Inevitable

Him

I've had the same best friend since childhood. We haven't always lived close, and we haven't always been able to stay in touch. But from day one, we were...well, I hate this word with a passion, but it's the only one that makes sense. We were soulmates.

We met in kindergarten, and from the moment she sat next to me on my bench and offered me her chocolate milk, she's looked out for me. It wasn't that stupid story where two five year olds think they're dating. We didn't see each other that way. She just seemed to sense how lonely and angry I already was, at 5 fuckin' years old, and she wanted to answer that unspoken need. She sat by me every day, until I finally thawed enough to thank her for sharing her milk every day. She smiled and told me her name was Zoe. "Chase," I mumbled back. From then on, it was simple. Chase and Zoe. Always together.

As we grew up, her commitment to take care of me grew with us. She always seemed to know exactly what was going on in my head, what I needed or wanted, and without fail she came through for me. I once overheard my mother tell a friend that of her three kids, I was the lowest-maintenance one for her to raise. My older brother and sister were twins, and they were social stars. Loud, competitive, playful, energetic enough to get our dad's attention and to keep mom busy. Me, I kept to myself when I was home. Even as a child. I stayed in my room, drawing and reading and avoiding the chaos. No one seemed to mind, though, because Zoe came over every afternoon after she finished her homework, so clearly I wasn't some crazy child sociopath. I had a friend.

Middle school fucked things up for a while, of course, because it was time for puberty and burgeoning adolescence and confusion. Someone started the rumor that I was gay--who the fuck starts telling people that a 12 year old is gay??--because I wasn't "going out" with anyone, and my only friend was a girl I wasn't "dating." Zoe didn't put up with it. I don't know how, but she ended that rumor fast. And I was never teased for letting her fight my battle, so I imagine she did something really painful to the kid. Didn't matter to me.

I won't pretend that puberty didn't affect the two of us. I experienced my first wet dream just before I turned 13, when I woke up gasping and hard as a rock, Zoe's face in my mind. I didn't understand it. I finally found the courage to talk to my brother, who was less of a stranger to me than my father was. He was 16 now, so I knew he'd have some advice. I didn't tell him it was Zoe. I just told him about what happened. He patted my head and told me it was normal, good that it was a girl, and when I got a bit older, I should think about asking her out if I still found her attractive. The idea repulsed me. I was glad that it was okay to think about her sexually, but I didn't want to pursue it. If Zoe ever wondered about my sexual interests, she didn't ask.

But God, did she turn out gorgeous. By the time we started high school together, puberty had done its job. She reached a nice 5'4, with thick strawberry blonde hair, big green eyes, full red lips, and a body that stopped the guys in their tracks. She was athletic, liking to take a quick job every evening with the border collie mutt her family owned. Big tits--not huge, but nice and big, able to hold their own against the queen bitches in school. Long legs that looked great in a mini-skirt as she bounced out of her house to my brother's car for a ride to school. I saw the way his eyes glided over her appreciatively. He was 18 when we started high school, so I wasn't too worried that he'd go for her. But it did give me pause. It made me stop and contemplate how hot my best friend was.

The big problem was, try though I did to curb it, I was developing what were...well...sadistic tendencies. I felt constant anger, a bubbling frustration that made me want to punch something. Trying to get a grip, I asked my dad for a punching bag one year--the first time I think I ever impressed him. He hung one on our back patio. Most afternoons found me out there, stripped to gym shorts and sneakers, my hands wrapped and my body gleaming with sweat as I pounded all this inexplicable, coursing rage into the black and purple surface of the bag. Once I saw my mom watching from the kitchen, her face etched with worry. I think she assumed I was being bullied, or was conflicted about my sexuality, or something. But there was no real justification. I just got angrier throughout the day, until it was all I could do not to scream and smash something before I stripped down and got outside.

Zoe saw this side of me emerge several times. We'd be doing homework in my room, and I'd suddenly grab one of my many stress balls and hurl them across the room. I broke the desk lamp once. She'd just arch an eyebrow, silently returning the balls to me. Another time, as we argued some trivial point about a movie we'd seen, I abruptly spun and punched my mirror, shattering it. No one else was home, thank God. Zoe didn't even seem afraid. She just took my non-injured hand and led me to the bathroom, washing and bandaging my hand. When my mom came home, I hadn't even opened my mouth before Zoe excitedly launched into a story about how she'd been trying to juggle my stress balls, and one had knocked the mirror down, and as I'd tried to catch it, it broke on the desk and cut me. I don't know why she lied, or why she wasn't afraid of the rage she could see in me. She just wasn't.

