A rough sound comes from his throat, and then he slowly, methodically spits into my mouth.
It lands wetly on my tongue, surprising and foreign and tasteless. I swallow reflexively, and then it’s gone—but the aftereffects linger, the shame in my belly and the heat in my cheeks. A shudder racks my body, and his eyes flicker.
“Fuck,” he says. “Everything I do to you makes me want you more.”
I close my eyes. I don’t know how much more I can take.
My hands are still above my head when he reaches between our bodies, where we’re joined. His other hand rubs my clit, and I’m way too tender. I let out a shriek because it hurts.
“Shhh,” he says, rubbing harder.
I struggle to get away, to get relief, but I’m well contained, completely under his control.
It takes me a minute to realize what he’s doing, that he’s wringing spasms out of my body, that he’s clenching my inner muscles around his cock with every harsh stroke of his thumb on my clit.
He finally releases my hands so he can cup my breast, and that too is for him. Not me. He’s not trying to make me feel good, he’s just using me—my pussy, my breasts, my mouth. Every part of me a soft place to wrap around himself, to rub off on.
His face twists in ecstasy, and he finishes himself off in three fast, hard thrusts. Hot seed bathes me inside, stinging all the skin he’s rubbed raw.
Even then he doesn’t let up rubbing my clit.
There’s a wet sound as he pulls out. He dips two fingers inside my pussy and scoops his come out. With a cold glint in his eyes, he pushes those fingers inside my mouth. Salt and arousal spill onto my tongue, made rough by the calluses of his hands. I know for sure it’s a punishment now, and it’s working. I want to repent, but all I can do is lick his fingers clean and come against his other hand, choking and gasping his name, too garbled to understand.
I collapse back on the bed, spent from my tears and my orgasm, boneless.
Time passes, and I drift on the waves of pleasure and degradation. They’re more alike than I would have thought possible. He must think I’m sleeping, because he moves a lock of hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear.
“How much more?” he mutters as if to himself.
And maybe that’s the scariest part, that even he doesn’t know where the hard edge is. He’ll just keep pushing and pushing until I fall. And I’ll let him, because all my life, I’ve craved that wind on my face.
*
I wake up feeling warm and safe. It’s strange, like something out of a dream—only I don’t feel safe in my dreams. My eyes blink, adjusting to the darkness, focusing on the unfamiliar shadows.
This isn’t my room in Mrs. Owens’s house. It’s not a room I’ve ever had. I’ve had twenty-four bedrooms that I can remember. Some of them shared with foster siblings, some of them no bigger than a closet. This isn’t any of them.
I grow very still. There’s an arm slung over my hip. My heart begins to race. Where am I? Who the fuck is this? And since I know I’d never agree to sex with one of the creeps at the club, how did I get here?
Then I remember.
Sleep is a cold bastard, holding me underwater only to laugh when I sputter. How could I have ever forgotten, even for a second? I’m the enemy, someone to be hated and pitied. Someone to be used and fucked. Never loved. Never again.
It’s Blue’s arm slung over me in a cruel parody of protection. It’s Blue’s chest rising and falling at my back. Blue’s cock hard and hot against my thigh. He’s sleeping now, but I don’t know how long that will last.
Carefully, slowly, I slip his arm off me. I immediately feel cold without its presence, especially when I leave the shelter of his body and stand up.
He doesn’t stir.
His face is painted with shadows, darker where scruff covers his jaw, lighter where his eyes are closed. He looks peaceful this way, no longer angry. How will he feel when he wakes up to find me gone? He can’t expect me to stay. Or maybe he can. Maybe that is part of my punishment, to be near a man I’ll never have.
I put on my clothes quickly. Undressing is my job, both ritual and art form.
Dressing is simply the aftermath. It’s rolling up the mat or cleaning the brushes. Putting things away.
I give myself one last look at him, his strong body still curved around an empty space. He’s beautiful and terrifying. He’s everything I loved and everything I’ve come to hate—a man who takes what he wants. Even if what he wants is me.
In his kitchen I find a notepad with some groceries scribbled down. Milk. Peanut butter.
My heart clenches. It’s ordinary and somehow sweet.
I use a blank sheet to start a note to him. Same time next week.