"I'm sorry...I don't think I can do this. I thought I was ready, but...I was wrong. I can't. I'm...really sorry."
You're already in the hotel room when you say this. You're sitting on the bed, wearing that cute little dress you picked out, the one that hugs your curves, showing off the fact that you're a woman, that you're ready for this...aren't you? You're 18 now, at college, free from your parents' rules; you can do what you want. And this is what you want, right? Underneath you're wearing the matching pair of lace black underwear that you put on intending for someone else to take it off. Red lipstick, water-based eyeliner in case he'd like to see it run. Everything shaved and smooth that should be. You wanted this to be perfect, and you wanted yourself to be perfect for this, and now everything is just the way you wanted it -- except for the way you feel about it.
There's this song from your old church youth group days running in a loop through your head. It's about the worth of a gift that's been saved up for years finally being given to the one person for whom it's meant.
You feel kind of dumb to have let it all get this far.
He's silent and watching you, standing over by the door, and you can see him processing what you've said, but you can't really read how he feels about it. You're certain you've disappointed him, but at last he gives you a sort of sad smile.
"Hey, it's all right to be nervous," he says. He comes over and takes your hand, and his voice and touch are both gentle. "Really, it is. Do you...do you want to watch a movie together or something?" He gestures to the TV. "We could just cuddle, or..."
"You're so sweet," you say. "Thank you for understanding." You take a deep breath, and let it out slowly, shoulders relaxing, knowing that you've reached a decision, and that certainty bringing relief. "...no....no, I should probably get back to campus." You start to stand up.
He smirks, shaking his head. "No. Nah. Uh-uh."
"What--?"
He steps forward, blocking your way off the bed, invading your space, and you feel the blood drain from your face as realization sets in. He casually puts his hand over your face and pushes you backwards on the mattress. You let out a surprised squeal. He grabs at the strap of your dress, and you twist away from him, blurting out "No!" His clutch on the on the strap holds, peeling it down your arm and there's a ripping sound as the fabric of tears away from you, leaving your lacey little bra exposed.
"Please let me go, please please let me go," you find yourself pleading. Your twisting takes you onto your stomach and he pulls you back to the center of the bed by your ankle and then climbs half-way onto you, putting some of his weight down to pin you to the bed as he pulls the ruins of your dress the rest of the way off. You're panting and working yourself up towards trying a scream, when he must notice and claps his hand over your mouth.
"You'd better be fucking quiet if you don't want me to really fucking hurt you," he says in a low voice, lips brushing against your ear; and it takes a lot of effort but you manage to bring yourself down to a minute but continuous whimper. By then he's already unclasped your bra and you sort of go limp as he pulls it off your arms one by one.
"This is what you came here for, isn't it, slut? This is why you're here", he says. His hands paw at you, groping your breasts from behind. You writhe beneath him, ineffectually. He starts working your panties off of you and even though your kick and struggle, in an absurd, disassociated corner of your mind you realize he didn't even notice how you'd matched.
