He leans in, mouth at my ear. “Your mouth says no,” he whispers, “but your cunt knows who you belong to.”
I hate him. I hate him so much. I want to claw his eyes out, but my hands are limp, useless at my sides.
He adds another finger, curling them up until he finds the spot that makes me see stars. I sob, humiliated, and jerk away, but his grip on my thigh leaves bruises.
He keeps going, relentless, until my body betrays me completely. I come on his hand, a gush of wet that soaks the bench and runs down my leg.
He pulls out slow, watching the mess, then pulls his fingers apart, watching my cum stretch between them before rubbing them together. He stands, looks down at me, then presses two fingers to my lips.
“Suck,” he says, and I do. I hate myself for how quick I am to obey.
He smiles, finally. “Good fucking girl.”
He tugs my leggings up, not bothering to fix the way they bunch or the way my underwear is still twisted around my thigh. He helps me up, then grabs my face in both hands, kissing me hard, biting my lip until it bleeds.
He pulls back, eyes dark and wild. “This is my cunt,” he says as he smacks his hand against my pussy. “No one else gets to touch it. Not even you. Not unless I tell you that you’re allowed.”
He lets me go. I fall off the bench and crumple to the mat, legs shaking, heart thundering. I can still taste him on my tongue.
He leaves, silent as always, not looking back.
I lay there for a long time, trembling. I want to believe I’m still me, that I’m not changed, not ruined. But the next time I stand, my knees buckle, and I know I’m lying to myself.
I wipe my face, fix my clothes, and leave the gym, mess still pooled on the bench.
Walking is a challenge and I make it halfway back to my dorm before the shaking gets too bad. I duck into the bathroom by the vending machines, lock myself in the handicapped stall, and sink to the floor. My lungs burn from holding in the sobs, my face is wet with sweat and spit and something else.
I want to hate him. I do. I want to hate myself more for not stopping him. For wanting it even as I tried to claw out of my skin.
My leggings are loose, and feel weird and even as I try pull them up, the elastic is shot and they droop around my hips. There’s a new tear at the seam. My underwear is a mess, ripped at the waistband, sticky and cold against my skin.
I wash my face in the sink. My eyes are red, puffy. There’s a bite mark just below my jaw, already turning a sick purple.
I want to scrub it off, but I can’t. I cover it with my hair, and head out. The campus is silent, windows dark, everyone already gone or in bed. I start back to my room, climb the stairs, and lock the door behind me.
Before my body decides to give out, I strip and shower, but the water is never hot enough, never long enough to erase the feel of his hands, his mouth. I scrub until my skin is raw, then collapse into bed, naked and cold, hair damp and tangled.
Sleep doesn’t come. I lie on my side, arms around my knees, replaying every second. I want to forget, but I know I never will.
I avoid the gym for two days. My body and mind ache for it, but the thought of seeing him again is enough to keep me away.
By the third day, the need wins. I go at sunrise, hoping to beat the ghosts of what happened. The lights are dim, so I flick them brighter, not bothering to greet the lazy receptionist who is half asleep at the counter. I set the treadmill to the lowest speed and walk, slow and measured, heart pounding for a different reason.
The place smells like it always does: rubber, sweat, cleaner. But now it smells like him, too. Like a new layer over the old.
I walk until the sky lightens, until my head empties out. For a while, I’m almost myself again.
Then I see him, reflected in the glass.
He doesn’t say anything, just stands at the door, watching me. He’s wearing black again, a hoodie pulled low, hands in the pockets.
I want to run, but I don’t. I just keep walking, feet moving on the belt.
He waits.
When I finish, he’s still there. I wipe the treadmill, pretending not to see him. He blocks the door, not moving, not giving me an inch.
I set my jaw and approach, determined to pass. “Move,” I say, voice steady.
