Men always want more.
I know that much to be true, as he slips the lacy red thong down along my thighs. I used to wear reasonable panties to work. Now I wax-strip my pussy raw –and spend the next day waddling up and down to the bathroom to readjust the lingerie I sport. All for what? To please a man who will never love me, let alone even care about me.
I’ve been reduced to a sad cliché. Look at me; lying face down on the dirty motel bedding as he looms and drools over me, spreading my legs apart. To use a term I coined from a teen I recently busted for possession, I’m what you might describe as a side chick. I looked it up on my phone, and the definition fit. I’m the other woman; the one who is better than his wife in bed, the one who does the things she won’t do. As if it’s so hard to be better than her. It isn’t, not one bit. For one, I actually put out. Though that wasn’t good enough for very long.
You see, being the other woman is hard. Hard hard.Harder-than-his-cock-the-first-time-he-fucked-me kind of hard. Eventually it’s not just about being better than her anymore, it’s about topping yourself each time.
You’ve got to be the best you that you can be. My father used to say that to me. What a crock of shit. I always knew better; I knew that it was never about being the best you that you can be, it was about being the best you that you could be for someone else. I think about that now as I feel him run his tongue run up my slit, pausing ever so slightly as he increases the pressure. He prods it about stupidly around my opening,the tip of his tongue, Anomic Aphasia of the cunt – like a retard. He’s trying to nudge me with it, begging for a reaction. So I let out a motivational moan; part real, part inner porn star.
Yes, part real. I do actually enjoy some of this. The wet muscle is sending jolts of electricity through me as it probes me, soon joined by a finger. I moan louder. He slides in another. I rock my ass back against his fingers, whimpering like someone who’s never been fucked before. That’s a trick I learnt. That’s where the inner porn star part comes in. You’ve got to be the best you that you can be to keep him satisfied.
I made fucking sure that I was the best. Flashback to me at the strip club just off the highway, there on official business, just like we were earlier today. Only then, I was supposed to be interviewing a young woman named Nikki Corvell. Instead I find her up on the stage, busy sliding her panties down to her ankles. What do I do? I watch, I observe. She was just what I needed.
“Please,” I grovel, just like Nikki did later that night. A police officer soliciting sex from a stripper? It sounds like the plot of a bad porno. Inspect her gadget.
“I need it. Give it to me!” It’s a need with extra e’s added for emphasis; I neeeeeedhis cock the way I neeeeeededa pony when I was six years old. I also beg for it like I’m still that child who doesn’t yet understand that I really, really, really don’t need a pony.
Still, I beg for it like some desperate whore, like I needed him. Ha! I could have anybody in this goddamn town. That may be pushing it, but fact of the matter is, I’m not some slut who needs a regular injection of cock-juice. Unfortunately, I don’t have much of a say in the matter.
He pulls his fingers out. A strong scent of strawberry follows, masking the smell of eau de pussy. It’s the smell of the flavored lube he keeps stashed in the bottom of his desk at work. He smacks me across my ass, leaving a glistening red welt. It won’t leave a bruise. It’s the ones I used to receive after we hadn’t screwed in a few weeks, him unleashing all of his pent up testosterone out on me – those left marks. Once, after I got back from visiting Ma, he strangled me during sex. I wore a scarf to work the following week.
“Give it to me,” I pant as I tighten my grip around the edge of the piss-stained mattress, my pussy throbbing in anticipation. He shoves his fingers into my mouth, and I begin swirling my tongue around them, coating them with my spit. The lube may be flavored, but it still tastes like shit. Luckily, if I’m right, he’ll just slide it into me, still satisfied from the sex we had a fortnight ago, and won’t be too rough about it. The sooner this is over, the better.
Nonetheless, I still try to lower the risk of such incidents. For one, I try and make sure he has a release on a regular basis. You’ve got to be the best you that you can be to keep yourself from being punished. (This is becoming my fucking mantra.)I also employ other preventive measures; right now I’m face down on the bed, where he’ll fuck me from behind like the dog that he is. It seems to make him blow his load faster, especially when you factor in the expert tricks I’ve learnt since the first time we slept together. Who knew a woman could do so much with only her ass?
Though, that doesn’t mean he won’t be rough. He removes his fingers from my mouth, grabbing a fistful of my hair, forcing my back into an unnaturally arched position as he finally rams his meat into me. A very real gasp escapes my parted lips. Tears well in my eyes, his cock buried deep within me.
After the first thrust,the acting stops. There’s no more fake moaning, no false votes of encouragement, no forced dirty talk. This is real; the screaming, the tears. I used to act like I enjoyed it – at first I actually did – though now I think he finds pleasure in knowing I don’t.
