1
I am really fucked up.
That was my last clear thought as hands forced me up the stairs.Below me, the sounds of the party faded into buzzing thumps, punctuated by an exhilarated scream, the hammer of running footsteps, a distant splash.Above, the staircase narrowed into darkness.Maybe that was my fault, though.Through the fog, I was starting to think that last line of shots had been overdoing it.
At the top of the stairs, the hands propelling me stopped long enough to throw open a door, and then they forced me into deeper darkness.The door clicked shut, and then everything soundedfarther off.The smell of laundry detergent mixed with the musk of weed, and I had a moment of doubt.Had I been smoking?Then the hands were on me again, shoving, turning.
One of them caught me by the chin, steadying me.The fingers were cold against my face.
After a moment, a voice said, “You said you wanted to get fucked.”Another pause, the silence of waiting.And then, “Jesus Christ.”
It was hard to make out more than a shape in the darkness, but his voice sounded young—cocky, with an eagerness he couldn’t quite mask, and a false note to it.Trying too hard, I thought about telling him.You’re trying too hard.That gets you every time.
But I was still struggling with the words when he made an impatient sound and grabbed my shirt.He yanked it off me—yank, yank, yank—and I wanted to laugh, wanted to say,Slow down.But I was too deep, and all I could do was try to stay upright as he alternated between grabbing my arm to keep me on my feet and letting go again to try to get the shirt over my head.
When the shirt was finally off, he pushed me onto the bed.The air whispered against my spine; my skin felt tight and hot.He was back a moment later, dragging my shorts off.They made a soft, rumpling noise as he flung them aside.His hands were still cold when he spread my cheeks and ran a finger between them.
“Commando,” he said.“Good bitch.And you shaved your pussy for daddy too.”
The daddy thing, I thought as he manhandled me up the mattress.I guess clichés are around for a reason.
When the door opened, the sounds of the party swelled again, and ambient light washed into the room, but my eyes weren’t focusing right, and from where I lay face down on the mattress, all I could do was guess at the shapes: nightstand, dresser, television.
“Shit.”That was someone else.“You weren’t kidding.”
And then a third guy.“He doesn’t look too good.”
The first voice—Daddy, I thought with a giggle—said, “He’s fine.He wants it.”His hand cracked across my ass.“Don’t you, bitch?”
The slap stung, but like everything else: from a long way off.
“Uh, bro…” That was the third voice.
“What?”And then another slap landed.Heat rolled through my body, and I moaned.“He wants it.”
The silence from the third man was the only answer.
Finally, the second man said, “Fucking get it.”
Daddy hocked a wad of spit between my cheeks.His fingers followed, one pressing in, and then, almost immediately, another.It was too much, but the burn felt like it was happening to someone else, and when I tried to pull myself across the bed, his knee landed on the small of my back, pinning me in place.
Laughing, he asked, “Where do you think you’re going?”
Another wad of spit followed.A third finger.Spit again.And then the withdrawal, nothing.
He slammed home, and I screamed.
A moment later, his hand wrapped across my mouth.He was already moving again, hips jerking against me.The first moments seemed to last forever—the pain, the sense of impossibility, that my body could never do this.He was lying on top of me, his thrusts short and jerky and amateurish.One of those cold hands wound through my hair, yanking my head back, baring my throat.
“You like that, huh?You like that, bitch?”
Like bad porn, I thought, over the slap of his body against mine.The pain was losing its edge, shrinking to discomfort as my body adjusted, accepted him, let him in.And from an even more distant place: Who taught this boner how to fuck?
And then his hand was around my throat, squeezing.
“Fucking cock tease.”It was almost a whisper, hoarse and verging on out of breath.Cardio, bro, I thought over the tap-tap of his nuts.His fingers opened, flexed, tightened again.“That’s what you are.”
My vision narrowed to a sparking, fizzing storm of black and white.I twisted, my body remembering to fight even though my brain was offline, but his weight pressed me into the mattress.His breath was hot on the bare skin of my shoulder.I smelled my ass on his hand.The music thudded in my joints.
