I'm sitting here at a big rectangular table in room 308 of Hibbs Hall with twelve other grad students, waiting for Professor Harrison to show up for today's class in the Edgar Allan Poe seminar. He's fifteen minutes late already. Reading an essay about "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Richmond's legendary horror author reminds me of Jake, my crazy kinky boyfriend. I pull out my phone and shoot him a quick text, angling my phone so nobody else in the room can see what I'm typing:
IZZY: Hey baby, cant wait 2 cu! Feeling xtra naughty so get those cuffs n whips ready 4 later!"
Jake is probably hanging out at my sister Kathy's apartment. They usually do that on Friday and Monday afternoons, when they don't have any classes at the VCU music department. I pull up a picture of her on my phone, and it's like looking in a mirror. We're identical redhead twins, five foot six, 35-23-34, cute as a pair of ginger buttons. We're going to the same college after going to the same elementary and high school. We've been utterly inseparable for as long as we can remember, long before we made the same kitty drawings in Mrs. Bottom's kindergarten class.
I stare out the window in the only room with windows, picturing Jake's rough dominator routines. My pussy buzzes with anticipation. He always ties me up like a pretzel, whips my tits and pussy real hard, and fucks me like a raging bull. Leaving me nice and sore, inside and out. Giving me multiple orgasms every single time. But nobody in the English department knows I'm a kinky freak. They just assume I'm a shy boring ginger bookworm, letting her good looks go to waste. I never tell the truth to my friends, because the secrecy enhances my pleasure.
I look at my phone again a minute later. No response from Jake. Meanwhile, Professor Harrison is now twenty minutes late. Fuck this literary bullshit, I'm outta here.
"I'm heading out, guys. The twenty minute rule is in effect," I announce to the class while stuffing my paperback copy of
Poe, Insanity, and Containing the Feminine Monstrous
into my laptop case.
"His little Fiat probably broke down on the way here," replies Sarah Sprouse, a stereotypical gothy lesbian English major. "Fix It Again, Tony!"
"Or maybe he got sealed up behind a brick wall somewhere, like Montresor."
The whole class giggles at my
Cask of Amontillado
reference
.
I march out the door with a naughty grin on my face. Jake must be planning out the choreography for another BDSM session. His creativity never ceases to amaze me.
I step to a crisp November afternoon on the central quad of Virginia Commonwealth University, with a big two-hour hole suddenly open in my schedule. Hundreds of college students are strolling over a giant concrete compass near downtown Richmond. Lots of weird fashion statements are being made at this uber-trendy urban campus, with skateboards and electric scooters zipping recklessly through the fray. This city is like an island of liberal wackos in ruby-red tobacco country.
I turn right outside the Branch Cabel library, heading past the Hodges theater and off the campus on Park Street. The apartment I share with my boyfriend is two blocks away on the second floor of a nineteenth century rowhouse. My anticipation reaches a fever pitch on the old brick sidewalk. I love being Jake's obedient little bitch, fulfilling all of his dark fantasies, and fulfilling my own in synchronicity. I need his pain, focusing my chaotic mind down to a single point. I need his sex even more, to make me forget who I am. A chronically depressed spoiled daddy's girl, struggling to find her way in "the real world."
I turn left on Harvie Street, going toward my sister's apartment at the end of the block. I'll just hang out with them for a couple hours, watching some mind-numbing Netflix, getting psyched up for "the main event" later on with Jake at our own apartment on Park. The whole weekend lies ahead of me, with plenty of time to indulge my taboo obsessions (and work on my thesis paper about
The Fall of The House of Usher.
) An english degree is not exactly a lucrative meal ticket, so I need to find a stable financially secure life partner (but I keep falling for fun freaky dudes like Jake Savage.)
I enter her dingy old building and climb a narrow creaky stairway in a dreamy haze. I pause in front of Kathy's front door, hearing a loud black metal song blaring inside. That's strange. She's a classical/jazz fan who doesn't like any kind of rock music.
I unlock the door and step into her small living room. Nobody there. The high-decibel sound of "Satanic Might" by Cruel Force is coming from her bedroom, around the corner and down a short hallway. I guess she's showing off her sweet new stereo system to Jake, letting him play one of his favorite over-the-top apocalyptic anthems.
