Degradation
Page 42
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“We're not doing early tomorrow, so sleep in as late as you want,” he told him. Sanders nodded, and walked forwards. Tate held up her hand, palm facing backwards.
“Up top, Sandy,” she said, her eyes never leaving the paper she was scanning. Sanders high fived her and then continued out of the room. Jameson stared after him.
What just happened?
“I think he likes you,” he mumbled. Tate shrugged.
“Most people do. I'm pretty fuckin' awesome,” she told him. He burst out laughing and walked over to her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to her feet.
“Yes, but usually, Sanders doesn't like anybody,” Jameson laughed, pulling the scissors out of her hand and tugging her away from the sea of newspapers.
“But I wasn't done. What are you doing?” she asked.
“Oh, you're done. Time for good girls to go upstairs and show me how bad they can be,” Jameson told her.
“I don't think there's very much that's good about me anymore,” she laughed, following him out of the room.
“I think you have no idea what bad really is – you almost have too much good,” he replied.
“I don't think -,”
“Stop arguing, or I'll make you crawl up the stairs.”
Tate was silent for about two seconds, and then turned in to a prosecuting attorney, arguing all the points on how she couldn't possibly be good. Jameson stopped moving, smiling at her back as she started up the stairs. Then he reached forward and grabbed her ankle, pulling her leg out from underneath her. She went to her knees, hands flying out to catch herself.
“Shit!” she cursed. He moved a few steps ahead of her, then squatted down and fisted his hand in her hair.
“Why are you always set on defying me, baby girl?” he asked, his voice low as he pulled her hair, forcing her head up towards his own. She looked up at him, a smile playing on the edge of her lips.
“Because it's always so much fun.”
“You are such a mindfuck, Tate. Something is wrong with you, that you want to be treated like this, that you like being a whore,” he hissed at her. She chuckled low in her throat.
“Hmmm, but really, what does all that say about you? That you want to treat someone like this? That you want to be with a whore?” she replied.
“I've made peace with my desires.”
“Like you said, we're the same animal. You had a bad weekend. Let's go upstairs, and you can take it out on me,” she whispered. He tugged harder on her hair and she raised up onto her knees.
“Sounds like that works out more in your favor, than mine,” he pointed out. She laughed, reaching out to scratch her nails down his arm.
“Baby, all I do is give you favors. You should feel blessed, to have such an accomodating whore,” she purred. He snorted and shoved her forward, forcing her back onto her hands.
“Burdened is more like it. Now fucking crawl.”
And she did, all the way to his bedroom.
Maybe I should keep this one ...,
~7~
A week later, Tate rushed around her apartment, a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. She grabbed various articles of clothing, shoving them in to an oversized purse. She had stayed at Jameson's for most of the last week – even gone back to his place after her shifts at the bar – and she didn't know how this week was going to go, but she wanted enough clothing to cover all her bases. She snorted at that thought.
Not that I wear much clothing.
It was August in Boston, which meant hot and humid – but Jameson insisted on keeping the house at near boiling temperatures. She pretty much lived in her underwear, tank tops, and socks when she was there. If it bothered Sanders, he didn't show it, so she didn't think twice about doing it.
Tate also liked to think that she and Sanders were developing a friendship of sorts. The kind where only one friend talks, and the other just stares and says the bare minimum. Friendship-ish.
That morning, she had managed to drag them in to downtown Boston to play at being poor with her. She got them free lunch, took them through a Sunday market, forced Sanders to try on ridiculous clothing. Jameson wasn't as easy, he simply refused to do anything.
But he went along with her, and even laughed when she held Sanders' hand and told a clerk that he had just proposed, so could they, please, join in on the champagne brunch the store was throwing for newly-engaged people? Jameson laughed even harder when she really sold the act by planting a big kiss on Sanders' mouth – tongue and everything. The really shocking part was Sanders kissing her back. Cheeky man.
But then Jameson got called in to work; a client was having some sort of financial crisis. Tate let him go, but only after making him promise to pick her up at six o'clock. He had said he would go to her dinner, and she was holding him to it.
Tate tried not to think of it as a dinner date with friends – she thought of it as an elaborate form of torture, a game; seeing how far she could push him. Also, a tiny part of her had wanted to see if he'd actually go through with it. They spent so much time at his place, only venturing out on occasion for dinner, that she was beginning to think he was hiding her away. It was strange – she didn't really mind being someone's whore, but she hated the thought of being someone's dirty secret.
She dropped her toothbrush in to the sink and spit out the excess toothpaste foam. Water, gargle, spit, and she was good to go. She threw on a jacket and headed for the front door, when there was suddenly a loud banging. She paused, but the banging didn't. A voice with a heavy Boston accent started shouting.
