Chapter 13: Unhappy Nights
That night, when Cathy arrived home, Jason could tell something was on her mind. She didn't say what, straightaway. But after dinner, she asked him again to pee on her. It wasn't her kink. Or at least, it hadn't been, not before that weekend. But tonight she pushed the broccoli around her plate, her fork scraping the ceramic with a soft, persistent click.
"Will you do that thing again?" she finally asked, not meeting his eyes."You know. It was strange but I can't stop thinking about it. At work today I was a little off, I guess."
Jason set his glass down, the water inside trembling."Was everything okay today?" he asked, and she shrugged one shoulder, a tight, dismissive gesture. "At work? Did anything go bad?"
"It was fine," she said, her voice flattening, "I was just distracted. If you think it's too weird, just forget I asked."
“No, it’s not weird,” Jason said, too quickly. He knew the real weirdness was the bruise still fading on his ribs, a souvenir from a car trunk. Getting thrown in there and pissed on by a bunch of dudes was not fun at all, but Cathy seemed to want to relive it somehow. There was a redness in her cheeks; she was blushing and looking down at the broccoli on her plate.
He watched a strand of her mousy hair fall across her face, a curtain. “If it helps you sort through… whatever this is, I’m in.” He meant it. Jason told himself he’d do whatever she wanted, however she wanted it. The memory of her trembling in the parking lot, naked and shivering, so powerful and still so fragile, anchored him. “I’ll try anything you ask.”
Her eyes glistening under the kitchen’s harsh light. “Okay,” she whispered.
She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping with a sound that set his teeth on edge. Cathy got up from the table and poured him a tall glass of water from the tap, and watched as he drank it all. Then she poured him another. She couldn't hide the little smile of mischief as he started on the second glass.
An hour later
She couldn't hide the little smile of mischief as he started on the second glass.
An hour later, the bathroom was thick with steam. Cathy knelt in the tub, the shower curtain pushed entirely to one side, her bare skin raised with goosebumps in the bathroom chill.
"Ready?" she asked, her voice echoing softly against the tiles. She tilted her head back, presenting her plain, expectant face, eyes closed, mouth slightly open.
Jason stood over her, his own nakedness feeling academic, procedural. He focused, holding back the pressure build from the water he’d consumed. A weak, hesitant stream finally sputtered out, hitting her collarbone and trickling in a lukewarm rivulet between her breasts. It was a pathetic trickle, nothing like the violent deluge that had come from three different angles in the dark confines of the trunk.
He tried to aim, to make it more forceful, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. The flow remained a thin, intermittent arc, painting her stomach in fitful bursts. Cathy shifted on her knees, a soft, urging sound in her throat. She lifted her chin higher, directly into the path, and the stream pattered against her cheeks and closed eyelids, beading on her lashes and dripping from her nose. She shuddered.
She was getting soaked, but by a careful, lukewarm baptism, not a storm. The memory was a brutal counterpoint: the shocking, simultaneous heat of it before, the overwhelming volume that had sounded like rain on metal, the choked gasps she’d made that weren't invitations but protests. Now, her lips parted to catch the drops, and a low moan escaped her, genuine and hungry.
He finished, the last few drops spotting her shoulder. Cathy stayed there for a moment, breathing deeply, the liquid running in clear lines through her mousy hair. She finally opened her eyes, blinking up at him with a look that was glassy and slightly embarrassed.
"Thank you," she murmured. "That was perfect."
He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. "Do you want to come?" he asked.
"You come here," she said.
She reached for the hand towel hanging by the sink, its terrycloth rough and absorbent. With a few brisk, practical strokes, she wiped his dick off of its piss droplets, the gesture devoid of tenderness but full of purpose.
Then she then took him into her mouth.
The warmth was pleasant contrast to the bathroom’s cool air. Jason gasped, his glasses sliding down his nose as he braced a hand against the wall. She worked with a focused intensity, her eyes closed, one hand cupping him below while the other steadied herself on the rim of the tub. The only sounds were the hum of the exhaust fan and the soft, wet rhythm of her mouth.
“Call me a bitch,” she said, pulling off for a second, her voice thick.
