“You did that on purpose!” she hisses.
Pulling away from my touch, she gives me the evols and peels off the label on her bottle of beer. I remember hearing when I was a student that to peel off such labels represented underlying sexual frustration. It’s why I stopped doing it myself. No need to bring it up now, though, not with her the way she is.
“If I did it on purpose, I would’ve made it hurt a lot more than that.”
Opening her mouth, she closes it before any words come out not wishing to rise to my bait.
“Come, boy,” I call, and with this, the dog waddles over to me from the desk. Sitting by my side, I pat him on the head. He would much rather be sitting with her, but he senses the mood she’s in and decides, like me, that it’s best to keep a wide birth. At least for the time being. Looking at his doggy face, I stroke his nose, causing him to flutter his eyes and wag his tail. Taking his front right paw in hand, I turn it over and inspect the wounds that less than an hour before had been bloody and gross. There were now in much better condition.
“You did a good job cleaning him up,” I say.
“Well, at least I’m good for something other than being a whore.”
Biting my lip, I look to the dog as if seeking help with how to respond. He’s as lost as me, though, and decides the best thing to do is rub himself against one of the table legs.
“What did you decide to call him?” I ask.
“Oh, I like how you’re going to completely ignore that. Thanks.”
“I’ve never called you a whore,” I say.
“Liar! You’ve said it to me countless times when we’ve fucked. Even when I told you I didn’t like it, you’ve kept doing it to achieve your seedy kicks.”
Drinking her beer, she goes to grin but catches herself and scowls at me instead.
“That’s different. Calling you names in bed is all part of the gig. It’s a spur of the moment type of thing. Lust, y’know?”
“For you maybe, but not for you me. I find it degrading.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Well, it’s just that I get carried away.”
“Hmm,” she grumbles, unimpressed yet warming ever so slightly.
Watching the dog rub his arse with a cheeky grin on his face, I smile to myself, but she’s appalled.
“Hachikō!” she snaps, “stop being filthy!”
Wincing as if struck, he looks at her ashamed of his actions.
“So,” I begin, “you’ve named him Hachikō?”
“Yes, I have. He’s my dog. I can name him as I wish. I can tell he’s already been corrupted, though. Scratching his bum against a table leg—it’s exactly the sort of behaviour I’d expect from you.”
A Journal for Damned Lovers UK
A Journal for Damned Lovers US
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