Chapter Text
Chrissy’s shirt is off. She had it on, but the leather seats of her vintage cherry red convertible got really hot under the midday desert sun. So now she was just in her electric blue bikini top. A weak string and two tiny triangles of shiny Lycra-ish material. Eddie’s favorite, not that Eddie was here. Chrissy also has on cute red heart-shaped sunglasses, Daisy Dukes, and those American Apparel socks that go up high, high onto her thigh with the tops banded in red and blue. She looks very cute.
And while her car has been flying down the highway for the last while with no problem, wouldn’t you believe it that right when she gets to the middle of nowhere— buttfuck , as her and Eddie would say!—her car breaks down.
She hops out and put her hands on her hips and thinks to herself I’m such a ditz for buying a vintage red convertible, because I don’t have any idea how to work this thing. But right in between a little panicked and a lot panicked, something in the distance catches Chrissy’s eye, shimmering in the heat like how animals imagine ponds while they’re dragging their thirsty bodies through the desert (this is based on what Chrissy can tell from childhood cartoons).
There’s one of those big arrow signs that say “BAR”, like the one above the scary looking blacked-out building she sometimes drives by on her way to Eddie’s (or hers, too, now). And to the right of the squat, square building, there’s a sign reading “GAS”, which creaks in nonexistent wind above some ancient looking pumps.
So Chrissy walks over, and it doesn’t take long, in fact she doesn’t even really register walking over there at all. She swings the door open and a little bell ding dings above her. It’s only when the door has shut with a warm gust of desert air behind her that Chrissy realizes she’s forgotten to put her t-shirt back on.
Her arms fold over her shiny bikini tits protectively, but it only makes her push her tits together all pertly because her tits sit so nicely sometimes they’re not all that big and maybe one day she’ll get them bigger and Eddie says he’ll help pay for a new set if she’s still sure about wanting the change when she’s thirty but he just really wants her to be sure not that it’s any of his business but they really do sit nice and they’re sitting so nicely right now .
It’s dark in there. Really dark. Dark like when she sits out tanning too long in the backyard and then comes back in and has to let the purple splotches adjust before she can make her way to the fridge for a glass of water. But as her eyes adjust, she sees that this bar is, like, a pirate’s or villain’s lair, but for dudes on motorcycles. There’s dust and peanut shells on the floor. That pretty barmaid is lit up in neon by a dart board. And all dozen-ish men in here (she’s the only girl) are between the ages of forty-five and sixty, at least two decades older than Chrissy these men are so much older and her skin still glows with natural pretty young person perfection and she is vibrant and smells like young sex all the time and these dad-aged men notice they notice they notice so much and because she’s the only girl, they’re all looking at her from the toes wiggling in her white Converse to the American Apparel high, high tube socks that they no longer sell but really should. All the way up to her little bikini top.
Now is when she says, to the room at large, “Um, hi, sorry? But my car’s broken down?”
And one of them asks, “Are you all alone?”
Here is the crucial part where Chrissy has never learned stranger danger she’s so dumb she’s so dumb and naive and easily tricked she’s like the most beautiful, most stupid bunny in whatever a herd of bunnies is and says, “Uh-huh.” And as she says it there’s this thunking sound behind her, and she looks over her shoulder to see one of the tall bikers has reached up really high to lock the door with the little metal hingey thing all the way up top, and so Chrissy is like “um” and takes a step back like the aforementioned beautiful, stupid, scared bunny, and that step back would have her thudding into one of the other bikers who has snuck up behind her while she was distracted, and before she could whirl around he’d have his arms around her waist. Then there’s someone laughing, and she kicks her leg but instead of making impact she inadvertently just launches her calf into some guy’s strong grip which, like, nice, Christine, Eddie paid for those self-defense classes and it was all in one ear and out the other, just like everything else!
