Chasing the dragon, that's what Joelle usually fell back on. But this time things were different, this time, chasing the dragon wasn't good enough and mainlining was the only cure. It was better, stronger, more potent, and it took the edge off more effectively. The initial hit caused her to hurl, but after shooting up a few more times, she settled into its spell like a reliable pair of slippers.
Lucien was in nearly every waking thought, causing her habit to double within the first two weeks. Yet, even with the dope coursing through her veins, when she spread her legs for the plethora of men now required to support it, it was his body she felt.
So, aside from some new gnawing memories, life had settled back into the same old routines. Lots of junk, lots of spunk and not a whole lot left to live for. Long gone were the days of sobriety, and being utterly reckless didn't seem such a big deal. Tonight was no exception; reckless seemed a perfectly normal thing to do on the one month anniversary of the complete decimation of her life.
With a pocket full of dope, three forties, and some guy named John to share in her bounty, Joelle went about the business of getting fucked, in all manner of speaking. At first it seemed to be an alright kind of night, though John was a bit grabbier than she would have liked. But an hour into the festivities she could barely escape his hands, and upon her final rebuff, she felt a sharp spray of searing heat, flood across her face.
"Asshole!" she thundered as she grabbed her welting cheek.
"Fucking whore!"
"You fucking cocksucker, get out!" Joelle rushed to the door, but before she could reach the handle, he grabbed her arm and swung her like a doll, across the room.
"Not before I get my hundred dollars worth bitch!" With a roar, John's hands were tangled in her hair as he tossed her prone, onto the bed.
Joelle felt her underwear tear away, replaced by clammy flesh against her thighs. The shock of pain tearing across her ass signified the new direction of their foray and she struggled against his violent grasp. But during her attempt to wriggle away, John slammed her face against the headboard and offered another painful blow across her cheek, momentarily stunning her.
A metallic, almost acidic taste quickly flooded across her tongue. Warm and thick, it permeated her mouth, causing her to gag. Blood, she assessed, as a stinging, sanguine haze consumed her sight. Suddenly she was struggling to breathe and felt the scratchy fabric of a pillowcase smothering her face. Desperately her hands flailed through the air, catching wisps of his skin with her nails, but he only pressed harder, stealing the air from her lungs.
And then he was inside her, prying apart her legs as his dick worked furiously inside her unwelcoming walls. When he slammed three un-lubricated fingers in her ass, she wailed from the sundering pain.
Violently he pounded his cock inside, disregarding the chafing against his own skin. Not even a hiccup of arousal pooled in her cunt, yet he seemed intent on thrusting as fast and as hard as his hips would allow. With each painful stroke, the intensity of his hand grew, until finally she felt his heavy platinum wedding band slam against her. Joelle yowled as the severity mounted, causing John's hand to press harder against the pillow, sucking the last whispers of air from her chest. And with the very last gasp of breath in her lungs, she screamed.
John. That seemed an appropriate name for tonight's customer, Lucien surmised. Yet again, he had found himself outside another dive motel in the vilest part of town. When he'd left to get a bite to eat, Joelle and John were quietly chatting, and when he returned, he heard their struggle and the sound of hands slapping skin. It was probably game play, and the thought of that made him wince.
But when he heard her muffled screams and struggling breath, he knew it was no game. Within a few short moments he was on the other side of the tattered door, yanking John's hammering pelvis and probing fingers from Joelle.
Lucien watched helplessly as she struggled to regain her breath, her hands flying to her neck as she choked the air through her throat in raspy gulps. Instantly he understood the potential consequence of their ridiculous fight. The severity of her situation could not have been made clearer and, had he not been there to stop John, he would have snuffed out her very fragile life.
For a moment, with his hand wrapped tightly around John's pulsing neck, he thought about how wonderful it would feel to simply squeeze; to watch the life drain from his body as it had from Joelle's. But John didn't deserve to die in the presence of such beauty; death, he thought, would have to wait for another day.
With violent intensity, Lucien slammed John into the wall, holding his twitching body several feet from the ground, before hammering him into the floor. A sharp tug freed the wallet from John's limp frame and Lucien flipped through its contents, locating his driver's license.
"You and I will be seeing each other again, John Franklin Ballows," he growled, taking in the address. With a violent shove that tore his trousers, Lucien returned the wallet to John's pocket, before turning his attention to Joelle.
"Old habits?" the familiar voice soothed through the haze of dope and oxygen deprivation, swirling about her brain.
"Mmmmm," she hummed, unable to lift her head.
Lucien pulled her from the sticky rug and swung her over his shoulder, quickly depositing her in the backseat of his Mercedes, mere seconds later. In a plume of black smoke and the chocking effluvium of burnt rubber, the Benz fishtailed from the parking lot.
"I don't suppose you have any recollection of what happened to my vehicle?" he asked politely.
"Sold it," she slurred.
"That's too bad, I loved that car. It's going to cost a fortune to replace it."
"I'll work it off." Joelle pulled a wad of twenties from her pocket and tossed them over the seat. "And I want a receipt."
"Lovely. You can have it back, I don't want your fuck money."
When she offered her middle finger between the seats, Lucien grabbed her arm and inspected her desecrated skin. "Track marks?" he roared.
"It's easier," she mumbled.
"Easier?"
"To forget."
Once home, he stripped the remnants of torn clothes from Joelle's body, and thrust them in disgust, into the trash pail outside the house. They reeked of putrid depravity and under no circumstance would he let them touch her skin again. Without a word, Lucien carried her upstairs and into the bedroom. After pulling free from the shackles of his clothing, he held her in the shower and released a deluge of frigid water against her naked body.
