Breaking Jessi Ch 01

Author's Note:

Jessi, the narrator and main character of this story, is a character from my recently completed multi-chapter series,

A Tale of Two Paramours

. This new series,

Breaking Jessi,

focuses on the immediate aftermath of Jessi's breakup with Mark Warner—the narrator and main character of

A Tale of Two Paramours

—and the short-term consequences of that breakup for Jessi's emotional wellness. Most of the chapters of

Breaking Jessi

will be posted in the

Erotic Couplings

category, but some may need to be posted in other categories. If that happens, I will post content warnings with those chapters.

This is a work of fiction. All characters are consenting adults over eighteen years of age.

***

I slumped underneath the hot water, wishing the shower would drown the billion millipedes scurrying around inside my head. But I knew it wouldn't. Nothing could kill them so easily once they got this agitated. The best I could hope for is that they'd start to fade away, and I was well aware that such hope was futile.

The hot water ran out before I convinced myself that Mark had really left, but the chill and my pruned skin drove me from the shower anyway. While I used my favorite fluffy towel to dry off, I listened at the door. I didn't hear anyone moving around in my small studio apartment. I was sure that it'd be for the best if he had left, but I wasn't sure that was what I wanted.

"Mark?" I called through the door. There was no answer. Closing my eyes and drawing in a slow breath, I pulled the door open and peeked out. There wasn't anyone there. A crushing weight hit me, and I dropped to the floor, curled up, and cried. He was really gone. The only man I'd ever loved was gone, out of my life. Inside my millipede infested head, one thought after another laid the blame where it surely belonged—on me. I'd pushed him too far and led him down too dark a path, just like he'd told me.

Mark Warner, now my ex-boyfriend, had been my community college English teacher first, then a hookup, and finally my lover. It'd started the first class of the Fall semester, at least for me. I'd tried taking English 101 the semester before but dropped out because the teacher based his grade more on whether he agreed with what you wrote rather than how you wrote it. Plus, English had never been my favorite thing. I like math and computers and hard sciences, things that work in an ordered manner and produce repeatable results. English class just isn't like that. So, it's fair to say I was already nervous when I walked into that first class. Once I saw Mark standing in the front of the classroom shuffling through papers, my nervousness increased exponentially.

At least this one's cute

, I thought as took a seat in the front row—an unusual move for me—and examined the dark-haired man. He was around average height and looked to be in good shape, especially since he appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. But it was his eyes that caught my attention when he glanced up from his papers and looked around the room. They were a sparkling blue that prompted a familiar tickle in my pussy. When it was time for class to start, he smiled a smile that turned the tickle into a twinge. I knew I was in for a long semester, although not for the reason I'd been dreading.

I watched him call the roll, watched him smile at each student, anticipating when that boyish smile would be turned on me. I wasn't sure what I'd do once it happened. I'd have liked to have been cool, sophisticated, and a little flirty. Alright, maybe a lot flirty. But I knew myself better. I'd stumble over my words, stare into his eyes too long, and blush. That's why it was always better to go the direct route when dealing with guys I found hot—talk about fucking, send them nudie pics, open the door naked, and other shit like that. I couldn't do any of that in class, so my mind began to circle into a pool of simmering anxiety. So, it was with some surprise that I heard him call out 'Jessica'.

I gasped for air, glad I wasn't standing because I was sure my legs would've given way beneath me. But in the next moment, he said a different last name, and I noticed his eyes locked on a brunette woman also sitting in the front row. She wore a lowcut top, huge tits spilling out of it. A big, sickening smile lit her features as she said, "Here," and I hated both her and the way his eyes dropped to her fat tits. I'm a slender girl myself, and I'd never liked competing with the udder queens, even though I've got enough meat on my tits, hips, and ass that I'm no stick figure. Sure, I knew I was a better fuck them most of them, but guys usually couldn't see past trashy cleavage. And I was afraid my cute teacher would be the same way.

When he finally got to my name, Jessica Stevenson, I said "Right here," raising my hand while his smile made the room, not to mention my pussy, heat up several degrees. And it didn't help matters that the tingling in my clit shot to my nipples, causing them to harden and rub against the lace of my bra in a quite distracting manner.

