Whiskey at Midnight, page 21
Then Wren is on her stomach and Kate is tying her hands up. Wren’s face is flush against the mattress, her teeth rubbing against the covers from where she’s smiling. And it’s a good thing she isn’t drunk, after all. Those afternoons and nights spent in a drunken stupor haven’t been about losing herself, just letting go. They can’t compare to this, because Wren is finally able to truly let go and let her mind shut down.
Kate won’t let Wren touch her, just makes her stay on the bed. She doesn’t ask Wren what she likes, doesn’t ask her anything at all. She covers Wren’s body with her own and kisses Wren’s shoulders until Wren squirms beneath her.
With her hands still tied behind her, Wren can touch Kate. When she does, Kate slaps her ass until Wren whimpers. Wren’s turned away from the nightstand, toward the spot that Emma used to occupy, and she closes her eyes so that she can just feel.
That’s when the hot wax is poured over her back and Wren gasps in surprise. It’s better than the time Emma accidentally caused the wax to fall on Wren. A finger traces patterns through the wax on Wren’s back before more is poured onto the backs of her thighs and then down her ass cheeks. Every spot the wax touches tingles and Wren can’t stop the way her ass leans up into the air, toward the candle. The anticipation for the next time is almost too much.
Kate teases her cunt with light strokes. Kate lets her fingertips touch Wren’s inner thigh and Wren can feel a coating of wetness against her skin. She won’t beg. That would be too much to give a stranger. Even if Kate is giving her a wonderful night, Wren won’t give Kate that.
Her hips are jerked up so that Wren’s ass is completely up in the air, her knees pushing against the mattress. Most of her weight is held by her face on the bed. It’s the most helpless Wren has ever been. It’s not a surprise when Kate pours more wax down Wren’s crack, but Wren can’t stop the gasp that comes out. She knows she doesn’t imagine the chuckle that comes from Kate.
Thank God Emma didn’t go home with Kate. Emma could never handle this.
The belt is a surprise. The first time it comes down, it makes a loud cracking sound. Wren cries out in pain and her right ass cheek feels as if it’s on fire. Within seconds it turns into a dull burning and then a pleasurable soreness. No one has ever used a belt on Wren before. She’d never allow it. The afterburn is like her hot showers, beads of water that burn as they cascade down her body, only more concentrated. Another blow follows, then another. The backs of her thighs sting and she squirms, hoping for it to end and keep going all at once. Wren grits her teeth, tries not to cry out again. She does every single time.
A thin layer of sweat develops all over Wren’s body. She bites her lip, almost makes herself bleed when Kate asks her about her ass and prods it with a fingertip. Before she can get used to the new sensation, Kate flips Wren over onto her back and kisses her. Her arms are useless beneath her and her body trembles.
Kate pours more wax on Wren’s front, starting with her tits and then down to her stomach. If it’s possible, it feels even better than when it was poured on her back. Wren’s eyes close at the tingling sensation. She feels Kate’s body climbing further up onto the bed.
“I’m going to ride your face,” Kate says and pauses.
Wren almost laughs. Kate’s hesitation is obvious enough in the moment, saying what she’s about to do is her way of asking if it’s okay. Wren nods.
Kate undresses quickly and moves back up on the bed.
With knees on each side of her head, Wren slips her tongue out for her first taste. Kate is completely shaved. Wren is so far gone that she can’t quite place how Kate tastes. All she knows is that she likes it. She licks at Kate with quick strokes, flattening out her tongue as much as she can. Kate doesn’t moan or make any kind of sound for Wren, but she doesn’t get off of Wren’s face until her legs are shaking and she mumbles something that sounds like “fucking hell.”
Wren’s face is wet as Kate moves back down the bed. She licks her lips and closes her eyes for a second. It’s just long enough to miss the belt being picked up again and the crack it makes against her side.
Kate’s face is all concentration as she raises the belt again, this time hitting the other side, right near Wren’s hip. Kate looks disappointed by Wren’s response and she flips Wren back over onto her stomach.
“I’m going to do this side again,” Kate mutters.
It hurts worse than before, but the ache after is that much sweeter.
