She’d be gone soon and the days of monotony would resume. Everybody would talk. Everybody would tell him about her. Second-hand stories full of colourless descriptions, worn conversations, recycled jokes. Repetitive and stale and maddening and so useless that it made him want to kill himself.He wanted to see her. There was a party at her neighbours’ house tonight, the Williamsons. She’d be there. He could go and see her for himself. Couldn’t he? Why couldn’t he? Why hide? He realised he was entertaining the idea and he frowned hard. He retrieved the soap and scrubbed himself methodically. He didn’t like parties. Didn’t like the fake familiarity, the circus of paper compliments, the cold food, the deafeningly pretend laughter. But it was the only way. He set down the soap and imagined himself walking in and seeing her face to face.“Fuck.”He couldn’t do it. He swallowed hard. Why was he even considering it? She wouldn’t be anything like she used to be. He didn’t believe the words even. You dog slut." "I'm not a slut. Don't call me names" she replied, whining like a little girl reprimanded by her daddy. Obediently she crawled over to the couch." That's good. That's a good little dog slut, said Ken. "Now, take off your panties and your bra, lay your head and arms on the sofa cushion. Then lift that awesome ass of yours in the air. Marta hesitated. The lust induced fog in her mind lifting, her lucidity returning. "What - " Ken cut her off. "I said, and am saying for the last time, take off your panties, and your bra, lay your head and arms on the sofa. Marta realized where Ken was taking the situation. He read her for what she was. A spineless, submissive. Marta could feel her cunt lips gently rubbing against each other as she shifted her weight from one knee to the other, the cunt juice oozing out of her soaked hole like warm sap. Meekly she lay her head down on the sofa cushion and put her arms on either side. Her large breasts hanging down and slightly quivering as.
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