Black Skirt, Red Lights

Alcohol had dulled my gag reflex, but I still had to force myself to breathe through my nose, to ignore the sensation at the back of my throat. Then he was all the way in my mouth.

My middle finger tip slid inside my cunt. It hurt. It never hurt to finger myself, not even when I brought myself to sobbing orgasms while I thought of him pressing me to that brick wall. But now the memory of rape had robbed me even of masturbation. I wanted to cry.

Instead, I drew him out, caressing his penis with my tongue, until only the tip was still between my lips. I played with it, teasing it, while I waited for my pussy to relax for my fingers, and for the hitching sob that threatened down in my diaphragm to dissipate. I always liked fellatio, and during the periods of recurrent sexual dysfunction over the last few months I'd resorted to it frequently.

Since Paul I'd needed men. Needed the heaviness of their limbs, the straightforwardness of their desires, the simplicity of them. But on the many nights when neither alcohol nor fingering could cure the stubborn clenching of my pelvic floor, I could still draw from men a reaction commensurate with my need for them. I could read their bodies: which one was a face fucker, which one needed me to do the moving, which thought he was a face fucker but needed someone with control over him.

Paul was the last of those. Whenever I took him down into my throat, he made ready to thrust, or he put pressure on the back of my head with his hand. But I pulled back, working his shaft with my hand and his tip with my tongue and lips and then back into my throat. He sighed after several such exchanges, surrendering to his erection, to my control of it. All the while I worked one finger up inside myself.

The pain was gone, but hypersensitivity remained, so when I added a second finger, I had to pull Paul out of my mouth so I could gasp at the intensity. I fingered myself with the same rhythm I used on him, penetrative strokes as I took him deeper, playing my clit while I teased his tip.

It wasn't long before I felt him stiffen, heard the desperation in his half-suppressed moans, felt his hips buck forward, searching for that extra millimeter of throat.

Then he was cumming.

The first sacramental spasm went down my throat; the second I felt in the back of my mouth. He was pulling out, slow, letting it flood my mouth. I liked it after the harsh bourbon, the salt and faint sweetness, the slick, illicit taste. My fingers slid over my clit and I felt my own orgasm start, a roll of electricity down my strained thighs, up into my belly. I stopped myself from falling with my right hand, but his cock popped out of my mouth, trailing semen and spit. Two last bursts from him, one that struck on my chin and throat, the other at the base of my neck, down to my medallion. The muscles of my cunt fluttered around my fingers, and I had to strain to keep from moaning audibly.

"I'm fucking cumming," I hissed up at Paul. "Jesus, I'm cumming."

I sat on my heels and let the tide of orgasm roll out, and I let his cum sit on my tongue and in my open mouth for a minute longer as I stared up at him before I swallowed it down.

"You little whore," he said.

Paul turned then, leaned over the toilet, strained to piss. It took him a long time to start.

I could've taken the opportunity to throw myself together, to leave. But I didn't want that now. Not really. I'd come to confront him. I had confronted him. Drunk as I was, I knew there was some bond between us that leaving would sunder. The part of me that wanted to probe the nature of that bond was, for the moment, stronger than the part which held it a foolish risk.

He spoke and ended my indecision.

"Sit on the counter, Noora. Don't pull your fucking tights up."

I lifted myself onto the counter, stayed leaning on it, my feet on the floor, not sitting, not standing. I put my sweater back on. I unbuttoned the neck to avoid getting his cum on it. I didn't want to wipe away the evidence of our encounter, not yet. There would be something erotic, something affirming in walking out with his cum drying on my chin, my neck, my collar bone.

He finished pissing. There was a knock at the door, my blood ran cold. Paul flushed the toilet.

"I'm taking a shit," he called to the knocker. "Go somewhere else."

"Aight," the voice on the other side of the door said. "Don't gotta tell me twice."

He turned back to me, tucked his dick away.

"This will take some maneuvering," he said. He grabbed me by the back of the neck, reached between my thighs and slid two fingers deep into me. I grabbed the edge of the counter with both hands. His face hovered close to mine.

"I'm a gentleman; I reciprocate; I'm going to eat your cunt until you cum so hard you can't walk."

"Just don't put your cock in me," I said. I went to take my boots off, but he shook his head.

"Leave them on, leave the tights on too. You look so fucking sexy like that. We can make the position work, with a little dexterity."

