, gentling me, collecting me as his lips played over mine. When I responded to his caresses, he pulled me closer and upped the violence, nipping me, biting my lower lip.
I opened my hands on his chest, needing this closeness and connection, even though I knew it for a lie. He was so handsome, so sexy, and he could sweep me away so easily if he wanted to. It wasn’t fair. Every session, he tormented me and tied me into emotional knots, and then kissed and caressed me afterward, like that took away everything he’d done to me. It didn’t.
His kisses weren’t sweet, or passionate. They were lies. I turned my head away so his lips ended up on my cheek. I closed my hands and drew them away from his chest.
“What?” he said.
“I don’t want to kiss you.”
“I’m paying you, and I want to kiss you.”
“You’re mean to me.” I hated how childish and whiny I sounded. He made me feel childish and whiny and ridiculous and desperate for his small gifts of affection.
“I don’t understand you,” he said with mock annoyance. “Last week you were mad because I raped you. Now you’re mad because I choked you, beat you, and sodomized you. I don’t know how to make you happy.”
“This isn’t a joke. It’s not funny.”
“No, it’s not funny. It’s sexy. You enjoyed everything we did today.”
I moved to get up and he pulled me back down. I fought, hitting out at him, but as usual he was one step ahead of me, deflecting and trapping my hands.
“You need to stop hitting me,” he said in a stern tone. “I mean it. I’m paying you. Show some respect.”
I gazed into his eyes, trying to see the humor, the irony. Trying to understand. “Are you for real right now?”
“I’m very real, and I’m very honest. Why won’t you be honest and admit that you like these scenes we do together? The world won’t end because you lose yourself in a little rough sex. I don’t hurt you. I don’t really hurt you,” he qualified, when I gave him a look.
“You hurt me every time.”
“Sexy games. I’m a sadist. It’s what I like.” He touched my cheeks, dragged my face up to his. “And I like you because you fight me,” he murmured against my lips. “Even when you submit, you fight me. That’s a hard thing to find. Do you know how happy I was when I found you, Chere? After our first session at the W, I went home and masturbated so hard I almost injured myself, and then I called your pimp and set up our next date. I couldn’t wait to see you again. You made me so happy that day. You make me so fucking happy every time you struggle and fight me.”