Getting back into bed feels like a chore. Most of me doesn’t want to do this, but a small part of me is excited at the possibility that I can do this and maybe even enjoy it. I do it anyway. I crawl into bed and go about my actions mechanically, waiting for the sheer terror to creep into my lungs and make it impossible to breathe. If I were trying to seduce myself, I would start by running my hand down my chest to the apex of my thighs where I would lightly drag my nails along my inner thigh and then back up. My fingers would slide between my lips. It would be just enough to make my breath hitch. My fingers would pinch at my nipples, twisting just enough so that I whimper.
I would imagine Ian running his scruffy jaw along my inner thigh as he breathes heavily. His hot breath would wash over my wanting pussy. I would bring the side extension of the toy to my clit and turn it on the lowest setting. It wouldn’t be enough, but it would send a sweet little tingle down my spine. It would be delicious as I turned up the power to the second setting and made myself wait in agony as I deliberately intensify the vibrations and then lower them. I wouldn’t want to come too soon. I would want to draw it out just like Ian would. He would want me panting, I’m sure. So I would torture myself until I’m so needy that my swollen, wet pussy is begging for release. Then and only then would I slide the thick silicone-covered device into my core. In and out. In and out. It would be incredible. I would be breathless, wanton, crazy with need and desire. I would be high on the feeling of it rather than high because of the needle in my vein.
But I’m not trying to seduce myself. I’m simply trying to get over something I can barely name. I don’t run my hand down my abdomen. I don’t tease my inner thigh or my core. I just close my eyes and bring the still device to my clit, where I place the side extension, and suck in a terrified breath. I’m actually doing this, and as much as I know I want to, I’m scared of pressing the button and turning the fucking thing on. An orgasm shouldn’t be this scary. Nothing should be this scary.
But it is.
Tears slide down the sides of my face and pool in my ears. I hate the way the wetness tickles, but I don’t move to wipe it away. There’s so much about this—and about the entire world—that I hate, and I can’t wipe any of it away. Every terrible feeling, every awful moment, and every single fear refuses to be scrubbed away. I could peel off my own flesh, and the terror would still remain.
My lungs strain to breathe. It’s such a simple task, one we do several times a minute. Every day. For our entire lives. I tend to forget I’m breathing at times—I think we all do. It’s only when I can’t get my lungs to suck in air that I realize how important the simple act is. Focusing on the action, I manage to loosen up enough to get a little air in my lungs. And again. The discomfort in my chest lessens, slowly but surely, with every breath I take. I don’t move the toy from its position. If I do, I might not put it back and all these shot nerves will be for nothing.
Be brave.
I move the silicone piece in a slow circle on my clit. Even just being naked here like this is a little exciting. There’s a flutter of anticipation that gives me hope the memories will subside. I haven’t touched myself since well before that night. I’ve been too afraid to feel anything even remotely similar to what I felt then.
The barely there, pleasant hum shivers through me at the contact. They didn’t touch me here. They didn’t care about my comfort or pleasure. Actually, they tried to make it as painful as possible.
Shut up, whore. I didn’t say you could talk.
My body tenses at the memory. The hard plastic gun slams against face. Pain radiates out from my cheek, throbbing and crashing into my brain and neck and even down my spine. I don’t know how, but it does. It just hurts. Everything hurts. More tears fall from my eyes as I make another circle with the toy and then another. Every memory that hits me is more and more vicious than the last, just like that night.
His lips on mine hurt. He’s pressing into me so hard. I could bite him. I think about it, about biting him, but I’m too scared to do anything. He’s bucking against me, painfully squeezing my breasts. He’s so hateful, so violent, and so mean. I hate it. I hate every second of it. I’m crying so hard, still rubbing the toy against myself, and way too afraid to stop what I’m doing. I’m not entirely sure I know the difference between what’s happening now and what happened then. It’s blurring together in the most terrifying way. My head is slammed into the wall behind me. Everything feels hot and painful and just . . . too much. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know that this isn’t happening. I know I’m in my bedroom at my parents’ house. I know I’m naked in my bed and touching myself with this stupid silicone toy.