Then they’re undressing her faster than she can understand really being undressed and it’s mostly just ripping and tugging anyways and then they’ve got her on her back but sort of lifted in the air because there’s enough of them and she’s so small she’s so small she’s really so small and defenseless she’s like a little creature built to be picked up and wrangled around she really is she’s so small she’s going to come soon she’s going to and then someone is inside of her and she says “no, no don’t” but her body takes it really easily her body was made to take dick easily it must be how else can one explain everything about her life and they hold her nose so she has to open her mouth and then there’s a dick in there, too, and then she doesn’t mean for it to happen really but she’s coming and her eyes are crossing inward she can’t help it her body is addicted to cumming she loves orgasms so much she has so many all the time but hopefully these men don’t notice but then one of the men murmurs “What the fuck are this chick’s eyes doing?” because she can’t help it her eyes cross because she’s so stupid and her brain is connected to her pussy everyone says it everyone knows it her boyfriend says it and the men in the comments say it and it’s true it’s true she’s just some idiot bimbo addicted to dick it’s all true and the one in her pussy says “Oh, Christ, she’s coming, I can feel her coming on me.” And then things get a little hazy, and the men, who are somehow unaware that she has millions of subscribers on PornHub alone and various subforum wikis dedicated to her feet and the exact titling of each of her films begin to catch on to the fact that her body is one of a fuckdoll ballerina whether she likes it or not but she doesn’t like it she swears she doesn’t like it she just can’t help her body from—she’s coming again. And she’s settled onto the cool concrete floor and before she can process it someone slides smoothly into her ass and then things get confusing or habitual or something and she can’t quite keep track, and she realizes at one point that she’s started bobbing her head and trying to get one of their dicks all the way settled into her throat and that hey, maybe things actually aren’t all that bad because all these men have six and three quarter inch cocks with a slight curve upward, which is her favorite, and she’s on her back with her trembling legs held open and both of her holes filled and a dick in her hand and she’s whining “Daddy, please, can I come?” and they’re all cooing “Aw, baby, oh, oh I don’t think that’s the right thing for you right now” because Chrissy doesn’t know any better Chrissy knows nothing about nothing and it’s better when everyone else chooses for her, and now she’s here in this bar and they’re gonna keep her here forever and use her when they want and occasionally give her shots of burning vodka so she remains ditzy and pliant and giggly and they stop fucking her just as she’s about to come and she whines and kicks her legs out and they go again and again and after a while it’s past her disliking it or liking it, she’s just a body and the body is for fucking and gagging and fishhooking salty fingers into its mouth and occasionally it would orgasm on its own accord, marked by a clenching of her pussy (and a couple of times her ass, to which she’d slur-whisper oh no, I think my ass is coming and everyone would cheer) and a rolling of her abdomen and a sound like uhn choked out and someone’s foot was on her face and she’s flipped around and she’s bouncing her perfect little cheerleader rhythmic bounce in cowgirl she was a cheerleader she was a dumb evangelical cheerleader in Indiana and now she’s a rich Hollywood blonde porn star and she’s not even lying when she says it life is so amazing she is such a slut and then she’s getting a little wobbly and maybe losing a few seconds or minutes to some hazy, black, sleep space and then she’s on her back with her legs flopped over her head and she’s looking at herself from outside of herself so all she can see are the backs of her overturned thighs and the curve of her ass and a long dick pounding into her and she’s gonna come everywhere all over but then her vibrator goes from HMMMMM to hmmmmm to quiet and still.
Chrissy opens her eyes and sighs out a little uuuuuggggh into the quiet of the bedroom. She tries a precursory circling of her fingers over her wet, sensitive clit, but as suspected it’s been buzzed into numb, twitchy, vibrator oblivion. She tosses her dumbfuck stupid weak battery wand to the bottom of the bed, considering once again the cruel cosmic joke of the thing having no real benefits except for storing her all time favorite vibration pattern.
She taps along the soft white sheets, trying to avoid looking too closely at the shortened chip of her left middle finger acrylic that she won’t have time to deal with until Sunday. So ugly. Her vape is nowhere to be found, even after she crawls up from under the blankets and shakes the sheets around.
Just as she’s about to hit the decks and look under the bed, she hears its familiar clicking and turns to Eddie’s corner of the room just in time to see smoke billowing from where he faces away from her in his desk chair.
Both of his monitors are filled with e-mail inboxes and complicated money paperwork and a very densely highlighted calendar. She wonders, if someone walked in, what they would guess he did.
Chrissy pads over and takes the vape from where he’s placed it on the outside corner of the desk, presumably for Chrissy to pick up when she’s ready.
Chrissy means to leave him be and return to bed, really, but he’s got that perfect focused face of his on, and she finds herself leaning against the desk and gazing at him as she takes a hit. Two perfect, tiny train tracks run between his brows, not severe enough to qualify as a frown but instead suggesting the idea for it. It’s a look saved for administrative work, learning a riff on his guitar, and tucking his thumb alongside his other four fingers inside Chrissy.
His front teeth fall to gnaw tenderly at a little cut on his bottom lip, which has started to chap as Los Angeles moves into fall. Some scary music bleats out too loudly from his headphones.