My screams even seem to spur him on; his fist, my hair entwined in his fingers, tightening like a screw as he begins sliding in and out with more ease.I feel like some possessed girl in a horror movie, speaking in tongues as my body contorts into unimaginable positions in a fit of madness – except, in this movie, the priest is fucking me. The Exorcism of Emily’s Rose.
It feels as though my neck might snap at any moment. I have no doubt he could snap my neck with as much ease as he snaps open a can of Coke. Sometimes, I wish that he would just do it; have him snap my neck in two like a twig and let that be the end of it. Though that sweet release never comes. No pun intended. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound like some abuse victim who stays with her abuser, the ones you might read about in the newspaper after they finally give in and become spouse-murderers.
Trust me, I’m not. I don’t stay with him because I love him, because I don’t. I fucking hate him with every fucking fiber of my motherfucking being. Still, nothing is being done to me against my will, after all. I chose this. I do what I must to protect myself. Isn’t that what life is all about? Survival of the fittest?
I’m not strong like him, I could never snap his neck. So I use what I do have at my disposal; my body. I let him fuck me whenever, wherever he wants. Now; it’s the middle of the day and we’re at a motel. We’re supposed to be investigating. Yet here we are, him thrusting into me with all that he’s got. I think it was the risk of being here that turned him on. Either that, or men really can’t control themselves. Though I pray it’s not the latter, truth be told.
Being here may turn him on, though it’s not doing much for me. In fact, I’m trying my best to steer my thoughts away from why we’re here. I repress the mental images of the recent crime scenes, shove them into a dark cupboard of my mind and keep them locked there with all my other unsavory thoughts. We all have a place like that, right, in our minds? It’s like that closet at home that no one should open, the one that is to remain locked no matter what.
Still those images gnaw at me, hammering at the door of the cupboard in my mind as he runs his tongue against my ear. Then everything comes to a standstill, his grip around my hair loosensand I fall to the bed. For I second I think that he’s shot his load, that it’s over. Then he shoves it back in and gives a single thrust with all of his force. Then another.Another. The tears I’ve been holding back seep into the cheap bedding and I wonder how many other women have been in this position before me, fucked at some cheap motel.
Countless, I’d say. And isn’t it always these women – the other women – that come to these motels that end up getting offed? Just watch Pscyho; no, Norman wasn’t tied down, but Marion was definitely the other woman. At least people knew to look for Marion’s body at the infamous Bates Motel. What would happen if I was killed? It didn’t help that my entire life in my small apartment could fit into two suitcases.
I shake the thoughts, timing my backwards thrusts to his own, providing him with as much pleasure as possible. I need to make him come. He needs a release before I tell him that I was putting an end to this arrangement. Right after sex, when he’s lying there with his limp dick in his hand, spent from all the fucking, is when I need to tell him. Tell him when he can’t retaliate and then get the fuck out of here before he regains his strength.
I’ve been planning on leaving him for a while now. I wanted to wait until the investigation was over, but we’re no closer now to catching the killer than we were when we started the case a few months back. I’m getting out for two reasons; I do not wish to be the next person on the figurative chopping block, and I have found love. Look at me following both my heart and mind.
I need out, so I grind harder against his cock, I moan louder. I be the best me I can be for him, I push him to the edge. Though I wish he hadn’t let go of his grip on my hair; it seemed to have done something to him, the sick fuck. I can feel his hardness softening inside of me with each failed thrust, and before I can help myself, the words have left my mouth.
“I’m leaving you.”
My entire body goes stiff in anticipation. I wait. I study the floral quilt; a pattern of thorny red roses. The playwright, Tony Kushner, described love as a magnificent rose smelling faintly of blood. I don’t believe it is possible to understand this if you have not loved and hated the same person.
I have, many years ago. I know all about what those overpowering feelings can spawn. I mean, fuck, love is so rare that people are willing to die for it. Look at any of the women piling up in the morgue over the last few months; they all have one thing in common. They’re theother women. Of course there’s the odd prostitute or two, but most of them were women like me, trapped in an affair. They were the type of women the killer targeted, the women who were desperate to be loved.
The investigation hit a little too close to home. I found myself identifying with the victims too strongly, knowing I willingly put myself in that position, even if only to protect myself. I needed out. Though I needed to get out unscathed. Before he, or the killer, got to me first. All I know is that, if I stayed with him, I’d likely meet a bitter end. Bitter end, ha! Sounds like one of the many loads he’s forced me to swallow over the past year. Never again.
“I’m leaving you,” I say again, louder this time. I feel his now barely-hard dick slip out of me as he registers the words, comprehending what I have said. I keep my head down, buried in the mattress, and I wait. I know he can’t hit me, not if he wants to use the evidence against me. Though he can be impulsive. I can hear his heart hammering in his chest as kneels over me on the bed. I feel a shadow fall over the sliver of face that is still exposed. His hand. I close my eyes and push my head as hard as I can into the bedding.
