Stable Employment Pt. 02 - Final

Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

Unfortunately, the author did make a bunch of edits to this story parallel to the editing process, so errors are more likely -- and, again, not the responsibility of the editor.

******

I wake up, and I'm basically okay. I think I may have mentioned that science is awesome, but it bears repeating. As long as I can down a few pills or slide a giant suppository up my butt before I go to sleep, I don't have to worry about being hung over.

When you're in your mando years at the university, it's expected you'll have one or two hangovers, and that everybody will razz the shit out of you for it -- we're talking early-morning air horns, fight songs, random cheers on campus, books slamming on desks, the works. If you have more than one per year after that, that's a red flag.

That's society, though, right? Fuck society. Fuckin' feudalist, capitalist fuckin' bullshit. Hangovers still suck, though, so... no, I'm not going to protest society by voluntarily feeling like butt-fermented cumshits all the time.

"Hey," comes the voice from my doorway. It hurts for an entirely different reason. "You're gonna be late for work in like ten minutes."

I shoot out of bed and scurry towards the closet. "Thanks," I grumble.

"Breakfast on the counter."

I'm hardly expecting bacon and eggs, but we've got these morning-after shakes that taste pretty good. She really is trying to guilt-trip me to death, and with maximum plausible deniability. I stop what I'm doing and look over at her, but she's already walking away. She's got a great ass. I still wish I wanted to fuck it. That's not something I can confess to my new tribe, though -- well, not again. That's loser talk. I'm supposed to be moving forward.

******

I go to work and do my time with my head held high. I don't act any different; I was always kind of a bitch. The difference is that now I don't feel guilty about it. I've got people who understand me. I don't need water-cooler chit-chat or phony work friends to go to sterilized, fake-booze-peddling bars with in the afternoon. I go to real bars when it's actually dark out, drink real booze, and talk about real things with real people.

Unfortunately, there's only so many times I can go out wandering aimlessly through the city after my shift. Sometimes I just want to go home. Sometimes Jack is there. She's the chink in my new armor. She's just too cool. I like her too much.

She's naked, and she's waiting for me. She lets me use the bathroom, have some water, and generally get settled. She even lets me dawdle. It's judo. She has to know that every minute of delay makes me weaker.

I walk into our tiny living room with my clothes still on. She gets up from the couch and walks over to me. She goes for the hug, and I just can't say no. She kisses me so tenderly, and it's all I can do not to cry.

I've been afraid that 'this is it' for about a month. I've been with my new tribe for about three. That's crucial backstory, because, well, this is the breakdown.

"Is this it?" I ask for the first time.

She looks at me with those piercing eyes -- some bright metal, on the whiter side of gray -- and there's so much in them that I can't pull it apart and name each piece.

"Never," she says, and I suppose, if I believe that, that I'll never know if "yes" would've been better or worse. "It is time though -- to talk, for real."

"Jack, I have to--"

"You have been," she says, interrupting me, because she already knows what whiny, wheedling bullshit I was about to peddle. "It's time to try something different. Now, we can sit down and have a conversation over coffee or tea, like mature adults, or we can do it when my dick is in your ass. Your choice."

Her embrace is loose and casual, but it might as well be the iron bars of a cage. There was some poet who said something like that. I don't think she was talking about love, but she could've been.

"I love you," I tell her.

She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "I love you, too."

"Will you be gentle? Loving? Please?"

Her silvery brow furrows in confusion. It's the only victory I could win. It'll have to do. I grasp the hem of my shirt and start to pull it up over my otherwise naked chest. When it's off, she understands. We kiss again, and it's her answer to my questions: yes. We go to my bedroom. I take off the rest of my clothes. She gets the Good Girl, not the Power Girl, from my sex drawer.

I'm the little fork, and she's the big one. Her ten-inch cock slides into me like it's coming home. Ironically, I feel like a virgin. Her hands stroke my whole body; I go a little bit fetal. She kisses my neck and ear. She's too gentle and too loving. I can't handle it. I start to cry.

"You're making love to me," I blubber.

"I always was," she answers. "I love you, Corin."

It's the "love" beyond "like." When you know, you know. I didn't want to know.

