It’s 4pm on my day off.
I have:
– Two missed calls and five WhatsApps from Jenna. They range from: “hey u, what’s up? Got time for a quick chat?” to: “Call me as soon as you get this URGENT!”
– Three missed calls from an unknown number, no message.
– A WhatsApp from my friend Lisa who works in the craft shop on the mall’s second floor reading “are u dating that new security guard it’s all kicking off here with him and Brent wtf where are you call me”.
– One text from the same unknown number, which reads “You fucking whore”. I strongly suspect this is Brent. I make a mental note to find out how he got my phone number and then destroy the infidel who gave it out to him.
– Two missed calls from Alex. No message.
A WhatsApp from another friend, James from the candle shop. The WhatsApp reads: “Your new boyfriend I didn’t know about (RUDE!) just punched Brent RIGHT IN THE FUCKING FACE in the MIDDLE OF THE FOOD COURT! It was AWESOME!”.
Who do I call first? Jenna? No, Jenna can wait. I need to get in touch with Alex. What the fuck has he been doing? Is he okay? I call. The phone rings. And rings off. My stomach drops with panic. I call him again. No answer.
I message: “heard some shit went down at work today. Are you ok??” and restrain myself from calling a third time.
Once I have smoothed things over with Jenna, I video call Lisa and James.
“Brent’s lost his shit,” Lisa tells me, in between crunching Doritos. “Russ said he wasn’t even working. Showed up in a dirty tee and a pair of trackie bottoms and started shouting abuse at Alex. I could hear him from the shop, came out to have a look. He had a crowbar, and he was waving it around like he was going to hit someone with it. He was raving about you and about how you’d been ‘stolen’. Then he went for Alex with the crowbar.”
She pauses.
“I’m going to need a full account from you about how you’re giving that guy blowies, by the way.”
“So am I,” said James. “Who is he? Where did you order him from? Is he a runaway from one of those black-ops super-soldier programmes? Do they do them in gay?”
“Please contain your erection, James,” says Lisa. “You’re putting me off my chips.”
Just then my phone beeps. It’s Alex.
He’s sitting at the back, in the same booth where we had our first drink together. He’s staring into a pint of beer. I notice the empty shot glass next to his hand. I buy myself a Cosmo, take it over and slide in opposite him. I’m wearing a short denim skirt and a halter top. The fake leather is sticky on the back of my thighs.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks up, looks down at the table. The knuckles of his right hand are angrily red. I notice a long stripe of black bruising across his left forearm. Looks to me like he might have got it when he raised his arm to protect his head. From a crowbar.
“I talked to Jenna, Tom and Lisa,” I say. “They all told me you tried to calm Brent down. You only hit him when he attacked you.”
He turns the glass in his hands, staring into the liquid.
“Buzz around the mall is that he’s been arrested. And they all think you’re a hero.”
“I don’t want to be a hero,” he says.
I take a couple of sips of cocktail and wait. He sighs.
“It’s always been the same,” he says. “It was the same in high school, it was the same in the military. I know how I look to people. Like a threat. Can’t go in a shop without getting side eye.”
He takes a swig of beer.
“Guys like Brent, they are either all over you or they see you as a challenge to them. And if they see you as a challenge, they come at you. Makes it hard to make friends.
“I’m so fucking tired of fighting people. I’m tired of drunk assholes in bars, squaring up to me to prove some bullshit point. I’m tired of people just deciding they own other people. The world’s going to hell anyway. Everything I worked for overseas has gone to shit in less than two months. I just want to be left alone.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” I said. “I mean, I will, if you need me to. But I’d rather stay.”
“I am not the sort of person you want to be around,” he says, and my heart skips a beat and my stomach churns because, if he dumps me, I am going to have to respect that. Those are the rules. I’ll have to respect it if it kills me. And it quite possibly will.
“I decide who I want to be around,” I say, as gently as I can. “I’m an adult. I get to make those choices for myself.”
“I can’t have a job like a normal person without getting into a fight,” he says.
“You were defending yourself from attack. That’s different.”
