Balls Deep

R. has begun finger fucking J.with some vigour, feeling a little guilty because he hadn't the stomach to lick her cunt. He wasn't squeamish about cunnilingus but her snatch tasted of over salted spoiled meat, or rather what he imagined over salted spoiled meat would taste like. It was an unspoken between them.

She could sense his disgust the first time he went down on her, the cursory manner in which he launched himself at her labia and clitoris. R. was prey to vindictiveness, though his attempts to control his alcohol and drug intake had left him susceptible to guilt. For some reason, though he had said brutal things to her, R. couldn't tell J. her gash was a rancid dish.

R. is two fingers in, up to the hilt, twiddling her clit with his thumb. J. had initially responded with excitement, indeed she preferred his fingers to his cock, but his automotive manner was now greeted with an actorly response. It was the fluoxetine R. took to curb his binge drinking and slow the encroaching mental instability which had engendered his abstraction. Fluoxetine made the scene play out like a particularly skanky Brit gonzo loop.

A pair of ugly arseholes all over each other in the funereal confines of a privately rented flat above an office supplies outlet. R. was the evil cameraman; it was his chemical POV. The gonzo auteur absently poking the porn ingénue's trimmed pussy as he tried to balance the VC on his shoulder. A crew of two. R's experience had been reduced to the level of distant, banal spectacle. He wasn't even hard, looking on disinterestedly while she sucked his balls and worked his dick with her right hand like a gang bang fluffer. R. needs to infuse a little cruelty into the ritual to achieve tumescence. His wounded masculinity or the decency of resignation and contrition? The dick will out.

Spooking her turns him on. R. pulls her hair, tweaks her banana titties and shoves his cock in her mouth. He's not got a huge cock but it's big enough and she's got a small mouth. K. is retching and the distress caused by the irrumatio has made his prick diamond cutting hard. Throws her face down on the bed and tries to stick his cock in her arse.

It's a dry old hole and he nearly rips his helmet. J. on her back. Arms pinned to the bed. R. fucking her roughly. He never wears a condom. It would fuck up the porn aesthetic and it's just not the same, but he's revolted by the thought of impregnating her so she always takes the spray. Puts his hand on her mouth, stopping her breathing. Her eyes communicate fear. Her mouth struggles free of his hand.

"What are you doing?"

He withdraws and clambers up the bed. Places a knee on each of her shoulders. Wanks off on her startled countenance. It's been a while since he's ejaculated, the fluoxetine having curtailed his compulsive masturbating and there's load of the stuff. He does a Jamie Gillis growl as he pumps it out. Ra-ra-ruff. The jizz is everywhere. On her mouth, in her eyes, braiding her hair. He admires the mis-en-scene, rewinds the scene in his head. A truly great cum shot. J. looks wiped out, zombified. Her lips are moving but she is saying nothing. She stayed in the bedroom while he smoked cigarettes in the living room.

R. is in his flat smoking weed and drinking cheap vodka. The fluoxetine is meant to curtail his appetite for booze and it is succeeding but makes it makes him feel queasy and disorientated and he's smoking more joints to quell the nausea and calm his shakiness. He's still drinking, to take the edge of the anxiety the fluoxetine sometimes engenders, but a lot less, yet mixed with the pills it is even more potent in moderation. There is a merging of his dream life and what he perceives as his reality.

He has black outs and his days are jump cuts, shock edits. Last week R. had rung J. apologise for hitting her. J. told him he'd done no such thing, R. had been a gent, they'd shared a bottle of wine and listened to Dido and Aeneas.. Yesterday he'd woke up next to her feeling peachy only to be told that before he had passed out hours earlier he'd tried to sodomise her and when he had proved incapable of dominating her he'd pissed on her face.

R. went to the flea market and bought a Sisters of Mercy EP and a pair of handcuffs. He goes to her flat and unpacks his rucksack. The handcuffs, a Polaroid camera and half a bottle of scotch. R. can make a noise, the pill heads in the adjoining flat are playing trance music loud. J. doesn't know he'd had her front door key copied. She pisses herself when R. jumps out the shadows. R. covers her mouth with his right hand and kicks her legs from under her. She's gagged with one of her black stockings. He handcuffs her and strips her naked. J. hasn't shaved and her hairy legs disgust him. R. puts a carrier bag over her head and watches her suck it in and out through her nose. Takes a picture. Shakes it, shakes it. Takes the carrier bag off .

Burns her tits with a lighter. Real Hillside Stranglers shit. Works things in and out of her cock. A banana. A dildo. His cock. Goes in the fridge. He takes out a box of eggs and breaks them over her. Rubs the yolks into her tits. Comes on her tits and pisses them clean. Takes another picture, shakes it, shakes it. Unlocks the handcuffs. J. remains motionless until she hears the front door close behind him.

In the morning he awakes and half remembers. R. cannot get out of bed, he is rendered inert by self disgust. The bedside phone rings. He answers. J. asks him why he went home early. He was so drunk she was worried he wouldn't make it back to his flat. Stay Prince and hear. R. hangs up. He unpacks his rucksack. A Purcell CD, an empty scotch bottle and a Polaroid picture. Scatter roses on the tomb.

The picture has J. looking into the camera, eyes hollowed out, with a black stocking round her mouth. R. picked up the phone.

"The photo. Are you fucking with my head."

She had taken it herself, having grown bored watching him snore. Look at the angle of the shot. The flashbulb had hurt her eyes. J. said it was inspired by Mapplethorpe. R. torched a cigarette. He couldn't see the connection.