Broadcast Lust Ch 07

Chapter 7: Tessa Can Do Whatever A Man Can Do

"You can do anything a man can do," Dad told me again and again and again. He told me in that almost-subsonic voice of his. He whispered it like a breath of sorrow or shouted it like a sonic boom every single time I failed to be perfect. Every single time I failed to be the son he knew he deserved. Every single time my body betrayed me. Every single time I did something stupid to remind Jim Gregg that his only child was born with the handicap of not having a penis. To Dad telling me I could do "anything a man can do" wasn't encouragement, it was judgment.

"I know men, Tessa" he said one Daddy Daughter Saturday. The bass of his voice slammed into my chest like his big 16-pound blue-swirl bowling ball as it arced like a cruise missile towards the paralyzed pins.

"Strike," he said solemnly with the confidence of Nostradamus. He didn't even look. He just closed his eyes and tilted his head and listened like he was listening to music. And a second later that wide, bright charmer's smile spread on his face. The smile Mom called

"The Devil's Smile" in a voice pitched somewhere between terror and pride.

"Men are wolves," he snarled. "Can you trust a wolf, Tessa?"

He took a swig off his beer. He palmed the pink 6-pound "Little Girl's" ball and brought it over to me.

"No . . . *uff* . . . no, of course not, Dad," I huffed as he dropped the ball in my hands. I searched for the right holes for my small fingers. I wished I could be big like Dad. I wished I could be the wolf he wanted me to be. I wished I could make him proud.

"Wrong. You can trust a wolf," he said and I saw that sparkle in his green eyes. "You can trust a wolf to be a wolf, you understand what I mean?"

I had no idea. I nodded my head anyway.

"You ever hear a woman asking 'How can I ever TRUST men again after what he DID to me?' after some guy breaks her heart?" he asked.

I didn't. I was 11. I nodded my head again anyway. I didn't want him to think I was a stupid girl.

"Most women the mistake they make is they confuse expectations and trust. They expect men to be dogs. They expect men to be fucking Pomeranians. To be loyal and adoring and to piss themselves with joy when she comes in the door. But men aren't fucking Pomeranians. We're wolves," he said as he helped me set my feet on the arrows exactly like he'd taught me. "We're wolves and we're gonna act like wolves and

we're going to think like wolves and we're going to hunt like wolves. You expect a man to act like a MAN and you can trust him all day because you're not being stupid. You're not making yourself vulnerable. Only an idiot or a victim gets mad at a wolf for being a wolf is what I'm saying."

I held the pink ball in front of me. I took a deep breath. I prayed I'd do it like Dad taught me. I prayed I'd do it right.

"I know men, Tessa. I know what goes through our minds. I know the urges we have. I know how hard it is to keep those urges in," he said while sliding his eyes along the tank tops and shorts of a pack of sorority girls ironically bowling two alleys over. I saw the hunger in his eyes. I saw how to him their long limbs and flat tummies looked weak and vulnerable. They looked like prey.

"Men are weak, Tessa," he said. "Most men don't even try to be strong."

He stared down at me and I hated how small I was. I set my jaw and stared up at him as defiant as I could. My green eyes locked with his. Our eyes were the only thing we seemed to have in common. I swore I wouldn't look away.

"You can only trust a man to be a wolf, Tessa. You can only expect a man to be a man. You can only trust a man to be weak. Men are hungry wolves just waiting for the right moment to tear you apart. Even good men who try to be strong are just a moment away from losing control. Which means you have to be strong, pumpkin. You have to be smart. You always have to be in control because if you lose control for even just one second you're nothing but prey."

I took a deep breath. I walked three steps to the foul line just like Dad had taught me. I let gravity guide the pink ball down and forward. I let the angle of my wrist add just the right amount of spin. I watched the ball slide into the gutter just inches away from the pins.

"You can do anything a man can do, dammit," my Dad swore as the red-necked pins stood in lockstep formation and mocked me. I bathed in my father's familiar, comfortable disappointment.

"I wonder if he'd be disappointed in me now?" I think as I look over my handiwork. I check the leather again (for the fourth time at least.) I check the ankles. I check the wrists. I memorize every vulnerable inch of the naked, panting blonde woman bound and helpless before me. I inhale her excitement, her anticipation, her fear. I feel a growl hum in my small chest as I crawl between her legs. I bring my cock to her wet, hungry pussy. I shift my hips and watch lovely wanting agony on her face. I grit my teeth to keep from howling.