“Up top, Sandy,” she said, her eyes never leaving the paper she was scanning. Sanders high fived her and then continued out of the room. Jameson stared after him.
What just happened?
“I think he likes you,” he mumbled. Tate shrugged.
“Most people do. I'm pretty fuckin' awesome,” she told him. He burst out laughing and walked over to her, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to her feet.
“Yes, but usually, Sanders doesn't like anybody,” Jameson laughed, pulling the scissors out of her hand and tugging her away from the sea of newspapers.
“But I wasn't done. What are you doing?” she asked.
“Oh, you're done. Time for good girls to go upstairs and show me how bad they can be,” Jameson told her.
“I don't think there's very much that's good about me anymore,” she laughed, following him out of the room.
“I think you have no idea what bad really is – you almost have too much good,” he replied.
“I don't think -,”
“Stop arguing, or I'll make you crawl up the stairs.”
Tate was silent for about two seconds, and then turned in to a prosecuting attorney, arguing all the points on how she couldn't possibly be good. Jameson stopped moving, smiling at her back as she started up the stairs. Then he reached forward and grabbed her ankle, pulling her leg out from underneath her. She went to her knees, hands flying out to catch herself.
“Shit!” she cursed. He moved a few steps ahead of her, then squatted down and fisted his hand in her hair.
“Why are you always set on defying me, baby girl?” he asked, his voice low as he pulled her hair, forcing her head up towards his own. She looked up at him, a smile playing on the edge of her lips.
“Because it's always so much fun.”
“You are such a mindfuck, Tate. Something is wrong with you, that you want to be treated like this, that you like being a whore,” he hissed at her. She chuckled low in her throat.
“Hmmm, but really, what does all that say about you? That you want to treat someone like this? That you want to be with a whore?” she replied.
“I've made peace with my desires.”
“Like you said, we're the same animal. You had a bad weekend. Let's go upstairs, and you can take it out on me,” she whispered. He tugged harder on her hair and she raised up onto her knees.
“Sounds like that works out more in your favor, than mine,” he pointed out. She laughed, reaching out to scratch her nails down his arm.
“Baby, all I do is give you favors. You should feel blessed, to have such an accomodating whore,” she purred. He snorted and shoved her forward, forcing her back onto her hands.
“Burdened is more like it. Now fucking crawl.”
And she did, all the way to his bedroom.
Maybe I should keep this one ...,
~7~
A week later, Tate rushed around her apartment, a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. She grabbed various articles of clothing, shoving them in to an oversized purse. She had stayed at Jameson's for most of the last week – even gone back to his place after her shifts at the bar – and she didn't know how this week was going to go, but she wanted enough clothing to cover all her bases. She snorted at that thought.
Not that I wear much clothing.
It was August in Boston, which meant hot and humid – but Jameson insisted on keeping the house at near boiling temperatures. She pretty much lived in her underwear, tank tops, and socks when she was there. If it bothered Sanders, he didn't show it, so she didn't think twice about doing it.
Tate also liked to think that she and Sanders were developing a friendship of sorts. The kind where only one friend talks, and the other just stares and says the bare minimum. Friendship-ish.
That morning, she had managed to drag them in to downtown Boston to play at being poor with her. She got them free lunch, took them through a Sunday market, forced Sanders to try on ridiculous clothing. Jameson wasn't as easy, he simply refused to do anything.
But he went along with her, and even laughed when she held Sanders' hand and told a clerk that he had just proposed, so could they, please, join in on the champagne brunch the store was throwing for newly-engaged people? Jameson laughed even harder when she really sold the act by planting a big kiss on Sanders' mouth – tongue and everything. The really shocking part was Sanders kissing her back. Cheeky man.
But then Jameson got called in to work; a client was having some sort of financial crisis. Tate let him go, but only after making him promise to pick her up at six o'clock. He had said he would go to her dinner, and she was holding him to it.
Tate tried not to think of it as a dinner date with friends – she thought of it as an elaborate form of torture, a game; seeing how far she could push him. Also, a tiny part of her had wanted to see if he'd actually go through with it. They spent so much time at his place, only venturing out on occasion for dinner, that she was beginning to think he was hiding her away. It was strange – she didn't really mind being someone's whore, but she hated the thought of being someone's dirty secret.
She dropped her toothbrush in to the sink and spit out the excess toothpaste foam. Water, gargle, spit, and she was good to go. She threw on a jacket and headed for the front door, when there was suddenly a loud banging. She paused, but the banging didn't. A voice with a heavy Boston accent started shouting.
