Controlled Descent: Chapter 7
This was a challenging segment for me to compose, and I've heard it's a challenging read too. In truth, it was my third go at narrating the next stage of Mackenzie's story. Post the occurrence at the Kennedy Center, I desired to honor her bravery, and my first attempt was filled with rays of sunshine and puppy dogs. It was benevolent and filled with joy, which felt satisfying to scribe for her. It just wasn't accurate. Advancement isn't a direct path. It's errant and comprised of steps backwards and adverse directions, occasionally leading to the actual hurdle. The work is often draining, which is why numerous of us enterprise become stationary. I realized that Mackenzie has been immobile for so long that allowing her out of her own cage that easily would have simply been frivolous on my part. So, I stowed that draft away and initiated once more and yet again until I observed what must happen next. Where Mackenzie had to land to finally become detached. Occasionally the only path out is through.
- A.
The server ushers us back through the eating establishment to a padded bench with a long buffalo hide where I need to maneuver around to sit beside Jack. I do so because his physical presence is the only issue keeping my psyche intact. I was bearing up fairly well in the car, but now I feel tremulous and frantically overexcited, as though I've piped in several scoops of espresso throughout the day. Dinner did entice post the Kennedy Center, but if I'm genuinely honest, what I genuinely need is to hunker down in a darker chamber and observe about a dozen unremitting hours of the Great British Bakeoff. How much heartbreak could it have disseminated if I'd discovered something then and then?
The attendants clear the two vacant place settings while a waiter delivers a menu and wine directory to Jack. It's evident who's making the decisions now, and it's definitely not me. When the attendant takes our beverage order, I ask for a martini filthy, which I down far too fast in an attempt to calm my tangled nerves. It doesn't, and I grieve when Jack decrees that I am not permitted another until I eat something. I endeavor to bicker that olives transcend as food, and he warns me with a look that makes my oral cavity shut.
My overnight bag in Jack's trunk consists of cosmetics and a brush, so I was able to rectify some of Linda's harm in the drive from the opera, but there are boundaries to how much a woman can do following the dark in a mirror in a carview mirror. A female in a nearby table stares at me a bit too long, and I become nervous that I didn't do a good enough task. She can discern. Everyone knows what I did. What I am. I drum up an alibi to the lavatory to inspect my touchup in the mirror. Thankfully, it's not as terrible as I equated. I just resemble, well, ordinary, which leaves me with a paralyzing embarrassment and melancholy that I realize rationally is a disproportionate reaction but am powerless to quash.
I might have remained seated forever if not for three women entering the john speaking and laughing. That's my clue to dash back to the safety of the table and Jack. The menus are gone and in my absence, he has ordered for both of us. I should have been offended, but actually it's a relief. That kind of choice-making seems entirely beyond me just at the moment. Everything is too loud, and even the subdued clatter of cutlery on dishes raises my anxiety. I'm a bloodless nerve, and my feelings jump from one extreme to the opposite. Exactly why can't I just stay stationary and be the sort of good gal Jack longs for? I strive to focus on doing that, but he knows something is amiss with me.
"How are you?" he inquires, clutching my hand under the table.
Yet again, I pointed out I hadn't engaged in sexual intercourse. Wondering if the submission I faced from Linda fit into the definition of sex, I pondered. I knew she experienced sexual activities, but did I as well? Could a pillow insist it did if someone vigorously humped it senseless?
"Sex has no direct connection with this," Jack explained. "Drops occur due to an emotional and chemical response. When you're undergoing something grand, whether BDSM or not, your body releases high amounts of endorphins and adrenaline. When these chemicals depart, the vacuum they leave behind manifests as various intensities of emotion, at times mild, other times severe."
"So this is what I'm facing?"
"Since I'm not entirely aware of your behavioral patterns, I can't provide a definite answer."
"I need it to cease. I don't seek the theoretical meaning at present; I simply desire to escape these feelings."
"Sometimes it takes time," he suggested. "However, we can also exit here and return to your home."
I associated with this option, but didn't wish to disrupt his experience. He'd recently placed his order. "I'm fine."
"In that case, let's begin with your Dom comforting you," he said.
"Please reassure me that I'm alright."
As pathetic as it was, I was craving acclaim.
He nodded, taking hold of my hand. "Mackenzie, you're way more than fine. You're borderline extraordinary."
This boosted my mood and I searched for more words of satisfaction. "So you are pleased with my performance?"
"Look at me," he demanded, swiveling his chair to face me. "I am incredibly proud of you. Do you comprehend?"
In response, I affirmed with a nod and leaned my head on his shoulder. "I'm grateful."
"We must feed you. That'll also help with your emotional state."
"I'm famished."
He flashed a smirk. "Then I believe I can handle that."
As the food arrived, I observed a massive ribeye that could've easily topped Fred Flintstone's car. Serving an array of sides soon followed: sauteed spinach, grilled asparagus, lobster macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, onion rings - I'd rarely witnessed a steak that could surpass my previous acquaintance with such a dish. Excited by the ribeye's taste, it dissolved on my tongue, yet made me lose focus to the point where our conversation dwindled. Jack ordered wine, and for a duration of time we had a momentary peace.
"Now tell me about the opera," he inquired when both of us momentarily paused from the culinary extravaganza.
"I only witnessed half of it," was my response.
This caused Jack to burst into laughter. "Well, explain the untold part," he requested while indulging in some more nourishment.
I nibbled some more veggies to provide myself with additional time. Discussing my sexual experiences, particularly with someone I'm currently intimate with, still felt reminiscent of a fantasy. Yet, I could relate to how it would be unfavorably received by most men. I often chose to remain discreet, only sharing relevant details to continue feeling in control.
"I'm waiting," Jack admitted patiently.
Despite the surreal environment, accompanied by well-behaved patrons, I divulged the entire story, detailing what transpired during my absence, even though it was a taboo topic. As I recounted Robert's bargain with Linda, Jack ceased his meal, paying full attention to my words.
"Robert doesn't usually show mercy toward women," he conveyed, both impressed and bewildered.
"Why?"
"This is highly anomalous for him," Jack said, gesturing with his wine glass.
Knowing this ignited a sense of pride within me. Limited judgment and acceptance flooded my viewpoint, reminding me of a miracle. As I'd always cherished secrecy over degradation, I discovered a newfound power by entrusting our secret to another - it elevated my sense of control.
