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Woo! Porn!


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Haven steals one of the wife’s fur coats.

This is how she thinks of Rowena - not by name, but by title. The wife, the cripple, the recluse. Haven is only the maid by contrast and only during business hours. She’s also the mistress, the con, and the sister. Titles keep their roles compartmentalized. Easy. Manageable. Haven slips into each role as easily as slipping into warm bathwater.

Sometimes, the roles overlap. When she steals the coat, she is both herself and the maid, overcome with deviance in both forms. The coat is rabbit fur and as white as snow. Just looking at it, hanging, forgotten in the back of a closet already full of designer labels, Haven’s stomach twists with an old familiar craving. She can feel its richness when she runs her palms over the fabric, sinking her hands into the plush flesh. When she slides her arms into the sleeves and turns her face into the collar, she doesn’t see a maid wearing an ill-fitting coat in the mirror’s reflection. She doesn’t see a girl who grew up stealing soda cans from the local corner store or a teen who used to blow high school boys for a quick five bucks. She doesn’t see a woman whose entire life has been a story of cold jail cells and petty crimes.

She sees her face framed in fur and feels strength settle over her shoulders as the fabric shifts into place. She takes it off when she hears someone at the end of the hall but adds it to a stack of clothes for the dry cleaners, already knowing she won’t return it.

Haven takes it because she wants it, because in her heart she will always feel six years old: greedy and grabbing things out of her reach, things that, even as a child, she knew her poor fingers would never be able to afford. White trash, her town had called her, marking her as garbage in a town already over flowing with children of refuse. So now she puts on diamond earrings and rings that shine with solitary, sparkling jewels – rings that would weigh her down if she were ever caught in a flood – rings that her brother steals from department stores and the smooth hands of older women. She spritzes expensive perfume filched from top shelves onto her wrists and the pulse points of her neck, soothed by the smell of money.

She turns trash into luxury.





Their apartment is bare, devoid of the usual sentimentalities. Luke finds her in their living room, a shock of white against their lone piece of furniture – a threadbare couch they’d lugged up from a street curb upon moving and covered in old, mismatched blankets. Her legs are stretched out, propped up on a chipped glass coffee table, and she’s naked except for the fur. The coat hangs open, draping over her breasts, and the sleeves are too short at the wrists so he can see a string of sapphires decorating her left arm.

He smells like sunshine and freshly cut grass. There’s a smear of dirt across his jaw from where he rubbed his face while wearing his gardener gloves. In dark jeans and a shirt stained with sweat, Luke looks the part he’s trying to play: an honest man, lumbering away for a honest day’s pay. But the split of his mouth when he grins and the predatory, leisurely way he drags his eyes over her shatters the illusion. It’s an expression he hides well during the day, but the last bits of the charade fall away when he kicks the apartment door closed behind him.

“Welcome home, dear,” Haven croons in a fake aristocratic accent – something between Katharine Hepburn and Ingrid Bergman. “Hard day at the office?”

“Nothing a dry martini and a blowjob won’t fix,” Luke says with a smirk, pulling his shirt off by the collar. “Nice coat.”

“Do you like it? I got it for you.” She arches on the couch and lifts her arms, letting the fur slide against her body and slip against her skin so that her nipples show.

“I don’t think that’ll fit me.”

Haven laughs and curls her fingers, beckoning.

Luke ignores her outstretched hand and sits on the edge of the coffee table, picking her feet up in the process and placing them back on his lap. He has callouses that rub against her skin when he digs his fingers into the arch of her left foot, grinning at her from beneath the fall of his hair when she moans. He travels upward, massaging her calf, skimming the sensitive skin behind her knee. She rubs the toes of her right foot against his thigh.

When he crawls forward, she drops her legs, letting her knees cage the shape of his body. He ghosts his mouth across the curve of a breast, a collarbone, an ear.

His hands go to the coat, pushing down her shoulders, and Haven jerks beneath him, catching him by the back of his neck.

“Leave it on,” she murmurs, her mouth against his throat.





She's shaved bare at the apex between her legs, and although he's pushed himself into her space, balanced above her with one arm on the back of the couch, she opens her thighs beneath him, expectant and indulgent. Luke holds her eyes and sucks two fingers into his mouth before letting them explore. She's already slick as oil, but when his knuckles brush her sex, Haven draws in a breath like a hiss. He quirks an eyebrow, gentle in the way he pets her now, sliding a wet finger experimentally up and against her.

