Broadcast Lust Ch. 06

No, I laughed at them like a dog's master watching the poor, dumb, loyal creature chase his own tail. I laughed at all of them for falling so enthusiastically for the lie. For falling "in love" with me just because I showed them "The Face."

"The Face?" Oh, I know you've seen it. You'll know which one I'm talking about.

I first discovered "The Face" when I was a teenager. Of course I was athletic. Of course I was a cheerleader — I was too pretty not to be. I was valedictorian of my class and captain of the cheerleading team and star of the track team and the debate team etc. etc.

Honestly, if you just look at GPA and athletic performance extracurriculars they may very simply shows that I was just better than the other girls in my school. And I know I'm not supposed to say and you don't like me as much as if I was "humble" but I don't have time to pretend right now, OK?

This isn't me being arrogant by the way. "Arrogance" means you pretend you can do

things you can't and I never do that. I pay people to do those things instead. But the fact is, I was better than the other girls in my school and I had the grades and the trophies

and the scholarships and the trail of broken high school boys (and a few unfortunate teachers who I had to have a conversation with to show who's in charge) to prove it.

Anyway . . . 


I discovered "The Face" right after puberty and have had a difficult time respecting most men every since.

At 13 years old I swelled and grew and "ripened" as some young adult novel would say.

I'm tall. I'm 5'10" and by the time I was 14 I towered over every boy in school. I towered over them so my new and bounteous breasts were eye level proof of how I'd grown and changed and evolved. The stupid boys always thought they were being subtle, but I heard them whisper about me . . . about what they wanted from me. I felt them leer. I noticed the attention they were giving me. I saw the uncomfortable tightness of their pants. And as I I grew and matured I noticed how the female teachers stopped being nice to me and the male teachers stumbled over their words whenever I wore a skirt and the other high-school girls followed me around like I was their leader, their alpha, their mama duck.

Over time I discovered how easy it is to manipulate men. I noticed that the raise of an eyebrow or how I pursed my lips or just the angle of my head could change almost everything about how a man treated me. And being a scientifically-minded girl I ran experiments, gauging reactions in all sorts of situation and from all sorts of men until finally I discovered "The Face" and used it to get anything and everything I ever want.

Oh, no, I don't mean the "Bitch Face" so many women wear when they walk down the street as some kind of invisible "shield" against the appreciative male gaze. I can do that face and I'm told it's terrifying when I turn it on.

No, I mean "The Perfect Girl" face.

It's important you pay attention and notice I didn't say the "Perfect Woman Face." Because that's not what men really want at all. Women make lists of what we demand from a man, but men don't do that at all. No, if I've learned anything in my 32 years it's that men don't want a woman they want a delightful, innocent, not too-smart girl. A girl who is happy just to be his. That's all the perfect girl needs.

But when that girl grows up and asks questions and decides she wants more is when the trouble starts. That's when men sputter and cheat. That's when I lick my chops and prepare to feast as I represent their innocent wives in the divorce.

That's when I destroy them. Not because I'm a bitch but because it's my job. My wonderful, wonderful job.

But anyway . . .

"The Perfect Girl Face" is a look of utter and complete admiration for a man. Performing

"The Perfect Girl Face" requires soft, wide eyes, a delighted and genuine lips parted smile and tilting the head and chin perfectly so in a way that shows feminine softness and complete vulnerability.

It's a look of respect and acceptance and innocence. It's a face that makes promises to a man, telling him of the power and passion and status and love that can be his if he just does what I want and protects me from the cruel, cruel world and makes me happy.

And it's the same face I saw in that video as I sucked and licked and made love to Mark Watkin's cock. Only I don't remember putting on the face for Mark. I don't remember putting on the face for Mark at all.

Worrying.

Before you ask the same "Oh, you were a modeI? What was that like?," questions everybody asks I'll just tell you: Yes, I got "hit on" and invited to orgies and offered money for sex by photographers and agents who thought I was just tall and dumb and beautiful and stupid enough to fall for their hilarious tricks — to drink and swallow and snort and suck what they offered like so many other girls. Girls who only made it to this side of the model/stripper divide because of a well-timed eating disorder

What else?

Oh, yes, being famous for being pretty was both flattering and . . . occasionally strange

because people think they know you.