While unexpectedly sharing my secrets with Jack made me feel uncomfortable. Why can't I stay quiet, I ponder? What is it about his acknowledgment that draws me in? The more I say, the more vulnerable I become. This realization leaves me feeling unnerved as I realize that being "submissive" includes far more than just following orders. Submission signifies relinquishing control, being dependent. Hearing him say he's proud of me rings delightful, but what if he loses interest? What if he chooses another girl who's less of a pain to deal with? Would he still be with Linda if she's so "incredible"? I wonder, is his attention so fickle? Despite being damaged, I've always been damaged by my own choices. Now, Jack wants me to give up my control to his. I find the idea appealing, as he is much stronger and more self-assured than I am. But what if, one day, he tosses me aside? What would I be then?
"I presume there's power in telling me your deepest secrets," he states.
I respond, "I'm unsure." I plead inwardly for him to back off as my head throbs once more.
"Perhaps another time for that question," he suggests.
Relieved by the silence, I attempt to focus on my meal but my appetite vanishes. I reach for my wine glasses instead.
"Thanks," I utter without much passion, noticing that Jack is too preoccupied to notice.
He praises my performance yet again. This time, it could be grating on my nerves. Why is the dining room so loud? I shift back to my food, but nothing appeals to me anymore. I pick up my wine glass and gulp down some nectar.
"Thank you." I say softly, lacking enthusiasm despite his satisfaction.
"I'm amazed by what you did tonight," he glows.
I pretend to smile and try recalling humorous moments to achieve inner peace. Are strangers staring?
"I don't require you to do that," I assert.
"You knelt in the middle of the Kennedy Center. What else could you classify it as?"
"I'm not a submissive." I mutter softly.
"Bullshit. I believe it's time for a different label," he declares.
"Am I?" I ask sarcastically.
"You did submit tonight. Your submission was the most profound I've ever witnessed," he insists.
This comment sparks a raging hurricane within my skull. "I'm not a submissive." I articulate bluntly.
"Please, Mackenzie. That's not what I'm referring to. I'm proud of you for showing such courage."
I pull my hand away from his grip, furious. I attempt to escape around the enormous booth tables. I stumble and fall, landing in the waiting hands of our harried waiter. He tries to offer assistance, but I push him away. My vision narrows to the tiny pinpricks of remaining light. Time seems to degrade into a disorganized game of pick-up-sticks. I crash through the heavy doors, falling short of the door to the outdoors. Somehow Jack appears by my side, consoling me as I weep and gasp. He forgives my erratic breathing.
"Breathe. Just breathe." he gently suggests.
"Home." I declaim between sobs.
"Mine or yours?"
"Mine." I reply curtly.
"I can take you."
"No!" I dash.
"Please!" he petitions, refusing to accept my refusal.
Then, I'm bawling - an otherworldly, piercing cry that could only belong to a doomed spirit. Jack, stunned, recoils from me.
The next memory I recall is waking up in my bed, groggy with a headache so intense I can barely comprehend the world around me. Dehydrated, I ache in my throat and my ribcage seems to ache from screaming so loudly. The ultimate mockery: I soiled my bed Sheets. I had not done so since I was a child. That's adorable.
Jack is absent, but the garments amassed on my armchair are arranged in alignment with my weekend suitcase. He must have sat beside me until he confirmed my well-being. That was considerate of him, yet I'm only joyful he's departed. The thought of confronting him now is too excessive for me. There exists a note alongside the laundry. I'm reluctant to read it, yet I need to comprehend. It communicates, You were very explicit about not desiring to witness me once more, but I am reachable if you alter your opinion or necessitate anything at all.
I cannot remember uttering those words, though it aligns with my thoughts. I haven't shifted my stance. If anything, I feel more confirmed of my decision, and to support this stance, I crumple his message and discard it. Subsequently, I dismantle my bed, initiate washing, and take the first of many scorching showers.
A physician propositions a panic assault. My mom encounters those; nonetheless, I perceived she was just being theatrical. Yet another regret I will never pay for her. It was the most daunting episode of my life, not least as I'm unsure about the underlying cause. Evidently, it revolved around Jack and perhaps the Kennedy Center, though I don't know the cause. Which implies it might occur again, and I won't know until it's too belated. The possibility of having another instance in public traumatizes me. My recollections are cluttered, though I loathe the notion I might've behaved frightfully in the dining establishment. I cease venturing except for work.
Jack accumulates numerous messages during that initial week. The presence of his name induces my chest to condense, and I block his number without viewing any of the texts. I'm frail and understand my reaction won't satisfy him. I'm not courageous enough. My merely aspiration is to confine myself and anticipate that he'll surrender on me. It's immature, though I don't comprehend what else to accomplish besides obstructing myself from him. Anyway, he'll prevail. A man such as Jack? He possesses women lined up to replace me. That's what I convince myself.
Months transpire before I beget to resemble my typical self. Although it's hard to convey for certain, as my weakened sensations overwhelm me. Perhaps I should've accepted the doctor's request to prescribe Zoloft, yet when he introduced mood stabilizers and SNRIs, I recoiled. Maybe I'm merely a naïve, obstinate female, though I don't wish to contain a personality crafted by Pfizer. The healthcare specialist trusts I'm mournful. I disclose I'm simply melancholic. There's a disparity. Or perhaps that's merely depression shielding its sovereignty. Regardless, it's a denial for me. I'll triumph or perish on my own.
My routines congeal into a dispiriting ritual: attend work; revert home; delighted sleep early, rise late; return to work. Reboot and repeat. This is meant metaphorically as well; however, I'm actually defiling my body. My eating also fluctuates more than during senior high school. Household responsibilities have always been a endeavor, though currently I succumb to apocalyptic levels of squalor. My possessions are unclean, though the notion of practicing laundry or housekeeping is exhaustive. Worst of all is the weekend. Going to work compels me to exude the appearance of a functioning grown-up for nine hours daily. However, come Friday night, the machinery breaks down, and unsupervised, I wander aimlessly within my dwelling like a zombie with no one to assault.
I genuinely am unsure what would have ensued had not Tommy aided me from demise. He monitors my survival despite my persistent objections, providing sustenance and monitoring me while I eat. What he doesn't supply is judgment, opinions, or counsel. He simply maintains my company and overlooks the asylum that is my apartment. On occasion, we watch Netflix until my suffering commences. Then he masses my hair and grips me until I halt. It's peculiar that I exclusively cry when he's present, otherwise I'm just an empty vessel. I'm incapable of ascertaining what I'm sobbing about, and that's part of the explanation why I request his absence. Emoting is excruciating, yet the harlot continues to surface anyhow. And fortunately, he persists. Restitution of Tommy's benevolence is genuinely that which sustains me during those initial few weeks. I'm incapable of permitting him to downfall by abandoning existence altogether.
