That's Us

Braden read it

I would ask my doctor to prescribe. And within a few months, it would have decorative metal hoops and barbells shoved through every erogenous zone. I was on the cusp of a rapid transformation from girl to goddess I just didn’t know it yet. What I did know was that I was finally ready to accept Lucas into my life and into my body exactly the way he was. For some reason, his broken soul had chosen me to love, and he was doing it fearlessly. He should have been afraid I would reject him, like his parents, like the rest of the world. He shouldn’t have been able to open up, but he did, my brave Lucas. He saw something in me worthy of his trust, of his love, and I knew he would fight to the death to protect it. He had also recently made a hobby out of giving me convulsion-inducing pleasure, which was a plus. Sure, Lucas was angry and antisocial and intimidating and violent, but at that moment, he was also drizzling my throat, breasts, abdomen, and c******s with honey and feasting upon me, as if I were his last meal. Violent

cholent. This motherfucker was a lover. By the time he made his way down to my newly shaved mound (I’d gotten self-conscious and shaved it all off after Lucas 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. Lucas licked and sucked the sticky honey from my oversensitive c**t, occasionally retreating to softly blow on it or flick it with the tip of his tongue. He was enjoying himself andprobably took even greater pleasure in the fact that I was whittling Calvin’s bedposts down to toothpicks with my restraints in response. Finally taking pity on me, Lucas spread my lips apart and inserted his

tongue deep into the dripping wet channel between them while rubbing my c**t 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, Lucas 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 c**k. Once I was physically able to spread my legs again, Lucas positioned himself at the opening of my still throbbing orifice. Although he should have had a smug, self-satisfied look on his face from the brutal orgasm he’d just inflicted upon me, Lucas looked positively severe, worried even. “Are you ready?” The trepidation in his eyes told me all I needed to know. My fearless Lucas was scared, scared for me and of himself. It was time to acknowledge the elephant-sized p***s in the room. Lucas was about to hurt me worse than I’d never 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, Jane. You’re a badass. Just go to your happy place and wait it out.

The only problem was, even though 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. Happily, my torture was over rather quickly, thanks to the months-long case of blue balls I’d given Lucas leading up to that moment. Once it was over and he withdrew what felt like a chainsaw from my mutilated v****a.

Lucas 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 fuzzy head but was met with immediate resistance and the sound of metal scraping wood when I tried to move my arms. Lucas'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. “f**k, Jane! Your wrists!” He leaped up and grabbed his key ring off the nightstand, pausing only to discard the condom into the trashcan in Calvin's room where it would no doubt remain for the next ten to twenty years. After freeing my hands, Lucas pulled me into his lap, wrapped his arms around me, and focused his laser-like attention onto my abraded red wrists, repeatedly rubbing, sucking, and kissing them between apologies. “I’m so sorry, Punk. I’m so f*****g 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 f*****g kill me if I broke the only thing I ever loved.” Between each kiss, Lucas 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 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. And elsewhere. Oh, I was better than okay. I was positively high.

“Let’s do it again.”

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Dear Journal,

There’s a small chance that I might get disappeared soon, so I need you to know what happened in case the feds come snooping around. I could write out the whole juicy story here, but I pretty much already did that in an email to my BFF, Brenda, so I’m just going to copy and paste it in for the sake of time. And also to prove that what I’m about to do was all her idea.Dr. Brenda Mage is pure evil, Journal. I know I shouldn’t listen to her, but I

Casca can't help it. She just has this power over me. She once picked up three hitchhikers in bumblebee costumes in the middle of the night and made me sit on one of their laps because that was the only way we could all fit into her sub-compact Volkswagen. Sara once got us shamed out of a live s*x show in New Orleans for heckling the performers but insisted that neither one of us were leaving until she had finished the three dollars can of Natural The ice they made her buy on the way in. Brenda once referred to the head of a child she was evaluated as “Star Trek-esque.” She’s a bad influence. Up until three years ago, we were colleagues in the same school system

(from which Brenda was trying to get us both fired), and it was magnificent. Then she had to go and get all Sheryl Sandberg on me and take a job as an Actress at some fancy research university on the other side of the country. She’s so f*****g smart she could probably cure cancer if she wasisisn't also crazy with a capital K and backward Z. So don’t blame me too harshly for what you’re about to read, Journal. Just do what I do and blame Dr. Brenda Mage

FROM: JANE DAWSON

TO: BRENDA MAGE

SUBJECT: s**t. JUST. GOT. REAL.

So…Braden read my f*****g journal.

I’m getting divorced.

I’m getting poisoned or divorced.

Just thought you should know.

FROM: Brenda Mage

TO: Jane Dawson

SUBJECT: RE: s**t. JUST. GOT. REAL.

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

Brenda Mage, PhD Associate Professor, Department of Psychology, Boston University

FROM: Jane Dawson

TO: Brenda Mage

SUBJECT: RE: s**t. 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 f*****g 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 s**t.

He read my f*****g journal, Brenda. You have no idea what’s inthere. It’s so, so graphic. After reading that s**t, he could probably pick Lucas's giant c**k out of a lineup. I haven’t sleptin like three days because I know the second I close my eyes Bradenis going to go, “Shh, shh, shh,” and smother me with a pillow.

Tell me what to do. Please!

FROM: Brenda Mage

TO: Jane Dawson

SUBJECT: RE: s**t. 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 just in case you come up missing.

P.S. Why the hell didn’t you password-protect your journal?

Brenda Mage, Ph.D. Associate Professor, Department of Psychology, Boston University

FROM: Jane Dawson

TO: Brenda Mage

SUBJECT: RE: s**t. JUST. GOT. REAL.

I know! I’m an i***t! I just honestly didn’t think it was necessary. Braden 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, Brenda. It’s like he’s icing me or playing f*****g 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 f**k 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 a 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 Braden into our bedroom so that I could say thanks by riding his lifeless body for a few minutes, he stopped me and asked if I wanted to try anything new. NEW! (As in, new to him. For a s*x 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 it was really good, Brenda!

The TV wasn’t even on or anything! And get this s**t! The next day Braden tells me that he’s booked another sitter for next month so that we can go see Melvin Coach at The Punchline. Who is this man??? (Braden, not David Koechner. I know who he is, and he’s f*****g hilarious.)

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