“What?” Jason blinked, his arousal momentarily confused.
“You heard me.” Her breath was hot against his skin. “Call me a stupid bitch.” She took him back in, deeper this time, and he felt her tongue press flat.He hesitated, the words feeling like acid in his throat. This was Cathy? Quiet Cathy from the hardware store, who blushed when customers asked about deck screws?
“Cathy, I—”
She stopped again, looking up at him. Her face was still glistening, strands of damp hair stuck to her temples. A fierce, almost defiant light sparked in her eyes.
“Just say it. Say, ‘You’re a stupid bitch.’” Her fingers tightened at his base, a silent punctuation.
“You’re a… stupid bitch,” he forced out, the words clumsy and alien.
She nodded and resumed with renewed fervor, her head bobbing faster. A slight flush spreading down her chest wasn’t shame.I t was excitement. She was reliving something, but she was steering it now.
“Call me a filthy whore,” she mumbled, the command distorted. Her other hand was between her own legs, working her clit with a familiar rhythm.
“Cathy, seriously?” His own building pleasure was tangled with unease.
She didn’t stop. Her finger's beat became became insistent, demanding. The pieces clicked together in his head with a quiet, definitive snap. This wasn't about erasing the trunk, the paint-thinner smell, the laughter. It was about reliving it.
“You’re a filthy whore,” he said, the statement softer now, an observation. Her response was a sharp, gasping inhale through her nose. She dug her fingertips into his thigh.
“Insult my tits,” she panted, pulling back just enough to speak clearly. Her small, ordinary breasts were slick, beaded with moisture. “Tell me they’re pathetic.”
The last thread of his resistance snapped. He understood. He looked at her, really looked at her kneeling there in the aftermath of what he’d done to her. If this was what she needed, he would give it to her
“They’re pathetic,” he whispered, leaning closer. “A flat-chested bitch like you shouldn’t even bother.”
A sound escaped her, part sob, part triumph. Her movements became frantic, hungry. Jason surrendered to it, to her, his head falling back as the pressure coiled impossibly tight deep within him. He didn’t guide her head; he just let the words flow, following her script. “Useless. You’re a useless little slut.”
She whimpered, and the vibration tipped him over the edge. He spurted into her mouth, his hips giving a shallow, involuntary jerk. She took it all, sucking gently until he was spent, then resting her forehead against his thigh with a deep, shuddering sigh.
Silence returned, broken only by their ragged breathing and the relentless fan. He looked down at the top of her head, at the vulnerable curve of her neck. She was covered in his piss, her knees were probably bruised, and she was smiling a small, tired, victorious smile against his skin. Jason carefully slid down to sit on the bathmat, his back against the cabinet, and pulled her into his lap. She came easily, damp and cool, nestling into him.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice weak.
She nodded, nuzzling his chest. “Yeah.It’s okay.” She paused. “You get it, right?”
He kissed her damp hair, tasting salt and chlorine. “I get it.”
He did.
She was the same way the next night. Over a dinner of lukewarm spaghetti, she pushed a second, then a third tall glass of tap water toward him, her expression neutral. Afterward, she made him sit through three episodes of The Simpsons while the pressure built up in his bladder. Finally, she took his hand, led him into the bathroom, and without a word, stepped into the dry tub and knelt down in the shower, waiting.
"Call me a cunt," she said. "Call me names. Like they did."
It was harder, this time. Even though he had to pee, it was like he couldn't. His body locked, a traitorous clenching that betrayed him. A strained, pathetic trickle finally emerged, spattering a thin, lukewarm line across her kneecap before stopping completely.
A wave of hot shame washed over him, his face burning as he looked down at her waiting form, glistening now with only this sad, insufficient offering. Cathy remained perfectly still, her eyes closed, the weak stream painting a translucent trail over the pale landscape of her thigh. He felt an awkward discomfort. She wanted more than this. Not a tepid effort. He could hardly think of any name to call her.
Still, he tried.
"Fucking cunt," he said, and she opened her mouth just a little, and then spluttered and choked when he sprayed the last little mist of his urine across her lips. But when he apologized she shook her head and smirked.
"No," she coughed. "It's fine. It's good."