What Jack knows is that I don't want her to stop. I want her to make love to me while I cry, and cry, and wordlessly apologize to my best friend in the world for what a mess I've made of everything. Eventually, her love -- the unstoppable force and immovable object, both -- overwhelms all of my remorse and self-pity. She massages my titties just the way I like it, and makes me cum from my ass. My seed dribbles out submissively onto the bed, at least compared to the usual fireworks. My cock didn't even get fully hard.

Jack doesn't cum. She's asserting a special kind of dominance -- the kind that's about self-control as much as it is about controlling one's bitch. She said we were going to talk, and she's going to prove to me that there's no avoiding it. Even with my submissive little asshole massaging her throbbing girth, she won't be distracted or delayed. She's going to fuck me while we talk about real things. I'm going to lie here on the bed and accept it.

I hate that this is what I needed. I honestly don't even know if it will take. I'm super fucked up in the head, and I think that that metastasized malady might be able to take this profound experience and stick it in a mental box somewhere.

I have no idea what part of me is me. I have no idea what that part wants.

"You're never happy unless you're having sex," Jack says to me. We both appreciate the irony that I'm a blubbering mess, but she's talking about the big picture, and she's right. I nod, and she kisses my neck, rewarding my cooperation.

"You miss pussy," she says. "You miss girls."

"But I want ass," I whine, and I hear it: I'm a fucking child. I'm a brat. Jack keeps fucking me, waiting for me to get someplace more productive. "It's too hard. I can't handle it anymore."

That gets me more kisses, but they're hardly a relief. Jack's ramping up -- and no, not the fucking. "It's easier to be angry all the time, right? Except you're already slipping."

"Slipping from bullshit," I mumble. Strangely enough, that gets me another kiss.

Jack wraps herself around me. "I know," she says. "I know it's bullshit. It's the price of admission. It's easy jobs, good food, clean places to live, crazy science everywhere, no nasty diseases... that's not just background noise, baby girl. That's not a given. It costs something. We all have to chip in."

"That's not very punk," I grouse. That earns me a nip to my ear.

"Punk is whatever it needs to be," she says. It's a lecture, and it's piqued. "Right now, it's mostly the music and the company, because things really aren't so bad. There's nothing more exhausting than looking for a cause that isn't there. It's not the oldest con job in the book, but it's definitely in there. Page four, page five maybe."

"You think I'm getting conned," I say. It's childish, again, but even with Jack's cock massaging me towards a second submissive orgasm, I feel an ember of rebellion in my chest.

"No, baby girl," she says. "I think you're conning yourself, and I think you've found a bunch of people who are doing the same thing. The proof is in the pudding. All you're doing is getting drunk and staying angry."

"I'm ready to cum again," I say, immaturely deflecting.

"Okay," she says, and she starts working my nipples again. She shifts her cock so that it's pressing my cum button more directly. She's very good at fucking; in less than a minute, I add a second girly load to the one that's already drying out on the sheets. I don't really want to admit it right now, but I like cumming from my ass like a bitch. It's a short vacation from everything -- most importantly, from that gnawing, clawing demon inside my head that might just be me.

Jack lets me enjoy the afterglow for a while, but then it's back to our talk. She really is the dom. I really am the bitch. I think I'm done rebelling. I just don't have it in me anymore.

"I love you," I tell her. "Thank you for not leaving me."

I can hardly believe it when I hear the sniffle, but that's what love-beyond-like does to people. It doesn't make me think any less of her. She's too cool. She's too complete within herself. She can cry tears of happiness just because. It doesn't have to mean that armor cracked or a facade broke down. I wish I was like that, too.

"If I cum," she asks, "will you stay? Will you listen? Will you talk to me?" Her emphasis is clearly on that last one, which is no surprise.

"I will."

"Do you promise?"

Well, that hurt, but I deserved it. "I promise."

"Okay."

Jack's fucking subtly changes again. It's still really good for me; I'm not a reluctant bottom. I don't want to be disposable, but I do like being used for her pleasure. I think that might be the most normal thing about me.

I receive more kisses, but they're no longer disciplined, doled-out rewards. They're expressions of both love and lust, and there's new force behind them. She's pouring them into me as prelude to the semen. Her embrace, likewise, becomes about her need.

"I love you, Jack," I whisper. "I'm yours. Breed me."

