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Make Me

by Selena Jardine

I sat in the glow of my computer monitor, my glasses halfway down my nose, typing rapidly. I heard a sound from behind me. I ignored it.


“This isn’t a good time, Kevin. I’m working.”

“Sandy.” I turned. He stood leaning against the doorjamb, his right hand tucked under his left arm. He was wearing a crooked smile.


“I read something of yours on the Internet.”

Now, this should not have been a surprise. I’m a writer. I publish wherever I can: newspapers, journals, e-zines. I write occasional short stories for women’s magazines. I’ve even written a novel, though I have to admit it didn’t do very well. I write columns, gossip, advice. I’m the one who brings pens to a party so I can write on cocktail napkins. Quite a bit of it shows up on the Internet.

“So?” I said, half-turning back to the computer. I had a deadline. And then, curious, because writers always are: “What was it?”

“’Tina’s Third Orgasm’,” he said.

I froze.

“By ’Versa Vice,’” he said.

I took my glasses off and turned all the way around in my chair to look at him. He still had that funny smile on his face. He knew, all right. Oh boy, oh boy. Better not try to deny it. And even though I know writers, even though I know myself, even though I was in terrible trouble, I still couldn’t believe what came out next.

“What did you think?” I asked.

He flinched, and then I began to know what I was in for.

Kevin sat down on the sofa, clenching and unclenching his hands. He took a deep breath, then blew it out. It was like waiting for a sentence of execution.

“Listen,” I said. “So I write a little smut. What’s wrong with that?” I hated the pleading sound in my voice. And it was true. Sort of. I wrote maybe more than a little. I had written perhaps fifty or sixty stories for Usenet under my pseudonym, short, acerbic allsorts that brought me more fan mail than my novel ever would.

“Nothing,” he said. His voice sounded strained. “I read stories like that sometimes. Everybody does.” And then his obvious decision to make this a civilized conversation flew out the window, and everything changed.

“Jesus Christ, Sandy,” he said. “The guy in that story was me. You didn’t even change the fucking facial hair. I was reading it, and things were getting more and more familiar, and weirder and weirder, and I lost my hard-on, and then Tina and Alex had the exact same fucking argument over movies that you and I had last month. I mean word for word. There was no way I could miss it. There was no way anyone could miss it. How could you, Sandy?”

I was shaking my head. I didn’t know how I could. I just did. I always did that. I usually changed details in my fiction, of course, things like the mustaches and the furniture, to protect the innocent. But writers use everything we’re given: movie dialogue, horrible vacations, the failings of our mothers, strangers on the bus. Under the safe covering of a pseudonym, I changed far less, and it was far less innocent.

“Same goddamn argument,” he said, bitterly. “I lost in your story, too. So you know what I did then?” I shook my head, but I knew what I would have done. Human nature.

“I looked up the rest of your stories. Jesus fucking Christ, when do you find the time? You’ve written about a million of the goddamn things.”

I shrugged, trying to make light of it. “They just write themselves. They’re easier than anything else I do.”

“Are you writing one now?”

“No,” I lied, putting on a rueful smile. I was. ’Cabana Banana’. At the moment, it was a very faithful account of the time Kevin and I had gone to the Bahamas. I got so badly sunburned the first day that we had to be very inventive in order to spend all our time fucking. Obviously I was going to have to give “Mike” red hair and make him clean-shaven and possibly a lifelong resident of Glasgow.

“Well, I read them,” said Kevin.

“All of them?”

“I think so. All I could find.” He looked at me, and an expression came onto his face I had never seen: equal parts anger, impatience, and contempt. “They were very good, Sandy. Really. Some of the best jerk-off material I’ve ever seen.”

“Thanks,” I said automatically, because God help me, even then I had that rush that writers always get from good feedback. But it died away almost immediately. I somehow didn’t think Kevin would be up for a literary dissection of my ’Versa Vice’ output.

“The thing that was worst about reading those stories,” he said, “was the way the line between truth and fiction was so wavy. I didn’t know what to believe. What did you actually do? Which parts were your fantasies? What did you make up out of thin air?”

I opened my mouth to speak, to explain, to reassure.

“Shut up,” he said. His voice was flat. “I don’t want to hear it. I had enough of that with fifty stories. I am going to explain to you for once.” His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, and he pulled me stumbling onto the sofa next to him.

He leaned toward me, his face close to mine, as if he were about to kiss me tenderly.

“I might as well tell you now,” he whispered. His eyes were bright and interested, but there was a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I decided to believe you did almost everything.”

He started to unbutton my blouse, revealing the black bra beneath. “Kevin,” I said. “I can’t. I have a deadline.” I doubt he heard me.

“I star in a lot of those stories,” he said. “Not just ’Tina’s Third Orgasm’. But I didn’t star in ’Garden Party’, did I?”

His hand on my skin was warm. He slid a slow, caressing finger between my breasts, then, without warning, yanked the bra forward viciously. The hooks gave way with an audible snap, and my breasts fell free, the bra torn. It didn’t hurt, but I winced. My nipples hardened in the cool air.

“Do you know I had no idea at all that you fucked Jim?” he asked. “None? I was at that party. I remember it really well. I had a good time. And you were out on the patio getting screwed among the bonsai.”

Well. In real life, it had been the rock garden. But close enough.

He looked down at my body. The smile had returned to his mouth, but there was nothing in his eyes. “You always give yourself bigger tits in your stories than you really have,” he said. “And I bet you tell yourself it’s for the fans. Pathetic, Sandy.”