After almost two months, I begin to sense an improvement in my outlook. The depression/low spirits eases up, and instead of contemplating Jack every minute, I only think about him every hour. I consider this progress. I decide to go for a jog. Although my body is weak, the fact that I'm outside in the sun and moving is therapeutic. This prompts me to engage in physical exercise again, which means interacting with people. Given my need for interaction, each day without another incident brings hope that the previous incident was a fluke. I take Tommy and James out for dinner to express my gratitude for keeping me alive. Not a fancy steak dinner for me, but just a regular eatery with actual patrons. I feel anxious, but Tommy's jokes help me laugh, and once I start, I can't stop.
Another aspect of life that refuses to regain its intensity is my sex life. For three months, I don't engage in sexual activity out of fear that my nervous system may have been damaged during this traumatic experience. A person who could not go thirty-six hours without attempting to engage in sex now find it easy to think about other things. This almost feels like divine intervention. At only twenty-three, my fixation on sex has dominated more than half of my life. Being able to consider other matters, even for a while, is a blessing. I complete two leisurely books and even join a gym's running club, considering the possibility of participating in a marathon. I begin making plans with friends and follow through with them, a feat I've never achieved before. I finally visit the African American History Museum, an attraction that's been on my must-see list since I relocated to Washington D.C. This is apparently how normal individuals live their lives.
Though thoughts of Jack still linger, they're no longer vivid. A hollow space remains in my heart that used to be occupied by him. As I learn to detach myself, I wonder if I've evolved or merely grown numb.
Life seems almost normal until the wedding in late July.
Although Aliyah and Nathan met sophomore year, it's surprising that it took so long for their wedding. Their union never surprised me, as we had quite a few shared experiences back in college. Both of us seemed to enjoy wreaking havoc among the student body. However, after my semester abroad, I returned to find Aliyah infatuated with Nathan Crowder, an athlete and engineering major. This intense hunk of a man gave me an uneasy feeling. I understood why Aliyah changed, but his imposing presence unsettled me. Despite our proximity, we gradually grew apart, and I almost never saw her at night. If I suggested a nighttime activity, Aliyah was always occupied. I could imagine Nathan's discomfort at my moral influence on his girlfriend. I was blamed for drawing Aliyah further into immoral activities, which I thought seemed unfair. Nevertheless, Aliyah and I grew distant, eventually becoming mere acquaintances. Then I moved to D.C., and Aliyah found employment in Chicago while Nathan pursued his graduate studies. If not for social media, I'd have no clue as to their activities in the past two years. Yet, they maintained an invitation to their wedding.
I travel to Boston, where they're getting married, on a Friday evening. Checking into the hotel, I find it teeming with laughter and conversation. The bar is overflowing with people. I discover that some college friends have spontaneously gathered to reunite near the expansive plate-glass windows overlooking Boylston Street. Based on their rapid turnover, I realize I haven't seen them since we graduated. They're same yet different. As I encounter several familiar faces, I understand that I can never regain my former closeness to Aliyah. Nathan's family and I are not well-acquainted, but I soon learn they're a lovely bunch. Soon, I'm immersed in interactions with college acquaintances and others.
It's been a tiring week at work, and originally, I was planning to just go back to my room, take a shower, and pass out. But that's not happening anymore. Upstairs, I quickly splash some water on my face, change out of my work clothes, and into a comfortable slip dress, before heading downstairs to the lobby. As I walk in, everyone cheers, which is a fantastic way to be welcomed. I spend the first ten minutes just hugging everyone, and I'm so glad I came to the wedding. Over the past few months, it's been tough, but now it's nice to be around my old friends again. There's an ease and familiarity with these people, and it's incredible how seamlessly we slip back into our old habits - the quick remarks and inside jokes. It's as if no time has passed.
I indulge in a wave of nostalgia for an hour, indulging in a few beers, even as shots are passed around. As the older, more experienced members of the party begin to leave, I look up from a conversation and find Aliyah sitting next to me.
"Would you believe this nonsense?" she says, with a happy, baffled grin.
"I'm so happy for you," I reply, throwing my arms around her.
"Getting to wear white," she says, referring to our old dorm room.
"They'll let you do that?" I tease.
Aliyah laughs loudly at that. "They can try and stop me."
"Thanks for inviting me," I say.
She becomes serious. "Of course. I'm sorry if you thought I wouldn't. I've not been a good friend, but I miss you a lot."
"I miss you too," I reply, and we hug tightly. We catch up on each other's lives. She tells me about her life in Chicago, and I'm impressed by how cool it sounds. She also talks about visiting DC in the fall. I know she won't follow through, but at the moment, it feels good to share in the fantasy. One of her bridesmaids comes to take her to bed, and they walk off, giggling, leaving me to consider the fact that I'm not a bridesmaid and wasn't even invited to her bachelorette party. It's melancholy, and I feel like Ebenezer Scrooge in the cold, being showed the happiness I deny myself.
Eventually, the lights come up in the lobby, and the bartender announces last call. There's some talk of going out to another bar, but everyone seems beat, and tomorrow is going to be a long day. Instead, the four groomsmen who stayed in a suite together invite everyone up for a nightcap. We all settle down, and the conversation picks up where we left off in the lobby. I end up talking to Jake Taylor, who moved to LA after graduation. He just got his first writing job on a science fiction show that will debut on Netflix soon. I'm genuinely happy for him, and after two years in DC, it's just nice to discuss something other than politics.
Across the common area, Trey Ward keeps glancing at me. His eyes have always held a cruelty that I vividly recall. He was a sophomore when I was a freshman and already had a reputation for being rough with girls. The popular bad boys were often sought after, but Trey was more than just a bit dangerous. He was a cautionary tale told to the new freshmen, and I defied the warnings by chasing him down at the first party of the year. He took me back to his room and had his way with me. It was like sparring with an Escalade, and I learned firsthand how deserving of his reputation he was.
I limped back to my dorm that night, my body aching for a week. My cervix was so tender that I went to the health center for a checkup. Although everything turned out fine, I had vowed he was a one-time thing. The problem, however, was that Trey possessed a knack for sensing weakness. I wouldn't hear from him for weeks and then, just when I'm feeling especially down, he'd text, and I would rush back to him. It went on like this until he graduated, and we haven't spoken since. I have no desire to talk to him now; we've never been good at conversation, and I don't want that other thing anymore.
I received multiple notifications on my phone. They were all from Trey, whom I choose to ignore. His displeasure was apparent, but I didn't care. I adjusted my position on the couch to avoid facing him. Billy Yates brought up an idea for a game of Never Have I Ever, which I enjoyed back in freshman year under different circumstances.
"I wouldn't play with Mac; the pressure's too much," Aidan LeCompte declared.
"Well, there's a reason for that," I replied, eliciting laughs from everyone present.
