Thomas Brown floated into his apartment feeling like a million lush green dollars. Yesterday at this same time he'd thought his life was over. He sensed now that he'd been granted a temporary reprieve. Everything in his life was indeed crashing to an inexorable end but now that knowledge freed him. Walking back from that woman's house just now he'd stopped once in a while to take in deep gulps of air, desperately joyous to be alive. Thomas Brown knew that he'd just committed an act so irredeemably wrong and unjust that no amount of repenting would ever put him back in god's graces. If indeed an atheist could have been in god's graces to begin with.
And yet, he thought as he walked into his bedroom and confronted himself in front of the full-length mirror, he could have sworn he'd heard a choir of angels at the end of that tunnel. Maintaining eye contact with his reflection he took his coat off and let it fall to the ground in a heap. He unbuttoned his shirt and lightly ran his fingers down his muscled chest and toned stomach, down to the edge of his pants. He unbuttoned them slowly and just as slowly brought the zipper down to reveal his briefs. He studied the bulge there. He freed his cock and then let his arms drop to his sides as he took a good look at himself. Thomas Brown stood at six one, a lanky runner's body. His hair was light blond, and it retained the platinum sheen of his youth. It was cut just this side of unruly, not quite disheveled but not tamely professional either. Angelic blue eyes peered guilelessly out from a lightly tanned face strong enough in bone structure not to let the dimples overwhelm it into cuteness. The same light colored hair faded almost invisibly on his chest, furthering the impression of boyish youth and darkened as it neared his groin. A small smiled played on his face as he looked at his mostly clothed body, and his manhood poking obscenely out from his pants. He licked a finger and ran it from its base to its cum-hole, taking a detour to circle around its head along the way. The head was turning deliciously purple. He felt for his balls and finding them, hefted their weight in his hand and then massaged them roughly. His cock bobbed.
He let it throb unfulfilled and turned away from the mirror to take his clothes off. Yawning, he climbed into bed. Thomas Brown was exhausted. He fell into a deep dreamless sleep. It was five o'clock in the afternoon.
When he woke it was dark out. He hadn't turned his blinds down though and the lights from the city illuminated his room. His body ached. His tongue felt tender in his mouth. He stumbled out of bed and his bones creaked from the run he'd had this morning, protesting almost a month of inactivity. Various parts of his body throbbed to inform him that that woman had gotten in a few more blows than he'd noticed at the time in his frenzy. He got into the bathroom and when he turned the light switch he actually keeled over in reaction to the harsh whiteness stabbing his eyes. Thomas Brown felt a monumental headache coming on. He straightened and made his way over to the toilet. As he took his piss he realized his cock had that strange second skin feeling, when you don't wash after sex and the juices dry on you. His pubic hair was matted with it and his right hand had the same stickiness as his cock. Like a sprayed on glove. He flexed his hand and felt it stretch and he rubbed his fingers together and let bits of it flake off. And there, he noticed on his forearm close to his wrist, a smear of blood. He had a flashback; his clenched hand moving inside her cunt, its lips clamping around his wrist, then giving way like a hymen, although of course it hadn't been her hymen. The bit of skin between her vagina and anus had ripped. The pain in his head was growing into a white roar.
His hand reached out clumsily for the toilet handle; he thought he hit it before falling into the bathtub, but he didn't wait to see. On his knees he frantically turned this lever and that, having suddenly forgotten which was hot and which was cold and which directed the water to the shower head. Finally hot water rained down from above, hotter than he normally showered with, hotter than he could normally stand but he let it scald him, let it slap the bathtub floor and steam up in a ghostly mist. He rose from his knees, letting the water pummel every part of him and turned so it could accost him from behind. And he grabbed soap and began scrubbing and scrubbing; he scrubbed until her blood and his semen were being washed away and flowing down the drain.
If anyone saw Thomas Brown as he opened the bathroom door and paused in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the darkened bedroom, they would have seen a figure half draped in steaming white light that illuminated his golden body; the other half thrown into the shadows. The way he was turned, it wasn't easy to tell if he was coming or going. Then he was striding into the darkness and the tableau was broken.
"What the hell are you doing here," he said roughly to the blonde woman draped enticingly across his royal blue silk sheets, illuminated in a rectangle of light from the bathroom.
She gazed back at him calmly. Her trim figure was clothed in a dusky grey suit; a skirt that came almost to her knees with a demure four inch slit up the back, a blouse, and jacket. There was no sign of the pantyhose or pumps she surely would have been wearing earlier. Christine. Usually perky Christine, but she had her moments of a Hitchcock Blonde's coolness. Like the way she was staring at him right now. She blinked, not a flinch, but a feline lowering and raising of the eyelids before turning her head slightly to contemplate the space to the right of her face. "Yes, one would wonder..."
