It was all pointless. All those struggles for so long to get my head above water when I should have just enjoyed the brief stint in the ocean before I drowned.
Zach lifts me into the backseat. Covers me with a blanket. Pulls me into his lap and rocks back and forth.
I don’t understand why he’s still here.
There are so many beautiful girls in the school. Accomplished girls. Whole girls. Why sit here in his expensive car with somebody so broken?
Time loses meaning as I let him rock me, my ear pressed against his chest, synching my breathing to the steady thump of his heart. Minutes pass, maybe hours, before I finally clamber from his lap to sit beside him, exhausted.
“Don’t know about you, but I think we should take a mental health day.”
I giggle, unable to stop myself. The words are so ridiculous, so inadequate for the emotion swamping me, that I can’t handle it any other way.
He pulls me closer, nuzzling into my shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”
I open my mouth to protest, but can’t find the energy. Whatever protest I might put forth doesn’t matter. Not when I can’t imagine the stamina required to make the short trek to class. Let alone pay attention. Let alone learn.
He buckles me into the back seat, saving me the colossal journey of walking a few metres to the passenger side, and gets into the driver’s seat in front of me. I close my eyes again, staying silent for the short ride, trying not to panic at the thought of having to move once he pulls up outside the flat.
But I don’t have to. Instead, Zach lifts me into his arms and carries me inside. Even when he has to wrestle with extracting the key from my pocket and fitting it into the lock while holding me one-handed, he doesn’t put me down.
It’s only in my bedroom that he releases me. Lays me on the bed and strips off my shoes and socks, unbuckles my jeans to slip them off. Lifts my shirt over my head. Unclasps my bra. Eases down my underwear.
He turns me over and I bury my face into the mattress, grateful that I don’t have to worry about making the right expression or say the right thing. I hear him undressing, feel the motion as he shuffles around on the bed. His body presses against mine, naked.
I inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Zach parts my legs, raising my bottom up so he can put his mouth against me. It might feel incredible, I don’t know. The sensations are coming from too far away. I’m numb.
Even when he enters me, a rough thrust that pierces so deep into me that a rush of air escapes my mouth, I don’t know how it feels. Good? Bad?
He tucks my hands underneath my chest. Some distant part of my brain registers that. Takes notes in case I might need them later.
Then he shoves into me, finding a rhythm so hard and fast that if I were in my body, it would be torture. Too much. Too soon. The relentless pounding into my cunt would make nerve endings shriek if only I were close enough to hear them.
He grabs my hips; sinks his fingers so hard into them I’ll bruise. Pulls me up and positions me so his cock can thrust even deeper. I can hear a sound. I’m not sure what it is.
It might be me crying, begging him to stop… or begging him to continue. It’s difficult to tell when his hand is on the back of my head, ramming my face so hard into the bedding that I’m not sure I can breathe.
Not that I need to breathe. He doesn’t tell me to do that, so it’s probably unnecessary.
When he drags my head back, a hank of hair in his fist, I cough and heave in a lungful of oxygen. Then his hand is around my throat, so I stop. When he removes it, I gasp in another.
“Come,” he orders me. Fingers are rough against my clit, his other hand still fisted in my hair. “You fucking come now.” His voice is a growl in my ear.
My orgasm hits so hard my cunt convulses around him, drawing the semen from his dick like it’s sucking thickshake through a straw. He collapses on top of me, his full weight pressing me against the bed. Then he curls my hands out from under me, the limbs tingling with pins and needles. He intertwines our fingers as he positions them above my head.
“You’re so fucking fantastic,” he whispers in my ear, and I think what a lucky woman she is to get compliments from someone so rich and handsome. Isn’t he the boy every young girl dreams about?
He rolls me onto my side and grabs some tissues to wipe me clean. Then he leads me out of the bedroom to the toilet, sits me down. “You need to pee.” I do. Enough to please him. I wipe and stand up when he tells me. Join him in the shower when he says the water’s hot enough. Let him soap me from head to toe. When I try to take the loofah to return the favour, he shakes his head.
No touching. Got it. A faraway part of my brain files the information safely for later retrieval.
Once he’s towelled me off, he returns me to the bedroom.
I could get used to this. No decisions. No responsibilities. Not even the requirement to think.
In that moment, I barely exist, and that’s just the way I want things to be.
* * *