I then returned my attention to Jake, whose company was much more appealing than it had been earlier. Jake sent me a list of movies I'd supposedly need to catch up on, though I couldn't recall any of the titles. It seemed to amuse him though, and I was happy to oblige. The crowd kept getting smaller as the evening progressed.
"Alright, a question," Conor Davis casually asked, leaning forward on the other couch. He's always had a rebellious reputation, so it wasn't surprising to hear him come up with such a concept. "Have you slept with every guy here, Mac?"
Caught off guard, I hesitated. I recalled how many women had left, and realized that it was now just me and five guys. I'd slept with all of them, save one - Dan Harris.
"Yes, except Dan."
"Bullshit!" some of them exclaimed, looking Dan's way for confirmation.
"Nope, never had the pleasure," Dan admitted casually.
"That's right," I affirmed. "And that's two I haven't slept with."
"Oh yeah, and who's the other guy?" Aidan inquired.
I frowned, unsure of the timeline of past events. When did everyone else leave? How was it I was still here with him?
"Dan," I said, indicating the handsome man in question.
"Conor is wrong; Dan was a monk in college," Aidan explained.
"That's true," I admitted. We'd all known Dan to be disciplined and devoted back then. I'd been secretly attracted to him.
"It's also true that we became close when I stopped trying to sleep with him," I explained.
Conor laughed at that, but his humor was short-lived. "I never thought fucking him would be a good idea, but he seems to."
Just as the conversation was going to take a sexual turn, there was a loud knock at the door. Billy opened it to reveal the groom, Nathan.
"What are you all still doing up?" Nathan demanded.
The room fell silent, and everyone turned to me.
"What are they laughing about?" Nathan inquired suspiciously.
I sighed and shrugged. "It seems I've slept with every guy here, except Dan."
"And you, Dan?" Nathan inquired.
"Nope, not him either," Dan confirmed.
Amid the laughter, I had a reminder of the fact there was only one guy left at the event I hadn't coupled up with. The room's tension grew as people worried about the potential confrontation between Aidan and Nathan.
"And why the hell wouldn't you have fucked Mac?" Aidan inquired.
The air around the room became tense. Nathan had a history of wrestling, so it wouldn't have been a fair fight. This only served to heighten my anxiety.
"Because of Aliyah," Aidan insisted, mentioning a name that should've never been brought up.
"What?" Nathan demanded. "Why the fuck bring that up?"
Aidan patted down his own shoulders, trying to show submission. "I didn't mean anything by it."
"Why did you say that?" Nathan posed, his voice rigid and full of anger.
"It was just -" Aidan started to explain before being interrupted.
"Excuse me," Nathan said coldly. "I don't want to fight you, but if you try something, I'll end you."
The have-a-good-time vibes quickly dissipated, leaving broken glasses and half-empty bottles as evidence of the shift in mood. There was a lingering tension as people waited for Aidan to respond.
I'm not fully versed in "bro talk," but even I can tell that Aidan is about to be in trouble. It'll cast a shadow over the entire weekend, and I'll feel guilty since it involves Aliyah. Although it's not strictly about me, it's related to me. I can't let Aidan lose to Aliyah.
"I've slept with Alan Brightman," I blurt out loudly.
Everyone stares at me in surprise.
"You slept with Professor Brightman?" Conor asks incredulously.
"For two years, on and off," I admit, and I finish the rest of my drink. "He was my professor."
"You're the reason his wife left him?" Aidan inquires.
Professor Brightman's wife had been a colleague at our college. Their separation had been highly public and quite scandalous. It caused quite the uproar in our small, tight-knit community.
"No, I was only a symptom," I say, borrowing a line from a film.
"Fucking slut," Nathan says contemptuously, but at least he's aiming his anger at me rather than Aidan. My plan has been effective in that respect. However, it doesn't change my opinion of him as an asshole.
Nobody rushes to my defense as I look around and witness resentment, scorn, and an unsettling, more primitive need to make sure I'm put in my place. Being the only girl in a hotel suite full of drunk men doesn't feel like a good idea anymore. Satan's domain is currently occupied by my demons. A mental switch flips, awakening my previously dormant sex drive. I imagined that part of me had died, but it was just in exile. My libido returns as a vengeful army to reclaim its rightful realm. As roaring vengeance rings in my ears and lascivious visions appear before my eyes.
I regret that I cannot attribute my actions to alcohol. I understand what I'm doing, and I'm accountable for my bad judgments. Professor Brightman was to blame for his actions at the time, as they are responsible for their actions now. Nonetheless, men believe they can do whatever they want. They consider women whores. To hell with them! I glare at my "friends," who have always taken advantage of me yet believe they are superior. To calm things down, I say something I'll regret forever.
"Yes, Aliyah also slept with him."
The room falls eerily silent as everyone stares at Nathan, whose face has turned deathly pale.
"Jesus, Mac," Jake murmurs under his breath. "Is this real?"
I stand up and step away from him. "What do you mean? It's true."
"It's irrelevant, " he replies.
"Aren't I supposed to keep all your secrets, though?"
"What?" Aidan asks.
"How does Conor know that everyone here has slept with me? I don't recall telling him," I point out, making Aidan reconsider his self-righteousness. "Yes, that's what I figured."
"What's wrong with you?" Jake demands. "Seriously."
"Seriously, fuck you, Jake," I retort. "How many times did we sleep together when you were with Lilith? You spoke constantly about how much you loved her. What happened? Did I entice you into my bed with my 'feminine wiles'? Is that your story? Please check our text messages. See who pressured who."
"You sound out of line, Mac," Billy offers.
"Out of line, but Nathan called me a whore," I reply.
"What's your problem?" Conor asks.
"The question is mine too," I say, glancing around for some support - there's none. I stand totally alone in the midst of sharks. "If anyone could provide some rationality and prevent us from entering full-blown chaos, they could. However, like a coward, there's none present. So, we'll continue with this and sleep off this ordeal, and tomorrow we can act as if this never occurred."
"Do you want us to demonstrate?" Trey asks softly.
"I'm aware of what you're like," I dismiss Trey. "Trust me, everyone knows. No one needs a reminder."
"Aren't you still that submissive one?" he teases.
"Poor thing. Retreating back to your dominant ways to prove yourself," I smile sarcastically.
Trey chuckles to hide his nerves. "We always need someone in a higher position, don't we?"
"Then prove it. Show me what a powerful man you are, Trey," I dare him.
"You wish."
"Yup, that's what I thought."
I think that's over, but then I remember how his games work.
"Get down on your knees where you belong," he orders, not budging from his seat.
I recall this move all too clearly. Trey was never direct, not at first. He'd always begin with a little role-play - do this, do that. His twisted form of consent. So after the first time, I knew the drill and was never going to protest, but I'll play along with his act if it makes him more intense.