The next night, when Cathy got home from work, Jason was ready. He'd had all day to think about it--he didn't want to pee on her, and he said so. "It's hard," he explained. "It's hard to talk dirty and pee on you at the same time, I mean. I'm not good at talking dirty. And trying to pee on you at the same time makes my brain lock up."
Mercifully, Cathy suggested that he just practice calling her the names, separately, without the peeing, and Jason agreed, though with reluctance; he was always afraid of saying the wrong thing and ruining the mood. Dirty talk was not something he was good at. But he would try it, for her. She seemed to really want it, tonight.
They moved to the bedroom where the lamplight softened the edges of everything, and she sat cross-legged on the bed, waiting with a patience that felt heavy.
"Tell me what to do," she said. "But tell me mean. Bully me."
Jason's throat was dry.
Jason’s throat was dry. He looked at her sitting there in her faded work shirt her sweat pants, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looked so ordinary, so Cathy, that the words felt like stones in his mouth.
“Just take off the shirt,” he managed, the command sounding more like a question.
Cathy’s eyes stayed on his, unblinking. She didn’t move. A silent correction hung in the air between them. He swallowed, the click loud in the quiet room.
“Take it off, you little bitch,” he said, forcing the words out flat and hard. “Take off your shirt.”
Her lips parted. A faint, almost invisible tremor went through her hands as they lifted to the hem. She pulled the cotton over her head in one slow motion, letting it drop to the floor. She was wearing her ugly bra, the white cotton one, with the stains, that did nothing to flatter her. Her chest rose and fell with deep breaths; she was enjoying the moment a little.
Jason stared, a strange war unfolding inside him. He loved the slope of her shoulders, the freckle near her collarbone he knew by heart.
“Now the bra, slut,” he said, the word tasting like a bad mint. “Get that filthy thing off.”
Cathy’s fingers moved to her back, fumbling with the clasp. It took two tries. The bra sagged loose, and she shrugged it off, letting it fall beside the shirt. Her small breasts were pale in the lamplight, her nipples puckered tight from the room’s chill, or from something else. He wanted to tell her how perfect she looked. “Pathetic,” he said instead, forcing his voice lower. “Dumb titted bitch who can’t even dress right.”
A sharp inhale from Cathy made Jason wonder if he had gone too far. Her chin lifted slightly. No--she wasn't angry. She was encouraging him.
"The sweats.” His voice gained a fraction of strength. “Take off your jeans, you dumb cunt. I want to see the rest of you.” He needed to see the rest of her. He wanted to strip her out of her sweatpants himself. But he forced himself to stand resolutely by the end of the bed.
She stood up on the bed, her movements deliberate, and pushed the fabric down over her hips, her ordinary cotton panties revealed, then stepped out of the crumpled pile. She stood before him, arms at her sides, in just those simple white panties. Her body was so familiar, so uniquely hers. He adored every ordinary inch of it.
“Those too,” Jason said, the script burning his tongue. “Last thing, you fucking whore. Then we can really get started.”
Cathy kicked them off her ankles. Then she was just there, completely exposed, her mousy hair a mess, her skin covered in goosebumps, her orange mound a bush of messy pubes. She was utterly beautiful to him.“Look at you,” he spat, the contradiction a knot in his gut. “A hairy cunt, aren't you?" God, was this how dirty talk was supposed to sound?
Like she was reading his mind, Cathy nodded, just once. A tiny, almost imperceptible dip of her chin. Her eyes were wide, dark pools in the dim light. He saw her chest flush, a spreading pink that had nothing to do with shame. Her arousal was a physical thing in the room now, a scent, a charge. It fed him.
Jason took a step closer, the bedframe squeaking under his knee as he climbed onto it. “On your back,” he commanded, and she obeyed instantly, lying back against the pillows with a soft sigh. He looked down at her naked form, his private delight a roaring, silent thing beneath the performance. He placed a hand on her sternum, feeling the frantic bird-beat of her heart. “My stupid little slut,” he said, and this time it came easier.
"I'm a stupid little slut," Cathy echoed, unprompted.