I hear the sound of cracking bone, but I feel no pain. At first I think I’m having an out of body experience, floating in some dark void where I can no longer feel anything. It’s what I picture instantaneous death as. Then I feel him collapse on top of me.
I shift my head under his weight as I roll out from under him. Then I open my eyes and look up into the glare of the stranger standing in the sunlight streaming in through the open motel room door, tire iron in hand. It’s his wife, Miranda, who is standing there.
“Olivia,” she says, stepping out of the light and towards me. I glance at him, lying unconscious beside me, then back at her. I shut my eyes and can feel her breath on my face as she draws in close.I accept what’s about to happen.
I hear the clang of the weapon.
I want you to know that I’m not an unreliable narrator.
Everything I have told you has been true; I just didn’t tell you everything. We’ll get to that, because I’m sure you have questions. Seriously, though, you should have expected this.Like I said, I’m not some abuse victim who just up and stays with her abuser. Not anymore. I was only with him to protect myself, and now this is what I have to do. Not just to protect myself from him – and the killer – but for love.
Ah, love. Lovelovelovelovelove. It makes us do the craziest things. So does hate. It is both that have led us here to this shabby motel. Yes, us.
The tire iron falls to the floor as her lips meet my own. Her tongue swirls around mine, her hand roaming down my exposed back and over my thighs. It’s strange, the way my skin tingles when she touches me, remarkably different from his touch. I already feel better, less violated. I break the kiss, studying her eyes for some sort of reaction. This couldn’t have been easy for her. This won’t be easy for her. All she’s done is knock him unconscious. Will she actually be able togo through with this?
“Olivia,” she repeats. “Why did you tell him you were leaving him? You put yourself at risk. Unnecessarily.”
“I wanted to provoke him. He hadn’t come.” I glance at his flaccid dick, hanging there all pink and shriveled against the inside of his thigh, lifeless. “He hasn’t. I’ll make sure he does, though. Let’s first get everything else ready, shall we?” The clock is ticking now. This needs to be perfect.
You see, planning someone’s death takes a lot of patience and careful preparation. If you don’t want to be caught, that is. By now I hope you know that I’m not the killer. I’m not impulsive and sloppy, I don’t kill for fun. I won’t, however, deny that this is strangely exhilarating. How would you feel watching someone who’s caused you so much pain suffer?
“I’ll be right back,” she says, giving me a quick peck on the cheek.Item by item, I start pulling my clothes back on. I slide the panties back up my thighs. Check. I take my bra from the foot of the bed and put it back on. Check. I find my socks scattered with his clothes, making sure the pair matches. Check. I find my uniform shirt, slipping into it and doing up the buttons. Check. I find my pants, tucking in the shirt. Check. Lastly, I find my shoes. Check.
Now that I feel decent again – as decent as you can feel when you’re about to kill someone – I can help with Nikki. Poor bitch has seen a lot of men coming, but she didn’t see this coming. I wasn’t lying when I said she screamed that night. It was fine during the sex, but when she found out about what would soon happen to her, she wouldn’t stop yelling. She was like those annoying cunts in the horror films, the ones that scream so goddamn much you have to all but mute the movie. Honestly, I felt like killing her right there;just put her out of her misery. Though, like I said, I’m not impulsive. I knew I had to wait, so I gagged her instead.
Did you know this all happened at his house? Let the records show Nikki’s DNA was found at his house where he used to fuck her, before taking her to a motel to screwso that his poor wife wouldn’t find them when she got home. He was working the late shift that night as we planned his death.Don’t you just love it when a good plan comes together?
“Just put her on the floor,” I say as Miranda drags a sedated Nikki into the room, knocked unconscious by the same sedative the killer used with his victims.The wonders of craigslist and a disposable phone. I put on my latex gloves. Can’t be too careful, even if the ME is a drunk and half the police officers are incompetent.
I pull him from the bed, letting him rest on the floor while I’m removing the bedding, since my DNA will be all over it. I have a fresh set here. On the fresh set, we lay Nikki on the right hand side, just like the killer did with his victims.
I hope you see the genius in my plan.
Then I slather some strawberry flavored lube onto my fingers – the same brand and flavor they’ll find in his desk at work when they clear it. I slide one finger into her, then another. She’s tighter than I would expect – for someone of her extracurricular activities, at least. I feel myself get a little wet in my panties, and for a second I almost feel like slipping a lubed finger inside of myself.
