My Pretend Sex Slave 07

Jett stopped exploring the limits of Lisa's pain and went back to painting. She made offhand references to incorporating her sadomasochistic experiences into her art. It sounded good to me. I was just tired of violence and guilt.

I didn't see her quite as much, but it was an easy trade. I was studying with Mia and crew when she called.

"Hey," Jett said. "I'm not going to be around this weekend."

She sounded rushed.

"What's up?"

"My dad is in town," she said. Jett didn't sound excited. "I need to spend time with him."

This was a development. Her dad nominally lived in Indianapolis, but he traveled extensively for business.

"When will I see you?" I said. I wanted to ask about dinner or maybe stopping by for a visit. I knew her relationship with Dad wasn't great, but I wanted more of her. I wanted every aspect of her life, even the parts that weren't perfect.

"He leaves Monday morning," she said. "So that afternoon. Maybe Tuesday."

It felt like a slight. We were serious. I loved Jett, and she loved me. It seemed like a reasonable time to meet her family.

"Okay," I said.

Then she was gone.

--

"Just you and me this weekend," I told Lisa.

"What does that mean?" she asked. It seemed like an invitation to... something.

Things were odd between us. A general melancholy lingered over our relationship. Sometimes her irreverence could pierce through it. Other times not.

"Jett's dad is in town," I said. "No time for us."

The 'us' part of the relationship had gone dormant. It had been two weeks since Jett had whipped Lisa. Lisa hinted around about Jett, but didn't push it too hard. She saw the impact their sessions had on me.

"You didn't get the invite?" Lisa said. She was a savant for finding my vulnerabilities.

"Appears that way," I said. I tried not to sound disappointed. I failed.

"Hey," Lisa said. Her grin had faded, she had a facade of earnestness. "Brett, I uh... I'm sorry. I know what it feels like when people..."

Lisa's brown eyes searched into mine. I forgot how expressive those eyes could be, how there was a real person with an incredible mind behind that exhibitionist caricature. Lisa didn't want to finish the sentence, but we both knew what she was about to say.

Lisa knew what it felt like when people were embarrassed by her, when her friends chose not to introduce her to the people they cared about most.

Lisa flashed an awkward smile.

"Just kidding," she said. We both knew she was lying.

I had butterflies in my stomach. The bad kind, but I owed myself some honesty. Jett wasn't embarrassed by me. I was boyfriend material. As Lisa once told me, I was pretty great too.

--

Jett called the next day.

"He wants to meet you," she said. There was no energy in her voice.

"Great!" I shouldn't be so needy, but I wanted to be in her life. "When?"

I heard a long sigh on other end. What was wrong?

"Jett?" I asked.

"Dinner. Tonight. He's paying," she said. More good news.

"Brett?"

"Yeah," I said.

Another long pause.

"My dad is a real asshole," she said. I kept waiting for a follow up. There was none.

"Why don't you come over?" I asked.

"No, I'm busy. Hey, I'll pick you up at seven. Dress nice," she said.

"What's wrong?" I said out loud this time.

"Nothing, he's just... seven o'clock okay?"

My heart was racing. Jett was unflappable. Her only vulnerability was her art.

"I love you," I said.

"Yeah," she said.

--

The weather was starting to turn. It had been unseasonably warm these last two weeks. A front was coming, and I knew that literally overnight, it would be Winter.

But Autumn wasn't done fighting yet. She had one last storm to give.

Things were off from the beginning. Jett's wardrobe typically bounced between paint covered blue jeans or couture fashion. Tonight she was... frumpy. Long sleeve shirt and skirt to her knees. Regular shoes. Flats.

Jett dodged around traffic through misty rain. She was guarded. I tried to wait for her to open up. On occasion she would turn to me, ready to say something, then swallow her words and keep driving.

She pulled in to a steakhouse I had never heard of. The whole neighborhood was out of my price range. Jett turned off the car but didn't move. We sat in the dark.

Silence.

"I'm sorry," Jett said. "My dad is an ass, and it's worse than normal. He's pissed at me."

"What for?"

"Everything."

--

The steakhouse was the kind of restaurant where the sides aren't included, and the prices on the menu are "fair market value."

Jett's dad was pushing fifty and thin. Not fragile. Athletic. His hair was silver and full, eyes severe. They shared the same kind of precision in their movement.

He didn't smile when he saw Jett. I disliked him immediately.

"Jenny," he said.

"Dad," she said. "This is Brett."

