Page 48 of Left of the Slash
“Yes, Sir,” I reply in a breathy voice that is quickly followed by a moan. Quinn’s thickness is almost too much. It hurts so good that I can't stop, even when I know I’ll be sore for days after this. Even if I couldn't walk and needed a wheelchair to get around, no part of me wants to climb off of him.
I keep going, moaning loudly as the windows of my car begin to fog and the car rocks back and forth like a ship on the waves of the ocean. I hear car engines roaring past us on the nearby road. There are voices and laughter close by, and I know it’ll only take a glance for people to know what’s happening, but my mind is yanked right back into the situation when I feel a sharp sting on my right breast.
“Don't you dare slow down,” Quinn growls, and I realize that he has lifted my shirt and slapped me across the chest. I watch him uncover both of my breasts entirely and suck the left into his mouth just as he smacks the right. The sting reverberates through my flesh and pulls a moan from my throat. It’s like a spur in my side, motivating me to go faster for him, and I obey.
My hips move like a machine—back and forth, faster and faster, harder and harder, until my lungs burn with the heat of a blue fire. Yet, I can't stop. Quinn smacks my breast again, then quickly moves both hands up to my throat. I remember having to teach him how to choke me without killing me, but he clearly doesn't need any more lessons. His hands squeeze, and they don't ease into it. My air supply is properly cut off, and I feel pressure building up in my head like a balloon over-inflating.
“Keep going,” he roars, his eyes watching me closely, inspecting his work and squeezing harder. “Keep fucking going, Olivia.”
I want to reply with, “Yes, Sir,” but I can't speak with his grip on my throat. All I can do is keep riding. I fuck him hard and fast, exhausting my body, pushing myself to the brink of unconsciousness until the moment I am absolutely wrecked by an atomic bomb of an orgasm. It explodes in my belly, and the detonation sets off countless others like a violent chain reaction that spreads across every inch of my skin. Quinn eases the pressure on my throat just enough to allow a sip of air, and I use that sip to gasp before screaming at the top of my lungs. The orgasm takes over my entire body, forcing me to scream until my throat is sand and fire, until my stomach cramps and my head throbs with agony. It’s the most blissful, torturous orgasm of my entire life, and I didn't even have to be in my playhouse for it. Quinn did this to me in the backseat of my own car.
My body collapses forward, my head landing on his shoulder as I pant in his ear. I hear him breathing heavily, too, but he doesn't let us stay this way for long. After taking a minute to gather himself, Quinn forces me off of him, lifting his hips until I get the hint and move to the side. I practically fall onto the seat, unable to move as my legs scream from the exhaustion, but Quinn wastes no time pulling his pants up. He doesn't even look at me as he does, and I watch him silently until he reaches over and opens the door. He gets out without a word and slams the door behind him.
Through the windshield, I watch Quinn walk away, still fastening his pants as he heads toward his car in the brighter part of the lot. He has made use of the darkness and now returns to the light.
As I watch him go, I expect to feel angry. I expect to feel used. I expect to feel astonishment at how forceful he was with me. ButI feel none of it. In fact, as he sinks into his car and starts it up, I’m surprised by my actions, because even though I can't make heads or tails of what just manifested between us tonight, I'm smiling.
TWENTY-EIGHT - Quinn
I'm losing myself. I feel it in my bones when the door closes behind me, blocking me off from the rest of the world and enclosing me in my place of safety and refuge. But I don't feel safe. Even surrounded by everything I own and the life I've built for myself—within my own four walls, I don't feel protected. I feel like I'm not alone.
I don't know what came over me tonight. I remember sitting at the bar with Olivia, taking in the smell of her perfume and the way she smiled, and all of the good things she said about talking to my dad. Everything was going so well, but then the door opened and the clouds came rolling in. Jed and Simon, two fucking morons who didn't know how to stay on their side of the line instead of crossing it. I'd already had a few drinks and my buzz was strong, and the alcohol was a gateway for my dark devil to step through and take over. In the blink of an eye, Jedwas unconscious while Simon was inches away from a facelift. Tonight, I risked jail time. I did it for Olivia. I did it because the darkness took over. I did it because I wanted to … and I fucking liked it.
This isn't the way it’s supposed to be. I have been working so hard to not be like my father, but all of those walls are starting to crumble now, and I fear that Olivia has everything to do with it. Ever since she introduced me to this lifestyle, I haven't been able to put those walls up. She knocks the plaster off of them—bits and pieces of cement fall to the floor, and there's nothing I can do to reinforce them. It’s all coming down because she motivates me to be myself. But now I'm confused about who I am. Am I Quinn, or am I the dark devil? I keep thinking that the darkness is taking over, but I don't know anymore. I have no idea what I'm doing.
