Beyond Limits

I quickly grabbed her ass and pulled her down, rolled over on top of her and got her beneath me and jammed that meat into her so she could feel it in the back of her throat. The wind hammered at the windows. It was a night of hellish weather and terrible fear and I lifted her legs and began to fuck her furiously, lost in the depth of her beauty, dark and enveloping as the night, as violent and obliterating as the dark and howling wind, kissing her, squeezing her, trying to fuse with her and pour my soul into her.

She raised herself to me, something that always drove me crazy—how she planted her feet almost under her ass and raised her cunt to me like some beautiful midnight flower—gave herself, as if she bloomed before my frantic lust, telling me to take whatever I wanted, demanding it, that she was all mine, all for me to use as I wished—to be battered and bruised and shoved into and against without hindrance or boundaries—mine, mine,mine—

I grabbed her hair and pulled—I didn't know what I was doing anymore. I was out of my mind and delirious with lust—pressed her mouth to my chest and I felt her teeth there, and then, just as I started to come she bit me. Just as I thrust my cock deep and held it there, as delicious electric spasms wracked my frame and made me throw my head back and call her name and start to throb inside her, she bit me—not a wide-mouth savage bite, but a nip, a vicious little nip of sharp white incisors, sharp and hard and effective, breaking the skin, and as I poured my seed into her I felt her sucking, sucking at the rip she'd just made sucking the blood from my chest into her mouth.

"Oh God!" I moaned, chills tearing down my spine as I thrust into her again and again. "Fuck yes! Do it! Do it!"

Her head fell back as she orgasmed, her entire body going slack, but quickly she had her hand behind my neck and lifted her face back up to my wound and started nursing at it again, holding on as I pounded into her, sucking my blood and drinking it as I shot her full of come, licking and swallowing, sucking and feeding as my buttocks flexed with each jet of semen I blew into her. When she finished, her lips and teeth were stained juicy red and my chest was throbbing with pain.

"Now do me," she said. "Do me!"

My cock was growing flaccid. The wind beat at the windows and the waves roared outside. I was fucked out but my passion and excitement was soaring. I felt absolutely dizzy with desire.

I bit her on the breast, halfway beneath nipple and collarbone, sucked in a bit of skin between my teeth like I was giving a hickey then bit down till she hissed in pain and I felt her skin give like a rind of roast beef. I tasted her blood welling into my mouth and felt her shudder as her hands gripped tight in pain and the tenderly folded around my head and her hips began to make slow fucking motions up at my deflating prick. I drank her hungrily, sucking her blood, sliding off her so I could seal my lips over her wound more completely. I played with her breasts and her just-fucked pussy, fingering her and playing with her asshole, taking time to suck our combined come off my fingers, then drinking more of her fresh, coppery-tasting blood.

When I was done with her blood I went down to her pussy and sucked out what semen I could, then came back up and spit it into her mouth for her to swallow. I didn't really spit it into her mouth. I just opened my mouth above hers and let it drip from my tongue onto hers, lewd, filthy and obscene—the living sperm and mixed splooge of our nasty intimacy. Then I kissed her deeply, letting my tongue wallow in the filth of our sin, wanting to taste my jizz in her mouth, my blood there too. I wanted to shock the angels of love and make them curse and cry. I wanted to make them remember me for the depth of perversion with which I loved this woman: beyond pride, beyond shame, to the very doorway and depths of hell. That was how I felt.

I was aware of what we'd done, the boundaries we'd shattered, the taboos we'd broken. How much closer can you possibly get to another human being? It was a deep and shameful secret, and as I calmed down I began to grow worried about infection—the human mouth being such a germ-laden place and all that. It was all symbolic, of course. I was really worried about sin, about the borders we'd transgressed. As liberated and anti-religious as I was, I was still secretly worried about sin and retribution, and I insisted on washing her off and bandaging her where I'd bitten her, putting first-aid cream on the wound, which did form a horrible bruise over the next few days, a bruise Lexi was inordinately proud of.

