A Controlled Descent Ch 02

It's nearly three in the afternoon when I text Tommy. Miraculously, he and James are still at brunch and invite me to join the party already in progress. They're nearby at one of my favorite spots that offers bottomless mimosas, and I am ready in record time. For me. It helps that Jack had me shower when he brought me home last night.

Last night.

The memory of him is still wrapped in a soft, gauzy afterglow that should be scored by Trent Reznor. I replay every moment, frame by frame, while I dress. The appraising way he looked at me when I first got in his car. His thoughtfulness. How he took care of me when we got to my place and made me something to eat while I showered. The strength of his hand on the back of my neck while I masturbated for him. His voice telling me to cum. That voice of his should be illegal, and the recollection causes my brain to reboot every time I think about it.

It's not just that I've never met anyone like him, never encountered that kind of confidence. Honestly, I didn't know men like him existed. Don't get me wrong, I've known plenty of confident men in my short life beginning with my father. But in my experience, such confidence is usually accompanied by a restless, bristling tension. The presumption that their self-assurance entitles them to more of everything: time, attention, praise, opportunity, oxygen (see also my father). I hadn't gotten any of that from Jack. His confidence isn't suffocating, isn't selfish. There's a calm about him, and he strikes me as a man who had nothing to prove to anyone. And not in a self-involved, I-don't-care-what-people-think way either. He simply knows himself and is comfortable in his own skin.

What must that be like?

I step out into the sunshine of a flawless May afternoon. DC is so beautiful in the spring before the humidity sets in, and the entire city seems to be out enjoying the weather. I slip in my earbuds and bob and weave my way up the sidewalk, dancing on my toes. I'm riding an incredible high, but as is my nature, by the time I get to the restaurant, the voice in my head, the one that ruins everything, has got me second guessing myself. Why hadn't Jack fucked me? Yes, he'd brought me home and taken care of me, made me eggs, cleaned my kitchen. Yes, he'd helped me to cum and finally to sleep. Yes, yes, yes, it was all magical. But why didn't he want

me

? What had felt gallant when I woke begins to feel more and more like pity. After six months of texting, he'd met me and realized he wanted nothing to do with me.

Who can blame him

, the voice whispered.

I check my phone. Still no word. What more proof do I need? I'm never going to hear from him again. It's strange how much that hurts.

Tommy and James are at an outdoor table with another couple. Tommy spots me and waves me over, but I don't want to go over there like this. They're having a champagne-fueled good time, and I'm little miss storm cloud. I do something that runs counter to my bedrock principles - I text Jack first.

- hi

Okay, not exactly the Declaration of Independence, but I've broken the ice. I even feel a little proud of myself. Still don't think I'll get an answer, but at least he can't use the excuse that we both just let it go. I hate that move.

Before I can get too much on my high horse, my phone vibrates. It's him.

- Good morning. Or I guess, good afternoon now.

I stare at the message like a zoologist who's just discovered a previously unknown species.

- How did you sleep?

I feel immediately guilty at his question.

- so so good. im really sorry I passed out on you

- Don't be. You needed it. Did you just wake up?

- yeah, meeting friends for brunch wbu

- wbu?

That makes me smile. I forgot he's an actual grown up.

- sorry, it means what about you

- Ah, well, what about me is I'm at the airport.

My smile fades.

- where are you going

- Europe. Business trip.

I don't have any idea what he does for a living, but he strikes me as the kind of man who might have business on another continent. Either that or it's a lie, my girl-brain suggests. A way to get out of seeing me.

- how long are you gone

- Not sure. Depends how negotiations go. A week? Hopefully not longer than that.

- good luck

- Thank you. I'll text when I'm back.

When he's back. Now I know it's all bullshit. Is there no cell service in Europe? I know a gentle letdown when I see one. A week will turn into two, then into a month. Time will pass, and should I ever be foolish enough to reach out, he'll say he's just been busy. I'm so stupid.

- okay

- Be good.

Be good, he says. That's funny, I think, and start walking home. I'm not hungry anymore and don't want to inflict myself on my friends in this mood. By the time I get home, I've talked to six guys who would love to get together today. I know just what to wear.

