Joy

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eight

“You want me to what?” His hands are wrapped around her hips, and he tries to concentrate on what she’s saying, but he’s so deep into her silken walls that his brain isn’t working properly.

Joy draws her fingernails up and down his back, and then takes one of his hands in hers, bringing it up to wrap it loosely around her throat. “I want you to choke me while you fuck me.”

“I don’t…” He pulls his hand away, instead resting it on her breast, slowing his thrusting considerably so he can focus. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She takes his nose between her thumb and index finger, giving it a little squeeze. “But I like being hurt.” She giggles and slides her hands around the back of his neck, threading her fingers through his hair and tugging on the strands. “But this isn’t about hurt. The lack of oxygen makes you come like a volcano.” She can see the curiosity in his eyes, and leans forward, running her tongue along his jaw, enjoying the full-body shiver she elicits from the simple motion. “You want me to show you, first?” Her voice is a low growl, that husky purr that is the exact opposite of her daytime voice.

He nods like a bobblehead in a car on a bumpy road, excitement lighting up his eyes. Joy feels good about that look, like a kid on Christmas morning. He’d been so down and depressed-looking at the bar, the bags under his eyes like anvils dragging his eyeballs to the floor. Lonely. Sad. The frown etched on his face like the ghost of monitor burn-in.

But here, the prospect of something new and exciting. A warm woman with promises of an orgasm like no other.

She likes bringing happiness.

So she lowers herself back down onto him, and wraps her hands around his warm throat. “If you’re uncomfortable and can’t say so, just tap me and I’ll stop, ’kay?”

He nods and swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath her palms. He quivers as she rolls her hips, increasing the pace of her hips at the same rate as the tightness of her fingers.

Joy is not a delicate woman by any means, but nor is she a super strong one. However, she knows where all the pressure points are in the body and how they work. She knows that it’s not a matter of muscle mass but where each touch goes. She relishes in the power of it, as his eyes grow wide as doubloons.

His mouth opens and closes, the air completely cut off, and then she gives him a little gasp, lets him take in just a ghost of a breath as she clenches her lower half around him. He wastes the breath with a groan, and then half of a gasp as she resumes strangling him.

Heat pools in her belly as she speeds up the thrusts, and she works her thighs, pistoning herself up and down on him. The chords in his neck are taut as his eyes roll back, and she takes him deep, riding out every last one of his spasms as his cock softens inside of her.

Her short digits unfurl from his throat and she leans back, thighs like a slip n slide as she adjusts herself.

He doesn’t move.

“Hey, big boy.” She pats his cheek. Giggles. Poor guy’s passed out.

She dismounts and stands next to the bed, stretching her arms up and up until her back crackles like popcorn. She’s not sure if she wants to wait around for him to come to. On one hand, she’s curious how he enjoyed himself. On the other, he’s probably not going to be in any shape to return the favour tonight.

Might be more lucrative to head home and take care of myself, she thinks, and scans the floor for her scanty clothes. A photo frame catches her eye, and she cocks her head, nylons in hand, bending to look. It’s Sleeping Beauty—she never got his name—with a graduation uniform on, standing next to some prestigious-looking old man. They’re doing a stage-shake, that awkward clasping of hands while their bodies form a 45-degree triangle. Sleeping Beauty has wide eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line, his skin pallid. She imagines sweat on his brow. He looks terrified.

Why so afraid of graduation? She reaches out and pokes the photo with her index finger, and glances over the mostly-bare shelves in the bachelor apartment. Or what did they catch you with that day? Whatever degree he’d acquired that day… it doesn’t seem like he’s using it now.

She tugs her nylons up her legs in stages, muttering as a sharp spot on her thumb nail catches, pulling the fabric enough that there will be a run growing up her calf before long. As she pulls her dress down over her shoulders and brushes her sweaty mop back from her face with her fingers, her movements slow to a sluggish crawl and ice forms in her chest.

Why do your lips look like that, Sleeping Beauty? The hairs on the back of her neck lift, goosebumps rippling over her like a winter breeze.

She takes a step forward, the floor like shattered glass beneath the soles of her feet. Too still, his body is too still.

-rigormortis-

She reaches out, the air like jelly, pushing through to press her fingers against his neck-

-too cold-

Her lungs deflate instantly and she presses her thighs together, everything is so loud, like a tidal wave crashing through her eardrums.

Sleeping Beauty isn’t sleeping.

He’s dead.

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