"It looks like we have two 'Jessicas'," he said, looking back and forth between tit-girl and me. "And while you two spell your names differently, that will not help us in class. Do either of you have a nickname we could use in class?"

I raised my hand again and blurted out, "A lot of people call me Jessi." It wasn't true. Almost no one called me that, not since high school. But I wanted to please him and get another one of those boyish smiles directed my way. And fuck, did he ever deliver, all grin and sparkling eyes. It was all I could to not shove my fingers down my pants and jill-off right then and there.

"Jessi and Jessika it is," he said, his smile turning toward the brunette cow and then back to me. I saw her grin back at him and thrust out her tits. All I managed to do was nod.

Over the next thirty minutes or so, Mark told us about himself and went over the syllabus. He seemed to make eye contact with everyone in the class as he spoke, but I was sure his gaze lingered on me and on my skanky namesake more often than on the other students. When class was over, I tried to talk to him, but nothing seemed to come out right, and I ended up rushing out, sure that he must have thought I was a psycho.

As the semester wore on, my attraction turned to obsession. Not only did I love those eyes and that smile, both of which kept me wet most of the time I was in class, but his thoughtfulness and kindness spoke to something in me that made me feel both powerful and vulnerable. I spoke up in class, something I'd never have done in any of my previous English classes. And even when my thoughts did not come out in a way that made sense to anyone else, Mark could always unwrap them and rephrase them so they did. It was those things, along with his looks of course, that I masturbated to after almost every class. The only problem for me, other than that he was my teacher, was that he seemed obsessed with the big boobed bitch.

The last day of class, I worked to convince myself to talk to him. I'd tried several times throughout the semester, but it'd turned awkward every time. I always ended up staring at him too long, something I often did when I felt nervous or unsure of what to say. This was my last chance to get it right. But after he wished everyone a good holiday, I rushed out without saying a word. When it came to it, I didn't think I could stand to say goodbye. Also, I saw that

she

had lingered in the classroom, and that had brought an influx of brain bugs scampering through my head.

It's for the best,

I told myself as I hurried away from the classroom. But the end of class left a void in my life that surprised me. I wanted to see him again. I almost needed to see him again. So, on the day grades were posted, I sent Mark a nudie pic and told him I wanted to hook up. I didn't think it would really work. I was just falling back on my tried-and-true slutty ways.

But it did work, and we hooked up. At least, I intended it to be a hookup, especially once I learned he had fucked the brunette. But when he kissed me after I swallowed a load of his cum, everything changed. A flood of millipedes and unanticipated feelings rushed through my mind, and it was all I could do to not collapse into a panic attack even as I kissed him back. I managed to keep it together until he left, although I did voice a concern that he'd be bad for me. As it turned out, I was right.

Our relationship lasted for almost four months. Four months of highs and lows. Four months of great fucks. Four months of crippling anxiety and crushing jealousy. You see, Mark was with Big Tits the whole time too. He told me they were only friends-with-benefits, but despite me telling him I wanted us to be just us, he kept fucking her. I tried everything I could think of—threesomes, role play, submitting to him as his slave, even pretending to be 'normal' rather than the slut I really am—but nothing worked. At some point, he fell in love with her, much as he had with me. And in the end, Mark chose her.

Now he was gone. Gone for good. And I was curled up in the fetal position crying my eyes out on the cold tile floor of my small bathroom. But I knew what would help, and it wasn't the anti-anxiety medicine in my medicine cabinet. Pushing myself to my feet, I looked in the mirror and saw damp, bedraggled blonde hair and red, red eyes. I also noticed marks on my tits, and I knew they'd turn purple before too long. At least Mark had left me with a souvenir from our last fuck, even if was a temporary one.

Tearing my eyes away from my reflection, I made my way from the bathroom to the kitchen, not bothering to dress. After grabbing a shot glass, I took an almost full bottle of tequila from off the top of the refrigerator. The first shot made the millipedes slow down. The second made them downright sluggish. The third sent them into a coma, and the fourth made them fade away.

***

It was Monday—two days and a bottle of tequila since Mark had left—and I called in sick to work. I intended to sleep it off, but a pounding headache drove me to search my tiny kitchen for more booze. It was futile—I was out.

