Sprawling mess of expensive house way back in the woods. He leads me downstairs, making small talk. I'm following him, eyeing the lack of bars on my phone and wondering if this is how I'm going to die, drowned in his 10-person hot tub surrounded by cacti and his massive but friendly husky. He has a mattress laid out with towels, candles and incense, some inoffensive classic rock CD playing. On the towels are a dozen dildos of sufficient size to serve as doorstops. The smallest is as thick as my wrist and as long as my forearm. The largest, roughly the size of a 2-liter bottle of Coke. I strip down, suit up. Bluegreen latex gloves and plastic glove for veterinary exams that reach up to my shoulder. He's takes off his sweat pants (there was no diaper) and now he's naked, comfortable on the mattress. I dig my hand into a tub of Vitamin E lotion and start feeding him fingers. I start with two, which seemed polite, at least as polite as you can get when you're about to fist a stranger. His asshole was shaped sort of like a teardrop, plenty of loose skin without being really gross, and I was up to four fingers in no time at all. It was nothing to tuck my thumb in, there was a slight give and then I was in up to my wrist. I'd never managed to get this far with anyone else. But he was a serious devotee of this sort of thing.

For the first time I was able to give a small amount of rein to those red dreams. My hand slid easily over and around the slick, smooth interior of this silent man. The slippery membrane that kept my hand from the rest of him, lovingly exploring the inside of his pelvic cradle, pushing deeper and flattening my palm against the thin barrier between me and an artery, pulsing hot and strong against my skin, hidden from everyone but available to me. I envisioned digging my nails through the plastic and the latex, ripping through, pulling it free like a garden hose from the sprinkler, watching him bleed out on his expensive mattress and his cream carpet. Emptying his wallet and leaving his dog to lick the mixture of lotion and blood from his master's ass while I made a quick retreat. Of course I didn't. Just a thought. But I took my hand away in a hurry and twisted around, burrowing my arm in deeper, my hand collecting sphincters like bracelets, peeling them open and sliiding through, feeling them tighten around my wrist until I was out of joints, could twist no deeper, and still he was rocking back against me, wanting more. I pulled my arm free. It made a squelching sound, like yanking your foot out of the mud,and my arm dripped a gob of blood-tinged lotion onto my leg. It smelled like come. I wondered who was there before I arrived.

We talked about Joan Jett while I selected a dildo. He wanted to be fucked with it, so I had to strap myself into a harness specially designed to deal with dildos of this size. The first one I put on hung down to my knees, but he took it like a champ. It was a little uncomfortable in multiple ways, having this guy on his back in front of me, grabbing my ass to haul me in deeper while I slammed him with this dildo. It's different than using your own dick. You don't feel anything, it's harder to control, to know when you're too deep or the angle is wrong. But it was never quite deep enough for him. I pushed his knees up, leaned and let my weight slide this massive cock into him again. At no point was he hard, nor did he have an orgasm. At least one with evidence. If I watched carefully, I could watch the dildo sliding up through his stomach like a cat under a thick blanket, a slow rising of the skin as it passed. I wanted to put my hand there, to push, to feel his body rearranging itself around this massive thing. But again, I didn't. I didn't want to explore him too much, be that intimate with him. Shoving a rubber dick up the pouting rectum of a paying customer isn't intimate to me, not at all. Maybe that's just my damage.

Two hours later I washed my hands in a small bathroom, scrubbing to my elbows like a surgeon, toweling dry, getting dressed. He hugged me when I left, palmed me $100, couldn't stop complimenting my technique, how very natural and instinctive I am, how I know just how deep and how far and how hard, and was I sure I didn't do this all the time? Quick flash of red again, of knives and peeling and screaming, chemical burns and tears and ripping and sobbing and the glut of having coppermetal red in my hair, up to my shoulders, slopping over onto the floor.

"No. Not all the time."