Chapter 27: I, Villain

[al****]

This chapter concludes the story arc of my third live-in.
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Most nights, she'd finish her shift around two in the morning, an hour's drive out from the bar, while I'd wait, wide awake as usual. No need for all-night marathons or theatrics. I had a morning to face, business to handle, workouts, tanning, a few shoots to film and direct. What I needed was simpler: that quick, sharp release to knock me out before dawn crept in.

So, we kept things casual. The playroom stayed off-limits, and we met instead on the smooth brown leather couch. She'd come in like clockwork, waiting for instruction. In those hours, when silence is thick enough to *** on, the world outside holding its breath for something that never happens, the bartender slips through my door. I'm stretched out on the leather, robe half-open, a half-finished scotch or bourbon in hand, the night's mood deciding which.

She'd stand in the doorway, strip down to nothing, and say, "How can I please you today, sir?" Every time, like a scripted line she practiced in the car.

When she reeked of cheap beer and smoke, I'd wave her toward the stairs. "Shower. Make sure you're spotless. I'll be watching." And as she made her way up, her voice would drift back, dutiful. "Yes, sir." She knew the consequence for missed spots; she'd learned that lesson early.

Other nights, simpler. She'd walk in, and I'd nod to the floor. "Oral. Keep it clean; don't let anything spill." She'd sink to her knees with that same familiar line: "Yes, sir."

Then there were those nights when the exhaustion hit in just the right way. I'd sit back, legs spread, robe slipping open, everything ready. Just one command: "Get on." She'd straddle me, arms locking around my shoulders, voice a hushed whisper in my ear, "Yes, sir." And the sound like opening a sealed jar, every time, that sound.

That first week, it wasn't about control. Those early hours, with the clock ticking like a slow hammer, each second a reminder that I was awake while the rest of the world slept. It was about teaching her to yield, to learn my needs, folding herself around them, helping me become someone better. Every night, when release hit, exhaustion finally tugged at my eyelids, I'd tell her, "I'm sleeping here. Go to your room."

And always, her soft answer, just a breath above a whisper: "Yes, sir."

By morning, I'd wake, sprawled naked on the leather couch, cool against my hot, sweat-damp skin, and the smell of coffee would pull me from sleep. I'd blink, trying to place myself in time, figuring out how much had slipped by in those dark hours. And there she'd be, standing there in nothing but her bra and panties, holding my coffee in my favorite mug, the one with some ridiculous joke printed on it that I found half-amusing. She'd hand it over with that practiced grace and say, "I wanted to make sure things were right before you started your day."

I'd nod, show her my appreciation with a small touch, a hand grazing along her side. Her fingers would wander down, brush against my morning wood, and she'd ask, "Would you like me to take care of that for you, sir?"

By the end of the week, we both knew this could work. It didn’t take long for things to fall into place. I filled her humidor with her essentials, her safety net, and told her it was time to quit the bar job, time to make the almond-colored room hers. Permanently.

In those early days, I missed more than the subtle shifts in her expression. There were patterns I hadn't seen yet, like how her nerves seemed to melt away when she came home drunk from the bar. It was like she needed that leftover high from laughing with strangers, those drinks with customers, to ease her nerves before she sank into my world. The first night I took her into the playroom, everything changed.

I guided her to the curve of the chair, its surface firm under her skin. She sank into the low dip, her legs unfolding over my shoulders. Her head rested in the hollow, fitting perfectly into the rhythm I'd set. I lowered myself, tasting her warmth, feeling her body come alive under my mouth. She let out a small, *** gasp as I made contact, her sighs spreading, starting small and then deepening, turning richer. Her pulse beat against my tongue, each press a confession she couldn’t hold back, every sound another layer stripped away.

Her fingers clutch the sides, digging into the leather, her body trembling. I take my time, feeling each shift, each arch as she reaches out, responding in raw, uncontrolled jolts. I keep my tempo slow, precise, giving her time to savor each pull and release. There's a method to it, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her thighs quiver when she's near the edge. When she lets go, head falling back, and that low moan escapes her, I catch it, hold it. For a moment, she's pure, blissed-out, lost.

