Laura's Devotion

At fif­teen, in the he­art of my high school ye­ars, I met Den­nis, my boy­friend, who was my age. Ten ye­ars la­ter, we sha­red a mo­dest apart­ment on the east si­de of a small Ger­man ci­ty. I had com­ple­ted my trai­ning as a tra­vel agent and wor­ked at a co­zy down­town agen­cy, craf­ting dre­am va­ca­ti­ons for clients whi­le scra­ping by on a mo­dest pay­check. Den­nis, sup­po­sed­ly stu­dy­ing com­pu­ter sci­ence at the lo­cal uni­ver­si­ty, ra­re­ly at­ten­ded lec­tu­res. In­ste­ad, he spent his days glu­ed to the com­pu­ter in our cram­ped li­ving room, co­ding apps or shou­ting in­to his head­set du­ring in­ten­se ga­ming ses­sions. To ea­se our tight fi­nan­ces, he pi­cked up oc­ca­sio­nal shifts as a wai­ter at a ne­ar­by café, but his ef­fort was half-he­ar­ted at best. We didn’t ha­ve much, but I couldn’t com­plain too loud­ly—Den­nis was sweet in his own way, calm and even-tem­pe­red. In our free ti­me, we’d escape to the se­re­ne si­de arms of the Rhi­ne Ri­ver, whe­re I could lo­se my­self in na­ture. An­imals we­re my pas­sion, and wat­ching them thri­ve in their na­tu­ral ha­bi­tats felt like a sli­ce of pa­ra­di­se. On paper, my li­fe see­med idyl­lic, but our be­droom was a bar­ren was­te­land. Den­nis was ne­ver a ma­ra­thon lo­ver, and the or­gasms he’d spar­ked over the ye­ars could be coun­ted on one hand. I cra­ved in­ti­ma­cy, a spark of pas­sion, but one or two rus­hed ses­sions a month we­re all I got.

I ra­cked my brain, won­de­ring what was wrong. Was it me? Had I let my­self go? I’d ask Den­nis if so­met­hing was off, if I’d pa­cked on too ma­ny pounds, or if I just wasn’t se­xy enough an­ymo­re. He’d dis­miss my wor­ries, in­sis­ting it wasn’t me. Ear­ly in our re­la­tion­ship, things we­re elect­ric—whe­ne­ver we we­re alo­ne, we’d be tang­led in each ot­her’s arms wit­hin mo­ments, lost in a fren­zy of de­si­re that left my skin ting­ling and my he­art ra­cing. But af­ter a ye­ar, the fi­re fa­ded. It stay­ed de­cent for a whi­le, a fli­cker of what we had, but over ti­me, our in­ti­ma­te mo­ments dwind­led to a ba­re mi­ni­mum. I felt like I was star­ving for con­nec­tion, and no amount of plea­ding could re­vi­ve it.

My frus­tra­ti­ons pou­red out in talks with my best friend, Mi­ri­am, who I’d known sin­ce our kin­der­gar­ten days. Sing­le and un­apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly free-spi­ri­ted, she scou­red da­ting sites for no-strings-at­ta­ched hoo­kups with all sorts of men. Her suc­cess was un­de­nia­ble—she had stea­my en­coun­ters se­ve­ral times a week. Over cof­fee or la­te-night chats, she’d share wild ta­les of her sex dates, so­me so bold they soun­ded like they be­lon­ged in a no­vel. I couldn’t fa­thom her con­fi­den­ce, her ab­ili­ty to re­vel in it all. She’d nud­ge me, half-tea­sing, to try it my­self—to find guys on­line who’d gi­ve me what Den­nis wouldn’t. “Just let so­meo­ne take you, Lau­ra,” she’d say, her ey­es glin­ting with mi­schief. The idea was temp­ting, but I al­ways said no. Chea­ting on Den­nis, even if I felt neg­lec­ted, see­med wrong. The­re had to be a rea­son for his dis­tan­ce, and I was de­ter­mi­ned to un­co­ver it. Be­si­des, I wasn’t flaw­less either. Sin­ce start­ing my ap­pren­ti­ces­hip, I’d let exer­ci­se slip, and small love hand­les had sett­led on my hips. Mi­ri­am and I de­ci­ded to ta­ckle that first.

