The Purest Now

[al****]

This story arc continues after The Art of Conditioning. 

The story arc for the blonde character follows this sequence:

The Art of the Deal – This is the beginning of her storyline.

The Art of Conditioning – The events here build on what happened in "The Art of the Deal."

Gifted Brunette – This story gives additional details about one of the threesomes involving the blonde, adding depth to her storyline.

The Purest Now – Concludes the blonde’s arc, shifting from eroticism to introspection as I confront my memories, control, and the elusive feeling of losing myself.

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November 1st. I’m at home, watching Red. She’s naked, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light, tracing the curve of her spine as she dusts off the liquor bar, rag in hand. She bends slowly, deliberate, making sure I see every inch. The dust never stood a chance. I thumb through my contacts, then call Blondie.

“I want it to be just the two of us,” I say. “You’re ready.”

I know it’s November 1st, only because the security cam has it time-stamped. Dates drift, edges blur, but technology doesn’t slip. Black and white pixels freeze every second in place, hold it still. I trust the camera’s memory more than my own.

The day Blondie told me she was nervous about swallowing everything I had to give was November 3rd. Says so on the model release form she signed. Legal ink, dated and dried. The details keep things straight.

She showed up at the hotel in this faded pink top, a thing that probably used to be soft, maybe even sweet. Now it’s stretched, clinging to her shoulders, tired from holding on. One strap dangling off, a tiny tear at the hem that she either missed or just didn’t care about. The camera caught every detail that day. Every worn stitch. Every shallow breath.

Her mouth’s parted, lips soft pink, same shade as her top. Smooth, like petals or ripe fruit, warm, maybe even inviting. There’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corners, like she’s on the edge of a laugh or a secret.

Her hair’s a mess, that wild kind. Dirty blonde, tumbling around her face in tangled waves, but there’s something soft in it, like spun gold caught up in a knot. Makes you want to brush it back, just to see what she looks like with nothing in the way. Just her.

And then there’s the mattress, covered in this faded floral pattern, roses that used to be red but now look like they’ve soaked up too many cigarettes, too many nights. The fabric’s stretched thin, threadbare in spots, each flower like a ghost of some forgotten romance, pressed flat by strangers who left nothing behind. Why I picked this place tonight, I’ll never know. The camera can’t catch my thoughts, just the facts.

Facts like the way her hand wrapped around me, her fingers trailing up and down, the big vein disappearing and reappearing with each stroke. And when I tapped her on the side of the head, I told her, “Look up at me when you suck my dick.”

Her eyes, big and blue, not that washed-out kind that’s already tired of the world. Hers was different, clear sky after rain, alive and looking right through you. Eyes that pull you in and don’t let go.

There’s a sound filling the room, low and steady, a slow, wet slurp broken up by pauses that stretch, each one flowing into the next like someone savoring the last bit of a melting popsicle. Every pull is deliberate, slow, dragging out every ounce of sweetness, leaving a faint, sticky smack that lingers in the air. It’s quiet, but intimate.

The camcorder captures her as she leans in, spits right on the tip, her tongue flicking out, grazing it, testing it. Her hands slide down to the base, steadying herself, and she rocks it back and forth across her tongue before taking me in, lips wrapped tight around the head. Her cheek hollows, skin pulled taut against bone, pressed so close it’s like she’s sculpting herself around this moment. Her focus is relentless, as if the world has shrunk to just her, my erection, and the rhythm pulling me closer to release. Each inch, each movement, careful and dedicated. I feel the suction, that raw pull, every nerve teased to the edge with her deliberate, practiced motions.

As I feel it building, she starts to shallow out, her depth losing commitment. “Deeper,” I tell her.

Her eyes respond, wide, hesitant. “I can’t,” maybe she’s saying. Or “I’m scared.”

“Bitch, you just got the head in your mouth. Suck that fucking dick.” My tone’s firm, maybe too firm. Am I playing a part, or am I really frustrated? I don’t remember, but I know she needs to hear it. “You better suck some fucking dick.”

She spits, her hand wrapping around me, stroking once, twice, and her eyes meet mine. Her look sharp, cutting through, like I’m an obstacle, some challenge she’s got to get past. Beneath it, though, there’s a shift, a tightening at her mouth, a softening in her eyes. It’s the look of someone who knows she’s been called out, doesn’t like it, but hates the idea of leaving it there even more. Her expression steadies, bristling but resolved, like she’s rolling up her sleeves in her head, deciding, fine, she’ll do it right this time. She opens her mouth wide, taking in as much as she can, pushing down, making it halfway before she has to pull back.

My patience thinning, I tilt her head back, my hand firm at the base of her neck. Her fingers inch toward my shaft, a reflex to hold back the depth. I look down, calm but clear. “Move your hand.”

I ease in, steady, inch by inch, like I’m giving her time. Nine inches waiting in the wings, my balls swing low, an omen hanging close, swaying with the promise of what’s to come. I tell myself I’m being gentle. Then she plants her hand on my chest, pulls her mouth off me, her eyes wide, looking up. “Don’t cum in my mouth,” she says, breath ragged.

Just like that, her words puncture the mood, like air escaping a balloon. Free will, sure. Everyone’s got their boundaries. I respect it, back off, let her have that say. But I don’t hide the disappointment; it lingers in my voice, flattened and hollow as I murmur, “Fuck it, I want to cum then... get on it.”