I turn her over, positioning her high, poised at the peak of the chair's curve, the angle perfect to pull her into place with slow, deliberate strokes. Her breath catches as I enter her from behind, her hips angled down, each thrust bringing us closer, each movement almost surgical in precision. I move deeper, matching her pulse, her fingers white-knuckling the leather as her head drops forward.

Once the pace locks in, I guide her further, hands firm as I pull her down into the low of the chair, spreading her arms over the top curve. Her breasts press against the leather, her body surrendered, head resting face-down. She's open, ***, each deep thrust drawing out a soft, almost desperate sound, her voice in perfect time with my movements. The leather molds around her, grounding her, grounding us.

Then, in the final motion, I slide my hands from her back to under her arms, gripping her by the chest, pulling her upward, her spine arching as I draw her close. My hands anchor on her small breasts, feeling the beat of her heart against my fingers, her skin taut, exposed, raw. I'm pulling her to me, pulling us both to the edge. I see her tears slipping down, hear the faint hitch in her breath, but something in her reaction falters.

The climax builds, fierce, but as it hits, there's only hollow silence. Her tears catch the dim light, streaking her face, and something in me twists, but doesn't ignite. She's there, open, raw, but there's a gap, an emptiness lingering. The release slips through my fingers, fading without the satisfaction I was chasing. It passes, leaving only the ache, the hollow that doesn't fill.

I loosen my grip, easing her out of the position, guiding her down with a gentleness that shifts the energy in the room. My hands rest softly on her shoulders, a steady touch, a calm presence that says, I'm here.

I brush the tear from her cheek, leaning in close enough that she knows I'm tuned into every part of her, both the parts she shows and those she's keeping hidden. "How are you feeling?" I ask, voice low, unhurried, letting the question settle.

She nods, barely, but I know better than to take her silence as certainty. I move beside her, shifting so that I'm no longer the *** pressing in but the one supporting her. I let her lean into me, hands tracing slow, comforting lines along her back. There's a pause, a stillness. I give her that space, no pressure, no expectations, just the warmth of my hand against her skin, my breath even and steady so she can sync to it if she needs to.

She cuts the silence with a request, "May I go shower sir?"

I nod, keeping my gaze on her, giving her permission but also letting her know I'm not done taking care of her yet. "Of course, you can," I say, my voice steady, warm. "Take as long as you need. I'll be right here if you want me."

Looking back, I think about the rule I laid down early on: failure isn't an option. At the time, it felt strong, felt clear. But maybe I didn't give it the life it needed, didn't shape it the way I meant it. I told her failure wasn't an option, but I never explained that it wasn't about perfection or meeting some invisible standard. It was about her trusting me, even in the raw, broken places, even when things went dark. Failure wasn't about getting every move right; it was about closing herself off, shutting me out.

But I didn't tell her that. I let it hang in the air, rigid, like a warning or some demand, and maybe I missed the chance to show her what I really meant. Because the rule was always my weight to bear, a promise to catch her when she felt like she couldn't hold on.

As I try to piece it all together, I see how a pattern began to emerge, slowly, in the space between us. When she had control, when she chose to submit, to follow through on her own terms, it worked. The dynamic thrived. Her choice to give in, to please, kept the energy flowing naturally between us. But when it came to the moments I wanted to train her, to channel her through me, her own emotions started to break through. A shift would happen, and she'd call for mercy, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. She'd withdraw, and the session would end abruptly, leaving me standing there, hard, the energy I'd worked to build collapsing into nothing.

I tried to find balance, giving her space to process, to let her emotions settle. I tried to guide her gently back to me, to show her that she didn't need to retreat, that there was strength in vulnerability. But she'd shut down, pull away, as if ashamed, her eyes cast down in something I could only read as embarrassment, and how she'd find excuses to leave quickly, as if distance could erase what had happened. Each time, it happened faster, like a loop we couldn't break, a cycle neither of us could name.

