As he marveled at his own handiwork, how he’d skinned me to the bone, Lane had grown excited, and I experienced something I hadn’t felt in years, not since Keith showed me the tape, my naked body, his cock driving in. My spirit fled away and away until there was only this trapped feeling, breath squeezing out of me, no heartbeat, only skull.

It spoke: “Lane, look at me.”

He turned, and when I leaned into the kiss, I felt the bristles of his beard, the dry contact of lips. At once he gripped me by the back of my neck, his fingers pushing in, his tongue in my mouth like a fish in a hole.

We disengaged. His little eyes were dreamy, sweat dotting his forehead. He roughly stroked my hair, as if he’d never petted something soft before.

“This is wrong,” he said. “It won’t change anything.”

“You’re the only one I’ve told that to. You’re the only one who understands.”

He looked at me then, trying to study me deeply, to perceive me totally, to bring all his powers of observation to bear upon my face, when there was no face. My rage had burned the flesh away.

I went for another kiss. Lane held me off.

“No,” he said, “like this.”

He turned away and fiddled with his fly, glancing at me over his shoulder. When he swung back, I saw he’d pulled his pants down partway and had his dick out. It was fat and red, nested in orange hair. He choked it, scowling at me.

“You like it.”

I nodded.

“Say it.”

“I like it.”

His dick squished as he pumped it. He put a hand on his balls and started rolling them between his fingers. I watched the oozing purple head.

“Open your mouth.”

My jawbone dropped. He looked into my mouth. When I glanced down, he was jerking it hard and come started sputtering out, falling like a web on the hairs.

Not zipping up, not making a sound, he reclined on the couch. I could smell the come. His belly heaved, dick shrinking, scrotum contracting.

He said, “Good girl.”

Then he grasped me by the cheekbones and kissed the cold plate of my forehead.

—

We lay there a long time, Lane not meeting my eyes. Then I heard thunder and noticed him looking to the open window. Suddenly he stood and stuffed his dick back in.

“What is it?”

“My plants.”

Lane gulped the wine in my glass, swirled it around his mouth, and went over to the window.

“I was about to bring them in when you knocked—the rain’s so heavy.”

He leaned out the window and began dragging in the terra-cotta pots.

I looked at the cushion—his ass had left some moisture—then back at the pages on the table. All the alcohol surged into the skull.

“Can you help me with this?” he said.