#

The next nine days are a blur of men. I've gotten myself twisted out of shape before, but this is the worst it's ever been. My rational brain shuts down, and my decision making becomes increasingly erratic. A grasping tunnel vision takes over. Everything ceases to matter other than my craving. Tommy stops texting me around day five, which is how I know he's really mad. There's no excuse for why I haven't texted him back and at least let him know I'm alive. I just don't. I feel feral, distractingly horny, and other than going to work, I spend every waking moment either fucking or looking for my next. I can't stop. They're not my hands on the wheel anymore. In the past, when I've gotten on this kind of self-destructive jag, I eventually exhaust myself like a hurricane blowing itself out once it makes landfall. The scary thing is that I feel my need gathering strength, not ebbing. It feels all consuming.

The funny slash pathetic part? I don't even make the connection that this has anything to do with Jack. Not even when my pace picks up on day seven. Jack said he might be back from Europe in a week. Of course, I don't hear from him and entirely coincidentally fuck three different men that day including a lawyer in his office on my lunchbreak. He's an unhealthy fifty-one and introduces me to his coworkers as the daughter of a college friend there for an informational interview. In his office, I look around at the framed pictures of his family. He has two daughters about my age. Both are petite brunettes like yours truly. I feel myself becoming wet at the perversity of it.

"How old are your girls?" I ask conversationally.

"Twenty-one and twenty-four."

"I'm twenty-three."

"Small world," he says, forcing me to my knees, unzipping, and shoving his dick in my mouth.

He uses my face for a while, and I put my hands on my knees dutifully and take it. I don't think he likes that, how easy it is for me. This isn't about him feeling good so much as it is punishing me. Seeing me struggle to take his manhood. When I don't, struggle that is, he pushes me onto my back and fucks me on the carpet with his suit pants around his ankles. The whole situation has a tawdry, underhanded vibe that works for me. I'm such a fucking romantic that for a moment, I even think I might cum. But, then the voice in my head clears its throat and nips that idea in its slutty, slutty bud.

After

he

cums, he carefully wraps the condom in tissue and slips it into his pocket like an assassin picking up shell casings. Can't have his indiscretion discovered by the custodial staff. Without a word, he goes around to his desk and picks up the phone as if he's got a call to make, dismissing me with a flick of his hand. Straightening my skirt, I wince my way out of his office with rug burn on my back. I make a mental note not to block his number. Him I would let fuck me again.

Not so much the rest of this parade of unmemorable, anonymous encounters. The sheer number is the only thing I remember afterwards. It's not until much later that I realize that was the point of this entire sordid exercise. Jack helped me to cum, and I am determined to prove that it wasn't because of his magic voice. See, he might not want me, but I don't need him. The only problem is, I can't prove my thesis. I can't cum. And the longer it goes on, the more frustrated I become, and the hornier I get. It's a vicious, degrading, unhealthy circle that makes me ever more angry and reckless. Call me Hurricane Mackenzie.

On the morning of the tenth day, I'm all but broken. My pussy feels bruised, and my body aches like it got thrown off a building. Yet I'm unable to stop myself. It's a Wednesday, and I call in sick as soon as I wake up. That's always been an uncrossable line - no matter what else happens, my proclivities never interfere with my job. I worked too hard in school and hustled to get a foot in the door after graduation. I swore I wouldn't let anything jeopardize it. Yet here I am, skipping work to fuck anonymous men. I am such a worthless whore.

Nevertheless, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. I'm meeting a man at his hotel. He's got an important lunch meeting at noon, and I promised to help him destress beforehand. I like the idea of that. It makes me feel useful. I blow dry my hair and do my make up in the mirror. It amazes me how pretty I look. And I don't mean that as a brag, it genuinely surprises me every time and especially after the past week. I just have one of those angelic faces. Nothing ever sticks to it. In the mirror, I look like freshly fallen snow, pure and untouched despite everything. A sweet, beautiful girl with a bright future who you would be proud to take home to meet the folks. What a sick joke. I don't know where my Dorian Grey picture is hidden, but it's doing some heavy, heavy lifting.