****

I tore at my lemon-yellow yoga top. I pushed and scratched at my deep-pink tights. I clawed at the stain with my fingernails trying to dig the wound and the evidence of my guilt out. I wriggled. I squirmed. I cried and sobbed.

I felt ants crawling all over my body. I felt spiders in my brain. I prayed to God this was all a nightmare. A nightmare or a joke.

"I'm a slut," I spat and sobbed with something between disgust and pride. I dug my fingernails into my palm SO HARD. SO FUCKING HARD I thought my fingers would break.

I squeezed harder and harder anyway until I clawed through my own skin like an animal.

Until a tiny stream of blood dripped from my fist. Until I punished myself for what I did. For what I said. For what I wanted.

"I'm a slut," I said again and I remembered That Man behind me. I remembered howhis hard cock felt between my legs. I remembered the panicked safety of his fingers around my throat.

"What do you look like?" That Man had asked as he held me so tight against him. As I begged him to let me come.

"What do you taste like?" he'd growled and I'd licked myself off of his fingers like an animal. Like a dog.

"What are you?" he'd asked and I knew the answer. I knew the answer he wanted. I knew the only answer that would make him happy. The only answer that would make him loosen his grip. The only answer that would give me permission to grind my pussy against him like a whore. The only answer that was true.

"I'm a slut," I'd said like I was saying my name. And then I'd proven it. I'd rutted against him. I'd shaken like an animal. I'd screamed and rubbed against his cock and humiliated myself and touched myself until I shattered into a million orgasmic pieces writhing in mindless ecstasy, moaning and screaming and crying like the slut I was.

In front of everyone. In front of the whole class.

I must have drifted off to sleep or something. Or I was drugged. Or . . . I don't know. I don't know what happened. I don't know how. I don't know why I was fantasizing about That Man. Or why I was dreaming of doing those things.

All I know is I lost control just like Dad warned me about.

I lost control just this once. I mean, I don't even masturbate but I lost control this one time and I end up screaming and moaning and squirming on the ground in a . . . puddle in front of everyone.

I acted like a slut. I made myself come like a tidal wave right there on my yoga mat. I didn't even touch myself and I broke and unraveled for everyone to see and hear and smell like the slut that I am.

"I'm a slut," I said again like a mantra. Like a revelation. Like a prisoner resigned to her fate.

I closed my eyes and wished I could go back. I wished I could go back before I bought these fucking slutty clothes. I wished I could go back before I was stupid and arrogant and showed off. I wished I could go back to when I was FTG. Fat Tessa Gregg. When I was in control. When I was invisible to men.

I shivered terribly. I shivered like I was going to freeze to death. I shivered like every good and warm thing in me had been suffocated and sucked out. Like all I'll ever be again is cold and miserable and punished for what I've done.

Mandy had carried me to the office. She'd carried me away from everyone. She'd carried me away from That Man I'd used to fuel my filthy, filthy mind. She'd carried me like a little girl who wet herself and was too embarrassed to be able to walk on her own wobbly legs.

Mandy closed the door behind her and watched as I melted and broke and raged and unfurled.

I finally tore the lemon-yellow top from my chest. I pulled the deep-pink yoga pants from my legs a snake shedding its ugly skin. I stared in horror at the white, caking stain of my orgasm.

I curled into a convulsing, sobbing ball of self hatred and shame and guilt on the floor. I was completely naked. Mandy covered me with a towel. She put her hand gently on my arm. She said soothing nothings to me as I gasped and sobbed. She listened to my lies about what happened and nodded at the ones she decided she wanted to believe.

"Just a panic attack," I said. "I get them sometimes. I'm kind of high strung I guess. A lot of stress at work right now. Some stuff going on with my Dad. No, I'm fine. Really. Thank you you're wonderful. I'm fine." I babbled and babbled an endless stream of lame excuses until she hugged my naked, shivering body against her and told me to call her if I need anything and let me go home.

Home where I'm alone. Home where it's me and the dark and That Man in my memories and my pulsing, throbbing need.

Alone with nothing but the memory of my weakness and my humiliation. Alone where I can lay in the dark and remember the intoxicating smell of him. The feel of him. Alone where I can feel the slithering, pulsing slut beneath the surface of my skin begging to be fed. Yearning to be touched. Crying to be let out. Crying to fuck.

