The hickey blooms purple and angry just below my jaw. Impossible to hide. He sucked hard enough to mark me, to brand me, to leave proof of ownership on my skin where anyone could see.
I touch it with trembling fingers. It throbs.
Between my legs, I’m sore. Tender in a way that brings back every detail I’m trying not to remember. His fingers inside me. Curling. Finding spots that made me?—
Stop.
I grip the edge of the sink. Breathe. Let’s assess this.
I kissed him back. Pulled him closer. Opened my mouth under his like I was starving for it.
True.
My hands found his shirt and gripped the expensive fabric andpulled.
Also true.
I came on his hand. Soaked his fingers. Made sounds I can’t take back. Squirted like something out of a porn video while telling him I hated him.
The most damning truth of all.
I’m falling apart.
I sink to the cold tile floor. Pull my knees to my chest. Press my forehead against them.
I should feel violated. He ignored my verbal no.
I should feel angry. He touched me without permission.
I should feel traumatized. Coerced orgasm. Textbook assault.
I should feel desperate to escape.
What I actually feel is… confused. My body betrayed every word that came out of my mouth.
Ashamed, because I wanted it. Never saidstop.Wanted more. Am sitting here on a bathroom floor in a wrinkled dress waiting for him to do it again.
Exhausted. Fighting myself is so much harder than fighting him.
The waiting is the worst part.
I woke up expecting him. Kept listening for his footsteps in the hall, the opening of the door, his voice saying my name. Part of me, the sick, broken part, was disappointed when he didn’t come.
That disappointment makes me want to vomit.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
No answer. Just the phantom sensation of his fingers curling inside me, and the memory of how hard I clenched around them when I came.
I force myself to review every moment.
Call it masochism. Call it the restorer’s obsession with understanding exactly how a structure failed before you can fix it. Call it whatever you want.
The kiss.
My mouth opened under his. Not his tongue forcing its way in.My lips parting. Inviting. Welcoming. I did that. That was a choice.
My hands.
