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Vaughan is driving. He's thinking out loud, or maybe talking to me.
"Did you know..." he starts, as lamplights pass us by like cameras flashing, capturing our faces in snapshots of agony and terror, like a Hammer House horror where the characters are attacked by something that sends them skidding off the road. If only, I think, growing hard. I'm always hard, lately, any mechanical smell, oil and grease and blood, any loud noise turning my legs into jelly, my heart beating like that of a frightened rabbit's, thud thud thud like a fucking jackhammer.
"Did you know James Dean liked to have cigarettes put out on his skin?" Vaughan says, his voice a quiet rumble, lustful and charged with tension ready to release at any given moment, sending us both flying off the road.
"I knew." I say, because I work in Hollywood, and what asshole doesn't know these things.
"Did you know Jayne Mansfield had a couple kids illegally scraped off her?" He says, hands tightening on the wheel.
"I knew." I say, monotone.
"Did you know..."
I tune him out, palming my dick through my too-tight jeans. He sees, leans over to cover my hand with his. He doesn't stroke as much as he gropes blindly, clumsily, and it fucking hurts. I let him do it, like I'd let him do anything.
***
"I wanted to fuck you the first time I saw you, back at the hospital." He whispers in my ear, as we lay in bed at Seagrave's dingy little hut.
One of Seagrave's crippled whores is touching herself, looking at us in a meth filled stupor, as the television keeps blabbering on in the background, household appliances and dead civilians in Iraq and the latest hits.
Vaughan is bent over me, breathing heavily as he nudges my thighs apart, nosing at my chin, my ear, mouthing my jawline. I'm reminded of him back at the hospital, the same intense stare as he leaned in, almost sniffing the air around my neck, the same laboured breathing as he knelt before me to look at my mangled leg with worshipful eyes.
"I wanted to fuck you right on that hospital bed, James. You looked like a fucking offering, that sheet hiked up just to expose where your hip met your thigh, and your thigh..." he sighs shakily, burying his face in my neck.
"I wanted to take a hold of that metal and use it as leverage to fuck you, like a fucking bridle."
I shouldn't be as turned on as I am, held down on a mouldy mattress in this nasty fucking place, being compared to a horse, but I can't help but imagine it. His powerful, dirty hands pulling at the loops of my leg brace, his dick tearing me in two as he keeps a hold of my broken body, the cold metal sinking deeper into my meat as he fucks me like a machine.
I moan, nails scratching Vaughan's back, and he hisses, satisfied, lustful. His hips snap violently into mine, and though we're still fully clothed I can feel his erection, his eagerness and destructive power, like a car that you lost control of at full speed.
Backbrace Betty, or Broken Bonnie or whatever the fuck her name is arches up from her armchair, still playing with her pussy, and I suddenly want her to watch it all, just as Vaughan has described it. I want them all to see me, bloody and broken, as Vaughan works me open, as we crash together into oblivion.
I want to fuck her, too, make her scream, and I want Vaughan to touch me while I do it, I want him there while I'm pounding into her, at my back, hot breath on my neck as he takes a hold of my hips and pushes them into her, using me to fuck her like he would use a tool.
I come violently, like an electric shock, grabbing Vaughan's neck and crushing his windpipe as he keeps rutting against me. He growls, rips the first few buttons of my shirt open, bites my collarbone, hard, so hard I'm afraid he might break the bone.
When I look down there's blood splattered on my chest, trickling down slowly. He makes a noise like a dying animal and bends down to lick the blood, catching my nipple in his mouth as he does, still snapping his hips against my inner thigh, and just like that I'm hard again.
"Crash." Says Broken Bettie. "Crash. Crash. Crash."
***
Vaughan stops the car in an abandoned backstreet, grimy and black and empty in the dead of night. His hand is still between my legs, possessive, squeezing rhythmically. The engine is alive under us, vibrating and shuddering, creating waves of deep arousal at my very core.
"Backseat" he says, without turning off the ignition, and then turns to look at me as I get out of the car, walk around it and open the rear door.
"Clothes off" he orders in a low rumble before I can get in.
I feel my heart hammer in my chest, as I step back and obey, shrugging off my leather jacket, then my shirt, toeing off my shoes in order to peel off my pants and underwear. For a moment I stand there, completely naked in the dingy backstreet, shivering slightly as Vaughan looks me up and down with that intense look of his, like he wants to devour me.
Then he gets out of the car, walks around to where I'm standing, and presses me back against the cold chrome of the Lincoln, hands squeezing and stroking my skin until he pushes me back violently, onto the leather seat. Here the smell of semen is overpowering, dizzying, and I fight to get back up.
He doesn't let me, pinning my middle to the car seat like a cat pinning down a bird, then grabs my leg, lifting it up, hiking it over his shoulder. He mouths at my skin where it's scarred and twisted, and my leg aches, a vague echo of the pain I felt after the crash.
"You're so sexy when you limp" he says, biting and releasing my skin, sucking bruises into the pale expanse of my thigh.
"Let's see if I can make you limp some more."
He pulls me up by my hair, then turns me forcefully around, pushing me against the side of the car. The backseat is spacious, presidential, one might say. I look at the vast car trunk, thinking of Jackie climbing blindly on it, trying to gather the splattered remains of JFK's head.
Did you know...
