The words make bile rise in my throat. What the hell is he talking about?
“I’m gonna enjoy this,” he purrs.
Something cold and furious rises through the fear. I don’t wait to think, I move.
I launch myself from the brush toward his voice and drive my shoulder into him, aiming low. He grunts as he stumbles back a step. For a second, I taste victory.
“Get the fuck away from me!” I roar, my elbow cocked.
He barely dodges my fist. “Damn,” he pants, eyes glittering. “We are going to have so much fun when I get you on your knees where you belong, slut.”
He’s smiling at me like this is a fuckingjoke.
I throw another punch, and this one thankfully lands on his cheek. He laughs, the sound making me want to vomit.
“Oh, baby, that was solid.” He wipes blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “You’re a fighter. I like that. Let’s see if I can fuck that out of you.”
I drive the side of my foot down the outside of his shin, the edge of my shoe scraping hard enough to make him stagger. He howls, his fingers loosening just a fraction, and I use that sliver of space. I push against him as hard as I can and hit the ground. As fast as I can, I roll and try to keep moving. Instinct threads through me, trying to do everything necessary to keep myself safe.
He’s on me in seconds, the weight and heat of him crowding me. I twist and shove my thumb toward his eye; he jerks, head snapping back, but he refuses to let go of me.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, like he’s in awe of me.
“Get. Off. Me!” I scream, every syllable a blade.
He catches both my wrists, pinning them above my head. The world narrows to the pressure of his hands, the hot press of his chest, the sound of my own heart pounding so loud it drowns out the birds. My muscles burn from the fight; my breath comes in ragged, shallow pulls.
“Damn,” he pants, like he’s just finished a race. “You’re really committing.”
I buck, twist, not hearing his words as I try to slide out from under him, but he shifts with me, easy and practiced. He laughs like this is entertainment.
“You don’t have to make it this real, baby,” he says, grinning down at me. “Most girls don’t fight half this hard.”
The words are a blade. “Get the fuck off me,” I spit again, voice raw.
He ignores me and keeps talking, like he’s filling the silence with ownership. “This is exactly what you begged me for. The others didn’t fight, at least not like this. They wanted me so bad once I was on top of them like this. I’m going to have such a fun time breaking my new toy.”
“Others?” The word rips out of me, small and furious.
“This is only the third ad I’ve answered, but this is all about you; this isyourfantasy. You don’t want to hear about the rest. You made the rules, and you consented for this to be as non-consensual as possible, but this is feeling a bit too real for me. Let’s dial back the acting.”
My blood runs cold. The words come out like a plea and a command at once. “This isn’t my fantasy. I’m not acting, I never consented.”
The man blinks at me, like he’s hearing something he doesn’t want to parse. Then he slowly shakes his head. “Bullshit,” he says, voice flat. “We’ve been talking for over a week. You sent me your pictures. I know it’s you.”
The sentence lands like a slap. My mouth goes dry. “I didn’t send you shit, I don’t know who the fuck you are.”
Something in his face changes. The smirk that had been a permanent curl falls away. His brow knits, confusion folding into the lines around his eyes. For the first time, he looks off-balance.
“You told me your name was Celeste,” he says, almost puzzled, as if he’s trying to fit a new piece into a puzzle that’s been glued wrong. “You—”
“My name is Celeste, but I never sent you anything.” The words are small and steady, but they feel like a hammer.
His grip loosens, just a fraction. It’s enough. I wrench my right hand free and drive my elbow into his ribs. He doesn’t flinch away so much as stare at me, like I’ve knocked something loose inside his head.
“Oh my God,” he breathes, and the sound is thin. “Wait. You’re serious?”
He scrambles back, sitting up as if the ground itself has become unfamiliar. Color drains from his face until it’s the ashy gray of old paper. The confidence that had been a second skin peels off him in real time.