For instance, at law school I got stopped in the halls all the time by students and professors who said they'd "seen my work" and "really admired my talent" in a sweaty desperate way.

One 43-year-old professor asked me to come to his office hours to talk about my performance in class. But when I got there (wearing my most serious pair of glasses) he just mumbled idiotically about how I was his ultimate fantasy, how he searched his whole life for a girl like me, how he loved me and felt like we had a connection. And he said it all in the most pitifully adorable way.

And because I'm not a bitch I smiled and giggled and tilted my hips and showed him "The Face" and explained through tears how we couldn't be together while I was still his student. We just couldn't! But he needed to know I felt the same way about him.

He smiled so wide I knew I'd done a good deed. I did very well in his class. He's divorced now.

Anyway . . .

Anyway, it was all a bit boring and easy.

And then I met Miles.

Mr. Miles Montgomery Martin, my dear, dear husband of four years (we've been together for 6 if you don't count "the break.")

Miles and I met in law school in an intellectual property class.

He's a very handsome man. He's 6'4" and 210 pounds of dark, panther-like muscle. He has deep black skin (which continues to scandalize my daddy delightfully) and a shaved bald head and a voice so deep and powerful and masculine it could get a spayed cat pregnant.

I noticed Miles the very first day of class. I held my pen against my lips and put my "beautiful but approachable" look on and waited.

And, at least at first, he had the gall to ignore me.

Oh, it's not that he's gay (Most definitely not.) He just had an easily solved girlfriend problem and an inconvenient relationship with ethics. It didn't take long until he was telling me he loved me and holding me close in his big, strong arms and calling me "baby" in a tone of voice that said "I'm lucky and you're beautiful and I know it."

Sigh. It was so romantic back then.

I still remember the moment I fell "in love" with Miles. It makes my heart flutter and my thighs tremble a bit even now:

"Why are you so useless?," I spat at Miles at his boss' 40th birthday dinner 13 wonderful weeks after he finally admitted the truth about how he felt about me and ended things with his ex-girlfriend.

I made him ask a few times, but I had finally agreed to be his and everything was new and shiny and blissful and I was enjoying the time we had until he disappointed me.

So yes, I had a very good reason for my little outburst, obviously. It was all part of his training as part of my attempt to make him last longer than the previous one.

We were at dinner and I'd asked Miles to pour me another glass of this delightful chardonnay while we laughed and drank and ate delicious and expensive food and I talked up Miles to his boss.

But Miles — sigh — Miles wasn't paying attention and tried to pour merlot into my glass even though I said chardonnay. Like he couldn't read or something. So obviously I couldn't let him embarrass me like that, so I jerked my glass away and he bumped his arm and I watched in horror as Miles spilled half a bottle of $300 wine on the pristine white table cloth (and stained the new pink shirt I'd bought for him.)

Sigh.

And so, reasonably, I lost my temper a tiny little bit, because why was he doing this to me?

"Why are you so useless?," I spat with a laugh in my voice. "I'm so sorry everyone, Miles is a very good lawyer. Really, he is. But when it comes to every day life it's like dating a mentally retarded 5-year-old cocker spaniel. Don't worry, we're working on it."

And then I laughed. Because it was a funny joke meant to lighten the mood and show the easy humor of our relationship.

But no one else laughed. All these lawyers and lawyer spouses just looked at their food (I'm assuming because they were aghast at Miles' clumsiness.) And when I looked at Miles to see if he would back me up the way a boyfriend should, he had a cold, furious fire in his dark brown eyes.

"Come with me right now," he growled under his breath and I felt him wrap his steel fingers so they touched around my bicep. I felt like a child being dragged off by her father for being naughty as he pulled me up out of my chair. "Wait until I get you home," I half expected him to say.

But no, instead:

"We're just gonna go clean up for a second, if that's alright," Miles said smoothly with a smile everywhere but his eyes. And then his huge fingers dug into my flesh just shy of painfully as he guided me around the tables to the hallway with all the 10-foot-tall ornate wooden bathroom doors. (It was a very fancy restaurant.)

"We just gotta clean up," Miles said gesturing to his stained shirt and putting a $50 in the bathroom attendant's hand.

The white-haired bathroom guy's eyes consumed me in my little blue dress I'd worn so Miles could show me off. His eyes glided to the hand on my arm and then he pointedly looked the other way.

