“Answer me, goddammit.” Fingers squeeze in warning.
“I did. I don’t know what happened, Caleb. It took me by surprise. I—I didn’t know how to react.”
“It was unacceptable. I had to force Michael Tompkins and his queer slut of a daughter to sign further nondisclosure agreements, so your impropriety won’t be leaked to the rest of my clientele.” I flinch at your cruel and vulgar insult, so casually hurled. I feel offended for Georgia, somehow, though I shouldn’t, and do not dare to let it show. “You work for me, X. Remember that. These are my clients. My business associates. You represent me. And when you act that way, when you allow yourself to be touched . . . it reflects on me.”
“I’m sorry, Caleb.”
“You’re sorry? You let a lesbian touch you? Almost kiss you? You let her speak to you that way? And you”—a tremble in that avalanche-rumble voice—“you looked like—like it affected you. As if you liked it.”
“No, Caleb. I was just—”
“Did you, X? Did you like the way she touched you? Did you like the way she felt? Is it better than the way I feel? The way I touch you?” Hands on my waist, where hers were. Lips, brushing mine. A tongue, touching nose, upper lip. Mirroring. Mocking.
“No . . .”
“No, what?”
“No, Caleb.” This is the correct, expected response. I know this. But I am afraid, and shaken, and unable to breathe, so I forgot.
“No. She doesn’t feel better than me, does she?”
“No, Caleb.”
I am turned, given a violent shove. I stumble and catch up against the glass of the display case. A foot smacks against the inside of my ankle, tapping my feet apart. Another, to the other side. Now my feet are more than shoulder width apart. Hips against my backside. Reflection in the glass: my face, dark skin flushed, frightened, yet my mouth is opened in a moue, eyes heavy-lidded, lips moist, nostrils flaring, and behind my face a larger one, pale skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Chiseled, sculpted features so beautiful it hurts.
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 prominent fashion 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, do 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 for me, aren’t you, X?”
“Yes,” I whimper.
“Your nipples are hard for me, 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 nipples were hard for George, I was wet for her. Yet I am even harder and wetter now.
And I was not afraid of George.
A thrust, another, a slow and methodical fucking. 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.
Lips at the shell of my ear as I lie bent over the glass, the edge cutting into my belly, gasping for breath, near tears: “To whom do you belong, X?” Each word is enunciated carefully, precisely.
“I belong to you, Caleb.” It is the raw truth, however I may feel about it.
“Whose body is this?” A slap to my backside, sharp but not precisely painful.
“Yours,” I murmur, just above a whisper.
I am pulled upright, a broad, hard palm cupping the back of my neck. Eyes bore down on me, pierce me, dark and still furious, but now fraught with glints and fractions of other unknowable emotions. Fingers delve between my legs. Swipe, smear, gather still-hot, just-spilled seed. Touch it to my tongue. I taste it, musk, tang, saltiness, my own female essence woven around the masculine. “That’s me, inside you. You taste us?”
I nod. I cannot speak.
Fingers pinch my nipple, hard. “Your sexuality belongs to me, X. No one else may even so much as fucking smell you, do you understand me? You. Are. Mine.” The pinch does not subside, the pain a sharp ache making me tremble, making some part of me twist and writhe and need. I hate, hate, hate my body for reacting thus. “Do you understand, X?”
“Yes.”
The pinch goes harder yet, hard enough to make me whimper. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, Caleb!” I gasp.
Fingers release my nipple, and my knees buckle with relief. I cannot stop myself from falling. Arms catch me, lift me easily. Carry me into my bedroom, settle me with exquisite gentility. Too gently. The tenderness hurts and confuses worse than the pain, worse than the demands of ownership, distress me more than the sexual dominion.
“Sleep.” It is a command.
And I . . . ?
I obey.
• • •
I wake abruptly, disoriented. My blinds are open, letting in the moonlight and the scintillating shine of countless windows from the skyline. I reach to my bedside table for the remote that lowers the blackout shade.
The remote is gone. My noise machine is gone.
My heart sinks.
I rise, still naked, and move to the window. Look up. The blackout shade is still there, installed above the window. But without the remote, there is no way to lower it.
Tears prick my eyes. This is my punishment, then. Without the curtains and the noise, how will I sleep?
I won’t, or not well.
I fight the weakness. Lie down, cover myself with the blanket, pull it over my head, attempt to sleep. But after only a few moments I feel like I’m suffocating, choking on my own hot, recycled breaths. I toss the blanket away. Stare at the ceiling.