Broadcast Lust

Chapter 1: Meet Mark, He's A Nice Guy

Thursday, September 14, 8:17PM. The Law Offices Of Garfinkel, Carlton, Deutsche & Lole

The girl whimpered as she backed her sopping pussy onto me.

Well, maybe "girl" isn't the word. It sounds a little misogynistic. It sounds a little wrong.

No, staring down at this 32-year-old brunette, listening to her moan in shock and terror and need as she shoved herself back until I bottomed out against her cervix and her ass quivered against my hips, I realized she wasn't a "girl" at all.

A "girl" didn't moan like that. A "girl" didn't reach back to grab my hip with one hand, digging her fingernails into my flesh and letting out a desperate shriek as she tried to pull me deeper into her. A "girl" didn't whisper "please, please, please, please" like I was holding a gun to her head and not fucking her would be as bad as pulling the trigger.

A "girl" didn't sob uncontrollably and shiver as I I placed my hands on her hips and slowly pulled myself from her inch by agonizing inch until just the head was left throbbing inside her.

A "girl" didn't babble "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God please Oh God" and brace her arms against the desk white knuckled like she was at the top of a roller coaster. She tensed up in anticipation as I shifted my grip along the bunched up tatters of her conservative business skirt.

No, Helen Martin, Esquire of the law firm of Smith, Carlton, Montgomery & Lark wasn't a "girl."

And she certainly wasn't a "woman." Right then, right there, she was a bitch.

A horny, eager, desperate bitch who needed my cock in her pussy, my hands around her throat, my voice in her ear, my fingers on her nipples. At that moment she needed all of it like a starving woman needs food.

"That's a good girl, Helen" I whispered as I glided my fingers along her lower back raising goosebumps along her flesh. My words caught in my throat and I let out a brief gasp as her pussy suddenly rippled so hard around me I felt it in my soul.

"OK, OK, I'm OK, wait, Mr. Watkins, hold on I just . . ."

And then I plunged into her to the hilt and my ex wife's divorce lawyer screamed with an orgasm that made her whole body spasm like she was being electrocuted.

She thrashed so hard she knocked a framed picture off her desk. The glass shattered when it hit the floor. I stared down and felt myself grin wolfishly as I caught sight of Helen and her tall, dark-skinned, handsome, perfect-looking husband smiling and innocent and in love on their wedding day.

"God, I'm such an asshole sometimes," I thought. A small, ignored part of me screamed as I moved my hands to her shoulders and clasped them with just enough pressure around her throat.

"Guh," she sobbed as her first orgasm finally started to fade and her mind came back to something close to reality.

"Wait. Please. I just need a second to . . ."

I pushed forward just a tiny, tiny bit and watched the aftershocks of pleasure paint beautiful pictures in the muscles of her back.

I hadn't meant to fuck my ex wife's lawyer when I came here. I tried to keep what had woken up in me under control. I swear. I used all my tricks to make sure I didn't end up in this very situation, actually.

"I can't. Please. Please, Mark, I can't."

Seriously, I didn't want this to happen. It wasn't my fault this beautiful bitch was screaming and coming and falling apart on the desk in front of me. But that didn't mean I wasn't going to enjoy it. I felt a growl building in my chest and that hunger rising up in me again.

"Yes. Yes you can." I said tenderly and pulled her back onto my cock hard enough to leave bruises on her ass and scars on her heart forever.

*********

Hi, my name is Mark Watkins. And I swear, I'm a nice guy.

No, really, I am.

Heck, I'm more than just a "nice guy," I'm a fucking feminist.

Seriously, just ask any of my friends, any of my ex girlfriends, my ex wife (we'll get to her later), anybody.

I love women. I took women's studies classes in college. I spent at least 3 years right around the end of high school hating myself for having a penis. I've been the "best guy friend" of literally dozens of hot chicks and was completely fine with that because I really did value our friendship too much to let something like sex fuck it up (no matter how many nights I spent viciously masturbating and wondering what the meathead douchebags my "friends" hooked up with had that I don't.)

