Chapter 4: The Anal Virgin
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, harsh and synchronised in the quiet room. The distant bass from the party felt like a heartbeat from another world. She lay on her back beside him, one arm thrown over her eyes, the rise and fall of her chest gradually slowing.
“Hey,” she finally whispered, her voice raspy from exertion. She turned her head on the pillow, the cat mask staring blankly at the water-stained ceiling. “That thing you did with your thumb? And your tongue?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the Molly talking, but… I fucking loved it.” A shaky, incredulous laugh escaped her. “I’ve never… I mean, no one’s ever gone there. Not like that.”
Greg propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at the strange, masked face. A curl of damp blonde hair had escaped the hood, stuck to her temple. “It seemed like you were into it.”
“I was. Totally.” She bit her lip, her gaze drifting toward him though he couldn’t see her eyes. The bravado from earlier was gone, replaced by a nervous, vulnerable energy. “So… would you… I mean, if you want to…” She took a breath. “Would you fuck me there?”
The question hung in the humid air, more intimate than anything they’d done so far. The crude, direct words were at odds with the tentative way she’d asked them.
Greg felt a fresh, sharp pang of desire. “Are you sure? Have you ever…”
“Nope. Anal virgin.” She said it with a forced lightness, then reached out, her gloved hand finding his bare forearm, her fingers tightening. “But I want to try. Tonight. With you. Someone random. Just don’t… don’t be a dick about it, okay? Go slow.”
“Okay,” he said, his voice low. “We go slow.”
She retrieved a bottle of lube and handed it to the masked hero.
He opened the bottle and squeezed out a dollop. The clear gel was cold on his fingers. He warmed it between his palms, watching as she shifted onto her hands and knees, presenting herself to him. The pose was submissive, but there was a deliberate grace to it, an offering. The lava lamp glow slid over the pale curves of her ass, over the delicate, pink furl he’d just been worshipping with his mouth.
He applied the lube to himself first, hissing slightly at the cold, then carefully smoothed more around and against her. She flinched at the initial touch, then relaxed, pushing back against his fingers with a soft sigh.
“Ready?” he asked, his own heart hammering.
“No,” she said, and laughed nervously. “Do it anyway.”
He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against that impossible tightness. He pushed, just a slight increase of pressure.
She gasped, a sharp intake of breath, and her whole body went rigid. “Wait, wait, wait.”
He stopped instantly, pulling back. “Okay. We’re okay. Breathe.”
She did, a long, shuddering exhale that melted some of the tension from her shoulders. “Sorry. It’s just… intense.”
“We don’t have to.”
“I want to.” She sounded determined now. “Just… take it slow.... inch by inch. Seriously.”
He nodded, though she couldn’t see. He pressed again, with infinitely more patience this time. There was resistance, a gripping, hot tension that felt like it might never yield. He pushed gradually, a slow, relentless surrender of millimetres. He watched, mesmerized, as her body reluctantly opened for him.
“Oh, god,” she moaned, the sound half-pain, half-wonder. She buried her face in the pillow. “Fuck. That’s… that’s a lot.”
He was barely inside. The containment was absolute, a silken, vise-like heat that threatened to undo him then and there. He stayed still, letting her adjust, sweat beading on his own brow. “You good?”
A muffled “Mmmhmm” came from the pillow. Then, “More. Slowly.”
He complied, shifting his weight forward by degrees. Each tiny movement was a seismic event. Her back arched, her fingers clawing at the cheap bedding. A low, continuous whine vibrated in her throat. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was something more profound, a threshold being crossed.
After an eternity of careful, excruciating advance, he felt the final barrier give way, and he was sheathed fully inside her. They both froze, a perfect, loaded stillness.
He was deep, disappearing into her asshole. The feeling was transcendent, a total, consuming possession. Her inner muscles fluttered around him, a series of frantic, involuntary pulses.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, the words raw with awe. “I feel so fucking full.”
“I'm all the way in you,” he grunted, the effort to stay motionless making his muscles tremble.
He began to move. Withdrawing was an agony of friction, pushing back in a conquering relief. He set a slow, deep tempo, each stroke a deliberate invasion. Her whines turned into proper moans, low and guttural, blooming in time with his thrusts.