But the deed was done. We'd drunk each other's blood, eaten each other's come, taken the shameful Eucharist of lust. Compared to that, how could I ask her to be my slave? To wait while I tied her. To assume a certain given position. How could I command her? Such fucking pitiful stuff.

I had a theory then, that in love, you felt the entire range of human emotions toward your lover, bad as well as good—hatred, anger, rage—but felt them in a terribly intense, modified way so that the bad ones especially weren't even recognizable. But now I viewed this little bit of vampirism between Lexi and myself as something else. There's an edge to love that's essentially self-defensive, that looks out to protect one's self from the power of the beloved, the power that makes one want and need that beloved, that makes one dependent and powerless. That particular self-defensive edge is rather cruel and crafty and can at times even be quite nasty, a snarling little animal that scratches and bites and isn't above taking a whip to one's darling or inflicting a bloody little wound when it feels threatened. Originally I thought Lexi's first bite was like that—self defense. But then I realized she'd used it to bind us closer together. There was no longer any way to deny the extraordinary nature of this relationship.

On the scale of the forbidden, our little act of vampirism had surpassed any sort of D/s games we might play. We had, for all intents and purposes, skipped that step. We had gone directly to the hyperintense.

MeanwhileThe Given was finished all except for the ending, and it had turned out to be much more than I'd intended. It was a work of genius, something much bigger than what I'd thought when I'd started, and far surpassed the play I'd come to Belpierre to work on:Dali's Eye, and the thing just seemed to get up off the table and walk under its own power. I'd never seen anything like it. Neither had Bud Carlton, the head of the drama department at Belpierre, and a canny judge of talent, well connected on the east coast, believe it or not. With its elements of ancient Greek drama, elements that hadn't been added consciously, Bud decided to bring in a special director, a brilliant young classicist named Cormac Grehen. Grehan was from Dublin, and was now working on the east coast as an assistant director and looking for his chance. At the time, local and college theater was getting a lot of press for the experiments that were going on and they both sawThe Given as a way of putting Belpierre on the map I didn't didn't much care for him when I met him, but one of the things I've always liked about theater is the group aspect of it—the way the playwright's vision is passed through the director's and actors' hands and the way the result is a co-operative process, so new blood is always welcome. I put my own feelings aside. Grehen was a rather cold and supercilious character, seemingly much taken with himself and given to secrecy and unnecessary melodrama and unusually standoffish. From the start, though, Lexi was impressed. And I'll give him this, he was nothing if not immersed in the theater.

He had the sense to cast her not as Jessica but as Allison, the temptress, the role she had played in our fantasies, only in his view, Allison was different. She wasn't a temptress so much as she was a victim of her own lust for Max, who emerged as the real star of the piece rather than being one of three. It was hard to feel that Cormac didn't identify with Max. Of course, that's his prerogative as director, to interpret the story according to his vision, but it's not the way I'd seen the story when I wrote it. He was skewing the play to reflect this new interpretation, and Max became a kind of narcissistic anti-hero, deftly sidestepping Jessica's machinations and too clever for Allison. He reeked of self-regard, but Lexi didn't see him that way. She found him deep and compelling.

Fucking her one night with her ass perched on the edge of the dresser, her legs over my shoulders, her boots the only thing she had on, nostrils flared in the candlelight—

"Ah! Tell me what I am! Tell me, Russell!"

I caught my breath, watching the arch of my back in the full length mirror that stood propped against the opposite wall, my testicles hanging down like wrecking balls.

"My slut, my niece, my daughter, my own flesh and blood!" I snarled, looking for whatever formula would work for her that night. Her hair was a honeyed tangle of mystery like tendrils of the Dionysian grape. The tight socket of her cunt held me securely in a bed of rich white lather, fiercely plugged into the beauty of her body, hard inside her tenderness. Her nails were dug into the back of my neck.

