A Dog From Hell

Part 2: Vapour claws

“Did you know I studied to be a painter?” asked David completely out of the blue. About an hour and a quarter before he was to humiliate me by pissing all over my face in that toilet, we were driving through thick traffic to get to this restaurant David claimed I had to see. Most of the ride we weren't talking at all. David played his hip-hop CDs at brutally high volume, my whole body vibrating with thumping beats. He also rapped along the music, using his best African-American accent (not that anybody would mistake him for a ghetto gangster). He didn't know half of the lyrics and he seemed to be focusing exclusively on swear words, threats to police and threats to women, catching a line or two and rapping along the recorded voice before trailing off. He kept himself amused in between by insulting other drivers and shouting at pedestrians foolish enough to try crossing the street near his car.

It took me a while to realise he was talking to me. Then another few moments to realise it was actually a question. He was ignoring me so efficiently most of the ride that I had to make an extra effort to become involved in a conversation with him.

“No… No, you never told me about it, David.” I love pronouncing his name, it feels so… intimate.

David smiled and extended his arm through the window to warn the teenager readying to cross the street that it will be his utmost pleasure to run her over.

“Oh, I didn't? Weird. I usually thump my chest and boast about it to everyone I meet. DO I LOOK LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING ROLEMODEL TO A KID LOOKING UP TO ME? LIFE AIN'T NUTHIN' BUT BITCHES AND MONEY!!!” David effortlessly switched to his normal voice after rapping these lines “I was obsessed with drawing ever since I was a little snot-nosed kid. Then I wanted to be a painter as soon as I understood that it means sitting around at home all day and not having to work in the office like regular people do. YEAH, FUCK YOU MAN, WHERE DID YOU BUY YOUR LICENSE, EH?” David made a very rude gesture towards the older, bespectacled man who was driving too slowly by his estimation and who refused to drive on the sidewalk so that David can get by at his chosen speed.

“But seriously, I started painting for real in high school and I was good enough for the arts college. I mean, had things gone the way it was planned, I would have been a proper painter now.”

I didn't know this. David was a college lecturer in computer sciences. I met him on a meeting between our school and his college, discussing a project they were looking to support. He was a bit eccentric to say the least, even on that first meeting with sharp, direct approach to discussion, strange sense of humour and a spark of madness in his eyes. But I never thought of him as art type. David? No, he never struck me as a creative soul, he was too destructive, too nervous, too nihilistic to be creative.

“So what happened?” I asked, struggling to be heard over the roar of David's car stereo. He slammed the car horn hard, instead of giving me an answer.

“LADY, THAT'S SO NICE!!! I LOVE IT!! YOU HAVE TO TEACH ME HOW TO DRIVE LIKE THAT!!!” David was screaming at a middle aged woman blocking our way in an attempt to make a turn and apparently struggling with her car. I am sure he was aware that his behaviour was not going to help her become any more efficient but David is like that, he will always go for cheap instant gratification over efficiency. He kept hitting the horn and barking at the woman.

“WHAT'S THAT? WHAT'S THAT? YOU'RE TELLING ME TO FUCK OFF?”

The woman, obviously irritated made an unmistakeable gesture, adding something in a voice too soft for me to hear. But David was either able to hear her through his window or just decided to fill in the blanks through his imagination. After all, the whole drama was largely in his mind, rather than a concrete reality.

“She's telling me to fuck off, is she? Aw, that won't do, no, that won't fucking do.” He reached to the back seat. “Where's my piece, eh? Where's my fucking piece?” Then he found what he was looking for and got his attention back to the chosen victim of the moment. “Let's see if you're so talkative now, nigga!!!” he pointed his weapon through the window towards the woman.

“David, please…” I whispered. But there was no way for him to hear me through a snowstorm of beats and angry voices on his stereo.