I turned my face away. I was surprised he had noticed something like that, but he was right. And it was pathetic, like making your hated third-grade teacher Napoleonically short. Kevin traced my right nipple with one finger. “Look at me,” he said. I looked.

“How about ’Fortune Cookie’?” he asked, with interest, his eyes fixed on mine. He was stroking my nipples, tugging on them gently. “Now there was an interesting story. Really clever. ’All your paths will lead to fulfillment,’ and she’s fucked by two men at once. That was one I decided right away that you’d done. I don’t think anyone could write about that so convincingly if they hadn’t, you know, been there and done that.”

“Kevin, that’s enough,” I said, but my voice sounded weak, even to me. His fingers on my nipples were relentless. They were beginning to turn me on despite myself. And he’d never shown this kind of interest in any of my other work. I wanted to see what was going to happen.

What happened was that he released my nipples, reached down with both hands and almost casually ripped open the cotton skirt I was wearing, the buttons going everywhere. I let out a breathless little sound, half-gasp, half-whimper.

“Who wrote your fortune cookie, Sandy?” he asked. “I don’t think I know those guys. Was it Marcus? Who?”

The truth was that ’Fortune Cookie’ was pure fantasy. Not even in my wildest days had I been fucked by two men at once. It was clever of Kevin to see that the fantasy was about Marcus, my editor at the paper. He didn’t know the other man, Frank, a blond layout editor who worked downstairs in the same building. Just as well. Frank starred in ’Sleepless Slut in Seattle’, which was not something I was burning to bring up.

“Kevin,” I said. “You can’t do this.” But he could. His fingertips were on my inner thighs now, caressing, stroking up toward my panties. When he touched me through the fabric, I knew he could feel how wet I was.

“You whore,” he said, wonderingly. “You love this. Which story is this, Sandy? I can’t remember. There are too many of them.” His fingers curled under the elastic of my panties, his knuckles curving against my pussy, brushing against that hot, wet skin. I closed my eyes.

“Open!” he said, sharply. I opened.

With that same interested expression on his face, he bunched his fist around the material in his hand, twisted, and pulled sharply. The seam gave way almost immediately—we are not talking about strong, practical underwear here, this is the lacy, insubstantial stuff. I lay on the sofa in the shreds of my clothes, frightened and beginning to be angry. I wanted to hide the telltale signs: my nipples erect, my color high, my breathing quick.

Now Kevin began to touch my pussy again, gently, feather-light touches, stroking up toward my clit. It was maddening. I wanted to push my hips up toward him. I wanted to reach for his hand and guide it just a little to the left. I didn’t dare move.

“I think my favorite one is ’Licker is Quicker’,” he said, almost dreamily. “I know the whole setup so well, drinking with you in front of the television, and the way you get so horny after two or three White Russians. Too bad the story was about that fucking stupid Paul Davies.”

His fingers, moving, moving near my clit now, circling it, never actually touching it. Oh. God. Kevin’s face, grinning unpleasantly now.

“Oh, Sandy, look at you. You’re going to come if I keep this up, aren’t you?”

“No way,” I said, through gritted teeth. “Make me.”

His brow creased, and he shook his head, but his fingers never stopped.

“Make me,” he mimicked. “That’s just classic. Why didn’t you ever write that one, Sandy? About the guy who makes the girl come whether she wants to or not?”

I was on the edge now, hovering there, trembling all over like a racehorse. I was fighting it, of course, but I could feel that sweet moment about to happen, like a waterfall.

And then he stopped. Simply took his hands away. I think I made some strangled sound, and moved to finish the job, but he caught my wrists.

“Oh no,” he said. “If anyone’s going to make you, it’s going to be me.” And he unbuckled his belt. In two quick movements he was inside me.

This time there was no waiting, no jeering, no subtlety. Kevin fucked me with a furious and silent intensity I hadn’t known he was capable of. Later, I would find finger-shaped bruises on my shoulders where he gripped me. In the moment, I was aware of nothing but his body, his closed eyes, his open mouth, his cock pounding into me, and my enormous, inevitable freight train of an orgasm. I came and came, unable to help myself, crying out, making inarticulate noises over and over again.

He made me.

Afterward, he got up and looked at me for a moment. “You know it’s over,” he said. “And Sandy? Everyone is going to know about this. About ’Versa Vice.’ I am going to tell everyone I know. Your boss, your friends, your—your other co-stars, your mother. They’ll read every story and see what a whore you’ve turned out to be. You will never live this down, not ever. I’ll take out a billboard if I have to.”

“Kevin, no,” I said, stupidly, still hazy from the sex. “Stay. We can talk about it. You don’t understand. Come on, please stay.”

“Make me,” he said, and he left.

This was disaster. If ’Versa Vice’ was exposed to everyone I knew, my professional reputation would become very peculiar indeed. A woman who writes porn? Dear me, no, our readers wouldn’t like that. Not to mention, I thought, looking for the aspirin, the fact that my mother would probably have to have surgery to lower her eyebrows.

So I fought him the only way I could. I wrote the story. Immediately, while it was hot and wanting to be written. Make Me, the story of the furious betrayed boyfriend who turns unexpectedly violent, and who makes his girlfriend come whether she wants to or not.

It was really a very faithful account, except for one detail: I gave him a cock like a tiny bird’s egg peeking out of a nest. Posted and mailed.

So far, it’s working. As far as I know, he hasn’t told a soul.


March, 2003

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