By now you know there’s nothing chronological about these stories.
My breakups were never like the literary breakups of film and book. They weren’t dramatic. There were no shouting matches, accusations, tears, or slamming doors.
Breakups began and ended in little ways. One of us would become a little less enthusiastic and the other would notice. We might still see each other, not wanting to hurt the other’s feelings, but that too would diminish. Then we would be like so many other ex-lovers, friendly but never friends again.
This is how my breakup with Heather began. We were alone in a house where I had rented a room, and had gone upstairs to the widow’s peak. There was a covered twin bed and sailing regalia decorating the walls. There were windows overlooking the neighborhood. We talked a while and Heather began fingering a coil of rope next to the bed. “It’s almost like you bought me up here to train me.”
“I don’t show your clients the right enthusiasm,” she said, lying on her back, giving me a flirtatious smile. “You need to break me in.”
“I do?” I asked, roleplay was new to me, and suddenly exciting. “Have you been bad?”
I moved my thumb from her neck, over her chin, and toward her lips. She closed them tight and turned her head away. “Open your mouth.” She shook her head. “Open it.” She shook her head again. She was already half turned. I abruptly turned her the rest of the way and climbed onto the bed with one knee at the small of her back. She pretended to struggle. I pretended to pin her down, but the spanking was real. The urge to dominate a woman—my fascination with images of dominance and submission—
She begin to twist under my knee and gasp with each slap. When she began to claw the sheets, when her face was read, and her spine arched, I offered her my thumb again. Her lips parted and she sucked, eyes glued to mine as if afraid. “Good girl.” She nodded and whimpered. “But we’re not done yet.” I straddled her. She pretended to struggle, to slide out from under me, to flee. I reached under her, undid the her jeans, and pulled them off as she crawled out from under me. Her jeans tangled in her ankle. I used that to pull her back under me. “Spread your legs,” I said. She looked them tight.
I moved back with a knee pressed into the small of her back.
Once more we played our roles, and once more I began to spank her. Her toes dug into the mattress. She grunted and growled.
“I’m going to fuck you.”
“No!” She shook her head.
“I’m going to teach you how to be a good whore.”
She snarled. I took her hair and yanked her head back. She began to mewl and whine as the spanking continued.
“Spread your legs,” I said again.
She did, spreading them wide and arching as if inviting my cock—anything to stop the spanking.
“But first,” I said, “you need to make me ready for your cunt.”
I stood, told her to cross her wrists behind her back, and lifted her head up. She did as she was told, submissively looking up at me as I slid my cock into her mouth. She sucked, tongue and mouth moving with a hunger and desperation that was new. I could have come in her mouth.
“What a good little whore,” I said.
She shook her head, my cock in her mouth.
“You don’t like being a whore?”
She shook her head again.
“How about a bitch? Why don’t you arch your back like a good bitch. Show me your cunt.”
I leaned forward, cock still in her mouth, and spanked her again. She uttered a muffled cry, spread her legs wider, and offered her cunt. I moved between her open legs. I yanked her head back and sank into the curl of her abdomen. She let out a moan that was as long as my cock. I was crazed. Her hands and move back to the sides, elbows up as she twisted the sheet beneath her. She let out a full-throated wail with each plunge. Then she shook and so did I, my own back bent and rigid as I spurt inside her, cock wedged as deeply in her abdomen as our bodies allowed.
When I rolled over onto my back next to her, I saw tears.
“Are you okay?”
“Did you come?”
“I think so.”
She pressed her forehead into the mattress, as if in thought, then half curled into herself, turning onto her side and away from me.
“That was amazing,” I said, hopefully.
“I didn’t like it.” Her voice was soft. “I mean, the sex was good. I don’t like it when you call me a whore.”
I tried to turn her, but she refused. “I was just playing.”
“I know, but I didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You probably didn’t like the other names.”
She shook her head.
If I had been five years older, I would have apologized; but maybe that wouldn’t have been sincere—or as sincere. How does one apologize for telling the truth about oneself? Then again, maybe that’s the best reason. She rolled over, half smiled and half laughed, but wistfully.