I shook his hand. His grip was sturdy, like he was trying to prove something. My deadlift was pushing three hundred pounds, not a big number for actual athletes, but enough to ignore casual intimidation from a rich old man.

"Franklin," he said. His eyes were hazel like his daughter's, with the same scrutinizing intensity Jett had when she was judging my clothing.

--

"So Brett," Franklin said. He slid his knife through a rare porterhouse, plopped the bite his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then spoke. "What are you studying?"

"Meteorology," I said. Jett hung on my every word, like I was on a tightrope and a single wrong syllable would topple me over.

"Weatherman?" he asked. I thought I heard a note of contempt in his voice.

"It's mostly just math," I said. "Sir."

I did everything in my power to keep my posture up, to chew and swallow, to pretend to be a normal human who had held a fork before, who had eaten food. Fuck.

"You ever consider engineering?" he asked.

I actually had. The foundations between the disciplines were similar. It was just... I liked weather, but not in a "sure is hot today kind of way." In the perfect conditions, F3 tornadoes can drop out of the sky on a sunny day. The wrong hurricane at the wrong time can kill thousands, destroy cities and state economies and presidencies.

Meteorology was intensely abstract and theoretical, an art and a science blended together, but the success or failure was measured in lives. We were oracles trying to predict the future, but we didn't pray to Poseidon or Zeus, we had only ourselves. And math.

I didn't know exactly what character traits defined "an engineer," but it wasn't me.

"One of you will have to earn money," Franklin said.

"Dad--" Jett finally jumped in.

"Quiet," he said. Dismissing her. I grit my teeth. I grew up a nerdy kid, avoiding conflict my whole life. In that moment, I asked myself, had I avoided conflict because I was nice or because I had been weak?

I was still a nerd, but I wasn't weak. Not any more.

"Have you seen her art?" he asked. I could feel the quotations in his voice when he said 'art.'

"Yeah," I said. My voice was almost a growl. I turned my whole body away from him over to Jett. She looked ready to throw up. "I love it."

"So you know she gets naked," he said. "That's her body on display."

"Yeah," I said.

"And it doesn't bother you?" he asked. "Having other men see her naked?"

"Dad. Stop," Jett said. "Don't answer him."

I turned back toward Franklin. Deliberate. Slow.

"It. Does. Not," I said.

I saw him scoff, almost under his breath, a look in his eyes like I was weak, too weak to keep my girl in line, to keep her from embarrassing the both of us, like she was a whore.

"Jett," I emphasized her name, "decides what goes in her art." Not you.

"Spoken like a true politician," he said. "Maybe you should change your major--"

A noisy clank as Jett dropped her fork on her plate. The white knuckle grip on my own fork kept me from reacting.

"Dad," she said. Her voice was low.

"No. Jenny," he said. His focus was on me. "We're talking."

Jett got up.

"We're leaving," she said. She turned to her dad, eyes flush with hatred, "You're an asshole."

Jett grabbed her purse. I stood up.

"Leave this table, and you're cut off," he said.

Jett stared at him, like she had been slapped. Franklin smiled.

"The money comes from somewhere Jenny, and it certainly isn't from art," his eyes drifted back to his steak. He was cutting again. Jett was frozen.

"Run along Brett," he motioned with his knife. "We have more business to discuss."

"Jett..." I said. I studied her face. Jett was furious, so angry she was on the verge of tears. She was also... subdued. Captured. I looked for direction.

"Just go," she said. "I'll call you later."

I studied them both for another beat.

"You heard her," Franklin said.

What I wanted to say was that I loved his daughter, and there was no way I was leaving them alone, no matter what Franklin, Jett, or God had to say about it.

"Okay," was what I actually said. Fuck me.

--

Jett arrived an hour later. A sad knock on my door. The storm arrived during dinner. Just the short walk from her car to my door left her drenched, her frumpy clothes now an exaggerated disaster.

"Are you okay?"

"He's such a fucking asshole," she said. So much of Jett was confidence and swagger, the kind of woman who used her sexuality like a scalpel. Tonight she just looked fragile. Thin.

The raindrops on her face would mask any tears, but it was obvious she had been crying. I didn't have it in me to coldcock someone, but when I looked in her eyes, I discovered something in myself. There are uncrossable social limits in life. If Franklin had been there, I would have crossed them all, one by one, until he had no choice but to do something.

Then I would break his fucking neck.

I took a deep breath. Jett was shaking.