I hate "Pickup Artists," think men should do their fair share of housework, would be completely cool with being a stay-at-home dad, think women should get equal pay for equal work. I think "no" always means "no" and "Maybe" should probably mean "no" too just to be safe.

And even though I say it shouldn't matter if a presidential candidate has a dick or not I'm pretty sure I'm going to vote for a woman when the time comes because "The Patriarchy has been in charge long enough."

Like I said, I'm a nice guy. I'm a good guy. And I think I'm becoming a monster.

I mean, I've always had . . . thoughts.

I'm a guy. We all do.

I'd be walking down the street and I'd see a hot girl in short skirt. And suddenly I'd find myself caressing her with my eyes, drinking in every curve of her delicious ass, imagining what it would be like to bury my teeth in her neck, inhale the smell of her pussy, cut her panties off with my pocket knife and make her moan and scream and beg and come again and again right there in the middle of the park in front of everyone while her fucking hairless-metrosexual software exec boyfriend sat there and passively- aggressively cried about what a little pussy he was. While I fucked his girlfriend into a ravished, ruined and satisfied puddle with my cum dripping out of her, a wide smile splayed across her face and a desperate addiction growing in every cell of her sexual being.

But . . . that was just fantasy. That was just base, stupid male desire. It was just the dominant male power fantasy evolutionary psychology bullshit that made the world the penis-obsessed, war-addled, gun-worshiping mess it was turning into.

It's not what I really wanted. At least not what I told myself I wanted.

I told myself what I really wanted was intimacy and connection and romance and desire.

What I really wanted was to worship a woman and treat her like the equal she was in bed and out. I wanted to be the perfect boyfriend women started dreaming of when they were little girls. I wanted to be the husband who'd love them forever and never look at porn and never even think about other women.

And if I sometimes had . . . dreams and thoughts and "urges" that were a little more . . . aggressive that was just my lizard brain playing tricks on me. It was just a test. It was just a burden I had to face for being unlucky enough to be born male with all those violent urges and all that testosterone and all that guilt.

**********

All this started after my wife left me. (I'm not saying it's her fault but . . .)

I think maybe the shock of the separation "broke" something in my brain.

Or maybe it woke something up. Something hungry and terrible. Some power or something I can't control. Something I don't even know if I want to control.

It's weird to me now, but I remember how upset I was when Sarah finally ended it.

She was just back from a business trip. A conference or something. And like every time she went on a trip I tried to make her homecoming as awesome as possible. I'd gotten the house cleaned up, bought flowers, cooked dinner, set out candles like we were at some French restaurant or something. I planned the romantic, soft-focus lovemaking we were going to have where we stared into each other's eyes for hours and came together in absolute joy like the ending of a particularly upbeat Dave Mathew's song.

And then I waited.

I sent a few "light but slightly concerned" texts but didn't get a response. It was after midnight when she finally came home.

"Hey, honey, was your flight delayed?," I asked. I was all prepared for the two of us to have a bitch fest about the incompetence of the airlines and how weird it was that all my texts somehow hadn't gotten through because of those assholes at AT&T.

But she didn't give me any excuses at all. She looked tired. Sad. Rumpled in ways that shouldn't happen on an un-crashed airplane.

"Mark," she said as her eyes scanned the room. The candles were burned down. The food was cold.

"Let me get your coat for you," I said and tried to force a smile onto my face. My voice shook just a little.

"Mark, I don't want to do this anymore," she said. "I don't want to pretend everything is great with us. I don't want to be married to you or to anyone else. I want out, Mark. And I'm not going to change my mind."

And then my world fell apart and I felt that cold chill in the back of my brain for the first time.

I mean, there were more words. I begged. I cried. I asked "Why???" in a thousand different ways.

It didn't matter. Her mind was made up.

"We'll figure out what we're going to do about the house," she said. "I'm sorry, Mark. I'm really sorry."

I leaned in towards her. "Just one more kiss?," I said. I knew it sounded pitiful when I said it but I thought if I could just kiss her one more time we'd feel that spark again and she'd love me again and like me again and whatever or whoever happened on this trip to leave her so certain she was done would just evaporate from her mind and we'd go back to being happy . . . or at least pretending to be.