As we neared the end of high school, it got worse. I started running with her, because the punching bag wasn't enough anymore. I'd wrestle with my brother when he visited home, and I could tell that my strength surprised him.

One night when we were 17, Zoe called me, crying. She was at a party. Someone had tried to rape her, and now she was cornered in a bathroom, with her attacker in the next room. I didn't hesitate, driving straight over and going upstairs, ignoring the partyers who jeered and asked what "the freak" was doing there. I found him, leaning against the bathroom door and whispering about the things he planned to do to her. I could still hear her crying, and between sobs, I could hear her mumbling my name.

The anger was so real, so powerful, that I'm still surprised I didn't black out. I grabbed him, flinging him to the floor and laying into him. Punching and kicking every inch I could. He started yelping and squealing, begging me to stop. Between hits, I managed to hiss out that this was what would happen to anyone who went after Zoe Lawrence. He was crying and moaning that he understood, he'd never touch her again.

Suddenly Zoe was there, grabbing at my arm. When I glanced at her, she whispered, "Let him go, Chase. He knows now."

I didn't want to obey her. But she said it so calmly; she wasn't scared of me, she wasn't begging for his life or anything. Just telling me to let go. So I did. I stood, and he scrambled away. I could hear people yelling out, but he didn't answer them. Someone peered around the door, staring at my bloody knuckles. Then they jerked away, and I could hear the story spreading: "Shit, that Daniels kid bit the crap out of someone! What, is he dating Lawrence? You know, Zoe...?"

I felt her hand slide into mine. When I met her gaze, she swallowed hard and slumped against me. "You're gonna need to work on your anger," she said quietly, and I laughed at that. She was right.

When we graduated, I made a tough decision. I joined the army. My parents were scared of me, and I knew it. My sister was living several states away, attending a fashion institute. My brother was studying medicine. I didn't know what I liked doing, and I didn't know what to try. Zoe was taking time off to do Peace Corps work, and as desperately as I wanted to stay with her, I knew I couldn't stand that. So, I enlisted.

The day I flew out was the last time I saw her for seven years. She came to the airport with us. My parents hugged me quickly, and left before my flight did. It was Zoe who walked to the gate with me. I held her, and she tearfully begged me to write. I promised I would, and I meant it.

And then, to my shock, she pushed herself up to meet my lanky 6'2, and pressed her lips to mine. I had never kissed anyone, and I'd never wanted to. I didn't lie to myself about my attraction to Zoe, because, well, who wouldn't fucking want her. But it was never enough to want to change our friendship. I just loved her every day, and jerked off thinking about her laughter and her dancing and her smirk and everything about her, every night.

But then she kissed me. It wasn't a quick peck, and it wasn't just a friendly, albeit weird, goodbye. It was passionate; when I didn't pull away, she pressed closer, and when my lips parted, her tongue slid into my mouth, making my blood rush south. Her tongue teased mine, searching my mouth, until I finally raised my head, breathless. Our eyes met. "Zoe, what--?"

"No," she said softly, placing one soft fingertip over my lips. "Don't ruin that. Go, write me every week, and swear you'll come back alive. Okay?"

I blinked, and nodded. "I swear. Of course I'll come back."

She smiled sadly. "Good. Then...I'll see you after." Stepping back, she kept smiling, watching as I slowly got my bags and boarded, gazing at her curiously. I couldn't have described to her the desires I felt right then. The longing to say fuck everything and stay, to pin her to the terminal floor and experience every fantasy I'd ever had about her. I left with an ache in my chest, wanting to stay.

It's hard to describe the next five years. War is ugly, and serving is impossible to really describe. I was either in purgatory or hell for months at a time. But I found a way to use my anger and loneliness, and I survived. I wrote to Zoe until she stopped replying, and silence fell for a long while. Eventually I got a postcard from London, saying she was sorry for the gap, she missed me, and she loved me. Then nothing again. I never answered the postcard.