“FUCK DA POLICE! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK DA POLICE!!!” he rapped along to the music, following the rhythm with his outstretched arm, clutching the handle of the ‘piece'. He aimed at the woman. I saw the look of sheer blind panic on her face as she automatically raised her arms up to try and stop the expected bullets. From where she was sitting the light was probably completely preventing her from seeing the dayglo colours and the sci-fi features of David's ‘gun'. David squeezed the trigger repeatedly, spraying her windshield with water, laughing maniacally.

“That'll teach her to fuck with the straight up G's, yo!” he said, pleased with himself as he packed his pistol back and drove around the woman who was out of her car now and shouting at him. “I have to remember to fill the clip with my piss one of these days, to put an extra twist on the formula. Fear, man. Fear is what makes them respect you. With no respect you lose your turf, your possessions and eventually your life, homie, youknwowhatimsayin?”

I would have been shocked if I didn't know David by now.

“Where was I?” said he. I opened my mouth but he remembered. “Ah, the arts college. Well, you know, the usual story, as time passes you realise that the art world is just as prone to being run by cliques and lobbyists as any other world. And that there's no big money in it unless you put your arse up for grabs. And you feel like telling everyone to sod off because if you're going to whore yourself, there's less painful ways to do it. And so you do. And someone close to you decides to OD and, you know, die.”

The last sentence caught me completely unprepared. Perhaps David's disillusioned description of the ‘art world' was just part of his act as many other things he says and does are. Perhaps even that last sentence was part of the act, it wouldn't be the first. But then again, David is a human being, despite his claims and all the evidence he supplies to the to the contrary. I know that he is and I know he can hurt and grieve just like any of us. What he said could be a sign of that grief. And he shared it with me, how ever frivolously and superficially. I felt for David that moment. And I was grateful for being there, for letting me be near him and letting me know he was hurt once.

“What happened?” I asked and then his phone rang.

The next thirty seconds I was listening to David reject and deny whatever it was the person on the other side was saying. At least the music was down to a tolerable level now.

“Nononononono, that won't happen. Do you hear me, Caroline? That won't happen in this world, OR the next!”

Caroline was the assistant in David's department. I have never met her but David mentioned her often, sharing with me his scorn about the way she looked at child-raising, about the way she dressed and about the way she pronounced the word ‘often'.

“No. No way. I don't give a shit, Caroline. Let me put it this way: I. DON'T. FUCKING. CARE. Get that?”

I don't think Caroline was too happy having to talk to David at all, after hours, on his mobile phone with rude hip-hop music in the background. He knew that, making it more difficult for her just out of malice. He looked at me and rolled his eyes several times, expressing his frustration with having to communicate with lower forms of existence. Then he barked back into the phone.

“Hey, I don't care. Fuck him, man. Yeah, tell him that's EXACTLY what I said.” He listened to her, no doubt agitated response, “Don't worry, he will know I would say something like that anyway. He doesn't get to control my free time like that, you know. Ta-ta, bye!!!!”

David closed his phone and turned to me triumphantly.

“You have to step up and say ‘Hell no!!' to the man, otherwise, you're fucked for your life, nigga!” He was happy with his little victory there.

“David...” I hesitated.

“Yeah?”

“You… You said something about somebody dying.”

“I said what?” He looked genuinely surprised. I felt my heart sink. He just made it up right there to play with me and he managed to forget it in a matter of seconds.

“You said…” I hesitated. Maybe I shouldn't go there? “You said somebody close to you had… died…”

“Oh, that.” David looked the other way and for a moment he struggled to come with the right words. This never happens to David I know. The moment grew longer and longer. I put my hand on David's knee. The David I know and love.

Then his phone rang.

“Aw COME ON!!!” David grimaced looking at the caller ID on his display. “That's not FAIR!!!”

The next minute and a half David was using his nicest, most reasonable voice, agreeing with everything the person on the other side said and ending many sentences with ‘sir'.

“Oh, certainly! Why, of course!! No need to, no need to, really, it's fine. I will, sir. It'll be a pleasure. Certainly. Certainly. With pleasure!!”

When the conversation ended, he looked up at me, infuriated, irritated and angry. He stopped the car. He brought the telephone to eye level and put the middle finger up to the display.