For a split second something changed in her blue eyes.

But then she pulled back.

Wiping away tears she said "That's the problem, Mark. Always asking for permission in everything you do. Stop beating yourself up so much. It's OK to be a fucking man sometimes, you know?"

Chapter 2: The Beast In The Mirror Wakes Up

August 23, 5:58PM Emerald City Hot Yoga, Capitol Hill, Seattle, WA

It was 3 days later at my yoga class when the monster first woke up. When I realized something was very wrong. When I took that first step down a path that would shatter everything I ever thought about who I was, what I wanted and what I was capable of. When I would become the thing that destroyed lives.

If you've ever been through a divorce, you know I was a wreck. I'd spent the last few nights dangerously drunk, reveling in denial and texting Sarah every stupid, weak and toxic thing a man can send to a woman who doesn't respect him and doesn't want him anymore.

And dear fucking God I had a headache.

At the time I thought it was just stress or something. I mean, they say getting divorced is right up there with losing a child or getting diagnosed with a terminal illness as far as what it puts you through.

Divorce doesn't just steal what you have now, it steals the future you thought was yours from the moment you said "I do." It makes you mourn a life you'll never get to live. It makes you lay awake at night and stare at the ceiling and think about the kids you thought you were going to have and feel like you murdered them by not being enough of a man to keep your wife.

At least that's what it did for me.

But anyway, I just felt this sharp and throbbing pain in my head like somebody had taken a freezing cold dagger and plunged it into my brain right at the base of my skull. I'd only learn later what that chill really meant.

"Maybe I've got a brain tumor," I mumbled into the phone. I was talking to my "best friend," Fiona. She was a half-goth butch lesbian when I met her in college, but since then she'd transformed a bit into a smoking hot blonde who thought having to choose between women and men was like being forced to choose between chocolate and peanut butter. And scotch.

"You don't have a brain tumor," she laughed. "You're just heartbroken. It's OK. But you need to get out of the house, Mark. It's not good for you to just BE there surrounded by all the horrible stuff she decorated that place with . . ."

"I did most of the decorating," I mumbled through my tears.

"That whole house is just a mausoleum to dead memories, Mark. I'm not saying you have to enjoy it but I'm telling you right now to get off your ass and go do something.

Today. Now. Because if you let that bitch ex of yours turn you into a dead puddle of self- pitying emasculated man I'm going to be really pissed off."

"OK," I said. "OK, I'll . . . I'll go to yoga or something."

"Yeah, go to yoga. And wear those tight little shorts you got at LuLuLemon that show off your cock. You'll get attention."

"From gay guys. I'll get attention from gay guys" I mumbled.

"Hey, attention is attention and right now you just need to be reminded that you actually have a penis and that that bitch didn't put it in her purse when she broke your heart and crushed the pieces with those stupid fucking boots of hers."

So anyway I was at yoga when it happened.

If you're a straight man who's ever been to a hot yoga class you know it's a sea of astonishing asses in skin-tight pants all pointed in the air and swaying in the breeze like strangely fuckable trees.

In the past I'd always tried not to stare. Not to lust. Not to fantasize. Partly because I was a married man and married men weren't supposed to do that. And partly because . . . well, because I didn't like the thoughts that came welling up when I did.

But this time I did stare. And I did fantasize.

This time I was weak.

It's the mirrors that did it. Damned yoga mirrors mean you can see every girl and every woman in there sweaty and panting and half naked, bending and flexing and trying not to moan.

And as I tried not to look I found my eyes dancing from woman to woman, ass to ass, girl to girl and I felt a deep rumble in my chest and a deeper hunger as my mouth went dry and my hands compulsively flexed.

And then my mind was racing with sudden pornography.

This "cute" young woman set up a few mats away from me. The kind of girl I usually beat myself up for staring at. The kind who made me feel like a creepy old man.

She was short, maybe 5'3" and couldn't have been older than maybe 22. She had that wispy confidence that comes from not having lived enough yet to be cynical or to realize how powerless you really are in a brutal, brutal world.

