What does your body do without thought?
It simply exists.
It’s a collection of warm holes, then—a gathering of openings or gashes, with the spark of intuition used as nothing more than a defense mechanism.
Honestly, I was unnervingly quiet. I was actually doing okay. I mean, I’d done much worse at this game.
But I’d gotten lucky, really: the way I was bent over, the way he had pinned me, made it so I could barely breathe.
The loudest sound I could even make was a pathetic wheeze.
That wasn’t any fun for him, though.
Where was the entertainment if I wasn’t struggling? If he didn’t see me suffer?
We can’t talk much during the quiet game. But it’s not like we need to talk.
What I’m saying is that after so many years, a touch or look—more than enough direction.
So he slid his hands up my sweater. He gripped my shoulders, reared back.
This meant arch your back.
I pretended I didn’t understand, and his right hand slid up into my hair in response: gripped, pulled, summoned tiny power surges of pain, thumbtack sharp.
I arched then, of course, and the pressure decreased almost instantly.
He’d got what he wanted, where he wanted.
So I collapsed, this little kaleidoscope stellar-mass blackhole. Just like he wanted.
He slid to the exact spot that makes me cry, a razor-tipped butterfly rushing from my tummy to my throat, into my brain.
That spot must feel like something to his cock.
Because he always makes this noise—a grunt, but not quite. Coming from somewhere low in his chest, but with his gut behind it. It makes my spine ache.
It makes all of me ache.
The tears came then, came first. Then, I came. And I came again. And again. Until there was the squeeze of his fingers at the nape of my neck—he was happy. No, pleased.
The touch was just pressure, no pain.
I did good.
