“If you will but fall down and worship Me . . .”
Worship with my suffering
offered up in tears and blood.
Worship with my body,
the least of His price.
i fell. i soared.
i answered with joy baptized in tears:
“Yes, my God.
My Dark Lord.
My Fallen Angel...
Yes . . .”
—“Waiting for God”
he desire had always been there. A yearning for dark, shadowed things that could not be spoken of, could hardly be put into words even if she dared.
Before she knew what sex was, it had been a craving for consuming intimacy. To be known. To belong to someone. To be utterly lost in another’s soul.
And so she formed intense attachments to
. But her singular devotion overwhelmed each in her turn, and their failure to comprehend and reciprocate cut her to the core.
Even as she built up a wall against that hurt, still she yearned.
She burned to be desired so intensely that savage conquest was the only course. The tender, tentative fumblings of first boyfriends only ignited dreams of passionate violence.
Then came the furtive, half-ashamed masturbation under the sheets, breath stopped for fear her parents on the other side of the wall might know, somehow, what she was doing. Know not just what her fingers did with increasing skill, but what dark thoughts pushed her to orgasm.
Fantasies of strong hands holding her down, binding her, using her, hurting her. Not because she deserved it, but because she wanted it.
She wanted to offer up her body and mind and soul in devotion and pain and suffering so sweet it denied all attempts to define, describe, quantify.
She learned what others called it.
. But it was inadequate, not the right word at all.
was worse in its cruelty, its judgment.
But nothing could stop the want.
When she found him, it seemed as if he’d always been there.
He saw right through her, took all the dark yearnings, and gave them back to her, fulfilled beyond her wildest imaginings.
She was his, and only death could tear her from him.
Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord.
hey called it a glory hole, but there was nothing glorious about the dim little booths in the rear of the adult bookstore. The plywood was hastily slapped with black paint, and the concrete floors, sticky from God-only-knew what, sucked at her high heels. The only light came from the washed-out flicker of porn on the small screen in the booth with her.
The air held the faint smell of mold, sweat, and jism under the cheap industrial deodorizer.
Yes, jism. Man-juice. Cum. Semen. The smell was unmistakable. After all, that was the point of this lurid little alley of closets where men came to shoot their load, alone with only video flesh and moans bought for a token.
She had never been here alone. She had come with him once, of course. That time he had merely taken her into one of the booths and used her. (Funny how his fingers curled into the hair at the nape of her neck could cause all bone and muscle in her legs to dissolve, even when the last thing she wanted was contact with that floor. By the time he had yanked her to her feet, pushed her against the wall, and shoved his cock into her ass, she would have licked the floor if he’d asked her to.)
Today he was testing her, and she was a little disappointed. It was her birthday after all, and she had hoped he would come with her.
“Imagine the fear,” he had whispered through the phone line. “Imagine how your heart will beat. How your pulse will race. Walking into the back of that bookstore all alone. Feeling the eyes of the clerk following you. He’ll think you’re a whore. And he won’t be wrong, will he?”
Her heart jerked in her chest as she argued with herself.
You don’t have to get naked,
the voice of reason whispered slyly in her head.
He won’t know if you did or not. He won’t know if you actually did what he told you or not.
But he would know. She couldn’t lie to him.
She took off her dress and then slipped out of her panties and bra. The thigh-high stockings and stiletto heels, she kept on. Not just because he had told her to, but because she liked the way she felt wearing them.
She folded the dress into a neat square and positioned it on the floor in front of the hole in the wall. She drew in a deep breath, equal parts fear and arousal, knelt on her clothes, and waited.
It wasn’t really a hole, either. The crotch-high rectangle cut in the plywood was big enough for her whole head to fit through. Big enough for someone’s hands to reach in . . .
She heard a door open. Steps in the hall outside. She could not breathe, waiting to see if some stranger’s cock was going to appear through the hole.
Instead, she heard the sounds of tokens being dropped into a video machine somewhere farther down.
She waited and wondered if a cop might show up instead. What would she do if she got arrested?
Oh, God . . .
Once more, she could hear feet outside in the hall, but no one came into the booth on the other side. Then all she could hear were the video moans and grunts over tinny porn music.
She brought her hands to her heavy breasts, stroking her nipples to distract herself. She craned her neck upward and back to see the threesome fucking on the screen. Two men had a third impaled on their cocks, one in his mouth, the other up his ass. The sight of it sent a gush of her own juices down her thigh. Why was the sight of three men fucking such a turn-on?
She didn’t hear him come in. He was just suddenly there.
But not on the other side of the hole.
In the booth. With her.
Oh, Christ, she hadn’t locked the door . . . How could she have been so stupid?
She watched his thick fingers turn the latch and heard the dull click.
