Birth of a Sadist

They used to fight so goddamn much. It was why he finally bought earplugs.

Living on the main floor of that old rented brownstone a few streets up from the lake was a pretty sweet deal. He could bike to his job - his first real one since graduation - along Lakeshore Boulevard, there were all those charming patios to try out along Queen Street in the summertime, the Fox second-run movie theatre was just up the street, and the dog certainly never complained about the long, lazy strolls on the boardwalk regardless of the season.

But those upstairs neighbours? Fucking hell.

To be fair, it was only actually she who lived there. The boyfriend wasn't a live-in, but he was there often enough that it sure as hell seemed like he was. Sarah, though? With that wavy blonde hair, hips that swayed in time with her step, and legs that went for miles? He loved bumping into her on their own comings and goings at the front stoop of the house. She always gave him this Broadway-worthy smile, but he could see through the act. He'd hear their fights, after all. He knew their relationship was all kinds of drama, and it was the brand that was more "Days of Our Lives" than "Phantom of the Opera".

And there was the makeup sex. Of course there was the makeup sex. For a guy in his mid-twenties, one might think that would be an enjoyable listen. But it got stale quickly. 2 a.m. was not the most arousing time to be an audience when the advertising team was presenting a proposal six hours later.

Hence the earplug purchase. Burying himself under layers of pillows, or plugging into his iPod could only provide so much relief. He needed to mute them and enjoy some silence.

That drizzly Wednesday night in June changed it all, though.

He had heard the rumblings of the fight while he was trying to finish up his evening emails. It travelled with him into the washroom, and it escalated, as he went through his bedtime routine. By the time his teeth felt minty fresh and he was turning off the tap, he already knew he'd be reaching, yet again, for the earplugs.

He climbed into bed and stretched over to the bedside table for them.

The voices above became singular - the boyfriend's - and the bed squeaks also began.

One earplug found itself squished up and pushed deeply into the canal of his ear, as far as he could safely get it.

Her voice couldn't be heard, just the man's. Words: abrasive ones. Ones that he didn't think a woman should have to hear. But something in them made his mind (Was it his mind?) twitch.

He couldn't find the other earplug. Where had it gotten to?

Her voice re-entered. A pleading of sorts, followed by more words that weren't just words. Deeply-voiced growls of the most vile of labels. He didn't understand how he wasn't angered. He didn't understand why he didn't want to defend her honour. He didn't understand why his cock was stiffening in his boxers.

He stopped his hand from wandering further in search of the second earplug. He stopped everything. He listened.

The old metal bed frame above creaked in its own protest. He heard a smack, followed immediately by a squeal that was also a whimper. His cock twitched again. His hand went there, now, instead of the bedside table.

The words became strings of poison, debasing and humiliating. But he could hear the false denials in hers, and the percussion the boyfriend was playing on her body with each of them. He removed the first earplug; it tumbled carelessly down his pillow.

Her words became ragged beggings, timed to pace the drilling of his demands, and punctuated with a resounding *thwap* for each "Please, Sir" that slid, traitorously, from her mouth.

His hand was beneath his boxers, stroking along with their drama; his own breath catching, his own grunts escaping.

It was when the rhythm grew heavy and fast, peaking, that her pleas began to change. From that main floor bedroom, he could see her face crumple; he could taste the salt of her tears; he could hear the hiccups in her throat; he could smell her fearful arousal; he could feel the bruising marks dealt to her pale skin.

All of it took him to a place he'd never been; a place from which he would never return.

That next morning, he found himself stepping out of his front door, while Sarah did the same, both of them maneuvering around last night's puddles. Words were shared, of the small variety.

When Sarah reached up to tuck a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear, for just a moment he saw it: her wrist marked with fresh violet. Her eyes shifted from his, to her wrist, and she promptly dropped it to her side. He smiled and did not drop his gaze - held hers for brief seconds, in fact - and then she was softly offering him her goodbye for the day.

What she didn't know was how much else she had offered him, and just how much he had taken.