"Miles, what's . . .," I half-giggled as he pushed me into the wood-paneled bathroom. The massive door silently swung shut and closed with a satisfying click.

And then Miles Martin made me fall in love with him.

"Never. Fucking. Talk. To. Me. Or. About. Me. Like. That. Again," he rumbled as I noticed small purple bruises blooming on my arm where his fingers had been. His hands are so big it looked like brown nickels were painted on my flesh.

"Miles, I was just . . ." I started and then let out a soft, shocked yelp as he curled his hand in my hair at the base of my neck and closed his fingers into a fist.

"Miles, ow . ."

"You were just what, Helen? Being a bitch? Cutting my balls off and eating them in front of my boss? Is that what you were trying to do, Helen? Cuz that's sure as hell what it looked like you were trying to do. It looked like you were trying to make me look like a fucking disgusting, incompetent animal who can barely wipe his own ass in front of the people I work with just because I grabbed the wrong fucking bottle of wine."

I couldn't turn my head. All I could do was stare at the fury in his eyes and the rise and fall of his chest and the bulge of his bicep as he held me helpless and weak and excited and small. All I could smell was his delicious fury as for the first time in my life a man stood up to me and told me I was wrong and put me in my place.

I was horrified as I realized how wet I was.

"I . . . I'm sorry I . . ." I pleaded, my mind running in a delighted panic as he held me still, completely in his power.

"Sorry? You're sorry? Are you really? You don't look fucking sorry. If you were a man and you talked to me like that? I'd send you to the goddamn hospital, Helen. How the fuck am I going to look Jake in the eye as a man when you . . .," Angry tears flashed in Miles' eyes as he let out a grunt and slammed his palm into the wall next to my head. Abject terror ran like lightning through my whole body. Lights seemed to flash. Goosebumps rose on my flesh. My nipples pressed agonizingly into my strapless bra. (Bare shoulders are a required accessory on nights like this.)

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Miles. I'm sorry, baby I . . .," I babbled as I tried hopelessly to pry his fingers open. I felt my makeup run as tears welled in my eyes. I stared in the bathroom mirror and saw him huge and beautiful and terrible and well-dressed behind me. And for the first time since puberty life felt like I wasn't in control with a man. And I loved it. I loved it so much. And suddenly I loved him too.

"You need to learn to respect me, Helen," he rumbled in my ear and pulled me back against him so I felt him hard and angry against my butt. I felt his breath in my ear, his teeth along my neck, the sharp tension of his hand in my hair. I felt like a deer awash in an endorphin haze about to be eaten by a wolf who'd run me down and ripped out my achilles and earned me.

"What should I do with you, Helen? What the hell should I do with you?," he asked and I didn't know if he wanted an answer or not, but I had one.

In a voice so soft and high and submissive and sweet I squeaked "I'm sorry. You could punish me if you need to . . ." and tilted my hips back and bared my neck and snaked my right hand down to his crotch to caress his cock through his tight suit pants.

A beat. Nothing but breathing and friction and delicious, delightful tension as we locked eyes in the mirror.

And then he growled and he was on me. He pulled my little blue dress up over my thighs, broke the crotch of my panties as he yanked them off and whispered "Horny bitch," in my ear as he pushed two thick fingers to the knuckles in my shockingly sopping pussy.

I bit my own hand to keep quiet as his fingers danced inside of me. Suddenly he pulled his hand back, brought his fingers to his nose and inhaled the scent of me. Would his boss be mad that we were gone this long?

"Put your hands on the sink and don't fucking move them," Miles said and I rushed to comply. I looked in the mirror and saw terrified joy in my blue/green eyes as he dropped to his haunches behind me,

"You fucking love this, don't you, Helen? You love being treated like a bitch," he said as he ran his tongue along my wet slit causing me to shiver and tremble. Then a yelp as he spread my cheeks with his huge hands and tickled his long tongue along my sphincter.

"Ahh, ahh," I whimpered as he teased and toyed with me and sank his teeth into my right ass cheek hard enough to send fire through me.

"You know, you act like a bitch you'll get fucked like a bitch, Helen," Miles said as he stood up behind me.

I tensed up as I heard the clink of his belt opening; the zip of his fly. A moment and then I felt the head of his hard cock nestle at the entrance to my pussy. I shifted my hips, trying to devour him, but he pulled back, denying me my prize.

