Chapter 2: She's got issues
The heavy door of Puck’s apartment clicked shut, muffling the city’s dull roar. Instantly, the sterile fluorescence of the office was replaced by dim, warm lamplight and the thick scent of sandalwood incense coiling through the air. She kicked off her buckled boots, letting them thud onto a pile of art books near the door. The faint, comforting crackle of a Miles Davis record spun on the turntable in the corner, a counterpoint to the silence.
"Ugh. Beige hell," she muttered, peeling off her fishnets with a sigh. The apartment was a controlled explosion of her personality. Vintage concert posters for bands long forgotten plastered the walls – The Stooges snarled beside a serene Frida Kahlo print. Mismatched furniture – a velvet emerald green armchair salvaged from a curb, a chrome-legged Formica table piled with sketchbooks and empty ramen cups – created a chaotic, lived-in nest. Strings of fairy lights draped haphazardly added pockets of soft glow.
She padded barefoot across the worn Persian rug towards her tiny kitchenette, the cool linoleum underfoot. Grabbing a half-empty bottle of cheap red wine, she poured a generous glass without bothering with a stem. Leaning against the counter, she took a long swallow, the tannins rough and welcome. Her eyes drifted, unfocused, towards the window overlooking the fire escape. The city lights blurred into smears of color.
Ronnie.
His name echoed in the quiet. The flush that crept up his neck when she leaned in. The way his knuckles went white gripping that stupid pen. The sheer, unbearable safety radiating off him, a stark contrast to the predatory energy she usually attracted or projected. She took another gulp of wine, the warmth spreading through her chest.
Later, showered and wrapped in an oversized, threadbare Black Sabbath t-shirt, Puck sprawled on her unmade bed. The bedside lamp cast a pool of light onto a battered leather-bound journal lying open beside her. A fountain pen, sleek and black, rested in her hand. The incense smoke curled lazily towards the ceiling.
She began to write, her script sharp and angular, pressing hard into the paper.
8:47 PM. Home. Wine. Miles.
Another day in the sensory deprivation chamber. Brenda’s granola crunching like a fucking woodchipper. Mark’s pathetic attempt at dominance. That sad little intern practically whimpering for approval. Static. White noise. Dead air.
Her pen scratched faster.
Except HIM. Always HIM. My anchor. My oasis. The only real thing in that entire plastic wasteland. Saw the way he flinched when Mark opened his mouth. Like a startled deer. Beautiful. Pure. Didn’t flinch when I touched him though. Not really. Just… reacted. Felt the heat radiating off his cheek. Like a furnace under that gray cardigan.
She paused, tapping the pen against her lip ring. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face.
Told him about destiny. Design. Saw the confusion in those kind eyes. Doesn’t get it yet. But he will. He FEELS it. I know he does. That spark. That connection. It’s chemical. Primal. He’s MINE. Designed for me. Tailor-made. The stillness to my storm. The order to my chaos.
Her writing became more feverish, the letters crowding together.
The way he focuses on those spreadsheets… like the numbers hold the secrets of the universe. So intense. So… vulnerable. Makes me want to devour him. To crawl inside that quiet mind and see what makes him tick. To shatter that careful control. To hear him gasp MY name.
She slammed the journal shut, the sound loud in the quiet room. Her breath hitched. The wine, the incense, the image of Ron’s startled eyes, the phantom feel of his heated skin… it coalesced into a throbbing pressure low in her belly. Insistent. Demanding.
With trembling fingers, she reached into the drawer of her nightstand. Past loose earrings, old concert tickets, a half-smoked joint. Her hand closed around cool, heavy silicone. She pulled out the dildo – realistically veined, substantial, glistening faintly with leftover lube from last time.
A low groan escaped her lips as she shoved her panties down her thighs, kicking them off the bed. The Sabbath shirt rode up. She didn’t bother taking it off. The cool air hit her wetness, making her shudder. Her other hand was already between her legs, fingers sliding through slick heat, circling her clit with rough, urgent circles.
"Oh god, Ronnie," she gasped, the name a ragged prayer. Her hips arched off the mattress. She fumbled with the bottle of lube, squirting a generous amount onto the toy, the sound obscenely wet. She didn’t tease. Couldn’t. The need was too sharp, too consuming.
She guided the thick head to her entrance, already pulsing and open. With a guttural cry, she thrust it inside herself, hard and deep. Her back bowed off the bed, a strangled gasp tearing from her throat. Her eyes squeezed shut, but behind her lids, it wasn't the silicone she saw.
It was Ron. Ron pinned beneath her in this messy bed, his gray cardigan rumpled, his neat hair mussed. His kind eyes wide, dark with a shock of desire he couldn’t comprehend. His mouth slack, whispering her name. Puck. Not Lily. Puck.
"Fuck! Yes! Mine!" she snarled, driving the toy deeper, grinding against the base. Her free hand pinched and pulled at her nipple through the thin cotton of the shirt, the pain a bright counterpoint to the deep, stretching fullness. Drool slicked her chin, dripping onto the t-shirt collar. She didn’t care. Couldn’t stop.
The fantasy intensified. Ron trembling beneath her. His tentative touch turning desperate. His quiet accountant’s voice breaking into moans. Begging. For her. Only her. Because he was hers. Made for this. Made for her.
Her thighs trembled violently. The coil inside her tightened impossibly, a white-hot wire pulled taut. She fucked herself relentlessly with the toy, her hips pistoning, the wet, slapping sounds loud in the room, mingling with her choked cries and the relentless crackle of the record. Her clit throbbed under her frantic fingers.
"Ronnie! Oh god, Ronnie! Gonna… Gonna…" Her voice shattered into wordless keening. The orgasm detonated, a seismic wave tearing through her. Her body locked rigid, back arched impossibly high, toes curling into the sheets. A guttural scream ripped from her throat as a hot gush of fluid soaked the sheets beneath her, spreading rapidly. Wave after wave crashed over her, leaving her shuddering, gasping, her vision swimming with black spots.
As abruptly as it began, it ended. The tension snapped. She collapsed back onto the sodden mattress, the toy slipping out with a wet plop onto the rumpled sheets beside her. Her chest heaved. Sweat plastered strands of black hair to her temples. Her limbs felt like lead, utterly boneless. The frantic energy evaporated, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
Her tongue felt thick. She licked absently at the drool on her chin. The scent of sex, sweat, incense, and wine hung heavy in the air. The record had reached the end of the side, the needle hissing softly in the run-out groove. The silence pressed in, thick and complete.
Her eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed, drifted towards the discarded journal lying beside the glistening toy. A faint, utterly satisfied smile touched her swollen lips. Her hand flopped weakly towards the journal, fingers brushing the cool leather cover.
"Tomorrow," she slurred, her voice thick with sleep and spent desire. "Gotta… plan… tomorrow… for Ronnie…"
Her eyes fluttered shut. Within seconds, her breathing deepened into the slow, even rhythm of sleep, sprawled amidst the wreckage of her ecstasy, the dildo lying like a claim staker on the page where she’d written his name. The only sound was the soft hiss of the dead record and the distant sigh of the city outside.