She opens wide, eyes pressed shut like she’s bracing for something, her mouth waiting. I let go. The first strike lands on her tongue, the second catches her cheek, a stray fleck on her nose. It’s like a wet, silent firecracker, and then there’s nothing. An abrupt fade to black, twenty-two blank minutes left on the tape, but nothing more worth recording.

Memory’s funny, the way it breaks down, leaves only what’s been captured, documented. I’ve got facts: dates, places, phrases on tape, things written down. They call it semantic memory. For me, that’s it, just records and timestamps. The way most people remember moments? How a moment smelled, tasted, the way the light hit, or the way their heartbeat felt in their chest? That’s completely gone. I don’t actually remember the blonde saying, “Six months. Minimum.” I know it because I recorded it. I know this day marks almost exactly six months because her release form, dated April 30th, says so. Details locked in. Facts I can retrieve.

But now, the tapes are silent. No notes on her, no self-references, no archived reflections. Here I am, sifting through that absence, wondering how forty hours with her vanished into a quiet nothing. Agreement met. Term expired. And I keep coming back to the same question: did I kill the goose with the golden eggs?

Her words were “six months. Minimum.” And I knew the emphasis she put on that “minimum.” It was this unspoken offer, like I could have had more if I wanted. Judging by the way she moved every time we were together, that girl would have stayed for round after round. So what the hell happened?

Maybe it was Red, already living in my house, claiming territory. Maybe that’s why I realized whatever I had with the blonde had an expiration date. I couldn’t escalate things outside the bedroom; couldn’t take it further. It wasn’t about the sex anymore. It was about what it could become, a space where I had total control. But with Red there, the blonde and I were boxed in, and that bored me. We were stuck in a loop, a dynamic that worked for what it was but couldn’t become anything else. There was nowhere else to take it; nothing left to invent between us, and the thrill of it had dimmed. Maybe that’s what made me shut down the camera for good. Not boredom exactly, but the realization that what we had hit its limit.

Or maybe… it was something else. A reaction, an impulse. Maybe I turned off the camera because, deep down, I can’t stand not getting what I want. She had the playmates, the friends she’d bring over for the night, a rotating cast she knew would keep me hooked. But for all that, she’d missed something. And I didn’t care if it meant shutting her out, losing the whole damn string of threesomes, or the next thrill she had lined up. Obedience, control, those come first. I’d burn the whole thing down, all the golden eggs she could lay, because in the end, rules are rules. Maybe I even said it aloud to her face; I don’t know. The camera was off, so the words are lost to the dark.

But the part I know, the part I can feel through the haze, is that I honored our deal. Six months for the rights to that first tape. Maybe that’s all I wanted from her, right from the start.

That first tape, her and me, it was something else, a different kind of thing I couldn’t see back then. My whole life had been a machine of structure, precision, controlling every piece, every gear, knowing exactly how I'd give and take what I needed. But that night, that first tape with her, there was no blueprint, no pre-drawn lines. I’d thought I was done for the day. I’d shut the doors on any plans, winding down, ready to settle. And then… she happened. Out of nowhere.

No time to think. Just heat, just rhythm, just pure, unadulterated now. Every stroke, every movement, erasing me, pulling me out of my own head. For the first time, I wasn’t watching myself from the outside. I was in it, buried so deep that the noise, the endless calculations and structures and constraints, just shut off. Autopilot, but with intention; like every breath and movement was meant to be.

It hit me again with Red, sometime later. I’d propped myself against her door, late, unscripted, just desire and instinct dragging me in. Lust made the decisions that night, not me, and I followed wherever it led. And when I took her, it was like Blondie’s presence had infiltrated us both, carried me through Red like some ghost of impulse I’d been waiting to meet my whole life.

No, you can’t *** this. Can’t replicate it, even if you want to. And I do. Hell, I’d trade every other encounter, every calculated thrill, just to get back to that place, that feeling. I know it now, that it exists, that it’s possible, and so now I have to know: how can I get more of it?

I stand in front of the hotel mirror, a mess of scrawled clues and fragments, each one a breadcrumb I left myself. The inked words crowd the glass, half-memories and half-truths, reminders of what I need to remember when everything else slips. My gaze lands on an empty corner, a small, untouched space at the edge. It feels fitting, like this is where this one should go.

I pull the marker from my pocket, uncap it, and press it to the glass. This time, the words come slow, deliberate, bleeding into the cluttered mosaic of all the things I can’t forget.

"Obedience fuels me. Control grounds me. But I need someone I can lose myself with."

I step back, reading the words like they’re someone else’s confession, though I know they’re mine. They hang there, stark against the chaos of the mirror, a question and an answer rolled into one.

 

[al****]

Hitting this chapter felt like slamming into a wall. The tape cuts off, clean and empty, no direction left, just static. Everything stops dead. But somehow, by the end, it all snapped into place. For anyone who reads my stories and feels that same itch, that need for control, dominance, the endless chase for obedience and submission, have you ever hit what I hit at the end here? And if you have, what the hell is it? It’s not submission, not from me. I still have to be in the driver’s seat, calling the shots. But if you’ve got a clue, throw me a line. I’ll owe you one.