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We had arrived at the wedding reception, Edward and I, much later than most of the other guests. “Is always good to make an entrance,” he said, before walking in like some sort of head of state shaking hands and giving phony smiles to anyone who crossed his path. “I look at everyone as a potential customer pal,” he once told me early on in our courtship, and his philosophy seemed to work well for him, as he had made first million by age of thirty. “I made money right way too, with material, land, buildings, none of the internet nonsense.”

The appetizers came and they were good, especially the arugula salad with sun-dried tomatoes and a light vinaigrette dressing. I ate in polite silence and listened as the wives of Edward’s colleagues complained about their husbands and kids. As the main course was being served, the photographer was using opportunity to snap a few candid shots. Yes, photographers and their candid shots, their real shots. My mind began to drift, drift back to my time with Paul.

 Paul with his camera snapping away. Never taking his eye from the viewfinder.

Paul, as sweet as he was insecure.

Paul, whose resentment would ultimately doom us.

Paul …

It was three years into my relationship with Paul, and we were sharing flat in the Chelsea district of London. During that time, I had began modeling, first for trade show conventions all around Britain and then for various print ads. Some success followed and my face had started to be plastered on the side of buss and billboards all over the city. Meanwhile, Paul was still struggling to complete portfolio.

“Would you look at this,” Paul had said to me one night seeing my picture on the back of a magazine, “it looks like you made it to the big time.” His voice had undercurrent of anger. “At this rate you’ll be able to write your own ticket, and I’ll be lucky to be a wedding shooter.”

“Oh no,” I said leaning in close to him, putting my head on his shoulder, “you’re time will be soon. You’ll see.”

“I wish I shared your rosy outlook,” he said.

As time went on, his behavior in bedroom seemed to change as well. Sex with him now was no longer making love, but angry assault. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, taking me from behind, “lay that cock like the whore you are!”

“Whore,” “slut,” “bitch,” all names he would say to me me in bed, and when I voiced objection he claimed that it was “just a little dirty talk babe, you know you to spice things up.”

One night some weird friends from his art school invite us to party. It was  strange affair, with music so loud I could be barely think.

All and all it was about twenty-five people, half and half women and men all packed into this one floor row-house. Hours ticked by, and it seemed to me that general horniness had overtaken the party guests, whether chemical induced or not I do not know. As Paul and I sat on the floor in the living room, this couple started to pet one another, and pretty soon their clothing was torn away in frenzy. We watched as sex seemed to spontaneously erupt in sea of sweaty, naked writing flesh. 

A girl about my age was watching me from across the room, and Paul took notice. “I think you have an admirer,” he said. “Go to her.”

“What,” I asked, shocked.

“Do it, do it for me, for us.”

I didn’t know what to say, my mind was a mess, spinning. In truth I wanted to scream, to run away from this horrible place, to run far from this city, this country and back to my home village, the village just a few years prior I longed to escape from … Without realizing, I was now across the room, and I felt hands pulling me down to floor, ripping off my clothes. Every inch of me was under a sexual attacklips, tongues, fingers, hands, all over my body.

Suddenly I was now being held down, and a naked man was now standing over me, his cock was hard long and thick. I tried to resist, but it was of no use and soon the cock had entered my mouth, his semen coating my throat after a few thrusts. 

Paul was now next to me, directing another cock towards my face. He had this strange, almost demented look in eyes as he grabbed hold of  large appendage, and instead of forcing it on me, he wrapped his lips around it, and began to furiously jerk it off into his mouth.

When it was over, he let the thick, white cum trickle out passed his lips and onto my face. After face was sufficiently covered, he leaned in and licked it up, and then we kissed passionately, passing the warm seed back and fourth between us …

The next morning, I had awoken in our flat. My head felt heavy, and my stomach was in knots. Paul, already awake was standing by the window. “What time is it,” I asked.

Ignoring my question, he instead said, “You really were in your element last night aye?”

“What, I don’t … understand.”

“What’s to understand, you speak fluent English, do I have to spell it out for you?” His voice was starting to shake in anger.

“You brought me there,” I said, suddenly wide awake. “It was you who forced me!

“I didn’t have to force you that hard did I?”

There was silence for a moment, a dense silence, one you could cut it. He then said, “Ever since those fucking pictures, you walk around here like you’re something, some sort of big deal, but you’re nothing. In the end, your just whore like rest of them.”

He stormed out of our flat, slamming the door.

I fell back on the bed, tears filling my eyes. My world, now feeling like it was crumbling around me. I lied there for a long time, hours perhaps, not moving, wanting so bad to erase  previous night,  previous year, when Paul returned, begging for my forgiveness. Crying, his face buried into my shoulder telling me that he was incomplete without me and pledging himself to me now and forever.

I had decided to ease his mind, and told him all was forgotten, but I knew that it never to be same between us.

A month later, I accepted modeling job in Los Angeles and never saw Paul again.

 

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