by C. Hoover
His lips glide across my cheek and I feel his tongue as it follows the trail of my tears. “You won’t feel the pain next time,” he whispers, moving his mouth to the other side of my face. “I promise.”
If he thought for a second that he just took my virginity without my permission, he’s not acting like it. He’s thanking me for giving it to him. He’s fully aware of what’s happening between us and I still feel half-asleep and confused, not sure if this was consensual or not. It had to be.
He wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t. If I didn’t want this to happen, what was I doing sleeping next to him? Naked? I barely know him.
I should have been more prepared.
Prepared.
I gasp. We aren’t prepared.
He’s not even wearing protection. I try to move my hands from his grasp above my head, but he doesn’t budge. “Asa,” I plead. “Condom.”
He groans against my neck. “It’s on, baby. Don’t worry.” He squeezes my hands and pulls back, staring down at me. “You are so tight,” he says. “This is a fucking dream.”
Or a nightmare.
He releases my hands. The whole time he’s been having sex with me, I haven’t once told him no.
Not once.
And I’m not even sure I want to now. What’s done is done. I’m not a virgin anymore, and I would feel bad making him stop now. Not when he thinks I wanted this. It would make me feel even more immature and inexperienced compared to him. To take selfishly from him...twice tonight...and stop him when it’s his turn?
One of his hands is behind my knee now, lifting my leg, wrapping it over his waist.
I wince, because the new position makes him dive into me even deeper.
“Does it hurt?” he whispers.
I nod. “Yes.”
He smiles a little, and I feel that smile rip at me. Why did he smile?
“It’ll hurt worse if I stop,” he says. “It won’t feel like this next time. I promise. Just breathe through it, okay?”
It’ll hurt worse if he stops? Oh, God. I didn’t know first times were like this. Why did I ever feel pathetic for waiting so long? I could have happily waited a lifetime if I knew first times were so painful.
“Put your other leg around me,” he says. “It’ll feel better if you stop resisting.”
I do what he says and I try to relax. Anything to make it not hurt so much.
His lips come down against mine, and then his teeth tug gently at my bottom lip. I close my eyes and do whatever I can to stop my body from resisting. How could I want him so much before this started and then suddenly feel the complete opposite? That’s not really fair to him. To selfishly take what feels good to me and then want to deny what feels good to him.
“You are so sweet, Sloan. So fucking sweet.” His thrusts grow faster. Harder. I hope that means it’s almost over.
One of his hands meets the headboard and he holds himself up. His weight being pressed against the headboard causes it to crash into the wall every time he pushes against me. It’s almost as if he’s turned on by the sound—by the fact that marks are likely being left on the wall—because he pushes harder with every thrust.
“Fucking hell,” he groans.
I can’t close my eyes. Watching him above me—seeing the way he’s engrossed in the way it feels to be inside me—it almost makes the pain fade.
Almost.
I try to find enjoyment in it. I think part of me does. The way he’s watching me—grunting—touching me with his free hand. He palms my breast and says, “Do you like it yet?”
I whimper, because I do. A small part of me is starting to like the way he’s looking at me. His thumb brushes over my nipple and then his other hand leaves the headboard. He lowers himself until his lips are on my breast, sucking gently. He’s no longer fucking me.
He’s gentle now. Barely moving inside me.
This is better.
This doesn’t hurt as much.
His mouth moves to my other breast and he lifts his eyes to meet mine while his tongue circles my nipple in slow strokes. “Do you like this, Sloan?”
I finally nod. He smiles, still teasing me with his mouth. He closes his mouth over my nipple and sucks once, hard, biting gently with his teeth. Then he releases my breast and his lips feather mine.
“Thank you,” he says with a slow thrust inside me. “Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for giving me what you’ve never wanted to give to any other man.” His tongue slides softly against my bottom lip. His hand slides up my chest and wraps around my throat.
Despite the leap it causes my heart to take when I feel him squeeze my neck, it’s a gentle squeeze.
He must see the fear enter my eyes, because he whispers, “I need to touch your throat. I won’t hurt you, but I want my hand here. Is that okay?”
I have no idea what’s normal and what isn’t during sex. I’ve only had ten minutes of experience with it.
I swallow and then nod softly.
He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to mine. His lips barely touch mine, but he doesn’t kiss me. He just begins to move slowly, all the way in, part of the way out, all the way back in. Every movement against me comes a little faster. A little more deliberate. He’s breathing hard against my mouth, his hand still against my throat. Gentle, though. And even though this feels nothing like his mouth felt between my legs, it’s a different kind of feeling. A feeling of desire to want him to like this. To like how I feel to him.
I keep my eyes open the entire time, fascinated by the intensity of him. He keeps his head pressed against mine, his lips still don’t fully take mine, his hands begin to grip me tighter.
“Fuck,” he whispers against my mouth. “Fuck,” he says again. He begins to shake as he releases, and my breaths have matched his in desperation. I’m gasping with him as the tremors take over and he shoves into me again. He holds himself still, his lips resting between mine, his breaths colliding with mine.
He collapses against me and buries his face against my neck for a full minute before his mouth meets my skin. “Thank you,” he whispers.
