Play Night Pt. 06 (Original)

Your head falls back on the pillow as you gulp air, trying to catch your breath. He lays down next to you, one arm draped over your wax encrusted belly, propping his head up on the other one. He seems a little out of breath himself. While he flexes his hand that had tried to use your g-spot like it was a button for a quick time event, he studies your face. You can't guess what kind of expression you have, but it must be one that you've never made before because he begins asking, "Seriously though, what I'm getting at with all this is that you can't always control what your body does, right?"

It seems like a fuckin round about way to prove a point, but you can't come up with any argument to the statement (any statement to be perfectly honest) at this point. You can only nod in agreement as your tongue has seemed to have abandoned you. He starts to speak but his voice seems to catch in his throat. A look of absolute sadness comes over him that you have no idea how to respond to, especially after his next question. His eyes begin to look wet when he finally asks, "So why do you still blame yourself for what your uncle did to you?"

You were sure, at one point, that the night couldn't get more surreal. After the reveal of the paddle, after the questioning about how you used to hurt yourself, after nearly making you combust with the clamps and the wax and everything, it still hadn't reached it's zenith. Your face must have ravines carved in to it from all the tears you've shed in such a short amount of time, and now you see them sliding down his face as well.

You don't know what to answer, or more honestly, how to put the answer in to words. You felt so much shame inside back then, so disgusting, after... and especially after what happened inside you. An alien feeling you had never known before that has become all too familiar now. And when you... finally were able to tell your mother, that man's sister, what he'd done... she...

You must look like you're trying to talk because he asks, trying to be reassuring, "Is... is it okay if I hold you?" You nod furiously. You can't think of anything you could want more at the moment. It does end up being slightly awkward at first, but the thought finally goes from one side of his brain all the way around to the other and he fumbles with your straps, untying your wrists with somewhat impressive speed.

You bury your face in his chest and continue to cry, hearing a sob come from his mouth resting on the top of your head. "I'm sorry, I..." he stammers out, "It's not your fault baby, it never was. You couldn't control what happened to you or how you felt about it... you were too young to..."

In a halting voice you blurt out that it wasn't just that, what he did. With the memories bubbling up and replaying in your head you tell him that when you told your mother after it happened, you expected her to cry and break down and get on the phone to the police, or call her brother and scream at him... but she didn't. She became cold and stared at you. She had called you a little liar right to your face, demanded to know how you could say such a thing and how you even knew what those things were. She capped it all off by asking if you had been doing those things with the boys you were hanging out with after school...

The aftermath was a montage of you quietly going back to your room, not even being able to cry, and just standing next to your bed. You weren't allowed to spend anymore time with your friends. One of the boys you did actually like, and had even had your first kiss with. At least your uncle wasn't able to steal that from you. Something cracked inside of you with the thought that you had somehow been... unfaithful to your first boyfriend... The crack being widened by your mother watching you like a hawk to make sure you didn't try to tell anyone else. She kept tabs on your every move and kept inserting offhand comments about what you wore that stung all the way up until you graduated high school and she was no longer responsible for you.

The tears on his face don't stop, but he listens in silence to everything you tell him, maybe speaking up once to get some clarification. After you finish spilling everything out to him, he holds you for a long time before saying, "I'm so so proud of you..."

You pull back and look in his face like an entire explanation for what he said would somehow be written all over it, but he continues, "After all that... after all you went through... He stole something important from you, something people need, and your mom..." he stumbles a little at mentioning her, "You're so much smarter and stronger than me or anyone I know because despite all of it you were able to get through school, get through college, get a job and... You have a home, relationships... friends... you didn't let them take those away too..."

You kiss him before he can continue talking, long and without reservation, your hands holding his head in place and his arms pressing your body against his. You're brain slowly begins to reconcile the paradox of both being cared and provided for and being betrayed by the woman who raised you. The problem really wasn't with you. You wish so badly you could go back in time and let your younger self know that someone believed her... Your mind feels like some sort of internal constraint is beginning to unravel within you. His face presses into your hair and you hear him mumble something you can't make out against your skin.

With your brain beginning to process this new realization, you feel lighter as he lets you go and finally thinks to undo the spreader from your ankles, letting it clunk to the floor. Despite both of you being cover in sweat, tears and your wetness, the physical and emotional strain finally takes it's toll. As a final, heroic act, he is able to get the both of you under the covers before you simultaneously sink into a deep deep sleep...

Epilogue

You are slowly awoken by the sound of something beeping in the distance. Through the grogginess you finally triangulate that the location of the annoyance must be coming from the coffee table in the living room. This location happens to be the same one that you had both left your phones last night. You ponder what to do about this nagging buzz when reality runs in waving it's stupid arms and hooting like a jug player. An alarm had been set because one or both of you had to get up at a certain time to do a certain thing. The result of this knowledge has your mouth spout a loud, "SHIT!"

He jumps up blurry eyed with the correct response of, "Huwam?"

You frantically remind him as his eyes blink out of sink that he's supposed to meet his friends after going by and drop the stuff off at your mothers and he needs to get up and oh god you both smell like an overused, unwashed dildo and...

He shushes you by pulling your face in for a kiss. "Calm down baby," the lack of urgency in his voice strikes you as both off putting and a little annoying. "Firstly, good morning my sweet beautiful good girl." He kisses you again. "B: I already canceled the plans with my friends two days ago when I got the idea to set last night up. As I got into the weeds of it I realized that no matter what happened neither of us would be in any condition to go anywhere so I blacked out the whole weekend for us." He gives another kiss, "and lastly, fuck your mom, she can get her shit when we fuckin' feel like it or she can drive her happy ass over and pick it up herself."

That last part brought memories crawling up from last night into the morning sun. For some reason, though, you feel different about it. As you sink back down into his arms you stay in this new feeling, getting familiar with the texture of it. Ultimately the feeling won't last forever, it would be silly to think that decades of trauma could be wiped away in a single night, but you now know that the feeling is there for you to find again, and again, until it's able to make a home in you, and with some very light encouragement, you are finally able to track down a therapist to help guide you.

And after only a couple weeks, you find yourself also begin to get ideas, lots of ideas, and you begin planning your own special play nights...

Continued in: Another Play Night