I whimpered and cried every single time as my willpower broke. Every single time my small hands roamed and tickled and tortured and teased. Every single time I bucked and shivered and made myself come against my clever fingers. Every single time I licked and sucked and tasted myself and wished so badly my fingers were his. Every time I acted like the slut I know I am.

I kept hoping it would get better.

But it got worse.

I force myself to go to work at the accounting firm and it's torture every day.

I "take care of myself" before I leave the house, but by 10AM I feel myself squirming in my seat. I feel that awful warmth building in me. I hold out as long as I can but I'm almost vibrating in my chair and I know if I wait much longer my boss will smell me.

I hurry through the office. I keep that "Work sucks" smile plastered to my face. I feel my nipples screaming to be squeezed and pinched in my bra. I rush to the bathroom 3 floors away from my desk and hope hope hope none of my co-workers see. I lock myself in the stall. I unbutton my shirt. I bunch my skirt around my waist. I pray no one can hear me moan.

I feel so weak. I feel so helpless. I feel so horribly out of control. I feel like I'm trapped in the back of a car careening towards a cliff and there's nothing I can do. I wake up every morning terrified of what I want. What I'll do. What I am.

But then I get the cock and something calms in me. Something purrs. I feel that anxious knot of fear untangle in my chest. I feel my shoulders loosen and slump. I feel that familiar warmth spreading between my legs.

I just stare at it when I get it home. I stare at it because it's beautiful. I stare at it because it's so close to perfect.

There were many at the leather store run by all the gay men. So many colors. So many sizes.

But then I found him. I found the one that almost fit my memory. The one that wasn't too big and wasn't too small. The one that almost fit so perfectly in my hand just like That Man's cock had in my fantasy.

I used a suction cup to attach the cock to the cold linoleum bathroom wall. I put it at just the right height I remember. High enough that I have to stand on my knees and reach with my mouth to touch him. I closed my eyes.

I felt so right as I closed my lips around him. I worked inch by inch into my mouth. I tickled his balls with my fingers. I slobbered and spit until he was coated and slick.

And then I pushed.

I pushed until I felt him against the back of my throat. I pushed until I gagged. I pushed until I felt like I was drowning. I pushed until I couldn't breathe. I imagined That Man's fingers wrapped in my hair. I imagined his strong hand pulling me down. I imagine his voice saying "Good Girl." I felt the head of his cock start to slide down my throat.

I look up so eager to see the pride and gratitude in his eyes. But I see nothing but the pale blue bathroom wall and suddenly I wretch at the taste of rubber and silicon in my mouth.

"*Huhhh huhh guhhh," I cough and sputter as I spit the cock out. I take deep, gasping, desperate breaths. I feel a crushing sadness float through me.

I force a smile onto my face. I force myself back into the fantasy.

I look in the bathroom mirror. I force myself to see the pretty slut on her knees.

I see how hard my nipples are. I see the glistening wetness between my thighs. I stand up. I run my fingers teasingly down the cock. I imagine it growing and twitching just for me. I bend over. I reach between my legs. I feel little shocks through my body as my fingers graze my needy, desperate clit. I feel my hips shift and twist almost imperceptibly as I twist my fingers around the head of his cock. I feel him slide almost perfectly into place at the entrance to my empty, hungry, wet pussy.

I close my eyes and brace my hands on the counter. I feel my arms vibrating. A knot twists viciously in my stomach. Goosebumps break out all over my body. My pussy pulses and throbs. I shift my weight just barely and feel myself stretching around him. I feel a sick urge to jam myself back onto him. To tear myself apart. To ruin myself forever for any other man.

I imagine That Man behind me. I imagine his hands on my hips. I imagine him letting out a roar as he takes me. Ravishes me. Makes me his. Treats me like his slut.

And I pull myself off the fake rubber cock with a disappointed groan. I refuse to go that low. I refuse to give myself completely to a toy.

"DAMMIT," I yell as the frustration and need spill out of me. I remember That Man behind me as he made me scream and shiver and truly come for the first time in my life. I straddle the cock. I grab the head and pull it up against me. I feel the firm shaft rub deliciously against my clit. I watch my hips buck and grind and thrust all on their own.

I look down and see the pale white shaft sticking out from between my dark, slick thrusting thighs. I pinch my nipples and tickle my belly and feel myself rushing towards a screaming, thrashing orgasm as I realize it isn't That Man's cock at all.

It's mine.

