Papi Pacify
Trixie wants a title to their relationship.
She knows this isn't a good way to win someone's heart.
But she prefers to lie to herself anyway.
She checks her phone, hoping for any signal to come over. She does her make-up in the mirror, swiping on the shade of lipstick that drives him wild. She puts on her perfume, dress, heels and jewelry and looks back at herself, disgusted at what she sees.
This isn't the Trishelle Carter Trixie knows.
Gone were her modest clothing, her vibrancy and dignity. Her eyes look tired, puffy from the hours of crying. Her skin is decorated with love bites, the most stubborn ones peppering her thighs. Her outfit is definitely something she'd never be caught dead with: a trenchcoat with lingerie underneath, with sheer thigh highs and black pumps to match. She has cherry red lips and eyes that scream fuck me, regardless of what her heart truly says. Months of heartache and misery is evident in her facial expressions; her tired eyes shocking Trixie to her core.
This Trishelle Carter is a whore.
And sickeningly, Trixie is accepting of it.
Her phone vibrates. Showtime.
She looks at the text message, replies, and puts her phone in her purse. She writes a note on the door for her roommate that she won't be gone for long. She'll be back by morning, five in the morning if she's lucky. He hates it when she lingers. After, seeing the house is clean and she had everything she needed, she leaves the apartment.
His home isn't that far; it's a thirty minute drive from her place to his. She reaches the complex with knots welling up in her gut. She hates that feeling; it makes her sick thinking about what's to come, what to do in the aftermath. But like clockwork, she swallows her fears and walks to his door.
Three knocks and he answers. He's prepared for her it seems: soft music, white and red candles, the room strangely smells like patchouli and he is fresh out the shower. He smiles at her, fingers skimming over the knot that ties her trenchcoat together. She slaps it away.
"Not until I get in there," she teases, "wouldn't want any nosy neighbors getting a peek at what's yours."
Possessive over his newfound present, he pulls her into his room with a growl and slams the door.
"Show me," he commands. Trixie slowly unknots her trenchcoat, teasing him with peeks of her skin and clothing. When it drops to the ground, his mouth waters.
She wears a lace bra and garter combo, her curves and assets highlighted by the green and red color scheme. What pulls it together is her black and yellow choker with his name written on the side.
She wore it just for him.
He throws her on the couch, her body is then pinned by his thighs. He crushes his lips against hers and explores her mouth with his greedy tongue.
"Mine," he growls against her skin, "all mine."
Trixie wants to tell him no, tell him that she doesn't want this anymore and to go back to the way things were before this started. But when he pulls her thighs apart for a taste, her mind is wiped clean.
It happens within hours. Trixie has once again succumbed to a pinnacle of pleasure no other man could attempt to match. She hates how he knows her body more than she does. She hates how no matter how much she tries, her body is his instrument and he uses it against her in sadistic fashion. He kisses her here, licks her there, touches her here, whispers a few filthy things in her ear and she's screaming his name. Her body gives out, her voice is scraped raw, and she is satisfied. But he yanks more out of her, playing her body like a violin until she's fucked out with bliss and can't even remember her name. That's when she turns the tables on him and leaves him sweaty and sated just as much as her.
They collapse on the bed, coming down from their orgasmic highs.
"Incredible," he announces.
"I know," Trixie agrees.
They lay there in silence, both unsure of what to say next.
"What are we?" Trixie asks after a pregnant pause. He sighs in frustration and climbs out of bed.
"Way to kill the mood, Trix." He says, grabbing his boxers and pulling them on.
"I'm just tired of this happening and..." She trails off. She doesn't want to tell him that she feels like a whore for sleeping with him and their relationship is unclear. Are they lovers? Friends? Nothing?
"Trix, you know what we are."
"I don't. Because I don't want to think it's one thing when it's really the other. You know that."
"Why not say we're friends?"
"I don't think friends fuck each other. And if you say friends with benefits I'll walk out this door and not look back."
"Look, Trix. I don't want to talk about this now. Let's just go back to bed and talk about it another time."
"No. You do this every time. Honestly, I'm sick of it. You need to clarify what we are, because I'm tired of me coming over here in the night like a bad secret."
"Trix," he says exasperated, "Let's talk about this later. Please."
She drops it.
They both know what's to come when the sun rises; Trixie quickly redresses while he lies in bed eyeing his clock. He has a few hours before he has to leave for work, but he prefers to linger. He likes watching her beautiful body walk about his room to collect her things.
"I wish I could lie in bed with you for a while longer," Trixie says in the darkness. He can hear her voice crack with held back tears, but says nothing.
"I want more," Trixie continues, "I need to know what we are, so I know whether you're using me or just having a hard time with this. I am not going to be played for a fool," She buttons her trenchcoat. She slides on her heels, walks to his front door, looks back at him for the last time and says, "I'm going to ask you one last time, Jake. What are we?"
He looks back at her, eyes unreadable. After a pregnant pause, he says, "Whatever you want us to be, Trix."
Trixie's eyes give a sliver of hurt, but otherwise her face seems placated.
"See you later, Jake."
"Goodnight, Trixie."
She closes his door with a soft click.
Jake lies back in bed, inhaling sharply. He stares at the ceiling, and then digs through his nightstand for his prize. The glint of shiny silver sparkled in the moonlight, illuminated by Jake's finger. He picks up a photo of him and Rose holding each other at the altar all those years ago.
"Whatever you want us to be," he repeats with sorrow, before placing the photo back into his nightstand and fingering his wedding ring for comfort.
~Fin~