“FUCK YOU!!! FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU, YOU HEAR ME MAN? FUCK YOU AND YOUR FAMILY!” He was hitting the display with his middle finger. “Imma fuck you up, man!! Imma fuck you up COLD, nigga!!”

He closed the phone and threw it into the glove compartment. He turned to me, apparently to explain the reason for his irritation, completely ignoring the chorus of car horns rising behind us.

“Fuck!!! That was Craig, may his soul rot in hell for eternity. There go our plans to have an intimate weekend in the countryside.”

I blinked. He started the car. Our plans? Intimate weekend in the countryside?

“Oh, David.” I smiled, feeling tender. He never told me about the plan for the weekend. He wanted to surprise me. Oh, David.

“Aw, I'm kidding, don't go all gay on me, woman. The only plan I had for the weekend was to sleep until noon and my boss just HAD to fuck it all up for me. I'm gonna pay him back once. With interest!!!”

He was kidding? Just like that? He was kidding? A small, cruel joke to have my heart rise and then sink in a matter of seconds. This is the David I know. David I know and Love.

“Here we are, Helen,” He announced “Get ready to taste the food of gods”. The restaurant was in front of us and David pulled the car towards the parking lot.

*

“One of the advantages of this restaurant is that the washroom is in such an illogical, concealed place that barely anyone knows it exists” said David while he was examining the menu. At that point in time I didn't understand the full meaning of this sentence. I didn't pay much attention either. For all I knew, David wanted us to have a quiet dinner together in a restaurant he recently discovered. I should know better. I really should.

“What will it be, sir?” asked the waiter. His face will be a mask of utter confusion roughly an hour from now, seen as static frame after frame in unmoving time without breath. David looked up to him and smiled.

“Anything not containing body parts of a murdered animal, my good man.”

The waiter blinked.

David smiled reassuringly.

“He's vegetarian”, I said.

“Ah.”, said the waiter.

“Can you get us two vegetarian salads?”

“With pleasure, madam”, said he and turned on his heel.

I looked at David. He was busy with his phone.

“I know what you're thinking”, he said, looking at his phone's display.

“You do?” I had no idea what he was talking about. With David this is a rule, rather than an exception.

“Yes, you're thinking I was lying to you.”

I still didn't know what he was talking about. I wasn't thinking he was lying to me. I never do. David will say a lot of things that will sound off the wall and improbable but then, if you know him well enough like I do, you'll know he is just being playful. In his completely infuriating way. And even though I have seen him lie to other people many times, complex, intricate lies, lovingly told by someone obviously taking pleasure in lying, I never thought he'd lie to me. That would be too simple for David. He gets more fun out of truth with me than he could ever get out of lying to me. Truth hurts more. And this is his fun.

“But I wasn't.” he continued. He brought the phone up so I could see the display. “I really studied to be a painter and I will draw a thing or two to amuse myself from time to time.”

I took the phone from his hand. I looked at the display. That was me there. David wasn't lying. I felt my face blush. That was me there, a small drawing of me on David's display.

“Hand-drawn and then scanned and then photoshopped”, said David not without pride.

I looked at him but then had to look down again. I couldn't stand to look him in the eyes, not with my head starting to spin and my panties starting to get wet. That was me there, my face just a simple pattern of thin lines and a lot of white. But that was me there. Like those Japanese cartoons, I was so simple there, yet that was me, no mistake. That was me there, David creating me with his hands, one line at a time, creating light and darkness with the merest of gestures. That was me there, dressed like a whore, my clothes cheap, slutty and torn, as if I was assaulted and raped prior to being chained to the wall. That was me there in torn stockings, high heels, my breasts visible through holes in a short, tight blouse, my wrists cuffed and chained to the wall. There was a ball gag in my mouth.

I still couldn't look into David's eyes. He created me. He created me with his own hands. He showed me how easy it was. So easy, so easy for him.