Jason could feel himself, stiff inside his pants, but it wasn't his time yet. He knelt on the worn carpet and put his hands on her inner thighs. They were trembling. He looked up her body, past the messy thatch of hair and her damp, slick slit, to her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her lips pressed into a thin, white line.
“Open up,” he said, his voice low. He didn’t wait.
He lowered his head and licked a slow, flat stripe through her. She tasted sharp and musky, a familiar earthy tang mixed with the faint chemical scent of the cheap soap from their shower. Her whole body jolted as if shocked, a gasp ripping from her throat.
“Say it again,” Jason muttered against her, his breath hot on her wet skin. "You're a stupid little slut." He watched her, to see if she would. She did.
“I’m a stupid little slut,” Cathy choked out, the words rushed.
He didn’t answer with words. He pressed his mouth against her, his tongue finding a frantic rhythm. He felt her hips buck, her hands scrambling to grab fistfuls of the duvet. He could feel everything—the soft give of her flesh, the hard nub of her clit, the desperate clenching inside her. He focused on that, on the building tension coiling under his tongue.
“You’re a stupid fucking whore,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak clearly. "Say it."
“I’m a stupid fucking whore!” she cried, the volume rising.
He leaned back in, his own arousal a dull, throbbing ache he ignored. The sounds were obscenely wet in the quiet room. He could hear the neighbor’s TV through the wall, a muffled laugh track. Cathy’s breathing was getting ragged, sharper, cutting through the noise.
He felt her fingers tangle in his hair, not pushing or guiding, just holding on. “Say it again,” he grunted.
“I’m a whore, I’m just a dirty fucking whore,” she groaned, her voice pitching higher. It was already a chant now, a mantra. He sucked softly, then flicked his tongue hard. "I'm such a whore," she said again. "A dirty fucking whore." Her thighs tightened around his ears, muffling the world. He was learning her geography by the way her body reacted to different words, different pressures. The phrase “dirty whore” made her shudder more violently than “stupid bitch.”
He broke away, breathing hard. “Louder.”
“I’m a cheating cunt!” she yelled; it surprised him. Her back arched clear off the mattress. Jason pushed her legs wider, his nose buried in her. He was drowning in her, in the smell and taste and sound of her raw unraveling.
The laugh track next door cut out. He hesitated for a second, thinking about their thin walls and curious Millers next door, the elderly couple who more or less kept to themselves but could probably hear if they tried. Cathy didn’t seem to care about the Millers next door. Or maybe she just didn't notice.
“I’m a stupid fucking slut! I’m such a bitch!” she screamed. Her declarations grew louder, more unhinged.
He drove his tongue inside her, and she let out a sharp, truncated shriek. Her insults became a fragmented, pulsing loop synced to his movements. “I’m a whore—dirty whore—stupid cunt—yes—fucking bitch—a stupid, cheating cunt—”
He realized, with a sudden, clinical clarity, that the term she had introduced on her own—cheating cunt— had snapped something loose in her. She was stuck there, wallowing in it, in the idea of betrayal, and her hips ground down against his face with a new, frantic urgency. “I’m a cheating whore! I’m a lying fucking slut!” she babbled, the words slurring into one long, self-flagellating confession. He didn’t know who she was imagining anymore—him, the men from the trunk, someone else. Evan. It didn’t matter. The fantasy was hers, and he was just the instrument. Her chant dissolved into guttural, open-mouthed groans. The “I’m a” fell away, leaving just one long, raw cry: “Whore!”
Her thighs clamped like a vice around his head, shaking. The word came out as a high, thin wail, torn from her throat, stretched and breaking. He held her there, licking and sucking through the violent pulses until she collapsed back onto the bed, a damp, twitching wreck.
Silence rushed in, thick and complete. The neighbor’s TV stayed off.
Jason rested his forehead against her thigh, catching his breath. He could feel his own heartbeat in his jaw. He had learned something fundamental in the last few minutes, a piece of code decrypted.
It wasn’t just the degradation that lit her up. It was the accusation. The fantasy of being caught, of being so profoundly in the wrong it was undeniable. That was her secret fuel.
Cathy felt good about being bad, and she needed him to know it. Got off on it.
Jason climbed up from between her legs, and kissed her gently.