I get to the Hay-Adams a little before ten. My little black cocktail dress is woefully out of place at this hour of the morning, but that's how he wanted me. I like how shy it makes me feel. Dressing for a man I've never met turns me on for reasons I don't wish to overthink. At the elevators, the well-heeled K Street types and tourist families give me a wide berth. He asked if I wanted to meet in the lobby first, but that's just wasting everyone's time at this point. I tell him I'll just come up to his room. No one gets murdered in hotels this fancy, right?

He answers the door in a plush hotel bathrobe and gives me an appraising once over before ushering me inside. I estimate he's about forty with a kind face framed by a blonde beard. He introduces himself as Pierre in a soft-spoken French accent that to my American ears sounds almost like parody. I tell him my name is Rachel.

"You are more beautiful than your pictures, Rachel," he says with a gracious smile. "Thank you for visiting me this morning. I am a fortunate man."

He's working the whole gentlemanly seduction angle, which isn't my usual vibe at all, but that accent is selling it. My phone vibrates in my hand. I glance at the lock screen. It's Jack, and I feel my face fall. Pierre asks if everything is okay. I ask if I could use his bathroom, and he is too much of a gentleman to say no. I shut the door and lean against the counter before reading the message.

- Hello Mackenzie. How are you?

It's so calculatingly bland and casual as if we talked just last night. Two can play though.

- fine

- Good. Just wanted to say hello now I'm back.

- hello

- Anyway, a car just dropped me off. Really good to be home. It was a long trip.

I react two different ways to this. First, I feel really touched to be the first person he texted. Alternatively, this is some bullshit. He was never in Europe, and this is all elaborate gaslighting for reasons unknown. When I don't respond, he adds:

- Well, I know you're probably at work. Don't want to interrupt your morning, but I'd like to see you when you're not busy.

My heart leaps against my better judgment.

- i'm not at work

- Oh? Where are you?

- a room at the hay-adams

- Up to no good, are we?

- i'm supposed to fuck this guy but don't want to now

- Why not? What happened? Are you safe?

Because you texted me. That's why not. And it feels so good that he cares if I'm safe. I'm so pathetic.

- yeah i'm fine. he's french

- So what is it?

- dunno just don't want to anymore

- Have you been on one of your sex benders while I've been gone?

That's what he calls them - sex benders. Somehow, he manages to make my self-destructiveness sound cute.

- maybe...

- When did it start?

- last sunday

- How many so far?

- 12

Why can't I lie to him? How does he do this to me?

- And this man would be number thirteen?

- yeah...

- But now you want to quit?

- maybe

- And do what?

- i dunno see you?

I don't know how I summoned the bravery to write that and feel like I am leaning way out over the abyss when I hit send. When he doesn't reply right away, I'm ready to topple in.

- That can be arranged.

- really

- Sure. After you fuck him.

What? I read it again. It says what it says. What?

- i have to fuck him?

- No, of course not. Only if you want to see me today. The choice is yours.

My wheels are spinning trying to interpret what he is saying.

- so I can see you another time if I don't

- Of course.

- oh

- Text me when it's done, and I'll give you my address.

I'm staring dumbly at my phone when he texts again. I expect it to be a "just kidding," or a "gotcha." It's neither.

- And Mackenzie?

- what

- Do a good job.

I flinch at the gentle knock at the bathroom door, Pierre asking if everything is alright.

"Yes, I'll be out in a moment."

"Of course," he replies, but I can hear concern in his voice. I would be too if the strange girl I invited up to my hotel room locked herself in the bathroom.

I run water in the sink and study myself in the mirror. So what's it going to be, I ask my reflection, and wonder why fucking this guy is suddenly such a big deal. Didn't I call in sick for that exact reason? And it's not as if I haven't been a proper little whore all week. Just stop being so dramatic, I tell myself. Go in there and get it over with. I don't budge from the mirror. I can't. Something fundamental has changed because of Jack's offer. It's not the first time someone has tried to interfere. People have been trying to rescue me since high school. Sensitive, caring boys taken in by outward innocence and think that if they just love me enough that I'll be other than I am. It's a sweet sentiment, and sometimes I really try for them, but it always ends in their tears and recrimination.