I don’t say you’re welcome.
I stare up at the ceiling, wondering why I feel so conflicted. I liked that I made him feel good. I liked when he made me feel good.
But I didn’t like the rest of it.
I guess that’s why I’ve read that sex in real life is different from sex in books and on TV. In real life, it’s uncomfortable. Awkward. It even feels wrong and unwanted at times. Hopefully it won’t feel like that every time. Hopefully it only gets better.
His hand meets the side of my head as he presses his mouth to my ear. “You’re gonna have a hard time getting rid of me now.”
I smile. At least he has me convinced that this actually meant something to him. That he didn’t just see me as a one-time thing. That has to be a positive thing. I still find it hard to tell with him. Sometimes the positive things seem negative and the negative things seem positive. He’s a haze of confusion to me. But I have nothing else to compare this to. No one else to compare him to.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, pushing himself off the bed. He stands up and it’s the first time I’ve seen him naked. Every single muscle is cut and defined. He reaches down and carefully pulls off the condom and tosses it into the trashcan.
I don’t even remember him putting it on. That must have happened when I told him I’d have sex with him. That’s what happens, right? You discuss sex and then get the condom. I must have been half asleep.
I hate that there were moments when I doubted him tonight. He’s been nothing but nice to me. Honest with me. I’m punishing him for my unspoken feelings of indecisiveness. How could he stop when I didn’t even find my voice to say no?
Asa leaves his bedroom, but comes back in less than a minute. He closes the door behind him and walks to the bed, lowering himself beside me. He’s holding something. He leans over me and puts a hand on my knee, spreading my legs open. Then he presses so
mething warm against me. Something wet.
“I want to help with the pain,” he says, his eyes full of concern. “Let me hold this here for a minute or two.”
I nod and relax my legs while he holds the warm washcloth against me. We don’t speak. The whole thing is kind of strange and surreal, and I don’t want to make it even more so with words. I have no idea what to even say right now.
He kisses the top of my knee and then uses the rag to clean me up. “You bled a little,” he says. “It’s okay, it stopped.”
He tosses the rag into the hamper and then moves to lie next to me. He pulls the covers over us and we’re facing each other.
“Did you enjoy it?” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, so I lie. “Yes,” I whisper. “It hurt. But I liked it.”
He kisses my cheek. “Well, I loved it.” He wraps his arm over me, his hand cupping my ass. He pulls me against him. “I’ll take you home tomorrow,” he says, wrapping himself around me. “But I hope you stay long enough for me to make you love it. I promise you will. The first time is always the hardest.”
For the next several minutes, his lips meet every part of my neck and shoulder. Never his tongue, though. Just his lips—soft and gentle against my skin. I’ve never felt so delicate. Every time I think he’s asleep and I’m on the verge of it, his lips meet my skin again. It’s like he’s scared to go to sleep for fear that he’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream.
I’m almost asleep again when his mouth presses against my neck, jerking me awake.
“Asa,” I whisper. “Go to sleep. I’m not leaving.”
I feel him move suddenly, so my eyes flick open. He’s propped up on his elbow now, staring down at me fiercely. I don’t know what I just said, but it upset him. Or maybe it had the complete opposite effect. I’m not sure.
“You swear?” he says, his eyes boring into mine. “You won’t leave?”
I nod, because it looks like he needs the affirmation. “I swear.”
He exhales, his forehead dropping to mine again. And then he’s kissing me. “I don’t want you to leave,” he says between kisses. “Don’t leave me, Sloan.”
I don’t like the sound of his voice. The fear in his plea. I have no idea why he’s saying this and if he’s just talking about right now—tonight—or forever.
Surely not forever.
Whatever it is, it makes me wonder what kind of things must have happened to him to make him so intense. He was either loved deeply or hated deeply. Hopefully it was the former.
“Promise,” he says, kissing me again. “Say you won’t leave.”
I take his face in my hands and whisper, “I won’t, Asa. I promise. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
He pulls me to him and holds me tightly for so long, the only time he releases his grip is when he finally falls asleep.
I stare at him for a moment. He looks less like a man when he’s asleep and more like a vulnerable young boy. His features are softer; his mouth isn’t set so tight. He’s relaxed in his sleep. Relaxed with me in his arms.
I adjust myself slowly until I’m on my stomach. His arm is still around me, but I turn the other direction and face the wall, allowing my arm to dangle off the side of the bed. I close my eyes and think about today.
I was kissed for the first time.
I went on my first date.
I had sex for the first time.
And even though it was nothing like I thought my first time would have or should have been, Asa already treats me better than anyone has ever treated me in my whole life. I’ve known him for one day and I already feel more important to him than I ever felt to my own mother.
I find myself relishing in the way he’s holding me. It feels good to be wanted. It feels even better to be needed. I’m almost asleep when I feel him move next to me. His lips meet the center of my back and he presses a gentle kiss there.
“You sleep on your stomach?” he whispers. “I don’t know why, but I fucking love that so much.”
His head comes to rest against my back, his cheek pressed against my skin.
And that’s how we fall asleep.
