Is Marie There?

Entering our home, I see Marie is waiting exactly as I’d imagined she would be. She has on a slinky little black dress, picked up at some fashion discount store. It probably won’t survive the evening, they never do. It’s stretchy, just enough to show that she doesn’t have a bra on, nipples defiantly at attention while her posture screams submission. I know she won’t have any panties on, it's such a given, it's almost boring to mention. That dress is the only garment worn. On her wrist and ankles are leather cuffs, not the giant ones that are so in vogue, but slender, elegant affairs. They won’t hold her at all, if she were to flex while bound in them they’d snap. They’re there to remind her of what she is. Her collar is the same.

Seeing her, I kick the door shut behind me. It slams loudly as I drop all the work things brought home with me, all forgotten in the instant I laid eyes on her. The public me cast aside, I rush at her with a burning need to have her, to take her this instant.

Our lips crush together. I force her mouth to mine, one hand buried in her reddish hair, forcing her to me. The other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her into me, making her ride up one thigh. We slam into a wall, hard. Her gasp is audible. I press against her, pinning her against it with my weight. My mouth sucking the breath from her. I imagine draining her essence, sucking the very life out of her with this bruising kiss. Hand tightens around hair into a fist.

We twist, turn, tumble to the floor, her riding my legs all the way down. The carpeted landing doesn’t keep her skirt from riding up obscenely, no panties. Our kiss broken, I sink teeth into neck, still imagining that I can draw out her very core if the bite is hard enough. My hand still in her hair, the forearm pinning the halo of her coppery mane. She arches against my thigh, and I cock an eyebrow at her.

An hour earlier, I’d called Susan from work. The conversation started out dull. Pleasantries, how the day was, errands, but by the end of it, a mean streak was breaking through. It made her nervous, perhaps she’d done something wrong, maybe overlooked something. Then I asked, “Is Marie there?”

Susan was the woman I loved, respected, all the white picket fence things. But Marie, Marie was different. She was the girl I used. The girl I lusted for in unhealthy ways. The horny little minx in heat that got fucked like a whore. Used just to slate pleasure in. A slut.

It took a moment for Susan to answer. I could imagine her twisting a lock of red hair as she breathed in deeply. “She’ll be here when you get home.” After the call, she shed her clothes, and Susan then slipped into Marie, and her little slut dress.