Tomorrow Will Be Worse.

Every guy I have known by the name of Jay has had soft hands that smell of cigarettes and the strange desire to create openings in my body that weren't already there. That's why I never slept with the Jays, because Jay wanted to fuck an incision he created in the back of my knee, and while I understand the allure of desecration, the reality of that particular form of it squicks me out. He understood he shouldn't subject himself to women and almost never dated; telling me he wanted to fuck my eye-sockets was the extent of his socio-sexual interactions and while i've never even allowed myself to imagine the contents of his masturbatory fodder, I know most of his sex-life was with himself.

You made me think of Jay when you said that you wanted to see what kind of openings you could create in me. I knew you didn't mean it quite the way he did but for a second I worried that Jay had finally succeeded at getting me alone at his mercy and my entire mouth just dried up. Then I heard you set your watch down at the table and it felt like a wave of comfort and relief was washing over me, but it wasn't that. A familiar fear can feel like a blanket in the face of unknown terror, and I felt the familiar fear of listening to you take off your watch.

The *click-click* of the clasp and the *clank* of setting it down on the table is so ominous to me. It means something to me; it means something is about to happen to me. No matter where I am — on the bed, on the floor or walking around in an attempt to organise something — when I hear the little sounds of you taking off your watch I freeze into the warmth of hypothermia. After being burnt by the momentary memory of Jay, the steeliness of your cold reception felt like a cool drink on a warm day.

If only for a moment.

A familiar fear, after all, is still fear and while the thought of being lit into flames is terrifying, your arrow of ice made the hair on the back of my head stand at attention. Expectant. Waiting. Then your arms wrapped around me: one holding my face and the other pulling my waist into your crotch.

"Sniff it," you said holding my mouth and my nose in your armpit, "Long, deep breaths."

My cunt started to drip immediately as the smell of the sweat and soap and your skin tickled the insides of my nose. The tighter you held me inside your armpit, the more I wanted to be held in there. I just didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about it because of that young girl I once used to be who promised herself that it didn't matter if she liked a few odd things and having her pigtails pulled, it would never get to a point where she'd have no choice but to look at herself and see a freak. I don't want that girl to have to deal with this; she truly believed that she wasn't into all this kinky stuff with its leather and lace, she just liked being spanked and threatened.

So each time, like that time, I feel myself scraping a new low, I try to forget about her. What am I to say to her? It won't get any worse? Any worse than what? I'm not a naive little girl anymore, and I know this much to be true about every little thing in the world, it absolutely *will* get worse. Whether it be in on a physical realm where your demands to sniff turned into orders to lick and then ultimately into harsh attempts to smother into complete breathlessness. Or a metaphysical level where I always intended to be an edgy good girl and somehow ended up queen of the gutter. I know this much to be true of it all, it will always get worse. That depresses me, but it used to make Jay happy. The promise of worse. The guarantee of it.

Like for you too. I think you like it too when things get worse. Like when you released me from inside the dirty crevices of your body that I was born to be a rag for, you looked at me so knowingly.

"Show me," you said, "Get on your back and show me."

It's not my cunt you wanted me to see, but how wet it was. I enjoy how it seems to make you feel to see me so needy and expectant when we both know, I am guaranteed to be denied. That's the state I feel comfortable in; it seems wrong for me to not be denied.

So I showed it to you. I lay on my back and, with movements completely devoid of grace, I rolled off my panties. I avoided your gaze because I love feeling it but I hate talking about it. I hate talking about that moment when the scent of everything that was feeling held in bondage by black lace inside me and we can both smell it. I hate talking about just how dirty.

I hate admitting I remember that you came in these last night; you wiped your dick in them before you made me put them back on. I hate admitting that I know I enjoyed this putrefaction of cum, spit, piss and blood in my underwear and I hate admitting even more than I know I will still enjoy it when they inevitably end up in my mouth.

Then it will be worse.

And it was.

With my mouth stuffed full of filth and my holes stuffed full of you. That's what I love about you. You crush that naive little girl and show me how much better everything is when it's worse. Together we'll be worse: dirtier, filthier, more decadent and less utterable everyday. Each time you swallow my cries with your mouth it feel like a promise that tomorrow will be harder.

Everyday you cut me open. And then fuck the incision.

Jay would have liked that. Until you told him it was a metaphor, and then he'd roll his eyes at us both.