He sits back in his chair.
“Look, Abby, I’m 20 years older than you, and we have this dynamic -” he says, unhappily. “I’ve been – it’s so difficult to talk about. I’ve been like this since I can remember. Since I first started getting interested in girls I’ve been a – a – “
He runs out of words. I wait a moment, but he can’t say it. So I do.
“A submissive.”
He looks me right in the eyes then. “I fucking hate myself,” he says. “I fucking hate how feminine I am.”
“So you run away from it,” I say. “I get it. I hated being a domme too. I hated that I need to control people to get off. I felt like a bad person. What kind of person enjoys pain, right? Then I met you, and now I don’t give a fuck. I like it; you like it; it’s our relationship. Whose business is it, but ours? What’s wrong with being feminine? What even is ‘feminine’, when it comes down to it? What does that word mean?”
“We can’t keep doing this,” Alex says.
“Why not?” I say.
“Well, I mean – er -” He’s struggling. “What’s your mother going to think of me?”
“Oh, she’ll absolutely fucking freak,” I say.
He laughs.
“And then she’ll get used to it. She’s very practical. Accept the things you cannot change, and all that.”
I take his half-finished beer and swap it for my Cosmo. There’s only a mouthful left.
“Now you have to finish off my pink super-girly drink,” I say. “As punishment for torturing yourself. It’s a reminder.”I look him straight in the eyes as I drink his beer. “I’m the only person who’s allowed to torture you,” I say.
He locks eyes with me and drains the rest of my Cosmo.
“Hmm, this drink isn’t bad,” he says. “Snappy.”
“How about ordering another one?” I say, and he smiles, slowly. He’s flirting. I feel myself relax a little.
“Sure,” he says. “You want another beer?”
We order more beer and more Cosmos, and we talk. We talk about dominance and submission. We talk about our parents. We talk about high school, cats, horror films, boba tea, and pornography. We talk about what we are going to do that evening, and agree limits and safewords. Then we Uber back to my place, the first time Alex has been there.
In the car I kiss him deeply, putting my hands on either side of his face, invading his mouth with my tongue. We have decided – among other things – that tonight I am “the man” and he’s “the woman”. Whatever those concepts mean.
At home, he stands in front of me naked. The black stripe across his arm is even more visible now. It must hurt. He’s looking at his toes, moving them in the silky white fake-fur of the rug.
I run my fingers over the arm, watch as he winces. It’s a bad bruise, but I don’t think he needs to go to hospital. I give him two Tylenol and he swallows them obediently, licking them out of my palm with his warm tongue and chasing them with a glass of water.
I cut his nails and file them smooth. He doesn’t take care of his hands. Chewed hang-nails, dry skin. I have to work hard to clean them and tidy them up, but eventually his nails are ready to be painted.
I’ve picked a dark orchid pink. It’s supposed to be so girly, but I’ve always thought of it as a sex colour; the colour of lips, the colour of my labia. The colour of arousal. The fat brush licks slowly along his nails.
“Put your hands above your head.” He obeys. He’s shivering, even though it’s a warm night, his eyes huge and fixed on me.
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“No,” he says. His voice is tiny.
“Keep your hands raised. Spread your fingers. Don’t move,” I warn him.
In the bedroom I take off my own clothes and change into a blue satin kimono, embroidered with peacocks. I take the opportunity to slide my hand between my own thighs and rub my clit a little, not that I need extra stimulation.
The bath is steaming. I’ve put some essential oils in; lavender, rose. A handful of salt. Some almond oil. He lowers himself into it cautiously, then relaxes his head back with an exhale. The tension starts to drain from his body.
I begin at his feet and wash every inch of him, carefully, with jasmine-scented soap. The gaps between his toes. The length of his thighs. His armpits, stomach, back, balls, cock stiffening as I wash it. Warm skin, knots of muscle. I massage shampoo gently into his hair and rinse it out. This is interesting. Is this domination or is it submission? It’s domination, because I am doing exactly what I want to him. It’s submission, because I am bathing him like I’m a geisha.
When he’s clean, I slowly massage shaving cream into his legs.