"Your daughter, your daughter!" she cried. "Fuck me, daddy! Let's do it that way! I want to be your daughter tonight."

"Oh yes, baby, yes!" I whispered with my forehead against hers. "What will mommy say if she finds out?" I shoved into her, gripping her smooth buttocks. "The very dick that made you stuffed into my baby's own dirty pussy! What a whore you are, my little daughter! Incestuous, daddy-fucking slut!"

"Oh! Jesus!" she wailed and her hand came down and began to spank her clit, overcome with excitement.

Sex between us had become fresher, hotter, nastier since rehearsals had begun, and I supposed it was the success she was having in her part and the sheer excitement of being in a play, because Lexi was alive now as I'd rarely seen her, seeming to walk on air, living on coffee and chocolate and glowing with an internal light that made her more beautiful, more alive than ever. The role of Allison seemed to act as an anchor for one end of the kite that she was, allowing the other end to soar above the clouds, and the erotic games we played were wilder and more outré, more daring and exciting than anything we'd done before.

Incest was a favorite, and with our age difference it worked out so very well. At first I'd been queasy about it but now I loved it, the rank stink of sin was like an aphrodisiac perfume on her skin.

"Yes, you like that," I hissed, grabbing her wrists and wrestling her hands behind her back. "You filthy little slut! You love taking daddy's big hard cock in your little baby cunt when mommy's not looking! Love to fuck him and suck him and make him shoot all his hot come into your mouth and your pussy, you little whore, don't you, baby? Don't you?"

Her face was brilliant red and beading sweat made her body glisten. "Oh God, yes! Yes I love it! Love it! Fuck me! Fuck your whore, daddy!"

She pulled her hand free and began to masturbate again as I pumped into her, lifting up on my toes to drive my aching cock into her. I felt the head of my prick rubbing in her satiny slick channel and she felt so good I saw spots in the air.

It was easy to see her as my daughter too. Not just our age difference and the nature of our relationship where I provided her with room and board, but the fact that I wrote for her, constructed the life of the character she played on stage was terribly erotic to me, and I knew now that I was stalling writing the ending of the play because I was considering some radical move at the end, some revelation or surprise by Allison that would change everything. The very thought made me harden in her pussy and I drove deep, deep, shoving her ass back on the dresser so that I had to grab her and pull her forward, impaling her on my cock and mashing her labia flat as they crushed against me.

Christ, she felt good! Her face, locked in its expression of lust and pleasure, was beautiful beyond description, the face of an angel, like galaxies, like jewels bathed in sunlight, and the knowledge that it was my cock that was giving her such joy was almost more than I could bear—too beautiful, too beautiful. Beauty terrified me and I wanted her forever.

I pushed her hand out of the way with my own and began to masturbate her.

"No!" she said. "Me!"

"What?"

"No Russell, stop! I want to do it!"

She pushed my hand out of the way and began to masturbate with both hands as if I weren't even there.

"Oh God," she gasped. "Oh God, I'm coming! Russell! I'm coming!"

She had both hands between her legs cupped over her pussy, her knees spread wide, her thighs hanging lax. I shoved deep inside her, trapping her hands between us, grabbed her ankle in one hand and lifted her leg and took her wrist in the other and pushed her hand hard against her clit, wanting it to hurt her, wanting her orgasm to rip something inside her and hurt her, and at the same time I began to ejaculate with fierce anger into her soft and creamy cunt, spitting long streams of sudden rage into her where she held me, staggering slightly, the force of my release blinding me in the very center of my manhood, at the center of my need to possess her, to own her, to dominate her completely.

She'd denied me. She'd tried to deny me at that very moment when she should have been giving to me, when she'd been coming. I was orgasming, shooting—hot, sharp jets of pleasure entering her, thoughts shattered by bursts of blinding light enraged. Her beauty, ferocious. She should have let me do it. She should have put herself into my hands and let me get her off but she'd pushed me aside and done it herself and I was dumbstruck, shattered with hurt and pain and coming, still coming into her, making her fucking take it.