We com­mit­ted to run­ning twi­ce a week in the ci­ty’s spraw­ling cast­le park. My in­ner couch po­ta­to groa­ned, but with Mi­ri­am, the mi­les flew by as we tal­ked ab­out ever­yt­hing—work, dre­ams, and my stag­nant love li­fe. Months of ef­fort mel­ted away the ex­tra weight, but it didn’t change things at home. Den­nis bar­ely no­ti­ced. Mi­ri­am sug­ge­sted he might need mo­re vi­su­al ent­ice­ment—men, she said, we­re wi­red for it. Se­xy lin­ge­rie could reig­ni­te his in­te­rest. So, we hit the clot­hing stores, scou­ring racks for pro­vo­ca­ti­ve out­fits I’d mo­del for Den­nis, ho­ping to spark so­met­hing. I’d pa­ra­de around in la­ce and silk, the fa­bric clin­ging to my cur­ves, but he’d just nod, dis­trac­ted, his ey­es glu­ed to his screen. The lin­ge­rie I bought for him gat­he­red dust, and our be­droom rou­ti­ne stay­ed stuck at one or two lack­lus­ter ses­sions a month. I brought it up, plea­ded even, but not­hing chan­ged. Den­nis was tet­he­red to his com­pu­ter, so­me­ti­mes stay­ing up all night, mutter­ing in­to his head­set. His uni­ver­si­ty vi­sits be­ca­me ra­rer, and I stop­ped se­eing him code an­yt­hing wor­thwhi­le—just end­less ga­ming. I felt in­vi­sib­le, my ef­forts to re­vi­ve our re­la­tion­ship fa­ding in­to the back­ground.

Our fi­nan­ces we­re crum­bling too. Den­nis sla­cked off at the café, lea­ving me to shoul­der the bills with my mo­dest sa­la­ry. I trud­ged to work dai­ly whi­le he loun­ged at home, lost in vir­tu­al worlds. My free ti­me, on­ce spent with him, was now with Mi­ri­am, run­ning in the park or ven­ting over cof­fee. I star­ted drea­ming of a big­ger li­fe—may­be ope­ning my own tra­vel agen­cy. Why sla­ve away for so­meo­ne el­se when I could work for my­self? But with Den­nis su­cking up our ac­count, that dre­am felt out of re­ach. Mi­ri­am, me­an­whi­le, li­ved dif­fe­rent­ly. She’d trai­ned as a ma­keup ar­tist but on­ly wor­ked spo­ra­di­cal­ly, yet she ear­ned mo­re in a few hours than I did in a month. She’d tea­se me, flas­hing her pho­ne’s ca­len­dar, pa­cked with mys­te­ri­ous week­end plans but free du­ring the week. When I as­ked how she ma­na­ged, she was ca­gey, fi­nal­ly ad­mit­ting she wor­ked for an es­cort agen­cy cal­led Star­ser­vice, ac­com­pa­ny­ing busi­ness­men to din­ners or events. “It’s not what you think,” she laug­hed when I as­ked if she was a pro­sti­tu­te. “I go to fan­cy din­ners, the thea­ter, or just talk. Sex is op­tio­nal, and on­ly if I like the guy.” She sho­wed me the agen­cy’s web­site, which cle­ar­ly sta­ted that es­corts we­re for com­pa­ni­ons­hip, not sex—any pri­va­te ar­ran­ge­ments we­re se­pa­ra­te. Her pay stubs blew my mind—thou­sands of euros for a few eve­nings, dwar­fing my in­come. I was in­tri­gu­ed but he­si­tant. I couldn’t ima­gi­ne do­ing it, not with Den­nis still in the pic­tu­re, su­cking up my mo­ney and ener­gy.

The cons­tant fi­nan­cial strain took a toll on my de­si­re for sex with him. My thoughts kept circ­ling around our dwind­ling funds, whi­le Den­nis see­med ut­ter­ly un­bot­he­red. I ven­ted to Mi­ri­am, who even­tu­al­ly as­ked why I kept put­ting up with it. “You’re bar­ely get­ting any sex, mo­ney’s tight be­cau­se of his la­zi­ness, and your prob­lems just keep gro­wing,” she said, her voi­ce sharp with frus­tra­tion. I tried to find so­lu­tions with Den­nis, but he didn’t care. Eve­ry ti­me I wan­ted to talk, he was at his com­pu­ter, brus­hing me off un­til his game was over. Tho­se games ra­re­ly en­ded, and if they did, it was in the midd­le of the night when I was al­rea­dy as­leep. By the next day, he’d for­got­ten all ab­out it. I had to get up ear­ly for work, whi­le Den­nis slept un­til the af­ter­noon.

