Chapter 5: The absence

Once he took two weeks off, emptied her accounts, and went on a vacation, not telling her where. She absorbed herself in her work, went to sleep upset every night after smelling the sheets where he had taken her. The need for his semen inched up and up in her, crawled under her skin, shook her. She counted days and then she counted hours. Probably he would come back the day before he was actually to resume work, and maybe he would come for her that evening, who knew at what hour. But she spent the evening alone, sitting on a chair, too upset and distracted to even watch television. He did not show at work the day after, and there was no explanation. She had to cover up his unauthorized absence, which was not even that hard for someone in Human Resources. Anguished days dragged on, as she thought of his semen she would do anything to feel in her. She hoped he would come back the following weekend; he did not.

Once, early on, when his demands had been too cruel and her longing too torturous, she had supposed or hoped she was addicted to semen in general, not just his. With her need so urgent, there had no time for subtle seductions. She had gone to a bar on the other side of town, and picked up the most ragged man she saw, a washed-up, surprisingly young loner in a bad suit, not too deep in his drinks yet. Him she could control, to an extent, she had hoped. “Do you want to come me with me?” she had asked, and he had suspected to sort of trap or a joke. She had to insist, to convince that gross, wretched nerd to not turn away a woman he could never have ordinarily had. “It’s my thing,” she had whispered, writhing with hidden disgust, “I fuck strangers I meet in bars.” Dirty words in her clean, lipsticked mouth excited men, she knew. She dirtied herself saying them as they would dirty her with their sweat and drool and spunk. At her apartment she had had to insist once again, he really, maddeningly wanted to put on a condom. She had thought of going with it and then fishing the condom out of the garbage, but her need was too pressing, and in the end she said, “let me put in on”, and instead put that stranger’s penis in her mouth and started fellating it. He barely protested once her tongue was rubbing his nasty wretched shaft.

When he had come, she had immediately known this was not it. The bitter liquid dribbled in her mouth and she felt nothing. Now he looked more wretched than ever, almost knocked out. He was naked and skinnyfat; a little of his semen matted his pubes, and she felt only repugnance for it. He had seemed a little upset but not really surprised that penetration was not after all in the cards, but he had insisted on a shower, briefly. The whole situation had been as pathetic as it was laughable. Finally, when she managed to get him out, He, the other man, had been there outside her door, smirking, victorious. She was his and knew it.

And so now she just counted the days, since nothing else would do. The need, the longing gutted her. Sometimes it felt like she was going deaf, incapable of hearing anything, of focusing on anything but of her pangs of sad lust. When eventually he appeared at her door, after four weeks, she was so tormented, so upset, so starved for his addictive semen that despite her standing orders, she threw herself at him as if to ravish his long-absent body. She pressed her small breasts against his chest, hammered his face with desperate kisses, offered herself all, exalted and swooning.

He punished her for it.