I tried to let my anger go. I hugged my girlfriend. She buried her face against my chest but didn't cry. When she finally pulled away, her jaw was set.

"I want you..." she paused. I hugged her, but she didn't squeeze back. Jett took a deep breath.

"Is Lisa here?" she asked.

"No?" I said, stepping away. Lisa was out, maybe studying, maybe... who knows. Lisa was strange. Did she even have friends? It occurred to me that she was around a lot less these days. I mostly saw her on campus, or when Jett was whipping her.

Jett sighed. She stared at me.

"What?" I asked.

Her vibe went from anguish to just... strange. I couldn't read her. Her hazel eyes seemed far away, like she was making a decision, but I couldn't even begin to guess about what.

Her eyes focused on me. Jett leaned in.

"I need you," she whispered. I saw the muscles in her jaw flex. She wasn't playful. I didn't see lust. I saw rage.

"Jett--"

"Take your clothes off," she said. Her voice was cold. It wasn't a take your clothes off because I want your body. This was different.

Jett peeled off her wet clothes. I followed, stripping all the way down to my underwear. She stood in my kitchen in a simple white bra and panties. Conservative, so drenched in rainwater her underwear was translucent. Tight stomach and ribs. Shaking not trembling. Not cold. Angry.

Jett ran her hand along my cock, then reached in my underwear. I firmed up quick. She kissed me, lips smashing lips, pushing so hard that I felt her teeth bumping against mine.

"I want you to fuck me," she said, her face blending almost in to a sneer.

"Yeah," I said. "Sure."

She marched us to my bedroom. Sex with Jett was often intense, but she was on a whole other level. I didn't protest.

As we reached my bed, she turned to me, eyes smoldering.

"Fuck me in the ass," she said.

Jett massaged my cock. It felt like something from a porn set, like a fluffer making sure I would be ready for my part.

"It doesn't fit," I said.

"Because you gave up," she said. It was an accusation with a surprising amount of heat behind it.

"I was hurting you," I said.

Her eyes bored in to mine. I saw only rage. Maybe she didn't want me, not sex with me, at all. Why had she asked for Lisa?

"We should talk," I said.

"No!" Jett shouted. I pulled back. Jett took a deep breath, then forced a smile, offering up an apology or an invitation. She looked sad. "Please Brett. Please. Stop talking. Just fuck me."

She slid her body against mine. Her hand stopped shaking the moment she pressed it against my chest.

"It's okay if you hurt me," she whispered. "I won't break."

"It's a bad idea," I said. The words were hollow. How could I tell her that I wasn't willing to take a sledgehammer to our relationship, unsure whether it would shatter?

Jett pulled away. She stared at me again. She looked... not calm but closer to herself, not just an animal in pain. She leaned her head against my chest.

"You can't find any cruelty? Just for an evening?" she asked. It was almost a whine, a sad plea for attention.

I thought of our fight, the blowjob that wasn't, frustration and rage, fucking Lisa. Not so long ago, I was so angry that I had cheated on her. Now, when she needed my anger, where was it?

"Not enough," I said. I felt guilty for not wanting to hurt her.

She pulled back. Her sad eyes turned up to mine. Jett nodded. Accepting me for who I am.

"Just fuck me then," she said.

I felt broad relief. I didn't have to hurt my wonderful, sexy, angry, passionate girlfriend. I only had to fuck her.

"Okay," I said.

"Hard though," she said. She smiled. "I know you can do that."

She wasn't wrong. I flashed back to Jett against the wall, Lisa watching. Jett on her couch, wearing nothing but thick white socks.

"Against the wall?" I asked.

Jett looked around my room. It was small. A twin bed, a dresser, a desk for writing, and a small closet.

"The desk," she said.

It was a hand me down, thirty years old or more, repainted and refinished countless times. It was wide but not very deep. Jett approached it from the side, so she could lay across it.

I watched her approach the desk, getting the full profile of her body as she stretched her arms in the air. As she did so, her body lengthened out, her thin frame becoming more so. Then she pushed her ass back, and descended to the desk. Her posture was languid but controlled as she bent over it, caressing the top of the desk with her hands then her breasts then her stomach. Jett arched her back in order to keep her ass in the air. As her face approached the desk, she stuck out her tongue.

Her angry eyes found mine as she ran her tongue across the desk.

"Fuck me," she purred.

I didn't know how to process her emotional intensity, but it didn't matter. It didn't take much more than her naked body to get me going. All she really demanded was I do it with vigor. I could handle that.