I nodded and slid my tights down so I could spread my legs for his tongue. The force of arousal in his voice seemed genuine, but later I realized he might've done it this way so I couldn't easily run. A barefoot girl can make a break for it, not so much a girl with underwear and pantyhose around her ankles.

He lifted my legs, ducked under them. I parted my thighs so he could get his face between them. I set myself on the edge so my legs hung over his shoulders and my pussy was angled towards him. I'd eaten enough girls out to know what to do.

His head between my thighs, his lips on them, then his teeth. He sucked at the firm flesh of my inner thigh, bit at it, hard enough to leave bruises. Then he put his fingers back inside me and found my clit with his tongue.

He fingerfucked me aggressively, and alternated between sucking my clit and licking it. His other hand clutched the outside of my thigh. I'd find bruises there the next day, but I barely felt his grip now. I ran one hand down into his hair, slid the other under my shirt and played with my painfully hard nipples.

This could last only a couple minutes, I'd been driven so mad by the blowjob, by the first orgasm, that I came very fast, and very hard. So hard I nearly fell off the counter.

But Paul felt my orgasm start and he pushed my thighs wider, stood up between my legs. It was an awkward move, but he made it somehow. He buried his fingers in me and seized my throat with his right hand. I could hardly breathe, my eyes narrowed to slits, my whole being focused on the rasp in my throat, the wild pleasure inside my pussy, the feeling in my clit so great it was nearly painful.

"No girl cums like that for her rapist," He said, his voice low and hard.

It was a long minute before he relaxed his grip on my throat, extricated his hand from my pussy and himself from between my legs and I regained enough self-possession to rasp my reply as he stepped away, between me and the door.

"I did," I said. "I hate you. My body doesn't, I guess, but I still do."

He grabbed my arm and yanked me off the counter. I staggered and almost fell. The room spun from the drink, from the orgasm.

I caught myself on the counter, he released my arm. We stood like that for a moment, both possessed by uncertainty.

"I need some water," I said, half in truth and half to break the moment of tension. I ran the tap. I cupped my hands and drank, and when I stood and reached down to pull my tights and underwear up from mid-calf, he put his hand on my throat again.

"I'm not done with you."

"No," I said. "No, you are."

He wrapped his hand in my hair, no longer was it a leash, but it still made a good handle. He shoved my head forward. I felt his cock between my legs; he'd gotten it out while I was drinking.

He pushed me against the sink. I felt nauseous, I wanted to vomit. He was going to rape me again. This time I'd need plan B. This time I'd all but consented. All the confusion, all the horror, the long nights masturbating furiously after I let some fraternity brother cum down my throat, imagining Paul inside me, resenting Paul inside me, all that would redouble.

I was going to kill myself when I got home.

He rubbed the head of his cock over my pussy, again and again, without entering it. In the vast mirror before me I saw him raise something to his mouth and tear it with his teeth, a foil packet of lubricant. He spat the corner of it out and made eye contact in the mirror.

"I wasn't lying, Noora," he said. "I said I wasn't going to fuck your pussy. But I knew you'd be here. I knew you'd need me. I knew we might need some good 'ol lubricant."

"Paul. Don't be ridiculous," I said, realizing his intent. "I've never put a finger in my ass. You're going to hurt me. What if I shit on your dick?"

"You'll suck it off," he said. He ran the slick head of his penis between my asscheeks, pushed my skirt even further up, squeezed lube onto his cock. I tried to jolt away, but he yanked my hair again, kept his control of my balance. "We can do it like this, or I can throw you on the floor again."

"I'll scream," I said.

"I'm cumming Paul, I'm cumming," he said in imitation of me. "Right." He pulled my head back. "Watch your face in the mirror. There's nothing hotter than watching yourself screw."

As a precaution his hand snaked from my hair to my mouth, covered it. He ran his lubed up cock back down between my cheeks, brushed it over my asshole. I struggled forward, thighs to the counter, face a foot from the mirror. He used his tip to spread the lube across my anus.

"This would be easier if you had amyl nitrates," he said.

I shook my head. I wasn't a poppers girl.

"Alas. Woe to the anal virgin," he said.

I couldn't help laughing into his hand. He looked genuinely regretful. The tragedy of the night now seemed like an absurdity to me. I was a chapter in his picaresque, a protesting maiden to overcome by clever words and the brief use of main force.