"Did he fuck you earlier?"

Luke uses pronouns to refer to David, something he started once Rowena’s husband became wrapped around Haven’s finger. He doesn’t even bother with titles. Haven hasn’t bothered to point this out to him; she knows who he’s talking about, and she nods, her mouth dry but her eyes bright.

"You're sore," he says with a frown and the empty-husk sound of a scoff.

Haven shakes her head slowly, biting her bottom lip. She's prone to telling lies, but her body betrays her, like all bodies eventually do. Luke keeps his hand between her legs and adds another finger, calling her bluff with a scowl when she keens, low in her throat, like an alley cat. He's slow - careful - but persistent, and her body adjusts to him. He curls his fingers up inside of her and keeps his thumb on her clit, rolling the pad of his thumb in maddening circles that aren't quite quick or hard enough to do more than keep the fire in her belly at a simmer.

Fair's fair, bitch that deep, dark, ugly part of him thinks. It's the part of him that was born rotten, the part that leaked sickness out from his pores and infected those around him, the part that made Haven as damaged as he is. It's this part of him that thinks she deserves her lot, that this is payback for all those nights she crawled into his bed at fifteen and curled her body against him like a comma, her ass flush with his groin, his shame a hardness she could feel in the night. If he makes her wait now, fingers wet and deep inside of her but tortuously slow, using the rhythm of a tightrope walker, it's only half of how he used to feel, circling his arms around her waist and rutting against her with his forehead pushed against the back of her neck and the smell of her like juniper and charcoal and grass stains and her skin soft but as hot as hellfire and the whole time knowing she was awake, knowing she kept her eyes closed to feign ignorance but feeling how she would roll her hips back against him, urging him towards a precipice that, if he fell, he could never come back from.

"Luke..." Haven whines, her back arching into a bow, one hand impatiently clawing at his hip. She's lifting her hips, twisting on the couch's old blankets, trying to will that simmer he's making her feel into a rapid boil.

For a moment, he wonders if this is how she sounds with Dave. If she can stretch out the adulterer's name with the same breathless desire she uses for his. If her tongue taps her teeth in the same way upon pronunciation. They're both one syllable. The thought makes the monster in his gut bristle.

"Is this what he does?" Luke moves his free hand, the one her thighs are not caging, and spreads his fingers low across her neck. He can feel the bump in her collarbone and the way her pulse thuds. "Does he make you come like this?"

Haven's flushed, her breathing shallow, but her eyes are still bright - still the eyes of a predator. Luke might have the reigns now, but she's waiting for her opportunity to strike. Still, there's no dishonesty in the way she shakes her head, and she looks fantastic surrounded by all that cream-colored fur, her blonde hair catching in a halo around her face, a blush of color streaking down her neck and over the tops of her breasts.

“Okay,” he says like it’s a kindness, leaning down to kiss her fully on the mouth, his tongue meeting hers while his fingers send her spiraling over the edge.





Haven fucks him afterwards.

She straddles his waist and guides him inside of her. She keeps the coat on, turning her face into the collar while she holds her hair from her neck, smelling money and salt and sweat. Luke holds her hips and watches her burn above him.

When she starts in with the filth, he doesn’t stop her. He grits his teeth and listens to all the words that tumble from her mouth. She tells him that she can feel how hard he is, that her brother’s cock is better than the husband’s, that she gets wet just thinking about riding him like this, that she wants to swallow his come and taste its sweetness.

She verbalizes his shame and lets him revel in it.





After, Haven peels the coat from her body like a second skin. She’ll pick it up from the floor in the morning and hang it in the hallway closet. It will shine like a pearl whenever she sees it, but she’ll skip past it with her fingers and choose an old leather jacket to run errands in or a crimson knitted cardigan for an early dinner in the city. The fur will be relegated to decorating a closet full of slip-on shoes and winter scarves.

She finds a Louis Vuitton tartan coat to replace it in six months, and when Luke asks what can be hocked for a quick thousand, she’ll toss him the fur without a second thought.

White trash, her town had called her, marking her as garbage.