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To be linked to a John’s mind is like walking through a
derelict house where the stink of sex and terror still haunt
the air; where waiting behind each door is a memory of blood
or some rank desire, each raw as a fresh burn.
Wendy despises the Pleasure-Port.
The John materializes beside her. He takes hold of her,
ragged nails digging into her arms. She gasps—feeling no
pain on the physical level—and shudders, revolted.
Aroused.
Fingernails dig bloody crescents into her pale flesh. Breath
is hot on her neck, and she hears whispers that skirt wide
of sanity; soft babbles and giggles that send an edge of
hysteria needling above the gibbering lust that threatens to
overflow like an over-filled cup.
He takes her.
She reminds herself that it isn’t real, palms and knees
scraping the floor, as rough hands pull the hair from her
scalp. Not real, she thinks with each thrust, a familiar
mantra. Not real. Not real. Not real.
Against her will, Wendy comes.
The session expires. She collapses onto the bed, facing away
from the mirror. Her body is flawless, free from the marks
of the John’s frenzy.
She shakes all over, nonetheless.
***
Home, later that night, Wendy and her lover lay tangled in
bed. He is a sweet boy—watery gray eyes, a slight lisp,
soft, downy skin.
She runs a hand through his hair, clenches her fist, and
pulls. He gasps, tears budding from the sudden pain.
“Fuck, Wendy, what are you—”
She leans close, breath hot on his neck, murmuring things
she will forgot as she says them, and bites until the
coppery warmth drenches her mouth.
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