When I finished my tour, I didn't move home. I wasn't even sure if Zoe was there still, and I didn't want to live with my parents. I got my own place, and got a job at an investment company. I molded myself to fit in the business world. I didn't want to have to think anymore. Slowly my life became about sealing deals, arranging meetings, running the finances, and setting up long-term contracts with clients. I quickly found my niche in this environment; it was cold, factual, and controlled. No emotions, no closeness. I talked, I signed papers, I shook hands. I earned respect. I looked damn good in a suit.

And at night...well, I didn't mind the loneliness, but I got sick of the silence. Silence filled itself with flashback sound clips. Guns firing, men yelling and screaming, bones being cut, helicopters lifting dying men out of the warzone. Anger at my memories embittered me, and one night, I wandered into a club that catered to a very specific clientele.

BDSM had preoccupied my thoughts for years. The sadism I'd felt in my youth never left me, and now it was a fire in my belly, a desire to hurt someone. But to make it pleasurable. I didn't want to be a serial killer. I wanted to dominated someone. To dominate the fuck out of them, quite literally.

That club started it for me. I sat down in my pressed black suit, gazing around stoically, sipping a whisky, and very soon, I was approached. A woman in a short purple cocktail dress sidled up to me, waiting until I looked at her to come close enough to speak. She stayed silent though, and I felt a smirk settle on my face as I understood her role. "You may sit."

Gratefully she sank into the chair beside me, watching me hungrily. I liked this already. My fingers traced patterns on the black leather of the chair I sat in. "What are you looking for?"

She swallowed. "I'm a sub. I need a new Dom. But I'm happy with one-time things, too, if you're not looking for long-term."

I chuckled, appreciating her honesty. "Well, I wouldn't say it has to be one time. But I'm not looking for a pet." The words somehow fell naturally from my lips, though I'd never spoken them before. "More like a booty call. What do you think?"

I could see the hunger starting to shine in her eyes. "Unless I do get a Dom and he forbids me from continuing to see you, then absolutely."

I finished my drink and stood, nodding. "Alright, then. Shall we go?" She jumped up eagerly, following me out to my car. I took her home with me, and that night, for the first time, I gave in to the need I'd repressed for so long, the need to physically abuse and break another living thing. I treated her as I'd once treated my punching bag, aggression and lust making me brutal. Every strike, and slap and spank, made her moan and beg and prostrate herself at my feet, wanting more. I fucking loved it.

When I woke up, she was gone. There was a paper on the other pillow, just a sticky note with neat, curving handwriting: Thanks for a fucking amazing time. Call me. And her number. I smiled, tucking the note into my planner/address book. There would be other nights with her, the woman who I addressed as "pet," never learning her name. I'd call, and she'd come over in whatever I assigned her to wear, and I'd beat her then fuck her, then wake up to coffee made and a note with the imprint of her lipstick on it. I didn't bother finding any other fuck buddies. She met my need, because to be honest, I wasn't trying to whore around. Even when I was with her, well, I was thinking about Zoe. I never told Pet that, of course. We had a good thing going. It was fun.

Then, three things happened. First, I got my invitation to a high school reunion. Second, a few days later, I got a postcard from a city about 20 minutes away from my own, with a very short message: Heard you were back in the States. Got the reunion invite. Hope to see you there. XO. Zoe. And third, Pet called me one afternoon, breathless and sounding sad.

"Hey baby...I'm sorry, I...um...I need to talk to you. Can I come over?" I agreed, knowing what she wanted to say, and respecting that she wanted to do it in person. Seated in my living room, fully dressed for the first time I'd ever seen her, she told me that she'd gone to the club where we met for drinks with girlfriends, and a Dom had found her there. He'd danced her into the bedroom, offered an incredible contract, and had overall just stolen her heart. Tears in her eyes, she asked if I'd forgive her for going with him.

My gaze went to the postcard sitting on my counter, and Zoe's face rose to mind. It would help if I didn't have a submissive following after me, wanting to be fucked. I smiled sadly.

"Of course, Pet. I told you when we started that I didn't want a permanent sub, and you told me you'd get a new Dom eventually. I'm glad you'll be looked after."

She smiled back, getting onto her knees and crawling over to me, instinct in control. "Thank you. Can I say goodbye?"

