The one thing I cannot forgive is being tricked,” I explain. “There are no limits to what I will do if you’re honest and tell me what you want.”
          “I understand,” he says.
          “‘I want to fuck you’ is fine because I know it’s not a lie,” I continue. “‘I like you’ is bad if you just say it because you want to fuck me.”
          “I understand,” he says. “ And I like you.”
          His eyes are blue and his hair is dark with a hint of reassuring grey around his temples. He kisses me until I’m out of breath. He smiles and plays with my hair. He calls me his girlfriend. He fucks me twice a day and three times on Sunday.
          And I like him.
          Until I call his house and a woman picks up the phone.
          “I still like you,” he says. “But I also like to fuck more than one woman at a time. You can join us whenever you want.”
          I slam down the phone, grab his picture in its golden frame, smash it into a thousand pieces. Then I crawl up the stairs and lie on my bed. Brushing away a tear I close my eyes.

The woman is older and not as pretty as I. Tall and heavy boned. She smells of cheap perfume. She has been hurt just as many times as I. Wrinkles around tired eyes tell the story of her pain.
          He ties my hands to the collar around her neck. He ties her hands to the collar around my neck. Neither of us can move without the other being forced to move as well.
          I catch him looking at me. He smiles.
          “Is that what you want?”
          I feel his hand on my shoulder. I see his hand on her shoulder. I feel him squeezing my shoulder. I see him squeezing her shoulder. I cannot answer his question.
          “Say yes,” he orders.
          “It is what I want,” I say.
          “Kiss her!”
          I don’t. He pushes my head towards her. Her lips brush against mine. Our eyes meet. We connect in the knowledge that we are both here because we want him.
          “Kiss,” he repeats. When we do, a shiver of repulsion glues our tongues together. Understanding that our repulsion is his pleasure we keep kissing. Our disgust makes our kisses long and passionate and wet.
          He unties us.
          “Now touch!”
          Her hands cup my small breasts. My hands move around her mountains of white, silky flesh.
          He makes me lie down on my back on the floor. He links the cuffs around my ankles to the cuffs around my wrists so that my legs are forced apart. She lies on top of me, her head between my spread legs. He ties her arms around my back. Ties us into a bundle of meat. Her mouth on my cunt. My mouth on her cunt. I smell her, as I know she smells me.
          “Lick,” he says.
          We do because watching us pleases him.
          He leaves the room. We hear him talk on the phone - probably to some other woman. We have no way of knowing. We only know that he will return. My knees hurt but when I move I pull up the woman’s arm and she sighs. I lie still and keep licking. Although he cannot see us it doesn’t occur to either of us to disobey him.

My fingers stop touching my clit and I cry, and I cry.
          Do I cry because he deceived me? Do I cry because I like what he does to me – to us – in my fantasy? Do I cry because I want my fantasy to be real although I know it will hurt me unbearably? Do I cry because I regret having slammed down the phone? Do I cry because I missed the chance to make my fantasy real?
          
He returns.
          He makes me lie on my stomach. He makes the woman lie on top of me. Our backs rub against each other while he fucks her using me as their pillow. A pillow he knows wants to be the woman he fucks. I hear her sigh. I hear her moan. When he has a cunt where he wants her he isn’t gentle. At the point of no return he wouldn’t stop if she died under his thrusts. He wouldn’t notice if she died. And if he noticed, he wouldn’t care.
          He turns me around so I lie on my back. He turns her around so she lies on her stomach on top of me. He fucks her from behind. I see his face while he speeds up like a triumphant Duracell bunny. I search his eyes but he doesn’t see me. He also doesn’t see her. All he sees is the reflection of the pain he causes. This, our pain, is all that interests him.

I explode in an orgasm of tears.
          If he had just been honest – if he had just said “I want to fuck you” instead of “I like you”.