Miranda has to help me place him on the bed when she’s sure my DNA has been removed from his penis. With my lube and stripper-pussy slathered glove, I now begin to work him. His cock is the first thing to wake up. Typical man.It’s not hard to get him to come, all that pent up spunk inside of him shooting out in thick ropes. I scoop some of it up with my two fingers, making sure to spread it all over inside of Nikki. I take a bit extra, making sure it leaks out of her. Voila, they have now legally had sexual intercourse.
Enter the killer.
“Where are the leather gloves?” I ask Miranda, and she brings them to me. She crouches down next to me, looking deep into my eyes as she furrows her eyebrows. She’s questioning this, what we’re about to do. I stare back with a sigh. Yes, we have to do this, it’s the only way.
She hands me the leather gloves as I realize I’m forgetting a crucial part of the plan. With the latex gloves still on, I grab his cellphone and dial my number. I answer his call on my own phone, letting it run on for 30 seconds. He phoned me from the motel, as the killer… I’ll say between sobs. I found them like this. Now the clock is ticking as I rush to the motel, completely forgetting to call for backup.
The women were always the first to die, let the men know what was coming. Some fucked form of justice. I slide the leather gloves on over the latex ones, wrapping my hands around Nikki’s throat. It’s surprisingly easy to kill someone. Especially if they can’t retaliate. Nikki might be my one regret about this plan, but it’s a necessary evil. She’s merely collateral damage. Have to stay true to the modus operandi.
“Miranda…” says a voice that is not my own. Fuck. I slip off a glove and feel Nikki for a pulse. Dead. I slide it back on and wrap my hands around his throat. His eyes begin to bulge as he realizes what I’m doing, too weak to fight back. I’m leaving you, I think, seeing my father staring back at me through his eyes. Men are all the same.
I want you to know, I’m not a lesbian because I was molested by my father and have daddy issues. No, he knew I was. My god-fearing, salt-of-the-earth Christian father said he’d fuck the gay right out of me. How could a man I loved do that to me? Why would he do that? What could I do? I was a scared and helpless fourteen-year-old girl, being raped night after night by my own father. No one would believe me, not back then, and certainly not in a small town. He didn’t just drive me to the point of insanity, he drove Ma there, too. One night while he was fucking a severely intoxicated Ma (you had to be to put up with him), I snuck into their room and bashed his skull in with a hammer. Ma went down for his murder.
That weekend I visited Ma, the weekend before he first strangled me, I visited her in jail. He found out what I had done, connecting the dots between my visits upstate and what he’d heard me tell Miranda about my father.
Then he tracked down the cold case files, started going over them again. Found a loophole, too, a way for me to be caught out. So I used my body and gave him what he wanted. It was never a long term solution, but it was fine till I figured out what to do. Then Miranda found out about us, and I told her what her husband was doing to me. Told her everything. Hoped she’d have sympathy, for she knew better than anyone about the kind of man he was. Not only did she have sympathy, it turned her on. We made love for the first time that night as we planned his demise.
Let’s bash his skull in,she said as she lifted her head from tonguing my pussy, we could run away together. By the second time she climaxed that night, we had an almost fully formed plan.
Now he’ll finally pay for what he did to us, as I increase the pressure around his throat. I think of the time he strangled me while he fucked me, and I squeeze the last little bit of life from him.
My body hits the floor as Miranda pushes past me. She begins to pound away at his chest, willing him to wake up as tears stream down her cheeks. Nonononononono.She has come undone. Or was it me who was fooled into thinking I’ll ever be anything more to them than the other woman? My heart sinks into my gut, an internal landslide, as my hand moves across the carpet towards the tire iron. Tears brim in my eyes as I pull myself up.
Love and hate can make us do the craziest things.
I take the swing. She spins around, her eyes meeting mine as the tire iron makes contact with her skull. There’s enough force that the bone splinters upon impact. Regret hits me at the very same instant. Salty tears burn my eyes and blur my vision. The room hazes around me. Her body crumples down across his as blood pools on the motel bed.
My head spins and my hands shake as I grab her body, turning her towards me as I try to stop the bleeding. Her eyes are fixated on mine. Why have you done this to me? I fall to my knees beside her, leaning in towards her.
Our lips meet, an ache blossoming within my chest as the coppery smell fills my thoughts, swirling around my memories with her, and I know;
Love is a magnificent rose smelling faintly of blood.
William Burger watched his first psychological horror film at the age of five, to adverse effects. Now, as a self-proclaimed psycho, his writing draws inspirations from the likes of Gillian Flynn, Stephen King, and Lauren Beukes. He made is writing debut through Short Story Day Africa, with support from many local authors. He is currently studying at Stellenbosch University towards a degree in Language and Culture – majoring in English and Visual Studies. William runs his blog, www.psychowritermusings.com, while finishing rewrites on his debut novel, Undertown.