“You’re going to have some nice bruises tomorrow,” says Kate. She only stops occasionally to touch Wren’s cunt, but never long enough to bring Wren any sort of release. Then it’s the belt again, on one side then the other, sometimes on her thighs and sometimes on her ass.
As much as Wren tries not to cry out, she continually does. Next, she tells herself that she won’t cry from the pain, that she won’t tell Kate to stop. That little bit of resolve is broken when Wren can’t stop the tears anymore. She sobs into the mattress, her body shaking after every impact. This is what it’s like, Wren thinks. Horrifically fantastic. Kate takes her to the brink where Wren doesn’t think she can take it anymore and then past that so that even the tears stop coming. It’s just Wren and a sort of euphoria.
Kate hums and tosses the belt back on the floor. The sound of it being discarded is enough to almost make Wren’s tears start again. Wren is flipped onto her back and Kate is finally really fucking Wren, good and hard, three fingers pumping in and out in a fast but steady rhythm. Kate places her other hand on Wren’s shoulder, holds herself up that way, until Wren is sure that she’s going to have a bruise there in the morning, too.
Wren has to close her eyes as she begins to climax. Her mouth opens and her entire body seizes up. Kate doesn’t stop fucking her until Wren’s body is limp on the bed and Wren’s eyes open lazily. Her body aches in a way that makes Wren smile.
Kate licks the three fingers that have been inside Wren and then kisses her. The kiss is full of gratitude from both of them.
“I should get going,” Kate says, after lying next to Wren for a few minutes. She traces a line down Wren’s side, chuckles when Wren’s leg quivers. “Next time, don’t go to a fetish bar to let your demons out.” She unties Wren and leaves. The front door slams behind her.
Wren stays in bed for some time, not moving. The candle has gone out at some point. The backs of her thighs feel raw against the covers. She’s too awake to try to sleep, so she takes a lukewarm shower to get all of the wax off. After, she throws on a pair of panties and a tanktop. There’s nothing else to do and she moves to the living room to drink. It’s a vodka kind of night. Only the first glass has ice in it. She can’t be bothered to get up to get more.
Something tugs at the back of her mind, like she’s forgetting something. She doesn’t have work to worry about and her body is so lethargic that it’s hard to care. She lights a cigarette and drinks until she passes out on the couch. A perfect ending to a good day.
Wren’s eyes are still closed and her body is somewhere between sleep and being awake when the front door slams. There is a gasp and then yelling. Wren turns over to bury her face into the couch cushions. The yelling continues, but whoever it is makes no move to force Wren up. They are content to scream their displeasure whether Wren reacts or not.
Wren hears a knock at the door. Something on the floor is kicked across the room as the other person in the apartment goes to open the door. Wren’s eyes feel as if they are glued shut. Her body aches. She’s awake, but barely. Sleep threatens to overtake her again.
“I’m so sorry, Mommy. I had no idea it was going to look like this,” a voice says.
A woman gasps as footsteps draw closer. Wren’s eyes fly open. Trudy and the Bucktons. Is it already time for the visit? Wren hasn’t done anything to clean, has actually made the apartment look worse than it ever has. She chuckles but the sound is muffled by the couch.
“Oh my Lord,” Mrs. Buckton murmurs. “Are those bruises on her legs?”
“Maybe someone broke in,” Trudy says, grasping at straws.
Mr. Buckton is silent. Wren can imagine the uncomfortable look on his face. A half-naked girl lying on a couch is sure to send his prudishness into overdrive. It’s improper. She doesn’t turn to look at his face. The couch is too comfortable.
“Okay,” Mrs. Buckton says. “We’ll sort this out.” More footsteps as someone moves into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. It’s closed again and then cupboards are rummaged through. “Honey,” Mrs. Buckton calls from the kitchen. “Will you take Trudy down to the market for some real food? There’s nothing here. Barely a crumb. I’ll take care of… this.”
Wren smirks. She has become a situation, a problem to solve. Years later, she might find it all even more amusing, but for now she tries to drift back into a peaceful slumber. That’s interrupted by the front door slamming closed again. Maybe she could fall asleep after, once her heart stops beating so quickly from the unexpected sound of the door, but the evidence suggests she’s alone in the apartment with Mrs. Buckton and there’s no way to fall asleep again with that information at the front of her mind.
