Summary: I don't know how I got to this point: half naked, half twisted, holding myself over his exposed body. /sex - kind of rape (for those who don't know, 'twisted' is a term used for being drunk and high)
Author's Note: This isn't grossly descriptive - as I'm a writer, not a smut peedler. But it does have its moments of intensity. No flames please; this is actually a personal experience. If you review then I'll love you forever. Thanks - dope
Lost In Hollywood
He knows as well as I do that this is going to happen. There's confidence in his stride, in every step. He lays down beside me on his bed, resembling a slate of glass. Blank. Transparent. I can see all of his motives, feel all of his moves with a simple side-glance.
It's dark in his room. There's red curtains pulled tightly across the windows, blocking out the afternoon sun.
My mind is fuzzy, dulled over, and all I'm able to taste is stale weed smoke. I've had a few beers, but only a few. I feel in control enough to steal his car and drive home. In the pit of my stomach, I know that's what I should probably do.
The television is on; some MTV special about Weird Al flickers against the walls. He leans over me to grab the remote on the table, and turns it up. His frame closes in around mine.
I lay on my side, and I'm able to feel his heartbeat against my back.
It's uncomfortable - this situation that I've gotten myself into. He used to be my friend a long time ago, when we were just preteens getting kicked out of school and arrested on the playground. But those days have faded now. I'm lying beside a stranger.
He moves the hair away from the back of my neck and begins to kiss me. His touch is like an electric shock.
I flip myself over so we're now face to face.
His almond shaped eyes are dark, and starring intently into mine. Brown hair falls upon the pillow in shambles. His lips twitch up to a small, almost shy smile.
But it's strange. It feels like his ineptness is a facade, just a mask that he has to hide behind in order to get me to go along with this. Even though we have history, as distant as it is, there's a little voice in the back of my head. It's telling me to stop him, to pull away. But I can't seem to muster up the will.
He brings his lips to mine, and tongues collide from behind parted teeth. There's alcohol, nicotine, and THC on his breath.
His hands slinks in the small of my back, so he is able to pull me closer to him. Momentarily he stops, to catch my eyes and smile at me again. The expression scribbled across his face is disbelief, as if he can't believe that this is really happening.
He's full of shit. He doesn't care about me. If I had turned him down today, then there would be another girl in his bed - a cheap replacement. And he would be pulling the same 'Oh my God this moment is so special' crap on her.
He lies flat on his back, and with his hand still controlling the most of my moment, he guides me on top of him.
My legs spread above the crotch of his jeans. I apply a little bit of pressure and am able to feel his subtle twitching behind the zipper.
He pulls at the helm of my shirt, and looks up at me with false hope glinting in his eyes. I arch back so he is able to slip it off of my shoulders.
He sits up briefly to take off his shirt as well. They're both cast carelessly behind us in the darkened room.
I lower myself down, with my hands placed on his chest. He is thin, very thin; his ribs are a small layer of skin away from protruding against my fingertips.
Our lips meet again as my face drops to his. His mere kiss is devouring.
Weird Al continues to play on the television.
Even if he was somehow able to convince me that he can be passionate, the parody rap song lingering in the air kind of kills the moment.
He starts to push his hips up, pressing his clothed member against my hot spot. It feels good, but, that's it. It's hard trying to enjoy this act with a boy who would probably still try to fuck me if I fell unconscious.
I push down, grinding him through the fabric.
He pulls away from our kiss, and wraps his fingers around either side of my waist.
I know exactly what's on his mind. From the very first day we met, when I was thirteen and he was sixteen, he's been trying to get me to do this.
He pushes me down, slowly, gradually, as if not to appear too desperate.
My face grazes past his neck, his collar bone, his stomach.
His skin is soft and naturally tan. He reaches under me to undo his jeans, and he pulls them off along with his boxers.
I don't know how I got to this point: half naked, half faded, holding myself over his exposed member.
It's difficult to be strong around him.
Maybe it's all of the stories I've heard that are influencing my jugement. On more than one occasion, I've been told how he had raped his so called girlfriend, then drove her down the abortion clinic a few weeks later.
There's no intimacy, there's no love, affection, mutual lust. It's just me and him.
I don't want to give him a blow job. The more and more we carry on, the less sure I become about having sex with him.
There's too many skeletons in his closet, and uncertainty clouding my thoughts.
I try to work my way back up his body. His lips are the only thing I'm willing to touch.
But he grabs a hold of both of my shoulders, and holds me in place.
Subtle fear and resentment begin to overpower the alcohol in my bloodstream.