One of the things I like about Jack is that he's never once tried to save me from myself. I haven't told him everything, not by a long shot, but he knows a lot more than most people in my life. Despite that, there's never been any judgment from him, no well-intentioned advice, no words of wisdom. That, if nothing else, makes him unique. And now he's gone and done something even more inexplicable. Instead of trying to talk me out of fucking the Frenchman, he's encouraging me, baiting me with this invitation to his home. I want it so, so badly and for exactly that reason I resent it and him. Jack said that the choice was mine and that's exactly the problem. I'm the furthest thing from being proud of myself, but whatever else is true, at least the decision has always been mine alone. Now he's put his finger on the scale trying to make the decision for me.

He's toying with me. I trusted him, and he's toying with me. What I should do is go home. I've always been stubborn, and he has my hackles up with his, Text-me-when-it's-done shit. Like he knows me. The smug bastard. So sure that I'll do what he wants because he knows I'm a whore. But why should I? He said I could see him eventually even if I didn't go through with this. But if "eventually" means another six months from now, I will lose my mind. What a colossal mindfuck.

Like Jack said, the choice

is

still mine. One that I've always made with ease up until today. I shut off the faucet and go out into the room. I'm very much on the fence. Pierre is standing by the window in his bathrobe, hands clasped behind his back. He looks very handsome in the morning sunlight, thoughtful but anxious. When he sees me, he smiles.

"If you must go, I understand," he says. "It is no problem. These things happen, yes?"

I'd been braced for him to be petulant and irritated with me, so his kindness catches me off guard. Now I don't want to go. Not because of Jack, I tell myself, but because I decide I like this Frenchman. He looks tense and nervous, and that's no way to go into an important meeting. I can help. I'm good for that at least.

"I'd like to stay," I say. "If that's alright."

"You do?"

To prove myself, I unzip the side of my dress and with a shimmy of my shoulders let it slip to the floor around my ankles. I've seen this move in films and always thought it looked sexy, but this is my first time. I guess it goes well because his lips part slightly at my nakedness.

"Quelle belle femme," he murmurs appreciatively.

Stepping out of my dress, I cross the room and take the knot in his bathrobe's belt in my hands. I look up for permission, biting my bottom lip for effect. Hopefully, I'm not overdoing it. I just want to be what he needs me to be.

He nods, and I untie it slowly, letting his robe fall open. He's naked beneath and takes me in his arms. It's a good kiss. The kind that makes my mind go blank. My lips follow his, playful and light. The sunshine feels good on my back. He's hard against my stomach, and I take him in my hand, stroking the length of his cock with my fingertips. He sighs, becoming very still as if afraid that any sudden movement might scare me away.

"Can I make you feel good?" I ask. "Please."

In answer, he leads me to the bed where he makes himself comfortable, piling up pillows behind his head as if he's getting ready to take a nap. I crawl between his legs and take him gently into my mouth. He has a content half-smile on his face as he watches me take my time.

There have been a lot of cocks in my mouth this week, but this is the first time I've cared one way or another. I feel incredibly dialed into him, listening to his breathing and studying his expressions to discover what he likes - the spot at the base of his cock just above his balls that makes him shudder when I flick my tongue across it. I'm confused by how into it I am and more than a little suspicious. This whole scene feels distinctly like making love, which is not something I do, ever. All that tenderness and caring? No thank you very much. It just runs counter to the basic tenants of my need and leaves me ice cold. But I'm not cold now, am I? No, I'm incredibly wet and don't understand why. Am I a secret romantic and just need the gentle touch of a Frenchman to bring it out? No, that's some fairytale bullshit. Something else is at play here.

"Makenzie?" a voice in my head asks but not the mean one that always ruins things for me. I've never heard this one before.

"What?" I ask tentatively.

"Do a good job."

My body flinches like I've been shot. I know the voice now. Why I'm wet. Why I'm enjoying myself. It's nothing to do with the Frenchman. It's Jack. He's in my fucking head like a thief. I'm doing this all for him and didn't even realize it. The defiant part of me recoils at the realization. Sex has always been my consolation. An unsafe space where I could set the terms of my own destruction. Men could touch me, but they could never touch

me

. And now Jack is in here with me, and I think I might be the one who gave him the key. No, fuck that. I grab his presence by the scruff of the neck and march him out the door, slamming it emphatically behind him. This is mine. Mine. Stay the fuck out!