“Wren, sweetie. Let’s get you up. God, you’re skin and bones.”
Mrs. Buckton’s hand is cold and skeletal against Wren’s shoulder. Despite knowing that she would have to speak to the woman above her eventually, Wren is startled by the hand. She jumps and twists around until she’s looking up at Mrs. Buckton.
Maybe she’s never really paid much attention to Mrs. Buckton. The nervous energy Mrs. Buckton can’t help but have is nowhere to be seen this morning. Her brown eyes are full of concern, but calm. She smiles encouragingly at Wren. Her teeth are white and crowded.
“Come on,” Mrs. Buckton says. Her tone is motherly. “I’m going to start a shower for you.”
Wren remembers showering after Kate left the night before, but follows behind Mrs. Buckton anyway. Wren pads through the apartment sloppily, as if there’s still alcohol in her system, which there might be.
Mrs. Buckton finds a clean towel, somehow, in the mess that is Wren’s bathroom. She hums as she starts the water and doesn’t blink when Wren undresses right in front of her. Her expression turns to sadness though and she averts her eyes from Wren’s body.
“I’m going to get some of this cleaned up, dear,” Mrs. Buckton says and leaves the room.
Wren doesn’t wash. She sits on the floor of the shower and lets the water fall over her body. It’s not as hot as it normally is, but it’s fine. Wren pokes at the bruises on her legs, smiles at the soreness. She doesn’t come out of her bedroom until she’s dressed again. A t-shirt and yoga pants cover most of the bruises. She doesn’t bother with her hair and within minutes her shirt is soaked where her hair touches it.
Mrs. Buckton has been busy cleaning. She hums in the kitchen. Two trash bags sit next to the front door. The ashtray is empty, and all of the garbage that has accumulated in the living room is gone. If it wasn’t too late, Wren might reach behind the sofa and put the Jesus painting on the wall. It’s useless now.
The only cup in the living room is clean and full of water and ice. Wren sits back on the couch and drinks from it slowly. Her tongue starts to feel normal again in her mouth. Awake, finally, and with her bruises covered, the reality of the situation sinks in and Wren blushes. She barely knows these people and now they have seen everything.
There goes the extra pocket change she gets from Trudy once a month.
Mr. Buckton and Trudy have taken their time returning, but they can’t stay away forever. They make lots of noise outside the front door before opening it and creeping inside, perhaps worried about what they might see. Mrs. Buckton instructs Trudy to come into the kitchen with her, to put away the groceries they’ve just purchased.
Mr. Buckton sits next to Wren on the couch. He doesn’t say anything or look at her. His hand rests on his stomach as he stares at the blank TV screen.
Mrs. Buckton hisses at Trudy in the kitchen. Her attempts to whisper fail and Wren can hear everything said.
“What do you mean you didn’t know the apartment had gotten so bad?”
There’s a long pause. Trudy’s attempt to put all of the blame on Wren has left her open to questions that she can’t answer truthfully unless she wants her parents to know exactly where she’s been living. Trudy is not the kind of girl who can think on her feet.
“I just meant I haven’t been here this past week,” Trudy explains. “I’ve been staying with a friend.” There’s guilt in her voice. Mrs. Buckton lets out a frustrated groan, because of course staying with a friend translates to staying with a boy.
“Trudy, you can’t honestly expect me to believe that this has happened in a week. When’s the last time you were here?” Mrs. Buckton seethes.
If Wren was in the room she might try to shake her head at Trudy, try to tell her what to say telepathically. There’s no way that Trudy won’t screw this up. Trudy lies by omission and that is all. She hasn’t had the practice that Wren has had.
“Okay, okay. So it’s been awhile,” Trudy says, defensively.
Wren rolls her eyes and sighs. Even from the living room, the atmosphere change in the kitchen is obvious. If Mrs. Buckton didn’t seem the type to worry about appearances, she’d probably let out all of her anger and frustration right now. But that would be improper.
“Fix lunch,” Mrs. Buckton says in a tight voice. “We’ll talk later.”
