Back To Fucked Up update

“I’m busy!” was how Jessica Jones answered the phone, and the only excuse for her lack of etiquette was that she was busy. Files and documents littered the folding card table that had been the only open surface in her apartment before she started her deep dive into the life of the missing August Krohn. He was so improbably named that there had to be some good cheese at the end of the maze. 

Four hours later, she had found nothing except a higher phone bill as she checked out every known associate, ran down every lead, and double-checked every reference she could get out before going outside. It had her in a mood, and being in a mood made Jessica even more fussy, especially since she couldn’t have a drink. Drinks hadn’t actually made her happy, but they’d made her like being surly a lot more. If other people hated dealing with her, how much more did she hate having to deal with herself?

“Hello to you too,” Trish replied, and it might be a sign that they were soulmates that she ended up bemused by the foul tone in Jessica’s voice.

Jessica’s brow furrowed, eyes twitching in panic, but even if she was intimate enough with Trish now to regret yelling at her, she didn’t have the words to take it back. “What do you want?” she asked, lowering her voice like she was trying to attract a deer with baby talk. Hoping that sufficed as an apology.

It didn’t, but Trish would take that up with her in their next disciplinary session. “Heard you have a case. How long have you been working on it, anyway?”

“Since this morning,” Jessica answered with a smidgen of pride.

“You had anything to eat?”

“No,” Jessica scoffed. “I said I was busy, Trish.”

“Go get something to eat and I’ll write off you being rude as hunger pangs.”

“Trish, I’m busy,” Jessica insisted for the third time.

She could almost see Trish shift the phone in her hand, press it tighter to her ear and lips. “Are you wearing it?”

Jessica moved to cradle her phone’s mouthpiece, as if someone might overhear. With how thin the walls in this dump were, someone actually might, but being shy was still a new experience for her. “Of course I’m wearing it—mistress.”

“Good,” Trish said sharply. “Then you haven’t forgotten who you belong to. Because I sure wouldn’t forget if I had a buttplug jammed up my ass.”

“No, mistress,” Jessica whimpered. 

“So get off the phone, go to the fridge, and make yourself lunch. I got you some bread and cheese and lunchmeat this weekend, so you should be able to manage something.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Go,” Trish insisted. “We need to keep you fighting fit. You know I love seeing you drag that fat, juicy ass of yours around in those skinny bitch jeans of yours. Forget about keeping your asshole loose for my strap. I want to walk around town with my hand in your backpocket, feeling that big butt of yours with every step you take. I don’t want you wasting away like some heroin-chic supermodel, getting yourself a flat, bony ass that I can’t enjoy fucking. Your ass is mine and I want a nice, plush cushion to take the impacts when I’m fucking your hole. You want that too, right?”

Jessica felt like wailing. Trish was punishing her. Not like spanking her, not like pulling her hair, but torturing her by getting her all revved up and then making her wait for satisfaction, with nothing to do but be obedient and think about how much she loved being Trish’s bitch. God, how was she supposed to work when all she could think about was how much Trish enjoyed the pillowy flesh she was sitting on?

“You sound out of breath,” Trish teased. Jessica could see the smug look on her face like she was having a psychic vision. “You’re not getting worked up, are you? Feeling naughty? If you listened to my show, you’d know there’s nothing kinky or taboo about enjoying anal sex, even sadomasochistic practices. It’s all perfectly natural.”

“Liar,” Jessica wheezed. “If you talked about doing anal and spanking bitches on your show, I’d still be masturbating to it.”

“You’re all class, Jess.” Then, like the Devil Herself, Trish added: “You wanna beg me to let you come?”

Jessica shut her eyes. Fuck. Phone sex. Shit. That was all she needed. Being Trish’s digital age bitch. It was enough to make her foam at the mouth. “N-no… you gave me an order. I need to go have lunch.”

“Like a good girl,” Trish prompted.

“Like a good girl,” Jessica agreed. “Bye.”

“Have some vegetables with your sandwich,” Trish added rapidly.

“Jesus, Walker.”

“And no soda. Water or milk or juice only.”

“Holy shit.”

“And of course I know there’s no way you’re thinking about having a beer, so I don’t even have to mention that.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay, Jess. Bye.” Then, like she was spitting on a vanquished opponent, Trish said: “You have my permission to come.”

On that casually dropped bombshell, she hung up.

Jessica stiffened, felt her pussy clench like Trish was in the room, dressed like a dominatrix, ready to use her up like a full tank of gas on a road trip to Vegas. Christ Almighty. Much more of this and she’d fucking squirt.

