Chapter 5: The Record Store Trigger
The dusty air of ‘Spin Cycle’ smelled of old paper and desperation. Raven moved through the narrow aisles, her fingers brushing against the cardboard spines of forgotten albums, her mind elsewhere. It had been three days since the living room incident, though she couldn’t have articulated it as such. The memories were there, but they felt submerged, viewed through murky water.Her body, however, remembered everything. A phantom ache persisted between her legs.The vague, pleasant soreness in her jaw felt unexplained. She’d caught herself staring at Josh’s mouth while he talked, a sudden, violent craving for the taste of him—for the taste of anyone—flooding her senses before receding, leaving her confused and vaguely ashamed.
She was restocking the indie rock section, sliding a new pressing of something shoegaze and melancholic into place, when Phil lumbered up. Phil, the manager, was a walking monument to surrendered dreams, his polo shirt perpetually damp at the pits, his glasses smudged.“Hey, Raven,” he said, squinting at a clipboard. “We got that new shipment from that band… the really atmospheric one. Vio… Violet or maybe Violent something?” He licked his thumb, flipping a page.“Christ, my eyes. Violet Dawn?”
The words landed not in her ears, but directly in her nervous system. Violet Dawn.
A jolt, white-hot and terrifyingly sweet, shot from the base of her skull down her spine. Her knees buckled.The world tilted. Her hand shot out, gripping the edge of the shelf for support, her fingernails scraping against the vinyl. A wet heat, instantaneous and overwhelming, soaked through her black cotton panties. Her breath hitched, becoming a series of short, sharp gasps that did nothing to fill her burning lungs. Phil caught her arm, his grip surprisingly firm. “Whoa, kid.You okay? You look like you’re gonna pass out.”
Raven turned her head towards him. The store, with its flickering neon and dusty racks, seemed to recede, the edges blurring. Phil’s concerned face was the only clear thing, but it wasn’t Phil anymore.It was a focus point.A means to an end. The emptiness inside her was a yawning chasm, a physical vacuum centered in her throat and between her legs. It demanded to be filled.It screamed for it.Her thoughts weren’t her own. They were directives, clean and sharp as shards of glass.Suck.Taste.Swallow.
“I need to suck your cock,” she heard herself say, her voice a husky, alien whisper that seemed to echo in the silent store. “Right now.”
Phil’s face cycled through emotions like a stuck slideshow: confusion, shock, a flash of indignation. “What the hell, Raven? That’s not funny.”
She was already moving, sinking down onto the grimy linoleum floor.Dust particles danced in the weak light above them. Her hands, steady where the rest of her trembled, went to his belt buckle.The metal was cool under her fingers.
“Stop it,” Phil hissed, but his voice lacked force. He looked frantically towards the front of the store, but the ‘OPEN’ sign was off, the door locked. It was just them in the back aisles, surrounded by a thousand silent voices trapped in grooves of vinyl.Her efficiency was chilling. Belt open.Button undone.Zipper down. She tugged at the waistband of his faded khakis and boxers, and his soft cock sprang free. It twitched against the cool air, then against her hot breath, and began to thicken rapidly.
“Jesus, Raven…” he breathed, but his hands came up and tangled in her black and violet hair, not to push her away, but to grasp, to hold on.She didn’t hesitate. She took the head into her mouth, her tongue flattening against the underside.She tasted salt and stale fabric. A groan rumbled in his chest. Then she took him deeper, her throat opening in a smooth, practiced motion she shouldn’t have possessed. She swallowed him whole, her nose pressed into his coarse pubic hair, her eyes staring blankly at the strained fabric of his polo shirt.“Fuck,” he gasped. His hips jerked involuntarily.She began to move, establishing a brutal, needy rhythm. In, out.Deep, until she gagged violently, strings of saliva webbing his shaft. Out, for a gasping breath that smelled of him, then deep again. The gagging didn’t stop her; it seemed to fuel her. Her own pleasure was a distant, tethered thing—a fierce, molten knot in her belly, a throbbing ache in her clit that screamed for friction she couldn’t provide. She knew, on some submerged level, that her release was tied to his.To the taste of his cum. The thought made her suck harder, her cheeks hollowing, her throat working around him.Phil’s protests died. His fingers tightened in her hair, guiding her now, his hips beginning a shallow, thrusting counter-rhythm. “Oh god… oh fuck, kid… that’s so good…”
His words were fuel. She took him deeper, faster. The sound was obscene in the quiet store: wet, sloppy sucks, his ragged breathing, the soft squeak of his shoes on the floor as he pushed into her. The knot in her belly pulled tighter, a wire drawn to snapping.She was so close. So desperately close to that fire.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna come…” he warned, his voice tight and high.She redoubled her efforts, a machine built for this single purpose. Her eyes rolled back in her head.She felt the first hot, salty pulse hit the back of her throat. The trigger released.With a strangled cry, Phil came, his body stiffening. She swallowed reflexively, greedily, taking each subsequent spurt, the taste flooding her senses—bitter, alkaline, essential.As it slid down her throat, the wire inside her snapped.
Her orgasm wasn’t pleasure; it was a seizure. Her body convulsed where she knelt, her back arching violently.A muffled scream vibrated around his still-spasming cock. Her unused pussy clenched and wept, waves of intense, overwhelming sensation tearing through her without any direct touch, leaving her shaking and weak. She milked him with slow, final swallows until he softened, slipping from her lips with a soft, wet pop.She knelt there, forehead against his thigh, trembling. The world seeped back in slowly.The dust motes.The hum of the overhead lights. The faint smell of Phil’s cheap cologne mixed with sex.
He stumbled back, fumbling with his clothes, his face a grotesque mask of shock, guilt, and lingering arousal. “That… that didn’t happen,” he whispered hoarsely, not looking at her.“You hear me? That was… you felt sick.I helped you up. That’s it.”
Raven slowly pushed herself to her feet.Her legs felt boneless. She wiped the back of her hand across her slick, sore lips. The memory was already fragmenting, soft at the edges, assuming the texture of a dream.A vivid, wet, shameful dream.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice returning to its normal, flat tone.“I felt dizzy. Must be the dust. Thanks, Phil.” She turned and walked towards the staff bathroom, her movements automatic, to splash water on her face. To try and wash the persistent, phantom taste away.