* * *

Driving back from the restaurant was like falling through clouds made of cotton-wool. I didn't mind David's loud music for once. Rather, I was thankful for the sensory deprivation it provided. I didn't want to talk, I didn't want to see or hear anything. I didn't want to think. I sank into the seat and sat there with closed eyes, trying not to exist for a while. David was mercifully leaving me alone, focusing on driving and rapping along his music. There was a woman he treated like a cheapest slut just minutes ago on the seat next to him, a woman he humiliated in public in a way that was obviously planned and preconceived and that obviously made him happy.

I didn't want to think. I just wanted to feel. To feel the warm, relaxed glow running slowly through my body. I just had two crushing orgasms, two orgasms I reached through almost complete loss of control and dignity. Two screaming peaks of pleasure I got through severe humiliation. My body was like a broken toy and I hated myself for feeling so good about it.

The man who brought the humiliation to me, the man who enjoyed so much turning me into a toilet slut was sitting next to me and rapping in a broken American accent about the harms he will bring on to a rival street gang. There seemed to be no concern on his part about how I felt or what I thought about the humiliation he brought on me. He had me lick the piss off the urinal. He ejaculated all over my hair. Then he urinated all over my hair and face and then he had me masturbate for him, my face still in the urinal, just so he could leave me for a stranger to run into me. He had me running barefoot, my face and hair wet from his piss, running through a restaurant and down the street, for all the world to see his toy. And he didn't care.

And he knew. He knew that lying there on the passenger seat of his car, still wet from piss and shaking from shame, he knew how I hated myself. Because the two orgasms I had were not enough, because thinking of it all (and I didn't want to think, no) made me hot and wet again.

“Well, this is it, love. This is where you get off.”

David stopped the car in front of my house and very unceremoniously waited for me to get out. David knew. And he didn't care.

No point in talking, is there?

I got out of the car, wondering if my neighbours peered through their windows and raised their eyebrows seeing how wet my hair was and that I had my shoes in my hands instead of on my feet. What will they say to their wives and husbands? What will they say to other neighbours in their gossip sessions? Whatever they tell them, they will be wrong. Except saying that I have become a true whore. Yes, David, you knew. True at heart.

“I'll call you Helen”, said David. “That was VERY much fun.” He started the car and disappeared down the street. I slowly walked towards the door, my slut shoes in my hands, my bare feet touching now quickly cooling pavement.

Unlock the door.

Feed the cat. Then check the messages. I can't ring Julia back now, not just now. Then recharge your phone. All the while trying not to. Trying not to kneel on the floor, put my hands between my thighs, close my eyes, masturbate, back again in that toilet. Again, humiliated and hot. David, you could have had me any way you wanted. You could have made me do anything you wanted. I'd do anything for you. Why this, why like this?

Put the shoes back into place. The high heeled slut shoes David spotted in the window one day. Take the clothes off. They need to be cleaned. Look into the mirror. Look at that slut. Look at that slut, oh, my God, look at her make-up, smeared all over her whorish face. I bet she sucks cocks for a living. I bet she fucks in men's rooms for a living. I bet she enjoys being fucked like a dirty bitch, right there on the toilet floor. I bet she enjoys eating cum and drinking piss, I bet she licks urinals for fun.

No! No, stop it!!!

But why? Look at her cunt. Look at it. See, it's clean shaven, the way prostitutes do. And look at it, when she opens the lips with her fingers, look how wet she is. She wants it. She needs it. Come on, stick one finger up her cunt. See how she rocks her hips right away. She needs it.

Oh, God, no, God, no.

Yes. Yes, get down on the floor, down on the floor now!!

The tiles are cold. They make me shiver. I don't want to do this. No.

Get DOWN on the fucking floor, you fucking slut! On your fucking back! Get your legs up in the air, now!!

Close your eyes if it makes you feel less violated. Oooh, you're sucking your finger now, are you? You like the taste of your cunt, do you? Let's see that cunt fucked properly now, shall we?

David… Please…

One, two, three fingers in. I can't believe you're so fucking wet, whore. I can't believe you're rocking your hips like that, whore. Round and round and round we go, in circles.

David... David… Please. Take me, please. Take me like that, please.

