Job

Virginity. A word long forgotten by fifteen.

She had been dating him for two months, a big boy like construction, like hauling and loading. Blonde, blonde peaching his skin; he glowed like the Christ child. He had a wide, plush mouth and dimples rarely seen. His green eyes were dull, cynical.

Her personal choice was to seperate sex and relationships and he had begrudgingly accepted. But she knew you could only push a guy so far before you had to give him something. First and second bases were handshakes. To be honest, she liked sex, nameless and faceless that it was.

Yeah, it was just a blowjob and she had done much more, but it was stepping into that uncontrollable sexual current. Unlike those nameless faces though, this would be different—she would let him fuck her face for a chance at control. She would memorize the rhythmic seizure of his hips and the crude, rough driving into her throat, draining salt into her stomach like a sewage pipe. His astringent contribution would be churned and battled, crushed and scorched in her belly.

And so it came about this way. They were kissing, petting at his house, in his room, on his bed. He had that adolescent bedroom. The one that fought Mommy’s lovingly painted Pooh Bear mural with rock idols, nudie pin-ups, and black light posters. He had Sharpie-penned devil horns on Eeyore and a mustache and tits on Piglet.

His bed was pushed into the corner; deep blues, green man-blankets smelled piney and unclean. His stereo filled the wall across from his bed, extensive electronics with towers of CDs, multiple tape decks, tiers and trays, speakers stacked like Legos. He had spray-painted grandmother’s dowry dresser stripes of metallic black, patchy and uneven. There were three panels of mirrors bolted above his bed, a fourteenth birthday present from Daddy.

Congratulations on becoming a man, son.

Beer cans. Everywhere. Empty and not. He had a recliner and mini-fridge tucked into the corner beside the door, beside the window, underneath the laminated Lord’s Prayer his mother had hung.

The whole effect was dizzying. If you pulled the mattress from the wall, you could see the splotches of yellowed dream that sprayed erratically in his sleep—that had cemented smooth to the Hundred Acre Woods; adolescence defying infancy, cumming hard and angry in its face.

Congratulations, son.

The lights were on, tracks of bulbs above her head. His face was flushed, bright stains on gaunt cheeks. He chewed on her lips, shoving both her hands lower in his pants. They tug-of-warred over the destination. He groaned and growled, besieged her with dirty looks, finally sitting up and shifting his weight to her thighs. Crossing thick arms over his belly, he scowled down at her. She checked the clock, her nails, her hair in the mirror above.

How long did she think she could get away with petting? She turned her head from him as he slid off her, digging not-so-innocent knees into her ribs. He was angry, disgusted even. She knew it was unfair. Once, twice, he started to say something to her, but just turned back around.

She followed him to his chair.

Running a hesitant hand over his thigh, she knelt before him, fidgeted with his fly, head dropping from one side to the other in thought. She unbuttoned his khakis, soft and molded to his body. His hands chaffed the arms of the recliner, fingers twitching with promise.

She took her time sliding a hand into his open shorts. He grabbed the back of her head with a possessive palm and folded her face too close to his body. His free fingers wrapped the bottom of his cock and set it against her cheek, rubbing smooth skin, veins throbbing along her jaw.

His hand on her head stroked her darkdark brown hair. His thumb enveloped her cheek and plunged at her closed mouth, punching open apprehensive lips. His thighs had begun twitching, bouncing. He wasn’t looking at her, his eyes were closed and his jaw was tight. He was hard, straight, achingly straight. The open window beside them breathed warm Saturday night air on her neck. Despite the circumstances, she was looking forward to taming him, mastering him. He dragged his dick across her face and she let him in, wedging it down her throat. She looked up at him, mouth full but hungry.

His eyes wouldn’t open and she knew he wasn’t going to allow her image into his excitement. She began to panic but he tapped her cheek encouragingly. She wanted to hear that he loved her, liked her right now. She leaned in kissing, sucking violently, enticing certain power. She could read the prayer beside his head.

Our father, whom art in heaven…

His lap was jerking, was slamming against the corduroy of the seat. She ground her tongue against his cock…

Hallowed be thy name.

Her oil well throat was slick and deep.

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…

He slipped his fingers into her hair and yanked her head back; her lips were ripped off him. He was looking at himself, wet and haloed, glowing. He grabbed himself and pointed at her face. She couldn’t move.

He came; his warm soapy film ran from her cheek to her neck. He took it—it was hers. She stared at him; her chin was dripping. She wanted to cry, but he ran his dick against her jaw line, told her to lick him clean, pressed her head back to his thighs.

She did cry then, but he didn’t notice because he was supervising her tongue, hand wrapped in her sticky hair.

On earth as it is in heaven…