“Take notes,” I say as I run the razor from his ankle to his knee. “You’ll be doing this yourself in future. I expect you to keep your legs up to my standards.”
He nods. His blue eyes drift down to the curves of my breasts, filling the gap at the front of the kimono. I grab his nipple and twist it, just hard enough to be a warning.
“You need to take this seriously,” I say. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, Abby,” he says.
“Good,” I say. “Because it didn’t look like you were listening. It looked like you were looking at my tits.”
“No, Abby.”
“No, you weren’t looking at my tits? You’re a liar as well as a pervert, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Abby. Yes, I am.” He’s smiling, and I should discipline him for that, but he’s just too pretty. Lying in my white bathtub all bruises, tattoos, and long eyelashes. I can feel the goofy smile starting on my own lips, and I catch it just in time. Poker face, Abby. This is the domme game. You can stare at him like a besotted teenager another time.
I make him get out of the bath and dry himself off with a fluffy pink bath sheet. I put some arnica on the bruise and then make him lie face down on the bed while I rub scented moisturiser into his back.
“Smells like a candy shop,” he mutters into the pillow, and I smack his ass, hard. “Quiet! It’s not okay to stink like a fucking locker room. I’m not having it in my bedroom. If you want the privilege of getting me off, you’re going to have to smell good. Turn over.”
He rolls over obediently and I start rubbing the cream into his chest, occasionally grazing his nipples with my fingers as if by accident. He’s breathing faster now, and he’s fully hard, but that’s for later. We have makeup to do first.
My eyes are brown, so I had to hunt around for shadow to highlight those extraordinary blue eyes. I have a few palettes with varied colours and I find peach, gold, and a dark brick-orange. Brown eyeliner and mascara. Perfect. I make him sit up on the bed, leaning against the headboard.
“Close your eyes,” I say, kneeling in front of him.
I brush a base of peach eyeshadow over his left eyelid. Then his right.
“You can touch me now.”
He slides his left hand in between my opened knees, running them up along my thigh. His warm fingers find my pussy, and he sighs as he registers I’m soaking wet. He slides one long finger, complete with painted nail, into me. He starts gently pumping me while slowly rubbing my clit with his thumb.
Now the dark orange in the crease and socket line. It’s getting hard to concentrate. The warm waves from the friction on my clit are rising up through my stomach, making it difficult to think.
Gold highlights under the brow. Then the eyeliner and mascara.
“Open your eyes.”
The makeup has done its job. His eyes look huge, so blue they could have been backlit. God, he’s beautiful. Supermodels would kill to have these eyelashes.
I play with his balls, rubbing them gently, then run my hand up and down the shaft of his cock a few times, adding a squeeze at the top. He twitches in response. “You look so pretty,” I say, and he groans. I drop my head and lick the rock-hard head of his cock. He tastes salty-sweet with precum, and, when I realise how close he is, I stop. Time to get back to business.
Lipstick. Dark pink, like the nail varnish. I use a brush. I can feel his eyes locked on my face as I carefully paint in the line of his lips. His hand is moving faster now, and I’m having trouble controlling myself. I can feel every rub on my clit, feel the orgasm building. My thighs are trembling as I paint in the last corner of his long mouth.
I’m breathing heavily as I pull him to me hard. I kiss him, tasting the lipstick. I thrust my tongue into his mouth. I’m panting, arching my back, rubbing myself against him as I cum hard, my pussy clenching on his finger.
He’s panting too now, the head of his cock gleaming. I take him into my mouth, suck, and run the tip of my tongue across the slit in the head. He’s moaning with excitement now, and then he stiffens, gives a low grunt, and squirts in my mouth.
Later we are lying next to each other when he suddenly rolls over and pulls me into an embrace. He spoons me. His legs curled around mine, his arm over my stomach. He whispers in my ear.
“Thank you.”
Part 5 is [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/phb8m4/breaking_the_boy_part_5_i_am_not_jasmine_i_am/)
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/pmwgom/breaking_the_boy_part_6_your_sins_will_find_you