The phone rang. My heart missed a couple of beats but I was safe. I was safe, locked in my own home, on my own bathroom floor, on my back, my legs up in the air. I ignored it. I kept fucking myself with the three fingers of my right hand, using my left hand to pinch my nipples and squeeze my tits.

Yes. Oh, yes, that's it, baby, fuck me harder. Hurt me, baby, please, fuck your slut, hurt her, she loves when you do it, please baby, don't stop.

The phone rang again, then the machine kicked in.

“E, yo, it's me.” I opened my eyes. David's voice was calm in a totally surreal way. “Just wanted to check if you're OK.”

I got up as quick as I could and ran into the living room.

“I guess you're in the shower at the moment, which is, I guess, expected and justified.”

I grabbed the receiver. It was so sad. I am so sad. In a way, it would have been interesting leaving the machine on and hearing what David had to say. Speaking to the machine, he could have said things he wouldn't say to me directly. There was a potential there to take some of the power back, how ever tiny. But I am so sad.

“I am here, David”, I whispered into the receiver.

“Hey, Helen!!” David's voice was loud in my ear. I closed my eyes again. David. I am so sad. I am so happy. So sad.

He sounded genuinely happy to hear me. David who pissed on me earlier that evening, David who ignored me for most of the time we spent together, David who called me a slut so many times I couldn't keep count, he sounded genuinely happy to hear me.

“Just wanted to make sure you're OK, Helen. You OK?” That was a question. Oh, David, my sweet, sweet, caring David.

I nodded. Then I opened my eyes.

“Yes.” I whispered. “I am OK.” I couldn't help but smile.

“That's cool, homie. Just making sure. You know…” He hesitated for a second, struggling for words. Oddly, no fresh African-American slang seemed to be coming into his mind.

“I know” I said, smiling. “I know, David.”

“Right” he said, switching to a more business-like tone. He chuckled. “Good to hear that. Listen, you have to check your mail before you go to bed. I have just sent you some of your photos.” I stopped breathing for a moment. Absent-mindedly, my free hand started stroking my breasts.

“I have to admit you look fucking gorgeous on them, Helen. I am looking at them right now and, blimey, I am getting hard as wood.”

I closed my eyes again. Back again. I lowered my hand, touched my shaven cunt. Waves of pleasure raced through my belly, up my spine, down my limbs. I suppressed a cry.

“David…” I whispered.

“You look like a complete fucking mess there, on your knees, you look ashamed, scared, humiliated, you look so fucking sexy I'd fuck you right now if you were here.”

“David…” you cruel bastard, you sweet, sweet, vicious demon. You never fucked me, you never fucked me, you never fucked me I hate you I hate you I love you my sweet, sweet darling you know me so well, you know me better than I ever knew myself.

“OK, OK, a figure of speech, OK. But really, you have to see them before you go to bed. I know you'll love them. Fuck, man, I'm willing to bet you'll get so hot just looking at yourself there, you'll probably be forced to masturbate right there. I mean, I know just how fucking horny you are.”

Oh, David, my David. My sweet, sweet , cruel monster.

I started fingering my cunt. Faster and faster.

“David” I whispered. “I have a confession to make.” My breathing got faster.

David's laughter was my reward and my punishment.

“You are already masturbating, eh?” he said and then I heard him laugh some more. Was it a cruel, vicious, sarcastic laughter or a joyful, good natured one? “That's so predictable, you know.”

“Yes…” I said. I held the receiver so close to my mouth that I felt he could almost read my mind. He knew. He knew me well. “I have nothing on, David. I am completely naked, just for you.”

“For me, eh? Aw, that's flattering. Please, go on.” I could hear David positioning himself more comfortably on his sofa.

“When you phoned…” I stopped there and gave my clit a little rub. A small, barely audible yelp escaped my lips.

“Yes?” His voice also slipped into a deep murmur that always makes me so horny.

“I was in the bathroom, yes, but I wasn't having a shower.”