Me on my stomach.
Him half on top of me, ensuring I don’t leave, even in his sleep.
There was a case on the news recently about some dude who raped a girl. He got a few months in jail because he was white, or because he won some medals, or some shit combination like that.
The whole fucking nation went nuts over it. Everywhere anyone looked, his lenient sentence was all anyone saw. It flooded the news for weeks. I don’t know all the details of it, but it’s not like the guy was a serial rapist. Pretty sure it was just his first or second offense, but everyone acted like he was motherfucking Hitler.
Not that the stupid fuck didn’t deserve whatever jail time he got, or an even longer sentence. I’m not defending the cocksucker. I’m just a little irritated that my case hasn’t received one single goddamn second of national news coverage. I fucking murdered a guy and didn’t even get charged. I ran the biggest campus drug ring since college was fucking invented and didn’t get charged. Even after holding a gun on Ryan, the judge releases me on fucking house arrest until my trial.
House arrest. Six whole glorious months of it.
It’s a joke. This entire nation and the racist fucking hypocrites who run it are a joke, and guys like me are the ones who benefit from it. I would be ashamed of this country if I didn’t love it so much for its lack of repercussions.
And while we’re on the subject of white dudes having non-consensual sex with chicks without repercussions...I’m pretty sure I don’t even have enough fingers on both hands to count how many times I’ve been inside a girl without permission. Hell, I can’t even count the times I was inside Jess without her actually wanting me there. In all honesty, that’s one of the only reasons I even bothered with her. I liked how much she hated me.
I just don’t understand why I can get away with all that shit and no one makes a big fuss about it. I’m better looking than most of the dudes who get national media coverage. I’m also not a pussy...which most of them seem to be. What is it with pussy-ass, ugly white dudes getting all the fucking screen time?
Is it because I don’t come from wealth?
That’s probably it. I grew up an orphan with two piece-of-shit parents. The media knows people don’t eat stories like mine up, simply because I don’t have two privileged white parents by my side supporting me.
Figures. My one chance at notoriety and my parents are still fucking things up for me.
Paul, my bitch-ass lawyer, tells me it’s a good thing that the media hasn’t picked up this story. He says when the media grabs hold of shit, they spin it a certain way, and the judge feels more compelled to hand down a stronger sentence. To make an example. Makes sense, I guess, but I’m not sure Paul realizes what an effect I have on people. I’m fucking charismatic. The media would love me. And then Sloan would be forced to follow the story because it would be on every news channel every time she turned on the TV.
Fuck, I did it again. I let thoughts of her enter my head. I’ve been trying to listen to my psychiatrist...trying not to think about her. Every time I think about her it feels like I’m an overweight old dude with sky-high cholesterol, dropping dead from a heart attack. Hand clenches my heart, knees want to meet the ground.
I choke on my own nerves, just thinking about what she did to me.
My Sloan.
It’s my own fault. I should have known not to love something as much as I loved her. But I couldn’t help it. It was like she was made for me. It was as if she was put on this earth to make up for all the shit I endured growing up. For a while, I thought she was God’s apology to me. Like he pushed her straight down from the heavens, saying, “Here, Asa. I’ve created this ray of light to make up for all the darkness cast upon you by your parents. She is my gift to you, child. With her, your pain will vanish.”
> And it did. For more than two years I had my own little piece of heaven whenever I wanted it. Sloan was like Eve before the fucking serpent corrupted her. She was sweet and innocent. Untouched. My own little angel in human form.
Until Luke.
Luke is the Satan to my Eve. The serpent. Tempting her with his apple, introducing her to sin. Corrupting her.
When I think of Sloan—which is every fucking second of every goddamn day—I think of the pre-Luke Sloan. The Sloan I loved. The Sloan who lit up like a fucking Christmas tree any time I’d pay her even the smallest amount of attention. The Sloan who made me coconut cake and spaghetti and meatballs just because she knew it would make me smile. The Sloan who would sleep in my bed every night, waiting for me to come wake her up by making love to her. The Sloan who would express her love for me by caring for my house like the good women do. The women who aren’t whores. I fucking loved watching her clean. She never complained about all the pigs who didn’t respect my house. She would just clean up after them, because she knew how much I loved a presentable house.
I miss her. I miss how much she loved to love me. I miss when she was innocent...my angel...my very own apology from God.
But now...after falling for that fucking serpent...I want her dead. I want them both dead. If she’s dead, I don’t have to think about how she isn’t the same person I fell in love with. If she’s dead, I don’t have to think about the sounds she makes when she’s being fucked by Luke. If she’s dead, I can move past the hatred I have for this post-Luke version of Sloan that took over all the parts of her that I once loved.
I’ve wondered if I kill Luke—if he’s out of the picture—can she change back to the Sloan I know is still there? Sometimes I think about giving her one last chance. Maybe if I were to kill Luke first and give her time to readjust to life with me again, I could learn to love her the way I used to love her.
It’s wishful thinking. He’s been inside her. Not only her body, but her head. He’s made her think that he’s better than me, that he can offer her more than I can. I’m not sure I want to forgive her for being that fucking stupid.
