44 Chapters About 4 Men: A Memoir (6 page)

BOOK: 44 Chapters About 4 Men: A Memoir
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I could feel his self-control begin to falter. Knight drove his hands into my super short platinum-blonde hair (recently bleached and hacked off in yet another fruitless attempt to seduce Lance Hightower) and tugged hard. The force pulled my head back, exposing my neck and causing my body to arch into his unyielding chest.

Knight buried his face into the hollow of my collarbone and hissed, “God, I want you.”

God, I wanted him right back. I might not have wanted to be seen with him in public or admit to anyone that we were together, but in that forgotten little room on the outskirts of town, I could pretend that everyone else and all their opinions simply didn’t exist. And Knight felt safe enough to lay his armor down and be the vulnerable, affectionate—albeit kinky—fuzzy-headed boy that no one else got to see but me. The boy who smelled nice, tasted nice, and made me feel really, really nice. There was no more denying it. I was in that room because I wanted to be.

Once I was practically foaming at the mouth, Knight left me panting to secure both my wrists to Colton’s bedposts, using the handcuffs I’d already forgotten he had. Although my spindly pale legs were free, the weight of my new steel-toed Grinders kept them secured to the foot of the bed almost as well as the steely bracelets around my wrists. The rest of my translucent, skeletal fifteen-year-old figure was now splayed out and on display like the sacrificial virgin that I was. Unsullied, but not for long.

Within the next few minutes, that body would have its childlike innocence ripped away in a torrent of pain and blood and honey. Within a few weeks, it would undergo an onslaught of hormonal changes from the birth control pills I would ask my doctor to prescribe. And within a few months, it would have decorative metal hoops and barbells shoved through each and every erogenous zone.

I was ready to accept whatever Knight had to give me. This boy loved me or claimed to, made a hobby out of giving me convulsion-inducing pleasure, and would probably fight to the death to protect every hair on my head. Sure, he was brooding and angry and antisocial and intimidating and violent, but at that moment, he was also drizzling my throat, breasts, abdomen, and clitoris with honey and feasting upon me, as if I were his last meal. Violent
schmiolent
. This motherfucker was a
lover
.

By the time he made his way down to my newly shaved mound (I got self-conscious and shaved it all off after Knight went down on me for the first time), I was practically thrashing against my restraints from the exquisite torture. I wanted nothing more than to grab his ears and hump his face, but the tease persisted, and I was helpless to stop it. Knight licked and sucked the sticky sugar from my sensitive little bud, occasionally retreating to softly blow on it or flick it with the tip of his tongue. He was clearly enjoying himself and probably took even greater pleasure in the fact that I was whittling Colton’s bedposts down to toothpicks with my restraints in response.

Finally taking pity on me, Knight spread my lips apart and inserted his tongue deep into the dripping wet channel between them while rubbing my clit in small circles with his nose. Within seconds I shattered into a mosaic of moans and curse words and spasms and darkness. My arms involuntarily yanked at my shackles as I tried to pull my knees to my chest, doing anything to stop the flood of immaculate sensations threatening to drown me.

While I concentrated on calming the pulsing waves of pleasure between my legs, Knight stealthily slid off his boxers, slipped a condom out of his wallet, and stretched it almost to its breaking point over his very neglected, very angry-looking cock. Once I was physically able to spread my legs again, Knight positioned himself at the opening of my still throbbing orifice and pinned me with a cold stare.

Although he should have had a smug, self-satisfied look on his face from the brutal orgasm he’d just inflicted upon me, Knight looked positively severe, worried even. “Are you ready?”

The trepidation in his eyes told me all I needed to know. My fearless Knight was scared, scared for me and of himself. It was time to acknowledge the elephant-sized penis in the room. Knight was about to hurt me worse than I’d ever been hurt by another person. And it wouldn’t be the last time.

No sooner had I solemnly nodded my consent than I could feel my insides being sliced to ribbons. I grasped the handcuffs firmly with both fists and sucked in a pained breath through my clenched teeth as I fought back the tears welling up behind my tightly shut eyelids.

