Savage Writing: Black Widow by the TRX

This was written for Filth Night, so be warned: it’s adult (sex-related) in nature.

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Andrew’s fallen asleep handcuffed to the bed, and he looks so cute that I don’t want to risk waking him by taking off his glasses. Yes, glasses. I’m not taking the handcuffs off until I’m satisfied (or he needs to pee). I hope he’s ready for another go as soon as his eyes open, because I’m not done with him yet – but I have faith in his stamina. Ladies, this is why you get yourself a man who exercises. The amount of thrusting up I’ve made him do tonight has probably added an extra layer of muscle to his glutes, if that’s even possible.

And ladies, listen – this is why you go to the gym with your man: to prevent him from getting snared by a bitch like me. Andrew has a girlfriend, you see. A schoolteacher named Kelly. Everyone who’s met her tells me she’s nice, and I believe them. Andrew’s a nice man, and nice men tend to have long-term nice girlfriends who then become wives. Maybe me and Kelly could have been friends, if I’d met her the same night as him. Maybe in another life I’d have been a better person and left him alone.

Here is the potted history: I get my PhD in Biochemistry two years late due to personal “my brain tried to make me kill myself” reasons. I start working in a lab at a biopharmaceutical company. It’s been three years since I was mentally human enough to look for a boyfriend, so I’m on the prowl. At the Christmas party, I meet a man with glasses, a trimmed beard, and biceps the size of miniature pinschers. He works in a different department. I imagine him wearing nothing but a white coat and closed-toe boots while he pounds me on my lab bench.

‘Hello, Lisa, was it?’ he says when we are introduced. Every sentence has multiple commas, multiple micro-hesitations. ‘It’s really, very nice, to meet you.’

He smiles, but it’s off-kilter. He must realise it is, since his eyes flicker down to the ground, as if seeking strength from it, before he turns back to me.

I mention that I go to the gym a lot, which I do, because it’s one of the ways I keep my mind monsters at bay. We talk workouts. I say I’m looking to join a new gym because of <insert bullshit reason here> and he tells me which one he goes to and recommends it. The next week, we have our first training session as gym buddies.

Ladies, if there is any kind of rare man that needs to be snapped up, it is the recovering nerd. Andrew’s muscles had grown a lot faster than his confidence since he’d started working out; his hotness had accelerated way out of proportion to his awareness of it. He told me he was trying to get better at speaking to new people, but found it hard to push past his initial shyness.

(He told me this while I kept a sharp eye on his “form” while he bent down into a squat.)

I told him I admired him, because the truth is I do. It takes real guts to recognise your own weaknesses and try to make yourself a better person. I know because I fail at it every day. A better person would have seen his embarrassed-proud face, seen how unused he was to compliments, and just found it cute. I, meanwhile, began to pepper every sentence to him with praise: on his form, on how he dealt with people at the company, on how nice he was for helping me improve my workouts. He deserved it all, but I spread it on thick just to lure him in. After a few weeks, his eyes would light up like a puppy’s when he saw me enter the gym doors.

This Monday he told me that Kelly was going on a school trip this weekend. I suggested, in an entirely separate unrelated conversation, that we should get drinks together on Friday after the gym.

I didn’t mean for it to get this far so fast, but after a couple of whiskies I had to touch his forearm. It was just sitting on the table between us like a slab of stone – it had to be done. But once my skin touched his, the air between us caught fire. A better person would have apologised or mentioned his girlfriend. Instead, I leant my head against his shoulder and giggled like a madwoman, not knowing what to do, until he held my face and kissed me.

Ladies, I hope you never learn what three years in the sexual desert does to a person. But that first kiss when you’re on your way out…it’s like water to the dying.

We said maybe five words to each other between the bar and my bedroom. We kissed all the way through the taxi ride back, fumbled our way through my front door, and were half naked by the time we reached the bed. But I offered to take his trousers off. I ran my hands from shoulders, down pecs, and kneeled before his abs. None of my previous lovers had an any-pack, let alone six. And while I had an idea of his general size – the deadlift may as well be called the junk-lift for what it show off – I was still pleasantly surprised by what I found, and happy to wrap my lips around it.

He asked me to stop. His conscience was resurfacing.

‘Maybe…’ he said.

I kissed him hard to cut him off, and redirected him to my bed, pushing him onto his back.

‘Hey,’ I said, ‘do you want to have some real fun?’

‘Um, yes?’

‘Wait here.’

I told myself: if, by the time I return from my wardrobe drawer, he’s put his clothes back on, then that’s fair and right and good. But if he’s still on the bed when I return, then…

The bespectacled adonis was still on the bed where I left him. Full naked. Beautifully erect.

He laughed, nervously, when I showed him the handcuffs.

‘We don’t have to,’ I said. ‘But I thought maybe you could have a rest. Or I could show off my quad work. Or whatever excuse you want to hear.’

‘It looks fun,’ he said. ‘Please, don’t run away with my wallet. Or tickle me.’

I laughed. I was nervous too. The shrivelled pea that is my conscience had hoped that the handcuffs would scare him away.

But when I finished cuffing him to the headboard and he was there, all for me to play with…I had no regrets. I sucked him until he had to ask me to stop again. As I straddled him, preparing for the point of no return, I told him he should practice being assertive and keep telling me what to do. He laughed again, and said:

‘You are in full control of me, ma’am.’

You could’ve painted the wall with the wetness that line gave me.

As I pushed him inside me, I wondered if any carb or dessert or amount of money could match this feeling: this potion of lust, power, and satisfaction.

Within five minutes our first set was done.

‘Oh God,’ he whispered to the ceiling as I sat down next to him.

‘Do you want to go home?’ I said.

‘…no.’

Ladies, get yourself a man who’s been passed up by girls. Who’s been a social underdog. Get yourself someone who will think he’s lucky to have you just for one night, even if you know you’re not worth it.

Andrew looks so cute as he sleeps. I don’t want to be done with him yet. I hope we can enjoy at least one more set together before he goes home. But I hope he doesn’t get hung up on me. I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid like say he’ll break up with Kelly. She seems like a nice woman – someone who has her mind and shit sorted out. Nice people can forgive each other for their mistakes. And themselves.