"Right here?" I ask, glancing around again at the audience. They're like spectators at a horror movie about to witness a gruesome murder. Popcorn and sodas for the price of admission.
"Sure, right here," Trey confirms.
It's Aliyah's wedding tomorrow, and there he is, her future husband. This rash action could ruin the event and possibly her entire marriage. I should know better. But in this very moment, I don't care. I feel a burning desire to expose these hypocrites and embarrass them. I see how easily they'd be provoked. I crave that so intensely. My body is craving violence. With a shrug, I get down on my knees.
"Alright, here I am," I say, trying to sound relaxed to mask my racing heart. "Are you a man now?"
"You've never known when to remain silent," Trey remarks, standing up from his chair.
"Jake, please, try to maintain the peace," Jake tries mediating, but to no avail. The audience doesn't pay him any heed, least of all Trey. I win if you call it that. Now I just need to make a funny remark, something pointless to break the tension and let him escape. Instead, I reach for his belt.
The room goes stiflingly quiet as if they're all holding their collective breath. I can hear the air conditioner click on. Mesmerized, Trey watches me undo his pants and let them fall to his thighs. From his brief glimpse inside, I can see he's not entirely hard. Probably due to nerves, I don't know. I, on the other hand, am soaking wet. I keep my eyes closed, hoping I can mask my excitement. Jake's gaze is still fixed on me as if waiting for my next move. I pull down his boxers and grip his penis firmly, encouraging it to stiffen. Trey responds and leans forward before fucking my face with his cock.
I catch Jake's shocked expression out of the corner of my eye. He's still seated on the couch only a few feet away, with his mouth gaping. I'd justify it, except Trey has moved past his initial shock and is now aggressively thrusting against my throat, causing it to overflow with spit. Without touching myself, I know exactly how feverishly aroused I am. That's why I suppress the urge to make a cruel comment about the true size of his manhood. I need it hard and confident, not limp and referring to his member. I tug at his boxers, creating a path from his waist to his crotch.
"Please continue," I say, attempting to sound cavalier, but my voice trembles a little. "Are you a man?"
"You never knew when to stop, did you?" he questions.
The crowd watching me gives me a sense of exhilaration. I glance up at Trey and realize he's edgy because his companions aren't reacting the way he anticipated. He's stuck and I've won...if you can call it that. All I have to do is say something funny, which would let him off the hook. But instead, I wrap my hand around the base of his penis and move toward his mouth.
A dead silence fills the room as if they're all waiting for a verdict. I hear the air conditioner turn on. I sneak a peek at Jake's expression of disbelief. He's still sitting on the couch, mere feet away and his eyebrows raise in surprise. I'd explain my actions, but Trey has regained his confidence and is pushing himself into my face, at least for now - he kicks off his shoes. I've never performed for a crowd before and I expect them to walk out in disgust, but when I gather the courage to glance around, everyone's still present.
"Be quiet," he urges, thrusting ahead and performing his actions.
This is the point where I feel Jake's touch. He's relocated on the sofa, groping my gown along my hips and buttocks. It's surprising, considering that my sociopathic actions had previously always been a solitary pursuit. My first experience of being used by two individuals was actually at the Kennedy Center alongside Robert and Linda, and this many-man setting is an entirely distinct sensation. As the reality of what I've got myself into starts to dawn on me, I feel trepidation for the first time. Perhaps I should have been apprehensive earlier, yet here I am. And somehow, I enjoy the sense of fear this sharpens within me. It sends an electric charge through me, causing me to question why I never tried this before. Why submit to one person when you can alter even more? Intendently, I raise my dress behind me.
Jake abandons his seat and moves behind me, groping my body more roughly. His digits toy with my genitalia, causing me to emit a moan as I tease Trey's cock. My underwear is carelessly removed, and fingers delve within. It triggers my eyelids to flicker open, and I perceive a fourth hard cock appearing its belonging becoming apparent. Without verifying who it belongs to, I grasp a few droplets of my saliva and apply them to it. Generously, Trey eases up on his hold of my hair, permitting me to alternate between the two. Whoever it is, he's smaller than Trey, and I reward him with a groan upon receiving his entire length.
Environmentally, I detect an upsurge of frenzied activity. Eager fashions are being discarded. They're in a trance, or perhaps they're afraid of breaking my concentration. I direct my attention towards the gentlemen, feeling their eyes upon me. Toney accounts for Jake's organ in my mouth, Aidan in my left hand, and Trey in my right. Curiously, I wonder who is fingering me as a tremor flows through me. There's a comfort in not knowing who it is penetrating me. It's a humiliating lack of significance. You're not a living being but a disposable orifice, I assert inside my head as Jake is yanked thoughtlessly in and out.
Hands breach my body, groping my breasts and pinching my nipples as strongly as they can. Trey disrobes me by pulling my frock over my head. Pausing to observe, I peek around the room. Only Nathan remains partially clothed and motionless in the entryway. I hold his gaze, forcing him to maintain eye contact until he diverts his gaze. "Fuck you," I muse as I'm lifted into a seated position on Trey's lap.
"Penetrate me," he commands soulfully.
Mentally, I reach between my legs and guide him in. The absence of barricades surprises me, but I'm too carried away to mind. Pulse peels the wrongful layer from Michelle's skin, yet she fails to question its use. Feet traverse across the sofa as he grabs a fourth hard cock and thrusts it into my face. I attempt to bounce on Trey and suck him simultaneously but am unsuccessful due to our size incompatibility. I can only attempt to accept both cocks and allow the motion of Trey's thrusts and Billy's sodomy to convey me back and forth. Nothing more than a conduit for their desires. Achievement unlocks.
The scenario continues in a similar vein. Precisely how long this goes on, I'm unsure. It could be minutes, or even hours - now I can't even comprehend the concept of time, or who's utilizing me at a given second. These guys aren't individuals with personalities or souls, rather devoid cocks. I start to grasp the essence of a gangbang. It's not about feeling good. It's not even about sex. It's about survival. I am the one like an insignificant sailboat in a hurricane. I'm drifting with these waves being controlled by the powerful men around me. There's no respite, no relief. I'm a vulnerable shipwreck in a storm, merely relieved to keep afloat. To endure. Thankfully, I'm well-equipped to handle this owing to past experiences.
"Get her to the bedroom," commands Trey, seemingly assuming a leadership position.
I struggle to my feet, almost falling off the couch. My legs and knees have tightened up, and Trey grabs my neck, bolstering me upright and directing me towards the next door. He shoves me face-down on the queen-sized bed, where hands immediately hold me in place and rearrange me into the pose of a doll. One guy penetrates me instantly while Conor claims my mouth. My mind drifts away, tempted to escape to a tranquil place. Fuck, that's cheating, and I know it. I forcefully draw myself back, resolve strengthening. Stay here. Don't retreat.