Jessica got up—gasping as her panties shifted over her moist, sensitive mound—and made her way from what she laughably referred to as the dining room to what she hilariously referred to as the kitchen. 

She scrupulously filled a paper plate as instructed, then stuffed it in the microwave for nuclear testing. People thought Trish was so nice. She was the fucking devil incarnate. Trying to make Jessica Jones go to hell for the sin of enjoying being fucked in the ass too much.

Her stomach grumbled. Now that she’d stopped to think about it, she really was hungry. So it only made sense that someone knocked at the door just as the microwave rang. Jessica groaned and shut off the microwave’s trilling, then stomped her way to the front door. Normally, this would’ve called for a more profane version of ‘I’m busy,’ but she’d vented her rudeness with Trish. Even if she doubted it was Trish there, checking up on her after the phone call, she didn’t want to batter some stranger with her bitchiness. Not with Trish on her mind, frowning with disapproval.

She opened the door and momentarily hated Trish for civilizing her. She was off on the wrong foot, not being a rude bitch. It was Dorothy Walker. Trish’s mother.

“What do you want?” Jessica asked, trying to regain lost ground, but Dorothy steamrolled over her.

“Have you seen Trish lately? I’ve been trying to reach her but she isn’t answering her phone. Is she here?” Dorothy concluded the barrage with a sniff of disdain, almost pro forma. 

“No, but she just called me, she’s fine.”

“She called you?” Dorothy asked, the three simple words crackling with doubt, suspicion, and disbelief.

Jessica reached out to lean against the doorframe, barring the way to Dorothy and displaying her arrogance. “Yeah. We do talk from time to time. Maybe you should’ve tried it once in a while.”

Another sniff. Probably a cocaine habit. “Well, as successful as Trish has been, all the money in the world can’t buy taste.”

“How much taste can you have if you want all the money in the world?” Jessica retorted smugly.

Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “Just because my daughter sees you as a charity case—an idea I unfortunately fobbed on her, you’ll remember—don’t think you’re anything special to her. You’re about the only person in this city she can look down on as more screwed up than her.”

Jessica scoffed. “You think that’s it, huh? That Trish is running some one-woman soup kitchen and I’m her best customer? She actually likes spending time with me. As crazy and fucked up and… cracked as I am, she’d rather be with me than you. Than anyone. Must make you shit yourself, knowing she can forgive someone being a mess, she just can’t forgive you.”

Dorothy rolled her entire head with her eyes. “I’m sure she’s got you thinking that. Trish always did have talent, even if she never wanted to really apply herself.”

Jessica was used to taking abuse hurled at her, but the barbs directed at Trish had her seeing red. Maybe it was the hunger pangs, but before she could think better of it, she turned around and unbuckled the leather belt around her waist. Thinking of how Trish had cooed to her about liking her fat ass. Yeah, well let’s see if it runs in the family, Trish.

She dropped her jeans and panties, showing Dorothy her naked ass and the buttplug studded in her hole, holding it open for Trish’s use. “You’re right, Dorothy, Trish does have talent. But she definitely applies herself. Look what she did to my asshole. Now that takes skill. Believe me, I’ve been drunk enough to have plenty of anal sex, but Trish makes me come every time. Hell, she makes up for lost time. I have fucking multiples with her and I still beg for more. And as if there’s any doubt that she owns my ass, I wear this to remind me of my place. Think you love Trish that much? To spend every waking moment remembering that you belong to her?”

Dorothy sputtered in disbelief. Jessica turned around, proudly displaying her muff. Even with Dorothy there, talking about Trish, bringing her dominance to the forefront of Jessica’s mind, it made her wet. If Trish were there, Jessica would’ve bent over for her right then. If Dorothy didn’t want to see what a top her daughter was, she could fucking leave.

“And by the way, I lost my virginity to her. We’ve been doing this since we were teenagers. I was just too stupid to know what I’ve got, kinda like you were. But unlike you, I got her to take me back. Now I’m having the best sex of my life. So—thanks for introducing me to your daughter. I’m her fucking girlfriend.”

Dorothy shook her head with a spastic twitch. “You’re sick. Delusional. This is all in your head. My daughter would never—she isn’t—you’re beneath her.”

“You’re goddamn right I am,” Jessica nodded. “It’s called bottoming. Turns out I’m really good at it.”

That was all Dorothy could take. She turned on her heels and marched off. Jessica watched her go, satisfied with her latest bad decision, until she remembered she was standing bottomless in the doorway of her apartment. She closed the door before any of her neighbors could get a peek.