The Devil’s Dealings

The Dealer and I have been on and off for the past three years making him my longest relationship to date. Not only is he a great lover but the drugs are an added bonus. He is the bad boy with the good connections. A shady fellow with a light-hearted nature and blinding smile. He’s trouble. And I love trouble.

I bend over the table and gaze at my reflection in the white dusty mirror. I don’t think I’ve aged in three years. There must be some anti-aging agent that he cuts the coke with. Picking up the shortened straw to perform the ceremonial act a tear unexpectedly falls from my eye. I snort the streak and use the drop as lubrication to collect another line onto the tip of my finger. I love gummies.

The cocaine numbs my lips but the Dealer’s kiss brings them back to life. I am happily sinking down into a sea of chemical induced endorphins. It is the opposite of drowning. I can breathe better and think clearer as I savor the powdered gasoline that taints my saliva.

My hips rock slowly to the silent junky rhythm while he flies high underneath and inside of me. He is in his thirties but fucks as diligently as a senior on prom night. Enthusiasm and stamina are not only appreciated but also encouraged.

With alcohol, weed and narcotics swirling in my head, his hand runs up my sternum and encloses around my throat. I push into it, into him, filling me with everything but air. His grasp tightens, strong fingers easing into the muscles of my neck, while his palm lays flat against my airway.

Every thrust pushes me closer to orgasm until it over-spills from my cunt straight into my veins. Every artery and vessel fills with the shadow of pleasure, racing out from my core to limbs and digits until the flow explodes into my mind. Total system shut down.



Black. A crash to the cranium that leaves complete stillness and peace. No consciousness. A complete and total switch off known only to the dead and lobotomized.

I don’t even remember how I got here.

A gasp and I am back to the living and sane. My eyes drop from the popcorn ceiling to his face like flashing photos of a comic book; still images creating a story, an emotion portrayed in a close up, and finally the situation displays before a fade out. Missing? Dialog. No little white bubbles pop out because words cannot form from this character’s mouth.

I have faded out. I have blacked out. I have tuned out. But I have never shut off. This was… What the fuck was that? My brain is still warming up from an improper and prompt shut down. Intense is a minimalist description for the literal mental ‘blown away’ feeling that possibly has caused permanent damage.

Formerly acutely aware of my surroundings with senses that burned through time and distractions, I suddenly find myself trying to remember how to blink. I’ve blinked before. I know I have. Lost in a daze, miles deep within my body, I feel like I am trying to function without blood. My physical self is left motionless and one with the environment. I am just an inanimate object. A blanket left on these cum stained sheets.

His phone rings a few minutes or hours later. Time is lost to us inactive entities. “He’s here.” It is one of his mules; an anonymous drug delivery system for the surrounding Los Angeles area that is faster than take out. Within fifteen minutes, wherever you are, however much you want, it is there at your doorstep. Not bad for a cash only business.

I hold out my hand for the creased bills, “What am I suppose to say?”

He folds the money again. “Just say ‘hi’ and shake his hand.”

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