Story Codes: MF, Consensual
by Cat Usher
He's always had this...coil...inside of him.
There's no other way to describe it, really: half serpent, half spring; part animal, part first world strain. It's
made out of slippery things like self-doubt, raging lust, unforgotten waters under the bridge, exhaustion.
The coil snakes around inside his abdomen, weaving, head bobbing, side to side, sometimes even back
the way it came like some tribal dance meant to call undead spirits into focus. He lives with the coil every
day and every night and always has. True, he sometimes forgets that it's there, but subconsciously he
feels it's presence. It directs his actions as if it were wearing him like a finger puppet.
When he met her, the coil lunged and sank its teeth into the back of his mouth, his throat nearly closed.
It's tail crept down into his crotch and it pulled until he was so taut that the distance between his head and
his feet shrank back, quivering, and waited. For direction.
Looking at her face that first time, it was like someone had taken a string and tied it around the slick, gray
folds of his brain, then drawn it down, compressing his stature down onto itself. Taking a mere breath was
a force of will because his lungs were labored and therefore, it made drawing a breath...exhilarating.
Inwardly, he resembled the compressed bellows of an accordion.
Tension from the stretched coil made his skin tingle like the way it does after a remarkable orgasm, and
his heart - throbbing visibly in his neck, but at the placid pace of a sleeping giant - bore down onto his
stomach. The effect from this was immediate and his mouth began to water at the confusing need to
possess her in his heart and in his belly at the same time. It was hunger.
His head seemed not to be involved in this process, and so he spun out idle chit-chat without missing a
beat. As if he didn't hunger for her.
All of this in the span of a moment, and he recognized in the next instant that something vital in him had
shifted and would not resume its former place.His only lucid thought was that he hoped she hadn't noticed
the goose flesh he was surely drowning beneath. Then he thought that he was going to throw her against
a wall and fuck her until the string inside of him snapped.
When she was gone, his throat let escape an eerily musical moan that was in harmony with his stature.
Still reeling, he sat at his desk and picked up the phone to call the hospital. He dialed from memory and
his voice was recognized by the nurse who answered the phone behind the desk of the 7th floor rehab
"How is she today," he asked without preamble.
"She's doing very well. She stayed awake for the entire OT session this morning and her left eye appears
to be tracking," the nurse reported.
"Good. I'll be there after work." He hung up wishing he could have spoken to his wife directly, but he knew
better than anyone that was impossible. Might always be impossible.
A glance at the clock confirmed that there were several hours left in the work day, and his dick confirmed
that he was unlikely to accomplish anything during that span unless he spent some quality alone time. His
encounter with the woman had left him feeling horny and angry, both together, wrapped together like a
fucked up soft serve ice cream cone.
"I'm sick of being the butt of a cosmic joke. And I don't get the punch line," he recited under his breath.
He wanted her.
He wanted his wife, but not as she was now.
He wanted everything to stop long enough for him to catch up to it.
He wanted to sleep forever.
Instead of any of those things, he pulled the bottle from his desk drawer and took a pull. Then he returned
several emails, grabbed his files and headed out for a meeting.
Bill loves his wife, but what remains of the person he married is hardly a shell. She looks different, for one.
Sunken. Emaciated. He was shocked by how fast she shrunk back to the bare frame of bones - hardly two
weeks after the accident, she was so light he could have lifted her with one hand. If she hadn't been
strapped to the bed by tubes, that is.
There was a feeding tube in her abdomen and a trach tube in her neck. Scars crisscrossed her left side
where she became one with the pavement. Her eyes are unfocused, one looks in your general direction
when she is awake, the other wanders off on its own, staring at the place where the wall and ceiling meet.
Bill gave into his throbbing dick and fucked the woman who slayed him that first time they met. He had an
affair, and his wife had found out. She was fleeing from their confrontation - from their home and the life
they'd built together, the place where they'd planned to start a family - when she'd crashed her car, lost
It was his fault, he knew, her pain. Her confusion and anger was because of his actions and those things
drove the car on the night of her accident.
Bill only meant to fuck the woman.
