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Give it to me, J. Fight me. Take me. Defeat me.
That’s what my body demands. I push the dildo into my ass, groaning, my teeth gritting at the intrusion.
Always a shock to my system. Always feels like a mistake at first, and then like the answer. The right answer. Part of it, anyway. A puzzle piece that was missing before.
My dick jerks as the dildo fills me up, and my breath catches.
Yeah, this. This is almost what I need.
Almost.
I pull the rubber cock out of me, push it back inside, and my head falls back at the sensation. Yeah, goddammit.
That’s something I discovered these past months: handjobs are okay, but my body is craving more, and if I can’t have another body giving it to me, if Joel won’t give it to me, then I have to do it myself.
Have to feel myself stretched, filled, topped. Overcome. Overpowered.
I wish Joel would let me show him. Play with him. I wish he’d cla
im me.
I wish Candy would hold me as he does, that she’d ride me and take me inside her. Fold me into her.
That I’d be fucking crushed between them. Punished and accepted. Lost in the pleasure and heat that’s spreading down my dick into my balls, that’s tearing me apart as the dildo brushes that spot inside me that makes me see stars.
I arch helplessly on the bed, my cock swelling more, tightening to the point of pain, and I fist it, stroke it, a wail leaving my throat when it jerks in my hand.
All this tension of the past weeks, all this unrequited lust. It bursts out of me in burning pleasure, hot cum coating my chest, hitting my chin.
Yes. Give it to me. Fuck me, dammit, J.
But he’s not here. Nobody’s here, and after it’s over, I curl on my side, throwing an arm over my eyes. They sting.
No, goddammit. I shouldn’t allow myself to sink. I really should stop torturing myself like that. Stop imagining he’d be like this with me.
It’s just sometimes I wish… I wish I didn’t feel so damn alone.
***
“You okay?” Candy asks me next day at work. It’s Saturday, and we’re busy, people stepping in and out of the shop, checking out books and stationary.
“Sure.”
Except for the near-blinding headache, and the way the room spins sometimes when I look up too fast, I’m peachy. Pity-party is over. My fault if I can’t accept things as they are, if I can’t appreciate how lucky I am. It’s as if I’ve forgotten how my life was a few years ago.
Can’t let that happen again. Need to remember, always remember, and be fucking grateful.
“You left suddenly yesterday. Is everything okay?”
I turn and start walking toward a customer who just entered. Her concern both burns and soothes, and I want it way too much. “Fine.”
Pushing away what I want is second nature. I often fail, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. Because what you really want will end up killing you. From the inside. Slowly.
I’m done with death.
The problem of the fucking GED, though, remains, and when Donna finds me later on, I tense up. She only nods at me and continues toward her office, leaving me to sag against a bookshelf.
I need to study, get a few more books I need. It was never urgent. I never needed a diploma to work in bars and coffee shops, so I never made it a priority.
