Bridgycat
Life goes on...

He takes your hand, pounding it against the wall like it’s an attempt to break your fingers so you’ll never be able to play again, kiss crashing down on your lips as you hungirly throw yourself at his feet again, whimpering like some little helpless thing he can do whatever he wants with and it always hits you how fascinating it is that that, of all the things in the world, is what gets him off. How brilliant you’re such a good beggar, then.
Come to think of it, most of the guys you’ve fucked (fine, most of the guys who’s fucked you) seemed to really like the feeling of being able to push you around. It’s not like you’d do anything back, so that gives a certain security in it, and there’s gotta be some thrill making somebody crawl on their hands and knees at your slightest request, but still. Seems like a bit of an easy target.
You’re the one to talk, though.
Moan so prettily with his cock in your mouth, sucking it with every trace of devotion left in your body from the night before, his nails digging into your scalp as he holds your head clutched in his strong hands, fucking you for all it’s worth as you’re on your knees again before his writhing body. Taking it.
Nobody’s ever gonna suck you off, nobody’s ever gonna do that. Well, some girl might but you don’t want some girl, you want him. You could find someone even more of a beggar than yourself and make him do it, pretend you have any kind of authority because you want it more. It doesn’t work that way, it’s never gonna happen, he’ll never do it, nobody’s more of a beggar than you, it’s all you can think of when he comes in your pretty little mouth and hurries to kiss you just because he’s such a cum-loving fag and all of a sudden it just annoys you that he’s made of this huge contradiction. Claims he’s not gay, gets pissed off whenever you suggest it and can’t fucking wait to kiss you after you’ve blown him, how straight is THAT on a scale? Want to point it out right to his face, suddenly just angry at everything and not wanting to please him at all, want to go put your best dress on just to see him have a fucking reaction but you don’t, of course you don’t. Be grateful. That always works your way.
Let his tongue search through your mouth like a drug dog sniffing for cocain, you’ve had worse in there, let him kiss you, let him touch you, let him do whatever he wants because that’s just how it goes. It doesn’t matter. You’ll take anything.
Let him fuck you again, what do you care, what else are you gonna do with your nights of the week? Let him come in your little tight ass, isn’t he gonna lick the cum from there too? Fucking faggot. At least you admit it to yourself.
Hear yourself moan, beg, whimper, whatever he wants, feel it slash in your gut, you’re such a useless whore letting him get away with everything, letting everyone. Next thing you’ll be the most popular ride at Disneyland. Whatever.
You don’t stay the night but leave after he’s done, practically feel the money slide down your back again and hear his throaty breaths in the air, getting dressed as quick as you can, not looking at him where he still lies panting spread across tainted sheets. Don’t turn around before walking out of there, don’t need the look on his face, don’t need anything except that oh, right, you do need something. You just don’t know what the fuck it is.
Walk through the streets in total darkness, shoes untied because you couldn’t stand his hallway anymore, don’t know where you’re going or how you’re gonna get there but you just keep on walking with his feel still in your ass and the prints of his fingers all over your skin and you can’t take it anymore. Find yourself clutching the rim of a solid brick wall and screaming at the top of your lungs. Your voice breaks, of course it does, turning your vocal writhe into nothing and you don’t want to breathe anymore, you don’t want anything anymore.
Pound your hands against the hard surface and ignore your shaking self, ignore your body weakening, ignore everything because you need to just do something that’s you don’t even know what.
Don’t know how long you stand there, how many people you’re waking up, how confused he must be or if he doesn’t care and just goes to sleep or something, you don’t know.
You don’t know.
You take a cab home and stare at your TV screen ‘til sleep must somehow compell you enough to make you collapse on your living room floor after a pill or two.
Life goes on.

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