I lean on the car door, forearm braced to protect my chest from the cold, unyielding metal. I look behind myself, and see that Vaughan is pulling on his dick, otherwise still fully clothed. He leans over and opens the truck, retrieving something from its depths. I twist my head back to see what it is, but the position I'm in won't let me.
Shhh, he goes, warm hand coming to rest on the small of my back. He strokes my skin, going lower and lower until his hand is pressed against my ass, squeezing, kneading, and then I feel his breath on my skin as he mouths at the backs of my thighs, bites down on my asscheek, noses at my opening.
I let out a broken noise, arching back towards him as he tongue-fucks me, hands holding me open, digging furrows into my skin. I'm reminded of the bruises on Catherine's skin, and I realize I can't wait to have matching ones. She'll want to touch them, kiss them, use them as a gateway to Vaughan.
He pulls back, and I slump forward, boneless. I can hear him doing something behind me, but I don't turn to look. The next thing I know, liquid is being poured onto me, from my shoulders to my legs, and I jerk away, scared that it might be gasoline, that he might want to see me go up in flames. It wouldn't be so far off from his usual fantasies.
But from the smell, the greasy feeling of it as my legs slide against each other, I know it's motor oil. That motherfucker.
Vaughan takes hold of my hips, hoists me up again, and then covers my body with his, hugging my middle as his cock presses up against my leg blindly, like a dog, until finally he manages to slide it in.
His hands map my body, they skid off it like a car on ice, they slip and slide on my hips as his dick presses into me, warm and thick and merciless. The brutal, violent eroticism of it consumes me, and all the while the Lincoln still shudders and vibrates under our weight, and I imagine that the car is moving, speeding through the night, faster and faster, towards certain tragedy.
Vaughan strokes his hands up my stomach, until he finds my nipples, trying to squeeze them, the grease on his hands preventing it from hurting. Finally he settles on scratching them, no doubt grimy nails embedded in sensitive skin. The feeling of it, combined with the feeling of being spread open again and again goes right to my dick, though none of it feels good, too violent to be pleasurable, but too good for it to really hurt.
"You'd look so good twisted around metal, baby, so fucking good. Metal through your bones, chrome inside you, filling you up. The screech of tires and crash! You'd be fucking perfect." Vaughan murmurs, pressed against my ear, pressing sloppy, hard kisses to the side of my face.
I moan my agreement, pushing back onto him, wailing as his dick spears me open, relentless and hard, like a piston. The idea of Vaughan as a machine almost undoes me. The metallic smell of motor oil fuels my fantasy, as Vaughan turns into roaring metal, a complex mechanism with the sole purpose of plowing and conquering.
I know my orgasm, when it comes, is going to be painful and overwhelming, torn from my body, more like a knife going through flesh than a lover's caress, more rape than lovemaking. Then he hits my prostate, and I wail brokenly, he picks up on it and repeats the motion, burying himself impossibly deep.
It's a crescendo, and I can't believe he's going to make me come like this, with brute force and nothing else, but then I'm falling over the edge, body spasming and clenching as my vision goes a little black at the edges, spilling all over his already filthy leather.
Vaughan doesn't give me any time to recover and I grab the side of the car and hold on to it for dear life, as he groans loudly and picks up a new pace, chasing his own release. His hips knock me forward, onto the car door, and I push myself back, powerless, trapped, my lower half captive to his crushing embrace. I feel that I now know how the whores he's fucked feel, used without the slightest concern but with the most terrifying intensity.
Finally he comes, I can feel the hot rush of it inside of me, filling me up like molten metal, and I shudder all the way through it.
"Oh, fuck" I say, breath hitching, and Vaughan crowds me against the door, bruising my chest as he crushes me against the metal, milking the last of his orgasm, nose in my hair and hands vice-like on my hips. A pained sound leaves my lips, but he ignores me, breathing heavily as he falls limp on top of me, licking and biting my shoulders.
Finally he lets up, pulling out with a sudden motion that makes me realize how sore I am. I feel like something boiling hot truly has been poured inside of me, like Vaughan has lit a fire inside me, and now it's consuming me from within.
As if reading my thoughts, Vaughan strokes his fingers over my opening, gently, before dipping his fingertips inside. I jerk away, overwhelmed, and I turn around. Vaughan shows me his fingers. They're covered in blood.
A vague sense of dread has me dipping a hand between my legs, and when I withdraw it it's specked in blood and semen. Adrenaline kicks in, and I start feeling that familiar thump thump thump in my chest, but then Vaughan is grabbing my wrist and putting his mouth around my fingers, licking them clean. I watch him as if hypnotized, and then bend down to lick at his softening cock, tasting blood, and saltiness. I'll have to tell Catherine that she was right about his semen.
He moans, grabs my hair, pulls me up to kiss him, biting and pushing and sucking kisses that try to outdo the last one in violence.
"Come on" he says, climbing back into the driver's seat, but when I try to imitate him I realize that the shock from seeing so much blood coming from inside me has turned my legs into jelly, shaky and unstable, and I can't move, just like after a crash.
The car roars to life under my bare skin, and my hands slip on the liquids covering the car seat, and then we're on the road again, driving through an endless procession of anonymous vehicles that all seem to head in the same direction, as if called upon by a higher being made of metal and chaos, engines roaring as one like a prayer for its dark mass.