Abby
Sex isn’t supposed to hurt.
Yeah, tell that to my vagina after Clark ruined it.
I shake my head and lock the thoughts away when my mind brings up shocking, inappropriate fantasies along with old, unwanted memories.
I sit on my chair, putting my plate on my study desk. Playing with the pasta on my plate, I frown as I look at the colorful noodles. The post-it he put next to it says that it’s a vegetable pasta and totally diabetes friendly.
Why does he care?
Even I don’t think about my dinner choices this much. But since the day he moved in, he’s been trying to make my dinner time more… fun?
No one has ever cared or put thought into my diet except my parents and even they let it go when I was old enough to take care of myself. I know this is just a small thing he’s doing. I know everyone makes dinner and it’s no big deal, but it warms my insides like I’ve been sitting under the sun.
Sighing, I try to read the notes I took today in class while I’m eating my pasta.
Sex, Abby. Banging, bumping uglies, going balls deep, doing the nasty. A hot, passionate, make-you-scream-my-name, good old fashioned fucking.
His words replay in my mind as I look at the male reproductive system pictured in my book. Basically, penis.
Today’s anatomy class was about the Reproductive System and now as I try to focus on my notes all I can think about is the things Brant said to me just a few minutes ago.
Brant? When did I start to call him Brant?
A hot, passionate, make-you-scream-my-name, good old fashioned fucking.
I have never had that kind of sex. I’ve had orgasms with my vibrator, but none of them was how he described it. I clench my thighs against the sudden throbbing in my clitoris. A shiver runs through my spine and I close my eyes briefly. It’s been a month since I last gave myself a release and I know my body needs sex, it’s in a human’s anatomy. But the images of Brant, I mean Coyer, I mean whatever, are playing at the back of my eyes and that’s frustrating me. The way my body prepares itself for a release, becoming tense and slick from his voice, his words, and his body complicates the simple need for sexual relief.
I’ve never thought of someone as I masturbate. Touching myself was something like eating to me, a bodily need. But right now, as my body warms, my breathing quickens and as all my thoughts focus on him, I don’t know what it is. I just know it’s a hunger I’ve never felt before, a curious spark that catches my attention, a constant itch I want to scratch.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly I try to think of something else. I can’t have these thoughts about him. It’s not right. It’s not me.
After finishing up my plate as fast as I can like my thoughts will catch me if I’m not quick enough, I head for the kitchen, but as soon as I open my door a canvas gets my attention. I can’t see what it is since its back is toward me. Looking around the apartment I try to see if Brant -- uggh, Coyer -- is anywhere near, but it looks like he’s long gone. There’s no noise.
I quickly put my plate in the dishwasher and turn back to the canvas that was left next to my door. I see a note:
Not a sex painting. This one is just for you.
My heart becomes tachycardic again. My hands get clammy. Is it a gift?
I take a few slow breaths before getting the courage to turn the canvas so I can see the painting on it. I am… excited. I don’t get excited very often. I’m not given many gifts, either. Only my parents gave me presents when I was a kid.
Why is he making me feel like this? Like I’m a kid again…
I turn the canvas to silence my curiosity and my breath hitches. This is the painting I was looking at in his room. The painting that made me feel. The painting that talked to my soul. And the painting that pulled me into a melancholy mood with intense emotions.
Grabbing the canvas, I walk back into my room and place the painting on the floor, against the wall and I sit in front of it.
There is a girl on the canvas. Her shoulders slouched even though her head is high, like she’s trying to act strong despite the obvious vulnerability inside. There are hard brush strokes around her, swirling like a storm, eating her up. The hands of the storms are like her puppet master, turning, swirling, moving her the way it wants. She looks lost and something breaks inside me as I keep looking at the black and white girl who looks like she can fade away any second.
Coyer says I don’t have empathy. He’s right, but why do I feel so much when I’m studying this canvas in front of me.
I read his note again. A smile is plays on my lips every time I think about his note while I take a shower and change into my PJs. I look at the painting one last time before getting inside my bed with a deep sigh.
I’m turning around myself.
My body is soaring and swung around by a ghost of a rope around my middle. An invisible force moves my body in the air. Everything is grey and dull. I’m dizzy.
Then, the invisible power that moves me turns into a person. The ropes become hands. The grey blooms with colors, the dullness becomes a bright force in high definition. And the person in front of me smirks. His sweaty torso is covered in paint. He pulls me closer, smearing some of the paint on my skin.
I can feel his penis pressing into my stomach, my breasts flatten on his chest. We’re both naked. And he hoists me up in his arms, kissing me with a passion I’ve never felt before. His mouth is everywhere all at once. I feel his lips on my breasts, on my stomach, and there… on my vagina.
His finger touches my clitoris, causing pleasure to spark in me. A pleasure I’ve never felt before. I’m panting, I’m sweaty, and I’m wet. My arousal makes my thighs slick as he aligns his penis to my entry.
I want him.
I’m a ball of desire and I want him deep inside me.
I want a hot, passionate, make-you-scream-my-name, good old fashioned fucking.
Then, I wake up.
I wake up, covered in my own sweat, my hand in my panties, and my breathing sounds like I’ve been running a marathon. I’m so frustrated that it was a dream. I’m so filled with lust that I feel like I could cry. I’ve never been this… horny in my almost twenty years of life.
My thighs are clenching painfully and there’s an emptiness inside me that doesn’t let me think of anything else.
It’s like I’ve been in a desert for days and all I can think of is a glass of water.
Leaning toward my nightstand I grab my vibrator. I’ve chosen this wand after a lot of research. It was between this or a bullet, but I eventually decided that the wand would be most effective. Vibrator descriptions on the internet is like another language. And there are too many models, it’s like searching for a certain fish in the ocean. But I knew what I wanted. I didn’t want any of those scary penetrating models they tried to market as the best. I didn’t want anything inside me, but now I’m regretting that decision.
Taking off my clothes I lay down on my bed. It’s almost embarrassing how wet I am, but I’m way past caring. Something inside me wants to crawl out, an itch from deep inside I want to scratch.
My clitoris is throbbing, my inner walls contracting to create a friction.
I moan from the first touch of the vibrator. The sensation gives me shivers all over, but it’s not enough. I try to focus on my body, listen to the signals it’s giving to chase my release, but this time it’s not working. My need only gets bigger and bigger as I attempt to give myself some relief.
My dream starts to play behind my eyelids. The image of the Brant from my dream mixes with the vision of the real one. I remember how his manhood looked the other day and I imagine the feeling of it over my stomach like in my dream.
His sultry, low, and seductive voice keeps ringing in my mind, making me moan louder, bringing me closer to the edge.
His small touches, his heartbeat I heard earlier today cause goosebumps to erupt on my skin. And my whole body throbs with desire. The emptiness inside me is almost painful.
I don’t care about who I’m dreaming of as long as I get this frustration to leave my body.
“Brant,” I breathe out.
And I can see him, I can almost feel him over my body. Hovering over me, smearing the paint all over my skin just like he did in my dream. I squeeze the vibrator between my legs, rocking myself back and forth on it without shame.
And I finally catch my release.
It comes crashing over me, rocks me off balance and shakes me inside out and I moan his name.
When sleep finally reaches me again I’m too tired to fight it enough to go clean up.
I’m sated and I smile as I let myself fall into deep slumber with one thought in mind:
I’m so glad nobody was here to see me lose control like that.