Mi­ri­am’s ad­vi­ce was blunt. “What you ha­ve isn’t a re­la­tion­ship, Lau­ra,” she said mo­re and mo­re of­ten. “You’re stuck with a de­ad­weight who do­esn’t gi­ve a damn ab­out you. He just moo­ches off you, bar­ely tou­ches you, and spends his ti­me on­line in­ste­ad of with you.”

She was right. Den­nis was trap­ped in front of his com­pu­ter, bar­ely par­ti­ci­pa­ting in an­yt­hing el­se. Af­ter work, I had to clean the apart­ment, cook, and do laun­dry. Friends star­ted as­king if he’d drop­ped out of col­lege sin­ce they hadn’t seen him at the uni­ver­si­ty in ages. I didn’t ha­ve an ans­wer—I didn’t know. He was on­ly ever in front of that damn screen, tal­king ab­out his stu­pid shoo­ter games through his head­set.

One eve­ning, af­ter an­ot­her fai­led at­tempt to sleep with Den­nis—sup­po­sed­ly be­cau­se his day was “so ex­haus­ting”—I de­ci­ded to dip my to­es in­to the on­line world for a be­droom ad­ven­tu­re. Not a re­la­tion­ship, just hot, unin­hi­bi­ted sex. The next mor­ning at the of­fice, the thought con­su­med me. I found the site Mi­ri­am had re­com­men­ded and crea­ted a pro­fi­le, se­ar­ching for wild sex. To boost my chan­ces, I uploa­ded a pic­tu­re of my­self, blur­ring my face to stay ano­ny­mous—no need for the who­le ci­ty to re­cog­ni­ze me. I on­ly vi­si­ted the site at work or on my pho­ne to keep it from Den­nis. Wit­hin mi­nu­tes, I got a mes­sage from a guy na­med Ro­bert. His pic­tu­res sho­wed a man with short blond hair, a slight bel­ly, and a tan­ned com­ple­xion. His cock was no­ti­cea­bly big­ger than Den­nis’s, and he see­med ge­nui­ne­ly nice. Af­ter a few mes­sages, we ar­ran­ged to meet that af­ter­noon in the pe­de­stri­an zone. I wal­ked to Kai­ser Street, the ag­reed mee­ting spot, and saw him wai­ting from a dis­tan­ce. My sto­mach chur­ned with ner­ves as I ap­pro­ached, but his ea­sy­go­ing vi­be qui­ckly put me at ea­se.

We grab­bed cof­fee, and he as­ked ab­out my pre­fe­ren­ces. I couldn’t gi­ve him much de­tail, but it was a first, ten­ta­ti­ve step. His apart­ment was ne­ar down­town, and we hea­ded the­re. On­ce in­side, we went straight to his be­droom. We kis­sed, his lips warm and in­sis­tent, as he slow­ly star­ted un­dres­sing me. A fi­re­works of ting­ling er­up­ted bet­ween my legs, he­at floo­ding my bo­dy. When he freed my bre­asts from their con­fi­nes, I didn’t care ab­out an­yt­hing an­ymo­re. I just wan­ted to be fu­cked—hard and for as long as pos­sib­le. I slid down, un­but­to­ned his pants with trem­bling fin­gers, and let them drop to the floor. His bo­xers we­re al­rea­dy tight. I pul­led them down, and his half-er­ect cock sprang to­ward me. The pic­tu­res hadn’t lied. I slow­ly ran my ton­gue around the tip, dra­wing a soft mo­an from him. His rod swel­led fur­ther as he grab­bed my hair and pres­sed my head on­to it. I ope­ned my mouth, let­ting him in, and he mo­ved my head rhyth­mi­cal­ly back and forth—slow and ten­der at first, then mo­re for­ce­ful and de­man­ding. He fu­cked my thro­at, and my pus­sy, still trap­ped in my pan­ties, star­ted lea­king. The flood­ga­tes we­re open, aching for a vi­si­tor to sur­ren­der to.