Billy removes himself from my vagina and yanks me around by the hair, making sure he can deposit his load on my face. His semen mostly misses and taints his hand or tangles in my hair. This displeases him, so he brushes it off on my cheek and demands I clean it. I obligingly lick away any residue. I'm a good dog.
I'm starving for water and try to voice my craving, but Conor plunges into my mouth before I can, taking over my quest for hydration. Someone positions me so I'm spread eagled and another man takes up where Billy left off. This commences to become uncomfortable; they're much larger than me. However, I'm also dehydrated, intoxicated, and haven't had sex for months. Biology has its limits. I hanker for some lube but knowing it's not present, I can only dream of it. I'm ambivalent about it continuing. On some level, it sparks desire to experience the neglect of my bodily requirements. This convinces me I'm a clever slut. Feeling worthless, I surrender to the onslaught, endeavoring to endure.
As if by command, the men trade places. Aidan raises me onto my back, and rams himself deep inside me. My clitoris is agonizingly tender, and his body is crushing it with each thrust. My vision blurs with the surge of sweat and perspiration, an assured sign of his about to climax. To hold him there, I clutch his shoulders and hoist my hips to impale myself on his thick mass. I somehow coax another orgasm out of him and he erupts in a heap upon my body. A warm, comforting embrace, his essence seeping into my pores.
I slump back, exposed and vulnerable, aware that Jake and Trey remain. The former is once more in me while the latter slaps his erection across my forehead and kneads my breasts while he tries to get one to come loose. Nathan, thankfully, hasn't appeared. Two men have finished, the room empties as Dan Harris and Conor Davis remain. Warm, moist, and sated.
"Fuck me," I command Jake. "Hurry, fuck me."
Finding my voice startles everyone present. This perceived loss of agency has aroused them and I find it arousing, fostering a powerful yearning to be utterly needed and used. I dig my fingers into his shoulders to grip and guide, my lower body instinctively hungrily moving to match his. "More," I urge. "Harder! Fuck me!" My voice is tough, wild. This is the first time I've actually expressed want amidst this frenzy of lust. So compelled, Jake shifts his hips from an almost mechanical rhythm to wild, tentative thrusts. Challenged, I pull, arch, offer myself, and he quickly loses control; his carriage slows briefly. I sense he's close and then, with a guttural cry, he withdraws, swiftly moving towards me, and blasts his seed all over my face and onto my breasts with incredible force.
"You like that, do you?" Trey inquires. "You like being a slut?"
"Yes!" I respond. My eyes widen, wondering how he read my thoughts, but then I witness the grin plastered across his face and understand he saw how much I relished it. "That looks good. Check out our slut."
"Thanks," I utter and lean to suck Jake's dick until he shivers and withdraws, over-stimulated and drained. Now that he's satisfied, I notice a tinge of embarrassment and remorse emerge on his face. Who're you, Jake, I wonder. What are you? I derive pleasure from the awkward way he stumbles out of the room. He doesn't return.
No one offers me a towel, and I wouldn't take one if they did.
Three more to go now, and the only way out is forward.
Dan rests on the bed and draws me on top of him. I assume he's already climaxed during his turn, but this is the first time I'm certain he's slept with me. I've always had a thing for Dan, and I wish it was just the two of us. From the expression on his face, I can tell Dan feels the same, and for the first time, I feel a tad melancholic. In a parallel universe, I'd have flirted with Dan at tomorrow's reception and shared at least one slow dance with him. Currently, I'm fucking him, covered in other men's semen. What a pathetic fantasy, right? I'm not the type of woman men dance with at weddings. As evidence of my point, Trey and Conor climb onto the bed and stand on either side of Dan, waiting to be pleasured. I turn a blind eye towards them and place my hands on Dan's chest, rocking over him. Our eyes meet, and he offers an ambiguous smile. I reciprocate with my own toothy grin just like in our dance. Our synchronized performance. The one and only version we will ever share. It's a shade romantic, I admit it.
"Can you orgasm with me?" he inquires.
I nod, delighted that I can. "Just signal when."
"Now," he states, arching his back and bending his head to lie flat on the mattress.
I release a shriek and start shaking. It seems convincing, and Dan will never realize the difference. Lovely Dan. I wish he could experience the genuine article, but at least I can give him a delightful half-truth. I lean in and nuzzle against his neck, making certain my cum-coated side is facing away. No need to ruin the ambiance. He encloses his arms around me, continuing to penetrate me until his erection subsides. We both hold still. I want to kiss him so much, but our time is up. Our eyes meet. There's something he wants to express, something I yearn to hear, but Trey and Conor are close by, and therefore, the opportunity vanishes. Sliding off, I'm instantly approached by Conor who climbs between my legs and starts screwing me like I owe him. Dan squeezes my hand one last time then tiptoes out the door. Trey follows him to the bedroom entrance, where they engage in conversation for a duration that I'll ponder for numerous years.
"Will you be a good slut?" Conor queries, kneading and twisting my nipples.
I yelp and vow to be. After-party time; it's only me and them now.
Trey returns to the bed and lies beside me while Conor hammers me. He cups a hand around my throat. Throat play was quite a notable aspect of Trey's preferences; I recall that now. My arms hang powerlessly by my sides, and I make no effort to defend myself. He bit by bit tightens his grip until my sight starts to blur and then loosens just long enough for me to inhale. He repeats his grip tightening and releasing process again and again, taking me to the brink of oblivion. It's an overwhelming, ecstatic experience.
"Hey, do you have lube?" Conor inquiries. "You're getting dry."
I manage to appreciate their consideration as they had lube the entire time. Of course, they would put a thought into that.
"Thank you," I rasp. "I'm rather sore."
"It's not for your pussy, slut," Trey informs me.
Right, I recall that, too. Anal sex was a critical attribute for Trey.
Reaching into the dresser's top drawer, Trey takes out a bottle and squirts a generous measure onto my clitoris. Conor continues his frenetic pace. The lube feels icy, and I track it as it flows from my pussy and spreads between my ass cheeks. Conor extracts his dick, coating it in the lube. Lifting me up, Trey positions a pillow under my butt to prop me up. He holds my knees to keep them from slipping back, as my legs are too weak to keep them in place. It's been some time since my ass has been forcibly penetrated. This would hurt, even if they were tender. The only option is to proceed.