Either the bourbon or the orgasms had brought me to some state of theological carelessness. What did it matter? Who was I? It was all only so much flesh. What was shame to an animal? What was pain but the interpretation of sensation, and pleasure merely its controlled opposite. All is in perception; flesh is a prison of the mind, too narrow. But in the infinite one finds the Kingly horror: the undiscovered land is the realm of thought, for in the pure light of the world to come the flesh casts only shadows, and in them dwells the remembrance of sin.

In all my orisons, be all his sins remembered.

Then his left hand aligned his tip with my asshole and he pushed forward and any literary pretense in my head vanished.

You can't know how something feels until it happens to you. I exhaled, tried to empty my thoughts, to relax my whole body. I braced myself with one hand on the wall beside the mirror. Pressure, heat, then the soft slip as his dickhead eased partway in. The heat rose to a burning feeling as he reached the inner sphincter. Pain shot through my ass as it strained to accommodate him.

He raised the pressure, pushed through the friction, the burning resistance of my asshole. My mouth hung open and I saw my eyes widen in shock in the mirror. I panted, Paul pushed his fingers into my mouth, pulled it further open. I slowed my breath, making each inhale last, and sighing out with a steady, low moan. I squeezed my eyes shut, focused on letting go. The stubborn muscles held out, pushed by his force, and the pain rose sharp. Tears welled. Then my asshole gave way and the first inches of him slid into me and the pain dropped, more an ache now.

But each tiny forward motion renewed the hurt. For a long time, the only noise was the tick of his watch, the rush of my breath and the subtle noise of his clothing and body as he adjusted his pressure, negotiated my asshole's resistance. I thought of the sorority sizequeen who'd had me fuck her ass once, how the piece I'd used was smaller than Paul, yet left her quivering, blubbering, wild-eyed with want.

Then his hips touched my ass cheeks and he gave a last thrust, pushing me against the counter.

"Look at yourself," he ordered.

Flushed face, mouth open, pouting, eyes watering, hair shaken from its careful alignment. The girl who looked back at me was lost in her passion, I could see want and pleasure, sex and lust written on her face, in the depths of those wide black eyes and the quivering of her lips. I felt myself get wet as I watched my own face react to the movement of his penis.

He pulled me back by the throat again, while he pushed forward with his hips. Our heads neared, his face devilish in the deep red light. I strained, turned my head, arched my back. Our lips met, my body shaking with the effort, the pain in my ass acute. His tongue probed my mouth.

I felt him move backward, slowly. This produced a different kind of pain, harder to endure, but less immediately intense, like something vital was being torn from me. I had to find new ways of relaxing, of letting him slide from me. I broke the kiss, leaned away from him. His slow withdrawal brought a squeak of pain out of me and I was thankful for the still thumping music above us, because I knew I could not maintain the breathy silence.

A return thrust, nearly as slow as the first, though the hurt was less sharp. He shoved his left hand between my pelvis and the counter, fought it down so he could stroke my clit, he slid his other hand up my shirt and grabbed my tits by turns, playing with the nipples. The attention made me unbearably wet. Arousal slick on my cunt, on the tops of my thighs. But I couldn't cum yet from this, I was too nervous, too reluctant, too pained still.

Another withdrawal, slow return. A fourth thrust, a fifth, the intervals between them falling from near a minute to a few, long seconds, his motion smooth, smooth enough that hurt transmuted to ache, and I could feel the pleasure in being so fucking full, especially when he slid his fingers up into my pussy. I watched his face in the mirror as he did this, calm but intent, steady in his rapture.

He built his pace like this until he was fucking me with the same steady strokes you would use early in vaginal sex, not slow, but unhurried, not forceful but strong.

But on one withdrawal, he did not stop and I felt his cock slip out of me.

"You finish?" My voice was hazy.

"Turn around, legs up." He backed away. I sat up on the counter, the same angle as when he'd eaten me out. I still wore my tights, though they were down around my ankles, so I couldn't spread my legs. The best I could manage was to lift both, rest my thighs against chest, my knees at his shoulders, feet meeting behind his head. It was an awkward position, but it would do. I felt his tip at my anus again, the steady pressure, the building heat, the blinding pain. Then he was inside me again.

He had one hand on the side of my face, the other gripping my arm. I released the counter, let his body take my weight, become my balance.