Deciding a trip to the store was in order, I put on a pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, and applied enough makeup so that I did not look as strung out as I was. I was afraid I was forgetting something, but I couldn't think of what it might be since I had my purse and my keys. It wasn't until I'd put three bottles of tequila on the counter at the liquor store two blocks from my apartment that I realized I didn't have my fake ID.

"I need to see some ID," the man behind the counter said, his brown eyes scanning me up and down. He was not the guy I knew, the guy who worked nights and sold me booze without asking for ID. This guy was a middle-aged, thickset man with long, greasy hair and crooked teeth. His name tag read "K-Man."

"I forgot it. Jerry on nights knows me. It's all cool."

"Jerry ain't here and I don't know you. So, ID or get out."

Trying to look a lot more confident than I felt, I pulled out my wallet and made a show of looking through it.

"Oh, here it is," I beamed at him, handing him my license. "I can be a ditzy slut sometimes."

The man's eyes narrowed at my words, then narrowed even more as he examined my ID. I was hoping he only looked at my birth year, not the date. My hope was in vain.

"Says here you're only twenty."

"I'll be twenty-one next month. Isn't it silly that I can't buy alcohol this month, but I can next month?"

"Shit, I think so, but the law's the law. We'd get fined and maybe lose our license if I sold this shit to you and anyone found out. Fuck, I could even go to jail."

"What if I gave you head?" I asked him as he handed my license back to me.

I'd like to say that my heart was pounding with nervousness and my head swimming with shame and indecision. But that'd be a lie. I was so desperate for more alcohol that my offer to the clerk didn't even stir up any anxiety millipedes, only a few centipedes that tried to suggest that I didn't want to go down that road. But I knew how to deal with centipedes—I just ignored them.

"What?"

"What if I gave you head? Would you let me buy my tequila if I did? I'm very good. I can deep throat, and you can even fuck my mouth if you want. Oh, and I'll swallow or take it on the face, whichever you want."

"You'd give me a BJ just so I'd sell you the tequila. You wouldn't want the bottles for free?"

"Nope. I'll buy them," I told him, although I was not sure how I would eat for the next few days—I had not budgeted so much alcohol, and my next payday was Friday. But at that point, I wanted booze more than food. Plus, a warm sensation had awakened between my legs for the first time since my last fuck with Mark a couple of days prior.

"It's still pretty risky for me," the clerk said. "How about a BJ and a fuck."

"You'd have to give me the booze for free if we did that."

"How about I let you buy one bottle now for the BJ, then give you two more after we fuck?"

"One now, no charge to me, for the blowjob. One later, at my place, for the fuck," I countered, taking what I thought was an opening not to have to pay for any of the bottles.

''Problem is there're cameras all over this place. I'd have to go on break, lock the store, and meet you at my car. And I can't fuck that sweet little mouth of yours in my car."

"Okay, give me this one now, I'll go to your car and suck you off. Bring the other two to my place, and you can fuck my mouth and my cunt, as long as you're able to get it up that many times."

"Oh, that ain't a problem, baby."

"Then we have a deal?"

"Shit yeah. Here, I need to pretend I'm ringing you up for the one. The video's pretty grainy, so no one can tell if I'm really running your card or not. Then go out the front door and come around back. My car is the gray Acura. I'll meet you there."

I handed him my debit card, which he pretended to swipe. Then he gave it back to me.

"If you skip out on me, I'm gonna be pissed," the man growled as he put the other two bottles of tequila on a cluttered counter behind him.

"I won't," I replied, taking the one bottle and heading for the door. In truth, I'd thought about doing exactly what he said, just taking my tequila and running home. But I figured I might need to do this again, so I was determined to go through with it.

***

"Hey, what does 'K-Man' stand for anyway?" I asked him when I climbed into the passenger seat of his car.

"Oh, Kayden. I hate that name, so I go by K-Man," he shrugged as he unzipped his pants and pulled his mostly hard cock free. "So, you going to get to bobbing or what?"

"Sure," I told him, taking his dick in my hand, careful to rub all around its head. It was a trick I'd learned years before, a way of cleaning off guys before going down on them. It didn't get rid of everything, but it helped. I was also hoping for a return of the warmth in my pussy that I'd felt in the store, but it did not come.

