Hi all, this is my first story here! All participants are 18+. Trigger warnings: non-consensual public groping, possession and cruelty, the implication that the speaker is trying and failing to escape an abusive relationship, and being perceived as being ill (not covid-related).
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I take a seat on the red vinyl bench, trying to focus on the new scents in the air: grease, a faint bleach and floral cleaning chemical, searing onions, and burnt coffee. And if those were the only scents surrounding me, I would surrender to them.
But they're not.
Plastered to the inside of my nose is a scent so sickly sweet and persistent that I know that to some extent, it's in my mind. It couldn't possibly be this strong, not this many hours later.
A waiter stops at my table and takes my order. I wish I was the type of person who could drink coffee at 2 AM, especially after the night I've had. I ask for water.
When the water arrives, I order toast, because that's all I think my body can handle, and as the waiter heads over to place the order, I dig in my pocket to see if I can afford it. Six dollars. That's enough for toast at least.
When someone sits beside me in the booth, I flinch.
"Easy there," says a dark and careful voice.
My entire body tenses. No. It can't be him. I ran so fast. I broke out of that dark room, raced a dozen blocks, and came into a brightly lit diner with six other patrons scattered through the eating area. There's no way he followed me here. And yet.
"Speechless, I see," he says, settling into place beside me.
I slide all the way into the booth, but unless I want to stand up and crawl over the booth, I'm trapped. Even the thought of attempting something so acrobatic seems impossible, let alone the utter embarrassment of it.
"That's alright," he says, "I like to do all the talking, as you're well aware."
I risk a glance at him. He's exactly as I remember him. His clothes are dark. A black button-down shirt and dark jeans, a big brown hoodie tied around his waist, and a black beanie that keeps his brown hair pressed against his head. And his eyes. Fuck. I shouldn't have looked.
There's something possessive there. And not just that. Victorious, too. The back of my neck heats up, and I feel a sweat break out on my skin.
He chuckles.
"You knew it was a mistake the moment you left," he says. He leans one elbow on the table and twists to face me. "Why don't you come on home."
He doesn't say it like a question. He says it like a challenge, as if daring me to refuse.
I don't say anything, but I don't move either. He stares at me. Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds. I feel like I'm about to shatter.
"Sure," he says agreeably, and he rotates to face forward again. "You want to go out more. I get it. You want to travel. But the world is dangerous, my dear. You shouldn't wander out here all alone. Who knows what terrible people could find you?"
His hand slips under the table and grips my leg just above the knee. He digs his fingers in, just in case I had any thought of pulling away. The thin fabric of my yoga pants do little to shield me from it, and the bite of his nails makes me take a sharp breath.
"Sh sh sh," he says gently, staring ahead at the TV across the diner which is on some random soap opera, scrolling illegible subtitles as the colors flash.
He digs his fingers against my leg harder and harder, moving them around as if he's massaging my leg, but it hurts. I shift slightly to pull away, but I'm already in the corner and can't go farther. As I move, he pulls my leg sharply, and my whole body slides a couple inches in his direction. Just as fast, his hand moves up to my mid-thigh.
Now, with a better grip, he pulls my body even closer. His hand leaves my body for a moment, and I take a shuddering breath inward. Then his hand moves higher, pressing against the crotch of my pants.
I close my eyes for a moment in shame and let out a small whimper.
"Now, now," he chastises. "You know how I feel about that."
Without really thinking, I open my eyes and take a second to force my face into a passive expression, fixing my gaze on the small tray of single-serving coffee creamers.
We sit for a moment. Me, staring at the table accoutrements. Him, massaging against the center of my pants.
Then his hand disappears for another moment, but then it grabs harshly onto the low waist of my pants. He tugs forward, and my whole body slides to the edge of my street, and before I can even react, his hand is down my pants. Then it's under my panties, and his hot hand cupped over my pussy. I'm suddenly overly aware of the rough texture of his hand, and I hate it. I hate every inch of it.
I open my mouth to ask him not to, but I stammer and barely any syllables leave my lips at all.
I glimpse his face, and he raises an eyebrow at me. Then, without any warning, he shoves a dry, rough finger into me.
"You were saying?" he says.
I bite my lip and say nothing.
"Mhmm," he says, and he starts grinding his thumb on my clit while his finger just sits inside of me. "I know what you need."
The waiter chooses this moment to return to the table with a small dish that holds two pieces of buttered toast. The plate looks small and sad, and he sets it in front of me. My hands are gripping the edge of the table, but I force them to let go as I grab and slide the dish closer to me.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" the waiter asks, directing his question to the new customer who has joined my table.
"Coffee," he says. "And a plate of eggs and hash browns."