The girl was wearing ass-hugging deep pink yoga pants and a tight yellow top that left her midriff and belly button exposed, showing off the muscles of her abs gliding beneath the skin like Killer Whales swimming just below the surface of the water, ready to pounce on any seal stupid enough to get close.

OK, saying she was "cute" was just me being euphemistic and we both know it. She wasn't "cute," to my eyes she was astonishing. She was beautiful in an almost confusing way. I'm no genealogical expert but she looked like a particularly alluring combination of Japanese, Spanish and Nordic ancestry. She had a tight little ass and gravity defying tits that wrestled mightily against the straps of her lemon-yellow yoga top. Her face had the kind of innocent, optimistic and maybe a little naive look to it that made even the kindest man salivate like a wolf.

I was at least 16-years older than her. I was driving when she was born. I was old enough to be her father (if I had a kid in high school and if I was actually one of those guys who got laid when I was 16.)

"Yoga, Mark. Yoga." I said to myself. I snapped my eyes shut as I glimpsed the girl doing backbends. I had a sudden ravenous desire to taste the skin of her belly and to grab her little belly ring with my teeth.

"Ommm," I hummed under my breath. I was a tree. I was one with the universe. My body was just a vessel for my immortal soul. I let the heat of the room sink into my skin. I ignored the stiffness growing in my tight yoga shorts. I tried not to imagine the obscene bulge of my masculinity right there for everyone to see. I pushed the beautiful girl and the hungry things I wanted to do to her completely out of my mind.

Then I feel her tongue on my thigh.

My eyes shoot open and I see this gorgeous mutt of pure femininity smiling up at me on her hands and knees, planting long, wet kisses as she climbs her way up my legs.

Her nose traces the outline of my hard cock through my shorts. Why did I wear these things again? Then I stop thinking as I feel her tongue dance along my belly button and her teeth sink gently into the muscular flesh of my right hip. I see a mischievous grin in her eyes as she she gives up and finally uses both hands to push my shorts down to my knees.

And suddenly I'm naked in yoga class, my hard-on sticking out like a flagpole, a gorgeous young woman staring at it like Christmas has come early and she's been a very, very good girl.

"All for me?" she mouths coyly as her small hands wrap around my girth. I have to hold back a groan as she buries her face in my crotch and inhales that musky, manly scent.

One hand teases my shaft while her tongue bathes my balls. Her other hand glides through my chest hair, gives a not-quite-gentle tug and then traces its way down her body until finally she lets out a happy moan as it dives into her pants.

She gobbles down my cock, trying her damnedest to take all of it. With a low growl I bring my hand to the back of her head and tangle my fingers in her hair like some "stud" out of a porno movie.

"There you go. There you go. You can do it."

"Guh!," she gasps for air as she chokes on me. She laughs and I feel a surge of testosterone hum through my whole body. I reach down and pull at the lemon-yellow yoga top. I need to see those gorgeous fucking tits. I need to feel them around my cock while her tongue darts out to lick the head on every thrust. I need to . . .

"Good evening, yogis."

I'm shocked out of my reverie as the teacher walks in. I shake my head. Calm my breathing. I use the mirrors to look for the young brunette I'd been fantasizing about . . . face fucking just seconds before.

Then I see her using the mirrors to stare at me. We make eye contact for just a moment.

Her eyes are wide and shocked. Her jaw is slack. She's breathing heavy. She's covered in sweat even though class hasn't even started yet. Her nipples are hard like daggers desperately trying to cut that damned top away.

"We'll start on our backs tonight, yogis" came the voice of Mandy, one of my favorite teachers.

The brunette blinked like she was coming out of a dream. Her eyes darted down my body to the very obvious bulge in my yoga shorts. She shook her head. He tongue darted out to lick her lips. She crawled onto her back and I could almost think I'd imagined the whole thing.

Except suddenly I realized my headache was gone. And as I did my warmup breathing and saw the shocked and ashamed look on the girl's face, I realized I could smell how wet her pussy was from here.