“Harder,” she begged, her voice muffled by the pillow. “You can go harder now.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. The careful control snapped. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and drove into her with a force that shook the bed frame against the wall. The sound of skin slapping skin joined their ragged breaths.
She met him thrust for thrust, pushing back, taking everything he gave. The mask’s strap had loosened, and with a particularly deep drive, the cat mask slipped sideways, dangling from one ear, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. Her blonde hair was a sweaty tangle across her face.
“God, yes, right there,” she chanted, her words dissolving into incoherent cries. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”
He was lost in the feeling, in the primal rightness of it. The room, the party, the world outside this door ceased to exist. There was only this heat, this friction, this connected fervor.
There was only this heat, this friction, this connected fervor. The rhythm was everything, a brutal and perfect physics of need.
His hands slid from her hips, up the sweat-slick valley of her spine. He gathered her, turning her body with a grunt of effort, guiding her down onto her stomach. The mattress sighed as she flattened beneath him, her face pressed sideways into the pillow, her ass still canted up to keep him buried deep inside.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, the new angle staggering. “ I can feel you… in my stomach. It’s so deep.”
He drove into her, his chest against her back, and the penetration was profound, total. “Your ass is so fucking tight,” he breathed into the damp space between her shoulder blades, each word a strained confession. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”
“It might be the Molly talking,” she panted, her voice muffled and dreamy, “but I swear I’ve never felt sex this good. Ever.” Her fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white. “Don’t stop. Please.”
“It’s amazing,” he groaned, the words torn from him. He fucked her with slow, devastating rolls of his hips, each one claiming a little more of the quiet, dingy room. The lava lamp bubbled, casting long, reaching shadows that pulsed in time with them.
She mewled, a high, desperate sound that was all animal, and pushed back against him with a newfound hunger. The world had narrowed to the roar of blood in their ears and the slick, perfect slide of their bodies. He could feel her coming apart beneath him, every muscle tensing, and he knew he was falling right after her, tumbling into a void of his own making.
The tension in her body was a live wire, humming and coiling tight beneath her skin. He could feel the exact moment it splintered, a violent, beautiful unraveling that milked him mercilessly. Her cry was swallowed by the pillow, her back arching sharply as she shuddered through it.
He fought to hold on, teeth gritted, muscles burning with the effort to delay the inevitable. It was a losing battle. The pleasure was a riptide, pulling him under.
“I’m gonna come,” he grunted, the words rough and stripped bare.
Her response was immediate, gasping and desperate. “Me too. Again. Don’t stop. God, don’t you dare stop.”
She clenched around him, triggering another wave within her, and his control shattered. “Where?” he managed to ask, though he already knew.
“In my ass,” she demanded, her voice cracking with urgency. “Do it. Fill it up.”
He drove into her one last, deep time and let go. A white-hot bolt of release tore through him, vision spotting at the edges as he spilled himself inside her with a low, ragged groan. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his face buried in the mess of her hair. The scent of sweat, sex, and her cheap perfume was overwhelming.
For a long while, there was only the sound of their labored breathing slowing into sync. The frantic beat from downstairs had finally stopped, leaving a ringing quiet in its wake. He softened inside her, but neither moved, trapped in the gluey, spent aftermath.
Eventually, she shifted slightly beneath him. “Okay,” she breathed out, a faint laugh in her voice. “So that’s what that’s like.”
He rolled off to the side, the cooler air of the room hitting his damp skin. He stared at the water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a forgotten continent. “Yeah,” he said, his throat dry. “That’s what that’s like.”
She pushed herself up, wincing a little. The discarded cat mask was a sad lump of latex on the rumpled sheet. She kept her back to him, that curtain of blonde hair still obscuring her face as she swung her legs off the bed. “Bathroom’s down the hall,”
“Okay,” Greg said. He watched her stand, the graceful curve of her spine, the slight unsteadiness in her step. A proprietary feeling, warm and muddled, settled in his chest. “Hey. You okay?”
“Perfect,” she said, and this time the lightness in her tone sounded real. She glanced over her shoulder, still hiding her face. “Just gotta, you know. Clean up. That was… intense.”
“Understatement.”