"Please," I whispered as I tried to push back again wanting nothing in the world but to feel full of him, taken by him, owned by him.

"Uh, uh, nope. I just told you, you act like a bitch you get fucked like a bitch, Helen." 


And then I watched as he pumped copious amounts of hand lotion into his palm. He rubbed the whole gooey mess between the cleft of my ass. It felt like cold, slick anticipation and it was all I could do not to scream.

"Oh God," I said. "Miles, I can't . . . not now, not here. Please," I begged unconvincingly, my hands still welded to the porcelain sink, terrified to move them.

"Say you're sorry," Miles commanded as he probed the head of his cock up and down against my asshole.

"I'm sorry," I whimpered and clenched my jaw to keep my whole body from shaking.

"Say you're a bitch," he said as I felt incredible pressure as my poor asshole stretched and opened around him.

"I'm a bitch," I moaned and then babbled "I'm a bitch, I'm a bitch, I'm a bitch," again and again as suddenly the head popped past the entrance to my ass.

"Ugh . . . uhh . . .," I sobbed as he pushed inch after terrible inch deeper and deeper into me. I felt a nauseating ache as my body rebelled at the idea of being fucked here, like this. My knees quaked. My neck muscles spasmed. Sweat dripped off me to the floor.

And the whole time I stared in the mirror in awe and watched sweet Miles take me and dominate me and fuck me in the ass. He dug his hands into my hips and pulled me hard back against him and refused to give a shit about what I wanted at all. Until that astonishing moment when he tensed and moaned and filled me with his come and claimed me and tamed me and earned my respect and made me his.

I looked in the mirror as he slumped against my back with his cock buried in my ass and realized I was really, truly, wonderfully in love.

And it lasted for a while.

Weeks at least. Weeks until I felt doubt again. Weeks until I needed him to prove he deserved my love again.

I threw a little tantrum I guess you'd call it when Miles' debit card didn't work at the store and I just knew the cashier was going to think I was dating a poor black guy.

I forget exactly what I said, but I saw that fire in his eyes and a few minutes later I was choking on him as he held my head down in the parking lot while he fingered me to a truly insane orgasm.

And then a month or two after that I made some (I thought) rather astute observation about his mother's parenting style and how she'd obviously failed with her son and I was so proud of Miles when he trussed me hand to foot and put my own panties in my mouth as a gag and . . .

Well, some things should stay between a couple.

It was wonderful. Blissful. He was perfect. I was perfect. We were perfect. We had a perfect relationship and a perfect wedding day. He was the perfect husband.

At least at first. But then . . .

He stopped punishing me. He stopped playing our little game. He stopped proving how much he loved me. And I hate him for it.

It didn't happen all at once. It was like a slow motion avalanche. 


I held up my end of the bargain. Every few weeks or even every few months I'd feel those doubts again that he was the right man for me. That he was worthy of me and so I'd find some way to test him. To inspire him. To make him furious so he couldn't help but take control.

But eventually he stopped demanding that I respect him. He stopped defending himself when I poked and constructively criticized and laughed lovingly at him. Eventually he showed me he was weak. Eventually he started to believe all the horrible things I said about him.

And he abandoned me. And I just can't forgive him for it.

You have to understand how much I miss the old Miles. The real Miles. 
I miss the Miles who still fought back. Who still believed in himself. Who still got angry. I miss Miles before he let me break him. Before he let me destroy him.

Yes, I metaphorically kicked and kicked and kicked his balls, but he was supposed to stop me and he didn't. Instead he gave up. He stopped struggling and stopped raging and stopped putting me in my place and stopped acting like a man at all.

I didn't want to destroy him, obviously. Why would I want to destroy the man I loved? I just wanted to piss him off because if I can make him that ANGRY it HAS to mean he loves me.

I just wanted to make him mad so he would stand up to me and take control and look at me with that amazing mix of lust and love and absolute hate and force me to respect him.

And isn't that what every woman wants?

You know what makes me really angry? It's that I didn't even really have to do anything to destroy Miles.

It just took little things to wear him down. Little criticisms. Little requests. Little moments of pointing out his very significant flaws and how much he embarrassed me out in public. It just took silence and stubbornness and rejections and time and telling him what was wrong with him over and over.