She’s not in a position to be doing all this, financially, but she’s long held that a breakup’s a time for “self care,” by which she basically means “indulgence,” and she’s surrounded by friends who all say the same, take her out and buy her shit and debrief her about What Happened and then, in short order, the secrets she held on his behalf for so long, as partner and confidant, that now – in all her anger and hurt – seems like fair game to disclose. Sex stuff, mainly.
So in her grief she feels this distant swell of excitement and so she splurges on some fancy champagne (store clerks’ choice, and she was crying while she bought it so she got a discount) and then, for the first time in four years, she bought weed. Or what she thought was weed. Cuz she gave it up to appease her ex – a corrections officer who’d been a pothead himself until stories about a prisoner’s drug empire and the labor of children soured him toward even the mildest shit in a high school locker – and when she goes to a friend of a friend to buy some now she leanrs that marijuana’s apparently sold as like a gel inside of a pen now, which at first she’s all wary about cuz she thinks it’s a prank, but then she sits with the dealer in his apartment, on his living room couch, they’re alone together because her best friend vouched for his product and manners, and he shows her how to use this pen thing, of which he’s got maybe two dozen in a kitchen drawer, and together, on opposite ends of the three-seat sofa, they get high.
Immediately.
Or she does, on account of it’s been a while, as the dealer, Max, just nods, and turns on the TV, offers her water or juice and when she says yes to some juice, her hands pinched bashfully between her thighs and her shoulders hunched and eyelids heavy, he gets up for the kitchen and leaves her there alone in front of the muted TV. HBO or something. A sex scene from a movie. Something really passionate. Unfamiliar. It seems to be going on a long time but that could also just be the weed. She wonders if Max will come back and accuse her of watching smut, but then remembers he’s the one who put it on, and relaxes.
Relaxes a *lot*, suddenly. Melts into the sofa. Shoulder loosening. Eyes dry and focused on the screen where a guy’s holdinga woman’s hair from behind while the camera, discreet, shows only their torsos as they move together. Reminds her suddenly of her ex. First it gets her thinking of course about where he is now, and who he’s maybe doing this kinda thing with, and she’s bummed about it to the point she almost cries until, one thing leading to the next, she remembers out of nowhere this night he came home early from C shift, which is 1 a.m. to 8 a.m., and he’d woken her up as this *shape* trotting through the door, all shadow, not bothering with the lights and just marching straight through the living room to the bedroom. She was asleep, waking up to the doorslam. He comes into the bedroom and he’s outlined in moonlight and his figure looks familiar but she can’t be sure. So she says his name. And the shape says nothing, and comes closer. And she says his name again, and again he says nothing, but now he’s standing beside the bed, leaning down, snatching the sheet from her shoulder and tossing it off, pluming over the foot of the bed and on across the room, and when her voice come sup tremulous to ask a third time if it’s him, preparing to scream, he puts that familiarly callused hand over her mouth and says, “Not now,” and puttinga knee on the bed by her hip he puts his other hand up the oversized t-shirt (his own) she’s wearing and pulls her underwear aside and when he finds with two fingers that she’s dry he turns his attention up toward her face, thinking, before moving up toward her again, uncovering her lips to force those two fingers past them, into her mouth, running them over her tongue, pinching it, soaking them in her spit.
Emily tried to pull back, twist her head away, but he grabbed her by the hair to hold still. She complied. Knowing it was him by the breadth of those moon-touched shoulders, the taste and texture of his hands, but also not knowing for sure. The voice was a whisper and there wasn’t a hint of his face. And suddenly her heartrate’s strumming was a different kind of intensity and when he pulled his spit-sopping fingers from her mouth and shoved them down between her legs he felt her wet already, his fingers suddenly greeted by an urgency in her hips, and he paused. The shape looking up at her. And in the darkness he took put his other knee on the bed and started fingering her, slowly at first and then hard, jacking his hooked fingers up and down in her cunt while his free hand went to work at his belt.
There’d been a fight. A prisoner had attacked him as soon as he showed up for work, and he’d been sent home early, bruised about the face and knuckles and seething with adrenaline. He’d landed some punches, but fewer than he’d taken, and he’d barely parked his car in the apartment’s lot before he got to thinking about the outlet waiting for him upstairs, asleep, and his grip tightened on the wheel, and his zipper went taut against his cock. He’d hurried up the stairs and into the apartment and had her subdued within seconds, his cock out, her cunt gushing in his palm. They fucked on the bed for a while and then he pulled her down over the side of it and from behind her held her hair in a single fist, squeezing too hard, and when she whispered about the pain something came over him, remnants of that unspent aggression from work, and he spit against her cheek in the dark. She flinched. His hand snapped away from her breast and spanked her twice, faster and more urgent than usual, and he pciekd up his pace and reached arounda gain to squeeze her breast as though tot ell her to be quiet, never loosening that grip on her hair, but also something tender and needful about it, like he was trying to burn something away.
Emily’s arms went rigid on the bed and her own fingers curled the mattress cover into her claws, then into tight pale-brown fists, and she came to that tribal-sounding slap of his stomach against her ass and his cock smacking into her, soaking, and her throat let out a sound like something guttural and furious at first and then, at the end, high pitched, and broken. A squeal.
Ragdolling onto the mattress, immobile, limp and spent and not expecting anything to follow except chafing if he continued, and pain, her boyfriend continued nonetheless. Just as hard. Using her as she lay there barely moving. Still whirring with the wave of her orgasm and feeling like she might pass out, she perked up suddenly, blanketed in sudden goosebumps, and came again. Felt herself contracting on his cock, sore, and whereas the first one made her rigid, the second made her jittery. Then convulsive. The sound of his own heaving joined in and she felt his humping stagger, turn frantic…
And here comes Max with her juice, walking for a moment and then stopping two paces ahead of her, “Um,” and whens he looks his way she says thank you for the juice, reaches for it, and in so doing feels the chafe of denim on her fingers, and looks down, bleary-eyed, to find her hand in her pants.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/91ntty/buying_weed_for_the_first_time_in_years_it_hits