It wasn't just that she knew how to do it better, that she knew what kind of touch she wanted and knew how to do it better. It wasn't the selfishness of lust. That would have been fine. I would have been fine with that. This was something else, a different kind of selfishness, a part of her she was keeping for herself, keeping away from me. I'd seen this part of her before I realized now, but I hadn't recognized it for what it was. Now I did. Now I recognized it. She wasn't mine. I was hers but Lexi wasn't mine. She wouldn't give herself away. She couldn't. She wasn't hers to give. She'd never given herself entirely to me. She couldn't let go of herself.

She didn't notice. She didn't notice any of this. She was coming. I saw it on her face that she was coming and she didn't notice what I saw. Her beautiful fucking face. God, how I loved her! I could have wept. I lived for her, died for her and she didn't belong to me! She belonged to herself. I stood there, pumping my semen into her, my back arched, pain searing through me, and Lexi was contorted on the dresser with her hand combed into her hair as she took my lashing and I owned her body and soul but I didn't, I couldn't, I couldn't...

"Oh God," she whispered as she started to come down. "God, that was intense, Russell! Oh, baby, that was intense!"

She hadn't seen that I had seen. She didn't know that I knew. Or maybe she didn't even know herself.

Maybe, I thought, maybe it wasn't that big a deal. She'd been on the cusp of orgasm, riding this insane incestuous fantasy and who knows where her mind had been, what role she'd been playing—daughter, lover, child, woman. I could cut her all sorts of excuses. My love could fill all sorts of cracks, bridge all sorts of divides.

One thing was for sure—she didn't even know that she didn't give herself to me. She believed with all her heart that she did. She gave all she was capable of giving, all she had to give. She tried. But I saw it now. There was a part of her no one would ever have. I saw it now.

I said nothing, let out a long, shuddering tremulous breath as the last of my semen escaped into her. My legs were weak, and as so often happened in these intense sexual scenes with Lexi, I felt emotionally raw, like a peeled stick—gashed and denuded. I wrapped my arms around her and she hugged me back so fiercely she made me grunt with surprise.

"You fuck me so good!" she purred. "You just open me up, Russell, like you reveal me. With you I just feel so exposed."

I hugged her back. I had no reason to complain. She gave me all her love, all she had to give, and it was more than I'd ever had from anyone else. So she wouldn't give me that little piece she couldn't give. That's just the way she was. She wouldn't give that to anyone. That's just the way she was.

Besides, who's to say the love I gave her was all that great? Just because I felt it inside doesn't mean that she felt it on the outside, and I had reason enough to think that probably something like 80% of what I felt for her never made it to the surface. They talk about light leaving the surface of a collapsing star as it's turning into a black hole never makes it out but falls back on itself and is consumed. Who's to say my love wasn't like that? I'm a great one for talking about love and writing poems, but how do I show it? How do I make her feel it? I'm writing in recollection. I seem like such a marvelous man in recollection.

So I said nothing, and what could I have said? That I wanted more? That she didn't give me enough? We take from people what they give us, and we can never take more than that, no matter what we do, no matter how hard we pull. No matter what we think we're doing, we can never take more than we're given. I'd never had so much of a woman. I thought I had all of her there was to have, but I was wrong, and she was wrong. There was someone who would have more. There was someone who would take that last piece of her and more and leave me with nothing.

Maybe I should have said something then. Maybe I should have complained. It didn't occur to me. In some sense I thought everyone deserves to be left a piece of themselves. I didn't think anyone wanted to give all of themselves away. In that I was wrong too. Lexi took all that I'd given her of myself and she gave that away too. She just threw it away—gave it to him.

There are some things in life you don't recover from. Some kinds of love that are too intense, too extreme, that are pathological. That's why they have boundaries around them, for our own safety. We'd transgressed these boundaries, Lexi and I, and gotten too close and maybe not close enough, and we were headed for trouble.