She had a glimpse of dark, intense eyes looking down at her through a black ski mask . . . And then a cock jutting through the khaki of his trousers as two hands came down on her shoulders.
Panic flared, but she clamped down on it. She could manage this. Just suck his cock and be done with it. That was all he wanted. If he didn’t leave, she’d start screaming. Cops be damned.
She bent her mouth toward him, but his knees and hands were forcing her backward.
“No,” he snarled abruptly. “I don’t want your filthy mouth on me, whore.”
The words both stung and inflamed her. How dare he? And yet, she was a whore, wasn’t she? Her clit tightened, beginning to ache.
He reached down and grasped both nipples, twisting and pulling, even as he pushed her over onto her back. An outraged cry died on her lips when he spoke again.
“Man, you got some big titties on you.” His words came in a rasp, and she lapped up his excitement, drawing it into her like a succubus growing drunk on his lust.
Large rough hands pawed, squeezing her breasts as carelessly as he might scratch his own balls. The very authority in his touch made something inside her melt as he groped and plundered.
He was sitting astride her now. His long, thin penis slid against her breasts and down into the valley between them. Even the weight of his body, pinning her to the concrete, drove her mad with excitement.
“Yesssss,” he breathed. He held one breast, tightening his grip until the areola bulged over his fingers, and brought the other palm down in a sharp slap. “Big, soft titties. Just the kind made for titty-fuckin’.”
She moaned and instantly regretted it.
“Oh?” The whiteness of his teeth shone in a grin. “Little whore likes this, does she?”
He slapped her breasts again and her brain reeled.
This man was using her body, pushing her breasts together until they formed a substitute cunt around his erection. But she couldn’t deny the wetness between her legs. Even the phrase he’d uttered—“titty-fucking”—aroused her and kept circling in her head. So deliciously dirty . . .
His hands cupped around the outer curve of each heavy mound, fingers curling into the soft flesh even as his thumbs found her nipples. The tips were so hard now they ached, sensitive even to the breath he exhaled in soft guttural grunts.
He spit on her, spraying tits and cock with saliva. Humiliation battled desire; she loved the slick feel of it as he grew ever harder against her softness. He spit again, and again, until the cleft was as wet as her cunt.
When the swollen head of his cock peeked from between her breasts, her tongue flicked out like a starving thing.
“No, goddamn it.” He slapped her left check, then reached around behind him, brought something flimsy and pink to her lips, and shoved it into her mouth.
Her panties, she realized. The satin gave up a musky she-juice as it settled against her tongue.
“Yes,” he breathed again, low and thick. He was rocking back and forth now, squeezing her harder, working toward his own satisfaction with a single-minded drive that would have offended most other women. Most. Not her, though. For her, it was ecstasy.
“Oh, baby, that’s it . . . That’s it . . . Love those fuckin’ tits—”
He was riding her, riding her titty-cunt. Harder, faster . . . Her breasts were just his tools, a temporary orifice fashioned for his pleasure.
The first spurt of cum hit her chin, and he groaned with release as the rest of his load shot onto her chest. The thin white semen oozed down around her collarbone and a final squirt landed on her throat. She could feel its warmth slithering over her flesh.
He pulled the mask from his head, looked down at her, and grinned. Oh, he was marvelous; he looked like an impish boy when he grinned like that.
Hadn’t she really known it was him from the first, or had there been real fear? She didn’t know for sure. The only thing that mattered was that he had, once again, made one of her fantasies come true.
“You said you wanted a pearl necklace for your birthday,” he whispered. “And I knew you didn’t mean jewelry.”
She began to giggle, trailing her fingers in his cum and lifting them to her mouth.
“Oh, Roger,” she whispered, beaming up at him. “It was the perfect gift. Thank you.”
When she had dressed again, she slipped into the bathroom (almost as disgusting as the booths) to tidy up as best she could.
“Honey, you’ve got that just-fucked glow,” Roger whispered in her ear as he walked her to the car. “Makes me wanna do you again right here in the parking lot.”
Roger’s phone began to beep.
“You’ll just have to wait till you get home tonight,” Marla said, but her smile faded as Roger’s brow furrowed. He was staring at his phone, and she knew without asking whose number was on the caller ID.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Marla asked.
“No,” he frowned. “I’ll call her back later.”
“She’s just a kid—” Marla said softly, stroking his back.
“She’s a giant pain in my ass right now.” Then he brightened and pinched her butt. “Speaking of asses—”
She giggled, then kissed him quickly on the lips before sliding into the driver’s seat of the Accord.
“Don’t be late,” she teased. “Or I’ll have to give you a spanking, bad boy.”
Roger threw his head back and laughed.
“That’ll be the day!”
“I love you, you big old pervert.”
“You love me
I’m a pervert.”
She pulled out of the lot, waggling her fingers out the window.
It was the last time she ever saw him alive.