Then he'd found himself thinking of her day and night. He called her on the pretense of being friendly and
they'd wound up at a park by her house, fucking along the river trails again. Water slid by them as they
behaved like the animal they are, and Bill thought he'd like to walk on the river like it was a conveyor belt.
It would take him away from the mess he'd created. He decided never to see the woman again.
Three days later, he was in her bed. This time, she'd made a production of undressing before him before
slowly stripping him, one item of clothing at a time, excruciatingly slow, talking the whole time, saying the
things she would do to him. By the time she was left with only his boxers, he'd already come. She'd licked
him them, used her tongue to clean every last drop of come from his dick and his legs, savoring his smell,
tasting his body.
After a while, Bill abandoned the pretense of trying to abstain from the woman and they began meeting
almost daily - in closets, in cars, in fast-food bathrooms, on her dining room table.
He was consumed by shame, but the release he'd expected - the moment when he'd had what he wanted
and was done - never came. The animal attraction he'd felt the instant he'd seen her never abated. He
wanted his wife and he wanted this woman, but in two very different ways. Love, for his wife. A physical
craving, for the woman. Him, in the middle, pulled in opposite directions by his heart - conscience - and his
At home, he and his wife were getting along better now than since they'd lost the baby. He felt more
passionate love for his wife. He opened doors, asked her to talk to him, cuddled and made love. It was
easy in those moments to swear off the woman because in those moments he was full. And happy. He'd
decided a hundred times that it was never going to happen again.
Then he could see her and the coil would pull taut and he'd have an instant erection, which was incredibly
inconvenient when they were not alone together. He saw he and thought that her mouth needed his cock.
He hear the tinkling of her voice and thought that her hair was begging to be pulled.
He was powerless to ignore her pleas.
Bill is beyond a simple stopping point. He's an addict. He deletes her number from his phone and swears
her off entirely. It is six hours before he finds himself driving to her house for his fix.
She isn't particularly beautiful, not in the traditional Hollywood sense of the word. She is soft in the middle,
fleshy and warm. her breasts are small and pert, standing at attention even while she's laying on her back,
her legs over both shoulders. She wears shirts that don't fit her form and lets her hair fall into disarray
without seeming to notice. She has tiny hands and feet - well groomed, but not fussy. She's never seen
the inside of a nail salon, but her toes are so immaculately groomed that he cannot resist tasting them,
rolling his tongue around their rippling forms.
She is most self-conscious about her ears, which are broad and flat, hardly cupping at all.
Bill harbors a secret affection for large ears. He sees her for exactly what she is, physically, yet he finds
her more tempting than any woman he has ever seen.
It's like the two had very steamy sex in a previous life and his DNA remembered their connection, their
mutual pleasure, the swell of her ass under his pounding weight.
She is likewise startled by the enormity of her pull to him. This has never happened that way for her
before. Usually, it is a man's sense of humor that draws her into his arms, and Bill's striking form cannot
even explain the sparks shooting between them.
The pull is stronger than that. (his coil and her...something...need a better metaphor for butterflies) Roller
coaster. Zero gravity. Stomach in throat. Happy. Comfortable. Goofy-happy.
They've never met but they know each other. Something animal inside of her recognizes something
animal inside of him, and that thing recognizes a good breeding match. Men are natural breeders, and in
her, he sees a suitable carrier for his offspring. But these instincts are not on the surface of what they
think. The recognition is on a cellular level.
As soon as she knew of his existence, she began missing him. I swear I've seen you somewhere before.
Your face is one from those dreams I have.
“This scares me. I do care, and that's scaring me shitless. I shouldn't. I didn't plan to. I've always thought
of myself as a good guy. I've never considered anything like this before. I never thought that I would. This
was just supposed to be a fuck and run so the pressure in my dick didn't kill me. Now I can't stop, and that
My wife is my world.
Shut it down.
My feet steer me here. I lay awake thinking of you. How do we fix this?”
Was it love? Was it murder?
Shame vs guilt
Guilt is knowing you’ve done something to hurt another and taking specific and final actions to correct the
Shame is knowing you’ve done something to hurt another and feeling like there is something wrong inside
of you, then making justifications as to why you were/are entitled to continue that behavior. Deciding not to
stop, regardless of the casualties.