Then she was in smooth studied motion. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached with a slim arm to turn on the bedside lamp with a minute click. "Why a woman would show up in a man's apartment..."
She made her unhurried way over to the lamp on the table. The table next to the window. The window with the open blinds. "A man who consistently does not return her calls..." He was naked, and he felt naked, not nude. She turned that lamp by the window on too. "Who did not seem to notice when she went out of town for, oh, twelve days..." Christine paused here a moment to cock her head at him, her eyes lowering to his hard member and lingering there. "A man supposedly her husband-to-be."
"Hmm," she shrugged uninterestedly and brushed past him, no doubt in order to turn on the overhead lights from the switch by the door. Thomas ignored her and strode to the window and let the blinds down across the window with a slap, just as light from above flooded the room.
They turned at the same time to face each other from opposite sides of the room. "Yes," Christine said with a small smile, "one would wonder." Then she stalked towards him, she in her grey business suit of shining armor to him in his shameful nakedness. The white noise that had been subdued in the back of his head began a dangerous crackling. Thomas Brown felt a wave of vertigo sweep through him, leaving him helpless and vulnerable for when she reached out to draw him in to her clutches. He clung to her desperately, so as not to fall, not now, it was too soon to fall now. It wasn't his time yet, he could feel it; it was near, but still safely tucked around the next sharp corner. He gripped her hair to convince himself of this. She breathed deeply into his neck, her out-breath leaving a moist tingling there. His cock was pumping dangerously at her skirt, trying to reach through the material, but he ignored it utterly.
Her hair, her damn hair was up in an elegant swirling twist; even the feel of it was making him unbearably dizzy. He pawed at it, clumsily tearing through the strands to find the piece holding it together. A small pin came into his grasp and he almost ripped it out. Christine didn't seem to notice. She was too busy taking her jacket apart and then unbuttoning her blouse, finally just tearing it open to rub her upper body against his, trying to mold herself to him, to be near him. But her annoying bra was in the way. He aided her efforts by yanking her blouse off, then helping her lift her bra up and throwing it in the corner. They were scuffling their way to the bed; Christine was biting different parts of his chest, gnawing like a hungry puppy. The grips he had on one upper arm and on skirt covered buttocks was going to leave bruises, surely, but she didn't even seem to notice.
He dumped her on the bed, falling with, falling on to her with a grunt. Her legs automatically fell to either side of him; his cock brushed some hair and he realized she wasn't wearing panties. One hand went straight to her pussy and it was wet like he'd never felt it. He had moment of déjà vu, of the second right before his hand had punched brutally up that woman's cunt, but this was a different slipperiness; it was Christine's own slickness, and lots of it. He gripped her pussy and it rewarded him with more juices and tried to grip him back. Christine let out guttural moan. He cut to the chase and simply plunged his cock in without further warning. Her wetness made it easy for him to burrow in deep to the hilt. She raised one leg up and he slid in impossibly farther and he was moving out of her and then slamming back in with the aid of her heel digging into his opposite butt-cheek. His forearms were to either side of her head and he was putting his weight there to allow to arch back farther but her arms snaked around his neck and shoulder like a vise: the only way he could move up was to take her with him.
Instead, with a snarl, he ripped her arms away and forcefully shoved them up by her head. She snarled right back. He bit one tight nipple. The snarl turned into a half scream and then a whimper of pleasure as his tongue lapped at the sore pebble of flesh. He could feel the cut the other woman's teeth had left on his tongue and rubbed the abrasion along Christine's flesh as his dick pounded into her again and again.
Both her legs were wrapped about his waist: the two of them were locked into each other, both trying to break viciously through the other. Thomas Brown was using his fiancée and he was infuriated that she would use him in return: the vice versa was true.
He felt his balls gather and his hips tried to slow but she bucked hers in response, forcing his body to comply with hers. Then he cock seemed to grow impossibly large within her and it burst in streams of cum gushing into her, equaling her juices now. Her cunt clamped demandingly onto his dick, spasming and clenching until it had sucked all the semen out of him, sucked him dry, taking all that he had.
He collapsed on top of her, spent.
Thomas Brown's head finally stopped spinning but the white noise was yet there, murmuring along with the pain. He cock was small now, within Christine, and he felt...empty. They lay there for a while, remembering what it was to breathe. He felt her head shift a bit and she said into the quiet, "They want you back at the firm."
Thomas forgot how to breathe all over again. Something in his head was expanding. "What?"
"They want you back. Your old job. It's yours again. You haven't been answering your phones and..." But Thomas did not here much after that. Oh gods, he thought he'd stood on the cliff and taken that plunge but now he was on top again. And the white noise was urging again. He could have everything back. He could fulfill the contract with society and there was no need to jump off that cliff again: he was on top. Except he didn't like being there.
