ugly

---

“Why don’t you love me?”

His words were cold, which was oddly fascinating as his lips were excruciatingly hot. They trailed down the pale column of my neck, his teeth periodically grazing cords of muscle and making me jump.

“Avery,” he murmured, his large hands strongly encircled around my slender wrists. I’d always admired his hands .. always admired them as he’d handed me back a test, and then after a short period of time I admired them as he stroked my face. Admired them as he jerked me off. Admired them as his long, slender digits massaged a spot inside of me that even I didn’t know about ..

I had stopped admiring his hands when they had started to hurt me. They were no longer beautiful, and were now profoundly ugly. His profoundly ugly hands were pressing the smooth knob of bone that protruded delicately from the tip of of my left wrist, and his lips were hovering over the curve of my clavicle. I could feel my skin moistening under his steady stream of warm breath and closed my eyes as tightly as I could.

After a few moments, I started to see spots.

“Why aren’t you talking to me .. “ he murmured, a statement moreso than a question. He ran the tip of his index finger over the bumpy junction of collarbone and shoulder, soon trailing down my abdomen and teasingly swirling around my hips. I wanted to buck. I wanted to buck and let his profoundly ugly, talented hands take care of me and then lull me to sleep in a way that only waves of orgasm can.

“I love you, and I’ve always loved you. I’ve sacrificed everything for you. I risked my job .. I’ve bought you so many things .. you live with me. What other sixteen year old gets to live with their lover, huh? I don’t need you to get a job. I can take care of you. I buy you food, and .. “ his voice hitched, his thumb idly tugging one of the belt loops on my jeans. I felt my eyelids fluttering, my breath an uncomfortable bubble lodged in the base of my throat. “I fuck you .. “

As he said fuck, he roughly grabbed at my crotch through thin paper denim and nudged his knee between my legs. He had every intention of inflicting just enough pain and enough promise of pleasure to spike my arousal, and it worked. My cheeks were hot and my thighs were burning.

When I had first met him, he was beautiful.

I’m shy by nature and as I shuffled into his class, lost in a sea of teenagers and bookbags and shoulder burns, it was easy enough to miss me. I caught his eye for a split second; beautiful green eyes dusted with long lashes. He had short brown hair that was effortlessly messy, day-old stubble complimenting his masculine jawline.

He always wore professional button-ups, but he seemed to get hot and always rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. His forearms were lean and toned, and sometimes when he handed out assignments I saw smooth muscle just barely rippling beneath the tender surface of his skin.

I watched, but I’m a wallflower. I don’t have any friends. I didn’t say a word. He gave me my papers with a smile and a nod, and in my hurry to redirect my line of focus I never noticed he didn’t treat another student in the same manner.

For the first time in my life, he made me feel special.

He made me feel special the first time he cradled my face in those achingly perfect hands, and I reveled in the expression on his handsome, boyish face. Surely someone so attractive, the fantasy of every girl at our stuffy academy was not looking at me with such unadulterated lust in his eyes?

But he concealed it better back then. I saw love and admiration, and I accepted our lunch dates with little to no trepidation. Then I accepted his dinner dates, and then I accepted his invitation to bed. I’d never even bothered to touch myself, and when I spilled my seed in his hand for the first time in my life, I was smitten. I was smitten when I’d come a second time in his mouth, and less than a week later, I was smitten when I came while he was still thrusting inside of me.

He made passionate, feral noises that I would never hear from him anywhere else. I wondered how many other people heard these noises. I wonder how many another people climaxed in his mouth; I wonder if he teasingly ran his nails down anyone else’s thighs as he brought them to completion. I wonder if he tenderly sucked any other boys, milking them for all they had. I wonder if there were any other boys at all.

I wonder if I was the only boy.

He was jerking me off now, resting his sweaty forehead against mine and staring at me with such an intensity that I tried to turn my head. He roughly grabbed my chin and I cried out as his fingers applied pressure in all the right places; his thumb swiped my lip and he demanded I look at him.

His green eyes were completely enchanting.

I was close, and I felt my body periodically begin to contract with pre-orgasmic bliss. My breaths were short, more like gasps, really, and I struggled to keep my eyes open to look at him. He made me. When I came, I bucked into his hand, effectively coating his familiar grip with my semen. In the past, he’d told me it was okay to do this.

I slumped against the wall, weak from his ministrations and my own feeble sense of resistance. He kissed my temple and laid me down in his bed, tucking his freshly laundered sheets around my shoulders. He brushed ashen bangs away from my eyes, kissing my mouth and then the corner of my lips.

I did not struggle.

He sat down at his desk and began to work on something; predictably grading papers. After thirty minutes of silence I was close to dozing off. He informed me I’d made a rudimentary mistake on my final.

I fell asleep to the scratching of his pen and the shuffling of his impatient feet.

---

He told me my uniform was sexy.

For school, I had to wear a white button-up, black slacks, and, when climatically appropriate, an itchy grey V-neck sweater with the school logo emblazoned just above where my heart would be.

He made me wear it to dinner.

We ate in relative silence; he would ask me a question now and then, and I would reply with a half-assed answer. I didn’t make eye contact, but I knew he was glancing at me quite frequently. After I’d swallowed my last strand of spaghetti, he was holding me close and grabbing my ass hard through my neatly pressed slacks. I could feel the half-moons of his fingernails digging into my flesh, his mouth pressed against mine so tightly that I had to breathe noisily through my nose. My biggest concern was that I’d have to iron my pants again when he was done.

He was always a fantastic lover, and we reached climax simultaneously. I felt his hot come coat my insides, an almost indescribable feeling incomparable to anything else in this world.

He’d only used a condom the first few times we were together, and now anything less than just him wasn’t satisfying for either of us. He stroked my lower lip with his thumb, resting beside me and propping his head on his palm.

“Avery,” he murmured, his tone dulcet and patient. He still had beads of sweat along his collarbone, and I wanted to swipe them away with my tongue.

“You used to love me.”

I didn’t answer. He kissed me and bit my lip until it bled. His mouth tasted like copper.

He hit me and I saw stars, and I couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t found the answer to his question.