And before I could address it, to help her work through it, the boundaries I'd put in place unraveled in an instant. She entered my bedroom, crossing a line I had set down as concrete, a line that wasn't just a rule but a part of my trust in her.

The first night, Ambien running through my veins, I lie there sprawled across my sa*** sheets, every nerve dulled and distant. The bedroom, one of the only places where the cameras don't watch, feels like an echo chamber as I drift in and out, shadows pooling in the corners. It's around two in the morning when she slips in, silent and naked, mouth wrapping around me before I can even register. I'm half-awake, half-sunk in a place where dreams are real and reality's blurred, the weight of her body pressing down, each move sluggish, a haze.

Eyes closed, my brain says stop, yet a faint whisper escapes my lips, "That feels good." Her whimpers, a sound desperate, almost ***ed, fill the room, slicing through the fog in my head, the kind that only a sleeping pill can pull over you.

Images flash: her body hovering over me, fading, hips rocking slow, fading again, her breasts against my chest, slipping back into darkness.

The final image sticks: her tears, hot, splashing onto my chest, sliding down my stomach, soaking into the sheets. Each drop lands heavy, pulling me under, staining everything clean and untouched until there’s nothing left, just darkness, and I’m gone. 

Maybe this wasn't about the rule itself, or even the failure. It was about the choice she made, the clear lack of hesitation to cross a line I'd carved out, her comfort with breaking into a space she should never have entered. As my mind clears, I'm left grasping at a sense of control that feels permanently fractured. The *** sticks to me like something rancid. She ***d herself on me in my own bed, crying, pulling me into her misery. Now, even my playroom feels tainted by the residue of her actions, a space I controlled, now spoiled. Nothing seems appropriate after something like this. And with an act this wrong, this twisted, I'm left here asking myself: what can I even do?

I tried. Really, I did. Tried to pull the whole mess back in line, keep the routine clean, pure. But things slipped. One minute, she's there, nodding along, that steady "Yes, sir," maintaining order. The next, it's like I'm talking to a stranger, someone who's rewritten the script, forgotten the rules.

Maybe I could look past the first time, that night she slipped in, straddling me, wet and crying in the dark. I chalked it up to a mistake, a boundary blurred, a line crossed once. The *** left a bitter taste, but I told myself it was a fluke, something to smooth over. Then it happened again. And then a third time. Now I'm locking the door to my own bedroom, my sanctuary, feeling all the control, the system, the rules, slipping away with the sound of the latch clicking shut.

That's when I knew. It was over.

I didn't see it back then, but after that call with Red, I think I finally get it. The bartender was just another casualty, another person chewed up and spit out by the world. I thought I could be her savior, pull her from whatever wreckage she carried around. But she wasn't looking for a hero. What she needed was a villain, someone to sink her teeth into, someone she could work her demons out through.

And now I keep asking myself: if I'd known then what I know now, would I have done anything different?

[Ma****]

This is corny as fuck

[al****]

The bartender wasn’t supposed to be part of the story. Not really. Back when I started this whole thing, I was still ***ed, like years hadn’t passed ***ed. The kind of grudge that makes your stomach acid boil just hearing her name. And I didn’t think I could write her into the story without it coming out sharp, petty, like broken glass glued together with spit.

But then the narrative turned, like a dog sniffing out a scent you didn’t know you left behind. I followed it. You can’t write someone’s story without unpacking their mental health issues, their traumas, and I wasn’t about to treat those lightly. Still, I danced around the rawest nerves, kept the scalpel in its sheath, and made it about me. About what I could learn, how I could grow. Less finger-pointing, more mirror-checking.

And here’s the thing. Diving into that rabbit hole didn’t kill me. I’m not as mad anymore. A little less bitter, maybe even forgiving. And for what it’s worth, I learned something. Not about her. About me. Enough to keep me moving forward. Enough to make me think I can finally let go of what I’ve been dragging behind.