I came up behind her, my erection swinging as I approached. She was bent over, ass and pussy opened, only simple white panties between us. Her arms extended, narrow shoulders flexing, tattoo wrapping across ribs. I could see the dimples of her back, the heart shape where her narrow waist curved in to her small ass.

I slid her underwear down her ass, dropping it to the floor. She was waiting for me. I lined my cock up, ready to meet her desire. I didn't want to hurt her, but maybe I could help. Maybe I could fuck her so hard that she forgot her pain.

I pushed my body in to hers. My cock boring in to her pussy. Slow. Jett was barely wet. I pushed harder. I could feel the tension in her body as she pushed back.

Unlike so many other nights, Jett's body wasn't helping us. She wasn't turned on. I wanted to say something, to ask her if she was okay. But I knew the answer already. She wasn't okay.

I worked my cock back and forth inside of her, each stroke lubricating us both, each stroke going deeper.

"Harder," she said. She wasn't ready yet. I ignored her, just kept going, back and forth. Slow. It worked, in and out until I was buried inside of her.

When my hips finally pushed against her ass, and my cock was completely inside of her, she buried her face against her arms and said, "Now make it hurt."

I slid my cock about halfway out, then slammed back in to her, so hard her hips bounced against the desk.

"Yes," she moaned. "Again."

I followed orders, slamming my body in to hers. This time she was ready, her legs and ass pushing back in to me, our bodies colliding.

"Oh god," she said. "Don't stop."

I didn't. For all the passionate sex that had occurred in our relationship, this was a different experience, raw emotion passing back and forth between our bodies. Everything else was incidental.

"My hair," she panted. "Pull it."

I ran my hand up her back, muscles rippling under my fingers, past her shoulders, up her neck, to her hair. I snaked my fingers through her beautiful auburn hair, to the base of her scalp. I pulled. Not violent. Firm.

"Is that--"

"Stop fucking asking permission," Jett said. She pushed her ass back in to me. I got the hint.

I fucked her over my desk, one hand pulling her hair, the other pressed against her back, holding her body against the table while I fucked her. The less comfortable she looked, the more she moaned.

She felt great against my body, but I wasn't focused on my pleasure, I was focused on her, slamming my cock deeper and deeper, so hard that her hips dug in against the desk, and the force of my body against her ass wasn't so different than a spanking.

Each stroke against her was met with a groan and the bruising sound of the legs of the desk jerking against the floor. I felt her sweat against my hands and between us.

The pressure kept building, our lungs labored to keep up with the rest of our bodies. I wondered abstractly if I could survive, if my heart would give out before my cock.

Then I was coming, bottoming out inside of Jett, filling her, spasm after spasm. Jett was silent. I pulled away, backing up until I was against the wall, heaving for air.

I watched Jett's naked body on the table. She didn't talk. Didn't move, except to breathe. I watched her ribs expand and contract.

"You alright?" I finally managed.

More breathing.

"No," she said finally.

"What's wrong?" I felt a surge of panic. We had gone hard. Pulling her hair, neck craned back, hips digging in to a sharp wooden corner again and again and again.

"I... uh..." she was still struggling for breath.

I recovered as best I could and walked around to check on her. She was laid out on the desk, her auburn hair sweaty. Jett turned her face toward me. She wasn't in pain that I could see. I ran my hand across her shoulder.

She buried her face in her arms.

"Jett?"

When she came back, there were tears forming in her eyes.

"It's not enough," she said.

Our sex had been intense, almost violent. She hadn't come, but that was never a requirement before, especially without foreplay. I wasn't enough for her?

"I can go down on you," I said. I'd never done it after sex. I didn't love the idea, but I was willing to try. I'd try anything for her.

Jett gave me a sad smile and a sigh.

"No, not that," she said.

Jett studied my face.

"I need you to whip me. The crop."

Her demand was clear, but I didn't understand.

"Why?" was all I could manage.

I watched a tear roll down her cheek.

"Don't make me say it," she said.

It was her dad. It all stemmed from dinner, but I couldn't fathom how hurting her would make it better. Jett buried her face between her arms. She might have been crying.

"I can't," I whispered. Just imagining whipping her set off a wave of anxious butterflies. Even if I wanted to...

"I will," Lisa said. I turned around. Lisa was standing in the doorway. Her hair and t-shirt were wet. She must have slipped in during our angry sex. It took a moment to process her appearance, then her words.

Jett lifted her head. She looked from Lisa over to me, then back to Lisa.