Don’t cry out. Don’t cry out. You can do this, BB. You’re a badass. Just go to your happy place and wait it out.

The only problem was, despite the fact that I was experiencing what reverse childbirth must feel like, I was already in my happy place. I was being worshipped by the devil himself, and I never wanted it to end.

I tried to stifle my grimace for Knight’s sake, but it was impossible between the tearing, burning, lemon-juice-in-a-shiv-wound kind of pain that I was trying to endure and the horrible sound of skin sticking to skin coming from our awkward torso-honey sandwich. Not that Knight noticed. He was too busy concentrating on not splitting me in half to pay attention to my facial expressions.

Happily, my torture was over rather quickly, thanks to the months long case of blue balls I’d given Knight leading up to that moment. Once it was over and he withdrew what felt like a chainsaw from my mutilated vagina, Knight wrapped his arms around me and buried his face between the pillow and my cheek. I didn’t know if he was seeking comfort for what he’d done or offering it, but his arms felt like giant bandages putting me back together. I wanted to run my fingers over his silky scalp but was met with immediate resistance and the sound of metal scraping wood when I tried to move my arms.

Knight’s head shot up at the sound, and his face immediately contorted into a crumpled mixture of remorse and concern when he registered where it was coming from. “Fuck, BB! Your wrists!”

He leaped up and grabbed his key ring off the nightstand, pausing only to discard the condom into the trash can in Colton’s room where it would no doubt remain for the next ten to twenty years. After freeing my hands, Knight pulled me into his lap, wrapped his arms around me, and focused his laser-like attention onto my abraised red wrists, repeatedly rubbing, sucking, and kissing them between apologies.

“I’m so sorry, punkin’. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I mean, I knew parts of it were going to hurt, but I tried so hard to make it good for you. Are you okay? Please tell me, you’re okay. It would fucking kill me if I broke the only thing I ever loved.”

In the few seconds between each kiss, Knight searched my face from under his worried arched brows. Although he had just put me through three and a half minutes of excruciating pain (I could already tell that I was bleeding all over Colton’s mattress and wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week.), I felt powerful and shiny and new, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of my decimated hymen. What didn’t kill me
had
made me stronger, strong enough to have the only skinhead in the tri-county area eating out of the palm of my hand.

Oh, I was better than okay. I was positively high.

“Let’s do it again.”

Enter My Best Friend, the Evil Professor

FROM: BB EASTON

TO: SARA SNOW

DATE: THURSDAY, AUGUST 29, 9:36 P.M.

SUBJECT: SHIT. JUST. GOT. REAL.

So…Ken read my fucking journal.

I’m getting divorced.

I’m getting poisoned or divorced.

Just thought you should know.

 

FROM: SARA SNOW

TO: BB EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, AUGUST 29, 9:41 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: SHIT. JUST. GOT. REAL.

No way. That doesn’t sound like Ken. How do you know?

Sara Snow, PhD

Associate Professor, Department of Psychology, (name of university deleted)

 

FROM: BB EASTON

TO: SARA SNOW

DATE: THURSDAY, AUGUST 29, 9:47 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: SHIT. JUST. GOT. REAL.

Dude, I know because when I was coming downstairs a few nights ago after putting the kids to bed I heard him slam my fucking laptop shut. That’s how I know. By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner into the living room he was shoving my computer across the coffee table looking guilty as shit.

He read my fucking journal, Sara. You have no idea what’s in there. It’s so, so graphic. After reading that shit, he could probably pick Knight’s giant cock out of a lineup. I haven’t slept in like three days because I know the second I close my eyes Ken is going to go, “Shh, shh, shh,” and smother me with a pillow.

Tell me what to do. Please!

 

FROM: SARA SNOW

TO: BB EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, AUGUST 29, 10:01 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: SHIT. JUST. GOT. REAL.

