Best Women's Erotica(63)

You pour, then watch him down the contents of his glass. His eyes meet yours and much as you want to look away, you don’t. It’d be a lie to say you can’t; rather, you don’t want to, not really, not more than you want to look. You’re sick of forbidden, stolen glances or unabashed stares as one member of an endless audience. You want to watch, but your eyes, like the rest of you, are greedy; they want to be the only ones watching, the only ones seeing precisely what you see. His eyes look back with that same greed, that look that makes you shiver because it seems to strip you bare.

You don’t know what you want anymore, having been shaken and stirred so many times your essence has dissolved into something flat, your insides hollow as you take him in. When he grabs your hand you go, not even sure why, exactly. You squeeze yourselves into the closet and, finally, no one else exists—or at least, you are free to pretend in the dark that this is true. “I’ve missed you,” he says and you want to cry for a second, the words too familiar from the countless times you’ve heard them whispered in your head. But you don’t, not yet; there’ll be plenty of time for that later.

You don’t say a word for fear of saying too much. Instead you shut your eyes and wait; it’s easier to offer your body when you don’t know what’s coming. His hand goes to your face; soft, sweaty fingers stroking your cheek, and you want to scream. It’s too gentle, too tender. “Save that for your wife,” you want to say but instead you turn your head to the side, to the wall, rub up against it like you wish you could rub up against him. He steps forward and his bulk is pressed against yours, surrounding you on all sides. He keeps going until you are flat against the wall. His hand claims your wrists, seemingly in one fell swoop, while his other hand reaches between your legs. He tears your black and gold fishnet stockings, the ones that cost twenty-eight dollars at Macy’s, the ones so delicate you’ve walked with great care so as not to snag them, the ones that garner whistles and compliments on the street. The sound is loud in the quiet of the closet, and you know if your panties were as delicate they’d be in shreds by now too, but you’re a basic white cotton kind of girl—at least when it comes to underwear.

His fat fingers find your wetness, a wetness that surprises even you. You didn’t come here for this; you’re supposed to be an observer, a spy, a detached spectator, not a participant. In the dark you can barely see a thing, can only feel. He wants his fingers to hurt, to hurt the way they used to, the way you used to like it, so your pussy is sore long after they’re gone. He twists them and slams them deep inside you, and even though you’re wet there, it does hurt in its way. He drops your wrists to press his hand against your cheek, to pin you in place, digits digging into the tender skin of your face, landing wherever they may.

You squirm and aren’t sure if it’s to get away or to get him in deeper. Actually, that’s a lie; he’s always known better than you what you want, a trait that’s either the hottest thing ever or the apotheosis of infuriating. You push against him and instantly the mood changes; you are no longer simply star-crossed lovers reuniting, but something darker, deeper. You press hard with your hands, your hips, to fight him off—but not really. He pushes back with ease, his hand twisting your head into the wall, covering half your face. The harder he holds you there, the deeper the ache in your pussy. You try to twist to the side, give him an elbow blow, something to make him feel the impact, but he is more powerful than you by far. Even if he weren’t, though, he would be winning, because this, finally, is what you’ve come here for: to struggle, to writhe, to argue with your body, to try to tell him, and yourself, that this is over, knowing all the while it will never be over, not really.

He knows you like to struggle, knows you like the adrenaline rush of giving your all to a wrestling match with a preordained outcome. If you were locked up, you’d be the type to rattle the cage. Instead, you silently provoke him, knowing he is getting harder by the moment, but for once, this is not about his cock. This is about you, about the tears now pouring down your face, about your decision to stay rather than flee. You hear the fluttery sounds of his wife laughing outside the door and this makes you growl. He presses you tight against the wall, firm behind you while his soft bulk is before you. What he wants, though, is not what you’d expected—it never is. He eases his hand off your face so you can take in some air, then rams four fingers into your mouth. “Get them nice and slick because I’m going to put this inside you.”