Instead of leaving my body, dissociating in a rush of self-protection, I experience everything that’s happening inside me at a dozen times the intensity.
The sheen of sweat on his forehead brushes against my cheek. The heat of his breath, warming my ear, my neck, my hardening nipples when he turns and tries to suck them through the thick fabric layer of my dress.
I raise my butt off the bed to meet his thrust, still not fully inside me, not as deep as I’m sure he can go. Aching for as much as he can give me, my body barely recovered from the orgasm he gave me with his fingers, now desperate to ride to another on his fat cock.
When he draws back again, I twist my hips slightly, arching my lower back. And when he slams forward again, he fills me to the brim, my muscles so tight, so unused to being stretched like this even when sex was a routine practice, that the drag against them ignites a hundred times more nerve endings than it ever has before. A hundred times more signals swamping my brain, telling me yes when the world would tell me no.
His mouth fixes to my breast, still on the outside of my dress. I want to scream at him to tear the damn thing off, to truly suck and lick and nip at me not a piece of goddamn fabric.
But the hand over my mouth won’t let me. Beaming it out like my thoughts are transmitters doesn’t do a thing.
I press my tongue against his palm, rejoicing in the salty tang, the faint perfume of cheap soap. Licking doesn’t cut it so I open my mouth as wide as I can to suck, the sounds twisting out as air sneaks around my seal.
He moans again, then again, the sound growing sharper as his thrusts grow quicker, the rhythm of his stroke catapulting a sweet song straight into my brain.
The hairs on my neck, my arms, stand on end.
The entire world inhales, an impossibly deep breath; holding it. Holding.
Then an exhalation of ecstasy covers me. My head bends back, my toes curl until it’s like they’re cramping. Wave after wave of intoxicating pleasure rolls over me. Tingles surge across my scalp. Explode from my centre. Surging and rising and falling as his cock plunges in, again, again, again.
It’s the meth. You must have missed a packet. You’re high.
The thought barely has time to skitter across my brain before the rapture eases. My senses slowly come back to grips with reality. Sounds. Scents. Sights. Hundreds of channels having their switches flipped back to go, one at a time.
His fingers dig into my thigh muscles a split second before he comes, his release jetting inside me. The grunt, the gasp makes an aftershock of electric sparks explode across my skin as his hips give another silky slow pump, one last bite for the road.
Those bulging arms still hold him above me but his torso sags, pressing against mine, still separated by my puritan dress.
I twist away the moment his weight leaves me, curling my legs up to my chest, tucking my head low so my nose touches against my knees. My body continues pulsing, warm shivers spiralling out from my centre.
Shame catches up to me again, causing a fury of blushes to light up my chest, my neck, my cheeks.
Not shame at what we just did, but shame at what came before.
Shame at the horror that I just wrote my son’s death warrant. I wrote it and then I fucked on top of it, my dripping cunt diluting the ink.
The drugs his boss forced me to carry lie on the bed, scented from being inside me. The man, the monster lying near, the one giving a low chuckle as he strips off his tee shirt, might as well have reached into my chest cavity and torn out my heart.
I screw my eyes shut, wishing it was me. Wishing I was the one trapped in a concrete box in a corrections facility, waiting for a well-timed shank to stab me dead.
It would be easier than this awful knowledge. That the same channel that gave birth to my beautiful boy just gave up the contraband meant to spare his life, leaving him unprotected, friendless, at the mercy of men who can’t even be bothered to do their dirty work themselves.
“Here,” Malakai says, thrusting his shirt at me, snapping his sweatpants back into place with his other hand. “Clean yourself up with this.”
“Sure,” I snap back, eyes leaping open to stare into his, trying to hide the glisten as his dismissive tone makes my heart stutter. “I’ll just do that with my feet, shall I?”
He gives a startled laugh, then moves to cut the string away from my hands. There’s blood on my wrists where the thin restraints bit into my skin as I struggled to get free. His face changes as he stares at the crimson smears, a hand rubbing his toned abdomen as though his stomach hurts.
“I’ll see if there’s some antiseptic.”
“Don’t bother.” I sit up, taking the shirt and wiping his cum,mycum, off with angry swipes between my thighs. “Is there a shower?”
“There’s no hot water,” he warns. “No electricity.”
It doesn’t matter. If everything I fear is about to come true, cleanliness won’t rate a damn.
I hand the shirt back to Malakai and he sweeps the packages into it, heading for the door. One step into the hallway, he turns back to me, his indecisiveness unsettling. “Come on. I’ll help you clean those cuts.”