For starters, you should check your browser history. If whatever he read in your journal was that bad then he probably used your computer to secure a safe house while he was at it. I’m going to save this email in case you get disappeared.

P.S. Why in the motherfuck didn’t you password-protect your porn journal?

Sara Snow, PhD

Associate Professor, Department of Psychology, (name of university deleted)

 

FROM: BB EASTON

TO: SARA SNOW

DATE: THURSDAY, AUGUST 29, 10:13 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: SHIT. JUST. GOT. REAL.

I know! I’m an idiot! I just honestly didn’t think it was necessary. Ken never pays attention to anything I’m working on. I don’t even think he knows that all the photos and paintings hanging in this house are mine. Plus, he’s trying to watch all five seasons of
The Wire
and manage, like, four fantasy football leagues simultaneously right now. Who knew that fucker would pay enough attention to my covert typing to get suspicious?

I’m freaking out, Sara. It’s like he’s icing me or playing fucking mind games or something. Instead of dousing my computer with gasoline and piss, which would have been justified, he took me on a date. What the fuck is that?!?! Like, got a sitter, picked a restaurant, AND preordered movie tickets! I assumed he was going to serve me with papers at dinner since it was all so formal and out of character, but it was actually a really nice date. He didn’t even make his usual complaint about the fact that he “could have purchased an entire vineyard” for the price of my one glass of pinot g either.

Oh! OH! Then, after dinner, when I backed Ken into our bedroom so that I could say thanks by riding his lifeless body for a few minutes, he actually stopped me and asked if I wanted to try anything new. NEW! (As in, new to him, obviously. For a sex act to be new to me it would require a stolen college mascot uniform, twelve yards of rappelling cable, a handful of gerbils, and thirty CCs of vampire blood.)

And get this shit! The next day Ken tells me that he’s booked another sitter for next month so that we can go see David Koechner at The Punchline. Who is this man??? (Ken, not David Koechner. I know who he is, and he’s fucking hilarious.)

Maybe he’s going to off me at The Punchline? It is in a super sketchy neighborhood…

 

FROM: SARA SNOW

TO: BB EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, AUGUST 29, 10:35 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: SHIT. JUST. GOT. REAL.

Um, it sounds to me like you just discovered the holy fucking grail of martial behavior modification techniques, B! Ken’s not icing you! He’s responding to your intervention! Now that he’s read your porn journal and knows how bored and undersexed you are, he’s making the appropriate adjustments, and you didn’t even have to say anything! You’re a fucking sorceress!

You know what you need to do, right? What you need to do is start planting really exaggerated stories in there now so you can milk this shit for all it’s worth. Oh my God…and I’M going to do a longitudinal study on the outcome so that I can go on
Good Morning America
and tell Robin Roberts how women across the country can save their marriages through Subliminal Spousal Bibliotherapy! You just got me tenure and an Audi R8, bitch!

Sara Snow, PhD

Associate Professor, Department of Psychology, (name of university deleted)

 

FROM: BB EASTON

TO: SARA SNOW

DATE: THURSDAY, AUGUST 29, 10:48 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: SHIT. JUST. GOT. REAL.

You.

Evil.

Fucking.

Genius.

I’m in. And I already have a list of target behaviors for progress monitoring:

1. The procurement of a motherfucking heart tattoo with my name on it

2. The initiation of hot, steamy, passionate hair-pulling sex

3. The giving of compliments

4. And the bestowment of a nickname

For data collection purposes, you can just set the baseline at zero in all four categories. Yes, zero—as in, none of those things have ever happened in the history of my marriage. So, the way I see it, we have nowhere to go but up. I’ll keep you abreast of my progress. (Pun intended!)

Also, you should probably go ahead and start saving for the Stella McCartney shift dress and fancy professor glasses I envision you wearing on
GMA
. And you have to tell George Stephanopoulos hi for me. I’ve always liked him. I think it’s because he reminds me of Michael J. Fox. Maybe don’t tell him I said that. Or do?

BOOK: 44 Chapters About 4 Men: A Memoir
12.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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