She found her costume’s hooded robe and slipped it on, tying it loosely. She padded to the door, unlocked it, and slipped out without another word. The hallway light was blinding for a second before the door swung shut, plunging him back into the lava lamp’s drowsy glow.
Greg lay there, feeling the slow trickle of cool air from the vent above the bed. The whole room felt different now, the secrets in the peeling wallpaper less innocent. He reached for his own discarded mask, the cheap plastic hero’s face grinning idiotically at the ceiling. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing it.
The door clicked open again. She was back, quieter now, moving to the far side of the bed. She kept her distance, sitting on the edge with her back to him. She pulled her knees up to her chest.
She pulled her knees up to her chest. The silence stretched, but it was comfortable, filled with the hum of the dying party below. She broke it first, her voice softer now, stripped of its earlier performative huskiness.
“Party’s basically dead down there,” she said, tilting her head toward the door. “Just a few stragglers arguing about pizza toppings.” She reached into the small pocket of her robe and pulled out a baggie of green buds and a pack of rolling papers. “You wanna smoke? I could use a proper come-down.”
Greg pushed himself up against the headboard, the springs groaning. “Yeah, definitely. I could too.” He looked at the grinning hero mask in his hands, then at her shadowed profile. “Should I… take this off?”
She was quiet for a second, her fingers deftly crumbling weed onto the paper. She didn’t look over. “Yeah. I think I wanna see.” A slight, nervous laugh escaped her. “I wanna know what the guy who just took my anal virginity looks like.”
“Fair enough,” Greg said, the phrase sounding absurd given the circumstances. He hooked his fingers under the elastic. The mask had been on so long the sweat had cooled, making the plastic cling unpleasantly to his skin. He peeled it away with a soft, sucking pop.
The room air felt new and sharp on his face. He ran a hand through his damp, blonde hair, flattening where the mask had pressed it. He watched her.
She finished rolling the joint with a quick, practiced twist, then placed it on the nightstand. Slowly, she turned toward him. Her hand went to the loose tie of her robe’s hood. She paused, her knuckles white.
“Okay,” she breathed, more to herself than to him. “My turn.”
She drew the hood back. Long, tangled blonde hair fell around her shoulders. Her fingers found the strap of her own mask, the one that had slipped earlier. She untied it and let it fall into her lap.
Greg’s easygoing smile froze, then dissolved completely.
He knew the curve of that jawline. He knew the specific shade of those blue eyes, even in the dim, erratic light. He’d known them since they were kids building blanket forts. The playful smirk now tugging at her lips was one he’d seen a thousand times, across family dinner tables, in countless summer vacation photos.
It was Katy.
His cousin Katy.
The world didn’t slow down; it simply stopped, sound and light draining away into a silent, void-like hum. The peeling wallpaper, the lava lamp’s lazy blobs, the scent of sex and weed—it all curdled, snapping into a horrifying, hyper-real focus.
Her playful expression faltered, seeing the blood drain from his face. Her eyes, which had been soft with post-coital haze, began to dart across his features—the set of his brow, the line of his nose, the shape of his mouth. Her own smile vanished.
“Greg?” The name was a whisper, brittle and disbelieving.
He couldn’t speak. His throat had sealed shut. He gave a single, stiff nod, a marionette’s jerk.
Her hand flew to her mouth. The color left her face, matching his own pallor. She scrambled back, her legs tangling in the sheets, putting feet of filthy mattress between them as if proximity itself was contamination. Her eyes were wide with a dawning, horrified recognition that mirrored his own.
“Oh my god.” The words were muffled behind her palm. Then her hand dropped. “Oh my GOD. Your… your costume. You were Spider-Man earlier. At the start.”
“I swapped,” he croaked, the sound scraping raw from his throat. “With some guy.” The explanation was pathetic, meaningless.
A violent, full-body shudder wracked her. She looked down at herself, at her open robe, then quickly yanked the fabric closed, clutching it at her throat. Her gaze snapped back to him, and the blue eyes he’d always known as bright and laughing were now wells of pure, unadulterated horror. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The joint sat forgotten on the nightstand, a monument to a plan for a relaxed moment that would now never, could now never, happen.
The silence that followed was absolute, and it was screaming.