I put my laptop down on her coffee table and move slowly across the room, tripping over something on the floor. Looking down, I see one of Kathy's blouses on the brown carpet. That's also strange. She never leaves her clothes lying around on the dusty dirty floor.
More of her clothes are strewn about in the hallway. A red plaid skirt just like mine, a black bra, black panties, and . . . what's this? A pair of blue jeans, 38x30. That's Jake's size. And what's
this?
A Slayer "Reign in Blood" T-shirt, just like the one he has. And there's the same boxer shorts he always wears, size medium with blue and white pinstripes. What the fuck is going on?!
I pause halfway down the hall with a vague sense of dread, like all those clueless sexy actresses in slasher movies, right before they get butchered like hogs by a masked psychopath. The obnoxious monotonous black metal keeps grinding away on her 400-watt speakers. I hear a harsh feminine moan over the loud guitars, drums, and barking male singer.
"Oh my god, yes! That feels
sooo
good. I love your big dick!"
Holy shit, holy
shit.
Please don't tell me she's fucking my boyfriend! Please tell me she's watching a stupid porn video while he's listening to that stupid song. A porn video with an "actress" whose voice is eerily similar to my twin sister's.
"Fuck me harder, Kathy! Holy shit, you're even better than your sister!"
Omigodomigodomi
god!
How could he do this to me? And worse, how could
she
do this to me!? After all the love, all the trust, all those years, through thick and thin. A strong surge of anger rushes through me. I feel like barging in there and bitch-slapping that ginger skank. But fear keeps my anger in check. I better stay calm and deal with this crisis diplomatically. Going psycho won't make a difference at this point, and it might even get me hurt.
"Shit, shit, shit!" Kathy growls fiercely. "I love your big fucking, stretching out my tight little pussy!"
Wow, she's really going for it. Making the most out of this illicit opportunity. She was always the crazy-fun twin, and I was always the geeky bully target (until my beauty finally blossomed during our senior year at Douglas Freeman High.)
I hate everything about rom-coms, but I especially hate those scenes where a woman goes storming into a room where her husband/boyfriend is balls-deep in another woman. They're both having a great time, enhanced by the danger of getting caught, so it's cruel not to let them finish. The guilt afterward is punishment enough, so I won't make it worse by turning his balls blue and taking away her hot creamy dessert.
My morbidly curious nature demands a glimpse of what's going on in there. The door is open about an inch, so I step closer and peer inside.
Ugggh!
Just as I feared, my 23 year-old identical twin is completely nude, fucking my 22 year-old lover hard and fast on the far side of her bedroom. She's holding an overhead metal bar, with her pale sexy legs wrapped around his muscular waist. The "monkey position," for christ's sake!
She's not just fucking him, she's fucking him
in bondage!
His arms and legs are bound with black leather straps to a tall steel bondage rack, with electrodes clipped to his nipples and ballsack. Copper wires dangle from those electrodes, connecting to a control box on a nearby table. Fuck, fuck,
fuck!
I couldn't be more pissed-off right now. Vanilla sex might be excused as a heat-of-the-moment mistake, but kinky sex is so . . .
personal.
I feel beyond betrayed. Gutted, pulverized, obliterated. Like she just ripped my heart right out of my chest.
But I'm also getting horny, in a really perverted way, because Kathy looks
exactly
like me. The same flaming copper hair, pale milky freckled skin, and big emerald eyes. The same perky c-cup tits with cute pointy pink nipples, flat toned belly, wide smoothly curved thighs, and flaming shock of untrimmed red pubic hair. It's like I'm watching myself fuck my boyfriend in dominatrix mode (which I rarely enter, preferring to just stand or lie there, helplessly bound, letting men unleash their primal aggression on my ass, and loving every minute of it.)
This is such a weird voyeuristic sex show, unfolding in real-time. My pussy is getting so wet under my skirt. She keeps pounding her tight ginger twat on his big fat prick, stretching her labia to the limit. A minute later, she unwraps her legs from his waist and lets go of the overhead bar. She turns around and fucks him in the standing reverse doggy-style pose while swinging from a pair of metal chains that dangle from the upper rack. Like a freaky acrobat in a BDSM circus.
Damn, I should have texted Jake that Professor Harrisson didn't show up for the Poe class. Maybe that would have prevented this spectacular betrayal . . . or maybe it was already going
before