She groans first, before she starts cumming, but then the two intertwine. She blasts my insides with her dominant heat, and my asshole quivers -- not another orgasm, really, but a submissive instinct to coax her seed up into me. Her hold on me is genuinely ironclad, and I accept it. I put my arms over hers, grasp at her clutching hands, and let her know that I want her to imprison me. I want her to keep me. She doesn't hurt my titties, but if she had, it would've been okay. Just like her hips and pelvis pushing into my ass, it would've been in service to getting me as close to her as humanly possible. That's what we need right now. For a moment or two, it's even what I want. I also want to keep wanting it; I just don't know if I will.

Bound by a promise, I'm physically freed. We clean ourselves and each other up. We shower together and have coffee together. It's like old times, almost. Love-beyond-like hangs in the air. Jack's worried that my declaration was temporary, even though she knows it wouldn't be my fault. She knows I'm super fucked up in the head.

I guess we're going to find out, because Jack's not done ramping up.

"Tell me about Gwyn," she says.

Because I'm a dumbass, my first thought is my rant -- the one I dumped on that vaguely Asian dickgirl months ago before everything went acid-foggy and started reeking of puke. My new tribe's heard a dozen variations on the theme. They're very into it, and the more cutting commentary I add, the more they like it. It's like standup stand-up comedy without the jokes. In the dark of night, they laugh mean laughs at outsize expressions of shared anger and resentment. It feels really good. Only here, with Jack, am I forced to look at it in the light of day. It's ugly. I'm ugly. I feel ugly, and so that's the first thing that comes out.

"She wasn't even wearing a fucking collar," I say. "You know that I--"

"'Don't fuck around with collared girls,'" Jack says at the exact same time I do. Yeah, she definitely knows. "No, Corin. I mean Gwyn."

Fuck. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

I take another sip of coffee and sigh. It's a very teenaged sigh, so at least I'm progressing past tantrum-throwing childhood.

"What the fuck is there to say? I fucked around with a collared girl and found out."

"That's it?" Jack asks. Her tone is on the razor's edge. Maybe, just maybe she'd believe me if I left it at that.

"No," I say. "Of course that's not it, but I don't want to sound like I'm blaming everyone else for my fuckups."

Jack's eyes and voice both dry up completely. "Yeah, just go ahead and do that. I'll manage."

Again, ouch, but fair. Still, permission to bitch is permission to bitch. When you get it, use it.

"She said she was sick of being on call -- sick of a man who was never around. She wanted a cock of her own, and said mine was the best she'd ever had. She said she loved me. She said she liked me. We... we fuckin' did shit together -- normal shit. But also, well..."

"Shit," Jack says. "She was collared and plugged, but she let you fuck her in the ass."

It's nice to be taken seriously. With that bit of deduction, she sounds like she is. It'd be gratifying, if only she weren't forcing me to relive the worst story of my whole fucking life -- well, my whole fucking life so far.

"And she fucking loved it," I say, "or I thought she did. And it was amazing for a while, and then one day she just... poof. Gone. She didn't even take her fucking toothbrush."

"To a compound, probably."

"Yeah. Probably. Unless you believe in those 'crazy conspiracies.'"

"Which of course you don't," Jack says in a warning tone.

I pause, and choose my next words very carefully. "For a while, I thought maybe she played me -- used me to make him jealous."

Jack stares me down for a few moments, still worried I've gone down a very dark rabbit hole. Then she lets it go -- or seems to, anyway. "I want to say 'not likely,' but... the ass."

"Yeah. The ass."

"So," she says, "the headshrink angle is pretty obvious."

I sigh. "Yeah. I know. It's insultingly obvious. I'm searching for love and validation, and emotional trauma has hardwired me into believing that I'll never find it unless a girl lets me sodomize her. So now, it's all I want. It's an obsession, and it's ruining my life." My tone is bitchy and dismissive -- one last defense mechanism -- but the words spill out too easily, and the dry, hollow bitterness on my tongue tastes an awful lot like truth.

Jack nods, impressed. "Okay. That's a hell of a lot of time saved, right there. Thank you, Corin. I know that must've sucked to rehash, but I really needed to hear it. Thank you."

"I feel like such a phony," I tell her. "It hurts to be so simple -- to be so... solved. It makes me hate myself."

"And that hate doesn't go away, so the idea is to hate something else -- be angry at something else, all the time."

I grunt. "See? Fucking simple."

