Malice in Chains

Teetering on the brink of my monotonous and humdrum existence, I found myself blurring the lines between sanity and boredom. In boredom bad decisions are born, and that summer I gave birth to a few.

After taking a month to recover from my tumultuous London excursion, I was beginning to get that itch, a particular type of itch that needed to be scratched with sex, drugs, and a hint of havoc.

Some people would consider taking on a hobby, others go to work…I however, decided to take on a new lover. Not just any lover, a close friend of a guy I used to fuck four years ago and haven’t fucked since, leaving him jilted and riddled with hatred for me. What better way to commence my summer than to keep it in the family and incite tension between friends.

His name was Robbie. He was a couple of years younger than me and not the typical guy I would go for. He was a street thug, a drug dealer, a little ghetto, and not someone I’d bring home or introduce to my friends. He did have some redeemable qualities, however. He was very tall, 6”3 to be exact. He was a chef… who never fed me. He was lean and in shape, but had chicken legs. Yet he’d stand tall and proud, walking around like he’s “the shit,” misunderstanding the fact that he was more of a piece of shit at best. For some reason, I liked him. I was drawn to him because he wasn’t the norm for me and I was feeling “experimental”…but mainly because he claimed to have a ten inch penis and drugs.

All bullshit aside, Robbie seemed to have his life together. He was nice and attentive to me and I loved being the apple of his obsession. I loved telling him about my wicked ways and tainted love affairs, without impunity. I didn’t care if it bothered him or turned him on or repulsed him. In fact I didn’t care too much for him as a person. He was just my summer distraction. He was who he is: side dude, puppet, simpleton.

His checkered past is what appealed to me most. Growing weary of clean cut men, Robbie was the perfect secret guilty indulgence.

The chemistry between Robbie and myself was evident. We wanted each other equally. There was no game, no mind fuck, no illusion. The only illusion was that he disillusioned himself into thinking I’d fall for him, meanwhile unintentionally finding himself falling down the rabbit hole of my self loathing and despair. I found him quickly falling for me, planning our future, planning beautiful babies, etc. I couldn’t allow this to happen. His intense feelings for me gave me license to act crazy. I was already known as being a particular brand of crazy, but this gave me license to increase the crazy barometer to insane.

I became depressed, melancholic, reclusive, – in the three months of seeing him I’ve fucked him only a handful of times, maybe a handful and half. But definitely not enough. I couldn’t fully Blame myself, either. Sex with him just wasn’t cutting it for me. His dick was as tall and thin as he was. He prided himself in his ten inch pencil penis, thinking his penis was what women wanted. Little did he know that girth trumps length every time.

My cave of wonders felt less than wonderful each time. I felt something but it wasn’t anything to brag about. it was nothing more than long rod poking into me and not poking the good parts.

I could’ve had a dildo fuck me better.

No longer amused, my wandering eye started to wander. And then, almost as if the fates heard my plea I received a surprising text from none other than the very elusive Matt.

The text read:

“Hello dear, I’m finally back in NYC. I went to that music festival, had too much drugs, was possibly raped by an attractive tent whore who presumably wanted my fore-skinned penis and use me for my lofty lodgings. We need to catch up soon!”

Taken aback, I was excited, scared, nervous, anxious. He was back, back from London, back from the debauchery, back from the partying and back in NYC. I couldn’t believe he texted, assuming he never would since He never did post London. I was shocked he even thought of me, I was shocked he was alive. I fully reconciled the thought that the world had consumed him, the drugs encapsulated him, and the sex endangered him – leaving him broken and perhaps dead. So reading his text definitely surprised me.

Matt unabashedly resumed conversation, making small talk and inviting me to one of his infamous drug filled adventures.

I declined. I was smarter this time or so I thought. I learned my lesson from London, I knew the outcome and this time I’d say no. Every part of me was screaming YES! And yet I still said No.

I said no to all of it. In my mind, this was all still a game that I could win. It was a battle of the egos. Maneater vs. womanizer – and I had the upper hand. This time I’d win. But to what end? I didn’t know if I had an end, I just had an ego that I needed to feed.

In the time Matt was away licking assholes, rolling on molly, skiing through the Cocaine slopes, I was seeking cheap thrills from my drug dealer. Feeling unsatisfied, horny and gluttonous Matt was definitely on my radar while Robbie was on the back burner.

I found myself incessantly texting Matt, planning our next tumultuous adventure engrossed in sex, drugs, partying and overall filthy behavior. Once Again given the task of securing all the drugs for a Friday night of partying, I set out on my quest.

Friday couldn’t come sooner.

We met that night at some upscale hotel in Williamsburg. He escorted me to his room and

Without a moments notice, hiked my already short skirt, spread my legs, and jammed his thick hard dick into my pussy, pounding me so hard I could almost feel his dick rearranging my organs and hitting my diaphragm. Pinning my body against the corners of the bed, disabling my movements and squirmy attempts to free myself from his grasp, he relentlessly fingered me until finally making me squirt. He was the first man to ever achieve this feat. Years of fucking, and no man was able to accomplish this and yet he did. Somehow he had sex down to a science and he was very good. Leaving me in a pool of cum and “pee” He smugly exited the room,

To tend to his clients and close meetings for the night.

After wrapping up his business facade, shedding his work face to put on his drug face, Matt entered the hotel room with his retinue of peers who’d accompany us for the night on our drug filled exploits.

Knee deep in drugs and alcohol, the night wasn’t complete without one of Matt’s infamous untimely confessions warning me of his lovestruck whore presumably making a cameo and meeting us at the club.

