I SCISSOR OUT WITH MY THIGHS, kicking for all I've got.
One heel connects with the soft Jay's stomach. He grunts.
I kick out again and get him in the jaw, I think. It's hard enough to hurt my foot, but I don't stop. I just keep bucking and screaming.
"Ssssshhh," Mikey hushes in my ear, stroking my face. "It's so you'll realize Jay can make you feel good too. He can give you orgasms just like me."
The noises coming out of my mouth are animal. I'm screaming every nasty word, every vile threat I can find in my terrified, furious, desperate state.
I land another kick to Jay's thigh this time.
A hard hand closes around my ankle, stopping the motion. I twist at the torso. Mikey is far too strong.
Another hand closes around my other ankle. My screams give way to whimpers.
Tears pour from my eyes.
I'm begging but they don't understand me because my mouth can't form coherent words.
Mikey's there, hushing me, telling me to relax, telling me not to fight it, stroking my hair. He presses his cheek against mine.
Jay tries to line up but I dodge him.
I think maybe it's right at that moment that Mikey feels my tears or registers my whimpers aren't born of rage anymore. Or maybe he just loses patience with Jay. I don't know.
His voice comes out harsher than I've heard it. "STOP."
He says it like he's disgusted but I don't know if it's with me or Jay or the whole horrible situation. "Get him out of here."
Jay's grip on my ankles doesn't leave though.
Mikey stands, his jaw leaves my cheek, his hands leave my arms. I kick lamely at the grip on my ankles, but they stay firm. I could try to roll over now, fight harder, try to stand and rise, run away but where would I go? I'm not sure my legs will carry me at the moment.
I just lay in my cumpuddle and pant.
The air whirs across my body as Mikey walks toward Jay. "Let go of her."
"She's my wife."
Whatever Mikey says, it's too low for me to hear, but a second later, Jay's hands leave my body.
I close my eyes.
I think maybe there's a limit to what the human mind can handle, a threshold that can't be crossed. Sleep tugs at the edge of my brain, and I reach for it gladly, letting myself drift in a half-sleep.
My body is lifted.
My face settles against a hard, warm chest. I know that smell. I know the flannel shirt. I know the feel of those muscles, the collar bone under my cheek.
I loathe them, but there's comfort here too. He carries me out of the farmhouse without another word, down the grassy hill through cold, wet air. The rhythm of his steps is soothing, and I drift, my body slack.
He walks down the aisle of the stable and opens a door.
Bright light shining orange through my eyelids, has me opening one eye. A bathroom. White tiles, a massive glassed-in shower, clean chrome fixtures, fluffy white towels.
Mikey turns on the water, sets me on my feet.
I sag against the wall, drop down to my butt, then roll onto my side in fetal position, letting the hot water cascade over me.
I'm dimly aware of Mikey moving around the room, setting out towels, taking off his own close, folding them carefully. Then he's in the shower with me.
I try to push him away, but he ignores me, humming and coaxing as he washes my hair and rinses it, then takes a soapy cloth to my whole body, washing away the mixture of cum, old and new.
When he's done, he pulls me into his lap so I'm straddling him, the stream of water hitting my back, my face resting on his shoulder.
He turns my face and kisses my lips.
He kisses my neck.
I ignore him.
With a grunt, he lays me down on the tile floor, sucks at my nipples, slides a finger between my thighs where I'm tender and sore.
Eventually it starts to feel good. He's so insistent.
When he parts my legs, holding me open with his hands under my ass, and his face in my pussy, I can't even pretend I don't like it.
He uses his tongue on me for a long, long time.
Too long. It's like he's trying to tell me something or send me a message, but I don't speak whatever language he's using. Somehow, somewhere, I kind of started to trust him. It was there in the back of my mind, the lurking expectation that at the very least, he'd be honest with me. He'd listen to me. He might be a fucked-up kind of therapist, but I'd thought that at the very least, he believed in what he was doing.
The second he let Jay anywhere near me proved he didn't.
He doesn't let up, just patiently laps at my clit, over and around, up and down, and eventually my body answers the call. He knows his way around a woman's body.
When the orgasm comes, it tears out of me, blinding hot, searingly sharp, bringing tears to my eyes, sending my legs and arms and face convulsing and shuddering.
He rises up then, gets hold of his dick, and slides inside me. I ache inside, as he slides in.
When he's all the way in, his balls snug against my asscheeks, he brings his lips to mine. Water pours down his face, fills my mouth, runs down my cheeks. It's a wet kiss, like we're washing each other's insides.
I remember how badly I wanted this earlier, how much I thought I needed his cock specifically. In a strange way, the blonde's words make sense to me. She needs more cock than Duane can give her, but still she loves him.
The thought makes my soul shudder.
This is different. He's making love to me, and somehow it's calling to my heart. He's fucking with my head again.
He goes slow again, moving in and out with long, deep thrusts. The message is clear. I cannot deny him, but when I need him to be, he's capable of gentleness.
"I made a mistake," he whispers into my mouth, his breath hot against me.
The water has turned his eye lashes to dark spikes around those unsettlingly pale eyes.
"Listen to me closely, Tara." His voice is hoarse. "I don't apologize often, so I'll only say this once. I was wrong. And I'm sorry."
He stares at me for a long time.
Eventually I swallow, my tongue thick in my mouth. And nod sharply.
Then his tongue is in my mouth, and I have no choice but to open wide, thrust my tongue against his.
He's practically stopped moving now, so it's me who brings my hips up, thrusts up to take him deeper, writhe my clit against the base of his cock.
I'd love to pretend that this time, he forced the orgasm on me, but really it's the opposite. This time, I take it from him, and he lets me, holding his body still so I can fuck myself on his cock. He waits, his tongue tangling in my mouth, offering occasionally praise until I come. It's the first time I've made myself cum since we got here.
When I'm done, and the last of my shaking has subsided, I lie there and let him use my body, submitting to him in a way that makes my insides melt. It's such a dominant move on his part, to simply use my prone, slack body, while he thrusts away, using my pussy like he owns it.
When he comes inside me, I hate to admit it, but I'm glad.
It tingles away deep inside me.
I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH TIME PASSES. I sleep. He wakes me up, forces me to drink something sickeningly sweet, or hot and salty. Sometimes he fucks me. Othertimes, he guides my face to his lap and I suck him off gladly.
Sometimes it's light.
Sometimes it's dark.
Sometimes he carries me to the bathroom, other times he makes me walk. Sometimes he takes me in the shower. Other times he dumps me on the toilet.
I don't resist anything.
I do whatever he says, then stagger back to bed and collapse under the covers, seeking out the smooth darkness of questionless doubtless sleep.
He's always there though. A constant shape in my consciousness. Warm and strangely comforting. I float away.
This time though, it's different. There's no gentle murmurs of my name, no gentle strokes, no easing me to wake.
This time, he's insistently tapping me on the shoulder. "Time for breakfast."
I grunt.
He slides his hand around my shoulder, gripping me by the neck, forcing me onto my back.