"Fucking human," she says. She reaches out across the table. I hesitate, because I know what it'll mean to meet her halfway. She's offering love -- something to focus on instead of hate. If I take her hand, then at the very least I'm telling her that I'll try.

There's no way to explain everything that rushes through my head during those moments of horrible, awkward hesitation. We're married. I've cleaned myself up. We do normal shit with each other all the time. I'm collared -- maybe even caged. I wear dresses. We're not monogamous -- that's fucking crazy talk -- but she's in charge of our sex life. She brings home other dickgirls. I bottom exclusively, --until maybe, one day, finally, I'm healed. On that day, she unlocks me, crawls onto the bed, and presents herself. I take off my collar. I fuck her -- no, I make love to her -- in the ass, and it's good. Maybe even it's nothing special, which is, in a perverse way, kind of the point. Then it's a happily-ever-after dickgirl orgy, with the two of us being each other's primaries forever. We keep doing all the normal shit that couples do. We both bring other dickgirls home. We both top, and we both bottom. In a fantasy beyond the wildest hopes of all fantasies, maybe we even bring regular girls home sometimes. They're plugged, and maybe even collared, but we're okay with it. We fuck their mouths. We eat and fuck their pussies. They play with our asses, and it's all good. There's titties of every shape and size for everyone, all around. They go home satisfied, and we always have each other, to like, to love, and to butt fuck.

But also: I try. I try so hard. I slip completely into sub mod and bottom mode, and I surrender everything to Jack, because she knows what's best for me. I go to therapy. I go on drugs. I never get better. I'm still a bitch all day, or a medicated zombie. She still has to fuck it out of me every afternoon and night, or she dumps cum into the starfish that's an albatross around her neck. She gets sick of it. She gets sick of me. She's in it, though, because she reached out her hand across the table on that fateful afternoon -- this very afternoon -- and to her, that was as solid a promise as one of those old-timey gold bands.

I can't take her hand, but I can't stand to see her pull it back. Like a manipulative bitch, I cry.

She gets up and comes around the table. She coaxes me up and into a hug.

"Please don't leave me," I beg. "Please." I'm too fucked up to even know if that's a confession -- that I couldn't have, wouldn't have taken her hand.

"Okay," she says. She's rocking me back and forth. "Okay."

"I won't go out anymore," I blubber. "I won't drink that stuff anymore. I'll come home. I'll stay home. Please."

"Hey," she says. She pulls back and grasps my face. She steadies it, urging me to look at her. I'm terrified at what I'm going to see in her eyes -- disappointment, grief, loss, heartbreak, resentment, exhaustion... god, the list goes on and on. She's in charge, though. I have to look eventually, and I do. Her eyes are... stalwart. It's so much better than what I deserve.

"Don't do it for me," she says. "Do it for you."

"I need you. I could come with you, to your shows."

Jack smiles and sighs. "What you need is more friends -- real friends. You're going through some difficult shit, and your main support system is a toxic waste dump." I don't have anything to say to that, so I just sniffle. She scrunches up her brow, like she's thinking about something. "You know what, though? Going out with me is actually a good idea. Meet some people. Listen to some music. Dance -- really thrash around. Get some of that energy out of your system. Yeah. You know what? Let's do it. Today's Wednesday. Friday night, you and me, we'll go together."

"What about tomorrow?" I ask, like a needy little bitch.

She smiles again. "Tomorrow we'll stay in, watch some movies, play some games, and fuck."

I sniffle again and put my forehead against hers. I give her a little pout. "What about tonight?"

She bites her lip. "Tonight? Maybe we'll skip the movies and the games."

I nod eagerly. We kiss, and it's foreplay.

In the bedroom, I gently coax her into an unfamiliar position, but I don't lead her on. I make it clear that I'm still the sub and the bottom. I worship her asshole with my mouth and tongue for a long time, then lovingly insert a teaser into her puffy, spit-soaked pucker.

She fucks me over and over, all night long. More than once, I service her cock and balls with my mouth. In other words, I get a head start on really, really trying.

On Friday, I wear a dress -- punky, for sure, but a dress nonetheless. She introduces me to her friends as her roommate and best friend, but I do everything I can to let them know that I'm her girlfriend -- her sub, her bottom, and her bitch. She's smart enough to realize what's happening. She doesn't call me out. She doesn't stop me.