"Stop teasing, girl," he groaned, grabbing my head and shoving it toward his crotch.

As he pushed me down, my ribs banged against the shifter. So even as I let him thrust his cock between my lips, I twisted my body to avoid the obstruction, doing my best to ignore my discomfort. But I couldn't ignore the sour taste, so I slobbered as much as I could, hoping to dilute it some. I would've liked to have used my hands to spread my spit around, but K-Man's hold on my head didn't allow me the room to pull off him entirely.

"Fuck, you can suck cock, girl," the man groaned as he squirmed, and I was sure he wouldn't last much longer.

For a second or two, I thought about trying to keep him going. Even though I had no interest in him beyond the booze, giving him head helped my mind slide into a familiar groove, the one that I was nothing more than a slut in, the one that made me not question myself or my actions. Sure, the part of me that loved my ex tried to stir up the millipedes in my head. But by focusing on the dick in my mouth—my tongue caressing the silky skin of it, a soft layer of warm flesh over throbbing hardness—I pushed that all away, hiding my anxiety behind the now calmer, and less numerous, brain bugs in my head as I slid my lips up and down his veiny length. I even felt a slight twinge in my pussy, which had remained nonresponsive up to that point.

But then that thought passed, as did the moment of arousal, and I wanted it all to be over. Sucking on him as hard as I could, I rammed my face up and down his prick, my tongue wiggling when possible. The tightening of his grip on my head and a buck upwards told me to get ready. And it was lucky I did, because what seemed like a gallon of salty, bitter spunk filled my mouth. I did my best to swallow it all while still slurping on his now twitching dick, but some leaked out both sides of my mouth.

"Shit, you didn't get it all," K-Man laughed, his voice squeaking in his excitement. "But I love that you swallowed."

"That's what sluts do," I said, sitting up and licking his jizz from both corners of my mouth.

"Sluts do it for free. You did it for booze. That makes you a whore, not a slut."

I shrugged but said nothing in response to his demeaning words. And as the memory of the feel of his prick in my mouth faded away along with the taste of his cum, my thoughts grew more and more chaotic. Anger at myself, at Mark, and at K-Man exploded among the reinvigorated millipedes, a surge of stampeding beetles, each on the verge of detonation. I tried to focus on my breathing, and to create mental traps for the anxiety millipedes and the rage beetles, but guilt crept in, distracting me with its icy chill.

I felt guilty about driving Mark away. I felt guilty about getting drunk and missing work. I felt guilty about sucking off the clerk for a bottle of tequila and giving truth to his assessment that I was a whore, not a slut. I felt guilty about what I was going to do with him later for two more bottles of booze. I felt guilty about disappointing my parents, both by what they knew I'd done and what they didn't know I'd done. I felt guilty about all the things I knew I should've done but didn't do. I felt guilty about disappointing myself through countless actions that made me feel bad about myself. I felt guilty for giving up on counseling so many times when it was so obvious that I couldn't cope on my own unless I was drunk or being fucked or both.

"Hey, I didn't mean to upset you. I kinda thought you would, well, um..."

K-Man's words yanked me out of my guilt spiral, and I stared at him as he stammered. Finally, he looked away, his thought unfinished. But I knew what he'd been trying to say, so I said it for him.

"You thought I'd be okay with being called a whore, 'cause I just gave you a BJ for a bottle of tequila and we're going to fuck later for more. So, I can't argue with you there. I guess that's what I am now—a fucking booze whore."

"Look, I'll sell you the other two if you want. You don't have to..."

"Yeah, but then I won't have money for food. Not that I feel like eating, but I'll have to eventually. So, give me a piece of paper and I'll write down my address. I live two blocks up the street, so it's not far. Bring the other two bottles and we'll fuck."

"Face and pussy, right?" he asked, his eager tone and expression contradicting his earlier words suggesting we not go through with it.

"That was the deal," I shrugged again, the need to get out of his car and run home almost overwhelming me. But I kept it together, kept the rage beetles from exploding, kept the millipedes from multiplying any more, kept the guilt buried.