He fucked me hard then. Quick, long thrusts, his face contorted with want, with concentration. His strokes felt so impossibly fast, the pain still present, the pleasure building. Then he moved his hand down to my cunt, stroked my clit with his thumb. The touch built an electric charge in me, and he kept at it, timed to his strokes until my breath took the same rhythm. Then he plunged his fingers inside me, beckoned my orgasm with them. I felt so open to him, so completely at his command, that I could not resist.

It was a strange orgasm, prolonged, seeming to shift from one part of me to the next, accompanied by a panicked sensation of complete vulnerability, as if by cumming from this sodomy I'd lost any right to control my body. But he could see the pleasure on my face and he gripped my hips with both hands, drove up into me, my head resting on the mirror. Heavy thrusts, thunderbolts of pain in the storm of orgasm, then his grunt, his turn to cum.

When he pulled out, I felt cum and lube drip out of me, my anus hesitating to close, as if it stuttered in his absence. He stood back, I swung my legs down, squatted, grabbed his thighs. The drunken slut inside me needed that last hint of transgression, that final taste of him. I sucked his cock clean: no horrid taste, no awful smell, just the weight of him, the slick of cum, the heat of flesh.

I stood, then used toilet paper to wipe the lube from my ass. He watched me, silent, arms folded. As I pulled my panties up, checked my tights for runs or damage, then slid them up, and set my skirt down, he said nothing. He broke his silence when I examined my face and neck in the mirror, his cum still there, mixed with a faint sheen of sweat. I used my finger to wipe it up, and licked it clean.

"You're one hell of a fuck," he said. "Did you want that?"

"I don't know," I said, my voice shaking. The impulse of the moment, the hurried need of body was gone, replaced by the slow dread, the knowledge, deep down, that I hadn't wanted it, but that it had forever complicated the story I told myself of my rape.

"There's nothing sluttier than a girl in docs and tights," he said. "That's the type of whore who can cum from anything."

I shrugged. The girl in the mirror answered with her worn expression, her disheveled clothing--so inexpertly reset--her messy hair. Was that a faint smear of cum on her lips? Could I taste him still? Would a shot of bourbon chase that away?

I checked my watch. Midnight. An hour left.

"What now?" I asked. "Are we a thing? Do I go home with you? Do you have condoms?" I left the greater questions unasked.

"I'm all fucked out," he said. A knock came at the door, timid and effeminate. "I'll see you at the New Year's party."

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I guess."

The lock, the door. Sobriety overcoming bourbon.

His voice: "excuse me."

Katie's voice: "sorry."

I looked at Noora Afshar in the mirror in the deep claret light, so unearthly, so ephemeral. She looked back at me, expression set but inscrutable. I saw then what Paul saw, what the sizequeen and the sorority defectors and the brotherhood of fellatio saw. A slim girl with a symmetrical face, big dark eyes, hair so dark it drank light, the severe gray of her sweater, the black folds of her skirt, somehow unmarred by cum or lube. I looked down to the long line of my legs and the heavy dark of my chelsea boots.

When I looked back up, Katie watched me in the mirror.

"What happened?"

I shrugged. "We hooked up."

"Well obviously," she said. "But I want the gossip. Paul's such a hard read. What's he like."

She sat on the toilet to piss.

"A bit rough," I said. "But he knows how to touch me."

"This the first time you two..." the words trailed to silence, but I could tell from their cadence that she was sober.

"No." I paused. "Is Simon throwing a New Year's party?"

"Of course."

"Quick turnaround."

"Listen, a couple of us are a little tired of this music," Katie said. "I'm going to drive us down to the shore, in a minute or two. We can get something to eat. Keep the night going for a bit."

"Yeah," I said. "I'm down. I'll meet you outside. Might bum a cig or something."

"Sure," she said.

I left as she went to the sink to wash her hands.

I walked across the carpeted hall, down the stairs, grabbed my coat from the rack, slipped out into the night.

A fine snow fell. The wind pushed it along the streets in hollow little gusts. The hard sidewalk felt good under my boots, the sharp air clean in my lungs. I'd go home soon; I'd lie awake; I'd have a new memory to sustain myself.

Tomorrow it would hurt to sit, I could tell that from the soreness still radiating from my ass. Maybe there'd be cum in my underwear. Maybe I'd shit blood, the way I'd heard some did after a rough assfucking. But there would be the morning prayer, laundry, the safe feeling of tights against my legs. Then would come New Year's and the infinite weeks beyond. And when I got back to Virginia, would I be any better, or would I find the same, relentless gray depression, the same shame and arousal. Could anything fix the wound inside me?