BENCHED

by Abigail Graham

  Tentatively, I bring it up to my face and sniff. I blink a few times and sniff again. It smells like him. I look around, as if I expect someone to be hiding in the closet watching me, and sniff it again.

  I can't stop thinking about him. I can feel his muscular body under my hands, and the way his hands roamed over mine when we danced. The hardness of his cock pushing into my back, his breath on my neck. Laying his sweatshirt on my bed, I take off my pants—also his, actually—and roll onto the bed.

  Modesty demands I wear more clothes than I would like. It is a crisp October day, which to me is quite warm. Sprawled on the bed and clad only in my underthings, I let the cool air wash over my skin. Then I roll onto my stomach and let the cool air wash over my back.

  My hands tuck under my body, almost moving on their own. After the fight in the bar, most of last night is a jumble, but I remember very clearly when Jason picked me up in his arms, as a newlywed might carry a bride, and bore me up to his bedroom. Thinking about it sends a thrill down my body.

  His powerful muscles flexing under my knees and against my back, his chest expanding against my side as he breathed, gripping the front of his shirt in my hand as he carried me up the stairs. The scent of him; sweat and beer and something earthy, like clay and leather.

  I tug my underwear down a little and slip my hands between my legs, thinking about the way his stubble scratched my cheek, and the way he looked at me with hunger in his eyes and hardness between his legs. I made him hard sitting with him on the couch playing the board game. I could feel the way he tensed when I kissed his cheek. His scratchy, short whiskers brushed my lips, and when when I kissed his later, they were so soft and warm, pulling me into them.

  There are things I want to feel, experience, and I imagine them all as I explore my body, sliding my fingers inside myself, rubbing. Why not him? He has a rock- hard body, solid muscle head to toe, and I could feel his hard cock, so impressive in its size. He radiated hunger, and he wanted to put that inside me.

  My frustrations drive my pleasure higher. My rear end lifts off the bed, and I imagine him taking hold of me and taking me, pumping with my fingers where I want him to be as I drive myself into a frenzy. My legs and muscles clench and I fall on my side.

  I bury my face in his hoodie as I come, shaking and squirming on the bed, clamping on my hands between my thighs. It hits me so hard I can only lie there and whimper, thinking about Jason locking his massive arms around my body. I want him inside me.

  My attempt to stand up is less than successful. I end up sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed with my legs outstretched. After perhaps half an hour I can get my feet under me and stand up.

  I pace the room a bit before I step out of the last of my clothes and toss them down the laundry chute, then slip into the shower.

  Leaning against the cold tiles, I let the scalding water run down my back. I love the cold, but I love a hot shower just as much. I let it warm up the kinks in my back and soak into my hair before I turn around and let it run down the front of my body and between my legs.

  Taking a seat on a bamboo stool, I thoroughly wet my hair, turn the water off, and begin working shampoo into it. Washing it is quite an affair, but I find it soothing. It takes fifteen minutes of work to get it thoroughly lathered before I turn the water back on and begin the long rinse.

  An hour later after applying conditioner and drying it, I bind my hair into a bun that sits on the back of my neck and trudge across the hall to my study room. I belly up to the desk and turn my math textbook to the appropriate page, and whisk through it. Mathematics has always been easy to me, and my studies at home are far ahead of what I must do here.

  History and English literature are a different matter.

  I press the history book open with both hands and struggle through the long, overly complex sentences, constantly tripping over the differences in grammar between English and my mother tongue. I have only a basic grip on the material because of the struggle of reading the words.

  Who cares about the Teapot Dome Scandal, in any event?

  The professor, for one thing. My last returned assignment sits on the desk, the D- scratched in red ink glaring at me like a scarlet letter. I keep it there as a reminder that I must focus on this subject, no matter how much I hate the helpless feeling.

  After two hours of grappling with the book in a post-hangover fuzz, I have fully half the assigned reading to go. Or rather, last week's assigned reading. I'm far behind, and with no end in sight. When I look up, it's already late afternoon, and I still have to catch up on my reading of The Great Gatsby, which sounds about as desirable as stuffing an eel up my nose.

