Her arms were covered in scars. Those jagged, furious little reminders of melancholia which inevitably began remind him of his own unhappiness, the same unhappiness he had been working so hard to ignore lately. She lay under him with her arms reaching up and clutching the headboard, unaware or unconcerned that her wounds were exposed. He wondered how she could be so unashamed of them. When he had self harmed he had always become humiliated by the scars. They existed as constant reminders of his weakness, his inability to deal with his shit like a man. He stared at her scars and he pitied her, not because she scarred herself in moments of such intense melancholy that physical pain was the only way to ease the emotional pain, but rather because she was as weak as he was. She couldn’t deal either.
When they had met he had been enamoured by her straight away. She talked fas and loud, chugged scotch after scotch, and laughed hard and with every muscle in her body. He was smitten. She regularly wore black and highlighted her mouth with a deep burgundy lipstick; she wore no other make up. On their first date he had thought wildly of that burgundy mouth on his dick, the lipstick smearing all over the shaft. He’d had to excuse himself and masturbate in the dingy bathroom of the pub. When he’d returned his cheeks were flushed and he suspected that she knew what he had done because she reapplied that lipstick without a mirror, staring straight into his eyes while she did it.
He stared down at her now, noticing some of that burgundy lipstick was smeared across her mouth, the rest of it was smeared across his dick just like he’d fantasized. She stared up at him grinning; her teeth were big and white, just like her tits. Her pussy was slick and ready for his lipstick stained cock. He ran a finger across it, savouring the wetness and taking pride in the fact that she got so wet just for him.
“You’re so wet,” he couldn’t help but state the obvious, and she laughed a miniature version of her full-bodied guffaw.
“Once upon a time, when I was first diagnosed with depression and started meds, I was dry as the fucking Sahara no matter what.”
She spoke so casually about what was undoubtedly the most difficult time of her life and he wondered if she was lying just to have a story to tell. He couldn’t understand how anyone could be so nonchalant about their battle with the great black blanket of doom that was clinical depression. He couldn’t fathom a genuine laugh preceding the sentence “when I was first diagnosed with depression.” He was simultaneously further intrigued and disgusted by this woman. She didn’t fit any mould he’d ever seen. not the mould of a woman, not the mould of a patient of depression, not the mould of someone who inflicted physical harm on themselves. She made him uncomfortable and yet he was attracted to her, and he hated himself for being attracted to her.
She began grinding her hips, smearing her wetness on the tip of his cock, smiling at him the whole time. She knew what she was doing. She knew her body and she proved it when she brought one hand down to massage her clit, fluttering her eyes closed as she fell into the pleasure. He watched her — stared down at her — aroused. Where had she come from? he wondered while watching her play with her tits with one hand and her clit with the other. He head was thrown back and her mouth open. He could see down her throat and suddenly he water his cock down here, gagging her and making her choke on him. He wanted to take away the control she had secured for herself. He felt she wasn’t deserving of it, but he couldn’t understand why. He just knew that she couldn’t have the power here, in his bed, lying under him, showing off the scars with (he suddenly realized) weren’t limited to just her arms. They were everywhere. Little snicks and cuts on her chest, her stomach, her thighs. Had she no shame?
Anger overcame him and he grabbed her hand just as she was about to orgasm. He clutched her other hand as well and roughly pinned them down by her waist. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him; there was a playfulness in her res and her smirking mouth betrayed her pleasure at being dominated. She didn’t say a word, but struggled weakly under him causing him to hold her down harder. Her legs wrapped around his waist as if inviting him into her and he hated her for taking back the power even when she was in a position of submission. He thrust himself into her, no caring if he was too rough or not. She didn’t seem to care and instead threw her head back and let out a moan of pure pleasure. He hated her for enjoying this.
He wished he had tied her up, left her totally helpless and at her mercy. He wanted to take away any power that she had, all because she was comfortable with her sadness and he wasn’t. He pulled himself out and scooted down to stuff his face in her pussy. He continued to hold her hands down beside her gyrating hips and he suckled and teased her clit while she writhed around She wanted him to flick his tongue over her tender clit until she came, he knew this, but he refused to let her have it. He slurped up her juices and revelled in the moans of her frustration. She was trying to free her hands so she could guide his head as she pleased, but he only held on tighter. He hoped his fingers dug into her skin; he hoped he bruised her; he hoped she would remember how he had controlled her whenever those bruises smarted. It wasn’t enough that he was physically dominating her now, he wanted her to think of him afterwards, too. He wanted to be the cause for any scars she endured. He wanted to be the one she thought of when she thought of pain.
“Please, oh please,” she began begging him and he smiled into her cunt. Pulling his face out he stared down at her: this lustful mess of a woman who was relying on him to satisfy her and give her what she craved. This is how he wished she could always remain: under him, at his mercy, almost a slave to him. He thrust his cock back into her pussy and pounded over and over again. She cried for the Almighty as if He were going to grant her the satisfaction she needed. But He wasn’t. No one was and no one could except for him. He continued to pound her and he felt the walls of her vagina tighten around his cock and then a gush of liquid dripped out. A weight lifted off of him when he allowed her her well-deserved release and he himself came shortly after.
She was all smiles as she got dressed and he had reverted to being disgusted with her and, to an extend, himself as well. The euphoria had been fleeting and he had lain back on his bed watching her chatting and laughing as she reapplied her lipstick and briefly fuss with her hair and clothes. For a reason unbeknownst to him, he suddenly reached over and pulled her to him, planting a tender kiss on her freshly tinted mouth. When he pulled away she was smiling and she gently wiped his lips clean of colour. He looked at her smiling face and he felt sorry for her all over again.
“We should do this again,” she stated with a smile as she headed out. He escorted her to the front door nodding.
“Yeah, for sure,” he said mechanically. “I’ll call you.” And he knew he never would.