Gods & Monsters

I bite his lower lip as a punishment but the jerk only likes it. “That has to be the most arrogant thing you’ve ever said. No, actually, that has to be the most arrogant thing anyone’s ever said.”

He shrugs again, like he has no care in the world. None, whatsoever. “Call it whatever you want.”

“Okay, husband. I love you but let’s see who wins: science or the man who thinks he’s God.”

“I don’t think it. I am your god.”

I roll my eyes at him, annoyed. Even so, nothing can put a damper on my happiness. Nothing can destroy what I have: Abel and our fantasies.

***

A few days ago, I walked out on my job. It was irresponsible, childish and it’s exactly what we needed to do. We have new desires now. New needs. New wants.

New fantasies.

We’re living in a new world. A world that Abel promised he’d build for me. I made him a promise too. I told him I wouldn’t shed a single tear for that town, for what happened, and I haven’t.

In fact, in this world, I laugh a lot.

We both do. We get up in the morning and make slow, lazy love. Then we take a shower together and make crappy breakfast, which usually ends up being burnt because my husband’s on a mission now. To knock me up.

I got my period confirming the fact that I wasn’t pregnant after that one accident. I was strangely disappointed. But it’s good that I’m not. We can’t have a baby right now. When we’re starting to explore new territories with each other.

I went to a free clinic and the doctor started me on the pill. Makes me wonder why I didn’t start it sooner. Makes me wonder if I secretly want a baby, something of Abel’s inside me. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s not happening any time soon.

I usually make a big deal of popping it, right in front of him and gulping it down, and he takes it as a challenge. And then he fucks me like only he can, both with tenderness and brutality. Not to mention every night, he sleeps with his large hand covering my flat stomach, like he’s letting our skins talk, working his magic.

After I quit my job, Abel told me that if we keep crashing at Ethan’s apartment a little longer, we can make it work money-wise. I already knew he had some money saved up when we moved here, and now he says he can pick up more gigs. Also, we can get some percentage of the cash when we perform for the camera. That’s one thing I didn’t factor in when I went there for the first shoot. Obviously, I knew that people got paid for this kind of stuff, but money was not on my mind, only this strange and strong desire to do something drastic.

Neither did I think that they’d put our tape online. Not after the way I freaked out. But they did and we can go back if we want to.

We aren’t under a contract or anything, which I learned is a thing in this business. We’re free agents, who choose them, who choose to go into their room, and have sex on camera. It’s our choice to show our love to the world on our terms. It’s our choice to celebrate what we have, what we should’ve celebrated all along but never got the chance.

After our first shoot, Abel brings home a hand-held video camera. On the mattress, he kneels between my naked legs, my hips on his brawny thighs, my sex open and pulsing. When he whips out the camera and that red blinking light comes on, I want to hide my face. My heart both soars and dips to my stomach.

I feel both turned on and a little uneasy.

What are we doing, bringing our fantasy into our daily lives?

“Ever since my first day down there, I wanted to bring home one of these. Just for us, you know,” he says, panting, fiddling with the buttons. “You’re gonna look so pretty, Pixie.”

The pleasure and wonder in his voice, banishes my doubts – it’s Abel; he won’t let us fall – and makes me bold, and I give him my best show once we start fucking.

“Fuck, Pixie. You love it, don’t you? You love the camera. You’re fucking made for it,” Abel rasps, while watching my movements on screen. He has it pointed to where we are joined, recording the stretch of my core over his abusing cock.

I flush with pleasure, my movements becoming even more seductive. Though somewhere deep down I want him to look at me, instead of that object in his hands. But it doesn’t matter because the orgasm I have is out of this world. It’s like a freaking train-wreck, which triggers my husband’s exploding climax.