  First, a dinner break.

  I stride down to the kitchen and ring the bell on the counter. Mavra, the cook, appears moments later, uselessly wiping her hands on her immaculate, white apron. She curtsies in a smooth, practiced motion despite her ponderous size.

  "What would Her Grace prefer for supper?"

  Just once I'd like her to tell me what's for supper, so I don't have to choose. After all that liquor last night, thinking makes my head hurt.

  "Chicken," I say, choosing at random.

  "Her Grace will be eating at her desk tonight?"

  The question is redundant; I always eat at my desk. I've used the oversized dining table perhaps once in the time I've lived here.

  I nod and walk back upstairs. My head is throbbing. My mouth starts to water. Mavra finally brings my dinner on a silver platter and sets it on my desk next to my hand as I struggle over the book. I eat slowly as I work and sip my milk. It cools my stomach but doesn't stop the throbbing in my head.

  When I am two-thirds through the assigned readings, the last scraps of my dinner have gone cold and my head feels like it is full of wood pulp. I stick a marker in the book, slam it closed with too much force, and grab my battered, used copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald's book.

  Flopping on the bed, I start to open it, when I notice a missed call blinking at me from the lock screen of my phone. I set the book aside and check the missed calls.

  Mother.

  Oh, wonderful.

  I trudge back to the study and stop so Mavra can head back to the kitchen with my scraps.

  "Will there be anything further, Your Grace?"

  "No," I sigh.

  I plop into the chair and wake the computer, and open the video-call program. It rings five times, and then the screen blinks and Mother appears.

  Queen Karen IV stares me down as if I have committed a great crime, anger twisting her pursed rosebud lips. She folds her arms over her chest and glares at me.

  "Anastasia," she says.

  "Mother," I reply, primly.

  She picks something up from her desk and holds it to the camera. It's a tabloid newspaper, The Royal Exposé. The cover story is about Prince Liam's marriage.

  "Yes?" I say, confused.

  Mother lets out an exasperated sigh, edging into a growl. "Upper right corner."

  I look closer.

  The Princess's Lesbian Lover? it reads.

  My mouth falls open. The picture is blurry and taken from a distance, but it's clearly myself and Dee; I'd recognize her elaborately braided, purple-and-blue hair anywhere. The picture is innocuous enough, showing the two of us sitting on a park bench in front of an ice cream stand.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Mother demands.

  "I wanted to have some ice cream."

  "You wanted to have some ice cream," she says in a cold, singsong voice. "Without your guards."

  "Mother—"

  "Your guards are to keep these slime away from you and stop them taking these disgusting pictures. This slander against the dignity of your royal house is intolerable."

  "I did not write that article, Mother."

  "There would be no article if you would stay where you belong and stop sneaking out."

  I sit up and glare at her.

  "You sent me here to learn about America. How am I to learn about Ame
rica if you keep me locked in a cage?"

  "Cage? Cage? You have the finest appointments, you willful, ungrateful child. I make sure you lack for nothing."

  "I lack for friends," I shout back. "I lack for fun. I lack for—" I cut myself off before I go any further, angrily pressing my lips shut.

  "For what?"

  "It doesn't matter. If I must remain imprisoned here much longer, I'll go mad."

  "If you slip your guards again, I'll show you the meaning of imprisonment, girl. You have no idea what danger you're putting yourself in when you go out there on your own. I should have them all replaced and flogged for this. If you want for ice cream, send your servants that I pay to go get it!"

  The stream cuts off. She has the last word. She always has the last word. I want very much to yank the computer off the desk and throw it through the window, but instead I storm angrily back into my bedroom and throw myself onto the bed.

  I vent my fury on The Great Gatsby, hurling it into the wall a few times before I scoop it up and turned to the dog-eared page where I must continue, perhaps thirty pages behind where I am supposed to be with the book.

