Lips at the shell of my ear: “Were you wet for her, X?”
I shake my head. “No, Caleb,” I lie.
“Were your nipples hard for her, X?”
“No, Caleb,” I lie.
I am wearing a dove-gray A-line dress, one of a kind, designed and crafted to my measurements by a prominentfashion student studying here in New York City. It is priceless, unique, and one of my favorite garments.
Hands clutch fabric at my shoulders on either side of the zipper at my spine. One sharp tug, and the dress is ripped apart, fluttering to the floor at my feet. I do not breathe, do not speak, not move. I do not dare.
Bra unhooked, straps brushed aside. Hands cup my breasts, lift them to rest on the cold glass. Push at my spine to bend me forward until my breasts are now crushed against the glass, smashed flat. Panties are yanked down, roughly.
“Caleb—”
“‘Please fuck me, Caleb.’” This in a rough rasp. “Say it, X.”
I whimper. “P-please—”
“I can’t hear you.”
I hear a zipper being lowered, feel flesh against my flesh, a hot, rigid erection nestled between the globes of my backside. Hands in the creases of my hips. Hands scour my spine, my back, caressing in gentle circles. Hands delve around my waist, dive between my thighs. Touch me.
“‘I’ve felt your nips get hard, smelled your pussy get wet. Makes us friends, I’d say.’” The words are whispered in my ear, matched with a rhythmic touch, creating a wet sucking sound from between my thighs. “You’re wet forme, aren’t you, X?”
“Yes,” I whimper.
“Your nipples are hard forme, aren’t they, X?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
The erection slides, teases. “She can’t give you this, can she?”
“No.” I swallow hard, hating that my body wants this despite the terror in my gut, despite the pounding knot of confusion in my throat.
“So say it.” A moment of silence as fingers move, bringing me to the edge. “Say it, X.”
“Please—please fuck me, Caleb.” I whisper it, and I am rewarded with a sudden and slow penetration.
I feel misused. Mistreated. Manipulated. I feel dirty.
Yet I want this.
Why?
WHY?
What is wrong with me? My nippleswerehard for George, Iwaswet for her. Yet I am even harder and wetter now.
And I was not afraid of George.
A thrust, another, a slow and methodicalfucking. Fist in my hair, pressing my face to the glass.
I see no reflection now, only my books:For Whom the Bell Tolls,As I Lay Dying,The Dead,A Room of One’s Own.
Long, slow thrusts. Wet sounds. Sweat on my back. Slapping flesh. My breath, in pants, whimpers. I know how I sound: I sound erotic. I whimper and groan, moan and sigh. My voice betrays me. I cannot deny that I am affected, that such carnal skill, such sexual ferocity, such consummate primal power and unrelenting vigor has me heating up and writhing and detonating, that I am made into a helpless thing, made slave to this. To the sensation of being owned, to being used so. In such moments I am not my own, and I hate and need this in equal measure.
I come, violently, and I hate myself for it.