Bill felt shame.
He knew that his wife would be hurt if she knew he was fucking the woman. He also knew he couldn’t stop.
Wouldn’t stop. Felt entitled to continue. Because he was unhappy. Because his wife refused to sleep with
him. He was weak, helpless, in the face of another hot cunt.
There were thing that his wife wasn’t giving him. No sex. No communication.
After the miscarriage she retreated beneath a veil of tears, comforters and pills. When he tried to get her
to talk about the baby, or about anything at all, she accused him of being heartless. Of not feeling the
loss. Of not knowing what she was going through. She wasn’t ready for sex, she said. Her body was still
tender. Her heart wasn’t in it. Her loss was too great. He should be ashamed that he would think of sex at
a time like this. How could he be so selfish?
Bill shut down in response to her refusal to communicate. Once, when she made a timid advance, he
rebuked her, throwing her loss back into her face. It was unfair, he thought, that she should come crawling
when she felt ready. What if he wasn’t ready? Wasn’t the very idea of sex what she’d accused him of
wanting when it wasn’t right?
Bill stopped asking what she needed. She stopped asking him for support. He began fending for himself
and she let him. She stopped making dinner, one of her favorite pastimes, and began ordering take out
for one. He stopped wondering when she’d come to bed and instead began retiring without a word. He was
giving her his space, he reasoned. He thought he was letting her grieve. She thought she was punishing
One night when she’d fallen asleep in the den, he’d ventured into their lonely bedroom and discovered
something new: a vibrator. Recently used, he decided.
How dare she. How could she, after months of refusing his advances, find the nerve to pleasure herself in
secret? He’d thought she had an aversion to sex in general. She had, he realized, always wanted sex. She’
d simply stopped wanting him.
He didn’t understand.
He became so enraged at the development that he’d taken the vibrator and stalked into the kitchen,
where he’d turned on the garbage disposal (without running water) and begun shoving it inside. She’d
flown panicked into the kitchen from the den, wild-eyed, expecting an emergency. Instead, she’d found Bill,
swearing and holding his bleeding hand in the air, waving it in her direction, screaming about how she’d
gone and fucked without him, how he should have known. His blood spattered across the floor and
cabinets as he’d gestured wildly, trying vainly to articulate his rage.
She’d fled, horror-struck, with only a fleeting though of his injury. Superficial, she decided. It wasn’t until
later she’d realized what he’d been pulverizing. It wasn’t until later that her fury replaced her fear.
The exchange over the vibrator developed a retaliatory aspect: if he was late returning from work, she’d
lock the door. When she invited her sister and nephews for dinner, he’d make other plans. They began
the delicate dance of avoidance, and in that time, Bill met the woman.
The woman, he thought, was a sign from God. She was sent there to distract him from his broken home,
his crumbling life. His disillusioned love.
This idea was only reinforced when he found himself walking up behind his wife, some weeks after he’d
begun his affair, and embracing her with what he felt was genuine affection. He’d wanted to hold her. And
she hadn’t resisted. Instead, she leaned backwards into him. They’d stood there like that, motionless, for
some moments. Then he’d said something offhand and retreated to his office, but not before catching the
trace of a smile on her face. A relieved look.
The woman had done that for them.
Later that week, Bill had been caught off guard when his wife walked into his office in a nighty. A skimpy
one. She’d stood, a mixture of smoldering desire and vulnerability, wordless, waiting for a reaction.
Bill surprised himself by growing hard at the sight of her, and they’d ended their long streak of celibacy
then and there in his office, on the floor, a frantic tangle of limbs, carpet burns, and relief.
Afterwards, they’d lain silent, still tangled, until he’d said, “I missed you.” She cried then.
In physical therapy, he’d helped her walk with the assistance of both a walker and a transfer (gait) belt.
After 20 minutes, they’d made one circuit of the room and there was just enough time for her to sit in her
wheelchair and doze for a moment.