  My attempts at reading turn into pure frustration. My eyes slide down the page without touching the words, and when I force myself to process them one at a time, I forget the beginning of every sentence before I reach the end.

  I toss it over the side of the bed onto the floor and angrily flop onto my side.

  I wonder if Dee is right about him. He's different from everyone else. Many boys on campus look at my chest or my backside or my legs. Many of the professors too. He looks at my eyes.

  Right into my eyes.

  Anastasia, you fool, it can never happen. He will bring you only pain.

  My only husband is duty. I grasp The Great Gatsby. At least, I grasp my copy. I feel like I will never grasp the story.

  I roll on my back and crack it open to the page where I left off, flick back to where I actually started, and begin to read.

  This is hopeless. I'll never grasp this. My eyes burn, then the world begins to blur. I feel something warm on my cheek. It's a tear, I realize.

  I grapple with the damned book all night. I read a page, then read it again, aloud, stopping to repeat the meaning of each paragraph to myself before I move on. It takes hours, and it's well past midnight before I give up without reaching the full length of the assigned pages. I stick dog-ear the page where I left off and rest the book on my nightstand.

  I turn off the lights and I close my eyes, but it would be a gross exaggeration to call what happens next sleeping. Hours and hours I lie there in the dark, eyes pressed tightly shut, willing sleep to come. My head feels more and more like wet sand with every passing tick of the clock.

  Finally at some point I manage to drift off into a light, restless sleep only to jerk awake when my alarm clock goes off. I resist my desire to open the window and toss it out onto the back porch, and get up.

  My morning routine begins with a run. I dress in leggings and a sweatshirt—not Jason's, one that fits me. I lace up my running shoes, grab a squeeze bottle of water from the refrigerator, and start out the door.

  My two bodyguards, Thorlief and Bjorn, are right on me, scowling. They dare not reproach my royal self, but I can tell they received a tongue lashing from Mother over my latest escape. I feel a pang of guilt thinking about that, and what she'll do if she learns of Saturday night's outing.

  I put that out of my head, and I run.

  Since I was a little girl, running has been my relief. The exertion squeezes every other thought out of my head, every stride pushing me deeper into a moving meditation, my focus narrowing to my form and speed.

  "On your left," a voice yells.

  I swing to the right of the sidewalk, expecting a cyclist to pass me. Instead, Jason Powell lopes around Thorlief and holds pace with me.

  "Morning, gorgeous," he says and blows me a kiss.

  "You," Thorlief bellows, "keep your distance from the princess!"

  "What if I don't?"

  "Don't test us," Bjorn growls.

  "You'll have to catch me first," he yells before he leans into a sprint and bolts away from me so fast I'd have to struggle to keep up.

  I normally pace myself for the benefit of my guards, who must run in dress trousers and button-down shirts. They would be in full suits if I did not insist they dress down to follow me on my exercise.

  Gritting my teeth, I cant forward and run full tilt, my entire existence focused on passing Jason Powell. I stare at his back as if I could sink anchors into his bones and drag him behind me. I go all out, whipping my arms forward and back, my teeth bared, a mask of concentration.

  He wasn't challenging the guards, he was challenging me. He won't win.

  He holds his pace, and I slowly begin to overtake him, my thighs burning from running so hard. Faster, faster, faster.

  Just as I finally begin to catch up to him, something hooks my right foot and I go flying. I see the ground rushing up to meet me and know this is going to be bad.

  It was going to be bad. Jason grabs me around the waist and tumbles into the grass along the sidewalk. He slides a good six feet with me on top of him. I sit up, astonished, and two things spring to mind.

  One, I'm straddling him.

  Two, his hands are on my breasts.

  He jerks them away as though from a hot iron, not that it matters. He got a good feel. I slap him, hard, across the face.

  "Ow! Is that any way to thank me?"

  "I wouldn't have fallen if not for you."

  "You fell because you weren't looking where you were going."

  "I fell because you distracted me."

