The Beginning of the End
by SM Bryson
Sex had never been a problem in their relationship. In fact, sex was probably the only thing that had never been an issue. Even when they would fight, or separate, they still found themselves somehow back in bed together. Every time.
Even after the divorce, Abby would find herself fucking Seth time and again. He was like a drug she couldn't get out of her system. His sex was her crack and she needed a fix.
Even in the days when they were both abusing cocaine. She hated the drugs, that life, hated him and wanted out. He claimed the coke helped him to think more clearly, helped his creative process, assisted him in writing.
It was the same fight every time, a merry go round they couldn't get off.
"Why can't you just be a drunk like every other writer?" she would scream at him, exasperated. "We can't have drugs in the house, Seth, I work for the government."
"A secret branch that doesn't exist," he would scoff. All the while laying out lines on the mirror. Then he'd disarm her with his crooked smile and hold out a straw towards her, eyebrow arched.
She gave in every time.
They would do line after line and get so high that every single nerve ending was on edge, their skin so sensitive to the touch that the merest caress was like a whisper of an orgasm.
Sex while high on blow was amazing. The simple touch of his hand sent her spiraling into ecstasy. Very little foreplay was needed. She was wet and so ready for him.
He'd grab her by the ankles and drag her across the bed, throw her legs over his shoulders, thrust his huge cock inside her to the hilt. This position was so deep, so immensely pleasurable it was almost pain.
He would thrust in and out of her until she was screaming, throwing her head back and forth. Long past the screaming, until she was unintelligible, muttering words that weren't even English. Until she was guttural, her moans nothing more than an animalistic plea for release. Until she was crying and gasping and trying to get away because it was just too much.
Seth, slick with sweat and far from release would pound into her, roughly holding her down in place for what felt like hours. High on the cocaine, his stamina was that of a super hero.
When she was reduced to nothing but a quivering, crying mass beneath him, he would pull out and flip her over. Too weak, too sated to fight, she'd flop over.
From this position, he'd slide his hand underneath her, pulling her up to her knees and against him. Holding her in place he'd slide his cock inside her sore and swollen pussy.
This would last for as long as she could take it, while she screamed and fell onto her stomach time and again. Until he would grow frustrated with having to pick her up, hold her in place. Until they were both covered and dripping with sweat. Her voice hoarse from screaming, her pussy drying up from the abuse.
Eventually she'd fall onto her stomach and he wouldn't pick her up. She'd whisper with her scratchy voice, "No, no more, please no more."
"C'mon, honey I didn't get to finish," he'd whine. "Let me cum," he'd beg.
She knew what he wanted, what he always wanted. "No," her eyes squeezed shut, tears already falling. Because it was going to happen. It always did, no matter her protests.
She would feel his hand exploring, gently probing into her ass. She'd tense up, crawl away from him, beg, "No, please, no, not in the ass. I'll go down on you, anything."
"I can't cum any other way on this stuff," he'd reason. "I need to finish. Help me finish. C'mon honey, help me cum." He'd pull her closer by a leg and roll her over.
This would last until finally, tired from the fucking, weary from the arguing, and feeling sorry for him that he still had a raging hard on and didn't get to cum, she'd lie still and let him stick his dick in her ass.
It hurt. Fuck it hurt. Every time. She would lie there and cry, while he held her arms behind her back and ravaged her rectum.
He grunted and groaned and muttered, "Thank you, thank you," again and again. Of course he enjoyed it, anal was his favorite.
She'd lie there and take it and feel dirty. Not the good kind of dirty, not the playful dirty whore kind of dirty. The terrible kind. The used kind. The hating yourself kind of dirty.
Later, long after he'd finished and set out more lines of cocaine he would tell her the same thing. Every time. "You can't do a line if you can't stop crying."
"I hate it when you do that," she'd cry.
"You let me," he'd say. "You didn't use the safe word. You've never used the safe word," he would reprimand her. "If you really didn't want me to fuck you in the ass, if you didn't like it, you'd use the safe word. Shut up and do your line."
At this point they'd do a few more bumps together and he'd wander off in a creative bliss to write all night and she'd be left to ponder his words, her own actions. Every single time they used coke this happened. The same arguments, same sex, same aftermath.
Merry go round.
Eventually, desperate to come down from her high, desperate to sleep so she could get up for work, she would pound down a few shots of rum to counteract the blow.
She had to drink until she was pretty drunk to come down and to sleep. And she'd fall into bed, confused about her marriage, her own sexuality, and pissed at herself. Going into work hungover was never good when you're a vampire hunter.