And like all the sluts he’s mentioned she Of course was in love with him and expected to fuck him. I suddenly felt a tinge of Deja Vu and was reminded of our first night out. Nothing changed. Matt was being Matt, true to form, on copious amounts of drugs and alcohol, and chatting up every girl in his wake. I could see his game unpleasantly unfold.

Yet Tonight, Matt was playing in my arena, my playground, my music, my scene. I may have met him in his world, but he was currently living in mine. I didn’t care for the games, for the attention, for his womanizing ways. I simply wanted to dance, sweat, and unleash.

Somewhere into the night, he introduced me to his Finnish whore, Her name evading my memory. She was 39, 5”6, a burlesque dancer, dark hair and dark features, and tattoos everywhere. Matt forewarned me of her sex appeal, her prowess, and her presence. He detailed of the many men lusting after her every whim and desire, professing their undying love, and obsessing over every fiber of her being.

At first glance, one may find her intimidating. He painted her to be some goddess, an Aphrodite, with men worshiping her every breath, holding her up on a pedestal. Any woman would have easily been Intimidated, felt insecure or self conscious, yet I wasn’t impressed. She looked good for 39 but there wasn’t a snowballs chance in hell she could pass for 21, as Matt described. At best, she looked 35, but if that was her best, then I’d hate to see her at her worst. She was just another typical lovestruck slut in A cesspool of sluts on Matt’s roster, and she needed to take a seat.

I could see why Matt liked her. She was the yin to my yang. She was tall where I was short. She had black hair and I had blonde hair. Her body was covered in tattoos while I had none. We were polar opposites, in every capacity.

When I met her, I was immediately off put by her. Her energy was hostile. I knew she didn’t like me even though she eagerly feigned every smile and gesture of acceptance. I knew that she was subconsciously plotting my departure. She easily whisked Matt’s attention away from me leaving me To spend the entire night partying alone, making random friends along the way. I didn’t mind. I was in my arena, I was there to dance, I was there to sweat, and move and release all my energy and anxiety. This was my safe haven, my domain, and the one place where I could unapologetically be myself and not give a fuck about anything or anyone.

By 4am – the night was slowly coming to a close. people were leaving and I finally set out to find Matt, his friends and his Finnish whore. Finding him immersed in the arms of this concubine, I belligerently pressed him to say his goodbyes and leave. But, the night wasn’t over just yet. Matt had other plans as now the Finnish whore was accompanying us to our room for more drugs and “banter.”

”BANTER” – his favorite word in the fucking dictionary. The only word he’d always use to describe anything masquerading as something else. Everyone either had to have banter, lacked banter, or didn’t understand his banter. I fucking hated that word but was guilty of misusing it myself, feeling him rubbing off on me, and pontificating on whether or not I should consult a thesaurus to find synonyms for banter to implement into our rhetoric. Immersed in a gamut of thoughts, all revolving around this one innocent word but surrounded by many un-innocent innuendos and motives. I mistook Matt’s interpretation for banter. Stupidly believing him, i entertained the idea of Finnish whore joining us for a brief night cap, believing that she’d soon leave. Yet, Matt had other intentions and so did she. Before I knew it, she was naked, he was naked, and soon after I was naked. Suddenly all three of us engaged in fucking Matt, sucking Matt , kissing Matt, meanwhile not once did she and I make contact.

My first threesome left a very awkward impression on me.

I could feel her hostility towards me, her unwelcoming energy repelling me like I was some leper. Every time Matt gave me the slightest hint of attention, she would pull away and disconnect, behaving like an uptight little princess. And Matt falling for her capricious whims, would feed her ego. I didn’t need Matt to feed my ego, I didn’t need Her to feed it either. My ego was healthy enough to withstand both of them. Still, I couldn’t feel more unwelcome and uncomfortable.

Introspectively I watched this threesome unfold…our bodies contorted in ways behooving only circus freak acrobats. Him fucking her while kissing me. Him kissing her while fucking me, yet still remaining in optimal position to simultaneously finger her. Him on top of her with me sucking his dick. Somehow fucking us both separately and aggressively prodding my body against her store bought silicone tits. Meticulously attempting to create a spark between us, but to no avail. My own attempts to get close to her, to have our bodies intertwine in unison to make this experience more enjoyable, were met with antipathy and indifference. Silicone Barbie made herself clear. There was room for only one female that night and it was her. I had to go. I was reading her loud and clear. Yet, silly bitches never learn, tricks are for kids and no amount of lip fillers, Botox, manufactured tits and sex appeal would ever tame the wild matt. She thought removing me from the night meant she won. Sure, she won the battle but she lost the war.

That night we redefined the long-standing threesome standard and essentially were two females separately fucking one male, simultaneously.

Staring vehemently into Matt’s blue eyes, million thoughts of anger and disgust circling my mind. I hated him, I liked him, I lusted for him, I disliked his finish whore – yet I was a whore too. I was there wasn’t I, I was fucking him sucking him, participating in the filth without mustering the strength to say no. Until finally, being capsized by my thoughts i said “I can’t do this, I need to go”

Begrudgingly, I Packed my things in angst and left. Where did I go? I went to robbies house. My side dude, my drug dealer, my fuck buddy…I needed to have him fuck this night out of my system. Fuck the molly high from my mind. And fuck we did, for the next 48 hours we fucked and fucked and fucked until I felt nothing. The molly expelled from my system, my mind finally at peace, and my heart beating slowly once more.

Little did I know it would be the last time I’d see either. The following week I ended up in the hospital for a kidney infection and an obstruction in my lower intestine, prepped for surgery. Karma seemed to have other plans for me. You see, there’s a special place in hell for girls like me, and I was dancing with my demons and lost.

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