Trey gives a grin and nods to Conor, who pushes his cockhead against my opening until the pressure makes it yield. I try to relax my body, but the pain is overwhelming. I let out a cry and flail my hands at Conor, attempting to push him away. It's not that I want him to cease, just my body going into fight or flight mode, trying to defend itself since I'm too foolish to stop.
"Hold me down," I tell Trey. "Muffle me."
He gives me a funny look before placing his hand over my mouth and restraining my hands above my head. It's arousing how easily he accomplishes this. Conor persists in penetrating me, expanding me. It's a blessing he's not as big as Trey. While I usually enjoy anal, they care little about my pleasure in the situation. Likewise, I have no interest in pleasure; it's not the reason any of us are present.
By the time Conor has completely entered me, the pain has lessened to the point where I no longer need to scream.
Trey uncovers my mouth. "What did you say?"
"Thank you," I respond, resisting the impulse to bite him.
"Thank you for what?"
"Thank you for screwing my butt."
"What are you?"
"I'm a whore," I say. "What are you, prick?"
He shows no enthusiasm for the query and again engulfs my throat with his hand while Conor continues to penetrate my ass. It's noteworthy that I'm unsure if I lose consciousness. All I understand is that I'm merely drifting, akin to an inflated balloon, unanchored and solitary. I'm being fucked by two men, yet alone in every respect. It's transcendent.
Trey removes his hand from my throat and smacks my cheeks. "You still conscious, slut?"
I can only nod weakly, and for the first time tonight I consider Jack. His slaps are far superior, but I can't express my preference in the moment.
"Good. Time for the finale," Trey declares, tapping Conor's shoulder.
Conor withdraws from my butt and lies on his back, pulling me onto him. I don't possess the strength to resist his direction. He inserts his penis into my pussy and supports my head on his chest, with his shaft within me. It's then I feel Trey shift around behind me and anoint more lubricant on the crack of my buttocks.
"I can't. I can't. I can't," I cry frantically, realizing what he intends.
Trey signals for Conor to pause. "Refusing? Abandoning us?"
I look at him. No pity on his face, just the question.
"So? Leave," he says, and he retreats.
I gaze towards the door. I merely have to rise and depart. Trey would release me. This is how he functions. He's an evil bastard, yet intelligent enough to avoid imprisonment for me.
"Decide," he repeats when I don't take action.
"I'll do it," I say.
Trey nods. "Stop whimpering, please."
"I'll try," I respond.
He repositions himself behind me, pleasing himself. "Been planning this for a while, Mac."
And he shoves his cock into my butt, shattering my world.
Sexuality is a conundrum. I couldn't calculate how many times I've masturbated to double penetration porn. It's an obsession I've nurtured since youth, yet, is it just because I saw it in porn first? Would having a cock in my vagina and butt have occurred to me otherwise? I recognize now that I was simply fascinated by the idea. I never intended to try because I couldn't fathom how it would feel. How could I? It's incomprehensible until I experienced it. The most fitting term I can apply is "overflowing." I feel so utterly filled. Ripped. Widened beyond what I ever believed possible. I only wish someone was still here to fuck my throat.
Initially, Conor remains motionless as Trey penetrates my ass. I can endure this to some extent and rest my head on Conor's shoulder, whimpering softly. However, Conor eventually joins in, driving me to the edge of insanity. I experience both their penises inside me, pushing against the thin barrier between them, fighting to dominate me. The intensity is overwhelming. I'm not even sure if it feels good, but I'm desperate for it. Their foreign language fills my ears, though I don't understand it. At first, they thrust simultaneously, mercilessly assaulting my orifices. They then switch to an alternating rhythm, in one second filling me, then emptying me, causing me to be full and empty simultaneously. I convulse as if having a seizure. This isn't an orgasm, but that's what they presume.
It's Conor who climaxes first, groaning and slamming into me again and again. Relief floods through me. Just one last one to go. I'm almost there now. Conor wraps an arm around my neck and restrains me, mumbling insults as Trey consumes my remnants. I plead with him to cum inside me, telling him how much I crave it. Any idea I can think of to make him orgasm quickly.
"Am I a real man now, whore?" he roars, erupting with a howl before I can respond.
I crumple against Conor, resembling a marathon runner at the finish line. Conor shows no inclination for affection and jumps out of bed and heads to the bathroom to shower. I crawl into the fetal position and when my eyes flutter open, Trey hands me a bottle of water.
"I'll be in DC next month," he mentions. "We should meet up."
"I think that's enough for me," I puff.
"That's what you always say."
"I mean it this time."
Nathan unconcernedly nods. "True enough."
This marks my college experience with Trey, and my favorite aspect was his unfeeling, callous disregard for me. It was dehumanizing and enthralling. It still retains my fascination today. I rise unsteadily and approach my room. When I glance back at Trey, he remains expressionless. Did he discover my secret?
"What?" he inquires. Trey's venomous tone resurfaces, unaltered by our recent intimacy. He refuses to be affected by our coupling.
"You're nothing special."
I slide my dress over my body, searching in vain for my panties. Trey tossed them away, I suppose. They aren't something I particularly value, so I don't expend too much energy searching. I locate my purse and shoes stashed under the couch. I spot my dress in a bundle on the ground by the wall where Trey discarded it. My gaze shifts to Nathan, unsure if he seeks satisfaction next.
"Is there a reason you're still here?"
He does not answer, merely staring at me with hostility. I grow exhausted quickly and depart. I manage to flee halfway down the hallway to my room when Nathan catches up with me. He captures the keycard from my fingers and presses it against the electronic lock until it lights up.
"Inside," he commands.
"What? No."
I scramble to my feet, my feet kicking my purse and scattering its contents. I tumble into a heap on the floor, only to find him leering over me, his demeanor menacing. I stand nervously and inquire, "Why are you here?"
Nathan sums up, "You're more than just that one thing. You have a secret that must be exposed."
"Revealed? To whom?"
"No one needs to know."
"Then what do you want from me?"
"There's no normal sex with you. It's all part of the game. You have your secrets, and I have mine."
"And?"
"Now, shut up."
I clasp my fingers together tightly, my heart racing, and focus all my attention upon his eyes. He attempts to push me through my doorway, which closes and locks behind us. His face grates on me. I feel vulnerable and afraid, never having encountered such an animalistic side in a partner before.
"Please," I plead, trying to shake my fear. "Don't."
"Get up," he mandates. He waits until I adjust to my feet.
"What are you going to do to me?"
Contrary to my expectations, Nathan ignores my present state and remains adamant and detached, "You won't be attending the wedding tomorrow."
"Why?"
"You've had your fun."
His lucidity unsettles me. Friendships and connections mean nothing to him. I recoil in surprise at the stark contrast between Trey's brutal yet predictable behavior and Nathan's calculated coldness.
"Why? I was given an invitation."