I chuckled and nodded, leaning back and letting her close. She undid my belt, opened my jeans, and took me in her mouth. Part of me was sad to be letting this obedient little thing go, but that was alright. I tangled my fingers in her hair, fucking her throat until I came hard, feeling her milk me with her tongue, swallowing me down. She stood, not resisting as I slid my hand up her dress, brushing past her thong and toying with her clit, slipping two fingers easily inside her and finger fucking her until she came, grasping my shoulders and moaning. I withdrew my hand and lifted it, letting her clean my fingers with her deft tongue. She brought me a glass of whisky, leaning down to kiss me one last time, tenderly, then smiled and slipped out while I sat back and drank. Eventually I stood, going to the bedroom and beginning to pack for the return to my hometown.

Her

"So you kissed him once. Think you'll fuck him?"

I rolled my eyes as I folded my favorite dress into my suitcase, planning to wear it the day of the school reunion. A friend from the magazine I worked at sat on my bed, pawing through the photo album I had of my thirteen year friendship with Chase--more, if you counted the fact that he'd sent me a few from the army. The last few pages held those; him in his fine military gear, eyes darker and more firey than they'd ever been. There were a few of me, too, ones I'd printed to send him, before realizing that there was no point. I loved him still, but the time had passed.

And then that damn invitation. Knowing he'd get one too, knowing there was one tiny window now, I couldn't resist. I got his new address from the school (I think they remembered us as the inseparable pair), and I sent him a note. He didn't answer, but I hadn't expected him to. I just hoped he'd show up.

"Zo-zo."

I snorted, glancing back at my friend. "Annie, I haven't seen him since we were 18. I was in the Peace Corps. For all I know, he's married now. Or dating. Or gay. Or something."

She eyed the photos from the army. "Yeah, he ain't gay, sweetie. He kind of looks like a beast, though. He probably fucks like a Trojan."

I giggled. "I was his first kiss, at 18 years old. Somehow I can't picture him having sex."

Annie sighed. "Well, do him, please. You have to. Lifetime friendships like this are meant to end in sex. Possible permanent sex."

Sealing my bag, I grabbed the photo album and sat next to her, flipping back to high schools photos. "Maybe you're right," I muttered. I couldn't pretend I hadn't always wanted him. He'd starred in my first wet dream...and every dream after that. He was the reason I stopped finding masturbation disgusting. Every brush of his long, tanned fingers, every dark glance of his smoky grey eyes...every glimpse I caught of the taut muscles of his abdomen and back from the hours he spent on that punching bag...the thought of him made me wet. I hated it. Sometimes he seemed downright a-fucking-sexual.

But now, we hadn't seen each other in seven years. Hadn't spoken in over three or four. I didn't know what to expect. My only comfort was that kiss seven years ago. To my extreme joy, he'd responded positively, kissing me back with genuine desire. When he'd pulled back, I'd been thrilled by the lust in his eyes. But he was leaving. I shouldn't have waited. I'd been a coward. I still didn't know if he'd really wanted me, or if it had just been the shock of the moment.

No time to worry anymore. I'd hopefully see him in two days.

Them

The reunion wasn't all that bad. People talking loudly...kids running around, how the hell did these people have time to have kids in seven years? Whatever. Chase sat to one side, sipping coffee and watching. If anyone realized who he was, they didn't say anything. Mostly he figured they just assumed they'd forgotten more people than they'd realized. Dumbasses. He hadn't mattered when they were teens. Who cared now.

And then he saw her. Aside from changing her wardrobe to suit a woman of 25, Zoe had not changed. She was still beautiful. Her hair was longer, falling to her waist in a wave of amber. Her navy blue dress hugged every curve of her body, from her lean shoulders to her narrow waist to her incredible, toned thighs. Her legs went a mile each, and she wore a pair of sailor striped summer wedges that made her look like a goddess. Chase smiled idly. He was going to win her over.

He waited until she'd milled about a while, socializing, smiling fakely at all these people she hadn't like before, and she didn't like now. Finally she retreated to the garden, sitting alone in the shade, and he made his move. Slipping around to come up behind her, he paused about five feet away, watching her sip at her lemonade.

"I came back alive," he said softly.

She jumped slightly, looking over her shoulder. When she saw him, her eyes widened, and she stood quickly. Her gaze ran over him, and he warmed beneath her scrutiny. He smiled as their gazes met again. "Did you miss me?"