"Mike?" I question, eyes flicking upwards to meet his. My voice is small, something to easily brush aside.
He doesn't answer me. He doesn't even look at me.
Unexpected pain. His fingernails dig into the flesh of my upper back, like a clamp. I can struggle as much as I want but it's apparent that he's not allowing me to go anywhere.
A light sweat cakes his body. There's anticipation throbbing strong through his veins.
My lips wrap hesitantly around his swelling head as I force myself not to think about it.
He's made it clear that this will only hurt if I resist him.
The air suppresses in my cheeks and I slowly lower my mouth around him.
I breathe, deeply, and position myself so my elbows are holding me up.
He, without warning, thrusts his hips upwards.
It curves back, dipping threateningly deep into my throat. I sputter and gag. Spit leaks down from the corners of my mouth and I have to blink back tears.
He gets the hint after that and lowers himself evenly across the bed. I continue bobbing my head up and down, up and down.
The thick vein on the back of his shaft rubs frenetically against my tongue. His breathing increases, several quiet moans escape him.
This shouldn't be happening. I shouldn't be here, doing this. He may have been my friend when I was a child but he is certainly not my friend now.
A few salty drops of precum leak from his head and I lick them away.
After that he allows me to finally move from his sweaty confines. I trace back up his body, and when our eyes meet, he's returned to his 'young school boy' expression. He acts as if I'm the one in control, pleasuring him out of my own will. He looks wrongly innocent.
His erect member now pokes teasingly at the crotch of my pants. I lean down; he kisses me and within a few seconds he takes off the remainder of my clothes so I am fully exposed on top of him.
It feels like the entire world can see me.
He wants me to ride him, that's obvious. His hands are gripping my thighs and I'm slowly lowered upon him. It's surprising that I'm already wet as he sinks into me. He's warm, pulsating, and at first it feels so good to have him inside of me that I can't help myself.
I move my hips in small circles, feeling him rub against all of my walls and nerve endings. My head is spinning.
He is looking up, eyes closed. There's a smug grin widening on his face; it brings me back to reality. I'm just his ho of the week.
Sure, I know how to ride a dick, but I'm not about to satisfy a boy who is going to pretend to care about me when I'm most vunerable.
He senses that I'm no longer into it. But he doesn't ask me why, or if I want to stop.
I suppose it's just as well because I don't tell him anything; I just want him to finish up so I can leave.
His brow now furrows in fustration - he has to hurry to save his orgasm.
He quickly flips me over, so that he is the one on top. I'm starring at the ceiling and the Insane Clown Posse poster on a nearby wall.
My breath is stolen from me, as he rams himself as deep and hard as he can. My thoughts are elsewhere, and still trying to tone out the shitty Weird Al song. I feel myself drying up.
But he continues to thrust without a care in the world. It's starting to get painful, sore.
His movements are strange, awkward. It seems like he's trying too hard to be testosterone driven, and as he goes in and out, left and right, occasionally missing me completely, it's clear that he's desperate. I'm not reacting to his touch; I'm not helping him along.
He knows that I don't want to be a part of this anymore, but that doesn't stop him from hammering away.
His balls smack against my skin with every pump. I can feel the beads of sweat crash messily between my legs.
The top of my head is smacking against the wall, alerting the whole house of our activities. It's hard to tell which is in more pain, my pussy or brain.
There's bruises forming on my inner thighs.
My high has now completely faded, and the beer in my blood has been absorbed. This is reality. Is this rape?
I want to scream at him. I want to make him stop so I can laugh at his tiny dick.
This just sucks.
I feel him release; warm secretion slowly fills me. His body heaves heavy with self satisfaction.
But he doesn't withdraw himself, he keeps thrusting and I can feel his orgasm trickling out of me.
He continues until he goes completely flaccid. Have you ever been violently fucked with a softee? It's terrible, like you're being made a mockery of.
He pulls himself out and lays back on the bed. Still, silent, exhausted.
My entire body aches.
How did I go through with that? Why? I'll never understand the strange power that this boys holds over me.
I hate him, I'm certain of that now. The very thought of him makes me sick.
Yet, I'm drawn to him. It's like I'm a junkie, constantly coming back to him for my fix. I know that there's nothing in it for me, there was never anything in it for me. But what can I do? I'm addicted.
This was our last time - it has to be. I can't put myself in this situation again. I'm willing to endure the withdrawal pains, let my track marks and bruises fade. I'm done.
I'm forcing myself to kick the habit tonight.