"Aliyah doesn't need to know."
I offhandedly toss my purse onto the floor and retreat backward into my room, Nathan advancing on me. I grasp the door handle but cannot lock it since he possesses the keycard. Pleading becomes my only option.
"I ended up agreeing to it. It was a mistake. You're a person in need, man. She only invited you because she feels guilty, and look how you repay her."
"Please forgive me," I plead. "I'll behave properly tomorrow. I promise."
"Not listening. You're not welcome. I don't want to look at my wedding pictures in twenty years and see your horrible face. Just return to your hideout."
"Shit you. Get out of my room."
He keeps talking like I never spoke. "You're unworthy. And when you arrive? Destroy Aliyah's number. Fuck it, destroy everyone's number. It'll be easier that way. We all considered you intolerable by graduation, and you've only gotten worse."
"They're my friends."
"Does it resemble friendship to you in there? You simply worsen everybody around you."
"I didn't do anything."
His hand moves with alarming swiftness and grabs me by my hair. He lifts me onto my toes, and pulls me into the bathroom as if I were a puppet. He switches on the light.
"Examine yourself," he demands.
I refuse.
"Look," he barks, forcing me to look into the mirror.
I reluctantly open my eyes, witnessing a crime scene of my body: my eyes are bloodshot, there is dried cum in my hair and across my face, which is covered in red, blotchy patches. My knees are rough and caked with blood; a deep purple bruise is surrounding my neck where Trey strangled me.
"Inform me again how you've done nothing."
"I didn't," I insist, despite the overwhelming evidence against me.
"Mac, you don't belong in the presence of normal people. You must recognize that."
"You don't understand me."
Nathan spits in my face and then stands motionless, his voice resembling my father's when he was enraged with me. "I have enough knowledge. If you dare approach Aliyah again, I will murder you. Is that clear?"
I hadn't realized where Nathan's boundaries were. Now I do. My teeth start to chatter with fear. "I understand."
"Good. Create an excuse. Family emergency, I don't care. Just leave this place."
I put my head down and make my way to the lobby, avoiding eye contact with Conor and Billy on the couches and their female companions. They're all looking smart and relaxed in their suits, without a care in the world. It's astonishing to imagine being a man in this world.
I don't know if they noticed me or not. I head outside and a friendly employee hails me a taxi. I tell the driver my destination. It's an act of desperation, but I recognize that I can't bear this responsibility alone. It'll crush me under the weight of its destruction. A flight attendant is kind enough to wake me up when it's time to deplane, and I dutifully comply and stroll through the terminal. There's hardly a queue for a taxi. National has been compassionate today, it seems. I refer the driver to my desired location. It's an impulsive action, but I'm aware that I need someone to confide in about this. Who else would I share this secret with? [
When we reach the address, I exit the cab and approach the front door. As I am about to knock, I hesitate. It's too late to rectify this situation. I can't keep this from everyone. This will weigh me down, crush me under its weight. However, if I tell, then the truth will set me free. Sighing heavily, I take a deep breath and knock on the door. It swings open, and a face I don't recognize greets me with a skittish expression.
"May I help you?" He inquires cautiously.
"I need to speak with [mentioned person]." I reply, my voice quavering slightly.
He glances hastily around, and then invites me inside, his demeanor suggesting that I shouldn't be here. Indeed, it's not easy. Few can tolerate such blunt honesty. Nevertheless, I'm relieved to have found a shoulder to share my burden with. A relieved flight attendant comes to take me to the plane when it's time, and I board, staring out the window at the runway for the rest of the way. My body feels worse with each passing hour, and the emotional isolation I'd relied upon begins to fade away. The reality of my actions becomes more and more overwhelming. Finally, I open my phone and write a message to Aliyah, informing her that my mother broke her hip and I'm sorry. She doesn't respond. Which makes sense: it's her wedding day.
The plane lands at Dulles just before eight. My eyes are glued to the window as we taxi toward the runway. A benevolent flight attendant reminds me that it's time to leave. Stumbling to the exit, I feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. The line for a taxi is short, which is another blessing today. I ask the driver to take me to my destination. It's a reckless move, but I know I need support in dealing with this burden. But who could I possibly confide in? [
It's a Saturday night, and there's a lot of traffic on the streets leading towards the city. I take a look at my phone. No new messages, and for the first time, I can't help but wonder what people are saying about me at the reception. Nathan's words keep echoing in my head. Am I just a joke? Have I been completely erased, like I never existed in the first place?
The taxi pulls up to the curb, but I hesitate. I shouldn't have come here. The driver takes my bag from the trunk, opens the door, and says, "Is this the right address?"
"Probably not," I admit, still unable to move.
I pick up my bag and climb the stairs in front of the building. With all the courage I could muster, I press the buzzer. My hands tremble, and I'm ready to run if Jack doesn't answer. The door finally opens, but Jack appears as if he's not too happy to see me.
"Mackenzie?" he asks, his facial expression making it clear that I'm not exactly welcome.
"I had nowhere else to go," I say, fighting back the tears. My presence is probably a burden, but I'm dying inside and don't care.
"What's happened?"
"There's something wrong with me," I say, my fingertips pounding on my chest. I'm too desperate to understand or care.
"Tell me what you need from me."
"I want to be...under your control again."
He frowns, his mask slipping just enough for me to see the man who once cared about me. "You never belonged to me. You made that very clear," he says.
"Then tell me how to change," I plead. "Help me."
"It doesn't work that way," he replies, sounding unsure.
"You said it did," I claim, referencing his letter from months ago.
"What are you talking about?"
"In your letter, you said if I ever needed anything, anything at all," I explain hoarsely, on the verge of tears.
"Yes," he says, recognizing his words.
"That was yesterday to me," I say, then let out a string of sobs that can't be restrained. I need him, and I can't bear the thought of failing.
"Okay, you're right," he murmurs after a moment of consideration. "Tell me what you need."
"I need to tell you a secret," I say, trying to slow my breathing.
His brows furrow, and he thinks for a moment. "Then I guess you should come inside," he says eventually.
"Thank you, Sir," I breathe, resisting the urge to hug him.
"Don't call me that," he orders sternly.
"I'm sorry," I murmur in haste, afraid I've just blown my chance.
"It's fine. You're fine, Mackenzie," he comforts me. "Try to stay calm. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes, Jack. Yes, I can."
"Alright then." He takes my bag, stands aside, and lets me in. My heart beats loudly as I cross the threshold into his home and shiver as the door closes behind me.
Read also:
- April: Life on the Game - Chapter 1
- A Thrilling Excursion
- The One-Way Voyage (Day Zero)
- One Purpose, Her Pleasure Ch. 03
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