“You weren't having a shower, eh? Curious…”

“No, I wasn't.” I took a deep breath. This was just a game now. No winners, no losers, just a game. “I was on the floor, on my back, naked, my legs up in the air. I was squeezing my tits and fucking myself with my fingers.”

“So you did, eh? I imagined you'd do something like that this evening. You're such a horny bitch, Helen.”

The game. He called me a horny bitch. He was masturbating too. I knew he was. He was squeezing his cock right there on his sofa, wanking with his eyes on fire, listening to me describe the thoughts going through my head a few minutes before.

“I imagined you were there, sweetie. I imagined you were there, my legs up on your shoulders, your cock so hard and beautiful. I imagined you ramming it up my wet, hungry cunt.”

“… bitch!!” reiterated David after a few seconds of contemplation. I could hear a small note of insanity and a small note of admiration in his voice.

“Oh, God, David, yes, I am such a bitch. I am such a horny bitch. You should see my cunt now, David. I am so horny, it's gotten so wet and it's open, David, I am open like some street whore, awaiting your cock.”

“That's nice, go on, go on, you know you're not getting my cock in there. How are you gonna deal with it?” You cruel, cruel bastard.

I took a deep breath. My head was spinning.

“I'm fucking myself with three fingers, David, just for you. I am fucking myself as we speak, baby, I am so horny.”

“Three fingers, eh?” David adjusted the phone and his voice continued even louder in my ear. “If you're so open as you claim, slut, you should be able to fit at least four fingers in there, if not all five. I suggest you make an effort.” I could hear him breathe harder and harder as he was speaking. I could picture him wanking over there.

“I'm scared, David. I don't know if they will fit.” I took all three fingers out of my cunt and examined them. They were covered with sticky, shiny mucus. I put my little finger together with the others. “Oh, my God David” I exclaimed as I started shoving the four fingers in, “I am so scared, this is too big for me.”

“Grow some fucking spine, bitch. I am not here to hear about your inner fears. Let's see them fingers fuck that cunt of yours.” His rude words made me even hotter. I got my left leg up, put my toes on the chair, making the access to my cunt easier. I wished I was wearing my slut shoes. That would have made me even hotter – completely naked, in high heels, fucking myself for David.

“Oh, God, David” I panted, “My God, it hurts. My God, David!!”

“Are they in? Eh? Tell me, bitch!!!”

“Yes… Oh, God, yes, they are in, David, my God… it hurts.”

“How many? Eh, tell me, how many fingers do you have up your fucking cunt, bitch? Do I have to ask you about each and every little detail?”

“I have…” I pushed the fingers a little deeper. It did hurt. But I didn't mind. I needed this. I needed my cunt fucked, stretched, hurt like this. “I have four fingers up my cunt, David, I have four fingers up my dirty, horny cunt and I am shoving my thumb in, I need my thumb in there too.”

“Damn right you do, bitch. You fucking need a fist in there, you fucking, dirty slut. I should have pissed in your mouth back there, you would have loved it so much! I should have made you swallow all that piss.”

His words. It was his words, not my fingers in my cunt. It was his words what made me cum there. The words, what made step over the line, push my fingers in deeper than they ever were and cum for the third time that evening, living through the men's room humiliation all over again, the images, the sounds, the touch, taste and smell all clashing in my mind in mere seconds. The humiliation I lived through, reinforced through the humiliation of talking about it with David, telling him how horny it made me, admitting to masturbating before he called, then masturbating together with the man who introduced me to the shame I never knew before. I reinterpreted the men's room scene in my mind all over again and my mind hijacked it and added images that were not there originally. Images of David pissing in my mouth. Images of David fucking me from the rear as the man in the blue jumpsuit who'd walked in shoved his fat cock in my mouth. Static images of no name of me being chained to the wall, whipped, tortured, raped repeatedly, impregnated, fucked, raped. That is what made me cum, as I screamed and shouted in orgasm, the spasms in my belly tearing me apart, the liquid fire in my spine making me arch my back as if I was tortured by electricity. I came for the third time that evening, David not even being in the same room with me any of the times.

I love you David. I love you. I am so sad. You make me so happy. I love you.