Then the occupational therapist appeared, ready to pinch her cheeks and speak loudly in her ear until
she woke enough for her session. During the session, she’d doze several times, and Bill would gently
rouse her, then he would help to feed her spoonfuls of water thickened with a white powder called Thick-it,
catching her mouthful when she’d choked on it.
“I can’t tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like. And right now it’s a steel knife in my
He never considered leaving his wife, not even when things were so bad that they hadn’t spoken in five
weeks except .alskdjf;oasieht’aopwirh fuck me, nothing to say here. THINK DAMMIT
Not until after the accident.
They married young.
Bill was working at a restaurant as a sous chef when he met her. She was a waitress. They didn’t
encounter each other for a while because she was still a sophomore in high school, and so she only
worked nights. He, just out of high school, worked the day shift.
One Saturday in February she worked a double shift and sat in a booth in the back of the dining room
during her break. She ordered a BBQ bacon chicken sandwich. He saw that she was sitting alone. Bill
decided it was time for his break as well.
She glanced up at him as he rounded the corner and asked, “Can I sit with you?” She looked startled.
“Sure.” Later, she told him she’d been surprised it had even occurred to him to talk to her. She never did
value herself very highly.
She looked down at her sloppy plate of BBQ sauce and fries, then over at Bill, and he saw that she was
wishing she’d ordered something a little easier to eat, now that he was watching her. When another
waitress walked by, Bill ordered the BBQ bacon chicken sandwich with fries. He saw a physical
manifestation of her relief, her tension slip down under the table.
They sat together and talked for about twenty minutes before she attempted to clean the sauce off of her
hands, saying she had to get back on the clock.
Clumsily, she’d stood and said, “Nice talking to ya,” then she’d stuck the straw of her to-go cup in her
mouth and turned to walk away. Still more flustered than he’d realized, he watched as she let go of the
cup, and it went flying across the table and into the booth beside him. Fortunately, it had a lid.
It was comical, he thought, the cup in his lap, her standing with the straw sticking out of her teeth, her
body frozen in place, eyes wide with teenage horror, darting from him to the cup. He could see her brain
working to come up with an acceptable reaction. Laughter? Sheepishness? Anger?
He kept his face emotionless as he picked up the cup and handed it to her saying, “I’ll see you.”
Years passed before she’d told him it was that moment, his lack of reaction to her embarrassing move,
that she decided he might be okay. Might be worth remembering. Might actually like her.
Later that evening as she whizzed through the kitchen window, picking up plates to deliver, Clint had
asked how old she was. She froze again, suspicious, because she and Clint were not friends - despised
each other, in fact. She glanced over his shoulder and saw Bill furiously maintaining the appearance of
So it was Bill who wanted to know her age. “Sixteen, “ and she walked away.
Days passed, and then she stood with two boxes of lemons and the big metal slicer, her back to the
kitchen, trying unsuccessfully to keep her fingers out of the way, wincing as the lemon juice invaded her
Bill walked from the kitchen to the server alley to grab his coat and called, “Bye Cat. See ya.”
Surprised, she returned the greeting, and he left.
Moments later, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him walk back around the corner, and she looked up
to see what he’d forgotten. He was wearing a black coat with tan arms that looked like lambs wool. She
thought it was funny.
He walked over to her directly and hesitated, then said, “Would you like to go out some time?”
She nearly sliced her ring finger off. Heat flushed her cheeks. She glanced around, waiting for Clint to pop
out of the coat closet and scream, “Ha ha yeah right, fatty!” When he didn’t appear, she focused her
attention back on Bill. He was watching her earnestly.
“Okay, I’ll talk to you soon then.” And he disappeared. She’d stood there with her mind racing, waiting for
the other shoe to drop.
The obvious shoe, of course, was that she wasn’t technically allowed to date anyone. She’d have to
concoct a bogus story if she were really to go out with Bill.
Her next thought was shame. How could she explain to a grown man that she wasn’t allowed to go out on a
date? That her parents preferred “courtship” to dating, and courtship meant a serious commitment, plus
chaperons. If that became public knowledge, it could kill her social life, tiny though it was. She’d always
been secretly relieved that no boys ever asked for her company.
