Chapter 7: The Second Time
The click of the lock was a period at the end of the world. It shut out the reality where I was Justin Zygurski, craft beer aficionado, homeowner, a man who liked his solitude. It locked me in this tiny, floral-walled hell with the consequences of a body that wasn’t mine.
Mark stepped forward, and the space disappeared. His hands came up, not rough, but deliberate. They framed my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. My skin—her skin—flamed under his touch. I could feel the calluses on his palms, familiar from a thousand handshakes and backslaps, now doing something profoundly unfamiliar.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, his voice thick. It wasn’t a line. It was a reverent observation, and it shattered me.
He tilted my face up. I had to crane my neck, a foot of difference in our heights making me feel childlike, overpowered. He kissed me. His tongue pushed past my lips—lips that were too full, a mouth that felt small and crowded. I tasted the beer we’d shared, the chlorine, and him. My mind recoiled. My body softened. A traitorous moan vibrated in my throat, swallowed by his mouth.
One of his hands slid from my face, down the slope of my neck, over the sharp jut of my collarbone. It moved down my back, tracing the unfamiliar dip of my spine, and came to rest on the curve of my ass. He gripped it, kneading the flesh. The sensation was electric, a direct, shocking claim of ownership that sent a bolt of pure, animal heat straight to my core. My ass jiggled slightly in his hand, a soft, yielding weight that was utterly foreign to me. I’d never been aware of my own backside before; now it was a center of sensation, a key he was turning.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. Without a word, his hands moved to my hips and lifted. I was weightless. Eighty-five pounds of confused terror and awakened nerve endings. He set me down on the cold marble of the sink counter. The shock of the cool surface against the backs of my thighs made me gasp. My feet, so absurdly small, dangled inches above the floor.
He knelt.
The sight of him, my best friend, on his knees between my spread legs, was more humiliating than anything I could have conceived. He looked at me, his gaze a physical touch. I was completely open, exposed in a way that felt surgical and obscene. The cool air brushed over slick folds, and I flinched.
“Mark, don’t—” My voice was a high, strained whisper. Sabrina’s voice.
“Shhh,” he said, his eyes never leaving me. “Just let me.”
He leaned forward. His breath, warm and damp, hit me first. Then his tongue, flat and broad, licked a slow, firm stripe from my entrance to my clit.
The sound that tore out of me wasn’t human. It was a sharp, choked cry. My hands flew to his head, not to push him away, but to fist in his short hair, anchoring myself against a tsunami of sensation. It was too much. It was a direct line to a pleasure center I didn’t know existed, a shocking, concentrated euphoria that vaporized thought. He settled into a rhythm, his tongue circling, sucking, his nose nudging against me. The wet, intimate sounds filled the tiny bathroom, louder than my ragged breathing.
It built too fast, a pressure with no release valve in my understanding. My hips began to move of their own accord, a shallow, desperate rocking against his mouth. The tendons in my neck stood out. A high, keening whine escaped my throat.
I came. It was a seizure of pleasure, a detonation that curled my toes and arched my back so sharply I feared my spine would snap. My vision whited out at the edges. I shook, muscles clenching and releasing in waves around nothing, a pulse of shame and ecstasy that left me gasping, dripping, utterly hollowed out.
He rose, his lips glistening. He looked triumphant, raw. His shorts were already unbuckled. He pushed them down and his cock sprang free, thick, veined, already glistening at the tip. I’d seen it before in locker rooms, a casual fact of life. Now it was a threat. A promise.
He guided himself to me, the blunt head nudging against my tender, soaked entrance. My body, still spasming from the climax, accepted him eagerly. I felt myself stretch, a burning, full sensation that was pain and pleasure welded together. I couldn’t help it. My legs, thin but strong, wrapped around his waist, my heels locking at the small of his back, pulling him deeper.
He sank into me with a groan that shook his whole frame. “God, Sabrina… you’re so tight.”
He was buried to the hilt. I was impaled, filled in a way that rearranged my insides. He began to move, slow at first, then with increasing force. Each thrust rocked my entire body on the counter. My breasts, heavy and unbound, bounced with a jiggling rhythm that was hypnotic and degrading. I could see us in the fogged mirror behind him—a fragmented image of his muscular back flexing, and my small, pale form being consumed.
The cold marble was a shock against my ass. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. The slap of skin on skin, the grunt of his breath, the creak of the cabinet under my weight—it was a brutal symphony. I buried my face in the crook of his neck to silence my own sounds, my teeth grazing his salty skin. I bit down, not in passion, but in a futile attempt to ground myself in a pain I could understand.
He fucked me harder, driving me back against the mirror. The glass rattled in its frame. My reflection—flushed face, wild hair, bouncing breasts—blurred with each impact. I was a thing being used. And I was participating. My hips met his, my inner muscles clamping around him on instinct, pulling him deeper, demanding more. The pleasure built again, a coiling, insistent snake in my gut, separate from the horror in my mind.
He was close. I could feel him swelling inside me, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal.
“Come for me again,” he gritted out, his voice a harsh command.
And I did. The second climax was slower, deeper, a rolling wave of submission that washed away the last fragments of my resistance. My body clenched around him, milking him, and with a final, driving thrust, he stiffened and emptied himself into me. The heat of it flooding my core was the most violating sensation of all, a permanent, wet claim.
He slumped against me, his weight pressing my delicate frame into the cold marble and hard mirror. His breath was hot in my ear. We stayed like that, joined, for a long minute. The only sounds were our panting and the drip of the showerhead.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of me. A trickle of warm fluid traced a path down my inner thigh. He leaned back, his hands braced on the counter on either side of me, and looked into my eyes. He smiled, a lazy, sated smile.
“Wow,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “Just… wow.”
He kissed my forehead, a tender gesture that felt like a brand. He straightened, pulled up his shorts, and buckled them. He looked at me, still spread on the counter, exposed and dripping.
“You okay?” he asked, reaching for a hand towel and handing it to me.
I took it, numb. I didn’t meet his eyes. I just nodded.
“I’ll, uh… I’ll let you clean up,” he said, his tone awkward now, the frenzy gone. He unlocked the door and slipped out, leaving it slightly ajar.
The silence he left behind was absolute. I slid off the counter. My legs buckled, and I caught myself on the sink edge. My whole body felt liquid, used. I looked in the mirror. My lips were bruised. My hair was a tangled mess. My blue eyes were empty.
I cleaned myself with the towel, movements robotic. The evidence of him was everywhere. My body thrummed with a low, aftershock hum of satisfaction. My soul curled up in a corner and wept.
From the main room of the guest house, my phone—Sabrina’s phone—buzzed on the nightstand. A long, insistent sound. A call, not a text.
I wrapped the towel around myself again and shuffled out. The screen glowed in the dim room. The caller ID sent a fresh, different kind of chill through me.
It read: Justin.