After a few moments, Eddie’s eyes roll in that slow, easy, sometimes sort-of-spooky way over to her. He looks like he’s never been in a rush in his life when his eyes move like that. Even though Chrissy knows how bad he is at time management.
When she doesn’t move—which she doesn’t mean to not move, but she doesn’t like stepping away from when he looks right at her, is all—he pulls his headphones off his ears and hangs them over his shoulder.
“Why’re you all—“ Eddie overcompensates an approximation of a hangdog expression, lip sticking out and his brows crunching into a frown.
“My wand died before I was done.” Chrissy drags out the e in “done” so Eddie knows how sad this is.
Eddie looks at her nostril or her mouth or somewhere on her face in a way that is studying and makes Chrissy feel lovingly observed and not horrifically self-conscious. “Well, that’s just the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
Eddie pats his lap. Chrissy didn’t realize just how badly she needed to perch on his right knee until she’s there. Eddie brings one arm carefully up and over Chrissy’s head and along her side before leaning forward to continue typing. Chrissy studies the one curl that falls from his temple that is thin and wiry and will go gray first.
“Done soon,” Eddie says. “Then we can go to sleep.”
“You extra super sure you don’t feel like fucking?” Chrissy twists her hips gently and thinks, quite a few moments too late, that she hasn’t cleaned up since masturbating, and may stand up to reveal a wet spot on Eddie’s sweatpants.
Eddie pauses his typing around her only for a moment. Her favorite part of his whole body in the world, his left dimple, flashes good-humoredly. Which it doesn’t always flash that way! The magical part about Eddie’s left dimple is that it also comes out when Eddie is thoughtful or his head aches or he’s super, duper angry. Chrissy is the master translator of Eddie’s left dimple.
“I’m extra super duper sure,” Eddie says, and his fingers resume their gentle thunking.
Chrissy pecks his nose and doesn’t say oh, right, because I gained a little weight recently and I only have so many interesting tricks and so I’m not worth your time fucking currently, but I bet if Ashley or whatever, the redhead at the party last week who thought you were so funny and who you have shot with twice in two months were here maybe you wouldn’t be extra super duper sure about not fucking, would you, asshole? which Chrissy never actually has said but the first year of their relationship she was able to imbue all of into one very terse“That’s fine” when Eddie said he wasn’t in the mood. She knew that wasn’t okay and if the tables were turned Eddie would be an asshole yadda yadda, but Chrissy has some hang-ups around the value of her sexual desirability, is all.
She moves only a millimeter away from where she kissed the side of his nose, so her lips bump up against his cheek as she says, “I have to go get ready for bed.”
Chrissy stands and moves to leave. Eddie catches her wrist and brings her hand up to his nose to breathe in one big inhale of her post-touching hand. “God. You smell so good, you know that?”
He’s so ew and he’s so lovely.
–
Chrissy likes falling asleep with her leg hitched up high, high, high on Eddie’s steady abdomen. He’s alternating, tonight, between stroking the soft upper flesh of her outer thigh and petting her head.
When he asks her, it’s while he’s stroking her temple with a featherlight touch of his middle finger. It’s damp from where she just washed her face.
“What do you think about?” When Eddie starts falling asleep, his voice goes low instead of soft, rumbling all the way down where Chrissy’s knee falls on him.
“Hm?”
“When you make yourself come. Without porn. What do you picture?”
Chrissy shuts her eyes and centers on the goosebumpy pleasure of his fingertip.
It’s always the same. Always the men at the bar. Has been for time in memoriam, with the early, vague iteration (she’s since had much time for workshopping) coming to pass when she was in high school.
Chrissy liked it because it remained true and pure and was impossible to ever actually achieve. She’d done shoots where that energy had been the gist of it, but no matter how fantasy-oriented you want a shoot to be you still end up sitting on some guy while they fix a light saying stuff like, “Well, sixth grade is tough for everyone, but you seem like a really supportive dad. I’m sure your daughter will adjust!” (and you don’t even think it’s weird!).
“Mm,” Chrissy upticks her voice, like it’s all casual, even as her heart cachunks briefly in her throat. She doesn’t open her eyes. He wouldn’t be mad. He wouldn’t be sad. He loved her unconditionally. That’s what he said. “A buncha middle aged men locking me in a bar and having their way with me, mostly.”
Eddie was quiet for only a second, not even long enough for Chrissy to worry enough to open her eyes. His fingertip’s rhythm never once faltered. “Classic.”
Chrissy hummed so he could hear her smile before nestling herself into his neck. "Mm. Guess so."