I walk into the house and immediately go to my kitchen to grab a shot glass and a bottle of Hennessy VSOP. I fill the glass and knock back a shot like I'm trying to douse a fire with it, but the flames burn down my throat and combine with the ones filling my torso. Nothing is extinguished. Everything is made worse. I take another shot and it does the same. The room starts to spin, so I leave the shot glass on the kitchen counter and carry the entire bottle with me over to the couch, plopping down on it with all of my body weight. I stare off into the distance with tonight’s exploits playing back in my mind, and I don't move. I'm stuck in a trance of drunken confusion and anger.
What the fuck am I doing? Who am I? What is all of this? How does it end?
I felt the dark devil grab a hold of me tonight. Its grasp clenched around my body the moment Jed stood up to defend Simon, and once Jed was asleep on the floor and Simon was scared into a frozen popsicle, I regained some of my composureas Olivia forced me to leave before the cops could show up. Usually, that’s where the story would end.
Olivia and I argued in the parking lot, and I tried to leave, but then she touched me. She grabbed my wrist and dragged me over to the corner of the lot, and she had no idea that the dark devil was waiting for me there, lurking in the shadows like a demon. The second the shade covered us, it reached out and grabbed me again. It forced Olivia to her knees. It forced her into the backseat. It forced her on top of me in a public parking lot, and gave her an orgasm so intense that it startled me. The devil, however, was satisfied. I didn't regain control of my body until I was out of her car and walking toward my own, carrying with me all of the memories of what I'd just done. I was stunned by what had taken place, and still … I fucking liked it.
Why do I like it when I have been running from it all this time? Why does Olivia love it so much? How is the darkest part of me so good at giving her what she wants—being exactly what she wants me to be? I don't understand any of it. God-fucking-dammit.
I bring the bottle to my lips and pull a swig from it. This time, I barely feel the blaze travel down my throat. I'm numb now. The corners of my vision blur like I'm looking through a rain-covered window, and I know I probably won't leave this couch tonight. The EWB proposal is looming. My relationship with Olivia is … and I don't even fucking know. The cops might even be looking for me after what I did to those pieces of shit at Wonderland. My life is a shaken snowglobe, but snow isn't falling from the skies. Bits and pieces of my life are raining down like confetti, and I have absolutely no idea how to stop it. I don't even know myself, and I need answers.
As I take another sip from the bottle, a realization hits me just before my eyes close for the night. If I want answers, there is only one place for me to get them. I set the bottle on theend table and lay all the way down on the couch, hating that I know exactly where I have to go in the morning to find what I'm looking for.
Gander Hill Prison.
TWENTY-NINE - Quinn
When I told Olivia how long it’d been since I visited my father in prison, she didn't know thata whilewas actually a year. It’s been twelve months exactly since I last stepped foot in here, enduring the body checks and watchful eyes of the guards as they make sure I'm not trying to sneak anything in. I feel like a prisoner myself by the time I'm allowed to sit down next to the phone in front of the glass that will divide my father and I. An entire year, and it wasn't an accident. I hate it here. I hate seeing my father here. It’s too much. It’s too stereotypical, and it’s a drag on my emotions that lasts for days. Even though our last conversation ended fine, I just couldn't bring myself back. I've spent the entire calendar running from the things that remind me of how alike me and my father are, but there is no place left to run now. Our similarities have finally caught up to me, and nowI have to face them. So the glass between us is actually more than just a glass. It’s a mirror.
When they bring him in, I'm surprised by two things. Number one—he looks just like me. His beard is much longer than mine and his eyes aren't green, but his face is mine with extra weight and a profound amount of both sadness and wisdom. His locs are mostly gray now, so it feels like I'm looking into the future, seeing what others will see when they witness the older version of me walking around. At least I can look forward to still being handsome in my later years.
The second thing I notice about Dad as he slowly shuffles into the room wearing a navy blue jumpsuit with the numbers 19925 stenciled on the upper right side of his chest, is that he has put on a ton of muscle in our year apart. His shoulders have doubled in size. He's like a bodybuilder, struggling to sit down comfortably as he comes to a rest in front of me. His biceps stretch the blue fabric as he reaches up for the tan phone and brings it to his ear. For some reason, I smile at how good he looks. Still, after nine years without him, I fill with pride just from seeing him. The fact that I run from our similarities feels even more ridiculous now that we’re together again. I am the spitting image of this man.
Still grinning, I lift the phone to my ear and anticipate the moment I’ll hear his voice through it. I'm nervous and don't know why. To a guy like me, a father is irreplaceable, and there is always a never-dying desire to make him proud.
“Hey, Son,” he says in a deep voice that seems to rumble the phone in my hand. He smiles at me, and my heart smiles too.
“Hi, Dad,” I reply, and tears quickly threaten to spew. It has been too long, and it hadn't dawned on me until now. I have to clear my throat just to keep going. “You've gottenbigsince the last time I saw you. You look huge.”
Dad shrugs as he smiles. “Not much else to do in here but lift weights and read books, so that’s all I do—get swole and smart. It’s a simple life.”
I nod, a smile still controlling my face. “I hear you. Well, the size looks good on you. Maybe I need to get my butt in the gym, too.”