Lunch is large deli sandwiches for the Bucktons and a small sandwich for Wren with chicken broth. No one asks Wren what she’d like to eat, or even if she’s hungry at all. Mrs. Buckton eats in the kitchen, taking bites between loading up the dishwasher. Trudy sits on the floor, the coffee table between her and the couch, and stares at Wren as she eats. Trudy’s face is full of loathing. If Mr. Buckton notices the scowl on Trudy’s face, he doesn’t do or say anything to acknowledge it. He’s too busy picking up the pickles and onions that fall into his lap.
In the end, Mrs. Buckton presses a piece of paper into Wren’s hand with her home and cell numbers written on it. She gives Wren a squeeze when she hugs her, tells her to call day or night if she needs anything. She won’t, but it’s a nice sentiment.
Trudy is not so lucky. The Bucktons tell her in a warning tone that they will be coming every Sunday from now on to take her to church and that they’ll install software on their computer so that they can video chat with her, to ensure that she is in the apartment. It’d be easy enough to schedule their nightly videos early in the evening. They’d probably still believe Trudy if she told them that she goes to sleep early. Then she could sneak off to Trevor’s. It’s hard to take the good girl out of Trudy, though, and that means that she will be at home all the time, terrified of defying her parents the same way again.
As soon as the Bucktons are gone, Wren goes into her bedroom and shuts the door. Trudy’s still too annoyed to want to talk. She’ll sulk for at least a day, but at some point in the future she’s going to want to sit down with Wren and find out what happened. What the bruises are from, how she could consume so much alcohol. Why she would ruin such a good arrangement. And that will be almost worse than waking up to the Bucktons.
It’s not so bad after that. The bruises stay for days. Each time Wren bumps her leg on the edge of her bed, she’s forced to think about her night with Kate. Trudy’s done her best to stay out of the way, hasn’t tried to ask Wren about any of it, and so Wren doesn’t have to think about the Bucktons.
The Jesus painting is back up, permanently, and Trevor starts to show up after a few days. He’s tall and lanky with a hooked nose and eyes that light up whenever Trudy is in the room. Once, when Wren is heading out to go to the bar, she hears them studying the Bible together in Trudy’s bedroom.
Victoria is out with Steve again. He takes turns dancing with her or Wren. When he spins Wren, a goofy smile on his face, she can feel Emma’s eyes on her, like it’s actually burning her skin. She almost always takes a shot after it happens, and it seems to happen constantly. Reese sometimes raises her eyebrow at Wren, like maybe Wren should take it easy. Taylor has no such qualms, seems to find it entertaining how much Wren can drink without falling on the floor.
Every time Wren and Emma make eye contact, a steely resolve comes over Wren. There have never been tears, not over Emma. Wren tries to keep up the eye contact as long as possible, despite the wounded look Emma gives her.
“If this doesn’t get better soon, I’m out of here,” Steve says. “I already said I don’t do drama.”
The next time they’re all out, they sit at a table and Wren acts like she used to. Cam and Emma are so close they might as well be glued together. Victoria and Steve talk about work, try to get Wren to join in or agree with what they say. Steve says things like, “Ain’t that right, Vicki?”
Wren slips away to get another drink at the bar. Taylor grins at her. “We’ve been talking,” she says. “We think you should come out for our big birthday bash.”
“It’s months away still,” Reese says. “We just start planning it early.”
“You can come as long as you can manage not to be a mopey bitch,” Reese says with a wink.
Wren smiles when she sits back down at the table.
After that, Steve stops making little comments about things getting back to normal. He dances with Emma.
Emma’s becoming less cowardly, kisses Cam when Wren is in the same area of the bar. Wren doesn’t watch them. She doesn’t run away either. And that’s a small victory at the end of the day.
Wren goes back to work and no one says anything at all about her absence. Victoria, or Vicki as she’s supposed to start calling her, tries to become even more friendly with Wren. She makes little jokes that would probably make Steve chuckle and says things like she can’t wait for another karaoke night.
Despite some of the more horrible customers, it’s nice to be back. Wren even goes to some of her classes again.
The only person who might see that not everything is right is Trudy, who stares at the large amount of empty glass bottles that Wren racks up. Her righteous indignation about it all hasn’t won out though, not since Wren could so easily tell the Bucktons about Trevor’s growing presence in the apartment, so she says nothing.