  "Because you can't keep your eyes off me. Make love to me."

  "You," Thorlief bellows, "unhand the princess!"

  Jason puts his hands up—or rather down, resting the backs of his palms on the grass as he lies spread-eagled under me.

  "Don't tase me!"

  "Leave him alone," I snap at Thorlief. Bjorn strides up a moment later, panting.

  I realize I'm still sitting on Jason. Straddling him, rather.

  Also, his cock is as hard as a rock, and if it weren't for my tights getting in the way, we would be much more intimately acquainted.

  "Sorry, baby. It's natural."

  I push hard on his chest to steady myself as I stand up. I mean to hurt him, but all it does is make him laugh. It also grinds his cock against my body and sends a shiver of arousal up my spine.

  When I'm on my feet, still standing over him, he looks up.

  "You can just stand there all day, I'm fine with it."

  "I told you to forget about me."

  The guards exchange puzzled looks.

  "Can a starving man forget the sweet succor of sustenance? Could he ever let go of the cool touch of a strawberry on his lips, the taste of cream in his mouth?" He sits up. "How could I forget you?"

  I dart back, away from him, and give him a hard look.

  Jason springs to his feet.

  "Damn, now I'm hungry. So, how about breakfast?"

  Thorlief steps between us and gives Jason a sharp shove to the chest, one handed. This one does move him. He glares at my bodyguard.

  "Enough," I say, warning in my voice. "He meant no harm. This is the end of it."

  "No it isn't," Jason insists.

  "Yes it is," I say and start to turn away.

  "I know a place that serves Spam!" he calls after me.

  I ignore him.

  "You're beautiful!"

  I ignore him.

  "I'm not going to forget about you, Princess."

  "You should," I say, bitterly and too softly for him to hear me.

  Chapter Four

  Jason

  Watching Anastasia walk away in those tights doesn't do anything to quell the raging erection I'm now sporting. Sweatpants were a good idea today. If I was wearing jeans I'd probably pass out from the loss of circulation in my head.

  For a second there
I experienced pure bliss. She had her arms and legs wrapped tightly around me, her perfect, soft breasts resting on my chest, those big eyes of hers wide with shock, and then with something more. She gave me a little grind on my dick there before she got up, I could feel it.

  God, she's beautiful. No, ethereal. She's a walking storm cloud, a vision, a living mirage. I grin stupidly as I strut down the sidewalk until she's out of sight, and my shoulders slump.

  Damn it, Jason.

  I need to get my head in the proverbial game. Also, the actual game. There will be another game next Saturday, and I don't have time to think about princesses while I'm studying and training.

  I still think about the princess for the rest of my trip up to the fourth floor of the building on the old campus that houses the history department. My academic advisor sent me an email last night, asking me to meet with her this morning on my way to class. I'm pretty sure I know what this is about.

  Her office is on the very top floor. It smells like ammonia and cigarettes, though no one has smoked up here for about thirty-five years. Dr. Grandolf's office is at the far end of the hall, tucked in the corner.

  When you picture Dr. Grandolf, professor of history and instructor of American Studies, you probably won't envisage the person I'm about to meet. That name conjures up a gray-bearded man with small glasses and a big pipe and tweed jacket, probably sitting in an overstuffed chair with volume seven of The Annals of America resting on his lap.

  Dr. Grandolf is thirty-seven years old, though she looks like she's in her midtwenties from her exhausting workout regimen and vegan diet. She favors black blazers, and skirts and blouses that are either tight enough or open enough to show off what God gave her, which is a lot.

  When I knock on her open door and step inside, she's sitting on the corner of her expansive desk, legs crossed, tight pencil skirt hiked up high over her knees. With her glossy, raven hair, pale skin, blue eyes, and horn-rimmed glasses, she looks like the runner-up in the Most Fuckable Librarian Pageant.

  She smiles warmly at me and gestures for me to sit down in one of the guest chairs as she takes a seat behind her desk and hikes herself up to her computer.