She’d begged her friend Christie to give her an alibi on Saturday. They agreed to say they were going
tanning and to a movie. She arranged to meet Bill at the restaurant where they worked, mostly so she
could get an employee discount on her meal. Having never been on a date, she didn’t realize he was
obliged to pay.
In a moment of self-doubt, she grabbed a book to read while she waited, just in case he didn’t show up at
all. She was beginning to think he wouldn’t.
After sitting alone in the booth for over an hour, she was certain he’d changed his mind. She decided to
use the payphone to call the number he’d given her. He answered on the first ring and demanded to know
where she was.
“I’m inside! I already ate. Where are you?”
He had been waiting outside in the parking lot, thinking by “let’s meet at work”, she’d meant they would
meet there and then leave to go somewhere else.
He joined her in her booth a few minutes later and they’d laughed.
A sign, she thought. I’m too stupid for a boyfriend.
A sign, he thought. I want her even more now.
Years later, they still laughed over the near-miss that was their first date.
Subsequent encounters demanded that Bill arrive at her home for an evening in the living room with her
family. Mortified, she explained what her parent’s strict religious social expectations demanded of him, and
smiling (on the outside) he’d arrived with a fist full of daisies and a knot in his stomach.
Bill was used to the liberties that adulthood afforded him. This...it was all new. And very uncomfortable.
That he came to her home, smiled at her mother’s antics, played with her baby brother..to her, this meant
he loved her.
She was so young.
They didn’t fight, not once, for the first year they dated.
She met his parents on his birthday in April. They went to dinner at a steakhouse in Missouri, and while
waiting to be seated, Bill kept looking at his watch anxiously. He wanted to rush through dinner so they
could be alone together.
Bill’s mother noticed this, and asked, “What is going on with your watch, Bill? Do you have plans later?”
She chimed in and said, “Oh, sure - he has a date at eight o’clock.”
“A woman after my own heart,” his mother laughed.
That night, she undressed for the first time in his presence. It felt soon to her, and very evil, but she’d
For him, it had seemed an excruciatingly long time coming.
She remembered to wear cute lilac panties that matched her demi bra, and was pleased when he looked
over them admiringly. She didn’t realize what he was admiring was what lay beneath them.
That night, he taught her what it was like to lay naked with a man.
Years of watching America’s Funniest Home Videos and listening to men complain about how badly it hurt
to be kicked there, she worried she would hurt his penis, and she explained this when he asked her why
she’d never touched it, or even looked at it directly.
“You won’t hurt me,” and he showed her how to touch him in the way that he liked.
Soon, she became accustomed to the intimacy of being naked together, exploring each other. She wasn’t
ready for sex, but she longed to be with him, and she began skipping her first hour classes to crawl into
his bed in the mornings. They’d arrange secret meetings during the afternoons or evenings when they
Once, she lied to her mother and said she and Bill were going to a friend’s Wednesday night church
service. When Bill picked her up at home, her mother was suspicious. She followed them to the church
they mentioned, and when she didn’t find them inside, she questioned the pastor, who said he’d never
seen them. She called her daughter’s phone.
Where they really were was parked way back in the woods off a dirt road, laying on a blanket in the bed of
his truck, naked, music blaring. He took her there because it was the site where one of his friends had
fallen from a bluff, hitting trees on his way down, breaking both legs so badly that the bones protruded,
and eventually died from his head wounds. He wanted her to meet his friend, but visiting the place where
he died was as good as it could be.
When her phone rang, her mother’s number showing on the screen, she looked panic stricken, so Bill had
tried to wedge himself through the cab window far enough to reach the stereo and turn it off. He hadn’t fit,
but he had gotten stuck, naked ass hanging
© 2014 Cat Usher
Catherine goes by "Cat". She works (as little as possible) in the field of finance and frequently suffers from
third degree paper cuts. Cat spends most of her time blogging and watching reruns of Vanderpump Rules
to remind herself that her life is empty and meaningless. Her greatest fear is that she won't be prepared
when the zombies attack. Cat is undergoing treatment for cynicism, but doctors believe it's a terminal
case. She has no ambition and is content to let opportunities pass her by. Her favorite things are bacon,
sex and monkeys, in that order