The House that Tien Built

WARNING - explicit content...

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That night, in the house that Tien built, she fed me Viagra -- I couldn’t get it up otherwise, because of the olanzapine. I was one huge hard-on, from the drug, from the anger simmering below the veneer of my skin. But she was wild, happy with her power: her promotion, her house, me fucking her silly; I was the only one who ever made her orgasm, or so she said. That night, she only let me penetrate her from behind, not seeing me, or blind-folded, so we used scarves, lots of them, over the eyes, around wrists and ankles.

We fucked like feral cats, for hours, her yowling like a banshee, but despite all the wetness and touch and stimulation, I didn’t come. I didn’t ejaculate until I rubbed myself between her breasts, her holding them close together around me, facing me, the tip of my cock just reaching under her mouth.

I had to see her face, you see. Eyes wide open, both of us. But she kept hers closed. All I smelled were the orchids, scenting the room, scenting us, marking me hers. I came all over her chest, and she made me lick her clean, like a cat.

She curled into me, also like a cat, drowsy and warm. It was three in the morning.

“Marry me,” I said again to her as she drifted off. “Let’s have children. A boy and a girl. The girl will be just like you, beautiful and strong. Powerful.”

“And the boy?” she asked.

Not like me. I didn’t reply.

Her laugh muffled in the pillow.

“I love you,” I said.

“Good,” she whispered.

Night settled between us, uneasy. I disentangled my legs from hers, rolled to the other side of the expansive mattress. Her hand touched my back.

“Don’t leave,” she said.

“Why am I here, Tien?”

“Because I trust you,” she said. “Only you.”

I waited for more, for her to echo my earlier words. I wondered who else she trusted. Stan? Her periodic amours? I wondered if trust was strong enough glue.

“And I can only love those I trust,” she finally said.

Her fingers trailed down my back, then were gone. The cold of the room brushed up instead, making me shiver. I pulled the blanket around me, around us, her already sleeping.

When I woke, it was still dark. My pillow was damp and my eyes burned. In the thickest part of the night I listened to Tien sleep, her breath steady, soft like cat’s feet padding through a thicket before pouncing on a bird. I laid there, complete in my loneliness. Early in the morning, I woke again. I crept down the stairs, crashed on the unmade futon in my room, and dreamed of Phoebe.


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Excerpted from PURE, a novel well on its way to completion. I pieced together the ENTIRE story today -- 91 scenes (80 written), 81,000 words, a beginning, and ending, and, at last, a middle. Aiming for a FULL solid first draft by the end of this month.