****

She almost shat herself when she saw me. Jane I mean. Jane who did this to me. Jane with the Boston accent and the blonde hair. Jane who touched me and teased me in the changing room. Jane who sold me the deep-pink yoga tights and the lemon-yellow yoga top I was humiliated in. The slutty clothes I wore while That Man made me beg and whimper and come so hard right there in front of everyone. The slutty clothes that woke up what I'd worked so hard to keep asleep. The tight, slutty clothes that destroyed my life.

Her blue eyes went bright and wide like a Disney princess when she saw me. Her plastered-on salesgirl smile and all that false confidence fell off her like a cheap porcelain mask and I saw her for the soft, vulnerable thing she is.

She made a bee line for me, weaving through the shelves and racks of tight, expensive yoga clothes, almost knocking over a rack of hundred-dollar tank tops that could feed a village of Chinese kids for a year. I held myself still. I kept my breathing slow and silent.

"I am sooooo sorry," Jane mewled in a half-whisper as she looked down at me. She's at least 5 inches taller than me. At least 5 years older. She has amazing posture. She's tall and lean and strong. She's a woman.

I felt something in me stretch and smile as I realized how terrified she was. She was terrified of little harmless me. She was terrified of what I could do to her just by saying a few little words.

I stared at her. I didn't blink. I did't say a word.

She babbled like a little girl. She babbled the way I used to babble. Before yoga class.

Before That Man. Before FTG was burned and killed and buried. Before everything changed.

"I owe you a huge apology, honey. HUGE. I was an asshole the way I treated you. I was totally out of line and it was wrong. I thought you were giving me signals and you were just so gorgeous and I have no idea what came over me because I would never . . . . . I'm sorry is what I'm saying. I'm sorry and I'm begging you not to tell my manager, honey.

Please? Please? I need this job. I'll do anything to make it up to you . . . I . . . "

I reached out my hand and wrapped my small fingers around her wrist. I squeezed just hard enough to make her stop. I looked up at her with cold, green unblinking eyes just like my dad's.

I willed my voice to be slow and even and strong.

"Do you teach yoga?" I asked with the coyest, most innocent look I could manage painted across my face.

I felt myself salivate at her fear and her confusion. She stopped babbling mid idiocy and bit her full red lower lip.

She twisted her wrist slightly in my grasp. I kept my grip firm and strong and tight. I wanted so badly to dig my fingernails into the flesh of her. To leave little half-moons smiling on her skin. To punish her.

She took a long, deep breath. I watched her breasts rise and fall. Her hips shifted that tiny bit towards me. Welcoming me. Opening to me against her will.

It's a silly question. Of course she teaches yoga. As near as I can tell the expensive- yoga-clothes store is nothing but a coal mine for hot young yoga teachers. A way for them to feed their desperate lust for butt-flattering pants and push-up sports bras on "spiritual" slave wages. Every day these flexible young women smile and flirt and chant "OM" in their heads as they tell flabby soccer moms with bitter faces and Amex Black cards and cankles how wonderful they look in those $200 pants. How they were finally going to get their hips and ass back after the baby. How their husbands were finally going to look at them with desire again.

All for a 35% discount and that little label proudly displayed on their lower back like a tramp stamp.

"Yeah. Yeah, I teach Bikram and Hatha and I'm working on my . . .," Jane started to babble again, listing out her yoga bonafides. Soon there would be tears in her eyes. Soon she'd be telling me how yoga has changed her life.

I hushed her. I let my fingers lightly caress the strong muscles in her forearm. I took a deep breath and tried to quiet the pitiful shadow of the old me still writhing and screaming and horrified at my plan.

"I won't tell anyone about how you sexually harrassed me, Jane if you come to my apartment and give me a private yoga lesson," I said and willed a twinkle into my eye. I smiled the way I imagine you do when you're flirting with someone. I silently prayed that it would work.

Jane swallowed. She whipped her head left then right to see if anyone was watching. She suddenly looked so thirsty.

"Um, sure, honey," she nodded her head dumbly like a dog. "I could maybe next wee . . ."

"Tonight," I said and I heard strange new steel in my voice.

She didn't argue. She gave me a half smile and nodded her head like a good girl and I felt my nipples suddenly so hard in my tight little belly-baring black T-shirt. I felt my pussy quiver in my tight little jeans that hug my ass. I sank the hook as deep as I could. I left my mouth just that tiny bit open like some stupid, rich reality show starlet on a magazine cover. I tilted my hips that tiny bit to the left. I ran my tongue slowly over my lips. I made a thousand little promises with my body and laugh as she hungered for each and every one.